The Emerald Graves in late afternoon was lush and eerily silent. A three-day expedition to examine ruins uncovered by local Dalish scouts turned into a weeklong exercise in hard labor. Cullen's men were dispatched when it was found the scouts were useless against massive piles of rubble and rock, with a robust complement of Inquisition-loyal dwarves and The Inquisitor not far behind. They worked tirelessly, making slow but steady progress. Solas watched as he re-laced his boots, his eyes heavy. His own preliminary investigations into the unearthed cavern had covered his skin with thousands of years of dust and cobwebs. An unfamiliar crick in his neck now traveled down his arm, causing a tendon to sing any time he flexed the fingers of his left hand. He was getting old, he realized sadly. This world took its toll on the body as well as the spirit. He often found himself wondering how long he had before it consumed him completely.

"Does it bother you? Being here?"

Solas paused from his threading to glance up at Evelyn. "Why would it bother…" he frowned. "...oh. Oh, you mean the elves. No. It does not bother me any more than any ancient battlefield would." He returned his attentions to his boot lacings. "Why? Do you think I should be bothered by wars fought and lost ages before this one solely based on the shape of my ears? Tell me, do you mourn every tomb we tromp past? Do you ache for those felled from your purported side?" The toes inside his boots cramped as he loosened the binding. Solas winced and slowly turned his ankle in a circle, feeling the pins and needles creep up his calf. She still stood over him, arms folded across her chest and a look in her eye that said this was not what she'd hoped to hear. "I am sorry," he sighed. "I think I'm tired."

"I think we all are," she said in a strangely clipped way. "I'll leave you to it, then."

There was a soft derisive snort nearby. Varric slid down to a seated position against an adjacent tree and began to cut into an apple with a small silver knife. "You know, Chuckles, for one of the smartest men in this whole mess, you really know nothing about women."

"And what," Solas struggled to remove his boot, "do you hope to teach me about women, Master Dwarf?"

"Don't take that tone. I have no doubt you know your way around well enough. But human nobility? They like the whole," Varric gestured vaguely with his knife, "dark and broody thing. That was a perfect in, telling her of the fall of your people."

"Pray tell, why would I want an in?" Solas raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was a reasonable facsimile of disbelief.

"Oh come on," the dwarf looked almost insulted.

"So Lady Josephine has been spreading rumors."

"If she has, I haven't heard them. And I hear everything," Varric sliced off a thin sliver of fruit. "I have eyes. You two aren't nearly as discreet as you'd hoped." He cut another slice, staring at the elf. "Oh, don't panic. I'm not here to out you for doing what everyone does in times of war. I just hope you know what you're doing."

"If everyone is up to this same something, do you ask that question of everyone?"

"No," Varric chewed thoughtfully. "Just you."

"Because of who I am?" Solas bristled.

"No," Varric paused, tilted his head, "Well, actually yes. But not only because of who you are. Because of who she is. Because of what she represents, and because of what's to come." He wiped his blade on his knee and leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Look, I've written enough of these stories to know it won't end well for her. The heroes never live happily ever after, not really. And for the rest of us on the periphery? Much worse."

"I am on the periphery of your story?"

"This ain't my story. I would have written better campsites, food, removed The Storm Coast entirely. The point is that she's, well, she's The Inquisitor. Commander of Armies, Rightor of Wrongs, Sworn Sword and Vessel of Andraste Herself. That's a lot to live up to, and considering her birth... I'm just saying, noble ladies with holy callings don't usually end up making the apostate bedwarmer King, you know?"

"Ah," Solas said, his jaw feeling tight. "So in your story there's a more suitable hero counterpart for her?"

"I already told you: this ain't my story. It's hers." Varric settled back. "I just hope you weren't getting your hopes set on being around for the end."

Solas smiled sardonically as he slowly stood. "Of course not."

Varric nodded once, seemingly satisfied with the conversation.

Solas tossed his boots into the pile near the leatherworker, curling his toes into the soft earth beneath his now-bare feet. He had not meant to snap at her question. Truth be told, the idea did weigh heavily on his mind, clouding his dreams and pursuing him even into waking daylight, the memory of blood shed and tears wept for the now-dead. This was a place haunted, tormented, so thick with sorrow and memory that there were places not even birds dared to sing. How did he communicate to her what it felt like to stand on this ground? Was she even capable of understanding?

"I had hoped to find your mood improved," her voice was soft and cautious, "but the expression on your face tells me there's little chance of that."

"I have not been sleeping well," he said simply.

"So I gathered from your earlier startling confession to being tired," she responded in a dry tone. "If you're exhausted, sleep."

"I can not. My tent is near the cookfire and the noise and smoke makes it nearly impossible-"

"Use my tent."

He glanced up at her then, eyes weary. "Why do you do this?"

She startled, "Do what?"

"Invite me to your room, your bed, your tent... as if it does not matter."

Evelyn let loose a short laugh of shock. "Of course it matters!"

"It does, but not in the ways you mean. You forget yourself more and more. There will be consequences."

"If you're talking about Josephine, I made sure to impress upon her that my private life is to remain private."

"It isn't just Josephine," he let his hands fall limply to his sides, the irritated tendon flaming to life in his arm. "You have to think about your position."

"My position?" She hissed. "Do you presume to tell me how to behave, as if my rank is so unfamiliar to me? I was born for this position, Solas. Who are you to tell me how to sit on my throne?" There was a rustling sound from the overgrown path. Two scouts wandered too close on their way to the stream. They gave uneasy sideways glances to The Inquisitor and mage.

"Perhaps this is something we could discuss later?" he suggested tersely.

Her mouth hung open a moment before she clamped it back shut, shaking her arms as if she could shake away the irritation. "As you wish," she spat, storming off toward the command tents.

That opportunity did not come that night, nor the next. Nor did it present itself on the long and treacherous route back to Skyhold, where she disappeared into a confluence of official documents and urgent requests. Solas collapsed onto his couch, falling into a deep slumber before his snuffed candles had stopped smoking. His dreams, however, did not afford him any peace. Dark, hollow places awaited him, with the cries of a familiar voice pleading with him to help, to come, to hurry. Glowing eyes growing dim in the thick ink of nothing. He woke with a start and sat at his desk blankly, his ears ringing in an unpleasant way that prevented him from hearing the question until she asked it a third time.

"Solas, what is it?" Evelyn sounded irritated. "I came to apologize and you look as if... I don't know how you look," she sighed in exasperation. "Have you still not slept?"

"I have," he said faintly, covering his mouth with his fist so that his next words were muffled. "But my dreams gave me no rest."

Evelyn crouched beside his chair. "What dreams?"

He shook his head. "It is nothing. You came to... I am sorry. You came here for a reason."

Her forehead creased with concern. "Forget that. Tell me what it is you saw."

"It is... a friend. A spirit who is a friend. I heard her call to me in my dreams. She is trapped, bound by mages with clumsy words and fumbling spells copied from books best left undisturbed. I can sense her essence fading. I think," his face fell, "I think she is dying."

"Do you know where?"

Solas nodded. "Three days travel from here, in the Exalted Plains. I do not know if we have time."

The argument momentarily forgotten, Evelyn straightened. "We have to try."