"Damn, that little woman is cute," Anders says with a sigh. Two tables away, Sigrun and Solona sit huddled together. Daintily, Sigrun dips a finger into a nearby cup and paints a black streak down Solona's cheek. Solona is smiling. She's been smiling quite a lot lately. Laughing too. Ever since Sigrun arrived in fact. The little dwarf's presence is magnetic, and Anders hadn't been to help himself from flirting with her a bit.

Nathaniel's eyes flit from Anders to the women two tables over and then back again. A black brow arches as his gaze lowers to the tea cooling in the mug before him. Anders lifts a finger at the bartender— a new recruit from town who's training with the older bartender—what was his name? Anders doesn't remember. An older man with pockmarked cheeks. This one is fresh faced and young, but not overly so. Brown hair and a boyish smile, with broad shoulders and narrow hips.

"She is a breath of fresh air," Nathaniel responds flatly. Anders is surprised that Nathaniel responds at all. Since Solona had ordered increased recruitment, the Keep's little tavern is constantly full. Anders and Nathaniel had entered at the same time, and both tried to claim the last two-seater table for themselves. Nathaniel, quick as a cat, had reached a seat first, plopping down then kicking his feet up to rest on the second chair, blocking Anders from taking the tavern's last free chair. After a silent showdown, Nathaniel finally relented, and Anders sat across from him, a smug little smirk curling his lip.

Nathaniel sips his tea, but even Anders can feel that his attention is elsewhere. Two tables down, to be exact.

"Sol is joining the Legion of the Dead," Anders explains. The bartender-in-training drops a new mug of ale before Anders, who thanks the young man with a wink. Anders is certain he sees the man's cheeks grow pink, and his gaze drops down to the man's rear as he retreats back to his bartop, but not before casting another glance over his shoulder at Anders.

"So I've gathered," Nathaniel finally says.

Anders turns to see Nate's sharp gaze squarely on him, and he's certain that Nate caught every nuance of that interaction.

"Is there anyone in this Keep that you wouldn't fuck?" Nathaniel takes another sip, blinking the steam out of his eyes.

Anders shrugs. But then remembers the new guy that they just brought home from the Black Marsh. "Actually, yes. I've no interest in fucking a walking corpse. Or Lya, for that matter. That women scares the daylights out of me. Normally 'scary' wouldn't bother me so much, but—"

"I don't need the details," Nate says, holding up a hand.

Anders snickers. "You asked."

Nathaniel grumbles something into his mug, but Anders can't hear the words over the din of the tavern.

"Well, anyway, Sigrun is great. Everything's just been nicer since she's come along." Anders says, and it's true too. "It's like… pleasant around here, or something, despite all the…you know, death and stuff."

Nathaniel says nothing, but his eyes wander back to the other table, where Sigrun appears to be putting the finishing touches on Solona's face paint. Now they sit with matching face marks, and there it is again—Solona is smiling, chatting amiably with Sigrun.

She and Sigrun have been almost inseparable in the two months since they'd left the deep roads, and Solona almost seems like a different person than the quiet, sullen girl he first met. That's what happens when a lonely person finds a true friend, Anders figures.

The effect on Nathaniel has been noticeable. He looks like a man about to empty his stomach all over the table.

"Even you and the Commander seem to be getting along better," Anders observes.

Nathaniel still doesn't respond. He's returned his attention to his tea and is focused on it like it's the only thing in the room.

"I saw you two chatting at Black Marsh," Anders continues. The picture of the two of them stands still and clear in his mind. They looked like the only two people in the world, Solona's face turned up to his, her eyes wide and soft, somehow both bottomless yet lit from within. Nathaniel had been talking about his father and stories he used to hear about the haunted Marsh, yet somehow the conversation between the two of them ended in laughter. But the way they'd been looking at each other made Anders's stomach clench up in a way that was entirely unpleasant. He may have had a chance at winning Solona's heart back after he'd first been recruited. It had been obvious then that she was into him, despite her other preoccupations. But the Keep had been filling with so many new, pretty faces. Who could blame him for being distracted?

But Solona had chosen Nathaniel, and Nathaniel had apparently chosen Solona. Until suddenly, they hadn't. Anders had no small part in the whole that bit, and he couldn't deny feeling a significant twinge of guilt about it.

But suddenly, all at once, he realizes he's sick of the whole thing, the entire situation. Of the coy glances, the wistful sighs, the weird tension that only seems to go away when Sigrun gets everyone laughing together. He nods his head along with his thoughts, with the realization that since, technically, he broke them apart, then he might be the one to help make it right again.

"Are you two planning on giving this charade a rest anytime soon?" Anders asks.

For a long moment he wonders if Nathaniel even heard him.

"What charade are you referring to, Anders?"

"The whole 'pretending not to want each other' charade. I mean, you'd think the regular risks to our very lives would put things into perspective for you."

Anders watches the little line connecting Nathaniel's nose to his mouth as it curls in a snarl. He huffs. "And what perspective is that?"

"Well, for starters, that you're being an idiot."

"That means nothing to me, coming from a moron such as yourself."

Anders laughs and downs a large gulp of his ale. It's his second, and this particular brew is unusually strong. Anders's head feels lighter with each drink. And with each drink, he feels his words flowing more freely.

"She doesn't look at anyone the way she looks at you. Not even me, and she used to be in love with me."

"Used to be?"

"That's right. Back in the circle. She told me so. I was a bit of a celebrity then, you see. I think it was all the escape attempts. Everybody tried, but only I succeeded."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you also got caught every time."

Anders shrugged. "They had my phylactery."

After a pause, Anders continues. "One day you'll wake up and she'll be over you, and it'll be too late. Or, one of you will take a Genlock sword through the neck and it'll be too late. Or a dagger to the heart, or an arrow to the eye—"

"I get it, Anders."

"Do you? So why play this stupid game—keeping your distance and acting like you don't care? You're really going to let a moron like me destroy the connection that you both so obviously have?"

Anders waits. He knows there's more to it than that. Knows that there was a conversation between them, though he knows not what was said. Not exactly anyway. He imagines, and has speculated with Oghren, that it had something to do with her doing dumb things sometimes. But that seems to have changed. Things had been very different over the past several months, and particularly the past two. Thanks to Sigrun.

"You know, though we might be Wardens, we are not immortal. Your chance with her could end at any moment. And if it's not a sword to the gut, it might be the other men in the Keep who look at her the way you do. The way she looks at you."

Nathaniel went pale and still. It was clear Anders had struck a nerve.

"Such as our good man, Garevel." Anders says, and he pauses again, allowing his words to sink in. Anders can almost see the gears turning behind Nathaniel's eyes—all the little dots connecting. All the meetings they'd had recently where Garevel stood so close to her. How he hung on her every word. Anders even saw him brush his fingers against the small of her back once as they changed positions around the maps. "You mean you haven't noticed? Oh no, you're too busy brooding."

"Get to the point, mage."

"I believe I've already made my point." Anders smiles primly, feeling very satisfied with himself.

"Which is?"

"That you're an idiot. She is lovely and brave and smart, and she'll probably never have any shortage of admirers. But you — the son of a man disgraced, your name ruined…" Anders held up his hands in a shrug, and then took another gulp of ale before continuing. "And then there's that sour disposition of yours. You'll be lucky to find anyone else who's half as remarkable as Solona and not just because she's the hero of Ferelden."

"You sound like you're in love with her yourself," Nathaniel says.

Anders shrugs. There was a moment back when they were sleeping together that he realized he could love her. He even thought that maybe he wanted to. But that had exploded spectacularly. "I know a special person when I meet one."

Nathaniel sighs.

"Quick, they're leaving! Grab that table!" Sigrun sits up and points. Solona turns and watches a stream of bodies pick their way around crowded tables and toward the door to the courtyard. She ignores the way they gawk at her as she bolts toward the table they'd just vacated. She's not even sure why it matters, since she was perfectly happy just sitting alone with Sigrun. She lowers herself into the seat at the corner, feeling the paint on her face begin to pull tight as it dries. Prickles of itchiness make her contort her mouth, trying to pull on the places that itch the most. She doesn't want to touch it, doesn't want to mess up Sigrun's art.

Sigrun drops into the seat across from her, but not before turning toward the table where Anders and Nathaniel sit and waving an arm at them, inviting them to join. Solona watches as Anders and Nathaniel look at each other, their gazes steely and tense. Strange to see them sitting together willingly, even talking. Not that they had much choice in this crowded place. Nathaniel wears his usual stoic mask of vague annoyance, but Solona sees the small flex in the muscle of his jaw. There it is, she thinks. The little sign that somehow Anders managed to find those buttons Nathaniel tries so hard to keep hidden, and he pressed them. He pressed them hard.

Anders bounds over to the table and slides into the chair beside Sigrun. His hazel eyes glint as he takes in the short redhead beside him. Sigrun side-eyes him for a second, and then her face collapses into a smile. Solona notices, not for the first time, that they like each other.

Anders sits up straight before extending a hand to Solona. "Congratulations on your officiation into the League of the Dead," he says with mock seriousness.

Solona takes his hand and shakes, holding her chin high. "Thank you, Anders, though I believe being symbolically dead means you're supposed to… not talk to me?" Solona looks to Sigrun.

"Well, we can't exactly disappear into the deep roads at the moment, so you'll have to be content with being a member in name only," Sigrun explains, and then turns to Anders and pokes at his cheek with a stained-black finger. "How about you, Anders? Want to join our little death club?"

"Nooo, thank you. I'm very much alive and happy to stay that way."

Sigrun pulls back and shrugs. "Suit yourself."

Nathaniel approaches with a small, steaming mug and takes a seat beside Solona. She gives him a nod while also noticing that the usual ball of nerves in her gut isn't wound so tight. She lets out a small laugh and looks to Sigrun, and then to Anders. They beam for a long moment at each other, and then turn their attention to Solona, their brilliant smiles not fading at all. It's like a bright spotlight shining on her, and she smiles at them in return. Solona releases a long breath and feels the ball in her gut unwind more. She glances to Nathaniel, who settled himself into a hunch over his cup.

"Mmm, jasmine tea," Solona sighs as the warm, floral aroma reaches her nose. It's like liquid comfort. "Not a bad idea, actually." She raises a hand to try to get the new bartender's attention, but the poor lad is swarmed by a group of soldiers at the bartop.

"Probably not happening any time soon though," Solona sighs. After a quiet moment, Nathaniel pushes his mug toward her. She meets his eye and finds an uncharacteristic softness there. His lip curls slightly, and suddenly the ball in her gut is tight and aching again.

"I'm happy to share," he says warmly.

Solona smiles, lifts the cup and inhales the fragrant steam. She takes a small drink and pushes the cup back toward him. Across the table, Sigrun giggles. From the corner of her eye, she sees Anders withdrawing an arm from under the table. Sigrun elbows him in the ribs, but gently. Sigrun's laugh is infectious, and Solona rolls her eyes good-naturedly, finding that they land on Nathaniel's. What she sees there jars her out of laughter. She clears her throat and presses her lips back to a straight line.

"The face paint suits you," he says, serious yet soft.

Solona pats her fingers over her cheeks, feeling the cool tightness where the paint has dried.

She sits for a moment, living inside this new sensation between them. Things have been so different lately. Especially with Sigrun around. For some reason, Sigrun was actually interested in talking to Solona and not just about mundane daily things. She'd asked about Alistair, about the circle, about Solona's family - or what she remembers of them. And her interest was geniune. And patient. Solona couldn't remember the last time Alistair's name spilled from her lips so often as it had during conversation with Sigrun, and each time it did, it seemed to get easier to do. Sigrun listened quietly, attentively. She sympathized, she validated. She had somehow, just by sitting there quietly, accomplished the enormous task of lifting a giant burden off Solona's shoulders, and half the time, Solona wasn't even sure what to do with the newfound lightness.

Solona exhales a large breath and is about to try again to get the bartender's attention when a stiff-backed soldier approaches the table.

"Seneschal Varel requests your assistance, Commander," the soldier says to Solona.

Blinking up at him, she searches her mind for a meeting or other thing scheduled for this afternoon and thinks of nothing. "What about?"

"I'm-I'm not sure. There's a group of nobles in the hall with him, and they don't seem too happy, Ser. Bann Esmerelle and some others."

Solona nods, realizing she should probably run to her room to wash her face before making an appearance in the Main Hall. She turns and gives an apologetic shrug to Sigrun. Sigrun seems to know what she means, and just smiles at her as if to say, "what are you worried about that for?"

With a nod to the rest of the table, Solona slips out of her seat and makes her way toward the door.

Garevel and Varel meet Solona at the entrance to the Main Hall.

Solona flashes Varel a questioning look.

"My apologies, Commander. I'm not entirely sure what this is about myself. The Bann has summoned us for a matter that she claims is urgent."

"And that's all she's said?" Solona asks.

Varel nods. She looks to Garevel, who stands motionless beside Varel. He gives an almost imperceptible shrug at her questioning glance. Solona wipes moisture from her nose, left over from the hasty face wash she gave herself. Self-consciously, she wipes at her eyelids, hoping no remnants of black paint smudge the creases below her eyes.

"Well, okay then. Let's go see what she wants."

Solona lets Varel lead the way into the Main Hall, her eyes making their way to Garevel, hoping for more insight. It seemed strange to be summoned for an urgent matter with no details given at all.

Bann Esmerelle stands in the front of the hall, wearing a full suit of armor. Solona's neck pricks as the hairs there stand on end. Her steps slow and Garevel follows suit, matching her pace. Her eyes scan the entirety of the scene before her, searching for some reason that she should be on alert. Magic tingles at her fingertips, pressing against the thinness of the veil, but Solona holds back her invitation. Esmerelle spots her, her head turning. Solona sees anger burning in her eyes, though about what, she's not sure. Esmerelle has always been a little shifty during their interactions, but Solona had just assumed that was a natural part of her character. Some people are that way — anxious and unsettled. Solona is often that way herself. How could she begrudge that in anyone else?

"Bann Esmerelle, the commander," Varel says. Solona is grateful for his steady, assertive manner. "What was this urgent matter?"

Esmerelle is still for a moment, though her mouth is downturned. Alarm spikes up Solona's spine as a shadow flits somewhere in the periphery of her vision. Could Esmerelle have sneaked someone into the Keep? What kind of allowances are these nobles given, anyway? She's been leaving these sorts of decisions to Varel's discretion, but she begins to wonder if that was the smartest move.

No, Varel is sharp. And experienced. And encumbered with an abundance of caution because of those years of experience. Whatever it is that cause the warning bells to ring in her head would have found their way around any other precautions she might have set.

Esmerelle shifts on her feet, and then raises her voice, loud and clear. "I'm here about the good arl," she says. Solona pauses in thought for a moment. What arl? There is no arl here.

"The good arl you killed," Esmerelle continues.

Varel snorts. "You're still loyal to Arl Howe?" It's less a question than a statement, but Solona watched Esmerelle and sees the answer in her eyes before it passes through her lips.

"Rendon was good to us," she says. "Good to me."

Solona snorts a laugh. You're one of a precious few, she thinks, her mind turning to the torture chamber that was adjacent to Rendon's bedroom. A torture chamber that saw more use than almost any other room in the Keep.

"And now his death will finally be avenged," Esmerelle says, and even before she finished the words, Solona's ears begin to ring. She instinctively steps back, and her eyes lock with a figure in the shadows. But it's a familiar face she sees there, a set of silver eyes framed by black brows and long, black hair. Nathaniel steps into the light, capturing Solona's full attention. He looks away quickly, spotting something at the back of the room.

She hears only a slight whisper of something whizzing past, before her eyes meet with a vision that it can hardly reconcile. Varel's arm is extended before her, fletching lining the arrow that pierces one side of Varel's arm, the arrowhead protruding out the other side. She stares at it, taking in its blackness, from tip to tip it is solid black. She wills her mind to move faster. Her inner voice screams that this is an attack, an assassination attempt. Isn't that what Anders warned her about? He said this might happen. He said that someone wanted her dead.

Solona ducks and rolls, and violence explodes around her. Bann Esmerelle draws a sword, as do the three others behind her. In the back of the room, Solona recognizes something that reminds her of days long past, a symbol or a particular move—she's not sure what. Until the figure in question moves closer and she sees the way this figure fights. A Crow. Probably the Crow who shot the arrow still in Varel's arm.

Solona is distracted. She whispers an invitation to the magic bulging in from the fade, but something hard hits her from behind. The Crow is no longer visible, and all she sees is the fire from the fireplace glinting off armor.

All at once the veil rips open and power snaps into place around Solona. Her cells polarize, feeling the pull of opposing magnetics as an otherworldly energy vibrates through her skin. Something else pounds her in the chest, but it makes her pause for only a moment before pressurized magic has built so quickly within her that it's close to exploding out uncontrolled. She takes a step, maneuvering closer to the center of the fray. Metal clangs as swords crash together, as armor-clad bodies slam against the stone floor.

Solona takes a breath, ready to let loose, but her breath catches, held by a sharp stab of pain. She looks down and stares for a moment at the thing sticking out of her chest. And then Nathaniel is there, his eyes twisted with concern.

"Solona," he says. She sees the word formed by his mouth, but the sound of it is faded, muted behind the clang of swords and the grunts of fighting men.

She releases the power within her, the mind blast explosion that she was readying for the group of fighters dancing around her, Varel, and Garevel. But what leaves her body is not the full force of the power she had built up. What leaves her is a weak stream of magic that stuns Nathaniel for a moment, that creates a brief lull in the sounds of fighting around her before it fades into nothingness. She takes another breath, and again is it interrupted by pain, a stunning lance through the very center of her. The room around her swims, wavering, as though it is merely an illusion. It seems to rise around her for a moment, before she realizes that it's really her falling. Nathaniel moves swiftly, his arm reaching behind him once, drawing his bow. And then again. She falls in slow motion, confused by the weakness in her limbs.

"Anders!" Nathaniel shouts.

Anders? Solona thinks. She looks at her chest again and realizes what it is she sees there. Another arrow, black as the one in Varel's arm, embedded deep in her breastbone. Time slows as the ground comes up to meet her. She can't seem to grasp the air around her, and the pain spreads, mingling with a disturbing numbness. Cold spreads inward from her feet, her fingertips, yet it is somehow warm and wet at the same time. There is the shine of grey irises, the impact of something behind her, not the floor. Everything is twisting shapes. It's pain and noise and blood. The fade seems so close. Too close. The veil brushes against her skin, and with it comes a thick rush of voices, hushed and conspiratory.

Solona recognizes these. The voices every mage is taught to fight, the voices taunting her, teasing her from the other side.

This is happening too fast. Death is too quick. She needs time. She needs to think. She wasn't ready for this. Life is a warm place lately, and she reaches for it with her mind, her magic. With her arms. But whatever her arms land against is dull and unrecognizable. Her vision is blocked by black and blue explosions floating in her eyes. The whispers grow in intensity, and she feels the energy of spirits gathering around her, calling to her from the fade.

She doesn't want the fade. She wants her friends, her home. She wants the laughter that has become such a regular part of her life lately.

She blocks the energies out, but they grow louder in her head. The cold envelops her arms, seizes her torso. She is falling, falling beyond the floor below her, beyond the earth, beyond the crash of fighters tumbling throughout the Main Hall.

This is what she used to want. For so long. But Alistair won't be there. Alistair won't be there. Where ever she is going is a black, cold, empty place.

The noise fades, leaving only a single voice, panicked and sharp. "Solona!"