A Light Shining in Darkness

by EnricoDandolo

Led out of the Fade by Andraste herself, Bethany Hawke knows she has been chosen to fix the world. But as an army of the faithful rises around her, the Inquisition's enemies arm themselves to test her principles. And in this age of digital information, full-scale thaumic war becomes likelier than ever before ...

9. Ein' feste Burg ist unser Gott

Darkness ruled her mind. She was dead, Bethany knew, adrift in the Void. Just behind her, the Fade, and the Golden City – for it was golden, truly golden and echoing with the hymns of thousands of voices, spinning the world with their song. In front of her, nothingness; and yet each time she tried to turn back, return to bliss, she found herself reversed. She was dead, Bethany knew, for there was no pain but nothingness. The nothingness – the absence, now that she had felt presence and had drunken the holiest of holy flames – the longing alone, that was a greater pain than was granted to the living. She was dead and not in pain, and yet at once ablaze with holy agony.

She awoke to the sound of half a dozen agitated voices, arguing. Or singing? She could not make out the words, and the melodies and rhythms of their speech only barely. This was no song, no hymn, but rather the screeching of feral cats and smoking tires. Colourful lights filled her vision, blurry and confounded, but they seemed drab, faint and sickening to her now.

Bethany dozed off again.

The next time she regained consciousness, someone was trying to force something into her mouth. "Drink," a disembodied voice commanded her, pressing something that felt like rubber to her lips. She tried to resist, but the voice brooked no disobedience. When she did open her mouth, a warm liquid flowed into her mouth. Tea. It was so bitter she tried to spit it out, but a firm hand pushed her down. "Swallow," the voice commanded. Right now, Bethany wanted to hate that voice. To her, it seemed as rough and unpleasant as the screeching of fingernails on a blackboard. It tasted of despair. If only she was back where she had been, wherever that might be, safe in her Lady's embrace …

The next time she awoke, she was well enough to see, and even sit up. She still couldn't feel her extremities, but she had a headache to make up for that. There did not seem to be a single cell in her body that was not freezing. "Try not to move. You are very unwell." Bethany looked up and could more or less make out Mother Giselle's kind features. She opened her mouth to say something, but found she had no voice to say it with. "Easy, easy. Here, have some more tea. We need to get you warm again … there you go."

This time, her words came out as a rasp, at least. "What … happened?" She didn't know why that was the first question that came to mind. Others had lain on her tongue (why couldn't you let me die? Why did you keep me from my Lady? Does her star still shine in the sky?), but she found herself unable to ask them. Already, the memory of the Lady's touch was fading, her body cold as ice rather than burning with desire, and all that remained was the memory of absolute bliss. Distant. Fading. No, she told herself, she'd remember this, remember every detail, lock it deep within her heart and never let it go.

"I don't know, child. But we could not find you in Haven when we evacuated after the explosion. We feared the worst. It was by sheer coincidence that we found you at all. We hadn't expected you to walk so far north, and would not have known where to look for you, if one of the rescue teams hadn't moved through this area en route to Haven."

She closed her eyes. A coincidence. No, the mother was wrong – this was no more coincidence than the constants of the physical universe, or the existence of the Fade, or the mark – the … anchor – upon her hand. Oh, but had she not suffered enough? Would her penance never come to an end? Had she only been granted death at last … no. No, she must not think like that. She could have died: would have died. But instead, she had been visited by her Lady, had kissed Her lips and drunken Her fire, and for a fleeting moment tasted absolution. Her survival, not by coincidence or blind chance but by design, could only mean that the part she was to play on this earth was not yet done. Sing, o sister, I shall throw you the yarn: know you how that will be?

Bethany sighed. If this was to be her lot … she did not dare disobey. Neither, she had to admit, did she wish to. Still, the possibility – faint and vain though it may be – of seeing her Lady again weighed heavy on her mind.

Coincidence. Perhaps a less weakened, more combative Bethany might have scoffed at the idea. There was no coincidence in this, and Mother Giselle was a fool to think otherwise … no, not a fool. She could not blame her. Bethany knew, after all, that just a day ago she might have agreed with her. Giselle had not seen what she had seen. Giselle would never touch her hand to that of her burning Lady, would never intertwine her fingers with Hers, would never understand the true meaning of satisfaction. And Bethany could not help but pity her for that.

Again, she tried to sit up in her thick sleeping bag, and found she was also covered tightly in at least three layers of blankets. Only now did she also try to take stock of her surroundings: she was in a small, square tent, plain beige tarpaulin all around, the sort used by mountaineers. A small gas burner had been placed in the centre of the tent, a tea kettle on it, and doubled as heating. Mother Giselle was kneeling by her side, gently supporting here. "Easy, child. Don't stress yourself."

"I … I'm fine, I just …" She broke off and clenched her teeth as a sharp jab of pain shot through her head, neck and chest. "Oh, fuck …"

"Language, child. I did warn you, though. Master Solas did say you might wake up with a rather bad headache. In all honesty, it's probably a good sign you're only noticing it now."

"Doesn't … feel good to me. Solas examined me? What's he say?"

The mother made a face. "A bunch of magic mumbo-jumbo, if you ask me. Apart from your hypothermia, he says you've got a mild case of thaumic radiation poisoning – hence the headaches." She hesitated. "He is also … concerned about your mark. It is growing again. He said he'd want to talk to you as soon as you woke up, but I think he can wait a bit longer until you're feeling better. We'd get you to an actual doctor, but … well, there are concerns."

Bethany barely registered the confirmation about her mark. It was only to be expected, wasn't it? "What sort of … concerns?"

The mother hesitated. "You'd probably best talk to Lady Montilyet about that. How are you feeling?"

"Sick of this sleeping bag."

Mother Giselle helped her free herself from the stranglehold of the blankets. Only when she sat up did Bethany realise she was naked. She shot a sideways glance towards the mother, who merely rolled her eyes. "Oh, please …"

Still, she found herself rather more sheepish than usual as the mother helped her get dressed. She couldn't even remember when she'd last been naked around another person. That would – yes, that would have to have been Marian, the night before she'd left her. The last time she'd seen her. Where might her sister be now? For all Bethany knew, she might be dead, having gotten herself killed in some drunken brawl. Or she might have moved on entirely, found something else to keep her going, something that wouldn't destroy her the way Bethany had done. Three years were a long time – why was she thinking about this?, she scolded herself. She'd gone so long without pining for what-might-have-beens, and what-should-never-have-beens. No, do not think about Marian. Wish her well, but do not think about her, for the sake of everyone involved. And yet –

Frustrated, she dressed herself, at first turning down Mother Giselle's assistance rather more rudely than she deserved, then having to submit when her all-but insensible fingers found themselves unsuited for the task. At least the clothes that had been provided fit, more or less: although by the end of it, Bethany would much have preferred a simple Inquisition uniform over the four or five layers of mismatched woolly jumpers that made her feel like a particularly ill-designed golem. When Mother Giselle then insisted on adding a coat that looked and felt as though it had been made for arctic explorers, Bethany tried to protest, but to no avail. Finally, with thick padded mitts, earmuffs and a woolly hat completing the impractical ensemble, Mother Giselle would at last grant her leave to exit the tent.

It was still night. Not a single cloud marred the skies, and starlight illuminated the mountain snow surrounding the small camp on all sides. Bethany paid them, or the vistas, no heed, only sought the heavens for what she needed to see: was it this one? Or maybe that one, over that mountain peak? When she finally found her Lady's star, and could not hide her smile, she had to wonder how she'd been able to miss it. To her, it seemed the brightest star in the sky, by far.

"Share your joke with me?" Mother Giselle asked, having appeared by her side.

Bethany's smile turned sheepish. "It's nothing," she lied. "Let's find the others."

It was only a small camp which had been set up here, deep in the mountains and presumably not far from where they'd found her. A few tents, half-buried in the snow, a bright yellow helicopter with the emblem of the Fereldan Red Sun on it, some other vehicles. Inquisition soldiers and mountain rescuers were gathered around in small groups; many turned to stare at her as she passed by. Bethany wondered why as Mother Giselle led her towards a bulky yellow rescue off-roader, around which a small group of people were gathered. "– cannot go on like this. Our whole operation is in shambles. And with Denerim pulling out, we've lost what little financial support we had, let alone most of the volunteers on loan from the Fereldan government. We need to retreat, restructure …"

"And then what?!" That was Cullen's voice. He was almost shouting. "Who does that leave to fight this Corypheus person?"

"We barely even know anything about him yet –"

"Yes, and whose fucking fault is that? How come we had no idea this was coming, anyway?"

Bethany stepped in their midst. "Enough! Stop it, all of you!" At least for now, the argument died down as all eyes came to rest on her. She took a deep breath. "We can't … we can't keep arguing among ourselves." She found herself swaying slightly, had to reach for the still-warm hood of the truck to steady herself.

"Hawke, are you alright?" Cullen gently put a hand on her shoulder. "You should be resting. You've just been through a lot …"

"No, I'm fine. First off …" She paused. What was her priority? She hadn't actually given that much thought. "First off, how many made it out of Haven alright? Who did we lose?"

A shadow came over Cullen's face. "Almost a hundred people, including officers and civilian staff. And that's us getting lucky. If not for Cassandra evacuating the town, and the odd explosion … well, suffice it to say none of us would be standing here now. We managed to get about three hundred more people to Bexley, but … well. Things are a bit more complicated now."

Leliana scowled. "What Cullen means to say is that Prime Minister Guerrin called a couple of hours ago. What with the attack, he feels the Inquisition no longer works out to the … benefit of his country. They're pulling out of the deal at the earliest opportunity. We have to vacate Bexley by the end of next month. That also means we can kiss our financial lifelines goodbye, and a lot of our most experienced personnel are probably going to be recalled to their normal jobs. In short … well, we're fucked."

Josephine nodded. "That's one thing we can still agree on, at least."

She sighed. Somehow, Bethany wasn't all that surprised; she'd never known bad news to come alone. "Listen, guys … it's the middle of the night. Can't we let this rest for a couple hours? We've all had a long day behind us. You won't come up with any solutions now."

The others were forced to admit that she had a point, and the meeting dissolved without any decisions having been made. Bethany and Mother Giselle watched from the sidelines as the other three wandered off, each on their own, and each left to their own thoughts. "It's a miracle they've been in general agreement for so long in the first place," the priestess opined. "From now on, I fear we will see more infighting."

"Cullen and I were both considering to resign from the council just this morning," Bethany confessed. "After tonight … no one even seems to remember how badly we screwed up at Therinfal and Redcliffe. Bringing both mages and templars under one roof again, without even telling them … Maker, I was so sure it could work."

"You were trying to bring a bit of peace into the world. You cannot be faulted for that."

"People died, Mother. My own apprentice among them. And now, more people are dead, because we couldn't kill Corypheus properly when we first encountered him." She closed her eyes. "Oh, Maker. The way he was talking … makes me think that Corypheus probably is that 'Elder One' Alexius mentioned, too. The leader of the Venatori. And if Cullen's right, and the templars at Therinfal got their red lyrium from the Venatori …" She shuddered, and not because of the cold. "Sounds like I just drove a bunch of very disgruntled mages and templars right into Corypheus' arms."

"You're being too harsh on yourself. No one placed in your position could have done better, child. Always remember that the Maker still has a plan for you."

Quietly, Bethany adjusted her gloves. The mark on her palm – the anchor – seemed to prickle. A plan, yes, perhaps. She knew, in her heart, that Corypheus had either been lying or had simply had no idea what he'd been talking about when he called her mark an accident. The Lady had called her 'Herald'. Even so, the challenges facing her remained daunting. "When I was out there …" She broke off, unsure why she had even brought it up.

"Yes, my child?"

"I saw something," she simply said. "A … well, a vision. I don't really know how to explain it. Just … it was the most wonderful thing I ever experienced." Bethany couldn't keep the smile from her face. "I saw a … a woman. A Lady, made all of gold and light and fire. She embraced me. Called me 'Herald'. I …" She broke off. Somehow, even talking about it felt like defilement. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be talking about this."

The smile Giselle gave her was more lenient than understanding. Almost immediately, her heart fell; it was clear the mother did not believe her. "Child … have you considered that you were under a lot of stress at the time? All alone, freezing. Radiation poisoning. And with you being a mage …" The priestess hesitated, and Bethany gave her a challenging look. Go on, say it. "It may have been something else. Spirits have been known to approach the lost and the suffering. In your state, it is no wonder the experience was … heightened."

"I know what I saw. And – and she's not a demon. Trust me, I'd know." She scoffed. "You're a theologian, aren't you? Are you going to tell me none of it was real? How can you believe that?"

"I believe that it was real to you. But … many have thought they'd seen Our Lady in the past. Many of them were pious, virtuous people, including many saints of the Chantry. But even as we revere their examples, we have to bear in mind that many of them were already delirious from suffering and martyrdom. Others deliberately sought out the Fade, and then claimed the spirits that visited them were the genuine essence of Our Lady." She sighed. "But Andraste sits by the Maker's side now. For us, she begs and intercedes with Him, yet she does not stray from His side. Her work on this earth is done. It is for us, and us alone, to follow her example and once more regain our creator's favour."

"So … you're saying I'm delusional. Maybe even heretical."

"Child … all I'm saying is that we are always tempted, no one moreso than mages. Even if it seems a genuine vision, you have to remember that the Maker and His bride are not of this world."

Bethany did not belabour the point. Giselle meant well, no doubt, but she did not believe. Maybe it was just because she had spent so much time writing theology and had become an atheist in all but name from deconstructing the minutiae of faith, but Bethany knew better. She knew what she had seen, what she had felt. She knew what demon dreams looked like. This? This had not been a demon's attempt to get inside her head. The ecstasy she had felt when she had tasted her Lady's saliva, Her blood and Her fire, when she had become wholly Hers for but an instant, that had been real. No one could deny that, and no one could take it away from her.

She had called her herald. Just what, exactly, was she to herald?

Not wishing to stir up an argument, Bethany changed the subject. "Look at them, though," she murmured, indicating the people gathered around the camp. Not a smile was in sight. She had seen their expressions before, through smoke and flames in the burning Gallows, when they'd begun to count the battle in hours, not minutes. "We've lost so much. They're almost ready to give up. It's gonna be difficult to get back in the fight."

"Quite so, I'm afraid." The mother smiled. "Say, child, how well do you know your hymnal?"

"My … oh. I'm sorry, I've not really been to services in years."

Said Giselle: "Hm. I think you will know this one." Thus, she stepped forth, into the circle of tents. Under her thick padded parka, the hem of her white cassock blended into the snow. She folded her arms across her chest in prayer, and then she raised her voice: "Shadows fall, and hope has fled ..."

Bethany recognised the hymn almost instantly. Used throughout Cantantia, it was one of the oldest contained in the Royan Hymnal, as far as she knew, and one of the most consistently popular. Growing up in Lothering, it had been a regular feature at services just about every fortnight, courtesy of a somewhat unimaginative revered mother. During the Blight, it had been almost omnipresent on the airwaves, playing on RF Radio and RF One every day after the news, followed by the national anthem. She found it difficult to believe there was anyone left in the country who didn't know it.

Sure enough, the hymn was taken up by another voice, and then another, and then another. Cullen joined in, revealing hidden talents with a clear and ringing tenor, and soon all the camp was on their feet, praising the Maker and finding renewed strength in darkness. At last, Bethany too raised herself from the truck's hood and moved to join them.

That was when Solas appeared by her side. "A word, if you please, Herald."

Somewhat baffled, she nodded, then followed as the elf led her away from the small camp. They walked quite a ways: at least several hundred metres, until the singing could no longer be heard except as echoes in the mountain snow. Bethany wasn't quite sure if she was supposed to exert herself like this, but she was feeling surprisingly fine. Finally Solas came to a halt, and with a flourish of his hand lit a pale green flame in the air. Veilfire, Bethany recognised, an old-fashioned technique still used for some veluscopic tests. The elf reached out his hand. "Your mark, if I may."

Ah. That explained a lot. Hesitantly, Bethany stripped off her left glove and gave him her hand. With sharp eyes, he scrutinised the anchor, prodding here and there and casting a few quick nonverbal spells. "As I suspected. The seal I created when you first received the mark is broken. The explosion in Haven …" He sighed, shook his head and murmured something in elven. "Varric tells me Corypheus used a certain spherical device. I had my suspicions; this confirms it. It is called – well, suffice it to say you would find it difficult to pronounce. It's a magical focus. They were rare even in old Elvhenan, used to channel power from our gods. Frankly, I am amazed even one has survived until today, but it seems fitting that it would be in the hands of a Tevinter magister. Presumably, Corypheus used it to augment his powers and open the Breach. This time, he tried to use it to remove the mark on your hand. You tried to cast a spell at him, did you not?"

"I … yes." Somehow, she was not surprised. She'd already known the explosion in Haven had been her fault on an instinctive level. Regardless … to hear it confirmed was terrifying. She'd killed … how many, had Cullen said? She could not remember.

"That magic flowed through the focus, the … Orb. Amplified, it was enough to open a new rift, a smaller Breach. The good news is that it wasn't strong enough to do any serious damage …"

"Serious damage?" Bethany echoed, incredulous. "Solas, people died."

"Point taken, but considering the alternative we should count our blessings. The bad news is that your mark is growing again, and I do not think I can stop its growth entirely this time. I will do my utmost to delay its expansion, but … at some point, you will be forced to choose between your mark and your life."

"I don't understand. Are you saying there's some way to remove the mark?"

"Only one I can think of. I'm afraid it's amputation. Of your hand now, but soon, we may not be able to stop its growth without removing your entire arm. What is important is that we do not let it grow past the shoulder. I do not know what the mark will do to your heart, your lungs, let alone your brain, and I believe neither of us is in any hurry to find out." He paused. "Herald, do you understand what I'm saying?"

Tonelessly, she echoed him. "If it reaches my shoulder, I'll need to have it removed. Yes. I …" Bethany closed her eyes and soaked in the frigid mountain air. Maker, what would she be without her mark? Not the herald, not even truly alive now that she had tasted what that felt like. "I understand. How much time can you give me?"

"I cannot tell. It might be months, or even years. Or it might be mere weeks. Either way, I would advise you not to try another stunt like yesterday. Using your mark puts strains on it, and each time you do, your body is dragged further out of this reality. Sealing rifts is one thing – and considering our situation, I do not see a way to dispense with it entirely – using it to channel magic from the Fade is quite another."

"Right." She paused, looked over her shoulder. By the looks of it, the people at the camp had finished their hymn, and hopefully retired to get a few hours of sleep, their hearts steeled anew for the battles to come. In the morning … Bethany wasn't sure what they were going to do come morning. To hear Josephine tell it, the Inquisition was in dire straits, and the obstacles they faced were, while more distinct now, none the less daunting for it. After all – she thought – they had fought Corypheus once before, all those years ago, had left him in such a state that any mortal creature's death would have been assured. Anders and the Wardens at the prison had all attested to his deadness, although no one who had seen his remains could have thought otherwise. Evidently, though, it had not been enough. Now, Bethany believed not for a second that the old devil had perished in the new rift at Haven. And, this much was becoming increasingly manifest: he had not one, but two armies at his beck and call. She'd always admired how the Hero of Ferelden had fought the Blight, but at least Queen Eleanor had had allies of her own, and the precedent of a thousand years of history at her side. Without any backers, how were they going to fight against Corypheus?

Bethany sighed, half-turned to the elf. "Solas, you've seen so much in your dreams. What do we do now? Where do we go from here?" She raised her hands. "We're scattered. Broke. Stuck here in these mountains. And now we're facing an ancient magister who can't be killed. What can we possibly do?"

A lopsided smile appeared on the elf's pencil-thin lips, and he slightly inclined his polished head. "I fear I am not the one who can answer that question. But I will try and pinpoint what the Inquisition's next priority has to be."

"And what's that?"

"First, a new base of operations. Then, leadership. After that, you can rebuild and step back into the fight against Corypheus."

"That's easier said than done … both parts. I don't think the Ferelden government will be too keen to have us stick around. And with the civil war in Orlais …"

Solas made a dismissive gesture. "That is not what you need, Herald. You need something that is indisputably yours, something that no one in their right mind will deny you. Something that broadcasts your power and authority to all who see it." He folded his hands behind his back and looked up at the sky. "In ancient times, my people believed in using the stars to divine our fates. None of your human aberrations, of course … meaning no offense."

She hadn't felt offended, but certainly a bit peeved. "I don't think astrology is going to help us right now."

"Oh, it's far simpler than that." With a languid gesture, he pointed towards the sky. "Tell me what you see."

Bethany followed his indication, and found to her surprise that he had pointed almost directly at the bright star that she knew to be the one her Lady had placed in the sky, just above the horizon. She shot a suspicious glance at the elf – she was pretty sure that he couldn't read her mind – but his sharp face showed no hint of recognition. It must have been a coincidence – if not providence. "I see … a star," she finally said, returning her attention to the night sky. "The bright one, over there."

"Tell me about this star. What does it mean to you?"

"It means … a covenant. Safety. A home. And also … fire. When I look at it, I feel as if I'm burning. It's … it's not unpleasant, but ..." She broke off. "I'm sorry, this must sound very weird."

"Oh, not at all. The stars often tell us more than we first imagine, if we but let them." He looked straight at her. "An inspired choice. That star is named, in the old elven, da'el annar. The Year Star. It sits right on the equator, and is visible throughout the winter. As it moves across the sky, the line between it and the south star crosses each of the six constellations visible around the south star from our hemisphere. Thus, we measured six months, and added a further six for that time in which da'el annar was hid behind the horizon. I suspect the same is true for your own ancestors."

"I wouldn't know," she admitted. "I never really paid attention to astronomy."

"Are you saying young Bethany Hawke never dreamt of the stars? I find that hard to believe."

"Nope. That was my twin brother, Carver. He wanted to become a caelonaut – I just wanted to not become a mage." She tried a grin to lighten the sentiment behind that statement. It didn't really work. "So, uh … okay, I picked the Year Star. B-by accident, I assure you. What is that supposed to mean, then?" If Solas was going somewhere with this, she'd just have to humour him while he played his game. Maker help him if that game ended with pseudo-arcane bullshit about the zodiac or getting in touch with her inner spirit nug or whatever, though. She had no patience for superstitions.

The elf smiled thinly. "You already said it. Safety – a home – a hearth. Follow it, northwards, and we will follow you in turn. And then, you will find what you're looking for."

Bethany raised an eyebrow. "Uh huh."

"Don't believe me – believe the star you chose yourself. Believe in what it means to you."

Once more, she sought the Year Star – her Lady's star – on the horizon. Let this be My sign to you … She hadn't chosen it by accident, that much was clear to her. If, indeed, there was some kind of message behind it … Bethany sighed. Damn it, now she'd never rest until she knew what lay towards that star, if anything. There had to be something, right? Her Lady had, after all, pointed it out to her. No, it had to mean something, it had to lead her to something that would allow her to better serve her Lady's designs.

Again, she glanced at Solas. His expression had not changed. "Is this really an ancient elven technique?"

Somehow, that hexed a gleam in his eyes. "Why, yes. The very oldest of them all. Now, then, shall we head back to the others?"

---

Bethany thought it over, lying awake in her tent while Mother Giselle snored lightly next to her. No matter how much she turned the idea over and around in her head, she could not escape the inevitable realisation that, no matter how little she actually knew, and no matter how little justification she could think of for it, she knew in her heart that they had to follow the star north. What would they find there? She had no idea. How was she going to convince the others? Damned if she knew. All she knew was that it was what she had to do. My Herald. Her Lady had chosen her, and had given Bethany all she needed to know. The rest, she was pretty sure, was up to her.

At some point, she must have fallen asleep, after all, for suddenly light was shining through the tarpaulin of the tent and there were sounds of activity outside. Bethany yawned as the last vestigial images of a rather odd dream about Marian, Ella, and her one-time neighbour's cat faded from her memory, then struggled to free herself from her sleeping bags. She didn't know if there were any lasting effects to hypothermia, but she was feeling absolutely fine. Still, she put on her odd assortment of clothes, making a mental note to scrounge for something that actually fit her later, and crawled out of the tent in search of breakfast and ideally caffeine.

The sounds of activity, it soon emerged, were not due to the Inquisition agents breaking camp, but rather the departure of most of the mountain rescue teams. That included the helicopter, leaving them with a small number of trucks, all of them Inquisition equipment but winter-proofed with heavy snow chains on the tyres and other gear she didn't recognise. She found Cullen and a short figure in a heavily-padded parka with the hood down that was probably Josephine leaning against one of them, talking quietly. "Good morning," she mumbled, approaching them.

"Good morning to you, too," the hood-that-was-Josephine responded. "How are you feeling?"

"Pretty good, honestly. Why aren't we breaking camp?"

"Short answer? We've nowhere to go. When you awoke last night, we were still arguing over whether to return to Bexley or fly directly to Orlais from the mountains."

She frowned. "Why Orlais?"

"As good a place as any. Don't snicker, Cullen. We need to find new allies, and Eamon has expressed his opinion that he'd prefer us … that is, well … you, to stay out of Ferelden for now." Bethany's heart sank, but only slightly. It made sense, she supposed – she had just opened a new breach in Haven. She had never considered herself truly Fereldan, not since she'd come into her magic, but the rebuke still stung a little. Josephine must have noticed, for she hurried to add: "Don't worry, though. I'll lean on the king for all it's worth. We'll come to some arrangement eventually."

"Until then," Cullen concluded, "we're stuck on the outside. This whole stretch of mountains here is disputed territory, with the Empire, Ferelden and the dwarves all laying claim to it. Since no one wants to spark a diplomatic crisis, everyone mostly stays out of the way. For all intents and purposes, we're stuck in no man's land. Closest thing we've got to a plan right now is to just follow some of the more accessible passes west through the mountains, then set up shop somewhere in the Dales until we can arrange for something more permanent. Assuming the Inquisition survives this, of course."

"Why, is that in doubt?"

"Look around you, Hawke. Our people are … well, you can see them for yourself. Idealism and faith are what's carried them along so far, plus what successes we've had cleaning up the world, but whatever optimism we gained when you closed the Breach were lost with the attack on Haven. Without something to lift their spirits, we'd be lucky to maintain half our staff."

Bethany nodded, counting her blessings. Grim though the situation was, she was relieved that the others didn't have much of a plan. She had no idea how she might have convinced them to go north with her had they had something laid out. "We shouldn't go west," she said, trying to figure out how best to put this. "Or east, to Bexley."

"Well, we can't exactly return to Haven …"

"And I'm not suggesting we do. We will go north."

"North?" Cullen and Josephine shared a look. "Is there anything I'm not aware of to the north?"

Well … probably? "Just trust me on this. We need to go north, at least to scout it out." No, that probably wouldn't reduce the doubt in their minds. Oh, if only she could tell them about her vision, but she knew they'd find it just as hard to believe as Mother Giselle had. At best, they'd laugh it off as the product of a stress and hypothermia. She couldn't exactly blame them; if she didn't know it to be true, she would not have believed herself, either.

But whatever response Bethany had expected, it hadn't been this. Josephine glanced at the commander, who shrugged. "Well, I was thinking it'd make a better impression on the Orlesians if we don't immediately set up shop within their borders without asking. If I went ahead to Val Royeaux, together with Leliana and maybe our aides …"

"We can't stay here indefinitely, you know. No man's land or not, this place isn't exactly hospitable."

Seizing the bizarre windfall, Bethany pressed the point. "Not indefinitely, no. But if we can stay here, buy Josephine some time … I don't think we'll have to go very far north to find what we're looking for." A sudden idea came to her. "Think of how it'll look. The Inquisition has just received the fiercest blow in its brief history. Instead of aiding them as they can, the government throws them out of the country, and a cold and hard-hearted Orlais won't take them in, either. The brave forces of the Inquisition, the … well, the Herald of Andraste, all stuck in this frigid no man's land. You can get this message out on the Internet, right, Josephine?"

The diplomat was somewhat hesitant to respond. Bethany could virtually see her weighing her options in her mind. "Well, I suppose … it's possible. I can definitely see it playing that way, although we'd have to be careful to continue working with both governments or we'd end up antagonising one of them. It would be more effective if I'd ever been allowed to set up a proper media operation, of course."

"We've been over this," Cullen sighed. "The need for secrecy …"

"Secrecy gets us conspiracy theories and suspicions, not donations or volunteers. Hedging and only revealing information in tiny little pieces is the worst mistake any fledgling PR operation can make, trust me on that."

"Regardless," Bethany cut in, having heard the same argument play out time and time again, "it's our best option now. We need all the support we can get, after all." Cullen had to concede the point. "Good, then it's decided. Josephine will go to Val Royeaux – and possibly to Val Chevin, as well, if you think it wise to talk to the Chalonais leadership. In the meantime, we'll scout north."

"Alright, alright. But you still haven't told us why we're supposed to go north."

She grinned. "Orlais to the west, Ferelden to the east, and the ruins of Haven to the south. Do you see any other options?"

That made the other two councillors chuckle. "I'll have myself picked up by a helicopter later today, then. I can arrange for supplies to be sent to you from Bexley – it's not going to be comfortable, but you won't starve nor freeze to death if I can help it. Do we need anything else?"

"Journalists," Bethany suggested. "Lots and lots of journalists. If this is going to work, we need maximum exposure – first slot on the evening news, front pages photographs … hell, a livestream. Show the world that the Inquisition isn't going anywhere. And when we …" She paused, corrected herself. It wouldn't do to be too confident, if only so as not to disturb the others. "If we find anything, I want cameras on us."

A positively ravishing grin had appeared on Josephine's even face, only widening as Bethany continued. "Oh, I can do that. I can absolutely do that." The smile faltered a little. "But … I want you to be clear on this. If we do this, we can no longer hide you, as we've tried until now. You will have to come forward. You will be the face that's on the news, the face on every cover. And after that, there'll be no going back, neither for you nor anyone around you. You will face intense scrutiny, vitriol even – for your actions, for your family name, and for merely being a mage. Is that absolutely clear?"

Bethany could only offer up a wry smile. They could throw nothing at her she hadn't told herself before. Besides … she wasn't alone in this. She had friends now, perhaps for the first time in years. And, more than that: she had the Lady on her side, in all Her glory and magnificence. She would not fail. "I understand. And I accept it." And then, attempting to lighten the mood, she added: "So, who's going to tell Leliana?"

---

Josephine did not disappoint.

It took less than two hours after her departure before the first group of journalists arrived in a chartered helicopter of their own; a Radio Ferelden TV crew sent to cover the destruction of Haven. Seizing the opportunity of being the first to cover the Inquisition from up close, even in its darkest hour, they had abandoned their attempts to access the quarantined ruins of Haven, chartered a chopper and made their way north to meet them. They had brought more equipment with them than the Inquisition's forces had been able to prepare during their haphazard evacuation, and found that sharing out thermos cans of tea and coffee not only improved morale among the Inquisition's forces, but also got them talking. At some point, Bethany had asked them how long it would take for the first footage to be sent back to their studio in Highever, and was pleasantly surprised to learn that their camera had a direct satellite feed, allowing for live coverage.

She wasn't entirely sure why they picked her of all the people in the camp for an extended interview, but she was pretty sure they didn't recognise her. Maybe it was because of the officer's uniform she had scrounged together, maybe it was because the staff at her side made her more attractive to television crews – but she ended up answering their questions for the better part of an hour. For now, Bethany hedged on questions about herself or her role in the Inquisition, but the reporters didn't pry and were more than happy to ask more general questions instead, at least for now.

It didn't take long until others arrived – including several more television crews, both from Ferelden and Orlais, and print reporters. Once the numbers of Inquisition agents and journalists had almost drawn even, Cullen ordered the camp to be broken up. Tents, equipment and generators were packed onto their increasingly large fleet of offroad trucks, and within about half an hour all that remained of their sojourn here were traces in the snow. It was only just past noon when the small convoy started moving, northwards. They made slow progress, the trucks having to crawl through the snow and struggling up every steep incline. But first metre by metre, then kilometre by kilometre, they fought their way north.

Bethany spent much of the time marvelling at the natural beauty surrounding her. Even covered in snow, the narrow valleys and the soaring peaks, the jagged passes and the crystalline lakes were a sight to behold. There were no villages in this part of the Frostback, as far as she knew; even the most traditional of the Avvar clans never came here. When she checked the Veil every now and then, every indication suggested she was the first mage to set foot here in ages. This, Bethany thought, this was the essence of the Maker's creation, the magnificence and beauty of a frozen land untouched by mortal hands or magic.

When the convoy struggled up one particularly narrow path, she walked next to it, near its head, and used the opportunity to look back again and again. Even over the sounds of engines and people's chatter, muffled by the snow, Bethany could hear a little brook rushing somewhere to her right. From its source in the rocky spring, it rushed down – clear, fresh, and no doubt icy cold – into a long, serpentine valley. In summer, she imagined, there would be meadows down there, untamed, lush green between crags and rubble.

Was this what she had been meant to see, she wondered? There was no denying its beauty. Had her Lady intended to remind her of the supreme majesty of the Maker's creation? If so, well, point duly taken. But … she had been hoping for something more tangible.

But perhaps that judgement had been premature. Solas, who had crested the pass ahead of them, was waiting for them, waving for her to join him. Tearing her eyes off the valley behind them, Bethany fought her way up the snowy slope. "What is it?" she asked, breathlessly, drawing level with him.

The elf said "look", but he needn't have bothered.

Ahead of them, the pass opened up to another valley, larger than any they had come through before, yet this one was rough and full of tall crags. Thundering rivers seemed to come down from the mountains, raising permanent clouds of steam where they gathered into lakes at the feet of waterfalls. The lowest level of the stair-like valley was almost entirely flat, and it took Bethany a moment to realise that this was another lake, this one frozen over and covered in snow whereas those on the upper levels almost seemed to be boiling. She couldn't look at what she imagined was the source of those rivers for long before her head began to hurt from the attempt to reconcile what her eyes saw with what her min told her should be.

None of that, odd thought it was, could however have prepared her for what lay at the centre of the valley. On a massive spike or rather plateau, jagging out from where the upper lakes formed into waterfalls to rush down to the floor of the valley, stood a castle. It was not, as castles went, particularly large, and even from here she could see the disrepair it was in. The roof of what appeared to be the enormous main building had sagged in towards the middle, and the curtain walls looked like someone had taken a bite out of them. But the long, winding bridge that stretched from the castle's gates to the fortified plateau just below them still arched unbroken over waterfall after waterfall, inviting them to follow.

In a sweeping gesture, Solas reached out his arm. "Skyhold," he pronounced. "Your fortress."

And Bethany knew then, knew for a fact, that by her Lady's grace, this was where she would hold back the sky.

Leaving the trucks behind for now, they made their way across the bridge: beside herself, Solas, Cullen, Varric, Lavellan and a few others. For now, they'd been able to get most of the press corps to stay behind, and were only accompanied by a pair of journalists from the United Press agency. "I don't understand this," Cullen protested as they crossed over to the castle. "There's not supposed to be anything here. None of the satellite pictures I've seen show anything here but an empty valley."

"The satellite imagery didn't show Corypheus' demon army either," Solas suggested. "Perhaps Skyhold was similarly hidden."

"Possible," the commander allowed. "It still seems odd. Demons are one thing, but I've never heard of anything else being magically hidden like that – certainly nothing this size."

Bethany looked around. The mountain streams still gave her a headache. "There's something off about this place. It's clearly not natural, but I sense no traces of magic in the Veil." Could it be? Could a higher power, one that stood above magic, have intervened to form this place, this … Skyhold from nothingness? If so, there could be no doubt about its significance.

They arrived at the gatehouse. The drawbridge had long rotted away, but between Solas' and her own magic, they quickly formed a rudimentary path across the gap. Nothing remained of the gatehouse's once-impressive portcullis but rotting wood and rusted iron, half-fallen out of its frame, and they stepped through into the courtyard … almost immediately, Bethany felt a hot wind brushing her face, and had to remove her thick winter coat. The courtyard was warm, at least twenty degrees, far warmer than the Frostbacks in early Guardian had any right to be. She glanced around to find she was not the only one; the others were also removing their outer garments. What was still more impressive: the courtyard was bright green, overgrown with tall grass and bushes. Vines clung to the inside of the tall castle walls and up the bases of towers and stone houses, some of them bright with flowers.

"That's … that's impossible," Cullen murmured, half-entranced. "This can't be real. It's the midst of winter …"

Solas, with a flick of his heavy wooden staff, dropped what she assumed was a warmth spell around his body. "You would be wise not to assume anything, commander," he said. "There is more to magic than you can dream of. Than any of us can imagine. Whoever built this castle imbued it with all it needed to survive its precarious location. Come, now, why don't we have a look around."

Bethany moved to follow him, even as Varric drew level with her. "Careful," the dwarf murmured. "I don't trust this. Huge-ass medieval castles don't just appear out of thin air, in my experience."

"Not in mine," she admitted, only half-listening to him. "But … you have to admit, it's miraculous."

"… I guess? Come, let's see if there's anything that wants to kill us."

Following Solas, they climbed a long, broad staircase up to the upper level of the courtyard. Bethany was struck by how generous this castle's proportions were; even without the crumbling walls and towers, it felt more like a representative palace than the dreary bulwarks of old Castle Redcliffe. Whoever had lived here had cared at least as much about making sure everyone know how powerful they were as about actually defending themselves. When she related those observations to Solas, the elf only snorted.

There was another courtyard at the top of the stairs, and another set of stairs, even grander than the former. Some rubble remained of a thin arch of sorts at their foot, but it had long since collapsed under its own weight, what few engravings could yet be seen long smoothed out by the wind. Lavellan picked up one of the remaining stones and held it up against the light. "Looks weird," she said. "Kinda like a wolf's head, if you squint." With a shrug, she threw it in the air, then gave it a kick as it came down. It was not by any means what Bethany would call aerodynamic or even light, but it still flew a respectable distance, straight through the window of a nearby house. Lavellan cheered; Solas covered his face with his arm.

"If you are quite done …" he said, his voice sounding strained.

"That wasn't half bad," Varric commented in his stead. "You a footballer, Thistle?"

The elf laughed. "Thistle? I like it. And nah, not really. Used to play in youth clubs as a kid, but being Dalish means moving constantly so nothing ever really came of it. In the end I just gave up on it to focus on hunting."

"You could start a team. There's bound to be more rubble you can quick around."

"Now there's an idea …"

"Ahem!" Shaking his head, Solas moved on, up the stairs into what appeared to be the main hall. Bethany followed, and so did the others, eventually. Almost immediately, Bethany was struck by its size: yes, she thought, a place to hold court and a place to feast one's allies, not a place to defend. On a raised dais at the end of the room before two-and-a-half huge stained glass windows, she could just about make out the shattered remains of a throne, but the way there was blocked by debris from the roof. Dozens, if not hundreds of shattered burnt shingles, as well as a few massive wooden beams. Around the centre of the roof, a large patch of open sky was visible; the rest of it sagged precariously. Behind them, the UP photographer took

"A lightning strike?" Cullen speculated. "Or just rotting beams?"

Bethany shrugged. "Either way, it looks like we need to replace the entire roof."

"Replace the … Hawke, you're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting. This place is a ruin. It'd take months just to make it habitable. Besides, it's in the middle of nowhere. It'd be a logistical nightmare just to get building materials here – not to mention power, running water, phone lines …"

"True," she serenely conceded. "But it is also our fortress. Skyhold is our new home, there is no other way of seeing it. Andraste Herself led us here. For as long as we remain here, as long as we maintain this steadfast, it will be ours, and the Inquisition will stand strong. We closed the Breach. We survived Haven. You, Cullen, you fought an Envy demon who was trying to possess you and lived to tell the tale. I travelled to the past, and then the future. I don't know about you, but I'm not going to let a bit of hard work frighten me out of claiming this place … or rather, re-claiming it for the Maker's glory."

"What is that supposed to mean?" But Bethany had already turned away from him, marched down the hall and then through one of the side doors into an elegant quad. The eroded remains of stepping stones were still visible in the grass, but the covered well and the stone benches lining it were in perfectly good condition. Bethany stepped onto the warm grass, looked around. A place of quiet contemplation, like a monastery or an ancient university college. She could feel the fresh mountain air, now pleasantly warm, brushing over her skin. There was even some birdsong from the rafters, soft, melodious trills. "Hey, Hawke! Hawke! Listen to me!" The commander caught up to her. "Hawke, I agree this is a fortuitous find. We should definitely use this opportunity for all its worth, and I'm not suggesting abandoning it entirely. But let's be practical. Skyhold would take forever to get back into shape, if it's possible at all. Even if we cut through all of the red tape, it'd take at least half a year just to build a road here through the mountains."

"Would it though?" On their way here, she had studied the maps of the area. True, not one of them had featured Skyhold or even its valley. But they had shown one of the main motorways connecting Orlais and Ferelden through the Frostbacks, Route Celestine, just a few kilometres north of here. "If we get support from the Fereldan and Orlesian governments, we can probably cut a road from Route Celestine within a month. It doesn't have to be very impressive, of course. Not at first, anyway. And after that …" She looked around. "Cullen, this place has stood for hundreds of years. I'm sure we can work with the existing structures. If we put the Inquisition to work on this, we can do this. I know it."

"Oh, and when did you become the expert on restoring medieval castle ruins?"

"I know it, Cullen." She turned to face him, withstood his irritated glare with one of her own. "We were led here for a reason."

Before he could reply, she walked across the quad. There was a door at the other end of it, still mounted in its hinges. To her surprise, it even still opened, although the squeal of the old iron hinges was horrific. "Hawke, we can't …"

A large wooden beam blocked her path. She could barely see past it; colourful rays of sunlight fell through a stained glass window straight into her eyes, blinding her. The small, rectangular room smelt of must and grass and wax. "Help me with this, will you?" Her voice brooked no protest, so Cullen was by her side within an instant. Together, they managed to raise the beam from the rubble and carried it back out into the quad, where they gently dropped it onto the stone floor. "Hawke …"

She went back into the room, and froze. Under the window stood her Lady: taller than life, austere and beautiful. Clad in stone garments, not fire, but still, unmistakeably, Her – without averting her eyes from the play of light and shadow on her Lady's face, Bethany stepped forwards, towards Her, and with a flick of her finger lit the ancient wax candles at her feet. All the world was in this room, it seemed, this chapel of grace, this sanctum sanctorum. Slowly, unsteadily, Bethany went down on her knees. She lowered her head, crossed her arms over her chest, and gave thanks to her Lady. Gave thanks to Andraste, who had chosen her to be Her Herald on this earth.

---

To Bethany's surprise as much as satisfaction, Skyhold featured prominently on the following day's front covers, and reading through the accompanying articles she found the overwhelming narrative was of 'an army of the faithful, finding miraculous salvation in their darkest hour.' Even those papers which dismissed finding Skyhold as 'at best a lucky coincidence, at worst a calculated publicity stunt' raised sharp questions about Prime Minister Guerrin's choice to withdraw his support from the Inquisition. To their delight, Orlesian and Chantry-aligned papers called on the imperial government – whichever was meant by that – to make up for their lesser neighbour's shortcomings, and within due time an appropriations bill was put to the National Assembly to free up funds for the support of the Inquisition.

And, as Josephine told them in a series of long, indistinct phone calls from Val Royeaux, the effects of the coverage also expressed itself in an increasing influx of donations. Most were minor, some actually worth less than it cost them to process. Very few numbered in the millions of sovereign, including two large donations over more than ten million sovereigns, one as an unsolicited grant from the Starkhaven Accord's sentientarian disaster relief fund, the other anonymous. The average donation, however, was a neat and very quotable 25 sovereigns, a fact Josephine left out no opportunity to smuggle into her press releases. It wasn't nearly enough to cover the massive hole Ferelden's withdrawal had torn into the Inquisition's budget from the month of Cloudreach onwards, but it did nearly double their liquid assets over the course of a week. After a long debate over how to use these funds, which found Bethany aligned with Josephine and Leliana, it was decided to invest all available monies into rebuilding and renovating Skyhold: after that, the Maker alone knew. Or, to put it another way, they'd need to put their faith in Josephine getting the Orlesian government to support the bill in the Assembly.

She wasn't sure who was more surprised: herself, or Cullen. Cassandra arrived at Skyhold the day after they had discovered the fortress, and was followed by a steady stream of Inquisition agents from Bexley. Soon, the castle was bustling with activity as soldiers and volunteers from all walks of life were put to work. Paying well above market price and entirely ignoring the appropriate channels for road construction, the Inquisition hired construction companies from both sides of the Frostbacks and put them to work, cutting a simple, if serpentine road through the mountains to Skyhold. Within a month, the first truck drove all the way from Skyhold to a pit stop on Route Celestine, although it would take another two months for it to be fortified for heavier traffic. At the same time, a relatively flat area near the bridge to Skyhold was converted into a helipad to ensure ready access by air, and a direct connection to their people at Bexley – where, for now, Leliana, who required more reliable Internet and power connections, had set up shop. Similarly, Skyhold was connected to the power grid, although for now only a few of its rooms had been given access to electricity – for this connection consisted only of low-voltage overhead transmission lines on wooden poles, erected alongside the new road. Ideally, everyone involved agreed, one might harness the natural energy of the waterfalls in the valley, but on the scale required such a construction would take time and money. Still, for now several micro hydro systems were set up, and together with the main power it would provide a good stopgap for powering those parts of the castle they had already made habitable. Plumbing was simpler: they quickly discovered that parts of Skyhold were built into a cavern behind one of the waterfalls. They put some former military engineers, mages and civilian hires together to devise a surprisingly simple way to purify the mountain water and establish a pumping system (the key of which was to convince the water it had the density of helium. Even Bethany, herself a trained Force mage, didn't quite understand it; and she suspected it would not have worked before the first Breach was opened). Naturally, very few of Skyhold's rooms had yet been equipped with the requisite plumbing, and it would take some time for that to be done, so that hygiene was distressingly communal. Meanwhile, the roof on the main hall was torn down and rebuilt entirely, and structural weaknesses or broken-down walls were patched up and replaced with modern masonry or prefab concrete.

But despite those difficulties, work progressed unabated. By the end of the first month, Bethany found herself forgetting at times that Skyhold had not always looked like a somewhat modern office building, with clusters of cables snaking along the walls and computer work stations; had not always looked like a hotel, with elegant furnishings having been brought in to provide comfortable lodgings for the Inquisition's leadership and visiting dignitaries; had not always presided over the small shantytown of steel huts that had sprung up in the valley below them. Then, of course, Bethany walked past the gaping, vertigo-inducing hole in the wall towards their new war room, which had only been closed so far by a colourful construction ribbon and a cardboard warning sign, and thought the better of it. Clearly, there was much more to be done for Skyhold to be made not just habitable, but liveable. But they were on the right track.

Bethany assisted in the construction efforts wherever possible: she found there was almost always a use for a mage who was handy with gravity. Still, she found she more and more frequently divided her time between discussions in the war room – frequently including Leliana and Josephine on lagging and pixelated video calls –, handling the small permanent press corps that had sprung up around Skyhold to cover the Inquisition, having landed the role of effective press officer by process of elimination – and the chapel. That was one of the first parts of the castle she had refurnished and redecorated, even before the large chamber at the top of the keep she had been assigned as her living quarters. The stained glass window was broken and would have to be replaced at a later point, but for now Bethany had set up benches, and made sure there always were lit fires and an open Chant of Light at her Lady's feet.

One of the good things about this arrangement – probably – was that familiarity bred contempt. Rarely, if ever, did the journalists she was dealing with on a day-to-day basis ask her questions about herself. And when Josephine first forwarded her a brief profile from the online magazine POLITIQUOI in which she was unkindly described as 'generally passive' but 'influential when she makes her voice heard' and 'surprisingly timid for a spokesperson' and ascribed 'fluid loyalties' and 'heartfelt idealism', she did so with an added note that she was the last member of the council to be profiled by that publication, and that her article was considerably shorter than the others. At this point, her identity as the 'so-called' Herald of Andraste had become an open secret to those in the know, but as far as she knew, it had yet to be picked up by the mass media, presumably as a courtesy. No one wanted to disgruntle the Inquisition's apparently 'influential' press secretary-cum-divine representative by breaking a story before the official announcement, it appeared. Still, their questions were becoming more persistent the longer they spent isolated in a mountain fortress while the Inquisition dedicated itself more to building than creating order.

Today was no exception, Bethany thought, grimly observing the disinterested faces of the journalists in front of her as she finished reading out the statement that had been prepared for her by Josephine's team in Val Royeaux. "… so that the Inquisition would like to reiterate its commitment to the principle of neutrality. We are prepared to work with any and each party that shares out commitment to restoring order and the rule of law across southern Thedas, whoever they may be. As we have stated before, that includes both Her Imperial Majesty's Government and His Grand Ducal Highness's administration, irrespective of their differences, with a long view towards a lasting negotiated peace settlement in Orlais." She closed the folder with her notes. "That's all I've got for you today. Questions?" One of the journalists in the back row, an aging elf in a grey suit, languidly raised his hand without looking up from his notepad. "Leven, please."

"Thank you. The other leaders of the Inquisition – Seeker Pentaghast, Commander Rutherford, Ladies Montilyet and Nightingale – have all made themselves available for interviews and personal questions over the past two weeks, some of them multiple times. Lady Montilyet alone has spoken to La Royainne, TO24's Daily Report, and POLITIQUOI. When are you going to have a press availability yourself?"

Bethany gave a thin-lipped smile. "I think I'd rather stick to on-topic questions for now, Leven. Who's next?"

After a brief moment of silence, a young woman in a band shit and torn jeans in the back row raised her hand. Bethany hadn't seen her before, but there could be no doubt she worked for an online publication. "Yes, the lady at the back. I don't believe we've met."

"Elaine Wadham, I'm the new Inquisition embed for ." A Starkhaven-based page focusing on the internal politics of the Accord, Bethany thought, recalling Josephine's crash course in the most important news outlets this side of the Minanter. As if the accent hadn't been a dead giveaway. "Does the Inquisition intend to make an official statement on the identity of the so-called Herald of Andraste soon – that is to say, the woman who fell from the Breach?" Those last words were sharply pointed.

She had to suppress a sigh. There always was someone who asked that question. She supposed she had to count herself lucky that the story had yet to break in a big way. Still, Josephine had been right: the more she talked to these journalists, the clearer it became they wouldn't wait forever. No doubt they had already gone through every detail of her background and prepared exposés. In the end, unless she got the go-ahead from the other councillors, some ambitious young web journalist like Serah Wadham would no doubt get the drop on them. "We are not in the habit of making pronouncements on internal personnel matters," she recited from memory. "Nor does the Inquisition presume to touch on matters relating to the Andrastian faith. As we have said before, all we are willing to say at this point is that the Inquisition does have an individual who survived the Conclave attack on its payroll, and that this person has proven instrumental to our efforts to close rifts across southern Thedas and saving countless lives in the process." This part of the standard answer, at least, was fun to say, if a little embarrassing. Serah Wadham looked to be readying herself for a follow-up question, but Bethany was faster. "Next, and please … only questions relating to my statement for now."

No one raised their hand. She couldn't blame them, her statement had been phenomenally dull, and had contained little beyond a reaffirmation of previous Inquisition policy. Still, she found herself rolling her eyes. "Very well then. If there are no more questions, I think we're done for today."

With only the barest amount of grumbling, the journalists filed out of the room. That room – well, it wasn't exactly ideal for press conferences. Or anything else for that matter, Bethany thought, glancing out onto the snow-covered valley through the wall. Where the wall should have been, anyway. Right now, the only thing stopping someone from plummeting to their death was a steel scaffolding tube attached to the remains of the outside wall around waist height. A small child could easily have walked through out of the castle without bowing its head. … yeah, at some point, they would definitely have to do something about this. In the meantime, the fresh air at least kept her audience from falling asleep.

Bethany gathered her notes from the podium and checked her phone. She was still quite early for the council meeting Cassandra had called for later today. For a moment, Bethany played with the thought of going to the chapel in the quad for some quiet contemplation (or her quarters up on the top floor of the tower, for a nap), before the phone buzzed in her hand. Huh, new message from Leliana. The spymistress had arrived at Skyhold earlier that day, and Josephine the day before, so that all five councillors were together in one place for the first time since the attack on Haven had dispersed them. Come to war room ASAP. Curt, as usual. Someone really ought to inform Leliana that it was considered rude to summon people without explanation, but Bethany suspected the Nightingale wouldn't care. Josephine, who'd known the spymaster even before Bethany had first met Sister Leliana, the Chantry lay sister, had recommended she just put up with it. Leliana would come around to a more civil mode of behaviour, the diplomat had assured her, when and if she felt like it, and there was nothing anyone else could do about it.

Still, she had to admit to herself, Leliana usually had good reasons. If whatever she wanted to talk about couldn't wait until the scheduled meeting later that day, it had to be important. Hence, Bethany gathered up her notes and documents and left the press room, locking behind her. You never knew if some soldier drunk on moonshine might not stumble in here and decide to go for a sobering swim in the waterfalls dozens of metres below the castle.

The press room had been set up in one of the towers of the curtain wall, on the easternmost corner of the castle, so that Bethany found herself standing on the open battlements the instant she stepped out of the room. Very little work had been done here so far: no one seriously believed they were likely to face a medieval army besieging them, irrespective of whether Corypheus' behaviour at Haven belied an understanding of modern military tactics or rather a lack thereof, as Cullen and Leliana had argued. Accordingly, the curtain walls had only been reinforced to such extent as damage had made them impossible to traverse, and otherwise supplemented by bundles of cables snaking down along the crenellations. Perhaps that was for the best, Bethany thought, looking out onto the valley to her left as she walked down the wall. With the mountain cold held at bay by the castle's magic, there was nothing to distract her from the sublime sight. The sun's reflection in the still frozen lake, the diamantine sparkling of the snow on the mountain slopes … even after seeing it every day for the better part of a month, it still took her breath away. Only the barracks and huts that had emerged in the valley beneath Skyhold and the construction vehicles snaking along the serpentine road distracted from the sublime serenity of the Maker's creation.

Tearing herself away, Bethany continued down the wall, then crossed the courtyard into the main hall. Even now, one could hear the hammering and sawing of the roofers hard at work up in the rafters, but the structure and inside part of the new roof had already been constructed and one could no longer see the sky from the inside of the hall. The rafters and beams were still exposed, any hope of using the space under the roof for practical purposes having been crushed by structural considerations, but the Inquisition's contracted architects had already made the best of that situation by adding textile cover to hide the less appealing parts of the hall's roofing, electrical wiring, and hundreds of lamps and lights. In so doing, they had succeeded in turning the inside of the roof into a chain of massive, elaborate light installations that both illuminated the hall and created on the ceiling a sky of fascinating shadow play that changed depending on where you stood. From both ends of the hall, however, the shadows and light worked together to paint the Inquisition's sword-eye-and-sunburst emblem onto the ceiling.

At the same time, the stained glass windows at the head of the hall had been reconstructed. No one was entirely sure what they represented – they were abstract at least as much as they were pictorial – so that the artists they had commissioned, under the surprisingly apt guidance of Solas, who seemingly must have counted a doctorate in art history among his many mysterious qualifications, had eventually settled on recreating the partially-shattered middle window in the same style, but displaying scenes depicting, in sequence, the first appearance of the Breach, a rather idealised vision of a mage and a templar shaking hands in cordial alliance, the attack on Haven and finally the discovery of Skyhold. The large roundel window at the apex of the wall, however, had been replaced entirely with a representation of the Inquisition's sword, eye and shield emblem. Pointing almost precisely north, the sun shone directly through these stained glass windows throughout much of the midday and afternoon, and painted many-coloured shapes onto the stone walls and floor of the hall.

That Bethany froze in her tracks as she entered the hall today, however, had nothing to do with these renovations. Nothing could possibly distract from what had been placed at the head of the hall, on a small dais between the pair of massive stone and aurum braziers embedded into it: a tall-backed, gilded armchair, decorated all over with floral motifs and abstract arabesques. Its narrow back and seat were padded with red velvet, and the decorations at its head displayed in their negative the Inquisition's emblem. Bright sunlight shone right through it, so that the sunburst eye almost seemed to truly be aflame. Cassandra, Cullen, Josephine and Leliana stood around the throne, all in full Inquisition uniforms, and turned to look at her as she entered the otherwise empty hall.

Not knowing what to expect, Bethany slowly made her way towards them. It was only a few dozen metres, but it felt like the longest she had ever walked. "Oookay," she finally said to the others in an attempt to distract from how nervous she was, climbing onto the dais. "Who ordered the fancy chair?"

"That's one of the things we were hoping to talk to you about," Cassandra confessed, a smile playing around her lips. She was carrying a thin, hard-backed black leather folder under her arm. Embossed on the cover, in gold, was the Inquisition's emblem and some lettering she could not make out until the Seeker handed it to her. Charte constituante de l'Inquisition, it read. "Cullen and Josephine have been working on this for the last three weeks."

"After Haven, we've spent a lot of time thinking about the weaknesses in our organisation," Josephine said. Bethany wasn't sure she'd ever seen her in full uniform before – she looked gorgeous in it, but somehow she knew that she would never, ever get used to it. Josephine was a civilian through and through, even moreso than herself. "In the immediate aftermath, we were so – paralysed. If not for your pushing, we might have stayed in that camp for days, unable to decide even on a direction to head in. And before that? We were split on almost all major decisions. Whether to save the mages or the templars; whether even to take up residence here at Skyhold … Endless arguments, from the very beginning. Without your intervention, we might not have gotten anything done at all, or have quietly perished after the attack on Haven. But instead, we're here."

"And that's why," Cullen continued, "we've had a long, hard look at how we work. We've been running this Inquisition like a company, but it needs to be run like an government – like an army – like an order."

Bethany opened the folder. There were only a pair of pages in it, affixed to the leather by elastic golden cords. She quickly ran her eyes across the text. "What's this … 'do restore and establish, by ancient custom, the title of Inquisitor, the holder of which, being chosen by the aforementioned Constituting Council, is charged with governing, controlling and commanding the Inquisition and its forces …'" She looked up. "You want to put someone in charge," she concluded. To be entirely honest, Bethany did not mind that idea in the slightest. She found herself obliged to agree with Josephine's assessment; the council in its current state was a dysfunctional mess, and its meetings more often than not a dreadful bore. Someone needed to have the final say to cut through endless arguments and make decisions, that much was clear. She was just surprised it had happened so quickly. "It's not a bad idea," she said.

Cassandra smiled. "I thought so, too. That's part of why I'm stepping down from the Council, once we have signed this document."

Bethany raised an eyebrow. That meant the Seeker would become … Inquisitor, didn't it? She tried to imagine Cassandra in that throne. Chances were she'd tear it apart within days. But even so, Bethany could definitely see the appeal. Indeed, on closer reflection, it was a natural fit. The Seeker had a strong personality and her devotion to both the late Divine and justice were beyond any reproach. Besides, being a Seeker watching over mages and templars and being an Inquisitor watching over … well, mages and templars weren't all that different, as far as she could tell. Neither were heading the Kirkwall Inquiry to investigate the rebellion at the Gallows and restoring order to Thedas in its aftermath. She reached out her hand. "Congratulations, Cassandra. I couldn't think of anyone better to lead us."

The Seeker, however, recoiled slightly. "You … you misunderstand. I am not the one who must, or can, lead us."

Leliana stepped forward, suddenly holding an elegant smallsword with a gilded hilt, guard and a red silk tassel in her hands. "There is only one person who can lead us," she said, ominously approaching Bethany, who instinctively retreated. An amused gleam stood in her eyes, but her voice was solemn and carried through the hall. "The one who has already been leading us. The one without whom this entire Inquisition would be nothing but a host of rabble-rousers – the Herald of Andraste."

Bethany felt her pupils dilate, her cheeks flush red, and the ground below her dangerously sway. Oh … "You … you can't be serious!" she protested. "I … I don't know the first thing about leadership. I've made so many bad choices …"

"You give yourself too little credit," Cullen objected. "If there's one thing I've come to admire in you over the years we've worked together, it's your idealism. Your perseverance, your determination that, even if things seem hopeless, you'll continue fighting for what you think is right. You've demonstrated that in Kirkwall, at Haven, at Redcliffe and dozens of other places in between. And that – idealism – is something the Inquisition sorely needs, both right now and in the long term, if we don't want to end up as just another army of thugs with guns."

"You were the only choice," Josephine concurred.

"I can't … I can't accept this," Bethany began. She'd done so much wrong. From botching the recruitments of mages and templars for the Inquisition just over a month ago and getting Ella killed to destroying Haven, there had been nothing but failures on her watch. And before that, in Kirkwall? She'd stood at the centre of not only a violent rebellion that had cost tens of thousands of lives over the past few years, but had also had a hand in unleashing Corypheus unto the world … she could not accept this, because the consequence of it would inevitably be more death, more suffering, more destruction.

Except you're no longer alone, a nagging voice at the back of her head told her. No, she had to admit, no longer. Her Lady Andraste was with her. Fear not … She closed her eyes, issued a silent prayer. There was no sign, but Bethany felt strengthened by it regardless. Then, she opened her eyes, looked at her hand. By now, the mark had almost reached her wrist, although she'd hardly used it over the past month, even to close rifts. This is my signet, that marks you as My Herald … Swallowing hard, Bethany returned her attention to Leliana and the sword in her hand. Then, she said: "Alright. I'll do it."

The other counsellors – her advisers now, she supposed – breathed sighs of relief and smiles appeared on their faces. Maker, she really had been their only choice, hadn't she? Leliana stepped forwards and, perhaps deliberately getting closer to her than was strictly necessary, strapped the sword to her uniform belt. Bethany was rather proud of herself for not flinching at having the spymistress handle a deadly weapon so close to her body. "What, um," she made, "What's with the sword?"

The others looked at her as if she'd grown another head. "Well, obviously you'll have to be a knight," Cullen said as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "I mean, I don't think there's been a mage knight in centuries, if ever, but this is the Dragon Age. I think we can dispense with the other ceremonies, though."

"Uh, sure, I guess? Why do I have to be a knight?"

"Well, obviously you're going to be in charge of knights. Templars, for instance, but also others. You need the added legitimacy."

"Right. Of course." She nodded towards Josephine. "Josie isn't a knight, though, and she's got templars on her staff. Neither is Leliana."

The two women gave her odd looks. "Of course we are," the diplomat said. "I'm a knight bachelor of the Royal Antivan Order of the Mermaid."

"Knight Commander with Grand Collar of the Order of the Mabari," Leliana added from below Bethany's arms. "I fought in the Blight, remember?" With a final tug, she let go of the sword. It felt surprisingly light at her waist, but Bethany still felt uncomfortable with it. Especially considering Leliana had moved her staff to the right side of her belt, when she always carried it on her left.

"I don't have to wear this thing all the time, right?"

Cassandra chuckled. "Of course not. This is just for the ceremony. Bear with it, it won't take too long."

Ceremony? Oh, for the love of … "I hate all of you."

There was a gleam of barely disguised schadenfreude in Cullen's eyes. "Stop whining, Inquisitor. This is something you'll have to go through."

With friends like this, certainly. What was this going to be, anyway? "So … what do we need to do, apart from signing and publishing the new Charter?" She eyed the throne. "And what's the throne for?"

Leliana's grin was slightly less murderous than usual. "We had to commission some poor grad student to go digging through the archives to figure out how this is supposed to work. You see, the Inquisition was established under a bull of the late Divine. That makes you the new grand master and sovereign of a religious military order, a prince of the Chantry. As such, you're pretty much on par with any regular head of state, at least by precedence – and back when people were still founding religious military orders, say before the Fourth Blight, that meant you get an enthronement ceremony."

"Wait." Bethany looked at Cullen. "Does that mean the Knight-Vigilant gets a coronation or something?"

"Er, no. You see, if I remember my lessons right, even under the Nevarran Accords the templars – and the first Inquisition before it – were still an independent body, just one that was theoretically supposed to be subservient to the Sunburst Throne. That means we had our own thing going, in a lot of ways."

"Alright, I think I get it." Bethany cast a pleading look around. "But … it's the Dragon Age! Surely we don't need to do all this stuff. Isn't it enough to just … I don't know, put out a press relief and then get back to work?"

Josephine affected a gasp. Well, so long as everyone was having fun. "Why, Inquisitor, surely you wouldn't dream of keeping this opportunity from the world! We've been licking our wounds here in the mountains for far too long. We need to get back out there, and the best way to do that is with some nice pictures for tomorrow's front pages."

"Are you saying the press corps is already here?" That was a bit annoying. First she'd been left out of these deliberations, now the others had gone over her head as press secretary to summon the Skyhold correspondents to her own … well, enthronement, apparently. Maker, that sounded strange in her head. Still, if this meant she could better do the will of her Lady … she didn't exactly have a choice.

"They're waiting outside the gates, as is Mother Giselle, who agreed to perform the ceremony. We've got five minutes. Now, this is what you'll need to say …"

---

As night fell over Skyhold, and the news – and, goodness, the pictures! – spread across the world, as people across Thedas looked up the name of 'Bethany Hawke', a bartender in a run-down part of a town a thousand kilometres north of Skyhold was closing up his dingy little bar.

Or trying to, in any case.

He had long wiped the tables and the bar, washed all the glasses, emptied the cash register and the gambling machines blinking and beeping in a corner, and had restocked all the bottles on the shelves. The owner had gone home hours ago, when business had begun to die down. They didn't get a lot of business in here on weekdays: most of their proceeds came from regulars, old men and women and middle-aged drinking buddies with increasingly large beer guts who came in once a week to watch the football with their mates. On weekdays? If not for the occasional alcoholic or after-work outing by workers from the nearby factory, which produced axes for cars and provided jobs for at least half the town.

This weekday, evidently, was different.

The bartender, hunched over one of his astronomy textbooks, cast another surreptitious glance at his one remaining customer, stifling a yawn. The woman at the bar couldn't be older than 35, maybe, but she looked half-dead regardless. Over the past five hours or so, he'd gotten a pretty good idea of why that was so as she had proceeded to knock back one drink after the other – starting with red wine before switching to expensive whiskey as the night went on – with nary any signs of impairment. Granted, he'd started watering down her drinks as much as he thought she wouldn't notice, but at this point he was still considering calling an ambulance. Or the police.

No, scratch that. Fact was, he'd have thrown her out long ago if he thought she'd let him. But she had the body of a brawler; tall, somewhat stocky, with a flat chest and muscles so well-defined he could almost make them out through her stained tank top and roughed-up leather jacket when she leant forwards for another drink. She had the nose of a brawler, though – broken, with a nasty-looking old scar across the ridge. Still, he supposed, there was something fascinating about her, something that didn't quite mesh with the 'alcoholic street fighter' look. Perhaps it was the way that her dull, icy blue eyes under an unkempt mop of ink-black hair occasionally caught the light, and shone with the amusement of a joke only she was party to.

Throwing her out was not an option – at least, not for a scrawny physics postgrad like himself – but neither was conversation. His few attempts at small talk had been met with monosyllables, at best. He wasn't necessarily very good at bartender talk – he'd never managed to make inquiries about the sorrows of drunks twice his age sound heartfelt – but the very least he'd come to expect from newcomers to the bar were a few lines of small talk. The odd woman hadn't even supplied that. What she had said – largely drinks orders – had been said in an unmistakeably foreign accent. He wasn't very good with placing accents even within the country, but he was pretty sure regardless that the woman came from the south.

He checked his watch. Almost four in the morning, well past closing time. Maker, he had a lab at 10 … well, this was it. He'd either get her to leave in a taxi, or he'd call the police. Confidently, he slammed shut his textbook, walked over to her, opened his mouth and defiantly said: "Uh, so what brings you to town?"

Wow, he thought. Genius. Definitely gonna get that research grant.

To his immense surprise, however, the woman looked up from her beer for what seemed to be the first time in hours. "The road," she finally said, her voice only slightly slurred. Maker, to have that kind of alcohol tolerance … "It was … it was on the way."

"Way to where?"

She glanced back at her drink. "Nowhere in particular."

Ah, yes. He wouldn't pretend he'd heard that story before (he had only been working this job for two months), but he'd heard about it, mostly on the telly. And people said you never learned anything obsessively binging soaps. "Right," he said, nodding knowingly. "I understand. You're on the run from something."

The woman glared at him, and he was very proud of himself for only flinching a little. "The fuck do you care, anyway?"

He shrunk back at the undisguised hostility in her voice, but she sighed and shook her head. "Sorry. It's been … fuck, I don't know. I don't really … talk to people much anymore."

"Yeah, I get that. I barely talked to anyone for months while I was writing my master's dissertation."

She scoffed at that. Yeah, maybe that comparison hadn't been all that appropriate. "I guess." She finished her whisky and waved for him to refill her glass. Hesitantly, he complied. He offered her ice to at least slightly dilute the drink, but she turned it down. She'd been drinking the stuff straight all night. For now, she was merely swirling the spirit in her glass, staring into the amber liquid. "Yeah," she finally said. "I guess I am running from something."

"Anything in particular, or just existential dread? A bad relationship? The war?" He leant in conspiratorially. "The authorities?"

She gave a brief, dark chuckle. "All of the above?"

Ouch. For a moment, the bartender forgot to blink. No wonder this woman was drinking herself into an as-yet-absent stupor. Any one of them might have been bad enough; all of them together … Wait, what was that about her being on the run from the authorities? Again, he looked her over. Maker … he had no trouble believing she could kill someone, or at least seriously mess them up. "So, uh," he made in an attempt to continue the conversation before she decided to demonstrate that skill, "tell me 'bout … the relationship. Bad break-up? I-if you want to talk about it, that is."

The woman looked up at him. "Kid, I hate to break it to you, but if I wanted life advise I'd go to someone with less pimples than years."

Rude. He resisted the urge to touch his spotty skin, but could feel himself flushing, and knew that would only make his spots more apparent. "Well," he said, somewhat snippily, and was surprised at his own audacity. And foolishness. "At least I'm not on the run."

To his great relief, she didn't take that in a bad way, but let loose another chuckle. This one sounded forced. "Guess not." She took a swig of her drink. "And no, kid, I don't want to talk about it. I made a bunch of stupid mistakes, and I paid for them, and that's all there's to it."

"Right. I understand. What about the other stuff?"

Perhaps the alcohol was getting to her, he thought, as she looked at them with mild befuddlement. "What other stuff?"

"Uh, like being on the run from the authorities." He gave a sharp, nervous laugh. "I mean, you're not gonna turn out to be some sort of Carta enforcer, right?"

She snorted. "Fuck, no. The Carta are a bunch of bumbling idiots, and I'm no one's enforcer. Used to be, for a while, but that's … shit, that's years ago. Doesn't feel as long." She noticed his look, and added: "Don't worry, kid. Police won't break down your door for me, I think. No cop likes to take orders from templars, especially now."

"You're hunted by the templars?" he echoed. Man, that sounded pretty cool. He'd never really cared much about mages' rights – politics was so dull when compared to quasars – but his roommate in third year had been a sociology student. She'd dragged him along to several nonviolent protests outside the university's senate building where they chanted things like 'make love, not Harrowings,' 'end the violence' and 'slaughter all templar dogs'. No, wait, that last one wasn't quite right: it'd been 'templar pigs,' not 'dogs.' Still, he was pretty sure he'd never even met a mage in person … but then he didn't get out much. Weird, he'd always thought mages were supposed to fight with, well, magics, not their fists.

"Sorta. They're surprisingly bad at it. For the last … for a while now I've even started making mistakes on purpose, just to see if they'll find me. If they're still looking for me, that is. I hope so." She sipped on her drink, stared past him at the bottles behind the bar. "Maker, I sure wish they still are."

"Why … why's that? Wouldn't that mean you'd have to go back to a Circle?"

She looked up. "A Cir… oh, you think I'm a mage. Nah, that's not why they're hunting me." A grim smile appeared on her face. "That's my father … my sister. It's … one of those things I could never share with them. No. I, er, I may have killed a bunch of them."

Oh dear. And now he was right back to considering calling the police. No, bullshit. He'd never even get around to dialling before she murdered him. She could hit him over the head with a bottle. Jump over the bar and crush his skull between her thighs, which he had to admit might be quite appealing for a bit. Snap his neck when he turned around to get another bottle. Stab him with a ballpoint pen … Fuck, stop right there. Positive thoughts, as his sociologist roommate had used to say. "Er, mages?"

"Templars, you ass. Pour me another one." Very quickly, he obliged her. Wait, had he watered down this bottle already?

The woman eyeballed him, then snorted. "You can stop freaking out any time you like. I'm not going to kill you."

"That's, er, very comforting. Ma'am."

"Fuck, do I look that old? No, don't answer that." She sighed. "I'm not gonna kill you, kid. I'm – I'm done killing people. There just isn't any point to it. No matter what you do … all it ends up doing is biting you in the arse."

She said that in a voice so dejected, so utterly frustrated, that he found himself objecting almost automatically. "Don't say that," he scolded her, "We can't give in to that sort of defeatism. We have to, er, keep going even when it seems …" He trailed off. Had he just advocated for his own murder? Yup, certainly seemed that way.

Luckily, the woman took it in good humour. "You should watch that mouth, kid," she chuckled. "Someone might take you by your word." She broke off, stared at her drink. "You know," she then continued, "it's my own fault. Every step of the way … I fucked up, alright? I fucked up, and then I fucked up again, and again, and again. I tried to serve my country, and I had to kill my own brother or watch him die of the Taint. Then I tried to bring some good to my newly-adopted hometown, only to spark its total descent into anarchy. I tried to protect my family …" She broke off, her lips quavering, and drank a chug of whiskey to steady herself. "Yeah, that didn't work out either. And then, when I tried to give up and run, just … you know, carve out a bit of happiness for myself … I caved. Couldn't do it. I just …" She choked a little. "I didn't want to hurt her. Maker be my witness, I never wanted to hurt her. And I know that it's better for her this way, that I can't be a part of her life, and still …"

She broke off, slumped over the bar, and he suspected she might be in tears had she any left. That would be the bad breakup, then. For an instant, he was elated to re-evaluate his own life by comparison: he might be directionless and unmotivated, with little hope of turning his degree into an academic career, but man, his life still sounded better to him than this lady's. Almost at once, he felt guilty about this assessment. Awkwardly, he reached out to pat her shoulder, then even more awkwardly withdrew it as he remembered she could probably end him with a feather and a bit of string. "Listen," he began, haltingly, as he tried to sort out the most obvious platitudes that came to mind. "That sucks," was what he finally settled on. Way to be positive. "Listen, I know this doesn't sound very helpful, but if you give up trying now, you'll never find what you're looking for. And, uh, you need to put it into perspective, you know? Like, think of the good things. I'm sure you've had some good times in your life, right?" Her expression wasn't very auspicious. "Right? Everyone must have some good memories."

The woman gave him a long, hard stare from dull, cold eyes, her pupils widened from the drink, but still piercing. He didn't last very long under it before desperately looking away and shifting nervously. "Kid," she finally said, "you're the worst therapist I've ever talked to. Don't give up your day job."

"Right."

She sighed. "Don't mind me. I appreciate you trying, but I've heard too much bullshit like that. I know where I went wrong, I know where I fucked up, and I know what's on my head. Most of it is, to be honest. And honestly? At this point, I'm not sure I really care anymore. Sure, it'd be nice to win for once, but I'm so used to everything I touch turning into ash in my hands …" Again, she broke off. "I'd be fine if only I hadn't run away from her. Fine, or dead. We'd both be dead. Far as I'm concerned, I wouldn't mind that much."

The woman put down her drink, reached into her coat, and produced a small ball of crumpled-up red silk. It must have been part of a handkerchief once, but now its edges were faded, its dye faded to a brown here and a pink there, and it was covered in old stains. Staring at it, the woman tossed it up and down in her hand. "Some old memento?" he wagered.

A lop-sided smile appeared on her lips as she answered. It didn't quite reach all the way to her eyes. "Yeah," she murmured, her voice choked. "She gave this to me. The week after we left Kirkwall, just before … just before I left. Said she'd torn it from a dead templar's sash. I think she was a bit creeped out by that, but I loved it. Maker, I was so … I didn't realise what it meant to her at the time. What it should have meant to me, if I hadn't been so fired up back then. The battle, the fire, the smoke … the blood and the lyrium …" She paused. "Nah, that's not it. It was all me, stupid old me not realising shit. Just one more time I disappointed her."

"That's not true …"

"You have no idea, kid. I was never good enough for her. She deserved so much better. So much better than me, the fucked-up human train wreck. I have no idea how I … why she picked me. I – I tried to improve. Be a better person, for her sake if not my own. It just … never worked out, I guess."

"It's not too late to give it another try, surely?" he suggested. Truth be told, she had a point, he had no idea. His last relationship had, of course, been a steamy affair with a ruggedly handsome elf from the chemistry department, and it had ended very well, thank you very much. Except the guy may have been ten years older than him with a neckbeard and bad breath, he may have been a jerk, and the relationship had been with his dog at a party. It may also have been not very steamy and it may have ended in slobber all over his leg. But otherwise, his love life was fine, and he had no real experience to base his advice on.

"Thanks, kid, but you're wrong. That ship has sailed." She issued a deep sigh, looked away. When she spoke again, her voice was lowered, strained. "I don't even know where she is right now. I don't know whether – whether it was any use to leave her. She might not be safe, even without me around. I'm – I'm hoping that, somehow, I'd know if something was wrong, but … well, pretty sure the universe doesn't work like that."

"So … say you learned where she was, today. Would you go back to her?"

The woman stared into her glass, for a long time. Finally, she murmured: "No. It's better this way. I'd only hurt her again."

He didn't know what to respond to that. It was – he wasn't sure what to call it. He didn't even know the woman's name, or that of her lost love, and still he couldn't help but emphasise. He already knew, somehow, that he wouldn't make his lab in a couple of hours one way or the other. After this night, he needed a good sleep, and possibly a strong drink himself.

Actually, that last bit sounded like a pretty good idea. He'd put it on her tab, she wouldn't – no, that would just be mean. With a sigh, he got out another whiskey glass and poured himself a few fingers, then filled up the woman's drink, emptying the bottle. She chuckled, he shrugged. "Well … to better tomorrows, I guess."

"Good luck with that. Cheers." She kicked back the whiskey in one go, and he felt obliged to do the same. Fuck, this was stronger than he'd anticipated, and he had to cough at the sudden sharpness.

"Seriously, kid?"

Humiliated, he righted himself. "I, er, I'll go fetch another bottle." He turned to leave, then returned to grab the remote and turn on the TV over the bar. It felt like the right thing to do: he almost feared the woman might try to hurt herself, if left alone to her thoughts. "I'll be right back."

He grabbed his keys and hurried downstairs, into the bar's cellar. It was damp and dark, as always, and he had to find the light switch by touch. Now, where did they keep the whiskey his guest had been swigging all night … Finally, he found it, grabbed one bottle – no, better make it two, but then he'd definitely send her home in a cab, scary murderer or not – and ran back up the stairs with two heavy square bottles of expensive spirits under his arms. "I'm back!" he called out over the sounds of the TV.

There was no reply.

When he stepped back into the bar, the woman was gone. He could only just make out the screeching of tyres on the street outside, and the roar of an engine. A thick wad of bank notes lay on the bar, by the looks of it far more than she'd actually drunken. She hadn't taken the time to count out the exact amount, clearly, or left him a massive tip. "Well," he murmured as he put down the bottles, "this is weird." What could possibly have prompted to flee like this? Police? No, he didn't hear any sirens. Silly thought.

He glanced up at the TV and had to admit he was surprised by what he saw. He didn't pay much attention to current affairs – after the depressing clusterfuck of 9:41, he wasn't taking any chances with 9:42 – but he was pretty sure he'd have noticed a societal regress to the middle ages. On some sort of throne, in front of what looked like one of those windows in really old chantries, stood a woman in a black and red military-looking uniform, a sword at her side. The subtitle read: Hawke sworn in as inquisitor, whatever that meant. Wait, wasn't Hawke some sort of mage terrorist? He glanced in the direction of the door, then returned to the screen, which was showing a close-up of a rather familiar-looking woman with dark hair and a heart-shaped face, who was giving some sort of speech. It was only a brief clip, but as she went on, she visibly became more confident. "… too long, chaos and violent fanatics have been destroying our way of life. This is why I pledge to you that, as Inquisitor, I will not rest until we have restored order to Thedas, brought the abhorrent monster that claimed so many innocent lives at Haven to justice, and established a new deal for my fellow mages that protects both their rights and the safety of non-mages. I know that the challenges facing us may seem insurmountable. It's certainly seemed that way to me, at times. But now I know – for a fact – that we are not alone in this fight. Millions of Thedosians of all walks of life stand with us, ready to take action. And, what's more … Andraste is with us. Andraste is with us! She has blessed me as her Herald, and She fights with us!"

---

Solas really is using the oldest of Ancient Elven Techniques (TM): judicious mindfuckery.

I'm probably exaggerating how easy the reconstruction of Skyhold is, but if there's one thing the Inquisition doesn't lack right now, it's manpower.

POLITIQUOU is a thinly-veiled expy of POLITICO, which is a cool site that you should all spent 10 hours a week reading, like me.