She doesn't need to open her eyes to know where she is.

Plan 236-X – or whatever number she is actually on; she doesn't often make plans, for all she knows it's only plan 4 – failed again. Solas slash Fen'Harel has his orb of power back in his paw and yet she's still back here.

Again.

The dungeon door slams open and she heaves a sigh – the Seeker grabs her chin, forcefully pulling her up and making her face them. It doesn't matter. It never does. It never will.

Another beginning, leading to another end. Another death. And then beginning all over again.

She's not sure what response she gives the Seeker or Leliana, but she's sure it's not empathetic enough, judging by the snarl on Cassandra's face. Leliana halts her hand just after she has been slapped – but it wasn't be the first time that Leliana deliberately allowed the Seeker to hit her before stopping her from getting a second hit in. Everything depends on how she responds. When she responds.

It's the same old story.

Empty eyes gaze at the bridge, sighing heavily, pausing.

The Seeker thinks she's refusing, grabbing her by the hair, dragging her – but it's enough time to delay them. The rock from the breach hits the bridge, just in front of them. While Cassandra stares, surprised, her grip loosens and she uses the opportunity to wiggle her way out and down to the ice. The next bit of fade hits it – and with it, two demons.

Always the same ones.

She sighs again.

At one point she'd even thought that, hey, maybe this world does need to be remade. Maybe that's why she was here, redoing the same shit over and over again. She'd let Corypheus pull the mark from her at Haven oh-so-many lifetimes ago. Had helped that stupid-ass Tevinter all the way back where he came from – let Orlais fall into chaos, the fade break into the world.

It had solved nothing. Changed nothing.

And even giving Fen'Harel his orb in her last life was not the solution.

She'd tried everything else – explored every option. Rushed things along faster, ignored anything requested or required which wasn't of paramount importance – she still ended up right back here. Tried aligning with Qun. Back in Haven. Tried helping Fen'Harel without the orb. Back at Haven. Killing Fen'Harel the first time they met. Killing him after Haven. Killing him after Adamant and so forth. Killing Corypheus sooner. Recruiting both Mages and Templars in a mad dash with camps and changing horses at each. Still. Always back to the beginning. To the chantry dungeon in Havne.

That left only one option.

The one she didn't want.

The one that meant there wasn't a solution to this because it wasn't part of some grander plan, some machinations, something that needed fixing.

It was just a mistake. A simple, ordinary mistake.

Which meant it would never end. There would never be a reprieve, an afterlife, she would never live past the next few years.

Her choices didn't matter, responses didn't matter – because it would all be wiped clean, again and again, for everyone but her. She'd tried in the beginning, in case it was the last loop – but at some point she'd given up. Because it was never the last loop. She knew now, just how much to say, how many missions she needed to take her companions on, to make sure they still stuck with her. That she'd find out about the Qun mission. That she wouldn't be betrayed.

She stabbed the demon with a plank of wood from one of the crates nearby just as Cassandra came by and beheaded it.

Again.

More fighting.

Meeting Solas and Varric.

Rifts 1 and 2 – the bridge with Leliana and Rodderick. Her choice – she chose the option with Cullen, knowing how many would be lost if she took the longer route in an attempt to distract the demons.

The Pride demon.

It wouldn't be the first time she lost the fight against it and perished in the battle – whether by the gargantuan creature or one of the shades unexpectedly appearing behind her. But it was easier these days.

She was better at battle, at fighting, at finding weak points… at commanding entire armies and strategizing.

The rift closed, the backlash launching her into the air. She closed her eyes, enjoying the breeze, the momentary feeling of being airborne, hoping that maybe this time she wouldn't wake up, despite knowing she would – she always did. An involuntary cry came from her throat when she hit her head on hard rock, before blissful darkness enveloped her.


She got dressed methodically, joining Cassandra in the chantry, ignoring the villager's attention and rumour-mongering. Once the Inquisition was declared, she gathered the notes for Adan, marked the logging site and iron deposits down for Threnn, gathering Elfroot in truly stupendous amounts and just generally jumping in and assisting wherever she could, gathering, hunting, cooking or even at the anvil.

She didn't speak to anyone – there was no need to. People always filled the silence.

Adan complained about anything and everything but also told her she could use the potion benches. Harritt was similarly inclined. Flissa was always glad for a helping hand in the kitchen or in obtaining food.

Finally, she was sent out to the Hinterlands.

Unlike at the beginning, no one questioned her martial prowess anymore. She had come a long way from the young First who had her first solo exploration beyond the clan. The young First who was trained enough for her status and her age, but not well-trained enough to fight in a war or lead an Inquisition.

The innocent, naïve girl, who had spent time kissing and flirting in the Fade, who had adored the bald elf, trusted him, only to be stabbed in the back.

She'd still tried – tried to convince him to change his mind, learned the old Elvhen language, more and more, bit by bit, loop by loop. Became his friend, most times, his vhenan sometimes, his lover very rarely.

Still, Solas never backed down. Never gave up. Years down the line, it was always him, standing across from her. Well, when she didn't join him, anyway.

Funny thing was, he wasn't the only betrayer in her circle. Cole, Spirit Cole, Compassion Cole, who decided suddenly that she had no more need of him, that Solas needed him more, abandoned her – occasionally fought her, sometimes killed her – because, despite everything, he was the one she never expected it from.

Then there was the Iron Bull and his choices – it all depended on how close he was to her, whether he gave the Qun the information leading them to force their Hissrad to become Tal-Vashoth or align with the Qun. A missed drink with the Chargers. A missed moment travelling, a different companion selected – and there was an axe at her neck before she could blink.

Half her companions were often only with her for their own reasons – Vivienne for political power and connections, similarly to Dorian although Dorian's were much more personal. Sera for spreading and using the Inquisition for the Red Jenny.

That's not to say all her companions weren't invested in the fight against Corypheus, they fought tooth and nail, willingly risking their life for the world – and often (too often) losing life or limbs in the process. But they never were the same ones she recalled.

She remembered evenings spent playing dress-up with Leliana and Josie, remembered girls nights spent in her bedroom with not just Leliana and Josie, but also Cassandra, Sera and Vivienne, gossiping, laughing, sharing. She remembered discussing romance novels in-depth with the Seeker. Remembered laughing with Varric about Hawke's mishaps, about the funny moments in-between disasters. Remembers evenings spent curled up with Solas when he tells her about Arlathan or the Fade. Remembers Dorian flirting with her – not to seduce, but just to make her feel better. Remembers so, so many small moments with all her friends, her companions, moments which made her love each and every one of them just that little bit more.

Moments they will never know.

Another few lives later she'd found love with Cullen. The distant Commander who'd seemed so strong and unreachable, only to find out he was a tortured soul, full of pain and guilt, wanting so much more for himself and the world around him, wanting to do better, to repent by making the world around him a better place. She'd reached out to him and couldn't regret those lifetimes, even now. She'd met his sisters, his brother – his family. Played chess with him. Kissed him. Seduced him. Slept with him. And then built a home with him and their Mabari, a future.

Albeit a short-lived one; just a short while later, she woke up back in the same-old dungeon.

As always.

But for that short time, that little while, it had been a beautiful, wonderful fairytale.

She remembered Keeper Deshanna, mostly because she received letters from her so long as she lived long enough for them to arrive. But the other clan members were never mentioned by name and their names and faces had long since faded. Occasionally she remembered something or someone, would write it down – but it would often be gone by the next death, or the one after that.

She could've asked them to write. Could've gone to visit them. But what was even the point? More heartache, more people, more friends lost?

No. She would rather not. Besides, there was always more to do.


Varric didn't know what to make of Thedas' latest hero – Mouse, he had called her, before they ever even left, having not heard her say a single word in the time she walked around Haven. Helpful, sure, but not so much as a peep out of her.

To be honest, he thought her mute until Solas raised the subject, referencing a lack of injury to her throat, and the Seeker had made her typical noise of disgust and told them that the Herald knew how to speak, surprisingly, just chose not to.

Given the rather large bruise Varric had seen decorating her cheek the first time they met, he wasn't so sure he could fault her for refusing to open her mouth afterwards. Seeker certainly hadn't held back just because the prisoner was a slight, rather too-thin elven girl.

But the thing that made it difficult to understand her was not that – nor was it the way she woke them just before dawn and wouldn't let them sleep until after dusk. No, it was the way she marched them from one perfect campsite to the next, as if she knew just where to head.

She pocketed a ring from a dead templar and the next time they were at the Crossroads she headed further away and Varric followed her, watched her give the ring to a woman who seemed baffled that the Herald had known who it belonged to – or that it was missing in the first place.

She found a Druffalo and led it back home before they were ever even near the farm.

She knew where to head for finding the Templars and Mages. Knew where the provisions were hidden. How to find their own scout-gone-astray. The son in the castle whose mother was suffering from breathing difficulties – a mother they hadn't spoken to.

Mouse didn't eat with them at the campfire – she had a small bag full of little things around her waist, snacking on small provisions all day long, perpetually refilling it as she came across berries, nuts and leaves.

To be honest, Varric had doubted when the Seeker had said the girl had joined the Inquisition willingly. Faced with an angry Seeker who had shown she was happy enough to lash out, he could understand why she had agreed.

But the girl had gone above and beyond, fixing every slight and big issue she came across – and many before she ever had the chance to come across them. He didn't doubt that she was willing anymore, despite her reluctance to talk and his many attempts to engage her in small-talk (or any talk). Compliments and praise were brushed away, but criticism was accepted with a stern frown and accepting nod. She wasn't surprised at any of the stories he told her – not even the ones which had never made it into his book.

She listened to whoever talked, but she didn't respond.

Her eyes looked over them, past them, through them – but she cared. She was running herself – and them – ragged, but she cared. It was the little things. Their preferred food, offering them snacks, refilling their water, taking care of their horses when they were exhausted or packing away their tents. Thing was, she knew things about them she shouldn't. Chuckles apparently didn't like tea, for example. Even figured out the best materials and plans for improving his Bianca. She knows who enjoys waking up early and staying up late, who likes to sleep towards the outskirts and who likes to sleep closer to the fire. In battles she acts like they've fought together, side by side, for years. Chuckles, the Seeker and himself, they're all still trying to hit their stride fighting together and anticipating what's happening. Not her, though. Mouse moves a fraction of a second before Varric can open his mouth to tell her to move left, to duck or give other instructions. She fights back to back with the Seeker, anticipating each movement before it comes, covering gaps in the Seeker's fighting style with ease she shouldn't have.

None of it makes sense, but one thing is clear. Mouse didn't need to say a word – she cared about them and the entire world, but she was burning the candle at both ends.

Soon there wouldn't be much of Mouse left. She was over-extending herself; not just in her physical care – growing too thin, too little protein to sustain her for the work she was putting in, too little sleep to be rested – but in giving, giving and giving to everyone she saw, without leaving an ounce of care for herself.

Mouse didn't like to be touched, but reached out to them when they needed it – a pat on the shoulder, a hand up after a stumble or fall, but never a hug. Her tent was always furthest away from them that she could.

So, yes, Varric didn't know what to make of her, of how she just knew things, knew people, or where to go, but he knew that whatever she was giving the Inquisition, she needed it back tenfold.

And he also knew she was unlikely to get it – and even less likely to accept it were it to be offered to her.


She loved Dorian, loved flirting with him, once upon a time. He had been her best friend.

Now her favourite was Cole. He came on every trip as soon as he joined. He didn't speak her thoughts out loud – knew, could read from her, that although the lack of love from her companions hurt, it was worse letting them get close all over again only to lose them. She'd done it too often already. Since sharing her worries and her pain was unhelpful, Compassion kept quiet.

But he gave her touch and contact when no one else did. No one else would. Curled up with her at night, letting her sob into his arms, or sleep in his arms, not complaining when she clutched him close, when she told him how much she adored him, loved him, whatever form and shape he took, how perfect he was. It wasn't sexual, it never was, it was just her best friend, her only friend, lifetime through lifetime. He was her comfort when there was no one else. The only one she could trust, for however long she got to have him.

There were comments, sometimes, from her companions – especially Sera and Vivienne, or visitors and her own soldiers.

It didn't matter, had long since stopped mattering. Cole would tell her if she was taking too much, if she was pushing him into despair or twisting his nature in any way, he had promised her.

Even Solas had taken her aside to talk to her, eyes hard and lips twisted in disgust, thinking she was taking advantage of the spirit.

She didn't care. Cole was perfect and she adored him with all her heart. The only one who knew every thought, every lifetime, flittering through her head, the only one who understood. He'd betrayed her, more than once, at the beginning, but he knew that, too. He hadn't since. Just like the Iron Bull, hadn't. Solas was the only constant, always disappearing after Corypheus' defeat, only to lure her close, giving her his goodbye before he leaves.

… Cole, she's certain, is the only reason she was clinging to whatever remnants of sanity she still had.

They all thought she was strong, would never succumb. None of them had the faintest idea just how far she would go for just the possibility of it all ending. The people she had loved were long gone, the facsimiles around her looked the same, sounded the same, but never felt the same.

Still, Cole was the only reason she was holding on, trying, again, and again, hoping in vain for a new, for a different result - one that never came.


"Do you think it would hurt?" she finds herself asking, looking down the waterfall underneath the remnants of the prison in Skyhold. It's tempting. Much of the ground has already been eroded and given way, fallen into the depths. She could join. It wouldn't take much.

An accident, they would say.

"No," Cole tells her, hand touching her own gently without holding her back. "It would be fast."

If she wants to jump, he will let her. Her choice, always. He will find her again, see her again, next time. He won't remember, but he will see himself inside of her and it will be enough.

She stares, the pounding water drowning out the sound before gently heaving herself to her feet. Cole's hand intertwines with her own, having read in her already the decision not to jump.

"It would be nicer than that poison," she tells him, reminiscing, a wry smile on her lips. "Or Bull's axe. Or the drowning – really hated that. The hanging wasn't great either."

So many lives. So many deaths. She doesn't remember them all.

"Bull's axe mostly hurt in your heart," Cole tells her and she nods, leaning against him, allowing herself the small comfort of his warm skin.

"Right you are, Compassion. Right you are."

She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes, before opening door.

Time to face the music.


She'd overextended herself.

It wasn't the first time, nor the first time she fell sick.

But it was the first time she wasn't better after drinking a potion and spending the night in her room – Fever ravaging her instead, shivering and shaking, cold and hot alternately.

Beautiful, perfect Cole popped in when she needed him to, tucking duvets around her or removing them, before turning his focus back on Skyhold's citizens. He told her advisors to leave her be for today, that she was taking a day off and she'd thought that be it.

What she hadn't expected, although maybe she should have, was that they had food sent up to her and the maid who entered when no one answered her knocks, raised the alarm right quick when she found the heat-flushed Inquisitor sweating through her bedding, unable to respond or wake up.

Solas frowned; he wasn't anywhere near his full strength yet and the anchor was fluctuating with her illness and he could only just calm it down. He had never spent much of his focus on healing and his basic spells had not aided her; Dorian was more well-versed in healing than he and that mage was a necromancer.

What he hadn't expected was for the Inquisitor, heat-flushed and with glazed eyes, to gaze at him with such love, a soft smile on her lips as she looked at him.

"Vhenan," she breathed out, smiling warmly and he felt his heartbeat pick up against his will. He hadn't even contemplated such a relationship with her, given how she distanced herself even more from her companions than he did.

"No," he tells her firmly, "it's Solas."

He wonders if she left someone behind in her clan, if that's why she is so quiet with them, or if they were with her at the conclave and perished.

"And Dorian," the other mage butts in. "How are you, Darling?"

"Do, you're back," she says, sounding delighted while the Tevinter frowns, looking as confused as Solas feels.

"Where's your 'amatus'?" To Solas amusement, the Altus blushes.

"I don't - who is- No, not distracting me that easily, my dear Inquisitor. How are you?"

"Hot. And cold." She pauses, frowns, looking bemused before looking back at Dorian with wide eyes. "I don't like it."

The childlike nature of the Inquisitor during her illness is rather endearing, but he is rather curious about her behaviour. She seems to recognise them, but also not and seems to think they're elsewhere.

"Alright, Inquisitor. Just lie back and think of Ferelden," Dorian says with a wink.

Solas brows furrow and he throws Dorian a sharp glare – but before he can intervene and pacify the Inquisitor, he hears her break out in a sharp, raspy laugh.

"You always were my favourite," the Inquisitor tells Dorian, obediently lying back down, patting the necromancer's hand gently. Dorian looks as surprised as Solas feels at that confession. To his knowledge, the Inquisitor has not interacted with any of them closely, Dorian included.

Both mages concentrate on trying to improve her condition, but there is little they can do – she's too thin and worn. What she needs is time, rest and sustenance – all things in scarce supply for the Inquisitor herself, despite the care she takes to make sure her companions are well-rested and even their mounts are swapped out often enough to allow them respite.

But not her.

Now it's taken its toll.

"You need to eat and rest, dear Inquisitor, and you will be back up in no time."

Feverish eyes find them and Solas changes the cool wrap on her head.

"Thanks, Do, vhenan."

Solas bites back the harsh reprimand he wants to say for the liberties she's taking in addressing him – them, but holds back. It would serve no purpose; she's unlikely to even remember this, high as her fever currently is.

"I will instruct a servant in caring for the Inquisitor while she is on the mend," Solas tells Dorian as he stands up and the mage gives a hesitant glance at the frail woman in the bed, but does leave with him.

The task of caring for the Inquisitor doesn't rest with the companions, or her advisors – but rather, it's assigned to one of the servants Leliana trusts.

A sign, Solas thinks silently, of how little the Inquisitor has reached out to them, that none of them feel comfortable – or willing – to sit at her bedside while she mends, that the task is instead assigned as a chore – and paid for – to someone the Inquisitor has likely never noticed or seen before.

It takes days they don't have to spare for the Inquisitor to recover and for him and Dorian to declare her healthy enough to leave the bed.

It takes another week before she's healthy enough to leave Skyhold and enter combat once more.

Nearly two weeks lost, countless humans, elves and dwarves dead because the Inquisitor does not look after herself, Solas thinks with a grimace.

As soon as Skyhold is behind them, he holds her back from the rest of the companions and leans more into Fen'Harel than wandering apostate as he tells her off for her inconsideration and inconvenience.

It's the first time he sees the flash of anger when he reminds her of the cost of human and elvhen lives, but the Inquisitor lets him finish and just smiles blankly at him, anger gone as quickly as it appeared, saying she will be more careful, that she knows how much her life is worth.

There's a bitter undertone in her voice he doesn't know how to understand and she quickens her steed's pace before he can determine anything further.


Not even Cole can soothe the pain in her heart now.

Solas is both right and wrong.

The amount of people who died under her banner, in her name, across lifetimes is so high that even if she knew how to calculate it, she wouldn't know the number. She has never dealt with numbers that high.

But it struck her, when Solas tried to tell her off, that more people have died in her name than they ever did under his – in ancient times and even now. Were he to wipe the world clear of all life, it would still not equal the amount of lives lost in her name at Haven, at Adamant, at all the little battles in between, again and again.

She… doesn't know what to do with that.

It's not a fight she can win without the Inquisition.

And she has tried. Several times.

There's no permutation she hasn't tried.

What else is left now?


Author's Notes: Well, there was not meant to be a second chapter, but this kind of got written anyway.

I hope you enjoy and would love you to review and comment with thoughts.