Thank you for reading! Special thanks to suilven for her awesome beta!

Cullen closed his eyes, feeling the rays of the late afternoon sun on his face, their warmth a pleasant contrast to the chilly breeze that always played around the battlements. He felt at peace, back at Skyhold, back at work, where he belonged, the reins of the army firmly in his fingers—and those fingers not trembling from lack of lyrium … or, at least, not most of the time.

He was winning through, he felt, fighting the cravings and enduring the pain and making something of himself. Perhaps he could even face writing his family now, now that he had a reason for them to feel pride in him. Before, all he could think of were his failures at Kinloch and Kirkwall—what was to tell? They didn't want to know how he had wept at the feet of the demons, how he had assisted the Knight Commander in everything she had done. But now—this they could know about.

He opened his eyes again, looking out across the mountains. There was a shadow next to him, a small shadow, barely seen above the top of the wall, and he looked down and smiled at Dagna, not even surprised that she should be there. "I'm glad you came."

"I was worried about you." Her eyes studied his face, and something in them relaxed at what she saw. "I see I needn't have been. All you needed was work. I understand what that's like."

"Work, yes," Cullen acknowledged, "but also … you. I wanted to thank you for … when you came to me in the chapel … what you did for me … I would never have thought …" He stopped, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. He had always been able to talk to her before, but knowing how she felt, what she felt … it was all different. Not necessarily bad different—there was a frisson of curiosity in him, a shiver up his spine, that wasn't entirely unpleasant—but different enough to cause him to change how he looked at her, how he spoke to her. "This all sounded much better in my head," he finished lamely.

"Cullen, I wouldn't have let you suffer. Not if I can help." Dagna looked out over the top of the wall. "I couldn't let anyone suffer, not when I knew there were things I could do. It's why I left Orzammar. But you least of all." Her voice turned brisk. "How is the pain now?"

"Better. It comes and goes—sometimes I feel as if I'm back there, and that's when it's … the worst. I should not have pushed myself so far that day."

"You push yourself too far every day," she scolded. "You have to be more careful with yourself. The Inquisition needs you, and so do—" Dagna caught herself, blushing. "Others."

"I—will attempt to moderate my habits," he said stiffly, not certain if he should say something to indicate he knew what she had almost let slip … or what he would say if he did. "You know what truly happened at Ferelden's Circle, you more than almost anyone. I've never really spoken of it."

"I know. I wish—I think it would have less of a hold over you if you didn't keep it so close. I know how you feel, that you're ashamed and embarrassed, but you didn't do anything wrong."

"You say that, but I was a Templar. I was trained to—I should have responded better. And … for years afterward I was not myself. I was angry. So angry. And that anger blinded me to things I should have seen, and done. I am not proud of the man that made me."

"You've come a long way since then … and you have every reason to be proud of the man you are today. I—I like him."

"Thank you." He took her words at face value—above any more unsettling emotion, Dagna was his friend. She had always been his friend, and she had never lied to him. "I do feel I can start to put some distance between myself and everything that happened now, which I never felt before. It's … a good feeling. I can't pretend that man I became for so long never existed; I wouldn't want to. But I'm here now and I can make that mean something." He looked down at her, and without thinking he reached for her hand, turning it over and touching the calluses at the base of her fingers gently. "How are you holding up? I've seen the list of tasks and projects you have before you. Do you need help? Are you overworking yourself?"

Dagna was staring at their hands, and if he had doubted her feelings the look on her face would have banished that doubt. "I … I'm frightened I'm going to let everyone down. It's—they're so many big jobs, and they're important, and everyone thinks I can do them, but I'm just … I'm just me, aren't I? Just Dagna, who was never any good at anything."

"Hey," Cullen protested, taking her other hand and holding them both firmly in his. "That's your father talking. The Dagna I know is incomparable; and has never yet failed at anything she tried to do. Do not doubt yourself."

"I … try not to, but when you've spent your entire life being told …" She looked down, and he saw a glimmer of a tear slide down her cheek. "It's hard to remember."

Cullen tipped her chin up gently with one finger, leaning down to look at her, everything else forgotten in the face of her distress. "If you ever need reminding, you can come to me."

"Can I?" Her eyes searched his as they had searched her face earlier, and for the life of him, Cullen didn't know what she saw, or what there was to see. He only knew that this dwarf—this woman—in front of him was important to him, and he would see her reassured.

"Of course."

"Thank you, Cullen."

And somehow, in all of this, when he had meant to thank her, here she was thanking him, which was entirely backward.

Varric crumpled up the parchment … then he straightened it back out again and ripped it into strips, instead, throwing the strips one by one into the fireplace behind him and watching them burn to ash. He didn't need it—he knew her words by heart. He could remember every letter she had ever sent him. Partially because there had been so few, and partially because every word wrote itself on his mind indelibly as he read it. If he could have forgotten her words, maybe he could have done a better job forgetting her.

Dear Varric, she'd written. Activity continues. They're like ants—but less intelligent. That red stuff burns away their brains first, and then their bodies. I've watched it happen. You and your buddy better get out here, and not just because I miss your undwarvenly beardless face.

She had left it unsigned, but of course, he knew. Anyone who knew her knew that writing—it was on all her blueprints. She was a woman of many talents, but being less than completely herself in any way wasn't one of them. Hence the burning. If the Merchants' Guild got their hands on that letter … Well, fortunately Varric had money squirreled away in a number of different places, under a number of different names. But remembering where it all was would be inconvenient.

He'd prod Thule first thing in the morning about heading for that thaig.

But where had Corypheus learned about the thaig in the first place? Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes and thought, even though it made his head hurt. Was it so ancient that Corypheus had known about it a thousand years ago? Had one of the hired thugs they'd brought along for muscles grown enough of a brain to talk? There had been that father-son team Hawke had hired as her house servants for a while—where had they ended up? The son wasn't too bright—could he have been made to talk?

One thing was for sure, he would be glad when this whole mess was cleared up … even if it meant another endless span of years without seeing Bianca.

"And then we stood up, and everyone clapped." Lilias demonstrated with a flourish, just as it had happened at Halamshiral. Well, a rather exaggerated version, for Merrill's amusement.

Eyes shining, Merrill clapped as instructed. "That was lovely."

"Then she tried to kill the Inquisitor and the Empress, and was dragged off in chains."

"That's lovely, too. Or is it less lovely?"

"No one died."

"Then it was lovely," Merrill decided.

Lilias collapsed back on the bed and reached for another cookie. They were having a bit of a pig-out in Lilias's rooms, catching up on everything that had happened since Lilias left for Orlais. The cookies were mostly gone now, and all that was left of the crispy thin fried potato slices were crumbs on the floor. Addictive little things—the whole keep was crazy about them.

"So what did you do? Was it super quiet here with all the leadership away?"

"Not so much as you might think. The Chargers are loud no matter who's around."

"I can imagine. But what did you do? See any more of a certain bald elf?" Lilias grinned, but Merrill sighed, looking downcast.

"I did, but …"

"But what? The two of you were getting along so well."

"We still are—but I think there are things he isn't telling me."

"Did you tell him everything? I mean, about—"

"I told him about my clan," Merrill said. She winced, the memory still sharp and jagged in her.

"But did you tell him about the eluvian? And the blood magic?"

"No. I … What is there to say? I tried something foolish to gain back the history of our people? Solas doesn't seem all that interested in the history of our people," she said thoughtfully. "He changes the subject whenever I try to talk about it."

"Maybe he feels the future is more important than the past," Lilias suggested.

"Maybe. I wish I knew. There's something—off about him, and I can't quite put my finger on it—but oh, Hawke, there's something else so … compelling. Being with him is more exciting than anything since—well, since I gave up on the eluvian."

"Then go with that, and keep in mind the something off. You might find a time when you can ask and he'll tell you—it might be something completely innocuous."

"Possibly."

But Merrill didn't seem convinced.