Thank you for reading! Particular thanks to suilven for her support and enthusiasm!
Varric closed the door of his room behind him, and did something he very rarely did—he locked it. While generally he liked to be amongst the hustle and bustle of things, at home in the Hanged Man and here in Skyhold, today he needed to think, and he needed to take a moment to commune with himself.
He dug in an inner pocket of his coat and found the runestone, rubbing his thumb back and forth along the carving, his mind going to that lost atrium in the middle of nowhere, the greenish light that had lost its color as the witch had absorbed the Well into herself, the burning anger in the eyes of Corypheus as he had come swooping across the room. That was what Bianca had yielded to, in the end. In the guise of a Grey Warden, true enough, but beneath the Warden had lain that terrible anger, that determination. It had kept Corypheus alive across the ages—for that matter, it had taken him to the Black City in the first place, across the uncrossable threshold to the innermost secrets of Thedas. Varric could no longer tell the truth from the lies, whether the Maker was elf or human or pure myth, and whatever Corypheus knew about the truth was so warped and twisted by his own megalomania that it might as well never have existed. But he wasn't sure the truth mattered. The truth lay in the story that grew as it was passed down the ages, didn't it? And that was what Varric did—he created the stories, built them where they needed to be built, shadowed them where they needed to be shadowed.
Bianca built differently. She built things, things to make lives better, things that no one had ever thought of, things that could become the wonders of their age, if not of future ages to come. But she didn't give thought to posterity; the end result in her hands was enough, the knowledge she gained in the building, that was what she sought, so that the next thing she built could be even better. She was a visionary—but like so many visionaries, she could only truly focus on what was in front of her. All other considerations lay somewhere in the periphery, disregarded and unimportant. Varric had always accepted that he was one of those peripheral considerations, and all things considered, he had been happy with that. He had no more desire for an everyday, all-consuming relationship than Bianca did; he didn't want a woman who would drag him away from his stories. Should it have surprised him so that people, the lives and safety of the other denizens of Thedas, were also peripheral to Bianca's thirst for knowledge?
Sighing, turning the runestone over in his fingers, Varric knew he should have expected nothing less. He had known it was a gamble giving her the location of that thaig—and it had been his own cowardice that had led him to it, as much as Bianca's coaxing. He hadn't wanted to go back, hadn't wanted to know, so he'd sent her, knowing her curiosity would lead her to discover things and she would bring the stories back to him.
Well, this was a story, wasn't it? Just not the one he had expected. He cursed his own complacency, his own certainty that he knew what could come of his actions … but for the first time in a long while, he didn't curse Bianca. She had been who she was, and how could he blame her for that?
The night had been long already, and chill, and Cullen couldn't shake the memory of the demons in Kinloch Hold. He got out of bed and got dressed, no longer willing to fight for snatches of fitful sleep.
He sat down at his desk, lighting a candle and pulling a report closer to him, bending over his desk to squint at the words. But he couldn't concentrate, the dreams and memories still clouding his mind.
The battle had gone well. The Inquisition had prevailed, the Inquisitor and his party had escaped Corypheus … but it wasn't over. They had counted on it being over, on coming home from the Wilds victorious. And now Corypheus was going to come back, more than likely to attack Skyhold, and that Cullen could not bear to contemplate.
Ah. He pushed his chair back, closing his eyes and rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. That was it. Haven. That was why the memories had resurfaced and the demons had returned. The idea of losing another home of the Inquisition to Corypheus, of watching everything they had built so carefully burn … He shuddered at the images that came to his mind, and got to his feet, taking his candle with him.
It guttered and blew out in the cold wind on the battlements as soon as he was through the door, but he held it anyway, a symbolic light in the darkness if nothing else, making his way more by memory and feel than by sight across the bridge and through the dimly lit atrium. No sign of Solas tonight; the elf must have given up his work early today. Usually he worked long into the night, as Cullen did.
Varric sat by a banked fire in the main hall, scribbling away. He looked up as Cullen went past, but didn't speak.
Nor did Cullen, bent single-mindedly on his destination.
At last he pushed open the door of the little chapel, glad to see he was the only one whose mind had been so troubled tonight that the peace of Andraste was the only thing that could quiet it. He lit his candle from those left burning at the statue's feet, then knelt and clasped his hands, letting the words of the Chant pour forth from him.
"'Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.'"
He never had been. Always, even in the depths of his despair, the Maker's hands had been there—even when he couldn't see them, couldn't bear to reach for them, they had been there. The familiar words, the scent of the burning candles, began to calm his thoughts and give him strength.
"'For there is no darkness in the Maker's light and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.'"
Nothing? Cullen wondered. Haven had been lost. But with the loss of the town, the spirit of the Inquisition had risen. They had been bonded as one entity by the shared devastation of that loss in a way nothing else could have done.
"A prayer for you?" came the soft voice from the doorway.
Cullen didn't turn; he wasn't surprised to have her here. In some ways, Dagna was his shadow, following in the small dark places he forgot to look in; in others, she was Andraste, watching over him even when he wasn't aware of it. Somewhere in the middle of those two, she was a woman, a woman whose heart was wasted on him, and that was the part he was having difficulty coming to terms with.
He realized he hadn't responded to her question. Over his shoulder, keeping his hands clasped before him, he said, "For those we have lost. And … those I am afraid to lose," he admitted in a whisper. She had been there for him for so long, whenever he needed her. Now he knew he had to push her away, for her own good, but he lacked the strength of will, the courage to face what lay ahead without knowing she was behind him.
"I'm glad you haven't lost your faith," Dagna said, moving toward him even as Cullen turned his head back to Andraste and attempted to focus on the stone feet of the statue.
"I have questioned it at times, you know that, but … in the end, I have always found comfort in faith when life offered little."
"I wish I had faith." Her voice was little more than a whisper. "I believe in science, in the details of magic, in things I can study and test. I don't know how to approach something I can't quantify."
"We must draw strength where we can." He shifted a bit to the side as she knelt next to him.
"You're worried that Corypheus will retaliate and you won't be prepared."
"You weren't at Haven, you didn't see what he did there."
"I can see it reflected in the fear you carry; you, who fear so little."
"I fear many things."
"Only one, in all the time I've known you: yourself."
Cullen frowned. That wasn't the man he was. It couldn't be. He got to his feet, turning to leave, the sanctuary no longer as welcoming—or as needed—as it had been.
Her voice stopped him at the door. "And if he never comes? Or if we are victorious? What will you tell yourself you fear then, Cullen?"
For that, he had no answer.
Leliana leaned against the railing, watching the birds fly. They carried messages across Thedas, tales of the Inquisition's prowess, carefully crafted stories about the Arbor Wilds and the fighting there. Oh, true, mostly … but tweaked just a bit. It would not do to have the rest of Thedas concerned about Corypheus potentially attacking Skyhold—any more than it would do to have them sense an opportunity if he did.
And she thought seriously about what would come next. Their time here, Skyhold itself, was drawing to a close. Corypheus's supports were crumbling. If Morrigan was to be believed, they were close to nullifying the last weapon Corypheus possessed, his dragon. And little as Leliana liked the witch, she believed in her powers. She had seen them used too many times to doubt. So, when the Inquisition was over—
Behind her she heard the familiar heavy tread of Alistair's feet on the stairs, and she turned just as he opened the door.
"Am I interrupting your plotting?"
"Who says I was plotting anything?"
"Sister Nightingale is always plotting something." He sighed. "Sometimes, I miss Sister Leliana, who saw the good in the Maker's world, the beauty, and spent an entire Blight trying to get the rest of us to see it, too."
For a moment, Leliana remembered that woman fondly—but with pity, as well. How little Sister Leliana had understood. "Harsh times call for harsh measures, Your Majesty. Surely you have found that." She glanced at him, his open face. No, he hadn't found that yet. No doubt someday he would, and it would take something from him, something valuable, something that made him immeasurably Alistair. And while that would be sad, it was a step he needed to take in his leadership of Ferelden. "When I am ruthless, it gets us where we need to be," she told him. "It's something to be proud of."
"I suppose. You were Princess Stabbity-Stab, even then," he said, but wistfully.
Oh, how he romanticized the Blight. "I chose to become the Left Hand of the Divine after what I saw during the Blight. Leyden would have approved."
"Yes, that she would have," he said, his voice stronger, harder than it had been before. "I'm just now learning that. It probably would have been best for everyone if I had learned it sooner."
"Probably," Leliana agreed.
After a pause, Alistair said in a carefully casual tone, "So you'll continue on here with the Inquisition, then?"
"As long as it needs me to do what no one else dares, I will."
"And when it doesn't?"
She shrugged. "Death and deception are my trade. It is what I am. It is what I always will be. So when I am not needed here I will find another place to serve that needs the work I can do."
"You would have made a fine Warden."
"Possibly so. It is unfortunate for the Wardens that I was not tainted during the Blight, then, it seems." Fortunate for herself, however, since the Wardens were mostly dead now. She didn't say that to Alistair, though. He had never been one for dark humor. And, after all, she believed her path lay in a direction far higher, far darker, than the Wardens' path. The Grand Cathedral; the Sunburst Throne. Yes, that was where she was destined, and she was now more than ever determined to get there. What the Inquisitor had uncovered in the Arbor Wilds could upend all Thedosian mythology—they needed a firm hand guiding the changes to be made to the Chantry, and whose hand was firmer than her own?
Alistair remained silent, unaware of the direction of her thoughts, and she was glad of it. He would be a better support for her if she did not seem to be actively seeking the throne. They stood there together watching the sunset like two old friends at peace.