Thank you for reading and sticking with this story! I'm still going to be updating this fairly slowly, but I promise it will get finished.

They came to Halamshiral. From all corners of Thedas, people converged on the Winter Palace, called together to consider the fate of the Inquisition. Orlais and Ferelden would be the judges, along with the Divine, and they sent their delegates, each with orders to see that their country's demands came out on top.

Meanwhile, the Inquisitor's companions arrived, brought to the Exalted Council by their concerns for the Inquisition, by their desire to see their friend again, by their certainty that he would need them.

None of them knew what awaited them, but when two countries stood against each other, fighting over the sharing of a single bone, there was sure to be trouble of one kind or another, and where trouble was, the Inquisitor's friends intended to be ready.

Blackwall rode hesitantly through the gates of the Winter Palace, remembering the long-ago days when Thom Rainier had been part of the Empress's entourage. He didn't miss those days. And while he had fonder memories of being a companion of the Inquisitor, he was under no illusions as to the warmth of the welcome Thule would have for him.

He wasn't even entirely certain why he had come.

Rolling his eyes at his own foolishness, he amended the thought. He absolutely knew why he had come, and his pulse pounded at the idea of seeing Lace Harding again. One glimpse of her sweet face and he could return to the Anderfels, he told himself. That was all he had come for.

Josephine whirled around from trunk to trunk. Where had she put the invitations for the Inquisitor and his companions to attend the opening soiree? Her room had seemed so spacious when she first entered, but now it was filled with trunks and felt positively hemmed in.

It didn't help that she had completely lost track of her usual filing system in the chaos of trying to organize both the Inquisition's attendance at the Exalted Council and her upcoming wedding. Ciel had been patient for a long time, but he had finally put his foot down, gently but firmly.

Truth be told, Josephine was tired of waiting as well. She wanted to be married, wanted to wake in Ciel's bed every morning. The Exalted Council had not been in her plans, and she was desperately trying to keep it from delaying the wedding.

Looking around at the many trunks lining the walls of the room, she sighed. Who was she kidding? She would be fortunate to get this wrapped up without Orlais and Ferelden declaring war on each other and the Inquisition. In the face of that, keeping her wedding on track would be the least of her worries.

As soon as the door had closed behind her, leaving her blessedly alone in her private quarters, Leliana pulled off the ridiculous hat and tossed it carelessly aside on a handy settee with a total lack of the respect due to the holiness of her headwear.

For all the time and effort she had put into gaining the right to wear that hat, it was nothing but a headache.

Fortunately, being Divine was considerably more enjoyable than wearing the Divine's hat. Change would come slowly, as change always did, but Leliana was determined and willing to take the time and do the work to make the changes that needed to occur a reality.

Some days she missed the intrigue and excitement of the Inquisition, the constant bustle and movement. Everyone was so quiet around the Divine, so respectful and polite, so utterly lacking in urgency. The Chantry took the long view, as it always had, and saw no reason to be hasty. Sometimes, it was downright boring.

She was walking through her rooms, massaging her temples, when she saw movement out of the corner of her eye.

"Show yourself," she demanded, staring into the darkness whence the sound had come.

Nothing. Shadows.

Then it struck, a hand over her mouth, another catching her wrists in a strong grip. "Don't move, Your Perfection."

As if. Leliana used the grip on her hands to pull her captor with her as she bent suddenly forward, knocking him off balance enough that she could spin around and shift their grips so that she held his wrist instead.

His free arm snaked around her waist, pulling her close against him. "You've been keeping up your training."

"It doesn't do to be caught unawares."

"You should speak to your people. I've been here for four hours, and no one knew it." His breath was on her lips now, his long, lean body pressed against hers, and Leliana allowed herself to relax into his embrace.

"I shall do so. Will you be staying long enough to train them this time?"

"Did you miss me, Your Holiness?" As usual, Nathaniel's voice lingered on her title with amused derision.

"Perhaps. The Exalted Council …"

"Yes. Tricky. We should discuss how to handle it." His head dipped toward hers, and Leliana's eyes closed in anticipation.

"Later," she whispered. "Much later."

She felt rather than saw the smile he gave, rare as diamonds. "As you wish."

It was a palatial suite, considerably better than his rooms at the Hanged Man. He sensed the Nightingale's hand in this, her amusement at underscoring the strange new change in his situation by giving him these lavish quarters during his stay. Still, Varric intended to enjoy every inch of the large rooms. He was already planning Wicked Grace games and long boozy chats in front of the fire with a selected group of former companions.

Rubbing his hands together in glee, he anticipated the looks on their faces when they found out what had happened to him since he left the Inquisition and went home to Kirkwall.

Not that the office of Viscount was without its headaches. One of them was unpacking in his own room down the hall even now. Seneschal Bran was a useful fellow to keep around, but entirely too straight-laced and bound by various rules that, in Varric's viewpoint, were just nuisances in the way of getting things done. Particularly any rule or regulation that had to do with the Merchant's Guild.

That entity had been remarkably quiet in the past few years, however. Varric wished he thought the Guild's new tolerance for his foibles—and his dreadful habit of hiding money from them—had to do with him helping Stones save the world. But he suspected instead that it was more a byproduct of not having seen or heard from Bianca in all that time.

He felt like a fool for missing her the way he did, after she had betrayed him so thoroughly and with so little remorse—but he missed her anyway, for all that, wondering what she was doing and what new inventions were cluttering her worktable.

As much as he missed Bianca, he missed his writing more. The cares of Kirkwall left him little time for his "scribbling", as Bran termed it … and Bran was startlingly good at finding manuscript pages in progress and using them as kindling. He considered this looking out for Kirkwall's best interests. In Varric's view, a happy Viscount was a competent Viscount, but he and Bran differed quite a bit in their definition of happy.

The Exalted Council offered opportunities for new stories, for intrigue, and for entertainment beyond anything Varric had experienced since he went back to Kirkwall. He couldn't wait.

Alistair's pulse was pounding as he rode in through the gates. After all this time—entirely too many months to count—she would be here, and he would be here. Both of them in the same place together. It sounded too good to be true.

Less exciting was imagining her reaction when he told her that he was still nominally the king of Ferelden. In fact, it was the worst possible set of outcomes—he was still the king, but he had ceded enough of his authority to his cabinet that Teagan was here as his chancellor, running Ferelden's portion of the Exalted Council, and Alistair was functionally powerless to counteract the bitterness that had turned his fun-loving and charming uncle into an angry old man, with the worst of Eamon's weakness and Isolde's spitefulness mixed with his own cunning. Works were in place, but he had been blocked at every turn in his attempts to ensure that the country went into competent, future-thinking hands.

Still. It was almost over. Weeks, maybe a month or two. No more. He was sure of it.

What he would do next, he had no idea. What did deposed monarchs do, besides slink quietly off into the sunset, never to be heard from again? If he knew where Anora had gone, he might ask her. He hoped wherever she was, she had found some sort of satisfaction from her post-regal life. He certainly intended to find some in his.

Hawke stood at the window and watched as Alistair rode in. The sight of him, so tall and broad-shouldered, never failed to send her pulse racing, and the thought of his warmth, his jokes, his smile, brought an answering smile to her face. But it didn't last, because she knew it still wasn't over … and was beginning to fear it never would be.

"Doesn't look much like a king, does he?" Varric remarked, coming to her side.

She didn't dignify that with an answer, since there wasn't one that would be satisfactory. "What do your people tell you, Varric?"

He shrugged. "That there's enough political infighting in Ferelden to make even the Merchants' Guild look peaceful. That no single candidate has emerged that everyone is willing to follow, and most of them think it's best to keep His Bumbling Majesty on the throne as a figurehead, since the people like him, rather than replace him."

"So he's never getting out of there."

"Well, he could run, I suppose … but Thedas is small, and getting smaller all the time. Someone would find him eventually, and—"

Hawke held up a hand. "I get the picture. But what can I do?"

"Come home to Kirkwall."

"With or without Alistair?"

"Exactly."

She frowned down at her friend. "Seriously."

"I'm being serious. Haven't you waited for him long enough?"

She looked back out the window, watching as he got down from his horse, the easy friendliness in his greeting to the elven groom who came to take the reins, the way he patted the animal's neck and walked with it to the stable, chatting with the groom on the way. "I think he's worth waiting for, Varric."

He sighed. "I was afraid you'd say that. All right, let's put our heads together and get him out of this situation, then."

"That's what I hoped you'd say."

Cullen bent with a frown over the war table that had been hastily assembled in the conference room set aside for the Inquisition. Yes, he thought so. There was too much distance between the Western Approach and the Hissing Wastes. Taking out a measuring stick, he carefully adjusted both markers until they were the proper distance from one another.

Possibly it did not matter whether the distances were precise, or just a representation. They wouldn't be at Halamshiral for that long, and hopefully would not have much use for a war table … but this was something he could do that did not involve making small talk or playing Orlais's ridiculous Game. He could hide from everyone in here.

In particular, he wished to hide from the Inquisitor, who had become entirely too inquisitive lately, asking about Cullen's health and well-being. It was evident he was concerned about the lyrium, and the return of withdrawal symptoms, but Cullen's recent lack of energy and drive had nothing to do with physical ailments.

He was tired. Too many years in uniform, at the service of others, too little time simply to rest, to develop his own interests and pursuits. The years, the weight of responsibility, lay increasingly heavy on him.

More so, if he were to be honest with himself, since Dagna's departure from Skyhold a year, two months, and sixteen days back. Cullen had wished her good fortune with her studies and seen her go with a sense of relief, that temptation, and guilt at denying that temptation and hurting her in the process, no longer lived just steps from his door—but she had taken the sunshine with her, and left him feeling dull and aged and weary. And he saw no easy remedy to that particular malady.

Thule flipped open his pocket watch and sighed loudly, then shut it again and walked to the window. He had to stand on his tiptoes to see through the clear pane in the middle of the frosted and glazed decorative glasswork, which frustrated him even more than the late hour … and even more frustrating still was the decided lack of a sleek black mare and an upright and gloriously beautiful figure riding atop her.

Cassandra had promised, faithfully, that she would reach Halamshiral before the Exalted Council started. There was still a day, but technically tomorrow would be for the highly valuable negotiations and discussions preceding the Council, for which Thule very much wanted Cassandra's advice. She used to be so precise in her promises, so diligent in the carrying out of her word. But since she had begun attempting to rebuild the Order of Seekers, she had become increasingly distracted and removed from the cares of the Inquisition—and, worse, from the arms of the Inquisitor.

Which left Thule bored and frustrated and isolated at Skyhold. Most of their companions had scattered elsewhere, busy moving on with or back to their lives, and Thule felt as though he alone still remained to carry Skyhold and its people on his shoulders.

Cullen felt similarly, he knew, but neither of them was good company these days. And while Josephine carried out her tasks with her typical efficiency, half of her mind was on her fiance and her upcoming nuptials—as it should be. Thule didn't grudge her. But it made for a dull and lonely Skyhold with everyone gone.

And the Inquisition was hardly prospering in the wake of the defeat of the Corypheus. Ferelden viewed them with suspicion, Orlais with paternalism, with the result that it was very difficult to get through Ferelden's borders … and easy to get through those of Orlais, but the effusive hospitality poured on them there was as difficult to manage as the hostility of the Fereldans. Without a specific mandate, the Inquisition was floundering, and Thule was floundering with it. Maybe he should do his patented disappearing act, he thought. Just take off, find himself in the underworld, and …

The green mark on his hand flared and spat sparks, and he grimaced at the pain. No, he couldn't disappear. This was too distinctive. So where did that leave him? What future was there for the Inquisitor, or the entity he represented?

Merrill wandered the Crossroads endlessly, occasionally skipping in delight. In Fenris's long-ago term, she could indeed be said to have frolicked. All that time staring at that dead mirror, and this is where it led her, to the place where all these mysteries lay just a step away.

Solas had asked her to stay here, taking her with him on his journeys through the eluvians only when he felt it was safe, and she was content enough, touching the mirrors and feeling the power ripple, imagining what lay on the other side.

Only when she thought of Hawke, and of Varric, in what they would have considered the 'real world', did she feel any discontent. She hoped they were well. She hoped they understood. She hoped she would be able to see them again someday.

But until then—the mysteries of the ancients were hers to explore, and she was lost in the joy of it.