There was an understanding between them, unspoken, not to acknowledge the darkness on the far horizon. The gathering shadows of a distant storm. They did not speak of the argument again, choosing instead to live in that space between a lie and inevitable truth. Denial was easy — kinder — and could be made into mortar to shore the walls of a sanctuary built in her tower room. When they lay on the wide bed with the canopy drawn, they became mountains. Ancient, proud, and immovable. Protectors of the slumbering valley between.
There was peace there, with their eyes closed. And it felt real.
The days after were not so different from the ones before, but for the ache in her chest. Heavy with the weight of promises that could not be unmade. Every affection in the space between felt like its own goodbye: slow, measured, and meaningful. He held her hands when they made love and touched her wrists when they passed in the halls. They were the last speakers of a dying tongue; language made of intimacies. Glances, smiles, and fingerprints.
She watched him, when she had the chance. In the quiet moments. Sitting in an overstuffed chair with charcoal and parchment; holding a book in one hand with his head tilted just so. While he slept, curled in their family bed with his thumb tucked into a tiny palm. Or when he rocked their children, singing, swaying, and cast in silhouette by the dawn's light through the curtains. His eyes brimmed with adoration, in spite of the exhaustion.
It was lovely, the way he cradled them. Skin to skin, hearts in sync; a tattoo of delicate breath upon his chest. When the tears dried and little eyes grew heavy his steps would slow, the song fade to hum, and he'd pause — each time — to run a finger down the bridge of their nose. Over button, lips, to dimpled chin, a feature shared by all three. Then a smile would pull at his cheek and he was bowed — each time — by the weight of gratitude. What privilege, what blessing, to know love in its purest form. From soft crown to curled toes.
How divine, to touch his finger to the callus of their upper lip: the mark of perfection where creation met with its creator.
Some days it could move her to tears. The beauty of it, so bittersweet, beneath the burden of knowledge.
She wished she were an artist.
Never had she felt it so keenly. Hours, she'd watch him work sometimes. Covered in paint, and sweat, and ink, until he could stand at its end and gaze upon the glory of his creation. She was envious. Strong hands with long careful fingers wielding brush and pigment, the care he took in each delicate stroke, and the patience to preserve his vision in eternity. What tragedy to compare it to herself and have only flawed, fading, memories.
It was the curse of mortality: decay before timelessness.
In those final weeks — days, hours — without the blessings of artistry or the reach of immortality she could do little else but watch. Slave to a heart not yet broken, silent witness to each moment falling through the cradle of her fingers. Grains of sand lost in the hourglass, like their language, slipping away one smile at a time.
Somehow, when the day came, it still managed to surprise her. It did not happen the way she thought. There were no quiet, tearful, goodbyes or explosive arguments. No tender embrace. Not even a final, lingering, look. There was no chance.
Instead, there was nothing.
By the time she realised what was happening, it was already too late.
The only warning came from Dorian, though neither would know it then. He was returning to Tevinter soon, and among his final duties as the Inquisition's archivist was tracking down all the books on loan from various institutions and shipping them back. A fair amount of work had gone into organising the library, yet somehow the books always managed to end up scattered around the fortress. Hiding in corners and forgotten on window sills.
Among the missing were a few tomes Solas had taken off with and then failed to return. He'd never been forgetful — though sleep deprivation had put that to the test — and so the negligence was forgiven. To a point. Twice over the previous week Dorian had approached him with the request, but after both attempts failed he opted not to go for a third try and instead took the list directly to Ellana. Catching up with her one morning as she passed by on her way to the training yard.
"He can't possibly still be reading them, it's been months," Dorian said, sliding ahead to hold the door open for her. She gave him a nod of thanks as they exited onto the battlements together. "Although one was partially written in Qunlat so it's possible that held him up. Do you know how many words there are for 'obey'? Bull's been trying to teach me the basics for a year and I've still got no idea. Horrible language."
They were alone on the walk, and so granted the opportunity to speak freely. In the months since he'd confronted Solas at Vivienne's chateau he'd become privy to some of the secrets he'd kept.
When Ellana gave him a pointed look, he rolled his eyes, pitching his voice to a low whisper. "Right, I forget that learning to conjugate verbs is for us lowly folk. Where'd he get that one, by the way?"
"I never asked, though you're free to."
"If what you've told me about the acquisition is true, I'm hesitant to think he'd share the details with me quite so readily as you. Though I'd love to hear them, nonetheless! But back to the point: I'd go look for the books myself but I'm not going near that mess he calls his desk. I'd be crushed to death. It's so precarious I worry a stiff breeze may bring the whole thing down. You don't happen to know he's put them, do you?"
Ellana held out her hand for the list — "Let me see," — and skimmed the titles for familiarity. "There's a few of these on my desk in the tower. I'll get them for you tomorrow." She handed it back. "Or you could just go in and take them yourself, they're sitting right on top. No one will be in until after supper."
Dorian rolled up the scroll and slipped it back into his coat pocket. "I actually tried your room earlier but the masons wouldn't let me in. Would've thought I was there to rob the place the way they watched me go! The return is already late and I'd like to have them for tomorrow morning's pick-up, so I'll just come by when you're there later if it's all the same."
"'Masons'?" She frowned. "What masons?"
"The pair fixing your bannister."
"There's nothing wrong with the bannister," she remarked. Then abruptly stopped, mid-step, as if struck. Dorian kept going several more before he realised, turned, and gave her a curious look. She narrowed her eyes at him. "Do you mean the wooden stair leading up to the tower?"
There were a handful of scorched posts that had yet to be replaced, leftover from the fire last year, but no mention of anyone coming to do it. Generally that sort of thing was planned well in advance.
He shook his head. "No, the one inside. Or so I assume by the pallet in the door."
A forgotten work order for the outer stair would be odd, but forgivable — any work on the inside was a different matter. No one entered the tower without permission. Those few with the freedom to drop by without it could be counted on one hand, and all were courteous enough to warn both occupants ahead of time. Besides the issue of security there were parts of her personal life that remained strictly-guarded from public scrutiny. A sweater laid on the chaise, easily identifiable as Solas' (or at the very least not hers), might make the deniability less plausible.
There was a strange, sudden, feeling of dread that crawled its way up her spine. Made her hair stand on end. It was not for fear of having her privacy invaded… something else had raised her hackles.
"Hm." She started walking backwards toward the door. "I think I'm going to go check on that, actually."
Dorian's expression fell sharply with his shoulders. He lamented, "I'll find you later, then," with enough petulance to ensure the disappointment was palpable. Their breakfast ritual had been sidelined since the twins were born; opportunities for conversation were scarce. A moment here and there between obligations was often all they could manage. Soon they'd have none at all. "Maker forbid the common folk catch sight of the Herald's unmentionables."
"I can think of one or two that might raise some eyebrows."
She tried to flash a smile with the quip, but it was a half-hearted thing — it didn't reach her eyes. And it didn't fool him, she saw it in the tilt of his chin and furrowed brow. The way his lips parted to call out, 'wait!' before she turned away and broke into a jog. Gone before he had the chance.
It's nothing, she told herself. There were plenty of perfectly reasonable explanations. A scheduling mix-up. A lost note. A forgotten reminder. A conversation that slipped my mind…
But Leliana had tightened security after the attack. All the comings and goings were meticulously logged. Even the nursemaid, rigorously vetted and hired solely to help with the twins' care during the day, was required to submit a schedule every morning to ensure she never strayed from her set path. Her first week on the job was very nearly her last when she missed a single check-in after a poorly-folded nappy required an emergency visit to the bathhouse. In less than thirty minutes Leliana had combed the entire fortress, located her, and had all three moved back to the tower to wait — all without raising any alarm. By the time Ellana became aware of the situation the girl had been given such a spectacular dressing down that she could barely even look at her for the next three days. She never did it again.
A work crew making it into the tower without her knowledge would've required multiple security failures, at multiple points. A complete breakdown of the system Leliana and Cullen worked so hard to maintain. This was checked daily. Multiple times a day.
The more she thought about it, the less likely it seemed like an accident.
The more plausible, more worrying, explanation was that it wasn't.
When she entered the rotunda the door behind her swung closed the same instant the one across from her opened up, admitting three fully-armed former Templars. One broke off from the group just inside the covered entry and moved to the side, out of the way, while the other two continued on. They stepped into the main room and paused, just briefly, to glance at Solas' desk. Then they exchanged a few words, a sharp nod, and separated. One headed up the stairs toward the library. The other, in her direction.
The soldiers' stride was purposeful and his eyes hard, but focused on a point somewhere beyond her. When she stepped out of the way he passed by without so much as a nod of acknowledgement, taking position in front of the door she'd just come through. Feet apart and back straight, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
The clank of metal greaves above her said the other was headed toward the door on the second level.
They were blocking the exits.
It occurred to her then that she'd not seen Solas at his desk today. She hadn't seen him at all since he'd left their room that morning.
The knot in her stomach twisted a little tighter.
The guard in the alcove let her pass into the hall without issue, though that relief was fleeting: the moment she crossed the threshold someone was flagging her down. A young man, human, whom she immediately recognized. Not for his work, but for who he worked for. She'd only ever seen him running messages for Leliana.
"Herald!" he called, waving for her attention. "Herald, your presence is required in the war room." He was breathless, rumpled and red-cheeked like he'd been running all over the fortress looking for her.
She moved to evade him, headed for the tower — "Tell them I'll be there shortly, I just need to check on something first," — but stopped when she saw the way blocked. A guard stood at that door, too. One that was not there when she left a few hours ago. Nor on any other morning — that post was not part of the regular rotation.
Their eyes met with hers, and they shifted their weight, standing a little taller. As if sizing her up. Then subtly, slid a hand toward their hip.
Before she had time to consider the implications of the move she was caught by the elbow and pulled backward. Startled, she jumped, and turned to find the runner there.
He was much younger than she'd first thought: no more than 16 with a mop of choppy, brown, hair and a kind face. Tall and awkward the way boys are before they're old enough to shave. The kind of messenger she was less likely to brush off — she was always more patient with youths.
Her eyes cut between his own and the hand on her arm, raising a single, dark, brow that conveyed more question than judgement. The rules of boundary and station didn't mean much to a Dalish Inquisitor, but this was a line few cared to cross.
He shifted uncomfortably. Hesitated. Then leaned close, lowering his voice to a whisper, "I'm sorry, your worship, but it wasn't a request."
There was doubt in the clench of his jaw. Unease in the tremble of his fingers, white-knuckled where they gripped her. She glanced over her shoulder, to the guard at her door, and then back to him. Weighing her options.
His eyes flicked to her belt, just briefly, and she felt the weight of the dagger sheathed there.
Something is wrong.
But a scene would not make it better.
So, carefully, "Alright," she agreed.
No threat of force was used, yet the weight of his hand on her arm as he led her across the hall felt as good as one. It stayed there, like a warning, until she'd been brought before the large door by Josephine's office. He let go only when she had nowhere else to go, then stepped back, gesturing for her to continue on. And watched, silent, as she slipped inside.
What she found there did not seem so unusual, at first.
Her advisors were already there, standing opposite the doors all clustered together at the head of the war table. Deep in some important conversation full of wide gestures and tired frowns. Before them was a spread of papers arranged as though they were planning a push into new territory. An odd sight if only because there were none left to make at this stage.
When the door opened they all stopped and looked up. There was a single, tense, beat of silence — not quite long enough for her to ask a question — before a sharp whistle came from behind her and then everything started to happen.
They moved together, individually, like dancers across a grand ballroom. Passing cues to each other by eye; graceful sweeps and practised spins.
Cullen raised a hand to signal the first movement: a prelude by a pair of guards she'd not noticed when she entered, positioned against the inner wall on either side of the doors. They stepped out as a matched pair, mirroring each other. Four steps forward and a half-spin to reach the closing doors, where they slipped through into the hall.
Next, a shadow fell over her: she felt it before she saw it. Hands caught her by the waist — the belt? — but not to guide or restrain. Rather, to relieve her of her weapons; both the dagger sheathed at her hip and the one she kept hidden in a boot. The Iron Bull spun away as she spun around, evading the question of her outstretched hand, and tucked them away in the back of his pants. Then he bowed to the wall and rose again with a long crossbar. One end drawing neatly through the air in a half circle as he slid to the side, turned, and heaved it into the door's iron fittings. The heavy, echoing, clang marking the end of the production.
Her advisors now stood around the table, Leliana at its head, and Bull with his back to the door. Arms crossed and chin high. All looking at her.
Not a dance, she thought then, an ambush.
"What's going on?" she demanded. "What's—?"
"It's for your protection," Cullen provided. The words were steady but when she looked to him for more he wouldn't meet her eye. Shifting his weight uncomfortably as he rifled through the papers on the table.
There was a map laid there, though not a version she'd seen before. Roughly drawn with pins on locations she didn't immediately recognize, save for one: Mythal's temple in the Arbor Wilds. Next to that lay a pile of rolled scrolls — messages — and a book of Elvish translations with paper flags between the pages.
Leliana coughed for attention. "Your children have temporarily been moved outside of Skyhold," she explained.
"What?! Why?"
But she didn't answer the question. Instead, she side-stepped it. "They are not far. Safe, in good hands with both nursemaid and guards. You'll see them shortly. We felt it better not to have you all in one location while the operation is underway."
Ellana touched her fingers to her breast, where her heart thundered. Whether from fear or anger or some primal need to tear her way through the walls. She could scarcely form the words, "What operation?"
They all exchanged a look. She could read the tension in their faces: caution, interest… and something else not quite so clear. No one volunteered an answer, and so the silence went unbroken until Josephine wavered. Her lips parted for but a second before she stopped — reconsidered — and pressed them into a hard line.
"All in time," she said, after a time. And with her eyes turned away.
She glanced over her shoulder, to Bull. A question in her eyes. He was the first to meet her without faltering. Holding her gaze over a long, deep, breath — his great chest rising and falling with deliberate slowness; an example to follow. To calm her wild heart, or simply to lend strength to the answer he gave.
There was a terrible finality in the words. So softly-spoken. "Sorry, boss."
Regret, she realised. What she saw in their faces. Remorse. Pity. Regret.
The pieces fell into place: guards, separation, secrets, questions, an empty desk, and their eyes turned away.
Solas.
Dread rolled through her like a wave, stealing the breath from her lungs. She was shaking her head. Fingers on her lips. No, no, no — she nearly cried it aloud — I'm not ready. Not yet.
There was a shudder, a gasp, and the feeling of a great weight dropped into her arms. It might've cut her to her knees if she hadn't the wherewithal to first stumble to a chair and drop herself into it. Seated crooked with her arms across her middle, holding herself for comfort.
She sat alone in the tumult beneath the heavy silence, staring into the middle distance and feeling further from them all — from who she was, as the Herald — than she ever had been.
She'd thought she'd be braver.
Angrier. Sadder. Relieved or enraged. Anything other than the clawing, crushing, sensation in her chest. A heart torn open by the knowledge that she'd already kissed him for the last time.
When Leliana spoke again she'd dropped all pretence of secrecy. Ellana knew what was happening — they didn't need to pretend anymore.
"Solas has been passing information to an unknown organisation, for an unknown reason — evidently since he first arrived. It appears this was his motive for joining initially, regardless of how events played out. Whoever he serves has considerable power at their disposal, and he, some influence on its use. My agents will apprehend him, and bring him for questioning. It's happening as we speak.
"He will not be harmed, unless he gives reason, and should he come willingly we will do our best to treat him with respect and the situation with discretion." There was a pause. A shift of weight. "There is some disagreement on how to approach the matter of your involvement; the extent of what you knew, when you knew it, and why you did not come forward with the information."
"We understand the situation is… delicate," Josephine added gently. Always the diplomat, such care taken to smooth out the sharpest edges. "What you can provide now, within your ability to do, will greatly help the proceedings. Your safety, and the safety of your children, is our top priority. If there is any risk of reprisal from this group or its agents we have a plan already in place to protect you."
Cullen said, "The only people currently aware of the situation are here, in this room. With the exception of Lady Morrigan, who is assisting with translations. There is no reason for us to assume the worst — Solas has never given any indication he would risk harm coming to any of you. In fact we have evidence he may have influenced the group to protect you. That said, we cannot assume the same of anyone else involved, and so this—" He nodded to the door. To Bull, guarding it — and the two on the other side. "—is out of an abundance of caution."
Ellana glanced at the candles on the table. Freshly placed each morning and already burnt halfway down. They'd been here for hours. "Can I know where they are?"
"It is safer that you don't."
Ellana let her eyes fall to the floor. Managing a quiet, "I understand."
They all exchanged another look, Cullen and Josephine somewhat warily, before Leliana called their attention back to the map with a sharp gesture — "You were saying, Commander?" — and they fell back into the conversation they'd been having before she walked in.
As though nothing had happened.
As though the world had not come off its axis.
This was already over. They just didn't know it yet. She didn't have the strength to say it aloud, and so let herself drift into the fog.
No attempt was made to hide the discussion from her, but neither did they ask her to join it. Whether for respect or caution, she was grateful regardless. There was nothing meaningful she could add in this state. She sat with her chest carved out and a whine in her ears, neither listening nor actively trying to ignore them. She caught only pieces of the conversation, words that floated by between skipped heartbeats.
The investigation had been going on months, she learned, if not longer. Leliana had grown suspicious enough to start looking into Solas' past even before she'd had the twins. The others joined later, and a plan was made to try and catch as many as they could in the same net. They knew others were involved, though 'who' and 'how many' had yet to be determined — he'd been so very careful.
There was no singular event she could point to as the one that showed his hand, and he'd given no indication that he suspected she was catching on, so she was forced to conclude that Leliana actually managed to deceive him. For a time, at least.
She was proud of her for that… though it felt strange to admit in the moment.
They talked about the map. About locations he'd been interested in or preoccupied by. Possible contacts. They compared the histories of suspected agents to see if any converged. There were questions about motive, method, and the meaning of a handful of coded messages Leliana managed to intercept. Mostly, they discussed how to leverage it once Solas was brought into custody.
The issue was complicated by a set precedent: spies from other networks had been knowingly recruited to the Inquisition. For the purpose of sharing knowledge. Bull, most notably, but Varric and Sera to a lesser extent. Solas' duplicity was only an issue because he'd not come to Leliana immediately to request the same offer, which implied he worked against them — though that point was still under debate. Josephine believed it was his nature to be wary, given all he'd said of organisations and corruption. She argued his behaviour was not necessarily indicative of false loyalty, merely self-preservation. Leliana did not agree. Cullen was undecided, but it seemed to her he favoured Josephine's side.
Regardless, they'd come to an agreement to propose a similar arrangement to him. Freedom from the charge of treason under the condition of total, ongoing, transparency — or being turned as a double-agent. He'd spend time under questioning, given the chance to explain what he'd been reporting on and why, to identify any others, then be offered supervised release without formal trial. Knowledge of the deal wouldn't leave the room, and so all parties could carry on as they had before without putting anyone in danger.
It was an extremely generous offer. Better than anyone else would get. They'd joked before that the impunity offered by her bed made their courting inevitable; that if he was ever backed into a corner a position beneath her would save him. But now, she could only laugh at the idea — darkly, and out loud — how sure she'd been.
The proposal might've worked if he wasn't too arrogant to consider any deal a worthy trade.
And if he wasn't already long gone.
For so long she'd felt this day coming. Not just the end of them, but of all they'd made together. The time spent peacefully abed, wrapped up where the world couldn't reach them, holding hands over the expanse of life they'd created. The place she'd listened, forgiven, and protected him — and he'd loved her unconditionally. Gone, now; not stolen, but betrayed. As if it never existed at all.
Somehow she'd expected it to go differently. Bigger. With swords and tears and waving flags. Like Corypheus' army marching over the mountain path to lay waste to Haven. It felt strangely unsatisfying for it to be such a quiet, private, affair. But she understood why that was. Why he'd never told her everything, even when she'd fought so bitterly for every truth. Anger would tell her it was out of need to protect himself; if no one knew it all he could not possibly be compromised, and surely that played a part… but she knew, deep down, it was more than just selfish self-preservation.
It was for this.
This moment. This room, locked and barred, with her advisors poring over scraps of paper and Morrigan off translating the old codes best she could. It was so that if — when — the day came that she was called to answer for his lies, she would have little to give. He had cast her not as accomplice, but as a victim. In this version they would forgive her the sin of a tender heart, and make him the villain for breaking it.
It was a role he'd played so long he'd forgotten how to be anything else.
An hour passed, maybe more. Time she spent in quiet contemplation.
She thought of her children, and how she'd tell them of their father if he became an enemy of the Inquisition in its final years.
She thought of the Inquisition, and if it could survive that time with a wound so grievous as its leader bedding a traitor and still manage to finish all the work she'd yet to do.
She thought of how she had nowhere left to go when it was over.
When the last monsters were slain and all the politics tabled, the Inquisition would disband and she'd be left without an 'after'... just as he'd said the night he tried to convince her to leave.
It was infuriating how often he was right.
Perhaps she'd find an apartment in Val Royeaux after all — if only for spite.
A knock on the door drew her back to the present, and a hush fell upon the room as Bull turned and opened the viewing window. His bulk blocking the view of the person on the other side. Whoever it was spoke quietly, exchanging just a few words with him before he slid the cover back into place and gave a look to Leliana. When their eyes met he slowly shook his head.
"Damn," she swore. Sharp enough that Cullen actually jumped. She pushed a clenched fist against the table, digging her knuckles into the wood so hard they blanched white. Then she turned on her heel and took a single step, stopped, sighed, and pinched the bridge of her nose.
It was a rare, brazen show of frustration for her. Ellana had only seen its like a few times in all the years she'd known her. This had become personal.
To Bull she said, "The form you mentioned — the one you saw when he met with you on the road — could it have been used to escape Skyhold undetected?"
"Unlikely," he replied. "It's not subtle. Big, fast, scary-looking, but not as strong as you'd think. I only hit him once and it ended up a pretty serious wound. It wouldn't hold against multiple attackers. Aside, the whole experience seemed to exhaust him."
"Do you believe that was genuine?"
"It was nearly a day before he was steady on his feet again. Hard to fake that convincingly, and in that situation there was nothing to gain by playing it up. He took a pretty big risk travelling that way, one that far outweighed the benefit. It wasn't a tactical decision. I think the reason we hadn't seen it before was the one he gave: it's difficult to do."
"What about something smaller?" Cullen asked. The question was not directed to Ellana, though his eyes still found hers, if only briefly. A first, tentative, invitation.
She decided to take it. "I don't know that he can do anything else. I've seen the form Bull is speaking of, but only once, and for just a moment. He's right, he—" The words caught in her throat and she looked at him, wary, but saw no judgement for the secrets she'd kept. "—he can't use it frivolously. No one can. Shapeshifting is a rare and difficult skill to master, at least from what I understand."
She'd made herself a part of the discussion now, and Leliana pulled no punches. She was quick to jump on the opportunity to press her. "He appears to have left Skyhold, though we cannot identify how or when. In fact, no one can recall seeing him today. You may be the last person to have eyes on him, assuming he was with you this morning. Do you know where he's gone?"
Ellana shook her head. "No."
"Do you know when he'll try to return?"
"He won't."
Cullen made a strange face. A nebulous mix of surprise, incredulity, and disgust. "Surely that's not—" he started.
But Leliana cut him off with a raised hand. "How can you be sure?"
All eyes turned to her. Cullen, Josephine, The Iron Bull, Leliana… she struggled not to shrink under the scrutiny. The weight of expectation. This answer would be the first of many. A single pebble before an avalanche. Betrayal turned earth into deluge, laying low all she'd built of this new life. She stood on the edge of that precipice — looking down into the valley below and wondering if she would survive the fall. Or everything that comes after.
The judgement, embarrassment, loneliness… her life changed, inexorably, and rebuilt again. She was all the way back at the beginning, only this time without his heart to grant her strength.
She thought of the cave, where she birthed. Naked, on her hands and knees, covered in blood and sweat. How she'd cried and fought. How afraid she'd been listening to the sound of her own screams.
She remembered the hands on her shoulders. Smeared kohl and tear tracks through the dirt. 'You are already strong'.
She took a breath. "Because… I told him that if he ever left, he can't come back."
It was terrifying. And somewhat relieving. No longer just a fear lurking in the dark — the shadow of a distant storm — by speaking it aloud she'd made it true. There'd never been a hope of stopping it. She knew him too well to think otherwise.
Now they'd know him, too.
"Also, one of the twins has been crying this entire time," Bull added, as an afterthought. Or to break the tension. "Ten sovereigns says it's Grumpy."
"She has a name, Bull," Ellana chided, gently.
"Yeah," he agreed earnestly, "and it's Grumpy."
It made her smile, just a little.
