The days after were not so different from the ones before, but for their emptiness. The troubled sleep and broken habits.
Anger, shame, and embarrassment weighed heavily on her. She felt it each time she passed through the rotunda. Rushing along with her head down, trying not to look at the walls long enough to recall him standing there with his sleeves rolled up. The way he'd turn and smile.
The unfinished mural felt too apt.
She ordered it covered up.
She did her best not to cry, or yearn, or ache. Most days she could make it through, but the nights were harder. Their bed had been a sacred place — there, she was unguarded. The grief felt sharper. And in her dreams she'd forget. Waking to her children's cries, she'd blindly reach for him in the dark, the request already half-way out of her mouth — "Can you—?" — before she'd stop. Remember. And feel her heart break all over again.
They missed him, too. His voice, his touch, the rhythm of his gait, and the weight of his steps when he walked the balcony. The way he rubbed their backs with his lips at their ears, singing soft, old lullabies she'd never learned the words to.
They grew so quickly at this stage — there was so much he would not see. She was angry for that. They were proper little children now, with personalities, predilections and desires. Things they loved and things they hated. High, squealing, laughter that was as infectious as beautiful.
And they looked so much like him.
Sometimes, if they held their head just so, any friend with her would look unsettled. They'd fall quiet, frown, and turn their eyes away. It made her think about what he'd said — the worry that if his enemies learned of their connection they'd use it against him — and she wondered if it were possible to know at a glance. The resemblance was uncanny.
Everyone in her inner circle was told what happened. His involvement in another network, how he was discovered, the plan to confront him, and how he'd fled before facing judgement. Some seemed unsurprised. Others, devastated. They were betrayed: as friends, as an organisation, and on behalf of Ellana herself.
She hated the pity the most when it mixed with hurt — they all learned she'd lied for him, too.
Bit by bit word of his disappearance spread through the fortress. They did their best to curb the gossip, but talk was inevitable. There emerged several popular theories on what happened: he'd fled persecution as an apostate, he was possessed and then executed while on a mission, or he was unceremoniously fired after picking a fight with the Inquisitor that got on her last remaining nerve. The latter even came with witness accounts.
Ellana's grim favourite was the one that posited he'd shown interest in starting an affair with her, but left before it began. Not long after the destruction of her clan. She'd adopted two infant survivors, so it was said, being a foundling herself she had a soft heart for lost children. And he, no desire to take on a domestic role.
It hit all the right notes: scandal, lust, betrayal, honour. The noble Inquisitor, selfless saviour of the damned, denier of the wolfish advances of lesser men.
In the end that was the one they encouraged. It spread like wildfire.
His desk was searched, taken apart, and then removed entirely. The same for his room. Right down to every loose brick and crack in the mortar. Nothing was found, but for a few trinkets seemingly rescued from the tower fire and not returned to her.
No sense was ever made of the messages. If there were a way to crack the cipher, it was either destroyed or taken when he left.
Half a dozen others left Skyhold after him. Elves slipping out under cover of night. Not one had been under suspicion. Most worked — posed — as castle staff. Day labourers and messengers. Leliana soon learned of similar reports coming in from all over Thedas; Elves both Dalish and city disappearing into forests, leaving their friends and family behind. Though the latter was rare: very few had made permanent connections. Solas was an outlier.
They found very little of his activities thereafter, just whispers. Unconfirmed rumour and wild speculation. There were a few scattered sightings, but each time an investigation was launched it found nothing but dead ends. They were always two steps ahead. No lead was ever confirmed.
He was just gone.
All the while Ellana's inner circle grew smaller and smaller. Dorian left first. Then Varric, to Kirkwall. Bull and the Chargers went next, leaving strict instructions to hire them again whenever she needed. Blackwall — Rainier — devoted himself to earning the forgiveness she'd offered him. Vivenne returned to Orlais, at work on making a case for rebuilding the Circles. Sera went away for months at a time, on missions for the Jennies and much-needed personal time. She came back less and less frequently. Cole was rarely seen at all. Cassandra stayed the longest — though it took her time to forgive.
She did not hear from him again, not even in the Fade, though she was sure she felt him there. Just once or twice. Hiding in the periphery of a dream as silent witness, gone before she could call to him. She was never sure if it was real, if he'd truly found a way in or if it was just her longing that created him. Some terrible, lingering, need she could never quite manage to snuff out. Like the magic in her veins that never grew into something more, and never faded away, she was doomed to carry this until she died. Sooner, perhaps, than she'd planned to: the mark was still degrading.
They said she didn't need him: not for the mark, not for her children, not for advice, not for anything. She was strong, and beloved, and had friends by her side to hold her up when she couldn't find her feet. And it was true… but they were all spread across Thedas now, while she laid alone in a cavernous room, in a bed that had always been too small for four and yet somehow too large for three.
She started drinking tea before bed each night. A mix of herbs to stop her dreaming. Even if it was just her imagination, she couldn't bear to keep enduring it. It was the only way she knew how to move on.
By a year gone, Skyhold felt as cavernous as the day they found her. Far too much for the little that was left. The bustle of activity was down to a low hum. Even the grass on the training yard had begun to grow back. She stopped wearing hard-soled shoes so that the click of their heels would not echo in the halls, reminding her of all the people missing from them.
Ellana hated the quiet.
A plan for relocation had begun. There'd been talk of handing the fortress over to caretakers while the issue of whose border it sat upon was resolved. In the meantime, what remained of the Inquisition's people would be hosted by the Empress Celene, at the Winter Palace. Their possession of Skyhold was temporarily put on hold to satisfy those who claimed the Herald was a usurper. Those months leading up to the move were spent clearing the castle of all that belonged to her last keepers, just in case they were forced to surrender her to another.
It was a slow, gradual process — but one she'd handled well, by all accounts. She hadn't thought about him in weeks.
Not meaningfully.
Not mournfully.
She was too busy to find the time (and made sure of it). There was packing and organising and meetings and plans and questions about the future of the Inquisition… But there were also moments of melancholy that caught her unexpectedly. So much had happened in this place; so many memories attached to what they'd leave behind. She could not pretend she wouldn't miss it, and so tried to make peace with that. Take time to acknowledge the things that held a special place in her heart.
On one such afternoon, when the twins were happily playing on the bed and she could spare a moment for reflection, she sat down at the desk in her room. The one covered in scratches, stains, and scars from the fire. It had survived the blaze — barely — she'd pushed back on every attempt to remove or replace it. For so long it had been a symbol of decadence; a pointless show of wealth and status. She didn't understand it. Didn't deserve it. And it was a constant source of anxiety over her inability to properly care for it.
She loved it now — better, for its flaws. It had become a symbol of her growth into the role, and her acceptance of herself.
Better, for her flaws.
Presently, she ran a hand along its surface. Fingers catching in the trenches carved by fire. The raw edges where the lacquer chipped or burned away. If the light hit just right she could see the lines left by hours of furious calligraphy practice. Letters she'd written over and over again until she tore right through the parchment.
Carefully and quietly she began to empty the drawers. One by one, taking care not to draw the attention of toddlers who'd love nothing more than to throw the contents off the balcony. It was long cleared of any important work, she could not risk bringing it into the tower anymore, and so inside were just a few rolled up sketches, some dried herbs, a pair of gloves, a broken toy she'd meant to fix, a journal entry or two…
And a silver key in the long top drawer.
That gave her pause.
Her hand stilled in the air above it, breath held, as she slowly turned and glanced over her shoulder. The twins were still absorbed in play. Tangled up in the bedsheets taking turns gleefully scaring each other. They'd yet to notice she was doing something interesting.
She turned back, considering.
Then grabbed it.
She didn't know what possessed her to do it. Some ridiculous, melancholic, notion to ponder how different her life would've been if she'd taken another path. If it hadn't happened this way. She wanted to look at the thing that almost granted her that, hold it in her hands and feel the weight of a choice she didn't take — and was glad for. After all the fear and anguish, the terror of being so woefully unprepared, she was happy for the family she'd created.
Even as only three.
But when she unlocked the drawer and pulled it open she didn't find the vial hidden there so long ago… but a scroll. Small, tightly-sealed, and no thicker than a quill — like the messages carried by raven.
She frowned, sweeping a hand through the space around it, all the way to the back, but there was nothing else.
Somehow it was already in her hands before she'd even had the thought to pick it up. Turning it in her fingers, looking for the edge. There was a prickle on the back of her neck as she slipped a nail beneath, breaking the wax seal. A painful twist in her stomach when she pulled it open. Then a high, muffled, whine in her ears as her eyes fell upon the curls of a familiar hand.
How many hours had she spent sitting at this very desk studying his cursive? Burning every loop and flourish into her memory? Practising a hundred hundred times until she got it right. She recognized it in an instant.
Her eyes flit across the parchment, back and forth, reading it over and over again. Even whispering the words aloud trying to make sense of what they meant. She didn't understand. There were four, equally spaced to imply each was its own message, all written in the Common tongue.
Denerim. Lanes. Green. Teo.
She flipped it over, hoping to find an answer on the other side, but it was blank. She double-checked the drawer. This time running her fingers along the sides and top, pressing into each corner, searching for hidden nooks or loose panels. Nothing. Doubt began to creep in. Perhaps she was overthinking this.
It's just a slip of paper—
It could've slipped through a crack in a higher drawer. Been swept haphazardly off the top of the desk and fallen in by mistake. It might have escaped the midwife's bag an age ago and she'd only just noticed it now. Or it was placed there well before she'd ever thrown the vial in with it. It could've been there for years. It could've been torn off of a larger message, and was never meant for her at all.
— right?
But that wasn't the case.
She knew that wasn't the case.
This was left with intent, in a place only she would think to look, with a history that ensured she'd be alone when she did so. This was left for her. A message, and one meant to be private. To be important.
Behind her, one of the twins suddenly squealed with delight. Then both began to laugh.
"It's an address," said a voice.
She whirled around to find Cole sitting on the bed with them. Cross-legged on the duvet, one hand held out to allow them the chance to grab and clap at it. A toddler's happy greeting.
The relief, the joy, of seeing him there was so visceral it all but burst from her — "Cole!" — and then she was up on her feet. Ready to throw her arms around him as tight as she was able.
Nearly did, but stopped herself just before she reached the bed.
"It's alright," he said gently, "It will make you feel better."
This time she did not hesitate. Climbing right up onto the bed to pull him into a firm embrace. She'd not seen him in months. As the time between his visits grew longer, she'd begun to worry that the day would soon come that he'd stop entirely, and she'd have missed the chance to say a last goodbye.
Cole did not return the affection, but neither did he seem bothered by it. Regardless, she did not linger, and took a seat next to him. "I'm very happy to see you."
"Yes," he agreed. The twins tugged curiously at his clothes and hat, and he leaned to one side to allow it. He'd never liked to be pawed at, not even by those he trusted, but it seemed an exception was made for children. "It comes off!" he informed them earnestly. "I didn't know either."
Ellana smiled. Then, belatedly, snapped to attention. She'd been so pleased by his entrance she'd almost forgotten what drew him in the first place. "Wait, this is an address? To where?"
"A house in Denerim. In the alienage."
She blinked. "Wasn't that destroyed during the Blight? I thought everyone left…"
"Not all of it," he replied. "Some came back. They had nowhere else to go."
For a moment he seemed to drift, eyes unfocused. Then spoke in an accent she'd not heard in a year's time. "I am sorry, Cole, but with your gift I fear that you might see the path I now must walk in solitude. Though you reach out in compassion, I must insist that you forget." He looked up at her from beneath a veil of blonde hair. The hat sacrificed to sticky fingers. "He hides his steps. I don't know what it's for. Only that it's for you."
Ellana glanced at the message. Ran a thumb over the script. "It's not… him," she said haltingly. To herself, more than Cole. She'd told him never to come back. If he had any intent to challenge that — to call her bluff, if it was one — this wasn't the way he'd do it.
The spirit frowned, and, "No," he agreed. "It's not him, but he wanted you to have it. It's a place. And a thing. But also a person. All at once. You lost it, but you don't remember. Verdigris and pollen make the pigment. Green, like the water in the harbour. When it soaks into the wood he remembers. ¡Hermano, mira los barcos! It was their favourite colour."
Something itched in the back of her mind. A sense of deja vu she couldn't quite grasp. Every attempt only pushed it further away. When she looked down at her hands, for a second they were small and stained, and she could smell a forest full of ferns that made her nose twitch.
Then it was gone.
She shook her head. "'Mira los'...? That's Antivan. Cole I—I don't understand, I don't know anyone from Antiva. I don't know anyone from Denerim."
"No," Cole said again. "But he knows you."
