She felt as though she were an empty glass set upon a table's edge.

An object without breath, thought, or substance. Hollow, and delicate.

Standing on a dangerous precipice before a great height, looking out across infinity with only the pull of the void beneath her. So carefully balanced that even the smallest touch could push her from the brink, and she'd fall. Shatter into too many pieces for there to be any hope of being remade. Somehow cracked already, just for the threat of it.

All of existence seemed to have retreated into a sphere around her, and she alone within it, floating in a quiet limbo. Outside, no time passed. Within, no thoughts formed. No voices spoke. There was no sound but for the ringing in her ears. No sensation beyond the gentle sway of her body in whatever space it occupied. No sight beyond a vision of pure, brilliant white. The scene unbroken but for the occasional appearance of a ruddy shape at the bottom of her periphery. Darting in and out of the scene in a steady rhythm.

It took some time to understand that what she saw were her own steps as she walked a snow-covered path.

She was… walking. That much was clear. To Skyhold. There were others. Beyond that the details became fuzzy. And the more she tried to reach for them, the more unfocused the whole picture became. It took considerable effort to find a single thread of memory and use it as a tether to try and pull herself out of the state she'd fallen into.

Somehow her feet had carried her out of the glen, though she couldn't be certain how long ago that was. The last thing she could clearly recall was stumbling out of the bush — awash in a mix of embarrassment, confusion, and blind panic — leaving both Dorian and Solas behind.

Dorian — looking near as blindsided as she felt — couldn't manage to do more than watch helplessly as she fled. Pressing his fingers to his lips when Solas looked to him for an answer, as if the act might offer him extra assurance this new secret would keep.

Solas she left standing with his hands full of elfroot in a misguided attempt to soothe her stomach.

The plant had made it into her grasp somehow. Held white-knuckle tight as though it were her only connection to the material plane. A few toothmarks marred one side of the stalk, and all but two leaves were torn off. Though she had no memory of receiving nor eating the herb — and the nausea was no better for it — its earthy flavour lingered on her tongue, so she must have done so at some point. Maybe an hour ago or more, judging by the fact that what remained of the stem had begun to freeze from exposure.

It rolled against her palm as she uncurled her fingers. Slipped from her hand, floated away, and disappeared beneath her feet. Ground into the edge of a broken, stone stair jutting from the snow.

A dozen more upward steps followed that one before the terrain evened out again. As she climbed, her thighs burned from the effort; evidence that she'd been ascending for some time already.

She drew in a deep breath of mountain air, and the cold steeled her; drove her forward even in absence of a destination. She felt lost, but with her eyes closed she could find an anchor in an old memory. A younger elf, perched high in a tree with a bow on her back and a rope tied with fresh rabbits to be cooked for dinner. Taking a moment to watch the forest become heavy with snow before returning home to her clan.

That life seemed so far away now; like a dream she'd once had.

For the first time in many months, homesickness weighed upon her heart. Lonely for the quiet. For the forest. For bathing in rivers while clan-sisters picked burrs out of her hair, and laughed. Wearing a crown of braids wound by fast fingers, and rough leather armour fit for speed and stealth rather than fighting demons. The slow life of the Dalish gifted her with both peace and boredom; her people so rarely interfered with politics and war.

How different life would've been — how different she would've been — had someone else been sent along instead…

But they weren't.

And now, she was here, in this moment.

That was enough to help her find her bearings: slowly, her senses began to return, and the surroundings take shape. Both behind and ahead of her were the crunch of footsteps on old snow. One set of heavy footfalls and two light in addition to her own.

The rhythmic sound of many hooves accompanied them. That one was easier: their horses and harts being led by the reigns rather than ridden.

An icy wind blew in from the West, licking a burning frost upon her cheeks and ungloved fingers. The tips of her ears hurt from the chill, and her lips were dry and chapped.

The Endless Stairs, as Varric often called them; they had to be at least half-way up the final climb for it to be this cold, and the air this thin. It meant the party was less than an hour from arriving at Skyhold, and that she seemed to have lost the memory the ones that had passed between now and when Dorian took her by the shoulders in the clearing.

And then…

The mage was maybe 30 paces up the road, seated sideways on the pack mount. Riding bareback with his legs dangling off one side. He traded snipes with Cassandra between sips from a silver canteen. Pieces of their conversation floated back to her: they were arguing about whether or not he had right to use the last of the drinking water to wash the sick off his shoes. Clearly they'd come to some arrangement, as his feet were currently wrapped with thick strips of linen bandages to protect them from exposure. Bull had taken up the rear of the convoy, carrying the extra bags that were normally tied to the horse. Solas was just ahead of her.

Cassandra held the reigns of two horses in one hand and had, rather unhelpfully, suggested Dorian pack a spare set of boots in the future.

"Perhaps one less dizzying."

But when the joke failed to draw more than a timid frown, she cowed, and the two settled into an awkward silence.

If Ellana harboured any guilt for causing his circumstance, she could not muster the wherewithal to tend to it. The urge to flee screaming was overwhelming. Tempered only by the fear that any action she took might draw Solas' attention. Something she wished to avoid, lest he look in her direction and somehow divine the path of her thoughts. Not that there was not much substance to them, at present. Her mind was a jumbled, uncomfortable mix of too much and too little all at once. A dull roar she could barely hear over the thundering of her own pulse.

Over and over again she counted: days, weeks, months, meetings, journeys, nights spent in his embrace — trying to find the fault in her math. The miscalculation she'd made that could explain this away. Trade one mistake for another. It was in there somewhere, it had to be. Some forgotten week of bleeding that she'd somehow failed to notice. Twice.

That had happened before… right?

It had been busy — so terribly busy — and she'd been consumed by the schedule Josephine had written. Exhausted, really. It was plausible that a moon blood could pass by without her thinking too much on it. Maybe she'd skipped it. Or the stress of travel delayed it. Maybe it was so light that she'd not bothered to pull out her cloths. Or perhaps she'd bought some extras at one of the markets in Val Royeaux and her use of them simply slipped her mind.

But then she'd be missing the gold.

So she counted the weight of her coin purse.

When she gripped it a high, quiet sound slipped past her lips. Not quite something that could be called a laugh: a little too hysterical for that. After, came the first clear thought she'd had since this began: you're an idiot.

This was a pathetic attempt at self-delusion. Even in this state, willful denial could only carry her so far. The truth — her circumstance — was plain as day. And had she bothered to think on any of her symptoms for but a moment she'd have realized it weeks ago.

For nearly a month now she'd not slept on her stomach due to how tender her breasts had become… and ignored it. Even when she began to have trouble tying the laces on her corset. Noticed how the friction-marks from the grommets had moved with the sudden growth. Yet she did not spare a second to even come up with an explanation. Weight-gain, bloat, heavy meals or odd cycles.

Just ignored it.

The fatigue and nausea she'd blamed on Mireflu, even though such an excuse would never hold under scrutiny. The malaise had begun well before they'd reached the area. Additionally, she'd been quick to anger lately, to the point where even Bull pointed out she was a, "little ball of fury". Made an ill-advised joke about her odd sleeping habits; something about needing an extra nap. The comment almost earned him a smalll rock to the back of the head, but she stopped herself. If only to ensure she did not prove his point.

And then there were the dreams. They'd been so strange recently. Vivid, sprawling settings filled with colour and intensity that left her feeling a little off-kilter when she woke. The clan midwife always said that came first. Big dreams heralded little passengers. All together it painted a damning picture. The two bloodless moons were just the nail in the coffin.

She could be...

Was...

The word wouldn't come. It wouldn't even form at the edges her mind. And any attempt to find it made her tongue feel thick and heavy, though she'd not tried to speak. The entire idea was so unbelievable that it would be easier to convince herself it didn't exist at all rather than to try and apply it to her future. To her present.

Still, it was persistent. Flitting around the periphery of her consciousness to tease her. Taunt her. Both elusive, and insistent. Willing her to reach out and grasp it. To hold it close to her heart, then sit down to think it through. Allow herself to fully understand the implications. The permanence, and the change it represented. Not just for her, but for the Inquisition as a whole and her ability to continue leading it.

To plan, to fight, to put herself on the front lines — at risk — the way she had in the past. If she thought they fought now about her penchant for running recklessly into battle…

This would change it all. Change Solas.

You change everything.

And then she was reeling all over again.

Everyone was depending on her; looking to her as a leader, a fighter, and authority on this conflict. A religious figure — touched by the hand of fate and ready to lay herself down for the cause of what was good and righteous. A wayward elf brought into the fold of Andraste's most devoted, now positively brimming with godly virtue.

Believers painted her image on canvases and walls and held her up as a holy thing. Some fine example of the Maker's will working through his children. And it was their faith in that lie that kept many of her human followers from spitting as she passed. Their prejudice barely quelled by the power she wielded in the palm of her hand. A knife ear sitting on a shem throne leading a shem organization filled with even more shems all looking to her for guidance.

And there she would sit before them, by the grace of a precarious balance of faith and circumstance, having worked so hard to shed the cloak heavy with their low expectations… only to have them all watch her belly grow tight and swollen with the bastard child of her secret lover. Not only an elf, but by all appearances an apostate. She'd become the very thing she'd spent so long trying to prove she wasn't.

What a joke I will be.

The dread settled like a stone in the pit of her stomach. Cold and heavy.

Gods, how the fuck am I to deal with this?

A desperate thought occurred to her then: she could hide it. Drown herself in a wardrobe of ill-fitting clothes and make excuses not to travel as she grew. Then, when the babe came, she could pretend it was a foundling she'd taken a shine to. Josephine would be able to help her craft a convincing lie. Maybe Leliana, too. They were great at that sort of thing. No one would ever have to know. After all, she was a foundling herself — the fact was hardly a secret — it wasn't so far-fetched that she would show compassion for another in the same situation.

But… where would she even get a foundling inside a military fortress?

It wasn't as though little elf-eared babes grew in the garden plots each spring. Additionally, there would be no witnesses to corroborate the story. And she'd be feeding the 'orphan' at her breast.

And she'd have to tell Josephine and Leliana the truth in order to pull off the ruse.

The thought sent a fresh wave of panic through her. Of course she'd have to tell them the truth. She'd have to tell all of them the truth! She'd have to call an official meeting and everything. Stand at the war table before her advisors and let them all know that the trusted leader of their politico-military organization and pseudo-religious icon had found herself in a situation reserved for hormone-addled youths that were too lost in the throes of passion to have enough foresight to be careful.

So much for shouldering the responsibility of the Inquisition, apparently she couldn't even handle the most basic precautions when having sex.

It made for a humiliating scene, in her mind. The wave of surprise, then disappointment and anger that would surely come from the three of them. It would sting. Not just from the shame of having her personal life laid out for all to see, but for the fact that she should know better.

Precaution was a hard lesson taught to her by harder hands at the age of 15, when her Keeper found her behind an old, broken aravel outside of camp. Wrapped around a doe-eyed boy a season older. Her hair a mess and skirt hitched up to her waist. She'd fawned over him for months. So much so, that the triumph of successfully wooing him had brought far her more satisfaction than the resulting encounter had.

She'd shouted every curse she knew as she was dragged away by the ear. Vile, forbidden words she'd never dared to speak aloud before. Keeper's stone-faced silence spoke to her fury; she didn't even try to lecture her. Ellana struggled and screamed against the grip until she'd managed to twist just far enough to land a blow on the old woman's wrist, causing her to let go.

This final act of rebellion was the breaking point, and earned her a strike across the cheek with an open palm. But it was the warning Deshanna imparted upon her following it that left the worse sting.

"You're a stupid girl," the woman snapped. There was no love in her eyes when she turned them upon her delinquent ward. Teeth bared and nails digging into the meat of Ellana's arm. She spit upon her bared feet, then shot a hand beneath her rumpled skirt, between her thighs. And with her suspicion confirmed, held up two fingers of damning evidence before the teen's ruddied face.

"You're bound to end up in more trouble than you know. It's a hard life for a bastard, let alone one cursed with a mamae who chases pleasures and pickpockets like an urchin."

As a final insult, she wiped her fingers across the neck of Ellana's clean blouse. The one she'd bought with stolen coin specifically for that evening, in the hope of seducing the boy — Jarrett. She glanced over her shoulder, toward the aravel she'd been dragged away from. Torn between the hope he'd rescue her from this, and the relief he'd not have to see it.

Surely he was long gone by then.

"Babes aren't made in the dirt beneath you — if nothing else, remember that!"

To stand before her advisers… she would become that young girl all over again. Red-faced and ashamed before a tide of Keeper's ire, with no excuse to offer for her carelessness. More than twice the years had passed since that first mistake, and yet somehow she was still making it.

Deshanna ought to have slapped her twice.

She was nineteen the first time she saw a friend succumb to the fate she'd been warned about. Head full of romantic stories and not enough sense, the elder women said. They offered the girl — Lael — their advice on everything from nursing to naming customs. Even gifted her bags of seeds to eat for richer milk. But whispered and gossiped when her back was turned. She stood as a warning to the others: don't be so foolish with your affections. Don't be rash. Don't be stupid. Don't be like her.

Lael never gave up the name of the father, and he may very well have never learned of the child's existence. She was scorned for her silence. Yet, when her middle began to swell she neither cried nor grieved. Nor was she ashamed. She did not hide herself the way Ellana had expected her to do. Instead, she smiled; said the Keeper was wrong.

"There are no mistakes, just surprises."

Ellana wasn't sure that perspective was any more or less true than that of the elders', but when Lael's son came she was truly overjoyed. He hung the moon and stars with his tiny, dimpled, fingers. Not a day went by that he didn't enamour all who knew him.

He was a few months shy of 11 when Ellana left for the conclave; helpful, smart, and beautiful like his mother. Handsome, maybe, like his father. Above all, deeply beloved.

Perhaps bearing witness to her friend's experience should have gifted her with the confidence to know that she too could make it through such an upheaval — but it didn't. Instead, the Keeper's words echoed through her mind all the months she watched Lael prepare for her life as a mother. The scorn of the elders, the shame of a mistake, the proof of her naiveté followed her like shadows… the challenge that met her would surely be ten times the weight to bear than if she'd waited.

The event left such an impact on her that she swore off men completely. And before Solas, she hadn't had a lover in years. Back then, she'd promised herself if she ever did decide to lay with a man again, she'd be careful. More careful than Lael was. More careful than they were. More careful than she had been as a wild and tender-hearted youth.

But she wasn't.

She wasn't, when Solas followed her into the tower room to continue an argument about travel arrangements. She wasn't, when his restraint shattered beneath her careful touch and he devoured her like a man starved. By the next morning the promise she'd made to herself so long ago had been broken no less than three times. And then she kept breaking it; forgot she'd ever made the promise at all. It was so easy, too easy, to simply be lost.

For a moment, she felt a kinship with Lael, and for what she'd endured so long ago.

But then the hard voice of her Keeper formed so clearly in her mind that she could swear the woman was standing behind her. Eyes narrowed, with her old fingers wrapped around the ball of a walking stick. Ready to warm her backside with it just like she'd done so many times before. It was a wonder trouble hadn't found her sooner.

Now look what you done, girl.

The anxiety that churned in her stomach suddenly spread upward. Crashed through her chest and up along her neck. Running deep into every vein and constricting around her throat until it stole her very breath.

She gasped. Swallowed. Choked. And the resulting spasm gave her just enough of a warning to take two shaky steps to the side before her knees gave out, and what little there was in her after the glen was emptied onto the side of the path.

Ice and snow tore at her palms when she caught herself upon the ground, though she had no thought to spare for the pain. The retching had her crippled, doubled over with such force that tears began to sting her eyes. There wasn't much left in her to lose at that point, having covered Dorian's feet with what she'd eaten at breakfast. Her nose and throat burned from bringing up bile.

In the moment, it felt endless. As if all her energy was being pulled violently from her body. Heaving hard enough to make her cough and gasp between each roll, all but sobbing as she struggled for breath amidst the lurches. Soon, well and truly crying. Heavy tears streaming over flushed cheeks, freezing on her neck and chin before they could hit the ground. Sweat beaded on her brow in spite of the chill. Her arms trembled with the effort of holding herself up, though she could not say if it was the weather, weakness, or emotional upheaval that was causing it.

When the episode finally subsided she was left a mess, wretched and raw on hands and knees. Head hung below her shoulders, and each new breath a shudder. Carefully, she shifted her weight to one hand to allow the other to push her hair back behind both ears. Managed a bitter laugh at the small mercy: at least she'd managed to avoid getting any sick in it.

She spit into the snow, then raised a trembling hand to wipe at her mouth — and her eyes — with a sleeve. At the very least she could hide the tears. This experience was more than enough to bear without adding the humiliation of being caught half-way to a breakdown on the icy steps outside of Skyhold.

"Damn, boss," remarked Iron Bull, and the sound startled her. His voice was gentle, though far nearer than she'd expected it to be. The comment made her suddenly and uncomfortably aware of the absolute silence that had fallen over the pass in the wake of her illness.

At some point during her ordeal Iron Bull had dropped the packs on the ground and come to kneel nearby; offer his support. He regarded her with a strange mix of disgust and admiration. It was a sweet gesture, though she had no strength to smile. Nor even to push herself back up off the ground. Her arms still shook, and her knees felt too weak to bear her weight. As a reply she simply shook her head, then turned away to spit again in the hope of relieving the acrid taste from her mouth.

Bull's hand hovered over her back for a moment, not quite touching her. Then he gave her a few tentative, comforting, pats. The act was surprisingly delicate for a man his size and a hands-breadth large enough to take up most of her upper body. He was so tender, when he meant to be.

Concerned, "Are you sure you can make it up the pass?" he asked. When she didn't answer immediately, he dropped in a joke to lighten the mood. "I could probably add you to the load. You can curl your knees up and I'll slip you into one of the bags on my back, like how the Tamasserans carry the babies."

But, oh… that isn't what I needed to hear at all, and the world began to spin again.

"No," Ellana managed, before it could get any worse. "No, just… I'm alright, really." When she tossed a glance over her shoulder to drive the point home, she realized everyone else in the party had stopped to stare. Wonderful. Had they all been standing there the entire time? Just watching this unfold?

Her eyes found Solas, standing a dozen steps beyond Iron Bull. Even at this distance she could see the way his brow lined. Heavy, the way he looked when he worried over something. Worried over her. For a moment their eyes met, and then fear got the better of her and she quickly cast her own to the ground. The evasion didn't quite have the effect she was hoping for, and instead of leaving her be, he approached. Reached into his bag to retrieve another stalk of elfroot.

"Here," he offered. "Chew this. It will help."

The idea of putting something in her mouth after all this made her want to gag, and had she the strength left she might have begun retching all over again. "No," she moaned, shaking her head. Repeating, "I'll be alright. I'm fine." If she said it enough times, maybe she'd start believing it.

A brow raised over Bull's lone eye. "All due respect boss, but you don't seem fine. I haven't seen anyone sick like that since Cutter challenged Krem to drink from one of my tankards. I think the guy lost half his body weight in puke."

That managed to get a laugh. A quiet, stuttering little sound, but a laugh nonetheless.

Ellana pushed herself off the ground and sat back on her knees. Hiding her eyes behind the heels of her palms until she managed to take enough steadying breaths that the threat of tears could pass. When she chanced a peek between her fingers, she saw that Bull had come around in front of her to offer his hand. With a weak smile, she slid her fingers into his palm and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. Wobbling a little; dizzy from exertion and lack of food.

The Qunari slid an arm around her shoulders for additional aid and together they walked back onto the path. His steps supporting her own until she'd taken enough to be confident she wouldn't stumble, and slipped out of his grasp.

She passed by Solas only the briefest glance in his direction. But it was enough to catch him watching her. Now beginning to look a little upset by her behavior. The continued denial was only alerting him that something was off. "Once we return to Skyhold," he began, "if you would permit me to—"

It was a ploy to get her alone with him, and she recognized it immediately.

"No!"

The protest came out with far more ferocity than she intended. Solas blinked, clearly taken aback. Beyond him Cassandra exchanged a wary glance with Dorian.

A slow, careful breath in. Calm. Then, "No," Ellana tried again, more softly. "That's not necessary Solas, thank you. I'm already starting to feel better; I just needed to get it out of my system."

The lie was weak, she knew, and he would argue with her if given the opportunity. So before he had the chance to try, she took off back up the stairs. Passing Dorian and Cassandra in silence, she pressed steadfastly forward.

No one followed immediately, allowing her to take the lead. Only after a painfully long moment did the rest of the party choose to shelf any lingering concern, and continue on behind her.

It won't be long, Ellana assured herself. Maybe an hour of travel at the most. More than anything, she needed to be alone with her thoughts.

"Your worship," greeted the gate captain. "It's good to see you. Welcome back." Ellana reached the entrance ahead of the party, and he gave her a respectful nod before signalling a guard to raise the portcullis. She did not wait, ducking low to slip inside before it was barely high enough for her to come through without crawling. Then all but ran into the yard. Behind her, the guards exchanged a look but said nothing.

"Inquisitor?" called Solas. She didn't have to turn around to know he had followed her under. "Inquisitor!"

Ignoring him was, perhaps, unkind — but all the alternatives seemed worse. Getting to the tower room was the first priority, and the main hall was within sight. Her pace quickened across the courtyard, carving an evasive path through the throng of friendly passers-by who had come to greet her. Merchants and soldiers made up a small crowd that was always ready to welcome the party home after a field mission. On any occasion, the attention made her uncomfortable. Today, it was virtually terrifying.

"How fares the roads, Inquisitor? I'll be travelling to Denerim soon."

"Did you visit Redcliffe? My sister is there."

"Glad to see you well after such a long journey!"

"I've received a new shipment of ore I was told you may want to look at."

"You look peaked, Herald — a hot meal would do you good."

One after another after another, until they'd managed to completely stop her in her tracks. Polite nods and a strained smile only dismissed a handful; most were too excited by the party's return to step back even after she'd tried to excuse herself several times. Eventually, resorting to a terse, "Thank you, but please—" as she pushed past. "I have to go."

A glance over one shoulder told her the rest of the party were in the process of handing off the mounts to a stableboy. Solas was quickly catching up.

I'm not running away, she lied, I just need time to think. I just need to be alone. Time to herself to figure out what the next step would be.

Solas.

Solas was the next step.

And his steps were right behind her as she fled.

He caught her just outside the entrance to the main hall, though it wasn't until he took hold of her elbow that she was finally stopped. "Inquisitor!" he pressed, pouring as much emphasis as he could onto the title. The plea within it was hard to miss, and it spoke to his rising level of concern. That, and it was rare he touched her in polite company. Let alone before a crowd, and with such familiarity. This was bending the rules, and she acutely aware of appearances in this moment. Already the shout had drawn a few eyes toward the pair.

The wide-eyed shock writ upon his face when she wrenched her arm from his grip was almost enough to break her resolve. Almost.

To his credit, he recovered quickly. Suitably chastened for the slip, and erected the calm and courteous facade he was so good at. "Given the events earlier I would think it prudent to let a healer see to you," he said carefully. "If you would consent to—"

"That's not necessary," she snapped. Had not meant to, but she suddenly found it very difficult to reign in the frustration. It occurred to her a second later that there may be a good reason why, and was immediately hit by another wave of anxious nausea.

It must have shown on her face. He frowned, and his voice softened. "I can fetch someone from the infirmary. Or perhaps Vivienne if you are not comfo—"

That would be much worse. "No," she cut in, backing up the stairs. "I'm fine, really Solas."

This time, she made it almost all the way to the door of her tower before he caught up with her. Pitched his voice lower for discretion's sake and urged, "Please, Inquisitor. This is not the time for modesty. You're suffering from dehydration and exhaustion at minimum."

Over his shoulder she watched as the rest of the party entered the hall and found a long dining table to sit down at, near the one Varric often occupied. He wasn't there now; a small mercy, lest she accumulate an even larger audience than was already present. There were few others in the hall, but the longer she lingered the more would come.

With a loud thunk, Bull dropped the remaining packs onto the table he'd claimed with enough force to rattle the frame. He threw her an odd, calculating sort of look, but ultimately chose to hang back. Content to stay out of the argument. Dorian pulled out a chair next to him and went to work unwrapping his feet, eyeing her from across the hall. He looked worried, though she imagined his reasons were closer to her own than to Solas'.

Cassandra made a beeline for her. She didn't even stop to put down her backpack first. Approached, and managed to only get out the word 'Herald' before Ellana cut her off as well. Threw up both her hands and announced, "I'm going to lay down for a little while. Tell Josephine that I will see her in a few hours."

The Seeker frowned deeply. "But—"

"Really," she assured, "This is silly, I've been sick before".

"Not like that," Cassandra interjected, before Ellana had a chance to silence her again. It was true: in the time she'd been with the Inquisition she'd had a few bouts of illness but none that could be considered serious. Or that resulted in her on hands and knees on the side of the road, violently vomiting into the snow until she could only bring up bile, gasping for air between heaves. She'd done it twice more before they reached the fortress — though it was unclear if the nausea was actually worsening or her current stress levels were contributing to the severity. Regardless, Cassandra's concern had grown exponentially with each episode.

Valid or no, it didn't matter. She had no desire to continue the exchange, and so turned around and ducked into the tower before learning if the Seeker had anything further to add. Truthfully, she would feel the same if it was one of them — but she could not risk a healer's intervention. The idea of the subject being forced to light by a third party before there'd even been time enough for her to fully absorb the news herself was not one she was keen on.

The door closed behind her. Then opened again not five seconds later.

Damn him.

He was right on her heels, following her into the tower. Even after she closed the second door, he persisted. Pushed it open again before it had the chance to latch. On the stone steps into her room, his fingers wrapped around her elbow again — a little more firmly this time.

"Vhenan, please," he urged.

And again she twisted away from him.

In private, however, this rebuff didn't have quite the same impact as the others. He followed, mystified, as she sat down on the edge of her bed. Sank into the Orlesian sheets and heavy comforters made up in anticipation of her arrival and removed her boots and leg wraps.

A hand came to rest upon her shoulder. "Are you fevered?" he asked, and made to touch her forehead with the back of his fingers. She batted his hand away, and her petulance gave him pause. A deep line formed in his brow, and the bridge of his nose. It was an expression she knew exceptionally well: he was beginning to get irritated with her.

A high fever would be an obvious explanation for the sudden and inexplicable change in her behavior. She could try to play it up; pretend to be suffering from dehydration, as he'd suggested. Borderline delirious. It might buy her some time. But, "No," she answered instead. The lie wouldn't come. Her mouth seemed to be working on its own accord, regardless of her intentions. She shut it tightly and bit the inside of her cheek, suddenly rather worried that the truth might come pouring out were she pressed for it.

Whatever outcome he'd hoped for when he followed her up the stairs, this was not it. "This is absurd." The harsh edge in his voice told her he was rapidly losing patience. "I have never seen you so ill. If you are not fevered, you could be poisoned." He had that same tone as when they argued about combat tactics: when he would accuse her of recklessness and she would accuse him of micromanaging and they would inevitably get caught in a circle that would continue until one of them walked away. It grated on her already frayed nerves.

A quiet huff of something not quite like laughter passed her lips. "I'm not poisoned," she murmured. She shrugged out of her jacket, and threw it to the other side of the bed, then went to work at untying her leathers. They soon joined the rest of her travelling clothes in a haphazard pile. When she was comfortably dressed down to her tunic and breeches, she pulled back the duvet and crawled underneath, then turned her back to him. "I'm going to lay down for a few hours and rest."

Barely a second passed before the covers were ripped back. Startled, she turned over and pinned him with a pointed look. The wrinkles above his nose had multiplied, and it conveyed his anger more clearly than a heated shout could have, but the pleading look in his eyes told her it was care over fury that drove him.

"And how do you know this?" he snapped. His voice nearly echoed off the walls. It was a brazen show of frustration the likes of which she'd only seen a handful of times.

She began to sit up, to argue, but he thrust a hand outward to block her and she found herself firmly — but gently — pushed onto her back upon the bed. He was rarely so implacable, and she was ready to call him on it and pick a fight. Push him to walking out the door in a fit of pique. But then he rolled up a sleeve and pressed his folded his hands together against her midsection.

The protest died instantly on her tongue.

All she could think about what was what lay within, and if it were possible his magic could find it when he searched her for injury. His strengths did not lie in healing, but he was more than competant enough to diagnose broken bones, internal wounds and bleeding. He'd proven it time and time again on the battlefield. Moreover, he was less likely to pull punches in private with her — given all she knew — and would exercise the full range of his magical ability.

She held her breath.

He didn't seem to notice. "You are being childish and reckless," he chastised. A soft, green glow began to emanate from his palm and she felt the familiar push of his mana in her body. The magic searched — for a wound, for poison, or some other explanation for the severity of her illness — she could feel the warmth of it crawling beneath her skin, sinking into her stomach and spreading up into her chest. "Additionally, this has gone on far longer than just the last few days. Iron Bull mentioned you'd been ill for some time, since well before I joined you. And that it's only worsened with your neglect. You are a powerful figure, and a target: any sudden or extended illness should be treated as suspect and seen to as soon as possible. Regardless of whether there is a simple explanation."

His hands moved under her ribs.

"Beyond poisoning, do you not realize how serious the situation could become were you to have internal injuries that were not properly mended? Sepsis can initially mimic the symptoms of Mireflu, but worsens quickly if left untreated."

Downward now, toward her navel.

"Beyond that, there are reports of venomous creatures in the Mire whose bites have a delayed onset. It could be days before you showed symptoms. If you'd been bitten during a skirmish, it would be easy to miss."

Over her pelvis.

"Considering the circumstance, and the time spent on the road without access to proper care, refusing a healer is lunacy. With all that has happened, you should be taking more caution to—"

And abruptly, the lecture ended. His brows drew into a deep frown, as though confused, before his expression suddenly slackened. Eyes wide and gaze fixed on a point somewhere upon the opposite wall, though clearly unseeing. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his lips parted. He did not speak; there came a sharp, soft gasp — and then he fell very, very quiet.

The glow of magic remained in his palm. An insistent, inquisitive press that had now surrounded her entire midsection in swirling, warm light. It was not an unpleasant sensation — she had felt his magic more times than she could count, in every context from salacious to utilitarian — but the quiet persistence of it laid bare his shock. She was raw and exposed beneath it. There had not been time to think of a plan; to prepare for a conversation, a confrontation, or even imagine how one might go.

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

None of this was supposed to happen.

She waited in anxious silence for a reaction. Any reaction. But he didn't move. Didn't even blink. It hadn't even occurred to her that he had yet to let out the breath he'd been holding until it slipped past his lips with a halting shudder.

The room felt cavernous.

Too long passed without a word. Without a sound, save for her own shallow breaths. Seconds, minutes — it felt like it could have been hours. Her heart pounded a deafening beat in her ears, and just when she feared she might succumb to the torrent, she finally managed to force out a raspy, "Solas?"

That jarred him back into the present. His hands jerked away from her body so suddenly that she jumped in surprise. Wide eyes found her own, his face as white and drawn as she'd ever seen, and she could only think of an animal cornered by prey. With the flow of magic stymied, his open hands hovered in the empty air above her. Useless, and frozen. Trembling, she noticed, before he quickly balled them into tight fists.

The longer the silence stretched on, the more uneasy it felt.

"Solas?" she tried again. It was terrible how small and meek it sounded when she spoke. "Do— would you like to sit down?"

The suggestion was ridiculous and she recognized it as soon as she spoke it aloud, but she could not think of anything better to say.

He blinked. Opened his mouth as though to speak, but no sound came. Then pressed his lips into a hard line and dropped his gaze to the floor. To her middle. Then met her eyes again. And, "Yes," he answered finally. At the very least, his halting whisper was no better than her own.

But following the reply he said, and did, nothing more. Merely continued to stand there next to her as though held in place by some unknown force. He stared down at the bed between them. Silent, and stone-faced. Then just when she thought to ask him again, he turned on a heel.

And walked out of the room.

The creak of the door alerted those that had remained in the hall that someone had emerged from the tower. And with a speed that betrayed any attempt to appear incurious, all three paused whatever they were doing to watch Solas take two steps beyond the threshold, and then… stop.

There he simply stood, in silence.

Cassandra had remained where Solas had left her when he followed the Inquisitor into the tower, now leaning a hip against the side of the throne. She straightened, and looked to him expectantly. Awaiting an update. An explanation for her behavior. Perhaps the reassurance that she actually was 'just fine' and had chased him out for bothering her. Anything.

A full minute went by. Then nearly two. Still, he offered nothing — apparently lost in thought. Even knowing the man as well as she did, it was unclear whether this reflected positively or negatively on the situation.

When nearly a third minute had passed without any change, she cleared her throat. "Solas?"

No response. Not even a flicker of recognition.

"Solas?" she repeated, a little louder.

His eyes snapped to hers. "Seeker?"

A brow raised curiously. "Does she need a healer?"

He did not answer her. She couldn't be certain if he'd even heard her ask the question, because before she managed to finish speaking his eyes had already become unfocused and drifted to a point somewhere off to her left. Slowly, she turned to follow his gaze, but saw nothing beyond her but empty tables — Dorian and Bull sat on the other side of the room, about 30 paces back.

It was as though he'd suffered a concussion. For a moment she wondered if he had.

Behind her, Bull coughed loudly. "Hey, Solas?"

He looked up. Blinked. "Yes?"

With his attention focused, Cassandra tried again. Quicker this time. "Is the Herald alright?" Still, he gave no immediate answer. Just deepened the furrow of his brow. Though, at least he was looking at her. She rephrased. "Is she ill?"

A beat. His lips parted and his eyes fell to the floor a moment before returning to her. "Yes," he said tentatively. Then frowned. "No." A pained look crossed his face. "I d— she is…" Another pause. His mouth worked in silence over something else he could not quite push through. Finally settling on a stilted, "Fine," in a way that made the word sound foreign and unfamiliar.

But before she could ask any follow-up questions he walked past her, toward the rotunda.

Cassandra turned and watched him disappear through the side door without a word. Cast a glance at the others, who looked just as dumbfounded as she felt, and then resolved to follow him. She stopped short of entering the atrium, instead pausing just inside the hall and holding the door open with one hand. Inside, she watched as he pulled out the chair at his desk and sat down.

There he remained. Open palms pressed upon the top of his desk, back rigid, staring down at his papers. Presumably, ready to attend to his work, though he made no move to start.

It was apparent that, for whatever reason, she was not about to get anything more from him. Gently, she allowed the door to close, and took two steps back from the hall. Turned, then came to stand with the rest of the party and trade meaningful looks in the awkward silence that followed.

It was Bull who spoke first.

"Well," he said. "That was weird."