"Concentrate," Solas ordered again.

It was the third time he'd said it in as many minutes.

The repetition was beginning to get under her skin.

He was firm, though not unkind. Even when she pushed him to the limits of his patience he maintained a calm that Ellana envied. Putting a crack in his composure took considerable effort — a skill she'd become exceedingly good at over their months together — and though this task had yet to truly test him the hours had lent a tight edge to his voice. A tell that his poise was beginning to slip. He'd earned it: they had spent considerable time at this work. At least it felt that way.

Time seemed to move at an excruciating crawl. Minutes passed like hours, and hours like days, as they sat facing each other on the floor of her tower room. Long stretches of silence passed, unbroken, save for Ellana's rhythmic breathing as she searched herself. Though for all her efforts she had minimal success. She was tired. Sore too, from sitting so long on the stone. Hopeful… but less so as time went on. Each minute spent was its own terrible eternity when, yet again, nothing came from her insight.

Together they were working on the theory that she might be able to harness some control of magic. With his guidance — along with practice and patience — she could be taught to hone the ability like any other youth who had just come into their powers. Better even, as she had the advantage of age, and that her first accidental cast proved far less destructive than was typical of emerging mages. Everyone knew a story about someone who'd set the furniture on fire or blown up vases.

Then there were the more morbid tales. The ones whispered in the dark around a campfire like scary stories. But instead of demons stalking lonely babes in the night, they told tale of children who'd burned their house down with their parents still inside. The ones who were doomed before they ever had a chance. And disappeared when the Templars, like monsters, came calling.

All she'd done is scorch her bed.

Though he made no promises, it was clear Solas believed the task of teaching her control would not be as challenging as it had since proved; that competence would follow naturally after discovery. In the days since she first cast a blaze upon the sheets she'd shown a sensitivity to magic that exceeded his first appraisal of her skill. While she'd yet to cast again it suggested the possibility that she might have the potential to become a proper mage, and that excited him. He was eager to begin mentoring her, and his phenomenal gift in spellcraft surely meant she'd be set along a path of learning to hurl lighting and ice in no time.

Instead, she'd spent days at it and failed to make any progress at all.

Hours were sunk into the hard work of accomplishing absolutely nothing other than wasting a perfectly good evening. To say it was disappointing was an understatement, and it was difficult not to linger on that glaring failure while watching Solas manipulate the smallest of spells with an ease she couldn't imagine ever possessing a fraction of.

He coached as he shaped the fire, "Focus not on the flame itself but on what sustains it. The way a spell draws from the Fade. Energy is moving in a constant cycle — as an exchange — to maintain the link that creates magefire. There is a thread that connects its presence here to the Fade: you need only to find it to change the form of the spell. Or to make it your own."

At his urging, Ellana raised both hands aloft, cupped around the flickering light Solas held in his palm. Resolute in her focus, she closed her eyes and held her breath. Narrowed her thoughts upon nothing else but the desire — the need — to shape this spell. Make it larger and fuller. To flare with what energy she could give it.

"Find that thread."

This fire was small. Simple. A meagre cast even the weakest hand was capable of.

And she was powerful.

She wielded the Anchor and closed rifts with naught but a whim. The Fade was everywhere, all around her, and she had the means to bend it to her will. Had the means of making its power her own.

Ellana thought of her fellow mages on the field — Solas, Dorian and Vivienne — and the gestures they used to cast. Each had a different style, different strengths and predilections, but there were commonalities among all magic users that even an untrained eye could perceive. A certain grace with their hands. The flowing movements of their arms. The purposeful way they held their fingers, even at rest, as though they always had one on the pulse of the power they wielded.

She thought of Vivienne: graceful and strong, easy with her gestures. The delicate bend in her wrist and her ring fingers tucked in. She'd be pleased to know she served as an example.

Ellana mimicked the pose.

The Anchor tingled in her left palm. A growing sensation of pins and needles that promised her new potential, once locked away but now awakened. She had only to grasp it. It was right there for the taking.

Reach out and find it, she urged herself.

Feel it.

Minutes passed in that space.

And her frustration mounted exponentially for each one gone.

"Concen—"

"I am concentrating!" she snapped, and fixed Solas with a withering glare. He said nothing, but the thin press of his lips conveyed his exasperation clearer than words could have.

That was enough. She'd had enough. They were done for the night.

She had no more insight now than she already possessed when they began. Every trial had ended the same: not a single, solitary, thing had changed in her other than an improved ability to sense the veil. Spells he cast upon her had the same effect as they had a week prior, Solas sensed no aura from any of her attempts, and neither of them could connect in any way to the mana she theoretically possessed.

The magefire instruction might as well have been an illusion for all the good it was doing.

"Your instructions are vague and inadequate," Ellana accused. Making no effort to hide the cynicism in her tone. "I can barely make sense of them! 'Take hold of the energy', 'find the thread'… you speak in terms that you expect me to be familiar with but without any experience in magic beyond fighting it you might as well be giving me lessons in Qunlat." Weary, she looked him up and down. Added, "You may be a talented mage Solas, but you are a poor teacher."

He frowned, and vanished the flame with a flick of his wrist. "And you an impetuous student."

A bitter laugh. "You're far from the first to say so," she countered. With a heavy sigh she lowered her hands. Tented her fingers together, stretching her wrists to relieve the tension the hours knit into her bones. "This is pointless. I've never been a quick study, and I'm not certain there is something here to learn at all. You said yourself: I am unlikely to have even the most meagre magical skill, and even if I had, it wouldn't be enough to do anything with."

It was a deliberate perversion of what he'd said. Words meant to assure her of her safety rather than condemn her skill — she knew it as well as he did. He meant to argue it, but only got as far as opening his mouth before she cut him off. She was properly frustrated now and wanted him to know how futile the endeavour felt.

"Did I ever tell you that, as a child, Keeper was so discouraged by how slowly I took to the bow that she had me taken to a part of the forest known for wolves and left there for an evening in the hope that fear would be a better motivator than praise?"

That gave him pause. Solas raised an eyebrow. "You did not."

"I was twelve, I think."

"That seems a rather harsh approach for someone so young," he commented carefully. The story was clearly meant to serve as an example of her being a poor student, but the experience reflected more upon the tutelage she was given rather than her capacity to learn from it. Distasteful — though a part of him was curious enough to follow it with the obvious question: "Did it work?"

"Yes, actually. By the time I made it back to the encampment I'd developed both a capable proficiency with a short bow and a crippling fear of wolves that followed me through my teenage years."

Dryly, "A sensible fear, if any were," he quipped.

"Very funny," she chided in return.

But the joke awarded him a small smile in spite of her efforts to curb it. One he returned, so the repartee would ease some of the tension. "Be that as it may, I must disagree with your position: I've seen you take well to many skills. Your literacy, for instance, has progressed at a rate that far outpaces most. Many who start this late in life do not gain even a fraction of your capability. The obstacle to your learning is not your intelligence—" The compliment was balanced with a pointed look. "—It is your patience. A virtue that often eludes you."

He was right, of course, but she didn't need to give him the satisfaction of actually conceding the point.

Instead she groaned and leaned backward against the foot of her bed, giving her space to stretch her legs out. Her hips ached. Hours of sitting cross-legged had left her stiff and sore. Discouraged, in spite of the merit of Solas' words.

If all these evenings spent trying to tap into her theoretical power had resulted in nothing but frustration, and this truly was the pace at which this would continue, would a positive sign even be worth the effort?

How would success even be measured? Truly, what was the most realistic outcome in of all this?

A spark?

A shock?

A single snowflake hung in the air for a fraction of a second before melting away? Or did Solas envision some sort of miraculous explosion of power?

Admittedly, it was what she'd envisioned… a thought that alarmed as much as it excited her.

She placed a hand upon her middle; gently rest atop the swell that was only just large enough to make her feel full when she bent at the waist. More noticeable now that she reclined. The curve was new, and somehow always managed to draw her touch when her hands were idle. It was its own sort of magic. A habit borne of the awe that had begun to eclipse her fears.

A habit she was trying hard to break.

And so, thinking better of it, she quickly moved her hand to the floor instead. It was bad form to cradle what you were attempting to conceal.

Josephine's instructions rang in her ears: 'Mind where you rest your hands. Work to get into the habit of keeping them at your sides now, as the drive to place them elsewhere will only grow stronger as you progress. Most will fail to notice your changing shape provided you don't draw any attention to it, even though you may find it impossible to ignore.'

She was right: it was becoming increasingly difficult.

Solas was watching her. Smiling, slightly, in that way he did when he was amused or found her endearing. He'd noticed.

Their eyes met, and his gaze lingered there a moment before he pushed to his feet and joined her against the bed. Arms draped loosely across his knees.

"Perhaps we should try a different approach," he suggested.

A smooth, practiced wave of his fingers and turn of his wrist was all it took to draw another fire from the Fade. He made it look so terribly easy.

"Try to take it."

A single, curious brow raised and, "Take it?" she repeated. A nod affirmed the instruction, though he offered no further explanation. It was as vague as any of his other attempts to teach her.

With considerable skepticism she reached out a thumb and forefinger and tried to pluck the spell from his palm. The way one might go at any tangible object if you intended to collect it and put it in your pocket.

Solas pulled his hand out of her reach just before her fingers passed through the corona of the flame, sparing her a burn. Laughing, "No, not like that," he chided. "Move the fire to yourself. Use your will, not your physicality."

That was infuriating. A different approach my ass. He was infuriating.

"I have absolutely idea what that means, Solas."

Though his smile was kind it did little to cool the resurgence of her ire. He tried again, "Here, let me show you," and raised his free hand to mirror the first, curled his fingers in until they touched, and then flicked them open again. In an instant the flame had disappeared from the hand that cast it, and reappeared in the other. Travelling from palm to palm as though he'd simply taken it out of the air, just as he'd said.

He repeated the motion twice more, passing the spell back and forth as he explained, "It is less an act and more of a feeling. You are redirecting the energy; shifting it along a plane rather than physically moving it from one place to another. Think of a glass full of water: if you were to pour another into it, it will overflow and spill — displacing what was already inside. What you are doing here is similar. By directing your own energy at the spell you can harness what spills over. Then, pull it toward you. This time, make the aim to redirect rather than control, as you were before."

Once more he presented her the fire. It floated in his open hand like a gift, bright and simple.

She tried to mimic his movements. Hands raised, held aside his own; fingers curled in on her left while the right she kept open and loose.

A moment was spared to shake off her impatience and, the flame is not solid, she told herself. It has no form. Feel its presence, not its weight.

In her mind she saw herself wielding the spell as he might. Formless. Moving it from hand to hand: between his and her own, then back again. She took another deep breath to steady herself…then, carefully, pushed.

And something happened.

The fire moved!

Flowing out of Solas' palm and into hers. Like water, displaced. Just like it was supposed to… sliding between the cradle of her fingers.

For a few thrilling seconds she had succeeded: this small task had not completely eluded her. She could control the flame. The potential was real!

She lifted her hand to Solas in triumph.

At which point she lost her focus and the fire immediately, painfully, burned her.

"Shit! Fenedhis! Fuck!" The spell disappeared as she shook her hand out. "In'nuis garahnen vun!"

Solas laughed brightly, making no effort to hide his amusement. "Tel'ha, y ajuathe"

"Blast it all, Solas!" she yelled back. It rankled all the more to hear him speak to her reflexive cursing in his native tongue, knowing she still struggled with fluency. "I don't even know what that means!"

She'd have thrown something at him had she the means, but unfortunately (fortunately) there was nothing suitable within reach. She settled for the edge of the unmade sheet hanging off the foot of the bed. Gave it a sharp tug for slack and then used it to hit him in the shoulder. While it failed to give him so much as a sting, the effort was worth something to her anger.

Though it did little to chide him. "My apologies," he managed through laughter. A last cough was tucked into a closed fist to give him the extra second to compose himself. "Perhaps we should stop for now."

"Or perhaps I should simply find a new teacher. I think I'd be better off with Dorian or Vivienne."

While not untrue, she wouldn't deny that it was petty to choose this moment to say so. When a knot appeared in his brow it awarded her some satisfaction to know it hit its mark. Any cut to his ego would sting; if Solas was anything, it was proud.

Predictably, "Why?" he asked. As though it were a ludicrous notion. Letting others in on this development risked his secrets more than hers, but that wasn't the point he was making: his prowess far outmatched that of their friends'.

And really, that was the entire issue. He brought so much more to the table than the average mage.

"Because literally no one else in all Thedas uses magic the way you do!"

She flung out a hand — motioning, indignant, to the whole of him. "You perform even the smallest acts with an ease I've never witnessed and don't try to tell me that's typical of all mages because I have seen the way you play up the use of your staff in the company of others. Your skill exceeds theirs. And in spite of what you may hope, this is not innate for me; I didn't grow up using magic, nor even in the company of magic users. Not really. We had only a few in my clan and their capabilities were literal worlds away from your own! In fact most of my exposure to magic has been either through you, the mages that have been recruited to the Inquisition, or those we find ourselves up against in battle. It remains a complete and utter mystery to me how it is that any of you are capable of drawing upon the Fade; to manipulate it at will. I understand the theory, and I know that something in me may be different, but the effort I must put into understanding it is going to be more like the experience of a human child than that of Elvhen like yourself."

She paused there to let a pointed silence speak for her, catching her breath. "You are different," she concluded, her eyes darting between his. She gestured between them. "We are different."

A pained expression crossed his face. Weary, but hardly unmoved by her words. He took hold of the back of her head, cradling it gently, and pressed a kiss to her forehead once she allowed herself to be pulled closer. "Ar'an'or, Elvhen. Thuast, bellanar atha em'an."

Ellana sighed. "In Common, please."

She felt him smile against her temple. "We are not so different. Though, there are times I forget the years that allowed me the luxury to perfect my skills. In that, you are right." His arm slipped downward to her shoulder, urging her closer still so that she might tuck her head into the crook of his neck. The position gave him the freedom to draw his fingers through the waves of hair that cascaded down her back. Hold her until the tension finally eased from her shoulders.

"Might I make a suggestion?"

It was difficult to stay angry with him while at the mercy of his affection. "Hmm?"

"If you truly intend to ask for help elsewhere, I would choose Dorian over Vivienne."

She smirked. "Won't he be flattered to know you think so highly of his skills that you would recommend his tutelage."

"On the contrary: I find his approach to spell-management ostentatious and superfluous," Solas corrected, before the suggestion could be mistaken for a compliment. "The Enchanter is an accomplished mage, but arrogant, and that would not complement your lack of patience."

She trusted he was not lacking enough self-awareness to miss the parallel. "And I'm sure this has nothing to do with Dorian being less likely to revel in the glory of succeeding where you failed?"

He gave her a look she could feel without meeting his eye. "If anything, he is more likely."

"Fair," replied Ellana. "You may have to shoulder the weight of his ego if he does manage to teach me something."

"A burden none have ever borne."

They settled into comfortable silence. A warm embrace in front of the hearth enjoyed with the agreement, unspoken, not to push the matter any further for tonight. There were precious few hours left in the day that they could spend privately in each other's company before duty called.

The travel preparations for Halamshiral were coming to a head. Josephine set their schedules well in advance: Dennet already had the mounts prepared for the first leg of the journey, and a message was sent to the city to ensure secure transport and lodgings were waiting for them upon their arrival into Orlais. While horses were their preferred way to travel, a week straight of it left riders exhausted and sore. A fresh and well-rested entrance was required in any event where politics may play, and so the comfort and discretion offered by a carriage made it an attractive option this time. The horses would be boarded at one of the Inquisition's camps outside the city.

Ellana had only ever ridden in a carriage a few brief times before. It seemed a garish and decadent way to travel. Unnecessary. Noble hosts had offered their services during several of their previous visits — 'So much better to enjoy the sights from a seat of comfort!' — but they'd never taken advantage of it for real travel before now.

What a strange role she'd come to play: the once-wild Dalish tamed by a couture gown and the silken trappings of a chariot to pull her. A tale fit for the conceit of the Orlesian court. During her last foray to the palace she'd managed to maintain a connection with her roots by way of bared feet and a face proudly marked by June's Vallaslin. She'd have neither now. This time, it was too important to blend in. Adopt the opulent culture of the nobility as her own so she might dance her way through the evening like a proper lady.

Though she'd enjoyed the attention she received the year previous, it had hardly been lavished upon her. She'd earned the respect of the court through her clever dispatch of Florian and the revelation of Gaspard's duplicity. Acts that led to reuniting Celene with Briala, and appointing her Elvish ambassador to Orlais' troubled alienages.

There'd be no such opportunity here. This would be a charade.

It's all pageantry, Vivienne once said of court. High-heeled shoes to go with a flute of wine and a mouthful of gossip. A dress, like the colourful plume of some exotic bird, to draw the eye from a curve it might otherwise linger on. Pageantry to sell the story of her seduction by the luxuries of power, rather than by an elven apostate.

At the very least she'd have a full complement of allies to help her endure. Commander Cullen to guide her, Bull and Cassandra to guard her, and Vivienne and Solas to keep their ears on the court. She had only to make it through one or two evenings of festivities before she could return to Skyhold and then not have to think about formalwear and soirees for at least another year.

Parties were exhausting… she had no idea how Josephine managed to consistently and thoroughly enjoy them.

The journey there was the only part worth looking forward to. It seemed like an age had passed since she'd ventured outside the fortress; she craved the freedom of the world beyond snow-capped peaks.

The smell of the high mountains was different from what she'd grown up with. Empty and cold; there was nothing wild in the air. The longer she stayed cooped up in the Frostbacks the more homesick she became. The forest called to her. She dreamed of a camp set in a quiet clearing of evergreens. A pine fire spitting sap beneath a spit of fresh rabbit — venison, if the hunt was good — roasting until the skin was browned and crisp.

Sleeping rough in a fur-lined bedroll pitched under the stars.

Or a tent shared with a lover, if they were lucky enough to steal an hour together. Bellies full of meat and sweet wine sipped from travelling skins.

A nudge pulled her attention from the reverie.

Hard, insistent, and sudden enough to give her a start — stealing a gasp from her lips. Her fingers were instinctively drawn to the source. Low: under her shirt, and below the waist of her pants. A little left and below her navel, where she'd felt a flutter before. She pushed back — searching for whatever little bump or knobby limb was responsible for such a jab.

It was not the first time she'd felt movement, she was a few weeks beyond the quickening, but it was by far the most insistent. Typically, it was limited to little flutters so faint she could almost mistake them for the pops and rumblings after a hearty meal. She was only able to tell the difference when she lay in bed at night, wide awake, pondering the spark of life her body nourished.

Solas' hand was upon hers then. "What is it?" he asked, curious, but intuitive enough to have some inkling. The eagerness in his voice gave him away. There was an answer he was clearly hoping to hear, and it was a joy to watch his face brighten when she gave it to him.

"Kicking."

The expression he wore then was one she'd never seen before, and would deeply cherish. Excitement, curiosity, and a touch of indecisiveness evident in the way he withdrew his touch. Drawing back not for any untoward reason, but simply because he wasn't entirely sure what etiquette should inform his desire to share this moment with her.

His hand hovered in the air, hesitant, and he asked, "May I?"

"Yes." She couldn't help but laugh. "You don't have to ask, Solas."

His sheepish smile was almost as endearing as his utter bewilderment over how to proceed from there. Where to place his fingers and what position to find the rest of him to best facilitate it. After several jerky, halting attempts he finally settled on pulling her between his legs — her back nestled against his chest — so he might comfortably wrap an arm around her and rest his hand upon her stomach.

But, too high — she took hold of his wrist and slid it further down. Below the turned-down hem of her breeches. "I'm not quite that big yet. It's lower than you'd expect."

A moment passed in expectant silence before—

"Did you feel that?"

—a little twist, just beneath his fingers. Subtle, compared to the previous movement.

He shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm afraid I didn't."

Ellana twisted her mouth in disappointment. Still too small.

Although…

"Could you feel it with a spell? The way you did when you first found it, after we returned from the Fallow Mire? Or when you check for injuries after battle?"

It seemed a perfectly reasonable suggestion, but when the silence stretched on long enough that she was moved to turn around and face him, she found he looked rather uneasy. Brows drawn as he answered, "That is less searching, and more noticing" Diverting the conversation, rather than answering her directly, was a tell of his discomfort she was intimately familiar with. "It is nothing more than comparing one's existing knowledge of physiology with a present state to detect changes; a shift in energy, or a weakened aura. And it's poorly utilized for diagnosis."

She rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean."

"The technique is inelegant," Solas countered. "I am not—" He stopped — hesitated — thinking over his words carefully before finally admitting, "I have very little experience in this manner of magic, and I am unsure of its effects."

He was nervous.

It was rare to catch him at a disadvantage, there were very few things he lacked enough experience in to avoid. Most were practical skills, like sewing holes in your clothes or foraging mushrooms. Gaps in his repertoire that could be hand-waved or stumbled through with his unique combination of keen observation and quick wit… but for this he hadn't the slightest experience to go on.

Her smile was meant to be comforting, but it was hard to hide how thoroughly charmed she was by his naiveté. She said, "This is a staple of Dalish mage midwifery. I've seen it used a hundred times. There's no harm."

For the space of several breaths he said nothing. Blue eyes wary as they darted between hers, considering the proposition. The assurance failed to convince him until she added, "If it does not hurt me to check for broken bones, this won't either. What is it you said? Use your will to push, not to control?"

At that he smiled. Worry soothed, he nodded once and pulled her back into his lap as she'd laid before.

Still, it took him a moment to work up the nerve to put his hands back on her body, cradling the tiny curve between his palms. She could feel the rise of his chest as he took a breath and the way the air sharpened just before he began to cast.

It was subtle magic. Light and formless when it first touched her. Gentle, sliding beneath the surface of her skin… then heavy as it swelled with intent. Sinking low and deep to wrap her in warmth. She knew this well: the way his mana felt as it searched for a broken bone, an old injury, a fresh scar.

A life.

There was a quiet gasp, and then he held his breath. Fingertips pressed firmly to her bare stomach, lest some small movement break the connection.

"I feel it."

It was barely a whisper: reverent and precious.

"Not movement," he was saying, "But… I believe I can feel your heartbeats." A quiet, "So fast," he added almost too soft to hear.

The discovery was exciting, but the wonder in his voice proved the better gift. The simple truth of life within her had nearly rendered him speechless and she loved him dearly for that rare and unguarded display of awe.

She smiled. "I'd always heard that the faster it was, the more likely it is to be a certain sex — though I cannot remember which."

"A girl," Solas answered, off-handedly. So much so that it startled a laugh — the casual delivery, more than the fact that he possessed the knowledge, that surprised her.

"How did you know that?"

"I read it. There is a surprising amount of folklore mixed into purported texts on the topic."

Curiouser and curiouser. "You were reading texts about pregnancy?"

He chuckled, though it was more sheepish than mirthful. "It was in the library," he explained. "And I would be loathe to call them such. It was largely superstition."

Ellana craned her head back until she could see him properly. Flashed a cheeky, upside-down, grin. "And what does superstition tell you? Is there a ruling piece of folklore that could give me an answer ahead of time?"

That won her a proper laugh. "There are many, many conflicting theories. Regarding all manner of criteria, from the height of the mother to her favoured sleeping position. No one seemed more authentic than any another. Some were— oh!"

This movement was even stronger than the first. A slow, deliberate push beneath his fingers.

He blinked in surprise. Then smiled, meeting her inquisitive gaze.

"That one I felt."

Four raps against the door startled them both, and Solas' spell was withdrawn with the sudden snap of a tether breaking. The silence that followed felt almost oppressive: for a few moments they'd managed to forget the existence of anything outside her tower room.

And when Ellana did not immediately respond to the reminder, "Are you expecting someone?" Solas prompted.

"No," she replied. Then, louder, "Who's—?"

The answer came before she finished asking the question.

Before it was even apparent that she'd tried.

"Inquisitor! Lavellan, are you in?"

It was Josephine. And she sounded excited. This late into the day that could only mean one of two things: either they'd set a date for a card game or tea that had slipped her mind, or she'd brought something by to surprise her.

Something that was almost certainly terrible.

"Oh no," she moaned, "I know what this is."

Ellana stood, leaving behind a bewildered Solas as she made her way to the stairwell. The door was not locked, but Josephine would not enter without express invitation, and so waited patiently outside her chambers until that was offered.

Decorum could only hold her so long, however… Once the door was opened, she all but leapt into the room with her gift. A long, expensive-looking, garment cover folded across her arms. Containing what could only be a gown large enough for several individuals to wear at once, if its loft was any indication.

Josephine wasted no time. Before Ellana could manage a proper greeting she'd already pushed past her and begun climbing the stairs.

"It arrived this afternoon but I did not get a chance to see it until a few moments ago," she was saying, positively brimming with excitement. "The tailor included a letter assuring that our instructions were followed to the letter. I was concerned the measurements might no longer be accurate, as it's been nearly two weeks since they were taken, so I hope you don't mind that I requested a fingers-width of ease be added to the final product. Although that may prove unnecessary since you'll be wearing a corset. The fit can be adjusted around the waist, but I would not recommend we rely on that too much as that might disrupt the line of the bodice. If needed I can have someone brought in for some last minute adjustments but I'm hoping that's not necessary. If you could try it on we'd have a better idea of what else needs to be done. There are several layers, and while ideally you won't need to call upon the aid of someone else to help you into it, the buttons on the back might require another hand. Perhaps Vivienne— Oh!" The monologue stopped abruptly once she reached the top of the stairs. "Hello, Solas."

A polite nod and, "Lady Montilyet," he returned.

Ellana reached the landing two steps behind. Her eyes caught Solas', now standing with his hands clasped behind him, and it was clear by his posture that he intended to leave as soon as he was awarded the opportunity. Though her advisors were now aware of the affair, he was not the type of lover inclined to show casual affection before them. Being found in her quarters at an hour this late, while she was so nearly dressed down to her underclothes — jacket gone and chemise untucked — already suggested a level of intimacy that tested the limits of his comfort.

Gratefully, Josephine stepped to one side and cleared a path to the door before the encounter could go from merely startling to properly awkward. Still, she offered a hopeful, "You could stay. We could use your assistance with the buttons."

He smiled graciously and, "No, thank you," he replied. "I'm sure it would be better not to rely on my help for the task. Additionally, I have yet to prepare for the journey." He tipped his chin at each of them in turn. "Ambassador, Inquisitor — enjoy the rest of your evening."

A painfully, unnecessary, strict formality that did not go unnoticed.

Once he'd left, "I hope I didn't offend him. I didn't mean to imply anything inappropriate," Josephine lamented.

"No," Ellana assured, and offered a smile. "Don't worry about it. He's just—" New at this. Private. Terribly awkward. "—like that," she settled on, and by the look she received in turn she knew the intent was understood.

She nodded toward the garment on Josephine's arm. "What's it look like?"

The initial reveal was both better and worse than she'd feared.

There were so many layers. Even with Josephine's practiced hands to guide her she imagined it would take at least half an hour to get into it all. Just laying out all the pieces on the bed took ten minutes. And it weighed far more than it any right to considering how fine and delicate the work.

At first, her most pressing concern was for her ability to move around in it, though Josephine assured her the weight would feel balanced when worn.

But, it was impressive, Ellana would admit — expensive. The kind of gown she'd admire on someone else. The beadwork alone had to be worth a small fortune. Polished glass dyed iridescent green and tidal blues hand-sewn into spiralling, dancing patterns that lapped at the sides of a satin bodice. The waist, while lower than what had first been suggested, was disguised with a wide ruched sash that draped, low, across flared hips and then crossed in the back before disappearing into a sea of silken skirts. Providing the necessary discretion without sacrificing the cut of her silhouette.

A low neckline coupled with the trim fit of the corset ensured she cast a particularly flattering one. If her swollen breasts had caused her burden, the lift provided by the corset's boning ensured it would not be one that bothered her with their weight borne upon her collar instead of her chest.

That part required the most practice: donning a corset was not something she'd had to do before. The dresses and uniforms worn for previous events had never required one. Her first attempt made full use of Josephine's assistance, after which she was helped out with half the laces still tied so she might practice getting into it on her own. Twice she caught her smalls in the knots and once her hair before she succeeded in slipping it on and tightening the laces without help.

Gratefully that proved to be the biggest challenge, and once she'd won it the rest came easier. It was just a matter of ensuring she remembered all the layers.

A thin silken shift over her smallclothes — "We will get you new ones," Josephine commented upon finding them worn threadbare — with two sets of skirts and odd little padded pieces, like saddlebags, worn on her hips to shape them. A long-sleeved satin blouse that hung off her shoulders, the corset, and finally the bodice embellished in shimmering beads. Slipped carefully over her arms and then fastened with ribbons wove through silver grommets.

When she stood fully dressed, Josephine fetched the tall mirror from the corner of the room and set it before her.

The sight stole her breath.

On the hanger, in pieces, she'd not appreciated the way the dress was made to appear when worn. Shifting hues of colour that began with a deep, rich indigo at her shoulders; bleeding into a lighter shade of blue at her waist, before finally fading into pale silver. A lace trim — fine, and dyed a soft grey — hung from the edges of her silk sleeves like a halo. Each part made with such careful attention to detail to ensure the final result was nothing short of exquisite; she felt like a walking painting.

The sheen of the fabric caught the hearth and candles as though it was sewn with their light; a dress that shone like stars. And when she moved across the floor the gentle shift and sway of the skirts made the inspiration of its design undeniable.

"It's like an ocean," she marvelled. The bottom hem was even dressed with pearls. A contrast to the darker waves that peeked out from beneath the innermost layer of skirting. Sea-foam on a moonlit shore.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Josephine praised, reverent. Dark eyes wide and sparkling as she admired the majesty of the work.

It must have taken an entire team to pull this off, thought Ellana. Between the discrete fittings and tight deadline it would be a wonder simply to provide her with a modified version of the last outfit she'd had made. This was a feat. She'd never seen anything like it.

It would hardly be a show-stopping competitor at the palace next to their wide skirts and extravagant ruffles dripping with polished gems… but its style offered a more organic, simple, beauty that appealed to a taste she didn't know she had.

What's more, the person that looked back at her was beautiful. Elegant. And looked so little like herself that she was moved to unabashedly stare. Running a finger delicately across her own neck to assure that her reflection did the same.

"Whatever we paid for this, it wasn't enough."

A fleeting, wearied, weight crept into Josephine's brow — her face peeking over Ellana's shoulder in the mirror's surface. An expression that begged her not to press for details. "I assure you, it was."

Treasury management was not something she had a mind for on the best of days; the value of a custom dress made no more sense to her than the prices set in a store or the cost saved by cobbled one together out of scrap. Dalish did not often trade in coin, but when they did it was in quantities far less than the thousands the Inquisition regularly bartered with.

"I'll take your word for it."

A turn to the side allowed her to trace a curious eye along the line of her profile. "I don't think you can tell I'm much bigger," she remarked, smoothing a hand down her front.

"Not at all," answered Josephine. Honest, even while she fussed with the sash. "Is it comfortable?" Fluffing and straightening. Never entirely satisfied with the drape.

"Yes, actually. It will take a bit of getting used to — the weight, and the way it moves — but that is no worse than the dress uniforms you've asked us to wear for formal events. And far less itchy. Although—" She skimmed her fingers up her sides and then splayed them across her chest, palms pressed to her breasts, as though they were exposed and she forced to cover herself to preserve her modesty. "—The cleavage will take some getting used to. I don't think I've ever enjoyed quite so much of it. It's almost obscene."

A single, dark, brow quirked. The accompanying smile too wide, and held a little too long, to doubt there was a trace of innocence in her reply. "Perhaps we should seek a second opinion? Solas might be willing to offer his take on the matter."

Ellana smirked. "And here I thought you intended nothing untoward."

And then Josephine giggled. The delight in her own quip so unapologetically bright and honest that Ellana couldn't help but be caught in the gravity of it, and joined her.

A hand came up to hide the mirth; only a little abashed by how easy it came. "I'm sorry," Josephine said at length, though no real apology was needed for gifting them both a moment of laughter. "I hope you'll permit me a few jests. I've said nothing for months, not even to Leliana. And truly, I am pleased that you've found someone to care for."

The emphasis on the name implied it had caused significant hardship to still her tongue around the Spymaster, but it was stress of 'months' that piqued her curiosity more. "Did you truly know for that long?"

Quickly, "No," she assured. Sensing that the real question was of their discretion. "I knew you two were close, but you've formed many such friendships in your time here, and show your affection easily. I only began to suspect that there might be something more between you after you fell ill." As she spoke she pulled a few items from one of her pockets — a wide-toothed comb made of ivory and a black ribbon — then carefully gathered Ellana's hair at her back. Separated it into several wefts and set to work properly styling it.

Never an easy task.

And one she momentarily lost herself to, until Ellana prompted her to continue with a curious, "Oh?"

Josephine hummed thoughtfully, picking at the curls. "There was an afternoon you were working with me in my office. He brought you a cup of tea when he returned to me a book he'd borrowed."

"Was it the doting that tipped you off, then?"

Their eyes met in the mirror, and Josephine gave her a smile that was uncommonly wise. "It was the way he touched your wrist when he handed you the cup." A twist of hair, along with the comb, were passed over her shoulder. Ellana took them dutifully, freeing both Josephine's hands for finer work. She continued, "I've seen him pay similar kindness to others on many occasions. And while Solas has always been gracious, he also tends to be very reserved: I'd not witnessed him touch another person with the care he did then. If it was anyone else I wouldn't have noticed, but for him it was… unusual. It suggested his interest in your health ran deeper than friendly concern. However, I wasn't sure it was something you'd both acknowledged." Her voice fell to a conspiratorial whisper for the next part. "Given the — ah, timing — I can assume it actually began earlier than that. I will admit I am curious just how much earlier it was."

It was rare that she was offered a chance so tempting to ruffle the coiffed feathers of her diplomat. She quick to seize it. "Josie… are you asking me how long we've been sleeping together?"

She did not disappoint. Her eyes wide as saucers as she blustered a sharp, "No!" in protest. Looking equal parts chagrined and horrified. A pause and then, "No!" she said again, with slightly less conviction. The moment of hesitation made Ellana's brows raise. "I would never ask you something so personal. I meant in regards to how long you've been together. Not together, as in physically, but as a couple. Courting. Of course, relationships begin in many ways and I would not fault you it that were the case. You're free to pursue who you desire in the manner you desire, it's not my place to say anything about—"

Only then did she catch sight of the crooked smile in the mirror. It was an expression of victory as much as amusement.

She sighed and, "You're teasing me," she concluded. Weary, but not without a shade of good humour. "You are as bad as Leliana sometimes." With a flair of mock offence she gestured for the twist of hair Ellana held aside, and upon being receiving it began working it into the braid she'd already finished. "Just for that I expect an answer."

The strength of her conviction was endearing, and truthfully Ellana had no reason to guard those answers now. There was even an odd sort of thrill in being able to share them. Prior to telling her advisors the only other person who knew about the affair was Dorian, and the times they touched upon the topic were few and far between. Thus far limited to the occasional suggestive comment on the state of her hair, and his kind reassurance when their future together was not so clear.

'When' and 'how long' were the kinds of treasured details traded between friends over cups of wine. Shy smiles and quiet laughter in celebration of a love less complicated. The chance to indulge something as innocent as gossip was… unexpectedly freeing.

So she thought carefully upon the question, though technically unspoken, and wondered which advance between them counted as the first one. Not their first night, surely; that was more a reconciliation than an introduction. Neither was it their first kiss, which seemed at once too early and too late to count as a proper beginning. It was closer, though.

The balcony, she decided, when he admitted he'd fallen in love.

A strange start to a courtship — all backward and twisted in knots — though true to form. It was only once he'd spoken it aloud that he surrendered some of his heart, and they spent any real time together. Exchanged small intimacies while cuddled up together on her overstuffed furniture. Or a kiss shared in a darkened hall, far from prying eyes and in a location safe enough to ensure nothing more could follow. It had all been so frustratingly chaste, at first. Until the bite of an argument shattered the last of his resolve and he took her in his arms; allowed her to peel back the layers that protected his heart until he was truly bared beneath her.

It was startling to realize just how long ago that was.

"More than a year, I suppose," she replied at long last. Then, on second thought. "Closer to two if I count what came before. Perhaps one and a half is more accurate." Idly, she pulled at one of her fingernails, thinking on their early fights — some as passionate as their nights were later. Breaking apart only to come back together because they couldn't quite make it stick. "There were a few months where we were something. Then something less. And then I'm not sure what we were for a while. It was nothing so formal, or even purposeful. It was…"

By accident, really — and never was there a truer word for what they were. All the way back to a first, careful, brush of his lips against hers in a clearing where they sparred on a cold morning. All she'd wanted was an easy victory to lord over his unearned confidence, and a chance to see him sweat, but instead she lit a fire. An encounter he'd not soon forget if their next foray into dreams was any indication.

Even before that, the converging of their hearts had always been more a clumsy tumble down a hill than a romantic waltz. Messy, with his vacillating between coy flirtation and attempts to keep her at arm's length while she pined, alone, mistaking those advances he did make for playfulness instead of interest.

The thought made her laugh.

Out loud, before she'd fully realized and thought to stifle herself.

And then she was just embarrassed: once her laughter broke it occurred to her that the room had gone completely silent while she lost herself in thought… and had yet still failed to provide a proper answer.

Though the silence spoke it well enough, it seemed. Josephine eyed her with the kind of knowing look that suggested she knew exactly where her mind had wandered. "I see," she said, and her gaze flicked between the mirror and her work on Ellana's hair. Exuding a sense of quiet confidence, like she already knew all her secrets and the questions were merely for show — though it was more the satisfaction of gaining insight that pleased her.

"I don't have a romantic dinner or a walk in the woods I could point to as a start," Ellana said, quick to correct any assumption that had been made from her babbling. "He didn't court me — if anything, he tried not to. It just sort of… happened. And once it had we did make an effort to be discrete. We were hardly unaware of the implications, were it to be made public."

Josie gave her a full, wide, smile. An old favourite: endearing and almost child-like in its joy. Ellana loved those best. "An affair so driven it was neither stopped by the demands of war, nor the consideration of your station?"

"That is unbearably romantic," she teased. "You make it sound like one of those terrible novels Cassandra enjoys."

"I'll look forward to reading Varric's rendition, when this is all over."

They laughed, and the good humour was liberating. Giggling like little girls as Josephine finished up the last touches of an elegant series of braids. Ornery curls tamed at her careful hands, with fewer snags than Ellana herself could manage. Once the ends were tucked back up under a twisted bun, signalling the end of the work, she turned her head from side to side to appraise it in the mirror. Smiling her approval.

But before she could say more Josephine exclaimed, "Oh!" and reached her belt. Patting at each of the pouches tied there. "I almost forgot!" Whatever she was searching for she quickly found, but before she could pull it out she paused — thought a moment — and instead prompted, "Close your eyes."

The playful secrecy drew a skeptical raise of her brow, but Ellana did as she was bid. And a moment later she felt the touch of something small and cold against her breast — a pendant — and she resisted the urge to reach for it before Josie had given her permission. Once fastened at the back of her neck it was tugged at a few times to ensure its position was perfect before Josephine finally relented.

"Alright, go ahead."

At first it appeared to be just a small, intricate, braid of silver. A simple, but beautiful, accessory made to match the edging of her gown. Ellana's gratitude was sincere even before she looked closely enough to discern its real design. "Thank you, Josephine. This is lovely." She took a step closer to the mirror to see it better, grasping it between a thumb and forefinger. "It's a wonder—"

Then the detail caught her eye.

"Wait… is this—?"

No more than the size of her thumbnail — elegant, delicate, work that spoke to the jewellers talent and care for their craft — it was a pair of halla horns worked in delicate filigree, joined around a single embrium flower. The heraldry of clan Lavellan.

Tears pricked her eyes — "Oh, Josie," — then fell upon flushed cheeks. Unashamed by how much the gesture had moved her.

While she anxiously rubbed a thumb across her knuckles, Josephine was all smiles for the reception. "I know the adjustment to life as the Inquisitor has not been a painless one," she explained, "You handle it with such exceptional grace that it is easy to forget how far this position and its responsibilities have taken you from your home. Since your tattoos were removed I wasn't sure of your feelings for your clan — though you have always spoken kindly of them, and they of you, when they write. Still, I thought you might appreciate the connection to them while you're at the palace. I know it's not the most comfortable event. Please, do not feel obligated to accept it if it causes you any grief. I would never want for you to—"

There was no need for any rationalization. Ellana would not tolerate even the barest hint of apology. Not for this. The dress bloomed as she spun and threw her arms around Josephine's neck. Buried her head against her shoulder and pulled her into an embrace tighter than any she'd ever given.

And when she hugged her back, the tears feel freely.

"It's perfect," she whispered. "Thank you."

Once more a silence spoke volumes.

It was true: not in her wildest dreams had considered that one day her fate might deign to take her to a place so far, and so foreign. But neither had she thought she'd ever find herself so beloved. The genuine care her companions gave was enough to soothe any wounds the distance wrought. And more, those left on her weary heart so long ago, when she was nothing but a lonely youth with no true family to call her own.

While her spirit was shaped in the pine forests that raised her, love was more abundant here — in the empty mountains — than it ever had been there.

When she pulled back at long last, with her hands on Josephine's shoulders for support, there was no denying the shine of tears in her eyes as well. "You're welcome," she said. And her voice only cracked a little before she was able to compose herself.

A smile, genuine, before she took a cleansing breath. And found a duty to attend to.

In that moment of intimacy they had pressed close enough that her opinion had changed about certain insights.

"But perhaps the neckline is a little low. I will have the shoulders shortened a little… just so you're not quite at as much risk of falling out of it."

Translations:

In'nuis garahnen vun = Burn everything/it all in the sun!

Tel'ha, y ajuathe = Unwise, but creative.

Ar'an'or, Elvhen. Thuast, bellanar atha em'an = We are the same, Elvhen. Though we are separated by many years.