"It's been hours," Cassandra lamented.

"It's been forty minutes," corrected Bull.

She scoffed, but allowed a moment's pause to consider.

"It's been an hour."

He chuckled. "Still only forty minutes."

"That cannot be true. It is well past dawn and everything is packed." She gestured beyond the boundaries of the small camp they'd set. Into the trees, where the morning light filtered through the canopy. It was hours to go until mid-day, but the sun had risen high enough to warm the worst of the chill from the air. Soft light at a sharp angle melted away patches of frost that clung to the forest floor, leaving it an uneven, spotted, green.

It was not long to solstice: with the days so short each minute past first light spent lingering at camp felt like a minute wasted. And there were few things that bothered Cassandra more thanwasted time.

"We've been ready to leave for ages," she said.

Bull replied, "We'll be ready to leave when they get back." She thought it too cordial and too patient to be anything less than a deliberate attempt to get under her skin. He did this all the time. His calm against her ire. "The tents are still up — unless you'd like to take it upon yourself to break them down. Besides, I haven't finished breakfast."

Pointedly, "That is your second serving," she countered.

"And I'm not finished with it," he repeated, and took a messy bite of the haunch. Tearing the meat right out of his palm so the juices ran down his wrist and chin. Spreading over his lips, it gave a greasy sheen to the grin he flashed her. "Rabbit is too lean to keep: it'd be tossed out if it went uneaten. Shame to waste it."

"Can you not eat it on the road?" If he intended to down it all he'd spend at least another half hour on the task. "I should just go and get them — assist with the herbs so that we can leave."

"You're awfully anxious," he dodged, a little slurred with his mouth full of food. "Do you have an appointment? A hot date you need to get ready for?"

A pink flush crept into her cheeks, stilling her tongue and the cutting remark she had ready on it.

Kindly, he did not draw attention to it. "We'll be back by tomorrow afternoon, we're making good time Seeker."

It was pointless to argue with him. She stood, and gave the firepit another turn to bury the embers. Kicking at the dirt with the toe of her boot. Before she'd even finished that task she was already scanning the camp in search of another to do after it, too restless to sit around. The problem was she'd handled most of the chores already. They weren't quite ready to go — Bull was half-right — but only the tents and his three more servings of meat remained.

Plus packing whatever herbs the Inquisitor brought back.

Ugh.

He was saying: "We're not passing by another river until we get to the foothills and nothing valuable grows there. It's a tundra. This is one of the better spots for blood lotus and we've been low on firebombs for weeks. Plus, she needs a chance to walk in the woods. It's good for her. And with Solas helping it'll take half the time. You only want to get moving so you can put as much space between you and Orlais as possible."

"Is that so terrible?" Cassandra snapped back. Had not meant to, really, and so offered a half-hearted apology in the guilty look that followed. It was only the four of them now — they had no reason to linger.

Vivienne had taken the opportunity to visit her beloved. She'd be gone a few weeks. She did not mind the pageantry needed to navigate affairs in Orlais. And she always brought something interesting back with her when she returned.

(While Cassandra would never admit it she had put in a request for something featured in the worn, faded copy of The Randy Dowager someone had left in a corner of The Herald's Rest).

Cullen, and the small party of soldiers who'd been their escort, strayed once they reached the border camp. Scouts had intercepted a smuggler on his way to The Emerald Graves, and took from him a coded message that mentioned a shipment of red lyrium going to Jader. They left immediately on a march to the docks… leaving only the pair of warriors, Solas, and the Inquisitor to travel the path back to Skyhold with their few packs of meagre supplies.

On Josephine's order their clothing had been shipped back separately.

There was never an official itinerary to these journeys; no timetable to keep to other than the one Cassandra set. She liked things a certain way — Bull sympathized. And he was patient to a point. A soldier's devotion to a rigid schedule was admirable but an hour here or there would hurt no one. A slower pace kept morale high, he'd say. Gave people the time to stop and smell the roses. Take a break. Shake the rocks out of their boots.

"You're driving it a little hard. Relax. You only think we're starting late because you were awake before everyone else and started packing up while still on watch. Not smart, by the way, if your attention is divided you're leaving an opening." For that he gave her a meaningful look. "Good thing we're not far from an Inquisition camp. These roads are guarded well enough that nobody tries anything, so I'll forgive you."

Another scoff, but not so humourless this time.

"I'm not big on the palace either," he added, tracking her as she circled the camp looking for something to do. Not even a minute passed before she gave up the search and started breaking down her tent. "Can't stand those dress uniforms and Red wouldn't budge on them. Itchy."

That won him a proper laugh. "You only say that because you rarely wear shirts at all. They are not so bad. No worse than leather armour if you wear a tunic beneath it."

"Yeah, but they're hell to put on! The bottom two buttons are just decorative so I had to try and wrestle it over my head every time. Not so easy with these." He gestured to his horns.

"Really?" She frowned. "Mine was not like that. Nor was Cullen's."

He spent a moment absorbing that. Then narrowed his eye.

"Wait — do you think she did that on purpose just to mess with me?"

"Leliana?" Another pause. "I would not put it past her. You did complain a lot about the clothes."

"They're itchy."

"Perhaps you should be grateful it was not worse than that. We were only required to wear the shirt and jacket. The Herald looked lovely in her dress, but it was much more elaborate than the one she was made to wear last time. I imagine it took some time to get in and out of."

"Less time with two sets of hands," Bull muttered under his breath. The comment buried in the last mouthful of meat he tore off the bone. He threw the remains in the bushes behind him.

"True, but Josephine could not be there all the time. For what it's worth I think she and Leliana would also have rather worn something more comfortable, had they the option. Leliana is rather fond of Orlesian fashion… but it is important to keep up appearances. And at least they kept their complaints to a minimum." She pinned him with a look cast over her shoulder, briefly pausing her work. "Even Dorian did not whine as much as you."

"Hey, that's not fair: you're only saying that because he wasn't here to bring the curve up! If he had been, my whining would have barely stood out over all the other debauchery and scheming."

Dryly, "There was quite a lot of it," she conceded. "It is a wonder Orlais gets anything done. Perhaps if you spent more time watching instead of whining you could have learned something useful from it all."

"Who says I wasn't watching and whining? I can do both," he countered. Then he added, "I was watching the whole time that guy in the weird hat was trying to pick you up. That line he gave you about the figs was pretty good. A little direct, but I'll give him points for bravery." His eye twinkled when she met it, but she only rolled chuckled. "Good job not decking him."

That got a smile. A small one.

"It was a struggle," she admitted.

"I could tell."

Her work on the tent was swift and practiced. When the canvas collapsed she dropped to hands and knees with it, crawling as she rolled it into a tight coil. "Did you see anything more interesting than lecherous Dukes? Since our last visit things have seemed quiet in Orlais… I've heard little news." With one hand she held the roll in place and beckoned to Bull with the other. When he did not immediately respond to the cue, she sighed, then pointed at the coil of hemp rope near his feet. Dutifully, he passed it to her and she began tying.

"Nothing worth reporting," he answered. "Although I did notice a couple of the elven servants were a little more hostile this time than last. Nothing terrible, but it stood out. Could ask Solas if he noticed it, too."

She nodded. "They are usually the first to hear of any trouble, and they speak more freely around him. The information he gathered during our last visit was invaluable." With a grunt of effort Cassandra tightened the last knot, bracing her foot against her pack to hold it in place as she secured the tent to the side of it. Then she stood to inspect her work. Wiped her brow with her sleeve. "Though now that I think of it I barely saw him at all while we were there."

Bull huffed. "Solas is real good at slipping into the shadows when he wants to."

"He'd have to be, as an apostate. Were he not so skilled he surely would have been captured by the Circles long ago."

In reply Iron Bull gave only a noncommittal hum and said no more on the subject. Cassandra made another pass through the camp. Bull's eye tracked her as she walked, amused, waiting for the frown that would inevitably follow when she remembered there was still nothing left to do.

It took another minute but she got there.

"Surely now it has been an hour?"

He laughed. Full, loud, and from deep in his belly.

She ignored him. "Solas mentioned something about ruins last night just before we set camp. He said they were not far from the river." The implication was clear without need to elaborate. While he rarely allowed himself to be driven to such distraction it would not be the first time Solas was waylaid by his love of ancient places. They had a way of luring him.

Bull raised an eyebrow. "What — you think he got bored with the herb gathering and fell asleep on some crumbling statuary?"

"One would hope the Herald would discourage such activities," she deadpanned.

There was a pause. And an odd way he set his jaw… as though he'd readied one reply, thought better of it, and decided on something else. Then he leaned back and scratched his chin. "Give it another fifteen minutes — then you can go get them if you really want."

More than the dismissiveness it was the fact that he'd phrased it like an order that irritated her. But if he was surprised by the response his tone provoked he did not show it. "I am not beholden to you," she stammered, flustered. "And I'm not waiting any longer. There's no need to spend half the morning gathering herbs."

"There's still three more tents to break down!" Bull called after her. "You could start with mine!"

She made sure her reply was loud enough to carry back to camp before she left earshot.

"Ugh."

As it happened, finding the trail proved to be a more difficult task than she'd first anticipated. Once she'd left the camp her conviction didn't carry her far. All she had to go on was the vague recollection of Solas' comments as they'd ridden along the road the night before, and an even vaguer memory of where the river was located based on their last time camping in the area.

Southwest.

Or maybe South-Southwest.

Something about a fallen tree?

If he'd truly become side-tracked he'd gain nothing valuable from the detour. Dreams aside, ruins generally weren't a good source of anything other than rashvine… though she could concede his knowledge of herb-lore was likely superior to her own. She lacked the practical experience of one who'd spent years wandering.

It took another ten minutes of going in circles before her persistence was rewarded with the discovery of a cobblestone path. Broken corners only barely visible beneath a thick blanket of moss. Following it was more guesswork than guidance — so much had been reclaimed by the undergrowth — but intuition filled in the gaps time had sown and she was vindicated when that instinct found her standing before the remains of an archway. Roots and weather had torn at the connecting walls until they were indistinguishable from any other pile of rocks. Aeons turned it to rubble; it was easy to miss unless one was searching for it. Only the set of steps rising out of the weeds beyond the arch marked it as having once been an entrance.

The steps numbered no more than twenty up before bending to the right, then followed a sharp descent that led her below ground level and into a small tunnel. There she found a length of rashvine swirled around a column, untouched. Cautiously she pulled it free. Tucking it into her bag with a gloved hand to ensure she did not feel the effects that led to its name. She gathered half a dozen more this way before she realized the whole tunnel was covered in it. If the Inquisitor and Solas had passed through they'd clearly thought it not worth the trouble, so she left it too.

From there the path forward was complicated by tangled roots and rockslides. It was difficult to get a sense of where to head. She quickly lost her sense of direction and gave up on navigating by sight — one crumbling column was no different from the next. Instead, she followed the sound of the bubbling river southward until it was not so distant.

That served her better and soon she found another covered passage to duck into. It deposited her at the mouth of a walled courtyard filled with statues and raised garden beds. Most were cracked apart; now home to trees and bushes, long overgrown.

Her first step into the yard almost sent her reeling as she tripped over an exposed root. A second glance and, no, not a root — blood lotus.

A pile of it.

All the stalks carefully aligned in the same direction. Roughly the size and shape of a bushel one might have carried under an arm and then dropped to the ground. Some were still wet from the river.

When she bent to retrieve a handful that had rolled away she spied a more worrying sight: not thirty paces ahead Solas' staff and the Herald's bow and quiver were leaning against a rock.

Curious.

It did not appear they had been left behind in a hurry, though she struggled to come up with any reason they'd be left behind at all. There were no signs of struggle: no scuffs or tracks marred the path, and Solas' staff had neither the ambience nor temperature indicative of recent use. It was almost as though they'd simply left them there and… walked off.

Nothing about the finding was indicative of danger yet she couldn't deny it was odd. Neither would leave their weapons voluntarily… which meant they could have been ambushed. Or taken. This road was rarely trouble so close to other camps but any negligence of duty invited opportunity.

Bull had just chided her carelessness on watch — she would not be shamed for it twice.

With her hand ready on the pommel of her sword Cassandra took off running deeper into the structure. Around one corner, then two, and the search found her in a narrow yard bordered by several smaller nooks. Enclosed, protected, and above all: private. There, she sighted them. And initially the scene she came upon did not seem so unusual.

Solas was seated on a patch of grass, leaning against the base of a large statue. He was injured. The Herald, crouched over him, tended to a wound on his bare chest. Though not a terrible one: Cassandra could see no blood at this distance. A relief, since neither were in reach of the healing potions stored in their belts… scattered on the ground with the rest of their armour. They were speaking in hushed tones far too soft to hear and she imagined them to be arguing as they often did when one fell to a trap or arrow due to too must trust in their surroundings.

But when the Herald gestured widely in emphasis, then followed it with a touch to Solas' shoulder, he cried out in pain.

No… laughed?

He was laughing.

And his hand was on her hip.

Where are her pants?

It was only then that the reality of what she was witnessing truly dawned and she was brought to a sudden and complete stop. Her legs stopped working entirely.

He was not injured.

At once she was grateful that the Herald's linen chemise was so ridiculously ill-fitted and overlarge for her Elven frame that it reached half-way to her thighs. Without it Cassandra would have had a much more scandalous view of a Herald whose knees were astride Solas' lap. One she'd have plenty of time to memorize over the long and excruciating minute it took to force her feet to obey her commands.

Over that minute several things became apparent.

Chiefly, her gratitude that Bull had stalled her leave an extra five so she would come upon them when they were talking and not… earlier. Next: the casual, practiced, ease with which they'd found a reason to leave camp together had raised no suspicion at all — this was far from the first time they had stolen away. They'd even managed to actually gather a fair amount of herbs first.

But the most significant was his smile.

As he reached for his discarded shirt the Herald said something to him that made him meet her gaze. Whatever it was she'd never know, but the smile he gave her then was not a quirk of the lips or the amused, still-polite, curl she knew well — but a wide, glowing grin that reached his eyes and brightened his cheeks. An unabashed show of deep and profound affection she'd never seen from him before. Nor, really, thought him capable of. While his love of history and spirits could be called "romantic" at a stretch, it was not a label she would use in any other case. She had not known him to look at anything with adoration.

Watching now, as he slid a hand along the Herald's jaw and kissed her, that would have to be amended.

Somehow, more than their state of dress or the closeness of their embrace, the smile was the most intimate thing she'd stolen with her trespass.

For a second moment beyond the first she could only stand and stare. Awed.

And then abruptly the shock wore away and she remembered exactly what she was witnessing.

Dazed and bewildered, she finally managed to command her body to move and was able to turn on her heel and quickly — quietly — head back the way she came. As she hurried past the discarded weapons and herbs another burst of bright and easy laughter followed her through the garden. His, as well as hers.

By the time she made it out of the ruin her cheeks were burning.

Somehow she made it back to camp — though she had no memory of how she found her way there. One minute she was in the ruin and the next she was sitting in front of the firepit. By some miracle her body had managed to find its way entirely on its own. Pleasantly — alarmingly — empty.

Later, she thought that this must be what others referred to as an 'out of body' experience.

Perhaps at some point she would return to it.

For now her mind was such a jumble of fraught accusations, questions, and mortifying imagery that it had simply ceased to function rather than try to sort them through.

She was vaguely aware of someone speaking when she re-entered the circle and sat down on a rock but the words floated by. Meaningless. Lost to the storm of blood rushing in her ears and the heat of a crimson blush that still stained her face.

When her thoughts finally managed to find purchase the conclusion she reached was a startling one: this was no fleeting tryst. You do not look at someone with that kind of tenderness without calling them beloved. His smile had been a vulnerable and deeply private thing. It was lovely. They were lovely. They were happy.

They were in love.

Once that realization struck, and a sordid story began to fill in around it, so too came the questions. How long had this gone on? Did anyone else know? Was she the first to find out? Was she the only one who had not? Why the sneaking?

It could not have been the entire time, could it?

But, no, they were so cold to each other at first that others felt the need to intervene to keep them civil. Maker forbid anyone brought up the Dalish. An unlikely pairing, but there was something undeniably romantic about the idea that love had taken root and blossomed in that frozen soil.

The thought of flowers made her think of herbs. Which made her realize how often they had taken to gathering them on their journeys. 'Just' a quick run to resupply their potion stock. An hour here or there raised no eyebrows. Some mornings Solas would offer to bring another, who would always politely decline in favour of encouraging the Herald — she seemed to enjoy the opportunity more than anyone else. Sometimes she would not immediately follow, instead lingering around the camp to help others with their chores first… but she would always find a way to join later.

A ruse!

It had been going on for ages.

It had always been a ruse! An excuse to find the opportunity to—

To—

"Seeker!" Bull's voice tore her from her thoughts.

He was staring at her. She hadn't noticed.

"What?"

Gently, "Are you alright?" he prompted. One brow quirked curiously.

With her best attempt at a blank expression, "Fine," she answered. Perhaps too quickly. Too stiff. She tried again. "I am fine." More confident this time.

"Are you sure?" Iron Bull leaned forward, lifting a hand from his upraised knee to make a sweeping gesture toward her. "I've been trying to get your attention for a few minutes now."

"Oh." The heat was creeping back into her cheeks again. "What did you want?"

"Did you find them?"

Cassandra opened her mouth to reply but quickly reconsidered. It would not do to speak the first answer on her tongue. A moment passed before she tried again. Failed. She repeated this sequence several more times before finally deciding to go with a firm, "No!"

There was a pause.

"Did you find something else?"

A hush fell over them. All the while Bull watched her expectantly. Patient, but looking less so as the silence stretched on. The only thing assuring he'd not lost it entirely was the one brow climbing ever-higher on his forehead.

"Cassan—?"

"Rashvine!" she blurted.

Another pause. Then, "Rashvine." Iron Bull repeated flatly.

The Seeker plunged her hand into her bag and produced one of the vines she'd plucked from the ruined walls. She held it out.

"Ah," said Bull, inspecting it. "Yes. Rashvine, I see." He narrowed his eye. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"I am—"

But her assurance was cut short by Solas and the Herald returning to camp. Weapons tucked securely on their backs and arms full of the blood lotus she'd tripped over not ten minutes past. They were mid-way through a conversation about the ruin; what might have occupied it in the last age. The Herald gestured to a rubbing she'd taken of an inscription, tied to her hip. Solas suggested she share the discovery with Dorian, as he'd recently mentioned an archivist he knew who traded in such things.

If the discussion was intended as part of the deception it was convincing enough to make Cassandra doubt what she'd seen. Up until they were close enough to see the lingering spots of colour in Solas' face and the grass stain on the Herald's pants, that is.

She gave no greeting so Bull filled in for her.

"There you are!" he exclaimed. For a moment she hoped their arrival might provide a welcome distraction from his interrogation, but then he added, "Cass was getting impatient. She was about ready to go looking for you."

Her head snapped toward him — blinking in shock — but she quickly tempered it best she was able. It was a lie. Though he did not react at all for having told it and gave her no indication as to why he'd chosen to.

Unless…

He knew!

He knew the whole time!

Worse, he knew she knew and was covering for her.

"My apologies, Seeker — I was distracted," offered Solas. He dropped the armful of herbs on the ground and sat down next to it. Starting the careful work of cutting away the stems with a skinning knife pulled from his pocket. He was saying, "A ruin near the river offered such beautiful sights, it would be remiss of me not to explore them. I had thought we'd the time to spare."

"Anything worth sharing?" prompted Bull.

"Nothing that would interest anyone else, I'm afraid."

He made a disappointed noise. "Ah, too bad."

That wasn't even subtle.

After dropping her own bundle of lotus next to Solas' the Herald went to work on breaking down her tent. Barely offering her lover so much as a second glance once they'd returned. There were no sly touches or lingering looks; no awkwardness to give them away. They acted like the friends Cassandra had always known — thought — them to be. She joked with Bull about the third serving of rabbit he was working on. Made a light-hearted comment on the speed at which Solas worked the herbs. An implication was made about the usefulness of his hands that nearly passed as innocent. Then Bull turned it into proper innuendo. They laughed. And somehow no one seemed at all moved by the fact that there were several layers of subtext woven into the conversation that not everyone was picking up on.

Then there was a comment about rations. Another about the weather. And soon they'd all settled into the same easy, comfortable, banter they always did.

All the while Cassandra sat in stupefied silence.

She watched Solas while he worked. Carefully separating each bud from the stem with a quick cut. Rolling the knife along his thumb to split the blossom without bruising so they would keep in the wrapped linen cocoons for travel. Effort that kept his shoulders tense and back straight. The perfect picture of a quiet, reserved, academic at work. So unlike the tender and passionate man she'd just glimpsed.

She found she could not reconcile the two.

They had known each other for two years and she'd never once seen that side of him before today. He was the first to join their cause — willingly, at least — always keen to answer questions, yet clearly much more accomplished at preserving mystery than she'd thought.

"Seeker?"

He'd paused his work.

She was staring.

A vision of the courtyard scene briefly replaced the one of him seated before her. A sight that would surely be burned into her memory forever. Every detail painfully, permanently, recorded: from the rumpled hem of the Herald's chemise to the subtle tilt of Solas' chin before he leaned in.

There was a scar on his side she'd not noticed before. Thick enough to have come from a serious wound, the kind an apostate might receive if caught by Templars perhaps… though he'd claimed to never run into any. If she had any better reason to know of it she might have asked to hear the story. Daring tales of capture and escape were not something she had much opportunity to indulge in but they were always fascinating. She greatly enjoyed hearing them around a fireside. Solas had never shared any.

He'd never shared much of anything, really.

"Cassandra?"

She was still staring.

This was not going to get any easier.

In a rush she clambered to her feet. Stammered out, "I— I will be back shortly." And then, with no explanation or excuse to offer, she simply turned around and left the camp. Her companions left to exchange bewildered looks in the silence that followed.

Her feet carried her as far as a small glen between their camp and the road. Had she the wherewithal she might have noticed it was overgrown with royal elfroot and taken the opportunity to harvest it. They could always use the extra reserve. Instead she spent several minutes standing stock still in the middle of the glade, brows knit in consternation, staring into the middle distance. Trying to string two thoughts together.

The reprieve her escape had granted was only temporary: she'd been followed out. Bull didn't make his presence known until he was right behind her. His deep voice pitched low so not to travel far.

"It's a pretty good secret, right?"

Startled, Cassandra whirled around with an open palm pressed to her chest. Catching a shriek but not quite the gasp so what followed was a choked, undignified, snort. "Bull!" she exclaimed, and then frowned deeply, "Do not sneak up on me!"

He chuckled, raising both hands in apology before folding his arms over his broad chest and leaning against a nearby tree. It bowed under his weight. "Sorry, I thought you heard me coming."

"No, I was…"

Not thinking.

Not doing much of anything.

Just standing there, really.

His grin was a slow, sly, thing that curled up one scarred cheek until he was positively beaming. Smouldering and self-satisfied like he'd won a bet she'd promised to pay dearly for. He said, "I'm guessing maybe you did find them," and the timbre of his voice was so thick with innuendo there was no mistaking his meaning. "Get an eyeful?"

The blush rising on her cheeks answered for her. His grin only widened.

She coughed. Began, "I did not— They weren't— I wasn't looking—" A pause. Then a resigned sigh. "They did not see me."

"I gathered," he laughed. "Would have been a much more interesting scene back at camp if they had."

It wasn't readily apparent if that was something he was grateful for or disappointed by.

"I did try to make you wait."

For that she turned on him, embarrassment fuelling the fire of righteous furor. She pointed, accusing, "You knew!"

"Of course I knew."

It was not the answer she was expecting. She didn't know what she was expecting.

"How—?" The question didn't quite make it past her lips. There was more than one and she couldn't narrow it down to a ranked list just yet.

Flatly, "Spy," he replied. "Even if I wasn't, I can't think of any other good reason why Solas started smelling like hair oil all of a sudden."

Wrong answer. Wrong question. She tried again: "How long?"

His brow lifted. "How long have I known or how long has it been going on?"

"Both!" she blustered. "Either!"

He scratched his chin as he considered. Too casual — he was doing it again. "Hm. A little more than a year maybe?" Then before she could interject, "Same answer, both questions," he clarified. He waved a hand back and forth. "They were off and on for a bit."

"A year?!" It was like he was talking about the weather. Surely this could not be common knowledge. "Does everyone know?"

"Nah, they've been pretty careful about keeping it under wraps. Dorian knows. So does Red. I think Varric might have figured it out, too. And now you." He gestured toward her. "Not sure about anyone else. If they do know they're being respectful about it. Not exactly the kind of thing you want to put on a banner."

"No," Cassandra agreed, and pressed her mouth into a hard line. She could not argue that point. The Herald faced a nation of bigotry and superstition. The hurdles she'd overcome, and those still before her, were innumerable. Taking a lover at all was a foolish choice under such scrutiny — no matter the solace company might offer — finding one in an apostate even more so. "As unpleasant as it is to admit, it would not reflect kindly. I am aware of what prejudice speaks of her. Her detractors are cruel, and unfortunately numerous…"

Savage Dalish. Rabbits. Knife-ears. Common criminals and filthy bandits who spent their time scheming and fucking. It felt blasphemous even to acknowledge the existence of the jeers. Whispered in corners, behind fans, or masks of nobility.

It was inescapable at Haven, when she was little more than a trespasser blamed for the falling sky. Even Skyhold was not a refuge from the storm. Public opinion was turning as news spread of her many deeds but it was a slow and arduous process. The raising of a single elf would not forgive an eon of enmity toward her people. There were still many who'd feel pride to see her live up to their racist preconceptions.

All the more reason to show her support; for all the paths Lavellan might walk she was still Andraste's chosen. Perhaps it would reassure her to hear it.

"Should…" Cassandra began. Hesitant. "Should I tell them?"

The Qunari's lone eye widened. "And miss out on that double-talk Solas does when he thinks nobody picks up on it? Fuck no!" The laugh that followed was deep, loud, and would easily carry back to camp if ears were listening for them. He unlaced his arms and pushed off the tree, closing the distance between them so he could drop his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Did you catch that comment he made last night about finding treasure in Elven ruins? Dirty." Then he waved a hand, dismissing the notion. "Better not to say anything. Besides, I get the sense it's complicated… even beyond the politics. If they're not ready to talk about it yet, don't push them. Let them think they've kept their secret another day."

Belatedly, he added, "I'm sure they've got more than one."

They made good time in spite of Cassandra's grumbling. Though she had little to say once they set out that morning — the ride was unusually quiet.

By evening they'd reached the valley at the base of the Frostbacks, almost a day's ride from Skyhold. Iron Bull spied a rocky gorge not far from the road where they could set camp. Safe and tucked away, with high walls and thick trees that offered enough protection to keep a fire going without giving away their position. A calculated risk: it was colder now and blankets alone weren't enough to ward off the stiff knees and frozen fingers that the chill gifted them. Soon they'd have to start doubling up to conserve warmth.

Fortunately, few journeys were planned once the weather turned and the rivers froze. Too cold; too difficult to navigate the roads. One of the benefits of obtaining a massive keep was the size of its storehouses — and coffers — which provided ample incentive for tradesmen to take up permanent residence. Ply their wares and craft year round. The only regular caravans through the pass during the coldest months were standard supply runs: food, steel, and linens to keep them over-stocked. Meets and plans could wait for the spring thaw.

This journey might be the last any of them would take for a while. A long while for Ellana in particular, depending on how she fared over the following months. The next foray she took beyond the walls would likely be the one to a birth house. Though nothing had been officially planned at this stage Josephine had implied she would be moved somewhere other than a military fortress when her time came. Earlier, even — before her state became obvious enough that a walk around the grounds might risk a rumour. Today she could still bury herself beneath a thick winter coat, but soon enough an extra layer of fur might not be enough to hide her changing figure.

The thought stirred an odd mix of relief and melancholy.

On one hand travelling in this state was exhausting. Not just for her dwindling energy but also for the effort put into hiding herself each morning. Her bindings and armour needed adjustments every week; two spent en route meant they were uncomfortably ill-fitting already. She could barely breathe — gods forbid she was made to fight like this.

On the other, it meant she wouldn't get another chance to wander the woods for some time. There would be no hunting, foraging, or riding through icy rivers on horseback once her belly was tight and heavy. No crunch of the snow under her feet — bow at the ready — while a babe slept tied her chest. It might be the last time this season she set her tent beneath a blanket of stars and fell asleep listening to the crackle of a spitfire. Simple pleasures she craved when the long nights trapped her behind stone walls. Lonely… not for company, but for the trees. Skyhold might be safe but it was also boring. She was far from her Dalish roots, there. Cabin fever was bad enough over a typical wintering, this one would be twice as long.

Perhaps that was why the campfire was so mesmerizing tonight: nostalgia — profound, if not premature. The grief of missing the wilds before she'd yet lost them.

She was tired too, from the long ride, and with her eyes bleary and unfocused the tongues of flame looked like dancing. Leaning, not flickering; bowing to and fro as though they'd been given pattern and purpose. It was hypnotic.

She rest her chin on an upraised knee, one arm wrapped around her leg and the other held out before her. With two fingers she drew patterns in the air: at first following the curves of flame and then tracing the bright orange veins on the logs fuelling them. Their burning cores visible between the cracks in the bark. With one eye closed she could pretend to direct the fire — draw it out, and up. Pull forth a stream of sparks that floated in the air and then settled in her upraised palm. She imagined, for a moment, catching the embers in the cup of her hand and then blowing them away like so much sand. Sparkling as they fell, like twinkling stars.

A lazy turn of her wrist shifted the reverie into something less fanciful: not stoking now, but smothering the fire with a firm, downward push. Taming the elements as if she were a born mage. It was a mere pantomime, but when she moved her hand just so she could block the fire pit with the shadow of her wrist and that fantasy was almost as satisfying as actually performing the magic herself.

At some point she became aware of Solas' eyes upon her. Across the camp he sat with legs crossed before a pile of herbs and linen strips, finishing the last of the preparation begun that morning. Initially Cassandra had opted to help him with the task, but for whatever reason found it too difficult to focus, and bowed out half-way through in favour of caring for her armour. It seemed he was having difficulty committing as well, as Ellana clearly made for a more interesting scene. He was watching her with the barest hint of a smile. Amused. He'd caught her playing pretend.

She'd be embarrassed by the attention if he didn't look so terribly fond. So instead of shrinking away she met his eyes and demonstrated an exaggerated flourish of her wrist and fingers. Imitating the way he moved his hands when he cast. The gesture was clumsy, even for mockery, but the intent was clear as a depiction of magecraft.

His smile turned wry as he lifted a hand, mirroring hers, and rotated it in a slow, upward spiral. Curling his fingers against his thumb and then, at the apex of the movement, spreading them open like a blossoming flower.

'Like this' corrected the gesture.

'Like this?' her mimicry replied. The unfurling of her fingers not quite as smooth as his.

A subtle shake of his head and he repeated the motion. Now with careful, slow, emphasis on the way his fingers waved. He mouthed the Elvish word for bloom — felgara — and this time she tried to visualize that as she moved. Turned her hand at the wrist and unfolded her fingers from her palm like the petals on a sunflower as it greeted the day. Imagining the light coaxing change from her skin.

She could almost feel the warmth of the sun upon her.

And then, suddenly, she'd captured it.

There was a soft crackle and then a tiny ball of flame appeared. Floating in the air a few inches above her palm.

Solas reacted before she did. Eyes wide, he immediately dropped the handful of herbs he was holding and pushed to his feet in the same instant she loosed a started, "Oh!" — the sound drawing the attention of Cassandra and Iron Bull. But unlike them it wasn't surprise in his expression, but pride. Delight, unabashed and unmistakable in the curl of his smile. He approached her in awe: this was a proper spell and she'd cast it!

That joy was infectious — she could not help but grin. Even as the others reacted with alarm.

Cassandra mistook it for something having caught fire and scrambled for her waterskin. In an instant she had the spout open and leapt forward, onto her knees, with a frantic, "Herald!". Ready to either throw the container across camp or try to put her out herself. With no reason to suspect anything other than a clumsy mishap with the campfire, it was only by Solas' quick defence that she was stopped from drenching them both.

With a hand raised, "It's alright!" he urged, and positioned himself between her and Ellana. "It's a spell."

Bull, though, recognized the act as magical even before Solas intervened. Lone eye wide with shock he uttered a quiet, "Oh, fuck," and sat unmoving across camp. Hands stilled in mid-swipe across his axe, holding tight to a whetstone. He had no intention of approaching.

Slowly Solas sank to his knees in front of Ellana, cupping her open palm — flame and all — between his own. Their hands not quite touching. For a moment he was silent, considering, and then his smile widened. "That is… impressive," he praised. The compliment was genuine. "Can you feel the flow of magic as you hold it? The way it pulls from the Veil?"

"I think so," she answered. It was near imperceptible. Less a pull and more of a push — like water, pouring, and gathered in cupped hands. If she thought of it like a physical thing she could almost feel its weight… a little heavier than the air and near overflowing.

"Herald?" Cassandra sounded only slightly less panicked. She'd lowered the waterskin but had yet to cork it.

"It's alright, Ellana soothed. Her eyes darted to Solas for reassurance — he was still looking at the flame. The Seeker was staring too, though far less assured. "I'm alright," she said again.

Iron Bull cleared his throat. "So uh, this is new — right? Since when can you do that?"

"Is it from the Anchor?" Cassandra added.

The suggestion was a good one, and close enough to honesty not to taste bitter on her tongue when she answered, "Yes, I believe so." The truth was far more complicated, but the way the spell floated over the tear in her palm, prickling at something within her, didn't feel like mere coincidence. The Anchor was his magic, the transference was his magic, even what grew within her was his magic in a way. Whatever small acts of magecraft she could produce, even by accident, were part of that. Blaming the mark wasn't entirely without precedence.

She said, "I've been more sensitive lately. To magic. Solas has been helping me try to control it. I've not been able to summon a spell before, though. Well—" The details weren't important. "—not like this, anyway. I didn't think I could. Awareness of the Veil is one thing, but this…"

This was something wholly unexpected.

She rolled her hand back and forth experimentally, watching as the flame followed the movement. Gliding along her skin now rather than hovering above it. Rolling like water — or smoke. Similar to how she'd imagined playing with the sparks just moments ago. Channeling this spell was so effortless she might have sworn she was still pretending.

Most interestingly, it did not burn. Neither was it cool, really; magic was the catalyst not the fuel — when nothing was consumed it would provide no heat. It made a strange sort of sense, though having not grown up with training she didn't fully understand the theory. As a test she waved her other hand through it. Then jerked it back with a pained hiss when, unexpectedly, it still stung.

"It is real fire," Solas supplied — answering the question she'd not yet asked. "But it will not harm you while you are channeling. The act of summoning creates a buffer between a caster and the spell's effects in order to maintain its connection to the Fade; it is a sympathetic exchange. Ice will not freeze you, and lightning will not shock — not unless you stem that flow. Dissolving the connection will dissolve the buffer. However, it does not extend beyond its point of origin unless you expand it. Simply waving your other hand through will burn you the same as it would an enemy."

He demonstrated by casting a flame in his own palm and raised two fingers on his opposite hand, passed them through the fire, and held them up to show her how his skin had blackened. "But if you channel the same spell from the other hand…" This time he flicked his fingers. They sparked. And when he passed them through the fire a second time it did him no harm. Then he began to stretch and roll the spell between his hands. Manipulating it as if it were clay; passing the fire to and fro, growing and shrinking.

He clenched his fist and it disappeared — the magic dismissed.

With a nod, "Try it yourself," he encouraged. "It will feel similar to the way you took the spell from me before we left Skyhold. Expand the connection into your other hand and the fire can no longer hurt it."

She took a deep breath to steel herself and raised her right hand once more — balancing it alongside her left. Though it trembled, both from excitement and nerves, she managed to hold it steady for long enough to feel a faint sense of something there. Not warmth, not like a proper fire, but something like the crackle in the air left behind when the ground was hit by a lightning bolt. A thickening. Warping. A vibration in the space around the spell, like an aura.

The Veil!

Once she became aware of it the whole world seemed to open around her — as though a blindfold had been lifted from her eyes. It had always been there yet she'd never been able to sense it before now. Not like this.

It was just as he'd always said: everywhere. In the air. On her skin. She could feel the way it connected to everything. Pouring from her mark, drawn around Solas' staff resting against his pack, the void around Cassandra. And with that heightened awareness she found she could make her fingers stick against its edge and delicately… pull.

There was a snap. Then a ripple. Echoes of it lapping against her body like rings on the surface of a pond.

Then the flame didn't just shift — it expanded. Quickly engulfing both her hands down to the wrists. Startled, she reflexively flung them outward, fingers spread wide. And the fire blazed brighter still. Surging, until she managed to will her pulse to slow its thunderous pace, and with it the fire settled to a low, persistent roar. Crackling across her bared skin and over the leather armguards she'd not yet taken off for the evening's rest.

While fierce, and powerful, the spell left them undamaged — she had control. She was controlling this.

She held up both hands in triumph, and though proud Solas could not help but recoil when she brought them too close to his face in her enthusiasm. His smile faltered, but for a fraction of a second, and within it she saw a shade of unease flash across his features. But then he gave her a decisive nod and she was caught back up in the excitement of success.

"Very good," he approved.

Ellana turned her burning hands toward her companions so they could share in her victory, but they did not reward her with the same praise. Instead they both looked very, very uneasy. Wide eyes searched her, Solas, and then each other. All too familiar with the terrifying potential of untrained magic users — they were not eager to congratulate her on joining their ranks. Though Solas was skilled, and confident, their trust in his control of the situation only extended so far. Cassandra held herself like a bow ready to fire: one hand still resting on her waterskin and a leg braced behind her so she could leap up at a moment's notice.

Bull just looked nervous. The way he did when they'd first faced rifts together. Or in the Fade, at Adamant.

"Right," he said thinly. He had yet to drop his axe. "That's great. Really great. Glad this is a thing you can do now. But maybe this isn't the best place to experiment with fire."

Cassandra slowly nodded her agreement. Her eyes never left Ellana. "While this is certainly an interesting development, I agree with Iron Bull. Perhaps a more contained setting, with guidance, would be better. And safer."

"Like a Circle?" snapped Solas.

"Like Skyhold," she clarified, not without a note of annoyance at his quick judgement.

"Like anywhere I'm not present," added Bull in a low tone. "Now can you shut it off?"

Solas' expression soured, but Ellana cut over him with a firm, "Of course," and gave him a look that said in no uncertain terms he was to hold his tongue. She knew where he was going with this; there was no reason to hash it out here. The order was heeded, and he offered no more protest, but the sidelong glance told her he'd have words with her over the matter later.

Ellana clenched both her hands into fists — mimicking the same act she'd seen Solas perform to dismiss the spell — but nothing happened.

Confused, she tried again… and again there was no change.

When she tried a third time and the resulting failure made her pulse kick up, the flames surged brighter with it.

Sensing her unease, "You must cut off the flow of magic both in body and mind," Solas instructed.

That sounded like a direct contradiction of his earlier instruction. "Won't that take away the buffer you spoke of? I don't want to be burned," she said, voice rising. She'd never been afraid of fire.

His answer was firm. "You will not be, if it is done correctly."

For someone so smart, he was abysmal at choosing his words for comfort.

"That's not very reassuring!"

The second attempt was better. "When you close a rift you are connecting to the raw energy of the Fade using the mark, not unlike casting a powerful spell, then using that connection to mend the tear. You pull it closed. Nothing can emerge from a rift once the curtain is drawn back over it. The action here is the same, just on a smaller scale. Cut it off at its source and no harm will come to you."

A spell is a window to the Fade — so close it.

She thought of drawing the blinds closed in her tower room back at Skyhold; tried to visualize using them to smother the light shining through… but that didn't seem to do anything either. It was getting harder to focus her thoughts. Now she couldn't remember how the Veil felt when she'd touched it just a moment ago. And the fire was starting to feel warm.

"Maybe comparing it to rifts is the wrong approach," Bull said with a nervous chuckle. "I mean, have you seen the way her hand blows up when she connects to them? Not really the comparison I'd want to make if you're trying to—"

He was cut off when the flames suddenly expanded. Billowing out in two huge plumes that briefly engulfed both of Ellana's arms and licked across her chest. Solas' too, on account of how closely he knelt to her. He was spared a burn by his quick reflexes: leaping backward just in time to avoid it catching on the ragged edge of his vest. The spots of blackened ash on his clothes and the singed edge of his eyebrow said he'd only made it by a hairsbreadth.

He was on his feet now.

The scent of burnt hair filled her nostrils.

She was starting to panic.

"I can't make it stop," she cried. It didn't sound like her voice. More like a child. In that moment she felt a kinship for every young mage that had ever come into their power. This was much scarier than the bed. "I can't make it stop!" She held her hands out toward him in the vain hope he could do something. This was his field, his specialty — he was the expert, not her. She hadn't meant to do this at all.

It was very hot now.

"Solas," warned Cassandra. She'd braced herself in a defensive stance; blindly reaching behind her for her bag. Or shield.

"She's fine," he soothed, "She'll be fine — stay calm," but he raised both his hands as he said it. In defence. In surrender. A submissive gesture that only served to kick up Ellana's heartbeat that much faster — he's afraid — and now the fire had climbed to her shoulders. The leather bracers began to crack and blister, and her hair curl. The smell turned her stomach.

Iron Bull cursed and scrambled to his feet. He took a step back. Fear was not something she'd seen often in the Qunari, but she knew him well enough to recognize it in his wide-eyed stare.

It was starting to hurt. The flame found the gaps in her armour and caught, tearing through the thin chemise and lashing across her skin. She hissed through clenched teeth. Cried out when one of the buckles became hot enough to brand a mark into her arm.

"You can stop this," Solas instructed. It sounded like an order. He did not take another step toward her. "You control the spell, it does not control you — cut it off at its source and the flame will vanish. If you are powerful enough to summon it you can also dismiss it."

She plead, "Solas," and did not mean for it to sound like begging.

"Atisha, vhenan. Bre'odhea, em hartha—"

But she couldn't. And she didn't. The skin on her arms was starting to burn and peel.

She screamed.

There was a flurry of movement and a flash of light.

Cassandra turned and grabbed her sword, planted her feet in a wide-set stance, and then plunged it into the ground with a guttural shout.

The resulting shockwave blew out in all directions. Ellana heard the warp of the air when the wave of force hit her — felt it snap against her teeth.

And then everything stopped.

A/N: Translation -
"Atisha, vhenan. Bre'odhea, em hartha—" = "Be calm, my love. Breathe deeply, listen to me-"