The rest of the journey back to Skyhold was uneventful.
No bandits, thieves, or rifts blocked their way; and they passed no others on the road. Even idle chatter was unusually low, with passing comments on the time left or plans of the coming weeks the only topics they visited. And then only just to fill the silence. It was hardly peaceful.
Iron Bull typically told tale of fights, glory, and questionable anatomical accuracy but those stories were conspicuously absent this time. Instead of his usual crooked grin he wore a pensive frown, and the deep lines in his forehead told of a burden of thoughts too heavy to share, even as the hours without meaningful conversation approached unbearable. Those few smiles he offered were kind enough, but lacked the sparkle that would make them true. The events of the previous evening had unsettled him in a way he did not often show: the late birth of a mage was virtually unheard of. The potential worried him more than that of a child coming into their power. Though he said nothing more on the subject, he kept a watchful eye on her throughout the day. His mind working in the quiet — trying to unravel the mystery she'd become.
Cassandra, too, travelled in stoic silence broken only to suggest the odd break when the signs of Ellana's discomfort became too much to bear. The Herald did not need to voice any complaints aloud, as her grinding teeth and jerky pace spoke well enough on their own.
Beneath the armour she was deeply uncomfortable. Itching, sore, and healing spells or salve only went so far. Every step she took rubbed seams against skin either raw, or new, which either way felt like a rake of claws. Thicker bandages might have helped, but without the freedom to doff her armour and change the soiled wrappings, lest the others get an early glimpse of what lay beneath, she was miserable. By the time they reached the gatehouse mid-afternoon she would have killed a man for the opportunity to get out of her clothes.
The others might have sensed that she stood on the precipice of violence, as they scattered almost immediately upon arrival. Cassandra and Bull to the Herald's Rest for a hot meal, and Solas to tend to whatever it was that had his tongue all day. He'd barely spoken a word in hours. Lost in thought, he didn't even offer a goodbye before wandering off in the direction of the rotunda.
She did not begrudge any of them their quick exits — on the contrary: she was delighted by the opportunity. It left her free to return to her room, call for a tub of water, bar the door, and spend the next hour in blissful solitude scrubbing away the layers of sweat and blisters she'd acquired from the road.
A hot bath was a luxury she only rarely enjoyed in her old life with the Dalish. Once or twice a year, mostly in her youth, a small group of friends would pool together enough coin to afford several nights in a shared room at one of the few inns that welcomed elves. They would take turns ordering pitchers of boiling water and scented oils and return to the clan days later — hungover, poor, and scrubbed raw.
Here, as the Inquisitor, there was less alcohol involved but the bath experience was even better. The slow sink into a warm copper tub dashed with salts and buttery soaps was a decadence she'd come to appreciate even more than a soft bed or the array of dinner options offered by the kitchen. Nothing was sweeter after a long journey… except perhaps sharing it with her lover.
But she'd made no plans to leave her room unless forced, and so did not see any of her companions again that day.
Following the absolutely divine soak she was so exhausted she laid down for a short nap and ended up sleeping straight through until the next morning. The night was dreamless and peaceful. Clearly she'd needed the rest, and so was grateful to have it, but it was miraculous (and slightly suspect) that no one had come to her door before then. Instead, Solas woke her. Arriving at first light with a basket of buttered bread and a cup of tea he'd talked the handmaid out of.
Herbal, mild, and honey-sweet, the drink was not a flavour she normally cared for, but she'd come to enjoy the ritual of drinking it more than the taste. Taking breakfast together in the tower room was becoming perilously close to routine now that she could enjoy the meal.
"She's not the brightest girl," Ellana said upon receipt of the pilfered food. It was still warm from the oven. "But if you keep this up she may come to wonder if you haven't taken an interest in me."
Solas had laid down next to her on the bed, propping himself up on an elbow. "Do you not often take company in your room?" he countered easily. He tore off a small hunk of bread for himself before she'd downed it all. "You hold conversations in here frequently — one more would hardly be suspect. Additionally, you spend most of your afternoons at work at your desk and so are regularly brought both food and letters directly."
Such practiced misdirection. "You've thought about this," she replied around a mouthful.
He smiled. "It would only arouse suspicion if my behavior differs from others'."
"Ah, but they all tend to leave within the hour. Whereas you stay for several, if not longer."
"As do Dorian and Sera, when they visit. Josephine as well." He paused for thought — and a bite — tapping a finger against his lips. "But that aside, they do not leave the same way I do."
"Which is how?"
Dryly, "Carefully," he replied.
She laughed, nearly choked, and grabbed the tea to aid her. Managing a strained, "Point taken," between swallows. When she could, she continued, "Speaking of gatherings, once Vivienne returns next week I was planning on bringing everyone in here to tell them. You're coming too."
That charming smile was gone now.
"That hardly seems necessary. There is nothing I can learn from this meeting and the announcement doesn't require my input. My time would be better spent elsewhere."
"Doing what?"
The answer was too quick to be spontaneous. "Research into the shards. Reading the tomes that came in from Tevinter while we were in Orlais. At some point I'd also planned on finishing the fresco of the attempt on the Empress' life — the preliminary sketch has been laid out for months." He'd thought about this, too.
She gave him a look. "You just don't want to be present when I tell everyone we've been sleeping together."
To his credit, he managed to suppress the reflexive denial on his tongue. Getting as far as parted lips before he stopped himself, pressed his mouth thin, and conceded her point with a subtle nod. "I will admit it is not something I am looking forward to," he said with care. "However, my point still stands: my inclusion serves no purpose — it is a distraction at best."
"Good try," she replied, and took a last sip of tea before replacing the cup and saucer on the nightstand. "But you're acting as moral support. This isn't for you it's about you — in part, anyway. I want you there. Besides, you owe it to me: I didn't request your presence when I told my advisors so showing up this time is quite literally the least you can do."
"Attending that meeting would have been equally as pointless. You were — and remain — perfectly capable of making an announcement on your own."
They'd danced this number before. She was unmoved. "Then you owe it to me for seducing me in the first place."
"As I recall it was your overtures that ultimately led to my spending the night with you."
"You kissed me first," she countered.
The attempt to curb his amusement was abysmal. "I was not aware we were keeping score."
"I absolutely forbid you from weaselling out of this."
Pulling rank was a cheap ploy to tip the argument in her favour, but it felt excusable in this instance. Solas was proud — private — and the announcement would leave him open to a level of scrutiny he'd prefer to handle on his own terms. He wasn't going to volunteer unless she twisted his arm.
And twist it she had.
Deeply, he sighed. Resigned. She'd won now and they both knew it. "As you wish."
"Good," she said. Sharply, so the finality was clear, but with enough of a curl to her lips to convey that the pique was mostly theatre. "If there is any discomfort to be had over this experience you are going down with me."
For that he plucked the last piece of bread from the basket and popped it into his mouth before she could snatch it back. Smiling when she flashed him an absolutely rancorous look for his blatant thievery. He said, "If it is the burden of mockery you're hoping to share, I can assure you it will make no difference whether I am present or not. Those with the penchant for it will not be so quick to leave it at the door."
The subtle, sour, note in his voice hinted of some experience with the matter. And there was only one person she could think of who had both the information and the disposition to harass him.
She grinned. "Has Leliana been bothering you lately, Solas?"
The glare that followed might have been intended to convey the weight of his displeasure, but succeeded only in making his exasperation that much funnier.
"She is insufferable."
It was the gravity in his voice that really sold it.
Ellana coughed to stifle a giggle. "What has she done now?"
"Most recently? There was a scroll case waiting on my desk when I returned yesterday. The accompanying letter explained that she'd been sent a portrait draft — unprompted, she'd have me believe. The work of a painter named Lebasque in Orlais." He gestured to her with the crust of stolen bread. "It featured the subject, yourself, seated on a throne in the nude. Drawn by someone who has clearly never laid eyes on you. For reasons I cannot fathom this man's work is in high demand; apparently the gift carries some clout. She had asked for my opinion on it as an artist."
It was hard to condemn a prank so well suited to ruffle his feathers. The image of him unwrapping a salacious canvas in the middle of the rotunda and then being honour-bound to study it was one she would have loved to witness herself.
Her grin only widened. "Well, don't leave me in suspense — did you give it?"
And, oh, there it was: that flash of clever playfulness she loved in him. A rare twinkle to his eye and a little curl of one side of his mouth as he suppressed a smile. "I wrote that, among other liberties he'd taken, the flare of the hips was too wide and the breasts lacked weight."
She laughed, and her delight was so infectious he could not help but join her.
Later, she would ask to see the scroll (he would not call it a 'portrait') — a request he refused on principle — and so decided to look for it herself. The ensuing search of his desk eventually led her to discover that he had several works of his own hidden away in a drawer. A locked drawer initially, but she had no reservations over picking it. Inside was a handful of rolled notes that appeared to be written in oddly fragmented, non-sensical, Elvish, and beneath those a small stack of drawing papers.
His projects were normally large and sprawling. Full of sharp angles and blocks of colour. This was the first time she'd seen such intimate pieces in his hand. Every one was of her.
Far less explicit, though somehow more revealing, longing was clear in every stroke.
In one, she sat on a rock by the riverside, bared feet dangling in the water. In another she took a battle-ready stance, her eyes hard and bow drawn. That one was bordered by two other busts depicting her nocking an arrow, then releasing it, creating a sequence of action. A third image simply showed her speaking with Cole by a fire — smiling warmly.
In all, the drawings numbered over a dozen. Each was dated in a bottom corner — some going back further than they'd been together. When flirtation was coy and new, and glances stolen. He'd clearly spent more time studying her than she knew.
Most were scenes of quiet contemplation, glimpsed without her knowledge, but one in particular made her stop and stare. It was a quick, messy, sketch of her standing in camp only half-dressed. The view was from behind, her arms raised to tie her hair, facing a rising sun. Though clearly drawn in a hurry, such care was paid to the lines of her neck and shoulders. The dip of her back, and the spray of freckles across her arms. Muscle and shade had been smudged in with a thumb, and the paper beneath thinned from repeated strokes, as if he'd carved her figure himself… traced the lines over and over until he had her every curve memorized.
No one had ever looked upon her with that kind of care. Suddenly she felt a bit guilty for snooping. She was tempted to take the drawing for herself, but instead put everything back the way she found it and re-locked the desk. Erasing all evidence of her trespass. She would leave him his devotions.
When next he came to her room to tend to the burns, hands stained from a day's work, she thought upon the sketch as he skimmed them down her sides. Delicate prints of ink, like bruises, left upon her healing skin for each affection spoken in the soft press of his fingers.
She wondered how often he'd run his fingers over the paper — yearning — before the first time he reached for her.
It took a week of twice daily sessions before her wounds were as healed as they would ever be. Only time would completely smooth the rippled scars across her forearms. Though they still stung when she stretched and trained the worst of their bite was relieved.
The buckle mark on her inner elbow never got much better.
She never informed her advisors what had caused it, either.
And it appeared neither did Bull or Cassandra.
She kept waiting for the inevitable conversation about spontaneous combustion to be sprung upon her, holding her breath around every corner for days, before it eventually became clear that they'd both chosen to leave that particular piece of information out of their reports. Why, she couldn't know — she wasn't about to ask them — but their omission granted her the time to think on how best to broach the topic. Discussing it was… complicated. Somehow even more than breaking the news of the pregnancy had been. And a little voice inside her was quick to remind that she'd gone months without telling them one secret and could just as easily 'forget' to tell them this one, too.
By Solas' own admission it was just as likely the inclination would fade away once she gave birth. Which was… what? Four months away? Three and a half? Not far at all. Practically around the corner. So long as she learned to control any outbursts there was no reason to bring the issue forward. It would simply disappear on its own. Besides, there was nothing her advisors could or needed to 'do' about it so receiving the information would only cause needless alarm. The Commander himself had said she deserved to retain some privacy. There were no plans to set tables on fire or shatter guests in the great hall; if she was careful no one else had to know.
The ever growing web of lies-by-omission might as well get another go-round.
And this time Solas had nothing to say about her choice of omission, which was practically tacit agreement. She'd take it as agreement. The only time he spoke to the topic was to reiterate that the immediate goal was in teaching her enough basic proficiency to make it less likely she'd have another incident like the one in camp.
There wasn't movement on that front until the healing sessions were completed and their evenings again free. Then, he revealed what had occupied so much of his attention since their return: a strategy on how best to ask Dorian for assistance.
The way he told it, approaching the man at all required more humility than he'd ever called upon in his life. Not to mention the work that went into a crafting the request with enough misdirection and half-truths that it would pique his interest but not invite deeper scrutiny. A careful balance was required. Fortunately, Solas knew his audience: Dorian was far too taken with the novelty of receiving a genuine compliment from him to ask too many questions.
It was also possible he believed Solas was exaggerating the claim of Ellana's burgeoning magical talent, and viewed the request more as an opportunity to show off.
Still, withstanding the tide of mock-surprise and smug satisfaction that came of tasking him to do something he himself could not took considerable mettle.
Dorian was all flair and glamour when the two met in a secluded, snow-covered, grove outside of Skyhold. Poses and spins as he weighed each of the practice staves in turn; spares that Ellana had taken from the undercroft storage that wouldn't be missed. All either too old, too damaged, or too weak to be of any real use on the battlefield and functionally no different from a blunted training sword. The lot was one of several requests he'd made upon learning he was to be tasked with her 'tutoring'.
Another was regaining access to the wine cellar after Josephine locked him out.
She was still working on that one.
At first, the lesson was mostly comprised of his complaints about the location choice. And when she pushed him for more he doubled down on the griping.
"Have you noticed it's freezing out here? I'll be lucky if I still have all my toes at the end of the day."
"You should have worn better shoes."
"I no longer have any! You vomited all over my favourite pair!" He sniffed disapprovingly. "Never did get the stains out."
Ellana gestured to one of the two staves leaning on the tree behind him. He'd gone through all three several times, twirling and testing their balance, but clearly favoured the one he currently held. "So start me with the fire rune. Surely you won't be chilly if I manage to place a glyph beneath your feet."
"I won't be much of anything after a minute but I'll appreciate the reprieve from the mountain air before I die."
He gave the weapon another easy spin, then slammed the end deep into the snow. The impact sent a spray of flakes into the air, and a ripple of magic briefly held them there before they fell and settled once more upon the drifts at their feet.
He shook his head. "No, if there's anything to this claim then fire is too tempestuous to start with. While easier to summon it's also much harder to control, especially when you're new to magic. This one—" He held up the staff he'd been using and tossed it to her. She caught it expertly in one hand. "—ice, is better. Ideally we'd go with something without a rune but apparently we're fresh out of those."
He took up a defensive stance, his own weapon ready, and nodded to her. "Now then, why don't you try to show me something interesting before we succumb to hypothermia?"
The ribbing and grumbling continued most of the afternoon, interspersed with the occasional meandering story about his own childhood tutelage, youthful indiscretions, and the rare demonstration of actual magic. They traded more blows to pride than barriers. He didn't let up until she'd managed to — rather unexpectedly — counter one of his spells by throwing a bolt of ice.
At his head.
Though the spell was small and weak, her aim was true: a lifetime spent finding her way around a bow had gifted her that. It only missed him by inches, and shattered into water on impact with the tree behind him. The resulting spray soaking both his clothes and face, giving him the appearance of a gawping fish as he stood, in stupefied silence, with his mouth hanging open.
When he finally found his words, "Sweet, merciful, Maker," he breathed, "he wasn't kidding — you really can do this!"
He took the task more seriously after that.
Complaints aside, he proved to be a much better teacher than Solas. By the end of the third day at work he'd managed to coax from her both another show of ice as well as the earliest beginnings of a protective barrier. Though the latter only appeared after he pummelled her with sparks for thirty continuous minutes.
Rather than bore her with lessons on magical theory she'd never use, Dorian preferred this 'death by a thousand cuts' approach to learning. Bombarding her with attacks she couldn't defend against until she was goaded into a spontaneous magical response — then having her harness what followed. The end goal was to reduce the likelihood of unintentional spellcasting — "Sink or swim, my dear," — and with her well of patience already spread so thin the method proved incredibly effective. Initially she'd had some reservations (chiefly, that it was really annoying) but even Solas would admit the idea had merit.
By a week into it she'd learned to successfully throw fire at a target rather than allowing it to burn in her hands. And, most importantly, she'd started to recognize the warning signs of welling mana in response to an emotional disturbance.
Mastering what to do with it once it began to bubble over she was still working on, but Dorian was eager to pay compliment to her progress. She might never be adept as a born mage but at least she posed less risk to the curtains now.
As a side benefit, the improved awareness of magical flow also led to greater control in wielding the Anchor. Typically it had periods of fits and starts not unlike muscle spasms. They were most common in the vicinity of a rift, but sometimes happened for no discernible reason at all. Either way: a painful symptom of the slow, inevitable, breakdown that Solas warned would befall her. Since she started spending her afternoons with Dorian she'd experienced less of them. When she mentioned it, he was unsurprised, reasoning that all magical command was linked — regardless of origin, element, or speciality. Learning to raise barriers and throw lightning would be just as beneficial as hours spent closing rifts. Practice was practice: the details didn't matter.
He never did ask for a proper explanation of how magic had managed to manifest so late in life.
As was typical, she didn't offer one either.
The Anchor was uncharted territory, and in lieu of proper study it was easy to put any suspicions to bed with a hand-wave of, 'weird Anchor stuff'. Deceiving him was a necessary evil; unavoidable unless she had the mind to tell him everything. Pulling one loose thread would unravel the whole mess — Fade to Fen'Harel — everything was connected.
She hoped one day she could say it all.
Far in the future, maybe… when the state of the world did not feel so uncertain, and the breakneck pace of their lives slowed down.
If she was still alive. If they all were.
Until then, truth was strictly rationed; meted out in small doses only to those who absolutely required it. For the rest: a careful balancing act of story and song.
Fortunately, that burden was about to get one lie lighter.
On the day the fateful meeting was to take place Josephine was kind enough to clear almost every engagement from her schedule — freeing up the hours for Ellana to prepare however best she could. The intent was to grant her time to relax and think carefully upon her words but she was far too restless to sit around. Instead, she spent the morning hand-delivering messages to her friends telling them when and where to congregate that evening, then running away before they could ask her any follow-up questions.
The timing was Leliana's idea: it would happen just before dinner was served, when the great hall was emptied out. Soldiers and guards were changing shifts and visitors were on their way to the Herald's Rest or the guest quarters. Most of the castle's staff would be assisting in the kitchens. There would be few — if any — left to witness the strange, secret, gathering of the Inquisition's most important members.
The only obligation that couldn't be moved to a later date was the healer's visit, which she was told had been set months in advance, and so resisted any attempts to postpone it. Looking back later, this seemed less a problem of schedule conflicts and more about obstinance. The healer visited on her schedule, solely and exclusively, no matter where she travelled. All patients were equally inconvenient.
The old woman — Helena, she recalled — came even better prepared this time than the last. Her ratty physician's bag packed to the brim with vials, reagents, and tools. Deep reds and polished silver haphazardly slipped into pockets already stuffed full with folded parchment. There was far more than what one might assume was needed for a single afternoon. She'd packed for all possible outcomes, having left Ellana with several to choose from when last they spoke.
She let herself into the tower, much as she had the first time; just walked up the stairs upon finding the door unbolted. Waiting for neither invitation nor greeting.
No time for decorum. No care for etiquette.
Her audacity came as both a comfort and a phenomenal test of patience.
Ellana had spent the last several hours bent over her cursive practice, enjoying the quiet, and so hardly noticed the courtesy knock before the squeal of unoiled hinges alerted her to a guest. She scrambled for the wrap slung over the back of her chair to cover herself. Barely managing a strained, "Who's—?" before a familiar head of wiry grey hair cleared the landing and she could pull her heart from her throat.
Helena was, predictably, unmoved by the poor welcome. "You're coming along nicely," she commented as she crossed the room, offering only a cursory glance. "Even got a few curves on you now. Bones like a bird last I saw you. Was it the tonics that did the trick? Any one better than the others?" She did not stop talking long enough to allow an answer. Instead ordering, "Over here, get up, let me look at you," somewhere in Ellana's general direction. Then she heaved her bag onto the bed and fumbled with the latch.
Full to bursting, it breathed forth a gout of paper once opened. Dozens of little scraps caught the drafts and scattered. Like caged birds set free, notes and secrets flew into corners and toward open windows. Leaving the scent of earth and dried lavender behind them.
Helena cursed them for escaping. Feebly snatching at the air — "Blast it all!" — but scolded Ellana for her attempt to help. Shook a gnarled finger. "You lay down and take your bindings off! Mind I don't chase you out from behind the curtains, too. Your type always got a dozen things to do and no time to do them. If I let you start we'll never get done."
She did as she was bid. Sat on the edge of her bed and unlaced her corset, but assured, "I have the afternoon clear. I'm in no rush."
Helena snorted. "I am."
Perhaps the bursting bag wasn't just a matter of over-preparedness after all.
"Do you have other patients here?"
The question was answered with another posed. "Did you think I came all this way just for you?"
Ellana blinked. "Well… yes, actually."
In a surprising show of agility for a woman her age, the healer dropped to hands and knees to sweep the notes out from beneath a table. Instructions, ingredients, doses; all writ in her coded shorthand not even the most learned scholar could hope to decipher. She shoved them, clumsily and crumpled, into her pockets. "Got others to see after you and at least one more in your condition. Busy day. Here for two then gone again."
There was a beat of silence while she absorbed that.
"There are other pregnant women? In Skyhold?"
The populace was mostly soldiers and servants of the Chantry, neither of which seemed likely candidates. Beyond that were the few dozen staff; merchants, handmaids, cooks and tradesmen, and the odd traveller overstaying their welcome. There were only a handful of civilians. Those who'd come from afar to support a loved one in service to the cause. She'd seen no children; none who were permanent residents, anyway. A fortress in the middle of the Frostbacks seemed a poor place to try and raise a family.
Suppose I'll know soon enough myself.
Helena pulled herself back up with a mighty heave and a groan to match. Old bones clicking as she went. She gave Ellana a knowing look — then a shove as she approached the bedside — encouraging her to lay back. "It's a mite drafty here, my dear," she said. "You aren't the only one who thought to bring someone to your bed to keep it warm. Tents are cold, and war makes for lonely hearts. Ripe spring this year." Then she added, "Won't be telling you who though, 'fore you ask."
"I wouldn't have," Ellana lied. She was dreadfully curious.
"Of course not," Helena replied, and the curl of a thin lip betrayed the deadpan delivery. She lifted Ellana's shirt and laid frighteningly cold hands upon her middle. More roughly than she'd like — she remembered this from last time, too — digging into her hips and under her ribs. Once she found what she was looking for she walked two fingers up the darkened line drawn down the centre of her stomach, following the curve of her womb. Counting each step as she went. "Your time will come before theirs, though. You're about seven months now."
"Six," Ellana corrected.
"Seven." She did this the first time, too. "If he's human — six and a half."
"I don't believe I told you either way."
Belatedly, it occurred to her she probably should. It might be relevant to care.
But, "I don't believe I needed your answer," Helena quipped in return. "Doesn't change much if you're unsure or keen to him to yourself. Fighters have too much muscle on you to properly feel anyway. I'll know for sure once they arrive if they was early or late. But any healer worth their salt can offer a fair prediction. Been doing this a long time Herald, and when your pains come with the first thaw you'll owe me a sovereign extra for your cheek."
It was almost charming. Ellana smirked. "What will you owe me when it comes the month after?"
"The reputation I staked on it. A hundred came before you and a hundred will come after; I've yet to be so far off. Mark my words, you won't make it to the end of Cloudreach. Not when you're this high in Wintermarch."
The depths of her confidence was inspiring.
"Though you are a little thing. Even for an elf." She held up her hands, hip-width apart. Squinted and said, "You Dalish folk are a mite leaner than your cousins in the city. No tattoos, but I can see it by your bones you were raised wild. Already too full for a good meal. Can't be comfortable with those bindings on day in, day out. It's a wonder you can still breathe!" Deep-set eyes flicked to the corset that lay next to her on the bed. Metal grommets strained by the tight-lacing, quite literally tearing at the seams. "Won't be much longer 'til it does you no good at all."
"Comfort isn't exactly the goal," Ellana answered between a grunt and wince. Helena drove in a finger and thumb particularly deep. Wiggling them back and forth, searching, like she was trying to find a way inside from the outside. Ellana could only withstand it for so long. More pressing than the discomfort was the novel and alarming threat of wetting herself. "That's really quite uncomfortable — is it entirely necessary?"
Helena did not let up. "For mapping, aye. Could come in from the bottom if you'd prefer it."
"Carry on."
It only took a moment longer to find what she'd been searching for.
"Found a back—" she said and slid a hand up and down, just left of the middle, tracing the shape within. "—was looking for the head too; think I've got it here. Good and nestled in. If it stays this way through the end your birth will be a quick one. Must be feeling plenty of elbows — you don't offer much room to stretch. You get much turning?"
She had no idea how to even begin to answer that question.
Fortunately Helena moved on to a more pertinent one before she was expected to. "Never did answer me about the tonics."
True honesty would require telling a story she was quite sure the healer had never heard before, in spite of her years at the trade. All the experience in the world couldn't prepare her for delivering the bastard child of an ancient Elvhen demigod.
Careful omission would do fine. So, "No, it wasn't them," she answered. "It's just gotten easier over time. It's fading as I go; I keep down most of my meals now."
Helena nodded approvingly and — finally — stopped her prodding. She pulled a hand-bound book from one of her pockets (losing some more scraps of paper in the process), and took a few notes against the beside table. If she strained, Ellana could only just make out the beginnings of a word or two on the top of the page before it was stowed again. Denying her the opportunity to satisfy her own curiosity.
If the healer noticed her prying she said nothing to it. "Just a few more things and then you can go back to your paperwork, Herald. First: I'd recommend you be moved to your birth house no later than the first week of Drakonis."
A month earlier she'd have thought to leave. "So soon?"
The wrinkles around Helena's eyes deepened with a smile, but the flash of yellowed teeth did not convey kindness as much as incredulity. "You travelled much in this state?"
"Not much," she replied honestly. "It's getting more difficult."
"Aye, and it'll only get worse the further in you get. Days on horseback, even in carriage, is not something you'll want to volunteer for at the end — it's a sorry state to find yourself full to the brim and your arse too sore to even stretch your legs.
"More importantly, you won't make it to Bloomingtide, as I said, so don't plan on leaving when you've got no days left to spare or you'll sorely regret it. I've delivered on kitchen floors and in garden beds but I prefer not to strain my back crawling into whatever watery ditch you end up in if you leave too late. Besides—" her gaze slid to the corset and back. "—this seems a secret you're meaning to keep, so it'll serve you better to sneak away from prying eyes before you drop."
It was a fair point.
She didn't care for it, but it was fair.
The timetable of tasks to be done and plans to be put into motion would need to be moved up, which was inconvenient, but for that she had no one to blame but herself.
She didn't like that much, either. So she chose to simply nod her agreement.
It had almost been a normal conversation with the woman. Until she said something bewildering again. "In the time you've got left you should be bringing down the collar of your shirts, too."
Try as she might, Ellana could not connect the thread of conversation between those two points. She made a guess: "For feeding?"
There was a bark of laughter. "If you like! But it's mostly for the look-sees. The polite will look away but the curious will have something else to ponder, and when they think back on you they'll remember the shape of your décolletage and not your middle. Hide in plain sight, I say. Your suitor still come by?"
There'd been barely enough time to register the suggestion of weaponizing her cleavage and so she did not immediately answer the question.
No matter, as Helena took her stunned silence for confirmation anyway.
"Then he gets an extra treat, too. Everybody's happy."
"And this works?" She was only half-convinced.
"Every time," Helena affirmed. She began rummaging through her bag, holding up a series of colourful vials to the light streaming in through the balcony, humming thoughtfully, then tossing them aside. Half the bag was spilled upon the duvet before she found what she was looking for. "A-ha!"
She produced a round, dark green, bottle with a faded label and passed it over. "Carry this once you travel to the birth house. Shepherd's purse and amrita vein: smells bad, tastes worse. Drink the whole thing and chase it with as much water as you can stomach. Good for helping you not bleed to death if I'm late to tend you or your cunny's cleaved in twain."
She held up another that looked like an draught of watery grass. "This one's comfrey and roots; comes after. Don't drink it, though. Good as a poultice for anywhere that's sore." That one was tucked into Ellana's elbow.
A third — "Angelica, in case the afterbirth is shy," — was balanced on top of the previous two. "Now I'll be coming to join you in the end, though I don't know where they'll keep you yet so mind you have these close for me. I like to travel light. And if the babe is too eager to wait 'til the end make sure to send a raven when it looks like you've sneezed your breeches."
Mystified, "When I've—" she began.
"Sneezed, that's right. You'll know it when you see it. Ain't much else you can confuse it for."
After a pause, "Right," Ellana said flatly.
"Right," echoed Helena, and she scooped the discarded vials back into her overstuffed bag and closed it with a snap. A few potions lighter, yet somehow no less full. "If you've got no more for me I'll be leaving to get to my next." She bowed her head; an attempt at deference that utterly failed to look even close to genuine, and, "Herald," she bid.
As before, she did not wait for polite convention like being shown the door or properly dismissed. Instead, after a cursory scan of the room confirmed she'd not left anything behind, she descended the stairs to let herself out. Leaving Ellana with the armful of unlabelled bottles and a number of questions she hadn't quite managed to ask.
With her eyes cast down at the papers she was still tucking into her bag, Helena did not see the person waiting just outside the door when she opened it. Standing, poised, with fist raised ready to knock. She ran into them — stumbling backward from the impact. Almost falling, saved only by their quick reflexes.
"My apologies," Solas said, and steadied her with a hand on her shoulder. Once she'd recovered from the shock he bent to retrieve her dropped bag. "I did not see you — are you alright?"
Helena accepted the bag, but paused with her fingers on the handle, using the opportunity to give him a long look up and down. Her gaze shamelessly lingering on the points of his ears. "You are a tall one," she said, instead of thanks.
It wasn't readily apparent if the observation required his input, but her use of emphasis suggested a familiarity between them he could not immediately recall.
"So I've been told," he said mildly.
She made a thoughtful noise and muttered something — too quiet to make out.
Though he prompted her, "I'm sorry?" she did not repeat it. Nor offered him any additional insight. Only stepped around him and then made her way toward the great hall. Leaving him standing before the door left ajar so he might invite himself in just as she had done. Propriety was not a standard he was keen to disregard, though: only once the woman had disappeared from the connecting hall did Solas give the door a quiet knock. Then, upon hearing Ellana's acknowledgment, he stepped inside. Assuring it would close behind him.
When he reached the top of the stairs, "Was that the healer?" he asked. She'd mentioned the old woman in passing.
Ellana removed the key from the lock on the long desk drawer and stowed it in another. The vials within were beginning to pile up: she'd used little of them. "Yes, the midwife. She's a bit odd."
"I noticed."
Solas joined her at the desk, and once close enough for the opportunity, ran his hands along her arms and gently lay a kiss upon her shoulder. Smiling, when she hummed contentedly. But the moment was short-lived. "What did she say?"
Ellana sighed. "That I'm to move to a birth house by the first week of Drakonis. I'd be staying there until several weeks later, I assume. I hope not months. Or, maybe that's appropriate. To be honest I've no idea how the 'after' part works."
"While I'm no expert," he cautioned, "I imagine it is better to err on the side of too much time than too little. Though it does seem early. Did you not say it was closer to the end of spring?"
"She disagrees," she replied, and rolled her eyes. "I think it's a matter of professional pride. I'm fairly certain I know when this happened, in spite of her estimate, and it would put me somewhere near mid-Bloomingtide. If she's right the timing would be ideal, but if I'm right I'll be bored to tears for sitting around… waiting." She threw up her hands, turning within the brace of his arms so she could face him.
Solas' gaze drifted as he considered. "I will need to bring more materials than I'd originally planned on. I'd only anticipated being away a short time. The added weight may require an additional mount or pack horse for the bags, which limits us to the road."
She blinked. "You plan to go with me?"
His eyes snapped back to hers. Brow lowered — he almost looked offended. "Why would I remain at Skyhold?"
He did have her there; she hadn't really thought about it. "I… suppose I just assumed. It's what is typically done."
Softer, "Being the status quo does not make it the better option. Barring any personal objections you might have, I would stay with you for as long as possible," he said. "Even beyond being your lover, I would prefer you not be without a mage capable of administering healing spells. Childbirth is a difficult ordeal and—" He paused to take note of the odd, amused, expression she was suddenly wearing. "What is it?"
"'Your lover'?" she repeated.
A brow raised. "Is that not accurate?"
"No, it is. I just don't think I've ever heard you refer to yourself that way before."
A small smile followed. "Would you prefer something different?"
"It's not a matter of preference," she corrected, so he would not mistake the query for disapproval. "Though I am curious what you would call this — me — in your time."
Before answering he took hold of one of her hands. Laced their fingers together so he could lift it to his lips and kiss it softly. "Ma vhenan. Ma shiral."
She gave him a wry smile. "That's much more romantic than 'person I'm having sex with'."
"I have always considered 'lover' to mean, 'person I am in love with' but I suppose either definition works in this case. On that note, I'm curious about something you said: that you 'know when this happened' — you were referring to conception? Is that possible?"
He was never so full of eager curiosity as he was when asking questions about her experience. There were so few things he'd not lived himself — it was always a joy to offer him something new. For this he had no history to draw upon.
"I can't know for certain, of course, but call it an educated guess. The timing lines up, anyway…" There was a bashful pause. She rubbed at the back of her neck, suddenly feeling rather awkward. Began, "It's funny, because you've always said it was such a foolish thing to do—" but never finished.
The door to the tower swung open with a whine and a familiar voice called out, "Are you decent?"
Sera waited at the bottom for exactly two seconds before stepping in and climbing the stairs.
"Doesn't matter — coming in anyway."
Her footfalls were heavy and slow on the stone tiles, so by the time she reached the top Ellana had re-wrapped her belt and Solas had enough time to retreat to a respectful distance. Standing near the bed with his hands clasped behind his back. Sera gave him a brief nod to acknowledge his attendance, but no other greeting.
"Why are we all meeting in here and not the war room anyway? Don't think we've ever done it before. Is this some sort of a surprise party? Someone's birthday?"
"Not quite," Ellana replied. Then, under her breath, "Not yet."
"Whose birthday? Is that why we're here?" Varric was next inside, right on Sera's heels. The door hadn't even had a chance to close yet. His climb was a little less graceful — he was neither as elegant nor as appreciative of the deep-set stairs in the tower — and once at the top he leaned heavily on the banister. He gestured to Ellana with a thumb. "Your birthday?"
"It's not my birthday."
Sera walked over to the ornate chaise lounge set against the balcony rail and dropped herself upon the cushions. The impact skid the wooden legs over a bump in the floor. She stretched out, crossing her ankles over the opposite arm and folding her hands behind her head. "You haven't had one in a while, though — not since we baked that cake."
"That wasn't for my birthday," Ellana informed, "That was just a cake."
"Oh." Sera frowned. "Is it coming up, then? Must be. Did we do something for it last year?"
"Not that I remember," Varric answered for her. "When is it?"
"That's a complicated question: I don't technically have one."
Sera wrinkled her nose. "How d'ya not have a birthday?"
Varric looked just as interested in this answer too. Ellana sighed. "Because I was adopted into clan Lavellan after my parents were killed. I don't remember anything from before. The only 'day' I know is the one on which they found me." She shrugged. "It was more celebrated as a nameday than a birthday, though."
Downstairs, the door clicked softly as it came to rest in its frame, and then immediately opened again.
Sera sat up a little straighter. "Wait, does that mean you don't know how old you are either?"
"No, I know," she answered. Then, on second thought, "Well, within a few years. I was three or four, and I spent almost thirty-one summers with the clan before the Conclave and two here since, so—"
"But you've said before you were starving, right?" A shared history of food scarcity was something they'd discussed before. "What if you were just really scrawny for a ten year old?"
There was a pause. "I feel like I would know if I'd been ten."
Dorian had arrived now, half-way into the conversation but perfectly comfortable to drop himself into it regardless. As he swept across the room he added, "Well, I've always thought you looked lovely. And for forty? Elves age so gracefully — can't say you look a day over thirty!" He found a spot by the hearth and held out his hands to soak up the heat, frowned, then surreptitiously flicked a wrist to stoke the fire brighter.
"Better than dwarves," Varric snorted. "We look forty by age 12." He scratched his chin. "It's the beards."
"I'm not forty!"
Sera narrowed her eyes. "How do you know, though? I mean really?"
Next on the landing was Blackwall, along with The Iron Bull who followed him in a moment after. Taking the steps two at a time so he'd nearly overtaken the warden once they'd made it up. Blackwall joined Sera on the chaise; asking for a shared seat by way of shoving her legs off the cushions to make room. She made a face, but offered no protest.
He adjusted his armour so it wouldn't catch on the delicate fabrics. "Know what?"
The door opened and shut again.
"Her birthday." Sera called the answer over one shoulder so whoever else just came in would hear it too. Then, quieter, she mumbled, "Or 'nameday' — whatever."
Blackwall perked up. "Oh, is it your birthday? Is that what's happening?"
"No, she doesn't know it," corrected Sera.
He balked. "How do you not know your own birthday?"
Bull opted to stay on one of the topmost stairs so he could lean his folded arms upon the stone rail rather than try to find out which of the fancy chairs could take his weight. "It's not that uncommon. Under the Qun we don't get that kind of information, either."
"No presents then?" Sera's face was a tapestry of emotion. Caught somewhere between sad, confused, and light betrayal. As though this revelation had paid her personal insult. "Getting a present is part of being a kid!"
But he was unbothered, and shrugged dismissively. "We don't celebrate birthdays; just count the years. If you don't know any different you don't miss it."
"We should fix that," Varric chimed in. "Have a party for everyone who hasn't had a chance to celebrate. Goodies, cake, drink, music… could be fun! Anyone else here not know theirs?" He nodded at Solas, now leaning against a bedpost. "I don't think I've gotten yours yet, Chuckles."
Dorian sniffed. "Mine just passed but I'll gladly take another if it means we can get out the good wine."
"Oh is it your birthday, darling?" Vivienne arrived and slid in past Bull. Taking a position near the back of the room. As always, immaculately dressed in a long, silver, gown and unbothered by the unusual location of the meeting. "You should have said. If I'd known I would have had something brought in from Val Royeaux. I could have my tailor make you a lovely set of blouses, the drape of the ones you've worn lately are atrocious — you must allow me to have it corrected."
"No, that's—" Ellana was almost irritated now, yet couldn't stop herself from laughing. Worse, every time someone else cut her off Solas flicked his eyes toward her, a smile barely hid in the press of his lips. Quietly amused and completely unwilling to offer any help in wresting control of the conversation. "That's not why—"
"She does a nameday," Sera corrected meaningfully — seemingly unaware she'd interrupted again. Then, to Ellana, "Is that much different?"
"We have them in Nevarra," provided Cassandra from the stair. She was the last in, and this time the door managed to stay shut behind her. Only one person left and he did not make much habit of using them. "Not everyone celebrates, however. If you come from a prominent family your nameday is usually associated with a great deed or an event credited to one of your ancestors."
Blackwall made a thoughtful noise, waiting until the Seeker made it to the top to ask, "Is there a Pentaghast name day?"
"There are several."
"Great!" exclaimed Varric. He made a grand, sweeping, motion with a hand. "We can roll it in with the rest!"
Bull turned back to Ellana. "You guys don't have family names though, right? Just the clan? It's similar in the Qun. Is there a Lavellan nameday?"
This was almost on-topic.
"No, we do it for your proper name. It's an old tradition — a little superstitious. Not everyone observes it. Sometimes babies will go several weeks, or longer, before their name is spoken. To keep them hidden from—"
Well.
"—I-it's just considered bad luck. Once it's time there'll be a gathering to confirm it. My name was given to me when I was brought into the clan — so that was what my years were counted by."
Several heads turned toward her. Several breaths sucked in to ask the obvious question.
Blackwall got there first. "You were given your name by the clan? Not your parents?"
Now that she'd started down this line of questioning she was doomed to finish it. But, truth be told, it was likely to be less unpleasant than trying to force the conversation back on track.
"I don't recall what my parents named me, only that they called me 'da'vhenan'. I didn't talk much when I first arrived and the others had to call me something. Keeper chose 'Ellana'."
"Why not just call you Da'vhenan?" asked Sera.
Predictably, Solas did not deign to join the conversation until he could speak to Elvish tradition. "Because it is an endearment, not a name."
Cassandra tilted her chin curiously. "Were you named for someone?"
"No." It was a generous notion — as if a ward would deserve such an honour. "I wasn't: it's a very common name. There's at least one in every clan. The Arlathvhens — gatherings of many clans — were always confusing. Someone would call out for one of us and a dozen would run over."
Sera nodded. "Cities, too. I knew, like, three Ellanas in Denerim."
There was a scatter of thoughtful nods and raised brows.
Then Dorian clapped his hands, delighted. "Well, this has been the most productive meeting we've had in a while!" he exclaimed. "I've already learned more about you here than I have in the last two years combined — and it's only been five minutes! We should really do this more often."
Varric laughed. "Maybe we should add 'Twenty Questions' to the list of things to do at the birthday party."
Cassandra frowned. Having arrived last she missed this part of the conversation. "We're having a birthday party?"
"Mythal enaste ma halani, it is not my birthday!"
Gently, to smooth her fraying nerves, Vivienne interjected, "Even without the occasion I should get you something. I cannot let you continue to be seen in such drab fashion." She gestured to the thick sash tied around her waist. Chosen only to add another layer to a disguise worn painfully thin. "If you're fond of the belt we can work with it, but let's at least start with another colour. Gold is a far better match for your complexion."
"She does have a point," added Dorian, with meaning. "It's not your best look."
Sera snickered. "Yeah — plus, it makes you look pregnant!"
She was determined for this not to be as drawn out and awkward as telling her advisors had been — there would be no dancing around the point this time. She'd not watch them argue amongst each other. And after the derailments this conversation had already suffered, Sera had given her as good an opportunity as she was going to get to bring it back around.
A deep breath in and…
"That's probably because I am," she said.
For the first few seconds nothing happened.
Then — slowly, and one by one — the statement registered on each face in the room with a look of shock, surprise; and in at least one case, joy.
When did Cole get here?
"Oh," said Vivienne, quietly.
The stunned silences she was prepared for — she'd seen that before. And really, it was the most logical response. This could take a few minutes to sink in. The room might have become oppressively large for it, but she would not begrudge them that.
The colourful range of expressions that followed she'd anticipated, too. From the shifting, uneven, mix of bewilderment and growing alarm in the downturn of Sera's mouth, to the delighted surprise in Varric's climbing brows. Even Bull's subtle, knowing, gaze had made an appearance in at least one or two of her imaginary practice speeches.
Then, abruptly, Sera sat up. Kicking Blackwall in the shin as she swung her legs out — though it did not appear to make much of an impression on him. "What, really?"
"Really," Ellana affirmed. Might as well go all in. "Here—"
Carefully, and with only a moment's pause to calm the trembling of her fingers, she untied the sash around her waist. Then straightened her posture — chin high, shoulders back — and let it drop to the floor. A few eyes followed it down to where it gathered in a pool at her feet, but most were focused slightly higher.
It was, perhaps, the biggest challenge thus far to restrain herself from glancing at Solas then. See if he had crafted an air of thoughtful nonchalance or retreated into the familiar, stoic, façade that was so comfortable to him. He'd barely spoken since everyone arrived and if she didn't know him better she'd say it was his way of mopingfor having been forced to attend.
Even if that were true it would not have been terribly surprising, either.
Unexpectedly, it was Cassandra that threw her.
As soon as the words left her lips the Seeker's eyes went wide with shock, but it was not until she revealed her silhouette was she called to act upon it. The instant the sash hit the floor Cassandra turned, incensed, toward Solas and, "How could you let this happen?!" she accused.
And just like that the announcement was no longer the focus of the conversation.
There was no hope of rebuking her fury with only the blatant double-take Solas offered in response. Blinking, lips parted around a breath he hadn't quite managed to take, and startled into silence by the sheer gall. She'd managed the pull the rug out from under him so spectacularly that he was left at a total loss. Managing only to stammer a quiet, "I…" before she cut him off and launched into a proper tirade.
"She is the Herald of Andraste! Not only a leader of the Inquisition but a figure of great importance — an inspiration to countless people!" She stuttered and stammered. "Your… this… puts her at risk!"
With a thin, nervous, laugh, "Seeker…" Varric began, and made to take a step toward her.
Bull leaned to one side. Stopped him with a hand laid gently on his shoulder. "Give her a minute, she'll spin out."
"What would it cost us if she was forced to step down for your whim?" Cassandra took a step closer to Solas — and he very nearly took a step back — she gestured wildly, though her focus never wavered. "No one else can wield the Anchor and no one has galvanized the forces of the Inquisition better than she has! The fight against Corypheus, the Avaar contacts, the opening of trade roads, Orlais' civil war… She is crucial to all these successes! Her legacy may be young, but it is powerful — blessed by the Maker! That already makes her a target of opposing powers. Any child she bears will inherit the same burden, yet there is no consequence to you at all!
"And what would become of them should something befall you both? Who would take them in? What family do you have who would step forward? They could spend their entire lives at risk of reprisal from opponents and radicals if their origins were known! Do you know what that is like for—?"
Then, suddenly, she stopped.
Her expression fell slack; arms slowly sinking against her sides. Better judgement only just then catching up to the wave of righteous indignation that drove her forward and sent her heart careening into her throat.
With the fog lifted it became belatedly — painfully — apparent that she'd delivered the sermon to a much larger audience than she'd ever meant to.
No one was looking at the Inquisitor anymore.
Colour bloomed upon her cheeks. Eyes cut guiltily between Ellana and Solas. Rather than chagrin they wore a matching expression of surprise, staring back baffled and wide-eyed. Somehow, in spite of the nature of the revelation, no one had been more exposed than she.
There was a chair behind her, by the desk.
She turned around and sat upon it — fingers curled to a white-knuckle grip upon the underside of the seat. Shamed by the outburst, she said nothing more.
The tension went unbroken for several long, painful, seconds while the other attendants struggled to process all that just happened.
Then, abruptly, Blackwall shot forward like a man struck. Pointed an accusing finger at Solas and exclaimed, "Wait… you?".
Though Solas offered him no confirmation, the warden took his dumbstruck silence as one anyway.
And then he started laughing.
At first just a hoarse, quiet, giggle he could almost contain that quickly spiralled out of control into a deep, booming, roar. A contagious fit of laughter that spread one by one through the room, starting with snickers and smiles, until everyone had been swept up in the mirth. Some unabashedly, others demurely pressing fingers to their lips to try and cover it.
Only Cole, still unnoticed in his seat cross-legged upon the banister, did not share in the merriment. His eyes darted from face to face, struggling to follow all the tangled threads that spanned the room.
Blackwall scrubbed a hand over his eyes. Managed to fumble out an apology between fits. "I'm sorry— it's just—" He cleared his throat. Tried, and failed, to suppress a smile. "—a lot of things just started making sense."
Before he had a chance to clarify, "Oh, what!" Sera yelled. She threw her arms up. "You didn't know?! Fucking hells, I could have kept that money!" She gave him a shove, but far from shamed, he only fell against the arm of the lounge and started laughing again.
Ellana tried not to betray how hard it was not to join him. "You made a bet?"
"Not about you — it was more about him." Sera nodded at Solas. "You just happened to also be involved in the terms that settled it."
Dorian gestured to her, brows raised. "You knew?"
"Well, not this part!" Sera protested, and folded her arms. Clicked her tongue — a little disapprovingly. "Just that…" She gave each of the accused a meaningful look. "You know. At least once."
Bull coughed loudly.
Not one to waste an opportunity, Varric moved on Cassandra — who had yet to recover from her own indignity. A pink flush still high on her cheeks. "And you? I'm very interested to hear how you know!"
"I…"
The colour darkened to a much deeper shade of red. It didn't lend much credence to the answer she gave.
"… guessed."
Grinning, Varric gestured between them. "Oh, we are having a conversation later, you and I."
"Perhaps if we ever finish this one," muttered Solas darkly.
Now he was moping.
"As entertaining as this has been—" came a voice, and all at once all the side conversation stopped to hear it.
Leliana, along with another figure, had managed to enter the room while the chaos unfolded and make it half way up the stairs without anyone noticing. The Spymaster was leaning against the outer wall, arms crossed, wearing a smile and — more rarely — her hood down around her shoulders. The figure next to her was unfamiliar; their face obscured by a heavy cloak. Only lips and a pointed chin visible beneath, framed by loose waves of deep brown hair. Not unlike Ellana's. "—there are a few points we need to go over, now that everyone is up to speed."
"Thank the gods," Ellana said under her breath. Without outside help she'd have never reined this in. Having everyone gather together for this seemed like a grand idea at the time but in practice was more like trying to herd a pack of wild boars into a pen.
Children. All of them.
They were all snapped to attention now though, and so, "As you can imagine, this changes how things will go from here forward," she said to the room. Then walked to the middle, turning in a slow circle, so she might once more focus the group. She felt oddly vulnerable beneath their gaze with her sash left behind on the floor. It was the first time she'd appeared before them without it. "In particular, the next few months. Firstly, it is imperative this information not make it beyond Skyhold's walls if we can manage it. Thus far we've been able to keep it under wraps—"
"Literally!" Sera flashed a cheeky smile. And a few others followed her example.
Ellana did too. She'd grant them a few jokes at her expense; it would do well to ease the remaining tension. Cassandra still had yet to lift her eyes from the floor. "Some of the time, yes," she replied. "But mostly by cutting back the duties I'm expected to perform face-to-face. Most of the work I've done in the last month or so has been on paper, or communicated by others. Josephine handles a great deal more than she used to — I'm sure some of you have noticed.
"Second, once we reach spring and I'm near the end I'll be moved to a safe house. I'll be there as little as a few weeks, or as much as several months, depending on how things unfold. I won't be alone, of course — I'll have an escort, guard, and healer, perhaps others—" The last point was punctuated by a meaningful look in Solas' direction. His lips twitched but fell just short of a proper smile. "—But outside of that, the less traffic we create between there and here, the better. Otherwise we risk not only my safety, but that of anyone else who might require use of the location later. We only have so many dedicated to this purpose.
"Being away for that long — as well as being seen less around the grounds leading up to that date — has the potential to cause problems. Start rumours we'd rather not empower. Fortunately, Leliana has prepared an elegant solution…" Ellana lifted a hand toward her, granting an opportunity for her to take the reins.
She was quick to grasp it. "Thank you, Inquisitor," she said. Then climbed, smooth and silent, up the remaining steps. Carving a path through Vivenne, Varric and Bull — gathered around the landing — who parted to make room for her and the curious guest.
Once the pair reached the centre of the room, and Ellana had stepped back, the stranger took hold of her hood with both hands and pushed it back upon her shoulders. Revealing a face so similar to the Herald's they could be taken as twins.
Others had the same thought, it seemed, for Cole gave it voice in Leliana's lightly accented cadence: "Not twins — but perhaps sisters."
Leliana smiled. "This is Mirnan, she will act as the Inquisitor's double."
"Mira," the elf corrected.
"An interesting name," Solas commented mildly. "For whom were you intended to serve as vengeance, I wonder?" The question could pass as simple curiosity, but an attentive ear would hear the weight he lent it. Not only to assess whether her bare face was evidence of deeper ignorance of Elvish culture — there was a wealth of knowledge required to fulfill the role of a Dalish Inquisitor — but also to test her mettle. Chances were high she would be subject to far deeper scrutiny than this, either as herself or in the guise of the Herald.
But her answer was quick, practiced; and she gave it readily. "For my mother, messere. My father was neither good nor kind, and she believed I was the one good thing he was capable of producing. She hoped one day I would be able to bring him ruin for his misdeeds."
He raised a brow; consideration in the tilt of his chin. "And did you?"
She smiled, and the expression was deeply at odds with the sorrowful tone she took. Posturing to sell her talent to perform. "A terrible fall. They say it was the drink that did it." She granted a moment for the others to react — exchange looks of admiration or disbelief — then she folded one arm against her chest and gave them all a bow, glancing at each in turn. "Pleased to meet you all."
The resemblance was uncanny; near enough that she would pass easily at a glance. To someone who did not know the Inquisitor intimately there would be no discerning them. Only up close, under a much more careful eye, was it possible to see all the little differences in make and manner that created the hoax.
Her accent was not quite Dalish, not quite Ferelden — but a curious mix of the two. The work of the latter trying on the former, but not quite practiced enough for it to flow smoothly. While it struck an odd chord in Ellana's ears it was not likely to be noticed by anyone outside the clans.
Her hair was looser, but that was easily fixed.
Her skin a shade lighter, which was less easy.
The bridge of her nose was too thin and there were not enough freckles upon it. There was a small gap between her front teeth that, while charming, stood out when she smiled. And she lacked Ellana's distinctive, lop-sided, smirk. But that too could be remedied with a mirror and some practice.
If there was a difference in height or weight it was negligible. In body type they were near identical… other than the bump, of course. Something Mira had clearly been briefed on as she did not seem at all surprised by the image of a pregnant Herald.
Dorian was first to offer comment. "She's—" then, "Mira—" he corrected, gesturing to her, "a fair deception. I don't know that she'll fool any of us, but I imagine most of the populace here will be easily duped. To say nothing for visitors who've had little to no personal interaction with the Inquisitor."
"Begging your pardon," Mira cut in, "but I've already fooled you." And — ah — perhaps she had practiced the smirk. She flashed him a perfect imitation. "When I was in the library three days back and returned the books that had been left in the Undercroft."
He blinked. "That was you?"
Though she offered him no reply, the smile spoke for her.
"I went on for almost five minutes about the state of their binding." He looked, a little mournfully, toward Ellana. "No wonder you didn't laugh at my joke about the leather."
"You give yourself too much credit," Mira countered.
"Ha!" Bull laughed. "She's got your sense of humour too, boss. I like her already."
"Mira has been at the castle nearly two weeks," Lelianaprovided, wearing a smile just satisfied enough to let slip her pride in the plan's success. "During which time she has interacted with all of you in one form or another. And unless you've chosen to keep your awareness to yourself, this makes the deception a rousing success."
"I'll be damned," muttered Blackwall. Decidedly impressed.
But Mira was quick to jump in and correct the assumption: "Almost everyone. It was suggested these encounters happen in the evenings… in case the ruse was not successful. If one of you saw through it, it would be better to happen at a time and place when witnesses were few. Most everyone had regular haunts and schedules they kept to, but—" Her eyes found Solas'. "—I could not find you most nights, as you were neither in the rotunda nor your room past a certain hour. As a result, I was never able to speak with you."
There was a meaningful pause, "It would appear you had…" — and the flicker of a knowing smile — "other commitments."
Sera snorted. "Gross."
But in the time since the conversation had shifted to introductions he'd had ample opportunity to find his footing. Once more a picture of his usual poise and composure, he deflected the teasing easily, and with his own smile to match. Turning to Ellana, "It seems she's grown into her role rather well already,"he noted. "Perhaps we should invite her to join the birthday party."
"Void fucking take you, Solas!"
Another hour was spent laying out the minutiae of the coming months. Changes, conflicts, and the growing responsibilities Mira would take on as the day crept closer when she'd be working without a guide. She had already proven her worth: more than capable of seamlessly moving through the fortress, adopting the look and manner of the Herald so well as to not only fool a casual observer, but her friends as well. All with minimal observation of her target. With the opportunity to meet with her daily, the deception could only improve. There was no worry of her competence.
She just needed a haircut.
Some debate was had over the tasks that would go to her immediately versus what would be worked toward. From the small, meaningless, errands like book return and approving shipments all the way to sitting in judgement or travelling along the Imperial Highway. The shoes she'd fill required some breaking in, first. Over the preceding week she'd had a basic introduction to the ebb and flow of Skyhold's rhythm, the ecosystem made of her workers and hands, but it would take more time spent within the walls to learn every note of the fortress' song. To sing it by heart, and know her secrets — from hidden rooms full of cobwebs and musty tomes to the shortest route from the armoury to the stable. Only once a day spent as a double became second nature could they risk her fully donning the mask of the Herald of Andraste.
In addition to mimicry, Mira was also adept with both a bow and thrown daggers. Though nearly ten years Ellana's junior her experience living on the streets had hardened her. An accomplished thief, she excelled at close combat and so required little training to match the Inquisitor's skill.
By the end of the evening almost everyone had the chance to say something about the arrangement: suggestions, opinions, and a few good-natured jests. Mira rolled easily with the punches — and even threw a few. She made friends easily — a boon, as she'd soon be sharing them.
Among them, only Cassandra remained silent.
Listening attentively to all the plans, but refraining from offering her own impressions. Not yet. It did not feel right to partake in their merriment without first acknowledging the trespass she'd committed. The outburst had shamed her — regret was writ openly in the heavy weight of her brow as she sat, quiet; adrift in thought.
When the meet was called and the room begin to empty she did not rise with the others. They all filed out with a steady stream of salutations and congratulations, offering her no less than four invitations to join them at the tavern, but she declined them all. Not only on account of Varric's obvious intent to corner her for questioning, but more importantly for the chance to speak with the Inquisitor by herself.
Solas was last to leave. He almost did not see her there, still seated by the desk.
Almost offered Ellana a kiss goodbye in his oversight.
But stopped himself just before their lips brushed, as his eyes slid over her shoulder and saw they were not yet alone.
Though Cassandra politely looked away, he opted to kiss her hand instead, then offered a quiet, "Seeker," as goodbye before he descended the stairs and left.
Once the door clicked shut, and only she and Ellana remained in the tower, she finally rose from the chair. Stepped confidently toward the Inquisitor and started strong with, "I would like to—" and then immediately hit a wall. Right out of the gate.
Fortunately, the Herald was patient while she mused. Brows knit and deep in thought, carefully considering the order of her words before ultimately deciding to go with something more simple.
"I'm sorry," she said at last. "That was unworthy of me."
Ellana smiled. Said, "It's alright," and meant it. "I'm not hurt." Cassandra did not seem assuaged by how readily forgiveness was offered her; looking all the more troubled for receiving it. "You didn't say anything I haven't thought — or even spoke aloud — in the months I've had to sit with this. I suppose it's obvious now that I've been keeping it some time."
She ran one hand over the bump, more prominent now with all her bindings off, and the Seeker's eyes followed the movement. Part of her still struggling to process all she'd learned, despite the evidence before her.
"I've spent many nights awake considering every disgrace, dishonour, and missed opportunity this could mean for me."
"The both of you," corrected Cassandra. "You're not alone in this."
Though she'd meant it as comfort, an acknowledgment of their feelings for each other, it did not come out quite the way she'd hoped. Nothing was coming out the way she'd hoped. It sounded more like a condemnation of the both of them.
But Ellana understood regardless. "No," she granted, with a meaningful look. "But you said it yourself, it would cost him little by comparison. That's part of the problem. He's an apostate and an elf: no title, no position to speak of — nothing tethers him to this cause and there are few expectations of his time here. I have everything to lose."
Cassandra winced. "I did not mean to suggest you were being capricious in your role. You have always shown the highest regard for the Inquisition. I trust you would not abandon it easily. And truly, I am happy for you both; that you have found something to nurture in each other amid turmoil is a wonderful thing. You deserve peace where you can find it. I've—" A cough, to clear the shy lilt in her voice. The heat was creeping back under her collar again. "—I know how it is to be swept away."
Freckled cheeks pinked lightly; not so much from embarrassment as charm. The novelty of bliss, once secret, now shared. There was something to be said for the joy of having your love celebrated by another.
Cassandra continued, "I did not understand his anger, before. At camp. Solas is usually so calm. It seemed… disproportionate. I knew, by then, of your affair but I did not realize what he was protecting." She looked away, lest the sentiment sound as awkward as she felt speaking it. "It is clear he cares for you very deeply. That is— I would—" Damnation and fire! "I hope that my words did not suggest I believed otherwise. I was speaking to my own experience, not yours."
There was a pause while Ellana considered her reply. Then, carefully, "I don't think you need to worry about that," she said. It was somehow both a relief and a disappointment. "You've spoken of your parents before, after they were executed. That you and your brother were raised by your uncle. I know your upbringing was not easy.
"I'd like to say that's unlikely to happen to us, but…" A wry smile, to show the intent as gallows humour rather than an expression of genuine fear.
Cassandra tried to smile back — but the subject didn't seem very funny in light of everything. "That is why I would like to formally offer myself. My service."
Ellana raised a brow. "Are you not already in service?"
"When you leave to the safehouse," she clarified. "You'll be in need of a competant guard through the experience; better one less be told the reason why you're leaving, when you can bring someone from your inner circle instead. I am requesting it be me."
"You don't have to make it up to me, Cassandra. You've—"
But, "Not for that reason," she interrupted. Then, "Not entirely for that reason," she corrected, after a time. "It is not only for the road, but also in case something more dangerous should befall you while you are away. I would feel more confident of your safety if you were accompanied by someone capable of dispelling magic, should the need to arise again."
That struck surer, and stopped any further protest in its tracks. The silence between them stretched — too long — over the space of several breaths. Long enough that Cassandra began to worry she'd overstepped some unspoken boundary. This was birth she was asking to be present for, not merely a journey to Redcliffe. She wasn't safeguarding a meeting. Surely an act so deeply raw and intimate could only be attended by those absolutely required to be there.
She'd gotten as far as opening her mouth in preparation of vomiting forth another awkward, tangled, mess of apology and insistence before—
"Request granted."
—and what would surely have been an embarrassment of a reply died on her lips.
It took a moment longer for her to find her words. "I… thank you," she stammered. Then surer; eyes hard. "I will not disappoint you."
"I know you won't. I have always had faith in your abilities — and your opinions — even when you choose interesting moments to offer them."
The flush deepened to a crimson heat, well beyond her collar now and spreading quickly, high on her cheeks. Though it was not yoked with the same shame as before. "I will be sure to give my apologies to Solas, as well."
Ellana laughed, and, "Good luck!" she quipped. "I imagine he'll be avoiding you for at least a week after that. I don't know if you've noticed but he's not terribly comfortable being the centre of attention. Getting him to join this meeting at all required several underhanded methods of coercion." She snorted. "I'll be lucky if I get him in a room with everyone ever again."
Dryly, Cassandra offered a more artful suggestion. "If it would help, I could share with him the theory that you are distantly connected to Andraste's line of daughters. It would make this circumstance a blessing upon you by the Maker himself — and he a holy figure, by proxy."
That almost rendered her speechless. But then she laughed. Long and loud; she'd heard many things in her time as Herald but that was one of the more creative theories to force a Dalish elf into Chantry guise. "That sounds suspiciously like heresy, Cassandra. What would Mother Giselle say to hear such a story utilized just to avoid an awkward conversation?"
A small smile broke upon her blushed cheeks. It lent even more charm to the sheepishness.
"I won't tell if you don't."