"If those bags under your eyes get any larger you'll need a pair of shoes to match," said Dorian. Loud enough to rise above the din as they approached the bustling courtyard. "And the hood isn't helping matters, either."
Below, swords collided with shields, hammers with horseshoes, and occasionally people with one another as they carried buckets and sacks for morning deliveries. The hours immediately after dawn were always the most lively; every corner of the fortress hummed with activity. A medley of sound, song, and smell. No better time was there to get lost in the crowd than when Skyhold was starting her day.
Ellana pulled her scarf up over her chin. Tucked its loose edges into the collar of her thick coat to keep it in place while they walked. "Are you trying to tell me I look tired?"
He gave her a look. "I'm going to assume I don't need to tell you."
They passed a group of soldiers leaning on the parapet, trading stories and a carving knife. Slices of a fragrant citrus shared between them while they regaled each other with tales about their recent patrol the Hissing Wastes. Someone made an off-colour joke about the Venatori, jabbing the knife into the fruit for dramatic effect, and a chorus of laughter followed.
None seemed to notice the pair, but Ellana still waited until they were out of earshot to continue.
"I am tired. Turns out tying up loose ends so that I can abscond for a few weeks is a big job — who would have thought?" The first part was sarcastic, but the next was sincere. She lead it with a sigh. "I've spent nearly every evening since she arrived training Mira on how to bullshit her way through topics I barely understand myself. Thankfully, she's a quick study and surprisingly good at playing politics. I actually think she'll be just fine when travelling, so long as there are others there to guide her. And she can hold her own against a threat. Did you know she has nearly perfect recall of poisons? She even knew a few I thought were exclusive to the Dalish."
The question was rhetorical, so he didn't answer it.
"When I'm not doing that I'm locked for hours in the war room with Cullen directing troops to investigate Corypheus' movements. Ever since the temple he's been off licking his wounds, and unfortunately every rumour we've chased trying to root him out of hiding have all been a bust. The last month has given us some promising leads, but also the possibility that what's left of his forces may be regrouping for another push… which is something I cannot afford to deal with right now."
"What auspicious timing he has," Dorian commented with a frown. "You don't think that's on purpose, do you?"
She shook her head. "No, Leliana has a number of agents listening for whispers and this one—" she said, with meaning. "—has yet to surface with any credibility. For now, it appears he has more important things to do than send someone to look in my bedroom windows. In the meantime, all I can do is keep sending forces to harry every nebulous report of cultist activity in hope of keeping him pushed back long enough to grant me the time I need to recover."
"Well, soon you'll have a lovely forced vacation in a house in the woods somewhere, and you'll spend a few weeks not having to think about that. Plus, getting eight hours of restful sleep each night. I'm sure it will be just what you need."
Though it was clear he was being facetious, "Right," she deadpanned. "Because that's exactly how that works."
They parted, briefly, on their way down the stone staircase that led into the yard, to make room for a runner carrying a rolled parchment. Ellana paused her descent long enough to watch them disappear through the doorway. They'd passed by without a second glance.
Despite his complaints about it the hood did work: she'd not been recognized.
She nodded in their direction. "Do you think that's for me?"
"Not today it isn't," Dorian replied, matter-of-fact. "Today you're spending as one of the common folk! Aren't you supposed to be enjoying that?"
She was. It was one of a growing many to come where her duties were entrusted to her advisors and her double.
In many ways a relief — it gave them all ample opportunity to judge where preparations were thorough or thin — but in others a bother. Beyond the inherent discomfort of leaving her tasks to another, she'd become accustomed to being busy. The off days were a bit of a bore. There were only so many things to do when one had no job to keep them occupied. Walkabouts had become a good way to pass the time, though her friends rarely joined her on them. Today she'd requested Dorian's presence specifically.
"If it helps," he was saying, "imagine it's a proposal of marriage from some besotted half-wit in Montsimmard and let someone else do the honour of throwing it in the censer."
"And if it's a declaration of war?" she teased.
"Well, they're probably not going to attack until later this evening — who organizes a siege before breakfast? — you still get to play the pauper for a few more hours."
She smirked. "For now I'm merely a tired elf escorting a Tevinter mage through the market."
He considered that. "Hm — that's a good point. Now you've got me worried. Maybe perk up a little; try to look like you're thrilled I've not made you carry my shopping. Remember: I'm the nice magister." It won him a laugh and, satisfied, he grinned. "But enough Inquisitor talk, you're not supposed to be thinking about it. What is it you were so eager to show me?"
Once at the bottom of the stair they continued on into the small market, evading a run of chickens herded through by a teenage stablehand with his pockets full of corn. Stalls had begun setting up for the day. Proprietors traded good wishes while they unpacked chests and laid out their wares for display.
One merchant in particular had attracted a small group of curious onlookers. A new addition, looking overdressed for the locale in their Orlesian standard, had brought up imports from Antiva and Orlais. Silks, jewels, and opulent trinkets made them a novelty in an otherwise practical business where preserves and ore were the most profitable trades. The waiting patrons were eager for a chance to browse the wares before the proprietor realized their poor choice of location (and season) and inevitably left for greener pastures.
As they passed it by Dorian rolled up onto his toes for a better look, but Ellana's eyes were on a different prize than exotic goods, and she carved a determined path through the concourse with him close in tow. Denying him the opportunity to sate his curiosity.
She stopped by the well in the yard next to the stables and took a seat on the edge. Then patted the spot next to her. "Here," she said, as invitation. "We're having a bite to eat."
Dorian paused to brush a layer of dirt off the stone wall with his hand. Frowned skeptically at the result, visibly unchanged, before turning the look upon her for a moment of unspoken disappointment. But still sat. Only a little put off by her choice of location.
When she failed to offer any further explanation of what they were doing there, he made a guess. "Are we here to watch the horses?"
Ellana produced two apples from a pouch tied to her belt and held one out. "Not quite."
He took the offering. Buffed it on the lapel of his shirt. "Did you acquire another one of those horrifying half-dead creatures? If so, I'm sorry to say I will not be staying for the show. They are absolutely terrifying — worse than the nuggalope, and that's saying something — I'd like to put as much space between it and me as possible. I'd tell you to put the poor thing out of its misery but judging by the sword through its jaw somebody's already tried that once and the results were mixed."
Ellana rolled her eyes, then gestured to the barn. Just watch, said her expression.
"Alright, alright," he moaned. And sighed. Then added, "I'm serious about the nuggalopes though. Have you seen their horrible feet? I've spent nights awake trying to figure them out. If one reared up and attacked, would it be kicking or punching?"
"Hush, Dorian."
He did. They ate in that companionable silence for several moments; Ellana watching the open barn doors while Dorian grew increasingly impatient waiting for something interesting to come out of them. Only once he came dangerously close to revisiting his opinions on nugs to break the monotony did something finally appear.
A young woman walked out. She was human, fair, modestly-dressed, and barely out of her teenage years. Carrying a bucket full of grain. Her long hair all piled up on top of her head and wrapped in a knotted rag to keep it out of the way. It was clear she'd been long at work, though it was still early in the day; the hours counted in dirt smears on her cheeks and stains on her clothes. For those who wore the mantle of castle staff the day started well before the dawn.
She grabbed a handful of feed and spread it upon the ground in front of the doors. Immediately drawing the attention of some nearby geese as well as a flock of birds perched high on the wall. When the bucket was empty she clapped the dust off her hands, wiped them on her apron, and went back inside.
One of the geese gave chase to the birds the instant her back was a turned.
"Fascinating," Dorian said around a bite of apple. A flavour he clearly appreciated about as much as the view. "I've always wanted to spend a day bird-watching. Who needs the theatre when you've got an ornery goose willing to kill its fellows over breakfast?"
As if on cue a few of the birds returned just long enough to be hissed at, and took off with the warning. On toward the Herald's Rest in hope of finding a meal with less opposition.
Laughing, "It's not the geese, Dorian — did you truly not notice?" Ellana exclaimed. But he looked lost, and so, "The girl," she urged with a tilt of her head. "Look again when she comes back out."
Several more minutes passed before she returned. This time with a heavy sack slung over one shoulder, on her way to the laundry. It was only once she passed them by that he finally got a good look and caught on to what had made her worth observing.
There was a slight rounding of her otherwise thin frame, just below the hem of her dress. A small, but notable, bump.
With brows high on his forehead, Dorian spun in place to watch her disappear into at the servant's entrance behind them. Started to ask, "Is she…?" but let the rest go unspoken.
"I was only looking for it because midwife let something slip during her last visit," Ellana answered quietly, making a point not to gawp at the door. "I've spent every free minute since trying to figure out who it could be, but it ended up being Mira that pointed her out after I asked if she'd noticed anyone. She saw her caring for the horses when she'd been to speak with Dennet. Told me yesterday. The girl's name is Annika, she's young, and she came up last year with the latest wave of kitchen staff so I'm assuming her partner is — or was — also here. Beyond that I'm not sure what her story is. At a guess I'd say she's nearly as far in as I am, but she's taller, so she carries it better."
Dorian was still staring at the door. "Will you say anything to her?"
"Are you joking?" she hissed. "What would I possibly say! 'Surprise! I'm actually the Inquisitor and I think our bastard children might be born around the same time. Since we'll both be raising them in a fortress completely unsuited to family life perhaps we should get together sometime and compare notes?'".
He snorted. "Well, you've thought about it enough to have that prepared."
"Of course I've thought about it! That doesn't make it any more appropriate, though. Even if I wanted too—"
"And you—"
"And it wouldn't matter if I did," she cut across in a clipped whisper. Fixing him with a glare beneath the shadow of her hood. "There are a hundred reasons why I can't. First and foremost because she's not vetted, nor trained to receive sensitive information — it's too much of a risk. If this entire thing collapsed because I wanted to swap stories with a pregnant stablehand Leliana would have me drawn and quartered."
"Alright, that's fair." Dorian tapped his fingers against his lips, thinking. "I wonder if there's anyone else? There are other children here — yes?" He paused. "I feel like I should know the answer to this question given how long we've been living here."
"A few…" Ellana began, and her eyes slid toward the market behind them. He followed her gaze to a man in the midst of opening his stall with the help of a young girl. Bent over a chest, he passed her a set of daggers one by one. Each then taken, cleaned, shined, and carefully arranged upon the table. There was enough of a resemblance between them to imply they were family.
"Less than a dozen. Those who came up with survivors from Haven, or the children of staff who made the journey later. A few apprentices. But they're all old enough for work. No one was born here, of that I'm sure. I'll be the first — and if that girl ends up leaving for a more suitable home I'll be the only."
It was almost wistful. A longing unspoken, but implied, both in the weight she lent the words and the way she watched the man and his daughter greet their customers with matching smiles. There was community there; with him, with the stablehand. Connections she couldn't make.
All Dalish children were raised by the clan. Mothers had each other for support, the advice of their elders, stories, and wise women to guide them. There was always someone with an ear to listen and a hand to hold. Families were so much more than simply parents. It wasn't so among Humans — nor in this home she'd made with them far from the woods that raised her.
Duty offered poor respite from her yearning for the village, and with the end fast approaching and her responsibilities dwindling there were precious few distractions from that ache. Pining, unexpectedly, for the vestiges of a simpler life and what was left behind. The path not taken.
Dorian's expression softened as he glanced between her and the market stall. Trust that a friend would hear all she'd left unsaid. "I understand the need for discretion, but surely there's also something to be said with respect to your mental state. You shouldn't have to be alone in this."
"I'm not alone in this," she countered. A little sharply for the assumption. "I have Solas."
But his own reply cut just as quick. "Do you?"
When she turned on him, brow knit and tongue ready with something fierce, he raised both hands. Cut her off before she struck. "I'm not accusing, I'm just asking," he defended. "I know you two aren't much for public displays unless you're arguing, and of course your position makes that harder, but I haven't even heard much of that lately. To be honest I don't know that I've ever seen a couple spend less time together in anticipation of such a transformative event. While I admit I'm not his closest confidante — I'm honestly not even sure who would qualify for that — I've never known him to be much of the doting type. You might not enjoy ever being dependant on others, but there are certain times a little caretaking is called for: this is one of them. I want to make sure that's happening. Call it friendly concern."
"That's an awfully presumptuous start to 'friendly concern'," she said thinly. The two men had never been close; this toed a line of judgement he had no experience to speak to.
"Presumption is all I have when you tell me next to nothing," he snapped in return.
He rarely spoke of anything with such gravity, or to her with such bite, and it briefly took her aback.
An opportunity he capitalized on with a list of examples counted on his fingers. "You're barely sleeping, hardly eating, regularly unwell, woefully underprepared, spontaneously developed a sensitivity to magic—" That one he gave its own hand's worth — one finger for each word. "—and are about to enter the next phase of your life in the loving company of the most emotionally constipated man I have ever met in my entire life. Above it all you also have a rather troubling tendency to turn around and walk away from anything that has the slightest potential to make you uncomfortable. Present conversation included. Don't think I can't see that look in your eye that says you're two seconds away from telling me where to stuff it.
"And that's just the things I can tell on my own! Rather than allow your friends to ease the weight of those burdens you have just grown increasingly distant. Is anyone there to hold your hand through this? Is he? I honestly have no idea! I haven't pushed out of respect, but don't think that means I haven't noticed. You are the dearest friend I have." It was near to pleading. "I care very much about your state through this and I'm willing to endure a little wrath if it means pushing you into giving me a few real answers."
By the time he paused for breath the guilty heat that crept its way up the back of her collar had left her flush with shame. Biting her cheek in stony silence to keep from snapping out a rebuttal that would only prove his point. The lashing hit unexpectedly hard if only because it was so deserved. He was right, of course — and she did want to tell him to stuff it — but that didn't make it any easier to hear. Remorse and embarrassment stirred uncomfortably in her gut.
Perhaps she and Solas really were made for each other: two people who could dance circles around uncomfortable truths rather than speak to them.
The struggle did not go unnoticed. And so, belatedly, he added, "All I ask is that when you do go off, try not to hit me in the face."
When she laughed, he looked so terribly fond that it managed to dissolve some of the tension.
Still the expectant pause felt heavy between them, and went on too long while she weighed a response that wouldn't dismiss him outright. Or result in causing more hurt than she already had.
There was so much — and so little of it she could say without being disingenuous.
Worse, the more she chose to keep hidden, the more she sympathized with Solas' evasiveness. It wasn't a good feeling, to be both supplier and recipient of all the same lies he'd told.
When she could stand to look him in the eye again she said, with as much sincerity as she could muster, "There are some things I cannot share, Dorian — not yet — no matter how much love I have for you. You will just need to trust that there are good reasons for that and know that it will change as soon as it's able. But as for the rest, you're right: I haven't been very receptive lately. You've been a good friend and I've been a rather poor one in return."
Without hesitation, "I'll forgive you only if you promise to name a son after me," he replied.
The comment startled a bark of laughter from her.
Undeterred, he continued, "It might not be Elven but I think it rolls off the tongue better than 'Solas', don't you think? What does that mean anyway? 'Solas'. Probably rubbish."
"Pride," she said, still laughing. "It means 'pride'."
He blinked. "Does it really? How apt. Praise be to his parents for their gifted foresight."
Sometime far in the future, when all was revealed, she'd be sure to remind him of that comment. He'd likely find it as funny in retrospect as she did now.
"But your acknowledgment only gets you so far, my dear, and I'm not looking for an apology. I would settle for just a conversation with my friend." He touched a hand to her elbow and gently squeezed. A small gesture — careful, amid so many eyes and ears — but one that spoke to the depth of his sincerity. She laid her hand atop his own in reply, and squeezed it back. "If total transparency is off the table, how about just a mostly-honest summary of how things are going? Allow me, oh—" There was a brief pause while he feigned consideration of a list he almost certainly had prepared in advance. "—three questions."
But he was earnest, and so, "Three questions," she affirmed.
He held up a finger. "First: how are you really? Both you specifically and as a pair."
"That counts as two questions."
"One and a half at worst," he argued.
But she wasn't looking for a way out anymore. So she laughed — a little hollow — at her own expense. "Ill-prepared." It was an answer both terrifying and relieving to admit. "I'm not entirely sure I'll be any good at this."
"No one starts out good at it. It's the sort of thing taught by experience. You'll blunder your way through making dozens of mistakes, just like everyone else who walked this path before you, but I have confidence you'll do it wonderfully. Don't throw them in a Fade rift, or feed them to wild dogs, try to avoid the temptation of ritual blood magic, and you've already got a leg up on the competition."
"That easy?" she asked with a soft smile. It was reassurance that did not fall on deaf ears.
"You could do it in your sleep," he replied confidently. "And may, actually, for the first few months. I've been told it's terribly exhausting. It's the only piece of advice I've heard repeated enough to know well: sleep when they sleep." Then he tipped his chin and pitched his voice lower. "Second part of the question now."
"As well as can be expected, I think. He does dote, for one — just not publicly. We may not spend endless hours together but it is not for lack of trying. You have to understand, there are a lot of considerations…"
The phrasing made her wince.
Damned if she wasn't sounding more like him all the time.
She pushed on. "Neither of us have really been in a real relationship before, and I'm not even entirely sure we could use that word to describe whatever this has been most of the time. I love him dearly, as I know he loves me but it's—"
Difficult. Challenging. Complex. Unique. Absolutely fucking insane.
"—Complicated," she settled on. This part was harder: acknowledging the divide between them without making it sound as impassable as it sometimes felt. "He has led a very different life than I have, and there are certain traits those experiences instil in a person that can make things… harder. The side you see is different from the one I do, he does not often show it. Really, this may be something you and I have in common: the love of someone accustomed to only telling a certain version of the truth."
To love a liar, she meant.
He raised a worried brow. "I'm going to pretend I know what that means."
This meandering excuse for an answer was getting worse, not better. Inwardly, she begged herself to come to a salient point.
"I am not afraid to be left alone, if that is what you're getting at. If anything, our shared inexperience and stark terror necessitates that we depend on each other to get through it. We may not be the most likely pair, but our feelings are genuine. I am happy with him — even when he challenges me."
It was as close to the truth as she was willing to speak, for now.
And it seemed to soothe any lingering doubts. "Alright, thank you," Dorian replied gently. "That's comforting."
"Plus, the sex is amazing."
"And that's bewildering and unnecessary. I can't imagine—" He stopped. Wrinkled his nose. "You know what? I'll just leave it at that. Pushing on, number two: what is this business with the magic? Have you had this the whole time in some manner or is it entirely new?"
The way he leaned in, just a little, betrayed any attempt to feign casual interest. There was a distinct possibility he'd been waiting for an opportunity to ask this question for a while. It occurred to her then what a fascinating study she must make to someone who spent a lifetime honing this craft… a Dalish thief who was gifted magical boons from Gods she did not follow.
"It's not something I've experienced before," she answered carefully. 'A version of the truth' indeed. "But neither is the ability to manipulate rifts or kill what comes out of them. Prior to the Conclave I led a rather mundane life by comparison, Dorian. I hunted and picked pockets and sometimes had enough coin to indulge in some terrible alcohol. Every day I've lived since the Conclave has been increasingly unbelievable. I've discovered a number of new abilities, both magic and mundane. So yes, it's new, but also not terribly surprising."
Though it was clear he was unsatisfied with the evasiveness, he still accepted what little she was willing to impart on the subject. Crossed his arms and muttered, "That's fair, I suppose," with a meaningful look, as though weighing the approval required to move the conversation forward.
Behind them, stalls had begun to open up. Someone called out their wares for sale, advertising new metals. Another whistled for an apprentice to pick up the pace. While a third broke up a group of soldiers loitering nearby with no intent to purchase; late for work and taking up space that could be occupied by paying customers. It left an opening.
Dorian stood, and offered Ellana a hand up to do the same. "Number three requires a change of scenery," he said, as he pulled her to her feet. "Before that if you'll grant me another related question, I'm curious… Magical talent usually shows up during youth, often precipitated by a significant event. A fight, trauma, puberty — things of that nature. I'm working on the assumption that this is related to the Anchor and you had no inclination prior to the Conclave — was it the same for you? Or was this something that developed more gradually?"
As he talked he led her back into the market, and it was immediately apparent they were headed straight to the merchant he'd tried to sneak a peek at when they first passed by. The one with the colourful display of trinkets and silks.
"It was sudden, but ah… you'll forgive me if I spare you the details of how I discovered it."
If there'd been any question whether the implication landed, it was answered by the look he threw over one shoulder. Cheeks bright with a grin that was unabashedly delighted — and only a little aghast. "No — really?" There was no need to say it twice. He chuckled. "Don't worry, you're in good company. Every mage I've known has a similar story. I hope you didn't leave any scars."
"Other than my emotional ones, only the bed suffered."
"Ha!"
Only a handful of people were still lingering in the vicinity once they reached the seller. Still, Ellana pulled the scarf up over her nose to cover most of her face; ears hid in the folds of her hood. A slim build might mark her an elf to anyone who looked twice, even with the thick clothes, but so long as she wasn't immediately recognized as Inquisitor the disguise was enough for wandering the grounds.
Dorian gave the proprietor a nod and friendly smile as greeting, and they offered the same in return. Though the latter was assumed beneath the mask. Like most Orlesians, there was little of her visible beneath the costume. A full-skirted dress, neck ruffle, gloves and hair bonnet left her looking more like a piece of artwork than a person. Only the points of her ears set her apart from others in similar garb.
It wasn't a feature that drew Dorian's eye, too busy pawing through the trifles to pay much attention, but it did catch Ellana's. There were so few elven merchants that managed to grow a business beyond their meagre origins. Often limited to selling in Dalish territories, or to their acquaintances in alienages. Trade was rife with both prejudice and favouritism; it made it almost impossible to achieve any notoriety if one wasn't born to it. To be an Orlesian elf that made it this far marked her as particularly talented. Or lucky.
Her eyes were barely visible beneath the mask, but Ellana still saw them regard her with the same scrutiny. When she spoke, the thick accent placed her as a native of Val Royeaux. "I've heard the Inquisition gathers their followers from all over," she said, "but have not had a chance to see it for myself."
The real question was in the subtext: do they treat our kind well?
Ellana smoothed her hands down the sides of her wrap, suddenly very aware of the silhouette she cast with it. "The cause attracts all kinds, it's true. I've seen Dalish Elves, casteless Dwarves, even Qunari — Tal Vashoth."
"So diverse!" The reply seemed to genuinely delight her. "Have you served among them long?"
She never got used to speaking with Orlesians in full garb. Without the visual cues of expression or smile it always felt a bit like talking to a porcelain doll. Absently, she reached for one of the trinkets on the table — a wood carving of a bear — to keep her hands busy; distract from the urge to stare a hole through the mask.
"Less than a year," she answered, and saw Dorian pause to give her a curious, sideways, glance. "I help where I can."
The woman nodded. "This is my first time making the journey. Skyhold is much larger than I'd thought. And so many soldiers! The Inquisitor truly has a powerful force at her disposal. So much could be done with those numbers."
There was a note of disapproval hidden in the words she didn't say — Dorian was quick to comment on it. "Well," he interjected, while he tugged on a bolt of fabric to unwind a panel for approval. Run his fingers along the edges to gauge the quality of the weave. "It's not as though she can throw a hundred men at whatever cause she feels like. The fight against the Venatori is the most important matter at hand. Driving them out of all the places they've infested is a full time job all on its own, and betters the lives of those they've victimized."
But the merchant ignored the interruption; her attention focused entirely on the captive audience she'd found in a fellow elf. "With so many, she could direct some to lend assistance to those left in Halamshiral's alienage. There still lives survivors of the massacre, under constant threat of prejudice. Surely with the support of the Inquisition behind them they could be protected. Their lives bettered."
"Yes," Ellana agreed. Spinning the wooden toy between her fingers. "But she's Dalish. And they've never held the interests of city elves in any import."
Dorian's eyes flicked warily between the two.
He put the bolt back down upon the table, only to have it immediately snatched up by another customer. A man in a sweat-stained shirt began measuring its length against his arm.
"I would never say so myself…" the merchant began, while she absently reached over and slipped her fingers between the folds of fabric to pull out a small price tag.
The man put that bolt down and chose another.
"…But with so much history, and elves still experiencing violence as punishment for the uprising of their fellows, I've heard it said that they would be better off under a Human Inquisitor instead. The gall of it!" Faux outrage she met with faux surprise. "But it is true what you say of the Dalish: they care for violence over politics, and would that not widen the divide between cities and Dales? While she chases cultists those most at risk may suffer the anger at seeing an elf — any elf — in a seat of power."
"Of course we would never say such things," Ellana said neutrally, but tipped her chin in agreement.
"Of course," repeated the merchant lightly, as she did the same. "Perhaps one day, when she is done bloodying the Venatori, her eyes will cast upon the alienages where her help is most needed. Maybe if more of us gather to serve the cause, even a Dalish can be taught to heel!"
Dorian was looking exponentially more uncomfortable for each second more he had to endure listening to the conversation, so Ellana took advantage of the brief pause to pass the wood carving back — "I'll take this," — and pull out her coin purse for payment.
The merchant gave a little bow as she took the purse, but counted out only half the item's worth before returning it. "For you, only ten. The pleasure of your company is enough to cover the rest."
"Thank you," Ellana said, then made her exit at the next opportunity. Leaving Dorian to rush through his own transaction to catch up.
Upon rejoining her, "I've never had the pleasure of witnessing the animosity between Dalish and city Elves—" he whispered, "—for a people spared the conflict of noble houses you manage to do a spot on impression of them."
She gave him a look. "You think that just because we don't own castles that we lack the ability to be complete and utter asses to each other?"
He considered that. "Is this something you do often?"
"Less, now that I lack the tattoos that mark me apart," she replied. "We don't run into other clans too often, and if I pass as a fellow city-born I don't hear quite as many comments about how surprising it is that I've grown beyond the tenets of Dalish barbarism. Having someone go on about it helps me see where I stand."
"They really are itching to discuss how the Inquisitor can't possibly understand the plight of the common folk because she's… too common? Fascinating how even in absence of genuine aristocracy you'll still go out of your way to create and enforce your own class system."
"Thin ice, Dorian."
"And here I thought you weren't a savage." The look she turned upon him was only part in jest, so he was moved to change the subject. Raising his hands in surrender. "Consider it dropped. Besides, I still haven't asked my third question."
Right. "I'd hoped the show was entertaining enough that you'd forgotten."
He snorted. "Hardly. That was a bore by Tevinter standards — no one brandished a weapon. Additionally, this question's the most important, so I've been saving it." From under his arm he pulled out the roll of dyed fabric he'd purchased. He held it up. "What do you think?"
She turned, without slowing their pace, to give the goods the attention he clearly believed it due. It was heavy and silken, dyed a deep indigo with a gold selvage. Lovely, but a poor choice for armour — even as an accent. It would need to be twice as thick to withstand that sort of wear.
"Isn't it a little delicate for the battlefield?"
"It's not for me, it's for you!" he protested, and lowered the bolt. The wounded expression he wore rode so well the line between sincerity and charade she couldn't tell which side it fell upon until he followed with, "While I'm sure Solas would be content to wrap his child in a flour sack, that's hardly fitting for my namesake. And as the favourite uncle I have a fundamental responsibility to ensure they're given better."
"They're not even here yet and you've already named yourself the favourite?"
"Varric has nothing on me."
She laughed. "Maybe your name means 'pride'."
"Actually it means, 'gift', but that's all the more reason to ensure I give the best ones—" He stopped mid-thought. "Hm, it just occurred to me that, 'Dorian' is a rather poor name for a girl. What about 'Dorina'? 'Dorianna'?"
The disgust was so apparent on her face that no reply was needed.
"Alright, alright." He rolled his eyes. "We can work on that one. We're doing a thing for Wintersend later this week, yes? Food and such? Maybe sleep on it a few nights and get back to me then to see how you feel about it."
"Absolutely not. I get precious few restful hours lately, as you already pointed out, I am not wasting a single one on, 'Dorina'. Aside, I won't even be there." They approached a side door, intent to slip in by the cellar rather than through the main entry. She still owed him wine and had a pocket full of lockpicks. "Mira is attending it in my stead. I'll have the whole night to myself."
Dorian quickened his pace to overtake her so he'd have the opportunity to hold the door open. "Solas doesn't care much for these things either, does he? You should take advantage of the opportunity that grants you to spend time together. Face head on a few of those things you keep running from." He gave her a meaningful look with the suggestion, and she almost mistook for good advice until he added, "Like fully considering my aptitude for baby names."
Dryly, "You know," she began, "'Uncle Varric' is looking better and better."
"Spoilsport," he accused with an exaggerated pout, and they ducked inside.
Later, when sleep was elusive, she would find herself thinking on his words while she stared at the ceiling above her bed. It was not the jokes, though they helped, as much as the counsel he offered between them. Advice he gave both in kindness, and as admonishment.
Of all the friends she'd made in the short years spent here, he was the one who best knew her failings. As well as how to lay out her mistakes in shameful display so she could not keep denying she'd made them. Cassandra was too careful, Varric too loyal, and Solas… it was different with a lover. Dorian had always been willing to say it plainly, and never pulled the punches that might smart.
There were a lot of things she was still running from.
Responsibilities, and vulnerability, and the fast-approaching start of a new challenge she still felt unqualified to face. The giddy excitement of nesting was not something she could imagine herself ever taking part in… but maybe there was some happy medium she could find between proud parent and flat denial.
It would help to have a proper night's rest before then.
As it was, any night Solas did not guard her rest with dreamless sleep resulted in more bad dreams. Somehow it always came back to the road, and she was doomed to play it over and over. Watching from the underbrush while demons tore at the bodies of people she once cared for, until they too became monsters to torment her.
While small details might change each time — slight variations in script, the items on the road, a different cast made of those she'd loved and lost, or how quickly they succumbed — the stage was always the same.
Always cold.
Always lonely.
Always trapped.
After a while, even staying awake until dawn seemed a better alternative to risking her return night after night. She was growing weary of it. Angry, in her exhaustion, which only made it that much worse — spread terror and misery through the Fade like a wildfire that encroached upon the boundaries of all her dreams.
When the fear of the cycle became too much to grant her any rest at all, she laid in the dark for hours, trying not let her mind get lost in the spirals.
Her thoughts kept circling back to something Solas had said. A comment on the scene the first night she became lucid within it: 'parts you've worked to omit'.
Things she'd written out, he meant, and replaced with monsters.
That implication needled her.
As if she'd consciously lent her hand to the creation of her own nightmares. Wielded the blades alongside time and trauma that cut her memories to ribbons and stitched them back together wrong. A patchwork of fear, fantasy, and the anguish that grew from what small truths she'd left herself.
It was tempting to dismiss it as a baseless — and near offensive — assumption. The arrogant side of him she knew too well, and the presumption that he always knew truer than she, even when speaking of her own experiences. If she brought it forward they would just run circles around that argument until they inevitably tired of the sound of their own voices.
But the more hours nights she spent considering those words the more she started to wonder. About omission, and intention, and her knack of running from things she did not wish to see.
'There are parts you've worked to omit that have made the better entry points'…
Maybe what he meant wasn't that she was the architect of her nightmares, but the crier. That the fear of facing what frightened her most had been what made the path for Fear and Terror to follow. An invitation to feast she'd laid out for their arrival. In her fervour she'd lit a signal pyre for things that prowled. Solas had spoken many times of how to guard against incursion. Taught her to resist temptation, not stray from the path, or give in to desire… but the advice was practical, not preventative. Do not listen — do not ask of them — and the demons will not come.
She'd never considered that denial might make a more effective lure than greed.
That thought began to needle her even more.
The next three nights she dreamed were spent back on that road. An unwilling participant more often than observer. Solas' attempts to teach her how to resist the thrall never seemed to stick long enough to allow her the opportunity to let the scene play out. Each time she was drawn into the events, and lost herself. It was never a matter of 'if', only 'when'. Without understanding what it was that triggered the dreams in the first place she was lost to the draw they had over her, and was swept up in the current.
Each morning she'd awaken either by Solas' intervention, or when the dreamscape began to come apart, piecemeal, until it collapsed entirely and she was thrust violently into consciousness. The only peace awarded to her was on those nights he stayed long enough to draw her close when she woke in a shared bed. Tuck her head against his chest to hear the steady beast of his heart, and even breaths, so it might soothe her in and out of dreamless rest a few more hours.
But that wasn't enough in the end. It wasn't getting easier, and this cycle had played out too many times. No divine knowledge of herself or the Fade was gifted from the experience. She took nothing from it other than the understanding that it was based on her own distorted memory.
So on the fourth night she asked him to leave.
"You can wake me if you believe I am in real danger," she'd said, to allay his fears over her going in alone. "But I do not want you there to intervene before that. Not even if you only stand aside and watch. I'll know you're there, somewhere, and it will change the way I think about it. I need a chance to try and understand this, so I need you to leave me be."
Though he tried to argue a case for staying in the periphery — citing both his experience and how much more vulnerable she was in this state — ultimately he agreed to grant her the space she asked for. It was not anger or pride that fed the request, but the knowledge that she needed to seek insight on her own. And that he could appreciate.
The next night she found herself there it took all the strength she could muster not to keep her face hidden in the curl of her arms and wait for rescue. To instead rock onto all-fours and drag herself, alone and afraid, out onto the road. Leaving the safety of the underbrush in the shredded remains of a dress that trailed the ground behind her. It caught and tore each time the ratted hem slipped beneath her knees, and she felt the heavy breath of those things that sought to drive her back, but still she crawled.
Somehow she made it out of the cage of thorns where she'd buried this memory for thirty years. Long forgotten, until something breathed life back into the old fears that kept it fed.
Small and meek, with little hands and tangled hair, she followed blood-soaked trail toward the nothing and the shadow; a void she could sense, but not see. Upon reaching its boundary, she reached into the emptiness time had sown and pulled something out.
In the moment before her fingers touched upon it, she heard the voice of Compassion at her ear. Granting her the final burst of courage she'd need to follow through.
"Let me help," he said, and he rest his hand upon her own. "This will hurt — it haunts, heavy, and pulls in places you didn't know — but you will be better in the end."
Solas found her the night after.
A few hours into the Wintersend dinner she didn't attend. It was a small, but well-stocked event the 'Inquisitor' hosted in the main hall. Labourers and merchants and soldiers came together for a night of fine food, music, and wine to lift spirits after the dreary winter season had begun to pass. The double mingled with the crowd — laughed and celebrated — while the real Inquisitor waited in her room for an opportunity to join Solas in his.
The appointment was set before she'd asked him to give her a few nights alone, and in the absence of any word to the contrary he waited all evening for a knock on his door that never came. As the hour approached midnight and the festivities were only just winding down, he resolved to join her in the Fade rather than risk being seen slipping through a crowd of party-goers.
Asleep, it took no time at all to find her. She was a beacon in the Dreaming even when her rest was peaceful — the Anchor lit the way. She sat on a hill overlooking the road — this time alone. It was dusk, as it often was, and the scene bathed in same warm light and the scent of fallen leaves it always had been. She sat in pensive silence watching the sun set. There were no demons or monsters this time; no other figures. She was in her own clothes, in her own form, with her arms wrapped loosely around raised knees.
The dreamscape was so still that she could sense his approach before she saw him. If he did not soften them, his steps rippled in the ambience like pebbles dropped in water. Her eyes flicked briefly in his direction.
He cut in with an apology before she had a chance to greet him. "I'm sorry, I know you had asked not to be disturbed… but when you did not come by this evening I wanted to make sure you were alright." The question was implied, but instead of an answer she offered only silence in return. It was neither cold nor angry, just contemplative, and so he did not worry he'd intruded upon it.
A moment later he prompted her again: "May I join you?"
This time she looked at him fully, and offered both soft smile and gentle nod. Waiting until he'd sat down next to her before turning her attention back to the road. The sun was disappearing beyond the canopy of trees now; almost set.
"Apparently Mira got so drunk Josephine had to drag her out of the party early. Bring her to the clinic," she said, apropos of nothing. "She was given some restoratives, but they'll do little to sober her up of course. She might end up spending the night there if she cannot be discretely moved to her room later. Josephine came up briefly to tell me, before I went to sleep. I don't know that I've ever seen her well and truly angry — I'm not sure I ever will — but I think this was the closest she's come in all the time I've known her."
Solas smiled. "I've had the fortune to see her upset only once." And he held up a finger. "Fortune, because I was not the focus of her anger at the time. When she is very cross, she pauses between each word — as if each were its own sentence. Likely to be mindful of her tone but the effect is quite daunting."
Ellana laughed. "Based on the brief description I received, I doubt Mira will recall enough of the experience to be intimidated by it. Even when she could barely stand she was still claiming to have only imbibed a glass or two, all evidence to the contrary."
There was a pause while Solas considered. Then, "You do not begrudge her the behaviour?"
"We've all done something irresponsible when given the freedom too," she replied. And rest a hand upon the swell of her middle — perhaps unconsciously. "The time she's at this post will be the most freedom she's ever enjoyed in her life, and it will pay well enough that she can make whatever she wants of it after that. If it were me, I might do the same."
Another pause. "Do you miss it?"
She glanced at him. "Being drunk?"
"That, and the gatherings. Time spent among people. Though you have often lamented the parties and dinners, it would not be so unusual to feel excluded from them now. To mourn the loss, even if it is only temporary. Your absence is not by choice, which can frame it somewhat differently."
"I… suppose I do," Ellana said haltingly. The answer surprised her. "The time I've spent as the Inquisitor has been so short in the grand scheme of things, but the significance of the role has been so large that it's harder than I've expected to step back. Allow someone else to do it for me. If she takes my place… I suppose a part of me worries she might somehow keep it."
"A double is hardly unusual," he noted with a meaningful look. "All nobility employs them, and though their duties vary they hardly qualify to take over. Her tasks are menial, and approved by you and your advisors — she is not your replacement."
"Am I nobility now?" she countered. But her tone was light, and the raised eyebrow showed she took no offence.
The little curl of his lips could not quite be called a smile. "To some, I'm certain. You are Andraste's Herald in addition to being the Inquisitor; many see that as sacrosanct. A higher honour than a leader."
She chuckled. "Even a year ago I would have been happy to hand the reigns to another… but today?" A sigh was only slightly exaggerated. A little theatre to illustrate the point. "To think I've come to enjoy the status as another false god — though I feel that alone should trouble me."
"Heavy wears the crown."
In the pause that followed after, he tentatively brushed a hair behind her ear. Indulging in running his fingers along the shell, to the pointed tip, and watching how it drew a small smile. In the Fade every touch was heightened — every emotion deepened. Simple affections like fingers wove together, hands held, or a kiss, were intensified by its very nature. She could sense his desire to embrace her as if it were her own. And the restraint he showed out of respect for the setting.
Instead of holding her, he said, "You have gained significant control since last I saw you. I was not sure you'd be able to accomplish it at all, let alone so quickly."
Her voice was far away when she replied; somewhere off with her gaze, watching the horizon. So distant, at first, that it was almost as though she was not speaking to him at all. He just happened to be listening to her talk.
"It bothered me — that there were these things missing each time I was here long enough to see something. I knew what was gone, I'm not an idiot, but it felt so deliberate. I was stuck on that, and what you'd said of it that first night I saw you here too. But it was more than just wanting it to feel complete — I wanted to know why. Why do I keep coming back here? Why now? I've dreamed about this place before, in pieces, in ways I didn't understand — howling wolves and going hungry — but it has felt very different since I've been pregnant.
"I know this story, I'd been told a version of it, but it's never meant that much to me." She winced, and gave him a guilty sideways glance. "That must sound rather cold…" But he touched her hand, a small reassuring gesture, and she continued. "Is it simply a matter of thinking more on my roots now that I'm sowing my own? I'll admit I've thought about my family more in the last six months than I have in the last twenty years — but it's felt like more than just that. This same nightmare, tearing me down until demons found a way in wearing the skin of my memories… like I was being brow-beat with it, over and over.
"Then, a few days back, I was sitting in bed reading and the baby was in such a spin. It's like there's a whole litter of puppies in there sometimes. It was terribly uncomfortable, and I said aloud, 'you have far too many elbows'." It took steady breaths to keep the emotion out of her voice now, with the threat of tears prickling. "It's just a stupid phrase — I can't even remember where I knew it from — and maybe it's because I've never said it aloud before, but it struck a different chord when I heard it in my voice. And then all these little pieces started to fall into place, and I thought maybe I knew how to loosen this chokehold: I needed that answer — the why.
"Once I came here with that purpose, as long as I could resist the current, the rest started to make sense."
She turned her eyes back to the road, and found it once more littered with debris. Bags of grain, pieces of wood, all the things they'd seen before.
The light had changed.
The warmth that filtered through the trees when Solas first arrived had cooled to a dull grey, though whether that was caused by a change in hour or merely the weight her emotion lent was impossible to say.
"Do you wish me to stay?" he asked, when it was clear the events might replay differently this time.
Her answer was in the tight grip of her fingers around his own, and the way her thumb rubbed a circle upon his skin. Searching for safe harbour in a soft touch; he was an anchor.
Before them, the boy and the man flitted in and out of the scene like ghosts. Bending and bowing as they played their parts. Investigating a ruined bag, broken cart, the marks in the dirt, and the bodies on the road. But there were changes: a man with blank face and a cut throat leaned against a tree — three arrows in his chest. More in his back. He wore no armour, and carried no weapon.
Not far lay the body of another face-down in the mud. Her arms outstretched, as though she'd been crawling on hands and knees, to the last breath, trying to reach the other side of the road. Dark, tangled, hair was caked with muck and leaves, obscuring her face if she had one.
The boy crouched nearby and with the point of his knife gently swept a wet mat of curls off her cheek to expose a pointed ear. "You were right, hahren," he said. "Elf".
Solemnly, quietly, "I didn't call out to them," Ellana said. "Even after they found me I don't think I said a word for weeks, maybe longer. He'd told me not to make a sound — so I didn't.
"I was so cold and weak I could barely move, let alone walk. Taren carried me back to the clan wrapped up in one of the blankets they'd found. I must have fallen asleep on him almost immediately. I'd been awake for days. Everything after is just flashes for a while. Getting scrubbed raw in the river, and my hair combed into braids. Eating flatcakes until I was sick with them. Lying curled up against Deshanna's back, while she slept, with my hand on her back to feel her breathe. But… once I remembered my mother in the road — really remembered her — I realized where I'd heard those words before. 'Too many elbows', and what Taren said in the garden."
The next breath shook. "It was never about me."
In smoke and spirit the figure of Taren — tall and willow-strong — retrieved a child from a thorn bush and wrapped them in a stained blanket. Knotting it tight around his shoulder. Battered feet dangled bare from the makeshift sling, a bundle he held tight to his chest. As he walked, he was careful to turn their face away from the wreckage behind them. Tuck it against his neck instead, and whisper promises of food and warmth to soothe her gnawing hunger.
"…There are other children there; families who live together. You will be safe. We'll get you food and a bed."
Behind him Darvas lingered by the body of the woman. He crouched, and lay a hand upon her shoulder. Closed his eyes in a moment of silent prayer. But flinched when he opened them, as if startled — or noticing something he hadn't before. A moment was spent considering, before he very carefully pushed against the body. Bracing his hand by an arrow lodged deep in her side. He rolled her up just far enough to see what lay beneath.
These wisps of memory, without the power lent to them by demons making weapons of their sting, were less complete. Less intricate. The details of expression were lost to time.
It was not necessary to see them to know that the fall of his shoulders was in deep sorrow.
"Hahren," he said. Softer this time, so not to draw the attention of the little rescue with their ears tucked in the sling.
Taren paused and turned around.
He saw, and his face fell too.
Gently, he placed a hand on the back of the child's head to keep her still against him. Lest she try to see. Spare her a final, cruel, vision of what violence had stolen.
The scene began to blow away, fading as she'd fallen asleep, but their voices remained on the wind a moment more.
"That's unfortunate," said Taren's. "They could not even spare the unborn. Falon'Din guide both their souls."
And then they were gone.
A heavy silence hung over the scene, after. And for several moments neither Solas nor Ellana deigned to break it.
They watched together as the last light of the setting sun disappeared below the horizon. With it went scuffs on the dirt, the debris, and broken things. Until it was once more just a place. Somewhere between others — as plain as any other stretch of road.
There were no words that could convey the depth of comfort needed, not the way he wished to, so Solas said nothing.
The moon had nearly risen when Ellana spoke again.
"Once that came back, a few other things did too," she said softly. And did not hide the hitch in her voice now, nor the tears on her cheeks. The air felt thick — it hurt to breathe it. "I remember a little home dug into a hill. There was a chimney in the top, with little bricks they made of clay, and when the fire was lit everything smelled like cedar. And I remember that we were headed South, because there would be game, and she said she could not walk as fast as we did. So we should go easy on her. We were so hungry.
"When I was alone, and believed I would die, I thought maybe if she wasn't…" The lump in her throat stole the rest, so it was left unspoken. "… then maybe she would have been faster. Would have run further. It might not have happened. Maybe if she'd spent money on grain instead of a gift for me it would have delayed our leave another week. By the end I had concocted so many reasons why, when really none of it mattered at all. It was just senseless."
She turned to him then, and saw the ache in her chest reflected in his eyes when he looked at her. A grief he felt not for their loss, but in sympathy of her own. It had always been easier in the Fade. His thoughts writ so plainly on his face, here; his heart open.
"I still cannot remember their faces. Their names. I don't know that there is anyone left alive who would. I've hung a hope on the idea that maybe one day I can find this place—" she gestured toward the road. "—if I'm lucky, perhaps some spirit still keeps the memories of their last hours."
Softly, "It's possible," he replied. Though she knew the chance was much smaller than he'd admit. It still soothed her to hear the lie.
"Maybe one day I could even find the place we came from," she whispered. And then laughed, in spite of herself, as she wiped her eyes. "What is it worth having all this power and influence if I cannot use it to find the answers I truly want?"
"Even a God cannot gain all the boons they seek."
This smile felt a little more genuine. "Perhaps I should pray for divine intervention."
He returned it. And, "Perhaps," he allowed. "Should we ever be awarded the chance to try and look, it is a cause I would wish to lend my skill to."
Her arms were bare, and so beginning to prickle with the chill of night as it fell. She hugged herself and rubbed warmth into her skin. His eyes followed the movement. "I wouldn't even know where to start. I suppose I could start by writing Deshanna… asking where clan Lavellan was settled at the time I was brought in. Wherever it was, was within a day's walk of where this happened. It might narrow it down, at least."
But rather than reply, he gently touched her arm, and just as it had once before the world seemed to narrow around him. Until all she could see and hear was his mouth as he spoke.
He said, "I will find you upon your return."
She frowned, confused. "What?" But he was already gone.
She opened her eyes.
Something had awoken her.
It was still dark.
Colder than it should have been.
For a moment she wondered if her perception of what had happened had been all wrong. Somehow she'd still been caught in the Nightmare's thrall and had changed nothing… but then the flutter of the curtains caught her eye and she saw the balcony door left slightly ajar. The room had gone cold from the draft. She'd neglected to light the fire before bed, as she'd originally intended not to spend the night here. If she didn't want to keep waking from the chill she'd have to get up and start one.
However, it was just as tempting to burrow deeper into the blankets and go back to sleep, content in the knowledge that the dreams no longer had the same thrall over her as before. Solas was there too, waiting on her return to the Fade. So she stayed, instead.
There was a shimmer in the far corner of her room, near the doors, as though the moonlight briefly caught on something shining. Like a goblet or glass vial. But when her eyes flicked toward it she saw nothing there. Just her writing desk full of books and parchment, unfinished work, and the flutter of the curtain sheers. The wind picked up the edges of a stack of paper, held down by the weight of a crystal Dorian was working on enchanting — they waved in the breeze. Surely, what she'd seen.
Though she tried to dismiss it, her gaze kept coming back to where the bottom edge of the curtain brushed against the desk's leg. Something about it seemed… curious. Off. It pulled her in like the nothing in her dreams: not because something was there, but because something wasn't. It was a void that felt deliberate.
Her skin prickled, not just from the cold.
Something was wrong.
She had the chilling sensation she was being watched.
Only once her pulse kicked up and her senses heighten with it did she finally notice what had set her off: the curtain's edge was not touching the table at all. The draft gave the sheers enough lift that it should have skimmed across the side. Instead, it rest against something tangible, but invisible. Whatever it was currently stood between the door and desk.
"Cole?" she tested.
Something shifted, and there was another shimmer.
In that moment it occurred to her that while she often left the balcony doors closed through early spring, she never locked them.
And they'd been shut when she fell asleep that night.
Her hand shot out toward the drawer on her bedside table, where a dagger was stowed, but in her blind haste she aimed too high and hit an empty teacup instead. It fell, then shattered on the floor the same instant a throwing knife landed deep in her shoulder. The crash masking her cry of pain. The wielder, now visible, stood between the desk and the balcony door wearing dark leathers and a scarf covering the lower half of their face. They had been aiming for where her neck had been just a second before.