Falling asleep now was much more difficult than it ever had been.
To help he'd burned incense, herbs, or brewed a selection of equally deplorable teas said to be good for calming nerves. He leaned on routine. Meditation. A walk. Read long, rambling, texts on matters he cared nothing about in hope of stirring some sense of boredom that might lend itself to exhaustion.
Still he'd lie awake most nights.
Her absence was an ache he'd felt before, but never so sharp as each day beyond the last he'd left her in a Dream. As if the attack had not been troubling enough, as parting gift he'd laid a mantle of uncertainty upon her shoulders. For that sin he'd found no peace since.
Morning offered no respite.
With worry as a companion each day passed in excruciating slowness. He'd hoped to utilize the illusion of time for productivity, but instead struggled to complete a single task set before him. To fret was a constant drain. It was not something he was accustomed to ceding so much energy to; no single individual had earned this care, or fear, in an eon. There were always plans to make.
Now each time his thoughts began to wander they'd find their way back to her.
He wondered if she struggled as he did, or if she'd found something to keep her occupied. Busy, if not content. At Skyhold she often spent her evenings reading and writing — she'd come so far in a few short years — but with all her books either lost in the fire or left behind there'd be no opportunity for it. That worried him, too. She'd never handled tedium well. She often said that boredom gave her too much time to think.
That thought lit a guilty spark in his chest. A flicker of relief… that she might share in a fraction of his yearning.
Perhaps he'd find his own easier to bear if he were somewhere else. Anywhere else. This castle was hers — she'd left her mark on every stone. Skyhold sang in her voice. From the Dalish banners in the yard given equal share with Ferelden and Orlais', to the cracked step on the library stair she always avoided with respect to superstition. Each time he passed it he would get caught up in the memory of her smile… and then a glimpse of dark hair around a corner or a distant laugh too near to hers would send his heart soaring for a single, glorious, moment where he allowed himself to pretend she'd returned to him.
There were so many habits he'd formed around her presence that he only noticed after she'd gone. The shared breakfast he now ate alone. The way she brushed his hand when they passed, like a secret. The face he looked for in the hall each time he entered. Or that she often brought a tray of bread and fruit to his desk when he was up late, left on the corner. More than once he'd thoughtlessly reached for it, only to find nothing there.
Each day he danced without a partner.
When deep in thought he'd taken to idly running his fingers back and forth across his lips. A poor substitute for her touch. Often, when she came upon him absorbed in some task, she'd wait nearby for a safe opportunity to draw his attention — just for a moment — with a stolen kiss. His face in her hands, her thumb dragged along the plush of his bottom lip before hers met it, laughing at the annoyance he'd feign.
I like the way your brow furrows when you concentrate, she'd say, and when you're irritated.
He'd grown fond of the interruptions.
Her affection was offered easily. Carelessly. Each day filled with small intimacies. Gestures that kept him nourished; feeding the hunger borne of familiarity. A day without, and his skin began to ache. A week and he was starved. Routine had spoiled him.
It was different now than any other time apart. It wasn't the distance or duration, neither were the longest they'd endured, it was knowing she'd left with wounds he himself inflicted, and could not soothe. The anticipation of what lay before them. The worry something might happen — not just to her but to them both. For all his wealth of knowledge he'd learned precious little of creation; in that ignorance, fear thrived.
She was not delicate by any measure — no gallant knight needed to defend her and he would not play that role — but like great works of art or hallowed ground, to love her was to preserve her. Her body bloomed like a rare flower. To look upon her as she grew commanded awe; deified by her share in genesis. She'd built a miracle from an act of worship. The instinct to safeguard that process was stronger than he'd ever have thought possible.
Until the day they were reunited he could only try to endure the loss of her by seeking solace in the pieces of herself she'd left behind.
In the stones, and cracks, and banners.
In searching for her fingerprints he'd gone into the wreck of her room more times than he'd care to admit.
After the fire was extinguished they'd cordoned off the tower until carpenters and stonemasons could get in to make a proper appraisal for repair. For two weeks the site stood untouched as it waited for estimates. Said to be too dangerous to enter. The damage was severe — the fire had raged for some time. Too hot to be set by a fallen candle. He had other suspicions of what had caused it.
When the wall came down it took with it part of the floor, which fell onto the battlements below, and collapsed them. Work had to begin from the ground up. The foundation and supports needed replacement before anyone could even think to tackle what was lost in the blaze.
Furnishings could all be easily replaced… but no record of Ellana's more personal effects existed. She brought nothing with her from her Dalish life. Just a bow and quiver that burned up in the Conclave's explosion, and the clothes on her back too damaged to save. By the time she woke in irons there was nothing on her not provided by her wardens. Even after she was spared, elevated, and contact re-established with her people, she asked for nothing to be sent along. And what she'd accumulated since then she did not truly call her own.
At first blush, the tower room seemed well-furnished. But in gifts, bribes, trades, or shows of wealth — things she'd not chosen for herself. Things she cared little for. It was only in the details that she could be found. Making the quarters feel like 'her' again, rather than a stage set for the role she played, would be a task best suited to those who knew her spirit. Only dearest friends and lovers were qualified to search the ruins for any salvageable belongings.
At least, that was his excuse for why he'd first snuck into her room only a few days after she left…
Permission surely would have been granted if he'd sought it, but he did not wiish to draw himself the attention and so slipped in under cover of night instead. It was no bother: no one needed to guard the door of a ruined tower.
The inside was somehow worse than he'd envisioned. Where the West wall once stood was now a gaping hole. Stiff winds blowing in from the mountains had made a mess of what was left of the room. Tearing the remaining curtains to ribbons and scattering loose papers and surviving pieces of books across the floor until they joined the detritus piled against the opposite wall. Down the stairs, the debris was deep enough that it took some effort just to force the door open.
The air was acrid. Embers still smouldered in corners where the rubbish had yet to be cleared. Ash and smoke clung to everything. Upon entering, he had to hold a scarf to his face to not succumb to a coughing fit.
At the top of the stairs he paused to pick over a pile of debris. Sifting through pieces of wood and stone for something that survived. Something uniquely Ellana that he could put aside for when the restoration was done. To ensure her return did not feel so unfamiliar.
To his relief, a few belongings managed to endure.
There was a book on Ferelden geography with notes in the margin about the areas she'd visited the first time. All joyous scribbles and excited symbology — indecipherable shorthand — a reflection of her doe-eyed enchantment of seeing a world she'd never been able to travel. Even in dire circumstances, her wonder was evident. Infectious. While some of the pages were torn, or singed, enough was intact to preserve it as a journal.
Near the bed he found a jacket she'd worn often during early pregnancy. Dark gray with an extra row of buttons sewn in to hide her figure. Work she'd done herself and later favoured over the tailored commissions Josephine ordered once apprised of her condition. Too small now, but sentimental. It was stuck under a fallen beam, sparing it from the fire. In dire need of laundering, perhaps, but otherwise unharmed.
A small, wood-carved, bear made to fit in a palm was found by the upended bedside table. It was an odd find. The work was amateur, at best — as if cut by imperfect tools or a novice's hand. It did not look like the other tokens it sat with. He'd not known her to partake in the hobby, and did not recall having seen it before. But it stood out amid the remnants of opulence and so was also pocketed.
The large desk where she worked was sturdy enough to survive the blaze; scorched, but intact. If there'd been anything left on top during the fire it was surely destroyed, but the drawers were nearly untouched. He searched each in turn, finding mostly scattered notes, calligraphy, or rough sketches. A hand-drawn map. A scroll of Elvish characters he'd written as a guide for her now a year earlier. A few letters of business, unsent. Nothing more.
The bottom left drawer was curiously locked — but he lacked a thief's skills and so left it alone.
The long, shallow, drawer on top held a few vials that might be salvageable if what they contained could survive extreme heat. Some he'd seen her take before for nausea or sleep, others he knew pertained to childbirth only because she'd specifically said so, but beyond that he wasn't sure what they were made to alleviate or assist in. They, too, he took.
Only once he'd grabbed the last did he notice something hid behind them. Pushed to the back in a forgotten corner was a small, silver, key.
It fit the locked drawer, which he found empty but for a single vial of some brackish liquid. Even with an unbroken seal it had a musty, fetid, scent he could detect immediately. He tucked the scarf more securely over his nose to stand a closer look. Turning the bottle to and fro, then holding it to a light he summoned in his palm. Searching for hints of familiarity.
"An offer of a different path. Considered — but not taken. It scares me so I had to stow it, secret, somewhere safe. Where I won't think about it."
Solas's gaze slipped past the vial to see Cole by the blackened balcony door. Drawn to the disturbance of a quiet place, no doubt. He was crouched with his knees curled so tight to his chest that his cheek could rest upon them. Staring, somewhat vacantly, at the remains of a curtain. Its frayed edges whipping in the wind as he picked at a loose stitch.
"You are looking for her here," he said, and frowned. There were so many threads to pull, and not all of them so plain as the ones between his fingers. "But she isn't here. She's somewhere else."
"I am looking for personal effects that may have sentimental value," Solas corrected, gently. The vial was slipped into a pouch tied to his belt.
Cole raised his head and scanned the room. Pale eyes darted between the remnants of the bed, the shelves, ceramic pitchers and shattered teacups, before landing on the chaise by the stair rail. A wooden support had fallen atop it, reducing the back legs to splinters. The rest was covered in a thick layer of ash.
In a quiet lilt he offered what he found there. "It starts with a smile; simple, and slowly at first. Then fast and all at once. His belt catches on a button on the seat and it pulls, careless, like the fingers in my hair, until it hangs by a thread. Halting, for a moment, but it does not hinder. When I twist it free he laughs, and it is beautiful… I've never heard him sound like that before."
It was rare that Cole saw the distinction between something salacious and banal. Being attuned to the weight a memory impressed upon its bearer, without understanding the concept of propriety that might beg its discretion, meant there were many occasions he'd happily share thoughts meant to be private.
This was one example among many.
Alone, Solas could hardly be embarrassed, though it startled a sheepish laugh from him all the same. It was a moment he, too, recalled. In the early days when passion was plentiful, if not reckless. In his memory it had been the way she'd looked at him, as if awed, that left the most lasting impression.
"She didn't fix the button. It reminds her of your smile."
A connection forged by a fleeting moment each held in fond regard.
"Yes," he affirmed. "However, I do not think the chaise is salvageable. And even if it were, I could not move it from here. My intention was to find things a little smaller."
Cole considered. After a time, "You could just take the button," he suggested. "The rest of it didn't matter."
A fair proposal, if it had survived. Like all the other furniture this piece was in ruins.
"It's under the post," the spirit replied, answering the question Solas had not yet asked.
With a nod of thanks, he approached the broken chaise and carefully slid the fallen beam onto the floor. Slowly, so not to make noise that might alert someone of his trespass. The button was beneath it, just as Cole had said. Intact and unburnt and still hanging by a thread.
It made him smile, and he thought once more of the way she'd looked at him.
A sharp tug pulled it free, and he tucked it away.
Over the next hour, and with Cole's assistance, the search found a handful of things worth saving. Small and inconsequential at first glance, they were likely to be swept up and disposed of by a building crew who only knew the Herald as a figure, rather than an individual.
Each was taken back to his room, carefully cleaned, and stored in a drawer. Wrapped in linen first — if fragile — to protect them from colliding with each other.
By the time the tower's reconstruction began in earnest he'd built himself an assortment of trinkets and curios. They were all linked to experiences, a memory of a certain region, or bonds she'd formed with others. A chipped teacup from which she'd only ever drank water, a tarnished flame dagger used to win the fight that ultimately led to this destruction, a crystal of Dorian's that held the curious aura of an unfinished spell, a whelk shell from her first visit to the Storm Coast…
Odd, unremarkable, little baubles. Yet irreplaceable. Each holding its own small piece of her.
In the ensuing weeks there was more than one evening he spent sat upon the edge of his bed running his fingers around the handle of the cup, or turning the carving around in his hands, when he should instead be readying himself for sleep. He catalogued each item over and over again, guarding his horde like a greedy magpie, and only a little concerned someone might somehow stumble upon it and wonder how he came to possess such an eclectic collection.
Cole did not join him again when he next went searching — in fact, he left him alone most nights he returned — but sometimes would place things out in the open where Solas would happen upon them.
Then soon enough that too, stopped.
In the end it took only a few visits before the debris was rifled through enough times, with enough care, to know there was nothing left to salvage.
A few weeks in, and he'd eventually abandoned that ruse...
It wasn't an act of thoughtfulness that kept him coming back — hoping for something to rescue — it was the lure of familiarity. The comfort of being in a space that still smelled of her under all the ruin.
Time with it was limited.
Once construction picked up it became much harder to slip in unnoticed. Sometimes the labourers worked well into the evening to ensure their efforts were protected from rain and wind. Sometimes a single person would come by early to document what needed to be done that day. Sometimes Josephine would appear with a scribing board and make notes about how things had been arranged around the room. With his guarantee of solace stolen, he was forced to come by less often even as his need to find comfort grew.
It took three weeks before, inevitably, he was caught by surprise.
The door to the tower was one of the few things not in need of replacement. Though slightly singed, the stone staircase had acted as a buffer to protect it from the worst heat. The only damage it took was from smoke. It still did its job well enough — even the bolt was intact, though he had no use for it. The room was rarely closed at all since it burned. And even after repairs had come far enough that the post was once again added to the guards' rotation, there was too much traffic in and out by contractors to bother locking it up. So he'd not bothered to lock it, either. Should someone, for some reason, choose to come by at the same late hour he chose, the hinge had a squeal that would alert him. He'd learned to avoid it when paying a visit, either to Ellana's bed or to the ruined remains of it.
He was reading when he heard it.
Curious timing: it was nearly midnight.
He placed the book back upon the shelf it came from and took four quick, silent, steps backward into the darkened space between the desk and dresser. Ready to slip onto the balcony or warp the Fade around himself and disappear, if need be. Evasion was preferable to confrontation with a wandering patrol; he'd rather have the option that his visits continue to remain a secret.
An anxious moment passed as he tracked the steps' ascent. The soft click of hard-heeled shoes on stone stairs echoing in the dark.
Magic coiled in his palm, primed for a Fade Step if the visitor should linger.
Then dispelled, just as readily, once he saw the shock of red hair framed by a lavender hood appear above the rail.
Upon reaching the landing, "It's alright," Leliana said gently, not much above a whisper. "It's just me."
The soft glow of a lantern she carried cast the room in dim light, but did not stretch so far as to bring him out of shadow. When he did not immediately acknowledge the greeting she raised both hands, as if in surrender, and flashed a crooked smile with the pantomime to wink at the tension her sudden entrance had caused.
Still, her eyes had found him in the darkness the instant she was able. Even beyond the discomfort inherent to being caught lurking, he felt exposed. She had a natural talent for the game of spies and soldiers, and was always well-informed of what went on under Skyhold's roof. Fooling her this long was luck as much as skill.
Stepping out in the shadow, "You knew I was here?" he asked lightly, and returned the smile. Gentle. Practiced.
"You've been here most nights. Once work began, I had asked that the door be left unlocked for you," she replied.
At that, he felt a twinge of embarrassment. To be so easily read. But still, "Then I should thank you for the consideration," Solas said graciously. Loneliness had made him careless — distracted — if his moves had become that predictable. But the misstep would not count against him. A cloak wove first of truth and lies second made the best disguise.
Leliana's smile, coy at first, softened into something kinder. She nodded at the bed, recently replaced. "If you like, I can have your things moved here before she returns."
A curious offer.
And he gave it curious regard. "While I can't say I'm opposed, sharing the room would make it difficult to perform the level of discretion her position asks for."
It was a smirk now. "To say the room you supposedly occupy belongs to you at all seems rather generous. You're rarely in it."
When he chuckled her grin widened. He said, "While not untrue, the designation grants plausible deniability."
Leliana approached the hearth and placed the lantern on the mantle, set down in front of a large, decorative, mirror. It was a new addition, brought in alongside a matching set of vases and pitcher for water. Lovely, he'd admit, but like most things here it won no sentiment from him. Another adornment chosen by others.
She lifted the lantern's hood and adjusted the burner until the wick was high enough to illuminate the entire room. Then stepped back and leaned against the side of the fireplace with her arms folded loosely. Ankles crossed and chin lifted; an open, comfortable, posture to show she meant no harm with the ribbing. Even as the weight of the conversation grew heavier.
"Not for much longer," she said. "While your discretion to this point has been exemplary, I fear you may become an open secret once a child arrives who bears you a striking resemblance. Tell me, what do Elven children call their parents? I assume it's not their given names."
A fair point, he thought, and granted it to her with a nod of acknowledgement. Should they all still be at Skyhold by the time the child reached toddling age, 'papae' was not a moniker that left much room for interpretation.
A ruse sophisticated enough to hide his involvement entirely would require far more resources than they had at their disposal. And more time than what little the announcement had allowed. If the intent was still to muddy the water, a different strategy would be necessary.
"I don't expect we'll be putting it in print, but it's not something we can hope to keep hidden forever," Leliana added, divining his thoughts. "Ideally, we won't have to: Corypheus will fall, the Venatori will disperse, and barring the emergence of another cult she's vowed to dismantle she'll no longer be under the same scrutiny. Politically or otherwise. At that point whom she takes as friend or lover won't carry the same weight. But she's at her most vulnerable during these final months, and immediately following, so that is where my focus currently lies.
"For a time I'd have the three of you remain outside of Skyhold, with return travel ready if need be. These past weeks without 'the Inquisitor' have been difficult, but not impossible — between myself, Cullen, and Josephine we can handle most situations. Those requiring a face, Mira can continue to manage. With regular meets and an open line of communication the Herald can attend to the rest of her duties herself. Once you all return I have a few ideas on how to ease your bourdons. For one, I plan to bring in attendants to help keep your obligations to Skyhold and family as separate as possible. There's no need to have them on her knee for judgement. To parade them would only paint a target. There are plenty of models to use as inspiration: children have been born of soldiers and dignitaries in wartime for as long as conflict has existed."
He raised a brow. "You believe she'd accept a nursemaid?"
Leliana laughed. Shifted her weight from one foot to the other, so her hip cocked against the stone façade. "I believe she could try to, which is the best I could hope for. At the same time, should a situation ever arise where she were called to choose, I believe she'd rather leave a child in the care of trusted governess than take them onto a battlefield."
Lightly, "I am not sure I share your confidence," Solas replied.
"With hope, we will never see that put to test." For a moment her gaze pinned him, and she allowed the brief silence that followed to convey her sincerity. "As for the day-to-day, should she allow it, I believe the best protection can be provided by integration. There are other children here. Not many, but enough that one more may not seem so unusual… particularly if they are found in the company of labourers' children, merchants or masons, rather than kept separate and treated as nobility might."
It was a layered plan, and he paused to consider its deeper implications.
"You're hoping their ears will make them invisible enough that a familial resemblance may pass without comment."
It was beneath her to flinch at hearing it said so plainly; her stillness revealed only that it was not a point that brought her pride. "Does that bother you?"
"On the contrary: it is a good idea and I commend you for it. I would be surprised if it did not work. However, if we should take your offer to share the tower that might risk the plan's effectiveness."
"Striking a balance between safety and fairness is a point I've spent a considerable time thinking on, especially since the time we'll need these measures employed is comparatively short. There's no point in working too hard if we're looking at a timeline of months over years. But conversely, I'd prefer not to throw it all to the winds and go on as though it's common knowledge. Public knowledge of the existence of a child would put them — and perhaps you — at risk." She paused there, briefly. Gathering her thoughts to ensure her intentions were communicated clearly. "I have no desire to ask you to be separated from your child during their formative months. That feels unkind. To all of you. However, some effort still needs to be made to play the part of colleagues. Plausible deniability, as you said." And she nodded to him. "I'll ask you to call upon the skills you've employed in the past to help ensure that assumption keeps. Stagger your entrances and exits, take care with your language toward each other, allow the child to be mixed in with the general populace whenever they're able, keep other interactions behind closed doors — I believe that's the best option we have for now. If the Inquisition's situation remains unchanged in six months — or a year — we'll need to revise… but until then, unless either of you have an objection, the tower is yours too."
It was, perhaps, one of the kinder gifts she'd given.
He would never have sought her permission for such a request; but neither would he have obeyed a restriction on his movements, should she order one. She knew it, too. There was an unspoken presumption he would be there regardless… to have her make arrangements to protect that space before it even came up, and go so far as to offer him the encouragement, held a depth that was not lost on him.
It was, in its own way, a blessing of their union.
Not that he needed one.
"We'll be keeping your current room as is, and continue to use it as a façade," she continued. "It's a pity Skyhold does not have the same system of passages that Halamshiral enjoys." There, she gave him a pointed look. "One can get into all the master quarters by way of them, bypassing the public corridors. Useful, if one also happens to be carrying on in a way that would benefit from secrecy."
While he was aware of servant entrances to the royal quarters, this was the first he'd heard of the passages behind the rooms in the guest wings. Knowing that would have made certain visits at the palace much easier.
He tilted his head curiously, and a small smile curled one corner of Leliana's lips. "Did you not know?"
He chuckled. Admitted, "No, I had no idea."
"Here I would have expected you to find them after our first foray. What on earth did you use instead? The front door?"
While he wasn't willing to confirm or deny the accusation, the pointed silence answered for him.
She smirked, "How pedestrian," and again, he laughed.
This banter was familiar. He'd seen much of it lately. Leliana had made a point of engaging him more often since Ellana left; ruffle his feathers with innuendo or playful teasing. It was good-natured, and he appreciated it more than sympathy. It did well to distract him. It gifted him rare opportunities to smile.
And it was enough to almost make him forget she'd taken him by surprise.
Almost.
They shared the rotunda, so he was vaguely aware of the schedule she kept. If the lamps were lit at nigh-to-midnight he might hear her scratching at letters or cooing at her favoured birds, but that was rare. It was past that now. She had even less reason to be in the tower than he did.
"While I am grateful you so enjoy my company—" Solas began, with a note of dry humour. "—I am curious why you sought it tonight. And here, in particular."
Her smile did not falter, but the warmth behind it faded. "The assurance of privacy."
The next breath was sharp. He swallowed, to choke back the hopeful leap of his heart into his throat. Whether in anxiety or excitement, he couldn't say. Whatever was to follow in her report had an equal chance of being good or bad. Stalling him with conversation didn't weigh the outcome one way or another, it was a tactic played to ease his guard.
"Oh?"
A slight tremble betrayed the façade. And in an instant it had spread from chin to knees, laying bare a battered heart that ached to be soothed.
An update. A letter. Permission to leave. Something.
He hadn't seen a single report since Ellana left, though that was not for lack of trying. Each time another scroll arrived he made certain to find a way to search the message later… but each time found nothing, and so remained another day at Leliana's mercy. Being beholden to others never suited him.
His feet itched.
She did not waste time. That friendly, easy, demeanour snapped to cool professionalism in an instant. From Sister Leliana to Nightingale. Though, the update she gave was not the one he'd expected.
"My agents tracked the assassin to Orlais. Val Royeaux, but originally from Halamshiral. The alienage there has long been a target of racially-motivated attacks. They've all been, of course, but Halamshiral is regarded as one of the worst. Unrest was brewing well before the Empress ordered it burned; an act of terror that has only served to radicalize its survivors. Prior to being appointed to the position of Marquise, Briala had quite a few contacts there. Information she's made available to us since we assisted her. Many were lost in the massacre, but it seems one or two of the survivors blamed her for not warning them sooner — even going so far as to imply she took advantage of her position in Celene's trust to spare herself. The dissidents numbered very few, but the loss of faith left them compromised. Vulnerable to manipulation and propaganda."
"I imagine that would make a fine target for someone eager to take advantage," Solas finished for her.
"Someone already incensed about Elves in positions of power… and who possessed the wealth and resources to do something about it," she affirmed. "This individual's strategy hinged on equivocating the Inquisitor's limited political influence as deliberate, callous, inaction. The burning could happen again, violence was increasing, and with Briala's appointment framed as 'moving on' they had all the pieces to create a narrative about an Elf figurehead who was controlled by the Chantry, and so did not care about the plight of their people.
"As far as I can tell, the idea was that killing her would force someone with less restriction — but ultimately easier to manipulate — to take her place. Ironically, creating the very situation they rallied against. The Dalish are a wildcard — they can't easily be bought — but they're also an insular people. Weaponizing the gulf between them and city Elves isn't difficult."
"Divide and conquer," he mused. "Unfortunately, very effective."
"A Human replacement would capitalize on the assassination to gain sympathies from those Elves 'left behind', then promise that their improved reach would lead to real change… all the while a puppet for other interests. Ideally, it would ease the unrest and string them along while enacting more restrictions. The woman who came — and ultimately perished — here had been groomed for some time. A former agent and an excellent poisoner, she had all the makings of a martyr for vengeance. She'd lost loved ones in the massacre and her anger made her uniquely vulnerable. By the end, all her handler had to do was point her in the right direction and let her go."
Solas clenched his jaw, trying not to let his disdain show. It was abhorrent. To forge pain into treachery… but worse that it worked. Like the wayward few who joined the Qun, down-trodden and so accustomed to subjugation that they became its crier. Stripped of their freedom to imagine a better world.
Swift and surgical precision was needed to excise its followers. Like a gangrenous limb, it would only rot if left untreated. The divide between the factions of modern Elves was already far enough without Human hands digging it wider.
He asked, "The sponsor… do they still live?"
"No," Leliana replied, and he felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. "I gave the kill order as soon as we were able to root them out. Proof of their death arrived just this evening. Less than six acted under them. Mostly Human — several Elves — led by different motives, but aligned toward the same goal. Once their leader was eliminated they scattered. But they were rushed, and so kind enough to leave us trails."
Confused, "Why not kill them all outright?" Solas interjected. "Fear breeds desperation, and those that joined this cause were acting under the belief it would pay them the blood they're owed. You will not change their minds with mercy."
She shrugged, and the dismissal felt insulting. "Perhaps not, but if we took out the entire group — regardless of how small — there is a chance we'd only create more martyrs for the cause. Losing their leader has crippled the faction; they've made no move to regroup. If we can use the opportunity to address the inequities that radicalized them in the first place we may turn them. That would do more to prevent it from happening again. We cannot do that if they're blindly executed."
"You believe they'll sit for civil discussion?" He scoffed. "If you truly want to play the part of saviour, restitution would go further. City Elves wish recognition of their suffering and deliverance of protection. They cannot have their grief assuaged by empty promises; they speak in action, not words."
Leliana's eyes were sharp. Even in the dim she tracked every twitch of his brow. "Unless we wish to throw away all our trade and travel with Orlais, begrudging, minimal, compliance is the best we can expect from them. If there's any hope of achieving this, it's won by inches. If we call for drastic action they will be quick to name us radicals and we'll lose any progress we've made so far. In that spirit, Josephine has sent a request for an audience with the Empress and her cabinet on the Inquisition's behalf. If it's granted, we'll see how much reach we truly have."
A polite request for the mercy of the Empress' schedule after an assassination attempt would get them nowhere. No extremist would have their anger mollified by bureaucracy. To eliminate all those involved would send a clearer message: threats would be tolerated.
The skepticism must have shown on his face, as she was quick to add, "This is a beginning. Halamshiral is the first to allow Elves a chance to study at a university and even that small allowance has attracted heavy criticism. It is groundwork — too much pressure and it'll give way."
"Too little and we invite them to try again." His tone was clipped now. "If you do not expect Orlais to heed a call for compassion, this is merely posturing. Were she here, the Inquisitor would call it self-congratulating."
It might have been a lie; she had more faith than he.
And The Nightingale might have scented it. There was a subtle, curious, tilt of her chin before she continued. The demeanour she'd affected felt warm and welcoming just moments ago, but now seemed patronizing. "Requests like this would normally be out of our purview, but if played carefully we could leverage this attack to get our foot in the door. That alone would challenge the core beliefs of the faction, for any who still question it, and show city Elves her willingness to bridge the gap between them and the Dalish."
"The Dalish are seen as insular and fanatical, counting them among the city numbers may risk deeper offence," he said. "Culturally, historically, the groups are distinct. And rarely get along."
"That is a risk I'm willing to take, if the alternative is to continue to do nothing."
"The alternative is to first ensure no one in the group is left alive to carry its message!" he replied pointedly.
"Is that what you would order, were you in my position?"
He paused. Temper was a misstep.
To cover, he feigned careful consideration he had no intent to give. Then, "No," he lied. "I would likely take the same time you have to weigh the options." If she thought he was driven by vengeance there was nothing he could say that would convince her otherwise. Any suggestion he made would be written off as bloodlust.
That in itself made a curious question.
He narrowed his eyes. "Why give me this information at all if you've no intention of hearing my counsel on it?"
Leliana pushed off of the fireplace and began to walk a slow circle around the room. Her path leading generally in his direction, but with the slow, lazy, route of someone caught up in admiring the scene. The mix of old and new that had been brought in since the repairs. As she walked her gloved fingertips brushed over edges and corners. Following delicate whorls and rounded corners, up and over the back of an overstuffed chair, with the care of someone who had put their heart into each piece.
In fairness, she and Josephine had done an adequate job at replacing what was lost.
The gesture might seem fond, if it did not remind him so much of the way Briala moved when she'd approached him at Halamshiral.
She was hunting.
She said, "I'm not asking for your counsel, I came here to ease your mind. Being unable to accompany her has been difficult on both of you, I know, and you deserved to know when she is no longer in danger. From this particular threat at least. I'm afraid I cannot say the same of the Venatori."
"Consider me eased," he quipped.
There was the smallest curl on her lips as she came to stand before him. "A message will be sent to inform her party of the same, and once the preparations of the birth house are complete I'll send another with orders to move her."
That was far better news. All the breath left his lungs at once, brows raising, and the shift in his disposition was sudden enough that Leliana's smile grew wider in response.
She continued, "Once the group checks in, you can meet her there. I'd like to relieve her current accompaniment — they've spent weeks at this and are likely near as tired of seeing her as she is of them — I'll send others with you to Jader. For that I would appreciate your input, however, should you care to give it."
He nodded slowly, and tried not to look the fool he felt like. This ordeal was nearly over. It could be as little as two weeks, allowing for travel. Though he knew the narrowing window would make the wait all the harder.
Still, "Thank you," he said softly.
"I'll ask for your recommendation by the end of this week," she said, and smiled. "I appreciate your patience during this ordeal, I know it has not been easy. Fortunately, the end is in sight." She turned, the visit over, and headed toward the stairs. "Perhaps fate will be kind enough to grant you time to breathe before the next."
"Perhaps," he echoed, and said, "Goodnight, Spymaster."
She raised a hand to bid him farewell, but stopped just three steps down the landing before, "Oh!" she said, as if a point had been forgotten and only just occurred to her again. She turned back, resting one arm upon the rail. "Forgive me for not asking you sooner… but do you have anyone you'd care to reach out to when you're able to speak of this freely? I could send people out to search, if you're not sure where family or other connections currently reside. Locate them ahead of time."
The good mood popped like a bubble.
She'd not asked him of his origins since the day he arrived at Haven, and only then to determine that he was not an abomination or assassin that had wandered in amid the Conclave's chaos. The answers he'd given then were vague, but seemed to satisfy. Few expected many details from a wandering apostate. The disguise suited him well. The village he named was implied to be small, isolated, in an area seldom explored. Details were nebulous enough to keep her chasing her tail if she should try to pin the location on a map… but it would not hold up to deeper scrutiny.
After the Inquisition's rebirth, when resources flowed, nearly everyone in the inner circle had utilized the spread of their network to trace family, friends, or lost loves. Particularly after Haven's fall, when life seemed fleeting and precious the way it tends to after a brush with death. The road to Skyhold was arduous and many more were lost along the way. For a time the sky was black with ravens as soldiers and servants alike sent letters to all corners of the continent. Equal parts despair, and relief, flew to families left behind. Wisps of Hope, Love, and Grief flocked to the castle to bind the wounds on weary hearts.
Their reach had been so far that even acquaintances of Cole had been found.
That Leliana had not offered the same to him in all the time he'd served implied she'd taken him at his word: he had no connections to make.
To offer it now implied something had cast doubt upon that assumption.
The smile he wore faded into a more wistful expression, and, "If any still live I'm afraid I do not know of them," he said easily. "They departed long ago, and I've had no connections since."
There was a spark in her gaze, held a heartbeat too long, that left him wondering if she'd taken his answer as honest truth or merely something close to it.
"No family at all?" she pressed, and then he was sure it was the latter.
Careful.
If she suspected duplicity, the simplest answer was that she found his evasiveness more practiced than that of a man from humble origins. It could be argued that any apostate who'd survived this long would have learned to lie well — but too much confidence and too little detail might put him in the company of spies.
A stumble here, some ignorance there, could nurture a different theory.
A runaway slave, a thief, or former criminal. A simple man with a past he wished to let lie.
With a little time, he could feed her people information in such a way as to validate a hunch but still spare him any action taken on it. Whatever she had now was not enough to act upon, only to pluck the web and wait to see what emerged.
For now, he chose glibness — "Not yet" — and it seemed to work. The smirk returned.
"In that case, my congratulations on creating one," she replied. "They are often complicated, in my experience, but worth the trouble."
"Of that I'm well aware."
With a smile she slipped her hand from the rail and continued the descent. Offering an assurance as she parted, "I'll find you again once I have confirmed they've made it to the birth house. Until then, the room is as much yours as hers. And I'll keep the door unlocked."
True to her word the door was left ajar behind her, though it struck him more as a warning than invitation. He listened for her movement into the great hall, the click of boots echoing in the empty foyer before receding into silence.
He stayed another ten minutes beyond that, counting heartbeats and ensuring no patrols were near. Then he slipped back to his own room.
And did not return again.
Days passed.
He could not be sure how many, when each felt like an eon. Each morning he rose without the word he was promised pushed him ever further adrift. Of course, he knew better: every sunrise marked a reunion one day closer. But it felt true. There was little left he could lose himself in - these final days stretched on for months.
It was worse knowing how easily he could simply leave Skyhold, if he wanted to.
And he wanted to.
He could utilize agents posted in the outermost circles of his network to piece together clues of where she'd stayed; ask pointed questions in cities where someone could easily disappear. A Qunari, a Seeker, and a pregnant Elf? Surely, it would not take long to deduce her location. From there he could draw a path to their next destination. Then, he could simply walk out of the gates and go to her. Without notice or permission. He could use the eluvian, as he had before, and arrive even faster.
Even now, she could be mere hours away.
But caution stilled his feet. Selfish self-preservation; the instinct to protect his own interests… though it had run him aground over and over, as he held it above all else, thrashing him like a ship upon the rocks. It would tip his hand to an opponent whose curiosity he had piqued. The Nightingale watched him closely now, since they'd talked. His cover would unravel. More leads needed to be planted before he could risk movement.
So he stayed.
And he waited.
Finding solace in what little was left untouched by the grief of separation. The Fade provided an escape, perhaps one of the few left to him… So at night, he Dreamed.
Wandered, long and lonely, the old paths of Skyhold's storied memory. There were secrets there — vast and innumerable. They could sustain him through this weariness; an untenable wait for news. Here, he could find a few hours peace.
This site had seen great battles and brave rebellions since his time. Housed countless forces, and offered shelter to lost, weary, travellers. It burst with history. He could spend another twenty years learning the stories and still have only scratched the surface.
A feast awaited him.
More than that, it was familiar in a way other places were not. The magic here was old. Enduring. It granted him comfort.
The Fade was as much a part of Skyhold as magic. Built into her very foundation long before the Chantry or Veil was known to mortal tongues. It made up the great, twisting, roots that stretched across stone and time. It was her life-blood — a beating heart — flowing in veins of mortar to keep her hale, no matter what powers aimed their ire upon her. While kingdoms rose and fell, Skyhold remained. Secreted deep within the Frostbacks, awaiting her next keepers. Discovered and forgotten, over and over, through the ages.
Each new faction that claimed it left it changed. Left something behind, took something away; had an impact — somehow — upon the next. In his task to keep himself occupied, he'd spent several nights observing that cycle. Following curious threads of memory back to their humble origins, one at a time, until he could see the tapestry they wove together.
It was beautiful, in its way.
Tonight he saw a sunrise from on high. A morning mist that gleamed gold and pink, hanging each exhale upon the air, as a red-sky dawn peeked over the mountains. Wisps and young spirits played the parts of former occupants — workers, not soldiers — awake before first light and busy boarding up the holes in the walls or bringing animals into shelters. Preparations for a coming storm.
Solas stopped above the largest courtyard, on the battlements near a set of stairs, and leaned over the balustrade. Below him, a pair of sheepdogs herded goats into a barn to the tune of a working song. An old shepherd tucked his wooden staff under an arm and clapped the beat with gnarled hands.
A night earlier, and an age ago, he'd watched a group of warriors train there. On the same earth. Row on row working each day until they fell from exhaustion. Then, on their knees they prayed for guidance from their Gods. Begging for a boon to turn the tide against their enemies.
Two nights before that a family took shelter from the cold. Curled together under the eave of a crumbling wall. Shivering and starved, they hid from the monsters that pursued them, until finally falling into restless slumber. Their smallest child wandered off before sunrise, leaving the parents to fret when they woke alone, but soon returned with a bounty of roots and vegetables dug out of the ground. A miraculous find in a barren expanse of snow and ice.
'A gift from the ancestors,' they called it… and were not entirely mistaken. It was all connected — one people after another leaving footprints across time, forging the paths for the next to follow.
Bags of grain came up with the soldiers, stored and forgotten when they marched for war. When none returned to claim the supply, it lay in wait.
A generation later, displaced kin found and spread it in the ground where the old wards kept the frost at bay. They farmed the meagre land and brought animals to graze. When they died, their bones fed the soil… sowing tubers and roots from the seeds of their last meals.
Over years a garden grew, unseen, within the ruins. A trove then happened upon by a scavenging child looking to feed their family.
And they, too, had left their mark.
In their exploration of Skyhold's halls they found an alcove deep in her heart, forgotten and half-buried beneath a collapsed wall. In clearing it, they created the room that would later serve as the lower archives — a room which Solas pulled Ellana into one afternoon months earlier. Giddy and reckless with her hand grasped tight in his, drinking sighs from her lips as they moved in the dark.
A foolish thing to do, he'd called it after… and the memory of telling her so suddenly struck him.
She'd quoted him, recently, when he'd asked her if it was possible to know conception.
Of course, he thought, and laughed. Of course.
Asylum, fortress, home. Life, death, rebirth.
A cycle, indeed.
It was meditative; watching the wheel turn round and round as Skyhold passed from hand to hand. For a few days he'd even managed to wake feeling rested — an accomplishment of particular note following the warning that Ellana's arrival at the birth house was imminent. Every waking hour since had been ruled by the restless skip of his heart. The anticipation that had him holding his breath each time he heard the Spymaster's shoes on the stairs. It was too easy to lose himself to counting days, counting hours, pacing the yard like the soldiers in the Dream until he too collapsed on the brink of exhaustion.
Even here he was not truly free from his troubles. When he found himself at all reminded of her, temptation began to creep in the corners of his mind. Beg him to stray. It started with innocent curiosity: which of these threads led to her? What changes had her presence wrought? What would her hands build? He wondered what memories of her time here had already taken root.
The naming of the Inquisition?
Her stand against the assassin?
… A foolish tryst in a forgotten room?
It was such a simple thing to let his thoughts drift. To look for traces of her here. Then the scene would grow dim and murky from his inattention and he'd have to give himself a shake. Remind himself, no — not here — to indulge in memory so closely tied with his emotions would only court trouble. Leaving his wounded heart exposed would invite someone — something — to come soothe it. The Veil was fragile, and so was he. Better to leave such thoughts to the waking world.
However, even those small slips of attention had an impact. They could displace him. Nudge him, just enough, that he fell out of sync with the scene he'd visited upon. Between the tableaus and raw Fade, lay a lacuna.
It was there that he heard the cry.
Preceding it was a brief, fleeting, moment of connection. A magnetism — two parts yearning to be whole — that extended into the vast expanse of the Dreaming. As if his hand were reaching out into darkness and somewhere else she was doing the same.
A spark ignited.
Her pain touches yours.
An instant of ominous stillness was his only warning, and by the time he became aware of it, it was already too late to brace himself.
First, his breath was stolen.
Then a single heartbeat, skipped.
Then it hit him with the force of a tidal wave.
A rolling, heaving, ripple of turmoil travelling at the speed of thunder. Tearing through the paper walls he'd raised to ward himself — through boundaries of territory and distance — to crash upon his being. It was drawn into the emptiness of his chest with a terrifying gravity; into the void her absence had left. It filled him with unrest, heavy and thick, until he felt he'd burst from the weight. His knees gave out, and he had to catch himself so not to fall over the rail.
Then, just as quickly, it was gone.
In the aftermath he was left confused. Anxious. Startlingly alone. Gripped by dread so cold he pressed his fingers to his ribs to ensure his heart still beat within. The shudder of his breath offered him no solace. Something was afraid, and he'd heard the call.
Before he had time to even begin to wonder what spirit could cause a disturbance of that magnitude, and why it felt so familiar, he heard a voice.
"No, no, no, no, no."
Turning, he saw Cole on the parapets behind him. Pacing back and forth in quick little steps up on pointed toe. His presence was odd. It was not often that he joined him in the Fade. His gifts of insight were better suited to the waking world, where his touch had a more profound impact. Compassion required meaningful action; in a dream he could only haunt.
Stranger still, he was… discordant. Flickering in and out as if trying to force himself to fit in a scene he didn't belong to. Like a piece from a different puzzle: the right shape but the wrong design.
As he paced he whispered to himself, "No, no, no."
"Cole?" Solas tested. He'd rarely seen him so agitated.
Cole clutched the wide brim of his hat with both hands and pulled it down over his ears, like a child might, blocking out an unwanted noise. In a rising whisper, "I'm not supposed to be here," he said. "We cannot stay. We have to keep going. Frantic, frightened, five minutes now — but it feels like less when I sleep between. I don't want to be alone. I can't do this." When his eyes finally locked with Solas' the plea reached a fever pitch. "It's not supposed to happen here!"
Solas took a careful step toward him. One hand raised to touch gently, slowly, upon his shoulder. "The disturbance just now — is that what upset you? There is nothing to fear. It cannot hurt you," he soothed. "You are safe here."
Cole flinched away. "It hurts."
He rarely shied from touch. Solas narrowed his eyes. "Do you hear someone nearby? A spirit, perhaps? Are they in danger?"
Something about that finally reached him, and he was spurred into action. Cole snapped to attention, arms falling loose at his sides, and jumped down onto the rampart. In three quick strides he closed the distance between them until they stood face to face. Uncomfortably close.
With eyes wide, and in an authoritative tone Solas had never heard him use before, "You need to go," he ordered.
"Go where?"
"Go!" Cole repeated.
And then pushed him off the castle wall.
It lasted only a few seconds, though it felt like much longer. He was falling. Spinning, backward, arms flailing; through the air and then through the ground — into the mountain itself — and the darkness within. It happened so fast that he had no time to react. His hands scrabbled uselessly at the void, searching for purchase to save himself.
In the instant before he woke, in darkness, he could smell the air on the brink of thunder.
Go.
Solas' eyes snapped open.
There was pounding on his door.
No one had ever pounded on his door in all his time with the Inquisition.
He glanced out the window. Curiouser, the moon was full and high - it was the middle of the night.
A quick flick of his wrist lit every candle in the room at once, replacing the slivers of moonlight through the curtains with a low, warm, glow. The pounding paused only briefly as the midnight caller took note of the light appearing under his door, then they began again in earnest.
"Get up! Get up! Get up! Get. Up!" came a voice. The door rattled in its frame.
Solas flung the cover off his bed and rolled out, flinching when his bare feet touched the stone floor. The night was cold, the wind had picked up while he slept. It smelled like rain.
He scrubbed his hands over his face and blinked his vision clear — stumbling, groggy, toward the door. The visitor seemed urgent, so he didn't bother searching for the rest of his clothes, and was dressed only in a pair of loose slacks when he unlocked and opened it.
Initially, he did not recognize the face that greeted him on the other side.
Drenched in rain, sweat, dirt, her hair plastered to her neck and cheeks, and her skin gone blue-grey from the cold, Sera looked more ghost than elf. Her clothes were a rumpled, torn-up, mess — even more than normal — and sprayed with mud. Worn threadbare on the insides of her thighs from hard riding. She stood with one hand braced against the threshold and the other wrapped around her stomach, doubled over, panting from exertion. She looked on the verge of passing out.
"Sera?" Solas exclaimed, bewildered. "What are—?"
"You need to go," she ordered, in a troubling echo of Cole's words. Her hands were red and raw from blisters and she left a bloody, mud-streaked, print on his bare chest as she pushed her way inside. She managed only two shaking steps beyond the threshold before her legs gave out and she tripped. Fell. Missing the bedside table by inches, thanks only due to Solas' quick reflexes that caught her elbow before she collided with it.
He took the opportunity to press a light healing spell into her skin. Watching as the wounds on her hands knit closed and some colour crept back into her face. But she did not seem to take note of the favour, and so offered him no gratitude for it.
Instead she grabbed his travelling pack off the hook it hung on, heavy with supplies. It had been packed to leave at a moment's notice for the last week. Then she retrieved his discarded shirt from off the floor. Pushed both firmly into his chest.
"You need to go!" she said again. "Right now!"
"Go where? What's happening?" he asked, a little irritated now, but the second the words left his lips something clicked and suddenly he understood what circumstances her presence at his door could imply. He switched tracks immediately. The bag dropped on the floor in favour of freeing his hands to pull his shirt on. Once properly dressed, he grabbed a heavy cloak and flung it around his shoulders, fastening it at his neck. "Where is she? Has she been injured?" He picked the bag back up.
"They're stopped by a river that runs out of Lake Calenhad. There's some caves, in the woods, North off the Highway. Not far from Gherlen's Pass. We were on our way to Jader. Can't move her now." Sera opened the topmost drawer of his dresser and began rifling through the contents. When she didn't find what she was looking for, she slammed it shut and moved onto the next. "It's six or seven hours from here if you ride hard." The same was repeated for the third, and fourth, drawers before she gave up and just started pulling everything out and throwing it on the floor.
Only when she came upon a roll of papers did she take a moment's pause. Thumbing through them — drawings, sketches, notes in Elvish — she searched for a page left mostly blank, and upon finding one, held it out to him. Prompting, "Where's your writing stuff? Quill? Ink?"
There wasn't yet a method to her madness. He pointed and answered, "By the bedside," trying not to betray just how uncomfortable he was with watching her grab, drop, and then step on some very personal papers. A report on Qunari movements, written in hurried shorthand, was crumpled beneath her feet along with a sketch of Ellana, naked, sleeping in his bed.
She had not noticed.
A spray of black hit the floor and the bedcover as Sera upended a bottle of ink with a clumsy swing of her wrist. She did not seem to notice that either.
In thick, hurried, strokes she drew a series of lines and symbols overtop his own writing. Once finished, she thrust it at him. "Here, by this fork." She tapped the page, leaving behind a finger-shaped smudge. "I don't know if they're still there but it's the last place we were. There's an Inquisition camp over here—" Another fingerprint, partially obscuring what he now understood to be a road. "—maybe two hours away. There's only a few people there normally and it's probably unmanned now. There was a big storm. Raining for days. Everyone fucked off to take shelter, most of the places we passed were shuttered."
Solas took the makeshift map and ran a hand over it, drying the ink with a spell, then rolled it up and tucked it into his pack.
Confused, "Why not go to the camp, then?" he asked. Surely enough supplies could be found there to stabilize her well enough to move. "Search their stores and bring supplies back to her?"
Sera turned an incredulous look upon him. "What for?! What the fuck are we gonna do — deliver a baby into a pile of spindleweed?"
All of the air left his lungs in a rush.
Somehow, of all the scenarios he'd imagined led to her arrival, the most obvious one had not been among them.
Breathless, "'Baby'?" he whispered. "Is she in labour?"
There was a beat of silence while Sera processed that response.
Then she threw both her hands up and started yelling.
"Of course she's in labour! Have you not been listening?! You think I'd come all the way up here for a broken leg? Fuck! It started and it's hours gone and she didn't tell us because she's an idiot and she was waiting for you and now we're all stuck! She's stuck! We hadn't hit the Pass yet and Vivienne's place is too far — so, caves it is! Welcome to the world!"
Solas lowered the bag back upon the floor and let the straps slip from his fingers. Not for any intent to stay, but because he'd suddenly lost all motor control in his hands.
"Waiting for me?" It didn't make sense. The timing wasn't right. "Is it not too soon? The midwife had said—"
"That's beside the point now, innit? Not really up to her!" Sera made a quick scan of the room to ensure she'd given him all she could think of, then picked the bag back up and pushed it into his hands. He fumbled, barely catching it from falling again, and she pointed an accusing finger at his chest. "You do not have time to lose your shit, Solas. When I left, Cassandra said it was still early, but that was half a day ago I don't know how fast these things go. So get it together and get the fuck out of here."
He thought of the map and its poorly-drawn lines. "But how will—"
"No!" There was no question he could ask that she'd have a good answer for. She shoved him hard with both hands. "Get out! Now! Go!"
He stumbled, backward, out the door, struggling with the bag and with only one shoe on. Sera grabbed the other and threw it out onto the walkway behind him, along with his staff and a small dagger she took off the top of his dresser, then she slammed the door.
There was a metallic scrape and click as she bolted it shut.
He was left half-dressed, locked out of his own room, in the middle of the night, in the cold, struggling to make sense of the deluge she'd dropped upon him.
It took another moment for it all to sink in.
Then, he ran.
Darting into shadows to avoid the few guards on patrol and Fade-Stepping around the ones he couldn't, until he'd made it to the main yard, before the gate. The portcullis was usually lowered at night and raised at dawn, but he was relieved to find it still open from Sera's arrival. Several guards and the gate-captain stood nearby, discussing the circumstances of her return; how strange it was for her to ride up alone, and in such a poor state. They'd not yet decided if it was better to report it now or wait for her to do so herself in the morning.
He'd never make it past them unnoticed. Not without using an exhausting amount of magic. Additionally, sneaking away would raise a number of questions he did not feel like answering upon his return. It posed the same problem as before.
Taking a mount would arouse less suspicion, but it meant he'd have to find a way to get rid of it. There were faster ways to travel — even barring use of the eluvians — he had no intention of going the whole way by horse relay.
There was no time to get lost in the details.
He took a charger from the unlocked stables and rode out. Stopping only briefly at the gate to notify the night captain of his intent to leave. He left instructions to pass along a message at first light, when the shift changed, and avoided going into detail with an implication that whatever mission he'd been sent on was a confidential one. It worked, and they gave him no trouble for the lie. He was waved through. The portcullis lowered with a clatter behind him as he disappeared over the bridge.
At its fastest speed it still took the charger hours to reach the bottom of the mountain road to Skyhold. An agonizing waste of time he vowed to make up for. He loosed the horse near the Inquisition's base camp after ensuring there were soldiers there who would find and corral it once it wandered by.
He did not linger on the road one moment more.
On foot, he moved swiftly — deeper into the woods, far from the sight of any guard or wayward traveller. Once he'd put enough distance between himself and the camp to be assured he was not seen entering this quiet copse of trees, he took a moment to review the map Sera had made him…
And shifted.
Dropping to the ground in a swirling, electric, cloud of smoke as his body grew, wrapped in muscle, and arms extended. Hands became paws, feet elongated, and dagger claws dug into the dirt. The travelling pack, cloak, and staff melted into a coat of shining black fur.
He ran, nose down to catch a scent, and six blue eyes watched the sun rise above the far horizon.
Somewhere North — beyond the valley — heavy, black, clouds flashed with lightning. Thunder rolled through the hills like a warning growl.
A storm was coming.