He ran for hours.

Without food, without rest, without care. In wind and freezing rain, from the icy fields of the lower Frostbacks to Ferelden's rolling valleys. Cold, numb, soaked to the bone, he was driven by a singular purpose. All that mattered was what awaited him, and how quickly he could reach her.

For a time, he thought of nothing else.

He ran parallel to the road. In the woods, where cover was thick the chances of encountering other travellers was low. The wolf granted him many boons — speed, power, heightened senses — but bore the weight of superstition. Six eyes and slavering jaws would brand him a demon. Travel as a man was safer, but too slow; in this form caution was critical. With time already in short supply he could not afford the delay a witness could cost him.

The longer the journey, however, the heavier that choice weighed.

Holding the shape proved more difficult than he'd anticipated. Never before had it required so much energy to cast. It had never drained him to keep it. Once, he could shroud himself in magic with the ease of drawing a curtain. A glamour cost him nothing. A new physicality only the time spent pondering it. Now the spell required constant vigilance. To maintain it called on careful, meticulous, awareness of every thread of mana used to weave its cloak. Each lengthened bone and stretch of sinew. What was once instinct had become a science. Within hours that effort wore on him. By dawn it was near unbearable.

Were it so simple as being out of practice then the time spent might ease his burden, but the very nature of magic had changed. It was limited. He was limited. And now suffered the slow, creeping, ache of mana drain as result. What began as nagging discomfort had grown over hours into a profound exhaustion. It dug, deep, into his bones, pounding like a migraine at the back of his skull. Until the awareness of his body, twisted and pulled into this unnatural shape, was impossible to ignore. What mana he'd managed to reserve when he first took it, all but exhausted.

The feeling was, unfortunately, one he'd become increasingly familiar with since waking. Between the Veil and his missing orb he was half a man. His goals always just out of reach… be they of fixing his mistakes or simply joining her side.

This mediocrity was humbling.

Untenable.

He wallowed in it, knowing that once he hit a wall he could lose hours of progress. On any other day that might be enough to persuade him to save his strength — but not today.

Not for this.

So he pushed back the pain, and kept his eyes on the rising sun. Hoping he ran out of road before strength.

Near mid-morning he passed an encampment tucked into a small valley. Not the first he'd seen, there'd been several along his course, but by far the largest. By extension, the best candidate for the landmark Sera indicated on her map. Few details could be seen from the thicket, so he slowed his pace and approached from shadow. Using the tree line as cover. Careful not to wander too close.

It was quiet. Empty — though not abandoned. Eerie for a camp that size. Tents were left erected and the scent of soldiers and their horses lingered faintly in the air. The ground near the gate was littered with footprints, enough to see even at a distance. A muddy, chaotic, mess that eventually found its way into matched, even, lines, marching in an Eastward direction, toward Lake Calenhad. Those who left them did so recently — a day or two at the most — likely in search of better shelter from the storm. A wise choice, as the camp had not survived it intact. Part of the palisade wall had collapsed where a tree struck it, unsecured crates were flung about, upended and smashed apart, and a tower leaned perilously to one side.

Above it all, on the central watchtower, hung a black banner. High winds had torn the fringe to ribbons, but spared its bright white sigil, naming the camp the Inquisition's. It stood as a message to all who'd approach: take heed and take nothing, this place was not a ruin. The soldiers would return.

His first instinct was to search the camp for supplies. One this large would act as a distribution centre for smaller outposts, holding caches of herbs, bandages, food and spare clothes… Things she may need. But, in addition to his concern of depriving the soldiers, he couldn't take the risk of venturing into open space. If someone lingered nearby to witness him picking through the stores it would raise too many questions. And with his strength sapped he feared dropping the form would prevent him from taking it again, wasting hours more.

With a huff, he turned away and broke into a run. Taking with him only the assurance that he was nearing his destination. By Sera's guide, he was only hours away. Close enough to keep an ear out for the river that would surely guide him the rest of the way.

Unfortunately, that too proved a lost cause.

Heavy rain meant heavy flooding — dozens of new waterways appeared virtually overnight. Burst dams and swollen streams had changed the landscape, carving trenches in the hills and turning valleys into bogs. When he was not pulled in all directions by the sound of roaring falls, unfamiliar terrain had him turning circles. Passing the same groves over and over. He'd not spent enough time in these woods to know them by memory.

Scent failed him, too. What little he picked up was only present in the most heavily trafficked areas. Near main roads and old campsites. The storm destroyed the rest. Finding something more subtle — a recent fire, or the harts they group had travelled with — would require him to be right on top of it. Precious time was wasted chasing animal's blood and rotted straw, only because they struck such sharp relief against the scent of mud.

Eventually he reached the edge of the Imperial Highway, following it until he met a fork in the road. There, he doubled back. Marking out an area spanning several miles to refine his search. Within it, he paced. Back and forth, nose to the ground, searching for signs of their detour. Footprints, embers, marks on trees… But found nothing. Either the camp they'd set was too far or the rain had washed away their trail.

After completing a full loop, back around to the fork where he began, he was no closer to his goal. He'd heard no sounds. Saw no smoke. Not a single, fading, scuff to guide him.

Another hour was spent at work before his determination finally paid off.

It was nothing so plain as a path to follow… just an odd something on the air. A smell he couldn't quite place. That didn't quite belong. Sharp and familiar. Not her, yet somehow near enough to feel adjacent. Caught only on the widest pass through the woods, half a mile North of the road. It was scant, and fleeting, and frustratingly vague, but the best lead he had.

He searched tirelessly for its origin. Tearing at the dirt and ripping up roots, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. Racking his memory all the while trying to pin down what, exactly, it even was and why it had drawn him so.

Then — finally, mercifully — he found its source.

Six feet off the ground, pinned to a tree with an arrow, was a thick slice of crabapple. Dipped in a bitter oil to prevent hungry creatures from making off with it.

Though the arrow's tip was lodged deep and held its prize securely, the surrounding bark lacked any sign it was shot from a bow. A closer inspection confirmed his suspicion: it smelled faintly of The Iron Bull. Presumably, where he'd gripped the shaft and jammed it into place by hand. This was no coincidence. It was a message left with him in mind. The start of a trail to follow. And she lay at its end.

He took off running — finding the next marker not a minute later. That piece half-eaten, but with enough left to serve its purpose as a waypoint. The arrow pointed West, so he followed it.

Another, and the way curved Northeast, through a quiet glen and river valley, and there he discovered of a set of hoofprints that had yet to wash away. A trail left by a pair of harts walking side by side. Each discovery guided him to the next, leading him down a winding path that crossed over deer trails and thick brush.

Further still, and he smelled smoke.

Moss. Damp. A river!

Three more arrows down. He quickened his pace.

His heart was in his throat — skipping light and rabbit-fast. For the first time in weeks — months — he felt excitement. Anticipation. Joy! Relief, though he tried to temper that with caution. She was not whole and hale until he held her in his arms. Kissed her fevered skin, and fed her bread and water. He would whisper to her, soft and sweet, of gratitude and love. For the strength that carried her through this trial, and for all the ones she'd faced without him. Because of him.

In mere moments that dream would become reality.

He was so close he could taste it on the air.

There were the harts with their wet, coarse, fur. Woodsmoke. Sweat.

… blood?

Then metal.

A battle cry rang out an instant before he was hit. His attacker too close and too quick to give him time to react. Pain exploded across his side as the blade of a battle-axe struck deep in his shoulder. Rending flesh and muscle both. His cry of alarm was a howl from the throat of a wolf, and its echo rang out like a warning.

He tried to spin around and meet his opponents, get a read on what was happening and how many faced him, but found he could no longer bear weight on the wounded limb. Instead, limping, he leapt backward and curled himself around a nearby tree. Facing the wound against it for protection. Carelessness had cost him dearly and he cursed himself for allowing excitement to trump caution.

A second swing quickly followed the first, but that one he managed to dodge. Ducking his head so the weapon landed in the tree instead. Nearly cutting it through. That gave him time to read his surroundings, but what precious seconds should have been spent planning his defence were wasted instead on surprise.

The Iron Bull was already coming around for another blow.

"Wait!" Solas yelled, in a voice low and deep.

Unfamiliar. He realized it a second too late, when the plea was countered with a firm,"Nope!"

That swing missed his neck by a hairsbreadth. Shearing fur off his chest as it sailed past. Too close.

Bull strafed to the left and Solas mirrored him, keeping the tree between them as a shield. But a sudden, hard, advance forced him to take a step away, back in the direction he'd come, and he quickly lost the advantage. Once Bull did it a second time, gaining even more ground, Solas understood the aim of the tactic. It wasn't just an aggressive defence: he was trying to lead him away.

There was fear in his face. Evident in the tight, downturned, corners of his mouth and lone eye, wide and wild. Bull's distain for demons was hardly secret, and Solas stood before him now wearing the convincing guise of one.

Surprise had left him at a disadvantage. All he could do was evade. Any attempt made to break the line would be answered with lethal force and he'd be done for well before the chance arose to explain himself.

Dropping the form was too risky; the process wasn't instantaneous. A few seconds were needed to consciously release the spell and reform as himself. Time that would leave him vulnerable. Bull was far too fast. He needed to stall.

He tried to calm the frenzy — "The Iron Bull, wait!" — hoping the use of his full name might beg him caution.

"Get out of my head!" he roared in return, swinging again.

Alas.

Now he was enraged as well as terrified.

Solas stood his ground, but Bull gave no quarter, so when his next push was met with resistance the Qunari swung his axe high above his head for a killing blow.

As he watched a ray of sunlight glint off the edge of the raised, bloody, blade, Solas understood the time for meaningful parlay had passed. And neither would he win a contest of strength, even in this form. A different tactic was required.

As the axe came down,"Knight to D6!" he yelled, and with any further retreat blocked, curled his head into his chest and took a protective stance. The uninjured leg folded up over his nose to offer flimsy shield against this final blow.

It worked: Bull's fierce expression grew slack in confusion.

The swing went wide, hitting the tree with a deafening crack that sent a shockwave ringing through the ground. Time seemed to stop for a single heartbeat — and in it both waited, breath held. Then the tree began to lean. Then fall. Its upper branches tearing through the canopy as it crashed to the ground, showering them both in a spray of pine needles and chipped bark.

Bull spun to yank his weapon back from the tree before gravity pulled it out of reach, and there Solas saw an opportunity. He stepped back, eyes blazing, and dismissed the form. Disappearing beneath a shroud of swirling, dark, smoke. When it cleared, Bull was right on top of him — axe ready. But now no longer towering beast, he stood before him instead as a pale, exhausted, Elf. Both hands raised in surrender. Teetering, unsteady, on legs he'd not used for the better part of a day.

There was a terrifying second where Solas feared his move was played too late. And winced.

Then everything happened all at once.

Bull didn't quite manage to reverse the power thrown into the blow, so instead redirected it. Narrowly avoiding a slice through Solas' chest by changing its trajectory at the last possible moment. He twisted his hips and the weapon flew out of his hands. Landing harmlessly in a nearby bush.

He did not bother to watch where it ended up.

"Solas?!"

Now reasonably assured he would survive this encounter, Solas lowered his hands. He meant to offer a proper greeting, or maybe an explanation, but the pain of his wounded arm robbed him of the chance. The gash was too deep to be mended by the transformation process. Bull's aim was true: with this single hit he'd nearly reached the bone, and Solas was saved from worser fate only by half an inch of thickened hide.

He hissed, and bit his tongue to keep from crying out. Touching the opposite hand to his shoulder saw it come away drenched in blood.

Meanwhile, Bull had yet to retrieve — or really, even notice — his discarded weapon.

"That was you?! You can do that? That was amazing — you were terrifying! Have you been able to do that the entire time? I could have killed you!"

"It is very taxing," Solas answered breathlessly, and it was no lie. As the rush of battle faded the depths of his exhaustion became immediately, painfully, apparent. He could barely stand.

Shaking fingers found the wound through the sleeve of his tunic, marked its length, and pushed in deep. Calling upon a simple spell to mend the edges together. Mana spit and crackled — and his vision briefly darkened — but the magic didn't bloom the way it should. Just a spark where a blaze should be. It fell abysmally short of what small measure of healing he'd intended.

He cursed under his breath.

Somehow still talking, "You were huge!" Bull exclaimed. "Damn! You've got all your stuff… how does that work? Where does it go? I think you were taller than me. Do you think you could carry someone? Shit, if we had that all the time we wouldn't even need to bring mounts."

There would never be enough time to even begin to address all the problems he had with that idea.

"Where is she?" he yelled instead.

Bull gave himself a shake. Then gestured over one shoulder with his thumb. "Cass has her holed up in a cave, back about two hundred feet. They've been there since yesterday."

With a sharp nod, Solas made to run in that direction, but hardly made it three steps before tripping over his own feet. The hours spent changed had pushed him far beyond the limits of exhaustion. His body was numb. His limbs boneless.

Iron Bull caught him by the (good) arm before he collapsed. "Whoa, hang on." Reaching into the pouch on his belt, he retrieved a small, red, vial. Pressed it into Solas' palm. "She's not going anywhere. Take this first — I got you pretty good."

He pushed it away. "Is she alright? Is she safe? What's—?"

The grip on him tightened. "Potion first." Solas tried to argue, but didn't manage a single word. Bull talked over the attempt. "When the adrenaline fades, pain and blood loss is going to take you down before you get there, and you're going to regret it if you pass out. Take it," he insisted. "Get your heart rate down. You look like you rolled down a mountain in a barrel to get here. She doesn't need to be worrying about you while she's doing her thing, and she's going to be if you walk up looking like that."

Begrudgingly, Solas took it. Pulled the cork out with his teeth and downed it in one go. It was thinned; the last of a supply, and tasted old, but would be enough staunch the bleeding. More importantly, it returned some of his stamina. A moment spent with it meant he could breathe deeply again. The woods stopped spinning.

Bull's hold on him didn't ease until he could stand without reeling. Then, "Good," he approved. "Now, Cassandra's been with her the whole time. I've been on guard so my part hasn't kept me apprised of how she's doing. I last checked in with them a bit after dawn. There's a lot of noise coming out of there, which I'm assuming means it's going well, but I probably don't have the answers you need. Let me give you a hand getting there. Can you walk?"

"Yes," Solas answered. But, when another attempt at it failed to get him very far, "Not well," he added.

Bull hooked an arm under one of Solas', wrapping it around his back for support, and lifted him up enough to take the weight off his feet. "One-two," he instructed, and together they set off toward the river.

Bull allowed him to set the pace, but kept it slow. They moved only as fast as he could make his feet work. Each time Solas tried to speed them along he'd cross left over right, trip, and end up tangled again.

It was agonizing.

Through it all Bull was still talking.

"This means Sera made it back in one piece, yeah? That was fast. She alright? What'd she ride, the chargers?" There was no pause between the questions to allow an answer. "Did you come all the way here like that? Or go by relay and just run the last part? That was the last healing potion, by the way, but we've got a lyrium left. Do you need it? You're looking pretty rough."

"No," Solas said, when he could finally edge a word in. "I will be fine so long as I can conserve mana."

"Did you run into any trouble on the way? Maybe not with a face like that. What was that anyway… some kind of wolf?"

"Of a sort," he replied.

"Can you do anything else?"

"In theory."

"Could you fight like that?"

"I would prefer not to."

"What's with the eyes?"

"Intimidation."

"And the—"

"Please," Solas cut in, "Just take me to her."

The forest grew sparse as they neared the river, the ground flooded. A small decline deposited them onto a low plain where Solas sank to his ankles in mud, but hardly noticed when the mouth of a cave loomed ahead. Not sixty paces. Once more his heart was in his throat. His chest heavy and light all at once, frightened and elated, ready to break away and run inside. Crawl, if need be.

He might have, if Bull had not tightened his grip and brought them to a stop well before they reached the entrance.

Solas frowned. "Why have we—?"

"If you run in without knowing what's going on you might add to the confusion. Like I said, I don't have a current update. I don't know what she wants right now, so I'm going to check in with Cassandra first."

In a rare show of temper, "She has asked for my presence!" he yelled. This was pointless delay.

"Great — then this will only take a second." Bull put a curled finger and thumb between his teeth and whistled sharply.

At first, and for too long, nothing happened.

Neither a response whistle, nor any invitation to approach.

For every second that elapsed, waiting in breathless silence, Solas felt his heart sink further. There'd been no sound from the cave when they arrived. Not a cry or a scream — be it from her or…

Worse, the last thing he'd scented before losing the form was blood.

There was movement ahead. A flash of something in the threshold.

Seconds later, Cassandra emerged, and her pallor was striking. She did not look much better than he felt.

In careful, halting, steps she staggered toward them like an injured bird. One arm raised to shield her eyes from the sun. Blinking, bleary, and wearing nothing but a pair of ruined pants and a stained breastband. Chapped lips parted around a word she could not quite push out, so shook her head instead. Whether in frustration over being unable to speak, or a statement of denial, he could not say. Her expression betrayed nothing but for some measure of shock.

As she neared, he realized what he'd initially mistook as mud was instead blood. Soaked through her leather breeches and streaked along her thighs where she'd wiped, or rest, her hands. The deep, blackened, stains upon her knees suggested she'd spent some time kneeled in a puddle of it. And the rest of her was scattered with scuffs, sweat, and dirt; a line of red drawn across her forehead and cheek.

Any question he'd meant to ask died on his tongue.

He thought, though it was not true, that he'd never seen her so bloodied.

The arm around his waist loosened and Bull took a half-step back to allow him the freedom to go, should it be granted. Yet he found he could not make his feet obey. In those seconds his mind had conjured a thousand scenes of shock and grief. Of mortal wounds, and the tragedy of women's work. That nervous flutter in his gut twisted into a heavy, leaden, knot.

Cassandra finally stood before him, placing both her hands upon his shoulders.

Then, she smiled.

And a spark escaped as a bright, sputtering, bark of laughter that surprised her as much as him. The sound managing to be both reassuring and deeply unsettling.

She leaned in, hands sliding around his back, and before he realized what was happening she'd already pulled him into a firm hug. Pressing his chest so tight to hers he could feel the shudder of her breath and the even beat of her heart. The tremble of her fingers as she gripped his cloak.

It was not something she'd ever done. That anyone had ever done, save for Ellana. He risked a glance at Bull, looking for some sort of explanation, but found he looked no surer of the implications.

His hands balled into fists held stiff at his sides. Frozen and overwhelmed, until he finally managed to swallow his fear and shrug out of the grip. Push Cassandra back just far enough to search her eyes.

When they met she let out another high, manic, laugh and, "It's a girl!" she said.

Time stopped.

The world narrowed and darkened, leaving only her face in smiling focus. While exhausted and filthy and joyous she looked easily past the masks he wore. Into the oldest, truest, part of him. He stood exposed without the sense to know was a whine in his ears and weight in his lungs. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't remember how. His pulse soared as the pressure built, until he started to claw at his clothes, gripping the front of his sweater in trembling hands, fighting for air.

Finally something gave way.

It was an explosion. A bright, happy, burst of searing light that wrapped his heart in joy. It surrounded him. Threatened to drown him, crushed beneath the impossible knowledge that from this moment forward the world would be forever changed.

He was…

They were…

Someone was laughing.

It might have been him.

Then he was struck between the shoulders, colliding with Cassandra when he failed to catch himself. The push didn't get him moving, so Bull did it again. Urging, "That means go, papa! Go!"

From Iron Bull's insistence he drew the strength needed to carry his own weight. Walk the last, shaking, steps he would ever take as a man alone.

One.

Two.

Five.

A thousand… and he was finally at the entrance. One hand rest upon the rock wall. One more breath to steady himself.

Then Cassandra spoke again: "And a boy."

There was a brief pause, as the words struck, before both men spun to face her.

"What?"

"What?"

Her cheeks were flushed and bright. "They are so small."

The cavern was dimly lit to his eyes. Twilight to the first bend, then beyond that the low, flickering, glow of a fire coaxed him onward. Somehow growing warmer with every step he took. As if he'd crossed a border into a different plane, somewhere secret, to lay his weary head and drive the chill from his bones.

A shimmer caught his eye as he passed beneath it. Gold in the walls. A sprawling web of precious threads. When he touched his fingers there he felt a spark, as if they'd met with the ghost of another's. There were spirits here. Simple, curious wisps of Home and Hearth that danced at the edges of his periphery, honing peace and safety into power to sanctify these earthen walls. Binding memory to stone. No harm could find them here — this had become hallowed ground. Even the water, trickling in from the flooded plain, had slowed its ingress.

Solas vowed to find them later. Thank them for the care they'd showed his beloved, and the comfort they had surely brought her when he could not do so himself.

He tripped on a rock and sent it scuttling into the wall. There was a pause, and then Ellana called out after the noise. "Cassandra? Is everything alright?"

He would have answered her. Started to, but then a soft sound followed after and he found he'd lost the breath to speak. A tiny grunt. A cough, and a little wail. The pitch grew high and shrill and all at once his heart shattered, mended, and broke again…

It was the sound of someone new.

Ellana's voice was a song. "Ssh," she soothed, "There you go," and the noise fell to a whimper.

Solas touched his fingers to his throat to ensure he still drew breath.

And then…

And then.

Steeled himself. One hand laid upon his heart to quell its pounding. Then he rounded the next bend.

The chamber beyond was tall and wide and a fire burned low at its centre. The air thick with the scents of blood and earth. She had made it her kingdom, and ruled it sat upon a throne of straw and wool. Her legs tucked beneath her. Naked, in all her majesty, her skin cast in honey gold before the fire.

And in her arms a heavy weight. Wrapped in linen. Cradled close.

She leaned in and gently kissed it, feather-light and soft.

She shone.

She did not notice him at first. Too entranced by the gifts she'd bore, she had eyes only for them. Her smile was honest. Tired and raw and more beautiful than he'd ever seen. Framed by locks of tangled hair, sweat-slick and pinned uneven to the side. Several curls had fallen loose. Bouncing at her ear as she turned her head.

They always fell loose.

When their eyes met he was cut to his knees.

If he could shape the walls he would make this place a monument to her. Metal and marble on a pedestal of gold. A tribute to her triumph, preserved in eternity. He would return to it a thousand times, a thousand years; consecrate the ground with his pilgrimage. To honour but a fraction of what he felt now, in this moment.

An eon lost to war and grief had taught him no truth lay in divinity, no boon was gained of worship… but somehow, in the ashes of a broken world, he'd found enlightenment.

Nothing had ever looked so righteous as this.

In shock and joy she called to him, "Solas!" and with that her body gave way. Crumpled, curled upon herself as if a great burden had finally lifted and she'd forgotten what it was like to breathe without the weight. It crashed over her, twisting that expression of relief into wracking, gasping sobs. In gratitude, she succumbed.

He would sooner tear out his beating heart than let her suffer alone one second more.

Feet made of lead a moment past were light as air when he moved now. He floated to her, kneeling in the bloody ruin of her battlefield and put his hands upon her face. Kissed her brow, her eyes, her cheeks, her mouth. Her mouth. Her mouth. Even as she laughed against his lips.

He tasted the salt of fallen tears. His own, if not hers. Whispered, "My love," and felt her shudder with a laugh and sob together.

He'd not yet managed to look upon her gifts, and so, "Did you see?" she urged.

And he did.

For the first time, laid eyes on what she'd made of the love he'd given over. His heart and spirit, hope and failures, all that made him into the man he'd become over ages lost. She'd made it pure. Taken reckless weakness and turned it to strength.

She rest her forehead against his. Smiled, and said, "Look what we did."

The two were wrapped together, one just below the other, each resting on their sibling. Arms entwined. Asleep, or near enough not to stir when Ellana jostled them. Both with heads of soft, dark, hair that curled at the ends. Ears tucked into a folds of the swaddle.

Rosebud lips that looked like his.

Solas held a trembling hand above them, not daring to touch. "Two?" he breathed, as if his eyes had lied. He looked to her for assurance.

Is this real? Are we awake?

She answered him with a happy grin. "Twins."

Surely, there'd never been a word to describe this until she spoke it into existence. Just now. He could not recall ever having heard it before.

He looked back in awe. Skimming his fingers over little shoulders and arms dusted with sparse, downy, hair. Soft as silk. Beautiful and impossible. Down he went, following an arm to a wrist to a balled fist. To the tip of fingers too small to hold his own, that stretched and flexed in response to his touch.

Wrinkled, dimpled, and terrifyingly real.

Lost for words, all he managed was a quiet, "Blackwall only made one cradle."

"Blackwall made us a cradle?"

"Only one," he repeated.

There wasn't enough. There were too many. There'd never been two before. No one had ever experienced such a thing. They were the first.

"They can share," she assured him. "They're small enough to manage."

That did not sound true, but he trusted she knew better. When she grinned she looked dizzy and in love with him and far more confident than he felt.

She laughed at him, and the sound made a pair of eyes open curiously. They blinked, lifted, and found his face. That first moment of connection was electric. Immediately, hopelessly, he was lost in the depths. Vast and endless in their potential. An abyss looking back at him.

There was so much of him in that tiny face.

"Vhallan," he said, at last. "Na unsura sal'shiral."

He could live an age in this moment. Staring at this new, startling, world in breathless awe. A hundred years would not be enough time.

Gently, he brushed a thumb across one puffy cheek, then the next, and when it rewarded him a sleepy smile in return his spirit soared. He looked to Ellana in ecstatic wonder — did you see? — and she nodded.

It might have been that hours passed before she spoke again. Or merely moments, stretched beyond infinity.

"Would you like to hold them?"

He blinked. It had not occurred to him that was something he could do.

"I… yes," he stammered. But when she sat straighter, lifting her arms to pass them over, he was struck by a rush of fear. Admitting, quickly, "but I may need your assistance," before he risked somehow shattering their fragile bodies in his naiveté.

The look she gave was fond, and drew a nervous smile in return. "Hold your arms as if you were holding a sack of grain in the crook of your elbow," she instructed. He did. And was alarmed to find she offered no second step and instead simply lay the bundle in the cradle he'd created.

Though she corrected his form, tucking one hand low to support a wrapped bottom and the other to hold their sides, she seemed pleased with his fumbling. He searched her face for a trace of concern — the purse of her lips, or twitch in her brow — but saw only trust. Absolute, and unconditional.

As if his hands had never been weapons.

As if his arms were safe.

Their weight settled there, light and soft, and not so still now that both were roused by the change in position. They shifted and squirmed, making soft little noises, until they'd found a way to fit comfortably against each other, and once more little eyes became heavy.

Every breath, every sigh, was miraculous — one revelation after another. Each more beautiful than the last. A part of himself he could look upon with admiration. It was as wonderful and terrifying as anything ever had been. They lay so peacefully against him.

Of all the things he'd done, and every role he'd played, he'd never been home before.

He did not know what to do now that he'd created it.

But, one oversight seemed especially egregious. "We did not decide on a name," he noted.

"And now we need two."

"A girl and a boy," he marvelled, and looked between them. Not quite a mirror to each other, but similar enough that he was struck by the sudden fear he'd never learn their differences. "Which is which?"

If she'd thought the question simple, she was gracious enough not to say so. With a patient smile she leaned her head upon his shoulder. The weight of her a balm on his battered heart. The time spent without her was long and lonely; to be here now was a sunrise after solstice. The return of light after deepest dark. And the promise of warmth.

"Her hair is a little straighter, and she has more of it," she was saying, indicating the one on the left. "His eyes might be lighter. I haven't managed a look at them in the daylight, yet. He's also a bit smaller."

"Is that all?" It seemed like a very short list. "How will we tell them apart?"

For whatever reason, she found his bewilderment amusing. Instead of answer the very real concern with any reassurance that they'd learn, she started laughing. Holding a folded arm to her swollen middle for support, wincing from the pain it caused her, yet unable to stop. She grasped his shoulder — fondly, as if he'd done something terribly charming — then slid her hand along his back to the other side to pull him into an embrace.

He'd managed to forget about the wound until the moment she squeezed it.

When he bit off a cry of pain her eyes widened. The smile falling into alarm as she pulled her hand back and found it wet with blood. "Solas, you're hurt! Why didn't you say anything?"

Thinking on Bull's warning, "It is—" nothing, he began, but choked on the words when she leaned around and pushed up his sleeve for a better look. These moments at peace had restored some of the feeling in his arm, leaving it much more sensitive than it had been when first hit. The potion's effects were barely skin deep — it had reopened with little provocation.

"Were you attacked?" she asked. Then frowned as a closer inspection raised more pertinent questions. "How in the world did you manage to get hit this badly and not tear your sweater?"

"I was not wearing it at the time," Solas replied, as lightly as he could manage through clenched teeth. "Or, more accurately, it was not present. The Iron Bull took his duty of guarding your safety very seriously. I'm grateful for his dedication. However, he is not fond of demons, and I suspect initially mistook me for one."

Ellana's brow deepened, then raised, as understanding dawned. "Oh."

A moment passed in silence, and a pensive look exchanged; it was a calculated risk. Time would tell if it had any farther consequence.

"The journey has, unfortunately, left me exhausted of mana — I was unable to heal myself. Iron Bull offered me your last potion, but sutures may be more appropriate."

"Any harder and you might have lost your arm, Solas. I think sutures are the least of your worries. I'm surprised you can use it at all."

He gave her a look. "That is an exaggeration."

"Have you seen it?" she countered, but was laughing when she said it. Because, somehow, it was funny — that they'd find cause to argue even now.

He laughed too, and leaned in to kiss her cheek. Rest his head against hers. "There is another potion in the inside pocket of my pack. If you retrieve it for me, that should stabilize the wound until I can have it properly treated."

It was still shouldered, so she did not have to go far. With his hands full she opted to feed it to him rather than disturb the quiet picture they made as three. And as he drank he thought of the irony in arriving here with such ardent determination to care for her instead.

She still needed it far more than he. Though she hid it well, exhaustion was writ in every part of her.

When the bleeding was staunched, "Sleep," he urged. "You've worked tirelessly to bring them here, and need your rest. I will be here."

Merely the suggestion of it was enough to make her eyes heavy. A tell she was well aware of. Her smile was shy. Rather than refuse, as he knew she'd want to, "That sounds lovely," she replied. "I can't remember when I last slept. Could you wake me when they're hungry?"

He nodded, and she lay her head down next to him.

Asleep in seconds.

It was warm where she lay.

And she was comfortable and safe.

On her stomach, on the floor, with her bare feet waving behind her. Before a stone hearth stacked with cedar logs that snapped and popped. Curls of smoke rose from a heavy cauldron hung above, the bone broth left to simmer for hours. It smelled of roots and herbs and a lucky catch of rabbit that set her mouth watering. She'd grown impatient waiting for it to finish.

A glance out the window told her it was nearly dusk — almost time.

In one hand she clutched a pair of toys that would make the head of a line spread out before her. Clothespins painted with crooked, inky, smiles arranged from small to large. Some wore blocks of faded colour as clothes. Most were chipped and split. They had been hunters, soldiers, foes and friends — but today, a family. Parents with a brood of eager children on the march to somewhere new. Across the wooden planks of a tiny den and out the door, into the garden, to the home she'd made them of bark and stones. Buried, now, under the bitter frost.

Carefully, she placed Mother and Father with the rest. Side by side, holding hands, as parents should. They moved a step together and all their children followed. Little pegs, down the line, one at a time. The smallest of them helped along by their nearest sibling.

The quiet flick of a whittling knife, and a pause to brush debris from folded knees, heralded another shower. Thin pieces of curled wood littered the path ahead. She plucked them from the floor — delicately, so not to disturb her work — and tossed them into the fire behind her.

There was singing.

"Garas haman i dianem inan'mar, mala dirthas on'era.…"

Another flick. Another curl. He sang another line, soft and sweetly.

"…Daras sominar or'anir, on'ala'anir tel'mith."

She'd heard it before, a line here or there, but only knew the tune. Not the words. She looked up at him. "What does it mean?" she asked.

The Child at the end of the line caught up with the rest and the process began anew.

"It's a lullaby," he answered.

"Did you sing it to me?"

He put the knife down at his side, making a point to turn the blade away. Then held the carving between a bandaged finger and thumb, twisting it back and forth, to assess his progress. "I did. It wasn't that long ago — don't you remember?"

There were lots of songs. About wind and rain, triumph, or love… but none in Elvish. She shook her head. "Not that one."

"Sometimes it was the only way you'd fall asleep. We would walk in circles, and I'd sing for you. Many different songs… but this one the most. Don't tell mamae, but you liked my singing best. Hers is just not very good."

That wasn't true, she knew, but he said it with a smile. So she laughed.

Another knife — smaller, with a finer point — he pulled from a shirt pocket. Then carved thinner, shallow, lines across the surface. Like flowing hair or running water. More little curls floated down, but those she left. Watching the work instead. The family of toys momentarily forgotten.

"You didn't tell me what it means."

"Didn't I?"

"Papae." It sounded mad, but she didn't mean it. They were only teasing.

"Atisha, da'vhenan, alright!" His laughter was her favourite, even more than songs. Deep, and joyous, and when she rest her head upon his chest it felt like rumbling thunder. "It's about dreaming of home. Sometimes it's a welcoming song, and sometimes it's a farewell song. My mother sang it to me and my brothers as a goodnight song."

She rest her chin in the cup of her hand. "Will you sing it to my brother when he comes?" Sun-kissed skin crinkled when he smiled, crooked, and raised a single brow. There was a playful look in his eye. They'd disagreed on this before. "Or sister," she amended, as an afterthought.

He laughed again, and while she wasn't sure why, she still liked to hear it. "Of course. Maybe you can sing it with me, hm? Better than your mother?"

From somewhere outside, "I heard that,"said her voice. "I'll serve you last."

They started talking the way they did when pretending to argue. Low tones and sly smiles and jokes she didn't understand. It was boring. But his hands were still at work and that could hold her attention while she waited for them to finish. The carving was starting to take shape. She could almost see the bear it was meant to be. Or wolf. Or dog, maybe. Something for her family of clothespins to hunt on their journey.

The slow, practiced, motion of his hands was hypnotic. Lethargic. Spinning the carving round and round, passing it palm to palm and between fingers, like a spell, coaxing meaning from the wood by magic. In time, it was a blur. Flickering, overlapping, images she could neither follow nor look away from. He crafted toys and tools out of dreams she couldn't yet grasp; her own fingers too small, still sore from the last failed attempt.

He'd kissed each before wrapping them in linen, promising to get her her own knife on the assurance she'd not try to take his again.

Her eyes were growing heavy. Fatigue would claim her over hunger, for now. But she had trust he'd wake her when it was time.

Swinging feet began to flag, then slowly fall. Her head laid down on folded arms. Sleepily, she asked, "Sing me the rest?"

"Sominar, da'vhenan, sominar mah dhea'him — dream, little heart, dream one day — juvenas vir'vhenas, ma'amahn—"

Dream you'll find your way home,

to me.

"—vir'vhenas ma'amahn."

For a moment there were two.

Each man standing, singing, on either side of a great chasm. Their voices as distinct as lovely — reaching out across time and distance. Meeting in the middle, they wound hand to hand and heart to heart, songs sung from quiet places, harmonies plaited as ribbons, leaving sawdust and paint behind in their footprints.

"Come home to me."

She woke to a different world. Blinking bleary, tired, eyes in the dim. There was stone where wood had been. All the toys put away.

Still warm, though a little less cozy, she shifted and stretched on her bed of straw. At some point she'd been covered in a woollen blanket. It was old and smelled like a barn, but the moth-holes and bare corners had gifted her the best rest she'd had in weeks. She was content. Sore, of course, but too pleased to care.

A deep breath chased the fading scent of broth and cedar as it turned to something new. A pot was cooking on the fire. It made her stomach growl.

Loudly.

It was that, before she'd managed a greeting, that caught Solas' attention.

"On'dhea'lam. Are you hungry?" he asked from somewhere near.

Starved.

"Yes — is that stew?" She propped herself up on an elbow to get a better look. Rabbit in a rich broth, simmering and slow-cooked. Somehow she'd slept through its preparation. And more, it seemed, as across from her Solas was bent over one of the babies.

The boy, laid out on a clean shirt, tended to with a small cloth Solas had tucked in his hand. He touched it to little legs and thighs with the care one might show a timeless vessel or priceless work of art.

The girl slept soundly at her side, loosely wrapped and tucked close.

"I did not get very far in preparing it, I'm afraid," Solas was saying, and his eyes cut between her and the baby. "There was quite a mess."

Next to him lay Cassandra's shirt, properly soiled and surely ruined. It was unlikely she'd see it returned even with several launderings.

"While I profess to know little on the subject, I think we may be able to convert the bandages into wraps to cover their needs for the next few days. Beyond that, I'm afraid we will need to begin preparations to move you all to the house in Jader. I've been assured it is well stocked."

Travel plans hardly seemed to matter in the moment. Not when he made such a lovely picture: doting on his newborn with an ease that belied his lack of experience. She could watch him for hours.

When the babe gave a whine of displeasure Solas crooned softly to soothe him. A pleasant, familiar, tune. So quiet she could almost say she imagined it.

"…vir'vhenas ma'amahn."

Sawdust and paint.

Ellana tilted her head. "Were you singing? While I was sleeping?"

He glanced at her. A touch of pink creeping into his cheeks visible even in the dim. "Ah, yes," he admitted.

"I've never heard you sing before."

"I do not typically make a habit of it." He paused. Considering. Then gently tucked his thumb against the palm of a little hand, stretched out. It grasped him tight. Eyes wide and curious. "Although I could be persuaded."

Ellana sat and stretched. Noting the fresh shirt placed next to her while she slept. Next to that lay an empty vial of strong alcohol and a small sewing kit. She took the shirt and pulled it on, and though ill-fit she revelled in the feel of something clean against her skin.

Nodding at the kit, "Did you stitch your shoulder?" she asked.

Solas turned, to show her the fresh bandage there. "It was Iron Bull, actually. I had some difficulty on my own, and it appears his skill with a needle and thread has improved over the last month." Then he added, "I also suspect he wanted to make up for having caused the injury."

She shrugged her own scarred shoulder. "Now we match." It occurred to her then that she hadn't seen Bull since dawn that morning. It was nearly dusk now. "Is he still sitting outside?"

"He and Cassandra have been asleep for several hours." He nodded toward the entrance. "Just inside the mouth of the cave, with the harts. I've set a barrier there to obscure it. It won't stand up to scrutiny, but will do for the short term. All of us were in too dire need of rest to rely on watches. I'd planned to wake them shortly, when the stew is ready." A pause, and then he added, "That is, if you are comfortable. Neither have requested to join us. I can also bring the food to them."

She smiled. "That's alright — at least I have some clothes on now. Does that mean he hasn't met them yet?" The look Solas turned upon her was a lovely mix of pride and poorly hid excitement. A boyish smile as he shook his head. She could not help but return it. "I wonder… they're so small, if he could fit both in just his hands?"

"I'm quite certain it will be his first instinct to try."

The bathing done, Solas set the soiled cloth aside with the rest and went to work wrapping the babe back up. Positioning him near at the top of a large gauze, tugging on its edges for enough to fold. Unsuccessful, he moved him to the middle. Then lay him diagonally, rolled onto his side. Then with legs drawn up, curled in a ball. But no method left enough slack to pull over his body and tuck under an opposite arm. No matter how he arranged him he could not replicate the technique Ellana had used initially.

The boy was far more patient with the attempts than he ought to be, but soon enough that well ran dry and he let out a shrill wail. Kicking out his feet in protest.

Solas continued to work — albeit much faster — and did not get any further.

Ellana watched the scene long enough for him to become aware of the attention, tossing her an exasperated look for it.

"You're almost there, keep going," she lied, hiding a smile behind her hand.

Flatly, "I would appreciate your assistance more than your audience," he said.

The squawking picked up into a proper cry. His face gone red from the effort. And she relieved Solas of his rising panic with gentle laughter. "Hand him to me, he's probably hungry anyway." She was too, and so crawled carefully around the still-sleeping girl to Solas' pack. Grabbing the set of dishes and utensils stored in its outer pocket.

Among the pile of soiled linens she noted the bloody one used to wrap the afterbirths, empty. Cassandra had cut the babes free soon after the second was born, and Ellana asked to have those set aside. Solas arrived not long after. In the excitement of seeing him she'd forgotten to mention it.

As she took her seat she gestured to the pile. "Where are the afterbirths?"

"I buried them," he answered. Trading her bowls for a baby.

She paused. Blinked. "You… buried them?"

A serving of stew was portioned into each bowl and the drips cleaned with his one remaining sleeve. "Yes. Just outside. It wasn't possible to do so in here as the floor is solid rock. I looked, but none of us have the tools for it unfortunately." He turned to offer her the food. Frowning, when she did not take it. "Was that not what you said was done? To mark the site?" She did not immediately answer that question either, and he mistook her incredulity as disapproval. "When we spoke last, in the Fade, you had mentioned the birth rituals of your clan. They seemed important to you. I thought—"

"No, no, you're right," she cut in. "They are. I just… it's unexpected. I didn't think you'd remember what I said. Let alone honour it."

His expression softened, and he took a seat next to her. Bowls in hand. Watching, as she arranged herself and nursing babe until they were comfortable. At which point it became apparent she'd not have the hands free to feed herself.

He put down his own dish and took the spoon from hers, signalling an intent to feed her. She accepted with a nod, and as he did so, "I was not here when it mattered most," he explained. "It is the least I could do to make up for that absence. You've endured a great deal alone."

"I wasn't alone," she corrected. Gently, and somewhat surprised by her sincerity.

"Of course," he granted. "I was speaking from myself, specifically."

"I know."

That stopped him, briefly. And he was humbled. If not a little wounded. The spoon held in the air over a moment of quiet thought before he offered her the next bite. For his pride, and the pain it caused in their parting, he would not ask for forgiveness. Neither would she grant it. Words would not absolve him of the sins he'd still commit.

When their eyes met again he looked away, once more shouldering the heavy weight of all they couldn't make fit. He would try, she knew, and fail just as surely.

"Ellana, I—" he began.

But did not finish.

"Don't," she said, and met his pensive gaze with a braver one. There was so much in his eyes. Guilt and sorrow, worry, and the shame of every fight they left behind unfinished. A hope, perhaps naive, nurtured in the quiet moments between. There was always so much to say.

Dark clouds might gather in the distance of their future — but in here it was bright and warm. She did not want to soil this place with bitterness.

"Not now. Not yet." She freed a hand from the bundle she cradled, finding his. Their fingers wove together, tight, and palm to palm. The warmth of his skin as much a comfort as the kiss he laid on the inside of her wrist. "I know we cannot avoid all of that forever, but for right now can we just… do this? For a little while?"

The silence stretched too long.

His eyes searched her own. For truth, if not certainty.

There'd never been an allusion of permanence. This had never been so simple that, 'forever' could be won. When fate named her shepherd to the lost, it assured a wolf would be her foil. Their match was made under fallen stars.

No promise lived there.

Behind them lay the path they'd forged in bloody ruin; every site they'd stood upon with voices raised against each other. And ahead, no map to guide them. Hope was a fragile thing in the hands of those who'd never known its name. But, perhaps, with time, it might grant them refuge.

So he nodded. Once. Agreed, "For a little while." And kissed her again. "Right now, I would very much like to hear your account of what I missed."

"Weren't you going to wake the others to eat?" She gestured with her chin.

"In time," replied Solas. He touched his fingers, softly, to the sleeping girl's head. Brushed them through the little wisps of dark hair that made her feathered crown. The corner of her mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "We may have precious little before they're awoken regardless, and I have many questions I'd like to ask."

TRANSLATIONS:

Vhalllan. Na unsura sal'shiral. = Welcome. You've arrived (to life, lit. "new journey" - this was my best attempt at an Elvhen version of, "welcome to the world").

On'dhea'lam = Good evening