Early morning sunlight was drifting through the tall, narrow windows, bathing the room in a light whose divinity was perhaps only increased by Siobhan's grogginess (the Great Wolf himself, standing before the windows, seemed positively illuminated, and for a dumb moment, reminded her of the backlit statutes of Andraste in the chantries). For a few seconds, she put all her energy into stopping a yawn before it started. It was possible that Finian had dragged her out of bed at this stupid hour of the morning to report to Fen'Harel purposefully to inconvenience her, the pale-eyed demon—although he claimed to be above Siobhan's "petty vengeances"—but even if it was, it didn't matter. She'd gladly wake before the cock's crow to serve however she could.

"I was right," she announced. "She must be four or five months along now. Having to work to hide it now."

The long fingers of one of Fen'Harel's hands stroked the tabletop and he was silent. Perhaps he too, was displeased with the early hour? There seemed to be faint shadows under his eyes—or it was just the lighting. Siobhan found it hard to imagine him put off by something as simple as rising early, but then, he was constantly working. When did he rest, she wondered? Did a god need to rest? Did a god need to eat?

"And how do you think she is taking it?"

"Crying a lot," Siobhan said with a soft huff through her nose. "Probably on account of daddy's nowhere to be found. The Inquisition's having a right fit trying to figure out how to keep folks from spreading gossip that Lady Inquisitor is having a baby out of wedlock. Madame Vivienne's got a special tailor from Orlais in to fit all the inquisitor's clothes to try to hide the bump, but it's getting hard. Lady Lavellan's not too happy. I rub her feet sometimes, 'cause they're swelling now, and she tells me about her clan. I think she wants to go home, but she don't want to leave the Inquisition high and dry."

Fen'Harel said nothing, and Siobhan hesitated. Usually by now, he redirected her to something specific in her report that he was interested in, but that day he was just letting her ramble.

"Wonder who it was that did the deed?" she pondered aloud. "Nobody has said. They just talk about this fellow like everyone already knows who he is. Could be this whole thing will take the inquisitor down before you have sneeze at them, my lord."

"I would not wish for that," Fen'Harel said at once. "Does the Inquisition not plan to confine her?"

"No, they're keeping her on at Skyhold. She's watching herself, but she's still doing all her things just like before." Siobhan paused, waiting for more direction from Fen'Harel, but he gave none, so she went on: "She brought me to Val Royeaux for Sister Nightingale—er, I guess she's Divine Victoria now—for her crowning and all. Heard them talking in the divine's rooms before, about how Lady Lavellan needs new dresses. Ones she got are too tight now, and Victoria wants to shift the fashion in Orlais to have more…I believe volume was the word she used. Make the dresses wider, with more fabric, so it's easier to hide her belly. She's setting Madame Vivienne on it, too. If all the ladies are wearing big skirts, Lady Lavellan won't stand out. It's pretty smart, I thought." Although Sister Nightingale—Divine Victoria—was an adversary, Siobhan couldn't help but have a twinge of respect for her cleverness.

"Those two do think of almost everything," Fen'Harel murmured. "Do you think it will work?" Siobhan snorted.

"Any woman who's had a baby knows what a woman in the family way looks like. It's not just the belly. Men, you might fool. Young ladies what haven't had no babies, or ever spent time around a mother-to-be, too. But some grown woman who's had some of her own? No, I don't think so. Not unless she's real careful, and gets real lucky."

"But she does not intend to step down as inquisitor?" Siobhan shook her head.

"No, my lord."

"There's no need for that, Siobhan."

"Sincerest apologies. No, she's not leaving. Don't know what she'll do once the babe's actually here, but I don't know if we can count on her leaving then either."

Fen'Harel accepted this in the same silence he had taken most of her report, and his eyes went on studying things Siobhan could not see. With a deep breath he seemed to come back into himself, one hand curling into a fist on the table, and he said:

"What about their vashoth mercenary? Is he still with them?"

"The Iron Bull and the Chargers? They're…around. They been taking their own jobs dealing with some of those demons what are still around, but they pay a visit to Skyhold now and again. The Inquisitor seems fond of the big Qunari. Anyway, I don't think they're really with the Inquisition anymore."

"How well are they keeping their secret within the Inquisition?"

"Well at least three people know, but they're all ladies, and I think all of them'd keep her secrets close. It's Ambassador Montilyet, Madame Vivienne, and Seeker Pentaghast. And Divine Victoria, but she's gone of course. Everyone else doesn't seem to have caught on yet. It's just me that goes into her room, so none of the other servants see her as much as I do. She knows I know, but we don't talk about it."

"It's good that she hasn't sent you away," he murmured. "She trusts you, as I knew she would." Abruptly, he grimaced and turned away towards the window, hands clasped behind his back, rigid as the stone statues that guarded the Dalish camps. Siobhan heard him draw in a long, rough breath, and then he waved a dismissive hand. "Thank you, Siobhan. I am grateful for your assistance." Fen'Harel always thanked her, as if she were doing him a favor, rather than a job.

"Of course, my lord Fen'Harel." Siobhan curtseyed and bowed and backed out of the room, leaving Fen'Harel sentinel at the window. As she shut the door, she thought she heard the sound of something heavy hitting the table with considerable force.

Fen'Harel had not told her to send Finian in, but he was at the desk in the office next door, as he often was when she came to give her reports (keeping an eye on her?), so Siobhan stopped by, meandering in and browsing the bookshelf as if there could be anything of interest in it for her.

"Do you need something?" Finian asked, lifting his gaze to her.

"No, Fen'Harel hasn't asked for you yet," she said, turning promptly away from the books, most of which she could not read. "Must please you," she remarked. "You bringing me on, and now me reporting to him directly. You pick 'em good, huh?" Finian's flat expression was unchanged as Siobhan grinned at him.

"I'm thrilled," he intoned. "Let's be professional, shall we, Siobhan?"

"I wonder who the daddy is. Don't you?" She wandered over to his desk and peered over his shoulder, though his slanted, jagged writing was hard to put together. "Who in the M—who in Elgar'nan's name knocked up the inquisitor and ran off? You think he died?"

"Wouldn't the Inquisition tell that tale if it was true?" Finian asked. "The tragedy of a young mother with a lost lover would play far more sympathetically than an unwed mother with a bastard baby and a man who didn't want her."

"Huh." It was annoyingly logical, and Siobhan was irritated with herself for speaking before she'd thought of it herself. "But who wouldn't stick around for it? He'd practically be second-in-command of the Inquisition!"

"Maybe she didn't want him around," Finian suggested.

"Bull," Siobhan replied with a snort. "She's crying all the time. Caught her singing some lullaby to a lost lover on the balcony a few weeks back. She wants him around. He's just not here. A dumb fish, if you ask me. I'd have stayed."

"I'm sure you would have," Finian said in a tone Siobhan didn't much care for, turning his attention back to the scout reports in front of him.

"You think it's a shem? Oh, maybe it's some shem and she can't stand the thought of everyone knowing it, so she told him to get lost but she still—"

"I think you have better things to do than speculate as to the father of the inquisitor's child, and I know that I do."

Siobhan huffed and sashayed away from the desk, towards the door.

"You're no fun."


The inquisitor had gone out last week, on a combination diplomatic/rescue mission to south Crestwood, and the team came back reeking of rotting flesh, dank mud, and other things on which Siobhan did not care to speculate. Inquisitor Lavellan trudged out of Skyhold's stables looking like she could barely keep on her feet, and behind her Cole, the troubling spirit-boy, Seeker Pentaghast, and Varric Tethras trailed along, each bedraggled in their own way. The seeker hovered at the inquisitor's back, almost-but-not-quite touching her, as if she might need to be supported soon.

"My lady!" Siobhan exclaimed when Lavellan reached the stairs, hurrying down the steps to greet her. "You look a right mess! Shall I draw a bath for you?"

"Oh, yes, that would be wonderful," Lavellan breathed, the gratitude in her eyes nearly wiping out the exhaustion. "Thank you, Siobhan."

Up in the inquisitor's quarters, Siobhan filled a tub while Lavellan undressed. Siobhan took care to pour quietly—she had a mistress in years gone by who screamed about the splashing and the noise if she was not careful enough—and so she heard the inquisitor hissing quietly as she pulled off her shirt. Siobhan had to turn her head only slightly to see the her out of the corner of her eye, and she watched Inquisitor Lavellan flex and shake her right hand, where the anchor seemed to glow brighter, yet with less stability than usual.

"Does it hurt, my lady?" she blurted out before she could stop herself.

"It's nothing to trouble yourself with," the inquisitor murmured, setting her soiled clothes aside. "There's enough trouble in the world already," she said to Siobhan with a weary smile, turning to her divested of her traveling clothes. Nude, the fullness of her belly was as obvious as the shape of her hand, smoothly curving out from the profile of her body from just below the ribcage down to the nest of dark curls between her legs. She sure was coming along—Siobhan would guess six or seven months by the size of her. "I can handle this. And please, you don't have to use a title. Guinevere is fine." She had said as much before.

"I'd feel a bit of a—well, a bit of an ass, calling the great inquisitor by her own name," Siobhan said. The nice thing about drawing baths for Lavellan was that she could heat it herself—no need for Siobhan to rush, trying to ensure the water was still warm by the time her mistress got into it.

The inquisitor made a sound that imitated a laugh, without much success.

"Still, I would like for you to call me Guinevere, or I will have to think of something more formal to call you."

"As you wish then," Siobhan said. The inquisitor reached up and began to let down her braids, letting her tight black curls spring down around her shoulders. She went to the tub that Siobhan had filled, and stirred it with her hand until steam began to curl off the surface. "I'll let you bathe in peace then, m-. Inquisitor." Caught between Lavellan's official title, and the name she had just bade Siobhan use, she stumbled, and settled on that to which she was more accustomed.

"Thank you, Siobhan," she said, with a softer smile. "You're such a great help to me."

"It is my job," Siobhan acknowledged.

"Still. I'm not used to…ladies' maids or chamber maids or…but I've been very grateful to have you here since you joined us." As she spoke, she stepped into the tub, and began the arduous task of lowering herself into the water.

"Here, let me help," Siobhan said after a moment, moving back to the side of the tub to offer her support as the inquisitor eased her distended form into the bath. A wince twitched on her face, and one hand went to her belly—was the baby kicking? She had seen Seeker Pentaghast with her the other day, putting a hand to her tummy in private, to feel the little thing stretch, and it had to be big enough to give her trouble by then.

"See?" Now Lavellan's smile seemed truly cheery. "What would I do without you?" She sank into the steamy water with a quite exhale, and her eyelids fluttered shut.

"Do you…want me to stay, m—Guinevere?" Siobhan asked, the first touch of uncertainty in her voice. "I could wash your back for you."

"No, that's…"

"It would be my pleasure," Siobhan assured her. "Maybe you could show me that trick with the water!" she joked, and the inquisitor's eyes peeked open.

"Next time you take a bath," she said, "let me know." She swirled her fingers in the water. "I'll heat it up for you."

"I'll hold you to that," Siobhan said, smiling as she got down on her knees. With some effort, Lavellan got into a sitting position, and allowed Siobhan to scrub her back.

"I should pay you back for all this," she sighed. Siobhan let her talk, running her soapy hands over the old burns and raised scars on Lavellan's back: the marks of her fight with Corypheus, and probably fights that had come before.

"Do you dream much, Siobhan?" When the room had been still for a few moments, with nothing but the quiet sloshing of the water, Lavellan posed her question in a dreamy voice.

"Dream? Sure, don't everybody, but the dwarves? Don't usually remember them, though. Do you?"

"Dreaming is…a bit different for mages," Lavellan said.

"Are you one of them? A dream mage?"

"No, but sometimes I wish I was," she sighed. "It seems like a useful thing." Lavellan was looking at the fireplace, and Siobhan could feel the water growing cold, but surely it was too soon for the heat to be going! The inquisitor seemed to be in another place entirely, as if Siobhan wasn't there at all. Did she think of spying on the Inquisition's enemies through their dreams? Was the Inquisition even aware that it had an enemy?

"If you lay back now, Guinevere, I'll wash your hair, too." Lavellan was unresponsive so long Siobhan had begun to repeat herself when she finally obeyed. With Lavellan's ears underwater, conversation was impossible, and Siobhan studied her face, with her eyes closed, while she scrubbed her fingers through Lavellan's thick curls. There were shadows under her eyes—Siobhan hadn't seen them until she was so close, with how dark Lavellan's skin was. But they were there, contrasting with the warm undertones of the rest of her face. They were there, and something else was not, something Siobhan had wondered about since she first saw the inquisitor, something she couldn't help but be curious about—"Why don't you have face tattoos?" The question tumbled out of her mouth the moment Lavellan sat up, and Siobhan gaped in horror behind the Inquisitor's head. "I mean, you're Dalish, right? I never seen a Dalish with no tattoos."

"It's fine." Lavellan cut her off—not harshly, but Siobhan had the distinct impression it was not something she wanted to discuss. "I…used to have it."

"Used to?" Siobhan was only more curious now, and she busied her hands squeezing water from Lavellan's hair in hopes of keeping her on the subject. "What, you lost it?" she joked.

"I got rid of it," the Inquisitor said, pulling away from Siobhan's hands. The bath water was ice cold, but Lavellan made no move to exit, or to heat it up again. Why? The question burned on Siobhan's tongue, but she bit down on it. She had been impudent enough for one day: she did not want to try the inquisitor's temper, steady as it was. And she could not have been clearer that the discussion was over.

"The…water's gone and gotten all chilly," Siobhan said, moving to rise and reach for a towel. "Why don't we get you out of there, my lady?"

"No, thank you." The inquisitor leaned back in the tub, goosebumps leaping up her arms. "You can go, Siobhan."

"Someone should help you get out—"

"No, I'll be fine. I'd like to be alone. Thank you." She didn't speak with the commanding tone of a noblewoman, convinced of her birthright to order those like Siobhan around, but this jumped-up Dalish was certainly more at ease giving orders than she used to be.

Out of excuses to linger, Siobhan exited, leaving Inquisitor Lavellan in her ice bath, gazing out the windows at the mountains beyond with the kind of pained wistfulness in her face Siobhan imagined had given birth to that those lullabies, one hand resting on the swell of her belly. Her troubles were a weight around her neck—something favorable for Siobhan to report to Fen'Harel, she thought with a pursed-lip smile as she trotted down the steps. His supposed rival might sweep herself off the chessboard without his having to raise a hand!