I try to put that exchange out of my mind, but it lurks on the edge of my consciousness.

It poisons my thoughts and keeps me awake at night; it rots my brain, replaying over and over. What could I have done differently? Why even bother at all?

The persistent fear that I crossed a line nags at the back of my skull. There is precious little that I know about Orlais, her people, its customs. Perhaps, in my longing, I mistook common Orlesian mannerisms with those of genuine affection.

Nola once told me that I wouldn't know what genuine affection was even if it were to slap me across the face. I'm starting to believe she was right.

The other facet of it was Leliana being cloistered. The pale-faced servants of the Chantry gave up much when entering the fold.

Which is to say not nearly enough, in my opinion.

I never considered myself particularly close with any of Denerim's Chantry members, nor did I care enough to be acquainted with their customs. But in all my interactions with them, never had I seen or heard mentions of family of their own. No weddings were ever conducted for those of the cloth. And never had I seen one heavy with child, save for one, who was swiftly removed from the flock for violating her vows.

So it isn't so far to think that Leliana may be beholden to the same, even now, months after leaving Lothering. It could explain her hesitation when presented with a precipice despite flirting with danger throughout. I don't want to think that is the case, as it is only a vanishing comfort. I'm lovesick, I think, but what is there to do when the object of one's desires is leashed to a god?

Eran is the first to note my 'dour face' and brooding habits. He says nothing more, but the worry that takes permanent residence in his eyes says enough. I think he knows better than to poke the dragon, but the desire is there.

Alistair stays clear of my way, offering only small talk or brief strategems. Sten is impassive and quiet, as ever, though he watches on his face knit in hard lines. It is difficult to tell whether or not that is simply his expression or genuine disdain, but I guess it doesn't matter.

Morrigan looks from afar with restrained, but smug satisfaction. She almost seems to make a show of enthralling Eran whenever I have the misfortune of witnessing their antics. Molten ire flares against my ribs at the way she easily carries on, meanwhile ugly emotions sit on the back of my tongue like bile.

I hate this. I hate this.

I do what I can to remove myself from my feelings, withdrawing, keeping my tent further away, and retiring far earlier than I usually would.

But I don't stop watching. I watch Leliana every chance I get.

She carries on as she ever does, hidden behind a guise that I've become familiar with. A coy, unassuming Chantry member who knows just enough, who keeps her truths close to her chest. But I know better. I've glimpsed what lay beneath enough to know that there's more there.

It's not enough.

I still feel that same spear in my chest whenever she catches me, offers me a knowing smile. I still feel my skin burn whenever she brushes against me, a lingering touch left when she braids my hair; innocent enough, but I crave more of it all the same.


We find our way to the northern shores of Lake Calenhad. The Circle Tower greets us in the far-flung distance, an imposing, gloomy beacon that rises out from the lake.

Morrigan sneers at the first sight of it and spends the better part of the day frothing over the Chantry and the Circle of Magi's shortcomings. Eran does what he can to soothe her ire, his voice holding its usual candor, but I can tell after a while he's just as exasperated as anyone else.

"How is the Circle any different from your alienages?" she retorts to one placation, to which Eran is struck mute. I don't miss the confusion-tinged shock that freezes his features; it flares hotly against my insides, bringing a scowl to my face.

"You know, you could have ended up in one of those towers," I reply over my shoulder, throwing a frown at her for good measure. "And if the towers are anything like the alienage, I can tell you that you wouldn't survive a day there."

"You are correct," she shoots back. "I'd sooner throw myself from the top of the tower than be forced to live in a gilded cage."

"All right, that's enough," Eran cuts in, shooting the both of us a reprimanding look. He sighs when I offer a sour glare. Eran pinches his nose. "You know what? We've been walking for a while. Why don't we take a—" A cacophony sounds behind us, then a persistent crowing. Eran watches as Morrigan, transformed into a raven, speeds off to the waiting treeline. "—break," he finishes lamely and follows after her.

The rest of us meander around. I watch the treeline, listening to two clashing voices in the distance. The occasional crackle of dispelled magic brings a grimace to my features.

"He's very persistent," Leliana comments as she bails out the back of the cart with a corked bottle. I spare her a look before catching myself.

"Too persistent, if you ask me," Alistair adds, sitting down on a nearby rock. "This isn't normal for him, is it?"

"No," I sigh, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes. Another crack of lightning makes my skin crawl.

The pair returns a short time later, one frazzled, the other the machination of rage in cat form. Morrigan stows herself amongst the boxes, packs, and crates in the cart. Eran ushers us onward. I toss him a silent question as we take to the road, but he only gives a tired smile in answer.


We arrive at the far end of Lake Calenhad come nightfall.

The tower proves to be more monumental than it initially appeared, and now, standing just uphill from the dock servicing it, I feel utterly small within its scope. A hamlet rests nestled along the glittering lakeshore and the ruins of the old Tevinter highway. It's little more than a few weather-beaten houses, fishing shacks and, amusingly, an inn with signage calling itself The Spoiled Princess. It's clear that this little place exists only to service those going to and from the Circle Tower, so far out of the way of anything and everything for days.

"Do you see the tower?" Leliana whispers beside me, and I startle slightly. "The view from the top must be spectacular."

My eyes flick over to her. "Hard not to see it."

"It reminds me of Val Royeaux, in a way." She drifts on, ever watching the spire. "The crown jewel of Orlais, with its many gilded towers overlooking the city. But towering above all of them was the Grand Cathedral." She sighs wistfully, as if lost in a memory. "It was magnificent."

My gaze lingers upon the tower, with nothing but a short huff given in answer.

Morrigan saunters past us down the hill, her hands working to put her hair back up. She pauses, plants her hands upon her hips, and a breath of silence passes as she looks across the lake toward the tower. Her shoulders rise and fall with a slow breath. "How very fitting," she says, her voice venomous, "A prison for mages, built in the middle of a lake, and shaped like a giant phallus. The Chantry isn't very subtle, is it?"

I shake my head, sighing, "Finally done with your sulking?"

Morrigan snaps her head, a beastlike scowl shaping her visage. She looks on for a moment as if in challenge, but neither of us relents. Finally, she turns back around with a dismissive huff. "I had a thought, actually."

"Just the one?" Eran approaches from the back of the group, having taken the tail some time ago. He offers a passing glance, and it's difficult to tell if the shadows on his face are truly that deep, or just a trick of the light. He moves with all the fervor of a cadaver as he makes his way down the hill toward Morrigan. Leliana and I follow after.

Morrigan scoffs, crossing her arms. "I could have more, if you so desire." Eran makes a vague motion I don't catch. "My mother once possessed a grimoire that I suspect holds the secrets to her magicks. More specifically, the means by which she extends her life."

"So what does that have to do with the Tower?" Alistair quips from somewhere behind me.

"T'was stolen," Morrigan answers, tossing him a baleful look, "by Templar fools such as yourself. Given Flemeth's place in legend, 'tis not so far to assume it ended up under the Circle's possession. I would like it for myself."

"And just what do you plan on doing if you get your hands on this book?" Alistair responds accusingly, and I swear I can feel the wrath that radiates off Morrigan. "Are you going to run back to the Korcarri Wilds and start your own brood of witches?"

Morrigan whips around and storms up to Alistair, unimpeded by Eran's halfhearted attempt to stop her. She stabs a finger into his chest, pinning him with a molten glare. Alistair, to his credit, does not wither beneath her rage. "What I do with it, 'tis no business of yours."

She launches into some defense, but I don't care to listen. My patience and want for company runs excruciatingly thin, so I wordlessly make my way past the others, down the hill and into the hamlet.

Still, I can tell I am not alone by the way a second cadence of footfalls follows me, lighter than my own. But if she truly did not wish to make herself known, I know she could easily have not made a sound. Leliana wanted me to know she was there. Or maybe I've simply become keen to her ways.

And so I go until I am far enough away from the rest of them, cloaked in the shadow of crumbling ruins. The stone feels cold pressed against my shoulder, even through armor. Tangible. Rough. Insufficient. I sink into it like a lifeline regardless. "Are you tired of her bitching, too?"

She pauses somewhere behind, an anxious breath passing, before she continues. Slower this time, until she stands but a moment away. "A little," she admits. The birdsong lilt of her voice is there, light and teasing, yanking upon my heart. "I much prefer the company of a certain elf, even if she is a bit broody."

My lips twist with a flash of amusement, melts away just as quickly with a huffed breath. "You think I'm broody, do you?"

"Some Orlesians like that sort of thing, you know." She drifts into my periphery, a shock of red, shadowed features, moonlit ivory, all of her. "The melodrama of it all can be alluring, if one has the patience for it."

My head tilts toward her. "And you?"

The shadows change, reframing her as she shifts to put herself on display. Her lips, a perfect bow, become crooked. Elegant brows dip and crease her eyes. For a moment the moonlight strips away any pretense she holds, making her vulnerable in the pale grey.

And to my shame, she replies in a guileless manner, saying, "I am worried about my friend."

There it is, that word again, sharp and sweet like ichor.

I want nothing more than to sink into these ruins and become one with the rubble. I rise and fall with a breath, mulling over words and trying to conjure coherence. But I can't let my eyes linger, and they instead find the spire of the tower. "Is it really that bad?"

The grass crunches beneath her boots. A cool wind, thick with the scent of salt and brine, delivers tension in its wake. "You've been quiet," she says to shatter the silence. "Something is bothering you."

The words drive between my ribs; a statement, not a question, that rips through sinew and stings with its sincerity. She'd noticed. Of course she did.

When I look over again, her expression is still that of genuine concern, and I want to fold in on myself. Where the others had noted my state and stayed clear, here she is facing down the maw of a dragon, and looking every bit like she wanted to pacify it.

This is what I wanted, isn't it?

"It's not important," I mutter, pushing away from the ruins and ambling towards the shore. Anything to put myself at a distance. There's a moment of hesitation before I hear her footsteps tracking after me, slow and deliberate.

"It must be, if it is ailing you so badly."

I'm not sure what else I expected, really. Her regard for me, a prickly, fickle elf, has been a constant since I met her in Lothering. I suppose it would be too much for her to stop doing that, unless I told her to, but I don't want—

Fuck, I hate this.

A sigh plumes into the night air. "Listen," I start, raking a hand through a loosening braid. My throat feels like sandpaper as I try to choke out the thoughts that have rotted in my brain. "I'm sorry about…what happened. I didn't think about—we're just friends and—"

"Why are you apologizing?"

A humorless, frustrated laugh spills from my lips, my fingers dig into my scalp, my lungs feel like they're on fire. "Because I did something stupid? Because I misinterpreted—"

The confession stops with a series of loud barks, and I turn back toward the way we came. Maggie comes bounding out from the shadows, tongue lolling and stub tail wagging furiously. I numbly bend down to greet her when she makes her way over to me, all the while every thought in my head splashes together like paint and a numbness settles in my bones. I only look up when Maggie bolts away again, and it is to find Eran coming down the hill.

"There you are," he calls out. He jerks his thumb behind him. "We made arrangements to get across to the tower. You two ready to go?"

The four of us start back up the way, but Eran grips my arm and squeezes. The look he has when I go to inquire tells me enough, and our pace slows until we are well enough behind.

He leans down into my shoulder and whispers, "Are you all right?"

My heart lurches painfully into my throat and threatens to color my voice. "No," is the only thing I can utter as I pull out of his hold.