8442 Melana'arlathan - 9:45 Dragon, 16th day of Harvestmere

I promised myself I would not use this record for my own means. This was to be an impartial, historical witness, but I must break that promise. My thoughts are scattering at a touch. She was here. So close that I actually touched her, not as a disguised phantom sliding through layers of dreams, but as a man, with my own hand. I never dreamed our paths would cross accidentally in this ugly city, or indeed ever again. I was prepared for that, I thought. Friendship, comrades, or anything else; I was content without them before the Breach. I convinced myself that returning to that state of contentment was not a hardship. As ever, I'm proven a fool.

There is so much I nearly told her and it is frightening how easy it would have been. Many days, I picture Fen'harel's rebellions steered under her hand. She always knew herself with such surety that I often long for the pleasure of turning to ask if this order was foolish or that one was wasteful. I watched her plot troop movements with the same instinctive confidence she deconstructed those durgen'len puzzle boxes Varric was always supplying. Even without armies moving at her command, she is the brilliant strategic mind of her Age.

Meeting by surprise gave me no chance to prepare, to compose myself, and I came dangerously close to throwing out all prudence and asking her to stay. For what, even now I'm not sure. Only tonight have I realised that six months has been a painful trial of endurance, as were the two years before it. She is just as she ever was, even as the world shifts on its fundamentals. The thoughtless, boundless compassion that would carry a wounded enemy back to their territory without hesitation. The serious and pragmatic nature that conceals a quiet, subtle wit. Her steadying confidence, her understated beauty, her unassuming humility, her patient curiosity, her earnest passion, her easy grace. Her iron will in the face of the impossible.

In this Age, she is a light wandering a dull, empty desert. She is a flower blooming unseen on an unscalable cliff. She is the most eminent of art displayed only to the blind and indifferent. My heart is overflowing in foolish sentiment and I can barely prevent the quill from filling pages with it.

But I must harden my resolve. I have no claim on anything that grew from the barren earth I created. She will never understand my duty, nor do I want her to. I must lock these feelings away before they strip my purpose from me. I will not rest until my mistakes are undone. Those under my command have sacrificed too much.

Elvhenan must live again. My heartache is nothing to that.

"My dearest friend! The singular ray of sun in my otherwise tedious misery! Minrathous welcomes you!"

She sat bolt upright, all traces of sleep falling away in alarm. A moment of disorientation followed; where was she and why was it so dark?

Her mind caught up with her senses and filled in the missing information; she was in Dorian's front sitting room and it was morning at last. She'd spent a few tiring hours after departing the Fen'Harel cell making sure Solas hadn't slipped a tail on her, a real one this time. But either he hadn't or they were very good at their job, and after narrowly avoiding another roaming band of dwarves, she'd decided she'd seen enough of the local colour for one night. Thanks to her 'borrowed' map and the directions from a friendly elf who'd been sleeping under a canal bridge, she'd finally found her destination just as the moon was beginning to wane. There had been no answer when she'd pounded on the door, so she'd jimmied a window and crawled inside. Lacking the energy to do much else, she'd curled up on a lounge in front of the dying fireplace. Everything else could come after sleep.

As to why it was dark, she saw now that was because the room was… well, dark. Dark wood furniture, dark panelled walls, dark navy wallpaper stretching to the vaulted ceiling where, she discovered, there was a huge fresco of the Pavus family crest. A spidery chandelier made of wrought iron hung unlit, and the curtains remained drawn save a crack to admit a thin band of morning light, illuminating the dust specks.

"Bit dreary, isn't it?" A handsome man was descending a sweeping, curved staircase at the other end of the room, balustrade carved with twining thorns. "But that's Mother for you. She always did like to project her misery."

"Dorian!" she said with a happy laugh, rising to greet him with an embrace. Despite the early hour, he was perfectly groomed and smelling as impeccable as ever, a cologne of camphorwood and lemon dabbed under his jaw.

"Hello, dearest. Sorry for waking you but the servants were starting to wonder who the vagrant was in the parlour." He smiled at her with a warmth that made her truly at ease for the first time since she'd left the gates of Skyhold. "Got here alright, I see?"

Slightly embarrassed, she gestured to the window whose lock was hanging by one miserable hinge. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"You weren't answering the door," she offered somewhat lamely.

He took up her right hand and petted it. "Never mind that. Are you well - Maker's balls!"

She followed his eyes; he'd finally seen the state of her clothes, cloak now a rusty brown with Naddie's blood.

"Not mine," she hastened to assure him, holding her arms up to prove her point.

"Not yours? What the devil happened to you?" He started pulling on her cloak. "Don't tell me you've already been scrapping - wait." He caught her arm, forcing her to look at him. "Were you harassed by slavers? Because I'll send for the city guard right now -"

She shook her head. "Nothing like that, I promise."

"Then what?" he prodded. "Maker, I'm sure I don't want to know. Come on, off with this."

She grimaced as she shed her outer layer of clothes at his bidding. "As prescient as ever. No, I'm afraid you don't. Dorian -" she caught his gaze. "He's here."

"Who's here? The Ghost of Verimensis? The Arishok? " he answered flippantly, folding her filthy cloak over an arm.

She gave him a look.

He froze. "Oh no. No, you're pulling my leg now." His jaw fell open with disbelief. "He can't be!"

"He can. I encountered one of his agents last night and then him by pure dumb luck," she explained. "They're here as a small cell, about twenty strong. I don't know how many other groups he's smuggled into the city."

He looked at her with a flash of hope. "Well, could we find where he's hiding, ferret them out?"

She shook her head. "No chance. He's moved them to another bolthole by now and there won't be a crumb left to follow." She sighed. "We can't forget he's been a rebel leader for longer than all our lives put together. He won't make mistakes like that."

Dorian groaned. "Bloody damned Fates take it all," he cursed. "This was the one place I thought we'd be safe to scheme against him. Walked bold as brass through the gates with the sunlight glinting off that ridiculous pate, no doubt."

She began to pace the polished marble. "I don't think we need to start rending our garments just yet," she said, tapping a finger to her lips. "Is the Upper House still set to hear the matter tomorrow?"

He nodded. "Ah, but I should warn you," he said in recollection, holding up a finger. "The Magisterium banquet also begins tomorrow evening. Nominally held to celebrate the first Senate sitting after the yearly recess, in actuality just a chance to show off the gowns everyone bought over the summer." He gave her an exaggerated simper. "You're invited as the Inquisitor, but…" His face grew serious again. "Many of them are out to prove Tevinter can push back the Qunaris without any help from the south. It's all nonsense from radicalists who think it's the first step towards a glorious new age of imperialism, but some of them have got all their political clout wrapped up in this mess. The last thing they want is the leader of a southern power, namely you, telling them that Tevinter might not have the right end of the stick this time. They'll want to make an example of you, and I don't know how yet. That worries me."

She tsked. "I think you know I can take a drubbing from a few over-stuffed fools." When that didn't ease the troubled crease on his forehead, she took his hand, dipping her head to look him in the eye. "Dorian, I'll be alright."

He rubbed an ear as he considered her thoughtfully. "Alright. Mulish as ever, but alright." He shook his head, and the matter seemed to be put to rest for the moment.

"Now," he said, usual twinkle in the eye back in place. "Let me show you Minrathous."

They had set out after she had bathed and dressed in the simple tunic and hose a silent house slave had laid out on her bed. The sight of the girl had shocked her, and she'd immediately questioned Dorian on her presence. He had only sighed, and replied that he had offered to take the few slaves he had inherited from his father before a judge and have them declared Liberati, but they'd refused. It was a sad reality but often the life of a freed slave was harder, he had told her. At least under his roof they were guaranteed shelter, safety and food; three things hard to come by as an elf in Minrathous.

As they began strolling down the stately tree-lined avenue outside Dorian's house and then beyond, she saw the truth of his words painted in the starkest colours. Carriages with lacquered doors rattled over the cobblestones, bearing crests of the prominent mage families. The slaves driving the coaches or attending the humans strolling down the pavement were well-dressed, if thin. But there was a hunch in their shoulders, a quick sort of tension in their eyes, as though all were being harried by an invisible predator. She made a grim realisation; none more likely to fuel the blood magic of an ambitious political climber than the family slaves. She stared after them, a fire stoking in her belly. Not for the first time, she saw the world from Solas' point of view.

But there was still something to be said for the city that had birthed the human age of Thedas. There was scarcely a street they walked down that Dorian didn't have some historical tidbit to share, some magical fascination to excitedly describe. The buildings were preserved with loving care; towering libraries and crumbling forums hummed as they passed, unseen magic keeping them propped upright. Mint and parsley flowered on the windowsills of old greybrick facades, tilting toward the street with age. Greengrocers hawked the first of the orchard harvests under the watchful eye of Tevinter heroes immortalised in marble. A dulciateri sold bags of crumbled toffee for two bits to passing children as they slowed to watch buskers toss fireballs to each other through magically suspended rings. Apprentices gathered on the ancient carved fountains in Three Imperators' Square to spend their midday break playing dice while wolfing down their bread and cheese, as no doubt their ancestors had done for thousands of years.

And towering above it all, the Argent Spires stretching into the sky, casting their shadow over the last remnant of the Great Empire.

"What do you think?" Dorian declared, gesturing expansively to a street they had just turned down. "Not all eating babies and sacrificing southern virgins, you see?"

"There is far more to Minrathous than I ever knew," she confessed. Dorian was nearly glowing with pride.

"Not that there isn't room for improvement, as I think you'll agree," he went on, taking her arm. "But there is something here worth fighting for."

The Inquisitor watched the side of his face as it dropped into pensiveness. "Is the Lucerni making the progress you'd hoped?" she asked gently.

He gave her a weak smile. "Not even close." He drew her arm closer and sighed. "Makes me long for the good old days when we used to kill off the evil bastards. Now I attend their banquets."

She squeezed him above the elbow. "You are doing good work here, Dorian. Don't let those who can't let go of the old ways convince you differently."

"Perhaps." He seemed to give himself a mental shake and treated her to a ravishing grin. "I knew you'd cheer me up. Now," he continued, consulting a pocket watch. "We've got time before supper to walk across town and visit the Archives. Well, the lower floors anyway. Those dusty old Tabularii would never give the likes of me access to the good stuff higher up. Still, the spire is magnificent. How does that sound?"

Her eyes widened. To step inside the great Archives of Minrathous... Even back with her clan, she'd heard tales of the indescribable treasures hidden in the vaults of the great museum. Artefacts from pre-Chantry and beyond. There were whispers that a letter written in Shartan's hand was preserved there, though the Chantry would never let it see the light of day.

"That sounds… I can't believe you didn't tell me earlier that the public could visit!" she said, for a moment reverting wholly to the Dalish girl who had kept and maintained her clan's meagre lot of books and relics as though she'd sworn sacred oaths. "All my life, I wanted to - of course, yes, let's go! Is it true the ironbark gauntlets of Garahel are kept there?" She began pulling him along as she strode out ahead.

Dorian laughed and then cleared his throat, eyes averted into an avenue heaving with people, filled with brightly coloured shops boasting elaborate signs. "Never seen those. But before that, I'm afraid we have to attend to an errand you won't like." He slowed his pace until she turned to face him. "You'll need a gown." His tone seemed to suggest he was telling her she'd need a kneecap broken.

Her stomach did twist a little. Unbidden, memories rose of Leliana armed with wicked silver pins as she stood on a stool for what had seemed like days while her formal uniform had been cut and measured. But she understood the necessity.

"Alright." She frowned as she recalled Vivienne's threats to 'expand her trousseau'. "But don't they take weeks to sew?"

"They do. Fortunately, yours was ordered weeks ago." At her raised eyebrows, he waved a hand in the air as though batting her concerns away. "I took the liberty. Guessed your sizes but I think I was pretty well on the nose."

She patted her belt hesitantly. "I didn't bring much money with me -"

"Oh, great fiery Maker, preserve me. You really think I give a toss about the coin? How many times did you put a blade or arrow through a blaggard on the verge of skewering me, precisely?" He raised a finger threateningly as she opened her mouth to respond. "Say another word on the matter and you'll heartily regret it."

She expelled a breath through her nose, conceding defeat. "Let's get on with it then, though I doubt the Magisterium will care much about my appearance. I suspect they'll be more concerned with keeping their fingers in their ears."

"They will, I promise you," Dorian countered firmly as he steered her down the street of boutiques. "They play a version of the Game here too, don't forget that. They'll be looking for any excuse to tear you down. Let's not march into battle with dull blades, shall we?" He tilted his head forward in a knowing, 'don't argue with those who know better' sort of way.

Before she could answer, Dorian froze beside her. She tensed and followed his gaze. They were being approached down the promenade by a middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed beard and black, overhanging eyebrows. He was being tailed by an elf carrying a stack of books and paper-wrapped robes over one arm. The elf was jogging to keep up; there was a purpose to the man's gait that wasn't hampered at all by a slight limp of the left leg.

"On your guard," Dorian whispered quickly. It was all he had time to say before the man was upon them.

He swept up in a gust that smelled of parchment and the faint, acrid mustiness of someone who spent too long in shut up rooms. He was taller than Dorian by half a head, and the smile he gave as he looked down reminded the Inquisitor of the look Skyhold's cook had given the roaches in her kitchen before they were swatted.

"Magister Pavus," he greeted with a ceremonious and educated accent, inclining his head.

"Magister Victrinus," Dorian answered with equally cool civility.

"Are you preparing another rabble-rouser motion to keep us all sitting in chamber for hours tomorrow?" The taller man narrowed his eyes and gave a muttering sort of laugh.

"No, you're safe from me. For now." The Inquisitor caught Dorian's ever so casual stress on the last two words, though they were delivered with a smile.

"How comforting," the other Magister murmured dismissively. He turned his gaze to her. "And who is your… companion?"

Dorian stepped to the side, gesturing in an unnecessarily grand manner. "May I present Inquisitor Lavellan? She joined me today to take in the beauties of the city."

"Oh?" the Magister replied, eyebrows lifting. "And how does our great capital strike you, Inquisitor?" Her title rolled off his tongue like he was spitting out an unpleasant piece of gristle.

She folded her hands behind her back. This wasn't the first time she'd faced down nobility who'd prefer she didn't exist, in one form or another. "It strikes me as a proud place, Magister Victrinus. I find Minrathous contradicts many of the stories I'd heard about it before seeing it with my own eyes."

"Southern propaganda," he spat suddenly, viciously. "The attempt of weak nations to deride their betters." A muscle jumped in his jaw. A heavy silence followed, and Victrinus cleared his throat, appearing to rein himself in.

"Shall we be receiving you on my estate for the Magisterium banquet?" he continued, tone more moderate. "The Archon has bestowed the honour of host on my family this year." His expression made it clear that it wasn't an honour received happily.

"I will attend on your invitation, your Lordship," she said, plucking the correct form of address for a Magister out of a distant memory of a flustered Josephine ticking off a list of confirmed attendees before the ball in Halamshiral. "Thank you."

He smiled, baring impossibly bright teeth. "You will be welcome. As will you, Pavus."

Dorian nodded, not returning the smile this time.

"Let us see what tomorrow brings," the Magister continued in a curious undertone. He sounded as though he were modifying plans. Based on what new information, she couldn't guess. "Until the sitting, then," he concluded. He bowed and took a few steps down the street. The elf scampered to catch up.

Before departing entirely, he turned back to face her. "Enjoy our city, Lady Lavellan." He smiled before turning on his heel with a sharp bark at his slave and was gone, the crowd subtly parting before him.

Dorian looked like he was on the verge of catching up with the man and demanding satisfaction. She laid a hand on his arm.

"It's alright," she said in a steady voice.

"It is bloody well not alright," Dorian snapped indignantly. "Did you hear how deliberately he left off your title?"

"Technically it's not my title any longer. And I've been called far worse than a lady. No, leave it Dorian," she continued firmly when he took a step down the street. "This is not the battle to fight."

He huffed, shaking his head. He put his balled fists on his hips and paced in front of her. "Malevolent old bastard," he griped venomously. "Swiving zealot. What I wouldn't give for one of his filthy rituals to do Tevinter a favour and just blow his bloody head off!"

"I take it I was just introduced to the Lucerni's biggest roadblock?" she said, looking down to where he'd disappeared in the throng.

"Oh, not just the Lucerni's." Dorian's pacing ceased. "That was Secundus Victrinus. Leader of the imperialist movement, avowed enemy of southern Thedas, blood mage, and utterly vile git." He sighed. "But he has the ear of half the Senate just by virtue of his last name. The Victrinus family were big noises during the Second Blight and they've been magisters ever since. With one word, his faction can have almost all my motions overturned before they even make it onto the Senate floor."

The Inquisitor nodded, mulling through the information. "I see. He doesn't take kindly to reform talks, I'd imagine."

Dorian snorted. "Of course not. They're anathema to his kind. Crippled by traditions we should have binned in the last Age. I wasn't the least bit surprised to hear he'd been seen conniving with the Venatori, though there was never any proof. My lone comfort are whispers that he's fallen out of favour with the Archon. Regardless -" and here he took her by the shoulder and looked her in the eye. "He is a dangerous man and your biggest obstacle in convincing the Senate to turn the Militis against Solas. Do not underestimate him."

"You can depend on it, and I'm grateful for the warning," she assured him. "But... we're still going to the Archives, right?" she asked seriously after a moment.

Dorian gave a short, hopeless short of laugh. "After we go buy your bloody frock," he said with a smile, hooking her arm back through his own.