Slow Arrow

by pushtheheart

Sometimes, terrible choices were all that remained. He knew that better than most. Still, his people fell for the one he had to make and centuries of wandering the Fade had forced him to watch the world and its people diminish and die a slow, lingering death. His path was set long before he ever woke, and he never thought to stray from it — until he met her.

16. Nothing Seems Real Until It Touches You

Who's the real you? The person who did something awful,
or the one who's horrified by the awful thing you did?
Is one part of you allowed to forgive the other?
―Rebecca Stead, Goodbye Stranger

She was extending a hand that I didn't know how to take,
so I broke its fingers with my silence.
— Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

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It took most of the day to find young enough saplings to uproot in the forest outside of Haven, as well as to haul them to the memorial site by the river. By the time she finished transplanting them, the sun was low on the horizon. Together, they formed a wide arc on a small rise overlooking the river.

She didn't know the Andrastian hymns, nor what words the dwarves said for their dead. She only knew how to grieve the way she'd been taught, so she honored them with the trees. She bound elfroot and aromatic herbs, to burn in offering. And the words, which seemed so small now, to grieve an entire world — ea revas, ea atish'an.

Tephra sat amongst the newly replanted saplings in the dirt and snow, polishing off a bottle of mead. She had done little more than drink during the entirety of the trip back to Haven and since she'd returned, and said little to nothing to anyone but Dorian. Thankfully, her companions and advisers had granted her a reprieve from her duties, under the guise of resting. And blessedly, space. None had come looking for her, not since the morning. It wouldn't last much longer, given all that needed to be addressed, but for the moment she was thankful for the silence and the solitude.

In the other hand, she held her mother's dagger.

It had served her so faithfully all these years, and withstood countless battles — true to the nature of the halla, to be so indomitable — and fitting to have only broken now, while slaying the one who broke the world.

Tephra turned the halla bone dagger in her grip and struck it deep into the ground. Her head was pounding and her stomach heaved, as she left it there and struggled to her feet.

She left it there as tribute to the world that was.

To the world she'd killed.

She still had blood on her from that world, though none of it belonged to her companions that died. Still, it was all that remained of that world. All that remained as proof that it had ever existed. It was grim to leave it unaddressed, but for the time being she could not bear to wash it away. As though doing so meant that it hadn't happened at all, as though that world had never even existed.

It was a slow walk back to Haven, and the training yards were curiously empty. She suspected the Commander was still briefing the soldiers on their new mage allies, doing what he could to avoid open confrontation between them.

Much to his exasperation, she'd ordered him to dismiss anyone who might seem a threat to the mages, or to the families they'd brought with them. She had taken these people in as allies and offered them protection, to keep them safe from persecution. She would not suffer any insubordination on the matter.

She wasn't looking forward to discussing the matter with her companions and advisers, as few — if any but Solas — agreed with her decision. Then again, they had put this decision on her to make, and she had. And if they cared to disagree, well, she wouldn't be Herald for much longer, would she? The attempt on the Breach was imminent, and if it was successful, then she would be going home.

No more Chantry politics, no more Herald bullshit. They could run the Inquisition as they saw fit to.

It was the one bright spot left in her life to look forward to — that she could still go home.

And perhaps she could take the clanless apostate with her, if he cared to go.

He belonged to none but himself, but she would claim him, if he desired such — she would would offer him safety among her people. Though she doubted she could court him to the Dalish way of life, stubborn ass that he was when it came down to it. Still, it mattered to her to extend that offer.

The idle thought brought to mind the sight of him being dragged into the throne room and thrown to the floor, lifeless and bloodied, just before the culmination of Dorian's spell.

Her mind reeled back from the memory, fleeing from it alongside all the rest — the dying world, her dying companions, and the absence of any hope to mend it.

Between the tents, she found two soldiers sitting together on crates by a small campfire. It was the medics from before; Alleras, and Kazem. They were both smoking elfroot — the smell was unmistakable — using traditional Dalish pipes. It was one of the northern strains, often used for medicinal purposes in easing stress and calming nerves.

Outside of Dalish use, it seemed most humans looked down upon it. It was often chalked up to "savage superstition" and thought to induce hallucinations and hysteria.

Perhaps for some humans it did.

Alleras stopped mid-inhale and shot her a look of surprise, before erupting in a fit of coughs.

"Don't mind him," Kazem intoned, flatly. "He's human."

"Skipping out on the Commander's speech to smoke elfroot," she mused, as she took the pipe from the wheezing soldier before he inevitably dropped it. She sat on the crate beside him, and took a long drag from the pipe. "I've seen him dismiss soldiers for less. Have you got something against the mages?"

Alleras shot the other medic an amused look, before reclaiming his pipe from her and taking a drag, "How about it, Kaz? Would you say I hold anything against mages?"

Kazem regarded him with a droll expression, and said, "On occasion. And vigorously." With that, he raised a hand and snapped. Fire sparked between his fingertips as he relit his own pipe.

Alleras coughed and cleared his throat, at once highly amused and delightfully flustered as he flushed.

Tephra did not miss the silent look exchanged between them. She was suddenly aware that she had intruded — rather rudely, even — upon their private defection from the Commander's meeting. She briefly considered leaving, until Kazem spoke again.

"You were planting trees," he observed. "Did you lose someone in Redcliffe?"

Perhaps the river hadn't been the most private place to mourn, after all.

"In a way," she replied.

He responded with a consoling phrase in Elven, but his accent made it difficult to discern beyond his rolling approximation of ir abelas.

Still, she appreciated the gesture.

"Sure doesn't inspire much confidence if all we have are funerals every time somebody comes back," Alleras mused, and reached to reclaim his pipe.

Being medics, they were certain to see more of the true toll of the conflict than anyone else.

"I'll be sure to order everyone to try harder about the whole not dying thing, then," she replied, with grim humor.

Alleras gave a low laugh. "It would make our work a bit easier, Herald."

Despite the shelter between the tents, the biting winds sent a tremble through her. She turned her attention back to the foreign elf, and thought of the strange lands he hailed from. Though she had traveled through the Free Marches extensively, as well as parts of Nevarra, she had never been through any of the deserts in Thedas. All she knew of them were there scattered tales from the traders who came and went between the distant clans.

"What's it like?" she asked. "Where you're from."

"Harsh, and unforgiving," he replied, simply. "There is little more than absolute truth in the desert. Everything is laid bare, even the bones of the world. It's more beautiful than any of your soft green lands." He regarded her with a curious look, "Has your clan never wandered that far west?"

"Not in my time, no," she replied. A wistful smile pulled at her mouth, as she assured, "I hope to see it, though — all of it. One day."

Tephra thought of her parents, briefly. Of how they traveled between the clans to trade books and knowledge among their people. She had experienced some of that, as a child, before everything changed. It had given her a hunger for the world — for seeking, and for learning.

It had been something she had been considering, before the Conclave. Of turning from her duties as a ranger and scout, and focusing on lore-trading and traveling. She was not bound as a First or Second, nor was she bonded. She had spent more time away in her life than she had with her clan — and no matter where she went, she could always go back.

Such a life was absolutely appealing to her.

After.

It was so close now; she was almost done.

Despite the death, and the grief, she felt almost giddy. The Breach would be closed, and the world would go back to what it was before. The human conflict was their own, and they would surely have no further need of her, not truly. And she did not mean to stay and be used as a pawn.

The medic pulled her from her thoughts with an odd question.

"Your people regard the Wolf unfavorably, do they not?"

For a moment, her mind was perilously struck blank.

The wolf?

And, then—

Fen'Harel.

Didn't most? What made him expect she was any different?

She regarded Kazem with a curious frown, as she remarked, "The particularly superstitious ones do, I suppose."

His eyebrow quirked, as he asked, "And you do not?"

Her mind turned to the old stories — of slow arrows and the Great Betrayal, and the heavy cost of seeking his dark wisdom. How she'd been cautioned that he would offer it freely to those who sought him out, but that taking such council was much like grasping a dagger with no handle.

There was always a cost.

Still, it was only stories her people told. There were no gods, and the immortals were long gone — if they ever were real at all, none were left to answer for them.

She gave an amused huff, "It's all just stories to me."

"I suppose that's all we ever are, in the end," Kazem mused, with a wry smile.

Tephra was frowning again, as she asked, "Why do you ask?"

"Because you were planting trees," he replied, simply.

He wasn't making any sense — none that she could follow, at least.

"What does one have to do with the other?" she asked.

"Your people portray him as the god of deceit — of trickery. We see him differently in the west," Kazem continued.

"Your people," Tephra parroted, flatly. He sounds like Solas. "Are we not of the same people?"

"Each generation moves further from what we once were, no matter how we hold to the old ways. Clan to clan, time makes strangers of us all," he replied rather wistfully, as he exhaled a stream of smoke. As he passed his pipe to her, he continued, "To us, he represents rebellion. Hellathen. The noble struggle. What are we now, in our mortality, but those who struggle? After the Dales, we began to plant trees for our dead, as an act of defiance. As an act of rebellion. In that way, we honor him — whether we mean to, or not."

She regarded him with a curious frown.

By her clan's standards, his statements made him a heretic, but she found his honesty and his strange views to be a refreshing shift from to the overly cautious superstition of those she'd heard speak on the matter. Her head was swimming from the mead and the elfroot smoke, but curiosity sharpened her focus as she eyed the marks on his face, "Are they like vallaslin? Your marks."

Kazem chuckled, "No, these are gained by merit alone, not to mark one's passage from youth to adulthood. They honor no gods." He smiled at the question in her eyes before she spoke it, and added, "They're for all the times I have been sent to the Beyond and back."

Alleras gave a low laugh, "They're rather unimpressive compared to—"

Another look passed between them which brought a flush to her face. They were an odd pair, but clearly companionable.

It was good that they could find such, in the middle of a war and under the threat of the world ending.

Still, Kazem was the stranger of the two. His presence here alone was mystifying.

A Dalish elf amongst Chantry men, fighting to end a decidedly human conflict, and he wasn't bound to it as she was by a strange mark in his hand.

Was he perhaps Andrastian? Or had something else brought him here?

It wasn't that there weren't elves among the Inquisition, but most were city elves, or elf-blooded. The only Dalish amongst them besides him was herself, and the supposed-archer in the Bull's Chargers.

What had brought him so far from the Anderfels? Had he been sent by his clan, as she had?

Tephra did not have the opportunity to ask him, as the Spymaster spoke up behind her.

"You would do well to not be spotted by the Commander. He's rather severe with those who duck out of his lectures," the Spymaster noted.

Alleras blanched, and sprang to his feet. He quickly emptied his pipe and tucked it away.

If Kazem was flustered, he was much better at concealing it than his companion. He simply stood and gave a nod of his head, "Apologies, Sister Leliana. We'll take our leave and endeavor to be more discreet in the future."

The medics departed quickly, and without further word.

"They're rather frightened of you," Tephra observed, with some amusement.

Much to her surprise, Leliana laughed.

She wasn't certain she had ever seen the woman smile, let alone laugh.

"Then I am doing my job well," the Spymaster replied. "Though, it is a pity they took their elfroot with them. I would have welcomed a brief distraction before the meeting."

Tephra's heart sank. "Meeting?"

Leliana looked respectfully contrite as she informed, "They could not wait any longer, despite my own protests on your behalf."

"Ah, yes, of course," she huffed. She downed the rest of her mead, before throwing the bottle into the campfire. "I've only been back, what — three hours? Possibly four? We can't let the Herald idle too long, can we? It's not as if I was doing anything that mattered, right?" Tephra ignored the brief, delicate expression which shadowed the Spymaster's face as she stood, and barreled ahead, "Off we go, then."

Leliana said nothing as she fell into step beside her, opting instead to leave her to brood in silence. It was only when they crested the stairwell beyond the gates, that she spoke again.

"I could throttle Cullen for pushing this issue tonight," the Spymaster muttered. "The rest were content to leave it for tomorrow, so that you could rest."

Despite her frustration, Tephra felt her anger slipping away into something softer as she looked at the woman walking beside her. It surprised her that Leliana felt outraged on her behalf, that she cared at all of her welfare beyond what made her useful to the Inquisition. She hadn't spent much time with the Spymaster, beyond her clumsy attempt at consoling her over the death of the Divine, as so much of her time had been spent away from Haven than in it.

Looking away, Tephra mused, "No one's asked about it."

"Dorian told us of this "Elder One", and what Alexius did. The rest—" Leliana looked at her briefly with a tight, complicated expression, before looking ahead again as they walked. "None of us can begin to imagine what you experienced there. It would be insulting to try."

"There are no words for what it was," she replied, in a hollow tone. "Everything was gone, or dead, or dying. There was no hope for anything there."

The tight silence which followed her statement was a reminder of why she'd chosen not to speak to anyone about what happened in that blighted future.

What could they say to that? How could they begin to grasp the gravity of it, without having experienced it as she or Dorian had?

The other Leliana had been right; this was all pretend to them. Something that had been undone, something which would never be — if they were vigilant. But to other version of the world, to its people, and to herself, it was real. Had been real. And now a part of her would always be there, in that future that no longer existed. The horror of it, and the grief, had taken something from her which could never be returned.

"It was real," Tephra echoed, thinking of the other Spymaster. She gave a sharp, short sigh, "And you never broke, no matter what they did to you. Not once. Not even at the end."

Leliana's sudden grip on her shoulder brought her to a stop. The Spymaster fixed her with an intense look, as she said, "What happened there in that dark future is yours alone, and nothing anyone can say will make it any easier to carry, but I will do everything in my power ensure that future never comes."

"As will I," Tephra assured.

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He'd come to observe the state of the Breach, as well as to clear his mind and prepare himself for what needed to be done — to prepare himself for the possibility of another failure.

The Temple of Sacred Ashes was neither whole nor shattered in the Fade, but rather a shifting collection of memories reflected by the spirits who lingered there. Bodies twisted beyond recognition littered the ruins, lit like torches by green fire.

Solas was not surprised to find that spirits had begun to gather there, despite the danger. He was surprised, however, to find Wisdom there. It was accompanied by a handful of other rare spirits — Curiosity and Learning, Altruism and Epiphany.

Shock surged through him; he had not seen spirits of their kind in a very long time. Had Wisdom brought them from whatever deep pocket of the Fade it had found them in?

They were young and did not carry the same gravity of knowledge and experience as his friend did, but their presence alone heartened him. It made the possibility of restoring the world to its former wholeness seem that much more attainable — and that much more urgent.

They deserved a world they could flourish in, and not be doomed to being tainted and twisted beyond their purpose.

He had to act, or risk losing what remained of their kind to the Breach, and to the ruin of this world.

"We have come to witness what shall unfold," Wisdom informed.

"Try to not linger too close, my friend," Solas entreated. "It isn't safe, not even if we manage to seal it, and I could not bear to lose you as well."

Wisdom flickered with amusement, "You have survived the loss of far more than one spirit, Solas. What is one of us, to the whole of the world itself?"

Solas sighed. Such sentiments were were often lost on Wisdom, though he was certain it was purposefully obtuse at times simply to amuse itself by vexing him.

"There is always the potential for loss, even if the Breach is closed," the spirit reminded.

"Fair enough," he conceded.

Wisdom cocked its head and regarded him with curiosity, as it stated, "You have not looked into her dreams of what transpired in Redcliffe."

"There is no need. I've heard what matters most — what must be avoided at all costs. The rest has been unmade, and no longer matters," Solas replied, mildly annoyed. "What were you doing in her dreams?"

"She is very bright — brighter than the Breach. Many seek her in the dreaming," Curiosity informed in a lilting tone. "Though all she dreams of now is loss. Perhaps she will dream of other things soon."

He'd been on guard against accidental trespasses since the last time he had found himself in her dreaming. The Anchor had an unfortunate gravity in the Fade, which pulled at him no matter how far he kept himself from the borders of her dreams. It felt especially prudent after the last one, which had been so devastatingly personal. He could only imagine how invasive it would seem to her, and how much it would anger her, never mind how unwilling an observer he'd been. Yet, her grief and her tenacity in the face of it — to go on living, even alone — had affected him more than he cared to admit.

To be as old as he was — to be what he was — and to be so thrown by something so mortal. Real, but incomplete, and not one of his people.

And that sentiment alone filled him with a sudden shame, as he thought of one of their first true conversations.

What did he gain, in drawing those lines — in drawing such distinctions?

"Only more blood," Wisdom parroted, offhandedly. "And deeper trenches."

"I have asked you to not do that," Solas huffed.

"And I agreed not to, unless I felt it necessary," Wisdom flickered. "There was more than just ruin there. Are you not curious?"

There was an almost playful edge to Wisdom's question, which he did not appreciate anymore than its persistence.

Solas held his tongue, and turned his attention to the Breach.

It was easier to sense in the Fade, to feel the true weight and gravity of the damage done to the Veil.

Beside him, Wisdom continued to muse. "I have not been in the waking world for some time, but I must admit that it is remarkable that one plane of existence can host such distance, and such proximity. The space between ideals, between earth and sky, between fingertips. Is that what drives you both to and from her — from knowing?"

The spirit canted its head to the side, as it continued, "Or do you suppose that is the precarious nature of her mortality that heightens your fondness for her? That she could so easily be lost to you? You have courted the possibility several times now. Is it the loss of the Anchor that shakes you so, or the loss of her?"

"You presume much, old friend," he replied, as he ignored the knot of emotion wrenching in his gut.

"He thinks of harbors when he looks at her, and all her dreams are of the sea," Curiosity prattled, entirely to itself.

Wisdom smiled, "I observe much, yes."

"I am not in the mood for this sort of discourse tonight," Solas sighed. "I came to prepare myself for what must be done."

"Will you attempt to reclaim your power once the Breach has been closed?" Wisdom asked.

"If I can reclaim my orb — then yes, I will," he replied, without hesitation.

For all the confidence of his statement, the words rang hollow.

"Have you not sought other paths in the waking world? Or do you suppose you have explored them all?"

"There is only one path, my friend. I've had centuries to search for another way — as you should remember well, given how often I've consulted you on the matter," Solas reminded.

Altruism shifted and flitted to Wisdom's side, as it said, "We do not know your old world as Wisdom does. This is all we've known, and its people are all we have. You may not care for them as we do, but we have watched them struggle and thrive in what ways they may. Does that not have merit? Do they not matter, as well?"

The spirit's words struck at an old wound in him — of having watched what frayed hope he'd had after raising the Veil turn to ash in his hands, and being unable to do anything about it until now. Of having watched the children of his people squander the world they were given — however different it was than what he'd planned — to watch them wither and die, to watch each new generation become paler imitations of what came before.

"It matters, yes," he replied, a bit too sharply. "But this world is still blighted — still dying. Even if I do nothing, it will die. That is the unavoidable truth of this world. The Veil has already become strained beyond its ability to hold back the Fade; it has been fraying for centuries now. It will not hold indefinitely. It was never meant to. Even without the Breach precipitating events and forcing my hand, the Veil will still fall. And the beings which inhabit this world are just as broken. They aren't whole. They aren't—"

The thought of her came unbidden, and so sharply that he'd nearly summoned her visage to shape itself in the Fade beside him. It panicked his thoughts, and confused his resolve.

It took him some effort to banish her from his mind.

Not real; not his people.

He had clung to that for so long now, that the possibility of being wrong left him rudderless and reeling.

He could no longer fool himself — let alone any of them — otherwise.

Wisdom regarded him silently, before remarking, "You are still laboring under the illusion that nothing seems real until it touches you. Until it moves you to consider otherwise."

He could have laughed at the absolute truth of it, and the absolute tragedy of it.

Hadn't he written her off, in the beginning? Even after her curious statements and observations had piqued his interest, she had still been an oddity at best.

And then, that night in the Crossroads, she had touched him.

One touch and she had laid waste to all of his stubborn, prideful walls which had kept him so neatly held apart from this world and its people. And not just a touch, not just the act of skin meeting skin, but the extension of her compassion to him. Her declaration of protection, her trust in him enough to grant him confession of her guarded thoughts and fears, and the show of her gratitude towards him in the simple gift of her sketch. Her questions, her companionship.

All of it their own sort of touches, given freely.

Wisdom continued, "How can you know what they truly are when you remain closed off to this world and its people? Truth is still truth, even when you fear what it might mean."

"Even if she's real — even if they all are, it can't change what must be done," he replied.

The weight of it was the same, in the dreaming and the waking world.

"Even if it changes nothing, do they not deserve at least recognition as beings which matter?" Wisdom chided.

"Of course they do," Solas conceded.

Of course she does.

A sudden hand at his shoulder brought him swiftly out of the dreaming, and back into the heaviness of the waking world.

"Show time, Chuckles," Varric quipped, almost cheerfully. "You're not going to want to miss this."

He'd been among the first to arrive, after the Ambassador tracked him down and informed him of the impending meeting. Given the haste of its arrangement, he expected that their departure for the Breach would be just as abrupt. He had taken advantage of the small window of time to slip into the dreaming and assess the state of the Breach on the other side, as he did not know if he would have another chance before the Herald's attempt to close it, and he did not want any further surprises.

A quick survey of the tavern confirmed that all the Herald's companions and advisers had arrived; only the Spymaster was absent. Most of them clustered around a single dining table, where a map of the Frostbacks was laid out. There were scattered conversations and arguments, but their sudden silence sent his gaze following theirs to the entrance of the tavern.

Leliana had gone to retrieve to the Herald; having done that, she wasted no time rejoining the other advisers. The Herald, however, lingered at the door as though she were considering fleeing.

The oversized coat she wore served only to make her seem smaller, and was still bloodied from a world that no longer existed. She was disheveled and dirty — Had she been digging? — and the rosy flush around her dark eyes seemed exaggerated in the dim tavern lighting, and compounded by lack of sleep. And despite her practiced impassivity, she was still visibly haunted by what she'd seen there.

She made for a haggard and troubling sight.

"Maker's breath," Blackwall cursed under his breath.

Solas hadn't had much time to consider the newly-joined companion — a Grey Warden, much to his exasperation — yet, he felt an odd amusement at the man's reaction. It had been Cassandra who'd done the work in recruiting the man, as Lavellan had spent much of the return trip in the wagon with her Tevinter companion.

Drinking, he assumed, and sharing in whatever troubled her so of that aborted future.

This was likely his first good look at the Herald of Andraste.

Amidst all the rumors and speculation, the man had likely expected someone more presentable, some befitting their Andraste's favor, presumably someone more human as many were still ignorant to her race. Anything but what stood in the doorway of the tavern — a half-drunk Dalish woman, reeking of elfroot and mead.

Not quite what most Andrastians would expect of their so-called savior, he presumed.

Solas smiled to himself as he remembered many such similar reactions from those who sought the shelter of Fen'Harel — how they had expected some fierce amalgam of myth and rumor, only to find simply a clever man, without spectacle or preamble. Simply himself.

"Herald, apologies for the haste of this meeting, but you understand the gravity of the situation more than anyone here," the Commander said.

Her grip tensed on the bottle of mead she was carrying as she took a slow, steadying breath. Exhaling, she said, "No matter — let's begin."

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She did not know where to sit.

Would it be rude to sit at one of the unoccupied tables, and simply watch them from a distance? Or perhaps she could pull a chair from the corner, and simply sit adjacent from them, without having to be near enough to—

The thought of their dead bodies, ravaged by the demons and thrown lifelessly to floor, and the arrow bursting out through Leliana's chest — her shock and pain and defiance — mere moments before being torn back through time, to here, to them — not dead, alive now, but who could say what could still come? The Elder One remained, could come for them still, for her, for—

Her heart was pounding in her chest when Varric caught her eye with a tilt of his head and an easy smile; the chair beside him had been left intentionally vacant.

Stop being weak.

Tephra moved abruptly toward a vacant table, to snag an extra bottle of mead, before going to sit by her dwarven companion.

The others were arguing over travel routes as Varric leaned close and asked, "You want to talk about it?"

However much she appreciated his concern, the gentleness of his tone raked at the rawness of her grief. Her head was still spinning from the elfroot, and the sight of the food laid out on the table turned her stomach. "Not particularly," she replied.

Varric offered her a tight smile, "Perhaps later, yeah?"

He heaved a sigh, as he turned his attention back to the scattering of paperwork before him. Notes, she expected, for whatever story he was currently working on. "At least you came back to us," Varric remarked, quietly.

The loss was still raw inside of her, still real — but so was he.

Still real — still here.

It took considerable effort to keep the pain from her face as she thought of the other version of him.

Tephra set down her mead and reached for the dwarf's face. His surprise was almost amusing as she cupped his broad face between her hands as she drew him into a brief, tight hug.

When she pulled away, he fixed her with a bewildered smile, "What was that for?"

"Because I promised," she replied, simply.

Varric gave a bewildered laugh, "If you say so."

With that, he turned his attention back to his work — much to her relief.

As she downed more mead, her attention shifted to the others.

They had been arguing when she first arrived, and despite the brief interruption of her arrival, they continued to do so. She had the distinct feeling that this had been going on well before Leliana came looking for her.

Perhaps the Spymaster had expected that her presence would calm the situation; it was a shame that it hadn't.

"I've often wondered what the average man thinks about mage freedom," Dorian mused, as he eyed the newly recruited Grey Warden sitting opposite of him.

He was a severe-looking man, with an outrageous beard obscuring much of his face. "If you really cared, you could ask," Blackwall replied, in a flat tone. "Oh — but wait. That would involve talking to a dirty commoner like me."

Dorian gave a short bark of laughter, before snarking, "True! So much for that."

Tephra took a long drink of mead; she wasn't drunk enough for this. Not nearly enough.

"All I know is if what they're saying is true, that word of what happened in Redcliffe had better not spread," the Grey Warden grumbled.

"Oh, this should be good," Dorian replied, amused. "Do go on."

Blackwall huffed, "Make light of it all you want, but your kind won't be any better off if people know mages can change the future."

"Our kind, he says," Dorian parroted to Vivienne. "You see how he separated us from people."

"I do have ears, my dear," Vivienne assured, sipping coolly from her glass of wine. An ornate Orlesian bottle sat in front of her, and was most certainly not one of the tavern's.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," Blackwall snapped.

"Yet people will use any excuse to hate us, I assure you of that," Dorian said, as he poured himself a glass from the Enchanter's wine.

"Then you should not give them more," Blackwall advised.

Dorian threw his hands up in exasperation, "Did everyone act like this when the sword was invented? 'Oh, my blushing butt cheeks! Round up everyone who can use these pointy things and lock them away!'"

"It is not the same thing and you know it," the Grey Warden sighed.

Sera piped up with a mouthful of roasted potatoes, "His point is, don't shove your magic where it's not wanted."

Dorian turned and gave Madame de Fer a droll look, "How clumsy of us. We really should be thoughtful as to where we shove our spells."

Blackwall was clearly done dealing with Dorian. He shifted in his seat to address Solas, "They say you're a dreamer mage — have you seen anything of its like in the Fade? What happened in Redcliffe."

"The distortion of time?" Solas mused, "I have seen magic accomplish many wondrous things, but no — that is new."

"Magic has little place in a war between men," Blackwall declared. "A sword is honest, and fair."

"Death by any means is rarely fair. Blade or magic, an end is an end," Solas quipped. "It is true that many mages are brutes — they see nothing more than a larger ball of fire — a more efficient way to kill their enemies. But those with imagination? Those who use war to push the limits of the possible? Wonderful — if terrible — things."

Tephra's stomach gave a sickening lurch.

She had seen what such magic could do, and there was nothing wondrous about it to her.

She polished off her mead, and reach for the other. She ignored the not-so-discreet glance of worry from Varric as she popped the cork, and took a long drink.

If he'd seen what she had — if he had done what she had to do — he would be drinking, too.

"I wish the Chantry could better enforce restrictions against its use," Blackwall replied.

"Such restrictions never hold," Solas remarked. "Any who want victory will find some reason their cause merits exception. Every man with a cause believes their means justifies the end. The best we can do is ensure the world still stands when this fight ends."

Dorian turned his attention to her, "So, the Inquisition supports free mages. What's next? Elves running Halamshiral? Cows milking farmers?"

"Yes, it would be rather ridiculous for us to run the city we built, wouldn't it?" Tephra remarked. There was an edge to her tone despite her humor.

It was never easy for her to speak of such things like Halamshiral without pulling her teeth from it.

"I'm not mocking you, not at all," he assured, warmly. "On the contrary — I heartily approve."

"Much to all of our astonishment, of course, that a Tevinter magister would approve of such reckless behavior," Vivienne chimed in, as she busied herself with pouring herself another glass of wine.

"Altus, my dear," Dorian corrected, rather cheerfully.

"Of course, darling. My mistake."

Turning back to Tephra, he continued, "I do wonder, though, if you've considered what this support of yours will do. For mages in general, I mean. The Inquisition is seen as an authority now. You've given southern mages license to... well, be like mages back home."

"If they're anything like you, then I heartily approve," she replied, parroting his previous sentiment.

Madame de Fer gave a weary sigh, and despite Solas's silence, she could feel the disapproval rolling off of him in waves. Though she was certain it was more toward Dorian himself, than to her flattery of him.

Dorian gave a laugh, "There aren't many mages back home like me."

"A pity," she mused. "I'd rather enjoy more of you."

The Commander spoke up over Dorian's laughter, "We do, in fact, have more of him, Herald. And more to come still, as refugees continue to seek shelter within our organization. We're already struggling to meet the needs of so many, as well as our soldiers. Setting the mages loose amongst our ranks with no oversight only further compounds this." He fixed her with a stern — if curious — frown as he asked, "What were you thinking, in granting the rebels full freedom and alliance within the Inquisition?"

The tension in the room was proof enough that many of her companions did not approve of her decision. The only ones who openly approved were Dorian, and of course Solas.

She regarded the Commander with a sharp frown as the mead burned in her belly. "Because they're people," she replied, flatly. "They deserve the same respect and consideration as any of us."

"This isn't about respect," the Commander argued. "Even the strongest mages can be overcome by demons in conditions like these."

"Enough! None of us were there," Cassandra cut in. "We cannot afford to second-guess our people. The sole point of the Herald's mission was to gain the mages' aid and that was accomplished."

Leliana broke her silent observation of the discussion, as she advised, "We should look into the things the Herald saw in this dark future. The assassination of Empress Celene — a demon army? These are troubling things which must be dealt with."

"If you ask me, it sounds rather much like something a Tevinter cult might do," Dorian said. "Orlais falls, the Imperium rises — chaos for everyone."

Cassandra gave an impatient huff, "We are gathered to discuss the Breach — everything else can wait."

"Yes," Cullen agreed. "As I've said, our soldiers have been briefed on this new alliance and stand prepared for what must be done."

Tephra's attention shifted to the Commander as he spoke, and she could not help but recall the sight of him in the Redcliffe castle courtyard.

She could still see him there — trapped in the tainted lyrium growths, left to a lingering, miserable death. She could still see the unspoken plea in his eyes for a merciful release, which Leliana had given him without hesitation. And the torrent of red rushing out of his throat in eager spurts — as though death could not come quickly enough for him.

When Cullen took notice of her stare, he briefly fumbled over his words. His eyelids fluttered briefly before his gaze skipped away. He cleared his throat, and continued, "We will aid in whatever means we can to assist the transport of our people to the temple without incident, and to safeguard them in the event of an attack, or the presence of demons."

As the tense discussion moved on without her, she felt the weight of Solas's gaze. When she turned to meet it, she couldn't subdue the flush of her cheeks or the clamor of her emotions.

Once again, she found herself unable to get a clear read on his expression, on whether he approved or disapproved of her statements. But there was a heaviness in gaze that was becoming increasingly familiar. Despite his intensity on many subjects, this was something far more controlled and tightly reigned in — careful, and guarded.

Though had she not experienced what she had in that dark future, she doubted that she'd ever have had the hubris to take it for attraction. It still floored her to remember how affected he'd been by her, and the way he'd shook in her arms when she held him — how it had broken him when she kissed him.

Is that what she saw now, shuttered away behind the polite mask he wore? Or had his affections simply been a manifestation of loneliness in that horrible future, compounded by grief and horror — simply a bright spot to hold onto in the darkness, to ward off madness?

Or was it something more?

Solas held her gaze for a staggered moment, before his attention shifted back to the discussion continuing on around them. The only thing that betrayed his calm demeanor was the brief tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Tephra concealed her own smile by taking a long drink from her mead; she hoped the flush creeping up her face could be passed off as the result having drank a bit too much.

Teasing him had become a pleasing distraction from all the Herald nonsense, but it had begun to become something more. In truth, she had not been seeking anything from him, beyond their tenuous companionship, but the teasing — the flirtations — had begun to gain a gravity all its own.

It didn't help that he was so terribly easily to flirt with, never mind how easily flustered he became if she so much as touched him.

But knowing how he'd felt in that dark future had changed everything; there was no going back to empty flirtations. She couldn't bear the thought of him ever believing that she thought so little of him, or his emotions, to think that he was simply a source of amusement and distraction for her.

However it had been left unaddressed between them, the attraction had become painfully obvious — and mutual. That night in the fishing town on the Storm Coast had robbed either of them of any further pretense otherwise.

Though understandably, he had not acted so boldly with her since.

She was the "Herald of Andraste", after all.

The mark, and the position she'd been given in the Inquisition, set her apart from all of them. And with the way people acted around her, the way her advisers and companions deferred to her — it made her painfully aware of her position of power, especially over him. He was simply an apostate who'd gotten caught up in all of this mess; she could see why he would be hesitant about seeking anything more than companionship with her.

Yet, it was the fact that he treated her as simply herself that drew her to him so often. However often he used her title, it was with none of the pomp and devotion of the many others. And all his wealth of knowledge aside — which was more than enough to pique her interest — it was the fact that she could just be herself with him that made her seek him out so often, made her want—

Tephra sighed sharply through her nose, and reached for her mead.

It would serve nothing to seek out such a impractical thing in the midst of all this chaos, and she was too far out of the frivolous years of her girlhood to be so preoccupied with it.

Why start something with him, if she was just going to be leaving in the end?

Once the Breach was sealed, she fully intended to go back to her clan. It would be on the humans to clean up their own mess with the Chantry, and the Circles, and all the other things they'd broken or neglected.

Besides, all her flings had been brief, fleeting things that committed nothing of herself but the fervor of a moment, or a week, or a summer. She had never let herself care enough to feel the absence or the loss of another, not since she was a child. It was a purposeful avoidance, rooted in self-preservation.

But with him—

She knew with absolute clarity that nothing with him would be frivolous, or fleeting. And if Redcliffe had taught her anything, it was that she'd come to care about him enough that the loss of him — the other him — had been devastating.

She could not bear a second loss of him, not again, especially if she were moved to care more about him than she already did.

To seek more than the companionship they shared, to take him on as a lover, to open herself up to caring about him more deeply — knowing full well that it could lead to such loss — would have been nothing short of madness. Complicated, at best.

It could even be dangerous, in that he still remained an unknown to her in so many ways. He was inconsistent, and at times entirely incomprehensible. There was an absence, a hole — gaping and obvious — eating through his stories, his probing questions, his self.

How could she begin to grapple with what she couldn't neither pin down, nor hold onto?

The others continued to argue heatedly around her, until Vivienne's voice cut over the rest as she advised, "With so many mages gathered at the Breach, we would do well to bring along what few templars remain to the Inquisition, to ensure protection — for us, as well as them. The risk for possession will be great."

Solas turned a critical eye to Madame de Fer, "The fact that I, an apostate, have not been enslaved by demons must be quite vexing, Enchanter."

The derisive edge of his tone surprised her; what in the world had the Madame done to provoke such ire in him?

Tephra glanced between them with tense curiosity, as the mead she held idled against her lips, briefly forgotten.

Vivienne gave a sharp, short laugh, "Not at all, darling. You clearly have an exceptional gift for the Fade."

"You flatter me," he replied, in a droll tone.

"I'm far more surprised you haven't been murdered by terrified villagers wielding pitchforks," she mused, with a biting edge to her words.

The crease between Solas's brow furrowed, as he said, "Yes, packing all the mages into towers and threatening them with Templars certainly kept them safe."

"It did," Vivienne replied, with conviction. She had done well in not being riled by Solas's words — until now. Her anger was palpable as she continued, "That is, until a rogue apostate destroyed Kirkwall's chantry and started a fight most mages did not want."

Tephra knew of the man who'd blown up the Kirkwall chantry, if only by name. For all the distance her people kept from human affairs, it was still prudent to remain informed of such significant events.

Beside her, Varric had been taking notes at a furious pace, but the mention of the Kirkwall incident had stayed his hand. From what little she'd heard him speak of this man — Anders — she'd gotten the impression that the dwarf's opinions of him were complicated at best, given that the mage was his best friend's lover.

As the others argued around him, Varric simply sighed to himself and continued to write.

"Your system produced him. Clearly your Circles are flawed," Solas stated, in a clipped tone.

"And the Circles have also produced many respectable figures in history," Vivienne countered. "The Hero of Fereldan is a notably recent one."

"Your Circle was a tightly clamped lid on a boiling pot," Solas bit back, losing what composure he'd had previously. "It held for a while, and — unless you looked inside — it all seemed fine. And everyone feigned surprise when it finally burst. He did what anyone might do for the suffering of their people, if pushed far enough."

There was a stillness to his anger — like the deceptive calm before a storm.

It was fascinating to watch, yet she was glad that she had not personally provoked him to this degree.

"Do stop trying to justify his actions, my dear," Vivienne warned. "It's beginning to sound dangerously like praise. He is a murderer and an abomination, and little else. His atrocity served nothing but to bring about more atrocity."

The woman's words were a sucker punch to Tephra's gut.

If killing a few dozen clerics and civilians made the man such a terrible thing, what did killing a world make her?

Tephra's gaze darted away from them, as she turned in her seat and resumed her drinking.

Inebriation was far more inviting than confronting that.

When Varric spoke up, his anger surprised her.

Hardly anything ever seemed to get to him, beyond terrible weather and soggy socks, or having to camp in place of sleeping in inns.

"Anders was just a man — a mage who suffered beneath the weight of your corrupt system," Varric cut in, sharply. "It could have been any of the countless people who've suffered and died at the hands of Templar mercy to have been possessed and driven to that extreme." He gave an incredulous laugh, as he continued, "Maker's balls, it was a spirit of Justice itself that became so enraged by the abuses of the Chantry that it could not stay silent and idle a single moment longer in the Fade."

"Varric, dear, are you really suggesting that demon-possessed mage was anything less than a terrorist?"

Varric threw his hands up in frustration, before sinking back into his chair in angry silence.

"The truth is that there is no system which serves to protect us better than what the Chantry has done for centuries," Vivienne continued. "There is always a place for reform, but violence is rarely the tool to achieve such. His barbaric actions only served to set back any progression we might have built upon on the work of our predecessors, as well as leading to an abject breakdown in negotiations. Had the mages conducted themselves in a civil manner after Anders's abominable acts against the Chantry, rather than resorting to civil war—"

"Ah, yes," Solas interjected, flatly. "Nearly a millennia of discourse and peaceful protest has gotten them so far — and what are the fruits of their labor? Anti-magic theology, and a militarized Templar order. The Rite of Tranquility, of course, and no less than nineteen Circle annulments."

"Between the threat of being made Tranquil or killed by ignorant peasants, surely joining a Circle would be preferable in most situations," Dorian mused in a playful tone, as though playing devil's advocate. "I may know little of the Southern Circles, but I cannot imagine the abuses to be so widespread. And even occasional ill-treatment and a few freedoms lost is preferable to dying. Death is so terribly final, you see — and boring."

This is what the Spymaster had brought her here for? To watch the mages snipe at each other over things she knew too little about to intervene over, or to mediate?

What a shit show this is.

Her head a was beginning to throb, and her pulse was pounding in her ears.

Solas canted his head toward Dorian, as he mocked, "A helpful contribution, of course — the timeless argument which lends itself only in perpetuating the status quo and complicity through inaction. I have seen much of the history of this world; not once has the argument of lesser evilism served to bring about true advancement. It is simply a political farce used to fool those without choice into thinking that they do have one."

"They do have a choice," the Commander insisted. "The system serves—"

"A small portion of humans who have elevated themselves above all the rest," Tephra cut him off in a clipped tone. "It's easy for you to forget the system — you're human. It's your system. Much of us don't have that freedom. I'm constantly reminded of all the ways this system robs my people, traps my people — kills us. For that, the mages have nothing but my compassion."

"You're not a mage," the Commander reminded, wearily.

Void take them, she did not need to be drawn into this nonsense, yet she was compelled to continue.

"But I am an elf," she reminded him, in a biting tone. "I know much of the systems your people put in place against us, as well as the mages — there's little difference between the two in the end, but death and displacement. Though do go on and parse the subtleties between Exalted Marches and Circle Annulments."

"This is not—" Cullen gave a sharp sigh, clearly flustered. "We're here to address the Breach, not — Maker's breath."

"The system serves to protect mages from the risk of possession," Cassandra stated. "In that, it has prevented far more possessions than it would have without the Circles."

"As there's absolutely no proof that summoning demons to the same location — over centuries, no less — for Harrowings doesn't weaken the Veil," Dorian remarked, dropping any pretense of sophism. "Nor does stuffing masses of frightened, emotionally compromised mages into one tiny tower, for that matter."

"Dealing with demons manifesting in one location is far easier to manage than demons manifesting in multiple locations," Cullen insisted. "The Templars have proven their effectiveness—"

Dorian cut him off with a sharp laugh.

"What would you suggest, then?" the Commander demanded.

"Something with less misery and death?" Varric suggested, helpfully.

Cullen gave a sharp sigh, as he said, "As you are quite happy to deride that particular section of our soldiers, I would like to remind you all that the Templars amongst us defected from the Chantry to serve the Inquisition. Whatever any one man among us may or may have not done, we are wholeheartedly committed to following a better path. If what the rebel mages have done can be set aside, then it should be so for our Templar soldiers. We can move forward together. Treating them as though they're somehow worse than—"

Varric cut the man off with a derisive snort, as he resumed his fitful note-taking, "As if the actions of the mages are in anyway comparable to what the Templars have been doing to them for centuries."

The Commander made a frustrated noise as he pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, arms crossed across armored chest.

It made her angry to hear the Commander attempt to equate the systemic abuse of the mages, to what the Templars received in retaliation when they'd been pushed too far.

The two were simply incomparable to her.

"The Templars are not the victims in this," Tephra snapped. "They are endowed by the Chantry with protections and a position of power not afforded to anyone else in Thedas. And for it, they act with impunity to commit abuses against those they're charged with safekeeping — and I'm not just speaking of mages on that."

She thought briefly of a hood, a bucket, and that terrible cell they'd chucked her into what seemed now so long ago.

The Commander could barely meet her gaze, "Those men were—"

She barreled on over him angrily, "The power imbalance between the Chantry and between mages is such that compromise has never been an option. When one group has complete power over another, it is impossible to negotiate in good faith."

Solas's gaze fell heavily on her, at that. Briefly, she wondered if he agreed or not, as he said nothing — he simply watched.

Leliana spoke up in agreement, "I've known mages. Some of them were better people than me. And yet I'm free and they're not. It's not right."

It was a measured statement, but Tephra was grateful for the support.

"The Chantry gains nothing but the loss and invalidation of its entire power base if it concedes anything to the mages," Solas remarked, finally. "There is no incentive on their part to make concessions or reforms to improve the lives of mages, and massive pressure to maintain the status quo. The Templars did not walk out on the Chantry because of what happened in Kirkwall; they defected when they felt the Divine was too sympathetic to the mages."

The Seeker regarded him curiously, "So you suggest that we make them equals, on all fronts?"

"We Dalish do not fetter our mages, nor fear them," Tephra interjected, not wishing for him to make a target of himself any further. Apostate that he was, it would be too easy for them to brand him a heretic and cast him out. "The trained mages teach the younger ones all that they need, and the clan supports them. We see them as gifts, not burdens, and the best of them are the ones who lead us all."

Madame de Fer fixed her with a curious look, as she mused, "Such that your people throw away your excess gifts, do you not?"

Ah, of course.

"Yes, I've heard of this as well," Dorian agreed, though in a careful — if curious — tone. "Though I suppose little ones dying lost out in the woods is a far cry kinder than what the Templars do."

There was a sudden ringing in her ears as her gut gave a sick twist at Dorian's words.

He couldn't have known how his words would have affected her — he was speaking of hypotheticals, not the truth of her own childhood — which had nothing to do with mages or exile of any sort.

Still, anger coiled tightly inside of her at their presumption to speak on things they had no experience or true knowledge of, only rumors purposefully spread by her own people to ward off human intervention.

"Yes, would you both care to teach me more of what my own people do? In clans you've never set foot in?" Her voice trembled with barely-controlled emotion as she continued, "Do tell me more of Dalish children cast off into the woods and left to die; I'm all ears."

A tense silence settled between them, broken only by Sera giving an amused snort of laughter at the absurdity of it all. Varric quieted her with a sharp prod of his elbow.

When neither spoke again, she continued, "You humans say many things of us, but truth is rarely so simple. A careful lie can protect many, and keep the Chantry from seeking out our clans. It is one of many tactics we use to keep your people from presuming to intervene in our affairs."

Dorian shot her an apologetic look, as he asked, "So you don't exile — ah — send off your excess mages, then?"

"Clans will send mages to other clans who are less fortunate and are in need, but it's always voluntary."

To my knowledge, at least.

She couldn't speak for all of the clans of her people. It was as Kazem had said — with each new generation, time made strangers of them all — but she was far too stubborn to give them any satisfaction that the rumors might be true for some of her people.

Tephra felt suddenly, and acutely, alone amongst them all.

Not even the subtle, soft expression which Solas was giving her could soothe it.

It made her feel unreasonably defensive and cagey, and reminded her of the precarious nature of her position here. If not for the mark, she doubted she would be so free to voice her opinions so boldly — if at all. At least, not without reprimand or punishment.

"There are fewer and fewer of us born with each year that passes, and one day we'll be no more," she said, finally. "Our children are precious to us, and we do not cast them out, mage or not. That is simply a story we tell to keep your Templars away."

"Thank you for clarifying that subject for us. I would hate to labor under ignorance on such matters," Vivienne replied, sincerely. Still, the woman was adamant as she continued, "However, if Fiona and her malcontents are joining us as allies, we need to be prepared. Abominations are inevitable. Cullen doesn't have enough templars to handle incidents. Some of the rank and file need to be trained."

Tephra frowned, "Are you counting yourself among them, as well?"

"Of course I am, my dear," she admonished, though her tone was gentle. "Every mage who joins the cause is taking a calculated risk, whether they know it or not."

The woman was right — the closer the mages lingered to the Breach, the higher the risk it was for them. She had been worrying over the matter, even for those she knew were experts in their field, such as her own companions. Even Solas could be at risk in the right conditions, she assumed.

She thought briefly of the time before, when he'd been distracted enough to let a bandit inflict a nearly-mortal wound. What if it had been a demon, and not just a man?

The outcome could have been far worse.

Still, the thought of more Templars amongst them turned her stomach and filled her throat with the memory of drowning.

"I'm confident that we can handle the mages. There's no need for Templars," she insisted.

Madame de Fer was undeterred, as she continued, "Have any of these men faced an abomination before, my dear? Have you? The Veil is broken, and the raw power of the Fade rushes out like floodwaters through a shattered levee. In ordinary places where the Veil is weak, magic is much more likely to attract demons. And if demons can walk our world with no blood magic to summon them, how safe do you think our 'allies' are? There has never been a greater threat to mages than the Breach. Until it is closed, no one is safe."

There was no true argument she could give to that, beyond her own personal prejudice against the men who'd mistreated her.

"Magic is dangerous, just as fire is dangerous, as you well know." Vivienne's gaze dropped briefly to Tephra's hands, half-concealed in the sleeves of her coat, as she added, "Anyone who forgets this truth gets burned."

Her hands twitched, as she replied, "It wasn't mages who lit that fire."

Vivienne regarded her with a measured look, brows furrowing, as she asked, "Do you know how young mages are found? Outside of your clans, of course."

"No, I don't," she replied, truthfully.

"Of course you don't, my dear," Vivienne chided. The emotion was clear in her tone as she continued, edged with the same defensiveness that Tephra had felt speaking of her own clan's experiences, "A little girl has a nightmare, and in her sleep, she burns her house down. A teenage boy has a fit, and lightning rips his mother to pieces. Imagine your own childhood and what would have happened if the darkest corner of your heart had a will of its own."

Her mind folded back over the memories of that night her parents died, and the day she lost her brother.

I could have saved them.

She could have torn through the bandits who'd killed her parents, or stopped the spider from killing her halla. She could have held on to him longer, she could have—

It was a naive thing to think — a child's wish, and nothing more.

Her father's magic had not saved neither him, nor her mother from dying. What could a child have done?

And even if she had magic when her brother had died, who would have taught her the spell that could have saved him?

It was a useless, futile thing to think of, and it served nothing but to dredge up old griefs.

"People don't learn the fear of magic at chantry services, my dear," Vivienne continued. "They learn it from us."

Reeling from memories best left to the dark corners of her mind, Tephra quickly turned her attention back to Madame de Fer and assured, "I want to do right by them, whatever that means."

All that betrayed Vivienne's surprise was the subtle rise and furrow of her brow.

"I want them treated kindly, and fair. I would not have the abuses of the Circles repeated here," Tephra continued. "You know what works, you know how to teach them to be safe. Appoint Keepers—"

She caught herself reverting to what she knew — the Dalish way — and stopped herself. Shifting, she corrected herself, "Teachers. Mentors. People who understand their confusion and fear, and can teach them to channel it safely. If possession happens, then we will address it how we must, but I won't have them treated as if they're already guilty." She regarded the woman a moment, with a new perspective, before she asked, "Will you help me keep them safe — from others, as well as themselves?"

"Of course I will, my dear," Vivienne replied, gently.

Solas gave a short, bitter laugh, which she met with a sharp look.

"I don't see you offering to teach them how to be safe," Tephra admonished.

Briefly, she tried to imagine him besieged by the gaggle of mage orphans all vying for his attention.

She was certain that it would have been a hilarious endeavor to watch.

"Do forgive my poor manners, Herald," he replied in a clipped tone.

Turning back to Vivienne, Tephra said, "You're right, of course — untrained mages can be a danger to themselves. On that, we agree, but the Templars are a poor solution."

"They are men, and all men are flawed," Vivienne mused, with lilting humor as she briefly eyed Solas, before she turned her attention back to Tephra. "That some fail does not mean that none should try. The fact remains that there is no cure for an abomination except death. Someone must strike the killing blow. Who shall lower the blade if not a templar?"

The Madame's question reignited the bickering — talk of safeguards and curfews and restrictions. As the others began to cut in and speak over each other, the pounding in her head grew louder and began to drown out the chaos of their arguments. Tephra closed her eyes as she leaned the side of her head against her palm, resting her elbow on the table.

"—Even with an army of templars gathered beneath the Breach, what do you suppose they could do? Wave their swords at it? Accuse it of being a blood mage?"

"Well, if I may—"

Dorian cut the Commander off, "Yes, what exactly is the average velocity of templar magic suppression? I dare say it's considerably less than the many miles up to the Breach."

"Well, the Inquisition does have catapults," Varric chimed in, with dark amusement.

Their voices seemed to clamor for priority, cresting and crashing in pounding waves against her eardrums. Pain lanced behind her eyes, sharp enough to bring her suddenly to her feet. Anger and frustration was boiling in her gut as she put a hand to the table to catch herself, as she laid her other hand over her eyes.

All this fucking arguing is useless.

The mark in her hand flared to life, as though reacting to the sudden spike in her emotions. Bright verdant energy crackled up her arm, spitting and arcing in a visual display of the anger vibrating through her body.

The room around her was suddenly, blissfully silent.

When the pain passed, she dropped her hand to her side and said, "If all you mean to do is fight amongst yourselves like children, then none of you need me here for that."

"We may all have differing views on these matters, my dear, but they will need to be addressed eventually," Vivienne advised. "The rebel mages are yours now — their fate and welfare rests in your hands."

"Mine? I'm not the Inquisition, I'm just—"

Just an elf who has no idea what the fuck she's doing.

Couldn't they see that? Or did it amuse them to pretend she were capable of leading anything, of making these decisions?

"Herald, we need to address this issue. The mages will need oversight, not just for the Breach, but for after as well," the Commander continued on, to her growing horror. "Perhaps we can begin training those in our ranks to serve as unofficial templars, as well as devise restrictions—"

Her anger resurfaced, as she interrupted him sharply, "You do realize the irony of asking an elf to subjugate anyone, right? As though I would — in any way or context — be okay with shackling them, as my own people have been for generations beyond counting?"

It did not surprise her that few of them would meet her gaze after such a statement.

"What's the point of asking my opinion on all these things if you're not going to bother listening, or if you're just going to talk down to me and suggest something else? I've given my opinion on how they should be treated and handled, and yet you carry on as though I did not." Tephra gave a bitter laugh, "Not that it truly matters. Once the Breach is closed, you don't need me anymore and the lot of you can go back to bickering like children." She downed the rest of her mead and set it aside, before adding, "As for me, I'm going back to my clan."

There was an exchange of looks between her companions and advisers which made the bottom fall out of her stomach.

She felt what small vestige of hope she'd been clinging to for a return to normalcy turn to ash in her hands.

No, I was—

The soft look that Vivienne gave her was a dagger to Tephra's gut, as the woman gently asked, "Do you honestly believe this ends at the Breach, my dear?"

I was going to go back.

"Wherever you go, you would be hunted," the Commander said, in that same gentle tone. They all were acting like they were handling a particularly difficult child. "The Elder One won't rest until he has you. Alexius was the first attempt. There will be others."

Tephra sank back into her chair in numb silence, and reached for another bottle of mead. The reality of her situation cut through everything, even the haze of inebriation. When Varric moved it out of her reach, she turned a sharp frown on him, but her anger died a swift death in the face of his concern.

Cassandra followed with, "Even when the Breach is closed, you will still be the Herald — and with that, you are our hope for peace. For stabilization. There is still so much conflict that will remain even if the Breach is closed. You may not believe, Herald, but many of us do. We need it; we need you."

She gave a faltering laugh, brief and raw and anything but amused.

"You mean this," Tephra gestured at the Seeker with her sparking hand. "All you need is the mark, not the knife-ear it happens to be attached to."

She was angry, and worse, embarrassed, and for the life of her she could not keep her mouth shut.

She was suddenly and absolutely done with this meeting.

Seething, she held her marked hand out over the table, "If you people want it so terribly much, you're welcome to take it."

When none of them moved, nor deigned to respond, she prompted, "No? Not even going to try? Perhaps a more direct method, then."

Tephra stalked around the table toward the Commander. When she reached for his sword belt, he stiffened and took a step back.

Cullen raised his hands in a pacifying gesture, and urged, "Herald, this isn't necessary—"

She yanked the man's sword out of its sheathe — it was far heavier than she anticipated — and threw it down onto the table.

Gesturing at the blade, her voice cracked like a whip as she snapped, "Any who wishes to take the mark from me is welcome to it."

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room, and none of them would meet her challenging gaze, but for Solas. He simply watched her with an inscrutable expression that she could not begin to decipher, but it surprised her in its intensity — it reminded her of how he'd looked at her in that dark future, just before the doors had closed behind him, just before the end.

But she could not linger on him, or his ambiguous expressions, not with all of them here. Not with anger burning a hole in her gut, and the burden of this role of Herald crushing the breath out of her lungs.

None of them knew what she'd done for them. For this world. What she'd done just so they could be sitting here, bickering like children.

"No one?" she prompted, impatiently. "Then don't tell me how I'm supposed to protect people! I never asked for this. I don't want it, and I can't give it away. So I think I'm doing the best I fucking can, given the circumstances."

Their silence was suffocating.

This is accomplishing nothing, and all I'm doing is making an ass of myself, she thought, bitterly.

What a gods-be-damned spectacle she was, their Herald of Andraste. Drunk, and broken, and beyond caring how she looked to them.

Shame and resignation began to set in as she sighed, and looked to Cassandra, "I'm tired."

"You do need your rest," the Seeker agreed, with a tight expression.

Tephra could not tell if the woman was disappointed with her behavior, or in the opinions she'd expressed, but she was simply too exhausted to care. She was too drained and too stirred up to stay and continue this farce of a meeting any longer. "Can you just let me know when we're leaving for the Breach?"

Cassandra nodded, "Of course, Herald."

As she headed for the door, she faltered to a stop at the sight of Blackwall. Though she knew his name, they'd never been formally introduced.

Tephra swayed unsteadily as she cast her arms out wide and lowered herself in a mocking approximation of a bow, "Welcome to the fucking Inquisition."

With that, she left them to continue the arguments without her. She swiped a half-empty bottle of mead from the end of the table on her way out.

The Void take them all, she could not deal with this tonight.

Not that mead truly helped; it barely pacified the tumult of her emotions, or perhaps even worsened it, and she'd done little else but make an ass of her in front of them all.

When she turned a corner, she caught sight of Solas in her peripheral.

It didn't surprise her that he had followed her out.

Tephra continued her journey to the gates, though her pace grew almost languid to allow him to catch up with her. When she reach them, she turned to lean on the stone wall and watch his approach.

When Solas noticed her careful observation, his pace slowed to a ridiculous near-swagger as he locked his hands behind his back.

"You did well in there," he remarked, as he came to a stop before her.

Tephra gave an amused huff, "If by well, you mean that I made an ass of myself, then I suppose I did." Her humor died away into frustration, as she said, "What a waste of time that was."

"Nothing is wasted if you learn from it."

What had she learned, beyond how much her companions disagreed with one another?

"They expect me to know what I'm doing, to have the final say on all of this — it's absurd," she replied. "How can I speak for those people when I know nothing of their plight? I'm not qualified for this. All I know is what feels right — which is that they should be free."

"No one simply is a leader, Herald. It is an active state — of revision, of becoming — just as any form of learning is. You have time yet to learn from the mages you've allied with — of their history, and their plight — and to find a way to move forward together," he informed. "It's true that you are ill-equipped, given your ignorance of mage affairs, but you handled yourself well enough despite that. You did not claim to know better solutions, as some might have had simply to placate the majority. You expressed willingness to hear all sides on the matter, which many in a position of power would not have done. Do not rob yourself of that due."

He was entirely reasonable with his commendations and advice, but her head was swimming and all she cared to focus on was the delicate crease in the center of his bottom lip. "Such flattery, Solas."

"Simply an observation," he replied, though the smile in his eyes did not escape her notice. "You would know if I meant to flatter you."

"Careful now," she chided with amusement. "One might get the impression that you're flirting with me."

Her gaze dropped briefly, again idling at his mouth as she remembered kissing the other him — the one she couldn't save. The other Solas had readily accepted her affections, what small comfort and solace she could give him in that dying world.

She couldn't help but wonder if this Solas — still alive, still here — would, too.

The movement of her gaze didn't escaped his notice.

Solas cocked an eyebrow, as he playfully asked, "Only the impression of such? How remiss of me."

Tephra felt the flush creep up her cheeks as she glanced away, and took a long drink from her mead. The action afforded her a moment to enjoy the sudden stillness which settled between them, which was fraught with a pleasing tension of all the things that needn't be said between them to be made obvious.

"This from the man whose forgotten the name of his first love," Tephra remarked in a droll tone when she finished, as she turned her attention back to him. "I can hardly wait to see what accounts for a real compliment."

"I never said that it was love — merely youthful passion."

"Poor girl, lost to history," she mused, in a mock mournful tone. "Or was she simply less interesting than the Fade?"

"When you reach my age, we can discuss how easily some things are forgotten." Solas regarded her with amusement, as he added, "And I'll hardly take criticism from one who knows little more of her own people's language than curses."

"I know more than just curses," she insisted.

Solas gave a slow, burning smile as he spoke in a long string of unfamiliar Elven. The upward lilt at the end denoted its questioning nature, but the rest was simply lost on her.

Ass.

He was a complete and unremittent ass.

And yet, there was always something that stirred in her to hear him speak it, and so well.

A longing, for what she didn't have, for what she had never known — an identity stolen from her before her birth — as well as a deep respect, and a burdening desire—

Tephra cleared her throat, gaze skipping away to avoid the heat of his gaze. "You could say that more slowly, if you pleased," she remarked flatly, before continuing to drink, trying and failing to appear unaffected by his words.

Solas plucked the bottle from her, "More, what?"

She watched him take a long drink from the bottle; he was clearly enjoying himself.

Insufferable ass.

Well, certainly two could play at this game.

"Felas, Solas," she entreated in a breathy, suggestive tone. It was almost too difficult not to laugh at herself. "Felas, sathan."

It was completely satisfying to watch him choke on the mead.

As Solas hastily wiped the alcohol from his face and tunic, she continued, "Or, if you prefer, shem'el. Though I hardly see the need for haste."

Before he could compose himself and respond, the medics she'd met with earlier came strolling up to the gates. Their paces slowed to a meander, as both men took in the sight of her and the clearly-flustered apostate.

It amused her to see the oh-so-very-stoic Solas thoroughly disconcerted.

Even his ears had gone red.

Alleras gave a grin as he shuffled past, giving a nod of his head, "Herald."

However, Kazem looked between them with curious frown and an arched brow, before fixing her with an amused look. He gave a nod of his head in acknowledgement, before following after his companion.

Solas gave an awkward cough, before he asked, "Would you care to walk with me?"

The sudden warmth in his gaze stuttered her breath.

Very much so.

"If you insist," she replied in a restrained tone, as she fought the smile threatening to break across her face.

"Though I would like my mead back," she huffed, as she followed after him.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The further they walked from Haven, the more his head began to swim with anticipation — though for what, precisely, escaped him.

Her teasing pleas still lingered in his mind, tugging at what tenuous hold he still had on his composure. It kept his chest locked tight with the ridiculous notion that perhaps she was entirely serious in her affections, and not simply amusing herself with empty flirtations.

He would not hold it against her if it were merely a passing fancy — a distraction from all that troubled her, and the increasing demands of her position in the Inquisition.

He would gladly give whatever reprieve he could offer her, and expect nothing in return for it.

It was the least he owed her for putting her in this position to begin with.

Despite how taxing the meeting had been for her, Solas was pleased with how she had asserted herself and spoken her mind. She so often hoarded her wisdom to herself, as though it were a finite source. Yet when she did choose to share it with him, he was so often floored by its breadth, as well as her potential. Even when they disagreed on a subject, she impressed him with her ability to adapt to new information, to revise her own stances — and to defend them when she felt him truly wrong. There was much of this world which lay open to her, to be learned and understood, and if any good were to come of her unfortunate situation, it would be that she would learn from it.

Just as her position had closed some things to her, it would also open an entire world to her fingertips. Exeriences and culture, methods of learning far beyond what she would have been exposed to shuttered away amongst the Dalish.

As much it delighted him that she often preferred his company for such things — meandering discussions and heated debates and thoughtful questions — it frustrated him to see others underestimate her. Or worse, when she doubted herself. She deserved recognition and acknowledgement beyond the stolen magic burning in her hand — she deserved to be seen for the remarkable spirit she was.

So it had filled him with a heady sense of pride to watch her stand up to the others and assert herself, to show that side of herself and speak her mind with conviction.

And when she'd thrown down the Commander's blade and bid them to take the mark from her, challenging them all to take the position and title from her, without a care to the loss of the power bestowed her, when her gaze had shifted to meet his — it had sent a thrill of pleasure rippling through him to see the subtle look of surprise in the dark depths of her eyes. As though she could sense his pride in her, as though she could sense the heat building up from his core, or divine the consuming thoughts he'd had of kissing her.

Even there, in front of them all.

She had been taken from the lowest position of her world, and thrust to one of the highest — and it was nothing to her. When others would have greedily hoarded what they could, she would cast it out without a second thought.

Void take him, how could he not want to kiss her for it?

It was entirely out of character for him to be so preoccupied with such ridiculous notions, but she inspired them so easily in him.

He could not help but wonder if the Anchor had altered her in some way, if it had woken some sleeping part of her which dreamt of its true self, of her wholeness which had been denied her from her first breath. He often wondered what she was like before she had acquired the Anchor — if she was this bright, this much — but he hadn't the privilege of meeting her before all of this began.

As such, he could no longer determine where she ended and the Anchor began, as his magic claimed more and more of her body with each passing day.

"They're right, you know. This would be easier if I was a mage."

Her words pulled him effectively out of his thoughts and into the present — still walking, following the path along the frozen river.

"You are not entirely without magic," he reminded. "The mark, as well as your—"

"That doesn't count," she huffed, impatiently. "It's just a thing I can do. I don't even know how it works, only that it does when I need it."

How very much she enjoyed parsing such trivial details; though he had to remind himself that she'd been severed from truly knowing magic as he did. It was patience she needed, and guidance.

"As are my spells," he replied, simply. "There is little difference."

She gave a delightfully husky laugh, "Little difference? Ah, yes. Blasting people into oblivion and not being seen are so very similar."

"In truth, they are — both come from the same source," he informed.

She was quiet for a time as they walked, before she asked, "All magic? Even the mark?"

Solas stumbled, ever so slightly, at the sudden — fascinating — shift of her focus. Still, it was not a subject he wished to speak on, especially its origin.

"It is old magic," he replied, carefully. "Of that, I am certain."

"I meant it, earlier," she said, in a subdued tone. "I would give it away if I could."

"Just like that?"

"You sound surprised," she laughed.

"Not many relinquish power so easily once they've attained it, let alone willingly," Solas replied.

That was a truth so often played out over the long millennia of his life, one he rarely saw a different outcome of. Power was as corruptive as it was seductive, and he could only hope that she had the will to resist it as long as she could.

"I never wanted power," she replied, as though she divined his thoughts.

It took considerable effort to keep the pride from his face — the smile.

In the beginning, it had surprised him to see her pull away from the power of the Anchor, to reject the position it afforded, as few ever did with power so freely offered. It continued to surprise him that she remained so wary of it, so humble despite it. He could only hope that she continued to do so, to act in the interest of others and not herself, to remain uncorrupted by the lure of power.

And it was fascinating — intoxicating, even — to watch her will tested, time and again, and remain undaunted.

Of all the people that could have received the Anchor — his power — it had been her. He could only imagine at how terribly misused it could have been in another's hand, how further his plans could have been thrown into chaos, how it could have been used to manipulate and exploit the fear of the masses.

With her, it was wielded by one who regarded it with great caution and being used to mitigate the damage caused by him and to protect the innocent.

There was a sort-of redemption in that, in helping her to understand how to use the Anchor — to stabilize, to protect, to do what good could be done before he inevitably had to—

He did not want to think on that, not now.

Solas cleared his throat, as he said, "Which is why I sleep better at night knowing it is you who carries this power, and not another who might seek to misuse it. I have seen what great power has done to those who've had it in the history of our world. Few have ever kept it long without falling to corruption, less so have ever abdicated themselves of such power."

"Flattery again."

"Only the unfortunate truth of this world," Solas remarked. "Much of the misery and ruin that exists today is because some fool with power felt they could make things better by shaping the world to their will."

It took effort to keep the bitterness from his tone, and to ignore its self-referential nature.

"I'd give it to you," she mused, thoughtfully. She'd stopped walking to turn and smile at him, as she mused, "Though I expect you'd hate this as much as I do. Or you would disappear off into the Fade and never come back."

Or break this world to restore another.

His gut churned, and he found himself turning from the warmth of her smile as he moved past her. She hastened to match his pace as they continued onward through the snow.

If she sensed his unease at all, she politely did not mention it.

He doubted she would offer the Anchor to him so freely if she knew the truth of it — if she knew what surrendering it meant for the world she sought to save.

Not that she could keep it from him, come the day he meant to claim it.

Even one of his staunchest supporters — and dearest friends — couldn't abide what needed to be done, in the end. Felassan had been of the old world, just as himself, and had been seduced by what he'd found in this one. He hadn't been the first of the immortals to succumb to such loneliness, but it had surprised him at the time. Felassan had always been so practical about his missions, and about what needed to be done.

Solas hadn't understood how the man had lost himself to such a blighted, cursed world — not until he walked it himself. And even then, it had taken meeting her to truly open his eyes.

He could no longer deny the catastrophe of it — this elegant self-sabotage — nor the crushing truth that she would forsake him, if only she knew.

It was his weight to carry, but soon she would understand — in her own way — the true weight and cost of leadership. Soon, she would know the isolation it brought as intimately as he did, as it separated her from all those around her, even the closest of her companions.

Perhaps she would understand, then, how duty took everything and left nothing in its wake.

She would understand how they needed her to be strong for them, to be uncompromising in the face of what needed to be done. That she could not risk being weak, could not risk falling apart — not even in the face of horrible choices. That sometimes, there are only lesser and necessary evils, and no other path to take.

The truth was beginning to set in with her — that she could not simply give away the power she'd been bestowed, nor the position. Whatever last hope she'd been clinging to of being done with all of this once they'd sealed the Breach had been torn away from her, and it only compounded the grief she'd carried back with her from Redcliffe.

Her outburst in the tavern — her outrage — made sense to him.

He had once mourned the loss of his own personal freedom, long ago.

Whatever happened in Redcliffe, in that dark future — he knew that it been beyond anything she could have prepared for. It had wounded her so completely, that she couldn't even bear the company of those she'd grown closest with.

Except him, though that did little to ease his guilt.

She deserved better than the company of the man who'd put her on this path — however inadvertently.

Still, abject loneliness made him greedy in the way he hoarded what time she afforded him, what small affections.

Perhaps some part of her sensed that he understood — of having to make terrible choices, of having to keep moving forward despite the grief. That he knew what it was to be a leader, to take on that mantle, to be depended on by those who relied on him to make the world better — and to sometimes fail them.

Or perhaps he was simply an old fool, clinging to what small peace he found in her company.

It did not take long to arrive where he'd intended to take her.

Far from Haven, but not far from memory.

Surveying the area, she concluded, "This is where we first met."

"Not entirely true," he replied.

"Ah, yes — the prison." Tephra frowned, "Does it count if I wasn't conscious?"

"A matter of perspective, I suppose."

"Isn't it always with you?" she teased. "Why are we here?"

"You've expressed your anxiety of the Breach, and in closing it," he replied.

She gave an incredulous laugh, "Well — yes. I have no idea how I'm even supposed to do it."

"Which is why I thought a demonstration might ease your mind."

She quirked an eyebrow, "On how to channel magic?"

"Through the mark, yes," he confirmed.

Her eyebrows knitted together, "Won't it open a rift?"

"Yes, but you need not fear — I will set wards to prevent spirits from being drawn through while you practice," he assured her.

"I'm not afraid," she insisted, and from the humor in her eyes he could sense the truth of it. "Not with you here."

Her words left him feeling warm and heady, as he busied himself with setting wards. She removed her coat and left it folded on a low stone wall, as she prepared herself.

When he finished, he faced her once more and asked, "Are you ready to begin?"

"As I'll ever be," she huffed. "Though I'm not sure how I'm supposed to do this."

Solas straightened, and locked his hands together behind his back. He moved to stand at her side as she faced where the rift had once been, and said, "Magic is not as inscrutable as you might believe it to be. Imagine that your will was simply an extension of yourself — your own arm reaching towards me."

She offered a dubious — if amused — frown, as she asked, "Just imagine? That's it?"

"Calling forth magic and shaping it is precisely that — the extension of one's will — limited only by one's imagination," Solas replied. "Of course, that is truest in the Fade itself, as it takes more effort to call forth magic here beyond the Veil."

Tephra mirrored his posture as she straightened herself, and held her hands at the small of her back. She let out a slow breath as she focused; after a long moment of nothing, she gave an awkward laugh as she met his gaze apologetically.

"Take your time," he urged, in a reassuring tone.

He felt the stubborn surge of her will grasping at the magic in her hand, fumbling clumsily until she finally caught hold. The mark flared to life, crackling and surging around the delicate span of her palm.

"Now reach towards me. Not with your arm, but your will," he directed.

"I'm trying," she huffed, as she visibly fought the urge to reach with her marked hand. She steadied herself with a breath, and closed her eyes.

He could feel it as she fumbled at the barrier of herself, at the confines of her own body, and reached through the Anchor. Exploratory movements, like fumbling through pitch-darkness for anything solid to grasp onto.

When her mana — her spirit — brushed against his, she shivered and recoiled in surprise.

Solas fought the urge to shudder himself — for an entirely different reason — as he asked, "Did you feel it?"

She gave an incredulous laugh. "It's—" her eyes searched his, at loss for words to describe the experience, "—it's... so much. How do you stand it?"

"I've never known life without magic. It is as natural to me as breathing, or the beat of my own heart," he replied, with amusement. "Try again."

She closed her eyes once more and took another steadying breath, and reached.

He met her gently, holding back the true breadth of his power, as he did not wish to overwhelm her. He gave just enough of his mana to elicit a breathless gasp from her, and the sound of it—

Focus, he chided himself.

"Now keep hold, and let my magic work through you," he instructed, as he stepped around her. "Can you feel the seam in the Veil, where it was once torn open?"

She frowned, and bit at her lower lip as she reached to feel at the Veil. Her eyes fluttered open in surprise when she made contact with the sealed rift, and awe brightened her face.

"Very good," he commended her warmly. "Now focus on opening it. Imagine parting it as you would a curtain — gently."

With that, she moved her marked hand forward to reach. He watched the careful turn of her palm, as though she were grasping hold of an invisible rope.

He'd stepped far too close to her; he could feel the power of the Anchor rolling off of her in waves alongside the heat of her body — like an invitation he despaired of ever being offered.

Because he did not deserve it, and because he knew with startling clarity that he would be helpless to resist it if she did. He would throw himself headlong into that abyss without a second thought, if only she offered.

But not before.

He would never take from her what wasn't implicitly given.

Perhaps that was the most fitting punishment for him in this broken world, as he endeavored to right what had gone wrong in the actions he took to seal away the evanuris.

To find her — broken but bright — and to be woken once more to possibility, to connection, to admiration, to affection — and to be denied it, and left yearning for what he could never deserve to have.

His eyes traced the sleek lines of her neck and ears, as he advised, "Gently."

"I heard you the first time, you ass."

He gave a low laugh, and said nothing more as she worked to to re-open the sealed rift. He focused instead on each tug and pull of her will against his, letting her slip inside himself to coax what mana she needed from him.

It should not have affected him the way it did; it should not have felt intimate. And yet each push and pull sent heat lancing through his body at dizzying speeds.

The sudden burst of the rift opening sent her staggering back against him.

Solas caught her by the waist long enough to steady her, before putting space between them. His breath hitched, briefly, but ragged as he worked to regain his composure. He tried to ignore the sudden panic thundering through him as he took a further step back, but she swayed on her feet and once again he caught hold of her. One hand to her waist, the other cupping her arm as she continued to reach for the rift.

The wards held against the sudden press of the Fade, and afforded her the time to gather her wits and close the rift once more.

He knew that it came more easily to her, with the extra power surging through her. Still, she was overcome by the experience, trembling and swaying in his grip.

She laughed — how freely she seemed to do that with him now — and leaned heavily against him. She rested her head back on his shoulder and closed her eyes as she took deep, steadying breaths.

"Is this how it feels for you all of the time?" she asked. Her voice trembled with awe, and a touch of concern.

His eyes traced the lines of her face and the delicate span of her throat, as he replied, "Not quite."

She laughed again, almost giddy with the aftershocks of magic still resonating through her bones.

No, this was different — he could feel the press of her life, her spirit, against his own through the connection of the Anchor — it was nearly intimate in how enmeshed they'd become in this act of power mana exchange.

He'd long ago accepted the reality of her — of her spirit — but to feel it like this staggered him.

"No, this is—"

What could he say that would neither betray him, nor be a lie?

Evasion and deflection had become distressingly difficult with her, and the thought of giving her truth — even in part, even what little he could risk — a dangerous and thrilling distraction.

Her sudden laugh was a blessed diversion from answering, as she teased, "Too much for you, Solas?"

Not near enough.

He would drown himself in her, if only she would let him.

"And here I thought I'd be the one overwhelmed by this," she mused.

As if to accentuate her point, she shifted and began to trace the back of his hand where it rested at her waist.

Solas swallowed hard at the sudden contact of her fingertips, at the lazy way she stroked him.

How had he'd forgotten he was still touching her? How could he leave himself open and vulnerable to—

The soft scrape of her nails at his wrist brought a curse to his lips.

"Fenedhis."

Another laugh tickled his ears, as she asked, "How do you suppose it works? The mark?"

He wasn't certain which was worse — that she knew entirely what she was doing as she touched him like this, or that he desperately wanted her to keep doing it.

It was a test of his will to respond to her questions, to do anything but focus on the miracle of her skin against his as she turned her hand beneath his and pressed their palms together.

Words failed him completely; he could only respond in kind, by tracing his fingertips against hers.

"If I were to hazard a guess, I would say its made of the same magic as the Veil," she mused. "Or the same spell. However that works. It must be why the mark can manipulate it."

She could not know how close to the truth she was, and he could neither confirm nor deter her speculation without arousing her suspicion.

He focused instead on touching her — on being touched.

Each time he grew still, she coaxed him back with the gentle stroking of her fingers twining with his. They were calloused from a lifetime of archery and working with her hands, so that even the softest of her touches held an edge which deftly drew sensation out of him in staggering measure.

Even the barest of touches, and he was utterly undone.

Neither of them spoke for an indiscernible amount of time. Minutes, or hours — it was entirely beyond his keeping.

All that mattered was holding her, and the soft trace of her fingertips across his skin.

"This is the first language we learn, you know," she remarked, softly.

The slow trace of her skin against his drove everything out of his mind, distracting him entirely from her words.

Had he missed something she'd said? When had the subject turned to languages?

Solas cleared his throat, as he scrambled to follow her conversational path, "Which is?"

Tephra made a sound of amusement, "This." After a moment, she clarified, "Touch."

She dragged her nails from the heel of his palm to the tips of his fingers in slow, agonizing emphasis.

"It's the first thing we learn when we come into this world," she continued. "They say babies die without it. Maybe we do, too — in a way."

He watched her turn his hand in hers, and the soft expression which crossed her face as she watched the tremble in his hand. She craned her neck to look up over her shoulder at him, her brows knitting tightly together as she asked, "Has it been very long since someone touched you like this, Solas?"

Every nerve ending in his body was firing, panicking at possibility, bursting into want — into need.

When she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, to better look at him, her body brushed his in a manner that was entirely accidental — only the briefest collision of her rear to his hips, her shoulders pressing to his sternum for balance — and utterly devastating. His knees went weak and threatened to give out on him, as arousal tugged sharply in the pit of his stomach and shot straight down to his groin.

Blessedly, she moved before his body could betray him to her.

Perhaps it had been a bit too long for him, if even the barest press of her body to his could so thoroughly arouse him.

Or perhaps it was that he was entirely too lonely, that it had weakened him, had made him susceptible to this — to her.

But that wasn't quite right, either.

It wasn't that she made him weak, it was that she inspired him to allow himself to be vulnerable — to drop his defenses around her.

She made him feel safe, and that terrified him.

He was suddenly and acutely aware of his own silence.

Solas cleared his throat once again, and replied, "Longer than I care to admit."

Tephra turned her hand in his, offering her up her palm to him. He began to trace the lines of her palm, as well as the scars which still marked her from the fire. He traced the markings at her wrist, where he felt the erratic flutter of her pulse against his thumb.

She shivered when he touched her there, and it was more intoxicating than what any drink could afford him.

The pale marks snaked and arced in errant patterns, but the skin was smooth and nearly indistinguishable from the rest. He'd been able to save her from contracture — a common ailment from grievous burns — or even lesser aberrations.

Still, he regretted being unable to heal her completely.

Once again, she seemed to divine his thoughts as she mused, "I don't mind them. They make me think of you."

Her remark elicited a complicated knot of emotion in him, as he thought of the scar on his thigh which he'd chosen to leave intact — much for the same reason.

He followed the scars up the length of her arm, to where they faded into unmarked skin at the crux of her elbow. When he touched her there, she shivered and turned on her heel to fix him with a complicated expression — something so tender, that it elicited an immediate, throbbing ache in his chest.

When she put her hand to the back of his neck, Solas inhaled sharply through his nose. With little effort, she drew him down into a tight embrace.

He could not help the way his body began to tremble in her arms, nor the way he held onto her as though she were a lifeline.

"Ma serannas, Solas," she said quietly, so closely to his ear that he could feel the heat of her breath. "I don't think I would have made it this far without you."

In truth, he wasn't sure that he would have made it this far without her, either.

He had been so close to fleeing.

If it had been any other, anyone lesser than her — he did not know if he would have stayed this long, if at all.

Solas shifted and pressed his forehead to hers, as he responded in kind in Elven — of his thanks, of his appreciation of her, of his admiration, and of how very much he wanted to kiss her.

His confession was honesty dressed in obfuscation, in words she would not know.

He wanted to lose himself in her until everything else fell away — until nothing else mattered. He wanted to be selfish, to be entirely foolish, to take all that she freely offered and return it a hundredfold, he—

Shouldn't, he chided himself, as he stepped back from her, back from the sheer vertigo of being near her.

She was everything he needed, and he was nothing she deserved.

She deserved better than him, than what little he could give her. She deserved someone she could keep, someone who could stay — someone who could give her more than half-truths and fleeting time. She—

Tephra brought him back to her with the barest touch to his neck, as though she meant to draw him into her arms and kiss him.

Panic flared through him, and his heart leapt toward the hope that she would.

He was profoundly disappointed when she didn't.

"I need to tell you something, Solas."

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Whatever she'd expected, it hadn't been this — whatever this was.

Comfort? Consolation?

Was he simply humoring her, or was this something more?

Her eyes were drawn to the breathless part of his lips, and the look of supplication in his eyes. She knew that he would let her kiss him, and she wanted to — but not like this.

Not here. Not as a crutch, or a distraction. Not with his death still fresh in her mind.

It wouldn't be fair to him, however willing he was to let her.

The alcohol and the elfroot had been a fumbling attempt at distracting herself from her grief, an attempt to dull the pain and lessen the weight, but she would not use him like that. And she could not bear for him to think she would, or that it was all that she wanted him for.

He was — had become — so much more than that to her.

It made it more pressing for her to focus, to not be distracted by whatever this was, to tell him what she'd promised to tell him.

"Solas," she entreated, as she withdrew her hand from the back of his neck. She reached for his hands, and he readily offered them.

He stared at her with a half-lidded gaze, pupils blown wide in the waning light of the evening. "Hm?"

"It's about what happened in Redcliffe," she clarified.

That stirred him from the lethargy of desire.

Solas blinked rapidly, as though suddenly aware of himself — as though his mind had been elsewhere entirely.

"I've heard what matters — the rest is irrelevant," he replied, in a clipped tone. "You need not dwell on it."

The swift dismissal was a slap to the face.

He seemed immediately aware of the impact of his words, but offered no resistance as she withdrew her hands from his grasp, no matter how reluctant he might be to let her go.

Tephra gave a humorless laugh, "How exactly am I supposed to do that? I can't even close my eyes without seeing it."

"It was undone," he assured in a gentle tone, as he fumbled to ease her grief. "It was never real."

She didn't understand his sudden insistence on what was real and what wasn't in that dark future. How could one aspect of it be real, and not the rest? He hadn't even been there as she had — not this Solas. Blessedly, and thankfully as she was for that, how could he so casually toss it aside?

What would he say, if he could have faced his other self, or the other versions of their companions? Would he continue to deny them the validity of their existence, their experiences?

How could he presume to say what was real, and what wasn't?

Anger hardened her tone, "That's easy for you to say, Solas. You haven't killed a world."

For a moment, the placid mask of his composure slipped, and the furious grief she glimpsed beneath was utterly frightening.

She had touched a nerve in him — some old wound which seemed to run through the core of him — but she could not begin to fathom how it related in any way to what she'd done.

It was only a brief lapse, which he neatly concealed behind a frown as he said, "I do not need to know anymore of that future beyond that we failed, and what it cost the world. It has been undone, and no longer matters beyond serving to remind us of what is truly at stake."

Solas clasped his hands behind his back, and there was a sudden, unbreachable distance between them.

Whatever door had been opened to her, it was surely closed now.

"I killed a world, Solas," she said, as she attempted to ignore the sudden sense of loss hollowing her out.

She needed someone to understand that, to help her carry it, or she was certain it would break her.

"A whole fucking world. And I don't know how to carry this — to just—"

How could it mean nothing to him?

She gave an incredulous laugh, "And you want me to just — what? Carry on like it was nothing? How I'm supposed to do this, if I can't even—"

"You cannot afford to be distracted by your grief," he interjected, firmly. "You need to ready yourself for what's to come in facing the Breach, as well as this Elder One."

Of course.

How could she have been so foolish to expect he'd treat her any different than the others? Even if he made it so easy to feel like herself with him, and not just the mark, not just the Herald.

Just herself.

Just as the truth had faced her in the tavern, it faced her once again here, in the deepening cold of night settling around them.

There was no going back — not anymore. Not to her home, and not to herself.

And this dismissal only served to tell her that even this — whatever this was with him — was conditional.

Her hand fisted at her side, in a futile gesture of outrage.

"He did it all for his son," she mused, as she thought of that other world.

"Alexius?"

She ignored his question, as she continued on, "He's dying, you see. From the Blight. Alexius damned the whole world just for a chance to save his son. And the horrible thing is, I understand."

What would she do, if offered a chance to go back and save her loved ones? She had already killed one world, for another. Would she have done it again, if offered the chance?

Her gut twisted, sick with shame and grief.

"It was real — not a dream, not a trick," she despaired. She could not help how it all tumbled out of her, how her grief refused to be shuttered away. "It was a real world, and I killed it. For you, for them, for—"

"Tephra—"

He'd so often shown compassion for those they helped, to those they sought to protect — why was he so disconnected from this? To her?

"No, it matters, Solas. You died, they died, and it matters," she continued, her grief turning to frustrated anger. She gestured wildly at her splattered coat, "That blood is still on me!"

This is useless.

She seethed, "But it doesn't matter, right? Is it only real now? What if some other me decides this one isn't real? Where does it end?"

His brow furrowed, but his silence was only further dismissal. It was a wall, shutting her out.

What had possessed her to think speaking to him of what happened would ease her grief — her guilt? For whatever reason, he simply refused to hear it.

Just as she had in the tavern, all she accomplished by continuing by this ridiculous display of emotion was growing embarrassment.

She couldn't even look at him without feeling irrational and absurd, and entirely regretting having shown her weakness to him.

He had been the only one she'd felt she could speak to about this, besides Dorian, who might understand — who she felt safe enough to unburden her grief to.

To be rejected outright like this left her feeling isolated and adrift.

Her silence provoked him into gentling his tone once more, as he began, "Ir abelas, perhaps I've—"

"Forget it," she cut him off in a clipped tone, mirroring his own body language as she put distance between them. It took great effort to keep her tone even, and without the heat of her burning grief. "Thank you for demonstrating how to channel magic; I'm sure it will help with the Breach tomorrow."

"Of course," he responded automatically, blinking rapidly, though he certainly seemed as though he meant to say more.

She, however, was not keen to hear it.

This wasn't the first time the world had ended for her, and she doubted it would be the last.

She had always carried her grief alone; why did she expect anything different with him?

If this world had taught her anything, it was that everything was fleeting, especially this — especially people.

"If, perhaps—"

"Goodnight, Solas," she cut in, sharply. "I'll see myself back to town."

She did not wait for him to argue, or to politely insist on accompanying her back. Instead, she left him there with his silence and his loneliness.

It was a kindness that he did not follow her this time.

A shame, she thought, as she recalled what little she'd understood of his breathless Elven.

She had wanted to kiss him, too.

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Author's Notes: Due to circumstances in my personal life, it has taken me far too long to finish this chapter and update — nearly 10 and 1/2 weeks — for which, I thoroughly apologize.

The meeting between the companions and advisers was a particularly difficult scene for me to write. I did a lot of research, replayed scenes, et cetera, to try and keep everyone in character as well as to not repeat much of the canon dialogue. If I've mishandled anyone, do let me know.

Ea revas, ea astisha — Be free, be at peace
Felas — slow
Sathan — please
shem'el — faster, more quickly