A/N: See, this is the problem. I get all excited about a new story and my original work falls by the wayside. Oh, fan fiction, thou are a cruel bitch of a mistress...

Once again thank you everyone who has taken the time to fav/follow/review. Every email alert I get is a little burst of happiness in my day.

As stated in the newly edited second chapter, a part of Solas and Evanthe's conversation was left out. For those wondering or unclear, no, she does not know who Solas really is. I did got back and add a bit on dialogue in to clear that up, however.

And for those wondering how to pronounce her name it is eh-VAN-thee.

R&R lovelies. Your reviews keep me going and bring a smile to my face. Love and metaphorical cookies to all who do.

"He hurts," a voice murmured as Evanthe exited Skyhold's dungeons. Letting out a bit of a gasp she whirled about, slamming her back into a wall as she sought out the bearer of the voice. A man, barely out of boyhood, stood huddled in the shadows, a large brimmed hat sloping over his face. "He hurts because you hurt. He is sorry. Fingers running though hair, soft. Softer than he remembers. A shudder. Tracing the delicate line. He knows he should stop, but he is drawn to her." Evanthe stared at the man with wide eyes, struggling to follow the words as they teased at her memory. When his ramblings ceased, he raised his head, gazing at her with round soulful eyes that seemed to stare straight through her. "He is sorry."

"Who?" she asked hesitantly, swallowing hard and trying to calm herself. There was something about this man that was eerie, that spoke of a strangeness and the unnatural, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

"Solas," he clarified.

"Of course he's sorry," Evanthe muttered, glancing back down the staircase towards the dungeon, "he got caught."

"No. Not because of the orb, because of you. He is sorry for the pain and the pleasure he caused you."

"I'm not following."

"His thoughts are tangled. Layered. It hurts to unravel them, but that one lies at the surface. It is clear."

"Who are you?" Evanthe murmured, taking a step closer to get a better look at the man. His skin was sallow, pale and void of a healthy flush. A tumble of shaggy, dull blonde hair fell in his eyes, as if the hat were not shield enough. His limbs were thin and his whole bearing seemed fragile, like he was constantly waiting for a blow to land.

"I'm Cole," he replied quietly.

"Cole? Cullen mentioned something about...said a boy named Cole arrived just before Haven burned, warning them of the approaching army. But no one knew what happened to him. Was that you?"

"Yes," he replied. "It was so loud. I thought the Inquisition could make it quiet again, but it only added new screams. New thoughts. I tried. I tried to make him quiet."

"Make who quiet?" Evanthe questioned gently, slowly inching towards the boy.

"Corypheus. His thoughts are sharp. They hurt. It is better here, far away." Evanthe couldn't make sense of his speech. It was as if she would catch the edge of his meaning but when she sought to follow the thought it would scurry away, flushed out like a rabbit fleeing the fox.

"Why does no one remember what happened to you?" she asked, trying a different tactic to pry information out of the boy.

"It's better if they forget. Remembering raises too many questions and I want to stay here," he insisted getting agitated, hands twisting and twining through the air. "But now that you are here maybe they could see. Me. You could explain. Show them that I just want to help."

"Why would my presence make a difference? You don't even know me."

"You are like me," he replied quietly, hesitantly reaching out to grasp her hand. The mark upon her palm pulsed softly at the contact, a faint hum resonating outwards. "An aberration. You don't quite belong. And this..." he trailed off, brushing a finger against the mark. "It makes it quiet. For a time. I was afraid of it, at first. I didn't want to go back, because I didn't belong there anymore. But it is just a piece. A fragment, and you don't...your thoughts are gentle, even though they are sad. I don't think you'd send me away."

Evanthe felt tears prick her eyes as she stared into the much too honest eyes of the broken boy before her. She still had no earthly idea what exactly he had been saying, but the avalanche of emotion behind the words, that she understood with perfect clarity. He had been hurt, countless times, and the loneliness of being cast aside had become a physical weight, a burden that made him brittle and frightened.

"I won't send you away, Cole," she said gently, forcing a smile to her lips and resisting the urge to hug the boy. She had a feeling such a gesture would only overwhelm him. "Whatever the reason, your warning doubtless saved countless lives. You belong here as much as anyone."

"Thank you," he whispered, the relief in his voice nearly staggering. He hurriedly crouched down, hands reaching for something in the shadows. When he straightened he held a leather bound book out to her, offering it up with a reverence.

"My journal!" she cried, eagerly reaching for the tome. "How-"

"I rescued it from Haven," he explained as she quickly began to flip through the pages. "I liked the pictures." He stilled her hands over a particular drawing, gently drawing them aside so he could peer down up on the sketch. It depicted a halla bounding through the forest, flank raised high as it lept over a protruding root. "You were happy when you drew this."

"You can sense the emotions of objects in addition to thoughts?" she asked with a smile upon her face, tracing the lines of the picture with a soft finger.

"No," he replied. "I can just tell."

"You're right," Evanthe murmured turning the page. "I was happy." And it was the truth. She remembered watching the stag break free from her clan's herd, bounding through their camp with an otherworldly grace. The herdsman had chased after it, cursing loudly in his clumsy attempts at nabbing the creature. But the halla had remained elusive, slipping from the confines of the camp and escaping into the wilderness. Evanthe had watched it go with an envious sort of smile upon her face. The stag had managed to so effortlessly accomplish what she had longed to do. She had yearned to break free of stifling traditions that had always felt so hollow and live wild and unfettered out in the world. The scene had left a deep imprint upon her mind and she had been compelled to capture the moment in which the halla had crossed from being of the camp to being of the forest.

Evanthe continued to smile as she flipped through the pages of the journal, chuckling a bit at an inscription or explaining to Cole the significance of a particular drawing. The boy listened to her intently, asking the oddest sort of questions and depicting her memories in his strange disjointed manner. Evanthe quickly became accustomed to it and eventually figured out a way to understand the seemingly fractured thoughts. It was a beautifully quiet moment in time, and briefly she was able to forget her circumstances and just be. Her calm was shattered, however, when she turned to a page depicting more recent events. There, nestled between scribbled worries and musings lay the likeness of Solas, his face captured in a candid moment of amusement. Staring at the drawing all the heartache of the last few hours came rushing back to her and she quickly slammed the journal shut, refusing to view him as she once had.

"You were happy when you drew that, too," Cole murmured.

"It doesn't matter anymore," she replied stiffly. "Thank you for this Cole. It means a great deal."

"It seemed important," he replied with a shrug.

"Only to me, but yes, important nonetheless."

"Herald?" a voice rang out, breaking through their privacy.

"I'm here, Cullen," she called back, reaching out to squeeze Cole's shoulder. "I have to go. But we'll speak soon."

"And I can stay?" he questioned. "I won't have to make you forget?"

"So long as I command this fortress you are welcome within its walls," she assured him. Cole offered her a hesitant smile and Evanthe was amazed at how it transformed his whole face. The haunted lines of his eyes gave way to a warmth she never would have thought to see in him. For a moment he seemed like any normal young man treading the waters of adulthood, eager to discover the world. Evanthe returned the smile in kind before hurrying out into Skyhold's courtyard to meet her commander.

~oOo~

"There you are," Cullen grunted once she had found him, his tone less than friendly. They were standing in the open courtyard of the fortress, small groups of soldiers running drills around them. "I have the names you requested." Evanthe took the stack of badly torn velum from the former templar's hand and blanched at the sheer number of pages.

"There's so many of them," she bemoaned, scanning over the parchment at the cramped lines of writing.

"As I've said, we've had to dig a lot of graves." Evanthe nodded softly, eyes still tracing over the names of the dead with weary sadness. Some she recognized, the faces of soldiers and craftsmen floating to the forefront of her memory, others were strangers to her, and yet she mourned each one as if they had been her kin. These were men and women who had believed in what the Inquisition had stood for and had given their lives in pursuit of. When she got to Cassandra's name she sighed, dropping her arms and turning to face her commander once more.

"Have their families been notified?" she asked softly.

"What few are still alive, yes, or at least we've tried," Cullen replied. "But this is not war as we've known it. I don't know if you've noticed, but the honor and courtesies once awarded to the field of battle mean little anymore. We are living in a vastly different time, herald, and as such we have little time for the niceties we once adhered to."

"On the contrary," Evanthe countered, eyes narrowed. "I think we have as much time as it takes. You think I am unaware that the nature of the game has changed? Trust me, I am aware. I, more than anyone else, am very much cognizant of just how different life has become. The rest of you have had a year to acclimate to this new existence...I have had but weeks. But just because the rules of war have descended to a new level of darkness does not mean that we forget who we were. Corypheus may taint the very land with his long reach, but by Mythal I will refuse to let him take away what makes us better. These men and women gave their lives for the cause, and I will see them remembered, even if the notion seems outdated. Empathy is not a vice, Cullen, it is a virtue."

Cullen absorbed her speech silently, offering not a single protest. When she had finished he simply stared at her, as if taking her measure and weighing it against some unknown standard. Whatever he decided must have pleased him, because a bit of the distrust that had lingered in gaze slowly evaporated, replaced with grudging respect. It was a small, but vital step towards repairing their relationship, and Evanthe could almost see a bit of the old Cullen return to life.

"As you say, Herald," he offered at last with a slight bow.

"And stop calling me Herald," she demanded. Cullen blinked at her, startled by the demand. When he opened his mouth to argue, she cut him off with a raised hand. "Please. Let us not continue on with the farce. Andraste had nothing to do with any of this, and if she did, she is a cruel and selfish deity indeed. Think upon it, Cullen. Why would Andraste, in all her infallible wisdom send me out of the fade to be her avatar in this, only to allow events to fall out as they did? If she truly sent me to save mankind she went about it in the most absurd way possible."

"It was always about more than that," Cullen argued quietly. "It was about giving the people a figure to believe in, a flesh and blood woman they could look upon and derive hope from."

"Look around, Cullen," she murmured softly, "I don't think there's much hope left to draw on."

"Perhaps you are right," he sighed, gaze traveling over the pathetically small number of soldiers running exercises. Evanthe could see in his eyes how much he cared for each and every one of them. It had been the same back in Haven. Cullen could be quite the overbearing commander, barking orders out like a pissed off mabari, but it was only because he wished for them to be as skilled as possible. Under his command he grew their talents, pushing them to be better, so that when faced with sending them against an enemy, they all had a much greater chance of returning back home. Cullen cared for each and every man under his command, and as such his men respected him greatly. Evanthe was convinced that it was that respect and drive to be the best that had kept the Inquisition alive for as long as it had.

"Our troops need something to fight for, Evanthe," he murmured after a time. "If not a decaying fallacy of hope, than what?"

"Themselves. You. All of us," she stated. "The memory that this world was once better, and it can be again. There are a hundred reasons for them to fight, but not one of them should be because of fallacy born out of desperation. I am not a savior sent from the gods, Cullen. I am merely a girl with an appalling case of bad luck." Cullen's mouth quirked at bit at that, as if he were fighting not to smile. Evanthe ducked her head and grinned, pleased that she was making a bit of headway. She had not seen enough smiles in her short time at Skyhold; understandable considering the circumstances, but upsetting all the same. She vowed to fill the stone walls with laughter one day, if only to prove that happiness was not something that could be snuffed out under the boot heel of oppression.

"Very well, Evanthe," he said, turning to face her full on. "I shall endeavor to see it done."

"Good," she replied, still glancing about at the troops. Something had been bothering her, though she couldn't quite put her finger on it. "This can't be all of them," she at last. "Where are the mages?" Cullen's expression grew hard once more, all the levity leached from his eyes at the mention of the spell casters.

"What few remain are training in the lower courtyard," he replied tightly.

"Why are they separated?" she questioned, shaking her head in confusion. "Shouldn't they-"

"You will find, Evanthe, that most of my men are not comfortable with the idea of having a mage at their back. Not after all that has been done to the world."

"They are your men as well, Cullen," she argued, a bit of hurt showing in her tone.

"Are they?" he questioned. "I thought I had seen the madness that comes from magic unshackled and given free reign. Kirkwall was devastating, but I now know it was merely the surface of what mages are capable of. One only has to look around to see the devastation magic and those who wield it can cause. They are my men only because we are desperate. Had I a choice they never would have stepped foot inside Skyhold's walls."

"And what of me, Cullen?" she demanded, "Had you a choice would I have stepped foot on Skyhold's soil? Or would I still be shivering outside, dodging attacks from your archers as I begged entrance?" Cullen cursed softly, closing his eyes as he realized his mistake too late.

"You are a different matter-"

"I am only different because you and Leliana and Cassandra made it so," she snapped. "You forget, commander, that the whole reason you and yours elevated me was because I was touched by magic. Never mind the power that I was born with. I am a mage like any other, and those spell casters down there were brave enough to stand against their brethren and say, 'no, we will not be a part of your betrayal.' They chose the Inquisition, Cullen. The least you could do is treat them like it."

"It is not that simple, Evanthe," he argued, stepping close to her and pitching his voice low. They had begun to draw an audience, their harsh tones causing a few of the soldiers to step away from their exercises and focus, instead, on their commanders. "Even if I agreed with you, the men will never accept it. Too many have lost loved ones at the hands of the venetori to ever look upon a mage with trust again."

"The men will accept it because you will make them accept it," she growled in reply, refusing to back down. "They take their orders from you, Cullen, not from their own prejudices"

"Herald-"

"Evanthe," she insisted. "And while we're at it, you take your orders from me, commander. If you find yourself unable to carry them out then perhaps we should reevaluate whether your talents are being put to the best use." Cullen clenched his teeth, anger sparking in his eyes, but he nodded tightly before stepping away.

"On your order," he said coldly before turning to face his men. "You there! Gather the mages and bring them here. We need to work on your defenses against spell craft. And you, Landry, if I see you drop your guard one more time I'm going to personally break your ribs with my shield. You're a templar trained warrior; act like it." Various levels of grumbling and displeasure greeted his command, but the soldiers acted on his orders without hesitation. Evanthe had been right, Cullen bore the respect of every man under him. It made him invaluable, and she knew this. Her threat had been an empty one, she honestly had no idea how she would do any of this without him there to command their forces, but it had the desired effect.

"Well done, Commander. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with a displaced Queen." He said nothing in reply, merely nodded, a hard look in his eyes, before turning to instruct his men, all of them, in the deadly art of war.

"Be careful with the Queen, Evanthe," he called to her as she turned to make her way inside the fortress. "You would do well to show a bit more deference when in her presence."

"Are you implying she'll lash out should I not?" she questioned lightly, offended by the implication and tone of his words.

"Not her," he replied, eyes still focused on his soldiers, "but her companion very well might."