A/N: Oh you are all going to HATE me! Haha. I may be swayed with begging and pleading to put up the next chapter sooner. I'm currently writing the last chapter, fifty-one, and I then I'll include an epilogue afterwards and then...well, ladies and gents, then it's over!

Ma serannas, everyone, for your reviews! KiraChan, the guest (Milya?), and Lady Ravanna (sorry I made you cry!). I've always thought Solas would make such a great dad so it's been a pleasure to put him in this position. Last chapter, Ma Eshalin, nearly broke my beta's heart when she read it too. Solas punctuates his feelings on Baby here, which is come Void or Evanuris or Darkspawn or High Dragon, he's going to meet and raise his child.

Forty-One

Bringer of Nappies

"We should kill the bitch—regardless of whether she agrees to sign the treaty," Zevanni said, slashing the air with a sideways cut of her hand. Her brown eyes were fierce, full of heat and quiet rage as she stared at Solas. "You know as well as I how much a piece of paper or an oath of allegiance will mean once she's with her people again."

The empress had agreed to relinquish Orlais' hold on the Dales that afternoon, but on two conditions. The first was that she be released unharmed to Orlais. The second was that Briala would remain the de facto ruler of the Dales. Solas intended to whittle that second condition down until Briala was mainly in charge of Halamshiral and a liaison to the Orlesian court. In essence, Briala could rule in name but Solas planned to be the one pulling the strings and commanding the People's armies.

Solas' fingers twitched where he had his hands clasped behind his back, considering Zevanni's words with a grave expression pinching his face. It was true, he didn't expect Celene to honor any treaties she signed or promises she made while his prisoner. As soon as she and Briala were away, assuming Solas chose to spare their lives, they'd renounce their own actions and go to war to retake the Dales for Orlais.

Lyris was frowning where she stood off to Solas' far right, beside Mathrel as always. He arched an eyebrow at her. "You have something to add, falon?"

"Celene is a known entity," she said, echoing sentiments Ellana had shared previously. The reminder squeezed at his heart with pain, but he pushed it aside with his iron will, refusing to be distracted by personal loss at this moment. "We know her tendencies, her past, and her weaknesses." Lyris' pale blue eyes pinched at the outside corners and her lips twisted downward. "Celene views her alliance with the Inquisition as vital to her survival and success. If Lady Lavellan will not aid us, perhaps she has returned to them, or can be convinced to rejoin them and advocate for us. We could—"

"The ex-Inquisitor isn't with the Inquisition or the Divine," Zevanni snapped with a vehement shake of her head. "She's betrayed us and left us vulnerable." Her glare at Lyris brimmed with outrage, but softened when she glanced at him. "Ir abelas," she muttered at him, gruff despite the sympathy in her features.

Ignoring their comments about Ellana, Solas swallowed once to fight down the ache of anxiety and loss before it bloomed into something bigger—despair—that he wouldn't be able to crush before the others saw it. He nodded to Lyris. "Your concerns are valid and I share them. Celene is militarily weaker than some of her potential replacements. We have no power over who may take the throne in the event of her death."

"Don't we?" Zevanni asked sharply, cocking her head and flashing a hard smile. "There are plenty of elves in Orlais. Give me the order and I will make them ours. We can wreak havoc in Orlais just as we have in the Imperium."

"You had unwitting help in that task from the Qunari," Solas reminded her. "Orlais is far more stable than Tevinter."

"Then we should take it," Zevanni insisted, volume rising with her passion. "The Divine is in Val Royeaux, as is the Inquisition. They're sitting around plotting an Exalted March as we speak. You know they are."

As she spoke, Solas pivoted on his heel and strode to the window behind what had once been Cassandra's enormous red-tinted wood desk. The Chantry's sunburst had been engraved and painted over the glass windowpanes. Solas restrained the desire to touch it idly and tried not to think of it as the brand on Tranquil mages' foreheads. He knew Cassandra of all people would seek not to abuse the Rite, but if she could have caught and contained him long enough, would she have used it on him? What did he really know about the Divine? Would she raze Halamshiral, the winter palace, and the Dales in a quest to end him the way the Inquisition had worked so hard to stop Corypheus?

"We cannot take Orlais," Solas told her, blank and impassive.

"We could if we restored the Fade," Zevanni insisted.

Solas clenched his jaw. "Have you forgotten we lack the Anchor?" he asked, growling. It was raining outside, a dull and dreary day with a gray sky. In the courtyard beyond the glass Solas could see scorch marks in the gardens and a shattered decorative pot. The plant it'd sheltered had toppled over and now lay on the grass, its yellow blossoms withering into brown as it slowly died.

It was a perfect visual analogy for the People's glacial extinction without the Fade.

"Then make a new one, Fen'Harel," Zevanni said, striding to his side and gripping his bicep. "I have the foci. Use its power to remake it and wear the Anchor yourself."

Solas shot her a sidelong glare. "It took me half a century to forge the Anchor," he said, quiet and deep, but sharp with rebuke. "We do not have the luxury of such time in this shem world."

Zevanni's face twisted with frustration as she squeezed his bicep, giving it a little jerk. "Then we must find Lavellan and drag her ass back here."

Now Solas lost his temper, ripping his arm out of Zevanni's grasp and whipping around to face her, looming over her with his superior height as he glowered. "You think I have not been scouring the Fade for her?" he demanded, hands clenching at his sides as he wrestled with the fury boiling his blood. "You think I have not sent every agent I can spare out to search Thedas for her?"

Zevanni withdrew a few steps, lips pinched tight and brow furrowed. After a moment of tense silence she bowed her head. "Forgive me, Fen'Harel. I let my frustration speak and foolishness came out."

"She will return to her clan when her time comes," Mathrel said, speaking for the first time. Solas saw the arcane warrior exchange looks with Lyris, silently conferring before he added, "Childbirth is not an experience to be done in solitude."

"She is not alone, I suspect," Solas hedged, stiff and curt. "But we have drifted from the subject at hand."

"You know my opinion," Zevanni murmured, some of the heat having left her at Solas' criticism. "Killing the empress leaves Orlais in chaos. I believe it would be enough that we could topple the entire country with further rebellion. We may never need to march on it or take it in anything but rebellion, just as we have with Halamshiral."

"I disagree," Lyris said. "We must choose caution and compassion. The Divine was open to negotiation, as was the Inquisition. Their leaders are both sympathetic to the plight of the People. It is vital we conduct ourselves with propriety, regardless of whether Celene honors her accords with us. We must remind the world that our actions here were done in desperation when Celene used the peace talks to try assassinating Fen'Harel and Lady Lavellan—both of whom were part of the Inquisition when it gave Celene her throne in the first place."

Mathrel grunted. "No chaos in Orlais. No killing the empress. We fight only to defend what we have already taken." He nodded. "Until we find Lady Lavellan there is no other sensible course of action."

"She is our shield against the rest of Thedas," Lyris commented, then smirked slightly. "A bit of a human-apologist, I'm afraid, but she is a powerful figurehead."

Solas closed his eyes, feeling his shoulders slump with defeat and the heavy weight of despair pulling on him. She is the new Mythal for this age of Tranquil, he thought. Yet she was guileless, beautiful for her aversion and dislike of the Game, for her rejection of carnage and chaos. For many years Solas had been a general for Mythal in Elvhenan, content to be serving the best of the Evanuris before he'd been unmasked as being one of them, equal in strength. Serving Ellana had felt similarly right, except he had been the one manipulating her, rather than the other way around as it was with Mythal.

The need to see her rose in him like a wave, pressing a fist to his heart and sending it lurching painfully into his throat. He swallowed, frowning as he wrestled down the emotions, though he couldn't stop the shaking in his hands or the heat he felt blooming in his cheeks all the way to his ear points.

"We will take the path of caution," Solas announced with a firm nod, glancing quickly at the three other elves before staring at the red-tinted wood desk of the Divine. He rested his fingertips on it, feeling the smoothness of the grain. "In an hour I will meet again with Celene and Briala and agree to their terms. Then we will immediately furnish her with a contingent of Orlesian guards, Templars, or Inquisition soldiers—anyone in the dungeons who chose to surrender."

Zevanni sighed, scowling with disapproval and Solas shot her a quick glare. "You have something to add?"

She shook her head in the negative, the wisps of brown hair slipping from her tight topknot bun flopping against her cheekbones. "You already know my thoughts on this. There is no need to repeat them."

"Then do not try my patience," Solas snapped at her. He thumped his fingertips against the desk, refocusing his thoughts as he gazed at Lyris and Mathrel instead, trying to imagine Ellana in the room as well and what she would do or say or think…

"I will draft a letter and send a raven to Val Royeaux," he said, the sudden conviction made his words crisp and sharp. "I will play the 'human-apologist' if it will dissuade or delay an Exalted March."

"And if Orlais marches on us once the empress has returned to them?" Zevanni asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Solas heaved a sigh. "I am considering that possibility," he said, dodging the question, though poorly. They didn't have the numbers to fight any human force directly without the power of the Fade behind them—without Solas at full strength. Unless Ellana returned with the Anchor they'd have to retreat or be routed.

Before Zevanni could try and challenge him further, Solas dismissed them. Turning to the window again and tucking his hands behind his back, he listened to the tapping of the rain on the glass and the sill outside as Lyris and Mathrel marched out. But Zevanni lingered around the far side of the desk, having retreated only a few steps toward the door before stopping. After several long beats of silence, Solas asked, "You wished to add something in private?"

"Yes," Zevanni muttered, voice low.

"Then speak," Solas told her, still not turning to regard her. "I have much to do in the next hour." It wasn't a lie—he intended to nap, and for him that was a vital part of his job description. He planned to quickly search the Fade during the day for some trace of Ellana or those with her, in case they'd adapted sleeping scheduled to avoid him at night.

And if that failed, which he expected it would, he would try to find his child. He'd spent most of the previous night with the child, sharing its dream and taking comfort in it. As long as the child dreamt of the womb and had no concept of light or shape or sound without the muffling effect of water, he knew it remained unborn. He held onto a faint hope that when labor struck Ellana she would send for him. As upset as she'd been, she'd know he'd want to be present. The thought of missing the birth, of Ellana cutting him off so completely that she'd deny him any knowledge or contact with his own child…it made his stomach clench and his chest constrict with the cold, strangling grip of dread. At least in the Fade he could touch the child's mind, communicate with it someday, perhaps.

"You're distracted," Zevanni said, her tone soft but the words were clipped. "You're thinking about Lavellan when you should be focused on the People."

"I assume you have a point to this other than expressing your disapproval and wasting my time?" Solas snapped, whipping around to glower at her, teeth gnashing behind pinched lips.

She stared at him without wincing from his anger, her eyes flicking over him and her mouth quirking at the corners up and then down. "You are older than me, hahren, but I wonder at how you'd let one shem-elf woman bring you low. In your wisdom, I would expect you to already know these shem-elves will never think like us—but I see that isn't the case. Lavellan has left you, ended your relationship. The shem-elves do not feel as we Elvhen do. You imagine centuries with her, but she acts with the speed of a rodent because she knows death will find her quickly and she cannot waste a moment of it. You cannot afford to do the same while you exist in the shem-world. You must stop thinking like an Elvhen and—"

"It is you, Zevanni, who do not understand the shem-elves," Solas spat, glaring at her.

Zevanni shook her head. "You do not wish to believe it, but it is clear to me. I have seen it in the rebels I command in Tevinter. Their passion burns as hot as the sun, but it is snuffed out quickly. They are sparks while we are the long-burning embers. Three years at her side to you is nothing but a taste of the appetizer. Yet for her it was enough that she has had her fill and moved on."

"Leave me," Solas snarled. "I've heard enough of your prattle."

Zevanni thrust out her chin, eyes dark with defiance. "I am merely counseling you to prepare yourself, Fen'Harel. You cannot allow yourself to fail due to such a temporary distraction. There's no shortage of women you can take to bed."

"I've heard enough," he growled, hands clenching into fists as his blood roared with rage inside his ears. "Leave me."

She was silent for a moment, nostrils flaring as she breathed. Then she dipped her head. "Fen'Harel enansal," she said and pivoted around on one heel, stomping out the door.

Solas heard the thump of her steps as she passed down the hallway and then, snarling to himself, he slammed the door shut with a focused mindblast. The explosion of focused spirit energy made the wood of the door crack and splinter. The boom echoed through the room, rattling shelves and knocking over a marble statue of Andraste near the bed. It crashed to the floor, cracking into pieces.

Breathing hard for several long moments, Solas willed himself to relax. He pushed Zevanni's comments from his mind, recalling Mathrel and Lyris' words instead that Ellana would return to her clan for the birth. She had to—and when she did, Solas would know.

Considering the child once more, Solas strode to the Divine's bed. He settled on it over the undisturbed, made up bedspread, uncaring that he could still faintly smell the fragrance of whatever oils and soaps Cassandra had last used rising up from the pillow. Closing his eyes, he willed himself into the Fade. It wouldn't be restful at all as he was too upset and angry to actually sleep, but he was so attuned and connected to the Fade—and had been for ages, literally—that he could will himself there while just quietly dozing.

Unlike the previous night, where the Fade had greeted him with the meadow scene, Solas now opened his eyes and immediately found himself in the comforting, weightless darkness. There was a salty taste in his mouth, tangy but not wholly unpleasant. He heard the dual heartbeats, one fast and the other slow, both steady and strong, but muffled as if through water.

Then the slick, smooth walls flexed, compressing around him, battening down tight. For the first time since uncovering this dream, Solas felt something other than comfort flow through the darkness—alarm. Solas' own body tensed, muscles snapping taut and fighting the press of the slick walls of the dream around him. Was this another false labor pang or was it the real thing? The cadence of both heartbeats changed: one slowing and the other picking up.

And then he heard the voices begin, muffled but still comprehensible, and he recognized the loudest of them with ease—it was Ellana.

In the middle of grinding down a bit of dried herbs, a cramp seized Ellana's belly. She stopped the work, hissing between clenched teeth and releasing the flat-bottomed stone she'd been using as a pestle to grab at her navel. Rain splattered from the eaves outside the pavilion, pouring from the heavens in a musical torrent of pattering and dripping water sounds. She rocked to and fro, trying to ignore the way the cramp also tightened her bladder, threatening to make her lose control.

"Dorian," she called to him through her gritted teeth. "I need your help…"

He looked up from his spot across the pavilion where he'd been rewrapping his staff's grip and took in her posture and strained voice as his jaw fell open and his eyes widened. He sprang to his feet and crossed the pavilion in a few quick steps, avoiding the leaky place in the middle where the roof had cracked enough to allow rainwater in. "Lana? Are you alright?"

"I've…been better," she ground out through the pain. With an effort she forced herself to breathe through the cramp as it crested. Dorian settled at her side, pushing away the rocks she'd been using to grind the dream-blocking herbs. Watching him sit, Ellana fumbled for his hand and held onto it in a death grip.

"Ow," he complained, wincing though he didn't try to pull away. "Careful you don't break my fingers, old girl. I'm rather attached to them."

She pulled on his hand, bringing it to her belly. "Solas used to help. With magic."

"I should be able to manage that," he said, smiling tenderly at her before his brow furrowed with concentration and she felt magic tingle over her. It wasn't as relaxing as Solas' magic had been, though it carried the same cooling sensation and made her sigh with relief.

"Thank you," she said. "It's been a while since I had one of those pangs."

"Could it be the real thing?" Dorian asked her, a note of concern lacing his voice. "If it is we'll need to send Abelas through the mirror at once." He snorted as he withdrew his hand and tweaked his mustache. "Somehow I doubt Sera would be much of a midwife and really, the only thing Thom and I are good for would be moral support. And, of course, my magic."

"Time will tell," Ellana said, letting out a long breath. Her shoulders slumped and she sagged forward, giving into the desire to seek comfort from Dorian by leaning her head against his shoulder. "But I think it's still a little early yet. He's still growing."

"Well, I don't see how he can get much bigger," Dorian said with a sniff. "Let's just hope he isn't as much of a royal pain as his father."

Tears stung her eyes immediately at yet another reminder of Solas and she sucked in a quavering breath. "Please, I can't bear to think of—"

Dorian shushed her, wrapped his arms around her and rocking her like a child. "I'm sorry, love. I broke my own rule." He stroked her hair for a beat before pulling back, his hands on her shoulders as he stared into her eyes with a meek smile. "Let's talk about something fun, yes? Have you considered what you're going to call the babe when it's born?" He grinned, suddenly beaming. "You could name it after me. In fact, you should."

She laughed, sniffing as she flicked her tears away. "And what if it's a girl?"

"Well," he said, flashing an even wider grin. "Then I win the wager with Varric and earn twenty royals, of course. But regardless, Dorian could be a girl's name too. Why not? Especially an elven girl! People would just assume it holds some other exotic meaning in elven."

Swallowing as the lump in her throat ached with the continued reminder of Solas, Ellana croaked out the name they'd discussed at the winter palace. "Sylvun. The baby kicked when I suggested that name."

Dorian's eyes flicked over her face, reading her sorrow. "You don't look happy about that name. I take it there's more to the story than the baby choosing it."

She nodded, letting out a brittle, wet laugh. Rubbing her belly affectionately, Ellana said, "It was the baby's grandfather's name."

"Your father?" Dorian asked, arching an eyebrow. "Or…?"

"Not my father," she said, choking.

Dorian stroked his mustache idly, his lips quirking and his eyes glinting with interest. "So the bastard didn't just spring from the Fade after all?" At her frown he grunted. "But off topic. My vote is still for Dorian, of course. Or you could always name it after you. Ellana junior. And if it's a boy, how about Ellan? Yes?"

She shook her head. "I'm not arrogant enough to name him after me." Staring out at the rain and the puddles in the grass beyond the pavilion, Ellana shrugged. "My father always used to say he was named after a river his clan was camped beside."

"And what was his name?" Dorian asked.

"Fehorn, but I don't want to use his name for my baby. I want my brother to have that honor. They were closest and Mahanon was the one who was there for my clan when Father died, when the bandits attacked." She chewed her lip, watching the sheet of rain pouring from the eaves and admiring the foliage of the forest beyond the small clearing. "I could name him Arbor," she mused. "For the Arbor Wilds."

Dorian shrugged, patting her shoulder. "Delightful! Just don't tell him—or her—you named it after this muggy, bug-infested, rain-plagued cesspool. Say you just heard it one day and liked the sound of it."

Ellana scoffed, slapping Dorian's shoulder playfully. "Really, Dorian. This place isn't so bad."

"Yes, it's not so bad if you like squatting in mud, getting wet, and being chased by great bears." He snapped his fingers. "Oh, and I almost forgot the charming squawking every morning from those gaudy Maker-damned pink pigeon birds. I turned one into ashes the other day I was so infuriated at its incessant screeching."

Ellana laughed. "I think you're just jealous of the birds because they're better dressed than you are."

Dorian spluttered, stammering for a moment at her comment before scoffing. "Have you gone mad, old girl? Better dressed? They have pink feathers!"

"You're just jealous because you didn't think of it first," Ellana said, grinning.

Knuckles rapped on the door to the Divine's room and Solas gasped, sitting upright as his consciousness jerked from the Fade. He blinked several times as his eyes and body readjusted to the waking world, his heart hammering in his chest and squeezing tightly with each beat. The muffled conversation he'd heard through the baby's dreaming mind and its connection to the Fade had told him where Ellana was...

The Arbor Wilds.

His hands gripped the bedspread as the knock came again. His stomach rolled, lurching into his throat at the realization that he could now find Ellana in just a few hours—but he couldn't leave yet. He had to deal with Celene and Briala first.

And…he had to prepare. He had to approach her right if he had any hope of convincing her to join him again in any capacity. Even if Ellana refused to be his lover—or his bondmate—she was too valuable an ally to lose. Lyris and Mathrel had been correct in that a thousands times over and Solas had never doubted it.

He only had to treat her as a true partner, a leader in her own right—an equal, not just the former Inquisitor, or his lover, or the mother of his child. Could he manage that? Panicky flutters moved through him at the question, biting cold with his fear.

The knock came again, louder and more pronounced this time, and Mathrel said, "Fen'Harel?"

Solas scrubbed at his face with both hands, mind spinning as he rose to his feet and strode to answer the door.

A fog rolled in as the sun set and the rain eased to little more than an occasional sputtering drizzle. Abelas, Rainier, and Sera had returned with hares and birds for supper a few hours previously. Despite ongoing cramps seizing her every so often, Ellana helped butcher the animals and prepare the meat with Rainier, who seemed to be the most familiar with such work beyond herself. Abelas managed it well enough, but he wasn't as comfortable with it as Solas. Abelas' family had apparently been city dwellers in Elvhenan.

Ellana used a knife to sharpen her arrowheads to satisfy her ongoing itch to stay busy as they sat around the smaller fire they'd set up in the pavilion, sheltered from the dampness of the jungle beyond. The ghostly light of fireflies winked on and off out in the gathering darkness outside their camp. The hazy mists looked like phantoms to Ellana, forming eddies and wisps in the gentle wind that occasionally stirred the clearing and made the trees rustle and sigh.

"So the smug bastard looks me up and down," Rainier was saying, spinning the tale of how he'd first met Blackwall. "And his buddies were sizing me up too and they must've thought they could take me if they attacked all at once. So that's what they did. Fortunately for me they all had a few more drinks in them than me, so their timing and balance were all over the map. I decked the first guy in the jaw and right down he went. The next guy was a bigger brute, a real bruiser. He threw a mean punch, but I was too quick so it was just a glancing blow, really."

Working the edge of the knife over the arrowhead, Ellana was only halfway listening to Rainier's tale. She'd heard it before once or twice, as Sera likely had as well, but Dorian claimed he'd not heard it and Abelas of course hadn't. This retelling was for those two as they took turns weaving stories to pass the time while their catch roasted over the fire and the helmet they used as a pot came to a boil for their nightly dream-blocking herbal tea.

As she did every night, Ellana watched the steam rising out of the helmet—it was Rainier's—and considered covertly not drinking it. The false labor pangs that'd hit her earlier in the day and into the evening had left her twitchy with anxiety, flushing hot and then cold as she contemplated her choices, both past and present. Could she really live with herself if she kept Solas from the birth? Had she done the right thing by leaving? Was staying away and opposing Solas the best course of action?

My love is unconditional. She'd told him that more than once. Her hands stilled in her lap, their grip tightening on the knife and the arrowhead. She felt, with sudden keenness, the slight weight missing at her neck where she'd worn the stormheart arrowhead necklace for months only to take it off after arriving here. She'd stowed it in one of the pouches she wore on the belt of her scout armor. The reminder of him was too much then.

"After the last guy went down," Rainier was saying, "I apologized to the serving girl for the trouble those bastards had caused. She wanted to know my name, but I wouldn't give it to her." He chuckled. "You never know who might be listening, after all. Turns out Blackwall was. Listening and watching. He stopped me before I could leave and…" He shrugged. "Well, you know the rest."

Ellana was next in their storytelling circle and she lifted her head, brushing at the flecks of iron from the arrowheads that she'd scraped into her lap—on her belly, actually. Heaving a sigh, she searched her mind for a lighthearted story of clan life. The humans, and even Sera, often enjoyed such tales.

"My mother tells this one, so I don't remember it firsthand. It happened when I was too young. Anyway, my older brother, Mahanon," she said, naming him in case any of them had forgotten meeting the actual man, "is First to our clan. But like everyone else, he had to learn to forage, and that meant our mother had to teach him herb-lore. When he was just five or six, Mahanon started foraging with our mother for edible plants and medicinal herbs. She thought he'd learned well enough that he could be trusted to gather the right ones without much supervision."

"Something tells me she was quite wrong," Dorian said, grinning from her right.

Ellana returned his grin with one of her own. "Have I ever told you that spindleweed apparently looks a lot like rhubarb to a five year old? I'm guessing it's that they both tend to have reddish colored stems."

"Rhubarb?" Abelas asked, arching an eyebrow. "I am unfamiliar with this herb."

"It grows in the Free Marches and around Ferelden, I think," she explained with a shrug. "The stems are edible, if a little tart. But the leaves are poisonous, with a…" She sniggered, covering her lips with one hand. "…laxative effect."

As Dorian, Rainier, and Abelas all reacted with varying levels of laughter and amusement, Sera frowned with confusion. "Lax-what?" Sera asked.

"It makes you shit," Rainier clarified, slapping his knee as he laughed more.

Sera giggled. "It's always that, innit? Best stories always have shite in them."

"I didn't know that about rhubarb," Dorian said after he'd caught his breath. "I've eaten pies with the stems as an ingredient. How intriguing that plants lead such duplicitous lives as harmless food item and poison. The Magisterium would just love it. I assume Mahanon learned his lesson well?"

Now Ellana laughed again, rocking in place as she tried to stifle her amusement long enough to finish the story. "He did, yes, but not before my father suffered the consequences, not Mahanon. He was always irritating my mother by rummaging through her foraging baskets before supper. He was our clan's First then, and he was constantly busy casting with the Keeper and working up quite an appetite. So that evening he popped into the tent while my mother wasn't looking and grabbed what he thought was spindleweed." She grinned. "It wasn't spindleweed."

As the merriment died down and Dorian took a turn storytelling, Ellana saw Abelas use magic to maneuver the steaming helmet turned cooking and teapot clear of the fire to cool. In a few minutes they'd pass it around, sipping the bitter mixture to block their dreams. She returned to her work with the arrows, remembering her clan and its simple beauty: the hunting, the learning, the laughter. There was no Game within the clan and although there was still drama and tension as varying rivalries and animosities sprang up, it was always friendly and companionable. It was nice to pretend, even if it was only temporary, that she was just another Dalish elf.

If Solas found her, all that would change. She just…wasn't ready to face the mess she'd left in the Dales or Halamshiral. Not yet.

So when the helmet "teapot" was passed her way from Rainier, she drank her share as she had each night since they'd arrived in the Arbor Wilds. There'd be no dreams tonight for her or any of them. Another night of peace.

It was well after nightfall when Solas finally finished dealing with Briala and Celene. The empress had been full to the brim with thinly veiled disdain for him and the Elvhen with him, but she'd signed a declaration proclaiming the Dales as a free and sovereign nation belonging to the elves once more. In return Solas had released a small force of Orlesian guards and nobles from the dungeons to accompany her out of the winter palace and Halamshiral with Briala at her side. He had little doubt they'd ride straight to Val Royeaux and then Orlais would declare the treaty Celene and Briala had signed null and void. Then they'd go to war, of course.

But Solas had little fear of that now that he knew where Ellana was.

Yet there was still much to do before he could go after her. He delineated work for his closest advisors, sending Zevanni to Halamshiral to take stock of the elves and the situation there, while Mathrel organized scouting and training at the winter palace to improve security. Lyris he tasked with seeing what food reserves the palace and the city both had, and made sure she knew he would be gone for a time, trying to find Ellana and bring her back. All three of his advisors knew that if something sudden and urgent came up, Solas would be available in the Fade as he always was and would check on them form there.

Despite the late hour, Solas marched through the palace toward the storage wing where most of the inactive eluvians had been kept. The storage wing had seen only minor fighting in the beginning of the rebellion because the elves who swept through it had encountered little in the way of resistance, yet the area was messier and more heavily damaged than most other spots. Because so few people had been in that area to begin with, it'd been one of the last places the elves put out fires. There was also the spot where Solas had blown out the windows with an accidental spell, close to the eluvian storage room.

Solas ignored the charring on the walls and the wet, humid breeze rolling in through the broken glass in the windows as he moved from room to room, checking over crates containing everything from cookware to linens to candles used only once a year for special religious ceremonies. Gaspard and his sister, Florianne, had grown up in the winter palace, which surely meant children's items had been tucked away somewhere.

After nearly two hours of searching, Solas finally found a dusty, cobweb-infested room containing crates full of hundreds of nappies, small blankets, onesies, tiny booties, bottles, and toys. They smelled musty with age but were otherwise clean and ready for use. Solas grabbed armfuls of swaddling blankets, nappies, and baby clothes, packing everything that would fit into his traveling bag and then stuffing a few more into the few pockets and pouches he wore on his person.

With that done, he set off for the nearest eluvian storage room. He knew he must look ridiculous, fully armored with his overstuffed traveling bag slung over his shoulders and with baby items stuffed into every pocket like so much padding. And topping it all off, he hadn't bothered removing the black pelt of the wolf headdress. Yet, luckily, he passed no one on his way to the room, so there was no chance for anyone to laugh at him.

He left everything he'd gathered in the storage room beside the inactive eluvian and returned to the guest wing to sleep the night—though it was doubtful he'd actually get any rest. His guts had seemed to tie themselves into knots of anxiousness and anticipation. Lyris had left him bread and cheese from the kitchens, but Solas couldn't tolerate the thought of eating when he was so nervous. Instead he wrapped it in clean towels from his privy, planning to take it with him as he searched through the eluvians the following day.

It would take some trial and error to find whatever eluvian in the Arbor Wilds Ellana had used, but he knew they were camped close to one as he'd heard her discussing it with Dorian. Solas would need to let the magic feel out and connect with every working eluvian in the Arbor Wilds, one at a time. Then he'd have to walk through it to check what was on the other side and, if he found nothing, try again. Whether it was his first or fiftieth try, Solas vowed he would find the right one—and with it, her.

When he finally did lie down to sleep, clutching the bow on Ellana's side of the bed as he had all week, the Fade took him with startling quickness. He slipped into the warm, comforting darkness with the dual drumbeats all around him.

Abelas squatted at Ellana's side, reaching past her to the cattail-like blood lotus reeds growing up from the shallow water. With a look of concentration, he pinched the stalk heads, releasing a puff of pollen. They both recoiled at it, wafting the air to disperse the cloud.

"Blood lotus," he said, repeating her earlier pronouncement. To remain occupied as the days passed, Ellana had taken to foraging around their camp in the mornings and Abelas had begun accompanying her early on. He was a sharp student of herb-lore, quickly becoming competent enough that he could spot and harvest most of the edible and medicinal plants growing in the area.

She nodded at him and smiled. "Definitely blood lotus." Plucking the cattail-like heads from their stalks, Ellana held them out to the foraging basket Abelas extended for her and deposited them inside. "Try not to breathe its pollen much," she advised. "It's hallucinogenic to some people and a sedative to others. Also flammable. My favorite way to use it was in Sera's jar of bees grenades."

Abelas cocked an eyebrow. "How was this plant used in context with bees?"

"Sera has a real thing for bees," Ellana said, grunting as she rose to her feet and made her way further downriver, her gaze scanning over the soggy sand and smooth river stones making up the bank. "The blood lotus acts like a sedative for them. The pollen inebriates them and keeps them fed until you throw the flask and it breaks open. Then they're just mad and chaos ensues. It was quite effective at panicking enemies."

Humming in acknowledgement, Abelas followed her, wrinkling his nose at the lingering smell and tickle of the pollen. After a few steps Ellana knelt again, groaning under her breath with discomfort, and grabbed the base of a plant with plump, reddish leaves and stalks growing in a circular, almost spiraling pattern. "This one's easy," she said, smiling over her shoulder at him.

"Spindleweed," he said, nodding and returning her smile. "The herb your brother thought he was picking when it was actually rhubarb."

"Exactly." She tugged at the plump stalks and lifted them in her fist to Abelas who took them and placed them into the edibles foraging basket. Ellana had woven both baskets from large grass and palm fronds, using charcoal from their campfire to mark the one she intended to use for non-edible herbs—like the blood lotus.

As she rose upright again pain grabbed her middle, making her gasp and hunch up. She watched as Abelas put the forage baskets down, swift but careful not to spill any of the contents, and moved to her side with naught but a few splashes as he tread through the ankle-deep water. His hand squeezed her bicep, trying to guide her into a more upright posture. "I can help ease the pain, lethallan," he said, voice rough through his golden eyes were dark with concern. "But you must show me where to direct the magic."

Fighting the haze of pain at the height of the cramp, Ellana puffed out a breath and snatched his hand, guiding his hand to her navel. A few seconds later the cool tingle of magic flowed through his hand and into her, easing the taut muscle. Ellana sagged toward him with relief, breathing hard. They stayed close for several heartbeats until Ellana realized Abelas was stiff, most likely uncomfortable with her so close.

Pulling away she felt her cheeks flush with heat. "I'm sorry." She let out a dry chuckle and wiped at the sweat lining her forehead with the back of her hand. "If these are just the false labor pangs I can't imagine how bad the real ones must be."

"Forgive me," Abelas said with an almost sheepish smile. "I have no experience in such things." Tilting his head backward to stare up through the canopy, Abelas grunted as he squinted. "We should make our way back to camp. I will check the snares with Sera."

She nodded and began picking her way over the pebbly riverbank, her feet splashing as she waded. Abelas carried the forage baskets and kept pace with her, his constant nearness reminding her of Solas, making her miss him. They picked their way through the dense forest lining the clearing with the pavilion, stopping a few times when Ellana saw edible mushrooms and stooped to gather them. She felt another cramp threaten to seize her abdomen each time she rose out of the deep crouch, but she refused to pass up the chance for mushrooms and kept a handful of smaller ones, snacking as they returned to the clearing.

The grass was wet with dew that glimmered like starlight as the first rays of sunshine reached one end of the clearing. Large leaves and palm fronds—their makeshift bedrolls—lay on the pavilion's stone floor, centered around the small campfire from the night before. Only slightly smoking coals remained now. Rainier was dozing after his predawn watch. Sera and Dorian were across the clearing, sitting on some rocks they'd rolled into the clearing for just that purpose. They were eating breakfast and bickering about something, as usual. Ellana couldn't quite make out their words, but she could see they had star fruit and her mouth watered at the prospect.

Abelas headed up the jumbled stairs of the pavilion, carrying the foraging baskets, while Ellana peeled away from him and started to cross the meadow. Her eyes were on the star fruit, intent on snagging one, when she heard the dull whump of the eluvian activating and felt the distant tingling tug of its magic on the Anchor.

"Fenedhis," she muttered to herself, gawking down at her palm as it flared green and then at the mirror as it glowed cerulean, rippling like water disturbed by a stone.

Abelas dropped the forage baskets and ran immediately to the mirror, thrusting up his palm to try and shut it off. Blue light glowed from his palm, but it seemed to bounce back when it touched the mirror. He tried again as Rainier choked mid-snore and sprang upright from his makeshift bedroll. Wiping one hand at his face and shaking his head to ward off sleep, he snatched his sword and shield, lurching to join Abelas in a defensive position.

"Can't you turn the damn thing off?" Rainier asked, growling at the sentinel.

The magic flowing from Abelas' hand dissipated, deflected from the mirror. The sentinel scowled and shook his head. "I cannot overpower an Evanuris." He stared down at his palm. "This is Fen'Harel's magic."

"Vishante kaffas," Dorian cursed, jogging with Sera and coming to stop beside Ellana. He gripped her round the shoulders, his arms warm and burly. "Maker's breath, how could that bald son of a bitch have found us?"

"Don't matter how," Sera snarled, lips curling back from her teeth as she dropped to one knee and nocked an arrow, prepped to draw her bowstring taut. "I say we feed `em arrows. Fucking demon is what he is."

Ellana lunged for Sera's arrow, snatching it from the elven girl and tossing it away. "Absolutely not. No arrows."

"Did you do this?" Dorian asked her, nose wrinkling with anger. "Did you meet with that Fade-walking bastard in a moment of weakness, Lana?"

"No," she growled, hands curling into fists. "Just because I don't want anyone to hurt him doesn't mean I wanted him to come here. I—"

The eluvian thrummed, the pitch of its magical hum changing as someone passed through it. When the glass rippled like water all five of them froze, staring tensely as the tall, lean figure of Solas stepped through the mirror and onto the stone of the pavilion. The low, golden morning sunshine cast him in stark relief, half in darkness, half in light. Ellana's heart raced, leaping into her throat, and she felt suddenly sick, certain the mushrooms she'd just eaten would come right back up.

And then she noticed he wore simple enchanter mail, in the familiar green, tan, and pale brown he'd favored when she'd first met him. The humbleness of it after weeks of seeing him wear only the sentinel-like Elvhen armor with his signature wolf pelt left her breathless. It was as if the eluvian had spat out a time-traveling Solas from three years ago—the mysterious, studious, and lonesome apostate. His gaze swept over Abelas and Rainier, then flew past them to Dorian, Sera, and Ellana.

His stare landed on her and stayed there. The entire clearing seemed frozen with disbelief, shock, and—unmistakably—Ellana saw grief in the set of Solas' eyes, his furrowed brow, and the slight parting of his lips. "Ellana," he said, barely breathing her name and yet she heard it clearly anyway.

Licking her lips, she replied, "Solas…" The single word, his name, sounded tremulous with the force of how much she'd missed him.

"Wrong," Dorian said beside her, giving her a small shake that finally drew Ellana's gaze away from Solas and to the Tevinter mage at her side. "You have to be strong, love," he insisted in a quiet but grating voice. "He's Fen'Harel. Solas never existed. He's manipulating you, darling. Please. You must see that."

Solas shot Dorian a glare from his spot far across the pavilion, but in spite of the distance Ellana saw the pain in his expression. He looked like a man who'd been forced to step barefoot on glass shards. He swallowed, the bob of his throat just visible above his neckline, and turned back to Ellana. "Please," he said, his normally smooth voice rough and deep, gravelly with emotion. "I came alone. My only wish is to speak with you, to see you again—to tell you I'm sorry. You were right that I should not have taken Halamshiral. I was impatient. I was a fool. I—"

Breaking off, he seemed to notice they had an audience again and his face flushed red. "Please." He shuffled in place, shrugging out of his pack and slinging it gently to the stone floor of the pavilion. "I've brought supplies for the child—clothing, linens." Spreading his arms in a gesture of helplessness, he stared at her, willing her to answer.

Dazed and dizzy with her own confused and conflicted emotions, Ellana's eyes flicked between Solas and the pack he'd slung to the ground. Her pragmatic Dalish nature made her fingers twitch, eager to inspect whatever he'd brought with a surge of gratitude that warmed her chest. Even her clan would be short on supplies compared to the winter palace's stocks.

Beyond practicality, the gift brought a lump of sympathy into her throat as she saw the quiet agony in his features and knew her decision had pained him on dozens of levels, just as his choice to exclude her, keeping secrets and stirring up rebellions that claimed hundreds of lives, had wounded her. But the personal pain she'd subjected him to truly hit her for the first time. He could've believed her dead, killed in the violence of the rebellion or by the Anchor. At least she had the luxury of knowing he almost certainly still lived. And she'd already been torn by guilt and shame, wondering if she could actually deny him a chance to be present at their child's birth. The gift seemed to answer that question with finality and made her heart ache, because even in the midst of everything else that'd happened, Solas had made it clear he hadn't forgotten their child.

Now even Abelas and Rainier had turned to watch her reaction, while Solas simply stared at her, his expression warped with pain as he waited. She sucked in a shaky breath as tears pricked her eyes. "Will you walk with me so we can talk alone?" she asked.

Dorian let out a little huffing sigh but both Ellana and Solas ignored him, blind to the people around them.

"Yes," Solas answered in a raw voice as he swallowed, his throat bobbing again. He smiled wanly. "Nothing would make me happier."

Next Chapter:

Heart pounding as he saw the warmth in her eyes, Solas edged closer, gaze darting to her lips. He pressed his advantage, "I am asking you to guide me, to join me. I will pledge to follow you and fight for you, if you'll have me. I will be your teeth and your claws, because I know you will use them wisely and with more compassion than Mythal."

"And what about when we disagree?" she asked, voice and body trembling, eyes skipping over his face. "What about when I tell you the chaos in Tevinter must stop, or the raids against the humans for food must end? Would you say one thing to appease me and then do another in secret?"