Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When in Skyhold, subtlety was ever the name of the game. There were many eyes on Imogen, always. Leliana's scouts, runners and ravens. Orlesian nobles looking to forward their own moves in their Grand Game. Fereldans hoping for calm in the chaos after a decade of instability. Refugees, rebels, spies. And not least among these many eyes, although she was concerned with them the least, the eyes of her other companions, who watched the pair of them knowingly. And in several notable instances, lovingly.

Solas was sketching in the rotunda. He sat on the chaise, sketchbook in his lap, charcoal in his hand. His mind, however, was a half step into the Fade. She'd asked him once what he was doing when he slipped into the semi-meditative state that allowed him across his own creation to view the world from its memories. He told her simply that he was making sure the lines were the same.

“How cryptic,” she'd noted. A slight smile was his only answer.

Now she didn't bother asking. She curled up at the other end of the chaise, her feet tucked up under herself, and she watched him. He would take long pauses where he seemed to be staring into space, although she knew what he was seeing was the past. Then he would draw broad strokes across the page, filling in the minor details with quick ones as he rotated the oddly sharpened angles of his charcoal like a calligraphy pen. He didn't even look at it; he knew the corners like he knew his own fortress.

She was also aware that this portion of his art was the only one he let the denizens of Skyhold see on a regular basis. His actual mural work was done in the quiet of the night, when no one was around to disturb him. Then they would come into the rotunda in the morning and find a whole new work of art gracing its walls, already completed.

She hadn't spoken. If she distracted him now, he wouldn't complain. He wouldn't turn short or snide, or brush off her questions. But he would also be late coming to bed, because he would be doing it all over again. Just as he did not interrupt her at her workbench in the Undercroft where she tinkered with traps and miniature mechanisms of war for the same reason. A single misplaced piece would destroy the whole. They respected each other's work.

So she watched him, silent and focused. She watched his hands on the page, his gaze that looked at nothing but saw everything. The tilt of his head, the slope of his shoulders. The idle swinging of his foot – one long leg crossed over the other – as some music she couldn't hear played in his head. Tarasyl'an Te'las had been a revelry center once upon a time, back when it was known by another name. It was a facade she knew he'd cultivated so the Evanuris would not know what rebellion was happening beneath its halls.

Imogen finally opened the book she'd brought down from the library and resolutely tore her gaze from him to read. The common, everyday busyness of this central block of the fortress faded into the background, leaving the sound of their breaths, the scrape of charcoal on paper, the turning of pages. Her feet slipped out from under her as her knees began to ache from being folded so tightly and all at once she realized her soles were braced against his thigh. And the only reason she knew it was because his free hand had come to rest on her ankle, holding it in place so she didn't withdraw.

“Hello, arasha,” he murmured, never stopping his work to look at her.

“Hi,” she whispered. The corner of his mouth ticked upwards in a small smile and silence descended once more. The hand on her ankle moved and she glanced over to see it had turned upwards, open and inviting. She braced her book and dropped her fingers into his. They laced together somewhat awkwardly, but neither let go. It was a strange thing, she thought, that they were connected at this one point, unwilling to release the other. Now she could only turn pages with one hand while also supporting the book on her knees. While he had to now brace the sketch with his forearm while he drew.

It was a small adversity, but it spoke volumes of their willingness to withstand anything and everything. They could walk through fire and the hell of war. And they could suffer the hobbling of being one-handed while indulging in pastimes. So long as they were together. Hand in hand.

Chapter Text

“How does it work?”

Imogen looked between her lover and her best friend, wondering how the one would answer the other. The three of them were ensconced in one of the nooks of the upper level of the rotunda, the remnants of a bottle of wine set off to the side while their cups were still in front of them. Dorian had been poring over some tome he'd found in the arcane library, pointing out passages he couldn't translate to Solas, before his sudden question. They'd been there for hours and at this point, the only thing Imogen thought they were missing was open bags of chips and leftover pizza with the picture they made of nerding out disguised as scholarly pursuits.

“How does what work?” Solas replied in turn, still leaning over to see where Dorian was indicating.

“The whole...” and here Dorian waved his hands about as if to illustrate his question, “immortality thing. Surely the passage of time still existed before the Veil, yes? The sun rising and setting, Thedas moving through the heavens and all that?”

“Of course.”

“So why didn't you age?” He scowled then and pointed his finger across the table. “And don't say the Fade.”

Solas chuckled, covering his mouth to muffle it as he sat back in his chair at her side. “Forgive me, Dorian. But it was, indeed, the Fade.”

Dorian sputtered. He turned his gaze on her then and glared, although there was little heat behind it. “And you knew this?”

“Yes.”

“But how did it work?”

“The Elvhen drew upon the energies of the Fade to sustain themselves. Consider it as a well of mana that never emptied.”

“All right, but...” He paused to sip at his cup. He lingered over it, putting his thoughts in order before he spoke again. “Energy can only be drawn upon so much before it runs out. Like this wine that is now empty. If we want more, we'd have to open a new bottle. Which is, in essence, a new source. How was the Fade replenished?”

“In dreaming,” Solas replied as if that made perfect sense.

“That makes no sense,” Dorian predictably retorted. “You said the Fade was everywhere. What difference did it make if one was awake or dreaming? For that matter, how could something like that possibly sustain an entire population indefinitely?”

“The Fade wasn't the only source of energy available,” Imogen said. “Look at things like plants. They soak up nutrients through their roots in the soil, right, but they also convert the sunlight to sugar, thereby creating an unending source of energy for themselves. In the absence of predation or significant changes in their growing conditions, plants can live pretty perpetually. There are trees on Earth that predate some civilizations, still thriving. And my world has gone through some pretty significant changes over the course of its history.”

“That is a good analogy, arasha,” Solas said. “Before the Veil, the Fade was not a place one went, but a state of nature, like the wind or sunlight. Magic was an inherent part of the makeup of the world. Imagination made tangible and reality made fluid. While one could readily access it awake, to travel through it, to see memories reenacted or find knowledge hidden, one must have been dreaming in order to leave physicality behind. Emotions and memories passed into the Fade itself, giving it greater scope and breadth. It was a constant cycle of use and replenishment.” Solas rolled his cup between his hands, contemplating the last drops of wine in it. “It was a beautiful way to live.”

“And dangerous, one imagines,” Dorian said. “A world in an ever-changing state of flux would have repercussions for things like...I dunno, gravity.”

Solas smiled, a little sideways and sad. “Yes.”

“You realize in this analogy, your people are plants, yes?”

“Living things are not so dissimilar, Dorian. Are the peoples of Thedas superior for having the ability to think and speak? Do you think the trees of a forest do not communicate with each other in harmony with their environment?”

“Now you've taken this to a philosophical level I don't think I'm qualified to engage in,” Dorian said with a smirk. “I, for one, do not have centuries to debate the nature of plants versus animals as intelligent creatures. I have not forgotten the dressing down you gave me on the nature of spirits.” The two men shared a grin; no resentment lingered between them from their admittedly rocky beginning.

“Some of the most intriguing lectures I attended in my youth were given by spirits. Wherein the debate was focused more on the alleged superiority of the ephemeral world versus the static.”

“Your people were insane, Solas. I cannot imagine a world where every single person had magical ability. Enough that entire nations rose and flourished on it. The power struggles must have been unthinkably vast.”

“Does not Tevinter employ similar magics now? Are not the oldest buildings in Minrathous sustained purely on enchantments laid down centuries ago?”

“Yes, and they look it too. The slightest breeze will make the Magisterium waver in its moorings. Sooner or later they will fail, and the whole thing will crash like a house of cards.”

“But the moorings are there, are they not? To keep it from drifting away like a seed on the wind. Arlathan was little different. There were rules about how one could change things in a populated area. And when all had such ability, it was a courtesy to abide by the consensus. But you are right, the struggle for supremacy was pervasive. It nearly destroyed the world. Ultimately, it is why the Veil was created.”

Dorian made a face that implied he thought that was putting it mildly, or at least was leaving out vast swathes of the truth, then pinned Solas with a long look. “So the real question is: are you aging now?”

“Yeah, I've been a little curious about that myself,” Imogen put in.

“No. I am still able to draw the Fade into myself.”

“Elvhen thing or Dreamer thing?” Imogen asked. Solas crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her warmly. She preened under his gaze, knowing she'd hit on something he hadn't expected. “Dreamer thing, I'm guessing.”

He inclined his head.

“What, really?” Dorian interjected. “All that talk of walking the Fade is actually real?”

“D, what did you think he meant?”

“I thought it was all part of his cover.” He grinned at the sour expression on Solas's face. “Come, my friend, admit it, it's effective. If a bit pedantic after a while.”

“I am not denying it. However, my abilities to walk the Fade are in fact how I survived the Veil's creation. My physical body slept, my mind wandered.”

“Literally, it seems,” Dorian quipped. “So there could be others, yes? Other Elvhen Dreamers tucked away somewhere, blithely ignorant of the current apocalypse and happily living off Fade energy. It boggles the mind.” He paused, scowling as he thought. “Do you even know who made the Veil?”

“A fool,” Solas said softly. “One who thought he had all the answers.”

Imogen kept her face blank. She'd long expected the conversation to veer too closely to this. Dorian didn't need to know just yet.

“Personally, I think he did the best he could,” she said. “From what I understand, the world might truly have been destroyed without it. It might not have been the perfect solution, but it beat the alternative.”

Dorian focused on her with pinpoint precision. “You know.”

“'Course I do. I know all.” She stood up, collecting their empty cups and the bottle into her arms. “But that's all I'm gonna say. Spoilers, D. We've been sitting here stewing long enough. It's too nice out for such a depressing topic. C'mon boys, you can be magic nerds in the great outdoors of my garden too. Besides, these chairs are really uncomfortable if we're going to do this sort of thing.”

Dorian followed her, bringing the dusty tome along. He snorted at her. “You just want to sit in his lap.”

“And, your point is?”

He grinned at them both, then shook his head.

Chapter Text

Life in this lowlander stronghold was often perplexing. Their rituals followed few of the paths he found logical. And yet, there were glimmers he recognized.

Amund watched the Seeker train at arms with the crude form of a man they called a dummy. He leaned on the haft of his hammer and analyzed her hacking blows, wondering what elucidation she got from such exercise when obviously her inanimate partner could give no feedback. There was a glow about the woman, nonetheless. If he took a half step into the Dreaming, he wondered if it would follow. Or if it would be brighter. He was well aware already that telling her would most likely lead to a violent denial of that which had touched her. Lowlanders had so little understanding of the gods.

He waited for her to pause, sweat pouring down the back of her neck, turning the short tendrils of hair curly. He lifted his hammer over his shoulder and approached.

“Would you prefer a living opponent, Seeker?”

She glared at him, but he didn't take offense. It seemed to be her default expression. After a moment of his silence, she stopped, her expression clearing to one more receptive. “Are you offering, Sky-Watcher?”

“Aye.”

She rolled her shoulders and stuck the point of her training sword into the ground so it stood on its own. He lifted a brow at such treatment of even a practice weapon, but said nothing. The blade was never meant to cleave flesh; it had been designed for such rough handling. And by far less capable hands than hers.

“I am not as familiar with two-handed weapons. The spar would be uneven.”

Now he let a smile crack the paint at the corner of his mouth. “Bare-handed then. No weapons.”

Her eyes narrowed in thought and she looked him over. The Seeker was a tall woman among her kind, he'd noticed. But he was head and shoulders taller than her. He was quite likely twice her weight and carried the muscle to match. She was no weakling, however. Not from what he'd heard.

“All right. I ask only that you do not attempt to spare my sensibilities.”

His smile grew wider and he bowed his head. “I would not insult you in such a way.”

She led the way to the ring the Inquisitor had built, shedding the gambeson she wore most of the time. He shrugged off the pelt he tended to wear, leaving his torso and arms bare. Amund was not immune to the looks he received from the women of the fortress. They eyed him much the way they looked upon the Qunari. But the Seeker did not. She assumed a fighting stance without hesitation or coquetry. He found his respect for her growing, a kernel sprouting into its first new leaves.

She was quick, he noted. Her fists flew with precision and grace for one used to a shield at her side. For all his bulk, he was quick too, and met her blows with his palms to block and parry them. He kept to defense, allowing her to show him what she was made of. And it was a beautiful thing he saw in her. He wondered if anyone had ever told her that.

“You are not hitting back,” she said, her breath hitched but even.

“I would not wish to harm you.”

A flurry of blows rained on his arms and in his face and she slipped inside his guard, the base of her palm landing against his chin. She'd drawn back the final hit; she could have easily followed through on it and knocked him off balance. He found himself faced with a pair of angry brown eyes.

“I am not a delicate flower, easily wilted.”

“No, you are not,” he agreed. They stepped back from each other, resuming their starting positions. “You are the night blooming varvine of my homeland.”

They grappled, her strength no match for his although she quickly used her smaller size to her advantage, making him overextend to reach her. She ducked under his swing, throwing her shoulder into his gut and he staggered back from it. She did not gloat over her momentary victory, but spun around behind him, her elbow aiming for his kidney. He turned with her, one large hand wrapping around her upper arm and halting its progress through the air. She was brought up short and their combined momentum kept them spinning until he planted his foot in the dirt to stop it.

“I cannot tell if that was more complimentary or derisive,” she grunted.

Amund took in their position, arms and legs locked, neither giving way to the other. He grinned down at her. “It is a vine that grows in the most dangerous places. Barbed with thorns the size of my hand. It is hardy, caring little for the poorness of the soil or the availability of fresh water. And yet...”

The Seeker kicked the leg he was braced on out from under him, making his knee buckle. This time her elbow followed through, clipping his cheek. It would bruise, and he would let it. An injury from friendly hands was to be treasured in a sparring ring. It spoke of trust in one's own abilities, and respect for their opponent to endure it.

He realized the moment his mind had wandered too far and she was going to take advantage of it. Her fist drew back to fly at his face again, but she stopped it short, merely tapping the bridge of his nose where he half knelt in the ring.

“And yet?” she urged, gasping now. He recalled that for her, this was a second training session and she was likely tired. Sweat glistened on her face and arms and she gave off a palpable heat. He let her go, yielding the match to her rather than exhaust her completely.

“Its flower is the most rare. And worth the trial of finding it.” Inexplicably she blushed. Her eyes widened in shock for the barest moment before she scowled anew. It seemed overly false to him and he smiled. “You fight well, Seeker. I would spar with you again.”

She backed away, almost clumsily after being so light and quick on her feet in combat. But then she took a deep breath, centering herself and calming the jumping pulse point he could see in her throat. She fixed her gaze on him steadily and she was no longer frowning. “My name is Cassandra, Sky-Watcher.”

He stood up and wiped the dust of the sparring ring from his hands. “Amund.”

Chapter Text

It had all started with something simple, something small.

Hawke had used the same levitation spell that Solas used when Imogen forgot her soap in the field while bathing to bring their bottle of wine closer as the pair of them hunkered down for a girl's night in the tower chamber. After she'd stopped laughing, she told the Champion why it was so funny to her. And Hawke, of course, then felt challenged.

She lifted the entire pile of correspondence on Imogen's desk and plopped it in front of them by the fireplace, never misplacing or disturbing a single page of it. From there she brought Imogen's phone from the balcony where it was charging, maneuvering it through the doors without crashing into them. Imogen obligingly took a photo of her friend with her hands all lit up, making the most fearsome 'mage' face she could. Then they collapsed into laughter that echoed off the stone walls.

“Does it work on anything?” Imogen asked when she'd gotten her breath back.

“How do you mean?” Hawke poured more wine for them both, sliding sideways a little to reach Imogen's glass. It had seemed prudent to move it out of the way of their antics.

“Well, bigger things. Could you move weapons or...or a person?”

“Huh, never tried. I mean, weapons yes. People, no.” Hawke sipped from her glass and thought about it. “The mechanics would be the same. I expect the mana drain would be...excessive.”

And that seemed to be the end of it.

Until a few days later when Imogen walked into the stable where Thom was leaning against his work bench, arms crossed, looking up at something in the loft. Imogen joined him and saw Hawke with her arms dangling over the railing, a live chicken hanging in the air in front of her. The hen seemed perfectly content. She might even have been asleep.

Hawke lifted the hen up until she could grab her, startling the bird into clucking indignantly. She laughed brightly and carried the poor squirming thing down the stairs to release her back into the coop.

“It worked!” Hawke cried.

“She lifted it from the ground,” Thom explained, his expression dubious. “And now can I please get back to work?”

“Of course, serrah.” Hawke blithely tweaked the end of his beard before linking arms with Imogen and dragging her away.

“Seriously, Elly, a chicken?”

“Well, I figured if I lost control of the spell it could fly off.”

“Chickens do not fly particularly well,” Imogen said drily.

“Better than cats.”

“Okay...fair.” She regarded her friend and noticed how this challenge had brought a sparkle to her eyes and a flush to her cheeks that no amount of easy living and safety had done. “But maybe stick to inanimate objects until you've perfected it?”

“Hmm, maybe.”

Imogen was gone from Skyhold for two weeks taking care of a rift in the Hinterlands, and when she got back, she entered the Great Hall to find a crowd of onlookers gathered in the center. Varric was actually standing on top of his table by the fire, shaking his head but smiling.

Imogen looked up, figuring that a reaction like that could only be from Hawke showing off again. Sure enough, she caught reflected light bouncing down from the distant ceiling of the keep. “A mirror? She levitated a whole, full sized, standing mirror?”

“All the way up,” Varric confirmed. “Firefly, I know the two of you like to get up to trouble, but this one's gonna break someone's neck.”

“You might be right,” Imogen said ruefully, watching the mirror wobble in midair as Hawke controlled its descent back to the floor.

It landed hard, giving off a splintering crack as the frame took too much of the impact to remain undamaged. Remarkably, however, the glass didn't break. Hawke left it there for the gawkers to ooh and ahh over and sauntered back to the table. Varric hopped down and was still shaking his head.

“That was nearly seven years bad luck, Sparks.”

“I've already paid those dues,” she retorted, bending down and giving him a smacking kiss on the lips. He held her close, lingering. Imogen watched them idly, her mind wandering.

She was having a terrible, wonderful idea. The drop of the mirror had been reasonably steady, and while it landed hard, it was inanimate – as per her own request, she recalled – and therefore couldn't adjust for the fall. But a person...

“Varric might want to throttle me for this but...”

“Andraste's Ass, Firefly, what are you thinking now?”

Imogen grinned and took Hawke's hand. “C'mon, I want to try something.”

They started with a ladder, but quickly abandoned that idea since the jump was too short for Hawke to 'grab' her. They moved on to her jumping over the barrier of her upper level onto the bed, just in case. Which turned out to be good foresight on her part, since it took several tries for Hawke to get it. When they climbed up to Thom's loft in the barn, Varric washed his hands of them. So did Thom for that matter, scurrying off to hide in the Rest. But Hawke caught her before she hit the ground.

They holed up in the library with Dorian at that point, working out the math for angles of descent, velocity and the distance required. When she told him what she had in mind, he turned pale then uncorked a bottle of wine and drank straight from it. Then he proceeded to be affronted that she hadn't come to him first.

In the silence of the garden at night, Imogen jumped off the overhang of the guest wing. She flung herself freely into the air to be caught by Hawke, with Dorian standing by, and then dropped the last few feet on her own. The timing would be critical, and they continued to practice until the night watch on the battlements threatened to tell Cullen. They simply moved to the Herald's Rest and kept working at it. Dorian gave her an assist to the roof and Imogen jumped to the upper courtyard. Bull caught them that time. He raised a brow at them all for doing something so juvenile, then also stood by to catch her, just in case.

The night they successfully completed the spell from the landing of the keep stairs to the lower courtyard, Imogen declared they were ready.

She looked over the railing in the rookery and saw Hawke was in place, ostensibly looking at the mural. Tilting the other way she saw Dorian standing at the balustrade of the library, nonchalantly thumbing through a book. From where she stood, however, she could see the lyrium potion in his belt. Bull stood opposite from her, her phone dwarfed in his huge hands. It was already unlocked and ready to go, all he had to do was hit the record button like she'd shown him. She grabbed an upright support to climb onto the railing when Leliana caught her wrist.

“Wait a moment, a runner is about to go through.”

Imogen blinked at her. “You...you know?”

Leliana smirked at her. “I am your spymaster for a reason.”

“That's fair. You aren't going to try and stop me?”

“From my reports, it seems that you have taken into consideration all the variables. Save his reaction, perhaps. But I am presuming you have other means of taking that into account. Why do you think I moved the raven cages today?”

Imogen grinned widely. “Thanks, Leli. You're the best.”

The Nightingale peeked over the edge to make sure the coast was clear, then nodded, releasing her hold on Imogen. She stepped aside to give her room and crossed her arms, a smile making her lips twitch. Imogen steadied herself for a moment on the railing, calculating just how far out into the open air she'd have to leap to get it just right. Then she jumped.

She passed by the library level in a blur, then felt the spell catch her. It cradled her for the majority of the fall, then released her in time to land on Solas's desk amid several outcries from the library patrons. The table wobbled under her and she dropped to her hands and knees, barely snatching up the candle on the corner before it fell. Solas looked up from his book without raising his head, his expression inscrutable.

“Is this what you have been planning?” he asked calmly.

“You knew too?”

“It has been perhaps the worst kept secret of the fortress, arasha. I do have perfectly working ears, in case you were not aware. And you, Dorian and the Champion were not exactly silent or subtle while doing your calculations.” He marked his place in the book and closed it, finally looking her over and then up to the rookery where Bull was grinning, the phone still aimed at them. “Why?”

“No fall damage.”

He threw back his head and laughed.

Chapter Text

My Dearest Varric,

How I pine for you, my love. I long for you to return to my side, so that we may forget the world around us for just a little while.

With all my heart, Elly

She folded the letter up and sent it on its way. When Varric got it, he scoffed affectionately for a second, then turned the paper over and wrote quickly on it. He folded it up into the shape of a bird and tossed it behind him.

My Most Beloved Eliana,

I'm on the other side of the room.

Lovingly, Varric

Hawke laughed aloud when she read it, then crumpled up the bit of paper and lobbed it at his head. It bounced off his ponytail to rest with all the other crumpled paper there. “You're a spoilsport, V.”

He barely turned his head from his work and huffed at her. “I didn't take you for being as sappy as the Seeker.”

“Oh, now that's a low blow, babe. You better come over here and make it up to me.”

Now he did turn, glaring at her forbiddingly – and falsely, they both knew it – over the rim of his reading glasses. She grinned at him, her eyes crinkling at the edges. “I need to finish this, or my publisher will come looking for blood.”

“Pbbbt,” Hawke blew through her lips.

“Now you sound like Sera.”

He turned back to his writing and blocked out the sound of rustling and thumping going on behind his back. Eventually it grew quiet again, save the scratch of his pen on paper. A few minutes after that, another letter magically landed on his desk. This one was folded into the shape of a heart and he opened it with care so he didn't rip it.

My Darling Stubborn Dwarf,

I am no longer wearing any of my clothes.

Patiently Waiting, Elly

Varric dropped his glasses on the desk and rubbed the bridge of his nose. When he turned to look at her, he found she'd told him the truth. She wasn't wearing any of her clothes.

All she had on was one of his shirts. As he watched, she shrugged one shoulder to make it slip off, catching at the last second on the curve of her breast. A too deep breath would dislodge it entirely.

The letter that later came from his publisher asking why his latest chapter wasn't finished yet went largely ignored.

Chapter Text

Imogen linked her arm in Dorian's and they both ignored the shocked gasps of passersby as they ambled through the market. She didn't know if it was because she was the Inquisitor or because he was a Vint. It could also be because she wasn't wearing her usual wolf mask but a plain domino. She remembered clearly what Solas had once said about her never showing her face in public in Orlais. It was a good tradition to uphold, in her opinion.

“C'mon, let's finish these Wintersend gifts so we can get out of here.”

“So far you've gotten ink for Varric...”

“And a new pen,” she added. Dorian nodded.

“A novel for Cassandra, fancy hair pins for our delicious Ambassador, and horn balm for Bull. I am not even going to ask how you knew where to find that.”

She shrugged. “I figured here it would be a novelty since there are so few Qunari about. To be honest, I'm kinda surprised that place had it.”

“I am rather surprised there was a farming equipment shop in Val Royeaux at all. One does not often think agriculture in this glittering metropolis.”

“Right? Okay, who's left?”

“Hawke, although that will be easy. Some dusty old bottle of vinegar would do.”

“Dorian Pavus, how dare you judge Hawke's drinking proclivities! Especially since I've seen you with her.”

“I suppose that's not a bad point,” he chuckled. “Does that mean I will be getting a dusty old bottle too?”

“I'm not telling.” They rounded a corner and a plaza opened up before them, ringed with more little shops with a wide variety of masked hawkers as well as the occasional elf waving away the flies from perishable goods.

“You still need to get something for Solas, too.”

Imogen sighed. “Yeah. What do you get the man who's got everything, somewhere or other?”

“Better clothes?”

“Just because he isn't covered in brass and buckles,” she trailed off into a laugh.

“His whole look is just...”

“A facade.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow at her as they crossed the plaza, idly looking at each shop to see if inspiration would strike. “I'll take your word for that, darling.”

“At least he wears a shirt, which is more than I can say for your lover.”

“...Fair.”

They passed a bookshop, rather more low end than the place she'd found Varric's gift. Then an antique store where they'd poked their heads in before simultaneously backing right out again. There was more dust than goods in that one. Dorian seemed to be on the brink of making a quip about antiquities being perfect for an old man like Solas, but before he could say a word, the scent of pastries and coffee wafted on the air and Imogen's stomach growled.

He grinned down at her. “Perhaps a stop for ourselves is in order, yes?”

She nodded eagerly and the pair of them followed their noses out of the plaza and back into the more respectable area of the market. They finally found the cafe and set down their packages and bags, both groaning in relief for getting off their feet. She let Dorian place their order, not surprised in the least that he spoke passable Orlesian in a suitably haughty tone.

“He doesn't apparently like tea,” Dorian said once they'd each had a tiny cup of coffee and some delicate little nibbles in flaky crusts. “But what about something like chocolate?”

“Has Bull converted you, then?”

“My darling Imogen, if you thought only Qunari knew about hot cocoa...”

“I guess it makes sense, Tevinter's been fighting over the same parts of Seheron too. Are you a marshmallow or cinnamon topper?”

“Why not both?”

“A man after my own heart,” she said, saluting him with her coffee. “You know, these pastries are really good. I wonder...”

“Oh? Does someone we know have a sweet tooth?”

“Allegedly,” she replied with a smirk. I enjoy the frilly cakes. Imogen polished off her plate and finished her cup, then gathered up all her parcels. “Let's go in, see what they have.”

Chapter Text

Imogen peeked into the rotunda and saw that Solas was bent over a book, his notepad in his lap. If it wasn't one thing it was another with him and research lately. Part of her wanted to leave him to it; they had such little time to pursue personal interests when they were always on the go from one mission to the next.

He hadn't seen her, or at least hadn't acknowledged her presence. He'd once told her that he could tell where she was because of the Anchor, so it followed that he must know she was there. But it wasn't something either of them advertised, especially in such a public space as Skyhold. She fidgeted in the doorway, suddenly shy. It was such a silly thing, and not something she'd ever done before. Not for him, anyway.

Just go in there and leave it on his table, Genny, she commanded herself.

She took a breath, straightened her spine and crossed the distance between the door and the table, suddenly overly conscious of how big the rotunda really was and how many eyes might be watching. Most of the time she could ignore it. Then again, most of the time she had a reason for talking with him that could at least ostensibly be about Inquisition business.

Why are you even dithering about this? It's not like the whole fortress doesn't know you're sleeping with him, she thought. Why is today any different?

Because today I come bearing a gift sourced from a single line of fictional dialogue with no idea if he'll actually like it.

While she'd been arguing with herself, her feet had brought her to his side. Glancing down at the book, she saw it was in Old Tevene. Curiosity overcame her shyness for the moment and she shamelessly tried to make sense of the spidery script. It truly was a lot like Latin.

“Do you need something, Inquisitor?” Solas asked absently, still looking between the book and his notepad. Beneath the formal words, she felt his tone like a caress on the back of her neck. He had an uncanny ability to turn her title into an endearment. It was baffling, frustrating, and one of her favorite things about him.

“I...” She cleared her throat and tried again, offering the small box in her hands to him. “I just wanted to give you this.”

He took the box and lifted it up to read the label on it. “La Petite Chignon,” he read in perfect Orlesian. Then he eyed her. “You brought this from Val Royeaux?”

She nodded. The box held a small enchantment to keep its contents fresh and when he cracked the top to open it, there was suddenly the scent of almonds in the air. He smiled into the box but didn't lift the confection out. Instead, he held it carefully, as if it was precious.

“Marzipan. It has a cherry on top,” he noted.

Whiskey sours in Haven. “It really needs a cherry on top.”

He looked at her over the rim of his glass. “You didn't mention cherries.”

“I didn't think of them until now.”

Antivan amaretto and firelight and skin.

“Did you have almonds in Arlathan? What did you do with them?”

“All manner of things.”

“It made me think of you. Us. You.” She knew she was fidgeting with her fingers but couldn't seem to make herself stop. The cupcake had lacy spun sugar around the edges, framing the cherry so it looked rather like a nipple – which had caused no end of laughter from Dorian when she bought it. Orlesians were weird with their confections, in her opinion. But it was too good to pass up the opportunity, and now here she was, awaiting Solas's judgment of her gift.

He smiled again. “Ma serannas, arasha.”

“You're welcome. I hope it tastes as good as it smells. I had a hard time not buying out the whole shop.”

“I can imagine. How did you know I would enjoy it?” He finally looked away from the box and into her face. His expression was a blend of surprised, amused and something else. Something...warmer.

Imogen cleared her throat again and tried for a grin. “Game banter.”

“Ahh.” He carefully folded the top back together, re-engaging the enchantment. “The breadth of your foreknowledge is truly remarkable.”

“Do you like it?”

“I do. I believe I will save it.” He glanced at her again and this time she felt the heat of it like a wave of flame from head to toe. “To eat at a more appropriate time.”

Imogen's face burned, remembering how that night in Haven ended. “I'll...let you get back to work.”

He caught her hand before she could leave, just a brush of his fingers from her pulse point to her palm. A sizzle went through her, up her arm and down her spine. “Until later, Inquisitor.”

Chapter Text

Combat was not his strong suit. It was more a necessity these days than a calling. There were times when he longed for the simpler tirades that occurred daily on the floor of the Magisterium as opposed to this endless slog through a variety of beautiful environments that nevertheless held horrors within. At least in Tevinter he knew better who his enemies were.

But that didn't mean he couldn't do his part.

It was incongruous, the idea of fighting rage demons in the rain. Such fiery spirits should have been doused into solid rock, but instead they hissed and spattered and just moved more slowly across the ground than usual. Still, the one on Bull's blind side was approaching too quickly for Dorian's liking and he spun his staff, unleashing a barrage of spells at it.

Of course, being a mage with an affinity for fire didn't help him in this instance. It was useless against such a creature. The demon absorbed the fire, growing larger before his eyes. It advanced on the huge warrior who had his back turned because he was grappling with a shade. A frantic kind of terror abruptly ran down Dorian's spine.

Nightmarish images wouldn't work; rage had no fear. Not to mention, so close to Bull, it would likely bleed over onto him, weakening him against his current foe.

The rift Imogen was sealing was small enough that not much else had come from the other side, and there were no other figments to raise to aid him. Which also meant there was nothing he could use to siphon health or strength from to impart to his partner.

Casting haste on Bull wouldn't help either. Moving faster wouldn't make the rage burn less hot. It might even trip him up, for all he knew.

Mind blast worked only on intelligent, corporeal subjects. And while the demon was certainly corporeal at the moment, it being in possession of a mind was an altogether different subject.

There was a single tool left in his arsenal that might be effective, but he'd never managed to make it work properly in the field. Dorian rolled his shoulders and focused. He cast and the rage made a noise. A kind of roar like that of a forge fire. Dorian held the spell steady, watching Bull's hulking form, waiting for him to be out of range of the detonation when he let the spell go. The rage turned to him, picking up on his frustration and growing sense of angry futility that he was so limited by the nature of his affinities.

The explosion, when it went off, was loud. Chunks of burning magma splattered around the beach, spitting with steam as they landed and turned to chunks of stone. One of them hit Bull's arm and he swung around, a menacing grimace on his face that rapidly changed to wide-eyed surprise when he saw the rage disintegrate not three feet from him. His eye then met Dorian's, who was leaning on his staff for support. The spell had taken a lot out of him. Before either of them could speak, Imogen lifted her hand against the rift, drawing it closed with a snap that shuddered across the Veil and made Dorian's teeth itch before the ripples passed.

He felt bedraggled, far more than just the rain could account for. The Storm Coast really lived up to its name, in his opinion. But he was too tired to care. The pool of his mana was dangerously low. He needed a soft perch, a hot beverage and perhaps a nap. He kept his gaze on Bull, who was slinging his axe over into its shoulder holster and crossing the distance between them with something very like determination in his eye. And not the pleased kind, Dorian noted idly. He wasn't likely to get any of the things he wanted with that look aimed at him.

“I would have had it,” the Qunari growled, his voice gone deep with irritation. He puffed like a bellows, still pushing off the residual battle frenzy.

“Before or after you were burned to a crisp?” Dorian retorted, at least sounding like he was fine.

Bull lifted a brow at him, then looked him over. “You're tapped. You shouldn't have...”

“Was I supposed to just let it hit you?” he exclaimed. He ground his teeth as his frustration – and yes, fear – coalesced into a spike of anger. How dare this lumbering jackass be ungrateful for a timely save? And how dare he be so observant as to know just how tired he was?

“Yes,” Bull replied, his brow still raised as if that answer was without question. “I am the meat shield. It's my job to take the hard hits.”

“Well, maybe I didn't want to have to see it,” Dorian drawled. “Did you think about that?”

“Never made you wipe yourself out before.” Bull looked back over the beach, recreating the positions of the demons and himself in his mind. Normally Dorian appreciated this ability of the Ben-Hassrath trained warrior. But right now it just felt...incriminating. Bull swung his horned head back to him. “You could have just called my name to get my attention.”

“I...didn't think of that.”

“Obviously.”

Imogen and Solas were conferring together at the other end of the battlefield. The Inquisitor was crouched down, going through the pile of muck rifts left behind, searching it for usable items. Solas stood over her with a loving expression on his face that was rare to see in the light of day. Their union was just as unusual as Dorian and Bull's, and Dorian often wondered if that was why they were asked to come along on so many missions with her. Being on the road kept them all from the judgmental eyes roaming around Skyhold.

“Why'd you do it, Dorian,” Bull asked.

That spike of anger was still digging into him, climbing up his throat with a hot stab that made him want to choke. He was quite suddenly certain that anything that came out of his mouth was going to be something he could never take back and he tried to swallow it. He failed.

“Because I love you, you great lummox,” he spat. “I didn't want to have to watch you get hurt if I could prevent it.”

He could have happily walked into the surf then, he realized. Just let the current take him away, or maybe have the beach swallow him whole. Anything to escape the silence that greeted his angry statement. He was only grateful that Imogen and Solas were too far away to hear over the crash of waves and the patter of the rain.

“Oh,” Bull said. Dorian risked a glance at him and found that his entire demeanor had changed. His eye was softer, and his mouth was twitching like he was fighting back a smile. “That's all right then.”

Dorian sighed. The pair of them, what disasters they were.

“Can you walk or do I have to carry you back to camp?”

“I am perfectly capable...” Dorian began with a huff, but stopped when he saw the glint in Bull's eye and the grin he was letting loose. “You're an ass.”

Bull's huge hand slid under his chin, lifting his face into the rain to look at him. That soft expression was back, and Dorian didn't know what to make of it. “Yeah.”

He hadn't expected to be kissed after all that. A muffled noise escaped him as Bull's wide mouth settled on his, pulling at his lips and flushing a wave of body heat over his face. The hand not holding his staff somehow ended up clutching the leather of Bull's ridiculous excuse for armor. Kissing in the rain after a declaration, he scoffed in his head weakly. How cliché. How...good.

Bull pulled away long before Dorian wanted to let him. He was smiling. “Yeah, I'm an ass. But you like it, kadan.”

Chapter Text

Cassandra wasn't in her usual spot when Imogen went by, and it piqued her curiosity enough that she went looking for her. She knew the Seeker had rooms over the forge, both to be in a central location and because they were warm, which endlessly amused her. The Right Hand of the Divine might not like a whole lot of frippery, but she did enjoy her comforts. Imogen went up the stairs, the noise from anvils and the fire muffled by a door, and found her sitting in a wingchair, a large spotted bundle in her hands. She looked like she was petting it, her gaze far away and distracted.

“Cass?” Imogen asked.

The Seeker jumped like someone had poured water on her, then blushed a furious red that made the scar on her cheek stand out in pale relief. “Inquis....Imogen. Forgive me, I...”

She looked like she wanted to stuff the spotted hide somewhere no one would see it, but it was too large. Large enough that it spilled over her lap and onto the floor.

“What is that?” Imogen asked.

Cassandra blushed even harder, ducking her face. She went back to stroking the pelt, however. “It was a gift. From A...the Sky-Watcher.”

Imogen's back thumped against the wall in lieu of a handy chair. Incredulously she asked,“Is he...courting you?”

“No!” Cass cried in automatic denial, although her cheeks were still red. “That is to say...”

“He is! He's courting you,” Imogen repeated, wonderingly now. “He hunted that and tanned it himself, didn't he?”

All at once the starch went out of the Seeker and she collapsed in her chair with the fur clutched in her hands. “Is it wrong of me not to discourage him?”

Imogen pushed off the wall and crouched down by her friend. “Do you enjoy his company?”

“Yes,” Cassandra said with a tiny huff of a laugh. “More than I should.”

“Why, because he's an Avvar and you're Andrastian?”

“It is not that,” she said crisply. “But...we are fighting a war, and at my age...”

“Cassandra Pentaghast, there's no age limit on companionship.” She took the Seeker's hand in her own. “Yes, we're fighting a war. And that means that when little bits of peace and happiness come along, we should not let them pass us by. It's not wrong to accept it.”

Cass looked torn for all of a minute before she sighed, petted the fur again and squeezed Imogen's hand. “It is a snow leopard pelt.”

“I see that. We have them on Earth too, although they're fairly endangered. Are they more numerous here?”

“One can hardly trek through the mountains without seeing them everywhere,” Cassandra snorted. “He said...”

Imogen felt a smile trying to take over her face and leaned back, gesturing for the Seeker to go on.

“He said their grace and power made him think of me.”

“I would never have pegged Amund for being so romantic.” She watched as a fresh blush spread across Cass's cheeks and down her neck. “What will you do with it?”

“I couldn't wear it,” the Seeker said, looking positively aghast. “It would get ruined in the field and...it is rather ostentatious.”

“It'll be super warm. Maybe a throw on the end of your bed for cold nights?” Cassandra hummed thoughtfully and Imogen looked the pelt over again. It had been tanned beautifully, right down to the ends of the legs. But something was missing. “Did he give you the tail too?”

“He did. Apparently he preserved that separately.”

“Where is it? Can I see?”

The Seeker got up and lifted the length of the tail from where it had been coiled in a crate. Imogen took it from her hands and wrapped it around her neck, tucking the ends into each other like a scarf. The fur brushed against Cassandra's face and she got a fatuous look on her face from it. Imogen bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning.

“It wouldn't take much work to attach this to your surcoat for when we go into the Emprise. It'll be very cold there and you'll be grateful to have something so warm for your face. I'm mildly jealous.”

“Truly?”

“Truly. Solas likes to give practical gifts too, but they're usually more of the type that will save my life, like armor.”

“That is romantic too. He wants you to be safe.”

Imogen let the smile loose. “I suppose that's true. Our men are something, aren't they?”

“Our...” Cassandra blushed again, shaking her head. “I feel so silly, like a schoolgirl. It's ridiculous.”

“No, it's sweet. I'm happy for you, Cass.” The Seeker gazed at her with a plaintive expression. Imogen hugged her. “It's okay to be soft for someone.”

“Soft is not the first word I would imagine for him. Or me, for that matter.”

“That just makes it sweeter.”

“I should...I should thank him. For the gift.”

“Yes, you should,” Imogen drawled. “Preferably somewhere private.”

A final blush stained the Seeker's cheeks as she sputtered. “You...that's not...”

“Go on, Cass. Make his day.”

Chapter Text

The heat of the Exalted Plains was enervating. Imogen reclined in the shade of one of the tents and lazily brushed away the flies that buzzed around her head. A whiff of ozone and static washed over her and she tilted her head and opened one eye to see Solas standing over her. A light barrier of coolness coated him from head to toe.

“Hey,” she murmured.

“Hello, arasha. You do not look particularly comfortable.”

“And you look cool as a cucumber. Mages.”

He chuckled and crouched down to be more at her level. “I could extend the magic to you, if you'd like. But we would have to be touching.”

She met his eye, noting the gleam in it. And then she calculated the pros and cons of moving, not to mention the fact that she was a sticky, sweaty mess and the thought of actually touching someone else – even someone cooler – was not exactly pleasant. At the same time, however, it was Solas. And opportunities to sprawl together in the open were rare and not to be squandered.

“All right,” she said. “I'd be an idiot to say no.”

He gave her a hand up to a seated position and got behind her. The magic flickered over her like mist. He gathered up her hair and lifted it off her neck, allowing the cooling spell to reach. She shivered reflexively before leaning back against his chest. They settled down until they were both reasonably comfortable, and Solas ran her curls through his fingers as he often did. Before long she felt sleepy. He must have been too, since his fingers stilled and his breathing slowed.

Distantly she heard the sound of approaching footsteps and the ever present tinkle of buckles and baubles. She thought about opening her eyes but then she heard an even further voice. It was Bull's. “Leave them be, kadan. Boss has earned a nap.”

“I know we tease Solas about sleeping in ruins, but right here in camp...?”

Dorian's voice faded away as sleep claimed her. For the barest second she thought she felt the body she reclined against move as Solas chuckled. The next thing Imogen knew, she had entered a familiar and beloved wheat field in the curve of the Enavuris river, shaded by an enormous tree that no longer stood in the material world. Fingers at the nape of her neck and the press of lips at her temple told her she wasn't alone and she smiled up at Solas before turning to greet the inhabitant of this little corner of the Fade.

“Aneth ara, da'len, Pride.” Wisdom manifested into her usual form, that of a stately woman of mature years. She pressed her brow to Imogen's and touched Solas's hand for a moment. “I did not look to see the pair of you at this hour.”

“We...might have fallen asleep in the middle of the afternoon,” Imogen said with a self-deprecating grin. Solas just breathed deep of the Fade, looking more relaxed than he ever did in waking. Their armor slipped away and Imogen was left standing in a lightweight shift that moved with the breeze while Solas wore only his leather undershirt and patched leggings.

Wisdom smiled at Solas's handiwork on their persons and beckoned them into her glade. “You are always welcome here, da'len. You know this.”

“I do.”

“Since you are here, shall we catch up? It has been some time. Tell me your news.”

Chapter Text

Dorian slid his feet out from under the covers and placed them down on the stone floor of Iron Bull's tower room. The floor was freezing and he tried not to convulsively shiver. He failed. He had been so certain he was better, that he could sneak back to his room with its plush pillows and snug walls and suffer the rest of this misery alone and in peace. But now he began to wonder if he would even be able to make it across the fortress.

It was dark in the tower. The room was lit only by the fireplace and at first, he didn't see him sitting there. Not until he moved. “Get back in that bed, Dorian.”

“I'm feeling better,” Dorian said primly. “Surely you want to have your space to yourself again.”

Bull's head tilted, his single eye landing on him with the kind of intensity he reserved mostly for when they were...well. “Don't make me have to tie you to it.”

Before Dorian could come up with an appropriate retort, he sneezed. The force of it sent another wracking shiver through his body, as well as a variety of aches and pains in all his joints. Now that he was upright his head was beginning to pound, and it felt like someone had stuck needles behind his eyes when he wasn't paying attention. Bull looked away, back to the open book in his lap – and wasn't that an incongruous sight indeed.

“Go back to bed, kadan,” he said softly. Gently, even. “Let me take care of you.”

“I am perfectly capable...” He sneezed again. “Ugh.”

Bull closed the book and stood up, towering over him. It was unfair, really, how massive the Qunari was. Especially when he felt like he was so...so...

...Sick.

Dorian deflated a little and stepped closer to the fire since his feet felt like they'd been encased in ice. Bull stood with his arms crossed, his face still giving nothing away. “I'm actually hungry. I was going to get something to eat.”

“I can do that,” Bull said, his voice remaining soft. As if he knew just how much Dorian's head roared with pain. A large gray hand rose and the back of it pressed against his forehead. “Hmm, you seem to have burned out the worst of it.”

“I told you...”

“Yeah yeah, you're feeling better. You know, I could look at you too hard and you'd fall over. Like a week old kitten.” His fingers traced around the edge of Dorian's hairline to cradle his cheek. Dorian didn't think, but lifted his hand to spread out across the back of Bull's. It was automatic now, when they were alone and could be something other than mage and warrior. When they were kadan and amatus.

“Are you finished rubbing it in?” Dorian snapped weakly. Bull chuckled.

“Think of it this way: the sooner you get better, the sooner I'll let you rub one out.”

“You're a filthy ox and I don't know why I put up with you.”

Bull smiled and pecked his forehead, the stubble on his chin scraping Dorian's too sensitive skin like sandpaper. “Because I'm your filthy ox, and you like it. Now get back into bed. I'll get you something easy on your stomach.”

Dorian staggered back across the room and flopped into the messy bed, just then realizing how much he'd been tossing and turning given the condition of the sheets. He rolled onto his side and watched Bull tug his boots back on. “Not too easy,” he said. “I'm not a child.”

Bull gave him a glance over his shoulder, then ducked through the door that would take him to the Herald's Rest. Dorian pouted at the closed door as if he could still see his lover through it. That look had been entirely too sardonic for words. With his luck he'd either bring back watery soup with milk toast or something with so many Seheron spices in it Dorian would be breathing clearly through his nose in no time.

Granted, that would also make his nose run.

It was a difficult call on which would be worse, to be honest.

He drifted – not really sleeping, but hardly aware – until he heard the rattle of china outside the door. Of all the things he hadn't expected, it was Imogen who opened it ahead of Bull. The Qunari was carrying a fully laden tray in both hands. He nodded to the Inquisitor, who peeked at Dorian and blew him a kiss, then Bull kicked the door shut in her face without a word.

“Rude,” Dorian managed.

“She doesn't want your 'sicky germs' as she put it any more than I want you to pass them to her.” He set the tray down next to the bed and helped Dorian sit up. “But she sent you a get well present.”

“Oh?” Bull's smile was lopsided. He placed a plate on Dorian's lap with a small flourish. On it was an artful display of... “Peeled grapes?”

“Boss talked Hawke into doing some magic crap. The skins flew off like startled birds. It was funny. She said you'd get it.”

He did, actually. He hadn't known she'd been paying attention to his grousing to Varric about not being pampered. He felt oddly touched rather than embarrassed for her to see him this way. “Thank her for me, will you?”

“Sure, kadan. Now, can you hold this yourself or do I need to spoon feed it to you?”

He held up a large steaming mug. Dorian carefully wrapped his hands around it, slotting his fingers through the handle. He could barely smell anything, but once the steam hit his face and he took a sip, he recognized several flavors. It was sweet with honey over a mild base, probably chamomile, Dorian thought. There was the sharp sting of tumeric and some sort of chili powder, and there was a bitterness at the end of it that made him choke a little. Willow.

All in all, it was quite the medicinal brew. And while he wanted to complain about it, he also knew that ultimately it would hasten his recovery. Magic could do many things. Curing a cold wasn't one of them.

“Did you make this?”

“Yeah. You think Stitches is the only one who knows how to heal?”

Dorian made a face. “I've heard tell that you once ate a poultice instead of using it on a wound.”

“Sure, but that was for the laughs,” Bull replied, his mouth quirked into a grin. “Morale was more important than letting my men see me so low.”

Dorian drank his tea and managed not to grimace with every swallow. He really hated willow bark, even though he knew it would help the remnants of his fever and aches. “I'm sorry I'm such a terrible patient.”

Bull smiled again, sitting on the edge of the bed to face him. “Just concentrate on getting better. Then we'll see how terrible you are. Now eat your grapes.”

Dorian stuck his tongue out and Bull laughed. The sound of it hurt his head, but he wouldn't exchange the sound for anything in the world.

Chapter Text

Terisin felt her watching as he trained. Her golden gaze settled on his skin with the same intensity as it had ten years ago, when they were younger. More fearless in their desires. More apt to act on them with the world ending.

Well, it seemed it was ending again.

But Morrigan was cautious, something she'd learned and honed in their time apart. She was changed. So was he, if he was going to be honest. She was poised, self assured. Frightening in her fierceness to protect their son, as a mother should be. And he...

Blades flashing, feet placed to balance the pivot. Movements controlled so strength was doled out in a steady stream rather than a raging current. Pre-dawn light making all the shadows deeper, but he could still see into them. Her eyes on him like a tangible weight.

...He was still a Warden first.

The Inquisitor had asked him to help her.

Terisin finished the steps he knew by heart and came to a stop, facing Morrigan. She was actually somewhat bundled up against the morning chill, the hood of her haphazard shirt drawn over her head. From within its depths, her eyes gleamed.

“I have something for you,” she said in a soft voice that nonetheless reached his ears.

He sheathed the pair of daggers and stood up straight, barely breathing hard even after all that exertion. The air was cool on his skin, his sweat making his long hair stick to his throat and brow. He swiped it away, throwing the mass of it over his shoulder. The motion caught her regard too, a simple thing that seemed to spark a memory in her. He had trained thusly every morning the whole time they had known one another. And, even before Kieran, she had liked to watch.

“I have time,” he replied at last, gesturing for her to lead.

They had separate quarters here in Skyhold. Morrigan cherished her privacy, and Terisin had been too long without the company of others to part with his own easily. Still, they were trying. For Kieran's sake. She led him down the corridors of the stone fortress to the room she shared with their son and left the door open for him.

It was his turn to watch her now, as she lifted a large knapsack from a chest at the end of the bed and began to go through it. Her back was turned to him, shielding from view whatever it was that she was searching for. She laid it out across the neatly kept surface of the mattress, then stepped away so he could see it.

“My armor,” he breathed out, surprised and...touched.

“'Twas no difficulty in carrying it for you when you...” She paused and almost reached out to touch it, as if by doing so she could return to a simpler, more straightforward time. She cleared her throat. “You will need it.”

His feet carried him to her side where she looked down at the blue, red and metal chased coat. The emblazoned griffon seemed to flicker in the wavering candlelight. Morrigan had always preferred lower light, he recalled. As he did too, with his senses so heightened. She reached for the armor with surety now, smoothing out the sleeve as she had once done when he was wearing it. They were the same height so he did not have to stretch to see her face. Composed, as always, but something lingered beneath that equanimity. Something more than mere concern for his welfare. Something she would likely not name, not even if she was being dragged away by wild beasts. He smiled at the thought of her stubbornness.

“Thank you,” he said. This was more than returning something to his possession. This was her way of telling him that she would not stop him from this journey on behalf of the Inquisitor. That she trusted his skills and ability to keep himself safe. Even if she could not bring herself to say the words. They were both unpracticed with them, when it came to each other. That thought urged him to voice a promise, the only way he could. “I will bring it back to you, ma ean'nydha.”

She looked at him again, and this time her gaze was soft. Accepting without censure. Still worried, but struggling to overcome it. The old endearment had slipped out unbidden, but he didn't want to take it back. He had walked more miles through this world than the ones he planned now, and not come to harm. They were both aware of it, just as they were aware that being capable did not stop fear that this time would be different. Her lips quirked, almost a smile. Who reached for the other's hands first was lost when they touched, their fingers lacing together. It felt...odd, after so long. But something felt righted, put back into place after being dislodged by time and distance. By changes and secrets.

“I know.”

Chapter Text

As often happened, a bolt of inspiration hit Varric while he was bathing. He gave a rueful sigh, wrapped himself in a towel and rushed to his desk without even bothering to swipe his dripping hair out of the way as he jotted down the idea before he lost it. He was never more grateful to Imogen than in that moment, since having his own suite meant having his own bathing chamber in it. He didn't have to traipse halfway across the keep to get back to his room, the mad gleam of words in his eyes. He didn't need that kind of blow to his reputation.

He got lost in the idea after a while, eventually snagging his reading glasses so he could see the page better. His hair stopped dripping onto his bare shoulders and he didn't even notice he was getting chilled sitting there in nothing more than a damp towel. He never heard the door open.

He certainly didn't hear the low, needy hum that Hawke made. If he had, he might have been warned.

Her sharp teeth sank into the ball of his shoulder and he jumped, thoroughly startled. “What the...Hawke!”

She cackled, leaning on the back of his chair. At least she'd bitten the off arm, so the only splotch on the page in front of him was his own fault. He glared at her over the rim of his glasses.

“Oh, your face! That's a weighty look, serrah.”

“What are you doing?”

She smiled at him, warm and loving and he almost melted. Almost. Then she spoke. “Haven't you ever just wanted to bite someone? You looked so delicious sitting there, I had to have a taste.”

Half his blood rushed southward. The rest seemed to have taken up residence in his cheeks. Either way, it left none for his brain and he gaped at her like an addled nug. He scrambled to find anything to say, anything at all.

“Andraste's flaming knickers,” was what came out. Hawke laughed again.

“No, I don't think I'd want to bite those.”

She sauntered away, knowing he was watching. It appeared she'd just come from the training ring and her arms were bare and glistening with a sheen of sweat, here and there smudged with dust. She shrugged out of her sleeveless tunic and dropped it on the floor – she was a lousy housekeeper, but he'd known that – and then dropped her leathers on top of it.

“Is there still water left? I bet it's stone cold by now.”

Early morning light flooded across her body from the windows, giving a halo effect to her skin where sweat made it shine. She looked...happy. Happy in a way he hadn't seen since before the Deep Roads. When they were all younger and knew less than they did now. When the weight of the world hadn't yet dropped onto their shoulders. His gaze traced over every curve and hollow, noting scars as well as the constellation of freckles he'd now learned by heart. By touch.

His flash of inspiration forgotten, he suddenly realized he knew exactly what she meant. She looked delicious, and he wanted a taste of it before it was gone. Which was rather absurd when he thought about it, considering she wasn't going anywhere. Before he could make good on the idea, she'd dropped her smalls into the pile and walked to the bathing chamber stark naked. He followed her, a moth to her flame. His towel slipped and he made a grab for it and therefore lost sight of her for a moment.

When he reached her, she was crouched down at the side of the tub, her arm in it up to her elbow, releasing magic into the water until it steamed once more. She flashed him a cheeky grin over her shoulder, chortling all of a sudden.

“What?”

“You still have your glasses on.”

He raised his eyebrows over them, uncaring in the moment. She turned back to the water to check that it was hot enough and he saw his chance. He caged her in with his arms around her, for once taller than her as she remained half kneeling. She leaned against him almost instinctively and the rush that went through him was no less heated than the one before.

“I didn't want to miss any details,” he murmured in her ear and smirked behind her as she shivered. “So, you make a habit of biting people? How did I never know this about you? Or is it just a lover thing?”

“Once I bit 'Bela so hard it bruised. She thought it was hilarious. Merrill squealed.”

“Anyone else?”

“Well...” Her voice was getting breathier, but he thought that might have been because he was nuzzling into the nape of her neck. “I never bit Fenris. That could have ended poorly.”

In a distant part of his brain he noticed neither of them brought Anders into it. Which was fine by him. They could let that sleeping Mabari lie. Instead, he focused on how her neck tilted as his mouth brushed against it, how her fingers tightened on the rim of the tub under his where they were laced together. Her other arm was still in the water, but it had gone motionless.

“So why did you never bite me?” he asked softly. He thought he knew the answer – that she'd never want to stop – but he wanted to hear her say it.

“Varric...” she all but whimpered.

“Yes, Hawke?”

“I need to bathe.”

“Nice evasion.”

She huffed. “Fine. You know why. I wouldn't have stopped there.”

There was salt on his lips from her sweat, plus the grit of dust from her training. It should have been revolting, but he found it wasn't. Without really planning it, he latched onto the side of her neck and bit her. A strangled 'hng' escaped her and her body jolted against his where he held her. He let her go and stepped back, satisfied.

“I see what you mean. And now we're even.”

“Maker have mercy,” she whispered, hanging on to the rim of the tub for dear life. “You'll be the death of me yet, Tethras.”

“That wasn't a complaint.”

He dropped his towel, considering all that held it up was aching anyway, and gave her a light push to get in the tub. “I'll scrub your back if you scrub mine.”

Her eyes met his and they were gleaming. Still happy. Happier, if anything. “Always, babe.”

Chapter Text

Solas left the Fade upon the realization that Imogen was not there with him. When he opened his eyes to her high tower chamber, he saw the low light of the fire first, then rolled over to see her at her desk, writing by candlelight. She was nearly hidden behind a stack of correspondence that was never ending for her. He did not try to tell her how to conduct Inquisition business, so he did not attempt to urge her to delegate these letters and recommendations to her advisors more than she already did. She had once told him that she considered Solas and Fen'Harel to be separate entities in her day to day life. He could understand that notion. Imogen and the Inquisitor were also distinct personas of the woman he loved.

She hadn't noticed that he was awake, and he took the opportunity to observe her at work, something he rarely had the chance for. His own work was done in the rotunda, most days. These quiet night time hours were their only shared ones. And while he would have preferred to have her exclusively to himself, he was aware that her position did not allow for that at their convenience. As much as they both disliked it, neither could begrudge it.

The candlelight was soft on her face, shadowing the half further from it, but cradling the rest in its glow. It gleamed through the copper and russet of her hair, the curls wrapping around her fist as she leaned on it. She alternately frowned, grimaced or smiled, depending on what she was working on. He had asked once, what the letters she received contained. Many were proposals of marriage or some other form of alliance that would benefit the asking party more than her. Ambassador Montilyet had offered to teach Imogen more diplomatic language with which to reply, only to learn that she didn't need it. Whatever she had been in her former life, she was well versed in such things.

She shifted in her seat, shaking out her writing hand as she placed her completed reply from in front of her to the outgoing stack. As she moved, he saw that she was wearing his sweater. It hung from her shoulders, too loose on her smaller frame. She had folded the sleeves back several times to keep them from getting in her way. And possibly to keep them from getting ink stained. He felt his lips curl up at the sight, a warmth blossoming in his chest that often occurred in her presence.

She glanced up from her desk and saw him watching her. “Hey,” she murmured, the sound of her voice carrying across the distance even so softly. “Thought you'd be asleep.”

“The Fade did not have my heart, and therefore could not keep me.”

“That's awfully poetic for...” she was smirking as she looked at the water clock that the Arcanist made for her, “...one in the morning.”

“Shall I venture into dreams without you or would you like company?”

She paused in her current reply and smiled at him. “I always like having your company. But don't feel like you need to stay awake on my account. I only have a couple more to do.”

She went back to her work and Solas slid his legs out from under the covers. He was reaching for his leggings when he felt her gaze on him. It was brief and carried little substance other than appreciation, but the warmth in his chest returned full force. Solas was not shy, any more than she was. But it still managed to confound his mind that she enjoyed the sight of him naked. He supposed it was unbecoming of a man named Pride to not take much in his person, but what little there was to be had remained tucked into memories of a bygone age. He was a different man now. The world was different. He was beginning to understand that that wasn't necessarily a terrible thing. Not so long as she was by his side.

He roamed behind her desk as she wrote, perusing the titles on her bookshelves as if he hadn't committed them all to memory already. When she set down her pen and applied the seal of the Inquisition into the wax dripped at the bottom of the missive, he leaned over the back of her chair, the better to whisper in her ear.

“You are wearing my sweater, arasha.”

She shivered, just slightly. Just enough to make the coiled springs of her hair slide against his cheek and for her breath to stutter short. He was very well aware of the effect his voice had on her, and shamelessly – ruthlessly – used it to his advantage.

“It was too chilly to sit here in nothing. Besides, I like having you all around me.”

“Do you now?” His tone had dropped into a suggestive register and he watched with satisfied fascination as she shivered again. “Am I distracting you, Inquisitor?”

She breathed shallowly, letting it out in tiny gasps as she squirmed. “Yes, and quite well too. Just let me get one more done and then I'm all yours for the taking.”

She shot an amused look at him over her shoulder and he offered her a lopsided smile in reply. It was ever a joke with her, that the Dread Wolf had taken her. She imbued the wretched curse with something less fraught with negativity. Part of him wanted to stop her from doing it, wanted to remind her that his deeds were not something to be trifled with. But the rest of him was grateful that she took such joy from subverting his reputation. She called him a better man than he thought he was. When he was with her, he was able to believe it.

His heart had a boundless capacity for compassion. It did not surprise him that she'd drawn Cole to her as a moth to flame.

She had pulled the final missive in front of her and was scowling at it. He read over her shoulder, seeing the flowery words of an Orlesian noble begging for an audience in which he would offer her endless praise and devotion in exchange for his name being added to her list of benefactors publicly. Imogen was not fond of Orlesians.

“Fuck it,” she announced, tossing down her pen and capping her ink. “I need to let that one sit before I blast him to kingdom come with my response.”

She whirled around in her chair, her cold fingers grasping at his arms to pull him closer. She leaned up and kissed him, and her mouth was anything but cool. His fingers slipped into her curls, cupping the back of her head. She made a sound, a breathy release of air that carried on it the barest hint of a whimper. Such a little thing had the power to topple all of his doubts, all of his considerations for the folly their union was going to cost them both.

“Take me to bed, Solas,” she murmured against his lips, her soft voice playful and coy. “You can steal your sweater back.”

He helped her stand, never once letting go of the tangle of curls in his hand. His other arm went around her waist, holding her close to him. Reveling in the feel of her, so unafraid, so trusting. So loving. He had never known anyone like her, in all of his long, long years. Duty lay forgotten at their feet and he would hold on to that precious gift as long as he could. “Ma nuvenin.”

Chapter Text

Terisin climbed the stairs up to the rookery with the wine bottle tucked under his arm, two cups dangling from their handles on his fingers and a small pot of honey. The rotunda was quiet now, with everyone gone to find their rest or revels in the tavern. And yet, his old friend was still at work, feeding messages into the tubes on her ravens' legs.

“Share a drink with me,” he called to her softly.

Leliana turned and graced him with a smile bright enough to light up a room. “Ter! When did you get back?”

“Today.” He set the bottle and cups down and pried open the lid of the honey. “I'm surprised the Inquisitor didn't already tell you. You had a meeting debrief, did you not?”

“We did. I suppose it slipped my mind that it meant you had returned.”

She crossed the rookery and turned her desk chair sideways so he could sit in it while she lowered herself to a bench set in the curve of the wall. She watched him pour the wine, then add a dipper of honey to hers, swirling it with a spoon he produced from his jacket. She was still smiling when she reached for the cup.

“You remembered.”

“Some details are hard to forget.”

They toasted each other, silent but comfortable, and each sipped their wine. Terisin made a face and ended up scooping honey into his as well. Then he sat.

“There is a metaphor there, no?” Leliana said, looking into the depths of her cup. “A little sweet to cover bitterness.”

“It's a good reminder,” he replied. “And it is essential at times.”

“Indeed.”

They lapsed into silence once more. The looks that passed between them were fond, and knowing, and no words were necessary. Leliana sipped from her cup again and then began to laugh softly.

“Do you remember, that locked chest in...what was it? Some nobleman's cellar.”

“The one Zevran broke four lockpicks on before I just cracked it myself?”

“Yes, that one,” she cried brightly, grinning wide.

“Bann Fernan. He was harboring sympathizers for Loghain, as I recall.”

“Yes.”

“Zev was so certain there must be a worthy treasure inside. He was so determined.”

“And all it held was a dusty bottle of wine,” she finished, cackling now. They shared a grin and Terisin swirled his cup around before topping it off. He held the bottle out for her to take, and pushed the pot of honey closer to her.

“He drank it too,” he said with a rueful chuckle, remembering how terrible it had been. Dry as dust and nearly vinegar after who knew how many years in that chest. “Do you hear from him?”

“On occasion. The Inquisitor has been investigating some Venatori activity that bled over onto an Antivan estate. The Crows are involved in it too. We've been working with them.” She made a face. “I am glad we gave him a better outlook on his future than a lifetime of that.”

“I've heard rumors about discontent among the Talons.”

Leliana hummed and didn't comment further. Terisin smiled, crooked and small. Some things never changed, and one of them was that she would ever hold her cards close to her chest. He lifted his cup.

“To Zevran, may he find peace. May we all find peace. And stronger lockpicks.”

“I'll drink to that.”

He found a penknife on the table and walked it across his fingers while she watched. Her countenance was distant now, although her eyes tracked every movement of his hand. He rolled the little knife onto his index finger and balanced it there. “I gave you this, didn't I?”

“You did. Told me that one day it might save my life.” She gestured around the rookery. “And so it has.”

“What is that saying? The pen is mightier than the sword?”

“Both are sharp enough to draw blood if wielded properly,” she said.

“Do you ever wonder how differently things might have gone?”

“Of course. Do you?”

“Often.” He sighed and finished his cup. “I made the choices I thought best. I still don't know if they were the right ones.”

“But you are here to tell of them, my friend.”

“That is true. I have seen enough war, Leli.”

“I know. For whatever it is worth, I believe in Imogen. There was a time I did not, and it nearly cost us everything. I learned my lesson.”

Terisin scrubbed a hand down his face. “Forgive me, I didn't mean to get maudlin.”

“It happens. We have had much to mourn, and many years apart.”

She reached for the bottle again, pouring for herself before offering it back to him. He took it, but didn't pour for a long moment. At last he filled his cup halfway, and added the last scrapings of honey to it when Leliana insisted. The ravens rustled around them and the quiet of the night settled onto them gently. Peacefully. He missed his clan and the life he once led. But here before him was a friend as dear as blood, and that filled some of the emptiness.

“Tell me, then, what you've been doing these past few years, Left Hand of the Divine.”

Chapter Text

The valley beneath the towering edifice that was Skyhold was in full summer bloom and Imogen took as many of her companions as would join her for a picnic in the sunshine and warmth. Which turned out to be all of them. They gathered up blankets and baskets of breads, cheeses, fruits and cured meats, and carried them all to the lift that would take them down to the meadow where the bulk of her forces lived. She skirted around the sprawling Inquisition camp until she found an untouched hillock and set about directing her friends to spread out in the sun.

The meadow was dotted with tall white daisies that danced with the breeze coming down off the mountains and without thinking about it very hard, she picked a few and began to weave them together. Solas was laying on his side nearby, propped on his elbow while he watched her work. She reached out for another flower and snapped it off with a good bit of stem to work into her chain.

“What are you making?”

“Not sure yet. Might be a crown. I'd need a lot more, though.” Cole popped into visibility not far away, his arms full of all kinds of flowers. Imogen burst out laughing at his load and then laughed harder still when he laid them in her lap where she sat. “What on Earth...? Where did you get all these?”

He smiled under his hat, his head tilted just enough that she could see it. “There were many down by the river. The bees are done with them already.”

She grinned at him. “Then I guess that means flower crowns for everyone.”

“Yes,” he answered seriously. “It would bring them all a little brightness.”

She twisted more daisies together until she had enough for a crown that would go over the cap of his floppy hat. “The first one is for you.”

Cole ducked forward and she slipped the fragile ring of daisies onto his head. He turned to show Solas, who was smiling gently, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Then he was gone again, only to pop up somewhere else in the field as everyone ate and drank and sunbathed. Imogen was still smiling as she searched through the overwhelming pile to find the blossoms she wanted. Forget-me-nots, strands of royal elfroot and ivy went into this one, and she shook her head in bemusement that Cole had known she would need them.

She set the finished crown aside and started on another. Solas rolled to a seated position and brought out his sketchbook. Imogen pretended she hadn't noticed and kept weaving stems together, making more and more crowns from the pile. She wished she knew more of Thedosian flower language, but since she didn't, she just put them together in any way that caught her eye for pleasing aesthetics. She nibbled on bread and cheese and a bunch of fat grapes as she worked, and before she knew it, she had only odds and ends left in her lap, and a crown for each companion.

“I'm gonna go deliver these,” she told Solas, who nodded and tucked his pencil into his sketchbook, but remained on the ground. She looped all the flowers on her arm and marched across the meadow to the singular tree where Cassandra, Varric and Hawke had set up a blanket together – a surprising turn of events, considering she knew how Elly felt about the Seeker. It seemed they'd finally found some common ground.

“I made you all a thing,” she announced when she reached their patch of shade. Hawke's eyes lit up with mirth, while Varric smirked.

“Flower crowns, Firefly? Are you sure you aren't part elf?”

“Now why would you say that?” She dropped a ring of bright red bee balm twined with ivy onto his head. Hawke's was similar and she was grinning as she bent closer to Imogen so she could place it.

“Let's just say I know someone who used to pick all the flowers in every garden she came to.”

“I'll bet. I figured that's why you call her Daisy.”

Hawke chortled at the look of consternation on Varric's face, finally giving in with a belly laugh. “You always forget, V! She knows all of us by heart.”

Cassandra sniffed, but then blushed prettily as Imogen carefully laid a band of dianthus over her dark hair. “Thank you, Inquisitor.”

Imogen smiled and then moved off to the next group. Bull's crown was all in pink cupflowers and echinacea and she had to stand nearly on tiptoe to get it over his horn to sit rakishly crooked on his head, which made Dorian laugh.

“Why pink, darling?” he managed to ask, gasping for breath.

“Because Bull thinks it's pretty,” she said, catching Bull's grin from the corner of her eye. “Now you, on the other hand, get this one.”

Dark purple pansies, ivy and cornflowers made up Dorian's crown. It was both regal looking and contrasted well with his bronze skin. For Vivienne, who was sitting primly as if she was entertaining nobility, Imogen had woven together the single giant poppy Cole had found with a variety of daisies and bee balm. The effect was a riot of reds mixed with snowy white and went perfectly with her robes.

“Thank you Inquisitor, this is...quite lovely.”

“You're very welcome.” She smiled at the Enchanter warmly. “Everyone needs a flower crown now and then.”

The last ones to get their crowns were Thom and Sera, sitting off to the side sharing a pipe of sweet smelling herbs. Thom's crown was cornflowers and white cupflowers, while Sera's was sunny yellow dandelions and daisies. They all shared a grin before Imogen crossed the meadow back to where Solas was waiting for her.

She sank back down onto their blanket and held up the second crown she made, the one with royal elfroot. “This one is for you, my love.”

He tilted forward to let her place it on his head, then leaned up to give her an assessing look. “There is not one for you.”

“I ran out of flowers,” she shrugged. “It's okay, I just wanted to make them for everyone else.”

Solas picked through the few remaining stems that littered their picnic spot and lifted one up. It was an embrium, its broad star-shaped flower flaring out in a way that she hadn't been able to weave it with anything so it didn't get crushed. With a slight smile curving his lips, Solas tucked the embrium blossom behind her ear, taking care that it didn't get caught in any of her curls.

“There,” he said, admiring his handiwork.

She grinned at him, sharing the joke. The hair oil he gave her for her mass of curls was made of this flower. It never failed to make her think of him when she saw it on their travels. His fingers trailed down her jaw and under her chin with a whisper. If they were alone, she had no doubt he would have kissed her. But of course, with all their friends' eyes on them, he wouldn't do it.

“Thank you, love.”

“Da'banal.”

“You know, I should find a few more flowers. Make some crowns to take back with us for the advisors. Wanna help me pick them?”

He nodded and stood up, offering his hand to her. Once they were out of sight of the others by the slope of the meadow, she got the flowers she needed to make three more crowns.

She got her kiss too.

Chapter Text

Cassandra was not the kind of woman to look back on her life and regret the road not taken. For one thing, her faith told her that there was purpose in everything she had experienced and the choices she'd made. For another, there was no changing the past anyhow, so it was a pointless waste of time to wring one's hands and wish things had been different. She knew herself, knew her worth. She knew what she was capable of and what burdens would lie heavy on her heart. She offered those burdens to the Maker and trusted that He would help her carry them.

All that said, when she saw the Sky-Watcher emerge from the trees into their base camp with the Inquisitor and her party, she did wish she was a more easily demonstrative woman. He looked worn and tired from his travails but not visibly injured, and she told herself that that was good enough. That it wasn't necessary for her to ask, to pester, to assuage her concerns. Now that he was back, it was time to move on with the mission.

But the sternness of her thoughts did not stop the others from creeping in behind them. And the way he scanned the camp, looking for something or someone, did not quell the urge buried deep within. He spotted her, a slight smile blooming on his painted face. Something passed through his gaze that she could not parse from this distance, but there was no mistaking the gesture of his open arms.

Cassandra Pentaghast, Right Hand of the Divine, Seeker of Truth, ignored the voice of reason and duty, and even the pain in her leg. She ran across the camp.

His long, powerful arms came around her and she – who had never considered herself dainty or given to such fanciful notions away from her beloved books – had the singular experience of being swept off her feet as he lifted her. She threw her arms around his neck and held on tight, her feet swinging freely beneath her.

“I was so worried,” she murmured into the crook of his neck. His arms went tighter around her. They held each other in the hug for long enough that the camp began to go silent around them and she was fighting an urge to squirm away before too much attention was drawn.

Amund put her down at last, but he didn't release her entirely. His hands slid down her arms to cup her elbows. “I am well enough, Seeker. And all the better for seeing you here.”

Presently, she cleared her throat and stepped away, feeling her face burning. Amund's eyes twinkled at her and she blushed anew. Maker, but she could just about feel it in her ears now. To their side, Imogen stepped up, her expression studiously neutral. Cassandra knew the Inquisitor considered a neutral face to be something false and was suspicious in an instant.

“Seeker, if I might trouble you,” she began.

“Of course, what is it?”

Imogen then grinned, something sly filling her eyes, although she spoke in a perfectly formal tone. “I wonder if you might sit down with the Sky-Watcher and put together some notes on his time with the enemy. I've set aside one of the tents so you won't be disturbed.”

A fluttery sort of feeling landed in the pit of Cassandra's stomach. It made her throat vibrate with the need to perhaps do something ridiculous, like giggle. Instead, she nodded and gestured for the Sky-Watcher to precede her. From the corner of her eye, she caught him winking at Imogen and put starch in her spine to stand straighter.

The camp went back to its normal sounds and activity once the tent flap closed behind them, and now that they were alone – for surely that was the Inquisitor's actual intent, meddler that she was – Cassandra didn't quite know what to do. There was food and drink and she grabbed a tankard to fill for him, thinking he was most likely parched and hungry after his long absence from the Inquisition. He, in the meantime, was shedding his bearskin cloak and had taken off his headdress to run his fingers through his hair. It was rare to see him so bare and she faltered, the impropriety of it warring with her need to make sure he was truly all right.

He smirked at her, planting his feet apart and putting his hands on his hips. “Come here, varvine, and hug me again.”

Cassandra crossed the tent and made sure to put the tankard down first before opening her arms to him. Never let it be said that the Seeker could not take direction.

Chapter Text

Imogen saw Varric poke his head through the rotunda door and smiled. “Hey.”

“There you two are,” he said, swaggering in to point at both of them. “Still hard at work or hardly working?”

Solas, who had, in fact, been going over a phonetic representation of the Elvish alphabet in order to teach her the language, raised an eyebrow at the dwarf. “I get the sense there is something behind that question more than mere curiosity.”

“Chuckles, it's high time we teach our Firefly how to play Wicked Grace.”

“What?” Imogen cried, shaking her head and her hands in negation. “No. Oh no. I don't even know what the suits and face cards mean.”

“Then it's time you learned,” Varric urged.

“Hmm,” Solas mused, his long fingers over his mouth. Probably hiding a smile, Imogen thought. “Perhaps Diamondback would be more suitable?”

Varric snorted. “Thom won't play if you're at the table to play Diamondback. So I hear.”

Now she was certain that was a smile Solas was hiding. “A man should never gamble more than he is willing to lose.”

She arched her brows at him, to which he simply smiled wider, then turned back to Varric. “I'll tell you what. I'll play on one condition. If I totally suck at it, and lose all the coin I have in my pocket right now, then you will learn how to play a game from Earth so that I can redeem my self-respect.”

Varric grinned. “You're on, Firefly.”

Of course, everyone was there.

Josephine, Cullen, Cass and Amund – who was merely watching the proceedings from a quiet spot at her shoulder – took up the center of the table. Bull and Dorian were across from each other lengthwise as they would be in-game, which she found funny. Thom immediately began to sputter about Solas joining them and how he wasn't to be trusted, which made them all laugh and made the man in question smirk slightly. Imogen took her place across from Varric, with Solas next to her. In the guise of teaching her the cards, he abstained from playing.

“Like that's going to change anything,” Thom grumbled. “He'll just take all our coin and dignity through her.”

“Sounds like the perfect union to me,” Hawke said, coming back from the bar with her hands full of tankard handles. She passed them around to their recipients and sat down at the corner of the table between Varric and Dorian. “Are we playing or what?”

Josie dealt the hands and opened the bidding just as she would in fiction, including with Bull's reprimand of 'silver or go home'. Imogen smiled to herself and leaned closer to Solas as he whispered the different combinations she could make with her hand. It turned out that Wicked Grace was similar to seven card poker, and once she made that connection, she was able to hold her own. Poker wasn't her best game, but she could at least keep her face straight and cards hidden, which was more than Cullen could do.

She folded for several rounds to watch, and also because she'd gotten crap in her hand. She gave Varric a look when he'd dealt out her last worthless set of cards. He grinned shamelessly and she knew he'd stacked the deck to test her. But finally she had a winning round, sweeping the table of a variety of baubles and coin. Imogen's quartet of Songs took Varric's house of Cups handily.

“I feel like I've been sharked, Firefly,” he drawled as she raked her winnings in front of her.

Hawke laughed at him. “Babe, you never asked her what she could play, did you? I bet there's a version of this from where she's from.”

Imogen grinned.

“See, I knew it. It was just the cards you didn't know,” Hawke crowed.

“Speaking of which,” Imogen said before the betting could devolve into Cullen literally losing his shirt. Some things she didn't need to see in real life, thanks. “You still interested in learning one of my games?”

“You said only if you needed to earn your self-respect back.”

“Scared, Varric?”

“Shit-talk from the Boss,” Bull said, whistling through his teeth. “I'm out, but I'll watch.”

“I'm game,” Dorian said. She saluted him with her glass.

“Teach us your ways, Inquisitor,” Hawke said, her face alight with mischief.

“Varric, you in? This needs four players.”

“I will play, Inquisitor,” Solas said suddenly. The look he'd turned on her was calculating and she smiled to see it. Time to pull one on the Dread Wolf.

“All right. I'm assuming Wicked Grace cards aren't the only types you have?”

Varric reached into his belt and withdrew a standard deck...well, standard for Thedas. It turned out they had knaves as well as jacks. She thumbed through the deck, pulling out just the cards she needed. 9's, 10's, jacks, queens, kings and aces. She explained the rules as she organized the cards, how they would be in two sets of partners, how the trumps worked – since jacks in the suit and the matching colored suit would be worth more as bowers than at any other time – and how to deal in twos and threes. They shuffled the table around so the four of them were facing each other and could still reach the cards, and everyone else piled around to watch.

“Do you bet with this game?” Bull asked.

“I mean, you can. Usually I just play for fun. It's more cerebral than lucky, but less about posturing than poke...Wicked Grace. Since I'm the one who knows it best, I vote for not betting on it just yet.”

“Seems fair,” Dorian said. “I suppose it will depend on how well we pick it up.”

“All right, let's play an open hand before we decide on partners. Just so you get the hang of it.”

She dealt, turned up the final card and they went around with Imogen explaining why or why not to choose the card that had landed as potential trump. In the end, she took it herself, discarding one of her own to the kitty and setting it aside. She walked them through playing the hand and ultimately Hawke would have taken the most tricks with the cards she had.

“Are we ready?” Imogen asked when they were done. The three mages all agreed, and they split into partners. It ended up being the women against the men, and Hawke had an almost feral light of competition in her eyes about it. Imogen wondered if her own matched it.

She shuffled, offered the cards to Solas to cut them, and then dealt for real. Of course, she had nothing. But Solas ordered her up, so she had no choice but to take the new trump card. She discarded her lowest, most worthless card – a 9 – and gestured for Dorian to begin.

The 'boys' won the round, of course. Solas had both bowers in his hand, as well as the queen. He'd taken a risk on the king he'd ordered into her hand being her only trump, and it had worked.

The deal passed to Dorian, and a new round began. That time she and Hawke took four of the five tricks, making their scores even. Around and around it went, staying neck and neck until they both stood at nine points.

“Final round, winner takes all,” Imogen said.

By now Solas was lounging sideways in his seat, deceptively relaxed. Dorian looked like he was keeping a mental tally of each hand played, while Hawke was just grinning as if she had a good feeling in her gut about this final deal. As it happened, the deal was on Imogen again, and when she looked at her cards, she was hard pressed not to gleefully shout. Her entire hand but one matched the proposed trump. Granted, she had only a single bower, but she also held the ace, king and ten in her hand, with the queen showing in the pile. Her off card was another ace; she could sacrifice the ten for it and keep the other ace. If she could get the lead, she could win the whole round, assuming the other bower was buried. Or was in Hawke's hand.

She picked up the trump card and shuffled her hand into playing order.

Dorian led with the suit that matched her off ace, which she then used to win the trick. She led with her bower, drawing out the remaining trump cards. Dorian had none, and Hawke had the nine. Solas had the other bower, and a minute expression of frustration wrinkled his nose as he was forced to play it...and lose it.

Imogen laid down the rest of her cards. “That makes these good.”

“You get extra points for taking them all, right?” Bull asked into the gleeful silence she was sharing with Hawke at their win. Dorian made a show of being grumpy, but she could tell he'd enjoyed himself. Solas looked...too thoughtful. That boded well for playing the game again at some other time.

“Yeah. Would have been even more if I'd called it alone, but I figure...ya know...this is just a friendly game. Don't want to pull all the stops out just yet.”

“Firefly, we are in so much trouble with you at the table, aren't we?” Varric asked, somewhat in awe.

Imogen just grinned.

Chapter Text

Dorian was still heaving for air after the fight with the dragon, watching his own breaths puff in front of his face like plumes of smoke, when Imogen sidled up next to him, her gaze on Bull's turned back.

“Here,” she murmured. She slipped something sharply edged into his hand and when he glanced down at it, he saw it was a tooth. Before he could do something unforgivable like sputter out loud, she closed his fingers around it. “When we get back to Skyhold, I have a few ideas on how you can split it and set it.”

“Oh?” he managed, oh so intelligently. He could scarcely believe she'd remembered. Or that she'd pulled off such a feat of sleight of hand with Bull watching.

She grinned at him, her face flushed with the exertion and cold. The wind off the frozen lake tugged errant curls loose from her braids and she blew them back out of her face with an adorable kind of scowl. Then she turned back to him. “He thinks dawnstone is pretty.”

“It's pink,” Dorian said, dubious at best.

“Uh huh. And he likes it.”

“I'll go ahead and assume you have a plan, then?”

She grinned again and sauntered away before they were overheard.

When they finally returned to Skyhold, he and Imogen holed up in the Undercroft with Dagna. They were able to split the tooth down the center without splintering it, and the dwarven Arcanist was able to shape two chunks of dawnstone to fit the hollow spaces inside the halves. Dorian then had her wrap them in thin but strong bands of silverite in order to make them into pendants. After that, it was a matter of waiting until the rest of his surprise arrived.

Some weeks later, Josephine's runner delivered a parcel to him from Tevinter. He hurried it to his room to open in private and smoothed his hand over the teakwood box engraved with flaming dragon heads. It had cost dear, but it was worth it. Imogen told him to help himself to anything else he needed, and he requested a length of deep green ring velvet to line the interior of the box over a thick layer of cotton batting. He'd gotten a delicate chain for his own half of the tooth, but Bull needed something stronger. His chain was forged from alloyed silverite, like the setting. It would stand up to the constant abuse he put himself through as a warrior.

He laid the two halves into the box, arranging them so the dawnstone was visible against the backdrop of dark green and closed it up. Now all he had to do was get Bull alone without giving it all away.

Easier said than done, that one. Former Ben-Hassrath in no way implied being lesser for it.

Imogen was the only one who knew what he had planned; he was positive she hadn't even said anything to Solas about it. He had the box tucked under his arm and was heading up to Bull's tower from the outside battlements when he saw Imogen watching him, her smile soft and lopsided. She put a finger over her lips and ducked inside the Rest. Knowing her, she would keep Bull occupied with conversation until Dorian arrived. He was shaking his head in amusement as he snuck into the drafty chamber Bull loved so much for some reason – oh, he knew, it was all about the ruggedness – and put the teakwood box on the wobbly table next to the bed. He sighed once again at the wobble and found the slim sliver of wood that Bull had actually carved from the bedpost to shim it level. The things he put up with for his partner; it was shocking really.

His mission accomplished, Dorian headed into the tavern from the upper level, getting as far as the first staircase before realizing that if he approached from here, the game would be given away. Bull would know he had been in the tower. It was both frustrating and charmingly challenging to keep up with Iron Bull's rapid fire mind. Dorian would be the first to admit that he hadn't expected someone so intellectually equal here in the dreary South. And moreover one that was a savage Qunari. He turned around and went back out onto the battlements to take the exterior stairs to the courtyard and walk in the front door of the Herald's Rest like the prim and proper Altus he was.

Whereupon Bull dragged him onto his knee and nuzzled under his ear, making him blush in public like a schoolboy.

Imogen excused herself, laughing. Bull aimed a leering grin at her and she responded by flicking the end of Bull's horn before she left to talk with Krem. Who was...standing on his chair?

“He likes to pretend he's watching out for danger,” Bull said, following Dorian's line of sight. “But he's really watching that bard.”

Dorian made some kind of noncommittal noise. To his own ears it sounded nervous. Bull was looking at him now, and being the focus of that single green eye was unnerving at the most innocent of times, which these were not.

“You all right there, Dorian? You look like you have ants in your silks.”

“I'm fine, you insufferable lout. I'm just...”

Bull grinned suddenly. “Wanna get out of here?”

“Yes,” Dorian sighed. He hadn't even had a drink. But it didn't matter.

He followed Bull up the stairs and hastily glared at Cole who was watching, his mouth half opened to say something. The boy's lips slapped shut and he looked confused for all of a second, then it cleared with something like a smile. Oddly, that calmed Dorian down. Cole was a surprisingly good litmus test for discerning whether one's actions were wise. Occasionally, he amended in his head, remembering all too clearly how much of his relationship to Bull he'd spouted the last time they were all together on the road. Mercifully, Imogen had hushed him before it went too far.

Equally as appreciated was the fact that she was so supportive and happy for the pair of them that woe upon any fool who even hinted otherwise in her hearing.

“What's that?” Bull asked as they got into the room. His gaze had immediately landed on the teakwood box. Dorian felt his stomach churning and his hands were clammy. This whole thing was going to be a disaster, wasn't it?

“It's for you,” he said.

Bull sat on the edge of the bed and held the box in his hands, the size of them making it seem awfully small and insubstantial now that he was seeing it. Dorian nibbled the side of his thumb waiting for him to lift the lid. When he did, his eye widened for an instant, then narrowed. He stared at the dragon's tooth halves for a long while in silence. Dorian couldn't even begin to figure out what was going on in his head and was seconds from bolting when Bull finally spoke.

“The Boss was in on this, wasn't she?”

“Er...yes.”

Bull tsked through his teeth. “I'm slipping. Or her Wicked Grace face is better than I thought.” He looked at the halves again, then at Dorian. “Do you know what this is, what it means?”

“She told me...that it was something your people did, to convey...intent. Devotion.”

“In the Qun, you don't have sex for love. But sometimes, you have someone you care about. This is an old tradition. A dragon's tooth, split in two. So that no matter how far apart life takes you, you're always together. It's not often people surprise me, kadan.”

“I know,” Dorian said, automatically smug at actually pulling off the surprise. Now Bull was the one who sounded nervous, and it made his own nerves disappear like smoke. “I had chains made for them.”

“I see that. You put a lot of thought into this.” He lifted the half on the slender chain by his fingertips, letting it turn so the light glinted off the dawnstone.

“I've never had someone to take seriously,” he said, reaching into the box to take the heavier chain. It was long enough to go around Bull's neck without choking him, but not so long that an enemy could grab hold of it to their advantage. “In Tevinter, between men, you learn not to hope for more. But...”

“You getting sentimental on me, Dorian?”

“And if I am?”

Bull smiled then, the soft, gentle smile that he only showed when they were alone. He set down the box and gestured for Dorian to get closer. His fingers should have been clumsy, too thick to handle the delicacy of the fastening. But Dorian wasn't surprised that they weren't. There was a side of this man that only he got to see, and he treasured it. “Kadan.”

It was Dorian's turn then, to reach around his throat with the chain, to clasp the two ends together so it hung straight. Bull's hands had come to rest on his hips, broad and warm and...his. Just his. He laid his forehead against Bull's and closed his eyes. “Amatus.”

Chapter Text

It had been a...difficult day for Cassandra.

She'd started it by losing the leather tie she used on her braid under the bed, making her have to get down on her hands and knees to look for it. Then she'd broken a training sword in the sparring ring. And after that, she'd found Varric canoodling with Hawke in the Great Hall – although that really wasn't what bothered her. What bothered her there was the fact that she'd learned he wasn't going to finish Swords and Shields because he claimed he was no good at romance. Then he allowed himself to get covered in kisses by a very enthusiastic Champion, all while smiling and tickling her. They were so happy together; surely that should give him inspiration?

And to top it all off, Leliana had noticed a streak of white paint between her collar and her hairline. She still felt the burn of her blush.

Now she was in the Skyhold kitchen, having scared away the head cook and all her workers for some peace and quiet. It was early afternoon, and she was well aware that dinner preparations were already in hand. She had the place to herself for exactly 90 minutes. The head cook had had the audacity to ask if she even knew what she was doing in a kitchen. Did everyone think she had always been a warrior and nothing more? Did they think that she'd never had to feed herself while traveling as a Seeker?

Cassandra ignored the little voice in the back of her mind that reminded her of how long it had been since she'd baked. She rolled out her dough with perhaps more force than necessary and it tore. She swore under her breath.

An amused huff answered, and she whirled around to see Amund taking up all the space in the doorway. He'd taken off his headdress and washed off the remnants of paint and mud from their morning spar. The light of the hearth fire painted him in warm yellow and red and some of the aggravation at the day bled away at the smile he gave her.

“What are you making, varvine?” he asked. Somehow that plant had become an endearment and she didn't quite know how. She didn't quite know what to make of it either. Most people would never dare call her anything but her name or rank. Amund was not most people, she was continually discovering.

“An apple tart,” she replied to his question, somewhat sharply. She waited to see if he was going to be incredulous that the Right Hand of the Divine knew how to bake too.

He merely lifted an eyebrow and shifted his gaze to the pile of apples sitting in their basket on the counter. “Would you like help?”

It was her first intention to say no, that she had it well in hand. But she didn't. She needed to roll this dough anew, since it had torn enough that it would never hold as it baked. She sighed and slumped a little. “The apples...”

“Need peeling?” he finished. She nodded and watched him from the corner of her eye as he crossed the kitchen in just three steps and took up the little paring knife she'd laid next to the basket. In his hands the apples looked tiny, and the knife ridiculous. But it was apparent that he knew what he was doing with it, and before long a tidy pile of curling apple skins grew on the counter.

“Here,” she said, bringing him a bowl to put the peeled fruit in so it wouldn't bruise. And for a while they worked in tandem and in silence. She rolled her dough without tearing it this time and began shaping it into the baking dish. She heard crunching and glanced over in time to see him bite off a piece of skin from the back of the knife. She couldn't explain why, but the simple sight made her whole body flush with heat.

He noticed her attention and grinned, then offered her a piece held between the blade and his thumb. Her hands were covered in flour and bits of dough and she wavered for a moment about eating from his fingers. She saw the gentle challenge in his eyes and scowled at him, then bit the peeling close enough to his knuckle to feel it against her lip. He grinned wider at her.

“What sharp thorns my varvine has,” he murmured.

Cassandra snorted and chewed the apple skin. It was tart, the perfect kind of apple for baking. She wiped down her hands when she was done and reached for the bowl of peeled ones, cutting them in half before slicing them thin enough to layer into the dough. Amund, finished with his part of the job, stood behind her and watched over her shoulder.

“Don't distract me,” she said crisply. “I do not wish to cut myself.”

“I would make it better,” he said in her ear and she very nearly did slice the knife over her finger instead of the apple. He chuckled then and she retaliated by pivoting her hip into his, knocking him back a step. His hands braced themselves on her waist and she stilled for a moment before going back to her work. She laid the slices in a spiral starting from the center of the dough and tried to ignore the heat of him behind her.

The apples finished, she needed the spices to coat them and turned around to fetch them only to bump into him. He was an unmoving wall, caging her in. “I need the cinnamon.”

He didn't step away but reached for the earthenware jar that held the sticks of spice. He was smirking as he handed it to her. She scowled, although her heart wasn't in it.

“And the sugar.”

“You are sweet enough.” Now the scowl was genuine and he laughed and chucked her under her chin.

“You are incorrigible,” she snapped, but even to her own ears it sounded weak.

He stepped out of her way, still laughing, and she skirted around him for the canister of sugar. She grabbed the nutmeg too, but couldn't manage that and the rasp, so she set them down to go back for it. Amund was now leaning against the counter, nearly tall enough to simply sit on it. She gave him a push to get him out of her way and he obliged just enough that her elbow grazed him as she held the rasp in her right hand.

The scent of the spice filled the space between them and he inhaled deeply of it, a sound of contentment escaping him that did nothing for her sense of concentration. When she had enough nutmeg ground, she scooped it into a little bowl, then reached for a stick of cinnamon to grind into powder against the rasp. That went into the bowl too, along with a couple of heaping spoonfuls of sugar. She stirred the spices until they were well mixed and sprinkled it over the apples.

Amund kept watching her, but he went back to the pile of apple skins to eat a few more. She was putting the final decorative touches along the edge of the dough when his large hand came into view in front of her face, a bright red skin held between his fingers. She wanted to glare at him, but his playful mood had melted away all her irritation and she took it more delicately this time, a smile threatening to spill across her lips. She turned her head to thank him and he was so close she forgot what she was going to say. Instead she leaned in and kissed him. It didn't stay chaste for more than his swift intake of breath, but she pulled away before their mouths got them into more trouble than they could afford in public.

Now flustered and feeling a bit awkward for initiating it herself, she carried the tart to the oven to bake it. Amund was right where she'd left him when she turned back to him after flipping the sand timer marked for half an hour. He was watching her, his gaze tender. She felt too warm and pretended it was because of the oven.

“Do you like whipped cream?” she asked to fill the silence, realizing that she'd automatically assumed he would be sharing the tart with her.

“Aye.”

Skyhold held many amenities she'd grown used to over the months of living there. Not least of which was a walk-in cold storage enchanted with runes to keep it at a steady temperature. A jug of sweet druffalo cream was almost always on hand. Cassandra knew they were spoiled by it, but couldn't bring herself to complain. The Inquisitor was always teasing her about liking little comforts, but she did it with affection, happy to indulge in the same little things that she'd once apparently taken for granted in her former life. Cassandra grabbed the jug and a whisk. Amund held out a clean bowl for her.

They took turns whipping the cream into a thick mass and it was both silly and intimate. He stood at her back, his long arms reaching around her to take over when she pretended her arm was tired. He made a show of switching the whisk from one side of the bowl to the other, as he was right-handed. In the end, she knew the cream would probably not hold up to the heat of the tart with their lackadaisical attempt, but it didn't really matter. She was enjoying this moment too much.

“The sand has run out,” he said into her ear as she folded some sugar into the cream simply because she could. She caught herself curling her neck so his lips brushed her skin and nearly jumped when he took the invitation to nip her there. No wonder she ended up with paint everywhere, she scolded herself.

“Well let me get to the oven then, you...you...” Words failed her, and he knew it if his soft snort meant anything.

“Fine, varvine,” he said, stepping back to let her move. He sounded thoroughly amused.

“Ugh.”

The tart was ready and she set it on a rack to cool and set before slicing it. They topped their portions with the rapidly melting whipped cream and she watched, satisfied in a way she had rarely ever encountered before, as he took a big bite and hummed with pleasure. It was a precious thing, she realized, to cook for someone. With someone.

“Is it good?” she asked, already knowing the answer because her mouth was full.

“It is perfect, varvine.” He wiped a bit of flour from her cheek that she hadn't even known was there. “As you are.”

Chapter Text

There had been a time, long ago, when the idea of returning to a home was a craving Terisin didn't know he had. Just the idea of a home, an objective that did not move, that did not falter or collapse, was a foreign one. But he had had it once. In a world of mirrors and fog, in the safety of hidden spaces and a history that stretched back farther than the mind could comprehend.

He had had it with Morrigan. And then Kieran, when he was born.

And he had lost it, when his desire to see his son grow to adulthood was hacked apart by the reality of the Calling. He had determined that he would find a cure, that no other father should fail to see his children grow because of the taint. And so he left to search the world for places where the Blight was not.

He and Morrigan did not have bitter arguments over it. Nor did they speak of her and their child accompanying him. She had reasons to stay hidden. And where he was going, there was no guarantee of safety. They did not have just themselves to think about now. But they were by no means happy with the decision to part ways. And the intervening years had changed both of them to the point where little remained of the relationship they'd once had.

Only Kieran kept them bound together.

That did not mean, however, that Terisin no longer wanted Morrigan, that he did not care for her anymore. He did. He cared a great deal, more than he could express. If Kieran was the sun of his existence, Morrigan was the moon. Her pull defined the tides of his life.

He crouched down at the side of the bed and watched Kieran sleep, nestled against Morrigan like a kitten. Her golden eyes had flashed open as soon as he'd entered the room, although she hadn't spoken. Terisin was tired, in mind and body, after traveling with the Inquisitor. He'd only taken time to clean himself up and change out of his armor and into soft clothes more suited to a Dalish hunter. Then he came here to see his son's breathing. To look upon his innocent face and remember the reasons why he still fought against the darkness.

He wanted to wake the boy, to take him into his arms and feel his racing pulse against his own. To know that he was full of life and promise and potential. But it was late, and it was a selfish wish that would keep until morning. Still, under his gaze, Kieran's eyes opened, the look in them so reminiscent of his mother that Terisin had to smile.

“Papae,” the boy said sleepily. “You are thinking so loud.”

“Apologies, esha'lin,” Terisin whispered. “Go back to sleep now.”

“Sleep with us,” Kieran murmured, fading back into his dreams.

Terisin raised his eyes to Morrigan, still watching, still silent. It was her decision, whether to let him stay or make him go. They trod carefully now among these paths. Two strangers once more after a decade of acquaintance. The expression in her eyes grew softer. Entreating. Terisin's breath caught in his throat and he could not speak.

“There is room,” Morrigan finally said. And indeed there was. There was space on the mattress for another body to lay, if they lay close to her.

“Are you certain?”

“'Tis not such a world shaking thing.” Her mouth twisted with a wry smile. “Do not make it so. Come rest.”

He needed no further invitation and crossed to the other side of the bed, kicking off his boots and laying aside his jacket. He slid under the covers on his side, his chest pressed to Morrigan's back. Her hips shifted to curl into his, their legs slotting together like the carved wooden puzzle pieces from his youth. A sigh left his lungs.

Morrigan reached back for his hand and he allowed her to guide it over her and around Kieran. She left their fingers twined together, so that they were both holding him, and each other. In time, he lowered his brow to the back of her neck and breathed in the scent of home.

In time, he slept.

Chapter Text

Dorian, a proud son of the Tevinter Imperium – no matter how degraded and worthless those words might now be – thought it was quaintly adorable that Val Royeaux boasted that anything could be found in its markets. But when he saw the distinctive green glass dome of the conservatory, he admitted, privately, that he might have been wrong.

The hothouse was full of flowers he hadn't seen in years. He stepped into the central room and looked all around. Sweet lilies, sprawling hibiscus, tall palms reaching their branching leaves to the sun, and shy orchids twining up their trunks as they rooted in the living wood. He breathed deep of the heavy, scented air and let it out with a sigh of profound contentment mixed with a little nostalgia.

Regardless of how he felt about his homeland or his role in it, it was warm inside the hothouse.

Bull came in with him, and took an equally deep inhalation. “It's a little piece of home, eh, Dorian?”

“Yes,” he answered, eyes closed in bliss.

“A bit...muggy for my taste.”

Dorian cocked an eyebrow at the Qunari doubtfully. “Isn't Par Vollen one large jungle?”

“Parts of it, sure,” Bull replied, returning his look with one far more sardonic. “A good bit is desert too.”

“Pah, too much sand.”

“Par Vollen's desert isn't made of sand. Not like you're thinking. It's high up in the mountains.”

“Sounds rather bleak.”

“The word you're looking for is austere.”

Dorian snorted. “The word I'm looking for isn't fit for public utterance. Does anything even grow in such a place?”

“Sure. There's lots of places tucked away where life endures no matter what.”

Dorian thought that spoke more of the Qun than it did of anything remotely like the landscape, but he didn't say it. The pair of them wandered through the conservatory, each in their own thoughts, idling away a pleasant hour while Imogen and Solas were off doing something else. At the end of the hothouse was a small shop selling potted cuttings from all over the known world. Dorian thought it was an interesting perpetration of fraud, considering most places in the South didn't have the right climate for these things to grow outside of such artificial containment. Certainly no one was enchanting their houses to be warm and humid.

He saw Bull looking over a selection of small spiky plants, rubbing his chin as if weighing the pros and cons of them, as he did with all things, it seemed. “Something catch your eye, amatus?”

Bull didn't answer, and a peek at his face showed Dorian that he was deep in thought while staring absently at the little bulbs of cacti. Some of them had flowers growing from their tops, while others merely resembled pin cushions like Dorian's nurse used to smack the back of his hand with as a child.

Finally Bull blinked and reached out to cradle one of the flowering ones in his huge hand. A smile creased his lips and he looked miles away.

“Bull?”

“I was thinking.”

“Obviously.”

Bull cut him a stern glance and went back to the cactus in his hand. “It would be nice to have a little green growing thing around, wouldn't it?”

“Are you asking my opinion on whether or not to buy a cactus?”

“Yeah, why not? The room could use some sprucing up.”

“Bull, your room is a tower with half a ceiling, and the other half falling down around your ears. A cactus would hardly survive in it.”

Bull grinned suddenly. “Then it would have to go in yours.”

“Mine? What in Andraste's name for? It would be your cactus.”

“You wouldn't want to keep a plant with me, kadan?” He sounded awfully plaintive, and Dorian wasn't buying it.

“That is entirely besides the point. But why a cactus of all things?”

Bull handed him the little plant and grinned. “I think you'd get along great with it. All prickles and spikes with a lovely little soft spot in the center.”

“Ha-ha, very funny,” Dorian drawled, looking at the plant in his hand as if it might bite him. It was a cactus, after all. It very well might. “I've never been able to keep a plant alive.”

“Ah well, this kind is forgiving. Doesn't need a lot of water and as long as it gets sunlight, it'll be happy.”

“That sounds like a boring life for a plant.”

“Maybe we should get two. Then they could keep each other company.”

Dorian stared at his huge partner, utterly bewildered by the idea that a man like the Iron Bull would not only like to keep a plant but was concerned over whether or not it would be lonely. There had to be more to this insanity than appeared on the surface.

“What's this really about, amatus? Why do you want to get a cactus?”

Bull shrugged. “Doesn't have to be this one. Just...” He grinned again. “Ya know, just something we can share.”

“I suppose it's better than a pet, considering how often we're away,” Dorian mused, still wondering what was going on in Bull's head. “Is this your way of expressing a desire for some sort of domesticity?”

“We already spend every night together, kadan. Would it be so different?”

Dorian leaned back on his heels and crossed his arms, now enjoying the flummoxed look on Bull's face as he seemed to actually comprehend what he'd just said. “We'd have to ask Imogen for something suitable, of course. Your tower is an aforementioned crumbling ruin and my room isn't big enough for two full-time.”

“Would you want to do that, Dorian? I'm asking now,” he added before Dorian could pull off another snarky remark.

Dorian looked at the little cactus in his hand that seemed to have become a symbol for impending cohabitation. It really wouldn't be so terrible, would it? Certainly it would be novel. He looked over the rest of the selection available and picked up another one, this one with a deeply blue flower growing from its apex. “These two look good, amatus. What do you think?”

There was something almost like relief in the set of Bull's shoulders. And something soft in his eye when he inspected the cactus Dorian had chosen. “I think they'll do fine together.”

Chapter Text

Hawke leaned over Imogen's shoulder and smirked. “What do you think, the pair of them gonna be here all night?”

Imogen gazed between the crowded shelves and tables of books to where Solas and Varric were in the middle of some debate that seemed to be growing hotter even as she watched. They had come to Val Royeaux with Cole, and she'd spent the afternoon with him in the market square, letting him heal all the little hurts he could find while she sipped on a coffee and Solas just watched. Hawke and Varric had come with them on the pretense of getting away from Skyhold for a while and just being together. The fact that they accompanied the Inquisitor and her 'arcane advisor' was purely incidental.

Now they were all gathered in this bookstore and Imogen and Hawke were frankly bored to tears while their respective partners argued over the finer points of...

“Are they actually arguing about typeset?” Imogen asked, incredulous.

“Varric is very particular about that sort of thing,” Hawke replied, her tone full of amusement and long standing forbearance. She poked Imogen in the shoulder. “Shall we leave them to it and find something more worthwhile of our time?”

Imogen watched the pair for another moment, seeing the glinting light of unholy trickster god in Solas's eyes. If she knew him, and she did, he was quite likely baiting Varric into the argument deliberately for whatever reason. The enjoyment of a verbal spar, no doubt. She pushed off the shelf she was leaning on and approached the proprietor, who was eyeing the elf and the dwarf with a dubious expression.

“Feel free to kick them out when you're ready to close.” The face behind the half mask fell into a relieved smile and Imogen then turned to the pair of them, still bickering. “Gentlemen,” she called. “Elly and I are leaving. We'll see you back at the hotel.”

Solas waved a hand absently, using his other one to point something out to Varric while he rambled in his scholarly way. She didn't stay to listen to Varric's response, but she could tell it was exasperated. Hawke linked their arms together and they were laughing by the time they hit the street.

Val Royeaux at night seemed to be a whole different city. Most of the nobles had vanished, leaving only the merchants and masses of laborers about as they sought places to leave the day behind them. Hawke threw back her head and took a deep breath, then stopped to see where they were.

“Let's find a tavern. I could use a drink.”

“Honestly, why do we even put up with them?” Imogen joked, knowing full well why they did. Hawke answered anyhow, beaming.

“Because we love them, Maker save us.”

“So are we in the mood for something lowdown and dirty or a little classier?” Imogen asked as they ambled along.

Hawke gave her a once over and snorted. “You in a lowdown, dirty tavern would bring the wrath of Josephine Montilyet on us both. I'm not that reckless.” Strains of music could be heard over the foot traffic and general noise of shops closing up for the day. Hawke pointed towards it and, with her arm still in Imogen's, directed them both that way. “That looks respectable enough.”

And indeed, it was. The music was cheerful and there were people dancing to it. Hawke got Imogen a mug of cider and a tankard of ale for herself. They sat in a corner and people watched. Imogen didn't know how long they sat there before Hawke was tugging on her hands and dragging her in the direction of the cleared space where the dancing was going on. Laughing and protesting, Imogen followed her and soon enough they had joined the line of dancers in some fast paced spinning kind of thing as the bard played a rollicking tune.

Out of breath and thirsty again, they went back to their drinks to find them empty. This time Imogen went up to the bar to order. Hawke was looking at the door when she returned.

“Do you think they went back to the hotel? We didn't tell them where we went.”

“If they want to find us they will.”

“How?” Hawke didn't seem truly bothered, more curious than anything. Imogen gave her a lopsided smile and wiggled her marked hand.

“Solas can find me anywhere.”

Hawke nodded. “Yeah, that does sing fairly loud.”

Imogen had forgotten for a moment why Solas could find her anywhere, and that she probably shouldn't have mentioned it. Hawke's words made her pause in the act of lifting her cider. It hadn't occurred to her that any mage could hear the Anchor because it was so intrinsically connected to the Veil. “It does?”

“You don't hear it?”

Imogen shook her head, feeling loose and relaxed after two ciders and their frenetic dancing. “Not a mage.”

“Ahh, right. Well,” Hawke saluted her cheerfully, “suffice to say it makes a racket if I'm not actively ignoring it. Shall we dance some more?”

Imogen grinned, and this time led the way.

Hours later, sweaty, stumbling and giggling, Imogen and Hawke decided they should probably get back to their respective men before they started to worry. They got turned around and lost, and Hawke had to ask for directions back to the market district where they were staying, since Imogen was tittering too much to form coherent sentences.

They found the hotel at last, and fumbled their way up the stairs. The noise finally drew Solas from a room, Varric peeking out behind him. The elf looked stern, but the dwarf was chortling.

“I told you they'd be fine, Chuckles.”

“They are quite inebriated.”

“Yup,” Varric agreed. He held out his hand for Hawke to take and she nearly fell onto him in her rush to take it. “I'll see this one to bed safely. I've raced this tourney before.”

Solas maneuvered Imogen into their room and shut the door. She was draped on him, happily soaking in his presence as the night flitted through her mind. She'd had fun with Hawke, not that she'd thought she wouldn't. It was nice.

“Unknown, unrecognized, unburdened,” Cole said from the top of the dresser where he sat with his legs hanging down, feet kicking idly. “No one knew who I was, and no one bothered me.”

“Cole, you're still here!” Imogen cried to him, giggling. “That makes me happy.”

Cole's hat dipped but she could see his smile. Solas, in the meantime, had sighed and his face had let go of the stern expression.

“It seems you needed a night out,” he said, supporting her around her waist when she threatened to fall over. “I do not envy you the head you will have in the morning, however.”

“I'll be fine,” she said breezily, waving her hand. “Just need some water.”

“Ma nuvenin, arasha.”

She giggled harder, trying and utterly failing to get out of her boots, vest and trousers all at once. Solas sat her down on the side of the bed and undressed her. Cole had disappeared. She got her water, and a mild soothing spell through her head courtesy of Solas's long fingers on her temples, then she collapsed onto the straw and feather mattress.

“Did you have fun, arasha?” Solas asked, climbing in beside her and arranging her limbs so that he had room. He pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“I did,” she murmured, drifting off already. “Who won the argument?”

“That depends on your definition of 'winning',” Solas said, and she could hear his smile. “Varric left the bookstore before I.”

She snorted. “So you did, you trickster.”

“Go to sleep, vhenan.”

Imogen hummed, meaning to retort, but she never quite got the words to form before the Fade rushed up to greet her.

Chapter Text

The camp was busy, filled to the brim with all of their companions and scouts. Cassandra was used to busyness after all these years, but she was tired of the mental cacophony it brought. Slipping away to a quiet spot near the fire with a bowl of stew and a chunk of bread managed to soothe her exhaustion for a moment.

Having Amund sit next to her did that even better.

They were careful to keep some space between them, however. They did not touch, did not look at each other for fear of broadcasting too much. She wanted to, oh how she wanted to. The scant inches of empty space burned with the need to fill them by sliding closer. But the Iron Bull was watching, in between baiting Dorian into sputtering and the Inquisitor into laughing. Varric was watching, his gaze unfocused but his mind whirling, as it always did. The Inquisitor was watching too, although her expression was the simplest to discern. She was happy for them.

Cassandra finished her food and stood up to take her empty bowl to the water barrel where it would be washed. Well, she tried to, anyway. Her leg had grown stiff after their hurried travel to get here in time, and now it seized up with a cramp and she stumbled. Amund's hand shot out to support her at her elbow and for a blazing second his heat permeated through her armor and into the center of her chest.

Their eyes met for a fleeting instant. There was a wealth of thoughts and feelings rushing through her mind. Want, frustration and relief. He was safe; they would have time.

His fingers withdrew from her arm and she saw them spasm, then ball into a fist to keep from reaching for her again. She felt cold without his hand on her now, but tried to ignore it. “Are you all right, Seeker?”

His voice carried, she noted, covering over the lapse in discretion with genuine concern. She had learned well not to assume that he was an untutored savage just because he was Avvar. He knew the rules of engagement. He played them well.

“Thank you,” she said, just as clearly. “I am fine.”

The conversations among the others picked up again, filling the slice of silence that had fallen when she stumbled and Amund caught her. A quick glance showed that no one thought anything out of the ordinary had occurred. The only eyes still on them were the wolf's, and he did not speak. Although his gaze was uncannily intelligent, in Cassandra's opinion. Amund said he was god-touched. She knew what that meant to him.

Spirits in the animals. The Chantry would call them Abominations and call for their wholesale slaughter, she thought. But here, in this region, they are revered. What a strange world.

She limped across the camp and put her dirty bowl with the rest, thankful that the shadows were deep this far from the campfires. She took a moment to center herself, to discreetly stretch out her sore leg and yes, to blush furiously over the whole thing. From the safety of the dark, she allowed herself to look back at the Sky-Watcher, allowed herself to wish that they could be alone without distractions. She allowed a bit of hope that soon enough they would be to bleed through. She caught him in the act of turning his head away from where she was standing, as if he'd watched her all the way across the camp. He likely had.

She blushed anew.

Chapter Text

Many years ago, before Chantry explosions, before the Arishok, even before the Deep Roads, Varric had made a promise.

“You watch over my daughter, Master Tethras,” Leandra Hawke's voice echoed in his head. “She feels things too deeply, and they tear at her.”

He had sworn that he would look out for her, and keep her from coming apart at the seams if he could help it. He knew that he had failed from time to time. But he never forgot to try.

His suite looked like a bomb had gone off in it.

Standing in the doorway, he assessed the chaos to see if he could find its root. Hawke's clothes were spilled over the bed, onto the floor and across the table where they ate. The remains of a dinner tray peeked out from under a shirt. It looked like she'd been organizing things when whatever happened happened. A glance at his desk showed that his papers were in their usual piles, although they seem to have been mussed up a bit from the neat stacks he usually kept them in. A bottle of ink was smashed on the floor, but his pen had been tossed back onto the surface of the desk. There was no sign of Hawke.

“Elly?” he called into the room. The only answer he got was the near silent sound of water moving. He closed the door, locked it, and then stepped carefully over the mess to the bathing chamber.

Hawke had her back to him in the tub, her shoulders hunched so her spine stuck out, her hair a sodden, dripping tangle around her ears and neck. An empty wine bottle had rolled against the tub, its mouth staring at him like a baleful eye. Varric stripped off his coat and gloves and rolled up his sleeves. He had a promise to keep.

Hawke wasn't going anywhere, so he left her in the tub and set about righting the strewn about clothes from the bed. He'd need that once he'd gotten her dry and dressed again. Methodically he folded up shirts, trousers, smallclothes and socks, piling them into the chair so they didn't just spill all over the place again. Halfway through, he found a locket Hawke had carried with her since Lothering. It had belonged to Bethany. He thought perhaps he knew what had set Hawke on this path today.

In fact, he was certain of it as soon as he recalled the date.

He opened the locket, as he had many times before. Leandra and Malcolm's portraits looked out at him, their faces painted to show happiness and love. Hawke had told him once that she'd taken the locket that day. That she'd carried it for a long time without wearing it because she couldn't bear to be reminded of her sister's death. After the Deep Roads and returning to find Carver had become a Templar, she'd begun to wear it in defiance. Nothing would come between her and family again, not even her own grief. After her mother's death, she stopped. The grief was too much to bear. It had won.

Varric hadn't seen it since the night of the Chantry explosion. He'd watched her toss it into her knapsack, along with a strip of red cloth that had once adorned Anders' staff. Mementos of a life lived...and lost.

He closed the locket and tucked it back into the pocket of her bag, snapping the little compartment shut, his fingers lingering on it for a moment as he collected himself. He had done what he could to clear the bed of its mess, now it was time to take care of her. His own memories could wait.

She was still sitting in the tub, hunched over and miserable. The water had gone cold. There was nothing Varric could do about that, so he tugged on her arms until she started to get up, sloshing water everywhere from the listless flailing of her limbs. He dried her off with a thick towel, neither of them meeting the other's eyes. They didn't need to anyway. It wasn't the first time Hawke had slid into the abyss of terrible memories, nor would it be the last. And when he stumbled over the obstacles of his own life, she did the same for him as he did now. They teetered together, broken and crumbling, but together.

He pushed and pulled her from the bath to the bed, sitting her down on the edge of it. The towel hung on her shoulders like the saddest cape he ever saw. He grabbed smalls and a shirt. One of his, the first one he could reach, but it didn't matter. What mattered was getting her warm again. He dressed her as he would a child and she let him, her eyes closed. He made her lay down and covered her with the blankets. Hawke sighed, not in contentment, but in exhaustion. Varric stood there a while, his hand on her shoulder as slowly she eased into sleep. It was growing dark in the room when he pulled away.

He lit a single candle and carried it over to his desk. With a hand broom he swept up the shattered glass from the inkwell then soaked up the spilled black ink with a rag. He wasn't angry. He wasn't even afraid. But he did feel helpless against this tide, no matter how many times he'd been there for it. He didn't know what else he could do. Eventually, after straightening the piles of notes and papers and letters he'd been steadily ignoring for months, he stripped and climbed into the big bed with her.

She was a light sleeper and, as soon as his chest hit her back, she woke. He heard her sharp intake of breath. He held her close, his arm wrapped tight around her until he could feel her heartbeat against his skin. For a moment she shuddered with unspent tears, but then she relaxed in his embrace, her lips grazing his knuckles.

“Thank you, Varric. Today is...”

“I know what today is, Eliana. I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner. I'm so sorry.”

“It just was...overwhelming. Thinking about it all. Mother always loved her birthday.”

“I know.”

“I should write to Carver.” She paused and another breath shuddered in and out, her breath on his arm ragged. “I don't know what to say to him.”

“We'll figure it out, Sparks. Together. I'll help you.”

“We're all orphans, V. Why are we all orphans?”

A wry snort escaped him before he could stop it. But the sound of it must have helped, because she grew more pliant in his arms, nestling close to fold her legs over his. He pressed a kiss to the back of her head. “I dunno. All I know is that I'm here, and I love you.”

“I love you too,” she whispered, then her breathing evened out once more. Varric wasn't sure when he fell asleep, but when he woke, they were still there, wrapped around each other.

Chapter Text

Terisin's life had not gone to what could conceivably be called a plan. Dalish hunter turned Grey Warden turned father was not a path he might have foreseen for himself. And there had been more twists and turns on the journey of his life than he cared to list. But there were bright, shining moments too.

He watched Morrigan leading Kieran in a training exercise. Their son held a short staff as he mimicked his mother's complex gestures and movements. Occasionally he would ask a question, and Morrigan would halt their progress to answer it. He saw flashes of pride in her eyes that Kieran had such avid curiosity in their shared legacy as mages. There was a thread of fear behind that pride, however. Their son was no normal mage. But she did not ever let that fear stop her from teaching him all the knowledge she possessed.

Terisin spent a pleasant hour watching them, and when Morrigan had released Kieran to go off and do whatever it was he did in the keep without their supervision, she turned to him with an arched brow. “You have a strange look about you.”

“How do you mean?”

“'Tis strange, but you look...contented.”

“Why is that strange, ma ean'nydha?”

She made a face at the endearment, not quite a sneer, not quite a smirk. It fell somewhere in between, something Morrigan excelled at in his opinion. He, in turn, smiled at her, waiting to see where she was going to go with the lead he'd given her. But she didn't take it. Her face fell, not sorrowed exactly, but...melancholy.

“What is it, Morrigan?”

“Contentment has ever had a high price.”

He took her hands in his and looked at them. They were rough with callouses, the nails no longer manicured and painted as they had been when she walked at the side of Empress Celene. But they were still as familiar to him as his own. He laced their fingers together, feeling a sense of rightness in the gesture. Morrigan had never cared for sentimentality, and yet she craved the foundations upon which such reflections might lie. He lifted their joined hands and placed a kiss on her knuckles.

“Not so very high. The touch of one's beloved, seeing the sun shining in her eyes, basking in the warmth of her care for her child. These are simple enough objects of contentment.”

Morrigan scoffed, but he noticed her cheeks were pink and grinned. “You, ser, are a maudlin fool. Such romantic ideals when the world is ending.”

“Oh, Morrigan,” he laughed, tugging her close to wrap his arms around her. She resisted for perhaps a few seconds, then embraced him back, her head tucked against his neck. “When has the world ever not been ending for us?”

“A fair argument.” She sighed softly, but she did not let him go. “Am I still your beloved?”

“Always, ma ean'nydha. The light of my days, the mother of my child, the keeper of my heart.”

She drew back to scowl fiercely into his face, the expression cracking at the edges when he laughed. Now she was exasperated, but it was with fondness. “You are ridiculous, Ter.”

“Come here, woman,” he murmured, clasping her tight. “Kiss me and tell me you love me back.”

She was still scowling at him, but her lips were soft when she obliged him. “I do,” she said when she pulled away. “I do love you, Terisin Mahariel. To the end of my days.”

“And I you, Morrigan. To the end of my days.”

Chapter Text

The day was done and Imogen sat on her sofa in front of the fire, waiting for Solas to arrive. These were her favorite hours in Skyhold, when the fortress had stilled from its daily business. When strains of Maryden's playing drifted up through the balcony doors from the Herald's Rest on a breeze sweetened from the garden. When she could put down the mantle of Inquisitor and just be Imogen again.

Solas, when he arrived, was looking at a scroll he held unfurled between his hands, barely paying attention to the stairs or his surroundings. She smiled softly, recognizing that glint of fascination in his eyes as he read whatever it was. But she noticed that he was rolling his shoulder too, as if it was bothering him.

“You all right, love?” she called across the chamber. He glanced at her briefly, finished reading the scroll and let it curl back up before placing it on the end table.

“I am fine, arasha. Merely sore.”

“You getting old on me, Dread Wolf?” she teased. He aimed some sardonic side-eye at her, making her cackle. “Well, c'mere, sit down in front of me.”

Now the side-eye took on a more dubious cast as he raised an eyebrow at her. With an exasperated huff, she tugged on him until he was positioned on the floor between her knees. She kissed the crown of his head and smoothed his sweater out. Then she kneaded her fingers into the meat of his shoulders.

Solas groaned under his breath, and Imogen wasn't surprised. His neck was tense enough that the muscles felt like rocks under her hands.

“What on Earth were you doing to get this tight?”

“I was...moving the scaffolding...in the rotunda...” he grunted out as she worked a particularly hard knot near his spine.

“Solas! We have workmen to help you with that sort of thing,” she scolded. “Please tell me you weren't doing it one handed while you were at it.” His head turned slightly and the tips of his ears went red. Guilty as charged. She tsked. “How far did you move it while carrying a palette full of plaster?”

“Only to the...augh!” His spine arched and went rigid, her fingertips still on the tender spot where she could actually feel the knot in the muscle tissue.

“Oh for...take your sweater off and go lay down on the bed,” she ordered, standing up herself to rummage through her array of lotions and unguents that Josie was forever getting her. “This calls for more drastic action.”

She chose a bottle of royal elfroot oil and came back into the chamber in time to see him standing at the edge of the bed, bare from the waist up. For a moment she just stood and let herself be distracted by the dimples peeking out over the waistband of his leggings. Her gaze slowly traveled up the length of his spine lovingly. He was lean like a marathon runner, with long muscles defined under his skin and barely any fat on him, no matter how much she tried to feed him. Freckles dotted his shoulders, painting his skin just like hers. Sometimes, in the deepest, most hidden corner of her mind, she wondered what their children might be like, should they ever have any. Both of them being so fair and red-headed, after all.

Not while the world is burning down around your ears, Genny.

She cleared her throat and he turned to see her there. A smile creased his lips as if he knew what she was thinking. But that was ridiculous; they'd never spoken about it once. And she knew they probably wouldn't until all of this was over. She was okay with that.

She gestured for him to lay down and get comfortable while she tucked the bottle of oil into a fold of the blankets so it didn't fall over. For the sake of her own comfort, she decided no pants would be best...fully aware that it would probably lead to one or both of them exerting all the muscles she was about to work on. She straddled his thighs so she had room and coated her hands in the elfroot oil. Then she smoothed them up his back from his hips to his shoulders, applying just enough pressure to make him hum. She grinned and did it again, just lightly pressing into his skin. She could actually see his shoulders relax and his head loll into the pillow he'd stuffed under his chin.

With each pass she applied a little more pressure, working out the tension slowly rather than by force. She settled into a rhythm, going nearly as relaxed and zoned out as he was. Her hands tingled from the constant friction, but in a pleasant way. And she noted with deep satisfaction that Solas had nearly fallen asleep under her hands. He was pliant and loose from the nape of his neck to his butt. She didn't know how much time had passed, but it was full dark and the music coming out of the tavern was drowned out by a steady patter of rain.

When she was finished working on him, her legs were trembling from the strain of holding herself up. She sat on his thighs, hands braced on either side of him, to rest. One silvery blue eye opened and landed on her and even from her position she could feel the heat of it.

“Better?” she asked.

“Much. I was not aware you were so good at that.”

“Well...you never ask.”

He shifted under her, starting to roll over. She went to move off of him, but he held her in place, keeping her straddled over his legs until he was on his back. Then he pulled her upwards to let her land on his hips. She squirmed; she was not wrong about the massage having had another effect on him.

Solas smirked at her, sitting up slightly to pull the pins from her hair so it cascaded around her face in bouncy coils. “I believe I should return the favor.”

Chapter Text

Imogen came to awareness that she was in the Fade when she recognized the stepping stones set in the ground under her feet. She had not dreamed of her father and step-mother's house since arriving in Thedas, and the shock of it was almost enough to wake her. But she followed the stones, hopping on each one as she had when she was younger, around the house and to the glorious backyard Jill had always maintained. Where she herself had pulled weeds and ambled along with the hose every summer from the time she was thirteen.

The garden was in full bloom and the air was warm. It was less a memory of a specific time than it was a recreation of what she held tightly locked within her heart. It ached, but not in a terrible way. Nostalgic, perhaps. A place she loved deeply, but no more or less than she loved Skyhold. Or Wisdom's nook.

The air stirred nearby and she turned, expecting to see her father or maybe Jill stepping out onto the back deck, drinks in hand, ready smiles on their faces. But instead she saw the spirit who was as dear to her as any memory of family. Thinking of her must have called her.

“Da'len,” Wisdom said, looking around herself at the garden full of flowers and bushes and vegetables in their tidy plot. “What is this place?”

“My dad's house, back on Earth. I used to spend summers here when I was younger.”

“It is beautiful.”

Imogen took a deep breath, smelling the cut grass and the flowers and the earthy green scent of tomatoes. “It is.”

“Will you show it to me?”

“Of course.”

She took Wisdom's hand and took her around the garden, pointing out all the things Jill had planted and tended over the years. Tall spiky plants with tiny violet flowers that Jill had called obedient plant. Bee balm,where bees, butterflies and a single emerald green hummingbird sipped from the delicate blossoms. A sprawling poppy, the heads hanging heavy. Day-lilies, coneflowers and fat peonies. Two roses climbing up a trellis to keep them from snagging clothes. The vegetable bed, ripe with tomatoes, cucumbers, string beans and peas. A single velvet leafed eggplant grew squat but sturdy among the more trailing vines. Wild raspberries tangled on themselves at the corner of the house.

They ended up back where they began, and Imogen led the way up the deck stairs, finding the same worn canvas-backed chairs that had sat there since before her father and Jill were married. Sweating glasses of iced tea appeared on the table between them and Imogen sipped it, feeling the cool and the sweet land on her tongue. There was a hint of mint in it, the way Jill had always made it. Out in the yard, she heard goldfinches flying back and forth. If she lingered and let the dream move into the evening, the bats would emerge from their daytime hiding places, doing aerial acrobatics as they chased down insects.

“It was a vibrant world you left behind,” Wisdom said.

“Not all of it was like this, but...yeah.”

“Your memory of it is strong, da'len. Faithful to the original, given this tangibility.” She held her glass of tea in her hand and inspected it, as if she'd never seen anything like it. She probably hadn't, or at least not in ages uncounted.

“I know this yard like I know my own two hands.”

Wisdom smiled, serene as always. “Have you brought Pride to this place?”

Imogen shook her head. “This is the first time I've dreamed of it since...”

Wisdom's touch was ethereal, but it was also a comfort. “Thank you for sharing it with me, da'len. I know it must be painful to remember. Ir abelas.”

“It's not as bad as I thought it would be. I miss it, of course, but...I think I've accepted that I'll never go back. Thedas is my home now. Maybe that's why I dreamed of it. A memory and not a mourning.”

“I will hold onto this memory for you. So that you will never be without it, here where we can walk through it in your dreams.”

“Thank you, Wisdom.”

They sat in their chairs and drank their iced tea until the dream ran its course. When Imogen woke, she half expected tears on her cheeks, but there were none. She rolled to her side and found Solas still asleep, his face smoothed of all cares. She kissed his cheek, eliciting a half smile from him, and got out of bed, ready to face the day.

~Fin~