#return to halamshiral

[invinciblerodent]

[A codex entry reading:

"Elsewhere, around an anatomical sketch:

Reclaimed. Though damaged beyond repair, the Anchor's condition-- used both to mend and destroy-- is fascinating. A detailed study will consume what remains. But it may also yield the final elements that have eluded me."]

Solas stole my fucking hand

[extravagantfool]

♤ — my muse in a specific location ( asker’s choice ) halamshiral

Send one for party banter from... // Inbox Open!!

Asha: We went to Halamshiral once-- the troupe I was in, I mean. It was rough. Asha: The troupe I was in specialized on dazzling shem nobles, they were a bit lost with all the elves. Asha: It was kinda nice though, I got some good food at the market stands you can't sell if there's too many shem around. They hate bugs for some reason. Asha: There was a pair of elves I remember -- a hot one with Vallaslin and a short one without. Maybe related? Or maybe the lady was his kid or something. I don't know. Asha: I just know the guy saw right through me and my Ringmaster; first time I've ever seen someone do it on first meeting.

[evanhereonearth]

VEILGUARD ENDGAME SPOILERS

He collapses the moment the rift closes behind us.

I fall with him to the floor, my own strength giving out after these long years, and I draw the Fade around us like a nest. In a heartbeat we are surrounded by soft grass, growing shamrocks, plush moss. A bower of branches cradles us, gentle and alive.

My arms pull him to me, into the embrace of my form and the forgiving earth where I can enfold him in every bit of love I have stored away for him. My hand smooths his face where Elgar’nan’s archdemon battered him. Traces the tear tracks in blood.

“Are you—truly here?”

His voice is hoarse with the ravages of what he has endured.

“Where else would I be, vhen’an’ara?”

The softness in my words seems to shatter him, and his eyes fill once more. “I did not want you to see—”

“I have seen all there is to see of you, my heart. My spirit recognised yours all those years ago. There is nothing you have done that makes you unworthy of my love, Solas. Nothing you have endured, nothing you have survived, that could make me love you less.”

“Vhenan…”

“You found my messages.” I watch his eyes, tinged with violet amid the grey-blue. He blinks, but no tears fall, only soak his lashes. He nods. “I found yours.”

He doesn’t speak, but his throat bobs as he swallows.

“I learned our first time at Halamshiral your other names,” I tell him. “I learned your true name not so very long after Halamshiral the second time. How much it must have tortured you to see yourself written on my face every time you looked at me, inked there in service of the one you loved who returned such abuse.”

Solas flinches from the word, but he is past dissembling. I remember Cole, in a panic, begging Solas to bind him. “It’s not abuse if I ask!” And I remember Solas’s rebuke.

I touch the scar above his brow where he burned Mythal off his face.

“Ar lasa mala revas,” I say to him, the phrase he once said to me when he removed Mythal’s vallaslin from my face, the phrase she was too cowardly to use herself. Too proud to say she was sorry even as she set him free.

Something in him unfurls, unclenches.

“I told you once why I chose her vallaslin,” I say.

He dips his chin to say he remembers. “A reminder of what we do not know, you said. That we can learn.”

“Yes. But I did not tell you all of it.” I pause, sliding closer so my face is level with his—I do not wish to be looking down on him. “In that temple, everywhere I looked, your wolf statues sat adjacent Mythal. Anuon told me I was blaspheming to say perhaps we did not fully understand you; I chose that vallaslin because of you, in a way. Because even before we met, you challenged what I believed to be true about my world, about my history, about myself.”

He reaches out and places his hand over my heart, like I once did for him in our bed high above Skyhold. I mirror him with my own. His face relaxes in increments, whatever remnants of the mask of Fen’Harel that linger melting into an aching tenderness so wholly for me that my own eyes prickle.

“I never left your side,” I say, my soft words barely above a whisper.

“Nor I yours.”

For the first time since Dragon’s Breath, Solas reaches for me. The gentle firmness of his touch brings with it warm tears spilling over my eyes to cool upon my cheeks. Without a word, he tilts his head upwards to kiss them away.

“The spirits have named you,” he tells me after a moment, almost bashful as he searches my face, still looking for any hint of regret. “That was the single hope I have clung to, the only one I allowed my heart when I thought of you, vhenan. It is why—it is why I left you the letter. So you would know that…so you would be certain my heart was still yours, regardless of your choice.”

I know what they have named me, but I want to hear him say it.

“You have always been Sileal,” I tell him. Wisdom. “What is it they have called me?”

He touches my face like I touched his, tracing my freckles, my dimple, my scar.

“They call you Enaste, da’lath’in,” he says. “The spirits of the Fade call you Grace.”

[lana-writes]

a soft, silly dream

A Solas x F!Lavellan fanfic

Word Count: 2.3k

Rating: Teen & up

Tags/Warnings: Some suggestive content, kissing, fluff, angst

Summary: After the ball in Halamshiral, Inquisitor Lavellan indulges herself in private by reminiscing about the better moments from that night when she receives an unexpected but not unwelcome visitor in her chambers.

Read on AO3 | Masterlist | Character Letters (Etsy)

They had only returned from Halamshiral three days before but after taking a day to rest, Althima spent the next two in meetings with her council as they planned for their next operations. There were still the Grey Wardens at Adamant to deal with among what felt like a never ending list of other tasks awaiting her attention. It was Josephine who chose to break for the evening, noticing they were all weary but that their Inquisitor was also visibly fatigued. They had already decided on the council’s tasks and given Althima their recommendations for where to direct her attentions next. She accepted them graciously and would determine her own next steps in the next day or so. For now, she was tired. Tired of talking and correspondence and people asking her for judgement or opinions or favors or blessings or whatever else. 

She took her supper in her room and afterward, paced around the space as she mulled over the day, allowing her mind to wander for the first time since they returned. Memories of the ball in the Winter Palace were still fresh in her mind. Gaspard and Florianne were dealt with. Brialla and Celene were allied once again, now with the Inquisition as well. And all that was a relief but she still thought about the sight of it all. The grand ballroom and her announcement and presentation to the court. The fine silks and brocades and jewels glistening in the candlelight. Music, laughter, and whispers alike all drifting through the air like smoke, as potent as it was transient. In another context it might have seemed like a fairy tale or something out of a novel she’d picked up while traveling with her father to sell his wares near some human settlement. 

Solas standing in a shadowy corner, out of the way and observing, glass in hand. He seemed somehow more at home there than most other places she’d seen him. He lit up at the machinations of the court. His comments about the power, danger, and sex that permeated events like this had lingered with her. If they had more time and perhaps less eyes on her, she might have asked him to elaborate, but they hadn’t the opportunity. 

Their dance, though, was the sweetest way that night could have ended. Not only had they achieved their goals, emerging victorious, leaving Orlais safer and more stable, gaining a powerful ally in the process, but after all was said and done, she still got to sweep around her own private dance floor in his arms. A small moment of joy amidst the chaos and danger. She felt safe there with him, without fear or worry. Their mission didn’t exist for a short while. 

Alone in her chambers, she tried to recollect the tune they’d danced to. As she hummed it to herself, changing her pitch or the melody as she searched for it, she swayed in place, then took a few steps back and to the side. Before she realized what she was doing, she was retracing their steps with her arms slightly raised as if on his shoulders, her hand in his again. Her eyes closed and she could feel it again, almost. The rhythm and sway of their movements. The cool breeze coming over the mountains and the vibrations of the crowd and orchestra just on the other side of the doors. 

When she opened them again, she wasn’t alone. Her hand flew to her heart as she gasped at Solas leaning back against the railing in front of the stairs. He had that same gentle smile on his face and his hands clasped together in front of him. 

“I apologize,” he said, “I did not mean to surprise you.”

“I didn’t expect you,” she breathed. If she was still catching her breath from the dancing or the shock, she wasn’t sure. 

“I had not seen you today, but when I arrived, I did not wish to interrupt,” he said. “It was beautiful to watch you move so freely.” Heat filled her cheeks as she smiled.  

“It feels silly almost,” she said, shaking her head, “to be dancing and daydreaming when everything is so dire.” 

“Perhaps,” he said, standing again. He began to walk towards her. “I would not recommend dancing in the throne room or a council meeting, but myself and the birds,” he glanced towards a crow sitting outside her open balcony doors, “do not mind.” He stopped and bowed to her, offering his hand as he had that night. “May I?” With a grin, she let her hand slide into his. 

“But we have no music,” she said. 

“That has not stopped you before.” He drew her close, his hand on her waist. His face inches from her own. It took nearly everything in her not to lean forward and kiss him. “Besides, I believe I can recollect a tune or two.” He smiled and began to hum as he took the first step. 

Like the birds rising and falling in the clouds outside her window, they glided about the room. His tune was not one they heard in Halamshiral nor one she’d ever heard before, at least she didn’t think she had. It was quicker and brighter than the dance they’d shared before. After a minute or two of it, the tune was nearly forgotten but for the guiding rhythm it offered them. He continued humming intermittently and she began to pick up a few notes of it, repeating the melody where he faltered. Breathless and grinning ear to ear, they twirled a bit more beyond where their breath began to fail them. Finally though, she spun away and back into his arms again, her back against his chest and both their arms wrapped around her. With that he stopped and they stood there, their breathing quick and light. She let her head fall back against his shoulder, eyes closed but her lips parted in a smile. 

It was as she imagined. It felt that way, at least. It’s so simple and childish, she thought, to find such joy in a man’s arms like this. But she was grateful for how indulgent he was. 

“Where did you learn to dance?” she asked. Her hands in his refused to let go and leave this embrace, not that he was trying to release her. 

“You remember I spoke to you of my witnessing balls like those of Halamshiral while in the Fade,” he began. His breath brushed against her ear and cheek as he spoke. “I found an echo of one long ago near where Denerim is in the waking world. A spirit of love still lingered there and saw me watching the couples dance and court one another. They offered to teach me so that I might know how to court someone similarly one day, when love should find me again.” 

“I should thank them,” Althima chuckled. 

“If we cross paths once more, I will be sure to thank them again,” he said, pressing his lips against her flushed cheek. She loosened her grip and turned in his arms to face him. Leaving his hands on her hips, she brought her palm to his cheek, resting her other on his neck. 

“And what of the song’s origin? Where did it come from?” She studied his face, endlessly fascinated by him. There was so much he knew and had seen through his walking in the Fade. 

“That is a similar story but far more precious and rare,” he said. “I happened across the echoes of a pair of elven lovers separated by circumstance before the Fall of Arlathan. Memories that old are extraordinarily rare, but this one was guarded by a Spirit of Hope that never let the young maid lose faith her lover would return to her. He did, eventually, but for a very long time, she sang that song given to her by the spirit in the hopes that it would keep the joy of their love alive even as their world seemed to crumble around them. As with a memory so old, the words have been lost as the shadows of the lovers have dwindled and all but disappeared except in the memory of that spirit, but the music persists, as music often does long after its lyrics and composers have been forgotten.”

“That’s beautiful,” she said. “It’s good that they found each other again.” 

“Yes.” 

“I’m very glad you found me,” she added. “For a number of reasons.” 

“As am I.” His hands spread across her hips further, pressing her more firmly against him. Her thumb stroked his cheek as she studied his face. For as much as she felt that she knew him, he was still so much of a mystery. The breadth of his experience continually felt both fascinating and far more extensive than she could ever truly know. There was so much uncertainty about him too. He hesitated so often and yet, they’d still shared such bold flirtations, such fiery kisses. He’d expressed an uncertainty and indecision regarding their relationship followed by confessions of love. What else was she to take from this dance but further confirmation of his affection? Regardless of his wavering though, she knew how she felt and in that moment, with her golden eyes meeting his grays, she couldn’t not speak what was in her heart. 

“Ar lath ma,” she let the words tumble from her lips. He had not heard them from her before. He hadn’t given her the chance after walking away as soon as he had said them himself. The softness ever present in his eyes shifted for a moment as he smiled at her again. There was a sadness in him. She’d seen it before but he had not spoken of it, and it seemed as though he would not speak of it. It scared her but like his uncertainty, it did not deter her. There was enough between them already that she knew whatever else he might carry with him would not sunder it. Her feelings were that strong even now. 

“Ma vhenan,” he whispered as he leaned forward. His forehead met hers and he took a deep breath. Their noses met, brushing back and forth. She wanted to kiss him so badly, she crept forward until his lips met her own willingly. Gentle and closed at first until his reluctance left him once more, then his fingers grasped at her hips and he lurched forward hungrily into her. She had a hand on the back of his neck and one clutching at his tunic as she parted her lips for him. For as strongly as they felt, they’d spent far too little time just like this for her tastes. He felt similarly though he was loath to ever admit it. 

She had never wanted someone like this before. Physically, completely, desperately. Little had ever felt so thrilling as his hands upon her body or his breath meeting hers. His tongue reached for her own as she allowed him in. Their breath was hurried yet stilted and their hearts pounded as his hands dipped up beneath her tunic just enough to feel the bare skin of her back. She wished he’d pull it off as her own fingers reached beneath his collar, eager to feel any ounce of his skin she could reach. What little he offered wasn’t enough to satisfy her then. She wondered if any touch of his could ever satisfy her if that touch would always end. 

Their lips broke apart and though their noses still touched, she felt him shake his head. For fear he’d pull away, she pressed forward and kissed him again. He didn’t, not at first. He kissed her again firmly, intently, while holding her against him with more force than he’d dared before, only to release her and take a step back. His hands drifted from their place at her back to the sides of her hips. Her own fell to his arms and down to his wrists as he backed away. She wouldn’t hold him there if he wished to leave but her wide eyes and soft, parted lips were begging him without saying a word. His hands found hers and held them tightly, thumbs drifting back and forth across her knuckles. Was this meant to be soothing? Would he leave again?

“Solas,” she said. “Will you–” She shouldn’t say it, she knows, but she can’t stop the words now. “Will you not stay,” she continued, “here tonight? With me?” His face, his eyes, they looked so sorrowful but then his smile returned. The sweet, gentle look he offered still couldn’t hide the other look in his eyes and that was the one that scared her, that left a pit in her stomach instead of butterflies. 

“I should not,” he said. “You need your rest, vhenan.” He brought her left hand to his lips and kissed the mark. 

“If you do not wish to,” she began, but wasn’t sure where she was going to end that sentence. 

“That is not– I–uh,” he stopped and sighed, looking down at their hands. “It would not be appropriate now. The last days have been long, and I should leave you to your rest.” His eyes met hers once more, careful in their expression as he sensed her unease and disappointment. He gave her a smile as he took another step backward towards the stairs, hands slipping from her own. 

Hands and arms that were once so full of love were now left empty as she watched him walk to the stairs. He seemed good at that, she thought, making the world feel so full and alive and larger than she ever considered, then leaving it feeling so small and dim and bare the moment he turned away. It seemed a trend with him, offering her understanding and affection then pulling away the moment that things became too real, too intense, the moment that she reached for him too. He stopped at the top of the stairs, giving her one final, loving look before he descended.

“Sleep well, vhenan,” he spoke softly and sincerely as though he were apologizing.

“Goodnight, Solas.”

Check out my other works on my masterlist

[sha-brytols]

“Your nature pollutes us,” the Keeper said slowly. “The poor creatures in the alienages you think of as elves are but poor cousins, lost to us forever. Some clans might accept a few of them to strengthen their numbers, or even out of misguided pity, but they are not our people. Do you understand that, shemlen empress? You think to offer a partnership, to let us sit in Halamshiral and deal with shemlen merchants and flat-eared peasants who have forgotten everything of ancient Elvhenan, and bow to you on your throne in Val Royeaux.” He shook his head. “If you and Gaspard slew each other, and the war killed every human in Orlais, and burned every alienage to the ground … then we would be willing to return to Halamshiral.”

i dont even know what to add to this all i have is this

[loquaciousquark]

[Fic] Lavellan, A., Pavus, D. [1/1]

Rating: G Characters/Pairings: Solas/Lavellan, minor Dorian/Bull Fandom: Dragon Age Word Count: 6.2k Summary: Dorian and Adahla exchange letters and write an academic paper. Set post-game, pre-Trespasser.

—

Dear Dorian,

I’m glad to hear you���ve arrived safely in Minrathous. Leliana’s scouts informed us some of the caravans north had been waylaid by bandits, but I should have known with Bull and the Chargers along, nothing could delay you. Everyone sends their love except Sera, who’s instead defaced every page in this sheaf and then run laughing up to the roof. The rude gesture in the corner is from her.

Varric has asked twice now in his offhanded way if the Inquisition might be traveling along the Imperial Highway in the next few weeks. He’s eager to return to Kirkwall, even if he’s allergic to saying it straight out, and Vivienne has wished to speak with a band of Aequitarian mages in Val Royeaux for some time, so I expect we’ll bivouac our own way north shortly. Please post your next reply to Halamshiral and we’ll pick it up on the way.

As regards your last letter: I appreciate your concern, but I’m quite all right. I know I was unlike myself on our recent adventure into the Deep Roads, but your forbearance with me (and my uncharacteristic impetuousness) was very generous. I’m fully recovered now, I assure you, and have put all distractions behind me. My solemn oath to stop jumping off ledges without looking is inscribed here for your approval.

Speaking of approval, please look over the changes I’ve made to the Ameridan paper (enclosed). The green ink is addition, the red revision, and the blue strikethroughs have been cut. In particular, please review the section on Ameridan’s known—and most incontrovertible—history, especially the citations from Renaures and Bescond. There’s a Genitivi monograph I’m trying to track down which would do a great deal to preempt Chantry objections, but I’m having difficulty laying hands on an unaltered original. I have high hopes one might be hiding in a University of Orlais library, but until I can coax the librarian to pack it in goosedown and ship it east, Renaures is our strongest advocate.

—

Links: FF.net, AO3

[lafaiette]

The level of disappointment I feel for the new dragon age game is just so consuming. Like I'll admit that after so many years, I didn't think it would hold true to what the previous game set up. But I hate that I was right, and I hate that a game series I loved so much sas turned into what it is now. I didn't buy it at launch because I wanted to wait for a sale, but with all that I'm hearing I'm wondering if it's even worth it. I'm just so sad for how this all went and I wish it hadn't happened. It even makes replaying the old games feel like scorched earth because nothing I do will have an effect on anything. It never mattered. The game that said my choices matter has now said "actually you never mattered" and I'm so heartbroken about it.

It even makes replaying the old games feel like scorched earth because nothing I do will have an effect on anything. It never mattered. The game that said my choices matter has now said "actually you never mattered" and I'm so heartbroken about it.

This is also one of the most painful parts for me, together with the way they handled - or ignored - a majority of the established lore.

In Veilguard, we learn that the majority of the South is basically gone: Denerim is lost, Redcliffe is under siege, getting help from the dwarves of Orzammar, who are already stretched thin. The ruler of Ferelden is never addressed - what happened to them? Are they still alive? Are they defending Redcliffe? We'll never know.

Orlais is also lost. Val Royeaux and Halamshiral are barely holding on, and a noble faction decided (for some stupid reason) to join the Venatori and spread even more chaos. The ruler of Orlais is never addressed - are they dead? Did the rebel nobility kill them? What happened to Briala's elves? We'll never know.

Kirkwall has fallen, and Aveline has been forced to evacuate the city and move the few survivors to Starkhaven. We know that Varric is dead, so Aveline or someone else will have to take his place, if Kirkwall can even be recovered (doubtful at this point).

The Blight is back in Ostagar and the Korcari Wilds, too, with only some Avvar and Alamarri clans keeping things under control while in a temporary truce with Ferelden.

Everything we ever accomplished in DA:O, DA2, and DA:I is gone. They turned the South into a blank state so they can leave it there, ignoring it, now that the focus will be on Those Across the Sea, as the secret ending slide shows. This blank state will also allow them to return to the South, should they ever wish to, but without the need to take into account the players' past choices, because everything we knew, everything we built and fought for, is gone.

"Oh, Ferelden changed so much in the last twenty years or so, ever since that terrible Blight caused by the elven gods!"

"Orlais isn't the same anymore, there is another civil war because we lost our previous ruler. Who was it? Oh, I don't know, I wasn't born yet, I couldn't care less."

"Pity about Kirkwall. I heard it was a shithole, but the beer at the Hanged Man was apparently pretty good."

^ This is what we will get in the future.

[dalishious]

Reclaiming Independence of the Dales

Before anything else, I’d just like to clarify that that vast majority of this is made of my own ideas, based on interpretation from the little canonical information provided, and a little inspired by my own people’s history and governing structure. Additionally, what I am presenting here is an ideal situation, not necessarily what I think is an immediately realistic outcome in the world-state established. So, please keep that in mind.

The Dales were established as a homeland for elves—a small piece of a continent that was once called their home in its entirety, before the humans colonized it—by Maferath in -165 Ancient. This was in reward for the eleven people’s participation in the fight against Ancient Tevinter. But in 2:10 Glory, Divine Renata I broke this treaty and declared an Exalted March against the Dales, ending in its annexation by Orlais.

[Related Post: All You Need to Know about the Exalted March of the Dales]

If Solas has very low approval with Inquisitor Lavellan, and Lavellan accuses him of not doing enough to help their people, he will say the following: “You could order Halamshiral returned to the Dalish, if you wished. But ultimately, you know that would fail. That even you cannot solve this.” I hate this with a burning passion. The reason I can’t do that, Solas, is because it’s not an option in the game! Why are you as a character angry at me, the player, for not doing something that is not an option for me to do? Why was this written? Just to push the point that it’s not worth it to try and fight back against oppression? Because if I refuse to accept hopelessness in real life, why would I in accept it in a video game where the story is made-up, and therefore anything is possible if the developers so wish it.

Regardless, according to Solas, the Inquisition has enough power to support the reclamation of an independent Dales. I imagine this would require a lot of political maneuvering within the Orlesian governance, and therefore I think the best opportunity to do this would be with Briala ruling through Gaspard. This would then later open the door for Briala to be the leader of the newly independent Dales, too. I would like to see Briala as ruler of the Dales not just because she is a favourite of mine, but because I genuinely believe she is the best established character fit for the job. She was trained in everything Celene was trained in, has first-hand experience in court, has extensive connections, and has demonstrated her ability and desire to utilize these skills and assets for the benefit of elven kind.

Briala’s blackmail on Gaspard may help prevent Orlais from invading again while under his rule, but to last longer, the Dales would need to establish itself as a strong, independent Nation with allies. This is why I believe it would also be important to have Leliana as Divine Victoria in such a world-state where this could happen. Leliana re-canonizes the Canticle of Shartan, and in making it available for the common person to understand, would ideally help sway the minds of the average Andrastian into supporting the Dales’s independence. The nobility would of course be much trickier, because they and the Chantry are the ones who actually benefitted from its annexation—but there is little they would be able to actually accomplish if they did not have the power of the people behind them.

As far as allies go, Ferelden could only gain from Orlais losing control of the Dales, because it would mean cutting Orlais off from a lot of Ferelden’s border, therefore reducing the threat of another invasion. Additionally, a leader with just plain good morals like say, Alistair, would easily accept the elven kingdom’s return. But even Anora is willing to grant part of the Korcari Wilds to the Dalish if Mahariel requests it, and while this sadly doesn’t last, it does show a positive sign into her potentially being open to the idea of an independent Dales as well.

I sincerely doubt that all Dalish clans would return to the Dales and re-settle down. After all, they have developed differentiating cultures over the years of wandering in separated groups, with different ideals and different ways of life that they might not want to give up. But many would return, and that would likely create conflict between the elves coming from the Dalish clans and the elves coming from the cities. We know that some prejudice exists against “flat-ears” as some Dalish call those from the city, and we know that city elves have adopted a lot of misinformation from humans into their views of the Dalish. It would take time and positive leadership to reconnect the people, without risking falling into some sort of hierarchy based on origin. This is why I do not believe one group or the other should single-handedly rule alone. Rather, I think there should be a Grand Council of High Keepers made up of those voted into the position each to represent a single district of the Dales. (I like the idea of there being seven High Keepers, not just because there are seven traditional districts of Mi’kma’ki, but because it works out that there seven of the Creators. So it makes sense that there would be seven High Keepers.) The Grand Council would meet and make decisions together, with one appointed leader at the head to act as the Council’s chair.

In terms of protection and order, the Emerald Knights should be reformed. This would include the Fade Hunters, to protect the people against demons and maleficarum, with there being no Circles or Templars.

Restoring the independence of the Dales would lead to a revival of elven culture in ways that could never happen before, because they would actually be free to pursue re-learning the language, re-discovering the history and culture, and sharing it all amongst each other. They would not have to fear arrest the crime of simply being an elf.  

But what of the other races presently living in the Dales? I see no reason why they would have to leave, so long as they would be willing to follow the Grand Council’s leadership. I imagine many nobility would flee to Orlais, simply because they would not stand for it. But for the average human or surface dwarf, their life wouldn’t really even change much; they’d still be managing their farms the same as always. Hell, it might even improve things for them, assuming the Grand Council gives fairer treatment than the nobility previously.

[daitranscripts]

Emerald Graves Area Introduction

Get Your Comfortable Boots

Emerald Graves Masterpost

Harding: Good to see you again, Inquisitor. Hope you’ve got your comfortable boots on. The scouts have seen a number of Fade rifts, all over the forest. We’ve located this mysterious “Fairbanks.” He won’t share his information with anyone but you. He and his men are camped out at Watcher’s Reach, on the path ahead. From what we can tell, they’re refugees from the war. Peasants, mostly.

Dialogue options:

Flirt: I do like these little chats. [1]

Investigate: Tell me about Fairbanks. [2]

Investigate: Anything about the area? [3]

General: I’ll be going then. [4]

1 - Flirt: I do like these little chats. PC: I do enjoy these encounters. It’s like we’re getting to know each other. Harding: We are, aren’t we? Such a shame our meetings are so brief. But, you know, saving the world and all that. Busy, busy! [Return to dialogue tree.]

2 - Investigate: Tell me about Fairbanks. PC: Tell me everything you know about Fairbanks. Harding: We don’t know much about him. He appeared after the civil war started, helping people fleeing from the destruction. “Fairbanks” is likely not his real name. [Return to dialogue tree.]

3 - Investigate: Anything about the area? PC: Do you know anything else about the region? Harding: They call this place the Emerald Graves. Legend says that a tree grows here for every elven knight of Halamshiral who perished in its defense. Makes you sad, doesn’t it?

Dialogue options:

General: Yes. Truly. [5]

General: I don’t let it bother me. [6]

General: It’s history. [7]

Dalish PC: “We are the last elvhen…” [8]

5 - General: Yes. Truly. PC: What was done to the elves here was unforgivable. Harding: Never again. At least, I hope not. [Return to main dialogue tree.] 6 - General: I don’t let it bother me. PC: Thedas is soaked in blood. If I worried about those who’ve died in every place I went, I’d be a sobbing mess. Harding: That’s… one way of thinking about it [Return to main dialogue tree.] 7 - General: It’s history. PC: It’s in the past. I care more about the future. Harding: Then let’s pray something like this never happens again. [Return to main dialogue tree.] 8 - Dalish PC: “We are the last elvhen…” PC: “We are the last elvhen, never again shall we submit.” Harding: Oh, I… I’m sorry, Inquisitor. I spoke thoughtlessly. [Return to main dialogue tree.]

4 - General: I’ll be going then. PC: Thank you for the information. I’ll head out.

Harding: Ah, one other thing.

If PC has been to the Exalted Plains: Harding: You’ve tangled with the Freemen of the Dales before. They have a presence here.

If PC has not been to the Exalted Plains: Harding: A group of deserters from the Imperial armies has established itself here. “Freemen of the Dales,” they call themselves. They are hostile to the Inquisition… and everyone else.

Harding: Watch your back, Inquisitor.

[rhoxxia]

95 for the prompt! 🤭

Oh lovely lovely this one! Thanks for the ask! Please send more! Also this is gonna be blasphemous lmao

Prompt was: kisses exchanged as they move around, hitting the edges of tables or nearly tripping over things on the floor before making it to the sofa, or bed.

She stands with back turned to door- to him- long hair like ink pulled over one shoulder; dark against the light tan of his tunic. Wearing this only, he feels heat grow beneath his flesh as he watches her.

She looks to the statue of Andraste- the one with whom the shemlens have declared she heralds, whether it be willing or true. The figure, with arms raised, might feel welcoming to her followers- to her children but there is nothing to see here for Solas except her.

Ellana.

This is blasphemous.

Solas steps silently toward her but she knows; knows in the way that only two parts of another can know that he is there. Only hours back from the Winter Palace, he returned from bathing to find his tunic gone; replaced by Ellana’s fine clothing and a brief note.

The Inquisitor requires her Elven serving man in the room of prayer.

A challenge. An invitation. A promise.

Solas had seen the way her eyes had delighted at the title at Halamshiral: the same shimmering desire they displayed now as she turned to him. He had known then she would call for him. The V of his tunic laid low between the valley of her breasts, nipples hard- long front stretch of clothing over his beloved place between strong thighs.

“I need you.”

Lips meet like crashing of waves, hands grasping where they can; nails biting and teeth- oh. His tongue is pulled into her mouth and it is too much.

Staggering over half-melted candles, he leads her to outstretched arms and marble skirt. She stumbles on step two and three, fingers on erogenous ears and it is his turn to stumble now- step one.

Solas leads her back, a broken chandelier butted away with heel so that he may press her to winding vines on false Bride. The sound she makes is worthy of more than he shall ever be. Down to his knees in supplication, hot lips press to thigh as eyes ask of her a question- permission.

“Serve me.”

It is blasphemous.

What his Inquisitor commands, he joyously obeys.

[songofamazon]

A Circle Unbroken

This was inspired by a prompt from @thedissonantverses Challenge Weekend: "A Circle Unbroken." That was begging to be a later scene in "Iron and Ice," my new-ish Neve Gallus x Vivienne de Fer fic.

It will definitely be edited to reflect whatever happens between chapter 1 and this once I get there, but I had fun imagining this bit today.

(1612 words)

Vivienne gazed down from her balcony near the peak of the White Spire of Orlais. The imperial palace had fallen, and soon after the Grand Cathedral. Smoke, Blight, and chaos wreathed the streets below, but somehow, the Circle still stood.

Somehow?

No.

Vivienne knew exactly how. She had seen to it that the White Spire would hold against the torrents of terror and violence outside its walls.

Leveraging Divine Victoria’s influence and her own authority over the Circle’s mages and templars, Vivienne transformed the fortified tower as a place of refuge for all who wanted it and were willing to leave any conflict at the gates.

Now, hundreds of clerics and other chantry staff tended hundreds more refugees from all races and walks of life right alongside the Circle’s mages. Templars and mages from more remote loyalist Circles, and even some from the so-called College of Enchanters, joined to their numbers. Living quarters were cramped. Blankets and curtains made temporary living spaces in the dungeons for those who wanted more privacy.

Mages healed the sick and renewed the wards against the threats outside. Templars guarded the gates and more precious storerooms, now that their duty of collecting and tagging refugee weapons was complete. There would be no fighting in this tower. The Divine’s most trusted clerics worked alongside Vivienne’s most level-headed templars to insure that. Existing Spire staff as well as capable refugees saw to food, sanitation, and cleaning in the tight spaces. And a single Gray Warden who had been traveling through Val Royeaux when chaos struck offered her services in ensuring that no Blight found its way inside.

Their operation was carefully monitored and adjusted at each level, and, so far, it worked. Sealing the gates five days earlier had been both the most important and most soul-wrenching act under Vivienne’s command.

Could they have fit a few more? Perhaps.

Would allowing entry to more have reunited more families and brought more supplies? Also perhaps.

But it could have just as likely brought conflict and Blight into their midst.

Vivienne already had too many in her care. She owed those charges security and well-being. She could not risk it.

She gazed past the smoky haze to the east. There had been no reply to her missives to Halamshiral in too many days. Fair few of her messenger birds from anywhere returned. Could the awakened Blight snatch a raven out of the sky? She shuddered at the thought.

And to the north? The horrible red light of the weeks-long eclipse cast shadows of blood.

Only divine-like power could have moved the moon and held it in such perfect, obscuring orbit—divine like magic already demonstrated by the unleashed Evanuris.

Vivienne would not speak those suspicions aloud. She left interpretation of the signs to the sermons of the Divine and her clerics. It was better that way. Let people have hope in their Maker.

As for her?

The Maker and his Bride felt more distant now than ever, with the earthly presence of the two ancient elven gods claiming divinity, power, and dominion for themselves.

Even Solas’ awakened power far out-stripped her own.

While Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain took their seat of power in the North, it would not be long before they cast their blighted gazes South. Neve and her Veilguard would need all the power they could get to hold it back—without Vivienne.

Nothing good moved on that northern horizon. No messenger birds there, either. Only blood, fire, and death.

“Worrying about your allies?” the Divine observed as she approached.

Vivienne’s fingers went to the intricately worked though false gold and brocade collar necklace that Neve had bought off a hawker in Minrathous what seemed like an age ago. Vivienne had changed back into proper Orlesian fashion upon her return to the Spire weeks ago, but she couldn't seem to bring herself to put away the trinket.

Fine robes rustled at the doorway between her suite and the adjoining suite she had lent to the Divine.

“Always, your Radiance,” Vivienne admitted, “And my charges, the refugees, and the state of the world.”

“Vivienne! How often must I tell you? It’s Leliana in private,” she chided. “But as you say, it falls to all of us to worry, to pray, and to serve those who need us.”

“As we do here.” What did Leliana want from her today? Or rather, what need had the clerics—or her spies—identified within the Spire? Neither woman had the luxury of idle chatter these days.

Leliana smiled knowingly at her. “You express more than you think, Madame de Fer. And I was once an accomplished player of the Game.”

“But I think,” Leliana started impishly as she joined Vivienne at the balcony railing, “You are missing your lady love most of all.”

Vivienne jerked her hand away from the necklace. “I have uttered no such—“

“You never stopped, my dear.” Vivienne favored her with a weary smile.

“Just don’t tell my clerics. But you’re deflecting,” Leliana teased, then sobered, “But there is never anything wrong with worrying for those you love—or in loving at all.”

“My dear Leliana, you know as well as I do that women of our responsibility have naught the time nor the risk of vulnerability for love.”

“So you say,” Leliana hummed to herself. “Don’t fear. I hold secrets close. But, you haven’t heard from them recently?” She shifted subjects so quickly, Vivienne had not time to protest. Leliana had that infuriating knack, which she deployed so cheerfully.

“No,” Vivienne admitted with a sigh, her gaze tracing north again, in some desperate, frivolous hope of a messenger bird. “Not since the eclipse started. All of us—those of us mages with sufficient skill to sense it—are certain the power that wrenched the moon from its place came from the north. Likely Tevinter.”

“Where your Scout Harding and the rest of her team have been working,” Leliana nodded solemnly. “I have heard nothing from her or any of my people outside of Orlais either. I don’t think my birds can get past the miasma.”

Vivienne forced herself to turn away from the balcony edge. “And so we focus on what is here, and try to plan for a future past this ruin, do we not?”

“One day at a time,” Leliana agreed, then drifted back towards her suite’s door. She paused suddenly, half-way across the common room. “Vivienne? I believe your closet is knocking.”

“What?” Vivienne strode towards her, hearing the polite knocking of a hand against wood as well. The eluvian! Her fingers shook as she pulled the keys from her belt and rushed to the doors. Drawing them open, her heart sank.

A young woman with Dalish tattoos not unlike the Inquisitor had once worn stood silhouetted in the dreamy shimmer of the elven mirror. She wore the colorful, gilded leathers that Vivienne had come to recognize as one of the Veil Jumpers.

Looking only a little shaken, the Veil Jumper announced, “Correspondence for Grand Enchanter Vivienne de Fer.”

Masking a disappointment that she would not name, Vivienne replied coolly, “I am she.”

“Then this is for you,” she produced a folded letter addressed to Vivienne with a shaky, childish penmanship.

Rook.

Vivienne broke the seal and skimmed the note. There was no mention of Neve, but the child who called herself the leader of the Veilguard yet lived, and the ‘god’ Ghilan’nain was dead. There was hope.

“What is it?” Leliana asked, drawing nearer.

“A council of allies is being called to the Lighthouse in the crossroads,” Vivienne replied, “To plan a final assault on Elgar’nan’s seat of power, to which I have been invited, as Grand Enchanter of the southern Circles.”

“Do you wish to send a reply,” the Veil Jumper asked, adding an awkward, “My Lady.” This one had obviously only ever heard of court.

“You will go, obviously,” Leliana said.

“You assume much, your Radiance,” Vivienne countered, “My people need me, here.”

“Your allies up north are going to assault the throne of a god,” Leliana stepped closer. Her playful lilt had been replaced by the steel of a spymaster. “They need you! Maker, Thedas needs you! They need us, the whole White Spire.”

“But—“

“I will not be interrupted, Grand Enchanter,” Leliana’s hair fell freely around her face in the privacy of their rooms, but all the regality of the sunburst throne hung on her countenance. “Your system of care for the refugees here can practically run itself, and what cannot, I will see to. The mages, templars, and any others who would wish to fight this new world order deserve a chance to do so. Your eluvian crossroads and ‘council of allies’ provide the chance to do so. Would we not regret giving all we could to save this world we love—who we love—if our help could tip the balance from defeat to victory?”

Breathless, Vivienne’s heart raced. She pushed away the memory of a Tevinter woman’s wry smile, those lips on hers.

“If that is what the Most Holy decrees,” Vivienne dipped her head in a bow. It was a show for their visitor, of course, but perhaps just the reminder she needed.

“It is.”

“Then,” Vivienne turned back to the messenger, “Please inform dear Rook that she can expect my presence as soon as I assess our resources and settle matters here.”

The Dalish woman gave a shaky smile of relief. “I will convey your reply.”

“And we will make ready.” Vivienne waited until the messenger retreated back into the Eluvian to lock it up again.

There was much to do, but—

I’m coming. Neve, I’m coming.

[tevivinter]

Hiii

For Marel Lavellan/Dorian from the pinning list: actual hearteyes

- asexualtabris 💜

thanks for the prompt! <3 here's a pre-relationship pavellan for @dadrunkwriting

Dorian had expected a peaceful, quiet afternoon in the gardens; just him, his glyph studies, and perhaps a glass of wine later. Birds chirped in the distance, dipping into the fountain. The sun bathed Skyhold in a warm, golden light, and Dorian found a pleasant spot beneath a tree, the shade cooling his skin as he opened his book.

It would have been the perfect setting to focus — if not for Marel.

Of course, it wasn’t as though Dorian’s entire attention gravitated towards him. That would be ridiculous. Clearly, the reason he had read the same paragraph five times was that the glyphs were particularly intricate. It had absolutely nothing to do with how the Inquisitor moved across the garden with Josephine.

They were practicing dance steps again, a necessary preparation before Halamshiral. Dorian had heard about their sessions in passing, but this was his first time witnessing them. And now that he had the chance to observe, it became clear that Marel would need more than a few days. Perhaps a few months, at least.

Dorian winced as the Inquisitor stepped on Josephine’s toes for the third time, his movements possessing all the elegance of a drunken nug. Josephine, ever patient, guided him with gentle corrections, but Marel remained stiff as a door, his steps forced and unsure.

It was almost physically painful to watch. And yet, Dorian couldn’t look away. Not because of the dance, per se, but because of the rare vulnerability hidden in Marel’s face.

The Inquisitor’s brow furrowed with concentration, his gaze fixed downward as if this would stop him from trampling Josephine. His grip on her hand was careful, as though he feared he might hurt her. For all his intimidating presence and sharp tongue, there was a gentleness beneath it all. A man who tried, despite his discomfort, because he cared.

Dorian’s chest tightened. He forced his gaze back to his book, though he read nothing.

Josephine eventually stepped back, offering a polite smile. “My apologies, Inquisitor. I have a meeting to attend. Shall we continue tomorrow?”

Marel nodded, though his frown deepened. “Of course.”

As Josephine disappeared into Skyhold’s halls, Marel exhaled heavily, running a hand down his face. Dorian considered returning to his studies, but then Marel’s voice drifted across the garden.

“Am I doing that terribly?”

Dorian blinked, meeting his gaze. “Pardon me?”

“You’ve been watching the entire time,” Marel strode toward him, arms crossed. “You know what I’m talking about.”

Dorian opened his mouth, then shut it. He composed himself, closing his book with exaggerated calm. “I'm afraid I don't. I was quite busy.”

Marel glanced at the book, then back to him with a deadpan expression. “You’ve been on the same page for half an hour.”

Dorian felt heat creep up his neck. “Well, these are very complex glyphs.”

“Sure.” Marel arched a brow but let it slide. He hesitated, then rubbed the back of his neck. “Listen — Josephine is a wonderful teacher, but she’s... too polite. If I must dance at this damned ball, I need someone who will tell me when I look like an idiot.” He paused, scanning Dorian’s face for an instant. “Will you teach me?”

The question caught Dorian completely off guard. He recovered quickly, however, masking his surprise with a smirk. “How could I refuse when you ask so nicely?”

Dorian stood, brushing off his robes. He approached Marel, positioning his hand on top of his arm, the other holding his palm. He glanced up, meeting eyes that were the color of molten gold.

“The first rule to survive Halamshiral is knowing how to waltz without offending anyone,” Dorian explained. “Show me what you’ve learned.”

Marel pursed his lips and started to move, his form decent but stiff. His eyes soon flicked to their feet.

Dorian squeezed his hand lightly. “Keep your eyes on me,” he instructed. “And do try to relax. You look as if you’re bracing for a demon attack.”

Marel’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Isn’t that what dancing with Orlesians is?”

Dorian chuckled. “Perhaps. Although, with demons, you can stab them and call it a day. Sadly, that won’t be an option at the Winter Palace.”

Marel exhaled, his shoulders finally loosening. They found their rhythm, the dance slowing into smooth rotations. The small distance between them was maddening — with their hands linked, Marel’s warmth seeped into Dorian’s skin, his heartbeat racing with the contact. Dorian’s throat tightened, but he forced himself to keep his composure.

The Inquisitor was an attractive man, surely. But it was the way he softened in these rare moments that made Dorian’s chest clench with something unknown. Beneath the hardened exterior and the scowl was someone who cared deeply. And when Marel smiled like this, genuinely pleased, Dorian felt the rest of the world fade away.

They danced until the sun began to dip below the mountains, laughter following their steps, teasing remarks filling the spaces between. And for a little while, there was no Inquisition, no Orlesians, no looming threats.

Just them.

And the quiet rhythm of their feet in the garden.

[hoboblaidd]

@keepslore asked:

Deshanna Istimaethoriel has been Keeper of Clan Lavellan for twenty-five winters, and she has used the sethene’ra—the Fade Herb—only four times. Once, for each Arlathvhen since her own Keeper had passed, and once when the Fifth Blight threatened her Clan, and she made to warn the others.

A few weeks ago had been her fifth use of it, to warn her First’s Inquisition of an attack that had befallen her.

Deshanna Istimaethoriel has known Dhavihal for thirty-five winters, and though she knows death has nearly gripped her First many times while the girl was away from her, she has only seen her defy death once. —Girl, she catches herself. Girl. Dhavihal is nearly forty, she is no girl. Sometimes it is hard not to see the wide eyes of the child who had once been permitted to call her Mamae.

The Keeper sighs and opens the small sachet of herbs she carries. It is the same sachet she has carried all twenty-five winters, the same sachet her Keeper carried, and she will need to refill it before Dhavihal will carry it. She takes a bit between her fingers and stares at the fire, mentally preparing herself for her sixth use. It is always strange, and stranger how familiar it feels.

The smell of the burning sethene’ra fills the air—Deshanna could never get used to it—and she lies down, closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, she is in the Beyond.

She walks some way, and wonders not for the first time at her First’s claims, that this had all once been part of the waking world, too, and that Fen’harel had put up the Veil to separate them. —That the girl had fallen for Fen’harel, and he for her. That he had saved her. And condemned her.

Deshanna will not be of this world forever—her soul will soon travel beyond the Veil, returned to the Beyond, where it will dance until being called back again to the physical world—she wonders how many more times Dhavihal will be condemned and saved.

With a steadying breath, she speaks into the land of dreams; “Fen’harel lay ar sinan.” May the Dread Wolf turn his gaze to me. “Ferenalen Lavellan mala dirthara.” The Keeper of Clan Lavellan seeks your truth. Fen'harel's truth. Her own Keeper would laugh at her.

The things one does for those they love.

//i realized halfway through writing this that it can’t just be a one-off, but i’d already written half of it, so it’s fine i’ll write deshanna for the single, short back-and-forth of the not-mother-in-not-law call, and then never again. (stares at this now that it's out of gdocs and into ur askbox) don't match length i was just ~~establishing~~

----

I see you, Deshanna Istimaethoriel, Keeper of Clan Lavellan.

The great wolf lurked at the edge of her dream, its six eyes unblinking in the light of the Fade.

An old incantation, he greeted in Elvhen, his words more echo than voice. I have not heard it since the fall of Halamshiral. It was said warriors invoked the Dread Wolf before a desperate battle, and prayed that their warriors would be more cunning than the humans who sharpened their blades.

The Fade shimmered, changing its shape into a simple woodland glade. A ring of trees encircled the Keeper, their branches thin with spring blossoms. They swayed in a gentle breeze, and a high morning sun danced beneath their branches.

The wolf walked the ring of shadows, his eyes on the Keeper.

He entered the glade not as Fen’harel, but as a man. Solas wore only a threadbare tunic and ragged leggings, his feet bare beneath simple bindings. His shoulders were turned inwards, his cheeks freckled but gaunt, and his careful steps barely disturbed the soft dewy grass. A humble elven apostate, just as he’d first appeared at Haven. The only detail missing was the wolf’s jawbone around his neck.

"I fear the truth is far more mundane," said Solas. His voice no longer echoed, and the words no longer shook the ground. He sounded nothing more than a tired, old elf. "The spirits here are my friends. They heard you call for me, and told me of your coming.”

His mouth pulled into a smile, more mischief than mocking, and impossible to read. “Which of my truths do you seek, Keeper?” he asked, and nodded at the ground. “Mind if I sit?”

[evanhereonearth]

Ilaana thinks she knows, but she doesn’t.

She will.

From Halamshiral to Halamshiral, she traces the lines between the map of hints, learning, always learning. A stray word from Cole, her intuition strong enough to work out the impossible secret her love was hiding and instincts loud enough to scream that if his secret were simply names, he would have told her here.

From Halamshiral to Halamshiral.

“I do adore the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex that permeates these events,” from the mouth of Fen’Harel the night she lets an empress die for the genocide committed against an alienage.

Through the Temple of Mythal, through the whispers of the well, through Morrigan explaining the ancient elves to the ancient elves themselves, her love among them, through Crestwood when he walks away, through the second Breach and broken orbs, through her naked face where Mythal’s vallaslin once lay like spring green upon her skin, through Wisdom to Pride and back again, into the depths of the titan’s truth, through his silence in the blue glow of lyrium, through Ameridan and Telana dreaming, dreaming, searching, grieving.

From Halamshiral to Halamshiral, quiet whispers in the Inquisition as spies from outside trip over one another, no sign of Solas except what she senses in waking and in dreams, that there has to be more, and everything she has pieced together points to the veil.

“What would you have me do?”

“I would have had you trust me!”

She thinks she knows, but she doesn’t. She still doesn’t know. There is a difference between knowing and knowing, and she is still years off knowing.

“Let me help you, Solas.”

“I cannot do that to you, vhenan.”

“But you would do it to yourself? I cannot bear to think of you alone.”

“I walk the din’an shiral. There is only death on this journey. I would not have you see what I become.”

She thinks she knows. She will learn what she does not know.

But he also thinks he knows. He will learn too.

Banal nadas. Ar lath, ar lath, ar lath.

He takes her arm; he frees her from the Well’s compulsion, what remained after he broke the unwitting bondage of her vallaslin. She feels something different but does not understand what, not yet.

From Halamshiral to Halamshiral and then beyond. Into the depths of the Fade, seeking as he taught her to seek. Into the depths of the earth, seeking as he feared she would seek. Into the depths of her heart, seeking a truth he dared not seek himself.

Echoes of a dead empire.

Spirits who know his names.

Memories. Remnants.

Those she does not trust fall away. Varric she lets return to Kirkwall, where she visits, pushing at the edges of his stubbornness where she can, fruitless against what he feels to be true about the world. Vivienne she keeps as close as an enemy should be, Vivienne who front-loads her barriers and calls Cole a demon because she understands so little in her expertise. Sera she helps flit away, never challenging, never letting closer than a prank or two.

Cullen, she treats with gentleness. She helps him with his templars, teaches them a softer side of magic, how to breathe through their fear, why their blood sings out for connection to something they don’t understand, how they can find that connection in transcending the terror. Tiny challenges, chips in the bulwark of the Chantry’s prison of lyrium, slow healing with the hand of a friend between their shoulder blades.

The Seekers sow new seeds with Cassandra, and she helps them, too. Helps them understand that their existence is intrinsically touched by the Fade, that their discipline and their training circumvents the fears of the templars to remake them, shows them that their incorruptibility is built upon the foundation of spirits who are and always have been here to help.

She sends Thom on with grace, receives a griffon feather in a letter, closes her eyes against the knowledge of the Wardens’ weaknesses and prays that little feather is a symbol of rebirth.

She seeks from Amaranthine to the Anderfels, from the Avvar to Antiva, and she finds out, crumb by crumb and step by step, what she didn’t know in Crestwood. What she didn’t know the day the Anchor almost killed her.

Cole comes to her to say goodbye, lets her see him back to the Fade. “I need to go where I’m needed the most,” he says, and she knows who he means and sends him with a message in the form of Compassion.

She shares this only with Merrill and Leliana and Dorian, and that only reluctantly. Trust grows with their sharing of knowledge. A circle within the inner circle, and when the Iron Bull can no longer tolerate Dorian’s growing trials in Tevinter, Dorian lets him go with the Chargers, to a simpler life without the Qun but without fear of what may be coming next. She holds Dorian while he weeps, as he has held her so many times.

They walk this path together.

Josephine connects her to places her remaining hand could not otherwise reach, annals and archives locked behind luxury and privilege. Josie knows there is much she herself does not know, but the Inquisitor is an arrow fired from a bowstring stretched between two points in time at Halamshiral, and while Josie may not understand, something in her whispers that she must trust.

The Dalish feel so distant to Ilaana now, but she goes to them. She goes to Keeper Hawen in the Exalted Plains, to Keeper Deshanna and Clan Lavellan, to the Arlathvhen and gathered clans, to the Dalish who have faded into forests. She shares what she can, knowledge gleaned from walking the Fade just as he did in the Inquisition. Some chase her away as she tells them the truth of their gods, sometimes with words, sometimes with arrows.

But some listen.

Whispers reach her over the years of some few vanishing, of ventures into Arlathan Forest, of villages.

And that is where Morrigan finds her.

Like Ilaana, Morrigan has been humbled by learning she did not know what she was sure she knew.

“You were justified in making me the fool,” Morrigan says to her one night as they observe the fledgling Veil Jumpers, unseen by the elves. “And you were justified in demanding the Well.”

Morrigan is…more now. A fragment of Mythal. She tries once to compel Ilaana, at Ilaana’s bidding, and fails. Ilaana’s triumph feels hollow, regardless of the relief.

“Fen’Harel was adept at breaking every bond but his own,” Morrigan murmurs. “But to be certain your will is your own, allow me to release you from my service.”

There is nothing left to release, but in that moment, Ilaana finds another ally.

“I would not see him fall,” Morrigan tells her softly. “’Tis monstrous to mould Wisdom into a weapon. I have her memories, tempered by lives lived through a human lens. I would make what amends I can.”

She is beginning to know.

The moment of epiphany comes on the back of betrayal, as it so often does.

Precious possibilities stolen from her soul, Solas all but lost in an instant, and oh, what follows is knowledge.

She walks the trail of the Evanuris, released rabid from their prison, watches the monsters they leave in their wake. She watches as an unrelenting nightmare blooms in blight from Arlathan to Antiva and beyond, and she cannot stay her hand.

Ten years of searching, seeking, learning. Ten years of quiet coded messages, of desperate trust, of Dorian and Leliana and Morrigan and Merrill and Hawke. Ten years of rebuilding Ferelden, Orlais, the Free Marches. Ten years of midwifing the birth of elven rights and free mages. Ten years of defending those left defenceless while powers parade about in privilege and audacity. Ten years of learning, living, bleeding.

Ten years of messages left in the Fade for one who will find them, in hope he would hear them. Ten years of trying. Ten years of deciding. Ten years of indomitable focus.

And now…ruin.

Rivers roiling with blight, Antaam and Venatori making a mockery of the red lyrium fever dream Corypheus brought to Redcliffe: a real nightmare is born when the blight takes Denerim. Hard-won recover bashed to bits against boils of poison and death. The healing herbs of the Hinterlands she once gathered for refugees wither where nowt will grow again.

Ten years of fighting for the people of this world turned to ash in a matter of weeks.

Ten minutes of fidgeting, waiting for the person who loosed it on the world to wade into a truth she’s waited ten years to tell. Dorian held her again, held her together, preparing to let her go even now but holding her close just a little longer. He has been beside her, always. He knows.

So she sits down with Rook to talk, to sow seeds of hope. Not to shame, not to blame—those impulses, Ilaana keeps locked away. She dances around the topic as if tiptoeing, watching Rook’s amusement turn to genuine surprise at Ilaana’s words.

“Or maybe I’m the prideful one, imagining his broken heart so that I never have to face my folly: that I loved someone who made such grave mistakes. That I may love him still.”

Twisting her words like he does, the truth twining between hedging phrases that bury the ache of her bone-deep exhaustion. She will save this world first, clean up someone else’s mess yet again, but now…only now does she finally know.

Why he walked away. Why following had to be her will and hers alone. Why he would not do such a thing to his heart, to allow her to follow when she did not know what she does now.

So she fights. And she waits. For a little while longer.

To show him she is not alone. To show him he is not alone. Ten years for her to hear the truth in what he told her once.

“If you are cracking, vhenan, it is does not mean you are about to shatter, but that you are about to be reborn.”

[sweetjulieapples]

Dear Commander - Chapter 37:  For You, I'll Try

Cullen x Trevelyan

AO3 MASTERLIST

The Inquisition attend the Winter Palace.

Full chapter below:

27 Wintermarch, 9:42 Inquisitor, Our vanguard is stationed in Halamshiral awaiting your arrival. Patrols have been sent along the Imperial Highway to monitor for Venatori cultists. While passage to the palace should be clear, I would still advise you to remain alert — the Inquisition's attendance is far from a secret. Please be careful. Commander Cullen.

29 Wintermarch, 9:42 Commander, Our arrival was uneventful, if somewhat dull. That is certainly the preferable outcome. I await your presence, along with the rest of our soldiers. Everything is set in motion from our end. There’s much to consider. I trust you’ll be paying attention at tomorrow night’s ball. Inquisitor Trevelyan

The air itself felt suffocating. An intolerable blend of polished marble, beeswax and obnoxious lavender perfume. He found himself lost in a sea of snide whispers and redundant conversation. Commander Cullen had faced his share of horrors in the past, some preferable to the ball at the Winter Palace.

He drew in a deep breath, that is, as deep as his jacket would allow. It was far too tight.

If they'd only stop talking, stop getting in the way.

Ladies and Lords in elaborate formal wear moved to and fro, their ornate masks catching glimpses of light from the many chandeliers. Every train of thought derailed by pestering questions and inappropriate remarks. His focus stayed locked across the ballroom, every ounce of attention pinned to the Inquisitor.

The ball was well underway, stretching on to the third hour. There was nothing to report, nor any news for him in return. The would-be assassin was prowling the palace and she was out of reach, far off in the distance, swept up in a game of political masquerade.

He hadn't spoken to her. Barely a glance in his direction, she was enthralled in keeping up appearances, paraded on Duke Gaspard's arm. She curtsied and smiled and moved with grace. Practiced. Prepared.

Had he not known better, not known her — he'd have thought she belonged there.

He needed to know what she had uncovered. What she had planned. If she were coping.

"Are you married, Commander?"

Cullen's eye twitched, yet his posture remained disciplined.

How many times tonight have I answered this? Four at least.

"Not yet," he replied, his voice straining to remain polite while his eyes tracked Juliette's movements across the ballroom. Her dress swayed around her as she made her way through the crowd, an elegant dance of silk. "But I am… already taken."

She waved her hand dismissively with a gracious smile. A gorgeous smile. The servant moved on, her rejected glass quickly snatched up by another eager guest.

Then, Juliette turned around, her eyes meeting Cullen's from across the room for the first time that evening.

She smiled.

He froze.

The first real interaction he'd had all night.

Though it was short-lived, as two women stood in front of him, ridiculous hats obscuring his view. When they had finally moved along — Juliette had disappeared.

"Can I get you a drink, Commander Cullen?"

The question hung in the air for a moment. Even though she was gone, that look lingered. He slowly turned, an absent glance at the noble. "No, thank you."

Juliette's smile faltered for a heartbeat. Caught between false pleasantries and compliments so exaggerated they were almost insulting, she allowed herself a moment to let her metaphorical mask slip — a longing glance over her shoulder from where she had seen Cullen.

"Inquisitor Trevelyan?"

Her back straightened, eyes swooping ahead, smile already in place. Before her stood a woman of opulence, her Orlesian accent somehow striking given their location.

"We met briefly. I am Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons."

Juliette curtsied , her voice warm, yet confident. "Is there something I can do for you, Your Grace?"

"Indeed you can." The Duchess moved to the railing in one flowing sweep of her dress. Juliette cast a curious glance, her suspicion held close. As Juliette stepped closer, Florianne spoke in a hushed tone. "It took great effort to arrange tonight’s negotiations. Yet one party would use this occasion for blackest treason.The security of the empire is at stake. Neither one of us wishes to see it fall."

Juliette bowed her head and whispered,"in times like these, it’s hard to tell friend from foe, is it not, Your Grace?"

The Duchess' lips twisted in a crooked smile. "I know you arrived here as a guest of my brother, Gaspard. And have been everywhere in the palace… You are a curiosity to many, Inquisitor… and a matter of concern to some."

"Am I the curiosity or the concern to you, Your Grace?" Juliette tilted her head, eyes wide and smile bright. Grand Duchess Florianne's smile matched Juliette's.

Overstated. Calculated. Threatening.

She stepped forward, a whisper in Juliette's ear as she brushed past. "Welcome to my party, Inquisitor."

Leliana's smirk widened as she set down her wine glass, an expected shadow looming over her.

She turned, amusement hidden in the sparkle of her eyes when she looked up at Cullen, standing with folded arms. "Her back may be turned, but I assure you that Josephine will know you've left your post, Commander."

"What have you heard?" he asked with every bit of seriousness she'd predicted.

"It's not what you hear, but rather what you see," Leliana reached for another sip of her drink and Cullen sighed with waning patience. "Look at lady Cambienne’s slippers. Trimmed with pearls and emeralds? And those buckles! Toss her in the lake and she’ll sink right to the bottom. What a disaster."

Cullen shook his head. "Need I remind you there’s a Tevinter assassin on the loose?"

"Hardly," she smirked. "You can learn a great deal about a person from their clothing."

Cullen's jaw tightened. He threw a glance over his shoulder. The nobility were still gathered where he previously stood.

Unrelenting.

Reluctantly, he returned his focus to Leliana, an invitation to continue. She leaned a little closer over the table where she sat. "Gold and jewels on a dancing slipper?" Leliana whispered with intrigue. "A slipper easily lost. And finds itself in the dust and dirt."

Cullen exhaled slowly through his nose, allowing his eyes to close for a few seconds while Leliana rambled.

"She is unconcerned with the possibility of losing the shoe or soiling it. A vulgar display of wealth."

Cullen folded his arms a little tighter. Leliana continued proudly. "But Lady Cambienne’s family has recently lost most of its holdings. They have their title, but little else. So! How did Cambienne acquire such a grand shoe, hmm? What has she done? Who has she bedded? These are all useful questions, no?"

"No," Cullen replied flatly.

"Be ignorant all you like, Commander, but this is Halamshiral. This is the Imperial Court."

"You seem to be enjoying yourself, Leliana. This…" he waved a hand towards the empty bottle of wine. "This is the game?"

"Maybe it's both," she said before taking another sip.

"I didn't think you were capable of having fun."

Leliana almost choked. Cullen leaned against the wall, his smirk breaking through. She lowered her wine once more and met his smug gaze with a challenge in her eyes.

"The Inquisitor is beautiful tonight," she said with a sickly sweet smile.

Cullen leaned forward. "She's always beautiful. Try harder."

"Did you see her shoes? No, but of course your eyes were elsewhere."

Cullen pulled his eyes away and straightened his posture, quietly muttering "Maker's breath."

Victorious, Leliana giggled softly. "I thought for a moment that we'd need to scoop your jaw up from the tile when she walked into the vestibule."

Cullen turned to leave, tone clipped. "If you know anything, find me."

"Well, of course I know things."

He turned back around, his forehead crinkled in exasperation. "You could have said that to start with!"

Too much time had passed, and yet, the night seemed to slip away.

"You must dance with me, Commander! You can’t stand about all evening."

"I’m afraid not, thank you."

He'd relocated to a vantage point with a clear view of every door and the dance floor. He wouldn't put it past these Orlesians to murder mid-waltz.

Of course, he couldn't have a moment of peace.

"Commander, has anyone told you that you have the most remarkable eyes?"

"Several times this evening, in fact."

His patience was wearing thin, each deflection more clipped, his responses shorter.

He stepped forward, leaning over the gallery railing. He watched the ensemble, a soft lull of music in the air as guests danced. The infiltrator could be any one of these people.

The ballroom lights blurred. Someone stepped up beside him. Expecting his moment of solitude to be intruded on with another question, he shifted his eyes.

A rush of adrenaline.

A skipped breath.

"Inquisitor!"

Her lips, now closer he could see, they were just a shade darker than usual. They curved into a coy smile. Her eyes, soft as they settled on his.

"Commander."

He drew in a breath, his posture tensing. Then, without thought, he rushed a step forward, the sweetness of her perfume filling the air around them.

"Did you need something?" he asked. Too quickly. Too eagerly.

Juliette blinked and raised a hand to the back of her neck, her eyes dropping to the floor.

With a quick glance around, Cullen understood that he couldn't speak freely. Couldn't act freely. Not here.

He stepped back and with a lowered voice spoke, "The sooner we track down this infiltrator, the better."

Slowly, she lifted her eyes to meet his. Her hands, once clasped, eased apart — the one bearing the anchor sliding along the railing, just slightly, in his direction.

Cullen's focus fell to her hand, then back up, lingering on her lips for just a heartbeat, before he looked her in the eyes once more.

"You've attracted a following," she said softly. "Who are all these people?" Her eyes wandered to the side where a cluster of nobility stood waiting. Watching. Whispering. But it wasn't her who captured their interest — Cullen was the target of their flirtatious smiles.

Her fingers curled around the edge of the rail, her brows heavy in a glare that she quickly averted.

"I don’t know," he whispered with frustration. "But they won’t leave me alone."

Her lips twitched and her focus fell to where his hands rested at his side, hovering over the absence of a sword. She stepped a little closer and asked, "Are you all right, Cullen?"

He took a moment to answer, his eyes captivated by her gentle expression, the tenderness in her voice. He exhaled. An exhausted breath of relief in an otherwise suffocating evening.

"I'll be —" He sighed. "It would be easier if people would stop talking to me." He closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. "Other people," he corrected, then a whisper, "not you."

Her lips parted, a gasp light as a feather. Then she pulled her hands back towards her, clasped neatly with a warm smile behind closed lips.

The look she gave him next, never left him. Not that night. Not ever.

Then, she turned her face to the side. Only he could see the smile she failed to contain, the pink flush in her cheeks and the sparkle of lights reflecting in her eyes.

Softly, she cleared her throat and her shoulders raised with an inhale. "Did you see the painting of Andraste on the ceiling?" she asked.

He furrowed his brows, and titled his head to the side, his eyes trailing along her arm as she pointed upward.

"It's fascinating," she said, her voice a little louder as she swooped forward, her fingers still lingering in the air. Her lips, close to his ear.

His eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, breathless as he held his posture with tension.

"Gaspard has threatened The Council of Heralds," she whispered, guiding his focus to the ceiling in the perfect ploy to get a little closer.

Cullen swallowed, one hand bracing against the railing. Her scent drifted around him. Subtle, intoxicating. Impossible to ignore.

"He admitted that he would see his …cousin... die tonight without regret."

Cullen turned to face her, his eyes locking with hers.

"Juliette…" he spoke in a whisper. He had heard the waver in her voice when she said the word cousin.

She blinked, then returned her eyes to the ceiling. "I'd sooner burn alive on my funeral pyre than see that man ascend the throne… but I don't believe he's our target tonight."

"He seems the best option," Cullen said quietly.

Her response was fast, a sharp whisper. "How can you say that? He'd wage war on Ferelden."

"Not if we ally with him," he reasoned. "We could keep him in line."

Juliette turned to face him, her gaze unyielding. "Is that worth the risk?"

Cullen didn’t answer. Instead, he offered a look, one that softened with each heartbeat their eyes lingered.

"Vintage from Val Royeaux. For you, Ser? Inquisitor?”

Cullen pulled his eyes away first, offering a small shake of his head. “No. Thank you.”

The servant glanced at Juliette expectantly. Her eyes still hovered on Cullen before she turned and smiled. “I’ll pass. Thank you.”

An awkward moment settled between them while the servant moved away, his voice carrying into the crowd as he offered wine elsewhere.

“I need more time. More evidence,” she said at last, her shoulder brushing against Cullen’s as she stepped forward.

He caught her arm, his grip firm, eyes fixed on her face. “Be careful,” he warned, almost a plea. But she was already slipping from his grasp, disappearing into the crowd.

Underneath the moonlight, in the crisp evening air, hidden behind the lush melodies of familiar songs with an Orlesian twist — the game was slightly more bearable in the courtyard. False smiles vanished more easily in the shadows. Sighs were harder to detect.

With clenched teeth and a glare, Juliette grabbed Dorian by the arm, pulling him into the shadows of an alcove.

"What do you have?" she asked under her breath.

"So far, this seems like harmless political intrigue," Dorian replied with a swirl of his glass. "A few murders arranged, some scandals contrived from nothing." He sighed dramatically. "Like a homecoming, honestly."

Juliette shook her head. "Uh…anything I can actually use would be great."

"Did you see what that marquise is wearing?" Dorian asked with a raised brow. "That suit is a greater crime than anything we’re looking for."

Juliette squeezed her nails into her palms, and scrunched her nose. She exhaled heavily. "I need more."

"Don’t wear yourself out mingling," he said with a twist of his mustache. "You'll need to dance with Cullen before this is all over."

She glared and with a slow shake of her head asked, "how much money are you set to lose if I don't dance with Cullen?"

"You can't put a price on friendship!" he said with mock offense.

"Oh, you're looking out for me!" Her smile was exaggerated, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"You are getting good at this," he mused. "Try the spicy punch, provided it isn't as strong as it seems. You might even enjoy yourself for once."

"I don't have time for that." Reaching down at the layers of her skirt, she muttered, “I can’t climb in these.” With a grunt she tore off her shoes and kicked them aside.

"What are you —"

"Distract them, will you? I need to get up that trellis." She eyed the balcony above with determination.

One misstep and the entire mission could collapse.

"This should be fun." He took a long sip of his port and rolled back his shoulders.

"Don't lose my shoes. And try not to get too drunk while I'm gone," she hissed, moving into the darkest parts of the garden.

"You ask so much of me."

Josephine's hand shook as she raised it to her forehead. With every clamour of the bells, dread intensified.

She weaved her way through the ballroom quickly, her poise intact, though her mind raced.

"Tell me you have good news," Josephine said, exhaling heavily as she stepped beside Leliana and Cullen, overlooking the dancefloor from the gallery above. Her fingers tapped impatiently, hurried, along the polished stone of the balustrade while she looked ahead, feigning focus on everything but her fellow advisors.

"The Inquisitor's searching the servants quarters. She was granted access by Celene's —" Leliana paused, a frustrated glare that she shook off within a second. "Her 'Arcane Advisor,' or so she’s calling herself."

Cullen folded his arms tighter upon noticing Leliana's disdain for the apostate turned advisor.

"She needs to hurry back," Josephine worried. "This is the final bell, everyone will notice her missing."

Cullen slammed his fist against the balustrade, Josephine jolting to awareness and Leliana slowly glancing up.

"There is smoke billowing from the gardens," Cullen muttered, his eyes set on the grand windows across the room.

Leliana clutched her glass a little tighter. "Where there's smoke, there's fire. And where there's fire…"

"Juliette," Josephine whispered in horror. "Maker's breath. No amount of diplomacy can save us if she burns down this palace."

Cullen's hand reached for the hilt of his sword. Then, remembering he was unarmed, he flexed his fingers, clenching his fists at his sides.

"I'll get the soldiers into position," he said firmly, preparing to turn.

"Is that wise?"

He halted at Leliana's question, a slow exhale escaping his nose. "It's necessary," he answered, before charging off towards the exit.

Her shoes, those conveniently left atop a statue of some Orlesian noble whose name escaped her, clacked against the marble tile. Juliette raced along the  darkened halls of the palace, motes of dust floating in the air like wisps with every sweep of her dress. Each breath echoed in solitude.

Moving undetected past gossiping servants, she slipped into the vestibule where the bright, warm lights of chandeliers glistened against the gold embroidery of her gown once more. With a barely- concealed pant, she steeled herself for the court, preparing a strategic smile, a gracious twinkle in her eyes…

She stilled.

Caught in Cullen's dire stare, she was motionless.

Her blood still buzzed with adrenaline, the thrill of danger.

Her heart fluttered. Recognition. Want.

Lust.

And then, panic.

A quick, short breath. A straightened spine. She grasped for resolve when he moved her way.

"Thank the Maker you're back," he said, voice low, rough with worry. His gloved hand found her arm. Grounding. She tensed.

She watched the way his fingers curled around her wrist, wordlessly guiding her back a few steps. Then, slowly, she looked up and met his eyes.

Concern. Care. So open, so earnest, it made her heart ache.

"I saw the smoke, I thought…you're not hurt are you?"

She blinked in what felt like slow motion, so close yet so far.

Too close? Here? Now?

"I'm not," she forced the words, emotionless. 'The game' extended beyond nobility.

Their eyes lingered a moment more, then, his expression hardened.

"I have soldiers ready. What's out next move?"

"I found enough on all three of them, but I need more. Something that we can use for leverage."

She exhaled, then glanced over her shoulder towards the ballroom.

“I have to go back in.”

A servant passed, offering a silver tray of glasses. Without thinking, Juliette reached out and took one.

A sip. Then another. Rich wine, sweet and dark, cherry burning her throat.

The taste caught her off guard. So did the warmth.

“Thank you,” she murmured. The servant bowed and moved on.

She turned. Cullen was still watching. His eyes tracked the wine in her hand, then returned to her face.

“Dance with me,” she whispered.

The words escaped too easily. A slip.

“No, thank you.”

“Oh.”

She blinked. Her eyes dropped to the floor. Her face burned. The air suddenly thick.

“No! I didn’t mean to—”

His hand caught her shoulder gently. Regret already on his face.

"Maker’s breath! I’ve answered that question so many times I’m rejecting it automatically." He stepped closer while the taste of cherry lingered, her throat tight. Softly, he said "I’m not one for dancing. The templars never attended balls."

She gripped the glass firmly, then gave a short, nervous laugh. "Of course they didn't. Forget I said that." Juliette stepped back, meeting his eyes once again. "We'll talk later."

With a delayed nod, he whispered "I await your signal."

Every nerve in her body tingled at the sound of his voice. She inhaled a shaky breath, quiet through her nose, then smiled with closed lips. She turned for the door and glanced back.

He was, of course, watching her every move.

The scent of smoke and charred fabric settled in the air. Cassandra's footsteps were brisk beside Juliette's. Dorian trailed closely behind.

"Will it bother you?" Cassandra asked with concern, though her expression was set in hard determination.

Juliette raised her fingers to the wound behind her ear. The sting lingered well after the healing potion had kicked in. She pulled her hand forward. Dried blood. "It's fine."

"I can't believe you punched a Harlequin in the face," Dorian laughed, throwing his head back.

"He might not be the last," Juliette muttered, charging through the gardens, her dress swishing through the dirt.

Cassandra scowled. "We need to stop the Duchess. We can't let her get away with this!"

Juliette stopped, just short of entering the courtyard. Faint music could be heard in the distance, lanterns illuminating the path as they drew closer. "Cassandra, go ahead and tell Cullen." She turned to Dorian, eyes narrowed with focus. "I have to go back up to the second floor."

"Again?" Dorian asked, baffled. "Why? We know that Florianne is the one aligned with Corypheus. We have the mercenary. What more do you need?"

"If we want leverage on Gaspard, we need that knife. I’m not walking back in there empty-handed."

Cassandra eyed Juliette for a moment, her expression softening for just a second, before she nodded. "Be fast, Inquisitor. We're running out of time."

Cassandra departed, and Juliette and Dorian walked into the courtyard. Slowly they moved past groups of nobility, whispers and stares barely concealed as the night drew closer to a close.

"What was Gaspard thinking, inviting that fool?"

Juliette quietly cleared her throat, catching the tail end of gossip.

"Perhaps he thought the Inquisitor would make him look clever by comparison."

"Don't listen to that," Dorian whispered in her ear.

She looked up to him, weariness in her expression. “Just… keep them looking the other way. One last time.”

"I'm not sure how." He raised a hand to his chin in contemplation. "If you can find me ten silk scarves, I’ve got a dance that will really shock them."

Juliette sighed, dropping her face into her palm.

Snooty laughter caught her focus, two women standing nearby. "He's the commander of their forces, weren't you listening?"

"I don't care what he is. He's gorgeous."

"Don't bother, he won't dance with you. He won't dance with anyone."

"I can be very persuasive."

The ladies giggled, walking back inside the palace with a sway of their hips, their full skirts floating around them.

Juliette lowered her hand, reluctantly meeting Dorian's eyes.

"Did you ask him?"

She didn't answer. Instead, Juliette clenched her teeth and kicked off her shoes. He was left standing speechless when she stormed off towards the trellis, barefoot and plain in sight.

Loud gasps were heard through the courtyard as Juliette climbed to the balcony.

"Is that the Inquisitor? What is she doing?"

"She’s trampling the wisteria! Has she gone mad?"

When she reached the top she looked over the balustrade, several shocked onlookers watched from below. Dorian, standing there with a smirk on his face.

"Oh, admit it!" She yelled. "You were all thinking of doing the same! In every Orlesian romance, someone climbs a trellis." Then she disappeared into the darkness leaving behind a wave of horrified murmurs.

"Whatever I might have thought, I wouldn’t have done it…"

"How dreadful!"

Dorian reached for glass of wine, the server standing frozen with his mouth agape. "I'll take one of those, thank you." Dorian sipped slowly, eyes watching the gathering crowd of outraged Orlesians with amusement. "Vishante kaffas," he whispered to himself. "Josephine will kill her."

Every step was intentional. Uniform. Controlled. Yet it looked fluid. Natural.

One. Two. Three.

Cullen’s eyes narrowed. The lights of the ballroom blurred around him.

Then, from the corner of his eye — movement. Crowds dispersing. Soft gasps.

He held his breath.

She moved with fierce urgency. Not in panic. In defiance.

Their eyes met across the room. Hers were dark. Dangerous.

She swiped her hand across her chest, fingers brushing where her necklace would have hung.

He tensed. Then, silently, raised his hand to his own chest.

A signal.

The plan was in motion.

"Let all gathered attend! Her Imperial Majesty will now address the court!"

From the opposite end of the ballroom, the Inquisitor stood in the gallery, her half-empty glass of sparkling wine balanced on the balustrades edge.

She lifted the glass gently, raised to her lips in anticipation of the Empress' speech.

A presence beside her, familiar. Expected. A hint of cedar and leather.

His breath was warm against her ear when whispered, leaving her breathless, her heart skipping a beat.

"In position, Inquisitor."

She turned her face to the side, their eyes connected, just a breath away.

She smiled.

"What could possibly go wrong?"

A ruthless grunt tore through the night air.

Juliette snarled through gritted teeth, fingers white with pressure as she held Grand Duchess Florianne beneath the fountain’s freezing water.

“Inquisitor!”

Cassandra’s distant shout dissolved into the haze of Juliette’s fury. Her breath was ragged. Her knee pinned Florianne down, her hands squeezing the Duchess’s throat.

“We need her alive!”

With a strained gasp, Juliette pulled back. Her grip loosened, but her eyes didn’t waver. Dark. Threatening. Exhausted.

Florianne choked, coughing violently as she clawed for air. Inquisition soldiers surged forward, the clank of their armour a rhythm of reprieve.

In a shiver, wet hair clinging to her face, Juliette knelt back. The soldiers dragged the Duchess out of the fountain, her gown soaked, her limbs shaking.

"You'll never win, Inquisitor," Florianne spluttered weakly. "You are no match for Corypheus."

Juliette rose slowly, water cascading down her back, her expression blank.

“What do you think will happen now that Celene is dead?” the Duchess wheezed. “Orlais is not yours to rule. Gaspard won’t… he…”

“Commander Cullen ordered her capture, Your Worship. What should we do?” a soldier asked.

Juliette's eyes snapped to the soldier, then, they darkened as she stepped out of the fountain, sights set on the Duchess. Slowly, she walked forward, Florianne thrashing as two soldiers held her in place. Silently, Juliette seized Florianne by the jaw, ripping the mask from her face. As the women stared into each others eyes, the clang of a once luxurious mask, now worthless, crashed to the ground.

A moment of silence , shattered when Florianne spat in Juliette's face.

Juliette didn't flinch. She smiled.

Then, a breathy laugh.

“You can’t even play the game,” Florianne hissed. “How do you think Gaspard will obey you? A worthless mage. An accident.”

Juliette leaned in, her voice calm, but bitter.

"Take her to Skyhold."

She paused, one final breath, and whispered at Florianne’s ear.

"Welcome to my party."

Underneath the moonlight, just moments from midnight, there was calm for the first time that evening. The music had quieted in the distance, and the chill of Winter air was refreshing against Juliette's skin.

Before Gaspard's speech of victory, Josephine had insisted Juliette take a moment to recover. A last-minute attempt to tidy her appearance, re-securing damp, loosened strands of hair with an ornate Inquisition hairpin.

It caught the moonlight and glistened. A light in the dark.

The Inquisitor stood alone. Bruised, breathless, victorious. Celebrating an unconventional triumph like no other.

She poured herself a drink and let the silence settle. Then—

"There you are!"

Juliette set the bottle down, a shiver washing over her body at the sound of his voice. A small smile graced her lips.

Cullen stepped towards her, each movement thoughtful and attentive.

"Everyone’s been looking for you. Things have calmed down for the moment."

The way he spoke was almost maddening. His voice, so gentle. His eyes, full of unspoken affection masked with concern.

"Are you all right?"

Her lashes fluttered at his question. Her cheeks burned hot, partially from the alcohol, she was certain — but as she stood there caught in his tender gaze, her blush deepened against the cool air of the night.

She hadn't expected him to seek her out. There must have been a thousand things more important in that moment. Retrieving soldiers, assessing damage, securing…he's standing very close.

The music from the ballroom drifted softly in the air. A gentle breeze brought an icy Winter's chill, yet all she felt was warmth when she looked into his eyes.

Juliette glanced down at his arm that pressed against hers as he leaned over the balustrade. Then, her eyes met his once more. Laughter and cheering could be heard from inside the palace, a small break in the silence between Inquisitor and Commander. She hesitated for a moment, a second to catch her breath before looking ahead at the moonlit view.

"I hope I made the right decision," she said softly. Then, she smirked. "I don't think I can endure another one of these balls. "

Cullen laughed, loud and abrupt, as though he was caught off guard. "You and I both."

She turned her focus back to him, her smile bashful as she leaned her arm further against his until their shoulders touched. Cullen watched her with admiration, creases in the corners of his eyes as he smiled.

"Well, this ought to disgust you," she whispered playfully. "When I put this dress on earlier, I was excited to come here tonight."

He blinked slowly, and somehow his eyes managed to give her an even softer look. She was breathless for a moment, her lips parting before she returned her focus to the garden below. A breeze softly rustled the empty bottles of wine that rattled on the tiles beneath their feet.

"When I was a child I would dream of events such as this,"she fondly reminisced.

Cullen smirked. "Was it the whispering and backstabbing? The plotting and the murder?"

"And the tiny cakes" she added with a grin. Then she sighed heavily. "What a nightmare this evening was."

He moved his hand to her arm, his fingers resting in a comforting gesture. She glanced down as he spoke, "it's all over now."

Juliette swallowed quietly, and with a soft sigh, she replied,"no, it's not really though, is it?"

Cullen furrowed his brows, carefully observing her every mannerism, every expression.

"Gaspard is…," she murmured with what Cullen believed to be regret weaved into her voice. "Well…" She looked to the stars above, then softly she spoke. "A wanker."

Cullen snorted a suppressed laugh. "Are you…drunk?"

She turned to him quickly, wide eyed and serious. "Oh, no! I sobered up considerably after I strangled the Duchess in the water fountain."

He blinked, unsure how she said that with such a straight face. Then, he slowly shook his head. "Maker's breath, you're —"

"I'm what, Commander?" Juliette leaned in a little closer, a teasing lilt in her voice accompanying her playful glare.

He simply looked at her. No answer, just a gaze so intense it almost made her stumble backwards.

She was close enough to hear him breathe, a light exhale as he placed a hand on her shoulder. His eyes stayed on her. His touch, a soft glove against her exposed skin, memories of the day he helped fasten her necklace rushing back.

She shivered, though somehow it felt warm. Her breath slowed, her eyes feeling heavy as they fell to his lips. That scar. Then, back to his eyes, watching her still. Protective. Adoring.

"I was worried for you tonight."

He spoke the words softly. His voice was like melting honey. She felt like she was melting. Like she may faint if she held his eyes a moment longer.

Yet she couldn't look away.

She gripped the cold , polished stone of the balustrade so tightly her fingernails turned white. Her face felt hot, her mind a little hazy, the air cold against the back of her neck. Her heart fluttering like mad.

All she could do was blink, an uncontrolled "Uh," escaping her.

Then he smiled with closed lips, that scar tugging.

She felt loose strands of hair lift gently in the breeze and the scent of her own perfume carried in the air. He pulled away his eyes, glancing back towards the ballroom. He looked handsome in the moonlight, his jaw defined and…her thoughts got a little tangled as she wondered what the stubble would feel like against her lips.

Then his eyes snapped back to hers. Her heart skipped a beat. Her breath caught, a soft gasp.

"I may never have another chance like this, so I must ask." As he stepped back, Juliette gripped the balustrade with her other hand, holding herself upright, drawing in a shaky breath of anticipation.

Cullen bowed, his eyes locked onto her while he smiled. He offered his hand and asked, "May I have this dance, my lady?"

My lady.

She'd heard it many times that evening, but never had it sounded so good. Surely a formality like any other, but she couldn't resist the thought of being his.

There was no point in trying to subdue her smile. Had she wanted to, there was little chance she could. Juliette was lighter tonight — the wine, she supposed — but mostly, it was him.

Standing upright was an uncertainty in itself, yet without hesitation she reached for Cullen's hand, accepting his offer to dance.

Cullen pulled his eyes from hers for only a second, a curious glance down as her hand delicately slid into his grip. When he looked back to her, her smile, the way she eagerly glided closer to him — it ignited all that he tried to suppress. Every little glance, every touch. He wanted her more than anything in this world.

For just this moment, he had her. In his arms. Uninterrupted. Alone.

"I thought you didn't dance," her voice was a soft, sweet murmur against his ear. Every hair on his body stood at the sound, his grip on her lower back a little firmer, pulling her close.

He stared into her eyes, his mind racing to hold the pace of their steps. His body, fighting the urge to close every last gap between them.

"For you, I'll try."

The words escaped him without thought, all control of his heart slipping away for every second, every beat that he held her.

She felt so dainty in his hold, each of her steps an effortless sway against him. Her skin looked soft in the moonlight, her perfume almost driving him over the edge. It was that same scent, sandalwood and something sweeter, almost like a warm Summer's day. He'd picked it up on her letters, more so the one she handed him at the interlude. The letter that was as good as a confession.

The scent lingered in his mind at night, accompanying his deepest, most private thoughts of her.

Now, before her. Holding her. He prayed that the moment wouldn't end. That for tonight, they would remain Cullen and Juliette. Unburdened by duty and titles.

"I've learned two things about you tonight, Ser Rutherford."

The whisper against his ear. The doe-eyed gaze. The soft pout of her lips.

Maker, help me.

He lowered his head slightly, his face closer to hers. "And what have you learned?"

Her lips twisted into a smirk, her eyelashes fluttered. Warmth tingled in his chest.

"Other than the fact that you're full of surprises." She paused a moment, her fingers brushed the side of his neck as she adjusted her hand on his shoulder. That small movement stole the air from his lungs. He gripped her other hand a little tighter. "Your middle name is Stanton."

Quietly, he swallowed, then replied. "You were listening, Lady Juliette Evelyn Grace Trevelyan."

Her giggle was light, a fleeting breeze of joy. But to his ears it was a taunt, a test of restraint.

"You are paying attention."

His steps halted. The dance meeting an abrupt end as she stumbled forward, her nose brushing against his cheek.

"What?" She gasped, eyes widening with surprise when she looked up at him. As she blinked in shock he caught a glimpse of his reflection in her dark eyes, apprehension washing over him.

Cullen released his grip on her and a hand gently raised to her cheek. He swept aside a stray section of hair, a trickle of blood behind her ear came into focus in the moonlight.

"You're hurt," he spoke with concern.

She raised her hand to his, clasping her fingers over his glove that rested on the side of her neck. "It's nothing."

"Who did this?" He murmured, leaning in closer to inspect her wound. "Was it the Du--"

Then all apprehension and that flash of anger at whoever had hurt her — it faded into numbness.

Her lips brushed against his.

Not quite a kiss. 

Gentle enough to be mistaken for an accident.

No. It was...

Soft. Fleeting. Over before it truly began.

A test?

Her eyes blinked slowly. Long lashes and a soft, hopeful gaze. Her cheeks were red. He could feel the heat in them as the side of her face swiped against his.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He couldn't think.

He stood frozen like a fool and he felt her touch retreat. Her hand left his shoulder, his own hand falling along her neck as she stepped back.

She blinked. Her lips parted. A shaky breath.

Then she turned her face to the side. Her focus dropped to the floor. A trembling hand raised to her lips.

She couldn't bear to look at him.

Was she wrong?

Was this dance out of obligation? Guilt for turning me down earlier? I can't believe I just did that. He… he needs to say something. Anything. Maker, what have I—

She gasped.

Cullen’s fingers brushed her cheek, a light touch, tilting her face back towards him.

He was staring. Breath shallow. Shoulders rising and falling with quiet intensity.

His face was unreadable.

Still, he said nothing.

Then, on a single breath , he grabbed her.

One hand in her hair, the other at her jaw, pulling her forward in a kiss so fierce, so full of longing, it stole the air from her lungs.

Juliette tensed. A soft whimper against his lips. Her eyes fluttered shut. Her body melted against him.

And for a moment, she let herself fall.

Let herself want.

She let go.

He inhaled sharply through his nose, his breath ragged against her cheek as his lips pulled away. But he didn’t let her go.

Cullen held her tight, as though he had been waiting a lifetime for this. For her.

All restraint and hesitation faded away when he looked into her eyes, searching for more.

Juliette’s fingers twisted in the fabric of his jacket, a desperate attempt to steady her balance as she leaned into him.

Her lips found his again. His hand slid around her waist. He pulled her tight against his body, his kiss matching hers in its intensity.

A kiss hungry with repressed emotion. The scent of cedar clung to his skin, the taste of wine lingering on his mouth.

Smashing glass split the air.

They broke apart.

Breathless. Startled.

The moment shattered along with the wine glass.

Juliette’s heart pounded. Her lips tingled. Her vision blurred as she stood dazed, fingers still twisted in Cullen’s jacket.

His hands held her arms, steadying her, but his focus had already shifted, locked on the doorway.

Josephine was stunned.

What remained of her Antivan red wine seeped into the grout between marble tiles. Splinters of glass glistened at her feet, unnoticed.

Juliette slowly looked up at Cullen. Then, reluctantly, over her shoulder. He still stared ahead, silent.

Cullen cleared his throat. He stepped aside, his hands leaving her arms with hesitation so brief it ached.

"I... I found the Inquisitor," he mumbled, a hand rising awkwardly to the back of his neck before he brushed past Josephine.

Josie still hadn't moved. Just blinked, jaw slack, glass at her feet and the memory of the kiss lingering in the air.

[luzial]

WIP Wednesday

Yet untitled Halamshiral business:

Solas paces, clipped footsteps on tile floors, around the periphery of the ballroom. He intends to walk slowly, to make it less obvious that he is circling the room with a gravity that should cut a trench into the marble beneath his feet. But each time he slows himself, his feet involuntarily rush to return to the tempo of the waltz a few paces later. He breathes through his nose, holds it for as long as he can, releases it. He does this again and again though it provides no ease from the pounding of his heart against his ribs. His eyes are on his boots. His eyes are on shadowed alcoves. His eyes are anywhere but on the ballroom below. Hunt well, he told her. And she has. She may as well wear their pelts like trophies across her shoulders.