You’d been half-joking about traveling together when you’d said it, but you have to admit, the notion is a little tempting. It seems particularly poignant right now, as the two of you sit, staring out at the sliver of Satina on the horizon, rehashing cover stories and discussing exactly what kind of information you want to feed to the Inquisitor now that you have his ear about at least one thing. You’re tangled up in each other more as cold settles over the desert like a heavy fog, sapping warmth out of the endless sands beneath you. Sera had graced you with a kind of closeness you haven’t had in a while, and you’re as grateful for it as you are apologetic, but this… It’s different. Sera doesn’t know anything about you, not really. The more she sees, the more repulsed she’ll be. She wouldn’t want anything to do with you if she knew you were a mage, and so doing this while she doesn’t know… It’s wrong. You know it’s wrong. And it’s worse because you know it’s wrong and are doing it anyway; you can’t seem to quit.

Alas’len already knows the ways touch can bring you comfort, but more importantly, he knows the ways it can bring you pain. He knows to avoid grazing your ears when he runs a comb through your hair; he knows never to touch your neck; he knows how to ask without words whether now is a moment when you want to be held or a moment where you would rip his throat out with your teeth.

You are beginning to wonder if you didn’t realize how badly you were missing him until he came back. No, that’s not right. Until he tracked you down.

You are hadn’t realized how much you were missing being touched until Sera did.

You are beginning to wonder how many other things and people you are missing very badly, little holes in your soul that you never notice because you’re too used to being riddled with them.

You would have been very content to snuggle up in your confusing and upsetting mix of comfort and melancholy all night, if allowed, but as one might have noticed, you and nice things do not exactly coexist comfortably, or without conflagration in general. It’s therefore entirely unexpected, in many ways, when you’re disrupted by the person you want to see the least in the entire world, both in general and right now specifically: Cassandra Pentaghast.

You hear her approximately a heartbeat before you see her, the sound of boots in sand. That’s enough for your mind and body to come to swift, immediate agreement on the proper course of action, and by the time she comes around the side of the tree, you’ve turned around in Alas’len’s lap and have your mouth firmly attached to his. Alas’len, who’s as familiar with this particular cover as you are, doesn’t even startle, casually wrapping his arms around your waist to help line you up for a more believable makeout position.

The two of you are well-practiced in all sorts of theatre-kisses, but given that Pentaghast is essentially on top of you, you elect for a real one. That is perhaps why your tongue invades his mouth; it could also be that your body is moving automatically and were kissing Sera not very long ago. In either case, he handles the situation well, both by not protesting the invasion, and by cupping your ass to grind your crotch against his. It would be very believable if not for the fact he was as soft as a depressed nug.

Cassandra, fortunately, does not have access to that particular insight, and is rushing away, probably mortified, before you even have to stop making out with Alas’len and pretend to notice her. Good on her, honestly. You have a lot of terrible things to think and maybe even say about her, but she does seem to be remarkably good at running away and pretending she absolutely did not see you doing anything lewd. It is perhaps the only thing you’ve noticed that speaks well for her character.

Okay, you’re being a little too unkind there. Her extreme concern for your well-being absolutely speaks well for her character, given who she thinks you are, it’s just also condescending and extremely annoying, unfortunately.

Once you’re sure she’s gone, you pull away from Alas’len, who has an absolutely insufferable smirk on his face.

“Sorry,” you say, and you mean it. Kissing people with absolutely no warning is something you really don’t prefer to do.

Alas’len waves his hand in the air carelessly. “We do that all the time,” he points out.

“We did that all the time,” you correct. “I would have liked to check in. Particularly before involving tongue,” you add, mortification beginning to creep in now that the instincts and adrenaline are wearing off.

“That’s cute,” Alas’len says. He pokes your nose with one finger, and you immediately stop feeling bad and start wanting to bite him. Smartly, he pulls his finger away before you can. “But it’s fine. If you hadn’t done it, I would have. She came up on us fast.”

“She does that,” you say with a scowl. “I hate how quietly she can move without that armor. At least Templars have the decency to clank when they’re coming up on you.”

“I think we’ve won ourselves another few hours, at least.”

You snort. “A few hours? Please. We’ve won ourselves a believable fifteen minutes.”

“At least an hour!”

“I’m not saying I don’t believe you,” you say innocently. “But we have to consider what the others will find plausible.”

“Just for that,” he says with a scowl. “I’m keeping you out here for another three hours.”

Solas is on watch when the two of you return to camp, twenty minutes or so apart and from slightly different directions, not that you think you’re fooling anyone; you just wanted to look like you’d put in some effort towards discretion. You don’t know how much of a loud mouth Pentaghast has about these things, but if you’re going to use slutting it up as a cover, you might as well just let it happen. The Inquisition practically wrote this one for you, with as determined as its been to pair you with every eligible man you paused to speak to.

Alas’len had kept you out there for over an hour longer, and he’d spent that time braiding your hair, which you’d only allowed him to do because he’d braided it up into a bun close enough to your regular style and a lot more secure. He’s good with braids; if you’re careful about your sleeping position, you can probably wear it for a couple of days before it completely falls apart. Longer if you let him touch it up, which frankly, you might. You’re feeling spiteful towards your companions at large.

Solas doesn’t say anything, nor does he even bother to look at you in a meaningful way. Him being on watch is useless; he’s already figured out who Alas’len is to you, so all this damned posturing was essentially for nothing. Well, at least you have Pentaghast and the Inquisitor fooled.

Cole is in your tent already when you crawl in, clearly a little fussy that you’d been missing valuable “Solas is awake and the Seeker is asleep” time. He knocks you out almost before the agreement to sleep can leave your lips.

Late afternoon is the only time your apartment gets any light through the window. There’s about a 15-30 minute period each day, depending on the season, when it manages to break through the buildings surrounding and conquer the awkward angles and, miraculously, shine directly through the little basement-slit you have just above ground level.

You’re not always home this time of day, which makes it all the more important that you luxuriate in the sunbeams like a fat cat for the brief time that you’re able. A sound at the door interrupts your peaceful reverie, making you look up from the book you’re reading, illuminated by the rare sunbeam.

Alas’len walks in, looking older than he should in your memories thanks to your recent update on what he looks like these days. He’s dressed in the dark blues and blacks you used to wear to blend in with the Val Royeaux sky when working. The mask is resting casually on top of the side of his head; how many times did you tell him not to do that?

“Feeling nostalgic?” he asks, looking around the apartment. “You know, you really have a lot of nerve, dreaming about this place like you’re not the one who ran off and left it behind. It’s just a home for strays now… although I suppose it always was.”

It’s not something you would have necessarily noticed before Solas waltzed right into your dreams in Val Royeaux, giving you such an upset and an embarrassment. When something acts a bit odd in a dream, or stands out a bit much, it’s your normal instinct to assume it’s a spirit or a demon of some kind; you are a mage and that does happen, after all. But you’re aware of possibilities, now, and more importantly, aware of what they feel like. This is not something he’s done in the past, but you’d always suspected it would be a possibility.

It would be so like him to do it like this instead of just fucking telling you.

You panic. You absolutely, full-on, one-hundred-percent panic. Because you don’t know what the rules are. You know how Templars and Seekers detect magic and spirits, and how mages do, because it’s all written down. You know what’s not fucking written down? Detailed studies about somniari, and you have one right outside this goddamn tent, doing who even knows what.

You bolt up from your perfect little sunbeam and rush to Alas’len, pulling him through the door, glancing through it, and then slamming it shut.

“You absolutely cannot fucking be here,” you hiss. “Are you insane? Why would you just come strolling right in? When did you even—that doesn’t matter, none of this matters, you have to get out. Get back to your own corner of the Fade, and stay there, fast.”

Alas’len looks amused. “Are you worried about the Seeker? You shouldn’t be. As far as they’re concerned, this isn’t even a possibility for them to be worried about. They certainly have no way of detecting—”

“It’s not the fucking Seeker you should be afraid of!” you snap. “It’s Solas!”

Alas’len looks completely baffled. “The old man? Does he have some sort of way to—”

“He’s a somniari too! He walked in on my dreams when—remember that trip to Val Royeaux?”

Alas’len’s face is a painting of mixed emotions. You see confusion, fear, excitement, and then anger and hurt. Not just on him—it’s twisting into the stuff of your dreams, warping it into a nightmare. “You’ve known since then, and you didn’t think to mention that you’d found— You told me I might be the last one!”

“I’m not in the business of telling other people’s secrets!” you hiss. “Particularly not this kind, as you damn well know! If I’d known you’d developed this far, I would have warned you, but someone decided they’d rather be dramatic. Now listen to me, you have to go back to your own dream and you have to stay there. I know he wanders around and pokes in on people, because he did it to me. You have to pretend to be a normal mage.”

Alas’len’s distress radiates out into the room, melting countertops and turning the sky outside stormy. “I don’t even know if I can! I don’t know what it looks like from the outside—”

“We’ll figure it out! We’ll figure it out together. I promise. But you have to go; you’re fucking with this corner of Fade and I just know it’ll attract his attention if he falls asleep. He’s always lurking around; it’s super goddamn annoying. Go! Hurry up and go, and we’ll figure out what to do.”

The dream dissipates with a pop, and you find yourself groggy and confused in your tent. It’s dark, so you can’t have been asleep for very long. Cole isn’t here, which probably means Solas is still awake. You hope that means Solas is still awake.

You’re just starting to sit up, trying to dispel the exhaustion and nausea that frequently comes when you wake up from one of your deep, Cole-induced mini-naps, when the entrance to your tent bursts open, and through it scrambles one half-dressed Alas’len.

Well, this might as well happen.

You pull him down onto your bedroll, face very close so you can whisper so softly that it couldn’t be heard even by elf-ears right outside the tent. It’s barely a breath.

“Did anyone see you?”

“No, that spirit of yours is distracting the watch.”

Why is everything and everyone always being determined ‘yours’?

“Good.”

“How could you not tell me you found another Somniari?” he demands, voice raising slightly to hushed whisper, and you shush him as quietly as you can. “That’s need-to-know-information! For fuck’s sake, no wonder you were all over his dick in Val Royeaux—”

You flick his nose, making him recoil backwards. “I told you, I don’t—” The phrase ‘kiss and tell’ wilts on your lips. “Share that kind of information. I had my reasons.”

“No, you don’t get away with your stupid shitty ‘I-am-your-wise-mentor-who-knows-what’s-best’ bullshit shtick right now! I’ve been alone, lethallan!”

You sigh. He’s right. But you don’t know that he’ll appreciate your reasoning.

“I had two reasons,” you explain, holding up two fingers as you silently breathe secrets into the inches of air between the two of you. “One is that I don’t know exactly what he is. I know he can walk through the Fade like a somniari should be able to, but… I don’t know, something else is up with him. His stories never quite feel right, but I don’t know enough about the Fade or magecraft to really solidly disprove anything he says. I think he might be an abomination or something… something even weirder, or older, or… I don’t know. He might not even actually be a somniari. I don’t know how to tell for sure.”

Alas’len absorbs all of this silently. “I could probably check, if—”

“If what?” you hiss, a little too loud, you catch yourself and quiet your voice back to barely-moving-the-air. “If you go to him in the Fade? Congratulations, your dumb ass immediately tripped into reason two I didn’t tell you; the likelihood you’d go sprinting full tilt towards him in excitement. Because that’s what you do, that’s what you did with me and look where it got you.”

“Excuse me, I did not—”

“Lethallin, please. I don’t say this to be cruel, but you’re a puppy looking for a kind hand, and you always have been. I didn’t want to dangle the hope of someone like you, someone who’d understand, only to rip it away because I said so, because it’s dangerous. I didn’t know if you’d listen to me. I still don’t know if you’ll listen to me. But please.”

“He could be the only other one in the world! Or worse, what if he knows others? What if there’s a whole group, hidden somewhere…?”

“And what if he’s the only one because something happened to all the others? What if he happened to all the others? What if he reacts to spilled secrets like I do, lethallin, or worse?” you insist. “We can’t know, and there’s no safe way to find out. Not yet, not like this.”

“…You don’t trust him.” Alas’len breathes it out like a realization, although you’re surprised he would be surprised.

“Of course I don’t. That’s why he doesn’t know about you. That’s why he doesn’t even know about me.”

Alas’len blinks in surprise. “What, really?”

You’re offended. “Did you think I’d tell him?!”

“You didn’t hide it from me,” he points out.

“That’s… that was different, you already… you came at it from the other side, you already knew Banal’ras was… so it was more like I… look, shut up.” You don’t normally fluster, but you’re very close to his face and you can see every detail of the smug grin growing. You want to headbutt it off his face and it’s getting hard to resist the urge.

“So you’ve seriously been keeping it in all day, every day?”

“All night, every night,” you agree. He winces.

“Are you okay?”

“No, one of these days I’m going to collapse and then vomit out pure mana, I think,” you say flatly. He looks deeply concerned. “I’m fine. Cole is helping. And once we get out to the desert, I think it’ll actually be pretty easy to slip away from the mages and Templars for a while. They’re going to be dealing with that Warden business, and meanwhile my job is playing house with a draconologist. Look, this isn’t important. He’s already sniffing around you, lethallin. It makes me—” It makes you feel. A lot of the things: scared, defensive, aggressive, possessive. It’s a complicated knot of emotions and you have no inclination to even bother trying to untangle them. “Worried,” you decide.

“So you want me to, what, just avoid him?”

“Yes. Especially at night. Please.”

Alas’len is pouting, but it’s not his defiant fuck-you-I-do-what-I-want expression, which you’re intimately familiar with.

“…Fine,” he says finally, and you breathe out a too-loud sigh of relief. “On one condition.” You suck that sigh right back in.

“Condition?” you demand, offended. Does this seem like the kind of moment to be adding in conditions?

“You find out for me.”

“What?!”

“He doesn’t know you’re a mage, even though you practically live with him, and have for months. I’m not an idiot, lethallan, and I know you. You’ve been spending this whole time studying him like a pinned insect, haven’t you? I bet you’ve got notes. I bet they’re in Elvhen.“

“Absolutely not, he can read that,” you snap, before catching yourself. Alas’len looks unbearably smug at the incidental confirmation.

“Just tell me what you find. You said you didn’t know yet what he was. That means you absolutely intend to find out. He’s what’s keeping you with this stupid Inquisition, isn’t it? You’ve found a riddle you can’t solve, and you can’t stop fussing at it.”

You dislike the accuracy for several reasons. Your curiosity doesn’t always—didn’t always—overwhelm your good sense. The idea that it might be doing so here is something that’s been haunting you with every decision not to flee the Inquisition. Because he’s not wrong. Solas is a puzzle, and you can’t stomach the idea of walking away before solving it. Everything else… everything else is just decoration, just side bonuses. Deep down, you know it. You’ve been trying not to look directly at it, and Alas’len drawing attention to it makes you feel untethered and more than a little sick.

“Fine,” is all you say, wanting the conversation to be over.

“Dirthsal?“

“Dirthavaren.“

Alas’len doesn’t leave your tent that night. He didn’t ask to stay, and you don’t tell him to leave. Both of you are, perhaps, feeling a little unsettled, if for very different reasons. The discovery of another somniari would have explosive consequences for Alas’len.

You had been the one to introduce him to the concept, learned of from your long studies into Elvhenan and ancient Tevinter. It was the only explanation you had for his trances, which you quickly discovered were not fits, as his mother had thought, but him entering the Fade while awake—well, sort of awake. You hadn’t known his abilities had improved in your absence, to the point where he can now wander into someone else’s dream the way Solas can. You suppose that means he really is a somniari… It had always been a little uncertain, to you, and you hadn’t had anyone either of you trusted enough to ask. Alas’len had believed it longer and harder than you had.

He never said as much, but you’ve long suspected that his ‘fits’ were quite related to his mother ultimately abandoning him on the streets as a child. Learning that they were, in fact, a sign of his ultimate value as a thing out of legend… probably came as a comfort. It had seemed to, at the time. That wasn’t why you’d said it; you hadn’t been thinking about his state of mind at all. At the time, you rarely considered anyone’s.

You’ve always been a selfish, self-centered person.

In fact, you suspect that if you hadn’t also been unsettled and in need of a distraction, you wouldn’t have let him stay in your tent. More selfish behavior. But you accepted this about yourself long ago. What you can’t accept is behaviors that are more… recent.

To distract yourself from these thoughts, and distract Alas’len from his, you show him some of the books he’d helped you steal from the Circle in Val Royeaux, which you’ve since hidden away in dull-looking covers. He’s fascinated, but unlike you, he does need sleep, and eventually succumbs to it. You peel his face out of the book he’s fallen asleep on and carefully roll him onto your bedroll.

Sitting in the middle of your tent, you wait for dawn alone, considering Solas and what he might do almost as much as you consider yourself and what you might do.

Alas’len stirs a little after dawn. You can already hear people up outside, waking and beginning to break down tents. You had considered sneaking out earlier, but you hadn’t felt ready to face your traveling companions. Plus, all the damage would be done whenever they saw him leaving your tent, regardless of whether or not you were also in it. Regardless of whether or not Cassandra told anyone what she walked into, you’re going to seal this rumor here and now. If the Inquisition is so determined that you be a slut, a slut you shall be.

Still dressed in your clothes from yesterday, having never taken them off due to Alas’len’s presence, you throw open your tent and emerge into the bitter sunlight, Alas’len trailing behind you. You don’t turn to look at his face; you don’t need anything to make this situation any more embarrassing than it already is. You don’t want to see the kind of expression he’s making.

Blackwell and Sera are making breakfast, and the two of them take immediate notice. Great, just swell, just absolutely the two people you most wanted to see in this fucking moment. You’ve freed yourself from having to see Alas’len’s expression, but nothing can save you from Sera’s. She looks shocked, then hurt, and then absolutely thunderous.

You wonder, numbly, how determined she’ll be to hurt you just as badly. In your experience, they normally are. You have enough time to idly hope she doesn’t stab you, because if it happens with two blondes in a row you really will develop some kind of complex, before she’s storming over.

“I suppose yer also gonna tell me this,” she hisses, gesturing towards Alas’len. “Is also jus’ a massage?”

Maker, she’s just started and you’re already getting a headache. Actually, you might have had a headache already, you’re not sure. You’re in a desert; you’ve barely slept in you think possibly multiple months; and you just spent all night wondering if you were risking not only your life, but your friend’s, all because you can’t leave a question unanswered. The headache might just be omnipresent in your life in general right now.

To her credit, and you don’t feel like giving her a great deal of credit right now, she grabs your arm and starts pulling you away. You let her; you also don’t feel like having this conversation in plain view of literally everyone. You glance enough of Alas’len to see he looks concerned, likely due to how your lover’s quarrels have tended to go in the past.

She pulls you off behind the same tree you and Alas’len had pretend-snogged behind last night, a fact that you absolutely do not bring up. She takes a deep breath, and you can tell how badly she’s trying to not absolutely explode. A stab of pain manages to make its way through the numbness, to your dismay. She’s trying to do better. It’s just such a shame that it’s you she’s trying with. There’s no better to get to.

“Wot the fuck,” she manages finally.

“Which part are you angry about?” you ask, knowing full well that asking for clarification is generally not the go-to in these situations. But you’re genuinely not sure, with her. Different people have different expectations and demands, and hers have felt even more baffling than usual.

“The part where you just crawled out of your tent with some slut of a man we just met!” she exclaims, voice raising enough that they can certainly hear her back at camp despite the care she took in pulling you away from it. “You said… You said you hadn’t! You said there wasn’t anyone but me that you were even…!”

“There wasn’t! I didn’t lie,” you insist. “There’s nothing going on between me and Solas or me and whoever else people think, I dunno, Iron Bull or whoever. There never was.”

“Oh, but this guy!”

“Yes, this guy,” you agree, rubbing your forehead. “Didn’t I tell you literally yesterday there wasn’t a ‘we’ or an ‘us’? Haven’t I said a bunch of times that I can’t give you whatever it is you clearly want? You keep getting mad at me based on your interpretation of what’s happening here, but I don’t remember promising you shit.”

That’s enough to set her off. “Oh, fuck you, so wot, I was jus’ some fun experiment? Wanted to try a girl before you hopped right back on the next elf dick you saw?!”

“In what fucking world would you think this has anything to do with you being a girl?!” you demand, frustration leaking into the fight despite how hard you’d been trying to keep yourself distant. “This is about me! This is about me, and how I’m a mess, and how many times I fucking told you that, but you wouldn’t stop, and you want to know why I fucked him and not anyone in the Inquisition, not any of the parade of elven dicks around at any given time? It’s because he’s going to be gone in a matter of days and then I will never see him again, and that is preferable to me, do you fucking get it?“

Sera stares at you, furious and baffled.

“No,” she finally says. “I don’t get it—I don’t get you—not a single fuckin’ bit.”

Electricity is thrumming inside your veins. Fire is throbbing just under your skin. It itches at your fingertips.

Your mood is, in a word, frightful.

It takes you a moment to fully register it; you got your food and skirted off to yourself, under a tree, before the feeling fully registered to you. Part of the problem was that the feeling is vaguely indecipherable. It’s physical. It feels like your blood is on fire, like you’ve been lit up inside. This is a somewhat more poignant metaphor with you than it might be with other people, as you’re intimately familiar with the reality of what that feels like. Your skin is warm, which could be due to the ever-growing heat of the desert, you suppose. The tingling of your skin feels like electricity but it could also be anything. You feel like the sky directly before a storm.

Isn’t stretching meant to be relaxing? You feel like if you open your mouth, a peel of thunder will escape. It feels a lot like when your magic is growing out of control, which is worrying, but without any of the actual pressure of mana inside you. Your aura is perfectly fine, if restless. You also feel violent, which is more understandable, but you don’t tend to feel… tingly… about violence. You run your hands against your leggings again, as if you can chase off the static.

All in all: confusing. You don’t appreciate it.

You settle for taking deep breaths and running through every grounding activity anyone has ever taught you. The Iron Bull taught you violence, but the Inquisitor is nowhere to be seen, so you can’t even suggest to two of you take a few whacks at each other with swords before it’s time to leave. This leaves you with deep breaths, mostly. They’re largely useless, as they always are. Breakfast helps a little bit more, if only because it gives you something to think about other than the weird sensations in your body or, Maker forbid, Solas. Every few minutes the ghost of a sensation—your shin against his ankle, the smooth way he fell, how good it felt to have him underneath you—shivers through you, and it makes everything worse. You focus on your food.

If Solas doesn’t pop into your mind, Alas’len does, and he’s if anything, harder to ignore, simply because you can see him. Solas has vanished off wherever the hell it is he goes—you don’t care at all not even a little itty bit—but Alas’len is, as always, in the middle of literally everything. Right now he’s playing cute with Dorian, having apparently not had his fill of older men from Solas. As if that brat has ever had his fill of anything. You’d told him Dorian was off limits. You suspect that Solas will respect your boundaries about Alas’len about as well as Alas’len appears to be respecting your boundaries about Dorian. With Alas’len at least you are content chalking up a lot of his indiscretions to the sheer stupidity that comes with being horny. Solas does not have that grace from you. You wonder if there’s a word in any language for “horny but like with curiosity.” A lust for knowledge. You remember abruptly that there is; it sours your appetite further.

You focus on your food. You meditate on your food.

This is probably why you don’t notice the Inquisitor approaching you until he plops down next to you.

This is startling for a number of reasons. One, it’s mortifying to be caught off guard by a man in chain mail armor. He is not quiet. Two, he never comes to you for anything good. Three, he does not have breakfast with you, period. He normally has it with Cassandra or in the general large group. He’s not particularly on the list of people who bother you when you’re in a bad mood, although you chalk that up to him not caring much for or about you and not any ability on his part to tell when you’re in a foul mood. Although if you’re being honest, you don’t know if your mood right now is bad or just fucking weird.

“He seems to be fitting in well,” Eugene says, gesturing with a biscuit towards Alas’len. You add this conversation to the list of things about today you hate.

“He’s charming. It’s very annoying,” you agree.

“You say it’s annoying, but the two of you seem to have gotten… close.”

You run a tongue over your teeth, considering your options, since flipping the Inquisitor into the sand and blatantly threatening him into leaving well enough alone is obviously not on the table. You should have treated Alas’len in a less friendly manner; you know that. But it’s not like you’ve presented yourself as a hard-to-befriend person with the Inquisition. Kind of the opposite, in fact, although a lot of that is due to the fact that the Inquisition is full of friendly little bastards.

“He seems to like you,” the Inquisitor is continuing, as your brain flips rapidly through options without settling on one. “Cassandra even said he fell asleep with you last night.” He pauses, meaningfully. The meaning could be a lot of things. You blink, slowly, as if waiting for him to come to a point. Not worth giving him any ammunition when he’s so blatantly trying to lead the conversation somewhere. “It seems he trusts you, or at least favors you.”

You point towards the man in question, who has currently found some Maker-forsaken reason to be sitting on one of Dorian’s legs, halfway into his lap. “You sure about that?”

“Okay, well, yes, fair, but I can’t trust Dorian for this.”

That throws you. You turn towards the Inquisitor for the first time since he’s sat down next to you, head tilted, expression bewildered. What in the world would he trust you with that he wouldn’t trust a member of his inner circle with? You are quite literally just some guy.

“He’s a powerful mage,” the Inquisitor explains. “Alas’len. We don’t know if he can be trusted yet, or if he can, exactly how far. Dorian is… well, he’s a lot of things, but he’s also a mage. A Tevinter, on top of that. He might be more inclined to overlook certain things that the Inquisition would take… more of an issue with.”

The Inquisitor is not as good at delicate phrasing as he thinks he is.

“Cassandra performed a ritual last night—” Your whole body tenses, the fire and electricity from earlier becoming all at once more literal. Your fingers almost spark. “And he’s not an abomination.” You relax only slightly. You’re not terribly surprised to know that Templars—or Seekers—have some way of telling. You’ve long known they had a way to detect mages; this is just one step further. It makes you uncomfortable, however. You don’t like the idea of them casting rituals when you’re trying to fucking sleep. “But he could still be a blood mage. We don’t have any real way of telling, other than the obvious signs. Scars, for instance, but he’s very well-covered. That could mean he’s hiding something. It could also just mean he doesn’t like getting sandy.”

“Which would, admittedly, be reasonable,” you agree, since you’ve discovered you hate fucking sand and how it gets everywhere and also in your eyes. “I’m not seeing where I come in, though. I don’t know the first thing about blood mages.”

“That’s why I’m telling you,” the Inquisitor said, clearly trying to sound patient, or gentle, or kind, or all three. It’s not really working on you, but you suppose it might on someone who disliked him less in general. You could see how someone might be flattered, or might be excited to help the Herald of Andraste. He’s affable enough that he didn’t lose your good will until you’d seen how hostile he was with Solas and took that—fairly—as an indictment of his character. All this introspection about the way he operates isn’t necessarily going to help you with the situation at hand, however. “He already seems friendly towards you,” the Inquisitor is continuing. “You can pay attention to stories of his past. Keep an eye out for telltale scars if you should… happen to see him in fewer layers.”

You blink, slowly.

“After all, I noticed the two of you were wet when you came back from the oasis—”

“It’s to my surprise and chagrin that I have to inform you that Leliana explicitly promised I was not going to be prostituted out when I was sent on this delightful little assignment.”

“Wh—NO! Oh, Maker, no, that is not what I meant!” The Inquisitor is turning extremely red in the face, extremely quickly. Under other circumstances, it would be hilarious. Under this one, it’s still kinda funny. “I’m no, the—the Inquisition is not telling you to seduce a man! I just meant… you seem interested in him, and if you are, it would be helpful to the Inquisition’s cause if you would be on the lookout. Forewarned is also forearmed, and it would be to your best interest if you, as well as us, were completely certain your new… whatever… isn’t of a mind to sacrifice you to demons or the like. Especially since you seem inclined to follow him out into the desert alone.”

It’s tempting to press the prostitution thing, in part to get more of a rise out of the Inquisitor, but it already served its purpose in sussing out his intentions and a bit more of his character. You elect to have mercy, which is somewhat unlike you. Your mood must be weird.

“I can keep an eye on him. In truth, I’ll admit I had a similar idea in mind, myself. I don’t entirely trust him myself. As I said, he’s a little too charming for my personal liking.” You give the Inquisitor a sidelong eye. “It’s a bit easier to trust people who are a bit more awkward.”

The Inquisitor rubs under his nose, clearly taking your meaning. “I wish other Orlesians agreed with you on that.”

“Orlesians are weird; don’t read too much into it.”

He snorts. “True enough. Well, I’m glad we’re on the same page here, Emma. For the record, I hope that he is trustworthy. The Inquisition always needs new allies, and since we’ve allied with the Templars, magical allies have been few and far between outside of Vivienne’s loyal mages. If he can be trusted, no one will be happier about it than me.”

“Dorian, maybe,” you suggest. The two men have separated physically, but not enough for your liking.

“Alright, yeah,” he agrees. “Maybe Dorian.”

You were so busy being guarded and feeling weird that it didn’t fully register to you how funny the situation was until you were already mounted and on the road. (Metaphorical road. There are no roads out here. Just sand.) The Inquisitor doesn’t trust Dorian enough to spy on Alas’len. So he went to you. It’s delicious. It’s maybe the funniest thing that’s happened to you since you joined the Inquisition. The irony is thick enough to eat and it tastes amazing. You can compare notes with Alas’len later and make sure your stories are completely straight, and from there he can use you to feed information into the Inquisition. Limited information, just information about him and his newest persona, but still. There’s a lot a talented bard can do with that, and the two of you are some of the best in the business. You’re confident you could give their Nightingale a run for her money with the both of you working together. Which you might have to, since Banal’ras doesn’t seem content to let the Inquisition be, and at that point you’re probably safer involved.

Which he would have known. Which is probably part of why he did it. His cute little way of forcing you back into the game. Bastard.

You keep your thoughts on plans and schemes, however, because every time you let your mind drift, it goes to places you don’t want—people you don’t want—and you start feeling peculiar again. Perhaps all this nonsense with Sera is rattling your brain, crossing your wires. Pulling your sexuality, better left buried, up to the surface, where it can mess things up just by reminding you it’s an option. You’d normally just blame your own general libido, which causes problems regularly, but something feels very different about this, something about the tangled mess of feelings you can’t decipher. If you’d just gotten horny tackling someone you’re begrudgingly attracted to to the ground, that would be one thing and pretty fair. You’d certainly experienced that with Fenris, and wouldn’t mind experiencing it with him a few more times, if you’re being honest. This doesn’t feel like that. That didn’t make you feel like you were going to burst out of your skin, like there was something bigger than yourself, something hungry, clawing at the inside of your teeth, demanding to be let out.

It makes you nervous, if you’re being honest.

The idea that it might be Sera’s fault, or rather, your fault by way of Sera, has solidified in your mind by the time you stop for lunch. You consider once again telling her that the two of you need to stop doing this, but it hasn’t worked the last half-dozen times you tried, is the thing. And she hasn’t tried to be fully intimate with you in the two days since Alas’len arrived. She’s been jealously possessive, yes, but if you keep going the way you have been, it’s entirely possible she’ll dump you and you won’t have to bother with the same song and dance of telling her you don’t want to do this only to find yourself talked around and kissing her by the end of the fight.

She seeks you out, of course, so you don’t even get the chance to consider avoiding her. She laces her fingers with yours and grips. It feels possessive, and makes your hackles rise. You want to tell her that you’re not hers to grab, to be protective over, but you know it’s not fair. This is how people are with each other, and you’re the one who’s been making her jealous… on purpose, this time. You remember her reaction when she caught you alone with Solas, that time you were studying Elven together, and pull your hand away, unable to take it any longer.

She glances your way and pouts. You just shake your head, wishing that not wanting to be touched could be a normal thing and not a sign of trouble on the horizon. But you know better; you’ve been touched in enough ways by enough people to be aware that there is a line that, when crossed, carries the implication that your body is now shared territory. It’s not even Sera’s fault; you’re not so oblivious to social norms that you never learned how it works. There is a shared understanding amongst people; a relationship is like trading stocks in your own body, giving controlling shares to a third party that has their own opinions about what you can do with it and who is allowed to touch it and when. You had thought, briefly, that Sera was different. You don’t know, anymore, why you thought that, if it was the prostitutes in Val Firmin or if you were just seeing what you wanted to see, evidence be damned.

You’re making excuses. You knew this was a bad idea, and did it anyway. This is your fault.

“Yer face is sayin’ a whole lot of nothin’ right now,” Sera says, breaking through the rolling turmoil of your thoughts. “You feelin’ alright?”

“I’m fine,” you lie, shortly. “Just wishing things were different.”

Sera looks hurt. She’s adding interpretation to your words, and you can only guess at what that is. You used to think you were good at this, but lately you’ve been feeling your shortcomings more sharply.

“Things can be however we want ’em to be,” she suggests. “They don’t gotta be any one way.”

“Oh,” you say with a soft, reluctant little sigh.

“Yeah?”

“I really wish that were true,” you clarify, and her face falls again.

“We’re the only ones who say how things gotta be with us. Just us,” she insists.

“What ‘we’?” you ask, unable to keep the bitterness out of your voice. If you got to define what things were, you don’t think you would have had to have the same conversation ten times with her.

“We’ve had too many conversations about what we are fer two people who aren’t a ‘we’,” she points out.

You open your mouth, a thousand rebuttals on your tongue, and then close it. “I’m exhausted,” you say, instead of ‘you are exhausting.’ “And I don’t want to have one more.”

“We ain’t gotta talk about it.”

You do. You really do. But when you can never seem to find the right words, when it doesn’t seem to do any good, you don’t even know why you should bother.

You just can’t be given a moment of peace. Not even a moment.

That is your takeaway from this whole horrid trip. Gone are your quiet mornings in the rotunda, peaceful only in retrospect now that you’ve experienced pure fucking chaos for such an extended period. No chance of stealing off to your tiny little would-be farm and communing with some goats or catching a few words with the beautiful, boring, unimportant masses of Skyhold while you dodge the powers that be and their incessant interest in you. There’s no one boring here. Everyone you’re traveling with is super important, and you have taken on the singular role of unimportant masses, forced into a role of mattering due to sheer proximity.

And it. Fucking. Sucks.

You can catch neither a break nor a routine. Not even your miserable trek through a desert could be unexceptional. And this afternoon? Your unpleasant interruption comes in the form, as it so often seems to, of Solas.

One would think that after this morning’s incident, he would be wary. Steer clear. Re-evaluate his opinion of you, how he acts around you, how he treats you. That would be what you would do after a sudden, aggressive surprise; you’d circle around the incident like a once-bitten dog, wary of another unexpected snap. But Solas never can be counted on to behave like a person ought, and so, given Sera’s presence in the ahead team and Alas’len’s distraction via the Seeker, who is unsubtly babysitting him, Solas seeks you out intentionally. The mad bastard.

“It seems I’m not the only one who’s noticed the growing closeness between you and our new apostate friend,” he remarks, in that Solas way of not actually directing a comment at you but instead near you, towards the world in general.

You grimace. Seems like the Inquisitor’s visit with you this morning didn’t escape his notice despite the fact you’d just finished attempting to give him a fright. If he’d still been sniffing around that intently, that quickly, you obviously hadn’t done a very good job at putting the fear of the Maker into him. Although you suppose if his curiosity were easily thwarted, you wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.

“It would seem,” you respond, not bothering to keep the ominous undertones out of your voice. You are in the role of a woman who is getting tired of being prodded, and for once that role overlaps with how you actually feel fairly readily.

Solas, for his part, turns his head to actually observe you. You feel the quick up and down of his eyes, although you’re not sure what he’s looking for or what he’s picking up on. You hope it’s that you’re thinking about performing acts of moderate violence on his person again.

“I shall spare you waiting through any beating around the proverbial bush,” Solas decides. Whatever he saw, it must have been accurate. “The Seeker bade me to ensure you were fully up-to-date on the myriad dangers of fraternizing with mages and spirits, even as a person with no gift for magic, free from the worst dangerous of fade-based corruption.”

Your mind still on your conversation with the Inquisitor and caught off guard, you let out an audible bark of laughter.

“Are you serious?”

“Oh yes. She seems to think that you would not take kindly to such a reminder coming directly from her. I suspect she had intended for me to not mention the source of my impetus for such an impromptu lecture on things you already well know.”

“That might be the first thing she’s ever been right about.”

“Her concern is coming from a place of genuine kindness,” Solas says, gently reproachful. You try not to roll your eyes and don’t quite succeed.

“Her concern is unwanted, unwarranted, moderately condescending, and more than a little rude,” you say bluntly.

“I’m aware.”

“Did you tell her as much?”

“It seemed very much as though you already had.”

“And yet here we still are. I am a grown woman, not a sheep, and she is neither shepherd nor sheepdog. I am not exactly sure where the misunderstanding is happening, Solas, but the key thing I need everyone involved here to understand is that Cole and Alas’len have befriended me. The Seeker has done no such thing. I am unlikely to take condescending nagging from a stranger over my own senses or the brief but enjoyable bond I’ve formed with aforementioned friends. Are you following thus far, Solas?”

“Are you attempting to match condescension with condescension?”

“Very much so. Is it working?”

“Inasmuch as you’re managing the match.”

“Excellent. And so, if you’re intent on carrying on your friends’ stupid, annoying, rude messages, you can tell the Seeker that if I have to listen to one more person tell me ‘apostates are dangerous’ as if I am a fucking five-year-old child who has not yet begun to comprehend the danger posed by strange men, I am going to straddle him in front of her and reenact all the parts of the Canticle of Andraste that the Chantry likes to ignore.”

“Emma.“

You can’t entirely tell if he’s embarrassed, reproachful, or both. You hope it’s both.

“Oh, you know the parts?”

“Emma.“

“Well, you can’t blame me for not assuming you would, being a dangerous apostate yourself.”

“I believe I might take being tackled into the sand again over five minutes with your barbed tongue,” Solas shoots back. The reference to this morning catches you off guard and reddens your cheeks, although you’re already so flushed from riding through the heat that it’s probably imperceptible.

“That can be arranged,” you manage, after slightly too long a pause. “Bring Ashi’lana closer and we can try it with a drop.”

“If you make a single aggressive motion towards me on that hart,” Solas says, nodding down at Revas, “he will take it as signal to begin trampling at last.”

You glance down at your mount, who, as always, seems perfectly content. You consider.

“I think it would be fine. C’mere.” You squeeze your legs around Revas, urging him to pick up just a little bit of speed towards Solas and Ashi’lana. In response, of course, Solas speeds Ashi’lana up, and at that point Revas does indeed pick up on exactly what you’re trying to do and takes off in pursuit.

You would pretend it’s not equal parts fun and deeply satisfying to chase Solas down, but you need all your ability to pretend just to pretend like your life isn’t dramatically falling apart with an audience. It’s also probably deeply unprofessional, what you’re doing, just judging by the looks you get, but for everything else you might say about the Inquisition, their tolerance for “fucking around in stressful situations just to stay sane” is incredibly high. This probably has something to do with the fact that your leader is just some guy with magic powers from an unknown source and your inner council appears to just be whoever was around at the time. Every now and then, you’re beginning to suspect, all of them have little moments of realization that everything that’s happening is completely fucking insane. In those moments, they probably would also like the freedom to chase Solas around on horseback, judgment free.

Or whatever they do to relieve stress. You’re not here to judge.

You do wonder what the Seeker makes of it, though, watching you attempt to get close enough to tackle Solas clean off his hart directly after she’d asked him to have a serious conversation with you about your willingness to get seduced by the mysterious powers of evil or whatever it is she thinks Alas’len and Cole are. You hope she can tell that means it went poorly. You think she can, by the look on her face when you finally stop exhausting your harts by chasing him around in wide circles. She looks disgruntled. She looks tired. She looks extremely put-upon. When you catch her watching you with that look, you elect to make it worse by catching her eye and, in an act of penultimate maturity, sticking your tongue out.

Childish? Yes. Unnecessary? Extremely. Satisfying, when her exhausted expression deepens into one of a person on the edge of a migraine? Yeah, absolutely.

Maybe one day she’ll elect to leave you the fuck alone for the sake of her own sanity.

But to be sure, you decide to spend the rest of the afternoon allowing Alas’len to hit on you mercilessly within earshot of the Seeker.

It never hurts to be thorough, after all.

Dinner passes rather peacefully, mostly due to the fact you recently alienated all of your friends, what with your violence towards Solas and your snappishness with Sera, not to mention your… well, the Seeker isn’t your friend, you need to be clear about that, but you’ve definitely been as much of a bitch as possible towards her, so she’s keeping her distance at well. And the Inquisitor seemingly hasn’t recovered from the mortification of accidentally prostituting you and is steadfastly refusing to make eye contact. That leaves you in the company of Alas’len and Dorian, which mostly consists of Alas’len subtly testing the grounds for a potential threesome. You could have saved him the time and told him that Dorian is only interested in men, and no matter how confused your current understanding of sex and sexuality is thanks to Krem, you’re mostly certain that you don’t count.

Of course, he probably knows, just like he knows his flirting with Dorian can’t go anywhere, thanks to your earlier say-so. Your apologies to Dorian, who seems interested—or at least seems like he’s enjoying the attention—but it really is for both of their own goods. And yours. It’s also for your own good, the importance of which deserves not to be understated.

It’s at this point, weeks into your journey, that you realize you’ve gotten into the rhythm of travel somewhat. It couldn’t be called a routine, but the care for the mounts, which used to be a time-consuming and difficult ordeal has begun to feel like second nature. You can dodge the stomps and see the nips and tail whips coming. Belassan would certainly be proud of you. Maybe when this shit is all said and done, you’ll retire from scribe work and become a stablehand. At least the horses telegraph when they’re about to bite you or shit on your foot. Humans rarely offer such courtesy. It’s a nice thought, even if it’s as much of a lie as every other time you tell yourself you’re going to quit. You were never going to quit the Inquisition; you were never going to stop your stubborn investigation; and you were never, ever, going to be out of the Game. It’s just lies you tell yourself to pretend you can be anything besides what you are.

After dinner, you find a choice spot some distance from camp, tucked behind one of the desert’s rare trees, to watch the moons rise over the horizon, the sliver of Satina on the horizon promising the change of seasons. Back home, it’s probably getting very cold. Here, in the desert, it’s only cold at night, and you definitely won’t be seeing any snow.

Although, seeing as how you currently live in the mountains, maybe being stuck in a Maker-forsaken, Blight-cursed desert isn’t the worst possible thing that could happen.

What are you even talking about. Of course it is.

You stay out there long enough that Alas’len finds you, as you knew he would.

“Did anyone see you leave?” you wonder as he plops down next to you, sheltered from view of the camp by the tree.

“No, although that Seeker will probably notice I’m gone before terribly long. It’s like having a very judgmental shadow.”

“You’re telling me,” you say, rubbing your hands through your hair before electing to pull it loose from its bun. Your hair seems like it’s getting more and more frazzled every single day. If you ever get out of the desert, you’ll probably be washing sand out of it for months. Alas’len reaches over to run a hand through it as well; you let out a quiet grumble, but allow it. He probably has more experience with your hair than with his; you’ve been doing his for him for years.

You wonder if that gave him grief after you left. You chase that thought away as quickly as you can.

“What’s going on with you and your apostate today?” Alas’len wonders. You stiffen, and then bat his hand out of your hair.

“Nothing.”

“You were chasing him around in circles.”

“He deserved it.”

“I don’t doubt it; I’m just wondering what he did. I was starting to think he could do no wrong in your eyes,” Alas’len says dryly.

“He doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone,” you grumble.

“And so you had to chase him on horseback?”

“Hartback.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“So let me!”

Alas’len laughs, and you scowl. You lean against him, and think again of simpler times.

In retrospect, they weren’t that much simpler, actually.

“By the way,” you say, after a moment’s silence. “The Inquisitor asked me to spy on you.”

This time, it’s Alas’len who snorts inappropriately loudly. “No! What? Really?“

You have to laugh too. “On my life. Thank the Maker I have so much practice keeping a straight face. I thought for a second he was trying to prostitute me out.” You consider it momentarily. “I’m still not completely sure he wasn’t, to be honest.”

“He wants you to sleep with me?”

“He wants me to figure out if you’re a blood mage, if I’m going to be seeing you naked anyway, was the general gist I got from the conversation.” You laugh again. “So much for beating my reputation as the Inquisition’s most agreeable mare. This is your fault, you know.”

“Sorry that I’m so eminently fuckable.”

You bop him on the backside of the head, which predictably does nothing to discourage him.

“The Inquisitor took one look at me and said, I’ve got someone who won’t be able to resist riding that pony—”

“Lethallin I swear to the Maker—”

“If you’re going to, do it loud, then tell the Inquisitor all about my perfect, blood-magic-scar-less body. In great detail.”

You go to smack him again. This time he ducks.

“What are you going to do?” he wonders.

You sigh. “I haven’t decided. If everyone’s determined that I’m either already sleeping with you or about to, it might be at the point where it would be easier just to go with it.”

“You really know how to make a boy feel desired.”

“Oh, shut up,” you grumble. “This is mortifying enough without your help. I’m never going to live it down.”

“You could do worse,” he says indignantly.

“You’re a random sand apostate who I met a week ago. The fact that you are pretty does not detract from that.”

“You think I’m pretty?” he asks, fluttering his eyelashes. You throw a handful of sand at him.

“I’m never escaping my bad reputation after this,” you mourn. “Never.”

“I know why you’re so upset,” Alas’len announces, resting his chin on his hand and smiling in a way that makes you know you’re about to want to punch him. You kind of already do. “It’s because of how much you hate when people know anything real about you.”

“Are you calling me a slut, lethalin?” you gasp, convincingly affronted.

“Hooking up with an attractive face with an expiration date built in is potentially the most in-character thing I’ve seen you do around these people. It’s almost comforting.”

“Oh, do you have an expiration date? I’m glad you’ve realized. I thought you were about to join up with the Inquisition just to fuck Dorian.”

“Is that an option?”

“No. And you know that.”

He sighs. “I wouldn’t want to, anyway. I don’t know how you can stand it. I’ve been taking orders from that oaf for a week and I’m already ready to stab him in the neck.”

“Please don’t. I’m told we need him.”

“As am I,” Alas’len grumbles. “But no. Don’t take my enjoyment of your company as an enjoyment of the company you keep. You still have terrible taste.”

“I didn’t join them because they were nice,” you say with a scowl. “I joined them because they were safe.”

“What’s it like being wrong all the time?”

“Oh, shut up. You’re just mad because you’d rather have me to yourself. You’re worse than a jealous lover.”

“As if you wouldn’t prefer it was just the two of us,” he counters. “You’re getting transparent, lethalin.”

“I am not.“

“You’ve taken every excuse you can get to spend time with me,” he says, unforgivably smug. “Despite the risks to your reputation and your cover. You missed me.”

“I’m going to stab you.”

“Oh don’t, the Inquisitor will see and think I’m a blood mage.”

You snort.

“And then what?” he continues, pouting exaggeratedly. “Will you finish stabbing the Seeker to death when she threatens me, like you were about to the first day?”

“Might be worth it for an excuse to stab the Seeker to death…”

“She’s really getting to you,” Alas’len says, sounding irritatingly amused by it.

“It was funny at first, the way she was fretting over me. Then she kept almost stabbing my friends, and it stopped being funny. She’s so insanely dangerous, and it’s like she doesn’t even realize that any sane person would see her as a threat.”

“I think that’s exactly how she feels about me,” muses Alas’len, and you groan.

“Why can’t it just be the two of us on this awful trip? Or a better one? Why don’t we travel?”

“Because ~Val Royeaux needs a Banal’ras~,” he says, sing-song as he mockingly echoes too-familiar words back to you. You roll your eyes, mostly to avoid flinching. The words carry a bit more of a barb since you left.

“Yet here you are,” you point out.

“As it turns out,” he says, “Banal’ras has a few needs as well.”

All three of you are fairly loaded down with fish, and you take a great deal of satisfaction in showing them off to an impressed Blackwall, who now seems to regret not going with you since it’s now evident you were actually intending to fish. It’s definitely the last time you’ll be able to use this particular excuse to sneak off alone, but you’re astonished it worked even once, so that’s honestly fine.

The camp is already fully set up, and before long you’ve repurposed your fishing rods and twine into a laundry line for the fish, hanging them up to keep them out of the sand while you work on cleaning them. To your pleasant surprise, others join in. You’re used to this being the part everyone refuses to do, but it seems they’re as eager to get to the “eating fish” part of the night as you are. Blackwall seems to be a pretty skilled hand at it, which doesn’t necessarily surprise you. He clearly prides himself on being a rugged, handy man sort, and probably Wardens have to do all sorts of stuff like this, right? Who even knows where they go and what they do when there’s not a Blight, but it seems like it would probably involve rugged survivalism in some form or another. More surprising are the Inquisitor and the Seeker, who you can’t really imagine fishing. Well, the Inquisitor, maybe. Your image of him has had to rapidly adjust over the last few weeks. As for Solas, well, you’re just as surprised he doesn’t have a fish descaling spell primed and ready to go.

“Care to make a wager?” Dorian asks from over your shoulder, where he is absolutely not helping you clean the fish. He gestures between Blackwall and Alas’len, who are halfway through the first fish of a fish-cleaning race.

“Absolutely not,” you say, because you don’t want to have to justify the full confidence with which you’d vote for Alas’len. No one else knows how long he worked with fish in his youth. “Never bet against a Vint.”

“I haven’t heard that one before. Why not?”

“They’ll make a blood sacrifice if they start to lose, obviously,” you say with a snort. “You hear one punchline about Vints, you’ve heard them all, really. It’s going to be blood magic. The joke is always blood magic.”

“Of course,” Dorian says with a long-suffering sigh. “I should have seen it coming, honestly. Your new friend is surprisingly good at fishing for a desert man, though. I’ll be honest; I didn’t think you were going to come back with many fish.”

“Because of a lack of trust in my fishing skills, I’m sure.”

“Obviously.”

You sigh, biting back the retort you have because leaning into the loose angle was literally your idea. Your stupid, stupid idea. “Turns out, fishing is extremely easy when one party can electrify the fish.”

“Are you serious?” Dorian says with a laugh. “Magic for fishing?”

“I don’t want to hear that from a man with a magical umbrella spell.”

“So you caught so many fish by electrifying the oasis?”

“That would have killed all the fish!” you protest. “There were targeted bursts of lightning magic, sent through the line. Made reeling them in a lot easier, but we still hooked them fair and square.”

Dorian, at this point, has started laughing into his hands.

“Come to think of it, let’s not tell Blackwall,” you say, glancing over at how the two men are sitting nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, chatting amicably while they clean fish. “Or Sera. I don’t suppose you intend to help?”

“Absolutely not,” Dorian replies with no hesitation. “Not just for the sake of my clothes and the smell of my hands, but also because I have no idea how to clean a fish. I’m sure you knew that.”

“Does it look like I know what I’m doing?” you ask, gesturing to the large number of scales littering both your person and the ground around you. You’ve done this before, and you’re watching the skilled way Alas’len is handling his fish, but you’re hardly a fishmonger.

“You know where to cut them!”

“The bottom! You cut them along the bottom, Dorian, this isn’t surgery.”

“Oh, give it up,” calls Blackwall from across the fire, having apparently noticed your attempt at accosting Dorian with fish. “Like his majesty would ever dirty his hands.”

“You know, Blackwall, I was certain you disliked me because I was a mage, or of a certain persuasion, but you seem quite chummy with our new friend there, and I’m fairly sure he’s both,” Dorian replies flippantly.

“Alas’len is charmingly rustic, Dorian,” you point out. “He has that outdoorsy charisma.”

“Of course. Nothing more attractive than a man who smells like fish.”

“We can’t all have perfumed arsecheeks,” Blackwall says, rolling his eyes.

“Does it need to be a competition? Surely we can both agree to be extremely attractive in peace.” Alas’len wonders.

“That’s just how they are,” you say with a sigh. “You weren’t here for the ‘who is the most manly’ discussion.”

“You started that discussion,” Dorian reminds you ‘helpfully.’

“Surely he won?” Alas’len asks, gesturing with a thumb towards Blackwall.

“Yes, but there was a lot of debate about second place.”

“Who won?”

“Solas,” you reply.

“You were the only one who thought that!” Dorian reminds you again, just as helpfully.

“It’s not my fault I’m right.”

“Is it bad that I’m kind of happy about getting first place?” Blackwall muses.

“It was really no competition,” you inform him. “You’re a lumberjack who fights terrifying monsters professionally. Also, the beard.”

“The beard goes a long way,” Dorian agrees with a sigh.

“Does my knowledge of fish help me in the rankings?” Alas’len wonders.

“How are you so good at cleaning fish?” Blackwall wonders. “You said you live out here in the desert?”

“Indeed I do. I also know a great deal about camels, and how to find one’s way using nothing but the stars, and I am a fiend with thread and needle. When one’s way of life quite literally rotates around oases, fishing becomes a rather important skill; one of many.”

You taught him how to do this; how to take a skill and make it part of your new identity naturally. How to shape new ones around pieces of you that already existed. Hence Emma the linguist. Hence Ashkaari Bisette the Rivaini dancer. Hence Alas’len the desert nomad. Just a little bit of fiction plastered over a core of truth, and voila, you had a whole, believable person.

In actuality, Alas’len had learned the fish trade in Val Royeaux. He’d done everything from catching to cleaning and preparing to selling. He’d actually had quite a popular stall there for some time, and it let him hear all sorts of interesting things. That’s how it started, really. Hearing interesting things. You were the one who let it get too far. But what were you supposed to do? Banal’ras had never been in the business of telling people no, and you were no different.

“That poor fish doesn’t deserve what you’re doing to it,” Alas’len says with a sigh, snapping you out of your anxious nostalgia. You glance down at the fish you’re massacring. “Just… let me.”

“Gladly,” you acquiesce, sliding the fish towards him. “My hands are more suited to calligraphy than fishmongering, I think.”

“Didn’t you say you were a linguist? Fishmongering is selling them.”

“While we’re discussing things we’re good at, did you know she once put a dagger in a bandit’s eye from across a battlefield?” Solas muses out loud.

“Pertinent information, thank you,” Alas’len replies.

“That was luck,” you protest.

“Was it also luck with the demon?” Blackwell asks.

“No, that was pure, blackout panic. I don’t even remember what happened, I just woke up in a pile of goo.”

“And this time, alcohol wasn’t even involved,” Dorian adds.

You retort with all your linguistic wit, by flinging a fish intestine leftover from your butchery at him. Regrettably, he dodges.

“If you’d like to wash the shame off your hands, Miss Emma,” Alas’len tells you, “I believe Blackwall and I can handle the fish. Surely there are more pressing uses of your time than getting increasingly covered in scales and blood.”

“Surprisingly, yes,” you say with a sigh. “Somehow, I never seem to run out of pressing uses of my time.”

You normally would never do this. You’re quite private with your work, what with the need for intense focus. Your penmanship really can’t slip. But that’s when you’re not working to complete a tome while traveling across a desert. You’ve already accepted that the final few chapters of this tome won’t be your best work. Since you’re sacrificing quality, you’ve taken the route instead of making them very interesting. You normally focus on complex and beautiful symmetrical patterns, but without the necessary tools to really make doing so feasible, you’re instead making your initial capitals… fun, for lack of a better word. You can’t say you drew a lot of dragons before this manuscript, but by the end of it you’re going to be idly doodling them on every scratch piece of paper.

Not having quiet while working also isn’t totally impossible to work with. You might prefer it, and even require it when you’re doing translation work—people throwing random words into the mix really tends to throw you off—but the background chatter around the campfire isn’t really bothering you much at the moment. No one is directing any of it at you, seeming content to let you work without bothering you or looming over your shoulder.

Well. Okay. Most everyone. Just as you’ve really hit a stride with lettering, the only person bold enough to be a pester—that’s not even remotely true; you miss when that was true—comes over to peer over your shoulder. Not even peer. Loom over your shoulder, as you’re sprawled out in the sand on a blanket and he’s fully standing.

“Cole,” you say, after a very awkward minute and a half. “Sit.”

He, of course, sits down exactly where he was, basically right next to you.

“No, not in my peripheral. I’m going to bump you with my arms. And now all I can see is your hat,” you sigh. “Just sit behind me.”

“I can’t see from there,” he points out.

“If you want to watch, find a place to sit where you can see and I can’t see you,” you order.

He seems to mull this over for a moment, and then you feel him settle in on top of you. You pause again in your writing. “Cole.”

“You said—”

“I’m aware of what I said.”

“Should I move?”

You sigh again. “It’s fine. I think you might weigh less than Assaaranda did.”

“I see the two of you are very close,” Alas’len comments; whatever conversation he was having with Blackwall and the Inquisitor having been completely obliterated by the sight of Cole sitting down on your ass like a particularly determined house cat. “Or perhaps you’re just quite free with your affections? I was beginning to think I was winning you over, but alas…”

“That’s just Cole,” Blackwall interjects ‘helpfully.’ “He’s a spirit; he doesn’t quite understand some things.”

“He can hear you,” you grumble, not looking up. You’re still trying to finish your line of text.

“And just Emma as well,” Blackwall continues, making you wonder how bad human ears are. “She’s very… she’s not free with her affections like you’re thinking, I mean, I thought so too for a bit, but it’s, just… a. Cultural thing?” he sort of trails off at the end, clearly struggling in his attempts to find a way to explain to Alas’len that you’re not actually a slut, you just act like one. “She’s Orlesian,” he adds, hopelessly.

“I can hear you,” you say, but you can’t keep the laughter out of your voice. He’s just so earnest about it. ‘She’s Orlesian.’ Maker help him.

“It looks a certain way,” Blackwall protests, but he gets cut off by a disgruntled noise from the Seeker, who appears to have just noticed the position you and Cole are in.

“The Orlesians much be an affectionate bunch,” Alas’len muses.

“This is Orlais,” you point out.

“Only on paper.”

This is a fair point.

“The letters are so pretty,” marvels Cole from somewhere over your shoulders.

“Quiet you. And you lot, focus on your damn fish. I don’t want to deal with whatever happens if you don’t get them salted and drying quickly. If we were anywhere but the desert I’d be worried about bears.”

“Surely we’d be safe from bears with Blackwall here. He would merely add their furry might to his own,” Alas’len suggests.

“Nowhere is safe from bears,” you reply, because you’ve spent a lot of time traveling in Ferelden.

“Here, maybe?” Alas’len suggests.

“I’m sure you have your own version of desert bears.”

Alas’len considers this for a moment.

“We do have hyenas,” he says finally.

“You have what. Fuck me. Fuck my life. Why do you have hyenas.”

“Something has to eat the gurns, I suppose.”

“I want to go home.”

“You could,” Alas’len suggests, and it’s your turn to fall silent.

Eventually, they do finish the last of the fish and get them into the weird thrown-together smoking contraption that apparently everyone but you is familiar with. You get the concept. Smoking meats, it’s not that hard to conceptualize. How they managed to build a way to do that at a desert campfire is beyond you, however, despite having watched them do it. You really are learning the most peculiarly useful things on this trip.

“Finally,” Alas’len says, stretching with a groan. Blackwall is already heading off to his tent, yawning heavily. “This will be a rest well-earned.” He eyes you, laying exactly where you’ve been the whole time, although sans a Cole, who is on watch duty at the moment. “You worked just as hard for the fish,” he continues, “Perhaps it could be well-earned for you as well?”

You catch the suggestion, and you suspect anyone who overheard would have as well—well, okay, not the Inquisitor. Or Blackwall.

It’s tempting. He has his own tent. You’re sure the Seeker is on top of him, with him being an unfamiliar mage and all, so it’s not like you could actually risk a nap there, but still. The familiarity of it calls to you like a siren, the unspoken promise of a night spent curled up with a body that already fits with yours. Warm comfort like Cole on your back or legs tangled between Sera’s, but without the burden of expectation that seems to be weighing you down more and more with every passing year.

In the end, though, you’re too skittish. Burn-shy, they called in Rivain, the way some mages would get after a spell gone wrong. It’s too soon, you justify to yourself. After all, Sera thinks you have… sexual issues, trauma or whatever she’s telling herself to justify your peculiarities. And Blackwall just got done explaining how you’re not a whore, actually, you just give off distinct whoreish energy. It’s just excuses, though. You’re not even fooling yourself. The crashing of your past with your present has you off-balance, and it’s made your familiar comfort feel less familiar and less comforting. Things are changing. You changed them. As always, if things are ruined, you really have no one to blame but yourself.

“I’ll stay up, I think,” you say, after both too long and not long enough. “It’s comfortable here by the fire, and there’s enough light to work. It wouldn’t hurt for someone to keep an eye on the fish, either. I don’t have a lot of faith in that contraption you threw together.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Alas’len agrees, to your mild surprise. “I didn’t have all the materials I would have liked to. It should be fine, but it wouldn’t be a poor idea to keep a spare eye on it. Perhaps tonight I shall keep you company, rather than the other way around.”

You have no reason to object to that, and also, you don’t want to. You’re tired of objecting when you’re already missing the pressure of Cole peering over your shoulder.

That being said, not everyone is as good as you at pulling all nighters, and Alas’len has always been a sleepy boy. You don’t even think he lasts thirty minutes before he’s fallen asleep, using your legs first as a pillow for his head and then, as the night and your tome progress onwards, as something to generally curl up with. It’s hardly the first time you’ve played the roll of stuffed animal, and not just for him. You’re not the only one who craves the creature comforts of physical contact at times.

You catch some looks, but you are, shockingly, left largely alone. The Seeker’s gaze lingers when she turns in for the night, but perhaps the last time you bit off her head was enough for her to learn not to pester you about your insomnia. The most anyone bothers you is Dorian, when he gets up for his role as last watch, looking tired but irritatingly put together for three hours before dawn.

“Still up?” he asks, voice soft to avoid bothering the others. You simply nod, and catch a bit of concern on his face, but he doesn’t press. If he’s bothered by Alas’len using you like a body pillow, he doesn’t comment on it.

After a while, even your eyes are too tired to continue concentrating on such small letters, no matter how much you’d like to continue. You ‘rest your eyes’—a tale as old as time—curling up in the cool pre-dawn hours and relaxing by the fire, all tangled up with your friend. When your eyes are closed, you can pretend. Pretend to sleep, pretend it’s not dangerous, pretend it’s not complicated.

It’s a kind of rest.

The sun is barely peeking over the horizon, a sliver of burning light that drowns out the shadow of Satina as soon as it appears, when you’re finally disturbed from your private reprieve. Your ears twitch at the sound of bare feet on sand, a distinctly different noise to that of boots, and enough to catch your attention. You crack an eye open, more instinct at the introduction of a new sound into the white noise than anything else, and are a bit surprised to see that it’s Solas making his way out of his tent. It’s so early. While he’s often up before it’s time to leave, it’s normally just to stretch. He skips breakfast more than he doesn’t, and you’ve always assumed it was to grab an extra twenty winks. You’re not sure he’s ever been up before Blackwall, who’s normally up with the crack of dawn to start breakfast.

His eye catches yours, perhaps because you moved slightly, or perhaps he just felt your gaze. It seems foolish to simply roll back over if people are getting up, so you take that as as good a sign as any and stretch slightly. Although you are limited by Alas’len, who has wound up halfway on top of you.

“You’re up early,” you say, to break the awkwardness of early morning eye contact more than anything. Your voice is thick with what could be mistaken for sleep. You reach to rub the sand out of your eyes but given how you’re in the desert, it mostly just serves to make it worse and more literal.

“I didn’t have watch last night,” Solas explains. His voice is rougher even than yours was, the grumbling sound of the first words spoken after waking. The sound makes something inside of you purr in a way you’d prefer to ignore. You’re just feeling nostalgic, that’s all, and early mornings with company are one of the things that are firmly past tense for you. “I slept solidly and early.”

“Lucky bastard,” you grumble, without really thinking it through. Fortunately, he laughs. Alas’len begins to stir against your legs. You’re surprised Solas has yet to comment on your status as a pillow. It’s not as if you curled up with him when the two of you shared a hotel room.

“You have your reasons for saying no,” Solas says, his smile a little sad, “But my offer to assist with your sleep is always open.”

You respond with a very tired glare, and he puts his hands up in a quick surrender.

“Get a room,” Alas’len grumbles against your side.

“That’s certainly some advice coming from the ones curled up together by the fire.”

“How about the two of you get a room and leave me alone?” You stretch more, pushing Alas’len half off of you. He makes a grumbly, complaining noise, before opening his eyes and sitting up to stretch as well.

“Sunrise comes too early, even this late in the season,” he complains. “At least the fish survived the night after all. And look at that, no bears.”

“Or hyenas,” you agree. “What luck.” Your back pops as you stretch, and you wince. Sand isn’t an uncomfortable bed, but it’s never good when you fall asleep on your stomach. Alas’len flops back down bonelessly on top of you. You try to shove him off, but he’s gone limp like a spoiled cat.

“Since you’re both awake… and sore, by the looks of it… perhaps you’d both like to join me for some morning stretches?” Solas asks.

“uM,” you manage to get out, but he’s continuing.

“I suspect you’ll regret it if you skip. You tend to.”

“That’s technically correct, but—”

“I’m game,” Alas’len volunteers, because obviously he does, there was no chance he wouldn’t say yes. “I’m always up for testing flexibility… mine or others.”

You feel like this is going to be a long morning.

It is.

It was always going to be. You’ve got Solas (hot, extremely curious, which is a nice way of saying nosy, and more than a little oblivious to certain things) and Alas’len (hot, regrettably, as easy to see through as a brick wall, and an absolutely indefatigable flirt). It’s a nightmare sandwich, and you are the miserable cheese. To make things worse, you’re easily the least flexible person here, with the worst upper body strength. It’s awful. You’re not even that weak! You’ve spent the last few weeks swinging around a sword bigger than one of your arms! You recreationally pull yourself up buildings! And yet.

It makes sense for Alas’len. He’s always been quite focused on maintaining his mind and body; he’s had mostly physically demanding jobs; his entire fighting style rotates around being fast, strong, and astonishingly flexible.

Solas, however, is older than you and spends most of his time reading and sleeping, so you really don’t see how he justifies any of this.

And if that weren’t enough, the two of them have spent the entire time needling each other in wildly different ways, both equally stressful. When Solas isn’t trying to get information about Alas’len, he’s trying to get information about you, or your relationship. He’d probably be having better luck with it if he was dealing with literally any two other people on the planet. It’s one thing to try to pull one over on two of Val Royeaux’s best bards—in your opinion anyway—but on top of that, you and Alas’len have been in perfect sync for so long that even Leliana would have struggled to make the two of you slip.

Obviously. Or she would have figured something out by now. You might be bad at handstands, but you do have some talents.

Alas’len, for his part, is either flirting or having a dick measuring contest over who can hold the most impressive poses. Potentially both. It’s probably both. Most things he does can double as flirting in a pinch; it’s very annoying.

In the end, you wind up sabotaging both of them on purpose, both out of spite and out of sheer exhaustion with the both of them. They’re both treating it like a game, and it’s beginning to genuinely grate on you. There are stakes in this situation. High stakes, although you have to admit that neither of them is in possession of all the pieces of the puzzle you are, to know exactly how fucking high they’ve gotten. To avoid strangling either of them, you instead spend the early morning “accidentally” knocking them both over as much as possible. You’re not fooling either of them any more than they’re fooling each other, but at least you get to be slightly violent. You’re getting to the point where you might start breaking ankles when Solas finally calls it, ostensibly because breakfast is ready.

Cheerful as ever, Alas’len swaggers right over to where the others are gathering near the fire to see what Blackwall has cooked up; you never would have pegged that man for such a cook before this trip. You and Solas both hang back, arguably for different reasons. He rarely eats much breakfast, and while your appetite has gone from ‘can’t be bothered’ to ‘if you don’t move your hand fast enough I’ll eat it too’ over the course of the trip, you can’t say you have much of a stomach for it right at the moment. Your relaxation from the night before is gone as if it had never been there. You’re stressed and irritable and remembering how many dire positions you’re in and with how many people. You feel like you’re balancing on a tight rope while juggling flaming knives, and these two fucking clowns have started to throw pies.

You should probably take a few deep breaths or something, before you punch someone. Probably the Seeker. She’s been a very prominent target for your anger lately.

“Such a nice young man,” Solas observes, and you snort a bit too loud. What a trite line, and not even close to true. “He reminds me of someone.” Your amusement, limited as it was, pulls up short. “Someone I used to know, or someone I met once, a long time ago.” He hums to himself, obvious as anything. You don’t think he’s even trying not to be obvious. “I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“Perhaps,” you suggest, “he simply has one of those faces.” Your tone is mild and bored, and anyone who knew you—Alas’len, for example, distracted over by the fire putting his charms on Dorian again—would immediately sense the danger in the contrast between it and the tightness in your muscles. A warning, but unfortunately, one Solas isn’t talented enough to pick up on.

He snaps, as if remembering something, and you let out a short huff of breath. If only he was better at pretending. “I remember now. That fellow we met in Val Royeaux. What was his name again? Ba—”

You spin on your heel in the sand, hooking your other foot behind Solas’s and sweeping them out from under him. It’s a move you must have practiced a thousand times with Iron Bull, and Solas is much less sturdy. At the same time, you grip him, one hand wrapping around the rope of his necklace and the other clapping over his mouth. Not cutely, nor gently. With the force of a slap. With the pressure of someone who needs to prevent a dying scream.

Solas seems, if anything, too startled to stop you. He goes down onto the sand with you on top of him, legs still tangled in his, pinning them despite their comparative length. You hadn’t been that close to the others, but a tent now blocks you entirely from view. You lean forward over him, eyes boring into his stormy ocean blues.

“Solas,” you murmur, his name leaving your mouth slowly, as if you’re considering it. “I know we both enjoy these games we play.” It’s the first time you’ve admitted as much out loud, and it feels a little sacrilegious to call attention to it. “But if you try to play them with Alas’len’s life, we will both find out exactly where curiosity ends.” You remove your hand from his mouth, careful not to trace down his jaw the way you want to. “Do we understand each other?”

Solas stares up at you, eyes glittering. Perhaps he’s considering you in a new light. Perhaps he’s remembering who you were in Val Royeaux. Maybe he’s remembering the bandits, or the demons, or Underhill. You’d thought he was not naive enough to share any of the Seeker’s opinions about you, but who knows what goes on in that incomprehensible mind of his sometimes.

“I suppose I should have suspected,” he says, and your heart clenches. “I’ve seen you around cubs before, and never even your own.”

You breathe out through your nose, constrained enough—barely—not to read as relief.

“Now you get it,” you say, leaning back onto your legs and untangling your hand from his necklace. The teeth of the jawbone have left indentations in your palm. You wipe your other palm on your pants, as if to remove the sensation of his lips against them. “So do me a favor, Solas, and for once in your life… Don’t push.”

You shove yourself up off of him, hesitating only briefly to try and read his expression—indecipherable—as he’s sprawled out on the sand, before spinning to storm over to the fire to see what’s left of breakfast.

As if to emphasize the problem, during the afternoon ride Sera starts inserting herself between you and Alas’len as much as possible. Physically, in some cases, something that’s helped along by that practically-a-pony horse she rides. But you keep Revas a certain distance away from other mounts for a reason, and by the second time you have to muscle him away from clocking her horse in the head, you’re absolutely sick of it.

You remind yourself several times that it’s your fault she’s like this, and that clearly you need to find some way to make breaking up stick. Why would she think this time was any different, when you’ve told her “no” a hundred times and then gone right back to kissing her?

Now you’re thinking about kissing her, which isn’t helping.

At first, you try to compensate by paying more attention to Alas’len, but it’s difficult since you’re still mad at him. Then you try paying more attention to Solas, but he’s still very obviously curious about Alas’len. Conversations just keeps turning in that direction. You suppose you should have seen that coming. He was interested in you because you were the most interesting puzzle around. Now he has a new one. That should relieve you, but instead the knowledge sits bitter in your chest… probably because Alas’len’s secrets are as much yours to keep as your own; they’re impossibly intertwined.

“That’s fascinating,” you say, barely resisting the urge to do so through gritted teeth, in response to some remarkable new facet of Alas’len’s history. A lot of the facts he knows about these ruins and this history, he knows from you. The rest, you taught him how to learn… but you can’t just go around flaunting all that knowledge the way Alas’len and Solas do. It’s like neither of these idiots even understand how to keep oneself inconspicuous! Doesn’t Solas understand how much he’s giving away to Alas’len? Doesn’t Alas’len understand how much he’s giving away to Solas?! Meanwhile, you and Sera are just sort of stuck in the middle of what’s rapidly becoming nerdy bisexual foreplay. And clearly, this irritates Sera as much as it does you, albeit for wildly different reasons.

“Everyone’s always so interested in this stupid, pointless shite,” she grumbles, apparently having once again forgotten that the “stupid, pointless shite,” she hates is your job. You’re almost used to it at this point. “Doesn’t it bother anyone,” she says, although you note she’s directing it at Alas’len, “tryin’ t’live up t’this pointless, stupid history that doesn’t even exist anymore if it ever did? Just a bunch of dead bodies an’ dust and that’s what yer supposed to be? If that’s yer finish line, you’ll always be a failure!”

Your irritation at the two men makes a sharp and immediate redirection to Sera, who you’ve just remembered is also annoying the piss out of you lately. You have to quite literally bite your tongue to stop the barbed retort that had been ready to spit itself out. You can’t just get defensive of this random guy. But internally, you’re seething. His expression is cheerful as always and he’s already gamely replying something you can’t hear over the rush of blood in your ears. He doesn’t have tells; neither do you, hopefully, although Solas—the only one who’s looking at you—would probably assume your anger due to the repeated insults to your interests and career.

He doesn’t know it’s a sore spot. She doesn’t know that either, although she’d probably be fucking delighted to know.

He wouldn’t appreciate you getting defensive. You also shouldn’t be defensive of a random guy you just met. You have to keep your mouth shut, no matter how much you’d like to stop strong-arming Revas and just let him clock her in the head. Stupid. Insensitive. No way of knowing. Shouldn’t have fucking said it anyway.

You have nothing to do but stew in your own undirectable anger.

By the time you stop for the day, all you want is to be left alone. You’re bristling with unspoken insults and a lot of physical tension in your back and shoulders from yanking Revas away from giving Sera’s mount a serious injury, over and over, all afternoon.

There are, unfortunately for you, at least two people present who can pick up on your bad moods without fail, and one of them swoops in, in a fashion only he could.

“Ah, I recognize this oasis,” Alas’len says cheerfully, dipping a hand into the clean waters of the smallish pond. “There is another, larger one nearby.”

“Are you suggesting we make for that one instead?” the Inquisitor asks.

Alas’len shakes his head. “No, it’s surrounded by large boulders and completely unsuitable for watering mounts or refilling barrels. We are best served here. However, it does have something this one does not: fish.”

You perk up at this, as he surely knew you would. “Oh, I absolutely have some twine we could use to make fishing rods.” You slide off of Revas and begin rummaging through his saddlebags. “Hold on, I’ve got a pouch here, let’s see if any of those rocks have bait hiding underneath.”

“Hold on!” the Seeker protests. “Just the two of you?”

“It’s quite a safe journey,” Alas’len informs her. “But I’m sure we would be delighted to have you join us, Seeker. When one is intending to slip around getting wet, it’s quite a case of the more the merrier.”

You try not to snort into your saddlebag. Leave it to him to make it sound as unappealing to her as possible.

“That’s quite… alright…” she says, sounding as disgusted as you’d expect.

“Someone else can take care of the mounts for once,” you say, finally yanking out your twine. “I could use some fun, and I’m sure Alas’len can take care of anything we might come across while skirting across some empty sand.”

“Still…” the Seeker muses.

“I’m not exactly helpless myself,” you posit. “I’ve been training with the Inquisitor himself. If anything attacks us, I shall beat it to death with my fishing rod.” You gesture towards Alas’len, who’s already breaking off saplings to use as rods.

“I think it’s his rod she’s worried about,” Blackwall says with a good-natured snort. “And the two of you coming back with no fish whatsoever.”

The Seeker’s ears begins to turn red, although from what precise emotion, you’re not quite sure. “That’s not what I…”

“I’m sure some fish will managed to get speared,” the Inquisitor adds with a chuckle, and for once you’re glad of their mildly disgusting innuendo. Sera is visibly fuming, but she makes no move to stop the two of you, for once. Possibly because you’re not the only one looking; others are glancing over at her and doing a poor job of hiding their curiosity. It seems your would-be love triangle is a subject of some interest; perhaps Sera is tired of humiliating herself by chasing after you. It’s not as if you’re worth chasing. And if she’d just give up on you already, there’d be no need for you to humiliate her like this. You keep that justification firmly in mind, so you can have it instead of the knowledge that it feels satisfying because you’re still mad at her.

“If either of you want to come and ensure we actually bring home dinner,” you say, letting some ice creep into your voice. You don’t want to make it easy for the rumor mill, knowing that it’ll keep turning regardless of your actions. “You’re more than welcome.” Of course, you only say that because Solas is out of earshot, working on setting up tents some distance away under shade of an awkward-shaped, gnarly tree. You’re certain he would have positively leapt at the chance to spend some quality time with his new puzzle.

“Normally, I would say yes to a good bit of fishing,” Blackwall says, rubbing his beard. “But normally I would say no to being the fifth cart wheel, so…”

“Someone has to stay to take care of the mounts, in any case,” the Inquisitor adds.

You smile thinly. “Then we shall return with a string full of fish, and you can eat them as well as your words.” You turn to Alas’len. “Let’s see this oasis of yours, then.”

The two of you set out quickly across the sands, although the pace is mostly due to your desire to get away from Solas, Sera, the Seeker, and anyone else who might decide it’s a bad idea to let the linguist and the strange mage they just met wander off alone. Honestly… if you got kidnapped, they’d deserve it. You’d halfway expected the Seeker to absolutely refuse to let you alone; her expression had clearly showed she’d wanted to. Perhaps she wised up, for once, in the face of your constant rebukes, and actually managed to keep in mind that you are an adult woman and not a toddler eyeing a hot stove. Or perhaps you don’t have as good a straight face as you thought, and more people than just Alas’len have noticed how ready you are to take your temper out on someone, anyone.

“It’s just the two of us out here,” Alas’len comments as you stalk over the sands together. “You can relax.” He gestures towards you, vaguely. “You must be exhausted, keeping it in all the time.”

“It’s second nature to stay like this,” you say with a shrug. “Besides… if no one winds up spying on us, I’ll be shocked. It’s not like anyone particularly trusts you, and I skirt the borders of trust, myself. Not doing myself any favors with this,” you gesture between Alas’len and yourself, “either.”

“And yet you seemed more than desperate,” he points out, sounding amused.

“I was. I’m sick of—” you catch yourself just short of venting about Sera. “…I’m just sick of it all. I’ve been alone with these people for too damn long. We can’t get to that desert fast enough.”

“Oh?”

“I told you, didn’t I? They’re sending me out to bargain with some dragon scholar. I’m sure the actual fighters will go off to do whatever Warden-adjacent bullshit they’re actually here for, and I’ll be left alone to talk to scholars and dig through sand-filled ruins. I’m sick of being around the lot of them.”

“If you loathe them so, you could simply leave.” With him, is the invisible phrase dangling off the end there. Leave with him, and go back home… Or to Halamshiral, perhaps, given how blown your Val Royeaux cover is.

“It’s not that I loathe them,” you say with a sigh. “You’ve been around them for a bit now; you see what they’re like. They’re an interesting lot, and I really am quite fond of Cole—we need to talk about him, by the way—it’s just… too much, being dragged across Orlais at this pace. And this close vicinity. At Skyhold, I had my own space. To think I used to think Leliana was annoying with how she bothered me.” You can’t help but laugh. “I didn’t realize how good I had it. No one ever came into that rotunda, and Solas was always too busy with his own shit to pester me. Maker, if I make it back again, I’ll never complain about her missives and his grumbling stomach ever again.”

“Ah, that explains why you’ve been sharing a workspace with him.”

“…You knew…? Ah, I’m being stupid. Of course you knew. The old man.”

“Didn’t you recognize him? He’s one of our best.”

You shake your head. “No, not at first. He’s done a good job of making himself look sun-weathered. I really just thought he was a damned gardener, at first glance.”

“Good. If you didn’t make him, the Spymistress’ men don’t stand a chance,” Alas’len says, sounding satisfied.

“They’d better fucking not,” you grumble. “If your curiosity gets me killed, lethallin, I will haunt the shit out of you.”

“I needed a way to get news out, and you needed a way to get news to me,” Alas’len points out, pouting. “It was only out of pure concern for your well-being that I sent an expert where a novice would have otherwise done.”

“Well my thanks for your pure concern,” you say, voice dripping sarcasm. “I’m so glad that not getting me killed was a priority.”

“I was wondering if the feeling was mutual,” he says, tilting his head back to stare at a single cloud drifting across the empty desert sky. “Before I saw your hands on those daggers behind that Seeker.” He laughs, sounding genuinely amused. “You were so ready to stab her.”

“I’m always at least thirty percent ready to stab her,” you mutter under your breath, glad that your face wrap covers the way your cheeks redden. “Did you seriously think I’d leave you hung out to dry?”

“How could I know what to think, lethallin?”

“What could you do that would make me that cross?” you grumble. “Is there something I don’t know about? Is it worse than what you’re doing with Dirth’len?”

“For fuck’s sake, do you have to make it sound like that?”

“Yes, if only so that I can numb myself to the inevitability.”

“I am capable of keeping it in my pants, you know.”

“You are?”

“You are throwing far too many stones straight through your house of glass. Or did you wish to forget the real reason you were desperate to get away? That blonde couldn’t get more obnoxious if she was actively trying. Which I’m unconvinced she’s not.” There’s the irritation in his voice. You knew her senseless barb had found blood.

“Is it about the soldiers?” you muse, continuing the sniping competition. He wouldn’t appreciate comfort, anyway. “Were you worried I’d switched loyalties, and be upset about the slaughter? Perhaps that’s why you did it.”

“Oh, try not to flatter yourself,” he grumbles. “As if I’d kill six men just to get your attention.”

“You’re right, how silly of me. You’d kill five, tops.”

“Did you even look into it?”

“What did you expect me to do, break into the Spymistress’ quarters for answers?”

“Kind of, yes.”

Alright, that’s actually fair. “Well, no such luck. As I recall, I was too busy getting pulverized around that time.” You see a flash of anger in Alas’len’s eyes, but you know it’s reserved for the dead man who’d done the pulverizing. “So, if it had nothing to do with me, why? Was it a message to the Inquisition, then?”

“Very much so. Tell me, lethallin, what could a unit of soldiers in your city do to prompt such a reaction?”

Probably about a million things, if you’re being perfectly honest, such as being a unit of soldiers in your city. Usually you left that sort of thing to the Chevaliers, but at the same time, there’s a lot that a man can get up to in Val Royeaux that not a single Chevalier would care about. You’re willing to bet it was one of those.

“Generally, to leave a message, you need to leave a messenger,” you point out. “Not a pile of corpses.”

“None of them deserved to live,” he says with a shrug.

“That bad, huh… woman, child, or animal?”

“A couple, if you can believe the depravity of it,” he says, spitting the words out onto the sand as if they taste of filth even crossing his tongue. “I couldn’t even be surprised when I heard what happened to you, given the kind of people the Inquisition appears to be employing.”

“Maker’s balls, a couple? Where, in the Alienage?”

“Nearby it. Apparently, the soldiers took to drink, then to whistling, and the man took an exception to their behavior. They proceeded to take an exception to his exception.”

“Thank fuck you were there,” you say with a long exhale. You can see the rocks of the oasis on the horizon now.

“Drunk soldiers are always bad news, and these were from the army you’d taken off with. Of course I was keeping an eye on them. And a good thing too, the filth.”

“Did you leave any indication of why you’d killed them, or did you just decide to declare war with the Inquisition?” you ask dryly.

“A why would give them more than they need about motivations and techniques. Given your location…”

“Fair enough. They already asked me a few questions after the Qunari situation. Last thing they need is more strings to tie me up with. Does this oasis actually have fish in it?”

“Yes, not that I expect you’ll be able to catch any.”

“I’m sorry we can’t all be fishmasters, serah,” you say dryly. You know better than to rise to his bait; any bet based on the number of fish caught will end with him the victor. “But you’ll be eating those words the next time we have to gather toads.”

“I cannot imagine another scenario that requires us to catch toads. I’m astounded it even happened once.”

It’s easy to fall into such companionable banter with him, and you playfully bicker your way across the desert. The one nice thing about the desert: it’s quite flat. At least you don’t have to worry about anyone being close enough to eavesdrop. There’s simply nothing to hide behind.

The oasis itself is craggy and requires some climbing to find a comfortable position to fish from. Alas’len sets up, and you set to digging around rocks for live bait. You have a real knack for picking good rocks, and a few victory yells later, you and Alas’len have a squirming bag full of bugs and lizard tails. The kind that grow back, obviously; you’re not a monster. Well. Not that kind, anyway.

The sun is still burning hot even as it lowers towards the horizon, but the two of you find the shade of a palm tree to hide in while you struggle to find comfortable positions on the rocks. You feel a bit like a lizard, baking on a desert rock, but you gain anything but strength from the burning heat. Thank the Maker for Solas’s miracle mixture. You feel like you’re getting darker every single day—perhaps soon you’ll match Alas’len’s shade, ha—but you haven’t felt the pain of a burn since he slathered you from head to toe.

Despite your reservations about how possible it would be to catch fish, however, you both quickly begin getting bites. Your fishing rods are far from code, but every time your rod begins to bow with the pull of a fish, Banal’ras grabs the twine and sends a little jolt down it. Easy to catch fish when every bite hooked becomes a sure thing. You yank up every fish, using the small ones as bait for bigger prey.

You’re setting up a string from tree to tree to hang your catches up to dry on when you see something on the horizon. You squint, then frown. Looks like your instincts about keeping your aura tucked safely inside while “alone” were absolutely on the nose… as were your instinct about Solas and his proclivities.

“Look… company,” you say, nudging Alas’len with your foot so he’ll turn to look. He does, glancing over his shoulder, and grins.

“Ah… your curious little friend,” he says, sounding delighted. You’re far from it, yourself, and scowl at both him and Solas’s approaching form.

“I knew he’d fucking follow us, I swear to the Maker.”

“Don’t appreciate him being protective? Or perhaps jealous?”

“Oh please. The Seeker is protective and Sera is jealous. He’s not following me out here,” you grumble. “He’s like a cat with a new toy. He’s probably already forgotten I even exist.”

That, of course, only make Alas’len’s smile grow. Of course, he doesn’t have the good sense to be worried about Solas’s dogged attention. You, however, know exactly just how determined Solas can be, and don’t care one bit for the idea of Alas’len being subject to that kind of scrutiny.

“How boring has it gotten at camp,” you call out when you think Solas is close enough to hear, “That you decided fishing was the more interesting alternative?”

“Significantly,” Solas replies amicably. “Although it seems my assistance here wasn’t required either. That’s quite a few fish you have already.”

“We’ve got a lot of hungry mouths to feed,” you say with a shrug. “Everyone must be as sick and tired of road rations as I am, at this stage.”

“It’s not as if this oasis sees a lot of action,” Alas’len adds. “If anything, we’re doing nature a favor by weeding out the biggest predators.”

You really want to know how he knows any of this, or if he’s just making it up as he goes. If this is an established identity of his, it’s not one you’ve ever met before now. You can’t ask that now that Solas is here, though.

“Climb up,” Alas’len tells Solas. “And snap off a rod from somewhere.”

“I’ve got some more twine you can use,” you say, slightly less cheerfully. This isn’t the first time you’ve had to beat boys off of Alas’len with a stick—both literally and metaphorically—but you haven’t even figured out how to get Solas off of your case.

Solas rolls up his sleeves and climbs up the rocks with the practiced ease you’ve come to expect from him. Alas’len’s eyebrows go up at the sight, however, and he glances between you and Solas a few times while Solas is distracted, mouthing any number of inappropriate things your direction. You roll your eyes and ignore his antics. Yes, Solas is fit for his age. Yes, it’s extremely distracting. It’s a little nice to be validated, but the reality of having Solas and Alas’len in the same place is too stressful for you to enjoy it.

You reach down to give Solas a hand to scramble onto the top of the rocks. His hand is warm in yours, lightly calloused and sandy. Long fingers wrap around the back of your hand; his weight as you pull him up with your recently regained strength feels good. Despite your grumpiness at having your alone time with Alas’len interrupted, you can’t help but smile.

“I hope you’re good, because he’s been out-fishing me two to one. Maybe if we team up, we can beat him.”

Solas raises an eyebrow. “It’s a competition?”

“Everything’s a competition if I can win at it. Come on, find a fishing rod.”

You manage to get Solas set up with twine and a twisted hairpin for a hook. “Alas’len, show him your lightning trick,” you suggest as you settle down between them like a chaperone. The rocks are still warm from the day’s heat, a fact you’re becoming appreciative of as the sun begins to lower on the horizon.

“I’m surprised you’re not protesting the use of magic as cheating,” Solas says, and you shrug.

“It’s not cheating if he’s doing it for me too. Besides, like I said, we’ve got a lot of mouths to feed, and it’s not like we’re made of spare time. Competition comes second to making sure we just get enough fish to make Blackwall and the Inquisitor eat their words.”

“It seems as though you can no more than be alone with a man before the rumor mill begins,” Solas agrees. “Although—”

“Don’t start,” you warn him. “I’ll kick your ass if you start in on me.”

“I would never! I was simply going to comment on how quickly your friendship sprung up.”

“We’re not friends,” you say, gesturing between you and Alas’len.

“I am wounded!” he interrupts dramatically, clutching his chest.

“I just wanted to go fishing, ” you continue, ignoring him. “But he is rapidly becoming the least annoying person around. And that’s speaking more to my irritation at everyone else than it is his general likability.”

“You are an absolute charm and delight to be around,” Alas’len says dryly.

“Isn’t she just?” Solas agrees. You squint at him, trying to detect sarcasm, but honestly can’t tell. Fortunately, your conversation is interrupted by a bite on Solas’s line, and then general chaos as Alas’len lunges across your lap to grab the line and send a shock of lightning down it. The fish ceases struggling immediately, and he helps Solas pull it up, half sprawled across you.

“Just a little jolt will do it,” he advises Solas sagely.

“By all means, get comfortable,” you say dryly, which only causes him to roll over onto his back and do just that. You respond in the most reasonable way possible, by shoving him off your lap and towards the water. He teeters comically, particularly because you know he could catch himself easily. It’s less comic when he grabs the front of your shirt and yanks you off balance, sending both of you flailing into the air and down into the oasis below with a dramatic splash.

The water is as cool and refreshing as the water had been in the oasis you’d dipped in before. There’s just a lot more of it. You’ll definitely have to move to a new spot for fishing after this, but that’s a minor consideration in your mind as Alas’len surfaces first. Revenge glinting in your eyes, you swim up behind him and burst out of the water, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and dragging him back under.

“Alas!” he splutters, mouth half full of water as the two of you wrestle at the surface. “I’ve been captured by a kelpie! Your help, good sir!”

“There is no such thing as a kelpie,” Solas calls out helpfully. “Such reports were simply corpses of the drowned possessed by demons.”

“Oh, because that’s so much less scary!” Alas’len yells back.

“Shall I move to a new section of oasis?” Solas asks dryly.

“Unless you want to dive in and join us,” you suggest, trying to get your legs around Alas’len’s under the water only to get kicked off. He’s in his element here, so you’re lucky you got around his neck to begin with.

“I’m fairly sure Emma is not the only thing in that water that might want revenge. You did say the fish we were catching were predators, yes?”

“Oh, it’s fine, you big baby,” you say with a scoff. “We’re bigger.”

“If they bite us, we can simply grab them, and voila, free fish,” Alas’len suggests, and you nod.

“That’s an actual fishing method up in Par Vollen, or so I’ve heard. You should ask Iron Bull about it sometime,” you advise Solas.

“Iron Bull?” Alas’len asks, and you mentally give him a pat for remembering his cover so naturally.

“Tal-Vashoth mercenary that works with the Inquisition,” you tell him. “Nice enough guy; nicer than you’d think, anyway.”

“Are you two intending to stay down there?” Solas wonders.

“No,” you admit reluctantly. “We should probably get some more fish before we dick off… Oh! Alas’len, if I grab a fish, can you electrocute it?”

“Not without also electrocuting you and also myself. We are in the water.“

“…Alright, fair point,” you say with a sigh. “Yeah, I guess we’re coming up.”

The two of you scramble back up the rocks, and, along with Solas, you head to a new fishing spot. You continue to have pretty solid luck, fortunately, and before too terribly long, you have several full strings of good sized fish. With two mages, one of whom is also a practiced hand at fishing, the fish honestly didn’t stand a chance.

“Any more and I think we’re not going to be able to carry them back without dragging them through the sand,” you say with a laugh, balancing half-on and half-off a rock with the help of one hand gripping a tree branch. You’re admiring your catch and poorly ignoring your grumbling stomach. “I’m glad you came, Solas.”

“Because he’s a strapping man and can do the heavy lifting for your noodle arms?” Alas’len suggests.

“Just so,” you agree. “Now I do believe we have time for another dip before we trudge back to our smaller, sadder oasis surrounded by smelly warriors.”

“You just got your clothes dry,” Solas protests.

“Easy solution,” Alas’len says, stripping his shirt off and tossing it haphazardly into a tree before falling backwards into the water. You laugh and pull off your loose tunic before diving in after him.

“Come on, Solas!” you yell after you break the surface. Not just because you want to see him take his shirt off.

“I’m quite fine up here. The sun is setting, and it will be cold soon,” he advises.

“Coward,” you say with a scoff.

“Oh, do be nice, Emma,” Alas’len says. “He’s old. The cold might sink into his bones.”

You laugh, and try to splash up at Solas, but the rocks are too high for it to even come close. “Suit yourself, hahren! I’m going to see if there are any crabs in here.”

“I hope you’re better at crabbing then you are at fishing,” Alas’len comments.

“I am,” you reply snootily. “If it’s under a rock, I can catch it.”

“She really can,” Solas adds. “Be careful.”

“You have a friend!”

From the way Cole’s unbridled enthusiasm explodes out of him the second you crawl into your tent, he must have been waiting to get you alone with even more enthusiasm than you’d had about getting Alas’len alone. He’s practically vibrating.

“I have several friends, Cole. Like you, for instance.”

“In, out, flowing freely from one into another. A body doesn’t choose to breathe but takes in air—”

“I get it,” you interrupt with a sigh. He doesn’t seem to take any offense to your interjection. “We have to talk about him anyway, I suppose. Remember when I first arrived, Cole, and we had to chat about secrets?”

“A similar role, two faces or more, offering protection. A new kind of armor. I had to get used to it. But the armor is best described by the one who wears it…”

“You want to go talk to him?” you ask, amused. “Well, I suppose that’s for the best. You shouldn’t tell me his secrets either… or him mine.”

“But—”

“We’re friends because we tell each other things when we want to. When we need to. I don’t know what secrets he’s got, and it should stay that way.” You run a hand through your still-loose hair. No point in putting it back up before bed. “So yeah. Go talk to him about it; that’s a good idea, honestly. I still can’t believe you’re this excited, though.” He might actually vibrate through one of the walls of your tent. That’s a thing he could probably do; you’re pretty sure corporeality is just a goal he aspires towards.

“He’s your friend,” Cole repeats with maximum insistent enthusiasm, as if this alone should be all the explanation needed. You just laugh. “He shines like you and Solas!”

“Does he?” you muse, curious. You know what you’d thought Cole had meant the first time he’d said that about you and Solas. Now you’re not so sure.

Before you can get an answer out of him—and it’s probably your own fault, since you’d just been talking about keeping Alas’len’s secrets—Cole has vanished. You shake your head, bemused despite yourself. Alas’len is in for an interesting night, it seems. As for you, you doubt you’ll be able to sleep. Even regardless of your usual problems, your head is just too full of thought and ghosts of the past to have any real hope at rest.

Instead, you light up a lantern—you cannot wait until you and Alas’len are ‘close’ again so you can demand he cast you all number of petty spells you can no longer cast for yourself—and attempt to focus on your tome. Ostensibly the reason you’ve been dragged out this far, you can’t help but blame it for the tangled predicaments you’ve found yourself in. Sera and Solas and the Seeker and now even Alas’len on top of it all. Without even talking about the fucking Darkspawn! You can’t forget that particular nightmarish horror just because you’re distracted by interpersonal drama. You can’t blame Alas’len for being bewildered by your decision to stay and crawl through the desert. Thinking back to the petty excuses for staying with the Inquisition that you offered up to Alas’len, you can’t help but sigh again. If only you were so sure of your own motivations.

The night fairly crawls by, but the sun does rise eventually. You immediately wish it hadn’t. The sun has no more than begun peeking over the horizon than the desert begins to heat up. The only good thing you can say for it is that at least it’s not the sticky heat of Seheron. But when you’re merely frying instead of steaming, it hardly feels that distinct.

Almost as exhausting as the promise of another miserably hot day is Alas’len the very second he wakes up. You know damn well that he’s not a morning person, and also that Cole probably kept him up nearly as late as you stayed awake. And yet here he is, chipper as a fucking songbird at dawn. You make a small cup of tea over the campfire and try to stay out of the way.

“Oh yes, I’ve lived in the desert all my life,” Alas’len lies easily as the Seeker questions him with what she probably thinks is diplomacy. He’s left his litham off this morning, and his shaggy black hair lays messily to one side, giving him an earnest sort of appearance. It has the unfortunate side effect of making your hands itch for a comb. “But to answer your unspoken question, no, not with any particular tribe. You’ll find little luck smacking at the sand to see what magic turns up, my brave Seeker.”

“You turned up, didn’t ya…” grumbles Sera, who, next to the Seeker, is probably the most unhappy about having a third mage in the party. You’d say ‘if only she knew,’ but you’re extensively glad she does not.

“True,” Alas’len agrees smoothly. “A bit of luck, that. Normally it’s much more difficult to find out what needs to be smacked to get me to appear.”

“I’ve got a few ideas for things I’d like to smack,” you quip, glaring his way over an unfinished cup of tea. “Are you always so energetic in the mornings?”

“I am full of energy at all times, my lady!” he replies cheerfully.

“I’m no more a Lady than our Warden,” you say, rolling your eyes. “You did catch my name, did you not?”

“I wouldn’t want to be presumptuous, Miss Emma,” he says, placing a hand to his chest. “But if you wish—”

“All I wish for is a nap in some shade.”

“Ah, shall I stand in the sun’s way?”

You give him the long, withering stare of a woman well aware she’s being hit on, who is still considering whether or not a heavy stick will be necessary. “You know what, yes. If you’re so eager to be of use, let’s see if you have similar functions to a well-placed tree.”

“Oh, I have many functions indeed, Miss Emma,” he says, eyes twinkling as he strolls gamely over to stand in between you and the burning sun. “And unlike a tree, I can be taken with you.”

“If I’d known he was willing to be an umbrella, I would have snatched him up first,” says Dorian with a sigh.

“Oh, just use your magic,” you reply, rolling your eyes, so that you can be seen attempting to ignore getting flustered by how close Alas’len is standing.

“Even if I did have magic for such a thing—”

“You absolutely do.”

“—I wouldn’t use it. No sun could be as potent as the force of Sera’s glare.”

“Displeased with the presence of magic, my lady?” Alas’len asks, directing the question towards Sera.

“Oh, don’t you start with that ‘my lady’ shite. I’m exactly as much of a lady as she is,” Sera says, pointing at you.

“Which puts her on par with Blackwall,” you add as an unnecessary reminder.

“Of course, Miss Sera.”

“None o’ that either!” she snaps. “An’ of course I’m not ‘appy about it! I’m a normal person, yeah?”

“Not sure I’d go that far…” the Inquisitor mutters from where he’s hoisting full water barrels back up onto horseback.

“Is no one else excited about the possibility of the term ‘Miss Blackwall’?” Dorian muses, ostensibly to himself.

“Being a normal person must include things I hadn’t previously assumed,” Alas’len considers.

“I’ve been saying that since I came down here,” adds Dorian.

“Sera didn’t have the dubious benefit of living in Tevinter for any period of time like either of us,” you tell Dorian. “Magic is comparably less common in Fereldan.”

“Are you just telling people that about you now?” Dorian asks incredulously. “I seem to recall you nearly biting my head off for guessing that.”

“I have absolutely given up on keeping any secrets around you people,” you reply evenly. “It’s impossible.”

“You’re from Tevinter?” Alas’len asks, blinking in surprise. “I thought elves there—”

“You thought right. I was Dorian’s loyal servant, you see, and when he fled his homeland—”

“Please don’t use me to prank the newcomer, Emma.”

“You’re not fun,” you say, pouting, then sigh. “If you’re very curious, Young Master Alas’len, you can simply ask Varric after we arrive in the Approach. He’s likely writing a book on the subject.”

“Young Master…” Alas’len begins, looking equal parts amused and baffled.

You shrug, standing up to go help Eugene prep the horses. “If you’re going to be calling me Miss, it only seems appropriate.”

—-

The Inquisitor’s distrust of Alas’len is obvious if for only one reason: he’s here with the main group, with your elven newcomer, while Seeker Pentaghast leads the ahead party. This is the first time you’ve seen him not go to the ahead group with her. Normally, he sticks to her like glue, and now here he is, obviously trying not to be obvious while keeping an eye on the new mage.

They’re so unsubtle sometimes; you have no idea how the Inquisition gets anything accomplished. Leliana’s influence, probably.

For all his obvious spying, it’s you that Alas’len winds up next to during the morning ride—although that’s probably aided by the fact that Dorian’s in the ahead group. Revas clearly doesn’t know what to make of Alas’len’s camel. Which is fair, honestly, because you don’t either. You’ve paused briefly at an oasis to rest the mounts, and you’re taking the moment to explore the realities of a camel, assisted by Alas’len. When he got experience with camels, you genuinely have no idea, but you play along anyway. You don’t even have to force the giggle that sneaks out of you when the camel lips curiously at your palm.

“He’s adorable,” you announce—and hear Revas snort in displeasure from a few feet away where you tied him to a tree, having foreseen his jealousy. “Look how much his lips can stretch!” Delighted, you feed him another piece of oat cake.

“His feet are much more suited to this sand,” Alas’len is explaining, “and he needs far fewer water breaks than your horses.”

“On one hand, it’s kind of a shame the Inquisition didn’t have access to such mounts… I know that after so long on the road, the horses are getting exhausted no matter how much resting we do,” you say with a sigh. “On the other hand, I’m damn delighted that I don’t have to learn to ride one of these.”

“Don’t you want to? You seem to favor her.”

“I can favor something without wanting to ride it. …Despite what everyone seems to think,” you add under your breath, mostly for yourself. Technically, you’re capitalizing on your reputation as an absolute slut right now, so it’s a bit petty to still be complaining about it. Still, if you’d known it was going to be like this, you wouldn’t have put so much damn effort into being undateable.

You and Alas’len continue chatting as you begin to travel again, and when Alas’len begins extolling you with hopefully fictional stories of him daring ancient ruins in the Approach, even Solas joins in the conversation.

“There are actually apparently several ruins nearby to where we’re headed,” you inform him. “I’m hoping to have an opportunity to examine them after we’ve settled.”

“By yourself?” Alas’len asks, concern fake and implications obvious.

“It’s a military outpost,” you say with a shrug. “I’m fairly sure I can find a few brave young adventurers to keep me relatively safe.”

“We could make a trio of it,” Solas suggests. “Given that we all have some degree of ruin-delving experience.”

You squint briefly at Solas, trying to remember if you’d told him about any of your ill-advised lone ventures into ancient tombs. Probably. You probably have. It seems like something you’d do.

“Two mages and a linguist walk into an ancient Tevinter ruin…” Alas’len jokes.

“They get eaten by giant spiders because they’re idiots who didn’t bring any soldiers or mercenaries with them,” you interject dryly. “Seriously, it’s a military outpost filled with mercenaries. Why in the Maker’s name would we go alone?”

“For the sake of privacy?” Alas’len suggests.

“I feel the need to emphasize these are actual ruins that I actually want to study, on the off chance that ‘explore the ruins’ is desert-nomad slang for something.”

“It absolutely is, but I don’t see any reason why we can’t do both.”

“I do,” Solas protests.

“Why should you have a say?” Alas’len asks.

“Because I was invited.“

“I’m uninviting both of you and taking Dorian instead.”

“I don’t think he’d be much use exploring your ruins,” Alas’len points out.

“I’ve changed my mind; I’m going alone.”

“Wot, am I not even an option then?” comes Sera’s irritated voice. You glance over at her in surprise.

“…Do you want to spend a few days in ancient Tevinter ruins with me while I gas on and on about elven history?” you ask, blinking.

“…Well, I might,” she grumbles, after a long pause. “Y’could at least ask.”

“Well… if you want to tag along, I’d be glad to have you,” you muse, rubbing the back of your head uncertainly. “But I’m pretty sure you’d hate it. Seriously, twenty minutes of listening to me gas on about Elvhenan this and Arlathan that and I’m pretty sure you’d be ready to feed me to a spider yourself.”

“Why would y’be goin’ on about them anyway? S’a Tevinter ruin, right?”

“Ancient Tevinter was built on the bones of Arlathan,” Solas interjects. “Such is the basis of Emma’s research into Elvhenan: she researches the Tevene and the Elvhen side by side to discover similarities. I confess some surprise that you did not already know this, Sera.”

“Why in the Maker’s name would I know any o’ that?”

“Your disinterest in the elven is well known, but I thought perhaps your interest in Emma would have outweighed it.”

“Alas’len,” you say, voice cracking a bit in your desperation to change the subject as fast as possible before Sera takes Solas’s entire head off his shoulders, metaphorically or literally, “I don’t suppose you’ve been to any of the ruins near where we’re heading?”

You look back over to Alas’len and catch, belatedly, the narrowed glint in his eyes: the way they slip back from Sera to you, and then over to Solas.

He is putting something together, you’re quite sure of it. And you don’t like it one bit.

“Unfortunately, no. They were always far too dangerous, and the increase in Darkspawn in the area hasn’t particularly changed that for the better. But if it’s Tevinter ruins you’re after, you’ve certainly come to the right place. We’re lousy with ruins, and no one seems in a hurry to excavate them. The deeper you go into the desert, the more untouched they are… well, by people, anyway.”

“Implying they’ve been touched by all manner of inhuman things. And you wanted to go with just me and Solas,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I’m amazed you’ve survived this long, young master.”

“Am I going to be able to get you to stop calling me that?”

“No.”

—-

You didn’t know that it was possible, but Sera is in an even worse mood for all your talking about ruins and research with Alas’len and Solas, both of whom were extremely interested in the topic. Which is miserable, because if it weren’t for that, it would have been one of the best damned conversations you’d had involving more than one other person since you joined the Inquisition.

Although considering that one of those people already knows all this shit and is just faking interest for a variety of reasons, maybe that’s not really any kind of triumph at all. When thinking about it from that angle, actually, it’s somewhat depressing.

And even more aggravating, you’d predicted that all of it—Alas’len’s appearance, the topic being elves and history, even Solas’s not-so-thinly veiled barbs—would have her furious and ready to ignore you or even tell you to fuck off altogether. Instead, she’s sitting close to you all through lunch. She seems almost desperate to change the subject to the things you have in common, and you can’t really blame her. Even if she didn’t hate the topic, she’d have nothing to add to a conversation about archaeological digs.

“S’a shame we didn’t run into each other in Val Royeaux,” she says with a sigh.

You had, but she didn’t know that. And never needed to know, especially given that she’d also run into the smirky little bastard currently hitting on Dorian and pretending not to be paying attention to you.

“It’s not really a surprise. It’s a big city, and I gather we were running in extremely different circles,” you say, sounding amused. “It’s not like we were going to trip into each other at the local bookstore.”

“Y’coulda gone to a pub now’n’then,” she says, elbowing you good-naturedly. “Yer deep enough in them these days.”

“That’s a more recent affectation,” you lie with a snort. You’ve been drinking since Antiva. “Besides, any pub in Val Royeaux that would let me in would probably have been too rough for me.”

“Oh bullshite!” she exclaims. “Yer the roughest thing in most pubs once you’ve ‘ad enough ale!”

“Iron Bull’s influence, I’m sure,” you say firmly, sipping your tea and pretending you hadn’t gotten absolutely smashed at the Inquisition pub within your first week and beaned a Templar with a mug.

“Perhaps she’s just trying to put on a good face now that there’s new company?” Alas’len suggests, earning him a potent glare from Sera, as well as earning you more literal, physical clinging for most of the rest of lunch.

Uncharitable of you, perhaps, but you can’t help thinking that she gives off the same vibes as a dog with a bone. Under other circumstances, it would be a little cute. Alright, it’s still a little cute. You’re not normally the kind to like possessiveness in any measure, but somehow, when Sera—or Revas—does it, it’s kind of adorable. Like a child that doesn’t want to share their favorite doll.

Of course, being that you’re the doll in this situation…

In addition, you know exactly where this level of possessiveness goes, particularly with Sera. How do the two of you keep rehashing the same problems? You’d thought you had gotten this worked out the last time you talked. But come to think of it, her issue had been exclusivity, hadn’t it? You certainly never agreed to that, or to anything, but you had rather explicitly stated that there was no one else you’d fucked or were even particularly interested in fucking. It had calmed her down, but then Alas’len shows up and starts flirting…

Maker. Why can’t this be simple? Why can’t she just throw a fit and finally realize she deserves better?

To make things worse—which shouldn’t even be possible—you’re keenly aware that Alas’len is watching and probably taking mental notes. Sera’s not exactly giving him a good showing. Possessiveness, jealousy, hostility towards magic… She must just look amazing to a stranger right now, not to mention her rather spectacular distaste for elven history. You don’t even understand it, and you’re the one willing to give her some benefit of the doubt for these things… you know that Alas’len would never in one thousand years extend that same benefit.

Once you’ve reached half again as much social strain as you can bear, you announce to the camp at large that you’re going to take care of the horses. You never thought you’d be grateful towards the Inquisitor for any damn thing on this trip, but in the end, being able to escape any situation by running off to brush a horse has proven to be incredibly useful.

You’re honestly somewhat surprised that Sera doesn’t follow you over to the horses. Maybe even she can take a hint? If so, it’s a credit to her; you don’t think anyone else in the entire fortress has ever respected your wishes when you wanted to be alone. And speaking of people not respecting your wishes, here comes Alas’len.

“Let me give you a hand, Miss Emma,” he says cheerfully.

“They’re hardly camels, young master,” you reply dryly.

“Ah, worry not for your steeds. I am a deft hand at many things.”

“Ugh,” you reply, unable and unwilling to stop the disgusted noise. “Okay, no one’s even close enough to hear us; lay off the bit before I throw up onto Stormcloak.”

“I believe he’s also handily blocking us from view,” Alas’len comments, running a brush—where did he even pick that up—over the horse’s shoulder. “I do love these giant mounts. You could have a whole tryst behind one and no one would even notice.”

“The horse might.”

Alas’len snorts, then finally gets down to business. “So. The blonde, eh?”

You let out a long sigh. “She thinks it’s more than it is.”

“And what is it, precisely? A romance?” He’s watching your reaction, which you keep stony. “A kiss? Oh dear. Sex? Oh my. And she doesn’t know…?”

“She doesn’t know anything.”

“And here I was watching the bald apostate this whole time,” Alas’len sighs. “I forgot about your tastes. Of course it isn’t the mage; I suppose romancing one of those would make far too much sense for you to consider it, as always.”

You bristle, but try not to rise to the obvious bait.

“In a way, it fits a twisted sort of logic,” he muses. “Going with someone guaranteed to betray you this time, I see. Skipping the middleman, taking all the uncertainty out of the equation.”

“Shut up, ‘Len,” you hiss. “Someone will hear you.”

“They won’t,” he informs you. “But if you insist…” He moves closer, reaching around your shoulder to brush at Stormcloak’s haunch, boxing you in, “I can always speak in lower tones.”

“Lethallin.”

“I’m just trying to understand the situation,” he says innocently. “Didn’t you leave Orlais to get away from traitorous blondes? This whole time, I’ve been laboring under the assumption that you ran off because of what she did, but maybe I was wrong. Because here you are, fucking her damned clone.”

“Sera isn’t Aimée,” you say, wishing there was any confidence in your words. You’d whispered them to yourself enough times that there really ought to be. “She’s not… manipulative. You’ve met her. She doesn’t have the wherewithal to be.”

“No, of course not. She’s just a blonde woman involved in the underbelly of Orlesian politics. She’s just possessive; she’s just bigoted; she’s just you making the exact same bad decisions all over again. And to think, you accuse me of not thinking these things through! Tell me you’re not catching feelings.”

“It just happened!” you snap, turning to face him, hoping that Stormcloak is blocking the view as well as he thinks it is. “It wasn’t planned!”

“That’s worse!”

“Why do you even care? Why are you doing this?”

“Because Aimee destroyed you,” he hisses. You hate that he leans down to be closer to your face; you hate that you have to look up at him. When did that happen? “She destroyed you as surely as if she had succeeded in her plans, and I will kill that woman myself before I watch it happen to you again.”

“Don’t you touch her!” your grip closes around his arms, threatening if thoughtless.

“Perhaps you should have said that to yourself, first,” Alas’len says coldly, leaning back away from you and the horse, shaking himself free of your grip.

You glare as he stalks away, taking in how his gait loosens from furious stalking to a casual swagger as he slides back into his cover. You should do the same, but you can’t force yourself to relax. It’s not unlike him—or yourself—to make casual threats. You’re not sure how many of his exes you’ve threatened to kill, yourself, or how many times you’ve threatened dangling him off a roof for his own behavior.

However, you also can count how many of his exes you’ve actually needed to stab. It’s not zero, so there’s precedent here.

You wouldn’t necessarily put it past him. You’d say he inherited your temper, but honestly, you think his might put you to shame. He’s younger, brasher, and you suspect this might be something of a sore spot. You know what he’s capable of when he’s truly infuriated, and while he’s not there yet…

You glance over at Sera around Stormcloak, biting your lip in worry. She also has a temper, and she also has killed people over it, as you well know. You’re not used to working with all these soldier and adventurer types. They’re all killers, and only they know the limits of when and where. You’d thought “the battlefield” was the line drawn, but Sera did kill that noble in cold blood, and that was a story told from her perspective.

And to think, you’d been complaining about the elves in your life hating each other before. At least Sera and Solas were never at risk of killing each other… Although come to think of it, Fenris and Solas… Ugh! You’re exhausted.

The worst part of it is, he has a perfectly valid point tucked in amongst all those barbed words. You’ve been telling yourself that same thing for a long time now, since before Sera kissed you on the roof. Since she almost did in her bedroom. Since she took you running through Skyhold. Since you sat in the underbelly of the castle and you lied about who you were in the orphanage; since you let her think you were dead without even really understanding why you’d done it.

You are a liar who makes bad choices, and she is the most recent of a long chain of them. The last thing you needed in your life was another beautiful woman to make mistakes around, and it’s gotten out of hand. You need to figure out a way to get it—all of it—back in hand before someone or something else does it for you.

You know, objectively, that it hasn’t been that long since you last saw him, but it isn’t often that the two of you had an all out melee to participate in. Had he always been so bloodily efficient? Is that how you look on the battlefield to others, a scythe of efficient magic and daggers through eyes and spines with pinpoint accuracy?

You already know that’s not the case; Banal’ras uses his magic in wildly different ways from you. You’re all or nothing; he uses it in little subtle ways to accent his natural stumbling fighting style. Any practitioner of a drunken fighting style might “trip,” but Banal’ras will do it while summoning a sheet of ice under his feet and slide clean around in an arc to stab his opponent in the back. It melts and evaporates into sand so quickly in the desert heat that it would look like he was gliding if you weren’t familiar with the way he fights.

You wonder what he looks like to the others as he stumbles backwards on one leg. You wonder if even the Darkspawn understand what’s happening as they slip on briefly summoned ice under their feet in what should be a desert. You wonder if anyone else can see the place at his back where you’re not, can understand that his masterful distractions are lacking without you there to take advantage.

No matter how gracefully he slides across the desert, little slicks of ice carrying him away from danger or appearing under his enemy’s foot just in time to make them stumble, no matter how many daggers appear long enough to lodge in an eye socket before melting away, you’re keenly aware that he is alone, and you were once the reason he wasn’t.

But you’re absolutely unnecessary, despite what all the adrenaline rushing through you is saying. With the addition of Banal’ras to the battlefield, the Darkspawn don’t stand a chance. You don’t need to be there to vanish across the battlefield. They have Cole for that. Who needs your savagery with magic when Dorian is so much more practiced? Your bloody nature would only get in the way in a fight where blood is poison. You’re superfluous.

He’s had a long time without you, and was trained to fight on his own well before. He’s also out there with a squadron of experts, people whose battle prowess puts yours to absolute shame.

People who are more of a threat to him than the Darkspawn, you realize, hands tightening on your dagger. More likely than it finding its home in a Darkspawn, this blade is incredibly likely to taste Templar blood before the hour is out.

You need to get closer to him, but Solas is keeping part of his focus on you even as he controls the battlefield, separating out Darkspawn with walls of ice and blows of force, keeping them from swarming or surrounding. You grit your teeth and wait.

As the last of the Darkspawn fall, the party turns to the newcomer—their savior, you hope they realize, and you move subtly closer, a throwing dagger in each hand. Ready. More ready still when it’s the Inquisitor and the Seeker who approach him. You shift away from Solas, knowing he’s the only one with any chance of seeing what’s about to happen coming. Your eyes slip briefly to him, but he’s watching the newcomer as well, not you.

“Timely intervention,” the Inquisitor calls out, voice tenser than you think is fair given how Banal’ras just assisted them, risking his own idiot life in the process. The Seeker still has her sword out, and you can practically hear what she’s thinking. Apostate. You can’t believe that after everything you’ve been through, this absolute idiot would just—

“Not quite luck,” Banal’ras replies, voice cheerful and even and as affable as ever. It sounds like the thud of a knife thrust into your chest, all the way to the hilt. “I was following that group of Darkspawn when your group traipsed through. I thought it would be a bit unkind to just watch.”

“Why were you following a group of Darkspawn?” the Seeker demands, voice accusatory. You’d worry that your hawklike focus might give you away, your eyes on your companions and their hands, but your face is still covered and no one is even looking at you.

“Seeking where they were crawling up from the abyss, of course. The only way to stop Darkspawn is to plug up their leaks.” He’s unarmed, and leaving his hands plainly visible, but they have to know he can be armed in the time it would take them to inhale.

A Templar can nullify magic in the blink of an eye if you get too close—one of the reasons for Banal’ras’s long-standing fondness for throwing daggers. But a Seeker is more dangerous still; she could probably nullify the magic of this entire area. But they can’t nullify a dagger through the back of the skull, and wouldn’t be expecting an attack from you, of all people, to begin with.

“You’re not a Grey Warden,” the Inquisitor points out. You wonder briefly how he knows, and then remember the whole reason you’re traipsing across the desert. There appear to only be two Wardens who haven’t lost their minds: Blackwall and this Warden Stroud you’re on the way to meet.

“And neither are you. Funny, how the area has so many Darkspawn and so few Wardens,” Banal’ras says dryly. “Clearly someone had to step in and do something about it.”

“From around here, then?” the Seeker asks, eyes narrow. “Nomad tribe, perhaps?”

“Something like that,” Banal’ras says.

Of course they would think that, dressed as he is in desert appropriate garb. He’d thrown off his cloak in the early stages of the fight; it still lays in the sand, blending in almost perfectly. But his face is still mostly covered by a litham that must work a lot better than your own improvised covering. His armor looks only slightly less thrown-together than yours had, a mix of cloth wraps around his arms and legs, a leather cinch around his waist, gloves that probably have a layer of metal along the back to catch blades—a trick you’re fond of—and thick guards for his shins and knees. The rest of him is covered with a pair of skintight leggings and a loose, billowing shirt only held in check by the arm wraps and leather waist guard. Not to mention his skin—closer to Dorian’s tone than that of anyone else here.

You’re the only one who could guess he’s as Orlesian as a fucking soufflé.

“I’m judging by the armor that you’re Inquisition,” he says, nodding his head towards the Inquisitor’s emblazoned armor. “I don’t suppose you’re here to take care of our little Darkspawn problem?”

“We’re just passing through,” the Seeker begins, but the Inquisitor interjects.

“The Darkspawn issue in the Approach was on our list, though. Did you find where they’re coming from?”

“I did, in fact,” Banal’ras says, and you can almost guarantee he’s smiling under that mask at how well the Inquisitor went for his obvious bait. Now you’re starting to wonder if you shouldn’t have been more worried for your new friends than your old one. “There’s a cave not ten minute’s ride from here from whence they emerge, but there were too many there for me to get through to see if it can be sealed easily.”

The Inquisitor is clearly considering. Good for him, you suppose, that he wants to fix the Darkspawn problem badly enough that he’s willing to stop when you’re in a rush. If you ever see one again, however, it will be far too soon. You also have no way to know if Banal’ras is telling the truth or up to something, and you’re the one who actually knows the man.

“This could be a trick, Inquisitor,” the Seeker says quietly, pointing out the obvious.

“Inquisitor?” Banal’ras says, and you have to roll your eyes at how obvious it is that the Seeker really doesn’t understand how keen elf ears are. She’d not meant for him to hear that, you’re sure. “Such an honor I have this day.”

“Given that you’re clearly an apostate and I recently began rebuilding the Templars—”

“Templars or no, the Circles are currently disbanded. Unless you and your friends intend to cart me off to your own prisons for the crime of not belonging to a club that no longer exists…” Banal’ras shrugs. “In any case, I would have thought you’d start with your friends.” He gestures towards Dorian. “And yet, he looks like he hasn’t seen a cage a day in his life.”

“Maybe recreationally,” you mutter under your breath, much more confident than the Seeker that no one can hear you.

“My point,” the Inquisitor says. “Is that you’ve no reason to see this as an honor. In fact, Cassandra has a point; you have a clear motivation for wishing the Inquisition ill.”

“Surely you could say the same of all your apostate friends,” Banal’ras points out, casting eyes over your group and lingering on you for too long before sliding over the slightest bit to gaze at Solas instead. Asshole.

“We know them. We have no idea who you are.”

“Ah, of course. How rude of me.” Banal’ras reaches up, pulling the part of his litham covering his face down, and you wince. Just let them all see your face, sure, okay, great idea. You swear to the Maker, you’re going to kick his ass all the way back to the Lake. “My name is Alas’len. I suppose you must be Inquisitor Trevelyan, and Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, but the rest of you have me at a loss, I’m afraid.”

You barely manage to keep a straight face. You haven’t heard that name in a while. Just the sound of it releases a churn of uncontrolled emotion in your chest. It hurts, more than you realized it would.

You want to run, and you’re not sure if you want to run towards him or away.

That whole thought is a moot point, however, because either would probably be deadly for the both of you, and you’re still trying to keep this scenario from ending in a slaughter.

Cautious introductions circle around your traveling companions. Only Dorian and Solas sound particularly chipper about the situation—Cole is nowhere to be seen. You remain silent; that’s what you’d do if this was a real stranger you’d just run into. You’re just a linguist, after all. Of everyone here, you matter the least. Banal’ras—pardon, Alas’len‘s eyes linger on you, but he doesn’t protest your silence.

“Well then… Alas’len,” the Inquisitor says, tongue awkward on the Elven syllables. “You say the Darkspawn are holed up nearby?”

Alas’len nods. “There’s a cave system with an entrance not far from here. I had enough time to scout a potential pinch point to cut off their access to the surface, but the cave is crawling with their filth. I had no chance of plugging the hole and protecting my own hide.”

The Inquisitor hums, clearly considering. You know objectively that it does speak well of him, but if he thinks you’re accompanying him into some dark horrible cave filled with monsters, he’s got another thing coming. You’ve discovered exactly how far you can be pushed and it’s to this point right here, this point before you go into a Darkpawn infested cave. You don’t even want Alas’len to go. You wish you could catch his eye, figure out what his angle is. You wish you could have him alone.

“It could be a trap,” the Seeker points out again. “An ambush in the cave, or an easy way to rob us of our horses and supplies.”

“We can leave someone here with the horses,” the Inquisitor points out. “Emma, for instance, who has no business being in those caves.”

“Appreciated,” you say dryly.

“Leave one non-combatant here with all our mounts and supplies?” the Seeker protests. “She would be easy pickings to anyone, and there may still be Darkspawn in the area.”

If these fools weren’t with you, you’d have significantly less to fear from Darkspawn. Provided it wasn’t a horde, you suspect you could keep them from even coming close. But you can’t say that, and you wouldn’t be able to explain the piles of burnt corpses.

“I doubt that all of you would be required to slay the Darkspawn. I’m not even sure you could all fit comfortably in the caves,” Alas’len pipes in. “If it would settle your nerves, why not split the party? Some can come assist me with our Darkspawn problem, and the rest can remain here with your delicate companion.”

There’s a bit of discussion after this, but you already know where it’s going to fall. Some will go with Alas’len, some will remain here—and you’ll be one of the ones remaining here, meaning you’ll be unable to pull his ass out of the fire if things turn dire. You have no desire for him to go into a cave with a Seeker and a would-be Templar. They could do anything to him down there and claim it was the Darkspawn. Your jaw is clenched so tightly that it aches, but you can think of nothing to say to salvage the situation.

“Blackwall should stay behind,” the Inquisitor muses, and Blackwall lets out a noise of protest.

“You’re going to fight Darkspawn!”

“But if any attack while we’re gone, you’re the most suited to deal with them,” the Inquisitor insists. “With you here, we don’t have to leave behind half our forces. Sera, you stay too.”

“Fine by me,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Those things smell bad enough out here, let alone in a fuckin’ cave.”

“Having learned my lesson about telling Cassandra to stay behind—” the Inquisitor says, earning him a glare. “Dorian, you stay here. The rest of us will go into the cave with Alas’len.”

You manage to make brief eye contact with Alas’len while this planning is going on, and give him a thin-lipped, terrified glare. The broad smirk he shoots you in return is no comfort at all. You can do nothing but mouth “come back alive” in Elven and pray to no god at all for the best.

You quietly fume and fret the whole time he’s gone, pacing back and forth around the horses. You half expect someone to ask you why you’re so worried, but it seems that in this situation, your nerves seem justified. No one would guess that your fears are more for Alas’len than Solas or any of your other new companions… or even for yourself, waiting in Darkspawn-infested lands with a ton of horses and only three trained fighters.

It’s the better part of an hour, possibly longer, before you see a group on the horizon. It doesn’t take long for you to count the mounts and flood with relief. Alas’len’s camel is clear and obvious, but it seems as though everyone else made it out as well. You can’t see Cole, but that’s hardly cause for concern. He’ll turn up. And you’ll have to have a long talk with him about Alas’len’s secrets.

It’s everything you can do not to march right up to your friend, drag him off his stupid camel, and fill his ears with the kind of lecture that would make even Solas tremble. You settle—grudgingly—for a lot of glaring, increased in potency enough to burn through iron when no one’s looking.

“We managed to seal off the caves,” the Inquisitor announces, mostly to Blackwall, as soon as he’s close enough.

“It was fair crawling with Darkspawn,” Alas’len says, shaking his head. His litham is back up around his face, but no one seems as put off by it now. “I would never have been able to seal it up alone without being detected.”

“One less thing we have to worry about later,” the Inquisitor says. “We can continue on into the Approach now. And…”

“Our new friend has decided to accompany us,” the Seeker interjects, making no attempt to hide her suspicion on the matter.

“He’s what.” You’re surprised to realize that was your voice.

“The Inquisitor generously offered me aid for helping in dealing with the Darkspawn in this area,” Alas’len says cheerfully, eyes on you but expression unreadable behind his mask. “And I’ll admit I’m quite curious to learn more about a group that includes two Templars, two mages, and what appears to be a ghost.”

“Oh, that’s Cole,” Dorian pipes in. “You get used to him, somehow.”

You open your mouth to object, and then close it. At least this will give you a chance to get him alone. To yell at him. And then warn him. And maybe shake him, both because he deserves it and also because part of you can’t believe he’s really here.

It had taken long enough to deal with the Darkspawn, and your group is tired enough, that you travel only perhaps another hour before the Inquisitor has you stop near what was no doubt the closest oasis available. You set up camp some small distance away from the actual water, which Blackwall explains to you is because of the blood still staining their armor. There’s not a great deal of flowing water in the desert, and no one wants to risk tainting an oasis with the Blight.

Of course, you can’t help but notice that you, Alas’len, and Dorian appear to be the only ones who made it through the battle without getting some degree of tainted blood on your clothing.

“Perhaps the three of us could fill the water barrels and haul them to camp?” you suggest.

“Emma,” Dorian protests, sounding as if you’d just stabbed him in the back.

“A good idea,” Blackwall agrees, grinning. “We wouldn’t want to risk any contamination.”

“I must protest,” Dorian begins, but the Inquisitor cuts him off.

“Oh, just use magic, the lot of you,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Make the barrels float or something.”

“Inquisitor, if I could make barrels float, I would never carry anything again,” you say dryly.

“If you’ve got two big, strapping lads to do it, I don’t see why you’d have to do any heavy lifting at all,” the Inquisitor says. “It’s not as if upper body strength is your forte.” You can see the Seeker rub her face, clearly tired, behind him.

“My feminine noodle arms and I will make do,” you say, letting your voice get just a little icy, to see if either of them will notice. Both do. The Inquisitor looks confused; the Seeker meets your eyes with the long-suffering gaze shared between women since time immemorial. The Inquisitor follows your gaze and glances back at the Seeker, and then towards you.

“…What did I say now?” he wonders aloud.

“I must protest to either of us being called ‘big’ or ‘strapping,'” Alas’len chimes in. “I realize it’s difficult to see me under these robes, but our friend here appears to be quite trim.” He gives Dorian an appraising up and down look that’s clear even with his litham on.

“Also, if it weren’t for Sera, our new friend would be the shortest one here,” you point out, which catches you the sharp look from Alas’len you’d expected.

“I believe I might have perhaps a scant inch on you,” he says, voice teasing despite the look he’s giving you. He does; you know he does. You remember the summer he shot up like elfroot, and the subject of your comparative heights never ceased to be a popular topic since. “If you’d care to stand very close, we could have someone measure.”

“No need for that,” you say, picking up an empty water barrel. “I’m fairly sure Dorian here has a spell for that.”

“A spell for measuring heights?” Dorian asks, dryly. “What must you think of the laziness of my countrymen, to assume such a thing.”

“Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll tell you all the practical uses of a measuring spell,” you point out, handing him the barrel. He takes it, although he doesn’t look particularly happy about it.

You turn to grab another one, but Alas’len has already picked one up and hands it to you, getting a little too close to press it into your arms. He has a troublesome glint in his eyes that you recognize even without being able to see the rest of his face. You shoot him back a glare so potent that you suspect anyone nearby can see the sparks fly. You swear, the second you get him alone…

“Are you quite certain you want me along for this?” Dorian asks, sounding amused.

“In some places, it is necessary for a lady to have a chaperone when she must share the company of an unfamiliar man,” Alas’len chirps in.

“I’m not from any of those places, and wouldn’t qualify as a lady regardless,” you say sourly. “But if you think you’re getting out of helping me carry these damn barrels that easily, Dorian, you have another thing coming.”

With a long sigh, Dorian starts across the sand towards the oasis, and you and Alas’len follow at just enough of a distance that you can hiss under your breath at him, inaudible to Dorian’s human ears.

“What the fuck are you doing, lethallin?” you demand quietly. “You’re going to get us both killed!”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean,” he murmurs back.

“Don’t you start that shit with me! What are you thinking?! They know you’re a mage now! They’ve seen your face!”

“Do breathe, lethallin. They’ve seen a desert apostate and nothing else. So long as you don’t blow my cover by being overly familiar.”

“Blow your cover?! I’ve been here for months, you absolute prat! You have no idea who I am to them! If they get even a hint—”

“I will be overjoyed to get to know you, Emma,” he says, and for the first time, his voice betrays bitterness. “Just as well as I intend to get to know your friends,” he adds, with a glance towards Dorian.

“Do not,” you hiss. “I mean it. Don’t you dare.”

“Don’t dare? Dare not what, exactly? Join the Inquisition with an old name no one knows anymore, then immediately learn the ins and outs of a man old enough to be my father?”

“…Dorian’s not old enough to be your father,” you settle on finally, after too long silent. You glance up at him, trying to do math in your head. “…Probably.” There are too many unknown variables and your confusion with regards to Solas’s age is still too fresh on your mind for you to trust your guesses.

Dorian’s at the oasis now, and you’re catching up too fast. “Find a way to be alone with me later.” Even you don’t know if it’s a demand or a plea. “We need to…” Talk? Catch up? Plot?

“Ah, you know me too well already,” Alas’len says with a smile. “I love nothing more than getting people alone.”

That chance to be alone doesn’t come until well after dinner, which you spend glued to Solas’s side and sullenly silent. For once, Solas seems more than willing to pick up any conversation that you don’t want to have, and is serving the same general function that you have for him in the past. You’re left alone to stew as much as is possible in these circumstances.

Alas’len is doing a good job spreading his affections around. You’ve seen him work before, but this is the first time you’ve felt the need to sulk about it. Of course, Pentaghast and Sera are more than ready to loathe him, both for his personality and the fact he’s a mage, which you can’t help think speaks somewhat poorly of them. You understand how people could hate him, you suppose, but as he breaks off a piece of his bread to offer to you, commenting with a pout how you’re barely eating, you can’t help but think that anyone who does is probably somewhat soulless.

Of course, him offering you bread with that pouty, wide-eyed, cute-little-brother expression—and you actually taking it and eating it—is probably the source of a fair chunk of extra dislike from Sera, given her general attitude towards you. You know for a damned fact that Alas’len actually is flirting, too, so if she’s pissy about Solas… This is actually justified by comparison.

In the course of a single meal, you watch as Alas’len figures out the correct attitude to have with each of your companions, about as fast as you had, although with a great deal more direct interaction. Despite—or probably because of—your protest, he spends more than his fair share of flirtation on Dorian. Part of that, however, is probably just because the only other one here open to it is you. Dorian is just plain better at being seduced than you.

It’s almost worth the danger of the situation to watch the Inquisitor utterly fail to realize when he’s being flirted with, though. Especially because the Seeker definitely notices.

“Goodness,” Alas’len almost purrs, feigning shock well. “All of the men here are quite rugged. Do you feel left out?” he directs this last comment at Solas, as he rubs a hand woefully over his own bare face. “I believe I do.”

You can see the Inquisitor turning slightly pink, self-consciously running a hand over his own growing stubble, which is by now a short beard in its own right. He hasn’t particularly had time to shave on the road. You’re pretty sure Dorian does so by magic.

“Ah… It’s just, you know…”

You lean onto one hand, watching with detached bemusement as a man who was actively hostile two hours ago fumbles over himself trying to deal with a compliment. Absolutely wretched. Why can’t you do that? Who compliments a man on his facial hair, anyway? Save Dorian, they just look unkempt to you. Ugh. You suppose that’s why you can’t do that. “Charming” only works for you in short bursts. Alas’len, by contrast, just fucking oozes it. Jackass.

You made such a good team, once. How did you ever luck into finding someone who filled in your shortcomings? Alas’len kept your temper in check—barely—and you… well, you made sure he actually brushed his hair, and didn’t run dick-long into every bad decision possible. You’d wondered how he was faring in your absence, but his presence here answers the question somewhat succinctly. Bad decisions were back on the menu, and he always did have quite the appetite.

It’s well into the night by the time you manage to sneak off, despite how distracted everyone is by Alas’len’s presence. You skulk out of sight behind a large, scrubby, thick tree some distance from camp. You’d had to skirt by Pentaghast, who was on guard duty at the time. Fortunately, the other guard was Cole, so she was probably distracted paying more attention to him than, you know, actual threats.

Since you sleep alone—well, with Cole, but that’s essentially the same thing—you’re able to lurk out there for a while, which is good because Alas’len takes his damn time finding you. He’d set up his own tent—far more suited to the desert than any of the Inquisition’s, furthering his disguise as a nomad—but you’re sure people are watching him much more closely than they are you. You’re not bitter that it took him a long time, so long as he was careful.

He slips down next to you, back against the bark of the tree, but you round on him before he has enough time to so much as inhale. You twist over in front of him, locking your knees around his and letting your weight sit on his legs, eyes a furious blaze as you glare right in his face.

“What. In the cursed void. Are you doing here,” you hiss.

“Well, someone implied she would appreciate an illicit midnight meeting, and—”

“Don’t you dare play cute with me right now! You’re going to get me killed! You’re going to get yourself killed! You are going to get us both absolutely murdered! What were you thinking?!”

“I was thinking that the last time you came to Orlais, you walked into my back yard and then refused to meet with me outside of asking for a favor. I was thinking that you would take this moment, crossing Orlais, to leave the Inquisition rather than be dragged into a Darkspawn infested desert. And then I was thinking that if I wanted anything resembling an answer for why you hadn’t, I was clearly going to have to go to you.”

That brings you up short. Unfortunately. You should have been more prepared for him to have reasons, let alone good ones, but your mind hadn’t gotten much further than “what the fuck you idiot aaaaaaaah” in actuality.

“…I can’t just leave,” you say finally, rubbing your forehead. “I’m in very, very deep here. I’d have to toss Alix if I just up and left.”

“I’ve seen you toss names for a lot less than being dragged into a Blighted desert full of demons, Darkspawn, and who knows what else,” Alas’len points out. “You’d already all but trashed her when you left Val Royeaux the first time.”

When you say nothing, sulking, he sighs and presses a finger against your nose. You snort and bat his hand away. “You have gotten far too used to lying to people who know nothing about you, lethallin.”

“Me, chief amongst them,” you grumble under your breath. “I have a lot of resources here, lethallin, and I’m growing them every day. I’m this close to having a whole damn team of mercenaries.” You reach your hand out, as if trying to grasp something just out of reach. “A fortress full of elves who trust me, two remarkably powerful mages who dote on me, even that idiot Seeker is intent on babying me. I hate this. But I’d be an idiot to toss that to avoid a traipse through the desert.”

“You had more in Val Royeaux,” he says, and you once again hear the barely-concealed bitterness in his voice.

“If anything, that was the problem,” you say with a sigh, then endeavor to change the subject. You’ll get nowhere being angry with him when he has just as much reason to be angry with you. “Surely things haven’t fallen apart without me? I left them in such capable hands, after all.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Alas’len scolds, and you snort.

“Liar.”

Alas’len lets out the sigh of the eternally tested, who coincidentally also have nothing to say in their own defense, because you’re right. “Things are in pure chaos right now. Not with ours—we’re fine. But we’re perhaps the only ones left in Val Royeaux doing so well.”

“I trust you’re taking appropriate advantage?”

“Am I ever,” Alas’len says, rubbing the side of his face. “We’ve more than tripled in size, although I suspect we have significant overlap with Briala’s people at this point.”

“It’s to be expected,” you say with a nod. “We’re drawing from the same well, after all.”

“I’ve had to create tiers,” he complains. “Since we can’t possibly risk information falling into the wrong hands. It’s all very complicated. I hate it.”

“You love it,” you counter.

“I love the reality of it being done. I hate having to actually do it,” he grumbles.

“Awww,” you tease. “The desk work of running an underground elvhen legion getting you down?”

“Yes.” He thumps down into the sand with a very put-out sigh. “You neglected to tell me how much of it was involved. I was led on.”

“That’s not how I remember it happening,” you muse, as if thinking it over. “In fact, I remember no small amount of begging…“

“I have never begged a day in my life.”

“How do you say such tremendous lies with such a straight face?”

“It comes with the territory,” he says dryly. “I could ask you the same. You stayed retired for, what, five minutes?”

“That wasn’t my fault,” you grumble, crossing your arms. “Trouble found me.”

“And then you ran directly at more of it, instead of coming home.”

“I thought the Inquisition would be a safe place to wait out the war,” you say, running a hand through your hair. Your bun is coming loose; you just go ahead and yank it out and let your hair fall down. You try to brush some sand and knots out of it with your fingers. “I didn’t think they’d drag me across Orlais twice in as many months.”

“And this Solas idiot is worth that trouble?”

You freeze, hand still in your hair, then glare at him out of the corner of your eyes. “He’s not the reason.”

“You went on a job with him.”

“I used him as a cover for a job,” you counter. “He’s too perceptive for me to have snuck out on my own, and what if he caught me at it? How would I explain taking down magical wards? He’d already found out I was a bard; it just worked out.”

“He just found that out did he? What else does he know about you?”

“Not much. …I think,” you admit, squinting into the middle distance. “Hard to know for sure. Nothing important about you, despite your best attempts to ruin that. I’m pretty sure he thinks Banal’ras is my ex-boyfriend.”

Alas’len snorts. “Not entirely inaccurate. I definitely remember getting dumped.”

“If I dumped you, it’s even more inappropriate for you to chase me into a desert,” you say dryly.

“Wouldn’t it be a grand romantic gesture?”

“Stalking.”

“Damn. I’ve never been clear on that score.”

“Lethallin,” you say finally, still running fingers through your hair in a failed attempt to comb it. “Why in the Maker’s name did you do magic in front of the Inquisition?”

“Because there were a load of Darkspawn, ma moitié, and I didn’t want to die.”

“Bullshit.”

Alas’len sighs. “Because I’m not good at this.” He gestures vaguely at you. “And there is a Seeker here. If she finds me half-hidden, what happens to you? How many times have you lectured me on that very thing?”

You’re silent. That’s a very good argument, and precisely why you hadn’t wanted to show him your trick in the first part, and had refused to teach him when he couldn’t do it instantly.

“They would have figured it out sooner or later,” he says with a shrug. “Less suspicion if I show them straight-out. Show them what they think should be a secret, and they stop looking. Who taught me that?”

“…Me,” you grumble under your breath. “…I’m not used to you making decisions that have any degree of thought behind them.”

Alas’len reaches up to shove half-heartedly at your shoulder. “You weren’t paying attention, then.”

“I can promise you, I absolutely was.”

“Well, it couldn’t possibly be that something happened recently that required me to suddenly and abruptly take on a huge amount of responsibility,” Alas’len says dryly. “That would be ridiculous.”

“Alright, alright,” you say, putting your hands up in surrender. You’re definitely not going to win anything with him now; he has too much on you. “Speaking of a sudden onset of responsibility…”

“Oh, this is going to be good.”

“The girl I sent your way, Dirth’len. Where did you wind up sending her? If you’re having trouble, I sent a bunch of refugees out to—”

“She’s in your old apartment.”

“Oh, she—what?“

“The old apartment,” he repeats blandly.

“It was… empty?” you ask, feeling hurt, unreasonably.

Alas’len glances up at you, wordlessly, considering. “That upsets you?”

You say nothing, kicking at the sand with your bare foot.

“Did you expect me to stay? See your ghost around every corner?” he continues. “Wake up every evening to an empty bed?”

“…I guess that would be stupid,” you mutter, tucking your knees up against your chest and wrapping your arms around them. “Why would you let her keep living alone, though? She’s a child. She needs a family, or an orphanage.”

“She’s not that young,” he says with a shrug. “And besides, it’s what she wanted.”

You twist your head to look at him sharply. “…Is it now? She wanted to stay in an empty apartment in a shitty corner of the Alienage? Why would she want that, I wonder.”

Now it’s Alas’len’s turn to sulk quietly.

“Why, pray tell, would a little girl want to stay in the same hell hole she grew up in, when she ought to have the whole world to choose from?”

“…She wanted to stay with me,” he said finally, airily as if he’s not confessing to anything at all.

You turn and begin kicking furiously at his legs.

“Ow! Ow! Stop it, you—”

“You fuck! I told you to move her along! She’s a baby!” you hiss at him, only not yelling because you don’t want to draw attention.

“What do you think I’m doing to her?!” he hisses right back, scooting away from your furiously kicking legs. “I’m not a monster, you absolute—”

“Don’t let some lonely little street rat get attached! Are you an idiot?!”

“Are you?!”

“YES! How do you think I know?”

This time, he kicks, and it catches you right in the side. You let out a little pained wheeze and fall over.

“It’s too late for your fucking regrets,” he snarls, and you hold up your hands again.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Oh didn’t you.”

“You were supposed to move her along! I gave instructions,” you whine.

“She wanted to stay.”

“You shouldn’t have given her that as an option! You’re as shitty of an influence as I am! Possibly worse. Neither of us have any business being around children. We’ll groom them without even meaning to.”

“You sent her to me, already a third of the way there,” he says rolling his eyes. “And she didn’t want to leave.”

“She didn’t want to leave because you’re hot and she’s hitting puberty!” you snap. “What girl in her situation would want to? Hand a starving orphan a hot, mysterious older man, what would you expect?”

“Ooh, describe me more.”

“Can you please take this seriously?”

“No. Also, you’re the one who handed her to the sexy rogue,” he points out. “If you want to bitch about turning her life into the plot of a youth’s romance novel, bitch at yourself first.”

“I presumed you would see a whiny little girl and hurl her out of the city limits so fast she’d snap through the Veil twice. Also, who else was I supposed to ask?”

“Jean?”

“Jean doesn’t have the resources to move an elf orphan anywhere. You do! That’s the whole point of Banal’ras!”

“Not the whole point.”

“We move elves!” you exclaim, exasperated. “For fuck’s sake, ‘Len!”

“I’m not making her miserable to soothe your shitty conscious,” he snaps finally. “Look, I’m not telling her anything, but she’s three fifths of the way there on her own.” He reaches into his robes, pulls something out. “This is a letter she wrote you, in about thirty minutes, right after hearing where I was going.”

He thrusts the paper at you, and you open it wordlessly.

It’s a letter alright. It’s a letter in code. It’s a very basic cipher; looks like a simple 1-1 alphabetic cipher based on… some mathematical formula, maybe. You glance up.

“Did you…?”

“No. You’re looking at baby’s first secret message,” he says dryly. “Someone will swoop her up in a heartbeat if she’s not dead by fifteen.”

You glare back down at the message, which almost certainly doesn’t include anything that would require coding to begin with. “…This is still your fault. I’m still mad at you.”

“When are you not?”

“—set the whole thing on fire, but try doing that when your resident firestarter has fucked off to raise llamas—”

“It’s not even hard, you one-trick pony; what kind of mage can’t cast a fireball?”

“My fire acts like fire. Your fire acts like it’s—hold on.” Alas’len pauses, and you do too, stiffening. You’re fairly far away from camp, but if someone overhears… Or even sees, the way the two of you have wound up halfway on top of each other—ostensibly for warmth, actually because you both have a lot of hair that’s better suited to having someone else comb it.

Alas’len twists, straddling your hips so he can crane his neck around the tree. “…False alarm,” he says after a moment, sitting back on his legs. “I thought I heard someone.”

“Thank the Maker,” you grumble. “I have no idea how I’d explain being alone with someone I just met behind a tree at midnight. They already think I’m enough of a slut as it is.”

“They do?” Alas’len asks, looking equal parts shocked and delighted. “You? How? Why?”

“I don’t know! It just happened!” You let out an exasperated sigh. “I think Bull used it as a cover with the Inquisitor once, and one of the first assets I met there was a real rumormonger… It just ballooned, and now I’m the fort mount, somehow.”

“Well, that’s easy then,” he says with a shrug. “I’m a charming rogue, you’re a loose woman. Lean into it, and we have every excuse in the world to sneak off together without suspicion.”

“It’s not nearly that easy,” you say, thinking of Sera.

“Oh? Someone here whose opinion of your reputation matters?” Alas’len asks archly.

“Kind of, yes. I just convinced the Warden I wasn’t sleeping my way through the ranks!”

“You’re concerned about what a Warden thinks of you? With what they’re up to? Lethallin, are we projecting again?”

“Shut up,” you hiss, because you absolutely are projecting again. “Wait, what do you know about what the Wardens are up to? And also, how?”

“No one can move that many men around without accumulating rumors. People talk. Details are few and far between, but whatever they’re up to, it’s dire enough that they’ve neglected their duties utterly. Every Warden in Thedas gathering in the Approach, and they’re somehow lacking the manpower to take care of the Darkspawn on their doorstep.” He shakes his head. “And the Inquisitor is heading out with a full advance party—and you. Something insane is starting. I can smell it.”

“That’s probably me. It’s hard to bathe on the road.”

Alas’len rolls his eyes. “Well, if you’re not going to let me bed you, we’ll need to think of something else. There’s more we have to share than can be accomplished in a few midnight romps through the desert, and someone will see us eventually if we keep trying to sneak off.”

“It’s too suspicious for us to know each other from anything,” you muse out loud. “I can’t risk it after all the conclusions the Nightingale is already drawing about me.” But of course, no matter what you do, Sera is bound to be furious with you. She’ll assume the worst again, just like she does with Solas. But maybe that’s for the best. For her and Solas, if the see you seduced by some tramp, maybe they’ll finally drag you off of that pedestal. You’re not getting out of this without hurting Sera, and you’ve tried breaking things off with her so many times. The two of you just keep bouncing back together like idiots. But if she calls it off…

No, that’s cruel. And also, she’d hate you. But you’ve broken up with her what, seven times? It doesn’t stick!

But maybe, if you break up with her and rebound, she’ll get the hint?

“…Let’s revisit that seduction idea.”

“Oh, you always know just what to say.”

“Quiet. Be your normal charming, idiot self. Only this time, I’ll let it work. We’ll start spending a bit more time together. It’ll buy time, and if we ever are seen sneaking out together, well…”

“Charming, I can do. Although if you have that Tevinter third-wheeling every single time, I can’t promise you’ll keep my undivided focus.”

You reach up to push him, shoving him—gently—off of you. “I told you, no. Don’t get any ideas with him.”

“You can’t possibly expect me not to have ideas. He’s a noble human—it absolutely wafts off of him—and a Tevinter to boot. Also, you have seen him, yes?”

“He’s not a score for you to settle! He’s kinder than you think, Alas’len, and he doesn’t deserve what you do to men.”

“You make it sound like it’s not enjoyed thoroughly by all parties,” he says, pouting.

“It’s not. They might enjoy you sinking your claws in, but no one enjoys when you rip them out.”

“You want me to be gentle?”

“Lethanalin,” you spit out, and Alas’len stills.

“Tel’halel? Mi’tam shem?“

“Tel’halel! Shem na mir falon.“

Alas’len pouts again, crossing his arms. “I can’t believe you. Over some Vint! You can’t do that on all of them, you know! I thought you’d save it for your bald mage.”

You snort. “Lethallin, if you can seduce Solas, you deserve to. At this point, I might consider if a favor. Now, we have our plan. Let’s get back to camp—separately—before someone realizes both our tents are empty.”

“Fine,” he says with a sigh. “But I want you to understand that you’re an absolute bore and no fun at all.”

“Good. Between the two of us, maybe we’ll average out to one normal person.”

You wake up, slow and groggy, to the sensation of something warm and wet and furry shoving against your face. You grunt and bat vaguely in front of you, coming in contact with what appears to be a large, furry wall. Cracking one eye open, you see nothing more than a giant nose directly in front of you. It exhales hot breath onto your face.

You push Bella’s nose away with a groan. You wish she’d never learned how to unlatch windows. You’d move your bed, but you’re too worried she’d try climbing through into the house.

“I was having a dream about… about…” you squint, not quite remembering. “An elf? And a war?” You shake your head, then roll haphazardly out of bed, stumbling around as your body wakes the rest of the way up. You manage to locate an oatcake for Bella, which is all it takes to get her to remove her entire head from the window.

Your home is small, more of a cottage than anything, but it’s yours. You’d had enough saved up for a little hovel in the middle of nowhere, most of a mile away from the nearest village. You’d made it your own, and the summer breeze coming in through the window, bringing with it the myriad scents of your garden, is proof enough that you’d made the right decision. You can be yourself here. Just yourself, and no one else.

You fight off a shiver despite the summer heat, and move to your wood stove to make some tea. Maker knows you’ll need it to get through the day after being woken up at the crack of… uh… noon… by Bella. Maybe you’ll take her into town today, to wear her out a little if nothing else. Or you could go the opposite way and head into the Dales, collect some alchemy reagents. If you can get a hold of some more mugwort, you’re pretty sure your cooling potion would sell like… well, you’d say like hotcakes, but given how warm it is, probably more like ice cream.

Still strewn about on your desk is your current project, rubbings from an elven ruin you’d found in Fereldan. You feel sick every time you look at it, but you can’t bring yourself to throw it out. Your quest for knowledge trumps all else… but even that thought has you rolling with panicked nausea. You decide to skip the tea for now and all but burst out of your door.

The air is fresh and hot, real and familiar. You suck in desperate breaths of air as Bella trots around the cottage to butt her head against your chest. Honestly… you have no idea why you even bother with the illusion of putting her inside a fence. Absentmindedly, you run hands through her mane.

“Let’s go into the Dales today, Bella,” you murmur through the fog in your mind. “Let’s forget about knowledge for the day. We’ll pick flowers and braid them into our hair.” You let your face rest against her head. The smell of her is solid, earthy, and comforting. “Let’s let this summer pass us by. Let’s just waste our time and prove…” You take a deep breath full of mule. “Prove we can.”

She snorts her assent, and you go back inside just long enough to grab your bags, not even stopping to put shoes on. Today can be a day for you and Bella. You can ignore your hunger for a few more days. You place a kiss against Bella’s nose, close your eyes, and—

You wake up with another disoriented grunt, this time, regretfully, not to a face full of mule. You’re in a tent, and for a confused second, you think you’re in Fereldan, but no, that’s stupid. You’re in the desert, and Cole’s waking you up three hours before sunrise because sleep is a luxury you can scarcely afford. No wasting time picking flowers for you, not anymore. You feel an unsettling churn of nausea. The only thing left from your dream is the disgusting knowledge of just how far your burning need to know will go.

You push that thought out of your mind and rise, enjoying the cold and dark of the desert, not a cloud in sight. The stars are beautiful. Perhaps you’ll just pick a dune and stargaze until the sun comes up. Maybe you’ll just—

“Not asleep? Is something amiss?”

You grit your teeth against the sound you least want to hear at the moment. It seems that the current watch is the Seeker. What luck.

“Everything’s fine. I sleep poorly under the best of circumstances, and I simply got tired of tossing and turning. I thought fresh air might clear my mind,” you tell her, turning to eye the Seeker. You feel like her prey more than ever at the moment; it’s hard to see her or the Inquisitor as anything other than enemies to be avoided until they can be taken care of for good. When you look at her, you see a problem, not a person, and it’s an unsettling reminder that she should be viewing you the same way.

“I’m on watch at the moment. If you’d like to walk together—”

“With all due respect, Seeker Pentaghast,” you say, your mouth moving before you can stop it. “There is little I would like less. If you’ll excuse me.” You turn and stalk away from her, for the moment uncaring of her thoughts as to why you dislike her so. She barged into your tent with her sword drawn. You are allowed to hate her.

You make your way to the edge of camp, or whatever you think counts as it, hoping to be far enough away that the Seeker won’t bother you. You’ve no doubt she’d have the boldness to, despite what you just said to her. She thinks you misguided. She thinks you naive. The sharp words you throw at her probably only strike her as hard as a child throwing a tantrum.

Somehow, that thought doesn’t do anything for your temper.

But that just leaves you to stew alone, hating who she is and what you are and the overwhelming realization that you’re marching into the desert with her because you are what you are, you are what you tried to avoid in forgotten corners of Orlais. No matter how long you tried to avoid it with Bella, the truth of the matter will always catch up with you. She’s dead, and your hunger will drive you over the edge of the Abyssal Rift and into the darkness.

No sooner than the sun is up, it’s sweltering. This gives you a very clear picture of your life for the foreseeable future, and you can’t say you much care for it. You’ve always disliked the cold, but at the moment you can’t help but think that’s because you’d never experienced real heat. Still, it’s not as bad as the sticky summer of Seheron in your memory… though that’s little comfort.

Solas had the last watch last night, so while you’d gotten a few hours of sleep in under Cole’s watchful eyes, you’re still up bright and early, which means you’re learning how to do implausible stretches in the sand. Some are harder, but some are admittedly easier, as sinking an inch or so into the sand adds a degree of stability to some poses. All in all, you absolutely hate it. You’re just voicing this to Solas when something immeasurably worse happens.

“Come on, then,” says the Inquisitor, who you hadn’t even noticed approaching. You’d been too busy studiously looking anywhere but Solas’s bared forearms. “Now that you’ve warmed up, let’s get some practice in.”

“Now?” You don’t mean it to come out as a whine, but in retrospect it absolutely does.

“Yes, now. I have some time, and by the look of it, so do you. Besides, there have been darkspawn reports in the area we’ll be going through today. I’d prefer you learn how to move in sand before we run into a fight, in case you get scared and run headlong in to massacre a hurlock.”

That sobers you completely, and sets a chill in you that even the morning heat can’t bake away. Darkspawn. The one good thing to come of your kidnapping and subsequent slavery is that you’d never had to deal with the invasion of Denerim. You want to believe with all your heart that you would never have been left there to deal with it alone, but you can’t be sure.

That lack of darkspawn had been perhaps the singular highlight of your life, besides your talent at avoiding experiencing slavery version two at the hands of the mage Circles. And now, it would seem, the Inquisition is going to take that from you wholesale.

You doubt the Inquisitor can see any of this on your face, but Solas is watching you closely. It doesn’t matter. Anyone would be terrified at the prospect of facing darkspawn. In this, you are hardly unique.

“Fair enough,” you say with a sigh. “But given what I’ve heard about darkspawn blood, I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” There’s not enough gold in the Inquisiton’s coffers to get you to willingly fight one of those things. If you do anything, it will be with throwing knives and at a great distance. But you go with the Inquisitor nonetheless. It’s not as if there’s any discouraging him.

Fifteen minutes later, you can tell he’s taking it easy on you, likely not to wear you out before a long day. Something you idly wish Bull would have kept in mind more often, although you suspect he thinks he was the most important part of your day in any case. That being said, footwork in sand is exactly as impossible as he’d made it sound. You slip, you stumble, you almost stab your own foot once, saved only by the Inquisitor quickly knocking your own blade away. It’s a bit telling that he’s better at controlling the direction of your sword than you are, but whatever. You’re not supposed to be good at this.

As a child, Leah taught you how to protect yourself with a knife. Any other sort of weapon would get an alienage elf killed. In Antiva, your lessons had continued in much the same way. In Rivain, you’d learned a little bit of staffwork, but not much. Even in Orlais, full-sized swords had never factored into your training. And come the Inquisition, Bull had focused solely on hand-to-hand. For once, you don’t have to fake being bad at something. You just are. The fact that this allows you to genuinely put your all—or most of your all—into the sword training is something of a mildly pleasant side benefit.

Though when you started thinking of this as mildly satisfying and stopped thinking about it as the worst thing in your shitty journey, you’re not sure. Probably about the time when it stopped hurting just to lift the Inquisitor’s damn sword.

After some shoddy practice and a lot of slipping and being very aware that the Inquisitor could make you fall on your ass if he had a more Bull-like approach to these things, the two of you grab breakfast as camp is being broken down and packed back onto the mounts. This routine, having just now begun to feel slightly familiar, is almost over. Soon, you’ll be at your destination. And, having decided not to run, you’ll be with the Inquisition for the foreseeable future.

You throw on a loose-fitting linen top over your undershirt, wrap your face in a damp wrap, check to ensure your knives are all in their proper locations—even slipping the dagger you often keep hidden in the small of your back into place—tie a hat around your neck, and effortlessly pull yourself up onto Revas’s back.

Perhaps it’s the new, dark tint of your skin, but you can’t help but marvel at how much—and yet how little—you’ve changed.

The desert does not make for a fun ride. You and the mounts both appreciate the frequent water breaks as the Inquisitor—leading once again in the ahead group—zig-zags you across the approach. However, each relief is short-lived and it feels as though it takes no time at all for all the moisture to be sapped from your skin and out of your body entirely. Solas informs you to drink liberally, and you do, absolutely guzzling water down at every opportunity. You’re so full with the stuff that you barely eat lunch, managing to munch down some bread only because Solas insists.

The afternoon is unspeakably hot. You feel like bacon sizzling in the sun despite—or perhaps in part because of—the new shade of your skin. At least you’re mostly free of the painful sting of burning flesh. Solas’s creation certainly worked, and you’ll certainly be having him show you how to make it at a later date, when time and resources allow. The acquisition of any knowledge, great or small, helps tamp down on the sizzling panic in your heart, the feeling that you’re making a horrible mistake, taking a terrible risk.

Of course, no sooner than you’re batting down that growing feeling of dread, an odd shift in the air has you looking up. It almost feels like a storm is coming, but in the desert, you have no idea what a storm would even be like. The sun in the sky seems as bright as ever… Perhaps the wind has picked up, or shifted direction?

The fact that you’re looking around, anxious and looking for answers, is why you see them, the sudden crest of darkness over a hill. You have no way of knowing what you’re looking at, but something about the sight captures you. When you see it rushing down at the Seeker, the Inquisitor, and Cole like a swarm of ants, you briefly freeze, your whole body seizing with terror. Your voice catches in your throat as you go to speak up, but it doesn’t matter.

“Darkspawn!” yells Blackwall, and you finally have a reality to fit to the word in your head.

You can taste the wrongness of them in the back of your throat, even from this distance, something sick and twisted that makes the world itself scream out. You desperately don’t want to get any closer than you are right now.

But the others are rushing forward. Of course they are. Those are your companions up there, threatened to be buried in this sensation in the air like sickness and death itself. Sera once said that they save each other, back and forth, without a single thought. It means nothing to them. You wonder what that’s like, because as you charge forward to keep pace with the others, all you can think about is that they’re definitely all going to owe you for this if you have to get involved.

You leap from Revas’s back sooner than the others dismount, thudding down into the sand and pausing just long enough to place a firm hand on his snout. Stay back, you try to communicate through a glare. You refuse to lose him to Blight, and this fight is far too dangerous for a creature that doesn’t know to avoid the Darkspawn’s diseased blood.

The others are crashing into battle, but Solas hangs back a bit, even further than Sera, who’s loosing arrow after arrow in a literal blur. Rather than wonder at how the fuck that works, you scamper to Solas’s side. The air tastes like ozone near him, an indescribable tang like the taste of air at the peak of a mountain. That’s the only comparison you’ve ever found apt for trying to describe that taste, that sensation, when the power of the Fade is used to warp reality. It’s uncomfortable to be around, but not painful.

You pull out two throwing knives, but you’re still too far away. You don’t have the kind of range that Sera does with her arrows, or Solas with his spells. You could get them there, but you might risk missing or even hitting one of your companions. Worse than useless. But you don’t want to charge forward, either. You’re a noncombatant, you remind yourself. No matter how much the Inquisitor has been teaching you in your off time, you’re barely a beginner with the blade, and no one here expects you to charge in to fight Darkspawn with a knife.

Which is good. Because you don’t want to. You really don’t want to. Even as close as you are, you can smell them, a stench like rotting flesh. They’re viscerally wrong, every sense you have screeching at you to stay away from them. Even the burning desert sun itself seems dimmer in their presence, the air colder.

That’s not your imagination, you realize. There are clouds growing, clouds in the desert… or is that dust? You have no frame of reference for what a dust storm even looks like, but you pray that’s not the case. The last thing you need on top of Darkspawn is a fucking sandstorm. Either way, the clouds are growing thick enough to dull the desert’s midday sun, and with the absence of light, the Darkspawn’s wrongness seems only to grow. You grip your blades tighter, knuckles whitening.

Solas and Dorian are controlling the field masterfully. Sera is away from the horde and relatively safe. It’s Blackwall, the Seeker, and the Inquisitor in the thick of things… and presumably Cole, somewhere, but you don’t even think spirits can be Blighted. He’s probably the safest of anyone here.

But there’s just so many. Where did they come from? And yet even this number must be nothing compared to the overwhelming hordes of a Blight proper. Once upon a time, Leah had stared down the face of this times a thousand, times a hundred thousand, and saved it from overwhelming the whole of Fereldan. It feels like only right now do you understand the implications of that. You don’t think she’d been any older than you are now. Where did she find the courage? Where does anyone?

There’s too many of them. Someone’s going to get hurt. Someone’s going to get sick. There are Darkspawn overwhelming the fighters now, breaking free to charge towards the back ranks, towards Dorian, Sera, Solas… and you. You swallow thickly, and take as deep a breath as you can through the wraps covering your face. You taste plague in the air, so it doesn’t particularly help.

Before the Darkspawn can reach you, however, something huge and fast barrels into them, through them. You’d been so hyperfocused on the approaching Darkspawn, the whole world becoming a narrow tunnel between them and you, that you didn’t even hear it approaching. The huge animal—a camel, you realize, which doesn’t make the situation any less surreal—sends Darkspawn sprawling, a few even flying through the air in a way that would be absolutely comical in a less dire situation.

You have just enough time to register that there’s someone on the camel’s back before the figure comes tumbling off, falling onto the sand only recently cleared of Darkspawn. The camel keeps going, and you realize with muted horror that whoever it is, they’re surrounded on all sides by rapidly recovering Darkspawn.

There’s about to be a massacre.

It seems as though you’re the first one to recover, first one blade and then the other hurtling from your hands, each striking a different darkspawn in a black, oozing eye. You charge forward, one hand going to the Fang at your back so you can defend yourself, and the other grabbing for another throwing blade. But there’s a grip on your arm, and you get yanked back, almost losing your footing in the sand.

“Laissez-moi passer, idiot!” you snap, pulling at the grip—which is painfully firm. Your eyes are on the collapsed figure, dark brown against the sand, and the cackling darkspawn, too far back to have been struck by the camel, drawing its bowstring taunt—

The arrow looses, and you desperately hurl your blade, not considering what your companions might make of your talent—you’ve given this much away to Leliana. But from this angle, from this distance… You slice it in two, too late to matter. The arrow strikes true, the front half of the arrowhead and shaft burrowing into the sand—wait, the sand?

The figure rolled over right before the arrow hit. You let out a ragged breath of relief, but his situation is still dire. He staggers, stumbling, and you fear he was disoriented or concussed from the fall.

“Don’t just stand here, you idiot!” you yell, half turning to Solas. “Do something!”

The first of the Darkspawn to recover are charging him, and one or two sprout arrows from Sera’s bow, but it’s certainly not going to be enough. The man stumbles backwards, then sideways, and then there’s a Darkspawn upon him. You kick Solas sharply in the shin, hear a hiss of pain as he finally releases your arm, and begin to run forward, although you’re sure you’ll be too late. The Darkspawn swings its terrible blade down, but the man trips sideways, narrowly avoiding the blade. Then backwards, avoiding a sideways swipe by collapsing onto the sand, knees bent. Wait—

The man sweeps his legs, knocking the Darkspawn off balance and into another Darkspawn that had been ready to swing, and in that moment, you realize what’s happening. You half-stumble yourself as you stop running, staring in disbelief.

The man seems drunk, alright, but thinking that would be a deadly mistake. No, he’s tripping and tumbling with purpose, avoiding strikes and bewildering even the near-mindless Darkspawn with unpredictable movements. Forget Solas, the idiot here is you.

He’s not just avoiding the Darkspawn, either. No, quick as a whip they begin to fall as he returns blows with blades that glint in the dim light and seem to appear and then vanish just as quick. Of course they do. Only one idiot would stumble like a drunkard and use knives of ice in a desert.

If those Darkspawn don’t break his neck, you’re going to do it your damn self, because Banal’ras has followed you into the fucking desert.

You wake up to the taste of ash in your mouth between gritted teeth. Cole must have woken you, though you don’t see him anywhere. Maybe he’s decided to make himself scarce as you wake so he doesn’t have to deal with your bad mood. And you’re in a frightful one right now. You absolutely ache for someone to take this feeling out on. It crawls under your skin like ants, a sensation that demands action. You used to take this feeling out on chevaliers. Never ones actually making their rounds in or near the alienage; you’d learned better than that. But you’re sorely lacking chevaliers right now, and there are too many eyes on you for any of the bad behavior your instincts are screaming for.

So instead you light a candle and get some work done on your stupid fucking book.

No stress relief means no actual improvement of your mood. You sulk all through breakfast, snap at Blackwall when he tries to make light conversation, and then spend the rest of the morning preparing the mounts and snapping at them instead, since they take much less offense. Well, for the most part—you have a few unkind words for Revas and he responds by nearly peeing on your foot.

To make things worse, the morning dawns hot. It’s hard to believe you were getting soaked two days ago, because the more you travel, the hotter it gets. The sun beats down on you with nary a cloud to get in the way. You don’t mourn the loss of your armored jacket or chest piece anymore, and what little armor you have left—protection for your shoulders, arms, and legs—feels hot, heavy, and unnatural. You can’t imagine any of the ones wearing chainmail are feeling great about it either, but you can’t really tell by looking at them that they even notice the sunlight or heat.

The scrubby grass and bushes you’d been paying so much attention to become scarcer and scarcer as you gallop across western Orlais, and sand is indeed taking over. It’s as odd as you expected, to see so much sand but not smell the salt of the ocean. You can still see trees and rocks dotting the landscape behind you, but towards the west, towards your destination, there is very little to break the monotony of the horizon.

So this is what Blight does to the land. Perhaps only now, you feel like you better appreciate how easy Fereldan got off during the last Blight. Your mind drifts briefly to Leah. This does nothing for your foul mood.

It’s hot. It’s sandy. You feel uncomfortable and violent and angry. The horses kick up sand, and it’s getting everywhere. You already hate it, and you know it’s only going to get worse from here. Sandier. Hotter. More bullshit to deal with further away from where you wanted to be and further away from what you wanted to do. The only benefit to this is that your foul mood keeps everyone, even Cole, at a distance, leaving you to focus on the inconvenience of heat and sand.

You fetch your giant floppy hat—the one you bought, not the one from the prostitutes which you think Sera has anyway—and it helps a little. But it turns out that your tunics, most of which you bought with a winter in the mountains in mind, are not particularly conducive to riding through a desert. You had purchased lighter clothing to an extent, but you’re not used to this kind of sun and dry heat. So, captive audience be damned, you wind up eventually stripping to your undershirt and just tying the tunic around your waist.

It’s not as though your undershirt is indecent; frankly what Dorian’s wearing covers less in a technical sense. It’s just not something you’re used to wearing in public. And the presence of your traveling companions definitely makes this qualify as public despite the fact that the only judgmental passersby would probably be lizards, who are generally very open-minded.

You can’t lie, it feels whole worlds better. You doubt the few tunics you brought will be getting much use for the rest of this trip. During lunch, you can dig out some of the more lightweight clothes you had the foresight to purchase. Until then, undershirt it is. You just won’t think about the places sand is probably getting.

You suppose you’re in the desert now. That’s all you can really think when you stop for lunch. You thought the shift to scrubbiness had seemed abrupt, but it was nothing compared to the transition to blighted wasteland. You slide off of Revas, at first relieved and then wincing as the movement of your limbs stretches your skin. You… are not normally aware of the stretching of your own skin. You place a hand on your own shoulder—hot to the touch, but that could mean anything in this weather—and then look at your arms. That redness isn’t just irritation from the sand and wind, or flushing from the heat, you’re willing to bet. You’re sunburnt.

You curse under your breath at the realization. Of course, you’d taken your tunic off and left your bare arms to bake in the unbroken sunlight. Idiot. You hadn’t even thought about it; despite your red hair and the stereotypes attached to it by humans, you’d never been one to burn easily. But even you couldn’t avoid a vicious burn after baking yourself in desert sun for half a day.

“You can’t possibly be surprised,” comes a voice from behind you. You don’t even turn to glare at Solas, instead going to rummage in the saddlebags that carry your excess gear.

“I’ve never been in a blighted desert before,” you grumble at him. “Normally the only time I have to consider the sun is on the ocean, and that’s a rare enough occurrence. Plus a hat is normally enough to…” You finally pull out a lightweight but longer-sleeved shirt and turn to face Solas. Your eyes narrow. “How are you not burnt? You’re bald and not even wearing a hat.“

“Surely you can guess the answer to that,” Solas says, sounding amused. His outfit has changed somewhat as well, you note with some relief. At least he isn’t completely immune to suffering from the heat as you are. He’s stripped off not only all excess layers, but his tunic as well. You weren’t really necessarily ready, emotionally, for the sight of his mostly-bare arms, but you’re coping admirably, you feel.

You roll your eyes. “You have a magic spell to prevent sunburn.”

“You say that as if it’s so extraordinarily unnecessary,” Solas quips, poking your burnt shoulder. You give out a little hiss of pain and slap his hand away, and he smiles, barely. His smile is always such a tiny little thing that you suspect most people would miss it entirely. “However, I had the foresight of assuming you would not be comfortable with me casting that spell on you every few hours, and also that you would not bring a natural sunblock.”

“I bought some in town!” you say, exasperated. “I just forgot to put the damn stuff on!”

“The end result is the same as predicted,” Solas says, and you roll your eyes again. “Although if your pride is such that you don’t want my aid—”

“You’re not wasting your magic on curing a sunburn,” you say, exasperated. It’s ridiculous at the very concept.

“I’m not,” he agrees, holding up a little jar with something clay-colored inside. “Amrita vein and aloe vera grow all over the Approach, so I sincerely doubt we’ll be in any danger of running out of this little cure. In fact, if you have any interest, I’m certain we can find the time to teach you how to make it yourself.”

You perk right up at that. “I’m always game to learn a new alchemical recipe,” you say, smiling for the first time since you woke up well before dawn. “Is it really a cure?”

“An aid,” Solas concedes, gesturing you towards the rocks and rubble that are serving for your resting area. “And preventative. I’m sure you won’t be the only one using it.”

“Some o’ us had the foresight not to wait!” you hear Sera yell from—you presume—the other side of the rocks.

“Indeed,” Dorian says, eying your burn with some obvious mirth. “As they say, an ounce of prevention…”

“Sorry that I’ve never been dragged bodily through a desert, Dorian,” you say sarcastically. “As this is my first and hopefully last time, I’m sure it will be a learning experience.”

“This, at least, is a mistake you’re unlikely to make again.” Solas sits down on a rock and gestures for you to sit down on the rubble in front of him. “This will stain your clothing, if you care,” he warns you.

“Even after it dries?” you ask, frowning, and glancing down at the longer-sleeved shirt you’d been intending to throw on.

“Wait perhaps thirty minutes after application, and you should be fine. Your undershirt, however…”

“Do I look like I give a shit about the condition of my undershirts?” you ask with a roll of your eyes. Solas, no doubt remembering the condition of ones he’s seen you in before, nods in concession.

“Very well. Have a seat.”

You can’t help but glance at the positioning he wants you in—on the ground in front of him, practically between his legs. You raise an eyebrow and make pointed eye contact with Dorian, who just shrugs, although he’s grinning while he does so. Honestly. You wish you could get Sera to understand how clueless Solas can be about these things, exactly like the Inquisitor the night before—though both would be quite offended by the comparison. Of course, on a sliding scale of clueless, Sera is closer to them than she is to you or Dorian. She never gets your dick jokes. It’s kind of delightful, but it’s also why you’d never expected her to be the type to suspect sexual intent from any sort of physical contact.

You give your head a little shake to clear it and go ahead and sit down on the ground in front of Solas. The sand is hot, but not uncomfortably so. With a sigh, you just go ahead and take your boots off. They’re not much use for walking in sand, something you genuinely hadn’t considered at all. You’ll just have to unpack your foot wraps and elf it the rest of the way. Hopefully it won’t annoy Sera too badly.

You’re musing over your girl troubles with such focus that you aren’t paying attention to Solas. When he lays a hand on you, you yelp out loud, more than a little undignified. Normally you’d consider yourself somewhat armored against his touch—or anyone’s—but in this particular case, his hand is covered with cold goop and it is alarming. No less so because despite the goop, or perhaps thanks in part to it, your burnt skin is horribly sensitive.

“That feels terrible,” you complain.

“If you’d had the foresight to put something like this on in the first place—”

“Don’t lecture me, mamae.“

“Of course not,” Solas says, and you can practically hear his eyes rolling. “Nothing up to this point would suggest that you’d listen to it.”

“Hngrk,” you respond instead of what you’d been about to say, because he’s just spread the balm up onto your neck, his hands rubbing in small circles. Your breath catches in your chest as one of his hands slides around the front of your neck; your hands spasm into the sand, grabbing great fistfuls with such force that had it been grass, you would surely have torn it from the ground.

You clench your jaw, eyes finding the middle distance and staring determinedly until he’s done with your neck. When he moves back onto your shoulders again, you let out a breath you hadn’t even been aware you were holding. You don’t think you can open your mouth to complain when he reaches slightly under your shirt to rub more in.

Well, you don’t complain, but Sera picks that exact moment to walk back from the other side of the rocks. Solas just keeps on rubbing the ointment in, lost in his blissful Solas-y unawareness of how things look. You, however, are very aware of it, and make apologetic eye contact with Sera. She looks unamused; you can see the twitch in her jaw as she clenches it. But it’s for sunburn. You will her to remember that it’s just for sunburn. She appears to, since she says nothing and just keeps walking. You let out another little sigh of relief. That’s progress, right? This is a type of progress.

Completely unaware of the danger he just narrowly avoided, Solas continues on. “You don’t burn as much as I’d expect of one of your complexion,” he comments as he works the salve down one of your arms. You let in a hiss of breath as he does; your skin is more sensitive than you thought, especially on your arms.

“Really? Because I feel exceedingly burnt,” you say, wincing. “I feel like a piece of toast left in the oven for far too long.”

“In my experience, most redheads begin to burn if they so much as look at the sun,” suggests the Inquisitor. “One of my sisters is a redhead and she doesn’t get even a shade darker in the summer; she just burns.”

You shrug, which turns out to be a poor idea with a sunburn. Your skin feels weird and sticky against your shirt. “I’ve always just assumed it’s different for elves.”

“Oh?” Solas asks, which seems bizarre to you.

“Oh? Are you asking me something about elves, Solas?” you ask, exaggeratedly astounded. “I thought for sure you were about to explain the history of red hair in the elven population.”

“I simply thought you might have some observations there yourself, given that you have red hair in the elven population,” he replies dryly.

You snort. “Just that there are more redheaded elves than redheaded humans, and that the traits you see in redheaded humans don’t necessarily translate. But I always figured it was just like these.” You tap the corner of your eye. “Almost all elves have green eyes. But elf-blooded humans seem no more likely to have green eyes than the average human.”

“Really?” asks the Inquisitor curiously, leaning closer. He’s sitting on a rock nearby, probably absolutely roasting in his chainmail. He looks flushed, but not burnt, so you can only presume he, like Sera, had the foresight to prepare himself ahead of time. “I had a friend in school with green eyes; he used to get bullied about being elf-blooded by the other students.”

You wave your hand, shaking your head. “If anything, they tend towards brown eyes, but that’s useless as an identifying feature given the prevalence of brown eyes in the general population. Humans always like to presume there’s some way to tell what humans might have elf blood in them. There’s not. No slightly pointed ears, no rounder than average eyes. The child of an elf and a human is a human, and so far as I can tell, any trait that makes us different fails to pass along.”

“I wonder why that is…” the Inquisitor muses. “You’d think—”

“Inquisitor!” you hear Seeker Pentaghast call from a distance. “I require your assistance here.”

She hasn’t even finished the sentence before he’s off the rock he was sitting on and rushing over to her. You smirk in no small amount of amusement. “A bit early for the Inquisitor to be so whipped, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Solas replies, and then interlaces his fingers with yours. Shocked, you look down, only to realize he’s merely ensuring full coverage. Of course; your hands are your most valuable asset. Embarrassed by your reaction and with no Inquisitor to distract you, you look back up at the middle distance and wonder if being burnt means no one can tell when you’re blushing.

“You seem to have paid a lot of attention to the human children of elves,” he says, and you latch eagerly onto the distraction.

“I saw a lot of them when I was living in alienages. They stick out like sore thumbs, obviously, but you learn to tell them apart. Humans want to be able to see the elf-blood in their companions, but what they should be looking for is a human who lowers his head when walking through a door frame. A human who treats the elven servants with respect, who hires more elves than other humans, who tenses at the word knife-ear. If they were even the slightest bit more self-aware of their own behavior, they’d be able to tell that the tell-tale trait we pass on to our human children is empathy.” You pause, considering. “And a keen awareness of how tall one is compared to door frames.”

“I’ve found myself with that problem in alienages, as well,” Solas comments, and you laugh.

“How many door frames have you headbutted?”

“I do take some pride in my sense of self-awareness—”

“How many?”

“Several,” he admits, and you laugh again. “Your arms and shoulders are covered, but I will need to apply this to your face and head,” Solas warns you.

“Should I close my eyes?” you wonder.

“Only if that is your preference. I won’t be getting too close to your eyes. Sit up here.” He’s standing, and pats the rock he just vacated. You scoot up and backwards onto it, and he squats down in front of you. You realize immediately that the real problem presented by this is that to keep your eyes open would be to be staring directly at him, and close them at once.

That’s not really much better, as he starts around your neck again. Your eyes snap open, and there must be something in your eyes, because he stops immediately, hands retreating a few centimeters away from your neck as he waits for your reaction. When you say nothing, he keeps going, and you aim your eyes up and to the right, glaring vaguely at the sky. You think about anything other than how nice his hands feel while he rubs ointment into your cheeks. One of his hands stills on your cheekbone, and your eyes fall back to him, annoyed that he should decide to take his time with this.

Your complaint dies on your lips when you see his expression. He looks like he’s in pain. But when he speaks, all he says is,

“You’re healing up nicely, considering how much damage you sustained back in Skyhold.”

That, still? Underhill has barely even crossed your mind since you left Skyhold. You shrug. “I had access to a great deal of healing magic. There was no risk of me not ‘healing up well.'”

“You were blind in one eye for days.”

“Because it had swollen shut, not due to any real damage to the eye itself,” you remind him. You know that for a fact; you’d paid a lot of attention to what the healers said about your eye. “And now the worst problem I have is a sunburn.”

“Is that the worst problem you have right now?” he asks, concern breaking to show a bit of amusement. “Is it really?”

“Unless you want me to begin listing grievances against the sand and all of womankind including myself, I suggest you just finish up applying the damn cream.”

And he continues, and you’re fine—until one part you hadn’t considered. After he’s finished with your whole face and you’re certain that you’re about to be set free, finally, he runs ointment-covered fingers along your ear. Your whole body spasms at the unexpected punch of pleasure right to your core, and you almost kick him in the damn chest.

“I can do that part,” you almost hiss, snatching the jar out of his hands.

Solas frowns. “Are you sure? It’s very easy to miss a spot if you’re applying it yourself, and your ears are very—”

“They are the normal amount of sensitive!” you snap.

“…I was going to say long.”

“They’re the normal amount of that too!” you say, feeling like you’re burning up under the desert sun despite the cooling salve on your skin. That’s a blatant lie, your ears are long, but Solas doesn’t call you out on it. You apply the cream to your own damn ears, and when you miss a spot and he reaches out to wipe a bit more onto the back of your ear, you manage not to deck him or to make any inappropriate noises.

“There!” you say finally, shoving the jar back into his hands. “It’s done. Now I can… Oh!” You look down at your extended arm, blinking. “You weren’t kidding about the staining.” Your skin is a shade of brown you’re not sure you’ve ever seen on yourself. It would probably look patently absurd if you took your shirt off. Turning your arm this way and that, you can’t see a single spot Solas missed, at least.

“Indeed,” Solas says. “I hope you’re prepared to look as though you have the world’s most unfortunate tan for the next few days.”

“I’ll say. Maker have mercy.”

“It is particularly dramatic on you.” He sounds amused, but you can hardly blame him. You probably look ridiculous. “It will even out given time. You’ll just look a bit like… an inverse raccoon.”

“Oh joy.”

“It will fade, however, in a few days, unless we reapply. And it will keep you from burning.”

“Eventually, my skin will get nearly this dark on its own,” you say with a sigh. “I suppose until then I’ll just be sporting the inverse raccoon look. I’ll certainly look peculiar when we get back to Skyhold. Nothing says winter in the mountains like the tan of baking a pale elf in the desert sun.”

“If you prefer, we can let you burn,” Solas suggests. “Perhaps we can get you a bright enough shade of red to stand in for the sun during those long evenings and slow mornings.”

“Har har,” you say flatly. “No, this is fine.” Honestly, dye your hair black again and you’d be a completely different person. Perhaps you should get your hands on Solas’ recipe, or at least figure out what it is that stains your skin so. It could come in handy for more than just healing sunburn.

The afternoon isn’t any cooler than the morning was. If anything, it’s worse. But now that you’re dressed more appropriately and your skin isn’t actively sizzling, it isn’t too bad. The air is dry, and when you’re galloping there’s a decent breeze. You have to slow more regularly to keep the mounts from overheating in the sun, though, so that’s only periodically helpful.

You still have no idea how the Inquisitor is figuring out which direction you go, but he at least has a map that he’s examining regularly now. You suppose that’s how he finds the oasis you stop at a few hours after lunch, to rest the mounts and let them drink. While everyone else is rinsing off and refilling the group’s supply of water, you pull your foot wraps out of a saddlebag, intending to replace your leather boots—hot and heavy and not much use in sand. However, you pause to rinse yourself off as well. The mounts kick up an obscene amount of sand when they run, and you’re basically coated. You want to at least rinse your face off. It fucking stings when that sand hits your face and sticks.

Which is when you get any idea. You’re figuring out the desert thing fairly quickly, to your credit. Something about the heat—or possibly being stained clay-brown and wearing an undershirt and no shoes—has really stripped away your self-consciousness. So, not even considering the possibility of being heavily mocked, you curiously dip the foot wraps into the cool oasis water. Experimentally, you wrap the soaked cloth around your arm.

Holy shit that feels amazing.

Thinking of diagrams you’ve seen in books, you try wrapping it around your neck. The head and neck, those are the most temperature sensitive parts of the body, right? When they used to treat heat stroke in Seheron, they would wrap cloths soaked in cold water around the neck and head of the afflicted person. Clumsily at first, and then figuring it out, you wrap one of the foot wraps around your neck and bottom half of your face.

Yep, that feels fucking incredible. And it should keep the sun and sand off of your poor, suffering nose and mouth. You leave your nostrils uncovered, obviously, so you can breathe, but past that, you’re protected. You don’t care how dumb it probably looks. If it keeps you from suffering from painfully split lips this entire trip, you’ll look as stupid as you need to.

Which is a helpful attitude, considering you’re barefoot in leggings, an undershirt, and a loose linen tunic, your hat tied around your neck and resting on your back because it keeps falling off of your head, and, one can’t forget, elven footwraps abruptly turned into a mask to keep sand off your face. No one says anything to you about it, though. Probably because half of them are wearing chainmail, and aren’t in a state to be judging anyone. They might even envy you for getting your armor mauled to scraps. You definitely understand why they brought that instead of the plate you’ve seen them wear in the past.

That map of the Inquisitor’s appears to be a map of every single oasis in the entire desert, as you’re zigzagging in a frankly bewildering pattern, but coming across an oasis every few hours. Every single time, you pause to rest the mounts and let them drink, as well as refill your own water supplies. It’s slower going, but you’re not going to complain, and you doubt the horses will either.

You’re not necessarily getting used to the heat, but you’re figuring it out. Maybe you can do this after all. Mind, you’re pretty sure it’s been getting hotter all day, and sandier, were that even possible. You’re not sure when you’re going to cap out in terms of heat; if it just keeps getting hotter at a steady pace as you travel, you’re absolutely going to keel over dead before you reach your destination.

Which you’re… still somewhat unclear on, you realize as your group—finally—stops for the night at one of the Inquisitor’s many oases. You have a general gist, but that’s about it. Maps of the Western Approach, that you saw, aren’t exactly rife with detail, and you don’t know where this fort the Inquisition dug out of the sand even is.

You try to delicately probe for details while you and Blackwall care for the mounts together, but you don’t really get much that you didn’t already know. You’re going near the Abyssal Reach but that’s huge. So you’re unclear on where you’re going past “west” and you’re not the one with the map of the oases.

This is, you decide grimly, your last day to jump ship if you want to.

The idea has its merits, so you consider it at length instead of dismissing it out of fear like you’ve gotten into the habit of doing. You would have to abandon Alix, but weren’t you already flirting with that before this all started? You could go anywhere. If nothing else, you know you can always adapt. Frankly, nothing the world has to offer could be as strenuous as the circumstances around keeping your secrets here. You’re practically losing your damned mind to Solas alone, and you had just recovered from getting pummeled into the ground… although to be fair, that had been your idea.

But on the other hand, even putting aside your more emotional attachments for the moment, there’s still the matter of rifts and red Templars. The actual Templars themselves have been almost entirely brought under heel by the Inquisition, so they’re at least not out there tearing up the countryside. The mage rebellion is technically ongoing but with the majority of them escaped into Tevinter—poor idiots—the fighting isn’t really what it used to be. The rifts, however… you’ve just learned how dangerous those are first hand. And Red Templars, well, you already knew.

You don’t feel any real sense of loyalty to the Inquisition. You suspect you haven’t seen enough of the effect they’re having on the world, locked inside their walls as you have been. You’ve never seen the Inquisitor close a rift. You weren’t at Haven; you don’t comprehend what this Corypheus fellow is or how severe of a problem you should consider him. Moreover, you’ve never been one to try and save the world.

…Well. Not from monsters, anyway.

This is not an easy decision to make, which is probably why you’d been putting off making it for as long as possible. It’s also hard to be objective when your heart is so tangled up in Sera… both in the sense that you’d like to stick around for more sex, and that your every better instinct is screeching at you to run for the hills. Betray her, you think sourly to yourself, before she gets the chance to betray you.

Now that the sun is setting, there’s a definite chill in the air. After the heat of the day, it’s frankly kind of nice… even though you’re not generally one for cold air under any circumstances. But it’s not so cold that you’ve forgotten the heat of the day, and you’re sticky from sweat and sand and Maker knows what else. After everyone has filled up your water supplies one last time, you decide to rinse off in the oasis, clothes and all. It’s much easier to carelessly soak yourself now that you’re aware that Dorian is in possession of a magic drying spell.

You enjoy a bit of good-natured splashing around, even though the oasis is only up to your waist at the deepest point. It’s a relief to work all the sand off of your skin, and you even sit down in the water, let your hair down, and brush through it until you’ve worked out tangles and sand both.

You’re also, if you’re being perfectly honest, taking this as more time to consider whether or not to slip away. It’s not really privacy, but no one bothers you while you’re bathing. Not even Sera, who would have to be reaching alarming levels of bold to accost you when you’re in the middle of camp.

Your hair needs to dry; you don’t want to see what wet hair feels like in desert heat. But fortunately, you doubt it will take long. You leave it down, and then dodge people and mounts until you find yourself on what is arguably the outskirts of camp. You settle in up on what you’re going to suppose is called a sand dune or something; you’re not one hundred percent clear on the terminology for hills when they’re sand instead of dirt. A ridge that means you’re still within easy sight of camp, but which is far enough from the trees of the oasis to give you a bit of privacy and quiet.

It’s so flat out here that you can see a sliver of Satina on the horizon. …Satina? Is it Harvestmere already? You’ve more than lost track of the days while traveling… frankly you tend to lose track of days even while sitting next to a calendar day in and day out, just like how you lose track of hours sitting next to a time-keeping candle. But it must be Harvestmere, because that little sliver of light could be nothing but Satina. You’ll certainly have a splendid view of it out here in the desert. Surely you won’t still be here for Satinalia? You’ll probably be traveling back during the holiday… Or if you’re very lucky, you’ll have just arrived in Skyhold in time for whatever celebrations a military stronghold can throw together.

If you stay, you remind yourself. If you don’t slip off into the night with Revas tonight. You would have to head east as fast as possible, to minimize your time stuck in a desert without any idea of where to find water. You could steal a second hart, probably Ashi’lana, to carry some water and supplies, but traveling with two harts would make you stick out… and increase the chances that the Inquisition would waste resources hunting you down.

From there, you’d need to head… northeast, above the lake. Val Royeaux would be too obvious, but you have resources in Val Foret. From there, it would be easy to lay low somewhere safe, as safe as you’d thought the Inquisition would be for a scribe. You’d been certain that a scribe would be too valuable to ever risk sending into the field. Idiot… But you probably wouldn’t have been any safer as a menial worker. An army is always in need of dragging some of them along. No, the Inquisition had been a mistake from the beginning. You’d underestimated them entirely, or perhaps overestimated them. You thought they’d be just like the Chantry they broke off from.

But you’re here now, and it hasn’t been all negatives. Your cover is miraculously intact, which is frankly doing wonders for your confidence. If you can fool a Seeker and a Somniari, who can’t you fool? How miraculous is the power under your skin? Is there something special about you, or are you just the smartest of all the mages you’ve met? Smarter than Solas, who clearly doesn’t know that what you can do even can be done at all? The thought makes you smile.

Aside from all you’re learning about yourself, you also have excellent connections and resources through the Inquisition, ones that you’re growing every day. Who knows when the Chargers will come in handy? You’re willing to bet the Iron Bull would offer you a steep discount on something as easy as accompanying you into some particularly dangerous ruins. You even have some in mind. Plus, if you stick around, you could use Celia and the farm elves to dig fingers deep into the Inquisition, fingers you could keep even after you leave later. Then there’s mages like Solas and Dorian and all the resources they offer.

Frankly, Solas is his own category. The thought of leaving him without saying a word, without a whisper of explanation… hurts. More than it should. But it’s an old, dull hurt, one you know you could live with. But should you? He’s dangerous, but you’re learning so much. And Dorian might be exiled—if he’s not now you’ve no doubt he will be once word of what he’s getting up to spreads—but he’s still a Tevinter altus with all the learning and skill that implies. Your mind practically writhes with the things the two of you could get up to, undercover in Tevinter.

And there’s Cole. You’d be loathe to leave him behind, when the state of him being in this world makes him so uniquely safe to befriend. When are you ever going to have a chance to be friends with a spirit like him? He’s as one-of-a-kind as you or Solas. Utterly priceless. He’ll stay with the Inquisition until this task is done, but once it’s over, perhaps you could convince him that coming with you is the best way to help hurts. Maker above, the things you could do in Orlais with him by your side.

Somewhere through your list of pros, your cons had been utterly trounced. You’re staying. You’re seeing this idiotic mission through. You’ll do your job well and impress your friends and at the end of the day, you’re going to be the one who climbs out of this hibernaculum intact and ready to take on spring.

Your first thought was to tell your master.

Years later, you would understand that to the world at large, that would seem absolutely, completely insane. But you’d been his for years at that point; you hated him, but so did everyone he owned. That’s probably the natural state for any chattel under the sun. You believe with all your heart that if chickens and cows can hate, they do so fiercely and without reservation. But they obey, because when you’re owned, that’s just what you do.

Even now, ‘safely’ back in his possession, that thought rings in the back of your mind. You’re so scared of your new magic. Terrified beyond belief. It’s nothing like the magic you’ve seen in Tevinter. It’s sick, twisted fire that rages inside of you. But louder than the voice that’s been trained into your mind, louder than the voice of terror, is a voice like your mother’s. Don’t tell anyone. Keep the truth close to your chest. A secret, a secret. Between the two of you, there were none, but between the two of you and the world, everything was. And now that she’s gone…

A good instinct to have so deeply instilled. If you’d told anyone, you might have found yourself bound and broken as surely as the Saarebas. You already were, in some ways, but those beasts were mindless. You don’t want to be like that. Your mind is all you have; all you are. Being clever makes you valuable, but dangerous; so say your masters. Magic would make you more of both.

So you teach yourself. You try to remember things you’ve seen before, things you’ve overheard. You learn to control the raging fire, to make it glimmer and dance. In secret, hidden corners, you practice, twisting its shape, making it bow to your will. And when you sleep, spirits come to you. You aren’t afraid of them, just cautious as you are with any stranger. As your mother taught you.

They have questions, about the world you live in, about the things you’ve seen and experienced. You wield your words, then tell them you can show them better if they teach you how to use your magic, how to shape the Fade. You can’t do it the way they can, not while you’re asleep, but you learn much. And when you wake, you find you can feel the Fade, still there. Locked behind a shimmering, ephemeral curtain. The Veil, that must be the Veil you’ve heard mages speak of. Not a place, nor a thing, but a constant hum of energy. When you reach for it, you can feel it. Touch it. Grab it, twist it.

Accidentally hurtle yourself through it.

The first time you do it, your body ricocheting through space from one room directly into another, you realize there’s a very good reason you’d kept this a secret. Dangerous and valuable… yes. You are. You can use this. If you are very clever and very patient. Like your mother taught you.

You train and practice slowly, for a long time. You do your job and play with your master and keep your head down. You spend all of your time thinking. Your master loved that far-off, serious expression that you wear so often. “The eyes of a grown woman on the face of a child,” he calls it. He sees much of it as time passes; your mind is always racing.

Three months after your magic exploded out of you, you use it to slip out of the encampment for the first time. You borrow a friend’s clothes, hide your fiery red hair and pretend to be a boy. Light-skinned, for a native, but one ragged boy amongst dozens doesn’t stand out, even a pale one. You explore. You listen. You collect more secrets. You learn how to go for days without sleep, to ration your time. You learn how to travel further, chaining one jump after another after another.

And one night, when you jump too far, you’ve already learned how not to be scared of strangers. Their skin is as pale as yours, paler still, painted white to blend in with the fog. One of them recognizes you when he snatches off your hat, sending your fire-red hair cascading down. Wide-eyed little slave, spared by them only to be snatched up by someone else.

You’re valuable and dangerous, you tell them. And if they want to be friends, you can be valuable to them and dangerous to someone else.

When you wake up, the humidity of Seheron still clings to your skin. For a good minute, you’re still there, wondering how you came to fall asleep in a Fog Warrior encampment. But then your mind and body come back to you, and you remember where and who you are.

It’s still raining outside, and for once, you refuse to rise. You stay curled up in your bedroll, letting someone else deal with breakfast, letting Solas stretch alone. No one can condemn you for one lazy morning, surely. And unlike the mages, you can’t summon a magic fucking umbrella to keep you dry. If you’re going to get soaked sooner or later, you’d much prefer it be later.

Still, you rise in time to fetch the saddles and bags down from the trees—much easier than getting them up there in the first place—and prep the mounts for the day to come. You keep the Seeker’s cloak since she doesn’t seem in a hurry to ask for it back, and with the hood pulled up, it helps keep you drier than you managed yesterday.

The sour note you and Sera ended on yesterday looms overhead, thanks in part to the fact that neither she nor Solas are in the ahead party today. Of course, Solas not being in the ahead party shouldn’t matter, but you have absolutely no doubt that it does. You can only hazard a guess as to what actually pissed her off yesterday, but you wouldn’t be surprised if the fact it was Solas in particular had something to do with it.

This actually creates an extra layer of irritation for you, because it seems like just by existing, you’re always damaging that man’s reputation and relations. Sure, they weren’t exactly great when you got here, but you’d been hoping to fix that. Solas is a good person who’s fun to be around and has a lot to offer a friend. You want more people to see that. You’re wise enough to see that hoping for friendship between him and Sera is a lost cause, but you wish you could at least get them to stop actively aggravating each other. Instead, by the force of her glares, you’ve only made things worse. Again.

For once, your surroundings provide a bit of a much-needed distraction. It stops raining after a few hours on the road, and the forest ends rather abruptly, giving away to a scrubby sort of plain you’ve never really seen before. The grass is short and clumpy and almost spiky in nature, the dirt underneath it turning more loose and dusty as you travel. It’s completely unlike the plains you’re used to, the Dales with their long tall grass and unbroken skyline. But it’s also not at all what you were expecting in terms of a transition into desert. Up north, towards the Anderfels, it gets rocky before getting deserty, not all… weird like this. The grass is full of burs and some of the blades are actually somewhat sharp.

It’s also getting noticeably less humid as you travel, but after all that rain, it’s a very welcome change. You shed the Seeker’s cloak fairly quickly, but since she’s in the ahead group, it simply rests across Revas’s back until you have a chance to return it to her.

By the time lunch rolls around and it’s time to stop, the ground is dusty and sandy but still held together with an excess of strange, scrubby grass and bushes. You’d like to have a bit more time to explore this environment instead of rushing through, but you suppose that’s life. You’re not sure how long it will be like this before you hit desert properly, but that will be just as alien to you. You’re planning on treating it like an extended beach, probably.

Unfortunately, you can’t even take your lunch break to explore your surroundings. The horses are taken care of in relatively short order, although you’re fairly certain you could keep brushing them for hours and they’d still have sand in their pelts. The harts manes are basically like a trap for the stuff. But even after you care for the mounts, there’s something else, something much more important and much more unpleasant, that you have to deal with.

Sera.

She’s sulking. Sometimes it feels like she’s been sulking for most of this trip. You’ve certainly given her a mood whiplash over the last few weeks… but this time is unique inasmuch as you have no fucking idea what went wrong. You kind of thought that she’d maybe figured out the whole “actually I can’t” thing, and the conclusion she’d come to is that she still wanted to fuck you anyway. Which could have worked! But then she went and got pissy anyway, for unclear reasons!

You try not to go into it with that attitude, though, because you’re pretty sure it’s unproductive.

“Do you want to talk?” you ask, instead of all the myriad more pressing questions you have. She looks more surprised that you’re talking to her than annoyed, which might be a good sign. For something.

“…I guess,” she says. Grumpy, but it almost sounds forced. Another good sign, maybe. If she’s realized she was kind of a bitch, it’ll make your job a lot easier. You lead her away from camp a bit, although there’s not much to do to get out of sight. There’s a few trees, but they’re few and scattered and not particularly healthy looking. In a way, though, that lets you get further away without breaking line of sight and worrying your fussy companions.

“I’d apologize, but I’m genuinely not sure what part you’re mad about,” you start, because otherwise you’re just going to beat around the bush until you’re exhausted. And not even the fun way you and Sera have been getting up to lately.

“Do you seriously not know?” she asks, slightly incredulous but at least not yelling.

“I seriously don’t. I could hazard a guess, but I feel like that would probably just piss you off more.” You wiggle your hand in the air uncertainly. “So…”

“Look, I dunno how it is with you, and maybe I shoulda asked sooner, given your whole…” She gestures vaguely at… all of you. “Thing. But like, I’m a one-woman girl, ya know? I get tha’ relationships are complicated for you or wha’ever, but I gotta at least be the only one.”

You blink slowly. “…The prostitutes…?”

“We were jus’ foolin’ aroun’! It’s not like we were runnin’ off to fuck ’em.”

Okay, so, asking her definition of fuck isn’t a good idea right now. “So what are you mad about?”

“Solas, obviously!“

“…Sera, you do know there’s nothing going on between me and Solas, right?” you ask, your expression probably one of perfect bewilderment. “He’s like… Cole, I’m pretty sure.”

“You jus’ think that ’cause yer real bad at knowing when people wanna fuck ya,” Sera points out, but you shake your head.

“No, seriously. There’s nothing like that going on. Why does everyone always think I’m fucking someone?” you pull a frustrated hand over your hair. “Seriously, it’s been like this since I got to Skyhold! It feels like I can’t even look at a man without you and half the damn castle thinking we’re having sex! We’re not having sex! I never intended to have sex with anyone, I never had sex with anyone, until you came along, and that was—”

“Wot, really?”

“Don’t tell me you believed any of those rumors!” you snap. “Why would anyone? You know me! Think about how difficult this whole thing has been for you, and then think about everyone else we know! Who’d fucking bother?!”

“You were getting massaged while sittin’ between someone’s legs! Watchin’ the sunset! Of course there are rumors, that shit looks a certain way! If Dorian weren’t gay as the day is long, even I’d be wonderin’ about that. An’ you mention Cole, but if he wasn’t a spirit-thing, I’d really be wonderin’, ’cause you wander around holdin’ his hand but you held mine like once for a minute, and yer real weird about me goin’ down on you an’ y’always say shit’s complicated but never explain an—”

“Alright, I get it!” you exclaim, throwing up a hand to stop her breathless rant. Your thoughts on whether or not you should be required to relegate all forms of physical companionship to someone with whom you’re having sex aside… You have to admit you suppose she has a point. If only that people are going to make really stupid assumptions based on completely arbitrary-seeming rules that you’re not sure you have any hope of ever fully grasping.

“…Yer sure it’s not a sex thing?”

“For the love of the Maker, no,” you say, exasperated. “Me initiating some form of physical contact with other people is not a sex thing, I just—”

“Not that!” Sera interrupts before you can go on another misunderstanding-based tear. “The ‘complications.'”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, y’know, y’got some scars, yer always deflectin’ when I wanna go down on you, I’m pretty sure y’faked finishing at least once—”

You flush red. She’d noticed? Maker, you’re more out of practice than you thought. Or maybe it’s just because you’d never had to fool a woman before, someone who actually knows what a climax looks like.

“I’m not sayin’ that’s bad!” she continues on. “I just… y’can tell me.” She rubs the back of her neck. “Think about what I do. S’not like I don’t know what happens to elf girls workin’ in Orlais.”

“It’s not—I mean, that’s not the issue.”

“Not the issue, but—”

“Don’t make it a big deal,” you say with a sigh. “That was ages ago. It’s not that.”

“What is it, then?”

“I can’t do… this.” You gesture between the two of you. “What I think you want it to be.”

“What I want it to be?” she asks with a snort. “I don’ even know what it is!”

You chuckle a bit sadly. “Yeah, me neither.”

The two of you just look helplessly at each other, and at the mess you’ve created. All good intentions and all following your heart and all that other garbage that works out in the stories, and here you two idiots are sitting in a tangled disaster.

“Well… Can we still make out behin’ that tree?”

You almost choke, despite having nothing in your mouth. You clear your throat, cough a bit, and then stare at her. “Are you insane?”

“Well, it’s not a sex complication, right, an’ I’m apparently the only one y’like enough to bone. It’d be kinda dumb for us to just throw it off a cliff at the first sign o’ trouble.” What an inspired argument.

You rub a hand over your face. “Sera, this is like the eight hundredth sign of trouble. We have been literally nothing but signs of trouble this entire time. Forget signs entirely, in fact. We’re just concentrated trouble.“

“…Okay, yeah, but consider: we could be makin’ out behind that tree, right now, and leavin’ complications off til later.”

You level her with an even glare.

She’s not wrong.

“Why do you keep doing this?”

“Cause I don’t think it’s as complicated as yer makin’ it. Especially if I’m th’ only one y’like.”

“It is, though.”

“But not in a way that keeps us from makin’ out behind a tree?”

“…Not technically.“

“Well, there y’go then, can’t be that important.”

It’s about who you are.

But you want her to be right. You want it to not be that important.

And honestly, when you’ve got her up against the bark of that tree, working splinters into her clothes, you can almost chase away the ghost of Solas’s voice telling you just how important it is.

The fact that you’re hiding behind a tree that only offers so much coverage, and that it’s lunch time, keeps things from getting too heated. You’re still unfortunately sandy by the time you pull yourself off of Sera. It’s going to be even worse, you suspect, once you’re in an actual desert. You’re expecting beach levels of “you and your belongings are never not sandy.” You’re not at all looking forward to it. Perhaps you should double bag all your books tonight, in an attempt to keep them free of the never-ending scourge of sand.

“We still got some time t’kill,” Sera says, sounding surprised. “Y’must’ve gotten through the horses real fast.”

“That’s because I didn’t seem to be making any progress getting sand out. There was always more,” you say with a sigh. “I’m completely uncertain of how much I’m supposed to be brushing them at this stage.”

“Sand won’t kill ’em,” Sera points out. “Just brush ’em off a bit, make sure nothin’s gettin’ caked, you know.”

“I don’t know. If I did know, this trip would have been a lot less stressful.” You glance sideways at her. “Slightly less stressful.”

That she only shoves lightly at your shoulder is a good example of how much happier she is, generally, after she’s been kissed stupid a bit. You’re not sure this is a sustainable method of Sera wrangling, but the temptation to just keep kissing the idiot out of her and kiss a different kind of idiot right into its place… is very strong.

“Yer the one who insisted we had t’bring deer with tons o’ fuckin’ fur into the desert. If it takes ya six years to brush ’em out, it’s yer own fault.”

“Don’t remind me,” you say sourly. Not that Revas would have let you out of Skyhold without him, probably. “I’m terrified of what this is doing to their manes.”

“Y’should just learn how t’ride a horse! Honestly, it can’t be any different—”

“They have completely different gaits,” you point out sourly.

“Try it on Daine!” she insists. “You’ll see, it’s easy.”

“I already tried once.” Briefly. “It felt weird.”

“Y’really hate havin’ unfamiliar stuff between yer legs, huh.”

This time it’s your turn to shove her. She laughs good-naturedly.

“C’mon, I’ll help. I been ridin’ horses since I was tummy high. An’ Daine’s th’ easiest horse in the whole fuckin’ world. She’s who ya’d learn on anyway.”

“Fine, fine,” you say with a sigh. You do kind of want to learn to ride a horse. It just keeps coming up, and it does seem like a good skill to have. It only took you a month or so to learn how to ride a hart, although you’re still questionable at that in some ways. You should at least start. Besides, Sera has a history of getting a bit jealous that everyone else gets to teach you something. You might as well let her have this; maybe she’ll be less pissy about Solas.

Although you’re beginning to suspect that it’s not within your power to make her less pissy about Solas, as a general concept.

Daine is already saddled up for riding, since Blackwall was riding Major this morning, so it’s easy for you to just climb on… well, in theory. In practice, it’s a chore. Half the time, the harts are laying down for a nap when it’s time for you to mount up, anyway. It’s pretty easy to get on a mount when it just stands up underneath you. Daine is tall and broad and utterly unwilling to squat.

Fortunately, she’s also patient, so she doesn’t appear to mind your undignified scramble up into the saddle. Sera adjusts the stirrups for you, thank the Maker. You hadn’t even bothered the other day, but it does feel a bit more secure this way. You feel a bit less like you might tip off the side when she’s just walking, but it’s still unsettling how she seems to almost… sway from side to side. It’s pronounced, and you’re certain that if you watched her walk next to Revas, you’d be able to pick out some kind of important, key difference.

You’re fine while walking, really. It’s uncomfortable, but you’re hardly going to come flying off.

Then she starts trotting, and you more or less come flying off.

Whereas the harts’ trot feels bouncy, but kind of like someone skipping through a field of flowers… Daine’s trot feels like being violently shaken up and down. You think even Bull would be a smoother ride than that, not that you’re going to comment so out loud. You all but throw yourself off of her when you realize you’re bouncing clean off her back, not wanting to get trampled, and as soon as you hit the ground you hear an angry honk. You don’t even need to get up to know who that is.

Sure enough, in a matter of seconds, your vision is overshadowed by fur, legs, and horns. Revas stands possessively over you, snorting angrily.

“I’m fine, Revas,” you say blandly, sitting up, but he still angrily digs his hoof into the sand, kicking up loose, spiky grass.

Looking up at him, pointlessly and senselessly possessive and jealous over such a stupid thing as you riding a horse, threatening absolutely out-of-proportion violence for the transgression, your struck with the dull realization that Sera is kind of just like him. Possessive when you gave them no permission to be, jealous over things you don’t understand and feel random and dumb to you. Angry and a bit violent when they get that way, too, and, as he butts his head against your chest when you stand, you have to add ‘absolutely willing to take it out on you.’

You glance between the two of them as Sera puts her hands on her hips and pouts at the hart. She’s saying something, something funny or something insipid, but you don’t really register it. Looking between the two of them is making you realize something about Sera’s character… and something more about her maturity level. Of course, she’s quite younger than you, enough that she doesn’t even remember who you are. You’d lied about your identity on a whim, never predicting the two of you would be anything other than casual acquaintances, so she may not realize just how much older you are.

You remember yourself at her age, which feels so very long ago. You weren’t like her in many ways, but you remember your general maturity, your ability—or, more poignantly, lack thereof—to handle things with grace.

You’re fucked, in both the good and the bad ways it’s possible to be fucked. And honestly, you still only have yourself to blame.

There’s not really a natural place, to your eye, to set camp for the night. After a day riding through seemingly identical rough, dusty terrain, you have frankly very little idea of how it is the Inquisitor knows where in the Maker’s name you’re going. You have a general concept of where you are; you could pick out the region on a map. But past “go west,” you have no idea how he’s figuring out the direction you need to be heading. It’s too bare out here. What is he using to guide by? The sun? Rocks?

The place that he selects to set up camp is equally nonsensical to you, but there are at least some rocks you can tie up the horses to. Now you finally understand why they’d laden the horses down with so much food in the last town. From here on out, they won’t necessarily be able to graze.

You’ve no more than decided you have to give up on brushing them—sand is infinite and you already hate it—before the Inquisitor has once again swept you off to practice swordplay. The sand, even held together with rough clumps of grass, provides its own difficulties. Especially given some of the grass is sharp. It’s far more difficult, in fact, than the mud had been. You know mud. Sand is unfamiliar. You can remember the last few times you were on a beach, but they were long ago and you certainly hadn’t been swordfighting. It’s loose, but you don’t sink into it like mud. It’s not slippery, it’s just… like trying to fight when someone’s scattered tiny beads. You have your fair share of stumbles, which is nervewracking when you’re holding a sword. You somehow manage to keep from impaling yourself, which feels like its own victory.

The Inquisitor’s absolute surefootedness is more than a little infuriating, though. You’d feel better if he fell over at least once. But you suppose that would be bad, since he’s one of the people you’re depending on to be better at this than you.

You’re just about tired and frustrated enough to consider trying to stab him for real when your salvation appears in the form of a Tevinter altus. The fact that it keeps happening doesn’t make it any less bizarre, all things considered.

“If you two are about finished with your fencing—” he begins.

The Inquisitor rolls his eyes. “It’s not fencing, Dorian. You know that. I know you know that.”

“Whatever you want to call it,” Dorian says with a careless wave of his hand, as if brushing the topic away. “I know you Fereldans prefer exhausting your partners completely, but Orlesians are quite delicate.”

The Inquisitor snorts. “Are we talking about the same woman?”

“I am extremely delicate,” you object. “No one here is more delicate than I.”

“Have you met Dorian?” the Inquisitor counters.

“I’ll have you know I have excellent upper body strength,” Dorian protests.

“And lower body strength,” you quip, quietly and mostly to yourself, although Dorian catches both it and your meaning and gives you a pointed look.

“Are you volunteering to take her place?” the Inquisitor asks, grinning.

“Under normal circumstances, Inquisitor, I would love to fence with you—”

“It’s not fencing!”

“Sword wrestle,” Dorian suggests.

“Definitely not called that. Nothing is called that.”

“I can think of a few things that could be called that,” you interject. You’ve let your sword drop towards the ground. You’re very ready to be done swinging the damn thing around. You roll your shoulders and wince as they catch.

“See?” Dorian points out, gesturing at you. “You’ve injured her.”

“I have not!” the Inquisitor protests, but Dorian is already approaching. Without so much as asking first, he grips your shoulders and digs his thumbs in just so. Your surprised noise is interrupted by a satisfied groan. Why is everyone you know so good at massages? Your eyes half close as Dorian works his fingers into tight muscles, too startled by how good it feels to even protest. Even Sera can’t object to this one.

“Look how tense she is,” Dorian says, sounding like he’s pouting. “You’re never going to win a woman to your side if you’re so rough with them, Inquisitor.”

“I have several women on my side,” he says, definitely pouting.

“I’m siding with the man currently giving me a neck massage,” you offer up as a tie-breaker.

The Inquisitor throws up his hands in mock-defeat. “I can tell when I’ve been bested.”

“Good man. If you’re finished thrusting for the evening, I believe Sera is roasting a few potatoes in the coals.”

The three of you migrate over to the fire, oddly necessary despite the fact you’re so close to the desert. You blame the clear, cloudless sky for letting the heat of the day escape so easily. As you settle in, however, you sit directly in front of Dorian, half pointedly and half hopefully. He snorts with amusement, but puts his hands back on your shoulders, digging thumbs in near your spine. There’s no magic, like there is with Solas, but frankly that’s almost a relief in and of itself.

“You are not my normal target for these things,” Dorian says, sounding amused.

“I’ll work on growing a dick if you’ll just refrain from stopping,” you reply, leaning back into the relief and pain in your tight muscles.

“Honestly, if you keep making those noises, someone’s going to ask you two to get a tent again,” the Inquisitor quips.

“Would these noises be any less alarming when coming from a closed tent?” Dorian asks, and you can practically see the suggestively raised eyebrow despite the fact you’re facing the other direction.

“Good point,” the Inquisitor agrees.

“Stop making fun of my noises, both of you,” you insist. “I’d like to see any of you fair any better, and you’re all used to this sort of thing.”

“Used to having massages?” the Inquisitor asks, seeming alarmed.

“Used to heavy labor. Not that I’m calling into question what you all choose to do in your spare time. None would be more understanding than I if you all formed a massage chain around the fire, now that I know the pace at which you travel and the weight of the swords you swing around.” You wince as Dorian straightens out your back, pulling your shoulders backward and pressing what feels very much like a knee into your spine. You suspect your back would snap if he pulled you backwards more sharply, but the satisfaction would almost be worth it.

“And you’re not even wearing armor,” the Inquisitor points out, and you nod.

“Exactly. If I was, I’d probably die.”

“Are you agreeing with her, Inquisitor?” Dorian asks, sounding deeply amused. “Might you need a massage as well?”

“Very funny, Dorian.”

“Who’s joking? I would hate to have you injured in battle if it could have been avoided with a little preventative care.”

Your desire to continue being stretched is vastly and immediately overcome by your desire to put the Inquisitor in a compromised position.

“He’s right, you know,” you supply. “I work my hands every day, and I always make sure to stretch them regularly to avoid cramps. My friends and I used to get hand massages with some regularity back in Val Royeaux, and my job is one in which no one’s life is on the line.”

“Huh,” says the Inquisitor. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. Well, I suppose there’s no harm in trying…”

“Excellent!” Dorian says, and you hope he’s not grinning as much as it sounds like he is. “Let’s begin at once. Do take off your armor padding, Inquisitor.”

“So is this like a pre-training stretch or hhhnnnngh,” he says, and you choke back laughter at the look on his face as Dorian most likely goes right in for the gold. “What in the—”

“Please, try to relax, Inquisitor,” Dorian says cheerfully. “It will make this much more comfortable for you.”

“He’s right,” you say, rolling over onto your stomach and snatching a potato that had been cooling on a nearby rock. “I have plenty of experience and trust me. It hurts way less if you relax.”

You dream of red eyes in the darkness.

It’s at once familiar, a nightmare you’ve had a thousand times. If it could even be called a nightmare; in a proper nightmare, you would run from it, force yourself awake the second you realized what was happening. Rain of blood, fog in the heat, an ever-present stench of cooking flesh. Those things? You run from. There’s no running from this particular nighttime visitor, and there is no point in trying.

After all, you chose this.

Those words, both your own and yet not your own, echo in your head like a mantra. And the effect it has on you, awake or asleep, is reflective of the familiarity. One sense of rebellion rages in a straight line like a controlled fire; the other dies completely, suffocated out with no air.

You hear his voice the same way you feel his presence. Inside your mind and outside, all around. And then behind you, familiar and known even if you don’t turn to see.

You chose this, Gingersnap, so don’t you dare fuss. Not a word.

A large hand ruffles your hair, disturbing your braid. You don’t have to turn to see, you don’t need to look up, but you do. The sight of Banal’ras is a familiar one, as if you’d seen him the night before. Your memory is a steel trap. Even things you might wish faded with time are crystallized. Ancient bugs trapped in the amber of your mind for all of time.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Ashkaari Bisette. I’m a dancer from Rivain. I speak Orlesian, Rivaini, and a small bit of Qunlat. I am eighteen years old. My mother lived in a Qunari outpost in Rivain, but I disliked the Qun and fled when I was twelve. I was trained as an entertainer by my mistress, Lady Chandra Deshpande, a wealthy woman who took pity on me. I used to travel with Carnevale di Mistero, but left due to personal disagreements on the nature of my job. This is a fancy term for not wanting to be prostituted, and all I have to say on the matter to anyone who asks. When pressed, I will display signs of mild trauma and say nothing more. I now dance for entertainment across Orlais—primarily in Val Royeaux and Halamshiral—with the help of my manager, Ser Ferrault.”

It fits like a second skin. You think you have been training to become this your whole life. Dirth’len grew up but never changed.

“Not a sound. If you can’t control your face, at least control your voice. You have to be able to handle at least this. No, control your breath. Focus on it, not the pain.” A heavy sigh, a temporary relief. “Gingersnap. You need to be able to tolerate at least this much. Your fear of pain is your biggest weakness, and someone will take advantage of it.” A thumb wipes tears off your face—an uncontrollable reaction that you cannot wait to be able to control. “This is part of what you have to learn.”

He’s right. You chose this. You chased him. You don’t have any right at all to complain about anything that comes from it; you were told at the outset. You chose it anyway. And you’re happy with it, no matter what your occasional temper tantrums might suggest. If it hurts, if it’s unpleasant, it’s only because you’re cauterizing the hole from when your heart was ripped from your chest.

This might be a painful procedure, but it’s for your own good. You wanted this. Banal’ras gave you a purpose, one you’ve been wanting your whole life.

More than just running, more than just a wildfire burning out of control, turning everything to ash and ruin. You can’t stop burning; you ignited in Seheron and you have been on fire ever since.

If you throw the first blow, cripple them with it. No one will catch you when you fall. Speak only lies, until you can tell them in your sleep, until they pass from your lips like sworn truth. Work eight times as hard for a quarter of what they have. Never, ever let them see you hurting.

That’s what Banal’ras represents, what he gives you. A purpose for your agony. Your soul cracks and twists from flame, blackens to coal, but it refuses to kill you. And if you can’t die, you can burn to ash the world that dared to light you ablaze.

“No, focus. You seek to control your power, but it is a part of you, like an arm. See it as such, and control becomes not domination, but casual mastery. You do not seek to control your arm, it merely does as you wish.”

You are terrified that if you lose your grip, this beautiful wagon will go up in flames. Control of light without heat is difficult for you. How are you meant to let go and relax?

“See? An aura is a fluid thing. It flows through and around you, rising and falling like the ocean. Wait for a wave, ride it, reach through the Veil, and—”

The blade bursts into flame in your hand, but it stays narrow, focused. The metal does not melt. You are delighted.

“Spirits are as natural a part of the world as rain. Open yourself up to the Fade. Keep your mind clear and free of judgment, and you will be able to see the truth.”

You giggle as wisps dance around you, ever curious. Perhaps what they glean from you today will send them down the path to becoming spirits of one kind or another. You give one a little kiss, smiling and laughing as you imagine it growing into a spirit of curiosity, eternally probing the world around it for more knowledge. As you walk through the world, sometimes you can feel them following you in the Fade, peering down to watch. Always there to help if you just reach up and through.

It becomes a background sensation that you no longer even consider, but when you wake up in a high-up tree branch, for a moment, you feel them flickering around you in the Fade, and smile. You reach through the veil, ever so briefly, brushing against them with the soul of you. They recognize you as friend, swarm to your side. Then your aura is back inside of you, and you’re making your way down the tree to see about making breakfast.

Solas and Cole were on last watch, which is what enabled your nap in the first place, although you never would have had the courage if you hadn’t been nestled out in the woods where he would be unlikely to even look, let alone locate you up a tree. He wanders over as you begin to set up the pot for breakfast. You’ve no doubt he noticed you wandering in from the woods, but fortunately doesn’t ask about it.

“I saw some deathroot around the roots of some trees in the forest,” you say finally, to break the silence.

“Arcanist?”

“I think so. I didn’t get too close.”

“Were any of them flowering?”

“A few. If you have a safe place we can store them, I could show you where I saw them once Blackwall is awake to take over the porridge.” You stifle a bit of a yawn, not wanting to give him the impression you hadn’t slept when you actually had. “There’ll probably be more of them the further west we go. They like arid environments.”

“Madman’s deathroot is particularly common in the Approach,” Solas says with a nod. “Of course, there are alchemists in the fortress there whose job it is to venture into the desert to gather such reagents for the Inquisition.”

“If I’d realized that was an option,” you say sarcastically. “I wouldn’t have been so quick to settle into Skyhold.”

“Regretting introducing yourself as a linguist instead of an alchemist?”

“I picked the option I thought more likely to get me a safe job inside of some walls,” you say with a laugh. “I picked wrong.”

“Not necessarily. I believe our requisition officers wind up sent to the far corners of the globe, often alongside soldiers or even the Inquisitor’s personal strike team.”

“So basically exactly what I’m doing now?”

“More or less, yes.”

You let out a long sigh. “I guess that’s just Inquisition life for you.” It’s probably unseemly for you to complain so much about risking your life when that’s what most members of the Inquisition do, but it’s really the opposite of what you had in mind when you first fled to Skyhold. Still… you’re better off than most refugees. They might have been able to settle in the valleys under Skyhold during the summer, but with winter fast approaching, especially in the mountains… Well, you’d taken part in the relocation works several times, yourself. At least you have a home and a job. Even if it is a shitty, dangerous job, apparently.

“Those who most want peace for the world are least likely to see it themselves,” quips Solas, and you shoot him an odd look.

“Do I seem like a ‘world peace’ type?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“Perhaps I am mistaken,” Solas says with a shrug. “But when needs must, I believe your actions speak for themselves.”

After Blackwall is up for you to foist your breakfast efforts onto, you and Solas head to a corner of camp to stretch for the day ahead. As always, you struggle your way through poses that seem as though they shouldn’t be as hard as they are. Your upper arm strength leaves much to be desired… but while it might be in your head, you feel as though you might in fact be gaining some power there. While you curse and sweat and wobble your way through an armstand, you can see the muscles in your arms straining… muscles that you’re not particularly used to seeing.

Any good mood that might have put you in is quickly removed when you notice Sera glaring—and clearly trying hard not to glare—at the two of you. This time, however, instead of feeling guilt, you feel a surge of irritation. It’s true you’d wanted to alienate her, but the fact that this is what did it… What is her problem? You’ve put her through so much worse than this! It’s inexplicable, especially when compared to how quickly she’s been willing to forgive you for things that you think would be much bigger red flags than “is elfy.”

Maybe there’s more to it that you’re just not seeing. The thought of asking her about it fills you with a bitter taste, however. Why should you, when she’s the one being a jerk?

Unfortunately for you, Solas is in the advance team with Cassandra and the Inquisitor today, leaving you without much company for purposes of dodging Sera. You wind up sticking close to Dorian, hoping that Sera just sticks similarly close to Blackwall and you can have something resembling peace for the morning ride.

Within a few hours of travel, you’re well and truly off the Imperial Highway. The going is a bit slower and considerably rougher. There’s a path through the woods, right now, but it would be barely big enough to get a single wagon through, and the dirt is loose and torn up. You travel in two lines, one horse—or hart—following each rut of the path. At least this makes it easy for you to pair up with Dorian and Sera to pair up with Blackwall for, hopefully, the entire day.

The thickness of the trees and the relative narrowness of the path, however, has you jumpy. Especially after the comparative broadness of the Imperial Highway and the Dales. You were already ambushed once… how much easier would one be here? There could be demons or bandits or rogue soldiers behind any tree. After the third time you flinch at a snapping branch or a jumping squirrel, Dorian decides it’s time to comfort you. In the most Dorian way possible, of course.

“You really needn’t be so jumpy, Emma. Why, you have some of the best fighters and mages in all of Thedas to protect you!”

You can’t help but laugh a bit at his good-natured braggadocio. “Lucky for me, and unlucky for you that you have me along.”

“Ah, but what’s a squad of heroes without a damsel in distress to protect?” Dorian announces grandly, and you laugh again. You do so love being the damsel in distress.

And to be fair, he’s not wrong, either. Well, he’s wrong about the damsel part, but he’s not wrong about the strength of the team you’re with. Oh, sure, he’s exaggerating, but this is quite the squad. And while Sera would probably let you get stabbed to death right about now if your earlier roles vis-a-vis demon attacks were replaced, you’re fairly confident everyone else would have your back. Blackwall is a Warden, and you’ve more than seen that he can hold his own versus things other than Darkspawn. You might have less battle experience with Dorian, but he’s an Altus, and you’re confident that his magic and techniques will be deeply familiar to you. Cole, wherever he is, can be trusted not to lose sight of you on a battlefield where everyone else might in the chaos.

The advance team is safest of all; with the combined awareness of the Inquisitor, in Templar training and paired with his supernatural mark, a Seeker, and Solas. It’s unfortunate that this sort of team could kill you in an instant if they saw the need, but at the same time it makes you particularly safe for as long as they see you as an ally and an asset.

This isn’t the sort of trip you could ever make alone, but if there does turn out to be anything of value in those ruins, then it will have been the opportunity of a lifetime. Darkspawn infested areas in particular, you have always avoided. One can’t hire Wardens, and the number of mercenaries you need to even stand a chance otherwise has always been far beyond your coin purse. Your mind almost itches as the thought of all that otherwise out-of-reach knowledge. Hopefully you’ll actually be able to get it, and this isn’t some elaborate ruse to have you sit in a tent for a month.

Frankly you might abandon them out of sheer frustration if that’s the case.

Your lunch break comes when the ahead team finds a small clearing in the forest, large enough for what you still think is an unreasonable number of horses. The fact you think that is probably due to how much time it takes you to care for all over them. Compared to when you were on the Highway, you have a nightmare of a time cleaning all their hooves and brushing burrs out of their manes and tails. The others might not think it necessary, but if you do it now, it’s less work for you in the evening. Plus you really don’t want to risk the horses being in discomfort on such a long journey.

The harts aren’t nearly so difficult. Their split hooves are much more suited for forest travel. Of course that advantage is going to go out the window once you reach sand, but you can’t exactly trade-off for camels halfway through. Alas, the Inquisition’s hand hold into the desert happens to be on the other fucking side of it.

You finish caring for all the mounts about three minutes before it’s time to pick up and leave again, but you manage to cram some bread and jerky into your mouth and chew it on the way, like a ruminating cow. It’ll get you through the day, at least.

This close to a desert, you feel, it should not be raining.

But it is. In the early afternoon, the clouds rolled in and the sky split open with slow, rumbling growls of thunder. This does not noticeably help your mood or you general jumpiness, because the air is thick and muggy despite the time of year. Water clings oppressively to your skin, and every breath feels like inhaling fog.

Only the fact that there isn’t any actual fog, just the limited sight of a heavy rain, keeps you from complete panic. The way you’re shaking on Vhas’durghen’s back is hopefully hidden by the rain at large. You keep your mouth shut and your teeth clenched, despite how it jars your jaw every time Vhas’durghen’s hooves hit the ground. You can’t help but remember your stupid little breakdown at the war table in Skyhold. You refuse to show any more genuine weakness in front of these people. That they know so much about you already—your ‘night terrors’ for instance—is humiliating enough.

People thinking of you as weak is convenient, but people knowing actual weaknesses is inexcusable. Few people can take advantage of nightmares, and many people suffer from them, but eventually, someone is going to have enough of your fears to piece something of your past together. Let alone enough to put you in a disadvantageous situation should their need arise.

Your state of mind is probably why it takes you so long to notice that Dorian, who’s riding next to you, does not look nearly so water-logged as you. You squint for a moment, and notice something you’ve seen before. Water streaming off an invisible surface above him, pouring off the sides. Almost impossible to notice at this speed; if you hadn’t known what to look for, you doubt you would have noticed at all.

Good to know that everyone except for you apparently learned the “umbrella” spell when they were children. Not that you could cast it here, in any case, but you can think of a number of situations where it would have come in extremely handy. You sulk to yourself about it, wondering if you’ll ever have the chance to fool around with your magic enough to figure it out. At this rate, you suspect you’re going to die with your aura clenched in your gut.

It’s still raining when you stop for the night, because of course it is. Of course you’d get completely drenched a few days before hitting a literal desert. The rain hits you in huge drops when you’re under a tree, water collecting on leaves until it falls down in rushes. It’s not particularly pleasant, and you’re out a jacket, so you’re utterly soaked. You probably look like a drowned rat; you certainly feel like one.

You leave the others to figure out how to erect tents in the pouring rain and focus in on the mounts again. They’ll certainly need some extra care with all this muck around, and while the tack and saddlebags are all waterproofed, you don’t want to leave them in the mud overnight. After a few minutes of hemming and hawing over it, you eventually just wind up climbing trees on the edge of the clearing, hoisting up saddles and saddlebags on your back. You hang them up in the trees on branches sturdy enough to hold their weight, using their own straps to ensure they don’t fall.

You’ve gotten about a third of the way through when the Inquisitor wanders over, probably to figure out why a saddle is climbing its way up a tree. It must look strange, but strapping them around your back is the best way to get them up.

“That’s quite clever for someone who’s never done this before,” he calls up to you, and you have no idea whether he’s praising you or being suspicious. Probably the latter, given your luck.

“It just seemed logical,” you shout down over the sound of rain pattering against leaves and ground. “I don’t want to waste more time washing mud off of these in the morning, or risk flooding our supplies.”

“Here, let me help,” the Inquisitor suggests. “I think I can lift some of these up over my head far enough that you won’t have to keep scrambling up and down.”

You consider. The Inquisitor is fairly tall, and your arm and core strength is getting to the point where you can probably reach down pretty far while hooked around a branch.

“Alright,” you agree. “Let’s see if we can get these horses unloaded; Maker knows I still have to brush them down and clean their hooves.”

The Inquisitor’s plan works remarkably well. He can easily lift saddles over his head, offering them up at the zenith of his reach, arms straight up. For your part, not only can you reach down and grab them, you even manage some amusing tricks. Around the time you’re dangling down from a branch with your knees locked around it, grabbing a saddle with both hands, and pulling it and yourself back up, you realize that you’re definitely getting stronger. It’s not just in your mind. It’s a good feeling, and the two of you manage to breeze through getting the saddles and supplies up into some trees for the night. Getting them down should be a lot easier.

You drop down out of the trees, and the Inquisitor surprises you yet again by sticking around to help out with the horses. When you comment on this, he shrugs.

“No one else needs me right now.” He gestures over to where Blackwall and Sera are working at a campfire protected by a hastily put together cover of leather and fallen branches. Meanwhile, the Seeker, Dorian, and Solas are setting up the tents in a remarkably complicated manner that you don’t particularly understand.

Well, far be it from you to turn away a helping hand, even if one of them has an otherworldy mark that can close tears in the veil. Which you’ve still yet to see, but you’re kind of fine with that, frankly. The circumstances in which he needs to use it are not circumstances you ever want to be a part of. One close run in with demons was more than enough.

He starts with caring for Jarek and Snowblind, which is frankly completely fine with you, since Snowblind is one of the biggest pains in your ass. You still have to wrangle Zephyr, but she’s small, so you’ll take her over Snowblind any day. You’re not surprised, but you are slightly annoyed, to see how much better both of them behave with the Inquisitor, who talks to Jarek in the kind of voice one might expect to come out of a Ferelden talking to their dog.

“I heard that Jarek was your horse from home?” you ask, wondering if you can needle more information out from the Inquisitor. He’s not quite a closed book, but even during sword practice, he tends to focus more on the moment. You still barely have a grasp for what kind of man he is, stuck with a dozen incongruous pieces that don’t even seem like they’re from the same puzzle.

“Yes, he is. Elaine brought him from home when she came.”

“Elaine?” you ask, frowning. Surely not the same Elaine you know?

“You know her? Oh, that’s right, she was on that Val Royeaux job. Yes, she used to be one of my family’s knights… Still is, I suppose, but she was sent out here with a handful of others after the Inquisition allied with the Templars and got a bit more of a name for itself.”

“Is that why her technique is similar to yours? Or at least, I presume it is…” She used a sword and shield, but past that you wouldn’t have noticed if she used a completely different technique.

“Mmm, yes, I suppose it would be. We still spar together when time allows,” he says, nodding as he brushes through Jarek’s mane. “She won her way in through the Grand Tourney when she was…” He sucks in a breath, tilting his head this way and that as he tries to remember a year. “I guess thirteen or so?”

“That young?” you ask, genuinely surprised.

“That young! She was the youngest to be made a knight in my family’s history, if I recall correctly. Frankly, there should have been more competition for her amongst the noble houses but… well…” He sighs. “I guess I’ve learned nothing if not that people will do stupid things because if their own personal biases.”

Right, which was so completely unlike him. You don’t point that out, though, because you’re not an idiot. “Because of her age?” you ask instead.

The Inquisitor pauses, then nods. “I suppose so, yes. My parents didn’t see any further than her skill, though. She’s two years younger than me, did you know, but she still acts like my older sister.” He laughs. “At thirteen she already had more talent than me at the blade and a better hand with the horses.”

“Impressive,” you say, thinking back to how you were at that age. Your talents didn’t lie in the blade, but if they had, you could easily see yourself doing something similar. Hadn’t you used your ill-gotten skills to weasel your way into places you had no right being? In Antiva and Rivain both. Perhaps you and the knight you’d known so briefly have more in common than you thought. Not that it matters.

The conversation peters off and starts again and meanders aimlessly while the two of you work your way through the mounts. You, obviously, take care of all four of the harts yourself, remembering that you’d heard they didn’t care for the Inquisitor. As it should be, given that he’s a shem, although you mutter under your breath about that as you work with Derreck. Some harts, you inform him, can’t be trusted with their own tastes, and it’s a bit silly of him to let the Seeker prance about on his back and then get all huffy around the Inquisitor.

“There!” the Inquisitor announces finally. “I do believe we’re done.” You nod in tired agreement. The tents have been fully set up, and while you’re sure they’re damp in their own right, they’re clustered in a fairly tight circle around the fire. It will make sleeping… interesting, but at least you’ll be warm.

You head over to them, intent on figuring out a way to get your soaking clothes off sooner than later, but get no further than dropping you mercifully-extremely-waterproofed bag into the corner of your tent.

“Come on, then, no rest for the wicked!” the Inquisitor says cheerfully, throwing a heavy arm around your shoulders and startling the living daylights out of you. “This is perfect weather for practicing footwork.”

“…What?” you manage as he begins to drag you off.

“If you can’t perform in poor conditions, you can’t perform at all! Surely Bull taught you that?”

…He had, actually, and yet you still hadn’t considered for a moment that the Inquisitor would want to swing swords around with you in this weather. Nonetheless, that’s exactly where you wind up, slipping around in grass and mud while trying to run through training exercises with the Inquisitor. Water fairly pours off of a brimmed hat the Seeker had tossed you to keep the rain out of your eyes, and keeping your balance is a challenge. But thanks to the Iron Bull and, frankly, a number of other people you could name, it’s not as unfamiliar as it could be, and you adjust quickly.

You’ve finally gotten to the point where you can swing the Inquisitor’s bastard sword around without your entire arm wanting to fall off, although it’s still a struggle to swing it as fast as you know you’ve seen others do. The warriors you’ve seen whip these blades around like they’re an extension of their arm; you’re not even that good with daggers. If nothing else, you’re getting some newfound respect for fighters.

The two of you move out of predetermined training routines and into something a bit more free-form, which is a hassle for you because it requires you to actually think creatively instead of just focusing on performing correctly. You mostly stick to moves you’ve already started developing muscle memory for, but as your arm begins to ache terribly, you decide to experiment a bit. These swords are called “hand-and-a-half” for a reason, and the Inquisitor’s is so large for you that you can grip it with two hands quite easily. You do so as you’re moving into a sideways swing, and the added strength means you move fast enough that the Inquisitor elects to move backwards instead of blocking. It’s the first time he hasn’t caught your blade effortlessly, and you feel pretty good about it even as you spin around a full time due to the force of the swing. You slip a bit in the mud, but manage to stay upright.

You’d been half expecting a lecture about proper stance, but the Inquisitor actually bursts out laughing, to your surprise. You blink while he tries to collect himself. It takes a while; he’s caught in a serious giggle fit for reasons you can’t at all comprehend.

“Sorry!” he wheezes finally, still laughing. “That just looked so Maker-damned funny! Cassandra, did you see that?!”

You glance over, and find that both the Seeker and Blackwall are watching. Blackwall is laughing as well, and the Seeker is clearly trying very, very hard not to. You tilt your head in confusion.

“You’re just so tiny, and that sword is so huge and you swung it so hard, you were like a tiny… elven… ball… of—”

“Rotational energy?” the Seeker suggests, sounding deeply amused, and the Inquisitor bursts into laughter anew.

By the time you finish swinging a giant sword around, pretending to be Fenris, you’re inventing new levels of “utterly soaked.” This isn’t a surface level wet. Every layer of clothing is soaked. Your skin is soaked. You think your bones might actually be wet. You stand glumly outside your tent, which they somehow got up without getting it even slightly wet inside. You aren’t going to just strip to your skivvies by the campfire, but if you go in like this, the inside will be a puddle.

While you’re still trying to come up with the logistics of minimal damp-making, rain abruptly stops falling on your head. You glance over, expecting to see Solas, but to your surprise it’s actually Dorian.

“How long can you maintain that spell for?” you demand. He looks remarkably dry.

“I barely even notice it’s up,” he admits. “It’s something of a reflexive habit.”

“Do they not have umbrellas in Tevinter?”

“They do, but this makes one look much more impressive,” he replies, and you roll your eyes but smile. He’s not wrong. If it weren’t for how pissy the Chantry got about mages using their magic for mundane things, probably everyone would do it.

“Well, you’re about twelve hours too late,” you tell him, gesturing at your soaked… everything.

“Oh please, Emma. Do you really think I wouldn’t be able to fix clothing?” With a roll of his eyes and a wave of his hand, you feel a gentle surge of heat wash over you, like a wave at the very edge of the ocean. You’re too startled to take complete notice of what’s being done mechanically, but when it passes, you realize that you and your clothes are both comfortably dry.

“Holy fuck magic is amazing,” you exclaim, instead of what you want to yell, which is ‘teach me how to do that right this fucking instant holy shit.’

“Isn’t it just?” asks Dorian, looking appropriately smug. “However, some things are even better than magic to beat a chill.” At this, Dorian pulls out… some kind of… ceramic jug? You look at it, then up at him, bewilderment clear on your face.

“Aren’t you Ferelden? I’d think you’d recognize mulled wine when you saw it.”

“First off, I’m Ferelden by a technicality at best,” you say. “And secondly, I don’t have your ability to sense alcohol from a few meters away, so…”

“Sass won’t get you warm and drunk, Emma.”

“A good point,” you say, lifting your tent flap to the side. “Come in, good ser, to casa di Emma.”

You follow him in, kicking your backpack further over to one side, and throwing down the customary blanket you always leave out for Cole. You don’t think he’s ever used it, but you never know. He might decide he wants to try napping. This time, however, it’s more for Dorian to sit on than anything. You leave the flap open, letting the heat and light from the nearby fire spill in. The thick, treated leather over the top of the tent goes over the entrance enough that there’s no risk of rainwater falling in, so it’s actually quite a pleasant effect.

Dorian pours out two mugs of the mulled wine, which is a Ferelden classic and not exactly a favorite of yours. The Dalish have warm alcohol which is loads better, in your opinion, and more than anything you’re craving a bit of Rivaini sake, served hot. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and it warms you up from the inside out. Even if the alcohol content isn’t enough for much of anything.

“What have you been hauling around in that bag, anyway?” Dorian asks, pointing at your ever-present backpack. “I thought it was clothes, but it sounds like it’s about sixty pounds.”

You manage not to frown. You can’t believe Dorian is the first one to wonder what’s in your bag. “Books, mostly,” you say with a shrug. “And a few other important belongings.”

“Books? Why are you carrying books when we have horses?” Dorian demands incredulously.

“That bag’s waterproof. Very waterproof. It’s been with me through everything short of a flood; I could probably submerge it and the books would be fine.” On days like today, you’re reminded of why you spent a solid fortune on it.

“The Inquisition saddlebags are waterproofed as well,” Dorian points out. “They have to be, or the rations would get absolutely ruined the first time we had a downpour.”

You shrug. “I know that objectively, I suppose, but I feel more comfortable knowing from personal experience just how safe they’ll be.”

“What sort of books are you dragging across the countryside, in any case?” Dorian asks curiously.

“The ones I need to finish the tome I’m ostensibly supposed to be finishing, for one,” you say with a sigh. “Some that I think the draconologist will be interested in. And a few others for reading and research, since I have no idea how long the Inquisitor intends to leave me stranded in the Western Approach. Cole mentioned there were some Tevinter ruins, though, so I brought whatever I could dig up that I thought might be useful.”

“Oh, are you planning on visiting? I might see if I can tag along; I wasn’t there the first time and the Inquisitor wound up completely destroying one of the ruins.”

“Of course he did,” you say with a scowl. “Honestly…”

“What sorts of things have you got?” Dorian asks, and with a sigh, you pull your bag over. At least you don’t have to worry he’ll get implausibly interested in some of your “extremely boring” titles that are actually tomes of forbidden magic. You have enough of actual interest in here to keep him busy for half a month.

Sure enough, he finds great interest in some of the books you pulled together about Tevinter architecture in the southwest.

“I haven’t seen some of these before. Where do you find these things?” he’s saying, looking very impressed as he flips through pages of dry text and sketches of ruins.

“I spend an inordinate amount of time in book stores,” you reply. “Or I used to, I suppose. I was able to dig through all of my old haunts in Val Royeaux, and I unearthed some gems.”

“But how did you even know you’d need this?” he marvels.

You shrug. “I mean, I didn’t exactly plan on heading into the Approach myself, if that’s what you mean, but it still looked interesting. And besides, there were half a dozen requests for basically everything I could find on Ancient Tevinter, pre-Blight specifically. Because of that Corypheus fellow, I suppose.”

Dorian nods with a chuckle. “A good number of them were probably mine. That library was sorely lacking before you swept through.”

“I thought the Inquisitor was out of his mind for sending me,” you confess. “But compared to this, it seems downright inspired.”

“You certainly did an amazing job then, and you’re doing quite well this time, as well.”

You roll your eyes. “You just say that because I haven’t gotten anyone killed yet. Just wait.”

“I suspect we’ll all be just fine,” Dorian says with a chuckle. “After seeing you go to town on that terror demon, I think you’re scarier than most things we might run into.”

Dorian heads out at a reasonable hour after spending the evening thumbing through some of your books. It was an enjoyable time, actually. Nerding out with Dorian always seems to be. You honestly have no idea why he’s had trouble making friends amongst the Inner Circle. Well, actually, if you consider what kind of people the Inner Circle generally has in it, you can make perfect sense of it. Most of them would find your conversation with him absolutely intolerably boring and pretentious.

What a shame. As with Solas, you can’t quite shake the feeling he’s being wasted on the people around him. But you also can’t deny that to someone with priorities slightly different than yours, they’d be largely insufferable.

You’re comfortably drunk by the time he’s left. Or maybe tipsy? Drunk enough that you’d prefer to keep drinking, but unlike Dorian, you don’t just keep a stash of alcohol on you at all times. Well, there’s too many people, with the tents too close together, for you to risk actually letting your aura out to sleep, but where there’s a Cole, there’s a way. You can at least catch a nap, even if it won’t be very effective.