At the sound of his voice, Gisele glanced to her left, turning to see Emet-Selch still standing but a malm away. He watched her with ever-curious golden eyes, after the others began to make their way back to the Viis village. It came as something of a mild shock to her that he yet remained in truth, for she would have surmised the famously indolent Ascian would have grown weary of it all, with his little performance complete, and Y’shtola returned to them.

She lowered her eyes in pensive contemplation; it may well have been merely an act, but it was unkind and uncharitable of her to think of it so dismissively.

“Come, great heroine. Have you not a single word to say to me? You’ve certainly eloquence enough when demanded.”

Gisele glanced up once more, to once more gaze upon the man who could be named her direst foe, this time in earnest. Emet-Selch’s head was tilted at her, his eyes narrowed in an enigmatic expression, and it struck her then that she had seen such a gesture before. Not merely from him, but his great-grandson. Zenos may have shared his father’s hair of gold, but he far more favored the eccentric Ascian before her in the rest of his features.

It would seem she was doomed to suffer the curiosity of Garlean imperial royals, she thought in silent bemusement. Still, no matter the ultimate game he played—and Gisele was not nearly foolish enough to believe all his altruism did not come with a price, in the end—his deeds spoke for themselves, and should be acknowledged.

“Permit me to speak plainly, then: I am grateful beyond measure for what you have done here,” Gisele said softly. “Your deeds mean much to me, for Y’shtola herself means greater still, and I could not abide the thought of losing her a second time, forever.”

She did not expect the impish glint in his eyes which followed, nor the smile which curved upon his pouting lips, when he swept a graceful and characteristically grandiose bow before her. “I would never have guessed you’d wear your heart on such a fashionable sleeve, eikon-slayer,” Emet-Selch said, with a surprising lack of mockery in his tone.

“If you would be an ally to us in truth, then I shall repay your act of good faith, and make one of my own. Of a surety, you have answered every question I’ve posed of you thusfar, and honestly; I would share my own truth in kind,” Gisele said, her mind turning and turning. Emet-Selch had his game, of a surety; but she had no less her own. That her intent was purer mattered little. The stakes were high enough all the same.

The Ascian raised his dark and meticulously sculpted brows at her words, and once more Gisele was struck by how very expressive Emet’s youthful face was—particularly in comparison to his cohorts, who lived to put on mysterious airs, and cloak themselves in enigmas. “Oh? Do tell.”

Gisele raised her hand to her heart, idly brushing with her thumb the familiar and ever-present signet with its scarlet unicorn. “You wish to know the secret of my strength? It is my heart, beyond my mastery of the arcane, beyond temporal titles and wealth and status, beyond even the Blessing of the Mother you so abhor. My heart, and the endless, boundless reserves of love therein. It nearly shattered this day within those Ronkan ruins, when I watched helpless as a woman who holds a piece of it nearly become lost to me again, and forever. You wish words of me, Emet-Selch? Forgive me if my eloquence fails, for he who soothed that wounded heart more than he could ever know, with a mere snap of his fingers.”

With that, Gisele crossed the short distance between them, and leaned in close to Emet-Selch, softly pressing her generous lips to his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered to him, before pulling away.

The Ascian’s golden eyes were wide in shock and amazement; he rather looked as though he’d seen a ghost, in truth. Gisele smiled, brushing past him to return to the path to the village, and feeling more than a little smug that she’d found a way at last to silence his clever tongue. He would do well to consider that he was not the only one full of surprises, she thought.

There weren’t many things in life that managed to make Commander Imani Shepard speechless, or afraid. After all, this was the self-same woman who stared down more than one Reaper, and whose passionate words even crumbled their indoctrination on at least one occasion. 

The sight of Miranda Lawson hovering over the potatoes Imani had begun to boil, three hours before they were all set to meet her long lost birth family from Earth for the first time, the Shepard clan of New Orleans, Louisiana?

That did it.

“Miri? Honey?” Imani asked, a little too sweetly, her voice rising a sing song octave of barely concealed panic.

Miranda looked up from the pot, quirking a single brow at Imani, as cool and collected as ever. “Yes, Imani?”

“Whatcha doin, sweetie?”

Miranda stared at her. “I thought I’d lend a hand with the potato salad. I found a recipe on the extran–”

“NO!”

It was reflexive, really, the way Imani flew to the stove as if it were one of her biotic charges.

“Why the bloody hell not?” Miranda demanded.

“I love you from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t trust your cooking. Stay out of my kitchen,” Imani said firmly.

“But–”

“Miri. Potato salad is–it’s serious. The most serious thing in the galaxy. You don’t understand. This is the food of my people. I can’t risk this. I can’t be that cousin at the reunion.”

Miranda scrunched her nose, and Imani tried very hard not to laugh all of a sudden. “I just wanted to help,” she muttered. 

Imani did not often weaponize her famous smolder, but desperate times called for desperate measures. She narrowed her eyes, and leveled a gaze at Miranda. “I know, Miranda.”

For her part, Miranda coughed a little, clearing her throat, and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “That’s ridiculously unfair,” she said archly.

Imani gently pressed her lips to Miranda’s cheek. “You can pack the utensils?” she offered rather diplomatically.

For a man as burly and barrel-chested as he was, Blackwall was quick with a sword, and quicker with his shield. Before she could blink, or even react to the templar arrow hurtling towards her, the Orlesian rondache cast a protective shadow over her, and she heard a loud, sharp thud as the arrowhead splintered against and shattered along with the shaft.

And, just as quick as it came, he lowered the shield with an angry grunt, bashing it into the archer’s face to stun him. His blade was quick to follow, finding the gaps between the leather with ease; the red templar crumpled lifeless to the earth.

Blackwall’s eyes found her, and they were hard as agates at first; they softened then, when they found her own, and he relaxed his furrowed brow, the tension melting from his face.

“Are you alright, love?” he asked, as he wiped his blade clean.

Khedira nodded, as much in thanks as to reassure him. “I misjudged the enemy. Thank you.”

His lips curved into one of his slight smiles, framed just so by his thick, silvery black beard, the manner of smile that made Khedira’s knees quiver. “There’s no need to thank me, my lady. No harm will ever come to you so long as I draw breath,” he said softly.

“You’ve gotta stop doing that.”

“What?”

“Saying things that make me want to kiss you,” Khedira said.

Blackwall grinned, and with shield still in hand, took Khedira by his free one, pulling her close to him; warm leather against cool steel. “I’ll stop when it quits working,” he said.

Kaidan wasn’t sure when it happened, exactly. He hadn’t been gone for long, not at all; he practically raced back to his seat in the mess, so that he wouldn’t miss the start of the second half. His beloved Whitecaps were playing in a cup final, after all, even if it was several light years away from ravaged, besieged Earth, on a pitch on the Citadel. It was something to keep everyone’s mind off things for a little while, at least.

But when he slid back onto the metal chair, there was a six pack sitting on the table that wasn’t there before. Kaidan looked around for a moment, and his curiosity got the better of him, making him pull out one of the bottles to examine it. It was…levo, at least. Some kind of hipster IPA, brewed by asari monks or something.

“Is it alright? I wasn’t sure what humans drink.”

Kaidan glanced up to see Garrus leaning against the wall, next to the vid screen. “Uh, no offense, but…haven’t you been dating one for a little while now?” Kaidan asked a bit delicately.

“She drinks ryncol for fun. I meant normal humans,” Garrus said.

Kaidan grinned. “Well, you happen to be talking to a connoisseur of sorts. Never heard of this one, but I’m game.” He flicked off the cap with his omni-tool, and took a quick chug. It was a little more hops-y than he normally liked his brews, but it was pretty smooth, with a lot of character. He decided to take a few more, to really make up his mind. “Hey, what’s the occasion, anyway?” he asked suddenly.

“I was just kind of hoping that you’d, y’know…fall in love with me,” Garrus drawled, with a shrug, and a nonchalant flicker of his mandibles.

Kaidan felt his cheeks grow hot and flushed, and he laughed a bit nervously, shaking his head in the process. He took another swig, just to be sure–of what, just then, he didn’t know. Maybe it wasn’t entirely about the beer, either. 

The Antivan delegation had come laden with gifts for the royal family, of course, and particularly for Zevran. And while he customarily examined such offerings for security’s sake alongside Loghain, guarding against any manner of treachery or ill intent, Zevran always took special care with anything from his homeland. While the Crows’ machinations had been thoroughly subverted, one could never be too careful, and old habits died hard besides.

And so, Loghain and Zevran thoroughly examined gilded trunks and coffers filled with fine Rivaini silks and spices from Par Vollen, the fruits of Antivan trade.

Zevran gave Loghain a sidelong glance, and the old knight scrunched his distinguished nose upon opening one of the silk pouches inside a trunk. “What is it?”

Loghain reached carefully inside the pouch with a single finger; when he removed it, the tip was covered with a bright red powder. “Some manner of spice,” he answered, holding out his hand.

Zevran’s eyes grew wide and bright, and nearly teared up. It had been years since he’d had the pleasure of the fiery sauce made from such Seheronese spice. “Ah, this is a particular powder made from crushing tiny little chili peppers found only in Seheron. It’s hotter than mage’s fire. In Antiva, we make a delightfully spicy sauce with it,” he explained.

Loghain nodded, and put the pouch down. “Very well. I’ll send a special note to the kitchens to have a care.”

“Give it to me,” Zevran said brightly.

Loghain stared dubiously at him. “Only if you promise not to kill anyone with it.”

Zevran gasped melodramatically, touching his hand to his heart. “You wound me, Loghain! Surely you do not believe that is all I am made for?”

“Choose your next words carefully, highness,” Loghain said flatly.

Zevran laughed. “Well, I seem to recall a time when you even paid me to do otherwise. Very well, I shall be certain to make sure your plate is as dull and bland as Fereldan tradition dictates. Not a spark of heat or savory flavor will be found! Do not doubt my love for my new homeland.” 

“Ah, Varric? I had a torrid affair with the Arishok,” Marisol said.

“I know.”

“After which I was forced to duel him to the death, to save my girlfriend’s life.”

“Uh huh. I was there, Princess.”

“And now I’m shacking up and currently living in sin with a Chantry brother.”

“...you know, when you lay it all out like that, it’s been a fairly eventful couple of years for you, hasn’t it?”

“Well yes, my hairy little friend. But my point is, I think it's a bit late to worry about complication. ‘Complication’ is my middle name, after all.”

“I thought it was Adelina.”

“Antivans have no less than thirty two middle names at any given time. We collect them like Anders collects bad ideas. Maybe worse. Carver dropped three from his pockets in the Deep Roads, and still had enough to confuse Stroud.”

Varric laughed, shaking his head, and reached up to smooth his hair with a hand that was surely trembling, though he tried very hard to be nonchalant about it. He took a deep breath, once the fit of mirth passed, and spoke only after a long moment. “This is gonna sound like one of my shittier novels, but I can’t help myself. You want me to be honest? Fine, I’ll be honest: I’ve loved you since the moment I laid eyes on you, Marisol.”

She raised her brows rather meaningfully at him. “You were at eye level with my bosom,” she said.

“Admittedly, that may have helped,” Varric said, “but you’re a sweet woman, and funny, and you’re the only person I’ve ever met that bullshits as well and as often as I do. You’d give anyone the shirt off your back without even being asked, and have a heart bigger than Meredith’s head. You’re smarter than anyone I know, and far, far braver than you ever give yourself credit for. And yeah, you just so happen to be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. You got an amoral pirate captain to offer her life to save you, a man rightfully terrified of mages to swear his undying devotion to you, and a sodding Brother to leave the Chantry for you. And I get why. There’s nobody in the world like you, Mari. Can you really blame me for falling for you, too?”

Marisol felt tears prickling the corners of her eyes, and averted them from Varric’s, shining with sincerity few likely would have believed him capable of—but she knew better, and that was why she swallowed hard, and flashed a cheeky set of dimples. It was too much to bear, this kind of hope. And so she buried the welling sentiment inside her, reflexively reaching for the jests that were her comfort.

“Varric. You really mean to say these things in front of her?”

Without missing a beat, Varric reached over to toss a nearby blanket on the ottoman where his crossbow rested, draping the weapon with an apologetic flourish.

"I don't want to hurt her feelings, and unlike your catpile, she's the jealous type,” he said. “But hey—here’s more of that famous Marisol Hawke compassion. You’re making the argument for me, Princess.”

Blackwall’s dark eyes were soft and searching as they stared at Khedira, in the softly glowing light of the campfire.

She grew flushed, despite her best efforts. "Oh?"

"That scar on your mouth, how did you get it? If you don't mind me asking, that is," he said.

Khedira stared at him. "I wasn't always a seeress. Surely you've not forgotten."

"No, that I haven't," Blackwall replied. "But you don't have to answer. I was just curious, is all."

Khedira sighed, lowering her eyes. "A tavern brawl in Kirkwall, a very long time ago. Twenty years or so, thereabouts," she replied in a level tone. "Some degenerate, drunken Vint ran his mouth at me. I let him know it was unnecessary. Then it got ugly, but I'm sure you've worked that part out."

He raised his unruly eyebrows at her, dark and thick. "What'd you mean by, 'let him know it was unnecessary', exactly?" he asked.

She stared at her feet, stretched out before her on the grass, with her eyes stubbornly fixed on a small stain on her boot. "I nailed his wandering hand to the table with my knife. He screamed like a nug on a spit. That's when his friends showed up," she said.

"Maker's breath, woman," Blackwall gasped. "What in the world did he say to you?"

Khedira's gaze remained fixed upon her boots, and she sighed deeply, before continuing: "I was seventeen. And basrani don't respect an elven woman. Vints least of all. We’re nothing but flesh for the taking, to them, and that one had been drinking enough for five men. I'd only gained the Macabre perhaps six months before that, too. No one even knew who I was back then. So I wasn't taking any chances. I did what I must, to send a message. But it turned out that he was Coterie, and that didn't go over well. Everything went sideways, and at some point I took a broken bottle to my face, I don't even know who from. All I remember is that I lost my mind when I saw blood on my hand, and then somehow fireballs happened. The place burned down, me and the crew skipped town, and I haven't been back to that shithole since."

"You know, it's almost a shame Tethras wasn't here for this story," Blackwall said, with a low snicker under his breath.

Khedira snorted. "I don't want to encourage him. Anyway, there you have it, the entire sordid tale. Is your curiosity satisfied?”

"Yes. I’m sorry, though, for dredging up bad memories,” he said, and the corners of his mouth curved downward into a slight, guilty frown. 

She shrugged. “It’s not that I can’t speak of them. I don’t hide from it. But it’s nothing to boast of. I did boast of them, when I was young and foolish and took pride in shameful things.” 

"Nothing could ever make me feel ashamed of you, Khedira,” Blackwall said.

"You wouldn't say that if you knew about the life I led," Khedira said gravely. "I have much to atone for. Many ugly things, even uglier than these reminders of them on my face."

Blackwall's eyes flickered then, a shadow of doubt crossing them momentarily, but he smiled at her, and a soft kind of warmth spread through her chest that had little to do with the crackling fire before them. “I don't think they’re ugly," he said, lifting his hand to her cheek. Khedira’s breath hitched a little, as he drew a meaty thumb down the rough gash, then across her jawline, stroking the notch in her thick upper lip a moment, before pressing his mouth against it, warm and far softer than anyone would have ever suspected. His lips cradled hers, tongue parting them at last with aching tenderness; she sunk forward into it, into his strong embrace, and lost herself in it for a moment.

“Are you sure, beloved?” Khedira asked, a bit breathlessly, when she pulled up for air.

He smiled at her again. “I’ve seen a lot of ugly things in this world, my lady. I’d never name you among them.”

Khedira wrapped her arms about his great barrel of a torso, and permitted herself to be swept away again, clinging to Blackwall like driftwood in the vast sea as he plunged his tongue into her mouth again, firmer and more insistently than the last, and squeezed her tightly against him.