#freeeeeeeeee

Even without being directly in charge of things herself, there are a lot of expectations for Aili to live up to, responsibilities to shoulder, and people who need looking after. She has to maintain a certain degree of composure, to project a demeanor that inspires confidence and loyalty. And affection, if she can manage it. Everyone always has their eyes on her, ready to praise her if she succeeds. Ready condemn her, albeit very quietly, if she fails.

The main difference is the sheer scale of her new influence.

One evening her mother had decided to wear what she had personally thought to be a rather hideous shade of chartreuse that she had insisted was ‘daring’. Aili had not thought much of it at the time, but sure enough, less than a week later, the entire Upper City was awash in the very same shade of snot-colored green. And the trend had held for nearly three months. She had been completely flabbergasted.

She had thought that being an advisor to the Inquisition might have helped her adjust to the scope of the Evanuris’ sway, if only a little. It was not wholly incongruent, after all, what with a large portion of Thedas insisting that her spouse was some sort of  divine savior. But this… She does not know if she can wield this much power without inevitably breaking something.

It does not seem to have worked out very well for anyone she knows who has tried.

Luckily, she has some time to ease into things. No one in Elvhenan seems to expect much of anything from young children, outside of cuteness and perhaps some sort of wild phase once they start really getting into their magic and travelling about by themselves. And their idea of what actually constitutes a ‘young child’ is…somewhat different than what she is accustomed to.

When Aili had reached her sixteenth nameday, she was already hip deep in the social mechanizations of clan life. An adult, by most standards. She had collected wild vegetables and herbs, hauled buckets of water, built fires, patched aravels, and helped to look after the children, among other things. All while actively competing against two other clanmates for the honor to be chosen as Deshanna’s First. Learning magic and how to read the old tongue. Preparing for her vallaslin ceremony.

But by the time she reaches the same age among the elves of Arlathan, it seems as though she is…not old enough for much of anything. She still has her lessons and her training, which are extensive, but even those are mostly voluntary. Her parents and extended family all consider her too young to be much involved with affairs of state, though Lavellan keeps her informed, when she can. She cannot compete in tourneys. She cannot hunt unless the creature has been released into some contained area and she is surrounded by attendants and guards to protect her person, which feels a lot like shooting fish in a barrel. She is not even permitted to attend festivals unless she spends the evening glued to her mother’s side.

She feels a bit…aimless.

Aili tries to learn new things to give herself some sense of purpose, some of the crafts and artistry that Elvhenan seems to place such importance on, but she has never been the most proficient at getting her hands to recreate visions from her thoughts. She has the most success with wood carving and clay and other three-dimensional media, anything she can just chip and shave and beat into submission. She suspects there are likely some strange rumors of her vanity, since she seems to spend so much time simply making the same face over and over.

However, as the daughter of an evanuris, as well as a ‘sweet innocent child’, the only comment anyone is willing to make about it to her face is that it does not look quite right. The expression is wrong for her, almost fierce and nearly always smiling. The girl is too young. Her nose and chin are too sharp. The ears and mouth are a little off.

Aili can concede that they do have a point. The face never looks exactly right, no matter what she does, or how many times she makes it. It horrifies her that perhaps she has already begun to forget the features she had spent so many days gazing at lovingly, and the failed attempts at artwork always seem to mock her somehow. But she is even more afraid of stopping, and letting even more details slip through her fingers.

Her one true solace lays between the pages of books. Sylaise and June both have decent libraries, and there is an even larger one in the city intended for public use, though access to certain materials is restricted based on rank, and in Aili’s case, by age. But there is very little she is denied, and after a while, she begins to build up her own collection of worthwhile reading material.

She wants to learn everything.

There is no doubt in her mind that there is a certain amount of bias to the historical texts in particular, but even that can be telling, if you know what to look for.

Aili studies the Dreaming. Converses with almost any spirit who will talk to her, of which there are many. Her memories are unique, and there are many of them who would trade all manner of knowledge for even the slightest glimpse. She presses her advantage, trying her best to make Josephine proud. To be cunning without being ruthless as she seeks out history and truth.

As she seeks out Uthvir.

They had not enjoyed talking overmuch about their origins, and she had never pressed too hard. Certain that they had time. All the time they could ever need, to find enough peace in their life that sharing their burdens would no longer bring all the shame and pain of it back to the surface of their heart.

But Solas had robbed them of their time. Both of them.

All of them.

She has a rough idea of the events that shaped Uthvir’s life, so she at least has something to work from. The real issue is that she has no idea what events in Elvhenan’s history correlate to their own. She has not seen them amongst Andruil’s favored hunters, but she does not know if that means they have not been given to her yet, or if she is simply keeping them to herself. Perhaps they are still suffering at the hands of Falon’Din. Or perhaps they do not even exist yet.

And that poses yet another problem.

“What should you do when you know something terrible is going to happen,” she asks Lavellan one evening over a game of cards not unlike Wicked Grace, “But if you somehow manage to stop this terrible thing, it might mean that someone you care for will never be born?”

“I’ll let you know when I find out,” she replies with a wry twist of her lips. Aili frowns at her, concern permeating the air around them, and Lavellan heaves a weary sigh, “For all we know, simply being here has changed the entire course of history as we know it. And since we clearly came from different worlds, there is no way of knowing if this is even the past of one our own timelines, or another place entirely. Commissioning a suit of armor from a certain vendor could change someone else’s life for the worst. Talking your parents into sparing people from sacrificial death might mean that dozens of other people might be born who never existed in either of our own timelines. There is simply no way of knowing for sure what will happen, and you will make yourself mad if you attempt to reason through every tiny decision. The only option available to either of us is to just…try. To do what we can to make things better. Fix what can be fixed. Save what can be saved. Do…what you feel is right.”

It is not too much longer after that, that she finds herself dreaming of a vast green wood.

Not that dreams about forests are really all that extraordinary, but this place feels different. Older. Protected. The air is filled with millions of tiny floating lights, gold and white and silver, all twirling through the tree branches. Like living motes of sunlight. Catching in her hair and clothing. Dancing away from her fingertips, as if suddenly shy.

She has never seen anything like it.

There is an obvious path, and she can make out the shapes of other spirits flitting through the trees. None of them look strong enough to have built this place, though. She gets the distinct impression that this area of the Dreaming is generally hard to reach. Invitation only, as it were.

The trail seems to end very abruptly as she walks along it, and she thinks perhaps she is being barred from venturing any farther. But then the trees shift themselves into a small clearing, and standing at its center is the largest, brightest spirit she has ever met. Several pairs of enormous wings and arms, and a large smiling face that appears mostly curious, for the time being. She feels her eyes burning just from looking at them, and she is not certain if it is the intense light they are exuding, or the powerful rush of emotions that seem to have jammed themselves into her throat.

“How did you find this place, little dreamer?” the spirit wonders in a soft voice that reminds her of the distant tolling of a great bronze bell. It is not loud, yet somehow it still resonates. Making something in her chest thrum, uplifting and awe-inspiring, and maybe just the tiniest bit frightening too. She suddenly feels impossibly small.

“I…I’m not sure,” she confesses hesitantly, glancing around again, “I was…looking for someone.”

“And you think they might be here?” it asks.

“I don’t know,” Aili admits, “So far, I haven’t been able to find them anywhere. They…they might be dead. Or they might never have existed in the first place. The more I look, the less I feel like I know.”

“What a strange quest to have found yourself on,” the spirit comments, sounding amused, but not mockingly so. As if they find something about her oddities inherently endearing. Like a puppy chasing its tail. “And stranger still that it would lead you so deep into the Dreaming, knocking on the door to my home. You would have done better to seek out Curiosity or Purpose or Wisdom, if you were hoping to find some sort of guidance, little one. Or perhaps even Fortune, if your wish was to improve your chances of success. There is glory to be found in the completion of a journey, even if it does not end the way one might hope, but I confess that I have much more interest in the seekers than the lost things themselves. I am afraid I cannot help you.”

“Then…that means…you…you are-” Aili stammers, her -eyes going wide as saucers.

“I am Glory,” the spirit grins, as if her reaction is to be expected, “I thought you must be seeking me in particular, when I felt you trying to enter this place. There are traces of glory hanging about you, bright golden threads tethering you to something that does not quite exist. It is rare to see in someone so young.”

Aili stares at it until her eyes water, searching for something. Some hint or feature of her lost heart. Glory does not look like Uthvir, of course. And it is difficult to be certain, because the sense of the spirit is so vast and radiant that it nearly seems to swallow everything surrounding them, but…

“I think…I know you,” she breathes out, and it feels like her lungs have been burning to exhale that single sentence for a thousand years.

Glory smiles at her again.

“I can see why you must feel that way,” it tells her gently, “There are so many little sparks of light, threaded through your being, and flooding out into the Dreaming here. The pride you have for your people, the heights you reached for to champion them. The alliance you secured for their sakes, even though it also bought your own happiness. The heady rush of victory in battle, small and large. To save the world. To come home to those waiting arms and lift her up and-”

“Enough!” Aili snaps, suddenly brittle and aching. Glory blinks at her.

“I am…sorry, if I have upset you in some way,” it says slowly, bending down until it is nearly level with her face. It does not sound as though it quite understands what could be troubling her.

“I…have a warning for you,” Aili answers, and the words are ash in her mouth. It smacks of treachery, to sacrifice the possibility of Uthvir’s existence in exchange for Glory’s freedom, but she knows… it is what they would choose. She does not know if that makes it right or not, but perhaps that is as close to knowing as she is going to get. “I cannot be sure when it will happen, perhaps the wheels are in motion as we speak, but… The Evanuris will come for you. They will hunt you down and seal you away for the rest of your days. And… Please. Please, go deep into the Dreaming. Go now, and hide yourself where you can never be reached.”

Very carefully, Glory reaches out one of many hands, extends a single long finger, and traces a path down her cheek. Aili feels as though she is being warmed from the inside out. As though she could move mountains and leap over oceans and stop a wildfire with a wave of her hand all in a single afternoon. She thinks she might be close to tears.

“Do not be distressed, little heart,” the spirit coos at her, “You entered this place because I allowed it. It is safe here. The Glory of the People will linger long after your Evanuris have gone into the deep sleep.”

“But-” she tries, floundering.

“So much sadness, for one so small,” Glory continues, hushing her, “But have courage, there will come a time when you can look back at your achievements and feel joy again. Your heart is righteous and true, and it guides you faithfully. I think perhaps, we shall meet again, little dreamer. …But not here.”

“Wait!” Aili cries out, but it is too late. The spirit pushes her back, away from their haven, and even out of the Dreaming itself. And the next thing she knows, she is jolting awake in her bed.

She pitches a decorative vase across the room in frustration, shattering it against the far wall. ~

A few months later, she is expected to join her mother at the spring festival. The other evanuris journey to the city, ostensibly to enjoy the festivities, but truthfully because there have been more rumors of the Nameless encroaching on their territories, and there has been talk about needing to send an actual force out to crush them. Aili is not permitted to attend the actual political meetings, but there had been a request made by both of her grandparents that she at least be present in the meeting hall to greet them.

Aili still largely lets Sylaise dress her however she pleases; she can understand the importance of needed to make the right impression, and she certainly does not have a knack for following the frivolous trends of the Arlathan upper class. She thinks that her mother almost finds it strangely satisfying, though, no matter how she tuts and sighs and straightens her collar or moves a lock of hair back to where it should be. Her daughter is quite lovely, according to the Arlathan rumor mill, but lovely is not beautiful.

Not like Sylaise.

For her own part, Aili can say that she does not care about her appearance one way or another. And if her lack of perfection is somehow making her mother feel a bit more secure… Well. She can have it.

But her deficiencies do not seem to stop her uncle from staring at her all through the official proceedings with an intensity that makes her skin crawl.

She must not be the only one who had noticed, because the next day, her mother sits her down and begins teaching her how to alter her appearance with magic.

It makes her hyper aware of all her perceived flaws in a way she had never paid much attention to before. The slight crookedness of her front teeth. The fact that her left nostril is just the tiniest bit larger than her right. The sparse spray of freckles across her shoulders from long days of training out in the sun.

It is…strange to be without them. In a way she does not think she likes. Almost like wearing a mask.

There are definite advantages though. To not looking like herself. It makes it that much easier to look in the mirror and not see ghosts. Her father’s eyes. Her mother’s coloring. The echoes of a long-lost dream.

Aili finds that she can grasp the concept of it rather quickly.

The easiest change is her hair. She decides that she prefers it dark, unless her mother presses her to wear it in a different shade to match her outfit for an evening. Her skin shifts easily too, with a little more practice, and she moves away from the tawny golden color she had inherited from her mother, to more of a deep rich olive. And between the two, she hardly recognizes herself.

She never can seem to change the color of her eyes though. ~

Years pass, and Aili takes her place as her mother’s second, advising her and acting as her surrogate whenever needed. She finds that she has a much easier time loving her parents from afar, and spends whatever time she can out in one of the smaller country estates that her mother so rarely deigns to visit. She keeps in close contact with her beloved Aunt Lavellan though, extending whatever help she can to aid her in her efforts for subversion.

They are put somewhat on hold when the war begins.

She wants to fight, to join her aunt out with her father’s troops, but she is still considered young, and her parents will only humor her enough to accompany them to well-fortified campsites, when there is little to no chance of an actual skirmish.

Amidst it all, Aili has done her best to keep an eye on Ghilan’nain and Falon’Din, watching for any signs that they might be in pursuit of Glory at long last. But it is hard to keep track of between troop movements, and shifting supply routes, and building new settlements to provide for followers who have been uprooted by the fighting. Even Lavellan’s agents cannot keep track of everything.

The fighting drags on, long lulls of peace, broken by sudden fierce clashes. Over and over, like waves trying to beat down a range of mountains.

But every time she returns to the city, Arlathan almost seems to exist outside the rest of the world. The Nameless are discussed in hateful whispers, like an inconvenient infestation, instead of a serious threat. Distant and disconnected with anything that might actually change the course of their lives.

When she enters the meeting hall at her mother’s side, her eyes are automatically drawn to the delicate creature standing just behind Falon’Din. Long pale hair like spun sunlight. Smooth golden skin. Small and slight and somehow…lost.

Rage and grief flood the air around her before she even has a chance to form a coherent thought.  

“Do not,” her mother warns, reaching over and taking hold of her hand in a way that likely seems purely affectionate from far away. Her grip is fierce. “I know that you have an affection for spirits, but this is a deed that has already been done. Glory has been given a most beautiful form by Ghilan’nain, and Falnon’Din favors them greatly. There are worse fates.”

“Do you really believe that?” Aili wonders, looking up at her frowningly.

“I believe…that sometimes one creature must be called upon to endure hardships so that others may avoid it,” Sylaise says evenly, reaching up and moving one of her daughter’s dark curls back into its proper place, “Let Falon’Din have his prize, so long as it keeps him from seeking another one. A far more precious one.”    

Aili ducks her head, a sick churning feeling roiling in her gut. Sylaise catches up her chin, forcing her to meet her gaze.

“I did ask,” she assures her softly, “I tried to convince him to engage in some sort of trade in exchange for them. I knew it would upset you. Your father and grandparents did as well. Your uncle is much too fixated on the delights of having something that we all so obviously want to take away from him. He will tire of them eventually, as he tires of all things, and then we can attempt to broach new negotiations.”

“Please,” Aili scrapes out in a broken whisper, “Please, help them. Who knows how many years it will take until he will consider giving them away? Who knows what he might do to them in the interim? What if he-”

“I will not start a feud with my brother in the middle of a war,” Sylaise answers sharply, “You are so fixated on sparing them, but consider all the other lives it would put at risk. The followers Falon’Din would sacrifice to bolster his power to win such a fight. Where is you compassion for them?”

“I…” she begins haltingly before bowing her head again, “You are right, of course. Forgive me. I met Glory once, when I was very young. It was kind to me, and I am afraid I have let sentiment cloud my judgement.”

“You never told me that,” Sylaise blinks at her. Aili shrugs despondently and her mother smiles, stroking her hair fondly, “You have a soft heart, my sweet child. But you should not be so quick to let it show. It makes an easy target for loose daggers.”

Her aunt is of a slightly different opinion.

“I am going to kill him,” Lavellan informs her quietly when they are alone in a somewhat secluded corner of the room, her tone casual, as if asking Aili what the weather has been like in Sylaise’s territory as of late. It is the third day of their meetings, and there are less people and less general enthusiasm for the tasks at hand. Falon’Din is still parading his new acquisition around, but he is drawing a noticeably reduced amount of attention for it, and it seems to be irritating him to no small degree.

“Not if I beat you to it,” Aili grates out under her breath, “But in the meantime, something must be done to help Glory.”

“I am open to suggestions,” the General nods, “but this might not be the best place for such a discussion.”

“Of course,” Aili agrees, her eyes still glued on the poor creature as Falon’Din all but drags them across the room. They seem despondent. Confused. Barely capable of stringing together whole sentences.      

Her jaw clenches, frustration and sorrow radiating from her in fits and bursts. Lavellan eyes her pensively.

“This…is not just about another abused spirit, is it?” she wonders.

“Do you remember some years ago, when I asked about whether it was right to allow something terrible to happen in order to ensure that someone you love came to exist?” Aili returns.

“I think so?” Lavellan answers slowly.

“Well,” Aili sighs dejectedly, “This…is the terrible thing. I tried to stop it, but it happened anyway. And worse than that… I think it might have happened because of me, in some part.”

Lavellan puts a hand on her shoulder. Steadying.

“At least you do not seem to have made things any worse than they were going to be without you,” she offers, though she does not sound any more comforted by the idea than she expects Aili to be. “I’m sorry, lethallan. Hopefully, we will have better luck with other attempts we make to change how history will unfold.”

“What if it was Solas?” Aili asks pointedly. Lavellan’s eyes move back towards the helpless figure being touted about the room like a prized show pony, and her expression sours further. Her hand twitches towards her blade, as though on reflex.

“I never said we were abandoning them to their fate,” she reminds her firmly, “We will find a way to get them away from him, I promise.”

“In the meantime, I think I shall remind my dear uncle that he cannot, in fact, have everything he wants,” Aili grinds out, her hair already lightening. Her aunt grabs her by the wrist.

“Don’t,” she hisses out, “If he is focused on getting back at you, you’ll have even fewer chances at getting Glory away from him.”

“Precisely,” Aili retorts, finishing her shift back to her natural coloring, but leaving the alterations to her features and complexion, giving her that strangely manufactured sort of beauty that Sylaise favors. “If all his attention is on me, he will not be paying attention to anything you might do. He will be watching my people, not yours. If he raises a hand to me, Elgar’nan will beat him senseless, assuming my mother does not kill him first. He wants to flaunt something that everyone desires and no one else can have, and I intend to flaunt right back.”

“This could backfire spectacularly,” Lavellan points out, “What if this makes everything that much worse for Glory? What if he takes out his frustrations on them when he cannot get at you?”

“…I am not sure I believe anything could make things too much worse for Glory than they already are,” Aili murmurs, “And it could just as easily have the opposite effect. He could get bored of them more quickly, and move on to something else.”

“Are you willing to risk that?” Lavellan wonders.

Aili pauses for a moment, catching her gaze.

“All we can do is try. Fix what can be fixed. Save who can be saved.” ~

The fact that she has altered her coloring is not lost on anyone, least of all Falon’Din, even as he does his best to pretend as though she is beneath his notice. There is also some quite murmuring about the obvious similarities between Sylaise’s child and the Lord of the Dead’s new prize. Aili walks with her head held high, trying to project confidence that she does not quite feel as she approaches the pair of them.

Falon’Din is still acting as though he is unaware of her existence, and she takes advantage of the moment to extend her hand, and trace a single finger down the side of Glory’s cheek. Her heart wrenching at the sight of the bright blue vallaslin scrawled across their face. Spilling out over their features like tears.

“I think I know you,” she tells them softly.

Glory blinks up at her with violet eyes. Not quite the same shade as hers, but noticeably similar. Their expression is glazed, as though drunk or possibly drugged, but they seem to find the wherewithal to meet her eyes when she speaks to them.

Falon’Din’s grip of her hand is crushing.

“Do not touch what is mine,” he hisses out, furious, and clearly barely holding himself back striking her, or something much more. Aili smiles at him, doing her best not to wince. Or rip his arm from his socket and beat him to death with it. But there is collateral damage to consider, including Glory themselves, so she restrains herself.

“Forgive me, Uncle,” she says brightly, venom seeping out around the edges of her tone, “I am curious by nature, as you know. Aunt Ghilan’nain’s work is always so impressive, is it not? To be capable of binding such a powerful spirit and building such a beautiful body for it to inhabit… I find myself almost in awe. She did not get all the details quite right though, did she? The eyes are still a little too blue. Still, I must congratulate her before the meetings conclude; Ghilan’nain’s Glory is a sight to behold.”

“Glory is mine,” Falon’Din all but shrieks.

“Glory cannot simply be given,” Aili snorts in disdain, “Real glory is only for those who earn it. Who seek it out with a true, clear purpose. Who embody the things that it values so much that it comes to them willingly. Ghilan’nain achieved this Glory. All you did was receive a gift.”

Falon’Din raises a hand to strike her-

And Sylaise yanks her back away from him, fire in her eyes, radiating cold fury.

“What do you think you are doing?” she demands, and Aili is not sure which one of them she is talking to. Her uncle seems to find his tongue before she does, though.

“I am teaching her a valuable lesson about insolence,” he snaps.

“She is a child,” Sylaise retorts.

“She is only a child by your warped perceptions,” he snarls back, “She is more than old enough to receive punishment for her actions.”

“She is my child,” Sylaise reiterates through bared teeth, “If anyone is going to punish her, it shall be me, and no one else.”

Falon’Din makes a face, and Aili gets the distinct impression that he is weighing the outcome of starting an all-out brawl in the middle of the meeting hall. His conclusion seems to be that it would not end well for him. He scoffs.

“See that you find the time in that busy schedule of yours to teach her some manners,” he spits out as he storms off, all but dragging Glory in his wake, “Before she offends someone with less magnanimity, and something tragic occurs.” ~

But despite the obvious threat, and several attempts made on her life, including one where she was nearly stabbed during a procession in the streets of Arlathan itself, the only figure who seems to attract tragedy is poor Glory.

Aili does not see them fall, too busy maneuvering her own small portion of her mother’s troops across a different area of the battlefield, it is one of her first major fights, and she is eager to prove herself capable. But she feels it somehow. Down in the marrow of her bones. And she hears the cry that follows. The outrage and fury.

She turns, and breaks formation, trying to fight her way over to where they have fallen, but she is too far away.

She comes for them after. When the main body of the army has withdrawn and there is no one left on the field but the dead and the dying. And the carrion birds circling overhead.

As gently as she can, she pulls the shaft of the black arrow from their back and seals the wound with healing magic, turning them over in her arms and caressing their face. Not dead. Not yet. But close. Closer than she would like.

She gathers as many fragments of the shattered spirit as she can find, and lifts Glory’s body in her arms as though they weigh nothing. Hastily making her way towards where she knows some of Lavellan’s agents are waiting.

“Stop!” a voice calls out, and she turns her head to see three scouts approaching, all bearing Ghilan’nain’s markings. “Our lady wishes that the body of her failed experiment should be returned to her for study. We have been ordered to remove them from the battlefield.”

Aili pulls away her helmet so they can see her face. Free of any vallaslin. The symbols of Sylaise scrawled over the shapes of her armor, bright as moonlight. She scowls at them as they seem to put two and two together and realize who they have been shouting at.

“You are free to take them from me, if you can,” she offers simply, continuing on her way.

She changes directions a few times, wandering about until she is sure she is not being followed before doubling back and seeking out her aunt’s people.

“Here,” she says, passing the limp body into one of the agent’s arms, “You are…Desire, yes? My aunt told me you would be the one to help them. I was seen taking the body away, which means Falon’Din and Ghilan’nain’s eyes will be on me. Keep them away from Sylaise’s territory. Find somewhere secure in my father’s lands. His voice has been largely quiet on this matter, and they will not suspect him.”

Desire looks as though she is caught somewhere between bursting into tears and vomiting. Aili can hardly blame her. She takes the pouch of spirit shards from her hip and passes it to her.

“This was all there was left of them,” she informs her quietly. “I am…so sorry.” ~

The years pass much as they always do. Armor and battles. Fine dresses and festivals. Mountains of tedious paperwork to ensure that her mother’s territory runs smoothly. Especially in the more rural areas she is most likely to overlook.

She has no word of Glory.

Aili insisted that it be that way, for their safety. And because she does not know what sort of strange effect she might have had on them, if she had been the one to shape their views of the world. If her obvious devotion would somehow be misconstrued as an obsession similar to Falon’Din’s.  

The spring festival arrives in Arlathan again, and her mother insists, as she always does, that she attend.

She is in an outfit that makes her feel like a walking rosebush more than anything else. Live flowers blooming across the top of her gown, bright blushing pink and dark velvety crimson, offset with threads of gold and touches of starlight all tumbling down into a gauzy green skirt. Her hair is a loud flaming red, and her skin is pale, as though suggesting she is merely another type of rose.

The damn train on this dress is an absolute menace.

She spots them standing near the General, out in one of the open courtyards in front of one of the Pleasure houses. Melarue’s if she is not mistaken. She does not spend much time here herself, unless there is some function going on in the city, but it is difficult to know anything of the Pleasure District without hearing their name.

Aili hears her heart thundering roughly in her chest as she walks over to them, attempting to act casual. They look younger, brighter somehow, than she remembers. They wear their hair in a slightly different fashion and, the biggest difference of all, the vallaslin written across their face is done in copper instead of red. June’s vallaslin.

“Aunt Lavellan,” she greets, pressing forward for a brief embrace, made somewhat awkward between all of her leafy bits of finery and the shapes of the General’s armor. Her eyes shift to her companion and she nearly swallows her tongue. They will not be the same, she reminds herself. They will not know her. “And who is this?”

“My name is Uthvir, my lady,” they say with a courteous bow, “I have the honor of serving your father as a cartographer.”

“A fine and noble profession,” she commends.

“Thank you, my lady,” they reply with another inclination of their head.

Silence blooms between them. Lavellan gives her a look. Uthvir blinks at her. And for her own part, Aili finds herself at a complete loss for words.

I think I know you, she nearly blurts out. She can see the same features that she fell in love with. Their nose. Their chin. Their eyes. The face of her spouse.

The face of her beloved daughter.

Instead she tugs a rose off of her dress, a red one, and hands it to them.