#i must... jest... morrigan i must jest...

You loved her more than you had any right to.

Morrigan.

The witch of the wilds, the woman who had become your bosom friend. She had once called you her sister, and though the word made your stomach churn and chest tighten, you were glad she called you hers at all. You were hopelessly in love with her from the first moment you met her in those very same wilds, her raven hair and sharp wit had ensnared you into the piercing mouth of longing’s trap, an obsession that only grew the longer you travelled together until it consumed you with its biting teeth.

When she left for the first time, it destroyed you. Your victory against the Archdemon felt empty, Ferelden was saved but at what cost? You Convinced Alister to lay with her though the words tasted like bile on your tongue, and her farewell the following day before the battle felt like wolves tearing at your bowels.

When she left for the second time, that’s when you knew you would never truly be able to put all the pieces of you back together. You begged to go with her, for her to take you with her to whatever damned realm laid beyond the eluvian, but she refused you to suffer her same fate.

Her words still echo in your head.

“I cannot allow you to make that sacrifice.”

Those same words pound against the inside of your skull over, and over, and over again. Even now you can hear them, mocking you— Your own mind makes a fool of you.

Every day since then you’ve carried an unbearable ache deep within your chest. Everyone who laid eyes on you could see you were a woman lost, driven mad by her grief. The people closest to you were starting to get worried, you were in a bad way. Many suns have set and moons have risen since you last saw her, but your misery still grows with each passing day. Your beauty once renowned was now fading away, your flesh growing gaunt, and your eyes lifeless, always lost in what were now distant memories.

You sit near a window, gazing at the sun dipping behind the distant mountains in hazy shades of pink and orange fading into a deep purple. A warm wetness rolls down your cheek, a salty droplet falling from the inner corner of your eye onto your hands, intertwined on your lap.

The door leading to your study creaks open, breaking you away from your thoughts. You wipe at your face hastily with the sleeve of your robes, before standing to greet your visitor.

“I thought I’d find you here, I don’t think I’ve seen you with your face not buried in a mountain of documents since you’ve returned.” Alister says, throwing a disapproving glance towards your cluttered desk.

“Well, your Majesty, someone has to. These documents shan’t review themselves, do you need help with something, or have you just come to pester me?” You jest, a sad smile playing at your lips.

“There’s that sharp tongue I had so missed. It’s a fine night, you shouldn’t be locked away with all these dusty books. Why not come out for a drink among friends? You do a disservice to the entirety of Denerim keeping yourself tucked away inside these same four walls.” Alister asks, invitation on his tongue.

“Thank you for the offer but, I don’t feel quite up to it at the moment. I must insist you go on without me, it would be a pity to let my sour face spoil the night.” You sigh, dismissing his offer.

“Please, I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important to me. It makes me sad to see you this way, always sulking, you look positively miserable.” Alister chuckles, though there’s truth behind his words and worry hidden behind his joviality.

“Always the charmer… I’ll consider it.” You lie.

“Well, I suppose that’s better than a no. I hope to see you there, don’t keep the king of Ferelden waiting, I can have you hanged— remember that.” Alister threatens jokingly.

“Yes, your Royal Highness. Now please leave me before I start to quiver in my boots from fear.” You sneer playfully, guiding him towards the door and shutting it behind him, leaving you by your lonesome.

You sit by the window once more, by now the moon has risen, another empty day passed. You eye the warm, white glow, the moon round and full in all its glory. You wonder if Morrigan is looking up at the same dusk sky, if her eyes glow in the same moonlight as yours. That’s when you hear yourself sniffle, a sob clawing its way from your throat. You clasp your hands over your mouth, attempting to keep the pathetic little whines from escaping to no avail. Every day was the same pitiful story, the same harrowing routine.

But you wish not to abandon the pain you feel.

You wish to suffer her. You wish to hurt. For the day that you no longer remember the woman who is the source of your pain, is the day you are truly lost.

Morrigan.

Morrigan.

Morrigan.

Anansi has long since stopped trying to intercede between them. It is like ritual, now -- Alistair is clumsy but kind, Morrigan teases him for it, Alistair clearly wants to strangle her with her own scarf. Neither of them has ever cornered Anansi and begged to be kept away from the other. It is a dance -- not one Anansi would ever be able to follow the steps of with any grace, but both of them seemed to be doing just fine.

"Thank you for asking after my comfort, Alistair." Anansi tucks an errant strand of straw-blond hair behind Alistair's ear, tracing his stubbled jawline with gentle fingers as he brings his hand back down. Alistair's shoulders unbunch and he blushes. Anansi doesn't have to be facing Morrigan to know she's rolled her eyes, nor does he have to be clairvoyant to know she would later pointedly perform the same gesture on Anansi before grasping his chin and kissing him hard enough to bruise. Mockery is Morrigan's way, but there is flattery in it for the chosen few, if one has eyes to see. "I am anxious, to be sure. Anora has painted a grim picture. But I am well-accustomed to horror."

"Well, sure, but…"

"You think it is worse, that it happens to… 'my kin'?" Anansi tosses back his thick raven hair, revealing pointed ears, but these ears are adorned with bone charms, much like his neck and his wrists: a witch's fetishes. A Chasind witch's fetishes. "I am not elven, Ali, my love. I am of the Wilds."

"Barely," mutters Morrigan, who has never forgiven Anansi for being dragged off to the Circle.

"I know little of elven culture, city or Dalish. When I walk into that place, they will see pointed ears, yes. But they will not see kin."

Alistair nods, teeth worrying at the inside of his lip as he considers. "I am Fereldan, but… not. To me, I am Avvar. But people insist on seeing a Fereldan, when they look at me." He blinks, refocusing on Anansi. "But that's the opposite of what you're saying, isn't it. Sorry. May have misunderstood."

Anansi's smile is soft, appreciative. "I think you understand just fine."

--

When Anansi walks into that place, that place with its structures sagging with disrepair and its peoples sagging with despair, that place with its defiant garlands and tapestries made with hands desperately trying to recall arts lost, that place lousy with plague -- not just sickness, but the crawling presence of the Tevinter Imperium -- he feels a queer sickness descend upon him like a smothering shroud. His vision doubles, trebles, then snaps back. He sways on his feet, and Alistair, used to this, steadies him with a hand.

"All right?" the other Warden asks, quietly.

"No," Anansi sighs, "but it matters not." He scans the landscape, his eyes continually catching on coughing beggars and wilting gardens and wailing children. "There must be a... a leader of sorts around. Let's--"

He'd stepped forward, intent on finding someone to question, but in an instant the alienage goes grey in his vision, and he knows he is gone. He rides the wave of vertigo, swallowing the rolling nausea, softening his eyes as colours and shapes shift and recede and expand. Acute and aching sensation of being stretched like soft candy as he is pulled up and out and sideways, away from his body, into the Archdemon's dream. Were the darkspawn here, too? Was this their plague? No… he senses Urthemiel's psychic intercedence has another cause.

Steadied in the Fade-shift, he looks up. The thick, gnarled tree at the center of the Alienage stands stark against the blackened sky, thrumming with energy, electric with it. < Burn. Burn. Burn! >

Urthemiel's capacity for eloquence is variable, and it seems today he is too riled to bother with clarity.

< Took our ichor. Grew tree from it. Grew in power. Hungry hearts, hungry elvhen hearts. >

Anansi looks upon the alienage's tree with new eyes. Yes. The power, though greatly dimmed with the passage of time and the ravages of neglect, is still there. Stolen, warped, reforged. He can feel the Archdemon's psyche surging, as if it is standing up, preparing to fly. A blast of heat at Anansi's back, dragon breath, dragon rancor. The tree is engulfed in flames, and Urthemiel sinks its great teeth into it, ripping, ripping. Nothing will ever quell Urthemiel's rage, nurtured over ages, but this… this would at least bring a savage pleasure.

"-- wouldn't smell all that great, either!" Anansi swallows against another heave of his stomach as he is wrenched back into his body, the tail end of whatever retort Alistair was delivering to Morrigan clanging like dented bells in his ears. Alistair, sensing Anansi's return, flinches guiltily and looks down at the head he is cradling in his lap. "Ah, love, you're back."

Anansi's gut aches, and he misses Sten and their delicately brewed root tea terribly. Maybe he would leave all this to the senior Warden and run off to the forest where the Qunari, misliking human cities, had gone on a personal investigation. Maybe he would leave it all. Take Sten and head south, to… the Wilds, the Wilds that were now overrun with darkspawn, the fens and marshes and swamps festering with Blight, and his people…

"Anansi?" Morrigan queries from behind her scarf, wrapped around her face against the sour smells of the alienage. "What ails you?"

He then feels the tears trickling unheeded from his eyes, and the weariness that weighs him down as he struggles to sit up. Some elves had crept close to them, wary but curious. He shakes off the malaise. "I'm just tired. Unfathomably. It matters not. We have a job to do."

             You were ready, already stealing away to a hidden exit in the building, prepared to make your escape, when a loud commotion made you pause. The king’s guard were all rushing in one direction, and echoing through the halls was the sound of metal clashing on metal, the air suddenly charged with tension. Crowley’s people had come to free him, and they would cut through every living soul for fun. “Sam, you must go, and take Jessica!” An all-too familiar voice shouted, your heart racing. Dean. Of course, he had to be the hero every time. You had a mission, a vital task that your entire kingdom depended on you for. If you turned around, you knew well that you would never be able to leave. But if you left, knowing the odds were so stacked against Dean, you didn’t think you could forgive yourself. The shouts and sound of battle grew louder and louder, and for a moment, everything became clear, and you knew what you had to do.

              “Stop! Touch him and I swear I shall kill you!” You snarled viciously, a sword you’d stolen from the body of a dead soldier in your hand. The man that had been holding a knife to Dean’s throat hesitated as he saw the death promise blazing in your eyes, the unrestrained fury and hatred burning there. “Why should I take such an order from you?” The man spat. “For one, because I will not hesitate to slay you where you stand, and you would be dead before your wretched companions could so much as move,” you started, eyes narrowed, “and for another, because I have command of you and your legions by birthright.” No one moved, Dean’s shocked green eyes snapping to you. “What?” “By your law and custom, you are bound to the ruling of the MacLeod bloodline, and thus, to me. I am Y/N MacLeod, Queen of Innisfree, The Morrigan, The Assassin, and Queen of you, especially since Crowley is otherwise indisposed.” You said. You had played the only card you had left, but the cost weighed heavily, and you met Dean’s eyes finding nothing but betrayal in them. The demon slowly removed the knife, the others exchanging glances, but following the example, especially as your sword remained poised to strike. They knelt, and your expression remained hard, swallowing the guilt down. “Return to your own stronghold, and if a single one of you is found within five kilometres of this land, I shall make an exceptionally gruesome example of you of what happens when I am disobeyed.” You ordered. When no one moved, you stepped closer, sword pressed against the first demon’s chest. “I don’t believe I hesitated.” You growled. They scrambled to leave, not daring to challenge you, knowing well your reputation.

           “Y/N, please tell me you lied.” Dean begged, your eyes closing. “I am so sorry, Dean. I never- I never wanted for this to happen, I-” He shook his head, backing away from you. “This entire time, everything was a lie, all of it part of your plan. I trusted you!” Dean shouted accusingly. “I hope you can understand in time that I did what I had to. I have a kingdom to protect, Dean. This burden was mine, and I had to carry it. Forgive me. I have to go.” You said, voice wobbling with tears building in your eyes. “I understand. But I must protect my kingdom, too, Y/N.” Dean said, your brows furrowing in confusion. “I wish it did not have to be this way.” He sighed heavily. “Dean, I do not understand-” and then you felt it. The presence of someone behind you. John Winchester and his personal guard. You didn’t have the time to run before you were knocked unconscious.

                 You woke in a place that was familiar, immediate terror stealing away the air from your lungs. Stone walls, darkness, and absolute silence. The tomb-like prison you had been incarcerated in before. “No, no, no, no...” You gasped, scrambling to your feet. Through the bars, you saw Dean staring at you. “Dean, please, don’t do this.” You pleaded, thoughts spiraling further into despair. “You betrayed me. You betrayed my people.” “I saved your life!” “And how long would it be before your army came here to lay siege to my palace, Y/N?!” Dean shot back, marching up to the cell. “I would never have hurt you, Dean.” You said, shocked. “How can I believe you? How can I believe a single word you say, when everything, everything you have ever said to me, has been a lie!” He roared, slamming a fist against the wall and immediately regretting it. You flinched at the anger and anguish in his voice. “I told you I was here for my people, Dean! I have been more honest with you than I have been with anyone else in my entire life!” You argued desperately. “I would have helped you, if you had told me. I could have been there for you. Instead you kept it a secret, and I don’t know how many other secrets you have.” Dean swallowed. “The worst part of it is you made me believe you cared for me. Well, if that was your intention, congratulations, Y/N, you made me care for you, too.” He said bitterly, your eyes going wide. “I do care for you. No matter how I cherish you, I cannot let myself stray from my mission. I wanted to, so many times.” You admitted in a whisper. “Please, don’t leave me here. If you truly care for me, don’t leave me here-” “Don’t! Do not attempt to manipulate me, not any longer.” Dean said lowly. “You are to be tried, and sentenced come dawn.” “And if I am sentenced to death?” You asked boldly. “Then I will not be mourning.” He replied. You moved fast, snatching his sword from his side, and held it, but the blade was against your own throat. “Then go ahead, Dean. I would rather die than be trapped here, so if you truly would not mourn, kill me now.” You said, staring into his eyes defiantly, his hand on the hilt of the sword. He shook his head, sheathing the weapon and backing away. “You will be tried for your crimes as is just.” He said. “Crowley is my enemy as well as yours! I can stop him, I can trap he and his men forever! Why will you not help me?” You demanded. “I am to be King one day, Y/N, and my father has told me there are many difficult choices to make. I am commanding my troops and we will take Innisfree under Lebanon’s name, as it is clearly a hostile kingdom and dangerous.” Dean said, not meeting your eyes. You couldn’t breathe. “No, you can’t! My people are innocent, Dean, please! Don’t do this!” You begged, now near sobbing. “I have to. You forced my hand, and with Crowley freed, there is no other way.” He said, turning away with his back to you. “I am not the one who is the traitor, Dean. I was wrong about you. You are exactly like your father.” You choked out, sinking to your knees. He swallowed hard, glad you couldn’t see the agony on his face. He walked out, and you collapsed into your grief.

                  The King and his council, as well as both princes, sat in a line at the raised podium as you were led to the middle of the floor, manacled and clad in irons and chains with multiple armed guards flanking you. The people loudly shouted insults and threats at you, but you remained stoic, the grey light of dawn matching your somber mood. Dean looked everywhere but at you, and as John stood to begin the proceedings of the trial, you kept your gaze steady on him.

               “The jury has come to a unanimous decision. The accused, Y/N MacLeod, is found guilty of treason, murder, espionage, theft, and being part of a dangerous rebellion. The accused is sentenced to...” John paused for dramatic effect, the audience hushed. “Death by the gallows.” John declared. You lifted your chin, as regal as any Queen, the audience cheering. Dean finally met your eyes, looking conflicted. You were led immediately to the gallows, a hooded man already waiting to pull the lever that would seal your fate. 

             “As is tradition, you are permitted last words.” John said. “My death will not be in vain! No matter what you accuse me of, I die knowing I fought with honour against tyrants like you for the freedom of my people!” You said proudly. You met Dean’s eyes, and couldn’t find it in you to hate him. “And no matter the outcome, I would make the same choices all over again.” You said, hoping Dean understood what you meant. The pain in the end was worth the beauty of falling in love for a moment. You turned to John with a satisfied smirk. “I shall see you in Hell.” You promised. He turned red in fury, and you closed your eyes as he turned to the executioner. “Do it-” “Wait!”

            Your eyes snapped open, staring at Dean in confusion. He’d stood from his seat, John and Sam gaping at him while the public watched on. The obedient son, heir to the throne, opposing his father’s orders. And for the thief and assassin condemned to hanging. Dean took several quick and long strides to the gallows, meeting your eyes ashamedly.

             “Wait.” Dean repeated, fists clenched and jaw tight. “She is not the enemy, father, at least not as of now.” “Son, I would advise you to return to your seat-” John gritted his teeth but Dean wasn’t finished pleading his case. “No, father, listen to me. She is the enemy of Crowley, and thus our ally. Her alliance with Crowley’s forces is purely to overthrow the occupants of Innisfree. She is a powerful person to have on our side in this war, father.” Dean said, tone steady but hard and uncompromising. “You can’t mean to say you would side with her.” John said incredulously. “That is precisely what I mean.” Dean didn’t wait for his father’s permission, drawing his sword and cutting through the rope around your neck, making you cough at the sudden intake of air. He met his father’s eyes challengingly as he offered you his hand, John’s gaze flickering between you both in shock. “My son,” John began loudly, “has decided to take full responsibility for the crimes and charges against this murderer. He has sworn that she will be our ally, until the war against Fergus MacLeod ends, or she is met with an untimely death.” John said, cutting a glare your way. “Furthermore, should either of them break the terms, both shall be permanently exiled from these lands on pain of death.” John decreed. Dean’s grip tightened, but he showed no other outward signs of the shock he must’ve felt, while Sam was standing, ready to argue for his brother’s sake. “Is that understood?” John asked. “Perfectly, father. If you would excuse us. The guards are not necessary.” Dean said, bowing mockingly, and leading you away.

           “What are you thinking?!” You demanded as Dean entered his room. “A thank you would suffice, Y/N.” He responded. “For what?! Risking both of our lives?! Do you realize your title is now at risk of being forfeit?” “I won’t have a title if Crowley takes over my kingdom. I was selfish, and I acted on impulse out of hurt, and for that, I truly apologize. I should never have let you be locked away. I am still hurt, and I don’t know if I can trust you,” he frowned, meeting your eyes, “but I cannot pretend what I feel for you has vanished.” “Dean, think about this. I still have a mission I must fulfill.” You said quietly. “I know. None of it matters, not right now. All I need to know is that you and I are on the same side. The rest of it can come later.” He said, eyes warm as he regarded you. “Are we? On the same side?” Dean asked. “Of course we are.” You said, smiling slightly. “Good. Now, we rest, and then we devise a plan.” “You truly think this can work?” “I don’t know. But I would like to hope so.” He said with a smile. You considered him for a long moment, nodding slowly. You believed him.

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“They will need to be trained on the borders of Skyhold, perhaps by a few Inquisition scouts? It is an agreeable but temporary solution. The Orlesian soldiers will only be with us until Corypheus’s defeat,” Josephine says.  

“Then they’re with us until then. We can look for a different solution when we need to. This will work for now,” Leliana says. “I have a few scouts in mind who will work well for teaching the terrain.” Alexi bites his bottom lip, pulls at the hem of his cloak. He can feel Boots shifting against his back, sitting up to perch his head on Alexi’s shoulder. The echo is always at a point of neutrality. A circle around him, a way to orient himself. He focuses it, finds Leliana and Josephine. Their colors are steady, sure. He can feel the tired ache pouring off of Cullen.

He resists reaching out further. He knows the cracked red has struck deeper – lightning lines into an uncertain ocean. Cullen would know the touch of his magic, so, he holds it back. Boots perches himself atop Alexi, paws biting into his shoulder, and deftly leaps down onto the war table. He sits, paws at one of the lion statuettes, and knocks it over. Josephine clutches at her writing board while Leliana half giggles, leans over the table to prop it upright once again. Boots briefly swipes at her hand, playfully rolling onto his back so she can rub his belly.

“Well,” Cullen says, rubbing the space between his brows, “if that’s all for today?” Leliana pulls her hand back, and Boots, with a disappointed mewl, hops off the table and slips out the cracked open door.

“One last thing. I have no doubt that Merrill is waiting outside that door to speak with you, Inquisitor. She and Morrigan have tasked my scouts with running down a few leads, but she requested that she be the one to explain everything to you,” Leliana tells Alexi as she rounds the table, briefly putting her hand against his back. “I think you’ll find it fascinating.” True to her word, the moment they leave, Merrill pushes herself away from the wall she had been leaning against. Josephine and Leliana stroll leisurely together. Cullen hastily speeds away, walking around them, down the hallway.

Merrill slips her arm into Alexi’s. “I have something to show you,” she says, in a voice filled with breathless excitement. A most welcome change from the more serious nature of the war room, Merrill gives his arm a fond squeeze.

“So I’ve been told,” Alexi says, his smile widening, utterly amused and taken by her glee.

“It’s finally arrived from Kirkwall,” she says, “my eluvian.”

“One of these days you’ll have to tell me exactly how you fixed it,” he says.

“First I’m going to show every clan,” she says. When they enter the Great Hall, a hush falls. It’s only for a moment, a single held breath. On the exhale, the voices pick up once again. Masks have found their way into Skyhold, as though this place is an extension of the game. The Inquisition knows better and Skyhold is no Winter Palace. His staff leans against his shoulder, and he takes comfort in the swaying of the all the trinkets affixed to it. The crystals, the chime of bells. Herbs wound with twine, ribbons keeping bright hold of all of it. It helps to distract from the way the colors of the Orlesian nobles seem to follow him.

There is one, one which actually follows him. Fiona’s steps are pointed and purposeful, cutting a path directly towards him. “Inquisitor. May I join you?” Her lightly accented voice cuts through all the other noise.

“Hello Grand Enchanter. You’re very welcome to walk with us. How are you? I hope the addition of the Orlesian troops haven’t disturbed you,” he says. From his other side, Merrill waves at Fiona.

“I’m well, thank you. No, they haven’t disturbed us, but I believe they are restless to know where they are going to be fighting,” Fiona says. She carries a single book in her arms, walks with her back straight and her head held high. They weave through the crowded hall together, most moving out of their way as Merrill guides them both towards the gardens.

“Aren’t we all?” he says, a sigh on the very end of his words. Fiona smiles, clutches her book, and shakes her head.

“Not all of us. Many of the mages welcome the current quiet, as uneasy as it may be. Most of us have seen more than our share of fighting,” she says. Instantly, Alexi’s gut wrenches with guilt.

“Yes,” he says softly, “of course. I’m sorry, I haven’t spoken to them as much as I should have lately. How are things with the Templars?”

“Barris keeps them in line as best he can. There are more than a few that are keeping with the old prejudices, but it’s nothing we haven’t seen or heard before. We’re managing,” she says. Managing. His grip tightens on his staff. “But that’s not why I wanted to speak with you. There is an empty tower on the battlements. I was hoping to turn it into a tower specifically for the mages. We need a place for research, experiments, and for compiling our knowledge. A place to teach and foster magical skill, away from the Templars.”

“Oh that’s a wonderful idea,” Merrill says.

“I agree,” Alexi says with a nod, as they step out into the gardens. He feels the warmth of the sun against his face, and the coolness of the breeze cannot slip through his cloak, his scarf, and his sweaters. Grass bends to their every step, soft earth underneath. It must have rained last night. It still drips from the gazebo.  

“Your advisors said you would be agreeable to the idea. I’ll track down Lady Josephine and begin discussing details. I’m certain many of the mages will have their own lists of things we should acquire,” Fiona says, putting her hand on Alexi’s arm, slowing him with her. “You’re always welcome to join us. I think we’re all a little curious about what goes on inside the Inquisitor’s head. Sharing your work with defensive magic would be a boon to us.”

“I do miss the comfort of being surrounded by fellow mages,” he says.  

“Merrill, you’re also very welcome to join us,” Fiona says, nodding at her.

“Oh, I’ll have to think about it. But thank you!” she says.

“Then, I’ll leave you to it Inquisitor, Merrill. Good day.”

“She’s very nice,” Merrill says, as she watches Fiona stroll back the way they came. No doubt to march right into Josephine’s office with the Inquisitor’s freshly given approval. “I don’t think I’ll be at the tower much, though. Are they going to call it a Circle? I think the Circles should stay gone.”

Alexi leans in close, “as do I,” he says. Merrill leads him to a door in the offshoot of the gardens. One of the many abandoned rooms, which had been lacking purpose. Rooms they had meant to re-fit with beds and such for nobles – but now Alexi makes a note to approach Josephine and the others about filling these rooms with refugees. Morrigan is already waiting for them, standing still and silent beside the eluvian.

He knows that Morrigan had shed the regalia of the Orlesian court, now wears clothing of the Inquisition. A chameleon, her colors ripple towards what suit her surroundings best. She and Leliana had been as thick as thieves the moment Morrigan had come to Skyhold. Alexi had asked them once, if they knew where the Hero of Ferelden was. He knew better than to press at their silence, their half-answers. The Hero was no longer necessary, but… He’d be happy if no one else looked to him for all the decisions.

“Inquisitor,” Morrigan says, as Merrill slips from his arm, goes to her eluvian. His echo doesn’t know exactly how to decipher it. He’s been told it’s a mirror with no reflection, a thing of impossible beauty. His echo returns something scratched, broken, an everything surrounded by the nothing. Framed chaos. He holds out his hand near it, the bells of his staff chiming as he moves. The moment the anchor draws near to it, a spark seems to shoot straight through him. He instantly pulls his hand back.

“I have a suspicion that Corypheus may have limited access to a few eluvians. They would bring him from one point to another, a way of transporting his army over long distances without detection, but they do not bring him to the real prize,” Morrigan says. “That lies inside eluvians opened with the right keys. Merrill’s, for instance, has been unlocked towards what he seeks.” Merrill walks past them, into the eluvian. Her colors swirl in the pit of nothing, and she seems untroubled by that sudden loss. Morrigan soon follows, and Alexi can do no less.

He shudders as he walks through it, submerged in a sudden pool of ice water. His hand instantly clenches into a fist as the anchor shudders with him, squeezing painfully around his fingers, his wrist, and his arm. Alexi half gasps when he comes out at the other side. Morrigan smiles with understanding, puts a steadying hand at his back. “Yes, it’s quite uncomfortable the first few times,” she says. It isn’t the utter blackness of the Fade. This is shades of grey, unintelligible static. He frowns, focuses his echo towards a point. It changes nothing. It’s so near, the sister of the Fade, something cut from the same cloth, but with wild differences in the thread.

“I’ve taken to calling this place the Crossroads,” Morrigan says as she gently pushes him forward. The static interferes even with his tether on her, and with Merrill a further distance away, he can barely make out her green.

“It’s as good a name as any,” Merrill says. She hums to herself as she walks between rows of eluvians, her fingertips ghosting against their frames. “I think my people called it something else, long ago. There’s always been ruins. Places we know the elvhen have been, but no roads.” She turns, claps her hands together, and rushes towards Alexi. “These eluvians, this place, are their roads.” Curiosity takes him, and he brushes touch against an inactive mirror. He dares not touch the glass. That magic sleeps, and as he clenches his hand into a fist, he fears the anchor might wake it. It does not like this place. Or perhaps it does, he cannot tell. Either way, small tendrils of pain wrap up his arm.

“All eluvians join here, when opened correctly, no matter where they may be,” Morrigan says. “It is difficult to say how this place is even possible. It is very near the Fade, however, it is not the Fade. It is perhaps formed from the fabric of time and space. Your guess would be as good as mine.”

“If someone came to the Crossroads, or a place like it, with enough power, they could tear down the walls. That’d open a way to the Fade, a way you could enter it physically, just like Corypheus wanted to do with the anchor,” Merrill says.

“So if he had an eluvian and a compatible key, he could come here?” Alexi asks, tilting his head upwards. It does nothing, simply more grey. The promise of color, built upon a lie.

“Correct. Merrill and I have made a list of all possible eluvians which could be opened. They are either opened easily, or the key is readily available. We’ve given the list to Leliana, who has her scouts monitoring each location,” she says. “The moment any hint of Corypheus or his army is detected, we’ll be able to move quickly.” Alexi’s shoulders ease when they step back through the eluvian. Color rushes back to him, and he breathes in deeply the air of Thedas. Lighter, not as heavy as the Crossroads.  

“Don’t worry Alexi,” Merrill says, “we’ll find Corypheus soon.”

“I hope so. Thank you, both of you, for all of this. If this is the answer – well,” he says. Merrill smiles, sways on her feet.

“I’m glad Hawke wrote to me,” she says.

“As am I,” Alexi tells her softly. She and Morrigan stay with the eluvian, while he steps back out into the garden. He thinks that perhaps, he might go back to his room. That would require walking through the Great Hall again, however, and at the thought, a sigh rattles him deeply. It’s the same with trying to make his way down into the workshop, or finding Boots – all paths lead to the Hall. Instead, he finds himself taking the long way around, into the Courtyard. Past the entrance into Skyhold, towards the stables.

He smiles as he stands near the horses, who nudge him carefully with their noses. He takes care to pay attention to each one he passes. “Hello Dorte,” he murmurs to one, “hello Arthur,” to another. Dennet is using a pitchfork to place hay inside a few stalls, and his greetings are plain and passing. Alexi wanders into the barn, expecting to find Blackwall. He bumps into the carving table accidentally, and reaches out to find what Blackwall had been working on.

A curved beak. Sanded down, smooth and complete. Intricate details carved with care. Wings, legs – ah, a griffon. He had drank with Blackwall last night, having seemed out of sorts. A conversation on what exactly makes a good man. Alexi’s hands move from the griffon, find the slip of paper before it, and he fears he didn’t give him the right answers. “Master Dennet,” Alexi says. Dennet wipes the sweat from his brow, leans on the pitchfork, and waits expectantly. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, but I was wondering if you could read this for me.” He holds out the slip of paper.

Clearing his throat, Dennet takes it, his eyes moving over each word. “Inquisitor, I think you should have your spymaster tell you what it says,” he says handing it back to Alexi after a moment, “it’s not for someone like me to read.”

“Oh.” There’s an unease. An imbalance. “Thank you Master Dennet.” He pulls his cap back down, goes back to his work. Alexi clutches the paper in his hands, and tries not to seem as though something is wrong. He climbs the stairs to the battlements, finds his way to the rotunda. Up and up, until the cawing of crows is practically beside his ear. Leliana looks up from her desk when he enters the rookery, the quill perched in her hand.

“Alexi, what can I –” Alexi thrusts the paper towards her. Leliana takes it quickly, reads it much the same. “Inquisitor. You’ve been a friend and an inspiration. You’ve given me the wisdom to know right from wrong and, more importantly, the courage to uphold the former. It’s been my honor to serve you,” she reads it in a flat and impersonal tone. A pause, and then she sighs. “I didn’t want to think much of the reports that Blackwall was seen leaving this morning.”  

She stands, begins rifling through papers on his desk. “We spoke last evening and he seemed distressed. I don’t think – do you think it has something to do with that? I thought that we… he seemed better when I left,” Alexi says.

“I think you gave him the courage to come to a decision. I had thought it harmless before, but Blackwall had gone through my things. He had taken a report on a minor incident which occurred in Orlais. One of the perpetrators of that incident has been caught, and is scheduled to hang. Blackwall disappearing now would give him time enough to attend that hanging,” Leliana says, finally finding what she was looking for, and holding it up, re-reading a section. “Lieutenant Cyril Mornay.”

“Val Royeaux?”

“I’ll send word you need a few horses prepared, and Josephine will manage your schedule. If you intend to make it in time, you should leave now,” Leliana says.

How fitting that it rains. It comes down in a cascade at first, an almost unstoppable torrent. It begins to let up closer to the hanging, some few sorry tears still falling. It soaks his shoulders, seeps into his hair and cloak. “How miserable,” Cassandra says.

“I’d have to agree with you there,” Varric murmurs. Despite the rain, it seems all of Val Royeaux has come to watch. Together with Dorian, they push their way through the jeering crowd. A cacophony of shouting, of people far too eager to watch a man die.

“Cyril Mornay. For your crimes against the Empire of Orlais, for the murders of General Vincent Callier, Lady Lorette Callier, their four children, and their retainers…” The man standing with Cyril has to practically scream it out over the crowd in order to be heard. Alexi clutches his staff. “You are sentenced to be hanged from the neck until dead. Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

“What does he look like?” Alexi asks Cassandra in a quiet voice. She crosses her arms, squints at Mornay.

“Plain. Older. A few scars on his face. Nothing that stands out,” she tells him. The silence from Mornay stretches out, and so the executioner hauls him to his feet.

“Well this is grim,” Varric says. Alexi says nothing, agrees silently. A spectacle of death. “What does Blackwall want with this?” The noose settles around Mornay’s neck. He closes his eyes, bows his head. A deep breath.

“Stop!” Alexi immediately throws out his echo, stretching it further than he ever has before. There. At the edges. Blackwall climbs the steps of the makeshift platform, towards Cyril and the executioner. “This man is innocent of the crimes laid before him. Orders were given, and he followed them like any good soldier. He should not die for that mistake!”

“What is he doing?” Dorian sounds almost amused.

“Then find me the man who gave the order,” the executioner challenges Blackwall, closing the distance between them.

“Oh,” Varric says, “shit.” Alexi watches Blackwall’s colors turn towards him. He’s looking at him. Speaking to him.

“I was called Blackwall, but I am not Blackwall. I never was Blackwall. Warden Blackwall is dead, and has been for years. I assumed his name to hide, like a coward, from who I really am. It’s over. I’m done hiding. I gave the order. The crime is mine. I am Thom Rainier.” He speaks it solidly. Absolutely. Without a chance of error, so no one could call this an accident, or a mistake. The crowd roars, and the authorities swarm around Blackwall. Rainier.

“We have some time before they organize a punishment. They’ll be keeping him the cells,” Cassandra says as she watches Blackwall being dragged away. “If you wish to do something, we should send a message back to Skyhold now.”

“Do it,” Alexi says.

“Right, I suppose we’ll need to find some long term accommodations. Please don’t spend the night sleeping in the prison with him,” Dorian says. Alexi is already off, following them towards the prison. Varric waves the other two away. He’ll wait, and keep watch.

The guards can hardly deny the request of the Inquisitor, close ally to the Empire. Alexi waits impatiently as they jail him, mark his imprisonment. He reaches up, wraps a hand around one of the crystals. One marked by Vivienne – impossibly cool, incredibly calm. He takes solace in her strength. He feels it as he’s allowed down into the cells. Each step is precise, slow. The stone is slick with wet, only a few torches lit. Not that the darkness bothers him. Still, as he steps near the only occupied cell, he lights the torch nearby.

“I have… keys,” Alexi says, fumbling with them as he finds the lock on the cell. “I had to promise that you wouldn’t try to escape.” A turn, a click.

Blackwall wraps a hand around one of the bars, holds the door shut. “Leave it Alexi,” he says. “Leave me.”

“I can’t. You know I can’t,” Alexi says. “Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice seems so impossibly small in this place. He feels impossibly small.

“I didn’t take Blackwall’s life,” he says defensively.

“I know. I didn’t think you did.”

“I traded his death. He wanted me for the Wardens, but there was an ambush. Darkspawn. He was killed. I took his name to stop the world from losing a good man. But a good man, the man he was, wouldn’t have let another die in his place.” Alexi leans his staff against the opposite wall. His hands move over Blackwall’s, gently remove them from holding the door closed. Blackwall steps back, takes a seat on the bench in the cell, and Alexi joins him.

Sitting beside him, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. “You saved that man. That took courage.” He wishes he knew what face Blackwall is making. Any sort of detail of what he’s feeling. Instead, it’s that swirling color, the uncertain red, a stronger orange. He finds his answer in the strained way Blackwall speaks, the anger and grief in each word.

“Courage? I killed innocent people… destroyed Mornay’s life and the lives of others like him. One moment of courage will not make up for that.”

“It isn’t one moment of courage. Think of how many Wardens you saved at Adamant because you convinced them to join us. How many Venatori have you fought and killed? How many lives have you saved?” Blackwall shakes his head, unable to hear meaning in the words.

“Why are you here?”  

“I needed you to know that you aren’t alone in this.”

“Don’t you understand?” Blackwall pushes himself up from the bench, paces in the cell. Alexi’s fingers press against his knuckles. “I gave the order to kill Lord Callier, his entourage, and I lied to my men about what they were doing! When it came to light, I ran. Those men, my men, paid for my treason while I was pretending to be a better man.”

“Blackwall.”

“No! This is what I am. A murderer, a traitor… a monster.” He leans his back against the wall, slowly slides down. Legs bent, knees at his chest, his hands clutching his head. Alexi moves carefully. He reaches out with a trembling hand, tests a touch with his fingers before resting his palm against Blackwall’s knee.

“You are more than what you say. I’ve seen it. The whole of the Inquisition has seen it. You can’t see it, not right now, but it is there,” Alexi tells him. “Who you are now – you aren’t that Rainier anymore. You haven’t been him in a very long time.”

“How can you say that? Now that you know what I’ve done?” Alexi smiles fondly, goes to sit beside him. The stone isn’t anything close to comfortable, but Blackwall’s side is warm, and so he’s content to stay.

“I think I like you more, now, knowing. A monster wouldn’t have regret. A monster wouldn’t sacrifice himself for another. If you were a monster before, you aren’t that now. It takes great effort to overcome one’s nature. To take the more difficult path and walk one that may or may not be better,” Alexi says.

“Mornay is the only one I could save. The only one I sought to save,” Blackwall says.

“You’ve faltered, but you’re here, now. It doesn’t excuse what you’ve done. You’ll live with this your entire life and I’m not the one who can give you the forgiveness you’re looking for. But trying to be a good man? It isn’t for nothing,” he tells him.

Every day, Alexi finds himself down in that prison. Most of the time they sit in silence. Sometimes Alexi is in the cell with him, sometimes not. Blackwall doesn’t want to speak more of it. Still, no one wants to wait alone. He soothes Blackwall as much as he’s able, as much as he’ll allow him. His cracked colors make more sense now. Two different people, butting heads inside him. A struggle he had never spoken of until now. He isn’t the only one with cracked colors.

Alexi’s gut twists with guilt. He had said something like it before – who you are now is what matters. The hypocrisy of himself, to forgive one instantly but not the other. When the Inquisition does come, it isn’t Leliana or Josephine. “I have Leliana’s report on Thom Rainier,” Cullen says, catching him in the evening as Alexi goes to leave. He pauses, so close to the door, and turns towards him. He leans against his staff, waits patiently.

“Looks like our friend was once a respected Captain in the Imperial Orlesian army. Before the Civil War, he was turned, persuaded to assassinate one of Celene’s biggest supporters. He led a group of fiercely loyal men on this mission, and told them nothing of it. His men took the fall for him. A few lucky ones, like Mornay, managed to escape,” Cullen says, quickly followed by a sigh. “What do we do now?” He raps his knuckles against the nearby table, thinking quickly. “We could have him released to us, so that you may pass judgment on him yourself.”

“If it were up to you, what would happen?”

“What he did to the men under his command was unacceptable. He betrayed their trust, betrayed ours. I despise him for it. And yet he fought as a Warden. Joined the Inquisition. Gave his blood for our cause. And the moment he shakes off his past, he turns around and owns up to it. Why?”

“He wanted to change. To prove that he’d really left his past behind, he had to face up to it. Be honest to us. Stop hiding away from it. You don’t think he’s changed from Rainier?”

“I’m not sure what to think. I used to – well. Saving Mornay the way he did took courage. I’ll give him that. But I can’t tell you what to do.” He speaks so haltingly. As though he had an opinion, once, which had been recently changed.

“Have him released to us,” Alexi says without hesitation.

“It will be done, Inquisitor,” Cullen says. Alexi reaches out, touching the back of Cullen’s hand.

“Please call me Alexi,” he half whispers it, the frown perched between his brows. He pulls his touch away quickly, but Cullen rubs his other hand over where he had been.

It proceeds quickly. Rainier is taken out of Val Royeaux under the cover of night, chains around his wrists and around his ankles. Judgement on the criminal will be made by the Inquisition. It will attract a fair bit of outcry, with the Orlesians having been denied their own justice. Alexi prepares an apology to Josephine on their ride back to Skyhold. She’ll have a lot of smoothing over to do. Still, when he recites the apology to her, she only smiles and waves it away.        

“It will need to be official. The nobility of Orlais currently with us need to see judgement being dispensed. I’m sorry, but you’ll have no privacy with this. He must be presented as a criminal,” she tells him. They prepare the Great Hall. He hates the throne they’ve given him. He sits well in it, made to his height and size, and still, he feels as though it doesn’t fit. Rather than rest his arms on the arm rests, his hands fidget in his lap.

“For judgement this day, Inquisitor, I must present Captain Thom Rainier, formerly known to us as Warden Blackwall,” Josephine says, mostly for the benefit of those attending the judgement. Alexi clenches his jaw when he hears the chains, knows that Blackwall is being dragged forth by Inquisition guards. “His crimes… well, you are aware of his crimes. The decision of what to do with him is now yours.”

“You could have left me there. I accepted my punishment. I was ready for all this to end,” Blackwall says, shaking his head, not daring to look up where Alexi sits.

“Thom Rainier. Someone has already passed your sentence. Warden Blackwall found you, and deemed you should serve the Wardens. I won’t do any less.” At this, Blackwall does look up. Alexi sits forward in the chair, a kind smile on his lips. “You have spent your time atoning for what you’ve done as Blackwall. Now, you’ll atone for it as Rainier. After you have aided the Inquisition in defeating Corypheus, you’ll be given to the Wardens. You’ll become what you were meant to be. What Warden Blackwall meant you to be.”

“Alexi…” Blackwall forces himself to stand up a little straighter, bear the burden of the chains.

“I’m told not all survive the Joining, and the life of a true Warden is difficult,” he says.  

“If I die, it will be no less than I deserve. And if I live… I’ll make it count.”

“I know you will.”

 ---

“A few have gotten lost during training,” Leliana says, “but they’ve all been found without trouble. They know their routes now, and they no longer stray from it. They’re even becoming more helpful in guiding the refugees.” Snow flattens under their feet as they walk through the tents together. The Orlesian soldiers have taken to their new task splendidly, patrolling throughout Skyhold and the valley. There’s a bit of a crowd following them, all wide eyed to see the Inquisitor in their midst.

“Has anything been found regarding shelter?”

“Mason Sturhald has a few ideas, but I think those skew towards the more permanent side,” she says. Alexi nods. The further out they get, is where the newer ones are. Tents pepper the hillside, some half buried in snow. Cold breath fogs out around him, and the chill seems to permeate through everything. Living like this?

“Even if it’s permanent, whatever we can have as soon as possible… Leliana, there are children here. If it gets any colder, I – well.”

“We all feel the same as you do. I promise, at the first viable solution, it will be done,” she says.

“Thank you Leliana.”

“Of course,” she says, moving to clasp her hands behind her back. She watches how others watch him, all so curious to catch a glance. She steps closer to him, her shoulder brushing against his arm. “I’ve noticed you haven’t taken any more books to be read.” Alexi immediately turns his head in her direction, floundering for an answer. A grin bursts across her face. “I’m surprised Cullen would turn you down.”

“He didn’t! I just – I know you know,” he says.

“I have no idea what you mean,” she says, feigning complete innocence.

“Has he said something?” Alexi asks, giving into his curiosity. Leliana chuckles.

“Nothing of the sort. He’s been suspiciously quiet, which says everything,” she says.

“I feel like such a fool. I knew he was a Templar. I’ve had experience with Templars, and I – I thought he was different. Maybe he didn’t actually want to be a Templar, or maybe he was one of the ones who helped the mages escaped but… I read the book. I’ve asked others. I know what he did in Ferelden and in Kirkwall. I know what happened to him and I, I just…”

“His being a Templar makes him different from Blackwall. Blackwall was easier to forgive, but Cullen isn’t, correct?”

“I had told him before that his past didn’t matter, and that who he is now is all that does. Then Samson said those things, and,” Alexi shakes his head, “I couldn’t feel past it. We were so close. I thought he trusted me with everything, but he wasn’t even the one to tell me. He skipped over the parts in the book. He said and did such terrible things.” He squeezes his hands around his staff.

“Blackwall became who he is away from you. You didn’t get to his struggles, or his growth. What he did seems so distant, because he’s so different now. Cullen is still struggling, and trying to grow. He’ll make mistakes, Alexi. I don’t believe it was ever his intention to hurt you,” she says.

“I know. I’ve let it go too long without talking to him,” he says, “I just don’t know what to say.” Leliana smiles, links her arm with his and leans into him.

“You could start with hello.” He begins to laugh, lean against her as well – only for his laughter to stop abruptly. His steps stop as well, Leliana stopping with him. She watches as he frowns, his head turning towards the opposite direction.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Leliana,” he whispers it to her, “there are Red Templars in the camps.” She pulls him tightly towards her.

“Keep walking. Pretend you feel nothing. Turn your head towards me. Smile. Laugh. Nothing is wrong,” she says, her voice light as she tugs him forward. “How many are there?”

“At least four. The lyrium in them is small, only just starting to grow. I don’t think they’d be showing any outward signs that they are Red Templars,” he says, forcing the smile onto his face.

“Easier for them to slip in and hide with the refugees. There’s a patrol up ahead. We can quietly pass the word, and hopefully apprehend them before anyone is hurt,” she says, her pace quickening. Alexi shakes his head.

“They’re following us.” Leliana wraps her hand around the hilt of the dagger in her belt.

The soldier is breathless as he bursts into Cullen’s office. “Attack. In the camps. Inquisitor. Spymaster. Red Templars,” he wheezes out. The chair tumbles backwards as Cullen half leaps out of it, holding the hilt of his sword, resisting the urge to draw it. Cullen points at a few guards nearby, rallies them to follow him. Morrigan, seeing them cross the Courtyard, follows with the staff in her hand. His breath is fire in his throat as they run down the drawbridge, into the valley.

Morrigan makes a disappointed noise as she closes the distance between herself and Leliana. She reaches out, wipes away the streak of blood on her cheek. Leliana waves away her attention. “Commander. You’ve quite missed all the action,” Leliana tells him. The bodies of six Red Templars lay strewn before her, their blood seeping into the snow. The few soldiers already there have piled them neatly, ready for them to be taken away.

“Where’s the Inquisitor?” Cullen asks, his hand finally leaving the sword, but still tightened into a fist. Leliana gestures with a tilt of her head, and Cullen whirls. Alexi stands tall amongst the tents, the other refugees. He half towers above them, but there’s a smile on his face. He bends down, speaking to the few gathered around them. For an attack having just taken place, the area is surprisingly calm. Alexi holds the hand of an older woman, alleviates the pain of arthritis in her joints.

“I have a few herbs which will help better. I can make a poultice for you, but you have to promise to apply it every night,” Alexi tells her.

“I’ll do my best not to forget,” she says. From one, to the next. Cullen is content to stand nearby, finally able to catch his breath. He rubs his eyes, the leather of his gloves colder than even the snow. His eyelids burn with a need for sleep, but he forces his thoughts to focus. He barely notices Leliana and Morrigan move up beside him as his hand falls back to his side.

“The bodies will be taken up to Skyhold proper. We need a better way of detecting them which doesn’t compromise our intake of refugees,” Leliana says.

“I believe this attack had a specific purpose. To distract you,” Morrigan says. “One of your scouts has finished giving a report to me. Some of Corypheus’s forces have been spotted in the Arbor Wilds. He means to go for the eluvian in Mythal’s temple.”

“Then we’ll need to begin preparing our armies immediately. We must begin marching now if we are to have any hope of arriving in time,” Leliana says. “I’ll begin discussing things with Josephine, if you’d join me Morrigan. Cullen, you can inform the Inquisitor. We’ll see you back at the war table.” Cullen acknowledges her with a nod. He takes a seat nearby, on a crate, leaning back against a pole. He crosses his arms, closes his eyes, listening to Alexi speak. His echo is warm, soothing, comforting. No wonder they flock to him.

“Cullen.” A shake at his shoulder. “Cullen.” Where once it was afternoon, evening now covers. The sun slips behind the mountains, and Cullen struggles to shake himself awake. He looks up, and immediately rocks to his feet. Alexi keeps that hand on his shoulder.

“I, ah, I was to inform you that we’re to make preparations to head to the Arbor Wilds,” Cullen says as he rubs the back of his neck. “Morrigan says there’s an eluvian there.” Alexi says nothing and Cullen clears his throat. “She said that this attack was likely a distraction to keep us from noticing troops on the move. Keep our attention closer to Skyhold, less so elsewhere.” He still isn’t speaking. Instead, his hand moves to his cheek. Alexi is wearing his usual fingerless gloves. He runs touch through the stubble on Cullen’s cheek.

Alexi leans down, his nose briefly touching against his, and presses the kiss lightly. It’s almost something impossibly chaste, almost the ghost of a real kiss. “Alexi,” Cullen murmurs, putting a hand on his hip, moving it around to splay at the small of his back. The second kiss is deeper, inhaling breath that’s impossible to exhale. Lips slide against lips as he opens his mouth to him, tongue pressing insistently. The staff anchored between them, Alexi’s other hand curls in Cullen’s cloak. He doesn’t care who sees. Cullen holds him tightly.

‘You are alive, thank God.’ She got off him and allowed him to get to his feet again, but she kept her distance eyeing him suspiciously. ‘There is no need to worry, princess, my alliances lie where they always have, with you and your family.’

‘How are you here?’ She heard another coming towards them but she did not have time to hide herself. When the person came into view, she exhaled and felt the dagger slip through her fingers and fall to the floor. She ran forward and found herself jumping into the man's arms, giving him a kiss as she did. ‘I have always been so fond of you but I have never been so happy to see you.’

Thor held her to him for a moment as though he was clutching onto life itself. ‘Nor I, you Maebh.’ He looked at her fondly before looking to her stomach. ‘The baby?’ He asked worriedly.

‘How safe is it to leave here?’ She half demanded.

‘Getting safer by the moment, the man who called himself the High King of Ireland has fled with his men, all that are left are the soldiers of the Lord that resided here, but he too fled.’ Thor informed her.

‘I need to get the children.’ Maebh turned and headed back the way she had come, Thor followed her having sworn to himself not to let her out of his sight until she was safe once more. When she got to the room she had hidden the children in, Maebh all but pounded on the door. ‘Danu, it is me, open the door, we are getting out of here.’ Not a moment later, the door was unbolted. Danu had barely stuck her head around the door to ensure it was just her mother made her way into the room, rushing to the bed where Einar was still sleeping and bringing him into her arms.

‘It was born?’ Thor walked in, relieved to see Danu safe and a small infant in Maebh’s arms. As soon as Danu saw her uncle she rushed to him, Thor bringing her into his arms and cradling her close, kissing the side of her head. ‘Hello, my precious little niece.’ He beamed in elation. ‘Would you like to come home?’

‘More than anything in the world.’

Thor was about to playfully continue the conversation when he noticed something on the rug. ‘That is the afterbirth?’ he looked to Maebh. ‘You have just birthed?’

‘I helped,’ Danu beamed in pride.

‘He is not an hour old.’ Maebh told him.

‘Most women do not get out of bed for a day after they birth, I often wonder are you truly different to all others or do you do these things just to be different.’ Thor shook his head and smiled.

‘I am on enemy soil, I have men who have said they want to take my children from me and raise them to be nothing more than spoils of war here on Midgard, to have them forget who and what they are and become believers in the Midgardian faith. How can I think it to rest until I had them safe again?’

‘For one who does not believe in the Gods, you are terribly blessed.’ Thor chuckled.

‘If I get out of this alive, if I get my children back to Asgard, I may have to reconsider my beliefs.’

‘Well then, I think it's best that we leave.’ Maebh noticed that Thor had yet to put her daughter out of his arms again. Even as he walked through the doorway, he held onto her, Maebh following behind, Einar in hers.

They made a way through the dwelling without issue. When they reached outside, there was a small cheer when Thor was seen, and an even louder one when the men from Asgard that had been fighting alongside some of the Midgardians recognised the black-haired, Green eyed little girl looking at them from his arm. When Maebh emerged she smiled to see familiar faces.

‘For one that looks as though she has seen the very pits of Hell, you still stand tall.’ Heimdall grinned as he bowed slightly to her.

‘I have been to them and told them to tidy up for we are about to send many their way.’ Maebh gave a small smile. ‘Where is Loki?’

‘He and others made their way to another dwelling, we were unsure exactly where the children would be. if I am honest, we were told that you had already died, but that Danu was alive. The information we have gathered told us that she had either been moved to that location or was at this one. We could not risk her being in one and a message getting to it from the other that we were here and them doing something to her.’ Thor explained looking at his niece and smiling. ‘We could never let anything happen to you, could we?’

‘Nope.’ Danu cuddled into her uncle, her arms around his neck. ‘Why is your hair different? It is all gone.’

‘Because an Asgardian my size does not blend in easily. To make them not realise who I was, I had to look something like them.’

‘You look silly.’ Danu stated in a factual manner. The men laughed at the child's innocent comment.

‘You are your father’s daughter.’ Thor chuckled.

‘I am his image and my mother’s manner.’

‘I will say nothing.’ Thor looked to Maebh, the pair smiling at one another. ‘All things considered, this was easier than I thought it would be.’

‘Never say anything like that, that only invites trouble.’ Maebh warned.

‘That is true actually.’ Thor acknowledged. ‘Would you rather we got a cart?’

‘No too slow and lumbering, get me a horse and a large length of material, clean and not too hard.’

Thor looked to one of the men and gave a small nod, the man nodded back and rushed off to guess what she requested. ‘Forgive me for asking Maebh, but will this not hurt, considering.’ He indicated to Einar.

‘I am already in pain, what is a little bit more?’

‘I often wonder you just court suffering for this sheer joy of it.’

‘Perhaps some of my parents' faith still resides within me. Their faith dictates that one must suffer in this life to be rewarded in the next.’

‘Yes, I think you do have such in you, for I have never seen one to willingly suffer as you do.’

‘Well, outside of Sif of course.’ Maebh jested as a horse was brought to her, Thor giving her a bemused look.

‘We have missed your humour,’ Heimdall chuckled as he mounted his own horse.

When given the piece of cloth, Maebh used it to tightly secure Einar to her chest, leaving her hands free so that she could hold the reins of the horse. Thor mounted his horse but only after putting his niece on the front of his saddle. He made sure she sat back against him and kept an arm around her as he gently because his horse to walk forward.

They did not travel for long before a single rider came towards them. Maebh was concerned, not liking that she had very little idea of what was afoot, Thor, however, seems somewhat relieved to see the young man. ‘Well?’ He spoke.

‘The dwelling was empty, not a man, woman or child within of any note.’ The man, a Midgardian, informed them.

‘But there were people within?’

‘Yes Sire, as the intelligence told us, they were anticipating the High King, as well as his entourage and also two children, one an infant. Your brother has a trap ready for them.’

‘Norns, I would not like to be the man who tells my brother what plans were made for his children.’ Thor grinned, looking around at Maebh.

‘Oh no, perhaps we should stop them.’ Maebh’s voice was toneless but then she grinned wickedly. ‘I only hope that they do not miss their little welcome committee, or us with them.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘Get Danu and Einar somewhere safe, get me some armour and let us join them for the lovely little meeting.’

‘You have just birthed.’ Heimdall pointed out.

‘Exactly, that means there is nothing stopping me from gutting these pigs like the diseased vermin they are.’

‘You are not of this world.’

‘What makes you think that?’ She looked up for a moment and made a small whistle. Only a moment later, Morrigan, who had flown off her shoulder in the hallway when she had attacked Sean and had not made its way back to her after, flew down from the skies and landed on her shoulder once more.

‘There is a story behind that.’ Thor pointed to the bird. ‘I do not know what it is, I do not even know if I am going to be told it, but there is a story.’

‘There is time enough for stories once we are on the boat home.’ Maebh smiled. ‘We need to hurry, UíNeill and his men will reach the convoy soon.’

Fandral and a few others took the two children and brought them to a known safe area. Thor, Maebh, Heimdall and the others continued on to where they knew Loki and his party to be. On route, Maebh was presented with her armour which Loki had insisted on bringing with them as well as her own clothes. Two minutes and a quick change behind a bush and Maebh was ready. Mounting a horse once more, she brought it to the side Thor and looked at him almost gleefully.

‘How much do you wish to make them suffer?’

‘I want as many to be kept alive as is possible. When this is done, I want them lined up in front of me and as soon as I pointed them, know that they are mine. I will deal with them. I will be the one to make them suffer.’

‘So, you were called a whore again I assume?’ Thor looked at her with an eyebrow raised.

‘Among other things.’ Maebh shrugged unapologetically.

Thor looked at her for another moment before looking to the men, ‘Well, you heard her, all survivors are to be held in that manner, understood?’ There was a shout of understanding before they rode on. Sure enough, they got to the area of the other homestead as the battle was being fought. There were men fleeing as the home seemed to be beginning to smoulder.

‘Do you recognise any of them?’ Thor looked to Maebh. Her answer was unsheathing her sword and looking to him for permission to ride on. ‘Like I could stop you.’ He laughed, taking out his own weapon. He gave a call out and all those there began to charge towards those fleeing locality. Morrigan took flight but remained above Maebh as her horse galloped towards the first of the men.

With her sword in her hand, she paid close attention to every detail of the men's attire so as to pertain who they were allied with. As soon as she saw UíNeill’s emblem, she sneered and swung her sword, decapitating him as she did, riding on as she changed what hand the sword was in for her next opponent. She made her way through them all until she got to the worst of the fighting, in amongst it all were Lord Conor and UíNeill. The pair looking menacingly at the man in front of them, both knowing that as it was two on one, they held the advantage.

‘Such a deadly pair you are but are you more deadly than us?’ The three men looked around in shock. ‘Hello, husband.’ She smiled, looking at Loki, he looked at her as though she was a Valkyrie sent by the Norns. She sneered at the now concerned looking men, who seemed to realise they were in trouble. ‘Good to see you had faith in finding me.’ She indicated to her attire he had brought for her.