Her memory continued as her thoughts wandered, manifesting in a cool autumn day not unlike today. Cole had found her alone on the high ramparts of Skyhold. His words resonated in her mind as if she sat there with him once again.

It’s not the arm that matters. The form you take doesn’t care how many arms you have. Spiders have twice as many limbs as us, but mages mimic all sorts of spiders, big and hairy, small and spiny. I like the fluffy ones with big eyes. The Witch's spider scares me…

A full belly laugh filled her tent as she recalled Cole’s cryptic words, but he had spoken the truth. Morrigan’s spider form was the stuff of nightmares.

Another breeze snatched at her letter, and her focus returned to Cole’s most recent letter.

You can have your wings again, soaring and sailing on the currents of the sky. The Fade eats limbs, but it never devours your dreams. It breathes life into your lungs, full and free to be whatever you wish.

Cole’s letters rarely lasted more than a few thoughts, always mysterious but never without purpose. They harkened background to a time when she had needed his wisdom and his compassion most.

I died, alone, cold, and terrified. But I never wanted to die, I wanted to live, to help, to keep others from feeling what I felt as the Fade took me away. Skyhold helped. Old and powerful, sleeping, slumbering, but waking with your presence. A spirit brought me to you and here I remain. To help.

He had helped, and in ways Cole would never understand. He believed in her when few others had, when even Ora doubted herself. And after Solas, after the Viddasala and the Exalted Council, Cole had been a beacon of hope, a sheer force of willpower that pushed her to try harder every time she failed.

Ora considered her missing appendage, now replaced by an ethereal, shimmering limb. Illuminating the canvas of her tent in a faint blue glow and casting sharp shadows in the far corners, she twisted the arm as if it were her own. A marvelous feat of magic. And for the first time, it felt like hers, whole, complete.

Despite the bitter memories, her companion’s letters tugged at her heart, lifting her spirits whenever she wandered lost in a forest of guilt. She shuffled through the papers, sending Cole’s to the back and finding Cassandra’s next.

Inquisitor It will take me an eternity to get used to addressing you without your title. And a part of me will always consider you the Inquisitor, even though the Inquisition no longer exists as it once did. It still pains me to recall the Council, how Ferelden and Orlais treated you. Considering the circumstances, I’d hoped they would see reason. But I shouldn’t be surprised.

I digress. How are you fairing? Have you found anything? I miss our conversations, your company. Maker, to think, the last we saw each other, you had nearly died…

But thanks to Cassandra, she had not. With years of battle under her belt, the Seeker had leapt into action the minute Ora had returned to Halamshiral. Cut off the infection, stop it in its tracks. But that meant losing part of her arm. The alternative was anything but.

I worry about you. I know you’re doing well, but I still ask. And while least important, I know it matters to you: how is your magic behaving?

Always practical, Cassandra broached a subject with less tact than a charging druffalo. But it drew a smile from Ora despite her choice of words, selflessness beyond measure. Cassandra put the needs of others before her own, most of all her friends. And she had put Ora first, above anyone, following the Exalted Council. Though that time had not lasted long, Cassandra’s resilience in the face of defeat proved invaluable.

Think of it as an opportunity. To start over. To learn again. To learn a new way. If Varric has taught me anything these last fifteen years, it’s that there’s always a better way.

And she had been right. The loss of her arm had forced Ora to relearn everything she understood about magic. Though unpleasant, it had been worth every minute she had struggled, for now, Ora’s magic rivaled that of the most powerful mages. And she had Cassandra, as well as Cole, to thank for that.

Not to mention Dorian. The next letter in her stack bore the seal of the Tevinter magister. And to think, not five years prior, any letter with that seal would have instilled fear and panic into any recipient. But in those five years, Magister Pavus had paved the way for a new Tevinter, starting with his humble beginnings in the Inquisition.

My Dearest Ora, I hope this letter finds you, first, and if it does, it finds you well. I appreciate all your work on improving our sending crystals, and when I next see you—most likely not in Tevinter—you’ll have mine for the work it requires.

True, their sending crystals provide futile after several months of use. Ora’s initial investigation revealed attunement issues, the bond between the pair of crystals fading over time. She had made improvements to her own but required Dorian’s to finish the process, permanently linking the two for good.

Which reminds me, you might want to stay away from Tevinter for a time. Locals, including other magisters, have noticed a large grey eagle that they are claiming has graced our skies as some sort of good omen. As pleased as I am to see you back in fighting shape, I worry the magisters are getting the wrong idea. Which isn’t surprising, and it won’t be the last time they take the most far-fetched idea away from something as mundane as a fucking bird. No offense, of course, my dear.

And of course, Ora took none. How could she? Dorian’s strict retraining efforts had been as important, if not more, than his support. Though not trained in the fine art of shapeshifting, Dorian understood the mechanics of magic, the intricacies of balance between not only raw elements, but of power and control as well. Where most mages followed written formulae and studied books, Dorian concocted his own brand of magic with exquisite detail, a creativity Ora found necessary given her physical and mental state after the Exalted Council. Dorian’s words replayed in her mind as if he stood beside her.

I cannot imagine what you’re going through, Ora. Few mages ever face what are staring down at this present moment. All challenges aside, I believe that you are more than capable of relearning all you once knew, and more. But it will take time

What you now lack in physical form must be balanced with mental acuity and power. Your elements are disjointed as well and will require recalibration, but be cautious here. One miscalculation and you could find yourself completely fucked. This will not be easy, but lucky for you, I’ve been fabricating magic most of my life, and there aren’t many better at it than I, if do say so myself. I would one day see you surpass me.

Though that education had lasted only months, Ora learned everything she could. But before long, Tevinter had called and Dorian had left Skyhold. And their brief time together at the Exalted Council fell short of fulfilling by leagues. It had been his final words before departing that had meant more than she had realized in the moment.

You did the right thing, Ora. You always do. Trust yourself. Believe, as we do, in you.

Another smile lingered on her lips before Ora returned to Dorian’s letter. He wrote of change in Tevinter, of subtle plans and less than subtle scheming. And, as always, he left her with another professional piece of advice on redesigning magic for her differently-abled body.

The hand might help you feel whole again, but never forget it is not real. It may feel real, and it may even look real beneath a sleeve and glove. But it is not. And that is okay. Use that to your benefit. Imagine the look on your assailant’s face when he thinks he’s got your wrist but then poof! It’s gone and you’re sprinting down the street.

Leave it to Dorian to think of a practical benefit to lacking a wrist. But he had a point.

Don’t forget, your magic is yours alone. Use it as you see fit.

“I will, Dorian.”

His letter found the bottom of the stack as Ora moved to the next piece of parchment. There, the sigil of House Tethras bound the folded stock, red wax pressed with a neat stamp. She popped the seal free and read.

Hey, Shifty. Been a while. This Viscount nonsense keeps me busy. You knew that already. But it doesn't keep me busy enough that I couldn't write more often. Sorry about that.

He apologized in every letter, never excusing himself or asking for forgiveness. Not that he had done anything that required her forgiveness. He wrote her more often than any of her friends, and at once a week, Ora mused he wished he had the time to write her every day.

I hadn’t heard anything out of the ordinary lately. Thought you might have quit searching, gave up. But a rumor cropped up this week and well… life is stranger than fiction, as they say. So, here’s me asking if you’ve been flying around Tevinter the last month or so.

Ora laughed again, relishing Varric’s surprise as another rumor of her grey eagle circling Tevinter reached his ears. Creators, but she’d never meant for the tale to grow so tall. Or long. An eagles’ penchant for circling and excellent eyesight provided the perfect cover for searching. How anyone had blown such a trivial and mundane event so out of proportion never ceased to amaze her.

If so, I’m happy to hear you’re flying again. Nothing pained me more than the months after the Exalted Council. I was of no help. Definitely not with magic. I'm handy with a quip here and there, but even my words failed me. Shit, you’d think I’d be better at it but, I’m terrible. Writing drama was never my strong suit. Forget helping a real person suffering something as difficult as you did.

“Oh, Varric,” Ora started, “you helped in ways you'll never know."

He'd been the first to console her and the last to leave Skyhold. Varric's keen sense of the mortal condition disputed his letter; while his books might contain the utmost contrived of narratives, his words and his company had lifted her from the darkest depths of her fall.

You can't keep sleeping all day, Shifty. Trust me, I've tried. The weeks after Bartrand... had it not been for Hawke, I'm not sure where I'd be right now. Probably crazy as Bartrand.

Most mornings following the Exalted Council had started the same way, Varric climbing the steps to her room and sitting on the chaise until Ora found the drive to get out of bed. Sometimes he brought breakfast, other times sweet pastries. And with each conversation—wherein Varric talked at length and Ora listened—the sun rose a little brighter each morning.

When was the last time you even tried to shapeshift? I know I'm talking out of my ass here, I know shit about magic. But seriously, when was the last time you even tried? How do you know it'll be terrible? And even if it is terrible, so what? Get back on the horse. Just because you fell off doesn't mean you can't get back on it. Granted, missing half an arm might make that a little harder. But you find a new way, right? Instead of getting on from the left side, get on from the right.

That had been the last morning Ora slept in past sunrise. With a newfound sense of determination, she had set out to relearn everything, challenges be damned.

And now, two years past, Ora sat in her tiny canvas tent, the whispering of Harvestmere crisp on the cool dawn breeze. Varric's letter meandered as it so often did, hopping from subject to story to scandal as quick as a frog leaped lily pads. And in closing, he bid her good luck in her search and, as always, to write more often.

With the final letter finished, Ora added them to the growing stack in her leather-bound folder. Secured from the elements, she cherished those messages sent from every corner of Thedas in the capable hands of Leliana's scouts. Alone, they kept her company, and on darker days when her mood sank and her magic still struggled to cooperate, she reread them. There she found courage, willpower. An unmistakable drive to carry on, however wayward she might have become.

As they days grew shorter, Ora spent as much time as possible in the sunlight. But that morning, she had burned enough time on letters she might have otherwise read by candle light. Except on days like these, when the creeping hints of malaise teased the fringe of her subconscious, her mental health took priority over all else.

Ora crawled from her tent, another day of hope and promise ahead of her. A rustle of leaves scattered across her campsite as the wind gathered momentum, building in a sudden rush of gusts and lashes that grasped at her robes. That wind encircled her, pressing closer until a tight swirl of air encased her in a protective shell.

Fear loomed. Doubt reared. Imbalance threatened. Every failed attempt, every botched shape, every crumpled figure since the Crossroads crushed her spirit in that interstitial space between thoughts. She would fail again, as she had so many times before. And she would be left vulnerable, alone with no one to defend her should she need it. The racing thumps of her heart beat a frantic rhythm against her ribs as if to escape, as if to burst from her chest and abandon the terror that pained her so. Creators, why? Why had they abandoned her with such hopelessness? What had she ever done to deserve such a fate? Her vision blurred, tears gathering from the wind or from the alarm bound so tight in her chest, Ora was unsure. Tension grasped every muscle in her body, wrenching and writhing to be free of the trepidation that plagued her. Breath sucked from her lungs in terrified gasps, too much, not enough. Dizzy, spinning, the world tilted, turned, twisted...

It had lasted but a second, the amalgamation of her fears fading to tiny specs in the distance like the trees beneath her beating wings. Higher and higher, Ora climbed for the clouds, the wind racing between her feathers once more. And in that ascent, in that effervescent transcendence, Ora soared.

Fear faded. Doubt receded. Balance restored.

And there, far off in the distance, lay Tevinter. Ready. Waiting.