#post-trespasser

Solas blushed—actually blushed—a flush of red spreading across his carved cheekbones.

“You did!” Athim said. “But why would you think that? You said it yourself. The Dread Wolf never ‘took me.’” She took a perverse pleasure in throwing Solas’ uncomfortable wording back at him.

With some bitterness she remembered the deep kisses, the whispered vows—all followed by careful boundaries and gentle rejections.

“Not physically, of course,” Solas sputtered.

“Did you do something mentally? Just what exactly are you confessing to?”

“No, not like that, I…” Solas paused, taking in a deep breath. “I knew she could not be my child in a more literal sense, but in the Fade… Sometimes the deepest of hopes and desires can be made manifest.”

Hm. Of course Solas would consider the idea of a daughter as just as real as an actual daughter.

“Ah,” was all Athim could think to say. “I see.”

There was a time when Athim had wanted a family with Solas. Since his departure, she never allowed her dreams to linger on the thought. She knew how the promises of the Fade could sometimes draw people in, could make them abandon the waking world. She couldn’t afford to indulge in the idea too much.

A heavy silence fell between them, and Athim expected this to be the moment Solas left. I’ll never forget you, he’d say, or something equally as enigmatic and final. But he didn’t. 

“Her name is Enasal,” Athim said finally. “She’s my daughter in the waking world. Not just here.”

“A fitting name,” Solas said, his expression carefully measured. “And I see you… you have moved on, then. That is good.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I adopted her,” Athim said. “Her mother was unprepared to care for her and her clan’s resources were already strained. They went to the Arthlavhen looking for other clans to take her in.”

“I see.”

His expression seemed to lighten, and Athim cursed herself for telling him. What reason could she possibly have to explain other than to comfort him? To reassure him of her continued devotion? Devotion he did nothing to deserve.

Solas took another step towards Athim. Each step Athim felt as if it were directly on her chest, pushing the air out of her lungs. 

“I’ve missed you, vhenan,” he said, resting his long fingers on her arm.

Those same hands on her waist, pulling him flush to her. His lips pressed to hers, bending her back as if he couldn’t get close enough. “Ar lath ma, vhenan.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I apologize.”

“Stop apologizing and just… stop doing the thing that’s hurting me.”

Solas pulled his hand away and stepped backwards. The tightness in Athim’s chest eased, leaving only a void in its wake.

“You know I can’t do that,” he said. “I should not have come.”

He started to walk away, and a terribly familiar desperation swept over Athim. She wanted him to go. She wanted him to stay. She wanted what she wanted to matter.

“Did you want her to be your daughter?” she blurted out before she could think better of it.

Solas stopped in his tracks like she’d frozen him in ice.

Athim jogged after him, the forest around them blurring at the edges. 

“Tell me, Solas. Was a life and family with me something you wanted?” she demanded.

He whirled on her. “Of course it was! It still is.”

The Fade pulsed around them, responding to his intensity. His expression cracked and behind it Athim found a mixture of joyful anticipation and dread. He paused and gathered himself, focusing as hard as he could,

“No,” he muttered. “No, not here. Not now.”

Despite his protestation, the shifting of the Fade did not relent. Athim almost pitied Solas in that moment. It was so very mortal of him, to not be able to control how the Fade reacted to his innermost thoughts and feelings.

Around them, the sweet sound of Enesal’s laughter returned. Athim looked behind her and there her daughter was, running up to them with a beatific smile on her face.

“Mamae! Papae!” she called.

The wind was knocked from Athim’s chest.

Solas cursed softly under his breath and gave up his focus. He looked up and locked eyes with Enesal’s, his gaze immediately melting to warmth.

More footsteps joined Enesal’s, and she was soon followed by a young boy—perhaps three years old. He had his mother’s rich, auburn hair, his father’s long, straight ears, and an unmistakable dimple in his chin.

“Wait for us!” the boy cried.

The two children ran full tilt into Solas and Athim, knocking them over into a tangled pile.

Doubts and bitter feelings were swept away as the childlike enthusiasm of the young children overtook Athim. Her newfound son wrapped his arms around her waist and giggled in delight.

“We win!” the young boy crowed.

He was so light and new, spry and bursting with energy as only three year olds are. His small fingers dug into her sides in a delightfully inept attempt to tickle her. She laughed to humor him, her laughter turning genuine at his pleased expression.

“You didn’t win, not really,” Enesal piped up in a decidedly elder sisterly way. “Mamae always lets you win.”

“Does not!” insisted the little boy. “Mamae is the bad guy, and I beat her fair and square.”

Enesal tackled Solas, throwing her whole body weight onto his chest and knocking him loose from the pile. 

He obliged her, falling backwards with exaggerated drama and letting her perch directly on top of his breastbone. She bounced merrily in victory, and Solas tried unsuccessfully to catch his breath between laughter and repeated blows to his chest.

“See?” said Enesal. “I beat Papae for real.”

A father for her daughter. A partner in her home and in her bed. Peace and contentment washed over Athim at the sight of her daughter and the man she loved, together as a family at last.

“Nu uh,” said the little boy. “Papae let you win, too.”

“Papae, you didn’t let me win, did you?” Enesal asked. She stopped her bouncing and curled up against Solas, looking up at him with wide, earnest eyes.

Solas swallowed thickly. “Of course not, little one.”

His words brought Athim back to reality. Solas spared a glance for her, and she saw that he had sensed it too. The time for this particular fantasy was coming to an end.

He wouldn’t let her win. He would never let Athim, her daughter, or their potential future together stop him. 

Athim pulled the little boy in her arms tightly to her chest and breathed him in, allowing herself to revel in his presence for one more brief moment.

“Sweet one,” she said gently to the boy. She wondered if Solas had given him a name. “It’s time for you to go home. Mamae and Papae have a lot to talk about.”

The boy looked up at her with pleading eyes. “But I don’t want to go. Can’t I stay with you?”

Athim shook her head sadly. “No, dear one. Not today.”

Solas squeezed his imagined son’s hand. “Listen to your mother,” he said. “Enasal can go with you.”

Enasal stood and took the young boys’ hand. Athim noticed that she wasn’t quite the same as her Enesal in real life. Still, she looked quite like her waking counterpart considering Solas had only caught a brief glimpse of her in the Fade. Athim couldn’t help but feel touched at how quickly he had incorporated her daughter into his reckless, vain dream of the future.

Hand in hand, the children from the family that would never be walked off into the Fade. Their departure left a hole in Athim’s chest, and she felt as if they were dying. As if any hope she still retained of a life like this with Solas was dying.

Solas helped her to her feet, then took a measured step away from her. A heavy silence descended upon the pair. Beside her, she could sense that he mourned, too.

The years that had passed since their last meeting sat like a chasm between them, but at the same time Athim’s feelings were raw and unhealed. She wondered if she would ever feel healed, if she would ever move on.

“What is his name?” she asked eventually.

Solas shook his head. “I haven’t given him one. I try not to… indulge.” He looked over at Athim with a sad smile. “And besides, I couldn’t give him one without your approval.”

This attempt at connection, however lame, burrowed under Athim’s skin. All of the whys and why nots that had haunted her these past five years bubbled to the surface, itching on her skin.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “If you wanted this life, you could have had it. You could still have it. You wouldn’t even have to give up on your ultimate goal.”

“Athim…”

“You could have been with me, had the family and companionship you wanted, and then resumed your mission after I died.”

“Vhenan,” Solas said, a pleading edge to his voice.

“I’ll probably live, what? Sixty more years at most? What is sixty years in the immortal scheme of things? Only a blip in your timeline, I’m sure.”

“Athim, please.”

There was something satisfying about hearing Solas beg. It made her think of the times she had begged him. To stay. For an explanation. To find some value in this world. To find some value in her. It had never made a difference.

It made her angry.

“Then again, by then I might be gone, but not our son and daughter. You would have to wait another thirty years or so for your children to die natural deaths, too,” she said, cruelty lacing her words with poison. “Unless you’d be willing to kill them along with everyone else, of course.” 

Solas let out what sounded like a whimper of pain. Pathetic.

“So I suppose you’d have to wait another generation or two. Tell me, Dread Wolf, how many generations removed would your children need to be for you to be able to bear murdering them all? Grandchildren? Great-grandchildren? At what point do their lives become academic enough for you to snuff them out?”

“Enough!” 

His shout echoed through the Fade, silencing not only Athim but everything around them. Power reverberated through him, shaking his frame, reminding Athim in one terrible moment that this was no mere mortal she was dealing with.

Solas turned his steely eyes towards her, and the fear must have been written all over her face, because he softened.

“Ir abelas, again,” he said, and he sounded so tired. “I don’t mean to hurt you or scare you. And yet that is all I ever seem to do.”

Athim closed her eyes and her shoulder sagged. “You don’t have to.”

“I really do.”

His heavy words stagnated in the air between them for a long moment. What else was there to say? This was why they hadn’t spoken in five years, after all.

“I’m not afraid of dying, you know,” Athim said eventually. “All mortals die. It’s our blessing and our curse—to know there is an end is to give value to the moments leading to it.”

For a pause Solas considered her words. That was one of the things she’d always loved about him. As arrogant and paternalistic as he could be, he always took her opinions seriously.

“I can see that,” he said thoughtfully.

“That’s your problem, I think,” Athim said. “You have an endless amount of time, so you think you can try over and over again until you get everything just right.”

“I don’t think-”

“Yes, you do. You’re never content to live with your mistakes, like we mortals have to do. There’s always something to fix, to do again, to get right.”

Solas’ eyes fell to his feet. “You were never a mistake, vhenan.”

“A life doomed to end is still a life worth living, Solas. I hope you see that one day.”

Athim turned from him and started walking, feeling the Fade gradually recede around her. She could sense Solas’ eyes still on her from somewhere behind, but she didn’t turn back.

Tears began to slip down her cheeks. Seeing his loving, sympathetic eyes made it too easy to lie to herself. Too easy to tell herself that he would change his mind. Her tears blurred her vision, and the softened reality of the Fade melted around her.

Little hands reached for her arms again, but this time their solidity and warmth was unmistakably real.

“Mamae? Mamae?” 

Enesal’s gentle shaking drew Athim from sleep, and she rubbed at her bleary eyes.

“Yes, my sweet one, I’m here,” she said.

“Mamae, you were crying in your sleep,” Enasal said.

Enasal’s small, heart-shaped face was creased with worry. Athim drew her daughter onto the bed next to her and wrapped her arms around her.

“Don’t worry, my Ennie. Mamae is going to be alright.”

“Are you sure? Did you have a bad dream?”

“Not a bad one, not exactly. But a sad one.”

“I love you, mamae,” Enesal said, pressing a sloppy kiss to Athim’s cheek. “I hope you can feel happy.”

Athim pulled Enesal closer to her. Her daughter’s quick heartbeat thrummed under Athim’s hand, lively and vulnerable in equal measure. 

“With you here, I can.”

---

Several weeks letter, a simple, unsigned letter found its way onto Athim’s rugged homestead. It was written in beautiful calligraphy on pristine parchment, and though it lacked a seal, Athim knew exactly who it was from.

I am glad I was able to meet your daughter—or at least, the version of her you brought into the Fade. She is beautiful and strong, just like her mother. If there are any true gods, I pray to them that someone will be able to stop me.

“Rosalie can do this.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s why she’s here.”

“Rosalie is here to look after the clinic when I can’t,” she pointed out. “I still have the day.”

Carefully she balanced a ledger on her stomach as she counted vials of elfroot potions. If she needed to brew more it would have to be that afternoon. The next morning, if she wasn’t already in labor, she was to be induced. After that, she would need a fair amount of time to recover. She didn’t want to leave it unprepared; the clinic was Cullen’s pride and joy.

Cullen turned to his sister who twirled her blonde curls around her fingers, pretending she was anywhere else. “Give us the room, please.”

Once they were alone, Cullen waited for his wife to jot down a number on her inventory before he took the clipboard from her and set it nearby. She made a small noise of protest, but the look in his amber eyes reduced it to a sigh. Gently he turned her away from the cabinet of supplies and redirected her focus to him.

“The clinic won’t fall apart,” he promised her, “but you need to rest before tomorrow.”

“You look like you’re about to send me to fight Corypheus again.” 

It had been several years since she lost her left arm, but when she reached for his face she still reached with both hands. Only her right palm met his cheek, but sometimes he could almost feel the caress of her left, and it tingled along his skin the same way her magic did, as if it was still there somewhere beyond the Veil. She had a myriad of prosthetic limbs thanks to Dagna’s tinkering, but around the house and clinic she went without unless there were visitors. 

He leaned into her touch, his brows pinched. “You’re the strongest woman I know–”

“But–” 

“I do worry,” he admitted. “This is another fight I can’t help you with.”

“Even worse, you did this to me,” she laughed softly. 

Beneath her fingers his cheek warmed, but her teasing tone was at least enough to ease some of the worry from his features. 

“We have the best healers and midwives, Cullen,” she assured him. There were even spirits looking out for her - Cole had visited her dreams - but that knowledge usually just made Cullen more uneasy. “Everything will be fine.”

“You told me once I should let you worry about me a little,” he countered. “It’s time you do the same.”

“You worry about me more than a little, Cullen.” She shook her head, a smile still on her lips. “I’m grateful for it, I just–”

“What is it?” He could sense her pain in the subtle way her eyes narrowed.

“Just your daughter kicking me in the ribs,” she answered. “Can you–?”

He knew what she meant without her having to say it, and he reached out to rub his hand along her left side. A little fist or foot pushed back like it was a game. While he massaged circles against her side, soothing the little life within, she let her head fall to the side as she let herself relax. Eventually the little Rutherford was sated and twisted away, but he kept on. 

“Will you sit now?”

Groaning, she acquiesced. “First you turn the dogs against me, now you already have the children on our side.”

With a chuckle he walked with her through the clinic to their lodgings, separated by a garden. “Rosalie will finish your inventory. Once dinner is made, we’ll spend the evening in bed.”

Only once she was settled in their bed with books, water, and the dogs did he kiss her forehead and leave her. Yvette was pleased with the inventory that Rosalie presented over dinner; she had already made thorough checklists for anything and everything her sister-in-law might need to do with regards to the clinic. Another set of lists had been drafted for Cullen on housework. The nursery was ready - it would have been done even sooner but then they learned they were having twins and everything needed to double - and she was eager to get it all over with. 

After the excitement of being pregnant wore off, it had been one of the more annoying periods of her life. They had waited to have children so they could enjoy their life together, and once they had traveled Thedas they had spent time re-establishing themselves after the Inquisition–building a home, starting the clinic, settling into a new normal. In some ways she still felt guilty for it because Solas had promised to end the world as she knew it, but she’d grown tired of waiting for the worst. It was time. They would still search for Solas to try to stop him, but she was done letting his cat and mouse game dictate her life.

In the night, during one of her bouts of pacing around the house to soothe her nerves and the children in her belly, her water broke. Somehow she convinced Cullen not to send for the midwife immediately - they would be arriving in hours anyway - and he watched anxiously as the ordeal began. Her good mood waned as it wore on, but he never left her side. 

Just before sunset, the cry of an infant cut through the room. 

“A healthy baby girl,” the midwife cooed. “Congratulations, you two.”

Though she was exhausted - her body flushed and covered in sweat - her green eyes were bright with wonder when the babe was presented to her. Yvette held the child against her chest and closed her eyes, savoring the experience, and then she kissed the top of the infant’s head before she held the baby out to him. For a moment he felt like an awkward boy again, terrified of putting his hands in the wrong places, but Yvette’s gentle reassurance encouraged him.

The moment he held his child safely in his arms felt profoundly life-changing. Wisps of blonde hair haloed her head and she instinctively burrowed into his warmth. Yvette watched his expression melt into tender amazement as he looked over the little life they had created, counted fingers and toes, and brushed a finger against her cheek. When the baby made a little noise in response to his touching, a smile as jubilant as the one he’d given Yvette when they’d married lit his face.

An hour later another little Rutherford girl greeted the world.

He sat on her left and they each held an infant, marveling over the similarities and differences. Both were blonde, one with hazel eyes and one with green. “They have your freckles.”

“Look at the little, pinched brows,” she mused. “They look just like you.”

“Maker’s breath,” he chuckled. She wasn’t wrong. 

“I thought closing the Breach and stopping Corypheus would be my greatest accomplishments,” she said softly, laying her head on his shoulder. “I think this might even eclipse marrying Thedas’s most eligible bachelor.”

“Marrying you was the best thing that ever happened to me, until today,” he agreed. “Are you in pain? Do you need anything?”

“I have everything I need right here.”

Unfortunately, the amulet he still clutched tightly in his fist remained dull and silent. He resisted the impulse to throw it across the room in frustration.

Neve held up her own sending crystal close to her ear to hear the whispered message from the speaker on the other end. “Got a couple of slave wagons on the move down by the docks, near Ilario’s Imports. Figured you’d want to check it out. Free a few elves, crack a few slavers’ skulls.”

“I’ll be there soon. Thank you, Flavia,” Neve whispered back to the elven spy, one of many in Neve’s network of Shadow Dragons. Once the crystal went silent, Neve walked over to the door, grabbing her staff before turning back to face Dorian and Maevaris.

“Well, are you coming? Could be a fun distraction,” she said with a twirl of her staff.

“Sure, prowling around dark alleys at night sounds sooo much more fun than sitting back with a glass of wine,” Maevaris replied with a roll of her eyes and a shake of her head.

“Normally, I’d agree, but alas, a very handsome idiot who is four days late calling me somehow inspired me to be a revolutionary. And now here I am, giving up a quiet evening and a good vintage to stalk around in the rain and the dark and the cold,” Dorian complained in his exaggerated, theatrical fashion. “I could have been lounging in a castle being hand-fed grapes by Inquisition forces, you know, but I just had to come back and save my homeland.”

“Oh yes, how very noble and selfless of you,” Neve teased, “Truly, you have a heart of gold.”

Maevaris sighed dramatically. “Fine, have it your way, but you owe me a bottle of Agreggio.”

Staves in hand, the three mages snuck out into the dark, rainy streets of Minrathous. 

**************************

The trio waited in an alley for the approaching slave wagons. Unfortunately, there was no overhang to block the onslaught of rain. A very wet Maevaris glared at Dorian from behind dripping blonde bangs.

“Why did I agree to this again?”

“A bottle of Agreggio.”

“Right,” Maevaris sighed, “better make that two.”

“Shh, they’re getting close,” Neve whispered, “Maevaris, distract the driver in the lead wagon. Dorian and I will sneak around and open the one in the back.”

Maevaris nodded before waltzing out of the alley with as much grace and bravado as one sopping wet magister could muster. “Excuse me, dear, could I ask you a question?”

Dorian and Neve could hear the muffled sound of Maevaris talking the driver’s ear off as they walked quickly but quietly toward the last wagon.

The doors of the wagon were locked shut and the sound of scared and confused murmuring came from within. Dorian pulled on a bit of magic to break through the lock, and he and Neve carefully swung open the double doors to avoid any creaking hinges.

What Dorian saw when he opened the door was the last possible thing he was expecting.

There, standing in the middle of the wagon with the chain of his manacles wrapped around the guard’s throat, was his Amatus. Ashavan. The Inquisitor.

Dorian just stood there, dumbfounded into silence, as a familiar, mischievous grin lit up Ashavan’s face.

“Ah, Dorian. Perfect timing!”

Neve looked back and forth between Dorian and the chestnut-haired elf in the slave wagon. “Wait, is that –?”

“Andraste’s flaming tits, what are you doing here?!” Dorian interrupted.

“Coming to see you.”

“I don’t mean in Tevinter, I mean what are you doing in the back of a slave wagon?!” Dorian yelled in exasperation.  

“I should probably explain later; with this commotion I imagine we’ll be rather busy in a moment.” The guard Ashavan was choking went limp and the elf let him drop to the floor. “Would either of you happen to have a knife?”

Dorian let out an exasperated sigh as he removed the pointed end of his staff and handed it to Ashavan. The trio made quick work of the rest of the slavers; all of them had disposed of far worse foes than these pathetic, back-alley dregs. Ashavan somehow fought gracefully despite the manacles chaining his right wrist to what remained of his left arm.

Once the slavers’ corpses were decorating the rainy street, Dorian and Neve turned to face the Inquisitor. It was difficult to picture him as one of the most powerful people in the world, standing there dripping wet, dressed in what could graciously be described as rags.

“Do you want a hand with that?” Neve asked, gesturing to the manacles.

“I don’t need any hands to get out of this, but thank you anyway.” Ashavan ran his tongue along the side of his mouth, pulling forward a small metal lockpick and holding it between his teeth. He lifted his right wrist to his mouth and unlocked the metal shackle with surprising speed, quickly following with the left arm.

“It was amusing watching them try to figure out what to do with this,” Ashavan said with a smirk, lifting his arms, the left of which was missing below the elbow.

Solas, or Fen’Harel, or the Dread Wolf, whatever he called himself these days, had removed it to spare the Inquisitor from the pain of the anchor. The bald elf might be a crazed ancient god and a complete bastard, but Dorian had to admit he was grateful to Solas for that one kindness. He wasn’t sure what he would do without Ashavan, and he never wanted to find out.

Of course, Ashavan had the infuriating habit of making that desire seem increasingly unlikely, especially after this latest inconceivably idiotic misadventure. Dorian wasn’t sure if he wanted to kiss him or strangle him. Possibly both. Possibly at the same time. Instead, he simply glared.  

“I had a plan to get myself out, you know. Though I loved the daring rescue. Very romantic,” Ashavan said with a wink and a subtle bite of his lower lip. Maker, he was infuriating. And so very, very handsome.

“That look isn’t going to make me stop being angry with you. It will take more than bedroom eyes for me to forget that you didn’t call for four days only to show up in the back of a slave wagon,” Dorian snapped back, though he could already feel his joy and relief at seeing him again winning out over his anger.

“While I’m sure the two of you are eager to… catch up, perhaps we could take this somewhere else? Preferably someplace drier and with fewer corpses,” Neve interjected.

“Um, yes, please, let’s do that,” Ashavan replied, looking slightly embarrassed. “I am freezing out here.”

Neve gestured to the elves in the backs of the wagons, who had been very careful pretending to not be listening to the whole conversation, to follow her. She started leading the strange procession of three Tevinter mages, one Inquisitor, and a couple dozen elves through twisting alleyways to a Shadow Dragons safehouse.

Dorian took off his overcoat as they walked and draped it over Ashavan’s bare arms.

“Can’t have the Inquisitor dying of hypothermia. How utterly embarrassing would that be?”

“You could just give me your coat to be nice,” Ashavan replied with a chuckle, pulling the coat tightly around himself.

“I’m still mad at you, remember?”

Ashavan’s hand peeked out through the opening of the coat and Dorian felt it brush against his own. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, pretending to still be upset, but his fingers curled around Ashavan’s all the same.

**********

“So,” Dorian said, turning on Ashavan now that the group had settled into the safehouse, “Care to explain yourself?”

“Well… I –” Ashavan started slowly before Maevaris sauntered up to the pair and inserted herself into the conversation.

“You must be Ashavan! My, you really are as handsome as Dorian says,” Maevaris interrupted.

“A pleasure to meet you, Lady Maevaris, though I’ve heard so much about you it feels like we’re already acquainted,” Ashavan replied, taking Maevaris’ hand in his own and touching his lips to her knuckles.

“Goodness, Dorian, you caught yourself quite the charmer. Better be careful, or I may just have to steal him from you,” Maevaris teased.

“Yes, yes, he’s very charming,” Dorian snapped back, rolling his eyes, “and very good at avoiding the subject. Now, are you finally going to explain what you’re doing here?”

“I told you, I was coming to see you, and I wanted to be discreet. The best way for a rather famous – or infamous, depending on who you ask – elf to sneak into Tevinter is in a slave wagon,” Ashavan replied as if it were obvious, and not a dangerous, ill-conceived idea.

“I could have gotten you into the city discreetly and safely if whatever brought you is really so important.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“And did you tell anyone about this hare-brained scheme in case something went wrong?” Dorian questioned.

“Er, no…” Ashavan trailed off, looking away sheepishly.

 “Festis bei umo canavarum,” Dorian murmured, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What was that?” Ashavan asked.

“It means ‘You’ll be the death of me,’” Maevaris translated with a smirk.

“Ah. I did think that sounded familiar.”

“So,” Dorian started, bringing the conversation back to the subject at hand, “what was so important that you had to come all the way to Tevinter just to tell me?”

“Well, it isn’t so much something to tell you, but something to ask you… I… I don’t know what you’ll say, but I decided I have to ask...” Ashavan rambled, seeming strangely nervous.

Ah. After scaling down the Inquisition following the Exalted Council, Ashavan must be determined to start his new crusade here in Tevinter. He had asked Dorian if he could come with him every time they had met over the past year, and every time Dorian had refused. It wasn’t safe for someone like him here, and selfishly Dorian wanted this to be his fight, not the Inquisitor’s. So now he had come on his own, trying to force the issue.

“I told you; I don’t need you to do this for me, and besides, you know well that Tevinter is one of the worst places for an elf. I’ve missed you, obviously, but this is something I need to do for myself,” Dorian said before Ashavan could finish asking the question.

Ashavan seemed momentarily confused by the response. Eventually, he replied, “I know, but I would like to help, as little or as much as you want me to. But more than that, what I want is to be with you.” Ashavan took a few steps closer to Dorian.

“Too much of my life has been beyond my control, and I am tired of it. I didn’t choose to be stolen from my clan as a child. I didn’t choose to be raised by Orlesian spies. And I didn’t choose to be the Inquisitor. But I chose you. And I will keep on choosing you every day, for the rest of my life, if you’ll have me.”

Ashavan knelt down on one knee in front of Dorian, taking the mage’s hand in his own. “What I am trying to say is, will you marry me, Dorian?”

If finding Ashavan in that slave wagon had been a surprise, this was such a shock that it bordered on incomprehensible. To Dorian, marriage had always been a prison that his father had tried to force him into, and ever since he had left Tevinter, he had not given it a second thought.

But here was Ashavan, down on one knee, proposing marriage as if it weren’t the most absurd thing in the world. Magisters and elves didn’t get married. Men didn’t get married. It just wasn’t possible. And yet… the thought of Ashavan as his husbandsent Dorian’s heart racing and hundreds of butterflies loose in his stomach. His husband.

As his mind started to once again become capable of coherent thought, he heard Maevaris squealing gleefully beside him and Neve’s footsteps as she inched closer, pretending not to eavesdrop.

“Ahem,” Ashavan cleared his throat, turning pink in the face during the long silence, “would you mind giving some kind of answer? It’s starting to get uncomfortable down here.”

“You are aware that our getting married in Tevinter would be, shall I say, deeply frowned upon, for any number of reasons?” Dorian responded, half because it was the truth and half to avoid answering.

“Obviously, though I thought you might enjoy a good scandal. As few or as many people can know as you want, I don’t care. All I care about is being with you. I love you, Dorian” Ashavan said, standing up and cupping his hand against Dorian’s face. He was so open and sincere with his feelings in a way that Dorian found utterly unrelatable and almost sickeningly sweet, and yet that was one of the things he loved most about him. One of many, many things.  

“As do I, Amatus,” Dorian answered, barely above a whisper, “and I look forward to spending my life with you, so long as you stop being so reckless with yours,” he finished with a smirk.

“I’ll try,” Ashavan replied with a chuckle before meeting Dorian’s smirking lips with his own.

Dorian put one hand behind Ashavan’s head, the other against the small of his back, pulling him closer, closer, never letting him go again. Maker, he had missed him so much it hurt. He kissed him with such an aching longing he wasn’t sure he’d ever stop.  Their mouths danced together, messy, hot, and breathless, months of love unexpressed in their time apart pouring out in a single moment. Dorian’s mouth traced a familiar path along Ashavan’s neck, his hands drifting lower…

“Ahem, we are still here, you know,” Neve said, startling the two enraptured lovers out of their passionate embrace.

“Oh, don’t be such a prude, Neve,” Maevaris chided.

The world was never quiet in Antiva City. If not the bustle and din of the market or trade ships offloading their cargo, it was the Rialto Bay itself, the rhythm of the waves washing over the shore like a heartbeat.  

But it was quiet that night. An otherworldly quiet that Misyl Lavellan might have been used to, given her dealings with the dead. 

She sat in the study of the villa where she had been living with Josephine for months, now, watching the silver moonlight ripple over the waves lapping at the coast. It had been over two years since the Exalted Council, and some months since Misyl had left Kirkwall to be with Josephine. She still wasn't quite used to the Antivan heat, but it was quiet here, and she had the space to grow herbs and focus on the task at hand; stopping the end of the world.

Again. 

The small yellow flame flickered over the wick of her candle, and a shiver ran up her spine.

“Something is wrong,” she said to herself, her voice no louder than a murmur. 

And yet, it broke the silence like the shattering of glass. 

She stood up from the desk, her gaze landing on the door that had been left slightly ajar. Making a mental note of the dagger at her hip and the curling magic at her fingertips, she walked toward the door and opened it, the dark corridor before her opening wide in greeting. 

Beyond the corridor and down the stairwell, candles were lit, and the sound of hushed voices drifted up from the foyer below. Her brows drew together in a frown. It was much too late for visitors at this hour. 

She stepped lightly toward the stairs and descended into the room below, where Josephine was speaking with some messenger. Behind them rested a large object leaning against the wall, covered in a thin, white cloth. 

The hum of magic from it was familiar, and it pressed against her skin like the air of an Antivan summer. 

“Misyl,” Josephine said, pulling Misyl’s attention away from the artifact. 

“What is this?” Misyl asked as she stepped closer. 

The messenger eyed the former Inquisitor warily, but inclined his head as he offered her only a note before he left without a word. 

“He would not tell me who it came from,” Josephine stated. “Only that he was to give the note to you and you alone.” 

Misyl opened the note and peered down at the contents. 

Lady Inquisitor,

It is high time you had your own. We know not what yet awaits us on the horizon, but I suspect you will have need of it soon. 

Give the Lady Ambassador my best,