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Chapter Text

A few hours after the explosion at the Conclave, Divine Justinia walks out of the Fade. She’s holding hands with a little child who seems torn between staring at her free hand in fascination and yelling at the “meanies” behind them. The tear closes as their feet touch upon the scorched stone. Both collapse at once, just barely caught by the fast reflexes of the soldiers and scouts present.

It’s not what anyone expected, but it’s far better than the alternative.

Justinia wakes with her Left and Right Hands at her bedside. The child is sleeping on a cot nearby, tended to by an herbalist and an elven apostate. Justinia firmly sends them away after taking the child into her own arms. The story she relays to her Hands and only her Hands is… troubling. Troubling and impossible.

Corrupted Grey Wardens, blighted men turned monster, and a little child who’d stepped quite literally from thin air to save her from a terrible fate. The child is innocent of course, strange abilities notwithstanding. She touched an orb the “Elder One” had carried and branded herself with its power. That malignant power was, according to the child’s own semi-incomprehensible words, “tangly strings trying to eat me a little bit!”

Leliana departs to begin arranging things—they must prepare a plan for the Gray Wardens, among many other tasks—but Cassandra stays. The herbalist and apostate return. The unnamed child frowns and whimpers in her sleep as the magic in her hand flares. The apostate tells Justinia what he knows, apologizes for not being able to do more to stabilize it. When Justinia asks what he makes of the child herself, his expression turns strange.

“I… am not sure.”

“Is she a mage?” Justinia asks; a test.

Solas, the apostate, looks at the child for a long time before he answers. “She must be,” he says, “but I have never met a mage like her. The connection she has to the Fade is… strange. I’m uncertain how much of that is because of her mark.”

“I see,” says Justinia. “Thank you for your help. Please, keep trying. This little one saved my life. I would ask no less for her.”

The child wakes not long after, and far earlier than anyone expected. She squirms and stretches, yawning. Her eyes pop open. They are bright, metallic gold. She looks at the adults with open curiosity, not at all alarmed, and smiles.

“Hi!” she says.

“You are of Nevarra?” Cassandra asks, surprised.

“Nevarra? She greeted us in Orlesian,” says Justina.

Solas says nothing, but his expression of surprise turns to confusion and consideration.

“I heard Nevarran,” Cassandra says, confused as well.

The little girl laughs. “Everyone can understand me! It’s magic!”

“Is that so?” Justinia says thoughtfully. “What kind of magic?”

“Oh, I dunno,” says the girl, staring in fascination at her marked hand. “Papa tried to guess once but he said everything in one really long breath and got distracted and then ran off to the archives, so I didn’t get it. Wowee, that’s so tangled!”

“Your papa? Was he with you at the Conclave?” Cassandra asks.

The girl pauses, head tilting. “What’s a conclave?”

“A meeting. Did your father bring you to the meeting between the Templars and the mages?”

Her face lights up. “Mage? I’m a mage! What’s a Templar, though?”

Cassandra’s jaw works for a moment, baffled as she tries to figure out what to make of the girl’s statements.

“What is your name, child?” Justinia asks thoughtfully.

“Lora! I have a big long name but you can call me Lora because I like you.”

“A big long name?” Solas asks.

“Yes.” She nods. “Very long. I had to memorize the whooooole thing to introduce myself when important people come visit, but I like Lora better. Oh yeah, what happened to the big icky dark demon man? He was gross, and there was gross dark stuff in the people helping him too. I wanted to explode him but the big shiny magic ball really hurt when I touched it. I think that’s what made my hand all shiny and tangly. It’s trying to eat me, but only a little bit.” The mark flares. She scowls at it. “No! Bad magic, don’t eat me!”

Divine Justinia seems content to ignore most of that. “How did you come to the temple, Lora? Where you found me?”

“I was ‘splorin,” says Lora. “So, accident. Kind of. I like places with lots of magic. Granda says they prob’ly drag me in when I’m ‘splorin, like a magnet!”

“Where did you come from, then? Nevarra? Or perhaps… across the sea?”

Lora giggles madly, hands over her mouth, and looks at the Divine with sparkling eyes. “No, silly, that’s too close! I came from really really really far away. A whole other world!”

A profound silence falls in the room as the adults stare at her. Lora seems wholly unbothered, focusing again on the mark. Solas notes that he was not seeing things earlier—her eyes do indeed begin to glow a bright gold.

“…the child is mad,” says Cassandra, but doesn’t mean it. She speaks like she can find nothing else to say.

“I have seen many things in the Fade over the course of my travels,” Solas says, “but I have never seen anything quite like… Well, do you mean the Fade when you speak of another world, miss Lora?”

She giggles again. “You called me miss!” Her head tilts, but she still looks only at her hand. “What’s the Fade?”

“We walked there together, child,” says Justina. “Do you remember? We were chased by spiders.”

Only now does Lora devote her full attention to them again, and the glow in her eyes fades to nothing. “The murky magic place? Those weren’t spiders, they were spirits and they made themselves look like bad science men.”

“I don’t think she comes from the Fade, Solas,” says Cassandra dryly.

“Indeed not.”

The strange girl seems to find nothing but amusement in their efforts to figure out what was happening, as if she’s seen it many times before. She laughs, open-mouthed and delighted. “No! Another world! I’ll show you, watch!”

What follows is like a clap of thunder contained within the room. A faint scream echoes back to them, shrill and surprised more than frightened. Lora is gone, but they’ve barely sprung to their feet before she suddenly returns and falls to the side, clutching her hand. The mark hisses and crackles menacingly.

“Ow! OWWIE!” She rolls around on the furs, whimpering.

“Lora!” Justinia gasps, reaching for her. “Child!”

“It’s too tangled! It won’t let me leave!” Curled up in a ball, the girl opens her teary eyes enough to glare at her hand, as if it was hardly more than a naughty playmate. “And it hurt!”

“What do you mean it won’t let you leave? Where did you try to go?” Cassandra demands.

“I’m s’pposed to leave whenever I want! That’s an important rule in case someone is mean and tries to hurt me!” Lora pushes herself upright with a little help from Justinia. She shakes her marked hand out. “But it’s all tangly with the strings here, so when I tried to leave and maybe go find Grama Oth so she could tell you about other words, it pulled me back! Really hard!” She points out the window. “It spat me out up there where all the strings are tangled and broken and full of stuff, and then I came back here because I was falling.”

“Do you mean,” says Solas, “that you attempted to leave this world… and fell from the Breach because the mark would not allow you to depart?”

“Yes,” says Lora, distress already mostly forgotten. She purses her lips. “I guess I can’t go home until I figure out how to untangle this.” She lights up and grins at them. The resilience of a small child is truly a thing to behold. “Hooray! No lessons for a long time and Granda can’t scold me for missing them ‘cuz I can’t leave!”

“You cannot go home and you are happy about it?” Cassandra says with disbelief. “Will you not miss your family?”

“Granda will come find me,” the little girl asserts with absolute confidence. “So I won’t have to miss them. But now I won’t have to do aaaany geometry! Or etiquette! Or philosophy!” She squirms excitedly in place at the prospect.

“We will have to be attentive for his arrival, then,” says Justinia. The prospect that any grandparent or parent with similar abilities might arrive in wrath over their child being trapped goes unsaid, but certainly not unnoticed.

“Grama Oth might come first, I dunno. Or Auntie Venn. Or maybe mama or papa. There’s lots of people who try to make me go to my lessons.” Her interest in the topic ends abruptly, and she hops down from the bed to zoom over to the window. “Why is there a big tear up in the sky? It felt weird to got close to. I want to do that again, maybe I can fix it because it felt a lot like the thing on my hand trying to eat me. I can fix anything! Eventually!”

“That is not safe, child,” says Justinia. “Come sit with us again. We haven’t even introduced ourselves. I am Divine Justinia. Oh, you would not know—Divine is the highest rank in the Chantry.”

She at least succeeds in getting Lora’s attention for the moment. “Is that like a High Priestess?” she asks curiously.

“I suppose. Your world must not have Andraste. Who or what do your people worship?”

“Ooooh, worship.” She nods sagely and trots back over so she’s at least in polite conversation distance. “We have the Thirteen, the Virtues. One day I’ll be the representative of aaaaaall of them, but that’s Granda’s job right now. Mama is sworn to Honor and papa and sworn to Curiosity and Granda was sworn to Wisdom but now he’s all of them and they want me to swear to Wisdom when I grow up but I dunno, I don’t think I’m very wise. And also Wisdom is boooooooring.” She puts a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. “Oh but don’t tell anyone I said that. Especially not High Priestess Sophia.”

No one has much of a chance to comment on her rambling, because at the same instant Leliana knocks on the door briefly before entering. She pauses when she sees Lora standing in the middle of the room, awake and seemingly healthy.

“Hello, little one,” she says, then turns her attention to Justinia. “Most Holy, the situation is only getting worse. We need to close these rifts soon or we will be overrun by demons.”

“That will be difficult,” says Justinia, watching Lora curiously circle Leliana. She seems to like the Nightingale's purple cowl very much. “Our best chance at doing so is… well. We cannot put a child in danger.”

Lora’s ears prick like a puppy at a whistle for dinner. “Danger?” she asks eagerly, pausing in her exploration of Leliana’s armored tunic. “You can put me in danger, I love danger! And everyone says I’m allowed to make things that try to hurt me ‘splode! Oh, oh oh, and—and—” She becomes so excited that speech eludes her for a moment and she prances in place. “Ahem. Ahem!” She composes herself in a mimicry of adult mannerisms, folding her hands in front of her chest. “And I am definitely allowed to have knives,” she lies solemnly.

“Really,” Cassandra drawls.

“Yeah!”

Justinia shakes her head, amused. “Lora, it is not good to lie.”

Lora pouts at her. “Well I should be allowed to have a knife.”

Solas glances between the humans. “I apologize, but… we may have no choice. And she has already exhibited frankly impossible talents. She may be the safest out of all of us, even surrounded by demons.”

Leliana’s eyes sharpen.

“Course I’m the safest,” Lora boasts, “I can go anywhere I want! And I’m a mage and that means I can do anything! Eventually. But I can definitely make bad icky guys ‘splode. Especially bad science men. And I can turn into a dragon whenever I want, because dragons are the best.”

Her final statement, delivered as boastfully as the others, throws the whole room. “You can do what?” Leliana asks.

“I can be a dragon, watch!” She vanishes. In her place, a cat-sized dragon like nothing any of them have ever seen appears. Four-winged and svelte, skin the color of white opal with gold veins, it squeaks and chitters and darts up Leliana’s leg to perch on her shoulder.

“See!” says the dragon in Lora’s voice.

The wordless staring continues for a good, solid minute.

“Perhaps,” Justinia says at length, “you are right. And perhaps we have no choice.”

“Are you certain the mark can seal these rifts?” Leliana asks, curiously raising a hand out and letting the little dragon-girl hold onto her finger.

“I am certain of nothing, except that the only hope we have is the mark. I will personally protect her in the attempt, if you will permit.”

“A generous offer from an apostate,” says Cassandra, laden with suspicion.

“I suffer just as much as any of you from this,” he says coolly in response. “Beyond that, she is an innocent child, and I am one of the few experts who might be able to help. Think of apostates what you will, but I am not the kind of monster who would abandon a child to this task.”

“You were brave to even offer your help,” says Justinia. “Certainly I will accept. I would accompany her myself if I could, but I suspect she is far better suited to fending off demons than I. Cassandra, gather those you can and escort Lora to the nearest rift. If the mark cannot close it, then retreat.”

“Yes, Most Holy,” says Cassandra.

“Are you going out with me? Yaaay!” Lora cheers.

Leliana already seems to be in love with the tiny dragon, having coaxed her into a cradled position. “It will be better to return to your human form,” she says, smiling. “Many people would be alarmed by this, Lora.”

“Oh.” The dragon nods sagely. “Yes. Granda says I can’t be Opal at home—I’m Opal when I’m a dragon—‘cuz it’ll cause a heresy. And that’s bad.” 

Abruptly, Leliana is holding a human child again. She sets her down easily.

“I am sure we can have many fascinating conversations later,” says Justinia, standing. “Thank you for saving my life, little one. I would apologize for sending you into danger, but something tells me you charge in headlong all on your own.”

“Yeah!” the small child enthusiastically agrees, evidently seeing no problem with such behavior.

Justinia chuckles. “I will be in the Chantry, praying for your success and organizing the survivors. Maker be with you all.” She departs.

“Okay, let’s go!” says Lora. She turns to charge out the door, only stopped by Leliana’s quick intervention. “Oh, right. Where are we going?”

“Maker,” Cassandra mutters, rubbing a hand across her forehead. “Lora, stay close to Solas. You can use magic to, ah, ‘explode’ demons, yes?”

“I can do lots of stuff! Fire and ice and splosions and sometimes I turn bad guys into pretty flowers because it’s funny and sometimes I explode, but that’s only when the bad science man trap me.” She makes demonstrative arm motions to accompany each description.

“I will guard and guide her, Seeker,” Solas says with wholly unwarranted confidence. “Come, da’len.”

“Okay!” She glances down. “Wowee, do you hate shoes too? Everyone always tells me to put my shoes back on but you’re grown up and you’re not wearing shoes! You’re my favorite now.” Immediately, she begins to remove her odd-looking boots.

“Please do not,” says Solas, audibly regretting his life choices.

“Pick up reinforcements as you go,” says Leliana, watching the chaos with muted amusement. “I will scout ahead and secure your path.”

“Maker go with you,” says Cassandra.

Leliana laughs. “I think you will need the Maker’s hand more than I.”

 Lora's Dragon Form

Chapter Text

Varric has learned to expect the unexpected, after everything he’s witnessed. That only takes him so far, though. When he’s neck-deep in demons after a major world event, he’s not expecting to hear a rather enthusiastic “HOORAY!” followed by a sizable explosion taking out the terror demon he’d been aiming at. He spares a quick, startled glance over his shoulder to spot reinforcements: the Seeker, the bald apostate, a few scouts and soldiers, and the poor little kid who fell out of the Fade along with the Divine.

She doesn’t look quite so ‘poor little’ now, though, as she gleefully and bare-handedly throws around spells.

“Control, da’len,” says Chuckles. “Don’t hit our allies. Stay close to me.”

“WHEEEE! GO AWAY DEMONS! KABOOM! POW!”

Amazing.

With all the reinforcements, it isn’t long before they’ve cleared the demons around the creepy glowing tear. “Quickly!” Cassandra shouts, “Before more come!”

“I can fix it!” The kid charges straight at the rift, Chuckles hot on her heels. She raises her marked hand and makes a grabbing gesture. The mark throbs with light. She yanks.

The rift closes.

Thunderous cheers go up from the assembled fighters. The kid turns, chin lifted imperiously, and set her hands on her hip. “I can fix anything,” she declares, jabbing a thumb into her chest.

Varric likes the kid already, although he doesn’t so much like that they’ve brought her into demon-infested areas. Not that they seem to have much of a choice, and not that she doesn’t seem weirdly capable, but still. He slings Bianca over his shoulder and approaches.

Chuckles is kneeling and looking closely at her marked hand. “Does anything hurt?”

“Nope! I found all the places it was trying to eat me and told it to shhhhhh. So now it’s shhhh. It fits real good with the torn places in the strings, did you see? Can I take off my shoes now?”

“There is snow. You may not.”

“Aww.”

Varric interjects. “Freezing your toes off would be pretty bad, kid.”

Striking gold eyes lock on him. The kid lights up. “You’re short!” she says in the way of small children with no mind-to-mouth filter.

He laughs. “Hey, I’m normal height for a dwarf. I think you’re the short one in this situation.”

“A dwarf!” She claps her hands. “I’ve never met a dwarf yet! I know elves and dragons and wolves and vampires and shapeshifters and supersoldiers and dragons though!”

“You said dragons twice, Sunshine.” His smile feels a little strange on his face. “Huh. You wouldn’t happen to be connected to a cryptic old lady named Flemeth, would you? Maybe another mysterious kid of hers?”

The kid tilts her head. “Who’s Flemeth?”

Varric sighs. “Yeah, don’t know what I expected. Wouldn’t make sense if it was that easy.”

“It would be better for you not to guess, dwarf,” Chuckles suggests. “Even your imagination could not possibly match her story.”

“Oh?” He glances around with exaggerated shiftiness. “Sounds intriguing. You’ll have to fill me in later, kid. What’s your name, anyway?”

“I’m Lora! I have a big long name too but I like you, so you can call me Lora. Is that a crossbow? Does it have magic? Mama and papa and Granda have all kinds of magic weapons but they never let me—“ She stops. “I mean, they always let me hold them. And I can have knives.”

Adorable. Varric grins at her. “Nice try, but you’ll have to learn to spin a yarn better than that.”

“Aw. Fiddlesticks,” she cusses.

“Anyway, my name is Varric, yes it’s a crossbow, and it has a little magic when I put a rune in it. Not right now, though.”

“Oh. Neat!”

Cassandra approaches, which is good because he can see the exact second the kid starts to value running around more than talking about Bianca. “Hello, Seeker,” he says cordially. “Did you drag this one along as a prisoner too?”

She glares. “Of course not, dwarf. She is a child, and saved the Divine besides. If we did not need the mark to close these rifts, I would not have brought her.”

“But we do need her. So what’s the plan, then?”

Cassandra’s frown deepens. “We must go to the Temple. If she can close the Breach, then it is better to do it now, before things worsen. If she cannot, then we must retreat and make a new plan.”

“I can do it!” chirps Lora. “I can do anything if I try hard enough! And I definitely won’t accidentally make it ‘splode!”

“That’s… a little alarming,” Varric says slowly. “Do you accidentally make things explode a lot?”

“No,” she lies.

Solas looks like he swallowed a lemon. “We cannot know until we get closer.”

Varric huffs another laugh. “Let’s go find out, then.” He hefts Bianca again. “Lead on, Seeker.”

By the time they return to Haven, everyone is… frazzled. Understandable, since Lora is insane. And indestructible. Which is good for them, really, since a huge Pride demon had emerged from the rift under the Breach.

They’re also lucky closing the large rift had knocked the kid straight out, because it means she’s peacefully snoozing in the elf apostate’s arms as they ride back to Haven on a few poor, overworked horses. Solas had been elected for the task of personal nap location on account of him being the only one not wearing armor who was also not a dwarf.

Absolutely no one trusts the crazy child to be left alone, so Varric and Solas both silently agree to stay in the little cabin with her while Cassandra and Leliana go off to convene with the Divine.

“So.” Varric stares at the fire in the fireplace. “...another world, huh?”

“Indeed,” says Solas, who looks like he’s aged several centuries in the past few hours.

“Well… shit.”

Hawke has learned to expect the unexpected.

That’s a lie, actually. Hawke has learned to stop expecting things at all, because he’s always wrong. Like receiving a letter from Varric asking him to come to Haven and meet with the Divine. A letter which also casually mentioned that Varric had been ‘involuntarily escorted’ there himself by Seeker Cassandra… which somehow was less important than the fact that Hawke really really needed to ‘come in person to see this shit.’

What ‘this shit’ is, exactly, is not elaborated on. Hawke suspects it has something to do with the explosion at the Conclave, the Breach, the Divine’s miraculous survival, and the mysterious ‘Child of Andraste.’ Rumors abound, but he’s reasonably certain she’s a prodigy mage child who did… something.

Hawke has plenty of his own problems, especially with rumors of the Gray Wardens acting strangely, but this is Varric asking. He goes.

A red-headed child in a tree is the first to greet him near Haven, before he even reaches Varric’s rendezvous spot. “Hi!” she calls, waving enthusiastically. Her feet are bare despite the snow. “Who are you? You’re shiny!”

“Thank you, I think,” he says, shading his eyes as he looks up at her. “My name is Garrett. Who are you? And what are you doing up there?”

“My name is Lora! I’m avoiding Ruffles. She’s trying to make me do lessons. No way, I don’t have to do any until I go home! Only mama and papa and Granda can make me!”

“Ah.” He nods sagely. “Every child’s favorite pastime is avoiding lessons. They might be fun lessons, though. Ruffles sounds like a fun person to take lessons from.”

Lora’s nose wrinkles. “Not etiquette! That’s never fun! Are you Waffles? Varric said Waffles was coming today and you look like a Waffles.”

She gestures as she speaks and he catches a glimpse of a green magical mark on her hand. Things finally click together. “That I am,” he drawls. “And you must be the Child of Andraste.”

“That’s a silly name,” she sniffs. “I’m mama’s child, not Andraste’s. Varric says it’s a title though and it doesn’t mean that much.”

“Lora is much better,” he agrees, slightly surprised by her line of logic. “Does Varric have a fun nickname for you too, like how he calls me Waffles?”

“Sunshine!” She grins at him. It fits.

“Shall we go find him together then, Sunshine?”

“Hmm.” Her legs swing back and forth as she considers. “Are you a fun adult or a boring adult, Mister Waffles?”

Well now she’s just making him sound like a pet nug. “A fun adult, of course.”

She squints at him skeptically. “Really? You wouldn’t make me go do lessons and you’d let me fight demons?”

“Of course,” he says, and it’s only slightly a lie.

“Hmm. Okay! Catch!”

His heart lurches and he scrambles to catch the girl as she casually drops from over twenty feet up. If she gets injured there are dozens of people who will likely line up to kill him, he suspects, but it’s too late for reason and negotiation now. He only yells in alarm a little bit.

To his surprise, she lands in his arms as light as a feather and breaks into peals of laughter.

“You’re making a funny face!” she declares gleefully, and he didn’t grow up with two younger siblings not to know what that tone means.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you,” he scolds, setting her down into the snow. She doesn’t seem much bothered by walking barefoot in it. Perhaps she’s half elf.

“Yes! I learned how to feather fall and everyone makes a funny face when they catch me! I’m going to tell Varric so he can add it to his story.” She seizes Garret’s hand and drags him along. “C’mon!”

“You must have older siblings,” he says, shaking his head at the ruthlessness of a small child.

“Nope! I picked lots of aunts and uncles but mama’s not blessed enough to have more than me. Laurel has two whole sisters though, and I think that would be really fun. Two sisters is so many at home! Not here though, did you know I met someone who had eleven brothers and sisters? That’s so many!”

“Eleven is a lot,” he agrees, puzzled by some of her phrasing. She doesn’t chatter at him much more after that, though, because they reach a smallish clearing where Varric is waiting and polishing his crossbow.

“There’s Varric, hi Varric! I found Waffles!”

“That you did, Sunshine,” says Varric. “What are you doing out here? I thought you were supposed to be learning how to make the Orlesians happy.”

“Etiquette! Yuck!” She lets go of Hawke’s hand and makes a face. “I’m staying out here and watching the Breach until she gives up.”

Varric chuckles. “Yeah, I don’t think Ruffles is the type to give up. She’ll probably just recruit the Nightingale. Then you’ll have to get really creative about hiding.”

“Nooooooo!” The Child turns tail and scampers off. Since Varric doesn’t seem all that concerned, Hawke lets her go.

“Cute, isn’t she?” says Varric in a tone that means he’s angling for something.

Garrett crosses his arms over his chest. “Hello Varric, good to see you too. My trip here was very nice and only slightly demon-infested, which I assume has something to do with why you asked me to come.”

“Yeah…” He rubs the back of his head. “Well… I wasn’t going to. Even kept the Seeker off your scent, but now that the kid is involved…”

Hawke’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“Turns out the Seeker wanted to find you to ask for your help. Don’t tell them I warned you, but they’re re-forming the Inquisition and they want you at its head.” He sighs. “They’ve put you through enough, Hawke, and if I were you I’d say no, but… well, now we have the kid. And someone needs to keep everything from blowing up around her.”

Garrett is missing something here. He knows he is. “So you want me,” he says skeptically, “the man who arguably failed to stop this whole war from starting, to head an Inquisition?”

Varric grimaces. “I don’t want that, actually. I want you to stay far away. But Sunshine is now the center of a political shitstorm and has the only way to close those damned rifts attached to her hand. And… she won’t be able to do it unless we get the war to end. Turns out even Sunshine can’t do everything. She’s going to need either the mages or the Templars in order to close the Breach up there.”

Garret looks up at the tear in the sky, visible through the sparse branches of the pines, and puts the last of the pieces together. “The Divine can’t do it,” he realizes, “because it has to be someone who can physically protect the Child of Andraste. But what about the Left and Right hands?”

“No. They won’t be able to lead, Hawke. Not the way you can.”

He massages his brow. “Varric…”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you said no. I might die trying to keep that kid out of trouble without some backup, but I wouldn’t blame you.”

“Just keep her out of trouble? Not die trying to keep her alive?”

Varric chuckles. “I don’t need to keep her alive. She does that herself. Sunshine is an indestructible troublemaker. The stories I’m getting out of that kid… most of them are too crazy for even me to publish.”

Hawke hums, shifting on his feet. He doesn’t like any of his options here, but he’s definitely starting to feel… swayed. “I hear she’s a prodigy.”

“Yeah, I’m sure everyone’s heard that. It’s not true though. Lora is way beyond prodigy. You’ll see.”

Garrett raises his eyebrows.

“Remember Flemeth?”

“Vividly, yes.”

“Lora can turn into a dragon too.”

“…ah.”

“It’s weird shit out here, Hawke.”

That seems like an understatement. Hawke takes a deep breath of the bitingly cold air, closes his eyes, and makes his decision. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll speak with Divine Justinia.”

Hawke meets Varric in the Singing Maiden and drinks until his head stops spinning from new information and starts spinning from being absolutely smashed.

“...a teleporting baby mage dragon from another world?” he says eventually, remarkably well-enunciated considering his level of inebriation.

“I told you,” Varric laughs into his own tankard, “shit’s weird out here.”

Hawke lets his head thunk down onto the table and decides comprehension is a problem for tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The first task that the newly-formed Inquisition’s newer Inquisitor takes on is a simple trip to the Hinterlands. It’s fortunate they have the backing of the Chantry (or most of it) thanks to Divine Justinia. All Hawke has to do is speak with one of the Chantry Mothers organizing relief efforts in the area and make sure things are stable enough for promised supplies and personnel to actually arrive and do some good.

Which essentially means ending the mage-templar war.

Simple.

He takes along everyone he can, following the Inquisition scouts to their first camp. Journeying with Solas, Cassandra, and Varric is fine. The weird but extremely convenient part is that Lora can just move from one point to another instantly, so she doesn’t have to actually travel with them. Solas worked out a system to call her over any distance, which they do once they’re safe at camp.

“Hi!” she says, popping up at the apostate’s elbow. “I’m here!”

“Very good,” says Solas. “Do you remember how important it is that you come immediately whenever I call?”

“Very important cuz there might be demons and I can be just like mama and papa and save your lives,” she recites.

“That’s right.”

Scout Harding has a very interesting expression on her face. “I’d heard… rumors, but I didn’t think the Child could actually, uh…”

“I can do anything,” Lora declares proudly. “Eventually. After I learn all the rules.”

“I guess it’s a good thing you can, huh?” Harding looks at Garrett. “Are we sure you have to take that cute little kid into the middle of all this?”

“Unfortunately,” he says, checking his staff one more time.

“Trust me,” says Varric, “you should be more worried about us than Sunshine. She didn’t even blink at that Pride demon back in the temple. I think she could have ki—uh, banished it on her own.”

Lora offers him a remarkably condescending look when he abruptly changes phrasing. “I know what killing is,” she says. “It’s what mama and papa do when they go off to war, and I’m allowed to do it when bad science men try to hurt me. You have to kill something to make it stop moving forever.”

Harding’s expression becomes even more interesting. “Wow, uh… that’s one way to put it. Maybe leave killing to the adults, right Lora?”

“As long as no bad science men try to touch me,” she agrees, and is immediately distracted by a shiny beetle crawling along the ground. “I like making friends more! Hellooooo Mister bug. You’re very shiny.” She follows it across the camp.

Scout Harding looks between Hawke and his companions. “If you let that kid get hurt,” she says, “I think I might just kill you myself.”

“Duly noted,” says Hawke.

The problem is not taking out the mage and Templar strongholds. That’s shockingly easy, actually. And the problem is also not closing the rifts they find, since they’re all capable fighters and Lora can conveniently change into dragon form, hover over the rift, and close it while they fend off the demons. All that complex and potentially fatal nonsense goes shockingly well.

No, as it would turn out the real problem is babysitting.

“Waffles look, I found a bear!”

“Lora! Get down from there!”

The giant Hinterlands bear doesn’t seem to perceive the cat-sized dragon on its back as a threat, but it certainly perceives the panicked people as a one. It roars and rears up onto its hind legs.

“Wheee!” says Lora, clinging to the fur.

Solas manages to convince her to scamper over to them, and eventually the bear is dead. Cassandra attempts to convey the idea that riding on bears is dangerous (to the health of the adults), which does not work at all and ends in a fascinating story about a healer Lora knows who purportedly killed a bear using only her thighs. While drunk.

“Well dam—dang. Why isn’t she here helping us out?” Varric says with humor.

“I can’t go get her,” Lora sighs. “Maybe whoever finds me first can.”

Ominous.

Their journey through the Hinterlands continues in roughly that vein, with the adults spending some of their time addressing complex socio-political issues and all of the rest chasing around a curious seven-year-old. Horsemaster Dennet manages to hold her attention for two full days, giving them a much-needed chance to speed through some tasks that no child should see or be involved in.

When they come back, they find a woman of indeterminate age nodding along while Lora chatters to her about all of the horses in the stable.

“Who are you?” Cassandra asks suspiciously. “Lora, come over here.”

“Silly Cass,” says Lora, clinging to the woman’s legs. “This is Grama Othalia!”

“You’re her grandmother?” Varric says, disbelieving.

“Not by blood,” says the woman, Othalia, with amusement. “Lora adopted me. She’s very good at that, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Grama taught me how to turn into a dragon,” Lora proudly declares.

“Ah, well.” Othalia coughs, slightly embarrassed. “I suppose that was partly my fault.”

“Can… you turn into a dragon?” Hawke asks slowly.

For whatever reason, the question makes her laugh. Lora laughs too. “It would be more accurate to say I can turn into a human.”

“Grama’s a dragon first! And I’m a human first! But we can both switch,” says Lora.

“Oh. Well,” says Hawke, and runs out of words.

Othalia takes pity on them. “Come, it’s been a long day for you. We’ll return to your camp and speak more after you’ve rested.” She gives them a knowing look. “I’ll entertain Ameliora.”

The ‘thank you’ she gets in return is exceedingly heartfelt.

‘Grandma Othalia’ turns out to be a wellspring of valuable information on both babysitting and complex political conflicts. Garrett spends a long time speaking with her, longer than he’d even intended. She gives her advice freely, and even teaches him a few secrets. Such as the fact that Lora can be put to sleep near instantly if lured into a long enough hug. Given their historical troubles in getting the Child to stop running around and go to sleep at night, it’s a trick he intends to use shamelessly.

Othalia very kindly does not eviscerate them for the fact that Lora has been accidentally prevented from returning home, and also promises to inform Lora’s family of the circumstances. Hawke swears in return to protect the girl from all harm, even at the cost of his own life. Othalia accepts his oath, and comments that his determination might be enough to calm Lora’s fearsome mother, should she arrive before Lora’s more merciful father or grandfather.

Hawke grimaces. So do the rest of his companions.

“I must go,” says Othalia, brushing off her pants. Lora is sprawled out on a cot in a position that would be uncomfortable to anyone but a small child, dead to the world. “Her grandfather has been searching for her. This anchor has disrupted his sworn bond to her, I think. With my help, he will likely be the next to visit. He’s very cordial, you don’t need to be too worried.”

“Thank you for your assistance,” says Garrett, bowing his head.

“Of course.” She smiles at them. “Good luck. You’re going to need it.”

With the Hinterlands cleared out of its rifts (including the one in the center of a… cult?), Garrett ruffles Lora’s hair and sends her back to Haven. Their collective sigh of relief only lasts a few minutes, though, because she pops right back up with a written message from Leliana.

“She said give it right away!” the girl chirps. “It’s important.”

“I see. Well done, not getting distracted,” Hawke says, taking the missive. It’s hard not to smile when Lora very seriously salutes him and then immediately gets distracted.

The message turns out to be about Gray Warden activity in the area. Given Justinia’s report on what happened during the Conclave and the rumors Garrett himself was investigating, they’ve been pursuing every lead they can find. As luck would have it, there’s a Warden near the Crossroads and they can find him before they depart.

“Should we keep Lora with us?” Cassandra wonders when he relays their new travel plan. “We may need her to convince Warden Blackwall to cooperate with us.”

“Unfortunately… yes.” Garrett cups his hands over his mouth. “Hey Sunshine! Would you like to come with us and make a new friend?”

She runs right back over to them, miraculously free of any bears found in the ten seconds they’ve been conferring. “Yeah! New friend!”

They find Warden Blackwall training three ‘recruits,’ but before they can do much more than approach, bandits attack. Solas ushers Lora into the nearby cabin and does not let her out until the bandits are dead and the bodies have been dragged out of view.

“I’m afraid I haven’t been in contact with my commanders in a long time. My job is recruiting, and I do it alone,” Warden Blackwall says to Hawke when he inquires.

Hawke frowns, absently patting Lora’s curly head when she comes to stand beside him. She seems fascinated by the shape of Blackwall’s beard. “You haven’t seen any other Wardens recently, then?”

“No. Not in years.”

Something about that seems suspicious, but not in the direction Hawke was expecting. “No knowledge of their movements or orders from the top?”

Blackwall frowns, hooking his thumbs into his belt. “I’m afraid not, Inquisitor. No one’s been sent to contact or call me if that’s changed.”

Garrett sighs sharply. “Dam—er, darn.” He corrects himself after glancing down at his young charge.

The glance draws Blackwall’s attention down to their young spectator. “Hello,” he says to Lora, a little awkward. “You must be the Child of Andraste.”

“That’s my newest title,” she agrees. “Your beard is very pointy. Do you use oil to make it pointy?”

He laughs a little bit at the question. “As a matter of fact, I do use some oils. That’s a very smart question.”

Lora nods, pleased with herself. “Granda had a fancy beard when I was born. He had to use lots of oils and stuff on it, but he had to get rid of it cuz I kept setting it on fire when I was a baby.”

Hawke and Varric both laugh in surprise.

“Came right out of your mother loving explosions, huh?” says Varric.

Lora beams. “Yeah!”

Blackwall shifts on his feet and frowns thoughtfully. “You don’t have a choice but to take the Child into danger, do you, Inquisitor?”

“No. Lora is capable, but we would gladly leave—“ Garrett stops himself before he says something that will make Lora stomp her feet and declare that he’s not her favorite and never will be again. “That is, no, we don’t have a choice.”

The man nods. “I may not be able to help you much with the other Wardens, but I can help you with this. I would join your Inquisition, if you would have me.”

Hawke considers. It’s in Blackwall’s interest as much as it is in Hawke’s, for all that the man seems to have no idea of his comrades’ (potential) betrayal. Plus, if Blackwall comes with them then Leliana can figure out why this all feels… off.

“We’d be happy to have you,” says Garrett, and they shake hands.

“Yay!” Lora cheers, despite lacking true context for what is happening.

Varric laughs again. “Just wait until you get the briefing on Sunshine. Or go out in the field with her. You good at killing bears, Warden?”

Even Cassandra has to admit sudden uncertainty on Blackwall’s face is pretty hilarious.

“Now that things have calmed down in the Hinterlands,” says Leliana, “Most Holy needs you to meet her in Val Royeaux. The explosion at the Conclave has unfortunately brought suspicion upon her and the Chantry in general. The mages, templars, and even some factions within the Chantry itself are accusing either her or you of orchestrating everything.”

Hawke sighs. “Yes, of course they are. Because that makes sense.” He massages the space between his brows for a moment. “I’m guessing we need to bring the Child of Andraste with us as well.”

“It… should help,” says Josephine. “If she behaves herself. Seeing the mark in person will put many rumors to rest.”

Garrett gives her a disbelieving look. “You think Lora will behave herself? To the satisfaction of Orlesians?”

Josephine grimaces. “She is capable of it. We only need to motivate her to actually do it.”

“She cheered over being chained to our world specifically because it meant she wouldn’t have to take etiquette lessons. The kid does everything short of climbing into the Breach to avoid lessons with you.”

Josephine’s grimace deepens, but Leliana smiles. “She likes playing games,” says the spymaster. “I think we can find a way to earn her cooperation.”

“Or,” says Cullen, “we could allow Hawke to handle things with help from Cassandra.”

“You’re volunteering to babysit? How noble of you, Cullen. I’ll send Lora to you right away.”

“No, that’s not—I mean—”

Garrett interrupts Cullen’s borderline-panicked stammering. “Josephine is right. They’ll need to see her.”  He resigns himself to the fate he was already resigned to. “Leliana… I’ll take any suggestions you have.”

“Excellent! I would also use shameless bribery. I’m sure she’ll love the frilly cakes.”

Chapter Text

Solas is put in charge of Lora for their trip, entirely because he’s her ‘favorite’ at the precise moment they reach the city. He also assured Hawke that his time spent dreaming in the Fade has given him a unique ability to coax Lora into playing ‘The Game’—or at least the child-friendly version Leliana concocted.

“Do you remember the goal, da’len?”

“Confuse and in-trigue,” she says, sounding the latter word out. “It’s like a big talking game and you lose points if you give away information they don’t already know.”

“Very good. Stay close to me and whisper any questions you have.”

“Okay!”

“And afterwards,” says Varric, “we’ll go get fancy cakes. I’ll get you double if you manage to avoid any bears.”

Her eyes light up. “No bears,” she solemnly promises.

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise. “Varric, where would she even find a bear?”

“Hey, I’m not about to underestimate Sunshine’s ability. If there’s a bear, she’ll find it.”

Solas mutters something in elvish under his breath. Whatever it is, it makes Lora giggle.

The sparse crowds react to their presence as if lightning is arcing from their very skin. Garrett hears more than a few cries of “The Champion! The Champion of Kirkwall!” in addition to “the Inquisitor!” Attention also goes to Lora, and he hears a lot of cooing from the women.

“Maker, she is so precious!” says one.

“So small! And those curls. They must be a nightmare to maintain.”

“She saved the Divine at such a young age. The Maker must favor her greatly.”

“They say she is a mage, though.”

“Hush. They’re looking at us.”

Lora seems strangely unaffected by all the attention, as if she’s used to it. Her own attention is taken up by fascination with the scenery. Garrett hears her murmuring about how everything is shiny and resolves to check all her pockets before they leave. The last thing they need is a rumor about the Child of Andraste being a kleptomaniac.

A scout approaches them at a run. “Your Worship!” she gasps, dropping to one knee.

“You’re one of Leliana’s people,” says Garrett. “What’s the situation?”

“One of the chantry mothers is rallying a mob against the Inquisition, and there are a great many Templars. She’s accusing you of deceiving Divine Justinia and orchestrating the war to destabilize the Chantry!”

Garrett sighs. “Of course she is. Well, let’s go and greet her, shall we?”

The irate Chantry mother’s speech is nothing he hasn’t heard before, and he rolls his eyes at most of it. What is surprising, though, is the Templar that cold-clocks her in the back of the head.

Lora frowns thunderously. “That’s mean!” she declares. “You should be nice!”

Lord Seeker Lucius looks at her coldly. “You are no Child of Andraste. If you are to be angry, child, be angry at these pretenders who hold you up as a shield and a lie. Be angry at the Champion, who began this in the first place!”

Cassandra steps forward. “Lord Seeker—”

“You will not address me,” he bites out.

Cassandra’s eyes go wide in shock. “Lord Seeker?”

The man walks a short distance away before rounding on them. “Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andraste’s chosen. You should be ashamed! The templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages!” He slashes a hand through the air, cold and angry glare on Garrett. “You are the ones who failed! You who’d leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear! If you came to appeal to me, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is mine.”

That… is not the man Cassandra described to Garrett. He feels his own eyebrows climbing high on his face as he listens to the impassioned speech. Out of the corner of his eye, he takes note of Lora’s frown, head-tilt, and puzzled squint. Her eyes are lit up too, and she already explained to him that glowing eyes mean she’s looking past the physical world at pure magic (the “strings,” as she calls it).

Something isn’t as it seems here.

“Has the Lord Seeker gone mad?” Cassandra asks as he walks away, utterly aghast.

“Is my involvement really enough to make him dismiss you like that?” Hawke asks, crossing his arms and frowning thoughtfully.

“I would have said ‘no’ before, but after this… He was always a reasonable man. This grandstanding is very bizarre.”

“Something must be going on with the Templars, then,” Varric observes. “I’ll send a letter to Carver, ask if he’s heard anything.”

Lora peeks up at Garrett and offers, “He was very shiny. And a little tangly.”

After so much time spent listening to her attempt to describe what the non-physical world looks like, he knows that ‘shiny’ means full of magic and ‘tangly’ means either complicated or bad. “Really?” he asks, kneeling for a moment to speak quietly to her. “Did he look like Cass?”

“Mmm…” Lora tilts her head at Cassandra, eyes still bright with magic. “No. He looked all the way different. Cass looks see-through shiny and not tangly at all. He looked tangly like a demon is tangly and shiny, but different.”

The Lord Seeker looked like a demon. Even the very worst assholes they’ve met so far have never merited that description from her, which means something really wasn’t as it seemed. Maybe even…

He wonders what she would have seen if she’d been able to look at Anders.

“Well… shit,” he says, and accepts Cassandra’s reprimanding kick for cursing in front of the kid.

Shortly after that, someone shoots an arrow either at or near him. It’s purportedly from someone who wants to help—Red Jenny—and instructs him to find ‘red things’ in the market area. Unfortunately, Lora hears this, very enthusiastically declares that she can find them, and scampers off, which leads to about an hour of chasing her around while trying to look like they’re not chasing her around and this is all very normal and dignified.

Well. Hawke was never good at dignified anyway.

She really does find everything in short order, which gives them a lead to follow up on later that night (and definitely not with the kid in tow). Task done, they manage to convince Lora to head for the Chantry where Justinia is waiting. They don’t even make it halfway before former Grand Enchanter Fiona waylays them.

“If I might have a moment of your time?”

“The leader of the mage rebellion, here in person. Very daring of you,” says Garrett.

“I heard of this gathering, and I wanted to see the fabled Inquisitor in person. More importantly…” Her eyes drop to Lora, thoughtful. “I wanted to make sure the Child of Andraste was not one of our children, stolen from us.”

“No one is allowed to steal me,” Lora declares. “And if they try, I’m allowed to blow them up! Everyone says so, even Granda.”

“Da’len, remember the game we are playing?” Solas says, gently nudging her.

“Oh.” She considers. “Umm… oh! Ask questions instead of answering, I remember.” She cocks her head at Fiona. “Do you think I’m stolen?”

Fiona chuckles. “I would remember a child like you, little mage. I certainly would not have sent you to the Conclave. Most people don’t take kindly to one of us being so bright and bold.”

“Really? That’s silly.”

“We think so.” She glances at Garrett. “She did not come from a Circle. Not even the most welcoming of them.”

“Did you want something, former Grand Enchanter?” Garrett asks. Who and what Lora is doesn’t concern Fiona or the mages, and he isn’t about to give anything away.

“You need help to close the Breach,” she says.

“You weren’t at the Conclave,” Garrett says back.

“And for good reason, as you saw. The Lord Seeker was of the same mind, and I will not pretend I am not happy to be alive. You distrust me no more than I distrust you… and Justinia.”

Cassandra makes a disbelieving noise. “You believe this drivel that Most Holy deliberately set a trap? She nearly died herself!”

Fiona looks at her coolly. “Did she? We have no proof of that. We have little proof of anything, which is why we are only wary of you and not hostile, Inquisitor. I certainly believe the Lord Seeker is likely to be the conspirator far more than you.” Her attention returns to Lora. “You have taken very good care of a young mage, and you are a mage yourself. If you would like to discuss an alliance, then meet us in Redcliffe. Au revoir.”

The former Grand Enchanter saunters off.

“Well. Good thing we had Sunshine with us,” says Varric.

Garrett sighs, ignoring his brand-new headache for the moment. “I think Sunshine has a better diplomatic record than all of us combined at this point.”

While Varric distracts Lora with frilly cakes, Garrett and Cassandra attempt to speed through a meeting with Justinia. Luckily, she doesn’t really have much to tell them, other than to ask for the impossible, and they were doing that anyway. All Hawke has to do in order to calm suspicions of a set-up is get the mages and the Templars to calm down. Justinia promises to pass on information to Leliana that will help in that regard.

As they’re leaving, a scout delivers an invitation to a soiree hosted by Duke Bastien the following night. The invitation includes only Garrett’s name and Lora’s. He groans. “More Orlesian politics. Wonderful.”

“Madame de Fer is the one who invited you,” Cassandra notes. “The Imperial Enchanter. She is certainly worth speaking with.”

“Why invite Lora? These soirees don’t tend to be the best place for children.”

“Status, most likely,” says Solas. “Imagine being able to say you were the first to invite the Child of Andraste to such an event.”

“Is it a party?” Lora asks, peeking at the papers. “I never get to go to grown-up parties unless mama and papa are home.”

“Can’t imagine why,” says Varric, dusting cake crumbs off of his tunic. “You’re a delight.”

“It’s cuz loooooots of people want to steal me,” Lora answers cheerfully. “But they can’t if mama and papa are there!”

Garrett tucks that mildly concerning fact away for later. “No one will try to steal you here,” he says, stuffing the invitation into his pocket. “We’ll just stop by and speak with Madame de Fer. Briefly. And you can have more tiny cakes.”

“Hooray!”

Solas and Blackwall stay in a fancy Orlesian suite with Lora while Hawke takes Cassandra and Varric to contact ‘Red Jenny.’ It’s a very confusing night for everyone, considering the lack of pants and Sera’s… interesting… speech patterns. Hawke is fairly delighted with her, though. Funny chaos is more tolerable than unfunny chaos. He also has a vague hope that she’ll somehow be better at keeping up with Lora than the rest of them.

The next day is spent mostly on shopping and establishing connections with various merchants and merchant groups while Solas and Varric attempt to keep up with the kid. If Hawke was feeling particularly mean, he would have sent her back to Haven until that evening with specific instructions to make Cullen babysit. Alas, they both have to be fitted with new clothing suited to an Orelsian soiree, so she stays. 

“Remember, Sunshine,” he tells her, holding tight to her hand as they walk into the chateau, “play the Game and I’ll help you steal all their tiny cakes.”

She nods seriously. “I’ll do real good, promise!”

The steward announces them as they arrive. “Lord Inquisitor Garrett Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, and Lady Ameliora, of the Inquisition.”

Lora giggles. “That’s not right!” she says.

“What isn’t?” he asks, scanning the room for either Madame de Fer or the dessert table.

“I’m not a Lady! That’s not the right title!” She giggles madly, obviously delighted.

Hawke feels distinctly like he’s missing something again, but this really isn’t the place to ask. Besides, they’re approached almost immediately by a comte and comtess.

“What a pleasure to meet you, my Lord and my Lady,” says the comte. “Seeing the same faces at every event becomes so tiresome. You must be guests of Madame de Fer. Or Duke Bastien?”

“Are you here on business? Or perhaps introducing the Child to wider society? Not even old enough for her debut, and yet she is so famous! I have heard the most curious tales of you both. I cannot imagine half of them are true.” The comtess’s smile is hidden behind her ridiculous collar, but Hawke can hear it in her voice.

“What have you heard?” Lora asks before he can say anything, a genuine and curious tilt to her head. If she’s playing the Game and not simply chasing her own curiosity, Garrett is going to be very impressed indeed.

“They say you saved Divine Justinia’s life, little one. That is why many call you the Child of Andraste.”

“Oh. Yes.” She nods decisively. “There were spiders that were only pretending to be spiders but were actually worse. She didn’t like them so I told them to go away. Do you hear about Hawke too? He’s very nice and good at killing spiders.”

“Many things, from now and before he was named Inquisitor,” says the comte. “Even with the civil war ongoing, it is all anyone can talk about lately.”

“I’d imagine many of those storytellers have gotten a bit carried away,” says Garrett with an easy, fake smile. He knows a thing or two about storytellers who get carried away.

The comtess laughs. “But only for the best effect. The Inquisition is a ripe subject for wild tales.”

Of course, this is Orlais, and that means that nothing can ever be simple or nice. A marquis scoffs as he trots down the stairs toward them. “The Inquisition? What a load of pig—” He only just stops himself, glancing at Lora, before altering his words. ”—slop. Washed up sisters and crazed Seekers? No one can take them seriously. Everyone knows it’s just an excuse for a bunch of political outcasts to upset the balance of power and satisfy their own greed!”

“Divine Justinia herself appointed me to the role of Inquisitor,” Garrett says, letting his smile widen into something threatening. “If you object so much, perhaps you should take it up with Most Holy. I’m certain she would be interested in what you have to say, especially about her most trusted companions. How did you phrase it? ‘Washed up sisters and crazed Seekers?’”

Even with the mask, he can see the man’s cheeks redden. “It is your fault an Inquisition is even needed in the first place! We know what this truly is, and if you were a man of honor you’d step outside and answer the charges!” he says hotly.

Lora is frowning in a way that promises trouble, but before Garrett can even attempt to diffuse the situation, the marquis quite literally freezes in place. The burst of magic sends a cool eddy of air across Hawke’s face, and his eyebrows rise, impressed.

“Oooh,” says Lora, and her eyes light up.

“My dear Marquis, how unkind of you to use such language in my house,” says a woman who must be Madame de Fer. “Especially with such a young guest present. What a terrible example you are setting. You know such rudeness is… intolerable.”

“Madame Vivienne, I humbly beg your pardon!” says the marquis, audibly nervous.

“You should. Whatever am I going to do with you, my dear?” She steps between them and the marquis, eyeing him like an elegant predator, and then turns to Garrett. “My Lord, you and the young Lady are the wounded party in this unfortunate situation. What would you have me do with this foolish, foolish man?”

It’s definitely an invitation for a summary execution. “I’m sure the marquis has learned his lesson,” Hawke says lightly. “We must all set a good example when little eyes are watching.”

“Very wise of you.” She turns to the marquis and unfreezes him. “By the grace of Andraste, you have your life, my dear. Do be more careful with it.”

He coughs and promptly runs away.

“I’m delighted you could attend this little gathering. I’ve so wanted to meet you both,” says Madame de Fer.

Lora grins at her. “You’re good at magic,” she says. “I want to learn how to do that!”

“Why thank you, my dear. Perhaps we can revisit that idea after I’ve spoken with your charming guardian at some length.”

So, it was political negotiations that merited an invite for them, then. And Garrett also has a distinct feeling that she wanted to see the mark in person. He’s not keen on bringing Lora in on that sort of conversation… but he’s even less keen to leave her alone. He maintains a polite smile and tries to decide how to handle this.

Someone descends the staircase behind them. Garrett sees Madame de Fer’s lips purse slightly in confusion. “Pardon me,” says a strange voice, and Hawke turns to find a genteel older man approaching them. His formal armor isn’t like anything Hawke has seen before, and there’s a crown of golden leaves on his head. His eyes are the exact same metallic color as Lora’s. It doesn’t take much to realize that he must be—

“GRANDA!” Lora squeals at an ear-shattering volume, sprinting away from Garrett to crash into the man.

“There you are, Princess,” he says, catching her like he’s done it a thousand times before. “You’ve gotten into quite a mess this time.”

“Yes!” she waves her marked hand. “It’s stuck!”

“So it is.” He glances at Garrett, who’s starting to suspect that Othalia left out some key information about the rank and status of Lora and her family in their own world. “Please excuse the interruption, young man. I need to speak with my granddaughter in private for a moment.”

“That’s Waffles!” says Lora, pointing at Garrett. “He doesn’t like bears! And that’s Madame de Fer. She froze a guy and then poof! Unfroze him! I think you should be able to do that to the senators when they interrupt you.”

Garrett turns to Madame de Fer. “My apologies, is there a room they could borrow? She has been lost to her family since the Conclave, and her grandfather was only just now able to find her.”

“I see. It’s no trouble, of course,” says the Madame, scrutinizing Lora’s grandfather closely. “Please, follow me.”

They do follow, and just before Garrett leaves the older man and his granddaughter to talk, Madame de Fer out of earshot, he clears his throat. “Othalia never went into specifics,” he says, “but I think it would give… context to know your title and Lora’s in your world.”

Lora’s grandfather smiles at him knowingly, expertly quieting her stream of chatter without a single word. “It hardly matters when we are so far from home, but I understand the need for context. I am Emperor Celsus Gaius Perdel, and this is my granddaughter, Crown Princess Ameliora Octavia.” His eyes twinkle. “Othalia told me that you have been looking after my Lora. You may call me Celsus.”

“Oh,” says Hawke faintly. “Well. Thank you. Enjoy your talk.”

He can hear Celsus chuckling as he walks off to speak with Madame de Fer. Hopefully Lora gives a glowing review to the man with an empire’s worth of power at his back and the ability to cross worlds.

Chapter Text

Josephine smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes or her voice when she says, “We were hosting a foreign princess this entire time, and we didn’t know it?”

Hawke eyes her writing board. If their resident ambassador tightens her grip any more, that thing is going to snap in half. “Her grandfather didn’t execute me on sight,” he offers. “That must mean something.”

Poor Josie makes a noise like a tea kettle. Her smile does not waver. “She is the direct heir to an empire! An empire that has magic enough to cross worlds at will! And we have been chasing her up trees and letting her roll around in mud!”

“The Emperor—“ even Hawke feels uneasy using his first name, despite being offered “—gave you full permission to put her through etiquette lessons.”

“That is not the point!”

“Relax, Josephine,” says Leliana. “This is good for us. Not only does it explain much about her, but we’ve now been promised additional resources our enemies couldn’t possibly expect.”

“Unless they’re also from beyond our world,” Cullen points out.

Garrett shakes his head. “I doubt it. Solas identified a likely origin of the orb, and it was Wardens controlled by a darkspawn that began all this. The Emperor promised to send a mage healer to look at Lora’s mark and see what can be done, anyway. If something is different, she may be able to tell.”

“The infamous bear-wrestling healer?” Cassandra asks.

“I dearly hope so.”

Their war table meeting concludes… inconclusively. Josie is trying to hatch some sort of scheme with Leliana and Vivenne to treat Lora like an actual foreign princess (she’s going to hate that, he knows). Cullen and Cassandra are both nervous about the promised mage healer of unknown skills and temperament. Hawke only knows that he needs to go to the Storm Coast next.

And that he needs a long drink.

On his way out of the chantry, he stumbles upon Lora chatting the ear off of a confused-looking man in mercenary armor. Charitably, Garrett elects to rescue him.

“Sunshine,” he calls, walking over, “did you make a new friend?”

“Hi Waffles! This is Krem, he’s here because he’s a mercenary and they want to talk to you but everyone is too busy! I was telling him about how we stole aaaaaall the tiny cakes when Granda and Vivienne weren’t looking!”

“We did no such thing, Sunshine,” he says, reaching a hand out to shake Krem’s. “Remember? We agreed.”

“Oh, yes, no such thing!” she says, nodding and snapping off a salute.

“Why don’t you go find Curly and ask him to take you to the training grounds again?”

“Okay!” She scampers off.

Krem gives him a look. “Er… thank you, Your Worship?”

“You’re here about a mercenary company?” Hawke asks, crossing his arms.

“Yes, my company—that is, the one I’m part of. Bull’s Chargers. We work mostly out of Orlais and Nevarra. I was sent with a message for you, but no one was willing to talk to me. Well, not until her.” He nods his chin in the direction Lora ran. “The Child of Andraste?”

“Lora, and she prefers if you use her name. She’ll talk anyone’s ear off. What’s the message?”

He was clearly flustered by Lora’s enthusiasm, but recovers well when they get on to business. “We got word of some Tevinter mercenaries gathering out on the Storm Coast. My company commander, Iron Bull, offers the information free of charge. If you’d like to see what the Bull’s Chargers can do for the Inquisition, meet us there and watch us work.”

Garrett frowns. “Why did your commander send us this information?”

“Iron Bull wants to work for the Inquisition. He thinks you’re doing good work,” says Krem, and Garrett can’t see anything overtly disingenuous in his delivery. Something niggles in the back of his mind, though. The name sounds familiar.

“What should I know about Iron Bull?” he asks.

Only now does Krem hesitate, though it’s slight. “He’s one of those Qunari. The big guys with the horns?”

“I’m familiar, yes,” Hawke says, a sour taste in his mouth. Anyone who’s read Varric’s ridiculous book knows (approximately) how familiar.

“Right,” says Krem, sheepish. “He’s—well. He leads us from the front, he pays well, and he’s a lot smarter than the last bastard I worked for. Best of all, he’s professional. We accept contracts with whoever makes the first real offer. You’re the first time he’s gone out of his way to pick a side.”

Even if this does promise a conflict with the Qun, it’s better for Hawke to know now. “We’ll consider,” he says.

“I appreciate it,” says Krem, and departs with a nod.

Garrett runs a hand through his hair. At least they were already planning on heading to the Storm Coast.

The healer arrives before they even set out for the Storm Coast—not that anyone finds out for a good long while. It’s only when they collectively notice that Lora is nowhere to be seen and frantically try to find her before she can set something else on fire that they discover the new arrival.

Leliana is the one who finds them just inside the bathhouse reserved for Hawke, his officers, and his advisors. Lora is sitting in front of an older woman, miraculously quiet with her nose buried in a book. The older woman is busy working the tangles from her curly red hair with a comb and a bottle of hair oil.

“Mercy be, Your Highness,” she mutters, pulling another twig out and adding it to a remarkably large pile beside her.

“Ah,” says Leliana. “You must be the healer that His Majesty promised.”

“His Eminence,” the woman corrects without looking up from her task, “though you have no obligation to use it. Yes, I am Hilde, the Imperial Healer.”

Leliana steps forward, curious. “Lora is being… quiet,” she observes.

“I brought her an advanced text on magic. She will sit still for things that interest her.” The woman side-eyes her with distinct judgment. “Have you not discovered that?”

“We have. It is simply rare. I suppose she prefers exploring a new world, or perhaps our magic is lackluster to her.”

“Whatever put that into her skin is hardly lackluster,” says Hilde, gesturing to the mark. “It will take me hours to assess, and much longer to remove, if I even can. If not, it will take me many weeks indeed to teach Her Highness what she needs to know to remove it herself.

“Could she?”

“Her Highness is a mage. She can do anything, with the right training.”

Leliana perks up. One thing Lora was never able to coherently explain was the extent of her abilities. Here, it seems, is finally someone who has the time and inclination to do so. “What is a mage, in your world? Lora is not exactly like the mages we know.”

“No, she is not.” Hilde finishes untangling the child’s wild mane of curls and begins braiding it. “Sorcerers are those with magic enough to cast spells. They can follow any rule system already established. But the ones who establish new rules and systems are the mages. We have not seen one in over a thousand years until Her Highness's birth.”

“Establish new rules?”

Hilde looks at her with piercing eyes. “Put another way,” she says, “a mage could, in theory, learn to do quite literally anything.”

“I see.” Leliana looks down at the child who is still wholly absorbed in the text. “That sounds dangerous.”

“Princess Ameliora is the most dangerous creature you have ever laid eyes on,” the healer says bluntly. “It is miraculous that she has managed to get this far without catastrophe. She is either a savant or we are misunderstanding the old texts on mage abilities. Her upbringing would have been quite different had her parents known she could cross worlds at a thought before she even reached her majority.”

Leliana laughs, tucking away all the new information to be considered later. “She must have guards at home. I imagine they were quite distressed to discover they could not follow her, no?”

Hilde barks a laugh as well. “Ha! Yes, yes, you’ve never seen such poor, distressed boys. One of them is my son-in-law, Quintus. I haven’t seen him so frantic since the last time Her Highness set His Eminence on fire when she was just a baby.”

“Why was he not sent along as well?”

“There’s no need.” Hilde ties off the braid and stands, brushing off her skirts. She’s tall— well over the height of the average man, and Leliana can now see exactly how much armor she is wearing despite the deceptive softness of the dress. “Her Highness is powerful, and I will be here to protect her if you cannot handle it yourselves.” She arches a sharp brow.

Leliana inclines her head. “We can. Hawke has been doing an excellent job so far. I don’t think she’s gotten more than a scratch.”

“Good.” The healer picks up Lora, who remains glued to the book and doesn’t even bother to notice. “I would like to meet him. And if you have any hopeless cases in your infirmary, I will take a look and see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

As they walk out together, Leliana can’t help but ask, “Did you really kill a bear with only your thighs?”

“I was younger. And drunk. Nowadays I prefer to use a sturdy axe.”

Leliana nods. “Understandable.”

The Storm Coast is wet and miserable. The first order of business is meeting up with Bull’s Chargers, and fortunately their scouts already know there are no rifts to disrupt things. Solas calls Lora to their forward camp, and she brings Madame Hilde (as the Inquisition soldiers have dubbed her) with her.

“Stay here until Solas calls you,” Garrett says, patting her head. “You’re going to be my little test for the Qunari. Make sure you bring Madame Hilde too.”

“Okay!”

“Let me guess,” says Varric as they pick their way down the rocky slope, “first test is ‘how weird are you about normal mages’ and second test is ‘how weird are you about the actual weird mage.’”

“You know me so well,” says Hawke.

They find the Chargers finishing up with the Venatori smugglers, as promised. Their Qunari leader is very easy to pick out. As he calls to his men and issues more orders to Krem, Garrett approaches.

“Inquisitor!” he says. “Glad you could make it. Come on, have a seat. Drinks are coming.”

“Nicely done,” says Hawke, eyeing the carnage. The Iron Bull is a mercenary captain—either he’s Tal-Vashoth by birth, or something else is going on. Garrett is leaning toward ‘something else.’ “I hear you’re looking for work.”

The Qunari takes a seat on some driftwood. “I am! Not before my drink, though.”

Lieutenant Krem delivers an update before they can get into the real meat of the matter. Hawke looks at the rest of the mercenaries. One of them is a mage. That seems like a promising sign, at least.

“So… you’ve seen us fight. We’re expensive, but we’re worth it… and the Inquisition can afford us,” says the Iron Bull.

“I’m sure Josephine would be delighted to sign off on that contract,” Hawke says dryly. “Your company is skilled, but you’ll have to forgive me for being most wary of you. The Tal-Vashoth I’ve dealt with before turned to banditry before mercenary work.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, “this is where you might get pissed off. Or not. Have you ever heard of the Ben-Hassrath?”

Garrett frowns, racking his memory. “Qunari organization, the… guards and city-watch?” That doesn’t explain why one would be out here, leading mercenaries.

The Iron Bull leans his elbows on his knees. “I’d go closer to ‘spies,’ but yeah, that’s us.”

Not Tal-Vashoth, then, an active part of the Qun. Hawke narrows his eyes and resists the urge to grab his staff. There’s no way the Qunari doesn’t know who he is and who he’s killed. Iron Bull continues before he can say anything, though.

“The Ben-Hassrath are concerned about the Breach. Magic out of control like that could cause trouble everywhere. I’ve been ordered to join the Inquisition, get close to the people in charge, and send reports on what’s happening. But I also get reports from Ben-Hassrath agents all over Orlais. You sign me on, I’ll share them with your people.”

Hawke earned respect from the Arishok by being blunt and honest. He finds himself grudgingly doing the same for the Iron Bull. “They ordered that even knowing that the Champion of Kirkwall heads the Inquisition?”

“Officially, what happened in Kirkwall isn’t a factor. ‘Rogue action’ and all that.”

“Naturally,” says Garrett, more than familiar with that particular line of responsibility-dodging. “If they’re concerned about magic out of control, then what about my status as a mage?”

The Iron Bull shrugs.”I’ve got no problem with mages, Inquisitor.”

Hawke glances at the mercenary mage in his company. “And what about the Child of Andraste?”

“What about her?”

Garrett crosses his arms and waits.

“I told you, I’ve got no problem with mages,” the Iron Bull says, leaning back. “Even tiny ones that confuse my superiors.”

“Do they want you to report on her too?”

“They want me to report on everything, Inquisitor, but as long as you’re working to close the Breach, I don’t think they’ll fixate on her.”

Garrett considers. Qunari reports would be invaluable, and this sort of informal alliance would likely make them think twice about open hostility. It could, at minimum, delay a lot of problems they can’t afford to handle right now.

“And you’re angling to be on the front lines with me, then?” he clarifies.

The Iron Bull nods. “Whatever it is—demons, dragons? The bigger the better. I’ll help you guard the kid so she can get those rifts closed.”

“If I hire you,” Hawke says, “all of your reports go through my spymaster. And if you try to compromise us, Cassandra will eat you alive.” He grins a little bit. “And then I’ll set Lora on whatever is left.”

There’s a tiny flash of confusion in his face, and Hakwe probably wouldn’t have caught it if he hadn’t spent so long around Qunari before now, but he still says, “Wouldn’t have it any other way. So, are we hired?”

“One more thing.” Garrett nods to Solas. A second later, Lora appears at his side with Hilde.

“Here I am!” she says. Madame Hilde eyes the Qunari, mutters something about ‘more nonsense’, and pulls a flask out of her pocket.

The Iron Bull looks startled. “She speaks—uh. Huh. You… want the kid to vet me?” he guesses with some humor, hiding his confusion. Garrett just stands back and waits.

His words bring Lora’s attention to him, and she gasps excitedly. “Woah!” she says, pointing. “You have horns! And pointy ears!”

He stares. “Yeah, I do,” he agrees slowly. “You know Qunlat, but you’ve never seen a Qunari before?”

“Qu-na-ri,” she echoes. “Hmm, nope, and you look way different from the other elves with horns I met. They don’t live here though. And their horns go like—” She makes a gesture sweeping backward over her head.

“Uh—” says the Iron Bull, finally with something approaching outright confusion.

“I think he looks like a dragon, don’t you, Sunshine?” Garrett prompts.

“A dragon! Yeah! Can you be a dragon too?”

“No,” he says, glancing briefly at Garrett, “can… you?”

Sure enough, Lora vanishes into her dragon form and scampers over to the Iron Bull. To his credit, he only flinches a little bit as she climbs up his body to perch on his shoulder. “Yes! Dragons are the best. You should be a dragon if you can.”

The Iron Bull stares. Slowly, his eyes turn to Hawke again. He seems to realize that yes, this is very much a test, and looks back at Lora. She has to duck a little to avoid getting bonked by his horn. “...yeah,” he says at length. “Dragons are the best.”

Damn, he passed. “Alright,” says Hawke. “You’re hired.”

Madame Hilde and her three daughters

Chapter Text

After they finish up in the Storm Coast (including an incident where Hawke becomes the leader of a… cult? Mercenary group? He’s still sort of unclear on that), they send Lora back to Haven with messages and a few artifacts.

“So,” says the Iron Bull, “that’s… normal?”

“For Sunshine it is,” says Varric.

“Huh.”

“There is a reason for it,” says Solas. “I doubt you would want to include even part of those details in your reports, though. Your superiors will think you have gone mad.”

“There’s a giant-ass hole in the sky,” Bull points out. “Does it really get that much weirder?”

“Yes,” say Solas, Varric, and Hawke in unison.

“My spymaster will go over the details with you,” Garrett adds. “I hope you understand that any report putting Lora in danger will—” He pauses and considers. “Well, I could see her grandfather razing Par Vollen if provoked.”

“Yeah,” says Varric. “And we haven’t even met Sunshine’s mother yet.”

Bull looks like he doesn’t know what to make of any of this. “Got it, boss,” he says, and leaves it at that.

Garrett catches Lora with the Chargers back in Haven, and he says ‘catches’ because they’re out by the edge of the frozen lake, chanting ‘mayhem! Mayhem!’ as Krem gets ready to toss Lora—in dragon form—sky high.

“Alright,” says Hawke, swooping in and confiscating the girl. “That’s enough time with mercenaries for you, I think.”

“Awww,” say Lora and the Chargers in unison.

“We’re being responsible, Your Worship!” Dalish protests. “The first idea was launching her from a trebuchet.”

“NO!” he says. “Stop giving her ideas!”

Under his arm, Lora giggles and flails her little dragon feet. He makes a mental note to tell Cullen to post more guards around their siege equipment.

Krem has the good sense to cough awkwardly and rub the back of his head. “Apologies, Inquisitor. We won’t do it again.”

“Good. For your own sakes, too. Next time play tag with her or something.”

“Yes, Your Worship.”

He turns to leave. “Lora, you’re coming with me,” he says. “I’m sure Josie has been looking for you. What lesson are you skipping this time?”

“Mathematics,” she says, utterly shameless.

“Ahh, so you’re avoiding Minaeve then.”

“I don’t like math. Blech!” She changes back to human form, giggling when he doesn’t put her down.

“Tough, Sunshine,” he says. “Your grandfather said you still need to do lessons. And he’s an Emperor, so we have to listen to him.”

She droops, easily defeated when her grandpa is mentioned. “Aww.”

“Math is good for you, and I’m sure Minaeve will have some nice treat for you if you do your lessons.” He’s only lying about one of those two things.

“All my professors say I need math to make fancy spells,” she sulks. “So I guess I should.”

“Good girl,” he says, patting her head. In this, he does not envy her.

They’re just passing Seggrit when a stranger catches Hawke’s eye. It’s a tall man wearing a worn and dull-colored cloak, but when he shifts slightly bright flashes of color and shimmering thread show underneath. He has a notebook out and is scribbling in it frantically, muttering to himself. A gust of wind blows his hood askew, revealing short-cropped hair the exact color of Lora’s.

Hawke’s suspicions are confirmed when Lora draws in a great breath and squeals “PAPA!”

The man snaps his notebook shut, turning on a dime toward her. His eyes are the same color as both Lora and the Emperor’s. A broad grin splits his face. “Little Star!” he enthuses at near-equal volume, running to meet her as she squirms out of Hawke’s grip, and suddenly a good deal of Lora’s behavior makes perfect sense.

He sweeps her up and spins her around in a giddy circle, drawing even more attention to their reunion. The hood falls all the way off his head, revealing a golden circlet. “My Little Star, I missed you so! You’ve found such a fascinating world to be stuck in! Why I’ve been wandering around for days and there’s no end to the wonders!”

Hawke thinks it’s wise to jump into the conversation before they both start chattering about exciting new discoveries. “Excuse me, Your Majesty!” he says quickly. “You’ve been here for a few days?”

“Ah! Garrett Hawke,” says the man, settling Lora on his hip. The ratty cloak is doing virtually nothing to hide his royal clothing anymore. “I’ve heard the most fascinating stories about you. From the good lady Othalia first, of course, but the people of this land are positively brimming with sentiment for you.” He flips open his notebook with one hand. “Good and bad sentiment! You’re very accomplished. Tell me, your companion who can rip out still-beating hearts—the elf, our elves vanished hundreds of years ago so I have only a secondhand frame of reference—what are the mechanics of that ability? Is there a psionic element to it?”

“Fenris, yes, I can certainly do my best to explain later, but first: you are the High King, aren’t you? Are you alright? Did you get lost?”

The man laughs, and so does Lora. “Yes, yes, High King and all that, but please call me Caius. It helps me blend in. As for getting lost, yes! Quite productively lost too, it was wonderful. I’ve almost filled up an entire field log!”

Something tells Hawke that Caius has missed his true calling as an eccentric researcher. “Oh. Well, good then,” he says, scratching the back of his head.

“Papa!” Lora says, demanding his attention by pulling on his hood. “Is mama coming?”

“Yes, mama will be along shortly. She was caught up in a rather contentious siege when words of your little accident reached us.” He puts his notebook away and delicately grasps her marked hand. His eyes light up the same way hers do when she’s looking at magic. “Absolutely fascinating. You’ve done a very neat job of tying these loose ends together, my girl.”

Lora preens.

“Your Majesty,” says Hawke, “have you come to help your daughter?”

“Caius,” he stresses in an amused, scolding tone. “It’s terribly difficult to learn about people’s cultures if they’re scared stiff by your title. But yes, I have come to assist while I can. It is the middle of the campaign season at home, so I may not be able to stay long before my legions need me. Othalia assured me you had things well in hand regardless.”

“Waffles is great at doing stuff!” Lora says, vouching for him in her special way. “We do stuff all the time!”

“I believe you!” says Caius, loudly kissing her cheek and making her giggle. “Now, what lessons are you avoiding at the moment?”

“Mathematics!” she says, still shameless even when her father is involved.

“Is that so?” He looks at Hawke. “Lead me to her teacher so I can find out where they left off, and then I will take over for today. My questions can wait.”

Lora pouts and Hawke tries not to laugh. “Of course… Caius. I’m sure Minaeve will be very grateful for your help.”

Josie looks like she wants to melt into the floor. “Now we have a king as a guest? And he’s wandering around in a tattered cloak, asking about local cuisine and rituals?”

“At least he’s not bankrupting us with demands for accommodation,” says Garrett. “I think he’d prefer if no one knew he was a king at all.”

“High King, according to Madame Hilde,” says Leliana. “They have an interesting structure to their houses of nobility. I wonder if Lora is heir to her mother’s throne or to her grandfather’s?”

Josie just looks more stressed at the idea.

“It will be fine,” says Cassandra. “Lora’s parents clearly do not care for formality outside of their home. Focus your efforts on the nobles who do.”

“Speaking of nobles,” says Hawke, “how is progress on recruiting enough to catch the Lord Seeker’s attention?”

Josie’s feathers un-ruffle as soon as they’re back in her domain of competency. “It’s going very well,” she says. “We will be ready within the week. Most Holy has been working day and night to help us, but are you certain you want to speak with the templars? The mages will turn against you if you see them after.”

“I don’t intend to see them after,” says Hawke with a smirk. “I intend to send Lora at the same time.”

Even Leliana’s eyes go a little wide at that.

“Not alone!” he says, shaking his head at their lack of faith in him. “Now that her father is here, we have the perfect opportunity. He’s a statesman and mage himself. If I send him, Lora, Solas, Varric, and Bull, then I can take everyone else to intercept the Templars before the war erupts again.”

“Fiona will be displeased,” says Cassandra, frowning with displeasure herself.

“Fiona wants protection and the Inquisition can offer it even without my winning smile there to smooth things over. We’ll send a notarized missive with Caius. He can negotiate the details with input from my companions.”

“That’s too risky,” says Cullen.

“What’s too risky is leaving either the Templars or the mages alone for much longer,” Hawke counters.

“He is right,” says Cassandra. “I suppose if it must be anyone, the High King is a good option. He is very genuine in his fascination with people of all kinds.”

“And Lora is Lora,” Cullen says, dragging a hand down his face.

“She does have a remarkable effect on people,” Josephine agrees. “I will draft the letter, Inquisitor.”

He nods. “Good. Then we’ll all depart when the nobles are ready to meet the Lord Seeker.”

Two days later, and four before they depart, Hawke sprints out to the training grounds when he hears chanting and roaring. A large group of people—soldiers, civilians, even some of his companions—are gathered in a riotous ring. He can hear the clashing of… something at the center. It doesn’t sound exactly like metal.

As he pushes his way through the crowd, he hears Lora yelling “GO MAMA! GO MAMA!” and the Chargers yelling “GO CHIEF! FIGHT DIRTY! FIGHT DIRTY!”

Oh no, he thinks, and finally emerges through the crowd to find that yes, Iron Bull is indeed sparring with the High Queen. He arrives just in time to see her slip under Bull’s axe and pommel-strike his stomach. The blow sends him flying back with far too much force to be natural, and she moves with an equal unnatural speed to meet him before he’s even finished falling.

“Yield,” she says, almost too quiet to be heard over the roar as he rests the tip of her strange, shimmering blade against the notch of his collarbone.

“I yield,” says Bull breathlessly. He looks… horny. Pun intended.

Lora squeals and wiggles free of Solas’s grip on her. “MY MAMA’S THE BEST!” she crows as she launches herself at the woman.

High Queen Fera catches her daughter, blade vanishing altogether, and smiles like a contended predator. “Thank you, pup.” She looks at Bull. “Are you satisfied?”

“Yeah,” he says, sitting up, and has the good sense to rein in his bedroom eyes. Not only is Fera married, but Lora is right there . “You weren’t joking. That was great!”

“I would be happy to train anyone responsible for guarding my daughter, while I am able,” she says. It doesn’t sound like a threat, but it doesn’t sound like not a threat either.

“Will you train me, mama? Can I have a knife?” Lora asks eagerly, feet swinging.

“Not until you’re ten, pup.”

“Awwww.”

The crowd quickly disperses once the fighting is done and people start to notice Hawke’s presence. He approaches the High Queen cautiously. Her temperament is obviously very different from her husband’s. “Your Majesty, welcome,” he says.

“Mama, that’s Waffles!” says Lora, pointing. “He’s my favorite.”

“Is that so?” The High Queen’s hair is a rich brown, but her eyes are the same gold as Lora’s. Hawke finds that strange. “You’ve done well surviving my daughter so far, Garrett Hawke.”

“Thank you,” he says, blinking at the phrasing. “When did you arrive?” He gestures toward the path back into Haven, and she follows. Cullen begins barking orders at the gawkers behind them. He looks like he has a headache.

“No more than an hour ago,” she says. “I found Lora with the mercenaries, and their captain asked for a spar.”

“I see,” Hawke says. “Thank you for humoring him.”

“Don’t thank me,” she says, eyeing him. He feels distinctly like he’s being pinned beneath the eyes of a large, hungry lioness. “I want to spar with you as well. In fact, I want to spar with everyone responsible for my daughter’s protection.”

He can’t very well deny her. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

“There’s no need for formality when we’re so far from my empire,” she says. “You have permission to call me Fera, or Tullia if full informality makes you uncomfortable.”

That is not something any of the other off-world visitors offered. “Tullia is a… formal name?”

She clicks her tongue while Lora giggles. “Of course Cai did not explain. Yes, my name is Fera Tullia of House Perdel. Fera is my familiar name, and Tullia is my formal name. Lora’s is Ameliora Octavia. To those outside the palace, she is Princess Octavia.”

He feels, oddly, far more comfortable with the lack of formality after she’s explained. “Ah. Thank you. Your family seems very comfortable with being addressed casually. Most nobles I’ve met are… not like that.”

“We seem to have a strange experience compared to other worlds,” Fera says.

“My long name is too long!” Lora chimes in. “Blech!”

Her mother grins. “Lora is half the cause of that, considering how many worlds she has traveled. Titles hardly matter when you’re not even in the same plane of existence. But Caius and I also share a deep camaraderie with our soldiers. It has made us… comfortable with familiarity.”

Hawke nods. “I understand.” They’ve just about reached the Chantry. Caius is, oddly, on the roof. Fera glances at him but says nothing as they stop in front of the doors. Some of the chantry sisters gawk at her. “Would you, er, like to speak with my advisors, or your husband?”

Fera sets Lora down. “Pup, go play with papa.”

“Okay!” Lora scampers off.

“I will speak with you and your advisors,” Fera says. “My daughter is now caught up in your military and political situation. I command legions, Garrett Hawke, and while I am not as adept in the Senate chambers, I can still offer my council.”

Perhaps she can offer insight on the mage/templar war that Caius did not. He nods. “We would be happy to hear it, Fera.”

She smiles at him and he feels a shiver go down his spine.

The Elder One will regret making an enemy of this woman. He’s sure of that.

Some slightly outdated designs for Caius and Fera

Chapter Text

Fera ends up volunteering to join Hawke in his mission to reach the Templars, while Caius agrees to go along to the mages. Both elect to travel the slow way in order to build some camaraderie with Hawke’s companions. Lora is left to the attention of his advisors in Haven.

“Won’t Sunshine miss you?” Varric asks Caius as they travel.

“Of course!” he says. He skillfully steers his borrowed horse with his knees so he can write in his notebook. “But she is accustomed to it. For many months out of the year, her mother and I are away with our legions. We devote ourselves to her entirely when we are home. Besides, if she wants to tell me something, she will simply appear to tell me.”

There is a rift open in front of Redcliffe’s gate, and not a single one of them misses the way it seems to warp time around it. Solas calls Lora, and Caius demonstrates his skill and focus with a glimmering longbow and bespelled arrows. The demons are cleared away within minutes and the rift is closed.

“Hooray!” says Lora, clinging to her father. “I got to go to battle with papa way early!”

“Yes, you did,” he says, patting her head. He stares intently at where the magical time warping was, eyes alight. “Yes…”

“Papa, it’s weird and tangly here.”

“I know, Little Star. And what do we do when things are strange?”

“We investigate!”

Solas frowns, looking around. “The veil is thin here, and warped in a way I have never seen. It is as if time—“

He cuts off when Caius grabs his arm, a warning smile on his face. He holds out his notebook. In it is written “do not mention time alteration spells around Lora.”

Solas pales at his near-misstep, imagining the chaos that would ensue if Lora got it in her head to warp time herself. He nods quickly. The message is passed around the group while Lora is distracted by the gate guard, and then they enter Redcliffe.

Meeting with Fiona is supposed to go smoothly. She has, after all, invited them herself. But the scout that meets them to report says that no one was expecting the Inquisition to arrive. His report is quickly followed up by an elf telling them that the free mages have sworn to the Tevinter Imperium. Confused, they head for the tavern.

“I have gleaned a great deal about Tevinter through the eyes of your people,” says Caius, flipping rapidly through his notebook. “This swearing—am I right in guessing it will be closer to slavery than an alliance? Are they truly scared enough to do so?”

“Evidently, yes,” Solas says tightly.

“Can’t think of anything worse they could have done,” Varric mutters.

Bull looks both thoughtful and pissed. “Allying with the Tevinter b—“ He glances at Lora. “…bad guys. They must have thought the Templars were marching in now.”

“Hmm.” Caius snaps the notebook closed.

Fiona herself doesn’t seem to remember meeting Hawke in Val Royeaux. In fact, she also doesn’t remember meeting Lora and repeats many of her comments nearly verbatim. Lora stares at her with curious, glowing eyes.

“Wow,” she says, “you’re all tangly here.”

“We’ll sort it out later, Little Star,” says Caius.

“You are her father?” Fiona asks, looking him up and down. He’d elected to keep his own clothing on but not disclose his status, leaving everyone to guess why he would be arrayed so finely.

“I am,” he beams. “And now that I have caught up to my wonderful, wandering child, I will be helping the Inquisition close the Breach. We came here to seek your aid in that regard.”

“You are a mage,” she says.

“I am.”

Fiona looks between him and Lora. “I can see where she got her boldness.” She shakes her head slightly. “Regardless, as one indentured to a magister I now… do not have the authority to negotiate with you.”

“Then where might I find your master?”

Fiona doesn’t get the chance to answer, because the door to the tavern opens at that moment to admit the very man they’re looking for.

“Welcome, my friends!” he says warmly. His eyes linger on Lora as he approaches. “I apologize for not greeting you earlier.”

Fiona introduces the man, magister Gereon Alexius, and while most of them focus on him, Lora’s eyes slide to the young man behind him. She frowns slightly, head tilting.

“The southern mages are under my command,” Alexius says. “I’ve heard many stories of the little one, the survivor of the Fade, but I confess that I was expecting the Inquisitor rather than an agent.” Again, his attention lingers on Lora.

“Well met, magister Alexius,” said Caius, inclining his head. “The Inquisition has many places to be. Now that I have caught up with my daughter, I’ve volunteered my time and talents to aid them.”

“Your daughter? Interesting. You certainly have a strong resemblance.”

Again, Caius beams, but there’s something much more enigmatic and dangerous behind it this time. “That is the highest compliment I could receive. My daughter needs the aid of the mages now under your command to close the Breach. I’ve been authorized by this writ to negotiate, so let us come to an agreement that will benefit all.”

Alexius smiles back with an equal edge of danger. “It is always a pleasure to meet a reasonable man,” he says, and they take a seat at one of the tables.

Lora, accustomed to boring adult talk, instead boldly trots up to the young man accompanying Alexius—his son Felix, as the magister introduces him. He blinks down at Lora, surprised at being approached.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hello,” she returns, more subdued than usual. “Did you know you have dark icky stuff in you? I think it’s hurting you.”

Abruptly, Alexius stops talking and pays attention to their conversation. Caius and Hawke’s companions watch intently.

“Oh,” said Felix, startled. “Well… yes, I did know. How did you?”

Lora nods and takes one of his hands. “I can feel it. Blech! It’s like the dark icky stuff in the bad guys with the shiny tangly orb, but their stuff wasn’t hurting them. I think you should take your stuff out if it’s hurting you.”

He looks even more startled. “I—can’t, little one. No one can.”

She gasps. “No one? Then I’ll learn how! I can do anything!”

“Da’len,” Solas says with quiet warning.

“Please, don’t… trouble yourselves,” says Felix, suddenly ill. When he staggers, it’s into Solas.

“Felix!” Alexius gasps, springing to his feet.

“I’m so sorry,” Felix says, regaining his feet with Solas’s help. “Please forgive me.”

His father hovers in concern. Solas quickly draws Lora away from both men. “Are you alright?” Alexius asks.

“Yes. I’m—I’m alright.”

The negotiations are over before they’ve even had a chance to begin as Alexius ushers his son away for rest and medicine, promising to send word to the Inquisition.

“Solas,” says Caius once they’re gone, “what did he give you?”

Their elven apostate reveals the folded paper in his hand. “A note.”

Come to the Chantry. You are in danger.

“Ah,” says Caius, “we have an ally! Excellent, let’s go.”

In the chantry itself, they find a rift that’s warping time like the one outside the gates, as well as a Tevinter man with a rather glorious moustache attempting to beat the demons back on his own.

“There you are!” he says, looking at them. “No—there you aren’t, where’s the Inquisitor?”

“Waffles is doing stuff with mama and the fancy nobles!” Lora supplies, gleefully flinging spells at the demons. “Whee!”

“Oh, well then,” says the Tevinter, “at least we have the most important half of the equation. Get that rift closed!”

They do (Solas manages to keep Lora in human form the whole time, lest they expose too much of her secrets to this stranger), and the man subsequently relaxes, leaning on his staff and staring at Lora in fascination. “How does that work, exactly?” he asks.

“This?” She waves her marked hand. “It’s tangly the way the rifts are tangly! So you just zoop, click, and then puuuuuuull!” She makes demonstrative hand gestures. “And then tah-dah, it’s all stitched up and you can only sort of tell it was torn before!”

The Tevinter throws his head back and howls with laughter at the explanation. “Amazing!” he says. “You have an intimate knowledge of how it works, but we’re a decade away from you being able to explain!”

Lora puffs her cheeks out and pouts at him, stomping one foot. “I did explain! It’s not my fault you can’t see magic like I can!”

His interest redoubles. “See? See how?”

“That is quite enough,” says Solas, stepping between Lora and the Tevinter.

“Yes, you haven’t even introduced yourself yet,” Caius agrees, frantically taking notes on the day’s developments. Hilde is busy checking each of them over for injuries and healing anything she finds. Bull and Varric spectate from the sidelines.

“Ah, getting ahead of myself,” says the Tevinter, returning his staff to his back. He bows slightly. “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”

“Careful with this one,” Bull advises. “You can never tell with the Tevinters.”

“Suspicious friends you have there,” says Dorian, not put off at all.

“Well met, Dorian of House Pavus,” says Caius, still writing. “I am Caius, father of Lora. I and my fine companions have been sent by the Inquisitor. You know exactly what’s causing the warped magic around here, don’t you?”

“Yes. Alexius was my mentor, though he hasn’t been for some time. I’m sure you’re wondering how he stole the mages right out from under the Inquisitor.” He arches a brow. “As if by magic, yes?”

“We have our suspicions.” Caius smiles serenely at him and turns his notebook around, angling it so Lora can’t see. In bolded letters, it reads “DO NOT MENTION THE TIME MAGIC WHERE SHE CAN HEAR.”

Dorian blinks, taken aback. “Ah—well. Yes, your suspicions are… correct. Alexius did… that. And it will only get worse. The… warping will spread further and further away from here. It is wildly unstable.”

Solas eyes Dorian with both suspicion and intrigue. “And how do you know all this?”

“Because I helped develop it,” Dorian retorts. “Though it was purely theoretical. I don’t know how he’s gotten it to work, or why. To gain a few hundred lackeys?”

Felix enters the chantry from a side door just in time to answer. “He didn’t do it for them,” he says.

“Took you long enough!” says Dorian, while Lora gasps and scampers up to Felix.

“It’s you again!” she says. “Hi! Can I help now?”

“Help? Help with what?” Dorian asks.

“He’s got dark icky stuff in him like the bad people at the place with the shiny tangly orb and I want to help because it’s hurting him!”

Felix smiles sadly. “Even you can’t help, Child of Andraste.”

Lora pouts at him. “Yes I can! I’m a mage, I can do—”

“Little Star,” Caius interrupts, far more sternly than they’ve heard him speak to her before. When she looks at him attentively, he presses a finger to his lips, eyes serious. “He’s not a friend, my love. Not yet.”

She droops. “Oh.” She turns back to Felix. “You should be friends with Waffles. Then I can help.”

“Who is Waffles?” Dorian asks, then shakes his head. “No, back up, is she talking about the Blight?”

“I think so,” says Felix. To Lora, he says, “you have quite the talent, but don’t worry about me. You need to worry about yourself. My father wants to kidnap you.”

“Oh,” says Lora. She doesn’t even seem surprised. “That’s okay, lots of people do.”

“He wants her for the Anchor?” Caius asks, equally unfazed.

“You do realize this is not a normal reaction to finding out a powerful man wants to steal your child, yes?” Dorian asks, squinting skeptically.

Caius waves a hand. “Nearly everyone does. I will protect her in the instance she cannot protect herself. So will many others. There are other things that concern me more.”

“He wants the Child of Andraste,” Felix says with faint confusion on his face at their responses. “I don’t know why, exactly, only that he’s joined a cult of Tevinter supremacists called the Venatori… all to get to her.”

Bull mutters something about weird-ass mages and their priorities.

“He cannot have her,” says Solas. “He cannot have the mages, either. We must undo this… unraveling before it is too late.”

Dorian nods to him. “Quite. I want to help when you’ve decided what to do. I imagine Alexius will set up a trap soon, likely before you leave Redcliffe and take the Holy Child with you.”

“Not much time to plan,” says Caius, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm. Varric, the Iron Bull, please spread word that we’re not departing immediately. Go rent rooms for us. Dorian, will you stay nearby until Alexus presents his trap?”

“Oh. Yes, of course. He doesn’t know I’m here and I’d like to keep it that way, but I’ll stay close.”

Caius nods. “Felix, there’s no need for you to raise your father’s suspicion. Go back to the castle.”

Felix regards him for a silent moment. “Very well,” he says. “Please, protect her.”

“Do try not to get yourself killed,” Dorian calls to Felix as they both leave.

Felix’s parting words are grim. “There are worse things than death, Dorian.”

When both are gone, and Varric and Bull have also departed to get rooms for them, Caius drums his fingers on his notebook and smiles. “Little Star,” he says to Lora, “go get Leliana for me. I think it’s time for some plotting of our own.”

Chapter Text

“Tell me, my dear,” says Vivienne to Fera as they travel to Therinfal Redoubt, “do your people raise all their royal children so casually? Ameliora has wonderful manners when she chooses to use them, but she seems to dislike formality.”

“No, few royal children are raised as she has been,” says Fera. “Lora is simply unique. Her status required us to keep her sheltered away from many of the formal events her father and grandfather took part in during their childhoods.” She sighs. “Had we known she would learn to walk worlds, we would have done things differently.”

Vivienne, still clearly trying to figure out how to get the Child of Andraste to like curtseying more than rolling around in the mud, asks, “She is treated informally at home?”

“She is treated with great affection,” Fera corrects. “And those we trust enough to watch over her are naturally allowed to be familiar with her. I’m sure you’ve noticed her affection for Hilde and Hilde’s own familiarity, despite strictly using ‘Her Highness.’”

Cassandra interjects. “Your husband is remarkably informal as well.”

“When he is out studying people, yes,” Fera says with a nod. “Any senator who presumed familiarity would quickly discover just how intimidating he can be.”

Cassandra gives her a somewhat dubious look.

“Besides that,” Fera continues, “it hardly matters when we are so far from home. My legions are not with me. Why would I demand you address me as if they are? Many worlds Lora adores have no nobility at all. It would be absurd to demand they respect titles they don’t even use.”

“I think it matters a great deal,” says Vivienne, though the thought of a world with no nobility makes her pause. “It is still power that she—and you—possess.”

Fera looks at Vivienne with a piercing stare. “Perhaps we will use it in the future. For now, my magic is enough power for me.”

It’s Hawke’s turn to interject as he wrestles his ornery stallion back into compliance. “You have magic as well? I knew your husband did, but you seem to like swordsmanship more.” He still has bruises from the spar she insisted upon. At least she’d approved of him and his abilities in the end.

“Magic is a skill in my home. It’s rare for someone to be incapable of any magic, though innate talent varies. Caius likes subtle, complex magics. I prefer body-magic to make myself stronger and faster in battle. Plus, he can See.” She shrugs. “I have never had the talent for it.”

“…see?” Hawke asks, squinting at her a little. He knows she’s not blind.

“See magic. Lora is very fond of that skill, I’m certain you’ve seen her eyes light up? That is Seeing.”

“Yes,” says Cassandra. “That is how she told us something was wrong with the Lord Seeker, by… Seeing.”

Fera’s head tilts thoughtfully. “He is the one we are meeting, no? How did she describe him?”

“Oh, well,” says Hawke, ruffling the back of his head, “tangly and shiny, like a demon. We were never quite able to figure out what that meant. Do you know?”

Fera gives him a dry look. “She is my beloved child, but even I can only interpret her words on occasion. Whatever the Lord Seeker is, he is unusual enough for her to take note. We will have to be cautious.”

Sera mutters something about ‘creepy shite’ that’s seconded by Blackwall.

“Yes.” Hawke takes a deep breath. “The Templars will have to listen to us, with all the backing Most Holy has helped us to gather. Whatever is going on with the Lord Seeker will undoubtedly become clear soon.”

When they reach the encampment—and it truly must be called an encampment, because nobles never do things by half measure—Lord Abernache greets them.

“Inquisitor!” he says. “I am honored to participate. It is not unlike the second dispersal of the reclaimed Dales.”

“Indeed,” says Hawke, trying to rein in his dryness.

Abernache turns to quickly assess Hawke’s companions. “Ah, Lady Vivienne! We met at last summer’s ball? The Duke introduced us.”

“I could not possibly forget the occasion,” says Vivienne. It’s impossible to tell if she means it or not.

He turns back to Hawke. “The Lord Seeker is eager to hear our petition about closing the breach. It is a credit to Most Holy and your own admirable Inquisition that this alliance has come together so easily. Care to mark the moment?”

“If you’re looking for a speech,” says Hawke, “I’m sorry to say I left behind my best writers.” His skin is already itching. Something definitely isn’t right here.

Lord Abernache laughs and they begin walking up the path.

“The pressure from Most Holy seems to have finally swayed them toward good sense,” he says. “Surprising, after that little spat in Val Royeaux.”

“Everyone has their moments of madness,” says Garrett. “I’m only glad he’s come to his senses.”

“Yes,” says Abernache neutrally. “The Lord Seeker won’t meet us until he greets the Inquisition… in person.”

Hawke’s sense of unease deepens.

“We need all the help we can get to close the Breach,” he says. “If a meeting is all it takes, then that’s thanks to the hard work of the Inquisition’s diplomats.”

“Just so.” Abernache eyes him from behind the mask. His voice lowers. “Between you and I, the chantry never took advantage of their Templars. Wiser heads should steer them.” Then, louder, “Ah! Here we are. Therinfal Redoubt.”

“The Lord Seeker abandoned the White Spire to come here,” says Cassandra, staring up at the banners and pennants.

“It appears they’ve sent someone to greet you,” says Lord Abernache. “Present well. Everyone is a little tense for my liking.” He walks away.

Garrett takes a deep breath, listening to the nobles accosting the Templars around them. It’s not going well at all for the Templars, and he almost pities them.

“Look at these poncy gits,” says Sera, mostly to Blackwall. “How many vaults are sitting unguarded right now?

Some of the tension in Hawke loosens. He coughs to hide a laugh. “Thoughts?” he asks his companions in a low voice.

Cassandra’s lips twist with worry and anger. “These lords are useful, but none of this should be necessary. Surely the Lord Seeker sees the true threat. What is he playing at?”

Vivienne hums. “The Lord Seeker resisted the Divine’s council until now. Perhaps something has changed within the ranks.”

“Where are the officers?” Fera asks suddenly.

Hawke frowns. “What?”

“Where are the officers?” she repeats. “They are being approached by the nobility. It should be their highest ranking officers greeting us, but these are rank-and-file. Listen to them. They don’t even know the correct forms of address.”

“That… is a good question,” Cassandra says slowly. “Where are they?”

No answers will be forthcoming if they just stand there, so Hawke pushes through the crowds and searches for the highest rank or seniority (or hell, even just confidence) he can find. It turns out to be the same Templar who’d raised his doubts to the Lord Seeker in Val Royeaux, currently being accosted by Abernache and his attache.

Sheer relief crosses the Templar’s face when he spots Hawke. He ignores Abernache entirely to approach. “I’m the one who sent word to Cullen. He said the Inquisition works to close this Breach in the Veil. I didn’t think you’d bring such lofty company.”

Abernache is obviously insulted at being ignored. “Barris… moderate holdings, your family. And the second son?” He scoffs.

Barris winces slightly, but keeps his eyes on Hawke. There’s a quiet desperation in them. “This… promise of status has garnered interest from the Lord Seeker. Beyond sense. The sky burns with magic, the Divine herself calls on him to act, but he ignores it all until your friends arrive.” He looks over Hawke’s companions. “Is the Child of Andraste with you?”

“Even the best behaved child doesn’t do well in boring adult negotiations,” says Hawke, now supremely glad they sent her to the mages instead.

Barris licks his lips nervously and lowers his voice. “The Lord Seeker wanted to meet you and the Child. I don’t know why, exactly. The commanders haven’t told us.”

Fera steps forward. “I am her mother,” she says, chin up and voice cool. “If need be, I will speak for her.”

“You’re—?” He can see what everyone else with any sense does: Fera is a warrior and not to be trifled with. He nods quickly. “Yes ma’am.”

“Barris,” says Cassandra, “has the Lord Seeker taken command? Does he think there is a holy mandate?”

“Yes. That’s what the commanders say as well, but his actions make no sense. He promised to restore the Order’s honor, then marched us here to wait? Templars should know their duty, even when held from it.”

“I am relieved you recall it,” says Cassandra with only a little recrimination.

Sera is unable to resist heckling. “About time one of you gobs said it!”

Garret’s mind races. Perhaps the problem is concentrated with the Lord Seeker, then. “You’re with us?” he checks.

Barris nods firmly. “Yes, Inquisitor. Win over the Lord Seeker, and every able-bodied knight will help the Inquisition seal the Breach.”

Garrett pushes him a little more. “If you think we’re right, abandon the Lord Seeker and help us.”

He’s not too surprised when it doesn’t work. Templars are orderly creatures by nature. “We can’t abandon our orders,” says Barris. “Not while the officers who survived the Conclave follow him.” He shakes his head. “We’ve been asked to accept much, after that shameful display in Val Royeaux. Our truth changes on the hour.”

Abernache finally gets fed up with being ignored by the second son of a mid-tier noble family from Ferelden. “Don’t keep your betters waiting, Barris. There’s important work for those born to it.”

Barris shoots him a look, but accedes and leads them into the courtyard. “The Lord Seeker has a… request before you meet him,” he says, stopping in front of some standards.

“No,” says Garrett immediately.

Barris stutters slightly in his movement. “I—beg your pardon?”

“No. He wants me to do something ridiculous so he can size me up and prove he’s in charge here, doesn’t he? I refuse. Lead us to him.”

“It’s an honored rite—”

“No.”

Barris sighs. Abernache laughs. “Good man, Inquisitor!” he says. “Busywork is not for men such as us.”

“Right,” says Barris. “The Lord Seeker can deal with this. Follow me.”

He leads them into a meeting room, and it’s thankfully not too much longer until someone with more than mere seniority enters. It is not, however, the Lord Seeker. Hawke frowns deeply, itching to feel his staff in his hand.

“...Knight-Captain,” Barris greets, plainly taken aback by the sight of the Knight-Captain and the two Templars flanking him.

“You were expecting the Lord Seeker,” says Knight-Captain Denam. “He sent me to die for you.”

Alright. Maybe this isn’t limited to the Lord Seeker after all. Garret begins slowly inching his hand into range to grab his staff. Barris shoots him a look that communicates his alarm and confusion.

Even Lord Abernache seems to know something is very wrong. He backs away to stand closer to Hawke and his companions. “He is not well.”

“Your grasp of the obvious is inspiring,” Garret says, watching the strange reddish gleam in the Captain’s eyes. “Barris, what’s wrong with him?”

The Captain speaks before he can answer. “I tried to make us ready. I thought I knew the way. Where is the Child of Andraste?”

“She’s not anywhere you can reach her,” Hawke says, tense and ready to move. When the sound of shouting and fighting filters in, he’s not even surprised.

Denam’s head rocks slightly. “The Lord Seeker had a plan, but the Inquisitor ruined it by arriving with purpose. Even without the Child, it sowed too much dissent.”

Barris still has a shred of hope. Hawke does not, and he can hear his companions readying for a fight as well. “Knight-captain, I must know what’s going on!” Barris says, rushing toward his commander.

“You were all supposed to be changed! Now we must purge the questioning knights!”

Garret yanks Lord Abernache into the protective circle of his companions. “Stay down!”

“What’s happening!” the noble gasps as strange, corrupted Templars rush into the room.

Knight-Captain Denam meets Hawke’s eyes directly. “The Elder One is coming,” he declares, “and he will have the Child, Garett Hawke.”

Hawke doesn’t even have time to blink before Fera is in front of the Knight-Captain, ethereal spear buried in his heart. “No,” she purrs, “he will not.”

Fighting breaks out around them as the corrupted Templars attempt to execute the uncorrupted, but they’ve lost the element of surprise. All Hawke hears is Varric’s voice in the back of his head as he whips his staff out and begins firing off spells.

Well, shit.

Chapter Text

Dorian was exactly right: they don’t even go a day before Magister Alexius sends a messenger inviting them to the castle to ‘continue negotiations.’ Lora is mentioned by name, under the pretense that her blessed presence will somehow make things go more smoothly.

It certainly will make things go smoothly⁠—just not for Alexius.

Masked Tevinter mages⁠—undoubtedly Venatori⁠—greet them when they arrive, followed by a herald. “Welcome,” the unassuming herald says. “The Magister is expecting you.” He leads them up onto a dais, where Alexius sits in the arl’s seat and Fiona and Felix both wait nearby. Lora, peering around curiously, holds Solas’s hand so that Caius can take the lead. She lights up when she spots Felix and waves. He offers the tiniest wave back.

“My lord magister, the agents of the Inquisitor and the Holy Child have arrived,” says the herald, and bows away from the gathering. Alexius doesn’t even acknowledge him.

“My friend, it’s good to see you again!” the magister says to Caius. “And your daughter, of course. I apologize for the previous interruption.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” says Caius. “I am a father too. The wellbeing of our children comes before all else… no?”

“Indeed,” says Alexius, and his eyes linger on Lora. “Indeed… And in that vein, you’re here for the southern mages. I’m sure we can work out some arrangement that is equitable to all parties.”

Fiona steps forward and interjects with far more spine than she had the previous day. “Are we mages to have no voice in deciding our fate?”

Alexius smiles at her the way one would smile at a cute but particularly dense child. “Fiona, you would not have turned your followers over to my care if you did not trust me with their lives.”

Caius flips rapidly through his notebook, unwilling to overlook any potential ally. “You were the Grand Enchantress, yes?” he says to Fiona. “If you would like to contribute as a guest of the Inquisition, then I welcome you.”

“Thank you,” says Fiona, and joins them. Conspicuously, she places herself between Lora and Alexius.

The magister smiles faintly, as if he’s already won, and takes his seat again. “Andraste’s Child needs mages to close the Breach, and I have them. So, what shall you offer in exchange?”

“Certainly not my precious daughter or her magic,” says Caius, pressing a finger to his lips. “I don’t know your motivations or your methods, Gereon Alexius, but I can offer this: rethink your actions with these Venatori, and I will do everything in my power to save your son.”

The magister’s expression instantly twists with rage. “Now where could you have heard that name?” he asks, fingers clawed against the arms of the throne.

Felix quietly interjects. “He knows everything, father.”

Alexius’s rage turns to surprise. “Felix? What have you done?”

“He has protected my child,” says Caius, stepping closer to the magister. “And in doing so, he has protected both you and himself. What is this foolishness you’ve gotten into? Ripping apart the weft and weave of reality has never ended well for anyone.”

Alexius stands again. “Do you think you can steal my son from me?” he asks, enraged once more. “Your daughter stole something you cannot hope to understand, and you think you are in control?”

“I understand it!” Lora cries indignantly before Solas can quiet her. She stamps a foot. “It’s really complicated and it wanted to eat me but now it can’t so I use it to close up the torn places because it fits real good! I know better than you do! You can’t even see it because no one here has Sight!”

“You are no Holy Child,” Alexius snaps. “You interrupted your betters and came away with power that belongs to the Elder One! Power that he will see returned to him! I will deliver the mark and the orb you have hidden from him, and he will raise the Imperium from its own ashes!”

Dorian chooses that moment to step out and join them. “Really, Alexius,” he drawls, “don’t you hear yourself? You sound like the cliche every Feraldan has in their mind when they hear the word ‘magister.’”

Alexius is too angry to wonder how or why his former student is in the castle. “Dorian. I gave you a chance to be part of this and you refused.”

“Father, please stop,” says Felix. “This has gone too far already. She is a child.”

“The Elder One will take back the mark from her hand and become a god. It is necessary!”

Dorian comes to a stop next to Caius. “Alexius, this is exactly what you and I always talked about never wanting to happen! Why would you support this!”

Alexius turns away from them.

“Give up the Venatori, let the southern mages go to the Inquisitor, and let’s go home,” Felix urges his father, stepping close to him.

“…no, Felix,” says the magister. “It’s the only way to save you.”

“Save me?”

Lora pipes up, oblivious to or ignoring the tense atmosphere. “Save him from the icky dark stuff? I can—“

“Hush, da’len,” says Solas quickly.

Alexius turns back to them. “The Elder One promised. I will undo the mistake at the Temple.” Resolve sets the line of his jaw. “Venatori, seize the child.”

But of course, it’s far too late. The soldiers and scouts Lora transported and smuggled in with Leliana’s help have already killed the Venatori around them. Solas carefully keeps Lora’s attention directed away from the bodies.

“Enough,” says Caius, and his voice is hard and cold. “You will not touch my daughter. You are outnumbered and outwitted. By right of hostility I demand your unconditional surrender, Gereon Alexius.”

Though the magister is shocked, stumbling two steps back as his Venatori fall, he’s not done yet. Hate and fury cross his face. “You are a mistake!” he says, and opens his hand to reveal a glowing amulet.

“NO!” shouts Dorian, striking out at him with magic.

In the same instant, Lora gasps and darts forward. “Oooh!” she says, reaching for the amulet.

Caius lunges for her as the shockwave hits. Even without touching, he can feel the many protective layers of spells around her activate.

Three powerful magicks clash, and they all fall.

It feels like waking up from a deep, deep sleep. It feels like rising from the bottom of the ocean, and Caius finds himself disoriented and battered. “Mercy be,” he gasps, pushing himself up out of shallow water.

There’s no time to think. Hostile men in Venatori armor run toward him, and he knows Lora is nearby. He catches a glimpse of Dorian too.

“Blood of the Elder One!” says one enemy, and the other says, “Where’d they come from?” They draw their swords. Neither seem to care what the answer is, only that Caius, Dorian, and Lora die.

“Loyalty, steady my hand,” he prays, and draws a lance from his royal gauntlets. He’s not as fond of close-quarters fighting as Fera is (and nowhere near as good at body-magic) but he can still hold his own. With Dorian’s help, their enemies are soon dispatched.

He’s concerned that Lora didn’t join in, and he’s right to be. When he turns back to her, she’s sitting in the water, eyes half-lidded. The mark on her hand is glowing a bright, angry green.

“Papa, I’m tired,” she mumbles when he scoops her up.

“No wonder,” says Caius, using his Sight to assess her. She’s not hurt, but something is definitely wrong. The mark is warped like it’s been sewn onto the fabric of reality wrong, and it’s leaching her energy trying to right itself. She needs Solas and Hilde. “Go to sleep, my Little Star.”

“Okay,” she says, and passes out against his shoulder.

“Displacement,” says Dorian, watching but lost in his own thoughts. “Interesting. It’s likely not what Alexius intended, especially not with her interference there. That was her, wasn’t it?”

“She has many protections woven into and around her, so yes and no,” Caius confirms. It takes him a moment to remember the right spell, but he turns his cloak into a sturdy carry sling and binds Lora to his back. He hasn’t needed that spell since she was a baby.

“Hmm.” Dorian crouches. “The rift brought us to where, exactly? The nearest confluence of arcane energy?”

“That could mean any number of locations.” Caius scrutinizes the warp and weave of their surroundings again. It’s all horribly tangled up and infected with something he doesn’t want to get near, but the shape of it is familiar. “We’re still in the castle. What was the base of the amulet’s enchantment?”

“Time,” says Dorian, glancing at Lora to make sure she’s asleep. He lights up with realization. “Ah! Not where, but when! We’ve been displaced in time!” He looks around. “Forward, I should think. I don’t believe Redcliffe’s castle has ever looked like this, even during a Blight.”

Caius pulls out his notebook and flips through it, looking for his notes on the time-magic he studied in Redcliffe’s chantry. “You were his student, once. Do you know what he was trying to do with that focus?”

“Erase the Child from time entirely. Then she couldn’t have ruined his ‘Elder One’s’ plan in the first place.”

Caius feels his eyes go wide. “Oh. Mercy, that would not have gone well for him even without interference.” When Dorian gives him a curious look, he makes a snap decision. “Since we’re likely going to need clear communication from here on out, there are some things you should know.”

He explains, broadly, who Lora is and how she got to Thedas. Dorian looks suitably flabbergasted by the end.

“Oh, well,” he says. “You’re right. That would have ended badly. I’m not sure even the Maker would have enough power to reach across thousands of timelines and worlds to erase a being like Lora.”

“Perhaps not.” Caius closes his eyes and his notebook and takes a deep breath. “We have options. The best would be to simply reverse our translocation. You know the amulet’s magic best. Ideas?”

“Plenty. Very pretty ideas too, like little jewels.” He hefts his staff. “But we’ll have to venture out first. Can you still fight while Lora is like that?”

“Of course.” He pulls his longbow out of his gauntlets.

“Fascinating. You’ll have to tell me how you do that, later.”

Caius chuckles as they cautiously leave their arrival location. “I’m afraid even I couldn’t tell you. These are royal heirlooms from the golden age of the empire, when mages numbered in the thousands. The secret to making them has long since been lost.”

“Royal?” Dorian echoes, movement stuttering slightly. “Wait a moment, are you…?”

“It’s hardly important, but yes, Lora is a Princess and I am High King under my father the Emperor.”

“That… explains a few things,” says Dorian, and Caius chuckles again.

They’re plainly in the dungeons, though they don’t find any living prisoners for a good while. The guards present fall easily under their combined magic. When they do finally find a living prisoner, though, his state paints a disturbing picture.

“One of Fiona’s,” Caius observes, watching the man rock and sing in his cell. “He doesn’t look much older. Worn, yes, but not old. And that polluting magic… it’s… woven into him.”

“Those crystals in the cell are red lyrium,” says Dorian. “I don’t suppose you have lyrium where you’re from?”

“No, but I do have notes!” Caius flips rapidly though his notebook. “Ah, yes, I remember. A source of magical energy, can be highly dangerous. Normally it’s blue, isn’t it?”

“Quite. I’m sure you can imagine that the red version isn’t quite so… benevolent.”

“Corrupted.” Caius snaps his book closed. “Let’s keep going and save that thought for later.”

Next they find Fiona, trapped in red lyrium. She looks at them with hollow, red-tinged eyes. “It’s… you. The Tevinter. But… we saw you disappear! Into the rift!”

“My name is Dorian, yes. Lovely name, rolls off the tongue. I’d appreciate it if people used it instead of calling me “the Tevinter” all the time.”

Fiona ignores his snark and looks at him with desperation. When she glances at Caius, just briefly, there’s no recognition at all. “Where is the Herald?”

Dorian blinks. “The what?”

“The Herald… of Andraste. She… disappeared with… you.”

“I think the red lyrium has addled her mind,” Dorian says to Caius. Then, to Fiona again: “Do you mean Andraste’s Child? Because she’s right there, on her father’s back. She’s only asleep.”

They stare at each other blankly. Caius activates his Sight and looks at Fiona hard as a theory forms in his mind.

“No… Andraste’s Child? I… am asking about her Herald. The mage, Lavellan… with the mark on… her hand. She disappeared with you!”

“I’ve never heard the name Lavellan.”

“You wouldn’t have,” says Caius, now certain. No wonder the mark on Lora’s hand is warped. “We didn’t simply move forward. We also moved sideways.”

Dorian looks at him, an immediate spark of understanding in his eyes. “Sideways into… a different world?”

“A world where this Lavellan interrupted the Elder One instead of Lora.”

“Oh. Oh no. This will make it much harder to return, won’t it?”

Fiona is starting to look frustrated as she listens to them talk between themselves. “What…?”

Caius dips his head toward her. “I apologize, Fiona, but I don’t think it would help if I explained, and we don’t have time anyway. You’ve never met me, after all.”

Dorian sighs and drags his fingers over his moustache. “We still need to find Alexius. That amulet is our best way back. Sideways…” He glances at Lora. “Well, here’s to hoping you have some ideas.”

Caius smiles. “I do. Pretty ones, even, like little jewels.” He turns back to Fiona. “We will help as much as we can. Do you know where Alexius is?”

The former Grand Enchanter looks uncertain, but resignation quickly falls over her. “If this is our only hope… Find Leliana, the Herald’s spymaster. She is here. You must… move quickly. Before the Elder One… learns you are here.”

“Thank you. Find Peace, Fiona. You could not have hoped to stop this.”

She says nothing as they turn and leave.

Chapter Text

It’s sheer, unadulterated chaos after Fera rips her spear from the knight-commander’s heart and shoves his body to the floor.

Well—it was already chaos. After that there’s just a lot more of it. Corrupted Templars scuffle with uncorrupted Templars. Barris hesitates, then quickly joins Hawke in sheltering the only non-combatant from the melee. The fight in the meeting room ends quickly, but the sounds outside continue.

“What… what is being done to us?” Barris asks shakily. The surviving templars run off to escort Lord Abernache to safety and get the other nobles outside to do the same.

“Something terrible,” says Cassandra, hands tight on her sword as she looks down at the knight-captain’s corpse.

Fera prowls up to Barris, who stiffens. “Where is this Lord Seeker who wants my only child?” she purrs.

“I know where he most likely is,” said the Templar, visibly steeling his resolve. “We can take the knight-captain’s keys. I would question the Lord Seeker about this ‘Elder One,’ so please… refrain from… ah…”

“Don’t kill him right away, Your Majesty,” says Hawke, wiping some viscera off of his boots using Denam’s uniform.

“Of course not,” says Fera. Barris blanches a little at the honorific, but doesn’t ask. He takes the keys and they continue on.

No one is comfortable with what they see. Some of the Templars are corrupted even more severely than those in the meeting room.

“They are monstrous!” Cassandra cries, and Sera keeps up a litany of unnerved curses as she buries arrow after arrow in the red lyrium-addled Templars. Even Vivienne looks on with disquiet and horror.

“Always red lyrium,” Hawke says, crouching briefly to observe a corpse. “Why is it always red lyrium? Varric is going to be pissed.”

“I don’t know what they were trying to do,” says Blackwall, “but it was madness.”

“Anything with red lyrium is madness,” Hawke agrees, standing back up. “Alright, on to the Lord Seeker. I hope he has a good explanation for this.”

The answer is ‘probably not,’ because next Hawke hears from Lucius as they fight their way through the stronghold is his voice, projected by magic, commanding “Prepare them! Guide them to me!”

“Prepare them?” he echoes, stopping in his tracks with his hand on the door. “What does that mean?”

“Did you hear something?” Cassandra asks.

Hawke looks at his companions. They all look back with vague puzzlement. “I heard the Lord Seeker,” he finally says. “But if you didn’t, then that’s not good.” He pushes the door open.

“I would know you!” comes next, apparently inaudible to anyone else.

Hawke laughs without humor and relays the words.

“I am glad Caius took Lora,” says the queen, eyeing the parapets as if she could spot and skewer the invisible voice. “She would follow the Lord Seeker just to know how he did that. If he wants to know you, Inquisitor, then you had best be someone unknowable.”

“Bit difficult,” says Garrett as he scales the scaffolding. “Considering that ridiculous book Varric wrote.”

“I thought it was full of outrageous lies,” Cassandra says sourly.

“Not all of it.”

So many lie dead before they even get to each room or yard. Some few uncorrupted templars can be saved, and as soon as they’ve been helped they charge off to try and save their friends. Hawke’s group takes out the red lyrium-addled ones who murdered their fellows, but it seems to go on without end. And as they work their way in, closer and closer to the Lord Seeker, his voice continues to echo creepily in only Hawke’s ears.

“Show me what you are.”

And, “You will be so much more!”

“Champion of Kirkwall, Inquisitor, keeper of the Child of Andraste, it’s time we became better acquainted!”

And, finally, “What do you think to accomplish? What will you become?”

“This is a trap,” says Fera as they mount the stairs to where the Lord Seeker stands waiting, alone, with his back to them. Her eyes gleam with excitement at the prospect.

“The whole thing was a trap,” says Hawke through gritted teeth. He hates springing traps. It’s annoying.

It is a trap, of course. As soon as he gets within arm’s reach of the Lord Seeker, the man turns around and grabs him, dragging him backward. “At last,” he hisses, and then⁠—

And then Hawke is in the fade. Wonderful.

His mind works quickly. Enormous red lyrium spires rise behind him, and before him is a landscape of endless arches and pillars and burning corpses. The Lord Seeker pulled him here with ease, although it’s unclear what must be going on outside of ‘here.’ Garrett narrows his eyes and hefts his staff.

“Demon,” he says.

There’s only one thing to do. He marches forward to find it and kill it.

Blank-eyed illusions of Cullen and Josephine stand before a bonfire. He slows to a stop and eyes them, sensing something, and not long after Leliana’s illusion strides forward to join them. “Is this shape useful?” the demon asks. “Will it let me know you? Everything tells me about you. So will this. Watch.”

She holds a knife to Cullen’s neck.

Hawke smacks both of them with a bolt of fire. Unknowable, Fera had said, and he sees the game now. This thing is trying to copy him. He doubts the Lord Seeker was even an abomination⁠—whatever this demon is, it was a copy, not a passenger. That was why ‘Lucius’ had behaved so strangely in Val Royeaux.

Both illusions fall to the floor, dead and burning. Josie laughs, knife in hand. “Being you will be so much more interesting than being the Lord Seeker. Do you know what the Inquisition can become? You’ll see.” She circles him and vanishes, popping up behind in a petty attempt to scare him. “When I’m done, the Elder One will kill you and ascend. Then I will be you.”

“You’ll never be me,” says Hawke, “if you think it’s going to be that easy.”

Josie laughs in a way Josie never would. “It will be. I’ve already won.”

Then it’s Anders who’s standing there. “Glory is coming. And the Elder One wants you to serve him like everyone else: by dying in the right way.”

It’s Hawke’s turn to laugh. Forget him, the thought of some puffed-up monster actually managing to kill Fera or Lora or Caius or the Emperor is so impossible that it’s hilarious. Even if they did manage to succeed, Garrett has no doubt the elite legions of another world’s empire would promptly descend and wipe ‘the Elder One’ and his allies off the map.

“You really have no idea what you’re facing, do you?” he marvels, leaning on his staff.

Anders walks away. Fenris appears behind Hawke, a deep scowl on his face. “I am not your toy! I am Envy, and I will know you! Tell me, Inquisitor, in your mind.” He kills a shadowy copy of Hawke, stabbing him in the back, and oh look, doesn’t this remind Hawke of another time he was stabbed in the back in the fade? “Tell me what you think. Tell me what you feel.”

“I feel that you’re terrible at this,” says Hawke, now looking around for a way out.

“Tell me what you see!” Envy snaps, and then is gone. The way forward opens up.

That’s as good a start as any. Hawke strides forward to take it and is greeted by a tableau of his first meeting with Divine Justinia, where he agreed to take up the mantle of Inquisitor. He eyes it, then continues on without listening. Listening and reacting seems to be what Envy wants. Past it is another facsimile of himself with two messengers in Inquisition regalia. He continues past them, too, but he still hears.

“Our enemies have surrendered unconditionally.”

“The Inquisition’s strength rivals any kingdom in Thedas.”

Envy-as-Hawke says, “Our reach begins to match my ambition — but we will strive for more.”

Garrett snorts. That sounds like a villain straight out of one of Varric’s more ridiculous novellas. Even if he did go evil, he would never sound so cliche.

“Laughter,” says Envy, voice hissing from everywhere and nowhere. “Putting on a brave face?”

On and on it goes, with more illusory people saying ridiculous things about the Inquisition’s power. The funniest parts, though, are those that involve Lora. Envy seems to think he would be able to get her to obey his every word and turn her into a meek little puppet, helping to spread the Inquisition’s influence through her status as the Holy Child. It’s a real struggle not to laugh aloud at the tableau of her trembling and timidly echoing ‘the Inquisitor’s’ words.

The only thing that actually, truly bothers Garrett is how alone ‘the Inquisitor’ is. Every friend and advisor is dead or gone, either by his hand or in the face of his grotesque abuse of power. That one hits a little too close to home.

“Do you see how glorious my Inquisition will be after you die at the hands of the Elder One?” Envy asks.

Hawke doesn’t need to respond to that one, though. Someone else does it for him, and that is truly the most surprising part of this whole situation.

“You’re hurting” says the new voice, “searching, hastening. What happens if you fail again? What happens if they leave?”

“What are you? Get out! This is my place!” Envy screeches.

Hawke continues on through a room with furniture placed on the walls and ceiling. As he approaches the opposite door the new voice says “Wait.”

“You’re not Envy,” says Hawke, waiting. He doesn’t know what this is, but it might be an easy way out. It might be the only way out. Perhaps it’s Lora’s doing, somehow?

“No.” A pale-haired boy in an enormous hat suddenly stands behind him and says, “Mirrors on mirrors on memories. A face it can feel but not fake. I want to help. Envy doesn’t.”

“...I’ve seen you before,” Garrett realizes.

“I’ve been watching. I’m Cole.” He vanishes. “We’re inside you. Or I am. You’re always inside you.” He’s on the ceiling now. “It’s easy to hear, harder to be a part of what you’re hearing. But I’m here, hearing, helping. I hope. Envy hurt you, is hurting you. I tried to help. Then I was here, in the hearing. It’s — it’s usually not like this.”

“I’ll say,” says Hawke, trying to parse through the words. It reminds him of Sera, oddly, though in a different direction. “Do you know how I can break whatever Envy did to put me here, Cole?”

“Maybe. I was watching. I watch. Every templar knew when you arrived. They were impressed, but not like the Lord Seeker. You’re frozen, Envy is trying to take your face, I heard it and reached out, and then in, and then I was here.”

A frisson of unease slides down Garrett’s spine. “Are you… a spirit inhabiting ‘Cole?’”

“No. I’m not like Justice who didn’t stay Justice. He hurt you too, but I want to help. I’m only Cole. I wasn’t always but now I am. If it bothers you, I can make you forget. That helps... No. You need all of you right now to fight. Maybe later.”

Hawke opens his mouth to strenuously object to the ‘make you forget’ part, but Cole continues. “All of this is Envy: people, places, power. If you keep going, Envy stretches. It takes strength to make more. Being one person is hard. Being many, too many, more and more, and Envy breaks down, you break out.”

“So I had the right strategy. Good.” Hawke hefts his staff again. “Lead the way, Cole.”

This time, it seems to Hawke that Envy reveals far more of itself and the Elder One’s plan than it makes any progress on copying him. Envy’s Inquisition butchers everyone who dares to question it or its Inquisitor. Every nation falls before their might as they raise… an army of demons? Interesting. He’ll have to ask Leliana to look into that. How would one raise an army of demons to kill Celene and break Val Royeaux?

Cole is a steady, if somewhat baffling guide as Hawke sprints out and up. Thinking of water helps sometimes, and sparks others. Envy grows angry at its own failure, and Hawke feels exhilaration. It’s always so satisfying when the demons can’t get what they want.

Then it ambushes him, clad in a poor imitation of his body, and lifts him by the throat.

“Unfair! Unfair!” it says in his voice, like a tantruming child. “That thing kept you whole, kept you from giving me your shape!”

“You don’t want my shape,” says Garrett, only a little strangled. “Being me is a pain in the ass.”

“Being me is a… ugh!” It grabs his face with its other hand. “We’ll start again. More pain this time. The Elder One still comes. And if we fail, we will take the Child’s shape instead!”

Hawke outright laughs in its face at that one. No. It most assuredly will not do that, even if it tries. There’s nothing in Thedas or beyond that could possibly imitate Lora.

Cole appears. “It’s frightened of you,” he says, almost marveling.

“Get out of—!”

And that’s all the opening Hawke needs. He brings his staff up and around, slamming the sturdy wooden haft down. The ‘dream’ or whatever it is breaks, and he’s once again standing out in the rain, on the stone landing. What falls away from his real-life blow isn’t the Lord Seeker anymore, but the true form of Envy. It writhes and shrieks at them.

“Die,” says Fera, whipping past Hawke with her spear ready. The blade pierces deep into Envy’s contorted body, and the demon shrieks again before turning to billowing smoke. It flees, retreating behind a barrier. Fera follows, inhumanly fast, but is stopped by the barrier. Everyone else scrambles to keep up.

“The captains are dead or corrupted!” says Barris, rolling with the punches as best he can. His eyes are wide and shocked at the reveal. “We’ll need veterans to punch a hole in that barrier!”

Fera looks down at him from her narrow perch against the railing. “No. Behold, the Virtuous Empress Julia’s gift to her new daughter.” She draws a new weapon from her gauntlet, this one solid instead of glimmering like an illusion, and holds it aloft. “ The Imperial Spellbreaker.”

Hawke’s eyes go wide. There are numerous ways that could catastrophically backfire when neither of them know how their magicks will interact. “Your Majesty, wait⁠—!”

But she’s already in motion. “For my daughter!” she roars, and brings the spear to bear against Envy’s shield.

Searingly bright light fills the room, and then everything goes dark.

Chapter Text

Leliana is not the first person they find as they return to the lower cells. Instead, it’s Solas. “Is someone there?” he asks as they approach. His eyes, like Fiona’s, show obvious signs of red lyrium poisoning. They go wide as Caius and Dorian approach. “You’re alive? We saw you die! But⁠—where is the Herald?”

“I’m afraid it wasn’t me you saw ‘die,’” says Dorian. “I’m not even the same ‘me,’ though I suspect we experienced nearly the same thing with one added twist. The spell Alexius cast displaced us in time, our twist pushed us sideways into a different timeline, and with any luck your Lavellan should be here soon. I hope.”

Solas looks between them.

“My daughter Lora is the twist,” Caius explains. “There is no Herald in our version of events, since Lora was the one who interrupted the Elder One and got the mark stuck to herself.”

“...then what is your aim?” Solas asks. “Can you reverse the process? Could the Herald?”

Dorian huffs. “If we find Alexius and that blasted amulet, yes. I don’t need the physical item, only a look at its structure. Your Lavellan and Dorian could do the same.”

Solas nods slowly. “Then you know even less of this world than they would. The Elder One reigns now, unchallenged. His minions assassinated Empress Celene and used the chaos to invade the South. This Elder One commands an army of demons. After you stop Alexius, you must be prepared.”

Caius scribbles madly in his notebook. Leliana will want every detail he can record later. “Then we had best get moving!”

The second person they find is Iron Bull, who’s singing. “Three hundred bottles of beer on the wall, three hundred bottles of beer… take one down, pass it around…” He looks directly at Dorian as they approach. “You’re not dead? You’re supposed to be dead. There was a burn on the ground and everything. And who’s the guy with the kid?”

“Obviously I am no more dead than you are,” says Dorian. “I’m also not the same Dorian.”

Iron Bull gets the same look on his face that Hilde does when confronted by  ‘more nonsense.’ “Now “dead” and “not dead” and “Dorian” are up for debate. That’s wonderful”

Dorian drags a hand down his face. “This conversation has taken a turn for the moronic. I’ll use simple words: just come with us and Solas can explain along the way. We’re going to fight Alexius.”

Bull considers the proposal for a moment before getting to his feet with a grunt. “Go with you, kill Alexius. Sounds good. Let’s go.”

And then, interestingly, they don’t find just one person, but three. They also don’t find them locked up in any cells, but instead stumble across each other by sheer accident as they cross between corridors.

Dorian blinks at Dorian. Caius’s eyes light up as he fixates on a copy of the anchor Lora carries, this one on the hand of a slender elven woman who regards them with shock and suspicion.

“Ellana!” Solas breathes behind them, and “Boss!” says Iron Bull.

“Why is there another me?” asks other Dorian⁠—Pavus, Caius mentally dubs him⁠.

“The same thing that happened to you and the Herald happened to us in a different world,” says Caius. “Only, we had an extra element that pushed us sideways as well as forward. We arrived before you.”

“That does explain why everyone was freshly dead when we got here,” says Pavus, stroking his chin, “and why there are two of me. Then… are you your world’s Herald? Where is your anchor?”

Caius chuckles. “No. Our world had Andraste’s Child, not Andraste’s Herald. That would be my daughter here. She’s asleep. The anchor is unhappy at being twisted to fit a world with a different weave, and it’s draining her energy.”

Lavellan’s expression turns gray with horror. “Then everything that happened to me in the Temple happened to a child? That’s horrible!”

“Normally, yes, I imagine it would be,” says Dorian. “Fortunately for her, she has magic beyond your wildest imagination. This is all a delightful romp in her little mind.”

The Herald of Andraste doesn’t look very reassured by his answer.

“It was her magic that pushed them into our timeline,” says Solas.

“Indeed it did. She has a habit of hopping from world to world,” Caius says serenely. “It was not something we anticipated her being able to do at this age, but we have adapted as best we can.”

Lavellan, Pavus, and Varric stare at him in disbelief.

Dorian smiles wanly. “They’re ah, not from Thedas. Any Thedas.”

When the staring continues, Caius claps his hands together. “Let us continue on! We have your Leliana to find, after all.”

Caius and Dorian lead the way with Lavellan and her companions close behind, confused and mildly distrustful. The Venatori who rush in to find and kill them are hilariously outgunned by their sizable group and die quickly.

“Damn,” says Bull, rolling his shoulders, “I needed a good fight.”

“We may not have much time. Let’s find the magister, quickly,” says Solas.

It’s not too surprising to find an extensive labyrinth of torture chambers. Caius takes careful note, recording things rapid-fire in his notebook as they go. “I’m grateful Lora is unconscious,” he comments, mostly to Dorian. “This is not something she needs to see at her age.”

Lavellan gives him another odd look. “...but she’ll need to see it later?”

“She will be an Empress, head of the cardinal legions. Should she be ignorant of what those under her command might suffer for her?”

“Ah yes,” says Dorian. “I forgot to mention. They’re royalty in their native world.”

“Sure,” says Bull. “Why not.”

Lavellan nervously licks her lips. “Does that make a difference?”

Caius finishes writing in his notebook and closes it again. “In terms of the equipment at my disposal? Yes. In terms of anything else? No, not really. Let’s keep moving.”

They find Leliana as she’s being actively tortured. To her immense credit, she obviously has never given a single thing away, and as soon as they provide a distraction by barging in she wraps her legs around the neck of the man torturing her and snaps it.

“You’re alive!” she says as Lavellan finds the key and gets her down from the shackles suspending her from the ceiling. Her eyes flicker to the other Dorian and Caius.

“We never died in the first place. Alexius miscalculated,” says Pavus. “Oh yes, and these are our new friends: myself but slightly less handsome, a king from another world, and Andraste’s Child. Apparently Alexius screws up across all possible iterations, including one with a wildcard.”

“I see,” says Leliana, a hard light in her eyes. “It will be his last mistake. Do you have weapons?”

Lavellan nods slowly.

“Good. The magister is probably in his chambers.” She heads for the exit, barely limping.

“You… aren’t curious how we got here?” Pavus asks, faintly confused. “Or about any of the insane things I just said?”

“No.”

“Alexius⁠—” Pavus starts, but stops when Caius puts a hand on his arm.

“Now is not the time, I think,” he says. “Let her ask if she changes her mind.”

Leliana turns just enough to look at them from the corner of her eye. Then, she continues on.

The silence lays awkwardly between them as they move between scene after scene of horror. A devotee of the Elder One kills her fellow and ultimately herself, turning them both into abominations that the group must finish off.

“This is madness,” Dorian says, expression twisted with revulsion and discomfort. He grips his staff with white knuckles. “Alexius can’t have wanted this.”

Ultimately, though, it’s clear that it doesn’t matter what Alexius may or may not have wanted. When they finally get a clear glimpse of the sky, it stops even Caius in his tracks.

“The Breach!” Lavellan cries, eyes wide as they reflect the green light eating the sky above. “It’s⁠—”

“Everywhere,” says Pavus.

Solas looks up with a strange expression. “The veil is shattered. There is no boundary between the world and the Fade.”

“Shit,” says Bull, shading his eye with a hand. “You can fit a lot of demons through that thing.”

When they encounter a rift, Lavellan takes care of closing it. Caius and Dorian stay back, fighting but not concerning themselves with the tear in the veil. They exchange a single glance, silently agreeing that any effort from Lora to close one should be a last resort. There’s no telling what an anchor from a different world might do.

When they reenter the castle, Pavus finally seems to decide now is the right time for more questions. “What became of Felix? Do you know?” he asks Leliana, subdued.

“Yes, I know,” Leliana says darkly.

“And you’re not going to tell me?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Dorian leans in to whisper to Caius. “That… almost makes it sound like he’s still around. But he can’t be, the Blight would have killed him by now.”

“Well,” Caius whispers back, troubled. “It is as Felix himself said: there are some fates worse than death, Dorian.”

Lora stirs when they’re busy clearing out the entryway to the main hall. She groans into Caius’s neck. “Papa,” she mumbles as he looses arrow after conjured arrow into the demons, “‘m tired. The magic’s trynna eat me again…”

“My poor girl,” he says, breathing steadily through the exertion. “Just a little while longer. You’ve brought us to another world, and it’s making the Strings tangled. It will be alright when we go back.”

“Oh.” She yawns, wholly unconcerned by the sounds of combat. “Sorry papa…” she says, and lapses back into unconsciousness.

There’s much to do before they can enter the main hall, as Alexius apparently installed a door locked and fortified by powerful magic to protect him. Caius runs his hands over the warm stone, eyes alight. “Ah,” he says, wistful, “if only Fera was here. Her Spellbreaker might have been able to cut through this. Then again, who knows how the severed ends of such tensioned Strings might have lashed out?”

“You can’t just… wave your hand and fix this?” Dorian asks with a little humor that’s lost on Lavellan and her companions.

“I’m only a humble sorcerer, my friend. I would need to study this for a good long while before I knew how to break it. Come, we’re better off finding the key.”

It takes a long and grueling hour to find all five shards, after which Dorian and Pavus put their heads together to use the shards and unlock the door. Inside is Alexius, standing with his back to them, unmoving even while they approach. And Felix… crouches beside him, ravaged by the Blight⁠—if one could even call him Felix anymore.

Lavellan and her companions take the lead. Leliana disappears into the shadows. “It’s over, Alexius,” says the Herald.

He doesn’t even turn to face them. “So it is. I knew you would appear again. Not that it would be now. But I knew I hadn’t destroyed you. My final failure.”

“Was it worth it?” Pavus demands. “Everything you did to the world? To yourself?”

Next to Caius, Dorian’s mouth presses into a flat, upset line.

“It doesn’t matter now. All we can do is wait for the end.”

“What do you mean? What’s ending?” Lavellan asks.

“The irony that you should appear now, of all the possibilities. All that I fought for, all that I betrayed, and what have I wrought? Ruin and death. There is nothing else. The Elder One comes: for me, for you, for us all.”

Leliana springs from the shadows and seizes Felix, hauling him upright and putting a dagger to his throat. He barely even seems to realize what’s happening, but Alexius turns and gasps, reaching for his son only to freeze at the obvious threat Leliana presents. “Please, don’t hurt my son! I’ll do anything you ask.”

“Hand over the amulet, and we let him go,” Lavellan says, adapting smoothly to the situation.

For the first time, Alexius is both truly terrified and truly sincere. “Let him go, and I swear you’ll get what you want.”

Lavellan isn’t the one in charge here, though. Not anymore. Leliana glares with all-consuming hatred, “I want the world back,” she says, and then kills whatever was left of Felix.

“NO!”

Dorian growls and readies his staff. Caius just sighs at the delay as they’re promptly swept into another fraught battle. It doesn’t last as long as it could, likely because there are two Dorians, and both know Alexius well. The magister himself is so lost to his grief and madness that he doesn’t even notice, and before too long he lies dead on the ground.

While Lavellan consoles Pavus, Caius merely claps Dorian on the shoulder. “There’s still time for reason to prevail. I promise you, we are capable of removing the sole source of his motivation.”

Dorian frowns. “...could you truly help Felix? Save him?”

“Yes.”

A tiny, fragile spark of hope blooms in the young man’s eyes.

They have no time to dwell. Leliana’s voice draws their attention. “An hour? That’s impossible! You must go now!” As if summoned, the castle shakes under a tremendous assault. Leliana looks up. “The Elder One.”

“Ah,” says Caius. “Time is up. Dorian and Dorian, work quickly.”

“Well,” says Dorian, voice tight, “it’s a good thing we’re both so brilliant, then.” He joins Pavus on the dais and they put their heads together over the amulet.

“You cannot stay here,” says Solas. He looks at Varric. They nod to each other.

“We’ll hold the main door,” Varric says. “Once they break through, it’s all you, Nightingale.”

Neither of the Dorians have any attention to spare, but Lavellan’s eyes go wide. “No! I won’t let you commit suicide.” She moves to join them, but Caius grasps her arm to keep her near the amulet.

“Look at us,” says Leliana, angry and tired and grim. “We’re already dead. The only way we live is if this day never comes.” Varric and the Iron Bull leave to guard the door. It shuts behind them with a weighty thud. “Cast your spell. You have as much time as I have arrows.”

“Lora,” says Caius, pulling her from the sling to hold her in his arm. “Wake up. I have a friend who wants to meet you.”

Lavellan gives him a bewildered look. He won’t let go of her. “Is now the time for that?” she demands angrily.

“...friend?” Lora slurs, exhausted. The anchor on her hand spits and flares, drawing Lavellan’s attention. Lora’s eyes drop to the Herald’s hand in turn. “Oh. Hi…” She smiles weakly.

Lavellan casts one last helpless look toward her doomed friends before she caves and does as Caius wants. “Hello…”

The sounds grow closer as time ticks away, second by precious second. Dorian and Pavus work quickly. Lavellan holds a stilted conversation with her tiny counterpart. When the doors are broken down, magic has just begun to flicker from the amulet. It’s nearly enough to distract from the sight of the corpses the Venatori and their demons drop inside the threshold.

Caius hands Lavellan off to Pavus as Dorian grabs his arm. “I hope you have a plan for how to pull us sideways!” he says, watching as Leliana recites the Chant and fights for all of their lives.

“I do,” says Caius. The conflagration of magic finally takes on its full, proper shape as Leliana falls. He looks down at his precious daughter, still drained by the twisted anchor but awake enough now to know something is wrong. “Little Star, can you help me?” he asks, gripping Dorian’s arm in return so that they’re tightly linked.

“Uh-huh” says Lora, blinking heavily. Lavellan and Pavus lunge toward the portal. Caius pulls Dorian to do the same.

“Then find mama!”

Chapter Text

Hawke wakes up feeling worse than any hangover with the taste of metal in his mouth. He groans low in the back of his throat, shifting his head against stone. His staff is still in his fingers, and he curls them around the sturdy wood. Slowly, he manages to push himself upright and raise his face. The barrier protecting Envy is gone. His companions and the Templars are all shaking themselves back to awareness, same as him. Fera sprawls out not far from where he’s sitting, scratched up and unconscious. It’s clear she was thrown by the force of the barrier shattering under her spear.

The Envy demon, also injured, is crawling slowly forward to loom over her.

Hawke’s breath catches in alarm. “Majesty!” he slurs, arm buckling under him. She doesn’t stir. No one else is coherent enough to help. She’s going to get hurt and then so is he because he doesn’t imagine the foreign nation lending him their royalty will take very kindly to an incapacitated High Queen⁠—

A bright flash of gold light blinds him again, and he has just enough time to think Andraste’s sacred knickers! before it stops. The Envy demon shrieks.

“Aha! Good work, my Little Star!” says High King Caius, who absolutely is not supposed to be here.

Hawke finally manages to scramble to his feet, bewildered at the sight of Caius holding Lora and standing next to a strange man.

“Andraste’s ass!” the stranger curses. “What is that? An Envy demon!”

Caius glances down at Fera and his expression turns alarmingly thunderous. “Take her!” he snarls in a voice Hawke didn’t even think him capable of, and literally throws Lora to the stranger. In the same motion, he pulls an ethereal sword from his gauntlet and lunges for Envy.

The stranger yelps and nearly fumbles Andraste’s Child. Thankfully, he chooses to drop his staff instead of her, and it clatters to the ground.

“Ser Barris!” Hawke shouts at the templar who has also just regained his feet. “Help him!”

Poor ser Barris⁠—bless him and his ability to adapt to the bizarre situations Lora creates with no forewarning⁠—charges forward to back up Caius with nothing more than wide eyes to betray his bewilderment. His intervention is much needed as well, because Caius is fighting in his wife’s fashion rather than his own and Hawke can tell. Without aid, he might very well lose.

“Inquisitor?” the stranger with the glorious waxed moustache says, awkwardly holding the unconscious Child. He glances down at Fera, who has yet to stir. “Ah! I understand. Take her, I will help with the demon!”

“Wait—“ Garrett starts, but as soon as he’s close enough the stranger takes a cue from Caius and lobs Lora at him. Hawke catches easily, used to Lora throwing herself at him. Unfortunately, that leaves him unable to join the fight. He swears loudly and then thanks the Maker that Lora was not awake to hear it. Unwilling to be completely useless, he balances the girl against one shoulder so he can grab Fera and laboriously drag her away from the fight.

The templars, now joined by a rather skilled mage and a High King to boot, have Envy and the lingering corrupted templars well in hand. Garrett crouches, keeping an eye on the fight, and shakes the High Queen’s shoulder. “Your Majesty. Fera!”

Lora groans and shifts before her mother. Hawke sits back slightly, patting her hair, and she rolls her head to bury her face in his shoulder. “...Waffles?” she asks groggily.

“That’s right, I’m Waffles,” he confirms. “Are you hurt?”

“Noooooo… tired,” she slurs. “Did I find mama?”

“Yes, you did.”

He feels her smile against his shoulder. “I did a good job.” She raises her head as Fera starts to twitch. “Where’s the pretty elf lady? Her arm was hurt…”

“I’m not sure,” says Hawke, because no ‘pretty elf lady’ appeared when they did. Fortunately, Fera wakes up and distracts her daughter from asking more confusing questions.

“Do I… hear… my little wolf pup?” she asks, eyes dragging open. Almost immediately, her attention diverts toward the sound of battle. She tries too quickly to sit up and Garrett quickly puts out a hand on her back to keep her from collapsing.

“Easy. You unleashed quite a force upon yourself.”

“Hi mama,” says Lora, yawning.

“Hello, darling.” She manages to get herself sitting upright without help this time. “Sir Garrett, my apologies. I acted rashly to protect my child, and it seems everyone was caught up in my mistake.”

Hawke blinks. A monarch who apologies immediately and sincerely. How about that?

“Now⁠—” she continues. “Lora, pup, what are you doing here? Is papa over there too?”

Caius is indeed ‘over there,’ just out of eyesight but yelling pedantic insults. Lora squirms out of Garrett’s arm to crawl all over her mother instead. “Papa told me to find you,” she says, looking closer and closer to ‘mellow’ rather than ‘exhausted.’ “I think we went somewhere far away. There was a pretty elf lady with tangly magic in her arm like mine, but it was still munching on her. Where’d she go? I wanna find her so I can tell the magic to shhhh.”

Fera strokes her daughter’s messy curls. “We will look into it once papa comes back.” She glances at Garrett again. “Does the battle need you? I am well enough to defend Lora, at least.”

From the enthusiastically violent sound of the battle, Hawke doubts he’s needed. “No, I’ll be staying here for the moment. Caius brought along backup⁠—a mage.”

“Dorian,” Lora explains with a calm smile. The odd lack of beaming enthusiasm brings out her strong resemblance to her mother. “He’s helping with the bad magister.”

“I see,” Hawke lies. Then his brows furrow. “Wait⁠, magister? Why is Tevinter involved?” He realizes immediately who he’s talking to and waves a hand. “Nevermind, I’ll ask Caius.”

Surprisingly, mellowed-out Lora is capable of slightly more coherent explanations than enthusiastic Lora. “Magister Alexius was arguing with papa about the mages because they joined him instead of waiting for you, Waffles. Then he pulled out a really cool shiny necklace and… um, and then we went far away and I was really tired. I think papa and Dorian fought a lot of demons, and then there was the pretty elf lady.” She looks around, unbothered by her new surroundings. “Maybe she didn’t come with us when I was trying to find mama.”

“Likely not,” says Fera. “I’m certain we would have noticed her by now if she had a mark like yours.”

“Aww.” Lora looks mildly disappointed. Hawke is starting to find calm Lora unnerving and hopes the bouncy, exuberant headache of a child he’s come to know will return soon. He clears his throat.

“Forgive me, I should have asked earlier. Do you need healing, Fera? I wasn’t able to see how you landed after shattering the barrier.”

The High Queen shakes her head. “I strengthened myself before I hit the ground, and thus all I have to pain me are bruises and a parched throat. The only thing truly wounded is my pride.”

“I’m thirsty too,” says Lora.

She isn’t even fidgeting. It’s creepy.

Hawke catches an odd flash of pale skin in the corner of his eye. He blinks, looking to the side, but no one is there. “Ah—“ He looks a little bit lower. A water skin is sitting next to his knee, and he’s sure it wasn’t there a second ago. He picks it up. “…huh.”

Fera stares intently. “That was skillful magic.”

“Yes… that was Cole, I think. He helped me break Envy’s thrall.” Garrett hands her the skin, wondering why⁠—or if⁠—Cole diverted from helping with the battle to delivering water. “We can trust him.”

“Hmm.” She drinks, then pauses and keeps Lora’s grabby fingers away. After a moment she nods and lets the little girl drink. “Yes. I agree.” Her eyes glitter. “I look forward to meeting him.”

By the time Caius returns, trailing the rest of Hawke’s companions, Ser Barris, and several harried-looking Templars, Fera has regained enough equilibrium to get up and move to an actual chair. Lora pulled a book from her illogically roomy hip satchel and is reading it quietly. Hawke remains unnerved by her lack of explosive energy.

“Fera,” says Caius after briefly assuring himself that Lora is alright, “are you well?”

“Yes,” she says, reaching a hand up to touch his cheek. A long, ugly cut stretches from his temple to the corner of his mouth, and several bruises pepper his face as well. “Are you?”

“The front lines suit me far more poorly than the back,” he says with a smile, “but this is nothing.” He picks up Lora and turns to Garrett. “I trust you have things well in hand with the demon gone?”

Uh-oh. “Yes, but—“

“Then we must be away before dear Hilde assumes an execution is warranted! Dorian, stand close. Little Star, can you find Solas?”

Hawke tries to object fast enough to stop them. “Wait, first tell—“

But Lora says, quite placidly, “Okay papa,” and then they’re gone.

“Dammit,” Hawke sighs.

Poor Ser Barris regards the situation with well-deserved confusion. “Inquisitor,” he says, “what was… that?”

Hawke runs a hand through his sweaty hair and smiles wryly before clapping the Templar on his armored shoulder. “That, my friend, was your first exposure to the real Child of Andraste. And Maker help you, because that was positively mild compared to usual.”

There’s a singed patch on the floor where Ameliora, the High King, and the Tevinter disappeared. Solas stares at it, mind racing in unhelpful circles. Behind him, the Magister yelps. Solas doesn’t turn. As soon as the three had vanished, Madame Hilde had stepped forward with the same magically-boosted speed as her High Queen and neatly socked the Magister across the jaw. She’d then produced a length of rope from her skirts and ruthlessly begun hog-tying him on the floor. Only the Iron Bull and the Nightingale had maintained enough sense to step forward and help her.

Perhaps Hilde had given him a small but deserved kick, or planted her boot on his head. Perhaps she gagged him, based on the subsequent muffled sounds.

“Please, don’t kill him,” the Magister’s son says quietly. “He may be able to undo this.”

“No,” says Madame Hilde as Solas slowly, slowly, slowly moves to crouch next to the scene of the crime. How was this done? How can it be rectified? “There is no need. Whatever he attempted is far from adequate to kill Her Highness. All we must do is wait.”

Solas blinks. Yes, he is reminded, she is correct. Lora is not a creature like anything any of them have seen. Perhaps the anchor will return after all.

Perhaps that bright little child, who breathes magic as easily as any ancient elvhen, is undimmed.

“I… beg your pardon?” says Felix.

“Sit. You are unwell, and I cannot guess how long this will take.”

“But⁠—”

“Sit, young man”

“...yes, alright.”

Solas drags a finger through the scorch mark. The soot he picks up is perfectly normal and offers no clues about what happened. Disappointing. He can’t sense even a hint of the anchor.

“Hey, uh, Madame Hilde,” says the Iron Bull uneasily as the minutes stretch. “Are you sure⁠—”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Uh. Okay.”

If she’s wrong, Solas doesn’t know what he’s going to do. Perhaps it’s not too late to track down his focus. The loss of the anchor isn’t insurmountable. If he has to, he can add the death of little Ameliora to his long list of unforgivable mistakes, then get up and continue on. At least then he wouldn’t have to face the little one or her wildcard family opposing his plans.

The Veil must come down.

He feels the change in the air when Lora returns, and only then does he realize how tense his shoulders had become. He stands, dusting off his fingertips. Here on the dais, exactly where they disappeared, are the High King, the Tevinter, and Lora. The adults are roughed up, but Lora is only blinking sleepily in her father’s arm. When she spots him she smiles, baring little pearl-white teeth.

“Solas,” she says, yawning. “You’re not sad anymore.”

The High King hands her over readily, face stern and eyes locked on the Magister. Solas may, perhaps, admit to hugging the wild little child tightly. She hugs him back, and he can feel her exhaustion in the stillness of her body. The anchor is drained down to a flicker of power, far more than it should have been possible in such a brief absence⁠—at least, not without killing her too.Yet still, she is well.

“Was I sad before, da’len?” he asks. His voice might tremble just slightly.

“Uh-huh,” she says. “You were really sad and tangly. I wanted to say something nice to make you happy but I was too tired.”

He hums. The High King says, “Thank you, Hilde. Get him up and bind his hands. Alexius, you failed far more deeply than you know. Erasing my child from time is not something you could ever have done. The Inquisitor will decide your fate now.”

Alexius makes a muffled noise. So Hilde did gag him.

“I’m sorry,” says the Magister’s son, wringing his hands as he looks at Lora. “If I’d known what my father intended⁠—”

“Don’t worry, Felix,” says Dorian. “Caius has already promised to help you, and I’m sure the Inquisitor will be… reasonable.”

Lora falls asleep against Solas’s shoulder, a small and warm weight. The anchor pulses with her heartbeat.

“Help… me?” Felix echoes.

“Heal you,” says Caius, and Solas looks over sharply to see the High King smiling. “Trust me, young man, it is best for everyone if you return to full health.”

Solas already knows these people are capable of magic that defies all understanding, but… can they really overcome the taint of the void so easily? So casually? The High King certainly seems to think so, and Madame Hilde nods in agreement.

If they can do such things, then… maybe his plans…

Lora breathes softly against his neck, peaceful and trusting.

“You really mean that,” says Felix, sounding appropriately dazed.

Caius nods. “I do.” Alexius is on his feet by now, hands bound securely, and his eyes are wide. Caius pushes his shoulder, nodding toward the doors. “Now, let us return to Haven and await Garrett’s return.” He turns his satisfied smile on Solas, eyes crinkling at the corners and twinkling with delight. “We have so many fascinating things to tell you along the way!”

Chapter Text

The templars, being composed entirely of physically capable adults and older youths, move much faster than the mages who range in age from little children to elders. As such, Garrett Hawke and his companions reach Haven long before Caius and the rest. Lora is, of course, already there, along with Madame Hilde, a magister in the dungeons, and a young Tevinter man being… cured of the blight?

“I’m helping!” Lora beams from her position cuddled up to the stranger as she ‘makes the dark icky stuff go away.’

“She’s helping,” says the Tevinter, faint with shock. Hawke understands the sentiment, and pats her head before moving away to find someone who can maybe explain.

Madame Hilde, busy in the infirmary with injured templars, gives him an unimpressed look when he asks. “She can see and manipulate the fundament of reality as easily as she breathes. Your mages cannot. I cannot, though with effort I can do something similar. This ‘Blight’ you face is, to her, as easy to clear away as mud upon a garment.” She shrugs and turns back to her patient. “I ensured it was safe before she began. Now, out, Inquisitor. I am occupied with repairing your new recruits.”

The magister in the dungeon is both easier to handle and equally as baffling. He looks just as dazed as his son.

“I vowed to serve the Elder One because he promised to save Felix,” he admits. “Your emissary explained the depths of my stupidity to me. Then he promised to save Felix anyway.” Alexius looks down at his hands. His eyes shine wetly in the low torchlight. “Inquisitor, I will serve Andraste’s Child to my dying breath if you will allow it.”

That’s only sort of Garrett’s decision to make. He crosses his arms, frowning thoughtfully. “You must tell us everything you know.” They’re not exactly going to be able to get any information from the deceased Envy demon, after all.

“I already told your Spymaster everything. Anything additional I remember, I deliver to her through one of her agents.” He nods toward an elf sitting on a crate nearby. Hawke doesn’t quite remember her name, which seems to be by design when it comes to Leliana’s people.

“He’s been very helpful,” says the elf. “No false leads at all so far.”

Huh. How about that?

“Do you know what his next step will be?”

“Now that you have stolen the mages and the templars out from under him?” Alexius arches his brows. “I don’t know. If you had failed to recruit the templars then I might have been able to hazard a guess, but now? All I can say for certain is that he wants the artifact he lost in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and he wants the Holy Child.”

Lora had mentioned something about a ‘shiny’ object that put the mark on her hand, hadn’t she? “What artifact?” he asks.

“Ancient elven, shaped like an orb. The Elder One was not generous with his details. I only know that he needs it for his plan to progress.”

“And what is his plan?”

Alexius shakes his head. “Once again, Inquisitor, I was not trusted with details, only empty promises of Imperium glory and a cure for my son. I can only speculate.”

“Then what’s your speculation?” Garrett asks impatiently.

The magister’s lips press into a pale line and his expression becomes grave. “The artifact is a focus,” he says, “and the Elder One needs it to tear the Veil asunder, enter the Black City, and seize the throne of the Maker.”

Ultimately, closing the Breach takes precedence to figuring out what the Elder One’s next move is. The templars are quickly reorganized and put under Cullen’s purview as a quasi-independent partner with the Inquisition, partly because Hawke doesn’t want to be Inquisitor any longer than he has to and harbors no illusions about what a too-powerful Inquisition could do under a foolish leader. Hadn’t that, after all, been Envy’s entire goal?

The other part of his motivation is annoying Cullen, of course.

When the mages arrive, Hawke arranges them the same way and gleefully puts Cullen in charge of them too. He only wishes he had a way to immortalize the look his advisor gives him at the war table when he declares his intentions. The mages need to rest, but within two days the Breach will be easily closed with the combined might of both warring groups. The mages will feed power through the Anchor, and the templars will suppress the Breach to make it easier to seal up.

Hawke is downright impressed with himself, and if Justinia doesn’t offer them some kind of commendation he’s going to eat his shoe. Clearly he’s a better leader than anyone gives him credit for.

…or, more likely, the magical seven-year-old helping him out by doing the impossible deserves most of the credit. But still! He didn’t muck things up too badly this time.

When he strolls out of his latest meeting, relishing the memory of Cullen’s exasperated glare, he finds a stranger in strange dress turning in a confused circle, hand pressed to her mouth. A different stranger in equally strange armor stands next to her, frowning. He has a shining lance strapped to his back. Hawke approaches with a strong suspicion about where they’re from and who they’re looking for.

“Excuse me,” he says, vaguely relieved when neither of these two have uncanny metallic-gold eyes, “are you looking for your High King and Queen? Or Princess?”

Both of them drop into bows. “Inquisitor,” says the woman. “Well met. I am Laurel, the Imperial Midwife, and this is Quintus of the Praetorian Guard. We apologize for intruding. Their Majesties are needed, and we expected the gates to bring us directly to them. They… did not.”

“Gates?” He glances down and realizes that the woman’s feet are bare, despite the snow. Maybe Lora learned the habit from her.

Quintus smiles wryly. “Her Highness is the only one who doesn’t need a gate to travel worlds. The gates are how we normal sorcerers follow the beacons to wherever an Imperial family member is.”

Something clicks in Garrett’s mind. “Ah!” he says. “You’re Madame Hilde’s daughter and son-in-law. She mentioned that you might visit at some point.”

Laurel beams at him. “Yes, Your Worship. Do you know where she is? Or perhaps Their Majesties?”

“Garrett or Hawke is fine. I think Fera is the most likely to be in the last place I saw her. This way.” He leads them down to the training grounds, and the High Queen is indeed still there, testing the mettle of the templars and a few resilient mages. She spots them approaching and quickly dismisses her students.

“Laurel,” she says warmly, “Quintus. Did Father send you?”

“Yes, Majesty,” says Quintus, who salutes her while Laurel merely bows. “He sent a missive and accumulated reports. I’m afraid your legions need you if the campaigns are to progress.”

She nods. “It does our legionnaires credit that we were able to stay so long. Very well, give the documents to me and I will find Caius.”

Hawke clears his throat to draw her attention as Quintus hands over a heavy-looking bag. “You’re leaving?”

“Certainly not until the Breach has been closed,” she assures him. “After, however, Caius and I need to return to the field. I suspect Hilde will also take the opportunity to return for a day or so to attend her own matters.”

“It will be a good time for everyone to rest,” Garrett agrees with a nod. “If you need to leave so soon, then I will call another war table meeting for today. Lora needs to give us more detail about what she saw when she met the Elder One, and I would like your help understanding what she says.”

Fera chuckles. “We will endeavor to translate well. Cole!”

Hawke jolts when a slender figure seems to suddenly appear next to the High Queen.

“Sharp, sated, searching, she always remembers me,” he says. He peeks out from under the brim of his hat. “Hello.”

“Hello, Cole.” Garrett puts a hand to his head. “I’d… forgotten you came to Haven.”

“Yes. I’m helping the helper and the helper’s mother. Bruises and blisters mean breath later when the fight is frantic and there’s no time to help. It’s easier if everyone forgets, but she never forgets.”

Fera pats the top of his head. “I am protected by my daughter’s magic, little one. Now come, tell me where my beloved is.”

Hawke glances at his newest visitors. They don’t seem perturbed at all, and Laurel has a soft, pleased smile on her face as she looks at Cole.

“He’s thinking, whirling, delighted by all the ideas they offer, Tevinter and Enchantress, especially when they’re at odds. He wants to know everything, because understanding might save everyone.” A pause, then, awed: “He doesn’t forget either.”

“With the mages, then.” Fera puts the bag’s strap over her shoulder. “Come along, Cole. Laurel, Quintus, I’m certain Lora would be delighted to play with you. Please bring her to the war table at…” She arches a brow at Hawke.

“Sunset,” he decides. That’s more than enough time. “I’ll see you all then.”

The next meeting is a large one: not only are Hawke and his advisors present, but the High King and Queen, both new visitors, Madame Hilde, Lora, Solas, Dorian, a newly-healed Felix in his father’s stead, and Cole. Lora beams at them from where she sits on Quintus’s shoulders. Her first announcement to the group is about how good ’Quin’ is at playing with her and not getting in trouble with someone named ‘Septimus.’

”I am good at playing,” he agrees, bouncing in place to make her laugh and hold tighter to his curly hair. “Let’s play a new game that will help Lord Hawke. You be the reporting scout and he’ll be the Tribune. You have to make sure he understands all the details even if he’s not good at Sight.”

”Okay! I can do a good job as a scout, I see all kinds of things!”

Hawke blinks and wonders why no one thought to try this before. Then again, maybe it only works with a seasoned playmate like Quintus. “Alright, scout,” Garrett says, playing along, “what did you see when you infiltrated the Elder One’s, er, capture of Divine Justinia?”

Lora’s little face goes overly serious, like she’s trying to imitate a gruff and seasoned veteran. “Sir!” she barks, offering a strange salute with one hand. “I was scouting a cool shiny new place and I saw Grandma ’Nia being held up by magic! She—“

Quintus jostles her leg and stage whispers, “Psst! Scout! Use more words for magic, like the professors do! Maybe the Tribune will get it if you tell him what other things the magic looked like.”

”Oh!” She frowns. “Okay! The place was… old with lots of big old magic. And the shiny was… icky wrong magic, like Felix had in him.”

Off to the side, Felix goes stiff in alarm. So does nearly everyone else.

”Grandma ‘Nia was being held up by normal magic like Chuckles and Waffles do—I mean like Support Sorcerer Solas and the Tribune do. But it was being cast by people with lots of icky wrong magic inside them, and they were all connected to the biggest icky wrong magic person. That was the old guy.” She makes a face.

“The Elder One. What did he look like?” Leliana asks.

”Ummm… really tall. And his face and chest were melty and he had icky red crystals in his skin. His fingers were real long and sharp too, and he had a kilt like Uncle Brutus but it was long, and he had feathers on his pauldrons! He looked like a weird bird man.”

Hawke feels a chill go down his spine. No, he thinks, it can’t be. We killed him.

“Excellent report, scout,” he says instead of anything he’s thinking. “What did the Elder One’s helpers look like?” They already know they were Gray Wardens, but Lora might give additional helpful details this way.

”They had shiny armor and it was blue and silver and they had cool wings for insignias! And they had real big connections to the Elder One, like big twisty strings made out of the Strings.”

Caius abruptly stops writing in his notebook. “Little Star,” he interrupts, “do you remember when you snuck out of the inner palace and accidentally saw Septimus taking some people to the Room of Illusions, and Grandpa got very upset?”

”Yeah,” says Lora, frowning. “I’m sorry.”

”It’s alright. Did the soldiers in blue and silver look like those people you saw?”

”Umm…” She tilts her head up to the ceiling in thought. “Yes! But the Strings tasted a lot ickier, and they were way more jagged.”

Every adult in the room is looking at Caius, but he looks only at Garrett. “They were likely under stringent mental bonds, then,” he translates.

If the Elder One is who Hawke is starting to think he is… then yes. Yes, they very much were, and every Gray Warden in Thedas is in danger. He takes a deep breath. “Very good, scout. That information is going to be vital. What can you tell me about the orb the Elder One had?”

Lora’s little head tilts curiously. “Orb?”

”Remember, you told us about a shiny magic ball? That was an orb.”

”Oh!” She beams, cheerful again. “Yes! It was really really bright and shiny with lots of magic in it, and the old guy was using it to do something really complicated but it was going to hurt Grandma ‘Nia so I stepped in but then she hit it away from him and when I went to pick it up it tangled up in my Strings and everything went BOOM! Then we were in the Fade and the spiders who aren’t actually spiders tried to eat us. I told them to stop and then we left.”

”Good job, Sunshine,” Hawke manages, massaging his brows.

Solas interjects, voice soft and calm. “Did you see where the orb went when you dropped it, da’len? We want to find it before the Elder One does.”

Lora gives him an offended look. “I didn’t drop it!”

Everyone in the room pauses.

Quintus bounces her again, still smiling like it’s just a fun game. “No? You kept hold of it?”

”’Course,” she says, bent over his head to look him in the eye. “I’m not a baby.”

”Did you put it down in the Fade?” Solas asks urgently.

The offended look returns. “No!”

Quintus’s smile doesn’t waver at all. “Where’d you put it, then?”

She reaches into her illogically roomy hip satchel and promptly produces a patterned gray orb the size of her head. “Right here!”

She might as well have sucked all the air from the room for the effect her reveal has. Garrett feels vaguely like he’s going to pass out and imagines that this is how he would have felt if Isabella had revealed the Tome of Koslun had been stashed between her breasts the entire time he’d known her. A quick glance at his resident elven artifact expert’s wide eyes tells him that Solas likely feels the same.

Then Caius bursts into a laugh that’s so loud it immediately gets strangled into a wheeze. He braces a hand on the table and shakes silently. Fera merely sighs. “Oh my little magpie,” she says fondly, “never change.”

”Perhaps we should have thought to ask much earlier,” says Leliana, chagrined. Her eyes are turned upward as if in prayer.

”Well,” Solas manages to choke out as Lora becomes bored of all the staring and tries to perfectly balance the orb on Quintus’s head. The guard gamely plays along, tilting this way and that to keep it from falling. “That will make closing the Breach much, much easier.”

And indeed, it does. The artifact is a focus that meshes perfectly with the anchor on Lora’s arm. They march out that very night with a mere handful of templars and mages⁠—just enough to suppress the Breach slightly and feed Lora a bit of extra power. Quintus does an excellent job of keeping the little one’s attention away from the multitudinous markers of death left in the Temple of Sacred Ashes as they make their way to its heart.

Focus in hand, eyes closed, Lora raises her face to the heavens and scrunches up her little nose as she concentrates. Solas kneels at her side, coaching her through the process of using the orb to amplify her ability. Her parents stand at her back. Hawke adds his own mana to the pool the mages are passing to Lora.

“I got it!” she shouts gleefully, and just like that the Breach is closed. “I told you I could fix anything once I learned how!”

The ensuing celebration in Haven is jubilant. Amidst the cacophony, Lora’s parents kiss her goodbye and take their leave, along with Madame Hilde and her daughter and son-in-law.

“I will return within two days,” Madame Hilde says, tucking a list of supplies into the pocket of her dress. “I trust you have Her Highness well in hand until then?”

“Of course,” says Hawke. “It will take some time before we make our next move. In the meantime Solas will be working on a way to place the mark back into the orb, and I will be waiting on scout reports about the Elder One’s location.”

Satisfied, Hilde bows briefly to him and departs. Hawke smiles when he spots Lora sitting on Bull’s shoulders, trying in vain to convince him that she can have some of the ‘grown-up drinks’ too, and joins the celebration himself.

Not a half-bad day’s work, if he says so himself.

Solas approaches him the next evening at the blacksmithy, a furrow between his brows. “Inquisitor,” he says, “have you seen Lora?”

She often disappears, but for some reason Garrett feels his stomach lurch this time. “No,” he says slowly. “I haven’t. I thought she was with you.”

“She was… until she was not. I can find neither her nor the focus, and I have looked all around Haven. Even Cole cannot find her.”

“Oh,” says Hawke, slowly returning his staff to his back and reaching for his coat. “That’s not good.”

Which is, of course, the exact moment the archdemon shows up.

Chapter Text

Hawke yanks Solas into shelter by the forge as fire rains down over the encampments⁠—or maybe Solas yanks him⁠. It’s sort of unclear. The screaming starts a split second later.

“Call Lora now!” Hawke shouts over the noise.

“Do you not think I have tried?” Solas snaps back. “She is not answering!”

“I dearly hope that has nothing to do with a fucking archdemon showing up!” Hawke also snaps because sue him, he’s stressed. Everything was going shockingly well until five seconds ago.

He should have seen this coming, really. Ended a war? Closed a world-threatening tear in the Veil? Of course the logical next step is “spontaneous aboveground archdemon attack.”

“Curb your language!” is what Solas chooses to say, holding Hawke’s arm tighter and shielding him from bits of flying debris.

“I will when someone finds Lora! I’m going to join Cullen, you get her back here no matter what!”

The break from cover together, running as fast as they can in opposite directions. Haven’s alarm bell finally begins to ring, which seems a little late in Hawke’s estimation, but he’ll take what he can get. As he runs he glances out over the lake and feels his stomach lurch violently: the speckled lights of enemy torches are rushing down the hills toward Haven.

He finds Cullen sprinting from the gates toward the parade grounds. “Forces approaching! To arms!” he bellows at everyone running around in a panic.

“Cullen!” Hawke shouts to get his attention, then nearly slams into the man when his boots slip on a patch of ice. “Why is there an archdemon! How many darkspawn approaching?”

The Commander catches his arm to steady him. “Inquisitor! We only had one watch guard report in. It’s not darkspawn, but it is a large force with the bulk still over the mountains. He didn’t see the archdemon until we all did!”

That doesn’t make any sense. If it’s an archdemon, why wouldn’t it be darkspawn? “What? Forces under whose banner?”

“No one’s.”

Somehow that seems more ominous than just facing a shit ton of darkspawn.

“The Elder One is very angry,” says Cole, his sudden appearance making both Hawke and Cullen jolt. He points up at the mountains. “There.”

Inquisition forces are engaging the archdemon as best they can, but it’s still ripping through their infrastructure. Luckily it doesn’t seem interested in the gates yet, or they would have a lot less time to strategize. “He must have been headed this way before we closed the Breach,” Hawke says tightly, mind racing. “Do you think⁠—does he think we stole the orb?”

“‘We’ did,” says Cullen, and Garrett is forced to concede the point.

“You stole his mages and his templars and his artifact and the child,” Cole says. “He wants you dead, but he wants everything back first. Should I still find her?”

“Yes.” Hawke takes Cole by the shoulders to really emphasize the point. Not only is Lora a powerhouse on her own, but the orb is an amplifier. Potentially, any one of their mages could use it to turn the tide of battle. “Cole, you have to find her as fast as you can. I don’t think anyone is going to survive unless you do.”

“...I can’t feel her, but I’ll find her. Bright and bold, shining like the sun, green and gold and diamond white, she wants to share everything. She likes me. And she’s very hard to miss.” He vanishes.

There’s no time to breathe. “We need to get everyone into the chantry,” says Cullen. “That beast destroyed our trebuchets, but we can make them fight through a bottleneck to get there and it’s the only building that might hold up against a direct assault.”

“Do it,” Hawke commands. “I’ll start from the encampments and work backward. And if you see Lora, send her to me.”

“Maker be with you,” says Cullen.

The vanguard of the Elder One is composed of red lyrium-corrupted templars and Venatori mages. Hawke gathers up contingents of his own templars, mages, and soldiers to meet them. Hurried directions to his personal companions ensures that all the noncombatants are ushered toward the chantry. Slowly, Hawke and his haphazard battalions move back. It’s not the smoothest retreat, but it is an effective one.

Unfortunately, Garrett has the sinking feeling that he’s only succeeding because someone is letting him.

An ugly, fiery orange color lights up the night sky as buildings and tents go up in flames behind them. Hawke pants for breath, sweat dripping down his face as Inquisition soldiers close and bar the gates. It won’t last long; all it will take is one strike from that archdemon to knock the gates down. Hell, the thing could just take out an entire span of wall and create an opening that way.

Hawke watches the archdemon do exactly that a few seconds later and curses himself for giving them the idea.

“Into the chantry! Go!” he bellows, downing a lyrium potion in one quick, practiced draught. Contingents of his strongest soldiers stay, arranging themselves in a way that won’t let the archdemon take them out in a few consecutive sweeps. Every single available archer and competent mage is out with him. “Don’t let them through!”

Everyone is trapped inside the building now, even if they’re safe for the moment. Hawke bursts into the chantry, weaving through the panicked throngs until he finds Cullen. “What options do we have?” he demands of his commander.

“Haven isn’t a fortress,” says Cullen. “Without Lora doing something unexpected, all we can do is make them hurt before we die. Inquisitor⁠…” He looks uncommonly serious, even for himself. “We’re out of options and we don’t have what the Elder One wants in the first place.”

“Not out of options,” Chancellor Roderick interjects, limping up to them. He holds his side, white chantry robe stained bright red. “I know of a way, one that I walked only by whim years ago. The summer pilgrimage will see these people to safety. It must be the Maker’s will that I survived to tell you when so many others did not.”

Hawke and Cullen exchange a glance. “It only works if we prevent them from following us,” Cullen says.

“I’ll find a way,” Garrett promises grimly. His blood-slick grip tightens on his staff. This time, I’ll make sure Corypheus stays dead. “I can at least buy time. Chancellor, get everyone out. Cullen, do whatever you can to help find Lora. She and that damned orb are our best bet.”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” says Roderick, echoed by Cullen.

Hawke squares his shoulders and faces the chantry doors. Cullen stops him with a hand on the arm. “Wait.” He hesitates for a moment. “Garrett… if anyone can turn this around, it’s you,” he says with quiet but complete sincerity. “And if you can’t, then I’ll make sure people remember more about you than just Varric’s novels.”

It takes him by surprise. Hawke and Cullen’s relationship is, has always been, built on ambivalence and grudging acknowledgement of each other’s skills⁠—allyship at best, certainly not friendship. Hawke has no idea when that shifted, but Cullen’s sincerity makes his chest squeeze with genuine emotion.

He briefly claps Cullen’s arm in turn. “...make sure they remember everything you did, too.”

Then he turns and strides back onto the battlefield of Haven.

He calls his companions to his side and fights with everything he has, hoping to buy just enough time for someone to find Lora and the orb. Even if Lora doesn’t have the skill to use the orb to its full potential, one of them can: Hawke or Dorian or Solas or Vivienne or Fiona, even. The Maker only knows what large-scale spells Lora has up her sleeve all on her own in the event of a true emergency. They just need time.

But as he watches Gray Wardens appear out of the smoke-filled darkness, he thinks that’s time they’re just not going to get.

Hawke wants to say “incapacitate them if you can,” because he knows that it’s unlikely they’re acting of their own volition. He doesn’t say it, though. They can’t afford the extra effort that mercy takes. As it stands the Inquisition is losing, forced back until they’re almost literally pinned against the chantry walls. Only then does Corypheus glide out from the fire himself. The archdemon lands atop the chantry and snarls down at them, silenced only by a wave of its master’s hand.

“Enough,” says Corypheus. With an equally negligent gesture, he yanks Hawke to him and lifts him by the neck guard. Garrett claws at his arm, kicking in vain as the darkspawn magister fixes a hateful glare on him.

“Garrett Hawke,” he says, far less confused than the last time they spoke. “Once, you had my gratitude for freeing me, but no longer. You toy with forces beyond your ken. Yield to me my Focus and the cursed little pest who stole my Anchor!”

“How are you alive?” Hawke deflects, although it is also a very real question he wants answered. “We killed you!”

The ancient magister shakes him like a dog. “I am not a mortal being that can be killed,” he hisses. “I am the Elder One, the exalted will that is Corypheus, and your petty interference tries my patience. Yield to me the Pretender, the so-called Holy Child. Now! Or I will inflict upon you torment the likes of which you can scarcely imagine.”

Hawke is going to die. He knows it. He’s out of time. Still, even if he dies, that doesn’t mean the blighted darkspawn magister is going to win. And if he’s going to die, it’s his civic duty to make sure the monster knows that. “Her name is Ameliora Octavia Perdel, heir to a vast empire beyond your ken,” he says, “and whenever she finds you… you’re going to regret it.”

And then, as if by the hand of Andraste herself, Hawke hears a little voice from down near Corypheus’s knees. “Hello!”

Everyone on the battlefield pauses. Even Corypheus seems surprised when he looks down to find the same tiny little girl he was looking for standing just a handbreadth from him, beaming up at them. For some reason she has an enormous book nearly the size of her entire torso in her arms. Her beaming smile quickly turns to a thunderous frown. “Hey! Are you being mean to Waffles?”

In response, Corypheus throws Garrett into the chantry wall. His ears ring and his sight blacks out for a moment. When he comes to, Blackwall is helping him up, Corypheus is a towering figure encased in solid ice, and the archdemon is screeching as it prepares to attack.

“Waffles!” Lora cries, suddenly beside him. There are tears in her eyes. “Are you okay?” The archdemon stops screaming as it freezes too.

“Yes,” he lies, tasting blood on his lips. “Right ssss rain, Sunshine. Heyyyyyy… where were you? Jus’ out of curiosity.”

Hmm. He might be concussed.

“Chuckles and I took a nap and he showed me Wizzy and then I went to visit Wizzy and she showed me Chuckles’s books! They were in the Fade. But I found this neat book that’s about the icky stuff Felix had in him! I think now I could fix him really fast if I wanted. Sorry I didn’t hear anyone calling for a long long time.”

“’s alright,” says Hawke, reeling from her declaration. In the Fade? What? “Sayyyyy, d’you think you could take th’ icky Blight outta that dragon up there? Reeeeeeally fast?”

Yeah. Definitely concussed.

“Um.” She looks up. Blackwall gets Garrett’s arm over his shoulders, preventing him from falling on his face. “Yes!”

The sound of ominously cracking ice fills the air. Lora disappears, replaced by her little dragon form, and zips through the air up to the frozen-solid archdemon. Hawke watches in concussed horror as Corypheus begins to break free from the brute-force ice prison Lora slammed him into. 

Cole appears and forces a healing potion into Hawke’s hand. “Drink, quickly,” he says, and is gone. Considering the darkspawn magister is breaking free to try and kill them all again, Hawke drinks.

“BOOP!” he hears Lora shout up on the chantry roof. When he spares a glance up, he sees her sitting on the archdemon’s snout. “No more icky void for you, mister dragon!”

Corypheus shatters his ice prison and emerges in fury.

Light as bright as the sun, centered right on Lora and the archdemon, bursts forth to fill Haven.

Hawke, along with everyone else, blinks the spots from his eyes and looks up again. The archdemon is gone, leaving a high dragon shaking off ice shards in its place. Corypheus lowers his hand from where he was shielding his face just like everyone else. “What⁠ is—” he starts, but even he is at a loss.

“Mwah!” says Lora, bonking her tiny dragon head against the un-blighted high dragon’s forehead. “Be nice now, please!” she requests, and then flies down to perch on Solas’s shoulder, looking very pleased with herself.

“You dare⁠—” Corypheus tries again, but his threat is cut off by the sound of a very, very angry high dragon⁠—a dragon whose eyes are fixed firmly upon the man who, presumably, blighted it in the first place.

Even Corypheus seems to realize the degree of danger he’s in.

“Lora,” Hawke whispers urgently. His sudden lack of concussion is key to realizing that there’s more she can do to help. “Lora, do you see all the people in blue and silver armor? Get the icky darkness out of them too!”

“Okay!” says Lora, leaping down from her perch and scampering toward the first stunned Gray Warden mage.

Corypheus doesn’t run when the dragon lunges for him. Instead, he’s stupid enough to try and fight it, which ends badly. And quickly. Within two minutes, there’s not much of the darkspawn magister left. The surviving Gray Wardens jump in to help, likely at his command, but as soon as Lora tags them with her creepy little nug hand and yells “BOOP!” they collapse to the ground

The searing light doesn’t return, but Lora is glowing like a tiny lantern. Hawke supposes that an archdemon must have taken significantly more magic to cure than a Warden. She keeps running and disappears toward the gates when all the Wardens in sight have been tagged, presumably sensing the presence of others.

“Cole, follow her!” Hawke shouts in a random direction, since he doesn’t actually know where the enigmatic spirit kid disappeared to. He hopes someone manages to stay on her trail, or she might not come back until every Gray Warden in Thedas is immunized against the Calling.

In the meantime, Garrett eyes the high dragon that’s still stomping on Corypheus’s remains, rendering them more and more unrecognizable as humanoid. A few particularly stupid Venatori and the remaining dregs of the corrupted templars attack it and are easily dispatched. The Inquisition forces, wisely, refrain from firing toward the dragon to help.

When no one else comes at it with sharp pointy objects and vengeful intent, the dragon swings its head around and looks directly at Hawke.

Blackwall and Solas and… well, everyone else, go stiff beside him. “Ah,” says Garrett, “nice… dragon?”

The beast seems to consider, exhaling steam-hot breath over them. Then, it raises its wings and takes off, disappearing into the night.

“Aw,” says Iron Bull, disappointedly lowering his axe.

If Hawke is honest, he feels like he’s ready to pass out for a week or two. Instead, he leans against the brick wall of the chantry behind him. “Inquisition!” he says in a loud voice. “Secure Haven! And someone go call all the noncombatants back. It looks like we won’t be running after all.”

Chapter Text

“So,” says Hawke to Solas in the war room the following day. When Cole had eventually returned with Lora passed out in his arms near to midnight, everyone had agreed that interrogations—er, explanations, could wait until later. “Explain what happened. In detail.”

Solas sighs, glancing at where a re-energized Lora is sitting on Leliana’s lap and reading her enormous purloined book. “In order to help teach her how to use the focus, I sought the help of a very old and dear friend in the Fade—a spirit of wisdom, one I assure you has no interest at all in crossing over to the waking world.”

“That would be ‘Wizzy,’ then,” Cullen surmises, earning himself a mild glare.

“Yes,” says Solas like it pains him, “she has chosen to call my friend Wizzy. Varric’s continued influence, no doubt.”

“And you met this… spirit… by entering the Fade?” Josephine asks slowly and with distinct judgement.

“No! I introduced them in a dream. But Lora woke first, and I continued to speak with my friend at length before waking myself. It seems that in that time, Lora intuited how to use the anchor and the focus to physically enter the Fade and seek my friend out.”

Lora intuited how to open the Veil as easily as one opens a curtain. Not terrifying at all, Hawke thinks

“And how does your ‘book collection’ in the Fade factor in?” Leliana asks, watching Solas closely.

“It is not mine, precisely. I discovered it in dreams, and it was likely built by the ancient Elvhen. I know of several such places that meld dream and waking. It is difficult to know the true nature of any object in the Fade. That book could have been as real as the waking world before it was put there. Or it could be a collection of knowledge gathered in the Fade itself, made physical by the little one’s belief that it should be.” He spreads his hands. “Either way, it helped her understand the taint.”

“It is written in a language I cannot read and do not recognize,” says Leliana, peering down at the pages over Lora’s shoulder.

“Neither do I,” Solas agrees. “Though I have read that volume in dreams before. I suspect it is only interpretable within the Fade, unless you are Lora. Whatever magic lets each of us hear our mother tongue when she speaks also lets her understand our languages and the book.”

“Maybe you should have introduced her to the collection earlier,” Hawke suggests delicately, “if it talks about curing the blight.”

Solas shoots him an annoyed look. “It emphatically does not talk about cures, Inquisitor. It is actually a rather obtuse and meandering compilation of theories on how the blight came to be and how it affects living things. Lora simply applied her own novel way of thinking to the contents.”

“Which is to say she’s mad enough to string some new ideas together, combine it with her own magic, and believe in herself hard enough that it works?”

“Yes.”

“Huh. Well… let her read the rest of the books, then. Maybe she’ll manage to end the Blight entirely. Bring about world peace. Might as well restore elven immortality while she’s at it.”

Solas sighs, ignoring Hawke’s dramtics. “I will introduce her to a few new volumes at a time. Now, if you are done lambasting me for not predicting an unpredictable being, I have a suggestion.”

Hawke exchanges glances with his advisors. “Which is?” says Josie.

“We must move from Haven before the masses descend upon ‘Andraste’s Child.’”

“Ah,” says Hawke, who’s been a bit too preoccupied to think that far ahead. “Right. She can cure fatal taint. And multiple people saw her do it. And already think she’s blessed by Andraste.”

Solas nods. “Precisely. I also doubt the Elder One stayed dead, despite the dragon’s excellent work dispatching him. We should assume another assault is inevitable and relocate to somewhere with better fortifications.”

Failure number two on Hawke’s part—well, no, they’re well above ‘two’ by now. Still, he really had tried to kill Corypheus. If he’d been slightly less concussed maybe he would have thought to ask Lora to un-ick him. Or turn him into a flower. Surely even Corpypheus couldn’t do harm as a flower.

Cullen eyes Solas with an unusually shrewd expression while Garrett ponders his options. “You have a location in mind, don’t you?”

“I visited many places in my travels, in and out of the Fade, Commander. There is a fortress, abandoned at the moment but built upon ancient magic that protects it from evil. The spirits call it Skyhold, and it is well-suited to protecting Lora and the focus, even from an evil such as Corypheus.”

For the first time since they started the meeting, Lora looks up from her book. “Wizzy told me about it!” she enthuses. “The place where the sky is held up! I think we should go there so that I can live in two cool houses up in the sky.”

Hawke allows himself to be distracted for a moment. “Two?”

“Yeah,” she says, attention already drifting back down to her book. “My house is really cool and floats up in the sky and has lots of big crystals doing math to keep it there.”

Solas coughs. “Skyhold is… less dramatic.”

“What a shame,” says Cassandra dryly. “A floating crystal palace would have been quite useful.”

“Right.” Garrett scrubs a hand across his face. “Well, I see no problem with relocating. At least then Marquis DuRellion will stop sending those blasted letters to Justinia.”

“Indeed,” says Josephine. “He will have no more grounds to demand involvement. Very well, Inquisitor, we will see to preparations.”

“I will send my scouts to secure our path,” says Leliana. She stands, taking Lora with her. “Solas, with me. You will have to provide guidance.”

“Of course,” Solas agrees, and departs with her.

Hawke realizes that Cassandra is staring at him intently. He tries to think of the reasons she would be looking at him like that and comes up blank. “Alright, Seeker,” he says with an appropriate amount of resignation, “what have I missed?”

“You must go to Val Royeaux immediately,” she suggests in a way that’s really more of a command. “Before we move the Inquisition’s forces. Leliana has already sent word to Most Holy about what happened last night. I recommend you meet with her as soon as possible and inform her of our plans.”

Hawke grimaces. “...fine,” he says. “But you’re coming with me. Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine can handle logistics here.”

She inclines her head in assent. “We must also take someone Lora cured, for a firsthand accounting. I am uncertain how much I trust the Wardens we rescued, given their secrecy and… mixed reactions.”

Mixed is the kindest word she could have chosen. All of the Wardens who had been on the receiving end of a Lora-boop had been put into confinement in the chantry holding cells, but the only uniformity to their reactions upon waking was disbelief. A handful were utterly furious, though they cited Warden secrets as to why they couldn’t explain the reason for their fury. A different handful were overjoyed, had renounced the Wardens, and had pledged themselves to the Holy Child. The two factions had been separated into different cells after fighting over it. Most were just dazed by the change and in shock at what they had done while under Corypheus’s influence.

Hawke agrees with Cassandra⁠—none are trustworthy enough to take to Val Royeaux.

“Then we don’t take a Warden,” he says. “We take Felix Alexius.”

Cassandra nods slowly. “Yes… that is wise. He consulted with Madame Hilde directly about the process of a cure. His insight will be most convincing.”

Hawke nods in return, thinking about Madame Hilde and how soon she will be back to check on her charge. He imagines that she’ll be quite surprised to find Haven so battered. Perhaps she will also be greatly displeased by the magnitude of the threat Lora faced directly. Or, more likely, the fact that they lost track of Her Highness for a substantial period of time.

“You’re right. We should set out immediately,” he says for no particular reason. “Cullen, you’re in charge of updating whichever parts of Lora’s entourage return while we’re gone.”

He sweeps out of the room before Cullen can even finish saying “Wait, what?”

Lora bounces up to the bars of the dungeon cell her new friends are being kept in. One of Nightingale's people stops her from getting too close, first with a hand on the shoulder and then by picking her up. When Lora pouts, the elf⁠—Poppy, her favorite, she came up with the nickname herself⁠!—hops in place to make her laugh. The pout slides away.

“Hello, sweetling,” one of the new friends coos, leaning against the bars. None of them are wearing their shiny armor anymore, but they are wearing blue. “Have you come to keep us company?”

“Yes!” says Lora, wrapping her legs around Poppy and settling in comfortably. “I was reading the big book that I found when Wizzy took me to Chuckles’s library⁠—well one of them, he has lots!  And the big book said that it really hurts when the icky stuff gets in you so I went to Wizzy and asked her why people would do stuff that hurts on purpose because the mean Wardens yelled at me for taking it away even though the book says it hurts really bad, and Wizzy said that people do stuff like that all the time if they have a good enough cause and then she took me to a place where I could see people drinking the icky stuff on purpose to maybe understand⁠—except she covered my eyes for some of the parts so I think people died. And then⁠—”

Some of the friend Wardens gasp a little bit. “Da’len,” says one, another elf whose name Lora hasn’t remembered yet⁠—she’ll have to come up with a nickname for him⁠—as he shoves to the front. It’s really crowded in there. She doesn’t know how they don’t get sick of sharing. She has a lot more space and sometimes she gets sick of sharing⁠—

Oh, he’s still talking. Lora blinks and replays what he asked in her brain. Professor Strife says that’s what happens when she remembers what someone said even when she wasn’t listening. “Do you mean to say you watched a Joining?” Is what he asked.

“What’s a Joining? That sounds like a party,” she ponders, tilting her head from side to side.

“It’s⁠—” The new friend elf stops awkwardly, looking at Poppy, she thinks. “Well… it’s the, uh, special secret way someone becomes a Gray Warden. The, uh, Joining probably made us look… ‘icky’ to your blessed eyes.”

“Oh.” She blinks her blessed eyes and giggles a little bit at how he said it. Her eyes are blessed! Only true heirs to the Empire get her eyes, because the Thirteen have to give them on purpose. Maybe they’re also blessed because she can See real good. She changes her senses over to seeing and tasting and smelling and feeling and hearing the Strings just to make sure and yep! Her new friends still don’t have any ick in them.

“I guess so!” she says with a wise head nod. “Wizzy didn’t tell me what it was called. But she said you did it sometimes because you were selfish and sometimes because you had no choice and sometimes because you wanted to help, which seems like a lot of different reasons to me, but I think it was probably really dumb to help the ugly old guy no matter what, so why’d you do it if it hurt and it didn’t help you or anyone else? I’m gonna add it to the book so other people can know too! It’s important.”

One of them, a very tall human man with a lot of scars that reminds her of her Auntie Softly, gets to the front without any pushing at all. It’s cool to watch. Auntie Softly could totally do that too. “You’re right, little one,” he says softly. Hehe, word joke! “People join the Wardens for all kinds of reasons. But none of us wanted to serve the Elder One. He used… some of our abilities against us, until we didn’t know what we were doing. He controlled our thoughts and actions. That’s why we are so happy you saved us.”

“Oh.” Lora thinks about it, lips pressed together and legs swinging. “Why didn’t you tell him ‘No! Stop it, that’s mean! Go away!’”

A few of the Wardens laugh. Some of them sigh.

“Ah, sweetling,” says the first friend Warden, and she says ‘sweetie’ or ‘sweetness’ or ‘sweetling’ so often that Lora decides she must have owned a bakery at some point. Her nickname should be Cookie! Anyway, Cookie continues: “It doesn’t work that way for those of us untouched by Andraste’s blessing. If he tries that on you, though, tell him to go away as loud as you can, alright? And freeze him again like Madame de Fer taught you.”

Lora considers. “I can be really loud,” she offers eventually. “So loud that Granda says ‘go practice around the Senators instead of your poor grandfather!’ but then the Senators only let me practice for a little bit before they all say they have headaches and stop trying to talk to me between yelling! That loud.”

“Good,” say a lot of her new friends, and even some of the ones who are mad at her. She giggles and swings her legs harder, until Poppy has to put her down.

“Okay!” she declares, planting her fists on her hips and standing as tall and strong as she can when she’s only a big girl and not a big woman yet. “If I see him again I’ll yell real loud! And I’ll find all of your friends and make sure he’s not hurting them either! And ummm⁠—oh right, and I’ll go add to the book that you only had the dark icky void stuff in you because of lots of reasons but one of them definitely wasn’t helping the mean old guy! Okay, bye-bye!”

Leli’s people and all of the friendly Wardens and most of the neutral ones and even some of the ones who are mad at her say goodbye as she charges back up the stairs to where she left the book on Minaeve’s desk. Maybe she’s winning them over with her charm! She can’t wait to tell Wizzy about everything⁠—after all, asking questions and recording the answers so other people can learn is very wise.

Chapter Text

Divine Justinia greets them in one of her personal rooms in the Val Royeaux chantry. It’s small but well-appointed. Hawke imagines that this is where she might meet with Empress Celene. The fact that he’s here is… well. Sometimes it makes his head spin how far he’s come up in the world. 

“Cassandra,” Justinia says first, warmly embracing her Right Hand. “I am glad you are well.”

“Thank you, Most Holy,” says Cassandra. “It is only by the grace of the Maker.”

Justinia looks at Hawke next. Her attention never fails to make him feel like some kind of misbehaving school boy, but he manfully resists the urge to squirm in place. “Lord Inquisitor Hawke,” she says with a subtle touch of humor, always amused at his discomfort with the title. It is that discomfort, she insists, that makes him the perfect man for such a role. “I received my Left Hand’s report, and thank the Maker that you led the Inquisition so skillfully through an unexpected assault. I am also glad to see you have recovered well.”

“Thank you,” says Garrett, bowing, “but I can hardly take all of the credit. I’m proud of how well the Inquisition’s soldiers fought, and how well the mages and templars worked together despite everything. May I introduce Felix Alexius? He aided us at Redcliffe and Haven.”

“Well met, Felix Alexius,” she says. “Thank you for aiding the little one. She saved my life, as well as many others.”

Felix bows to her respectfully, a little nervous. “Yes,” he says, “I’m one of the ones she saved. That’s why Lord Hawke brought me to meet you today. Andraste’s Child saved me from certain death at the hands of the blight.”

Justinia hums thoughtfully and sets aside the report in her hands. “Leliana tells me you are one of the few who knows the full story of little Ameliora’s arrival. Do you believe she was sent by the Maker?”

“Yes,” says Felix immediately. “I do. The moment of her arrival changed the course of history and saved countless lives. I believe the Maker welcomed her wandering feet and guided her to where she was most needed.”

Justinia chuckles. “Well said. Come, sit, and tell me your story.”

By the time Felix finishes talking, Hawke has gone through three cups of absurdly-expensive Orlesian tea and is dreading the inevitable next question from the Divine.

“I see. This is… wonderful. If it can be replicated, it is perhaps the greatest blessing we have ever received. Inquisitor⁠—” Justinia sets down her cup and turns to him. “Can you call the little one, please? I would like to see if she can repeat her miracle.”

Garrett sighs. “I can. But please, remember who you’re dealing with. She’s seven. And unpredictable.”

“I could hardly forget.”

He closes his eyes and replicates Solas’s calling spell. He’s certainly not as good at it as the elven apostate, and Lora has favorites that she’ll respond to quicker than others, but it is possible for any mage to call her this way. Fortunately for him, he ranks among her favorites most of the time.

“Here I am!” says Lora, appearing at Hawke’s side and throwing her arms up excitedly. Her entire lower half is covered in drying mud. “Hi Waffles!”

He pats her head. “Hello, Sunshine. Thank you for answering.”

“You’re welcome!” She spins, gasping when she spots Justinia. “Grandma Nia!” she squeals, and throws herself into the older woman’s arms. It can’t be comfortable given all the metal ornamentation on Justinia’s vestments, but Lora doesn’t seem bothered.

“Hello, sweet girl,” says the Divine, hugging her back and not reacting at all to the mud getting on her clothing. “Do you think you can help me with something?”

“Yes! I’m very helpful. I help all the time!”

“You do! This is something only you can do.” Justinia lifts Lora fully into her lap and then points at Felix. “Do you remember healing him?”

“Hi Seeker! Hi Bookie!” says Lora to Cassandra and Felix respectively before arching her head back to look at Justinia upside-down. “Do you mean the icky stuff that was making him sick? It wasn’t like the icky stuff in the Wardens. Not all the way.”

Justinia nods. “That’s right. I have some friends who need your help, because they are sick like Felix was. Could you heal them too?”

Lora beams. “Yes! I read a book and now I can do it really fast! I think.”

“That’s wonderful, little one. Cassandra, please let them in.”

A trembling pregnant woman and a young child enter, supported by two chantry mothers. Hawke winces at the gray lines around both of their eyes, evidence of the taint slowly creeping through their veins. “Please, oh Maker,” says the woman, falling to her knees in front of Lora and the Divine. “Blessed Andraste, please…”

“It’s okay,” says Lora, quieted by the intensity of the despair before her. She slides to the ground and takes the woman’s hands. “I’ll fix it, I promise.” She closes her eyes. The woman suppresses a sob.

A gentle golden glow, faint as the shimmer of heat over stone, radiates from Lora’s skin for just a moment.

“Maker!” says the woman. The gray is gone from her skin. “Blessed Maker!” Tears pour down her face. She presses desperate hands to the swell of her stomach. “Please! Oh Child of Andraste, heal my daughter too!”

“It’s okay,” says Lora, taking the little girl’s hands next. “See, I’m fixing it! Don’t cry.”

The little girl, as soon as she feels herself healed from the taint, promptly bursts into wailing tears too. Lora lets go of her and turns a nearly-comical look of desperation on Hawke.

“Waffles!” she cries, “help!”

Hawke very tactfully does not laugh and point out that Lora is experiencing a taste of the bewilderment she regularly inflicts on everyone else. Instead, he stands up and pulls her away from all the crying. “It’s alright, Sunshine,” he says, picking her up before she gets a harebrained idea about what might ‘fix’ things and goes running off. The chantry mothers (who eye Lora with unsubtle awe) gently lead the woman and her daughter back out of the room. “Those are good tears. They’re just relieved.”

Lora sniffles, her own eyes a little shiny. “Really? Are you sure? I want to make people happy when I fix things.”

“They are very happy, little one,” says the Divine. “I imagine they will be sending you gifts of thanks later, once they have finished feeling relief. You fixed something very important and saved their lives.”

“Oh.” Lora ponders. Her smile returns after only a moment, like sun breaking through the clouds. “Okay!”

Garrett is very, very glad that their unstoppable powerhouse of a mage is so emotionally resilient. “Are you satisfied, Most Holy?” he asks.

“I am.” Justinia looks at him gravely. “But do you understand how this complicates things? I cannot demand one so young cure every desperate soul, but they will flock to you and to us nonetheless.”

“I don’t think you’ll need to demand. Lora enjoys this and finds it easy, don’t you, Sunshine?”

She beams, swinging her legs. “Yes! What are we talking about?”

“Fixing things.”

“Oh. Yes! Are there more things I can fix? I like being old enough to fix things. At home I’m not old enough yet but Mama and Papa promised me I’d fix everything when I grow up. That’s why I’m so important and eeeeeeveryone wants to steal me!”

Garrett blinks slowly and sets aside the more alarming implications of her words for later. “That’s wonderful, Lora. Most Holy, if you organize things so that she can come perhaps once or twice a week to cure those afflicted, I don’t think that will tax her too badly. Madame Hilde also mentioned that she could do something similar, if given time. I can ask if more healers with that skill can be sent.”

“Please do, Inquisitor. All of Fereldan will be grateful.”

Felix speaks up. “I beg your pardon,” he says, nervously licking his lips, “but may I ask a question of you?”

Justinia inclines her head. “You may.”

“I have been… listening closely to what the people say since I arrived in Redcliffe with my father, then Haven after, and Val Royeaux now. Mages⁠—ancient Magisters, to be precise⁠—have long been held as the cause of the Blight. Now, it seems that a mage will be the cure, at least for some people. Are you prepared to face the consequences of Andraste’s Child being a mage?”

A slight smile crosses the old woman’s face. “Is the Chantry prepared? Yes, I believe so. Magic is an enormous responsibility. It can be used well or poorly. It must never rule man, but neither must its mere presence be a justification to persecute the innocent. If Andraste’s Child, so blessed with magic, can change the hearts and minds of the people, then it will be most welcome indeed.”

That… is not what Hawke expected to hear. It doesn’t seem to be what Felix or even Cassandra expected either, based on their expressions. “You⁠—but… after Kirkwall and the rebellion, I thought⁠…”

“And your thoughts would have been right, until the Conclave. But now I have hope that mages may be given both the space and inspiration to serve man, rather than ruling them or turning to evil when they are desperate. Andraste’s Child will stand as an exemplar of magic used well… as will you, Inquisitor.”

Garrett opens his mouth and then shuts it. Lora, bored by the conversation, starts climbing him like a tree. He absently steadies her as she performs her usual maneuvers. “Me?”

“You. A mage will lead both mages and templars. All of Thedas will be watching to see what comes of it. Will either party be mistreated? Will you abuse your own power? Or will you stand fast in your convictions and save us all from ancient evil?”

Hawke feels an almost physical sensation of pressure on his shoulders at her words⁠—no wait, that’s just Lora standing on his pauldrons. Still, his stomach ties itself into queasy knots. “Oh,” he says weakly. “Well, when you put it that way…”

“No pressure, Inquisitor” Felix mutters into his tea cup.

Justinia stands and comes to him, patting his face with one weathered hand. “You will do well. Despite what you may think, you did well in Kirkwall. I would have intervened far earlier had it not been for your stabilizing presence.” She looks at Lora. “Now, little one, would you like to help a few more people? You will need a bath first, I think, but it will come with a lovely new dress.”

Lora hums in consideration. “Hmm… okay, I’ll trade a bath for helping people. Waffles, catch me!” She jumps from his shoulders. He catches her and sets her down so she can take Justinia’s hand. She immediately begins chattering about all of the cool books she’s been stealing from Solas’s Fade stash. Justinia nods along until the doors shut behind them.

Hawke stumbles back over to his chair and sits heavily. Felix pulls something out of his robes and hands it over. It’s a little silver flask, exactly like the one Madame Hilde carries. “Here,” he says sympathetically. “The Healer gave me an extra for cases of, and I quote, ‘excessive nonsense.’”

This certainly counts. Garrett opens the top and downs the whole thing in one go. Isabela would be so proud.

By the time they’re fully done in Val Royeaux, the move from Haven to Skyhold is more than half done, and by the time they would actually get back to Haven, it might be completely over. With that in mind, Garrett asks Lora to retrieve Dorian and Varric for him, then goes off and does a few more tasks in the Val Royeaux area with the two of them and Cassandra. When that’s done, they head directly to Skyhold. Garrett uses the journey as a chance to think deeply without many disturbances.

It’s relaxing. So relaxing, in fact, that he’s certain the Maker will inflict some sort of horrible chaos on him at Skyhold to balance the forces of the world.

The trek is long, and the valley that the fortress overlooks is not easily accessible. Josephine and Cullen have, somehow, already constructed a cable lift down into the valley. Hawke eyes it as their horses climb the rocky path up the summit. “Maker,” he murmurs, eyes turning to skate over the pale stone and Inquisition pennants flying above the towers. “Lora was right. It does look like it’s holding up the sky.”

“Solas was rather understated,” Cassandra agrees beside him. “Still, it is a fitting base for the Inquisition. The Elder One will find it much harder to overwhelm us here.”

“If only it were a little warmer and a little less barbaric,” Dorian gripes, pulling his heavy fur coat (pestered out of Hawke in Val Royeaux) tighter around him.

“Don’t worry, Sparkles,” Varric laughs. “He’ll find worse places to drag you.”

They walk through the gates with a minimum of obsequious bowing to the Inquisitor. Everyone is too busy for that, bustling around clearing away rubble or repairing things. Hawke can see how much progress has been made already, and how run-down everything must have been when the first scouts arrived.

“WAFFLES!” comes the inevitable excited shriek. What Hawke isn’t expecting is the direction: from directly above. Lora drops down onto him and his horse from the raised portcullis just inside the courtyard. He suspects that she was climbing it when they happened to pass beneath.

“Hello, Lora,” he says, calming the horse when it pulls against the reins in very understandable alarm. “What’s so exciting this time?”

“Ruffles is freaking out!” she reports gleefully, squirming around to sit facing him in the saddle. She plants her little feet in the middle of his stomach and giggles.

Hawke blinks at the strange turn of phrase, but thinks he understands it. “Oh? What is Josie… reacting to?”

“She got a letter from Nightingale’s ravens! Did you know there’s two Wardens in charge of Fereldan? Josie told me all about them!”

Hawke’s stomach drops down into the region of his toes. “Very interesting,” he says weakly… and with denial. “Why would a history lesson make Josie upset? And what does that have to do with one of Leliana’s missives?”

Lora giggles diabolically. “Silly Waffles, the letter wasn’t about history lessons! Josie told me after when I asked about it, because she just finished hosting a king and a queen and now she has to do it again really fast and while everything’s messy!”

Ah, Hawke thinks, briefly closing his eyes. Of course King Alistair and the Hero of Fereldan herself are visiting soon. I knew things were too peaceful.

Chapter Text

Lora loves The Place Where the Sky Is Held Up. Wizzy has been teaching her to listen harder to words so that she can hear what people are really saying, and now she knows that the name is really ‘Tarasyl’an Te’las.’ It’s Elvhen! That’s their different word for it. Waffles’s word is ‘Skyhold.’ Lora likes them both, but Wizzy told her more people would understand Skyhold. Tarasyl’an Te’las is very old and that makes it harder to know.

Skyhold loves her too. She knows because she can feel it! The stone gets warm around her, and the gravity gets all different when she jumps from reeeeeally high up! She’s jumped from Nightingale’s place before all the way down to Chuckles’s desk and she didn’t even have to use feather-falling! Skyhold caught her and then it showed her all the secret doors that lead to cool places that everyone else just walks past. So Skyhold is her friend now. It reminds her of Solas sometimes, but less sad. And younger.

She’s jumping across the castle walls right now, giggling when Skyhold catches her before she can fall. Cole is there too, making sure Skyhold is being nice. Ruffles and Curly and Nightingale said an adult should always play with her while they’re still moving into Skyhold. Thedas is like her home now and a lot of people want to steal her! But she’s following the rules since Cole is an adult. She asked Wizzy how old Cole was first, because when she asked Cole he said he didn’t know, and Wizzy said he felt like he’d been born at least a hundred years ago. She called him Compassion and not Cole.

Cole is also a new friend! He’s better than a friend though, he’s her brother now. Mama said so before she left, and Papa agreed. Cole is the best brother. He’s never boring and he always tries to help people even when it hurts him and he helps her help people too. He never makes her go to lessons. Sometimes he even hides her from Nightingale! She likes Cole. And Cole likes her.

“It will catch you,” he says when she deliberately gears up for a big jump down to the stables where Hero stays. Hero got in trouble for lying about having the icky stuff in him, but Nightingale is handling it. He stays in the stables and carves wood because he wants to help the kids who don’t have much. Lora made some sparkly gems for him to use so the toys can be pretty. She’s not the best at it, though, because you have to be good at math to make good gemstones. Gemstones are made of math.

“Faint, fading, focused, it has breath when you breathe because you bade it be,” Cole continues, and she hollers joyfully as she leaps. Sometimes Cole doesn’t make a lot of sense, but that’s okay. He’s trying to tell her a feeling, and she feels it. Skyhold loves her and she made it wake up more by being a mage!

Sure enough, even without using her own magic her bare feet come down on the rough thatched roof of the stable with a heavy but painless thud. Cole appears at her side as she flops over to lay on the roof and giggle. She changes from sight to Sight, dimming all her physical senses in favor of pure magic. Skyhold is big and a little clumsy, but it’s all wrapped up around her because it likes her. She wraps back because she likes it too, and it feels like getting a hug from someone who’s even bigger than the biggest person she can imagine!

Cole feels a lot smaller, but warm and bright and focused and smells like sweet cinnamon and sugar magic with a little metal in it. Wizzy says that’s because he’s Compassion, a spirit who took on a physical form, so he’s special. Solas is kind of the same but different, and Wizzy says that’s a very long and boring story that Lora wouldn’t want to hear. Sometimes Chuckles is very long and boring so that makes sense.

Chuckles also says that Lora needs to stop making baby spirits of Curiosity and Joy whenever she goes through the Veil, but she likes all her baby spirit friends so she’s not going to do that. Plus she doesn’t know how. Wizzy laughed at Chuckles when she heard that he asked.

Suddenly, Lora notices something that’s not very nice⁠—an icky dark taste that comes with thin tangly strings and a really gross smell. She stops, nose wrinkling even though it’s not a real smell, only a magic smell. Cole stops too.

“Heavy heads and hasty hands, ink and quill and letters letters letters, they came to find the flitting feet that forged the Fade,” he says. She thinks it means someone maybe came to find her.

“Oooh. Do they want to steal me?” she asks in a whisper, scrambling up into a crouch. It’s kind of hard to see the real world and magic at the same time, but she tries. Normally when she runs into things because she’s looking at magic it’s okay, but right now she’s on a mission. Tripping is bad for missions.

“No.” Cole is soft and wavy with his own curiosity. “They want to ask for help, hasty, hopeful, they came ahead.”

“Oh. I can help!” Excited by the prospect of helping more, she runs straight for the edge of the roof and jumps. Skyhold catches her, but she still startles Poppy. “Hi!” she says, and scampers into the barn. The visitors with ick in them are by the horses. No, they’re tending their horses, actually. She knows what that looks like. She’s watched the Imperial grooms before! And she watches Waffles, but Waffles isn’t as good at caring for horses because that isn’t his job.

Even better than pretty horses, though, they have a dog. A very very big dog that makes her gasp excitedly. “HI DOGGIE!”

Both of the adults startle, but more importantly the dog focuses on her. He looks a lot like what Waffles’s dog, a mabari, is supposed to look like. Storyteller told her Barkspawn went with Junior after everyone got mad and started fighting each other. “Hi! Are you a mabari? Waffles has a mabari too! His name is Barkspawn. What’s your name?”

The dog is as tall as she is and comes over to sniff her face, leaving wet trails from its nose. She giggles and pets it.

“Is that who I think it is?” says the man with ick in him.

“Leliana did say we’d know her when we saw her,” says the woman. She comes and kneels down next to the doggie. “Hello, little one. You’re right, this is a mabari. My mabari, actually, and his name is Faolan.”

Lora pauses, because she knows that name. Nightingale said it⁠—Faolan’s the name of her Warden friends’ mabari doggie. “Oooooh,” she says with realization. They have ick in them because they’re Wardens! “You’re Queenie!” she declares, pointing at the woman. “And you’re Kingie! Nightingale said you were coming! She told Ruffles it would be with a big slow en-rout… ent… ent-rou-age.”

“Entourage,” says Queenie with an amused smile. “Yes, Alistair did say that in his letter. I’m afraid I was a bit… too impatient for that, though.”

“A bit too impatient, she says,” Kingie huffs. “As if she didn’t plot for a whole day how to escape my uncle and go haring off like an ogre was after us.”

“Hush, you.”

Lora giggles, hanging off of Faolan’s neck as she listens. “I like sneaking away to go do stuff too! And I’m really good at it. Leli told me you were coming because all the Wardens have icky stuff in them and Queenie wanted to get rid of the ick.”

Kingie comes over to kneel too. “So… you really can?” he asks. “Remove the blight?”

“Yeah! I did Bookie first, and now his mean dad isn’t sad anymore. Then I got a book from the Fade and did a whoooooole bunch of Wardens real fast! And a dragon!”

Queenie and Kingie both get strange looks on their faces. “Well,” says Queenie, “we’d be very happy if you could do that for us too. In fact, we brought you a present in hope that you could.”

Lora gasps, delighted. “A present! What is it?”

Kingie gets up and retrieves something from a bag or basket on the far side of his horse, where Lora can’t see. “How would you like,” he says, coming back around to them, “a mabari of your very own?”

A little fawn-colored pup squirms excitedly in his arms, and Lora positively shrieks with joy.

“PUPPY!”

Hawke is talking to Cullen about security arrangements for when the King and Queen of Fereldan arrive when they both hear a tremendously loud shriek from the direction of the stables.

“What was that?” Cullen asks, startled.

“Something made Lora very happy,” Hawke answers, immediately snatching up his staff. “Come on, quickly, quickly!”

They sprint out of Cullen’s office and down the stairs as fast as they can, impolitely shoving a few soldiers that are slow on the uptake out of the way. Politeness, however, matters far less than making sure that whatever is delighting Lora won’t burn down Skyhold. With that in mind, they make it to the section of the stable where guest horses are housed in record time to find Blackwall and Leliana standing with two Fereldan strangers and a mabari, watching as Lora wrestles with a mabari pup, squealing with laughter like an ecstatic nug.

“You see?” says Leliana. “Now we will not have her attention for the rest of the day. You should have waited for me before you gave it to her.”

“Forgive us,” says the Fereldan woman. “We were excited when she confirmed she could remove the blight.”

Hawke and Cullen approach. “What in the Maker’s name…?” says Cullen. “Wait⁠—Your Majesties!” He immediately bows.

Hawke feels as off-balance as Cullen sounds, but he manages to offer a polite bow of his own. Josephine had coached him on this one⁠—it turned out that becoming Inquisitor had put him at a rank not all that far down from kings and queens. “Where, ah, is your retinue?” he asks. “I was informed you would be announced when you arrived with them.”

The king and queen exchange a glance. “To be frank,” says the Hero of Fereldan with a charming smile, “that is exactly what we wanted to avoid.”

Of course, thinks Garrett.

Lora finally notices her newest observers and scrambles up with another excited shriek, scooping up her mabari pup. “WAFFLES!” she says at the top of her lungs, toddling over with the sizable animal swinging from her grip. “Look! Look! Kingie and Queenie brought me a PUPPY!”

“That’s wonderful, Sunshine,” says Hawke, caught between genuine enthusiasm over a pup from the royal Fereldan line of mabari and dread at Lora having a mabari. “What are you going to name it?”

She blinks at him like she hadn’t thought of that, mouth popping open in a surprised o. “What’s a good name for a mabari?” she asks, looking around at all of them. “I want him to have a name from here!”

King Alistair smiles. “Well, mabari are noble Fereldan beasts,” he says. “So why not a Fereldan name?”

Lora lights up. “Waffles is a noble Fereldan beast too! Okay, his name is Hawk!”

Queen Elissa makes an ignoble choking sound and quickly turns away, fist pressed over her mouth. Garrett just knows that she’s trying not to burst out laughing, and honestly he can’t decide if he’s flattered or insulted by Lora’s choice. There’s no fighting it, though, so he just sighs quietly while Alistair’s smile widens even more.

“Fantastic choice!” says the king. “Inquisitor Hawke is quite a noble beast.”

“A wonderful name indeed,” Leliana smoothly interjects. “Why don’t you show Kingie and Queenie how much you like their present by healing them like the other Wardens?”

“Okay!” Lora gently sets Hawk down, patting his little head, and then hops excitedly over to the Hero of Fereldan. “Hug me!” she demands, throwing her arms wide.

The queen laughs, kneeling down to snugly embrace her. “What is the hug for?”

“For thanks! And so I can go boop!”

The queen goes stiff and sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh.”

Lora pulls away, leaving her stunned, and rounds on the king. “Now you! Hugs!”

But Alistair is looking at Elissa. “Are you alright?” he asks with muted alarm.

“Oh, yes.” The Hero quickly recovers, standing up and offering her husband a wavering smile. “Yes. It just feels... Let her hug you.”

“Well, if that’s all,” says the king, reassured. He swoops down and lifts Lora off the floor entirely, making her laugh as he tosses her up once before giving the demanded hug. “Hup! One hug for saving our lives!”

“Boop!” says Lora, and then it’s Alistair’s turn to suck in a sharp breath.

“Oh.” He pulls back slightly to look at her with amazement, as if he hadn’t quite believed it was possible even with Elissa’s assurance. “You really… I hadn’t realized I used to feel so…” He glances between her and his wife a few times. “Would you like to be a princess?”

Cullen and Leliana both laugh. Garrett just shakes his head. “No stealing Andraste’s Child, Your Majesty.”

Lora giggles madly, kicking her legs. “Silly Kingie, I’m already a princess!”

Alistair and Elissa both look surprised. “You are?” asks the queen.

“I could not put everything in my letters,” says Leliana. “But this is not the place for that conversation.” She takes Lora from the king. “Princess, we need to have boring adult talks now with lots of politics and etiquette. Why don’t you go show Solas your puppy?”

“Blech!” says Lora, wiggling to get to the ground. “Come on Hawk! Chuckles likes doggies, I promise!”

Blackwall slinks out of the shadows to help her, plucking up the pup and taking her hand to walk her to Solas’s rotunda. Garrett doesn’t think it’s a stretch to assume that he’s ashamed to be in the presence of these two highly-renowned Wardens after lying about his identity⁠—not that they know that, but Hawke and his inner circle certainly do. The three of them depart, followed by Faolan as well.

“Come,” says Leliana, nodding in the vague direction of the war room. “It’s fortunate you arrived early. We have much to discuss about the state of the Wardens, and I just had several very interesting reports arrive from the Western Approach.”

Chapter Text

Solas perches atop the scaffolding in his rotunda, sketching carefully along the stone walls with charcoal. Art has long been a comfort to him, both as an expression of creativity and as a valuable record of history. He has many ideas for the rotunda. Lora’s arrival and the ensuing events have been… colorful… enough to make him excited by the artistic possibilities. These murals are going to be quite incredible regardless of what he chooses to depict.

“SOLAS!”

Dorian’s furious voice startles him, but he manages to catch himself before he scores a clumsy line along the wall. He turns and peers down at Dorian as the Tevinter stops in the center of the rotunda, holding something in his hands. With a sigh, Solas sets his charcoal down and descends the ladder.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Look at this!” Dorian spits, thrusting out what Solas quickly realizes is a pair of mangled boots. The leather has obviously been gnawed on by sharp little teeth. “Outrageous! These were my favorite pair! And do you think it’s easy to get Minrathous custom enchanted boots out here, in the arse end of nowhere? No!”

“I see the little one’s puppy got into your rooms,” Solas replies knowingly. He has carefully protected his own rooms for exactly that reason.

“Obviously!” Dorian waves the boots around. “This is absurd! I can’t wrap my feet like a barbarian, I need quality leather and cooling magic! Think of the sweat that will accumulate in the Western Approach! The sweat! That mabari is a menace and I will not put up with it!”

Solas blinks slowly. “And you are shouting at me because…?”

Dorian’s irate visage calms immediately. “Well,” he says in a reasonable tone, “I can’t shout at Lora. She might cry, and then where would we be?”

Solas nods in agreement.

“And I can’t shout at the Inquisitor, of course. He’s the one who pays me.”

Again, Solas nods.

“I would shout at Madame Hilde, but frankly… she scares me.”

Solas bites back a snort.

“So that leaves you or the Commander, and everyone knows Lora likes you more. Ergo, here we are.”

Solas clasps his hands together contemplatively. After a few moments, he inclines his head. “Very well, continue.”

Dorian smiles. “Thank you, I’m glad we could settle this like civilized men. Ahem.” He draws in a deep breath. “AND ANOTHER THING—“

Carver Hawke is not happy. Part of that is the turmoil within the Gray Wardens, of course, but more importantly he’s being sent up into the damned mountains to meet his idiot brother, who somehow managed to get himself put in charge of an entire Inquisition. Just when Carver thinks he’s finally out from under his brother’s shadow, Garrett goes and does something like this. Unbelievable.

When he catches his first glimpse of Skyhold, his irritation only deepens. The fortress is magnificent—easily a rival to Adamantine, Vigil's Keep, or even Weisshaupt. There’s no way to describe it except as ‘perched magnificently’ among the snowy peaks. In the privacy of his head, he seethes.

Inquisition banners ripple over the ramparts as Carver and Barkspawn join the procession heading into the fortress. He’s not wearing his Warden armor, since Stroud warned him against it, but a few people do catch sight of him in the corner of their eyes and do double-takes. He has no doubt it’s because of his resemblance to Garrett, especially since he hasn’t had a chance to shave recently. His mood sours further.

“State your business,” says the agent who stops him near the gates. Their security is, unsurprisingly, extremely tight. He’s already had to pass through three checkpoints to even get up here.

“I’m here to see my brother,” he grumbles, presenting the letter with the Inquisition Spymaster’s seal. The agent blinks at it, then looks at his face closely.

“Oh!” he says, eyes wide with recognition. “You’re free to go inside, serah Hawke.” Then, slightly more ominously, “Good luck.”

Carver takes the letter back and crams it into his hauberk. “Who needs luck when Garrett’s around,” he gripes to himself, trudging under the portcullis.

The interior of Skyhold bustles with life. He pauses, trying to discern which way he should go, and absently pets Barkspawn as he does. The mabari whuffs, then suddenly stands at attention.

“What is it boy?” he asks, and is answered a split second later when a mabari pup comes running toward them, yipping excitedly. Close on the pup’s heels, a full-grown mabari bounds across the grass with a little girl sitting on its back, shrieking with laughter. She lays eyes on Barkspawn and lights up.

“ANOTHER DOGGIE! Faster, Faólan, faster!”

Thankfully Barkspawn is well-trained and only sniffs the pup curiously when it bounces around his feet. When ‘Faólan’ reaches them, the little girl throws herself from its back to greet Barkspawn. “Hi! I’m Lora and this is my puppy Hawk and this is Queenie and Kingie’s mabari Faólan! What’s your name?”

Feeling somewhat off balance, Carver says, “This is Barkspawn. You shouldn’t run up on someone else’s mabari like that, girl. It’s dangerous.”

“Not for me!” the girl declares, hands on hips. She finally looks at him directly. Her eyes are a bright metallic gold and one of her hands shines with green light. The pieces click together: this is Andraste’s Child. His breath catches in his throat, warring awe and caution.

Then she makes a face at him. “ICK!” she hollers at the top of her lungs, pointing. “You’ve got ick in you! Do you want me to take it out?”

Of course, he has no time to even understand the question, because she immediately gasps and puts her hands over her mouth. “Wait! You said Barkspawn! And you have ick in you! That means you’re Waffles’s baby brother doesn’t it! Hi Waffles’s baby brother! What are you doing here? Did Kingie and Queenie call you? Are you coming with us? Is Aveline with you? No one told me you were coming! Waffles is meeting with everyone in the big room with the cool table I’m not allowed to walk on, follow me!”

She seizes his hand, pulling with all her might, and since he doesn’t really have a better idea of what to do he follows her. The mabari fall in with them. She chatters too fast for him to understand much, often not looking where she’s going. Inquisition members step aside to let her through, which she trusts them to do seemingly without a thought. By the time they ascend several flights of stairs and pass through an enormous hall, he feels like he’s in a daze.

“This way, Barkspawn and Junior!” Andraste’s child squeals, speeding up when they reach a side door. “Ruffles works here! She likes making me do lessons but she also gives me shiny jewels and pretty dresses and fancy cakes so she’s not so bad. Waffles wants to give her a vacation but we’re too busy right now. I would go get Zack with the kitty eyes to do man-door-tory vacation but I can’t leave right now and I think it would only make Waffles stressed. He needs Ruffles cuz she writes polite letters and he hates doing that.”

“What?” Carver manages as he’s hurried through another door. There’s an open hole in the wall of the corridor here, looking out over a very dangerous drop. He instinctively pulls her away from it.

“WAFFLES! WAAAAAAAAFFLES!” she hollers, giggling, and they burst into the meeting through two large doors.

Several people are standing around a large, asymmetrical table strewn with maps, markers, and documents. Carver recognizes his own brother, of course, and Cullen next to him, and the Nightingale herself. He assumes the woman in ruffles is ‘Ruffles’ (Varric’s nicknaming influence, no doubt), and the woman next to her is Seeker Cassandra. The last two, however, make him pause and stare. He’s seen them before, a long time ago and at the scene of a looming nightmare.

“Carver!” Garrett cries, delighted. “You made it alright! And Barkspawn! Come here, boy, come here!”

As the mabari abandons him to go tackle Garrett, Carver puts a few pieces together and slowly says “...Your Majesties?”

Queen Elissa, Hero of Fereldan, smiles at him. “Hello, Carver Hawke. How long were you in Skyhold before she found you?”

“Er.” He glances at the King of Fereldan next to her. Garrett is by now on the floor petting Barkspawn and cooing at him. “Not long, your Majesty?”

Her smile widens. “Less than a minute?”

He thinks back and nods. That sounds correct. The Child herself has bounced over to Cullen and began climbing him like a tree. He tolerates it without a blink, which seems shocking to Carver.

King Alistair laughs. “I see you weren’t exaggerating, Seeker.”

“If there is anything interesting or dangerous, she will find it,” says Seeker Cassandra with longsuffering.

Garrett gets up from the floor and dusts himself off. He rounds the table, arms thrown wide. “Welcome to the Inquisition, brother mine!” he says, and they embrace for a moment. “Nice beard. I would have warned you about Sunshine, but… well, she has to be seen to be believed, I think.”

Andraste’s Child beams at him from Cullen’s shoulders. “I’m an experience!” she says.

“Yes…” Carver agrees. “Might I ask… what the King and Queen of Fereldan are doing here? I think Stroud would have told me if he’d known. And sent along far more missives.”

The Nightingale smiles slightly. “It was not planned in the way you are thinking. After recent events, Elissa and Alistair rushed here as quickly as possible. You were already on the way by then, and some things I do not trust to messenger birds.”

Carver frowns. “Recent events being the attack on Haven?”

“Recent events being that Lora can cure the blight and cure the Wardens of the Joining’s effects,” says Garrett. “That’s what Queen Elissa was searching for. And speaking of which, you need to let her cure you.”

Carver blanches. “The rumors were true?” He’d heard from people along the way, but he hadn’t believed it. Curing the Blight wasn’t possible… until now, apparently.

“Very,” says Queen Elissa. “The Calling is no longer a danger to us. It won’t be to you, either.” 

He feels his knees go a little weak, because he can’t help but believe Fereldan’s Warden-Commander when she agrees that the impossible has become possible. He hadn’t thought too deeply about how long he had to live, but he’d known since the beginning that one day, he would meet his end in the Deep Roads. Becoming a Warden had only delayed that fate. “Oh.”

“Yes, you’re in good company,” says King Alistair. “There’s a few dozen more that Princess rescued from Corypheus’s false calling and mind-control around Skyhold. The grumpier ones are still in the dungeon.”

It’s a lot to parse through all at once, but Carver takes a deep breath and focuses. “Alright… yes. Stroud has been looking into the Wardens since he got your first letter, Garrett. We’ve directed everyone we can to Weisshaupt, but obviously we didn’t have a solution until now, and he’s being hunted by Warden-Commander Clarel. I… we need to meet him in the Western Approach immediately. He has a lead on some outside interference.”

The Child, who’s occupied herself with making tiny braids in Commander Cullen’s hair and pinning them with exquisitely-made gemstone flowers (where had she gotten those?), looks up excitedly. “Are we going on an adventure with Junior and Kingie and Queenie, Waffles?”

Garrett laughs. “Well, Junior—I mean, Carver—yes, but…”

“I will also accompany you,” says the Hero, speaking quickly over her husband. She offers him a dagger-smile. “Alistair will stay here and share the news with Arl Eamon.”

“Oh that is low, my love,” says the King.

She tilts her head at him coyly. “You didn’t speak quickly enough, my love,” she says.

“Hooray!” says Lora while Leliana laughs. “Is Faólan coming too?”

The mabari whuffs, perking up, and the Queen pats his head. “Yes, he is. And I imagine noble Barkspawn is as well, but you should leave Hawk here. He’s too little to keep up with you right now.”

The little girl droops over Cullen’s head. “Aww…”

“You’ll be fine,” says Garrett, taking her from the Commander’s shoulders. “You get to stay here and play until we reach the Western Approach, so you won’t even be apart long. Just make sure puppy Hawk doesn’t terrorize the Inquisition’s boots too much, alright?”

Carver frowns, confused by the comment as she giggles and agrees. “As little as I like the idea of a child around demons, we will need her to close rifts.”

“Yes, of course,” says Garrett, vaguely confused. Then his eyes light up with sudden understanding and a distinct mischief that make Carver wary. “Ah! I forgot you wouldn’t know. Sunshine, shall we demonstrate your unique travel abilities? I’m sure my brother and Their Majesties will love your magic!”

“Okay!” The Child disappears. In her place is a cat-sized dragon with four wings. “I can fly when I’m a dragon!”

Garrett clears his throat, seemingly unfazed while Carver is busy having flashbacks to another person capable of turning into a dragon. “Your other travel abilities, Lora,” he says.

“Oh.” This time, she vanishes entirely. Garrett drops his arms and dusts his hands off. Her mabari pup dances around his feet, barking.

“Inquisitor, what…?” says an aghast King Alistair.

“Wait for it.”

Suddenly, she’s back, this time in human form and standing on the table. “COOKIES!” she bellows, holding aloft a basket.

Garrett quickly plucks her up off the maps before her bare feet disturb any of the markers. “Not on the table!”

She giggles mischieviously. “I got cookies from the kitchen for everyone. Cole stole them for me!” She holds one out to Carver. “Here, Junior, you get one first cuz you just got here.”

Queen Elissa is the first to shake off her surprise. “Inquisitor, did she just…?”

Carver slowly takes the cookie when the Child waves it at him insistently.

“Teleport from here to the kitchens, in defiance of all known laws of magic? Yes. Yes she did. And when we go to the Western Approach, she won’t be with us on the way there. She will simply pop into camp and badger Scout Harding for stories after we call her there.”

“Harding!” the little girl cheers through a full mouth. “She’s a dwarf!”

“Oh,” says King Alistair, taking two cookies and handing one to his wife. “Well. That’s convenient. And perhaps something we should have expected, at this point. Can she bestow immortality too?”

“Not yet,” says Garrett with far too much seriousness for Carver’s taste even with his smile. “Thank the Maker. She would turn the mabari immortal first.”

And suddenly, just like that, Carver no longer envies his brother’s position. Forget a rank of near-ultimate authority and unmatched power—this is a babysitting job for the most unpredictable and uncontrollable little mage girl in all of history. A sense of strange wistfulness fills his chest at the realization. He finally takes a bite of the cookie. It’s delicious.

“Ah,” he sighs. “Bethany would have loved her.”

Chapter Text

The Western Approach is scorching hot and inhospitable⁠—though they hardly expected it to be anything less. Harding meets them at the Inquisition’s first camp in the region, looking uncommonly flustered by the gathering of big names, but she manages to sound professional despite it.

“Inquisitor,” she greets, eyes fixed on the elder Hawke. “The reports from your Warden contact were accurate. We’ve been tracking movement toward an old ruin, but we can’t get close enough to find out anything else without tipping them off. Between the sandstorms, secrecy, and wildlife here, we haven’t been able to do much. I’ll have a better report after you and your… distinguished colleagues handle the Wardens.”

“Right,” says Hawke, shaking sand out of a truly illogical location in his trousers. How did it even get there? “I expected things to be limited. Anything else?”

“Make sure Lora doesn’t get any sunburn. I don’t think she’d like it very much.”

They meet up with Stroud not long after. “Inquisitor,” he says, surveying their group.  He seems torn between focusing on Lora riding Faólan like a pony and the Warden-Commander (and Queen) of Fereldan suddenly being present. “I see there were developments after my messages reached you.”

“Before, actually. I apologize for the lack of warning, but we didn’t want to risk anyone seeing the ravens and realizing the game was up.”

Stroud nods. “I understand. We have preempted the blood ritual I think they intended to perform at the tower. Any precaution is worth it.”

“Are we going to save the Wardens now, Waffles?” Lora asks, legs swinging. The only reason she hasn’t run off yet is the combined nannying of Faólan and Barkspawn. She’s been dolled up with an enormous hat to prevent sunburn⁠—Cole’s hat, if Garrett isn’t mistaken.

“Yes, Sunshine, we’re off on step one of saving the Wardens. Er, Stroud, if it wasn’t clear this is Andraste’s Child. She prefers if you call her Lora, though.”

Lora beams. “Hi! I like your armor. Junior said we shouldn’t take the ick out of you yet because you might need it, but I can do it later.”

“Hello… Lora,” says Stroud. He looks troubled. “Inquisitor, no matter how powerful a child is, she should not be present for the kind of task we are facing. The ritual is undoubtedly one of blood magic, and they may revert to it when pressed. Her safety cannot be guaranteed.”

“Lora can reverse the Joining,” Elissa interjects blandly.

Silence falls for a long, awkward moment as Stroud processes her words. “...I beg your pardon?” he finally settles on.

“Lora can reverse the Joining, among many other skills. Believe me when I say she is the safest of us all.”

“I… see,” he lies. “I had heard rumors about easing the Blight, but this…”

Elissa steps forward and claps his shoulder. “I would refrain from thinking about it too deeply until we’re done.”

Carver sighs and nods in agreement. He had refused the reversal of his own Joining, arguing that they might still need his ability to sense Darkspawn. The fear of the Calling hadn’t gripped him the way it had some of his seniors, and knowing it was false removes the last of his fear. Or at least, that was what he’d told Garrett.

“Well… certainly, if you say she will be unharmed,” Stroud decides, apparently taking Elissa’s advice. He shakes his head. “We should be off. They will reach the ritual tower tomorrow if we do not intercept them first.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about them outpacing us, sir,” says Carver dryly.

And it’s true. In a few hours, they’re within sight of the group of Wardens, who are trekking out over the sands and heading for the tower visible in the distance. Hawke and his group are stuck on the other side of the Valemont Pass, which usually would mean a long and circuitous route to catch up.

“Ah!” says Stroud. “They moved faster than I anticipated. We must hurry.”

“No need,” says Hawke. “Everyone gather around, make sure we’re all touching.”

They shuffle together with varying levels of enthusiasm. “Are we sure it’s safe with a group this size?” Elissa asks cautiously.

“Don’t worry!” says Lora, who is still sitting on Faólan, touching Barkspawn with one hand, and holding onto Solas with the other. “I take my friends aaaaaaall over, and sometimes there’s a lot lot lot of them!”

“Inquisitor, what are you about to do?” Stroud asks with a distinct note of nervousness.

“Defy all known laws of magic. Is everyone together? Alright, take us away, Sunshine!”

“What⁠—”

And then they are simply not where they were a moment ago. The uninitiated stare in astonishment at the Wardens who are suddenly only a few lengths away; the Wardens stare back in equal astonishment. The initiated, however, launch forward with battle cries. This includes Lora, of course, who begins to tag each of the Wardens and shout “BOOP!” at the top of her lungs. Just like at the battle of Haven, they crumple the moment she touches them and yanks the blight from their veins.

Conspicuous among the Wardens is a Tevinter man in a white robe, who shrieks like a little girl when they suddenly appear. “The Inquisition!” he says. Then he spots Lora and shrieks louder. “ANDRASTE’S CHILD!” He doesn’t seem to know what to do, and gets off barely a single spell before Elissa counters and knocks him out cold. Everyone has by then shaken off their astonishment and joined the fight, though it may be generous to call it a ‘fight.’ The Wardens and their mysterious ally go down within minutes.

“Well!” says Hawke, leaning against his staff and surveying the group of knocked-out-cold Wardens. “That was easy.”

Less easy is getting all of them transported back to camp so that they can then be questioned, trussed up, and shipped back to Skyhold to join their fellows, but after arranging the bodies into an awkward half-line, half-pile, Lora repeats her trick and takes everyone back to Lost Spring Canyon.

“Wardens rescued from the ick!” she crows to the soldiers and scouts, taking a victory lap on Faólan. She lost her hat at some point in the chaos. Barkspawn is patiently holding it in his mouth as he follows her.

“Well,” says Harding, hands on hips as she surveys the group. “That was easy. Alright, let’s get this lot restrained and ready for Sister Leliana!”

The interrogation of Magister Livius Erimond confirms everything Stroud suspected and adds even worse details besides⁠, though it takes quite a bit of… persuasion… to get it out of him. Madame Hilde ends up helping in that regard, and frankly Hawke becomes even more terrified of her after hearing from Leliana.

“She’s quite efficient,” says his Spymaster, impressed.

“The best medics also make the best interrogators,” says Madame Hilde when he tentatively asks. “Knowing how to fix something means you also know how to break it in many ways.”

Garrett decides to never, ever cross anyone from Lora’s world.

Regardless, it’s worth it to find out, because it turns out that the whole ‘demon army’ thing Caius and Lora encountered in their cross-time misadventure and the Envy demon referenced to Hawke himself was meant to come from the Wardens. Wardens who are using Tevinter blood magic to raise a demon army. And simultaneously binding themselves to Corypheus’s will in doing so. Which also enables him to quickly and easily take over their bodies at any moment, rendering him effectively unkillable.

As Varric would say: Well… shit.

“The good news,” says Cullen at their war table meeting, “is that they likely won’t proceed without Erimond.”

“And the bad news is that the Warden-Commander of Orlais has gathered all of her Wardens to Adamant, cast out or imprisoned dissenters, and already begun the process of using blood-magic sacrifice rituals to raise a demon army at the expense of their own ranks,” says Leliana.

Hawke grimaces.

“Surely we can reason with Clarel,” says Josephine. “The Calling is false. There is no need for such drastic measures.”

Cassandra huffs. “Perhaps. But she has already sacrificed many lives. Reason will war with emotion, and convincing will not be easy.”

Stroud, present for the meeting, interjects. “If you can employ the Child’s abilities to get me close to Clarel,” he says, “I’m certain we can convince her. The final decision has not been made. We have more than enough proof, and she will admit her error. I would bet my life on it.”

Hawke exchanges looks with his advisors. “It is… possible,” he says slowly. “I’d have to consult Madame Hilde on the exact limitations of her teleporting. She’s never been to Adamant.”

“A small strike team would be more than enough, and you can escape instantly,” Leliana agrees.

Josephine still looks worried. “Are you certain we cannot send an envoy first?”

Stroud shakes his head before she even finishes the question. “They will not listen,” he says, “and it will cost too much time. Too many lives. We must move with all possible haste, before she realizes Erimond will not be returning. That may tempt her to carry on by herself.”

There really is no choice. “Alright,” says Hawke. “We’ll proceed with a small infiltration team.”

He asks Madame Hilde about whether or not there’s a way for Lora to teleport them into Adamant. The terrifying older woman looks at him steadily for a long, silent moment, until he starts to sweat.

“I see you still don’t quite grasp things,” she says. “Inquisitor, barring some extremely specific wards or phenomena like the anchor tying her here, there is no limit on her ability. The magic that teleports her one room over is the same magic that teleports her blindly across worlds. The true limitation is her focus and perception, but I imagine that if you give her enough detail, she will manage it just fine on the first try.”

“...oh,” says Garrett. “Right. How exactly…?”

“If we knew, she would not have gotten herself into trouble here. Now, off with you! I have patients to assess.”

With that fairly terrifying bit of information, Hawke quickly retreats. Within two days, they’re ready to set off and end the conflict with the Wardens.

Lora is so so so excited. Not only is she being allowed to participate in a really important mission to save the rest of the Wardens, but she’s an important part of it! And not even because of the anchor! No one else can do what she can, not even by traveling for a really long and boring amount of time. She’s basically a grownup already and definitely deserves to have a knife. No one agrees with that last part, though.

“Okay, Sunshine,” says Waffles. They’re all in a big group, holding hands. The mabari aren’t allowed to come, but Waffles, Junior, Storyteller, Kingie, Queenie, Moustache, Seeker, Nightingale, and Chuckles are. It’s a big circle. “Are you ready?”

“Yes!” she chirps, bouncing in place between him and Chuckles.

“And you’re focused on where we should go?”

“Yes! I know where! I even asked Wizzy and she gave me lots of advice and directions and pictures!”

Waffles blows out a breath, like he’s nervous. That’s silly, though. Lora isn’t going to let anyone get hurt, even in a big fort full of ick and corrupted spirits. “Alright,” says Waffles. “Take us to Adamant.”

So she does what she likes to do best, abandoning physical senses to see the world as it exists in the Strings. Adamant is easy to find⁠—it’s by the really hot rocky desert place where they ambushed a bunch of new Warden friends and a weird guy in fancy white robes and coppery armor, and it’s full of icky Blight. She wants to be really super helpful, though, so she focuses a lot more than usual. Instead of landing where she thinks it would be most interesting (there are a lot of shiny mage-but-not-her-kind-of-mage people with ick in them), she looks for Moustache’s mean commander.

He said her name was Clarel. Lora breathes the name out into the space between String and String, plucking them curiously, and finds what she’s looking for in the form of ick and a sad song and the dark red of determination. Then she lets her Sight return to normal sight, and they’re all standing in the middle of a stone room with torches and narrow windows and a desk. A lady with no hair looks at them with huge eyes, quill dropping from her hand.

“Found you!” Lora crows, pleased with herself. She did a good job.

A scuffle ensues, which Chuckles scoops her out of the way of, and Moustache’s mean boss loses real fast because Nightingale leaps forward and steals her staff. Lora thinks it’s silly that they need staffs here. They seem so easy to lose, and then what is a mage-not-mage supposed to do? She’s glad she doesn’t need one to explode bad guys.

“What is this?” Meanie growls as she’s tied to her chair. “An Inquisition assassination force?”

“No,” says Moustache. “We have information⁠—vital information⁠—to prove that what you are doing is playing into the hands of an ancient darkspawn magister. With every blood ritual from that Venatori traitor Erimond, you bind the Wardens to the very evil we were created to destroy!”

He and Meanie and Waffles start to argue, but Lora stops listening. There’s something else important here, but far away… in the Fade! It’s in the Fade. She sticks her tongue out, because it doesn’t taste good. It’s big and mean. There’s something else too, small and really really familiar, but it’s a lot harder to catch.

Wizzy said something about the spirits here, didn’t she? Something important…

Oh! She said that there’s a big mean spirit named Nightmare! He’s very territorial and eats bad dreams because there are a lot of bad dreams at Adamant. Lora thought it sounded nice not to remember the bad dreams, but Wizzy said it wasn’t good for the people or for the spirit. People need to deal with their bad dreams, because no one really forgets.

The adults are still arguing as she ponders (a very wise thing to do), but she hears something that makes her stop pondering.

“...the most powerful fear demon that can be bound,” Meanie admits. “The Veil is thin here, and it is close. With the other sacrifices, I would have been able to bind it. With its power added to our ranks, we could have slain the Old Gods.”

“Madness!” says Waffles, but Lora gasps.

“I know! I know which one!” she says. “The Nightmare! Wizzy told me aaaaall about him, he lives right here and he’s very mean.”

The eyes that were on her turn back to Meanie. “You wanted to summon something called the Nightmare?” says Kingie, aghast. “Hawke is right. Madness!”

“I did not know⁠ exactly—that is⁠—”

“That kind of power cannot be harnessed,” says Queenie fiercely. “It never works. Such a demon should be destroyed, not brought through the Veil! If it wants to be summoned so badly, there is every chance it is allied directly with Corypheus!”

And all of the sudden, Lora knows exactly how she can be even more helpful and prove that she can definitely have knives. “I can help! I can help!” she says, dancing from foot to foot in excitement. “We can go beat him up right now, and then no one can summon him and he can’t eat bad dreams anymore!”

“Da’len, don’t⁠—” says Chuckles, and he looks kind of alarmed for some reason, but that doesn’t matter because together they’re waaaaay strong enough to beat up any mean spirit!

“Wheeee!” says Lora, and opens up a gateway into the Fade beneath their feet.

Chapter Text

Garrett isn’t ashamed to admit that he screams like a little girl when Lora drops them through a rift and into the fucking Fade. He tumbles ass over teakettle, catching glimpses of his similarly alarmed companions: Varric, Solas, Carver, Alistair, Elissa, and Leliana. He doesn’t see Stroud, Cassandra, or Clarel, but there’s no way to know if that’s because they didn’t fall into the rift or if they’re just out of sight.

Lora is giggling in delight as she falls. She is, unsurprisingly, the only one.

Instead of hitting the ground—whatever that means in the Fade—Garrett finds himself slowing to a stop, then rising toward greenish stone until it’s a hand’s breadth from his face. Surprised, he reaches out to touch it. The moment he does, gravity reverses. He crumples ungracefully onto his face.

“Andraste’s ass—ets. Assets,” he curses, rubbing his nose and getting quickly to his feet. “Lora!”

His little charge is floating in the air, perfectly at home, and he realizes that his companions are standing at various angles on the nearby stonework, as if gravity is different for each of them.

“Wheeee!” says Lora, doing a midair pirouette. “Now you can have Fade fun with me too! Did you know you can do whatever you want here, like a dream but even better because you’re awake? But don’t think about the rules! If you remember the rules you forget how to fly.”

“Are we—are we really in the Fade?” Elissa asks, stunned. “Physically?”

“Yes,” says Solas, expression a mixture of excitement and panic. “We are. I wasn’t sure if anyone but Lora could survive this. Perhaps we only did because she believes we had to.”

“That’s… not very comforting,” says Alistair.

“Sunshine,” says Leliana, who has somehow managed to coax the girl close enough to be picked up. “You must take us back. We’re not meant to be here.”

Lora droops in disappointment, and Hawke is alarmed at the way their surroundings grow dim. “Oh,” she says, “you don’t want to help? Okay, I can beat up the Nightmare by myself.”

“No!” Garrett interjects quickly. Worse than them being here is the idea of her being here and wreaking havoc alone. She’d probably come back to Skyhold with the fear demon in a glass jar or something. “No, no, we want to help. Please don’t do it by yourself. That wouldn’t be… very fun.”

Lora brightens and so do their surroundings. At the same time, a giggle rings out, seemingly from everywhere at once. It sounds like Lora, but Garett is looking right at her, and she isn’t giggling.

“You’re here!” says a new voice, which also sounds like Lora. Her expression, however, is surprised. It remains surprised as their surroundings change from bleak, broken stone to something much warmer and more inviting. Plush rugs in bright colors suddenly drape across polished, sand-colored stone, and specklings of velvety cushions appear. In a blink, there are toys and flowers everywhere, though Hawke can see the changes peter out the farther it gets from them. Little chiming bells attached to warm lanterns make it feel like it’s barely the Fade at all.

The glowing figure of a little girl suddenly hovers before them, arms spread wide in excitement. “You’re here, you’re here!” it crows. “I knew you’d come play with me!”

Solas looks terrified, and if anyone is a good reference for how they should be feeling about this, it’s probably him. Hawke decides to join suit.

“Oh Maker, is that—“ he starts, but is cut off.

“You’re me!” says Lora. She wiggles free of Leliana’s grip and cannonballs into the spirit. They spin in the air, giggling together, and the glowing spirit coalesces into a copy of Lora. When it blinks at Hawke, though, its eyes are Fade green.

“You made me!” says the spirit. “When you walked here the first time! Nighty tried to get your memories, but I said no! That’s mean!”

“Nighty?” Lora echoes, grinning. “That’s funny!”

“That’s why I picked it! He wants people to be scared of him, but how can anyone be scared if he’s named Nighty?” She giggles, which sends Lora off into giggles as well.

Solas speaks up. “What—“ His voice shakes enough that he has to stop and gather himself. “What manner of spirit are you?”

The spirit turned her attention to him. “I’m Laughter!” she declares, letting go of Lora’s hands so she can plant her own on her hips. “And I’m a spirit of… hmm…” She ponders. “Of Play!”

Alright, Hawke is starting to grasp why Solas is so terrified. “Solas…” he says slowly. “How did she…?”

“Lora’s emotions and magic are strong enough to constantly birth new spirits,” says Solas tightly. He has a white-knuckle grip on his staff. “Were we not in the Nightmare’s domain, I have no doubt at least one spirit would have been born since our arrival.”

“Well,” says Varric, “that’s not at all completely terrifying.”

Laughter blinks at him. “You dunno how I came to be?” She giggles madly, kicking her feet and pressing her hands over her mouth. “That’s so silly! The Fade likes Lora. She’s new. And she was so new the first time she walked here that I was born right away!” She sticks her tongue between her teeth and grins at Solas. “Shouldn’t you know all about that, mister dreamer? Aren’t we just like the Ancient Elvhen?”

“You should have a name-name too!” Lora declares as everyone processes Laughter’s words. “Like Cole! He’s Compassion but also Cole. I think you should be… hmm… Meli! Cuz it’s also part of my name, see? If we add an A it becomes A-Meli-Lora!”

“I love it!” Laughter squeals, tackling Lora into a midair hug.

“Have you been here the whole time, Meli?” Leliana asks thoughtfully.

“Yes! I’ve been trying to get Nighty to play with me but he’s too old and grumpy, so I’ve been playing pranks on him instead, like stealing away all his minions or taking the dreamers off to have fun instead of bad dreams.” She grins at the Nightingale. “He doesn’t like me very much. I take away all his power.”

“Well we’re here to beat him up!” Lora declares, raising a fist for emphasis. “He’s being mean to the Wardens and helping the icky old bird guy who tried to hurt Waffles.”

“That’s bad,” Meli agrees. “I can take you to him, no problem! He’s been waiting for the place where a rift is supposed to open up, I think. We can’t go right away though. Adults are too silly about rules for that to work.” She lowers herself and Lora to the ground. Hawke and the others find that they’re able to ‘walk’ down from wherever they were oriented and join the two.

“They remember rules too much,” Lora agrees. “Okay! Let’s go!”

The shape of the Fade changes wherever the girls walk hand-in-hand ahead of them, changing the grim and moldering landscape into things bright, cheerful, and suited to a child’s play. No barrier is impassable to them, and the adults trail in their wake like bewildered ducklings.

“This isn’t how I expected the day to go,” Carver mutters. “If this is what being Inquisitor gets you, then I’m glad it was you and not I, brother.”

“Very selfless of you, brother,” Garrett returns dryly. 

They do, eventually, end up hearing Nightmare’s voice when they’re deep into its lair. “Ah, we have a guest,” it purrs. “A silly little girl who—“

“Hi Nighty!” say Lora and Meli together.

The silence that falls is deafening. “…you.”

“Me!” says Meli.

“Us!” says Lora.

“Graaaah!” the Nightmare growls, angered. “I see you brought the Champion of Kirkwall with you! Did you think you mattered, Garrett? Did you think anything you did mattered? You couldn’t even save your city. Now you risk your failure killing entire nations, just like you killed your family, and everyone you ever cared about.”

“Waffles matters lots,” Lora informs Nightmare loftily. “He saved lots of people and he’s a hero and he’s doing a great job! Grandma Nia said so. Plus all his friends aren’t dead, only the one. And he made lots of new friends. Like me!”

Meli giggles. “And no one can kill Lora.”

Hawke feels as though there should have been some kind of oppressive weight of fear on him from the words and the demon’s attention. He feels none of it, though. “Er,” he says. “You haven’t been paying much attention, have you, demon?”

Nightmare snarls and, evidently, turns its sights on Solas. “Dirth ma, harellan. Ma banal enasalin—“

“Hey!” Lora interrupts. “He’s not a liar! And he succeeds at lots of stuff! Also he’s my favorite right now so you’re not allowed to be mean to him.”

Solas looses a short, semi-hysterical laugh. Meli darts over to him and starts patting the top of his head.

The Nightmare’s frustration palpably grows. “Elissa Cous—“

“No!” says Lora, pointing forward. “If you’re not gonna say something nice, then don’t say anything at all!”

There’s no more commentary from the Nightmare.

“I am… so terrified in such a strange way,” Alistair comments. “Thank you for not letting it take a crack at Elissa, Princess.”

Lora turns and beams at him. “You’re welcome! Let’s go!”

Demons begin to appear and attack them, but stand no chance. Frankly, they wouldn’t have stood a chance anyway, but between Lora and Meli bending the Fade around them they‘re even more hilariously outmatched. A few catch one glimpse of the girls and simply turn around to leave.

“Almost there!” Meli announces as she skips along. The rocky staircase that they’d seen in the distance has become a grassy hill full of wildflowers under her and Lora’s feet. They’re nearly to the top.

Hawke aims for a smile but only succeeds in grimacing. “I wonder how we’ll… know…” He trails off. A fuckoff-huge spider monster looms before them when they finally crest the hill. “Ah. Of course.”

“How are we meant to fight something like that,” says Elissa, appalled, and Garrett thinks it’s not a great sign that the slayer of an archdemon is saying that.

“Why is it always spiders!” Varric complains.

Lora rounds on them, hands on hips, and is mirrored by Meli. “You’re still thinking about the rules!” she scolds. “Of course you can fight him, you can do anything here! You can make your own rules!”

“It’s not so easy for grown-ups, Sunshine⁠—” Hawke starts, but then he hears Leleiana go “hmm,” and when he turns around he finds that there’s suddenly a trebuchet full of burning projectiles next to her.

“...how,” he says flatly.

“See, Nightingale gets it!” Lora says. “My friend Nimbus would have told you ‘skill issue,’ Waffles. Get good.”

And really, what is there to do but embrace the insanity of the situation? He isn’t a mage the way Lora is a mage, but Leliana isn’t a mage at all. Whether it’s the true nature of the Fade or simply a product of Lora’s (and perhaps Meli’s) unshakable belief that she can do anything, it does seem like anything might be possible. At least for now.

And there is one thing Garrett always wished he could do…

The effect is instant. “Oh,” says Hawke, shaking out his new wings. “This feels weird.”

“Hooray! We can be dragon buddies!” Lora cheers. She turns into Opal, then grows from cat-size to the same towering height as Hawke. “Everyone should be dragons! Meli, you be a dragon too!”

"Okay!" says the spirit, and then there are three enormous dragons.

“What the shit!” curses Varric as he backs away.

Alistair and Elissa exchange disbelieving glances. Then Alistair shrugs. “Well. We can at least do something similar, right, love?”

“Madness,” says Elissa, and then there are two dragon-sized mabari standing where they just were. Leliana laughs in delight.

There’s a very strange look on Solas’s face as he watches the intoxication of Lora’s way of looking at the world overtake everyone. He doesn’t turn into a dragon or a Mabari, though. Instead, he raises his staff and summons a magical dragon made of dark clouds and arcing lightning.

“The shit you get me into, Hawke…!” Varric says through gritted teeth. Several enormous ballisate appear beside him, each Dwarven-enchanted. “You get ballista from me, that’s it!”

Carver is last. “Well, little brother?” Garrett asks smugly.

“Shut up, Garrett,” says Carver, and also turns into a gigantic mabari.

“CHAAAAARGE!” says Lora, and they do. The Nightmare, for all its accumulated power and influence, stands no chance.

And as Hawke is tearing into the centuries-old scourge of the Fade, he suddenly understands why Lora’s power and presence created a spirit of Play. He starts to laugh. The battle doesn’t feel brutal—isn’t brutal. Instead, each playful nip and bat at the Nightmare does more to eradicate its power than any amount of brute force ever could. As they start to laugh too, Varric’ bolts explode into showers of sweets, and Leliana’s launched stones turn to a rain of flowers. The rest of Hawke’s companions follow suit, with similar results.

“Kaboom!” says Lora, dropping a rain of glittering fireworks down on Nightmare’s head as it shrinks and shrivels under the barrage of playful attacks. “No more bad dreams! No more bad dreams!”

There’s nothing left when they’re done, panting and laughing as they stand in sun-bleached stone ruins overgrown by flowering vines. The dismal, sickly color and miasma is totally eradicated. There’s no sun, but it feels as if they’re standing under one regardless. Even the Black City in the distance seems a little less foreboding than it should be.

Lora reverts to her human self first, collapsing to the ground and rolling around as she laughs. “Again! Again!”

Hawke staggers a little as he reverts too, disoriented by the change, but shakes it off quickly. “I think once was enough, Sunshine,” he says, picking her up so that she won’t run off on a new adventure. They really need to get back to Adamant before someone sends word to the Inquisition that everyone is dead.

Meli comes back too, floating in midair and kicking her feet with delight. “Now you get it! Wasn’t that fun?”

“It was very fun,” says Leliana, unperturbed in a way Hawke deeply envies. “We need to return to Adamant, however. Lora, please open a way back.”

“Aww.” Lora pouts, but she doesn’t actually seem that upset. Instead, she turns toward the spirit she created. “Meli, will you come with us?”

“No, I’m staying here! Nighty left a lot of space, and I want to fill it with laughter! You can come visit me, though. And I’ll figure out how to visit your dreams too! I’m not good at it yet, since I was only born a few months ago, but I’ll try.”

“Okay!” Lora waves everyone closer. “Come here! I don’t need to open a gate, I can just take us right back, like normal.”

They’re returned to Adamant in a blink, and it doesn’t actually appear to have been that long since they left⁠—perhaps an hour at most. Clarel has been untied and is sitting at the desk with her head in her hands. Cassandra is pacing a hole into the floor. Stroud is rapidly sorting through documents. All three look up sharply when they reappear.

“You are alive!” Cassandra cries with profound relief. “Oh, thank the Maker. Lora, you cannot take people into the Fade without warning!”

“But we did a good job!” Lora protests. “Nighty went away, probably forever, except Wizzy says with spirits no one is really away forever. Meli will tell me if he comes back and starts being mean though.”

“The Nightmare demon is dead,” Hawke translates, suddenly exhausted. “Here Cass, you take her. I need to sit down.” He passes off Andraste’s Holy Headache, ignoring the way Cassandra glares at him for the nickname.

Clarel speaks up. “The Nightmare demon… is what?”

Elissa Cousland, Warden-Commander of Fereldan and the only true peer of Clarel in the room, steps forward with a dangerous smile. “Oh, allow me to explain,” she says. “I shall tell you exactly what you almost brought down on the heads of the Wardens. And then we can have a nice, long discussion on how you will fix it.”

Git Gud, Hawke

Chapter Text

Dorian does not startle when Solas storms into his favored reading nook in the library. Instead he looks up, indolent, to see the frantic but muted emotion on the elf’s face. There’s even a goblet of something offensively alcoholic in his hand—an event so rare that Dorian has never seen it before.

“You frequently bring your complaints to me,” says Solas tightly. “Now I will repay the favor.”

Dorian shuts his book with a decisive snap and takes up his wineglass instead. “By all means,” he says with the air of an interested gossip, “proceed.”

Solas paces around for a long moment. “Have you heard an accounting of the events at Adamant?”

“Oh yes. Yes indeed. In detail and from a variety of drunk compatriots. I’m pleased to see little Sunshine, terror of scholars everywhere, has driven you to alcoholism as well.”

“I refuse to accept that this is how reality operates now!”

Dorian snorts. “Oh? I’ll fetch a quill for when we arrive at the part where reality apologizes.”

It truly says something that his droll wit isn’t enough to earn its usual irritated glare right now. “We were taken physically into the Fade, survived only because that child believed we should, and proceeded to wage war on an entrenched spirit of near unmatched power using playtime. Gravity was optional, terrain was an opinion, and the enemy was crippled by a nickname.”

“‘Nighty’ was my favorite part,” Dorian opined. “Who but a spirit birthed from a seven-year-old could have spun up that one? And who would have believed it?”

Solas plows on. “And then—and then Leliana conjured a trebuchet by deciding siegecraft was suitably fun. She is not a dreamer! She is not even a mage! Varric did the same, and he’s a dwarf!”

“Shocking, certainly, but there’s no need to be racist my friend,” Dorian drawls.

Finally, Solas aims a suitably venomous glare at him as he paces a track into the stone. “Don’t be obtuse,” he snaps. “It is not prejudice, but fact. He is a dwarf, cut off from all magic, yet he directly manipulated the Fade. Even with her there, it should not… it should not have been possible.”

Satisfied with his progress so far, Dorian softens his tone. “Very little of what Lora does should be possible. And yet, here we are. If I had not believed Madame Hilde’s account of what it means to ‘write the rules of magic’ before, I certainly would now.”

Solas almost growls, but is still slightly too dignified for it. “Hawke turned into a dragon. The King and Queen of Fereldan turned into enormous Mabari. They started laughing when they should have been afraid—or worried, at least! I… I laughed too. This is unacceptable.”

“Progress! Next you’ll admit the cushions were tasteful.”

“The cushions were metaphysically irresponsible.”

“And yet tasteful.”

Solas stops pacing and downs at least half of the swill in his cup. “The Fade, for all its convoluted nature, is a place of rules,” he says forcefully. “Predictability. Cause and effect. Lora changed the rules the very moment she stepped foot in it. She unleashed a force of pure rule breaking. What am I meant to do with this!”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Dorian idly points out, slouching lower in his chair. “I think she has the right idea, anyway. We have enough fear demons, let’s populate the Fade with a few more pleasant denizens!”

That gets him another venomous glare. “Listen to me. The Veil felt optional. Spirits adapted instead of fracturing. I visited Wisdom for its council and it grinned at me. Grinned. Just by existing, Laughter has enabled it to learn… smirking.”

“Well don’t give her all the credit, I’ve been trying to teach the Fade sarcasm since I was an obnoxious little child myself.”

Had Solas not been as bald as a baby’s butt, Dorian imagines he would have been yanking his hair in frustration by this point. “If spirits begin choosing without losing themselves—if mortals can break ineffable rules without losing themselves in the process—then the categories I have relied upon my entire life are—“

“Outdated,” he interrupts succinctly. “Like Minrathous neck ruffs. Still charming, occasionally useful, mostly a choking hazard.”

He scores his third venomous glare of the afternoon. “This is not a fashion crisis, Pavus, it is the fundament of magic itself.”

“And the fundament of magic itself just learned how to play without burning the house down.” He swirls his wineglass again, just for fun. “You’re not angry it happened; you’re angry you didn’t plan and execute it yourself.”

Solas pulls up short in a way Dorian has never seen before. Well, not from him at least. He’s a difficult elf to outmaneuver in a battle of wits. “That is—“ he starts, then stops for a long moment. “—imprecise.”

“But accurate.” Dorian hides his satisfied grin behind a draught of wine.

After another pregnant pause, Solas looses a long, defeated sigh. “She invited two worlds to sit together without blood, without rituals, without even the most benign sacrifice—only permission resting atop the Fade’s a priori axioms. Do you understand how… how infuriatingly elegant that is?”

“I do, actually. That’s why I’m having wine about it.” He swallows another demonstrative mouthful.

“If her logic becomes a permanent axiom, if play-based metaphysics is possible for all mages even outside of her immediate presence, then tone will outweigh technique. Attention will replace sigils. Invitation will supersede control. One cruel joke and the field collapses. One kind word and it rebounds.”

“Ah,” Dorian sighs. “At last. A system where being decent is overpowered.”

Solas finally collapses into the chair across from him. “I am not opposed to decency. I am opposed to whim being a first principle.”

“Then stop calling it whim. Call it ‘chronotopic intent-based concordance’ and write a paper no one will read.”

Solas gives him a dry look. “You would read it.”

“Precisely my worry,” Dorian agrees with a sage nod.

Neither of them say anything for a time. Then, very quietly, Solas says, “She built a bridge where I have only ever seen a wall.”

“You’re still invited to cross it. You especially, given how much she likes you. And you, of all people, know how to walk between things others cannot.”

This time the look Solas gives him is half incredulous and half exasperated. “Wisdom said that, in different words.”

Dorian grins, and it’s very undignified. “While smirking, I imagine.”

“Appallingly.”

“Hey, boss,” the Iron Bull says casually to Hawke in the courtyard of Skyhold. Hawke, distracted by the many tasks still left to do after the enormous fallout of Adamant, grunts in acknowledgement and keeps puzzling over the map on the makeshift table. Many of the former Wardens have departed—some around Thedas, and a surprising amount to Lora’s home to serve her family for saving them—but many stayed on with the Inquisition, and they have more volunteers from Adamant beside. Where on earth are they going to put all the new recruits?

“Here are those reports from the Chargers you wanted.”

“Ah, thank you,” says Garrett, straightening up and taking them.

“By the way, I’m Tal-Vashoth now.”

It takes a moment for the words to process. Then Garrett looks at him sharply. “What?” he says, certain he misheard.

“Yeah…” Bull scratches the base of his horn. “The higher-ups heard about everything that went down at Adamant and that was the final straw, I guess. They tried to insist on kidnapping the kid. Wouldn’t listen to me when I told them that was the worst idea they’d ever had and would get us completely wiped off the map, so…”

Hawke is stunned. He saw this coming, of course, but not in exactly this manner. “So it’s… it was that easy? No more ties to the Qun for us, and you’re Tal-Vashoth now?”

Bull chuckles. “Ah, Boss, of course it wasn’t easy! I’ve thwarted six assassination attempts since I walked over from the Laughing Dragon. They’re reeeeeeal freaked out right now. I wouldn’t worry too much, though, Cullen and Leliana are tightening security.”

Hawke runs a hand over his face. “Bull, how could I possibly not worry about it?”

“Yeah, fair enough. Drinks later?”

“Maker, yes.”

One development that occurs in the background of the Warden-induced chaos has to do with the scale of the problem that is ‘curing all of those afflicted by the Taint.’ Lora is just one little girl, and there are many across the nations in need of healing. Hawke assumed there wasn’t much that could be done, but it turns out he was wrong.

“So ah…” Hawke looks at the strange assemblage: two dwarves (one of which is Varric’s ex-girlfriend), a man with an appearance Hawke has never seen before, and a blond man with an enormous sword and a narrow pink cravatte tied loosely around his neck. One of the dwarves (not the ex-girlfriend) is a slightly more known quantity; Dagna has been in Skyhold’s undercroft for a few weeks now, working on strange and eccentric projects. “Thank you for coming. I’m Inquisitor Garrett Hawke. Shall we begin with introductions?”

The strange man, dark-haired with narrow, dark eyes, bows respectfully. “I am Professor Zhang, not of this world. I teach Her Highness the construction of magical mechanisms and astronomy.”

The blonde man grunts. “Professor Strife. Also not from here. I teach ethics and magical biology, with a specialization in removing corrupted magibiological material.”

“I’m Dagna!” says Dagna with enthusiasm. “I’m the Inquisition Arcanist.”

“Bianca,” says the other dwarf. Her hood is up, and Hawke doubts she’ll be taking it down. “I’m a smith and inventor.”

Hawke nods. “I’m sure you’re all aware, but you’ve been gathered here to help with one problem: managing the volume of people who need Lora’s help in being cured of the blight. Frankly, this is all beyond me, but the Inquisition and the Chantry are willing to provide you with as many resources as you need. Just make the request to Harrett and it will be done.” He nods again. “Alright… well, have at it.”

Based on the intense chatter that begins as he departs, he thinks perhaps it isn’t quite so hopeless a prospect as he assumed.

There are four children playing in Skyhold’s courtyard⁠—Lora and three slightly older boys dressed in a very strange style. And by playing Hawke does, of course, mean that they’re attempting to set things on fire.

“Sunshine,” Hawke calls, approaching cautiously. All four have some sort of protective eye coverings and white outer coats. A strange red metal container sits close by. “What, ah… what are you doing?”

“Hi Waffles!” says Lora, waving enthusiastically. The coat sleeves are too big for her and flop back and forth over her hand. “These are my friends! We’re doing ‘speremints!”

“Experiments,” clarifies the boys with long brown hair currently holding a fire staff. “Hi Lord Inquisitor Garrett Hawke. I’m CJ, one of Lora’s friends. We came with Professor Strife. He’s our godfather.”

Suddenly everything makes more sense. “You don’t have to call me that. Hawke is fine.”

“Sure, Mister Hawke.”

The boy with red-brown hair and a clear dramatic aura tosses his bangs out of his eyes and says, “yes, yes, and my name is Genesis. Can we get on with the experiment?”

The third boy, who has short black hair, chides his friend. Or possibly brother. “Don’t be rude, Gen. Sorry Mister Hawke, he’s always like this. My name is Angeal. Don’t worry, we have all the safety equipment on hand. We’ve done lots of experiments and an adult only had to help us put out the fire once.”

If there hadn’t been a large group of people⁠—including multiple highly skilled mages⁠—hovering nearby and keeping an eye on the children, Hawke would have found that statement quite alarming. As it is, he only finds it mildly alarming.

“Ah,” he says, and decides that he likes his hair and beard at their current lengths. It is therefore a wise decision to retreat. Which he does. “Nice to meet you. Carry on, then.”

“…no,” says Hawke.

Josephine smiles pityingly. “I’m afraid it was not a request, Inquisitor.”

“We are not taking Lora to an Orlesian ball. That kind of stress would kill me before we could ever find the assassin.”

“We don’t have much of a choice,” says Cullen, who looks even more unhappy about the prospect than Hawke feels. “If Empress Celene is assassinated, Orlais will be plunged into even further chaos—chaos that Corypheus will no doubt exploit.”

Hawke growls and runs a hand through his hair. “Maker’s Breath. I can’t both secretly search for an assassin and babysit little miss ‘accidentally topples governments.’ Because she has, you know. Madame Hilde told me she didn’t even notice.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” says Leliana. “I’ve thought of that already. I contacted Celsus regarding the matter, and he stated in no uncertain terms that he would attend to ensure her good behavior.”

Hawke is pulled short from his outrage. “Did he really?”

“He did,” Josephine confirms. “He also promised to send his most talented weavers, tailors, and seamstresses. Fabric craft is a great source of pride for his people, and he intends to blend our fashion with their skills.’

This is all starting to sound so inevitable, unfortunately. “And under whose invitation are we attending?”

Josie waves her quill in a little circle. “Our own, thankfully. Andraste’s Child was invited to bless the negotiations, and thus we are invited as well.”

“The Inquisition is Lora’s plus one,” Leliana explains much more bluntly.

“…snrk,” says Hawke, hiding a grin behind his hand. He clears his throat. “And when is this ball?” he asks.

“In two months,” says Josephine. “We have already begun preparations. In the meantime, you are strictly forbidden from getting yourself killed.”

“Duly noted.”

It isn’t an unreasonable fear on Josephine’s part. After all, there’s still a lot to be done in the Western Approach alone, nevermind Crestwood or the Exalted Plains or any of the other regions that haven’t been cleared of their rifts. Hawke grimaces at the map on the table.

“Not to worry, Hawke,” says Leliana, noticing his grimace. She produces a paper covered in a dense block of text. “We plotted out the ideal route for you to take before arriving at Halamshiral. Lora’s abilities are quite a benefit to the Inquisition’s efficiency.”

She’s messing with him. He knows she is.

She’s also completely serious about the ideal route, so he takes the paper with a sigh. This is going to be a long two months.

Chapter Text

Hawke takes Vivienne with him to the Western Approach because he has the vain hope that sticking her and Lora into the same small radius will magically result in better Orlesian manners for the little girl. Vivienne seems torn between appreciating the help and hating the Western Approach, which Hawke thinks is fair.

“Ah, that reminds me,” she says to him as they’re skirting distastefully around another poison pool spewing toxic fumes. “Thank you for the assistance, my dear, Hilde was most efficient. My darling Bastien feels better than ever and has offered substantial support for the Inquisition. You will find him most accommodating when we arrive at the Winter Palace.”

Garrett blinks. “Who did what?”

Vivienne rolls her eyes, and no one will ever believe him if he tells them she did something so juvenile. Which is probably exactly why she does it. “You didn’t even read the paper you signed, did you.”

“Josephine hands me a lot of papers,” he says defensively. “I signed off on Madame Hilde doing something?”

“Yes, an emergency trip to Orlais, courtesy of Ameliora’s prodigious talent.”

Hawke thinks he remembers that paper now. “Wasn’t that request about teaching her Orlesian court etiquette?"

“Bastien is a most engaging tutor, my dear. Ameliora seemed to like him a great deal. And he is the head of the Council of Heralds, if you have forgotten.”

He had forgotten, but he’s not about to admit that. “Well, I’m glad to be of assistance with my signature, then,” he says, and lets that be the end of it.

“What,” says Hawke, “am I looking at?”

Little tableaus of violence spread out all across the aptly named Still Ruins. The Venatori agents that were here are dead (courtesy of Hawke and co’s manual effort), but the frozen, far older Tevinter figures fighting the demons are… neither dead nor alive, to Hawke’s eyes.

“An ancient Tevinter mistake,” says Dorian, sorting through papers left by the Venatori. “Frozen in ti—“ He stops and glances at Lora, who’s currently in dragon form and riding around on the top of Cole’s head. “Preserved,” he corrects. “Prerved for many ages, just for us to deal with! It’s classic Imperium hospitality, really. Don’t you feel lucky, Inquisitor?”

“Oh yes,” says Garrett dryly. “I just love dealing with ancient Tevinter mistakes. Like Kirkwall.”

Cole trots up to him, expression distant, as if he’s listening to far away words. “Waffles!” says Lora from atop his hat, “This place is weird. Like the place where we met Fifi, but if you took aaaaaaall the Strings and made them sit down and behave. Like they’re in time-out!”

Fifi being Fiona, of course, who serves alongside Ser Barris as one of Lora’s many tutors in Skyhold. Hawke really doesn’t like any comparisons being drawn to Redcliffe. He wasn’t there to experience it firsthand, and frankly he wants to keep it that way.

“Well that doesn’t sound very nice,” he says. “I don’t suppose you could just… close that rift right now?”

She turns her weird, faceted dragon eyes toward the frozen rift and contemplates it deeply. “Hmm… nope! It doesn’t exist right now. None of the statues exist either, except in a little spot in the Strings that says they could, maybe. If they wanted.”

Behind her and Cole, Solas makes a very interesting face.

“If they wanted?” Hawke asks delicately. These ruins have been frozen since before the first Blight. Surely if it was as easy to escape as a choice, they wouldn’t still be here.

“Well you don’t have to stay in time-out,” Lora explains as if it’s obvious. “Unless a grown-up makes you. Like my friend Woof’s mama. She’s a goddess, so she can make anyone stay in time-out. Even forever, if they’re really naughty!”

Meaning, Hawke suspects, that these ancient Tevinter men and women know they’re frozen. “Horrifying!” he says with false cheer. “Let’s free them from time-out, then.”

There are more Venatori deeper into the ruins—all handily dispatched, of course. Their leader drops a relic (a keystone), which leads into a hunt around the area for the rest of the keystones. It takes five to unlock the inner sanctum, where they find a staff sustaining the ancient magic that has frozen time.

Before anyone touches anything, Hawke has Lora translate the journal found within.

“Clever!” says Dorian. “This Sarpedon used the energy of the rift to seal the entire ruin and protect those outside it. Pity Tevinter’s current crop wouldn’t know a moral self-sacrifice if it bit them on the posterior.”

“A shame such a clever and principled researcher lost his life to another’s hubris,” Solas adds coolly. “Though I suppose that is Tevinter’s oldest tradition.”

Hawke grimaces at the staff. It’s topped with a skull, because of course it is. “We all understand what’s going to happen once I move this, right?”

“Unfortunately,” says Dorian. “Best get on with it so we can all go back to camp and forget it ever happened.”

Hawke sighs and takes the staff. The resulting blast nearly gives him his third concussion of the week, which would not have been helpful considering the effort he then has to expend fighting his way out of a demon-infested hellhole.

Really, they’re just lucky Lora is able to fly ahead and seal the rift before more than a few extra demons can crawl out of the Fade and try to disembowel them.

“Excellent work, everyone,” says Hawke, dripping sweat and leaning into his staff. Dorian and Solas look no better. Cole and Lora seem fine—Lora is back in human form, sitting on the spirit boy’s shoulders and wearing his hat, like a two-tier menace of knives and magic. “Let’s never speak of this again.”

Hawke hates the Exalted Plains. Even with the ceasefire between Gaspard and Celene’s forces in anticipation of the Winter Palace negotiations, it’s still awful. The Freemen of the Dales are harassing everyone, a Dalish clan is camped out in the middle of things, and oh yes, they have another local undead problem to deal with!

It’s not quite as bad as Fallow Mire, but it’s damn close and Hawke reserves the right to be extremely grumpy about it.

He keeps Lora with Harding or sends her back to Skyhold as much as possible, because frankly the Exalted Plains are too ugly for a child of any age. Demon violence is one thing, but the violence and carnage of a civil war is another. Even in a less ugly region, it takes continual effort to keep her from investigating things she definitely shouldn’t be investigating.

“I hate this,” Garrett grits out as he hurls fire at another wave of undead. “Hate this. So much. Not a fan.”

“We’re not exactly thrilled to be here either, Boss!” says Iron Bull, grunting as he cuts through three undead in one swing.

“Yeah, can we get a raise after this one?” Varric calls. He’s in the best mood of the lot because he gets to stand farthest from the shambling corpses.

“Hazard pay,” Blackwall opines as he rams an undead off the rampart with his shield. “Or let Sunshine blow everything to the Maker’s side.”

“Don’t tempt me!” says Hawke.

It takes longer than Leliana allotted to figure out that the whole undead problem was not only deliberate, but a plot from the Venatori specifically. Hawke doesn’t think she’ll begrudge them the delay. This, in his humble opinion, will win the Inquisition quite a bit of political clout within the halls of the Winter Palace. And hopefully restoring communication for both sides to Val Royeaux will help stem the flood of deserters.

“If only we were big enough assholes to call in Sunshine,” Varric says wistfully after they’ve finished putting down the undead and rescuing Celene’s troops from their own stupidity. Really, what kind of idiot activates ancient elven defenses they know nothing about and then expects to get out alive? Orlesian ones, evidently, and Hawke sighs.

“Hazard pay approved,” he says wearily. “At least Lora didn’t have to see any of this.”

Lora herself is busy with strange and arcane tasks of her own. When they make it back to a camp that smells of woodsmoke and fresh stew, she’s busily working away at a spinning wheel under the watchful eye of Madame Hilde⁠—and the curious eyes of Harding and the scouts. Hawke is relatively familiar with yarn spinning, but even he has to wander over curiously. He can’t see any flax or wool, only a velvet bag of stones in her lap.

“What are you doing, Sunshine?” he asks.

“Spinning!” she says, eyes alight with magic. Her hands move over a pink stone to feed the line of yarn, as if she’s pulling threads from it. “I’m making a present for the Empress so she’ll be nicer to you. Hilde let me pick and spin! I don’t get to weave it though, I’m not good at weaving yet.”

Garrett turns a questioning look on Hilde.

“It is called gemweave,” the healer explains. “A prized magical art of our Empire. Her Highness is spinning threads of rose quartz.”

Varric makes a faintly choked sound next to Hawke. “From a rock?”

Harding nods vigorously on Madame Hilde’s other side. “That’s what I said too! But she said it was magic.” The young dwarf holds up a full bobbin. The iridescent threads wrapped around it glimmer like they’ve been carved, impossibly finely, from stone. “She spun up this opal while you were gone!”

“Her Highness is quite good at it,” Hilde adds. “Spinning the threads takes a great deal of finely-tuned Sight, and not all have the skill. She is a natural.”

Lora giggles and kicks her feet. The sleek spinning wheel turns even faster.

“And… we’re giving this… to Celene?” Hawke checks slowly.

“She will receive a modest gift, yes. As will her cousin.” The older woman huffs and passes a hand over her apron. “The Inquisition will be outfitted with the same, and His Eminence and Her Highness will, of course, be dressed entirely in our finest.” A sly smile turns the corners of her normally taciturn lips. “I look forward to shocking your Orlesian allies into compliance.”

Weaving clothing from rocks is impressive, but Hawke privately thinks it will take more than that to wow the Orlesians. At least, until Lora takes him and his companions back to Skyhold for their first fitting a few days later.

An entire hall has been overtaken by launderers, spinners, weavers, designers, tailors, and seamstresses. Hawke’s own people practically hang off of Lora’s, salivating over the craft they’re witnessing in action. Bolts of cloth line the walls, some expected⁠—like cottons, silks, and velvets—and some shimmering with otherworldly light and color. The latter even sing, chiming softly in different pitches as they’re moved or folded. Dressforms line the wall, holding half-finished garments primarily in Inquisition colors: gold on black, with occasional hints of green. Hilde walks Garrett through the madness and he realizes that he vastly underestimated the ability of a magical Empire to create equally magical clothes. 

In his defense, Lora showed up in a muddy red jumper and striped shirt. It may have set his expectations too low.

“Mother!” A breathless woman runs up to them. After a delay, Hawke recognizes her as Laurel, Madame Hilde’s oldest daughter. She looks utterly thrilled to be involved. “We’re ready for the Inquisitor’s fitting.”

He’s unceremoniously shoved behind a privacy screen, suit piled into his arms, and told to dress. He obeys, and when he emerges they usher him onto a raised platform surrounded by mirrors. His eyes go wide when he sees himself, clad in a shimmering black greatcoat with fine gold details and a deep green shirt. It has to be, by far, the finest thing he’s ever worn; so fine that it almost makes him look like an actual competent leader.

“Inquisitor!” says Josephine behind him. Her hand is pressed to her face, and she looks so delighted that she might implode with joy at any moment. “You look incredible!”

“I… yes,” he says lamely, overwhelmed. Two tailors circle him, making adjustments to the fit. “I can’t believe it… wow.”

“The cut is Fereldan with Orlesian influence,” says Hilde, standing off to the side and watching the proceedings with a critical eye. “The fabric is ours. Gemweave is smoother than silk, lighter than linen, stronger than adamant, and as easy to enchant as the purest diamond. It will turn away even the most cunning assassin’s blade.”

Leliana joins, looking as sated as the cat who got the cream. “I consulted on all of the designs,” she purrs. “Lora’s handmaidens were a delight to work with. We will bring the court to its knees.”

“I can see why,” Hawke says, looking at himself in the mirror again. One of the tailors touches the gemweave panels of his coat, and suddenly they glitter like the finest polished quartz⁠—or, perhaps, like the night sky caught in a cut of fabric. “If this is for me… what is Princess Sunshine going to be wearing? Are we going to be making the Orlesians keel over?”

“Yes,” say Leliana and Josephine together.

“And you’re banned from seeing the finished product until the day of,” Hilde adds.

“Oh. Well, I look forward to it, then.” He smooths a hand over the coat one more time before he’s ushered back behind the screen and told to strip. The garments are whisked off for final alterations and he feels strangely disappointed. He won’t see any of this again until their final stop in Val Royeaux, at the chateau Josephine rented for their stay and preparations.

As a consolation, he settles in to watch each of his companions and advisors go through their own fittings. The consistent use of gold-on-black with hints of green creates a truly striking assemblage, and his friends are as awestruck as he was to see what the tailors and seamstresses have constructed for them⁠—each a unique yet unified design.

Cullen’s resembles his, though the jacket is cut more for a warrior than a mage, and he has black-steel plating incorporated. It broadens the line of his shoulders into something striking. Dark green gemweave shimmers like the living Fade in the inner lining of the coat, and his ink-black boots are polished to a mirror shine. He looks flustered just to be touching something so fine. “Well,” he coughs, examining his reflection. His cheeks are a shade of red Hawke is never going to let him live down. “Even the Orlesians won’t be able to criticize this.”

Josephine and Leliana receive dresses in similar cuts⁠—a fitted, squared neckline and a modestly full skirt⁠—personalized to their coloring and taste, and both are equally delighted. “The skirt is ingenious,” says Leliana, testing her range of motion. The gemweave shines like a tapestry of diamonds and emeralds as she moves. “Full, but easy to bustle up in an emergency, even by one person. I could fight a war in this.”

“It is so elegant!” Josie gushes, turning in a circle. A single outer layer of gemweave flows over the black velvet underskirt like water, sparkling white and green. The velvet bodice is embroidered with the Inquisition sun-and-eye, and the sleeves are made of a single, transparent layer of gemweave that matches the overskirt. “I can think of a half dozen arguments I will win just by wearing this!”

Cassandra blushes almost as hard as Cullen. They managed to disguise a cuirass as a bodice covered in black velvet embroidered with gold, and gave her a split A-line skirt with green and gold gemweave lining. A black bolero jacket with a high collar completes the look. When one of the seamstresses comments that they should add a ribbon of green gemweave to her usual braided crown for the event, she blushes harder. “If this truly turns away blades,” she says stiffly, “I will allow the ribbon.”

Varric and Dorian are equally delighted about their outfits⁠—a black gambler’s jacket with green embroidered waistcoat for Varric and a long black mage’s greatcoat over a green silk shirt for Dorian⁠⁠—and admire themselves shamelessly. “The Carta would kill me just for wearing this,” Varric says, grinning as he runs a hand over the gemweave waistcoat. “It feels like some kind of sacrilege that humans can make something out of stone better than dwarves.”

“Well, look at me,” Dorian purrs, holding the coat open to admire its glimmering gemweave lining. “The Magisterium would seethe with jealousy if they could see me now. Do you think Lora’s people take commission?”

Bull and Blackwall don’t react in quite the same way. Blackwall looks uncomfortable in his black cavalry coat with double-lined gemweave-on-velvet paneling and a dark green lining, but his spine is straight and his shoulders draw back the moment he sees himself. “This is…” He adjusts his leather gloves. “Far too fine for the likes of me. But I suppose that’s the point.”

Bull’s coat is split at the hip, layered over fine velvet breeches and high black boots. He somehow managed to convince the seamstresses that he doesn’t need a shirt, so instead he just wears a deep green gemweave sash high on his torso. Black gemweave lines the interior of his coat, shimmering when he moves. “I’ll be honest, Boss, Orlesian balls aren’t my usual battlefield,” he says, “but damn, at least I’m outfitted for it!”

Solas’s coat is cut in a scholar’s fashion, double-layered gemweave-on-velvet all over and lined with green silk. Fine gold patterns at the collar, sleeves, and hem only appear when he moves, like constellations against the night sky. On top of that, a green gemweave sash ties everything together, and Hawke strongly suspects it’s a product of Lora’s favoritism. They lock eyes through the mirror. “Do you think Lora could learn this degree of subtlety from her people, Inquisitor?” he asks dryly. The tailors laugh. Even Madame Hilde cracks a smile. “I shudder to think of what she could do with it.”

“Let’s pray she only figures it out once she’s old and wise,” says Hawke.

Sera… endures her fitting. Her cropped tailcoat is black velvet with green lining that flashes through the split sleeves. The pleated black midlength skort gives it a touch of femininity without impeding her movements, and a hint of green lining peeks out from her matte black boots. “Anyone else would look like a poncy git,” she says, tugging at the collar. “I just look like… me, yeah? It’s weird.” Then she paws at the skort. “Well, plenty of room for knives, I’ll give them that!”

Cole just looks vaguely confused but tolerant of the black velvet poet’s jacket and fine linen pants they stick him in. His outfit is perhaps the simplest⁠—reasonable, considering Hawke doubts anyone will remember he was there⁠—but he too has a sash of green gemweave tied around his hips. They even managed to create an appropriate hat for him. It has feathers and a ribbon of gemweave and everything. “It sings just by being,” he marvels, playing with the sash. “Or when I ask. I like it!”

Vivienne is the last, and she glides out from behind the privacy screen with a smirk like she’s just won the entire Game. The silhouette of her dress is by far the most fitted and splits in two places at the front. The back flows into a short velvet train, and a light gemweave overskirt matches the paneling along the bodice. She alone has a true Orlesian collar⁠ of embroidered black silk framed in gold. “My dear Inquisitor,” she purrs as she examines herself in the mirror and directs the seamstresses, “the court will not be able to say a single word against us. I can only imagine what glorious scene Ameliora will create when she arrives.”

Garrett smiles and pictures Orlesians toppling like flies in the face of overwhelming fashion superiority. “You know, Vivienne? Neither can I.”

Chapter Text

Halamshiral is cold, and Hawke is glad for the warmth of his new coat. He enters the courtyard with his companions, heralded by a contingent of the finest Inquisition soldiers. The Orlesians quiet slightly as they arrive, murmuring behind fans and masks as they scrutinize each person from head to toe, looking for any flaws. The ripple of attention slowly grows stronger as their spectators begin to realize the unique finery of their clothing.

Gaspard de Chalons, cousin to the Empress who argues for his own right to the throne, is at an advantage over Celene. He is able to saunter up to Hawke immediately, unburdened by the requirements to stand within the grand palace and greet his guests.

“Inqusitor Hawke,” he says warmly. “We meet at last! I have heard much about you. Bringing the rebel mages into your ranks, and the rebel Templars?” He laughs. “Brilliant! Your work in the Exalted Plains was also a great help to me, and I thank you.”

“The Inquisition was more than happy to aid all those besieged by undead in the Exalted Plains,” Garrett says smoothly, mentally thanking Josephine for her thorough preparations on who might be saying what and how he should (probably) respond if he didn’t want to get them into a political snarl. “It was nasty business for all.”

“Yes, indeed,” says Gaspard. “I am not a man who forgets his friends, Inquisitor. You help me, I’ll help you. And as friends, perhaps there is a matter you could undertake this evening?” He lowers his voice and warns Garrett about Briala and her agents. Hawke makes suitable noncommittal noises until he raises his voice again and changes the topic.

“Where is the Holy Child?” he asks. “I have been eager to meet this little one so blessed by Andraste.”

And Hawke doesn’t know if someone (probably Leliana) planned this or if it’s mere coincidence, but that is the moment her carriage arrives. It’s fine, but no finer than the ones Josephine procured for the rest of the Inquisition. The curtains on the inside are drawn, though a mysterious glow illuminates them softly from behind. Madame Hilde and the Captain of their Royal Guard—the Praetorians, Hawke was told—climb down to flank the carriage doors. Both are dressed finely in clothing that straddles their own regalia and the Inquisition’s.

The carriage door opens, and Celsus emerges first. Hawke blinks as he sees the man fully dressed up for the first time. He’s draped in a jaw-dropping amount of pale gold and white gemweave, effortlessly holding the end of his toga and moving around without shifting it out of place. The fabric doesn’t chime so much as hum, like a soothing melody. A simple crown of golden laurel rests on his close-cropped white hair. He steps down and smiles, holding a hand out to the interior of the carriage.

When Lora steps out, Hawke doesn’t just blink—he stops breathing in shock. That isn’t his little Sunshine, who rolls around in mud and yells at the top of her lungs and rides bears for fun. That’s a Princess. Maybe even a holy one.

Lora smiles calmly at her grandfather, unruly red-orange curls tamed into a sleek chignon and decorated with pale gems carved into flowers and stars and lit softly from within. A matching circlet of gold laurel rests on her brow as well, though gemstone flowers have been added until it resembles the most expensive flower crown ever made. Her gemweave dress is an iridescent white, glowing like a pure spirit of the Fade. It drapes in the fashion of her home, and the loose top flows down in the back to form a long train. Tiny, pale stones added to the dress only serve to heighten the effect of the gemweave. A light gemweave veil strewn with diamonds, tucked into the curve of her chignon, extends even farther than the train.

The courtyard goes utterly silent as the Orlesians stop to watch her glide into their midst, holding the crook of her grandfather’s elbow. It’s the kind of silence that happens when an entire group forgets it can make sound—an instinct older than mere etiquette. Masks tilt, fans flutter half-open, but no one breathes a word. The glow of Lora’s gemweave ripples across the polished stone, painting their silks in starlight.

Somewhere at the back of the crowd, a single voice whispers Andraste, and the word spreads like a gasp.

Lora doesn’t beam when she spots Hawke, only smiles calmly, serene as the eye of a storm. It should have been jarring, but he just finds his chest swelling with vicarious pride.

“Maker,” Gaspard chokes out next to him. Hawke isn’t sure whether he’s swearing or praying.

“Inquisitor,” Celsus greets first, bowing slightly. Lora executes a perfect curtesy.

“Your Eminence, Highness,” he says, bowing back. “You both look wonderful.”

“Thank you, Lord Hawke,” Lora says graciously.

“Might I introduce Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons?” he says, holding back a grin as he gestures to the stunned man. “Grand Duke, this is Emperor Celsus Caesar Perdel and his granddaughter, Princess Ameliora Octavia Perdel, the Child of Andraste.”

“Charmed,” Gaspard manages, bowing deeply. “Your Orlesian is impeccable. Might I ask… from what Empire do you come?”

Celsus smiles. “You may. We come from far away, across the seas, and would not have involved ourselves had the Princess not become entangled with these events. Ah, but the Maker acts in mysterious ways, no?”

Gaspard actually bows again, which is truly stunning. “From all I have heard, we have been blessed beyond measure by her grace and mercy.”

“Indeed. She is a gracious and merciful child, and a credit to her House.”

Hawke clears his throat. “The air is quite cold out here, and the court is waiting. I believe it is a good time to make our entrances.”

“An excellent idea,” says Gaspard. “Please, allow me to show you the way.”

Josephine and Vivienne look especially proud as they follow Hawke toward the entrance into the palace. He doesn’t blame them—they both spent weeks coaxing, cajoling, and bribing her into Princess-like behavior, and it pays off in the form of nobles parting like a curtain before them. The staring is shameless, but so dumbstruck that it’s hard to take offense, as if these courtiers can’t even think of turning their attention elsewhere. Even the music drifting out to them from inside seems to hesitate, waiting to see if it, too, should bow to her.

Inside, conversations stutter to a halt as the Orlesians in the vestibule catch their first glimpse of Andraste’s Child. Even the herald nearly breaks court etiquette as he collects the titles he’s meant to be reading off, too busy staring in awe at Celsus and Lora. She smiles at him beneficently, and he remembers his manners.

Gaspard presents himself to the court first, followed by the Inquisition’s members. Hawke goes last while Celsus and Lora linger in the vestibule, waiting to reveal themselves in a single glorious moment. Hawke smiles ruefully as he descends the stairs. Once Celsus and Lora are announced, no one will remember he or his retinue are even here. He composes his expression as the herald bleats out his titles.

“Presenting Lord Inquisitor Garrett Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, Guardian of Andraste’s Child, Leader of the Inquisition, Vanquisher of the rebel mages of Ferelden, crusher of the vile apostates of the Mage Underground, Shepherd and leash of the wayward Order of Templars, purger of the heretics from the ranks of the faithful!”

“This guy writes better fiction than I do,” Varric mutters.

Hawke delivers an infuriatingly Orlesian-coded message about the assassin to Celene and her cousin Florianne—which she doesn’t seem to take all that seriously—and then ascends the stairs to wait for the main event.

The murmur of the court softens to a hush as Celsus and Lora appear at the threshold. It stays quiet as they descend the stairs and begin to cross the ballroom floor, gemweave garments glowing far more grandly than any of the sumptuous chandeliers hung above them.

“Presenting—”

The herald falters, just for a breath, before finding his voice again. “Presenting Lord Celsus Caesar, Emperor from across the sea, Head of the Cardinal Legions, Sworn of Wisdom, and grandfather to Her Imperial Highness Ameliora Octavia, First Mage of House Perdel.”

More than a few guests gasp at his titles and exchange stunned looks behind their masks, but that’s nothing compared to what follows.

“Presenting Lady Ameliora Octavia, First Mage of House Perdel, Blessed of the Thirteen Virtues, Chosen of Andraste, Crown Princess and heir to the Perdelesian Throne, granddaughter of the Virtuous Emperor Celsus Caesar Perdel and the Virtuous Empress Julia Atossa Perdel, daughter of Caius Julius Perdel, High King of the West, and Fera Tullia Perdel, High Queen of the East.”

Hawke swears he could hear a pin drop in the stunned silence, which is filled only by the gentle, melodic chime of crystal and gemweave as Lora glides across the floor like a vision dressed in moonlight. The long train flows behind her instead of dragging like any mundane fabric⁠—and it, too, sings. Her eyes glow with power; stars twinkle in her hair. And her golden shoes are, miraculously, still on her feet.

Celene’s eyes are wide behind her mask as the two ascend the stairs to stand before her, followed by Hilde and Septimus as their attendants, but her regal comportment never bends. Celsus bows, but not deeply; Lora executes a curtesy so perfect Hawke swears Josephine has to bite back a sob.

“Hail to you, Empress Celene of Orlais,” says Celsus, voice rich and sonorous from long practice speaking to courts and assemblies. “Though it would be false to set aside my titles, I stand here not as an Emperor, but as a grandfather. Princess Octavia is too young to navigate affairs of state without a tutor. Some might unwittingly take advantage of her inexperience and dishonor both parties.”

“Indeed, Emperor from beyond the sea,” says Celene with the faintest tremble to her voice. “We applaud the consideration you show for us, and for Andraste’s Child as our honored guest.”

Celsus smiles in a way that says both ‘I approve’ and ‘I win.’ “As the Princess is honored here, so too does she honor these admirable proceedings, undertaken in good faith, with a gift for the participants.”

He gestures for Hilde to step forward first. “Our people pride themselves in both magic and in craft. Gemweave is among our most treasured arts. For you, Empress of Orlais, the Princess herself spun threads of opal and rose quartz  and applied the final enchantments to create this Imperial shawl. The style was favored by my late Empress.”

All eyes fix upon the garment Hilde unfolds. It glimmers like rose-tinted moonlight, finer than even the most prized silk. It chimes softly as it moves. The hands of the attendant who takes it on Celene’s behalf tremble slightly in awe.

“We thank you for such a generous and thoughtful gift,” says Celene. She even manages to sound calm about it.

Then Celsus gestures for Septimus to step forward. “And for you, Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons, the Princess spun threads of sapphire and hematite to weave into a capelet suited to a knight and enchanted for the same. The style is favored by my Praetorian Guard, elite protectors of the Imperial family.”

His message is plain to the court: equal in splendor, different in meaning. The capelet, deep blue shading to silvered steel, gleams faintly in the lamplight. Its chime is like tempered metal struck once and left to ring. Septimus presents it, also drawing attention to the similar capelet he is wearing.

Gaspard accepts the garment himself. “A kingly gift,” he says, evidently shocked out of any pretense or arrogance. He bows to Lora for the third time that night. “I thank you, little Princess.”

Lora smiles at him. “You’re welcome, Grand Duke.” She reaches up to once again grasp her grandfather’s arm. He offers it without hesitation, folding her tiny hand into the crook of his elbow. Together they ascend the stairs at a regal pace, leaving the rest of the arriving nobles behind them to be utterly forgotten even as they’re still being announced.

Under other circumstances, Hawke has no doubt the two royals would have been immediately swarmed by the aristocracy, but this… it wasn’t just a presentation at court. It was an earth-shattering revelation of nigh-mythic power, skill, and influence. The Game was utterly broken with each step they took across the floor to reach Celene. Hawke falls in beside Celsus as the Orlesian nobles watch but keep their distance, at a loss for what it means to play the Game with the sovereigns from across the sea.

“Well done, Princess Octavia,” says Garrett in a low voice, lightly teasing.

“Thank you, Lord Inquisitor," she says primly, eyes forward and chin lifted regally. “I am very good at being a Princess when I want to be.”

He stifles a laugh, clearly hearing the implied ‘I just usually don’t want to be.’

“You are indeed, my dear,” says Celsus with the faintest brush of dryness. He knows her proclivities just as well as Hawke does. “When you want to be. Come, let us thank your tutors.”

Josephine is standing with Leliana, Cullen, Vivienne, and an old man who Hawke assumes is Duke Bastien. Josie, bless her, looks perfectly serene to a stranger’s eyes… but to her friends, she looks about half a heartbeat away from fainting with joy. Everyone else radiates some mixture of pride and relief, as if they’ve just witnessed a very polite miracle.

“Well done, my dear,” says Vivienne, bestowing Lora with a truly warm smile. “I knew you had it in you. That curtsey was perfect.”

“Thank you, Madame de Fer,” says Lora, dropping into another, much higher curtsey. Hawke vaguely recognizes it as the gesture for gratitude to a teacher or elder. “And thank you, Duke Bastien. Your instruction was most illu⁠—illunim… it was really good.”

A ripple of laughter passes through the group.

Bastien, head of the Council of Heralds, bows deeply to the Princess from across the sea. “I could not have put it better myself, Your Highness.”

Lora beams, pure sunlight in a palace of darkness and lies. Hawke catches sharp whispers cutting through the nearby crowd as the realization spreads—Bastien de Ghislain, the untouchable head of the Council of Heralds, has been secretly tutoring Andraste’s Child. Nobles clutch at their fans like they’re lifelines; masks turn just slightly as gossip blooms like wildfire and spreads around the ballroom with an equal speed.

Hawke grins outright. Take that, you conniving snakes.

Bastien straightens, the faintest trace of mischief in his dignified smile. “Come along, Your Highness,” he says. “My honorable colleagues on the council are most eager to make your acquaintance.”

Celsus inclines his head with the gracious weight of an emperor who already knows he’s won. “We would be delighted,” he says.

Leliana pulls Hawke aside, letting Cullen, Josephine, and Vivienne follow after the royals. His other companions have already dispersed, spreading through the palace to network, guard, or gossip (or even all three at once) in the Inquisition’s name.

“Hawke,” she says in a low voice, “what did Gaspard tell you?”

Garrett affects a casual posture and murmurs back. “He pointed the finger at Ambassador Briala.”

Leliana hums. “She is certainly up to something, but the best place to strike at Celene is from her side. There is an ‘occult advisor’ you must investigate, an apostate who charmed Celene and the court as if by magic. I’ve had dealings with her in the past. She is ruthless and capable of anything.”

His spymaster glances around for a moment before leaning in and lowering her voice even more. “You would know her as Flemeth’s daughter.”

Hawke’s grimace is automatic. That can’t be good. “Why not tell me in the War Room?”

“I did not suspect her until we arrived. She has secured powerful friends since last I was here. It’s a very… abrupt change.” She lightly touches his arm. “Both leads point toward the guest wing. Start there.”

Then she saunters away, gemweave overskirt glimmering in the low light as she melts seamlessly back into the court. Hawke sighs and thinks mournfully, so much for enjoying the show. He casts a glance to where Lora has disappeared with Bastien into a side wing, and hears a ripple of adult laughter accompanied by a familiar giggle.

Cole stands at the edge of the candlelight nearby, invisible to all but Hawke. “Go tell Sunshine to slow down,” he murmurs fondly, straightening his lapels. “She’s winning the Game too fast for me to keep up.”

Cole smiles, eyes shadowed by his fancy hat. “She doesn’t mean to win. She just keeps giving until there’s nothing left to fight over, falling, fond and fanciful.”

Then he disappears like Leliana, melting away into the twilight anonymity of the Orlesian throng, and Hawke departs for the guest wing with the sound of Lora’s magic trailing after him.

An approximation of Lora's outfit. I honestly don't yet have the skill to do it justice lmao

Chapter Text

The palace hums like a hive as Hawke schmoozes his way toward the guest wing, pausing to smile and flatter whenever too many eyes linger on him. Even the walls seem to pulse with excitement. The Orlesians’ chatter and laughter blends awe, ambition, and envy disguised as admiration into an electric mix.

Hawke threads his way through it all, taking keen note of every scrap of gossip. Nearly all circles back, inevitably, to the little girl he once chased around the Hinterlands as she attempted to befriend the wildlife.

“Have you seen her?” says a breathless comtesse to her friend.

“Seen whom?”

“If you’re asking, you haven’t. Come, quickly! She must still be in the ballroom with Duke Ghislain!”

They rush off in a swirl of silk and taffeta.

Another says, “Did you see the way her gown glowed? Not by candlelight, but from within! If Andraste herself came down from the Maker’s side, I could not have imagined her in a more fitting gown.”

“I heard it wasn’t sewn, but sprouted from a chant.”

“It sings when she moves, like a thousand silver bells. I heard it myself.”

“They say the Child wove it from moonlight.”

“Ridiculous! Starlight, surely. You simply haven’t seen it as closely as I did.”

Hawke discreetly rolls his eyes. Celsus announces exactly what gemweave is made from, yet they’re inventing stories five minutes later.

“If Andraste’s Child tires of the Inquisition, the empress will surely spare no cost wooing her into the court,” says a passing count to a marquis.

“She would be a fool not to. The child is seven and made Madame de Fer and Duke Ghislain look understated.”

Hawke passes through the vestibule, heading for the Hall of Heroes. Everywhere he turns, the same words echo: Child, Emperor, gemweave. The air is so unified that he can’t begin to imagine how deeply this night will be impressed onto the Fade.

“Imagine!” gushes a duchess by the stairs. “Spinning gems into silk! Even Tevinter has not accomplished such a feat.”

Her friend scoffs. “Of course not! Such a craft obviously needs divine blessing. You saw the light around Andraste’s Child. No mortal thread glows like that, not even through the most vile blood magic.”

“My aunt swore the light healed her rheumatism.”

“Your aunt’s rheumatism ‘heals’ whenever she sees a handsome man.”

“Then it must have been the Emperor from across the sea who cured her!”

The duchess and her friend titter madly behind their fans. Hawke resists the impulse to cringe. No one, apparently, escapes the Orlesian appetite—not even an elderly widower escorting his holy granddaughter.

He snags a glass of wine from a passing tray and then drifts toward the portraits in the near-empty Hall of Heroes, eavesdropping on some elven servants as he ‘peruses.’ They speak of a package in an upper wing of the guest room, and he makes a mental note as he wanders from the hall, back into a more crowded area.

An out of place splotch catches his eye; there’s blood smeared thinly on the polished floor. He’s careful not to stare as he wonders how no one else has noticed—or if the Game requires them to pretend they haven’t. A masked marquis latches onto him before he can investigate.

“Lord Inquisitor!” the tipsy man says. “You simply must tell me where your tailors procured that stunning fabric in your coat. The accents, the lining—it is this new gemweave, surely?”

Hawke pastes a smile over his impatience. “You have an excellent eye. It was a gift from the Princess’s personal retinue, woven by her handmaidens. Truly one of a kind, and I am honored to wear it.”

“I must speak with your ambassador, then!” the marquis cries, and hurries off to bother Josephine instead.

Another pair of elven servants slip away from the main room, but not out of eavesdropping range. He sips his wine as he listens to them from the shadows. So, no one has come out of the servant’s wing, and Briala was expecting some sort of pickup? Perhaps Gaspard was onto something.

It doesn’t take him long to find the cylinder seal left for the ‘Ambassador,’ which provides him with a list of servants that have not returned from some task she assigned them. He moves into the gardens after tucking it into an inner pocket. Immediately, he is hailed by Empress Celene’s ‘public faces:’ three noble ladies in identical masks that Leliana and Josephine made him memorize until they haunted his sleep.

“My Lord Inquisitor,” says one warmly. “We have come with a message from the Empress.”

“Oh?” he asks.

“She thanks you for escorting the blessed Child,” says another. “Her holy and innocent prayer has brought all the comfort of Andraste. When negotiations are concluded, she will pledge her full support to the Inquisition.”

Garrett swirls his wineglass. “And I’m sure she wouldn’t mind my assistance in defeating Grand Duke Gaspard.”

“Oh!” says the third, as if shocked by the assertion. “This is not meant as a bargain, by any means, Inquisitor!”

“The support of the Empress is not conditional. It will be yours once the negotiations are concluded,” the first adds.

“The Empress is the most skilled diplomat in Thedas. Gaspard is hopelessly out of his depth,” the second concludes.

Hawke doesn’t believe them for a moment, but he smiles anyway. “Wonderful to hear. I look forward to working with Orlais’s finest soon.”

They curtsey as one and glide away, disappearing toward the ballroom. He waits a breath before he continues following the trail of bloodstains. It ends at the wall⁠—no, up it. He realizes suddenly that he’s going to have to climb a trellis and hope no one is watching. 

“Josephine,” he mutters, setting down his half-full wineglass, “I am so sorry.” 

He goes straight for it, abandoning all grace for speed and silence. No outraged gasps follow him when he rolls onto the second floor, so he thinks that he might even have succeeded.

He knows he can’t be gone for too long, but with Lora and Celsus holding the Orlesians’ attention he doesn’t have to rush so much as… politely hurry. A clever application of Veilfire opens a hidden study that smells of wax and dust and holds incriminating papers. He gathers them up and proceeds into the Grand Library, which makes him want to sneeze less and holds much of the same.

The first bell tolls just as he’s sliding back down the trellis. He takes a breath and dusts off his coat, looking around to see if anyone noticed—and somehow, it seems no one has. They were all too absorbed by their own steps within the Game to see. Except, of course, for Dorian, who’s grinning across the garden at him like a little shit.

“Well then,” says Hawke, and casually takes up his wineglass again.

“Subtle!” says the Tevinter as they fall in together and head back to the ballroom.

Garrett elbows him.

The second bell tolls as they’re about to enter the ballroom⁠ (fashionably late, of course⁠) but they’re interrupted just as Garrett reaches for the doorhandle. 

“Well, well, well… what have we here?”

The rhythmic click of heel on stone heralds the very same ‘occult advisor’ Hawke has been looking for. Dorian nods to him and peels away, leaving Hawke to speak with Flemeth’s daughter Morrigan alone. As she is, unquestionably, Flemeth’s daughter: they share many mannerisms and the same air of raw cunning, worn like a favored shawl that hides a poisoned dagger.

She semi-mockingly lilts his titles before asking, “What could bring such an exalted creature here to the Imperial court? Do even you know?”

“I’m here for the Princess,” he says, matching her tone. “If you don’t keep an eye on her, she tends to topple governments without noticing.”

Morrigan’s lips curve in a smirk as she leads him away from the doors. “Oh, she has been doing much toppling, I assure you. I deem it would be more effective if you kept an eye on her while close, rather than hunting through all the dark corners of the palace. But perhaps you and I hunt the same… prey?”

Hawke tucks his hands behind his back. “Perhaps. Leliana told me about you, ‘Occult Advisor’ Morrigan.”

“Tis flattering to know she remembers me,” Morrigan says, and Hawke is surprised to find that he can’t tell if she means it or not⁠—which probably means that she does. “The Inquisition and Andraste’s Child have drawn much of the attention away from where it should be.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the unwelcome guest I recently found and killed within these very halls.” She arches a single perfect brow. “An agent of Tevinter.”

He hears Varric’s voice in his head⁠—Well, shit.

“So I offer you this, Inquisitor: a key found on the Tevinter’s body.” She presses a small silver key into his hand and tilts her head meaningfully. “I cannot leave Celene’s side long enough to search. You can.”

Hawke considers his options and the woman standing before him. Ultimately, he decides to extend a sliver of trust in return for the key. “It leads to the servant’s quarters, I suspect. Ambassador Briala has a… situation on her hands.”

Based on the way Morrigan smirks, he thinks it was the right choice. “The ambassador does have eyes and ears everywhere, does she not? Proceed with caution, Inquisitor.” She leads him back toward the ballroom. “Enemies abound, and not all of them aligned with Tevinter.”

She disappears in a swirl of perfume and velvet skirts, leaving him to scan the room for friends and enemies alike. His eyes catch on Lora at once, shining like a pure star in the midst of the smoky and shadowed halls. Leliana is nowhere to be seen at the moment, so he decides to check on Sunshine first. If he’s lucky, someone will tell him what political havoc she’s accidentally wreaked in his absence.

Her earnest little voice becomes distinct as he draws near, weaving through the crowds. She peters off from a lengthy description of how boring geometric proofs are, coughing lightly. Hawke knows that sound; she’s been joyfully talking someone’s ear off without stopping for water. He starts searching for a drink suitable for children even as she turns to Celsus.

There’s no need for his search. Lora has barely uttered the words “Grandfather, I’m thirsty,” before an elven servant is at her elbow with juice in a gilded cup sized for a child’s hand. Lora blinks at it, surprised, before breaking into a wide smile. “Thank you!” she chirps, taking it carefully and studying the elf with frank curiosity. The servant begins to retreat, then pauses as the little girl makes a small, unmistakable gesture with her free hand.

Kneel.

The poor woman freezes, uncertainty flickering across her face. Kneeling before a guest is always dangerous ground. Lora repeats the gesture, a little more insistently. “You’re too tall!” she says, in the tone of someone announcing a perfectly obvious fact.

“Princess⁠—” Josephine starts, alarm sharpening her voice. Hawke lengthens his stride, heart kicking. He’s already rehearsing apologies in his head. Every one of them is doomed to failure.

The servant hesitates, then slowly lowers herself to her knees, eyes cast down.

Before anyone can intervene, Lora does something so Lora that Hawke nearly trips over his own feet. She reaches up, pulls a jeweled hairpin from her own head—one crowned with a delicate gemstone buttercup, glowing gently from within—and tucks it into the servant’s dark curls.

“Tah-dah!” she says, pleased. “It looks so pretty on you! What’s your name?”

The servant touches the pin with a trembling hand. “E–Elisia,” she whispers.

“Thank you for the juice, Elisia,” says Lora, beaming. “That was so fast! You’re really good at your job. You can be tall again, if you want.”

Elisia rises slowly, and Hawke can already see the Orlesians focus on her like a pack of ravenous wolves confronted with an injured rabbit. She won’t last a day⁠—he’s certain of it. Someone will demand the gift from her. Someone else will demand the same, even if it has already been stolen. They will demand to know why she, a mere servant, was favored when they were not. She will be harassed, beaten, cast out, even killed. All because Lora dared to smile upon her as an equal.

Hawke sees Orana in her. He’s not certain he can protect this woman the same way, but he can at least try.

Celsus steps forward first, before anyone has done more than take a breath. Lora is already turning away, resuming her conversation with a wide-eyed duchess, when he regards the young elven servant. “Young lady,” he says, voice just as warm and calm for her as it was for the Empress, “should anyone trouble you over my granddaughter’s gift, please send word to the Inquisition. Gifts matter a great deal to our people.”

The words drop like stones into still water. Ripples of shock move through the court—too subtle for the untrained eye, but Hawke feels them, sees the way fans falter and backs stiffen. It’s a breathtaking checkmate, executed so elegantly that even Elisia sees its brilliance. She drops into a curtsey that’s too deep, but no one notices. They’re all busy reeling from the Emperor’s simple declaration, even as he himself turns away to resume listening to his granddaughter’s chatter.

The strangest urge to laugh nearly overtakes Garrett, but he manages to choke it back. Still, he fears he’s grinning like a loon when he joins the circle of his friends and companions as they attend to Lora’s impassioned explanation of why she dislikes geometry lessons.

Too many triangles, evidently. He doesn’t blame her at all.

“Are you having fun, Princess?” he asks when there’s a lull. Her juice cup is empty. So is his wineglass.

She beams at him. “Lots! Are you?”

He laughs. The papers in his coat don’t feel heavy at all. “Lots.”

Chapter Text

In the interest of discretion, and after handing over the papers to Leliana, Hawke chooses three of his companions to accompany him into the servants’ quarters: Solas, Cassandra, and Varric. There’s no need for them to do more preparation than picking up their weapons before they venture in. Even Cassandra’s dress is built for battle, and the gemweave may provide better protection than their usual armor.

They don’t have to look long to find the bodies. “These must be the elves Briala was looking for,” Hawke observes. “We know they didn’t arrive all at once. Whoever picked them off is still here.”

The kitchens are a slaughterhouse. Cassandra grips the hilt of her sword and seethes. “Someone will be held accountable for this.”

A trail of blood leads from the kitchens into a moonlit courtyard, where they find a dead emissary from the Council of Heralds. “Does this guy seem out of place to anyone else?” Varric mutters, gripping Bianca and looking around warily. Hawke crouches beside the corpse and frowns at the dagger buried in the man’s back.

“Is that… the Chalons family crest on the hilt?” he says. His eyes narrow. It could be the grand duke’s doing, of course, but what kind of sloppy assassin leaves a piece of glaring evidence like that? Something doesn’t sit right.

There’s no time to think about it as a woman’s scream splits the air. Hawke and his companions sprint toward her, but she’s barely entered into their line of sight before a harlequin assassin cuts her down. Venatori agents spill into the courtyard behind him, but the masked killer vaults to an upper balcony and vanishes into the dark.

“Dammit!” Hawke growls, ruthlessly slaughtering through the agents. He checks on the elven woman when they’re dead, but it’s far too late to help her. He sighs and closes her terrified eyes.

“The Venatori were watching,” Solas observes, mouth pressed into a tight line.

“They’re organized,” Hawke agrees.

It’s a long and irksome fight to reach the grand apartments and the harlequin assassin who disappeared into them. Garrett’s anger builds with every corpse they find beneath the hedges and trellises. What a waste, he thinks, surrounded by death and luxury. What a stupid waste.

The only thing of any use they find, after slaughtering the invading Venatori, is an elven locket stored away in a palace safe.

“I’ll admit: I didn’t think the empress was this sentimental,” says Varric as Hawke reluctantly tucks it into his coat.

“Neither did I, but it may turn the tide of the negotiations. We’ll see.”

The harlequin finally goes down in a hall cluttered with crates and furniture under dusty dropcloths. Hawke takes great pleasure in striking the killing blow with a blast of razor-sharp ice. He turns toward the last retreating Venatori but there’s no need. The man cries out and falls back, knife protruding from the eyes socket of his mask. Ambassador Briala rounds the corner as if she’s merely on a stroll.

“Fancy meeting you here,” she says coolly, eyeing the carnage. “Lord Inquisitor Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall. I must commend your dedication—few men of your stature would accept a post as governess to a divine miracle. We haven’t been properly introduced, have we? I’m Ambassador Briala.”

“Impressive shot, ‘Ambassador,’” he returns blandly. If she’s attempting to needle him, it doesn’t work. She certainly wouldn’t be so smug about his babysitting duties if she actually saw what Lora does on a typical day. He imagines the elf’s perfect Orlesian composure cracking somewhere between “time-space anomalies” and “recreational bear befriending.” Gaspard and Celene wouldn’t fare much better either.

The thought makes him smile. 

“Welcome to the Imperial Court, friend!” she says, catching his unexpected grin. “This is our diplomacy at work. You cleaned this place out.” She walks onto the balcony and he warily follows. “It will take a month to get all the Tevinter blood off the marble. I came down to save or avenge my missing people, but you’ve beaten me to it. So… the Council of Heralds’ emissary in the courtyard… that’s not your work, is it?”

He leans on his staff. “Funny, I was just about to say the same thing.”

She considers him silently for a moment. “I would not leave my people to be senselessly slaughtered any more than you would, Inquisitor. Gaspard has been smuggling in chevaliers, but I did not expect him to be desperate enough to kill a Council emissary and bring Tevinter assassins. You would have arrived to a very different sight if I had.”

It’s impossible to judge the sincerity of a woman who wears truth and lies like matching earrings. Still, he suspects she’s just as capable of sacrificing her own people as any Orlesian noble.

“Perhaps you didn’t expect it,” he says mildly. “I trust Gaspard no more than I trust you, Ambassador. Isn’t that the way of the Grand Game?”

Something that’s almost a smile crosses her face. “I misjudged you, Inquisitor. Tell me, was that gift from the Child a brilliantly cunning step in the dance?”

Hawke laughs outright. “Of course not. Everyone playing the Game rushed to stop her, including me, but she wasn’t playing at all. You saw the purest essence of Lora.”

“I thought as much,” the ambassador murmurs. “She is guileless, yet shielded by guile enough to silence the entire court. You might just be an ally worth having. What could you do with an army of elven spies at your disposal? You should think about it.”

Ah, they’ve arrived at the bribery. “Armies cost a pretty penny, no matter how generous their commander.”

“All I ask is a moment of consideration. I know which way the wind is blowing. I’d bet coin that you’ll be part of the peace talks before the night is over. And if you happen to lean a little bit our way? It… could prove advantageous to us both. Just a thought.”

She inclines her head, then turns and lithely jumps down from the balcony and into the courtyard below. Hawke huffs at the drama of it all. Orlesians.

Cassandra’s glower greets him the moment he rejoins his companions. “More politics and double-dealing. Is there anyone here who is not corrupt?”

Varric just laughs at him. “Every single major player has tried to bribe you tonight. In Orlais, that means you’ve officially arrived.”

“Joy,” Garrett says dryly. The bell rings; he nods toward their exit. “Let’s get out of here before someone crowns Lora empress.”

They discreetly exit through the servant’s quarters after cleaning up and passing their weapons back to Leliana’s agents. Hawke spares a moment to sweet-talk his way into the trophy room; it’s not hard, given how eager the two stationed in front of the door are to hear an account of Haven’s siege from Cullen. A note from Gaspard regarding his coded signal to move in on the west wing sits on the desk. Hawke sighs, annoyed but unsurprised, and tucks it into his coat.

What does surprise him is Grand Duchess Florianne, who is waiting for him when he returns to the ballroom after the second bell. She steps in his path before he can even begin to look for Leliana or Lora.

“Inqusitor Hawke? We met briefly. I am Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons.” She curtseys. “Welcome to my party.”

The woman has not, until now, entered much into Hawke’s consideration. He knows she’s Gaspard’s sister and that she’s close enough to Celene to arrange the ball itself. Now, as he sees up close the sharp gleam in her eye and the air of ambition she wears like a perfume, he realizes his mistake. He should have considered her a serious player much earlier.

“Is there something I can do for you, Your Grace?” he asks, bowing courteously.

“Indeed you can. I believe tonight you and I are both concerned by the actions of… a certain person.” She moves toward the stairs that lead down to the polished marble dance floor, beckoning without gesture. “Come, dance with me. Spies will not hear us there.”

Dancing with an Orlesian snake is the last thing he would like to do right now, but he smiles anyway. “Very well. Shall we dance, Your Grace?”

“I’d be delighted.”

Every dance in Orlais is a ritual, and Josephine drilled him in the steps until he thought his feet might mutiny. The musicians on the dais strike a sprightly waltz. Silk and perfume swirl like a storm. Hawke sees, out of the corner of his eye as he takes Florianne’s hand, that Lora has spotted him and taken a keen interest.

Hopefully he won’t trip while she’s watching. The Maker only knows how her response would reshape the social landscape. 

“You spent much time in the Free Marches,” Florianne begins, “but you are from Fereldan, are you not? How much do you know about our little war?”

He may not know every nuance of the Game that Celene and Gaspard are playing, but he was quite literally just in the Exalted Plains, saving Orlesians on both sides. He bites his tongue to keep from saying something politically inexpedient. “It doesn’t matter where you’re from, Your Grace. Everyone knows what’s happening in the empire. I’ve learned even more by speaking to Orlais’s finest commanders in the Exalted Plains.”

She stutters slightly at his words as they glide across the dance floor in lockstep. “I… I often forget about the world outside of the Imperial Court,” she says, as if it’s an admission. “It took great effort to arrange tonight’s negotiations. Yet one party would use this occasion for blackest treason.” They turn and bow in time with the music, arms raised like mirrored wings. “The security of the empire is at stake. Neither one of us wishes to see it fall.”

“Do we both want that, Lady Florianne?” He hears a familiar giggle and catches a glimpse of Lora out of the corner of his eye. She’s leaning all her weight on the railing above, following along as he dances.

They circle each other, twisting from hand to hand. “I hope we are of one mind on this,” says the duchess.

“In times like these, it’s hard to tell friend from foe, is it not?” He draws her into a waltz step.

“I know you arrived here to escort Andraste’s Child. And have been everywhere in the palace… You are a curiosity to many, Inquisitor… and a matter of concern to some.

She smells of far too strongly of perfume⁠—spice and cloying flowers and something faintly metallic beneath. It’s beginning to turn his stomach. “Am I the curiosity or the concern to you, Your Grace?”

“A little of both, actually.” Her eyes flicker upward, briefly, to where Lora leans over the railing. “This evening is of great importance, Inquisitor. I wonder what role you will play in it. Do you even yet know who is friend and who is foe? Who in the court can be trusted?”

They separate briefly to circle each other again. He almost laughs. “I trust in Princess Ameliora Octavia Perdel, Your Grace.”

Florianne’s expression is unreadable. “In the Winter Palace, everyone is alone. It cannot have escaped your notice that certain parties are engaged in dangerous machinations tonight.”

“I thought dangerous machinations were the national sport in Orlais.”

He ends with a flourish, dipping her low, the way he once teased Bethany during their mother’s lessons. The court applauds with true enthusiasm for the dance of both form and wit.

“You have little time,” she whispers as they straighten upright together. “The attack will come soon. You must stop Gaspard before he strikes. In the Royal Wing garden, you will find the captain of my brother’s mercenaries. He knows all Gaspard’s secrets.” They glide off the floor the same way they entered. She curtseys; he bows. “I’m sure you can persuade him to be forthcoming.”

“We’ll see what the night has in store, won’t we?”

He mounts the stairs, leaving Florianne behind. The first voice to reach him, predictably, is Lora’s. 

“Lord Hawke!”

She’s impossible to miss, and he can tell from her grin that she wants to run over and toss herself at him but just barely remembers to behave like royalty. The full-tilt sprint he’s accustomed to has been tamed into a rapid, dignified trot.

“Your Highness,” he greets, smiling.

“I want to dance too! Please?”

Behind her, Josephine winces. “Oh, I’m sorry, Princess. This dancing is… for adults.”

It’s not entirely true. They could definitely get away with letting Lora onto the dance floor no matter what she chose to do, but Hawke vividly imagines what would follow: half the court trampling one another for a turn with her, the other half trying to auction off their children as future dance partners.

Lora droops. “Aww…”

“We’ll dance together later,” Hawke promises, “at Skyhold. Then you can dance with everyone, and it will be more fun.”

She tilts her head at him. A little mischievous spark enters her eyes. “Everyone dances with me? However I want?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. Deal!” She resumes her quick-but-stately trot and heads for the musicians this time. Celsus, Blackwall, and Vivienne follow. 

Josephine lingers. “That was well done,” she says. “We should take you dancing more often.”

“Please no.”

She hides a smile and gestures for him to step aside from the crowded stairway. Leliana and Cullen catch up with them in a slightly quieter area.

“Were you dancing with Duchess Florianne?” Leliana asks.

“More importantly,” Cullen cuts in, arms crossed, “what happened in the servants’ quarters? I heard there was fighting.”

Josephine looks worried again. “I hope you have good news. Lora’s prayer has not been enough to stop the peace talks from deteriorating.”

Of course not⁠. After all, Lora wasn’t invited for her prayers, but for her favor⁠. Thanks to her family’s skill and her own staggering kindness, she turned the entire court upside-down instead. The board is equally balanced right now, and the players aren’t willing to risk compromise if it might mean losing everything.

Hawke thinks deeply, tapping his fingers on his arm. “The Grand Duchess tried to convince me Gaspard is the traitor. I don’t buy it.”

“Florianne and her brother are thick as thieves, but she would give him up in an instant to save herself,” Leliana says with grim certainty.

Cullen’s mouth hardens. “Then the attack on the empress is inevitable.”

“It won’t succeed,” says Hawke. “The assassin has no clue what we have up our sleeve. Perhaps if we let them unmask themselves by trying…”

“What Orlais needs is stability,” says Leliana. “Celene, Gaspard, Briala… one needs to win. And the decision may be up to you, Inquisitor.”

Wonderful. He rubs his temples to stave off his growing headache. The strange noises coming from the orchestra aren’t helping. “Florianne said Gaspard’s mercenary captain is in the royal wing. That he knows about the assassination. I won’t decide anything until I follow that lead.” He sighs. “Or spring the trap. Or, more likely, both. Get me access, and get our soldiers into position.”

Cullen nods sharply. “At once. Be careful, Inquisitor.”

His advisors leave him. The headache does not. He’ll have to have to speak with Celene, Briala, and Gaspard before he even attempts to enter the royal wing. It would be a drastic understatement to say he’s not looking forward to it, and⁠—

⁠—and what in the Maker’s name are the musicians doing?

He returns to the railing and is somehow both floored and unsurprised to see that Lora has commandeered the entire chamber orchestra. The tune they play hiccups, then shifts, trying to follow along as Andraste’s Child taps the harp strings and directs its harpist. “One-two-three-and, one-two-three-and! You go first and then the cellos and then the flutes!”

Celsus watches with amusement. “Three beat measure and a quarter note per beat,” he clarifies. “You haven’t the choir for it, but the instrumentation is simple.”

“Like this!” says Lora, and lilts the notes herself.

They try. For a moment it wobbles, discordant, then Lora lilts again and they have it. She grins and raises her arms like a conductor. Celsus offers brisk, genuinely helpful advice to each of the musicians and the texture smooths. As Hawke approaches, he almost swears he can hear her dress resonate with the chords.

Lora spins, expertly moving her veil and train so it won’t tangle up around her. “This is for Lord Inquisitor Hawke!” she declares to her rapt audience, both on and off the dance floor. “And for everyone else too. But mostly for Hawke. It means, ‘everyone should be really nice to each other because that’s virtuous.’”

“A song of peacemaking from our home,” Celsus again clarifies.

Now that the melody is music and not merely a child’s attempt at it, the orchestra looks dazzled. Hawke laughs under his breath, trotting down the stairs. The headache is gone. Of course she’s trying to help. That’s what she does.

And he certainly won’t let her down by allowing the negotiations to fall apart.

“Thank you, Highness,” he tells her as she beams at him, smoothing his hair back into order and straightening out his coat. He has a lot of work left to do. “I couldn’t have asked for anything more fitting.”

And the Winter Palace, for once, seems like it might be willing to listen too.

Chapter Text

Speaking with (read: threatening) Celene regarding the elven locket goes well in Hawke’s estimation. The Empress doesn’t bother denying anything and ultimately says he can dispose of it however he wishes. He chooses to confront Briala with it and allows her to take it. If he’s lucky, maybe they’ll carry that memory of a time where they weren’t trying to stab each other in the back into negotiations.

Talking with Gaspard is… slightly more interesting.

“So, you danced with my sister, did you?” he says after some pleasantries involving chevalier training and how much they both hate the Game. He grins over a crystal glass of brandy. “Don’t get attached, Inquisitor. She is difficult to keep, and I am not inclined to help anyone steal her away.”

“I did dance with her, at her invitation,” Hawke says, sipping on brandy of his own. “The Grand Duchess says you’re plotting to kill Celene.”

Gaspard laughs as if it’s a good joke. “Resorting to the provocation of obvious falsehoods? Come, we are beyond such childish stratagems. My sister would never say that. There are no words to convince me that Florianne would turn on me.”

“I figured as much. So you know nothing about the dead Council of Heralds emissary with a du Chalons-crested knife sticking out of him?”

The Grand Duke’s smile drops. “No, that’s impossible. Who would try to pin such a crime on me?” He scowls thunderously. “The elf? It seems unlike Celene.”

Garrett takes another sip of his drink. It’s a truly superb brandy. “And you were threatening the Council members directly because…?”

“The language of politics, Inquisitor. If you cannot bribe politicians, you threaten them into backing down.” He lifts his glass in a salute. “Most of the council are Celene’s lapdogs. There was little chance I could win their support any other way.”

That’s certainly true in Orlais, far more than any other country except maybe Tevinter. Maybe. “I suppose that also explains the orders issued to your general to sneak troops into the palace.”

“It is necessary,” says Gaspard, leaning against the balcony rail. “The Winter Palace is hardly neutral ground for a peace talk. I would be disappointed in Celene if she were not using this opportunity to set a trap. And while we rarely agree on anything, I have never yet been disappointed in our empress. Don’t pretend you aren’t maneuvering soldiers of your own, Lord Hawke.”

“A fair point,” Garrett concedes. “We’ll speak later, Duke Gaspard.”

“Another time, friend.”

Shortly after that, Leliana signals that they’ve secured his access to the royal wing. He gathers Solas, Cassandra, and Varric again, takes his staff from Leliana’s agent, and slips inside.

“We’re going to sneak around the Empress’s unmentionables now?” Varric asks with humor. “Just how drunk are you, Garrett?”

“Tipsy,” says Hawke “The Grand Duke had excellent brandy.”

“You’re lucky I’ve seen you win fights while drunk, or that would be alarming.”

They’ve barely reached the second floor when a woman in a nearby room screams, “Stay back!”

Hawke doesn’t hesitate. He kicks the lacquered door open to find another harlequin assassin menacing an elven servant. While she scrambles away, he takes the expedient route.

One solid kick to the stomach defenestrates the assassin. She never sees it coming.

“Thank you,” the elf breathes as he crouches to check her.

“Are you hurt?” he asks. There’s no obvious blood.

“N-no. I… I don’t think so.” She pats herself for a moment, checking, then pushes shakily to her feet. “No one’s supposed to be here! Briala said… I shouldn’t have trusted her.”

Hawke stands as well. “Briala told you to come to this wing of the palace?”

“Not personally. The ‘ambassador’ can’t be seen talking to the servants.” She spits the title with contempt. “We get coded messages at certain locations. But the order came from her. She’s been watching the grand duke all night. No surprise she wanted someone to search his sister’s room.”

“All sorts of people tonight are taking advantage of this wing being closed.”

The elf’s mouth trembles. “Briala probably knew it was dangerous and sent me anyway. One more embarrassing secret erased.”

Hawke takes a keen interest. “If there’s a reason you distrust Briala, I want to hear it.”

“I knew her. Before.” She rubs her arms. “When she was Celene’s pet. Now she wants to play revolution. But I remember. She was sleeping with the empress who purged our alienage.”

He isn’t entirely convinced of anything when it comes to the Game, but that lends weight to the servant’s own conclusion. “She probably did send you to your death,” he agrees soberly.

“If… if the Inquisition will protect me, I’ll tell you everything I know about our ‘ambassador.’”

Cassandra steps forward, looking the elf in the eye and trying to be reassuring. “We will certainly not let harm come to you.”

Hawke nods. “Go to the ballroom. Find Commander Cullen. He’ll keep you safe.”

The elf blinks rapidly, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Thank you. Maker protect you, Inquisitor,” she says, and flees.

They search the Grand Duchess’s old rooms, but find little of note. When they proceed to the Empress’s rooms, however, they find… a little too much.

“What… happened?” Garrett asks the naked chevalier tied to the bed, appalled.

“It’s not what it looks like!” cries the distraught chevalier. “Honestly, I would have preferred it if it were what it looks like. The empress led me to believe I would be… rewarded for betraying the grand duke. This was not what I hoped for.”

Clearly. “You’re telling me that Empress Celene left you naked and trussed like a roast duck?”

“Please, I beg you, don’t tell Gaspard!” He struggles against his bonds. “The empress beguiled me! Into giving her information about… plans for troop movements in the palace tonight. She knows everything! Everything! The duke’s surprise attack has been countered before it ever began. She’s turned it into a trap. The moment he strikes, she’ll have him arrested for treason.”

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise. “I don’t know which is worse: Celene for using such a tactic or him for falling for it.”

Hawke puts his face in his hand and thanks the Maker they never even considered bringing Lora here with them. He sighs and reluctantly looks at the man again. “I’ll protect you from Gaspard if you’re willing to testify about Celene’s trap.”

“I’ll do anything! Anything!”

Hawke cuts him loose and helps him find his clothes. The chevalier bolts, presumably toward the nearest group of Inquisition soldiers.

“Everyone in the empire has gone completely mad,” Cassandra decides, and frankly Garrett agrees.

That’s not even near the end of things. As they exit, skirting around the scaffolds and canvas dropcloths, someone else starts yelling. For a closed wing during a state ball, it’s awfully busy.

“You painted Orlesian assholes! When I get out of this, I’ll butcher you like the pigs you are!”

They burst out into another courtyard to find⁠—surprise⁠!—an ambush of Venatori archers and a very angry Fereldan trussed like a holiday roast. The Grand Duchess herself steps out onto the second floor balcony above.

“Inquisitor! What a pleasure!” she calls, voice bright with triumph. “I wasn’t certain you’d attend. You’re such a challenge to read. I had no idea if you’d taken my bait.”

The assassin has unmasked herself, and suddenly all of the night’s puzzle pieces snap together in Hawke’s mind. “I fear I’m a bit busy at the moment,” he drawls, “if you were hoping for another dance.”

“Yes, I see that. Such a pity.” She smiles, and it’s the most genuine, poisonous smile he’s seen all night. “It was kind of you to walk into my trap so willingly. I was so tired of your meddling. Corypheus insisted that the Empress and Child die tonight, and I would hate to disappoint him.”

There are many questions Hawke could ask⁠—Why? What did he promise? What does he want?—but he settles on the most important.

“Are you stupid?”

Florianne frowns at him, offended. “So quickly your manners disappear. But you are Fereldan.”

Hawke waves a hand. “Never mind where I came from. Have you forgotten that he already lost to the Inquisition once? Badly? Weren’t you paying attention when the Emperor from across the sea was presented to the court?”

Are you really that much of an idiot?

For a moment uncertainty flickers across her face, but she rallies quickly. “Poor, deluded Champion,” she says with mocking pity. “Did you think I would swoon over smoke and mirrors? Did you think you could outwit a god? You don’t even know half of what Calpernia, Samson, and I have in store. And now, I suppose you never will.”

He realizes that she simply didn’t believe Celsus and Lora, even with the gemweave, even with Lora curing the Taint. Her ambition and desperate need to be right blinded her. It should, after all, be extraordinarily obvious to anyone with eyes that kidnapping or killing Lora is a fool’s errand.

She continues while he’s busy marveling at a new record depth plumbed in the mire of stupidity. “In their darkest dreams, no one imagines I would assassinate Celene myself, much less Andraste’s so-called Child. All I need is to keep you out of the ballroom long enough to strike. A pity you’ll miss the rest of the ball, Inquisitor. They’ll be talking of it for years.” She tilts her head coyly and leaves, tossing one last command over her shoulder.

“Kill him and bring me his head. It will make a fine gift for the master.”

The archers loose, but if they thought that an ambush and point-blank range was enough to take down Hawke and three of the finest (and best-equipped) combatants in Thedas, they quickly discover otherwise. A single arrow makes it through the barrier Hawke raises, striking him over his heart. He doesn’t even feel the impact, but he does hear the chime, like a struck bell, that the metal arrowhead draws from the gemweave.

“A good attempt!” Hawke says to the archer. And then kills him.

Reinforcements spill into the courtyard, but they’re no match either. Within a few minutes, the Venatori are dead and Hawke kneels down to untie the Fereldan whose shouting drew them into the ambush.

“Andraste’s tits! What was all that?” he curses, massaging his wrists and getting to his feet. “I thought you were dead for sure!”

Hawke dusts off his coat. Only the non-gemweave layers look scuffed. “You and the Orlesians both. What’s a Fereldan doing here?”

The man scowls. “Gaspard threw me to the damned wolves over a bill, that’s what!”

A mercenary captain, then, hired to support the chevaliers. “Duke Gaspard lured you out here?”

“Well, his sister, but it had to come from him, didn’t it? All that garbage she was spewing doesn’t mean anything. Gaspard had to be the mastermind.”

Hawke arches a brow. “You honestly believe you were captured, trussed like a roast, and thrown into a death trap… because of a bill?”

The mercenary frowns and scuffs his heel on the flagstones. “When you put it like that… it seems a bit odd. The duke wanted to move on the palace tonight. But he didn’t have enough fancy chevaliers. So he hired me and my men. He had to offer us triple our usual pay to come to Orlais. Stinking poncy cheesemongers.”

“Do these people ever not stab each other in the back?” Varric wonders. “Just curious.”

Hawke senses an opportunity. “Want a new job? One that pays on time? The Inquisition can always use a good mercenary company.”

“Anything’s better than this bullshit,” says the disgruntled Fereldan. “You want me to talk to the empress, or the court, or sing a blasted song in the chantry, I’ll do it.”

“Good man.” They shake on it. “Find one of my agents. I’ve got business in the ballroom.”

After another quick cleanup, they hustle back to the grand ballroom. Florianne stands next to Gaspard, attention fixed on Lora. Cullen quickly intercepts Hawke.

“Thank the Maker you’re back! The empress will begin her speech soon. What did you find?”

Garrett claps his shoulder. “Oh, you’ll find out soon enough. Wait here Cullen. I’m going to have a word with the Grand Duchess.”

“What?” Cullen sputters. “There’s no time! The Empress will begin her speech at any moment.”

Hawke just grins and descends the stairs, stalking across the dance floor and toward the dais where Florianne, Gaspard, and Briala are standing. His brazenness draws gasps, and soon all attention rests on him as he stands at the foot of the stairs.

“We owe the court one more show, Your Grace,” he calls to the would-be assassin.

“Inquisitor,” says Florianne. Her voice is calm, but Hawke sees the subtle tremble of her fingers.

“I’m giving you a chance to end this peacefully,” he warns her, mounting the stairs. “There’s no need for more death. Corypheus is only using you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. The trembling worsens.

“You arranged for your brother to be at the ball so everyone would be watching him while you carried out your plan.” He begins circling her. No one even tries to stop him. “So when the council emissary stumbled into the wrong room and found your assassins, you could pin the blame on Gaspard. The empress, your brother, and the entire court all here as your guests. It’s the perfect time to get rid of them all.”

Celene draws in a soft breath above him, a gasp that no one can hold against her. The accusations he laid out are unmistakable. The warning he tried to give her was real. And she didn’t take it seriously.

Before he can continue, the soft chime of Lora’s dress draws his attention. He keeps Florianne in his periphery as he watches his little Sunshine step to the Empress’s side and reach up to take her hand.

“Don’t worry!” she chirps. “I’ll protect you!”

The court erupts in whispers. Even Hawke’s jaw drops, though he knows he should have seen it coming. To Lora, Celene is not an untouchable figure at the top of Orlais’s noble hierarchy; she’s just a lady in a pretty dress who deserves protection, no different to the distraught women the Inquisition has helped throughout the land. The gesture is that of a little girl, promising to share her wealth of warmth and kindness with whoever needs it.

But of course, that’s not how the court sees it⁠—will ever see it. Celene recovers from the shock in an instant, pressing Lora’s little hand gently between her own. “Your protection honors me, dear one.” She turns her eyes on her cousin, and they are utterly cold.

Now Florianne’s trembling is obvious to the entire ballroom. “This is very entertaining,” she manages, voice wavering, “but you do not imagine anyone believes your wild stories?” Her eyes dart to her brother, desperate.

“I did not wish to,” says Gaspard, shaking his head and backing away. “But it seems I have no choice.”

“Gaspard?” She searches for an exit, but chevaliers close in. Utterly defeated, she falls to her knees.

“You lost this fight ages ago, Your Grace,” Hawke says, merciless to the woman who would have brought all of Thedas to its knees in Corypheus’s name. “You’re just the last to find out.”

They drag her away as she sobs denials no one believes.

Above him, he hears Lora whisper-yell proudly to Celene. “He’s really good at being Quizitor!”

“Indeed he is,” the Empress agrees, meeting his eyes.

Hawke inclines his head. “Your Imperial Majesty, I think we should speak in private. Elsewhere.”

After all of the shit Garrett has been put through to reach this point, he relishes the end of the night. Perhaps a little too much, but there’s something unbelievably satisfying about laying out all of the pieces of evidence he meticulously collected: Celene’s bait, Gaspard’s coup, and Briala’s sabotage. Each is silenced and humbled under the weight of his proof of their misdeeds.

“You’ve made your point,” says Celene. “What do you want?

He crosses his arms and glowers at them. “I want you three to have even a shred as much virtue as Lora! Your backbiting and underhanded dealing could easily have ended in the total downfall of Orlais. Corypheus, with Tevinter at his back, threatens to destroy us all, and you couldn’t even set aside your own selfish interests for three seconds!”

“So what?” Briala asks sharply. “That is a scolding, not an ultimatum.”

“You are three of the best minds in the empire,” he snaps. “You could do so much for Orlais and your people if you stopped fighting.”

Celene frowns at him, almost puzzled. “It is remarkably… optimistic to believe that the three of us could ever forget our differences, Inquisitor.”

“I don’t care if you forget or not. I want you to remember you’re being utterly outplayed by a child who isn’t even trying.” He leans forward. “And I want you to remember that this backwater Fereldan can make sure it happens again, if you forget how to behave like adults. I haven’t even gotten the Divine involved yet.”

The three hesitate, but ultimately bow before his demand. There will be peace… for a time. Hopefully he can use the Inquisition as a counterweight against their inevitable scheming to make that time stretch as long as possible, but for now it will do.

They return to the ballroom. Celene makes a speech; Gaspard makes a speech; Briala makes a speech. Hawke does too, as little as he likes it. The court applauds thunderously, not because they’re relieved that an accord has been reached, but because they’re impressed by how well the Game has been played tonight.

It’s exhausting to listen to. Hawke truly cannot wait to return to Skyhold.

Sadly, the night still isn’t over. There’s far less sneaking around and hunting Tevinter invaders, but there’s plenty of schmoozing and drinking and congratulating. After an hour or so, he manages to escape out onto a balcony for a few minutes respite.

Morrigan ambushes him there, but fortunately she’s content to leave after a brief conversation regarding her new appointment as ‘liaison to the Inquisition.’ He can’t say he’s grateful, exactly, but there is a chance she might have some helpful arcane knowledge. Somehow, some way, they have to find a method to kill Corypheus permanently.

Alone again, he drapes his arms over the railing and groans quietly in the back of his throat. He misses the comparative simplicity of Kirkwall’s problems.

Soft chimes herald the approach of someone he actually doesn’t mind seeing right now. Lora skulks onto the balcony like she’s trying not to be seen, train and veil gathered up over one arm. Her little gold shoes have finally gone missing.

“Lord Inquis⁠—” She stops and looks all around, searching for any witnesses. When she finds none, she beams at him and prances over. “Waffles!”

Hawke laughs. The sense of weight on his shoulders lifts. “Hello, Sunshine. Have you gotten tired of behaving?”

“Not all the way,” she says, peering up at him. “But it was very boring. You did lots of hard work. Are you okay?”

He pats the top of her head, careful not to dislodge any of the pins. “I’m just fine. I think I’m tired of behaving too.”

She yawns then and rubs her eyes. “Can’t I dance just once?” she asks. “You didn’t look like you were having fun when you danced, but it’s supposed to be fun.”

“Well, I didn’t have a very fun dance partner.” He sets aside any thought of court etiquette and picks her up. If she’s tired enough to be yawning, then a minute or two of stillness will be enough to put her to sleep. He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Between you and me, I would much rather have danced with a Princess who can be a dragon.”

She giggles. “I can do that! Will you dance with me?”

“Of course, my lady.” Her hand is too little for a proper clasp, but he makes do and begins to hum the melody she taught the orchestra. She giggles again when he starts a waltz step across the balcony floor. The barest end of her veil brushes the stone, chiming softly. She yawns again.

His prediction is correct: within about two minutes, the scourge of the Orlesian court is asleep against his shoulder. He gets a few more minutes to just stand there, enjoying the cool air and the silence and the miracle of kindness in his arms, before someone calls for him.

“Inquisitor?” says Josephine, fraught as she rushes through the archway with her skirts in hand. “I cannot find⁠—!”

“The Princess?” he finishes as she pulls up short, blinking in surprise. “She’s right here.”

Josie blows out a relieved breath and puts a hand to her head. “Thank the Maker. She behaved so well all night, I was worried she’d finally had enough.”

“Oh, she had. Notice the missing shoes.”

“I’ll take missing shoes. Gladly.” His ambassador looks him over with a critical eye. “But what about you? Are you alright?”

“I’m ready to go back to Skyhold. Can we leave now, or will it cause a scandal?”

Josie smiles. “There are a few farewells you’ll have to make, but a sleeping Princess relieves much of the burden. Who would possibly object after tonight?”

“Good. Let’s get out of here and never come back.”

Chapter Text

On the first morning back at Skyhold, warm sunlight slants through the War Room windows as Hawke gathers with Morrigan and his advisors. “Alright,” he says, leaning over the table and scrutinizing the map. “We should begin by investigating⁠—”

Tiny pale feet appear on top of the Waking Sea. He blinks and looks up to find Lora standing imperiously over him, hands on hips. Cole’s hat is once again atop her head, nearly sliding down to cover her eyes.

“Sunshine, not on the ma—”

“I didn’t get any mud on me at the fancy ball!” she declares. “All night!” 

Hawke senses trouble. He’s just not sure what kind. “Yes,” he agrees slowly, “good work.”

Her eyes narrow. “Even when it would have been really really fun.”

“...thank you for your sacrifice?”

She smiles victoriously, and he realizes that he walked into some sort of trap. “Right. It was a big sacrifice! And that means you all owe me Mud Fun Times.”

Morrigan’s eyebrows shoot up into her bangs. “Mud Fun Times?”

“I don’t remember agreeing to these terms,” says Hawke, trying not to smile as he finally catches on to her game.

She adopts an expression he knows she learned from Varric. “I was an, uh… im⁠… impl⁠… impissed term.”

“Implicit,” Josie corrects, hiding her own smile behind her writing board.

“Oh Maker,” Cullen mutters. “Hawke, tell me you’re not going to⁠—”

His attempt at objection instantly settles it. “You’re so right, Sunshine,” Garrett says, cutting off his Commander. “We do owe you Mud Fun Times! In fact, I think everyone who went to the ball owes you Mud Fun Times.” He turns to his advisor on loan. “Morrigan, you’re excused on account of not being here at the time.”

“Your benevolence overwhelms me,” she says dryly.

Lora giggles and leaps from the table straight onto Cullen, who catches her easily. He’s had a lot of practice at that. “Mud Fun Times happen by the stables!” she announces, pointing at the door like a general. “March!”

They march. Morrigan follows, seemingly out of morbid curiosity. “Are you certain we can spare the time for this?” she asks.

“We owe her Mud Fun Times,” Hawke says solemnly. “If we don’t spare the time, I’m not sure she will spare us.”

The rest of his companions are already at the stables, evidently herded there by Cole. Lora has, incredibly, already prepared a wide, glistening pool of mud.

“So what’s this about?” Varric asks, eyeing the impromptu swamp. “Kid wouldn’t tell me, and Sunshine was suspiciously missing.”

Cole reappears, hatless. “Mud Fun Times,” he intones.

Solas blinks. “You cannot be seri⁠—”

“I was soooo good at the ball!” Lora interrupts indignantly. “No mud at all! Even when it would have been really fun! So now Waffles promised to have Mud Fun Times with me.”

Vivienne looks like she regrets ever involving herself in the Inquisition. “Darling, I am certainly not dressed for… mud.”

Lora’s legs swing excitedly on either side of Cullen’s hip. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to clean up! My handmaidens are still here, and I asked them. They can get mud out of anything.”

Dorian squints at the little menace. “What, precisely, does ‘Mud Fun Time’ entail, Starling?”

She hums and taps her chin. “Well if it’s me I just like hopping around and chasing frogs and stuff, but adults are kinda boring so I asked for ideas.” With a flourish, she produces a scroll that unspools to the floor. “Item one, suggested by Junior! Everyone tries to tackle Waffles into the mud and whoever does it first wins.”

“I don’t know what I expected,” Garrett mutters, betrayed by his only remaining kin.

“Item two, from Queenie! Capture the Griffin Egg, where there’s big eggs and everyone’s on two teams trying to get the other one’s egg.”

The more strategically minded of them make considering faces. “You went all the way to Fereldan’s monarchs for that?” Cassandra asks.

“Yeah!” Lora confirms gleefully “They had fun ideas. Item three, from Kingie! Tug-of-war! I think Tiny will just win that one though.”

“Heh,” says Bull, grinning. “You know it.”

“Item four, suggested by Wizzy! Mud war! She said sometimes the simplest games can be the most fun, and lots of people have had fun throwing mud at each other for ever and ever. Even the old old old elves!”

Solas exhales and sets his face in his hands at the continuing not-quite-corruption of his friend by Laughter.

“Item five, from Harding! Pelt the Orlesians! She said you’d all like it if we made Orlesian dummies and threw mud at them. It would be cath… cat… carting.”

“Cathartic,” Josephine supplies.

“Yeah that! Ahem! Item six, from Bookie! Mud explosion! Everyone tries to find a way to make the biggest mud splash, like dropping a big rock or using a spell.”

Dorian does a double-take at Felix’s nickname. The young man departed for Minrathous weeks ago to take over his father’s abdicated Magisterial position. “You went to Tevinter. Alone?”

Lora sees no problem with this. “Uh-huh! And I gave him the fancy robes you wanted. He said it would help lots and he’s glad you asked someone to make it for him.”

“Oh. Well… thank you, but please don’t go to Tevinter alone. I shudder to think of what you might do—er, what they might try and do to you.” His plea is seconded by everyone present.

“Sunshine,” Varric cuts in, a little desperate, “how long is that list? How many people did you ask?”

Lora feeds the scroll hand over hand until the top hits the ground. “Uhhh… sixty-seven!”

“The suggestions offered so far seem more than sufficient,” Solas says mildly, backing up Varric’s attempt to ensure they aren’t standing around a mud puddle for the next hour. “Wouldn’t you prefer to begin the ‘Mud Fun Times’?”

“Hmmm…” She narrows her eyes in thought. “Well okay but one more from my favorite!” She scrolls back to the middle. “Item thirty-three, from the Arishok!”

“FROM THE WHAT?” Hawke bursts out.

“The Arishok! He’s in charge of the Qunari legions.”

Garrett isn’t the only one who looks extremely stressed by the sudden revelation of her secret travel itinerary. “I know that, but what do you mean he gave you a suggestion! And—favorite?”

“Yeah! He sent me knives to say sorry for the lady who wanted to kidnap me and made Tiny fight off a bunch of sassins,” she casually adds. “So he’s my favorite right now. Even though Nightingale made me give them back and only let me keep a wooden practice knife.”

This is the first Hawke has ever heard of it, and he wheezes in shock, staring at his Spymaster. She is unrepentant.

“I did,” she confirms. “The new Arishok and I have a prior…” She tilts her hand back and forth. “…friendship, as much as a man like him makes friends. He used to be a Sten, the same one who accompanied the Queen. I’m rather fond of him.” She turns her attention to Lora. “What did he suggest?”

“He said⁠—” Here she stops to affect a deep, dramatic voice “—the Weight of Command! The players are blindfolded but the commander isn’t, and the commander has to stand up on a box and call out commands. Everyone else gets to yell and stuff.”

Cullen makes a noise in the back of his throat. “That sounds like a training exercise.”

“It is a training exercise,” says Hawke, face in hand. “What did you expect from the Arishok?”

His Commander coughs. “Point taken.”

“So which one do you wanna do first?” Lora demands eagerly. The scroll vanishes into her illogically roomy hip satchel. “Mud explosion? Or tug-of-war? Or mud explosion?”

“I dunno,” says Varric audibly trying not to laugh, “I think we should start with Junior’s idea. First is best.”

Several suspiciously eager agreements ripple through the crowd. Hawke shoots his hypothetical best friend a sour look. “Thank you so much, Tethras.”

“Happy to be of service.”

And that’s how the Inquisition’s finest—some of the most powerful mages, warriors, and rogues in all Thedas—find themselves rolling around in the mud. Hawke almost wins the first game by making it across the conjured quagmire without being tackled. Almost. Lora heroically sacrifices herself by latching onto his leg and shouting “take him down, Hero!” which buys Blackwall enough time to body-slam him and send them all down into the muck.

Lora emerges covered head to toe, giggling madly. Hawke scowls. Blackwall looks very pleased with himself.

His small consolation is that the loser gets to choose the next game (as Lora decrees). He chooses tug-of-war (definitely not to force everyone who abstained from the first game to get muddy too), and the teams divide into Hawke, Lora, and Iron Bull versus everyone else.

“Ready?” calls Harding, freshly deputized as referee. A growing crowd of spectators hoots and cheers from all around the stables. “Go!”

Both sides throw themselves into the pull, and the middle marker wavers back and forth. Bull growls; Hawke grimaces; Dorian cheats and attempts to freeze the mud on their side.

“No fair!” Lora yelps (she’s been hanging from the taut rope more than helping), wriggling around and digging her heels in. “Cheaters never win!”

She heaves with every ounce of surety in her body. The entire opposing team lurches forward and face-plants into the pit. Hawke would laugh, but the sudden slack sends him and Bull backward into the same fate.

“Shit!” Bull sputters, laughing. “I didn’t know she could do that!”

“She believed in herself and the Fade answered,” Hawke sighs, resigned to never getting the mud out of his beard. At least everyone else is in the same boat.

Now that they’re all equally drenched, the losers confer and choose “Mud War” as the next game. Harding recruits some extra score-keepers and assigns points to each hit. The teams divide into Advisors (plus Lora), Mages, Rogues, and Warriors. Despite more flagrant cheating from Dorian and, shockingly, Vivienne, team Rogues takes the win. Team Mages finishes last, bringing Lora’s prophecy to fruition yet again.

The mages tactically choose “Mud Explosion” next, and this time the cheating actually pays off. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) it pays off so well that even the spectators get showered in mud and Lora has to reset the field like a tiny swamp goddess. Cullen glares at the offending mages and mutters something about having to scrub the parapets for the next month.

“Capture the Griffin Egg” truly escalates the dishonor—and by that Hawke means that everyone cheats. Harding even starts to award points for ‘most creative underhanded tactics.’

“Point to Sera for bees!” she bellows across the melee as Dorian shrieks and flails. “How did you even smuggle them in so quickly?”

Sera only cackles.

Hawke’s team doesn’t win, but he doesn’t mind. The next game is “Pelt the Targets of Unspecified Nationality and Rank.” Josephine amended the title for diplomatic reasons. Still, the effigies Harding and the soldiers gleefully cobble together do bear a striking resemblance to several notable Orlesians. Accidentally, Hawke is sure.

He takes great pleasure in hurling a hard-packed clod that knocks off definitely-not-Briala’s mask and wig. They all win that one, really.

The sun has crested the sky and begun to dip by the end, so Hawke swoops Lora up onto his muddy shoulder and says, “Alright Sunshine, last game before everyone goes and takes a bath. Who should be the Commander in your Arishok friend’s game?”

“Mmm…” She taps her chin, thinking, and then beams. Hawke knows she’s going to choose the most chaotic option before she even says it. “ME!”

Five minutes later, a crate has been found, scarves have been commandeered, and the yard is a chorus of deliberate hecklers. Lora plants her feet atop the box like a tiny general and puffs out her chest. Not that Hawke sees—he’s blindfolded, abandoned in a quagmire with everyone else.

“The things we do for access to unspeakable magical power in the form of an eccentric child,” Dorian sighs. Hawke manages to elbow him.

Lora will be a tremendous commander one day. They’re all sure of that. She has the confidence, charisma, and mentorship to become one of the greatest leaders in the history of either world. One day.

Unfortunately for them, she’s currently seven and prone to fanciful descriptions. She also mixes up left and right, forgets they’re blindfolded, and assumes they can feel the world as she does. The end result is sheer chaos, to such a degree that Garrett soon finds himself laughing hysterically as he bumps into his companions while trying to interpret what “Waffles, go to the gummy moon mud!” could possibly mean.

His mirth is shared by nearly all. The hecklers stop heckling and start offering Lora “alternative” descriptions that “adults understand better.” They do not, in fact, understand better.

Still, she manages to get them all to their objectives eventually, which is impressive in itself. When Hawke peels the blindfold off, she has her hands on her hips and regards them all with comically serious disappointment.

“Grown-ups,” she sighs. “My friends would have known what I meant!”

Hawke lifts her from the box and sets her on his shoulders. His face hurts from smiling. “I’m sorry, Sunshine. I’m sure they would have.”

She bends over his head as he sets about making sure her bathtime won’t be conveniently skipped. “Can Meli come play too, next time? She learned how to meet me when I’m dreaming!”

Hawke pats her muddy knee and thinks nothing of it. “Of course she can.”

Above them, the sky drifts from the deep orange of late afternoon into the purple of twilight, and for a breath the air tastes like rain in a place that hasn’t seen it yet. As he carries away the Inquisition’s Princess of Puddles and Doer of the Impossible, he doesn’t stop to remember that to her, dreams are merely doors.

And he just invited one to swing open.