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GUARDIAN, 9:42 DRAGON

The so-called warden Blackwall trudges through the Hinterlands a few paces behind Nousha Adaar, a giant who walked out of the fade and now holds the power to seal rifts with her hand. Alongside them are two rogues- an elf and a dwarf. It rained all through last night and the dirt underfoot has turned into thick, wet mud that makes walking difficult. The woman that so many are claiming is Andraste's chosen appears to be grim and humourless, the only words she's spoken in the hours following his recruitment are the occasional hiss for the rogues to shut up when their bickering rises above a whisper. The tension has only built up over time, amplified by their failed attempts to find any wild rams, prolonging the refugees' hunger. Wintersend hasn't passed yet and despite it only being five o'clock, their surroundings are growing darker by the minute. The shadows of the trees looming over their little party lengthen, lowering visibility and creating better opportunities for someone to hide. It's a challenge, traversing the unsteady ground while also watching for any sign of ambush, but so far Blackwall's vigilance hasn't sent him falling onto his arse in the mud. Touch wood, he thinks, softly patting an elm as he passes it. His nose is beginning to run, a reaction to the cold. As he sniffs, trying to stop the mucus from getting into his moustache, he catches the sharp, recognisable whiff of wild onions growing nearby.

"What's the problem, Stranger?" The dwarf asks. Blackwall snaps his head forward to see that Nousha has stopped walking and is staring intently to their left, her head tilted slightly. Following her vision, Blackwall only sees trees and mud. That doesn't bring any reassurance, though. There's a long moment of tense silence where Blackwall's hand hovers steadily over his scabbard, preparing for another fight. In the periphery of his vision, he sees their smaller companions do the same.

"Wait here," Nousha orders before stepping off the path and ducking under the branch of a hawthorn.

"What, you goin' for a piss or something?" The elf's shrill voice is full of laughter, and Blackwall gives an ugly snort of his own amusement before he can stop himself. He gets two grins from his companions in response.

"Foraging," answers an unamused voice, its owner having disappeared within the forest greenery in the few moments that Blackwall had looked away. "It won't be as good as mutton, but it'll help tide a few people over until tomorrow. You don't need much to make a decent soup."

"Is that wise," he asks uncertainly into the frigid evening air. "It'll be pitch black soon, we'd do well to be back at camp before then."

"You're far too old to be afraid of the dark, Warden." The scolding tone makes him deflate, further injury dealt to his ego by the snickering beside him. That's you told, eh?

--

Night has fallen by the time they reach the crossroads, their last mile illuminated by the glow of a spell held in Nousha's palm. Most of the refugees have turned in for the night, piling into a couple of the available houses that took them in or taking shelter under threadbare canvas tents and lean-tos handed out by the Inquisition scouts. And people are calling this a village? It's barely a homestead, four isolated little shacks on a muddy path. One of the few inhabitants still awake, a hunter who had given them directions to where a flock of Fereldan rams could be found, crouches beside a campfire, stirring a bowl of thin soup. Lit by the faint orange glow, Blackwall can see the man's sunken eyes and hollow cheeks.

"Any luck, qunari?" He doesn't rise as he speaks, and his voice lacks any hope.

"Not yet, but we've found a decent amount of food growing a few miles north of here." She unloads the burlap sack from her shoulder as she speaks. "Onions, nuts, a little rosehip, and I grabbed a few mushrooms that are safe to eat."

"Better than nothing, I suppose." Maker, he never had any faith in them to begin with. The gaunt man groans as he stands, the crack of his knees audible from Blackwall's position a few meters away. "Here, go get yourself settled inside. Not safe to be out here at night."

"We'll be fine, thank you," Nousha says, her tone apologetic. "We've got a camp of our own set up less than ten minutes away, plus it wouldn't be right to take up space when you're already so packed in here.

The hunter doesn't insist, merely busying himself sifting through the sack of supplies. As the group shuffles down the road, worn out and ready to get some rest, Nousha pauses again. Blackwall nearly bumps into her, following almost at her heels. They're only a few paces away from where they'd spoken to the hunter, the sound of snores filling the air around them.

"What now," Sera hisses impatiently. Blackwall doesn't speak but he certainly shares the sentiment. Please, Andraste, no more traipsing around in the woods. He leans around from behind Nousha's bulk, trying to identify what's caught her attention.

There's a child sitting on the step of the nearest house, a little elven lad, his scrawny frame further exaggerated by the oversized clothes he's wearing, the threadbare fabrics hanging loosely off of him. His dark skin and hair contrasts with his bright purple eyes that look almost luminescent in the low light, never landing on anything for more than a second. As the group stares, he lowers his head, making himself smaller, receding into the cocoon of his clothes.

"You should be inside," Nousha says gently. "It's dangerous out here at night, especially for children."

The boy reaches a tiny hand up to the loose neckline of his shirt, picking at the frayed fabric. "It smells bad in there, makes my head hurt." Can't be easy to get a bath with so many people around, Blackwall thinks.

"Well, we can't have you freezing out here, can we? Why don't you go and sit by the fire, at least then you'll have some warmth."

The lad only shrinks further beneath his clothes.

"Come on," she stoops down in a fairly ineffective attempt at making herself look smaller, "I'm sure vegetable soup will smell better than all the sweat and dirt everybody's covered in."

At the mention of vegetable soup, the boy's sharp ears prick up and before Blackwall can blink, he's scampered past all of them towards the gentle glow of the campfire. There's a startled "Hello" from the hunter before he offers a bowl of his cooking. Nousha stares after him for a long moment, watching as the little boy is interrupted from burning himself on the too-hot soup and gets instructed on how to gently blow on a spoonful before he brings it to his mouth. When she finally turns away, something approaching a smile plays at her mouth, which has been downturned and tight since the moment Blackwall first saw her.

CLOUDREACH, 9:42 DRAGON

Nousha's mood, which had slowly been slowly improving over the last two months, sours again during the Inquisition's dealings with the rebel mages. Their leaders have voted in favour of allowing some magister from Tevinter to take control. Several groups have since splintered off and fled into the wilderness, but most don't want to risk going it alone, and submit to Alexius' authority. Fiona, the elf who had previously lead her fellows through the rebellion, appears so broken by the ruling that she can hardly bring herself to meet Nousha's gaze during their meeting in Redcliffe's tavern. Her face is grey and she looks ill before them while Alexius crows.

Even after she's summoned to meet with another Tevinter who seeks to overthrow his countryman's machinations, Nousha's scowl remains carved into her face, accentuating the creases around her mouth and between her eyebrows.

"Fucking idiots," she spits as their party marches out of Redcliffe's gates. "They were in a fantastic position and they pissed it all away. The mages we've been running into out in the wilderness would kill to have the Queen of Ferelden offer them shelter somewhere in some cushy little village like this."

"I'm afraid that Fiona and her cronies were never known for their intelligence." Even without turning to look at her, Blackwall can hear the smile in Vivienne's voice. "The libertarian fraternity has always been led by the terminally shortsighted. I suppose they realised they were in over their little heads and handed the responsibility over to the only willing candidate."

"That's not--"

Solas' argument is cut off by Nousha's derisive snort. "You're right; the resolutionists would never sell themselves out like this."

Beside him, Blackwall sees Cassandra's head whip around to fix Nousha with a hard glare. "They would simply blow up Redcliffe's Chantry."

"They certainly would," Nousha says approvingly.

Eager to change the subject (three mages and a Seeker can and will take any opportunity to erupt into a vicious argument with hardly a moment's notice), Blackwall speaks up. "You don't suppose the votes have been influenced by this Alexius, do you?"

"Certainly," Cassandra grunts. "Agents can be sent to pose as desperate apostates looking for a home with their fellow mages. A few words in the right ear is all it takes."

"Or a few stolen secrets," Vivienne adds.

He'd never really considered it before the rebellion started, but Blackwall has a growing suspicion that there's just as much politicking and backstabbing within these mages' fraternities as there is among the Orlesian nobility.

--

Nousha's sat nursing a bitter-smelling tea when he finds her back at Haven, past the stables and at the end of some rickety fishing pier that stands uselessly at the edge of a frozen lake. He wordlessly settles himself down beside her, feet hanging down over the pier's edge. She doesn't tell him to fuck off, so Blackwall is optimistic that she appreciates his company.

"Any idea how you're going to get the mages out from under Alexius?"

His question is met with a shrug, and Nousha glares at the landscape before them like it's done her wrong. Her black hair is tied back, spilling over her back, speckled with the occasional snowflake. She has a nice profile, an arched nose sporting a golden piercing through its bridge, and another above the bow of her lips.

"The rebels have lost their minds," she says, pausing to blow on her drink. "How do you join a rebellion, survive as apostates for years, only to hand your freedom over to a complete stranger?"

Blackwall sighs and itches at his beard. "It's been years since the circles first started to fall- maybe they just grew weary. Stopped caring."

"But there's children among them!" Nousha turns to stare at Blackwall, an almost pleading expression on her face. "How can anybody do that? With a magister, of all people?"

Her golden eyes glitter with unshed tears. "They-- maybe-- you-- I think--" He flounders uselessly for a moment, mouth shaping around words that he can't string into meaningful sentences, and quickly abandons his attempt to frame how the mages could have justified it to themselves. He'd never really registered that Nousha was capable of crying, ridiculous as it sounds. Finally surrendering to silence, he responds with a mute shrug, shaking his head helplessly. Nousha deflates at the gesture, her mouth twisting into a pained grimace.

"Maybe it's my being Rivaini," she mumbles, turning away to stare at the expanse of ice before them. "I just-- I could never do that; hand my child over to a stranger. Alexius, the Circles, or one of those Chantries that raises future Templars. It's all one and the same to me."

Blackwall allows a long sigh through his nose, chewing at the inside of his cheek. "It's not an easy choice to make, certainly. But when you're facing the reality of raising a child in Ferelden or the Free Marches, where there's so much hatred--"

"This isn't a hypothetical situation, Blackwall."

He doesn't understand what she means for a moment and turns to look at Nousha. She raises her eyebrows and inclines her head expectantly. Then the penny drops, and the breath is knocked out of him.

"You--"

"I've got a son back at the Valo-Kas camp. Little Siddel. Just got his magic last year." Nousha's gaze drops to their feet, dangling over the ice side-by-side. "Don't tell anybody, will you?"

BLOOMINGTIDE, 9:42 DRAGON

Cole's a sweet lad. The way he tries to help, even in ways that don't initially make any sense. The way he speaks, the way he doesn't meet one's eyes or emote. It makes Nousha's heart ache. After enough tellings off, he's figured out that people don't actually like having their thoughts sifted through as carelessly as a child rummages through a toy box. Especially when his findings are brought up in the middle of camp, with more onlookers than Nousha is in the mood to count.

But he'll still make it painfully obvious when he's latched onto something, some pain that he wants to help with. His eyes stop their flitting and his bony little hands cease fidgeting, and he stares, unblinking. Nousha refuses to meet his gaze, resolutely focusing on anything other than him. He'll pester her about it when the time is right, no point in exchanging meaningful glances yet. It's Bull's turn to cook tonight, and the broth he's got stewing over the campfire is full of Sera's freshly caught rabbit. With just a handful of herbs from Seheron, it smells divine- though Nousha would have included more vegetables.

They're on their way back to Skyhold from the Storm Coast, and Blackwall avoids Nousha like the plague. During their time clearing darkspawn from the Blades of Hessarian's territory, she and the Warden got separated from the rest of their group for some six hours within the twisting cave system that cuts through the land. At one point, when the pair were surrounded by hurlocks and an ogre, Nousha was forced to resorted to a method of self defence that Blackwall found... unseemly.

Even with a healing spell, the scabbed remnants of the cut Nousha made along her palm itches maddeningly. Before her, Cole tilts his head at her stubborn refusal to scratch at the scab, perplexed.

Cassandra stares in the direction of the Blades' camp, barely visible after a day of riding. The troops that Cullen had initially sent to deal with the darkspawn struggled with the job, requiring support from the inner circle. Several are dead, and even more are injured. Thankfully, Highever is a mere five mile march from the Blades' territory, and even slowed by their injured members, the soldiers will have arrived at Teyrn Cousland's gates seeking aid. Leliana had established an alliance with Fergus within days of the Inquisition's announcement, seeking as many friends among Ferelden as possible, and Josephine had penned a letter on Nousha's behalf congratulating him on his new wife's pregnancy. He seems a decent man, and likely to lend aid to the soldiers' injuries.

Despite this, Cassandra's gaze doesn't pull away from the landscape behind them, as if a great cry for help will go up, and she'll be able to leap to action and save all of her subordinates. It's a mystery why Cullen's serving as Commander and not her; she has a far stronger tie to the Inquisition, more training and despite their own immense dislike of one another, Nousha has to admit that Cassandra's reputation is very impressive. A descendant from a family of dragon-slayers who thwarted an assassination attempt against Divine Beatrix- it's something capable of inspiring awe in their recruits and terror in their enemies.

Cullen's own history is... spotty. From what Nousha has heard from Leliana's reports, he was a decent Templar, one of the few survivors of Kinloch Hold's capture by Uldred. After that, he'd apparently spent some time among the famously uneventful Ostwick Circle until he was recovered enough to serve under Meredith at Kirkwall. And everybody in Thedas knows how that ended.

People keep asking him whether Varric's writings on the Hawke sisters' adventures through the infamous city-state is accurate, but Cullen has refused to touch the dwarf's book. Even his muses can't stand his ridiculous overreliance on similes.

The sound of pen scribbling furiously against paper comes from Dorian and Vivienne's shared tent- both of them are inside so it's impossible to tell which one is responsible. Either writing a letter or making amendments to a grimoire. Besides Blackwall, Dorian is one of the few people in Skyhold who knows of Nousha's dabbling in blood magic. The only others are people who Nousha has known for years- Harlow, the father of her child, and Fatuma, a Rivaini hedge witch brought to Haven to care for Nousha's--

Hand. The one with the Anchor on it. The one that Solas was studying closely during her time unconscious. That's another person who knows.

She throws a sideways glance to where Solas sits, discussing something with Varric. So three of her travelling companions are aware of Nousha's use of a kind of magic that, under usual circumstances, would get her killed or made tranquil. Three people with the ultimate, life-destroying piece of information that they could use against her. Her chest tightens, and she rises abruptly to her feet, startling Cassandra for half a moment before she frowns and turns back to watch the Coast, her ears turning pink.

No announcement for her departure is made- it never is. It gives Nousha a spiteful little thrill, this refusal to communicate with people she's stuck working alongside. As she marches away from the orange glow of their campfire, following along the road that will lead them through the Bannorn, Nousha knows she's not alone.

The boy is floating along behind her, eager to untangle the thicket of brambles in her head. At least he's earnest, for all his eccentricities. Cole waits patiently for Nousha to stop walking. She's only satisfied when the campfire is little more than a speck over their shoulders, some half-mile between the two of them and their companions. Finally, Nousha conjures a light of her own- a spark of fire held in her palm.

"Make it quick." The gruffness of her words are softened somewhat for Cole. His physical age is difficult to parse- he's so sickly and unnaturally pale that he looks both childlike and ancient. Despite herself, Nousha can't help focusing on the youthful aspect of his appearance- as well as his behaviour.

When Cole opens his mouth, Nousha sees that his teeth are grey and crooked. "You're scared," he says. "Scared, sad, sore, seething. Your life is in their hands- so many hands, too many. All it takes is one of them to clench into a fist and you'll be crushed. Too many hands. Get rid of these hands." Despite the distress in his voice, Cole's face remains uncannily neutral. "They're all reaching for you. Gripping, grabbing, gouging. A hen thrown into the fox-house. Feathers and blood."

"You've made your point, boy." Nousha can't help wincing as she speaks. "So, do you have any kernels of wisdom to comfort me, or are you just going to explain how I feel?"

Cole drifts closer to her, clutching his hands together as though he were praying. "They won't tell- won't risk ruining things. Can't sabotage the mission when so much is at stake. Can't risk hurting her, despite our disagreements. Can't destroy her life over this when my sins are so much worse."

Nousha shakes her head, sighing. "And what of the other hands, hm? The templars, the guards, the noblemen who'd love to see another dead ox, especially if someone dangles a bit of power before them? What happens when they decide to start squeezing?"

"Broken wrists and fingers. The hands that protect you are fast and strong."

"So I'm to rely on the loyalty of strangers," Nousha grunts. "Great."

Cole's eyes flit away momentarily. Then he redoubles his efforts, and lays a cold hand on Nousha's arm. "Riding, rolling, resolute. They get closer every day. Mother, sister and daughter to them, they come to stand by its missing piece. It's best to face them."

It's frustrating how right he is.


Blackwall, Varric and Sera are discussing Orlesian fashion when she returns with Cole. Their conversation halts as Blackwall abruptly excuses himself- something about how his mug of tea had gone straight through him, deliberately avoiding looking in Nousha's direction as he marches off.

At least her bowl of broth is still warm.

JUSTINIAN, 9:42 DRAGON

Despite being so far from home, the Adaar family settles into Skyhold quite smoothly. Blackwall overhears several chantry sisters complaining about Nousha's grandmother relocating their flowers in the garden while their backs were turned, and there's whisperings about Majid, the youngest of Nousha's siblings, skulking around in Skyhold's darkest corners, staring mutely and thoroughly creeping out the visiting nobles. Any frustrations caused by the qunari clan are soothed by the presence of their little ones- Roxanna and Parveen capture a lot of hearts, his included, and Yasmina's stomach makes it clear that there'll be another on the way soon. She and Yusef are almost buried in a pile of knitwear for their unborn infant.

"Fatherhood suits you," Nousha tells her brother as she bounces Parveen on her knee. Yusef smiles back at her, looking away from Siddel's lesson to Roxanna on how to play nards several tables away. "It's no surprise- you were always good with the village kids growing up. They hung off you like a bunch of termites."

Sat beside her on the tavern's low bench, Blackwall swallows his ale, imagining Nousha and her siblings in their youth. Full of energy, sprinting through the Rivaini countryside.

"I always imagined you with a big family," she continues. "Another generation of chaos."

"Beleh-- ah, yes." Yusef's golden eyes briefly flit over to Blackwall, remembering the presence of someone who didn't know his native tongue. His accent is far thicker than the rest of his siblings, something that he seems self-conscious of, as he has proven reluctant to speak to anyone outside of his family. "That is certainly the plan. I wanted-- what is the common word for hasht?"

Nousha shakes her head, mouth agape in a disbelieving smile. "Eight? You're out of your mind." Yusef only shrugs, laughing helplessly.

"Yes, eight, eight, that's it. Yasmina was, ah, less than thrilled. I'll have to settle for less."

"Obviously."

Beside Yusef is Pantea, his twin and Nousha's only sister. "You could still get eight through adoption," she muses, scratching at a scar that bisects her eyebrow. "Get however many kids you can manage the old fashioned way, then grab the rest from an orphanage."

"Maybe," Yusef says, though there's no enthusiasm in his voice.

Both of them sport white hair. They also have horns, which Nousha lacks. There's still a strong family resemblance, though; they share the same nose, eye colour and cheekbones.

Yusef itches at the scruff on his chin. "You know, I thought the same thing about you. Big family, I mean. When Siddel was born, I figured there would be at least a few more." His words make Nousha's smile falter slightly, and she shakes her head, glancing over to her son, who's clearly growing irritated by Roxanna's inability to follow instructions.

She makes a low, noncommittal noise, deep in her throat. "I'd planned on it, but... things just turned out differently."

"Life likes to surprise you, certainly." In solidarity with her sister, Pantea brings her attention to Blackwall. "What of you, warden? Can a member of your order even be a parent?" Her golden eyes are wide open, intense and determined to change the subject.

"I-- sort of. Yes and no. Sure, you could court somebody outside of the order, some of our outposts are situated nearby towns and villages. You could even get someone pregnant, but the wardens, we're a devoted bunch, and a child doesn't dissolve the vow you've made- you'll not be able to be much of a parent to your little ones. A few visits every now and then, that's about as much as you can expect."

Yusef sucks his teeth at the idea, and glances out of the tavern's window, his eyebrows (which are black, in stark contrast with his white hair) drawing together pensively. "Do many wardens do it that way?"

Blackwall gnaws at the inside of his cheek for a long moment. "Not in my experience, though I'm only familiar with the personal lives of the wardens at one of our settlements."

"You ever thought about it?" Nousha doesn't look at him as she asks her question, too busy reaching her face down kiss the fleshy growth on her niece's forehead that would soon become a horn. Her voice is casual.

Thom Rainier very likely had children. Bastards sired during his conquests throughout Orlais and the Free Marches. It was such a joke among the lads in the army that they'd leave a bunch of 'for daddy' letters on his bunk each Satinalia. He'd laugh at it every time. The sight of Parveen growing sleepy and settling against the crook of Nousha's arm makes Blackwall wince at the memory.

"Not really," he rasps, taking a sip of his ale. "If I can't be a good, present parent, then why bother?"

All three qunari sat before him nod, seemingly satisfied.

SOLACE, 9:42 DRAGON

Even with his beard and long hair, Blackwall comes dangerously close to having his cover blown at the ball. Some half-drunk fool claims to recognise him. Worst of all is that it's mutual. François DuPuis was known for creating intricate pieces of clothing for pets. During Thom Rainier's early years in the Orlesian military, general Maron was constantly complaining about his wife's spending habits, particularly on outfits for their terriers. One of Thom's peers liked to joke that it was punishment for his failing to put a baby in her, though he'd never say it to Maron's face. Every ball, Thom and the others would wait for DuPuis to show up just to watch Maron desperately try to prevent Beatrice from noticing him, and inevitably start putting together ideas for another addition to the dogs' wardrobe.

Despite wearing heavier makeup than he once did, François bears his aging more gracefully than most Orlesian noblemen, his salt-and-pepper hair is combed back to brazenly display his receded hairline. His pot-belly shows through his clothes, unrestrained by any corset, which is something of a plague among Orlesians past their thirties. When Blackwall manages to redirect the man's curiosity toward Vivienne, who is known for treating her ugly, hairless cat better than most parents treat their firstborn, he can't help but respect old DuPuis' acceptance of himself. He'd come from a military family, and his decision to pursue animal fashion had been a point of mockery for his entire adult life, and he has the confidence of a man whose endurance to such judgements has steeled him. The sound of his retreating footsteps are quickly drowned out by another set of feet descending the marble staircase that leads to Blackwall's little hiding spot.

"Enjoying the evening, warden?"

He doesn't look toward the voice. "About as much as you, judging by the look on your face when Celene introduced you to her other guests." Nousha's eyes had been massive, and her shoulders were so stiff that you could have balanced plates on them.

A big, warm hand is run over Blackwall's scalp, fingers carding through his hair, and he leans his head back against it.

"Picked up on that, did you? Maker, these nobles and their love of humiliation. In what world would a person enjoy having to trot out in front of everybody like that?" She laughs mirthlessly. "They were practically drooling, so excited to tear me apart."

Blackwall finally turns, putting in real effort to keep his gaze on Nousha's face, and not the breasts that sit at eye level for him. "Are you certain it wasn't the dress they were drooling over?" He really must thank Josephine for choosing this little number. It's simple, especially when compared to the cluttered Orlesian outfits that surround her, and Blackwall adores it. Shades of reddish-purple that matches Nousha's makeup, as well as a plunging neckline. Thin, semi-transparent sleeves that hang loosely from her arms, reminiscent of the kind of negligee he's seen some noblewomen wear.

Nousha rolls her eyes, but the massive smile on her face ruins the attempt at looking unimpressed. When she looks back at him, there's a playful spark in her expression, looking for something to tease him over. "What did that announcer say about you? Wings of Valour? Tell me about that."

Blackwall's playfulness evaporates instantly, and he can feel his scalp start to itch. "I-- for valour. It doesn't matter, it was a long time ago." His fingers curl into fists instinctively, hearing how quickly he speaks.

"Of course it matters," Nousha coos, pushing further. "It sounds very important; did you save someone?"

Blackwall pulls away from her, sighing. "Look, why don't we save the reminiscing for when we're not in the middle of an Orlesian snake pit?"

Nousha's smile only widens, a wicked gleam in her eyes. "Very well, ser, but know that you're only delaying the inevitable."

She has no idea how right she is. "I am incredibly aware, my lady."

Her lips, painted dark, catch some of the nearby candlelight as she leans down to press a kiss against his forehead. And then his cheek, then his nose, then his mouth. She's laughing as she spins away from him and drifts back up the staircase. Then, she disappears round a doorway, and Blackwall is alone again.

After a few minutes, he decides that hiding away in a dark corner has lost its novelty, and drifts back to the main ballroom. Lady Josephine bickers by one of the many snack tables with a masked woman, both wearing dresses in the same shades of gold and blue. The stranger's skin is the same warm brown as Josephine's, adorned with several moles. Family, probably. There's another woman beside them, wearing an asymmetrical dress that reveals one of her arms and the muscles it bears- likely the noble soldier who's been sending Josephine scandalous letters.

Cassandra, red-faced in her ornate-looking suit, stares toward Vivienne's politicking from across the room, far too bashful to ask for a dance. Cullen is beside her, looking far more comfortable in the plainer clothes of the Inquisition military. It seems that there's been a great weight off his shoulders now that he's been allowed to step down as commander. Any leering nobles looking to rub shoulders with him are directed instead towards lady Pentaghast, his reluctant replacement. She'll never forgive Nousha for making her take Cullen's place.

Blackwall takes a glass of wine from one of the elven servants bearing silver trays, awkwardly giving his thanks to her receding form. As he turns away and leans on the banister overlooking the ballroom floor where couples spin lazily to the subdued music, he hears the telltale ruffling of someone's hand-fan being unfurled. "She has a bastard, you know." The Orlesian voice drops even lower on the word 'bastard'. "An ox-human mixture." Immediately knowing who's being discussed, Blackwall strains his ears to listen.

"La Vache! Everything I learn about this woman is worse than the last! Has she named the father?"

The speaker and their partner stand below him on the stairs leading to the clearing, two men watching the churning mass of bodies. One of them has a gloved hand held against the small of the other's back.

"From what I've heard, she probably couldn't if she wanted to- mercenary types are known for having... extensive histories. Est-ce que tu comprends?"

"Of course, of course. I'm afraid you lack your wife's subtlety, mon cher." His low voice is sickly sweet with patronisation. "What surprises me, though, is how she only has one child- oxmen often have armies of young at their heels; so eager to overrun Thedas."

The speculation is answered with a hideous, self-satisfied chuckle. "I wouldn't be surprised if she's hiding the rest of her litter- pawning them off to her fellow apostates. The locations of the Inquisitor's whelps would be a valuable bartering chip."

"I'm sure Gaspard will be very interested in finding them if things don't go his way tonight." Blackwall represses the urge to scoff as he steps back from the banister- that vicious old cunt can certainly try.

It's only several hours later that Blackwall sees his reflection in one of the many ornate mirrors spread across the grand ballroom. He's got dark lipstick dotted all over his face.

AUGUST, 9:42 Dragon

The combination of the Inquisition's newfound alliance with the puppet-emperor Gaspard and its support of Leliana as the potential next Divine, Skyhold spends several weeks buzzing with more activity than ever before. Chantry mothers whose robes are almost as ostentatiously decorated as the nobles who dot the courtyard, all clasped hands and warm smiles as if they had not spent the first half of the year decrying the Inquisition as a band of heretics. Dukes, duchesses and their respective packs of Chevaliers prowl the interior halls, eager to curry favour with the Inquisition's most prominent members- Josephine in particular, the little diplomat is stretched thin between the snapping beaks of these many vultures. How she has the energy to stay on her feet is a mystery.

None of her companions are surprised when Nousha announces a voyage to Crestwood six days after their return from Val Royeaux, so obvious is her misery among these queer visitors. She keeps catching Varric and Dorian exchanging sardonic smiles over her impatience to depart, barely affording them two hours to prepare themselves.

She keeps half an eye on everyone taking their supplies to their respective steeds as she needles Harlow over their son's comforts atop the battlements. "You know he and Kieran like to play in the garden together, so I'd bring a book to read while you're watching them, but don't make it too obvious that you're watching them--"

"--I know--"

"--And he's learning barrier magic from Talwyn, did I tell you that? His lessons are from eight 'til ten under the library." Even dividing her attention between Harlow and her companions' preparations for travel, Nousha can't miss the exasperation on his face. Besides herself, Blackwall is the only person who has his things already packed, and patiently allows young Siddel to talk his ear off about his latest project. "Only take your meals with him in the tavern if there's not too many people around, okay? If it's all a-bustle, eat in the tower--"

"--I know, petal," Harlow interjects, pressing a pacifying hand on her arm. "You act like I've never cared for him in your absence."

Nousha shakes her head and allows herself a chastised laugh, itching at the corner of her eye. "Right, yes, I'm sorry. Just. You know-- the-- we've got all these people visiting, all these strangers. Nobles and Chantry figures. Not the kind of people I want around him. But I don't need to tell you that, do I?"

Harlow smiles, the scars peaking out from under his eye patch pulling at the skin of his face. "That you do not." His remaining eye flicks, briefly, over the courtyard at all the extra figures lingering amongst it, servants hard at work to do their jobs of cooking for and cleaning up after so many hungry mouths and muddied shoes. "I'll not let anybody say a cross word to him, you understand? I've long since lost my youthful meekness."

He's not in the habit of starting arguments, he never has been, but Nousha is inclined to agree with him. She's heard of what Harlow is capable of when backed into a corner. He and the dwindling group of tranquil and apostates he'd fled the White Spire with worked alongside Adan in Haven, perfecting alchemical formulas when they had time between healing potions. Nousha's routine rarely brought her to the apothecary shack, but she occasionally exchanged words with his associates. Evelyn, a slip of a girl who'd not yet seen her twentieth year, had whispered of their group's departure from the Val Royeaux Circle when the war reached it, and their journey northwest to the Nahashin Marshes. They'd had to loot clothes to pass as travelling refugees, but nonetheless found themselves accosted multiple times on their path to safety, often by civilians who caught sight of a tranquil's empty expression or the telltale brand on their forehead if a gust of wind disturbed the hair or hood that covered it. Most of them were effectively scared off by a weak spell biting at their feet, but a few wielded weapons and lacked sense, or continued their screaming, threatening to draw attention if any Templars wandered too close, and Harlow had taken on the responsibility of striking them down with his lightning. They'd still be smoking in the road when the group continued their march.

"I always knew you'd make a good father," Nousha hears herself say. Harlow tries and fails to smother his smile, and turns his flushing face away like a bashful child.

--

They make a brief stop at Lake Calenhad's docks, mere miles from Crestwood, with the now empty Kinloch Hold to the south, looming over the islets that dot the water. Despite its close proximity to the besieged village, the Spoiled Princess' owner, a human man who's only a few years older than Nousha, reports that there has been no word of demons in the immediate area. His daughters, a pair of twins that look to be six or seven, judging by their missing teeth, wipe diligently at the empty tables while their mother carries out drinks to the bar's few patrons.

The Mages' Collective had once operated out here, if Nousha's memory works correctly. Harlow often traveled to receive work and information before his capture. Probably stayed in this very inn. Nousha lays a few silver on the counter as thanks for the owner's time and patience, and as an apology for her companions tracking mud across his freshly cleaned floors. As he nods thanks of his own, one of his daughters totters over to the door with a wet rag and gets to work scrubbing at the footprints, her pale brow furrowed in concentration. Despite his haggard face and sunken eyes, the innkeeper beams at the girl's work ethic, laughing to himself as he runs a rag inside a tankard.

Stepping outside, Nousha sees Varric returning from the start of the forest where several of their other companions are still pissing. He gives a nod to her as he scrambles back onto his mule.

"You know, Bethany spent a few years up there," he says, throwing a quick glance to the tower. "If an apostate is caught rather than willingly handed over to the templars when their magic comes in, they're usually sent away. To prevent their families from trying to break them out, Meredith said. I don't think anybody believed her. When the girls quelled the Qunari invasion and got a shiny new title, Bethany was brought back. They kept her very close to the Knight-Commander and her tranquil."

"Not close enough to dissuade her sisters' work with Orsino, clearly."

Varric smiles at that. "Clearly."

They chat more as the others return from the trees and the inn, bladders empty and bags full. About how some of the Banns, already overwhelmed with refugees during the war, had proposed using the abandoned circles to house those who had been displaced by fighting between the apostates and the templars. Anora had initially humoured the idea, but she was forced to reject it when she received word that almost nobody was willing to enter, convinced that a building for mages would surely be cursed, or that the magic might infect their children. Cassandra, overhearing their discussion, offers a derisive smile at such superstition.

Beside her, Vivienne's own face is stony and wholly lacking in humour. "A good example of the average person's view of mages- the same populace with which the rebels wish to cohabitate."

"You say that like people are incapable of changing their minds," Blackwall grunts. The amusement of her discussion with Varric has evaporated, replaced by a sharp, dry tension that cuts through the air like an autumn chill.

Vivienne audibly scoffs as Nousha orders her horse forward at a steady trot. "And how many mages will die before these minds change?"

"How many were already dying in the circles?" Nousha demands, unable to ignore the argument. "Getting brutalised, made tranquil?"

"My dear, you've not set foot in a circle in your entire life- you know nothing of what the average mage experiences." Vivienne's voice remains infuriatingly casual, like they're discussing the weather. "You've had your view tainted by the manifestos of resolutionist madmen."

Nousha twists in her saddle to glare at her opponent, craning her neck painfully. "And what do you know of life for a normal mage among the circle? You were Celene's court enchanter for, what, two decades? Don't act like that didn't improve your standing among the circle- what templar would dare to treat you the way they treat a lowly apprentice?"

"Guys," Varric says wearily from behind her, "I'm pretty sure we've heard this conversation before."

"Heaps of times," Sera agrees.

"So you admit, then, that mages are fully capable of gaining power and influence among the oh-so abusive circles?" Andraste's roasted taint, she sounds so unbearably pleased with herself that Nousha grits her teeth hard enough to make her jaw ache.

"Sure you can. Just leap through hoops for your jailer's approval and ignore the suffering of those beneath you. Very helpful to the cause."

Finally, Vivienne allows a hint of distaste into her words. "My cause, Inquisitor, is to improve the lives of those within the circles. Do not think, for one second, that it bears any similarities to your own."

"The circles are empty, enchanter," Dorian cuts in, prompting Cassandra to bristle.

"Most did not choose to leave their homes," she insists. Vivienne pays their side-conversation no mind.

Her large, dark eyes remain on Nousha. "It is the actions of the extremist malcontents that have thrown the lives of all mages across southern Thedas into chaos. The crusade that you have placed your support behind has killed more innocents than can be counted."

"Revolutions are always violent," Nousha spits. "Do you think the elves calmly petitioned for their enslavement to end? Did Ferelden ask Orlais to cease its invasion?"

"The elves' enslavement continues, and they live in filthy alienages. They're still subjected to violence and repression, and Ferelden's still barely standing after its secession from Orlais; countless languish in poverty." She slowly gives her head a shake, like she truly empathises with the plight of the elves or the Fereldans. "Sudden, radical shifts in power like the one you have so passionately fought for require careful planning and slow, tentative progress, otherwise the newfound freedom will either be undone, or reveal itself to be an empty air that allows its inhabitants to plummet to their deaths."

"What progress? Two decades as the Empress' jester and the only improvements I've heard of in Orlais was in Montsimmard- a circle well known for housing mages from noble families. Very impressive!" Nousha hears the ugly vindictiveness in her voice. "And what of the other circles? The ones that house commoners, the ones in territories that lack mage representatives at their court?"

"And what of those who couldn't fight their way out when the circles fell? What of the children and the elderly?"

"If the templars would cut down those incapable of fighting, then that's proof enough that the circles deserve to dissolve."

Bull swears in Qunlat, a term that Nousha's heard her grandmother utter when she burnt her cooking. "Anybody got a good way to change the subject?"

"Congratulations, you've gotten the revolt you wanted." Vivienne clasps her gloved hands together in faux reverence. "And the only price is the lives of those children and elders you claim to care for, so that you may live in terror-riddled freedom, constantly looking over your shoulder whenever a Chantry sister ventures too close to you or your son. What a wonderful childhood he's gained from the rebellion." Of course. Of course she'd noticed. Everybody had noticed the way she squirmed at the presence of so many in Skyhold, the way she kept her son so close. "Perhaps you should visit Tevinter once your job here is done, since you're so terribly fond of blood sacrifices."

Nousha's stomach drops, and she feels her face begin to burn.

"That's enough," Blackwall spits, hard to hear beneath the sound of blood rushing in Nousha's ears, bringing his horse near and glaring at them both. "You've picked at this argument enough times to know that you'll not change each other's minds, so--"

"You turn your nose up at me? You say that I'm sacrificing people to pursue my beliefs? You?" Her voice goes up an octave. "The lapdog of the empress Celene, who slaughtered an entire alienage? The woman who worships the circles?" Cassandra says something in Vivienne's defence, but Nousha speaks over her. "The only reason why you see the circles as so safe and peaceful is because of your authority! You've spent so much time among the rich and powerful that you've forgotten that the average circle mage can't seek protection from their kingdom's ruler. They can't write to their noble friends for supplies. They can't crawl into a sick old man's bed to gain power!"

The rage in her stomach turns to nausea. As several voices overlap each other in a call for them to cease their argument, Vivienne's mask of impassivity cracks. Her mouth curls into a scowl, and her eyes widen. There's a brief glow on one of her palms, either borne of sheer emotion or a momentary humouring of the desire to hurl a spell at Nousha. The pain of her lover - dead for less than two weeks - twists her features for a few seconds before she's able to restrain herself again, though her eyes retain their shininess as she allows the rest of their companions to place themselves between her and Nousha.

She'd not told Nousha what she wanted the wyvern heart for, and had her request turned down as a result. Nousha had only heard of the old man's death, and of the mercenaries Vivienne had hired to hunt wyverns failing their job upon their return from Val Royeaux. Maker, why hadn't she said why she wanted the fucking heart? Nousha would have retrieved it immediately, despite all the bad blood between them. She's no monster. She could have saved him. Everything could have been fine.

She won't apologise. Not for his death, or for her savage words. She catches Blackwall's eye as he shifts his horse from one side of hers to the other - between her and Vivienne, along with everyone else. He looks pained and exhausted, and she can tell that her thoughts are plain on her face. He averts his gaze, mutely accepting that these wounds between the two women will not be bandaged any time soon.

KINGSWAY, 9:42 DRAGON

Ser Alistair and his team of wardens spend one last night with the Inquisition after Adamant is reclaimed from Erimond's clutches. They drink, feast and celebrate alongside Skyhold's troops late into the evening, swapping stories from their travels. The woman sat beside Alistair, bearing ginger hair and a thin scar on her right cheek, occasionally leans against his shoulder in a wordless show of affection. Alistair himself has kept a hand on her wrist, shoulder or hip since they first sat down. Vesta, her fellows call her. Despite having a Tevinter name, she sports a thick Orlesian accent, as do the other wardens that Alistair travels with.

Jean-Karl, a short man of around forty with a thick moustache and brown hair, is instantly recogniseable to Blackwall; a member of the Beauvau family who deserted the military in 9:21. His crime had been a big scandal that brought his parents and siblings no end of mockery from their peers among Orlais' nobility. He'd never been caught; reportedly disappearing into Nevarra. Blackwall wouldn't bet on this coward joining the wardens willingly. Another man, Lambert, sits at the main hall's other table, sandwiched tightly between Nousha's siblings. He bears dark skin and hair that's separated into thick braids. The armour he wore during their fight against Erimond was notably more ornate than the others. Blackwall would have thought him a more senior member of the order if he wasn't following Alistair's orders. So why, then, is his gear so much more richly decorated than his peers?

The only elf among the pack of wardens is a short, chubby woman called Lelen. Blackwall hasn't gotten a close look at her, but there are alarmed whispers going around regarding her red eyes- apparently a telltale sign of frequent blood magic, according to Cassandra. Her black hair is cut short and sports a fringe similar to Nousha's in length. She sits opposite Lambert, halting her conversations occasionally to write something in her grimoire.

Varric is absent from the revelry, of course, tucked away in his room, alongside Merrill and Bethany. The Hawke twins' deaths will require a lot of letters to be sent. Despite their triumph, the hall never grows too rowdy- its inhabitants' relief to survive another battle remains bittersweet, remembering those lost.

Nousha's body is warm beside Blackwall, wrapped up in some oversized (even by qunari standards) tunic knitted by her grandmother. Every so often, she scolds her son for eating too messily, and wipes at the boy's face with a cloth. Despite having the table manners of a hyena, Siddel's a good lad. Polite, kind, smart. He's picked up even more of the Adaar family's native language since arriving at Skyhold, and wants to learn Qunlat from the Iron Bull, too.

"Is Orlesian a hard language?" Siddel asks Vesta, who shrugs.

"Not really," she says, rubbing thoughtfully at the bridge of her hooked nose. "It has some overlap with the common tongue."

Siddel nods, surprisingly pensive for a boy who has just turned eight.

Alistair cuts in, a half-smile on his face. "Still far too hard for my liking, or perhaps I would have done better if my teacher was just a touch less mean." That earns him a finger pressed against his lips.

"I was far too kind, considering how viciously you butchered my language," the redhead laughs.

Nousha turns and looks to Blackwall, her golden eyes squint down at him, contemplating. "Maybe I could teach you some of my language," she muses. "Just in case your work takes you up to my part of Rivain."

Blackwall allows a small smile, leaning against her for a moment. "I'm sure the wardens have me as their first pick for any Rivain-based darkspawn troubles."

Jean-Karl huffs a low laugh at that, his eyes never leaving his plate. "So, how is the Inquisition treating you, Gordon?"

Thank Andraste Blackwall had found the Silverite wings, which bear the real warden's forename, otherwise he may not have registered who the Orlesian was speaking to.

"Fine, fine," he says quickly, glancing down at his hands, drumming a finger against the table's wood. "They work me hard, feed me well. Things could certainly be worse."

"Quite a lot worse," Jean-Karl agrees, nodding as he itches at the stubble on his jaw. "Gert always did worry about you, you know; out travelling Thedas all by yourself."

At the mention of this stranger's name, Vesta's face tightens. Alistair's attention is briefly stolen from his discussion with Dorian, and he gives his companion's shoulder a quick, affectionate squeeze.

Blackwall clears his throat. "It hasn't always been the safest life," he grunts uncertainly, "but I manage alright."

"Clearly," Vesta says, offering a thin smile.

--

Things wind down once the sun has set- everybody's saving the real celebrations for after they've killed Corypheus. What Blackwall wouldn't give to see that abomination's death firsthand, but life is prone to unexpected twists.

They've caught Cyril, finally. He'd been living in Lydes under a false name and somebody had recognised him. Word had traveled to Skyhold naturally, and Blackwall knew that there would be an update sent to Leliana. Florim, one of her runners that he'd had a few drinks with, promised to let Blackwall steal a peek at the missive regarding Cyril's scheduled execution once a date had been decided.

Lo and behold, just before they'd set off to face Erimond and his demons, Blackwall learned the date that his lie would end: The second of Harvestmere, 9:42 Dragon. Two weeks away.

Blackwall kisses Nousha goodbye at the foot of the stairs and watches her lead Siddel toward the mage tower, where they're both rooming. Josephine hadn't been pleased when the Inquisitor rejected the spacious quarters assigned to her, but the matter wasn't up for debate. Nousha wanted something cosy and small with her son close by, and that's exactly what she got. Even in the dark, Blackwall can see Nousha smiling down at her son as he talks. It's strange- even after she'd told him about having a son, Blackwall didn't think of Nousha as a mother until the lad had actually arrived at Skyhold, and he got to see this side to her, doting on her child so naturally. He tries to imagine Siddel as a man, the man that Nousha is shaping him into. He'll probably pick up another couple of languages, probably excel in his magical studies. He'll carry himself with confidence and ease, and treat people kindly. And he's bound to inherit both parents' senses of humour, too.

Some nights, Blackwall considers what kind of woman Liddy would have been. Nights like this, where he's spent too much time around children and their parents. She was a bright, kind girl, but Markham's working districts are a rough place. Perhaps she'd have endured it and grown strong, or perhaps she'd have been destroyed. Being bright in a place like that means nothing- there's too much work to be done for you to attend any of the schools that dot the richer districts. It's likely that she would have done as most girls in their street did: assist their mothers until they're old enough to find a husband.

The stables are made considerably warmer by the thick, heavy curtains that Nousha's had fitted, as well as the extra blankets heaped onto his sleeping area. Even that won't work for much longer, though- autumn has begun and the nights will only grow colder. Blackwall rubs at his face as he pulls the huge wooden door closed behind himself, grunting with the exertion. The smaller entrance, the side door, remains open, blue sunlight visible in the periphery of his vision. It's only as Blackwall turns toward it that he sees the woman standing there.

The redhead.

"Hello," he grunts, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. She's not looking at him as she did back in the hall- her pale face holds an intensity he's only seen on the battlefield. "Is something the matter?"

"Maybe," she says. He's been trying to place her accent since she first spoke- one of Orlais' northern regions. Perhaps around Churneau or Ghislain. She steps inside, and her fellow Orlesian wardens follow at her heels. They're like a pack of hunting dogs surrounding their quarry, teeth ready to bite.

Vesta speaks again, her voice brutally direct. "What happened to Gordon?"

Her hands are held unnaturally high, ready to grab for the blades at her belt. Blackwall glances up again at her face and recognises the steel in her eyes.

The ragged, stinking skin of his facade is ripped off of him instantly, leaving Thom Rainier bare as a newborn babe. His stomach lurches like he's falling, and he has to draw in an unsteady breath. They'd known the whole time. Since the moment they'd seen him in Crestwood. Every glance, every smile, every word they'd exchanged with him were soaked in horror and disgust at his wearing the corpse of their associate. Even if Thom wanted to fight or run, his hands are too numb to use; they hang uselessly at his side.

"Answer quickly, now," Jean-Karl threatens. "We've waited long enough to have this conversation and my patience is growing thin."

Thom says "He's dead. I didn't... I'm not the one who killed him, if that's what you--"

"How, then?" Lambert interrupts. In contrast to Vesta and Jean-Karl, his voice remains calm- subdued, almost. In the low light, Thom sees exhausted sadness displayed openly on his face, aging him.

"He-- he saved my life, he wanted to recruit me." Thom's words come out strangled, like he's just been saved from a watery grave. In his desperation for Vesta to believe him, he steps forward, prompting her to retreat a couple of paces. "He fell to darkspawn. Over at the Storm Coast. I was to take some of their blood to prove my devotion, and they ambushed us. The-- the rain, the wind- we didn't hear them."

He's crying. His vision swims, and he can feel a hot tear begin to trickle down his cheek. With a wet sniff, he wipes at his face with the back of his hand.

Someone scoffs at his display.

"He was at my joining," Vesta spits, "do you even know what that is?"

"You... join?"

"It's clearly a rhetorical question!" She turns away from Thom in disgust, hands running through her ginger hair. Staring miserably into the stable's little fireplace, the tears welling in Vesta's eyes are highlighted orange.

"You should count your lucky stars that old Gert is dead," Jean-Karl says, his posture considerably more relaxed than it was when he first entered. "She would have run you through just as soon as your Inquisitor introduced you."

Ignoring his companion's barb, Lambert approaches Thom, lacking Vesta's need for space from him. "Why are you doing this? Why lie, why are you pretending? We suspected you were one of Corypheus' agents, but you've fought against him as any other man would. What's your reasoning here?"

Thom swallows, throat thick and tight. "I-- I thought at the time that the world needed more men like him, and that the best thing I could do was... was to try my best to fill the hole he'd left."

A bitter, nasally laugh echoes through the stable. Lelen, still lingering at the door they'd entered through, shakes her head. "We're to believe that there were no other reasons behind this little performance of yours? None at all?"

"No, no. I admit it: I stood to gain a lot from the... the switch. I was a wanted man when he recruited me. He saw me get involved in a brawl and decided I'd serve the wardens well." In another life, where there was justice in the world, Blackwall would have deflected the darkspawn's blow and survived the fight. Thom would have been brought into the order, and spent the rest of his life as the kind of man that Blackwall believed him capable of becoming.

Lambert sighs, his thinly plucked eyebrows furrowing tightly. "He wouldn't have wanted this."

"I know. This is... it's hideous." Blackwall saves Thom's life and he's repaid by having his name stolen. No wonder his friends are horrified by this facade. "I'm going to come clean soon."

"We have no reason to believe you," Lelen says.

Vesta wipes furiously at her face and finally turns to face Thom again. "She's right. She's right. You're nobody to us. Just-- when Corypheus is dead, we expect to hear all about how you've revealed yourself as a fraud. If you fail to relinquish Gordon's name, then we will return and wrest it from you."

Thom nods, feeling hollow. Satisfied, the Orlesians turn and march from the stables, leaving him alone to begin gathering his things.

Alistair and his company depart at dawn, and Thom follows suit once it's night.

HARVESTMERE, 9:42 DRAGON

It can't be more than four o'clock when they return from the Arbor Wilds, but the autumn sky is already starting to dim. Navid greets them at Skyhold's gates, grabbing his daughter's hands as she dismounts from her war-nug. He's been crying, is crying, though the broad grin on his face prevents any concern. There's only one reason why he'd be in such a state.

"Azizam! Yasmina, she has-- she-- the baby is here! It's here!" The huge man drags the Inquisitor forward, babbling about how well the labour went. As she disappears through one of the smaller side-doors into Skyhold's underbelly, Nousha throws an apologetic smile over her shoulder towards Thom; she had promised to sit and talk with him about that well and what the fuck she'd been thinking when she drank from it. That discussion will have to wait, evidently.

Thom brings his and Nousha's steeds into the stables. He'd given the original horse he recieved from Dennet to a farmer outside Val-Royeaux, and has since been given a massive draft horse called Dusty, which originally served as the Inquisitor's ride before her heart was stolen by the hideous, fleshy war-nug that some lunatic was selling in Orlais. It's quick work to put the beasts away, and he could theoretically go and find Nousha once he's done; there's only a few places where her sister-in-law could be staying, but actually going to see Skyhold's new arrival would be unthinkable. He's seen the way that Yasmina looks at him since he revealed what he really is, the way she keeps her children as far from him as possible, and knows that the last thing she wants is for him to be anywhere near her newborn. Once he's put his things away, he heads over to Sera's room in the tavern and he listens to her gush about Dagna for the better part of an hour.

"Did you know the dwarves have specific ways of braiding their hair? Like, for what caste you are, and what family you come from if you're noble? Dagna's been trying to teach me how to do it the way her family does. I keep pissing it up, though. I've never been good with that sort of thing, that's why I keep mine short." Sera leans her bony back to the window as she speaks, sat on the low bench with a faraway look in her eyes. Thom's relieved that she prefers to keep her door open- all the pillows and curtains strewn about the room make him a little claustrophobic. He can recognise a few of them from around Skyhold; clearly she's swiped them and is hoarding them here like a tiny, freckly dragon. "She doesn't really see her family anymore; hasn't since she left Orzammar. Apparently they don't even consider her to be part of the family anymore, they've got a thing about going to the surface. Maybe if I figure out how to get the braids right, I can sort of be a new family for her. We'll start our own caste. The Widdle caste. Don't tell her I said that."

She deserves this. Both of them do. Thom doesn't know much about Sera's background, but the few bits of information she's let slip out don't hint at a happy childhood. She's not as outwardly sweet as Dagna is, but she's got strong convictions and has proven herself to be a supportive friend; one that Thom doesn't deserve. If he's not at Nousha's heels or hiding in his quarters, he's here with Sera.

"So what does 'widdle' mean, exactly?" He asks, itching at his beard. Sera rolls her eyes like it's obvious.

"It's just a cute way of saying 'little'! Because she's a dwarf!" Her bony hands gesture wildly to emphasize each word. "She's little! Widdle! My little Widdle!" Thom just shrugs, which only frustrates Sera further. "You don't know how to be cute at all, do you?"

"I'm a grown man with grey hairs, I'm not meant to be 'cute'."

There's a chorus of laughter outside, prompting Sera to turn in her plush seat and stare through her stained window, squinting. Thom can't see what's happening from his floor-pillow, but the telltale sigh from Sera lets him know that Nousha's on her way up.

Tense as things have been between Thom and the Inquisitor during their trek back from the Arbor Wilds, it's more than thrice as bad between the two women. As soon as Nousha was on her feet again after drinking that cursed water, Sera had nocked an arrow directly at her chest. If not for Corypheus nearly catching them, Thom isn't certain Sera would have relented. To make matters worse, one of Leliana's dexterous spies managed to snatch the girl's weapons once they'd arrived at camp, and she'd not gotten them back for several days. Most nights ended with screaming matches during their return trip.

Not wanting to give them the opportunity for another round, Thom offers a quick goodbye and hurries down the tavern's stairs. Conversations conspicuously halt when he appears on the lower floor, and people make a very obvious attempt not to look directly at him. Even Maryden's singing falters momentarily- though she soldiers on. The only table that continues its discussion is Bull, holding Pantea in his lap, and his chargers.

There's another friend that's not thrilled with Nousha right now; things aren't explosive between them like they are with Sera, but it's awkward. Bull wasn't happy when Nousha refused to take up his offer to work with the Qunari, and assistance from Seheron has dropped significantly.

He catches her at the tavern's entrance, offering a smile that she politely returns. "How's the new arrival?"

"Fine," she says, stepping back in a silent invitation for him to follow. "A little underweight, and a couple of weeks early, but no there's no major issues."

From the exhaustion in her face and voice, Thom can tell there's something worse behind Nousha's words, and remains dutifully silent beside her during the march toward the mages' tower. Outside, he can identify the source of laughter; Siddel sits with Lady Morrigan's son beside one of the battlement staircases. The boys are filthy, their bare feet covered in mud, with twigs and leaves in their hair. Between them is a basket of blackberries that the Chantry sisters have been growing in the gardens. Both lads shove fistfuls of their ill-gotten treats into their mouths, giggling conspiratorially.

"Don't ruin your appetites," Nousha warns, "or Mother Giselle will figure out that you're to blame for her stolen goods." Both boys' faces drop at her words, and they stare at each other in wide-eyed panic.

The mage tower is a cosy, sleepy little place, no doubt made even more peaceful by the lack of Templars to menace its inhabitants. Fiona and Harlow sit at a pair of desks, poring over piles of books and loose scraps of paper that are covered in scrawlings that Thom doesn't recognise. Both offer Nousha a friendly nod, and a tight, uncomfortable smile to himself. Their synchronicity is almost funny.

When they finally reach Nousha's room and are safely behind a tightly shut door, they sit at the foot of her bed, both silent for a long moment.

Nousha falls backwards to lie down, her hands clasped at her waist. "Yasmina's afraid," she says numbly. "Scared of Corypheus and what might happen if we don't deal with him in time. Or if he beats us. Not the kind of thing you should be dealing with during a pregnancy; no wonder the baby's early."

Thom joins her lying on the bed, climbing further up the bed until his head is beside hers. He props his chin up with a fist and looks down at Nousha. "Only a bit early."

"Only a bit, yes. It could have been far worse, though. This kind of stress can kill a pregnancy." Her golden eyes flit over to Thom's face, staring him with an intensity that he doesn't understand. Like she's searching for something.

Thom swallows, and leans forward to rest his jaw against Nousha's collarbone. "We will deal with him," he says earnestly.

"Yasmina doesn't know that. And I don't think anybody else does."

"I do."

Her right hand, which bears the very mark that Corypheus has been seeking for almost a full year, tangles itself in Thom's hair. The hand that lost two fingers after Corypheus' attack on Haven, frozen solid during her trek through the Frostbacks.

"I shouldn't have invited them here. I just wanted to see them again, and I wasn't thinking about what kind of danger they'd be in. I should have just left them where they were, at least nobody would have found them. If something happens to me, Corypheus' first move is going to be to raze this place to the ground with everybody still inside." She speaks dully, with a finality that makes Thom's stomach drop. It's a line of thinking that everybody's been trying to avoid for the sake of sanity; the consequence of failure.

He drops his head down to lay a kiss on Nousha's shoulder. "Think of it this way: we've dealt with Corypheus' right hand man already with only five people. Everybody will be present to face the bastard himself. He'll be dead in minutes at most."

"You really believe that?"

"I know it." As he speaks, Thom lifts his head to stare at Nousha's face. There's a little smile playing at the corners of her mouth, warmth in her eyes. She pulls him down again for a long, deep kiss. She smells like the various mixtures of ground-up medical herbs that the healers use. "I love you," he murmurs against her mouth, and wraps his arms around the bulk of her body. He's recognised these feelings for Nousha for months now, and it seems like madness to think that they only started saying so after his pardoning. Both too stubborn and bashful to tell the truth. It makes his chest feel tight when he says it, still not used to being so sincere. There's a part of him still expecting her to reject him, send him away, send him back to a cell.

Nousha's hands cup his face, and she presses another quick kiss to the bridge of his nose. "I love you too, my sweet Thom." Their foreheads press together, blocking everything outside of Nousha's golden eyes from his vision. "Sweet, sweet little Thom."

"I'm not little," he grunts, reddening. "Six feet is tall for a human. You know that, right?"

Her forehead is pressed against him, a massive smile on her face. "My darling little Thom."

"For fuck's sake."

As expected, his performative grumpiness elicits a little laugh in his lady. The truth is that Thom likes the affectionate way she calls him 'little', though he'll be cold and dead before he admits such a thing. There's a big difference between confessing your love for a woman and consenting to be her lapdog.

Her golden eyes are fixed on his again a moment later, and the humour is briefly replaced with her earlier intensity.

"I stand by what I did at the well," she says, "but I'm sorry for scaring you. If it's any consolation, I was scared too."

"How is that supposed to console me?"

"I don't know," she grunts, averting her gaze momentarily. "Morrigan is a stranger to me; she's strong, sure, but I have no faith in her. All the weird, cryptic shit she says. And Solas, he refused to drink from the well, so I figured I was the best candidate for it. The only candidate."

Thom sighs and itches his cheek, pensive. "I just-- I know, I know you're just trying to save Thedas. As a member of the Inquisition, I understand. If you weren't you, I may have even been on board with it. But you are you, and I-- I can't stand it."

"I am me, yes." She doesn't say it as a joke, but as a painful, burdensome reminder to both of them. Nousha Adaar: the biggest threat to Corypheus, and consequently, his biggest target. There are already so many dangers that Thom can't protect her from- he's just one man. And now the incomprehensible whims of an Elven god has been added into the fray. If things had gone wrong, if this god had decided to reject Nousha for whatever reason, Thom would have had no choice but to stand and watch as the woman he loved was subjected to some unspeakable punishment. Maybe killed, maybe worse. It chills him to the bone.

He adjusts his position beside Nousha, laying his head against her chest, his arm thrown over her stomach. "For what it's worth, I think you would have regretted not inviting your family to Skyhold. Their absence was wearing on you, and I think the same was true for them, too. Yasmina would have been just as afraid back in Rivain. We're all afraid. At least you're facing this with them at your side; that's clearly what they want too, otherwise they would have left."

Nousha's large, warm hand lays itself atop Thom's forearm, squeezing it gently. "Sepas, azizam. Know what that means?"

"No."

"It means 'thank you, my dear'."

FIRSTFALL, 9:42 DRAGON

Lady Adaar,

The Wardens at Weisshaupt deny any odd behaviour among themselves, and I've seen no reason to doubt that. Looks like my worries were unfounded, thank Andraste. (Not implying that you're able to actually thank her for me- I know you don't like people making that assumption!)

First Warden Glastrum was furious over Clarel's lunacy - his words, not mine - and he keeps muttering about how typical it is for an Orlesian to start scheming with a Tevinter. I think blood magic just makes strange bedfellows. He's also not happy about Blackwall's identity being stolen, but he seems to have accepted Rainier's story.

We've heard stories of Zevran and Vharen being spotted around Qundalon. Apparently, there's something past The Donarks that they think could prove useful to their mission. I don't think there's any point in pursuing them, though- if they don't want to be found, it simply won't happen, no matter how much Leliana wants to stop by for a friendly chat.

Kind regards,

Warden Alistair

"You kill a few demons with a man and he acts like you're best friends," Nousha scoffs, leaning a hand against the war table.

Cassandra shrugs, smiling a little. "Do not blame ser Alistair for being so drawn in by your... magnetic personality." It earns a brief, shrill laugh from Josephine before she can catch herself.

"If nothing else, then we at least know that northern Thedas is unaffected by Corypheus." Despite her hopeful words, Leliana's face is cold and hard, clearly less than thrilled by whatever Alistair was implying in his final paragraph.

"Think we've got time to arrange any alliances up there, then?"

"I'm afraid that is... unlikely," Josephine says, one corner of her mouth still stubbornly turned up. "Leliana's ravens only know locations as far as Orlais and Lady Morrigan is loath to leave her son in Skyhold, so we would have to send letters via runners. The back-and-forth alone could take months."

It's a strange thing to recognise- this impending moment that will decide the fate of southern Thedas. Either Corypheus dies, or the dead world she glimpsed in Alexius' spell will become reality. Her advisors talk between themselves regarding the Inquisition's alliances and the state of its military, and Nousha takes that as a cue to leave.


Through the open windows that line the corridor that Nousha steps into, the sound of children can be heard. She recognises a couple of the voices as Siddel and Roxanna, but most of them are strangers- probably the sons and daughters of Skyhold's guards and labourers. Fiona stands leaning against the windowsill, staring out at them with wet eyes. The winter sun shines onto the rich brown of her skin. Despite the cold, her dress lacks sleeves, revealing her thin arms and narrow shoulders, criss-crossed with scars. Trophies from battles fought during her own time among the Wardens.

"It's a shame you didn't come with us to visit the Avvar," Nousha says, glancing over Fiona's small frame to see the children outside. Some of the younger Chantry sisters have been trying to teach the little ones how to hand-craft little sculptures in the snow, though it doesn't seem anywhere near heavy enough to hold any form. Beneath the stone shelter, Morrigan sits with her son, her hands manipulating a spell as Kieran tries to mimic it. The boy's been far quieter since his run-in with Flemeth, and despite her denials, Morrigan is clearly afraid. Once Corypheus is dead, she'll likely take him far from Skyhold. And Nousha. She can't blame her- carrying this ancient elven magic makes Nousha a servant of Mythal.

"It is," Fiona replies somberly. "From what I have heard, their practices regarding magic are far different from Andrastian societies. It would have been a wonder to see them in action." She pulls her gaze from the children beneath them and offers a tired smile. "But there is too much work to be done in Skyhold- during your absence, I have translated multiple encoded grimoires, as well as make progress on studying Samson's armour."

"But did you get to see an Avvar wedding?" Nousha asks. Fiona smiles a little more genuinely, and shakes her head. For all her hard work, she seems healthier within the Inquisition than she was under Alexius' tyranny. She's gained weight, and her brown eyes, once sunken and red-rimmed, now look well-rested.

Fiona's interest in pleasantries fades quickly. "I have heard tell of a letter from the Warden you faced Erimond with. Alistair." Saying his name makes her wince slightly, like the syllables sting her tongue. "May I ask if he is well?"

During her time wandering through Redcliffe's castle, both during and after her dealings with Alexius, Nousha had spied paintings of the late king Maric, as well as his only legitimate son Cailan. If the portraits were accurate, then father and son were almost identical. Same jaw, brow, nose, blond hair and pale green eyes. She had seen almost all of those features again when she'd met the Fereldan hero, the spitting image of his father and half-brother, save for darker colouring and a more strongly arched nose. Nousha inclines her head toward Fiona, squinting.

"He's fine. I-- the letter's just back in there," she throws a thumb over her shoulder. "I could go get it for you-"

"No," Fiona hurries, "no, that is... that will not be necessary. He and I are strangers, and his letter was not meant for my eyes." Then, quietly, as her fingers pick at a piece of dust on her long skirt, keeps muttering. "He looks even more like his father than I expected."

The sorrow in her eyes, the missing chunk in her organs, it's unmistakable. A circle mage who had once worked alongside king Maric. Nousha opens her mouth and makes several failed attempts at saying something. One of Cassandra's troops emerges from the great hall and, in her heavy armour, clanks noisily past the two women, offering a red-faced nod in her hurry to the war room. As the door swings shut behind her, and the pair are left alone once again, Fiona gives a mute nod in farewell and turns to leave.

Finally, Nousha's voice starts working again. "Was he taken from you?"

Fiona's face falls, her eyes widen. For a moment, she looks as she did when Nousha had met her in Redcliffe's tavern. In circles, newborns are claimed by Templars within hours of their birth. Raised in Chantries to join the forces that imprisoned their mothers.

"He was born in Weisshaupt. Quite poetic that he should return there now. The boy's mother... she would not have been able to raise him as a child needs. The world is not kind to the elf-blooded. Maric was supposed to find a good home for him." She shakes her head, and for a moment the weariness gives way to an old, deep anger. "He failed. He only had to do one thing for this boy, and he failed."

The few books Nousha had read on the Fifth Blight didn't go into detail regarding Alistair's early years. Raised by Redcliffe's arl until he joined the Templars, only to defect to the Wardens before he'd completed his training. "Was he treated badly?"

"Eamon handed him over to the Chantry when he was ten. Apparently, people were whispering about the possibility of Alistair being his bastard, so he was put out. And Maric let it happen." She raises herself onto the balls of her feet to sit on the windowsill, posture sagging in exhaustion. The unshed tears finally spill over, and begin to roll down Fiona's face. "I will never forgive him," she croaks.

"I'm sorry, Fiona," Nousha says uselessly, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. "Maric did both of you a disservice. If he were still alive, I'd start a war with him once Corypheus is dealt with."

It earns her a small, wet laugh. "He seems to be doing better now, though. According to everyone I have asked, Alistair took to being a Warden very well. It is good to know that he was not entirely alone during his youth."

Whoever or whatever Fiona's referencing is a mystery to Nousha, though she doesn't bother asking about it.

She wonders, briefly, what would have become of Siddel if she'd been killed during her years as a mercenary. Would the Valo-Kas have raised him among themselves? Possibly. They'd be well within their rights to hand him off to someone else. With two mage parents, he'd almost certainly need to learn how to manage his magic- there were other mages within the camp, but none of them were familiar with children. It would be a big risk, one that they had no obligation to take.

What, then, would they have found acceptable as a new home for the boy? Several Tal-Vashoth communes had cropped up along the Free Marches following the last Arishok's death during his duel with Lomond Hawke. Perhaps one of those would have sufficed.

But ultimately, it would have been a group of strangers overseeing her boy's welfare, with no familiar faces around to comfort him. Maker, what a terrible thing to put a child through. Perhaps Leliana could be talked into delivering a letter full of raven shit to Redcliffe's previous Arl.

HARING, 9:42 DRAGON

Majid skulks into the great hall and initially appears solely interested in the assortment of food spread across the table, before he notices Vivienne's cat, clad in its intricately decorated little jumper. François DuPuis' handiwork is recogniseable from across the room. Majid coos over the hairless cat, which regards him as coldly as its owner does, though it accepts a quick scratch behind the ear. His eye briefly catches Nousha's and he throws his sister a wink as he makes his way toward Dorian.

Nousha abruptly stops her conversation with Varric to lead Thom outside, immediately wrapping her arms around herself as the winter night air bites into her. Once Thom's outside with her, she grabs a massive door and forces it shut. She doesn't need to say anything for Thom to follow suit with its twin. Nousha takes a couple of steps down the staircase, making herself almost level with him.

"I'm leaving now," she says. Thom blinks, processing.

"What?"

"I've done what I set out to do and now I'm going home." Her voice shakes slightly as she speaks. "I'm going to Rivain with my family."

The suddenness of her announcement baffles Thom, who can only shake his head in disbelief. "And you're just telling me now?"

She answers with a quick nod, smiling. Why is she smiling? "I know it's not great, but we couldn't risk people catching wind of this and trying to get in our way. My advisors are already talking about what's 'next' for the Inquisition and what I have to do. Fuck that. I'm done with this." Her golden eyes dart over Thom's shoulders toward the large doors behind him, housing the very Inquisition members that Nousha resents so much. "You can come too, obviously."

Before he can answer, the doors swing open and Thom spins round, mouth opening to tell whoever it is to give them a moment. It's Majid, smiling to himself. "All ready?"

Maker, how long have the Adaars been planning this?

"Yes," Nousha says, though she doesn't move to follow her brother as he descends the staircase. "I know it's not fair, Thom, but none of this was ever fair. This place isn't a home, it's nowhere to raise a child, and there's no better time to leave than right now, when everybody's too busy celebrating to notice. If you need some time to get your things ready, you can always catch up to us further down the road."

"Nousha, this is no sendoff. You're the Inquisitor!"

Two gloved hands place themselves against his shoulders, and Nousha releases a breathless little laugh. "Not anymore. I hereby retire, and I'm going home. Let the others pick up the pieces tomorrow morning."

His mouth opens and hangs uselessly in place, no words coming out. Nousha sighs at the little display, and lays a quick kiss on his cheek. "I love you, Thom, but there's nothing you can say that will keep me here." Saying that, she releases him, turns, and quickly descends the staircase, lifting up the front of her long skirt to avoid tripping.

She does love him, of course. Thom knows that. Truly and completely. He also knows that there'll be chaos in the wake of her disappearance, enough to dwarf the panic that he caused when he fled to Orlais.

But she loves him, and selfishly, he can't bring himself to care about much else, least of all any political fallout among the Inquisition that her freedom will inflict.

He sighs, sniffs, rubs his scalp, glances helplessly toward the doors and the muffled sounds of revelry behind them, and hurries after her.

Along with the remaining rations on his horse's pack, he only needs a few items- more sentimental than practical, but it's Nousha's fault for giving him so many gifts during their courtship. At least he was smart enough to keep them in the stable, so he's ready within two minutes. The Adaar wagons haven't even left Skyhold's bridge by the time he leaps onto Dusty's back and urges him forward.

The guards at the gate are both pale and wide-eyed, clearly threatened into keeping their mouths shut. Thom offers them a quick apology as he passes them before his steed breaks into a canter. He's reunited with Nousha in less than five minutes, but he still has to fight the urge to throw himself off the horse and into her arms. He's smiling so hard that it hurts his cheeks. There's something thrilling about this surprise exodus that the Adaars are staging. It brings him back to the mischief he got caught up in as a lad, swiping handfuls of food from Markham's markets, getting chased through its many labyrinthine streets.

Other than Nousha, the rear wagon holds three people: Siddel, Harlow, and Branwen; Harlow's lady-friend from Antiva. Evidently, Thom's not the only person to be told about the family's escape plan so recently, both Harlow and Branwen are clearly wearing their sleeping clothes beneath heavy fur coats.

"Was Dorian upset when you told him you were leaving?" Nousha asks her brother, who smiles guiltily.

(Majid had quickly bonded with Dorian over a shared love of history, as well as a deep curiosity about the other's culture. Varric once speculated on a supposed love triangle between them and Bull, though Thom never figured out which was the 'middle point' of the triangle, or if there were more than one, but these whisperings were short lived. Bull's attentions were quickly stolen by Pantea. Their own relationship hadn't lasted long, neither was interested in anything serious, but they still took to disappearing together whenever Skyhold was celebrating a blow dealt against Corypheus or a felled dragon. Perhaps she'd given him one last seeing to before they'd set off; Bull had been late to the revelry.)

"I didn't have time to have a whole conversation with him, and I figured it'd look a bit suspicious if both of us pulled our, ah, partners out of the great hall at the same time. Conspiratorial. So I just gave him a note."

Nousha immediately bursts into laughter, while her mother, driving the wagon, swears in their native tongue.

"He's going to leave you," Thom says plainly. Majid bites his lip and glances over his shoulder at Skyhold.

"I gave him an address," Majid rationalises, a plaintive tone to his voice, "so it's not like I'm abandoning him, right?"

Sighing, Nousha fishes through a burlap sack beside her, pulling out an apple and taking a bite out of it; perhaps in celebration of their succesful departure from Skyhold. "I don't know if Dorian will see it that way."

Despite his exhaustion, Harlow manages a few digs of his own. "We're in bigger danger of him coming after us than the damn Inquisition!"

--


They travel through the night. Nousha finds a blanket among the family's things and drapes it over Siddel, who is kind enough to share it with his father and Branwen, and the three of them are asleep within a few minutes. Eventually, Nousha's mother grows weary and Majid has to take over as the driver while she clambers into the back of the wagon for her own rest. The three of them talk until early morning, when the horses are given a well deserved rest along the Imperial Highway.

Beneath the still-dark winter sky and the sound of the Adaars arguing over which route to take, Thom sits with Nousha as she sets about making some divine-smelling vegetable soup. Siddel, Harlow and Branwen are still snoring in the back of their wagon, while Yusef and Yasmina's children chase each other along the road. The grass beneath his arse is crispy with frost.

"Not a bad way to end the year, is it?" Nousha asks, not looking away from her cooking.

Thom grunts in wordless agreement, leaning his forehead against her shoulder. The gesture earns him a quick kiss to his scalp. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Bringing me along." And everything else she's ever done for him.

"I wouldn't leave you behind. You'll love Rivain- it's nice and cool during the winter, so your poor Marcher skin won't burn off."

Thom smiles, closing his eyes. "That was a concern, I admit."

A minute or two of silence passes. The smell of Nousha's soup begins to make Thom's stomach prickle at his insides, demanding to be filled, and he clenches his jaw in impatience.

"What do you suppose comes next?" Nousha asks as she stirs.

"Don't you have any input on the matter?"

"I have input on everything- everybody's sick of hearing about what I think. I'm asking you."

Thom sits up straight, the part of his face that was pressed against Nousha feeling terribly cold in the absence of her body heat. He draws in a deep, weary breath. He'd spent all of his time in the Inquisition pointedly avoiding long-term plans. First because of the lie, but when that was discarded, he was still in a very precarious position; any battle against Corypheus could have been his last.

But now the twisted bastard is dead and Thom lives, even if he doesn't deserve it. Even more shockingly, he still has Nousha. The future is more open and peaceful than it's been in a long time, like emerging from a filthy, narrow side street and into a meadow.

"I'm happy to spend some time with your family; you've certainly earned all the time with them that you can get. But we... I don't think either of us is fond of tarrying anywhere for too long. We're not the domestic sort."

Nousha's face falls at that final statement and her stirring of the soup pauses for a few moments. "I wouldn't say that, necessarily. It's nice to have a place to call home."

"Maybe," Thom continues, "but I get frustrated when I spend too much time there, no matter how nice it is. And you do, too. I think once we've spent a few weeks with your family, we could do some travelling. See places. I'm not certain what the plan is with Siddel now but I'll be happy with anything you and Harlow agree on."

She makes a wordless hum at that. "We've been putting off talking about it until after Corypheus' death. I'll have to hash it out with him while we're in Rivain. That'll be fun." She pauses to itch at her jaw. "But yes, I had something similar in mind. Obviously I brought a small fortune from Skyhold, but I'd like to do some more work with the Valo-Kas. Things in Kirkwall are still far from peaceful, and there's talk of the Trevelyans getting involved. Folk will need an army of Oxmen to keep them safe- not that I expect them to thank us for it."

She turns her head and looks at Thom. There's something in her face that gives him pause- an anxious intensity in her furrowed brow. Her mouth opens, and she gets half a syllable out before it shuts again. The silence stretches, pregnant and heavy, before Nousha looks away.

"Go get my mother for me, will you? I forget whether it's pepper or cumin she likes in her soup."

GUARDIAN, 9:43 DRAGON

Thom's hunched over the end table sketching out a carving idea when she returns to their room, balancing a tray of (not particularly impressive) food from the inn against her hip. Nousha throws the design a quick glance and smiles to herself. It's one of the red warthogs that inhabit the deserts at Rivain's southern coast; Roxanna's current favourite animal. With her sixth birthday fast approaching, it's fairly obvious what Thom's got in mind for it.

"New project?"

"Aye," he says without looking up. "Not head over heels about these tusks."

The tray is placed on the table beside him, and Nousha sits herself on the edge of their bed, watching him in silence. His brow is furrowed in concentration, and she can see him chewing at the inside of his cheek.

He's got a great profile; the slightly crooked nose leading to his intense eyes resembles the intricate (and probably overpriced) oil paintings she'd spotted in Celene's side rooms at the palace. She'd first realised how handsome he was a few weeks after he'd arrived at Haven. Blackwall had proven himself to be understanding and supportive, and Nousha, wanting some time away from the Inquisition's masses, took to eating her meals with him at the blacksmith's. She'd noticed how much healthier he looked since their meeting at Redcliffe; fuller cheeks and more colour in his face. Then she'd seen a tiny scar on one of his earlobes, the kind that's left after a piercing heals up. The image of him with an earring had heated her face, and she'd had to look down at her food to hide her smile.

The silence continues to pass- Thom's ability to appreciate a peaceful lack of talking was something Nousha had appreciated during her early months in the Inquisition, but now it's maddening. How can he not tell that he's supposed to ask her what's wrong? And then keep asking, even after she insists that she's fine? She has to do everything by herself.

"Thom," she says quietly, "I need to talk to you."

Ever attentive, he places his drawing aside, dark eyes wide and intense. "Is something the matter?"

Nousha gives a quick, nervous smile and places her good hand over his. Her right hand, bearing the mark and scars on its palm from occasional blood magic, and a pair of stumps where two of her fingers once sat, remains in her lap. "No. No, I-- no. Just-- I've been thinking. For... a while. About-- about the future. For us."

"Is this a proposal?"

"Wrong again. Just-- give me a second, okay? Before I say this, I want you to know that this isn't a deal breaker for me. It's just an idea."

Thom nods, forehead creasing in curiosity.

"I'm-- I've-- I was wondering... what you think about children. For us, not-- not in general." At her use of the word 'children', Thom's eyebrows leap up, nearly hitting his hairline. "And I don't mean multiple children. Just the one. Probably."

His eyes drop, and Nousha briefly believes him to be staring into space. Then she follows his line of vision and realises that his gaze is fixed on her stomach. "I'm not pregnant, also."

Thom sags against his seat and releases a deep, relieved breath. Not a good sign. "Fuck, right. Alright. I-- you-- let's see. How-- you-- I don't-- would you be able to carry a child? No offense, of course."

"Possibly, but I was actually thinking we'd adopt."

He makes a pitiful attempt at a laugh and wipes at his face with his spare hand. "Right. Right. That's-- that makes a lot more sense. You-- how quickly are you wanting an answer?" There's a pleading tone to his question that weighs on Nousha's chest like a millstone.

"I won't rush you, but I don't want you agonizing over this for years, either. A few months? Is that the normal amount of time to think about this?"

"I have no idea," he croaks, lifting his thumb to his mouth and gnawing at the nail. He looks so terribly blindsided by this line of questioning. Nousha always thought her desire for another child was obvious. "I-- I do like children. They're great. I always thought I was pretty good with them. Siddel and the girls all like me. But-- fatherhood? I-- after everything that's happened, everything I've done- there's no-- I--" He pauses, and takes a deep, calming breath. "I gave up that kind of thing a long time ago."

Nousha shakes her head, her eyes dropping down to her lap. "So did I. I'd always wanted a big family, but mercenary life doesn't pay too well, and the people you meet aren't the kind you'd want to raise a child with. Harlow was sort of a rarity in that line of work. And then the templars locked him up. So I figured it'd just be me and Siddel among the Valo-Kas. And then the Inquisition happened. Awful as it was, it gave me an excuse to get back in contact with my family, and I made an obscene amount of money. And I met you." She gives his hand a little squeeze at that. "And despite everything, the idea of having another child seems so much more... doable than it ever was before. And I want to do this with you."

Thom's face is drawn tightly, and his spare hand has come away from his mouth to tangle his fingers through Nousha's own. He releases her and stands from his table to settle down beside her on the bed, and leans his elbows on his knees, back stooped.

"We're... well, there's older parents than us, but it won't be as easy as the first time."

"I know."

"And you won't be able to be as active in your mercenary work as you were hoping."

"I know."

He shakes his head, and itches at his beard. "Look, I-- this isn't a 'no', alright, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't have any reservations."

Despite herself, Nousha smiles. "I know."

Thom glances toward her, and wraps an arm around her shoulders. "I'll think hard on it, love."

"Remember," she says, "I don't want you to go along with this out of some sense of responsibility. If you're not totally on board with it, then I'll-- I'll forget it. I'll forget all about it."

Thom nods, his eyes exhausted, and leans in to press his lips against hers. If her lie is as obvious as it feels, then he's too kind to point it out.