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Chapter Text

“That is enough, Fallen Star.” Her father told her as the tears spilled freely from his eyes. He drew his bow taut and his muscles flexed with cemented confidence.

He knew in his soul that his aim would strike true.

The starlight beast snarled in wrath at Sonnen’s direct threat. The ground shook with unfettered magic. The Dread of a million horrors filled his existence full.

Sonnen stared down the line-of-direction, focusing on the beast that was once his daughter. “You have suffered enough.”

Sonnen let loose his arrow.

It did not strike true.

Loah startled awake, gasping. She clutched her chest, gripping over the spot where her father’s arrow had struck. Fingers shook white from the pressure. Cold sweat drenched her completely through.

She looked around her surroundings, blearily, confused, and frightened that she couldn’t recognize where she was. Where was she? This wasn’t the shed, so where was-?

She blinked.

Oh.

She was in the loft.

Loah had just been dreaming about her father.

His last words still rung in her head.

“You have suffered enough.”

Loah needed to take a moment to remember who she was. She buried her face in her hands, shoulders slumping deeply with abnormal weight, too much for such a small elf.

To think it has been only three years since. Sometimes, it felt like yesterday. Today, it felt like now.

She needed to breathe.

Loah exhaled shakily and lifted her head to look warily around the loft.

Where is Blackwall?

Sudden flashes of memories filled her mind. She saw herself seated on Blackwall’s workbench, stroking him as he moaned in her neck. Blackwall was shaking, breaking apart because she had her hand wrapped tightly and wetly around him. She learned the true shape of him for the first time, yesterday. The noises he made, Maker. Loah shuddered just by remembering.

Then up to the loft they go, hiding together beneath the sheets, trying to protect each other from the Winter’s cold, draped in his soft, new blankets, the ones he bought especially for her, kissing as if Corypheus had won, and the world was ending, tongue stroking tongue, lips pressing against hers as if he loved her.

Never enough. Not nearly enough.

Sweet Maker, what had gotten into her? She felt her shoulders and ears lacing with embarrassed heat.

The poor Blackwall, she had been relentless. He had wanted her to stop.

Loah frowned profoundly at that, confused.

Did he want her to stop?

“I can’t” Blackwall told her. “It’s impossible, I can’t again.”

“One more,” she replied to him, pumping him until he was hot, burning up, too hot, and she kept stroking, needing to have him spill one more time, needing to hear the noises he would make, beautiful music, as beautiful as her father’s singing. Having the Warden’s fingers knuckles-deep inside her was beyond description. Never before had she felt so good.

Anxiety trickled in her.

Had she had gone too far? Had she crossed a line?

Maker, she remembered. Images of Blackwall sitting on the floor, after she had kicked him roughly to the ground. He had touched her scar. The scar. He wanted to ask her the question. She heard it almost spoken aloud, bouncing off the walls of the loft.

How did you get that scar, Loah?

Loah whimpered, feeling unbearably guilty.

Blackwall must have known how close Loah had been in running because he had not asked at all. He even apologized to her as if she had not kicked him.

Shame filled Loah. She remembered how grateful she had been when Blackwall continued touching her. It was validation that she was not too far broken for Blackwall. Maker, the relief she had felt when he rose from the floor to join her on his bed.

She had not yet apologized to Blackwall for kicking him. That couldn’t have been pleasant.

Her belly knotted tightly, and nausea coiled inside. Misery decided to wrap itself around her like an evil snake, full of suffocation and the promise of doom. Constricting her, squeezing her throat tightly, reminding her strongly of the strongest of the seven, Gimmly.

Gimmly, as if Loah could ever forget him, the human Iron Bull. One of the six who waited for Jeremy at the Tavern.

They had not expected her company. They more than eagerly thanked Jeremy, who had been so confused.

Jeremy.

You fool.

Gimmly loved to squeeze her throat. He squeezed, and squeezed, and she suffocated in the torture and could not fight against him, only claw at his hands as he gripped her with killing intent, but never killing, no, she had begged them for that, beg the Creators, Mythal, Falon’Din for mercy, but they are either monsters or do not exist, matters not in the end, besides, where was the fun in that? They had stamina, Gimmly and Carter, the two that loved to hurt. They all did.

They were so excited, all of them, except for Jeremy. Jeremy needed some time to get into the spirit of things, a lot of coaxing, alcohol helped.

In the end, he joined too.

Gimmly would smile when he saw her choking, it stimulated him to no end, making him grow more rigorous with enthusiasm, ripping her further apart. To this day, Loah still does not who was the worst of them. Gimmly loved her screams, but he loved her expressions more, what kind of face would she make? Always testing her limits, pushing her beyond the madness of her tolerance. Carter was a limit-pusher too, checking to see how much pressure he could apply before she-   

Breathe, Loah instructed herself, fervently, not allowing herself to panic. She closed her eyes and forced herself to ground. Ground yourself, Loah, you must maintain control. She realized she was beginning to shake.

Breathe.

Loah breathed deeply and forced the tension to leech out of her shoulders. She exhaled slowly.

Fear controls you, Loah. It makes you blind and stupid. You must breathe and let it pass. Think clearly, and ground yourself. You are an Inquisitor now. People need you, they suffer. Your duty is to serve the Maker. You must be better now, Loah. You must.

Control.

She exhaled, shakily, and rolled her shoulders. Maker, but her body does feel good. Her heart slowed in its pounding and settled into a nice gait.

In fact, this was the best her body had felt in ages. She opened her eyes, feeling brighter, and looked around the loft, curiously.

Everything was so clean. That somehow surprised her. Last Loah remembered, albeit vaguely, everything had been left in chaos before she closed her eyes, laying next to Blackwall. She hadn’t planned on sleeping; she had only wanted to catch her breath.

Clothes everywhere, Maker, she had ripped Blackwall’s clothes clean off him.

The horror.

Her wolf pelt hung off the back of Blackwall’s chair. She had shrugged it hastily to the floor after entering the loft yesterday, with the Warden at her back. Blackwall had simply ignored the not too subtle suggestion and focused instead on cleaning the stain off her pants. His stain.

Loah flushed again.

She was aroused.

She took a few more deep, stabilizing breaths, and stood from the bed.

The Loft was so warm, she observed, wiggling her toes. The wood beneath her feet was almost too toasty. Blackwall must have started a fire, but that confused her. The Warden only saved his firewood for the night.

He did it for me, she realized immediately. It felt like the truth.

Maker, I love him, she thought, and it was almost a prayer.

From the brightness of the Loft, Loah knew it was going to be a sunny winter morning, almost cloudless, guessing by the intensity of light reflecting off wooden walls.

She grabbed Solas’s gift, fingers brushing through soft wolf’s fur, hung neatly over the back of Blackwall’s chair. The one and only singular chair in Blackwall’s Loft, kept near his bed.

Blackwall sat on that chair the night he found her, fever-mad in the horse stall. He had tended to her all night, whispering comforting things to her, driving the horrors away, stroking her head with his calloused palm. He made her think of better things, like of her father, so she could finally sleep and heal.

That was the moment she realized her Larathin belonged to Blackwall.

“Gratitude.”

It had been a daunting moment for Loah when she first realized she could trust Blackwall. He was the first human since Jeremy she could trust. It had been a monumental realization, changing her very foundation, allowing her to forge a new path, one she previously thought impossible. At times, it still felt impossible, but never with Blackwall by her side. With him, the small, frightened elf felt safe enough to become Loah again. The real Loah. The Loah her father had known.

Sonnen.

The sound of his name ringing in her head brought tears to her eyes instantly. Of all the pain Loah endured, losing him still hurts the worst. His name echoed like a holy bell. Sonnen, the most loved, the best hunter, voice like liquid tears, the Lover. Loah’s mother had died bearing her, the night the star of Fen’Harel shone its brightest. Years after her passing, her father had revered her mother’s existence as fervently as he worshipped the Creators. At times, even more. It was from Sonnen that Loah had learned for herself she wanted to experience a love just as fierce as the one shared between her parents.

You fool, how could you ever think that Jeremy…

More tears began to well in Loah's eyes, and she clenched her fists, furious with herself, her bones aching from the pressure. She refused to break down so soon, only minutes after waking up. She should be moving past that now. She should be getting better.

Gray hair drenched red, wrongly tainted, green eyes, her eyes, stare blankly at her now, no life, so empty, who is he? Blood on hands, shaking. What am I? The voice sung no longer, and the forest was too quiet. This was wrong. Slowly, realization dawned. Green eyes widened. Too much blood.

No.

She gritted her teeth and closed her eyes and shoved the memory of bloodied hands, gray hair, and a voice that sung no longer, deep down below, pushing it past her barriers, giving it to the chasm, letting the wolf have it, to feed on and fester like the vile abomination it is.

Breathe.

Her clothes rested on the chair, already washed and dried. Loah blinked at them in surprise. She dressed quickly and couldn’t help but to reluctantly smile when she realized how achingly good her body felt. It was nice to feel good. She was just beginning to learn about it more. So much different than pain. She stretched, long and lazy like a cat, groaning blissfully, reaching towards the ceiling, then she tucked her wolf pelt coat more snugly around her and made her way down the stairs to enter the main chamber of the stables.

Great beams of sunlight poured through from the gaping entrance. The horses looked happy today, though, they grew increasingly nervous by the sight of her, slowly approaching them. She wondered if she should try touching them today, but then she saw how wide their eyes became, and realized bitterly today was not the day.

One day these horses will let her touch them, she vowed. One day.

Loah stared at the entrance warily, making her way down the stairs. Eventually, she drew close enough to see Templars training vigorously in the distance. They were so energized today, swords striking loudly, clanging, blade against blade, shields slamming into an explosion of grunts, shouts, and laughter.

Her green eyes darted nervously around the Stables, searching. She found him immediately, facing away from her, hunching over his workbench, and she noticed the way his neck suddenly stiffened, as if he just became aware of her presence.

Blackwall did not turn to look at her, he just continued rubbing a stained cloth over his carving tools, cleaning them.

Blackwall has been doing a lot of cleaning this morning, Loah noted, amused, remembering how well-kempt the loft had been. Her skin and clothes felt wonderfully fresh. Had he hand-washed it? Had he hand-washed me?

She wondered for a moment how she felt about that, the idea of Blackwall cleaning her body with cloth while she lay unconscious at her most vulnerable. Loah found, she did not mind, so profound was the trust she held with the Warden. He had never touched her that day when she was sick with fever. He had not look, even when he could have, it would have been easy to take a peak and yet he had not. He just wanted to help. He even begged the Maker for His Forgiveness, after he had peeled away the cold, wet clothes that were killing her with chill.

Loah smiled lovingly, staring at the back of his neck, his black hair, handsome profile, thick black beard traced with gray, round human ears. She had kissed those ears a lot last night, trailing her tongue especially over the right one, giving it extra attention, licking the nick there, trying not to think about how it got there, the arrow that almost ended his entire existence, offering him her sincerest apology.

She felt a strange emotion well up inside at the mere sight of him. It was glorious, so light feeling, like spreading wings and soaring, falling without the fear of death and just the pure enjoyment of it, losing yourself to the sensation of weightlessness.

It was happiness.

She was extremely happy.

She had almost forgotten what it felt like.

She had been happy yesterday too, when she first saw him, but something had spooked her gravely and it had given her happiness a bitter edge.

Loah looked nervously at the entrance and was surprised to realize it did nothing to tamper with the overwhelming joy settled stubbornly in her heart.

She laughed with delight, not helping herself any longer, and sprang upon Blackwall’s back, giggling brightly, startling the Warden into dropping his rag and tools. She pressed hasty kisses into his neck, savoring the feel of him. Just the feeling of his back pressed against her chest, she wished she could freeze time and rest forever in this moment. She closed her eyes, allowing herself this one moment of peace.

Loah removed herself from Blackwall, not wanting to cling, and stood by his side. She touched his beard, and his cheek, and checked to see if there was any sadness in his eyes. She greeted him, warmly and brightly, “Hello, Warden Blackwall.”

Blackwall frowned at her. His shoulders tensed, as if he wanted to pull away from her, but he hadn’t. In the end, she did, uneasily.

“It’s impossible, I can’t again.”

Anxiety trickled back, but then Blackwall did something Loah could have never predicted. The Grey Warden knelt before her, pressing his knees into the dirty floor, and he grabbed one of her small hands with his own, squeezing it gently. “Let me take a good look at you,” he said, trailing his eyes over her face, watching her with an unreadable expression. He peered into her soul, and she froze in shock by the intensity of it.

Maker Preserve Me, only he ever looks at me that way. Only him.

Blackwall’s gaze shifted upward. He had a curious expression on his face. He trailed thick, broad fingers through her starlight curls, and she closed her eyes, sighing, relieved to have him touching her again. She was so grateful. She leaned into his palm, and focused on his other hand that squeezed her own, rubbing her finger joints.

He must love her, too.

Goosebumps traveled across her arms and legs and she shivered, remembering the way his hand always knew where to look, his fingers rubbing that spot that made her-

Blackwall withdrew his hand, startled, and awkwardly cleared his throat. He knelt further to pick up the tools he had previously dropped, and then he stood, tall and straight, to address her.

“We need to talk,” Blackwall said, and the seriousness of his tone made her wary.

She blinked at the Warden.

“Of course,” she replied, seating herself atop Blackwall’s workbench, in her spot as she now likes to know it. She grew nervous, looking at Blackwall’s face, confused by how she couldn’t gauge his emotions.

“It’s about the Commander,” Blackwall clarified.

Loah legs stopped kicking in the air, as they sometimes tend to do, and she grew very still.

Cullen?

Her green eyes pierced Blackwall with sudden intensity.

“Tell me,” she instructed Blackwall immediately, her voice indicating no refusal. This topic plagued her endlessly for the last several days. Sometimes, it was all she could think about.

Blood dripping on trousers…staring at me as if he knew what I was.

Abomination.

Blackwall observed how suddenly serious she had become. The Inquisitor was sitting on his workbench now, not the small, shy elf with blushing cheeks and anguished eyes.

Blackwall frowned, then continued. “I’ve given him your apology, Inquisitor, as you have bid me do,” he watched Loah leaning forward, to listen carefully to his words.

“How did he look?” She asked him, something odd in her voice, something strange in her eyes. “Was he upset? Did he understand my message? The meaning behind it?”

Blackwall observed Loah carefully, his eyes narrowing slightly. “The Commander returned his own apology, my Lady, and instructed me to inform you, he had been a fool.”

Loah looked at Blackwall in sheer disbelief. One corner of her mouth quirked up as if she was trying not to laugh. “I’ve bitten him, stained his trousers with his own blood, and he apologizes to me, and says he’s the fool?” Loah grinned, amused, her lips finally curving into a full smile as she resumed kicking her feet in the air. “The Commander is correct,” she said, and Blackwall could finally hear it in her tone, it was so subtle; Blackwall was sure Loah did not know it yet herself. “He is a fool.”

It had been decades since Blackwall last felt this emotion. He had honestly forgotten what it felt like. It was dark and ugly as he had last remembered, like a sudden poisoning in the heart. Nasty stuff. Suddenly, Blackwall was Thom Rainier again.

And Thom Rainier was jealous.

She liked Cullen.

Blackwall refused to show her Thom, at least not all of him. Instead, he cupped the back of her head, and trailed his fingers deeper into her strange hair, using it as purchase to pull her in for a kiss. He was being too rough, he'd never grabbed her like this before, but Thom needed to know how her mouth tasted, what shape it would make.

He wanted to see if she still wanted him.

You’re a bastard, Thom. You're a fool.

A slender leg curled around his waist and Loah smiled with delight against his mouth.

Relief of a bitter kind. Sour.

That’s enough.

Blackwall tried to break the kiss, feeling ashamed about his base impulses, but Loah refused to release him. She had gotten a taste of him and would not let him go. She kissed him tenderly and licked sweetly along the bottom of his lip. She seemed fervently grateful to have his mouth against her again, as if she had been desperate for his touch.

Thom needed to be careful with this one. Too many things that could go wrong. He tried to ignore the anxiety and focused instead on her soft pink lips, pressing shapes against his own, showing him with her mouth how much she loved him.

Thom Rainier couldn't help but to feel old and dirty when he touched her. How could he not? She looked too young and felt too soft beneath his battle-torn palms, forty-eight winters, holding a sword for about thirty of them. She was too tiny, too damned small, she needed to eat more, to grow more. Maker, Thom had never asked her how old she was. He was terrified by the answer. Sometimes, Loah's face would look too fresh, and that disturbed him deeply.

It was wrong. He knew that. The truth sat in the center of his chest. Dorian was right about him, and thats why Blackwall could never meet his eyes. Touching Loah was wrong. That's why people would stare, watch, and talk, each time they stood next to each other in public. Thom was tainting her reputation, he was ruining her.

But it did not feel wrong.

Thom allowed himself this one moment of peace, absorbing this moment, this experience of her lips, eager, and wanting, and for him, into his memory. He loved the Maker so feverishly for granting him a glimpse of joy, and Blackwall feared the price he must pay for having experienced it, knowing who he truly is.

Maker, what was he doing?

Blackwall broke the kiss, and his eyes drew automatically upwards, beholding for himself the hair that blazed brighter than a star, blinding him and creating black spots in his vision. Never before had he witnessed such a thing. A real-life saint from the Maker, The Herald of Andraste, the savior of the world, and she stared at him, the murderer of children, with unconcealed love and devotion in her eyes. This is what felt wrong. This did not feel right.

He saw Loah glancing nervously at the entrance.

Blackwall smiled at her, knowingly. He tussled her hair because he was a fool, and enjoyed the way she smiled at him. Maker, she was lovely. “You best be off then, my Lady. The morning is still fresh and I'm sure you've got plenty to do. Don’t let an old Warden like me keep you away from your duties.”

She nodded her head, agreeing earnestly with his statement, and showing rare dimples in a new smile. Blackwall stared. He had never noticed them before. It was difficult to let her go, now. What other secrets was her body hiding? Maker, he was losing himself in her. He felt like a drowning man. “You are correct, Warden Blackwall,” she said, hopping off his workbench, trailing her hand lovingly along his thigh. He stiffened, growing taut, and she laughed. “Much to accomplish today.”

She was in a mood.

Before she could skip off towards the entrance, Blackwall caught her by the elbow, stopping her for a moment. She blinked at him in surprise, looking at the spot where he held.

Blackwall glanced at the entrance, then back at Loah, and gave her a serious look. “You know I would never allow anything to happen to you, right? You knew that already, right, Loah?” It was the second time he had ever spoken her name out loud.

It was the name her father had given her.

Loah stared at Blackwall, stunned by his statement.

Blackwall was blinded instantly, white starlight hair blazing forth even greater radiance, the brightest Blackwall had yet since witnessed. He stared in her general direction, speechless. The moment was indescribable.

“Yes,” Loah breathed out, as if shocked by the answer herself, encapsulated by light. “I know.” She jumped and pressed a gleeful kiss against Blackwall’s surprised mouth, dancing and twirling, leaping out the entrance as if she was a galloping doe. He could hear her laughter as she left. He heard the way swords and shields grew suddenly quiet.

Too quiet.

Blackwall frowned, and stepped out of the entrance, scanning her surroundings as she retreated. Bright hair was too damned bright, it could be seen half a world away.

All eyes stared at her as she went.

Thom felt uneasy.

Varric had been hearing some awfully strange rumors today, but he thought, perhaps, there might be something in the air that's making people a lot more creative. Varric had witnessed a lot of distracted men and women this fine, sunny, winter morning, tending to their businesses, yet fumbling, flustered, confused, having no clue as to what has been stimulating them so.

Since last night there has been a particular type of tension in the air. Varric could feel it too, after waking up this morning with one of the worst erections he had ever experienced in his entire life. An eye-opening experience, to be sure.

Varric talked with Cassandra, who flushed from exertion. The Seeker decided to train extra vigorously this morning, Varric caught her setting up the training dummy before the sun had fully risen. Something about pent up frustration, she told him, and Varric understood too well. He saw the sun rise, too, in his chambers, when he realized he had urgent needs that needed tending to.

Varric always finds himself seeking out the Seeker’s company. At first, he did it out of pure spite, simply to annoy Cassandra with his presence, punishment for his earlier treatment as a prisoner. Now, it has become apart of his daily routine, something to look forward to, depending on the day.

Today was a good day, Varric decided.

“People are saying she’s a mage,” Varric continued their conversation. They have been talking about this for a while now, although, Varric himself had not yet seen for himself what all the fuss was about. “They say it is the only explanation, but the mages at Skyhold deny it outright. The Templars, too. It’s the only thing they seem to agree on, lately, if you could believe it. No magic, almost like a tranquil, or a dwarf. Rude, but I get it.” Varric frowned, thinking about the odd rumors. They were so strange that he just couldn’t wrap his mind around it. “And yet, people claim she is glowing brighter than a star, brighter than she ever had before.” Varric scoffed, rubbing the dirt between his fingers absentmindedly. Varric and Cassandra were both sitting together on the dirt of the training grounds while the Seeker took a moment to rest and catch her breath. “That’s hard to imagine," Varric finished, and he agreed with his statement wholeheartedly. Varric had always thought the Inquisitor too bright at times, with her spotlessly white and reflective hair. He couldn’t imagine how she could possibly be brighter than that, but with so many people chatting about it today, there must have been some significant change to illicit such a response.

"Once," the Seeker started, and Varric watched the sheen of sweat on her neck drying quickly from the cold winter air. When the Seeker spoke, her breath fogged out before her, a heavy cloud, indicating to him how warm her body was. Varric looked away, frowning, wiping his dirty hands against his pants like the rich peasant he was. "I became very ill in my teens, a particularly bad flu. My uncle had gifted me an illustration of ancient elves, something to read and admire whilst I recover from my fever." Cassandra chuckled darkly, slightly embarrassed. "I am sure most of the details the book described of ancient elves were highly exaggerated and proven false, however, it had beautiful pictures. I would analyze them for hours, not being able to sleep while my head pounded too greatly," the Seeker hesitated, leaning backwards slightly to stretch out her leg. She winced.

Varric eyed her leg. Had she hurt herself? "I do remember the book describing of a ‘glowing quality.’ Ancient elves producing light from their own life’s essence, or so the book proclaimed. The Maker’s energy taking physical form." The Seeker frowned deeply, looking uncertain and conflicted. "I do not know, Varric, but I did see the Inquisitor earlier, just as she was exiting the…” Cassandra paused, before continuing, “Stables....People are correct, Varric, she glows, like a beacon. I have never seen anything like it. It is quite indescribable.” Silence. “There was one rumor…" Cassandra suddenly flushed red and rose to her feet abruptly. Awkwardly, she stretched her armored body, slightly, and Varric found himself watching her.

Cassandra smiled at Varric, showing him her teeth. "Such rumors serve me nothing but to distract me and steal me from my precious time. I will return to my training. It was nice of you to have visited me."

Varric found himself returning the smile, something strange moving in his chest when he looked at the Seeker. He laughed, "What? And give you a day’s break from my heckling? You wouldn't dream of it."

Cassandra smiled at Varric, quirking her lips in the way that she does. It held surprising warmth.

That bothered Varric.

She turned away from him without further words and resumed her training. She did a few cautionary stretches, pulling at muscles, rolling her shoulders.

Varric carefully eyed her one leg, wondering if he was mistaken, unsure if the Seeker relying a little more on one than the other.

Varric realized he was watching her and decided to leave the Seeker to her practice.

He was on his way to the Herald’s Rest to have a midday drink, finding himself to have a particularly fierce thirst, wondering to himself about ointments and salves, when he finally saw for himself what everyone had been talking about.

Something bright flashed incessantly in his periphery, so repetitively that the dwarf couldn’t help but to furrow his eyebrows in confusion and turn to look.

He found himself staring stupidly and gawking like a bystander.

The Herald of Andraste stopped in her skipping, basking in her own effervescence. She spotted Varric staring at her and she beamed, glowing even brighter than before. Varric wondered if it was healthy to be looking at her for too long, he was getting blackspots in his eyes.

"Varric!" The tiny elf greeted him joyously, running and skipping towards him. "How are you?" She inquired, her voice soft and gentle, and full of kindness.

Wow, she was in a good mood, Varric noted, staring directly at the topic of Skyhold’s conversation. Maker, she really is glowing. Unbelievable, I can’t believe Cassandra was right, I’ve never seen anything like this before. How could that not be magical? It boggled Varric’s mind.

The Inquisitor frowned at him. "Not you too," she said dismayed. "Everyone keeps staring at me today,” she said, miserably. She looked at him, confused. “Has no one ever realized before that I am bright?" She looked perplexed, baffled. "Perhaps they are just beginning to."

Varric quickly corrected her, "No, kid, everyone knows you are bright. But this," Varric found himself reaching out before he could help himself, an irresistible urge overtaking him. He needed to touch, to feel. He stopped himself at the last second, surprised to see that his fingers were hovering just over her ethereal curls. "This is insane."

Lavellan looked at Varric's hand, thinking. Then she ducked down and placed her mop of wild, starlight hair directly beneath his palm, giving him permission to feel. Varric was beyond embarrassed, and he struggled to refrain himself from looking around, seeing if people were watching. Instead, he focused on the feeling of her silky strands beneath his fingers, bright, and radiant, and glowing like a star. Too bright. Unnaturally bright. It even felt slightly warm, despite the frigid cold air around them.

Wow, she's soft, Varric thought to himself, amazed, stunned by the sheer insanity of it. I don't think I've felt anything this soft before in my-

Varric drew back his hand, wildly embarrassed. He took a professional step away from the Inquisitor and rubbed the back of his neck.

Sweet Maker, Varric thought to himself in disbelief, confused by what just happened. What the hell was that?

"When we head out to the Hinterlands today, Falling Star, you're going to need a hat, or a hood, or something," Varric told her, because it gave him something to say. It was difficult to maintain eye contact with her. "Enemies will be able to spot you all across Thedas."

The young elf slumped her shoulders in dismay, sighing deeply, as if she were a hundred years old.

How old was she anyways?  Varric had never asked her, he realized with surprise. She seemed too young for this type of responsibility, closing the Breach, Varric doesn’t know how she does it every day, getting up in the morning, sealing the Rifts, fighting against Corypheus’s minions. The craziest thing about Lavellan was that it did not seem to bother her much. It was as if she was just doing homework for school, a duty, a requirement, something that simply needed to get done, so she does it.

No, something else bothered this small elf more than the Breach, demons spilling from rifts, or Corypheus. Something else was much worse for her than the end of the world or abominations. This young, small elf, who weighs barely more than a wheel of a wagon.

That was an unsettling thought.

Is she eighteen summers? Maker, sometimes she appeared even younger.

Leliana had no clue, in fact, all that the Spymaster knew of the Herald of Adraste remained ominously blank, as if her Dalish clan had tried to wipe the evidence of her existence off the face of the planet, completely erasing her from their memories. They only got one piece of information when Leliana’s scout had returned from the Dalish.

Her name was Lavellan.

That was it.

That had really concerned the Spymaster. Varric had seen the way darkness shadowed her eyes as she contemplated the stark lack of information. Of what, she was thinking, only the Maker could take a guess.

"They always see me no matter what." Lavellan responded, sounding too small, and unfortunately, Varric had to agree with that.

She was getting slightly better with her daggers, Varric had to concede, but she still consistently struggled with her bow, rarely hitting her target where she had intended, and more often than not, almost accidentally killing her companions in friendly fire.

She doesn't want to give up the bow, Varric can see that. It held some kind of significance to her. She trained and yet her arrows still strayed. She remained the most frustrated out of all her companions by the fact. She wanted desperately to improve. Fierce desperation. Teeth-clenching desperation.

Varric once considered advising her to stick to one skill, perhaps work solely on her daggers, but when Varric stopped to think about it properly, he realized it was probably better if she had a long-range weapon, to keep her enemies at a distance where they belong. She was too tiny, just barely taller than Varric himself, skinny too, looking half-starved at times.

Varric had even considered letting her train with Bianca, once. It was a mind-boggling concept. He had no idea why he wanted to offer her, he had spent a full day contemplating the choice. Varric would have never, under any circumstances, offered that to anyone, so why did he want to so badly?

Maybe Varric witnessed the young girl almost dying too many times, bloody, broken, too many close calls, and each time less pleasant than the last. How often had it been already? Twenty emergency trips back to Skyhold? Thirty? Time moved a bit funny when the world was ending. Surely not forty, that would be absurd.

Still, enough.

In the end, though, Varric had not offered Bianca. Perhaps there were some things he just couldn’t do. Perhaps. And honestly, the kid’s lack of depth perception made Varric unspeakably nervous. If she strayed her shots with Bianca, the idea alone made Varric shudder with dread.

The horror.

"Say Varric," his name broke Varric from his deep contemplation. He hadn’t realized how intensely he had just been thinking. "You know something?" Before he could answer her, the Inquisitor’s fingers trailed across his chest, less than a second, a quick and curious brushing over with fingers. "You really do have the best chest hair," she praised him, earnestly, giving him one of her best smiles, dimples and all, a powerful weapon.

Varric knew he was blushing beet-red. He felt his skin scalding. Maker, he heard snickering behind him. People were watching, and people would talk. Varric groaned, realizing this must be how The Warden felt each time he spent with the Inquisitor.

How does he do it?

Graciously, Varric replied to the Inquisitor, never one to back down from sincere praise from a beautiful woman, "And you are hands-down Skyhold’s Loveliest," he grinned at her as earnestly as she had, returning the compliment, and knowing he was telling the truth.

There was something truly divine about this young girl.

She was simply different.

Varric thought about Cassandra and the story she had told him about her illness as a young child, staring at pretty illustrations when her face was wane and weary, flushed with sickness, and yet, Varric could imagine the young seeker smiling, admiring through the pain, still seeing the beauty this world had to offer. He wondered what book her uncle had gotten her and where he might go to buy it. He wondered if her leg was okay.

This was the closest personal encounter he’s had so far with the Inquisitor. It felt good. He could tell that they were getting closer; and she was becoming much more warmer towards him now.

It was her turn to blush, and she did it exceptionally well.

"You praise too highly," she told Varric politely, and he could sense she was a little uncomfortable.

She doesn't easily accept compliments.

The Inquisitor was an odd thing, it was hard for Varric to gauge her real personality. In the beginning, she was just cold, brittle, hostile, white-eyed with distrust, hateful, teeth baring, arm biting, snarling, cautious, frightened, and furious, Maker, her wrath was unbelievable. Though, Varric hardly supposes he could blame her. Varric had a similarly warm initiation joining the Inquisition.

Sometimes she was so damned grief-stricken, drowning in sorrow and sadness, way too intense for someone so young ought to experience. It was abnormal, the sheer unnatural suffering, and it made Varric’s skin crawl.

Sometimes she was plain miserable, shrouded in a black, abysmal, silent cloud, impenetrable, a barrier placing her solidly, assuredly away from the rest of the world. No one could reach her when she is like that, in fact, if Varric tried it would just frighten her away. In those days, silence was all she wanted, and that was usually what everyone gave her.

But she liked it when Bull, Varric, and Sera continued their conversations and talked amongst themselves. He could tell. She didn’t want to talk, but she wanted to listen and learn more about the people she travelled with.

Now there were some days where they couldn’t get her to shut up, she would be bursting with questions, so many new questions, packed full of it, overflowing, and always touching strange things, looking in places where she shouldn’t be, climbing her environment like a squirrel, truly impressive how quickly she could get up a tree. The forest was her element, her natural habitat, and her home.

It was a profound moment the day Sera began to stop calling the Inquisitor, “Too elfy” and began to simply watch her in silence instead. The Inquisitor was, by the city elf’s standards, way too elfy, as elfy as an elf could possibly get, but without the religion, strangely so, and yet, Sera watches now, quietly, no more taunts, well, almost none. That felt significant somehow, but Varric could not possibly imagine why.

Varric had noticed one day that Sera’s ears would always point to the direction of the Inquisitor. Varric could remember that moment distinctly because he had watched Sera's ears rotating towards the young girl for hours.

It was weird.

And what bothered Varric to no end was not knowing the answer to the question: why does the Inquisitor, one of the Dalish, believe so fervently in the Maker? Not just a mere believer, but a devout worshiper, if rumors were to be believed. How strange, Varric couldn't wrap his head around it. How could they have happened? He heard folks talking of Andraste’s alter, at the times when it had remained uncrowded with people, then sometimes a tiny elf would slip inside to kneel before the Maker’s Bride, and she would speak to Him in her native tongue, so that no one could understand the meaning behind her prayers. A haunting thought, one Varric already began breaking down in his new book.

He still hadn't told her about the book.

She is brighter now, prettier, and she smiles more. She’s oddly polite, and that had been a surprising discovery, so much different than the arm-biting. And sometimes, sometimes Varric swore he had seen something else behind her deeply green eyes, hiding away like a fox, ducking quickly behind a bush, staring at Varric beneath the shrubbery, chuckling with deep amusement and ominous enjoyment. Whatever that had been, Varric could not even begin to comprehend.

Today, the Inquisitor was just happy, the happiest Varric had ever seen her since. She looks...confident. What a difference.

Something suddenly caught Varric’s attention. He stared at her neck blankly, unsure of what he was actually looking at. His eyes drew automatically downwards, trailing her neck. Are those…? He saw more love spots hiding beneath the collar of her wolf pelt cloak, the one Solas had gifted her.

Varric laughed abruptly, directly into the Inquisitor’s face, surprising her into confused smiling. "What are you laughing about?" she asked Varric, amused by his sudden outburst, her green eyes glinting like stars.

Varric glanced at her hair that was too damned bright. "Oh nothing, Falling Star. I just realized what got you glowing so brightly today." Varric grinned at her, tauntingly. He was hoping he could make her blush.

Maker, the Inquisitor's blushes. The first one Varric had ever witnessed, he had not believed it. It was a sight to be seen, that’s for sure, an indescribable experience.

Varric probably shouldn't be teasing her, but the Inquisitor tolerated japes surprisingly well from her non-human companions, much better than she could with the human occupants at Skyhold, or perhaps on entire Thedas itself, besides Blackwall, and it was funny sometimes, to gauge her reactions. Compliments could make her blush sometimes, depending on the sort, but could make the young girl blush the most, to Varric's extreme suprise, was simple, common kindness. Holding the door open for her, praising her if she had taken down a target, especially with her bow, then she would really glow pink. Varric was discovering tiny and subtle details about her that she was just beginning to reveal to him. The Inquisitor was very similar to a flower deciding whether or not to unfurl its petal beneath the warmth of the sun. If conditions were right in the environment around her, the soil nice and fertile, plenty of water, and sunlight, Lavellan blossomed, and it was a sight to behold. Varric knew the Grey Warden had wanted to maintain his distance from the Inquisitor, the dwarf knew that the question of the girl's age had disturbed Blackwall gravely, and Varric could understand.

Lavellan looked concerningly young.

And Varric understood why the Warden had a difficult time keeping away, especially if the girl kept coming to him all excitedly, showing the worn and rugged Grey Warden, who clearly had some kind of dark and grim past, a kind of affection no one else at Skyhold could ever recieve from her, extremely exclusive touches reserved strictly for nonhuman, suddenly offered to a human man reaching his 50s. Who knows what the Inquisitor and Warden do together behind closed door, but Maker knows it was all what people could talk about. It was, quite frankly, a scandal.

But Lavellan bore a loveliness that was simply incomparable, so how could the Warden have had a chance to resist? Especially after living in the deep woods for years in isolation, as Blackwall had divulged to Varric behind drinks at the Herald’s Rest. It was a plain and simple fact that the Inquisitor was one of the most beautiful elven woman anyone had yet previously witnessed. Uncommonly beautiful of mythical proportion, eye-catching, attention-stealing, and breath-taking loveliness, and the worst part is, she is unique and odd.

The Inquisitor simply did not look similar to what anyone had before seen; her hair fucking glowed the purest white light Varric had ever witnessed, filling his body with ever escalating euphoria the longer he looked at it, her nose hardly had a curve to its bridge, and Varric knew of many humans who especially hated this feature among the elves, and yet, unanimously, everyone had agreed it was one of the prettiest nose to have ever existed. She was tiny, lithe, and slender, perhaps too small, and definitely too skinny, bearing delicately shaped ears that looked different compared to others elves, more sculpted somehow, more crafted.

Varric thought of Cassandra and the book she had told him about, of the ancient elves that glowed from their life's essence. He wondered how her leg was doing.

The Inquisitor suprised Varric greatly by giving him a hauty, wolfish smile. The dwarf had never seen her make that expression before. He only stared, blankly, as it manifested itself into existence. "Do you now?” the young girl asked Varric, sweetly, then offered Varric a glimpse of who she truly is. “I had learned how to defeat a man last night, Varric," Lavellan informed him, curling her lips into a delightful smile, potent with joy, conversing with him as easily as if she had asked, How’s the weather? "I had defeated a Grey Warden with just my hand, Varric, no weapons were required. You would not believe the noises he had made for me." Lavellan had even shivered as she said it. It was too much.

Varric gaped at her in disbelief, all of his possible responses turning into powder and dust inside of his head. Nothing could have possibly prepared him for what she had just said. "Maker’s Balls," he breathed out, feeling himself scorched and scalding with embarrassment. Varric looked around himself dismayed, noticing how several shocked and red-glowing faces had hastily glanced away from their general direction. Maker, everyone had heard that. Of course they did, with the weather being so nice, everyone was outside, catching sunlight.

Varric roared with laughter, he had been taken completely off-guard. "Makers, kid," he gasped, "Had no one ever taught you how to use your indoor voice?" He asked Lavellan, heaving over with laughter. She had just surprised the hell out of him. Varric was strongly reminded of sitting together with Cassandra on the castle’s stony steps. The young elf had abruptly approached them, sulking, moody, and she had asked them if they would have liked to sit with her. The invitation had surprised them both greatly. Cassandra had been slightly embarrassed to sit directly in front of the entrance, where people actively walked in and out, who had been wondering why the Seeker, the Inquisitor, and the Dwarf were out sitting directly on the stony steps, what on Thedas could the Trio possibly be discussing amongst each another, suddenly interested in potted plants within their vicinity. Varric knew Cassandra had felt strangely humbled by the Inquisitor's invitation. It had been the true beginnings of their reconciliation, still too fragile and in desperate need for development.

Varric had already written that chapter in his new book. Yeah, he really needed to inform her about the book he was writing, but when Varric saw how happy she was, standing before him, he just didn't want to risk it today.

Another day, he'll ask her.

The Inquisitor looked unbothered. She grinned, almost cockily, and looked more relaxed than Varric had yet seen from her. What a difference, and all because of one Grey Warden. There had to be some significance to that.

Falling Star's smile warmed the longer she stared at Varric, and Varric was beginning to feel overwhelmed. She reached out her hand and touch it with his own. "I am happy to see you today, Varric, your face had brought me much joy." Varric felt the real weight of truth behind her words. She was being so completely honest with him, he didn't know how to reply, he could still feel the power of her voice inside of his chest, and he felt oddly emotional. Lavellan supirsed Varric by straightening her back with surprising confidence, shoulder straightening, her head held high.

Wow.

Just as Varric was about to invite her for a drink, the Inquisitor seemed to notice the Herald’s Rest for the first time. Her eyes flickered over Varric's shoulder, and Varric watched how blood drained from her face. She grew frighteningly pale, pure alarm filled her green eyes. Lavellan took an automatic step backwards, gaze locking onto the entrance, hyper-focusing. Her gaurd was up, she became expressionless, and her bright hair had dimmed as if the light had been sucked directly out of her.

It had been one of the strangest things Varric had ever witnessed.

What on Thedas just happened?

Varric stared at the doubled doors of the Herald’s Rest, frowning deeply. Her reaction to the Tavern had greatly disturbed him and now Varric felt unsettled. Why had her light suddenly winked out when she had first noticed the Herald’s Rest?

Does she have an issue with Taverns?

Varric turned to look at the Inquisitor and noticed she was now standing farther away. She took another step backwards, and her hair had brightened significantly.

Yeah, that was weird.

"I best be on my way now, Varric,” Lavellan informed him with a sweet smile, but Varric could see immediately how different this smile was. “There is much to do, many people to see. We will meet up in a couple of hours to go visit the Hinterlands, and see if those bandits have returned as rumors claimed." She had a hard, dark look in her eyes when she spoke. Lavellan glanced warily at the entrance, growing pale when she saw a man had opened the door to exit the Tavern. Her hair flickered like candleflame, dimming.

She was afraid.

The Inquisitor offered Varric her sincerest departure, before walking, no, striding away. Not running, not sprinting, but she may as well had been. Varric watched with morbid facination the way her hair gradually blazed brighter the farther away she went, almost reaching its maximum intensity by the time she was nearly out of sight. She was like a living, walking star. Unbelievable. People stared at her in sheer disbelief as she passed them by, and she simply ignored them as if they do not exist.

“The Herald’s Star”

Written by Varric Tethras

It was just a draft title, a leave in, just something to call it for the time being. Varric still hadn't asked for her permission to write a book about her, and he had no idea if she would say yes, if Varric could ever be allowed to publish these private details of her life, her reputation, what people have witnessed, but Varric had witnessed himself, and yet, this encounter had already left Varric with several new chapters writing themselves in his head, automatically. Varric can't remember the last time he had felt so inspired by a real-life person. Perhaps once, with Hawk. Varric could not prevent himself from writing about the Herald of Andraste, who her father called, "Fallen Star".

The author had a feeling that his next book will be one of his best.

Vivienne and Dorian were judging Skyhold’s winter jackets.

 “Look,” Vivienne remarked with open disdain. “Who wears black fur cuffs, a white fur hood, and yet leaves all the rest all brown? Ghastly.”

Dorian agreed with her, assiduously, wrinkling his nose when he saw who she was referring to. “Quite right, Vivienne, I’ve seen spotted dogs with better sense.” Dorian stared at an Orlesian messenger, who just arrived, running through the great hall, no doubt rushing to speak with Josephine. “Look, Vivienne,” Dorian said, disgusted. “Leather over wool.” Dorian almost gagged.

Vivienne laughed in agreement, “Maker,” she said in disbelief. Then Vivienne frowned as if suddenly disturbed. She swung her massive horned hat, a bit much for Dorian’s taste if he was being perfectly honest, and looked in one direction particularly. “Maker…” she repeated, then stopped talking altogether.

There was something in her tone that made Dorian furrow his eyebrows, wondering what on Thedas could bring the Madame de Fer’s composure to faltering. He turned his head to look in the direction she was staring at.

Dorian’s book fell out of his hands.

She raced over to him, like a shooting star, and picked up his fleck-covered book, placing it directly into Dorian’s numb and lifeless hands. She beamed at Dorian with pure starlight, blinding him and Vivienne who stood beside him.

"Dorian!" She greeted Dorian lovingly, her voice so light and joyful, and almost sing-song, her fondness for the mage dripping from her every incantation. Dorian grew quickly overwhelmed. He didn't know what to say. He didn’t know what to do. He could only stare.

The Inquisitor grew suddenly extremely wary, as if suddenly realizing that Vivienne was also standing there next to Dorian. The tall woman had startled Lavellan greatly, her hair had dimmed, like a flickering fireplace.

"Vivienne," the Inquisitor greeted the noblewoman coldly, no trace of warmth in her voice. It was a stark contrast to the greeting she had just given Dorian.

"Inquisitor," Vivienne replied, just as cooly and unbothered.

The Inquisitor uneasily removed her gaze off Vivienne and beamed up at Dorian, bright as the sun. "I am so happy to see you today, Dorian," Lavellan told him, grinning up at him cheekily. "You look very handsome today."

Dorian was blushing profusely. He was embarrassed. People were staring. Staring at her. How could they not?

"Inquisitor," Dorian replied, formally, feeling profoundly honored by Lavellan's open display of affection, and morally conflicted by her obviously new transformation.

Then Dorian smiled because he couldn't help himself, not when she was looking at him with so much love in her eyes. Warmth settled itself firmly in his chest and stayed with him for the remainder of the day. Dorian glanced up, puzzled, baffled, trying to keep his mouth from openly gaping. "My Herald...You are...very bright today. You.."

The Inquisitor frowned at Dorian. Why was he being so formal with her? Dorian would usually call her "little Lavellan" or sometimes, if she was being particularly too daft and thick-headed, he would call her "Amatus." It was an honor. She had wept when he explained to her the meaning of the word. It was then, perhaps, when she first started trusting Dorian. Not fully, not quite completely, but it had been enough.

It had been enough.

She reached up and grabbed a piece of her white hair, thumbing it absentmindedly between her fingers, puzzled, remembering how Blackwall had told her the same exact thing. Varric, too. In fact, everone seemed to be staring at her today with the most intensity she has yet known from Skyhold. It was surprising how little it bothered her, not when she felt so good. She missed Blackwall. "I'm always bright," she informed Dorian, slowly, as if he was a child, wondering what the heck was going on.

"Amatus," Dorian said imploringly, capturing her eyes with his, and looking at her too seriously. "You are literally glowing. Haven't you looked at yourself in the mirror today?"

The inquisitor made a face, disgusted. "I hate mirrors." She said, dismayed, and with vast disapproval. She made a dismissive hand gesture, her starlight hair flickered, dimming, like a candleflame beside a drafty window. “Besides," she said, grinning. "Blackwall doesn’t have one.” Dorian and Vivienne were blinded by her light when she said Blackwall’s name, basking in white effervescence. She refused to speak further on the matter. Instead, she looked at Dorian’s face with such warmth and devotion in her eyes, and she leaned closer, standing on the very tips of her toes to press a warm, sweet kiss upon his cheek. She blushed profusely as she did it, turning profoundly pink in the face. Dorian’s beautifully dark skin felt too hot beneath her lips.

Cheekily, she pulled back, then glanced warily at Vivienne. The joy left her. The Inquisitor stared deeply into the noblewoman’s eyes, intensely assessing her presence. "I shall be on my way now, Dorian," she informed him, refusing to take her eyes off the enchantress. "Vivienne." She extended her departure, all love leaving her voice.

"Inquisitor." Vivienne acknowledged chillingly, peering at the queer and unusual, skinny elf down her dark and polished nose. Vivienne's gaze was penetrating, causing the Inquisitor's hair to float up in warning, like the hackles of a wolf, a halo of white light, luminescent waves bursting forth her head.

The Inquisitor left the two mages at the castle’s main entrance. Just before she completely left their sight, the Inquisitor started skipping again, happily, looking like a bouncing, jumping star.

Vivienne and Dorian were both staring at her back as she left.

"How odd." Vivienne said, and Dorian looked grateful that enchantress had even mentioned it. He rounded on the noblewoman, looking her seriously in the eyes.

"Isn't it?" Dorian agreed, wild thoughts racing in his head. He felt like he was going to go mad. "No magic, and yet… she emits fucking light, Vivienne. She glows, for Maker sakes, she can glow."

"No," Vivienne agreed, confidently. "She possesses no magic. I checked. Carefully. There was nothing." She said it assuredly, the only way one of the most powerful mages on Thedas could, which she was. Vivienne was frighteningly powerful.

"I checked, carefully, too," Dorian repeated, a little annoyed, sensing the superiority in her voice. He, too, was one of the most powerful mages within several thousand kilometers, one of the mightiest on Thedas, and with the best fashion taste, proven time and time again. "Nothing. Void, and yet..."

Vivienne understood Dorian exactly. "And yet, she emits light…from her hair.” The noblewoman frowned, disliking such strange, unexplained phenomenon. It smelled fishy, and suspicious. “How peculiar.” Madame de Fer wrinkled her nose in full displeasure. She grimaced with disgust. “The Inquisitor smelled like horses, cheap soap, and seed.”

Dorian scowled at her, furious beyond reasoning that the noblewoman had even mentioned it, hating her with all his heart.  

Vivienne was correct, however.

His little Lavellan smelled like seed.

Maker, Dorian could gag, he could cry, he could shake his fist into the sky, clenching teeth, knowing whose seed it belonged to.

Viviene gave Dorian an almost cruel smile, drinking from the cup of his misery. Serpent. “Dorian, darling,” she batted her beautiful, black eyelashes at him, coated with golden mascara. “I heard the most vilest rumor this morning. Would you like to hear it, too, my dear?”

Dorian stared at Vivienne’s smile, realizing with horror that there was nothing on Thedas that could possibly make him say no.

But he wished he had.  

Cullen was talking with a sentry, Jenkin, who was responsible for patrolling the southern ramparts in the early afternoons. The Commander wanted to reprimand him, to scold him, to ask him for more details, to cover his ears. Maker, the things that were coming out of this sentry’s mouth.

Cullen’s ears were red. He stubbornly avoided eye contact with the laughing guard. “Maker,” Cullen breathed out, annoyed that he was so flustered. “You can’t possibly- You can’t possibly expect me to believe that, do you?”

Jenkin laughed deep from his gut. He had a drinker’s laugh. “It’s true, Commander Cullen, Max saw it for himself. Went over yesterday to request a mount but then stopped to enjoy the show. Told his bunkmates that he caught her stroking the Warden, right there on his workbench, legs wide open for anybody to see, whispering secret, forbidden things into the Warden’s ear.” The guardsman grinned dirtily at the Commander. “So much for hating humans, eh?”

Cullen grew hyper aware of the spot on his arm where she had bitten him.

Cullen frowned.

Max? Why did his name sound so familiar?

Cullen remembered. That new recruit.

Max was starting to gain a reputation. The recruit was strong, sly, and clever. He was popular, strong jawed, stronger stubbornness, and he liked to laugh.

He was a troublemaker, Cullen remembered clearly. His headache pounded atrociously today. The Commander had already received complaints regarding this new recruit. The Templar was too handsy with the serving girls, prone to fight in taverns, he liked using his hands, good with a sword, even better with his fists. Loved to fight. Good enough to train the other recruits when he had the spare time, good enough to make friends.

Good enough to make enemies.

Heavy lyrium user. Cullen remembered. Heavier than most. Caught stealing from another bunkmate and it almost ended up bloody.

Cullen migraine was fearsome. He sighed, exhausted. The lack of sleep was beginning to wear him down, he couldn’t recognize himself in the mirror this morning. Maker, all he wanted was just one hit. Just one more-

The report in his hand crinkled, his fist clenched, gripping, twisting paper into unnatural grooves. He could almost taste the lyrium in his mouth.

“Those are private matters between the Inquisitor and the Warden,” Cullen informed the sentry, trying to maintain control. His voice was too dark, even he heard it.

The sentry snorted, disagreeing, yet still looking away from Cullen’s intensity. “Not so private,” he muttered, and then his jaw fell slack as he stared at something off in the distance. Cullen’s alarm instantly rose, and he looked quickly in the direction the sentry was gaping at, expecting to see danger approaching.

Cullen’s arm fell slack by his side. He could barely hold onto his report. One gust of wind could snatch it from his hand, and it would be irretrievably lost to Skyhold’s mountainous chasms below.

“Maker’s Breath,” Jenkin swore under his breath beside the Commander. “Never in my life, never have I seen something like that.”

Cullen knew exactly what he was referring to.

Maker. Her hair.

A blazing beacon, a source of self-producing light, the Maker’s chosen, the Herald’s Star.

Never in his life had Cullen seen anything like it. Nothing could compare. He could only stare, thunderstruck, caught wholly off guard by the sight of her on the ramparts.

What was she doing up here? She never comes this high up.

Cullen had never seen her on the ramparts before, never this high up, not with so many sentries walking around at all hours of the day. She was skipping happily and even singing.

Wow, Cullen realized with profound surprise, listening to her sing her strange elven melody. How…pretty. It was sweet and lilting, like a pretty bird song, reminding him of a cold forest stream on a hot summer day, refreshing. Cullen took an automatic step towards her, then froze as he remembered.

Fool.

Cullen was turning away to make his escape when she suddenly spotted him and stopped in her skipping.

She stopped singing.

She’s going to run. Cullen knew. He had frightened her too terribly the last time.

Sometimes, when he’s sleeping, lost in the madness, he sees her face, pale and bloodless from the shock, arm displaying the fresh marks of her teeth, blood dripping, staining fabric. He tries to comfort her, but that only causes more terror, fear everywhere, backing away, changing shapes, the mages in the circle, the chair with the rope. The screams. He sees that scene merging, twisting with the other countless horrors he knows too well.

The incalculable damage.

But instead, she ran towards him, and the Commander was profoundly embarrassed by how frightened he had become. He actually flinched away.

Maker, that was embarrassing.

The tiny elf stopped directly in front of him and frowned deeply when she noticed his reaction, how he had taken a cautionary step backwards. Grief filled her eyes, and her hair suddenly grew dimmer. It seemed like a horrible sign, Cullen suddenly felt panicked. She bit her lip and Cullen wondered in horror if he was going to make her cry.

Maker, he was an idiot. He had flinched away from a tiny elf who is lighter than a sack of potatoes. Of course that had hurt her feelings. Cullen felt overwhelmingly guilty and wondered how he could repair the damage.

The Inquisitor did something Cullen would have never expected, never in his entire existence. It had caught him so completely off-guard, he could only stare stupidly as it was happening.

She bowed before him, to him, the Commander, low, and submissive, bending her body at such an angle it was almost too scandalous. He noticed immediately where the sentry beside him was looking.

That pissed him off.

It was as if she was humbling herself to some great king or a god, any lower and she would have to kneel and press her forehead to the cobblestones. Everyone was out on the ramparts today, Maker, why were there so many people? Blasted sun, making everyone want to go out for a stroll. They all gaped at the Inquisitor, stunned, speechless, mouth opening, closing.

She was bowing before the Commander.

It was a truly unprecedented moment.

She offered Cullen her apology, loud enough for everyone to hear. Did she want her voice to carry? “I am sorry, Commander Cullen. It was…terribly wrong of me to do. I should not have...I am deeply sorry.” He could see her hands clenching with emotion.

Cullen grew deeply concerned by how much he enjoyed the sight of her bowing to him.

It was disturbing.

Uncomfortable, Cullen tried to speak, “I-“ he realized he did not know what to say. He had to say something, she was still bowing to him, “Inquisitor” he said, quickly, scrambling to form a coherent sentence. “You don't- you don't have to...bow..to me.. Maker’s breath, please, be at ease.” He almost begged her.

She straightened at once from her reverent bow, and stood the tallest Cullen had seen from her, holding her head high, confident in her sincerity. The young girl looked him steadily in the eyes, and Cullen saw the truth.

She was ashamed.

“Come walk the ramparts with me,” he asked before he realized what he was doing. Cullen threw the sentry an ominious look, remembering where the guardsman had been looking while the Herald of Andraste bowed herself low to the Commander. “We’ll talk somewhere private.”

She quirked her head curiously at his words, considering his invitation, her green eyes sparkling like stars.

She seemed generally brighter today.

In fact, she was quite…radiant.

Cullen glanced at her hair, curiously, before his gaze fell back to her face.

Pretty nose.

Truly elven, doesn’t even have a nose bridge, barely a curve.

Still.

She was considering his invitation. The young girl glanced nervously at the sentry who stood there, still gawking at her. Her hair dimmed when she met his eyes, like a candleflame, flickering beneath a child's breath, threatening to blow out the light. Cullen realized he did not like it. Her attention made Jenkin suddenly shut his mouth, straightening abruptly, addressing the Inquisitor and Commander politely, excusing himself, and making his way to do his rounds.

Cullen was relieved. He wished that the others would leave as well. There was maybe a dozen here today, all at varying distance, gawkers, strollers, and the rest of them, all staring at the Herald who blazed so brightly.

Too brightly. Cullen eyed her hair, puzzled. How was that possible?

She watched the sentry as he left, almost the entire way, then she glanced warily at the other people off in the distance, who were most notably not looking in her direction. They looked everywhere but her, and that annoyed Cullen. They could not have been more obvious.

Looking warily around, she thought to herself in profound silence, before placing the weight of her green eyes on Cullen. She had very intense eyes. Cullen knew that already, but he was always surprised by the magnitude each time he saw her again in person. It was always shocking.

She was cautious of her surroundings, much like Cullen.

Her ears turned pink, and she broke eye contact with him. Long, pink, elven ears contrasted against the brightness of her hair. “I would very much like to walk the ramparts with you, Commander Cullen, if that would be alright?” the young elf informed him, sounding suddenly too shy. Cullen could only stare at her blushing cheeks. It trailed down her neck, slipping behind her wolf cloak-

Cullen blinked, then blushed furiously, hastily looking away when he noticed the red love marks on her neck. He felt his own ears scorching hot.

He caught her stroking the Warden, right there on his workbench, legs wide open for anybody to see, whispering secret, forbidden things into the Warden’s ear.

Maker Preserve Me.

That blasted Jenkin. Now he will never get that image of her out of his mind.

Cullen found he could not look at her. Instead, he made an open gesture with his hand, inviting her to accept his invitation.

She accepted.

They began walking together on the ramparts, avoiding any and all people they saw. The idea of talking to other people while they were together seemed unattractive. Cullen closed his eyes briefly, trying to blot out his headache, which drummed so endlessly, thrashing his senses. Maker, he will never rid himself of this torment. Why must this winter sun be so damned bright-

Something touched his pinky finger. His eyes snapped opened in suprise. It was the smallest of touch, barely existing, but it had been there. Cullen looked at the young girl in disbelief.

She just touched me, Cullen realized, knowing how rare of an event this was. Cullen can count on his two fingers the humans she allows to touch. He couldn’t believe it.

She stood a respectable distance away, however, furrowing her eyebrows, white and bright like her hair, and knitting with concern. She had touched him to gain his attention, because she wanted to ask him something, “If I may inquire, Commander Cullen, are you...alright?” She prodded him, gently, nervous as if she was unsure if she was allowed to ask him of such private matters.

She’s oddly polite.  

Cullen blinked at her, feeling slightly embarrassed. He broke eye contact, and looked wearily around, staring at the mountainous scenery around them. He was going to lie, he had opened his mouth to do it automatically, which is why he was so surprised when he found himself saying instead, “I am...tired. I have not been sleeping well in the last few days...well, in the last few months, actually.” His head hurts. It always hurts. His appetite is bad and he has to force himself to eat or he will waste away, and he cannot allow that. He must remain strong to be able to defend his people, her people, the Inquisition, against Corypheus. No more second chances. He will not allow what happened to Haven to ever happen again. Never again.

Unacceptable.

He risked peeking at the Inquisitor and noticed that she had come in bit closer.

So cautious, and careful, it reminded Cullen of himself after they…well.

“The dreams,” she whispered, remembering the conversation they had together in the Unloved Garden. What a dramatic name he had chosen, he was a bit embarrassed now in hindsight, but she had liked it, and praised him for the accuracy. It had been their third conversation shared with each other, and Cullen remembered how he had frightened her that day, too, by moving too fast, causing her to flee instantly.

She takes to fright easily, which is why the Commander was so impressed to see her interacting with him so openly this afternoon. He would be lying if he said he didn’t find their time together interesting.

Maker, he was fervently trying not to think about her apology, how she bowed so low to him. Too low. Cullen was disturbingly stimulated. In fact, ever since last night, the Commander found himself…afflicted…with tension.

The Inquisitor kept herself safely guarded. Even Leliana knew only her name, a puzzling, confusing revelation for Cullen to have discovered, and it was not even her real name, just her family’s title. To this day, no one knew what she was really called. What her parents called her. The Dalish had wiped her completely from their clan, as if to scourge any information about her off the face of the world.

Cullen wondered what had happened there. He doubted she would tell him if he asked. She would probably just run away again.

Sometimes the small girl would show Cullen glimpses of who she really was, or could have been, or should have been, Cullen had no clue which version of her is the truth, perhaps all, perhaps none, perhaps she didn't know herself.

Cullen felt a lump in his throat, realizing she remembered that small detail he had shared with her. It had been…private. He felt strangely comforted.

She has dreams too, he remembered suddenly, and when he looked into her eyes, he could see it. The same weariness he sees in his own mirror.

Cullen frowned.

She’s too young for that.

“Yes,” Cullen said, softly. He felt himself growing comfortable enough to let his shoulder sink, just a little. He always held himself tall and straight, refusing to show weakness, no, not when there was too much at stake. Cullen had already slipped, earlier, when he told the Inquisitor how he truly felt. He should have told her he was doing well, and that it was a wonderful, beautiful day.

But he keeps catching glimpses of her green eyes, and the lies he wanted to tell her felt all…wrong. She looked at him as if she knew.

As if she knew.

“I had a dream this morning too,” she told him, surprising him. She hardly ever shared personal information, and never before gave him details of her dreams. She was feeling confident today, Cullen noted, glancing at her with the side of his eyes.

Pretty nose.

They had stopped walking. They haven’t walked for a while now. She leaned against the stone railing and looked down at the mountainous chasms below, craning her head slightly to see if she could see the bottom. She couldn’t.

She sighed, deeply. “I dreamt of my father,” she admitted to him, her voice wavering slightly. She clenched her fists until they shook.

She hates weakness, too. She hates it like I do.

Cullen drew slightly closer to her, and stared at the mountains with her. Overwhelmingly vast. There was a small gap between their arms.

It was enough.

“The dreams of him are the worst,” she bit out, slouching over the ledge, fingering at the gray stone with small elven fingers. She did not cry, but Cullen could see how much she wanted to. Tension was building in her shoulders, but she exhaled deeply, and allowed the tension to wane.

Cullen stared at her.

He knew that technique.

It was control.

He had done it for himself countless times before and it was so surreal to see her implement it right in front of him. It was strange that she knows it.

That was abnormal.

Cullen stared at the Inquisitor, feeling profoundly disturbed. He wanted to ask her a question, but he didn’t want her to run away. This was the rare opportunity for him to learn more about the leader of the Inquisition. Nobody even knew her real name, that’s how well she guards herself.

She’s afraid.

He did not want to frighten her. Instead, he stood silently next to her, and they watched a hawk sweep down from one of the mountainous cliffs. It disappeared within the foliage of a tree. A nest, perhaps. Potential for the future.

“His name was Sonnen.” She whispered to Cullen, and when he turned to look at her, he saw heartbreak clear in her eyes, and the unbearable guilt.

She witnessed her father’s death, Cullen realized at once. Cullen was good at seeing things. He had to be able to see, because if he couldn’t, then he would have been quickly slaughtered by those circle mages.

Sometimes, he wished he had been.

That would have been preferable.

She had not said any specific words, but Cullen could see it clearly, written like words on parchment.

She loved him very much. Cullen saw. His loss had wounded her greatly.

But that was not all that wounded her. No, when Cullen looked into those eyes, he knew.

He knew.

She suddenly broke eye contact with him, almost flinching away from his penetrating stare. She grew wary of his presence, sliding slightly away from him, wolf pelt coat dragging, catching on the stones of the railing.

Cullen sighed. He had been staring too intensely. He made her nervous again.

“I am truly sorry,” she said, surprising him.

Cullen frowned at her. She already apologized previously for the bite, so why was she apologizing to him again? And Maker, had that been an apology. Cullen wanted to groan, realizing everyone had seen that, they saw the way she had bowed so low to him.

Maker’s breath.

“Whatever for?” Cullen asked her, perplexed.

She looked at him, confused. He watched how a small smile grew on her lips. “For your dreams, of course.”

Right, of course.

Cullen chuckled, feeling a fool. “You don’t need to apologize for that. It can’t be helped.”

She looked at him.

Maker, her eyes held such overwhelming weight, Cullen felt like he was drowning. His skin felt suddenly too tight, too warm. Wasn’t it supposed to be Winter?

“I’m sorry that it happened to you,” she told him, and he froze.

He froze absolutely, and utterly still.

What?

He stared at her, stunned. He couldn’t speak.

“I don’t know what happened,” she admitted to him, then her eyebrows knitted with sympathy. On any other person, even Cassandra, who he cared so deeply for, that expression would have set Cullen in a foul mood for the rest of the day. He may have even cursed her, turned his back on her in wrath, vowing to never see her again. “But I am sorry that it happened.”

Cullen felt his heart shattering like fragile glass, all the layers he kept around himself slipping away frighteningly fast, giving him no chance to scrabble and try to hold on. Breathe, he commanded himself, looking fervently away from her, choosing instead to focus on the trees of the mountain range, hoping with all the Maker’s mercy to catch a glimpse of that Hawk again, anything, anything but those green eyes looking at him as if she understood the sheer depth to the suffering he had endured. No, she couldn’t possibly know, how could she?

No, he couldn’t look at her. Not when he felt the tears threatening to well in his eyes. He clenched his teeth, and he heard paper crinkling, his report crumpling from force of his grip.

Control yourself, Commander.

She touched him, letting her hand linger over his own, small fingers directly over his tight claw that gripped at his report. She did not remove her touch. Instead, she held him, convincing him to relax the tight grip he had around the sheet of document.

She did not remove her touch. They stared at each other in silence.

It didn’t hurt anymore.

Cullen blinked.

She smiled, as if sensing the change. She looked relieved, green eyes softening, warm and full of compassion. Her hand squeezed him slightly, before she removed it. She stepped cautiously away from him, but her eyes were still open and welcoming. She looked so bright today.

Maker she was so damned bright.

Starlight hair on Skyhold’s ramparts, a beacon, a signal for anyone to see, beaconing the coming peace. She was the Icon of Inquisition and the Beacon of Hope.

She was the Herald’s Star.

Looking at her, Cullen knew he stood in the presence of the Maker’s chosen, the Herald of Andraste. The truth cemented itself fully within his consciousness.

And she bowed herself to me.

Cullen felt with horror how his body responded to that dark thought. He felt himself pumping blood beneath his breaches. That was the part of him that frightened him the most. That, he could never show her.

Never.

Before he could hastily excuse himself from her presence, she had already beaten him to it.

“I am glad you understood my message, Cullen, after I had instructed Blackwall to tell you, “I was not in my right mind.” I can see that you understand. It has brought me much relief.” She gave Cullen a knowing smile that made him feel too strange, open, and vulnerable. What confused him more was seeing it on her face too, reflecting back like a mirror. “I shall be taking my leave of you now, Commander. It was an honor to have spent some time with you. I have… great admiration for you.” She blushed as she said that, but did not look shy, or turn away. Instead, she stood tall, back straighter than he had ever seen before, giving him a smile that displayed her comforting dimples, cheeky, and full of joy, starlight hair blazing forth radiantly like a divine, prophetic light, basking him in her glow, her warmth, her compassion, vast and unending.

And then she turned, and left, and did not look back as she went, leaving Cullen alone on the ramparts, lost in his thoughts, report held loosely in his hand, uncrumpled.

He was deeply lost in many thoughts.

Loah was making her way back to Varric to prepare for their trip to the Hinterlands when she suddenly stopped walking and frowned, deeply. She looked over her shoulder and saw that everyone was staring at her, they have been staring all day, but that was not what concerned her.

Someone was out there, watching her.

She eyed her surroundings, warily, then cautiously continued along her way.

She stopped again.

The sensation of being followed would not leave her.

She scanned her surrounding and saw nothing.

Nothing.

She bit her lip, hating the feeling of being watched, and increased her gate, straightening her back out of sheer spite.

She was having a good day, and nothing on Thedas was going to stop her from having it.

She smiled cockily, tilting her nose up, hearing Blackwall’s voice ringing in her head like a prayer.

“You know I would never allow anything to happen to you, right? You knew that already, right, Loah?”

Yes, she thought, gratefully, beginning to skip and laugh as she made her way to Varric. The feeling of being followed didn’t leave her, but she didn’t care. I know, Blackwall. I know.

She whispered the truth into the darkness of her mind, loving the way it rung clear and true, sweeter than drinking water with a terrible thirst, more satiating than any meal she had ever eaten previously in her life.

Blackwall wouldn’t allow anything to happen to her.

He would die protecting her. She knew the truth.

He loved her.

Loah got shot in the chest with an arrow.