Archive of Our Own ^beta

She doesn’t dream anymore. She cannot dream in the land of dreams. There are some days, hours, minutes – time is meaningless – that she can fall into memories. Letting the grass tickle her feet when they made early camp. Sunshine warming her face. There are bad memories too, screams of burning people. The silences of empty beds.

Most days she watches the black peaks extend into the green sky. Watches the demons plot and scheme, when they near her she pulls from her icy core and shatters them. She pretends they shatter under the force of a shield so that she can feel the warmth of amber eyes as they bask in their glory.

What glory was that?

Who had she been? Lost spirits sway passed her, naming her: Hero of Ferelden. The Warden. A Martyr. Traitor. Mage. The last one spit with so much vitriol, she feels her core thaw. A curiosity of what is beyond the walls of this endless green world. Then she falls away again, she knows that world is not hers any longer.

And so, her days pass in a haze of green and ice.

Rarely she feels ghost touches of sparks. They feel like an old friend and a hand on her shoulder. Warmth, like she had never felt, entirely for her and unselfish. Those days she feels the longing that isn’t hers. It could be. It is hers, as much as she thinks that it is for her.

Then the passion disappears under the crackling of green lightning. Not hers, not white blue. Different from the armor she wears. She wonders where it came from. The others who are lost wear cotton and brown. They hold tools mean to sow life into the land, an aid to walking, a blunted sword meant to protect the cattle.

Time is meaningless. She is unsure of the true length of time she has been here, or how long between these flashes of self. Her place is cross-legged on this rock, surveying the land with an unseeing eye. Reacting to the changes by not changing. The land does not remain the same, but it is not something she can prevent.

Golden light enters her vision. Desire demons circle her, waiting for her to give in, but she knows not what desires they can prey on. A despair demon hangs on the fringes of the crowd, but the golden light sears them and they flee.

Her eye flicks upwards. This isn’t a demon. It may be a spirit, young and fledgling, it holds deeply onto this human form. Perhaps it is older, she can sense the age of this being. Powerful. This is good energy. She waits, the spirit reaches out and tilts her head up with what had been a finger. A sword in flames appears on the spirit's chest.

She remembers swords on chests. Sick swirls in her stomachs. Fear? That is a demon, she looks behind her, uncertain that this energy hasn’t drawn the more powerful demons to it. Nothing. Swords on chests. Why does she know that? Why does she know the feeling of grass or the sun? Why does she know the sounds of screaming and silence?

I am sorry. It does not utter the words, but the spirit grieves. For her? Yes, but something more?

The Maker smiles sadly.

The Maker? It feels familiar. Heavy on the shoulders, straining on the spine. She knows of this Maker. When the spirit moves away, the air tastes of taint. Not corrupting. She once felt that in her blood. This very world is failing.

She licks her lips. Watches this spirit. Feels the ice in her core crack. The being, it is not simply a spirit, (what emotion would it embody?) glows brighter. She can nearly see flames licking at its feet. The screams of the grieving masses.

Become yourself.

Who is she? In the early days, if time flows here, she thinks she remembers a deep satisfaction wrapping around fright and physical pain. Exhaustion, deeper than bones. Then she found this rock and sat. She became another lost in this world. Neither demon nor spirit, she does not think that she can possess what lays beyond this world because she is of that world.

Perhaps that is why she remembers cool water and hot fire. Laughter and tears. Sun and grass. Screams and silence. Who had she been, beyond what wanderers call her? Hero of Ferelden. The Warden. A Martyr. Traitor. Mage.

She closes her eyes. Dreaming in the land of dreams is impossible. There is the smell of parchment and magic. Scraped knees and gentle caresses. These are important but she knows not why.

The days pass differently now. This world is changing. Vacant of demons freely roaming, they converge on specks of light. She feels them tugging her to the world from which she came. Now she tries to think of who herself had been. Hints and flashes echo in her head.

A dark-haired woman, bleeding and getting smaller. A stoic man hovering, crying. Smaller children watching. Harsh hands on her head pulling her arms back. Burning in her throat.

Sparks. The joy of watching lightning leap from her fingertips. A boy with messy hair, smiling always. An older man, fingers black with ink and a low voice. Another boy, sword on his chest and curly blond hair.

She knows these people. She does not know how.

The world tilts and she is knocked from her place for the first time since sitting down. Uneven rock presses into her. Pain? Here? Even Terror claws could not bring her to ache when they ripped down her front.

Looking up she sees a man in armor, two blades on his back. He promises something with his lips but promises something else with his eyes. A feeling of elation. A feeling of duty.

Did she stop being herself then?

The world rumbles, and she stands. Closes her eye. There are presences here. They do not belong.

You do not recall yourself.

The being is back. It feels anxious. She turns her head, unaware of a spirit that could feel more than its emotion.

You have tried. You are nearly there. We are short on time. The Nightmare feeds.

Nightmare? She had seen it before, of course. A baby spider writhing in the masses of Terrors. It could not be killed, so she kept it where she could see it. Men running from monsters would be absorbed, and thus the Nightmare grew. Then it was men running from men, with both fire and swords in their hands.

The spirit grasps her face. There are no eyes, but there is a place the light centers, as though that is how it sees. She feels the warmth of sacrifice and her core of ice cracks. There is a terrible noise, the spirit leaves and she drops to the ground.

Each moment that passes, the rocks grow sharper and dig further into her flesh. The pain registers. She feels aches of long-forgotten battles.

Her hip from being flung into a wall by an Ogre. Blisters on her feet from walking. Bindings on her wrist. Broken bones. Gashes.

Had she been a warrior once? Her staff, discarded as a useless piece of wood in this world, did not seem a warrior’s weapon. There was blood crusted into the wood she could not remove. Lightning danced at her fingertips, ice responded to her call, she was fire’s temptress and stone’s mistress.

A mage. She can think that without the vitriol spit at her. That is what she had been. What she still is. This world feels different. Magic is both weaker and stronger here.

Carefully she picks herself up from the ground. There is a place she needs to be, so she begins to walk in that direction. The chain on her armor clinks quietly. She looks down and remembers pride. She looks for a pride demon, the world expands but there are no foes for her to fight.

The Maker? Armor of The Maker? No. The spirit said that the Maker was sad? The griffon on her shoulder sparkles. She rips it from her shoulder. Weakened chain gives way easily. The emblem fills her with a sense of duty.

A Gray Warden. That is what she had been. A mage among their ranks. What else had the wanderers called her? Hero of Ferelden. A Martyr. Traitor.

Then perhaps she had died? A hero to some and a villain to others. Is this why she remains her? No sin outweighs her virtue, and so she is rewarded and punished with an eternity of learning if she is a legend or a warning.

She slides down the ridge. The presences are nearer now. As is the nightmare. Demons flock. They look for the Anchor. The word is of this world, so she does not question why she knows of it. If the demons want it, then it cannot be good, or perhaps it is good they are seeking to corrupt.

She does not hurry. There is no time here.

The Nightmare screams as she crests the last mountain. She sees the group that does not belong. The world beyond calls for them. They rush. Three disappear before the leg comes crashing down, separating them. She draws nearer. Inexplicably.

A man wears the same armor she does. Heavier. Newer. Untested. She tilts her head. Warm – terrified – brown flickers over her but he does not see. His presence calls to her. She remembers lips against her cheeks, lips, chest, head. A sorrow that is hers and for her.

The others are female. One wears black hair short and loose. A stripe of warpaint over her nose. She wields a sword longer than she, but her feet say she treads swiftly. The face looks like the woman bleeding, the one she recalls, and carries the stoicism of the man.

Then the final one. She is slimmer. Her brown hair has fallen from a braid. She grimaces and holds two daggers forward. This is a stranger. The newcomer to her world. Then the green on her arm flashes. The Anchor cannot remain.

The woman with the stripe on her face rushes forward. Apologizing to someone who cannot hear her. She watches as the Nightmare turns to this charging warrior. The two behind run for the world that is calling to them.

She feels the man look in her direction again. Who is he? She wants to know. This world beyond this one, that is where she belongs, but she cannot go until she remembers herself. That is something she does not know how to do.

The elements themselves will bend to her will, but she cannot recall how she earned their favor.

Below, the woman fights with ferocity. The sword swings, and black blood runs. She is not afraid of this. That is something she knows. The Nightmare angered by its injuries lashes out with its mandible.

It sends the woman flying into the rocks. She gets back up and runs again. The swings are still fast and devastating. The Nightmare falls as one leg is severed, again it lashes out with another leg.

Again, the woman gets thrown. She watches the woman get up and charge. Her fingers shake with the swell of electricity. This woman still fights. To get to the world beyond. Perhaps to save the world beyond.

She closes her eye. The electricity runs down her spine, she can feel the ground mold to her feet. What was once an icy core shatters as flame roars to life in her again. The fade bends and a staff embeds itself into the ground. It is not her bloodied wooden one. Instead, it is golden-red, an empty sun at the end pulsing with white light and a fire-tinted blade. The staff itself is made from the rock of this world.

This staff has the feeling of the being. Wherever it has gone, it has not abandoned them. She closes her eye for a split second, to push back the feelings of grass and sun. The elements pooling in her reach towards the staff begging to be used. She licks her lips.

When she opens her eye, she has regained what the fade has stripped from her. No longer is she a prisoner meant to be dead, she has once more earned her name.

Celia Amell.

Mage. Gray Warden. Hero of Ferelden.

Below the spider flails. A lucky strike sends the woman tumbling across the ground. The sword slips from her grasp, and in the ever-changing landscape of the world, it begins to tip into a crevice. The woman reaches for it. Celia reaches for the stone and holds it closed long enough for the sword to be retrieved.

The Nightmare recovers. Its leg buds a new one. Perhaps it’ll take ages for it regrow, or perhaps it will only take moments. She does not want to figure out which. Celia whips the staff around and flame leaps from her core to the head of the staff and into the body of the Nightmare. It screams and turns towards her.

She runs towards it. The ground is uneven, but she navigates it deftly. The spider swings a leg towards her in warning, and she pulls back on the flame to create a barrage of ice from the staff. She’s nearly there now. The woman regains her balance, but she is using the sword as an aid, she cannot fight any longer.

Celia skids to a stop and lifts the staff above her head with both hands. It is heavier than she thought it would be, more metal than wood. The lightning fights her, but she wrests enough control of it and brings it crashing into the spider. It rears back and staggers. One leg falls into the crevice. She begins to run again.

The Nightmare bites down with its mandibles. Celia spins the staff so that the blade is facing forward. The mandible is stronger than her unremembered strength and the staff spins away. She does not need the focus. The woman is far enough away that she should not be incidentally hit.

Celia (how odd to have a name after such a long time) calls forth the lightning again. She raises both her hands up as the Nightmare begins to move towards her again. The lighting hits its back and the Nightmare spasms. It locks up, but even she can see that it remains unharmed. The chasm grows with the impact and brings the Nightmare down to the ground. Sprawled across the chasm. Beady eyes meet hers. It is a beast, mindless and fat on fear, but she can see how the eyes spin and the spider clamors with its six - no, five one is paralyzed - usable legs.

She lets the ice overwhelm her again, and with a flick of her wrist, a spear emerges through the top of its head. She closes her fist and it shatters. The Nightmare falls limp, but its essence has already moved onto a fledgling demon. It cannot be killed, not when fear and horrors permeate the air.

When she turns, she sees the woman has sunk to her knees. Her eyes (mismatched, blue and green, how she has longed to see something other than green) are wide and her mouth is parted. Warpaint red runs down her face. Celia doesn’t remember how to speak to another like her. Had she met this woman before?

Perhaps. She does not remember much beyond that she is Gray Warden Celia Amell, mage and apparent Hero of Ferelden.

Her voice is nowhere to be found. She does not think she has opened her mouth to speak since arriving here. There is no reason to. Demons do not care if their prey speaks to them and often souls are in their own torment. Instead, she raises her hands in a gesture of peace.

It does not seem to reassure the woman, who looks at the disintegrating spider. Huh. That is new. No demon has done that before. They tend to fade before falling to the ground. The staff rests a few feet away from her, but she does not reach for it, unsure of who is faster. She is less injured, but the woman seemed to have been unbothered by injuries before.

“Wonderful job Hawke,” the woman (Hawke?), “you’ve managed to get yourself trapped in the Fade with a ridiculously powerful Warden Mage.”

She tilts her head and raises her hands again. Again, she tries her voice and finds her voice doesn’t work. Perhaps she never had a voice?

“Do you speak?”

Celia shrugs.

Hawke’s lips press together, and then she hangs her head, “do you not know if you can speak?”

A nod.

“Are you a spirit?”

She bites her bottom lip and then decides that the nearest answer she can give is a shaky hand gesture. Hawke’s eyebrows raise but she straightens. Celia clears her throat and perhaps some of the stone falls away. There’s more freedom in her throat now.

“I suppose you aren’t the worse person to be trapped in the fade with, considering you handed that spider its ass. Fenris would hate you.”

Celia doesn’t know a Fenris, but she does know that it’s permission enough to pick up her staff. The way the others left is closed, but more of those lights remain. If demons can get out that way, then they should be able to leave. At least Hawke could since she is not of this world.

She gestures with her staff in the direction of the nearest one and begins walking.

“Where are you going?” The woman steps and then collapses.

Not unconscious but clutching her side. Celia runs over to her, gentles lowering her to the ground. She doesn’t see any blood, but the armor is dented. There is no smell of blood either.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got an elfroot potion stored in one of your magic bags?” Hawke grimaces.

Celia wrinkles her nose but shakes her head.

“Great, wasn’t looking forward to drinking one anyway.”

She raises her hand, now glowing blue with healing magic. Hawke blinks.

“That could work, couldn’t have mentioned that before?”

Celia shrugs and sets her hand to where she thinks most of the damage is. Wynne had always been better at knowing what was wrong, better at caring for the damage magic couldn’t fit. Celia could just heal the damage.

She wonders at the name Wynne. Soon Hawke’s face eases out from one of pain, into something of mild discomfort. Her hands wrap around Celia’s and the magic cuts out. Not in the way of the men with swords on their chest, but from surprise.

“Let’s not push you too far.”

Celia smiles wryly. There’s a joke there, but she does not know it and she doesn’t think Hawke meant it to be one. They both reach their feet again. She gestures in the same way as before and begins walking.

“What’s that way?”

She points to where the exit had been. Hawke follows her gaze but looks back at her.

“Do you want me to go that way?”

Celia shakes her hand and wills her mouth to speak, “No. Out.”

“Oh, so you do speak!”

She shrugs and gestures towards the way again.

“Out? You mean there’s another rift?”

“Yes.”

Hawke grins and then hugs her. Celia frowns but allows the contact. Hawke is warm, and she had been unaware of how cold she had been. The hug ends. Hawke has a lovely smile. They begin walking.

For the time being, the demons are too shaken by the group of non-residents that for all purposes killed their strongest and many of their kind. There are more rifts to converge around. In fact, more demons had been called to the other world, and then to the respawning pit.

“I’m Gloria Hawke, but most people call me Hawke.”

Celia nods and strides forward.

Hawke is a chatty traveling companion.

“That cloud looks like a demon! No, wait, it is a demon.”

“I spy something green…you are right! It was lightning!”

“Last time a demon tried to possess me, he promised me that the world would be overflowing with desire demons. I can’t believe I’ve been here for hours, and I’ve seen zero. Is there a person I can talk to about bad promises?”

“Is it just me, or does that mountain look like a giant penis?”

Celia laughs each time. They continue.

“Do we have to set up camp?” Hawke asks.

They’ve journeyed for only three-thousand steps, the only true measure in a place like this. Celia stops and shakes her head. In the time she has been here, she’s never had her body urge for something. She remembers in the other world that they ate when they set up camp.

She assumes it is the same for Hawke. Besides the light, or rift as Hawke called it is only seven-thousand steps away.

“Right,” Hawke frowns, “lead on, ghost.”

“You okay?” She risks, her voice is still achy, and it feels like it is falling out of a petrification spell, “not a ghost.”

“I’m fine,” Hawke looks away, she’s lying, “and I don’t know what you are. Do you have something I call you?”

“A name,” she teases.

“You have a name?”

She inclines her head. Talking is starting to grow painful, “Celia Amell.”

Hawke’s jaw drops again. Celia purses her lips, wondering if the name is somehow offensive. Maybe she is pronouncing it wrong? That doesn’t seem possible. She waits until Hawke shakes her head and closes her mouth. Her eyes are narrowed.

“Did your demon possession go wonky?”

Celia tilts her head.

“I thought you were too powerful, so then I thought that maybe the demon brought you here to keep you out of the fight,” Hawke bites her lip.

She shakes her head. Hawke is rambling about things she has no idea of.

“But no…cripes you’re the bloody Hero of Ferelden!”

“Yes?”

Hawke stares, “you don’t – never mind, there are people more qualified in Skyhold to figure your mess out.”

Celia nods and then gestures towards the rift again. Hawke waves her hands in a ‘go-ahead’ motion. She begins walking again. This time Hawke is less of a conversationalist, but she can feel eyes burrowing into her skull. Curiosity not anger.

A rage demon attempts its luck. Celia notes its presence. It approached on her blind side, but by the time she’s got a spell on the tip of her fingers, the demon is gone, and Hawke’s sword is smoldering.

Celia gives her a thumbs up.

“Varric is never going to believe me.”

She shrugs.

Hawke’s sword stops attempting to melt, and she’s able to sheathe it again. Her lips are pursed, and Celia tilts her head.

“Are you really that Celia Amell? The one with the whole ending the Blight, saving the world titles under her belt?”

Blight? The word makes her sick, but she can’t think of any other people that fit that description, but she’s unsure if that is her. Could she have saved the world?

“More memory problems?”

Celia makes a non-committal gesture. She does know that she is the Hero of Ferelden, but she does not know if ending Blights is what earned her that title.

“Well,” Hawke claps her hands, “let’s shamble on to this rift. I for one cannot wait for sunlight.”

She remembers the warmth of the sun on her face, Celia finds herself agreeing with the sentiment. It would be better than this place of endless green lightning. They continue to walk. Hawke begins humming. The sound is so strange that Celia glances back. Hawke is glancing forward, but her hand keeps rubbing at her wrists. The gauntlets hang on her belt, and Celia sees no injury that would warrant the rubbing.

“Sorry, just thinking,” Hawke says after a moment, “that if you are that Amell, it means you’ve been here ten years, but you look like no time has passed  - well, you don’t look old like the Blight survivors do.”

Ten years? She remembers that had been a very long time in the other world. Although, she does not know if it feels like she’s been here ten years. Some days felt like minutes and other days felt like an eon. She grimaces, and Hawke nods.

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

It is hard to provide comfort for things that one does not know the answer to. Celia looks ahead, and wonders that once out of this place if she will remember more. Like the warmth and that man and whether she ended the Blight. She also hopes they can quickly figure out how much time has passed for Hawke.

She presses them faster when she feels a rift go out. The feeling is not unusual. She has forgotten the nature of these, and that they disappear frequently. Usually all in one area at a time, and then they are undisturbed until another area disappears.

This one feels strong. The demons feel stronger. She holds up her hand, and Hawke draws up next to her.

“Demons.”

“That’s not surprising.”

“Fight.”

Hawke replaces her gauntlets and unsheathes her sword.

“It wouldn’t be any fun if we could just walk out,” Hawke pauses, “although, it will be more fun if there isn’t a Nightmare Spider trying to eat us again.”

Celia points in the direction that she can feel the Nightmare.

“Oh, it’s over there, comforting.”
“It is small again,” Celia nods, “it’s nature.”

“Good to know that’s one thing I didn’t cause.”

She purses her lips, and Hawke waves away her concern. Celia grips her staff. Fire leaps from where she holds it. They begin to slowly climb. They crouch before peaking over the ridge. At the top is a brilliant green light, surrounded by a mass of perhaps twenty demons.

Hawke sighs, “I’ll take the jumpy ones.”

Celia stands and twirls the staff before slamming it to the ground. The rocks underneath the demons begin to shake and the ones that don’t float topple over each other. She wastes no time and spins the staff so that the head is skyward and easier this time the lightning crashes into the demons.

When the storm and the earthquake end, only five of the demons remain, but they recover quickly. Hawke blurs past her and digs one of her heels in before spinning. The sword cleaves two demons in half. Her momentum ends at the third one, and her sword is stuck in its torso.

Celia raises her hand, but Hawke’s fist smashes into the head of the demon. It screams and she kicks it flat-footed. Her blade comes free, and it’s raised in time to parry the claws of a Terror.

She focuses on the last demon, sending a shard of ice into its chest. It crumples to the ground before fading. Hawke swings her sword onto her back. Her hand is covered in demon remains and she shakes it.

“Gross.”

Celia nears her. There are no demons left.

“Go. Now?”

“Yeah,” Hawke grins, “I have to tell Varric I punched a demon in the face, and then hide from Fenris.”

“Fenris?”

“My… partner.”

Celia nods. Maybe that man from before was her partner. Her heart flutters in excitement as she turns to the rift. This feels right. More right than sitting on the rock watching this world break.

Hawke stands next to her, also with a grin on her face. Celia has seen this woman smile more than frown, but it never seems as genuine as this.

“You,” Celia says, “in case only one can go.”

Her voice aches. It’s the longest sentence she’s attempted, and she is starting to understand that she was never meant for a long conversation. This isn’t something that the fade caused, but something that she had in the other world.

“You’ve been here longer,” Hawke looks towards the rift.

“That is why,” Celia pauses, “I am dead. To that world.”

“As am I, at this point.”

Celia shakes her head, “less so.”

Hawke snorts, “you can’t be less dead.”

She smiles and then nudges Hawke gently with her staff. More demons are coming to bite at the rift and wait for it to be open. More open. Perhaps this will not work. Before she can doubt herself, Hawke jumps through. The rift remains, and she feels Hawke’s presence fade gently.

Safe then? She thinks. Then shrugs. As she said, she is dead to this world. She has nothing to lose. Celia jumps through. It feels like she’s falling. She closes her eye and then whines as something slams into her side.

Correction, she lands on her side. Once she’s caught her breath, she opens her eye and pushes up to a sitting position. It isn’t a grassy plain as she had hoped, but a barren wasteland. A sea of what she believes is sand. Hawke is standing a few feet away, eyes narrowed, and hand lifted to block out the sun.

Celia opens her mouth to ask if Hawke has any idea where they are, but like the first time she attempted to speak, her vocal cords remain still. The difference is that a sharp pain rips through them and she can only gasp in pain as her hand goes to her throat.

Hawke turns at the noise and rushes over, “what’s happened?”

She doesn’t want to speak again so she waves her hand in hopefully a dismissive manner. Hawke leans away but doesn’t appear to be convinced. Celia drops the hand from around her throat coughs.

“Rumors were that you couldn’t talk,” Hawke says, “wonder if the Fade just let you because you thought you could?”

She doesn’t know if that’s the case, but it sounds as plausible as anything. Given the amount of pain she felt when she tried, she’d rather avoid speaking at all. It means that she and Hawke are going to have to communicate through gestures. Inconvenient, but Hawke seems to be willing and able to talk enough for them both.

Celia drags a finger through the sand, where?

Hawke looks back out to the sea of sand, “a general guess is that we’re in Western Orlais. If I had to put money down, I’d say the Hissing Wastes.”

That doesn’t sound like a promising place to be stranded. All she can see is the sand (patches of grass and trees, but scattered), it is hot. Not that she’s ever been to a desert before, that she can recall, but they are going to need water.

“I agree,” Hawke turns back towards her.

They close their eyes against a harsh wind. Sand bites at her face and she raises an arm to attempt to block it. Despite not opening her mouth it gets between her teeth. Once the wind dies down, she looks to Hawke, her black hair (streaks of gray glisten in the light) is now flaked with sand.

“Well, nothing to do but move and hope we find something. Er, anything but a dragon.”

Celia nods and stands up. The inside of her armor feels gritty. Maybe staying in the fade was a better choice.

They start moving down the dune and away from the sun. Celia trots next to Hawke, who stumbles in the uneven ground. It appears its late afternoon, judging by the quickly setting sun. As much as she wanted to feel its warmth again, this is a little too much too fast. She looks at Hawke.

“East is our best bet, we’ll either get out of the Hissing Wastes or find an Inquisition or hunter camp.”

It doesn’t sound like the best strategy but considering neither of them has a map or coin and they’re alone, it’s the best they have. Celia narrows her eyes as though she could see something beyond the orange-red glow of sand. There’s nothing out here. Even the Fade felt like there was more to it than this place.

Hawke slips again, “this sand is impossible!”

Celia gestures towards the heavy armor Hawke wears. The warrior scowls and picks herself up again.

They continue.

Walking becomes monotonous, as it did in the other world. The few breaks come from scattered ruins or tiny copses of hardy trees. Screams, or rather the wind whipping through rock formations, grates on her nerves and then fades to white noise. It’s no wonder this place is deserted.

The temperature drops quickly after the sun dips below the horizon. Celia wraps her arms around herself and notes Hawke’s shivering. She reaches out and tugs on Hawke’s scarf.

“Yes?”

It takes her a second to figure out how to ask her question, so she lights a small fire in her hand. Hawke’s eyes move between her and the jumping flame.

“If there is anything out here, beasts certainly and Venatori more than likely, they’ll see us coming. The moon is enough light.”

Celia shakes her head and extinguishes the flame. She presses her index fingers and pinkies together to form the sign for camp. There’s an odd feeling with it like she is using knowledge from someone else since she doesn’t know what this sign would mean if it had been shown to her.

Hawke squints and shakes her head, “I don’t get it.”

She makes the gesture again and then reignites the flame.

“We should keep moving. No fire.”

Celia debates writing the word in the sand again, but Hawke is already moving on. She didn’t feel the need to stop, but Hawke’s shivering is making her armor loud, and there’s nothing to break up the noise (in fact it’s breaking up the screams of the wind – oh that’s why it’s called the hissing wastes). It’s cold, but she doesn’t feel it.

They climb over the crest of a dune. There’s a small camp a little way away. The smoke from the fire is concealed by the leaning ruins, but it makes the light brighter. From this angle, it is unlikely that the people in the camp would have seen them.

“Andraste’s tits, we aren’t actually alone out here?”

It had felt like it. Celia narrows her eye; the camp doesn’t look occupied. A figure moves around the campfire, but she doesn’t see anyone else. There is a wagon not much further away fill with crates and a mule tosses its head.

Hawke looks her over, “let’s hope they haven’t heard about Adamant.”

Celia looks down at her armor then back at Hawke with a raised eyebrow. She thinks they’d better hope that this person is alone. Hawke grimaces.

“I’ll explain once we are certain we aren’t going to die.”

She doubts there will ever be that certainty, considering they’re in an abandoned desert. Hawke starts making her way down the dune. Celia opens her mouth but stops before she makes a sound. If this is an ambush, Hawke is walking straight into it. For a moment she debates hanging at the top of the dune to wait.

Well. It isn’t as though her magic has failed her before.

Celia skids down the dune as she tries to catch up to Hawke without being too obvious to potential onlookers. Hawke nods at her. When they reach the bottom of the dune, nothing jumps out at them, but now she sees that there are two figures in the camp. There are a lot of crates for two people.

They near the camp. Her hand inches towards her staff ready to pull it free the second hostilities start. Hawke’s arm is raised towards the hilt of her blade. There is still no ambush, she bites her lip. It doesn’t make sense. Why would there only be two people at this camp?

“Who goes there?”

The speaker’s voice trembles. She sees a man step out of the protection of the tent. Dwarf, the word flashes to the front of her mind. Hawke takes another step forward, as the dwarf is holding a glorified log.

“We mean no harm,” Hawke replies.

“Lady Hawke?”

Celia blinks. The dwarf knows Hawke’s name?

“Bodahn?”

Hawke knows the dwarf’s name?

The dwarf steps back and the light of the fire. He invokes a familiar feeling. She steps towards him, curious. Briefly, the wind shifts, and the smoke’s direction changes, making her eye water. She coughs and waves her hand attempting to disperse it. Everything settles, but Bodahn’s mouth hangs agape.

Hawke grimaces, “she’s not one of those wardens.”

Bodahn closes his mouth and nods slowly. Celia backs away, unsure of the reaction. Hawke moves behind her.

“By the Paragons,” Bodahn says quietly.

“I promise she’s not,” Hawke looks towards her, “she wasn’t a part of that.”

Bodahn moves his lips, but no sound leaves them. Celia raises her hands to show she means no harm. As Hawke’s friend, she knows that this man means them no harm. She does remember how much the souls of the fade hated that she was a mage. Perhaps this is part of this.

“Warden Celia,” Bodahn’s words are nearly swept away with the wind.

Does the dwarf know her? She looks to Hawke who seems as confused.

“You two are acquainted?” Hawke asks.

“We traveled together during the Blight. I was at her funeral.”

They stare at each other. Celia wonders if she should remember this dwarf, they knew each other well. There is still the second figure to find as well.

“Sandal, come greet our guest,” Bodahn’s voice returns to normal volume, “what are you doing out here?”

“Long story,” Hawke rubs the back of her head, “but we’d be grateful for a place to rest and water, and the story of why you’re out here.”

“Of course.”

The second figure steps out of the tent. It’s a younger-looking dwarf. Sandal, if she hazarded a guess. He stares at her, as though looking through her before he tilts his head.

“Enchantment?”

He scurries off towards the cart. Celia watches him and then turns back to Bodahn, who appears to be unbothered by the action. Hawke steps into the circle of the camp. She follows. There is nothing in her head about who these dwarves are, only déjà vu.

“After Kirkwall…”

Celia wonders at the long look between them.

“I decided that it was best we spend a long while replenishing our stock. We have enough money to be comfortable and are always willing to share. I’ve been meaning to head out towards the Western Approach, the best place to find Deathroot and not worry too much about getting ambushed. Wardens used to keep the roads clear.”

She gratefully takes the flask that Bodahn hands her. The water is warm and tastes of its container, but it soothes her tacky mouth. When it hits her stomach, it growls loudly. It feels strange, empty even. Hawke snickers.

“Hungry?”

Celia nods. Hawke knows more of this world than she does. It has been a long time since she had to worry about her physical body. Bodahn hands her bread and dried meat (Hawke explains). The bread is crunchy and makes her mouth feel like the desert again, but it does banish the feeling in her stomach.

“As I was saying, we found plenty of Deathroot and plenty of the unfriendly type. Sandal kept urging us to come this way, and considering there is less chance of finding foes, I agreed. Won’t be making the trip back that way. After that business with the Wardens, the darkspawn keep popping up like nugs.”

Darkspawn. She knows that word and shudders at the feeling. Monsters. The ones that the souls were running from, the souls the Nightmare fed on at first.

Hawke finishes her piece of jerky, “how long, since the Inquisition and the Wardens?”

“Oh well, I’d wager no more than eight months, but no fewer than five. Hard to keep up with the news this far out.”

Celia is happy that Hawke seems less tense. Months are fewer than years. Bodahn looks at her, with eyes filled with a strange shimmer.

“Where are you going?” Bodahn asks.

“Ferelden,” Hawke replies.

“Returning to the Inquisition?”

“More than likely, I can’t think of another group that would,” Hawke turns to her, “well, help you, or even be able to.”
Sandal returns then, holding out a strangely smooth stone. Celia looks at Bodahn.

“Enchantment!”

“It’s a worry stone,” Bodahn says.

Hawke smiles wryly, “like the kind that my sister put under her pillow every time she cried about a boy not returning her affection?”

Sandal pushes the stone towards her, “enchantment?”

Celia takes it. The stone is smooth and warm to the touch.

“It’s like that, but it’s part of a used runestone. The part that’s been carved off. Takes any extra energy that might be causing nerves.”

“Enchantment!” It appears Sandal agrees.

Bodahn shrugs, “Sandal’s always had a soft spot for you, Warden.”

Celia tilts her head in thanks and runs her thumb over the stone. There’s a spark that fizzles up her hand. She looks to Sandal who is now leaning against the stone his father sits on.

“You know,” Bodahn says after a long time of quiet.

Celia opens her eye, Hawke leans forward.

“We haven’t been back to Ferelden in years, we’d trade you supplies for protection. The roads are dangerous.”

Hawke looks to her with a raised eyebrow. Celia nods. It seems like a fair arrangement, and Bodahn and Sandal don’t seem like they hold any ill will to them.

“We’d be happy to help,” Hawke smiles, “provided we don’t have to walk the entire time.”

Bodahn laughs.

Celia’s lips twitch. This is nice. Sitting around a fire talking without hearing tinny voices of souls in the fade or the cursed tongue of demons. They don’t stay awake much longer, Bodahn offers them bedrolls from his stock.

“The fire will keep away the Wyverns and most of the mage folk are by the old ruins.”

“Aren’t all ruins old?” Hawke quips.

Celia flattens out the bedroll. The fire chases away any chill she feels from the night air. Sandal stares at her from the same spot. She lifts the worry stone and puts it under the top of her bedroll. Near enough to her head, and Sandal’s gaze drifts away.

Sleep claims her soon enough. She has forgotten that she can dream, no longer in the land of dreams.

It is a camp. Most of the group is centered around the fire, a woman sings a song in a tongue she does not know, but it is beautiful. Two men join in, off-key and judging by the singer’s face, not saying the correct words. A dog barks and wags his tail. Not much longer after that two break away from the main light of the fire. One is her, younger and mostly untested in battle. Both eyes are closed in blissful happiness, hair completely dark missing the strip of white and tiny silver strings. The other is a man, the man from the Fade that seemed to be searching for her, also younger no lines of age or worry.

For a moment they simply exist.

She wakes up. The sun creeps around the ruins and shines in her eye. Celia groans and covers her face with an arm. There is no chance that she will return to sleep, and so she slowly sits up. Hawke sleeps across from her, her back towards the rising sun. Bodahn and Sandal are both snoring in the tent.

No hissing of the wind disturbs the camp. The dream clings to her, and she knows that she must figure out who those people had been to her. She sits cross-legged on her bedroll and reaches for the piece of jerky she hadn’t touched last night.

Chewing on the meat slowly, she reaches under her bedroll and pulls out the stone. Oddly enough, the surface is no longer blank. Instead, a shape resembling a bird or beetle glows a soft red. There’s no feeling of magic from it, but it doesn’t feel like a dead stone.

After tucking it into a pouch, she watches the colors change on the sand. Eventually, the flap of the tent opens and Bodahn steps out. He stops when they catch each other’s gaze. Celia nods in greeting.

“I had half thought it was a heat hallucination,” Bodahn says, “I’d say dream, but dwarves can’t.”

She nods again, unsure of what else to do. Not dreaming is something that she knows well.

“I suppose you don’t remember any signs?”

Celia tilts her head.

“Never got the full story, best I could piece together is you learned them from the Circle because they were the ones found in a book.”

She claps her hands together than then opens them.

“Might have a new version somewhere in my wares. Had a… strange mage asking for all sorts of herbs and that’s the only thing they could give. Granted books fetch a price twice what he owed me.”

Celia wants to know why he paused. She then decides that it isn’t any of her business who Bodahn does business with.

“I’ll look for it while we pack up today. I’m sure you’re ready to get a move on towards the Inquisition.”

She doesn’t know what it is, but since that also seems to be where Hawke wants to go, she can’t imagine its anything bad.

Hawke is the next to wake up. She stretches loudly and rolls onto her feet before even opening her eyes. Her hair flips out at wild angles, which she tames with fingers running through the dark tresses.

“What I wouldn’t give for a bath.”

Celia nods.

“Well, the only deep enough water source we’re passing is the oasis,” Bodahn replies, “can’t imagine you’ll be the first to bathe in it.”

 “That’s a pleasant thought, always did love drinking stranger’s bathwater,” Hawke says.

Celia grimaces.

“Don’t worry, I’ll let you fill-up the flasks before I bathe for the full experience of stranger water.”

She shakes her head hurriedly. Hawke laughs and claps her on the back.

“You’re fun.”

“If we want to be on the road before the sun is high, may I ask for a hand in packing?”

Celia hurries to where it looks like Bodahn is struggling with a crate. He shakes his head and rolls his shoulder to the multiple other creates behind him. She grabs the nearest one and lets out a soft ‘oof’ as she lifts it. It isn’t heavy, but it is awkward.

“Careful now, Warden,” Bodahn says passing her by.

“Warden gets defeated by a crate,” Hawke chirps, “whatever will I tell Leliana?”

She knows that name. Celia sets the crate down on the wagon and stares.

“Leliana? Traveled with you in the Blight – oh right.”

Celia blinks and makes a spinning gesture with her hand.

Hawke shrugs, “she’s smart, scary too. Works for the Inquisition with all their secret bits. Not too good because she couldn’t find me.”

That doesn’t help her. Celia sighs. Hawke steps over her and claps her on the back, “listen, I can’t help, I only know the legends and legends aren’t always true. They’re more lies than anything.”

She tilts her head and makes a spinning gesture with her hand. This time Hawke shakes her head.

“Another time. We have a lot of roads to go.”

Celia wonders how many.

The temperature change is dramatic from the Wastes to what Bodahn assures is the Exalted Plains. Celia cannot determine how long they have walked for, but she knows that the moon is nearly full once more. She supposes that she must remember how to judge the passage of time.

In the fade, it was both hot and cold. She didn’t care about the temperature because it just was. Now she feels the chill bite in the metal of her chain. She wraps her cloak tighter around her body.

“Ah Ferelden is worse, just wait! Land of dogs and harsh winters,” Hawke says once she sees Celia shiver into her cloak.

Celia remembers having always wanted a dog. One of the bulky ones, that Hawke showed her in one of the few books Bodahn carries with him. A Mabari is what they call them. She knows that she had one during the Blight but cannot know its name.

She holds up her hand, stopping the rest of Hawke’s quip. Something isn’t quite right. Ice erupts from her hand, turning to steam as the fire spell collides with it. Hawke’s sword is unsheathed. Celia calls forward her lightning and sends it ricocheting into the direction of where the magic came from.

The pained cry lets her know she hit something. A quick shove of magic sends the steam rolling away. Several Venatori, their horned masks making their allegiance obvious, stand on the hill above them. Hawke sighs.

“Wouldn’t be a complete day without an ambush.”

Celia thinks it’s a good day when there is no ambush. She barely avoids getting sliced by one of the corrupted Templar shadows. Bodahn grabs Sandal and runs towards cover. Fire leaps from her fingertips and sears the shadow. Spinning away from a stray ice lance, she stabs upwards with the blade of her staff. It cuts through the shadow’s shoulder and sticks.

With a heavy sigh, she sends electricity through it and raises a shield of ice just as shards of red lyrium explode from the rapidly decaying body. Celia turns to see how Hawke is fairing. She extends her blade and is holding off two knights, but blood is running down the side of her face.

She leaps forward, thorns shoving through the ground and wrapping around the templar. One knight turns to face her but one of the vines wraps around his neck and yanks it backward. Hawke nods at her, heaving her sword above her head and bringing it down. The knight crumples to the ground.

Ice slams into her ribs and she gasps. Celia heals the bruise and turns to see the Venatori readying another spell. She grits her teeth and lobs lighting towards him. It catches on his staff and the Venatori crumples. Hawke moves next to her.

“Well, we’ve gotten quite good at this.”

“Bodahn!” Hawke calls, “they’re dead!”

Celia nudges part of the fallen templar. While she feels as though she has no lost love for them, she regrets deeply what they’ve become. She shudders as she looks around at the land. These corpses, once they rot will not be out of place. It would be curious to see how long it takes scavengers to steal the armor and cloth from their back.

Someday their bones might be mistaken for those innocent lost.

She turns as she smells magic fills the air. Celia readies her staff and calls forth the flame licking at her core. The magic fizzles and pops but she cannot feel that it is about to be released. Whoever the caster is must be waiting for a sign.

Hawke straightens from where she was pulling the coin purses from the Venatori. She tilts her head back and Celia turns slowly to see figures crossing through what had once been a farmer’s field. Bodahn gently guides Sandal behind where Celia stands. The earth raises to form a barrier at her nudge.

As the figures approach, she smells magic stronger – they must have a talented mage among them – but also the fade. Hawke is leaning casually on her back heel, hand resting on her hilt. These people are not threats yet. Celia tightens her magic against her. The flames lick under her skin.

“Hold!” A speaker yells, “friend or foe to the Inquisition?”

Hawke purses her lips and looks to Celia. She shrugs, Hawke knows this world better than she.

“Suppose that’s a bit of a loaded question for us!” Hawke yells back.

Celia swallows and pulls the flame tighter to her than before as the figures grow closer. The heaviness of the cold air seems to fade and reveal four travelers. They pause a fair distance away, well within arching distance, which she can see an elf with a bow, but make no further movement.

Hawke narrows her eyes, “Andraste’s golden tits.”

Celia looks back at the four, only now realizing that the central figure looks familiar – no that isn’t quite right. The middle figure feels familiar. Like the fade.

She is the anchor. The words feel like a whisper in her head. They do not come from her, but they cannot come from anyplace else. Now that they have been pushed into her awareness, she does feel how the middle figure feels like Fade but differently.

“Friend or foe?” The speaker calls again.

“Friend of Varric’s,” Hawke replies, “nothing more. Nothing less.”

She eases the fire to her fingers now. Hawke is going to get them into a fight. Celia is not worried about the powerful mage or the archer. She can see a heavily armored warrior as well. The Anchor is the unpredictable one.

Celia is barely able to counter the ice that burst through the ground in front of Hawke. It does not feel like it had an intent to kill, rather it was meant to immobilize. The mage is strong. Perhaps as strong as a Circle Enchanter. Celia scowls, wondering what reason they had for such unprovoked aggression.

The middle figure must agree as the magic’s hostility fades into the air after a sharp word from her. She lets her magic waft from her.

“Friend of Varric?” The speaker calls, “may we call for a parlay?”

Celia looks at Hawke.

“Isabella once said that’s how you call a meeting leader to leader,” Hawke tosses her short hair, “but I’d be cautious. We know our story, but they have no reason to believe ours.”

Hawke sticks her tongue out with a grin, “couldn’t you be less famous?”

She shifts nervously and then tilts her head. Hawke knows these people. Who? She mouths.

“That would be the Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor, Her Ladyship Audrey Trevelyan.”

Celia nods. The people that they were looking for. Bodahn had claimed at least another month of travel before reaching the fort known as Skyhold. Now that she knows they are allies she dismisses her flame, knowing that it would only be a second away.

“Acceptable!” Hawke pitches her voice up, “but we’re coming to you!”

“Agreeable,” Inquisitor Trevelyan says.

Hawke flattens her palm, “Bodahn, stay back.”

“You’ll not hear a word of disagreement from me.”

Celia strides confidently next to Hawke. Carefully she observes the party. The archer leans against her bow, spinning an arrow. Her eyes are filled with mischief, but her skill is not in question. She then examines the mage. Another woman, she carries herself at least a head taller than Celia and with a grace that she could never match. Her sharp gaze only adds to her elegance.

There is a slight narrowing of her eyes and Celia matches it. A meeting of peers then.

The warrior stays hidden. She can see how his eyes draw over the half-hidden Warden armor. They had tried to hide it with a green clock and replaced the metal with what leather armor Bodahn had in stock, but the silver-studded blue padding is undeniable. Hawke says that it is, at least. Celia pulls the cloak over her armor further.

She frowns, underneath his traveling cloak, she can make out an etched griffon. Yet… she cannot sense taint from him. Celia shakes her head clearing it of whimsies. How odd would it be to encounter another warden after what Hawke had deemed their greatest betrayal? She must agree that it sounds as though they broke their oath.

Celia cannot recall what it is.

Finally, she looks back at Inquisitor Trevelyan who is watching carefully.

“Lady Hawke,” Inquisitor Trevelyan says, “presumably.”

“I’m no ghost nor demon,” Hawke replies happily, “and certainly I have not perished.”

The other mage clears her throat, “she doesn’t reek of spirit or demon, unlike her companion.”

Celia shifts slightly under the attention. She meets the mage’s eyes before clearing her throat. It hurts enough for her to wince.

“Who is your companion?” Inquisitor Trevelyan says evenly.

Hawke looks to her. Celia tilts her head and then spins her hand. It takes a moment but Hawke nods.

“Y’know,” the archer crosses her arms – Celia sees now that she’s an elf, “she almost looks like that Warden, cut a path through the alienage in Denerim during the siege.”
“Sera?” Inquisitor Trevelyan turns to her, “the Battle of Denerim, you are meaning?”

“What other battles would I mean?” Sera replies, “can’t be though. Saw that other Warden carry her body down from the tower.”

Celia glances at the elf. She can barely be older than twenty, and Hawke has claimed a decade crawled past in this world. A child? Could a child remember a face in what she can only assume is pure terror?

“Didn’t have to stick around for the clean up that way, ‘suppose.”

Hawke scowls briefly before letting out a tiny sigh, “you’re right, Sera.”

“See! The hero types get all the praise and none of the –”

“Not that,” Hawke raises her hand.

Sera opens her mouth, but a gentle hand on her shoulder from Inquisitor Trevelyan causes her to close it. Instead, she twirls her arrow once more before settling the notch near to her bow. Celia quietly sniffs and turns back to Inquisitor Trevelyan.

“But you are right, this is that Warden.”

“Impossible,” the mage says, “we know the fate of that Warden.”

Celia shrugs with her palms facing upward. She cannot lie about her identity, but she cannot prove it either. They can only choose to believe her.

“Yes, well,” Hawke clears her throat, “and we thought I was lost to the Fade. That there was no such thing as red lyrium, and there is an intelligent darkspawn not causing a blight.”

Lady Trevelyan winces softly.

“I’m starting to think that we don’t know what is truly impossible.”
“Well, you walking out of the fade? Not unbelievable if unlikely,” the mage says, her voice softens, “and we are grateful for your safety Hawke. Varric has been… torn and your husband has torn up Skyhold.”
“Vivienne,” Hawke clears her throat, “I – thank you.”

“But the Hero of Ferelden, ten years dead…” Vivienne shakes her head.

“Tossers are falling out of the fade left and right these days,” Sera nearly giggles, “why not famous tossers now?”

Celia tilts her head. How many people have come from the Fade in recent times?

“Sera,” the warrior says heavily.

“Blackwall,” Inquisitor Trevelyan says, “can you sense the warden taint on her?”

Blackwall jumps, started and then looks as Celia with a strange gaze. Blackwall must be a warden then. The taint, she only knows is a sign of Gray Wardens. It is the song they hear at the end. The song that echoes through the fade with a harsh and tempting song.

“I… don’t,” Blackwall shakes his head, “but I would not take it as a reliable way of testing her identity.”

“We cannot march her into Skyhold freely if she is the demon, I sense she is.”

They cannot prove who she is. Her death is well known and undeniable.

“If you do not take her as a gift, the Hero of Ferelden as a morale victory,” Hawke coughs, “I will vouch for her.”

Inquisitor Trevelyan looks at her critically.

Vivienne looks thoughtful.

“It was noticeable, that with me, the people were grateful to see one Warden that was immune to the calling… for the Hero…” Blackwall trails off.

Inquisitor Trevelyan shakes her head, “but it might be the opposite. They cannot prove that it is the Hero and if we were led astray.”

“Why not let the Warden speak for herself?” Vivienne replies.

Celia winces and then shakes her head, before rubbing at her throat. She wishes that she could defend herself with her voice, but she looks to Hawke. The frown tells her all that she needs to know.

It isn’t as though she needs to go to the Inquisition and Skyhold, but Hawke had said the people there would be able to help her and without the goal in mind she is nothing more than what she had been. A wandering lost soul, killing demons as they stumbled across her.

“She cannot,” Hawke says finally.

“Surely she can?” Blackwall says, “we all heard tales of how she persuaded the armies to fight with her!”

Celia knows that it cannot be right. A part of her understands that she hadn’t been able to speak for a long time. Instead, she stares at her fellow warden and shakes her head. Vivienne hums.

“I have never heard of a demon or spirit going to such a distance.”

Inquisitor Trevelyan looks to Sera, “what do you think?”

Sera bites her bottom lip. There is something in her eyes before sighing and tossing her hand flippantly.

“Hero of Ferelden is just another fancy title used to earn coin. What does it matter if she is willing to fight with us and isn’t that?”

Inquisitor Trevelyan inclines her head, “we can escort you and your merchant friend. In this journey, we will observe you. If you do anything that I – or my companions – believe to be a threat, then this arrangement will cease. Hawke, you understand if we put you in the same stipulations?”

“What’s a friend group without a healthy dose of suspicion?” Hawke winks.

Celia thinks that it wouldn’t be a good friend group at all.

She makes sure to keep the edges of the group but also involves herself. Celia helps Blackwall gather firewood – he looks strangely guilty about something and helps Sera with the hunting and Vivienne with the wards.

Inquisitor Trevelyan and Hawke stay bent over many papers whispering of important things.

It is Blackwall that approaches her first. Celia is picking at the roasted rabbit, the worry stone smoothing which each swipe of her thumb. Unfortunately, the rabbit had gone dry because of an ill-timed attack from a patrol of bandits.

“Thank you,” Blackwall says, “for today. You saved me a good round of elfroot and healing.”

Celia looks up and nods with a tiny smile. Blackwall had left his flank exposed attempting to wrestle a bandit to the ground that had been targeting Sera the entire fight. The shield had been reflex even as she danced around the thorn barrier that she had created.

“May I?”

Blackwall is gesturing to the spot on the log next to her. She scoots towards the edge a little more and pats the spot. He gives her an awkward smile before sitting down. There is a sadness to him, she can feel it fall off him in waves and she wishes that she had the voice to ask who it was that he lost.

“It’s strange… seeing Wardens as good, after what they did at Adamant. I wasn’t in the thick of it, Inquisitor Trevelyan felt that it was too great of a risk to let their single Warden – anyway – I thought the order could never recover”

She frowns but nods. The fight at Adamant had been whispered to her over many nights of travel. From Hawke who had taken an entire side by herself (she wonders how much was exaggerated) and Bodahn who had heard of the disruption in daily life and then Sera who spoke in hisses to Inquisitor Trevelyan about the nonsense of not punishing the Wardens.

“So seeing one wear the armor and act like they do in the stories… it makes me want to live up to that ideal again.”

Celia shrugs and moves her hands in a few vague signs before Blackwall gives her a strange look. She kicks a loose stone before digging around in her satchel. Another gift from Bodahn – she steals a glance at their campsite several meters off the main one.  The notebook is old and missing many pages, but the charcoal writes in it well enough.

You are the ideal warden.

Blackwall chokes and clears his throat, “not as such. Not…heroic and noble. I was only doing what I could.”

Is that not the ideal?

He laughs bitterly, “maybe. Maybe not. There’s always more griffons involved and dragons in the stories.”
Celia lets out a huff of laughter, I am grateful for the lack of dragons.

There is a soft grunt as Sera launches herself at Inquisitor Trevelyan whispering and gently trying to drag her into their shared tent. Celia watches Inquisitor Trevelyan give a tiny but fond eye roll. She looks at Blackwall who is chuckling.

he remembers with greater clarity now what it felt like to have someone wrap around her as she sat around the fire. Celia also remembers how it felt to jump onto someone, even with armor poking her in the soft of her belly or side. Back then the only thing that mattered was to be close to someone. She remembers that it hadn’t been something she had experienced much before the man with two swords.

“Well, I suppose I should check the perimeter again, good night Warden Amell.”

Celia scribbles quickly in her book, “call me Lia, please.”

“Very well, good night Lia.”

The higher they got up the mountains the colder it got. Celia sniffles and hugs the heavy wool cloak they had traded their services for around her body. She would hate to say it aloud, but she does miss the warmth of the Hissing Wastes.

She misses the time during the journey when Sera had ignored her existence completely. Now it seemed every couple of meters Sera is sending her a strange glance. Celia tries to ignore it by standing near Hawke as they make the trek. Helping Bodahn with the cart through the passes.

“Told you Ferelden is cold,” Hawke replies.

Her armor is clinking together as they walk. Celia knows she must be freezing in that heavy armor if she is chilled by the chain on her’s. She pulls out the fire from where it is hiding in her center to warm her up. It’s tiring and they still have kilometers to go. A little exhausted is better than losing one of her fingers or toes.

Celia makes a quiet noise as they reach a peak of another mountain. There must be an easier way to reach the Inquisitions base. Once she stops to catch her breath, she looks over the edge. It’s beautiful. Glistening white and gray stand stark against the blue sky. The brightness of the snow makes her squint her eye, but it only brings a building into focus.

“Skyhold,” Inquisitor Trevelyan says, “A few more days. We will have to make the camp here if you please.”

Setting up camp has become second nature to Celia. Now that they don’t have to worry about gathering firewood or small game, it goes much faster. Lady Trevelyan helps by setting a fire quickly and expertly, relaxing when the blaze is burning bright.

She looks up and Celia can’t look away fast enough.

“They’re markers for any that may be lost,” Lady Trevelyan says, “they may save a life.”

Celia nods only to see Vivienne tilt her head and she follows her, wary about what the Enchanter could want. While Blackwall has warmed to her and Sera seems more curious than wary and Inquisitor Trevelyan seems to have accepted her presence and she had Hawke have formed a bond; Vivienne has given no inclination to whether she has changed her opinion at all.

“Warden,” Vivienne dips her head, “how as the… return been treating you?”

Celia gives a shaky hand gesture before giving a thumbs up. It hasn’t been bad, just strange. Most of her memories are becoming clearer as though they’re coming from the fade and dreaming again is strange because now, she can feel the wall between her and the fade.

“Nothing… out of the ordinary?”

Like feeling as though I’m possessed. She keeps hold of the snort and shakes her head.

“I don’t trust this,” Vivienne says, “it is a great blessing from the Maker for you to have come from the Fade, Warden. If you are who you claim to be.”

Celia bites her cheek and tilts her head and then makes a few quick gestures. Vivienne watches her hand before shaking her head.

“I apologize, Warden, I only know of a few signs and their meanings.”

Vivienne purses her lips, “and I hope that you are the Hero of Ferelden. This is the time for heroes.”

Celia looks away. There is no time for heroes. Only people doing what they can.

“I am sorry if I’ve seemed cold, but you must understand the Inquisition is the greatest power on Thedas, to lose this would be to lose all.”

She nods and holds out her hand. Vivienne hesitates before clasping it and breaking apart a second later. Celia lets her return to the camp first, watching the last bit of sunlight sink underneath the mountains. The wind bites at her face and she closes her eye to savor it.

“I always thought you were taller.”

She turns to see Sera swaying with her arms behind her back and not looking towards her.

“Y’know, big scary warden taking out the even bigger, scarier archdemon. Saving little kids at the same time.”
Celia looks back at the horizon. She wishes that she could remember that battle clearly, but it seems that these are the memories that the fade wants to keep. It would be fine, but she feels that those memories are the most important.

“Untouchable,” Sera continues, “like the big fat poofs hiding in their manors like their gates are going to do anything against blighters but sending out their staff like they won’t get killed.”

“I suppose you ain’t like that, having died and all. That’s heroic, for what it’s worth.”

When Celia opens her eye again Sera has vanished back to where she sits next to Inquisitor Trevelyan. Their hands are joined.

“That was almost a compliment from her, winning hearts and minds I see,” Hawke strides up to her side, “only a few days and we won’t have any more questions.”
Celia snorts.

“Okay, maybe fewer questions,” Hawke replies, “and an Alistair.”

She tilts her head.

“Your fellow Gray Warden of the Blight, yes. Well, I’ll let him tell you.”

Celia closes her eye and bobs her head before letting out a sigh. She spins her hand and Hawke gently bumps into her before leaning away.

“Having a few less questions is the best we can do right now. Until we kick that darkspawn back to the hole he crawled through, and it seems we now have the leading expert on it.”

Celia chokes and looks at Hawke with a wide eye. Hawke isn’t paying her any mind. Her eyes are far away, and the blue eye seems to be sadder than the green.

“I spent so long hating you,” she says, “you were in Lothering before the Horde hit, and I kept thinking, why didn’t you force us all to go? Why only take the Qunari with you? And then your last name was said in whispers and I thought – how could you not know?”

She frowns, looking to Hawke, but it seems that she is done speaking for now.

“It doesn’t matter now that the world is tits up,” Hawke shakes her head, “I’ll explain it when we both walk out on the other side.”
Hawke tosses her hair. The green eye sparkling with courage before she wanders back to her tent, which she has settled away from the group. Celia waits for a moment, to see if any more people would come to her with half confessions. When none disturb her, she sits down. Crossing her legs and closing her eyes.

The snow seeps into her pants but the flame keeps the chill away. She lets herself wander, trying to find answers to the question posed to her by the three of them. They see her as a true hero, more than Hawke who fought with only a band of misfits for the rights of mages and to keep her second home from falling. Almost more than the Herald of Andraste who never asked for this, because the Herald is still fighting and not victorious.

She wonders if this is why the Maker kept her soul in the Fade. Her fight wasn’t done yet, but she cannot see how this is her fight because this was not her world any longer. Celia cannot let the world die but she does not know why it has fallen to her as her duty.

They reach Skyhold at night. There are only a few guards at the base of the gate.

“The Inquisitor is back!” One hollers.

Inquisitor Trevelyan gives a polite smile, “thank you, Samuel. Perhaps let us not wake up the entire fortress.”

“Has something gone amiss your ladyship?” The second guard replies, “you have returned far earlier than expected, and without your steeds.”

“We left them in the Hissing Wastes the Striders are much more suited to that climate and I did not want to leave the scouts so far apart without another means to communicate.”

The second guard glances at the party, but both she and Hawke had pulled their hoods over their heads to preserve their identity. Blackwall had stepped in front of her and Sera was muttering plans about dropping a spider into the guard's drawers.

“My advisors should be told to meet at the war table if you please,” she says, “but move with secrecy.”

The guard gives a quick salute and hurries off.

“Blackwall, Sera, Vivienne,” Inquisitor Trevelyan, “please return to your quarters, if you please, and keep this quietly. Blackwall help Bodahn and Sandal with their wares, yes?”

Blackwall grunts.

“Of course,” Vivienne says, “but you will forgive me if I escort you to the war room as my quarters are near to there?”

“I would not expect any less, Vivienne.”

Celia pulls the hood tighter. As she walks it almost feels as though all eyes are on her. Rumors will circulate quickly. It is hard to keep secrets in a confined space. If nothing else the guards will speculate as to the two strangers, a new merchant, and abrupt return.

Hawke bumps against her, “what’s a little gossip between an army, no?”

She smiles.

They walk through the compound briskly. Hawke stumbles over the steps as they move, her armor must be heavy by now. Celia stumbles into her when Inquisitor Trevelyan pauses.

“Varric,” she says.

Hawke bites her lip, “he’ll know eventually.”

“And Fenris.”

“Ah, best to do that reunion in a nonpublic venue –” Hawke shakes her head, “no public. Fenris will make less of a scene.”

Celia jumps when something taps her on the shoulder. She nearly falls when she sees a young boy leaning into her face.

“Cole, dear,” Inquisitor Trevelyan sighs, “please don’t do that on the steps, it’s dangerous.”

Cole leans closer, “you’re hurting. You don’t understand why you’re hurting. But you cannot speak. Dead but alive.”

Celia takes a step up and looks to the members of the Inquisition. He feels like a spirit, but he feels more human than that. Vivienne lets out a huff.

“Cole,” Inquisitor Trevelyan says a little sterner, “now is not the time. You may come with, but you must let us explain the situation first before you attempt to fix it.”

Cole nods, “of course, Inquisitor.”

He vanishes and Celia wonders what they had all be staring at.

“How fast can we move through the hall?” Hawke replies, “I hate to say it, but Varric knows me well.”

“We go to Cullen’s office instead,” Lady Trevelyan says after a moment, “he is only now coming to the war table.”

Celia follows her gaze to see a large man walking across one of the bridges, looking hurried and hastily dressed.

They move carefully across the thin walkway between the two towers. Vivienne having decided to follow the Inquisitor’s suggestion and return to her quarters. Celia wonders if the agreement is only because she is more aware of the situation than the rest of the Inquisition.

“Change of plans, Commander,” Inquisitor Trevelyan says, “we will use your office. I apologize for the intruding.”

“Inquisitor,” Cullen says sharply, “I’ll have a guard fetch the others then. I trust that this matter is not urgent.”

“It does not appear to need us to act quickly, but it is important that we act,” Inquisitor Trevelyan replies.

Celia narrows her eyes. She knows this man. She does not know – curly blond hair, a sword on the chest, the mage tower. Ice and fire dance in her stomach. Lightening brushes her heart.

“You okay?” Hawke asks.

Celia frowns before shaking her hand. She doesn’t know. She knows this man and she has a fear of him but also it feels like a quiet longing. Not like the man with the warm amber eyes. They have a history together, but a difficult one. She wishes the fade would give her more reference. More of her memories.

They walk briskly back to the Commander’s office. He snaps for the guard, the same one as before strangely, to retrieve the others.

“I am sorry for this burden,” Inquisitor Trevelyan bows her head, “but I am grateful for your carrying of it.”

The guard seems taken aback.

“Inquisitor?” Cullen asks once they’re gathered in the room.

Celia realizes that this is the first time that she has been alone with the Inquisitor the entire journey. This is either a show of trust by the other members or the final test.

“I do not know how to explain more than once, the oddness that happened,” Inquisitor Trevelyan sits down, perching neatly on her seat.

Hawke leans against the wall and Celia follows her but instead dropping to the ground in a kneel. She is tired of standing and drawing attention to herself by simply being. Inquisitor Trevelyan and Hawke will give most of the explanation.

After a few moments, the door opens again revealing a familiar face and a strange. Celia barely keeps a noise in at the appearance of Leliana. She has changed from the strange chantry sister and Celia, for the first time, feels wary of her. What have these ten years done to her?
The other she senses she should not underestimate but does not know in what way.

“Inquisitor,” Leliana says stiffly, “I heard your brought friends?”

“And on such short notice,” the other woman says.

Celia watches curiously as Lady Trevelyan neatly unfolds herself from her seat and stands. This must be her element beyond trekking through various terrains and fighting.

“Secrecy was the priority,” Lady Trevelyan bows, “I am sorry Josephine, but this is not a time for decorum.”

Josephine seems to accept that answer.

“And what is this?” Leliana nods to her and Hawke, “rather, who are they?”

“That is the question,” Lady Trevelyan stands, ignoring Cullen’s confused look, “we all remember Adamant, yes?”

“It is very difficult to forget,” Leliana replies, “Hawke…”

Celia sees Hawke straighten, but hold herself back from what she suspects was some kind of quip.

“The Wardens,” Leliana continues, “we still have not been forgiven by many for being so kind to them.”

“And Alistair remains in Skyhold?” Inquisitor Trevelyan raises a brow.

“He is still… not in the place to make the journey to Wiesshaupt.”

The name strikes something within her. Hawke had mentioned him before. He must be important to her. Celia can barely stop herself from asking Leliana to answer every question she has. Celia has no idea what to even ask of her. As of this moment, she can only recall her in her chantry robes and how she sang around the fire each night.

Inquisitor Trevelyan nods slowly, “yes. Things may change on that front, now.”
“What do you mean?” Cullen asks, “have the Wardens betrayed us again?”

“Their betrayal was not their own making as much as it was their dedication taken advantage of it to lead them down that road,” Inquisitor Trevelyan answers, “they betrayed themselves before anyone else.”

“Would Hawke be so forgiving?” Cullen replies, “it is because of them that she is trapped – dead no matter what Varric says – and I have seen what she does to people who have wronged her.”

“The decision has been made, the consequences are ours,” Josephine steps in, “but why bring it up at all?”

At that Inquisitor Trevelyan nods to Hawke. The advisors turn to her as she pulls the cloak off. She has an awkward twist to her lips that is quickly followed by Cullen before he crosses to stand in front of the Inquisitor.

“Inquisitor?” Josephine asks softly.

“Not dead and not trapped,” Hawke opens her arms, palms facing up, “you should listen to Varric more.”

“Explain this,” Cullen demands, “explain how this is possible?”

“They used a rift and came through,” Inquisitor Trevelyan says, “that’s how we got out. It’s how demon’s get out.”

Leliana purses her lips, “and what of your second companion?”

Inquisitor Trevelyan looks at Celia who lifts her hands to her hood only to be stopped by a delicate hand.

“It is harder to explain,” Inquisitor Trevelyan crosses her arms, “do not jump to conclusions if you please.”

“Who is it?” Cullen frowns, now turning to her.

There is a warmth that has nothing to do with her fire next to her heart. It feels like how she feels when she thinks of amber eyes – Cullen has a similar shade, but she knows that they are not the same – it must be the same feeling. Less mature a spark compared to an inferno.

“There is no happily accepted explanation,” Inquisitor Trevelyan says.

Leliana raises a brow, “Inquisitor, I think it is best to stop dancing around the topic. Who is the companion?”

At that Celia takes her hood off at the same time she stands. She is only distantly aware that she is the shortest person in the room now, but confident that she could take these advisors should they turn on her.

“Impossible!” Leliana says, “what trick is this!”

“No trick,” Hawke says.

Leliana turns her scowl to Hawke, who simply shrugs off the hostility. Cullen is gazing at her open-mouthed, but Josephine is looking to Inquisitor Trevelyan.

“It must be,” Cullen hisses, “a demon!”

Celia raises her hands, gloveless and free of sparks. Cullen rears back and puts his hand on his sword before taking a deep breath. Not relaxed but not hostile.

“The dead do not come back,” Leliana says easily, “and it cannot be a faked death. I was there.”
“Trust your Maker?” Hawke offers.

Leliana glances at Hawke, who takes a step back with a placating gesture. Inquisitor Trevelyan raises her hand, the one that is sparkling with green energy. Leliana inclines her head.

“Maker or no, demon or spirit or no, we have an opportunity to bring trust to the Wardens and to give hope back,” Inquisitor Trevelyan says, “I wear the title Herald of Andraste not because I believe I am but because it helps that people believe it. Can it not be the same with the Hero of Ferelden?”

“It cannot,” Leliana replies, “the Warden – she was – beyond this. She does not deserve her legacy abused.”

The vague gesture is towards the room. Celia presses her lips together. She gets a flash of something, Leliana heartbroken and she swallows. There is only one thing that she can do, and she steps forward and catches the gesturing hand.

Leliana tries to tug it away before Celia moves it down to her forearm and strokes her inner wrist. The struggle stops but Leliana’s other hand is moving to her waist. She shakes her head and gazes into her eyes, hoping, imploring, that Leliana understands.

“What are you doing?” Leliana says after a moment, less hostile.

Celia backs away and gestures with her hands, slowly and with exaggeration so that they do not think that she is doing anything untoward, but Cullen leans back, resting on one heel and Leliana is watching her hands.

“Convincing,” Leliana says after a moment, “a great effort for such a trick.”

Celia sighs. Leliana can understand her so she keeps going, explaining as best she can about what she had been experiencing from the time the first spirit came to her.

“She came to you?”

She gives a shrug; she has no idea who she is. Leliana looks to Lady Trevelyan.

“She explains Justinia in the same way you have, and only the inner circle knows,” Leliana turns back to her, “but it does not mean you are her. I will not allow for Alistair…”

“He is here,” Inquisitor Trevelyan, “and he will come across her. A vote, if you please, for her to stay within the Inquisition.”

Josephine clears her throat, “I would like clarification.”

Leliana raises her brow, “she – this – resembles almost identically the Hero of Ferelden, Celia Amell.”

“And you do not believe it is her?” Josephine replies, “it would seem strange for Corepheyus to have made such an elaborate plan. A copy of the Warden in the fade, which he staked his plans on the Nightmare succeeding? The Warden we all believe a decade dead?”

Leliana turns towards Josephine, “that… would make for an extreme back up plan.”

“And the future,” Inquisitor Trevelyan quips, “it had no mention of her… surely if she came to us as a friendly foe, it would have been mentioned.”

Celia blinks. How do they know the future?

Leliana shakes her head, “we will vote.”

“Stay,” Inquisitor Trevelyan says.

“Stay,” Josephine echoes.

Celia looks to Cullen who is chewing on his bottom lip, “if… she was a…. she will be a strong asset, stay.”

Leliana shakes her head, “it is the majority.”

She lets out the breath she was holding. Now she has a place where she can regroup. There is a goal, something that she can work one while figuring out herself. If Leliana does not believe her, then she wonders if any of her companions would.

“Come, Warden,” Leliana spits the word, “I have one final test of safety.”

Celia looks to Hawke and Inquisitor Trevelyan who are staring. Leliana shakes her head and Lady Trevelyan grabs a quill.

“Cullen, do you mind identifying the red lyrium sources. The templars seem to be growing more in numbers.”

“I think I’ll go find Varric,” Hawke replies.

With that, she follows Leliana out. The former chantry sister walks with a purpose, confident strides and slowed with age. Celia jogs to catch up, keeping Leliana on her good side when she pauses.

“You look… as though you have aged with us,” Leliana says softly, “there are many reasons you are convincing. The looks. Not many knew the archdemon took your eye, a… deception…. would have kept both.”

Celia lifts her hands and spins them quickly in patterns she doesn’t remember reading in Bodahn’s book. It would be a surprise if she got her point across.

“It makes no sense. To unsettle the inner circle, why not something bigger, I agree, but you may be perhaps the biggest thing.”

Why? She signs.

“Your memories? Are not here?”

Some are. Flashes. Feelings. My sacrifice to the Fade. Celia punctuates with a shrug. Being two full moons in this world has assured her that what memories are forever muted and gone.

“Then… how do you know?”

Feeling. She makes the gesture firm.

“I…” Leliana clears her throat, “there is more one other Blight survivor here.”

Celia tilts her head.

“Morrigan is very good at making her association with you quiet. After she ran off before the battle.”

Betrayal. Ice sticks in her throat. She remembers. Pain. Confusion. Morrigan is a familiar name. Leliana leads her through a door into the courtyard they wander for a moment before pausing and knocking at the door. They hear a soft come in. Leliana opens the door and steps in.

“Ah,” Morrigan greets, “to what do I owe the pleasure? Now that I know I have done nothing to warrant a visit from the Left Hand of the Divine.”

Celia steps into the room.

Morrigan arches a brow and then leans back, “well. How unexpected. Celia, in the flesh.”

Leliana glances at her, “she is real?”

“As real as you and me,” Morrigan replies, “this version of her at least.”

“Then…”

“Her soul was never gone,” Morrigan spins a spoon in her drink, “no Warden gets that peace if they’ve killed an archdemon. Mostly they lose form after a few years and that’s their end. Then again, most Wardens that have killed an Archdemon are no mage.”

“You knew? Then we could have…” Leliana shakes her head.

“We could have wandered the Fade for eons but not have found her, this was chance. Fate perhaps. I can never decide.”

Celia steps forward and Morrigan stares at her. There is a twist of anger to her lips, but there is something else in her eyes. She turns her head, wondering what she had done. They had a conversation, she knows that much, but beyond that, she cannot recall what the conversation was about.

“And I suppose now that you’re back we must toe the lines of rules,” Morrigan says, “even if it means defeat.”

Celia presses her lips together and gestures quickly.

“You are not in charge?” Morrigan snorts, “as I recall Alistair was your senior, Loghain was the general, Anora was the queen, and yet, you were the one to make the calls. Audrey is brilliant as a diplomat, but she is not the leader you are.”

She shakes her head. How can she lead when she does not know herself?

“Ah, is Hawke back with you then?” Morrigan replies, “I was worried that her companion was going to tear the fortress stone by stone before cursing the mages.”

“Morrigan,” Leliana warns.

“Why haven’t you taken her to her husband?” Morrigan sips delicately.

Celia shivers as wind gusts through the open door. She realizes for the first time how cold the weather has become, and in Morrigan’s room, there is no fire to keep her warm. It doesn’t look as though Morrigan is living here at all. It is bare save for a stack of books and broken quills. No figurines or pretty things.

“Lover would be a truer title,” Morrigan drops her voice, “you had nothing more than soft puppy love together.”

Husband? She signs.

Morrigan laughs at that, “you don’t remember. How much of you came from the Fade I wonder?”

She signs again, husband?

“Alistair,” Morrigan answers, “he should be in the main hall, drinking away his sorrows as usual.”

Celia frowns. She feels warm when she hears Alistair, but she does not think she remembers him having drunk much. There was one of their number that did – but they feel separate. Two people.

“Morrigan,” Leliana says sharply.

“You brought her to me, I assume to confirm that this isn’t a trick. Which I’ve done. You are lingering and I am allowed to speak freely.”

Celia wants to know why Morrigan seems so upset. Leliana turns and strides out of the room. Morrigan sips at her drink again, unperturbed by the abrupt departure.

“It will be good to have you back,” Morrigan says once she crosses through the door.

Leliana is waiting at the door as she comes towards her. For the first time, she sees irritation on her face and the deepest wrinkles that she has seen to date. It reminds her that they are older.

“Alistair awaits,” Leliana says, “but I will make sure that you have this meeting in private, so I will take you to where his quarters are.”

You believe me now.

“No,” Leliana says, “but I must have faith that this no trick.”

They hurry through a hallway. Celia is careful to duck her head in case there is anyone in the hallway. She coughs and looks up when the smell of smoke hits her nose. This must be the main hall that the others were talking about before.

“Hawke! You –”

Celia turns to see an elf with glowing white markings and short white hair leaning up to close the distance between him and Hawke’s height. Hawke is looking away and rubbing the back of her head, her face scrunched up into an uncomfortable look. A dwarf at her side. He is looking at Hawke with parted lips.

“Fenris, love,” Hawke raises her hands in a placating gesture, “maybe we should take this discussion to your quarters?”

“We – you – Impossible Hawke!”

“That word is getting tossed around a lot,” Hawke mentions with a laugh, “but clearly it isn’t.”
“This is no time for jokes!”

Hawke looks down.

You stayed behind,” Fenris drops his voice and whatever he is about to say is cut off by Hawke gently touching his face.

“Fenris, please, somewhere private?”

When Fenris nods, she looks to the dwarf. Celia figures that it must be Varric.

“I’ll talk more later?”

“Of course, Birdy.”

Leliana tugs on her arm, “this way, Lia.”

Celia’s lips twitch up at the nickname. The one only Blackwall has called her since she permitted him to. As they walk, she turns her head and catches sight of a man’s back. He is leaning heavily against the fireplace, a mug is on the shelf above him, joined by another and one by his foot.

She steps towards him, only to be caught by Leliana.

“You know him,” she says softly, “but it should be private. We have much to think about when it comes to introducing you to the world again.”

Celia wants to go to him now.

“You saw how Fenris reacted to Hawke and it has only been months. Lia, please allow Alistair this privacy.”

She nods despite not wanting to leave the man in the state. Alistair in that state she amends. Leliana would have a better grasp of his reaction than her at this moment. They quickly move through a short hallway until they’re stopping in front of a room with a crudely drawn griffon on the front of it.

“One of the children,” Leliana says, “they still see Wardens as good and heroic.”

They can be again.

Leliana laughs, “you led the Wardens from traitors to heroes if anyone can restore their name it will be you. Go in, I’ll get him.”

Celia takes a step into the room. Her eyes are drawn to the armor first. It is the same as she saw in the fade, but not as gleaming. It is dented and dull. His shield leans against it, and the griffon repeats on it, but wrapped around one of the talons there is a rose. She bends down to stroke it. For the first time, she catches a glimpse of her reflection.

Nerves flood her and she strokes the worry stone, feeling like a tempest in her shoulders and stomach. She stands and moves over to the full-length mirror. Celia drops the cloak and tosses the bracers to the side before running a hand through her hair. The streak of white will be impossible to hide, taking up much of the front of her bangs. In the low burning candle she sees the silver, in the fade it looked like there was more, but now she sees that her hair remains brown.

Gingerly she touches the eye patch the Bodahn had given her. It’s black silk with a green leaf design in the middle of it. He had laughed and called it fitting. She strokes it, her calluses getting caught on the thread. The scar peaks out under the patch and falls into the line around her mouth. She is presentable, but she does not think she will look the same to Alistair. What differences will he see that she is unaware of? The gray and white may be marks of age and she knows now that her loss of an eye occurred close to her death.

She lets her hair down, and more of her bangs fall forward covering the patch a little more. Maybe it will lessen the shock? With a toss of her head, she knows that the shock will not lessen but before she can fix her hair, there is a knock on the door.

It is pushed quicker than she can turn and for the first time, she is only meters away from that warm amber she has been craving. Sunlight on her face. Kisses on her cheeks, lips, chest, head. Gentle and safe. Alistair. Home.

“Leliana said that you –” Alistair cuts himself off.

He closes the door and stares. She bounces on her heels and tries to think of how she’ll explain it. Surely, he knows how to read her signs. She starts a rapid explanation, from how she found Hawke.

Her hands are covered by his. Warm. Safe. Home. Home. Home.

“Lia,” Alistair says quietly, “Maker’s Breath but you’re beautiful.”

The words stir something in her. It strikes a deep musical chord and she stops, looking up at him with her good eye. Alistair stares down at her, rubbing a thumb under her missing eye. He doesn’t hesitate at the scar and the other hand gently cups her shoulder.

“I had so much I wanted to say,” Alistair laughs, “and for once I can’t find the words.”

Alcohol wafts from his breath, but she ignores it for now. Celia reaches up, to touch the face. She attaches it to the warmth. The memories of Alistair are muddied like the others, but the feelings are stronger. She could name them if she cared to think beyond temperature and sensation. Her feet feel rooted to the ground and tiny thunderstorms form in her stomach and fire engulfs her heart.

She mouths words, but they don’t have a language. Alistair reaches down to bring her hands to his lips. Ice spirals out from the sensation before melting when it meets the flame.

He bends down and presses his forehead to hers for a moment before pulling away and kissing her. Celia jumps in surprise, but they fall into a natural familiar rhythm. She rolls onto her toes, the stones falling from her ankles and Alistair wraps around her body.

They break apart. Their lips keep brushing against each other as they breathe and stare and stretch this moment to an eternity.

“Wonders never cease with you, do they?”

Celia tilts her head with a bright grin and offers a one-shoulder shrug.