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Cassandra saw the Inquisitor across the crowded great hall, and her heart did a somersault.
She was standing with Cullen near the entrance doors. They were discussing troop movements, and her mouth was definitely still moving, but the words faded as Lavellan approached them. The elf was walking with and listening to Josephine as she scribbled on her clipboard. He was dressed informally in a black shirt and trousers with his tall, black boots. The man wore black all the time.
It was his color.
Without looking away from Josephine, Lavellan extended the little finger on his left hand.
Cassandra, ignoring Cullen's soft chuckle, let her own hand brush against the Inquisitor’s. For a just a moment on the crowded floor, their fingers touched, and then they passed each other as if nothing had happened.
Outside on the frozen grass of Skyhold's lawn, it was winter. Inside Cassandra’s ribcage, it was spring.
"-and then the guard captain goes to investigate the assassination plot in the servant quarters." Cassandra ducked under Lavellan's staff blade. "She finds the entire kitchen staff slaughtered, and just as she's about to investigate, the bell starts to ring for all the guests to return to the ballroom. I won't spoil the rest, because you have to catch up."
"I think I can guess." Lavellan caught her practice sword on his raised staff and shoved her back. "Creators, how fast does Varric write this drek? We were just there a month ago."
"He assured me...." She grunted. "It has a different ending."
"Does it feature me hanging by my trousers from a garden trellis?" Lavellan parried. "Because I told him not to put that-"
Cassandra rammed her shield into his exposed side and swept a leg under his foot. He landed hard on his back with an oof. She slung off her shield and fell upon him, slamming her sword flat across his throat and raising a mailed fist. "Yield."
"Oh?" Lavellan licked his dry lips. "You don't like my face anymore?"
Cassandra's panting breath made her teeth ache. They were alone in the freezing practice yard. The moon was full and turned the light frost on the ground to a glittering white. It also struck a silver glint on the vallaslin on Lavellan's face, making them resemble halla horns even more than the pattern already did.
"Let me go get the book." Her throat was raw. "We could finish it together right here."
"Instead of taking it up to your nice, warm cot above the forge? At least there I can pretend to listen while you read."
"What's wrong with the romance serials?"
"Nothing, they just get boring, is all."
"Take that back."
"Or what? Straight to the dungeons with me?" Lavellan gave her a half-smirk. "Off to one of your Circles to put on an ugly robe and get spanked by templars?"
Magic sparked in his palms. She seized his wrists and pinned them above his head, a surge of her negating energy slamming into him. His magic puttered out without so much a smoke trail.
For a moment, they stared at each other.
"Har-de-har." She rocked to her feet and helped him up. Lavellan's breath puffed and clouded as he dusted himself off and gathered their weapons. They walked to one of the wooden stands that ringed the practice yard and returned their training sword and staff.
Cassandra was tugging at the stiff laces of her leather jerkin when she realized that Lavellan was still watching her.
"You wouldn't actually send me to one of your Circles, would you?" he asked.
"There are no more Circles," said Cassandra.
"So evasive, Cass." That smirk again. As a Dalish, Lavellan had always treated the Circles as an odd foreign custom—amusing as they were quaint. "What will you do if they return?"
"It would not matter. I am no longer a Seeker of Truth."
"And if you were?"
She ground her teeth together. "Then I would do my duty."
"I would do my duty," he said, imitating her voice. His arms came around her like snakes, snatching her hard against him.
"Does that duty include me?" he asked.
Cassandra turned her head and regarded him.
So many things were a game to Lavellan. What would he do if she told him the truth? That only a year ago, she would have condemned him without question. She would have hunted him like a beast, marched him manacled to the gallows, and tightened the noose around his neck as she had done to countless apostates before.
Would he still smirk and smile if she told him that she had almost done worse than that?
When they had first met, there had been no doubt in her mind that he was guilty. He had been a mage, a savage with heretical tattoos on his face...and she had leveled her sword at his breast without wavering, prepared to kill him at the first sign of danger.
And yet here Lavellan was. Despite everything he seemed, his heart was kinder than any she had ever known.
Despite herself, she had not done the unthinkable.
"What's that sour face for?" he laughed.
"Nothing." She let herself relax into his embrace. "Nothing."
He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her scar. "To bed then, anwylyd."
Together, they walked the short distance across the lawn to the dark, empty smithy. They washed the sweat from their bodies and tangled up under the blanket on her thin cot, sore and drowsy in the warm air above the quiet forges. She opened her book to a dog-eared page and Lavellan rested his head in the crook of her neck.
For now, they were safe, wrapped up in each other, with the red dawn and the future far away.
In a week's time, they would ride for Adamant.
The Fade opened up and swallowed them whole.
Cassandra scrambled to her feet. Green mist came into focus all around. She gripped her sword so hard she felt the blade tremble. Terror sloshed hot and cold inside of her, the fevered confusion of this horrible place making her inner ear swim. Maker forgive them, they were not supposed to be here, they were not supposed-
It was only Lavellan's firm hand on her shoulder that brought her back to herself. His smile checked her, and she drew her calm from him.
If he was not afraid, then neither would she be.
Their party wandered the shifting green paths of the Fade cautiously. If Lavellan was calm, then Solas was serenity embodied. Iron Bull, less so. Cassandra barely registered Hawke and Loghain bickering up the rear, so focused was she on staying on the path and ignoring the hovering spirits that perched in the windows high above and studied them like ghosts.
Justinia came as a shock. It became even worse when the Divine, or the thing wearing the Divine's face, threw out an arm and shouted, "These are your memories, Inquisitor!" From her fingertips flew orbs of white fire that hissed and crackled in the puddles of green water around them. Lavellan reached down to pick up the first one-
It was unpleasant. Lavellan's memories felt like they were being forced into her ears. No matter how hard she shut her eyes and cried out against them they still came in. The Conclave. Justinia. The Wardens and Corypheus with his orb—
“What’s going on here?”
Cassandra snapped out of the memory. Distantly, she heard Hawke and Loghain arguing. She tried not to throw up as the undeniable truth swelled inside her.
He was not the Herald.
He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Maker did not bless him. It was ancient, foul magic that cursed him—the same way it always did. No matter how much she believed, it was always just magic.
Lavellan's shadow fell across her. His face was pale but resolute. There was no time for this.
They moved on.
"Ah, we have a visitor. Some foolish little boy comes to steal the fear I kindly lifted from his shoulders. You should have thanked me and left your fear where it lay, forgotten. You think that pain will make you stronger...?”
The demon that ruled this world might as well have been a spider crawling inside their skulls for how close as its voice felt. Cassandra could barely concentrate. Her sword was heavy, her soul was weak. Despair dogged at her heels, and with it came the demons.
Lavellan twisted electricity around his staff and slammed it hard into the ground. Purple lightning speared through the spiders crawling toward them. Cassandra lowered her shield and charged into the thick of them, sending demons flying and slashing through them with quick, low slashes of her sword. She was still hacking into one of the spider's twitching, spewing body when a hand pulled her off.
"I think you got it, vhenan." "Lavellan's face was smudged with soot. Behind him, their party was checking their wounds and drinking health potions. It was suddenly eerily quiet on the path.
"I know, I just....wanted to make sure." She flicked her sword, only to see there was no blood upon it. "This place is an abomination."
"Oh, I dunno," said Lavellan. "A little landscaping, a few brave exterminators, and I can see us building our summer bungalow here. A vacation or two, and I'm sure you'll get your Fade legs."
A laugh was practically dragged out of her throat. "I think I'll pass on that."
The brush of his fingertips across her scar in response was featherlight.
In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to fold herself into her arms and lose herself in memory of the night they first made love. The desire warmed her from the inside out and drove back the darkness of the Fade. A rush of affection, absurd and raw, lifted the caul on her heart. It didn't matter how he came by the mark. He was her mage, her Inquisitor, her smart, brave Herald. To think she had almost ruined everything when they first met-
The nightmare demon laughed inside her mind.
“Ah, memory,” said the Nightmare. Their entire party jumped. “So I see you’ve recovered yours, Herald. But I wonder, is it not unfair that your brave companions' hide their own from you? Do you not wish to see what the Seeker is remembering?”
Cassandra realized what was about to happen a second before it did.
Something invisible slammed into her, and they all swayed, blinded, gasping—
And fell into her memory.
She was back in the dungeon at Haven, looming over Solas as he worked on Lavellan's sleeping form. Her sword was in her hand. The cell was ringed by Templars, but she still felt ill at ease.
"It's too dangerous,” said Cullen to the war council, if it could be called that. His own sword was sheathed, though he rested his hand on the pommel.
“Surely a Templar guard is enough?” said Josephine. She was still wearing her fur stole from the road and was only moderately less exhausted than the rest of them.
“It might not be,” said Cullen. “The mark has given him a serious advantage. If he decides he wants to take revenge against us for imprisoning him—“
“Or,” said Leliana. “He might agree to help us. You saw how he behaved when he stopped the Breach from growing. Even under duress, he was more than willing.”
“I saw a man with more power in the palm of his hand than anyone has a right to," said Cullen. "Either way, we cannot risk it. I suggest a drastic measure."
And then, because the two women were waiting, he said, “Tranquility.”
Solas glanced back at them, but said nothing.
“If we do it when he’s asleep,” said Cullen, “It won’t cause him pain.”
“Might I remind you that he volunteered to help us of his own free will?” Leliana stepped toward him, intimidating in her dark robe.
“If he’s made Tranquil, we can still direct him to seal the rifts. It's a better solution than chancing him running away or, Maker forbid, turning the mark against innocents.”
“I….” Josephine was clearly torn, but Leliana decided her with a glare.
And Cassandra, Cassandra watched the person she was a year ago and ached. She wanted to scream—think! Just once, think before you act!
Instead, her past-self nodded . “It may not be kind, but it is for the best.”
“If I may,” said Solas, rising. “From my observations, our ‘Herald’s’ magic is tied intrinsically to the Anchor. Cutting him off from the Fade may weaken the mark or extinguish it entirely. I would advise against such drastic measures-” His eyes narrowed on Cullen. “-given their permanent nature.”
Cullen raised a brow to Cassandra, and she squared her shoulders . “We will wait for him to wake, then. If he cooperates, it may not be necessary. However, if he does not….”
Her sword rang as she sheathed it.
“Then I will make the decision,” said Cassandra. “And I will wield the brand myself.”
The memory shrank and collapsed. Their party rolled and heaved like drunken sailors on the cold ground. Lavellan was holding his head. Cassandra pushed herself off the ground and reached for him.
He brushed her hand away.
“Come,” he said, wiping a hand down his face. “We've stayed in this place too long.”
The others moved on. Cassandra stood alone in the dank green water, watching Lavellan as he led their party away. It felt as if something broken trailed after him, something invisible and fragile, snapped as easily as an over-tight string.
She did not seek him out for a full day after they returned from the Fade.
The Wardens had regrouped inside Adamant fortress, burning their dead on great pyres while the Inquisition soldiers did the same. Lavellan stayed mostly in his war tent outside the fortress walls, reading over reports. Cassandra came to his tent at dusk.
“I wished to speak with you,” she said.
Lavellan said nothing. His quill kept moving in the low light of his candle. He did not look up from his desk.
“I was wrong.” Her voice shook. “I didn’t know you, I thought—”
Excuses. They died on her tongue. At last, Lavellan set his quill down.
“You would have made me Tranquil in my sleep,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
“You would have murdered my spirit inside my body without justice or trial.”
“Yes.”
“I helped you people when I had every reason to run, and you still tried to mutilate me.”
“Yes.”
“How long before I step out of line and it happens again?”
Her mouth couldn't properly form the words. “I’m not the same person anymore. You made me....different. I swear this, on my honor.” I love you I love you I love you.
Lavellan looked at her as if he had never seen her before in his life. Or perhaps as if he was seeing her properly for the first time.
“Find your post, Cassandra Pentaghast," he said. "We’re done here.”
She saw him across the great hall.
He was talking with Solas, dressed all in black. The Inquisitor had been spending more time with his fellow apostate since Adamant. They could be clan mates, the way they mirrored each other's gaits as they walked, laughing and gesturing side by side.
Cassandra’s finger twitched as they passed each other. Lavellan did not drop his arm. Her hand brushed only air, and they went their separate ways.
In the stories she read at night, mistakes were forgiven. No matter how grave the error, the beloved was always taken back. Love was welcoming, unashamed, and unconditional.
But her life was not a story. Her brother died pointlessly in fear and pain. Her parents died before she could remember their faces. The Seekers took her faith and twisted it against her. None of these things happened for a reason.
She looked up at the light in the Inquisitor’s tower some nights. When she first met him, he was an apostate at her feet, the mark pulsing in his palm like a guilty verdict.
Now she only saw the warm place between his shoulders as he strode away from her through the crowded great hall—the place where she used to rest her tired brow when she couldn’t sleep at night, just to hear him breathe, just to know he was safe and alive and with her, that she hadn’t ruined him and their one chance. That he was hers and she was his, and they were bright and whole together.
She waited until the Inquisitor and Solas turned the corner out into the gardens. Then Cassandra set her jaw, and returned to her duty.