Chapter Text

Visions and memories always haunted her dreams, these days. Her practice with her mark, her training with Solas, gave her a modicum of control, but nothing like the expertise Solas had once wielded. She had to stop, notice she was in the Fade, and focus. All too often, she was too distracted, too distraught, to exercise the kind of control she used to.

She woke with a start, sweat drenching the sheets of the ludicrously glamorous bed she had bought in Orlais. She had bought it with the full intention of taking Solas to it.

A bed like this was too big for her. Too much empty space, to remind her of what was missing. It was too easy to have nightmares in it.

She stumbled up, onto the balcony, wearing nothing but one of the silly slips of cloth Leliana had gotten her. From Orlais, of course. Say what you would about Orlesians, they knew how to seduce. Not that silks and candles had ever worked the way she needed them to.

It was still before dawn. No surprise. When had she last slept through the night? She couldn’t remember. When a nightmare came that she couldn’t escape, her only recourse was forcing herself awake, as she just had.

She hadn’t noticed Cole on the balcony rail, but she wasn’t startled when he spoke. He had a tendency to do that, fluttering around Skyhold trying to whisper little helps to anyone and everyone.

“You shouldn’t, you know. He wouldn’t want you to. No one would want you to-“

“Why should I care what he’d want?” she snapped. Her words were icier with Cole every day, it seemed. She tried not to let her pain hurt him, but the more she did, the more it seemed to.

“Hurting, hollow, harrowed, you feel like you’re bleeding, burning, bursting. But you shouldn’t be bleeding. Not like that.”

Lavellan let out a long, drawn out sigh.

“I… I know, Cole. Solas never practiced blood magic. There was probably a reason. But he spoke of the Dalish’s censure on it as if it were pure foolishness. Surely, there was a reason for that, as well. The Dalish were wrong about… everything. Many things. Why wouldn’t this be one of them?”

“You shouldn’t because of you, as much as because of him. It would be your flesh, breaking, cracking, spilling forth your life and power. We would worry because of hurt and harm, not because of danger and death.”

She couldn’t help snorting. “Is that all? Cole, I know… I know it’s different for you, a little, but I’m hurting more than a knife could injure. You know that.”

“There are different kinds of hurts-“

“And some are worse than others.” Her eyes glinted, tears and rage. “No knife could compare to the damage he caused. We caused. I caused?” She shook her head. “Even the finest torturer in Val Royeux’s cold dungeons could not make a knife cause that pain. I could fix it. You know. When blood is poisoned you cut the wound to bleed out the poision. When a leg is too far gone, you remove it to save the person. I can cut myself free of this pain.”

“If you cut the poisoned man too deeply, he will bleed out and die,” Cole said softly, his face worried.

She smiled. “I will be careful, da’elgar. I will go slowly. But I will get what I need.” She turned to head back inside, and Cole did not follow. Perhaps he was already gone.

-

The unfortunate fact, however, was that she did not quite know where one started with blood magic. She had felt the tingling power of blood before, but had always ignored it. She sat there, knife in hand, and she had no idea what to do. She knew how to cut a person, surely, but she had never turned a blade on herself.

“This is why magisters use slaves,” she muttered to herself. “They would be too scared to do this themselves. A knife is a tool to kill.” Well, she certainly wasn’t going to start with chickens. This was the only way. Avoiding the traditional hand/wrist area, she sliced along the mark left by the glass shard on her vanity. She winced, but the cut was easy, and she did not have to fear going too deep. Blood began to flow, and she began to manipulate it, cautiously, prodding it with her magic.

She rolled it into a little ball in the air, not allowing it to pool onto the ground. It was frightfully easy. Was it this easy for every mage? Or did she just have a knack?

She could feel the power twisting around inside the blood. It was like lyrium, but darker, deeper, heavier. She needed something to try, something familiar. A simple fire rune, perhaps. She twisted the blood around, using it to lay the familiar pattern on the ground, uncertain how this was supposed to work.

As soon as the rune was finished, the area suddenly exploded in flame, causing her to screech and fall backwards. There was a scorch mark on the stone of her floor. She swore under her breath, gathering more blood up off the ground where it had spilled and back into the floating ball she was practicing with. It had more potency than she was used to. She had to learn how much to use…

She heard footfalls on the stairs. She swore, then swore again. She grabbed a bottle off of her desk, shoved the blood inside, trying not to spill, jammed the stopper in, and slammed it into a drawer.

It was Cullen who threw open the door. Because of course, she wanted to see the face of an ex-templar directly after her first attempt at practicing blood magic.

He took in the sight of her, wide eyed, leaning against her vanity, in nothing but a rather see-through slip. He averted his eyes, blushing furiously.

“Forgive me, Inquisitor, but I heard screams…” he began, then trailed off slightly. He was noticing the scorched ground.

“My fault,” she said, rubbing her head with her non-bloodied hand, keeping the cut one leaning on the vanity behind her. “I couldn’t sleep, so I was experimenting with some new battle magic. I should have known better than to do so indoors, but it’s so blasted cold outside…”

Cullen nodded, still not looking directly at her. “I’m sure the staff can clean it up, in the morning. You should try and get some rest, Inquisitor,” he added, glancing over and being very careful to maintain eye contact. His eyes were full of worry, yes, but she could see the background radiation of pity that was driving her insane. All of her friends were looking at her like that. They all knew. Her vallaslin gone, her heart torn open and bleeding, it was obvious to anyone who saw her what had happened. At least a general idea. No one understood exactly, least of all Lavellan.

“Yes, of course, Cullen,” she forced a weak smile, tried some of her old flirtation, for comforting the both of them. “I’m glad you have such fast reactions. Had a high dragon flown in my window, you might have been my only defense.”

He snorted, despite himself. “The high dragon would need more protection than you would, Inquisitor. Please, be well.” He nodded as he took his leave, closing the door behind him. She could hear him stopping and talking to someone on the way down, likely offering her excuses for her. She plopped down on her bed, breathing a sigh of relief. Her hand had already stopped bleeding. She needed a safer place to-

A knock on the door.

With a sigh, she opened it, expecting Cullen again. “Yes, commander, how can I- oh.”

It was the person she wanted to see even less than a templar in that moment.

Vivienne.

“Oh, First Enchanter,” Lavellan began, surprised. She and Vivienne spoke rarely, mostly when Lavellan needed instruction in the ways of fashion or appearances, which happened more than Lavellan particularly cared for.

“Hardly,” she said, her soft voice lilting, and just as intimidating as the day Lavellan had first met her. “Now least of ever. Not with our Divine Victoria preparing to ascend to her throne and end the circles for good.”

Lavellan shuffled her feet on the rug. It was no secret that the Inquisitions support had been the reason why Leliana had gotten the position as new Divine. After saving the world, Lavellan likely could have placed a nug on the Sunburst Throne. She chose Leliana, whose name was already being battered around the talks, to throw her support behind.

She didn’t know if Solas would have approved.

She KNEW Vivienne didn’t.

But the woman had caught the burns on the stone. An eyebrow quirked. “Cullen tells me you were practicing new spells.”

Lavellan sighed. “You don’t have to lecture me, Vivienne, I know it was stupid,” she said, praying a smokescreen so simple would work against someone as sly as Vivienne. “I just… I just can’t sleep, lately.”

Vivienne face softened somewhat. Pity, Lavellan could have spat. Someone who had never liked her still viewed her with pity. She was truly a pathetic sight. But in this case, she could work that to her advantage. Crocodile tears welled up at the corners of her eyes. She sniffed, wiped them away quickly, but the job was done. Vivienne sighed.

“My, you are a bit of a mess. Pull yourself together, darling, the whole of Thedas is watching you. You cannot fall apart over the loss of a single lover.”

The words stung, even though distracting Vivienne into a lecture had been the entire point. She resisted a cutting remark, although she had the perfect one. She went with a lighter one instead, enough to insult but not mortify. “We cannot all be so world-weary as you, first enchanter.” She stood, as if to open the door for Vivienne, when she saw the Enchanter’s eyes slide down. Shit.

“My, my, darling,” the older woman said, her eyes narrowing. “What on earth happened to your hand?”

Thank you, Varric, for all those Wicked Grace lessons, Lavellan silently prayed, her face forming into confusion. She glanced down at her own hand. “Oh! I must have cut it when the fire startled me.”

“Whatever on? You shouldn’t keep sharp objects where they can be stumbled into.”

She waved her hand vaguely towards the vanity, not easily seen from the entrance. Where the mirror once was lay bare, with only scant shards of glass attached to the sides. “I… lost my temper. I haven’t had it replaced.”

Vivienne’s eyes glittered. “I could very easily repair that for you, darling. Nearly any mage could, in fact.”

Lavellan shook her head. “Thank you, Vivienne… But I broke it for a reason. I would not like a repeat.”

Vivienne sighed, her suspicion abated for the time being. “Do try to be more careful, dear. All of the grace of an elf, and yet I’m surprised you’ve yet to fall from the balcony.”

She took her leave, and after Lavellan could no longer hear her footfalls, the lying elf let out a long sigh of relief.

“Thank you, Varric. Thank you Leliana and Josephine. You’ve all taught me to lie like a champion.”

Her eyes fell onto the drawer where the bottle of blood was. Later. She needed a better place to do this, or she might burn her wardrobe the ground the next time.

-

It was some kind of irony that Vivienne, someone who normally largely ignored Lavellan in the past, was the first person to catch on to what was happening. Except perhaps Cole. But he, of course, was a cheater. He knew about things before the people thinking them knew about them.

Vivienne had started dropping in for tea, disrupting moments with Alexius or quiet practice in Lavellan’s room. When Lavellan began hiding in the afternoons, somehow, Vivienne always managed to track her down, sometimes recruiting the unwitting Cassandra to assist her.

This time, she was hiding in the pub, but, creatively, was underneath a table.

“Seriously, boss, what are you doing under there?”

“I don’t pay you to ask questions, Bull, I pay you to protect me. And right now, I need protection from Vivienne and her ghastly tea sessions.”

“Well, normally I wouldn’t be one to complain about you being between my legs-“

“Oh, shut up.”

“But you have to admit this is a little weird. What’s going on with you two? Used to be you couldn’t pay Vivienne to play nice with you.”

“I’m honestly not sure,” Lavellan lied with a scowl. “She might be trying to civilize me again. I knew I shouldn’t have bought all those Orlesian cakes. I’ve gotten her hopes up.”

“That was a little out of character. You hate chocolate.”

“I was hoping… never mind what I was hoping. Just hold still and be large.”

Sure enough, Vivienne soon entered the pub. You could tell from how the swearing quickly petered off.

“Iron Bull, have you seen the Inquisitor?” came Vivienne’s voice from above.

“Hm? No, not today. Is she with the horses?”

Lavellan could hear the light sigh. “No, I don’t believe so. Let me know if you see her, dear.” There was a pause, no doubt as Vivienne glared around at the occupants, searching. Lavellan shivered. Finally, the older mage left. Lavellan stuck her head up between Iron Bull’s thighs.

“Thank Mythal. I’d rather have a pack of Mabari on my trail than her.”

“Seriously, why is she after you so much?”

“For tea, that’s all I really know. She said she had just checked in the stables, yeah? I’m going to see if I can’t grab a hart and sneak out.”

“By yourself?” Iron Bull said, sounding surprised.

“I could hardly sneak out with you, Bull. You’re as subtle as a trumpet.”

-

Somehow, Lavellan did manage to escape, galloping across the long bridge that separated Skyhold from the mainland. How long could she get away with being gone? She’d told Iron Bull to leave a message with Leliana, so no one would panic. But she needed to get work done, real work. And she knew where she needed to go.

Crestwood.