#I figured out Eustace yesterday

[sliverswords]

Current Jill, Digory, Polly, and Eustace designs from Magician’s Nephew and Silver Chair respectively

[shelobussy]

Ohmygod YES Susan Pevensie is awesome please talk to me about Susan i want to know everything you have to say

Literally THANK YOU for asking me this bc Susan Pevensie is a character I never get asked about and I have So Many Opinions.

I'm going to start by saying that Susan used to be my least favorite character in the series. This goes for the books and the movies. Some of it was for personal reasons--she reminds me of a couple of annoying ppl I know irl--but it was also bc I watched Prince Caspian which shoehorned her into a relationship with Caspian which I hated.

HOWEVER. I ended up rethinking this position after interacting with Susan fans and realizing that there are so many wonderful things to love about her!

(putting under the cut bc this got long)

Things Ash Loves About Susan Pevensie

Aight I'm not going to do a formal analysis yet on her, but instead rant about some of the unrelated things I adore about Susan Pevensie.

Susan the Archer

Look we all love archery here. I don't have anything more to say.

Okay, I actually do have more to say. I love the fact that Susan is a complete badass with the bow. You get the general impression that she's one of the royals in charge of public relations, traditions, foreign policy, etc. and yet she's the most competent archer in the series. One of the few things I liked about the movies is how they didn't downplay this. They actually let her be a badass and show off her skills.

Also the part where she kicks Trumpkin's ass was awesome.

Susan the Gentle

Susan being the most passive Pevensie was something I definitely underappreciated as a teenager. I think my non-ability to see past "I'm not like other girls" narrative and the combination of Susan being described as the most traditionally feminine woman in the Narnia series is what initially turned me off from her.

HOWEVER, now it's one of my favorite attributes! I love that Susan is a badass and the most beautiful woman in Narnia. She has hair down to her feet, every man and woman in the kingdom want to fuck her, and she's still a fucking badass who will not hesitate to kick your ass.

Susan the Sister

Most of my thoughts of Susan as an older sister mostly stem from my own personal headcanons, but she is an awesome sister to her siblings. She's Peter's voice of reason, Edmund's sass partner, and Lucy's big sister.

Susan the Mom-Friend

She is a literal mother-figure for Corin.

"[...] the most beautiful lady he had ever seen rose from her place and threw her arms round him and kissed him, saying: "Oh Corin, Corin, how could you? And thou and I such close friends ever since thy mother died. [...]"

-The Horse and His Boy, 33-34

Most everything I have to say about this ventures into headcanon territory, but I love the idea of Susan basically adopting Corin after his mom dies. The way she trusts Cor--who she thinks is Corin in this chapter--is really sweet and I wish we could've seen more of that relationship.

Susan the Flawed

Something I notice from the fandom is a lot of people who hate Susan tend to because of her flaws. On the other hand, most Susan stans like to wave away these flaws and blame C.S. Lewis for being misogynistic or Aslan for being a "cruel god" and ignore the fact that she is a deeply flawed person.

Susan gets something of a "reverse redemption arc" in The Chronicles of Narnia. This makes her not only a fascinating foil to Edmund--as both are analytical, logical people--but an interesting character by herself.

She starts out in TWW as very skeptical of Narnia and it's whole deal and also very condescending to Lucy throughout. She ultimately does admit that Lucy was right and does get on board with the whole prophecy at the same time Peter does, and ends the book being crowned "the Gentle Queen."

In The Horse and His Boy, she has a very interesting dynamic with Edmund and in even more interesting relationship with Rabadash. They don't even interact on-page with each other, but it's highly implied that she was interested in him when he was a guest in Narnia. His behavior obviously changed when she visited him in Tashbaan, but you have to wonder what their dynamic was like before for her to travel all the way to his home when relations between the countries were strained at best.

Prince Caspian is where the cracks start showing through. Susan has lived an entire life as an adult in Narnia, gets thrown back to England with her siblings, and is yet again in Narnia as a child. This book is what really emphasizes her one fatal flaw: convenience.

(Put a pin in that thought, I'll get back to it.)

Susan denies once again that Lucy saw something that the rest of them can't seen. She continues this narrative until every other sibling finally acknowledges Lucy in the right and only then does she apologize.

The last mention of Susan is in The Last Battle, where all of her flaws rise up against her in the worst way possible. I have a lot of controversial opinions on this that I'm going to address later, but I just want to say that Susan's reverse-redemption arc is something I actually like about her.

(There is also evidence that Susan does get a full redemption arc, just as Edmund and Eustace did, but C.S. Lewis was pretty much done with The Chronicles of Narnia at the point and instead encouraged fans to write their own version of how that went down.)

Okay, back to convenience being Susan's fatal flaw. So the one thing that comes up time and time again in the series is that Susan is very focused on material comforts. I believe it's implied that she's vain, and it's canonical that her own personal comfort spurs her to make decisions.

"[...] I really believed it was him — he, I mean — yesterday. When he warned us not to go down to the fir wood. And I really believed it was him tonight, when you woke us up. I mean, deep down inside. Or I could have, if I'd let myself. But I just wanted to get out of the woods and — and — oh, I don't know [...]"

Prince Caspian, 81

Prince Caspian has the strongest examples of Susan doing this, but certainly there's evidence elsewhere. There are a lot of fans who are distressed by this, claiming that Aslan and the others are too hard on her and shouldn't judge.

Honestly, I like that she's written with this flaw. Not only is it very relatable--(my own personal comfort and convenience is something I highly prioritize too)--but it humanizes a character who otherwise is ridiculously op and basically the Helen of Troy of the series. It may sound like I'm using this as an excuse to rant, but I really wouldn't have her any other way.

Susan As Portrayed by Anna Popplewell

Movie!Susan is a fucking delight.

She's sarcastic and badass and awesome and I could spend hours heaping praise on Anna's acting and her portrayal of Susan, but I can already tell that this post is going to be long so, I'll just stop here.

(10/10 want to be stabbed by her tho.)

Personal Headcanons

Let's talk about my fanon thoughts. I have many.

Susan is Aro

There's canonical evidence for this! Susan is a character who is heavily pursued by suitors everywhere, and even lets herself be courted by many of them, but chooses not to settle down. Even when she gets back to England and is described as only having interest in parties and material things, boys aren't mentioned.

I like to think that in The Horse in His Boy Susan was interested in Rabadash at first because he was a brilliant conversationalist. Nothing she says about him implies romantic interest, before and after she realizes the truth of his intentions.

Susan and Edmund Were Best Friends

This might be my love for The Horse and His Boy showing itself, but I think Susan and Edmund were thrown into circumstances where they interacted the most with each other.

Edmund is the ruler in charge of politics. Susan is the ruler in charge of Cair Paravel's public image. I imagine they spent time as ambassadors to other countries and planning royal functions.

They're also the most level-headed and logical out of their siblings, so they probably found a lot in common.

Susan Fancast

I literally just said I loved Anna's potrayal of Susan's (and I love what they gave us of older Susan too in LWW!), but I read the books in 2008 and my parents didn't let me see the movies bc I was like...nine years old and they thought it would be too scary.

So I had to headcanon my own interpretations.

Queen Susan the Gentle:

For some reason Merlin wasn't too scary for me to watch and I fell in love with Katie McGrath in like. Two episodes so. (On an unrelated note, I also fancast Bradley James as Peter at the time.)

Anyway, fanon Susan is basically Morgana Pendragon pre-evil arc. Sassy as hell, hot as fuck, and can kick your ass.

Unpopular Opinions

Yeah, feel free to skip this part if having controversial fandom opinions is a deal breaker for you.

The Problem With Susan Isn't Actually A Problem

I'm about to start so much discourse in the Narnia fandom, but C.S. Lewis's choices with her in The Last Battle weren't misogynistic. Bear in mind, I'm not saying that all of his writing choices in the series were A++ or excusing away certain racist/sexiest bits, but it's honestly baffling to me that people are so up in arms over Susan's exclusion in the final book.

So the part that everyone loses their shit over is as follows:

"My sister Susan," answered Peter shortly and gravely, "is no longer a friend of Narnia."

"Yes," said Eustace, "and whenever you've tried to get her to come and talk about Narnia or do anything about Narnia, she says 'What wonderful memories you have! Fancy your still thinking about all those funny games we used to play when we were children.'"

"Oh Susan!" said Jill, "she's interested in nothing now-a-days except nylons and lipstick and invitations. She always was a jolly sight too keen on being grown-up."

"Grown-up, indeed," said the Lady Polly. "I wish she would grow up. She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now, and she'll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age. Her whole idea is to race on to the silliest time of one's life as quick as she can and then stop there as long as she can."

The Last Battle, 83-84

There's a lot to unpack here and I first want to say that everyone's opinion on this part, no matter how different than mine, is valid. I'm going to be quoting some other ppl's opinions on here and by no means am I bashing them. I just want to address my feelings on the matter and the best way to do that is to cite the thoughts of ppl who have opposing ideas.

Here are some arguments on Tumblr I've heard regarding "The Problem of Susan":

"How about we talk about what might have happened if Narnia hadn't deserted Susan? [...] What if we didn't tell Susan she had to go grow up in her own world and then shame and punish her for doing just that? She was told to walk away and she went. She did not try to stay a child all her life, wishing for something she had been told she couldn't have again."

"Narnia is filled with metaphors (often not very subtle ones) that are supposed to teach us how to be, and the most glaring one for any young girl to absorb is that it's okay to be a girl like Lucy, unthreatening and cheerful and valiant and faithful, but to be a girl like Susan gets you punished - in fact, you aren't just punished, you're destroyed."

"why do we call it ‘the problem’ where’s the problem about a young woman dealing with her trauma and choosing her own path, actively making the choice to keep living and to stay and to carve a life out in England when her siblings couldn’t? what is the problem about susan forgetting to somehow cope with what she’s experienced? why is it ‘the problem of susan’ that she recontextualised her faith?"

And then there's JK Rowling who said this:

There comes a point where Susan, who was the older girl, is lost to Narnia because she becomes interested in lipstick. She's become irreligious basically because she found sex. I have a big problem with that.

It's weird how I'm still finding new ways to hate JKR in the year 2021. Again, there is absolutely zero implication that Susan had sex when she came back to England. ZERO. Did she actually read the books? IDK. If someone shares this opinion pls reply with actual canonical evidence.

Back on topic, I'm a firm believer of death of the author and interpreting art via your own experiences. Which is why I'm also going to share my own interpretation by saying y'all are wrong.

Susan Pevensie was not abandoned by Narnia. She was not barred from Narnia because she is traditionally feminine or because she "owned her sexuality" (another opinion I didn't have time to condense down for this post) or because she recontextualized her faith or even because she deserved to be punished.

I also fail to see how Susan recontexualized her faith, as the entire point of it all is that she has none. Bringing this back to Susan's fatal flaw (personal convenience/material comforts), her prioritizing herself over her own faith is the reason she is "no longer a friend of Narnia." Not...whatever fanon y'all are imposing on her character.

Susan is not being punished for liking lipstick and looking pretty. Susan's not even being punished. Y'all read Neil Gaiman's The Problem of Susan and forgot it wasn't canon.

There are many reasons Susan is not in Aslan's Country (one of them being that she's not actually dead yet), but the main one has to do with this:

"[...] But there I have another name. You must learn to know me by that name. This was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little, you may know me better there.”

Voyage of the Dawn Treader, 215-216

Yeah, okay that's why Susan is no longer a friend of Narnia. The implication when the Pevensies are told that they can no longer enter Narnia is that they are to find Aslan in other places. Susan doesn't do this, instead choosing to focus her life on material things. It isn't the lipstick, it's that she only wants the lipstick.

Susan Had Sex In The Books

Oh and not in the context y'all are thinking. (Again, there are no implications that Susan was barred from Narnia for having sex or that she had sex when she came back to England.)

So there's actual canonical evidence that Susan and Rabadash had a sexual relationship. Sort of.

"What think you? We have been in this city fully three weeks. Have you yet settled in your mind whether you will marry this dark-faced lover of yours, this Prince Rabadash, or no?"

-The Horse and His Boy, 35

Edmund calls Rabadash her lover. Not her suitor. I don't know if the word had a different meaning in 1954, but it feels like C.S. Lewis is saying that they're fucking. I'm not really happy with the idea of Susan sleeping with an abuser, but really proud of her for Getting Some as a woman born in a time period where having premarital sex was a big no-no.

This also invalidates the weird opinion going on that Susan was barred from Narnia because she had sex.

Suspian Is The Worst

I haven't really talked about Movie!Susan much, but as long as we're talking unpopular opinions, it's worth noting that I hate Suspian. Some of it is the "Susan is Aro" headcanon screaming inside of me, but it's also the fact that it's written poorly, does nothing interesting for either character and generally comes across as awkward.

I feel like they were trying to make Prince Caspian sexy and relevant to teens. It came across as super heteronormative and unnecessary.

It also gets really really weird bc the next movie then gives Caspian and Edmund mad chemistry and we're all just like........ok.

Final Thoughts

Susan may not be my favorite character in the series, but she's grown on me over the years. I have many issues with fanon interpretations of her--which definately fueled some of my disdain for her initally--and I don't identify as a Susan Apologist.

I do however adore Susan and have many headcanons for her not mentioned here. I love reading fanfic, writing fanfic and meta, and generally having conversations about her and would love to talk more about it.

I welcome criticism (CONSTRUCTIVE) and conversation on all of my opinions and observations. Please drop into my inbox. <3

[gailynovelry]

WIP List Tag

Thanks to @albatris for the tag!

Rules: Share a list of the stories you’re currently working on, regardless of whether or not you have introduced them to writeblr before. I’m going to apologize to you beforehand because all of these are going to long. They are also queer. I do not apologize for that.

Heralds of Rhimn: A YA Dark Fantasy and my oldest project. The first book in the series is Shadow Herald;

“Few gods remain on the world of Rhimn, and the ones that do use special servants known as Heralds as pawns in the conflict between themselves. And not every Herald is happy with their role…

As Navaeli the Shadow Herald comes clashing with the dual threats of the Irongardhe knights and her own vengeful goddess, she finds romance in a handsome hooligan girl and friendship in a young feyrie thief — and with them, the courage to fight back against the injustices of her world.

But can Navaeli break free from the chains of her duty, or will she be the first casualty in the oncoming war between the gods?“

In essence, Navaeli is a dark messiah lesbian who Does Not Want To Be A Protagonist Please, Crislie is a love interest who decides to put her brawling problem to work protecting Navaeli, and Meparik is baby, but baby with many issues. In the time you’ve taken to read these character descriptions, he has probably already stolen your wallet.

The series as a whole involves some good wlw rapid-yearning-to-mutually-protective-girlfriends, REVOLUTION, a new take on fairies and a big ol’ middle-fingered subversion to the Oppressed Mage trope, and eventually some good ol’ fashioned god-killing.

The first book is going to come out May 20th this year! I have made a pretty cover for it, and also for the sequel! I am very proud of this!

Mindhive: A NA dystopia and the first project I’ve written where my characters are explicitly allowed to say “fuck.” They very much need to use this word, given the world I’ve built for them to inhabit.

“Dead-broke and dead-set on paying off his student loans before he’s forty, Nathaniel Emersin signed up as a paid test subject for ReGene, a genetics company with a mysterious new invention that they promise will change the world; the Worker Bee Implant.

But Nathaniel has one little secret that didn’t make it onto paper…

He’s also been hired by ReGene’s rival company, Future Body, to sabotage the trial and steal the mysterious new technology that ReGene’s been working on.”

Complications arise due to the presence of a very amicable security AI and the fact that Nathaniel gets attached to the two other lab rats he gets assigned to for the trial. And by “attached” I mean “develops mutual deep crushes on both Lucine and Avery, has a few cover-compromising panic attacks over it, and eventually reveals to them that he’s being hired to be a secret agent guy doing secret agent things.”

So he sort of decides to run away with his new girlfriend and datemate to an activist group who could a) remove the implant possibly and b) sue ReGene?

Needless to say, ReGene nor Future Body are happy with this turn of events, and decide that they should probably stop him before they experience consequences for the human experimentation and corporate sabotage.

Also, they take the AI with them. His name is Vertigo and he would like for someone to explain to him what a Vocaloid is.

Galactic Empress: This story is me indulging in my very specific need to write a royalty space opera political thriller. It is very high up on the Maslow’s chart of needs for me. It showed up one day and did not leave my brain.

“After the unresolved assassination of her mother, sweet but politically-savvy Princess Glissandrah Ayamarak — known better as Gliss — ascends to Galactic Empress earlier than she’d ever wanted to.

With her mother’s murderer still at large, Glissandrah turns to outsiders to protect her while she figures out just what game is being played in the Galactic Quorum. And it turns out that turning three hardened mercenaries into loyal royal bodyguards is harder than she first thought… but when anyone inside the Quorum could be after the crown, what other choice does she have?”

The hot and slightly controversial bodyguard team in question consists of Li-ah-li, a polite and slightly tired space furry, Yuukmi, a plantperson gunslinger with a space blaster in each of xer four hands, and Jennifer, a gruff human mercenary with a protective streak for her two alien comrades. This story is also polyamorous!

The Ghosts of Grimmigkeit Manor: I literally started working on this one again yesterday; it’s a reworking of a VERY old fully-OC pokemon fanfiction I wrote when I was fourteen, which has been subsequently lost to time. The genre is uhhhhhh paranormal shenanigans with semi-mystery vibes and a strong dose of snark. Probably NA.

The story follows three protagonists. Firstly is Eustace, a coroner who is doing a terrible job of divorcing himself from his family’s slightly goth business and reputation. Secondly is his triplet sister Alison, who is currently being The Responsible One running the family business of selling funeral caskets and who maybe should stop breaking the maids’ hearts in her free time. Thirdly is Dirk, the other triplet, who looks up to Eustace quite a bit and would really like it if his siblings got along more and maybe relaxed enough to let him leave the manor to go to college?

Anyway, during Eustace’s yearly Christmas visit to the family manor, it turns out that Eustace and Dirk can both see ghosts! This phases Eustace significantly more than Dirk, since Dirk has schizophrenia and didn’t realize at first that the ghosts were separate from his usual hallucinations.

The story at large involves family secrets, intimidating and quirky relatives, a murder that happened a quarter of a century ago, and this one really terrible ghost who needs to STOP MAKING THE WALLS BLEED BLOOD and who maybe is the triplets’ father. They have to figure out how to yeet him into the afterlife so that he stops causing problems.

Also, a different and more chill ghost owes Uncle Freddie money.

Misc: I have a dozen other ideas that I float around but Deliberately Wait To Work On because my stories are stews and they need some time to simmer in the crock pot that is my brain. Among these are a mermaid/selkie wlw romance, a mlm post-apoc ??? story, and various wlw Eragon ripoffs where there’s dragons being ridden and cool things happening.

[valeptraglia]

The Chronicles of Narnia: The Battle of Calormen

(All rights to C. S. Lewis)

Chapter 5: "A warm breeze and a poisoned edge"

The next morning I woke up early. A thin line of sunshine entered through the small opening between the two curtains and right in my face. I blinked a few times to accustom to it and tried to cover my eyes with my hand and pillow hopelessly. I finally gave up and sit up leaning on my elbow looking at the window with a grimace. The light coming from it was orange so that meant in was early in the morning, or maybe late in the evening?

I stood up and walked over the window, when I reached it I could see dust floating through the light. I slowly opened the curtains and a beautiful view greeted me.

As I opened the balcony doors delicious fragrances from the flowers below in the garden hit me; roses, lilies, daisies, jasmines, daffodils, iris, marigolds, gerberas, orchids, and many others I didn't even know their names. Mum used to make me help her with her little garden, and she would point a flower and said its name and how to take care of it, after a while doing this the names just stayed in my head.

Also there were beautiful trees in which under their brunches you could see dryads sleeping heavily, caressing their trees in a motherly way or brushing their hair. But what caught my attention were the big apple trees near the stone walls in the orchard. I smile broadly remembering the day the moles planted them and said some day we would be grateful planting them, something I really doubt at the moment, funny how things turned out. Years later I found myself eating hungrily the delicious apples in order to not die from hunger.

Further on I could see and hear the waves crashing lightly against the stone of the cliffs. Home.

Once I dressed and washed my face I got out of my room and walked through the deserted hallways.

I walked through several rooms, some were locked, and some leaded to different studies.

One leaded to a circular room, on its walls hang some paintings of the forests and mountains of Narnia, of dancing fauns and nymphs, of the dryads and their trees, of glorious armies, of men and creatures all like equals, of old Kings and Queens, including some of me, Peter, Susan, Lucy and Caspian; of the wasteland of the lantern, and the most beautiful painting of the Great Lion, Aslan. He looked magnificent with his golden mane and wise gaze.

I looked at his painting intently as I remembered the first time I met him, I could still hear his valuable words ringing in my ears, words I would never forget.

I remembered all the times he sent us here, to Narnia. The first one to saved it from the White Witch, the second one to return freedom and the reign to the right person, Caspian; then to help Caspian to find the lost lords, next he sent Eustace and Jill to save Rilian; and now he sends us here along with two more strangers to help Narnia against the calormens when we shouldn't be here, nor me, nor my brother and sisters, we weren't supposed to come back.

I sight in frustration and turned to leave the room when I felt a warm breeze. I turned quickly. I was sure I hadn't seen any windows in this room. I looked around carefully and sure enough there weren't any windows.

Then my gaze set on the Great Lion's painting. I couldn't look away or move my feet, I was like glued to the floor. I looked deeply in those wise eyes and I was sure he was holding my gaze. A twinkle shone on his painted eyes.

Carefully I touched the painting. "we are going to help them. Narnia won't fall. We won't fail these people. I won't fail you" I promised. Then I stood there in shock. The lion in the painting shook his mane and open his mouth his breath hit me right in the face. I closed my eyes tight and opened them again. The twinkle in its eyes was gone and the painting was still again but I was sure it had happened.

I left the room feeling light.

Soon I found the library in the east wing of the castle, on the third floor, it was huge, shelves covered in books decorated the walls, some coffee tables, desks, chairs and comfortable armchairs were spread across the room in between shelves or in front of the fireplace. A chess game was placed in one of the coffee tables. This would be one of the places I'll visit the most.

As I left the library I saw King Erasmus coming through the hallway. His faced was twitched with concern and a frown; he appeared to be thinking hard. Dark circles under his eyes. But as he raised his head and saw me he smiled broadly, like a father with his child.

"Edmund!" he said surprised giving me a clap on the back, "Good morning! What are you doing so early?"

"Just walking" I answered with a smile of my one and shrugging my shoulders. "Sleepless night?"

"Yes, I guess you could say so" he said with a tired voice.

We resume walking down the hall. I saw Erasmus was scratching his chin deep in thought and I started getting curious of his attitude.

"Is everything alright?" I asked him.

"What?" he looked quite surprised by my question.

"I meant, if everything is alright, did something happen? You have that serious face…"

"Oh! Yes, well, too much to process. So much I am trying to understand through the last few months. I am just worried" he looked at me warily and I nodded my head knowingly. He continue "And then there's the prisoner, a healer was with him yesterday taking care of his wound, but he is reluctant to talk, Diácano was with him the whole night but still no progress unfortunately"

I nodded my head in understanding. We kept walking in silence for a while.

"Do you think he will talk?" he asked suddenly.

"I don't know. But we will figure this all out" I said sincerely.

He sighed and then smile to me. "Today I'd like to have a council with you and your siblings. I wish for your advice, to be honest I feel kind of lost here." He looked at me hopefully and then quickly added "If it's alright with you, of course, I don't want to pressure you, I know it's been a little too much since you came back"

"By all means, yes, don't worry, we will meet you at the council. We are glad to be helping you." I reassure him.

Erasmus gave me half-smile and we kept walking making small conversation. He showed me around the "new" Cair Paravel, the royal chambers were at the east wing, while the guest's chambers were on the west wing, all chambers were on the second floor while the paintings room, library, council room, the King's studio and other sparcing rooms were on the first floor. The kitchens, the thrones' hall, and the dining room were on ground floor.

"Fancy some breakfast?" asked Erasmus gesturing to the dining room.

"Do you have to ask?" I replied with a smirk.

We greeted the fauns posted at the doors and walked past them into the dining room. As we entered Erasmus opened his arms wide and jovially spoke to someone. "Good morning Anne! You sure are an early bird"

A young lady was seated at the table, already with a cup between her fingers. She looked up and gave him a small smile. I observed her quietly until I realized, she had taken care of my arm the night before on the infirmary.

"Dear, may I introduce to King Edmund?"

I stepped forward and offered her my hand to shake, she took it with hesitation.

"A pleasure to formally meet you, your Maj-"

"Edmund, just Edmund" I corrected her. "And it is a pleasure to meet you too Anne"

"How's your arm?" she asked pointing at my bandaged arm.

"It's great actually, it doesn't even hurt that much. Thank you" Really, the wound was excellent, the inflammation was gone and the pain was barely there.

"Anne has a unique talent for herbs. She's been taught by the centaurs themselves" he was looking fondly at her, like a proud father. She blushed and dismissed him with a hand movement.

"Well, that's quite impressive. Centaurs don't teach just anyone" I told her sincerely. Centaurs are rather misgiving with their knowledge.

"Told you" said Erasmus with a pointed look "well, let's have breakfast, shall we? A long day is ahead of us".

A short time after Queen Calantha made an entrance and soon one by one the rest came down to share a very fresh breakfast.

"As I was telling earlier to Edmund" Erasmus said in between bites "I am holding a council in the evening and I would really appreciate if you were there. If it's not too much to ask of you. I am looking forward to hearing suggestions from experienced people"

"Of course, we'll be there" Peter assured him to which Susan and Lucy agreed nodding their heads with solemn smiles. Although Susan's smile didn't reach her eyes. I made a mental note to talk to her later, she's worrying me.

"I would like to see the prisoner first Erasmus" he looked surprised at my request but complied anyways.

I was curious, given the fact that he was so reluctant to talk it was worth the try.

After breakfast I went down to the dungeons accompanied by Diácano and two wolves, part of the King's personal guard. They were slender and powerfully built creatures, a little bigger than an average wolf probably, and with large yellow eyes. Big and heavy teeth adorned their mouths. Accalia, a she-wolf, had black shiny fur, less massive than his partner, Amaruq,a huge grey wolf, his fur was dense a looked quite fluffy.

In spite of being talking creatures they preferred to walked around the castle in a menacing silence. Their eyes warily taking in their surroundings.

We descended the last flight of stairs leading to the dungeons and we met Bavra, the faun, on guard. He nervously bowed at me and quickly open the iron door. I could hear Amaruq grunting under his breath when he walked past Bavra who visibly shivered and suck on his breath.

·Stop that" Accalia reprimanded him.

Amaruq was shaking with quite laughter while Diácano and I grinned at him. We came to a top at a dark cell. It was very silent and through dark a bulk was visible on the floor.

"Get up" I commanded the prisoner with a loud and strong voice.

Nothing.

"Haven't you heard the King? Get. Up." demanded Diácano nearing the bars of the cell. Nothing. He looked back at me.

"Open the cell" I told him.

He quickly turn and galloped back to Bavra in search of the keys. I approached the cell with my hand on the bars, I tried to look past the darkness but it was impossible, so I grabbed the torch from the wall and illuminated with its dim fire the cell. Effectively the man was lying on the floor and he wasn't moving. At all. Besides me Amaruq and Accalia were grunting leaning over the cell, their tail up and active. They glanced at me worried.

Hearing the sound of hooves on the stone floor we withdraw to let Diácano open the cell and soon I was standing besides the prisoner. I passed the torch to Diácano as I squatted in front of him.

"Your Majesty, should I call a healer?" asked Bavra from his spot on the cell door.

"It's too late. He is already dead" I stated making him gasp.

The man's eyes were wide open, his skin pale, violet spots beginning to appear on it, his hand cold.

Accalia approached and started smelling the body and as she near his stomach she scrunched up her nose shaking her head. "Poison" she confirmed.

Carefully I lifted his shirt to reveal a cut on his abdomen, it was a thin line, not even deep but it's outline was black, as if rotten.

Directing towards Amaruq I ordered him "Find King Erasmus. Do not talk to anybody on your way there. Tell him to summon the council now, we can not wait any longer"

Nodding his head the grey wolf took off. I then turned to Diácano, his face expressed the same worry I felt.

We had a traitor in the castle.

(End of Edmund's POV)

[enchantedxrose]

The Monster of West End: Chapter Three A Beauty and the Beast retelling set in 1837 London

The “Beauty” of this story is a young seamstress desperate for work to pay off her father’s debts. Her new employer, though Beastly in appearance, is coldly tolerated by society because he has money and status. She is quickly charmed by his warm heart and sense of humor, but his monstrous form isn’t the only obstacle to their budding relationship.

Mrs. Hutchinson led Viola up the servants’ staircase to a small garret bedroom at the top of the house.

“The upper-servants sleep on the upper floors,” she explained over her shoulder, “but I daresay the rooms off the kitchen for the cook and scullery maid are more comfortable. It gets rather drafty up here in the winter and stuffy in the summer.”

Viola surveyed the room with a satisfied sigh. It had creaky floorboards and a low sloping ceiling. The utilitarian furnishings consisted of a nightstand and a brass bed. 

“I think this will do very nicely for me,” she told Mrs. Hutchinson without a trace of irony.

The housekeeper raised her eyebrows at Viola’s enthusiasm. “If you say so,” she muttered.

Viola did not pay Mrs. Hutchinson’s skepticism any heed. This room boasted one enormous advantage over her ten-square foot cell in the Marshalsea: a large window with a view. 

The single narrow window in their Marshalsea ‘apartment’ faced only the discolored bricks of the prison wall. She could not see the sky, nor even the iron spikes atop the wall to deter escape artists. Her only occasional splash of color came from the laundry hanging on the line, the grey chemises that had once been white. There was nothing green to be seen all summer, save the bare spindly weeds between the paving-stones. They were on the second of four stories in their prison complex, and there was another building directly behind them, so that Viola felt constantly closed in by bricks on all sides.  

Even when she was permitted to step outside the gates, the Marshalsea was always creeping up behind her, and she could not escape its shadow. Always trapped.

But here, in Mr. Carlyle’s house, she could breathe. She could see the slate-grey overcast sky above the rooftops; she could look down and see trees lining the cobblestone street, their branches glazed with frost. She could open the window and feel the fresh sting of the winter air.

Guilt gnawed on her, in the background of these hopeful observations, try though she might to wave it away. Was it so wrong of her, to want to leave her miserable circumstances behind? Was it selfish of her to escape like this, when she could not yet bring her father with her? 

“Breakfast in the servants’ hall is served promptly at seven o’clock,” the housekeeper announced, abruptly cutting off Viola’s musing. “If you wish for a hot meal, do not be late.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hutchinson,” she replied with feeling, undeterred by her coworker’s sharp tone. “Before you retire, I just wanted to tell you how grateful I am for the opportunity you and Mr. Carlyle are giving me. I hope to prove myself worthy of his trust.”

The words were more deferential than she truly felt, but Viola could sense that Mrs. Hutchinson was suspicious of her in some way, and she wanted to be on better terms with her if they were to be working in close quarters. The housekeeper’s pursed lips relaxed a fraction as she continued to study Viola with that critical, piercing gaze.

“Mr. Carlyle has a partiality for waifs and strays,” Mrs. Hutchinson said at last in a clipped voice. “I need not explain why he feels a…kinship with those that society looks down upon. Therefore, it is incumbent on me to protect him from those that would take advantage of his sympathies.”

“I understand,” Viola said, swallowing hard.

“Do you?”

Of course she did. Viola had lost plenty of sleep over her too-trusting father over the years. But she decided to hold her tongue.

Once alone, Viola rapidly undressed to her chemise. The earlier she retired for bed, the earlier she could rise and return to her father. 

She caught her reflection out of the corner of her eye and winced. She had no looking-glass in her cramped quarters at the Marshalsea and usually made do with checking her appearance in the reflection on the single windowpane—an image that was indistinct at best. But the garret room had a large oval mirror propped on the nightstand and she was face-to-face with herself. 

Was she really that ashen-faced, or was it just the layer of dust over the mirror? Her linen shift hung so loosely on her, exposing a prominent collarbone and bony shoulder. The shadows were deep under her dark brown eyes.

Ugh, I look like a street urchin with consumption, she thought. No wonder Mr. Carlyle took pity on me tonight.

Viola had a rather square jaw set on a long, slender neck, which automatically gave her a waiflike appearance at the best of times—and now was decidedly not the best of times. Her hair was wispy and flaxen and did whatever it pleased. 

She set the mirror face down.

The nightstand, she was pleased to discover, had been prepared for her stay: not only was there fresh water in the pitcher and a clean towel, but also a small cake of soap and a jar of tooth powder. She poured out a little water into the basin to wash her face, but found herself overcome. She had to brace herself on the nightstand and take a few deep breaths to swallow down a sob of incredulous relief.

The water was so clear and clean. It did not reek of rust. When was the last time she had used water without boiling it first? She couldn’t recall.

The garret room was chilly, as it had no fireplace, but when Viola pulled back the covers of the bed, she found a bed-warmer full of smoldering coals, which made the sheets invitingly warm. Exhausted and grateful, she fell asleep within minutes.

Viola went back to the Marshalsea early the next morning, to fetch her meager belongings and kiss her father goodbye. She was not expecting the scene she stepped into.

By the single narrow, grimy window stood Mr. Weston. Hardship had aged him prematurely—his hair was a solid iron grey, and sparse at the temples—and cataracts had taken almost all of his sight from him. He was speaking softly to his eldest daughter, Miranda, and had his hands soothingly upon her shoulders. 

While Viola had inherited their father’s slight frame, Miranda took after their mother with her tall, commanding figure, made all the more striking by her wide straw bonnet and puffed gigot sleeves.

At the sound of Viola’s entrance, they both looked up—Mr. Weston’s face brightening with relief, Miranda’s contorting with outrage.

“Oh my dear, we have been so worried,” he said.

Miranda glowered at her. “Where have you been, Vi? We have been scouring the city for you. I hope you have a good explanation.”

Viola presumed the ‘we’ in this case meant Miranda and her husband Eustace, given that their father was not allowed further than the courtyard outside.

“I told the gatekeeper to send word that I’d gone back to Mr. Carlyle’s house for the night, because I missed the bell. Did he forget to pass along the message?”

Mr. Weston raised an eyebrow at Miranda. “There, now, what have I been telling you? I knew there must be a simple explanation—”

Unfortunately for him, Mr. Weston was much more softly spoken than his daughters and easily faded into the background during impassioned discussions. Miranda acted as if she had not heard him.

“Who in heaven’s name is Mr. Carlyle, and what do you mean by staying at his house?”

Viola took a deep breath to calm her temper. “He’s my employer, as of yesterday. I’m to serve in his household as a seamstress. I’m sorry to have caused such a fuss, but I thought you would know where I was.”

“We were about to start dragging the Thames for your lifeless body!” Miranda snapped. “For all we knew, you were frozen to death in the storm.”

Viola rolled her eyes. Her elder sister had once fancied herself a great actress, and even now always seemed to be auditioning for a Greek drama.

Miranda continued, gesturing to her heavily pregnant figure, “And I really ought not to be distressing myself so, not in my current condition.”

“I never asked you to distress yourself about me!”

“Well apparently someone has to, or you’ll gallivant about the city, staying at the houses of strange men!”

Before Viola could muster an angry retort, their father intervened.

“That’s quite enough from both of you,” he said, a note of pleading in his tone. “The important thing is that Viola is, in fact, safe and all is well. There is no need to quarrel over what is already past.”

He stood between the sisters for a long moment, waiting for their petty anger to deflate. Viola’s cheeks burned; their father had a way of making them feel like children caught misbehaving.

“I’m sorry for causing you to worry,” Viola said grudgingly. “It wasn’t my intention.”

“I’m sorry for getting so cross about it,” Miranda mumbled, picking at a loose thread on her coat.

“There, now,” Mr. Weston said briskly. “Was that so terribly painful?”

The sisters avoided each other’s eyes. Mr. Weston ignored their sullen silence and carried on as if the quarrel had never taken place.

“So, Viola, I take it you have accepted the position you interviewed for. Tell me about the house. Where does your employer live?”

“Near Covent Garden.”

“Oh dear.” Mr. Weston wrung his hands, troubled. “Is that a suitable neighborhood for you to be walking by yourself? It’s got rather an unsavory reputation.”

“That was true in your day, Papa,” said Miranda, “but it’s changed a good deal in recent years. They’ve rebuilt most of the houses. Now it’s considered quite a fashionable place to live.”

“Ah.”

Viola’s heart twisted painfully. Their father had been locked away for so long, and London was rapidly changing without him—when he was finally at liberty to walk the streets again, would he even recognize it? 

“I’ll return every Sunday afternoon for dinner,” she promised him. “Mr. Carlyle has given me leave to visit you the entire day.”

Miranda cut in sharply. “You mean to say this will be a live-in position? How can you leave our father alone all week? How is he to manage by himself?”

Viola felt a renewed flicker of annoyance. Their father was still quite capable and independent; he did not deserve to be treated like a child or like a doddering old fool. But before she could speak up for him, he did it himself.

“Miranda, my dear,” he soothed her, “I may be blind as a bat, but I am not hopelessly infirm. I know this apartment well enough to get about without stumbling.”

Viola squeezed his hand. “Just promise me that you will ask Mr. Wilkins down the hall to help you light the stove fire in the mornings. I’m sure he won’t object.”

“I promise. I do still have some sense, after all.” He gave her a wry smile.

As Viola predicted, Miranda seemed mollified at the notion of his fellow-inmates checking in on him daily. “Well,” she said briskly, “it seems I am overruled. Gather your things, Vi. Eustace and I can take you in the cab. You are not walking all that way carrying luggage.”

Viola had few personal belongings worth bringing; they fit neatly into a single carpetbag. She owned exactly three dresses at present: two sturdy, practical wool dresses of brown and navy blue, and one finer black gown reserved for holidays and funerals. She didn’t like wearing dark colors, but they lasted much longer against wear and tear and stains. A working woman ought not to wear pink or yellow, if she was at all sensible. 

The dour colors did make her look so grim and severe, she reflected morosely. She dreamed of a day when she had spare money enough for a gown pale as springtime, in rosebud or lilac or buttercup. What a luxury that would be!

Underneath the faded chemises and shabby stockings, she tucked her one real treasure: a well-worn collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets, in the margins of which her mother had scribbled her own annotations.

In farewell, Viola took both her father’s hands and kissed them. “I don’t want you to worry about me, Father. This is going to be good for our family, I promise.”

“I know that, my dear,” he said gently. “It’s been clear to me for a long time that you would have to forge your own path.” He leaned over to murmur in her ear, soft enough that Miranda was unlikely to hear. “Try to have a little more patience with your sister. She’s only looking out for you.”

Even though he could not see Viola purse her lips, he must have heard the irritation in her sigh.

“Viola,” he chided. “Be kind to your sister. For my sake, if for no other reason.”

“I’ll try. And now I really must be going; Mr. Carlyle expects my return before noon.”

[trulycertain]

Reprise (10/10)

Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four | Part five | Part six | Part seven | Part eight | Part nine

This is by far the sappiest thing I’ve written, but after nearly 40k of angst, I figured anyone reading this deserved some balance. It’s been quite a ride.

x. the bravest thing

In the space between one moment and another, Dorian realises he’s awake, and… Ah.

He swiftly changes his mind as he feels the warmth next to him, glances at the scarred hand resting on his chest. He’s had this dream before.

He gives a mental sigh and wonders whether to try to shake it off, but… just a few moments more. It’ll hurt more, in the end, but the end is later, and for now he shuts his eyes, fuzzily shifts towards that warmth and tucks his face against a broad shoulder, next to a stubbled cheek. He’d be embarrassed if he were truly awake, but he’s still on the edge of the Fade and Gal really is warm. Halfway to a beard, he thinks, and wonders if there’s been no-one to tell Gal to shave since the debacle of the last beard-attempt.

He realises after a moment that he’s stuck in a bedroll on rough ground, and that all the hair on Gal’s chin seems to have been stolen from the man’s head. He opens his eyes and thinks that he doesn’t usually dream of being in a damp cave with a short-haired Gal -

Ah, he thinks again.

He shifts backwards as quietly as he can, and takes another look. Then he reaches out in the half-light, making sure his mind’s not deceiving him.  

He runs a hand over one of those too-gaunt cheeks, over skin so warm it feels hot in comparison to his half-frozen hands, and follows the tattoos. He touches his thumb to that soft, ink-lined lower lip – remembers kissing it and saying he’d take Gal with him to the Imperium, saying I love you as if he hadn’t been holding the words back for days, years – before tracing over Gal’s jaw. It certainly feels real enough, but he’s… just checking. Mages have very strong dreams. Of course. He remembers doing the same years ago, when this was new and fragile and they hadn’t told the others, and managing to wake Gal up with his sentimental stupidity -

Gal grins without opening his eyes, and mumbles, “Promise I will.”

“I’m sorry?” he says before he can stop himself, fingers pausing. Before, he would have snatched his hand away, doubtful such unnecessary lingering would be appreciated. Ashamed, perhaps, of behaving like some lovesick apprentice.

“Shave. When we get back. Know your feelings on beards.”

To his credit, he recovers fast. “Less beards in general, more yours. Not that you have to, if you think it would make you look more Inquisitorial. I’m sure Skyhold could do with some entertainment.”

“From you.” Gal says it pointedly, even when it’s a half-asleep grumble.

“What’s that meant to mean?” He should be offended, but he’s fighting a smile.

“Look like some Tevinter villain from the books.”

He definitely shouldn’t be grinning at that, but he suspects... “I do, do I?”

Gal turns his head and mumbles irritatedly into the blankets, “Sexy… villain.” And there it is.

He’s always liked Gal half-asleep. Oddly talkative and honest, and… softer around the edges. Gentler, more real. Also rather complimentary, it seems.

“You’re pretending not to laugh at me. Can tell.”

“Oh no, there’s no pretending. It’s more outright mockery.”

Gal cracks an eye open and then reaches for him.

He’s considering whether to play at resistance, but then there’s laughter against his throat and Gal’s pressing scratchy kisses there, pulling him closer. He manages, “There will be questions if I come back with beard burn.”

Gal barely pauses. “Fuck questions. They know the answers. Had to put up with us for years.”

“True,” he laughs, and it comes out slightly rougher and more distracted than he intended. “But even – ah – even so… Damn.” Outside, there’s a sound of falling water. “There goes the rain ward,” he sighs. “You’ve probably just soaked the horses.”

Gal stops and looks towards the entrance. “I got your focus that badly?” he asks in surprise, even as he unwinds himself and lets Dorian go.

“It’s been some time,” is all Dorian says, and then he ducks out to check the damage and relay the ward in just breeches, wincing at cold rock on his feet. Still better than the Mire, and the ground isn’t too bad here. He isn’t going to hop undignifiedly, not when he can feel Gal watching him.

“Well,” he says afterwards, returning and dusting off his hands, “the good news is that only part of the spell failed, so most of the water went on a few trees, and Eustace isn’t going to spend all morning trying to kick me.”

“Good,” Gal says from where he’s sitting by the fire, stirring…. what looks like some sort of broth. It might be edible, at least. He looks up, and one of those quiet, surprised smiles steals across his face. “I was wondering,” Gal says softly.

Dorian squints at him, still trying to think through the remains of sleep and the warm contentment in his chest. Casting has woken him up a bit, but not entirely. “Hm?”

“When you came back, I wondered if your hair still looked lightning-struck in the mornings, now it was longer. Got an answer.”

Dorian snorts. “Oddly, after that night I ambushed you, one of my first thoughts was that I’d… really missed your sex hair.”

With a sly, sidethrown grin, Gal says, “You can see it any time you like.”

Dorian swallows. “And if we didn’t have a journey ahead of us, I might take you up on that.”

Gal raises a brow. “Not that long.”

“Come now, if there’s that much of a delay they’ll all wonder if the dread magister’s kidnapped you.”

“No they won’t.”

Dorian sits next to Gal, thinks of the all the salutes and the kitchen-boy. “No,” he sighs, “perhaps they won’t. Gal - “

Suddenly those very blue, unlined eyes are on him, bright and curious under a mop of terribly-cut hair. The weight of such focus is startling.

“It meant something to me too, that night.” He looks to the fire, his heart in his throat. “It wasn’t just the sex I missed. That would have been too easy.” He snorts humourlessly. “But as I said... I thought you might feel differently.” His words fail him, and he grits his teeth.

“You thought that little of me?” Gal’s voice isn’t angry, but there’s more than a little hurt there.

“And you thought I’d used and discarded you like some sort of rag. No. I lied. I wanted to be with you, for however long I could. Even if that wasn’t long at all. I wanted to remember. And if nothing else, at least you’d get some pleasure out of my idiocy. I thought that if I kept my… little problem to myself, things would be simpler. I thought it was just me, you see.”

“Why did you run?”

“Fear. Don’t you remember that?” He laughs, and it’s far too bitter. “Or have you forgotten the idiot Vint who thought he’d be a quick fuck and then it would be over?”

Gal swallows. “But that was years ago. We hadn’t – after, you knew we were - “

Dorian scrapes his hand through his hair. “I didn’t know what we were. I ceased to know when the man who’d said he loved me left me.” He sees Gal look away at that. “And you were still… you. Kaffas, that was the worst part. I knew almost the moment I arrived that this thing between us was still there. And I’d let myself slip, I’d gone and called you my bloody...”

“Beloved,” Gal finishes, softly.

“Yes. That.”

Dorian feels a hand slip into his. Gal squeezes gently before letting go, attending to what might be soup but stands an equal chance of being stew, down here.

“Because I did,” he says quietly before his nerve deserts him, not intending for Gal to hear it. Somehow these things are harder in the morning light. “I do.”

“Same,” Gal says, surprising him into looking up.

He loses his nerve, and looks to their packs. “Please tell me there’s something more than oats in that bag. I’m not sure I can stand another night of Fereldan porridge. You haven’t already managed to eat those pies?”

“Only the one he threw at us,” Gal says, looking back to the... stewp with a smile on his face.

The ride seems both faster and slower than yesterday’s. The time passes quickly with fewer awkward silences and no anger between them, but more slowly when Gal keeps glancing at him and barely pretending not to, and he wants to stop and have this, truly have this, and bask in it being returned to him. While he still can.

Somewhere along the way – possibly when they hit the outskirts – Dorian realises they’re making good time. No, better than good.

Gal must have reached the same conclusion. He pulls closer and says, “I think we might get to Skyhold today. If we do it in one?”

Dorian raises a brow, even with something uncomfortably like fear rising in his chest. “Excepting calls of nature.”

With a shake of his head and a half-grin, Gal says, “We can stop for those.”

Dorian makes a decent attempt at smiling back, and then they keep moving. But over the hours, especially as the Hinterlands give way to the Frostbacks and the temperature drops sharply, it feels like something has reached his heart and is squeezing it tightly. He thinks of returning to Skyhold and explaining… this, and he thinks of his words in the cave, hasty and… honest. Perhaps too honest, expecting too much. They’ve spent nearly two years apart, after all. It might be that they’re out of practise at this relationship thing. Too much to get it back.

He says he loves you, a blunt voice in the back of his mind says. It sounds a lot like Gal.

He’d nearly died, he retorts.

Some time after Skyhold comes over the horizon, he realises that Gal is watching him. He wonders if he can get away with saying it’s just boredom, and then Gal speaks. “You’ve been quiet.”

“It happens. Frightening, I know.”

Gal looks at him quizzically, and then follows his gaze to where Skyhold looms large ahead of them. He looks back to Dorian, still frowning, but the truth seems to be dawning on him.

Dorian steels himself. “We need to talk.”

Gal raises a brow, but they’re soon stopping the ride and dismounting.

Dorian says bluntly, “I won’t hold you to it. You’d just been kidnapped, and I’d ridden for nearly three days without sleep. What happened in those caves, the things we said… I’m perfectly willing to forget about them, but you need to tell me now. So we can get this over with.”

Gal just stares at him. “Is that what you want? To forget?”

Dorian sighs. “I’m evidently not making myself clear. No, I don’t want to, but I can’t do this again, and I’m not going to stand here and try and read your mind, because look where it got us last time.”

“You don’t have to,” Gal says.

“Then what are you thinking?“

He’s answered by the kiss, and then all thoughts except yes have fled his head. Somehow, he doubts what he was going to say was all that important anyway. He falls into it, sighing against Gal’s mouth and ignoring the stubble from a few days of riding, tilting his head to deepen it. Gal’s hand creeps to his collar to pull him closer, and it’s… pointed, a promise. Gal presses long, slow kisses to his mouth, not quite bruising but on the edge of it, and clings to him. He forgets the snow and the coldness of their skin under the searing heat of it.

Gal breaks away with a gasp for breath. Dorian allows it, tries to breathe himself, and then pulls Gal back to respond properly.

“Amatus,” he murmurs against that familiar mouth, and wonders why it feels so much like a claim. Wonders why he feels Gal smile and then kiss him harder. (He knows.)

Gal’s panting and flushed by the time he pulls away. “I don’t want to forget. I told you. For as long as you want me, you have me.”

“Unless something goes and kills you.” His wryness is undercut by the slight hint of breathlessness. “Or me.”

“True. But until then, you have me.” That calloused, gauntleted hand folds around his, and then Gal kisses his knuckles, unbothered by cold leather. By Gal’s standards, it’s almost done with a flourish. “And I’ll tell anyone you want. They’ll laugh at me for being a bloody idiot until now, but I’ll tell them. I love you. I really, really love you.”

Dorian stares at the darkness of Gal’s eyes and the disbelieving, wonderstruck look on his face, and believes it. “I know.” He shivers. “And I’d like to discuss that further, but we should really get moving before we freeze.”

Gal half-smiles. “Least you’ve got the hair now. Better for your ears.”

He shakes his head and casts the simplest warmth spell on himself and on Gal, and if he spends a little too long with his hands on Gal’s cheeks, channeling the spell… well, he’s always been a thorough caster. It makes Gal laugh and duck his head, anyway, and that alone renders the expenditure of mana worth it.

They end up walking back to the horses hand-in-hand like foolish teenagers, and Gal seems reluctant to let him go.

He knows the feeling.

They hear the call go up as they’re entering the gates, and somewhere, a horn is blown. Not two minutes later, Cullen and Josephine are interrupting them in the stables. He half-expects to see the new Divine with them, too, just like the old days. Instead, they’re followed by Mae, who watches them with curiosity and more than a little shrewdness.

“You’ve survived,” Cullen says, with the hint of a smile.

He just grins, not even trying for subtlety. “Yes. Bad habit of ours.”

Cullen’s gaze shifts to Gal; he straightens slightly, looking like he wants to salute. “Herald.”

Gal must be in a good mood, because that doesn’t even get a wince from him. He steps back from Chev and says with a tone of pleasant surprise, “Cullen. Who called you here?”

Josephine clears her throat.

Gal beams at the sight of her, and then she’s making a small, surprised noise at the hug she receives – surprised, but not displeased. After the second of surprise, she appears to squeeze back just as enthusiastically. She’s deceptively strong, for a diplomat. She steps back with another clearing of her throat, flushing slightly, and says, “It is… very good to see you.”

Gal just keeps beaming ridiculously. “And you.” His eyes stray to Mae, then, and he offers a stiff nod, probably due to the sharp, sceptical look he’s receiving. “Magister Tilani.”

“Ser Trevelyan.” Mae’s face becomes considerably less… magister-y as she looks to Dorian; it’s astonishing how quickly it becomes cold when she looks to Gal.  “Lucia told me everything. The talk of a second base was to mislead us?”

Gal nods. “It was bait. I’d say still worth checking, but… suspect we won’t find much.”

Mae pauses, and then says, “I’m glad you’re alive, by the way.” Then she looks straight into Dorian’s eyes, adds, “And I’m glad you didn’t get yourself killed looking for him.”

“I am too,” Gal says, very quietly.

Mae gives him a brief, appraising look, and then those sharp eyes are trained on Dorian again. “I’m told the return journey took some time.” She tilts her head expectantly.

“Fereldan weather,” Dorian says, the words carefully smooth. “You know how it is.”

Mae narrows her perfectly-lined eyes. Shrewdness becomes her – makes her look more like the magister she is – even if it’s rather inconvenient. “Yes,” she says, and the word’s too long, too pointed. “I do.”

“As said, long journey. I should at least get out of these leathers. And our dear not-Inquisitor probably needs has things he needs to resolve, too.” He starts to walk past them, then – always keep moving, it means they can’t snare you, something he’s learned all too well from the Senate - and feels Gal fall into step with him. Gal’s carefully not looking at him.

He feels it again, that pull; the way it would be so easy to just slip closer, to bump shoulders with Gal, to lean into his space with that old, easy intimacy. Maker, only days, and it’s already like they’re -

There’s a low mutter behind them, and then: “In the war room, in half an hour?” Cullen calls.

Gal turns and calls back, “I’ll be there.”

Dorian throws over his shoulder, with a sigh, “If I must.”

Gal breaks, and glances at him, finally. Even with that careful Chantry control and that unreadable expression, Gal’s eyes can’t lie. They feel like brands on his skin: too honest, and too affectionate, and there’s the weight of enough emotion in them that it renders him speechless.

He just smiles. There’s a shake in it, but not through lack of honesty. He is. Happy, that is. In fact, there are so many things he wants to say he thinks he might burst with them. That’s the problem. The words and deeds are in the air, waiting.

They part when they reach Skyhold’s all-but-deserted main hall – or start to. He reaches out, unable to help himself, and takes Gal’s hand. Perhaps to check it’s real; that any of this is. He does it gently, thinking that Gal might not notice, and he’s uncertain he’ll be brave enough to make a point of anything.

But Gal pauses, and looks at him with that pleased, curious warmth.

He raises Gal’s hand and presses a kiss to it where the leather ends, quick but gentle, returning the gesture from the cave. A dose of Gal’s own medicine.

Gal’s face lights up, and that smile… Dorian thinks again of a Chantry, and those first uncertain days in Haven. Remembers waking up with a wild-haired, affectionate man who seemed too fascinated by him to even notice the rising sun. Yes, he remembers this.

It feels almost like he never left.

Parting is an ache, but they really do have things to do. And it’s far less painful when he knows he’ll be returning, this time, and soon.

After a bath and sorting out his equipment, Gal heads to the debriefing. He ends up trudging away, exhausted – but he’s trying not to smile. They didn’t lose anyone, and he spent most of the meeting trying not to grin like an idiot. He detached the metal arm the minute he ended up at his quarters, but on his flesh-and-blood hand, he can still feel the faded echo of a kiss.

He wants to touch Dorian so much it hurts. He wants to remember what it feels like to have fascinated words in his ear and an arm round his waist, or socked feet in his lap and the sound of turning pages. He wants… Fuck, he wants everything. He hears the sweep of robes and smells the hint of hair-oil, some way behind him, and he thinks of turning and taking Dorian aside -

“Galahad!”

He turns to his left, and the harried look on Josephine’s face as she catches up to him makes his heart sink. She says, “There’s the matter of Emerius. You may judge him later, if you like, but he has been locked in the cells for two days. Perhaps...”

There’s a sigh, and then Dorian’s next to them, too. “Much as I’d like to kill him for what he did to you… The man’s lost enough. Does it have to be his life as well?”

Gal frowns. “You know I don’t do that unless I have to.”

“Exactly. I hoped you might have a better thought.”

Gal considers it. “I do.” He looks to Josephine. “Prepare him for judgement?”

She smiles slightly, and bows her head. “Of course, Inq – Lord Trevelyan.”

“Thank you.”

She knows the routine. So does he. He ends up going back to his quarters, pulling on the old uniform, only leaving off the old Inquisitor’s sash. He touches it briefly, remembering the first time he wore it; remembering terror and a hole in the sky but a castle full of his old friends. It’s been a long time since he’s done it. He smears war paint across the bridge of his nose, and feels his fingers shake. He clears his mind, remembering Knight-Lieutenant Hayden’s instruction, until all that fills it is a bright light and… clarity.

Behind him the door closes, and a low, warm voice says, “Ah, I’ve missed that.”

With that, the clarity’s gone, but he doesn’t miss it much.

“I think it’s the epaulettes. They do good things for your shoulders.” A pause. “But now I think about it, those don’t need much by way of ornamentation. They should probably be illegal.”

“Dorian...” he says, turning.

For a second, Dorian just… looks at him, with that sharp focus. Like he’s trying to memorise this, or spot the differences. Then he speaks. “Welcome back, Inquisitor.”

“Retired,” Gal says, but it doesn’t come out strong or convincing.

Dorian reaches up and hesitates, but only for half a moment, before he touches Gal’s brow. Smears the paint a little further. “No, I think you’ll always be that. Much like I’ll always be a Pavus. Titles, they… cling. No matter how much we try to make things otherwise. But it suits you. Always has.”

Gal doesn’t quite know how to answer that. “Think I prefer it to Trevelyan.” He swallows. “Why are you here?”

“I came to ask what your thought was.”

“I wondered if you could use an informant.”

Dorian grins, and it’s all teeth and the brightness of Magisterium daggers. “Always. Particularly one who’s studied time magic.”

Gal smiles back. “Hoped you might say that.”

“Good luck, amatus.” Dorian looks a little surprised in the second before he hides it, like the word just slipped out. “Find me afterwards, if you’ve a mind. Unless you need to collapse and catch up on your sleep.”

“Always got time for you,” Gal says.

He watches it dawn on Dorian’s face. Dorian’s eyes are bright, and he smiles without that bitter edge to it, and without the fear. “Stop that. The Inquisitor can’t be sentimental.” The words are belied by the way he leans forwards and takes a kiss, with a sigh. “Go on.”

They leave together, and Dorian heads to the undercroft while Gal takes to the great hall.

Gal sits on the throne, and then Emerius is hauled out in front of him, and Gal remembers again why he hated this job.

Emerius is dull-eyed and exhausted, and looks like a man who’s lost everything. When he’s elbowed by the guards, he finally speaks. “Whatever it is, just… get it over with.”

Gal says, “I will. You need to serve the country you wronged. Maron Flavius Emerius… When the Lucerni leave, you’re leaving with them. As one of their informants.”

Emerius just looks at him, with that same hollow-eyedness. “With the vulgati pretenders. I suppose it’s what I deserve.” His voice is flat, too. He sounds like a man with one foot in the grave. It’s as Emerius is being hauled away that he says, “There’s… there’s something...”

Gal signals to the guards to stop, and they do.

Emerius looks back. “My son’s other killer…  does he love you? Truly love you? Was it worth saving him from me?”

Gal blinks at that, and says the only truth that comes into his head. “Always.”

He watches as Emerius is led off, and tries not to think of the man’s eyes.

Afterwards, he stumbles off the throne and out of the hall, wondering why that answer was so easy. He tries not to yawn, and runs his hand through his hair. It catches on the band. He unties it frustratedly, then keeps walking, knowing he looks like he’s just come from a fight.

He only knows where he’s going when he’s climbing the library steps.

In a less embellished armchair than the old one, leaning slightly against the Tevinter History section with a book in his lap, is a familiar figure. The long hair is different, and so is seeing him here in simple clothes rather than leathers, but it’s all becoming familiar. Only a few days and that’s already setting in.

Dorian looks up instantly at the sound of his steps, and smiles. “A sight for sore eyes. But a tired one, I think.”

Gal opens his mouth. Closes it again. Tries to think through the tightness in his chest and the words he should be saying and the wanting this every day.

Dorian raises a brow. “The goldfish impression should detract from the handsomeness, but really...”

Swallowing, Gal says, “Come to bed with me.”

Dorian smirks. “As if you have to ask.”

Gal sighs. “I didn’t mean it like…”

“I know,” Dorian says, the smirk softening into something truer, “and my answer’s unchanged.” He closes the book with a final snap, tucking it under his arm, and then they take the stairs together, smiling. Dorian’s arm touches his now and again, and then they try not to grin at each other.

When they get to Gal’s quarters, they shove their boots off. Gal only gets as far as splashing some water on his face, and Dorian throws his boots across the room and shrugs off his shirt, then they crawl under the sheets. Gal knows Dorian’s tired; his hair’s sticking in every direction even while it’s this long, and he hasn’t bothered to correct it.

They end up facing each other, and Gal puts a hand on Dorian’s arm and mumbles, half-asleep, “You’re still here.” He didn’t mean to say it.

“So I am.” Dorian’s voice is soft and certain, and there’s a smile in it.

Gal falls asleep with his fingers on brown skin and a gentle, magic-warmed hand touching his back, steady and pulling him closer.

Dorian makes it a day: a day spent dragging himself away instead of wrapping his arms round Gal and enjoying a lazy morning, grumbling his way to his quarters while ignoring Gal’s grin, and letting the no-longer Inquisitor go about his business instead of sticking to the man like a well-dressed limpet. He thinks that’s pretty good, all things considered. Gal tends to make him painfully obvious about his affections. It’s probably a naive-southerner thing.

Gal’s somewhere across the fortress, wandering about, catching up with Josephine and Cullen and trying to tell them about the Venatori’s setup, or lack of it.

Dorian, meanwhile... He stands in the infirmary, bowl of peeled grapes in hand, peers at Marius and says, “Well, you don’t look dead.”

That gets a laugh from the young magister, even if it’s faint and slightly raw-sounding. “You and Lucia don’t either.” Marius sits in a chair, the head wound no more than a scar that will be magically faded too, in time. The broken ankle that was discovered during his treatment may be more of a bother. He’s returned for a further examination of that mess.

Dorian arrived, got a glimpse of blotchy purple-yellow skin and a truly immense amount of swelling and made impressed noises. Apparently “it’s a fascinating colour” was not useful commentary, or so the healers told him severely before leaving him to it.

“Are those - ?” Marius says, reaching out hopefully.

“No, these are for me. I’ve already graced you with my company.” He pauses. “All right, you can have a few.” He puts them on the table next to Marius’s chair, showing the lie in his words. “I wasn’t here when you were truly recuperating, so I thought I’d...”

“You were with the Inquisitor.” Marius says that while munching on a grape, and Dorian wonders if the preoccupation of food has brought on this sudden frightening confidence.

“I… Yes.”

Marius seems to realise what he’s just said, and looks like he’s trying not to freeze. “He’s… all right?”

“In fine demon-killing fettle, I’d say. He was frightening villagers again by the second day, which I’ll take as a good sign.”

Marius squints. “And you?”

“I’m fine, Marius.” He sighs, and tries not to allow too much of a smile into his voice. “Better than.”

Even under all that hair, Marius’ surprise and suspicion are obvious. He’s prudent enough not to say anything, but…

For once in his life, Dorian thinks his words through. “Some of the things you heard from the Inquisition rumour mill… might have been true.”

“Lucia thought you were...” Marius considers the grapes, brow furrowing, and waves a hand vaguely. “She wasn’t sure it was… a good idea.”

His voice is heavy and cold as stone, even while he’s resigned. “Of course she wasn’t.”

“I think she’s wrong.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow.

“He’s… He loves you. It might be the… He’s from the Marches, things are different there? I don’t… He never hid it. He didn’t say it, but he didn’t… hide it. When we were travelling, he said –  said you’d got better things to do than run after him. That he was glad you had the party.”

At that, Dorian… blinks, and tries not to stare. “He did?”

Marius looks surprised, too. “He said what we were doing was amazing, but… he meant you. He wasn’t even trying to lie about– Is it like that, here? In the south?”

“It’s like that with him.” He doesn’t mean it to sound so quiet, or so horribly earnest.

Marius goes for a grape. “The rumours made it sound… different.”

Dorian sniffs, and curls his lip. “Tawdry.”

Marius shakes his head. “Simple.”

“Knew you’d heard some. The innocent act didn’t fool me for a moment.”

Another shake of that curly head. “Not until after…” Marius scratches at his bandages.

“Stop that, you’ll make me cluck like a Circle healer. Until after what?”

“I shouldn’t have...”

“Marius.”

“I saw a letter you were writing, the first month after we’d held a conference. I didn’t mean to, but I... I wondered who you were calling amatus.”

Kaffas, he remembers that. He remembers trying to squirrel time away to write, remembers feeling like someone was attempting to tear his heart out with every word. He didn’t think anyone had noticed. And he remembers, too, the gentle letter that had apologised, briefly – not saying what for, but they both knew - before wishing him the best with his party. The last he’d received. He kept that for far longer than he wants to admit, until it was crumpled and just starting to yellow, and he could only sometimes bring himself to look at it; usually he’d done that with a glass of wine in hand, spreading the letter on his desk and taking a moment to touch his fingers to that beautifully-rendered Chantry-taught script. It’s still in his luggage, somewhere, beneath the last letter from his father and the sending crystal.

“Well,” he says softly, “now you know.”

After that, the conversation drifts to easier things – Venatori, and annihilating them, so on – but he can tell that Marius is watching him with some curiosity. And smiling slightly, perhaps.

He’ll allow Marius this and not throw night terrors at him. This time.

He spends the rest of the morning reading, and trying to make himself move, so he can pack to go back to the Imperium.

No. Go home. That’s what he meant.

He wants the sound of shifting pages and steady breathing next to him; soft linen over hard muscle, without armour, and Gal catching his eye accidentally and smiling at him. No, in fact he sort of wants to sequester their dear not-Inquisitor away and just… enjoy being not dead for a while. Perhaps - dare he say it – some cuddling. They could pack books, the new Taverner’s out -

He looks up at the sound of Mae’s voice. 

“Not that I’m suggesting that you don’t know what you’re doing...”  Mae sighs, and runs a gloved hand over her face. “All right, I am. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

He narrows his eyes. “Are we talking about what I think we’re talking about?”

“Dabbling with the man who broke your heart? Yes. We are.”

Attempting to keep his voice light, he starts, “Interesting idea you have there. What makes you think...?”

She snorts. “Don’t even try. You light up like a Magisterium chandelier when the two of you are in the same room. I thought you were better-trained than that, but as you said… he isn’t just another noble’s son to you, is he?”

He considers the Imperial History section, and doesn’t look at her. “He never has been.”

“You saw how he handled you leaving last time.”

Dorian tilts his head, conceding that. “That should be less of a problem this time round.”

She just gives him a questioning look.

“He’s coming with me.”

Her eyebrows threaten to leave her forehead. “I take it you’ll enjoy having him assassinated?”

“He can look after himself, Mae. Besides, I’ll enchant all his armour. Five times over. Get him some good anti-stabbing leathers.”  He grins, briefly. “And he… wanted to come.” He glances back to his book, then, still not quite sure he can meet her eye. He’s too afraid it’ll give away the longing. Part of him is still uncertain it’s possible, waiting for Gal to change his mind. A larger part is… He thinks he’s excited. Excited to drag his lover back to a land of corruption and slavers and unnecessarily hot nights? How naive.

“Didn’t he want to last time?”

“I was afraid last time. And my father had just - “ He inhales, but he’s never seen any point in dancing around the word. Death is his profession. “ - died. I might not have been altogether reasonable, Mae. And he was out of his mind with pain while the bloody Orlesians were trying to put a leash round his neck. I told you how he feels about the Chantry, the bastard’s intractable when he starts on a course of - ”

“Yes, I care about how he feels.” She looks at him levelly. “Do you want him with us, Dorian?”

“More than anything.”He hears the words, quiet and frighteningly earnest, and it takes him a moment to realise they belonged to him. “If he can stand all the silks and lack of punching things, that is.”

Her eyes soften. “You’re a sap, Pavus.”

“Don’t let it get out. I’ll never save my reputation.”

She shakes her head, her mouth twitching. Then she reaches into her robes – he’s honestly sure how there are pockets without ruining the line of them, but Mae’s tailors have always been frighteningly good - and passes him a piece of parchment. “He asked me to give you this.”

He frowns down at it, and when he glances upwards, she’s already leaving. “Yes, it’s good to see you again too,” he calls after her.

She looks over her shoulder and smiles at him. “We have the whole trip back to catch up.”

He unfolds the note, and sees in familiar, Chantry-neat handwriting, Quarters, tenth bell? Gal doesn’t have to specify whose. Theirs, really.

He allows himself a moment to simply enjoy it, having this, the ease of passing notes.

“Oh, by the way,” Mae starts, “speaking of the trip back...”

He knocks on the door twice, and leaves the slightest of magical flourishes – enough to change the air, to make it clear to anyone who can sense the Veil who he is.

Gal opens it a moment later, smiling at him like this is a welcome, surprising visit, and then goes back to what he was doing, as if waiting for Dorian to fill the silence. Which is… spreading belongings everywhere, from the look of it. There’s armour carefully stacked in a corner, and books, even more carefully. It isn’t many things – it looks as if Gal’s only just begun. Gal piles things carefully, with that quiet, intent focus, almost meditative. Perhaps it’s a Chantry thing.

Gal wanders back to the great wooden chest in the corner of the room, rummages through it, and then… pauses, stiffening.

Dorian takes a couple of steps forwards, on instinct. “Has Sera put sprouts in there again?” he tries.

Gal looks into the chest, and his shoulders sag as he exhales. “There was… something I meant to give to you, before Halamshiral.” Gal turns, comes back with something wound round his fingers, and almost seems like he’s considering hiding it.

Oh.

“Royale sea silk,” Dorian says, before Gal can shove it back in the chest and possibly wander off somewhere to die, judging from the worry on his face. “I approve.” He smooths over the scarf until he reaches Gal’s hand, holds white silk and sword-roughened, warm skin between his palms. “Serpent embroidery? This may even be better than ten.”

Gal shrugs, still not looking at him. “There’s not going to be much use for it, where we’re going.”

Dorian pauses, and focuses on those downturned eyes, determined to make Gal look at him. “I take it you’re certain, then?” He doesn’t mean to allow the shake in his voice.

Gal finally raises his head. “If you are.”

With a snort, Dorian says, “I’ll stow you away in my luggage if I have to.” At the amusement that crosses Gal’s face, he adds, “Or I’ll tell them you’re my strapping manservant. Whatever works.” He says quietly, “I think we’ve missed enough chances.” With that, he gently takes the scarf, sliding it out from Gal’s fingers and slipping it over his own shoulders. “Besides, there are plenty of cooler parts of the Imperium. Some of them even have proper seasons. And I doubt this is the last time we’ll be seeing this place.”

Gal smiles, truly smiles, at that.

“But I meant what I said. It’s not a small change. I was already persona non grata, but I’ll have to find you some clothes that are more… murderproof.”

“I’m good at not dying.” Gal shrugs. “And you stayed here for me.”

“That was different.”

“I was keeping you from your home.”

Dorian sighs. “Never that. You’ve been my home as much as the Imperium ever was.” He winces. “That was frightfully sappy, I know. I’m beginning to think I should just stop talking.” He sways towards Gal and kisses him slowly, gently.

“You look good in white.”

“So do you.” Dorian winds a little of the scarf around Gal’s waist, gathers him closer. “I… thank you, amatus.” He pauses at a magical hum, the slight purr of enchantment, and… he knows what that is. He reaches into Gal’s pocket, ignoring Gal’s raised brow, and extracts the sending crystal, turning it over in his fingers. “So you retrieved it.”

“Couple of hours after we got back.”

“Hopefully we shouldn’t need it so much.” He weighs it in his palm.

Gal shrugs. “I like listening to you.”

“Oh, you’ve made that very obvious. I always treasured the chance to get started on some obscure piece of magical lore without having stones thrown at me by unwashed paeons. Or worse, having their eyes glaze over. That’s the only reason we started...” He searches for the word for their whatever that was.

“Courting?” Gal suggests, after the silence grows.

“Is that what it was? I thought you were silently judging me on my impractical attire, and I was judging you on your impractical book choices. Less silently.”

With that quiet half-smile that started the problem back in Haven, Gal says, “I liked the attire.”

Dorian can’t help himself. He tries not to beam back. “And I liked your books.”

“That all you’re here for?”

He allows himself a thoughtful pause. “Not all,” he says, afterwards, and kisses Gal again, sliding the crystal back into Gal’s pocket and only letting his hand linger slightly on the Inquisitorial backside before he withdraws; he’s a man of will and discipline, and besides, he can feel Gal’s amusement. “I’ve missed your wine cellar.”

He feels the exhaled breath, the half-laugh against his skin, and then Gal says, “Am I a decent vintage?”

Again, Dorian makes a point of musing on it. “Thirty-three years. Not bad.” He grins. “How would you like to turn thirty-four in Minrathous?”

“Love to,” is the instant answer. And then Gal looks thoughtful, and glances back to his things. “I came to ask when you and the others want to leave.”

“Mae and I were just discussing that, actually. She wants to make it four days. That’s when the next ship to Kirkwall comes in. And from there, onwards. All right with you?”

Gal nods. “I need to tell what’s left of us.”

“Yes, do that. They might notice if you disappear overnight.”

“There goes that plan.” There’s a dash of rogueishness in Gal’s face, just for a moment – then it’s replaced by that quiet, easy contentment again. He sighs, and there, right then, he is the Inquisitor again. “I need to go and find the others.”

The word gets out quickly enough, after that – in the main courtyard, first bell of the afternoon, the (retired) Inquisitor has an announcement.

Soldiers and mages gather slowly, sometimes with half-eaten sandwiches or drinking from canteens, and some of them sit on the steps. There are far from enough people to fill the courtyard, these days. Dorian ends up waiting there, and when Cullen joins them and looks at him, he just raises an eyebrow in an I don’t know either sort of way.

The rest of the Lucerni appear quickly enough, Lucia partially supporting a limping Marius, who’s already starting to look much better.

At Mae’s amused look, Dorian shrugs. “For once, I haven’t interfered. Or created a publicity stunt.”

Mae replies easily, “Oh, I know. I just liked the scarf.”

Dorian absentmindedly touches a hand to it, and tries to think of something that won’t end with him being mocked for his sentimentality.

“Yeah, right,” a voice says from behind him, and then Sera’s next to him, looking up the steps, too. “We all know this is your fault.”

“That’s - “ He pauses. “Am I taking credit or blame?” She tilts her head, thinking it over. “You got his head out of his arse.” She smirks and opens her mouth again, and he’s just waiting for the inevitable crude innuendo when Gal emerges, Josephine at his side.

Gal’s back in the kohl and uniform, looking every inch the Inquisitor that used to roam Skyhold, closing rifts and utterly baffling Dorian – apart from the short hair and the pinned sleeve, and the calm on his face. Not the Chantry facsimile that fooled enough people they never saw the anger and terror behind it; there’s simply a steadiness there, the sort that held Dorian up on the worst days and gave them all something to lean on.

The murmur grows, and then rises further, and then… abruptly silences as Gal sits on the steps. That he definitely didn’t do before.

“What does he - “ Cullen mutters. “He’s making a point, isn’t he?”

“He’s Gal,” Dorian replies from under his breath. “When isn’t he?”

Gal starts, voice loud to still carry, “When I disbanded the Inquisition, it was meant to be an ending. You’ve all stayed here, kept doing good work. So have I. But I think we’re all needed elsewhere.” Josephine leans over to him, says something in his ear, and he nods. “I wanted to thank you all for your service. And for your loyalty. It’s been an honour to serve with you.”

And from there, Gal talks about leaving. Four days’ time, he says, and the murmur returns in force.

There’s a noise, and then someone calls up, “But where are you going, Inq – Lord Trevelyan?”

“Kirkwall,” Gal replies, a careful non-answer. Maker, the man’s being… politically astute. “I have duties there. And personal ties.” His eyes meet Dorian’s, then, and he smiles. It’s bright and relieved, and it hides nothing. Gal might as well have kissed him in front of the entire courtyard. Which is suddenly a rather tempting thought, actually – it’s not as if there’s anyone left who doesn’t know.

Dorian resists the urge to interrupt the speech, and smiles back.

Another mention of everyone’s service and sacrifice – Gal makes it sound as if he simply tagged along and made the tea - and then Gal stands and clasps his remaining hand to his chest, bowing at the waist. The old acknowledgement for Inquisition agents. A salute, and a thank you.

As one, the crowd does the same. Dorian feels himself bow too, and wonders if he ever did this, back when he was recruited as some loose-cannon altus who was probably going to murder the Inquisition in its sleep.

He looks back up, into those bright eyes, into that smile, soft despite stubble and tattoos, as always.

The murmur rises to a roar, and there are cheers as Gal moves to go. It’s all louder than he’d thought possible, considering this is at best a quarter-crowd, compared to the old ones.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and Cullen says, “Maker’s breath. Just go to him.”

There’s a poke in the small of his back, and Sera adds, “What he said.”

He tries not to be too much of a sap, especially in front of his party, who are watching and still seeming more than a little surprised. He hadn’t thought he’d been that miserable in the Imperium. But it has to be said, and so he looks to Cullen and Sera and says airily, with little of the earnestness the sentiment deserves, “Have I mentioned I’ve missed you both?” Then he jogs up the steps to catch his beloved.

Gal grimaces.

“What?” Dorian prods, dipping the cloth again.

Gal shifts backwards on the bed, eyes opening, and just… watches him, silently, eyes flitting about his face, his shoulders, with that quiet surprise that he’s still here. Dorian catches him, their eyes meet, and Gal ducks his head.

“Come on, hold still,” Dorian sighs. “Where’s all your focus gone?”

“It always goes around you,” Gal replies, with a lopsided smile. “Think this is your revenge.”

Dorian snorts. “Is that the best you can do? You’ve had over a year to gather better lines.” Then he raises the cloth threateningly, and when Gal complies, eyes closing, he wipes away smeared paint and kohl. “I knew you were under there somewhere,” he murmurs, attempting to get the last of it. He rinses the cloth and then wrings it, wondering why he doesn’t just use magic to do this – but he remembers running his fingers over Gal’s evening stubble and thinks he might have an idea.

He puts aside the cloth and most pretence, simply takes Gal’s face between damp hands and rests there, exhaling. He’s still trying to make sure this isn’t all a dream and that he isn’t about to wake up on the first boat back to Minrathous. Now he thinks about it, he’s been trying to do that for quite some time now. Since the first time he saw Gal’s face again, perhaps. He says quietly, “You know when I said it wasn’t just about the sex?”

Even without opening his eyes, Gal seems to bite back a grin. “I remember.”

“But the sex is still an option, yes?”

Now the laugh breaks free, quiet as it is. “Definitely.”

He says airily, “Good. Just checking. All hypothetical, of course -”

One moment, he’s leaning over Gal, checking his work and making a thoughtful noise – the next, Gal has pulled him down and is pressing a slow kiss to his mouth, grinning into it. He pretends to think it over, and then lets himself be eased down until he’s all but straddling Gal, little space between them.

Then that space is gone, and Gal mutters, “Maybe this isn’t dignified enough for a magister.”

“Bloody barbarians,” Dorian retorts, but there’s no bite to the words when he follows them with a kiss. “And this is far from the most undignified position I’ve been in.”

“I see.” Gal grins. “Got any better suggestions?”

And that’s the thing: many would have said – Maevaris certainly would have said – that he could have had his pick of men in the Imperium, if he’d cared to.

But it wouldn’t have been this. Wouldn’t have been all the years of pain and care, or the way Gal looks at him, like the world declared the wrong one of them holy.

He says quietly, while Gal is making short work of his shirt, “I honestly thought I’d never see you again.” He didn’t mean to let the words out; they were far less troublesome in his head.

Gal pauses, and looks up, into his eyes. “I thought you’d forget me. Hoped you would, if it’d be easier for you.”

“I’ve never been much good at easier,” Dorian murmurs, impatiently throwing aside Gal’s leathers while Gal presses a kiss to his shoulder and then gets rid of his robes and undershirt. There’s tenderness in the touch, the way there was that first night he returned here, that first night years ago; the kind that would almost frighten him, if he didn’t long for it quite so much. They’ve had quick, silly fucks before, and slightly savage encounters in cupboards, but this… isn’t that. Far from it.

He feels Gal’s hand pause just under his ribs, and then Gal says, “I meant to ask. What’s this from?” Gal’s hand traces the lightning burn, and Dorian inhales sharply.

“Hm?” He pretends to be casual, even as he’s wondering how many of these scars Gal won’t recognise. “That’s from a Senate debate that span into a duel. It happens, sometimes.”

Worry crosses Gal’s face, briefly. “You...”

“Showed him the error of his ways, yes. By setting him on fire.”

Gal grins, and then…

Dorian makes a slightly undignified noise as he’s rolled over and then Gal’s kissing the scar, grinning up at him.

Yes, he could have had men in the Imperium. But it wouldn’t have been a pale, calloused hand taking his and gripping white-knuckled, like he’s the last anchor to sanity. Wouldn’t have been Gal’s exhaled I love you, quiet and painfully honest, accidental without being unwilling.

(“Again,” Dorian breathes, before he can help himself. At least all the times before, he could make some excuse for the request, could laugh it off...

“I love you,” Gal repeats, properly this time, with that steady certainty, even distracted as he is.

And Dorian grins fiercely, triumphant, and pulls him even closer, does his best to kiss him until it’s impossible and they’re both gasping for air.)

It wouldn’t have been the low laughter, or all the startled joy neither of them can quite contain. They’ve had silly rolls in the hay before, but this is less staving off boredom and more clinging to each other and making sure any of this is real.

All right, the throwing water at each other some time afterwards, and Gal mocking his most-of-a-beard before distracting him with wandering hands? Less the thing of epics, perhaps. But he’d rather have that than all the romantic tales in the world, even if he’s almost worried they’ll never find their way out of these quarters, at this rate. It took two attempts just to bathe. Surely they’re too old for this sort of thing – they’re meant to be respectable.

He snorts at that thought while using a spell to try and dry his damp hair. As if they’ve ever been that.

He hears quiet footsteps, and then the unlocking of the door. There’s a long pause, and then Gal clears his throat. “It… looks like they noticed our absence.”

Dorian frowns, and then Gal walks back across the room with, of all things, a… plate of sandwiches. One which must have been left outside.

Dorian tries to keep somewhat of a straight face. “They obviously thought we needed the energy.”

Underneath the tattoos, Gal has become rather pinker.

“We’ll have to come out of here at some point, you know.”

“Why?” Gal mumbles indignantly, through half a sandwich.

“We can’t just stay here forever...“ Dorian starts, and then he pauses, trying not to laugh at the look he receives in return. “You were going to suggest exactly that, weren’t you?”

"No," Gal mutters, entirely unconvincingly. Then: "Yes."'

They do end up leaving Gal’s quarters, in the end, though it takes nearly two days. Night’s beginning to fall when there’s a knock on the door and a call of, “Oi, if you two aren’t busy shagging each other’s brains out, drink, right?”

Dorian lifts his head from a half-doze on Gal’s shoulder. “We are not, in fact, shagging each other’s brains out. At least, not currently.”

“Yes,” is all Gal says, looking amused and raising his voice to carry through the door. “Drink.”

The Herald’s Rest – which, in fact, disturbed the actual Herald’s rest – is bustling when they arrive.

Sera is instantly beside Gal and saying, “So he’s finally stopped being an eejit, right?”

“Think the eejit was me,” Gal replies.

“Nah, you would’ve gone with him the first time. It was just the rest that was all… eejit-y.”

Dorian can’t help but chip in, then. “Beautifully put.”

“Galahad!”

They turn to see Josephine, her hair beginning to loosen from its bun and the hint of a flush on her cheeks. “I must say, Lord Dorian’s friends have… impressive tolerances.”

At another table, Mae raises a glass, as if summoned by the mere mention of her name.

Dorian laughs at that. “We invented wine. What did you expect?”

“I think you will find that was the Antivans,” she chides him. Then her eyes turn to Gal. “I am… very proud of you. Of you both. I will miss you. But I am happy for you. Which is why the first round… is mine.”

“I knew there was a reason I was so fond of our lady ambassador,” Dorian says to Gal, who grins.

If Gal is surprised by the hug Josephine gives him, Dorian is even more so when he receives one, too.

She moves to order their drinks, and for a moment, Dorian almost closes his eyes and tries to breathe it all in. Lets himself be home, truly. Beside him, he can feel Gal doing the same.

The ceiling of his quarters – his, not Gal’s – glows softly with the constellations he drew, years ago now. They lie there, and Gal says, “You taking them with you when we leave?”

Dorian grins. “Might as well. I’m taking the south for all it’s got.” He says it while looking at Gal’s writing, the little reminders of a life together, the way the spell wraps around them both. He thinks. “You know how I told you once of the temple in Minrathous? I’m going to show it to you.”

Gal swallows, turns onto his side to meet Dorian’s eyes. “The fountains in Qarinus?”

“I’m sure I can justify some sort of business trip. I’ll find something. I’ll… all of it. I’ll give you everything. Anything.”

“Same,” Gal says, instantly.

“We leave tomorrow, you know. I’m sure you’ll have all your things packed into ordered rows and alphabetised, but... nervous?”

“I probably should be. I just...Looking forward to being with you.”

“I... I feel the same. I want to show you all I can. There’s a room in the estate, it has a mahogany writing-desk, and the library... It's yours. All of it. Anything you’d like.” Dorian pauses. “No, this is getting positively sugar-coated, forget I said anything. I should have just mocked your luggage habits instead.”

“I don’t know. I liked it.”

“You would. You’ve always had bad taste in men, amatus.” The word feels like relief, like truth, like it always has. He exhales with it. “Maker, I’ve missed saying that.”

“Missed hearing it,” Gal says. “Te amo, Dorian.”

And in the darkness, Gal’s hand wraps around his, and stays there.

[holmesoverture]

The Telegraph Boy, Chapter 3

Chapter 1 Be Here

Chapter 2 Be Here

The streets were still largely abandoned when we arrived at Shrewsbury House.  Faint glimmerings of sunrise limned the horizon but could not dominate the palatial homes of Park Lane, leaving them as a line of hulking shadows.  Adumbral trees welcomed the breeze with a swaying dance that appeared more eerie than bucolic in the struggling light.

Shrewsbury House itself was shielded from the street by a large, lavish gate that opened into a courtyard.  The house’s design was decidedly Grecian, with a pediment with sculptures dominating the façade at the third storey, and though I couldn’t be sure of its colour at that hour, it gave every impression of being white and expensive.

We had not been on the premises more than a minute when Inspector Lestrade came round the corner of the house, his footfalls unnaturally loud in the stillness of London in the early morning.

“What brings you here?” said he, not uncordially. “There’s no mystery about this case. The girl broke into the strong-box, took everything, and escaped in the carriage in the stables.  Let’s not start overcomplicating things, alright then, Mr Holmes?”

“For your sake, Inspector, I promise to keep matters as simple as possible.  Now tell me: what drove Miss Farrier to such desperate actions?”

“We interviewed the cook, or tried to.  She was the one to discover the maid was missing. She told us that Miss Farrier had been furious with Lord Walmsley for days.”

Lestrade straightened up as he spoke, puffing out his chest in a subtle show of pride.  He always thought quite highly of his own investigative skills.  Holmes, predictably, did not share in his enthusiasm.

“Why was she so upset?” Holmes asked.

“She couldn’t say.”

“And her brother, how came he to be involved?”

“He is her brother.  That is motive enough, I should think.”

“Have you recovered the missing money?”

“Not a shilling, but it is as I expected.  When we arrived in response to Mrs Deacon’s call, we saw a lad hurrying away from the house.  Lady Walmsley identified him as the brother of the suspect, so I sent a couple of my men to follow him.  I am confident they will return with the girl’s location forthwith.”

“The boy knows nothing, as Jones and Sheridan have doubtless discovered for themselves.  Now where is the cook, this Mrs Deacon?  I would speak with her myself.”

The inspector looked rather more agitated than surprised by Holmes’ statement, eyes narrowed and lips flattened to a thin line, but still he led us to the enormous kitchen where the cook sat drinking sherry at a low wooden table.  With her free hand she clung tightly to the faded shawl thrown over her night-dress, a plain white gown that sharply contrasted with her black skin.  Her deep-set eyes widened in alarm when we entered.

“No need for excuses, my good woman,” Holmes said as the cook’s mouth opened and closed several times.  “We are not here to condemn you for what is surely a well-earned respite from the morning’s trauma.  We only wish to ask you a few questions.”

“I’ve told all I know,” said she, settling back into her chair.

“But you have not told it to me.  I understand you discovered the girl was missing.”

Mrs Deacon uttered a small sob at the mention of Sally Farrier, but she quickly composed herself.  “It was I, yes, though I would give four teeth and a finger to be able to say it was not!  It happened just this way: three nights past, Sally spent the afternoon with her brother Alfred, who as I understand still lives in the flat they grew up in together. Alfred is a wonderful boy, so polite and good-natured and not at all prone to the immature antics that amuse others of his age, and seeing him always put Sally in a good humour.  That day, however, when she returned from her visit she had such a dark cloud hanging over her that my first reaction was to try to cheer her up.

“‘What a lovely bauble!’ I said, indicating a bangle bracelet on her wrist that she had not had before.  It was a simple thing and not too terribly costly but much lovelier than anything I’d ever owned.

“‘Please, leave me in peace!’ she answered sharply. ‘I am liable to forget myself and snap at you though you have done nothing to deserve it.’

“No amount of encouragement on my part could pry the source of her ill-temper from her lips.  Within a day, however, her anger had betrayed its source.  She avoided Lord Walmsley whenever she could, and even the sound of his name caused her hands to clench and her teeth to grind. Lord Walmsley himself seemed unaware of Sally’s sudden aversion and carried on as he always had, splitting his time between his home and his various clubs.”

“Is that where Lord Walmsley has been during this incident?  At one of his clubs?”

“That’s right.  I couldn’t tell you which one but he left very early this morning.”

“Before or after the robbery?”

Mrs Deacon’s sadness was abruptly replaced by confusion.  “It must surely have been before.  Why would Lord Walmsley leave without a word to us if he knew he had been robbed?”

“Is it such a certainty that he would have known of the robbery?”

“He spends so much time in his study at all manner of odd hours.  He can tell when even a bookmark is out of place.  I have seen him do it with my own two eyes, sir.”

“But you were asleep at the time and cannot say for certain when Lord Walmsley left or what he did or did not know as he did so?”

“I was asleep, just as you say.”

“And has Lord Walmsley been contacted?”

“I don’t know.  He must have, don’t you think?”

“Please continue with your narrative, Mrs Deacon.”

“Well I didn’t know what to make of Sally’s attitude, and the added tension in the house cost me many an hour’s good sleep, but I endured as best I could.  So it continued through yesterday, and I had gone to bed prepared for more of the same the next day, but it was not to be.  This morning, Lady Walmsley knocked me up at four, saying the master’s strong-box had been ransacked.

“‘I haven’t seen him since supper,’ I said to her, ‘but if you’ll give me a moment to regain my faculties, I’ll rouse the other servants so we may have a proper search party.’

“She agreed and left to continue the search while I wrapped my shawl about me and set about knocking up the rest of the household.  Before too long every man was on his feet and hunting diligently for clues with the exception of Sally Farrier.  When I looked in on Sally’s room, I found that it was not only vacant but untouched, as though she had not been to bed at all.  Now doubly worried, I ran to tell Lady Walmsley of what I had seen.

“‘What is going on in this house!’ she cried, but she calmed herself very quickly.  ‘Go out and check the stables, would you?’

“As I entered the stables I expected to find the carriage and all of the horses in their proper places. Lord Walmsley is in the habit of taking a cab to his clubs so that Lady Walmsley may use the carriage for her shopping and social outings, and Eustace has yet to return, so all should have been quiet and undisturbed.”

“Eustace is the groom?”

“Yes, sir.  His mother fell ill yesterday and the Walmsleys gave him leave to care for her. Well, as you may imagine, I walked into the stables to find two stalls empty and the carriage nowhere in sight. I stood for a moment in horror and disbelief, staring at the empty places where the horses and the carriage should have been.  I had not yet connected this crime to the previous one in my mind, so shaken was I by this quick succession of misfortunes.  I finally managed to come back to my senses and rushed back to tell Lady Walmsley what I had found.  She accepted the news rather more graciously than I had and told me to take the morning off so that I might recover from the ordeal.  Now you know everything that I do, and may it do you more good than it has done me.”

“It has, Mr. Deacon, and I am deeply grateful for your cooperation.”  He nudged the bottle of sherry closer to her.  “Do have one for me.”

Mrs Deacon delicately laughed and refilled her glass.  With the woman’s sense of humour on the mend, I did not suffer too greatly from guilt when we withdrew from the kitchen to examine Lord Walmsley’s private study, from where the money had been taken.

That study must have been the finest room in that very fine home.  White-accented blue wallpaper covered three walls, the fourth being occupied by books of every size and colour.  A settee sat in a corner by a lamp, and two matching armchairs flanked an enormous fireplace that was decorated with figures carved directly into the marble mantel. The solid heavy-looking desk was awash with papers and writing implements, and the strong-box, still full of papers, sat open on one corner.

Holmes looked all round the desk, shuffling every paper and opening every drawer.  I could not distinguish the words he muttered to himself as he worked, though the tone in which he muttered them seemed to me quite promising.  He was particularly interested in a silver tray holding a half-consumed bottle of brandy and two crystal glasses, while the strong-box merited only the most cursory of glances.

Nothing else in the room received as much attention as Lord Walmsley’s desk, though Holmes lifted a book or two from the shelves, flicking carelessly through them before replacing them.  He concluded his examination by poking about in the fireplace.

“Of all the items in this room, the most relevant is the one you spend the least time on,” I said, indicating the strong-box.

“Is it, though?”

“I thought it was.  Now that you’ve said that, I find myself having doubts.”

Halfway down the stair, we met a finely-dressed woman of about thirty.  She was, it seemed, the very antithesis of Mrs Deacon: severe-looking despite her relative youth and utterly unruffled.  Her blue eyes widened with surprise when she saw our approach.

“You are Lady Helen Walmsley?” said Holmes.

“Yes, of course,” she replied.  “I do beg your pardon.  I know I must seem terribly discourteous, but I thought the police had left.  Inspector Lestrade informed me he was finished here.”

“They have finished, madam, so now the real investigation can begin.  Would you be very much troubled if I were to ask a few questions?”

“Not at all.”

“Then pray tell me, how much was taken from your husband’s strong-box?”

“The fact that it is my husband’s strong-box should indicate to you that I am not privy to such information.”

“Then how did you know anything was missing at all?”

“I knew he kept cash and important documents in the strong-box.  Beyond that I am as ignorant as you.”

“Where is your husband now?”          

“At one of his clubs, though I don’t know which.”

“And what of you, Lady Walmsley?  Is insomnia your sole complaint?”

“Oh, dear.  Is it so obvious?” said she, bringing a hand to her cheek.

“On the contrary, your face is flawless.  As you came up the stair, I detected the scent of hops and onions.  Both of these odours have soporific qualities and are frequently employed as remedies for sleeplessness.  They are, however, not infallible, and that is why you were roaming the halls at an hour when the remainder of the household was still abed.”

“You are most astute, Mr Holmes.  Insomnia has been a most cumbersome millstone around my neck these last three years, and I am never sure which, if any, cure will perform its duty.  Some nights the mere thought of hops invokes a bracing slumber, while other nights I am left to count the minutes until sunrise.  This past night, I thought a stroll might clear my thoughts enough to permit rest, and, as I passed Lord Walmsley’s study, I could not but notice the door was ajar.”

 “Was this unusual?”

“More than that, it was unprecedented.  He places a high value upon his privacy and is most conscientious about keeping it shut tight, particularly when he is not present.  Neither light nor sound came from the study, yet still the door stood open.  As much as I wished to respect my husband’s desire for solitude, I thought this aberration might be the symptom of some serious calamity. My incursion was more than justified when I pushed the door open further and saw the empty strong-box upon the desk. To return to your original inquiry, yes, my insomnia is my only trouble.”

“I see.  And am I correct in deducing that you and your husband have not recently engaged in marital relations?”

The slap was entirely expected, at least by myself, though I am ashamed to admit that I was too preoccupied in affecting a coughing fit to warn Holmes of its inevitability.  He rallied admirably, however, responding to her assault as though she had remarked upon the colour of the wallpaper:

“Be that as it may, in the doubtful event that I am mistaken, please accept my condolences for your loss.”

He then took his leave without as much as a “good morning,” leaving it to me to express my sympathies to the sputtering widow and to apologise for my companion’s tact or lack thereof.  He was nearly at the front door before I had caught up.

“Really, Holmes, was that line of questioning necessary?”

“Vitally so.”

“Well after all, the woman has had no sleep and a very trying morning.”

“She hardly gives the appearance of a concerned wife.”

“She is in shock, man!”

“And in her shock, she wrapped her wedding band in a handkerchief and threw it into the waste paper basket.  That hardly seems plausible.”

I whipped my head around to look back the way we came, though of course I could not see inside the study from the front hall. Holmes offered no antidote for my bemusement, so I shored up my patience and followed him out.

The sky had turned an angry red-orange by then, throwing the shadow of the great house across the courtyard.  We followed the faint remains of turbid footprints left by Lestrade and his men, and I assumed Sally Farrier, in the dry dust coating the courtyard stones.  Holmes paused here and there to look at these tracks and stopped well before we reached the stables.

“Come along, Watson.  Let us leave this gloomy place,” he said.  “There is nothing to be gained by staying any longer than necessary.”

The courtyard was now cleared of the police and their vehicles.  Only Lestrade remained as proof that something unfortunate had befallen the great house and its inhabitants.

“You are looking rather lonely, Inspector,” Holmes said.

“I was curious to hear what you made of the case, but it would have been frivolous to have everyone else stand here on my account, so I told them to go send word to each of Lord Walmsley’s clubs.  We should be able to track him down soon enough.”

“I doubt it.  How do you suppose Miss Farrier was able to break into the strong-box without leaving a single mark upon the box itself?”

“Picked the lock, of course.”

“If that is so, then who used the second glass?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“On the desk beside the strong-box was a tray with two glasses with brandy remaining in each of them.  If she wanted more to drink, surely she would have refilled her own glass rather than dirty a second one.”

“Well how do you think she did it?”

“I do not think she did at all.  I think Lord Walmsley himself opened the box and gave her every cent therein.”

Lestrade’s mouth fell open as an indignant flush rose high on his cheek.

“And why should he ever do a thing like that?” demanded the inspector.

“I really couldn’t say.”

“You really couldn’t say.  You really won’t say, more like!  I know how you operate, Mr Holmes, and I’m sure you have a thrilling theory to support such a statement, but if you make me go back to the Yard with a story like that, the superintendent would have my head!”

“Then I would pray he makes better use of it than you have.  Good day, Mr Lestrade.”

-

Chapter 4 Be Here

-

Notes of Interest

Lady Walmsley knocked me up – “To knock someone up” was (is?) British slang for “to wake someone.”  My fellow Americans can stop giggling now.

[readbookywooks]

THE BEGINNING OF THE END OF THE WORLD

Slowly the door opened again and out there came a figure as tall and straight as the girl's but not so slender. It carried no light but light seemed to come from it. As it came nearer, Lucy saw that it was like an old man. His silver beard came down to his bare feet in front and his saver hair hung down to his heels behind and his robe appeared to be made from the fleece of silver sheep. He looked so mild and grave that once more all the travellers rose to their feet and stood in silence. But the old man came on without speaking to the travellers and stood on the other side of the table opposite to his daughter. Then both of them held up their arms before them and turned to face the east. In that position the began to sing. I wish I could write down the song, but one who was present could remember it. Lucy said afterwards that it was high, almost shrill, but very beautiful, cold kind of song, an early morning kind of song. And they sang, the grey clouds lifted from the eastern sky a the white patches 'grew bigger and bigger till it was white, and the sea began to shine like silver. And long afterwards (but those two sang all the time) the east began to turn red and at last, unclouded, the sun came up out the sea and its long level ray shot down the length of the table on the gold and silver sand on the Stone Knife. Once or twice before, the Narnians had wondered whether the sun at its rising did not look bigger in these seas than it had looked at home. This time they we certain. There was no mistaking it. And the brightness its ray on the dew and on the table was far beyond an. morning brightness they had ever seen. And as Edmu said afterwards, "Though lots of things happened on that trip which sound more exciting, that moment was really the most exciting." For now they knew that they had truly come to the beginning of the End of the World. Then something seemed to be flying at them out of the very centre of the rising sun: but of course one couldn't look steadily in that direction to make sure. But presently the air became full of voices - voices which took up same song that the Lady and her Father were singing, but in far wilder tones and in a language which no one knew And soon after that the owners of these voices could be seen. They were birds, large and white, and they came hundreds and thousands and alighted on everything; the grass, and the pavement, on the table, on your shoulders, your hands, and your head, till it looked as heavy snow had fallen. For, like snow, they not only make everything white but blurred and blunted all shapes. But Lucy, looking out from between the wings of the birds that covered her, saw one bird fly to the Old Man with something in its beak that looked like a little fruit, unless it was a little live coal, which it might have been, for it was too bright to look at. And the bird laid it in the Old Man's mouth. Then the birds stopped their singing and appeared to be very busy about the table. When they rose from it again everything on the table that could be eaten or drunk had disappeared. These birds rose from their meal in their thousands and hundreds and carried away all the things that could not be eaten or drunk, such as bones, rinds, and shells, and took their flight back to the rising sun. But now, because they were not singing, the whir of their wings seemed to set the whole air a-tremble. And there was the table pecked clean and empty, and the three old Lords of Narnia still fast asleep. Now at last the Old Man turned to the travellers and bade them welcome. "Sir," said Caspian, "will you tell us how to undo the enchantment which holds these three Narnian Lords asleep." "I will gladly tell you that, my son," said the Old Man. "To break this enchantment you must sail to the World's End, or as near as you can come to it, and you must come back having left at least one of your company behind." "And what must happen to that one?" asked Reepicheep. "He must go on into the utter east and never return into the world." "That is my heart's desire," said Reepicheep. "And are we near the World's End now, Sir?" asked Caspian. "Have you any knowledge of the seas and lands further east than this?" "I saw them long ago," said the Old Man, "but it was from a great height. I cannot tell you such things as sailor need to know." "Do you mean you were flying in the air?" Eustace blurted out. "I was a long way above the air, my son," replied the Old Man. "I am Ramandu. But I see that you stare at on another and have not heard this name. And no wonder, for the days when I was a star had ceased long before any of you knew this world, and all the constellations have changed." "Golly," said Edmund under his breath. "He's a retired star." "Aren't you a star any longer?" asked Lucy. "I am a star at rest, my daughter," answered Ramandu "When I set for the last time, decrepit and old beyond all that you can reckon, I was carried to this island. I am not so old now as I was then. Every morning a bird brings me a fire-berry from the valleys in the Sun, and each fire-berry takes away a little of my age. And when I have become as young as the child that was born yesterday, then I shall take my rising again (for we are at earth's eastern rim) and once more tread the great dance." "In our world," said Eustace, "a star is a huge ball of flaming gas." "Even in your world, my son, that is not what a star is but only what it is made of. And in this world you ave already met a star, for I think you have been with Coriakin." "Is he a retired star, too?" said Lucy. "Well, not quite the same," said Ramandu. "It was not quite as a rest than he was set to govern the Duffers. You might call it a punishment. He might have shone for thousands of years more in the southern winter sky if all had gone well." "What did he do, Sir?" asked Caspian. "My son," said Ramandu, "it is not for you, a son of Adam, to know what faults a star can commit. But come, we waste time in such talk. Are you yet resolved? Will you sail further east and come again, leaving one to return no more, and so break the enchantment? Or will you sail westward?" "Surely, Sire," said Reepicheep, "there is no question about that? It is very plainly part of our quest to rescue these three lords from enchantment." "I think the same, Reepicheep," replied Caspian. "And even if it were not so, it would break my heart not to go as near the World's End as the Dawn Treader will take us. But I am thinking of the crew. They signed on to seek the seven lords, not to reach the rim of the Earth. If we sail east from here we sail to find the edge, the utter east. And not one knows how far it is. They're brave fellows, but I set signs that some of them are weary of the voyage and long to have our prow pointing to Narnia again. I don't think should take them further without their knowledge an consent. And then there's the poor Lord Rhoop. He's broken man." "My son," said the star, "it would be no use, even though you wished it, to sail for the World's End with men unwilling or men deceived. That is not how great unenchantments are achieved. They must know where they go and why. But who is this broken man you speak of?" Caspian told Ramandu the story of Rhoop. "I can give him what he needs most," said Ramandu. "I this island there is sleep without stint or measure, and sleep in which no faintest footfall of a dream was ever heard. Let him sit beside these other three and drink oblivion till you return." "Oh, do let's do that, Caspian," said Lucy. "I'm sure its just what he would love." At that moment they were interrupted by the sound of many feet and voices: Drinian and the rest of the ship company were approaching. They halted in surprise whey they saw Ramandu and his daughter; and then, because these were obviously great people, every man uncovered his head. Some sailors eyed the empty dishes and flagons on the table with regret. "My lord," said the King to Drinian, "pray send two men back to the Dawn Treader with a message to the Lord Rhoop. Tell him that the last of his old shipmates are here asleep - a sleep without dreams - and that he can share it." When this had been done, Caspian told the rest to sit down and laid the whole situation before them. When he had finished there was a long silence and some whispering until presently the Master Bowman got to his feet, and said: "What some of us have been wanting to ask for a long time, your Majesty, is how we're ever to get home when we do turn, whether we turn here or somewhere else. It's been west and north-west winds all the way, barring an occasional calm. And if that doesn't change, I'd like to know what hopes we have of seeing Narnia again. There's not much chance of supplies lasting while we row all that way. "That's landsman's talk," said Drinian. "There's always a prevailing west wind in these seas all through the late summer, and it always changes after the New Year. We'll have plenty of wind for sailing westward; more than we shall like from all accounts." "That's true, Master," said an old sailor who was a Galmian by birth. "You get some ugly weather rolling up from the east in January and February. And by your leave, Sire, if I was in command of this ship I'd say to winter here and begin the voyage home in March." "What'd you eat while you were wintering here?" asked Eustace. "This table," said Ramandu, "will be filled with a king's feast every day at sunset." "Now you're talking!" said several sailors. "Your Majesties and gentlemen and ladies all," said Rynelf, "there's just one thing I want to say. There's not one of us chaps as was pressed on this journey. We're volunteers. And there's some here chat are looking very hard at that table and thinking about king's feasts who were talking very loud about adventures on the day we sailed from Cair Paravel, and swearing they wouldn't come home till we'd found the end of the world. And there were some standing on the quay who would have given all they had to come with us. It was thought a finer thing then to have a cabin-boy's berth on the Dawn Treader than to wear a knight's belt. I don't know if you get the hang of what I'm saying. But what I mean is that I think chaps who set out like us will look as silly as - as those Dufflepuds - if we come home and say we got to the beginning of the world's end and hadn't the heart to go further." Some of the sailors cheered at this but some said that that was all very well. "This isn't going to be much fun," whispered Edmund to Caspian. "What are we to do if half those fellows hang back?" "Wait," Caspian whispered back. "I've still a card to play." "Aren't you going to say anything, Reep?" whispered Lucy. "No. Why should your Majesty expect it?" answered Reepicheep in a voice that most people heard. "My owns plans are made. While I can, I sail east in the Dawn Treader. When she fails me, I paddle east in my coracle. When she sinks, I shall swim east with my four paws. And when I can swim no longer, if I have not reached Aslan's country, or shot over the edge of the world in some vast cataract, I shall sink with my nose to the sunrise and Peepiceek will be head of the talking mice in Narnia." "Hear, hear," said a sailor, "I'll say the same, barring the bit about the coracle, which wouldn't bear me." He added in a lower voice, "I'm not going to be outdone by a mouse." At this point Caspian jumped to his feet. "Friends," he said, "I think you have not quite understood our purpose. You talk as if we had come to you with our hat in our hand, begging for shipmates. It isn't like that at all. We and our royal brother and sister and their kinsman and Sir Reepicheep, the good knight, and the Lord Drinian have an errand to the world's edge. It is our pleasure to choose from among such of you as are willing those whom we deem worthy of so high an enterprise. We have not said that any can come for the asking. That is why we shall now command the Lord Drinian and Master Rhince to consider carefully what men among you are the hardest in battle, the most skilled seamen, the purest in blood, the most loyal to our person, and the cleanest of life and manners; and to give their names to us in a schedule." He paused and went on in a quicker voice, "Aslan's mane!" he exclaimed. "Do you think that the privilege of seeing the last things is to be bought for a song? Why, every man that comes with us shall bequeath the title of Dawn Treader to all his descendants, and when we land at Cair Paravel on the homeward voyage he shall have either gold or land enough to make him rich all his life. Now - scatter over the island, all of you. In half an hour's time I shall receive the names that Lord Drinian brings me." There was rather a sheepish silence and then the crew made their bows and moved away, one in this direction and one in that, but mostly in little knots or bunches, talking. "And now for the Lord Rhoop," said Caspian. But turning to the head of the table he saw that Rhoop was already there. He had arrived, silent and unnoticed, while the discussion was going on, and was seated beside the Lord Argoz. The daughter of Ramandu stood beside him as if she had just helped him into his chair; Ramandu stood behind him and laid both his hands on Rhoop's grey head. Even in daylight a faint silver light came from the hands of the star. There was a smile on Rhoop's haggard face. He held out one of his hands to Lucy and the other to Caspian. For a moment it looked as if he were going to say something. Then his smile brightened as if he were feeling) some delicious sensation, a long sigh of contentment came from his lips, his head fell forward, and he slept. "Poor Rhoop," said Lucy. "I am glad. He must have had terrible times." ' "Don't let's even think of it," said Eustace. Meanwhile Caspian's speech, helped perhaps by some magic of the island, was having just the effect he intended. A good many who had been anxious enough to get out of the voyage felt quite differently about being left out of it. And of course whenever any one sailor announced that he had made up his mind to ask for permission to sail, the ones who hadn't said this felt that they were getting fewer and more uncomfortable. So that before the half-hour was nearly over several people were positively "sucking up" to Drinian and Rhince (at least that was what they called it at my school) to get a good report. And soon there were only three left who didn't want to go, and those three were trying very hard to persuade others to stay with them. And very shortly after that there was only one left. And in they end he began to be afraid of being left behind all on his own and changed his mind. At the end of the half-hour they all came trooping back to Aslan's Table and stood at one end while Drinian and Rhince went and sat down with Caspian and made their report; and Caspian accepted all the man but that one who'd had changed his mind at the last moment. His name was Pittencream and he stayed on the Island of the Star all the time the others were away looking for the World's End, and he very much wished he had gone with them. He wasn't the sort of man who could enjoy talking to Ramandu and Ramandu's daughter (nor they to him), and it rained a good deal, and though there was a wonderful feast on the Table every night, he didn't very much enjoy it. He said it gave him the creeps sitting there alone (and in the rain as likely as not) with those four Lords asleep at the end of the Table. And when the others returned he felt so out of things that he deserted on the voyage home at the Lone Islands, and went and lived in Calormen, where he told wonderful stories about his adventures at the End of the World, until at last he came to believe them himself. So you may say, in a sense, that he lived happily ever after. But he could never bear mice. That night they all ate and drank together at the great table between the pillars where the feast was magically renewed: and next morning the Dawn Treader set sail once more just when the great birds had come and gone again. "Lady," said Caspian, "I hope to speak with you again when I have broken the enchantments." And Ramandu's daughter looked at him and smiled.