Chapter Text
The letter, still unopened, was waiting atop the oak writing desk.
Such a curious thing, this communication: found on the starkest white parchment and hidden among her toiletries. Antivan face-creams in jewelled containers, Orlesian scents in long-necked bottles, and yet among the lot it was a letter that was most foreign to the Dalish woman. While braiding her hair to a singular waist-length rope, while washing her face and taking the tray from the serving boy coming from the kitchens, the Inquisitor wondered endlessly. And when Vinya finally sat down to her breakfast –oatmeal topped with fruit and lavender– she took as much time in opening the envelope as she took in devouring her meal.
The elf laughed. She wasn’t sure why. Sipping some tea, her eyes skimmed again over the opening lines. Recognizing something in the slant but nothing in the content, her humour simmered away while heartburn began to stir. Slow and caustic, and so sharp in her throat, Vinya considered it as she studied the message.
The penmanship will be familiar, for it is yours. The words will be foreign, because they are not.
Don't be suspicious. This isn't a trick. At least, it’s not one being played on you. Corypheus is the enemy, be sure of that, but his hand will not be the one that ends the world.
The person who owned the orb before Corypheus: that is who we must stop.
The writing was messy; uneven on the page. There were spots where the author had attempted to straighten lazing, slanting sentences. Spaces between each line were excessive, in anticipation of striking something out to replace it. And the words: half of them were joined in a nearly undecipherable gibberish, as she who had put pen to parchment scribbled chaotic in her haste.
'She' was her. Vinya had no doubt that this was her own writing. The script was hers, the 'i's that hadn’t been dotted were hers; as was the uneven ink. And now the heartburn which had turned to nausea was hers. Feeling light-headed, holding still her forgotten teacup, Vinya read on over the roar of blood rushing in her ears.
As sure as you can trust that this is your writing, trust its words. These are your words. And it is your warning to yourself. Tell no one of what you learn, or what you are doing. Tell no one of your struggle to discover what this all means. Mention nothing or you may alert who we must fight against. There are spies in the Skyhold. They are watching. And if they warn their master, all is lost.
It is important that you follow these instructions. You are clever enough that you will come to understand. At least, I hope we are.
How could she have forgotten penning this? When had she done it? After drinking with the boys? Following mead with Blackwall and Iron Bull at the tavern, it was usually an issue of… Actually, Vinya wasn’t really sure what happened after that. She knew very well that as much as her head ached the next morning, it was usually her toes that bore the brunt of too much beer. Apparently she couldn’t help but stub every toe on every stone step in Skyhold, no matter that someone usually carried her to bed. Whatever it was, though; whatever came after the ale but before unconsciousness, holding a quill wasn’t in the cards. Holding her head over a bucket? Much more likely.
The letter was feasibly part of a prank. Sera and Vinya, snug in the city-elf’s cobbled-together palace of ritzy, second-hand clutter, could have conspired on something. With elfroot to impair judgement, and maybe something stronger to haze the memory, the girls could have giggled themselves silly over turning the Inquisitor into a paranoid, freaked-out mess for a few hours. But there were no phallic symbols smeared across the heading, and Corypheus was mentioned twice, not once with his name misspelled.
The scattered leaves of her thoughts blustered about before the storm’s winds kicked up. There was something so much worse than these two possibilities, and that was Vinya’s urge to nod along knowingly as she read. Yes, she believed these words. Creators, how could she? And then there was panic, as the whispers always present now came to the forefront of her mind.
Had the well from the Temple of Mythal…? Was there something possessing…? What was happening to…?
Teacup clattering onto the desk, the elf glanced at her left palm. Only a glance, though – she didn’t look directly. Eye-contact with her own hand seemed too dangerous, for the moment. Vinya finished the letter while blinking far too much.
This matter is delicate. Please understand my caution. And have faith that I’ve the Inquisition’s best interests at heart. I would not have done what I did to us without great cause.
Ask Solas of his time in the Fade. Ask him of the memories he saw there. Don't let him become curious – his words are merely a part of the puzzle. And when he speaks of secret stories wrapped up in a tower, you will know where to find the next clue. And you will know who the orb once belonged to.
There were footsteps scraping on the stairs.
“Inquisitor?”
Adrenaline ached in her arms and shoulders; turned her wrists to a shaking wreck. Vinya threw the note in the desk, heart beating hard enough that it seemed to echo off furniture.
Josephine greeted her cordially. There was talk of the day’s itinerary, which consisted of a follow-up with Leliana over some action in the west, as well as an up-date from Cullen on the troops returning from the Arbor Wilds. There were red templars still scattered amongst the lush foliage of the region, as the Dales lay ravaged by the last battle with Corypheus’s men at the Temple of Mythal. From the looks of the losses, however, the Inquisition’s enemy had much regrouping to do, and an end to the war seemed nearly in sight.
Vinya didn’t hear it. Josephine’s discussion concerning repercussions in Orlais over Blackwall’s pardon – or Rainier, now – also merited a distracted nod but little else.
It wasn’t the note burning through the desk but the Inquisitor’s own hand that had Vinya sweating. Not for the first time did she wonder at the possibility that it was possessed. By the Fade; by the sinister means of the Anchor’s creation: how was she to know? She wasn’t a mage! Did the message pressed too hard in the parchment come from a demon? Could she even trust it?
“Inquisitor?”
“Hm?” Vinya felt that sensation of all eyes resting on her. Suddenly, the ceiling, books, bed and stone walls all had a gaze, and it settled heavy on her. “I’m sorry, Josephine. My mind is somewhere else. You know how I get after breakfast.”
The woman nodded graciously with a little laugh. “Digesting and distracted. I know, my lady. But, too, you look… pale. Tired. Are the words from the Well still keeping you from your rest?”
Vinya shrugged. “I’ll go see Dorian or Morrigan later. After I meet with Cullen. Don’t worry.”
“Do not discount Solas,” the Ambassador suggested pragmatically before taking her leave. “I daresay he may know more than Dorian, and Lady Morrigan remains bitter over certain events. Something to consider, your worship. Good day.”
Her tea had chilled. Swallowing the last mouthful, Vinya wondered how similarly cold and unpleasant her reception with the apostate would be. The elf hadn’t been happy with her choice over the Well, and Vinya had cut the discussion short before Solas railed for very long. It had been the last words they’d exchanged, some three nights ago.
Their relationship was little more than courteous greetings, Solas sought when questions about the Rifts arose, or situations of Vinya feeling guilty over her Dalish blood. Solas had shown them Skyhold, and the Inquisitor certainly didn’t hate him as Sera did. There had just never seemed to be a common ground to meet upon, and so their conversations were usually short and brusque.
Once, perhaps, in Haven, there might have been a moment; a spark of understanding. Vinya had pledged an innocent promise to help him make friends, though she’d never made good on it. And then the promise had gotten buried along with the rest of the buildings under snow and ice and cold.
The fact that the ominous note requested she seek him out only bolstered Vinya’s hesitance. As she pictured the uncomfortable conversation with Solas –her back painfully straight while sitting across from him; his eyes small, shrewd and searching– the Inquisitor considered how much authority these words were even owed. Should she be looking everywhere for spies, now? Under the bed, or behind her shoulder? Leliana had never once voiced concerns of secret agents in Skyhold, though perhaps that was something to fear rather than find hope in.
Striding across the floor, Vinya sighed. Counting every step, Vinya speculated. If the letter could lead to whoever had claimed the orb before Corypheus, then the Inquisitor couldn’t really ignore it. And if the warning of spies was true, she was now very alone.
“Ah, and here she is: smirking, strutting, with a bounce in her step. Must have just had breakfast. Where’s mine?”
Skirting through the curiously empty rotunda, Vinya had climbed to the library. An even bigger surprise was sitting in his comfortable, plush chair of red velvet, which, although emblazoned with the crest of the Inquisition, might as well have been wrought to Tevinter’s foreign fashion for how everyone else avoided it. Fighting Dorian Pavus for his favorite seat was something no one had the energy to do.
“Didn’t think you’d be up yet,” Vinya shrugged as she leaned against the baluster which over-looked the first floor. “Otherwise of course I’d have brought you some eggs. With that disgusting sauce you like.”
“Not awake yet?” Dorian tilted his head a little, crooked his brow a bit; feigned some soft offense. “You aren’t going to say something about my beauty sleep, are you?”
“No,” Vinya smirked. “I know you’ve been staying up late this last week, working on that project.”
“The Liberalum, yes. In fact, it’s borne fruit. And a basket to put it in.” Dorian stood up, motioned to his chair as an offering, and then came to stand before the Inquisitor when she declined. “I do so love using fruit metaphors to describe my homeland. It presents many opportunities for some very colourful commentary.”
“Rotting from the inside? There’s a worm within?”
Dorian frowned, a little of his bluster gone. “I was going to say something about rubbing it to shine on my sleeve.”
“You don’t have a sleeve.”
The frown deepened to concern. “Still suffering headaches?”
Vinya sighed and shrugged. There wasn’t a soul around except them, but all she could see were those words on the page. There are spies in Skyhold. They are watching.
“Do you think my hand could be possessed? Because of the Mark, I mean.”
It would have been easier had Dorian laughed. It was what the elf expected, and how she yearned for something simple and familiar. Instead the man looked thoughtful, although that wasn’t surprising, either. “In theory. The Anchor’s ties to the Fade could facilitate something akin to possession. You can draw things in by tearing the Veil; close the Rifts. That light it emits? To me, that suggests a continuous open means of accessing the Fade, not something you merely bend to your will. Perhaps it’s a two-way street.”
The Inquisitor went to rub her hand over her face, and then jerked away when she realized she’d gone to do so with the palm which was apparently playing house with a host of demons.
“Why do you ask?” Dorian asked. That intrigued, wistful tone that took him whenever theorizing on magic had sobered. “Not to sound curt, but you never care for magical discussion. Theory or otherwise.”
Vinya looked passed him, through the window to the sky. “You know those dumb questions that come to you in the middle of the night? The ones you can’t get out of your head?” This isn’t one of those. “It’s one of those.”
“Something tells me ‘in the middle of the night’ means ‘in the middle of the night with Bull, Blackwall and a keg of mead’.”
She gave him the quiet laugh he was looking for. “Do I look hung-over?”
Dorian shrugged with his eyes. “Perhaps you’re wearing it well. There’s a first time for everything, Inquisitor. After all, you are, to my knowledge, asking for the first time about the Mark upon your hand which shits demons and is related to ancient elvhen magic. At this point I thought you weren’t curious as a matter of principle.”
“I don’t dislike magic,” Vinya countered, trying to keep things light. It seemed the man would never forgive her for employing the templars rather than mages so many months ago. Dorian was very dear to her, as she was to him, but so much of his identity – summoning fire, commanding the dead – was something beyond her comprehension. “I just don’t like the scary magisters who use it to turn people into toads.”
Dorian laughed affectionately. “You’re starting to sound like Bull.”
“He’s smarter than that!” Vinya snorted. “…Isn’t he?”
“Sometimes I wonder,” the Tevinter native sighed wistfully.
After a few moments had passed, someone scuffled up the steps. The elven book-keeper, who no one seemed to know the name of, started his duties of collecting and cataloguing. As Dorian’s tender morning thoughts turned from the wonderful lummox he called lover, he looked at Vinya with a bit of concern. “You know who you ought to be asking these questions.”
The Inquisitor shrugged. “He wasn’t awake. Hence why I came up here. And to bask in your company, of course.”
“He’s awake now.” The man nodded passed her and down into the rotunda. “Why don’t you go ask him? I’m dying to hear how horrified he is by the suggestion.”
Vinya still did not turn around. Her voice softened, as though the older elf might hear from the story below. “Well, then, how about you ask?”
Of course, Dorian didn’t miss a beat.
“Good morning, Solas!” The man’s jubilant, cordial and far too enthusiastic greeting caused the elfmaid to jump. “Sleep well?”
“Yes, Dorian,” came the answer amidst chair legs scraping back from their spot. “Thank you for asking. Yourself?”
“Oh, like a babe. But not one of those problem children who are up fussing half the night. So, not like myself, if my nurse is to be believed.”
Laughing silently, Vinya buried her face in her hands as she listened to the man’s attempts to butter the apostate up.
“Actually, the Inquisitor and I were just having a debate on the magical properties of the Anchor. And the implications of possession due to its relationship with the Fade.”
“Indeed?”
“No, not really.” Turning, Vinya leaned over the baluster. “Debate implies two opinions, which this did not have. Please ignore Dorian.”
Miffed by the Tevinter mage’s ridiculous assertion, or perhaps at their conversation being cut short, Solas sat down in silence and started skimming through the index of the volume on his desk.
“You’re no fun,” Dorian said.
The Inquisitor rolled her eyes. “Have I threatened to throw you out lately?”
“Not this week.”
Nodding thoughtfully, Vinya pushed off from the baluster and walked towards the stairs.
“Vin?” Dorian’s face was full of care when she turned back for a second. “If you are concerned, please talk to him. He won’t bite.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well“ —and no one could smile quite as supportively as Dorian— “with that old pelt he wears, one never knows.”
The candle light illuminating the orange and red pigments of the fresco threw the lower floor into an impression of glowing flame, as though the place was on fire. There was even the thick smell of smoke, as incense burned upon a copper plate sitting on the desk. But again, all Vinya could see, all she could hear, while making the last step and entering the rotunda, were those words.
There are spies in the Skyhold.
I would not have done what I did to us without great cause.
The person who owned the orb before Corypheus: that is who we must stop.
Vinya took a deep breath.
Ask Solas of his time in the Fade.
And she would.