The party was in full swing. Nobles and servants, soldiers and civilians, former Templars and mages, all celebrated the end of Corypheus's mad grasp at power. The music was loud, the drinks strong, the food stacked high on the long tables.

Sinead stood with the library staff, trying her best to rejoice with the rest of the attendees. She was happy, of course. Grateful. In awe of the Inquisitor and what she achieved. Thedas had not been so peaceful, so without immediate threat since before the Blight. She knew it was more than just Corypheus's downfall that the people celebrated – it was the feeling of hope in a future without war or strife that could tear apart nations. So of course she was happy. She must be happy.

Except…

When the archivists finished their assessment of the damage Solas did to the library, it was astounding. Every book that mentioned the elven culture beyond Tevinter slavery, Andraste's uprising and life in an alienage was either missing or blackened. Many of the titles could be replaced, but not without expense and patience. Others were gone forever, rare books long out of print or singular works found in ancient libraries.

But that was something she could focus on another day. Tonight there was wine and song and happy discussions.

Except…

The Inquisitor witnessed Solas's last moments with the Inquisition, and claimed he said something cryptic about "whatever will happen." When she was told about Solas's ruin of the books, she pulled Cole aside and gently but firmly demanded he tell all he knew of Solas. But Cole had nothing to say – there was no memory of Solas's thoughts, just a memory of the man. This confused Cole greatly – he knew that at some point he knew, but now the knowing was gone, as if taken from him.

And who has the power to take away memory? Sinead thought. Was he lying about not using blood magic? Or is there something I'm missing? I feel it's on the edge of my mind, screaming at me to put the pieces together.

But that was yet another concern that could wait. She was happy. Of course she was. She smiled weakly at Marcel as he told a long, rather explicit tale of his romancing of an Orlesian lady. Half the apprentices were blushing, the others were tittering.

And then there was the matter with Eluvio Literan. Sinead had told no one of the note – she was reluctant to share such personal information when she still couldn't speak the name of the man who Solas was clearly implying this Eluvio was. But she guiltily admitted to herself that the information could prove vital. For one thing, it hinted that Solas was capable of directly seeking people out in the Fade – another skill in the realm of blood magic. Perhaps Morrigan could say if the man was lying or not about tapping into blood –

She shook her head. Happy. She was happy, and she was going to enjoy herself.

" – and as I waved to my beloved, knowing that I would never see her again, the lady held up my boot and said 'but we will always have the Great Joust, my dear!" Marcel held his hand over his head, mimicking his lady love.

Sister Guerrin guffawed loudly. "I haven't been this scandalized since – "

" – since you last played Wicked Grace in the tavern?" Marcel said slyly.

"Oh, stop, you," the sister said, tapping the man's shoulder. "Lady Archivist, have you ever heard anything so blue in your life?"

"Hm? Oh. Uh, no! Ahahaha. With the boots." Sinead gave Marcel a wide smile.

Marcel and the sister shared a look. Marcel cleared his throat and linked arms with Sinead. "I'm sure our company is of course diverting, but Ma Dame de Lotus Noir is not made for standing in corners with the rest of the academics. No, she must be promenaded about the room so that lesser beings know their place."

"Marcel, your flattery grows more elaborate by the day. And I don't think I have the shoes for a promenade," Sinead said, a genuine smile spreading across her face.

"Come on, girl, the world's been pulled from the brink and you look like a bunch of orphans were sold off to slavery in front of you," Guerrin said. She gave Sinead a gentle push. "For Maker's sake, go promenade with the man."

"Well, when you put it like that," Sinead said sardonically. "All right, Marcel, let's take a walk."

Marcel chattered as they drifted around the crowded great hall, gossiping about the nobles they passed. From time to time he pulled her toward a group of Orlesians, introducing her with great ceremony. Some she recognized from her time in Val Royeaux. All called her by Marcel's moniker for her – a name she was unlikely to ever shake.

The musicians struck up a tune, and the guests filtered to the dais for dancing.

"Come dance with me, my lady!" Marcel said excitedly. "I have not danced in ages!"

"I'll be a terrible partner," Sinead said, pulling away. "Please, go on and find someone more suitable."

She motioned to a young noblewoman waggling her fan at him.

"I am not promenading with her, fine woman that she is," Marcel said stoutly. "You must dance, my lady."

"Leave her be, Marcel. If she's going to dance with anyone, it'll be me." Dorian offered his hand to Sinead.

"Yes, go on with Master Pavus," Marcel said excitedly. "Of you go!"

"Honestly," Sinead muttered. She took Dorian's hand, and he promptly twirled her about, then walked her away from Marcel, who was busy flirting with the woman with the fan.

"Thank you for the rescue," she said gratefully. "I think he and the sister are trying to cheer me up. It's both incredibly kind and incredibly dreadful."

"Well, people aren't always sure of how to act around those in mourning," Dorian said, maneuvering her through the crowd. "And yes, I call it mourning. If my personal library had been decimated in such a gruesome manner, I believe I'd wear a sack cloth and cover myself in ash."

"A sack cloth and ash?"

"All right, a pair of old leather trousers and a plain grey tunic. It's practically the same thing."

She laughed. "Woe be the day when you aren't shimmering, Master Pavus."

"Sinead!" Dagna staggered up to her and took her by her dead arm. "I'm so glad I found you! I need you for a demonstration." Dagna dragged her towards the end of one of the tables. Dorian saluted her as she stumbled off.

The end of the table was populated by The Iron Bull and his chargers. Dagna positioned her next to Bull's chair.

"Okay, so I got the idea from Sinead here," Dagna said, waggling Sinead's good arm. "Or, I got it from her arm, I guess. Or, the one armedness, though I guess she actually has two arms, just one's kind of wonky –"

"What is this about, Dagna?" Sinead asked, exasperated and a little embarrassed to be on display for the Chargers.

"A brand new staff!" The excitement in Dagna's voice was palpable. "Or, not really a staff. Like, a bracer, but not armor. A weapon. An ARM STAFF! Can you imagine it? Click it on, and get the same benefits of a staff without all that clunky weight and length. Apostates could walk around without fear!" Dagna pointed at the Charger elf.

"I'm not a mage!" she said irritably.

"No, this is a cool idea," Bull said, stroking his chin. "How exactly would it work?"

Dagna brightened while Krem groaned. "Did you have to ask her boss?" he asked wearily.

"I suppose my demonstration is finished, then?" Sinead sidled away as Dagna started in on a long explanation on the mechanics of making a specialized staff. Krem mouthed the words 'help me' at Sinead, but Sinead simply smiled and backed up into the crowd. She turned and found herself at the head of the other long table, where Varric sat with a mug of ale. Cole sat on the table, listening to Varric speak.

"I'd say chartreuse," he said. "But that sounds kind of pretentious. Bright green, I guess."

"What's this about?" Sinead leaned into the conversation.

"Cole wants to know the color of certain flavors." Sinead raised a brow and Varric shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"What's chartreuse, then?"

"Apples," Cole prompted. "Crisp, juicy apples. Mealy apples are orange." He looked at Sinead from under the brim of his hat – gladly returned to him the moment he appeared at the gates of Skyhold, though she only had that moment to greet him before he was mobbed, along with the rest of the Inquisition's inner circle, by cheering Skyhold occupants and soldiers. "If I think of the tastes as colors first, maybe food will be easier to eat," he explained.

"You want to eat?" Sinead grinned. "That's new.

Varric raised his mug. "So you're finally embracing humanity?"

"I don't know. It's…getting harder to ignore."

"Well, baby steps, kid." Varric winked at Sinead. "And how's Dusty now that the world's been set right?"

"Better than yesterday," she said. "Thanks entirely to the Inner Circle. You saved the bloody world, you know."

"Nah, not me. That was all the Inquisitor's work. Bianca and I just showed up for the party."

"You aren't better at all," Cole said to Sinead, confused. "The books are ruined, the questions are unanswered, the master's unfound – "

"Come on, kid, she's clearly trying. Let her let it go for an evening."

"…Sorry."

"That's all right," Sinead said with a toothy smile. "I am having fun, honest."

Cole gave her a look and glanced at Varric, who shook his head slightly. "…good," he said, as if the word tasted bad in his mouth. Probably like maroon, she thought.

"Excuse me, Lady Archivist." She felt a hand on her shoulder, and looked up to find Cullen at her back. "May I have a word?"

"Hey Curly, you gonna sit with the rest of us and have a drink with your friends, or are you still sore about Wicked Grace?"

A flash of embarrassment passed over Cullen that made Sinead wonder. "All in good time. But I've been meaning to catch the lady's attention this evening. If you would come with me?"

"Of course, Commander." She was bemused and nervous. Her last few interactions with Cullen had been no more than short, stiff greetings. She looked at Varric, who shrugged, and Cole, whose face was imperceptible. "I'll come back," she said.

She followed Cullen through the crowd, to a quiet corner.

"I had a chance to see the damage to the library this morning," he said. "I understand that it was quite a collection. I remember the care you took with the books in the Kirkwall library. There was that time that you hounded Templar recruit Loran for weeks when he returned a book dog-eared and water-stained. Wouldn't stop pestering him for the silver to replace it. He came to me, completely flustered. 'Sir, I haven't the silver, and the looks she gives me, I'm sure she'll burn me alive!'" He chuckled, then cleared his throat. "Well. This must have upset you greatly."

She narrowed her eyes. "You took me clear across the great hall to sympathize with me about the library? And to remind me that Loran still owes the Circle twenty-five silver, the cheap git."

"Well…no, not just that." He lowered his voice. "I want to apologize."

"I…what?"

"Apologize. For my behavior these last two weeks. I thought the party would be the best place to do it, so that we could shake hands and wander away from each other, allowing us both to avoid awkwardness."

"Why are you apologizing?" she hissed.

"Because I've been an ass," he replied matter of factly. "Leliana and Josephine were right – you risked much coming forward, and did so for no other reason than to help the Inquisition. And you exhibited a level of control in your spell casting that was commendable. And you were right as well – I've known you too long to have reacted the way I did initially."

"You can't possibly be saying that you approve…"

"Approve? Absolutely not," he said firmly. "It's a dangerous practice that has too many variables that could go wrong and create a terrifying situation. And would I be wrong if I guessed that it's what took your arm?"

She hesitated a moment. "…I got a bit overzealous when protecting Cole…"

"I see." He straightened a wrinkle in her sling.

"It was a mistake that nearly cost me my life," she said, voice low. "I would not let it happen again."

"That's not exactly heartening." He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "But it still stuns me. A 'mistake' in that practice that didn't lead to an abomination is unheard of."

"Only if a person is using it specifically to gather power for himself," she said with scorn. "Or the idiots who think they can make deals with demons. Or the fools who think they need a sledgehammer to push in a tack, and then are surprised when they punch a hole in the wall. And when the wall punches them back."

He frowned. "You almost make it sound like a legitimate practice. 'With no malice, strong mind and heart, it is to not be turned on the innocents.' Who was the teacher who set down these guidelines for you?"

She tsked. "I can't…"

"Say the name, I know. Your cursed tongue."

She brightened. "But Cole can! And I even – " she stopped. "Nevermind."

"My lady…" he said warningly.

"…Solas left a message for me in one of the damaged books," she said reluctantly. "He gave me the name of a Dreamer. I'm…not certain, but it could be the true name of my old master."

Cullen looked at her thoughtfully. "Interesting. Something Leliana would find very compelling, I think. And now you want him found?"

"I don't know if we can…"

"We're the Inquisition," he said with a raised brow. "We just defeated one of the ancient Tevinter magisters who blackened the golden city. What can't we do? But we can discuss that later." He stretched out a hand. "Shall we be on good terms again, Lady Archivist?"

She smiled warmly and took his hand, shaking it vigorously. "The best, Commander."

He smiled back, releasing his hand, then placing it on her shoulder. "Go back to the party, Sinead. You deserve a bit of happiness."

He nodded and walked back into the crowd, leaving her with a light heart and a wide smile. She rejoined the celebration, this time truly determined to let go of her worries, at least for the night.

She drank. She ate. She talked and laughed and whooped. She even danced a few times, Dorian and Marcel both insisting on a turn on the floor. It was late and she was more than a little tipsy when she thought to look for Cole and make him dance, his nervousness be damned. But she could not find him, and Varric merely shrugged and said "the kid ran off. Said he had something to do."

"Then I will have to find him," she declared. "He needs to learn to face his fears!"

"His fears of…dancing."

"Quite right!"

She marched out of the great hall into the garden. Immediately she felt she made a mistake – the garden was almost exclusively populated by couples canoodling in the dark. She walked quickly past nuzzling lovers, blushing heavily, and ran up the stairs. The battlements were quiet, aside from the occasional forlorn guard waiting for their shift change and their turn at the revelry.

She realized then that she was not quite sure where she was going. The cold night air sobered her up a bit, and she felt silly. She made a run for her room, took her cloak of its hook and flipped it awkwardly over her shoulders, using her teeth to help her lone hand tie it on. Then she walked the battlements, pondering where she should look first for Cole.

She headed first towards the Herald's Rest's attic, but thought better of it – it was sure to be packed, and there was no reason for Cole to be there if he was running his helpful errands. The kitchens or the basements were the most likely locations. But instead of heading back down the stairs, she walked toward the tower – now a Circle tower, at the Inquisitor's request.

Perhaps I need the air, she thought as she walked through the door. The tower was dark, the mages still celebrating with the rest of Skyhold. She ascended the stairs quickly, then stopped at the ladder. That wretched ladder.

"All the power at my fingertips, and I can't simply fly the last few feet," she muttered. She once tried to fling herself through the open trap door, but all that resulted in was a bruised body and many curious mages running in response to the clatter to find the Lady Archivist laying with her face against the wall and the wind knocked out of her.

Instead she grabbed hold of the back of the ladder and climbed up the front, alternating between holding herself up with her feet and pulling her way up. Finally, after a brief struggle at the top rungs, she cleared the door and carefully picked herself up and brushed herself off.

The noise of the revelers was a low din at this height, and the lights of Skyhold were not enough to dull the stars. Satina and Luna were high in the sky, one but a sliver, the other waxing gibbous. She blew on her fingers and pulled her cloak tighter around her, the chill of the air biting into her cheeks. She stared at the thin blue scar hanging in the east against the black of night, and suddenly was struck by the vastness of the heavens. The acres of land she had never seen, though she certainly traveled more than most women of her background. And though its walls were mighty, its lights bright, its people loudly proclaiming their joy for a day without war, she felt how small Skyhold was in the scheme of things. She wondered at the many stories within its walls that were dwarfed by the thousands in the surrounding areas that were dwarfed again by the millions across the world – possibly even in lands unknown. And at that moment she felt both very unimportant and limitless.

"Every person's story is important. People forget. Some never know."

She turned from the stars to find Cole standing by the ladder. She laughed. He was wearing the shirt, green doublet and trousers that he was given in Val Royeaux, though he left behind the jaunty caps in favor of his own wide-brimmed hat.

He was also shivering, his hair dripping water on his shoulders.

She moved to him and removed the hat. "Your hair's sopping wet! Why on earth – you'll get a cold like this. Well – maybe not a cold, can you even get things like colds? Nevertheless, you must be uncomfortable."

"I am," he said, shaking. "But I had to wash."

"Tonight? During a party? After you've already been seen at said party in your regular leathers?" She handed him the edge of her cloak. "Go on, then."

"I have to get it right," he said as explanation as he dried his head with the cloak.

"You have to get what right?"

"It's not time for you to know yet."

"Ah, how enigmatic."

He dropped the cloak. His hair fluffed up in the wind, a bright white halo. Reluctantly she placed his hat back on his head, knocking up the brim so that she could see his eyes.

"That's better."

She withdrew her hand and began to hide it in the cloak, but he took it and turned it palm up, cradling it in his hand.

"I need to return these." He pulled her hairpins from his belt and placed them in her hand, then covered her hand with his own.

She looked up at him, looked into his gray, searching eyes, and every feeling she had for him was sharpened. She gave him a weak smile. "I knew they would keep you safe."

"I love you, Sinead."

He said it as if it was a known fact, a truth that existed without dispute. Her whole body burned, then went numb. She felt as if the floor had fallen out from underneath her and she was floating in midair. She laughed awkwardly.

"You don't."

"I do."

The laughter stopped.

"You can't."

"I do."

She tried to pull her hand away, but he held it firmly.

"You mustn't!"

"But I do."

She stomped her foot, her chin wobbling, tears infuriatingly close to falling.

"I have tried so hard," she said angrily. "Do you know how hard I've tried? Of course you know – months of avoiding you, and for what? To learn that it was for naught? That you'd see it all in my mind and you'd try to help me in the end?"

"I'm not trying to help," he said calmly. He curled her fingers around her pins and let her go. She shakily shoved her pins into her sash as he spoke. "Or I am, but not how you think. I do love you." He pulled his hat down a bit. "It was not always so – when my mind was a tumble of thoughts and feelings and wonder and purpose, when I wasn't sure which me I wanted to be. But then my mind settled, and the thoughts were clear and the feelings were steady and sure, and there you were, always with your hand held out to help. You, when the blackness beat down, only borne back by good memories and constant curiosity. I…I couldn't help it."

She groaned softly, pressing her back into the tower wall and her hand against her mouth.

"At first, I thought like you," he continued. "Too much, too real, not right, not ready. But it wasn't helping. And it didn't stop – all the want and desire and hope and compassion and comfort and anger and jealousy and trust and pain and joy – it was always there, always growing, even when I said nothing. And I felt it in you, too, even when you said nothing. Even when you tried to stay away."

"I didn't mean to," she said weakly, her words muffled by her hand. "I really didn't. I tried so hard!"

"I know. Please stop." He stepped toward her carefully. "I don't care if it's too much or too real. I miss your voice and your hands and your thoughts and your care and your…your…"

"Please don't say my hair," she said, a bit frenzied.

He opened his mouth, then gave her a small smile. "No. It is nice hair, though."

He took another step, then another, and carefully took her hand from her mouth and once again pressed it between his.

"You can say it out loud if you like," he said softly. "You can make it real."

"And what then," she said. Her panic threatened to rise, but she held it at bay with her frustration. "Will we court? Will we woo? I don't think I'm capable of that, or of…of…" she blushed. "Maybe at one time, but – he was in my head, Cole. He was in my head and every thought and emotion and physical desire was his, and I…I killed him to make it stop – "

She shuddered. She had never spoken of it aloud, the horror of having her whole being under another's control, the power of taking the life that tried to take her mind. Or the mistrust in herself and others that lingered for years, even when she was long healed of the immediate revulsion.

"I know," he said simply. "But I'm not in your mind, making you think the things I want from you, and never will be. I just hear who you are."

"And I don't know what we'll do, if you make it real." He shrugged. "Courting is…odd. Taking walks in the garden and whispering secrets and being angry when someone else says they like the symmetry of the face that you also like. How is that better than talking about griffons and Wardens and keepers and seekers and thaigs on sand and those across the sea and the reasons that people do the things they must?"

He paused for a moment. "And there are things that are too…real..."

"Oh." Her blush deepened. "Oh."

He let her hand go and folded the ends of her cloak together.

"You can make it real, if you want to. Or stay silent and let it stay in your head." He cocked his head. "I think…I think I'll love you either way. Isn't that strange? I wonder why it works that way."

She closed her eyes. Her mind was reeling. Everything felt out of sorts, out of her hands. But when had anything ever been in her hands? From the moment she burned her toast when she was seven she was moving, or learning, or running, or lying low, or working on things that were ultimately hidden or ruined. The only thing she could do from time to time was make a choice, and then run with the consequences without stopping or stumbling.

Sinead made a decision.

"I love you too." The words wavered a bit, which she found unacceptable. "I love you, too, Cole," she said firmly, staring him in the eyes. "Damn it all, I do. I love your compassion and wonder and searching and helping and trying to be the best you you can be. I love the questions you ask and the hope you bring and the stories you tell about the people you feel. I love all of you, and I can't help it, either. And I'm tired of trying not to."

He gave her a slow, wide smile, a smile that brightened his features and lit his eyes. Slowly, carefully, he raised his hand and brushed the back of his fingers down her cheek, ran his thumb over the edge of her jaw. She sucked in a breath. Her heart flipped. Maker, is he going to kiss me?

"Can I?"

"Can you?" she said shakily. "Isn't it too real?"

"I don't know. But I can try."

He tipped her chin up, leaned in unhurriedly, and gently kissed her. His lips were sure, but soft, yielding, unforceful. She followed their movement with her own, hesitant at first, but quickly became more certain, lifting her hand to barely graze his arm with her fingertips as a sweet ache filled her chest. It was like a deep longing, a thirst she did not know she had, was finally being slaked.

He began to tip back. She pulled away as he fell, and pushed on his chest, quickly swinging him around so that his back hit the wall. He slid to the floor, his face pale in the moonlight. Sinead kneeled beside him.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. I think. Maybe it is still too real," he said, his voice creaking. "But it was worth trying."

She laughed and sat next to him, leaning her head against his shoulder and looking up at the stars. A thin streak of light zipped by as one of the stars fell to earth, leaving its brethren behind.

Thanks everyone who read and left comments! I hope you had as much fun reading as I've had writing :)