I only played Trespasser AFTER finishing my last story. Half of me was ecstatic to find an epilogue that so nicely mirrored what my own head-canon had created in the fanfic universe; the other half was furious with myself for jumping the gun by about 2 years. Anyway, there's no constant story here. This will simply be where I drop scenes, conversations, predictions and the like as they grow and fester in my brain like creative cancers. If they don't get written they block up ordinary thought to the point of non-function. So perhaps that's constipation more than cancer . . . .

Bioware owns everything. In the universe. Anything they don't own would probably be better if they did.

Empty Space

The rotunda of Skyhold was one of the least traversed rooms in the entire fortress. Nothing had been moved in two years. Even when Leliana and her agents were poring over every inch of the room to discover all they could of the enigma that had been Solas, they had been careful to place each item back in its original spot – not even the dust betrayed their touches. The Inquisitor had not stood in this domed chamber for many months. Usually she passed through it without even raising her eyes, intent on climbing the stairs to the library or the eyrie above, unconsciously trying to convince herself that she didn't look around the room because she was busy, because she wouldn't see anything new, because there was no point to dwelling on the past.

Now the books on the desk had been violently flung to the floor and the dust on the wood had been blasphemously disturbed with the imprint of her curved backside. Inquisitor Trevelyan stared up at the walls of the rotunda, the stark colors and gothic lines of artwork suddenly looking malevolent and foreboding, no matter the content. Each painstakingly detailed piece was meant to capture a great moment, even celebrate victories, yet it all felt so ominous now.

Her eyes traveled back to the same mural time and again: Solas' depiction of Corypheus' attack on Haven. Not just because it was one of the worst days of her life. She was always drawn to this panel because she'd sat in the room and watched him paint it. Hours on the cold stone floor, neck aching in protest from being tilted up to follow him along the scaffolding. Yet she remained, watching the deliberate movement of his hands as he forced the colors to shape and yield to his vision. He had already painted all the other climactic events in their short history together: the Breach at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the birth of the Inquisition, recruiting the mages from Redcliffe. . .still, the art all seemed rather narrow-minded in its focus.

"You should do a panel of me getting knocked on my ass by Cassandra or Bull. Happens a lot more often than all this rift sealing and dragon fighting drama." Eve was grateful that Solas had left out any specific imagery of her, but there was no denying that everything she did was at the center of his inspiration. This must be how emperors felt when historians started following them around with quills and expressions of painful constipation.

"The common does not need to be commemorated, Inquisitor. It is an idiosyncrasy of our world that mundane events are easily remembered but epic moments lost to time." Solas glanced over his shoulder at her briefly, only when he used the newly bestowed title. The solemn mage would never deign to show anything so pleasant as a smile but Eve knew there was a glint dangerously close to amusement in his eyes whenever he used the grandiose label. He enjoyed watching her wince. The formal title felt like new armor: heavy, unyielding, chafing in its strictures and dangerous in its ostentation. She needed to drag it through a bit more dirt and blood before it would feel like it suited her.

"Have you seen Cassandra fight, Solas? Mundane is hardly the word." Trevelyan scoffed, taking a sip from the flask at her side. She'd originally wanted to point out that her ass was anything but common; unfortunately, Solas would never appreciate such a joke. She liked the silence of the mage's company; it always felt like his presence created space for her to think but - Maker! - he had absolutely no sense of humor.

"The Seeker is a formidable woman," the elf agreed, touching up an invisible error, "The degree of her devotion would be frightening in anyone lacking her honor and wisdom."

"Why, Solas, I've never heard you praise anyone so warmly. Nursing a crush, are you?" Eve teased, watching for any hints of reaction that would reveal some extra clue about the enigmatic mage.

She had yet to even figure out if he preferred women or men like Dorian (not the Vint specifically, they clearly didn't care for each other). There was a vague hint around the edges of his gravity that either he was still nursing heartbreak from some lost love or he just found every breathing creature too stupid to consider romantically. At this rate Trevelyan was inclined to believe he only screwed in the Fade and even then it would have to be a ridiculously intelligent demon. The elf's pillow talk probably revolved around the historical impact of some lesser-known ancient burial site.

"If someone has admirable qualities they should be acknowledged, commended even, so that others can learn from their example," Solas shot her another glance, slightly more pointed than before, "But I would hardly challenge you for the Seeker's attentions."

Eve felt the immediate burn of blood rushing to her skin, coloring from her collar clear to her ears. How in Andraste's name did he figure that out? She flirted with everyone. Every one. Maker's balls, she would've hit on Alexius if it bought them the mages' freedom. Surely she wasn't any more obvious in her remarks to Cassandra than to Dorian, Sera or Bull? Then again, her eyes didn't follow any of them across a battlefield the way she did with Seeker Pentaghast. In her defense: none of them had as attractive a figure or that lovely way of wiping an enemy's blood spatter off her face.

"And now I get the lecture about focusing on Corypheus and the Inquisition and the end of the world, right?" Trevelyan got to her feet and crossed her arms, turning her eyes to the massive depiction of their enemy. Why did Solas have to paint him so large? Wasn't their task already daunting enough?

"I think you have reminder enough, Inquisitor." The mage's eyes strayed to the faint, green glow of her left hand. The simple dismissal of all awkward conversation material was typical of Solas. She still hadn't figured out if he avoided personal topics out of respect for her privacy or because he just didn't bloody care.

"At least I can ignore my hand hurting. You've gone and surrounded yourself with this madness!" Eve walked around the room, taking in each mural and the nearly obsessive amount of detail. There was a significance to each and every brushstroke, just as Solas never spoke a word that wasn't perfectly chosen to fit his meaning. He climbed down from the scaffolding, stepping back to take in the latest completed work. There was no artistic pride in his eyes. This wasn't the creation of something wonderful but an attempt to capture what was true. When he finally turned to answer the Inquisitor she could find only a lingering sadness beneath the determination in his gaze.

"You have already seen that my people do not believe in letting history vanish with words. What has happened needs to be remembered, preserved beyond the limits of one tongue. I believe it is important that the world of the future know what went on during this time: the good you fought for, the battles won." Solas made an effort at smiling but it never went beyond the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Instead he rested a hand on her shoulder, a gesture that was surprisingly comforting despite the hesitation that confessed awkwardness.

"Oh, we won did we? Corypheus sent a letter of surrender while I was asleep?" Trevelyan was completely incapable of letting the moment stay serious. This once, she imagined Solas was grateful for the distraction of her humor.

"I have yet to see you lose." The mage's hand gave a final squeeze to her shoulder, sealing his unspoken assurance before pulling away.

"Well then, damn good thing you left such a nice, big wall blank for the victory painting," Eve gestured to the remaining half of the room, walls still naked and hungrily waiting for history to unfold, "I think something in the style of the Alamarri – we can use Corypheus' blood for the red and I'll be sure to gather up a few scales from his pet lizard for you to plaster on. Could you perhaps include the Seeker giving me a kiss for reward? I'd like to start planting the idea as soon as possible."

"I think - like everyone else - we must wait and see, Inquisitor." Solas shook his head, his sigh patient as time itself.

Wait and see.

Wait and fucking see. Trevelyan turned to look at the final panel of Solas' fresco. No color, nothing more than the sketched outline of shapes and she could feel her eyes beginning to burn as they dragged over the confession that had been right under her nose all this time. A wolf coming out of the sky, triumphant over a dragon slain with a sword that she knew all too well. It couldn't be more obvious if Solas had just written "I'm Fen'harel and I used the Inquisition to fix my mistake."

"You ass." Eve grabbed a paint pot off the desk – the liquid long since dried to nothing but crust – and flung it at the wall. It smashed beautifully, the dead color erupting in black powder before falling to cover the shards on the floor.

"How did I know I would find you here?" The exotically clipped words lazily chased away the lingering echo of shattering clay. Trevelyan turned to the doorway as Cassandra strolled in, forsaking her usual military bearing in the comfort of their privacy.

"Because the bond we share gives you an uncanny intuition into my character and instincts?" Eve suggested, rising off the desk to greet the Seeker with a smirk.

"Obviously. It must be that. Nothing at all to do with the noise of things being flung and broken." Cassandra's eyes roved the room, finding the one mess of broken clay and desiccated paint.

"Only one arm left," Treveylan shrugged, "Have to keep it strong, you know."

She'd meant it to be a joke but the sight of her lover's eyes falling to the truncated shape of her pinned sleeve reminded her that not everyone was ready to laugh about it. The Seeker stepped into her space, one hand resting against her arm just above the glaring amputation and the muscles of her jaw worked angrily as she fought for words.

"Cassandra -," Eve lifted her hand to the Nevarran's cheek, thumb dragging along the line of her face to chase away the bite of her thoughts. The touch jolted the raven-haired warrior out of her pique and she caught the Inquisitor's hand, clenching it tight as a weapon in battle.

"How are you not angrier than this? He betrayed us, used the Inquisition, hurt you-," The Seeker looked again at the injury before dragging her attention back to Eve's gaze, "You have been in here for hours since we returned but there has been only silence. The soldiers thought you were holding a vigil. The servants think you are praying!"

Despite Cassandra's attempt at serious concern, the ludicrous idea that the Inquisitor might have chosen to take solace in prayer brought an irrepressible bubble of laughter from them both. The Seeker knew – as did anyone passing too near their door at night – that Lady Trevelyan only implored the Maker when she was engaged in rather unholy activities.

"I think you're angry enough for both of us," Eve pointed out, still trying to coax the frown out of her lover's eyes, "Besides, you remember what happened the last time we both got mad about the same thing."

The Inquisitor had a violent temper of her own but it was little more than bursts of lightning compared to the constant storm of Cassandra's thunderous furies. For the most part she could swallow her rage and store it for use on the battlefield, the one place she was allowed to give it free rein. There were, however, a handful of triggers that could set her off without any hope of control until the wrath consumed either itself or everyone around her.

"We did clean up the mess." The Seeker grimaced as she recalled the incident. Given that the Nevarran spent most of her life poised at the edge of fevered anger, she was inevitably just as incensed as Trevelyan in those moments when the world turned red and deadly.

Exploitation of power, harm to innocents, unjustified entitlement, and anyone, anywhere who thought people were toys; those were the crimes that Eve couldn't stomach. (Also, though not as high on the list, those horrible little dogs that were so fashionable in Orlais; the number of times she wanted to poison some snob's food just to get at the fancy rat eating off his plate!) It was truly unfortunate that so many of those wrongs tended to gather along with the nobility at all the galas and fêtes she had to attend in her official capacity.

"Josephine sprained her wrist writing all the apology notes, Cassandra. Even Leliana was furious with us." Eve had been verbally ripped apart by her former spymaster only a handful of times and on every occasion she was shocked to emerge alive. Apparently becoming Divine didn't change the sharpness of her tongue. It was bad enough being summoned to the bard's nest on the topmost floor of Skyhold's tower but nothing could prepare her for the horror and shame of being dragged off a dance floor by the Maker's Most Holy.

"The woman was a monster." Cassandra refused to regret their actions. It wasn't uncommon for nobles to bring their personal servants with them to masques. Usually the higher the rank of the aristocrat, the more peons they liked to drag around in their wake. But she and the Inquisitor both felt the hairs on the back of their neck prickling when the Comtesse arrived with an eleven year old boy at her side.

"Whom Charter had been tasked to assassinate in less than a week. We just didn't happen to know that bit." Eve sighed, remembering Leliana's enraged rebuke. 'You thought I did not know? That I would tolerate such a thing?' It was a painful proof of just how important the redhead had been in the workings of the Inquisition. Had she only known that the Most Holy was already plotting divine punishment . . . No, she still wouldn't have been able to stay her weapon. The sight of that jeweled hand groping the child!

"Matthian is much happier serving in the Grand Cathedral. I understand he bakes wonderfully," the Seeker's dark hazel eyes softened with tones of honey and flame, "And you almost succeeded in distracting me. Is it so difficult to speak of what happened?"

The Inquisitor cursed in the silence between her thoughts. The brunette warrior had grown far too adept at understanding her strategies. The Nevarran had always been skilled at seeing through Eve's pretenses, finding the hidden truths beneath her wit. The last two years of intimacy had only made her more impossible to fool. The woman that knew her dreams by the rhythm of her breath at night wasn't likely to be deceived by such simple tricks anymore.

"Solas was my friend, Cassandra. Is. He is my friend." Trevelyan forced herself to remember that nothing had changed. Solas was no different. He was more than what anyone thought but he'd never pretended to be someone else. It was only now that she and her allies could fully understand who he'd always been.

"Your friend wants to destroy our world." The Seeker stepped over to the long abandoned desk and leaned against one edge.

"No, he doesn't. Want to, I mean. But he's willing to do the wrong thing for the right reason. Haven't we seen that happen often enough? Haven't we all been there for just a split second? Maker, if I didn't have you and the others. . ." Eve frowned as she thought of the decisions she'd faced as Inquisitor. Each advisor and friend had their own opinion but it was only when she listened to them all that she found the answers between their words. What was it like to have no one helping, to have to make all the choices alone?

"He didn't have to tell me everything the way he did, Cassandra. He didn't have to save me from the mark and let me return to tell everyone his plans. I think," Trevelyan paused, noticing that when she thought about Solas her left hand itched, except she didn't have a left hand anymore, "I think he wants us to stop him. He wants us to find the answers that he can't see."

"You give him tremendous credit." The Seeker was obviously less than convinced, the line of her mouth distorting with bitterness.

Eve moved to lean against the desk as well, instinctively drawing closer to Cassandra. From the day she woke up in a cell below Haven, she'd known that staying near the Right Hand would either get her killed or save her life. She'd bet on the long odds and won, a miracle of fortune that graced her every decision in the Inquisition and left her convinced that sooner or later, her luck would run out. In Halamshiral, it almost had.

"He thought he was saving his people and instead ended up destroying their world. Can you imagine the burden? If the Inquisition failed – if I failed – well, we wouldn't have survived long enough to see everything we love destroyed and everyone enslaved to corruption. Solas lived to see his world ripped apart by his own mistakes. By the Maker's holy hands, I do not think I could have survived such a thing." The Inquisitor still had nightmares of the future she'd seen in Redcliffe.

She had battled the undead, walked the Fade, nearly been swallowed by dragons, plummeted multiple times from impossible heights and been chased across immeasurable distances by demons of all forms; yet it was always Redcliffe that ripped screams from her throat in the middle of the night and woke her to a world of sweat and trembling terror. She had seen failure. Varric gutted, nothing left of him but the red lyrium devouring his dead eyes. Cassandra's limp and broken body flung aside like an angry child's toy. Leliana, beset by demons, the moment of shock in her eyes when life was wrenched from her throat. It was a reality that they'd managed to prevent and avoid but in the depth of her mind, between ration and feeling, lay the absolute conviction: it had been real.

"Perhaps that is why he chose to sleep, to escape the pain of watching the destruction of all he'd fought to save." Cassandra relented ever so slightly, the line between her brows allowing a hint of sympathy for their former ally.

"He lost everything. More even, I think, than he's admitting." Eve thought back to their conversation in the crossroads. The bitterness like ash and poison on his tongue when he spoke of the Evanuris, the hollow pain that sucked all the color out of his eyes when he mentioned their murder of Mythal. He'd loved her, there was no doubt. It was a little hard to imagine, seeing as the only mental image Trevelyan had of the famed Elvhen goddess was a silver-haired woman with headdress like horns and a nasty habit of speaking in mysteries. Where in Andraste's sweaty small clothes was Morrigan when they needed her?

"You pity him," Cassandra shook her head in mild wonder, her own gaze still hard as tempered, blood-stained steel, "I cannot be so gracious."

"You don't have to be. This may still end with us meeting as enemies. Of course, if that happens he doesn't stand a nug's chance in a dragon den." The Inquisitor felt the familiar pull of muscles tugging at the corner of her mouth, trying to break her façade of confident nonchalance.

"Is that so? Expecting the Maker to perform a few more miracles on your behalf?" The Seeker's lips quirked as well, anticipating the amusement of whatever joke her beloved was about to make.

"I won't need the Maker. Solas isn't going to have anyone like you standing beside him." Eve wrapped her right arm around the other warrior's waist, squeezing away any distance that could separate them. She felt Cassandra's breathing hitch beneath her breastplate, the stifled sigh that she loved dragging from the Nevarran's lips when laughter wasn't tender enough.

"Did you mean it?" The Seeker was resisting the temptation of lips teasing the edge of her ear.

"You have to ask?" Trevelyan dropped her voice, finding the lower register that made her lover's eyes momentarily flutter. Cassandra had more discipline than the Inquisitor, but not more persistence.

"What you said at the Exalted Council," The Seeker clarified, turning and forcing Eve to meet her gaze, "Your adventuring days are over?"

"So it would seem. At least until I can figure out how to slay dragons one-handed." The Inquisitor's sigh was far too optimistic to be truly frustrated. Over the last 3 years she'd found that accomplishing the impossible was never a matter of 'if' but only 'when.' Logistics would be a bit difficult at first, obviously, but she had an endlessly creative stubborn streak.

"I fear that will not be long. You have already proven how adaptable you can be." Cassandra's rich hazel eyes glinted with particularly pleasant recent memories.

"Maker's damnation! I can't balance on this bloody thing at all!" Eve groaned as her left limb gave way, skidding across the bed sheets.

"I shall have to get used to having you closer then." The Seeker's breathy laughter faded into an indulgent sigh. A smile curled her parted lips as her back arched, exploring the feel of the Inquisitor's weight pressed along every inch of her body, hands pulling her impossibly tighter against slick skin.

"Sweet Andraste, I'm glad it wasn't the right hand." Trevelyan's tongue darted swiftly across her suddenly parched lips, chuckling to cover the arrhythmic stutter of a shallow breath. The amusement in the Nevarran's eyes deepened, affectionate but teasing nonetheless as she read the other warrior's mind. She straightened, not pulling free of Eve's grip but turning to face her squarely. A subtle shift at the edge of her brow, the faintest twitch in the perfect bow of her mouth told the Inquisitor that serious words were forming on the Seeker's tongue.

"If you are truly determined to stop wandering Thedas searching for trouble," Cassandra paused long enough to see Trevelyan tilt her chin in confirmation, "Then perhaps it is time for me to do the same."

Inquisitor Trevelyan was seldom caught unawares and almost never left speechless. Only Seeker Pentaghast had this damnable ability to tie her thoughts into knots that left her tongue useless. Was she actually offering -?

"Cassandra, no. You can't – I won't – it's ridic-," Eve found her mouth suddenly full of words and they slammed together on her lips until she forced them into order, "I couldn't bear it if you gave up on your purpose just to support mine."

Rebuilding the Seekers of Truth had been one of Cassandra's deepest desires for years now. Training a handful of recruits here and there, making contact with other Seekers who'd fled or been forgotten during Lucius Corin's betrayal, making the Order's secrets public knowledge; piece by piece she slaved towards that ultimate goal but it had remained bitterly elusive. The Seekers were still a broken regiment at best, an entire institution martyred to Corypheus' deceit.

"I will not. I believe our goals work in tandem, just as they always have. You shall protect Divine Victoria, the Seekers will serve the Chantry. We will both deal with the threats looming on the horizon. I do not doubt that trouble will find us, as it always has," a smirk crossed the Nevarran's lips, a tiny reminder that it was often the Inquisitor who drew danger like fresh meat in a wolf's den, "But as you said of Solas: let it find us together."

Eve's thoughts spun away in dozens of different directions at once, like a spider's web shattered by wind, coiling and twisting on itself. Arguments and answers rose up and were washed away even as she struggled to catch their words. The world was shifting beneath their feet once more. The Qunari, convinced that Thedas was crippled by the weaknesses of freedom. Fen'Harel, determined to right an ancient mistake at the price of an entire world. The Inquisition itself, carved and shaped by sheer will, now poisoned with spies and traitors and in need of a surgeon's knife to slice away dead weight. Wasn't it only right that in the midst of that chaos they cling to the one constant that had taken over the very definition of their lives? What was it Cassandra said when they spoke in Halamshiral? The Maker himself could not take me from you.

"I suppose Val Royeaux is closer to the Hunterhorn Mountains than Skyhold." Trevelyan finally caught hold of a thought and tested it on her tongue.

Once the Inquisition was pared down she could turn their Frostback base of operations over to Cullen and focus on fulfilling all those grand promises she'd made before the Council. Over the last two years politics, threats and crises constantly dragged both warriors away in separate directions. It was a rare month when they weren't apart for at least a week and often longer. What might it be like to not endure such punishments anymore?

"And to Halamshiral. Leliana is quite adamant that I begin serving on the Exalted Council as soon as possible." Cassandra didn't bother trying to hide the wince of distaste that marred her expression as she contemplated her latest responsibility. Eve hadn't been privy to the exact conversation but she had a feeling Divine Victoria had used every trick in her legendary arsenal of skills to force the Nevarran into taking a seat on the Council. The former Left and Right Hands would continue to balance the power of the Sunburst Throne - likely through stubborn argument - for years to come.

"So where will we call home? Val Royeaux, Halamshiral or the Hunterhorns?" Trevelyan finally relaxed into the other woman's embrace, toying with the shape of things to come the same way her fingers explored the folds and edges of the Seeker's belt and sash. She felt a frisson of pressure on her neck, pulling her inches closer to familiar temptation.

"Any space we two share." Cassandra easily supplied, the tender assurance gentle on her lips but armed underneath with a conviction that would break worlds. Eve knew the flutter in her breathing betrayed the sudden seizure beneath her ribs, the momentary lurch that always paralyzed her soul for the space of a heartbeat when such raw emotion passed between them. She could feel the Seeker's silent laughter flow across her lips.

"You know, I should probably be dropping to one knee and asking you to marry me now," Trevelyan enjoyed her own smug chuckle of victory when Cassandra's breath froze, "But for the life of me, I can't think of anything but a lot of terrible jokes about wanting your hand."

"That would be Varric's influence. Romantic and terrible." The Seeker's laugh wasn't silent this time, as much pained as amused.

"You think that's bad? Remind me to tell you what Sera wrote in her journal about us." Eve recalled her own spasms of loud delight when she read the elf's thoughts on why she and Cassandra needed to get married.

"Do I even want to know?" The Nevarran grimaced, clearly imagining the worst. Probably with terrifying accuracy.

"No. But it would stop me from saying the other awful jokes I have running through my mind." Trevelyan grinned. Spare a hand? Hands down. Left/Right Hand. Upper hand. There were just too many.

"I know better ways of stopping you." Cassandra's nimble fingers tickled the top of Eve's collar right before she leaned in, stealing the smile from her lips.

As you will have guessed, my Inquisitor got along well with Solas and is therefore ambivalent about the prospect of him as the next enemy. I needed to reconcile that with the events of the game.

Thoughts are, of course, welcome. I'm also open to suggestions/requests of scenes readers would like to see in the post-Trespasser pre-DA4 world.