Miriam drifted up slowly from the deep, empty void of her dreamless state. No light greeted her; it never would again, and she knew this. But her other senses sharpened as she grew aware of the world around her. She lay still, half-sunken into a lumpy mattress, her skin damp and clammy. The smell of old blood clung to her, mingling with the sour stench of unwashed bodies.

Breathing steadily, she noticed the pain flickering at the edge of her consciousness: a wound on her chest throbbed, and a phantom weight lingered where her left arm used to be. Yet these sensations were no longer fears or sorrows—they were facts, like items on a list that demanded attention.

Around her, a quiet murmur of sounds seeped through. Muffled voices, the low hum of conversation, and scattered laughter floated nearby. From somewhere below came the clink of tankards and the scrape of chairs against the floor. She let the sounds and smells wash over her, cold and indifferent, as she pieced together where she might be.

A shift of fabric, subtle but near, drew her attention. "I have awakened you from your slumber,” came the low, measured voice of Solas. His tone was calm, almost clinical. "But you are still gravely injured."

Miriam turned her head slightly toward the sound, but her movements were stiff, her body slow to respond.

"We are in a room of an inn, in Denerim,” the elf continued. She could hear the soft crunch of dirt beneath his boots as he stepped closer. "Cullen is absent right now, and it will take some time before he returns." There was a pause, and Miriam sensed more than heard the way Solas regarded her. "While we wait, we should talk. There are things you must understand about what has happened and what lies ahead."

The Tranquil remained silent while the elf weaved a tale drawn from times older than any human record. His words fell like a slow, somber rain, laden with truths too immense to bear all at once. He spoke of a world where magic roamed freely, as essential to his people as air itself. In that time, an order of elven mages had risen, god-like in power, feared and worshiped as the Evanuris. Yet, in their exaltation, these mages had become cruel, their tyranny absolute, until they started to enslave their own people.

And then, as he described it, one rose to defy them—a lone soul, a figure both feared and revered, known as Fen’Harel. He was driven not by ambition but by an anguished love for his kin. To end their suffering, he sealed the Evanuris away, a single act that shattered the world irrevocably. In severing the Evanuris’ hold, he had created the Veil, dividing the realms of magic and the living.

Solas’ voice darkened as he continued that one of the Evanuris, Elgar’nan, had wielded a power unlike the others—the gift of foresight. Though he could not see the exact future, he glimpsed its many branching possibilities, each path a variation of what could be. For ages, he waited in his prison, watching, seeking the one opportunity that would allow him to break free. And that chance had come when Corypheus grasped an ancient elven artifact—one capable of piercing through the Veil itself.

And so, Elgar’nan stretched his shadowed hand across races and lands, threading his whispers into the minds of countless mages. He showed them visions of grandeur, cloaking his dark intentions in dreams of a future radiant and triumphant. Elgar’nan knew well how to stoke the fires of ambition, how to twist the strings of their hearts until they played a tune that suited only his design. But among all the mages he tempted, among the endless threads of fate he wound into his own scheming web, the one that ended up interrupting the ritual of the Elder One was Miriam.

And in that instance, her fate was sealed. One part of the elven artifact became bound to her, engraved in her very hand, etching a force upon her spirit that would drive her, even without her consent, into waters deeper than her soul could fathom.

Now Elgar’nan’s influence was solely concentrated on her, and through the mark that amplified her connection to the Fade, he seeped into the mage like a toxin, slow and unrelenting, bending her thoughts, and gradually turning her will towards his own grim purpose. Day by day, she was driven deeper into his design, each step a descent into darkness. And Elgar’nan, closer now to his goal than ever, watched as the plans for the portal that he will use to escape from his prison took shape—the Golden City, the site of blind faith and blood, risen by those who believed they were serving the Maker.

Solas paused for a moment as if giving her time to gather her thoughts after such a revelation. "Now that your mind is clear, now that the fog of delusion has lifted, I believe you will finally see the truth," he uttered, his words calm but heavy with an undercurrent of something far more resolute. "You were never the Chosen of the Maker. You were never the Herald of Andraste. No divine hand guided you. You were simply another weak, foolish human, one who stumbled blindly into the snares of temptation and corruption."

A trace of pity, perhaps even a reluctant compassion, surfaced in his voice as he continued, though his tone did not soften. "Yet, I do not place all the blame at your feet. After all, the taint of the Evanuris—their poison—would be impossible for a mere nobody like you to resist. How could you, when even my people fell beneath its weight?"

Solas’s harsh words slipped past Miriam like water running down bare stone, leaving no trace of themselves in her unfeeling mind. Her response came at length, in a voice so flat, so wholly stripped of feeling, that it seemed like the monotone echo of a distant, fading bell. "Judging by my recollections, it is as you say." There was no defense, no denial. Only the bleak recital of a life unraveled. The Nightmare revealed to me that the one who saved me from the Fade was not Andraste but the spirit of Divine Justinia. I ignored this truth at the time. It was too painful to accept, and I suppose I should thank you that I no longer have the capacity to feel such pain. The current revelations would have caused me great anguish.”

She shuffled through her other memories with the mechanical precision of a mind processing facts. "The way the mark has carved its effects into my body, the unnatural cruelty with which I wielded its power—all of it falls so far outside the teachings of Andraste as to mock them." Her right hand went to gingerly touch the stump of her left arm. "The figure that emerged from the mark, the one I believed to be the Maker… it was not light, not warmth, but dark matter. It is a sign, as clear as any, that I was mistaken."

"I must confess, I am... relieved, yes, to find you so very reasonable. It is, however, a grave misfortune for you that I was forced to sever your connection to the Fade to achieve this clarity." There was no mockery in the elf’s tone, only a grim acknowledgment of what had become necessary.

"Then, if reason is indeed our shared ground, may I ask you something in return? Why did you spare me and Cullen during the fight? You killed Gaspard without hesitation, and the others—all of them. It would have been logical to kill us too."

"Ah, that is the second part of the tale, the part you are now prepared to understand." The Tranquil heard the rustling of a fabric once again. "As it became clear to the Spymaster that your power was not, in fact, from the Maker, she sought me out. Leliana needed someone who could see the truth for what it was—and act on it, unsentimentally. We came to an agreement. Once the Elder One was defeated, one of her agents would lure you, Cullen, and the others into the Fade. There I would eliminate you all. It was decided that this would be the most… effective way to halt the plans of Elgar’nan and prevent the truth from emerging." Solas’ voice grew sharper, almost as though he found some disdain in the memory. "Leliana knows that if the truth were to spread, there would be no greater scandal. It would shatter the Inquisition. So she arranged a story, one that would preserve her organization’s purity in the eyes of the world, even if that purity was no more than a shadow."

The elf sighed. "After Corypheus fell, the world was told that the Inquisitor, her valiant husband, the Emperor of Orlais, and their forces, all perished in glorious battle. A righteous, noble sacrifice, marked so greatly by the Maker’s grief that He chose, in His sorrow, to withdraw from mankind once again. A bittersweet ending to your tales, which provides a perfect explanation as to why the Golden City would remain unbuilt."

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"Then why are Cullen and I still live?" she inquired, still awaiting his answer to her primary question.

“Patience, if you will.” Solas’ voice grew darker. “Even as we speak, Leliana proclaims that the spirit of the Inquisitor has appeared before her, anointing her as the next Divine. But not merely a Divine—oh no, an Enlightened Divine, a being untouchable, beyond all question or reproach. And as for Orlais, its new Emperor will be none other than Michel de Chevin. Yet he is but a piece on her board moved by her hand, his will bent to hers alone. And so the Inquisition and Orlais alliance would continue, stronger than ever. At least, for a time.”

“I think I understand now,” Miriam said, her voice an echo of cool, calculated logic. “You kept Cullen and me alive solely as leverage. A measure to keep Leliana’s ambitions in check.”

Solas chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Precisely. I have designs of my own for Thedas, you see, and I suspect that sooner rather than later, the Enlightened Divine and I will find our paths entangled once more. When that moment comes, I intend to hold the means to bring her reign to an end, should it prove... necessary.”

“I see... but Leliana is a formidable woman, with her own network of spies. Don’t you think it’s only a matter of time before she learns that we are alive?”

“Rest assured, I’ve taken every precaution,” the elf said, his tone calm and confident. “She won’t uncover your survival so easily. I arranged a switch. Your garments have been placed on the bodies of Reid and Elowen Miller—a quiet, unassuming couple from a modest village deep in the Fereldan hinterlands. The deceased were charred beyond recognition and presented to Leliana as proof of your demise. Meanwhile, you and Cullen will now assume their lives.”

He paused, letting the weight of their new reality settle in. “Reid was a foundling, raised by a Chantry Sister. He was quiet, capable, and hardworking—a lad with no aspirations of grandeur, destined for a simple life. Elowen, too, was a Chantry child, having grown up alongside him. As is often the way with orphans, the two developed a protective and steadfast bond. With time, that closeness blossomed into love, and they wed as soon as they could. They had no family to speak of, no inheritance to anchor them, only each other. But together, they made a life—a simple one, but full enough for them." He took a measured breath, his tone shifting to one of firm instruction. “And that is how you will live here in Denerim: as a quiet couple, intent on keeping to themselves, content to remain unnoticed. Make no waves. Be content with a life in which you are invisible.”

The elf’s voice grew more authoritative. “Understand, this is an act of mercy. I could have cast you both into a cell and been done with it. But I value freedom above all else, and so I’m offering you the chance to live out your remaining days in relative comfort. You have only two options—so make your choice wisely.”

She paused to reflect on her choices. A life of freedom—albeit constrained—was far more preferable. From a practical standpoint, it made sense to have more opportunities to be of use. Her medical knowledge and skills could still serve a purpose, even if that purpose was now less clearly defined. “Yes,” she said at last, her voice flat but resolute. “I will play the part of Elowen Miller.” Yet even as she agreed, her thoughts turned to her husband. He wouldn’t take kindly to such a plan, to living under a false name, hiding behind a fabricated past. “But what of Cullen? He won’t like this. He’s not suited for this kind of deception.”

“Cullen… is a curious case.” Solas’s voice softened. “The red lyrium within him should have consumed him when the bond between you had disappeared. It should have destroyed his mind completely, twisted him into nothing more than a mindless Red Templar, like so many before him. And yet… something unexpected happened.”

"Unexpected? What do you mean?"

“When your connection to the Fade was severed, your love for Cullen left an echo—an intense, resonant longing. A loss so profound that it created ripples within the Fade. That emotion, fierce and undeniable, called to a spirit of Love, drawing it to you. And as it drew closer, it grew curious about Cullen, the one who had inspired such depth of feeling. Spirits are, by nature, drawn to intensity, to the truths of emotion, and this one found Cullen… worthy and decided to accompany him.”

“But how? Only mages can be possessed, and he isn’t—”

Solas placed a hand on the Tranquil’s shoulder to silence her. “This spirit did not possess him. She merely accompanies him, observing, protecting, existing alongside him in ways that you humans always fail to understand. Your husband was teetering on the edge of madness, of dissolution. But the spirit of Love, recognizing something worth preserving in him—something pure—chose to stay. And by her nature, she tempered the madness. What is even more fascinating is that her presence keeps the effects of the lyrium withdrawal at bay, though for how long it would last, I cannot say.”

Miriam was silent, her mind trying to absorb the impossible. “Is he aware of her company?”

“No. He may find her presence while in the Fade, or feel a sense of warmth at unexpected times, but to Cullen, it would seem like a passing feeling or a strange dream.” A note of empathy, rare and unguarded, crept in Solas’ voice. “And as for you, Miriam, perhaps it is fitting that the spirit who saved the man you loved was drawn to him by what lingered of your own emotions, even after they were stripped from you.”

“Perhaps, yet I still don’t see how being accompanied by the spirit of Love would make him willing to live within this falsehood. Besides, it’s entirely possible that Cullen, burdened by the weight of his own transgressions—transgressions born from the very corruption I willingly infused him with—would want nothing to do with me.”

“It seems, by some strange stroke of fortune, red lyrium stole his memories before Love found him—a mercy, if one can call it that.” The elf added swiftly. “I have already persuaded your husband that he is Reid Miller, and now, Miriam, your path is laid bare before you: play along, be who he believes you to be. Act as normally as you can manage—no more, no less.”

The Tranquil nodded, and they spoke a while longer, Solas imparting the finer details of their new identities, sketching out the contours of the life they would now inhabit. Miriam listened, trying not to miss a thing.

And then, just as his voice fell silent, they both froze. A sound—a faint, unmistakable creak on the stairs—cut through the air. “Remember all that we’ve discussed, Miriam,” the elf murmured. “Now, go back to sleep.”

She barely had a moment to process his words before she heard the snap of his fingers—a sharp, final sound that seemed to ripple through her thoughts. In an instant, she was pulled under, slipping back into the depths of slumber.

Soon enough, a familiar sensation of the healing magic began to swell within the Tranquil, urging her wounds into quiet submission. With each passing moment, the sharp edge of her pain blunted and softened, subsiding to a dull ache that almost felt like peace. She felt herself growing lighter, as though she could finally rise from the weight of her own brokenness. As she basked in this newfound relief, she became aware of a conversation unfolding nearby. The hushed tones of voices drifted toward her, carrying snippets of concern and relief.

"Sir," an unfamiliar female voice said, steady, measured, bearing the tone of authority. "Your wife’s life is no longer in danger, but there are things you must be prepared for. Her sight is lost, irrevocably.” A silence followed, after which the woman added, “For her other wounds, I will leave you several healing salves and potions to speed up the recovery.”

“Thank you… Thank you for your efforts.” Cullen uttered. Miriam could hear the tremor in his tone, the way it quaked under the burden of the news.

"Reid,” she whispered quietly.

But he heard her; she felt that he did—a stirring of air, the hesitant shuffle of feet moving closer. “You’re awake?” His voice was laced with hope and a desperate plea for connection. “You’re really awake?”

"I am," she murmured, turning her face toward the sound of him.

“We will give you two a moment,” Solas announced, and the echo of two pairs of footsteps retreated steadily until the door closed with a muted thud, sealing them alone in the quiet room.

Gingerly, Miriam lifted her right hand, groping through the air until his hand met hers, steady and warm. She heard the floor creak as Cullen kneeled beside her. “How are you feeling?” he inquired tentatively.

"Stable. The pain is manageable. However, losing my sight and my left arm will significantly limit my usefulness, which is unfortunate."

The fabric of his bandages brushed against her fingers as he brought her hand to his brow. “Don’t… don’t speak of yourself that way,” he whispered. She stayed silent, careful not to wound him further. After a moment, he went on. “There was… so much I wanted to ask you when you woke, so much I had planned to say,” he faltered, “but now… I just... I’m simply grateful you’re alive.”

It was clearly an emotional moment for her husband, and she had already unsettled him with her assessment of her situation. So, instead of saying anything, Miriam simply squeezed his hand in an attempt to soothe his restless mind. It seemed to work; Cullen released a faint sigh of relief that brushed softly against her skin.

She resolved to choose her words more carefully from now on, to master the phrasing that would calm, reassure, and even delight him. And later, drawing from her memories, she would try to shape her voice to mimic the warmth of joy, the brightness of hope, and the ease of gentle amusement. Could one fake such emotions convincingly enough to make them real, if only in his eyes? She thought she could. Yes, it was just the beginning. A tentative beginning, but she dared to entertain the notion that it was, perhaps, a promising one.