Hey, you know what's even better than fluff? (spoilers for you get the idea)

When Ellayria falls through the mirror, Cole scrambles to her side.

He’s crying. He shouldn’t be but he is, big fat drops running down his cheeks and the side of his nose and over his chin, and he’s hiding his face in her robes and trying to hold her up steady and he’s crying.

It hurts.

It hurts and Ellayria is dying.

“Come on, Ellayria, get up. You can do it.” Dorian’s voice is trembling, his arm is around Ellayria’s shoulders and he’s urging them forward. “Come on. That’s my girl, up you get.”

Ellayria stumbles as she tries to rise, her knees giving out and pitching her forward. The mark flares bright like a flash, it blinds Cole and Dorian both. Bull puts up his arm to shield his eyes, Dorian flinches away.

Sweetness to sickly green, rotting, creeping up through bone and muscle and peeling back fingernails, its song skidding, screeching, it rasps like horrible breathing, it’s killing her—Cole’s stomach hurts. His chest hurts. Everything hurts, everywhere. He hated the Templar and this is so much worse.

“Bull,” says Ellayria. Her voice is dead.

“Hey, boss.” The Iron Bull’s there, hovering over her. Cole is holding her up with all the strength he can manage, and he’s trying his hardest to breathe normally, in and out, and not to shake. 

Slowly, like she’s lifting a lead weight, Ellayria extends her arm. When they all look at her, blank and anxious and tear-stained, she lifts her chin. “You can do it in one blow.”

It takes a moment of silence.

Then, “oh, Maker,” Dorian says, sounding like he’s going to throw up, and the word ‘no’ fills Cole’s head with no other thought, no other emotion, no space left for anything else, he might be saying it aloud over and over, he can’t tell. No no no no no—

“Okay,” says The Iron Bull. “Lie down.”

The ‘no’s are growing bigger and bigger. His fingers can’t let go of Ellayria’s robe, Dorian has to pull him away. Ellayria lies down flat on the ground, her arm outstretched, and Cole can’t breathe around ‘no’. The Iron Bull unshoulders his axe and Dorian closes his eyes and he raises it and NO NO NO—

She screams. Just once.

–

Cole refuses to leave her bedside. They’d run to the infirmary, stanching the bleeding as much as possible, and the healers had rushed them out again, and then he couldn’t stay still and he couldn’t talk to anybody and he kept tapping his foot against the edge of his chair and rocking back and forth and eventually Josephine with her eyes all red found an empty room for him.

He cried himself out, until there were no more tears left. Then he waited.

Since he became more human he’d been trying to balance his voice against the others’ voices. He needed to be himself, to hear himself, but he also needed to hear them and help them. He was careful all the time, even more careful than before now that he couldn’t make them forget—watching and listening and being patient. In a way it felt good: it almost felt like he was doing it better.

But right now there’s nothing. He can’t hear his own voice and he doesn’t want to hear anybody else’s. It’s just silence. Ellayria lies in the bed with her eyes shut.

He’s found so far that being in love—loving—is like a cobweb. When he helps people it’s a small bond, one tendril, one line drawn between the two of them. Sometimes it snaps and sometimes it stretches out before drifting away. But being in love is another line, and another, and another until there’s a pattern—unexpected, crooked, fragile, beautiful.

Being in love with Ellayria is a lot of lines: waking up to her warmth in bed, their first kiss, her hair between his fingers as he strokes it, sitting beside her. They share her papers and his journal, they try out food until they’re both groaning and sick so they can find his favourite tastes (“bacon rashers and peanut butter? Creators, Cole, why?”). She teaches him how to play chess (and he beats Cullen, and she laughs herself silly) and the syllables of the Dalish language (aneth ara, dareth shiral, ma serannas), and he shares his own stories for hours on end, relaxed and rambling and falling into the rhythm that confuses everybody else. They move together in bed, unhurried, all the time in the world, and he knows what the vallaslin in the dip in her back tastes like and what her legs feel like around his waist and what his name sounds like when she cries it out.

And if those lines are cut, he is undone. There will be nothing left to hold him together.

He doesn’t know how long it is. Maybe he sleeps a little bit eventually, his body giving out on him. There are people moving in and out of the room, leaning over Ellayria, but everything around him is silent. There’s nothing but the hours moving by.

Sometime later, when Cole’s eyes are bleary and he’s wiping the blur from them, Ellayria blinks awake. She shifts about in her bed and groggily lifts her arm: half an arm, a stump.

“Ellayria,” says Cole, his voice barely audible.

Up and about, like she’s testing it. She’s wincing in pain but she doesn’t say anything. Finally her voice comes out in a croak: “Well. It looks like I’m alright.”

“You lost your arm,” says Cole, his voice much more wobbly.

“No, I mean, I’m all—” She lets out a huff close to a laugh, her eyes gleaming underneath her lashes. “You know.”

“That’s not funny,” and his voice is harsh now. “You nearly died.”

“No,” says Ellayria after a minute, and reaches up to touch Cole’s face, her thumb touching the corner of his mouth. “I suppose not. I’m sorry.”

It turns out there are more tears left, after all, and “You can’t die, I can’t lose you, I can’t live without you,” and then Ellayria is trying to sit up and Cole is holding onto her and the scent of her clothes and her hair is overlaid with the strong smell of healing poultices and bleach. And it still hurts.

–

With the healers’ help, Ellayria’s arm heals up smooth and scarless. “It feels like I’m flapping a wing,” she says ruefully, raising her arm again as one of the healers pulls a shift over her head.

“Keep exercising it, Your Worship,” the healer says: a young girl, strawberry-haired and peach-cheeked, looking solemnly at the blessed Herald of Andraste. “That’ll keep it nice and strong. And we’ll have the pros—the p–the new arm in no time.”

She can still push herself up to her feet, shake hands, hug, wave to people. She can still write and carry the great symbolic sword of the Inquisition, holding it aloft. But she struggles to dress herself, toeing awkwardly into her pants and fighting with a simple tunic. She can still hold a staff but she can’t cast with both hands. She can’t cut her own meat at table.

“I’m going to just walk around in these beige pajamas from now on,” she announces, stretching out her legs grandly and waving an arm. “No more changing ever.” She jokes about getting her prosthetic signed by the Champion—beat that, Cassandra—and commissioning Dagna to build it, with knives and runes and projectile explosives. She wonders if they can carve a hand with a two-fingered gesture, for special occasions. She insists imperiously on being served ice cream and tiny cakes instead of steak and chicken.

She’s trying. She’s trying so hard, for Cole, for everyone. It’s always been in Ellayria’s nature to be sweet—it’s why Cole became her friend, it’s why he fell in love with her. But underneath she’s brittle.

One night Cole is in the next room, finding a book, when he hears a crash. There’s a moment’s pause and then rhythmic banging, over and over.

When he pushes past the door Ellayria is bent over the desk, her prosthetic arm sitting across it. She’d been pounding it against the surface, and now her shoulders slump forward. There are shards of a vase sitting by her desk, scattered across the floor, and her papers are a mess and she’s noiselessly weeping.

All Cole can do is go over and stand by her side, rubbing her back.

–

“—not naming the dog Barkspawn,” Cullen is saying as Cole perches on top of Skyhold’s walls. People are steadily leaving, in twos and threes, little by little. Not all of them, but soon there’ll be more echoes and empty hallways.

“How about Bark of the Rift?”

“No.”

“Rare Ironbark!”

“No.”

“Muffy Flufflepoo the Third?”

“No!”

“Falon?”

“N—what?”

“It means ‘friend’.” Ellayria’s voice is gentle. “He’s a good one. As are you.”

“I’ll… take it under consideration,” says Cullen, after a moment. “Thank you, Ellayria.”

“Always, Muffy.”

She just escapes Cullen’s sound of outrage and heads out the door, shutting it behind her. The sun is just rising above the mountains, the air warming up.

Cole reaches out both hands to help her up, and she eases herself down into a sitting position with a soft grunt beside him. Together they look out over the horizon, watching the clouds drift by. “Solas said he would treasure the chance to be wrong,” Ellayria says quietly. “About his plan, about everything.”

“He is wrong,” says Cole simply. “Everyone is real. They always have been—now I am, too. Maybe he’ll see.”

“You don’t know?”

Cole shakes his head. Solas is far away, both in body and in mind. The wolf looms over him, the reaching of a thousand drowning hands, the call of a thousand silent voices. He must be very lonely. “I hope. That’s all I can do.”

It hurts, but hope carries him through.

When he turns back to Ellayria she’s smiling at him, and her hand is in his. They kiss under the shadow of the battlements, lost in the sound of the Inquisition’s pennants fluttering through the air.

I may have failed at being fluffy

“You’ve filled out,” Ellayria says: a little absently, her face pink. She’s not staring.

Cole is struggling into his dress jacket, badly, one arm flopping around while he hops around and tugs. His hair is brushed out of his eyes and his pants are hanging loose and low, and he looks like a scarecrow with a very well-defined hipbone. Not that she’s staring.

“You have lines all the way down your back and into the little hollow above your tailbone,” says Cole, without missing a beat, and while Ellayria opens her mouth and shuts it he gets his collar straightened. “It feels wrong without the daggers,” he adds, quieter.

“No weapons at the dinner,” Ellayria says firmly, feeling the heat in her cheeks. “We all promised.”

“They hate you. They want to hurt you.”

“I know, but we have to try to be nice with them.” She sighs, pulling his hat down a bit: “At least for now.”

“Lord Terevin hates elves,” Cole says from underneath the brim, his voice muffled.

“We need that route into the Anderfels. He’s our best option.”

“He’s gone into the alienage at night.” Cole takes off his hat, and his hair is sticking up and his eyes are looking straight into hers. “He takes people. He knows the streets and the houses. Ellayria, please let me keep the daggers.”

For a moment she wavers, and then shakes her head. “No. We promised. But Leliana knows what to do if anything happens.”

Cole looks mutinous, but focuses downwards on doing up the buttons on his jacket.  Ellayria reaches out again to tug his jacket into place, hands brushing against hipbones for one moment, and then sputters something about “uh, Josephine” and hurries for the door.

–

Josephine herself looks gorgeous in yellow silk and ribbons, with flowers in her hair and at the clasp of her neckline. Her skin is glowing and she’s flushed, and she’s going around with a tiny secret smile these days. Beside her, Vivienne looks like moonlight in cool blues and greys and her robes glimmer constantly.

Ellayria grins gratefully up at them as they’re shown into the courtyard. She’s been trussed up into a dress at their insistence, and her stays are pulled tight and her hair is pinned up. She has to take careful little steps in the shoes. For a moment she feels like a toy doll, then she thinks: look up to them. You’re part of this now. Act like it. Act like them.

Cole is… glowering. He’s lost the hat, and he’s brushed his hair and everything about his uniform is in impeccable condition. But he’s hunched inward. And though people are watching them—curiously, avidly, warily—they’re not watching him. Their gazes slide past.

He also keeps close to Ellayria, one hand touching her back.

“Look, they brought jugglers,” Ellayria whispers to him. Two masked harlequins are tossing coloured balls in the air, and the crowd gasps and applauds as they explode: puffs of flower petals, sparkles of light, clouds of perfume.

“Yes,” says Cole shortly.

“See, you’d be good at doing that.”

“Maybe.” He’s still scanning the crowd.

“Do you want a drink?” Cole doesn’t answer, and Ellayria lets out a sigh. “Cole, seriously, it’s all ri—”

“Madame de Fer,” comes the rumble from her left, and Lord Reynald Terevin is holding out both hands to Vivienne. There’s air-kissing on both cheeks. “You’ve broken at least three hearts just walking in here. Do you still have that minstrel following you about?”

“Oh, Maker, that poor man!” Vivienne’s voice is rich like honey. “I’d nearly forgotten him. What was his name? Bertrand? Berwin?”

“Fourteen ballads, by my last count, and each one at least an hour long!” Lord Terevin straightens his back, just a little. “Ah. Inquisitor.”

“Andaran atish’an,” says Ellayria sweetly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Yes, likewise.” The skin around his eyes is tight and the smile doesn’t quite make it up there. Nonetheless, Lord Terevin bows deeply. “Shall I escort you to the table?”

He hasn’t looked once to either side of her. Ellayria suspects it’s not just rudeness. Cole’s hand is still on her back, and it tenses for just a moment before Lord Terevin offers his arm. She smiles, and lays her hand on top of it, and resists the impulse to look back.

–

“How are your shoes?” Vivienne asks in an undertone, sipping at her wine glass.

“I kicked them off,” Ellayria confesses, wincing a little. Her feet are bare and her toes are wiggling under the table. “Don’t tell.”

The First Enchanter smothers a laugh. “Poor darling. Dalish don’t wear shoes, do they?”

“Depends on the clan.” There’s a whole peacock on the table with its head still on, staring directly at Ellayria. It’s unsettling. “Mine does, but I’m not going to wear them in Orlais—”

Over on her right, Josephine is laughing and talking rapid-fire with another Antivan. A woman has feathers in her hair as she leans over to gesture with her hands, and two men in domino masks are arguing.

Cole has barely touched his plate, and he’s fiddling with his fork instead of using it. His eyes are down on the tablecloth.

As Vivienne is pulled aside by her seatmate, something about the Chantry, Ellayria slips her hand under the table to knot her fingers with Cole’s. “Hey,” she says softly, ducking her head in to be close.

“Thirty-two times two is sixty-four,” says Cole. “There’s sixty-four knives in this room. And fourteen in the kitchen. Seventy-eight.”

It’s not even the words: it’s the monotone he says them in. Ellayria’s breath catches. “Cole, I’m a mage,” she says, as quietly as possible. “And Vivienne’s a mage. And there’s a lot of people here—”

“The mask doesn’t have eyes in the holes.” Cole’s voice doesn’t change inflection. “But I look for it and it disappears into the crowd. I can’t see it.”

“Which mask?”

“Let’s go into the courtyard,” he says, turning to her as his fingers tighten on hers. “Let’s go right now.”

A servant has been whispering into Lord Terevin’s ear, and he stands up to tap on a glass. “Excuse me, everyone…”

“Come on,” says Cole, urgently now, and he’s half out of his chair.

“There’s, ah—this is embarrassing.” Lord Terevin chuckles. “There’s been a bit of an incident in the kitchens, and I’m afraid we’ll need to move to the courtyard outside. Evidently my cook can, in fact, burn water.” As the people laugh, “Madame de Fer, if I could borrow your assistance…”

“Of course,” says Vivienne, perfectly calm, and only shoots the quickest look at Josephine as she gets to her feet. Josephine slides from her seat.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please…” Lord Terevin is ushering them out, people are bustling, and Ellayria is flanked by Josephine and Cole as they head for the doors. Wait, she thinks, craning her neck to see. Everyone is chattering and carrying glasses, skirts are rustling, the music has started up again and she’s still trying to get free of the crowd when she feels it.

Her knees buckle and she jerks forward, just a little, and when it disappears again she stays still.

“Ellayria?” Josephine is looking her over, her grip tightening.

“Seventy-seven,” says Ellayria evenly, putting her hand to her back. It comes away smudged with blood.

–

The antidote smells like a horse pissed on a skunk and then died. It doesn’t taste bad, though: sort of like unsweetened tea.

Ellayria has to drink it all, so she’s sipping and making faces at the cup while her advisors are gathered around the bed. Cullen is blaming himself, Leliana is planning five simultaneous murders, and Josephine—she has her hand in Josephine’s.

“We’re going through his papers and chests and talking to his servants,” Leliana reports. “So far they can’t find any evidence.”

“He’s hiding it,” Cassandra says, thin-lipped and white-faced.

“Or it was somebody else.” The ambassador looks drained, and Ellayria squeezes her hand. “There were jugglers and musicians there…” as Cassandra demands, “Do you have the guest list?” and Leliana answers with, “Yes, Cullen’s men are going through it.”

“It was quick,” says Ellayria, forcing down another gulp. “And it was a thin blade, it felt more like a prick. Not like a regular dagger or a kitchen knife.”

Leliana taps her papers against her mouth, thinking. “I think I’m going to write to an old friend of mine.”

“I’m going to see if I can rally the other Orlesian nobles,” Josephine adds, withdrawing her hand from Ellayria’s and standing up. “I’ll write letters now and get the word out, see how much support we can get.”

“I’m going to… be a little sick over here,” Ellayria says sheepishly, pointing to the bucket on the floor nearby. “Sorry.”

They clear out after that, still talking to each other, and she eases herself gingerly backwards against the pillow. Her back is thickly bandaged up and the potion she took earlier is kicking in: she feels dreamy and light-headed, without pain.

“You’re back,” she says to the shadow in the corner.

The shadow just watches her, its face white.

“Are you all right? Where’d you go?”

“I was chasing him.”

“Did you find him?”

“No.” Cole’s voice is thin. “He dropped his mask and I couldn’t think. You were hurting and I couldn’t make everything be quiet.”

Ellayria lets out her breath. “I’m all right. Everyone’s all right, we’re all safe. It’s okay. Thank you for—I mean—”

“I need to keep my daggers with me.”

She looks down at her hands for a moment, looking for words. “Right now?” she says finally.

Shaking his head no. Ellayria holds out her hand and Cole unfolds himself from his perch, coming to sit by her side on the edge of the bed.

“Dar atish’an, ma vhenan,” she says, reaching up to kiss the corner of his mouth very lightly; her hand cups the back of his neck, short hair bristling underneath. Cole lets out a shuddery breath, barely audible, and leans into her.