Chapter Text
Chapter I
The thing Rook loved about living in the Fade was that it was generally pretty temperate. It auto-adjusted itself based on an individual’s preference, always maintaining the perfect temperature. It allowed Rook—who had lived in Rivain most of her life and wore what most would call scantily-clad—to stand comfortably in the same room as Lace in her multiple thick layers.
Which was what told Rook she was not currently in the Fade.
Of course, assuming she was in the Fade would’ve been odd, considering moments ago she’d been on a Blight-infested island overflowing with wild magic… and now she’d apparently wandered into a blindingly white, endless snowstorm by accident. One did not suddenly hop realities like that. Or—well—it wasn’t supposed to be possible.
It would’ve made sense if she was in the Fade. But Rook was cold. And if she was cold, she definitely wasn’t in the Fade.
Taking a moment to properly survey her surroundings, she picked her way through the endless white and found herself standing before a shattered temple. The temple itself wasn’t particularly odd. Rook had spent time in Arlathan, among its many ruins, and well—shit was weird in Arlathan. She recalled water swirling through the air, floating buildings, the damned Owl statues that littered every corner and rewarded her with pretty jewels if she made the perfect sound.
So really, the temple wasn’t all that surprising to her. There was also a sickly green light cracking open the sky above her… and that also didn’t get more than a raised brow from Rook. It was just another weird thing to add to her Tuesday. It really went to show how messy things had gotten, that she could see a torn sky and sigh, shaking her head in disbelief.
Rook trudged toward the temple, barefoot in the snow, sighing softly as the cold pinked her toes. Stepping inside, she found nothing but ruin. Demonic ichor painted the walls; glowing red crystals lined the corridors; several dead bodies lay strewn across the floor.
None of it surprised her. Not after meeting Varric on that ill-fated treasure hunt, the whole Fen’Harel fiasco, Blighted dragon attacks, escaped Elvhen gods, living in the Fade—everything she’d seen in Arlathan—and the horrors of Tearstone Island. Horrors that had happened mere minutes ago. She could feel her fractured ribs, the exhaustion across her shoulders, and the instinctive urge to find an Eluvian and retreat to the Lighthouse. She could still see Harding’s hard eyes, determined—cocking one last arrow in her bow to take down their enemy.
Lace Harding had died as she lived. Head upright and proud, weapon in hand and determined. She’d died mere minutes ago, and Rook was lost. What had happened before she fell into the snow? Where was her team? Her team was missing, but she was sure they could find their way back without her. Rook just needed to find an Eluvian and—and where was the dagger?
Panicking she patted herself up and down, attempting to find the Lyrium dagger, only to find it missing. Okay, no need to panic. Though, without the dagger, even if she found an Eluvien, she couldn’t use it. That was okay, she’d find a way. She’d always find a way. Rook made her way into the Temple, trying not to panic. There wasn’t a single soul that she could find.
In the center of the temple, Rook found a tear in the Fade. She’d only seen a few Fade tears, but the ones she had encountered were terrible—and usually guarded by annoyingly difficult enemies. This one, at least, seemed unguarded. But it also seemed… bad. Perhaps worse than the ones that she’d found in the Fade. Perhaps because the ones she found were internal wounds, but this one was external?
Probably a side effect of killing an all-powerful god in Ghilan’nain. Neve had warned her as she approached the wild magics—shouting at her not to get too close. That it would kill her. What happened after that? Blinding light—pain, and then—and then?
Well, thankfully, Rook wasn’t dead. Less thankfully, she was standing in front of a very unstable Fade tear with absolutely no way of closing it. What now?
It wasn’t like she knew anyone who could fix it. Defeating guardians in the Fade usually resolved the problem, but even she couldn’t take on those echoes alone—not without members of her equally powerful team. That was irrelevant right now, anyway—there was no obvious Fade Champion. She stared up at the Breach, perhaps a little too calmly, considering her next step.
That’s when voices echoed through the halls.
Heavy footsteps on stone. Definitely not one of her team. They each had distinctive ways of walking—more than half of them so light-footed you had to strain to hear. Considering she had no idea where she was, it would be a stretch for Lucanis to find her. A stretch—but not impossible.
Rook turned slightly toward the noise, tilting her head—hoping beyond hope that it was Lucanis. The loud stomping halted as an unusual party stumbled into view: part dazed, part grim. It was not Lucanis.
Surprisingly though, Rook recognized more than half of them. This was… concerning for multiple reasons.Three out of the four were unmistakable.
“You!” The only one she didn’t recognize was the one who began shouting. A stout human woman with dark cropped hair and a sword pointed directly at Rook. A scar split her cheek—definitely someone not to be messed with. Based on her stance and the hesitant looks from her companions, Rook figured this woman was in charge. Which was, odd, for a number of reasons. Behind them, soldiers marched in.
Rook glanced behind herself as if checking who the woman was yelling at, then placed a hand on the ornate golden medallion on her chest—like she was asking, me? She was used to weird shit, but this scene was decidedly weirder.
Varric stood to the woman’s left. A younger Varric—ginger hair, fewer wrinkles, unmistakably him. No recognition in his expression, only bemusement… and his eyes glued to her bare midriff, one brow raised.
On the other side of the shouting woman stood the Inquisitor. Or, someone who would become the woman Rook remembered. This woman was young. Too young. No eye bags. No scars. Hair far too long to be practical. Next to the baby-faced Evelyn Trevelyan stood Fen’Harel himself.
Neither showed any recognition. Which was only slightly comforting. Last she remembered Solas was trapped in the Fade Prison—him looking at her with incomprehension was throwing her off. Solas looked exactly as he should—if one didn’t account for the hobo-like clothing frayed at every edge, worn and ill-fitted. He wasn’t shooting her scathing looks of hatred, which was throwing her off. Rook blinked, her hand still on her chest.
“What are you doing!?” the human woman hissed. Nevarran accent—thicker than Emmerich’s. Rook let her hand fall to her thigh and raised both palms in mock-surrender.
She had a choice to make. As usual, she only had half the information and no time to think. The Inquisitor looked young, Varric looked young. The sky was bleeding—she had no idea what happened after the influx of pure energy after killing Ghilan'nain, and no idea where she was. “It wasn’t me.”
The Nevarran scowled. Young Varric’s lips twitched in faint amusement.
“See, I know this looks bad,” Rook added before the woman could yell again, “but there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for why I’m here.”
She’d tried to kill a god. Had actually killed a god, after accidently freeing them in a freak accident trying to stop the God standing before her. Of course, Rook couldn’t tell them that—one, they wouldn’t believe her and two? Solas was right there.
“I would like to hear it,” the woman said. Rook paused. Something in the back of her head screamed that she shouldn’t show all her cards. With all the bizarre shit that had happened lately, Rook trusted her gut.
“I’m a pirate,” she said instead of confirming Ghilan’nain’s death. “My goal was to loot shiny golden things—and then that happened, and I hid in a hidden corridor. Activated by moving a book on a shelf. Ingenious, really.”
Silence.
She gestured at the medallion on her chest, the golden pieces on her belt, then rattled the bangles on her wrist—presenting evidence of her profession.
“You came to Haven, in the middle of the most important peace talks in all of Thedas, to pillage valuables from a sacred Andrastian temple?” the woman asked, jaw tightening around her words.
Seeing the woman’s eyes narrow, Rook shrugged. “See? That’s how you know I’m telling the truth. Who openly admits to robbing the Chantry?”
“Many would,” the woman said sharply, “when the alternative is admitting to killing not only the Divine, but also the thirty people at the Conclave.”
Rook blinked, mouth hanging open like a gaping fish. She wasn’t a genius, but she wasn’t an idiot. The wild magic explosion. The Fade tear. The baby Inquisitor and baby Varric. Hobo Solas. A dead Divine. A blown-up Conclave. It didn’t take a genius to connect those dots.
“Seeker, look at how surprised she is—I don’t think she knew,” young Varric said, eyes still assessing her with an odd look on his face. He didn’t look like he recognised her—but he looked like something about her was familiar? It was odd.
“As I said,” Solas added calmly, hands behind his back, looking infuriatingly harmless, “no single mage could create the Breach. The power required would be far beyond any normal mage.”
Cassandra glared at the men, muttering something dark. Rook tried to smile; it probably came out more like a grimace. The longer she stood here, the more aware she became of the precarious situation she was in. How the hell had wild magic sent her ten years into the past? A problem for later. Right now she has a very real issue to deal with. This was clearly the formative days of the Inquisition—and Rook being there, randomly, was incredibly suspicious.
“I didn’t even want to come to the South—my ship went off-course in bad weather. I was looking for quick money to repair or replace it. I’m Rivaini. You can call me…” She hesitated a moment too long. If she told them her real name, would they find her younger herself in Rivain? If she used her nickname, would that implode the future? Would Solas recognise her? Would he just write her off as the random girl he once saw in a Temple, years ago? “Rook. Everyone calls me Rook.”
Silence. Evelyn shifted. “Cassandra, the Breach? Should we not be more concerned with the Breach?”
“Someone detain the Rivaini,” Cassandra snapped.
Two soldiers stepped forward. One twisted her arms behind her back. Honestly, not the worst thing to happen to her this month. They marched her out into the winter haze, through a cobblestone village where people glared and muttered insults loudly enough for her to hear. “Rabbit,” “knife-ear,” the usual. The “whore” comment caught her off guard, but she pretended she didn’t hear it.
They dragged her into the Chantry and threw her into the dungeon. Then they left her alone. Honestly? She appreciated the alone time. Rook stayed in the cell for a few hours before anyone remembered she existed, and plotted on how to get out of the situation she was in. How does one undo time magic? Would she just have to wait it out in the past, and come back to her present, ten years older?
If she did that, what would she do in the meantime? Plus, she ought to find out exactly what happened at Tearstone Island. If she was transported to the past there, why didn’t she come out in the past there? Why here, in Haven? Was it the Breach? Perhaps, Rook concluded, they wild magic had transported her to the last time the sky had split open? Had her killing Ghilan'nain ripped open the Fade somehow?
The silence gave her time to contemplate the series of increasingly bizarre events that had led her here—and what she was going to do next. She wasn’t exactly a dab hand at time magic, but it felt unfair to spend all that time killing Ghilan’nain only for it all to become moot.
Hell, she’d killed two Blighted dragons and an Archdemon to get to this point. Having to do it again seemed wildly inconvenient. Unless—Unless she found a way to stop Solas from freeing them in the first place. Granted, he might blame her for freeing them originally. But the truth was: the gods broke loose during his ritual to bring down the Veil. If he hadn’t done that, she wouldn’t have tried to stop him. Therefore: no freed, corrupted gods.
Without Solas meddling, the Veil would eventually fade on its own terms—slowly, gently, with small bits of Blight trickling through for the Grey Wardens to squash. Not a great plan. But also? Not the worst. Would that kill her though? If the circumstances that lead to her coming to the past never happened, what would happen to her?
But if she was truly in the past, she could kill Solas before he ever became a threat. She could kill him now. Escape this prison, and stab him squarely in the chest. No Solas, no threat to the Veil, no loose evil gods.
Rook wasn’t well-versed in time magic, though. Killing him might cause her to… well, stop existing. That was a risk she’d need to weigh later. He might also be integral to closing the Breach. Maybe she could wait until the whole ‘world-ending magical hole in the sky’ issue was resolved, then stab him. That however, would require her to stick around for longer than she’d intended.
She was plotting her optimum God-stabbing day when the cell door creaked open. Two women entered. First: the Nevarran Seeker, Cassandra. Second: a tall redhead with an Orlesian accent and a hood shrouding most of her face.
They questioned her for the better part of an hour. Rook answered carefully—half-truths, misdirects, and bold-faced lies that would’ve made Fen’Harel proud. Then the redhead asked: “The crest on your ring. What does it mean?”
Rook blinked and glanced down. “Lord of Fortune,” she said. “It’s our crest. We’re a group of Rivaini pirates.”
A long silence followed.
“Do you know a woman named Isabela?” the redhead asked.
“Yeah,” Rook said simply. Seeing that the woman wanted more, she elaborated, “Olive skin, long curly black hair, brown eyes, huge—” She gestured vaguely at her chest. “Stole a Qunari book recently. I think she was in Kirkwall until not long ago.”
Cassandra stepped closer. “Where is the Champion?” Her eyes were sharp. She shoved Rook’s shoulder—not hard, but pointedly.
“How am I supposed to know?” Rook said evenly. “I know Isabela. Not her friends. How am I meant to meet the Champion, anyway? It’s not like I’ve ever been to Kirkwall. I know Isabela because we’re both from Rivain.”
Cassandra’s jaw clenched. Rook continued casually, “I think she’s on her way back to Rivain. I hope she is—then she can take over. We’re Leaderless at the moment. Everyone wants to hunt dragons. It’s annoying. Do you know how many people have died chasing dragons without someone telling them it’s a bad idea?”
By the end of the interrogation, they’d apparently decided she was nothing more than a lucky idiot who wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time. Unfortunately, idiot did not equal innocent. Even if Cassandra no longer believed Rook had created the Breach, she definitely believed Rook was connected to it—and she seemed convinced Rook knew where the Champion of Kirkwall was hiding.
So no, she wasn’t arrested by the fledgling Inquisition. But she was definitely being detained. They let her out of the cell but refused to let her leave Haven. Fine by her. Sure, she had a philosophical objection to forced servitude—it looked bad on them, too—but she had free access to observe Solas. And plan her perfectly timed murder.
They dumped her in a closet-sized room that somehow contained several beds and twice as many elves. Rook was unused to being treated like an elf. She’d realized this within a day of living in the heart of the Inquisition. Ten elves packed into five beds. Three and a half blankets between them. Clothes frayed, patched, or both.
Younger elves stared at her in awe, eyes sparkling at her glittering jewelry. Rook tried not to think about it, but she suspected they’d steal it if given the chance. Part of her wanted to give them her bracelets—if she didn’t think the human guards would take them immediately.
So she avoided the cupboard-like elf dormitory entirely and instead wandered the streets of Haven. More than once, she climbed onto rooftops to stare up at the sky. On her third day, a guard tried to hand her a mop. Rook stared at the mop, then at him, with pure bafflement.
“What do you expect me to do with this?” she asked, accepting it automatically. The wooden handle clanked against her golden bangles. She held it slightly ajar, giving it an odd look.
The long-faced boy gave her a greasy look. “You’re here to work, aren’t you? If not the mop… I suppose there’s only one other use for a knife-eared whore.”
He leaned toward her. She swung the mop low, cracking it against his knees and dropping him flat onto his back. She pressed the soggy mop head against his throat, wrinkling her nose.
“You’ll regret that, you bitch,” someone growled. Not the man she’d downed—another guard approaching behind her. Rook, however, had killed two Blighted dragons at the same time. Taking down a handful of overly tall human men with a mop hardly registered on the scale of difficulty. It wasn’t like they’d trained to fight armies—these were just men with swords. They could hardly tell the difference between the pointy bit and the handle.
By the end of the skirmish, she’d knocked out at least seven guards. Then a loud booming voice cut through the chaos. A tall, broad-shouldered human man approached, blonde hair curled neatly, red fur draped over his shoulders. Varric walked beside him, eyes sparkling with amusement. The Commander took in the sight: several of his men groaning on the ground, and Rook—half their size—standing atop one of them with a mop like some unhinged goddess of janitorial violence.
Rook blinked innocently and looked down at the pile of mostly unharmed men, then back at the large human and Varric. “It wasn’t me.”
“I think, Curly, that your men need training,” Varric said with a grin, “if one little girl with a mop can take them out in one swing.”
“Is that what this is?” Rook asked, feigning confusion. She glanced at Varric, smiling slightly. Dropping the mop, its head thunked directly into a guard’s face. He made a strangled noise. “And here I thought it was an exotic Ferelden toy.”
Varric barked a laugh.
“I suppose,” Rook continued, “I’ll just stick to my knives. If I can have my knives back, that is. Who do I complain to about getting knives?”
The Commander stared at her, stunned.
“Oh, and one more thing.” Rook stepped lightly around the prone bodies to stand directly in front of him. “If one more of your men calls me a knife-eared whore and tries to touch me, I won’t be so gentle. Just a warning.”
Then she Fade-stepped onto a nearby roof and vanished. In the following days, rumors about her spread through Haven, and Rook listened with half an ear. So she wasn’t surprised when Leliana cornered her in a Chantry hall and quietly inducted her into a short list of people who existed solely to keep their new Herald alive.
Rook graciously accepted the offer—as she graciously accepted everything.
The days following her hasty induction into the military might of the Inquisition left Rook feeling restless. There was little to do when half the village was terrified of you—and the people in charge thought you caused the whole mess but still wanted to use your talents. Rook was once again village-bound with nothing to do.
She stalked rooftops and haunted Haven like a restless ghost, popping up behind Inquisition men whenever they decided to harass the locals. Her golden chains and jewels always gave her away. A few of the elven women had even taken to wearing pairs of fake stone jewelry—uncomfortable, probably—but it sounded like hers. Rook had to give them props; the threat of Rook was enough to curb some of the more… exuberant men.
With too many people now afraid of her, she drifted toward the courtyard bonfires—specifically, the one favored by Varric. This younger Varric had accepted her with open arms, a grin, and a handful of stories she’d certainly already heard. He made shit up so often that every retelling was different anyway, and she found herself delighting in hearing them again.
The only other person in Haven who wasn’t completely adverse to her company (who wasn’t currently unconscious, and who knew if a younger Evelyn would even like her?) she avoided like the plague.
Just because she was staying for Solas didn’t mean she had to spend time with him—or, worse, get to know him. Knowing him better than she already did would only make not killing him immediately so much harder. Thankfully, he spent most of his time in Evelyn’s room, tending her wounds and keeping her alive. Rook was certain he was maniacally cackling over the Anchor too, trying to pry it off and failing. Okay, maybe not cackling, but the mental image was irresistible.
Within her first week and a half—while she terrified most of the staff—she only crossed Solas’s path twice.
The first time was in the Chantry mess hall, where they were attempting to pass poison off as food. She’d walked right past him without acknowledging his existence. The second time, she was not so lucky.
She’d been sprawled on the ground beside Varric, warming her cold toes by the bonfire while he retold a daring Hawke story. “Then Hawke said—‘you’re just in time, I thought you—oh, Chuckles! Over here!’”
Rook didn’t even lift her head when the Elvhen God of Lies approached. Instead, she closed her eyes firmly, pretending to be asleep.
“Any news on our hero?” Varric asked.
Solas let out a long, weary sigh. “She breathes. This is something.”
Varric hummed sympathetically. Rook kept her eyes shut. “C’mon, Chuckles, join us, won’t you? You look like a stiff breeze would knock you flat.”
“I should probably rest,” Solas said calmly.
Varric clicked his tongue. “I was just telling our Rook here about how Hawke distracted her uncle’s creditor until the guard showed up. But hey—we could switch to something more interesting. We could even talk about how Rook here is the reason Curly’s running his men so hard. I saw one of them cry yesterday.”
Rook cracked one eye open. Varric’s eyes were sparkling with mischief. He was openly grinning, like he was plotting, or planning something. Rook avoided looking at Solas—though she could sense him standing on the sidelines.
“Took a small battalion of them down with a mop,” he said proudly. “I can’t make this shit up. Now all the guards flinch every time they hear clanging jewellery.”
There was some rustling behind her, and Solas stepped into view, taking the seat beside Varric. The ‘offer’ Varric had made was less invitation and more command, apparently. Solas sat stiff-backed and awkward, one brow slightly raised, as though waiting for the story.
He glanced at Rook briefly—taking in her sprawled form—then met her eyes. Rook made a noncommittal sound.
“I stand by my confusion,” she said lazily. “How was I supposed to know it would knock all those people down? I was under the impression that it was an exotic Ferelden toy.”
Varric snorted. “Are you seriously telling me there aren’t mops on your boats, Rivaini?”
“I’m no dockhand.” (Not anymore, she added silently.) “I have men for that. And the men onboard my ship know better than to actually try handing me a mop. And they know better than to call me a whore and ask for favors, but that's neither here, nor there.”
Ah, those were the days. Rook remembered her first voyage as captain—after the many spent under Isabela. Even then, Isabela refused to give women the worst jobs. That’s what men are for, she’d always say, women had far more talents.
“You should’ve seen it, Chuckles,” Varric went on. “The look on their faces when she took them all out with a mop. I’m writing it into my next book.”
“It’s spelled R-O-O-K,” she said evenly, closing her eyes again. “Don’t forget to mention how tall I am.”
The fact that she was only a few inches taller than Varric went unmentioned. Varric chuckled and tried to rope Solas into conversation. Rook successfully tuned them out—until Solas began speaking Elvhen. She closed her eyes, and tried to pretend that she was asleep.
“Ar dirthan’as ir elgara, ma’sula e’var vhenan,” he said smoothly, voice low and melodic. Rook didn’t react. She’d hoped he would assume she was asleep and avoid her entirely. He had no reason to think Varric could understand Elvhen, so clearly the words were for her.
Solas, interpreting her silence as ignorance, continued serenely: More Elvhen she definitely understood.
“Is there a reason you’re speaking Elvhen to me?” she asked flatly, cracking one eye open. “You are talking to me, right? Unless—Varric, do you know Elvhen?”
Varric blinked, eyebrows raised in alarm. Solas looked faintly puzzled. “I had hoped… sometimes our people can at least feel the rhythm of the language, even without understanding the words.”
Unfortunately for him, Rook did understand Elvhen—not perfectly, but well enough. Bellara’s patient lessons and a pile of crumbly lighthouse tomes had taken care of that. His assumption irritated her. Almost everything he did irritated her.
“Yeah, I don’t think she caught a word of that, Chuckles,” Varric said.
Solas turned fully to her, looking—unexpectedly—disappointed. For reasons she couldn’t quite name, that annoyed her even more.
“Ir abelas, Rook,” he said gently.
“Ear ab-blahs,” Rook repeated, mangling the sounds on purpose. She knew him well enough—even if he’d only just met her—to know he hated deliberate ignorance. And mocking him felt good. Cathartic, even. Solas winced like her pronunciation had physically injured him. “Excuse me?”
“Has anyone told you that you’re dreadfully boring, Solara?” she asked sweetly.
His eyes narrowed. “My name is Solas.”
“I know what your name is, Solibore.”
Varric wheezed with laughter. Solas took a slow breath, patience thinning. “Then you are intentionally misnaming me in a childish attempt to provoke me.”
“Oh yes,” she said, “terribly childish. Almost as childish as assuming what I do or don’t know without asking. I suppose you’re just the patronizing, condescending sort, yes?”
Before he could reply, she muttered under her breath: “Nuva iovro av na, i etun na sule ven, dalas manean’en.”
If she remembered it right, it meant something like: May the bear eat you, shit you into the river, and poison the fish with your corpse. Solas’s head snapped toward her, eyebrows flying up, mouth parting in shock.
“Ma banal enasalin,” he said slowly, studying her expression. His irritation faded, replaced by quiet curiosity. “You know Elvhen.”
Rook arched a brow. “Perhaps you should’ve asked before assuming I was an idiot.” She crossed her arms. “Vyn esaya gera assan i’mar’av’ingala.”
Varric groaned softly. “Y’know, it gets a little awkward for the dwarf who doesn’t speak Elvhen when you two start bickering like that.”
“My apologies, Varric,” Rook said primly. “I was merely telling our—ahem—friend here that he sounds like the type to catch an arrow with his teeth.”
There was a long beat of silence. “Because I don’t think I’ve ever disliked anyone this much upon first meeting,” she added sweetly.
Solas blinked once, then murmured: “Fenhedris lasa.”
Rook stuck out her tongue at him.
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Solas POV:
The first thing Solas noticed was the wrongness in the air—a ripple beneath the Veil, faint as a shiver through still water. The second was her.
She emerged from the wreckage like a misplaced dream: barefoot in the snow, gold glinting where armor should have been. The Rivaini woman held herself like someone accustomed to command, yet her eyes flicked between them with that unmistakable edge—wariness, or perhaps calculation. Cassandra’s voice cut through the cold. “You!”
The pirate’s gaze slid past her and found him. For an instant—just an instant—her composure faltered. Something like recognition crossed her face, too quick to name, too complex to counterfeit. Solas tilted his head. Strange. He did not think that he recognised this woman, and yet her eyes measured him as though they already had. She certainly wasn’t one of his agents. Perhaps she was one of Felassan’s?
He said nothing. Words were for when one was certain of the shape of a thing. She lied beautifully. He could hear it in the rhythm of her voice, in how easily humor slipped into deflection. Cassandra’s temper sparked, but Evelyn—the mark-bearer—intervened with practiced grace. A leader already, though she did not yet understand what she carried.
And the pirate—Rook. A fitting name. A bright, clever piece pretending to be harmless. She stood too easily for one dragged from a battlefield, her smile the sort that promised she was already searching for exits.
“Solas?” Cassandra’s tone cut through his study.
Recognition, he realized now. Recognition tinged with grief.