#* ellana lavellan — memories.

[fadedreamed]

TAG DUMP — ELLANA.

[thebookworm0001]

Spoilers for the end of veilguard and specifically how solas’s story is handled under the cut

And seriously I do mean the very end of the game and I’m gonna talk about stuff that happened before then too

You have been warned

I felt satisfied with the ending.

I was able to collect all the solas memories/regret murals and very much felt like the way the ending unlocked by that was handled well.

Solas has always been a man bound by his regrets. And this game spent a lot of time establishing is primary regret is Mythal. Yes, he cares deeply about helping people and wants that world restored, but it’s less to do with the elven people and more to do with him feeling like he’s made mistake after mistake.

He’s been living in a sunk-cost fallacy for millennia and cannot see a way out. He really, really doesn’t want to do this - he knows how many people he’ll hurt to do it, but can’t see another way because if he stops now he feels like it’ll be just another betrayal of mythal when he’s already betrayed and failed her so many times. She’s the reason any of this happened.

That’s why it has to be mythal telling him to stop. He wanted to stop for a romanced lavellan - his letter says that explicitly. But he regrets mythal’s death (and his resulting actions) so much he just. Can’t let it go. What does his life mean if he can’t fulfill the wishes of the goddess that called him to service, to a body? The friend he murdered, in the end, to make up for the first time she as killed.

He was a spirit of wisdom mythal corrupted - it’s another version of Cole and the Templar who killed the human Cole. That confrontation has to happen for him to move in any direction.

And the way he absolutely crumples when he sees her? Damn if that didn’t sell me on how deeply he cares for her, beyond the murals that show how ashamed he is of what he did with and for her.

He’s always needed someone to tell him there was another way, but nobody besides mythal could absolve him of the actions he took, because they aren’t her. It’s not a matter of the nature of their relationship, rather that he cannot untie himself from the way his spirit was warped by her and the actions he took in response to her.

Idk I know people will have very different feelings and opinions on how that went down, but it made sense to me.

And my solas-romanced lavellan acted exactly how I expected her to. Granted, Ellana is the kind of lavellan who would immediately forgive him and would, no questions asked, go with him on his journey to atone. I had a whole fic planned out where she did that exact thing - even if the details weren’t what happened here.

If you have a lavellan who isn’t as sad as mine and who wouldn’t join him, yeah this ending may not work for you. But I went from being pissed at him for trapping my rook and lying about killing varric to immediately being back on my ‘fuck you’re just a deeply sad and broken man please let yourself be happy’ lament when he talked about how he failed both the world and mythal in different moments.

It worked for me. I’m satisfied by how it was handled and think the ending makes sense for the read on Solas I’ve had for the last several years. He’s just a deeply sad man who thinks he has to make up for his failures - and the one person he’s failed more than anyone tells him it’s not on him. She’s the one person he could never get forgiveness from - and he got it. And that’s why it had to be her.

[senseandaccountability]

Ficlet: Ever on

Solavellan tears and therapy in 500 words, post-Trespasser, pre-Veilguard. Also here on AO3.

And life, as it does, goes ever on.

They work, they travel, they stay with the people that became their home.

They’re not lonely.

Dorian introduces her to a widower in his closest circle of acquaintances - Silus, a fellow rift mage who is a fair bit older than her and carries a sadness that doesn’t quite go away even as the years pass by. It suits her well.

Silus is kind and somber, clever and generous. They don't love each other and it's a blessing. She is free to go at any given moment, he in turn frequently visits a man in Antiva, a girl in Jader. But in Minrathous they share each other's solitude: they cook splendid suppers and assist each other with magical research and when the mood strikes them - less frequently these days, their passion was never strong to begin with and there’s just so much else to do - they share a bed.

They all reside in a large villa that Dorian keeps as some sort of headquarters for the assorted activities they occupy themselves with. Whenever Bull is around, he stays for months - once he stays a whole year and Dorian’s laugh is different then, fuller and warmer.

It’s a busy household, a busy home.

Ellana finds that she enjoys getting lost in it, enjoys living in it - more so than she ever did enjoy life with a clan.

She brings in orphans and makes them apprentices, teaches them old elven magic and new Tevinter one alike; in the autumns they travel out to the forests to practise Dalish spellweaving among the falling leaves and in the winters Ellana tries to teach them how to cook and preserve nature’s bounty. Two of the older kids manage to make hearth cakes without the halla butter and present it to her as a gift made for a god, kneeling in front of her, cheeks rosy and eyes glittering. There's a brief sting deep in her chest then, memories of being a Herald, of being with him. Lady Lavellan, they call her. She lets them. The title Inquisitor fades slowly and she welcomes the shift.

Silus hides escaped slaves and apostates in the spare bedrooms upstairs and Dorian hosts meetings that grow more radical by the month, involving the Shadow Dragons as well as several foreign groups working for the same goals.

“Abolish all slavery, overturn the Magisterium, justice for common people - who would have thought this?” She teases him as he wraps up a large gathering that had lasted three days and required so much wine and protective wards that they will have to do without both for a little while.

“Ah.” Dorian wraps an arm around her shoulder; he smells of brandy and embrium and whatever fragrance it is that Bull keeps using when he dresses up. “You know who inspired me, don’t you?”

And Ellana nods. She knows. Solas, too, she thinks.

“Funny, that.”

—

She still talks to Solas every night; he still visits her dreams.

If someone asked her to separate the threads of reality from the fabric of the Fade itself, she isn’t certain she could.

Or would.

One day she will face him in the physical world again, this she knows. She will look him in the eyes then. Bring her good hand up to cup the back of his head to pull him closer, run her fingers over the long-forgotten freckles on his skin. In her dreams she counts them, but she won't, not then.

“Have I proven you wrong yet, vhenan?” she will ask him, and he will answer that she has and all of this will change, again.

Until then she has a life to live.

And life, as it does, goes ever on.

[vir-tanadahl]

Into the Past

Summary: Originally written in 2015, this work has since been rewritten. After the defeat of Corypheus, Solas vanished without a trace. In her search for answers, Ellana Lavellan, desperate and determined, began experimenting with the dangerous time-altering magic of Alexius. One misstep, and the spell spiraled out of control, hurling her into the distant past. When she regained her bearings, Ellana found herself in ancient Arlathan, in the heart of a grand masquerade ball. Dressed in unfamiliar finery, she navigated the opulence of the elven empire, her heart pounding as her eyes locked with a masked stranger—the unmistakable presence of Fen'harel, the man she once knew as Solas. The encounter rippled through time, altering her destiny with him in ways she could never have foreseen. Read on Ao3!

Note: This is now part one of three part series called Timelines Entwined.

Ellana’s gut twisted the moment the device whirred to life. She knew she shouldn't have listened to Dorian. His smug grin and charming wit had worn down her better judgment, coaxing her into playing with the time-warping magic Alexius had left behind. With Corypheus defeated, she'd thought they had time to explore such curiosities. She should’ve known better.

The second the magic flared, it all went wrong. The device crackled, pulsating with an eerie green glow as it twisted her surroundings into a swirling, smoky vortex. Before she could react, it pulled her in—its smoky green maw swallowing her whole.

Ellana’s heart raced as she landed with a thud. The world around her was quiet, too quiet. Panic rose in her chest as she surveyed the scene, the familiar dread of another mistake washing over her. Tall grass stretched out endlessly in all directions, brushing against her waist, glowing under the golden light of the setting sun. The air was thick with silence, a vast green sea shimmering in the fading daylight. She wasn't supposed to be here.

‘Cassandra is going to kill me,’ she thought, the weight of that certainty grounding her, even as her pulse pounded in her ears.

She scanned the horizon, searching for anything that resembled the world she knew. The stillness of the meadow only deepened her sense of isolation. She was alone—no soldiers, no companions—just her, standing in the middle of an unfamiliar place, with the low hum of magic lingering in the air like an afterthought.

As she turned, something caught her eye in the distance. Her breath caught in her throat as she squinted, her heart skipping a beat. She could scarcely believe it. But there it was—something she never thought she'd see.

In the distance, the landscape shifted, revealing a towering forest unlike anything Ellana had ever seen. The trees stretched impossibly high, their trunks thick and ancient, as though they had been standing for centuries. Between the trees, crystal spires twisted and curled like vines, blending with the foliage in a way that seemed both natural and magical. The shimmering structures glowed faintly in the fading sunlight, casting an ethereal glow over the landscape.

Ellana's breath hitched as her gaze followed the trees upward, where she spotted a collection of manors and chateaux nestled within the branches. Their elegant, flowing architecture blended seamlessly with the forest, as if grown from the earth itself. And there, in the spaces between, she glimpsed what might have been shops, their intricate facades winding through the canopy like the fingers of a forgotten age.

"Arlathan…" The word left her lips in a breathless whisper. Awe and disbelief coursed through her as the name hung in the air, reverberating through her mind. The memory of one of her first conversations with Solas flickered before her, unbidden but undeniable. Her heart ached at the thought of him, the pain as fresh as it had been the day he left. She had pushed thoughts of him aside, burying the emotions deep. Maybe that was why she had agreed to meddle with unstable magic—anything to keep her mind from wandering back to him.

But now, here she was. The city of her ancestors stretched out before her, its forgotten beauty pulling her forward. With nowhere else to go, Ellana moved toward the towering woodland, her feet carrying her over the soft grass. The Well of Sorrows’ voices echoed faintly in her mind, guiding her like a compass, whispering fragments of wisdom and forgotten truths as she made her way through the ancient city.

Reaching the forest's edge, she paused, taking in the sight before her. Streams of water crisscrossed the forest floor, their crystal-clear currents weaving between the trees, converging in the heart of the woodland. The rivers glimmered like silver threads under the dappled sunlight, each one winding its way toward the center as if drawn by an invisible force.

This place—it was alive, brimming with magic that pulsed beneath the surface, waiting, watching.

As Ellana neared the heart of the forest, the quiet hum of nature gave way to the sounds of life. She could hear faint chattering, the shuffle of feet on soft ground, and the clink of objects being moved. Her pulse quickened. The presence of people filled her with both curiosity and apprehension. She kept her steps light, staying close to the tree line, hoping to go unnoticed.

Peering through the gaps in the trees, she saw them—elves. They moved between small huts, each section of the village separated by the winding rivers and connected by simple, arched bridges. The huts themselves were modest, crafted from wood and stone, yet they radiated a quiet elegance that reminded her of something lost to time. The elves wore robes of soft hues—strange, yet familiar, their flowing fabrics reminiscent of the ancient tales Solas had once shared.

Ellana’s hand instinctively tugged at her own robe, grateful for its simplicity. It allowed her to blend in, at least for now. She took a deep breath and stepped forward, slipping into the village with careful, tentative strides, her head lowered to avoid catching anyone’s gaze. Her heart pounded in her chest, each step feeling like it might give her away.

But despite her attempts to remain unnoticed, the eyes of the village were drawn to her. As she passed by, she caught glimpses of the elves watching her, their expressions puzzled, their work slowing as they turned to stare. She lifted her gaze ever so slightly, enough to catch the vivid markings on their faces—vallaslin, the intricate tattoos sacred to the Dalish, though these seemed older, more intricate, carved with symbols she barely recognized.

The air thickened with tension, and Ellana’s stomach twisted as whispers spread among the villagers. She had failed to slip in unnoticed.

Suddenly, the chattering ceased. One by one, the elves bowed their heads to her, their confusion melting into something almost reverent. Her breath caught in her throat as she stood frozen, unsure of what to do. Why were they bowing? Her mind raced, searching for explanations, but only one thought emerged clearly:

They thought she was someone she wasn’t.

Ellana’s heart sank as her fingers brushed her cheek, the absence of her vallaslin a stark reminder. Solas had removed her markings after she drank from the Well of Sorrows. ‘These are slave markings. They think I’m some kind of noble,’ she thought, her throat tightening. Her eyes flickered over the villagers, noting the various vallaslin etched into their skin: the bow of Andruil, the fierce lines of Elgar’nan, and the graceful curves of Mythal on the face of a small child.

The village seemed to breathe around her, its rhythms unfamiliar yet laced with a forgotten history. The rivers converged ahead, forming a shimmering lake that reflected the waning sunlight. Rising from the lake’s center was a palace—sprawling and ornate, its towers stretching skyward. Two wide bridges arched toward it, connecting the grand structure to the village. A steady stream of carts moved along one of the bridges, heading for the palace gates, their wheels creaking under the weight of goods.

Ellana hesitated, unsure of her next move. She spotted a villager nearby, a girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen, and stepped forward to ask for help. But before she could utter a word, the girl’s eyes widened with fear, and she turned, fleeing as though Ellana were a threat. The others noticed, quickly dropping their gazes, avoiding eye contact as though they feared her, too.

Reluctantly, she turned her attention to the palace. The bridge loomed before her, its stone cool beneath her feet as she began to cross. Each step echoed in her ears, mingling with the creak of the distant carts. The weight of her situation pressed down on her—trapped in Arlathan, with no way to reopen the portal that had brought her here. Solas’ face flashed in her mind, his voice reminding her of the delicate, ancient magic at play.

Her options were slim. The Well’s knowledge whispered in her mind, but offered no immediate answers. She would have to be careful, fluid in her approach, if she was to find a way back. Whatever answers lay within the palace, she would have to take them—no matter the risk. One way or another, she would find her way home.

As Ellana neared the palace gates, lost in thought, she was jolted back to the present by a sudden collision. A young elf, dressed in simple garb and bearing the vallaslin of Mythal, stumbled into her. But something about the markings caught Ellana’s eye—they were not quite like the vallaslin she knew, subtly different in their design, more intricate, as if imbued with an older magic. The girl immediately bowed low, her tone flat but respectful.

"My mistake, my lady. I humbly apologize," the girl said in fluid, ancient Elvish, her eyes lowered.

It took Ellana a moment to process the words. She had understood the language effortlessly—a tongue she had barely been familiar with in her time. The realization sent a wave of unease through her. ‘I can understand them…’ she thinks to herself, realizing the Well of Sorrow is translating for her.

"N-no, it’s okay," Ellana stammered nervously, unsure if she will be understood. She watched the girl closely, waiting for a flicker of confusion. But the elf only straightened slightly, her expression unchanged, no evidence of confusion. The girl can understand her.

The girl spoke again, her tone as polite as before. "Is there anything you need before the masquerade, my lady? Shall I escort you to the changing room?"

Ellana blinked, her mind racing. ‘Masquerade? Changing room? None of this made sense, but her heart beat a little faster with the realization that the girl saw her as someone of importance—perhaps even nobility. She was trapped in this strange time, with no clear answers, and now a masquerade was involved?

"Masquerade?" Ellana repeated, trying to keep her voice steady. "The changing room?"

"Yes, of course, your dress will be there along with any cosmetics you may have brought," the young elf continued, though there was a slight pause in her voice before she added, "Though there are always extra gowns if the tailor’s creation doesn’t please you. I shall escort you immediately, my lady."

Ellana nodded, hiding her uncertainty behind a polite smile, falling in step behind the girl.

As they walked deeper into the palace, Ellana couldn’t help but feel more disoriented with every turn they took. The grand halls seemed endless, each corridor more elaborate than the last, with soaring ceilings and walls adorned with intricate carvings that shimmered under the soft glow of enchanted sconces. She was utterly lost, with no idea how she would ever find her way out again. The weight of her situation pressed down on her with each step.

Finally, they reached a set of heavy velvet curtains. "Here you are, my lady," the girl announced with a respectful bow, pulling the curtains aside.

Ellana stepped into the room and was immediately overwhelmed by the sight before her. It was a sprawling chamber, filled with row upon row of gowns and robes in every imaginable color and fabric. The soft rustle of silk and the gentle murmur of voices filled the air. Across the far wall, vanities were lined up, each one occupied by elven ladies with their hair being brushed and makeup carefully applied by attentive slaves. Some were being laced into elaborate gowns, while others sat in elegant repose, their gazes distant as they were tended to.

Ellana stood frozen for a moment, the sight both mesmerizing and suffocating. She felt out of place, an intruder in a world she didn’t belong to—a world long lost to time. Her fingers twitched at her sides, and she fought the urge to flee, knowing she had no choice but to keep playing her role.

"Oh, my..." Ellana muttered under her breath, her bewilderment only growing as the weight of her situation pressed down on her. She was going to have to attend this masquerade, whether she wanted to or not. Asking the slave to take her back to the village would surely raise suspicion. But if she blended in at the party, perhaps she could trick someone into giving her the information she needed—maybe even a way out.

Another girl approaches, breaking through her thoughts. "Would you like me to assist you in selecting a gown, my lady? Or shall I fetch the one that was prepared for you?”

Ellana hesitated for a brief moment before nodding. "Yes, thank you," she said quietly, the words leaving her lips before she could second-guess herself.

The slave first guided her to an unoccupied vanity, the large mirror reflecting Ellana's pale face and long, unkempt hair. As she sat, the girl began to gently comb through the tangles, each stroke steady and practiced. The repetitive motion was almost soothing, though Ellana’s mind remained far from calm.

Her gaze wandered to the mirror, and that’s when she noticed it—a brand on the back of the slave’s hand. It was faint but unmistakable, a mark etched into her skin like a scar that had healed over long ago. Ellana’s stomach churned at the sight of it.

"What’s that mark?" Ellana asked, her voice careful as she gestured to the girl’s hand in the reflection.

The woman seated next to Ellana chimed in, her voice carrying a hint of idle amusement. "Oh, she’s had her magic cut off."

Ellana turned to face the speaker, her gaze landing on a striking figure. The woman had impossibly curly blonde hair that cascaded past her waist, each ringlet bouncing slightly as she shifted. Her silvery-gray eyes, however, reflected clear disinterest in the topic at hand. Beside her, a slave marked with June's vallaslin massaged oil into the woman's long locks, the scent of lavender drifting between them.

"She’s... tranquil?" Ellana asked softly, feeling her hair being gently pulled into a loose Orlesian braid, a style she recognized from her own time.

The woman shrugged, her elegant posture unaffected by the weight of the conversation. "Tranquil?" she repeated with a faint frown. "I've never heard such a term for those who have been branded." Her voice carried an air of superiority, as though the topic was beneath her. "We simply cut them off. Magic is a gift, not a right." Her words were as casual as if she were discussing the weather. "I am Imra," she continued, finally turning her sharp gaze to Ellana, her shoulder lifting slightly in an elegant shrug. "And you?"

"Ellana," she answered quietly, turning her attention back to the mirror. “What an unusual name!” Her reflection stared back, her braid now fully formed and gently pulled to one side. The slave’s hands moved with precision, delicate yet efficient.

"Showing off the neck is quite popular," Imra commented, her smile painted in a bright, vivid red. Her eyes gleamed with amusement as she spoke, seemingly entertained by the rituals of the masquerade. "Tell me, who do you plan on courting tonight?"

Ellana’s heart gave a small lurch at the question. ‘Courting someone? She barely knew where she was, let alone who would be attending. Still, Imra’s question hung in the air, and the eyes of the nearby women seemed to flicker with interest at the prospect of courtly intrigue.

She forced a small smile, hoping to mask her unease. "I’m... not quite sure yet," she said, turning back to the mirror to hide the uncertainty creeping into her expression.

Imra chuckled softly. "Playing coy, are we? Smart girl." Her voice dripped with knowing. "There are many powerful individuals attending tonight. Best to keep your options open."

Ellana’s stomach tightened, her mind racing. She was no noble, no political player in this world, yet here she was, surrounded by the intrigue and vanity of an ancient society. And worse, the deeper she slipped into their world, the more it resembled a gilded cage.

Imra laughed, the sound light and carefree. "Oh, of course! The Pantheon hosts this grand celebration once every century, or so. I'm hoping to catch the eye of a certain lord from west Elvhenan, though I won't tell you who." She winked playfully, her voice dripping with intrigue.

Ellana’s heart skipped a beat. "The Elven Pantheon? They’re... here?" she squeaked, her voice betraying her disbelief. She had no idea how to proceed, her thoughts reeling at the implications.

Imra raised an eyebrow at Ellana's reaction but nodded, as though the presence of gods was merely another detail of the evening. "Naturally. This is the time when families present themselves, hoping to gain favor and blessings. It’s a great honor, though costly. Each family must offer something to gain entry into that part of society. It’s usually slaves," she added, her tone casual despite the weight of her words, "but there have been... other contributions."

She paused thoughtfully, her eyes narrowing slightly before she leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Well, all the Pantheon except for Fen'harel, of course. He doesn’t keep slaves. It is said he frees them."

"The Dread Wolf?" Ellana gasped, her shock evident. ‘Did the Dalish get this wrong too?’ Her mind raced with confusion. Before she could process the revelation, Imra’s expression twisted into horror.

"Do not speak his name like that! Are you deranged?" Imra hissed, her earlier lightheartedness vanishing. Her voice was sharp, her eyes wide with fear and indignation.

Ellana hesitated, startled by the outburst. "I'm sorry," she stammered, trying to soften the tension in the air.

Imra glared at her, her silvery eyes cold. "Just don’t let anyone else hear you call him that," she warned icily, her voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. "You might not get off so easily next time."

"Actually," Imra’s gaze softened, a fleeting vulnerability slipping through her haughty exterior, "I’m surprised. Most girls your age find the god quite attractive. I did too, once." She giggled lightly, as if sharing a secret.

Ellana blinked, taken aback. "Girls my age?" she repeated, confused. The slave had just finished applying the last touches of makeup, and as Ellana glanced at the mirror, she gasped. Her reflection was nearly unrecognizable. Her eyes appeared darker, smoky, intensifying the golden hue of her irises, while her lips were painted a deep red, a striking contrast to her complexion.

Imra's eyes sparkled with amusement at Ellana’s surprise. "Yes, surely you’re about seven hundred years old, no?" She arched an eyebrow, then smiled approvingly. "You’ll attract quite a bit of attention tonight."

Ellana’s breath caught in her throat. ‘Seven hundred?’ The absurdity of it all was overwhelming, but before she could respond, the slave marked with June’s vallaslin spoke up, her voice calm yet deferential. "My lady, it is time to choose your gown."

"Quite right!" Imra agreed, already moving away from the vanity, her excitement for the evening palpable. "See you at the party, Ellana," she called out with a knowing grin, gliding off to find her own dress.

Ellana watched her go, the weight of her situation pressing down on her once more. She had to stay focused, had to find a way to blend in. But the longer she stayed in this time, the more alien everything felt.

The slave stood by patiently, waiting for her direction. "Shall we find your dress, my lady?" she asked, her tone polite but distant.

Ellana turned to her, her mind still spinning with the surreal nature of this world. Something tugged at her—something more than just the foreign customs and lavish surroundings. She hesitated, then asked gently, "What is your name?"

The slave paused, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face before she answered, her voice quiet, almost resigned. "I do not remember, my lady. Most masters call me ‘pet,’ if that pleases you."

Ellana’s heart ached at the confession, a hollow sadness creeping in. ‘How long has she lived like this?’ The thought haunted her as she moved toward the rows of gowns, her fingers grazing the fabrics. “That is not suitable…” she whispered under her breath, shaking her head.

The slave remained silent, but her hands moved quickly and deftly, helping Ellana sort through the gowns. After a moment, she pulled out a dress and held it up for Ellana to see. "How does this fare, my lady?" she asked, her tone as neutral as ever.

Ellana’s gaze fell on the gown—a rich, dark purple with a strapless heart-shaped bodice, intricately adorned with lace and sparkling jewels. The embellishments caught the light, glimmering softly. The bodice tapered just under the bust before flowing into an ethereal, silky skirt that seemed to float as it moved. It was stunning, almost too much so.

"That’s beautiful," Ellana murmured, running her fingers along the soft silk. "But... is it appropriate?" she asked, her uncertainty clear. She had no idea what was considered acceptable for a gathering of this magnitude, let alone in an era so far removed from her own.

The servant nodded with quiet assurance. "It is appropriate, my lady."

Ellana sighed softly, still unsure. She had no time to worry about fitting in perfectly, but every part of this world felt precarious. "Well," she said reluctantly, "I suppose this will do." Her voice held a note of resignation, as if she was accepting her fate for the night.

The girl bowed slightly and led her toward a nearby changing room. As Ellana followed, she glanced once more at the slave, the weight of her earlier words still heavy on her mind. She couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of responsibility—not just to escape this world, but to understand it. To understand these people, these lives lost to time.

Inside the small, dimly lit chamber, the slave worked swiftly, removing Ellana’s simple gown with practiced hands and helping her slip into the borrowed dress. The dark purple fabric clung to her in all the right places, the jeweled bodice shimmering faintly in the low light. Once the gown was secured, the girl held up a delicate golden mask, draped with thin lace. Seven small blue gems glowed faintly, casting an eerie light across the mask’s surface.

"I believe this mask will be sufficient, my lady," the girl said quietly, offering it to Ellana.

Ellana’s breath caught as she felt a subtle pull from the gems. Her fingertips brushed over them lightly. "Is that... lyrium?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. There was something unsettling about the gems, a power that hummed beneath the surface.

The girl nodded silently and began fastening the mask to Ellana’s face, her hands gentle but efficient. When she stepped back, she looked Ellana over, her expression impassive. "You are ready, my lady."

Ellana exhaled slowly, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. "Will you be taking me to the ballroom?" she asked, hoping to delay any further interaction with the strange world she had been thrust into. The girl hesitated for a moment, thinking it over, before nodding and leading the way.

As they approached the grand vestibule doors, footsteps echoed behind them. Ellana barely had time to react before a man stormed toward them, his body radiating anger. His eyes locked on the slave. "There you are, pet," he snarled, his voice dripping with contempt. He grabbed the girl’s arm roughly, his fingers digging into her skin.

The girl showed no fear, her face emotionless as she replied in a measured tone, "I was helping."

The man’s face twisted with rage, and his hand shot up, ready to strike. Instinctively, Ellana stepped between them, her heart pounding in her chest. "I’m terribly sorry," she said quickly, her voice laced with forced sweetness. She could feel the eyes of the hall on them, the air thick with tension. Her pulse quickened as she glanced up at the man’s masked face, his raised hand still poised to strike.

The glare that met her through his mask was cold, unyielding, but Ellana held her ground. "Your slave," she said, barely able to hide the bitterness that clung to the word, "has been most helpful. I distracted her from your orders. The fault is mine." She smiled politely, though her voice carried a steely edge. "I hope you understand, with all the preparations for the ball. It’s easy to lose track of time."

The hall had gone deathly quiet. Every eye was on them, the weight of judgment heavy in the air. The man’s hand remained raised, his fury simmering beneath the surface, but he hesitated, uncertain. Ellana’s heart raced as she waited, praying her intervention had been enough to diffuse the moment.

The man made an unintelligible noise, his fury barely contained, before lowering his hand. "Fine!" he snapped, his voice sharp and venomous. "Get out of my sight!" he barked at the slave, who walked away with the same emotionless composure as before. He glared at Ellana, his gaze full of unspoken warning, before turning on his heel and disappearing into the crowd without another word.

The hall, which had fallen deathly silent, began to stir once more as chatter slowly resumed. Conversations picked up where they had left off, but Ellana couldn’t shake the gnawing sensation that all eyes had been on her during the exchange. ‘I’ve made myself noticeable,’ she thought uneasily. Standing up for a slave—especially so publicly—was bound to attract unwanted attention.

Keeping her movements as quiet and discreet as possible, she slipped through the vestibule and into the grand dance hall. The shift in atmosphere was palpable. Soft music floated through the air, graceful and ethereal, a perfect complement to the elegance of the elves who mingled, their laughter and quiet conversations weaving through the melody.

Ellana kept close to the walls, her heart pounding as she tried to avoid drawing any more interest. Her eyes flitted over the scene—a sea of finely dressed elves, their masks glittering in the soft glow of candlelight. In the center of the hall, couples twirled gracefully in the large dance area, their movements fluid and practiced, as if this was second nature to them. The air hummed with opulence, but Ellana couldn’t help but feel like an outsider, watching a world she didn’t belong to.

Her gaze shifted to the second level, an elevated platform that overlooked the dance hall. There, perched above it all, sat the Elven gods and goddesses. Ellana’s heart skipped a beat as her eyes landed on them.

The divine figures were unmistakable, their presence commanding the attention of anyone who dared glance their way. Yet as Ellana’s gaze lingered on them, an unsettling realization crept in. As unmistakable as they were, they looked... normal.

Ellana didn’t know exactly what she had expected gods to look like, but it wasn’t this. The Elven Pantheon, beings of legend, whose stories had been passed down for centuries, seemed almost too ordinary. Seated above the crowd, draped in finery, they looked like any other group of highly important elves attending the grand masquerade. Her brows furrowed as she tried to make sense of it. Falon'Din and Dirthamen, the twin gods, their disinterest almost palpable, looked like skilled and regal elven nobles, not beings of unfathomable power. Even the others, whose presence should have been awe-inspiring, appeared more like ancient aristocrats than divinities.

Ellana’s heart pounded in her chest, the weight of her confusion pressing down on her. ‘These are gods?’ she thought, her mind racing. The tales she had heard growing up, and even the stories Solas had shared, had painted them as beings beyond mortal comprehension. She had expected something more—something that would immediately convey their power and grandeur. But these beings looked… just like elves. Larger than life, perhaps, but still grounded in the world she knew.

The discrepancy gnawed at her, unsettling her more than she cared to admit. It was as if the veil of myth had been torn away, revealing something uncomfortably close to reality. Were these truly the beings who once shaped the world? The ones who inspired fear and reverence? Or were they something else entirely—figures built on legend, but whose true nature had been lost to time?

Her mind spun with questions she had no way of answering. As she kept to the shadows, she couldn’t help but feel the distance between the gods and the mortals below them, yet that distance was far less than she had imagined. They weren’t larger-than-life figures towering above the crowd—they were simply a part of it, watching from above.

She notices the figure with the golden bow strapped across her back could only be Andruil. Her fiery red hair, cut short and jagged like Cassandra’s, framed a face that seemed perpetually alert, eyes scanning the crowd with a predatory intensity. Much like the goddess the Dalish revered, Andruil appeared to be on the hunt for something—or someone.

Beside her stood another red-haired woman, though her hair was less vivid and cascaded down her back in long waves. Ellana surmised this must be Sylaise, the Hearthkeeper. Though her posture was serene, there was a quiet strength to her, as though she carried the weight of a protector.

A few feet away, Ellana’s eyes caught a smaller woman with pure white, wavy hair—Ghilan’nain, no doubt. She seemed engaged in a hushed conversation with a man who had cropped auburn hair. June, Ellana guessed, his quiet demeanor matching the tales she had heard of the god of crafting and creation. The two appeared absorbed in one another, their attention focused more on their conversation than on the splendor of the ballroom.

Farther away, two figures sat in regal stillness, towering over the rest, their presence impossible to ignore. One was a woman with dark, flowing hair and an air of authority so palpable it made the space around her seem to hum. Mythal, Ellana thought with certainty. Beside her was a broad-shouldered man, his features hard and unforgiving—Elgar’nan, the All-Father. Neither of them wore masks, and yet they seemed more aloof and distant than the rest, their eyes surveying the ballroom with a cool detachment.

Ellana’s heart raced as she scanned the room, her mind whirling. ‘One is missing.’ She quickly took a sip of the wine she had just picked up, her throat tightening with the thought.

Fen’harel.

Her thoughts quickened, and she began to take magical precautions, quietly weaving protective wards to prevent the voices of the Well from reaching out toward Mythal. The last thing she needed was to attract the goddess’s attention. As she worked, a chill ran down her spine, and a voice broke through her concentration.

"How kind of you to protect that slave, all things considered," a voice chuckled softly beside her.

Ellana froze, her blood turning to ice. ‘No.’

The voice was unmistakable, deep and filled with a dangerous amusement. She didn’t dare turn her head. ‘It can’t be…’Her pulse quickened, her mind racing, but her body refused to move.

Slowly, she exhaled, her fingers trembling slightly as she clutched the stem of her wine glass. The presence beside her was far too familiar, and despite all her efforts to remain calm, the sound of his voice sent her heart into a spiral.

Ellana slowly turned to face the speaker, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes locked onto stormy blue ones that were all too familiar. ‘Solas…’ she cried silently, the name echoing in her mind. But as her gaze swept over the man standing before her, she realized, with a sinking heart, that this was not the Solas she knew.

Instead of a smooth, bald head, this man wore tightly woven chestnut locks that cascaded over one shoulder, the sides of his head meticulously shaven. His smirk was unmistakably arrogant, a sharp contrast to the quiet, thoughtful mage she had known. Yet the resemblance was undeniable—his face was that of Solas, but his presence was entirely different.

"Have you lost your voice now?" he taunted, his tone dripping with haughty amusement. He stepped closer, his eyes boring into hers with an unsettling intensity. "I doubt that," he added, his voice smooth and mocking. "I heard you quite clearly a few moments ago."

Ellana’s heart pounded in her chest as he closed the distance between them. His presence was overwhelming, suffocating even, and yet she could barely process it. ‘Solas is Fen’harel…’. The truth of it slammed into her like a weight, and she struggled to keep her composure.

Swallowing hard, she lifted her wine glass and took a sip, hoping the motion would calm her trembling hands. "I haven’t lost my voice," she managed to reply, though her voice was tight, a little too forced.

Fen’harel’s eyes narrowed slightly, amusement flickering behind them. He noted the tension in her stance, the subtle hesitation in her tone. ‘Nervous,’ he thought, silently filing the observation away. His arm moved to rest against the wall just above her head, leaning in closer, his towering frame dominating the space around her.

"Are you nervous, my lady?" he whispered, his voice dropping to a dangerously seductive tone, his breath brushing against her skin as he inched closer. His eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of knowing how his presence affected her.

Ellana’s pulse quickened as she felt him encroach on her space, her mind scrambling for a way to escape. His proximity, the familiarity of his face but the strangeness of his demeanor—it was too much. Her thoughts were a whirlwind, and before she could think twice, her body moved instinctively.

Without a word, she turned sharply and began walking away, her movements quick and deliberate.

For a split second, Fen’harel was stunned. He watched her retreating form, amusement curling his lips into a smirk. A low chuckle escaped him, the sound dark and amused. ‘Well, that’s new,’ he mused, his gaze tracking the sway of her steps as she hurried away from him.

With a leisurely pace, he began to follow her, his amusement growing. ‘No one has ever walked away from me quite like that,’ he thought with a hint of humor, his eyes never leaving her as she weaved through the crowd.

Ellana rushed out onto the balcony, her breath shallow as she gripped the cool stone railing. "No, no, no," she muttered to herself, trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions spiraling inside her. The evening air kissed her skin, but it did little to cool the fire burning in her chest. Closing her eyes, she focused on breathing, her heart racing beneath her ribs. ‘The Dread Wolf… Solas… literally took me, she thought, the irony hitting her hard. A small, bitter chuckle escaped her lips as she shook her head, disbelief flooding her senses.

Unbeknownst to her, Fen’harel had followed. He stepped out onto the balcony, his movements smooth and quiet. With a flick of his hand, he dismissed the guards standing nearby, sending them away without a word. The doors clicked softly shut behind him, the noise barely audible over Ellana’s frantic thoughts.

She was too lost in her own mind to notice his presence. He leaned casually against the railing beside her, his smirk deepening as he studied her. The trickster’s amusement was palpable, his eyes alight with a mischievous gleam.

"Well," he said with a low chuckle, "I’ve certainly never had that sort of reaction from someone like you before." His voice cut through the night, laced with laughter, making her freeze.

Ellana’s breath hitched as she slowly turned to face him, her pulse quickening once more. There he was—Solas, but not. Fen’harel. The Trickster. The Dread Wolf. Her mind reeled, and for a moment, she couldn’t form the words stuck in her throat. His eyes sparkled with amusement, waiting, almost teasing, as if daring her to acknowledge what she now knew.

She swallowed hard, licking her lips before finally speaking. "You’re..." she began, her voice trembling slightly before she caught herself. Her mouth felt dry, her thoughts a blur. "You’re Fen’harel," she finished, the weight of the name heavy on her tongue.

Fen’harel’s keen gaze flickered over Ellana, sensing her unease even as she tried to keep her composure. “That is correct,” he confirmed smoothly, his tone unhurried. She continued to stare him down, defiance simmering in her eyes.

"What did you mean by ‘someone like me’?" she asks, her voice firm as she took a step back, increasing the distance between them.

He tilted his head slightly, meeting her gaze with casual indifference. "Young. Female," he replied plainly, with a nonchalant shrug. "Typically, the young ladies are quite... intrigued by me. You’re the first to run." His laughter was soft, but it carried a note of amusement that only seemed to heighten her tension.

Her face remained stoic, her eyes unwavering. "No," she said, her voice sharp, cutting through his playful demeanor.

Fen’harel’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Is that a challenge?" he asked, his tone flirtatious, as he took a step closer, closing the space she had created.

"No," she repeated, her posture rigid, her resolve unmoving.

He studied her, intrigued by the resistance in her stance. For a moment, the teasing smile faded from his face, replaced by something quieter, more calculated. His eyes lingered on her, noticing the subtle tension in her expression, the way her jaw tightened, as if holding back more than just words.

"You’ve been hurt," he said quietly, his tone shifting to something darker, more perceptive. It wasn’t a question—it was a statement, spoken with the certainty of someone who had seen pain before. The lightness in his voice had vanished, replaced by a blunt assessment of the emotions she tried to conceal.

Ellana flinched ever so slightly, but her expression remained hard, giving nothing away. She hadn’t expected him to pick up on it so quickly—his ability to read her, to cut through her defenses, unsettled her. He is the one who hurt her, some thousand years in the future.

Ellana remained silent, her arms wrapping around herself defensively. Fen’harel’s gaze didn’t waver. "What fool would leave you?" he mused, his tone casual, yet there was an edge to his words. "Even behind the mask, I can tell you’re beautiful."

Her eyes flickered, betraying a momentary glimmer of pain before she answered. "A trickster," she whispered, her voice barely audible, but the weight behind the words struck him with their clarity.

"Ah…" Fen’harel murmured, his curiosity piqued. His gaze sharpened, intrigued by her answer. He moved to sit on a nearby bench, his body relaxed as if he were settling into a game he already knew the rules to. "Come, sit," he beckoned, motioning to the spot beside him. His eyes never left her, watching closely for her reaction.

Ellana hesitated, her arms tightening around herself as she glanced at the bench, the space next to him looming like a challenge. "Is this a game?" she whispered, her voice tinged with wariness.

"Not at all," he replied smoothly, though there was no trace of mischief in his voice now, only a calm honesty. He leaned back against the bars, waiting. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she stepped forward and sat beside him, her posture rigid, every muscle tense as if ready to bolt.

The silence between them was heavy, but Fen’harel wasn’t one to leave space unfilled for long. "Tell me what happened," he said softly, his tone gentle but commanding, as if he already knew there was a story buried beneath her silence.

Ellana’s breath hitched, her chest tightening as the memories clawed their way to the surface. ‘If I can’t speak to Solas in the present… why not speak to him through the past?’ The thought both emboldened and frightened her. She swallowed hard, gathering her courage, though her body remained stiff with tension.

"He didn’t want to distract me from my duties," she whispered, her voice strained, as if the very words were a burden she struggled to release. Each syllable was soaked in the pain she had never fully allowed herself to voice, the weight of unspoken truths pressing down on her. It was easier to speak to this version of him, where she could pretend, just for a moment, that her words wouldn’t go unheard.

Fen’harel’s gaze didn’t waver, though his smirk softened into something more thoughtful. He could sense the depth of her hurt, even if she tried to keep it contained. Her stiffness, the trembling edge to her voice—it was all too telling. He leaned in ever so slightly, his curiosity piqued by the delicate balance she was trying to maintain between her grief and her composure.

Ellana’s eyes flickered toward him, a flash of vulnerability crossing her face before she quickly looked away. Her mind raced. She had thought of this conversation a thousand times, but it never played out like this, with the ache of the past feeling so immediate, and his presence—so familiar yet so foreign—unnerving her at every turn.

Fen’harel’s gaze narrowed slightly, his curiosity deepening. "Was he one?" he pressed, his voice low, probing. “A trickster?”

She shook her head, the memory too raw to keep buried. "Not at all. He had something he needed to do—something on his own. He didn’t want my help." Her voice trembled, though she fought to keep it steady. "And then… he left. He left without saying goodbye."

Her words trailed off, the weight of what she had been holding back since that day pressing down on her chest. It wasn’t just the day Corypheus fell that haunted her—it was the day Solas vanished. He had told her what they shared was real, made her believe in something deeper, and then he disappeared without a word. The ache of that departure still stung, fresh and unrelenting, no matter how much time had passed.

Fen’harel observed her quietly, his smirk fading into something more contemplative. He didn’t interrupt, letting the pain she had buried resurface, knowing the name of the man she spoke of without her having to utter it aloud. He was fascinated by how deeply it still cut her, how it lingered in every word she spoke.

Fen’harel hummed lightly, a sound that was both contemplative and amused, before rising to his feet. With a graceful flourish, he turned to face her, bowing with a flourish that made the air between them seem lighter, more playful. "May I have this dance, my lady?" His hand extended toward her, his stormy blue eyes locked on hers.

Ellana blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. She hesitated for a moment, her gaze flicking from his hand to his face. "Shouldn’t I be the one bowing to a god, not the other way around?" she joked weakly, her voice tinged with a mix of humor and disbelief.

Fen’harel straightened, a laugh bubbling from his lips, clearly not expecting her response. "Please, do not bow," he chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. His laughter felt strange—so familiar and yet so foreign in this moment. He pauses for a moment, “and while powerful, I am not a god.”

A flicker of confusion danced across her features at his remark about not being a god, but there was no time to linger on it. Her brow furrowed as she eyed his outstretched hand, suspicion darkening her gaze. “Why are you being nice to me?” Her voice was low, edged with wariness as her eyes flicked back to his face. “You’re supposed to be cocky and arrogant.” Her words came out like a challenge, distrust curling around each one as she kept her focus on the hand she refused to take.

His laugh came again, light but sincere. "I am cocky and arrogant," he admitted, his smirk never wavering. "But I find myself... drawn to you. And I’d like to find out why." His tone shifted, becoming more serious, more curious. His hand remained extended, waiting.

The weight of his words made Ellana pause, her breath catching in her throat. There was a strange sincerity in his voice, something that tugged at her in a way she hadn’t expected. After a beat of hesitation, she nodded and placed her hand in his.

Fen’harel’s touch was firm but gentle as he guided her back into the grand dance hall. The moment they entered, the crowd seemed to part like water, making a path for them as they walked toward the center of the room. All eyes were fixed on them—gods and mortals alike—whispers spreading like wildfire through the gathering. The Dread Wolf, dancing with this unknown woman. It was a scene no one could have predicted.

Ellana kept her head high, her back straight, though her heart raced. Every gaze, every whisper was like a weight on her shoulders, but she met it with resolve. If they were going to watch, she would give them something worth watching.

Fen’harel stepped onto the dance floor, his movements fluid, effortless. As the music swelled around them, he drew her closer, guiding her into the rhythm. Their steps fell into sync, and though she kept her guard up, the dance itself felt like an unspoken conversation—a dance of power, of curiosity, of something deeper.

"Everyone is staring..." Ellana whispered, her voice tight with discomfort as she tried to maintain her composure. The weight of so many eyes on her made her skin prickle, and she could feel the tension creeping up her spine.

Fen’harel’s response, however, was anything but subtle. A wolfish grin spread across his face, his enjoyment of the situation evident in every step he took. "They are," he said confidently, his tone filled with amusement as he pulled her even closer, his hand firm on the small of her back. His delight in the attention was palpable, while she struggled to remain at ease.

Ellana’s gaze flickered toward the edge of the dance floor, where she noticed the remaining members of the Elven pantheon gathered, whispering amongst themselves, their eyes trained on the two of them. Her discomfort only grew. "So are your..." she hesitated, her lips tightening as she searched for the right word, "friends..." she grumbled under her breath.

Fen’harel cocked his head to the side, glancing in the direction of the gods. "So they are," he confirmed with a nonchalant shrug, clearly unbothered by their watchful gaze. His attention remained on her, and with a sudden shift, he sped up, guiding her into quicker, more intricate steps in time with the rising tempo of the music.

Ellana’s breath caught as she struggled to keep up with the pace, her heart racing not just from the swift movements, but from the intensity of the situation. ‘Why does he enjoy this so much?’ she wondered, her frustration simmering beneath the surface.

With a playful flourish, Fen’harel dipped her, his grin wicked and full of mischief. His hand slid slowly down the curve of her leg, lifting it to rest against his hip. The boldness of the gesture sent a shiver through her, and she gasped softly, her heart hammering in her chest.

"You are cocky," she whispered, her voice breathless, the accusation laced with a mixture of frustration and bewilderment. His grin only widened, gleaming with the satisfaction of having gotten the reaction he sought. He was pushing her, testing her boundaries, reveling in how easily he could unsettle her.

Her heart ached with the weight of it all. This was Fen’harel, the Dread Wolf, a being of ancient legend—and yet, he wore Solas’s face, the man she had loved. The man who, in this moment, did not exist. ‘Whatever events made him into the Solas she knew…’ she thought bitterly, ‘hasn’t happened yet.’ The pain of that knowledge twisted inside her. She longed for the Solas she had known, the thoughtful, compassionate mage, not the trickster who now held her in his arms.

Before she could gather her thoughts, Fen’harel pulled her upright, drawing her close enough that their faces hovered just inches apart. His breath brushed against her lips, and she felt the electric charge between them, heavy with unspoken tension.

His hand moved to her cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle as he stroked her skin with a tenderness that caught her off guard. Slowly, deliberately, he brought her face closer to his, his gaze never leaving hers. He was watching her carefully, waiting for her to pull away, to protest—but she didn’t. She couldn’t. The confusion, the pull of familiarity, and the ache of longing kept her rooted to the spot.

And then he leaned in.

The kiss, when it came, was electric, sending a shockwave through her. It was as if time itself had bent around them, the moment reminiscent of their first kiss in the Fade. That same spark of connection flared to life, stirring something deep within her that she had thought long buried.

But it wasn’t Solas who kissed her now—it was Fen’harel, a stranger in a familiar skin.

Her body responded instinctively, memories of that first kiss flooding back, but her mind was a whirlwind of conflicted thoughts. She knew what he was, knew what he would become. Yet in this fleeting moment, the ache of her loss, the longing for what they had shared, overwhelmed her.

When they finally pulled apart, the air between them was thick with tension. His eyes searched hers, as though trying to gauge her reaction, his usual arrogance tempered by something softer, something more real.

But Ellana couldn’t meet his gaze for long. The kiss had stirred emotions she wasn’t ready to confront. Her heart ached for the man who does not currently existed—and for the one standing before her, a shadow of what had been and what was yet to come.

The grand ballroom trembled, a low rumble building beneath their feet. Ellana stiffened in Fen’harel’s arms, her senses sharpening as the vibrations intensified, rattling the chandeliers above and causing the delicate glasses lining the tables to clatter.

Then, the tremors grew violent.

Decorations fell from the walls, the ornate vases shattering as they hit the marble floor. Gasps filled the room as the assembled guests turned in confusion and alarm. Fen’harel’s grip tightened on Ellana, his playful expression giving way to something more serious, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the room.

In the center of the ballroom, where moments ago dancers had twirled in elegant grace, a swirling vortex began to form. The portal—the very one that had spat Ellana into this world hours earlier—was reopening, its smoky green light twisting and expanding with a terrifying energy.

The air crackled with magic, and one by one, six shadowed figures were flung from the mouth of the portal, crashing to the floor. The guests recoiled in shock, stepping back as the six figures lay motionless, scattered across the ballroom like broken dolls.

Ellana's heart raced, her breath catching in her throat as she pulled away from Fen’harel, her eyes fixed on the portal. The energy radiating from it was wild, unpredictable, and she could feel the familiar pulse of its power tugging at her magic. The room fell silent, every eye on the figures who had fallen from the sky.

"Not again..." Ellana whispered, barely able to process what was happening. Her gaze shifted between the portal and the six figures lying on the marble floor, dread creeping into her chest.

Beside her, Fen’harel stood perfectly still, his eyes glinting with curiosity and wariness as he assessed the situation. He didn’t move, but there was an unmistakable tension in the way he watched the portal, as though he were waiting for the next act of whatever chaotic force had been unleashed.

The portal swirled ominously, casting flickering green light across the ballroom.

Relief flooded Ellana’s chest as she recognized the figures on the floor—her companions, her chosen family. She barely had time to think, her heart racing as emotions overwhelmed her. Without warning, she grabbed Fen’harel by the collar, pulling him closer, and slapped him with such force it echoed through the ballroom.

His head snapped to the side, and when he turned back to her, fury burned in his stormy blue eyes, mixed with raw confusion. The sting of her slap still fresh on his skin, his thoughts raced—her sudden kiss, the opening of the rift, and now this. It was all too much. "What was that for?" he snapped, his voice low, a mixture of anger and bewilderment.

He was taken aback, his arrogance slipping for just a moment as he tried to make sense of her actions. They had just shared a kiss filled with a fire he hadn’t expected, and now she struck him as if that kiss had never happened—as if the rift spitting out her companions wasn’t turning everything upside down. The swirl of emotions in the room mirrored the chaos inside him.

Ellana stared him down, her expression unyielding. "You’ll find out in about a thousand years—give or take a century," she spat, her voice filled with bitterness and a depth of hurt he couldn’t quite place. The fury in her eyes told him everything and nothing at the same time, and for once, the Trickster was left off balance.

Fen’harel stared at her, confusion flickering across his face. The tension between them crackled, the weight of things left unsaid hanging in the air.

She hesitated, her breath catching as her heart raced. Her voice was quiet but firm when she finally spoke, the weight of unspoken emotion hanging in the air between them. "You’ve been gone for a month," she said, her tone steady, though it trembled at the edges, betraying the torrent of feelings she was holding back. "In two days, I’ll meet you in Crestwood. The place where you left."

His brow furrowed, confusion flickering in his stormy blue eyes as he processed her words. He was caught between the chaos of the moment—the portal, her companions emerging, and the intensity of her presence. The air between them crackled with tension, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

She paused for a beat, biting her lip as if debating what to do next. Then, with a sudden surge of emotion, she gripped his collar again, pulling him toward her with a ferocity she hadn’t felt in years. Their lips crashed together, her kiss full of force and passion—like she was pouring all the things she could never say into that single moment.

It was more than just a kiss. It was a release of everything she had been holding in—frustration, longing, the pain of his absence, and the confusion of seeing him now, knowing what he would become. Her lips pressed against his with an intensity that spoke of all the moments they had shared and all the moments that had been stolen from her. It was fire and fury, desire and heartache, all bound together in the desperate need to feel something real, something that could ground her in this swirling storm.

Fen’harel’s initial shock melted away as he responded, his hands tightening around her, pulling her closer. The kiss was electric, charged with the passion they both couldn’t contain. But beneath the fire, there was an undercurrent of something far deeper—an understanding that this moment, this kiss, carried the weight of a thousand unsaid words and the unspoken truth that still lingered between them.

When she finally broke the kiss, her breath came in short, uneven bursts, her face inches from his. She stared at him, her eyes filled with a mix of defiance and vulnerability. Without another word, she turned on her heel and ran, leaving him standing there, speechless, with the taste of her still lingering on his lips and the burning imprint of her kiss still echoing in his mind.

"Boss!" a familiar voice bellowed, and Ellana’s heart lifted as she saw Iron Bull, massive and imposing, emerging from the portal. His grin was wide, his massive sword at the ready. She ripped off her mask, holding it tight, her joy spilling out uncontrollably. "Bull!" she screamed, running toward him.

Perched on Bull’s broad shoulders, Sera sat with her bow drawn, her eyes scanning the room with suspicion. "Stupid mages and their stupid magic, yeah? This isn’t normal!" she shouted, directing her frustration at Dorian, who followed behind them with an air of calm, casually fixing his hair as if they hadn’t just been thrown through time.

"Stupid Tevinter mage!" Sera bickered, narrowing her eyes at him. "You caused all of this!"

Dorian scoffed, waving her off with a dramatic flourish. "Oh, please! It wasn’t intentional," he replied, clearly annoyed. His eyes roved over the scene as he assessed the situation. "Though I must admit," he said, with a hint of amusement, "it appears we’ve landed in the middle of a party. Quite the Orlesian court affair, I’d say."

The ballroom was in chaos, nobles gasping and retreating as the sight of Ellana’s companions registered in their shocked minds. The whispering increased, but Ellana had no care for the gawking eyes or the judging glances. Her heart was full, and her mind raced as she took in the faces of her friends.

Cassandra grunted as she landed beside Dorian, her sword and shield raised, scanning the room with sharp focus. “I believe we should focus on the task at hand,” she declared harshly, grabbing Dorian by the arm and yanking him back toward her. The urgency in her voice left little room for debate.

"Now you say so, Seeker?" Varric chimed in, his tone dripping with amusement as he notched an arrow into Bianca, his ever-reliable crossbow. His eyes flicked toward the approaching pantheon, tension simmering beneath his easygoing facade.

Dorian smoothed out his robes, more annoyed than unsettled. "You rudely dragged me away from Court to time travel into another Court, Dorian? My dear, you certainly know how to impress," Vivienne drawled, her voice rich with sarcasm as she readied her magic, the faint shimmer of arcane energy crackling in the air around her.

Ellana, despite the chaos and the rift still pulsing behind them, felt a surge of joy at seeing her companions again. Her heart leaped as she took in their familiar faces, the sharpness of their banter filling her with a sense of belonging. But her relief was cut short as she looked across the room to see the Elven pantheon standing in formation, their postures rigid, their gazes cold. The gods were preparing for a fight.

Fen’harel stood at the edge of their gathering, staring at the scene with shock etched across his usually impassive face. Before he could react, one of the twins—Falon’Din—grabbed his arm and pulled him closer, their eyes locking onto the intruders with an intensity that sent a shiver down Ellana's spine. The tension between the two sides was palpable, the gods' confusion quickly giving way to a looming threat.

Andruil, her movements swift and deadly, was the first to act. With a graceful flick of her wrist, she sent an arrow sailing through the air toward the group. Vivienne, always poised and prepared, conjured a shimmering barrier in the blink of an eye, deflecting the projectile with a cold, amused smile.

"Dorian, my dear," Vivienne said, her tone light despite the situation, "do be careful, will you? The Veil is terribly thin here. I’d hate to see something get through."

Varric smirked, his eyes narrowing as he aimed Bianca. "She’s got a point, Sparkler. You sure you’ve got this under control?"

Ellana’s heart raced, torn between the joy of seeing her companions and the terror of the looming threat from the pantheon. "Dorian, please tell me you know how to get us back!" she cried, rushing toward him, throwing her arms around him in a desperate embrace.

Dorian hugged her back, though his mind was clearly elsewhere. "Of course," he muttered, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "If we can manage to gather enough power..." His voice trailed off nervously as he glanced over at the Elven gods, who were now advancing toward them with lethal intent.

“Eh? Look at all this stupid elfy crap! Look at them all dressed up in their elfy bits, hah!” Sera jokes as she makes eye contact with Fen’harel. “Is that Solas, with all his elven glory, what’s that shite?” Sera howls from her spot on Iron Bull’s shoulders.

“Sera, you are an elf! And it’s not Solas.” Ellana snaps at her as Dorian mutters about different types of power. “Yeah, boss? Well, it sure looks like him.” Bull adds. Cole, who was hidden behind Iron Bull, adding, “He has his face. Magic flows, similar yet different. He is not him yet.” He expresses, a sense of knowing.

“Who are you?” Elgar’nan bellows in anger as flames surround the group. “Damn mages,” Varric mutters in distress.

“Dorian, my mask!” Ellana pushes the mask into his hands. “The gems are lyrium shards. Seven of them. Can you use them to power the device?” Ellana rushes out as her and Vivienne cast a barrier spell to protect them from the flame.

"Yes!" Dorian yelled with glee, diving into his work as arcane energy crackled around him. His fingers moved swiftly, tracing intricate patterns of magic, while the rest of the group formed a protective ring around him, weapons and spells at the ready. Ellana’s eyes flicked between her companions and the Elven pantheon, her heart racing as she saw Fen’harel muttering angrily with Elgar’nan.

Elgar’nan stood taller than the rest, his broad shoulders tense and his long black hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck. His face was flushed with fury, his angular jaw clenched as he glared at the Dread Wolf. The two gods bickered fiercely, their voices too low for Ellana to hear, but their body language told the whole story—Fen’harel wanted to stop the conflict, but Elgar’nan, with his imposing stance, was clearly ready to strike.

"We can’t attack them!" Ellana cried, casting another barrier to deflect incoming arrows and projectiles. The magical force shimmered around her, but it was clear they were under immense pressure. "We can’t kill them—it’ll ruin everything!"

Varric, standing a few steps behind her, notched another arrow into Bianca. "Shouldn’t we be attacking now, Rosy?" he asked with his usual calm, even as chaos surrounded them.

Ellana threw up her hands in frustration, letting out a strangled cry. "Now you give me a nickname? Rosy? Really?"

Varric chuckled, even as he eyed the approaching figures warily. "It’s better than Twinkles!" he called back, the tension in the air momentarily lightened by his playful banter.

Ellana shook her head, her focus snapping back to the growing threat. She and Vivienne were casting area spells in tandem, their magic shimmering across the room in an intricate web, keeping the pantheon’s attacks at bay while maintaining the barriers against any incoming projectiles.

"We can’t kill anyone!" Ellana repeated urgently, her voice rising over the din of battle. "If we do, it’ll destroy the timeline. My people are descendants of them!" she snapped, her eyes flicking toward Mythal, who had stepped forward with a commanding presence.

Mythal’s golden eyes burned with the same intensity that had haunted Ellana when they first met. Her long, straight white-blonde hair flowed behind her as she approached, her high cheekbones giving her an air of regal authority. A powerful fireball hovered just above her hand, flames swirling and crackling, poised to be unleashed.

Ellana’s heart skipped a beat. She could feel something pulling at her, tugging at the edges of her consciousness. The voices of the Well, those ancient whispers she had kept at bay for so long, began to stir, echoing in her mind with newfound urgency. The magic was breaking free, forcing a connection she wasn’t ready for.

Her breath hitched as the voices surged forward, flooding her thoughts with a torrent of ancient knowledge. And then, like a crack of thunder, the connection was made.

Mythal’s eyes widened in shock, her golden irises glowing as she froze mid-stride, the fireball flickering in her hand. She turned her gaze toward Ellana, her expression one of surprise, realization dawning in her features.

"Hold your attacks!" Mythal’s voice boomed across the room, shaking the very walls with its force. The gods halted, their movements stilled by the power of her command. The fireball in her hand fizzled out, and for a moment, the entire room seemed to hold its breath.

Ellana staggered, the connection with Mythal pulsating in her mind, raw and overwhelming. She could feel Mythal’s presence—her knowledge, her power, her understanding—mingling with her own. It was too much, too fast, but it had bought them a moment.

The entire ballroom seemed to hold its breath as Mythal's command rippled through the air. Even Elgar’nan and Fen’harel, who had been locked in a heated argument, fell silent. The tension in the room was palpable, every pair of eyes fixed on the goddess as she stepped forward, her golden gaze unblinking, locking onto Ellana.

"You drank from my well," Mythal stated, her voice steady, with a flicker of amusement dancing beneath the surface. Her long blue gown trailed behind her as she approached, every step measured, every movement regal. She came to a halt before the group, her eyes narrowing as she examined Ellana with a curious intensity. "How are you not dead?" she asked, the question laced with genuine curiosity, though the flame that reignited in her hand hinted at her readiness to change that.

Ellana hesitated, trying to remain composed under Mythal’s scrutinizing gaze. A nervous laugh escaped her lips. "You know," she said, her voice tight, "I probably should be. I ask myself that question far too often."

Mythal raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced by the casual response. Her eyes darkened, and the flames in her hand flared brighter, casting flickering shadows across the ballroom. She was still poised to strike, and the room’s tension thickened as it became clear that one wrong word could reignite the fight.

Ellana growled in frustration, stepping forward with determination. "Look, I had no other choice but to drink from the Well," she snapped, her tone firm but edged with desperation. "I respected your temple. I willingly drank from the water."

Mythal’s gaze remained fixed on her, unreadable.

"You willingly became a slave?” Fen’harel’s voice cut through the air from behind Mythal, sharp and incredulous. His eyes burned with something unspoken, his question laced with both disbelief and a subtle anger. Mythal raised her hand, silencing the Dread Wolf with a single gesture, though his gaze remained fixed on Ellana.

"I didn’t know the price at the time," Ellana responded quickly, her voice tense but unwavering. "But my freedom, for the freedom of the greater good, is a trade-off I had to take."

Mythal hummed thoughtfully, her golden eyes narrowing as she studied Ellana with a chilling curiosity, "what is stopping me from commanding you to kill your friends, leaving you trapped here?" Her voice was dangerously calm, and with a slow, deliberate movement, she stopped walking and motioned for Ellana to come forward.

Ellana’s heart skipped a beat, but she didn’t falter. She signaled for her companions to stand down, though she could feel their collective tension rising. With careful steps, she moved toward Mythal, every muscle in her body tense as she prepared for whatever might come next.

"You," Ellana answered directly, her voice firm despite the tremor of nerves in her chest. "You are what’s stopping you."

Mythal raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the elf’s boldness. Her eyes gleamed with something unreadable as she began to circle Ellana, her gaze scanning her as though she were a puzzle to be solved. The would-be goddess’s presence was overwhelming, her power tangible in the air, but Ellana held her ground.

"Hm," Mythal mused, her lips curling into a slight smile as she completed her circle. "And so the tune begins."

The faintest chuckle escaped her lips, a sound that sent a shiver down Ellana’s spine. Mythal’s keen eyes lingered on Ellana for a moment longer before she abruptly turned away, her robes trailing behind her. The room, which had been so thick with tension moments before, seemed to exhale.

"Go, girl," Mythal said, her voice carrying the weight of finality. "Return to your own time." With a dismissive wave of her hand, Mythal accepted Ellana’s fate, as though she had seen what she needed to see.

Behind her, Elgar’nan’s face twisted in anger, his fury barely contained. His eyes flared with rage, his broad shoulders tensing as if he wanted to lash out, but he did not argue. Even Fen’harel remained silent, though the intensity in his gaze had not lessened.

Ellana felt a surge of relief, but it was tinged with the bitter knowledge of what had transpired. She had stood before gods and walked away, but the weight of their judgment still hung heavily on her. She turned rushing back to her companions, her body trembling from the tension of the encounter.

"It is ready when you are, Inquisitor," Dorian announced, his voice steady despite the lingering tension. He handed Ellana her mask, but she didn’t reach for it, her gaze locked on the man who had once been Solas, the man who now stood across from her as Fen’harel.

His face was a storm of frustration and confusion, his eyes hard and unrelenting. She frowned, her heart twisting painfully, but she wouldn’t apologize. Not for the kiss, not for the slap, not for her choice to walk away. There was nothing left to say, and she knew it.

"Alright, everyone stay close, unless of course, you want to stay here!" Dorian called out with a flourish, breaking the tension as the portal flared to life once more. The air crackled with energy, and the group began to gather.

Ellana hesitated for a moment longer, her hand gripping the mask. Her eyes flickered back to Fen’harel one last time—no words passed between them, but the silence was heavy with everything unsaid. With a quiet breath, she let the mask fall from her fingers, the sound of it hitting the ground sharp in the stillness. She moved closer to her companions.

"Get ready... and NOW!" Dorian shouted, his voice full of authority as the group rushed toward the swirling energy of the portal. In an instant, the room and the gods faded from sight, and the chaos of the past slipped away.

The portal spat them out with a jarring thud into the familiar surroundings of the Great Hall of Skyhold. For a moment, there was only silence as they all caught their breath, the weight of their journey settling on their shoulders.

“Damn," Varric said, breaking the tension with a grin as he brushed off invisible dirt. "That is something to write about." He reached down, helping Sera to her feet, who shook herself off dramatically.

“You mean the elfy bits or the magic-y bits?” Sera quipped, yanking out a chair from a nearby table and plopping down into it with a sigh. "Because both were pretty messed up."

Ellana allowed herself a small laugh, the familiar sounds of Skyhold easing the tension in her chest. They were home.

"Boss," Iron Bull rumbled as he pulled both Dorian and Cole up onto their feet. "Let’s not do that again, alright?" Cole, with his usual innocence, chimed in, “The Iron Bull isn’t afraid.”

Dorian, of course, couldn’t resist the banter. He flashed a broad smile and adjusted his robes, clearly pleased with himself. "I thought it was a fantastic field trip," he said with a gleam in his eye. “Too bad we couldn’t stay longer.”

Vivienne and Cassandra exchanged glances as they watched Ellana rush toward the throne, her hands shaking as she snatched up her staff. The urgency in her movements was unmistakable.

"Where are you going?" Cassandra asked, her voice sharp with concern as she quickly followed the Inquisitor down the steps and outside into the courtyard. Her eyes narrowed, noting Ellana’s frantic pace—and the fact that she hadn’t even bothered to change out of her gown.

She ignores the question. "Cassandra, stay here. That is an order," Ellana commanded, her tone firm, though her voice carried the weight of something far more urgent than a simple mission.

Cassandra gritted her teeth, but pressed on. "But where are you going?" she demanded again, her frustration growing as they entered the stables. Ellana’s face was set, her jaw clenched with determination that Cassandra recognized all too well—it was the same look she wore when she was about to face a danger only she believed she could stop.

"I am headed to Crestwood," Ellana replied shortly, her words clipped, barely giving Cassandra a glance as rushing out of the great hall and towards the stables. Cassandra grunted in disapproval, her brows furrowing deeply as she watched Ellana ride off without another word, her red hart galloping away into the distance. The sight filled her with unease. Whatever was driving the Inquisitor, it wasn’t something Cassandra could ignore.

As Ellana disappeared into the horizon, Cassandra let out a slow breath, the tension coiled tightly in her chest. She had seen Ellana like this before���too determined, too willing to face something alone.

"I’m not letting her go off without protection," Cassandra muttered under her breath, her resolve hardening. She marched back into Skyhold with purposeful strides, her thoughts already racing. When she found Leliana in the war room, the spymaster raised a questioning brow.

"The Inquisitor has left for Crestwood," Cassandra said firmly, her voice low. "Send your spies to follow her—discreetly."

Leliana’s eyes sharpened, her expression unreadable. She gave a slow nod, already understanding the unspoken weight behind Cassandra’s words. "Consider it done," she replied, turning swiftly to make arrangements.

When Ellana arrived in Crestwood, the world around her had already been swallowed by darkness. The cool night air clung to her skin, and the soft rustling of leaves in the wind was the only sound that broke the stillness. Her heart raced as she dismounted her red hart and quickly made her way to the place where they had last been together, where the memory of their intimacy still lingered like a phantom touch.

But the clearing was empty. He wasn’t there.

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, trying to keep her voice steady even as frustration clawed at her chest. She stood still for a moment, her breath shallow, eyes scanning the empty space, as if he might suddenly appear from the shadows. But there was nothing. Just the cold wind and the aching silence that pressed in from all sides.

Her hands clenched into fists, trembling with the weight of her emotions. “He has to show,” she whispered, her voice shaking. Her mind raced, replaying their last moments together, the promises and the hope she had carried with her since his departure. “He has to!” she nearly screamed, the desperation in her voice echoing through the darkness.

She wanted to cry, the frustration burning in her throat, but she couldn’t—she wouldn’t. Not yet. There were still two more days. He had two more days, and she would wait.

Ellana paced restlessly, her mind a swirl of emotions—anger, longing, uncertainty. ‘What if he doesn’t come?’ she thought, her heart tightening with fear. But she shook her head, forcing the thought away. No. He would come. He had to.

She settled onto a rock, the tension in her body refusing to ease. The night stretched on around her, the stars glinting coldly above as she stared into the empty space before her, her thoughts filled with the man who would become the man she knows as Solas.

It was the last night she would wait. The last night she had allowed herself to cling to hope. Ellana had fashioned a makeshift bed out of dried leaves, the crackling of them under her weight a quiet reminder of how far she had come—rushing off with nothing but the clothes on her back and her staff in hand when they had returned to the present. She hadn’t even thought to pack supplies, her mind too consumed by the desperate need to see him again.

Now, as the final night stretched on, the air was bitterly cold. The dress she wore—still the one from the past—did little to shield her from the chill. She wrapped it tighter around her body, pulling the thin fabric close, trying to trap any warmth she could find. Her breath formed small clouds in the night air, the silence around her broken only by the occasional rustle of the trees.

She was tired—so tired. The weight of days spent waiting, hoping, had finally caught up to her, dragging her eyelids down like lead. The weariness seeped into her bones, and though she fought to stay alert, to stay awake in case he came, her body was betraying her.

The stars twinkled coldly above, indifferent to her struggle, and the ground beneath her was unforgiving. Ellana shifted slightly, trying to make herself comfortable on the bed of leaves, but the ache in her chest was far deeper than any discomfort of the earth beneath her. It was the ache of uncertainty, of hope slowly unraveling, fraying at the edges with every passing hour.

Her eyes fluttered shut, just for a moment. She told herself it was only to rest, only for a heartbeat, but the exhaustion was overwhelming. Her thoughts grew hazy, and the edges of her vision blurred as sleep began to pull her under. She fought it, gripping her staff tighter in her hands, but the fatigue was winning.

As her body gave in, Ellana felt a final pang of frustration—why hasn’t he come?—before sleep began to claim her, wrapping her in its heavy embrace. The last flicker of consciousness clung to the hope that when she woke, he would be there, waiting for her.

But the silence of the night remained unbroken, and as her eyes drifted shut, the darkness closed in around her.

The sharp snap of a twig jolted Ellana from her half-sleep, her heart racing as her eyes flew open. Panic surged through her, the cold air biting at her skin as she scrambled to sit up, her fingers instinctively tightening around her staff.

She turned sharply toward the sound, and what she saw froze the breath in her lungs.

Behind her stood an enormous black wolf—the Dread Wolf—its size rivaling that of a horse. The creature's coat gleamed in the pale moonlight, but it was the eyes—six abnormally large, glowing red eyes—that held her paralyzed with fear and disbelief. They gleamed like burning embers, fixated on her with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine.

“Solas?” Her voice cracked, barely more than a whisper, as the recognition clawed its way out of her chest. It couldn’t be. Not like this.

The wolf, towering and silent, lowered its head toward her. There was a moment of stillness, an unbearable weight hanging in the air, before a swirling bright light enveloped the beast. The blinding glow twisted and spiraled around its form, and as the light slowly faded, the wolf was gone.

In its place stood Solas.

He didn’t meet her eyes. His posture was tense, his face shadowed with regret, as he stood before her, not the man she had known, but something far more powerful. Something ancient, something dangerous. He didn’t move. He simply stood there, his gaze fixed on the ground as if the weight of the moment was too much for even him to bear.

“That was not…this is not…” His voice was barely audible, and when he finally spoke, it was laced with a quiet sadness, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “This is not how you were meant to find out.”

His words hung in the night air, sharp and heavy, but he still wouldn’t look at her. His presence—the same man she had loved, the same face, yet somehow entirely different—was overwhelming. The quiet dignity he once carried now felt like the gravity of something ancient, something burdened with centuries of secrets.

Ellana’s heart pounded, her mind racing to make sense of what she had just witnessed. The truth that had always lingered at the edges of her awareness had finally revealed itself, and yet standing before it, she found herself unsure of what to feel—shock, disbelief, or the ache of betrayal that had been simmering inside her for so long.

“Solas…” she whispered again, her voice trembling, the name foreign on her tongue in this new reality.

"You lied. You lied about everything!" Ellana’s voice cracked as the words tore out of her, her fists clenched tight, shaking with rage and hurt. Tears streamed down her face, hot and uncontrollable, as the weight of his deception crashed over her like a wave. She had held onto hope, onto the man she thought she knew, but now that hope was unraveling before her eyes.

Solas shook his head, his expression filled with a regret that only deepened the ache in her chest. “I am Solas,” he said softly, though his voice trembled with the burden of his truth. “I was Solas long before I became Fen'harel.” His tone sharpened as he continued, a bitter edge creeping into his words. “And even if I had told you the truth… would you have believed me? Or would you have clung to your legends that paint me as a monster?” His voice broke, filled with anger and hurt, his frustration palpable.

Ellana’s breath hitched, her sobs rising in her throat. “I would have had you trust me,” she cried, her words shaking with the intensity of her pain.

There was a silence between them, heavy and suffocating, before she heard the soft shuffle of his feet as he moved closer. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, not yet. But he was near—closer than he had been since the truth unraveled.

“Ir abelas, ma vhenan,” he whispered, the words thick with sorrow. His voice was gentle now, the anger and bitterness fading into something raw, something regretful. Slowly, he reached for her hands, his touch soft but hesitant, as if he feared she might pull away.

In her hands, he placed the golden mask—the very one she had worn in the past, a thousand years ago, when they had danced, when the world between them had been far less complicated. The weight of it felt heavy, like a symbol of everything they had lost.

Ellana stared at the mask, her breath catching in her throat. “You kept this?” Ellana sniffled, her voice wavering as a small, sorrowful smile tugged at her lips. She held the golden mask in her hands, the weight of it both comforting and painful, a reminder of what once was. Her eyes, red with tears, shifted to Solas, searching his face for answers.

“I deserve an explanation,” she whispered, her voice barely holding together as she tightened her grip on the mask. Her knuckles turned white as the weight of everything—his lies, her feelings, the shattered trust—pressed down on her.

“You do,” Solas replied plainly, his voice carrying the deep, steady cadence of a being who had lived too many lifetimes. Before she could react, he stepped forward, gently pulling her into his arms. The warmth of his embrace contrasted with the cold air around them, and for a moment, despite everything, she allowed herself to melt into it.

“Perhaps,” he continued softly, his hand brushing through her hair, “you should have changed before rushing here, ma vhenan. You’re wearing an antique, after all.” His voice held a gentle quip, a flicker of the humor he once shared with her. His attempt to lighten the moment was subtle, but it didn’t go unnoticed.

Ellana let out a quiet snort, her tears subsiding as she managed to let out a half-laugh. “You’re an antique,” she replied, her voice still thick with emotion, but now tinged with a sliver of amusement. It was a brief, fleeting moment of their old dynamic—a glimpse of what they had been before everything had spiraled out of control.

Solas smiled. He tightened his arms around her for a beat longer, as if he, too, was holding onto the past in the same way she clutched the mask. His hand rested gently on her back, the movement soothing, though the enormity of everything that lay between them remained.

“That is not inaccurate,” Solas chuckled softly, the sound low and familiar. He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead, a gesture that was both comforting and bittersweet. The warmth of it spread through Ellana, grounding her in the moment as if they were the only two people in the world.

She looked up at him, her heart aching as she lifted a trembling hand to his face. Her fingers traced the sharp lines of his high cheekbones, the curve of his nose—features she had memorized long ago, back when things had been simpler. “Don’t leave again,” she whispered, her voice breaking with the weight of her plea. “Please, don’t.”

Her fingers lingered on his face, as if by touching him, she could anchor him to her, keep him from disappearing into the shadows of the world he had once vowed to leave behind. The ache in her chest was overwhelming, the thought of losing him again unbearable.

Solas’s expression softened, and he gently took her hand into his own. His lips brushed against the tip of her finger in a gesture both intimate and filled with unspoken emotion. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he leaned in and kissed her. It wasn’t hurried, nor desperate—it was soft, aching, as if pouring everything he could not say into the touch of his lips against hers.

Ellana’s breath hitched, her body melting into his for a moment. She let herself get lost in the kiss, her hands gently resting against his chest. But then she pulled back, her breath heavy, her heart pounding. Her fingers lingered against his chest as she looked up at him, her eyes searching his.

“There is a time for that later,” she whispered, her voice breathless, but firm. “You have a lot to tell me, Solas.”

Solas’s gaze darkened slightly, the weight of what she said pulling at the fragile moment they shared. His expression, though still tender, now carried the shadow of the burdens he had carried for so long. The truth that had been hidden, the stories untold—everything that he had kept from her.

He stared down at her, his expression shifting as the weight of his thoughts consumed him. His stormy blue eyes, once filled with fire and defiance, softened as they searched her face, as if trying to commit every detail to memory. The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken truths, before a small, almost reluctant smile formed on his lips.

Without a word, he gently pulled her down beside him, drawing her close until her head rested against his chest. The warmth of his body wrapped around her, and for a moment, Ellana allowed herself to feel the comfort of being in his arms again, despite everything that lay between them.

He let out a deep sigh, his hand gently stroking her hair as he began to speak, his voice low and steady. Ellana remained silent, listening intently as he unfolded the story that had been hidden from her for so long.

He spoke of his past, of the ancient world she had glimpsed, the time when he was both Solas and Fen’harel—two identities that had collided into one. He told her about the Elvhen, the world as it had been before the Veil, and the power that had once been theirs. His voice was calm, but heavy with sorrow as he described the actions he had taken to tear down the thrones of the gods, to break the chains of his people.

He paused briefly, his fingers tracing idle patterns against her arm, before continuing. He spoke of the Veil, the great barrier that separated the waking world from the Fade, and of the orb—the artifact he had created, the one that had fallen into Corypheus’s hands. The consequences of that loss still weighed on him, an invisible burden that she could sense in every word he spoke.

His voice wavered slightly as he explained the future he envisioned—the removal of the Veil, the restoration of what once was. "I intend to bring it down," he said quietly, his voice filled with a quiet determination. "To restore what the world lost when I created the Veil.”

Ellana’s heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing as she tried to process everything he was telling her. The removal of the Veil—the destruction it could bring, the chaos it could unleash on the world. She had known his plan, in theory, but hearing him speak of it so plainly, with such conviction, made it feel all the more real. All the more dangerous.

She pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. His face was etched with regret, but there was also a resolve in his eyes that she couldn’t ignore.

"That’s your future?" she asked softly, her voice filled with a mixture of fear and sorrow. "Destroying the Veil... regardless of the cost?"

Solas looked down at her, his hand still resting gently on her back. He nodded, his expression grave. "It is the only way to restore what was lost," he murmured. "But it comes with a cost. One I do not expect you to agree with."

Ellana’s heart twisted painfully in her chest. She had feared this, had known it, deep down. But now that it was out in the open, spoken aloud between them, it felt like a chasm that could never be crossed. And yet, there was still that part of her that ached for him, that longed to change his mind.

But another part of her—the part that had always admired his vision, his drive, and the way he saw the world—agreedwith his plan.

As she rested against his chest, Ellana could feel the weight of her conflicting emotions pressing in on her. On one hand, the thought of tearing down the Veil, of unleashing chaos on the world she had fought so hard to protect, filled her with dread. She had spent years as the Inquisitor, saving Thedas from destruction, guiding people to safety, mending the fractures of a broken world. How could she now stand by and support something that could destroy it all?

And yet, there was another side to her, one that resonated deeply with Solas’s vision. His words—his determination to restore what had been lost, to bring their people back to the greatness they had once known—stirred something inside her. She had seen glimpses of that ancient world, felt the raw power of the Elvhen, the freedom and beauty that had been stripped away when the Veil was erected. She could understand why he wanted to restore it, why he believed it was the only way forward.

She could feel the tension building in her chest, the pull between her sense of duty to Thedas and the longing to see the world as it could be—a world without the Veil, without the barriers that had divided them from the Fade, from magic, from what was once a rich and vibrant existence. There was a small, dangerous part of her that wanted to see it happen, that needed to know what that world could be like.

Ellana pulled back slightly, lifting her gaze to meet Solas’s face. His expression was unreadable at first, but as their eyes locked, she saw it—the deep well of regret, the weight of centuries etched into his features. He was quiet, waiting, his breath still as though anticipating her next words, her judgment, as if bracing himself for her to tell him he was wrong. His eyes, stormy and filled with sadness, seemed to plead with her without uttering a word.

For a moment, Ellana hesitated. She could feel the tension in her chest, the pounding of her heart as her mind raced. The man she loved—the man who had lied to her, who had hidden so much—was asking her to understand.

But he did not ask her to walk beside him in a plan that could tear the world apart. Yet, as she laid there, with her back resting against his chest, she couldn’t deny the pull. The vision he spoke of, the restoration of what was lost, it stirred something deep inside her. Something that couldn’t be silenced.

She took a slow breath, steadying herself, feeling the gravity of the choice she was about to make. Her fingers tightened slightly against the fabric of his robes as she looked up into his eyes, her voice low but steady.

“What do we need to do?” she asked.

[dragon--sage]

bloody work

(a hit of post-trespasser solavellan angst, aka an excerpt from a longer fic i may never post, but was making me feel some sort of way today)

Watching Solas perform such intimate motions—the healing, tying her cloak—was almost too painful for Ellana to bear. Especially when these actions were juxtaposed with the intellegence the shadow Inquisition had pieced together—meticulously, obsessively—over the years. Death before capture (wicked green pills, cult-like devotion), a group of corpses leaking blood from their ears (people who had been killed in their sleep), a foiled plan to annihilate an entire city full of people (just to further enflame the political unrest between nations, like Thedas needed any help in that regard)… It seemed no act of bloodshed or sacrifice was too far for him (the memory of his and Iron Bull’s chess game washed over her… the way Solas had sacrificed his pieces like he had a hundred of each… leaving a lone Mage to finish the bloody work). “You look tired,” Ellana said sadly, her voice catching in her dry bone-dry throat. The smell of blood hung in the air, so thick the taste coated her mouth.

She could see plainly on Solas' face that he wanted to respond—she’d seen that look a thousand times, would know it anywhere—but he said nothing in return. Lavellan wondered what he would have said, and added that to the untold number of burning questions she had wanted to ask him over the years. After a few more seconds, during which an eternity seemed to pass, Solas stepped forward, well into her personal space… one small lurch forward and their chests would be touching. Ellana's heart was pounding so loudly in her ears she couldn’t focus on anything else. He leaned down and brought his lips to hover just a hairsbreadth from her own, his warm breath ghosting over her face and triggering a thousand different memories of them being in precisely this position, an eerie moment of calm in the eye of a storm, the deep breath before the plunge. “Ir abelas, vhenan,” Solas whispered against her lips, before pressing in for a heated kiss which quickly had their lips, tongues, and teeth clashing. His hand slipped into her hair, which had tumbled free of its bun in the fight, and she bent against him, trying to close as much distance between their bodies as possible. Lavellan kissed him like he had first kissed her, all those years ago—desperately and touch-starved, like every moment they weren’t in contact caused her physical pain. And then, suddenly, her head spun uncomfortably, as the pressure of Solas’ lips and body against her vanished. When Ellana opened her eyes not a second later, he was gone.

[thechildofmythal]

It was @sweetjulieapples who requested a headcanon-y thing about Commander Cullen first meeting our Inquisitor-to-be. Thank you for the request! It turned into this thing below.

I never thought of it as love at first sight, even though it is more or less canon that he could not get his eyes off of her when they first met. I like to think love - their love, especially - as something more than just physical lust.

Cullen POV of some (initial) moments of DA:I. Also fleshing out my Lavellan a bit.

You can also read this on Ao3 but it's her in its entirety too.

First looks

The first time Commander Cullen saw her, she was unconscious - apparently in a coma. He was furious. How was it possible that in the middle of all the destruction, death, fire, the scorched bodies, lied a perfectly untouched woman? It was like she was dropped from the Heavens after the explosion - her golden hair, her smooth skin, her plump lips slightly parted, her clothes blackened with soot only by the soldiers who found her. Her lean frame, with long dangling limbs, was carried away by the soldiers from what used to be the Temple of Sacred Ashes, leaving the Commander angry and baffled. How was she the only one alive? Was she to blame? The delicate tattoo on her brow and forehead and her attire suggested she was Dalish. Why would a Dalish Elf do this? How was a Dalish elf even capable of this? How was anyone? The answer to the question had to be in the green glowing mark on her left hand, flashing in the same pattern with the nightmarish breach in the sky.

The second time Commander Cullen saw her, she was still in a coma. He had spent an exhausting day and night fighting demons dropping from the holes in the sky and securing some kind of safe spaces for who ever was still alive. Leliana told him of the apostate elf who seemed to be able to stabilise the mystery woman and the mark on her hand. Cullen came to see him, and her. She was in a jail cell, as Cassandra had insisted, and he was there to monitor her. Solas, the apostate had introduced himself. Cullen had nodded at him, but kept his eyes on her. Fluttering eyelashes, sharp nose and proud tattooed forehead in the middle of disheveled strands of long hair. The Commander wondered darkly who she was. She was younger than him by several years, he estimated, but guessing women’s age was always difficult if not dangerous. She was of athletic, lithe build, which then again was nothing unusual for a nomadic Dalish elf. Was she a mage? Her attire suggested otherwise. No one alive seemed to know her or how she connected to the Conclave. Solas had no answers either, only that she might wake within the next day.

A plan was hatched. Solas was certain the mark was connected to the Breach. If it had ripped the Veil between the Fade and the waking world, could it be used to mend it as well? Cassandra would question the prisoner once she woke, and they would test Solas’s theory one way or another. Cassandra’s jaw clenched angrily, and Cullen felt she wished she could use some force just to douse her grief. Cullen left them to wait and busied himself with organising first aid, arming soldiers against the demons scouring the area and setting up forward camps with Leliana.

The third time he saw her, he had already received news from Cassandra brought in by a messenger bird.

The prisoner woke up today, as expected. She claims she has no memory of what happened at the Conclave, nor does she know what the mark on her hand is. She says her name is Ellana of the Dalish clan Lavellan, from the Free Marches. She says her Keeper sent her to the Conclave because her clan recognises that whatever happens here would have consequences for everyone. I asked why they would send her in particular. She explained that she has had training for both hunting and scouting but has turned into something of a liason between her clan and outsiders, apparently due to her language skills and innate curiosity. The prisoner said she was happy to leave the clan to experience and learn new things, but she claims to be shocked and saddened by what has happened. She is in good enough condition to walk on her own. I will take her, meet with the apostate mage Solas, and test our plan. If it works, we will meet you at the forward camp, if not earlier.

C.P.

Another one of the rifts on the path to the Temple was active again, and once again The Commander fought demons with his weary men. This time, however, he noticed from the corner of his eye that they received backup. Cassandra’s unmistakeble form was accompanied by Varric and his eccentric crossbow, the apostate mage Solas with his staff and a fourth figure wielding a sword who he recognised with a jolt as the prisoner, Lavellan. He had no time to dwell on their backup, however, but defend himself and his archers against a rage demon.

Once the last of the demons of the wave were banished, the field was suddenly ablaze with green energy that rang in the Commander’s ears. He saw from afar that it was the prisoner Lavellan who stood with her feet wide apart, her long golden hair blazing around her, holding a short sword in her right hand and her left arm extended at the rift. A beam of magical energy traversed between her hand and the rift that then suddenly closed and vanished entirely.

The elven woman, who had for a moment looked like a fantastical being from myths, faltered and stumbled as if the energy beam had held her upright. She then wearily sheathed her sword and held her glowing left hand with a grimace.

As Solas and Varric approached Lavellan, Cullen walked towards Cassandra, who was closest to him. The Seeker met him as she also sheathed her sword.

”Lady Cassandra,” the Commander greeted her, ”you managed to close the rift, well done.”

”Do not congratulate me, Commander,” the Seeker replied and took a step aside to give him full view of the woman behind her. ”This is the prisoner’s doing.”

Cullen stopped in his tracks - Cassandra sounded impressed, not near-homicidal like she had been before the prisoner had woken up. He took a good look at the elven woman - it was strange to see her up and about now after only seeing her unconcious so far. Of course it made sense that there was a difference now that she was fully in control of herself - save for the evidently distressing mark on her hand. When she was unconcious, you could project anything you wanted on her. Perhaps she was an enemy agent, or a disguised blood mage, full of spite and evil intentions. Or perhaps she was an innocent victim, her young flawless skin and golden locks of hair around her symmetrical face making her look like a drawing of a virtuous princess from a children’s book, waiting for a prince to wake her with a kiss. It turned out, now that she stood in front of him, she was neither. How she carried herself with self-assurance, how her subtle moves spoke to his practiced eye of physical training and prowess, what an intelligent, discerning look she had in her blue eyes - why did he even remark on the colour of her eyes? - how she bit her teeth together to keep the pain from her hand showing. Who is she, he found himself wondering again.

”Is it? I hope they’re right about you. We’ve lost a lot of people getting you here,” he barked at the woman, surprised to hear the hostility now in his own voice instead of Cassandra’s.

”You’re not the only one hoping that,” the elf replied, her voice a tad deeper than he had expected. Perhaps not as young as he had thought at first.

”We’ll see soon enough, won’t we.”

He turned to negotiate their next moves with Cassandra, and soon the Seeker was off with her unlikely companions.

*

He had seen from afar her settle the Breach above the ruined Temple of Sacred Ashes. He had seen what dozens of others saw, and he understood how the tide turned for Lavellan. He himself had recited a small prayer to Andraste under his breath watching her brace her entire body against the rift and calm the Breach in the sky. It was hard not to give into the surge of fanatical hope that spread like wildfire and took over their encampment at Haven. It did not help that, once again, Lavellan spent days unconscious, garnering praying villagers and even pilgrims from nearby settlements outside the small house where Solas and Adaan looked after her.

Three days and three nights passed. Cullen was surprised to notice that he received a handful recruits during those days. Some came to pray at the door of the Herald of Andraste, others came to fight for her. He was kept very busy during those days by organising what was left of his men, and assigning the new recruits to be trained. The barracks were to be arranged, guard duties and training rounds to be organised, endless correspondence to deal with, not to mention dodging the Chantry officials who had marched in like they owned the place. Luckily the left and right hands of Divine Justinia put the Chantry officials into their place rather quickly.

On the fourth morning Cullen noticed an unusual amount of whispers and nervous fidgeting in and around the Chantry of Haven. Leliana confirmed his suspicions to him: Lavellan, or The Herald of Andraste, as the people called her, had finally awoken.

They had agreed that Cassandra as a familiar face would be the first to meet Lavellan, and then bring her into their War Room. He was pleased to concentrate on his work during the morning even though whole of Haven seemed to be buzzing with excitement. Cassandra had been buzzing for the past few days too. Cullen knew she was eager to slam the tome on the War Table and make the official announcement. It did not matter much to him; she had recruited him for the Inquisition many weeks ago in Kirkwall and he was already committed.

A couple of hours later Josephine dragged him away from his work. It was time for proper introductions, she said.

Cullen was the last to arrive to the War Room only moments before Cassandra marched in with Lavellan in tow. After three days of unconciousness, the elf looked like she had bathed in the morning after Adaan had checked in with her. She was clean and tidy with her long hair in an elaborate chignon bun, and even if she seemed a little weary, her eyes were bright and her voice warm and gentle. ”Pleased to meet you all,” Lavellan said after formal introductions, and seemed to actually mean it.

As they had been waiting for Lavellan to wake up for days, they dived quickly into what choices they had going forward. They had had time to plan and discuss, but the Herald’s face showed bewilderment. Despite that, Cullen was impressed with how she did not question her part in this, how readily she offered her help, how earnest her questions and comments were. She may have seemed a little cold and haughty the first time he had met her, but he had to remind himself that she had no memory of what had happened but she had been blamed, imprisoned, and dragged forcefully to solve a situation she did not understand. Cullen wondered if he would have been able to take it all in stride as well as she did. He knew the answer, and decided to make her work of carrying the mark and the title of Herald of Andraste as easy as possible with his work.

*

Makeshift tables, tents in the courtyard, winches first lifting rubble away, then lifting furniture in place. The first traveling merchant arrived to Skyhold with the second wave of pilgrims, next came the first donations from noble families both from Ferelden and Orlais. Grain and other food, cloth and leather, weapons, art, gold, other supplies, even furniture and skilled people were sent to them.

Locals who knew the area helped the scouts get to know the surroundings. Hunters provided meat and fish, the mages worked as healers and researchers, all able bodied lent their strength to clean and renovate. Youngsters from all around trekked through the mountain pass to join the Inquisition - they were Ferelden, Orlesian, Nevarran, human, dwarven, elven, all kinds.

They came because of her. They came because someone had met her, had been helped by her, had been touched by her, and that someone had told their family, their village, their merchant, their traveling bard. The near mythical story of The Herald of Andraste spread, and it was amazing how quickly the people made the decision to pick up their things and come to Skyhold.

Commander Cullen stood on the ramparts looking down at the courtyard. Moving through the people below the Herald had caught his eye. He watched how she smiled at them, greeted them, asked how their sick mother was, if they had found a place to stay in. She cared for them, and she cared for their cause.

Something stirred inside of him as he followed her form with his eyes. She was wearing a white linen tunic underneath a long leather vest, her long hair open, flowing around her, her earnest smile meeting people readily. She had smiled at him, too. She had been happy that he - that so many - had escaped Haven with their lives. She had been happy he had made it. He had been devasted by having to send her to her death in Haven. And then she had miraculously survived and somehow revived him from withdrawal-muddled darkness by fluttering those frosted eyelashes at him as he had carried her to safety on the mountainside. Maker’s breath. Those eyelashes. And those bright eyes, that earnest smile. The kindness and courage she inspired people with. The way she had smiled at him. Something was stirring inside of him.

[starwrittenfates]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐬

Many thoughts, but mostly just thinking about Ethyral and her titles in the elven pantheon---

Originally known as the "Goddess of Spirit", something gifted to her by her "sister", Mythal because of the fact she mostly worked with the Spirits. She was also known for inspiring others, further playing on double meaning of the word: Spirit.

When rejecting taking on a Vallaslin of her own, some came to call her the "Goddess of Hope", which fits because she would also work to secretly help free their people alongside Fen'Harel at times.

Becomes known as the "Goddess of Grief " thanks to Elgar'nan who gave her the title mockingly because of how often they would bicker with each other, but also because of what eventually happens to her sister...(Mythal's murder, hence, Ethyral grieving her sister).

And how TRAGIC it is that she is no longer remembered as the Goddess of Spirit or Hope any longer. She is mostly known as the Goddess of Grief because of her story being misconstrued over the ages until it becomes what it is known as by the Dalish. Not many records of Ethyral survive, often being looked as an omen of grief and despair by the Dalish and something to be weary of as just as they are of Fen'Harel. If anything, she does have murals, but again, it's of her status as Goddess of Grief and usually depicts a female elf weeping.

Then centuries later when she is reborn as Ellana of Clan Lavellan and eventually regains the memories of her former life, she is able to finally look past all the false narratives about her and awaken as the Goddess of Spirit and Hope once more.

Also...realizing that her role as the Inquisitor is suppose to be a symbol of hope too...she's finally home. She's finally herself and whole again. This is where it was all leading her.

Had to put my tags above because they were honestly too good and described Ethyral/Ellana and this post in a conclusion--- #just deeply thinking about how a symbol of hope becomes a tale of tragedy and despair for ages all because of one jerk twisting it around # but then destiny helps guide them and helps them reawaken and remember who they are and what their purpose is as they reclaim their power

[urrone]

first line meme

Rules: post the first sentence of your last ten fics. If you haven’t written ten fics, share as many first sentences as you have.

Tagged by the wonderful @swaps55

Tagging @mallaidhsomo @screwyouflightlieutenant

1. beyond heroes - The beginning is just an excuse for some fluffy Inquisitor Lavellan/Varric bedside chitchat.

Fallwyn slicks poison along her blades and moves to what she hopes is Corypheus’s blindside to jab her very pointy daggers into his back.

2. in the deep dark - There are gonna be three versions of Lavellan/Varric on this list and I make no apologies.

In the dim torchlight, she can just see Varric’s outline where he’s sitting up in his bedroll. He’d drawn first watch but Fallwyn knows that’s not the only reason he isn’t sleeping.

3. the dragon and the bard - The first line of this is literally a prompt from a list so I’m sharing the first line that I wrote of it. Varric/Cassandra.

If Varric weren’t the kind of dwarf to pick at the edges of things, he might have taken caution at how quickly the laughter in Cassandra’s eyes sharpened into brittle disdain. But if he’s ever met caution, she’s never bought him a drink.

4. A Better Forever - My ode to The Hunger Games. @swaps55 gave the pairing the nickname KatPee and somehow that hasn’t ruined it for me, haha.

Bright, shiny demons creep on the edge of his vision, becoming memories he’s absolutely certain of in that moment: Katniss in the arena killing Rue, Katniss orchestrating the attack on 12 that took his family,   Katniss as a mutt, Katniss kneeling before Snow.

5. warm hands, soft heart - The promised third Lavellan/Varric fic. I love this pairing so much. Again, this first line was a prompt so I’m sharing the second line too.

“You always do this. You always try to warm me up.”

Varric pulls Fallwyn closer to the fire, chafing her hands between his own. “Can I help it if looking at you makes me feel cold?”

6. gravity - A Julie and the Phantoms fic, because I watched that show a million times during quarantine and I wanted something resembling a happy ending, but not without a lot of angst first.

It’s been a lot of trial and error, but Julie’s phantoms have started to respect boundaries. Their problem is identifying exactly where those boundaries are.

7. Scenes From a Cargo Bay - Y’all I fucking love James Vega. This is basically just platonic friendship fic and it fills me with joy.

The first time Shepard comes down to the cargo bay, she still has soot streaked across her face.

8. invisible machinery - apparently I’m the queen of first line prompt memes and this was another one, so again you get the second line too.

"I just want to see you smile again,” Kaidan says.

Shepard turns into the wind off the bay and gives this half-smile, this quirk of his lips that he’s been doing ever since Chakwas okayed his release from the hospital.

9. let me hold you for a while - ANOTHER first line prompt meme, lmaoooo.

“Let me hold you for a while.”

Dorian huffs a little against Bull’s chest, placing his limbs just so and tugging on Bull’s arms until they’re just exactly where he wants them.

10. lathbora viran - A fic that celebrates how much I hate Solas while also fulfilling a “fuck a last kiss” prompt from tumblr.

“You can’t do this, Solas,” Ellana says. The wind on the ramparts steals her words almost as soon as she says them, but she knows Solas understands her. “What will happen to me?”

[spiretdoom]

14 Days of DA Lovers - Frilly Cakes

For prompt 2 of @14daysdalovers Not sure how many more of these I'll do but whipped this one out for funsies~

Pairing: Blackwall x Lavellan

Rating: T

Word Count: 460

“I brought you a treat,” Ellana informed sweetly, raising the frilly cake in her hand higher to emphasize. 

“Oh,” Blackwall expressed surprise, pale eyes darting to the cake as his cheeks turned rosy. “I-“

“Since you’ve been residing down here, I thought I’d bring you something,” she continued, smiling as she extended her arm to encourage the man to take the sweet. 

He did so hesitantly, plucking the sweet roll from her fingers with a delicate touch and holding it as if it was a treasure while he responded with a quiet yet gruffly, “Thank you, My Lady.”

A blush rose to her freckled cheeks, her soft smile never fading from her lips, and she took a bite of her own frilly cake she’d brought for herself to enjoy with him. He watched her take the bite before following her lead, careful of the frosting and his facial hair as he took a chunk of the cake. 

“Anything new to report?” she questioned him, returning back to formalities despite the two enjoying frilly cakes together. 

Blackwall smiled, a chuckle rumbling from his throat while he went through his recent memory. “Nine different ladies and six gentlemen have asked Cullen to dance. I think he’s received two offers of marriage,” he answered her, a smirk rising on the left side of his face causing it to crease. “I think he might need a bodyguard.”

Ellana laughed, Blackwall finding the sound pleasant to his ears as it echoed in the relatively empty room. 

He finished the rest of the frilly cake whilst he watched her, his previous caution towards the sweet forgotten whilst he watched her. His focus left him unaware of the icing that now stained his mustache, Ellana’s laughter dulling to chuckling as she refocused on his features. 

She quickly noticed the white contrast on his dark hair, tilting her head for a moment before speaking. 

“You have something-“ 

She reached forward, moving closer to him for a better eye while she brushed her thumb against his mustache to rid it of the stray frosting that had attached to the coarse hair. Blackwall stood stiff, feeling his chest flutter at her touch and his cheeks grew redder. 

“There,” she declared when she’d deemed the frosting gone, smiling and lifting her eyes to meet his. There was a pause in her movements when their eyes locked, as if she realized how close they’d gotten to one another in that instant. The moment was brief before she smiled again, lowering her hand to settle on his chest where her fingers curled slightly to press into the fabric. 

“Will you save a dance for me?” She asked softly, just above a whisper for only his ears to hear. 

“All of them,” he promised. 

[tsuraiwrites]

✨weekly(ish) fic roundup✨

another round of fics I found especially good reads, as @little--abyss​ and I were talking about secondary curation recently! please check these out and leave a comment and kudos for the wonderful authors.

Assassin’s Creed

The White Aster of Masyaf - alaïr ibn-la’ahad/desmond miles, nsfw complete

And, instead of dying after using the device back in the Grand Temple, Desmond now had first-row seat in the tragic play that was Altaïr’s life in the Levantine Brotherhood.

Oh. And he gets to play the part of the doomed younger brother of Malik Al-Sayf, Kadar Al-Sayf.

BNHA

Oracle - midoriya izuku/shinsou hitoshi wip

Midoriya Izuku always wanted to have a quirk, to be a hero, to make a change.

Until he realizes he did do all that once, a lifetime ago, and paid for it with his life.

(In which Izuku's quirk allows him to remember his past life and it becomes his driving force to become a hero and mend the mistakes of the people from his past.)

Death Note

no man is worth dying for - gen wip with self-insert amane misa

Would there be consequences? Yes. Was it selfish? Perhaps. Did she care? No, because she refuses to lay there motionlessly and let herself die for a man whose God-complex got out of control.

Amane Misa or not, voices in her head or not, she was doing this reincarnation thing her way.

Dragon Age

FIRE IN HER MOUTH - female inquisitor/cassandra pentaghast wip

Former Ostwick Mage Olivia comes from a life of disturbing secrets and devastating loss. Once the daughter of an up-and-coming Orlesian house, her abilities led to a life of ostracized irrelevance to both her nation and her family. Years later, tensions in Thedas between Mages and Andrastian Orders have come to a head. The perfect setting, it seems, for a corrupted Tevinter Magister to stake his claim of chaos. By virtue of rotten luck Olivia finds herself thrust in his path, imbuing her with magic beyond her imagination. Now, she must learn to balance her own hunger for justice with those of the world's most mistreated, as leader of the reborn Inquisition.

Ithelan - male lavellan/omc, oc-insert wip

A struggling college student finds himself dropped in a dungeon in the thick of all things Inquisition with no memory of how he got there.  Now he has pointed ears and too many tattoos and maybe has the chance to help.  He has no idea what he's doing but he loves Thedas, and maybe Thedas will love him too.

Lyrium Addled - anders/fenris soulbond wip

After a desperate healing attempt goes haywire, Anders and Fenris try to get to the bottom of what caused the chaotic reaction. Between the phantom pains from non-existent wounds, and the sudden concern for each other's safety, they find themselves with an abundance of questions and nobody to answer them.

Not Another Dragon Age FanFic (The Lone Wolf Cries) - male lavellan/solas wip

Kieran finds himself suddenly transported to Thedas, and vows to keep a close eye on the Dread Wolf to stop him from betraying them once again.

As he finds out, a 'close eye' unfortunately means actually being close - and it doesn't help that the game's timeline is changing, either.

Over the Sea to the Clouds Above - female cousland-as-inquisitor/leliana wip, an absolute delight to read so far

Because she loved her sister dearly, Niamh set aside her own happiness, watching from afar as Leliana fell for another. However, with Corypheus threatening to cast ruin upon the world, is it possible for her to reveal the truth of her own heart before it’s too late?

Sang a Lady Radiant - solas/ofc, male trevelyan/ofc, oc-insert wip

Ollie doesn't know why she ended up in Thedas, but she wants it to be a better world when she leaves, one way or another. She just has to figure out how to work around Solas and the Inquisition itself.

The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Ellana Lavellan, Mage. - solas/ofc, oc-insert wip

Sweat, blood, and tears. Literally years of preparation, and here she was, at the foot of the mountain path that led up to Haven, while an explosion shook the world and tore a hole into the Beyond.

"Fenedhis."

MCU

Adjustments - bucky barnes/tony stark wip

After the battle at the Triskelion, the Winter Soldier is taken into Avenger's custody and brought to New York.  Slowly the extent to which HYDRA had broken the soldier is revealed. Bucky Barnes' recovery will be long and arduous the outcome of which is uncertain.

With his parent's murderer living under his roof, Tony Stark faces an entirely different problem, one he intents to solve his way.

By fixing the broken soldier.

Naruto

bees don't buzz during an eclipse - gen wip

The thing is, the summoning jutsu isn’t actually that hard.

And little academy student Sakura, young and clanless and desperate to prove the world that she’s bigger than her forehead, is also friends with Ino, clan heir with connections to the Nara. She watches Shikaku summon a deer once, and an idea turns in her brain.

It’s not her fault nobody told her the technique wasn’t for pre-genin.

for the caged bird sings of freedom - gen wip

Hyuuga Hinata dies four years after the Fourth Shinobi War, to protect her Hokage.

She wakes up ten years in the past, the day before Graduation, the day before the spar that would seal her fate as the family disappointment and Hanabi's as the next Clan Head.

She makes changes.

One Piece

so much like stars - law/luffy/zoro complete

Stargazing and snow, festivals and dreams, and the quiet change in the dynamic between Law, Luffy, and Zoro during a few cold nights on the way to Zou.

The Sandman

a lucky break(out) - dream/hob gadling, complete

Hob acquires a familiar ruby at an antiquities sale. Said ruby summons something else into his home as well.

[rosirinoa]

Linger

Author’s notes:

This is my first inquisition fanfiction, and I finally got enough courage to write about Sollavelan, my favorite ship. I hope you like it.

Please, consider that in this story, Lavellan is a warrior and I used the standard name given by the game: Ellana. Also, I came up with the general concept of the story with the song Linger by the Cranberries, although it’s no necessarily an ost or a songfic, but the melody could set the mood.

Enjoy!

Before

Chaos, destruction, uncertainty and fear was what the breach in the veil caused, not only in Thedas, but the rest of the world as well, along with its inhabitants. The world had never faced such catastrophe before, which is saying a lot in a realty where the blight, demons and wars are constant worries.

It seemed that it actually was the end of the world, and in the middle of all confusion, Ellana Lavellan was surprised, while fighting for her life along with Cassandra, by a hand firmly holding her wrist.

“Quickly, before more come through!” with an urgent voice, an elf that she had never seen before took her hand, pointing it towards the rift above them. Everything happened so fast, that the only thing Ellana remembers from that moment, was the tickling in her hand when she closed the rift.  That and the elf’s gaze: Solas, whose eyes conveyed peace and certainty.

                She was confused; how could she had closed the rift when she was no mage?

Solas’ theory turned out to be quite convincing and his kind attitude towards Ellana transmitted her trust. That was the exact moment when her interest towards the apostate began, and without knowing it, she had the same effect on him.

                In retrospective, it’s possible that the inquisitor romanticized the memories of their first meeting, but she is still pretty sure that, the moment their eyes met, her heart beat faster.

                At first, Solas was rather private and wary with everyone around him, including Ellana, but slowly, the mage got a pleasant surprise when he found out she was genuinely interested in what he had to say, his experiences in the fade, his dreams and elven ancient history, and without noticing, he began to see her differently.

                In many occasions he caught himself looking at her, when his eyes lingered more than necessary on her expression when she spoke or thought carefully about something; her hair moving while she fought or the wind made it dance exquisitely, or even her figure when she walked in front of him during expeditions, and when she casually passed by his post in Haven, heading to talk with Dorian, smoothly wiggling her hips, so attractive in his eyes. Sometimes he felt rather disappointed when he realized he was not the one she was coming to see… at last at first.

                Lavellan tried to be as discreet as possible, deliberately avoiding looking at Solas when he walked around Haven, or during a mission in Redcliff or Creestwood, but when she spoke with him, it was impossible to not notice the freckles on his nose or the was his eyes lightened when he talked about the veil, not to mention his smile, which she unconsciously imitated when she saw it, doing her best efforts to not let her eyes linger too much on his lips.

                And all those glances didn’t go unnoticed by Varric, who as a good writer, took note of all those longing gazes, full of desire and flirt, despite their best efforts to not being so obvious with their persisting eyes, always on each other.

For Solas, Ellana Lavellan was a thought that used to slip into his mind during the most inconvenient times: before falling asleep, while he was taking a hike or even traveling in the fade, imagining that maybe someday he could show her those places he visited during his dreams, ruins that told wonderful stories of the past, images lost in time, which could get a different meaning with her company.

On the other hand, she constantly thought about new and interesting questions for him, so she could listen to his voice and tales, wondering what could be interesting for him or a way to get his attention; a small distraction in the middle of all that was happening in Thedas.

Later came the innocent and accidental touches, when one of them passed next to the other too close during a hike in the woods and their hands brushed for an instant that lingered too much, or when one of them needed a potion and their fingers briefly met, both elves trying to make the moment last for as long as they could, until one afternoon after closing a rift with particularly violent and vicious demons, Solas ended up hurt. Being at least a day away from the next village, without enough healing items and him being the only mage in the party, everyone had to tend to their wounds without the help of magic.

Once the camp was set, Cassandra and Varric took care of their own wounds on their legs and arms, while Ellana took care of Solas, who apparently had a deep cut on his back. At first, she was worried about how bad the wound could be, but when the mage took off his tunic and shirt, she immediately wanted to run her fingertips along his back. With slow movements, she cleaned the injury and when it stopped bleeding, she made sure to apply an ointment that could inhibit the pain, her fingers softly touching the mage’s skin, feeling the warmth on his back, which she though was the result of the wound and the pain he was feeling. Nevertheless, the truth was different. Solas shivered very time the other elf’s fingers softly touched his shoulder and upper back, forgetting about the pain for a moment and enjoying her touch, careful and delicate.

He was sure his blush showed on his face and ears, and was silently grateful their companions were rather busy patching up their own wounds and cuts. He wished the contact with the girl continued longer. Solas enjoyed every chill and goose bump he felt, keeping it in his memory forever, while she tried to make the moment last for as long as she could, her fingers lingering on his back.

One night, it was Ellana’s turn to watch over the camp, while the rest of the party slept, but the presence of the elven apostate remained until very late hours, next to her and the fire. He didn’t take his turn to sleep, exchanging it for the chance to enjoy the girl’s company. And then he thought he was unnecessarily lingering there, with her. A luxury he could enjoy once in a while, appeasing his fears of loneliness.

[lavelllan]

NAME: ellana lavellan ALIAS(ES): the inquisitor, herald of andraste AGE: thirty-four during inquisition PRONOUNS: she/her/they/them GENDER: gender non-conforming woman SPECIES: dalish elf CLASS: mage, specializing in storm- and rift-based magics

before the inquisition...

born into clan lavellan, ellana showed promise from a young age. the eldest of four, they grew up quickly and did not take long to be favored by the their clan's first keeper. she often spent more time with the keeper than her own family, though memories of her family are marked by caretaking duties for her younger siblings. their proficiency in magic allowed them out for more than a role of being parentified.

clan lavellan's keeper guided ellana to become highly skilled, helping form a strong sense of purpose in protecting their clan. their keeper was careful to keep her far from templars or the chantry. the teachings were often confounded with her own sense of drive to want a better world for all across the land, but particularly for elves. most of this was channeled into allowing her to become a particularly strong mage, but the keeper also made sure that she was more than adept in other matters, such as basic survival and spying.

she was the natural pick when it came to spying on the conclave; their keeper determined what whatever happened there would shape the future of elves forever. none of them knew how right that would be.

the breach left no survivors beyond ellana.

marred with a new mark on their hand capable of magic that they had never imagined, imprisoned by those who would soon become some of her closest allies... the inquisitor was truly born.

storyline events

○ embraces title of herald of andraste immediately. ○ allies with the templars & the grey wardens. ○ sacrifices hawke. ○ saves empress celene, briala is exiled. ○ follows the elven rituals & allies with the sentinels. ○ drinks from the well of sorrows. ○ the inquisition remains banded after corypheus' defeat.

[pallasj]

Me (inconsistently) jotting down my thoughts as I play through DATV (Act 1)

Spoilers under cut

(Here's my Rook: Ashara Laidir, LoF elf mage)

-Huh, did I miss something? I'm kinda surprised that the Dalish are kinda chill (or at least I was expecting more outbursts of surprise) with the fact that their elven gods were evil. Unless it's because of the timeskip (presumably whatever knowledge the Inquisitor had from Trespasser got out) or because it's the Veil Jumpers-- idk, I haven't read the novels.

-(Add: Bellara and Davrin do comment on the whole Evanuris thing)

-OH MY GOD MORRIGAN I WAS NOT EXPECTING HER THIS EARLY

-*squinting at Morrigan's Flemythal crown*

-Solas snark!

-Varric is like, Rook's uncle in spirit.

-Me picking purple options: I miss purple Hawke more and more each day.

-Oh! Maevaris Tilani!

-Dorian!!! ❤️ LOOKING GOOD!!!

-Bruh, the Treviso vs Minranthous decision is this early???

-I'M SO SORRY NEVE TREVISO IS A MERCHANT CITY IT HAS NO DEFENSES

-I got my ass kicked in that dragom fight multiple times on easy mode wtf

-I'm so curious about Solas' reaction to Rook in other dialogue branches. Like, how easy is it to get him pissed off (as compared to DAI?)

-(Paraphrasing) Solas: What will they call you when this is over?; Rook: It doesn't matter (likely, accidentally encouraging Solas like the conversation after Temple of Mythal in DAI)

-ISABELAAAAAA

-Damn, Rook is coming on strong flirting with Lucanis in coffee flavors

-Lord of Fortune Rook backstory: was a Tevinter galley slave before becoming a LoF

-INKYYY MY ELLANA LAVELLAN

-Also, I don't mind this part because I was expecting it but it's so funny that Solasmanced!Lavellan just. Divulges that Solas was her ex. Straight up. (I'm so curious about how a Solavellan + vowed to stop Solas worldstate looks like)

-Okay. So. Pacing wise, I'm pretty sure I should not have unlocked all of Solas' regrets in Act 1. I am PROCESSING THE LORE. I AM PROCESSING THE WHOLE SOLASMYTHAL SITCH.

-Will have to revisit my opinion on Mythal on a later date when I rewatch this

-Also, it's so funny that after each memory, the whole VG comes over for a Solas gossip sesh.

-Convinced the Mythal fragment in 1 try! Took 3 dialogue trees (the last one being the "Solas respects me" or smthg) but yay no dragon fight. (Also I peeked at the endings already, so "Redeem Solas" ending secured! ✌️)

-Okay so I took a break from writing down thoughts just to progress through the main story and yeah, punched the First Warden, took down a three headed archdemon, with Rook getting flung around Weisshaupt, and we're finallyyyyyy going to Act 2.

DATV thoughts so far

-the dialogue writing in the beginning makes this game look like such a "hear me out" 😭 it's a combination of telling instead of showing (a lot) in order to establish everything ASAP + quips/cliched lines + i think, making sure all the companions get their line distributions in (ahaha). Individually, it wouldn't have bothered me, but the combination made it noticeably awkward for me. I will say though, it's gets better once you do the companion quests and progress further into Act 1.

- Re: companions and Rook: I do agree the way Rook speaks with them sounds like therapy speak at times (probably bc of a combination of Rook's limited personality options + Rook speaks a lot without prompting from the dialogue wheel) but like, it doesn't bother me that much (after a while at least). It also makes Rook sound like a group leader in a school project, which they kind of are ahahaha.

- Re: companions: I don't agree that they're entirely conflictless (e.g. Taash being wary of Emmrich, Lucanis and Davrin at the end of Act 1), but if you're looking of levels of haterism like, Fenris and Anders or Jack and Miranda, or petty bickering like Alistair and Morrigan, I don't think they have that here.

- Party banter? Yeah, there's a lot!! Don't look at me bringing an all mage party just to hear all the banter!!

-Damn they're just dropping massive lore reveals into this game. It's so surreal seeing theories that I saw on Tumblr years ago being confirmed here

-The combat! It's so fun!!!! I play as a orb and dagger mage, which was squishy as fuck before I got the HP bonuses from the Evanuris statues, but once you get to like, lvl 15-20, I'm mowing down enemies! (I play on Keeper/easy mode, but the difficult part for me is dodging because Rook draws all enemy aggro)

- Me, walking around Minrathous and Treviso: So. DA2 remake when?

- Even if it's not open world, there's still so much of the map to explore. Sometimes the challenge is finding your way through one level to the next and back ahaha.

I've already played the beginning of Act 2 at this point but! Onwards!

[vir-tanadahl]

Into the Past

Summary: Originally written in 2015, this work has since been rewritten. After the defeat of Corypheus, Solas vanished without a trace. In her search for answers, Ellana Lavellan, desperate and determined, began experimenting with the dangerous time-altering magic of Alexius. One misstep, and the spell spiraled out of control, hurling her into the distant past. When she regained her bearings, Ellana found herself in ancient Arlathan, in the heart of a grand masquerade ball. Dressed in unfamiliar finery, she navigated the opulence of the elven empire, her heart pounding as her eyes locked with a masked stranger—the unmistakable presence of Fen'harel, the man she once knew as Solas. The encounter rippled through time, altering her destiny with him in ways she could never have foreseen. (Find on Ao3)

Ellana’s gut twisted the moment the device whirred to life. She knew she shouldn't have listened to Dorian. His smug grin and charming wit had worn down her better judgment, coaxing her into playing with the time-warping magic Alexius had left behind. With Corypheus defeated, she'd thought they had time to explore such curiosities. She should’ve known better.

The second the magic flared, it all went wrong. The device crackled, pulsating with an eerie green glow as it twisted her surroundings into a swirling, smoky vortex. Before she could react, it pulled her in—its smoky green maw swallowing her whole.

Ellana’s heart raced as she landed with a thud. The world around her was quiet, too quiet. Panic rose in her chest as she surveyed the scene, the familiar dread of another mistake washing over her. Tall grass stretched out endlessly in all directions, brushing against her waist, glowing under the golden light of the setting sun. The air was thick with silence, a vast green sea shimmering in the fading daylight. She wasn't supposed to be here.

‘Cassandra is going to kill me,’ she thought, the weight of that certainty grounding her, even as her pulse pounded in her ears.

She scanned the horizon, searching for anything that resembled the world she knew. The stillness of the meadow only deepened her sense of isolation. She was alone—no soldiers, no companions—just her, standing in the middle of an unfamiliar place, with the low hum of magic lingering in the air like an afterthought.

As she turned, something caught her eye in the distance. Her breath caught in her throat as she squinted, her heart skipping a beat. She could scarcely believe it. But there it was—something she never thought she'd see.

In the distance, the landscape shifted, revealing a towering forest unlike anything Ellana had ever seen. The trees stretched impossibly high, their trunks thick and ancient, as though they had been standing for centuries. Between the trees, crystal spires twisted and curled like vines, blending with the foliage in a way that seemed both natural and magical. The shimmering structures glowed faintly in the fading sunlight, casting an ethereal glow over the landscape.

Ellana's breath hitched as her gaze followed the trees upward, where she spotted a collection of manors and chateaux nestled within the branches. Their elegant, flowing architecture blended seamlessly with the forest, as if grown from the earth itself. And there, in the spaces between, she glimpsed what might have been shops, their intricate facades winding through the canopy like the fingers of a forgotten age.

"Arlathan…" The word left her lips in a breathless whisper. Awe and disbelief coursed through her as the name hung in the air, reverberating through her mind. The memory of one of her first conversations with Solas flickered before her, unbidden but undeniable. Her heart ached at the thought of him, the pain as fresh as it had been the day he left. She had pushed thoughts of him aside, burying the emotions deep. Maybe that was why she had agreed to meddle with unstable magic—anything to keep her mind from wandering back to him.

But now, here she was. The city of her ancestors stretched out before her, its forgotten beauty pulling her forward. With nowhere else to go, Ellana moved toward the towering woodland, her feet carrying her over the soft grass. The Well of Sorrows’ voices echoed faintly in her mind, guiding her like a compass, whispering fragments of wisdom and forgotten truths as she made her way through the ancient city.

Reaching the forest's edge, she paused, taking in the sight before her. Streams of water crisscrossed the forest floor, their crystal-clear currents weaving between the trees, converging in the heart of the woodland. The rivers glimmered like silver threads under the dappled sunlight, each one winding its way toward the center as if drawn by an invisible force.

This place—it was alive, brimming with magic that pulsed beneath the surface, waiting, watching.

As Ellana neared the heart of the forest, the quiet hum of nature gave way to the sounds of life. She could hear faint chattering, the shuffle of feet on soft ground, and the clink of objects being moved. Her pulse quickened. The presence of people filled her with both curiosity and apprehension. She kept her steps light, staying close to the tree line, hoping to go unnoticed.

Peering through the gaps in the trees, she saw them—elves. They moved between small huts, each section of the village separated by the winding rivers and connected by simple, arched bridges. The huts themselves were modest, crafted from wood and stone, yet they radiated a quiet elegance that reminded her of something lost to time. The elves wore robes of soft hues—strange, yet familiar, their flowing fabrics reminiscent of the ancient tales Solas had once shared.

Ellana’s hand instinctively tugged at her own robe, grateful for its simplicity. It allowed her to blend in, at least for now. She took a deep breath and stepped forward, slipping into the village with careful, tentative strides, her head lowered to avoid catching anyone’s gaze. Her heart pounded in her chest, each step feeling like it might give her away.

But despite her attempts to remain unnoticed, the eyes of the village were drawn to her. As she passed by, she caught glimpses of the elves watching her, their expressions puzzled, their work slowing as they turned to stare. She lifted her gaze ever so slightly, enough to catch the vivid markings on their faces—*vallaslin*, the intricate tattoos sacred to the Dalish, though these seemed older, more intricate, carved with symbols she barely recognized.

The air thickened with tension, and Ellana’s stomach twisted as whispers spread among the villagers. She had failed to slip in unnoticed.

Suddenly, the chattering ceased. One by one, the elves bowed their heads to her, their confusion melting into something almost reverent. Her breath caught in her throat as she stood frozen, unsure of what to do. Why were they bowing? Her mind raced, searching for explanations, but only one thought emerged clearly:

They thought she was someone she wasn’t.

Ellana’s heart sank as her fingers brushed her cheek, the absence of her vallaslin a stark reminder. Solas had removed her markings after she drank from the Well of Sorrows. ‘These are slave markings. They think I’m some kind of noble,’ she thought, her throat tightening. Her eyes flickered over the villagers, noting the various vallaslin etched into their skin: the bow of Andruil, the fierce lines of Elgar’nan, and the graceful curves of Mythal on the face of a small child.

The village seemed to breathe around her, its rhythms unfamiliar yet laced with a forgotten history. The rivers converged ahead, forming a shimmering lake that reflected the waning sunlight. Rising from the lake’s center was a palace—sprawling and ornate, its towers stretching skyward. Two wide bridges arched toward it, connecting the grand structure to the village. A steady stream of carts moved along one of the bridges, heading for the palace gates, their wheels creaking under the weight of goods.

Ellana hesitated, unsure of her next move. She spotted a villager nearby, a girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen, and stepped forward to ask for help. But before she could utter a word, the girl’s eyes widened with fear, and she turned, fleeing as though Ellana were a threat. The others noticed, quickly dropping their gazes, avoiding eye contact as though they feared her, too.

Reluctantly, she turned her attention to the palace. The bridge loomed before her, its stone cool beneath her feet as she began to cross. Each step echoed in her ears, mingling with the creak of the distant carts. The weight of her situation pressed down on her—trapped in Arlathan, with no way to reopen the portal that had brought her here. Solas’ face flashed in her mind, his voice reminding her of the delicate, ancient magic at play.

Her options were slim. The Well’s knowledge whispered in her mind, but offered no immediate answers. She would have to be careful, fluid in her approach, if she was to find a way back. Whatever answers lay within the palace, she would have to take them—no matter the risk. One way or another, she would find her way home.

As Ellana neared the palace gates, lost in thought, she was jolted back to the present by a sudden collision. A young elf, dressed in simple garb and bearing the vallaslin of Mythal, stumbled into her. But something about the markings caught Ellana’s eye—they were not quite like the vallaslin she knew, subtly different in their design, more intricate, as if imbued with an older magic. The girl immediately bowed low, her tone flat but respectful.

"My mistake, my lady. I humbly apologize," the girl said in fluid, ancient Elvish, her eyes lowered.

It took Ellana a moment to process the words. She had understood the language effortlessly—a tongue she had barely been familiar with in her time. The realization sent a wave of unease through her. ‘I can understand them…’ she thinks to herself, realizing the Well of Sorrow is translating for her.

"N-no, it’s okay," Ellana stammered nervously, unsure if she will be understood. She watched the girl closely, waiting for a flicker of confusion. But the elf only straightened slightly, her expression unchanged, no evidence of confusion. The girl can understand her.

The girl spoke again, her tone as polite as before. "Is there anything you need before the masquerade, my lady? Shall I escort you to the changing room?"

Ellana blinked, her mind racing. ‘Masquerade? Changing room? None of this made sense, but her heart beat a little faster with the realization that the girl saw her as someone of importance—perhaps even nobility. She was trapped in this strange time, with no clear answers, and now a masquerade was involved?

"Masquerade?" Ellana repeated, trying to keep her voice steady. "The changing room?"

"Yes, of course, your dress will be there along with any cosmetics you may have brought," the young elf continued, though there was a slight pause in her voice before she added, "Though there are always extra gowns if the tailor’s creation doesn’t please you. I shall escort you immediately, my lady."

Ellana nodded, hiding her uncertainty behind a polite smile, falling in step behind the girl.

As they walked deeper into the palace, Ellana couldn’t help but feel more disoriented with every turn they took. The grand halls seemed endless, each corridor more elaborate than the last, with soaring ceilings and walls adorned with intricate carvings that shimmered under the soft glow of enchanted sconces. She was utterly lost, with no idea how she would ever find her way out again. The weight of her situation pressed down on her with each step.

Finally, they reached a set of heavy velvet curtains. "Here you are, my lady," the girl announced with a respectful bow, pulling the curtains aside.

Ellana stepped into the room and was immediately overwhelmed by the sight before her. It was a sprawling chamber, filled with row upon row of gowns and robes in every imaginable color and fabric. The soft rustle of silk and the gentle murmur of voices filled the air. Across the far wall, vanities were lined up, each one occupied by elven ladies with their hair being brushed and makeup carefully applied by attentive slaves. Some were being laced into elaborate gowns, while others sat in elegant repose, their gazes distant as they were tended to.

Ellana stood frozen for a moment, the sight both mesmerizing and suffocating. She felt out of place, an intruder in a world she didn’t belong to—a world long lost to time. Her fingers twitched at her sides, and she fought the urge to flee, knowing she had no choice but to keep playing her role.

"Oh, my..." Ellana muttered under her breath, her bewilderment only growing as the weight of her situation pressed down on her. She was going to have to attend this masquerade, whether she wanted to or not. Asking the slave to take her back to the village would surely raise suspicion. But if she blended in at the party, perhaps she could trick someone into giving her the information she needed—maybe even a way out.

Another girl approaches, breaking through her thoughts. "Would you like me to assist you in selecting a gown, my lady? Or shall I fetch the one that was prepared for you?”

Ellana hesitated for a brief moment before nodding. "Yes, thank you," she said quietly, the words leaving her lips before she could second-guess herself.

The slave first guided her to an unoccupied vanity, the large mirror reflecting Ellana's pale face and long, unkempt hair. As she sat, the girl began to gently comb through the tangles, each stroke steady and practiced. The repetitive motion was almost soothing, though Ellana’s mind remained far from calm.

Her gaze wandered to the mirror, and that’s when she noticed it—a brand on the back of the slave’s hand. It was faint but unmistakable, a mark etched into her skin like a scar that had healed over long ago. Ellana’s stomach churned at the sight of it.

"What’s that mark?" Ellana asked, her voice careful as she gestured to the girl’s hand in the reflection.

The woman seated next to Ellana chimed in, her voice carrying a hint of idle amusement. "Oh, she’s had her magic cut off."

Ellana turned to face the speaker, her gaze landing on a striking figure. The woman had impossibly curly blonde hair that cascaded past her waist, each ringlet bouncing slightly as she shifted. Her silvery-gray eyes, however, reflected clear disinterest in the topic at hand. Beside her, a slave marked with June's vallaslin massaged oil into the woman's long locks, the scent of lavender drifting between them.

"She’s... tranquil?" Ellana asked softly, feeling her hair being gently pulled into a loose Orlesian braid, a style she recognized from her own time.

The woman shrugged, her elegant posture unaffected by the weight of the conversation. "Tranquil?" she repeated with a faint frown. "I've never heard such a term for those who have been branded." Her voice carried an air of superiority, as though the topic was beneath her. "We simply cut them off. Magic is a gift, not a right." Her words were as casual as if she were discussing the weather. "I am Imra," she continued, finally turning her sharp gaze to Ellana, her shoulder lifting slightly in an elegant shrug. "And you?"

"Ellana," she answered quietly, turning her attention back to the mirror. “What an unusual name!” Her reflection stared back, her braid now fully formed and gently pulled to one side. The slave’s hands moved with precision, delicate yet efficient.

"Showing off the neck is quite popular," Imra commented, her smile painted in a bright, vivid red. Her eyes gleamed with amusement as she spoke, seemingly entertained by the rituals of the masquerade. "Tell me, who do you plan on courting tonight?"

Ellana’s heart gave a small lurch at the question. ‘Courting someone? She barely knew where she was, let alone who would be attending. Still, Imra’s question hung in the air, and the eyes of the nearby women seemed to flicker with interest at the prospect of courtly intrigue.

She forced a small smile, hoping to mask her unease. "I’m... not quite sure yet," she said, turning back to the mirror to hide the uncertainty creeping into her expression.

Imra chuckled softly. "Playing coy, are we? Smart girl." Her voice dripped with knowing. "There are many powerful individuals attending tonight. Best to keep your options open."

Ellana’s stomach tightened, her mind racing. She was no noble, no political player in this world, yet here she was, surrounded by the intrigue and vanity of an ancient society. And worse, the deeper she slipped into their world, the more it resembled a gilded cage.

Imra laughed, the sound light and carefree. "Oh, of course! The Pantheon hosts this grand celebration once every century, or so. I'm hoping to catch the eye of a certain lord from west Elvhenan, though I won't tell you who." She winked playfully, her voice dripping with intrigue.

Ellana’s heart skipped a beat. "The Elven Pantheon? They’re... here?" she squeaked, her voice betraying her disbelief. She had no idea how to proceed, her thoughts reeling at the implications.

Imra raised an eyebrow at Ellana's reaction but nodded, as though the presence of gods was merely another detail of the evening. "Naturally. This is the time when families present themselves, hoping to gain favor and blessings. It’s a great honor, though costly. Each family must offer something to gain entry into that part of society. It’s usually slaves," she added, her tone casual despite the weight of her words, "but there have been... other contributions."

She paused thoughtfully, her eyes narrowing slightly before she leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Well, all the Pantheon except for Fen'harel, of course. He doesn’t keep slaves. It is said he frees them."

"The Dread Wolf?" Ellana gasped, her shock evident. ‘Did the Dalish get this wrong too?’ Her mind raced with confusion. Before she could process the revelation, Imra’s expression twisted into horror.

"Do not speak his name like that! Are you deranged?" Imra hissed, her earlier lightheartedness vanishing. Her voice was sharp, her eyes wide with fear and indignation.

Ellana hesitated, startled by the outburst. "I'm sorry," she stammered, trying to soften the tension in the air.

Imra glared at her, her silvery eyes cold. "Just don’t let anyone else hear you call him that," she warned icily, her voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. "You might not get off so easily next time."

"Actually," Imra’s gaze softened, a fleeting vulnerability slipping through her haughty exterior, "I’m surprised. Most girls your age find the god quite attractive. I did too, once." She giggled lightly, as if sharing a secret.

Ellana blinked, taken aback. "Girls my age?" she repeated, confused. The slave had just finished applying the last touches of makeup, and as Ellana glanced at the mirror, she gasped. Her reflection was nearly unrecognizable. Her eyes appeared darker, smoky, intensifying the golden hue of her irises, while her lips were painted a deep red, a striking contrast to her complexion.

Imra's eyes sparkled with amusement at Ellana’s surprise. "Yes, surely you’re about seven hundred years old, no?" She arched an eyebrow, then smiled approvingly. "You’ll attract quite a bit of attention tonight."

Ellana’s breath caught in her throat. ‘Seven hundred?’ The absurdity of it all was overwhelming, but before she could respond, the slave marked with June’s vallaslin spoke up, her voice calm yet deferential. "My lady, it is time to choose your gown."

"Quite right!" Imra agreed, already moving away from the vanity, her excitement for the evening palpable. "See you at the party, Ellana," she called out with a knowing grin, gliding off to find her own dress.

Ellana watched her go, the weight of her situation pressing down on her once more. She had to stay focused, had to find a way to blend in. But the longer she stayed in this time, the more alien everything felt.

The slave stood by patiently, waiting for her direction. "Shall we find your dress, my lady?" she asked, her tone polite but distant.

Ellana turned to her, her mind still spinning with the surreal nature of this world. Something tugged at her—something more than just the foreign customs and lavish surroundings. She hesitated, then asked gently, "What is your name?"

The slave paused, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face before she answered, her voice quiet, almost resigned. "I do not remember, my lady. Most masters call me ‘pet,’ if that pleases you."

Ellana’s heart ached at the confession, a hollow sadness creeping in. ‘How long has she lived like this?’ The thought haunted her as she moved toward the rows of gowns, her fingers grazing the fabrics. “That is not suitable…” she whispered under her breath, shaking her head.

The slave remained silent, but her hands moved quickly and deftly, helping Ellana sort through the gowns. After a moment, she pulled out a dress and held it up for Ellana to see. "How does this fare, my lady?" she asked, her tone as neutral as ever.

Ellana’s gaze fell on the gown—a rich, dark purple with a strapless heart-shaped bodice, intricately adorned with lace and sparkling jewels. The embellishments caught the light, glimmering softly. The bodice tapered just under the bust before flowing into an ethereal, silky skirt that seemed to float as it moved. It was stunning, almost too much so.

"That’s beautiful," Ellana murmured, running her fingers along the soft silk. "But... is it appropriate?" she asked, her uncertainty clear. She had no idea what was considered acceptable for a gathering of this magnitude, let alone in an era so far removed from her own.

The servant nodded with quiet assurance. "It is appropriate, my lady."

Ellana sighed softly, still unsure. She had no time to worry about fitting in perfectly, but every part of this world felt precarious. "Well," she said reluctantly, "I suppose this will do." Her voice held a note of resignation, as if she was accepting her fate for the night.

The girl bowed slightly and led her toward a nearby changing room. As Ellana followed, she glanced once more at the slave, the weight of her earlier words still heavy on her mind. She couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of responsibility—not just to escape this world, but to understand it. To understand these people, these lives lost to time.

Inside the small, dimly lit chamber, the slave worked swiftly, removing Ellana’s simple gown with practiced hands and helping her slip into the borrowed dress. The dark purple fabric clung to her in all the right places, the jeweled bodice shimmering faintly in the low light. Once the gown was secured, the girl held up a delicate golden mask, draped with thin lace. Seven small blue gems glowed faintly, casting an eerie light across the mask’s surface.

"I believe this mask will be sufficient, my lady," the girl said quietly, offering it to Ellana.

Ellana’s breath caught as she felt a subtle pull from the gems. Her fingertips brushed over them lightly. "Is that... lyrium?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. There was something unsettling about the gems, a power that hummed beneath the surface.

The girl nodded silently and began fastening the mask to Ellana’s face, her hands gentle but efficient. When she stepped back, she looked Ellana over, her expression impassive. "You are ready, my lady."

Ellana exhaled slowly, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. "Will you be taking me to the ballroom?" she asked, hoping to delay any further interaction with the strange world she had been thrust into. The girl hesitated for a moment, thinking it over, before nodding and leading the way.

As they approached the grand vestibule doors, footsteps echoed behind them. Ellana barely had time to react before a man stormed toward them, his body radiating anger. His eyes locked on the slave. "There you are, pet," he snarled, his voice dripping with contempt. He grabbed the girl’s arm roughly, his fingers digging into her skin.

The girl showed no fear, her face emotionless as she replied in a measured tone, "I was helping."

The man’s face twisted with rage, and his hand shot up, ready to strike. Instinctively, Ellana stepped between them, her heart pounding in her chest. "I’m terribly sorry," she said quickly, her voice laced with forced sweetness. She could feel the eyes of the hall on them, the air thick with tension. Her pulse quickened as she glanced up at the man’s masked face, his raised hand still poised to strike.

The glare that met her through his mask was cold, unyielding, but Ellana held her ground. "Your slave," she said, barely able to hide the bitterness that clung to the word, "has been most helpful. I distracted her from your orders. The fault is mine." She smiled politely, though her voice carried a steely edge. "I hope you understand, with all the preparations for the ball. It’s easy to lose track of time."

The hall had gone deathly quiet. Every eye was on them, the weight of judgment heavy in the air. The man’s hand remained raised, his fury simmering beneath the surface, but he hesitated, uncertain. Ellana’s heart raced as she waited, praying her intervention had been enough to diffuse the moment.

The man made an unintelligible noise, his fury barely contained, before lowering his hand. "Fine!" he snapped, his voice sharp and venomous. "Get out of my sight!" he barked at the slave, who walked away with the same emotionless composure as before. He glared at Ellana, his gaze full of unspoken warning, before turning on his heel and disappearing into the crowd without another word.

The hall, which had fallen deathly silent, began to stir once more as chatter slowly resumed. Conversations picked up where they had left off, but Ellana couldn’t shake the gnawing sensation that all eyes had been on her during the exchange. ‘I’ve made myself noticeable,’ she thought uneasily. Standing up for a slave—especially so publicly—was bound to attract unwanted attention.

Keeping her movements as quiet and discreet as possible, she slipped through the vestibule and into the grand dance hall. The shift in atmosphere was palpable. Soft music floated through the air, graceful and ethereal, a perfect complement to the elegance of the elves who mingled, their laughter and quiet conversations weaving through the melody.

Ellana kept close to the walls, her heart pounding as she tried to avoid drawing any more interest. Her eyes flitted over the scene—a sea of finely dressed elves, their masks glittering in the soft glow of candlelight. In the center of the hall, couples twirled gracefully in the large dance area, their movements fluid and practiced, as if this was second nature to them. The air hummed with opulence, but Ellana couldn’t help but feel like an outsider, watching a world she didn’t belong to.

Her gaze shifted to the second level, an elevated platform that overlooked the dance hall. There, perched above it all, sat the Elven gods and goddesses. Ellana’s heart skipped a beat as her eyes landed on them.

The divine figures were unmistakable, their presence commanding the attention of anyone who dared glance their way. Yet as Ellana’s gaze lingered on them, an unsettling realization crept in. As unmistakable as they were, they looked... normal.

Ellana didn’t know exactly what she had expected gods to look like, but it wasn’t this. The Elven Pantheon, beings of legend, whose stories had been passed down for centuries, seemed almost too ordinary. Seated above the crowd, draped in finery, they looked like any other group of highly important elves attending the grand masquerade. Her brows furrowed as she tried to make sense of it. Falon'Din and Dirthamen, the twin gods, their disinterest almost palpable, looked like skilled and regal elven nobles, not beings of unfathomable power. Even the others, whose presence should have been awe-inspiring, appeared more like ancient aristocrats than divinities.

Ellana’s heart pounded in her chest, the weight of her confusion pressing down on her. ‘These are gods?’ she thought, her mind racing. The tales she had heard growing up, and even the stories Solas had shared, had painted them as beings beyond mortal comprehension. She had expected something more—something that would immediately convey their power and grandeur. But these beings looked… just like elves. Larger than life, perhaps, but still grounded in the world she knew.

The discrepancy gnawed at her, unsettling her more than she cared to admit. It was as if the veil of myth had been torn away, revealing something uncomfortably close to reality. Were these truly the beings who once shaped the world? The ones who inspired fear and reverence? Or were they something else entirely—figures built on legend, but whose true nature had been lost to time?

Her mind spun with questions she had no way of answering. As she kept to the shadows, she couldn’t help but feel the distance between the gods and the mortals below them, yet that distance was far less than she had imagined. They weren’t larger-than-life figures towering above the crowd—they were simply a part of it, watching from above.

She notices the figure with the golden bow strapped across her back could only be Andruil. Her fiery red hair, cut short and jagged like Cassandra’s, framed a face that seemed perpetually alert, eyes scanning the crowd with a predatory intensity. Much like the goddess the Dalish revered, Andruil appeared to be on the hunt for something—or someone.

Beside her stood another red-haired woman, though her hair was less vivid and cascaded down her back in long waves. Ellana surmised this must be Sylaise, the Hearthkeeper. Though her posture was serene, there was a quiet strength to her, as though she carried the weight of a protector.

A few feet away, Ellana’s eyes caught a smaller woman with pure white, wavy hair—Ghilan’nain, no doubt. She seemed engaged in a hushed conversation with a man who had cropped auburn hair. June, Ellana guessed, his quiet demeanor matching the tales she had heard of the god of crafting and creation. The two appeared absorbed in one another, their attention focused more on their conversation than on the splendor of the ballroom.

Farther away, two figures sat in regal stillness, towering over the rest, their presence impossible to ignore. One was a woman with dark, flowing hair and an air of authority so palpable it made the space around her seem to hum. Mythal, Ellana thought with certainty. Beside her was a broad-shouldered man, his features hard and unforgiving—Elgar’nan, the All-Father. Neither of them wore masks, and yet they seemed more aloof and distant than the rest, their eyes surveying the ballroom with a cool detachment.

Ellana’s heart raced as she scanned the room, her mind whirling. ‘One is missing.’ She quickly took a sip of the wine she had just picked up, her throat tightening with the thought.

Fen’harel.

Her thoughts quickened, and she began to take magical precautions, quietly weaving protective wards to prevent the voices of the Well from reaching out toward Mythal. The last thing she needed was to attract the goddess’s attention. As she worked, a chill ran down her spine, and a voice broke through her concentration.

"How kind of you to protect that slave, all things considered," a voice chuckled softly beside her.

Ellana froze, her blood turning to ice. ‘No.’

The voice was unmistakable, deep and filled with a dangerous amusement. She didn’t dare turn her head. ‘It can’t be…’Her pulse quickened, her mind racing, but her body refused to move.

Slowly, she exhaled, her fingers trembling slightly as she clutched the stem of her wine glass. The presence beside her was far too familiar, and despite all her efforts to remain calm, the sound of his voice sent her heart into a spiral.

Ellana slowly turned to face the speaker, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes locked onto stormy blue ones that were all too familiar. ‘Solas…’ she cried silently, the name echoing in her mind. But as her gaze swept over the man standing before her, she realized, with a sinking heart, that this was not the Solas she knew.

Instead of a smooth, bald head, this man wore tightly woven chestnut dreadlocks that cascaded over one shoulder, the sides of his head meticulously shaven. His smirk was unmistakably arrogant, a sharp contrast to the quiet, thoughtful mage she had known. Yet the resemblance was undeniable—his face was that of Solas, but his presence was entirely different.

"Have you lost your voice now?" he taunted, his tone dripping with haughty amusement. He stepped closer, his eyes boring into hers with an unsettling intensity. "I doubt that," he added, his voice smooth and mocking. "I heard you quite clearly a few moments ago."

Ellana’s heart pounded in her chest as he closed the distance between them. His presence was overwhelming, suffocating even, and yet she could barely process it. ‘Solas is Fen’harel…’. The truth of it slammed into her like a weight, and she struggled to keep her composure.

Swallowing hard, she lifted her wine glass and took a sip, hoping the motion would calm her trembling hands. "I haven’t lost my voice," she managed to reply, though her voice was tight, a little too forced.

Fen’harel’s eyes narrowed slightly, amusement flickering behind them. He noted the tension in her stance, the subtle hesitation in her tone. ‘Nervous,’ he thought, silently filing the observation away. His arm moved to rest against the wall just above her head, leaning in closer, his towering frame dominating the space around her.

"Are you nervous, my lady?" he whispered, his voice dropping to a dangerously seductive tone, his breath brushing against her skin as he inched closer. His eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of knowing how his presence affected her.

Ellana’s pulse quickened as she felt him encroach on her space, her mind scrambling for a way to escape. His proximity, the familiarity of his face but the strangeness of his demeanor—it was too much. Her thoughts were a whirlwind, and before she could think twice, her body moved instinctively.

Without a word, she turned sharply and began walking away, her movements quick and deliberate.

For a split second, Fen’harel was stunned. He watched her retreating form, amusement curling his lips into a smirk. A low chuckle escaped him, the sound dark and amused. ‘Well, that’s new,’ he mused, his gaze tracking the sway of her steps as she hurried away from him.

With a leisurely pace, he began to follow her, his amusement growing. ‘No one has ever walked away from me quite like that,’ he thought with a hint of humor, his eyes never leaving her as she weaved through the crowd.

Ellana rushed out onto the balcony, her breath shallow as she gripped the cool stone railing. "No, no, no," she muttered to herself, trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions spiraling inside her. The evening air kissed her skin, but it did little to cool the fire burning in her chest. Closing her eyes, she focused on breathing, her heart racing beneath her ribs. ‘The Dread Wolf… Solas… literally took me, she thought, the irony hitting her hard. A small, bitter chuckle escaped her lips as she shook her head, disbelief flooding her senses.

Unbeknownst to her, Fen’harel had followed. He stepped out onto the balcony, his movements smooth and quiet. With a flick of his hand, he dismissed the guards standing nearby, sending them away without a word. The doors clicked softly shut behind him, the noise barely audible over Ellana’s frantic thoughts.

She was too lost in her own mind to notice his presence. He leaned casually against the railing beside her, his smirk deepening as he studied her. The trickster’s amusement was palpable, his eyes alight with a mischievous gleam.

"Well," he said with a low chuckle, "I’ve certainly never had that sort of reaction from someone like you before." His voice cut through the night, laced with laughter, making her freeze.

Ellana’s breath hitched as she slowly turned to face him, her pulse quickening once more. There he was—Solas, but not. Fen’harel. The Trickster. The Dread Wolf. Her mind reeled, and for a moment, she couldn’t form the words stuck in her throat. His eyes sparkled with amusement, waiting, almost teasing, as if daring her to acknowledge what she now knew.

She swallowed hard, licking her lips before finally speaking. "You’re..." she began, her voice trembling slightly before she caught herself. Her mouth felt dry, her thoughts a blur. "You’re Fen’harel," she finished, the weight of the name heavy on her tongue.

Fen’harel’s keen gaze flickered over Ellana, sensing her unease even as she tried to keep her composure. “That is correct,” he confirmed smoothly, his tone unhurried. She continued to stare him down, defiance simmering in her eyes.

"What did you mean by ‘someone like me’?" she asks, her voice firm as she took a step back, increasing the distance between them.

He tilted his head slightly, meeting her gaze with casual indifference. "Young. Female," he replied plainly, with a nonchalant shrug. "Typically, the young ladies are quite... intrigued by me. You’re the first to run." His laughter was soft, but it carried a note of amusement that only seemed to heighten her tension.

Her face remained stoic, her eyes unwavering. "No," she said, her voice sharp, cutting through his playful demeanor.

Fen’harel’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Is that a challenge?" he asked, his tone flirtatious, as he took a step closer, closing the space she had created.

"No," she repeated, her posture rigid, her resolve unmoving.

He studied her, intrigued by the resistance in her stance. For a moment, the teasing smile faded from his face, replaced by something quieter, more calculated. His eyes lingered on her, noticing the subtle tension in her expression, the way her jaw tightened, as if holding back more than just words.

"You’ve been hurt," he said quietly, his tone shifting to something darker, more perceptive. It wasn’t a question—it was a statement, spoken with the certainty of someone who had seen pain before. The lightness in his voice had vanished, replaced by a blunt assessment of the emotions she tried to conceal.

Ellana flinched ever so slightly, but her expression remained hard, giving nothing away. She hadn’t expected him to pick up on it so quickly—his ability to read her, to cut through her defenses, unsettled her. He is the one who hurt her, some thousand years in the future.

Ellana remained silent, her arms wrapping around herself defensively. Fen’harel’s gaze didn’t waver. "What fool would leave you?" he mused, his tone casual, yet there was an edge to his words. "Even behind the mask, I can tell you’re beautiful."

Her eyes flickered, betraying a momentary glimmer of pain before she answered. "A trickster," she whispered, her voice barely audible, but the weight behind the words struck him with their clarity.

"Ah…" Fen’harel murmured, his curiosity piqued. His gaze sharpened, intrigued by her answer. He moved to sit on a nearby bench, his body relaxed as if he were settling into a game he already knew the rules to. "Come, sit," he beckoned, motioning to the spot beside him. His eyes never left her, watching closely for her reaction.

Ellana hesitated, her arms tightening around herself as she glanced at the bench, the space next to him looming like a challenge. "Is this a game?" she whispered, her voice tinged with wariness.

"Not at all," he replied smoothly, though there was no trace of mischief in his voice now, only a calm honesty. He leaned back against the bars, waiting. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she stepped forward and sat beside him, her posture rigid, every muscle tense as if ready to bolt.

The silence between them was heavy, but Fen’harel wasn’t one to leave space unfilled for long. "Tell me what happened," he said softly, his tone gentle but commanding, as if he already knew there was a story buried beneath her silence.

Ellana’s breath hitched, her chest tightening as the memories clawed their way to the surface. ‘If I can’t speak to Solas in the present… why not speak to him through the past?’ The thought both emboldened and frightened her. She swallowed hard, gathering her courage, though her body remained stiff with tension.

"He didn’t want to distract me from my duties," she whispered, her voice strained, as if the very words were a burden she struggled to release. Each syllable was soaked in the pain she had never fully allowed herself to voice, the weight of unspoken truths pressing down on her. It was easier to speak to this version of him, where she could pretend, just for a moment, that her words wouldn’t go unheard.

Fen’harel’s gaze didn’t waver, though his smirk softened into something more thoughtful. He could sense the depth of her hurt, even if she tried to keep it contained. Her stiffness, the trembling edge to her voice—it was all too telling. He leaned in ever so slightly, his curiosity piqued by the delicate balance she was trying to maintain between her grief and her composure.

Ellana’s eyes flickered toward him, a flash of vulnerability crossing her face before she quickly looked away. Her mind raced. She had thought of this conversation a thousand times, but it never played out like this, with the ache of the past feeling so immediate, and his presence—so familiar yet so foreign—unnerving her at every turn.

Fen’harel’s gaze narrowed slightly, his curiosity deepening. "Was he one?" he pressed, his voice low, probing. “A trickster?”

She shook her head, the memory too raw to keep buried. "Not at all. He had something he needed to do—something on his own. He didn’t want my help." Her voice trembled, though she fought to keep it steady. "And then… he left. He left without saying goodbye."

Her words trailed off, the weight of what she had been holding back since that day pressing down on her chest. It wasn’t just the day Corypheus fell that haunted her—it was the day Solas vanished. He had told her what they shared was real, made her believe in something deeper, and then he disappeared without a word. The ache of that departure still stung, fresh and unrelenting, no matter how much time had passed.

Fen’harel observed her quietly, his smirk fading into something more contemplative. He didn’t interrupt, letting the pain she had buried resurface, knowing the name of the man she spoke of without her having to utter it aloud. He was fascinated by how deeply it still cut her, how it lingered in every word she spoke.

Fen’harel hummed lightly, a sound that was both contemplative and amused, before rising to his feet. With a graceful flourish, he turned to face her, bowing with a flourish that made the air between them seem lighter, more playful. "May I have this dance, my lady?" His hand extended toward her, his stormy blue eyes locked on hers.

Ellana blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. She hesitated for a moment, her gaze flicking from his hand to his face. "Shouldn’t I be the one bowing to a god, not the other way around?" she joked weakly, her voice tinged with a mix of humor and disbelief.

Fen’harel straightened, a laugh bubbling from his lips, clearly not expecting her response. "Please, do not bow," he chuckled, his eyes sparkling with amusement. His laughter felt strange—so familiar and yet so foreign in this moment. He pauses for a moment, “and while powerful, I am not a god.”

A flicker of confusion danced across her features at his remark about not being a god, but there was no time to linger on it. Her brow furrowed as she eyed his outstretched hand, suspicion darkening her gaze. “Why are you being nice to me?” Her voice was low, edged with wariness as her eyes flicked back to his face. “You’re supposed to be cocky and arrogant.” Her words came out like a challenge, distrust curling around each one as she kept her focus on the hand she refused to take.

His laugh came again, light but sincere. "I am cocky and arrogant," he admitted, his smirk never wavering. "But I find myself... drawn to you. And I’d like to find out why." His tone shifted, becoming more serious, more curious. His hand remained extended, waiting.

The weight of his words made Ellana pause, her breath catching in her throat. There was a strange sincerity in his voice, something that tugged at her in a way she hadn’t expected. After a beat of hesitation, she nodded and placed her hand in his.

Fen’harel’s touch was firm but gentle as he guided her back into the grand dance hall. The moment they entered, the crowd seemed to part like water, making a path for them as they walked toward the center of the room. All eyes were fixed on them—gods and mortals alike—whispers spreading like wildfire through the gathering. The Dread Wolf, dancing with this unknown woman. It was a scene no one could have predicted.

Ellana kept her head high, her back straight, though her heart raced. Every gaze, every whisper was like a weight on her shoulders, but she met it with resolve. If they were going to watch, she would give them something worth watching.

Fen’harel stepped onto the dance floor, his movements fluid, effortless. As the music swelled around them, he drew her closer, guiding her into the rhythm. Their steps fell into sync, and though she kept her guard up, the dance itself felt like an unspoken conversation—a dance of power, of curiosity, of something deeper.

"Everyone is staring..." Ellana whispered, her voice tight with discomfort as she tried to maintain her composure. The weight of so many eyes on her made her skin prickle, and she could feel the tension creeping up her spine.

Fen’harel’s response, however, was anything but subtle. A wolfish grin spread across his face, his enjoyment of the situation evident in every step he took. "They are," he said confidently, his tone filled with amusement as he pulled her even closer, his hand firm on the small of her back. His delight in the attention was palpable, while she struggled to remain at ease.

Ellana’s gaze flickered toward the edge of the dance floor, where she noticed the remaining members of the Elven pantheon gathered, whispering amongst themselves, their eyes trained on the two of them. Her discomfort only grew. "So are your..." she hesitated, her lips tightening as she searched for the right word, "friends..." she grumbled under her breath.

Fen’harel cocked his head to the side, glancing in the direction of the gods. "So they are," he confirmed with a nonchalant shrug, clearly unbothered by their watchful gaze. His attention remained on her, and with a sudden shift, he sped up, guiding her into quicker, more intricate steps in time with the rising tempo of the music.

Ellana’s breath caught as she struggled to keep up with the pace, her heart racing not just from the swift movements, but from the intensity of the situation. ‘Why does he enjoy this so much?’ she wondered, her frustration simmering beneath the surface.

With a playful flourish, Fen’harel dipped her, his grin wicked and full of mischief. His hand slid slowly down the curve of her leg, lifting it to rest against his hip. The boldness of the gesture sent a shiver through her, and she gasped softly, her heart hammering in her chest.

"You are cocky," she whispered, her voice breathless, the accusation laced with a mixture of frustration and bewilderment. His grin only widened, gleaming with the satisfaction of having gotten the reaction he sought. He was pushing her, testing her boundaries, reveling in how easily he could unsettle her.

Her heart ached with the weight of it all. This was Fen’harel, the Dread Wolf, a being of ancient legend—and yet, he wore Solas’s face, the man she had loved. The man who, in this moment, did not exist. ‘Whatever events made him into the Solas she knew…’ she thought bitterly, ‘hasn’t happened yet.’ The pain of that knowledge twisted inside her. She longed for the Solas she had known, the thoughtful, compassionate mage, not the trickster who now held her in his arms.

Before she could gather her thoughts, Fen’harel pulled her upright, drawing her close enough that their faces hovered just inches apart. His breath brushed against her lips, and she felt the electric charge between them, heavy with unspoken tension.

His hand moved to her cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle as he stroked her skin with a tenderness that caught her off guard. Slowly, deliberately, he brought her face closer to his, his gaze never leaving hers. He was watching her carefully, waiting for her to pull away, to protest—but she didn’t. She couldn’t. The confusion, the pull of familiarity, and the ache of longing kept her rooted to the spot.

And then he leaned in.

The kiss, when it came, was electric, sending a shockwave through her. It was as if time itself had bent around them, the moment reminiscent of their first kiss in the Fade. That same spark of connection flared to life, stirring something deep within her that she had thought long buried.

But it wasn’t Solas who kissed her now—it was Fen’harel, a stranger in a familiar skin.

Her body responded instinctively, memories of that first kiss flooding back, but her mind was a whirlwind of conflicted thoughts. She knew what he was, knew what he would become. Yet in this fleeting moment, the ache of her loss, the longing for what they had shared, overwhelmed her.

When they finally pulled apart, the air between them was thick with tension. His eyes searched hers, as though trying to gauge her reaction, his usual arrogance tempered by something softer, something more real.

But Ellana couldn’t meet his gaze for long. The kiss had stirred emotions she wasn’t ready to confront. Her heart ached for the man who does not currently existed—and for the one standing before her, a shadow of what had been and what was yet to come.

The grand ballroom trembled, a low rumble building beneath their feet. Ellana stiffened in Fen’harel’s arms, her senses sharpening as the vibrations intensified, rattling the chandeliers above and causing the delicate glasses lining the tables to clatter.

Then, the tremors grew violent.

Decorations fell from the walls, the ornate vases shattering as they hit the marble floor. Gasps filled the room as the assembled guests turned in confusion and alarm. Fen’harel’s grip tightened on Ellana, his playful expression giving way to something more serious, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the room.

In the center of the ballroom, where moments ago dancers had twirled in elegant grace, a swirling vortex began to form. The portal—the very one that had spat Ellana into this world hours earlier—was reopening, its smoky green light twisting and expanding with a terrifying energy.

The air crackled with magic, and one by one, six shadowed figures were flung from the mouth of the portal, crashing to the floor. The guests recoiled in shock, stepping back as the six figures lay motionless, scattered across the ballroom like broken dolls.

Ellana's heart raced, her breath catching in her throat as she pulled away from Fen’harel, her eyes fixed on the portal. The energy radiating from it was wild, unpredictable, and she could feel the familiar pulse of its power tugging at her magic. The room fell silent, every eye on the figures who had fallen from the sky.

"Not again..." Ellana whispered, barely able to process what was happening. Her gaze shifted between the portal and the six figures lying on the marble floor, dread creeping into her chest.

Beside her, Fen’harel stood perfectly still, his eyes glinting with curiosity and wariness as he assessed the situation. He didn’t move, but there was an unmistakable tension in the way he watched the portal, as though he were waiting for the next act of whatever chaotic force had been unleashed.

The portal swirled ominously, casting flickering green light across the ballroom.

Relief flooded Ellana’s chest as she recognized the figures on the floor—her companions, her chosen family. She barely had time to think, her heart racing as emotions overwhelmed her. Without warning, she grabbed Fen’harel by the collar, pulling him closer, and slapped him with such force it echoed through the ballroom.

His head snapped to the side, and when he turned back to her, fury burned in his stormy blue eyes, mixed with raw confusion. The sting of her slap still fresh on his skin, his thoughts raced—her sudden kiss, the opening of the rift, and now this. It was all too much. "What was that for?" he snapped, his voice low, a mixture of anger and bewilderment.

He was taken aback, his arrogance slipping for just a moment as he tried to make sense of her actions. They had just shared a kiss filled with a fire he hadn’t expected, and now she struck him as if that kiss had never happened—as if the rift spitting out her companions wasn’t turning everything upside down. The swirl of emotions in the room mirrored the chaos inside him.

Ellana stared him down, her expression unyielding. "You’ll find out in about a thousand years—give or take a century," she spat, her voice filled with bitterness and a depth of hurt he couldn’t quite place. The fury in her eyes told him everything and nothing at the same time, and for once, the Trickster was left off balance.

Fen’harel stared at her, confusion flickering across his face. The tension between them crackled, the weight of things left unsaid hanging in the air.

She hesitated, her breath catching as her heart raced. Her voice was quiet but firm when she finally spoke, the weight of unspoken emotion hanging in the air between them. "You’ve been gone for a month," she said, her tone steady, though it trembled at the edges, betraying the torrent of feelings she was holding back. "In two days, I’ll meet you in Crestwood. The place where you left."

His brow furrowed, confusion flickering in his stormy blue eyes as he processed her words. He was caught between the chaos of the moment—the portal, her companions emerging, and the intensity of her presence. The air between them crackled with tension, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

She paused for a beat, biting her lip as if debating what to do next. Then, with a sudden surge of emotion, she gripped his collar again, pulling him toward her with a ferocity she hadn’t felt in years. Their lips crashed together, her kiss full of force and passion—like she was pouring all the things she could never say into that single moment.

It was more than just a kiss. It was a release of everything she had been holding in—frustration, longing, the pain of his absence, and the confusion of seeing him now, knowing what he would become. Her lips pressed against his with an intensity that spoke of all the moments they had shared and all the moments that had been stolen from her. It was fire and fury, desire and heartache, all bound together in the desperate need to feel something real, something that could ground her in this swirling storm.

Fen’harel’s initial shock melted away as he responded, his hands tightening around her, pulling her closer. The kiss was electric, charged with the passion they both couldn’t contain. But beneath the fire, there was an undercurrent of something far deeper—an understanding that this moment, this kiss, carried the weight of a thousand unsaid words and the unspoken truth that still lingered between them.

When she finally broke the kiss, her breath came in short, uneven bursts, her face inches from his. She stared at him, her eyes filled with a mix of defiance and vulnerability. Without another word, she turned on her heel and ran, leaving him standing there, speechless, with the taste of her still lingering on his lips and the burning imprint of her kiss still echoing in his mind.

"Boss!" a familiar voice bellowed, and Ellana’s heart lifted as she saw Iron Bull, massive and imposing, emerging from the portal. His grin was wide, his massive sword at the ready. She ripped off her mask, holding it tight, her joy spilling out uncontrollably. "Bull!" she screamed, running toward him.

Perched on Bull’s broad shoulders, Sera sat with her bow drawn, her eyes scanning the room with suspicion. "Stupid mages and their stupid magic, yeah? This isn’t normal!" she shouted, directing her frustration at Dorian, who followed behind them with an air of calm, casually fixing his hair as if they hadn’t just been thrown through time.

"Stupid Tevinter mage!" Sera bickered, narrowing her eyes at him. "You caused all of this!"

Dorian scoffed, waving her off with a dramatic flourish. "Oh, please! It wasn’t intentional," he replied, clearly annoyed. His eyes roved over the scene as he assessed the situation. "Though I must admit," he said, with a hint of amusement, "it appears we’ve landed in the middle of a party. Quite the Orlesian court affair, I’d say."

The ballroom was in chaos, nobles gasping and retreating as the sight of Ellana’s companions registered in their shocked minds. The whispering increased, but Ellana had no care for the gawking eyes or the judging glances. Her heart was full, and her mind raced as she took in the faces of her friends.

Cassandra grunted as she landed beside Dorian, her sword and shield raised, scanning the room with sharp focus. “I believe we should focus on the task at hand,” she declared harshly, grabbing Dorian by the arm and yanking him back toward her. The urgency in her voice left little room for debate.

"Now you say so, Seeker?" Varric chimed in, his tone dripping with amusement as he notched an arrow into Bianca, his ever-reliable crossbow. His eyes flicked toward the approaching pantheon, tension simmering beneath his easygoing facade.

Dorian smoothed out his robes, more annoyed than unsettled. "You rudely dragged me away from Court to time travel into another Court, Dorian? My dear, you certainly know how to impress," Vivienne drawled, her voice rich with sarcasm as she readied her magic, the faint shimmer of arcane energy crackling in the air around her.

Ellana, despite the chaos and the rift still pulsing behind them, felt a surge of joy at seeing her companions again. Her heart leaped as she took in their familiar faces, the sharpness of their banter filling her with a sense of belonging. But her relief was cut short as she looked across the room to see the Elven pantheon standing in formation, their postures rigid, their gazes cold. The gods were preparing for a fight.

Fen’harel stood at the edge of their gathering, staring at the scene with shock etched across his usually impassive face. Before he could react, one of the twins—Falon’Din—grabbed his arm and pulled him closer, their eyes locking onto the intruders with an intensity that sent a shiver down Ellana's spine. The tension between the two sides was palpable, the gods' confusion quickly giving way to a looming threat.

Andruil, her movements swift and deadly, was the first to act. With a graceful flick of her wrist, she sent an arrow sailing through the air toward the group. Vivienne, always poised and prepared, conjured a shimmering barrier in the blink of an eye, deflecting the projectile with a cold, amused smile.

"Dorian, my dear," Vivienne said, her tone light despite the situation, "do be careful, will you? The Veil is terribly thin here. I’d hate to see something get through."

Varric smirked, his eyes narrowing as he aimed Bianca. "She’s got a point, Sparkler. You sure you’ve got this under control?"

Ellana’s heart raced, torn between the joy of seeing her companions and the terror of the looming threat from the pantheon. "Dorian, please tell me you know how to get us back!" she cried, rushing toward him, throwing her arms around him in a desperate embrace.

Dorian hugged her back, though his mind was clearly elsewhere. "Of course," he muttered, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "If we can manage to gather enough power..." His voice trailed off nervously as he glanced over at the Elven gods, who were now advancing toward them with lethal intent.

“Eh? Look at all this stupid elfy crap! Look at them all dressed up in their elfy bits, hah!” Sera jokes as she makes eye contact with Fen’harel. “Is that Solas, with all his elven glory, what’s that shite?” Sera howls from her spot on Iron Bull’s shoulders.

“Sera, you are an elf! And it’s not Solas.” Ellana snaps at her as Dorian mutters about different types of power. “Yeah, boss? Well, it sure looks like him.” Bull adds. Cole, who was hidden behind Iron Bull, adding, “He has his face. Magic flows, similar yet different. He is not him yet.” He expresses, a sense of knowing.

“Who are you?” Elgar’nan bellows in anger as flames surround the group. “Damn mages,” Varric mutters in distress.

“Dorian, my mask!” Ellana pushes the mask into his hands. “The gems are lyrium shards. Seven of them. Can you use them to power the device?” Ellana rushes out as her and Vivienne cast a barrier spell to protect them from the flame.

"Yes!" Dorian yelled with glee, diving into his work as arcane energy crackled around him. His fingers moved swiftly, tracing intricate patterns of magic, while the rest of the group formed a protective ring around him, weapons and spells at the ready. Ellana’s eyes flicked between her companions and the Elven pantheon, her heart racing as she saw Fen’harel muttering angrily with Elgar’nan.

Elgar’nan stood taller than the rest, his broad shoulders tense and his long black hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck. His face was flushed with fury, his angular jaw clenched as he glared at the Dread Wolf. The two gods bickered fiercely, their voices too low for Ellana to hear, but their body language told the whole story—Fen’harel wanted to stop the conflict, but Elgar’nan, with his imposing stance, was clearly ready to strike.

"We can’t attack them!" Ellana cried, casting another barrier to deflect incoming arrows and projectiles. The magical force shimmered around her, but it was clear they were under immense pressure. "We can’t kill them—it’ll ruin everything!"

Varric, standing a few steps behind her, notched another arrow into Bianca. "Shouldn’t we be attacking now, Rosy?" he asked with his usual calm, even as chaos surrounded them.

Ellana threw up her hands in frustration, letting out a strangled cry. "Now you give me a nickname? Rosy? Really?"

Varric chuckled, even as he eyed the approaching figures warily. "It’s better than Twinkles!" he called back, the tension in the air momentarily lightened by his playful banter.

Ellana shook her head, her focus snapping back to the growing threat. She and Vivienne were casting area spells in tandem, their magic shimmering across the room in an intricate web, keeping the pantheon’s attacks at bay while maintaining the barriers against any incoming projectiles.

"We can’t kill anyone!" Ellana repeated urgently, her voice rising over the din of battle. "If we do, it’ll destroy the timeline. My people are descendants of them!" she snapped, her eyes flicking toward Mythal, who had stepped forward with a commanding presence.

Mythal’s golden eyes burned with the same intensity that had haunted Ellana when they first met. Her long, straight white-blonde hair flowed behind her as she approached, her high cheekbones giving her an air of regal authority. A powerful fireball hovered just above her hand, flames swirling and crackling, poised to be unleashed.

Ellana’s heart skipped a beat. She could feel something pulling at her, tugging at the edges of her consciousness. The voices of the Well, those ancient whispers she had kept at bay for so long, began to stir, echoing in her mind with newfound urgency. The magic was breaking free, forcing a connection she wasn’t ready for.

Her breath hitched as the voices surged forward, flooding her thoughts with a torrent of ancient knowledge. And then, like a crack of thunder, the connection was made.

Mythal’s eyes widened in shock, her golden irises glowing as she froze mid-stride, the fireball flickering in her hand. She turned her gaze toward Ellana, her expression one of surprise, realization dawning in her features.

"Hold your attacks!" Mythal’s voice boomed across the room, shaking the very walls with its force. The gods halted, their movements stilled by the power of her command. The fireball in her hand fizzled out, and for a moment, the entire room seemed to hold its breath.

Ellana staggered, the connection with Mythal pulsating in her mind, raw and overwhelming. She could feel Mythal’s presence—her knowledge, her power, her understanding—mingling with her own. It was too much, too fast, but it had bought them a moment.

The entire ballroom seemed to hold its breath as Mythal's command rippled through the air. Even Elgar’nan and Fen’harel, who had been locked in a heated argument, fell silent. The tension in the room was palpable, every pair of eyes fixed on the goddess as she stepped forward, her golden gaze unblinking, locking onto Ellana.

"You drank from my well," Mythal stated, her voice steady, with a flicker of amusement dancing beneath the surface. Her long blue gown trailed behind her as she approached, every step measured, every movement regal. She came to a halt before the group, her eyes narrowing as she examined Ellana with a curious intensity. "How are you not dead?" she asked, the question laced with genuine curiosity, though the flame that reignited in her hand hinted at her readiness to change that.

Ellana hesitated, trying to remain composed under Mythal’s scrutinizing gaze. A nervous laugh escaped her lips. "You know," she said, her voice tight, "I probably should be. I ask myself that question far too often."

Mythal raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced by the casual response. Her eyes darkened, and the flames in her hand flared brighter, casting flickering shadows across the ballroom. She was still poised to strike, and the room’s tension thickened as it became clear that one wrong word could reignite the fight.

Ellana growled in frustration, stepping forward with determination. "Look, I had no other choice but to drink from the Well," she snapped, her tone firm but edged with desperation. "I respected your temple. I willingly drank from the water."

Mythal’s gaze remained fixed on her, unreadable.

"You willingly became a slave?” Fen’harel’s voice cut through the air from behind Mythal, sharp and incredulous. His eyes burned with something unspoken, his question laced with both disbelief and a subtle anger. Mythal raised her hand, silencing the Dread Wolf with a single gesture, though his gaze remained fixed on Ellana.

"I didn’t know the price at the time," Ellana responded quickly, her voice tense but unwavering. "But my freedom, for the freedom of the greater good, is a trade-off I had to take."

Mythal hummed thoughtfully, her golden eyes narrowing as she studied Ellana with a chilling curiosity, "what is stopping me from commanding you to kill your friends, leaving you trapped here?" Her voice was dangerously calm, and with a slow, deliberate movement, she stopped walking and motioned for Ellana to come forward.

Ellana’s heart skipped a beat, but she didn’t falter. She signaled for her companions to stand down, though she could feel their collective tension rising. With careful steps, she moved toward Mythal, every muscle in her body tense as she prepared for whatever might come next.

"You," Ellana answered directly, her voice firm despite the tremor of nerves in her chest. "You are what’s stopping you."

Mythal raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the elf’s boldness. Her eyes gleamed with something unreadable as she began to circle Ellana, her gaze scanning her as though she were a puzzle to be solved. The would-be goddess’s presence was overwhelming, her power tangible in the air, but Ellana held her ground.

"Hm," Mythal mused, her lips curling into a slight smile as she completed her circle. "And so the tune begins."

The faintest chuckle escaped her lips, a sound that sent a shiver down Ellana’s spine. Mythal’s keen eyes lingered on Ellana for a moment longer before she abruptly turned away, her robes trailing behind her. The room, which had been so thick with tension moments before, seemed to exhale.

"Go, girl," Mythal said, her voice carrying the weight of finality. "Return to your own time." With a dismissive wave of her hand, Mythal accepted Ellana’s fate, as though she had seen what she needed to see.

Behind her, Elgar’nan’s face twisted in anger, his fury barely contained. His eyes flared with rage, his broad shoulders tensing as if he wanted to lash out, but he did not argue. Even Fen’harel remained silent, though the intensity in his gaze had not lessened.

Ellana felt a surge of relief, but it was tinged with the bitter knowledge of what had transpired. She had stood before gods and walked away, but the weight of their judgment still hung heavily on her. She turned rushing back to her companions, her body trembling from the tension of the encounter.

"It is ready when you are, Inquisitor," Dorian announced, his voice steady despite the lingering tension. He handed Ellana her mask, but she didn’t reach for it, her gaze locked on the man who had once been Solas, the man who now stood across from her as Fen’harel.

His face was a storm of frustration and confusion, his eyes hard and unrelenting. She frowned, her heart twisting painfully, but she wouldn’t apologize. Not for the kiss, not for the slap, not for her choice to walk away. There was nothing left to say, and she knew it.

"Alright, everyone stay close, unless of course, you want to stay here!" Dorian called out with a flourish, breaking the tension as the portal flared to life once more. The air crackled with energy, and the group began to gather.

Ellana hesitated for a moment longer, her hand gripping the mask. Her eyes flickered back to Fen’harel one last time—no words passed between them, but the silence was heavy with everything unsaid. With a quiet breath, she let the mask fall from her fingers, the sound of it hitting the ground sharp in the stillness. She moved closer to her companions.

"Get ready... and NOW!" Dorian shouted, his voice full of authority as the group rushed toward the swirling energy of the portal. In an instant, the room and the gods faded from sight, and the chaos of the past slipped away.

The portal spat them out with a jarring thud into the familiar surroundings of the Great Hall of Skyhold. For a moment, there was only silence as they all caught their breath, the weight of their journey settling on their shoulders.

“Damn," Varric said, breaking the tension with a grin as he brushed off invisible dirt. "That is something to write about." He reached down, helping Sera to her feet, who shook herself off dramatically.

“You mean the elfy bits or the magic-y bits?” Sera quipped, yanking out a chair from a nearby table and plopping down into it with a sigh. "Because both were pretty messed up."

Ellana allowed herself a small laugh, the familiar sounds of Skyhold easing the tension in her chest. They were home.

"Boss," Iron Bull rumbled as he pulled both Dorian and Cole up onto their feet. "Let’s not do that again, alright?" Cole, with his usual innocence, chimed in, “The Iron Bull isn’t afraid.”

Dorian, of course, couldn’t resist the banter. He flashed a broad smile and adjusted his robes, clearly pleased with himself. "I thought it was a fantastic field trip," he said with a gleam in his eye. “Too bad we couldn’t stay longer.”

Vivienne and Cassandra exchanged glances as they watched Ellana rush toward the throne, her hands shaking as she snatched up her staff. The urgency in her movements was unmistakable.

"Where are you going?" Cassandra asked, her voice sharp with concern as she quickly followed the Inquisitor down the steps and outside into the courtyard. Her eyes narrowed, noting Ellana’s frantic pace—and the fact that she hadn’t even bothered to change out of her gown.

She ignores the question. "Cassandra, stay here. That is an order," Ellana commanded, her tone firm, though her voice carried the weight of something far more urgent than a simple mission.

Cassandra gritted her teeth, but pressed on. "But where are you going?" she demanded again, her frustration growing as they entered the stables. Ellana’s face was set, her jaw clenched with determination that Cassandra recognized all too well—it was the same look she wore when she was about to face a danger only she believed she could stop.

"I am headed to Crestwood," Ellana replied shortly, her words clipped, barely giving Cassandra a glance as rushing out of the great hall and towards the stables. Cassandra grunted in disapproval, her brows furrowing deeply as she watched Ellana ride off without another word, her red hart galloping away into the distance. The sight filled her with unease. Whatever was driving the Inquisitor, it wasn’t something Cassandra could ignore.

As Ellana disappeared into the horizon, Cassandra let out a slow breath, the tension coiled tightly in her chest. She had seen Ellana like this before—too determined, too willing to face something alone.

"I’m not letting her go off without protection," Cassandra muttered under her breath, her resolve hardening. She marched back into Skyhold with purposeful strides, her thoughts already racing. When she found Leliana in the war room, the spymaster raised a questioning brow.

"The Inquisitor has left for Crestwood," Cassandra said firmly, her voice low. "Send your spies to follow her—discreetly."

Leliana’s eyes sharpened, her expression unreadable. She gave a slow nod, already understanding the unspoken weight behind Cassandra’s words. "Consider it done," she replied, turning swiftly to make arrangements.

When Ellana arrived in Crestwood, the world around her had already been swallowed by darkness. The cool night air clung to her skin, and the soft rustling of leaves in the wind was the only sound that broke the stillness. Her heart raced as she dismounted her red hart and quickly made her way to the place where they had last been together, where the memory of their intimacy still lingered like a phantom touch.

But the clearing was empty. He wasn’t there.

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, trying to keep her voice steady even as frustration clawed at her chest. She stood still for a moment, her breath shallow, eyes scanning the empty space, as if he might suddenly appear from the shadows. But there was nothing. Just the cold wind and the aching silence that pressed in from all sides.

Her hands clenched into fists, trembling with the weight of her emotions. “He has to show,” she whispered, her voice shaking. Her mind raced, replaying their last moments together, the promises and the hope she had carried with her since his departure. “He has to!” she nearly screamed, the desperation in her voice echoing through the darkness.

She wanted to cry, the frustration burning in her throat, but she couldn’t—she wouldn’t. Not yet. There were still two more days. He had two more days, and she would wait.

Ellana paced restlessly, her mind a swirl of emotions—anger, longing, uncertainty. ‘What if he doesn’t come?’ she thought, her heart tightening with fear. But she shook her head, forcing the thought away. No. He would come. He had to.

She settled onto a rock, the tension in her body refusing to ease. The night stretched on around her, the stars glinting coldly above as she stared into the empty space before her, her thoughts filled with the man who would become the man she knows as Solas.

It was the last night she would wait. The last night she had allowed herself to cling to hope. Ellana had fashioned a makeshift bed out of dried leaves, the crackling of them under her weight a quiet reminder of how far she had come—rushing off with nothing but the clothes on her back and her staff in hand when they had returned to the present. She hadn’t even thought to pack supplies, her mind too consumed by the desperate need to see him again.

Now, as the final night stretched on, the air was bitterly cold. The dress she wore—still the one from the past—did little to shield her from the chill. She wrapped it tighter around her body, pulling the thin fabric close, trying to trap any warmth she could find. Her breath formed small clouds in the night air, the silence around her broken only by the occasional rustle of the trees.

She was tired—so tired. The weight of days spent waiting, hoping, had finally caught up to her, dragging her eyelids down like lead. The weariness seeped into her bones, and though she fought to stay alert, to stay awake in case he came, her body was betraying her.

The stars twinkled coldly above, indifferent to her struggle, and the ground beneath her was unforgiving. Ellana shifted slightly, trying to make herself comfortable on the bed of leaves, but the ache in her chest was far deeper than any discomfort of the earth beneath her. It was the ache of uncertainty, of hope slowly unraveling, fraying at the edges with every passing hour.

Her eyes fluttered shut, just for a moment. She told herself it was only to rest, only for a heartbeat, but the exhaustion was overwhelming. Her thoughts grew hazy, and the edges of her vision blurred as sleep began to pull her under. She fought it, gripping her staff tighter in her hands, but the fatigue was winning.

As her body gave in, Ellana felt a final pang of frustration—why hasn’t he come?—before sleep began to claim her, wrapping her in its heavy embrace. The last flicker of consciousness clung to the hope that when she woke, he would be there, waiting for her.

But the silence of the night remained unbroken, and as her eyes drifted shut, the darkness closed in around her.

The sharp snap of a twig jolted Ellana from her half-sleep, her heart racing as her eyes flew open. Panic surged through her, the cold air biting at her skin as she scrambled to sit up, her fingers instinctively tightening around her staff.

She turned sharply toward the sound, and what she saw froze the breath in her lungs.

Behind her stood an enormous black wolf—the Dread Wolf—its size rivaling that of a horse. The creature's coat gleamed in the pale moonlight, but it was the eyes—six abnormally large, glowing red eyes—that held her paralyzed with fear and disbelief. They gleamed like burning embers, fixated on her with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine.

“Solas?” Her voice cracked, barely more than a whisper, as the recognition clawed its way out of her chest. It couldn’t be. Not like this.

The wolf, towering and silent, lowered its head toward her. There was a moment of stillness, an unbearable weight hanging in the air, before a swirling bright light enveloped the beast. The blinding glow twisted and spiraled around its form, and as the light slowly faded, the wolf was gone.

In its place stood Solas.

He didn’t meet her eyes. His posture was tense, his face shadowed with regret, as he stood before her, not the man she had known, but something far more powerful. Something ancient, something dangerous. He didn’t move. He simply stood there, his gaze fixed on the ground as if the weight of the moment was too much for even him to bear.

“That was not…this is not…” His voice was barely audible, and when he finally spoke, it was laced with a quiet sadness, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “This is not how you were meant to find out.”

His words hung in the night air, sharp and heavy, but he still wouldn’t look at her. His presence—the same man she had loved, the same face, yet somehow entirely different—was overwhelming. The quiet dignity he once carried now felt like the gravity of something ancient, something burdened with centuries of secrets.

Ellana’s heart pounded, her mind racing to make sense of what she had just witnessed. The truth that had always lingered at the edges of her awareness had finally revealed itself, and yet standing before it, she found herself unsure of what to feel—shock, disbelief, or the ache of betrayal that had been simmering inside her for so long.

“Solas…” she whispered again, her voice trembling, the name foreign on her tongue in this new reality.

"You lied. You lied about everything!" Ellana’s voice cracked as the words tore out of her, her fists clenched tight, shaking with rage and hurt. Tears streamed down her face, hot and uncontrollable, as the weight of his deception crashed over her like a wave. She had held onto hope, onto the man she thought she knew, but now that hope was unraveling before her eyes.

Solas shook his head, his expression filled with a regret that only deepened the ache in her chest. “I am Solas,” he said softly, though his voice trembled with the burden of his truth. “I was Solas long before I became Fen'harel.” His tone sharpened as he continued, a bitter edge creeping into his words. “And even if I had told you the truth… would you have believed me? Or would you have clung to your legends that paint me as a monster?” His voice broke, filled with anger and hurt, his frustration palpable.

Ellana’s breath hitched, her sobs rising in her throat. “I would have had you trust me,” she cried, her words shaking with the intensity of her pain.

There was a silence between them, heavy and suffocating, before she heard the soft shuffle of his feet as he moved closer. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, not yet. But he was near—closer than he had been since the truth unraveled.

“Ir abelas, ma vhenan,” he whispered, the words thick with sorrow. His voice was gentle now, the anger and bitterness fading into something raw, something regretful. Slowly, he reached for her hands, his touch soft but hesitant, as if he feared she might pull away.

In her hands, he placed the golden mask—the very one she had worn in the past, a thousand years ago, when they had danced, when the world between them had been far less complicated. The weight of it felt heavy, like a symbol of everything they had lost.

Ellana stared at the mask, her breath catching in her throat. “You kept this?” Ellana sniffled, her voice wavering as a small, sorrowful smile tugged at her lips. She held the golden mask in her hands, the weight of it both comforting and painful, a reminder of what once was. Her eyes, red with tears, shifted to Solas, searching his face for answers.

“I deserve an explanation,” she whispered, her voice barely holding together as she tightened her grip on the mask. Her knuckles turned white as the weight of everything—his lies, her feelings, the shattered trust—pressed down on her.

“You do,” Solas replied plainly, his voice carrying the deep, steady cadence of a being who had lived too many lifetimes. Before she could react, he stepped forward, gently pulling her into his arms. The warmth of his embrace contrasted with the cold air around them, and for a moment, despite everything, she allowed herself to melt into it.

“Perhaps,” he continued softly, his hand brushing through her hair, “you should have changed before rushing here, ma vhenan. You’re wearing an antique, after all.” His voice held a gentle quip, a flicker of the humor he once shared with her. His attempt to lighten the moment was subtle, but it didn’t go unnoticed.

Ellana let out a quiet snort, her tears subsiding as she managed to let out a half-laugh. “You’re an antique,” she replied, her voice still thick with emotion, but now tinged with a sliver of amusement. It was a brief, fleeting moment of their old dynamic—a glimpse of what they had been before everything had spiraled out of control.

Solas smiled. He tightened his arms around her for a beat longer, as if he, too, was holding onto the past in the same way she clutched the mask. His hand rested gently on her back, the movement soothing, though the enormity of everything that lay between them remained.

“That is not inaccurate,” Solas chuckled softly, the sound low and familiar. He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead, a gesture that was both comforting and bittersweet. The warmth of it spread through Ellana, grounding her in the moment as if they were the only two people in the world.

She looked up at him, her heart aching as she lifted a trembling hand to his face. Her fingers traced the sharp lines of his high cheekbones, the curve of his nose—features she had memorized long ago, back when things had been simpler. “Don’t leave again,” she whispered, her voice breaking with the weight of her plea. “Please, don’t.”

Her fingers lingered on his face, as if by touching him, she could anchor him to her, keep him from disappearing into the shadows of the world he had once vowed to leave behind. The ache in her chest was overwhelming, the thought of losing him again unbearable.

Solas’s expression softened, and he gently took her hand into his own. His lips brushed against the tip of her finger in a gesture both intimate and filled with unspoken emotion. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he leaned in and kissed her. It wasn’t hurried, nor desperate—it was soft, aching, as if pouring everything he could not say into the touch of his lips against hers.

Ellana’s breath hitched, her body melting into his for a moment. She let herself get lost in the kiss, her hands gently resting against his chest. But then she pulled back, her breath heavy, her heart pounding. Her fingers lingered against his chest as she looked up at him, her eyes searching his.

“There is a time for that later,” she whispered, her voice breathless, but firm. “You have a lot to tell me, Solas.”

Solas’s gaze darkened slightly, the weight of what she said pulling at the fragile moment they shared. His expression, though still tender, now carried the shadow of the burdens he had carried for so long. The truth that had been hidden, the stories untold—everything that he had kept from her.

He stared down at her, his expression shifting as the weight of his thoughts consumed him. His stormy blue eyes, once filled with fire and defiance, softened as they searched her face, as if trying to commit every detail to memory. The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken truths, before a small, almost reluctant smile formed on his lips.

Without a word, he gently pulled her down beside him, drawing her close until her head rested against his chest. The warmth of his body wrapped around her, and for a moment, Ellana allowed herself to feel the comfort of being in his arms again, despite everything that lay between them.

He let out a deep sigh, his hand gently stroking her hair as he began to speak, his voice low and steady. Ellana remained silent, listening intently as he unfolded the story that had been hidden from her for so long.

He spoke of his past, of the ancient world she had glimpsed, the time when he was both Solas and Fen’harel—two identities that had collided into one. He told her about the Elvhen, the world as it had been before the Veil, and the power that had once been theirs. His voice was calm, but heavy with sorrow as he described the actions he had taken to tear down the thrones of the gods, to break the chains of his people.

He paused briefly, his fingers tracing idle patterns against her arm, before continuing. He spoke of the Veil, the great barrier that separated the waking world from the Fade, and of the orb—the artifact he had created, the one that had fallen into Corypheus’s hands. The consequences of that loss still weighed on him, an invisible burden that she could sense in every word he spoke.

His voice wavered slightly as he explained the future he envisioned—the removal of the Veil, the restoration of what once was. "I intend to bring it down," he said quietly, his voice filled with a quiet determination. "To restore what the world lost when I created the Veil.”

Ellana’s heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing as she tried to process everything he was telling her. The removal of the Veil—the destruction it could bring, the chaos it could unleash on the world. She had known his plan, in theory, but hearing him speak of it so plainly, with such conviction, made it feel all the more real. All the more dangerous.

She pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. His face was etched with regret, but there was also a resolve in his eyes that she couldn’t ignore.

"That’s your future?" she asked softly, her voice filled with a mixture of fear and sorrow. "Destroying the Veil... regardless of the cost?"

Solas looked down at her, his hand still resting gently on her back. He nodded, his expression grave. "It is the only way to restore what was lost," he murmured. "But it comes with a cost. One I do not expect you to agree with."

Ellana’s heart twisted painfully in her chest. She had feared this, had known it, deep down. But now that it was out in the open, spoken aloud between them, it felt like a chasm that could never be crossed. And yet, there was still that part of her that ached for him, that longed to change his mind.

But another part of her—the part that had always admired his vision, his drive, and the way he saw the world—agreedwith his plan.

As she rested against his chest, Ellana could feel the weight of her conflicting emotions pressing in on her. On one hand, the thought of tearing down the Veil, of unleashing chaos on the world she had fought so hard to protect, filled her with dread. She had spent years as the Inquisitor, saving Thedas from destruction, guiding people to safety, mending the fractures of a broken world. How could she now stand by and support something that could destroy it all?

And yet, there was another side to her, one that resonated deeply with Solas’s vision. His words—his determination to restore what had been lost, to bring their people back to the greatness they had once known—stirred something inside her. She had seen glimpses of that ancient world, felt the raw power of the Elvhen, the freedom and beauty that had been stripped away when the Veil was erected. She could understand why he wanted to restore it, why he believed it was the only way forward.

She could feel the tension building in her chest, the pull between her sense of duty to Thedas and the longing to see the world as it could be—a world without the Veil, without the barriers that had divided them from the Fade, from magic, from what was once a rich and vibrant existence. There was a small, dangerous part of her that wanted to see it happen, that needed to know what that world could be like.

Ellana pulled back slightly, lifting her gaze to meet Solas’s face. His expression was unreadable at first, but as their eyes locked, she saw it—the deep well of regret, the weight of centuries etched into his features. He was quiet, waiting, his breath still as though anticipating her next words, her judgment, as if bracing himself for her to tell him he was wrong. His eyes, stormy and filled with sadness, seemed to plead with her without uttering a word.

For a moment, Ellana hesitated. She could feel the tension in her chest, the pounding of her heart as her mind raced. The man she loved—the man who had lied to her, who had hidden so much—was asking her to understand.

But he did not ask her to walk beside him in a plan that could tear the world apart. Yet, as she laid there, with her back resting against his chest, she couldn’t deny the pull. The vision he spoke of, the restoration of what was lost, it stirred something deep inside her. Something that couldn’t be silenced.

She took a slow breath, steadying herself, feeling the gravity of the choice she was about to make. Her fingers tightened slightly against the fabric of his robes as she looked up into his eyes, her voice low but steady.

“What do we need to do?” she asked.

[dragon--sage]

WIP Whenever

tagged by @fadedsweater FOREVER ago but i am just now feeling like i have a grip on this not-so-cute meet cute i have devised for my latest untitled WIP (modern au, parisy val royeaux, magical elements bc i can't restrain myself) that has taken up all my daydreams lately. ANYWAYS tl;dr here is a little peak behind the veil. thank you for tagging me sweater!!! ✨

i'm tagging anyone else who'd like to share something they're working on because i LOVE to see it, and appreciate being tagged but overthink and fret over who else to tag! :')

“You are Dalish,” Solas said, as Ellana stepped into the weak moonlight filtering through the windows, and he made out her vallaslin for the first time. The word, on his sharp and admittedly honeyed tongue, came just shy of an insult. His eyes raked over her face and a look of cool dismissal instantly fell over his own.

“What’s the matter, allergic to halla?” She quipped back, crossing her arms over her chest and quirking her head to the side.

“The Dalish are as children, clinging to false memories of a long-forgotten past,” He snapped immediately, the accusation so practiced it was as if he’d uttered this exact sentence several hundred times before.

Sweet Sylaise—what an insufferable know-it-all, she thought.

“Oh, but you know the truth, right?” Ellana countered—voice acidic, mocking.

The degree of condescension in her voice was a bit shocking, even to her.

(How much and how quickly she had been riled, how easy it had been for him…)

His brow quirked and he smirked at the challenge in her response, apparently amused by her consternation. She fought an epic and nigh impossible battle to keep her frustration from showing on her face.

“I have seen things they—you—have not,” He said simply, with a small shrug.

“Oh, well that clears everything up. Thank you for sharing your infinite wisdom, hahren.”

“Felassan!” Solas snapped, eyes cutting from Ellana to the Slow Arrow. Felassan, having been examining an old satin curtain that framed one of the room’s many windows between his pointer finger and thumb, abruptly dropped it, straightening to his full height.

“Hm?” Came his eventual reply, after he’d cleared his throat. The moonlight filtering through the dusty windowpane glinted starkly against his pale skin and flashed in his violet eyes.

“Are you trying to be funny?” Solas lapsed into elvish (perhaps this was a habit of his, when he was feeling particularly peevish).

“Well, if I am, I’m not trying hard enough, am I?” Felassan shot back with a glare. He stepped closer, motioning to Lavellan as he went. “I bring you our best potential recruit in ages and this is the thanks I get?” He had switched back to Common, though Ellana understood their elvish well enough.

(Yet even while she understood them, there was something distinctly different about the way they spoke it that struck her—the pronunciations and emphases different from any she’d come across, even having met elves from Dalish clans all over Thedas in her twenty-nine years.)

They moved closer and lowered their voices, and spoke so quickly she could no longer make out what they were saying.

Suddenly, Solas stepped away from Felassan and looked at her. His eyes darkened and narrowed, just for the slightest instant, and then he smirked.

“Fine,” He said coolly. “As a first test: you are welcome in our city safehouse.” A pause. A moment’s silence to appreciate that, of course, there would be a catch. “If you can find it.” His smugness indicated that he believed he’d just given Ellana an impossible task.

Felassan gave a loud, indignant huff of breath, and made as if to speak, but Solas pointed an accusatory finger in his direction.

“No help,” Said Solas, interrupting whatever Felassan was going to say.

The Slow Arrow rolled his eyes and waved him off.

Solas looked at Ellana again. “The only hint I’ll allow you is this: numbers here mean nothing, the crowd is lonely.”

He turned from the window and headed towards the door Felassan had pulled her through earlier, the one that led to the back stairwell. Just before he disappeared into the mess of props that obscured the exit from view, Solas half turned, looking back at them over his shoulder.

“It was a pleasure, Ellana.”

The finality in his voice made the statement sound like a less-than-fond farewell. He turned away and continued out of sight. Then, the sound of a door opening and closing echoed sharply through the room.

“Bastard,” Ellana breathed, glaring in the direction Solas had gone. Her eyes cut to Felassan, widening in frustration and disbelief.

“Talks like a villain from a period drama on the OPB and dresses like a disgraced librarian living full-time out of his van with three feral cats! And has the never to treat someone like that? Who the fuck does he think he is?”

Once she began to complain it was difficult to stop.

Felassan shrugged, brows knitting apologetically, as if he had no idea how to answer the question.  

“If it makes you feel any better,” He said, after a long, slightly uncomfortable silence, “I actually think that could have gone much worse.”

[thechildofmythal]

It’s been a while so I decided to have Ellana Lavellan wake up with a mark on her hand and no memory of where she got it from or how she ended up in a prison cell.

Hold on to your fur mantle, Cullen, we’re coming for you!