#every servant of mythal reminding him of what he was. what he did. what he regrets.

[pinacoladamatata]

wait.....

[redinkofshame]

Arranged Marriage

Hipster AU did not spark joy, so I used the Arranged Marriage joker for day 3 of the @augustwritingchallenge. This is probably the last one I’ll do, unless I also do an arranged marriage for Cedric/Cassandra. It’s also my favorite one :D

The evanuris have survived to the dragon age, Fen'Harel included amongst them. In order to make peace with the free clans of elves a marriage is arranged between the Trickster and one of their own. Like all of Solas' plans, it goes awry.

1882 words, mature for smexiness but no actual hanky panky. Read on AO3

Wedding Night

“You still intend to go through with this, then?” Mythal asked.

Fen’Harel sighed, eyeing her reflection from where he stood surrounded by attendants. They made last minute adjustments to his wedding vestiments, buffed his nails, applied cosmetics. “I gave my word, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but even you must admit you have a proclivity for… last minute ‘tricks’. We must make peace with the free clans—”

“Easiest done with a marriage, and I am the only one amongst us who is yet unmarried, yes, I know,” he said, biting his tongue. He knew better than the rest of them how important this was; they continued to underestimated the power of the free clans.

“It’s merely surprising that you haven’t proposed some other crazy solution to avoid being tamed. You’ve been the lone wolf, all alone all these ages…”

He shooed away his attendants and sunk into the nearest chair. His hair dresser immediately made her move, beginning the bothersome process of brushing, curling, and braiding. An annoyance. A necessity. Long hair; the status symbol of a spoiled man who, supposedly, knew nothing of hard work, nor manual labor. No more a threat than a bunch of unaligned clans who could scarcely produce mages.

That is, of course, until he used this marriage to forge an alliance with his spouse’s people. The final key to in his plot to take down the Evanuris once and for all.

“All good things must come to an end,” he said with feigned disinterest. “Remind me the name of who I’m to wed again? That man from the garden with the curly hair?”

Mythal gave him a scathingly admonishing look. “Really, Fen, the least you could do is remember your intended’s name.” She kept up the look for another moment but when he gave no response she simply sighed. “You’re thinking of the ambassador they sent to announce that your bride was chosen by vote of the free clans at Arlathven.”

“She is important to them, then? A powerful mage?” he asked hopefully.

Mythal snorted. “Hardly. They say she has some skill with the arcane, but she’s better known for her sewing— no, embroidery.” He grunted in disappointment and she continued, almost to herself. “She’s no particular beauty, either. I can’t image she’s the best they’ve got to offer. Frankly, I’m tempted to take offense at the offering, but we already granted them permission to choose for themselves…”

He waved his hand dismissively. “It hardly matters what she looks like, so long as they care for her enough to lay down their arms.”

“I suppose. Her name is Keria, by the way, of Lavellan’s clan. Do try to remember it during the ceremony.” He felt her eyes on him, but kept his head bowed as his hair was adorned with golden toggles. “You know that you will have to gift her with her vallaslin during the ceremony as well.”

“Of course.”

Mythal stepped closer and lowered her voice. “A true vallaslin, Fen’Harel.”

The girl working his hair froze. He didn’t have to look at her to know that she, as all his servants, his “slaves”, wore a convincing imitation of his vallaslin on her face. He’d marked each of them with enough magic to keep them safe from the others, but it held none of the controlling or manipulation that a true vallaslin held.

He saw to it that his people followed him voluntarily, not due to fear or power. Many of them were agents of his grand plan playing a role until it was time to strike at the heart of their oppressors.

None of which Mythal was supposed to know, of course.

He met her eyes. “I understand.”

She held his gaze for a long moment, a silent threat, gauging his sincerity. At last, she nodded.

~~~~~

He remembered the name, of course, the ceremony lines, and the spell to apply a proper vallaslin to her pale face in front of everyone. Mythal’s assessment had been harsh — she was pretty enough. Her unruly black hair was short, of course, as was her place. He supposed she would grow it out, now. Her eyes were a shockingly bright blue, when he could get a good look at them, but she largely kept them averted. Her gown was a work of art. The cut of it was common enough, classic, but every inch of it was covered in painstaking embroidery. Her doing?

Not that her beauty mattered; he cared only whether or not she would become his willing ally in their fight, or if he’d have to use her new position as leverage. He’d expected her to fear him as the clans always did — with good reason. He was Mythal’s general, the attack dog she released whenever they stepped out of line or needed to be taught a lesson. At first he thought her unwillingness to meet his eyes was because she was afraid, or worse, because she loathed him. He would not hold it against her.

Surprisingly it was shy glances and flustered smiles he was met with. A blushing bride indeed.

The day was filled with much pomp and posturing, dancing and music and feasting and well-wishers and veiled insults and vague threats. Elgar’nan and the others were jumpy, so certain he was going to ruin this for them that they never considered it had been his idea to begin with. It was many hours before he and his new wife were able to retreat to his suite.

Or ‘their’ suite, he supposed, though he’d happily grant her separate chambers if she requested it. His rooms were plenty large enough for the two of them, but he didn’t relish the loss of this ability to move freely.

He left her for a moment upon entering to get familiar with the space as he stepped into the dressing chamber. He sighed in the relative privacy.

It was fortunate that Keria seemed to be a willing — perhaps eager — partner in this charade, but thus far she seemed too timid of a girl to bring honestly into his machinations. It would take some time to discern best how to proceed from here. In the mean time it was his wedding night…

He was certainly willing to bed her, but he would not press the issue. They needed to discuss rules and freedoms, what would be asked of her and what would not. What she could ask of him. He striped out of his vestiments and pulled on a pair of simple sleep pants. He did not bother with a shirt. He stepped back into the room.

“I think we should discuss our expectations…” He tailed off, not seeing her immediately. He found her in the dimly lit bedchamber, sitting on her heels at the end of the oversized bed, sheets pooling around her hips. She was naked except for the sash from her wedding gown tied loosely about her waist. When she saw him enter she raised to her knees, spread wide, and the blanket fell from her lap, exposing her fully. Her teasing smile beckoned him closer.

Well, then.

All thoughts of planning left him as his blood spiked, and he went to her. He stopped when he stood at the edge of the bed, inches from her, and pointedly looked her offering up and down. He reevaluated his own underestimation of her beauty.

“Lovely…” he murmured. His hand dropped and she arched her back in anticipation, her nipples tight, but it was the tail of the embroidered sash he took. “Did you make it yourself?”

To his surprise he laughed and shoved him playfully, illiciting a snort from him. “I did, in fact.” He ran his thumb over the intricate stitches and she shifted her weight nervously. “Do you, um, know a lot about embroidery?”  

“I don’t know much of the textile arts, I’m afraid,” he admitted, letting the silk slip through his fingers. “Perhaps you could teach me.”

She smiled coquettishly. “Oh, there’s a great deal I could teach you, Fen’Harel.” She sensually unknotted the sash.

He forced his eyes up to hers, determined to seem unaffected. “And here I thought I was wed to someone sweet and innocent.”

“Sweet? Sometimes. But innocent?” Keria flipped the sash up and over his head, where it settled like a scarf. “Certainly not.”

She tugged the ends of the sash and pulled him in for a kiss and he went easily, intrigued by this woman. He felt the brush of her lips but didn’t realize in time that she whispered an incantation, though his eyes flickered open just in time to see the hidden runes among the embroidered flowers light up, paralyzing him instantly. Her hand dashed beneath the covers and came up with a dagger that she plunged towards his chest.

The vallaslin on her face lit up as he activated it and staggered back, spell broken. She was frozen in place, mid-strike. His heart hammered in his chest in a way it hadn’t in decades, a mortal danger he rarely faced unwittingly.

No mortal blade could hurt him, but she would know that. Still shaken, he wrenched the dagger from her hand, careful not to nick either of them as she grunted, struggling to break free. He appraised the weapon, recognizing it easily even without the ravens in the hilt. It indeed would have been able to kill him, and was undoubtedly coated in enough poison to finish the job even if her aim ad been off. Smart.

“Dirthamen sent you, then?”

She still fought her bindings. He released her just enough that she could answer his question. “Yes.”

He tilted his head. She’d answered too quickly. He could see her tells, now that he knew what she really was. “A lie. Interesting. I’m only supposed to believe it was him.”

“You’re supposed to be dead,” snarled his darling wife.

“Ah, a fair point. Me, murdered on my wedding night, and Dirthamen to blame. To what end?” She answered by spitting at him and he paced as he thought it over, able to see how it would have played out — Mythal would exact justice before Elgar’nan could stop her, and Dirthamen’s twin would retaliate. The rest of the evanuris would choose sides. War, distrust, ample opportunity for more little assassinations.

A simple enough plan. One that damn near worked.

He lifted the dagger and it hovered in the air between them. With a twist of his hand he rendered the shining, poisonous thing inert, watching as it turned dull and clattered uselessly to the floor.

Keria looked like she was ready to tear him apart with her teeth instead. “It doesn’t matter what you do with me,” she growled. “Others will succeed where I have failed. You cannot stop us all! Your days are numbered, Dread Wolf — you and every other evil, murderous, slaving evanuris!”

Wordlessly he walked to a wardrobe, feeling her eyes following him as she waited for him to strike her down. How much of her shaking was from anger, he wondered, and how much from fear?

He pulled out a dressing robe and turned back to his bride, every inch of her radiating defiance despite the hold he still had on her.

He tossed her the robe. “Get dressed, vhenan. We need to talk.”

[in-arlathan]

Chapter One | Read on AO3

Here’s chapter two of that Solas novella. More author notes at the end of the chapter. For summary and tags, please go back to chapter one. Enjoy! <3 ____

Chapter Two: What Lies Beyond

Solas didn’t look back when he exited the council chamber. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back, his chin raised high and walked all the way back to Mythal’s estate in fast strides. Neither did he care for the hundreds upon hundreds of people who had come to hear the news from the Hahren’al outside the palace, nor did he answer any of their questions. He simply walked and the crowd parted before him like the sea.

To them, he must look proud and confident, but that was not what he felt. His thoughts raced, as unrest settled in his guts. There was much more going on here than the Evanuris had revealed to him. He was sure of it. Yet, he needed more information before he could solve the riddle. And for that, he needed a place of peace and quiet, far away from the eyes of curious elvhen.

Luckily, he knew where he could find such a place.

Centuries ago, Mythal had granted him accommodations within all of her estates in Elvhenan, including the temple the elvhen had erected in her honor at the center of Arlathan. The edifice was nothing short of an architectural wonder, rising high above any of the other buildings within the city. In its middle stood a large stone tower, decked with intricate reliefs of Mythal’s war against the Titans that seemed to touch the very heavens. Around it, crystalline structures grew on the stone, interlaced with lush greenery and myriads of glowing flowers. 

His chambers were high up in the tower, though not on the top level. These were reserved for the All-Mother herself and served as her personal sanctuary. From her rooms, she could look far and wide, taking in all of Arlathan and the vast world beyond the floating city. Solas had been summoned to a private meeting with her in her chambers on more than one occasion and tried to replicate the marvelous view in more than one of his paintings. It went without saying that he failed miserably. The beauty of Elvhenan was too much to behold, too much to be captured in one image.

In the temple’s atrium, he was greeted by many of the spirits in service to Mythal. In fact, the All-Mother only had a handful of elvhen servants, including himself. Unlike the high keepers and priests that had sworn themselves to Dirthamen, Falon’Din and the rest of the Evanuris, Mythal’s servants had devoted themselves willingly to her and therefore enjoyed her unwavering trust. They worked side-by-side with the spirits, offering help and seeking guidance every now and then. It was a reminder of their shared past. One of the many reasons why Solas had been loyal to Mythal all these years. She had never forgotten that spirits and elvhen were, in fact, the two sides of the same coin.

“Welcome home,” a spirit of diligence said as it passed him. “We have missed you.”

Solas couldn't help but smile. “And I have missed you. All of you.”

Diligence let out a soft chuckle. “I will tell the others. They will be pleased.”

“Could I ask a favor of you, my friend?”

“How may I help you?”

“I will retire to my chambers,” he explained. “I do not wish to be disturbed until I awake from the Beyond. Could you arrange that?”

“Of course,” the spirit replied. “We will make sure that you will be left in peace.”

“Thank you,” he said, still smiling. He had almost forgotten who good the company of spirits felt. They listened without judgment. They were pure that way. 

If he could only be one of them again…

He bid the spirit goodbye and turned towards the one eluvian in the atrium. It was a gateway to another chamber within the tower and was open to any elvhen who entered the palace. Solas sighed and stepped through, passing through the realm of the Crossroads in a heartbeat. Then, he found himself in the Hall of Travels at the heart of the tower, though he had to admit it was a large corridor rather than a hall. Eluvians of various shapes and sizes had been erected to both sides, anchored in the stone walls of the tower with works of gold and greenery. Some let to far-flung corners of Elvhenan, others allowed him to move freely within the tower. The only thing required was to know which key to use.

He turned towards one of the smaller eluvians and reached out to the Beyond. In an instant, he felt its warm energy flooding through him. With his mind, he redirected it towards the eluvian and released it. The magic manifested in a gust of blue smoke streaming towards the eluvian, unlocking it. Light rippled across the mirror’s surface, welcoming him home just like the spirits had before.

Solas stepped through the eluvian and, a moment later, found himself back in his private chambers and the eluvian went dark once more. 

His chambers included a main room with an array of chairs and a couch at the center where he could receive guests as well as two seperate rooms for his personal conveniences. One served as his bedroom, the other for grooming and body care. 

At night, all of the rooms were lit by floating motes that gave off a soft green glow that reminded him of the Beyond. During the day, however, natural light streamed into the chambers through high stained-glass windows showcasing some of Mythal’s magic wonders – like her conjuring of the second moon to light the Darkest Days at the beginning of the world. Beyond that, vines climbed the stone walls, covering large parts of the windows.

By the position of the sun in the sky, Solas knew the day was about the end. The sun had already begun to set, its glowing beams peeking through the vines and illuminating the stained glass windows. Entering the grooming chamber, he started to undress. For the meeting with the Evanuris, he had changed from his dirt-soaked traveling clothes into a floating robe of green silk embroidered with elvhen writing. Though most elvhen were comfortable in this type of dress, Solas always felt more at ease wearing simpler clothing. 

He dropped the robes by the side of the washbasin and conjured new water from the Beyond to clean himself. He cupped his hands and filled them with water, then splashed the cold liquid on his face and neck. Letting out a sigh of relief, he leaned over the basin and rubbed his neck and shoulders. 

Solas knew he needed to learn more about the threat in the south before he embarked on his journey. But it wouldn’t be easy. The creature had been but a shadow and most elvhen tried not to notice it. They were too horrified by what happened to their brothers and sisters and would rather not speak of it. When Solas tried to ask them about what they had seen, they had responded in anger or had pushed him away. He couldn’t blame them. They were afraid of something they didn’t understand. 

Of course, Solas had pondered with the idea of entering the Beyond then and there, in an attempt to learn more, but the elvhen were in dire need of his help. There had been no time to enter the World of Dreams.

The only hope he had left was that maybe valor the elvhen who had fought against this dark creature had captured the attention of nearby spirits. Maybe they could help him learn more about this threat.

He cursed under his breath. It would have been easier to contact these spirits while he was in the area physically. This far away north, it would be much harder to reach out the them. But he didn’t not have the time to go back and enter the Beyond there. He would have to do it here, where he was safe. He had to try, at least. 

After he had cleaned himself, Solas changed into a set of light-brown leggings and a long flowing tunic. He kept his hair in a long braid on the top of his head, with both sides of his head shaved clean, but used magic to make it dry within a few heartbeats. 

Bare-footed, he walked across the main chamber and entered the bedroom on the other side. The room was almost empty, except for a large bed that could hold two or three people at the same time. Someone had changed the sheets for him and had lit incense of the nightstand. The familiar smell of herbs made him relax almost instantly. 

“Let’s see what we can find,” he said to himself, drawing back the linen sheets.

***

Being in the Beyond always gave him comfort. There he felt welcome, free of all bonds of physical existence. He could go wherever he wanted to seek knowledge and wisdom, far away from anyone who might keep him from it. 

Also, the Beyond lacked the presence of the Evanuris. 

Despite the fact that the elvhen gods called it home, they seldom walked the Dreaming World anymore. They were more concerned with the matters of the Waking World in which they could bend and bind everything and everyone to their will. In their lust for power, they had all but forgotten where they had come from.

Maybe that is why they had to send him, he wondered. Because he didn’t turn his eyes away from the Beyond like they had.

If it hadn’t been for Mythal, he would still be a spirit, walking freely among his brethren. He would give advice to anyone who wished to hear, and he would learn more about the world, gaining knowledge beyond the comprehension of the elvhen. But the All-Mother had called for his help in the Waking World. Unable to refuse her, he had become Solas, her servant, and had stayed with her ever since, marveling at her insight and thoughtfulness, while she relied on him for guidance.

He entered the Beyond in a place of rare beauty, lush and full of life. The area reminded him of the rainforests underneath Arlathan, with little details that seemed slightly off. Neither did he hear birdsong, nor the rustling of leaves as the wind brushed through the canopy. Instead, he heard a soft hum, the remnants of the ancient magic that had created this place.

While he walked through the woods, he saw spirits of love and compassion that tended to the trees and sang to the flowers that had all but started to grow on its branches. Spirits of hunger picked up the fruit that had fallen from the trees and shared it with each other. Solas knew they were acting out a play, emulating the life of the elvhen, but he envied them anyway.

For hours, he wandered the forest until he finally reached its borders. Beyond lay wide open plains full of ghostly grass. He looked up and raised one hand to protect his eyes from the gleaming sunlight. Unlike the spirits who formed as a reflection of the elvhen and their desires, the sun of the Beyond and the sun of the Waking World were the same thing. It encircled all states of existence, allowing both spirits and elvhen to drawn from its power. That was how Elgar’nan first learned to take on a physical form. In studying the sun, he had found a way to manifest his dreaming self in the Waking World, proclaiming himself the son of the sun and ruler over all of creation.

Solas turned his gaze to the south and squinted. Was there a streak of darkness dimming the light on the horizon or was he just making that up?

His head began to hurt and he turned away, Sighing deeply, Solas pressed his hands against his forehead. Once again, he wished he had stayed a spirit. In his spiritual form, he could have journeyed into the deepest parts of the Beyond without difficulty. He could make the journey to the southern regions to investigate in a heartbeat and carry that knowledge with him. But he was bound in his physical form, like all other elvhen. It was the price each of them paid for their ability to reshape reality. 

What must I do?, he thought.

That is when the spirit found him. 

“What is it, you are looking for, wanderer?”

Its voice was deep as thunder and older than any voice he had ever heard before. 

Solas turned in surprise and found a spirit of knowledge sitting on the trunk of a tree that had fallen by the edge of the forest. The spirit reminded him of those who worked as Archivists at the Vir Dirthara. But this one was an old woman compared to Ghil Dirthalen. He noticed wrinkles around its eyes and mouth. Even the ghostly skin looked weatherbeaten. It reminded him off…

Was this someone speaking to him from uthenara?

He knew that some of the elders had chosen to enter the eternal dream after the war with the Titans. Their bodies resided in the Waking World, while their spirit drew sustenance from the Beyond itself. He had visited one of the temples dedicated to the dreamers in uthenara when he was younger, learning everything he could about the eternal dream. Those who were able to reconnect the spirit with the Beyond had looked young and beautiful, much like the elvhen that walked the streets of Arlathan. Only those who failed to move onto this new state of existence withered away and died, despite the infusion of herbs they received to strengthen their connection to the Beyond. When he had tried to find them in the Beyond, he would never find them. It seemed like their spirits simply faded away, leaving nothing but an empty shell behind.

A cold shiver worked its way down his spine. It was much like what he had witnessed in the south.

“I’m looking for answers,” he told the spirit, or whatever it was. “Who are you?”

“You may call me Ghil Din’an,” the spirit said. 

“Andaran antish’an.”  Solas bowed slightly. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

The spirit cackled. “We’ll see about that,” it replied. “So, you are looking for answers. To what questions?”

“The first one should be obvious,” Solas said and gestured towards the spirit. “Who are you? Why do you chose to look like that?”

The spirit tilted its head ever so slightly. “That are two questions at once, my elvhen friend,” it said in a tone of amusement. “But I’ll answer as best I can. Come, sit with me.”

Reluctantly, Solas sat beside the spirit on the tree trunk. 

“I am the spirit that guides those who seek death for I know it intimately,” it told him. “Many centuries ago, back when Elvhenan was still young, I was a skilled officer under Mythal’s command. I aided her in her quest for power. But when we slew the mighty Titan in her name, I felt regret for what we had done. I became weary of this world, knowing that I should have known better than to challenge the forces of nature. I entered uthenara in the hopes of finding peace in the eternal dream, and when I came back to the Beyond, I chose this spiritual form as a warning.”

“A warning?”

“Yes,” the spirit confirmed. “To warn others to mind the paths they walk, for there is no knowing what might become of them, if they are not careful.”

Solas swallowed, hard.

“I understand,” he said, although he felt like he didn’t. Not truly.

There is always more to learn , he reminded himself. 

“Have you heard about the darkness in the south?” Solas asked.

“Indeed, I have. Its doings ripple through the skies and threaten to tear this world apart.”

That doesn’t sound good.

“Do you know what it is?”

His heart sank, as the spirit shook his head. “No, sadly,” it said. “I never encountered it myself, but there were other spirits who fled from the south because of it who told me about the terrible things it did. They came to me to know if they were going to wither away like I had. They were terrified. ‘It tried to consume us’ they told me. ‘Now it is eating the elvhen alive. What should we do?’”

“So, the creature attacked the spirits first ,” Solas said, perplexed. “Why didn’t the elvhen know about this?”

“We believed it would be enough to stay away from the creature, to starve it until it disappears from our realm. We didn’t think it would turn to your kind. Besides, we spirits do like to keep to some things ourselves,” Ghil Din’an told him with a warm smile on its lips. 

“Yet, I wish you would have come to me,” Solas said sourly. “I could have offered you help.”

“And what would you do for us, I wonder,” the spirit mused. “With your physical body, you can no longer go where this creature came from. If you want to end its life, you have to remove it from the Beyond and drag it to the Waking World in its entirety. Only there, in our own reality, you will be able to face it and stand victorious.”

Solas blinked. “How do you know that I want to kill the creature?”

“I am a spirit of knowledge, my elvhen friend. That is my essence, my purpose. I look at you and I know what is on your mind. I hear you speak and I know what troubles your heart. That is why I have come here. To help you find your way. And to save your life, if I can.”

“So, you knew what I wanted to learn, all along?”

Ghil Din’an wiggled its head. “It was an educated guess.”

Solas felt his jaws go tense. “And what happens if I bring the creature to the Waking World?” he asked. 

The spirit shrugged.

“So, you don’t know? A spirit who claims to know everything?”

“I did not say that I know everything,” Ghil Din’an corrected him. “That is something you assumed. Besides, how should I know what will happen? Nobody has that kind of power.”

Solas pressed his lips together, thinking about what the spirit had told him. 

Remove it from the Beyond, he thought to himself. Drag it to the Waking World in its entirety.

But how? 

To enter the world physically, a spirit had to form a strong sense of self. It was the foundation, the frame for its physical body. Without it, no spirit could imagine a new shape and claim it as its own. It would go on reflecting the world around it, reacting the bloody past over and over again. 

Did this mean that the creature was a spirit of some kind? And if the creature originated from the Beyond, did it have a concept of itself that had allowed it to enter the Waking World, at least in part? 

Maybe it uses the spiritual essence to sustain itself, he wondered. Just like the elvhen draw energy from the Fade when they enter uthenara. 

Solas sneered. He had come here looking for answers, but all he found were more questions.

“What is so funny, my friend?”

“It is never easy, is it?” Solas asked.

Ghil Din’an looked at him, curious. “Why should it be?”

He opened his mouth, looking for a reply. When no words came, he sealed his lips once more and shook his head ever so slightly. 

“The elvhen call you Solas, don’t they?” The spirit gestured towards him, a sly smile on its lips. “You take pride in your wisdom. You should know that it is not so easily obtained.”

He had to admit that the spirit had a point. 

“Well, I guess this is it, then,” Solas mused. He stood and bowed before the spirit once more. “Though there are many more questions to be answered, I thank you for your help.”

“It was my pleasure,” Ghil Din’an said and dismissed his thanks with a waving gesture. “But if you happened to go to the Vir Dirthara again, could you please give Ghil Dirthalen my greetings? It has been a very long time since we have spoken. I want them to know that I have not forgotten.”

Despite himself, Solas smiled. “I will,” he said. “Although I am fairly sure they already aware of your affection.”

“That doesn’t mean they will not be happy to hear from me,” the spirit replied and waved at him. “Off you go no, my friend. The Waking World awaits you.”

“Goodbye,” Solas said.

And then, he woke.

___

A/N: Oh dear, this chapter involved much more Fade-talk than I expected but it was so much fun to explore Solas’s origins as a spirit. Everything is now in place to move the plot forward, yay. I hope you enjoyed reading this! The next chapter will be up tomorrow, so stay tuned for that. <3

[ofxelvhen]

If anyone wants to see how broken this new Falon’Din is. based off this prompt

Jay 🐼Today at 5:11 AM

It would be so good Mythaland Elgar'nan raise them separate and they're at war the first time they meet

LeFox 🦊Today at 5:12 AM

Dirthamen just "... ... ...!!!"

Jay 🐼Today at 5:12 AM

and then it's just ".....what" And Falon'Din hates him because he was told to and fed all these lies and he can't kill him so he has to be slowly won over

LeFox 🦊Today at 5:14 AM

Dirthamen comes to his camp that night and all he says to the guards on duty is "Your general is expecting me"

Jay 🐼Today at 5:15 AM

The guards just look at each other and give him directions to Falon'Din's tent and he's fucking furious. Just pacing and ranting and all his servants have fled because he's angry He's half out of his armor, half still in it, hasn't bathed since the battle, it's storming because he's pissed and he looks for all the world like a wild animal backed in a corner

LeFox 🦊Today at 5:20 AM

And Dirthamen just waltzes in like "We should talk."

Jay 🐼Today at 5:21 AM

Falon'Din just turns on him and declares that he should have won that battle, Dirthamen should be dead, this must be a trick, this can't be true, they can't be soulmates, they can't Like it'd be even better if Mythal and Elgar'nan are also soulmates but they, of course, didn't have kids together and they're using the kids as generals because they can't harm each other but the Falon'Din can harm Mythal and Dirthamen can Elgar'nan and then this happens

LeFox 🦊Today at 5:31 AM

Dirthamen handles this with far more grace because he doesn't inherently hate Falon'Din. He serves his mother, but doesn't love her either.

Jay 🐼Today at 5:32 AM

Whereas I figure Falon'Din's childhood was much the same as in canon but without Dirthamen. He's put all of himself into this in an effort to get some kind of approval from his father and this doesn't work and what's he supposed to do now?

LeFox 🦊Today at 5:33 AM

Bonus points if Falon'Din (and Elgar'nan) thought being aro-ace made him immune to this bullshit.

Jay 🐼Today at 5:33 AM

absolutely they probably did Falon'Din didn't want a soulmate either so he's frustrated

LeFox 🦊Today at 5:38 AM

And of all people it's someone he needs to be able to hurt

Jay 🐼Today at 5:39 AM

Catch him working his anger up so high he actually ends up breaking down while Dirthamen's there waiting for him to calm down enough to actually talk

LeFox 🦊Today at 5:49 AM

And Dirthamen just patiently waiting while he rages Tries to soothe him while he's breaking down

Jay 🐼Today at 5:51 AM

Falon'Din's just breaking down, collapsed on his bed roll or whatever and talking about how he has to kill Dirthamen, has to win this war because it's the only way his dad will let him back home. That if he loses he's convinced he's either homeless or dead and he can't be that. That he never wanted a soulmate, that the idea that he might not have one was one of the few things about him that ever made Elgar'nan happy and then there's this

LeFox 🦊Today at 6:09 AM

And he has the worst possible soulmate. Even worse, now he has to tell Elgar'nan why he failed to kill someone you know Elgar'nan told him was a weakling.

Jay 🐼Today at 6:10 AM

And he doesn't want to face that. He doesn't want to go tell Elgar'nan. He can't go home and he can't win the war so what is he supposed to do now? And now he's accidentally poured his life story to the person he was supposed to kill anyway so what's even the point here

LeFox 🦊Today at 6:11 AM

He's going to surface from his breakdown to find himself sobbing into Dirthamen's cloak.

Jay 🐼Today at 6:12 AM

He absolutely is and is going to be absolutely disgusted with himself but too exhausted to do anything about it. Just mutters a sniffling "My father's going to kill me."

LeFox 🦊Today at 6:14 AM

Dirthamen just, very quietly, "We could run away, you and I."

Jay 🐼Today at 6:15 AM

Falon'Din just makes a noise and "Why? We just met. I don't know you. I'm supposed to kill you."

LeFox 🦊Today at 6:16 AM

"We're supposed to be together. That's what this means."

Jay 🐼Today at 6:17 AM

"You just saw all of this and you.... want to run away with me? Is Mythal worse?"

LeFox 🦊Today at 6:17 AM

"Mythal is Mythal. She means nothing to me."

Jay 🐼Today at 6:18 AM

"So you're just going to leave your entire life for the person who tried to kill you, yelled at you, and then soaked your cloak?"

LeFox 🦊Today at 6:20 AM

And then Dirthamen actually takes his hood off and smiles. "For you. To get to know why fate binds us. Yes."

Jay 🐼Today at 6:22 AM

And Falon'Din just stops. Sniffles. Blinks. and "If you're okay with Elgar'nan probably trying to hunt me down for betrayal then... then okay. Let's try."

LeFox 🦊Today at 6:22 AM

Dirthamen, forever pulling Falon'Din into trouble, no matter the verse

Jay 🐼Today at 6:23 AM

Dirthamen, also forever saving Falon'Din's life, no matter the verse because even if Elgar'nan wouldn't/couldn't kill him, he is dying

LeFox 🦊Today at 6:32 AM

Dirthamen absolutely saves his life, always

Jay 🐼Today at 6:32 AM

this would be another verse with a very broken Falon'Din but broken different

LeFox 🦊Today at 7:00 AM

And still in need of love

Jay 🐼Today at 7:02 AM

always in need of love. He'll be more prone to violent outbursts and random bits of anger and all manner of thins stemming from a lifetime of being fed lies about Dirthamen.

LeFox 🦊Today at 7:22 AM

He's always subconsciously waiting for Dirthamen to show his true colors and betray him somehow

Jay 🐼Today at 7:24 AM

He's always waiting for something. Maybe Dirthamen's reporting back to Mythal who is using this information for something, maybe he's not Dirthamen's soulmate and Dirthamen will kill him some day. Maybe Dirthamen will just leave one day and then he'll be homeless and on the run from his father alone. He's always waiting for something. always watching and looking just in case

LeFox 🦊Today at 7:33 AM

Dirthamen can't kill him but he has assassins who could if ever he lets his guard down enough And the paranoia spikes when he realizes, oh shit, he's caught feelings.

Jay 🐼Today at 7:39 AM

Absolutely it was dwindling a little because hypervigilance is exhausting and Dirthamen seems trustworthy and then he realizes there's feelings and then he wonders if maybe this was the angle Dirthamen was working, maybe this will be how everything falls out and he comes out the loser.

LeFox 🦊Today at 8:09 AM

And he wonders if Maybe He should strike first

Jay 🐼Today at 8:12 AM

And he decides he probably should but he doesn't know how. should he use the servants? re they strong enough? unassuming enough?Would he not see it coming? Is he not at least as suspicious as Falon'Din himself? He knows you can get comfortable in a long con but Dirthamen's not stupid. What if he knows? What if he realizes Falon'Din's planning something? What if it's too late for any plan to work because he cares now? What if it's not a trick? What if Dirthamen cares too?

LeFox 🦊Today at 8:15 AM

.........IMAGINE Falon'Din plans and leads Dirthamen into a trap But then saves him from it because he can't bring himself to go through with it

Jay 🐼Today at 8:17 AM

That's what I was thinking. Just at the last second realizes he can't do this and saves him and refuses to talk about it after because he doesn't want to admit to caring, doesn't want to admit Dirthamen's won. Doesn't want to hear Dirthamen tell him it's one sided

LeFox 🦊Today at 8:20 AM

Dirthamen, if he realizes Falon'Din arranged the trap, is a little heartsick

Jay 🐼Today at 8:21 AM

It's probably obvious enough, in hindsight, that Falon'Din orchestrated it. He probably played a role in it just to be able to properly take credit. But then he saves Dirthamen and takes him home and then shuts himself in his room for the next, like, week.

LeFox 🦊Today at 8:38 AM

Dirthamen's a little lost and more than a little hurt and confused; he's not sure what this all means, or how to react to it

Jay 🐼Today at 8:39 AM

Falon'Din comes back out of his room and he's grumpy but makes sure to ask Dirthamen if he's okay. Gets moodier by the day and still Refuses To Talk About it

LeFox 🦊Today at 8:44 AM

Dirthamen will eventually, quietly, confront him about it.

Jay 🐼Today at 8:46 AM

Falon'Din will try to avoid it. If Dirthamen presses he'll eventually just admit, frustrated, that alright fine yes the trap was his plan but he saved Dirthamen too so does it really matter whose plan it was?

LeFox 🦊Today at 8:53 AM

It's the point at which Dirthamen asks what they are, what this is, and what exactly Falon'Din feels, because he thought they'd come to care for each other but this suggests otherwise.

Jay 🐼Today at 8:54 AM

Falon'Din just gives a frustrated and explosive "I don't know. You've never told me what you want out of this and I'm getting tired of watching my back every waking moment."

LeFox 🦊Today at 9:05 AM

Dirthamen asks what he's done to suggest Falon'Din needs to watch his back

Jay 🐼Today at 9:06 AM

Falon'Din reminds him that when they met they were at war

LeFox 🦊Today at 9:08 AM

And Dirthamen -chose him

Jay 🐼Today at 9:10 AM

Falon'Din just "We were at war and I've spent my entire life being told how cold and unfeeling and uncaring you are. Told that you're weak and your mother's puppet and that Mythal will stop at nothing to win. You don't talk about things. How am I supposed to know what this is? How else was I supposed to react?"

LeFox 🦊Today at 9:12 AM

"I thought you cared. I thought you knew I cared."

Jay 🐼Today at 9:14 AM

"I do care but I'm not a mind reader. How am I supposed to know you care if you've never said it before now? I've been raised to not trust you Dirthamen! What did you expect?!"

LeFox 🦊Today at 9:15 AM

"I thought I'd... shown it."

Jay 🐼Today at 9:17 AM

"If you have, I wouldn't know. I'm not used- No one's ever cared before. I didn't know. I thought...Well nevermind what I thought."

LeFox 🦊Today at 9:20 AM

"And instead of asking, you've spent all this time privately despising me, wanting me dead."

Jay 🐼Today at 9:23 AM

"I have not. I did what I did because I care too but I didn't think you did. But I couldn't do it,Dirthamen. I couldn't let you die. Even if you were plotting against me I wouldn't have been able to let you die. Isn't that more important?"

LeFox 🦊Today at 9:25 AM

"Some part of you wanted me dead. Some part still does."

Jay 🐼Today at 9:26 AM

"Then leave. That's probably never going to go away given my childhood. If it bothers you that much then leave"

LeFox 🦊Today at 9:28 AM

He very well may At leastfor a while

Jay 🐼Today at 9:28 AM

And Falon'Din will be grumpy and miserable but at least he was expecting some kind of betrayal or heartbreak

LeFox 🦊Today at 9:30 AM

Dirthamen wasn't, which is why it cuts him so deeply He genuinely thought they'd grown close

Jay 🐼Today at 9:31 AM

And they had but PTSD from a shitty childhood and certain lies being too ingrained does a lot of damage to one already avoidant and angry like Falon'Din. After Dirthamen leaves Falon'Din probably packs up his stuff and moves too and never expects to really see Dirthamen again

LeFox 🦊Today at 9:33 AM

Dirthamen does eventually track him down again. Proposes they stay together to better their chances at continuing to avoid their parents, but there's definitely wariness and distrust there now.

Jay 🐼Today at 9:34 AM

Falon'Din's just tired and looks at him and just "Is this a business deal or offering friendship?"

LeFox 🦊Today at 9:35 AM

"Business. Survival. You made it clear we aren't friends."

Jay 🐼Today at 9:36 AM

Opens his mouth to argue. Closes it. Sighs. "I have been considering just... giving up for a while."

LeFox 🦊Today at 9:38 AM

"Elgar'nan will kill you."

Jay 🐼Today at 9:38 AM

"I know."

LeFox 🦊Today at 9:39 AM

"Death would squander your potential."

Jay 🐼Today at 9:41 AM

"What potential? All I have achieved in my life is failing to kill you and ostracizing you, the only person who ever cared. Maybe he was right,"

LeFox 🦊Today at 9:42 AM

"Elgar'nan has been correct about nothing in his life."

Jay 🐼Today at 9:43 AM

Gestures around. "I've achieved nothing. Just like he's said. You don't even want to be here. I'm tired, Dirthamen."

LeFox 🦊Today at 9:45 AM

"We're bound to each other, you and I. I refuse to let you die, despite your best efforts."

Jay 🐼Today at 9:46 AM

Dark chuckle. "Is this our fate then? I've tried to kill you twice and you won't let me die? What am I supposed to do? I've driven a wedge between us and we're soulmates. That's the only reason you came back, isn't it?"

LeFox 🦊Today at 9:48 AM

"I came back because I care. Again, despite your best efforts."

Jay 🐼Today at 9:50 AM

"You care. But won't table friendship. I suppose I deserve that. If you want to stay then stay. If you want to go then go. There's nothing happening here anymore. I'm sick and tired of running. Of having nothing and no one."

LeFox 🦊Today at 9:51 AM

"I won't place myself in a position to be betrayed as I was, no. But I offer you my loyalty and all that entails."

Jay 🐼Today at 9:53 AM

"Then stay since that seems to be what you wish to do. I won't drive you away. I won't try to kill you again either. I don't want you dead. No matter what you believe."

LeFox 🦊Today at 9:54 AM

"Then what do you want? Do you even know?"

Jay 🐼Today at 9:55 AM

Smiles bitterly. "What I want is impossible now."

LeFox 🦊Today at 9:56 AM

"Come. You accused me of failing to communicate. Don't be a hypocrite."

Jay 🐼Today at 9:57 AM

Looks away. Frowns. Fidgets with his clothing. Mutters. "To be loved, I think."

LeFox 🦊Today at 9:58 AM

"And so you were, and it wasn't enough."

Jay 🐼Today at 9:58 AM

"I didn't-" Sighs again. "Doesn't matter. Like I said. impossible now."

LeFox 🦊Today at 10:01 AM

"You accept impossibility too easily."

Jay 🐼Today at 10:03 AM

Looks up. Tries to read Dirthamen's gaze. "Are you saying you may love me again, one day?"

LeFox 🦊Today at 10:06 AM

"Trust is earned. Love is earned. Earn it again."

Jay 🐼Today at 10:08 AM

Breathes a laugh. "Earn it again. I'll ruin it again. And again. Until you get tired of it."

LeFox 🦊Today at 10:11 AM

"So you were lying about not trying to kill me again."

Jay 🐼Today at 10:13 AM

"What? No. There's more than one way to ruin things. I should know."

LeFox 🦊Today at 11:23 AM

"Are you not prepared even to try to make this work?"

Jay 🐼Today at 11:25 AM

"I want to try. But I..." Shakes head. "All I've done so far is ruin things."

LeFox 🦊Today at 12:02 PM

"Have a little faith. Good intentions will help."

[darlingrutherford]

C and G for OC ask! :D

Aaaah, thank you so much for the ask!!

C: Comfort

1. how do they sit in a chair? 

Sarya Lavellan - She’s a bit more relaxed when sitting. Josephine has had to clear her throat loudly on occasion because she’ll turn her head and see Sarya sitting cross-legged in her chair (Josephine does her best to try to get Sarya acting a bit more “proper” for sake of impressing noble allies, to little avail). She’s more likely to slouch when sitting for long periods of time, especially once she starts daydreaming (which happens often). 

Lana Surana - Very straight-backed. She doesn’t cross her ankles beneath the chair or anything super proper like that, but she was definitely barked at to sit up straight enough times as a kid to have it drilled into her. Sometimes, if she feels herself beginning to slouch, she can hear her mother’s voice in her head as a warning and immediately rights herself. 

2. in what position do they sleep?

Sarya Lavellan - Sarya’s all over the place. When sleeping by herself she usually starts out on her side, and will wake up sometimes halfway off her bedroll hugging her pillow. When sleeping with Cullen, she usually starts out curled in towards him or him in towards her with his face buried just below her neck. Cullen quickly learns to hold onto her tightly, lest he wants to wake up with her ass in his face (not that he’d mind). 

Lana Surana - When alone, very curled up, making herself small. She often starts out with a blanket over her head to fall asleep, and then straightens out in her sleep and ends up on her back much like how she constantly straightens herself while sitting. This doesn’t change much when she’s with Alistair, starting out curled out with her back to Alistair, though she’s happy to trade in the blanket over her head for his arms which he keeps tight around her to keep her safe. She still ends up straightened out at some point in the night, which Alistair takes advantage of and ends up sprawled across her with his face in her chest (his “favorite pillow” as he likes to put it). 

3. what is their ideal comfort day?

Sarya Lavellan - A day with her friends and loved ones where nothing goes wrong and everyone is happy. No Anchor flaring in her hand, no demons, no Great Game to play, just laughter and maybe good cakes to share. 

Lana Surana - Spending time somewhere quiet, away from civilization, just Alistair and herself. Comfort is something that’s difficult for her to find after everything she’s been through and the impact it’s had on her views of herself, but she’s always found comfort in solitude, and Alistair has a way of making her relax that’s uncanny to her. 

4. what is their major comfort food? why?

Sarya Lavellan - Tea; she was trained as an herbalist on top of being a mage, so she’s able to make a tea and enchant it to suit her needs. Cakes are always a comfort as well, although not always as readily available as tea. She loves cakes because they had very little access to sweets like that in a roaming Dalish clan that stayed away from human settlements for the most part, so it’s become a bit of a delicacy for her.

Lana Surana - Fruit, especially berries. Her father used to give her berries as a treat, and she’s reminded of him whenever she eats them. The memories are bittersweet, but she’d rather remember than not at all.

5. who is the best at comforting them when down?

Sarya Lavellan - Dorian. Don’t get me wrong, Cullen is great at soothing her and making her happy, but Dorian is her best friend and always has the best gossip to take her mind off of things. He’s also a fierce friend and is ready to throw the sass right back at any Orlesian mistaking Sarya for a servant (or, on occasion, try to convince them that she’s his servant and they can go toss themselves if they think they can just go and steal his elf. Always good when he wants to make people stare). 

Lana Surana - Alistair. He goes the extra mile to cheer her up when she’s down, and lucky for him she loves his sense of humor so it’s not difficult for him. He’s also very intuitive when it comes to her hiding her feelings, so he can catch her before she goes too far down into a dark hole. 

G: Gorgeous

1. what is their most attractive external feature?

(These were actually really hard for me to come up with from my perspective, which is immensely funny to me for some reason. So, I’m writing these from the perspective of their romance)

Sarya Lavellan - (From Cullen’s perspective): Maker’s breath, I have to choose just one? Then, I suppose… her mouth, specifically the way it curves when she smiles. The trio of freckles on the back of her left shoulder, the ones just below her neckline. Come now, you can’t possibly expect me to pick just one.

Lana Surana - (From Alistair’s perspective): What, her most attractive external feature? Liiike, her adorable little nose? But then, what about her gorgeous blue eyes? Oooor… her, ah, breasts, because… well, those are… ahem… very nice as well, you’ve… probably noticed. I mean, I have… Who wouldn’t? 

2. what is the most attractive part of their personality?

Sarya Lavellan - Probably her want to help others. She’s very genuine and wears her heart on her sleeve. She’s usually the first person to jump to their feet when someone is expressing any need, and will stay dutifully at a friend’s side when they’re ill or sad or just in general need someone. She chose Mythal’s markings for her vallaslin for a reason.

Lana Surana - Her fierce loyalty. Lana tries not to get too close to people, but she will defend them with all she has. She believes it’s her duty to protect people, and will especially go out of her way to protect those who have ever so much as smiled in her direction out of fear of them being hurt because of her. 

3. what benefits come with being their friend?

Sarya Lavellan - A friend of Sarya’s is always cared for. If she finds them to be dissatisfied, she will try to find a way to lift their spirits. If they are ill, she’ll nurse them back to health. Plus, being a close friend of the Inquisitor has its own perks for sure. 

Lana Surana - Someone who always has your back, who is quiet but loud when it comes to defending you. She’s easily amused, so your jokes are sure to get a laugh no matter how dorky. 

4. what parts of them do they like and dislike?

Sarya Lavellan - Sarya is proud of being a mage, of having abilities that allow her to help others in ways that not everyone can (this also extends to her herbalist abilities). She wishes she could be more outspoken and stand up for herself better around people she doesn’t know, and also wishes that she dealt with chaos better (and her life has been nothing but chaos since the Conclave).

Lana Surana - This one was difficult to answer for Lana because there’s a lot of self loathing because of her past. If she could pick something to like about herself, it would probably be her appreciation of solitude. She can go a long time without speaking to someone and feel at peace. She very much dislikes being a mage, and is convinced that if she had not come into magic then nothing would have happened the way it did. She sees being a mage as somewhat of a curse, and being a Grey Warden as her penance for everything bad that her magic has brought upon those she knew. 

5. what parts of others do they envy?

Sarya Lavellan - Sarya envies Vivienne’s confidence, Cullen’s willpower, and Josephine’s ability to make heads or tails of the Great Game.

Lana Surana - Other than not being a mage, Lana envies Alistair’s lighthearted nature in spite of everything that’s happened to him, Morrigan’s pride in being a mage, and Leliana’s knack for seeing every detail even in tricky situations. 

[smolpocketsmonsters]

Washed Raw

Part three of Prompt 13, following Vergil’s response to the first part.

The months following the fight.

Now with a chapter title.

               “You told them.”

               Cole lifted his head but did not meet Aether’s gaze, and his legs swung lightly from the edge of the war table.

               There were already eyes on him, but his eyes were only on him.

               Wine made it less but kohl still ran. Face washed and dried, like worn hands after the battlefield. Dried and washed until raw, to stop the smell of red. He still can smell the hurt of the first one he couldn’t save, but this time it’s the hurt under his own stars and scars that he tries to wash away. He wants white not red, but he tells himself he’ll never drink white again. He always drank white with him.

               Aether’s hands trembled at his sides, and his voice cracked.

               “You told them.”

               “You should have told us,” Dorian spoke up, his voice gentle but hurt.

               Maker, why didn’t he just tell me? I could have… I don’t know. Something.

               His face crinkled, the way his brother would always make fun of him, laughingly, lovingly. Straighten up, little brother. Stiffen up that upper-lip. What you crying about? You got me. And he stands a little taller, obedient but defiant. And he calls his Nexus a butt. But he smiles just the same.

               He doesn’t smile this time.

               He’s thinner than he ever had been.

               “You wouldn’t let me help,” Cole tells him, “but they still can.”

               “I’m fine. Really.”

               But he’s not fine. Not really.

               He hurts.

               And the wine can’t help anymore.

               It never really did in the first place.

               It just made it easier to hide the hurt.

               They call him out on it.

               They noticed but they didn’t think it was this bad.

               Now that they know, they can help him.

               It hurts to know that they know. He didn’t want to bother them. They all have their own lives to live, their own freedoms to chase. He’d just hold them back, like a leash on birds that need to be free. But what about the red bird? He’d much rather that they didn’t. But they’d much rather that he did.

               And when he finally sits, face red and wet like washed black cherries he craved, cheeks and teeth and heart and stomach aching, Cole squeezes his hand and Aether squeezes back. Hurt but grateful. The others will take care of him. They’ll make sure he gets better.

               He wants a glass of wine, to numb the pain.

               White.

               But he only wanted to drink it with him.

----------------------------

               Cole told on him a lot after the intervention.

               Probably more than he knew, and it was probably a good thing.

               Aether could no longer trust himself to take proper care of himself any more.

               He knew the science behind it, the spiral staircase that he had started to descend for the sake of making up the appearance that he was wholly in control of himself, and it still caught him by surprise how he still reacted like one of his own resentful patients when he was no longer allowed to ruin himself.

               They took away the wine.

               And his private apothecary table.

               Precautious measures, he knew, but it still felt like punishment.

               But without the wine to numb the ache, he finally could feel the brunt of his own pain, and it hurt, and he couldn’t always control how the agony in his chest showed itself to the world.

               Creators only knew what the poor servant Josephine now had waking him up every morning thought of him. The poor girl didn’t deserve his temper, not when she was just doing her job. She brought him breakfast every morning, and she’d make sure that he ate every bite instead of just picking it apart. The first hour of his day was spent trying to swallow while that young woman busied herself about his room, tidying things that didn’t need tidying and talking to fill the silence.

               Some days, she managed to get him engaged in mild conversation.

               But most days, it was all he could to just make it through his conscious hours, one hour at a time, dictated by Josephine and the strict agenda she now mandated as an effort to keep him from spiraling out of control.

               It had been a bad day for the last four days and he was so exhausted.

               He was so tired and now they all knew that it wasn’t something that could be touched by a night’s ration of sleeping draught anymore.

               Some of them, he knew, felt personally responsible, like Cassandra. And Dorian.

               Others knew that it was just the way Aether was.

               He wanted to take care of other people’s problems so much that he’d ignore his own, bottle them up and push them down until the pressure got to be too much, and then it would all go off like a bottle of champagne.

               He felt listless and bored, antsy from having so many responsibilities snatched away from him. Some things were still the same, Josephine giving him letters to respond to as well as more detailed information so he could make an informed decision, making sure he made it to meals, and other such things of course, but the visiting dignitaries were farer and fewer than they ever had been.

               Josephine’s doing, no doubt.

               She was doing so much for him and it bothered him that he couldn’t take some of it off her hands again.

               She wouldn’t let him.

               He needed to rest, and relax, and get well again.

               A month was evidently not long enough for him to take back the bulk of his duties.

               It had barely been long enough to put on just a fraction of the weight he had lost, and his appetite was still nonexistent.

               He just didn’t feel hungry.

               He hadn’t for a long time.

               Now, he had to eat because he had to, and the cook would glower at him if his plate came back with anything more than scrapes of sauce left on it, even if it made him feel sick to his stomach.

               He could have fought back about it, say the truth that eating so much actually did feel sick to his stomach, but what would be the look on the cook’s face if he said that?

               So he ate it all even if he was miserable.

               The only shallow comforts he had any more was when people didn’t walk on eggshells around him. That and the garden.

               It had grown so much since they first came to Skyhold.

               Luxurious and beautiful.

               It was his pride.

               His pride was in the earth that he turned with his bare hands, warm and healing and everything he needed. Lush and green and full of colors and smells and sunlight.

               For now though, he knelt in the soft grass in front of the small statue that had been carved just for him, a gift from one of the Dalish clans that he had given one of his books to, written from his travels and questions to the Well of Sorrows that answered so many mysteries.

               It was a statue of Mythal, standing as tall as he was, carved from the remains of a tree struck by lightning.

               Some pilgrims called it blasphemy to have it, but it was a reminder to them that their Inquisitor was Dalish, an elf and proud of where he came from. The Andrastians had their own place of worship in Skyhold, so why couldn’t he?

               Here was where his little bit of peace came from, sky above and the earth beneath his feet.

               A little bit of comfort so far away from the clan that had adopted him as their own when he found no comfort in being alone any more.

               And the clan that brought him into the world, equally distant from him.

               He missed Nevarra too.

               He missed the orchards that would lay thick with black cherries that his clan would harvest for the season, paid so they could prepare for the winter.

               He missed the sweet smell of the grasses that grew.

               And the rich colors the autumn festivals were famous for.

               Colors like the ones Vergil liked to see him wear.

               The thought came so suddenly that it almost made him choke.

               Vergil.

               This happened every so often, a random thought would somehow manage to tie itself to a memory of the Hero, Commander of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden, an elven mage of the Chantry’s broken Circle, and a man who was once his friend.

               And his almost-lover.

               If they ever could have been considered that.

               He had been the closest Aether had ever allowed himself to be to love, for so many years. The closest but they never could be that.

               Vergil would have never allowed it.

               And Aether himself had made sure it would never happen by the accusations he thoughtlessly made, too exhausted and frustrated and pinched with wanting the world off of his back for just a moment over his decisions that he had thrown it all in the face of someone who actually cared and…

               And now he was gone.

               Six months absent now.

               Living his life well enough without him.

               Vergil had always been accomplished, always strived to do more, to know more, to be more than what society demanded he be for both an elf and a mage, and he was. He was so much more than anyone could have ever imagined he would have been. He had made this place for himself for the world.

               And Aether felt like he had cheated.

               Herald of Andraste, claimed so entirely by the fluke of being where he should not have been but at the right time. Divine Justinia had saved him in the Fade from the Fear demon’s minions at the sacrifice of her own life, but at what cost? An elf with no real formal education on being a leader, only a healer, was suddenly forced to lead so many people, to be a figure of light and hope, to close a massive rift in the sky with demons pouring out and to stop one of the ancient magisters who was claimed to be at fault for the existence of Dark Spawn entirely.

               Aether didn’t deserve the position of Inquisitor, unlike Vergil who deserved every bit of what he had fought to become, unlike Ameridan who had been a famed dragon hunter and demon slayer long before the Emperor asked him to take up the position.

               What had Aether been doing all those years before he was forced to take up the mantle of Inquisitor?

               He had been just a humble healer who had been running away from the thought of being taught by his own neglectful stepfather, to be groomed to take over the position of leading the clan once he himself became Keeper.

               He had been running away from the thought of being a leader for so much longer than he had ever realized.

               And now it was obvious why.

               He just couldn’t handle the responsibility without it eating away at his very soul.

               Ameridan had been right.

               He should have taken moments of happiness where he found them, because the world would inevitably find ways to take the rest.

               And now all that he had was the shallow comfort that he had planted and grown himself in that little garden in the place where the sky was held.

               But even he could not stay there all day.

               Not when he was gently disturbed by someone clearing their throat to get his attention.

               Mournfully, he took a breath and then opened his eyes to look up.

               It was one of the kitchen scullery maids, an elvish woman the same age as Suledin but without the same spitfire.

               “My lord, the cook wants to know your thoughts on something,” she said meekly.

               He wondered if she wanted him to come look at the list of things she could make again. She was always making adjustments to that, but as he moved to rise to his feet, Aether paused when the maid offered him something, wrapped in a handkerchief.

               Relaxing his posture, he sat back on the ground and slowly unwrapped the fabric from the item, and curiously, he tilted his head as he looked down at it.

               A… brownie?

               He remembered them from the Orlesian parties he had been made to attend. Josephine seemed to enjoy them quite a bit, although Leliana was more partial to the frilly cakes, and in his confusion, he looked back up to the maid.

               “Will you try it and tell me what you think so I can let the cook know?” she gently asked.

               Oh.

               Hesitantly, he looked back down at the pastry and a breath huffed in his chest.

               He didn’t feel hungry, but then again, he never really did any more.

               It wasn’t a large piece though, so taking just one bite couldn’t hurt any.

               The brownie crumbled slightly under his light grip, pieces of it flecking the dark colored square of cloth and he tucked his chin as he took a small nibble from the corner, curious at first.

               It tasted like chocolate, rich and sweet, but not overpowering. But there was something else that he tasted as well, and with a more intense interest, he took a bigger bite.

               The first chew was all it took to cause flavor to pop into existence and race over his tongue, so familiar and comforting that nostalgia swept over him in small waves, eyes closing as he remembered a time and place that felt so long ago.

               Small bites became larger, mingling the taste of Orlesian chocolate and black cherries of norther Nevarra filled his mouth, and he recalled the laughter of his brother the last day of the harvest, and the thankful smile of the brothel owner as she slipped one last thank you gift into his pack before he fled across the Frostback mountains to escape the Templars that had been drawing increasingly too close for comfort.

               A child of the Alerion clan, a fussy archer.

               The Cardinal of Orlais, a humble healer.

               That was who he had been before he had ever really known what sort of chaos the world could face.

               Before then, his world had been without threat of Darkspawn or Archdemons or Ancient Magisters or Fade Rifts or Deep Roads or Titans or Avvar gods or so many other things that made him want to curl in on himself with fear.

               Aether had not realized he had devoured the entire brownie until he found that there was none left and he heard the soft voice call his attention.

               “Sir?”

               He sniffed as he looked up, eyes glassy with nostalgia and he smiled at the scullery maid, and he asked something he had not wanted to ask for a long time.

               “Can I have another?”

----------------------------

               Aether knew that the brownies were a turning point in his progress, quickly becoming a nightly reward taken with his requisition of sleeping draught on his good days and a comfort food that he would steal from the kitchen on days that were not. The fact that he was now willing to eat something was at least a sign of change to the Inquisition.

               But three weeks showed limited results, and the bad days continued to severely outnumber the good.

               Josephine’s latest visiting dignitary was not improving his progress either as he hid out on the balcony above the main hall, a plate of roasted cherry brownies at his side that he slowly chewed, soaking in the sun and staving off his headache from the noble and his awful wife.

               The man was Orlesian, obnoxious and loud and liked to drink so much.

               And the noble’s shrew of a wife!

               The woman complained about everything, and even had the audacity to demand that the statue of Mythal be taken out of the garden during their visit.

               The gall!

               Josephine was almost pleased when Aether made a point to have more Dalish hangings put up, just to prove his point that Skyhold was his home, not theirs, and he refused to be shamed for his culture. Thankfully, it would not be too many days before they left.

               It could not come fast enough.

               Stretching out on his back on the cool stone, he blindly reached for another brownie and frowned when he felt the empty plate.

               So he had eaten the last one already.

               And the Inquisitor sighed, rolling onto his side and peering between the railings of the balcony.

               Beyond them, the rest of his domain spread out, peaceful and calm providing one politely ignored the dog that Aether hoped someone would stick in a barrel and forget about, awful as that thought was in the afterthought, but temporarily pleasing none the less.

               And then he saw one of the guards hurry through the front gate of the fortress.

               The guard was followed after by an all too familiar figure in all too familiar armor.

               And Aether’s heart rose into his throat.

               It couldn’t be.

               But no, after twelve years of familiarity, there was no mistaking it for anyone else.

               That was Vergil.

               But what was he doing here?

               Why?

               He never came without one of them writing to the oth-

               Oh.

               Oh.

               Aether couldn’t bolt down from the balcony fast enough to storm into Josephine’s office, throwing open the door with such force that it bounced off the wall behind it and nearly hit him in the rebound, startling the Ambassador from her paperwork.

               “You wrote him?!” Aether demanded, his voice cracking slightly in his panic.

               It took a moment for Josephine to gather her thoughts and with only a few words, expressing that they had all agreed that getting in touch with the Warden-Commander was the next best course of action that they could take. He was, after all, Aether’s long time friend.

               The anxiety in Aether’s chest only rose and he shook his head.

               No.

               Contacting Vergil was not the next best course of action.

               Aether had been the one to fuck up.

               Aether had been the one to accuse and insult the man.

               He should have been the one to write a letter to the Hero of Ferelden, to send a note of apology, to own up to his mistakes and admit that he had been in the wrong and that Vergil had been right and it should have been him, not her, to write to him.

               Creators only knew how many drafts he had attempted to create before he had just thrown them into the fire.

               He couldn’t face Vergil.

               Not right now.

               But it seemed that was not his choice when he threw the office door back open in the effort to flee into the basement, to hide in the forgotten library, only to come face to face with the chilling familiar stare of amber brown eyes, worn armor baring the marks and scents of a recent fight.

               And Vergil’s cool expression only informed Aether of one thing.

               He wasn’t going anywhere.

               Not before they talked.

               Well shit.

[buttsonthebeach]

Prompt: "Tomorrow They'll More Of Us" / Wisdom

Pairing: Past Solavellan and past f!Hawke x Merrill

Rating: Teen (for a passing reference to the very NSFW Solavellan one-shot “Unbent”)

Note: (Soo, this isn’t quite what you prompted, but I couldn’t let this scene go… I worked in one or two lines from “Tomorrow There’ll Be More of Us” and managed to use the overall concept of hearing the dead speak in your mind!) 

Ellana goes to Kirkwall after the events of Trespasser to carry some long overdue condolences to Hawke’s widow, and two Dalish women who have left their clans mourn the things they’ve lost along the way.

AKA the first time I write about my canon Hawke and of course it has to be sad.

****

The Hawke estate was only a few doors away from Ellana’s own estate (a word that didn’t feel any more real than it had the year before at the Winter Palace). That was Varric’s supposed reason for why she should walk down and introduce herself to Merrill.

“It would be good, right? You two being neighborly? Good for both of you.” Varric said the words with a smile but something was missing from his bluster. He’d gotten grayer in the year since he became viscount.

Ellana knew what he wanted. Varric fussed. He fussed over everyone. And right now he saw an opportunity to ease his own worries. Instead of fussing over her and Merrill separately, he could hope they would take care of each other.

“I’m not staying long, Varric,” Ellana reminded him. She was on her way to meet with Dorian in Tevinter. Kirkwall was just a small stopover - a week at most for rest and resupply and to check in with Inquisition agents spread throughout the Free Marches.

“I know,” Varric said. “But - at least say hi for me, would you? She’s a big fan of yours, you know. You’re the most famous Dalish elf since - well, ever.”

“Yes. The most famous bare-faced Dalish elf in all of Thedas. Did you ever mention that to her?” Ellana didn’t ask the other question on the tip of her tongue. Did you tell her about Solas? About Fen’Harel? Rumors were spreading, of course. But rumors were one thing. Hearing the truth from a friend was another. Just one more thing the Dalish got wrong.

“I mean, it’s in the book. Not sure how much she’s read, though. It - that part is after Adamant.”

Ellana looked away at the name. She let a breath out through her nose. “I’ll go, Varric. I will. I owe you that much. I owe her that much.”

“Thank you.” His voice was quiet and sincere.

So she went down to the Hawke estate the next day and the servant - Orana - directed her to the library and Ellana finally met the woman whose wife she’d left to die in the Fade.

“Mistress,” Orana said when they entered. Merrill looked up from her book and Ellana was struck at once by the brilliant green of her eyes. “Inquisitor Ellana Lavellan is here.”

“Just Ellana,” she corrected at once, reflexively, with a vague wave of her hand.

“Oh,” Merrill said. She stared, then recollected herself with a rapid blink of those big eyes. “Thank you, Orana.”

Orana bowed and slipped away, and they were alone.

“I’m sorry,” Merrill said when the door closed. She set her book down. “I didn’t know you were coming. Varric said you were here but not that you would come for a visit.”

“Of course I came,” Ellana said. But what kind of a foolish thing was that to say? Of course. Like they were old friends. Her left arm ached today. Phantom pain. “I heard so much about you. From Varric and from -”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. She didn’t even want to say her name.

“From Marian,” Merrill finished. The name flowed beautifully off her tongue. Her Dalish accent made it sound rich and exotic.

“Yes. From Hawke.”

Merrill smiled, but she didn’t show her teeth. She rose from the chair and crossed the distance between them, and hugged Ellana tight. The gesture caught her so off guard that she didn’t even have time to offer the awkward, one-armed hug that counted as an embrace for her lately. Merrill didn’t seem to mind. She put her hands on Ellana’s shoulders when she stepped back.

“You’re shorter than I thought,” Merrill said, her tone thoughtful. A laugh escaped Ellana.

“Sorry to disappoint, I guess.”

“No, no,” Merrill said quickly. “I like it, actually. The Inquisitor is just my size. It’s a nice thought.” She cocked her head, searching Ellana’s face for something. “But - I thought you had vallaslin. Did Varric get that wrong? He always gets mine wrong. In one chapter of the Tale of the Champion he says I have Elgar’nan’s and in another he says it’s Mythal. Though I suppose it’s unfair since my birth clan does Sylaise’s marks a little differently than everyone else, but don’t you think he could at least get the name right?”

Ellana’s heart ached to hear Merrill speak. She was exactly as Hawke described. Fluttery, unfocused, and so unendingly kind.

“June,” she said when Merrill stopped. “I was marked for June.”

“Oh,” Merrill said. “Was? What happened?”

Ellana’s throat constricted, thinking of the cool glade in Crestwood, the warmth of Solas’s hands and lips - of the mosaics in the Crossroads.

“It’s a bit of a story.”

“Oh. I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to pry. I suppose I shouldn’t ask why you don’t sound very Dalish, either.”

Another laugh escaped Ellana. That explanation was at least simpler. Her city elf parents never gained the Dalish lilt in all the years they lived with the clan, and her own speech was molded by theirs. She did sound Dalish sometimes - she could play up one accent or the other if she chose - but these last four years spent amongst human nobles, trying her hardest to seem palatable to them, hadn’t helped.

“I don’t feel very Dalish anymore, to be honest.”

Ellana hadn’t meant to let the words slip out. But Merrill’s big green eyes softened, and she took Ellana’s hand and pressed it between both of hers.

“I know what you mean, lethallan.”

They ended up going for a walk in Hightown. They were both practiced in ignoring the stares of humans who didn’t want them there. They could move quietly through the crowds, and talk. Of their clans, and the last time they saw them (years, for both of them, but they were alive, and safe, and wasn’t that what counted?) and the shame they felt for leaving, the reasons they couldn’t go back.

“But it’s not all bad,” Merrill said at last. “I do good here, helping the elves in the alienage. We never did think of them much, did we? Just about aravels and halla and the next Arlathvhen. We didn’t do enough. Now I’m doing everything I can. And for a few years, I had my Marian.”

Ellana’s chest was slowly growing tighter and tighter with the things she wanted to say. About that smoke-filled ruin in the Western Approach. About the Fade and its many-eyed monsters. About the moment Hawke turned and said tell Merrill I’m sorry.

“And you had someone too, didn’t you?”

Ellana blinked, coming back to herself. “I’m sorry?”

“Someone you called ‘vhenan.’ The apostate mage. Marian wrote to me and said you two must have thought you were being very clever, calling each other vhenan and expecting no one to understand, since you acted like you were only friends. I suppose it never occurred to you that that’s what I called her.” Merrill’s tone was teasing, but her eyes were sad. Vhenan. It was a heavy word. It slowed their steps.

“I did. For a time. He’s - we’re -”

She balled her hand into a fist and did not picture the look in his eyes when he cradled her close. He would never forget her - but he wouldn’t stay.

“I - had heard some rumors. About him. About you. About the vallaslin. Some of the elves in the alienage have been talking about agents of a man who calls himself Fen’Harel.”

I was Solas first.

“Varric won’t answer my questions,” Merrill went on. “I think he fancies that he’s protecting me from something.”

“We shouldn’t talk about it here,” Ellana said.

Merrill threaded her arm through Ellana’s. They didn’t say much else as they walked back to the Hawke estate. It was pushing late afternoon.

“Would you like to come in for a bite?” Merrill asked. “Orana can make hearthcakes. I haven’t given up everything Dalish.”

“Of course.”

They ate the cakes in the small garden in the back of the house. When they were done Merrill looked faraway.

“They always make me think of Marian,” she said at last. “She was so puzzled when I first tried to make them. Well, I did make a mistake. A few mistakes. I had to explain the recipe to Orana and then she got it right, actually. But then Marian loved them. It was the first - it was the first thing I brought into this house that was really mine. That made it feel like it was our house. It was so many years ago but I still think of it every time.”

She was crying unashamedly. Only a few small tears, but tears all the same. Ellana wanted to push the table aside and crush her to her chest.

“Merrill -” she said finally. “I don’t have the words to say - I can’t -”

Tell Merrill I’m sorry.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. and felt empty at last.

She stood and went around the little table to crouch at Merrill’s side to hold her as well as she could. It wasn’t fair, she said to herself over and over again. It wasn’t fair that she walked out of that rift and Hawke didn’t. Ellana Lavellan got to live - she got to turn angrily on Clarel and demand that the Wardens get out of Orlais - that she got to welcome Solas into her arms that night and somehow miss again (again) the frantic way he buried himself in her like he could erase whatever it was that ate at his heart. It wasn’t fair that instead of Solas left grieving on the other side of that Veil, mourning the woman he would leave in a few months time in any case, the woman he would leave over and over again - that instead it was Merrill with her dark hair and green eyes and kind voice who sat here sobbing because her wife never came home.

Ellana had never regretted anything in her life as much as she regretted Adamant.

“She was so brave,” Ellana managed at last thickly. “Right until the very end. She was brave and funny and she protected us all. I wish I could have stopped her. I wish - if not for the Anchor I would have - and she wanted me to tell you that -”

“Stop,” Merrill said. “Marian did what she needed to do. I am not selfish enough to think that her life mattered more than the fate of all Thedas.”

Merrill lifted her head. Wiped her eyes. Looked around the garden. Ellana remained crouching at her side.

“We were bonded back here in the garden, you know. Marian thought that was such a quaint word. Bonded. I always called her my wife, though. I think that word meant more to her than bondmate. She liked it when I called her wife. We didn’t get much time for that. We couldn’t stay in Kirkwall long without someone finding out, and it was only a month later when she left for Skyhold. But I can still come back here and feel like she’s close whenever I want. Maybe that’s why I’ve never gone back to my clan.”

Ellana remembered her own bonding ceremony, Mahanon’s hands trembling in hers. It felt like a lifetime ago. She was a widow, too. She didn’t think of it so much anymore. Instead she imagined Solas speaking those words instead. The ancient promises. The trembling hands. Someday, when all of it was over. But it was a fantasy. Like so many other things she’d built her life around.

“The Fade is a strange place. I made it out alive once before. Maybe…”

“Maybe.” Merrill studied her hands. They reminded Ellana of Solas’s. They were callused in the same places. “Do you know what - I haven’t gone to Sundermount in a while. Would you like to join me tomorrow? I can show you where my clan stayed. There’s still an altar to Mythal high up, if we want to make an offering.”

Ellana agreed.

The next morning they rose early, wrapped their feet, packed salted jerky and fresh berries, and set out for Sundermount, pretending they were two ordinary Dalish girls.

They told stories on the way of the Arlathvhens they remembered, comparing notes, arguing over details. They determined they’d surely met before, when they were younger. They compared the lyrics to their favorite songs and the quirks of their individual clans. Merrill told stories of her years in Kirkwall, and Ellana shared hers of the Inquisition.

They talked about Hawke.

Ellana didn’t have many stories to share. Her time with the Champion of Kirkwall was brief. But together they made her live again with their words.

They talked about Solas.

Ellana shared how he once set his own clothes on fire, how he painted with such scope and skill, how he always had to kiss her one more time before bed or parting. How his vengeance cast down gods and sundered worlds and how he took the vallaslin from her face with such tenderness, kissed her and called her beautiful, and then left her in that glen. How he was always, always leaving. How he was Solas first, before anything else.

She wasn’t sure what kind of reaction she expected from Merrill when she explained all that Solas had revealed. She was First to a Keeper, and therefore even more intimately connected to the tales of an Elvhenan that never was than Ellana had ever been. But she’d also risked possession and death to restore one small piece of that world, had seen no sacrifice as to great or to small to restore their people’s rightful place -

“I think we all have to decide for ourselves what this means,” Merrill said at last, when the tale was done. “It’s so much to take in. To consider. And so many pieces are missing… And for you - Ellana.” She said her name with sudden urgency. “You had to see all of this firsthand. You had to hear it from the man who said he loved you. How do you feel?”

Ellana looked away. There was no word for what she felt. No word that she knew in Elvhen or Trade or any other tongue.

“I told you. I don’t feel very Dalish anymore.”

“No.” Merrill stopped walking. Ellana turned back to face her. “You are Dalish. No one can take that from you. Least of all the Dread Wolf. Being Dalish isn’t wearing vallaslin or sleeping in an aravel or praying to Mythal. We are the last of the Elvhen. Never again shall we submit. If you keep that in your heart - if you keep fighting as I do for all our people - then you are Dalish.”

It was a naive sentiment, perhaps. There were few Dalish who would agree with her. But it made Ellana’s heart a little lighter.

“Thank you,” she said. Merrill only nodded, decisively, like the question was settled once and for all.

“He really did love you?” She asked a bit later. They were close to where her clan had camped - where there would have been outward-facing statues of Fen’Harel.

No matter what happens - what we had was real.

“Yes,” Ellana said. “He really did.”

“No wonder you can’t go back to your Keeper,” Merrill said with a shake of her head. “I don’t think I could look Marethari in the eye and tell her I’d let the Dread Wolf take me, either.”

Ellana laughed, full up from her belly, so hard she had to set down the pack she was carrying and lean, wheezing, against a boulder. She laughed harder than she had in months, until there were tears in her eyes that she had to wipe away.

They walked all the way up to the altar Merrill had spoken of, for the view if for nothing else. It was sweaty work, the kind Ellana enjoyed. She had so few opportunities to use her body as a tool now - and that had always been her favorite kind of work. Scouting, climbing, foraging, hunting. She wrote reports now. Attended parties. It was good to feel her muscles ache and to reap the reward of the view: the mountain green below them, the blue slash of the Wounded Coast, and the gray stone of Kirkwall even further out. Looking at the altar, Ellana couldn’t help but wonder about Morrigan, about Flemeth. Where were they now? If they made an offering, would one of them appear?

“I came here a lot after I got word from Varric about what happened,” Merrill said. “I was angry at the Creators. Angry at Marian. Angry at you. I’m not angry anymore. People will always tell her story, however it ended.”

The breeze picked up. It carried the scent of pine resin and saltwater. The Free Marches. Home.

“I am,” Ellana said. “Angry. And afraid.”

Merrill looked to her, but Ellana didn’t meet her gaze. She thought of Hawke instead. Of a woman who had sacrificed so much with so little hesitation. She thought of all the times she’d wanted to simply lay down her head and stop fighting since the Exalted Council. She thought of Solas.

“I have so much work to do,” she said at last.

Merrill frowned, pursed her lips, and then finally nodded. “Yes. I suppose you do.”

Halfway down the mountain they managed to pretend they were ordinary Dalish women once more. They traded more stories, more laughter. They drank in the twilight calm. They got back to Hightown, and parted with another tight embrace.

“Dareth shiral, lethallan,” Merrill said.

“Dareth shiral,” Ellana replied.

Ellana carried Merrill with her when she left Kirkwall a few days later. Just as she carried Hawke - just as she carried Solas. She carried all of them, and hoped she was strong enough to bear the weight, to do what needed to be done.

[captusmomentum]

Because Fey reminded me about the One True Dad I was taken over by the unholy compulsion to write more Ancient!Inan, namely, when Haninan and Inanallas met which atm I’m placing vaguely around the time Inan was starting to be considered mature enough to be an adult but still not as aware of how Elvhen’an works or as socially anxious. So like, basically the pre-dothraki winter collection era. It’s pretty rough and dirty but Eh, whatever.

Haninan is @feynites‘s 

Mythal was in Arlathan for some meeting or something with her husband, they weren’t really sure on the details, and so all of Mythal’s circle was with her here too. This included Inanallas, who was decidedly not one of her trusted servants but as Mythal herself had put it, her ward.

Whatever.

There was some benefits to having to be in Arlathan though, like how it was much easier and much more fun to sneak out and explore. Arlathan is huge and sprawling, full of people from all the different factions and all levels of society. Inanallas always enjoys darting through the city hunting for interesting little bits of it’s history or places that haven’t been completely bowled over to make room for things that conform to the dumb rules the elves have for how things should look.

They like to watch how the people interact too, in Mythal’s palaces it’s always sort of one way because they’re all talking to each other and they’re all supposed to act Mythal-y or something like that. But here there’s Elgar’nans talking to Falon’Dins and Sylaises bartering with Ghilanan’nians and Andruils bellowing at Junes. It’s interesting, to see how people are themselves but take on some affectation of their Person, like the lines on their face don’t just act as some kind of signifier but infuse some of that person into them. It makes them ponder on their own line tree and if it’s made them a bit more like Mythal. Maybe it has, since they’re much more polite now with them on, but maybe that was just growing up and learning how elves worked.

They understand from listening to people after the fact that their lines were a subject of debate at the time. Not if they should get them or not, but if they should get them when people normally got them, or if they should get them later on account of how they were a “special case”. Mythal had eventually decided that because they were a “special case” they needed to get them on time because the lines meant more than just who’s house you lived at. So they’d gotten the line tree at 25, but they’d still been considered a child until they were about 50, because they were a “special case”.

And they absolutely knew the proper word was vallaslin but that was just a fancy word for “shit people got permanently painted on their face” and it was more fun to speak literally.

On this venture they aim to get a look at June’s tower, they heard it’s made of constantly moving pieces which sounds very interesting. It takes them the better part of the day to navigate all the eluvians and streets they’d never used before but it’s not as bad as they reckon it would have been for some other people since they can simply shift through the all the bits of dreaming, magic, people and somethings, find one that feels like a June person feels and trace that back. It’s apparently a rare gift which makes them feel bad for everyone else who tries to navigate the impossible maze of Arlathan’s streets.

June’s tower is not as interesting as they had imagined which is disappointing, really it’s design just seems more annoying to deal with than anything else. They had considered sneaking in to investigate on the way here but now that just seemed like more hassle then it’s worth so they opt to explore the area around it instead.

Overall there’s not many interesting places (but the lower districts are all dull and grey so that’s not a shock) and they end up seeing more interesting interactions than anything else. Eventually they pass a little path between buildings to an eluvian. They backpedal and creep over to investigate.

It looked like it wasn’t a very popular one as it had a certain air of disuse around it. They’d learned a bit about how eluvians worked recently but not as much as they’d’ve liked. They examined it thoughtfully. Sometimes the best way to learn about something was to poke at it and see if you couldn’t pick it apart a little and this eluvian was generally unused, it wouldn’t be that much of a bother for anyone if they tinkered with it a bit.

They start to get to work trying to figure out how exactly to start taking the thing apart. It’s a tricky thing to do with magic stuff, it can be hard to find a good place to start weedling in and you can end up just mangling the whole thing or blowing yourself up. The eluvian is particularly frustrating on this front the magic that makes it is as smooth as the glass of the mirror so there’s no obvious points and they’re certain that pressure is a no go, the whole thing would just shatter like glass.

Inanallas huffs and settles in to try a more esoteric method. They repeat the process that had gotten them to June’s Tower only now from a more open meditative state of mind, letting themselves see more of the blurring place between here and the dreaming. They try again, looking for the songs that sing the feelings and concepts that form the eluvian. This meets with much more success and they can see/feel the songs that make it More, even see what it’s sister sees, a flash of grass and sky and tree. They also hear the hum of the stones around them, the people inside them— see pieces that jangle in them, feel the paths of spirits as they drift on the wind.

They also notice someone very, very old leaning on a wall at the opening of the little path. They hear a tune of pictures, of wide free space, of dragons, children, hands making things, picking them apart. They retract and close down again to something more manageable, they prefer not too look too much into people. It’s rude, probably. Even if they can’t seem to tell they’ve done it most of the time.

They turn to look at him just as he begins to clap, grinning widy. His skin and hair are dark and the hair is all bound in all kinds of braids which all make her think of her family in Dirthamen’s Lands and she’s filled with an instant fondness for whoever they are. They also note his face has no lines, that’s very lucky for him.

“That was very impressive da’len! I hope you don’t mind that I watched, I was curious.”

They shake their head. “No I don’t mind, I’m Inanallas.”

He smiles more, if that was possible. “I’m Haninan, it’s a pleasure to meet such a talented child as you.”

They wave away his comment as he walks over to stand next to them. Normally they’d get a bit annoyed at being called a child but they can tell that at least 2/3rds of the empire’s population could be considered young at best compared to him so they don’t mind it for once.

“So!” he claps his hands together. “Trying to see how eluvians tick huh? Did you figure it out? Did you see anything interesting?”

He closes one eye in a cheesy wink to emphasize the joke and she can’t help but giggle. He’s very silly. He has many scars on his hands, another thing to like about him.

Their face scrunches. “I don’t think I figured it out, but I did learn more then I knew before.”

“Ah! Well, at least you got something! I wonder, would you like me to show you how they work?”

Their eyes light up excitedly. “Yes! Can you really?”

He laughs. “I wouldn’t offer if it was beyond me da’len.”

Watching Haninan in action is almost more interesting than the lesson, and it is a lesson since he doesn’t just pick it all apart but narrates and explains every step and spell as he goes about striping it down and then does the same as he puts it all back together again good as new.

“I can’t say I’m shocked you’re so good at things since you’ve had so much time to work on them.”

He grins. “Yes, and I am me.”

Their face scrunches a little again, confused. “What’s so special about you?”

He bursts into laughter, nearly doubling over.

“Nothing! Nothing! I’m just an old man.”

“Is this one of those things that everyone says is important but doesn’t seem to have to do with anything?”

“Hm. An interesting way to put it, and yes I think could consider it something like that. I’m June’s father and technically, his prisoner, trapped forever in his shifting tower.” He winks again.

They give him a pitying look. “I’m sorry to hear that, it’s not nice for a son to put his papae in jail.”

“I know, it’s very cruel, but at least it’s not a very good one.”

“Yes…” They say as they put a hand on his arm comfortingly. “I’m sorry to say but I don’t think he inherited your gift, it’s a very dull tower.”

He pats her hand gently, his hand is very big and warm on hers.

“I know, I know.”

There is a comfortableness between them, she hasn’t felt with any of the other elves so far— probably because he’s not as stuffy, and he seems to remember what it was like to live outside of big cities, which she thinks others like Mythal seem to have forgotten if they ever knew it. Also he’s funny.

He shifts and places an arm around her shoulders.

“I have a good idea, How about we go somewhere nice, eat some good food and see what other things I can help you pick apart huh?”

They beam up at him and nod.

The place they go is a nice little tavern in a lower district owned by a nice lady who makes very tasty food.

Haninan and the lady seem to be friends which is nice. He ordered them both a bowl of a stew and bread which he does not eat with nearly much gusto as they do. He does however bring up their childhood.

“I had heard that Dirthamen had found a child in the wilds not too long ago, I hadn’t thought I’d get a chance to meet them though.”

“What gave me away? My name or something else?”

He smiles. “Something else. I know the look and there’s no one else around you age it could be. So, how are you liking civilization? It’s very civilized isn’t it?”

Inan thinks very seriously, chewing on a piece of meat as she contemplates it.

“Roofs and beds are nice, and not worrying about food… but elves are very odd and I think maybe a little slow…”

He laughs. “Ah, I know exactly what you mean.”

They talk and he tells them about his own youth from before the empire (which frankly sounds a lot nicer) and shows them some tricky little things that he can do to entertain them. Haninan likes puzzles while Inan… not so much, puzzles are frustrating and get in the way of finding more interesting things they think, but they both like learning and exploring and snooping. Inan manages to recreate one of his little tricks and Haninan applauds them, some other people in the tavern even join him, though maybe without knowing why they were clapping.

Eventually they both need head back and so they agree on when to meet again, he vows to comeback with a puzzle and something interesting inside it for them and Inanallas decides that maybe they don’t like him so much.

[wootensmith]

Abelas

“Give me command of your army,” said Abelas. The sun had long set while Solas told his tale, and Falon’din’s temple glowed around them with a pale witch-light that seemed to seep from the walls themselves. Solas could barely see his face across the table, but his tone was unmistakable. “It is unnecessary. There are many who—” “I have earned this,” hissed Abelas, leaning toward him. “Two thousand years and more I’ve served Mythal. Faithfully. It was my Sentinels, my kin who were slain over and over. The Forgotten Ones, the Evanuris, the Shemlen, the darkspawn, we stood against them all. Waiting. And now, vengeance comes, Mythal wrapped in wolf-suit and testing me with lies. I feel her, Fen’harel, I know what you carry. This task is mine.” Solas leaned back in his seat. “The people that I’ve gathered are not Sentinels, Abelas. They are downtrodden. Slaves and abused servants. Violated and outcast. Clanless and hopeless. Our own people are few. It will not be the army you expect.” A flame sizzled in Abelas’s hand. He tipped it into the lantern between them. “A year ago, I would have believed that,” he said. “I would have deemed them little more than fennecs, sly and low and cringing. Few wandered close enough to prove me mistaken. But that was before the Inquisition. Before I met your Inquisitor’s people. Before I witnessed you claim her as part of us. I thought you mad, even as I indulged you.” 

Sadness chased anger through him at the man’s words. Had he not told himself the same, many times? Abelas continued. “I did not stay at the temple. I could not wait in that prison a moment longer. My purpose was gone, all I’d suffered to protect was destroyed. But your words— I found myself back in the world. In the company of the Shemlen, though I tried to avoid them. No matter how far I traveled, the name of the Inquisitor was on the lips of every person. Her battle with the Tevinter was long over by the time I heard of it. Ah, how I wish I had traveled with you now. That would have been a worthy sight. But I heard the tales. Even after cutting away the embellishment, even with you by her side, it was a mighty thing.” “It was a close thing,” said Solas. “Yet they did not falter, these allies of yours. They’ve already faced a would-be god. They will be ready to face another. These are not the cowering rodents I believed. They are worthy combatants.” “I did not recruit the Inquisition. Indeed, many of them would not understand. They would not be on our side,” said Solas. “That is unfortunate. But they cannot be the only people who can learn to fight. You have no time to train them properly. Not for this. I’m certain you have found capable warriors in your travels, but they are not like us. If you want them to fight like Sentinels, then you need someone who knows what that means. You need someone who knows what we’ve lost. These people do not know the Evanuris. You and Mythal— you have never been like the others. Even in battle you hold back. They will not. Your army has no preparation for this. I can change that.” He hesitated and Abelas stood up, his fists slamming into the desk. “I was there, Solas, when you were not. It was not only Mythal who suffered that day. Sylaise picked the most vulnerable. The most likely to cry out for aid. And we watched as Elgar’nan tortured them, one after another. Hours and hours. Do you know the sound a child makes as it is slowly peeled from the Fade, killed from the inside out? I do. It is familiar to me now. One by one, everyone I loved was ripped from me. And still Mythal stood silent. We did our best to follow suit. We knew what we protected as well as you did. We knew what terrors the Evanuris could inflict with the spear of red fire. This world may die when you release the Fade. But I will not see the Evanuris twist the taint to suit them. I will not see its last days hand a triumph to our enemies. Give me this. I am Mythal’s hand of vengeance. Give me the power to do this, in her name, if you will not do it in your own. You cannot deny my petition is just.” “Very well. I will give you what aid I can, but my own war takes me far from here. I wish to prevent it from occurring at all. I will not be at your side at the end.” Abelas sunk back into his seat. “I know,” he said, his voice sinking to a low murmur. He traced the edge of the Inquisitor’s box near Solas’s hand. “And I can offer you a gift, Solas. One that no one else will dare to.” He glanced up, catching Solas’s gaze. “I will not let the taint touch her. When it happens, when the Blight closes in and we have fought our last— I will do what you cannot. I will act in your stead. She will not become one of those soulless twisted husks. Swift and without pain. When she asks, I will do this for you.” “How did you—” Solas cried out. Abelas shook his head and slid the box toward him. “You are not the only one who has found love in the dying days of a world. You and she— are an echo of a song I never expected to hear again. One I strangled long ago. I can prevent that pain, at least.” He stopped and sighed. “I was kind once,” he said at last, “But I am too old to care, much, what happens to this world.” He looked around at the ruins, and his eyes glittered with unspent tears. “It seems a footprint left behind. The cloud of breath that hangs in the winter air after someone has passed by. The burnt chaff of a once fertile field.” “There is life, still, among the ruins,” said Solas. “Things that remain and new things that thrive.” Abelas turned back to him. “Were you not what you are, that might bring me hope. But knowing what comes— it is all the more tragic.” He waved a hand, plunging them back into darkness. “Take me to your forces. I wish to meet them. And walk the battlefield.” The forces that camped in the Arlathan forest were still small, relying on stealth and the ancient Tevinter superstition to guard them. But Abelas did not seem disappointed. Simple birdcalls followed in their wake and the trees rustled around them until they reached the gates of the city. Several dozen elves dropped silently from the branches around them and waited. Solas concentrated on the wards, unwinding them one by one as they watched. They were powerful. He was surprised to find that Wisdom had created them to open only for him. Even Mythal would have been stymied if she had not had his aid. A deep gratitude warred with grief in him for his friend. It felt like ending an old argument, opening the city. It felt like the final words of a lost conversation. One that they would never have a chance to finish. He had not brought his people this far before. But with Abelas to lead them, the time was right. The city would be safe, the seal Wisdom had replaced would be guarded. They would be left in peace to prepare. He finished and the gates glowed. An old man walked up beside him to touch them. Solas watched him as he reached out slowly, holding a breath as he pressed his fingertips to the rock. He turned to Solas. “My whole life,” he said, “Every night I’ve dreamed of this place. Every day I’ve searched for it.” Solas looked at the gates, feeling the weight of a thousand years of absence all at once. “So have I,” he said, “And we are here at last.” The man squeezed his arm and stepped forward with a laugh. Solas felt like weeping. He glanced over at Abelas and saw the troubled expression on his face. He was not alone. “Alas,” said Abelas quietly. “I have never longed for home more. And I have never been farther from it. I did not expect to feel this way again.” “It will be restored,” said Solas, but Abelas shook his head. “Not for me,” he said, and stepped inside. “The Blight still lingers in the dust and stone,” said Abelas, kneeling at the boundary of Andruil’s land. They had left the others behind to explore the city. Some primal instinct kept any but them from wandering into the diseased plain. Solas jumped down from the broken owl at the gate. Black dust plumed in his wake as he landed. “Yes. The titan is still buried beneath. It will never be whole again. This ground will never bear fruit. Arlathan cannot support our forces for long. We must rely on hunting in the forest for now. That is why I have not yet called all of them together.” “How many?” Abelas wiped away the tainted dust from his hand with a look of disgust. “Ten thousand at last count. It will grow.” “It must. We cannot defeat the Evanuris with so few. The Sentinels will come, but we number less than three hundred now.” Solas shook his head. “I would not ask more of them.” “We are bound to Mythal, until our deaths. Now you speak her will, so they will come.” “I release you.” Abelas laughed. “That is something beyond even your power, Fen’harel. She did not require our service, it was we who pledged it. You, too, swore an oath of loyalty to her, did you not?” “Yes.” “Did you swear it as a slave to a master?” “No. As a friend to another.” “As did we. They will come.” Solas walked toward the temple. “Do they know?” called Abelas. Solas turned and squinted into the afternoon sun that haloed his figure. “Do they know what is coming? What you are truly asking?” “They know. I do not want blind followers. I would be no better than the others.” “Why then? Why do they stay with you, knowing the end? It cannot be for the same reasons as ours. They cannot know the rage and pain of centuries.” “They do. Passed down from parent to child. A thousand years of servitude and war and poverty. They have as much pain as you or I. It is just turned in another direction. They stay because they want to be reminded of their own power. That they are strong. That they, too, can be heroic and— and good. That is what the Inquisitor would say, if she—” he broke off and shook his head. “Come, the light will be gone soon, and I wish to inspect the seal.” Abelas caught up, his footsteps keeping the quick pace of Solas’s own. “Will she come?” he asked as they crossed into the courtyard of jade. “Will she aid us?” “If she survives, she will try.” “And the others with her?” He sighed. “The others do not know of this place. They think it’s a myth. That the Veil is something natural. That the Blight is defeated and the Evanuris a set of quaint Dalish customs.” “Surely she will warn them,” said Abelas. Solas turned to him. “Would you?” he asked. “Knowing how it must end, would you tell them?” “She shed blood with them. She will tell them.” He nodded and climbed the stone steps. “Perhaps. I fear for her, if she does. History has not proven kind to messengers bearing tidings of war.” They stood in the cool dark of the temple, the massive stone seal pulsed with power, glowing with veilfire. Abelas circled it slowly. He crouched to trace a jagged crack on the face of the carving. “She will come. Alone or many. My Sentinels will come. The wildlings and the broken that you call. They will all come. And we shall be the wrath and thunder. The taint shall burn beneath our gaze. And we will bring winged death to the Evanuris.” He looked up to where Solas stood across the seal from him. “Stay,” he said. “It is a better death, at our side. Become the Dread Wolf again.” “I cannot. Not while there is a chance to save them all.” Abelas scowled. “Save them for what? To be eternal slaves? To die in the endless war? You have made grave mistakes, Fen’harel, but you did set them free. I am not blind. I’ve devoted my life to Mythal, all of my breaths have been spent defending what she thought precious. But I know she would never have moved against the others. She would never have freed the Elvhen. Only you could. And where you go— you will perish before you can free them. The Elvhen will fall in that other world. Someday. But it will be bloody and costly. They will fight to the last man. Stay. You could do more here—” “No,” growled Solas. His magic surged and prickled with his anger, but he pushed it down. “Do not ask again.” He turned and left the temple. Actions

[noirskyline]

Basics

Full Name: Yrkvinn ‘Vanir’ Lavellan Nickname(s): Vanir      Title: Idiot Hero (More as in ‘look at this dumbass trying his best and usually making shit worse, he can’t stop doing it go sit down.’)

Age: 23 Birthday: Eluviesta 9:18 Dragon Species: Elvhen

Sex: Male Gender: Male Preferred Pronoun(s): He/Him Romantic Orientation: Homoromantic Sexual Orientation: Homosexual Religion: Elven Pantheon Occupation: Rogue - Archer

Relationships

Birth Order: Oldest

Parents: Romaer (Father) and Miafiel (Mother)

Siblings: Severel unnamed, unmet younger siblings

Significant Other(s): Dorian Pavus (Main Game verse)

Children: None

Closest Friends: Cassandra, ZJ, Iron Bull, Varric, Solas

Physical Traits

Eye Color(s): Blue

Hair Color(s): Red

Height: 5′10″

Weight: 170lbs

Notable Physical Traits: Vallaslin of Dirthamen, red-brown in color. A scar diagonal scar across the left corner of his mouth and a vertical one on the left jawline. Freckles are over his shoulders and forearms.

Personality

Having experience as a slave, Vanir prefers to use compassion and understanding when dealing with others around him. He has a soft spot for elven servants and finds himself treating them with the utmost respect, though he will not treat an owner badly unless he sees something he doesn’t agree with. In that same breath, he absolutely detests the way his former owner treated him and his family but he hoped, as a child, things would get better. 

His stance on slavery will not waver. He believes that Alienages should be removed from cities but the inhabitants should be allowed to live where they would like. Being treated like a second class citizen because of the shape of their ears needs to die. Vanir hopes to see that change in the future but he understands there’s much more work involved in it than hoping. In that sense, he’s an advocate for the living rights of his People. 

Vanir is fiercely loyal and protective of those who may need him or his assistance. If he is told a secret, he dies with it, particularly if it’s one of a friend’s. Work-related secrets do not count under this behavior. He will keep a secret if he feels it’s within the best interest of his friends or those in the Inquisition.

He can be jealous and prone toward temptation but Vanir fights to stop himself from accepting it. The worst he does is lift things from various places he visits, such as Halamshiral’s Winter Palace. Collecting these items is a habit he picked up in order to learn how to pickpocket without being punished as a child. Since it was for the good of his own skills, Vanir did everything he could at the time. Obviously, there were many times in which he failed. 

Failure is something that he’s quite used to, as frustrating as it is. It pushing him to become a harder worker and more determined in his efforts to do something. He may end up having an initial period of slight grief but, after beating himself up a while, he wipes the proverbial dirt off his face and keeps going. He doesn’t have time to falter and this side of him, he keeps hidden. 

Showing vulnerabilities is not something that Vanir enjoys doing. As the Inquisitor, he understands that allowing the Inquisition members to see him as anything less than his best could have severe consequences. He doesn’t openly complain, show anger, or allow himself to cry, pray, or intimidate/threaten. However, when he’s on the field and fighting, Vanir can be rash, hot headed, and impatient. He regularly has to pull himself back and force himself to remain calm in certain situations, particularly ones that are of a delicate nature.

He doesn’t see himself to be the answer of all problems as people see him being the Herald and Inquisitor. Vanir recognizes that he has a lot of support and help from other people and credits them as often as he can. Reminding people that there is a group instead of only himself makes him remember that there’s a possibility people may only recognize him instead. He hopes that won’t be the case but he’s seen many examples of bias in history. 

Vanir is naive in the way that he doesn’t want to see the world as a terrible place filled with horrible people. He believes that good people do bad things, people are a moral ground, but he knows that there are some who may not deserve that kind of hope in their actions. At the same time, he recognizes that he’s not pristine either. He travels the countryside killing random strangers and has likely gained many enemies that way, he’ll never claim to be completely innocent. He knows that he’s likely a killer in the eyes of many. That won’t stop him from being frustrated with them.

History

Vanir’s mother and father were captured by slavers near Starkhaven. They had lived as Dalish for several years beforehand, his father hunting for their people and his mother helping with trade and clan negotiations. They were not forgotten by the clan members but their capture was reported to their Keeper, who did nothing to retrieve them.

As such, they were taken toward Hercinia. His father was given a new job in construction on their new owner’s home and lands while his mother was put into housework and servitude. Because of this, his parents had to sneak around in order for his mother to have gotten pregnant with him as they didn’t share the same quarters. 

He was born within a year of his parents being in their owners home. The human noble saw it as an opportunity in order to freely gain more servants and actively encouraged it, keeping the stronger ones and selling the ones that didn't meet his standards. The ones that were deformed or otherwise ill, he killed outright. 

Since he couldn’t pronounce Vanir’s given name of Yrkvinn, he ordered Vanir’s mother to give him a simpler name. Yrkvinn became Vanir at four and had to be taught to respond to it, often getting his hands smacked with a cane if he didn’t.

When Vanir was six, his owner had gotten an idea from another to start branding the slaves. It was done to ensure that no one would take them and, if they ran away, he could get them back free of charge. It was proof that he’d already paid for them. While it was a good idea for owners, it was torment on the slaves themselves. Those who already had their vallaslin had cried out when branded with the hot iron, a circle with their owners initials - H.I. for Hedianto Istall, a noble merchant. Vanir’s was on his lower back, right hip.

At nine, he stole from his owner’s table. The man only noticed because he’d specified a certain amount of a particular dish and, when it was less than ordered, the chef was questioned. He found out that Vanir had stolen and the food was tucked away in his clothing. To make an example out of him for stealing, regardless of whether he were hungry or not, the owner took a whip to him in front of the other servants. 

That was the day his father was killed. Romaer was sick of the way his mate and child were being treated and to see that display, he attacked their owner. No other elf came to his defense, Miafiel staying back because she had Vanir to care for afterward, and he was stabbed repeatedly. Another example. His body was hung in a tree in front of the servant quarters to remind them every day what would happen to them if they dared to fight back. 

His mother worked on helping him to heal and, at the same time, started bargaining with other slaves. She decided not only to give him his choice of vallaslin at that age but to get him out of their owner’s grasp. His choice surprised her. Vanir chose the vallaslin of Dirthamen not only because of the knowledge and deceit representation but also because of loyalty and faith in family. Miafiel couldn’t say she completely understood his choice but she wouldn’t take that from him, her own was Mythal’s. 

Once the vallaslin had healed on him, his mother arranged for him to be sent to Ferelden as soon as possible. She wanted him to make it to the Brecilian Dalish clans where her mother was living. He was put in a crate and given drugs to make him sleep, hidden on a cart and sent away. Other elves that knew made sure he got on the right ship and he was sent toward Highever. From there, he left the docks and stole what he could in the city to survive, eventually making his way to the forests. 

Vanir didn’t know where to go but he watched humans who were traveling. He stole from them, often getting anything they left behind, and started to live near Lothering. It was here that he lived until a Chantry sister found him hunting on their lands. They took him in for a time until they saw that his skill was better suited elsewhere. As such, he was sent to serve under Templar ranks. 

He made few connections here and made fewer waves. Vanir took the skills he was given and worked hard at what he knew he could do. His mother didn’t risk her life for nothing and he wouldn’t allow it to be that way. Archery was his strong suit but he was trained to work with daggers as a backup since archery wouldn’t help in close combat.

Before the Temple of Sacred Ashes was destroyed, he got his first contact with his mother’s clan. A note was sent to him to act as an ambassador for the clan to spy on the proceedings, to which he agreed. 

[Heads into game canon, becomes Inquisitor and has a chosen romance with Dorian Pavus. AU with ZJ suggests that Vanir barely got to the forward camp before meeting ZJ, the Herald.]

[wootensmith]

Reunion

“Here it is,” said Vhemanen, pushing the book toward him. A fall of snow sifted down the chimney and the fire hissed at its touch. Solas set aside another volume and took hers up.

Isevun’s health is failing. Each time I draw the power down, the period of relief is shorter. The flame burns in her veins and reducing it seems only to fan its spread. Yet I have found no other method to remove it. A thousand curses upon Dirthamen. He has betrayed me. All his skulking and prying has yielded nothing, except for this foolish endeavor. I cannot see why it elevated Ghilan’nain, yet left Isevun so frail. She is thrice as skilled as Andruil’s dalliance. A rival for Mythal, even. And yet a small portion of my power consumes her from within. Unless I can find an answer within the month, I fear the hand must be removed. Isevun will then be useless to me. I cannot allow the public to see her disfigured and still claim her as my mate. They will not accept anything less than a goddess in Mythal’s place—

Solas shoved the book away in disgust. “Each time I wonder if I have been too harsh, if I should relent and allow them their freedom, I find another reminder of their cruelty and greed.” Vhemanen snorted a laugh and passed him an oatcake. “You ought to have left the marks then. I’ve only to look in a mirror to remember. She was not above reproach either, Solas. Isevun was not a martyr. She wished to become one of them, nothing more. I don’t think Mythal was lying when she told you she’d waited centuries for someone like you. No one with a chance at power had tried to help others before you. They only sought to gather more for themselves. Do not pity Isevun. She only wanted to take Mythal’s place. If she’d succeeded— well, they could hardly have done worse to Mythal than they did.” She shook her head to clear the brutal memory of Mythal’s death. “But I pity your Inquisitor. It took years for Isevun to lose a hand. I hope she is as lucky—” The door opened with a boom as the wind slammed it against the stones. A ragged looking elf stood in the doorway with a bundle clutched tightly in his hand. Solas rose to help him as he stumbled inside. Vhemanen hobbled to the door and shoved it closed again. “What is it, lethallin?” asked Solas, guiding the man toward the fire. He shrank away from Solas’s touch but didn’t fight him. “Why have you come?” “Apologies,” the man stuttered through shivering teeth. “It is a long way from Kirkwall and many of the passes are closed.” “Kirkwall?” Solas felt a tight twist of dread spear his chest. “Why did you not take the eluvian?” “Smashed. The Templars found it last year.” He sat on the hearth, snow dripping and slithering down his skin. Vhemanen wrapped a blanket over his shoulders and shot a worried look at Solas before bustling away muttering about something hot for his belly. Solas crouched beside the man. Adwen, his memory supplied at last. “Are you in trouble? What has made you travel so far? I would have sent aid.” Adwen shook his head and held out the bundle. “I cannot go back. One of the Inquisition noted me. The boy with the hat.” “Cole?” “He just walked up and handed it to me one morning. Told me it was for you. And that the Inquisitor is very ill.” Solas took the chilled package. “How long was the Inquisition in Kirkwall?” “I am unsure. I failed to spot them. However they arrived, it must have been kept quiet. I— I meant to be here sooner. They were in a derelict mansion when I left, but that was mid Harvestmere. I only knew because the boy approached me.” “Did you speak—” “Let the man rest,” said Vhemanen gently. “He has walked a long way to bring that to you.” Adwen looked at her in alarm and shielded his head as if expecting a blow as Solas whispered a spell to warm him. “I am not going to hurt you,” said Solas. “Not all the stories are true.” The man flinched as Solas’s spell sank into his skin but relaxed after a moment. Vhemanen handed Adwen a warm bowl of food and pulled Solas aside. “You’d better leave him to me. He’s heard too many lies to rest near you.” She tapped the bundle in his hand. “And you have news. It is almost First Day. You should go.” “If the Inquisition cannot find a healer to help her, what good would I do?” he asked. She looked at him sadly. “We both know it isn’t Frost cough. You may be the only one who can do any good. At least for now. If you can buy her some time, we may find the solution still.” She gave him a careful push toward the stairs and turned back to the man wolfing down the food behind them. He set the bundle down on his narrow cot, abandoning it to search for his travel pack. He had already decided. Probably as soon as Adwen had uttered the word “Kirkwall”. Steal her, Cole had said. Let another take your place, she’d begged him. He reached up to take down his staff and felt the thump of the jawbone swinging against his chest. He’d sworn an oath. He caught the bone in his fingers. He’d put her through all of it, put them all through agony to finish it. Could he really put it aside to save her for a few more months? Did all of it mean nothing? He sank down onto the cot. He couldn’t even be certain she was still in Kirkwall. It had been months. She might have recovered. Or traveled to Tevinter still ill. Or— gone. He closed his eyes and struggled to focus on the Fade. The pull of her remained. That he was sure of. Not gone. It was enough reassurance to let him slip into sleep. He found Ithalla quickly in a dull dream of dirty dishes and the cranky innkeeper of the Hanged Man. He brushed it aside, too worried to shift it gradually and avoid frightening her. “You did not tell me the Inquisitor had arrived,” he said abruptly. It took a moment for Ithalla to focus on him, bewildered by the sudden awareness that she was not awake. “I— I have not seen the Inquisitor. Master Tethras, to be sure. But he came alone. And he rarely comes here—” she glanced around, slowly realizing they were no longer in the bar. “There,” she amended, “He and that pirate and Hawke’s glowing elf have been closeted together for months. Over in Hightown. They don’t let lowtown folk up there.” “Did anyone else join Varric? A mage, perhaps? Or a Qunari?” Ithalla frowned. “We heard rumors of a band of mercenaries who signed up with the pirate. One of them was Qunari. But I never saw one since the war. If your Inquisition is here, then they are staying very quiet. The whole world knows about the mark in her hand. She couldn’t get very far without being recognized.” “Flickers and bursts. Like every bolt of lightning she ever cast come back to her. Stitching the sky closed and piercing her hand with the needle every time. And now the mansion is emerald, haunted again.” Solas turned to see Cole clutching his own wrist as if it were his hand that ached. He pulled them out of Ithalla’s dream. “She’s sick. Dorian keeps her sleeping. She would leave if he didn’t. The Veil is very thin here. She is afraid she will rip it open. But the boat is so small and the lightning is so big. She’s like a dead tree, her bones burning, her skin all whole with the heartwood cracked. You have to come.” “Where is she?” “Varric put her in his brother’s bed. He hopes the lyrium is gone. He swears he hears it. But she made him swear. Made them all swear. Secret. Another rabbit. Dorian’s servant. No one sees her hand. And her marks are gone. You made her invisible. She knows it will not last. She thinks she will not need it to. One more inch.” “I haven’t found a way to remove it,” cried Solas. “You can still help. She knows. And all the time your name flutters behind her lips. She keeps it there, a moth she will not free. She knows you are helping someone else now. It makes her very careful not to call. No speaking of you. She asks Bull to stop the dreams. No veilfire.” “Find me a way in without being seen. I will be there in a week.” Cole nodded and Solas woke with a start. His hand fell on the bundle beside him and he unwrapped the thick oilcloth. It was a book. One of Varric’s. He couldn’t help the deep pang of disappointment that flooded him. What had he expected? No veilfire. He opened it anyway, knowing he should be stuffing his pack and heading for the door. A lone leaf lay upon the title page, red as flame and brittle, so brittle. He didn’t need veilfire to know it was from her. The floor creaked under Vhemanen’s feet and he looked over at her as she hovered in the doorway. She was not the small girl he remembered. And Abelas was not the fearless warrior he had seen in Mythal’s guard. And this place— his whole world was a ruin. Mythal’s magic pulsed within him, overran him, and yet he had never felt as powerless. Vhemanen stuffed a cloth sack into his pack and strapped it tightly closed. She held it out to him and then his staff. “Don’t come back,” she said. “I swore an oath,” he answered. “Everyone who would have held you to it is long dead. Those that remain would forgive you.” “I would not forgive me.” “It seems to me that you will not forgive yourself either way. Which guilt is worse? This world or the other? One must die. But only one has her in it.” He stood up. “If it were so, then the choice would be easy. But the burden of this world remains, no matter how I choose. I will see you shortly. Will you be well until Loranil arrives?” She laughed. “I held a temple for far longer than a few days on my own. I am not so frail. Go.” The closest eluvian was still a two day walk from Kirkwall. The weather was foul. The snow became sleet and the air stung with salt tang. Somehow, the city was still filthy, even in the constant snow and rain. It made an icy sheen over the grit instead of washing it away. He took care to arrive in the morning throng. One of many elves coming to trade at the market. There were few in the city who would recognize him, but he could afford no mistakes. The Undercity would normally have been ideal, but too many of his own agents utilized it. The same was true of Lowtown. He kept to the edges of the street and avoided greeting anyone. Most of the humans ignored him, but a few of the elves were watching him. Cole had left a trail. Bone-white sand dollars, dozens of them, scattered several feet apart. They almost disappeared in the dirty snow and Solas had to spend most of his focus on finding the next one. He had little opportunity to worry much about being spotted. Some part of him didn’t care. It would not turn him back. The shells led him to a small outbuilding in Hightown where Cole was waiting. The boy was wringing his hands and shifting foot to foot. “You came,” he said, breaking into a smile as Solas shut the shed door. “She will be so happy.” Solas shook his head. “She cannot know. Not ever, Cole. Do you understand?” “You aren’t staying,” he realized. “You can take her. Wake her up where she is loved.” He hesitated. The boy made it sound so simple. And her allies were deserting her. By spring, Cole would likely be the last at her side. “What is she doing here? What is this last inch she wants badly enough to suffer for it?” “I— it was meant to be secret,” said Cole uneasily. “From me as well?” Cole tapped his ear. “From others. This is not a good hiding place. Come with me.” He pressed open a door and led Solas into a stone passage. They passed, swift and silent through empty sculleries and cold baths. “Is she alone here?” he asked. Cole shook his head. “Not alone. Someone is always nearby. They must be. Otherwise Dorian would have already left. Sometimes him. Sometimes Fenris. Sometimes Varric. Sometimes me. Iron Bull is gone with the Chargers. The boat smooths the way. He likes being a pirate. He says it suits him. Varric is with her now.” “Perhaps I should wait until it is your turn again—” he stopped as a shrill scream rang through the building. A thick wave of magic slammed into him. “Oh no,” cried Cole. “She is awake. I have to find Dorian.” He blinked out, leaving Solas standing in the doorway of the long, empty dining room, her agony still echoing in his ears. He froze, uncertain what to do or where to go. He could hear Varric’s warm voice speaking above him in a constant stream. “Go on, Inquisitor, drink it now. Dorian will be here in a moment—” “No.” The gasp in her voice made him ache. There were a few footsteps. “Please, this is pointless. You shouldn't be in this pain.” “I have ten minutes, Varric, before the pulse returns. Tell me what has happened.” “You had ten minutes. Last time. It’s getting worse. The spell shouldn’t have worn off for another hour.” “I know. Don’t waste any more of them.” Solas rushed through the large hall, looking for the steps up to her. The voices faded as he moved away and he could no longer understand them. The mansion was a vacant maze, the hearths unlit and chilled. No scent of food, no other voices, no candles burning. Why was she living like this? He found the stairs at last. Varric’s voice returned first as he climbed. “One pulse and you’ll blow Isabella’s ship to splinters.” “I can hold it.” “No, you can’t. It’s killing you. Your barrier cracked in that last one.” “Then send Dorian on. I’ll go back to the Marches until it subsides.” “So you can die alone in some swamp? Dorian won’t go, anyway.” “He must. It’s the last piece. He can represent me in absentia. We never needed me to finish this.” Solas could hear them behind the door. His hand hovered over the doorknob. He had been so careful to stay hidden. It hadn’t been for his sake, but hers. He hadn’t wanted her to know. Hadn’t wanted to have to leave her again. “He’s not—” Varric’s voice was drowned in another shriek and Solas’s paralysis broke. The door flung open, his hand already finishing the sleeping spell as he stepped through. The Inquisitor dropped. Varric caught her clumsily before her head could slam into the bureau beside them. Her hand was blindingly bright, thick branches of sickly green glow flickered like embers from a deadly fire in her skin. He had felt the pressure of the magic discharging even from beyond her barrier and he could feel it building again even now. He helped Varric lower her down to the floor even as the dwarf gaped at him. “Thank the Maker, Chuckles,” he said and collapsed onto his knees. “We thought you were dead. None of us know what to do.” “Neither do I,” he said grimly. “But I can diminish it for a time.” “Anything is better than this. Every time she wakes up, it’s worse. And it’s getting faster.” Solas turned her palm up between his hands. “She needs to get out of this city, Varric. The Veil is treacherously thin here. One failed barrier and the entire city could fall while she is like this. And it’s worsening the anchor as well.” “I can’t put her on a boat like this,” Varric protested. “And Skyhold is much too far. She’ll never make it.” “We’ll discuss it later. Let me work. And get a fire going in here.” “Yeah, sure.” Varric got up, still shaky. “We’re going to talk about how you disappeared later too. If you weren’t the only person that could help her right now—” “I know,” said Solas without turning to look. “But let me do what I am able to before that. It is too long of a story.” Her face was so tired, even in sleep. Drawn and sad. Solas had a terrible moment of feeling they’d been here before. All that was missing were the chains around her wrist. The pain was the same. And his raw panic. “This is not a meeting I wished to revisit,” he said, brushing the side of her cheek. He closed his eyes and clasped her marked hand and concentrated. The sudden flood of power made him lightheaded. He had not touched the mark in almost a year and the strength of it had multiplied exponentially. It was no mystery that she was ill. How she’d prevented it from destroying Kirkwall was the wonder. She shifted and he opened his eyes. Still sleeping. He was grateful for that. The mark was stabilized. Varric was still gone. There was no reason to tarry. He knew he ought to go. But to touch her, to see her just for a moment… More gray threaded through her hair than he remembered. There were more lines in the corners of her eyes. And scars he could not place. That bothered him most. Hurts he had not been there to heal. He picked her up. The floor was doubtless colder even than the rumpled bed near the window. He took a step toward it but halted. Would it be so wrong? She offered to go, in the end. She was a relic. Something discarded. Like him. The others were leaving. They didn’t need her. But he did. More than he ever had. Orlais was quiet. The Wardens had their own struggles far away. The mages had mostly scattered or joined Vivienne. Her clan was safe. Or he could make them so. As safe as anyone could be in a doomed world. She could vanish. There was no point in— Varric clattered into the room with a load of wood. “Well?” he asked, seeing Solas holding the Inquisitor. “The mark is stable for now. It should not trouble her any longer.” He sat on the bed rather than putting her down. “What was the plan? Why did you come here? And why are you keeping her in an empty, lightless attic? Even the Hanged Man would be better.” “You think you could do better, Chuckles? You weren’t around to help. We had to keep it quiet. This place was safe. And mine. I tried to persuade her to furnish it and heat it, but she insisted. No one was to know we were here. No lights, no sounds, no movement in or out if we could avoid it. It was only supposed to be for a day or two. She and Dorian were meant to sail to Tevinter months ago. But then the mark got worse. She still ordered us not to change the plan. Every morning she got up intending to take the next step, but we’d get to the docks or the end of the street or eventually only to the door of this room and it would flare up. Then Dorian would knock her out and try some weird shit to stop it that never worked and the whole thing would repeat and get worse. Iron Bull was the only one sane enough to go against her wishes. And he’s gone. Looking for you, by the way. I told him you were dead. I told her you were dead. Andraste’s ass, Solas, I hoped you were dead. Where have you been? How could you leave her like this?” “She didn’t tell me. Skyhold should have dampened the worst of it. She never said—” Varric shook his head in confusion. “What in the Void are you talking about? Skyhold? And when was she supposed to tell you? You’ve been gone a year. A year.” Solas tightened his hold on the Inquisitor. He shut his eyes and tried to focus on the smooth rise and fall of her breath, just for a moment. “Why did you come here?” he asked. “Why has she been so long away from Skyhold?” Varric laughed but it was bitter and low. “Because she can’t stop saving the world. The Imperium has taken an interest in the Inquisition. It’s a force to be reckoned with. They invited her to send an ambassador to court. She decided to install Dorian personally. It’s all a ruse. A cover to help escaped slaves. She and Josephine planned the whole thing ages ago. Sera is using the Red Jennies to find work and homes for the ones that made it here. To spread them out over Orlais and Ferelden so they won’t raise suspicions. Isabella and Iron Bull are their way across the Waking Sea. Isabella’s been running goods for years. She knows which dockmasters to bribe to turn a blind eye. But for ex-slaves, she needed extra muscle. The Chargers volunteered. Fenris and I had safe houses. This one and another. And Hawke’s name to back us up until she gets back. And— a sympathetic friend in the City Guard. Dorian was meant to be the contact in the Imperium. But we had to keep it quiet. If anyone realized she was the Inquisitor, they’d be watching every move. She knew once she and Dorian reached court she wouldn’t be able to hide, but we were to have it all set up by then.” He sighed. “But from the screams in the past few days, someone’s got to have heard something. No good trying to pretend this place is still empty. We’ll have to come up with another story.” “How big was the escape?” Varric piled the wood in the hearth. “What escape?” “How many slaves were meant to escape?” Varric shrugged. “All of them.” “All?” “You don’t get it. I wouldn’t let her suffer like this for a single group of slaves. Even Fenris wouldn’t, and he has more reason than I do. This was meant to be permanent. Or— as permanent as it could be. The Inquisition’s over. How long do you think Orlais or Ferelden are going to tolerate an army camping on their doorsteps now that Corypheus is gone? It’s only a question of time before they force the issue. Look at her. You know her better than any of us. Do you really think she’ll fight to keep it? She wasn’t ever going to go back to her clan and settle down. None of us were, not after what we’ve been through. But Cullen— he sends her to babysit nobles. Or recover the bones of some ancient hero. And she still finds trouble anyway. This was her way to keep going. The world’s a shitty place, Chuckles, even I know that. She makes it better.” “I know,” he said, brushing his fingers over her brow. He looked up again at Varric. “What was her part? Could you do it without her?” “Shit,” swore Varric, “I knew you were going to give me bad news.” “No— she’s safe, for now. I just— could you save them without her?” “We’d try. But she’s behind it all. Every step. Everything that has gone wrong, she’s solved. Every time we’ve needed resources, she’s found them. Josephine has helped, but it was the Inquisitor doing the legwork. And her name still has weight. It’s gained us many personal favors. She’s made alliances between groups no one ever thought would work together. Even the carta’s involved. It’s a good plan. But you know how those go. Without her— we’d probably pull off a few trips before something went wrong and we got caught. Dorian’s smooth and Iron Bull is smart and Fenris is— well, Fenris is brilliant, but none of us are her.” It’s no good, he realized. She must stay. And he could not. Part of him rebelled. What use was it, freeing them? They’d all be dead in a few years, enslaved or free. But the thought filled him with shame and he sobbed. “Solas?” asked Varric. He took a step toward the bed. Solas ignored him. “Ir abelas, Vhenan,” he said and pressed a kiss to her cheek that she did not feel. He laid her down and pulled the coverlet over her. He turned to Varric. “She’ll need rest. A week, maybe, and she’ll be recovered.” “Fine. Do you want me to hire some furnish—” “I promised her I would not force you to forget,” interrupted Solas, “but if you care about her, you will never speak of this. Not for my sake, but for hers. She cannot know I was here.” “What?” He looked down at her once more. “Try to persuade her to return to Skyhold when she may. There are safeguards there that will slow the anchor’s spread.” “I thought you’d be— you of all of us, you say you believe in the right of all people to be free. And you’re leaving? You have no idea of the chaos you left behind you—” “I do. I know. I can’t—” “You must have cared once, you came back. What have you got that’s more important than the Inquisitor? Than this?” “I can’t explain. Not now. I have to go. I will return when I can—” Varric’s hand went to Bianca’s strap at his chest. “Don’t,” he said. “If you’re going, don’t come back. Let her go. The anchor might kill her, but at least she’d be sane at the end. And you don’t need to worry about me saying anything. As far as I’m concerned, the Solas I knew is dead. He’d never do this.” “I’m sorry, Varric.” “I told you once, feeling bad about the shitty things you’ve done doesn’t give you an excuse to keep doing them. Get out of here if you’re going. I won’t stop you, but Dorian will be here in a minute or two and I’m not so sure he’d be as gracious.” He could hear Cole’s voice in the stairwell. He touched her hand where it lay on the blanket and fade stepped.