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thedinanshiral · 4 years ago

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On the Evanuris

We know not nearly enough about the Evanuris, the ancient elvhen so-called gods, and what information we have is either myth, legend, or casual commentary by an undoubtedly biased contemporary source, Solas.

While this post was inspired by a particular line Solas says in Inquisition, it’s also been requested on Twitter so i’ll try my best. First a small disclaimer, I partially subscribe to the spirit origin theory, so i’ll start there. I’m presenting another theory based on it as well, so it’s fair to say it’s mostly wild speculation on my part (but I like it!)

At the end of All New, Faded for Her, when Solas returns to Skyhold he mentions to the Inquisitor he went to find a quiet place to sleep, dream and visit the place in the Fade where his Wisdom spirit friend used to be. Says he found it empty, “but there are stirrings of energty in the Void. Someday something new may grow there”. Which got me thinking, where do spirits come from?

Unlike those with a physical existence spirits aren't born, there's no Spirit Mommy and Spirit Daddy making Spirit Babies. Solas explains -without as much detail as i'd like- that once a Spirit “dies”, something remains and if the spirit was strong enough or inspiring enough, from what remains a new spirit may form that would inherit something of the former spirit but would not carry on its identity or memories.

So where do Spirits come from, originally? Chantry states it was the Maker, but i'm skipping that and jumping directly into creatio ex nihilo. Leaving aside the big old question of the origin of the Maker, I propose we discuss the Void a bit. People often think of the Void as an empty space or plane, the abscence of whatever, Nothing with a capital N, when it is also quite the contrary. The Void holds everything within. It's an Absolute and as such, it's everything you can think of and everything you can't think of too. It's raw unlimited potential.

Here’s a silly example: Imagine there's a chef who wants to create a new entry for their menu and have only a basket with 5 tomatos in it. They can be very creative but there will always be a limit to what one can prepare with only 5 tomatos. Now imagine this chef goes empty handed to the farmers' market; there they can pick up a variety of ingredients in whatever quantity and quality they like, and prepare many different meals.

The Maker is the Chef, the Void is the market. The Void is never truly empty, the emptyness is what one may bring into the Void but not the only thing the Void has to offer.

So maybe, just maybe, the Maker -assuming it's real- was the first spirit to form in the Void, maybe completely at random as the result of a combination of void energies, we can't know for sure. In the many creation myths of various cultures it's always a mystery how and why the first divine entities appear, in many cases it's just “and then, pop! There they were”, in others it's an act of “love”, as in the Whole being too much for/in itself breaks down into smaller fractions, generates itself a separate existence and then begins creating other forms as an expresion of the universal love that it is compelled to share with a multitude of life. Essentially all life in the universe is the Universe giving itself a big, big hug and having feelings. This form of “creation from nothing” also grants perspective, as the Absolute in producing other beings generates the possibility of different perspectives of itself.

With that said and tying up Solas’ words with the elvhen spirit origin theory, i’d say there’s a possibility the Void is where spirits originate from, weirdly enough. This could be supported even by Chantry teachings as per the Canticle of Andraste 14:11

Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls. From these emerald waters doth life begin anew.

The first “god” we hear of is the Sun. It being an early entity is evidenced in its lack of a proper name, as it's just “The Sun”, and father to the All-father, Elgar'nan. The Sun symbolises life, beginnings, the origin, as in the rising of a new day. The Sun may have been a first spirit, a concentration of pure, raw energy in the Void, and when the generation chain resulted in different beings apart from itself who could see a different aspect of the Sun, a negative and damaging one, the Sun was overthrown and the Evanuris, its children, rose in its place. The Sun wasn’t alone, however, there was also the Earth as a female and motherly figure, who doted on her son until the Sun out of jealousy and spite burnt everything to ashes, inciting Elgar’nan’s rage. From the tears of the Earth pooled into oceans rose Mythal as a new entity of reason to contrast with Elgarn’nan’s violent emotions. Together they restored the defeated Sun -establishing the day and night cycle – and all four restablished life and everyone lived happy forever.. Except not. Let’s say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

From the Sun and the Earth, Elgarn’nan and Mythal came into existence and according to the myths, they generated in turn other entities that eventually became the elvhen pantheon. Falon’din, Dirthamen, June, Sylaise, Andruil. How every Evanuris embodies or represents a different aspect of life also plays in this idea of an Absolute breaking itself up into its many components. This cascade effect doesn’t end there, as later on we learn from Ghilan’nain’s example that the Evanuris could elevate others to their same godly status.

As spirits directly descendant from the first one, the Evanuris were powerful and naturally the ones that followed came to see them as superior, divine. But as Geldauran says in their claim “There are no gods. There is only the subject and the object, the actor and the acted upon” , the Evanuris in all their power were blinded and in their perception of others as lesser beings they accepted no question of their place in the order of the world. They saw themselves at the top of the chain and not once doubted this. Perhaps the more they defined their individual identities in contrast to the others, the more they solidified into the physical world, the more “earthly” they became, more susceptible to material sensation and needs and desires, and grew more entitled and aggressive in how they took their claims over the world.

All this eventually lead to them “creating” (the Evanuris are after all called “Creators”) the elvhen, possibly more spirits of varying strengths and skills they saw could be used as servants. Some may have joined a physical world willingly, but others may have not, and no “god” would stand being refused by a lesser creature so, enter the vallaslin. Bonding magical marks, used to ground spirits and bound them in service to a particular Evanuris became proper slave markings later on as elvhen became “people” and developed a complex societal structure that expanded over two different planes of existence.

Vallaslin are blood markings, chances are they used lyrium and we know lyrium is the blood of titans; considering Dagna's experience of being tall as a mountain and thinking all the thoughts, we can imagine Titans are, similarly to the Sun, original spirits -or close enough-, entities who had not yet divided themselves into other aspects. So their blood, their nature, is in a way purer than that of the Evanuris, holds potentially more power within, and it would seem they lack distinct personalities, egos and all the nasty things that come with it. They simply existed as they were with no desire, no ambition to be more or do more. And their blood could bridge the physical existence the Evanuris had already mastered, with the spiritual existence they were possibly beginning to lose. Perhaps lyrium branding offered the possibility of bounding a spirit to the earthly plane without sacrificing its spiritual magical powers while simultaneously stripping them of the agency to use them, turning them into the tools the Evanuris needed to continue their rule.

We learn at the Shattered Library in Trespasser that elvhen and spirits were very familiar with each other, implying they had a common origin or nature, even that elvhen could choose to remain spirits, the fact they could sleep for centuries in Uthenera living in the Fade without their bodies dying would too indicate they're related somehow. The Evanuris are not specifically mentioned as retaking a spiritual form, it is however implied they were shapeshifters and favoured the form of massive powerful creatures who could exist both on ground and on air, dragons. Liminal creatures, much as they might have been themselves, neither here nor there. The dragon form was exclusively theirs, others could not “take the wings” and were punished/exiled for doing it.

The Forgotten ones may have been mirror aspects of the Evanuris who got, well, forgotten as they may have been way less popular among the people. The fact they were antagonising the Evanuris tells me they were on similar if not the same level of power/skills. The Forbidden ones could have been similar spirits-turned-people who “abandoned form”, ie returned to their spirit existence to escape the war of the Evanuris against the Forgotten Ones or the Titans. May have been elvhen servants, slaves, warriors who refused to fight a senseless war that only served the Evanuris ego and power hunger.

Then we have Solas, Fen'Harel, possibly also a powerful spirit perhaps summoned or recruited by Mythal, on similar level as the Evanuris and Forgotten ones, powerful enough to trick and imprison them all in two different levels of reality at a time when said levels knew very little distinction. He created the Veil. And while the Evanuris were trapped in the Black City, the Forgotten ones were left in “the Void”. So far his relationship to Mythal is unclear. He may have been a servant of hers, a guardian, her champion, we just don’t know yet, but it’s clear they were close. There’s a line from Cole in Trespasser “He did not want a body. But she asked him to come. He left a scar when he burned her off his face ” . “He did not want a body but she asked him to come” sounds like a spirit being summoned. “He left a scar when he burned her off his face” , Solas not only has a scar on his forehead, but as Fen’Harel he erased the vallaslin of former slaves, and even offers to do it to a romanced Lavellan. Solas may have been a spirit summoned by Mythal who later for some reason decided to release himself from her service by erasing her vallaslin off his face. My guess is this may have happened after her death.

Whatever Solas’ origin is, he was powerful enough to reshape the structure of the world, and what once was all one plane became torn apart from itself. A physical world interwoven with the Fade and connected to the Void became stratified in one a strictly spiritual plane (Fade) above in the sky, a strictly unmutable physical plane (Thedas) below it, and an inaccesible abyss (Void) presumably somewhere in the underground. Still, it's interesting and worth noticing that even in Evanuris times the Void was below the rest of the world. (Andruil “descends” into the Void for her maddening hunting trips).

Next we have the issue of the Old Gods of Tevinter. It is believed the Old Gods have dragon forms that slumber in the underground and that they communicated with men through dreams, teaching them secrets of magic the then new human civilization used to build a powerful empire.

There are considerable similarities between the OG and the Evanuris, not just in number and attributes but I suspect also in nature.

Maybe, just maybe, the dragon forms were like mounts. Mindless creatures the Evanuris could possess, or maybe by getting trapped away from the physical world somehow the Evanuris had their spirit severed from their bodies, with their spirits trapped in the fade and their dragon bodies -that they most likely used for battle- parked in the Thedas underground garage. Remember ancient elvhen could separate spirit and body while sleeping without their bodies dying, when they entered Uthenera, and while that suspended state lasted, servants would tend to their sleeping bodies. Maybe that's what darkspawn originally were. Servants charged with looking after the Evanuris dragon bodies while not in use, trapped underground after the Veil was created and drove to madness like the rock wraiths of the primeval thaig, who later became darkspawn. By the time the Magister Sidereal reach the Black City the corruption, the Blight, already existed. The Blight exists since Evanuris times. For all we know the Blight is an inmmune response of Titans treating the elvhen as parasites/viruses attacking them, assimilating them somehow – as Titans/dwarves had a hivemind, so do the Darkspawn through the Archdemon's song-. If the dragons sleeping underground belonged to the Evanuris and had servants looking after them, i imagine being trapped in the Void for millenia, a place that even pre-Veil had corruption, must have affected them gravely.

It most likely took the Evanuris some time to recover after getting trapped away from the world by Solas. And when they finally gathered the strength to project through dreams, say they find human dreamers instead of their own people and learn the world they knew is destroyed, the elvhen are conquered, enslaved, abused, powerless. The elven people are no longer of use to the Evanuris so they turn their eyes and attention to the conquerors, the powerful ones, the ones they can use. So the Evanuris take on new identities as the Old Gods (as the humans wouldn’t adopt the same gods as the conquered, defeated people), and begin manipulating humans in dreams, sharing ancient powerful magic with them, proving they're real, guiding Tevinter into hegemony.

The Tevinter imperium becomes the spiritual successor of Elvhenan. Powerful empire ruled by mages under the banner of powerful entities built on the back of slaves and the abuse of magic falls and is replaced by....a powerful empire ruled by mages under the banner of powerful entities built on the back of slaves and the abuse of magic? Yeah.

The Evanuris played Tevinter, though, played nice and friendly for a while, built up that human trust in them, made them rely on them, only to suddenly and without any warning ghost them, pulling humans into despair, fear, anxiety, fear of abandonment, fear of losing all the power they had amassed. Until suddenly gods started talking again, and now humas were so terrified of losing them twice of course they'd do anything the gods asked of them without any doubts, of course they'd blindly follow their gods' requests no matter how outrageous or great. So Old God say “break open the Veil, hop on into the Fade and join us in power to rule as gods” and they just go for it.

It's possible the Evanuris wanted to possess the Magister Sidereal and that's why each old god's priest was present. But shit happens and everyone gets tainted. Now with the Veil temporarily broken it's also possible the Evanuris spirits were drawn to their dragon forms underground, unfortunately unable or too weak to awaken them themselves -possessing powerful mages, dreamers at that, would have been an entirely different story. So they use an ancient “connection” with the descendant of their servants, now turned darkspawn, compelling them to find them and dig them out at any cost.It's been said time and time again the darkspawn taint the Old God dragons and turn them into Archdemons but it's not entirely impossible the dragons are already tainted, and that's how they can connect with the darkspawn in the first place.

This would explain why Solas is so against eliminating the Old Gods, why Flemythal and Morrigan had knowledge of rituals to separate their souls from the dragons. I suspect the Old Gods ARE the Evanuris, or vessels of their spirits at the very least. Among the constellations found via astrariums there's one for each Old God, but also one called “Draconis” which doesn't match any Old God and is suspected to have been the representation of an 8th Old God that got taken down from hystory (there's one of a wolf as well..). The “god” that got eliminated was Mythal and of all Evanuris she's the one most strongly identified with and represented as a dragon. Not only that, the dragon in Draconis is one with a single tail body and its two wings open rising in flight, very reminiscing of the half-woman/half-dragon statues of Mythal where the lower female body is shown wearing a long skirt.

Side tracking a bit here but we know who from the Evanuris were problematic: Elgar'nan was too impulsive and violent, Falon'din was an attention seeking arse who relished so much in the worship he received he actively promoted war to increase the number of deaths and therefore the following he had as “guide of the dead”, Ghilan'nain was the elvhen equivalent of a mad scientist gene-splicing anything that moved, Andruil was a blood thirsty hunter and possibly also hunted for slave labour. Mythal was a judge and possibly the voice of conscience of all of them until perhaps they tired of hearing her draw lines for their antics and decided to take her off the picture for good, and Fen'Harel was most likely one of Mythal's champions/warriors/knights/guardians who got done with all the infighting that cost the life of his dear friend and was destroying their world. The remaining three don't really appear much in the lore available, Dirthamen is Falon'din's twin yet as god of secrets and knowledge (similar to Razikale, the Old God of Mystery, one of the two Archdemons left) there's not much known about him other than he loved his brother.

The ones we least know about are June and Sylaise. June god of craft and Sylaise Hearthkeeper were apparently a couple, married, and makes sense because much of crafting requires a constant well kept fire. I suspect they were on the neutral side and may have aided Fen'Harel in secret, because when you mix a god of crafts with a goddess of the hearth you get a forge and the Dread Wolf's base in Trespasser had an armory and ancient elven armor and weaponry were nicely designed. Solas doesn't have anything to say about them ever during the entire game, unlike how he reacts to Andruil and Falon'din, and unlike the Dalish myths of him with Ghilan'nain ...as far as i can recall there's nothing that links June and Sylaise or even Dirthamen with Fen'Harel, specifically. It's so clean a slate it's almost as if it was squaky cleaned on purpose to hide something...

And that’s all for now. It’s a lot to process, I know, my head hurts too but it’s finally out of it. I’m leaving a lot of minor details out because this is already long enough. In the near future i’ll hopefully analyse some characters like Ghilan’nain and Andruil individually.

Thanks for reading!

#Dragon Age #Evanuris #Fen'Harel #Mythal #Tevinter #Dragon Age 4

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justanartsysideblog · 6 years ago

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Children of Fate

Part 1 of Melarue’s origin story for the Vamp AU! Warnings for typical vampire themes, sexual themes, and violence.

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They do not remember their parents. They know they must have existed but beyond that, little else. Was Melarue given to the temple by their mother and father like Geldauran? Or were they an orphan found on the streets like Anaris? They do not remember. The only parent they have ever known was Fate.

The great Temple of Fate stood atop a hill overlooking the small city of Nevarra; still young, but quickly growing and full of promise.

The people of Nevarra brought tribute to the temple, in the hopes that Fate would smile upon them; animals for the slaughter, fresh incense, fine wines and rich, silken cloth…

...and beautiful children to serve the temple as acolytes.

Children of Fate, the people of Nevarra called them. But Melarue and the others called Fate by another name. To them, she was Mother Moonlight.

She only came to them at night, after the sun had set. She would smile and sing to them, and call them her precious children, and she was the most beautiful person Melarue had ever seen. Her skin was frigid to the touch but her smile was warm, and so was the magic that danced at her fingertips.

At night she would show them her magic, show how she sowed it into the very soil to help the people that worshiped her have strong crops. Or take them all down to the banks of the Minanter River and show them how she would calm the waters, or call fish to the boats.

“These people believe I am their god,” She would say, and laugh in a way that always made Melarue’s chest tighten. “It is as it should be. I must be what I must be.”

---

The children keep up the temple: they sweep, and wipe the dust from the polished altar pieces, and make sure there is always incense burning. Melarue’s favorite part is tending the large garden behind the temple. The other children like roaming the dark tunnels below where Mother rests during the day, but Melarue loves nothing more than the feeling of fresh soil beneath their bare feet and the sight of hydrangeas in the sunlight.

Anaris is the eldest of them, and comes of age when Melarue is still young. He is the first that Mother turns, made to be her childe in full, to live in the dark with her and join in the destiny she has crafted for them all. The night of his turning Melarue sits with the other children in the upper chambers, and waits.

Mother Moonlight comes just before dawn, and tells them that Anaris is well.

“You must wait to meet him, my darlings. He must learn to control his hunger now, as I do.”

It is several months before they see him again, at Mother’s side when she comes to visit them all. Though physically he looks much the same, there is a sharpness to him that accentuates his beauty. His skin and eyes seem to glow from within, and his usual teasing charm seems amplified.

A vampire’s charm, now.

One day I will be that beautiful. I will be Mother’s childe truly, and she will be so proud of me. Melarue looks into Anaris’ eyes and smiles to themself.

When Anaris leaves the upper chambers, a new acolyte is brought in. Thremael, so young he can barely walk, orphaned by war, the son of a refugees seeking safety in the city of Nevarra. He looks so small in Fate’s arms, held close as he sleeps.

Melarue and Merith braid his hair, and weave flowers into the thick strands, and feed him goat’s milk when he cries out with hunger.

Merith is Melarue’s best friend.

He is kind and bright, and so very unlike themselves. They are always noticing faults in others, even if they do not say them aloud. They are good at lying, at telling stories that the others always believe. They are good at hiding, and getting their way. The others says it isn’t fair that they can always ask Mother for things and she will make certain they get them, but it is just because the others don’t use the right words.

Merith tells them that lying isn’t a nice thing to do, and that they should try to tell the other children how they feel properly. That seems foolish, because if they told some of the others how they really felt about them, well, Melarue thinks they’d probably get angry.

Merith is the only one who never gets angry.

Melarue counts down the years till their turning as they grow older, and taller. They are told they are beautiful and when they look at themselves in one of Mother’s mirrors, they find that they agree. Vanity, it seems, is another of their faults.

Merith is the same age, but he never gets quite as tall as them. His hair is wild and unmanageable, and his face is plain. Melarue still finds his smiles warm, and his friendship a comfort. He is still their dearest friend, even if he is not as eager as themselves, to receive Mother’s blood.

“What will it be like, to never feel the sun again?” Merith whispers to them one evening. Mother and Anaris have gone out to hunt so there are no lessons that evening, and the others have all gone to sleep. Melarue inches forward in the darkness, and wraps their long arms around their friend.

“We will all be together with Mother, forever. That is better than sunlight, is it not?”

“What will you do without your flowers?” Merith continues.

It has been one of their worries, certainly. “Mother is all that matters,” They say at last, “The flowers will still be there, even if I cannot see them bloom.”

“Aren’t you afraid?”

Melarue holds him closer. “I am afraid of failing Mother.” It is the first honest thing they’ve said that evening, and they know that Merith knows it is so as well. He has always been so very good at seeing through their lies.

“I am not special, like you or Anaris or the younger ones.” Merith shakes his head, and his curls brush against their cheek. “What if I am not strong enough?”

“You will survive the turning,” Melarue vows, “You will survive because you must. Mother has chosen us, we will not fail her. She has never been wrong before.” Melarue knows that if either of them fail, it will be through a fault of their own, and not a decision Mother has made. Still, they think of the two they are the most deficient. If one of them were to fail, surely it would be them.

When Melarue and Merith turn twenty, Mother tells them they will undergo the turning at the next full moon. Melarue can barely contain their excitement, and even Merith seems pleased. They spend the next few weeks listening to Mother’s instructions, to Anaris’ descriptions of what will happen, and preparing their rooms down below where they will soon make their permanent home.

The night of their turning, Merith is taken below first. Melarue remains in the open chamber at the foot of the stairs, and listens to the sound of Merith’s screams. They can feel their heart beating wildly in their chest—out of fear for themselves or Merith they do not know. It is the last time they will ever feel their heart beat, they know, whether the turning is successful or not.

Finally, Anaris comes forward and gives them a smile, “Merith is well. Come with me.”

Some of the tension in them eases, at that. Merith succeeded! He is a true childe of Mother now, just as they will be. Please, they think, as they follow Anaris deeper into the lower chambers. Please let me succeed. Let me make Mother proud. Let me stay with my family.

Mother awaits them in the ceremonial room. It still smells of blood and Merith is nowhere to be found. They suspect that Mother has taken him to his rooms before letting Melarue inside. She opens her arms wide, and they walk into them without hesitation.

“My clever Melarue,” Fate sighs, “It is time.”

“I am ready,” Melarue answers, and they are not certain if it is a lie or not.

Fate lowers them gently to the cushions on the floor, her smile gentle and kind. Her eyes are bright, nearly glowing in the dim torchlight. They can feel the magic in the room, heavy, like a blanket being draped over them as Fate whispers words of bonding.

She uses her nail to slice along her wrist, tilts Melarue’s head back, and places it to their mouth. Mother’s blood is thick and sour, it burns as it trails down their throat. For a moment their mouth is full of the taste, and then everything goes white.

Pain lances through their body as their skin burns. They try to tear it away, but Mother is holding them close, whispering in their ear. They cannot hear her, can only think I have failed her. I have failed Mother. If I cannot do this, I am worthless.

They remember being alone, being small and without purpose. A world before Mother. They cannot go back to that. They can’t.

They blink, and look up at Mother’s beautiful face, and smile.

The hunger is...jarring. They do not fully remember their first feeding. Mother praises them, as they drain the body before them to the last drop, their stomach full, the blood so sweet they nearly weep.

“Clever, clever Melarue, you have done so well,” Fate pets their head, “You did not spill a single drop.”

Fate teaches them not to kill as well, teaches them how to feed and when, and who to choose from. Teaches them how to wipe the minds of those they leave alive. They find they are very, very good at it. They learn early on that they can alter those memories, turn them into other things that they wish. It earns them more praise, even as Fate tells them that even if they do not always kill, it is their right to do so.

Their ability to choose is what separates them from the other vampires, Fate tells them. Beasts that gorge themselves on human blood, who hide in caves and think that they can take what they will; base creatures that do not understand the higher calling of their immortality, of Fate’s plans.

“The mortals of this world pray to us for protection. We are their gods. It is our right to take what we must in return.”

That, they learn, is Fate’s true plan.

To become the God of all the mortals, to be worshiped forever. Is it her calling, she claims, and theirs as well. “My children will be gods at my side. The mortals needs us, just as we need them. We feed from them, and they do as we command, and we provide them with protection. It is nature’s way.”

Fate shows them what she has done with her magic, what she has used her thralls to make down below, where none of them have yet traveled; miles upon miles of tunnels and chambers below the surface. A city beneath a city.

“One day this will stretch across all lands,” Fate whispers, and Melarue can feel the certainty of her words in their bones.

“Why not find a way to block out the sunlight instead?” Thremael asks mother years later, after his own turning. “Surely that would be better. Let us walk outside without fear, instead of hiding beneath the ground.”

“And what would happen, if there was no sun?” Fate hums, weaving magic into a dark cloak.

“The mortals would die,” Merith answers for her. “They cannot survive without the sun. Their food would perish, and the air would be too cold.”

“And without their blood we’d die as well,” Anaris adds, sneering, “Come now Thremael, think for once.”

“Children,” Fate warns, even as she looks at them all fondly. “Do not fight among yourselves. It was a simple question, and Merith has provided a simple answer. Let this be the end of it.”

Melarue watches her siblings joke with one another, the moment of tension gone immediately, and looks back to the cloak in Fate’s hands. “What is that for, Mother?” They have not seen that type of magic before. They have been learning, over the few hundred years. Magic comes easily to them, and they have become more adept at it than even Anaris in this short time, a fact that they tell him often when he annoys them. They pick up the nuances very quickly, learn to manipulate and add, to twist what was seen. To trick and deceive. Mother says they are clever, they want to prove it true.

Fate holds the fabric up for Melarue’s inspection. “A minor protection, against the sun. It will not give more than half an hour’s worth of time, but it is enough, should you find yourselves in need.”

“Why would we have a need for it? We never leave the city,” Anaris sighs, curling up on the cushions beside Fate. There is a wistful tone to his voice; he does not like being so confined, even if there is an entire city to explore. He has always craved more; always the first to leave for a hunt in the evening and the last to return.

“I am sending you on a very important mission.” Fate responds, “War is upon the horizon. The people of Nevarra have asked for Fate’s aide, to turn the upcoming battle in their favor.”

It is not the first time they have been asked to help in times of war. They had even helped Mother sink enemy ships in the harbor with rough waves, once. Mother had needed to draw on the strength of all four of them for it, and it had left them all drained for weeks, but by the time the magically summoned storm had passed, not a ship had remained.

“The enemy army of Orlais is large, and has gathered on the edge of the Fields of Ghislain. The Emperor’s sons lead the force.”

“Their army is thousands strong.” Thremael shakes his head, “We cannot kill them all.”

“Kill the princes, and their top generals.” Fate orders. “You must fill the armies of Orlais with terror. You must show your power, so that when the bodies are found in the morning, Orlais will tremble in fear at the might of Nevarra.”

Merith swallows. Melarue catches the uneasy look in his eyes; aside from the night of his turning he has never killed a mortal he has fed upon. He does not enjoy killing, or the thirst they all have. Fate knows it as well, as she motions for him to sit on her other side, and gathers him close; even now they all seem so small in her arms. “I know it will be difficult, my childe, but this is your destiny. You are serving a higher purpose than yourself, and for that you must do things you do not wish to.”

Fate dismisses the others, so that she can continue to speak with Merith.

“Merith is going to get us all killed if he hesitates,” Thremael mutters, as the three walk down the hallway toward their rooms.

“Do not speak of Merith that way,” Melarue warns.

“You know it as well as I do. He does not believe in Mother’s plans. He thinks we should live as others of our kind do, and keep to ourselves rather than take the positions of greatness that Mother sees for us. He is weak.”

Melarue snarls, baring their fangs as they shove Thremael up against the wall. They are taller, but he is more muscular, and he quickly shoves them away with a growl of his own, eyes glowing in the darkness.

“It is a wonder he even survived the turn,” Thremael gives one last huff before storming off toward his rooms. Melarue watches him go, nails digging into the palms of their hands as they hold themselves back.

“He is not entirely wrong,” Anaris points out, after a moment of silence. He holds up his hands as they turn toward him with a glare, “I do not mean that Merith is weak. I just worry he will hesitate at the wrong moment, because he is too kind.”

“He would never disobey her.”

Anaris sighs, “Come into the city with me tonight. We should enjoy ourselves before tomorrow.”

---

Melarue enjoys themselves quite thoroughly, at Anaris’ prompting. They know being well-fed is important for the task at hand, and they drink a bit more from their targets than they would usually do so. They twist memories, plant fake ones, get inventive because they can and because a dozen different bloods are swimming in their system and their lips taste like fire.

Thremael joins them halfway through the night, and despite their earlier irritation with him they pull him close and into the pile of bodies twisting beneath them. Merith is absent, they note, but it is a fleeting thought before they return to the moment and the feeling of hands on their hips and between their legs.

It is a long night.

When the sun sets the next evening, Melarue takes the cloak Fate hands to them with reverence. It is a powerful magic, and for her to have made one for each of them...they can feel a bit of Merith’s magic in the weave as well, and feel a rush of fondness for their friend. He must have stayed with Mother to finish them the night before.

“Do as I have instructed, and we will finish this war before it reaches the walls of the city.”

Slipping across the bridge and through the forest is the easy part. The four of them are quick, as Anaris shifts shape and goes ahead, leaving the others to travel on foot. Even without wings they do not take long, immortal bodies moving without strain or need of rest at a pace no mortal could match.

The four pause on a hill overlooking the edge of the woods, and survey the scene before them. Little glimmers of torchlight move across the fringes of the army camp; sentries and guards, moving between rows and rows of tents that stretch as far as Melarue can see.

They remember the map Mother had shown them, with the locations of the princes and generals among the soldiers, they remember where they must go, to the far west of the camp, where the second prince lies sleeping.

They look to Anaris and Thremael, who nod and head into the shadows without a word, and look back at dear Merith. His expression is conflicted, eyes worried as he looks ahead. “They have not tried to harm us, Mel. Isn’t this too cruel?”

“The mortals that worship Mother will be harmed if we do not kill them.” Melarue points out, “And the Orlesians bring with them their worship of the Maker. They would tear down our temple if they overran the city. They would rape and pillage the people that come to us for protection.”

“I know,” Merith whispers. “I know.”

Melarue leaves him with a reassuring kiss to the forehead and goes where they must. They hear him move somewhere behind him, heading off to complete his own task, albeit reluctantly.

It is not difficult to walk unseen, to deflect the gaze of guards, to silence their footsteps, to make their image hazy. They navigate through the tents until they arrive at their destination, and slip beneath the folds of the heavy fabric.

The room is dark, but they can smell smoke from the nearby candles, not long doused, and feel the warmth rising from the furs on the bed in the corner. The prince shifts, mumbling to himself as they walk forward.

He is not the first they have killed; but he is the first they will murder in cold blood. They know that Mother is right, and they do not hesitate, as their nails lengthen and they tear open his throat. His eyes open wide, full of panic and confusion as he chokes. His body surges forward but they pin him down, keep him quiet as the light fades from his eyes. Still, they do not think they will ever enjoy killing for the sake of killing.

They lick the blood from one nail and frown. It tastes no different than blood they have had before. There is nothing special about you, they think as they look down at the corpse. You may be a prince, but you are still just a man.

The next part they enjoy even less. They must make the Orlesians afraid, make them fear monsters in the shadows, make them think their God has forsaken them to the whims of demons.

They place his head upon the map in the center of the room, blood soaking through the vellum, crimson blossoming out from the center of Nevarra City and traveling outwards. The rest of him they pull apart and toss around the room. They leave his torso in bed, his limbs to the four corners, fill wine glasses with the blood that remains...and it is over so quickly they hardly register that they have done it.

Not so difficult, to take a life.

Two more they must take, before the night is through.

They kill the generals in a similar fashion, just as easy, but a tightness begins in their chest, a noxious twisting in their stomach. It may not be difficult, but it makes them feel wretched.

When they return to the hill they find Merith waiting for them, smelling of blood, eyes glossy and expression lost. He crumples into their arms and they let him sob as they wait for Thremael and Anaris.

The two arrive together, laughing over something, mouths crimson. Anaris catches their gaze and his smile fades a bit, but Thremael does not seem to notice as he walks forward, “Did your prince taste royal, Melarue? I thought I noticed a hint of rosewater with my own, though it could have been from the prostitute in his bed.”

“Enough,” Melarue mutters, both to Thremael and to Merith who still clings to them. “We must return before the sun rises. Even with Mother’s magic we will need to move quickly.”

“It isn’t like you to be so serious,” Thremael pouts, as the four head home.

---

When they return they learn that Mother has made the twins, Oranani and Felralan, true children in their absence. Welcoming their new family into the fold eases the tightness in their chest, and by the end of the week they have pushed it aside entirely. It was all Mother’s plan, and it works exactly as she had claimed. The Orlesians run, panicked, when they find their princes and generals slaughtered in the night.

Merith never forgets; the hollowness in his eyes never leaves him, no matter how comforting Melarue tries to be. They argue over it more than once, when Merith comes to their rooms to rest and seek solace, and asks them if they think it was right to do such a thing.

“It was Mother’s decision and we will obey it. Mother knows what she is doing. She has always known what we must do. Do not question her again,” Melarue whispers, holding him tight.

They know Mother would never hurt any of her children, but a part of them worries, deep down, that Merith would be in danger if someone else were to hear his doubts.

People continue to bring offerings to the Temple of Fate, as years go by.

New acolytes, as well.

The beautiful Geldauran, who Melarue can’t help be jealous of. His beauty outshines their own, they think, and he believes it as well. It takes a while for Melarue to warm to him, to see that there is more to him than conceit. They are both vain, and that vanity makes them competitive at first.

They learn that each of their new siblings has their faults, but their strengths as well. And no matter how much they fight, they are all children of Fate, and that connection is more powerful than any other.

Daern’thal is the last.

Shy, eager-to-please Daern’thal, all gangly limbs and sharp, perceptive eyes.

Not all who were given Mother’s blood survive the turning. Okri, Harra, Tamlen...Melarue mourns each of their deaths silently, for when Daern’thal had wept openly Geldauran had slapped him viciously.

“They were not worthy of being Mother’s true children, do not shed tears for them.”

There were others, they know. Others that ran through the marble halls and ate and laughed with them, whose faces they do not remember. Blurred visages, hints of memories that never quite surface.

Melarue focuses on their magic, as the city grows around them. They learn to shift their form, to take on shapes previously unknown to them, how to turn to mist, to pull themselves apart and put themselves back together.

They spend long evenings discussing new books and languages with Daern’thal and Oranani, or reveling in the growing brothel district with Anaris and Thremael. They try to pull Merith out of his melancholy to no avail, and quickly go frustrated, leaving him to sulk with Felralan, whose own somber demeanor matches him perfectly.

It is a phase, they tell themselves. Give him time and he will become his old self.

Wars rage around Nevarra. The city becomes a kingdom, borders spreading further and further. If Fate is worried by this new development she does not share her worry with them, simply continues her work. She shuts herself off in her chambers for longer periods of time, distant in a way they have not seen before.

One evening she calls all her children into her chambers, expression sober. She gives them all a gentle smile, the kind that warms Melarue still, a feeling of love and safety and belonging filling them. “My children, war looms upon the horizon once more, and my loyal worshippers call for aid.”

“I guess the Orlesians have forgotten our last battle,” Anaris jokes, and Melarue frowns as Merith stiffens beside them.

“It is not the Orlesians,” Fate continues, “The growing empire of Tevinter seeks to conquer Nevarra.”

“Then we will do to them what we did to the Orlesians,” Thremael shrugs. “There is no need to worry, Mother.”

“Orlais worships the Maker. Their strengths are limited. The Tevinter Imperium disregards many of the false god’s teachings.” Fate shakes her head, “They are not above seeking the aid of vampiric forces.”

Other vampires? Melarue swallows. They have never fought another vampire, never seen one aside from Fate and their coven. The concept seems so foreign to them, that others would exist out there in the world, or that they would somehow be a threat to Fate.

“This battle will not be easily won.” Fate holds out her hands with a soft smile, “But I have faith in you, my children. Nevarra’s pantheon must defend it against all who threaten this city. This is the beginning of what I have foreseen for you all.”

“Of course Mother.” Geldauran grasps one of her hands between his own. “Tell us what we must do.”

---

The night before the battle Melarue goes into the city with the others, managing to drag even Daern’thal, Oranani, and Felralan along to feast and revel. A distraction, something to remember instead of the bloodshed that will come the next they awaken. Only Merith remains behind.

“You are acting like a spoiled child,” They snap, when he refuses.

“Why must we fight our own kind?” Merith asks them, “What if they only wish to speak with us?”

“Stop doubting Mother. If she says they are our enemy then they are our enemy.” Irritation rises in them, hot and sharp, and then guilt overrides it, as they see the pained look in their greatest friend’s eyes. Their shoulders slump, and they gather him in their arms. “Oh Merith, I am sorry. I wish I knew how to make you smile again.”

“I love you Melarue,” Merith sobs into their neck, “I am sorry I cannot be like you.”

“I am glad you are not,” Melarue laughs softly, “I think you are much better as yourself. Come with me? It will do you good to get out of the temple. Enjoy yourself tonight.” They kiss his lips. “It can be just the two of us. Or would you like me to ask Anaris to join?”

Merith simply pulls away with a shake of his head. “Go without me. I do not think I would be good company.”

In the end they do not press him. They leave, and spend the evening with the others. They dance with a drunken Geldauran, and ride his slender body as he digs his nails deep into their thighs, and whispers adorations against his skin until he begs them for release.

They are sated and exhausted by the time they return to their chambers to rest before the sun sets, and do not think to check on Merith to see if his spirits have lifted.

It is their greatest regret.

---

Merith is gone.

Melarue is inconsolable, as they search the entirety of the temple and its underground chambers for him. Gone, as if he never existed at all. Fate holds them, and whispers comforting words, sings them into a state of calm to keep them from lashing out, sends the others to look for signs of him in the city.

“We cannot waste time,” Oranani states matter-of-factly, “If we do not leave now we will be unable to return before the sun rises. We must continue with your plan, Mother, before the Tevinter forces enter the city.”

“We must find Merith!” Melarue turns to her, glaring, “What if he was taken? What if he went out last night and could not return before the sunrise? What if he is waiting for us?”

“Melarue,” Fate sighs, brushing hair from their forehead. “My sweet, clever Melarue, it pains me to see you so distraught, just as it pains me that Merith is gone. We cannot let the city be taken, we must go and fight.” She pauses, “Would you like to remain behind? It will be difficult without you, especially now that Merith will be absent, but I understand your grief. I share in it.”

It is a rebuke, even if a gentle one. Melarue feels guilty over their reaction. The others are worried about Merith as well, how could they have let themselves act so shamefully? How could they have assumed Mother did not worry about Merith even more than themselves? They shake their head. “No...no I will go with you, Mother. I will look for him when we return.”

“We will all look for him,” Mother nods, “I promise you that.”

---

Melarue moves through the forest mechanically, following the presence of Fate as they fly through the air. They remind themselves that they are doing the right thing, that Mother needs them, and even though it rings hollow, they force themselves forward.

Merith left you and Mother when you needed him most. He is the traitor, not you.

It does not help.

They are so caught up in their thoughts that they nearly collide with Thremael in front of them, catching themselves just in time, shifting back into their vampire form as they land on the soft grass beside him.

Mother stands several feet ahead of them, looking into the woods ahead, as if she can see past them to the enemy that lies beyond. Perhaps she can. Melarue can sense the vampires somewhere ahead of them in the trees. So alike themselves, yet so different.

“They have set an ambush ahead,” Mother murmurs, turning toward her children. “Once they attack, I will leave the vampires to you, and move toward the mortal force.”

“Anaris should go with you,” Oranani responds, “There are too many. The size of the force will overwhelm you.”

“Leave the mortals to me.” Fate repeats, before she moves forward.

Melarue agrees with Oranani, but knows better than to defy Fate. They follow behind her, the comforting presence of the rest of their coven around them as they move deeper into the forest. They know from studying the maps of this region with Daern’thal that the forest continues for several miles before the ground drops to a wide, flat plain.

That is where the mortal army lies, waiting to move forward through the nearby ravine.

It does not take them long to find a small clearing—the ideal place for an ambush. The others know it as well, as they exchange glances, and feel the unmistakable presence of vampires around them; incapable of masking themselves. Young. Foolish.

Abundant.

Melarue dodges to the right just as the ground where they had stood erupts in a pile of stone and dirt, a shadowed figure standing in the small crater left behind. They hear the sounds of battle around them, the shouts of their coven, the tang of magic in the air sour in their mouth.

So it begins.

They press their hand to the earth, feeling the roots of a nearby tree surge upward with their magic, shooting from the ground as a mass of vipers.

The vampire screams as they are torn to pieces, but Melarue has already turned, throwing up a barrier as flames encompass their form. They can feel the heat against their skin, but their own magic keeps it from burning as they brush the flames aside and redirect them, orange fire turning black.

It becomes a blur, after that. They do not remember how many they kill. They channel their grief into rage, imagine each of these shadowed strangers as the one that has taken Merith from them. These vampires are younger, less experienced, their magic weak. Many resort to claws and fangs or mortal weapons in the end, and Melarue slaughters them all.

Even so, Melarue does not come out unscathed.

They do not notice the pain at first, as the last vampire falls at their feet, and the clearing goes silent. Then their body begins to ache, the cuts along their arms begin to sting, and they notice that a large chunk of their side is simply gone.

They clamp a hand to their ribs and grit their teeth, pouring healing magic into the gaping wound. They feel their skin knit itself together beneath their palm, but know that it will take a good feeding to recover fully.

“Melarue!”

It is Anaris, who seems unharmed save for a cut along his forearm. He slings their arm around his shoulder and they gratefully put their weight against him as his own magic finishes mending the damage beneath the skin.

“Where is Mother?” Melarue manages, as Anaris leads them through the forest.

“I do not know. We separated after the ambush.” Anaris answers.

They burst through the trees just as the sky turns white. They both lift their hands to cover their eyes, but the light burns through their fingers—not painful, but blinding. The wind roars in Melarue’s ears, and blood trickles down their nose as the magic in the air condenses and then seems to pull itself apart.

The light slowly begins to dim, and Melarue blinks back tears, their blurred vision coming into focus to see Anaris staring ahead of them, eyes wide in shock. They turn as well, and let out an audible gasp.

Standing at the base of the cliff is Fate, arms outstretched before her, surrounded by three prone figures—the last of Tevinter’s vampire forces.

Beyond her is a field of corpses.

Melarue does not know what magic Fate has wielded, only that in its wake, the army of Tevinter is no more. Soldiers charred and turned to ash, husks left in place of bodies. The heavy magic they had felt moments before lingers like a fog among the corpses, before dissipating fully.

“...she truly is a god...” Geldauran whispers from Melarue’s right.

---

They do not find Merith.

Melarue searches for him for months, going as far as they can each night, always returning empty handed. They cannot understand why he would leave them, cannot bring themselves to think that he was killed by Tevinter’s vampires, or had taken the morning walk.

Surely he had not been so miserable as to leave them behind without a goodbye.

They mourn, they clean his chambers, hoping he might return. Mother lets them, mourns just as keenly. It is a comfort, knowing they are not alone in their grief.

They cannot stand to sleep alone. They fear one of the others will disappear, and cling to the thought that if they are with them, then at the very least, they cannot be fully abandoned.

It takes years for them to accept that he is gone, and that he is never coming back. He has left them, they are certain. Not dead, surely not dead, but gone. Unable to shoulder the burden of Mother’s great vision, Geldauran claims, and his words sting but they are meant as a balm, they know. Meant to give them hope that he lives.

As time passes, more city-states and kingdoms begin to rise and rain power, and the borders of Nevarra grow. Fewer worshipers come to the temple.

They stop sending offerings.

“After all we have done for the city,” Geldauran rages, “How could they do this?”

“Mortals are foolish,” Oranani frowns, “They will see the error of their ways soon, when they face danger and their city needs protecting.”

“Mortals feel like they do not need us anymore,” Daern’thal points out, and shrugs when all of them turn toward him. “Some of us speak with mortals instead of always feeding off them.”

“Or fucking them,” Anaris grins, and Oranani rolls her eyes.

“Speaking of fucking and feeding,” Thremael throws an arm around Geldauran’s shoulders, ignoring the younger man’s glare, “I say we enjoy ourselves tonight.”

Most of the others head into the city, to drink their fill and enjoy the night. Melarue remains behind, despite Thremael’s protests.

Mother has begun to isolate herself, calling on them less and less. Something is worrying her, has been ever since their fight with the other vampires in the mountains. Anaris has gone to speak with her, Melarue knows. If anyone can find out what is trouble their mother it is him, her first child.

Still, Melarue finds they cannot enjoy the night. They read for a while, look through their collected scrolls but cannot seem to focus on the words. Their mind is elsewhere.

Daern’thal, they know, has stayed behind as well, to study a book of drawings he received from a merchant at the river market; designs for buildings of some kind that he had found fascinating. Perhaps he can sufficiently distract them, and the two can wait out the night until the others return.

They head toward his rooms, only to find them empty, the door still open.

A surge of magic catches their attention, sharp and unmistakable, running through the ground like an electric current. It makes the hair along their arms stand on end. They follow its source, deeper into the maze of tunnels and chambers beneath the temple, fear rising as they realize where they are heading.

Mother’s chambers.

They are not ready for the scene before them.

Anaris stands over Fate, body trembling, her blood dripping from his fingertips. Daern’thal lies still beside her, throat torn open.

For a moment Melarue thinks he is dead, before he gasps, choking, blood pouring from the wound. They hurriedly use their magic to close it, feeling Fate’s own lying in the wound, fighting them. But Fate’s magic fades quickly, and they realize it is because she is gone.

Dead. Mother is dead.

It is hard to focus, with Daern’thal’s head in their lap and Mother beside them, unmoving. They do not know what is happening. Mother is dead, Anaris—Anaris has killed her. How? Why? It hurts. Something in their chest throbs, pain lancing throughout their limbs at the loss.

“What did you do?” Melarue gasps out, tears streaming down their cheeks.

Anaris looks down at them, as if only then noticing their presence. His lips tremble, and he is crying as well. “I...I had to. I—” Before he can finish his explanation the door opens. Oranani and Felralan walk inside, smelling of fresh blood, talking together before they both stop in their tracks.

Melarue wonders how this all must look, watching as Oranani’s pupils dilate in full, pitch black against her pale skin, as her mouth opens to reveal growing fangs. “What have you DONE?” Her voice roars like thunder, and her form grows as she charges forward before either Melarue or Anaris can speak.

Anaris throws up a barrier just as Oranani’s claws carve through the air, sparks flying where her nails dig into the obsidian disc in front of him, chips of sharpened glass flying across the room and shattering; A sliver slices into Melarue’s cheek, jolting them out of their own stupor.

“I had to—” Anaris begins, but Oranani does not let him finish as she shrieks, stones flying from the walls and launching themselves toward him.

“Murderer!” She screams, grabbing the granite table from the floor and hurling it in his direction.

Anaris holds up a hand and slices it clean in half, the large chunks falling to either side of him. A flicker of movement on their side, and Melarue turns just as Felralan surges from the shadows on Anaris’ left.

Melarue had never thought of who they loved more among their coven, had never seen it as a scale or quantifiable difference. But their body reacts before their mind can process what is happening and they throw up a barrier, black flames eating away at the twisting vines that shoot from Felralan’s outstretched arm.

They have chosen Anaris.

The two halves of the table move, slamming together just as Anaris turns to mist, seeping between the cracks before reforming a few feet away, the golden beads in his hair beginning to glow.

Melarue twists their flames, burning the vines that erupt from the ground near their feet, grasping for them.

A bramble slams into their midsection, three inch thorns tearing into their flesh as they are thrown back against the stone wall. They let out a chocked gasp and swallow a mouthful of blood as more vines encircle their arms and legs.

They can feel poison seeping through their veins, burning their skin, as Felralan walks toward them to deliver a finishing blow. His expression is unreadable, the upper half of his face hidden behind an ornate, eyeless mask. This one has rubies in the place of eyes, an odd detail to notice, they think.

“I am sorry,” He murmurs, as the vines tighten.

So am I, Melarue thinks, as they close their open right hand and watch as the metal mask crumples, hearing Felralan’s skull crack as he falls to the ground, headless.

The vines around them turn to ash and they stumble to their feet, turning to see Anaris on his knees, kneeling atop Oranani’s prone form, his golden beads scattered on the ground around them, stained crimson. Melarue hooks a hand under his trembling arm and pulls him to his feet and off of their sister.

“...what will we do when the others come?” Anaris asks numbly, staring at the bodies before them.

They had laughed and loved with these two, had lived with them for centuries. Melarue had shared secrets with Oranani that no one had known, had gardened at night with Felralan who had taught them that some flowers flourish in the moonlight.

What have they done? They have killed their family. There is only one thing they can do, now. The one thing they are so very good at. They must lie.

“Oranani and Felralan murdered mother,” Melarue claims, voice oddly cold. They seem to have gone numb.

Anaris blinks, “But—”

Melarue grabs his face between his hands, their fingers still slick with blood. “They killed her, Anaris.”

They see the pieces falling into place as he nods, but a part of them feels sick. They have failed mother. They are letting her real killer go free because they are a coward, and they are afraid of losing more of their family. “They meant to kill Daern’thal as well, and nearly did so. We barely managed to stop them.”

A bit of tension leaves Anaris’ shoulders. “Yes.”

Melarue swallows, and tries not to look at their Mother. They can feel her eyes upon them, wide and unblinking; accusatory. “Let me tell it, when the others come. I am better at lying.”

---

The other two believe them, as Melarue knew they would. Geldauran mourns the most, his beautiful visage twisted by grief and rage, and the fear in him so sharp they can nearly see it rising from his skin like steam. Thremael takes Felralan and Oranani’s bodies outside without a word, to be turned to ash in the morning sun.

When Daern’thal wakes he cannot remember the night before...and despite Melarue’s rushed healing, he never regains the use of his voice.

“The mortals will keep coming for Mother’s blessing.” Thremael says at last, once they have all gathered in the lower chambers that had once belonged to their Mother. She is lying in the room off of this one, clean and covered in a crimson shroud. They had all gone to pay their respects to her, save for Anaris, who refused to enter the room.

Melarue’s own vigil they had spent apologizing, sobbing against her unmoving form, begging for forgiveness. How could they have let this happen? How could they have let Anaris live after doing such a thing?

You are no childe of mine, they can hear her whisper, curses crawling through their head like a writhing mass of serpents. They will never forget the feeling of numbness that had settled in them when they had seen her at Anaris’ feet. No rage, no desire to kill him for what he had done. That was their largest betrayal, they know. That they could not find it in them to want him dead.

They do not know what led Anaris to killing Fate. He does not tell them, does not speak of the night ever again. It is his penance, they think, to hold in the truth of that night and blame himself for it.

None of them have had the strength to suggest sending her off in the morning light. If they do so it will seem too real, make her death final.

“We will take up the duty, then.” Geldauran murmurs. “We are Fate’s Children, it falls to us. She said we would be gods beside her, let us take up the mantle now.”

“The world is changing. The Andrastians are gaining strength with their god, even here. The mortals are smarter now. They are learning ways to kill us.” Melarue shakes their head. “I am no god.” I cannot stay. I cannot stay here knowing that Anaris killed Mother and that I helped murder my siblings and lied to the others. I am not worthy of Mother’s plan. I have destroyed it.

“Where will you go?” Thremael asks softly.

Melarue shakes their head. “I do not know.”

Anywhere but here.

#vampire au #melarue #anaris #fate #daern'thal #thremael #oranani #merith #felralan #I apologize for the angst #I had to split this all up because this part was horrible enough without adding sariandi in #XD

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dnilok · 7 years ago

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Once a Warden Aren Talised started out as a Templar, but after killing one of his fellow knights to protect an abused mage, he became a prisoner charged with treason. He was soon conscripted by the Grey Wardens and served under non other than the Hero of Ferelden. While there he met, and fell in love with, the Elven mage; Illareth. Not long ago, Warden Commander Jessa Cousland took several of her wardens, Illareth included, on a mission to find a cure for The Calling, leaving Aren behind to lead the remaining Wardens. While on a mission to the frozen wastes south of the Korcari Wilds, Aren and his companions discovered an ancient Elven Temple. Inside was trapped, one of the forgotten ones, the dark elven god, Geldauran; God of Corruption. Geldauran ripped the Darkspawn corruption out of Aren, stripping him of his Grey Warden abilities, and sent him and his companions to the fade. While in the fade, Aren was struck down by a Desire Demon. He was revived by his companion, a Witch of the Wilds named Nythia and the Spirit she summoned, and when he came to in the physical world, he discovered he had the powers of a Seeker. Now Aren hunts for a way to defeat Geldauran, or at the very least, delay him long enough for Illareth and the other Wardens to escape. Aren Talised is my PC in the Dragon Age Table top game I play in.

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mogwaei · 9 days ago

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glad you got a laugh!

i sat there reading that scene and literally couldn't think of anything else. it was so sweet and perfect for the fadewalkers, ugh! i think it was done so tastefully and wonderfully that it suits solas' character. maolas + doriyin are getting me through right now lmao

i like the way you take these things we know as lore from dragon age and create something really lovely to read. i'm having a lot of fun trying to guess at what dhrui's been up to with her new friend. also Harmony suits her well, OMG. i could sit here and gush on and on about this story you are telling. makes me want to write my own.

-silly billy anon

WELL IM GONNA GUSH

I love how I know exactly what chapters you're talking about and it's like getting shot up with pure sunlight. MUAH MUAH TO YOU💜💜💜💜

I spent a week writing That Chapter, trying to make sure it was in character for them, but especially for Solas since he is so easy to mess up. Their situation makes things even trickier than if it were Solavellan, I stg. I think it's been a couple years now since I wrote that one but Geldauran's fat tits does it bring me immense relief (and joy) that it still holds up.

AND THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! Taking obscure codexes and turning them into their own plots has been one of the best parts about writing this fic tbh!! It's always a risk, but I'm glad it's being received well <3 I WILL NOT STOP.

Also you have NO IDEA how hard it is for me not to explode about Dhrui's friend. Friends. ehehehehe That plot and Other Solas are my absolute favs and it's hard to resist not simply writing chapters about them forever, but then that would probably take the special factor out of both skjfhjkf UNFF

seriously thank you for these little messages, I feel so full of whimsy and delight <333 (also I'm beaming my enabling beam at you - GO FORTH AND WRITE A STORY!!!! it's the best thing ever I swear)

#mogwaei.txts #anon ur injecting pure joy into my veins lately #it makes me so fuckigng happy to hear other people are inspired. I hope you do write one <3 #askjhfjkf people loving my storyyyy ahhh nothing can ever describe my humbled delight 😭��

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wootensmith · 7 years ago

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Hall of Fools

He felt the buzz of her magic unravel as she dropped the wards, watched the swift, panicked movements as she replaced them, still fearing the anchor would seize her while she was unprotected. And then the drained sag of her shoulders as she finished, the bitter draught of lyrium, the soft clink of the bottle rolling against others in her pack. The frantic way she tried to check her skin for evidence that the mark was growing still more. This was not what he wished for her. “I will not let it consume you unexpectedly,” he said. “That much, at least, I can do. I will keep watch. Rest. If all I can offer you are a few days of peace, I would make them as easy as possible.” She nodded and replaced her shirt, but he could see the muscle in her jaw pulse, still worrying over it. He needed to give her something else to think on. Something to wonder at. “I know the day has been long, but I would show you something— give you a good dream of our home if I can. Will you join me in a walk, Vhenan?” She smiled. “Of course.” She held out her hand to him.

Arlathan was no longer the quiet, moveless hulk of rubble it had been when he arrived. Temples had been fortified and transformed to new purpose. Muddy paths cut through the silver snow and hearth fires shone through the cracked walls and arched windows. Everywhere the sound of voices rising and falling. But he led her further, past where the footprints dwindled and the only light came from the moons and the green fire of the mark. The thick silence of empty snow pressed against them and she whispered, “Where are we going, Solas?” “To see the secret dreams of the People,” he said, smiling. She faltered. “Secret? But that’s— not for me.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t meant to be secret from all, especially not from you. Only from the Evanuris. Only from those who wished them harm. They were left for you, for those who came after. To show what they were. How they loved, how they celebrated and grieved. Just as your record in the Veilfire room.” “You knew?” Her face brightened. “It was you. You left me that memory— why didn’t you return to me?” He kissed her hand. “I wished to. You were not at Skyhold. And I knew I would find you soon after, the anchor was becoming unmanageable.”

Her face shifted, the light shimmering as her expression crumbled. “How much time have I wasted?” she muttered. “None, Vhenan,” he said quickly, pressing his forehead to hers. “None. It could have happened no other way but this. Do not regret your decisions. They were wise ones, though I wanted only to choose foolishly. We did what we must. Put the idea aside. Be with me now.” Their breath was a thin, warm mist between them. He watched it, fearing hers would stutter, that she’d succumb to sadness, when what he wished for most was to draw her away from sorrow. But she only tipped her face up to him, kissed him with cool lips. “It’s cold, emma lath,” she reminded him gently, “and I cannot warm us now.” “We are not far— I do not dare warm us with a spell, but there is a hearth where we are headed, and I left kindling when I last was there.” He slipped his hand into hers, chafing it gently to heat her skin and led her further into the forest.

The temple’s metal roof shimmered even in the low light, peeling back in jagged opening petals where the enormous Sonallium had first crumbled and then imploded just above it. “What happened to this place?” asked the Inquisitor as they picked their way over the worked stone of June’s collapsed colonnade. “The Veil happened,” he said, helping her climb up the shattered steps into the temple. “Much of Arlathan depended on the Fade. It was part of Elvhenan’s bones. When I shut it away, the city collapsed. Every part. It was chaos. But the destruction is not what is surprising. What’s remarkable is that anything remains.” He picked up the lantern he’d left in corner of the doorframe and lit it. “I should not have left them. Of all the charges that have been laid at my feet— that one, abandoning them— you, I regret most. And it is perhaps, the one I am most guilty of.” Her hand pressed his cheek and he tried to shake himself of the melancholy that threatened to overtake them both. He smiled, held up the lantern. “But that is not why I brought you here. I brought you here for a good dream that I have long owed you. Many.” He pulled her into the temple, flicking a spell toward the old crystal lanterns that still hung upon the walls. They sparked and blazed brightly, one after another revealing the vibrant portraits of the Evanuris stretching over the walls. The Inquisitor drew closer to the painted scenes, staring intently. He watched the naked wonder in her expression. It was not his original reason for bringing her, but he was unwilling to break her fascination.

“What is this place? Did you paint them?” she asked. He laughed. “No, Vhenan. Though I am flattered by you mistaking them for mine. This is June’s temple. His people made these, and the others I wish to show you. He was their chronicler. It was June that made them gods, if any can truly claim that. He guarded their images, their stories. Made certain that they would be elevated and worshiped. And—” He turned to point at the opposite wall, where a range of flawed and hideous creatures gamboled in bright colors. “And also ensured any rivals would be seen as threats to be shunned, pushed out, unaided. This place was one of his trophy halls. It was not he who painted them, though.” He brushed some dust from Elgar’nan’s golden knee. “It was hundreds of his slaves. Weaving veilfire into the very plaster. So the memory would endure as long as the temple, for those with the power to see.”

She looked forlornly at her hand. “I do not have enough magic left even to summon veilfire,” she said. He put the lantern down and caught her fingers with his own. “Ir abelas. I know how painful it is to find yourself weaker than you expected to be.” He twisted the casting ring gently. “It will return. Very soon, it will all return to you. Until then—” He held out his other hand, a ball of veilfire filling his palm, “let me care for you, in the ways that I may. I cannot remove the anchor or strengthen your wards without harming you, but this small thing—” he smiled. “Let me be the lamplighter for you, Vhenan.” He held up his hand to show her the first panel, Elgar’nan’s ancient war to drive the dwarves from Elvhenan. He watched her fall into the memory. It was not a lovely one. None of these were. Brutal victories in war, each of them, meant to honor great generals. He had not brought her here for more suffering. “Does the Shaperate— you should tell them,” she gasped as it left her. “They should know how they came to be in Orzammar— how strong they are, to fight an Evanuris.” “I expect it would produce similar results to telling the Dalish their own history. Denial, hostility— exclusion.” He sighed. “But they will see it soon enough. The memory will shine constantly in the presence of the Fade. Whether the Legion of the Dead chooses to tell the king or not— this is not what I wished to show you. This is—” he waved vaguely, “fairy stories, I think you said once. I have something better.”

He pulled her gently away from the grand hall, though she cast a regretful glance back at the murals. There was little that had survived the centuries, unprotected by both spell and shelter. The scrolls were long dust, the fine tapestries millennia unraveled. The temple was empty and sprawling except for the intricate metalwork that glinted in the light of his lamp. He bypassed the long galleries of mosaic sagas and the empty stone chambers that had held the work of countless scribes, choosing, instead, a low stone doorway at the end of a wide corridor. He stooped to enter it and turned back to warn her of the uneven threshold. “We are behind the trophy hall,” he said. He held up the lantern to show her more paintings, these far cruder, rushed and furtive as they must have been. “The slaves called this the hall of fools,” he said with a slow chuckle. “An act of rebellion. It is not what I want you to see, but—” he pulled forth another ball of veilfire. “Sera must have had an influence upon me.” He held up the veilfire, again to Elgar’nan. A memory of Elgar’nan captured by Geldauran, tricked by his own rage into Geldauran’s trap. The mighty Evanuris chained and humiliated before the eyes of a soldier, one that had been sent to rescue him. He’d been freed after lengthy negotiations with Mythal and a vow never to pursue Geldauran again. The soldier had kept this memory, had held it in him until the painting, had slapped it into the rough lines of the image where it stood for centuries, a testimony to the fallibility of the Evanuris. It was hope where only those who needed it would see. The Inquisitor touched the glimmering fingerprints of veilfire the soldier had left, as if she could reach the hand that left it, as if she could tell him she saw, she understood what he had seen.

“This must have been perilous,” she said, pulling his hand to the next. Falon’din. “It was,” he said. “If any of them had been caught, it would have meant immediate execution. Of the painter. Of the memory maker. And all of their kin. But they knew their masters well. No Evanuris ever entered here. The only betrayal would come from among their fellow slaves.” “Did it?” she asked. “On occasion,” he said, “but not often.” She turned back to the painting, watching Falon’din growl with rage in one of his infamous rages. A warning, as well as a mockery. The man who craved adoration was hideous in his anger and deadly when humiliated. Solas had seen the memory maker’s fate. He hadn’t been caught, not for this painting, but had been slaughtered nonetheless. The Inquisitor shuddered as the memory faded. He stroked her hair. “We don’t need to linger here,” he said, “I wanted to show you something beautiful—”

She turned to follow him, but the veilfire caught on Andruil’s scarlet armor and she stood, arrested by the memory. One of the guards who kept her a year in quarantine with Solas. She’d remembered the way Andruil had raged at them all. The way the blight diminished her. Angry and slow and stumbling— perhaps all that had saved Solas and the guards from death. The Inquisitor turned toward him. Kissed him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It was long, long ago. And she was— not herself.” “She seemed as rational as you did, when I saw you in Redcliffe— when you were infected. But you were not cruel. Not like that.” “Perhaps I was not as ill.” The Inquisitor watched him. “Was she kind, before the blight?” “No,” he admitted. “That is a relief.” The statement startled him. “Why a relief, Vhenan?” She stood on her toes, kissed each of his eyelids carefully. “Because in a fortnight, you will also have the blight. Darkspawn— I can understand them. Pity them. Mindless and hungry to the point of madness. But this— what happened to her— that was not mindlessness. That was— brutality. I am not certain I could forgive that, Solas.” “I cannot know how the blight will alter me. But I hope we will not have the time to find out.” He stared at the flat image. “It is always there. That knowledge that I could be like them. That there is so little separating what they have done from the choices I made. That it is too late, and I have already surpassed their indifference and cruelty.”

She shook her head. “If that were true, I would not be here. Neither of us would have allowed it.” “You did not know me before. I let Corypheus find the orb. I didn’t plan to help you. Not then. I would have torn down the Veil and taken only those who survived with me—” “But you didn’t. You had the opportunity, and you chose another path.” “It was you that persuaded me.” She smiled. “It wasn’t. You might have joined Corypheus in that other Redcliffe. You might have become close enough to take the orb. I know you were capable of persuading him. Just revealing your identity would have secured your place. But you refused. Accepted your fate rather than give him more power. Died to undo it. You did not love me there. And I was dead, as far as you knew. You chose for yourself. From the beginning. From this day—” she pointed to the painting. “When you shielded those weaker than you from Andruil’s wrath. Probably earlier. Every day, you’ve chosen over and over to remain something better. You are not like them— at least, not like the memories I’ve seen.” She laughed softly. “You can dismiss me. I’ll freely admit that I’m infatuated with you, I am hardly a dependable judge. But the people who are here— thousands of elves, Solas. More than the Inquisition ever was. All these people are not your slaves. They don’t stay because you compel them. They are with you on the very brink of the Void because they trust you. Depend upon their judgment. You are not Andruil.” She ran her fingers over the rough plaster. “And I do not see you on this wall, no matter how your story has changed in the years since. These people did not think you a fool.” She put her hand into his, pressing out the veilfire, leaving only the lamp and her own emerald glow. “Enough of the Evanuris. You promised me a good dream.” He smiled. “Indeed. And a fire to warm you. Come with me, Vhenan.”

#Solas #Lavellan #solas and lavellan #dragon age inquisition

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