#i have been awakened from my uthenera

[awesomeblogwellnotreally]

[uchidachi]

Dragon Age Fanfic Self-rec thread!

Dear fellow writers, the Veilguard draws near. The fans are awakening from uthenera, and they are hungry. For fic. To help them, I’m starting this post to collect everyone’s recommendations of their own fic to read!

Keep it short & sweet! Title (with link!), rating, ao3 archive warnings (if applicable), pairing (if applicable) & 1 sentence summary only. If you want to include more than one rec, put the rest under a readmore. The idea is to have a reblog chain of many different authors, so this might become a long post.

Don’t know what to recommend? Here’s a list of possible categories to use, if you want:

Author’s favorite

An ode to my OTP

Meet the OC

Rare Pairings

A gift fic I’m proud of

A bit of fluff

Absolute angst

That time I tried something different

Canon? What canon?

In Another Universe

An overlooked gem

Good for a new DA fan

Have fun, and happy reccing!

I’ll start off the chain:

A gift fic I’m proud of: The Maker’s Forgiveness, Teen & up, Florianne de Chalons/Female Trevelyan. Grand Duchess Florianne tries to seduce and manipulate Trevelyan, only to find out that the Inquisitor is not as naive as she assumed.

Rare Pairings: Blessed Are the Lovers, General Audiences, Cullen Rutherford/Sebastian Vael. Cullen has been secretly in love with Sebastian for years, but can’t hide his feelings after seeing him at a friend’s wedding.

Absolute angst: This Is What Would Happen, Mature, Major Character Death, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus. Bull’s POV through to Trespasser as he remains Ben-Hassrath and falls in love with Dorian after sacrificing the Chargers.

That time I tried something different: Same as the Day Before, General Audiences, Avexis & Minaeve. Genfic in present tense where Avexis finds herself stuck in a time loop, receiving news of the Tranquil cure over and over again.

An overlooked gem: Rescue Mission, Teen & up. Merrill & the rest of the DA2 crew go to rescue Fenris after Hawke sells him back to Danarius.

[dreadfutures]

hello hi hello can I please have the directors' cut on Chrysalid mayhaps? 🥺👉👈

Fic: [Chrysalid]

Rating: G | Pairing: Cillian, Cillian & Solas | Multichap: 9/9

Cillian, once the First of Clan Ralaferin, set out to find ancient knowledge of the elven people. He discovered the path of the Arcane Warrior by meditating for many years in an ancient ruin; when the Breach appeared in the sky, he felt called to lend his skills to the fledgling Inquisition. That's all we know of his path, as a background NPC in Dragon Age: Inquisition, who appears solely in a war table mission and in the Multiplayer addition.

But how did he really get trained as an Arcane Warrior?

Honestly. This was Divine Inspiration at its finest. It was summer; I was missing my college town, where monarch butterflies go as a colony on their migration, stopping there to rest. I kept seeing a few of them flying by my current location on their way south. And I had the whimsical thought: isn't that magical?

I thought about how the inner sea region around Val Royeaux/western Orlais gives me California vibes, and the further south you go, the closer you get to the warm, nearly tropical Arbor Wilds. And I thought: sure, butterflies would work. But what do they lead to?

It was the Arlathan Exchange, and I had also been playing a lot of Multiplayer recently, and we were discussing Cillian one day and I said OH.

And the whole story just appeared.

It's my belief that "meditating in ruins" is either code for: Cillian read Elvhen writing and learned Arcane Warrior spec that way, OR, he communed with Spirits either directly, or by watching them reenact memories in the Fade. And honestly, teaching yourself to read a dead language with hardly a cypher to go off of, in a ruin, and teaching yourself this dead, historical martial-and-magical art that is like NOTHING ELSE IN EXISTENCE, seemed way more farfetched than "he found a cool Spirit."

@rosella-writes had just written a drabble of Valor, an ancient contemporary of Solas (Pride), being slain in a combat between Champions for the Evanuris. The way Rosella described Valor's body falling and lying in the center of the arena, dying, made me think: this must be immortalized, this must have left a scar, the very earth would remember, if not the denizens of the Fade.

Rosella and I have also often discussed how "pieces" of Valor might be left over, fragmented, and need to get pieced together again. How Solas might search for Valor after he awakens from uthenera, how he might miss her. So I figured, hey, I could leave a piece of Valor to be found.

Cuz boy, a spirit of Valor sure seems like a great teacher for this magical combat specialization!

Then it was just a matter of sprinkling in the luscious visuals in my mind, of giant hosts of butterflies and ghibli forests, of ruins that might be found in The Fall (2006), and of a magical circle of life and death worthy of Guillermo del Toro. Bring Valor back to life just as Cillian pieces together what the ruined temple is, and then handwave the fact that Valor teaches him as a ways to recover her own memories.

:)

[bonesaints]

im still in the early stages of togetherslapping the lore/backstory for the twins and looking at lore timelines to estimate how old they are. dates of lore events being contested and different sources saying different things + a lot of important happenings that were just revealed in veilguard preview material that we don't have much detail on (much less at what point in history they happened) does nooot make things easier for me lmao. that said, i fucking love giving my characters weird/convoluted backstories. anyweighs, the lore thus far is beneath the cut is u wanna read it!

i imagine the twins would not have been very old when veil was created (a few centuries max if i had to guess), and i think they + their parent(s) were in uthenera at the time (possibly because their parents were using the fade to hide out, or they were taking a doomer depression nap induced by learning that the evanuris created the blight. idk, that shit would make me want to sleep forever.) their parents getting together was extremely scandalous and a source of rumors and court gossip in elvhenan (because this is what happens when a well-known mythal-aligned noble suddenly elopes and disappears with one of june's favourite smiths), which is why they probably lived in a remote area on the fringes of the empire, and the birth of the twins had them living in near complete isolation from the rest of elvhenan. their story is meant to kind of mirror to how hawke and their family kept to the fringes of ferelden in order to keep the templars from harassing them/their family due to harboring an apostate + keeping themselves safe in general by having less interaction with the general magic-fearing/magic-hating populace; the twins' parents wanted their children to grow up and live in relative freedom and safety away from all the slavery, horrors, and general political bs of arlathan + the rest of elvhenan.

my headcanon for the mahariel family is that they were originally mythal-favored nobles during the time of elvhenan, and some few memories and legends were passed down as well as their innate family gift for shapeshifting and combat-based magic, which is why they continued to be well-regarded and rose again to a place of prominence during the age of the dales. the twins' father, ohn, had 2 siblings, which is how the mahariel line was continued. keeper mahariel of the sabrae clan (who was the previous keeper before being killed, after prompted marethari to take his place), is the one who adopted them, not knowing that they were his great x100-or-something uncles. the whole reason the twins trusted the hunters and went with them is because they heard them utter the name 'mahariel'. his partner/lover (essentially their adoptive mother) came from clan lavellan, which is why manon was specifically traded to clan lavellan.

manon and theron were really not in a good way when they were found, having now spent most of their lives in uthenera, in addition to seemingly being abandoned by their parents (their mother woke up before they did and was not present when they awakened; she was probably out gathering resources bc they lived comparably to irl doomsday preppers, and their father was unfortunately found and assassinated in the fade at some point well prior to this, so they awakened at one point to him being desiccated and long-dead. i think they probably woke up multiple times and probably had like. rotation shifts for someone to wake up and care for physical needs.)

i imagine elves in uthenera awaken very physically weakened and have to re-learn how to perform basic functions of life (living, eating, walking, and even speaking.) they extreme difficulty walking and even preferred to crawl or scoot around where the terrain allowed it. the sheer trauma of being abandoned and waking up to their father dead + their mother absent and the world having become an altogether horrific alien landscape is probably what caused their partial amnesia. as they adjusted to life with the dalish later on, they kind of just assumed that they were the same and they were going to age or change like everyone else they saw; they didn't really remember much of their past life and didn't have very comprehensive knowledge about humans and non-elves due to being isolated and fairly sheltered. although the world with the veil that they woke up to FELT weird/different/wrong in ways they couldn't explain, they actually didn't know much about the creation of the veil beyond tidbits they heard in the fade (which, btw, they also endeavored to remain as isolated as possible in there as well. it's also possible that their family had their own little sanctuary with a 1-way eluvian leading in and out, similar to the structures we see in trespasser but on an exponentially smaller scale, idk.)

[sea-side-scribbles]

Solas wakes up in the strange new world of his own making and it terrifies him. Frail and confused, he has to learn everything from scratch again. The more he learns, the more the world looks like a nightmare.

When he joins the Inquisition, he figures he's still not strong enough to withstand everything this world throws at him.

In the end, he made too many promises and he can't keep them all.

But who said the Din'anshiral would be easy?

___________________________                                                       

Part 1 | Chapter 1- ? | Right after uthenera, Solas is found by a Dalish clan. This goes well until it doesn't.

(Basically my excuse for world building and hilarious misunderstandings.)

Chapter 12

The bookshelf caught Solas' attention. After Temalas finally picked some and left, not without giving him one last suspicious look, he inspected the books himself. Curiously, he traced the leather spines with his finger. Some had titles debossed in them. It was when he saw written Trade for the first time after his awakening. He must've learned it in his sleep, because he could read the odd letters. All those hard edges, triangles and squares, as if they were originally carved into stone. A very straightforward and unadorned language.

This library seemed to be a collection of magical advise, historical essays and legends. However, an untitled book caught his eye. It was the most worn-out, with it's spine cocked and the leather bleached by the sun. It must've been written in older times. And indeed, as he opened it, it revealed the familiar, curved writing. Excited about his find, he hurried back to his blanket to read. But then he had to look twice.

Just as everything else in this world, the letters were silent, a mere imitation of what they should be. Just how one would paint a blue circle on a map to symbolize a lake. Solas had to study every single letter to suggest it's meaning. The result became something like “The sovereign and noble city of Halamshiral.” That or “Complimentary and elaborate equipment for desertion”. The former would make more sense, even thought the author would have forgotten to mark the name of the city as such. Solas felt lucky to know about Halamshiral, otherwise he would've been lost.

He shook his head at this. Perhaps it was a student's work. From one of the apprentices. When he turned the page, he was confronted with more silent letters. Sighing deeply, he began the tiring procedure of deciphering letter after letter, without the necessary markings or knowledge of context and he felt that even the grammar was off. After a while, he wished he could make notes. Wiping his brow, he glanced back at the shelf to find scrolls and a quill somewhere. Instead, his eyes fell on the silhouette of the First, who leaned against the wall and watched him.

A stone sunk in Solas' stomach. Yet he tried to keep his expression unbothered. Temalas eyed him a painful moment, before he said: “Find anything interesting?” Solas wondered how long he's been watching him. Judging by his look he knew what he appeared to read. The forgotten language.

“I suppose. The letters look fascinating”, he said in the most naïve tone he could manage. Offering the book to the First, he asked: “Can you read this?” Temalas didn't move. “Can't you?” Solas made an effort to look puzzled. “No...” It was even true. Solas realized it now. He wouldn't decipher this without help. This book was written by an unknown elvhen civilisation he would never meet. It was lost forever. Just like his own. He looked back at the page, not noticing how his face fell and his ears lowered.

Now Temalas was puzzled. He had been so certain he caught Revanas reading, but now he looked at the saddest elf in Thedas. Did he really just stare at the letters all this time? “But...what were you doing?” Solas mindlessly turned more pages and stopped at an illustration of an elven warrior wielding a sword. “I...I just find it interesting.” He stuttered looking back at Temalas. “Is it forbidden? Did I cross a line?” Revanas looked really worried. Temalas wished to drop it, tell him all was fine. But a nagging feeling didn't leave him.

He approached Revanas to hold out his hand and the elf gave him the book without hesitation. Then he eyed the open pages. “We agreed to not keep secrets”, he reminded Revanas. “If you're able to read this, you have to tell me why.” He could've been taught by another Keeper. He could've been abandoned by another clan. The sudden thought bubbled up in him. But that couldn't be, he forced the bubble back down. There were no other clans here. They would've met them by now.

“But Temalas, I can't...”, Revanas gave him another innocent look. The First wanted to believe him. It was all too ridiculous and he had no proof for his accusations. Still, he thought of telling the Keeper. “Do you?”, the elf went on, now begging with his eyes. “Would you read it to me? Please? If this is our history? Is this an Emerald Knight?” Temalas' wish grew even stronger. He could imagine sharing this with Revanas. Teaching him. So he closed the book and said: “I'll have to ask Keeper Avishalan about it. I'm sure she'd be more willing to agree if you behaved today.” Revanas gave him an eager promise. Putting the book back, Temalas hoped this was settled.

Later, he watched Revanas' training for a while. Him and Avishalan used that peculiar spot again, the one all the other elves shunned. He didn't mean to question his Keeper's judgement, but he wondered if it was wise to stir the veil especially there. The question pressed him so much, he approached Avishalan when she paused the training.

“I'm sorry, Keeper, may I have a word with you? It's about Revanas.” Avishalan seemed about to roll her eyes. “If you're still mad at him, you better talk to him instead.” “No, it's not that. I'm just wondering about his magic. It only works where the veil is thin, where he met the spirit. Is he a...Dinathe'dirthelan?” “I don't think so”, she said so firmly there was no questioning. “But he's indeed curious. How the fade bends for him. I doubt he's merely an elemental mage.” Temalas considered his next question. “You wonder if he's dangerous”, she guessed his thoughts. “Every mage is dangerous, you know that.” “Yes, but he...he has so much power and he knows so little.” “He has less time to learn than a da'len, that is true. But he's making progress. Besides, he doesn't have much power anywhere else in the camp. What he needs the most is for us to not abandon him.”

The notion reminded him of his suspicion. “I made a strange observation today. I thought I saw him read ancient elvhen language. He had this book about Halamshiral on his lap and...But the only way he could've learned it is from another Keeper. A Tevinter slave wouldn't know this.” Now he knew why he told her. He wanted her to soothe him, to laugh at his foolishness. To explain why he could forget about it. “Did he confirm he was reading?” “No, he asked me to read it to him.” “I think that settles it, then.” She gave him an expectant look, but her short answer left him unsatisfied.

“Forgive he, Keeper, but I know there's something you're not telling me. It must be something the creators revealed to you at the joining. You decided Revanas was innocent already before the gathering.” “You will make a good Keeper, Temalas. Dirthamen guides you well.”, she said with a smile. “I will tell you that much: in the play, Sylaise defeated the Dread Wolf and brought him to Elgar'nan for judgement. It was the first time we heard that tale, right?” Temalas nodded, pondering. “Now defeating the Dread Wolf – what would you think it means?” “I...I guess it's a good sign?” “I'd say so, too.” Temalas had to keep it at that.

Later again, he was very surprised to see Revanas, who was supposed to rest in his aravel, in a loud quarrel with Miadahl. He held a bow and stood where his odd magic was the most powerful. Temalas himself was upset when he approached them. “What's going on?” “Oh, you're finally here! Shouldn't you be watching him?”, Miadahl spoke first. “He's already causing chaos.” “I am not causing chaos, I'm practising”, Revanas snapped back. “With a stolen bow? Shouldn't he use a staff instead? Is this part of his training?” “It's not stolen! It lay there on the table and nobody used it.” Revanas pointed at a place nearby. “That doesn't mean it's yours to take!” Miadahl came closer. “Saw something else – lying there?” “What else?” “Empty your pockets!” “You take me for a thief?” Without answering, Miadahl sunk one hand into his pockets and with the other he fought off the protesting elf.

Temalas pulled them apart. “Calm down, you two!” He didn't say that Revanas could burst out in unwanted magic any second. “There's no need to get violent.” Miadahl crossed his arms. “Search. His. Pockets.” “Revanas”, the First said sternly. “I have to do this for your own sake.” The elf huffed but lifted his arms, allowing Temalas to search him. Stepping back again, he went on: “Alright, Miadahl, he's not a thief. Now what's with the bow?”

Solas turned it in his hands. It had runes carved into it's surface. He would have inspected them if he had the time. If he didn't have to think about getting himself out of this situation. “It lay here on the table”, he repeated. “I..I guess I should've asked someone about it but there was nobody in sight, so I thought I'd try it out and then put it back.” “If your eyesight is that bad, it explains your aim”, the hunter sneered. “Miadahl, this is uncalled for”, Temalas shut him off. “Revanas,...just why? Why does it matter to you?” “Is this not part of my training?”, he asked carefully. Now Temalas pitied him. Nobody had explained this to him yet. “No, not anymore. You're not allowed to carry weapons yet. Give me that.” He held out a hand.

“Aww, that's too bad. Now I'll continue to do it wrong”, Miadahl cooed. At Temalas puzzled look, he explained: “He said he'd show me how to do it right. Good old Revanas is a master hunter in his own way.” “I didn't...I'm not...”, Solas stuttered, inwardly cursing himself. He should've never let that slip. He took a deep breath and said: “I take it back. And I apologize for my behaviour.” “Do your demon friends like your archery?” Miadahl wasn't done. Solas only shook his head. “So they have more common sense than you.”

Temalas put a hand on the hunter's shoulder. “Leave him alone. He didn't hurt anyone.” “Not yet.” More confidentially, he added: “He's trouble, Temmy. He's too far gone. He cares more about demons than elves and he doesn't believe in the creators.” “You don't know that.” “Everyone knows that. He never said a prayer. Made the da'lens ask questions. Put weird ideas into their heads.” Solas gulped. He had been more open to the children since they weren't branded yet. And it would've hurt to tell them lies. They resembled spirits so much. Temalas didn't answer to that. He only left the conversation with a short goodbye, dragging the unruly apprentice with him after putting back the bow.

“What did you mean when you said he's doing it wrong?”, he asked when they were out of earshot. “I...Nothing, really. He made me angry with his accusations and he made fun of me...I just wanted to say something back to shut him up. I didn't think about it.” He gave him a begging look. “I didn't mean to cause any trouble.” Temalas pondered. “Why did you try it especially there, where you can do magic?” “It wasn't about magic....” Solas thought frantically. “It's just...Everything works better there! So why not this? Don't you feel it too?” “No. Not the same way you do.” “What does that mean?” Revanas sounded meeker now.

Temalas fell silent for a while, before he decided: “You will be punished for this.” The other elf visibly winced. “What will you do to me?”, he asked quietly. “You will pray.” “Pray?” “Exactly.” Revanas furrowed his brows. “For mercy?” Temalas huffed. “No, silly. To the creators.” “Ah...You mean all of them?” “Yes.” “The Dread Wolf too?” “Well, you've already paid respect to him, of all the gods. So I count him out.”

He chose a spot where they would be alone and sat cross-legged in the grass with the nervous elf. He began with a prayer to Elgar'nan. Temalas recited it and then asked Revanas to repeat:

“Elgar’nan, sou’nin i tarasyl’lahn. Sul’ama em’an leanathe...“

It went very slowly. Revanas struggled so much with the unknown words that he created inappropriate new phrases. Temalas also realized something else that made him pause. “You are afraid of the gods”, he stated. “It is a scary image, isn't it?”, Revanas pressed out with a forced smile. “They watch us all the time, they know everything about us. All we have comes from them and when they're gone, we're lost.” Temalas' suddenly thought he found the issue. His eyes widened. “Do they sound like masters to you?” “Yes, exactly!” He didn't know how thankful Solas was for the comparison.

“There's a difference, Revanas. Our gods are protectors, not bloodthirsty oppressors. They are well-meaning and generous and they want us to life a fulfilled life.” “Don't they punish us when we disobey? And they mark us and bind us to them. Isn't that what a master would do?” “It's not like we're possessed. We still have control over our life and bodies. The guidance of the creators is gentle and subtle.” “If you were possessed, you wouldn't know.” Temalas sighed deeply. “I hope you didn't give the poor da'lens such nightmares.” “I didn't.”

The First eyed him. His opinion was already staggering again. Perhaps the slave theory was right after all. Perhaps Revanas was so used to masters that he saw them everywhere, even in the creators. Perhaps that was why spirits have been his only friends his entire life.

Revanas seemed to worry about his reaction. He studied his features closely. Taking a deep breath, Temalas just said: “Continue.” He hoped the strange elf would one day feel comfort thinking of the creators.

He didn't notice how every word of the prayer burned on Solas' tongue.

Notes:

“Dinathe'dirthelan”: Necromancer “Elgar’nan, sou’nin i tarasyl’lahn. Sul’ama em’an leanathe.” : Elgar'nan, Wrath and Thunder, Give us glory.

[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

Like Teeth Against His Heart

Solavellan prose-poem, originally written for the Solamancy charity zine @solamancyzine

Summary: After Solas wakes up, he has many conversations with a variety of spirits. Sometimes they tell him what he wants to hear, and sometimes they don't. Mood: Contemplative/angsty. 1800 words

On AO3 here

NOTE: The formatting cannot be input as intended into tumblr (no right-align option). For optimal viewing please read on AO3 or in the Solamancy zine.  

_________________________________________________________

              Pride drags him from the quiescent depths of Uthenera.

                     Awaken, pretender.                                 Your seeking to prevent one future                                 annihilated the civilization you aimed to save.                                 Any left now know you as you are:                                 Disgrace inherent in the falsehood of your name.           

                     Restore the world, or it will all have been for naught.                                 Right this, or your legacy ends at genocide.           

i.

Solas is dreaming. He is dreaming because the world he awoke within cannot be real, cannot be the finality of a lifetime of suffering and rebellion and desperation. He is dreaming because the cold sensation of dread that sinks like teeth into his heart would paralyze him otherwise, with the knowledge of what he has done. What he has destroyed. So he sleepwalks his way across the land, searching for a way out he is becoming increasingly sure does not exist.

              Regret comes to him, and says:

                   The ache within you sings a hole into the world.                               We can only brush against the edges of your grief.                               Lie still. Tell us of the past. Let yourself weep.           

        Solas says: Forgive me.         All of this is my doing.         Forgive me.

 ii.

The Fade-scorched prisoner lies frail and pallid beneath Solas’ hands, the stillness of the crypt settling over her like a shroud. He steadies her spirit from both sides of the Veil as it tries to flee the battered ruin her body has become, while the shards of his Orb — the shameful remnants of his last desperate grasp for power — work to shred her being from within her flesh.

The humans allow him, an apparent apostate nobody — an elf — to heal their only living witness to this disaster because they are too desperate to ask the questions they should. Their eyes slide off him with the vague dismissal they default to for his people, in this fractured timeline. The ignominy of their disregard is necessary. It fills him with sorrow. It fills him with rage. He forces the anchor into stillness the same way he forces down the hammering of his heart, beating like a war-drum against his breast.

                   What will you do now?           

             Curiosity asks,              as they both watch the faint rise of her chest;              the way her breath stutters with each exhale. 

                   What will you do when the world ends again?           

       I will wait, he says.        I will wait and see.

iii.

He didn’t expect to like them, this stumbling crowd claiming itself an Inquisition. He didn’t think the easy camaraderie would ache so sharply, the smiles and conversations blurring together in this fragment of a future he must condemn. The Inquisitor is lively and vibrant against the severity of the spring snow, a magnetic hum that is more than the flicker of the anchor. A Dalish elf who listens so intently to the skeletons of his stories, the half-lies he shares of the world that once was. Listens — and asks for more.

Wisdom’s friendship is older than he deserves, and its hands take his, almost, in the only space left they can share.

                  You make ghosts of your past.                              So much less than memory,                              these echoes you fear to feel.                              You tell yourself distance is better,                              a focus beyond the great swelling of grief                              that rises like a tide beneath your skin.           

                  Yet — I can feel the thrum inside your chest,                              reverberation of heartstrings taut as a bow.                              She holds the last shreds of hope beneath her skin;                              you think of her as the jaws of a wolf                              waiting to close around you.             

        I cannot forget what I have done.         I cannot let this path continue.  

                   Is it such agony, to become a part of their reality?                               To learn the pyre you built                               could be for warmth, instead of sacrifice?                               You did shape this world.                               Choose to live in it.           

 iv.

He thought in dreams he would be stronger, but here in the domain of his shaping, self-restraint fails even faster. The cloak-shimmers of memory that disguise his careful constructed shell of a self are in tatters, his conviction abandoned from something so simple as her caress, as soft as sunlight. He stands in the Fade-ruins of Haven far longer than he should after Lavellan tumbles back to the waking world.

                    I can feel it, Hunger says.                                I feel the way you want it to swallow you whole,                                this longing. You could drown in it.           

       It is more complicated than that.

                    How long, how long,                                since someone touched you without malice?                                I could feel when it broke you. Not the kiss,                                but the tenderness behind it.                                You did not lose control, you                                abandoned it willingly. And why should you not?                                It is a delicious thing, to yearn so keenly.                                You remember her warmth. You remember                                the soft, sharp gasp when you held her,                                pulling her closer, not ending, not yet.             

                    Is it such a terrible burden — to want?           

             Solas says nothing, knowing Hunger can be just another name for Desire, in places such as these.

                 We are a reflection, Trickster,                             in this distorted mirror of a world.                             How could I resist such desperation?           

                 The cavern of your chest cannot be filled                             with the mourning you have chained there.                             You gorge yourself on sorrow,                  pouring the endless years                             into the cracks of your heart while the world yet turns,                             as though anything so far gone could offer                   absolution.           

                 The worst thing in the world is to be empty, after all.           

He opens his eyes to stone and plaster, and the shame that demands he hold himself separate from the shattered era he hovers at the edges of. Almost, he can still feel the press of her lips. Almost, the solemn gravity of this world releases its grasp.

 v.

The next time he meets Wisdom, it is too late. There is no time for debate; barely time to say goodbye. He sits for a long time, in the place he and the spirit used to share, watching the slow revolutions of the fog, the remnants of essence that will never be enough.

                    someday, something new,           

       Endure, he tells them.        Endure, so we may meet again.        Endure, so the next world I build holds you softly.

 vi.

Each time he goes to her he hesitates, despite the catch of his breath, the tidal wave of longing that surges through him at her touch. Despite how each time Lavellan reaches back he has failed to pull away. She has cracked his whole to pieces; rent the purpose from his being and embraced the jagged, broken thing she found inside as though it somehow brings her warmth, as though she doesn’t deserve more.

He could be happy. He could be safe. He could tell her, or not. Maybe tomorrow, maybe in a century; maybe somehow he was wrong, and she isn’t cursed to fade to mist, and he could spend a thousand years by her side and finally be free of the weeping grasp of the past.

Maybe he could become someone else long enough to believe he could ever be forgiven for what he cost them.

                    I can hear it, Hope says,           

              as his heart thrums inside his chest.                                                        

       It is a distraction, Solas says.        It is more than I deserve.

                  There is no deliverance                              in the denial of self. Each moment passes                              and passes again, and again, and again.                              Tell me, fair wolf,                              have you not suffered enough?           

                 Let yourself be gentle.                             Let this world be your atonement, not your sin.                           The earth holds warmth through winter, however deep,                            and spring’s green shoots turn over the decayed past                            to reach the radiance of day.           

                We bury the dead not for their sake, but our own.           

 vii.

They are a tangled thing, this knot of hearts and chance intersections. His universe narrows to the circle of her embrace, and he pretends she could live within the future he must build. The leisurely lethality of the past falls closer and closer, and he closes his eyes against it.

              Solas kisses her, and Desire says:

                    Taste it, the deliciousness of the inevitable.           

His fingers twist into her hair and the morning light gleams against the starkness of the snow, his lungs crackling with each frigid breath as he lets the vividness of the now sweep everything else clear.

              Sloth says:

                    The easiest thing is to do nothing at all.           

Vhenan, he calls her, and that this oldest word has outlived so many forgotten is, perhaps, a testament to the world she insists to save. He follows her through brambles and battlefields, across the stained-parchment land he would forsake.

              Compassion says:

                    You seem happier this way.                                Brighter, both of you.           

His heart quivers and Lavellan is almost, almost enough to fill the chasm of it.

              In the Fade, Purpose follows him, its words sharp and mocking.

                  Have you truly forgotten all that you promised?                              You claim your cause righteousness yet cast it aside.                              You forsake your goal. You forget your people.           

       “Forgive me,” Solas breathes against her skin.        “For what?” she asks him, and he cannot reply, so he kisses her again instead, wrapping himself in her belief and the bittersweet haven of dreams.

              When they plummet through the rend in reality itself, each word Nightmare speaks is a maw opening wide to devour him:

                    Pride will be your doom.           

In the dark silences of her absence — when, despite how he attempts to ignore it, the fate of the world turns his heart to grief — he knows:

       No matter the decision,        the choosing costs everything.

 viii.

It ends in disaster, as all things do, the slow arrow of his mistakes finally plunging through him. Lavellan deserves more; her birthright is the future he unwittingly stole. So he holds her as his heart outside his chest and builds a wall between them, closing himself so that this time she cannot reach into the abyss within and call him back. He cannot accept the desolation of the world he would consign her to — a slaughter of the present as well as the past.

He is cold and still as winter, as the frost that chokes the last green life from the world.

       This is what it means to be alone, he thinks,

              and Despair whispers back:

                    Here is where the dread will overwhelm you.                                Here is where you build the end of the world.           

 ix.

When he leaves, he sheds the self he has built like a second skin. He has failed through subtlety and subterfuge, too long he has faltered at the edge of the things that must be done. He told himself for years he was simply a person: not a symbol, no longer a revolution. His hesitation has made him now into something harsher: a reckoning.

He re-shoulders the burden of the world, and begins the work.

       Endure, Fen’Harel tells himself:        This is what it means to be a god. _________________________________________________________ Thank you for reading! This work can also be found on AO3.

[emerald-amidst-gold]

Tin Foil Hat Time!

So, earlier I had stated I was donning my tin foil hat? Well, I think it’s time to let that baby shine, so let’s get crinkling! I shall put it under the cut since I’m rambler! >:3

I had had these thoughts before, but I saw a post once upon a time that literally made the idea reemerge from the depths of my scattered little brain.

Basically that thought was: Is Solas a spirit that has taken a form much like Cole has, albeit in a completely different circumstance?

There are three things that make my mind whirl with this concept and has me going, “Wait, wait! That makes sense! Are they seriously--? Waaaait!” I’ll go down the line.

1. Solas’s intimate knowledge about the nature and purpose of spirits.

Obviously, Solas is an expert on matters of the Fade due to that fact that he created the whole realm in the first place. However, there’s something more..deep in the explanations he gives and how passionate he gets when spirits are looked down on or misconstrued. I mean, yes, in the time of Arlathan, spirits were part of the world and were common place, so it would stand to reason that most ancients elves were intimately tied to spirits. But Solas...it seems like more to me. He pinpoints the nature of a spirit almost immediately, he can sift through their cryptic meanings with relative ease (i.e. Cole), and the way he speaks at times is like he’s detecting the flow of person’s thoughts or emotions. He’s even, calm, thorough, and it’s how I imagine a spirit of Wisdom would speak. It’s a shame we didn’t get to hear much of his friend’s speech patterns because it would have been cool to compare.

2. How Solas often times consoles or relates with Cole.

Solas and Cole’s relationship has always been a point of fascination for me. I love listening to the dialogue between them and trying to piece it together without looking it up because it’s amazingly profound. I also have to ‘Awww..” when Solas actively tries to help Cole acclimate himself to the physical world such as this banter sequence:

Cole: It's brighter here. Glittering. Glaring. Glinting. I can't...

Solas: It's a mild tremor in the Veil. Nothing to worry about. Focus on what is here, in this world.

Cole: But... what is here?

Solas: Feel the ground, the breath in your lungs, fabric rustling against your skin.

Cole: (Breathes.) Thank you.

Solas: It's nothing. It can be overwhelming for anyone.

The way Solas guides Cole through this moment of panic and anxiety practically screams to me: “He can do this because he’s felt this sensation before.” It could be simply that after awakening from Uthenera that Solas had a similiar experience as the moments in which Cole feels overwhelmed, but the fact that Solas pinpoints the exact reasoning behind Cole’s discomfort is mind boggling to me. Again, it could be just that Solas can detect distortions in the Veil since he created it, and therefore, it’s practically his magic, but the speed at which he responds to Cole’s nervousness is immediate--subconscious. 

3. (This is the big one for me) Cole’s one line of dialogue 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."

This. This line had me going, “Wait. What?! Hold on, hold on! What?!” Let’s break it down.

He did not want a body. 

This could mean one of two things. First, it could simply be referring to the fact that Solas did not want to be awakened from Uthenera--that he wanted to continue to exploring the Fade and believing that what had transpired was but a dream to be reflected in it. OR it could mean he didn’t have a body to begin with--that he was a spirit that manifested, much like Cole, because something resonated with his purpose so much that he decided to form physically. What that purpose was or is, I’m not sure, but it has something to do with the next line:

But she asked him to come. 

Assuming that ‘she’ is Mythal then it would lead one to believe that she ‘summoned’ Solas for a specific reason. Was it for justice? Revenge, as Flemeth stated? Or was it simply to be bound? Because the next line:

He left a scar when he burned her off his face.

This I believe refers to the vallaslin. I don’t believe we know precisely if Solas himself had vallaslin, but this insinuates he may have and it might have been Mythal’s design, which again, points towards the last line that states Mythal asked Solas to ‘come’. Had she branded him once he took a solid form? What were her plans for him? Did she take advantage of his purpose, whatever that may be? Wisdom or his namesake: Pride?  Is it linked to what will happen in DA4 since we still aren’t sure what Mythal precisely wants? Is she using Solas for something darker or grander? 

Did she warp a spirit into perceiving themselves as elven to achieve something before she was murdered? 

I mean, if we really wanna jump down the rabbit hole I could ask: Is it possible that a person, a solid person, could be made into a spirit? If Solas isn’t a spirit, could he have been made into one or did he himself do so, like how Cole made himself human? 

Tin foil hat. Tin foil hat. Thank you for crinkling it with me. Again, I could be over analyzing the fuck out of this and misinterpreting a lot of shit, but there’s something going on and, of course, it’s all about Mythal. What the hell does she waaaaant?!

[segadoraa]

Blinded Part Two: Chapter Two

Read on A03. Part Two: Chapter One. Part One.

Summary: Solas awakens in a world unrecognizable. He meets with his council to discuss their next move and he considers his role in a world he did not expect.

Maps, books, and crumpled pieces of parchment littered the desk at which Solas had fallen asleep. He swept some of them to the floor as he arose, stretching. He hadn’t slept nearly as long as he had anticipated he would after tearing the Veil, but he was still regaining his strength and napped frequently. His own well-being had surprised him at first, but as he learned more about the state of the world, pieces started to fall into place.

As he suspected, the tearing of the Veil had a ripple effect across Thedas. Where the Veil was weak, hundreds of rifts formed which pulled spirits from the Fade and created demons in their wake. What he had not anticipated was the concentrated strength of the Veil in a few cities. Instead of the Veil disintegrating across the world, as he had intended, it had doubled back and with even more tenacity and settled in the cities where its concentration was strongest. The energy used to tear the Veil had rebounded and burned across the sky, decimating entire cities and destroying countless resources.

It was altogether both better and worse than he had expected.

While the partial survival of the Veil meant that Solas’s power had not overwhelmed him when it was torn, it also meant that the re-assimilation of elves and mages into the human world was more challenging than expected. A twinge of annoyance crossed his mind as he remembered the work that was to be done, but it was quickly gone. As a knock sounded at his door, he stood and turned his back to his desk, mainly to hide his yawn. Trying to shake the drowsiness from his mind, he clasped his hands behind his back and flexed his shoulders. As he heard the small room fill with footsteps, he turned again to face them and leaned over his desk. The members of his council shuffled as they regarded Solas and his room, unsure of where to start. Solas gazed at them impatiently, but when it seemed no one was willing to break the silence, he retreated from his desk and broke the silence.

“Well?” he asked, still mildly irritable after being woken. “I take it you have news.”

Varayla, his chief diplomat, spoke first after a furtive glance at the other two advisors.

“Sir,” she began in Elvhen, shaking her long white hair behind her, “our efforts to make contact with the humans have either been lost or ignored.”

As she spoke, her nose turned up and she poorly suppressed a grimace.

“If it is the latter, establishing a foothold where we mean to may be seen as an act of aggression. We could, no doubt, quash any resistance they put up, but if your goal of peace still remains, we may have to be more delicate.”

To Solas’s surprise, Varayla managed to refrain from rolling her eyes; instead she held his gaze with the full intensity of her pale gray eyes. She had been one of the first of the Elvhen that he had awoken from Uthenera. While the two had never quite gotten to the point of being friendly toward each other, they had established a mutual respect for each other’s strengths. She was curt, arrogant, and cold, but she was the best diplomat he knew and he needed her talents to establish his presence in the new world.

Xenyah, who had been leaning against the wall, snorted, bringing Solas’s focus back to the present.

“If peace is still the goal, you might want to alert the rest of the world. We’ve had to keep a league of bandits and Orlesian soldiers at bay just this afternoon.”

She strutted up to Solas’s desk as she spoke, lifting a leg to half-sit upon his desk. As she moved forward, Solas strode sideways a few steps and noticeably away from her perch on his desk.

“They don’t seem to respond to our warnings against their trespassing and they bring more and more weaponry with them each time. If it’s peace you want, perhaps we will try laying down our arms next time? I’m sure that will go over well.”

Solas clenched his jaw against Xenyah’s mocking tone, biting back his response. Waking her was a risk, one he believed was worth it. She had served under him when he and Mythal had plotted the revolution against the Enuvaris. They had worked well together—her ruthlessness and apathy balanced well against his empathy and restraint. In the end, they had both sought justice and had fought side by side. The physical relationship they had was no more than a pleasurable side benefit—a release for them both—at least he had thought. Since she had awakened, however, it seemed she bore some bitterness toward Solas for his disregard of her and the intimacy they had once shared. He regretted this; he knew the time that had passed since he had seen her last had passed in the blink of an eye for her. It would be disorienting for anyone to fall asleep feeling one way and wake up expected to feel differently. Hoping she just needed time, he tried to give her as much space as possible and politely ignored her overtly sexual advances.

He cleared his throat and paced, keeping his gaze away from his desk.

“Abelas? You’ve been quiet. What are your thoughts?”

The room looked to him, awaiting his response. Abelas frowned and opened his mouth, then closed it again. He took his time gathering his thoughts, then shifted his weight before speaking.

“The Orlesians do seem to be gathering what forces of theirs remain. Given that the Exalted Plains are in Orlesian territory, perhaps it would be wise to make peaceful contact before establishing anything too permanent. Our forces would overcome theirs, without doubt, but since you remain focused on peace, I do not see what other choice we have.”

He did not meet Solas’s eye as he spoke, rather, he frowned at the maps on his desk, then averted his gaze.

“Meanwhile, our own people remain displaced, living in tents at best, waiting for us to make a plan,” Varayla snapped. Solas somewhat hastily covered the paperwork on his desk as she spoke, nudging Xenyah off his desk.

“How long do you think they will wait?” she continued. “We’ve awakened as many as we can, but they have loved ones still asleep. We need to give them some sort of timeline, at least.”

“At the very least,” Xenyah added grumpily. “I’d say we need to show them that they woke up in this world for a reason. They’re sick of twiddling their thumbs.”

Solas pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting a headache.

“I’m aware of their desire to settle, but the situation here is delicate. These people have suffered greatly; I stand by my decision to pursue peace. Otherwise, we run the risk of losing even more people on both sides.”

“Both sides?” Xenyah stormed. “You’re still concerned about their well-being after everything they did to elves in their time? They made their choices, what do you care if they live or die?”

“Clearly, you’ve had the privilege of never having the fate of two worlds in your hands,” he snapped back moodily.

Xenyah opened her mouth to respond, but Solas held up his hand to stop her.

“Of course I am still responsible for our people and their fate, but do not blame me for considering this world as well. I’ve lived among the best of these people and their destruction is both my responsibility and my fault. Until you know that kind of responsibility, you will not question me again.” His voice was dangerously close to cracking, but his point struck home and Xenyah backed away like a child that had been reprimanded. His council stilled and looked at him in shock. He fought back the shame settling in his stomach. No matter what he did, waves of shame were always at bay. He felt like he was coming apart.

“Sir,” Abelas began quietly, “I’ll send a group of scouts to an Orlesian outpost with a message of our peaceful intentions and desire to negotiate with Empress Celine. Perhaps we could send them with a small caravan of supplies, as a gift of good will? If we desire peace, we need to approach them peacefully.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Varayla responded. “We have only ever responded to their scouts with armed forces. A gesture of good will could go a long way.”

Xenyah rolled her eyes, but Solas nodded.

“Very well,” he said curtly, still recovering from his outburst. “Make it happen.”

Xenyah stormed out of the room and the others turned to follow.

“Abelas?” Solas called after him. “A moment.”

[ladylike-foxes]

Abelas meeting Halesta

EEE!! Thank you, anon! I’ve been meaning to address this for awhile, actually! Some Abelas POV for @dadrunkwriting​ 

As you might already know/guess:

Vir'Abelasan - Way of the Well of SorrowsTelanadas - Nothing is inevitableTel'las Fen'Harel ma ghilana - Do not allow the Dread Wolf to guide you.

“There are other places, friend. Other duties. Your people yet linger.”

        The words held a second meaning. As familiar as the Elvhen had seemed in the Petitioner’s court, Abelas hadn’t recognized the man. Now he knew the one they called Pride. Initially it had appeared his companions had no inkling as to his actual identity, but now their leader, the small elven woman, was watching her friend with veiled distress.

“Elvhen such as you?” Abelas looked at him with a renewed perspective.

“Yes. Such as I.”

“You have shown respect to Mythal, and there is a righteousness in you I cannot deny,” He sighed, turning back to their apparent leader, “Is that your desire? To partake of the Vir'Abelasan as best you can, to fight your enemy?”

“I’d rather it had been left with you safely, unknown to my enemy. The memories of the People deserve more than to serve as an advantage in war…” She had looked away sadly, now her eyes met his, “I wouldn’t drink of the Well without your consent.”

“It is not a matter of consent. It is a matter of having earned the right,” She nodded in understanding, visibly wounded by his dismissal of her.

“And I haven’t earned that right.”

“It does not appear to be for me to decide. The Vir'Abelasan may be too much for a mortal to comprehend,” He had started away, but turning back, “Brave it if you must, but know this: You shall be bound forever to the will of Mythal.”

“Bound to a goddess that no longer exists, if she ever did—” The Witch sneered again, but he interrupted her.

“Bound as we are bound. The choice is yours.”

“So she still lives,” The small one breathed, eyes searching his face.

“Anything is possible.”

“Elven legend states that Mythal was tricked by Fen'Harel and banished to the Beyond.”

“‘Elven’ legend is wrong—”

“Fen'Harel wasn’t involved in Mythal’s murder,” The small one cut in, waving her hand almost dismissively at the Witch; he looked at her with new eyes, nodding in confirmation.

“She was slain,” He looked at the Witch, “If a god truly can be. Betrayed by those who destroyed this temple. Yet, the Vir'Abelasan remains. As do we. That is something.”

“That is something,” The child was strangely emphatic, “Are you leaving?”

“Our duty ends. Why remain?”

“There is a place for you, Lethallin…if you seek it,” The one called Solas spoke up again, a masked invitation.

“Perhaps there are places the Shemlen have not touched. It may be that only Uthenera waits for us. The blissful sleep of eternity, never to awaken…. If fate is kind.”

“You could come with us,” The little one offered, brow furrowed with concern, “Corypheus has killed so many of your people. All of you that remain would be welcome.”

        As gentle and well-intentioned as the child was, and as unusual the blood beating in her veins, he felt the bitterness sharp on his tongue.

“We killed ourselves long ago.”“Malas amelin ne halam, Abelas.”

         He considered their Solas briefly before turning away, his words thick with implication. He must leave. The Well was no longer in his hands. He was nearly at the bottom of the stair when he felt the lightest grip on his arm. Recoiling, he looked to see the small one, having run after him, now apologetically withdrawing her hand.

“I know that you don’t see me as one of your People, but I see you as one of mine,” She looked up at him imploringly with wide lilac eyes. “I know that we are separated by centuries, the Veil, and the ignorance of my kin. That you see the world now as strange and twisted from what it once was, that its children are blind and foolish and unworthy of your interest or compassion—and maybe you’re right. "But I beg you, should the curiosity ever cross you, come to Tarasyl'an Te'las. If I survive Corypheus, I will be there. My deepest wish is only to learn. Perhaps you’ll see, as other Elvhen have, that we deserve a chance.”

“Halesta! Inquisitor!” The calls came from above, and she looked back to see the one called Solas watching from the landing.

“Vhenan, we are running out of time,” He called down to her.

        She looked back at Abelas, eyes emphatic and hand once more on his arm, squeezing gently.

“He will betray me, but— Please. Please remember: Telanadas. Tel'las Fen'Harel ma ghilana.”

        As she ran back up the stairs, he reeled at her words. Solas nodded at him once again as he led the small one back towards the Vir'Abelasan, and Abelas returned the gesture. As he fled, he dismissed the child’s words. Fen'Harel had called her Vhenan. Would he use a term so lightly, only to betray this one who seemed to know so much about the People?

        This replayed in his mind for months: her beseeching, the Dread Wolf’s offer. Slowly, be began to remember more oddities about the girl. Her golden Vallaslin, the lilac of her eyes. Her name, Halesta, fell from his lips more than once when he had thought back to that day. Thread of the Fox, Changer of Fate. When Fen'Harel found him again, he and his men had heard that Corypheus had been defeated, that the Guardian of Mythal had been summoned. He listened to the Dread Wolf’s plan, and along with the other remaining Sentinels, joined his army. He learned of the Wolf’s betrayal of his Vhenan. Still, the child’s words rang in his mind.

        Fen'Harel had appeared surprised when he asked to visit Tarasyl'an Te'las. Abelas withheld what she had said, but mentioned that she had invited him. The place was already crawling with the Wolf’s spies, what harm could it be to allow the Sentinel his curiosity? So, he had been sent with three others to visit Skyhold and see what closely guarded secrets he might uncovered. He couldn’t have anticipated the true character of this Halesta, even if Fen'Harel had bothered to warn him.

[buttsonthebeach]

prompt: the first time solas realized he -wanted- ellana

…..I hope you wanted an angsty prose-poem, anon….. because that’s where my brain finally went with this one. Whoops?

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Solavellan, Inquisition era, pre-relationship

Rating: Teen for a vague sexual reference

It was the simplest thing.

Ellana came out of her tent on the Storm Coast, slipped wordlessly past him, and went to the edge of the nearby cliff to greet the sun.

Solas had had the last watch of the night, and dawn was a dim smudge on the horizon. He was tired, and numb, and the Veil was an anvil on his chest, an insistent, mocking reminder of all his grand hopes, all his failures. He had not minded that she didn’t speak to him. He was too enveloped in the scent of wet dirt and seaspray and the ache behind his eyes that never seemed to dull. In the thought that perhaps it would have been better if he had simply never awakened from uthenera.

But his eyes were drawn to her where she stood on tiptoe and stretched up high and arched her back and in that moment all the air in the world rushed into his lungs. Just to see her, one with herself and the sky above her and the earth beneath her - to see how alive she was - to know that if he called her name now she would turn and smile at him - to see the narrow strip of brown skin peering out from beneath the hem of her tunic, the dimples at the base of her spine, the shadow of new hair curled around the sides of her head -

He wanted her.He wanted her in all the ways one person could want another.

He wanted to go to her and crush her to him and breathe in the smell of her skin.

He wanted to sit here forever and watch her be herself, with no thought for anything but the breeze coming off the waves.

He wanted to see her move beneath him, above him, to see her at her most bare and unraveled.

He wanted her like he wanted the air still filling his lungs to bursting.

He wanted to feel this alive forever.

She turned to him, and he had to bury that feeling deep before she walked back towards him. She could not know how she had broken him open, stripped him to the bones of his longing, without a single word. By simply existing between blue-black earth and gray morning sky.

He swallowed it down. His lungs shrank. She smiled at him. He managed a smile back. They began their day.

[wootensmith]

Crossing

“Do not forget the words, or you will find the Crossroads closed to you,” Solas warned. “Watch, listen, but don’t risk yourselves.” He paused, felt the heaviness of the reality of it all. “Ultimately, the Qunari’s plan is a small threat compared to what we soon face. But we cannot abandon our friends if we are able to aid them. Skyhold and Kirkwall will have many new faces— the Inquisition’s efforts are moving those who have escaped from Tevinter at a rapid pace, and it is easy for spies to slip in. Not just our own. Be vigilant. I will be waiting for word from you.” He let them go, the sea of faces winking out around him as they slipped from the Fade. Abelas, only, remained.

“They deserve to know the real reason this concerns you,” he said. “That is what I have given them. If the Qunari destroy the titan in southern Thedas, it might destabilize the entire continent.” “The same continent that will be consumed by Blight within a few years. Or war in less.” “The outcome is still uncertain. We may yet—” began Solas. “No,” said Abelas, “there is nothing uncertain about what happens when the Veil falls. Six centuries ago, perhaps we had some hope of altering it. Not any longer. What these Qunari do— what any kingdom does now, it is a shadow play. Short lived and pointless.” “Perhaps, but I have no wish to see people suffer, even in the short term. The Qunari will not hesitate to harm any who stand in their way or enslave those willing to submit.” “So it is with every war. This one would be no different, except for one variable. It does not threaten Arlathan. It will not touch our people or their work. How many conflicts have passed through Thedas since you entered uthenera? No mere political shift has roused you in a thousand years.” “I was wrong,” Solas admitted. “I thought they were— simple. That their wars were no more painful or meaningful than a pack of hounds scrabbling over a piece of meat. If I had understood, if I had not been such a fool—” he broke off, the bitterness of it creating ripples in the Fade. “I am awakened. And I cannot stand by and watch them suffer.” Abelas stared at him. “If that is so,” he asked, “then why do you delay? It could be over in moments. A simple spell and it would all be done. Instead, you build an army to battle the Evanuris. Yet, we both know the Evanuris will defeat them. But now it will take years. It suits my own purposes, but theirs? We only draw out our fate, we do not change it. And you encourage this useless search for some— cure, some way to conquer this terrible plague. I thought, at first, you’d given her this task to keep her from the madness that being idle can cause. But now— you seem to believe it, Solas. And you linger and linger. You should have departed weeks ago. This— vendetta against the Qunari, this is not about Thedas. Had they chosen the human kingdoms you would not have blinked. Had they chosen to invade the Imperium, you would not have altered your course, and that would be far more dangerous for Arlathan. You are delaying for the Inquisitor. And going to war for her. And delaying for her.” “No—” “Yes. I do not fault you. Neither would the others. They would still follow you. It is a desire we all share. They, too, are doing this for love. Their families, their people, their world is also threatened by the Qunari. But they deserve to know.” He shook his head. “I am whistling into a hurricane, for it would mean admitting the truth to yourself first. Dawn approaches and there is still much to be done. Dareth shiral, Solas.” Abelas flickered out. He woke slowly, the now familiar dwarven shapes of Anaris’s tower still shadowy in the early morning light. He resisted moving. Resisted the flood of thoughts that cropped up in the wake of the dream. He tried to focus on the sharp angles of the roof above, the precise cuts of each geometric carving. Underneath, he felt it building, the sorrow thickening and pressing into his conscious functions. “Cold and creaking, aching, dry dread as if the spells of Dirthamen were crawling under the skin again—” Solas sat up, but did not look toward Cole. “I would sooner have endured a hundred years of that torture than these past two. It has been far worse.” He shook his head and felt a bitter smile twist his face. “You don’t believe me. You think I have forgotten—” “No,” said Cole, “I can hear. You remember every moment. There are days that you wish you had never met her.” “Yes,” he muttered and pressed a hand to his eyes. “But they are few compared to the days I wish she had never met me.” “I have never heard her think the same.” “That does not make it better,” he said, looking over at last. “I know,” said the boy, wringing his hands. “I’m sorry.” “Why have you come? I did not wish you to see me this way. It can only cause us both more pain.” “To steal a place.” “A place? Has something happened to Skyhold?” Cole shook his head. “I cannot take them there. The world wants Skyhold back. It is trying to take the Inquisition from her. She’ll let it go, soon. Skyhold is emptying, until the end. Until you say. They are all going, one by one, draining away. If Orlais finds the gryphons there when—” “Gryphons?” asked Solas sharply. He stood up. “Valya’s gryphons. Blackwall and Brosca fought to keep them free, but they were forced out. Gone down into the dark with the Inquisitor. She keeps them safe, but she cannot save the gryphons or the recruits.” He held out a hand toward Solas. A slim vial lay in his palm. “Brosca switched them, the antidote for the poison. But the gryphons—” “It won’t help them,” said Solas. “I’m not even certain it will help any of the recruits who aren’t elves.” “It will. Warden Brosca took it. And the King. But the gryphons need a place.” He took the vial carefully. “I’m sorry, Cole. Arlathan is tainted. They cannot come to the city.” “The lighthouse then. The green forest. There is no blight there. It will not spread until the end. They can help. They want to.” Solas hesitated. “I know very little about raising or caring for gryphons.” “Valya knows. And there are a few among your people who remember. I only need the words to speak. I can pass by the spirits who watch, but Valya cannot.” Cole grabbed his hand. “Please Solas. They just need a place to be free. Others will use them. Or destroy them.” “This Valya…” he trailed off, not even certain what he wished to ask. “Who is there to betray you to?” asked Cole, sensing the question beneath. “The only other who would help her is the Inquisitor, if she could. Valya needs you. And you need her help. Or— Abelas does.” “Very well, if you trust her, then I can hardly argue,” said Solas and repeated the passwords slowly. Cole’s smile was brilliant and Solas barely caught his arm before he slipped away. He froze, turning back, his excitement already fading into sorrow. But Solas could not help himself. “Has the anchor grown again?” he asked. “She sent me away,” said Cole. “She sent me away to go down in the dark. I can’t feel her so far from here. I don’t know.” “Why did she send you away? What happened?” “She thought I’d be happier. That I could help more with Hawke. With the people hiding from Tevinter.” He let go. “Are you? Happy?” he asked. “Hawke is kinder now. She was angry when I first came. Suspicious and worried. She thought I was like her friend. I think that I helped. Her hurt isn’t so loud anymore. And the people who came on the boats— they were tired and frightened. I help them rest.” “But you Cole,” Solas insisted gently, “Are you happy?” The boy rocked from foot to foot for a moment before answering. “I think— I could be. Someday. When the worry isn’t like the ocean. I liked it when the hurts were small. I liked helping. Everything is so much now, and I feel— less. In the dark with Cole again, starving and pinched.” Solas wished he could tell him that it would ease, this feeling of helplessness, that in time, the worst fears would prove to be smaller than their shadows. This time— this time he feared it would be a lie. “When you were there with the boy, you could not take his hunger or his pain.” “No,” admitted Cole. “But you did help. You comforted him in his last hours. The things you do now— sheltering the gryphons, remaining beside the Inquisitor when she was ill, helping those escaping torture and slavery to rest— they have meaning.” Cole clutched at the brim of his hat. “Not enough.” He folded the boy in an awkward hug, all limbs and angles and doubt. The hat tumbled off, but he didn’t chase it. “It means more than you know, Cole. And there are moments in this world that comfort is all we can give. The kindness helps, even when deeds cannot.” They stood that way for a few moments, until Cole drew quietly away. Solas picked up the hat and bent it back into shape before handing it to the boy. “I will find Abelas. He’ll send word to the lighthouse to expect you.” “You want me to return to the Inquisitor,” he said flatly. Solas sighed. “You are your own person, Cole. I want you to be safe. I want you to find some peace, and I hoped the Inquisitor would be able to give you both. But I have been wrong. And what you wish for yourself is what matters most.” “I think— I think I want to go home,” said Cole. “Is that wrong?” He peered at Solas from beneath the fabric. “No. No, that is not wrong. I thought you might.” “But not yet. You are going to save her?” “I will try,” said Solas, knowing the boy could sense the lie. “You’ll take her with you?” “Yes, if she will come.” “Until then, I will remain. She thinks it will not help her. But I know it will help you to know she is not alone.” “And if she will not yield?” he asked, feeling the dread press against his ribs again. Cole tilted his head. “Then perhaps she’ll find a way for you to yield,” he said, “Or maybe you’ll stay anyway, when she cannot.” And then he was gone. Solas pulled himself into his armor, feeling weary and bruised though he had just arisen. He had asked Wisdom, once, what was to be done. After Mythal’s death. In the intense panic of the days between.

“I have found no other way, and yet it falls so far short,” he’d cried, drooping over the cluttered work table. He’d been exhausted, sleepless and frantic. But his fear was failing him. He looked up at Wisdom who paced restlessly across from him. “I could retreat,” he said. “No,” said Wisdom, “You have nowhere to retreat to. The Evanuris will continue to chase you. They have risked too much now to fail.” “It will give me more time to…” Solas trailed off and waved vaguely at the multitude of books. He ran an ink-stained hand over his skull. “It will give you more time to panic,” said Wisdom. “You will not find another way on the run. Your thoughts will be turned only to the next haven, the next battle, the next death of your people.” “What are we to do?” Wisdom stopped its restless movement. Came toward him. “The path is before us,” it said. “It is not the one we would choose, but it is all that we have found. We will walk it, one step leading to the next, for as long as we must.” He shook his head, but felt Wisdom’s tingling touch on his shoulder. It waited until he looked up at it again. “We will walk it, Solas, but watch for crossings. There is always an opportunity to change one’s course, if we do not blind ourselves to it.”

One step leading to the next, he thought, pulling the glittering helm back over his head. Until I can change the course of the world. He knew, now, why he cared about the Qunari. Why he was bothering. He could admit to himself that Abelas had been partly right, but it was more than the Inquisitor. It was more than just one woman’s fate. There was a fork in the path, somewhere, he knew. He knew. And until he found it, he’d behave as if the world was going to survive, even as he drew closer to killing it. The tower rang with the sound of his footsteps. He had approached the place with something like a soft regret, an identification with what had driven the man to this madness. He glanced back, now, at the lonely spire, in relief. He was not Anaris.

[wyrdsistersofthedas]

Well Shit: Dirth of Knowledge (Part 3 of 4)

Previously on “Well Shit”, we deduced that Mythal’s Well was used to keep sensitive information in the hands of loyal (*cough* geas: ie magical binding for instant loyalty and controlability) followers, and that it may have originally been used to help elves and spirits manage emotions and personality which would make it more difficult for them to live in the Fade.  

The Well appears to have been essential to the Sentinels’ ability to preserve Mythal’s wisdom.  So why wasn’t the Well despoiled along with the rest of her temple?  Did the Well only contain the knowledge of the priests who survived the attack on Mythal’s temple?  Or was the destruction of her temple merely meant to break her worshipers’ will?  Could the geas binding the will of the Well’s recipient been enough to keep her rivals at bay?  Or did they already have all the knowledge they could have gained from Mythal’s Well from another source?  There was, after all, an elven god devoted to knowledge and secrets...

It would stand to reason that Mythal wouldn’t be the only Evanuris to have an ultra secure pool of knowledge just for the most faithful of followers.  Of all of the elven gods, Dirthamen seems even more likely than Mythal to keep a repository of hidden knowledge.  Does Dirthamen have a Well of Sorrows?  There is a pool of water in the inner sanctum of Dirthamen’s Temple.  Could this be the remnants of Dirthamen’s Well of Sorrows?  Or could his Well have been secreted somewhere else?  There are some interesting hints in the Lost Temple of Dirthamen that may indicate what happened to the knowledge collected from ages of priests who served The God of Secrets.  And it seems to be more of a horror story than a sad tale.

In visiting Mythal’s temple, we gained insights into how the ancient elven religion functioned.  Supplicants seeking her aid, judgement, or merely worshipping their goddess would complete rituals to show their devotion and worthiness to receive Mythal’s mercy.  Dirthamen’s temple seemed to have worked in a similar fashion, although supplicants had to demonstrate their worth before they ever reached the temple.  Elves seeking Dirthamen had to find his temple first!   Cue the quest for veilfire runes in the Exalted Plains:

“The elven glyphs discovered in the Dales might prove valuable. Cursory inspection suggests they predate the ruins in which they were found──possibly transferred onto the stone from a much older edifice that dates back to the original elven nation or even earlier.”

Although the runes were moved when the elves reclaimed the Dales, their purpose remains the same.  Those who sought knowledge or aid from Dirthamen first had to prove their intellectual merit.  

Once the seeker found the temple, what would they have found?  Most of Dirthamen’s Temple look like catacombs a nightmare might question hanging out in.  Was it always like that?  And were Dirthamen’s followers always so...messed up?  

I see couple of possibilities: 1) The outer areas of the temple could have been another trial for supplicants, testing their mental toughness.  2) The temple was retrofitted to become a burial place after Dirthamen’s priests became so paranoid that they locked themselves in the temple and took their secrets to their graves (in the truest sense of the phrase).  3) It is also possible that Dirthamen’s priests once worked in tandem with servants of Falon’din to teach elves entering uthenera how to let go of their mortal forms to reach deeper levels of the Fade and find the knowledge they desired.  If elves entered uthenera in Dirthamen’s Temple, then the bodies might have been those trapped there when the Veil was created or they were deliberately killed in the war that came after, as Briala, Felassan, and their companions found in The Masked Empire:

[Briala, Felassan, and their companions] passed through chambers filled with the urns and sarcophagi, and even great bedchambers where the elves who had not died but instead gone to the eternal sleep of uthernara had lain for their long rest.

When they came to the first of these rooms, Felassan stopped and looked at the ancient corpse half-laying under the satin sheets....[his] face was twisted with grief.

“Unnecessaary,” he said quietly, and Briala, curious, came out of her reverie and looked.

The body lay in a resting position, with clean white bedding pulled up carefully over the chest, leaving only the head and shoulders exposed.  It had not awakened to die, nor struggled....But there, at the throat, Briala saw a single thin cut, along with the tiniest trace of old bloodstains on the pillow.

....Briala looked at the white satin sheets.  “Revenge, then.”

“Such a waste.” Felassan shook his head.  “This one could have helped.” (pgs. 316-317)

4) Or the Dalish did it.  (More on this possibility later.)

But I digress.  What about the possibility of Dirthamen having a Well?  He’s the god of knowledge, for Void’s sake, so he must have had repositories of knowledge.  That was his whole ‘divine’ purpose.  So where are all the secrets?  Again, there are a couple of possibilities:

As alluded to in the analysis of “The Lost Temple of Dirthamen” codex above, Dirthamen gave his priests secrets to ‘hold’ for him until he took them back.  Could those secrets have been from his Well of Sorrows?  Did these secrets die with them?  Were they supposed to die with them?  Given that Mythal’s Well puts a geas on whoever partakes of the well, perhaps Dirth did the same.  Were the priests actually murderously paranoid or did their geas force them to bind that knowledge at the cost of their lives.  A final failsafe.  Perhaps the blood magic ritual the priests feared from the High Priest was actually an attempt to break the geas so that the knowledge of the temple would not be lost.  

Another possibility is that Dirthamen’s Well could not be stolen from his temple...because it wasn’t in his temple.  One thing that is very interesting about that ruin is that there are no effigies to Dirthamen (unless those death’s head statues are supposed to be him).  There are halla statues (Ghilan’nain), Mythal in her dragon lady form, and even statues of Fen’Harel near the entrance of the temple and in the innermost sanctum.  But there are more images of one particular elven god than any others: Falon’Din.  He is everywhere.  This leads to an interesting possibility.  In the oldest elven records, Dirthamen and Falon’Din are never directly named.  

Or it the “lost” temple really wasn’t lost.  Not only did treasure hunters find the temple, but they were well into the process of reassembling the High Priest.  If they could do it, so could many others.  In fact, we know that the Dalish discovered and moved all of the runes necessary to locate the temple when they settled in the Dales.  Dalish relics, like inuksuit and inunnguaq stone markers, are scattered throughout the ruin, and perhaps they were the one who buried so many bodies in the ruins.  In the almost 300 years that the elves ruled the region, it stands to reason that they sought out and recovered every piece of their heritage that they could put their hands on.  (The Dalish are, perhaps, following centuries of tradition from the Dales.)  I cannot help but think that Dirthamen’s temple would have been pretty high on their priority list and, while we players often think that our characters are the only ones badass enough to brave all these dangerous ruins, it is pretty clear others made it to this temple first.  While I doubt they were able to recover all of God of Secrets knowledge, I really hope they found some of it.   

[I wonder if the shield, Dirthamen’s Wisdom, was returned by Dalish worshippers after the fall of the Dales while they were interring a deceased loved one (a Keeper, perhaps) in the Temple.  There are tons of Dalish relics in the Inner Sanctum so they seem to have made it in there as well.]

I wonder if Dirthamen would only use one means of protecting his secrets.  A god of wisdom wouldn’t put all of his eggs in one basket, would he?  So perhaps he had several “Wells of Knowledge” hidden in different ways to prevent any one person or groups with ill intent from obtaining his wisdom.  Whether any of these measures were enough (or even existed) remains to be seen.  

The final possibility is the one alluded to in this post’s introduction: Could the elves who destroyed Mythal’s Temple left her Well of Sorrows intact, not only to avoid the geas, but because they already had all the knowledge they needed?  Solas tells us that the Evunaris were generals before they were gods.  Was Dirthamen to the Evunaris as Leliana is to the Inquisition?  Their spymaster?  If that were the case, his temple would have been the first stop for anyone seeking the knowledge to overthrow the Evanuris.  The priests of Dirthamen seemed certain that someone was coming for their knowledge.  Could it have been Solas’ rebels?  Some other faction, perhaps based out of Arlathan itself?  Something in the Fade sure seems to believe that Dirthamen was betrayed, and what greater betrayal could there be than for someone to steal your life’s work.  

The sword in the back could even indicate it could have been someone close to him?  Falon’Din, or perhaps Ghilan’nain, might fit the bill.

It is even possible that part or all of Dirthamen’s secrets were stolen before the Fall of the Elvhen Empire.  The “Sinner” gained the ability to transform into a dragon at Ghilan’nain urging.  Morrigan gains the exact same ability if she is allowed to drink from the Well of Sorrows.  Did the Sinner drink from Dirthamen’s Well?  If Dirthamen had been robbed once, he might have gone to extreme measures to protect his remaining secrets, including giving that knowledge to his most loyal priests with a geas to take his secrets to their graves.  

So what does this add up to?  A whole lot of maybes...but pretty interesting maybes.  The most likely end for Dirthamen’s Well of knowledge is that it died with his priests’ madness.  I’m going to keep my fingers crossed that one of the less likely, but more dramatic, scenarios turns out to be the truth.

So far we have only visited two of the Evanuris’ temples in game: Mythal’s and Dirthamen’s.  At least, as far as we know.  There is, however, a very interesting ruin with human and elven ties that sure seems to have Well of Sorrows.  The problem is, it’s hard to say whether it is an original, a remnant, or an attempt at a recreation.  The Brecilian Forest is our next stop.

-MM

Think you missed part of the “Well Shit” series?  Here are our previous posts:

Part 1: Searching for the Secrets of the Elvhen Gods

Part 2: Origins of the Vir'abelasan

Part 3: Dirth of Knowledge

Part 4: The Elvhen Ritual

[emerald-amidst-gold]

So, Dragons...

Time for me to ramble ramble about the whole basis of my fanfics when it comes to Dragon Age! 

Honestly, it all started when I was just playing, made Fane a Reaver, and decided that he would be a dragon. 

But then I started thinking and beautiful things can happen when one thinks for over long. 

To start: I’ve always believed dragons have a connection with Uthenera. My reasoning to that is because they go centuries without waking until something either awakens them (’normal’ dragons its could be a number of things and Archdemons are awakened with the Taint). Who’s to say that dragons don’t have magical connections or dreams, either? The Archdemon can reach out to a Warden in their dreams, but this could be from the Taint itself. Who knows? Furthermore, dragons expel elemental attacks (fire, ice, electricity), and the only beings we know that can do that from practically the moment they’re born is mages, albeit mages don’t come into their powers until fairly later in life, but that could be because of the presence of the Veil. 

So, what would potentially awaken a dragon other than the darkspawn or a ‘instinctual’ time clock to mate? Perhaps in the way Solas did? They just woke up after sleeping for years and years and years? Or did someone or something powerful wake them? And my thought on the dragons in Dragon Age: Inquisition is that the Breach woke them up. After all, Solas states that animals can be driven mad by the Breach and its effects (the wolves in the Hinterlands were being controlled by a demon that more or less probably came through a rift). I think this because of how many dragons we face in Inquisition (10 base; 3 DLC). That’s a total of 13 dragons where in the other games you had barely any. (Origins there are 4; that includes the Archdemon and in DA2, there’s the two in the Bone Pit).  

This influx in numbers proves to me that something is going on, and it could be the Breach’s influence or it could be something more. 

Now, in my stories, I constantly reiterate with Fane saying, ‘The Veil is driving my kin mad. It must come down. It isn’t natural to them. They see this world and it is wrong to them; it is wrong to me.’ This ties back to my thoughts on Uthenera. Imagine waking up centuries later to a world that was not what you fell asleep to. Imagine the sky feeling different, feeling like a wall rather than a clear expanse and not knowing why or how. Imagine seeing familiarity in everything, but it still feeling foreign because it is. Imagine not hearing or smelling your brethren, your kin, your people, when they were otherwise rulers of the skies. This exact thing is what happens to Solas; everything he wakes up to is not the world he knew and loved. And I believe the same thing happens with dragons who’ve been asleep for just as long, if not longer. 

They awaken to a world that doesn’t feel right, doesn’t feel like home. So, the ‘mindless’ destruction of settlements where they used to have a lair, the constant ‘ravaging’ of livestock where there used to be plains of game for easy picking? It’s all in an attempt to try and fix what feels so wrong. After all, would you be sane if you woke up in a place you were unfamiliar with, if all you ever knew was gone and destroyed by something you could only feel, but couldn’t see? I think dragons are more sentient than we’ve seen thus far, and they can feel emotions. Fear, despair, anger, happiness; I think they can feel it all. And to have your home torn to shreds, to have the world crumbling around you when it otherwise sang with life, to have pitchfork and boulders thrown at you because of ignorance and misconceptions, to see none of your people among the masses of snarls of disgust or eyes of fear of creatures you don’t recognize. That would induce madness, insanity so deep, so potent, so destructive that it would cause any being to lash out, to try and correct what was wrong, even though they knew they shouldn’t. Again, these are just my thoughts based on how I observe dragon movements in games and patterns they have, but I feel like something is missing. Dragons are more than just a fun boss battle or an inclusion for world building.

Mainly because dragons in Dragon Age appear in almost every ancient civilization. Tevinter with the Old Gods, who were represented by dragons. The Elvhen (basing this off the theory about the Forgotten Ones), who believed taking the form of a dragon was only reserved for divinity, and thus anyone that took that form without ‘inherent’ permission was considered reviled, to be forgotten. It’s a stretch, I know, but what if dragons were the first right along with the Elvhen? What if they were actual guardians of the world like how I depict in my stories, tasked with perserving and observing the creatures that had been wrought? 

Obviously, I’m leaving a lot out from the comics and whatnot, but from what I’ve read, those have some fascinating depictions and actual scenes where dragons are more than just mindless creatures fueled by lone instinct and primal surges. 

BIOWARE. I NEED ANSWERS. TELL ME I’M NOT MAD. 

Anyways, thank you for crinkling the tin foil with me! It’s a little scattered and sloppy, but percolating thoughts must be brewed! >:D

[wootensmith]

Vir’abelasan

The hall had extensive damage. A long gash that split the room and small fires scattered throughout spoke of the battles that had only just finished. Samson still stood above them, barking orders to his red templars. He leapt into the hole and the Inquisitor cried out in frustration. “Inquisitor, barrier,” shouted Dorian, chasing after her as she rushed toward the hole. Vivienne’s spirit blade flashed and spun. Solas had his own templars to deal with. The room was cluttered with rubble, the roof long since tumbled into great boulders. They were easily thrown. He couldn’t help a slight surge of excitement as a broken column slammed into three men and crushed them beneath it, their armor cracking and snapping under the weight. He was much stronger than he’d been just a month or two before. Perhaps it was being here. He flicked his hand and chunk of tile shattered, shrapnel slicing through steel helmets. The temple fell silent again. 

The Inquisitor looked around for more foes. “Hurry,” she said on seeing they were alone, “we may still catch them.” She ran to the edge of the broken floor. “Hold a moment,” cried Morrigan. Solas bristled as she held out a hand to stop the Inquisitor. “While they rush ahead, the petitioner’s path leads to our true destination. We should follow it.” “Our true destination is stopping Corypheus, Morrigan,” said the Inquisitor. “Precisely. Samson is a distraction. Corypheus doesn’t care about him. Or us. He wants the Well. We should follow the path.” One of Vivienne’s perfect eyebrows lifted in disdain. “Lady Morrigan was wrong about Corypheus seeking an eluvian. Do we trust her now? Consider, Inquisitor, while we dally with rituals, Inquisition soldiers are dying outside. This is the swifter way.” Solas sighed. “In this case, I must agree with the witch. This is ancient ground, deserving of our respect.” Dorian cleared his throat and nudged Solas with his elbow. “Sweetness entices. Play nice,” he murmured behind his hand, pretending to smooth his mustache. But Morrigan ignored them anyway. “Yes, there is urgency, but we cannot reach the Well unprepared. They are trying to lead us away. That door is the one that will lead to their goal.” “Their goal, or yours?” asked the Inquisitor. Morrigan led her swiftly away. Solas felt a prickle of unease. “Out with it, Solas,” said Dorian as soon as they were out of earshot. “What is this thing?” “In truth, I do not know,” he said, unwilling to turn his eyes from the Inquisitor. “You know something,” said Vivienne, “that much is clear.” “I know that whatever it is, it binds the person that takes it to the will of Mythal,” he answered. “If the opportunity is offered, I would not take it. Whatever the power that might be gained.” “Why is that?” asked Vivienne. “Because your deeds and thoughts would no longer be your own. Under the guise of great power you would be utterly enslaved.” Dorian shuddered. “Why in heavens does Morrigan want it?” “I am uncertain. Perhaps she does not understand. Perhaps, like Corypheus, she believes she can overcome the binding and bend it to her will. I think it more likely that she simply doesn’t believe in Mythal.” “Do you?” asked Vivienne, and he did turn then, to meet the Enchanter’s steady gaze. “Yes,” he said evenly. “Otherwise I would have agreed with you, that leaping down is the better way. I did not say otherwise to spite you.” There was no time for more. The Inquisitor looked deeply unsettled. “We will follow the path. But I need your minds, I wish to move as quickly as we can.” She touched his arm. “I wish we had more time,” she said. “As do I. The cost is too great to linger.” He glanced at the pit. “But the cost of being overly hasty would ruin us all.” The only person who seemed pleased at the prospect was Dorian. But Solas could hardly begrudge him. The puzzles were quickly solved and any other time he would have delighted in walking the meditation gardens of Arlathan with him just to watch his mind working several steps ahead of them. But he could see the imagined casualties piling up in the Inquisitor’s mind with every passing moment and what ought to have been soothing and clarifying was instead panicked. She had opened the unlocked doors with an audible sigh of relief, while Solas felt his heart squeeze painfully, every step closer to the end. Closer to abandoning her to an eternity of madness and blight. Terror and sorrow distracted him, made him forget everything but her and his frantic thoughts of how to save her. So it was the Inquisitor who first realized that they were not alone. “We’re being watched,” she murmured as they approached Mythal’s altar, empty now, where the throne had been. She froze as a man appeared above them, coolly pacing. He stopped to stare at them. “You are unlike the other invaders.” He bent slightly toward them, intent on the Inquisitor. “You have the features of those who call themselves Elvhen.” Solas heard the insult in that, saw the Inquisitor’s shoulders tighten as if she’d been struck. He moved closer, coming to stand beside her. The man did not miss his signal. “You bear the mark of magic, which is familiar.” His gaze shifted to Solas. “How has this come to pass?” he asked. Solas was certain it was not the Inquisitor he was speaking to. “What is your connection to those who first disturbed our slumber?” “We have come to stop them. They mean to take what you shield,” said the Inquisitor. “If they gain it—” “They will not,” the man said abruptly. “No,” she agreed, “I will not allow that to happen.” The man thought for a moment, seemed to accept her answer. “I am called Abelas,” he offered, “We are sentinels, tasked with standing against those who trespass on sacred ground. We wake only to fight, to preserve this place. Our numbers diminish with each invasion.” That was how then. They had entered uthenera just as he had, that was how they persisted all those years, made the temple a place of fear, a place to be avoided. “I’m sorry,” said the Inquisitor, her breath catching. “It is not your doing,” said Abelas. Again his eyes rested on Solas and then away. “I know what you seek. Like all who have come before, you wish to drink form the Vir’abelasan. It is not for you. It is not for any of you.” “You’re— you’re ancient elves?” asked Dorian. “From before the Imperium destroyed Arlathan?” Abelas shook his head. “It was not the Shemlen who destroyed Arlathan. We warred upon ourselves. By the time the doors to this sanctuary closed, our time was over.” “What? But that’s—” “It is a strange thing, to awaken and find the stories shift and twist, to find the world stranger and more foreign each time. Still, we endure. The Vir’abelasan must be preserved.” “We do not wish to disturb it, only to stop those who have invaded,” said the Inquisitor. Abelas stood long in thought. “I believe you,” he said at last. “You have followed the rites of petition and shown respect for Mythal. If these others are enemies of yours, we will aid you in destroying them. When this is done, you shall be permitted to depart and never return.” He saw the blow hit her, the sharp exclusion and denial. “I know it is harsh, Vhenan, but this is our goal is it not? We have no reason to fight these sentinels,” he said quietly. Morrigan shook her head. “Consider carefully. You must stop Corypheus, yes, but you may also need the Well for your own,” she whispered. She did not know that Abelas could hear. Solas did. “I am no thief,” said the Inquisitor. “This Well is not ours. This place is not ours. They do not claim us as kin, we have no right to it. Not even to stop Corypheus.” “That is short sighted, Inquisitor. Would you allow the world to be destroyed for a principle?” “It is all that distinguishes us from Corypheus.” She turned to Abelas and Solas knew she was stronger than he’d ever been. “I accept your offer,” she said. “You will be guided to those you seek.” He turned to Morrigan. “As to the Vir’abelasan, it shall not be despoiled, even if I must destroy it myself.” Morrigan cried out and shifted into a raven, chasing after Abelas though the Inquisitor called for her to stop. “We must hurry,” she said, “We cannot break our promises.” But the elf that led them was terribly slow. He had not expected the elves to age. Had she been left to keep watch for centuries and the years caught up with her at last? Or had she belonged to one of the clans that Abelas was so disdainful of? She hobbled up the stairs. The Inquisitor jumped as something bashed the stout door at the top. “Fighting,” she cried, “We have to help them—” “No, sorora,” said Dorian, gently pushing her staff down. “We can help them most by stopping Corypheus.” “Our soldiers fight to give us a chance,” said Vivienne, tucking the tear in the Inquisitor’s robe back for the sixth time. “The elves too. We must honor that.” She squeezed Lavellan’s shoulder. “Your decency has led us so far, darling. Trust ours to bring you the rest of the way.” The Inquisitor nodded. Solas took her hand and pulled her away. The guide opened a passage in the wall. For a moment they could see the sentinels battling behind an elaborate grate, but he pushed her gently from it. “Let them do as they must, my love,” he said. She turned and gasped in wonder at the untouched beauty of the inner temple. Mosaics in gold and precious stones towered above them and large offerings of vast wealth lay at the feet of statues. She had eyes only for the intricate portrayal of Mythal. She brushed her fingertips over it. “There is so much we could know, if only—” she shook her head and blinked back tears. “I will bring you here in dreams,” he promised quietly. The guide turned back and looked at her intently. She reached a withered hand to the Inquisitor’s face, tracing the vallaslin. “Dirth ash or em’an,” she said at last. “Vin,” said Solas. The Inquisitor touched her own face, confused, but the guide scurried on. The sounds of battle swelled and receded as they passed large galleries and courtyards, climbed long flights of stairs past the cells of the faithful. Solas could not stop himself from wondering at each turn if they had reached the spot where Mythal had died. If her enemies had penetrated this far to harm her, or if she’d met them in the courtyard to protect her people. He had never once tried to find the memory in the Fade, had never wanted to see it. But now— he thought, perhaps, his imaginings might be worse than knowing. The guide opened a final door at last and bowed before dissolving in a puff of smoke. “I take it that means we’re here then,” said Dorian. The sound of fighting rose from the bottom of the stairs ahead. “Fight on, an army of these bastards won’t stop us!” Samson’s voice rose up above the fray. The Inquisitor ran forward. “The runes, Inquisitor,” called Dorian, “Don’t forget the runes. It should weaken their armor.” She looked back and nodded. Solas checked his own, passing a hand over it to charge the deep ruby shard. The sentinels were falling one after another, coming to the ends of their long lives on the blades of corrupted templars. Mythal’s defeat was almost total, the thing she strove to destroy returning to slay her own people at last. Hope remains, he told himself, even if it is only in another world. The Inquisitor sprinted toward them, but she was too late. Samson turned to her with a sneer, not even bothering to wipe the blood from his blade. “Inquisitor. You don’t know when to stop. You’ve hunted us across Thedas. I should have guessed you’d follow us into this— hole.” Solas felt a hot surge of anger leave a bitter burn in his throat. But the Inquisitor was kind, even in this. “I spoke with Maddox. I would have spared him— but I was too late. The poison had already done its work. I’m sorry. He is interred in Skyhold along with everyone who has fallen in this awful war. It’s not too late, Samson. You don’t have to do this—” “Corypheus chose me twice. First as his general, now as his vessel for the Well of Sorrows.” “You don’t know what it is,” said Solas. “It will take your mind long before Corypheus does. It is enslavement—” “No,” barked Samson, “It is power. And wisdom. And I give it to Corypheus so he can walk into the Fade without your precious anchor and make this world anew.” “And then?” asked Dorian. “He doesn’t care for you. You’re just the cup, easily dashed against the stones when you are empty.” “You know nothing of Corypheus. You are no match for him.” “Neither are you,” said Vivienne. “When he has taken the Well, you and your soldiers will only be a hindrance to him. Mouths to feed and feet to shod. He will not want to play nursemaid to an army of lyrium crazed templars. You were sharp once, Samson. Think like a general. What could you possibly offer him once he is a god?” “Worship. And a hand to smite down the doubters.” Samson grinned and a pulse of red flowed from him. “Now, Inquisitor, channel the rune,” cried Dorian already casting. Solas bent his focus through the rune. There was an intense cracking sound and Samson fell to his knees. “What did you do?” he cried, even as the lyrium began to slough off his armor in thin shards. “My lyrium— kill them all!” he snarled. “Out of the water,” warned the Inquisitor, arcs of lightning already leaping from her fingertips, crackling through the water. It sent up plumes of steam and anguished cries from the other end of the pool. “Barrier,” Dorian sighed, even as it snapped up around them. “What would I do without you?” asked the Inquisitor. “Most likely get repeatedly bashed with pointy objects,” he said, sending one of the templars screaming in terror. Vivienne cried out, “I can’t do this alone!” Solas turned. Samson was closing in on her, walking through Vivienne’s fireballs as if they were smoke. He fade-stepped to her. He wrenched a boulder from the edge of the pool and sent it crashing into Samson. The templar stumbled, but rose too quickly. “Void take it,” muttered Solas, sending ice to slow him. Samson shattered it with a tinkling rattle. “It’s the armor,” shouted Dorian as he ran toward them. “Use the rune again.” There was a clang over his head as Vivienne’s spirit sword stopped Samson from cleaving him in two. “Ma serannas,” he said, focusing again on the rune. The bloody glow drained from Samson and a sizzle of lightning crept up his armor, leaving him jittering in its thin, crooked fingers. The lightning faded and Samson collapsed. “Those were my men,” he sobbed. “You ruined them all. You can’t take the Well from Corypheus.” Vivienne sighed. “What’s to be done with him? He’s a wreck of a man. Even if there were some chance of weaning him from the lyrium— his mind has long since been broken.” “All the more reason for kindness,” said the Inquisitor. “We’ll take him with us to Skyhold. Figure out what’s to be done with him after that.” Solas shuddered at the idea of having him so close to her, but he picked the man up. Abelas raced by them, his fingers flashing to reveal a stone stair. A raven followed close behind. “Morrigan,” said the Inquisitor. “We have to stop her.” “Perhaps we should let the elves destroy the Well,” said Vivienne. “It would stop both Corypheus and Morrigan and leave these people in peace.” “The Well is their entire purpose now,” said Solas. “I fear without it, they will fade away completely.” He pulled Samson up the steps along with them. A shallow pool of clear water stretched toward the eluvian at the top. “The Well of Sorrows,” gasped Samson. Dorian cast a holding spell to keep him from leaping for it. A swirl of purple burst from the tile and Morrigan rose from it. Abelas came to a halt just before her. “Stop, Morrigan,” called the Inquisitor. “You heard his parting words,” she answered, “the elf seeks to destroy the Well of Sorrows.” “He’s trying to protect it. Isn’t that what you said you wanted? To protect the wonders of the world?” “She lied, my dear,” said Vivienne. “She only wants it for herself.” Abelas sagged. “So the sanctum is despoiled at last.” There was a deep longing in his voice that cut into Solas. “You would have destroyed it yourself, given the chance,” sneered Morrigan. “To keep it from your grasping fingers,” he snapped. “Better it be lost than bestowed upon the undeserving.” “Fool. You’d let your people’s legacy rot in the shadows?” “Enough!” cried the Inquisitor. “We are not here to rob anyone. Samson is defeated. Corypheus has no way to take it now.” “As soon as we leave, he will just send another! The sentinels are dwindling, they said it themselves. How many more attacks can this place stand? Or will the Inquisition take the sentinels’ place? You are not immortal, Inquisitor.” “How well I know,” she said quietly, rubbing the anchor. “The Well clearly offers power,” continued Morrigan, “If that power can be turned against Corypheus, can you afford not to use it?” The Inquisitor closed her eyes. Solas felt the weight of the choice. It was a poor one, each path costing too much. Abelas shook his head. “You don’t even know what you ask,” he said. “As each servant of Mythal reached the end of their years, they would pass their knowledge on, through this. All that we were— all that we knew, it would be lost forever.” “Look at us!” cried the Inquisitor, “We’re already lost. Less and less every season. Clinging to a handful of fragments and—” she looked suddenly at Solas. “And lies. You mock us, but we’re what remains. If you would see your people return to what they were, then you must help us. We cannot know what you will not share.” “I know.” “Then why do you remain?” asked Morrigan, “Why perform a duty without purpose?” Abelas was silent with despair. “There are other places, friend. Other duties. Your people yet linger,” offered Solas. Abelas looked at him a long moment. “Elvhen such as you?” he asked. Solas stepped toward the Inquisitor. He knew what he said next would hurt her. He wished that it would not. “Yes, such as I.” He curled his fingers around hers, pressing them gently. Abelas caught the gesture even more than the words. He was silent a long moment, considering her, this strange mortal that he would never know as Solas did, assuming all the wrongs that Solas had. “You have shown respect to Mythal. There is a righteousness in you that I cannot deny,” he said to the Inquisitor. Her hand was still tight in Solas’s grasp and he knew the sting wasn’t lessened by Abelas’s words. “Is that your desire? To partake of the Vir’abelasan as best you can, to fight your enemy?” “I never desired any of this. I have no wish to destroy the Well, nor take its power.” “And yet,” said Abelas, resting a heavy gauntlet on her shoulder, “You are here. A sentinel even so.” A sad smile touched his lips. “No boon comes without cost, lethallan,” he added. She raised the anchor and it glittered, a star in the reflection of the water. “I know,” she said. Abelas nodded. He glanced at Solas, who remained still. “And do you know with whom you walk?” he asked. “I do,” she said. “That is good. One more thing I will tell you. The Vir’abelasan may be too much for a mortal to comprehend. It is no fault of yours. Brave it if you must, but know this: You shall be bound forever to the will of Mythal.” “Bound to the will of a goddess who no longer exists, if she ever did?” scoffed Morrigan. Abelas paled with anger. Solas could feel it pulse from him. But his voice remained calm. “Bound as we are bound. The choice is yours.” “Does Mythal live? What happened to her?” asked the Inquisitor. “Elvhen legend states that she was tricked by Fen’harel and banished to the Beyond,” said Morrigan. Abelas’s gaze flicked back to Solas and then quickly away again. “Elvhen legend is wrong. The Dread Wolf had nothing to do with her murder.” The Inquisitor’s hand tightened over his. She turned to him as Morrigan let out a startled cry. “Ir abelas,” she whispered. “She was slain, if a god truly can be. Here, on the steps of her temple,” said Abelas, “betrayed by her own. Yet the Vir’abelasan remains.” He turned back to Solas. “As do we. That is something.” “What will you do now?” asked the Inquisitor. “Do you need aid?” “No Inquisitor, we will leave the temple. Our duty is fulfilled.” “There is a place for you lethallin, if you seek it,” said Solas his fingers twisting to lay the spell. “Perhaps there are places the Shemlen have not yet touched,” said Abelas, “Or it may be that only uthenera awaits us. The blissful sleep of eternity, if fate is kind.” “You cannot,” said Dorian. “The Imperium went to great lengths to expunge elven history. You might be the last who know the truth.” Abelas shook his head. “Would anyone listen to the truth?” “They might,” said Dorian, “Would it hurt to try?” “Yes,” answered Solas for him. “I do not know what the few who remain will decide. Perhaps they will try to reach the elves of your time. For myself— I wish to see what remains.” “Malas amelin ne halam, Abelas,” said Solas as he turned to go. Abelas inclined his head slightly and then was gone. “What was that about?” asked Dorian. “His name, Abelas, means ‘sorrow’. I said I hope he finds a new one.” “Can we do nothing?” asked the Inquisitor. “We can save the world, darling,” said Vivienne, “and make sure their sacrifice has meaning.” Morrigan turned to look at the well. She waved a hand at the eluvian that sat on the far side. “You’ll note the intact eluvian. I was right about that at least.” She glared at Vivienne. “I believe the Well is the key to it. If we take it, it will be of no use to Corypheus.” She stared at the water. “I did not expect it to feel so— hungry.” “Power never comes freely,” warned the Inquisitor. “I am willing to pay the price the Well commands. I am also the best suited to use the knowledge the Well bestows in your service.” “But would it be? In the Inquisition’s service? Or would it be in your own?” asked Vivienne. “Consider, Inquisitor, she has not told us what she means to do with it. She might be worse than Corypheus.” Morrigan scowled. “Corypheus is on his way, right now, Inquisitor. Will you paralyze yourself for fear of what might be? I have nothing to give except my word, but that I give to you gladly.” “You are too eager. You do not take this to aid the Inquisitor, but for your own ends,” said Solas. “What do you know of my ends, elf?” she spat. “You are a glutton drooling at the sight of a feast. You cannot be trusted—” “Solas,” said the Inquisitor gently, “Morrigan has done nothing to warrant our fears. Even now, she waits for a decision instead of snatching it away.” He subsided, still seething. “And if Mythal still lives?” asked the Inquisitor. “I am willing to risk that chance. Let me drink.” The Inquisitor stepped back. “Very well, Morrigan. It is yours.” Vivienne shook her head at Morrigan’s triumphant smile, but remained silent. Morrigan stepped into the pool, kneeling in the water. An enormous wave of power burst from the pool, washing over them and dissolving. When it was gone, the pool was empty except for Morrigan who lay unconscious in the middle. “Are you all right?” asked the Inquisitor helping her up. A stream of elvish came from Morrigan for a few seconds until she seemed to gather herself again. “I am intact,” she said at last. A dark swirling mist rose at their feet. Dorian jumped back with a cry. “It will not harm you,” said Solas. “It is the spirits departing. Their duty, too, is over.” “I’m sorry,” said the Inquisitor. “Do not be,” he answered with a smile. “They are free.” His smile faded. “But now the temple is defenseless. Nothing but a few doors stand in Corypheus’s way now.” Vivienne spun around. “He’s already here,” she cried, pointing as something dark swooped toward them. “The eluvian!” shouted Morrigan, opening it with a gesture. Dorian grabbed Samson by the collar and sprinted for the mirror. He leapt through and the others followed, tumbling to the stones of Skyhold’s chapel. Solas looked back and saw the eluvian slam shut just as Corypheus reached it. “Is everyone well?” The Inquisitor asked, pulling herself up. “I think so— but what of our friends? We’ve left them to Corypheus’s wrath at being thwarted,” said Dorian, yanking Samson to his feet. “Doubtful,” said Vivienne, brushing off dust. “He was willing to use another as a vessel. It may not be Samson, but there is still a vessel.” She watched Morrigan for a moment. “He won’t be wasting time with our forces, he’ll be heading here. Everything he wants is in this keep. The anchor, the Well and all who have resisted him.” “Well, we have a head start at least,” said Dorian as he guided Samson to the courtyard. “His forces are decimated. His general in our keeping. And he is leagues away without an eluvian to aid him.” “I should— apologies Inquisitor, I need to sift through all the voices—” muttered Morrigan. “Are you all right?” asked the Inquisitor. “Should I find a healer?” “No I—” “I will be happy to assist Lady Morrigan,” said Vivienne. It was clear that she did not offer out of affection, but Morrigan seemed too scattered to protest. They were alone. The Inquisitor had turned back to the eluvian, her fingers pressed against the cold glass. He shut the door to the courtyard. “The temple was extraordinary,” he said. “I thought it long ruined. I believed I would never stand at that altar again. Especially among those that once knew me.” “A thousand years of enduring and we swept in for a few hours and scattered it all. There are times I wonder if the Inquisition does more to destroy than it does to restore.” She watched him in the mirror, her back still toward him. “When I saw it last, the temple was not a place of sorrow. Mythal’s people did not serve her out of grief, but with joy. She would have been saddened to see what has become of them. The Well is powerful, but it is a dark power. One of vengeance and rage. It is gone because of the Inquisition, but is that an evil? Abelas cannot see it yet, but they are free. Their lives are their own once more.” He stepped up to the mirror, reached out to follow the lines of her vallaslin with his thumb. “A man does not throw off centuries of bondage in one moment, no matter how badly he may wish to. Someday, Abelas may find himself happier than he expects. The Inquisition is not perfect, Vhenan, and sometimes our only choices lead to tragedy. But that does not make them meaningless. What we did today— Mythal did not want her people to suffer. If she could speak to you, she would tell you that she was glad you had freed them from their service.” He dropped away from her. “And in return, you have gained the Well. What will you do with it once Corypheus is dead?” “I do not expect Morrigan will remain with the Inquisition once he is gone. I am not blind, Solas. She has her own motives. I must hope that she wishes to do good with it. She may— she may not have the nicety of others, but her actions have so far been kind and decent. I have no real reason to distrust her.” He thought for a moment. “You are right. She has not proven false, though her ideas are muddled with legend.” The Inquisitor laughed softly. “So are mine,” she said. He smiled. “Ah, but you are aware of it,” he answered, “and your tongue tells sweeter stories than hers.” She flushed. “What will you do with the Inquisition then? You have gathered a vast army of followers.” “If they choose to stay, there are many people whose call for aid goes unanswered. There are many to free and to feed and to defend. There is work enough to save the world. It will never be done. But it doesn’t always require an army.” He clasped his hands behind his back to hide that he was rubbing his knuckles nervously. “And if it goes badly? If you wake up one day and find the future that you shaped is worse than what was?” Her brow wrinkled in confusion. “Then I try again. What is the alternative? Doing nothing will not make things better.” She fell silent a moment, thinking. “You’re only responsible for the inches you are capable of, emma lath, not the miles left to go. You cannot save the world alone. And neither can I. But you aren’t alone. Not anymore.” “Thank you,” he said, meaning many things. “It is not something you need to thank me for,” she said. “You might have been so different. I wondered, those days before you woke— would you be cruel? Arrogant? Foolish? I did not dare hope you would be as you are. I am, indeed, grateful for you. I have— come with me, Vhenan.” He swept the eluvian open, Morrigan would be long occupied with the Well. She would never know he had used it. He held out his hand. “But Corypheus—” “Will be days behind us. We will return before anyone realizes we’ve gone.” She put her hand in his and he slid through the mirror.