#my new theory is that he decides to utilize red lyrium

[himluv]

At Any Cost

So, The Dread Wolf Rises teaser trailer launched, as we are all so aware, and I am deep in my feelings. So, here, have some Solavellan. Set Post-Trespasser/pre-DA4.

Solas stood beside a cracked eluvian and watched himself stride through the unnatural dark of the Crossroads. There were no stars in the place between the waking world and the Fade. No moon to guide him, only the faint blue glow from the few mirrors that still functioned.

Yet again, the Inquisitor’s attention to detail astounded him. His vhenan had always been a clever one. Cleverer than the humans gave her credit for. He would do well to remember that.

He watched this version of himself, her version, with a swirling mixture of awe and guilt. Even in her dreams she could not forget his face, could not be free of him. As he expected, she conjured him in his casual clothes, the ones he’d worn when he was nothing more than Solas, her companion, advisor, lover. And though he stepped through the shadows of her mind, his face was serene and free of doubt.

Would that he could feel a fraction of the surety she bestowed on him in her dreams. From her perspective he must seem incredibly confident, with his head high and his heart clear. But in the light of day Solas found his heart muddled and his shoulders weary from the burden of his choices. And he knew the worst were yet to come.

That was why he came here, why he intruded on her sleep. It was the only time he felt at peace. When he could watch her dreams and pretend that they were reality. Moments when they shared one another like an island, when the world was not a ruin of what it once was and there was no death and destruction to carry on his conscience.

But this dream was not so wholesome as some of the others had been.

He heard the whimpers before his doppleganger did and his heart sank. Another nightmare. She’d had more of them in recent weeks and he wondered what challenges by day were so daunting as to seep into her dreams. But, again, his vhenan was clever. She had disbanded the Inquisition, knowing he had eyes and ears in her ranks. She would rather cripple his intelligence network than hoard her own strength. In another time, a decision like that would inspire him to recruit her to his cause.

But he could not allow that, not when he walked the Dinan’shiral.

Solas weaved through the eluvians, following the specter of himself as it marched toward the center of the Crossroads. It was there that they found her, sitting with her back against a stone wolf as she cried into her knees. She looked so small next to the statue of Fen’Harel, fragile and so painfully mortal that his heart clenched in his chest.

His image knelt before her. “Why do you cry, da’len?”

She looked up from her knees and blinked. “Solas?” Her wide green eyes searched over him, noting his clothing and the open warmth of his face. Her own hope faded from her eyes as she realized he was nothing more than an element of her dream.

He hadn’t referred to her as da’len in years. How could he think of her as a child after all she’d endured? After all that he had foisted upon her shoulders?

Her Solas reached out and cupped her face in one hand. The scene sent an aching lance of longing through him, the pain as real as any he’d endured on the field of battle. That was the nature of the Fade; emotions were real in the land of dreams.

“I miss you,” she whispered, the words pummeling him like Andruil’s arrows. Her chin quivered, but she did not permit the tears to fall. She was so strong, even in her sleep. “And I am afraid.”

The fabricated Solas tilted his head. “What is there to fear?” He glanced up at the giant statue behind her and smirked. “The Dread Wolf?”

She closed her eyes against his words, and a single tear trickled down her freckled cheek. “I fear what Fen’Harel has done,” she said. “I fear what he will do.” She took a long shuddering breath. “And I fear that I cannot save him.”

He could not look away. He could not free himself from the torment of her expression; the hard press of her lips, the fine wrinkles that had started to appear at the corners of her eyes, or the gouge between her brows as she frowned. He had earned each of these details, each memory was his to carry as a testament to the wounds he’d caused, yet again.

“So much fear, da’len,” the specter said. But the voice was wrong, thick and raspy, multilayered and dripping with venom he had never once felt for her. It drew his attention from his vhenan to find her nightmares manifested in his image.

The illusion of Solas still knelt before her, still held her face in its hand, but now it wore his armor, shining gold and draped in pelts. Its eyes were red and glowing and its skin was veined in pulsing red light. Black mist swirled around the figure to coalesce into a towering shadow-wolf with six, burning red eyes.

She tried to pull away, to flinch back from the Dread Wolf, but he held her in place with a firm grip on her jaw. She whimpered at the force of his fingers on her chin, where they’d dug into her soft flesh.

His red lyrium corrupted self smiled at her. “And you are right to be afraid. I will restore my People, at any cost. I will burn this world to ashes if I must.”

At those words flames leapt into being throughout the Crossroads, licking up the barren trees in a mockery of autumn leaves. The eluvians flickered out, one by one, until the fire claimed them too, melting them down to little more than reflective puddles.

His heart twisted in his chest. This was wrong, everything about this image was wrong. He didn’t want this, not fire and fury. This tainted version of their last meeting, down on bended knee, her face in his hands. But he had told her the truth the last time he’d seen her, given her as much honesty as he could afford to. And now it was his words that haunted her dreams.

The black, amorphous wolf opened its jaws and growled, the sound rumbling through the Crossroads like an earthquake.

“This isn’t real,” she said. “You aren’t him.” She grimaced as the specter’s grip on her jaw tightened. “He’ll find another way!” She still believed in him, after all this time. Still had hope that he would find some way to preserve her world while restoring his.

Solas circled around the pair, passing unseen behind the statue of the Dread Wolf. The glowing red eyes in the face like his never looked up from his vhenan, and yet he felt as if they followed him.

And for the first time, he thought that maybe there was a route he had not considered. An option so abhorrent to him he had not even fathomed its existence. Perhaps there was another way, though he doubted she would like it any better.

He stepped out from behind the statue and waved a hand at the nightmarish version of himself. “Begone!”

Instantly the scene changed. The fires were gone, the sun was up, and the trees had healthy, bright green leaves. In the Fade it was a simple thing to restore the Crossroads to what they once were. There was no Dread Wolf, no red lyrium corrupted Solas to taunt her, there was only him, Fen’Harel, a cool breeze, and his vhenan.

She blinked up at him, the sunlight glinting off his armor. “Solas?”

He said nothing. It would be best if she could believe this was just another aspect of her dream. But that was just wishful thinking on his part.

His vhenan was far too clever for that.

So, he met her gaze and let her look upon him for a long moment. He enjoyed the opportunity to do so in kind. But, before long the awe and shock of the moment had passed and he could see the questions boiling over in her eyes.

He took one step toward her, all he could allow himself, and said, “Vhenan. I think it’s time we wake up.”

The Crossroads vanished, replaced with the dull nothing of his closed eyelids. It’d been a long time since he’d startled awake, but the pounding of his heart in his chest was close enough. Her dream had rattled him. And inspired him.

There might be another way. In the end, the outcome for him would be the same. He still walked the Din’anshiral. He would still sacrifice everything to right his wrongs. But maybe…

Maybe she wouldn’t have to. And that was reason enough to try.

Solas stood from the settee, oblivious to the heat of the night, and scoured the overflowing bookshelves behind the large desk. He found the book half-buried under a stack of scrolls from his spies in Orlais, its leather cover emblazoned with the cage-like emblem of Kirkwall.

He ran his hand over the symbol, and then settled down at his desk to read. If there was any clue where to start his search of the Deep Roads, it was within the pages of The Champion of Kirkwall. And if that search proved fruitful…

Then maybe he could save her after all.

[wootensmith]

Veilfire Leaf: Throne

I should be finishing a novel. But it was my birthday and I wanted to write something less stressful. So. Have some procrastination.

It shocked him, how much the kiss changed things. Changed him. His first inclination had been to flee. Completely irrational, he’d told himself. And the Inquisitor had been as good as her word. There’d been no pressure, no sly attempt to persuade him. Neither did she avoid him, seeking him out as often as ever while the Inquisition slowly settled into routine. He couldn’t decide whether it was a relief or a disappointment. Her calm, steady friendship made it difficult not to chase her, not to long for more of what he’d so briefly felt in the Fade. Every time he’d convinced himself that it was for the best, that the whole thing had been only the impulse of two people under enormous pressure to have someone who understood— he’d hear her laughing with Varric or catch sight of her face in deep thought as she and Dorian analyzed Alexius’s amulet. And he’d have to start the argument with himself all over again. But the doubt was the worst aspect. The idea that perhaps she regretted it. That the reason she was giving him space was that she wished to forget the entire event. It ached, that thought. And he pulled it up whenever he was thinking of pursuing, of telling her he’d been a fool, that he could no longer concentrate on his work, or follow the conversations of the others for long— that he’d stopped sleeping because of her.

Ridiculous, impossible, he kept telling himself, she does not see you that way. And for that you should be deeply grateful. But the arguments were rapidly losing their effectiveness. And the last thing he felt was grateful. So he found reasons to pull away from her. To be where she wasn’t. It was easier that way, just avoid the entire mess. Just be— elsewhere when she happened by. The basement library was chilly and dusty. The scrolls there were esoteric, far afield from what he currently needed. But he was— safe from himself there. Few knew he was down there. He was not especially secretive, but it was out of the common route to anywhere and only Skyhold’s book keeper occasionally ventured down to look for something specific.

So he was startled when Josephine came looking for him there one morning. The door swung open rapidly and she peered into the dimly lit room. “Ah, Master Solas,” she said, stepping in and smoothing her blouse. “I’m so sorry to disturb you.” He put down the book he’d been struggling through. “Not at all, Ambassador. What can I do for you?” “It’s— the Inquisitor. She is unhappy with the choice of decor in the throne room. I was wondering if you could— speak with her?” “The decor? I’m hardly—” “I wouldn’t trouble you,” Josephine interrupted quickly, “but you were so helpful convincing her that she should accept the tower room, and we have a delegation from Redcliffe arriving shortly to see the Inquisitor’s judgment of Alexius. I think things would go more smoothly if they could see the Inquisition as a well-functioning, professional organization. Including the Hold.” “Ah,” he breathed, standing up. “It is not the style that concerns you.” “No. Rather— the need for a clear leader. There are good reasons we employ symbols to convey that.” She wrung her hands as if Solas were the one arguing with her. “Then why not explain that to the Inquisitor? She has always been reasonable about accepting your recommendations before.” “Yes. I have found her most accommodating. So much so, that if it were at all possible to yield on the issue of a throne to her, I would gladly do so. But this delegation is likely to lend support that we desperately need, provided they are— satisfied.” A throne. He had a flash of sympathy for the Inquisitor. “Why is it you think that I will succeed where others have not? I have no better argument for submitting than you.” Josephine blushed. “I think— it is not a different argument I was looking for.” Oh. “And Cole suggested you might know better how to— ease her concerns,” she added quickly. “I gather it has more to do with— your— her history than the actual chair. I find myself at a loss. And I doubt that Sera would take the appropriate tack.” “I see,” he said, amending his original suspicion. She wanted him to persuade the Inquisitor, not because she believed he held some sort of romantic influence over her, but because they were both elves. He was uncertain whether to feel insulted and relieved or just disappointed. “I’ll speak with her. Her choice is her own, but I will try to find out why she finds this particular piece uncomfortable.” “Thank you,” sighed Josephine, “that’s all that I can ask.”

He followed her out of the library and up the stairs. Gatsi watched intently as several men hoisted the large, garish chair into the center of the dais and several others swept a long carpet that ran the length of the room. Varric caught his eye as they passed. He pointed up to the balcony without saying anything. Solas glanced up. The Inquisitor leaned against the railing and stared at the throne while Vivienne stood beside her, speaking quietly. Her expression was not the defiant one he’d expected, but something sad. Resigned. Josephine stopped to survey the installation and Solas continued on. “— like a performance, my dear. It gives people— faith in the Inquisition. It’s not— just or fair, darling. They should trust you because of what you’ve done for them. But you and I are women of the world. We both know it doesn’t work that way, no matter how we try to make it so.” Vivienne patted the Inquisitor’s shoulder. “Think of it as a costume. Slip it on when necessary and then—” She waved a graceful hand. “Discard it for a better fitting one when the task is done, hmm?” “I know you’re right,” said the Inquisitor, still staring at the throne as cleaners polished the fringe of spears that jutted from it. “But I— am not what you want me to be.” “No, my dear, you are infinitely more. Never doubt that.” Vivienne turned slightly to see Solas standing behind them. “Ah, but I think Master Solas would like a word. We can finish this another time.” The Inquisitor straightened and turned toward him. “Good afternoon, lethallan,” he said. “I thought we might— discuss the appearance of red lyrium at the temple.” “Of course,” she said, obviously confused. He nodded and led her out onto the damp, breezy battlements. He found a small corner partly shielded from the wind.

“You have a new theory about the lyrium?” she asked. “No,” he admitted. “You looked troubled. I thought a little bit of peace away from the prodding might help.” She smiled and he knew it would leave him sleepless and battling his own emotions again later. “Thank you,” she said. “But I doubt Josephine sent you to give me any peace. She’s tried to utilize every one of my vulnerabilities to get me to accept that throne. I can’t imagine she’d just leave my biggest weak spot out of it.” “Vivienne is persuasive. She can be quite charming. If I’d known you were that troubled by it, I would have interrupted sooner—” he stopped as she abruptly laughed. “I wasn’t speaking of Vivienne. I agree, she’s very charming, but she’s not exactly a weak spot. I meant you. I know Josephine got you to corner me in order to convince me that I need that horrid chair.” “Ah. Yes. Well, I told her I would speak to you but I don’t mean to influence you either way.” His face was hot even in the raw cold of the battlements. “Go on then, have your turn. You’re the last one. Except Cole. But I don’t think he’ll try.” She leaned against the wall, waiting. “As I said, I have no desire to convince you against your will. I only wished to know what was troubling you about the throne. I cannot imagine you falling prey to some sort of false modesty. We agreed about what was necessary back— back in the mountains.” She shook her head with a half smile. “I know how to appear a warrior saint even when I am nothing close. And the others have all tried flattery already. I hope you will not try it too. I want—” she stopped, the smile falling away. “I want to believe you are sincere, however you may see me.” The note of doubt in her voice did nothing to help him fight the urge to touch her, to tell her gentle lies about the future, to forget his arguments with himself. He let the comment go, unsure how to answer it.

“Is it the pressure? You seem to have become accustomed to so many looking to you for answers. You have many friends who will aid you if you become overwhelmed.” “It isn’t that. Not exactly. I don’t look forward to judging others, but I am not unprepared for it. My time as a First has made me fit for the task. But this is perilous.” She lowered her voice to a harsh whisper, leaning close to him, her face wan and panicked beneath the vallaslin. “I know what we have to do. Why we have to— exist within the Chantry. I agreed to continue after the Breach was closed, because of— because of what we know about how Corypheus came to have such power. I agreed to take credit for this place because you thought it would give them confidence in us. I agreed to take the sword and the title that Cassandra thrust at me when we arrived because it was so clear that I do not have the training to wield either without help. I was a threat to no one. But no thrones. No crowns. No standing army. No permanence.” Her passion warmed her, brought a flush to her face. It startled him, but he could tell from the steadiness of her voice that this was no sudden anger, no irrational panic. It was long welling, deep and chilling. “I don’t understand. Why is this worse than the sword? What is it you fear?” “The sword is— expected. They remember how we fight. And even a common farmer has an old sword. None but slaves are prohibited from having them. But a throne— a throne is for someone with power. Someone dangerous. Someone equal to their nobility.” His fingers found hers before he could stop himself, gently urged her fist to loosen, to let him in. “Are you not all of these things? The Inquisition is growing. You have shown yourself to be deadly against those who would harm us. And I have no doubt you are a match for any of Thedas’s leaders.” “Perhaps,” she admitted. “But for how long? If we should fail, how long before the Inquisition deserts us? Even should we succeed and Corypheus fall— what then? A throne means there is a position to be held, whether I am here to hold it or not. Something to covet, to conquer. How long do you think the Shemlen will allow a Dalish elf to sit in judgment over one of their own? To hold a perfectly good keep with good land around it?” She flung a hand toward the keep. “That thing is an assassin’s mark. It is kindling for war.”

He frowned. It was hard to hold on to the fact that she’d sought none of this. That it was not her who had needed vast resources and strength to change the world, but him. Now that she had the chance though— “It is a tool, lethallan, that is all. It’s very permanence is part of the throne’s value. It means the Inquisition is stable, reliable. That we will follow through on our oaths. People see that and borrow the courage to throw their lot— and their assets in with our own. Our goals without that confidence would be much harder to achieve. And if you win them over through affection instead of fear in the meantime, what have you to fear when this is done?” “The world is not kind to us, Solas. There were others who tried to rule through love. I remember Lindiranae, even if the Chantry does not. I remember Shartan. And the Keepers of the Dales before Tevinter invaded. Every time one of us has attained power, we have been betrayed. Cast down by the very people we are now meant to be aiding.” “You are overwro—” “No. I am thinking clearly, Solas. I realize that the people in the Inquisition are our friends. I know we are among good people. They will not remain forever. That throne means that I likely must. And when you have all gone, when I’m at last allowed to send the soldiers home and the keep is empty— it will also likely mean my pyre. I agreed to risk my life against the larger threat to all of us. Not to be a martyr because some Bann got greedy.”

He wanted to soothe her. To lie. To pretend he could defend her when he knew it was likely he who would betray her first. I’ll take her with me. The thought was half-formed, almost invisible in the stream of ideas, but it snagged somewhere and shocked him. No. Shut this down now, before it can grow worse. The others are impractical. They think only of the immediate. She deserves— That too, was a dangerous idea. So he pushed it aside. “Falon,” he said instead, “The throne is not what will draw their eye. Nor even Skyhold. Alas, I cannot promise you will be safe from the Chantry. Or from others who want more power. You are right. For a time, while your army remains, while Corypheus still looms, they will try softer methods. Woo you, bribe you, flatter. And then, as the Inquisition fades, you must protect yourself. The throne, as you say, is something to conquer. It does not mean you cannot let them take it. Return to your clan and leave Skyhold to the wind and the weather until a new force finds it. I did not bring us here to shackle you. But— I fear that Skyhold is far less tempting than what you already carry.” He looked down at her hand, traced the anchor with his thumb. “It is too late, lethallan. You will be pursued until all trace of the anchor is gone.” “What do I do, Solas? If what you say is true, how can I return to my clan? I would be a constant danger to them. I—” He gripped her hand tightly to calm her. “We will find a way to remove it, when the task is done.” She shook her head in deep doubt. A wet breeze swirled through their small corner, carrying the heavy smell of damp smoke with it.

“Do you remember what you said to me in Haven? After I’d decided to stay, though it was at some risk. Do you recall telling me you would protect me?” “Of course,” she said. “However I had to.” “I wish that I could give you the same, lethallan. I wish—” he could not tell her what he truly wished for. Could not even tell himself. “I wish that I could tell you that even when this is over, I would remain to keep the Chantry at bay. That ‘however I had to’ was something I could promise. But that is beyond my power to keep.” “I understand,” she said sadly. “I don’t expect you to save me, Solas. It is not you I am frustrated with.” You don’t. You can’t understand. Not yet. He closed a hand around her shoulder. “I— was not finished. I will not promise ‘however I have to,’ but I am ready to help you however I can. Should we survive Corypheus, and should I remain unable to undo what has been done to you— I know of hidden places in the world, too. Places without thrones. Or crowns. Or armies. If you truly wish to, you can lay them aside. Live out the remainder of your days in peace.” The small muscle in the corner of her jaw pulsed as she considered, staring at the Keep under its grey, sullen sky. “Truly hidden places are rare, lethallin. Even for one who discovers them the way that you do. Why would you give one to me?” “Because you are my friend.” His hand slid over her warm cheek, trying to catch her gaze. “And because you are not something to conquer.” Her blood writing still warped around a troubled expression. So he added what he knew he should not. “Coveting though— I would not trust myself to answer.” She laughed, even as a deep blush rose beneath the vallaslin. “You are wise, my friend, to consider how you will live beyond the fate of the Inquisition. But— it is a chair. And a half crumbled building. Skyhold, the Inquisition, the throne are only as powerful as you allow them to be. Let them go when they no longer serve you. In the meantime— use them for good, or someone else will utilise them— and you, for their own purposes. I would not have trusted another with Skyhold, and you are far more important than the fortress.” “Because of this?” she spread her hand, the anchor reflecting a glow onto her face. “Despite it.” He watched her, knowing that others would lie and flatter, telling her the same yet not mean it. It was difficult to remember he’d been one of them. That she would grow jaded, tired of the obvious falseness. He wanted to give her more. Something to know it as true without them. Without him. You are not something to be conquered, he thought again.

“It could have been any of us or someone entirely different who received the anchor. How different our fates would have been had it not been you. I have told you so before. When you doubt—” he turned her hand over, dimming the light of the anchor, smoothing his thumb over the bare skin of her wrist. “Think of what another would have done. Had it been Cassandra— she’d have died trying to battle the demons alone. Had it been Varric, he might have run to keep the others safe. He would have died alone somewhere in the snow when Corypheus found him. Leliana might have hidden it until it was too late— suspicious of any who would help her learn to use it. Cullen would have gone directly to the templars and endured agonies to have it torn out. No other would have walked the path you have. It is a tool, as the throne is. As the sword is. You are— attractive because of the way you wield it, not because you possess it.” “And you?” she asked, tilting his face up to meet hers with her fingertips. “What would you have done with the anchor? How would you have wielded it?” His smile felt bitter and ancient, even to him. “With far less kindness. And several more failures, lethallan. The anchor and the throne are safest in your hands. I will help you keep them both for as long as I may.” She sighed, frowned down at the Keep. “Void take Josephine,” she muttered. “She knew I stood no chance once you tried your hand at persuading me.” He laughed softly. “To be fair, she was well on her way to convincing you before I got involved.” The Inquisitor flexed her hand, took a few steps away from him toward the Keep. She glanced back over her shoulder with an embarrassed smile. “She was farther than you think,” she called back to him. “Guess she decided to win me over through affection instead of fear.” She turned and left him on the battlements. He started his internal arguments anew.