#oc: isera lavellan

[vir-tanadahl]

Timeless

Summary: Isera Lavellan is living in modern Thedas completing her research on plants when her research takes her to a place in the Solasan Mountain range. The discovery of a strange glowing mirror takes her to a world she has never known before where she meets someone she never thought existed. (Find on Ao3) Fen'harel (Solas) x Lavellan

Chapter 21: Tension in the Breath

The evening's lessons concluded, but the itch to practice clung to Isera like a restless wind. The knowledge she had gained gnawed at the edges of her mind, urging her to try again—this time without Solas or Felassan watching. She slipped away to her private garden, the moonlight casting soft, silvery shadows over the flowers and herbs, the scent of lavender lingering in the cool night air.

Standing in the center of the garden, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the quiet hum of nature calm her nerves. With a steady breath, she summoned the magic, feeling it gather in her core. Her hands moved instinctively, and a shimmering barrier began to form around her—a bubble of translucent energy that flexed gently with her movements.

Her heart swelled at the small success. It wasn’t perfect, but it held.

Encouraged, Isera narrowed her focus, trying to increase the tempo like she’d seen Solas do. The magic pulsed under her fingertips, responsive and eager—but as she pushed faster, the rhythm slipped. The barrier flickered, then wobbled unevenly, energy spiraling out of sync.

Before she could catch it, the spell unraveled with a sharp crack, arcs of unstable magic scattering in jagged bursts. Isera yelped and stumbled back as the remnants fizzled out around her, the force rattling the garden leaves and sending a pot of herbs tumbling off its shelf.

She exhaled hard, raking her hands through her hair, fingers knotting briefly in frustration. The embarrassment stung, even though there was no one to witness her failure. Why can’t I get this right? she thought bitterly. It had seemed so simple when Felassan and Solas demonstrated—effortless, even.

But here she was, standing in the moonlit quiet with nothing but the remnants of a failed spell and the ache of frustration settling in her chest. She closed her eyes, clenching her fists at her sides. The magic thrummed beneath her skin, eager to be called upon again, but her confidence wavered.

She sighed heavily, her breath clouding in the cool air. “It’s just a spell,” she whispered to herself, though the words did little to calm the storm inside her. The garden, usually her place of solace, felt stifling now, every plant and stone a reminder of what she couldn’t yet grasp.

Isera took another deep breath, the cool night air filling her lungs, grounding her. She rolled her shoulders back, flexing her fingers as she summoned the magic once more. This time, she focused on the memory of Felassan’s fluid barrier—how it flexed, adapted, and mended itself under pressure. She needed to stay calm. Flow with it, not fight against it, she reminded herself.

The magic surged under her skin, responding to her will. Slowly, the shimmering barrier began to form again, wrapping around her like a translucent cocoon. She could feel it humming, gently expanding and contracting with her breath, more stable than her earlier attempt. A small wave of satisfaction flickered within her—It’s holding.

Encouraged, Isera maintained the rhythm, steady and focused, resisting the urge to rush. She let the magic pulse outward with each beat of her heart, feeling it spread evenly, as if matching the cadence of the moonlight filtering through the garden leaves. The barrier shimmered, solid and fluid, and for a moment, it felt like she had it.

But the moment she tried to push faster, the magic wavered. It fought against her control, the delicate balance slipping as the barrier flickered erratically. She gritted her teeth, trying to hold it steady, but the magic rippled wildly, like a taut thread stretched too far.

A sharp crack split the night as the barrier fractured. Energy spiraled out in chaotic arcs, scattering sparks through the garden. Isera stumbled, catching herself just before falling. The spell fizzled, unraveling into nothing, leaving the garden still except for the gentle rustle of leaves stirred by the magic’s fading remnants.

She exhaled in frustration, her hands trembling slightly from the effort. That was closer—better—but not good enough.The sting of near success was sharper than failure. It had held for longer this time, but still, the control slipped through her fingers when she needed it most.

Unknown to Isera, Solas had been standing at the garden’s edge, quietly observing her attempts. He moved with the quiet grace of a shadow, stepping forward just as she prepared to cast again.

“You’re gripping too tight,” he murmured, his voice low, carrying the kind of calm that soothed yet unsettled all at once.

Isera gasped, startled by his sudden presence. She spun toward him, her heart racing. “I—when did you…?” she stammered, words catching in her throat as she struggled to find her composure.

Solas gave her a small, unreadable smile but said nothing, his gaze steady as he closed the space between them. His presence, always deliberate and steady, felt grounding, like the soft hum of magic lingering in the air. Standing behind her, he reached forward and placed his hands over hers, his fingers warm and sure as they guided her gestures.

Isera inhaled sharply, her pulse quickening—not just from the surprise, but from the closeness. His touch was careful but intimate, sending a ripple of warmth through her skin. It was a reminder of both comfort and desire, stirring a mixture of emotions she wasn’t prepared to confront.

Solas’s voice remained low, a steady murmur in the quiet of the garden. “Magic flows best when it’s treated as an extension of yourself,” he explained, his breath warm against her ear. “It isn’t something to control, Isera—it’s something to guide.”

His hands, still over hers, moved slowly, gently encouraging her motions to be fluid, almost instinctive. “You must trust it, just as you would trust your emotions. Both must move through you without resistance.”

Isera let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of his words settle within her. The magic stirring beneath her skin pulsed in time with her heartbeat, no longer strained but curious—waiting, watching to see if she could meet it halfway.

“Fear,” Solas continued softly, “stifles magic, just as it stifles emotion. The more you grip tightly, the more you try to control it out of fear of failure, the more it will slip from you.” He paused, letting his words sink in before adding, “But if you guide it with intent, not force—if you trust it to follow where you lead—it will.”

Her fingers trembled slightly beneath his, and she fought the instinct to pull back—not from the magic, but from him. The warmth of his hands, the closeness of his presence—it was all so steady, so sure. And yet, it made her feel exposed in a way she hadn’t expected.

Isera inhaled deeply, letting the tension slip from her shoulders. With Solas’s hands gently guiding hers, she moved again, summoning the barrier. This time, the magic came easily, like water flowing into the shape of a vessel. It shimmered and pulsed, not perfect, but whole—alive with her intent, steady with her emotion.

Solas stepped even closer, the warmth of his presence wrapping around her like a second skin. His chest nearly brushed her back, close enough that she could feel the steady rise and fall of his breath. His hands, still resting over hers, guided her gestures with calm precision. “Start slowly,” he murmured, his voice soft but firm, resonating in the still night air. “Feel the magic as it builds, one step at a time.”

Isera closed her eyes, focusing on the hum of energy thrumming beneath her fingertips. It stirred gently, waiting for her to shape it, not with force, but with intention. She could feel Solas’s breath align with hers, grounding her, a reminder of the synchronization they had practiced before.

“Good,” Solas whispered, his hands guiding hers in slow, deliberate motions. “Allow it to flow naturally—there is no need to rush. This is not a race.”

They moved together in perfect rhythm, their movements fluid and seamless, as if their bodies were part of the same current. Isera cast the first spell, a simple pulse of energy that glimmered to life in the space around her. The magic felt smoother now, easier to wield as she let go of the frustration she had carried earlier.

“That’s it,” Solas said softly, his voice like a quiet river current, nudging her forward. “Do not think—simply feel the rhythm. As we practiced, let your breath move in harmony with it.”

She inhaled deeply, letting her breath guide the tempo of her movements. The next spell came more easily, unfolding like a ripple in a pond. Solas’s hands shifted slightly over hers, coaxing her to speed up, but only by a fraction. “Now,” he whispered. “Build the tempo. Slowly—feel the rhythm grow.”

The magic responded, shimmering brighter as their movements synchronized. Each spell built upon the last, the tempo increasing in perfect harmony with her breath. Isera felt the magic hum along with her heartbeat, alive and vibrant, no longer chaotic but cohesive.

Isera paused, her hands still hovering mid-motion as a flicker of realization dawned within her. The barrier shimmered around her, steady yet responsive, as if it breathed along with her. She could feel the subtle shift in the magic—how it wasn’t chaotic at all. It merely reflected what she carried inside.

Her breath slowed, and with it, the magic softened, curling around her like a familiar warmth. She let herself sit with the thought, a quiet clarity blooming in her mind.

“I may…” she murmured, almost to herself, “struggle with not being control.” The words were hesitant, as though admitting them aloud made them heavier. But she felt Solas still standing close behind her, patient and unjudging. His steady presence made it easier to say.

“That’s not necessarily a flaw,” Solas murmured, his voice low and reassuring. “Magic does not require control—it requires understanding.” His hands lingered just over hers, a breath away, as if waiting to guide her again should she need it.

Isera let out a slow exhale, releasing the tight knot of frustration she hadn’t even realized she was holding. As she embraced the emotions she had been fighting—her impatience, doubt, and determination—the magic responded in kind. It flowed smoother now, freer, without resistance.

The shimmering barrier shifted subtly, glowing brighter, but not rigidly—it flexed and moved like water held in a shape that could change at any moment. It was not fragile, nor chaotic. It was alive, just as she was.

“Let’s try something different,” Solas whispered into her ear, his breath warm and soft against her skin. The sound of his voice, low and deliberate, sent a flutter through Isera’s chest, as if the magic humming beneath her skin stirred in response to him.

Her pulse quickened, but she steadied her breath, focusing on the sensation of his hands over hers—calm, sure, and unwavering. There was no rush, only the quiet confidence he carried, coaxing her toward something new. “This time, let the magic carry you,” he murmured.

Isera exhaled slowly, closing her eyes to shut out everything but the rhythm of their synchronized breathing before opening her eyes ago. The magic stirred at her fingertips, playful and eager, as Solas guided her through the first spell. It sparked to life, rippling smoothly between their hands, each pulse flowing effortlessly into the next.

“Good,” Solas whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. “Now, again. One after another, in perfect tempo.”

Their hands moved as one, a graceful dance of precision and instinct. The chain of spells unraveled flawlessly, each casting building on the last, the magic rippling through them like music played in harmony. Isera felt the energy bloom and pulse with life—not just from her, but from the connection between them. It was fluid, alive, and responsive, following her emotions without hesitation.

The tempo quickened, and yet everything remained steady, each pulse of magic weaving seamlessly into the next. There was no room for frustration or doubt—only the flow, the rhythm, and the presence of Solas beside her, guiding without controlling. His touch was light, more suggestion than force, as if reminding her that she already had everything she needed.

The energy swirled around them in a shimmering wave, wrapping them in its glow. Isera could feel the magic in every breath they shared, a perfect balance of power and intent. And with it came a sense of ease she hadn’t thought possible—an understanding that she could guide this power not by force, but by trust.

“There,” Solas murmured, his voice carrying a thread of quiet approval. ��Do you feel it? The magic flows because you guide it with intention, not control."

Isera’s heart still fluttering from the nearness of him and the intimacy threaded through the magic they had woven together. The air between them felt charged with unspoken emotions, the boundary between magic and something deeper growing thin.

“I—yes,” Isera whispered, her voice barely audible as the magic dissolved into soft, shimmering wisps around them. But the charged atmosphere between them didn’t fade. It clung to the air like the lingering scent of rain, heavy with unspoken emotions and possibilities.

She turned slowly, heart fluttering, and found herself facing Solas. The quiet between them felt more intimate than words, as if they were standing at the edge of something vast and uncharted.

Solas’s gaze remained steady, unreadable yet soft in a way that made her chest tighten. Gently, almost absently, he reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. His fingertips barely grazed her skin, sending a ripple of warmth through her, as if his touch carried the same magic they had just woven together.

Isera’s breath hitched, her pulse quickening. The soft caress of his hand was simple, but it carried a weight far greater than the motion—a silent acknowledgment of something shifting between them, something that had always been there but was only now taking shape.

Their eyes locked, and in that moment, everything else melted away—the garden, the lessons, even the magic. What remained was the unspoken truth reflected in his gaze, a spark of understanding passing between them like a wordless promise. Neither of them moved nor spoke, as if breaking the stillness might shatter whatever fragile thing had just begun to bloom between them.

Without a word, Solas leaned in, the world narrowing to the space between them. Time seemed to slow as his gaze softened, and Isera found herself unable—or unwilling—to look away. Her breath hitched, her heart pounding in her chest, but she didn’t move. She didn’t need to.

And then, his lips brushed hers—soft, deliberate, and impossibly gentle. The kiss was slow, unhurried, as if it wasn’t just a kiss but an unspoken promise, a quiet moment shared between two souls on the edge of something deeper.

The magic between them, though no longer visible, thrummed quietly beneath her skin, as if the remnants of their spell lingered in the space where their hands had intertwined. Isera melted into the kiss, her body relaxing as if drawn into the same rhythm they had found through magic—effortless, natural, perfectly in sync.

Solas’s hand cradled the side of her face, his thumb brushing along her cheek in a delicate caress, anchoring her to the moment. His touch was steady, just like his magic—never forceful, always guiding. And she let herself follow, surrendering to the warmth blooming between them, the kind that didn’t demand anything but their presence.

The kiss lingered, slow and intentional, not a declaration but a quiet understanding. It was a kiss that said everything neither of them had spoken aloud—a merging of trust, vulnerability, and connection.

When Solas finally pulled back, his movements were just as deliberate, his forehead resting lightly against hers for a brief, intimate moment. Solas’s hand slipped from her face, but not before his fingers trailed lightly along her jaw, leaving a tingling sensation in their wake.

When she opened her eyes, she found his gaze waiting for her—steady, searching, as if looking for her in a way that went beyond sight.

Isera watched as Solas pulled back slightly, the warmth of the moment shifting like a breeze passing through leaves. Though his gaze remained on her, the light in his eyes dimmed, becoming distant, as if part of him had retreated to a place she could not follow. It was subtle, but unmistakable—a veil of quiet burden settling over him.

This kiss had been different from the others. It wasn’t born from urgency or fleeting desire but something softer, more deliberate. And yet, beneath the tenderness, she could sense a weight—something heavy that clung to him, a truth he had not shared, perhaps one he was not ready to.

Her chest tightened as the realization sank in. She could feel the distance between them, not physical but emotional, like an unspoken boundary neither of them had yet dared to cross. Solas was here, but not entirely. Something held him back—something unseen, lurking just beyond the words he never said.

Isera’s hand brushed his lightly, a silent offer of comfort, but his expression didn’t change. There was a sadness in his gaze, barely masked by his calm demeanor, a sorrow she knew well—the kind that came from carrying too much for too long.

“Solas…” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath, searching his face for any clue of the burden he carried. But the words hung in the air unanswered, as if naming the distance between them might widen it further.

His lips curved into the faintest, fleeting smile, though it did not reach his eyes. “Isera…” he murmured in return, the sound of her name on his lips like a bittersweet melody. There was something in the way he said it—fondness, perhaps even longing—but also resignation, as though he were already bracing himself for something neither of them fully understood.

The magic that had bound them moments ago felt thin now, unraveling into the night like smoke dissipating into the air. Yet Isera remained still, unwilling to let the distance swallow him whole. She knew there was more beneath his calm surface—something hidden, something painful. But she also knew that pressing too hard might only make him retreat further.

[vanmarkham]

this has been in my drafts and its time to oc dump

sooo faron's wife and isera's daughter were murdered in a raid on the lavellan camp by humans from a nearby town who were trying to rob them of their food stores. losing her child pretty much broke her entirely and faron became the person she used to ground herself in her grief, however he had his own grief and isera became a really unhealthy enabler of his own actions.

it began with vengeance. killing the men that attacked them and it span out of control quickly, seeking out more injustices in passing towns they could rectify through attacks of their own. until finally keeper deshanna told them they needed to stop their actions, which were endangering the others, or be cast out of the clan. faron agreed to stop. isera did not and left (also toying w reluctantly agreed bc faron did but continues to try to convince him to leave with her). when faron heard of the conclave he begged the keeper to allow him to go and spy as a way to prove himself an asset to clan lavellan once again. she agreed

and then inquisition

[sasskarian]

Non-OC ships I sail:

DA:

Canders (Carver/Anders) Tethraghast (Varric/Cassandra) Merribela (Merrill/Isabela) Sebasanthy (Sebastian Vael/Bethany Hawke) Adoribull (Dorian Pavus/Iron Bull) Sagna/Dagnera (Sera/Dagna) (I also love Blackwall and Josie even though they can’t be together– the tragic admiration/love is just too fantastic) (And there’s a little something to be said for Leliana/Josie, too, but I blame that on a couple of fantastic fics rather than something I see in the game)

ME:

Vegilliams (James Vega/Ashley Williams) Wrexara (Wrex/Bakara) Taligar (Tali/Kal Reegar) Jedi (Joker/Edi) Liavik (Liara/Javik) Mordin/Happiness Thane/Happiness Thane/Shepard/Garrus Nihlus/Shepard Nihlus/Shepard/Garrus

Other:

Stormlight/Cosmere - Kaladin/Shalan (i am allowed to have my fantasies) Stormlight/Cosmere - Shallan/Adolin Stormlight/Cosmere - Kaladin/Shallan/Adolin Stormlight/Cosmere - Renarin/Rlain Stormlight/Cosmere - Dalinar/Navani Cosmere/Mistborn - Vin/Elend Cosmere/Mistborn - Wax/Steris Cosmere/Mistborn - Wayne/MeLaan

***

GoT - Robb/Theon (not my fault; i read some excellent fic at one point) GoT - Brienne/Jaime and Brienne/Tormund (look i like them both for different reasons don’t judge me)

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Miraculous Ladybug - Marinette/Adrien Miraculous Ladybug - Ladybug/Chat Noir Miraculous Ladybug - Alya/Nino Miraculous Ladybug - Luka/Marinette/Adrien

My OCs:

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DRAGON AGE

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Isera Lavellan

One sentence description: medium-tol, angry, hot mess who didn’t ask for any of this shit but is making the best out of a bad situation Nickname: Issy (will cut you if you use it); Ashes Age: 28 in 9:40D Social Status: Former First of Clan Lavellan; Currently Herald of Andraste of the New Inquisition Relationship Status: It’s Complicated? Height: 5'7" Hair colour: silver Eye colour: gray-green Distinguishing Features: The Anchor; facial scars on lip, brow, and cheek; Mythal vallaslin; back, arms, and shoulders have vallaslin Family: Ethelan (brother); Eolas (father); Deshanna (grandmother) Love interest: Cullen “ball of awkward” Rutherford, Commander of Inquisition Forces Friends/Allies: Merrill; Dorian Pavus; Varric Tethras Enemies: Everyone in fucking Tevinter except for Dorian; Everyone in Orlais in general; the magister/god/darkspawn trying to take over the world; that one snooty merchant in Orlais she wants to smack Alternate Universe Love Interest: Evariste LeMarque/Fairbanks Face Claim: Katheryn Winnick

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Ethelan Lavellan

One sentence description: tol, sassy terrible flirt who sings like an angel and knows he’s too attractive for his own good Nickname: Eth; Amatus (Dorian only) Age: 29-ish (he’s only a little older than Isera but they bicker about it constantly) Sexual Orientation: bi and loud about it Social Status: Huntsmaster of Clan Lavellan Relationship Status: Firmly taken Height: 5’10” Hair colour: Auburn Eye colour: green Family: Isera (sister); Eolas (father); Deshanna (grandmother) Love interest: Dorian; Iron Bull, sort of; although he also flirts terribly with Cassandra and Varric Friends/Allies: Varric Tethras; Cassandra Pentaghast; Sera;  Enemies: the kitchen cook who keeps running him out when he steals frilly cakes Face Claim: [young] Travis Fimmel

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Iveani Lavellan [Voiceverse]

One sentence description: medium soft girl who lives too much in dreams and still doesn’t get enough sleep Nickname: Vee; Iv Age: 33-ish Social Status: Second of Clan Lavellan Relationship Status: Very Complicated Height: 5’4” Hair colour: brown Eye colour: golden-brown Distinguishing Features: Sylaise vallaslin; freckles; partially-docked ear  Family: ??(father); Deshanna (grandmother); Miseri (little sister); Davhalla (little brother) Love interest: Solas, Creators help her Friends/Allies:  Enemies: Duke Antoine of Wycome; any red Templar or Venatori unlucky enough to stumble into her path Face Claim: Emmy Rossum

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Marian Hawke [Glitterverse]

One sentence description: tol, dirty-minded, never-takes-anything-seriously actress very good at getting into Weird Shit Nickname: Hawke; That Bitch; Birdie (Anders only) Age: 30-mumble Sexual Orientation: bi and loud about it Social Status: Amell and doesn’t care Relationship Status: Firmly taken Height: 5’10” Hair colour: black as her soul Eye colour: Bright blue-green Family: Garrett (twin); Bethany (sister); Carver (brother) Love interest: Fenris; Anders (ish);  Friends/Allies: Varric Tethras; Anders;  Enemies: that one studio intern who keeps giving her decaf Face Claim: Kiera Knightley

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Valira Surana

One sentence description: smol, confused bookworm who got handed a sword and a dog and found out she had a hell of a spine. Nickname: Val Age: 20 Sexual Orientation: demi Relationship Status: “I might be dating an assassin? I think? It… is dating, right? Not an accomplice?“ Height: 5’0” Hair colour: red-gold Eye colour: golden-brown Love interest: Zevran Face Claim: Nathalie Emmanuel

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MASS EFFECT

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Iolana Shepard

One sentence description: Commander. Fucking. Shepard. Age: mid-30s Relationship Status: Taken Height: 5’4” Hair colour: auburn Eye colour: gray Distinguishing Features: biotic implant; facial scars Family: Rear Admiral Hannah Shepard; Kahele (father); Elizabeth Shepard Love interest: Garrus Vakarian; Thane Krios Enemies: Reapers; Councilor Udina Face Claim: Kelly Hu

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Sara E. Ryder

One sentence description: The textbook definition of “bad role model” Age: 23 Sexual Orientation: Flexible, very Relationship Status: Taken Height: 5’7” Hair colour: Brown with red highlights Eye colour: Hazel-Green Family: Scott Ryder (brother); Henry (honorary uncle); Nakmor Drack (grumpy adoptive father) Love interest: Jaal Ama Darav with some mild Kandros lusting going on Enemies: The Archon; Jarun Taan; anyone who says anything about her found family;  Face Claim: Jennie Jacques

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ELDER SCROLLS

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Hero of Kvatch/Champion of Cyrodiil

One sentence description: One very confused magic-wielding assassin who really just wanted to kill a few people Age: mid-30s Relationship Status: Pining Endlessly Height: 5’4” Hair colour: Dark Eye colour: Green Species: Altmer Love interest: Martin Septim; Lucien LaChance (formerly)

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Dragonborn

One sentence description: "Look, man, I just wanted to leave this fucking tundra, okay? Next thing I know, I’m sucking up dragon souls and stabbing draugr and fucking– just– I need a drink.“ Age: 30s Relationship Status: Taken Height: 5'11” Hair colour: Silver Eye colour: Gold Species: Khajiit Family: Ma'isha (daughter), Hroar (son), Aventus Arentino (son) Love interest: Farkas (married); Inigo (queerplatonic polyamorous)

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Evelyn Swann - Fallout 4 Sole Survivor

One sentence description: Ghost of apocalypses past here to kick ass and dismantle the Institute brick by brick Age: 30s Relationship Status: Married, Widowed, now sort of casually dating her commanding officer who may or may not be human Height: 5'8” Hair colour: Red Eye colour: Green Affiliation: Brotherhood (formerly), Railroad (currently), Minutemen (currently) Family: Shaun (son) Love interest: Danse/M7-97; Nick Valentine (it happened in a dream; and kinda in the very AU past)

[greylikeawarden]

you've come to love what you always will fear (x)

[squidmayo]

I found this adorable picrew so decided to make some of my da elf ocs! 

from left to right: Mioluvun Lavellan, Nossa Lavellan, Eola Surana, Lailani Mahariel and Isera Tabris!

I tag @lyrium-lavellan @fenharel-s @thereluctantherosrose @waterwhisp-rivergoblin @thesaltyhealer @elfsplaining and anyone else who wants to add their own :3

[roseategales]

                                  INTRODUCTORY: ISERA LAVELLAN.

BASIC INFORMATION.

name: isera lavellan. age: 28, at the start of the inquisition. gender: cis female. sexual and romantic orientation: demisexual, biromantic. race: elven, born in ostwick’s alienage and raised among the dalish. class and specialisation(s): mage, rift mage. faceclaim: andrea mádlová. voiceclaim: eleanor tomlinson. religion: practicing worshipper of the evanuris. vallaslin: falondin's. myers-briggs: istj, the logistician. moral alignment: chaotic good. enneagram: five, the investigator. tarot card: judgement. romance: solas.

LORE.

on a job repairing ostwick’s alienage walls, isera’s parents suffered an accident and died when she was just five years of age and her sister, nellas, was eight. for most of her childhood, she and her sister had only each other, living on the streets and by what little they were given by the elves in the alienage or what they could steal from the humans. it was a difficult life, but they lived and dreamed through it together, hoping for better days to come.

at the age of twelve and fifteen, isera and nellas would find those days—however fleeting they were.

a theft of bread and fruit gone wrong had led to the city guard chasing them down an alleyway; and cornered and threatened, watching as a guardsman laid a hand on nellas, isera’s magic manifested in raging fire that burnt their hunters down to ashes. fear of the templars struck, and her sister grabbed her hand to flee with her from the city. once past the city walls, they wandered, for days, without food or water, until they were found by clan lavellan. the clan freely took them in and treated them as their own blood, happy to have another mage talent within their number.

however, as isera grew, so did the strength and volatility of her powers. she experienced vivid nightmares and became trapped in her dreams, easy prey for the demons that roamed the fade. keeper deshanna identified her as a sominiari—a dreamer mage. as knowledge on the ancient gift was scarce, there was little the keeper could do to help isera besides administer training and herbs for sleep, to control and limit the use of her abilities. dread gripped the clan. her welcome and acceptance was outlived, while nellas thrived as a hunter.

twelve years went by, and the sisters grew apart. nellas was genial and adjusted. isera was withdrawn and isolated. but nellas never gave up on her sister, not even to her deathbed.

after the kirkwall rebellion broke out in 9:37 dragon, the veil thinned perilously and isera was seized in a dream fueled by a desire demon. in order to wake her, keeper deshanna necessitated someone be sent into the fade. nellas volunteered, and bargained with the desire demon to take isera’s place; she was then slain as an abomination, and isera woke to her sister’s corpse.

traumatized and branded a danger to the clan, isera maintained an emotional and physical distance from the other members. she became a pariah, detached and dependent on the herbs to drug her, battling with the lure of death and joining nellas and her parents again. she was a risk every darkening night. and though she continued to live with the clan for four more years, when the keeper required a spy for the conclave, she volunteered. keeper deshanna let her, knowing it meant she would never return—believing it to be for the sake of isera and the clan.

CHOICES.

allied with free mages. | spared alexius, ruled that he work for the mages. | sacrificed stroud in the fade. | exiled the wardens. | executed magister livius erimond, imprisoned ser ruth. | celene and briala reconciled, gaspard executed. | arrested duchess florianne, ruled that she be exiled. | ruled that samson serve the inquisition. | chose to follow the rituals in mythal’s temple, allied with abelas and the ancient elves. | did not drink from the well of sorrows. | removed her vallaslin. | leliana made divine. | inquisition was repurposed to be the divine’s peace force. | vowed to save solas from himself, and the world with him.

[gezdrasz]

Art trade with @vir-tanadahl ❤️Isera Lavellan❤️

[elevanetheirin]

@vir-tanadahl because I SUPER liked the ear jewelry I put on her but the hair covered it up....Also it took me like 10 mins to run a quick render haha

That’s a dragon wrapped around her right ear :D

Isera Lavellan :D <3 

[asoulonfire]

Hey all!

I just posted a new chapter of ‘A Soul on Fire’. There is Solas and OC flirting... light flirting... okay, only a little bit of blushing and smiling. That’s flirting right?

[katalyna-rose]

OC Facts Meme

I was tagged by @buttsonthebeach.

1. Please post these rules! 2. Post 8 facts about your character! 3. Tag 8 other characters, list their names and their creators! 4. Tag-backs are fine!

Art by @hansaera

Lyna Lavellan

1. Lyna’s father was city born, from Ostwick, and would smuggle her into the city when she was a child and they camped nearby because she had two uncles and five cousins that he wanted her to meet. After her father died, she still snuck into the city sometimes to see her cousins and would exchange letters with them when she could, though they drifted apart a couple years before the Conclave because the clan wasn’t camped where she could get her letters to a post.

2. While visiting her cousins, she got into a lot of mischief because she was proudly Dalish and couldn’t stand the way her family was treated by the humans. She would regularly steal food, threaten officials, and perform jail breaks. She learned most of her skills as a rogue from her cousins and honed them with her Dalish hunter training. She drew the line at murder, but she did everything she could to help her family and the entire alienage to the point that she was very nearly arrested when she was sixteen and got just a little unlucky while stealing as much food as she could carry from a known racist to bring back. She sprained her ankle fleeing but claimed that it was worth it and returned to her clan limping and with her head held high to get her mother to heal her ankle.

3. Lyna hates the rain. Nothing makes her crankier than a torrential downpour except, perhaps, the extreme temperature fluctuations of the desert. Her least favorite places are the Storm Coast, the Western Approach, and the Hissing Wastes. She’d rather go almost anywhere else. However, while the extreme temperatures of the desert tend to make her quiet and sullen, the constant rain of the Storm Coast essentially turns her into a grumpy child. She will mutter and pout and glower, which amuses Solas to no end because she’s usually so composed.

4. Lyna loves to learn. She soaks up knowledge like air and would probably go crazy without new things to learn or old things to expand upon. Lavellan’s stash of books about the world outside their clan was much larger than most clans due in large part to the fact that Lyna would pick up new books every time she visited Ostwick and then read them until they had to be magically reinforced. She learned every bit of knowledge the clan had about their culture and their past and their language and always hungered for more. The library at Skyhold made her tear up the first time she saw it.

5. Lyna loves the Emerald Graves. As depressing as it to be literally standing on the bones of what her people were, she can’t help but be awed and inspired by the atmosphere of the place. Each tree represents one of her people, some of them her ancestors by blood, and she commands the entire Inquisition to be respectful of them. She spends days in the ruins, until she has to be physically dragged away.

6. Lyna teaches herself to be a Dreamer. Solas stated that “anyone who dreams has the potential” and she took it to heart. At first, she asked Solas to help her. She asked him to find her in the Fade and make her aware that she was dreaming and teach her whatever he could. In the beginning, it was just more of her desire to learn, this time about the Fade. But as she explored, she decided she wanted to do it on her own sometimes, so she started teaching herself to be aware in dreams and had a surprising amount of success that she attributed to her possession of the Anchor. But her abilities kept growing and even once the Anchor is taken from her she retains the skills she learned.

7. Lyna has a temper. It’s very hard to make her angry, but once you do you better pray to whatever god you think will answer. Anger makes her rash and impulsive and she has a bad habit of saying things she doesn’t really mean just to hurt people, but she adds just enough truth to make it cut deep. The things that make her angry are usually bigotry in all its forms and malicious dishonesty. Needless to say, there are times when Solas is on the wrong end of her wrath once they’re reunited post-Trespasser.

8. Lyna has an affinity for the Game, which seems counter intuitive to the last point until you look at it from the perspective of knowledge. The Game, to Lyna, is about learning everything you can about your opponent and what makes them tick, then out-maneuvering them. She dislikes the roads that lead to bloodshed and never takes them unless backed into a corner, though. Once she looked at Orlais from that point of view, she suddenly didn’t mind getting all dressed up to be shown off, resolving to thoroughly work the crowd, which she did.

Tagging... Thema for @thema-sal-shiral, Morinthe for @queensoledad, Athelas for @hansaera, Iwyn for @thevikingwoman, Ayla for @fen-harel-alasnirelan121, Isera for @asoulonfire, Britannia for @mistressdreadwolf, and Liahra for @silent-of-spirit

[vir-tanadahl]

Into the Past

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They thought she was someone she wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fen’harel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he leaned in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, the tremors grew violent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mythal’s gaze remained fixed on her, unreadable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In its place stood Solas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do we need to do?” she asked.

[cascraw]

Isera as a hunter for Andruil in her Arlathan AU

Finally finished this on the stream! It was my first time streaming and knowing people were watching was a good way to keep myself motivated~

[sasskarian]

You've been visited by the random OC question fairy! :D ~☆

If your character could instantly change one thing about themselves, what would it be and why? What is one thing about themselves that they would never want to lose and why?

Isera would change how long it took for her to accept her magic. When she was little, there was an incident with a group of humans that ended up with her mom and little brother killed and her father withdrawing mentally so far that their grandmother took over caring for her and her almost-twin. Because of her involvement in that incident, most of the clan made her feel unwelcome, and it resulted in her exerting such tight control over her magic that she both hated it and damaged her ability to process emotions. 

The one thing she never wants to change is her compassion. In her years in the Inquisition, she’s watched rulers and leaders rise and fall, and seen how power changes people. As Inquisitor, she has to make a lot of hard decisions, but she always tries to be compassionate and approachable. (Her exceptions are those who hurt Her People, like Bianca Davri and Alexius Gerion, etc)

[greylikeawarden]

I love how tragic and nuanced solavellan romance is, but sometimes my brain goes like, “Hey, hey, hey, just imagine Solas in the Dread Wolf form laying his head on Lavellan’s lap and them running their fingers through his thick fur”

[vir-tanadahl]

The Temple of Fen'harel

Summary: Shortly after Corypheus' defeat, Inquisitor Lavellan begins to hear the voices from the Well of Sorrows calling to her. Following their guidance, she is led to a long-forgotten temple, where she uncovers the truth about Solas. (Set before the events of Trespasser.)

Note: I originally published this on 02/07/2015, seven months before Trespasser was released. Since I am re-writing all of my fanfics to help cope with my excitement for Dragon Age: Veilguard, I decided to rewrite this to make it more… lore-accurate—at least as accurate as possible. (Find on Ao3)

Rain trickled down Lavellan's face, cool droplets slipping along her skin as she gazed at the shadowy expanse of the forest. Her body trembled, soaked clothes clinging to her like a second skin, but the sharp chill seemed distant, almost muted. In her mind, the voices of the vir’abelasan pulsed—urgent, insistent—urging her forward. The moonlight bathed her bronzed skin, casting a soft glow as it mingled with the wet sheen that glistened on her arms and shoulders. Without a word, she stepped into the dense, silent woodlands.

Each footfall sank into the mud with a soft squelch, the earth gripping her boots as if reluctant to release her. But still, she pressed on, her steps not entirely her own—guided, almost forced, by the ceaseless voices echoing in her thoughts. A week had passed since she left Skyhold. The only trace of her departure was a note, carelessly pinned to her desk, its message as brief and cryptic as her resolve: I will return soon.

Lavellan stepped into the clearing, where the remnants of a forgotten temple lay entwined with nature’s reclaiming touch. Wildflowers had woven themselves into the cracks of what was once a golden path, their vibrant colors softening the stone beneath. Towering trees loomed overhead, their roots surging through the ancient foundation, spilling into the temple’s entryway like fingers stretching across a forgotten canvas. Untouched by human hands, the ruins stood quietly, much like the sacred halls of Mythal—preserved by time and neglect.

As she crossed the crumbling bridge, a ripple of magic sparked against her skin, familiar and ancient. The air felt thick, heavy with the weight of memories not her own, and soon her vision blurred—flickers of a time long before the fall of the elves flashing before her eyes. Without realizing, her steps quickened, her body moving as if carried by invisible threads. She was no longer walking of her own accord—the voices of the Well surged, pulling her forward, guiding her deeper into the ruins. The echoes of the past overwhelmed her, flooding her senses, leaving her unaware of her own movements.

Lavellan blinked, and suddenly she was no longer in the clearing. Elves moved before her, their heads bowed in reverence as they followed intricate rituals, one by one gaining entrance to the inner sanctum. Those deemed worthy knelt at the towering doors, leaving small tokens—a feather, a carved stone, a vial of shimmering liquid—before slipping inside. The sound of hushed prayers whispered through the air, their voices lost in the grandeur of the temple.

Beyond the heavy doors, a grand hallway stretched into the distance, leading to an open atrium. The scent of fresh water and elfroot filled the air, mingling with the damp earth. At the center stood the temple, its pale walls gleaming under the soft light. Lavellan’s senses were engulfed by the vividness of it all, until—

She gasped, yanked back into the present, her breath catching as the memory faded. Confusion settled like a weight in her chest as she found herself once again standing before the ruined temple. Vines snaked around the statues that lined the overgrown pathway, their once-pristine stone now concealed beneath thick, twisting foliage. She moved forward instinctively, fingers trembling as they brushed the leaves aside, revealing fragments of elven script etched into the stone.

The old language poured into her mind like a rushing river, unbidden and unstoppable. She traced the words, her voice barely a whisper as she read: “…give thanks to he who is named Fen’Harel as he aids us…”

Lavellan staggered back, heart pounding, pure shock and terror coursing through her. A temple to the Dread Wolf. Her breath hitched at the realization. This place was dedicated to Fen’harel, the betrayer, the one who brought Arlathan to ruin and plunged her people into endless exile. The voices in her mind swelled, chaotic and unrelenting, flooding her vision with fragmented images—elves clashing in bitter conflict, blood staining the earth, a deep, seething strife between forces she could not name.

Her stomach twisted violently as she fought to reclaim control, nausea bubbling up as the overwhelming flood of memories receded. She pressed her palm to her temple, feeling the dull throb of a headache building behind her eyes. Were the Dalish wrong... again? The question lingered, unanswered, as silence settled over her mind. The voices that had once urged her forward now offered no clarity, only a persistent push deeper into the temple.

Without fully understanding why, Lavellan found herself moving toward the entrance. The door stood ajar, its hinges creaking as she slipped inside. Shadows clung to the stone walls, and her footfalls echoed faintly in the silence. Her gaze locked onto the center of the room—a grand, golden mosaic throne. It loomed before her, untouched by time or decay, radiating an air of quiet power. She crept closer, her breath shallow, as if the weight of the temple's history pressed down on her.

Lavellan spun on her heel, panic rising as she tried to flee, but the voices locked her in place. Her body refused to obey, no matter how fiercely her instincts screamed for her to run. Even from across the chamber, she recognized him—the man who had captured her heart. Solas, draped across the golden throne, his body relaxed, his head resting in a peaceful slumber. Terror gripped her as her intuition shrieked in warning. She had made a grave mistake. The truth, buried deep inside her, clawed its way to the surface: the creature she had feared her entire life was the one she had fallen in love with.

The Dread Wolf.

Her mind raced, the realization crashing down with brutal clarity. She had slept with the betrayer, the destroyer. The image of him, laughing with cruel satisfaction, as he crushed her heart in his hand, flashed before her. He had deceived her, lured her in with tenderness, and now—now, he would tear her apart.

But her body defied her fear. Against her will, she moved toward him, step by step, the voices driving her closer to the slumbering god. His chest rose and fell in deep, rhythmic breaths, his consciousness far away in the Fade. Her hand lifted, trembling, and though every part of her screamed to stop, her fingers gently brushed his cheek. The warmth of his skin sent a jolt through her, and for a moment, his nose and lips twitched at the soft contact, though his eyes remained closed.

The voices surged again, pressing against her mind, straining toward him. They reached out, seeking the ancient power that pulsed beneath his skin. And then, like the snap of a bowstring, Solas jolted awake, his eyes wide and sharp. A ripple of ancient magic, raw and immense, pulsed through the air, and Lavellan felt the weight of his gaze pierce through her.

Solas’ hands gripped the arms of the throne, his knuckles white as his gaze locked on the golden eyes of his lover. His chest tightened, and his nose wrinkled with anger. “You should not be here,” he growled, the words thick with frustration. His sharp eyes scanned her, narrowing in suspicion. “The voices… did you ask them to lead you to me?” He rose from the throne, his movements sudden and forceful, the weight of his question hanging in the air.

Lavellan staggered back, her heart racing as panic swelled inside her, choking her voice. She couldn’t answer, her throat closing off any sound. The raw intensity of his presence pressed down on her, and she recoiled, unsure if it was the power that radiated from him or the terror that gripped her heart.

Solas paused, his anger flickering. He knew her well enough to understand—stubborn, determined, unwilling to let him vanish without a fight. His expression softened, the tension in his jaw easing as he watched her. He could never stay angry with her for seeking him out, for challenging the boundaries he had tried to impose. She was too passionate, too relentless, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he had known this confrontation was inevitable.

But something else caught his attention—the sheer terror in her eyes. Not fear of disturbing his slumber, but something deeper, something primal. His breath hitched as realization struck like a dagger. She knew. She had uncovered his secret.

“Vhenan…” he muttered, the word escaping him before he could stop it. His hand moved toward her, aching to offer comfort, though he hesitated, his throat tight with words unsaid. The distance between them seemed too vast now, a chasm carved by truths she wasn’t ready to face.

A broken croak escaped her throat as Lavellan stumbled back, her feet forgetting the steps behind her. Her body lurched into open air, falling—but before the cold stone could meet her, Solas’ hand shot out, gripping hers. He yanked her toward him with a desperate strength, and they both crashed against the throne, her body pressed tightly against his. “Please, ma vhenan,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he clutched her struggling form.

Tears streamed down her face, blurring her vision, as the words forced themselves out between gasping sobs. “You are... Fen’harel.” Each word cut through the air like a blade, her voice trembling with disbelief.

Solas’ face twisted with guilt, his chest swelling with sorrow as he tightened his hold, keeping her close. He pressed his forehead to her temple, his breath warm and ragged against her skin. “I am,” he murmured, reluctant, the weight of the admission heavy between them. Her sobs racked against him, shaking her small frame as she buried her face in her hands. His heart clenched. “Ir abelas, ma vhenan, I am so sorry,” he whispered into her ear, his voice soft, pained.

Lavellan shook her head violently, hands still covering her face, unable to look at him. The voices in her head surged, their clamor filling her consciousness, making the ache in her stomach worse with each pulse. Solas’ cold fingers brushed her forehead, gently pushing her damp hair away from her face as he murmured apology after apology. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by her uneven breaths as they sat tangled together, her sobs gradually fading into exhaustion.

Time passed in that stillness. She fell into a deep, fitful slumber in his arms, while he remained perfectly still despite the aching pain that spread through his back and shoulders. Her anguish was far greater than anything he could feel.

When Lavellan finally stirred, her eyelids heavy and swollen, her mind foggy with the weight of the night’s revelations, memory came crashing back like a tidal wave. She jolted, eyes snapping open, her heart pounding. She tried to stand, to flee, but found herself unable to move. Solas’ familiar arms were still wrapped tightly around her, holding her as if afraid she might disappear if he let go.

“Lavellan,” Solas whispered, his voice rough and hoarse from the weight of sleepless hours. She kept her gaze fixed ahead, ignoring him, her expression unreadable. He leaned closer, desperation seeping into his voice. “Vhenan, please,” he murmured, gently reaching for her, his fingers brushing her chin as he tried to turn her face toward him. She didn’t resist, but when her eyes finally met his, they were cold, her emotions masked behind a wall of restraint.

Her gaze hardened, and a bitter edge crept into her voice. “You’re supposed to be a monster. To look like a monster. But you’re the master of tricks, aren’t you?” Her glare intensified, venomous. The moment hung between them, heavy with accusation, before her hand lashed out, striking his face with a sharp crack. And then her glare faulters, softening. Her own experience with him clashing with everything her culture told her about him.

Solas sighs, the sting of the slap echoing in the silence, but he didn’t defend himself. His eyes softened with the pain of her betrayal as she glared at him, her chest heaving. “You lied to me,” she said, her voice thick with anguish.

“In a way, I did, yes.” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Let me go.” Lavellan shoved at his chest, her words harsh, final. Reluctantly, Solas loosened his hold, and she pulled away, pacing back and forth as if caged by her own thoughts, her emotions warring beneath the surface.

Solas watched her, the ache in his heart growing as he stood from the throne. His voice, quiet yet steady, filled the room. “I have lied about who I am, but never about my feelings for you.”

Lavellan stopped mid-stride, her fists clenching and unclenching. Her eyes flashed with a mix of anger and grief as she turned to him. “You might as well have!” she spat, her voice sharp with betrayal. She took a step closer, her fury palpable. “How could anything be real when everything I knew about you was a lie?”

“I didn’t exactly lie—at least, not entirely.” Solas’ voice trembled with urgency, his eyes searching her face for any sign of understanding. Lavellan’s steps faltered, uncertainty rippling through her as her fingers tangled in her hair. She struggled, torn between the truths she thought she knew and the reality unraveling before her.

Solas hesitated, watching her wrestle with her thoughts. “The Dread Wolf from the stories... from the legends… that’s only part of the truth,” he continued softly, stepping closer. His words hung in the air between them like fragile threads. “I was Solas first. Fen'Harel came later.” His voice dropped to a whisper, his confession raw.

Lavellan stared at him, her mind spinning as she tried to reconcile the man she loved with the figure of betrayal and legend. Her breath caught, and she fought to process everything, her heart hammering in her chest.

Solas’ expression softened, regret filling his eyes. “You’re safe now,” he murmured, his voice gentle. “But you should not be here.” He reached out, carefully taking her hands into his, his fingers warm against hers. He watched her, but her gaze drifted, her eyes glazing over, distant and unfocused. He knew the voices were speaking to her again, likely confirming that he is the Dread Wolf.

She began shaking her head, confusion clouding her features as the voices slipped into an unsettling silence. "I don't understand," she whispered, her eyes searching the floor. Fragments of their time together flickered through her mind—the quiet conversations, the guarded looks, the moments after Corypheus fell. Threads of memory wove together, forming a pattern she hadn't seen before.

Suddenly, her gaze snapped back to his, eyes sharp and filled with a dawning intensity. "The orb..." she breathed, the words barely audible. "It was yours, wasn't it?"

Her voice trembled with a mix of disbelief and reluctant understanding, the hope that she might be wrong fading with each passing second. The realization settled heavily between them, an unspoken truth finally brought to light.

A sad smile flickered across his face, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “It was,” he confessed softly. He paused, as if weighing the gravity of what came next. “I didn’t foresee him surviving the blast...” His voice trailed off, unfinished, heavy with regret.

Lavellan hesitated, searching his face for answers, her heart sinking. “But why?” she asked, her voice cracking slightly. “Why did you give him the orb, Solas?”

His expression darkened, his frown deepening as he lowered his head, lost in the shadows of his memories. “I was too weak,” he muttered, the words slipping from him like a bitter truth. “Too weak after my long slumber to unlock its power.”

His voice was careful, measured, but she could hear the anguish threaded between his words, could see the pain reflected in his eyes—burdens he had carried for far too long.

Her heart shattered as she watched the dance of pain and anguish play across his face, each unspoken regret heavy in the air between them. Without thinking, she reached up, her hand trembling as she gently pulled his face toward hers. The world around them seemed to fade, leaving only the weight of his sorrow and the ache in her chest.

She pressed her lips softly against his, tender and hesitant, as if her kiss alone could soothe the burden he had carried for so long. It was a silent plea, a desperate hope that in this moment, she could ease even a fraction of his suffering. For just a breath, she wished to take away the hurt, to hold him in a world where neither of them had to carry the weight of their choices.

She pulled back, her breath still lingering between them. “But why?” she asked, her voice quiet but filled with concern. Her eyes searched his, aching to understand.

"It wasn’t supposed to happen like this," Solas murmured, his voice low and weighted with regret. He wanted to tell her more, to lay his burden bare, but centuries of guarding his heart held him back. His eyes flickered with emotions he couldn't quite express.

Lavellan furrowed her brow, her mind racing as she sifted through memories—of time spend and conversations had with Solas, of Dalish legends half-remembered, fragmented and tangled like knotted yarn. The truth was there, albeit elusive, but something tugged at the edges of her understanding, and her heart clenched with a terrible realization.

“You didn’t mean for the Veil to hurt the People, did you?” she asked, her voice quiet but insistent, a plea for clarity in the face of so much confusion.

Solas’ expression tightened, a flicker of pain crossing his face before he looked away. He didn’t answer immediately, but the silence between them was enough. The answer lingered in the air, unspoken but painfully clear.

“But why leave? Why come here when your plan failed?” Lavellan’s voice cracked, frustration, pain, and confusion swirling in her chest. “Did you really plan to live out the rest of your life in isolation, away from—” Her breath caught in her throat, words faltering as the weight of what she was about to say threatened to choke her. ’Away from me? The thought hung in her mind, unspoken, but its presence was undeniable, heavy and raw.

Solas’ gaze softened, as if sensing the unspoken question. His lips parted, but he hesitated, the guarded expression on his face slipping ever so slightly. The silence that stretched between them was filled with everything they weren’t saying, everything they were afraid to confront. And in that moment, her heart ached with the fear that perhaps, in his isolation, he had already made his choice—one that didn’t include her.

But, Solas remained silent, his gaze steady but unreadable, as if her question pierced through the walls he had so carefully built. Her eyes searched his face for something—anything—that might reveal his reasons, but all she found was the lingering sadness he tried so hard to hide. The tension between them thickened, the truth just out of reach, suspended in the heavy silence.

Her breath trembled, her heart pounding with the unspoken realization that perhaps his isolation was not just a punishment for himself, but a way to protect her—from his failure, from the consequences of loving him.

Solas shook his head slowly, the stoic mask settling back into place, hardening his features. But his eyes—those eyes still whispered the sorrow he could not bring himself to speak aloud. The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating, until finally, his voice broke through, a whisper of regret and weariness. “I need time…”

It was a fragile admission, but it left her heart aching, knowing that time alone couldn’t mend the chasm that had opened between them.

“And then you’ll come back?” Her voice was barely a whisper, fragile and filled with hope. The question hung in the air between them, trembling on the edge of uncertainty. She looked at him, her eyes searching for reassurance, for a promise that everything would somehow be as it once was.

Solas’ breath caught in his throat. He could hear the hope laced in her words, the quiet plea that, perhaps, he would return to her—not to his mission, not to the world he was determined to change, but to her.

Whether she was willfully blind to the truth or simply unaware of the path he had chosen, he couldn’t say. Her gaze, filled with that quiet hope, made it clear she didn’t fully grasp the depths of his intentions—the consequences of what he had set in motion.

Solas wasn’t sure if she truly understood that the orb had been only the beginning. It was his first plan, yes, and in many ways, his best hope for a swift restoration of what had once been. But it was not his only plan. The thought of the steps yet to come—the things he would have to do, the sacrifices he would demand of himself and the world—tightened his chest with guilt. The path he walks is the dinan’shiral. There is only death on this journey.

He feared she hadn’t yet realized how far he was willing to go to achieve his goal, how unyielding his resolve had become. The love that still exists between them, the tenderness that still sparked in her eyes—it was fragile. He could see it now, hanging by a thread that would inevitably be severed when the full truth came to light. But not yet.

For now, she didn’t see the deeper plan, the path that stretched far beyond their love, leading him to a future he couldn’t allow her to follow because he could not allow her to see what he will become.

“Yes,” he replies, the word slipping out—half-truth, but not quite a lie. It’s inevitable that their paths will cross again. She, leading the Inquisition, guiding the world through the chaos left in Corypheus’ wake. And he… he will be working tirelessly in the shadows, forging a new plan to tear down the Veil he once erected to protect the People.

The weight of the truth he couldn’t share sat heavy on his chest. Their reunion wouldn’t be as she imagined—there would be no quiet return to what they had before. He had no intention of leaving her life entirely, but not in the way she hoped. He would still be out there, always moving, always plotting, preparing for the moment when he would have to make the impossible choice.

His eyes lingered on her for a moment longer, knowing she couldn’t see the full shape of what was coming. She couldn’t know that while he said yes, it wasn’t in the way she longed for. Their next meeting wouldn’t be born out of love, but of necessity. Of fate. Of a mission he could not abandon, no matter the cost to them both.

But for now, she believed in that small word, in the promise she heard. And he let her, knowing it would break her heart in time.

[vir-tanadahl]

Timeless

Summary: Isera Lavellan is living in modern Thedas completing her research on plants when her research takes her to a place in the Solasan Mountain range. The discovery of a strange glowing mirror takes her to a world she has never known before where she meets someone she never thought existed. (Find on Ao3) Fen'harel (Solas) x Lavellan

Chapter 5: The Dread Wolf's Gaze

Isera slammed the door to her room, the echo of wood meeting stone sharp in the silence. Anger boiled in her chest, her breath coming in tight, uneven bursts. She was used to fighting uphill battles—proving again and again that she genuinely knew what she was doing, that her intelligence wasn’t tied to the pointed ears on her head. When she first started studying plants, there had always been the snide comments: “Oh, you’re studying plants? Of course, you are—you’re an elf!”

And when she was hired for her first teaching job, it hadn’t been enough to be smart. She had to be more than smart, to prove she wasn’t just “smart for an elf.”

She had danced around the subject of her race for years, shielding herself with careful composure. But it stung more coming from him—another elf. And not just any elf. Solas came from a time when elves had status, when they were something more. His words had carried a level of casual cruelty, so calm, so precise, that it had almost taken her by surprise.

Isera shook her head, forcing down the bitter taste of self-doubt rising in her throat. She refused to let the self-hatred she’d spent years burying claw its way back to the surface.

And to add insult to injury, the man wasn’t just any elf—he was Fen’harel, the Dread Wolf. The god who, according to legend, had damned the entire elven race by sealing away the gods. Why should it surprise her that he, of all people, would insult her? The legends all said the same thing: Fen’harel bore no love for the elven people. He had betrayed them once before.

The bitter irony gnawed at her, twisting the insult deeper.

Isera threw herself onto the bed, her mind swirling with half-formed plans of escape. Now, more than ever, she needed to find a way out of this place, a way back home. She clung to that thought—escaping, returning—her desire burning fiercer with every passing moment.

Isera blinked in surprise, realizing she hadn’t received her usual wake-up call from Felassan. The light streamed through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room as she sat up, her mind already swirling with questions. Quietly, she slipped out of bed, her footsteps light as she crossed the room in confusion.

On the table, a small stack of books caught her eye. One, in particular, stood out—The History of Magic. Isera frowned, narrowing her eyes at the suspicious offering. She approached cautiously, half-expecting some sort of trick, but when she picked up the book, nothing happened. Flipping through its pages quickly, she found it packed with detailed theories on the origins of magic, far more than she had anticipated.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, annoyance bubbling up as she slammed the book shut. Did Solas leave this here? she thought bitterly. Was this his way of making up for the insults he’d thrown at her? She rolled her eyes at the idea, swiftly changing into her day clothing.

‘Don’t fall for tricks of kindness—he’s the Dread Wolf,’ she reminded herself sharply. The legend of the Dread Wolf was known to all elves, city-born or clan-tied. His reputation for betrayal was ingrained in her culture, and she couldn’t let herself forget who he was. But as she headed into the garden, the thought gnawed at her—was this all part of a game? Insult her, then leave the very knowledge she sought within arm’s reach?

Isera blinked in confusion as she stepped into the garden, her eyes falling on a group of men and women standing nearby. They were watching her, their expressions a mixture of respect and hesitation. One of the men stepped forward, his head slightly bowed, his movements careful as though afraid to offend.

“Excuse me, my lady,” he began, his voice humble. “We have been watching you work the soil—we are grateful that Fen’harel has saved us, and we do not want to be a burden. Some of us used to harvest and seed plants, and we humbly offer to assist.”

Isera stared at him for a long moment, her mind snagging on a single phrase. ‘Fen’harel saved them?’The words echoed in her head, refusing to make sense. A frown crept across her face, confusion tightening her features.

“What do you mean Fen’harel saved you? From what?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended, the disbelief cutting through her usual composure.

The man blinked, clearly taken aback by the question. “Surely, you know, my lady?” he said, straightening slightly, the surprise evident in his tone. “That is why you’ve come—to help us!” He gestured around him, as if the answer should have been obvious. “The war between the Gods—the false Gods. Fen’harel freed us. We were once slaves, forced to fight or be sacrificed.”

Isera continued to stare at the man, her confusion deepening with every word. ‘Fen’harel saved them?’ That wasn’t the story she’d grown up with. Everything she knew—everything she’d been taught—said that Fen’harel had sealed away the Gods, bringing ruin to the elves. He was the betrayer, not the savior. And never had she heard that the elves had enslaved their own people.

“You were a slave?” she asked, her hand instinctively moving to her stomach, a wave of anxiety rising within her. The thought that her people were no better than Tevinter gnawed at her, unsettling everything she thought she knew.

The man nodded, his expression calm. “No longer, my lady. But we will not be idle. We are free, and we choose to help.”

It took Isera a moment to process his words, her mind racing to catch up with this new reality. She swallowed, her voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “Yes, of course. If you would like to help, I would accept the offer.”

The man smiled warmly and turned, motioning to the group behind him. Without hesitation, they began moving to the garden, ready to work.

Isera stood rooted to the spot, her eyes following the quiet rhythm of the people working the garden, their hands deftly toiling the soil. Her mind, however, was in turmoil. ‘The Dalish couldn’t be wrong,’ she thought, her inner voice stumbling over itself in disbelief. ‘We were free, before Tevinter. Tevinter enslaved us. We didn’t enslave each other.’

Her thoughts spiraled, trying to grasp the reality of what she had just heard. These people—they were real, standing before her, telling her a history she had never known. A history that denied everything she had been taught. ‘If the pantheon aren’t gods, then who and what are they?’

Religion had never been central to her life, raised as she was outside of the Dalish clans in Rivain. She rarely prayed, and yet the Gods were woven into her culture, into her identity. Now, everything seemed to tilt on its axis. If the pantheon weren’t gods, what was the truth?

“Surprise, surprise,” came the familiar, sardonic voice of Felassan from behind her. “I see you managed some help.”

Startled from her thoughts, Isera turned to face him, her response automatic. “They offered,” she said, the words leaving her without a second thought, though her mind was still reeling from the revelations.

“They’re a superstitious group,” Felassan remarked, leaning against a post, his gaze drifting toward the people now working the garden. “You didn’t die from toiling the soil. They must believe you’ve healed the scourge from the land.”

Isera blinked at him, her confusion deepening. “What?” Her voice rose slightly, incredulous. “The land was cursed?”

Felassan turned his attention back to her, his expression still as casual as ever. “Of course it was,” he replied, almost amused by her confusion. “That’s why nothing was growing. Andruil sent her warriors for an attack and used magic to poison the land.”

A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he spoke, clearly enjoying the revelation.

Isera scowled, her eyes narrowing dangerously as her teeth clenched. “And you knew this? I could have been poisoned?” she shrieked; her fists tight at her sides as she stared Felassan down. The realization hit her like a slap—the plants, the berries... They were different from the ones she’d sorted in the kitchen. “I could have died!” she shouted, her voice filled with both anger and disbelief.

Felassan, however, remained infuriatingly calm, his grin widening, mischief dancing in his violet eyes. “But you didn’t,” he hummed, his tone annoyingly cheerful, as if her fury only amused him.

A frustrated howl escaped her lips as she stormed past him, unwilling to entertain his smugness any longer. But as she stalked away, Felassan quickly jogged to catch up, his grin never fading. “My, you have a temper!” he teased, a laugh bubbling just under the surface. “Your face turns a lovely shade of red!”

Isera scoffed, coming to an abrupt halt and glaring at Felassan. “Oh, no,” she snarled, her voice dripping with fury. “My face turns red because I’m angry—it’s not lovely.” Her hand moved to her hip as the other pointed accusingly at him. “You knowingly let me walk into blighted land! You don’t care about my wellbeing, and you certainly don’t get to patronize me by calling my ‘temper’ lovely!”

Her voice rose with every word, frustration and outrage pouring out. “You and Solas—Fen’harel, whatever he wants to be called—are condensing, inconsiderate assholes!” she muttered, turning on her heel to walk away.

But before she could fully process how much Felassan annoyed her, his footsteps fell into place beside hers. His voice, no longer whimsical, carried a sharp edge as he ordered her to follow him. The sudden hardness in his tone sent a chill down her spine.

Isera froze, instinct taking over. Despite every ounce of resistance in her, something told her to listen—to follow. And so, begrudgingly, she did.

Felassan led her down a maze of vestibules before stopping in front of an ornate door. “Wait here,” he ordered, his tone still sharp, not even glancing back as he stepped inside.

Isera sighed, rolling her eyes as she lingered outside, staring at the door now slightly ajar. Felassan’s voice drifted from the other side, muffled but unmistakable. Curiosity tugged at her, and she shifted closer, peeking through the crack.

The chamber beyond was bathed in light, but there was something unsettling about it. A heavy sense of dread clung to the air, sending a shiver down her spine. Her breath caught as she recognized the silhouette standing in the room. Fen’harel. She stepped back quickly, retreating from the door as if the mere sight of him could burn her.

Leaning against the wall a few feet away, Isera shook her head, trying to steady her racing thoughts. ‘I need to get out of here,’ she thought, the urgency building in her chest. She had wasted enough time trying to help these people from the past. And now... how long had it been?

Her mind turned to her mother and brother. ‘They must be worried sick.’ And Dorian—her heart clenched at the thought. ‘They probably think I’m dead.’

Felassan emerged moments later, his eyes sweeping the area until they landed on her. Without a word, he motioned for her to follow. Isera trailed after him, her thoughts still lingering on what she’d overheard, her steps heavy with uncertainty.

He led her down another winding vestibule and into a chamber unlike any she’d seen. The walls and ceiling were made entirely of glass, allowing soft, golden light to flood the space. The room was teeming with plants, vibrant and lush, their leaves stretching toward the sun.

“A botanic garden…” Isera murmured, her guard dropping for the first time in what felt like ages. She stepped inside, the air clean and sweet, filling her lungs with a sense of calm she hadn’t felt since arriving. The smell of fresh greenery wrapped around her like a comforting embrace.

Behind her, Felassan cleared his throat. “You’ve been permitted to work here, in addition to the field,” he informed her, his tone formal, before turning and leaving the room, the door left wide open.

Isera watched him go, but her focus quickly shifted back to the garden. Slowly, she began walking deeper into the space, her footsteps soft on the stone floor. In the distance, she heard the gentle sound of running water and, as she neared the back, she saw it—a waterfall, cascading into a pool filled with blood lotus and black lotus, their dark blooms contrasting with the sparkling water.

Isera made her way back to the front of the garden, her eyes lingering on the vibrant greenery surrounding her. She spotted the desk she’d noticed earlier and sat down, her fingers lightly brushing the surface before her gaze landed on a worn journal. Curiosity piqued, she opened it, flipping through the delicate pages.

Inside were detailed notes and intricately drawn sketches of the plants the previous botanist had cared for. Each entry was meticulous, capturing the growth cycles, ideal conditions, and unique properties of each plant. Isera couldn’t suppress the surge of excitement bubbling up inside her.

This room—it was everything she had ever dreamed of. A sanctuary of thriving plants, a place where life flourished despite the odds. For a brief moment, all the tension, fear, and uncertainty she’d been carrying faded, replaced by the sheer joy of discovery. The familiar voice of Fen’harel cut through the quiet, causing Isera to jolt so violently that she tumbled off the chair. She had been so deep in thought, immersed in the botanist's journal, that the sound of his voice sent a shock through her system. Snapping her head up, she found him standing there, his presence filling the room.

But this time, something was different. He wasn’t wearing the imposing golden armor she’d seen him in before. Instead, he was dressed simply, in cloth, his demeanor calm and possibly more relaxed. Her eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering across her features as she watched him warily.

The room was bathed in soft magical light, the stillness of late night pressing in around them.

“My apologies,” he said quietly, bowing his head slightly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” His tone was softer than usual, and his arms hung loosely at his sides, making him appear almost... unthreatening. “I see Felassan disobeyed orders,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping across the garden.

Isera said nothing as she continued to watch him. Fen’harel looked… exhausted. The dark circles beneath his eyes were more pronounced than ever, and his shoulders sagged with the weight of something unspoken. She sighed, shaking her head slightly, and gently closed the book before standing.

“I can… leave,” she murmured, the words slipping out more quietly than she intended. Her voice faltered, uncertain, as she turned toward the door, her movements slow, as though she wasn’t quite sure if she meant it.

Before she could take another step, Fen’harel raised his arm, blocking her path. His head tilted as he shook his head. “That will not be necessary,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind.

Isera hesitated, her gaze flickering up toward him, uncertainty tugging at her thoughts. She wanted to stay in the conservatory, but she still felt the sting of her lingering frustration from the night before. He hadn’t even apologized.

“It is late,” she whispered, her eyes darting toward the door, unsure of what else to say.

He let his arm fall, the moment stretching out between them. “Then, good night,” he murmured, his tone subdued as he turned away and walked deeper into the atrium, his figure disappearing into the soft glow of the garden.

Isera nodded quietly, leaving the conservatory and heading back to her room without glancing back.