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5lazarus · 3 years ago

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Ultramarine

Sylaise attempts to trademark the color blue, initiating a civil war. Fen'Harel disapproves. Felassan, at this point, is just along for the ride.

Highlights include: Andruil attempts to create biological weapons out of the conquered children of the stone and sell them to absolutely everyone, Mythal may or may not involve, Solas greatly disapproves, and everyone wants to kill Fen'Harel for disapproving. Also an explanation as to why Solas has to think before answering Sera on whether he has ever pissed magic by accident.

Sorta a love story, sorta a comedy, sorta a story about political intrigue--but hey, Solas said Arlathan was even worse than Orlais!

A big thank you to @potatowitch and isomede for talking me through this and getting me to finish it--and for giving me the best ideas for it. Read on Archive of Our Own here.

Felassan drowses in the marketplace, listening to the gossip and basking in the bright sprint light of the Durgas Durgen’len. The Valley of the Children of the Dwarves marks the frontier of Mythal’s demesne, but is no less busy for it. Thaig-crawlers anxious for a Stone-milk fix bring the treasures of their houses. Elves from across the empire come to hawk their wares for the Stone’s blood, and under the Dread Wolf’s supervision, the two species live in uneasy coexistence under the Sky. He is a better procurator than Dirthamen, people whisper, but is that really a high bar to exceed?

Felassan shifts against the cool marble pillar of Mythal’s temple gate and keeps listening. One trader has come from Arlathan, seeking lyrium milked from the heart of the Titan itself. Another has high ambitions of dealing with the Dread Wolf himself, for a fragment of the Titan’s heart. Another is wondering what kind of money could be made out of the Children of the Stone’s need for the blood of their own god. Felassan lazily opens an eye at that. Fen’Harel does not want speculators driving the cost of living up, and is in rather tense negotiations with Mythal for a cleaner way to treat her new stone-children. He takes down the woman’s face: marked with Andruil’s vallaslin, but blue, so moderately wealthy and looking to buy her freedom soon. He resolves to arrange for her to meet an accident soon, but not too soon--he wants to see where she leads to.

“They could be useful, you know,” Andruil’s agent is saying. “Not just as miners, not just for their pretty little crafts. Since they need that fix, they can be controlled. You just need to mine enough lyrium and water it down to milk, and after a generation, you can train them into whatever you want. That’s what the Titans do to them, after all. Why not us? At least we’re brighter. And war’s coming, anyway.”

Felassan opens his eyes and stirs. He makes a show of warming his hands, trying to look like an indigent trader and less like the Dread Wolf’s spy. “War’s always coming, lethallin.”

The woman says, “Not like this. Of course, Mythal always stays neutral.”

“Hail the Adjudicator,” Felassan says pointedly.

Andruil’s agent rolls her eyes. “Hail the Adjudicator. I suppose news makes it to the frontier slow. Sylaise invaded Dirthamen’s lands last spring. Their champions are currently fighting it out for control of Dirthamen’s lapis lazuli monopoly. She’s declared that all colors of the sky are hers, and especially the stones that make blue.”

That’s remarkably stupid, Felassan thinks: but she has always been vain and foolish. He makes his excuses amiably, and heads out to tell the Dread Wolf. At the market’s gates he finds another of the Dread Wolf’s loyalists and sets them to track Andruil’s news-spreader. He ambles through the narrow streets, dodging clever halla guiding floating aravels to their destinations, and slinks into the Dread Wolf’s personal residence. As he suspects, he is still at home. He could hear music drifting from an upstairs window. He knocks on the door, and a hand emerges from the window to throw down the keys. Grinning, Felassan catches them, and lets himself in.

Felassan says, “I suppose you’ve heard the news. Sylaise has trademarked the color blue.” He has come bearing gossip straight from the caravansaries, right to the Dread Wolf’s headquarters—a cheap apartment at the outskirts of Mythal’s newest colony, Durgas Durgen’len. Solas has moved recently; Felassan glances up at the blank ceiling and notes he hasn't had the time to start drafting his starry mosaic yet. The Dread Wolf himself is sprawled in his chair, feet on his desk, reading a report and laughing. Solas grins. He hands Felassan the lyrium tablet. “Alas, not entirely--you know I was planning on painting my ceiling?” Felassan looks down at the tablet. It’s a trade manifest. “I put in a massive order of lapis lazuli seasons ago--and it arrived safely this morning, despite the current trade war. Sylaise may be fighting for the mines, but production cannot continue when there is war going on. So we have the largest supply of lapis lazuli in all of Elvhenan. And the All-Mother wrote me that they’re running low on blue pigment in Arlathan--so Sylaise will not have enough ultramarine paint to finish that magnificent dome she was planning for her palace.” Felassan reads through the trade manifest, impressed despite himself. The Dread Wolf preens slightly. Whoever named him pegged him perfectly. He does so like to be praised. He says, “I suppose you started hoarding pigment when you heard she started the project. So we’ll make some money. But what about Andruil? Her spy’s doomsaying war and talking about--shaping the stone-children with lyrium itself, turning them into a whole disposable workforce. How are negotiations with Mythal?” The merry mood dampens. Solas taps the crystalline music player, and the song shifts. It sounds like lyrium, except cleaner and somehow sad. He says, “The dwarves listen to this. They play it on their own crystal communications array. I’ve tracked two in the Valley, and there are at least three more. Beautiful, isn’t it? Unthinking, but with its own natural harmony.” Felassan thinks it sounds like waking up in the bright morning, tousled in the sweating arms of a still-drunk lover, when he untangles himself from the sticky sheets and picks up the abandoned wine glasses, knocked over but unbroken on the floor. It sounds like flicking a wine glass, slightly hungover. It sounds like the last time Solas let him stay over. Felassan coughs, a bit embarrassed; the lyrium song caught him. Fucking dwarves: he still doesn’t understand their enchanments. “What do you want me to do about the spy? Kill her?” The Dread Wolf looks meditative. “No. Not yet, at least. We do not need to give Andruil more reasons for war, and if we need to escalate let us have one of Mythal’s temple guards do it. If she’s talking about shaping flesh, she’s been talking to Ghilan’nain. And we know Ghilan’nain has been talking to Mythal.” He smiles thinly. That answers that, then. Negotiations with Mythal are not going well, and this petty war between Sylaise and Dirthamen covers up something nastier. The alliances between the Evanuris are shifting, and that leaves Fen’Harel and their people in the lurch. The Dread Wolf says, “If Andruil wants Mythal’s little stones, she will have to come to me first. Sylaise’s vanity will not be the reason for outright war. I will speak to her and Dirthamen both, and then we shall see what hand she plays next.”

Mythal’s court is terrifying. Felassan trails Solas, who has traded his usual homespun tunic for a more impressive set of lyrium-inscribed leather armor. The lyrium sings as they walk, and Felassan can almost taste the words. Solas projects an aura of calm authority, with a testier threat of violence underneath. It’s the lyrium, somehow. The Dread Wolf is manipulating it. When they approach the throne, Felassan kneels but Solas only ducks his head. Insane, Felassan thinks. He’s caught wind of an incipient civil war so he’s decided to tease Mythal. What a fucking madman. Mythal sighs. “Get up, you fool.” Felassan glances at Solas worriedly. Solas says laconically, “She means you.” Hurriedly he rises to his feet, blushing. Mythal shakes her head. “I have always said the People are too quick to bend the knee. I expect more pride from your people, Dread Wolf.” Solas gestures at him to retreat to his back. Felassan gladly slinks back into the shadows, and scans the hall for potential enemies. It is empty but for the lyrium ostentatiously woven into the very brickwork, shaping the earth into a temperature-controlled paradise. She could pull at it and made the whole palace implode, but Solas could as well. Even Felassan could give that a try. He realizes, slightly shocked, that the All-Mother trusts the Dread Wolf, as much as she is capable of trusting anyone. The All-Mother rises from her throne and stalks down to greet her favorite. She places one claw on his shoulder and caresses his face with another. The Dread Wolf stiffens but does not draw back. “My child,” she says fondly. “You’ve come to ask about the blue war, then.” “It’s a particularly idiotic reason to start a civil war,” the Dread Wolf says. “Particularly since I have enough ultramarine pigment to last out Sylaise’s monument to her own stupidity. And my workers have found a lapis lazuli cache in the Durgas Durgen’len, so we will be able to shift productive in the valley from lyrium to paint readily enough.” “Your workers,” Mythal says. “You mean my workers.” Solas says, “I do not own them.” Felassan tenses. When he was manumitted, Solas swore never to hold another in bondage, even the durgen’len. They are his workers only because they toil under his supervision, and Solas is quick to point out that he pays them and encourages their economic freedom beyond his holds. Mythal is doing this deliberately to upset him. Felassan knows how much Solas resents how Mythal keeps her hands on the reins of her freed slaves. He knows how much Solas resents how that is still how the court thinks of him, encouraged by Mythal: the All-Mother’s freed slave, her Dread Wolf—and not even his workers are safe from her clutches.

Solas says, “My man found one of Andruil’s agents, spreading rumors of war in the marketplace—and worse, suggesting we splinter the autonomy of your little stones, and addict them to their stone-milk to keep them pliable. You know Ghilan’nain put that into her head, and Ghilan’nain is not to be trusted. She dares too much, we cannot—“

“Ghilan’nain is not to be trusted?” Mythal is amused. “Dread Wolf, you’re the one who put her eyes out.” Solas opens his mouth and closes it. Felassan looks down at the ground. He has never seen him at a loss for words before. It is less satisfying than he imagined. Mythal laughs. “Trust in my judgement, as you always have. Ghilan’nain may overreach but her experimentations with lyrium and my new subjects will do Elvhenan no harm. These…weapons are soulless, but not at a risk to our own souls.”

“You do not know that,” Solas says. “Is this why you have allowed Sylaise’s hostilities to increase? Are you looking to test her new experiments in this petty war? Nevermind her…trademark,” he sneers. “We will begin production forthwith. This war will stop here.”

Mythal says, “War is inevitable. Winning is not. When will I next see you at court?”

Solas leaves seething, Felassan dogging his footsteps. Felassan follows him home. It is clear that he is upset. Felassan himself is more frightened than angry, but the gods are different than the rest of the People, even ones like the Dread Wolf, who had been born a spirit made enslaved flesh.

Solas lets him enter his home and finds a bottle of wine. He pours them both a glass, hands shaking, and settles back in his desk chair.

Felassan drags the chair in front of his desk and places it next to him.“I thought you were going to fight her,” he says. “I thought you were going to snap and yell at her.”

Solas says, “Drink.” He leans forward in his chair, pride demon eyes staring him down. Felassan wishes he would blink. He looks away and drinks the thick, sweet red wine that tastes too fresh, too close to the grape. This was a wine to get drunk to, not to drink.

He casts about for something to say, anything to move that stare away. Ghilan’nain and her grotesqueries are not an option. Solas will not respond if he tackles the issue of Mythal directly. Finally, he tries, “You’d think she’d do something about Andruil’s spies.”

Solas quirks an eyebrow. “Why would she? She’s paying her.” Now he leans back. The gold night is slating through the apartment’s window and lends a shimmer to his skin. Felassan watches him sip. The apartment might be small and a bit rundown, but Solas has arranged himself impeccably, glorying in the natural light. He is a god, he is Mythal’s procurator, he is a lord in his own right: and he is still ever the artist.

“What,” Felassan says.

“Oh yes,” Solas shifts in his chair, gesturing with his glass, “the All-Mother has spoken, before witnesses—yourself included—that Ghilan’nain’s experimentations with lyrium and Mythal’s own little stones are for the good of Elvhenan.” He barks a bitter laugh. “You know the dwarves sing a hymn to their own children, about the promise of Mythal’s freedom? Let me show you.” He waves a hand at the crystalline radio and once again the music plays, the odd echoing that vibrates within the nose and the smallest bones in the ear and the jaw.

Felassan closes his eyes and listens as the voice of the Stone reverberates, “Ir sa tel’nal, Mythal las ma theneras. Ir san’a emma. Him Sola evanuris. Da’durgen’lin, Banal males elgara. Bellanaris, bellanaris.”

Solas says, “She uses me to keep them placid, promising them their freedom—freedom of thought, through their imagination, but they will never freely walk under Elgar’nan’s sun. I have no love for the Children of the Stone. I find them lacking in understanding. What can be gleamed, by people who do not dream? But no one, for all the horror they have wrecked with their earthshaking, deserves Ghilan’nain. Mythal promised me my freedom. That should be extended to all the workers under my control.”

Felassan throws back his drink and sets his glass on the desk. “Pour me another one,” he says. “So. What are we going to do, to stop this war? Because that is what you intend to do. To make the need for these lyrium-worked stone weapons redundant. What do you need me to do?”

Solas is taken aback for a moment, though he should know better. He was the one who left him, after all. Solas reaches for him. Felassan leans into the touch reassuringly, knowing Solas is already making excuses, a moment of weakness, a moment of sentimentality, he has been alone for so long. They lock eyes, Felassan thinks let me stay over again, let me love you but the music changes pitch and Solas gets out of his chair to turn it off, and then shifts to the kitchen for better wine.

They spend the night strategizing how to prevent a war, but when Solas goes to bed, he chooses to go alone.

Arlathan is resplendent for the peace summit, but the Dread Wolf’s retinue is glorious in their wonderfully-dyed ultramarine silks. It is a statement and it is a bold one, and Felassan is feeling smug, because not only are they, the former foot soldiers of Mythal’s army, wearing an entire kingdom’s worth of cash on their backs—they also look magnificent in blue.

“You’re strutting,” Felassan tells Solas, beautiful in a blue tunic and a woven gold scarf.

Solas laughs. “Look at them, watching,” he says happily. “I see Sylaise’s little spies chattering away—the Dread Wolf has enough ultramarine to turn out his own court, and spare. I love this pageantry. Next time, if we live to see another time, I will ask the dyers to dress the cloth like peacocks. And then we truly will put on a show.”

Felassan was more referring to how he was walking so everyone would look at his ass, which was certainly one of the nicest he himself has ever seen, but he does like the idea of both of them done up in turquoise and gold, glittering in the sunset. Solas rarely dresses well outside of court, preferring the anonymity or alternate political statement of plain dress. But the message here is clear: the Dread Wolf carries enough wealth, independent from Mythal, to stop a war.

They process into Mythal and Elgar’nan’s palace, which is of course overheated. The ritual of welcome is interminable. Mythal is clearly amused, Elgar’nan is already drunk, one of Falon’Din’s slaves attempts to trip Solas’ herald, and Sylaise glowers the whole time. Solas is simply serene. Felassan does his best to arrange his face, but he’s best at parties, not the cult aspect of life as a servant of an immortal godking. When he first hit on that bombastic new recruit in the barracks, this was not how he thought it would end. He really had thought they would all be dead before then.

Eventually they are released to Solas’ own wing of the palace, much smaller than all the other children of Mythal and their co-rulers. There Solas will arbitrate the terms of the peace agreement between Sylaise and Dirthamen. Even for a former slave—and a rumored bastard child—the quarters are grandiose. An obsequious slave branded by Andruil’s insignia informs them that Sylaise specially redesigned them in line with the latest fashions, and then makes a quick gesture with his hand as Solas enters. Felassan catches it: pinky and pointer up, middle and ring finger touching the thumb. He’s made the sign of the wolf at them. He’s asking for help.

“Rubies,” Solas says. “Gold. Far too gaudy.” They stand in the atrium, bejeweled and overheated, with rooms all along the courtyard. The Dread Wolf’s retinue—loyal soldiers, clerks from across the caste system, kitchen staff and cleaners—all stay close. The heat is overwhelming. The red seems to shimmer in Arlathan’s bright light

“Well,” Felassan says. “It’s gaudy, but it’s a peace offering from Sylaise. Anyway, you’re one to talk. You’re wearing enough blue dye to buy an army.” He brushes against Solas, trying to get his attention, and Solas leans into the touch and then abruptly moves away. For fuck’s sake, Fen’Harel, Felassan thinks. For once I’m not trying anything.

“Which is the point,” Solas says, refusing to look at him. “This though,” he waves a dismissive hand, “is a migraine. But the expense and insult to Sylaise for redesigning apartments she so kindly put together…”

Felassan says, “I think some of this is colored glass.” He flicks a particularly obnoxious cut gem over the threshold of the drawing room. It resounds like lyrium-song, but even more distorted, haunting and hot in his ears. It’s red lyrium, and the retinue pauses and draws together quickly.

“Touch nothing!” Solas barks. “Pack up your things. This is red lyrium, and it corrupts what it touches.” He shakes his head. “Unsubtle. This is a gift from Sylaise, but at Andruil’s prompting.” He puts his hand on Felassan’s shoulder. “I must ask a favor from you, my friend. Stay close to me. I need you to be my slow arrow, to catch Andruil out.”

Felassan remains Solas’ only guard. The rest work quickly to calculate and capture the red lyrium contamination in their quarters. He’s nervous. Normally the Evanuris are more subtle, but Andruil has changed since the war. He tells him about the sign Sylaise’s slave made and Solas just looks smug, choosing to keep the story to himself. Of course Fen’Harel has spies in every court, of course Fen’Harel knows who needs him before they even do, of course Fen’Harel doesn’t communicate anything beyond need-to-know even to him, his personal guard. He thinks, not for the first time, that Solas is a hard man to love. At least Solas knows that too.

The peace summit is boring. Sylaise puts on a show, decked out in lyrium-woven silver and lapis lazuli, which makes her brilliant red hair shine gold and rather disruptive. Dirthamen is more severe. His graying hair is braided with silver thread, making the red in it even more distinctive, and the lyrium-silk he wears whispers the impressions of all that he has seen. At this point Felassan has ceased to be rattled by how very much Solas looks like him. Fen’Harel keeps his head shaved because it is anonymous and convenient, and also because it makes him look even less like his rumored half-siblings.

The children of Mythal gather around a round table. Solas opens negotiates. Felassan is bored. There is so much lyrium in the room, it thrums in his sinuses and he is afraid his nose will bleed. The conquest of the Durgas Durgen’len has brought plenty to Elvhenan. The excess is rather grotesque, and while Felassan likes grotesque—why else would he be in the Dread Wolf’s retinue?—the other Evanuris are a bit much. Absolutely no one in the room brings up Andruil or Ghilan’nain’s name, but their presence is felt.

The meeting ends after Solas successfully convinces both to sign a nonaggression pact that includes reporting to the other when they begin outfitting for war. They can track the movement of Andruil’s experimental soldiers that way, though the clause does not require them to inform Mythal. They have enough spies. Solas has them sign the contract in blood laced with lyrium, providing his own knife.

“Ah,” Sylaise says. “Fen’Harel’s fang. How cute. Did my mother give you that?”

Solas smiles coldly. “My father, actually. I have never asked how he received it.” Score, Felassan thinks. Sylaise has always been a fucking idiot.

Dirthamen says, “You’ve never asked?”

Solas says, “It was his once and is mine now. I rather think I have made written is backstory.” He glances at the contract, slowly drying on the table.

Felassan says helpfully, “In your blood. Literally.” Solas catches his eye and they both begin to grin before he looks away hurriedly. “Now, everyone will know, that it is at this daggerpoint that war was averted and peace brokered between two of the greatest powers of Elvhenan, and the nation’s supply of blue dye restored.”

Solas says mildly, “I should add that Mythal has asked me to draft legislature making it clear that colored dyes themselves cannot be patented, though of course ratios and forms of manufacturing may remain trade secrets to the craftsman.” He bows slightly to Sylaise, who visibly grinds her teeth. Felassan can hear the squeak.

Dirthamen says, “Good. If you will excuse me? I must tender my regards to our mother. She and I have much to discuss.”

Solas says, “Give her my love.” He means it, too. For all that Mythal has wrecked, Solas has always loved her. He may have removed the mark from his face—and Felassan’s too—but the writing is in the blood, as the saying goes. The vallaslin can never truly be erased.

Dirthamen leaves and Sylaise follows hurriedly, and Solas leans forward, elbows on the table, steepling his hands. He rubs the bridge of his nose, staring at the contract.

“Nicely done,” Felassan says. “Dirthamen came very close to acknowledging you as his brother. You might’ve alienated Sylaise, but she was always a lost cause.”

“I’m not,” Solas says sharply. He drops his hands. “As you know. But it’s interesting that he has an audience with Mythal. Perhaps Andruil approached him first, rather than Sylaise. Perhaps this all was yet another game of hers, testing to see how easily her children fracture if she chooses to leave Elvhenan unattended. Or perhaps they’re simply gossiping together, as a mother is wont to do, with her only son.”

Felassan says, “Fine. Forget I said anything. Sorry. But no one’s tried to kill you that well yet. The red lyrium was a cheap shot, but Sylaise has always been cheap. What now?”

Solas says, “I need to clean my dagger, file some paperwork, and see when Sylaise will try to kill me again. I hope, for your sake, that it happens so soon, because I can see that you’re bored.”

“Nothing like an assassination attempt to liven up a peace treaty,” Felassan says. “If you would try to risk your life in more entertaining ways, I would not complain.”

Solas says, “Don’t worry. Andruil’s slave, the one you saw? He invited us to a party. He’s working for the Forgotten Ones. Things will get entertaining yet.”

Geldauron throws the best parties. Everyone knows that. It’s because he’s no longer corporeal, so he focuses on the vibes of the space, to bring everyone’s desires to fruition. He is also a wonderful musician, because he is music and thought becomes music, and he knows how to sing everyone’s desires into a wonderful piece. Felassan is excited, because Solas is his favorite person to get fucked up with, and while both of them will have to pretend to be sober, the night promises to be fun.

Geldauron throws the best parties. He’s also a fucking asshole. The two return to Solas’ quarters to prepare—Solas changes his clothes and Felassan smokes instead. He lounges on Solas’ bed, watching him dress. Solas swaps the cloth leggings for blue-dyed leather and a gold-edged tunic. Picking up a wolfskin, he turns to Felassan, only to catch him ogling his ass. He raises an eyebrow.

Felassan says, “Good choice. But if you take those off you’re not getting back in them any time soon.”

Solas snorts. “I doubt it is that kind of party.”

“We could make it that kind of party.”

Solas grins. He says, “No.”

“I thought you like mixing business and pleasure,” Felassan says. He takes a drag and, concentrating, blows a smoke ring toward him.

Solas’ smile fades, and he returns to the mirror, adjusting his collar. “Not now,” he says. “I cannot afford to be so reckless anymore.”

Felassan sees himself, desirable in the mirror, and Solas looking frustrated. He says, “Why did you ask me to come along?”

“Because I trust you,” Solas says readily. “Because I care about you, and I will behave more cautiously so I may keep you safe. As you would to protect me. And that is why I must ask you—stop this. I am your commander now. It’s inappropriate concerning our differences in rank. We might no longer be slaves, but I have certain responsibilities.” He stops, seeing Felassan laughing in the mirror. “What?”

Felassan sidles up and puts his arms around him. “You’re so full of shit,” he says fondly. Solas stiffens, and then relaxes. “Sure. I’ll stop. I’m sorry.”

“I,” Solas begins, and then stops. “Yes. Thank you.”

Felassan thinks, you want me to persuade you, don’t you? You’ve always enjoyed being courted. But tonight, I’d rather not. It’s my turn for some flattery. I’m tired of being hung out to dry. He pushes him away and goes to the door. “So,” he says. “Where in the Void are we going? Didn’t Geldauron get rid of his physical form? This is a trap, isn’t it?”

“We wouldn’t go if it weren’t,” Solas says. “You asked for adventure, and I am glad to deliver.”

They have to take three different eluvians and briefly melt into the Void to get to the spot in the Abyss where Geldauron has shaped according to his munificent Will. Melting always makes Felassan have to piss, but there are no bathrooms in the Abyss. Geldauron eschews such mundanities.

Felassan grumbles, “Subject and object, actor and acted upon. Easy to say when you’ve jettisoned your bladder to become a fog of resentment and envy. That still smells like piss.”

The Abyss, triggered by Felassan’s desire for shape, sense, and a toilet, warps. Tiles, Felassan thinks. Please. A nice hole in the ground to piss in. I’ll take a tree. Solas waves an idle hand, and a cobbled path appears out of the blankness. A white threshold opens at the end. From there they feel the vibrato of lyrium-song, electric and hungry. Felassan shivers. Carefully they step on the path. Halfway up, Felassan stops.

“What do you think will happen if I piss off the map?” Felassan says. “Into the Abyss?”

Solas pauses. There is mischief in his eyes. “We know that Geldauron will not bother to manifest anything to accommodate our corporeality.”

Felassan squints into the blankness. “If I conquer his Will with my Will, it won’t bounce back.”

“It would be purely an experiment of magical energy,” Solas agrees. They stare at each other.

Felassan says, “I bet you I can aim farther than you.”

“There is no distance to measure,” Solas says. “It’s the Void.”

“Coward,” Felassan says. “Don’t you need to take a piss too?”

Solas looks exasperated. One more taunt, Felassan thinks, and I’ve got him. He’s never been able to back down from a bet.

“I bet you I can Will it farther than you, and get rid of the smell,” Felassan says. “And, anyway, there’s not going to be anywhere more private to take a piss than our personal pathway through the Abyss. Especially if we’re walking into a trap. Unless you want to weaponize your bladder.” He pauses. “Is that why Geldauron smells like piss?

“Geldauron stinks because as he lost his physical form, his body relieved itself of all its former functions. He captured himself in the moment of his dying renewal. Unfortunate, but to be expected for one as foolish as he,” Solas says, amused. “But to your question—are you saying you think you can piss magic?”

Felassan says, “Wanna bet?”

The lyrium-high hits them both as a physical force as they pass the threshold, and Felassan’s heart skips a beat as it thrums through his body, teasing his sinuses and twinging behind his eyes and ears. Solas takes a deep, steadying breath, and Reality begins to vein, blueing the whiteness into shadowy shape. Felassan sniffs: lightning, storm clouds, fertile earth, and—that’s it, just the hint of piss.

He whispers, “I think I found Geldauron.”

Solas chokes back a laugh.

The slightly stinking vibration that is the Forgotten One Geldauron wraps around them and gives a token attempt at conquering their Will. Solas brushes him off as if he were a fly. Felassan thinks very hard, shit piss shit piss shit piss fucker—and the buzzing stops. Geldauron backs off, giving off a sense of being decidedly rumpled. Felassan is smug.

“Greetings, the Will that is Geldauron,” Solas says. There is a touch of irony to his voice.

Geldauron arranges the particles of the voice into a throat, complete with tongue, lips, teeth, and vocal cord. Felassan eyes it with disgust, Solas with interest. Felassan has always thoroughly enjoyed having a body, and has never understood why the Forgotten Ones gave up their form to vibrate in the Abyss—and, of course, the fact that they backed down from fighting the Pillars of the Earth when thousands were dying in those earthquakes does not incline him to being kind. Solas, though, has always liked to experiment.

Geldauron says, “Welcome to the Void. I see you’ve brought a guard.” Felassan stands up a bit straighter and attempts to look intimidating. The vibration that is Geldauron twinges. “You wouldn’t trust your old friends?”

Solas says lightly, “I especially wouldn’t trust old friends. How’s your lyrium-mining operation going?”

“Better, if you’d give me the workers.”

“Which I would, if you added basic safeguards to your mindvision. The Abyss is still Evhenan, and follows the same operational safety protocol as part of the empire.”

Geldauron scoffs. “Anaris is still pissed you backed out of the deal. He’s looking for a better buyer.”

Solas says, “Anaris caused the death of three hundred and twenty-nine elvhen miners from my home province. Not every man has the ability to project, with utmost confidence, the certainty of their own mortality while handling certainly noxious substances. Is he here?”

Around them the party swirls in blasting lyrium-song and crystal colors, and Felassan closes his eyes to feel the Will solidify as the voices sing. He is not drunk and only a little high, but there is a hive and there is the mind and there are infinite and only two hundred people in this Void, just vibing, and six at least are vining around each other, flesh to plant twirling photosynthesis, and he tastes—

Solas says, “If you think your profit margin outweighs the worth of any freethinking person in my employ, I will override your thought-form myself.” He puts a hand out and grips a shoulder as he forces Geldauron to take shape, Will snapping Will back into Reality, and Felassan shakes himself and watches as the old god flashes into a form, snarling, and then unravels again. Showing up the host at his own party, Felassan thinks. That’s a mistake.

He steps in, to back him up. “Can you still be the Will when others have more Will than you?” He waves a hand through where Geldauron’s vibrato played. There are others staring at them, taking physical shape, and now the Abyss becomes a black castle, lyrium roots twinging at their feet. The air is hungry. He suppresses a shiver.

“Cute,” a voice drawls, and then there is a body to match: the slave Felassan saw, who warned them about the red lyrium in their quarters. Then the vallaslin melts away and he grows taller, face sharpening and eyes narrowing, pupils elongating to slits.

“Anaris,” Solas says neutrally. Felassan looks at him quickly. There’s history here. The most physical of the Forgotten Ones is unearthly handsome, as aesthetically perfect as a monument, and thus completely unfuckable. Judging from the slight tension in Solas’ posture, Fen’Harel once disagreed. Felassan checks a sigh. He looks at Felassan. “Give us a moment. I’ll meet you near the path.” Felassan pauses, because leaving him alone with the Forgotten Ones is ridiculous, however ridiculously overpowered Solas is, but Solas gives him that cold Fen’Harel look so he backs off without trying to argue. There is never any point. He never listens, and out of the few arguments Felassan has ever won with him, it has only been because Solas has already decided to agree. He bows slightly, only to make him uncomfortable, and wanders off into the Void. Maybe they are just meeting to talk over labor disputes. Maybe it is something more—but it is not every night that Felassan finds himself partying in the Abyss, and so he intends to take advantage of it while he still can.

Felassan has a crowd of sympathetic quasi-corporeal spirits surrounding him, and they all pet him and tell him he is right. He is drunk and this is the Fade leaching into the Abyss to massage his desires into reality, but that does not spoil it.

“I am done with bad bosses,” Felassan announces to the crowd. “Bad bosses who say they love you and take you along to arbitrate weird labor disputes with their exes and then cut you out of the interesting part. Bad bosses who when they’re promoted above you stop sleeping with you but keep you around anyway. This has been a centuries-long break-up and I deserve better.”

A Compassion spirit says, “You should tell him. Communication is always key.”

Felassan wails, “But he told me!”

The spirits rustle. The Compassion spirit looks slightly less sympathetic. A spirit of Authority and their friend, one of Geldauron’s lackeys who couldn’t quite eschew their form entirely, say in unison, “Is it the debasement that you like?”

Felassan pauses. “No. Yes.” He thinks. “No. Just the presence. I could handle the profession. I can! I am. But mixing business and pleasure?”

Suddenly, out of the Abyss, comes Solas’s voice, and then Solas’s presence. He says, amused, “Anaris is not my ex. How have you managed to get drunk off the Abyss? There is nothing here.”

Felassan flushes. Solas offers him a hand and helps pull him up. Felassan says haughtily, “I find the Nothingness very intoxicating.” Solas’ eyes crinkle, and Felassan hangs onto him a second longer before Solas gently lets go. Felassan says, “Someone manifested the drunk. Not me.”

Solas says, “Yes. Compassion, or Authority, manifested your current state of inebriation. Not any of your desire to taste oblivion.”

Felassan says, “Yes, that’s right. Everyone brought oblivion to me.”

Solas chuckles. “Ridiculous.” He takes hold of Felassan and walks him into the blackness. “Place more drunk,” he whispers. “We’re being followed.”

Felassan stumbles. Solas leans over to catch him. Felassan whispers in his ear, “Anaris? Geldauron? Ghilan’nain? Which one of your enemies is it today?”

Solas’ lips brush his cheek. “Andruil,” he mouths. He presses a lingering kiss to his cheek, and Felassan draws back, furious. Solas closes his left eye quickly, barely even a wink: Felassan whirls around, and Andruil jams a needle into his neck, and then he is falling as Solas backs away, eyes flashing with Mythal’s lightning.

“Where the fuck is that fucker?”

Felassan is rudely shaken awake. “Easy, easy,” he grumbles, putting his hands out. Anaris, beauty distorted by frothing rage, slaps them away. Felassan sits up, takes stock: he is sitting on the worn stone path out of the Abyss, hanging over the Avoid. Anaris looms over him. Fen’Harel is nowhere to be found. Felassan decides to play dumb. “What fucker?”

Anaris says, “That fucker. Your fucker. Fen’Harel.”

Felassan objects: Solas hasn’t let him fuck him since Mythal made him a god, citing the power differential. That, of course, has not stopped them from flirtation, tension, and angst, and Felassan is occasionally jealous that Solas seems to fuck everyone but him—Anaris, really?—but that all goes to say: Fen’Harel is not his fucker. He opens his mouth to say all that, but Anaris shoves him roughly to the ground.

“He’s mine,” Anaris says.

Felassan props himself up on his elbow. “Yeah. I had a nice talk with a spirit of Compassion early….” He looks over his shoulder, trying to find the entrance to the Abyss where Geldauron’s party was. There is nothing, which makes sense, because this is the Abyss. He shrugs. “Really, he’s no one’s but his own. Built his own brand on that. Terrible commitment issues, and not the most appropriate commander—you need to learn to let him go—“

“The fuck are you on about?” Anaris stares at him. “He broke our fucking contract. Mythal ordered him to sell us her workers, he backed out. And now he’s sitting on an entire kingdom of gold because of Andruil’s stupid gambit—biologic-fucking-weapons. Not like he’s doing anything useful with those dwarves. May as well test them out in one of Sylaise’s petty wars.”

Felassan stares up at him, disgusted. “They’re not weapons,” he says. “They’re people. Just because they don’t dream…we threw down the Pillars of the Earth and scorn them for making machines of their own people. We can do better than that.”

Anaris says, “Did I ask for moralism? No? Gods. You’re definitely one of his followers, ugh. Does he keep you around for his conscience?” He shakes his head. “I’m done with that shit. Geldauron said—whatever. Where the fuck is he? He owes me money. He broke our contract!”

Felassan thinks, I’m done with this shit. He rubs his aching head wearily. “I think Andruil took him.” He isn’t quite sure, but he thinks Solas was trying to protect him. He’s never been very good at letting his guards guard him, but Felassan is rather glad to still be alive. Doubtless enough time as Mythal’s thrall will teach him to let others die.

Anaris swears so loudly and angrily the path, which is itself a thought form, shakes slightly. Felassan eyes him warily. He points in a random direction. “I think they went that way.” A doorway, shining brilliant with white light, opens up onto the path. Felassan considers it. The wondrous thing about living in a malleable reality is that if one Wills hard enough, it comes true. Felassan wants Anaris to fuck off and find Andruil, so the gateway appears. “Nice,” he says aloud.

Anaris sets off. Felassan lays down on the floor, which obligingly broadens so his limbs won’t dangle into the Void. This is the sort of mess only Fen’Harel could get embroiled in. He thought they were just investigating a trade embargo, then a war, and now it’s a labor dispute. He pities himself and his aching head a little bit longer, and then rolls to his feet. “Right,” he tells himself. “Let’s get him out of there.” With that, he walks into the light.

The Void opens into a dark forest, somewhere south of Arlathan—Andruil’s demesne. The earth is warm and welcoming below his feet, and the trees press closely, watching his back. Felassan can hear the night-birds sing, bats chitter their paths through the darkness, and the ever-present insect scream. He looses a breath. He walks through the material world reassuringly, touching a tree or caressing a leaf as he goes. Anaris’ deep footprints mark an angry path through the mud. Felassan tastes the rain-rich air: it has rained before and it will rain again. Andruil will be quite damp.

A clearing with a warm fire opens up through the woods. Felassan hears Andruil’s laughter. Obeying his prey instincts, he hurriedly clambers up a tree to get a better view. Solas is trussed up, hands and feet bound, leaned against a tree. He is entirely nude, covered in mud, and looking a bit scratched up and tired. Felassan raises a hand and waves at him from the canopy. Solas looks up, makes a face, and looks down quickly.

Andruil says, “No. He’s mine. He ruined my bioengineering program and now my mother expects me to pay out of pocket for the trials. We’re going to test the red lyrium armor on him first and present him to her as a gift. You can use him when we’re done with target practice.”

Anaris stomps his foot. “He broke our contract and bankrupted half the Forgotten Ones—and you promised us you’d invest. I claim him, in the name of the Abyss.”

Solas, temporarily forgotten, begins to chew on the ropes binding his wrists. Felassan stifles a laugh. Intervening now would be suicide. He’ll wait for the right moment.

Andruil says, “Fuck off. Your Abyss is nothing.” Literally, Felassan thinks. It is an abyss after all. “He is mine to do what I wish. After what he did to Ghilan’nain, his life is forfeit.”

Solas mutters, “Notwithstanding what she did to me and mine.”

Anaris says, “Ghilan’nain isn’t here to pursue her claim.” He strikes a pose. “By the All-Mother’s law, there is only one recourse. A duel of honor!”

Solas says, “How flattering. And the winner gets my entrails. One does love to see the letter of the law followed.”

Andruil kicks him over; Solas takes the blow and falls with a grunt. She says, “Fine.” She draws her magnificent bow, reinforced with lyrium mined from the heart of the Titans itself.

Solas calls out, “Sylaise made her armor—there’s a flaw just above the right hip, where it curves to show off her shape. The silverite is weakest there. Stab well, my friend. And quickly, if you do want my entrails.”

Andruil shrieks, “Shut up,” but Anaris blurs, skin tearing into bear hide and his skull elongating into a bestial mix of lizard, bear, and elf. The two gods wrestle; Solas hurriedly rolls out of their way, towards the tree Felassan climbed. His nose is bleeding from the kick in the face, and his bottom lip is swollen. He holds up his wrists, and then twists them, easily slipping a hand out. He gestures: throw down a knife.

Anaris is stabbing wildly at Andruil now, trying desperately to get at the weak spot at her right hip. Andruil has her hands fixed around his throat. Felassan passes down the knife, unwilling to get involved in the carnage. Solas, rather than cutting through the bonds at his feet, stabs it into the grass and leans over the hilt, hiding it from view. He puts his hand back into the loops of rope, and waits.

“Try a sixty-degree angle,” he suggests idly. “No, twist the knife, if you please.”

Andruil’s hands fall from Anaris’ neck and he stands up, baring his bruised throat at the Dread Wolf. The Dread Wolf stares at him, amused. Anaris says, “Dead.”

Fen’Harel says, “Unlikely, but you are welcome for the break. Twist her neck to make sure. You owe me your victory, Anaris.” He smiles, teeth showing. Above, Felassan shudders slightly. He’s left his wolf’s teeth in—normally he eschews mixing shape as gauche. “She would have killed you outright, if I had not helped. You owe me my freedom.” He makes a show of displaying the ropes around his wrists.

“Go fuck yourself,” Anaris says angrily. “Fuck off, you halfbreed whoreson slavey bastard. I will burn my mark into your flesh, you imbecilic—” A gold-tipped arrow protrudes from his throat. His eyes widen, he tries to scream, but his knees crumble. Anaris collapses to the ground. Andruil, eyes flashing blood, drops her bow.

“My victory,” she says. “I never lose.” She presses a hand to her bleeding side and stumbles over to Solas. He scrabbles back, but she has him cornered against the trunk. Felassan pulls out his own bow and aims.

Andruil prints her bloody hand onto Solas’ face and pushes his head against the tree. Quickly he tugs his hand free of the ropes and grabs at the knife he hid, stabbing at her back. The armor dents the knife, and Felassan sees Solas begin to panic, but then she coughs in his face and falls over.

“Fuck,” Solas says. Felassan jumps down and quickly cuts the ropes at his ankles. Solas slowly pulls himself up, massaging his feet. “They’re in uthenera now, dreaming their wounds away.”

“And you’re naked,” Felassan says.

“And covered in the blood of my enemies,” he returns, holding his hands out. “Like one of Andruil’s own slaves.” He wipes at his face, but only succeeds in smearing the blood across his face. “Let us go—before they wake.” And so, they escape. Felassan tells everyone Solas chewed through the ropes, because that is better than the alternative: being drenched in the blood of your enemies, naked and afraid.

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onlyfools-fall-foryou · 7 years ago

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So I wrote for the school magazine but this was never published because we ran out of time. Long story. Just gonna post this here.

Lina’s Completely Self-Indulgent To-do List for You and Me

Most of these listed items are pretty mature. By that, I mean high school and older.

Upcoming Movies: Dunkirk Why don’t we just watch all of Christopher Nolan’s movies while we’re at it? Dunkirk is, yes, another WWII movie on the side of the Allies, but it’s a Nolan film, so I’m not complaining. Nobody’s complaining. Like Nolan films, it’s incredibly star-studded, with his usual Cillian Murphy, Tom Hardy etc. Nolan really hasn’t given away anything by his short and simple trailers, other than what people already know about the Battle of Dunkirk. (Spoilers, they get rescued.) Release Date: July 21, USA

Spider-man: Homecoming Can I just say, I am loving new spidey. That guy is ador(k)able. Marvel is finally giving us the sassy teenage Peter that we didn’t know we needed. Release Date: July 5, Finland

Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets Luc Besson, director of /Leon, Nikita, and The Fifth Element/ decided to turn the futuristic sci-fi time-traveling comic series, /Valerian and Laureline,/ into a movie starring Dane DeHaan and the beautiful, beautiful Cara Delevingne. (I was slightly obsessed with Cara Delevingne in 2016.) Let’s just hope that Cara is better at acting here than she was in /Paper Towns/. Release Date: July 21, USA

Detroit From the only female director who has won the Academy Award for Best Director, Kathryn Bigelow, director of /The Hurt Locker and Zero Dark Thirty,/ comes another possibly scarring, possibly life-changing movie based on modern historical events. (By modern, I mean 50 years ago.) This time, it’s about the Algiers Motel Incident, taken place during the 1967 12th Street Riot that left three black males dead and two white females and seven black males brutally beaten by the police. Remember when I said this would be scarring? It stars John Boyega and many other beauties. Release Date: August 4, USA

The Dark Tower This is the beginning of a possible movie franchise adapted from Stephen King’s novel series of the same name. Starring Idris Elba as our formidable hero and Matthew McConaughey as our mysterious villain. If you’ve read any Stephen King or seen any adaptations, notably I’ve seen /The Mist,/ you know they’re chilling and terrifying and scarring. Watch with caution. Release Date: August 4, USA

Movies If you’re a nerd who likes to spend most of their life in a screen like me, just invest in a Netflix account (unfortunately, I get nothing out of this promo). And, all the Netflix original shows are top notch because Netflix goes all out on their shows. (Edit: DON’T TRUST NETFLIX. THEY MIGHT CANCEL YOUR FAVOURITE SHOW.)

Patriots Day (2016) It’s about the 2013 Boston Marathon Bombings. Apparently watching it the first time around is the best, according to my brother who watched it twice. For the first 20 minutes or so, you’re so tense because it’s just people getting ready for the marathon and you know what’s about to happen. That was interesting, because the movie did try to tense us up, but it didn’t try that hard. It was mostly our knowledge of the bombings that did most of the work. Most of the characters are real people, except for the main character played by Mark Wahlberg, who is fictional. It leaves you sweating from your pores (and tear ducts) at the end of the movie so drink some water before starting.

Moulin Rouge! (2001) If you’re into music, beautiful people dancing and singing, renditions of pop songs like “Smells Like Teen Spirit” or “Like a Virgin,” you should watch this sort of rom-com/rom-tragedy starring Ewan McGregor and Nicole Kidman. Go read my other article on page * for some extra info.

Inglourious Basterds (2009) Glorious cinematography. Glorious deaths. Glorious acting. The opening scene is pure gold. It’s one of those scenes you get completely lost in. It also gets you sweating from your pores. Everything from the cinematography and the acting and the set and music and everything is just so well done. Everyone who has seen this scene knows what I’m talking about. And of course, Mélanie Laurent is (one of) the main character(s) so that’s a lot of, em, eye cleansing.

Twilight (2008) Just kidding.

TV The Get Down Go read my other article on page *. Tl;dr: About the origin of hip hop in 1977 Bronx told around beautiful brown young adults with voices of angels.

Lost You have probably head of /Lost/, whether it’s something good or bad. Lost is infamous for its bad ending, which, I don’t think is that bad, but who cares about an ending when everything else is good? The premise is, a bunch of people were on a plane going from Sydney to LA but it crashes on an island. For the first couple episodes, you might think it’s just another survival show, but boy you are wrong. The episodes vary from present to flashback, the centric-character changing every episode. Try not to cringe too hard as Daniel Dae Kim completely ruins the Korean language. Lost is one of the shows I only watch when I have a lot of time because it and its soundtrack completely emotionally ruins me.

Books Sorry, this list may be shorter than the others because I shamefully admit, I don’t read as much as I watch. (Stop judging me, I know my brain cells are dying.)

Harry Potter Need I say more? If you haven’t read Harry Potter, where have you been and where is your integrity?

13 Reasons Why I read this book in the summer of 2015 and it was one of those books I couldn’t put down, not because it was so fun to read, but because my stomach was shaking with uncomfortable angst and I had to get it over with in order for my life to move on. It’s about a teenage boy who gets a mysterious tape one day. On the tape is a recording that a sort-of-friend/ex-crush, Hannah, made before she killed herself. The thirteen reasons are, yes, why she killed herself and are directed at 12 people in total (it goes to a person twice). It deals with some pretty mature content like sex, sexual assault, and obviously suicide. I think I was a little young to understand the book to its full potential, because the book is heavily about the relationship of Hannah and everyone around her and I didn’t realize relationships were so hard at the time.

Percy Jackson Yes, I can hear you snickering about how big of a nerd I am. I admit, I was obsessed with Percy Jackson, still low-key am, but to be fair, so was my mom! Whenever we would get a new book, my mom, brother, and I would pass it around none too patiently. Percy Jackson is definitely more for younger kids, i.e. middle school, because the level of darkness and death sort of stays the same throughout, unlike Harry Potter that matures along with us, becoming darker and darker. If you don’t know who Percy Jackson is, he’s the son of a mortal and Poseidon. He then struggles to save the world every book. The series really educates you in a fun way on Greek (and later, Roman, Egyptian, Norse, and who knows what next) mythology and it’s fun to see how the writer portrayed his Godly characters. It’s just a really, really fun read. Another perk is Rick Riordan seems to keep writing books, so the series doesn’t seem to ever end.

Music

Hamilton If you’re into American history, people of color, hip-hop, bromance, and death, listen to this amazing cast album of Hamilton: An American Musical (or watch the bootleg). Basically the story of Alexander Hamilton’s life, through childhood in the Caribbeans, coming to New York where dreams are made of, the American Revolution, trying to set up a government and finally his death. Will you become a non-functioning human for a couple days while you finish it? Yes. Will you start violently sobbing when you hear the name John Laurens? Yes. Will you start breaking into song and rap when you know you can’t sing or rap? Yes. Is it worth it? Yes.

Harry Styles Following the classic tradition of naming your debut album after yourself, Harry Styles comes back to the music industry with this album that is completely different from One Direction (before they started writing their own songs, so this album more like MITAM). After a year (and a half) of being in the new Nolan movie (life goals right there mm mm.) and chilling in the Caribbeans, he randomly dropped news of his single “Sign of the Times” and the rest of his album in April. The album is like a time capsule from the 2007s with a mix of the 1970-80s, giving off rock god and sappy indie breakup band vibes at the same time. I’m actually listening to it as I’m writing this right now, and gosh it is good. It’s Harry doing everything he couldn’t do in a band, every song has him straining his vocal cords and (*wipes away proud tear*) you can just imagine him jumping around stage and having the time of his life.

Other

Duolingo.com (Like I said, I get 0 money out of this.) Duolingo is a website for, you may have guessed it from “duo” and “lingo,” learning languages. It’s completely free, these people don’t even require you to “upgrade your account” to do all the languages. There are most of the European languages, some Asian languages like Vietnamese (Japanese and Korean etc are in progress), Swahili, and Klingon (in progress). You can choose how seriously you want to learn and set your daily XP goal. It sends you an email and application notification so you don’t forget (but of course you can turn it off) and there’s an app too. If you do it intensively (really intensively, like a couple hundred XPs a day), I think finishing a language course during the summer is possible. It’s such a good and wholeful website/app. I’m currently learning Norwegian so if anyone wants to join, halla at me!

Learn How to Box Finally, a non-nerd item on this list! More broadly, get in the habit of working out. Whatever we’re going to do in the future, we need the stamina for it, even if you’re just going to sit at a desk all day. I’m only putting boxing up there as an example because it’s fun and it makes you feel powerful. Not that I’m an expert or anything, I did like four months and quit (lol) but I still work out in various ways. Grab a friend and convince them to go with you. Working up a sweat, even for a short time, generally makes you happy. I don’t know how much this applies to other people, but personally, I spend my workout minutes giggling most of the time. When I’m doing something really challenging, I start manically laughing. This is also an excuse for you to get your mom to let you out of the horrible cycle of hagwons and tutors!

#dunkirk #valerian and the city of a thousand planets #spider man: homecoming #the dark tower #Detroit #patriot's day #the get down #moulin rouge #inglorious basterds #lost #harry potter #harry styles #hamilton #thirteen reasons why #skam #percy jackson #Duolingo

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wyrdsistersofthedas · 8 years ago

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Horns of a Dilemma - Ghilan’nain and the Elvhen Pantheon

Thesis: The mythology involving Ghilan'nain reveals conflicts, alliances, and possible betrayals within the elven pantheon. Her codex entries also reveal relationships with many of the Evanuris, including Andruil, Dirthamen, and the Dread Wolf himself, Solas.

Okay, Ghilan'nain. She is a puzzle. And she may be the solution to many puzzles. Youngest of the elven gods, her ascension undoubtedly changed the power among the Evanuris. At the very least, her story seems to be setting in motion powerful forces that would change the world.

To proceed we need to outline a few premises:

Premise One: The stories about the elven gods are based on real events, but they have been turned into allegorical tales.

Premise Two: References within these tales, whether to creatures or abstracts, are frequently symbols representing the Evanuris or other beings in their world.

Conclusion: We can learn about the Evanuris’ relationships with each other through careful study of these tales.

The codices from Dragon Age involving Ghilan’nain seem to shed light on the internal dynamics of Evanuris. The first story given to us about Ghilan’nain seems on the surface to be the most allegorical, but there are still very interesting tidbits to be found in it:

So this story seems to be a political and religious allegory. It is setting up Ghilan’nain’s status as a new goddess, but the tale is also reestablishing boundaries for the elves. It also showed the People how high they could be raised, even to the status of a god, if they were devoted and faithful enough, but only the gods could bring about that change. Ghilan’nain owes everything to the Evanuris. The only reason she is a goddess, at least according to this version, is because Andruil loved her and Ghilan’nain was a very faithful worshiper of the gods. There is no sign of her own abilities, and even becoming the Halla Mother is dependent on Andruil reshaping her form. She is the sweet, kind ingenue who was raised up by the Evanuris. Or that is what the elven gods wanted their worshipers to believe, anyway. It is a classic political control tactic. Work harder, be good, and one day the Powers That Be will reward you. The real story is always messier, and more interesting, than the ‘official’ spin.

So let’s dig a little deeper. At the Temple of Mythal an older, possibly less varnished, version of the Ghilan’nain’s rise to power is presented:

This story provides new and fascinating insights into Ghilan’nain and the Evanuris. She was not transformed into a halla, she made halla! And a whole bunch of other creatures that were impressive and terrible enough to make the elven gods sit up and take notice. Was Ghilan’nain the Dr. Moreau of Thedas? Did she create more than just beasts? Might she have been able to create new people as well? (I will come back to that in another post. Too many tangents for this one post.)

I like the idea that Andruil argued for her to become a goddess so that they would be equals, but I feel pretty confident that part of the reason Ghilan’nain was invited to join the pantheon was to “tame” her and her creations, thereby making her an ally rather than a possible problem. And it may not have just been Andruil who was interested in this talented and powerful elven woman joining the ranks of the gods. The Dread Wolf may have had a hand in her rise as well:

(I had to include samples of Inquisition’s font just to prove I am not totally crazy. Just mostly. The first is the original illustrating how “pride” is capitalized. The second shows what it looks like when it isn’t.)

So... a Solas connection. Why would Fen’Harel prevent Ghilan’nain from destroying her cetus, aka sea dragons...?!? Did he see a purpose for them? And perhaps more importantly: What was their relationship? I’m pretty sure that Solas was a Fade female fancier (*cough, cough* Wisdom!), at least until he meets all y’alls lady Lavellan, but there is more to this than meets the eye. Solas was familiar with Ghilan’nain’s power and her creations. She listened to his counsel about not destroying her sea dragons. And their relationship was close enough to make Andruil really, really upset:

Solas was “hunting the halla”. THE halla. That can’t be a coincidence. The wording is too perfectly picked to not be a symbolic representation. So what was going on with these two? I’ve already implied why I think it is unlikely Solas and Ghilan’nain relationship was romantic (He likes Fade chicks, she likes chick chicks.), but clearly something was up. In a group as powerful and image conscious as self promoted gods would have to be, infighting could be devastating, but probably inevitable. Better to say their feuds were about sex than politics.

Whatever the situation was, Ghilan’nain seems to have become a mover and shaker among the Evanuris. She appears in several other important texts. But in these it isn’t Solas she seems to be working with. It’s Dirthamen. God of Secrets...and Loyalty and Family. An odd combination as secrets can destroy loyalty and families.

Seeing this image in Inquisition was quite trippy. A anthropomorphic bear, Dirthamen’s symbolic creature, and a white haired woman with horns, representing Ghilan’nain. Is that embrace protective? Romantic? Distressed?! All of the above? None of the above? It’s something because, while it might be tempting to write it off as artistic fancy, there are actually several other lore connections between Dirthamen and Ghilan’nain, some that might even predate her involvement with Andruil.

(This next is perhaps the most speculative of this whole post, but bear with me. ;-) )

So Falon’Din, Dirthamen, and Ghilan’nain may have known each other before she was a goddess, when she was merely a ‘deer’ rather than the Mother of Halla. Need more evidence? Consider this: The only other god we know, besides Ghilan’nain, who created a special creature to do his bidding is...Dirthamen.

If this codex is as allegorical as the others, then there are several interesting conclusions that can be draw from it. Either Dirthamen taught Ghilan’nain to make creatures, or she taught him. I think the latter is the more likely. She was a master of creating monsters and masterpieces, while the varterral looks like an inverted tree that spits freezing sap juice. Perhaps the knowledge to create new creatures was meant to repay Dirthamen for Ghilan’nain’s trip into Fade with the Twins. One fascinating point to consider is that varterrals were created to protect elves from dragons along with other threats. Apparently Dirthamen thought what he was doing protected his followers. (How things got so twisted with Falon’Din and the oceans of blood is another story.) As to why there might have been tension between Dirthamen and Mythal, with Ghilan’nain playing a critical role in their stryfe, the Sinner codex may be the key to many mysteries:

So...Ghilan’nain and Dirthamen seem to have hit a snag with this business concerning the Sinner. Was Dirthamen involved with this treason? Was this a betrayal on the part of Ghilan’nain, or the furtherance of a plan they both were in on? This codex feels like a turning point. Was this the event that led to Mythal’s murder? We seem to have two possible scenarios developing: Ghilan’nain was a powerful ingenue who managed to be at the centers of power at moments of change. Or she the agent of change. I rather like the second possibility. Strong women with their own agenda usually turned out to be among my favorite characters in DA.

What was the master plan? Ghilan’nain seems to be the lynchpin for a faction of the gods with plans for Thedas. Or she was pursuing her own agenda for unknown purposes. And whatever was going on, it didn’t end well for Mythal. Or Dirthamen it seems:

The fact that Flemythal had to go to a part of the Fade that features this bleeding, stabbed in the back statue of Dirthamen (and notice all the statues of Falon’Din leading the way to this spot, pointing accusingly!) seems to be very significant. In order to get into what might be going on, I need to dissect the lives of a few more gods.

Whose secret life of the godly and magical shall we look into next? Andruil, Dirthamen, Mythal, Fen’Harel, Falon’Din, Sylaise, June, or Elgar’nan? We take requests!

A few parting thoughts about Ghilan’nain:

Was there a backlash against the Halla Mother? All of her statues in Origins have their head and hands broken off while statues of Andruil and Sylaise are still intact. That may seem insignificant, and one could argue that the developers wanted to reuse an asset and make it look old (or they didn’t want to put halla horns on it), but they had to chose which goddess to be the broken one. And Ghilan’nain was the one they selected. So why her? When things go to the Void in a vessel, people tend to blame the new kid. “Everything was fine until Ghilan’nain started messing with things!” The elven people in Ferelden, at least, seemed to have had a problem with her, and her desecrated statues are a sign of this discontent.

A trace of this may be remembered in elven legends:

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And finally, could the puzzle from the Daavarad also be a clue into these elven relationships? Remember the riddle that involved the halla, owl, wolf, and dragon statues? “One [owl] sees the hunter, one [halla] flees from it, one [dragon] hunts it in turn, one [wolf] outwits them all.”

In other words: Falon’Din sees Andruil, Ghilan’nain flees from Andruil, Mythal hunts Andruil in turn, and Fen’Harel outwits them all.

Thanks for reading!

-MM

#dragon age #dragon age meta #dragon age theories #ghilan'nain #evanuris #elvhenan #fen'harel #dread wolf #solas #dirthamen #falon'din #mythal #dalish #wyrdsistersofthedas #morta's musings

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