Dragon Age: Inquisition fics, Solas obsession, &c. AO3 Username: Evren Current Active Sollavellan fics: Wolf in the Breast âUpdating every 2-4 days The Unfeeling Gods (a collaboration with evelynwaaaaah) â Updating daily
This is the amazing Karinini portraying evelynwaaaaahâs Inquisitor Halâlasean Lavellan (left) with my Inquisitor Evin Lavellan (right). Both of them appear in our ev^2 fic The Unfeeling Gods (currently updating daily on AO3!). If I had to describe the fic it would basically be... chocolate + vanilla sweetness and angst... like a twist ice cream cone with two delicious FenâHarels ahahaha
This is another dialogue chart from the third Solas romance scene. It was created by Karini and Elven Semi of the r/Solasmancers reddit and was originally posted here. Iâm putting them here for my own convenience since I donât know where else to find them. Ma serannas lethallan! Great resource for fic writers <3 Full size version here
Wolf In The Breast -Â Chapter 9: The Prophet of Mythal
What would a god fear but another god? You always knew he had a secret....
Evin had always avoided the dead branches of her future. If she'd missed something, perhaps it was there. Maybe the very act of seeing this doom, whatever it was, made it inevitable...
Read it on AO3
Evin Lavellan strode through the door to the ambassador's reception room, Cullen Rutherford half a step behind. There was no one else presentâYvette had already left. The War Council would begin shortly. When the door closed behind them she quickly accessed the Fade, checking against what she already knew, searching the lines of possibility with the Mark.
A wave of silver, white-edged, crashed over her. Her senses spun. She almost fell.
Confusionâtwo selves overlapped by moments. She'd been sick in this very roomâthe sharp taste of bileâCullen caught her as he was doing nowâsome vision of nearer hours so terrible it made her retch. But it eluded her here.
Her other self had seen something. Desperate, harrowing.
"Evin, what is it? Sit a moment," Cullen said.
The Mark didn't reveal thoughts. It gave words, actions, images. A different Evin had caught a glimpse of disaster but whatever it was remained in that path. She didn't see it.
The dizziness began to fade. Cullen released her arm, she sank into one of the carved chairs before the fireplace.
"A little tired," she said. Her voice sounded weaker than she expected.
"You were up all night working on the Nevarran Accord. Don't lie," Cullen said.
"It needed to be done."
"It could have waited," he said.
The others never understood how little time there was, how precisely some events had to unfold. Sometimes the optimal outcome meant hours, not days. Time mattered, and now another self had seen something she did not.
The tree of her life stretched before her in the Fade, the twisting forks she interpreted as crisis and decision. Half the branches ended in her death. That was nothing new. But three days ago she'd begun to see the other branches crowned in silver flame. Crowned, consumed, and terminated: a new death. That was when she'd seen Solas' face again in the glimpses of her future.
The Dread Wolf. What would a god fear but another god? You always knew he had a secret....
What happened to these other selves, the ones who saw what she did not? When she searched she couldn't find them. How could something so important escape her? How long before the living flame consumed her, too?
She'd always avoided the dead branches. If she'd missed something, perhaps it was there. Maybe the very act of seeing this doom, whatever it was, made it inevitable. And then everything endedâin fire.
If that was true, she was blind and lucky. Not a happy combination. She had to stick to the safe path as long as she could. She didn't dare look too far ahead lest she see what the others had. It was the worst way to go into a battle: operating on memories of what she'd already seen, stale probabilities. But there was so little time.
"We shouldn't be late for the War Council," she said.
"Do you really think they'd start without you?" Cullen asked.
The story she'd decided in the Fade sprang to her lips. It would be more favorable to discuss it with him now.
"Solas expects an attack tomorrow morning," she said.
"So that's the reason you closed the gate," Cullen said. "What sort of attack?"
"He didn't specify," Evin said, truth and not-truth and lies. "He said something about tremors in the Beyond. Dark wings."
Cullen's armor jingled as he sank into the opposite chair. "That's just wonderful. What does it even mean?"
"I was hoping you'd have some idea. Maybe it's an anagram? 'Mad ruined wasteland....'"
"A high dragon?" Cullen suggested. "There are no recent reports of a rampage. You couldn't get more out of him than 'dark wings'?"
"The information came at a price. It seems he journeyed here to warn us at some risk to himself. His companions are elvhen, ancients from the Temple of Mythal."
"Dragons and ancient elves? That does sound like Solas," Cullen said. "It's unfortunate so many of our forces are on the Nevarran-Tevinter border. Most of the mages here are healers. Little use against a dragon."
She nodded, she'd thought of that as well. "Solas intends to spend the rest of the day restructuring the wards around Skyhold. I didn't really understand the details."
"I suppose we don't have any reason to doubt him," Cullen said, considering. "He was a loyal friend to the Inquisition before."
"I hope you tell him that when you apologize for punching him in the face," Evin said.
Cullen cleared his throat. "Yes, wellâ"
"Do you and Solas have a problem?" she asked, because it was the best way to make sure they didn't. Whatever was going to happen with her, she didn't want them to quarrel. Cullen meant too much to her for that.
The knight-commander's eyes went to the closed door as if he could imagine a dour, bald elf standing behind it. "After what he did? Are you telling me you don't mind?"
"If I'm not offended I don't see why you should be. Unless there's a story I haven't heard yet."
Cullen scowled. "Someone has to look out for you."
She felt a spark of anger. "Why, because you're human and you know what's best for everyone?"
"Race has nothing to do with it. He shouldn't have left when he did, the way he did. It wasn't right. Have you honestly forgiven him?"
He'd chosen this branch. He was going to force her to spell it out. She swallowed back her anger. "What am I meant to forgive, exactly?"
"You forget, I was with you when Revas was born. I was there. I heard the name you screamed." He looked down at his handsâstrong warrior's hands, calloused and acid-scored from some long ago battle with a mage. "Your face was almost gray. He's lucky you're both in good health or I wouldn't have stopped at one blow. If you were my sisterâ."
I wish my brother was anything like you, she thought.
He'd given up lyrium years before. He hadn't sensed the swift and deadly contraction of mana, the killing blow just as swiftly restrained.
She drew a deep breath. "I don't want my friends to fight each other, and I don't need you to defend me. Promise this won't continue."
"Promise you'll be honest about your feelings," Cullen returned. "If you're angry at him, yell. Maker knows he deserves it."
It was such a strange idea she almost smiled. Of course Cullen didn't understand. From his perspective Revas was born a mere three years ago. To untangle the weaving threads, to construct the crystalline apparatus and learn everything necessary, had taken more than years. Her companions only lived objective time. They didn't have the advantage of distance in the Fade.
Traitors and tricksters and Creators. Fen'Harel. The name had passed his lips mere hours before, but for her it was already some days in the past.
Sometimes it was difficult to remember what she should feel. It was more important to do what needed to be done.
"Let me be the judge, Cullen," she said finally. "Don't decide for me."
He smiled at her, a little sad. "As you say, my lady Inquisitor."
"And now we really are late," she said.
When she and Cullen entered the War Council chamber Yvette Montilyet jerked to her feet. Parethia Norn, a slim human with a crown of pale braids, made a short bow. Yvette and Parethia were surrounded by a half-circle of correspondence spread out on the wide expanse of the war table. The two exchanged glances, thick as thieves. Lysander wasn't present. Where had he run off to?
"Yvette. Seeker Norn," Evin said, greeting them.
"What news?" Cullen asked.
Yvette fumbled with a curling ribbon of raven-scrap. "My sister Josephine sends word from the capital." She faltered a little. "It is not good."
Parethia folded her arms across the symbol of the All-Seeing Eye on her chest. "The measure to permit elves to own and inherit land in Orlais has failed," she said. "The Privy Council refused to recommend it to her Majesty Celene."
Yvette cleared her throat nervously. "This means elves and other non-humans will remain ineligible to train as chevaliers or obtain recommendations from the Council of Heralds. The traditional path to nobility is barred to them. In addition, my sister notes the measure stirred a great deal of rancor among the traditionalist nobles. She thinks it unlikely we will be able to reintroduce it for a generation. Politically speaking, the proposal is dead."
Evin leaned over the table, gazed down at her hands. Her fingers framed the region between the Dales and the Gamordan Peaks on the map. The humans were all staring at her, wondering how she would react.
"We are very sorry," Yvette said.
What emotion did they expect her to express? Resentment? Sadness?
"It's not entirely unexpected," she said carefully. "It was a somewhat selfish request. I'm grateful for all you did to help."
Parethia slammed her fist down on the table. "Damn it all! The Maker sent you as our Herald and they still can't seeâ"
"Please," Evin said.
"The Inquisition fought for what's right," Cullen said, "and everyone knows it."
"That is true, and it has been noted by others," Yvette said. "We've been able to approach several leaders among the surface dwarves who resisted us previously. And there is another matter. Empress Celene sends her personal seal."
Yvette picked up a thick scroll marked with ribbons and a weighty wax insignia and centered it on the war table before them. A flare of elation quickened in Evin's heart.
This must be it. It's finally here.
"The Empress, perhaps in an attempt to assure you of her continued friendship, has personally created you duchesse of Verchiel."
"Duchesse? Did the Empress not notice I'm an elf?"
"We believe she is aware," Yvette said.
Evin clenched her hands to hide her excitement. It had finally happened.
Verchiel. The Exalted Plains. Dirthavaren.
With this I can save the elves.
Notes:
So it turns out I have a little more to do from Lavellan's POV. The Inquisitor is a busy little bee. That said, this is a Solas POV fic and it will return to him soon...ish.
War Council 2.0: Some new faces because other characters are busy elsewhere. But I do hope we get to see them too!
Mad Ruined Wasteland: Yes, that's where it's going, and yes she totally cheated.
---
Elvish:
Dirthavaren - The Promise. Elven name for the Exalted Plains.
This is the next chart with additional Solas Haven dialogue. It was created by Karini and Elven Semi of the r/Solasmancers reddit and was originally posted here. Iâm putting them here for my own convenience since Iâm not sure where else to find them. Thank you once again lethallan! Great resource for fic writers <3 Full size version here
Wolf In The Breast -Â Chapter 8: The God of Rage, Pt. 2
Fen'Harel was never one to follow rules he had no hand in creating, but he understood very well the stricture against gods begetting children. They were too helpless. Too... fragile.
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He was appalled at himself, and the wind cut through his tunic, chilling him, for he had not thought to wear a cloak. He looked down from the north-east tower battlements to the vertiginous slope of the Frostbacks that surrounded him, the sunlight so nearly blinding on snow that his eyes instinctively sought the relief of shadow and stone. The stinging cold and the crisp, clean air and the glittering, quicksilver song of ancient wards, these for him were the things that signified Tarasyl'an Tel'as.
He had been a father for, oh, two hours? How quickly the mind sprang to atrocityâ
He is a mage and a liar and he approached you, a voice whispered. Any two might be excused, but all three....
He had dismissed Lysander Lavellan with the usual misdirection.
"Perhaps I misunderstand the insinuation," he had said, "Evin has not acknowledged me as Revas' father, and I cannot claim the honor. I served the Inquisition by her side for years, but so did others of our blood. Many are now dead. I understand the appeal of speculation, but we never had that kind of relationship."
And Lysander had apologized so easily: Ara seran', hahren. I made an assumption based on rumors. Please think on the other things I mentioned. I won't trouble you further.
Fen'Harel was never one to follow rules he had no hand in creating, but he understood very well the stricture against gods begetting children. They were too helpless. Too... fragile.
The only way that Lavellan man would not be trouble was if he were dead or at the bottom of a pit.
And the Dalish! How utterly predictable they had twisted his gift to Evin into an excuse for stupid in-fighting. Perhaps the conflict would be useful? It would help him identify the ones he might save, the ones with sense like Evin, with courage to learn from their mistakes. If it came to war, those who survived would be stronger.
It was pointless to contemplate further. He had to prepare for tomorrow. What little could be done to anticipate the vengeance of an angry god....
He sought the deepest bowels of Skyhold, the windowless lower chambers near the walls, closest to the stone. This frequently required clambering over dusty stacks of barrels and heaps of sacks filled with grain. Families of squeaking mice fled at his approach. Whatever was necessary, he did it. At one point, squeezing behind narrow racks of bottled wine, he startled a man come to investigate the noise.
"You there, elf, what are you doing down here?" the human demanded.
He paused to let the light from the man's torch fall on him. "I have the Inquisitor's permission. I am working."
"Oh," the human said, confused. "Well, carry on. Don't break anything, mind, or the steward will have your head."
As Evin had foreseen, no one who recognized it questioned the insignia of l'ordre de la BrĂšche. To all the others, he was just another nameless laboring elf. He should be offendedâbut he could not help a wicked laugh.
Once the silence had returned, Fen'Harel sank deep into the complex woven song of the wards. Down he went, far below the floor on which he stood and the rubble beneath it, to a melody coiled about the delicate shapes of a much earlier layer of construction.
Only when the ward had strengthened to the level his remaining power permitted did he open his eyes.
He climbed the stairs from the storage room beneath the last tower, the one at the southernmost point of the keep. Fen'Harel felt deeply weary, and he could not even be certain his efforts would make any difference. Not to an aerial assault. Still, what other options were there? Better to have something ready, something he knew he could rely on, whose magic he understood. The events of tomorrow would come tomorrow, and he would respond as best he could. Now he needed rest.
The sun set early in the mountains, hidden by the western peaks, and when he reached the courtyard it was already softened by darkness. A figure he knew approached.
"Knight-Commander," he said, wary.
"Ser Solas," Cullen Rutherford said. Slight grimaceâapologetic? "I owe you a drink."
That was unexpected. But he was too tired to think of an excuse. Besides, right now wine sounded wonderful. "That is an excellent idea, Commander."
They walked to the tavern togetherâneither said much, silently agreeing there was not much to be said. He was not certain why Cullen had changed his mind, or even what his objection had been in the first place. After all the years he had lived, Fen'Harel had learned not to inquire too closely into the actions of humans.
They were all of them, quite frankly, insane.
The tavern, the Herald's Rest, had a painted sign at the door: the Maker's Bride, crowned with rays of gold, bearing a figure shrouded in white. The artist had painted the Anchor on Evin's right hand instead of her left. Fen'Harel had never liked it. Besides the inaccuracy the overall effect was funereal. As though Andraste had snatched the Herald from the land of death. Trust the Maker to take credit for another god's work.
The tavern was occupied by a few other parties, mostly seated at tables. Cullen found a place open at the bar and they sat down. The light of the candles was golden, the muted conversation around them soft and reassuring. The minstrel sang something about the sea. When their drinks were served they drank in silence. Fen'Harel wondered about his sentinels and how long he must wait before he could excuse himself. He felt very tired.
"Looks like you've had a rough day of it. Wrestling spiders or some such," Cullen said.
He looked down at his garments, smeared with dust of ages past and a number of trailing webs. He had not thought to activate a cleansing cantrip. To be honest he preferred to conserve the mana.
"I have never objected to spiders," he replied. "We get along quite well."
"As long as you don't try to introduce me to any," the Commander said.
Fen'Harel sipped at the terrible wine. Before he could stop the man, Cullen ordered another round. Someone he did not know very well hailed them and took the seat to their rightâSummerland? Sunderland? He was about to finish his cup when he heard the tromp and stomp of hobnailed boots. He looked over his shoulder and saw a tall, thick-set beast of a human.
"Well if it isn't sodding Solas the prodigal elf. Just couldn't stay away, could you? Sorry bastard." Blackwall slammed down a full tankard which sloshed its beard of foam on the bar. "I'm joking. Almost forgot you existed. Went to Nevarra last year with Dorian. Camping in tents, the whole bit, and the entire time it was like something was missing. Couldn't quite put my finger on it. Then Dorian says, out of the blue he says, 'The Veil is very wibbly here' and we all busted out laughing. Suddenly lacked your cheery presence. Not enough to track you down, but still."
Rainier, who called himself Blackwall, had a bit more gray at his temples, a new furrow in his brow. And Dorianâwas the Tevinter here as well? Fen'Harel suddenly felt overwhelmed by the immediacy of his memories, of people who remembered him back. To them he was a companion and friend. Perhaps not a greatly beloved one, but a friend nonetheless. Not a distant figure of reverence. A person.
"Tell us something about the Fade," Sutherland said, after a few more rounds. "I always wanted to hear one of your stories."
"In the Fade," Fen'Harel said, lifting his goblet, "I often witnessed the drunken routs of humans with their watered beer, a sight to make dwarves wail and wardens flinch."
"I knew it," Blackwall said, his words almost a slur. "I knew it."
"This is not real wine," Fen'Harel said. "If you knew what real wine tasted like you would weep to remember it, the dream of grapes captured in sunlight and terroir. This wine is arse."
"Get this man some aggregio," someone called.
He drank from the cup set before him obligingly. "No actually, this is real wine."
He left to find the necessary before they could press on him another drink, and when he had finished he slipped out by a side door. Inside, the boisterous noise continued. Outside, under the bare stars, in the chill air, he closed his eyes a moment. When he opened them the effect of alcohol was gone.
Arlasan stood before him as though he had been patiently awaiting his elder for years.
"You might have joined us, my friend," Fen'Harel said.
The sentinel performed a simple obeisance, the grace of a much earlier era. Fen'Harel returned it automatically.
"The obscurity rune is renewed," Arlasan said.
Perhaps the rune was what had given themâwould give them?âso many hours to prepare. Wings of silver, wings of green. God of rebels, quickling queen....
"That is well done," he said.
"Ilgarla goes to the outlying towers across the lake," Arlasan said. "She fixes the lines to warn us and will return after moonset. She wishes me to ask you: What shall we do if the Awakened One has taken wings? It is her right."
"The Awakened One is mine. Do not touch her. The servants are irrelevantâkill them if you must, if it will save lives. You have my permission to use all weapons."
"What if the Inquisitor seeks to fight? What would you have us do?"
"Save as many lives as you can. Defend the Anchor. Defend Terasyl'an Tel'as. If the wards fail I will take Inquisitor Lavellan and retreat. Should that happen, recall Ilgarla and depart. We will meet at Hellathen Viran."
"I will tell her," Arlasan said.
He made certain Arlasan knew where he might retire to rest, then returned to the Main Hall.
He climbed the steps to Evin's chamber. Who would try to stop him? He was a Knight of the Breach, or a servant about his business, or a man visiting his lover, or a god seeking his talisman. He had every right in the world to go where he wished.
The fire was lit but there was no one in Evin's chamber. He lit another lamp and paced for a while, suddenly restless. Where had she been all this time? Three steps from the fireplace to the bookshelves, then back. On one of the rounds he happened to glance down at Evin's desk, and his eye caught one of the papers scattered there.
On the State of the Elves.
It was written in Evin's own hand. He picked it up, began to skim through it, then looked at the desk again. There were others:
Letter to the Circle of Magi in Cumberland.
The Controversy of Mythal.
On Rifts.
Letter to the Orlesian Astronomical Society on the Subdivision of the Hours.
They were all in a state of completion, written in a concise hand, yet seemed freshly composed, for the date at the top was recent. There were no signs of composition as one might expect to find at an author's escritoire, no scribbles or rephrasing or margin notes. Just a few misspellings.
He gathered a number of the papers and sat on the bed, shuffling through them as he read. After a little while, without his willing it, his eyes closed.
Despite his fatigue he nearly awoke from the Dream an hour later when he heard her enter the room, detecting her scent of sweet amber and magnolia. But she did not rouse him, and though he felt the shift of the mattress as she climbed in, he did not open his eyes.
He was suddenly very intensely awake.
His thoughts were not clear. For a confusing moment he wanted to pin her to the bed, feel her body move beneath his. Foolishness. He had no rightâcould not expectâ
What a delicious pain to know she lay near enough to touch. He ached....
But when he rolled onto his side, he saw Revas curled beside her. So he did the next best thing. He put his arm around them both, his child and the mother of his child, and fell once more into Dreams.
Notes:
I have it on good authority Wolf-Gods appreciate aggregio...
Nice to pull the camera back and reunite with some friends! Next chapter will almost certainly be Lavellan-POV. (*gasp*)
---
Elvish:
Ara seran' - (constructed) Excuse me (informal)
Hahren - Elder
Hellathen - Noble struggle
Tarasyl'an Te'las - The place where the sky is/was held back, or something. Skyhold
Viran - "Path to the place of"
This is the chart for the first Haven dialogue with Solas. It was created by Karini and Elven Semi of the r/Solasmancers reddit and was originally posted here. Iâm not sure when or where itâs been reposted on tumblr so Iâm adding it here for my own convenience. Thank you lethallan! Very helpful for fic writers <3Â View the full-size version here.
Pale violet eyes, not quite the same shade as the Inquisitorâs. A kinsman? Almost certainly not. And the markings on his faceânot vallaslin. The absence of vallaslin. The markings of Sylaise were stark white, shocking against his tanned skin. Like a burn half healed over, though it would fade in time.
"Ah, yes, my face," the man said. His voice had a bare trace of a lilt. "Evin taught us how. It's more painful to remove the blood-writing with oneâs own magic, but we prefer the symbolism. Why should anyone free us but ourselves?"
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Fen'Harel returned to his senses with the torturous feeling he was collapsing in upon himself. Crumpled, like clay crushed in a mold. Waking always was the worst part. Half his soul was caged and locked away, yet his flesh felt too small to contain his living spirit, and the Fen'edal around his neck smoldered with the weight of eons. Here all his faculties were sluggish and circumscribedâsome did not even exist. The Veil blazed in his awareness, beckoning him to return, but the Fade beyond it dimmed like an eye closing in sleep.
He had taken Evin Lavellan's hand before the Dream. Gazing down into her eyes, the ghost of a forgotten snarl on his lips. Not a moment had passed since he had followed her into the Fade.
Evin stared back at him, then matter-of-factly disengaged from his grip. She made a little half-stretch with her arms, still seated in her chair. "I feel much better." She frowned at the remains of the meal on the table beside them. "Am I hungry? I don't remember."
"How much longer did you stay?" he demanded. "A week?"
She looked past him to the candle clock on the fireplace mantle. "The War Council will meet shortly. I should go."
What a confounded woman. He offered his hand, helped her to her feet.
"There are things I must do to prepare," he said. "The little I can to strengthen Skyhold's defenses in what time remains. With your permission, Inquisitor?"
"Of course," Evin said. She looked down at herself, the form-fitting casual clothes she chose to wear for whatever unfathomable reason, and unpinned a metal brooch from her tunic.
She leaned closer to him, reaching for his collar. He felt the light touch of her fingers near his neck like a whisper. He held his breath, suddenly and acutely conscious of every one of his senses limited or no, and the heat of her body as she brushed against him. The seething Fen'edal, and the curve of her lips, and the subtle widening of her sunset eyes when she looked up at him.
"L'ordre de la BrĂšche, Grand-croix," she said, stepping back. "Awarded in absentia. No one who sees it will question you. There have been changes here... 'Solas'. Many of our old friends have scattered or returned home."
Of course that would be true. For them five years was a significant stretch. Once it had amused him to think of such things. Now it reminded him how curtailed their time really was, how quickly he must run just to keep up.
She descended the stairs to the Main Hall. He followed.
She had never asked if he would stay. He always didâin every branch.
In the Main Hall, the Inquisitor belonged to everyone else. A guard-captain in ringing mail caught her attention, then a courtier bearing a writing-slate, and then a runner hastened in from the rookery.
Fen'Harel searched the shadows for the two sentinels he knew to be waiting for him. Ilgarla reached him first.
She gave him one look, then made a small grimace of distaste. "You wish to linger."
"For now."
Arlasan's face remained impassive. "Dragon-sign to the north. The spirits flee in dread."
Fen'Harel scanned those nearest them for a reaction to this news, but of course no one here understood enough elven to take alarm. "Prepare yourselves, my friends. I ask much, but we must strive to save what we can."
"Insanity," Ilgarla said under her breath.
"The Fade sings of many battles in Tarasyl'an Te'las," Arlasan said. His voice was soft, barely audible. "I am honored to fight at your side."
"As am I," he replied. "There is a hollow beneath the sleeping riverbedâthe Undercroft, they call it. Will you check if the obscurity sigil can be re-grounded? I trust your judgment."
Arlasan nodded; he swiftly departed.
The door to the Main Hall opened, startling their eyes with a flare of blinding sunlight. He looked away from it to find the Inquisitor standing not far from him, chatting with yet another member of her court.
He had a brief impression of movementârecognized danger and had a bare instant to stop himself retaliating, to get a partial barrier in place.
Pain exploded in his jaw.
"You sorry cur," Cullen Rutherford exclaimed. Grimacing, the man flexed his aching hand. "You have some nerve returning here."
"Fenedhis," he cursed. They were all lucky he hadn't killed anyone by accident. If the human touched him againâ
"I will take your hand for this insult, quickling!" Ilgarla cried.
Fen'Harel barely had time to capture her arm, stop her from drawing her knives. The commander glowered but showed no intention of furthering the brawl.
The Inquisitor, of course, had witnessed everything. "Cullen, is your hand all right?" she exclaimed.
"Nothing that won't mend itself," the man replied.
Humans. Fen'Harel rubbed at his throbbing jaw, tested its movement. "Was that really necessary?"
"You know that better than I," Cullen said.
"Please be careful," Evin said. She was talking to the commander. "Did you recall the patrols? Solas said we should expect company."
"There's an extra shift at every post. We'll be ready. If this warning is correct."
"Any sign of the Chargers?" she asked.
"Not as yet," Cullen said. "I have other things to report. We should discuss it inside."
Cullen opened the door that led to the council chamber. Evin preceded him through it. Before she left, however, her eyes met Fen'Harel's. And for some reason he remembered her words in the Fade: I'll punish you later.
He was probably just imagining it.
He retreated to the garden to find ice for his jaw. Real ice that would not vanish as it melted, the better to channel healing magic. The garden was protected from the wind, however, and under the early spring sun there was not much ice to be found. He picked up a handful of fresh snow and shaped it into a compact lump, then sought out a place on a stone bench. Ilgarla had wandered off mutteringâshe needed to find her center before tomorrow morning, or she would not be able to fight. She was the youngest elvhen he knew of, hence her impatience was indulged as a marker of youth rather than scorned.
There were so few of them left. Every death was an incalculable loss. All that once was disappeared and would never return, and the unknowing world was diminished. He had seen too much destroyed.
He would spend their lives even so.
Why? Why did Evin ask this of him? He knew it was wrong.
The correct course was to coerce her into compliance and go. Any one of his brothers would have done so. How they would laugh at him now! He tolerated Evin's feelings for her people the same way Ilgarla's father tolerated her hasty temperâit was wrong to overlook such a self-defeating flaw. Did he really trust Evin's power and judgment so much? How many deaths did she foresee at the hands of those blighted monsters tomorrow?
Why did my death change? she'd asked him.
Did she even expect to surviveâor would a glorious defeat serve the Inquisition equally well?
Why had the question even occurred to him? Perhaps the combination of several things she had said, examined in retrospect. Much the way events in hindsight appeared inevitable after the fact....
He did not want to overrule her decision, not unless her life was at stake. Surely she was not so cold-blooded. She had a young child. It was better to trust her, for now. Besides, it would be interesting to see her power in action.
But if defeat threatenedâif the lives he spent failed to purchase victoryâhe would take her and vanish. He would hold back that much of his strength.
They would not take the Anchor from him. Nothing else mattered.
The snow pressed against his jaw had mostly melted. The dripping water fell from his fingers and soaked his tunic. As it melted the ache diminished, and the bruises that had barely formed faded away.
"I was going to ask if I could help, but I see you've managed all on your own. Nicely done, hahren."
Fen'Harel looked up. It was the runner from the rookeryâno, not a runner. He was too finely dressed. Elvhen, male, a mage though he did not carry a stave.
"I wanted to introduce myself," the man said with an easy smile. "Lysander Lavellan. Aneth ara. I'm a huge fan."
Fen'Harel disliked him immediately.
Pale violet eyes, not quite the same shade as Evin's. A kinsman? Almost certainly not. And the markings on his faceânot vallaslin. The absence of vallaslin. The markings of Sylaise were stark white, shocking against his tanned skin. Like a burn half healed over, though it would fade in time.
"Ah, yes, my face," the man said. His voice had a bare trace of a lilt. "Evin taught us how. It's more painful to remove the blood-writing with oneâs own magic, but we prefer the symbolism. Why should anyone free us but ourselves?"
Fen'Harel shook his head. "I had not realized such a practice had spread among the Dalish."
Lysander shrugged. "Not among the Dalish, exactly. Mostly Clan Lavellan and one or two others. Evin is our Keeper now. Perhaps she could be more than that? Just a thought."
"I do not follow."
The man sat next to him on the bench. "Not all the clans agree with us. Some say removing the vallaslin is blasphemy. They seek to preserve the old waysâthey don't care about the truth. Others point to the writings found in the Temple of Mythal. It's all clear if you read the texts. The Dalish swore long ago to oppose slavery. But some curse the Inquisition for heresy. If we're not careful, it could lead to war."
How typical. "A difficult situation. I sympathize. However, I am not Dalish."
"Of course." Lysander threaded his fingers together in thought. "Evin's been in a frenzy of activity for the last three days. I don't know for certain why you're here, but I worry. The Inquisitor's been invited to the Arlathvhen. Evin has to settle this questionâshe's the only one who can. If you care at all for our blood, please make sure she attends. Don't drag her off somewhere."
"I doubt I could influence her one way or the other."
Lysander glanced meaningfully at the children playing in the garden. "What an odd old elf you are. Revas isn't my son, whatever they say."
He followed the man's glance. Three children played among the bare treesâtwo elvhen, one with pale curls and a dirt-smudged face and an unholy shriek of glee. Fen'Harel felt the back of his neck prickle. He had come here without even admitting the reason to himself.
And this man knew the truth.
He had to die.
Notes:
Shoryuken! You don't even know how satisfying that is to picture. TY Cullen <3
Elven:
Aneth ara - Informal greeting
Arlathvhen - A meeting of the Dalish clans which takes place every 10 years. The next one is apparently soonish in this AU
Hahren - Elder
Tarasyl'an Te'las - The place where the sky is/was held back. Skyhold
Vallaslin - "Blood writing", the tattoos Dalish wear to honor their gods
Wolf In The Breast -Â Chapter 6: Spirits of Compassion, Demons of Wrath, Pt. 2
"I can't evacuate an entire fortress in less than a day,â the Inquisitor said. âTo give up Skyhold without a battle would send the wrong message. Three dragons and a defensible position? The Inquisition will stand and fight.â
Read it on AO3
"They named you well, Bringer of Nightmares," Evin Lavellan said. Wincing in pain, the Inquisitor looked away from the three winged horrors far out over the black Fade-sea. The apparition of the future had already started to dim. "Something worse than dragons? I don't even want to ask."
And here it was. Fen'Harel braced himself, ready for the questions he had dreaded ever since he determined he must return, ready for the Inquisitor to turn her hawk-like gaze to him. If he bared his closest secrets would she absolve him? Or recoil in horror? He had put her people in terrible danger but he was willing to pay that price. He would make her understand. Sometimes a god's power only led to even more disastrousâ
"I should take a nap," she said.
"How... does that follow?" he managed to say.
"There's so much to do, and I'm exhausted." Evin tapped her chin with a thoughtful finger. "I need to think. Plan. You should go."
"There are things I need to tell you first," he said. "Things you ought to know. After the Orb was destroyed I hoped I would neverâ"
"Don't. Just stop. I don't want to be confused by your stories." She looked up at him with sheer weariness in her eyes. "Whatever you tell me won't be the whole truth. Will it? I'll see for myself soon enough."
No. Not if he had his way.
"Evin, we must prepare to leave Tarasyl'an immediately," Fen'Harel said.
She folded her arms. "I'm not going anywhere."
Finally! Here was a response he had expected. "There are good fights and bad fights," he said. "Fights we can win and fights we can lose. This is not a good fight. There is too much at stake. Tactically speaking we must retreat."
"Tactically sound, strategically incorrect," she replied. "I can't evacuate an entire fortress in less than a day. To give up Skyhold without a battle would send the wrong message. Three dragons and a defensible position? The Inquisition will stand and fight. I can't go."
"They are not dragons, Evin," he said. "If you come with me I think it likely they will follow, bypass Skyhold entirely. My enemies would not wish us to escape their grasp."
Evin looked down at the water that lapped so softly at the paved stones beside them. She was hugging herself. "What if they attack Skyhold anyway?"
"We will take Revas with us. He would be safe."
"And the other children? Aren't they important to their parents too? Acceptable losses, Dread Wolf?"
This was the leader he remembered. A magnificent responseâhe admired her for itâbut damned inconvenient. "I did not say that," he said. "You could warn your people. There is some little time to prepare."
"Tell them to prepare for danger while I flee to safety? How does that work? Do you think I don't know what happens if I leave? Who are you talking to, Dread Wolf?"
Fen'Harel had no doubt of her ability. How else could she have shown him their shape, their number? The muscles in his jaw tightened. "Then tell me what you see."
She walked toward the nearest crystal at her right hand, lifted her fingers over it, coaxing its harmony into a higher key. "Lines within linesâdisaster and opportunity. There's more at stake than my life. I have to stay."
For one insane moment he wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shout: If you are lost, all is meaningless! I don't know if I can protect you!
But that would simply frighten her. He didn't know what more he could say to change her mind. It was her choice to makeâhe would not take that from her or anyone.
"I will not force you to leave," he said.
"I know you wouldn't," she said. "I know the stakes. After allâwhat would a god fear except another god?"
He recoiled as though he had been struck physically. Then she has seen it. "Evin, I never would haveâ"
"Go on ahead. I'll meet you when you wake. Mortal, remember? I'm very tired."
Emma ir abelas Andruil. "But there's so little timeâ"
"How odd, I thought you understood. Time doesn't pass while I'm here... or for you, since you followed me."
He followed the thought since it was more cheerful than the others. "Do you really sleep here in the Fade?"
"I run a continent-spanning organization and I have a three year old child. How many hours do you think I get to myself? Revas woke up crying three times last night. I need to rest. And... I need time. To think. Without you."
"Very well, but we should discussâ"
"Fine. Go. Just go, will you?"
He gazed at the pattern of flat stones beneath his feet, reached out with his will and shattered themâ
"May I speak with you, Solas?"
Here it was. He had expected questions, but perhaps not this soon. "How can I be of assistance, Sister Nightingale?" he asked.
"It concerns the Herald. Tell me, what do you know of Clan Lavellan?"
"Do you ask me simply because I am an elf? I regret to inform you I am not acquainted with every member of my race. The Herald mentioned her people live in the Free Marches. Perhaps you might inquire there."
"Oh, but I have. I learned of a Dalish clan by that name, but the most recent report was of a massacre near Wycombeâthirty years ago. Clan Lavellan is extinct. Curious, is it not?"
Curious if you were a spymaster, he supposed. What did he care if some quick-blooded she-elf told lies about her name?
"What do you think, Solas? Is this the herald Andraste sent to us? Or are we being tested? I would like you to ask this Lavellan some questions...."
Notes:
OK so I still love the idea of the Fade lynx and I can't wait to bring that back, but it didn't quite make it into this part. There's something about lynxes that appeals to me. They just look so silly. <3
I think Solas tried to launch into one of his "Art of War" lectures here but he's a little off-balance and it comes off a bit stilted. I loved those moments in the game. He's so pompous sometimes... all right, most of the time!
---
Elvish:
Tarasyl'an [Te'las] - The place where the sky is/was held back. Skyhold
Emma ir abelas Andruil - He's sorry about Andruil? Something? *blank stare*
While weâre on the subject of chins and noses and freckles and so forth, hereâs a super obsessive zoom in on one of my favorite captaincaranis screenshots. I should just admit right now I love when Solas gets all grouchy. Growl at me, Wolf. ^-^
Wolf In The Breast -Â Chapter 5: Spirits of Compassion, Demons of Wrath
All the magic she had cast was layered on her skin. FenâHarel pulled her closer, his fingers tracing the silken hair at the nape of her neck, seeking truth but suddenly lost in his senses. He wanted more....
Read it on AO3
The Wolf longed to howl in frustration. All he had wanted this morning was to collect his Inquisitor and go. So much for those plans. Was this Evin Lavellan's new talent for complicating everything, or was he just cursed? He had too many questions. How could he find answers here in the Fade, where belief in a thing made it true?
Let Evin despise himâthat he could accept. He preferred it to mild indifference, to the stinging realization that however many years had gone by for her, as far as his traitorous heart was concerned he was still standing in the twilit grove where he'd set her free. For him not a single day had passed. And not a single thing had changed, because he would, in the end, have to walk away all over again.
She knelt not far from him, cradling the Anchor with her right hand, framed by the pillar of crystals behind her and the black of the false Fade sea. His brilliant starâthe spark that burned in the deep. Those downcast eyes. Those enticing tears.
Let her hate, so long as she cared at all. He needed to see.
He reached for her. His fingers gently turned her face toward him, and before she could react in any way he kissed her.
Her lips parted in surprise. His tongue tasted her, tasted the dweomer of her magic, slipped past the neutral ambient energy of her unconscious barrier. All the magic she had cast was layered on her skin. He pulled her closer, his fingers tracing the silken hair at the nape of her neck, seeking truth but suddenly lost in his senses. He wanted more.
Dizzy swirl of sense-impressions, constructed harmonies, a duration of decades, not years. A confusing tangle for the eye like the denuded branches of a tree yearning for the sky.
She broke away, gasping. "Are you insane?"
Fen'Harel opened his eyes, shook his head to clear away the confusion. "You... stop time. You come here to... decide?" He paused, uncertain of the words. "You make the future, pruning the branches, constructing it."
Impossible.
For all intents and purposes, prevision was a joke. A punchline for parties: Did you hear about Valerius' prophet? Such a droll story. Nobody knew the future, not with any detail, and without detail it was useless. At most you got bad poetry, sufficiently vague to apply to fifty situations in retrospect or entertain your supper guests before the first course. He'd never studied the exact phenomenon, but any such ability properly executed would require power far beyond the reach of most mages.
Unless that mage had the Anchorâ
A Dreamer who could access the Fade at will, manipulate itâ
To mold subjective time and channel massive flows of possibility from the Fade, neither of which were hallmarks of the magic of this ageâ
She had gone a year into the future, Redcliffe, seen everything, it was possible, at least to some extentâ
But how much could a mortal truly see? His natural skepticism rose.
Trust Tevinter to devise something this perverse.
"You're so cruel." Evin surged to her feet. "No wonder entire civilizations hate you."
He looked up at her in astonishment, then recovered the thread of conversation. He rose to his feet. "I apologize. It wasn't the most diplomatic way to proceed, but I needed you to be surprised."
"Na tel'abelas!" she said, furious. "I'll punish you later."
"Then why did you kiss me back?"
"You're such a liar," she said. "Do you know what I realize? There's no scenario in which you ever told me the truth. You don't know how many times I examined what you said to me, every possible thing you might have said. You broke my heartâI needed a reason. You never gave me one."
"How could I tell you the truth?" he demanded. "How could I further a relationship based on lies? It was far kinder to walk away."
"And this is the father of my child," she said.
He fought to control his temper. At least you and Revas were safe.
He gestured to the place where the phantasm of Mythal and himself had stood, the terrible moment re-enacted before his eyes. The amphitheatre paved with flat gray stone, studded with clusters of resonating green-laced crystal that sketched the space around them.
"This is the Fade, Evin. Whatever you think you see here is a reflection of the past, a muddle of memories prone to distortion. It was one of the first things you learned."
"That's what you taught me," she said. "You also told me the cardinal rules of magic, though you've personally broken every one. More lies."
"Are you telling me you pay credence to theseâscenarios of yours? That you make decisions based on them? If you believe you've seen your own deathâ"
She made a sharp, dismissing gesture. "I shouldn't have told you that. Everything that's begotten and born will die, I'm no different. You know that Alexius sent me a year into the future when we went to Redcliffe to free the mages. It was how we defeated Corypheusâwe knew his plans. Alexius used Tevinter magic, brutal and crude. But I don't need to send myself bodily through time. All I need is to see. Here, in this place, the Mark shows me what's possible."
He shook his head. "Nothing but memory, twisted by emotion and the imaginings of spiritsâ"
"Even still water becomes a mirror. What do you think the Fade is, Dread Wolf? Aren't you one of the Creators? Maybe you meant some other kind of god. A junior god."
"The word is almost meaningless," he said.
But even as he spoke his thoughts raced ahead. What was it that had disturbed him so greatly before, when the Inquisitor faced him in her stronghold with such infuriating calm? A god might react with such distanceâthough they usually didn't, he had to admitâbecause of their power and the unhurried perspective of immortality. Every defeat in the Game bore the seeds of its own reversal. Every hand, every round only led to another. For the quickened, those who must die, those who could be killed with impunity? The stakes were infinitely higher.
He had understood that very well before his ascension.
How much easier to maintain one's equanimity when one knew what to expect, when one could foresee the outcome of any exchange. When one knew exactly what to do or say. A breathtaking thought if it were true.
In the Still Ruins she had asked him how the rifts might interact with time, and he'd explained the concepts of dilation and compression. Thoseeffects were well understood. Would that have been enough? The missing piece she'd needed? Moment to moment she could escape into the Fade, return here, view the layered outcomes....
He had always wanted to believe destiny didn't exist. The only future was the one every person forged of free choice and free will. He didn't want to be wrong.
"I am old, da'len," he said finally. "You cannot comprehend the number of years I have lived, much less what it means to have lived them. It is difficult for me to believe something so new could possibly exist. I never heard of a power like you describe."
"Mythal did," Evin said.
Just when he thought she couldn't astonish him again. "When did youâ"
"Mythal told me she was the force that nudged history, that sometimes she shoved. She saw the same things I do. Her vallaslin is the naked tree, branching lines of crisis and decision. In some branches I live, in others I die."
Her gaze shifted inward, remembering:
"At first the Mark helped. The only decision lines where I survived were the ones where I'd mastered the power. Even the briefest glimpses were useful. I did well to survive until Haven, but Redcliffe showed me I needed more. The world ended too many ways. Corypheus was too strong, the Inquisition wasn't ready. I had to build it, make it stronger. I had to become the force that pivots the world. The Mark was the fulcrum."
He remembered. There had been no major setbacks after Haven. Everything had gone so smoothly. Every stratagem Corypheus had employed, every planned betrayal, had been defeated with so little cost. The muzzling of the Wardens. The smooth execution of Florianneâher astonishing performance at Halamshiral. Her shackling of Morrigan at the Well. As though she'd known without his telling her the price there was to pay.
"My followers believe the Maker guides me. They think a god whispers in my ear, that I was chosen to save the world. But everything I've achieved, everything I've done, is the result of effort, iterated improvement over years of study here in the Fade. And you think it was all just something I imagined, or random chance."
"I never thought it was random. A remarkable talent, perhaps."
She faced the roiling black waves of the Fade sea that stretched before them. A trace of the calm she'd demonstrated in the physical world. "We've misunderstood each other too long. You told me your truth. Let me show you mine."
And he saw, far out over the water, three black shapes winging ever closer. Two with wings of silver, one with wings of green. He knew them. This was the danger that chased the Wolf, the seed of ruin that whispered despair.
"Dragons," she said. "They reach Skyhold in less than a day."
"They are not dragons," he said.
Notes:
A flying plot monster appears!
This is a rationalist interpretation akin to Yudkowsky's HPMoR. Power must be earned, and once power is attained the challenges must grow accordingly. I don't feel like Fen'Harel is such a cradle robber if Lavellan has secrets of her own.
I literally had to cut this down from like 16 pages and it still feels wonky. -_- I won't see what's wrong with it until I set it aside for six months. Oh well, here we go AOOO writing without a net!
---
Elvish:
Na tel'abelas - (constructed) "Your lack of sorrow" / "You're not sorry (you jerk)"
Vallaslin - "Blood writing", the tattoos Dalish wear to honor their gods
The poised hand and thoughtful expression make me think this FenâHarel is about to cast a spell of some significance -- while the godlike nimbus around his head suggests divinity. Slanted, almond shaped eyes with a heavy black lining are one of the things that distinguish wolves from dogs (yeah, black eyeliner is totally #wolf). So heâs clearly posed with a wolf and not a dog. Even though this is the Romanced Solas tarot I think theyâre just friends.
Wolf In The Breast -Â Chapter 4: Spirits of Revelation, Demons of Guile
"I told you my Name," he said. "You know who I am. You thought to hide from me in the Fade?"
Read it on AO3
Dread Wolf.
The Inquisitor's arm jerked but Fen'Harel kept hold. He felt her fingers spasm in his grasp.
The Veil rippledâthe tower room, the sun-kissed windows, everything around them shudderedâbut he was ready.
He wouldn't have caught it if they were not touching. She had channeled the energy in the space of a heartbeat, unnoticeable to anyone without his perception. He clasped the signature, mirrored its complexity, and drew it over himself like the hem of a cloak.
And plunged into the dreaming Fade.
Thoughts in fragmentsâas though he had tumbled underwater and on surfacing caught phrases, words snatched from moments in time:
"âonly one survivor. They say she stepped out of the Fade."
"Mortals cannot physically enter the Fade, Seeker." His voice.
"The Mark on her hand is killing her. You say you have studied such things? Keep her alive."
"That may not be possibleâ"
"We must question her about the explosion. If the prisoner dies, apostate, I will kill you."
For a moment he was lost, disoriented, buffeted by asymmetric energies and unable to determine up from down or a proper frame of reference. But he had not wandered the twisting paths for so long for nothing. He bent his mind to the chaos. To accept, not struggle.
The horizon took shape, righted itself.
Where was he? He did not recognize this part of the Fade, though he'd roamed the dreaming world near Skyhold for years. What spell had Evin Lavellan cast? Its shape was more complex than the simplistic surge of mana most mages used to access the Fade. He'd had no trouble duplicating her spell, but the constructs left a strange taste on his tongue. Unknown magicâfascinating. How he wished to analyze itâbut there were more pressing concerns.
He didn't see her, nor did he sense her presence.
He pushed himself up from what he thought of as the ground, stretching his muscles, luxuriating in the unleashed power of his true form. After a few moments he shook himself into the shape of a man, visualized a stave, and grasped it with his hand.
"What a curious wolf," said a voice behind him and above.
"There is nothing to amuse you here, spirit," Fen'Harel warned.
The lynx-creature dropped down from the tree. Its limbs were ungainly to his eyes, but it moved with a hunter's swift economy. "Mysteries amuse me much, lupus metus."
"Find your own amusement," he said.
Lifting his stave, he wrapped forgetfulness around himself like a cloak. Startled, the lynx looked past him. Fen'Harel disappeared.
The Wolf had her scent, and he would follow.
It was the chaseâpart of his old soul ached with delight. Everything was brighter in the Fade, the colors more vivid and distinct. The trail crossed pools of clear water that rippled of their own volition, vales of incense and ivy that bloomed and shed funereal tears as it withered, all in the space of moments. Music came in snatches from half-remembered dreams. Ghostly impressionsâa reaching hand, the winking eye of a face in profile. Words of a song wavering on and off the edge of memory, like water dripping from the roof of a cave, catching sunlight for a moment as it fell.
Curious wisps drifted into his wake as he passed, stirred by his movement and emotive purpose. On his right hand, the far-off spires of the Black City shadowed him, ever present, ever watchful. The path became a slope that grew quite steep, then it met a trail that diverged in three directions. The first choice led him back to the fork, so he selected the next, and then the next, and finally the first again.
Why had the Inquisitor come here? What did she intend to do? And how in the Abyss had she managed to outpace him?
He thought he was getting closer; the scent-impression had grown stronger. It had led him to a cleared place, a flat stretch of nothing obscured by mist, what the eye mistook for distance. He willed himself to its center, truncating the span with a thought. And the mist resolved into a smooth wall of slate. In the wall was set a gateâwrought by someone who knew what gates were for.
This was never dreamt by any of the simple denizens of the Fade. It was too congruous, too designed. And it was far too solid to be a remnant of memory. It must belong to a powerful demon. Or... something else? What other options were there?
Too many questions.
He stared up at the gate in dismay. He had seen all too many mages fall to pieces in the shadowed world through overconfidence, stupidity or ignorance. Evin hadn't even awakened to magic until the Breach had opened. She had little enough formal training, and she was here without her friends. She might be in terrible danger.
More to the point, he reminded himself, the Anchor might be in terrible danger. He could not afford its loss. If he felt anxiety, that must be the cause. What was the life of one elf-woman weighed against it?
He pushed through the gate, absentmindedly slipping past the protective barrier. There followed a series of simple challenges that functioned to deter random passing spirits that lacked intention or mindfulness. Then a shallow pool of water lined with flat gray stones, and a staircase that divided itself on either side of a tall, wrought door.
And he began to hear voices.
His voice.
"I journeyed deep into the Fade..."
"I have watched dynasties form and empires crumble..."
It was oddly irritating to hear his voice outside his own head. It sounded higher-pitched, more nasal than he was used to.
"Some were dedicated to specific members of our pantheonâ"
Extremely irritating. He surged up the stairs, determined to find the source.
Another barrier on the doorâand the signature felt oddly familiar, almost like a barrier he would create. Shaking his head at the notion, he forced it open.
A shore onto a black ocean, a vast expanse of listless waves receding into the greenish-yellow of the Fade-sky, punctured with specks like anti-stars, those distant floating isles. The space before it, paved with the same flat gray stones, was bordered by a gallery of crystals, white facets edged with green. The waves lapped at the shore, a soft metonym to the raised mediant and subdominant of the crystals. This was some enchantment, the harmonic of unfamiliar magic. It made his teeth clench.
Evin Lavellan stood on the shore before that black sea. The Inquisitor's shape flickered before him, as her idea of herself warred with his. The lynx sat beside her, unblinking eyes regarded him with mirth.
He stared back.
The Fade creature stood, gathered itself to leap. Fen'Harel snapped his fingers. And the lynx was not. He kept walking.
"Guile!" she exclaimed.
"Evin, what is this place?" he demanded.
"You followed me here?"
"I told you my Name," he said. "You know who I am. You thought to hide from me in the Fade? "
"Then you truly are the Dread Wolf. It was real. It was all realâ"
She lifted her handâhe felt the pressure of her will, heard the subdominant alter. The Anchor. She was channeling power through it, but not to open a rift. It was slower, more diffused than that. And suddenly he saw the pale outline of an eluvian with two heraldic supporters. His figure and Mythal's, impossibly huge, filling nearly the entire space around him. Fade phantasm wrought with astonishing clarity. He backed away from them, toward Evin, toward the shore.
The figures spoke:
"You should not have given your orb to Corypheusâ"
"The failure was mine. I should pay the price..."
And the rest he couldn't hear above the roaring in his ears.
It was that momentâthat tragic, brutal moment in the Crossroads. How had she seen this? What trick? Not possible. How in the name of the gods had she found it? What malicious spirit? That vile lynx?
He had never wanted her to see this.
He reached for her, caught her hand to disrupt the spell.
She jerked away from him. "Murderer!" she screamed. "You killed the Protectress. You killed her!"
"Mythal died long agoâ"
"You stole her power! How could you do it?" she shouted, shoving at him. "What are you waiting for? Just do it! Take what you came for!"
"Take it?" he repeated.
"Take the Mark!" Tears streamed down her cheeks. She sank to her knees. "But please, please spare Revas. Don't kill our son. Just kill me, I won't fight you. If I ever meant anything to you, take the Mark and go."
The Wolf saw her submit and was pleased.
Shocked at his own reaction, he found himself embracing her. "Vhenan, I would neverâ"
"You would. I know you would."
The simple truth. It wasn't a short blade.
"I would... do what is necessary to save the People," he said finally.
He released her, sinking onto his heels. "Listen to me," he said. "The Anchor is part of you. When you die it will cease to exist. If you don't believe me, believe that Corypheus would have taken it if he could. No power can remove it."
It was close enough to the truth.
"Evin..." he said.
Her eyes met his but he read her expression as abhorrence/despair. A part of him was in agony, a part he thought he'd managed to kill long ago. Another part wondered about the voices on the stair. What more had sheâ
"Then tell me," she said, "why did my death change when you returned?"
Notes:
In this section i noticed a fine line between "Solas is a huge jerk" and "Solas is such a huge jerk there's no way anybody would ever forgive him for anything, that vile toad". I'm trying to walk it carefully. Also observe Fen'Harel Wolf-God breaks the law of the internet by hating cats.
---
Canonical Elvish:
Vhenan - My heart
(I wanted to put in more elven phrases but trying to figure out a translation for Random Sentence X made my brain spasm! We need more grammar BW kthx)
Letâs just pause to admire how prepared Solas is. Heâs got alllll his camping gear sorted. Wooden tankard? Check. Backpack? Check. Horn of... plenty? Check. Man-purse? Check. Heâs like, âAccompany you on a mission to close the Breach? I am so down for that, Herald.â I love his little outfits!
Wolf In The Breast -Â Chapter 3: Spirits of Duty, Demons of Constraint
Evin Lavellan laughed. "Solas, your face is an Orlesian mask of horror. Is it really so terrible to have a child?"Â
Read it on AO3
The wind roared outside, rattling the balcony doors, disrupting the patterned diamonds of light and shadow that fell across the table. It was just the two of them in her chamber again. The Inquisitor continued to pick at the meal, but Fen'Harel hadn't really touched it: a simple lunch of bread and ptarmigan. Now it had grown cold. He realized he never should have come here, if only for that child's sake. But it was too late now.
He needed the Anchor. He needed it enough he would trade the long-concealed truth to get it. He needed it so badly he would risk her life, her people, he would even risk his son. The situation was that dire. And he had run out of options.
If you pay that price, a voice whispered, what will you become?
Evin Lavellan laughed. "Solas, your face is an Orlesian mask of horror. Is it really so terrible to have a child?"
He schooled his expression. "Not terrible, no."
She was playing with her knife, pushing the food around on her plate. "I thought it possible you already knew."
That stung. "You believe I would have abandoned you?" he demanded. "That I would have left if I had known?"
"Wouldn't you?"
He just stared at her. Because after all, wasn't she right?
No. No, he would never have left her like that. If he'd dreamed it possible he would have done something unforgivable, but she never would have known.
She had tried to send word. All the agents he had dodged, the tricks he had used to escape her people and prevent her following him, had merely served to protect his ignorance. In his success he had spawned another devastating personal failure. The disastrous pattern of his life.
"You don't have to run away again," Evin said. "You made your decision about the two of us quite clear. I don't expect you to be a parent. No one even knows Revas is yours."
He shook his head. "But... the timing?"
"Exactly. I carried Revas for eighteen months, not ten. No one thought to wonder how long such things took for the ancient elvhen."
He had to tell her the truth. He had to tell her right now. But they were alone for once and he had new questions, all unexpected. The 'ancient' elvhen? Had her people changed so much?
"Where did you go when the birth delirium came over you? There is no vhenadahl here," he said.
"No, nor any suitable trees. Toward the end I took to wandering the frozen paths outside Skyhold. I didn't realize I was searching. Finally one of the hahrens recognized the signs. He told me to find a place consecrated to the Creators."
"Mythal, perhaps? Or Ghilan'nain?"
"No. I crossed the Sea. The temple of Dirthamen we found on the coast."
"That place?" He was appalled. "You had our child in that filthy, flooded hole? Littered with broken curses, dismembered undead?"
"We cleared it out pretty thoroughly." Evin sipped her tea, centered the cup on its saucer. "There was a place near the entrance. Carpeted in green moss, where a young oak grew beneath the eyes of the Wolf. Don't judge me," she said defensively, "I was delirious."
"I did not intend to. I am surprised, that is all."
She had given birth under the grace of Dirthamen, his brother. But Dirthamen slept, and the god of secrets kept them well. Even from me, he thought.
"When I returned to Skyhold with a little elf babyâ" something glittered in her eyesâ "it surprised many who thought I carried some human's child. In Halamshiral there were even those who suggested I had switched my child for another. Can you imagine?"
He could. "For the Inquisitor, every action is political."
"I didn't discourage the stories. Let them wonder."
Better for there to be some doubt. Safer. She had been... unexpectedly prudent. She had always surprised him.
"I did try to send word," she said. "I must have looked like such a fool to everyone. You lied to me. About everything."
There it was, and he didn't regret a single word. He never would. He'd anticipated this moment for weeks, as soon as he'd seen what he must do. Let her screamâlet her shout at him. Exercise her anger. He was fairly certain she wouldn't try to kill him.
He hoped... he hoped she wouldn't cry.
He lifted his chin, met her eyes squarely. He read there pain, but no tears.
"So," she said. "You lied about your name. You lied about where you're from and the clans you visited. You even lied about visiting Ostagar in the Fade. None of the spirits there remembered you, 'Solas'. Whatever reason you returned, whatever you need the Inquisition for, why should I believe you? Why in the world would I help?"
He nodded. "You are the Inquisitor. You protect the innocent. You do what must be done, it is your nature. I could not have loved you otherwise."
Her voice rose. "But youâ!" She drew a breath as though to shoutâhe wondered briefly if he should brace himself, there were plenty of throwable objects within reachâbut then it all changed. It was like the sun had gone behind a cloud.
Evin shifted slightly in the chair. "I forget, this all must have come as a shock." Her voice, her entire attitude were utterly self-possessed once more. "I also have my pride. I won't press you about the past. Tell me what you came to say."
Fen'Harel's eyes narrowed. What was this? What had he just witnessed?
She was doing it even now. Exactly what he wanted to hear, exactly what would command his good opinion, or soothe his feelings.
Why? But more importantly, how? How could she know him, know any of them so well? The Inquisitor commanded the loyalty of the foremost men and women of this age. She balanced the fate of nations and never stumbled. And here she was, observing him so coolly over her tea. How dare she remain so calm? His heart was pounding, and she was somehow unmoved? No mortal had such wisdom. It was not possible.
And there she sat, imitating a spirit of patience when he had treated her with such cruelty, when she still lacked any of the answers she sought. The pieces did not fit. The pieces had never fit. How galling, to not notice until now!
Five years ago he had still been weak, disoriented after his slumber. He wouldn't have recognized the signs. Could she have made some bargain with a spirit, a demon? The Forgotten Ones were gone but there were still powers in the Dark.
She had secrets too. And now he had the power to see it.
Fen'Harel felt a smile twisting at his mouth. Perhaps he would enjoy this after all. The time for secrets was over.
The only mortal to draw his attention from the Fade. He laughed.
"Before the explosion that created the Anchor," he began, "I had slept for many ages. When I woke I called myself Solas. But your people know me. They call me by another Name."
He rose to his feet. And taking her left hand in his, he looked down into her horrified eyes, and told her.
Notes:
Sooo much talking... I kind of picture this as what happens when the Inquisitor's finger hovers between Option '1' (angelic/diplomatic) and Option '3' (angry/brusque).
And here Solas thought he had Inquisitor Lavellan all figured out. The Maker punishes such arrogance. LOL
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Canonical Elvish:
Vhenadahl - The tree of the people. In this fic it evidently has some non-canonical significance to the elvhen
Hahren - Elder
Wolf In The Breast â Chapter 2: Spirits of Solace, Demons of Peril
"Wait," he said. "My child? That is not possible."
Read it on AO3
After that astonishing remark the Inquisitor suddenly grew much more relaxed. Her long, thin fingers tore at a bread roll. She began to eat it a piece at a time.
"You've returned for some other reason, then. Tell me about the danger you may or may not have brought here," Evin said.
Your son.
"Wait," he said. "My child? That is not possible."
Her incredulous gazeâwide, wide sunset eyesâmet his. "I think I would know, I was there."
"But we were never intimate in that way," he protested. He'd begun to sweat, he found.
"You really don't remember? One night after the Grand Ball, you were being all 'grim and fatalistic' about the fate of the elves. You wanted to show me something in the Fade, and you didn't exactly hesitate when we were there."
He... remembered.
"As I recall," she continued, "I didn't waken in my own bed. I also remember you were very awkward toward me the next several days. It was a bit ungentlemanly, Solas. Does it not count if it's Fade sex?"
If it wasn't only Fade sex....
He stared at her in fading astonishment and growing dismay. There was an unfamiliar feeling in his chest, a lightness and a heaviness that threatened to steal his voice.
They spoke at the same time:
"If we actuallyâ"
"I didn't mean toâ"
They both fell silent, a moment before the door to the stairwell opened. He welcomed the distraction until he realized what it portended. Footsteps on the stairs, the wooden boards creaking. A serving woman holding a small boy's hand. His breath caught.
A boy of no more than three years.
Tow-headed and skinny, an elvhen child, the tips of his ears just peeking out from short curls. Light eyes more like his than Evin's. A child's undeveloped nose, the classical slope he'd never liked on his own face, yet somehow perfect here.
That weightless sensation again. It took a few attempts to speak. "What is his name?"
"Come give mamae a hug, Revas."
Evin pushed her chair out from the table. Hands extended, uncomplicated genuine warmth. He'd never received such a smile.
Revas regarded him, the stranger, with doubt, then ran to Evin. The child ducked behind her legs, hiding his face.
Such a name. That hurt, too.
She was so very calm. "Are you not going to eat, Solas?"
"I... am not very hungry."
"Has Revas had lunch?" she asked the serving woman.
"Yes, your Worship."
The child looked up from his hiding place behind her knees. "We ate eggs. I want a cookie."
"Would you like to meet my friend Solas, ma'len? If you greet him very nicely, he'll give you a cookie."
That drew a smile. The child, influenced by arrant bribery, took a step or two toward him. He bobbed a short bow and said, as though by rote, "I am very pleased to meet you ser."
"Ir serannas, my son," said Fen'Harel. He gave the child the promised sweet.
The boy was pleased by the offering. "Are you an elf?" Revas asked.
"I am," he replied gravely.
Evin watched the interchange as closely as a she-wolf with her cub. Her careful manner was unchanged. "Revas, I need to talk to Solas alone. Linna, will you take him to wash up? He can play in the garden until it's time for his nap."
"Yes, your Worship."
Fen'Harel's hands trembled. And he was glad, and amazed, and profoundly frightened. For he had made another misstep, on a scale which paled to insignificance so many others of his long, long life. In ignorance, in a momentary lapse of emotion he had created another hostage: his perfect child.
Such a stunning miscalculation would not be overlooked by his many, his so very many enemies.
Notes:
Definitely more of an Asexual!Solas here, but don't worry, there's plenty of innuendo! Things have always been easier for him in the Fade. So, what exactly about the Fade is easier, Solas? LOL
From my playlist: Lost Boys & Girls Club - Dum Dum Girls
---
Canonical Elvish:
Mamae - "Mum"/"mom"
Ma'len - My child
Ir serannas - (semi-constructed) I am glad/grateful
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