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Skyhold has been quiet since the Exalted Council. Peaceful. It is still busy- she had not disbanded the Inquisition, she could not risk losing Leliana's carefully placed network of spies, but she has minimized the Inquisition’s actions in the new world.
She ceased all military actions, instead letting the soldiers rebuild Thedas. She sent Cullen into the heart of Ferelden to set up a base of operations there, near his sister- she lets him take Josephine with him. It would be easier for them there in the long run.
She dismisses her inner circle, Bull, Dorian, Sera, and even Varric, gone. She still holds contact with them, but she does not keep them as close as she used to. All she can bear to pen are brief letters explaining monotonous days studying texts she had found in the Vir Dirthara. Often their letters spend days unopened on her desk.
Liliana had explained her new position in a report that sat on her desk (a pile of paper which she highlighted and made notes on the margins of)- Liliana explains in her neat script that hers is more of an honor position than anything, and that Cullen would be able to care for the rest- that the inquisitor merely needed to be seen with the divine every so often.
She ‘protects’ Liliana- follows her around Orlais like an ever-faithful servant of Andraste. She wears frilly dresses and a porcelain arm that weighs heavily upon her shoulder. She charms nobles with her 'Dalish heritage' and her stories.
The arm is nearly as useless as the Orlisian corsetry. It sits at her side all day, limp and lifeless- the nobles stare at it as if it were offensive to them. to tell the truth, it is offensive to her. T he Orlsians would cover what has been done to her- would cover and cower in the face of the veil falling.
The inquisitor learns the grand game of Orlais, manipulating nobles and advocating for the Dalish behind closed doors. She meets with Briala often to ensure the Inquisition's power in Orlais remains steadfast. She often comes out of those meetings gripping her side and wishing for a dagger to stab the Elvhen woman with.
Her power alone is not enough.
Drastic times call for drastic measures.
So, she carefully overtakes part of Liliana’s ring of spies in the Inquisition, liberating the Divine of some of the recruits occasionally, training them at her own hand. She can not afford to make the mistake Liliana had made all those years ago with Solas. She cannot leave them to someone else. She sees to each personally, ensnaring the secrets they bring her and hiding them away, often keeping them close to her chest. Knowing the strength and weaknesses of each of her people, knowing who they are, what they are.
If Liliana knows, she does not say.
She unofficially breaks from the Divine with a curt letter and a brief explanation- sent via one of her new spies.
Liliana, please, for the love of God, stop dragging me around Orlais- you know that I am more suited to work in the shadows- send Cullen or Josephine in my stead. Let me stay at Skyhold.
She receives no answer- and so she stays at Skyhold, training her spies.
She receives no more letters from Liliana.
The inquisitor exploits the weaknesses of her enemies, carefully shifting from figurehead to shadow of the past, deftly slipping poisons the unjust and unworthy, providing silent boons to those who needed it.
For the first few months, she sticks to sending her spies to Orlais, to gather information on the Eluvian network there.
Minimal success greets her, Briala is unwilling to help, and her spies struggle to move through the cities unnoticed.
Soon, her spies begin to go missing.
Then they turn up dead far away from Orlais- one of hers had been found as far as the fallow mire, dead.
She does not send her shadows into Orlais for some time after that, preferring to talk with her agents, attempting to find who had killed her people.
Of course she already knew, but that is beside the point. Her days still move in monotony, nothing has been changed. No grand impact has been levied on the world, no fearsome battles waged and won.
Sometimes, she lies awake at night, listening to the silence the gutted keep and thinks of him, of the way he moved, the way he talked. She wishes she could ask him questions again- ask him anything- his latest mural, his new calculations, the latest history he could share with her- but she can never reach him. Her spies die when too close, her information stolen left and right.
Sometimes, all that is left of him is a singular wolf that watches her dreams, blinking at her with weary eyes, and the paintings in the rotunda- a mockery of her achievements.
She wonders if he himself slits their throats, or if he cannot bear to harm them.
Most nights she wakes with tears rolling from her eyes, and she slips from her bed and onto the ramparts barefoot, walking them until she can stomach more paperwork. She can never return to sleep- she can never bear seeing the wolf more than once a night. Any more would be far too painful. It would rip and claw a hole in her chest, crumbling her heart- crushing it.
One day she fears she will have nothing left- that every time she sees the wolf she loses a bit of herself to him.
Sometimes, when woken by the wolf in her dreams, she screams harsh and terrible things off the balcony of Skyhold, letting her magic flow from her and vault into the valley, just to feel something. Just to make sure she still could. She would make symphonies out of screams, telling him to stop his foolishness.
Her spies avoid her on such nights.
Eventually, she commissions Dagna to craft her a magically powered arm. The arm takes weeks to learn how to use- fighting her and her magic at every turn. She now realizes that the metal will always chafe against her arm- her mind will always know that this is not her arm- and her magic will never flow through the limb as it once had.
Still, despite the pain, despite her suffering, she begins to wield her staff again.
Dagna helps.
Slowly she learns how to spin her staff again, how to summon her magic even when she is missing a vital channel in her body. Dagna places runes on specific spots in the arm, to help her channel magic through her metal limb.
The day a fireball finally hits its mark is the first day she truly smiles again. The keep radiates that day, her Shadows smiling with their mistress.
From then on, the hole in her chest feels patched in a way. Still there, still gaping, but she had begun to fix it, to mend the edges if nothing else.
Months go by since that first fireball, she trains rigorously, filling the keep with her magic.
One summer day, one of the younger boys complains it tastes of ozone. Later that night she fills his room with little lightning snaps that create the smell whenever he touches his furniture.
Months pass as she shows her spies how to evade Fen’Harel. She teaches them the old ways, how to read in cyphers of her creation, she teaches the mages how to use blood and ancient rituals to deter him.
How to keep themselves alive- unlike their unlucky predecessors.
She would give her scouts vials of her own blood to use- she could not stomach them slitting their wrists for her. She cannot think of their tears mixing with their blood on the ground. She can not think of the ritual knife they would wield, drenched in their blood.
She would not make them give any more. She would ensure their safety until their last breath. It feels natural that way. Better. It feels good for her to give, for her to protect.
She has learnt from her mistakes- she had not lost any Shadows since the solstice.
As she gathers more and more Shadows , she teaches them how to enter old ruins from ancient Elvhenan, how to take rubbings of the runes and script on the walls, how to mark the location for her to find in the future. She teaches them how to lay and charge blood around the premises of the temples, warding against anyone who means the temple harm.
There is now a scar on the inside of her palm, a constant reminder of her small sacrifice.
Her scouts see it every time they greet her- their palms clasped together against that harsh ridge.
The younger ones cringe- just slightly- just enough to be missed by the untrained eye.
She does not miss their little movement of disgust, her eyes sharp.
But she does it for them.
Her spies will bring her ‘gifts.’ Cyphers stolen from Solas’ spies, mementos from when one of hers trip over one of his. She hoards their information, their swirling script, clearly his handwriting. She grasps to any piece of her Vhenan left. Once, one of the younger boys, too much like cole, brings her a small stuffed toy sewn in the shape of a wolf, bought from a Dalish encampment near the dales.
She dismisses the boy and cries to sleep, only to be woken by wolves howling in her dreams.
The keep does not smile that day.
Her Shadows do not tell her where the toy really came from.
“The mistress needn’t know.”
It takes precious time, but she builds information. Not just on ancient Arlathan and Elvhenan, but on magical theory and Tevinter history. She learns the Math of lost civilizations, puts together their histories herself. She spends weeks going over calculations on the veil with Dagna, creating new constants that describe the veils energies’ and moulds them with the old texts.
She carefully sends her research to Dorian and Madame de Fer, ensuring that her secrets stay secret by sending one of her S hadows with each letter.
Madame de Fer sends a curt letter refusing to investigate her blasphemy.
A week later, Dorian's letter returns, small scribbles of irrelevant notes marring the side of the letter.
Dorian's letters are optimistic to say the least- He can not only prove her constants but show that they have merit in modern-day magical science. Dorian had sent pages of calculations along with a bright red crystal on a long chain.
She lifts the crystal warily, examining the glow of the thing, her agent, the one so very much like sweet Cole, taps the crystal once.
The crystal glows brighter.
“Hello my friend!” Dorian's voice flies cheerfully from the crystal.
The Inquisitor throws the crystal, backing into a nearby alcove and taking the boy with her- it hits the floor of her room with a sharp ‘clink!’
Dorian’s voice resonates throughout the chamber.
“You know, inquisitor, I know you just threw me. In Tevinter we consider that quite rude… Why I could probably have a death warrant signe-” Her sharp breaths cut off Dorian’s cheerful ranting.
A sharp laugh escapes from her mouth, and then more, and more. She lets the boy out from behind her in the alcove and dismisses him.
It feels like ages since she last laughed.
Dorian pipes up from the floor, “Is that the fearsome inquisitor? Laughing? Has she finally discovered the ancient art of laughing from an ancient Tevene Temple? Oh, I may die of shock Inquisitor.”
She walks toward Dorian (Or rather his crystal) and scoops him up in her hands.
She can’t hide the grin from her face, as much as she tries. Warmth fills the tips of her fingers- she can feel her shoulders still tense from the laughter.
“It is good to see you Dorian.” She says warmly, her fingers running along the crystal.
“Well, inquisitor, you aren’t actually seeing me. Merely hearing my voice from a-”
She laughs again, shushing Dorian and rearranging the papers on her table.
The inquisitor’s small, tentative laughs can be heard throughout the keep.
Those who are her eyes and ears inside the keep hold small smiles on their faces.
Their mistress is laughing.
A silent prayer to the gods is said by a few of her agents, a few more hug each other. There is hope now.
…….
Weeks pass with the Inquisitor and Dorian conversing nearly every day. They speak of everything and nothing, the state of Tevinter, The Iron Bull, whom Dorian had quite madly fallen in love with, and their calculations most of all.
They begin with a small plan, calculating the amount of power needed to stabilize the veil.
It quickly turns into philosophical discourse about the validity of the veil, then the morals of keeping the veil raised, and so on.
The two form a bond that they did not maintain during the inquisition. She is more open-minded to him; she likes his witty comments far better than she did when the breach was still a threat. He finds her more charming; he knows that a deep pain still has latched onto her heart, but every time they speak, he can detect its presence just a bit less in her voice. He finds that she will laugh and joke with him more and more, become less threatening and more kind. Softer than what she presents herself to be.
The Inquisitor has not been this happy in a long time. She keeps the plush wolf on her desk- often stroking its head like a real animal when she talks to Dorian- no longer pained by its presence. They continue with their calculations, Dorian often having to leave to deal with “Matters of state that would absolutely crush every blood mage in the kingdom.”
She snickers.
weeks pass, and on one snowy day, one of her Shadows comes crashing through the gates of Skyhold, fingers frostbitten and bearing a deep gash along their side.
They scream of a force trudging its way across the Frostbacks, heading to Skyhold and waving an unknown banner.
The keep prepares for a siege.
After a few days, she can see the glimmer of metal on the horizon. she orders non- perishable foods to be brought up from the cellars, she pens letters to what remains of her inner circle, letters pile themselves upon her desk- none good enough to send.
She looks off the balcony every morning- watching the shimmering dot on the horizon advance. waiting for the army to approach- to break Skyhold's walls and end them.
She does not contact Dorian anymore.
Madness consumes her fingers when she writes- she has switched from writing letters to writing equations- finishing the work she had started with Dorian.
Everything she has worked for can not be lost. For surely it is Solas that is leading the massive force, and he has come to take back Tarasyl'an Te'las. For what, she can only guess. Perhaps he has finally decided to rend the veil, and would do it where his vhenan once resided. Perhaps he has come to end her- for he knows he cannot tear the veil down while she resides in this world.
It is a sad thought- but one she cannot dismiss.
Her calculations grow on her desk like wildfire- tweaking, adjusting, advancing by the cadence of the army that grows louder every day. Books remain permanently strewn about the floor of her chambers- Tevene and Elvhen mixing on the stone floor.
She creates diagrams for a ward system to keep her spell contained while she would cast- and sends schematics for runes Dagna. Runes of strength, of protection, of health, all created by her calculations and by her hand.
She sends away anyone she can- many will simply not leave, claiming that they would gladly die for their mistress.
She panics more. After the early deaths among her spies, death is not something she welcomes with open arms. She has seen too much death- too many mothers stooped over their sons and daughters, weeping. Too many notes sent back to broken families.
The inquisition is deeply pained to inform you...
She does not tell Dorian of her doom advancing with every heartbeat and every footstep. She can imagine the pain in his voice- his frantic yelling as he vows to save her, him frantically trying to contact everyone- anyone- to save her.
She writes him a letter- to be sent if she is killed.
It doesn’t matter anymore, she is cornered in a hold in the Frostback mountains, with nothing but an army of spies and a few old friends.
Who would send the letter if she dies?
She cannot stop him- can she? Is this world not hers? He may have broken it all those years ago, but the Elves, Humans, Dwarves, and Qunari have lived.
She had survived against all odds.
They are not flukes in some grand game- each and every living person is a survivor. They beat the odds. They live- even if it is not to Solas’ standards, they still laugh and love. The Dalish find their homes in the forest, the humans in cities. The Qunari under a religion- the Dwarves among their mines or their Thaigs.
There will always be injustice and there will always be someone who tries to correct it.
For every break and bruise she has gained in this world, she has gained new friends, old memories, old pains. For every injustice, there is a defining moment. For every victory, a tragic loss. And he would wipe it away? How could he stand such a thing? He killed something beautiful a long time ago, how can he not see that he is doing the exact same now?
How could he find no worth in this world, broken as it is?
She can’t bear the thought. The pain. It rends the hole in her chest anew- it worms desperation next to her heart, clawing at her edges.
The calculations on her desk are her salvation.
She will strengthen the veil- even if it is the last thing she does. She grabs her calculations and walks to her chamber door. She turns back once more, to survey the room that had held all her love and heartbreak over the years.
She sees the couch where they had studied- sees the bed where they had loved- sees the balcony where they had held hands on the hardest nights.
She walks to the desk that she had spent most of her days and grabs the small wolf plush.
She takes both to the great hall.
She summons everyone who is currently residing in the keep- 50 or so men and women who keep Skyhold running, Dagna, and a few of her spies.
She sends each of them about the keep to prepare for the army bearing down on them- she tells them to open the gates- to flee. To lead them straight to Skyhold. She tells them that she will be strengthening the veil- by herself.
But won't that kill you?
How will you remain uninjured?
What of the army?
A chorus of concerned shouts meet her. She silences them with a simple wave of her hand.
“I am the Herald of Andraste . Did you think I would attempt this without the proper precautions?”
The lie slips easily off her lips- like honeyed wine.
Her words quell most of the groaning of her spies.
The old cook shares a knowing look with her husband, seeing the lie for what it is, and continues on her way, muttering.
They work in silence as the sound of marching feet grows louder by the minute.
Dagna prepares the Inquisitor’s armor- she had not worn it since the exalted council, yet it still fits like a glove. Every buckle perfectly in place, every piece of leather soft and fitted to her body.
She ties her hair into an intricate braid she used to wear when performing Judgements- a braid that symbolizes the protector in Dalish culture. Each strand of her hair is placed in time to the marching of feet.
She runs from the undercroft to grab her staff in the courtyard- each step in time with the metallic cadence outside. She hears the yells of her servants- they are moving and packing what they can, reading to escape the hold once she finishes the spell.
It is fitting now, she supposes, as she draws out a complex ward system on the floor of the great hall. She has always been the protector of Thedas, and now she will fight against the Dread Wolf, the great Harellan of her people. She might as well look the part of a noble hero. A martyr.
She may as well lead him to her.
The inquisitor alters the wards to glow brightly, like a beacon for Solas’ army.
At least he will know where to find her.
Dagna lays down the runes of strength beside the wards to make them nearly impenetrable- the magics mix and create a metallic smell in the air- like sweat and copper.
Dagna looks up at her with wide eyes, then places the last rune.
The wards flash with a blinding light- a light so bright that it seems to drown out everything- even sound.
Tears stream down the inquisitor’s face.
She screams for Dagna to leave her, and then steps through the wards.
As she steps through the wards she feels them lock into place against her skin- like resurfacing from the ocean after being submerged too long. She feels the gentle magic of the wards stretch around her, keeping the light outside from singeing her eyes.
She sits.
She takes a deep breath, setting her notes and calculations beside her.
Her fingers nearly move of their own accord when conjuring the spell. She goes slowly, tracing the magic over itself, weaving it into being in the small bubble underneath the wards. Sometimes, she uses her staff as a focus, bringing the stands of magic in upon themselves- the magic feeling like a frequency against her skin- buzzing.
After an hour, her fingers go numb, her body aches and sweats, but she continues.
The spellwork is taxing. The buzzing has now drowned out any other sound she might make- her breath and her heartbeat. The small movements of her fingers brushing against each other no longer produce a small papery sound, instead, they intensify the ringing in her ears, the frequency marring the bubble of silence.
After another hour, the main hall is breached. The grand doors sweep open to reveal hundreds of elves covering their faces from the blinding light.
A man walks hastily in front of them- a hand raised against the harsh light of her wards.
Solas is dressed the same as she last saw him, in intricate armor with a wolf pelt carefully draped across his shoulder.
Dark circles reside under his eyes, a harrowed expression mars his face. His eyes , the eyes she always adored so much for their icy clarity, are now cloudy- glazed over in pain and muddled. His face now possesses more fine lines than before- from constant stress no doubt.
He stops short of her blazing barrier.
A long heavy sigh escapes him.
“ Could you not have waited vhenan?” he asks.
She can barely hear him through the ringing in her ears- the sharp frequency making the sound of his voice painful.
She shakes her head in response, not lifting her eyes from the magic she weaves before her.
She weaves a particularly stubborn strand of magic into the ball of sound before her- feeling the waves of magic resonate in her bones.
Tears began to stream down her face and mingle with the beads of sweat that have collected on her body. The magic begins to fight her fingers- each time she siphons a strand the ringing in her ears threatens to drown out the room. Each time she snaps her magic into place the vibrations push on her body- filling the wards with an unspeakable pressure that she fights against with every breath and every heartbeat.
She exhaustedly summons another string of magical frequency into the barrier.
She screams when her fingers crack at an unnatural angle, the magic reverberating through her bones and radiating down- she feels her lungs shudder- feels her muscles shake in time with the magic. Her metal arm is unaffected.
Solas jumps at the crack- thrusting his hands onto the barrier, pushing at the magic that keeps her in place.
His eyes glow blue.
His face betrays none of his emotions as he pushes against her wards. His magic fills the room and contradicts her light with a sickly green.
For a moment, she almost loses her spell- forgetting how much power he has, whishing for his strength in that moment- pain radiating through her broken fingers. Wishing that she was not in a damned barrier- risking her life because of him.
Fear lances through her as his magic swirls around the wards- choking them.
He pushes.
Without warning, the wards push back- glowing brighter and brighter until she sees Solas’ hands begin to burn.
Dagna’s runes.
“Ma Vhenan…ma’ sa lath” she whispers under the pressure of the spell- barely holding on to the threads of magic she has carefully weaved into her hands. Her concentration is nearly lost when they lock eyes.
Pain radiates up from her snapped fingers- they hang limply next to her metallic ones, marring each of her movements with pain. It snaps her back to her spell- like dousing water on a flame.
He removes his hands, stepping back and shaking his head- his face twisted in pain. He heals his burnt hands before placing them on the barrier once more.
His voice is soft when he speaks.
“What have you done?” He asks, shaking his head and letting his hands slide down the wards, to his side.
Unwillingly her head shakes- she struggles to control the magic underneath her fingers.
Anther crack echoes through the great hall.
Her scream follows it.
She frantically pants as the pressure in the wards becomes more and more- the magic filling the space and making it nigh impossible to breathe.
She finally locks eyes with Solas, slowly raising her head as she continues to charge the spell.
“Solas, you once told me that every alternative was worse than the choice you made when creating the veil, I now make that same choice ma’ Vhenan. ” She gasps, feeling a wetness streaming down her chin.
Blood. Blood falling from her nose.
She wipes away the blood on her shoulder, pleading with Solas, “You would free the Evanuris- you would risk the lives of millions of people for a mistake that you made thousands of years ago,” The magic in her hands grows brighter- a solid ball forming in the mangled fingers of her right hand, “You would repeat that same mistake by taking down the veil. You left me… no… choice.” Her words end garbled as she gasps for breath- the orb in her hand becoming dangerously unstable for a split second- striking out like lightening against her barrier.
Solas places a hand against the barrier between them.
“ Vhenan.” He says the word like a prayer, drawing out its syllables and savoring it.
He steps back, crossing his arms behind him, straining as a soldier would, back straight, elbows bent. Blue smoke flows from the corners of his eyes as he turns to the other elves in the room, a harsh command in Elven streaming gracefully from his mouth.
The mages of the group stand at attention- their staves held at the ready, seemingly readying for his next command.
She frantically struggles to weave more power into the orb. She is gasping now, pushing more and more magic into the orb- feeling the pressure and feeling the cracking of her bones, her heart strains to maintain its steady beating within in her chest. She struggles to drown it out, to reach a numbness that focused on simply her and the orb.
She pours her life into the orb- every pain and triumph- her loves and her losses.
The orb of magic lets out another unstable flash, blasting her out of her body and into darkness.
Her life flashes before her eyes like a dam bursting open.
The keeper naming her their first.
The breach.
The divine floating above her.
Finding Skyhold.
Holding Solas after a long day.
Studying with Dorian.
Killing the queen.
Solas’ gentle kisses on her scrapes.
Her dress as she sways in his arms.
Her magic as it pushes through her fingers.
She distantly hears his commands.
“Focus past me- let my magic draw from yours.”
Broken and bloodied- she can barely see him. Her eyes are flitting back and forth with memory after memory- eventually the memories aren’t even hers anymore. She feels no pain, no vibration, it is as if she has left her body- she feels no weakness- no sweat on her skin. She dreams she is a boy in Kirkwall, a young girl in the Kokari wilds, a noble human attending a soiree. She dreams of every life on Thedas, from empress to slave.
In the real world, she has slumped to the side, her fingers still channeling magic into her spell- the ball of magic resembling a foci in her hands. Solas has launched a barrage of magic against her wards.
They will break. He thinks. All wards must break. In his haste, he does not see Dagna’s runes upon the edges of the wards.
He unleashes a maelstrom of magic against her wards. He screams for her, yells, channels his desperation into spells that could level mountains.
She can’t hear his desperate shouts. His pleas for her to stop. For her to come back to him. His cries of Vhenan.
But she could care less- in this moment, she is broken. Her eyes are glazed over- staring at a fixed point on the vaulted ceiling of Skyhold. She sees darkness, she hears nothing, simply floats above it all in numbness, letting her life slip into the green orb she grasps.
She imagined more people around her as she dies. She imagined herself old and gray, a keeper of her own clan. She imagined that she would go first, the residual strain of the anchor killing her before many of her inner circle.
This is much, much worse.
Surrounded by a ward that will fail, dying for a spell that will fail, in front of the man whom she loves, and who would destroy her world if she let him. She can't finish it. She will siphon everything into it and she still will not be enough.
Gentle hands place themselves on her shoulders, bracing them to the floor.
Her lips form the word "mother" but no sound comes from her bloody lips.
She shakily lifts her metallic hand to grasp the wrist of the newcomer.
Palms grasp her right wrist, alleviating the pain in her hand.
Arms bring a soothing cold to her temples.
She cracks open her eyes- confused. The darkness has abstained from her for a moment.
Why?
Spectral hands have braced themselves on her body- spirits too nameless to count placing their hands on some part of her.
She can see their magic floating into the orb with her own.
A small voice calls to her- the one with its hands on her temples.
“We can help the hurt.” It says- not Cole but like him. A spirit of compassion. Green and small.
“We can save the veil.” Another says, pushing its magic into the orb, stabilizing it.
“We can protect them.” Says a large golden spirit, bearing armor. A spirit of valor then. It wraps its hands around hers now, squeezing them gently, letting her feel warm and protected.
They had all converged around her… they had felt her through the veil, and came to heal the hurt, just like Cole.
Tears of joy and sadness stream down her face as the spirits siphon themselves into her spell, stabilizing it. One by one she watches them go, until the spirit of valor places its hand on her shoulder.
“You must finish the spell” it says, attempting to lift her shoulders- watching as its incorporeal hands shift through her. “I have become weak.” It states- merely a fact now. It cannot maintain its corporeal form anymore- it has given her too much.
She shifts with a wail of pain, turning her head enough to see the spirit.
Her voice rasps as she attempts to speak, her mouth opening and closing- still unable to produce sound.
The spirit hushes her, then, and, with the last of its strength, it siphons itself into her. She feels a new vigor. She feels her heartbeat after what seems like ages, she can feel the brush of skin on skin and the rasp of her lungs. She shifts on the floor, struggling to stand, letting herself crawl up foot by foot until standing within her wards- which still stand around her.
She locks eyes with Solas as she lifts the orb with her right hand, still mangled by her casting.
Her mouth moves of its own accord as it forms a goodbye.
“Ar lath ma’ Vhenan.”
She releases the spell.
…….
Solas is pushed back as his Vhenan releases her spell.
He has never felt a greater force.
he has never seen a stronger soul.
He knew how the spirits aided her- saw her dying before his eyes.
And now… now she lies on the floor- her wards broken, her spell cast- he can already feel the veil’s oppression around him. He can feel his magic reduced.
And she lies on the floor.
How can he think of his magic when she lies on the floor? How selfish can he be?
He doesn’t know how he reaches her, but he cradles her in his arms- looking for something- anything.
Her heart is not beating.
Her lungs are not moving.
He brushes his lips over her eyelids, sending sparks of magic through her body.
Nothing.
His world has fallen out from beneath him, his love is…gone… has sacrificed herself because of his selfish actions.
The thoughts swirling around in his mind are almost too much to bear.
Solas lets out a gut-wrenching howl over her corpse, cradling her close and whispering to her every little piece of his love that he had wanted to share with her. His tears mar her face, and he thinks, for a second, that they have no right to be there.
And in his grief, as he grasps and fumbles with her clothes, he feels something soft, a small protrusion from her coat pocket.
It is the small wolf his agent had given her all those months ago.