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Chapter Text

It had been six long months since that fateful battle with Corypheus at the destroyed Temple of Sacred Ashes. Uth'shiral Lavellan had spent every day since then in the same way. She would wake up, she would wander the slowly emptying hallways, she would visit the War Room to attend to business. Every time she passed the rotunda on her way to the library, she couldn't help but look for him. Every time she spoke with Leliana, she was hoping for news that never came. Then she would go on a long ride on her favorite red hart – the closest thing she had available to one of her halla friends – and wouldn't return to Skyhold until her cheeks burnt from the sun, the wind, and the cold, and dusk had settled firmly over the mountaintop.

Every evening ended only after she stood on her balcony gazing toward Skyhold's gates, and then curled up on a pile of furs she'd thrown at the foot of the bed that she ignored – a pointless, all too human, luxury that she refused to partake of lest she become too used to its comfort to return to her clan and their wandering ways.

That night, as she stood on the balcony beneath the full moon, she realized that it was time to move forward.

He was gone. He had promised an explanation that never came, and he hadn't even said a farewell. He had lied to her, again and again, and she had soaked up his lies just as Skyhold's cats lapped up saucers of milk. She wanted to be angry, but she'd always suspected he wasn't precisely what he said. After meeting Abelas, she had wondered even more. Did she ever even love him, or did she love only the lies he presented to her? Had there been a purpose to his actions, or was he simply as crafty and manipulative as the Dread Wolf himself? On this night, just as every night before it since he had pushed her away, she wasn't sure.

The very evening she had arrived back at Skyhold, with Solas no longer at her side, Leliana had taken her quietly aside to inform her that her entire clan had been slain in a ruckus with the nobles of Wycome. With or without Solas, her plan had been to return to her kin and immerse herself in a sense of familiarity that no amount of time in Skyhold could provide her. Now, that would never be possible.

Skyhold had never been her home. The Inquisition had never been her family. Every day, one more person left her, and another piece of her heart shattered. Finally, it had only been Uth'shiral and Sera, and the three advisors—Sera, at least, had a home with the Inquisition. Soon enough, Leliana would be gone, as well, off to serve the Chantry. Those closest to her – the spirit, Cole, and the dwarf, Varric – were already gone away. Cole had returned to the Fade, and Varric to Kirkwall. The advisors, particularly Josephine and Leliana, were concerned at the increasing distance between the Inquisitor and those who followed her.

As far as Uth'shiral was concerned, she'd had enough of being in charge. The Inquisition had completed its purpose. Empress Celene would have to find other ways to defend her throne, for her Dalish ally had no desire to send the Inquisition's soldiers to be Celene's pawns. There had been more than enough death and destruction, more than enough loss and broken hearts. She was not fool enough to believe she was the only one who had lost someone she loved in all of the fighting.

Not only that, but more and more, her heart followed her name. She was the Eternal Journey, the one who could never rest. Always seeking knowledge, looking for a home that would never exist, least of all now, with her vallaslin gone and her clan dead. Who would vouch for her among the Dalish, when only a handful of people could possibly recognize her? Ah, but they'd know her soon enough when they saw the mark, if she didn't cover it. That didn't make matters better, and as for the city elves... no matter how much sympathy she had for the elves of the cities, their lives and their ways were not hers any more than the ways of the Chantry's supporters.

She comforted herself with what Varric had once said – that you won at life, at the world, by simply continuing to get up every morning and face the day again. Yet, it wasn't enough. It had been six months, and it was time to face the reality: Her clan was gone, and Solas wasn't coming back. She could stay with the Inquisition, increasing her power and changing Thedas by spending the lives of her troops. She had considered it, for a time. With nothing else to live for, could she not reclaim purpose by trying to do good for others? The problem was that it was no longer easy to see how causing more fighting and more death could possibly be good for anyone, even if the elves and the mages, and everyone else as a result, benefited in the end.

The Arlathvhen, she had heard, was coming soon. Though she was now barefaced – a child all over again in the eyes of her people – she had a few cousins who had married into other clans and could vouch for her. Others would recognize the Inquisitor who had stood up for her people. Surely there was a clan somewhere who needed a Keeper's First or Second. Someday, when the pain was less, she would find a good man to marry—a good man she might never be able to love, but with whom she could share a culture and a family, and forget about the past and the burden that had weighed her down ever since she had become a part of the Inquisition.

She fought back the tears her reflections threatened to bring and began to throw various small possessions together, bundling them into the furs she'd been sleeping in all this time. She knew that some of the people remaining would see her fleeing across the courtyard; she was a mage, and rarely needed to be stealthy. She didn't give anyone a chance to seek her out or stop her; she didn't even pause to saddle her hart. She leapt onto his bare back and set out into the night, wolves making their fearsome music in the mountains all around her.

Chapter Text

Arlathvhen.

The Dalish gathered once every ten years. She should have felt at home among them. They were her people; their culture was her culture. Here deep in the forest, surrounded by colorful aravels and colorful people with vallaslin-marked faces, she felt more alone even than that last night at Skyhold. Murmurs bubbled from the crowd about her mark, about the Inquisition, about her lack of vallaslin. People she was related to and people she had simply known avoided speaking to her.

Worst of all were the accusing glares from some of the less charitable among them. She had been responsible for the orders that resulted in the death of every last member of Clan Lavellan, down to the smallest child. She should not even have dreamed of forgiveness for that, even though it had been an honest mistake.

As dusk began to fall on the first day, she wondered why she had even come.

“Andaren atishan, Uth'shiral. It has been too long,” a once-familiar voice, soft and lilting, greeted as its speaker approached her from behind a large aravel marked with halla carvings. “Do you remember me? Morisel?”

Morisel, with his tawny skin and his long face and his thoughtful amber eyes... Yes, Uth'shiral remembered him quite well—as an attractive young man she had once met very briefly and asked after often, in simpler days. Now, he was still handsome, but more weathered, more scarred, and beneath his eyes were shadows as dark as bruises. Perhaps they were bruises. “Morisel... I remember last Arlathvhen our Keepers were trying to pair us together, for the good of both clans. I remember thinking I liked the idea, at the time.” Her lips curled upward into a smile despite herself, but when their eyes met, his held as much sorrow as she knew hers did. “If this is about that... Much has happened, Morisel. I'd bring no benefit to Clan Inarel, just another spare mage.”

“Much has happened, indeed, lethallan,” Morisel agreed. “Our clan has fallen on hard times, as well. You might be of more use than you think, if you cared to come with us, but that isn't why I've sought you out.” He gestured to Uth'shiral to follow him to a small campfire nearby, and sat there quietly, staring into the flames for a long while, even after she sat beside him.

“You say you've had hard times?” Uth'shiral prompted.

“Not your doing,” Morisel said brusquely. “We lost half our clan to shemlen. They were angry at us. They're always angry at us. The Keeper had sent some of our hunters out raiding; it was a bad plan. I told him it was a bad plan. If Inarel were more like Lavellan... if your clan...” He shook his head, and she could see the redness of his eyes now, and the brightness of tears that he refused to let fall. “The Keeper is gone, and the First. That makes me Keeper now, and I'm not ready. I never thought... I never took it seriously, lethallan. Dread wolf take the shems!”

“Don't be that way, lethallin,” Uth'shiral replied, reaching to touch his arm briefly. “We elves... we are no better. I... have learned much, and could tell you much. I'll leave it for another time,” she offered, but in her heart she wasn't sure she would ever share the stories.

“It isn't why I wanted to find you, anyway. I watched you lurking like a starving wolf watching the halla. You're lonely tonight. As am I. My loneliness will heal, with time. Yours...” His amber eyes gleamed golden in the firelight as he scrutinized her face, the scar where a human had once nearly removed her eye. “If you want to be with the Dalish, you should look the part of one of us, and not a child or a flat-ear,” he said bluntly. “How you even lost the marks, I almost fear to ask.”

“That's as well, because I won't answer,” she countered, her voice sharpening momentarily. Then she slumped. “You're right, of course. It was an... ill-considered decision.” She bit her lower lip, giving physical presence to her emotional pain. “Do you think the others will welcome me again, if I let you redo my vallaslin?”

“I don't know if you will ever truly be welcome again by some, but you will always be Dalish. That alone might be enough for most. You... you're a hero to many, despite the mistake with Clan Lavellan. You've done so much...” Morisel trailed off. “I doubt you want to hear that. Ir abelas, lethallan. I only remind you of your distance. You want to be among the people, not a legend set apart from them.” He smiled sadly at her. “So, the vallaslin... I can do it now, if you like. The supplies are available, and the tools.”

Abelas ... it made her think of that sad, lonely Sentinel elf, losing everything he had ever known and clinging to the ruined remnants. Morisel's sorrow was nothing compared to that, or to the deeper sorrow she thought rested within Solas. She didn't want to be like Abelas or Solas, alone and sad because of... because of what? Because she chose to be? Did they choose to be? But Abelas and the other Sentinel Elves were on a different level from the Dalish entirely; Abelas could barely conceive of the idea of kinship with Uth'shiral and her Dalish compatriots. “I'll take the vallaslin again,” she responded, after a long pause. “It's part of who we are,” she added, attempting to convince herself. Never again shall we submit. Could she be free among the Dalish without it?

“Yes... yet you say that as if you doubt.” Morisel smiled in reassurance, but to her his face only looked tired and sad. Once he had been so vibrant, self-assured... “You remember the ritual, correct? I need your silence when we begin. It was Dirthamen, wasn't it?” He stood for long enough to retrieve his tools and his inks, reminding her of old and almost-forgotten pain. Getting vallaslin the first time hadn't been fun, and she'd been prepared for the pain then.

“It was,” she agreed. “But I've learned much. I'm no longer sure if the god of secrets suits. Perhaps Falon'din.” She hesitated for a moment. “And yet, have I not fooled them all? They thought they had a hero. They wanted to believe I was their prophet, their divine figure. I wasn't any of it. I tried to tell them so. I've changed the entire world, and I don't know if it's for the better. Maybe... Do you know the marks for Fen'harel? Does he have marks?”

“The Dread Wolf?” Morisel laughed until he realized that her expression held no humor. Then he scoffed. “Who would want to mark themselves with that? You'd be naming yourself a trai—Oh. Oh. Did you do it on purpose...? You can't have...”

“No, I didn't. It was a mistake. A terrible one.” She rested her unmarked palm on her forehead. “Everywhere I've gone since the Conclave and the Inquisition, I've seen the wolf of Fen'Harel. It has given me the feeling that somewhere, he watches me, never turning his gaze, but dancing around my life and laughing as every part of it goes awry. If I didn't know better, I'd say Fen'harel was responsible for this magical mark I wear.” She raised head again, staring at the green glow of her mark. “If Fen'harel is going to pay such close attention to me, then fine—I will make him happy, and then one day I will outsmart him, and it will be me laughing, victorious at last, and Fen'harel won't know what to think of me anymore.” She sighed and dropped both her palms to the ground beside her.

“When you explain it like that, lethallan, I can respect the idea,” Morisel murmured, kneeling beside of the runaway Inquisitor. “Maybe we should all wear vallaslin for Fen'Harel. If we'd been smarter, or better at flattery, maybe he'd have cared about the elvhenan enough not to lock the other Creators away. I never learned of any vallaslin for Fen'harel, though. Not with Clan Inarel. Did Lavallan know of any such marks?”

Uth'shiral considered the question, then shook her head. “None. I suppose I could keep Dirthamen, or pledge myself to Falon'din.”

“I can't say I recommend Fen'Harel, but your reasoning was sound. I could come up with something appropriate,” Morisel offered, half-smiling now. “I don't know if you'll like the results, but... Are you ready?” His hands brushed her temples, turning her face this way and that. “It's the first time I've done vallaslin. If I'm going to practice on an elf, might as well be you, right? You can always just go back to the Inquisition if I mess it up.”

“No... I don't think I can,” Uth'shiral answered. She didn't bother explaining. “I am ready, Keeper Morisel. I am ready to rejoin the People and to brave the wrath or the laughter of Fen'harel.”

Silence fell, and from the corners of her eyes Uth'shiral could see people gathering to watch, as if vallaslin had suddenly become a spectacle. Of course, no one else had ever lost theirs before, or willingly had it removed. No one else was the Inquisitor, either. She closed her eyes, ignoring the pain of the needle as it pricked and poked.

Morisel cried out in alarm suddenly, and Uth'shiral's eyes flew open in surprise. “HOW?” he demanded. “What did you DO?”

“You can't be finished already!” she shouted back. “What do you mean what did I do? I was sitting in silence!”

“No, look, your marks--” Morisel hastily snatched the small mirror used to show young elves their new adult faces, with fresh vallaslin. Even as she watched, the marks only just placed onto her forehead faded, leaving only red, raw scratches. It was as if Morisel had never used the blood and ink.

“You forgot the ink?” she asked, but she knew that wasn't it. She'd seen the ink; it vanished. “Perhaps got the formula wrong?”

“No, I... Keeper Emalla, do you have your inks with you?” Morisel asked, sounding almost as alarmed as Uth'shiral had begun to feel.

Her heart was pounding in her chest; panic and fear welled up within her. This was not normal, but maybe the ink had been wrong. Or maybe Morisel hadn't done it right. There was some magic involved; that's why a Keeper had to do it. Why she might have to do the task, if she rejoined the Dalish. This had nothing to do with what she'd agreed to with Solas. It couldn't.

If she rejoined the Dalish. When had it become a question instead of a certainty?

Chapter Text

Keeper Emalla, fair-haired, elderly, and stately as any noble at Halamshiral, knelt beside Uth'shiral. Uth'shiral didn't remember her well, but she'd been told Emalla was one of her great-aunts. Perhaps that was why she didn't hesitate to approach so closely now. “Farien, could you fetch my inks? Morisel was only recently a Second, and not a very good student. Perhaps he did get the inks wrong, or the method,” she murmured as a youngster with no vallaslin pelted off to fetch her supplies.

“If I do this for you,” Emalla said, kneeling so that her face was close to Uth'shiral's, her voice taking on the chill sharpness of steel, “you will not be wearing anything of Fen'harel. You were Keeper's First, and even though I am no longer one of the Lavellan clan, I won't tolerate it being dishonored in that way. Would you honor the Dread Wolf, or mock him, when it is your solemn duty to keep him at bay?”

Uth'shiral let out a gust of breath, and closed her eyes. “You are right, Keeper Emalla,” she agreed. “I'm letting my emotions run away with me... So much has happened. So many horrible things... I've missed being among the Dalish. I've missed everything, even sleeping on the hard ground and all of the hard work that we do just to survive. But now that I'm here... Is there even still a place for me, when it was my mistake that got them killed? Am I even still Dalish, or am I now only the Inquisitor?”

“Morisel is the Inarel clan's Keeper. He needs a First, but he would probably be happy to be your First instead, now that he is their only mage. Their lives are not the same as clan Lavellan's, but you could join him and recover some scrap of your old life,” Emalla said, the steel gone from her voice. “Some hate you for your mistake. Some feel you abandoned the Dalish, and would never welcome you back. I think your journey and your actions have taught you much, and I think you have every right to be hurting. If you joined with Inarel, maybe the hurt could begin to heal, and maybe you could guide them into a new direction. Maybe you could be the leader the Dalish need to bring us into the future. Da'len, I've seen clan after clan diminish and disappear. Something has to change.” She settled her hand on Uth'shiral's shoulder, and Uth'shiral looked at it blankly.

“I appreciate your advice, hahren,” Lavellan responded quietly. “But I can't join a clan of Dalish who think of the city elves as flat-ears, or who have such hatred toward the other races. Morisel will try to change them, I'm sure. I could maybe even help him, to a degree. Change... doesn't come quickly, though, and if he and I followed through with the old arrangements... if... No, I just can't. Morisel is a good man, even if he is naïve, and he deserves to be with someone who loves him.”

Emalla settled from a kneel to a sitting position, lowering herself with difficulty. Getting up probably wouldn't be easy for her either, Uth'shiral reflected. “This is a discussion that I suspect will take some time,” she said. “Would you mind giving us some privacy for a bit, my dears?” she suggested to the few members of the crowd who had lingered. “Farien, you're back,” she greeted with a smile. “Hand me those tools and inks, and be on your way. I heard Halinlin had some sweets from the human village. Maybe you could get some of those if you hurry.”

“Sweets? From the village? Does she have pies?” Farien wasted no time waiting for the answer, scampering away toward one of the halla keepers; Uth'shiral did not recognize the woman, especially not at this distance.

Emalla's attention quickly returned to Uth'shiral. “I cannot order you to do what's best for you, da'len. You know Morisel is a good man. He is also attractive, and the Keeper of his clan—as you are Keeper of yours, now that there are no other Lavellans. Still, joining his clan isn't the same as marrying him. I think, given the circumstances, Inarel may be the only clan that will have a place for you. Your fame has spread far and wide, and so has your infamy. Your presence may endanger whatever clan you join. That... is fact, no matter how much any of us admire you or hate you. Inarel needs another, stronger mage. And, if you did join with Morisel, your children would be--”

“I am not a brood mare, to be bred for prized magical stock, hahren!” Uth'shiral snapped, and then clamped her mouth shut until she could master her temper. Emalla waited, watching her. “I apologize, hahren. I know you don't mean any insult.”

“No, and while you aren't wrong to find offense, your reaction tells me much.” Emalla sighed. “I can redo your vallaslin, da'len. I can share the tale of Red Crossing that you brought to Keeper Hawen. But, if your heart isn't in your duty anymore, I cannot make you Dalish.”

“And a Dalish should find a Dalish to marry, and if she's a mage, she should marry a mage and have little baby mages to take her place, in the hopes that someday the humans will make a massive mistake and we can take their place,” Uth'shiral replied. “There's no shame in wanting to preserve and remember the past, but we aren't in the past. We have gotten--” she cut herself off before she could tell Emalla that they'd gotten almost everything wrong. “Hahren, we're dying out, little by little. We make no allies among the city elves and humans. We can wait forever and our chance won't come. Even if we did get that chance, would we be any better than the Tevinters, oppressing the humans?”

“We wouldn't enslave the shemlen, da'len,” Emalla told her mildly, dropping the hand on Uth'shiral's shoulder back into her lap. “As for alliances... the city elves submitted to human rule. If we ally with them, what will that say about us? If they leave the cities, we can accept them in limited numbers. If we don't, the blood will surely die, but if we let too many in, how will we feed them?”

“No. I've seen the hatred in many of the Dalish clans, hahren,” Uth'shiral countered. “We wouldn't enslave the humans, we'd probably exterminate them entirely. The city elves, too, for not being brave enough or capable enough to do better for themselves. Those weren't the ideals my clan embodied. We believed in looking forward even as we tried to preserve our past, our culture. I'm proud to be Dalish, proud of how we manage to survive and be free against all odds, but I'm not sure if the Dalish really understand who we are.” She rubbed at the back of her neck. She was coming close to sharing information that she couldn't prove, and that she didn't think she should share. If her clan had survived... But no; she wasn't going to say it. “We can do better. We can be so much more. I believe it. What I'm starting to see is that I can't do anything to push for that from the inside.”

Emalla's sad frown told Uth'shiral everything she needed to know. “Very well, then, da'len. Please silence yourself while I restore your vallaslin. And then... enjoy the Arlathvhen, and go where you will. You should give Morisel your answer on your own. I believe he had hoped to have the union settled before the Arlathvhen ended, and perhaps he thought he'd have another ally within Inarel if you were there. He's always been taken with you, just as your mother and grandmother once told me you were with him. I understand that minds and hearts can change, but when you tell him, tell him gently.”

Chapter Text

“You,” Cassandra snarled accusingly at the rag-clad, smirking elf, pointing an index finger right at her stubby nose. “You saw her leaving and you said nothing! Nothing at all! How could you? The Inquisition needs its Inquisitor! All of these changes she put into motion need to be supported. Divine Victoria can only do so much.”

Sera was unintimidated, smirking more the more Cassandra raged. “Wotcha want me to do about it?” she asked, with a shrug. “Ladybits was tryin' to be all sneaky-like, and taking all her elfy stuff with her. I guess she was gonna go do something elfy. Maybe look for Baldy, I dunno. What was I gonna do, point fingers at her and tell her stay here? She's still all mad at me for laughing about her being all elfy-elf without those ridiculous marks on her face. Could've told you that wasn't gonna be good for us lot.”

Cassandra ran hands through her hair in frustration. It was tempting to frighten the smirk from Sera's face with a dagger to the table in front of her. But... No. “You knew the night she left, and you said nothing,” Cassandra growled, pacing again in her fury and frustration. “It has snowed three nights in a row since then. There is no trail left for our agents to follow. She could be with Solas, and if she is, she could be in danger. She could be without Solas, and... if so, she could still be in danger. I never thought I would say this, but I truly wish Cole were here. He would have known what was wrong. He would have been able to find her.”

“That thing? No thank you!” Sera shuddered expressively. “It creeped me out. I'm glad it's gone! But you're right, Elfy might be in trouble. Wouldn't like to think what that creeper Solas might be up to if he's involved. Oh! She left this in his room, tucked away-like. I was curious so I snatched it,” she remarked with no remorse, reaching into her cleavage to pull out a slip of paper. “Looks like a note or something... maybe she dropped a hint to him where she was going? Not that it'd do her any good, with him gone.”

Cassandra snatched the paper without ceremony and began to read it aloud.

Solas,

I kept hoping that you would come back someday soon. Every day and every hour that hope faded. You promised me that we would speak, and things would be clear. We haven't spoken, even in the Fade, and I'm still confused. What was it about me that drove you away?

Before he returned to the Fade, Cole told me that it wasn't my fault, but if it wasn't my fault, why did you choose that moment to end what we had? Why did you leave with no explanation and no farewell? It makes you look like a traitor, Solas, and I can't believe that.

Leliana says you lied. I'm not sure what to believe.

Every night when I sleep, I am plagued by demons. Desire demons offer me what I know I can't have anymore: They say I could have my clan, alive and well, that I could have you, still by my side. Lies, all of it. Despair demons tell me that there is no reason to hope. My clan is gone, my identity is gone, you are gone. The despair demons are harder to dismiss than the desire demons. I know you would disapprove of it, but I sleep less and less, just to avoid the Fade and the demons. Then again you aren't here to offer any sage advice, so you can hardly pass judgment on me now.

In this state of mind, I have no business heading up any organization—and I'm sure that's what you expected me to do. When I go to the War Room, all I can picture are the soldiers still dying in my name, and I hate it. Have I truly done the world any favors? I've changed things, but my family is dead and that is my fault. That's something I can never fix, even if I try for the rest of my life. What's done is done.

If you return to read this, I will be going to the Arlathvhen to find either my welcome or my condemnation. Don't seek me there; only Dalish will be welcome among the Dalish. Perhaps I will find a new life for myself, or perhaps not. You have decided for me that you will have no place in my future, but I will decide for myself what my future without you holds.

I am sorry you couldn't find it in yourself to trust me. Perhaps you were right not to trust.

Dareth shiral, Solas. May Fen'harel turn his back on you.

Inquisitor Uth'shiral Lavellan

“See?” said Sera, swinging her feet idly above the ground where she sat in her chair. “Tolja. Off to do elfy things. There's not much we can do about that, now is there, Seeker?”

As Cassandra began to fume about why Sera hadn't shown her this sooner, Sera hopped to her feet. “Honestly, I thought it sounded a little private. Just because I don't like elfy things, or Solas, doesn't mean I hate Her Glorious Ladybits. She did right by me, letting me stay. She's family, like I never had.”

Cassandra's fist crumpled the paper into a wad. “If she is still with the Dalish at this... Arlathvhen, we will send Dalish agents to find her. I will let your involvement in her indiscretion pass. However, the Inquisitor is an important figure, and she needs to act like it. I do not agree with all of her decisions, but without her leadership, everything will fall apart.” Her pacing halted, and she hung her head, shaking it. “She is my friend. How could I have failed to notice that she was hurting so much? They were her family, and I didn't think...”

Sera frowned, stopping mid-step as she began to walk away. “She came to me all sad, before, and I tried to make her laugh about what happened. She told me something about those marks, they were slave marks or something, yeah? So I laughed, 'cause I mean the Dalish are idiots, right? You think I made it worse?”

Cassandra's glower said more than any words she could have spoken.

Chapter Text

Needle met flesh again with a burning pain. Slow, delicate motions, meant to set the caustic inks into her skin and honor Dirthamin, flowed over her forehead. Uth'shiral bore it in silence as she had the first time, until Keeper Emalla abruptly stopped, and set aside her tools, gripping Uth'shiral's chin hard, turning her face from one side to the other.

Respect for Emalla as a Keeper—respect Morisel had yet to earn—had given them privacy, this time. There were no more Dalish crowding close to watch, to make sure that she didn't flinch or gasp or cry out.

“Morisel was right,” Emalla mumbled. “The ink... it's not taking. I've never seen anything like this.”

“Hahren?” Uth'shiral asked, startled to hear her own voice wavering.

“It starts to take, and then it beads back up on the surface of your skin and...” Emalla's brow furrowed deeply. “It turns into smoke. It won't stay. How did you lose your marks, da'len? What happened to you?”

“I made a bad decision,” the Inquisitor replied, unable to avoid Emalla's gaze with the Keeper holding her face in place. “Apparently, now I must live with it, just as the other bad decisions I've made.” Cold fear coiled against her spine; something was definitely not right about this situation.

“No more explanation than that, then?” the Keeper asked, staring intently into Uth'shiral's eyes. “Then I won't demand it. But go and speak to Morisel, and then... I don't advise that you stay for long. The others will think that you are too weak to take the vallaslin a second time, or that you chose to remain apart from the People. Those who think you're weak won't respect you as much. Most will think you simply chose to stay apart... and that won't win you any friends, either.” She released Uth'shiral's chin, and the Inquisitor rubbed at her face where Emalla's fingers—and fingernails—had dug in painfully.

Keeper Emalla struggled to her feet; normally Uth'shiral would have already stood and offered assistance, but her mind was reeling from the implications. What had Solas done to her, exactly, that night? Whatever he had done, it had been a very private, even intimate moment—almost religious, in a way, with how reverently he had run his fingers over her face. He'd brushed her cheeks so gently, had told her she was free... had told her for the first time that he thought she was beautiful. They'd kissed. And then it all went wrong.

Now she sat here, forever severed from her people. Solas, what did you do? What kind of spell was that?

She didn't know how long it was before she finally stumbled to her feet, but day had sometime since transformed into starry darkness. Morisel , she reminded herself, and looked for the Inarel banner among the firelit tents and aravels.

As she walked, she told herself, I don't have to turn him down, even now, but if I don't, then... what? If I refuse, does that mean I'm no longer Dalish? They may not chase me away, because I will always be their Inquisitor—but without a clan, where will I go? And if I agree... I won't make Morisel happy, and Inarel will make me unhappy.

She paused by the first aravel marked with Inarel's emblems. It shouldn't be difficult to find the Keeper's aravel; it usually had all of the Creators carved into it, and of course carvings of Fen'harel, turned away from them all. She wandered among the evenly spaced landships with their vibrant sails, the paintings and carvings that adorned them coming to life in the flickering firelight. It reminded her of long evenings listening to Keeper Deshanna's tales of the Creators and of Fen'harel. She fought the sudden urge to run back to her hart and bury her tears in his soft, furry neck. That animal was her only confidante left—and the only one who would listen to her without judging.

Refusing to give in to her sorrow, she made her way to Morisel's aravel. He sat beside a fire in front of it, whittling a small piece of wood into the shape of a wolf—a charm to keep Fen'harel away, Uth'shiral immediately recognized. “Keeper Morisel, if I may have a word?” the Inquisitor asked softly, settling by the fire across from him.

“Uth'shiral! Of course,” he agreed, then frowned across the fire at her. “Your face is bare still. Did you change your mind, after all? I think I got the ink wrong and--”

“It doesn't matter if you did or didn't,” she replied. “The ink won't take. Keeper Emalla tried.” She stared blankly at the fire for a long moment. “Don't ask me why, or how. I'm uncertain, myself. As I said, it was an ill-considered decision.”

“Have you considered taking the position of First... or Keeper... to our clan, then? Or perhaps...” He cleared his throat uncertainly. “I know that before the Breach, our clans were having discussions about the two of us again.”

“Realistically, Keeper Morisel,” Uth'shiral began carefully, “I doubt that the talks would have gone further than they did after we first met, at the last Arlathvhen. Both of our clans had plenty of mages at the time, and Lavellan and Inarel are as different in their outlooks as they could possibly be.” She continued staring into the fire, not daring to look at Morisel when she shared what she wanted to say next. “Even if I were unaware of how unhappy I would be in your clan, there's another reason I can't. I gave my heart to another, Morisel. I now know that what I felt for you was a youthful crush. I don't tell you this to be cruel. I think you are a good man, and you deserve to be first in someone's heart.”

“I... see,” Morisel replied so quietly that she almost couldn't hear him. “Are you... with child? With this other man? I could still take you in, and we could raise the babe as--”

“It's not like that, Keeper Morisel!” Uth'shiral snapped, almost coming to her feet in her vehemence, using his formal title to keep some emotional distance between them. She shifted, resettling to the ground. “No, I loved him, but there was never any sex with him, any more than there was with you. There will never be a child.”

“From the first time I saw you, Uth'shiral, I wanted to be with you. As we made fast friends, I pictured the two of us happy with your clan. Peaceful clan Lavellan would be my escape from all of the raiding, from the accusations that I was too soft, or a shem-lover. I would be your first and only lover. We'd be married, and we'd be so happy that Fen'harel would avoid the clan out of pure disgust. Our children would be the cutest, best-behaved children the Dalish had ever known.” Morisel smiled sadly. “But was it love? No,” he shook his head. “I thought it could be. Worse matches have been made. It could still go that way, Uth'shiral—we could find love together in time. You need a clan, and I need an ally within my clan. It could work for both of us. It wouldn't even need to begin with our union, just... you being my friend, within the clan.”

“Please don't. I can't,” Uth'shiral answered, rubbing at the stinging scrapes on her forehead where two different Keepers had tried two different times to apply vallaslin.

“This love of yours—was he shemlen? Was he a flat-ear? Where is he now?” Morisel frowned, amber eyes distant as he attempted to puzzle through her unexpected information. “I'd like to meet him,” he added after a pause, perhaps realizing that his questions might be taken as hostile.

She wasn't certain how to answer those questions. “He was...” she paused, seeking the right word. There was only one word she could use. “Elvhen,” she finally answered, remembering an exchange between Solas and Abelas at the Temple of Mythal that had answered a suspicion she had about Solas that she had never dared to voice. “He was... brilliant, mysterious, and terribly sad. When he smiled, that was all that mattered to me. And now... he is gone. I'm sorry I can't introduce you. You're the type of person who might have made friends with him. You made friends with me, after all, and few others did.”

Morisel chuckled softly. “So, a flat-ear then. As for being your friend, I did have incentive to do so, if you recall. You weren't any less pretty ten years ago than you are now. The surprising thing is that you never found someone other than me before now. Or, do you think if you hadn't met him... you and I... Well, it's not worth worrying about, is it?”

“No,” Uth'shiral replied somberly, taking note that Morisel's laugh barely disguised his disappointment and sadness. “You shouldn't worry about it. You're still young, you're attractive enough, and... most of all, Keeper Morisel, you are a good man. If you can't find or make your own happiness, I hope that it finds you.”

Morisel's sad smile became more genuine at the praise. “I'm still your friend, Uth'shiral. I understand what you mean about Inarel. I'll work hard to make us a better clan, even if it kills me. I don't think you know how much you've inspired the Dalish, even despite your mistakes. Even despite what happened to your clan. The shems call you 'Herald of Andraste.' Some of us say you're the Herald of Mythal, instead. So you'd better be careful of saying anything more about laughing at Fen'harel. I don't want you to be the Dread Wolf's Herald.” He reached to pull a long-handled kettle from the flames. “As long as you're sitting here, would you like some tea?”

“No. I need to get some rest. You should, too. As Keeper, you'll be busy all day tomorrow, telling tales and inscribing vallaslin. It would be easier if you had a First. Maybe you should start speaking with the other clans about that. Someone always has a spare mage.” The Inquisitor stood up, brushing the dust off of herself—a habit she'd only picked up at Skyhold, where she'd been scolded repeatedly for not leaving things clean.

“You're leaving again soon,” Morisel observed, also rising to his feet. “Here. So Fen'harel stops dancing around you and gives you some peace.” He extended his hand, and when Uth'shiral reached hers out, he dropped the tiny wolf carving into it. “If I don't see you again, lethallan... Dareth shiral.”

Uth'shiral found her way to where she'd left her red hart and stowed the gear she had brought that she wasn't wearing or carrying. The hart had already curled up on his side, his head down in slumber. Uth'shiral settled against his smelly, furry hide, wrapped a fur around herself, and stared at the stars for a long time before she finally submitted to sleep. The demons would come again, but she must rest at least a little if she were to resume traveling in the morning.

Chapter Text

From the Fade, it was not clear what had happened at Skyhold, except that the Inquisition was in turmoil. There was a distinct sense of absence there. Solas found that his thoughts could brush against the dreams of Sera or Cassandra, but the others...? Even the memory of most of them had vanished. There were two absences he felt more than most: Cole, the spirit of compassion who had attached himself to the Inquisition, and perhaps had more influence on it than Solas wished to admit to the Inquisitor... and the Inquisitor herself.

Certain memory fragments repeated themselves: The Inquisitor slipping out late at night, carrying little but what she wore and the furs she used to sleep on, the hart she rode growing smaller and smaller as wolves sang into the night.

Vhenan, you could have been killed, all alone... He quickly substituted “Inquisitor” for “vhenan” in his mind. There could be nothing more between them, especially now, with the new addition to his personality. If he clung to his love for her, then he would never be able to do what he needed to. If his plan succeeded, though, she would be better off, and there was a high probability that he would be dead, or unrecognizable.

A letter, snatched from the rotunda, its contents private, meant for... himself? Its memory was wrapped in distaste and disgust and disapproval, with subtle hints of sympathy.

The letter, read in Cassandra's voice, but all he could hear was, “Elfy Egghead, blah blah blah blah, Dalish idiots.” Sera's memory, most likely.

Of course. Uth'shiral. Eternal journey. He hadn't thought that the Dalish took their names quite so literally any longer—or perhaps other things were amiss.

It had been difficult getting close enough to Skyhold, amid all of this chaos, to even glean as much as he had from the dreams of its inhabitants. Without going through the gates, there would be nothing more to learn, but he couldn't go back, any more than he could seek her out directly. There were other, more important matters he still had to attend to. And yet... her absence was troubling. She needed to be at Skyhold, safe, directing the Inquisition, protecting it against corruption—protecting the people of Thedas against the reversal of all of the changes she'd made, too.

It wasn't his problem. He shouldn't—couldn't—interfere. What was he to do, take over the Inquisition for her until she came to her senses? Somehow he doubted that he would even be welcome, now, just as much as he doubted that word of his reappearance would cause the Inquisitor to reappear. He had seen himself in the dreams of the sleepers at Skyhold, and he bore the sense of a traitor in most of them.

She had the Anchor, and she'd absorbed the remaining power of his orb. It would be good to know where she was, and that the power wasn't being abused. What if worst came to worst and he needed that power? What if he had to take it back, or he needed to ask her—or trick her—to use it? What if it started to kill her—No. He couldn't let his thoughts wander into lathbora viran; she was the Inquisitor, a potential ally or rival. He must not allow himself to worry over her as if she were still his vhenan.

Yet, he loved her, and there was something about her... She was Elvhen, even if she were mortal, and he wasn't entirely convinced of that, especially now that the power of his orb was one with her. As unique and special as she was, were the others the same, or capable of becoming that way? Had he overlooked it? Perhaps he could pause in his wanderings and seek out the Lavellan clan. A meeting with her family could offer some insight into the mystery, perhaps put it to rest. It could be that her family was special in some way that other Dalish were not. His task was not urgent; his plan would take time and people to succeed.

Solas's eyes opened slowly, and he stood, dropping the wards in the cave near Skyhold where he had slept. Wolves regarded him with their own sleepy eyes, then huddled back to sleep. Yes; he must go visit the Lavellan clan. They had been far to the north in the Free Marches region, in Wycome. It would take a long time to get there, but there were things he could do along the way to further his own goals. Memories of several temples and cities flashed in his mind. There were probably some eluvians still there—perhaps some were still functional.

Chapter Text

Something was different in her dream tonight. At first, Uth'shiral could not place it. And then, she saw him—Cole, daggers drawn, keeping the demons at bay. For a brief moment, the joy of seeing someone she missed so much overpowered the grief of the past six months.

“Cole! Are you--?”

“Inquisitor, you're hurting. Let me help you! The demons can't stay if you don't feed them.”

It was definitely Cole, then, and not some impersonator. “I don't want to forget, Cole! I just--”

“You need someone who knows. Someone to listen, not laugh, lend the luxury of a lightened load. I understand. I'm sorry I left,” he added, giving another slash at a demon. “You wouldn't let me help. I thought I might slip. You thought I'd make you forget, but you worried that not helping would change me.”

She had almost forgotten that he knew every painful thought she had. “We should probably talk about this someplace safer, Cole,” she said, hefting a staff that leaned on a nearby stone. Tyrdda's staff, she recognized—and she'd given it to Solas, before he vanished.

“You were happy to see me. I'm glad.” Cole pushed away the demon he'd been fighting, and it vanished as the rogue walked from the clearing where the Arlathvhen was held into a Skyhold corridor. It was an arrangement that made sense only in dreams—or the Fade. “Follow me. I need you to open a door for me.”

“I thought you could open any kind of door,” Uth'shiral answered with a smile, falling in step behind Cole. “At least I never saw one stop you before.”

“This one needs a key,” Cole said. “I don't have it. You do.”

“The Anchor?” she asked, looking at her hand—miraculously unmarked, in the strange world of the Fade.

“You aren't the only one who is suffering,” Cole said, instead of answering the question. “Sorrow seeks something... suffering sadly somewhere. They think he's like them, but he isn't. But he--” Cole gasped, and stopped mid-stride. “No, we have to hurry. I need you to open the door for me, before it's too late!” From a dead stop, he sprinted into a wild dash down the hallway, toward the closed front gate.

Uth'shiral followed, running at what she felt was an unnaturally sluggish pace, unable to go faster, but somehow keeping up with the spirit.

“Hurry, they're going to think it was you!” Cole yanked at the door, but it didn't budge. “You have the key!” he shouted.

She reached for the door bar, and the world blazed with green.

Chapter Text

Uth'shiral's eyes flew open as pain surged from the mark on her hand. She cried out, her other hand reaching to cover it. Her back hit the ground hard, her head knocking against a stone as her red hart stood, grunting and trumpeting his own surprise. It was a credit to his superior training that he danced in place instead of fleeing into the forest.

The stars spun overhead as she struggled to recover. Then they were blocked out by the silhouette of someone wearing a very wide-brimmed hat. “Sorry. It wasn't supposed to go like that.”

“Cole...?” she asked, confused and dizzy from the blow to her head. “But you--”

“I told you to open the door, and you did. The door wanted to open. It would have hurt worse if you left it closed. Thank you.” Cole reached a hand down to her, offering to help her stand. “You didn't do it, but they'll think you did. It will look like you did. If they think you did it, they'll--” Cole gasped. “Is that true? We need to go!”

“What...?” Uth'shiral took hold of Cole's wrist, allowing him to pull her to her feet. His head darted from side to side. She wasn't sure if she had ever seen him so nervous before.

“You don't want to see this. You really don't want to see it,” Cole replied, his voice shaky. “It will hurt you. I want to help. Please, Inquisitor,” he begged, and moved to stand between her and whatever it was he wanted to hide.

Lavellan hesitated for a moment. Maybe waiting just a moment to recover wouldn't be a bad idea. Her hart... She glanced back toward the animal. He had already calmed, and was now peacefully lying back down. On top of her sleeping furs, of course.

There wasn't any excuse to delay, then. “Cole, I have to know what it is, no matter how bad it is. If I don't know what it is, how can I deal with it and make things better?”

“You don't want to you don't want to you don't want to,” Cole repeated over and over, but his protest was quieter even as Uth'shiral stepped around him—and nearly stumbled over someone lying prone only a few steps away from where she had just been sleeping.

“Creators... who would sleep here of...” Her voice trailed off. There were no furs, no blankets, no fires near the prone body. In the moonlight, a dark spot stained the soil around the body. She recognized his clothing. She'd spoken with this person perhaps only a couple of hours ago. “... Morisel?” She knelt down quickly, reaching to shake his shoulder, but he did not respond. “Morisel! Morisel!” She shook him again. It had to be a prank, right? He played pranks, once, at the last Arlathvhen. He'd told her of other pranks in the letters he'd sent, when they'd both imagined a future together.

Now, whatever future he might have had, was ended. She could feel Cole watching her back, miserable from sharing her misery. Her entire body shook, and she stumbled back, dizzy, to her knees, then gathered them close to her chest and rocked back and forth. She wouldn't cry. No; she wouldn't let the Dread Wolf laugh at her tears. She had to be strong. She was the last of clan Lavellan.

“He has been dead for the past hour,” someone said flatly from nearby—someone who wasn't Cole. Uth'shiral's mournful reverie was shattered. “He glanced behind himself several times.”

Still dizzy and in pain, with her hand throbbing in a way it hadn't since she first had the Anchor attached to it, the Inquisitor looked toward the new voice, but couldn't even make out a silhouette in the darkness against the trees. She squinted, trying to coax her elven eyes to work as they should in the dark. Her vision wouldn't quite focus. “He came to hurt me...?”

“No,” Cole answered.

At the same time, the other, who didn't seem to see or hear Cole—or at least not to remember having seen or heard Cole, answered, “It did not appear so. He was unarmed. His staff is still by the... aravel?” The voice seemed to taste the word, testing its flavor.

“Did you--”

“Sorrow hurts, hopes to help and heal however he can,” Cole said, answering Uth'shiral before her question escaped her lips. She felt so very light-headed. “He sought someone in Skyhold. You left. That made him sadder, so I helped him search. He doesn't remember.”

“--kill him?” asked the other. “No.”

The Anchor pulsed again, and sent another wave of light-headed dizziness through Uth'shiral. The feeling was familiar as it was frightening. It wasn't the blow to the head, then. Somehow, the Anchor was unstable—maybe because of letting Cole through the Fade, or maybe it had something to do with the final battle with Corypheus. Or maybe I'm just running out of time. Didn't Solas say it was killing me? That there might not be a way to save me? I thought it had stabilized, but...

“I did not pursue the killer, because your... artifact... was behaving strangely.” The tall figure stepped closer; the mark of Mythal was on his face, and he wore closely fitted armor of ancient design. “He saw me with you and fled. Perhaps he thinks you are dead, or soon will be. Shemlen confuse me.”

“... Abelas?” Uth'shiral asked, her body shuddering in agony as well as grief, as green light flared around her hand again.

“Yes.”

Chapter Text

Abelas knelt down, taking Lavellan's wrist so that he could examine the mark on her palm. “I noticed this before,” he mumbled under his breath, following it up with a string of words in Elvhen that Uth'shiral understood little of.

“Pardon?” she asked, remembering her manners as the pain subsided enough for her to think. She watched him poking a finger at the mark, as if that would somehow shift it around on her hand. After a moment of having her palm prodded, she jerked her hand away. Being prodded forced her to come to her senses, become more aware of her surroundings. “... Morisel,” she said sadly, glancing to the side at the corpse. “Cole is right. They'll think I did it. If I leave, it'll be even more suspicious.”

“He thought he might be followed,” Cole offered up helpfully. “So he kept looking, watching, but he didn't see what killed him. A sharp pain across his throat, hot liquid warmth flowing, fire, thirst, and then...” He trailed off. They all knew what happened then.

“Cole?” Abelas asked, glancing around in confusion. “The hart?” He frowned at the beast as if expecting it to start talking. He had, at least, decided to quit prodding at the Anchor, and instead began examining Morisel's body in the darkness, prying something from the dead elf's stiffening fingers.

“Can you let him see you, Cole?” Uth'shiral requested. She breathed deeply, trying to regain some semblance of the control that the combination of grief, shock, and pain had cost her. Then she turned to watch Abelas do... whatever he was doing. “Did you find something?”

“A letter,” Abelas answered. “Though we need more light to read it.”

“Dalish Wardens,” Cole said softly. “He overheard them whispering about you. Others, too. New arrivals tonight. They came to him after you left his campfire, asking about the Inquisitor.”

Abelas actually looked startled as Cole spoke, and then his eyes narrowed as if uncertain what he was seeing and hearing.

“Thank you, Cole. Assassins?” Uth'shiral asked. If she could take control of the situation, if she could understand it, it would be better than kneeling by a corpse and crying.

“Fierce, feral, frustrated... Why did she send us all away? How dare she? They'll regret it when the next Blight comes. She isn't even Dalish anymore! She's here! I shouldn't have run. I should have stabbed the other one, too, but they'll think she did it, they'll want to kill her and then the Inquisition will hunt us and we'll kill them one by one and...” Cole began to walk toward a particular group of tents as he spoke the thoughts of the killer, until Uth'shiral stood hastily and grabbed his arm.

“Wardens! Dread Wolf take them... they brought their exile upon themselves! Even if they hadn't, what were they going to do as long as Corypheus was forcing the Calling on them?” She let out a strangled noise in frustration, then turned to Abelas to speak, only to realize he was watching her with an expression of baffled curiosity.

“Why did you stop him? You could deal with the killer now, and it would be over,” Abelas said, already readying his staff and sword.

“Because there are probably more than one, and there are lots of people here who aren't happy with me already,” Uth'shiral explained patiently, walking toward where she left her hart—and her gear. Without preamble, she began shrugging on armor over her nightclothes and snatched up her staff. Abelas remained standing by the body, looking down at it and holding the letter that Morisel had been grasping, but Cole stayed close. On impulse, Lavellan reached out and pulled the spirit into a fierce hug. “I can't thank you enough for coming back, Cole. I know this has to be agonizing for you.” He stood awkwardly still even as she let him go, rubbing at the corners of her eyes where she hadn't succeeded in holding back her tears.

“It is,” Cole answered, “but you're a friend, and you're hurting. Even if I can't help, I have to try.”

“If we cannot leave, and we cannot kill the killers, what are we to do, and why are you arming yourself?” Abelas asked as he joined the other two. “Is the other Elvhen here to advise you?”

“We're surrounded by the elvhenan, and you ask if one's here,” Uth'shiral retorted. “We're going to speak to Keeper Emalla, and hopefully we can do something about this with the help of others.”

“You are as good as two other mages. I fight as well as any ten of your shemlen. Tell me: why do we need help?” Abelas demanded.

“Because if we kill them, we look like the culprits, for starters, and that makes enemies for us. If our enemies are Wardens, they are also the best of the best. You may be as skilled as ten Dalish, but you might find yourself coming up short against a pair or more of Dalish Wardens—we don't know how many there are, how skilled they are, or how many of them are here who actually want me dead.” Her palm flared with a green light again, and she leaned on her staff for support.

“These shemlen are not my people,” Abelas snapped. “Should I care if they are offended?” Power gathered around his staff, and he began to stride toward the tents Cole had alerted them to, their plain, pale fabric noticeable even in the darkness against a backdrop of hundreds of brightly-colored aravels.

“If you take one more step toward those tents, if you cause trouble for the Dalish, or the Inquisition, for the people who have risked their lives for me and my causes, I will fight you, Abelas, even if it kills me,” Uth'shiral warned, raising her own staff.

There was a moment of tension as Abelas stopped in his tracks. Cole looked between them, muttering their thoughts so quietly that she could not understand what he was saying. Then, to Lavellan's great surprise, Abelas lowered his staff, the crackling magic dissipating, his shoulders slumping in the darkness.

“We shall speak with this... Keeper Emalla, as you say,” he agreed, turning back around to follow the Inquisitor.

It was the first time since the journey to fight Corypheus that she had actually felt like the Inquisitor. It's too bad that the Anchor is unstable again. Who will lead them if I don't get back in time to name my successor?

Chapter Text

“They killed an unarmed man, would have killed her. How is this justice? Suppressed, simmering, seething... Submission,” Cole mumbled as he walked along behind Uth'shiral in the dark, the red hart trailing behind him with her few supplies bundled onto its back. She would have preferred that Cole remain silent; any second the Wardens in those tents could wake, and the killer could turn his cruel dreams into action against her, this time, and not some hapless soul like Morisel, only come to warn her.

This time, she had allies—or so she hoped. Whoever had killed Morisel had been acting alone, had run away because he'd seen Abelas. Abelas was, she admitted, an imposing figure, in no small part thanks to his height and powerful build. Before meeting him, she would never have imagined an elf could be so... threatening. Yet, if the killer were camping with allies, he might not act alone next time.

She wouldn't be able to return to the same camp, and perhaps she couldn't stay at the Arlathvhen. She was Dalish, even if the Dalish didn't think so, even if she felt disconnected from them.

Abelas had not been patient as she gathered her belongings and her mount, at least until she had reminded him that if they needed to leave, the hart would be the fastest way to do so. He had paced, glancing toward the tents where the killer slept repeatedly, and occasionally crackles of energy sparked around his staff or his hands or his sword. Lavellan had her doubts that he would able to hold his power in check when they spoke with Emalla, so despite his display of anger, she had taken more time than she strictly needed to—he might be able to talk himself down, given enough time.

“It isn't justice, not yet. Keeper Emalla is reasonable,” Uth'shiral said quietly toward Abelas, as if he had spoken his thoughts, rather than Cole doing so. “I wish it were that simple, that we could just... But no, that's vengeance. It isn't justice. It may be that we can't do anything at all. Sometimes, fights break out among the Dalish at these gatherings. It isn't that unusual for there to be deaths. But Morisel... he was such a good person. He deserved better than that.” Her voice wavered as the words caught in her throat, but she mastered her grief again.

“Are we to stand by, or leave peacefully, if nothing is done?” Abelas demanded sharply, his expression unreadable beneath the shadows of his hood. Uth'shiral imagined his eyes narrowed and his jaws clenched.

“These are my people, Abelas. Perhaps, someday, they could be yours, if you can't find what you're looking for. Morisel is gone, and I can't bring him back. I've already caused a stir with my bare face, and...” she took a breath to steady herself, “and the mistake I made. If I take justice into my own hands, maybe they'll never welcome me again. Maybe they'll kill me on sight, or hunt me down like the hound in Keeper Deshanna's story hunted the Dread Wolf. I don't have a tail, so they'd take my life instead.”

“Ah. The Dalish and their fear of the Dread Wolf,” Abelas mumbled. “This Keeper Emalla, is she far?”

“I haven't seen her clan's markings yet,” Uth'shiral replied. It seemed Emalla must be at some far corner of the gathering, or in the woods. “Humans always go on about how well elves see in the darkness, but I think you see far better than I do. Maybe you can spot it. Her clan is Numin'era. They always use a raven catching an arrow, for Dirthamen and Andruil. Emalla's aravel has Mythal's symbols all over it, though, so it definitely stands out.” She stopped speaking abruptly, worried that terse Abelas might think she was rambling. However, he nodded, pausing in his stride to glance around.

The night was dotted with campfires attended by those just arriving, those who were speaking with friends and family who had joined other clans, and those who were indulging in whirlwind Arlathvhen romances, but none of the trio had stopped to ask anyone if they knew where the camp was. Lavellan had avoided asking not only because she feared for her safety, but also because she feared to find herself unwelcome. Perhaps Abelas didn't want to deal with shemlen. Perhaps until now he'd thought she knew where she was going. She wasn't sure. Cole seemed to have almost shrunken in on himself, and Lavellan wondered if his actions were a reflection of her own fear.

“You lost your old family, but you made the Inquisition your family, too,” Cole said into the silence. “Most people just have one, so you're lucky. Just because they left doesn't mean they don't care. They didn't know you were hurting. You didn't tell them.”

Something about Abelas's continued silence made her glance in his direction, only to notice that he seemed to be staring intently at her. Perhaps he wanted to know what Cole was referring to, but Uth'shiral was glad when he didn't voice the question.

“We'll talk about that later, Cole,” Lavellan told the spirit quietly. “I know you just want to help, but...”

“He needs to hear it, too. He's so angry! You said to go to Skyhold, but—”

“Enough, spirit. The shemlen is correct. These are matters to be discussed later,” Abelas said firmly, before pointing into the darkness. “That way. I see a raven and an arrow. Perhaps that is the camp we seek.” He strode toward the group of aravels he'd spotted without waiting for Cole, Uth'shiral, or the hart that they led to join him. His pace was so swift that Uth'shiral had to jog to catch up with him.

Chapter Text

Keeper Emalla was sleeping when the group approached her aravel. “I'll do the talking,” Uth'shiral declared, struggling against another wave of fevered dizziness as she stepped in front of Abelas again. Who knew what he would have done, or said? She could almost feel his rage at being unable to mete out justice—he, Mythal's most devout follower.

“Very well, then. Speak, shemlen,” Abelas answered, his arms crossing over his chest as he stood behind her. If all he did was stand there like a statue, at least he'd be imposing statuary. It wasn't as if she'd expected him to lend any support when he so fiercely disagreed with her, after all.

Cole, on the other hand, didn't keep his distance. He didn't need to; Keeper Emalla would never notice him for more than a second, unless he wanted her to. He held his daggers ready for combat, as uncertain about what was to come than Uth'shiral was.

She rapped on the side of the aravel with an armored fist, giving its occupant time to react. “Keeper Emalla?” she called in a soft voice, before knocking again. “Hahren?”

“Lavellan, da'len, is that you?” the Keeper asked from within.

“It is. My... friend and I must speak with you, as privately as we can. It's urgent,” Uth'shiral replied. “I would never interrupt your sleep otherwise.”

“Your... friend?” The Numin'era Keeper's voice could not have sounded more disapproving, but the aravel door swung open as she struggled out of her sleeping furs. “I cannot judge your heart, da'len, but may the Dread Wolf take you if you've broken Morisel's heart to indulge in a dalliance that—”

Emalla's eyes widened as she took in the silhouette of Abelas behind Uth'shiral before she noticed the expression that the Inquisitor was wearing. She let out a yelp, then tried to regain her composure.

“I won't be blessing any unions at this time of night,” Keeper Emalla said, and began to duck back into her aravel.

Lavellan thought she heard Abelas let out a bark of laughter behind her at hearing that assumption, but it was quickly suppressed.

“This is not a dalliance, and we are not speaking about marriage!” Uth'shiral felt suddenly desperate. “Please, speak with us, hahren. I don't know who else to trust.”

“Into the aravel, then,” Emalla beckoned the Inquisitor. “You should keep watch outside,” she warned Abelas, who hadn't even made a move to join Uth'shiral as she clambered into the landship. Cole, on the other hand, slipped in and perched in a tiny corner, daggers still at the ready.

“Hahren, I woke to a disturbance about half an hour ago,” Uth'shiral began. “When I got up to investigate, I found Morisel lying dead, his throat cut. I think he'd been on his way to visit me. To warn me of something, maybe. Abelas,” she gestured outside with her chin, “found a note he was carrying.”

“Dread Wolf take you for your dalliance,” Emalla replied, then gave a gusty sigh. “Such things happen at the Arlathvhen. Clan Inarel was unhappy with having him as a Keeper—too untrained, too inexperienced, they said. And too soft on the shemlen. Did you know why they chose to raid the village that got their Keeper and their First killed?”

“I didn't ask him, hahren. I assumed it was for supplies, as usual,” Uth'shiral answered cautiously.

“They had found Morisel... enjoying the company of a shemlen woman. Don't be hurt; it can't have been serious. They had only been in the area for two days; he had never met this shemlen woman before. If it helps, her description bore considerable resemblance to you. Morisel's clan wasn't having any of it. No explanation would work. They'd already been making arrangements with clan Lavellan, and to be shamed by a shemlen... They wanted to erase all evidence, and as you guessed, da'len, they needed supplies. They might have killed more if there hadn't been templars passing through the area at the time.” The Keeper sat in silence, her hands folded in her lap.

Uth'shiral clenched her jaws. There were plenty of her people who would have done the same, but not among clan Lavellan. Not in her family. “So I take it that the reason he wanted an ally so badly, even without Clan Lavellan's backing, was that Clan Inarel was infuriated with him. They did have good reason, at least; he could have endangered them all if she'd told anyone.”

“The wise thing to do would have been to leave the clan for a while, rather than return to them and lead the shemlen back,” Keeper Emalla agreed. “Worse, the young woman ended up with child. Her family was ashamed she'd have dallied with an elf, so they tried to send her to Clan Inarel. Inarel didn't take her in, but I was surprised to learn they didn't kill her, either. They are a violent clan. I don't know what became of her, after that, other than they sent her away. Morisel told me that he slipped provisions to her.”

“So you think someone in his own clan murdered him?” Uth'shiral asked, then shook her head. “No... Morisel's note spoke of a Warden. The Wardens should be exiled from here, and yet... there is at least one. I believe I was the target, but Morisel would have been an inconvenient witness. Had the killer not seen Abelas, I would probably be dead.” I will be dead soon enough, anyway, Wardens. The mark on my hand will see to that.

“Da'len, I don't see how that is possible. There may be Dalish Wardens, but surely...” Emalla let the sentence hang unfinished. “It bothers you none that Morisel was unfaithful, even knowing that your clans were discussing a marriage agreement?”

“We were friends, hahren. If a human woman could have made him happy, then I wish he could have been with her. At our age, I didn't expect him to be celibate, anyway. He certainly enjoyed plenty of female companionship at the last Arlathvhen. I won't pretend not to know—I caught him at it, a time or two. I wonder if I should have told him yes back then, too. It didn't make me happy, but I knew I could deal with it. I wanted to be with someone who would be loyal to me, but finding a man like that, who is also a mage and interesting to talk to and Elvhen... I was never going to find someone perfect.”

“And the man outside... is he...?” prompted Emalla, crooking her eyebrows.

Lavellan sighed. “No. When I call him 'friend,' it's only in the sense that he isn't yet my enemy. I doubt he would be interested in romantic entanglements, even if I knew him well enough to consider it. He came to the Arlathvhen to find me, but I haven't had the chance to ask him why. I'm almost afraid to.” She brushed idly at her armor, as if that would somehow remove the stains that hadn't come out last time she'd cleaned it properly. “So what do we do now? If I leave, the others are going to think I'm trying to evade capture. If I stay, I may still be under suspicion and will definitely be in danger. But I don't want to let a murderer go free...”

“Agents from your Inquisition have been asking about you,” the Keeper responded. “If I take action against any of the other Dalish, there will be problems. Problems from the Dalish, problems from the Wardens, problems from Clan Inarel—even if they saw Morisel as a problem, he was their problem. But what I can do is play on what people suspect—it was an argument, Morisel and his assailant were drunk, and his attacker killed him in a rage over... perhaps you, since Morisel was on his way to see you. His assailant fled when he realized you had another lover already, and the two of you only noticed after you finished and this... Abelas was on his way to rejoin his clan, and stumbled over the body. Now you are hurt over your intended's death, and ashamed at having been caught with another, so you will use the Inquisition as your excuse to leave.” Her lips quirked into a slight smile. “I would rather handle this more honestly, but I do not wish to see you harmed, da'len, or for the Dalish to hunt you, or be split asunder because we aren't sure what to do.”

“If I didn't have other suspicions about what happened, I might believe your story, myself,” Uth'shiral replied, uncertain whether to admire the Keeper for her story-weaving, or to fear her for her trickery. “But Dread Wolf take your lies, I—”

“Dread Wolf take you if you don't play along with these lies. Do you have any idea what it would do to the Dalish who are here if they suddenly find they must take sides between you and whoever it was who killed Morisel? You, who are now bare-faced as a child? Whose decisions cost you your entire clan? Better to say that it was jealousy, spurred on by drunkenness.” The Keeper rested a palm against her forehead for a moment, then shook her head. “Please... take my advice. It would be better if you left now, and I can spread the story and say that you fled with your lover with my blessing for your union. If they believe Morisel and his killer were selfishly trying to intervene in your love for someone else, the Dalish will forgive you in time—except, perhaps, the Wardens. If there's one thing I have learned in my years, da'len, it's that people have great sympathy for a love story, and tend to hope that it has a happy ending. This may be even more so, for the Inquisitor, that poor lonely Dalish cut off from her people, with no one but her subordinates to keep her company.”

“You sound like Josephine,” Uth'shiral observed, allowing herself a tiny smile. “She would always say the same about the Orlesian nobles. I suppose the fascination with love is universal. It's too bad that not every love story has an ending at all, nevermind a happy one.”

“She's right,” Cole said, “even if it feels wrong to lie. The killer isn't the only Warden here, and you don't want to fight them all. If we tell the truth, other people will be hurt and die. You'll be hurt worse, too, because they're hurting, like me, but not.”

The Inquisitor gave a slight nod, both to Cole, whom Keeper Emalla didn't notice, and to Keeper Emalla. “Fine. I'll agree to this. But please, try to find out who did it. Morisel was a good man, and he didn't deserve this. If anyone died, it should have been me.”

“I promise, I will try to find out, and justice will be done. As for you... You need to live. You can inspire us all, and you can make this world better for all of us. You just need to keep trying, da'len,” Keeper Emalla told her with a smile. “Dareth shiral, my dear.”

“Dareth shiral,” Lavellan replied as she clambered out of the aravel, Cole already standing on the ground outside before she could even complete the motions.

“Abelas, we must go. Keeper Emalla will do what she can. Survival has to take precedence over justice, hopefully just this once.” Uth'shiral closed her eyes as her palm flared with green light again.

For a moment, Abelas tensed again. Uth'shiral thought that they might fight, then and there, but instead he gave a nod and mounted her red hart, reaching a hand down to help her up as well. “Where will you go?” he asked as she settled in front of him, as if he had not invited himself along.

She paused for a long moment. Skyhold was the obvious answer. Skyhold was where she should be, directing the Inquisition's movements. Skyhold was where everyone would expect her to be, after Keeper Emalla spun her tale. It was also there that her inner circle might show up, one by one, as their concern about her and her whereabouts grew.

She couldn't go back, yet. One last trip, and then I will go back to Skyhold, and I'll pick the next Inquisitor. Then when the Anchor kills me, Falon'din can guide me to the Beyond in peace.

“Wycome,” she said at last, nudging the hart into a quick walk with her heels. Cole perched in the animal's antlers, weightless enough not to hinder it at all.

Chapter Text

The trio rode in silence all night and into the day; they did not stop to camp until the sun was once again setting. Uth'shiral was unaccustomed to riding for so long, and found she could barely hobble on her tired thighs. Though Abelas didn't speak of any discomfort, she noticed he was not moving very quickly, either. Cole fretted over them, suggesting elfroot salves, and then over the red hart, as well.

Uth'shiral prepared most of the camp. She lent Abelas her spare fur to sleep in, though it meant either sleeping in the cold or using the hart for warmth again. He seemed at a loss for most of her preparations, apart from starting a fire and roasting a nug that she managed to kill—to Cole's dismay. It wasn't her favorite choice of food, but it had been all she could find readily, and she was hungry enough to eat it.

When at last the three of them settled around the campfire, the Inquisitor and Cole seated and Abelas leaning against a tree, she Uth'shiral had begun to prepare for an entire night endured in painful silence; even Cole seemed afraid to speak.

“You,” stated Abelas abruptly, staring directly at Lavellan, “are strange.”

“How do you mean?” she asked as she tore a piece of meat from the nug's haunches.

“You said to come to Skyhold, that there would be purpose with the Inquisition. I went, but not for you. It was poorly guarded. Everyone was looking for this... Inquisitor, who had left. You. You who kept company with an Elvhen mage, who now wander in the company of a spirit of compassion. Tell me, Inquisitor,” Abelas mused, hesitating each time he hit the word “Inquisitor,” as if he were testing the feel of it on his tongue, “do you take your duty so lightly?”

Something about the tone of his voice caused cold fear to wrap around her spine, tingling into her left arm where the green magic of the Anchor flared. With the flare of power came a flare of pain, and she gritted her teeth before answering. “I don't! But how can I keep going, knowing that every choice I make leaves more people dead? How can I live with myself knowing I've taken apart families? Knowing I send good people to their deaths?”

“They were gone,” Cole's sad voice offered up into the silence, his eyes glinting behind his hair, “and everyone else was leaving, too. You needed to leave, at least for a while. You needed—familiarity, firelight, family, friends, food, forests... The family was gone but the rest was there. Then it went wrong all over again.” He turned his head toward Abelas. “You lost everything, too. You didn't stay, either.”

Was it her imagination, or had Abelas's expression suddenly softened? Was it just the firelight?

“'You lost everything, too?' What could have happened to drive you away from your purpose?” Abelas glanced between Cole and Uth'shiral, as if to tell them he didn't care who answered, but he expected someone to do so. He did not move an inch, did not twitch a muscle where he remained leaning against the tree. It was as if a statue were interrogating her.

Abelas was the last person she wanted to tell her story to, so instead, she looked at Cole as the tears finally defeated her resolve and began to spill down her cheeks. “Cole... It was my fault. I sent the soldiers to Wycome. Commander Cullen said it was the right thing to do. He said my clan would be slaughtered if I didn't. I listened, Creators help me, I listened. If I'd sent Leliana's agents, had the Dalish go in by stealth... if I'd listened to Leliana... Dread Wolf take me, I killed them. I killed them. My whole family. The little ones, even. And no one said a word to me, not in six months' time. They cheered, they drank to Corypheus's defeat, to good times, and then they scattered like a flock of birds. And the only one who cared was you, Cole. Skyhold can be so cold, distant, without anyone you know... I had to go. I had to be with my people, for a while.”

“It was a mistake,” Cole's sincere voice told her. An awkward, leather-clad arm slid over her shoulders, weightless but clearly intended to comfort. She wasn't sure she deserved it. “Yours, and theirs. They didn't know you were hurting. They knew you'd helped them win. You didn't tell them you were hurting. How could they know? And your family wouldn't have blamed you. You didn't do anything wrong. You were trying to save them. How could you know what would happen? It hurts, Inquisitor, it hurts... but you couldn't have known, and your friends still care. They're trying to find you. They're worried, hurting too. To them, Skyhold is your home, and special to them because of you.”

“Ir abelas,” Abelas said, and settled by the fire with Uth'shiral and Cole, unheeding of the Inquisitor's tears and sniffles. “I should not have asked. Sorrow is something I understand well.” His voice was considerably softer, and when she glanced at him to acknowledge his words, his face reflected the sadness of his words.

“And you? Why come looking for me? You knew I left. I already failed you,” Uth'shiral demanded, rubbing away a tear roughly as anger built within her.

“No. I was seeking the other Elvhen. He implied there were others, besides Mythal's sentinels. I thought he would be with you; I was wrong. Then you were endangered, and leaving an ally to her fate would have been worse than leaving justice undone.” Abelas wrinkled his nose at the nug roasting on a stick over the fire, but peeled a piece of meat from it anyway. “I seek a place of refuge, now that my duty is at its end. Dealing with you is one thing; surrounding myself with other shemlen is another. Uthenera may be the only refuge I can find in this world.”

“Then it's Solas who failed you,” she said. The nug suddenly had no flavor at all. She continued eating anyway. “I thought I knew him, too.”

Cole finally let go of the Inquisitor's shoulders. Her tears had been mastered, and his words had helped. “You feel better now. I'm glad. Sorrow understands.” Cole, at least, had not spoken of Solas since the night Solas turned up missing.

“I wish we could have done something more at the Arlathvhen,” Uth'shiral grumbled—anything to get away from the topic of Solas, or of how she was now feeling. “I don't like letting the murderer go like that.”

“I like it less than you. Mythal's justice was not done. What tale will the Keeper spread to ease tempers, I wonder?” Abelas asked, one eyebrow quirking upward beneath his hood. It surprised her that he so quickly accepted her change of topics—perhaps he had not lied when he said he understood. “We fled. Surely that will be suspicious.”

“She's telling the Dalish a dramatic tale of our love and how she blessed our union as we rode into the night. Morisel came to reclaim my affection, and a rival of his killed him, then saw that I was already with you. In truth, it sounds more real than what actually happened, but I'm concerned what the Inquisition will think, when their agents send word back to Skyhold,” the Inquisitor said, a blush burning in her cheeks, beneath the drying tears—there was no comfortable way to explain the story to Abelas, even when she left out the more suggestive bits. She was having a difficult time managing her emotions, after trying to suppress them for the greater good for six long months, and between her grief and embarrassment she was uncertain what sort of expression she must be wearing.

Abelas did not react to either the content of the story or to Uth'shiral's embarrassment. “That will solve no problems. The killer still escapes. We should keep watch for followers. They can ride faster than us, with one rider to a deer. And, if others fail to believe the tale the Keeper wove...” Abelas shook his head slowly. “It would have been better for you to return to Skyhold immediately.”

“I have to go to Wycome.”

“What do you seek there, Inquisitor? Peace, justice, or vengeance?”

Uth'shiral opened her mouth to answer, but her words became a cry of pain as the Anchor roared with power. Cole reached out to her, but the world was filled with green light, and then with blackness.

Chapter Text

Her eyelids felt heavy at first, and the light was much too bright for her eyes. She lifted a hand in reflex, shielding them from the sun—and hitting someone's face in the process.

For a moment she was confused. Why was someone else in her quarters? Then she felt the breeze, and the memory of the past few weeks returned. Or was it longer, now? She had been dreaming she was back at Skyhold, looking for Solas. She'd caught glimpses of him, but he'd always been too far away to approach. She wasn't sure what she would have done if she had caught up to him. Before that, she could remember dreaming of the camp her clan had set up before she'd been sent to the Conclave. That had been a peaceful dream, but she couldn't hold onto it for long.

Before the dreams, though, there was the Anchor and its flareup. Uth'shiral groaned and squeezed her eyes shut again. Her hand wasn't hurting, for now, but she had no doubt it would be—and the fever would come back with it.

“Inquisitor?” someone asked. No, not just someone: Abelas.

“Bright, blinding, brilliant, better to blink than be blinded,” Cole murmured. “It was a good dream, but it was only a dream. The real world hurts. It would be easier to stay asleep, but she can't.”

“No, she can't,” Abelas agreed. “Even if I could show her, she would die without anyone to guide her. I do not know whether to admire the shemlen or pity them.”

“You're still here...” Lavellan groaned. “Is it too late to ask for more cheerful company?” She tried peeling her eyes open again, propping herself up on her elbows to get a better look around. The camp had... changed. The furs looked dirtier, more tattered. The shelter looked a bit more haphazard. And the scenery... it was not where she remembered camping at all. They had traveled, and she didn't remember any of it. Did they even know the way to Wycome? Were they going to Skyhold instead?

“Don't worry. We're on our way to Wycome,” Cole said, without being asked. “We can read the signs. We've been traveling for three days now. We couldn't stay, because someone is following.”

“They didn't believe the story, it seems,” Abelas added. “Or maybe they did not care.” He shrugged. “I have been trying to understand your magical relic, trying to stabilize it.”

“It's killing me,” Uth'shiral declared. “I know.”

Abelas nodded. “Yes,” he agreed in the gravest of voices. “There is nothing I can do to help, but I will accompany you to this 'Wycome,' and I shall see you to Skyhold before we part ways.”

“Nothing? But you—” Lavellan began, only to be cut off by Abelas.

“—Do not know anything about this type of magic. Part of the reason that I remain is that I am curious. You meddle in old powers, but you seem to know nothing about them. You wear the token of a god on your hand, yet you are not a god. Your vallaslin has vanished since I saw you the first time, and that should not even be possible. When I sleep and wander the Fade, you are... different. I am uncertain whether you are truly shemlen, or something else.”

Abelas stared at her until she finally turned away to avoid his intent gaze. “Cole said I'm very bright to look at, once, when I asked,” she said. “I don't know what that means. I also have no idea what you mean about the token of a god. This mark came from an ancient elven artifact, an orb that Corypheus had. I ended up with it by accident, but with the rifts and the Breach, it was a fortunate accident. I don't want to imagine what Corypheus would have achieved if he'd been the one to get it.”

“It isn't that confusing. She should know, but she doesn't, because there isn't anything to know. She told you the truth, so don't be angry. She isn't hiding anything.” Cole appeared by Uth'shiral's side, as if feeling compelled to defend her.

Lavellan pushed herself further upright, but Cole surprised her by pressing her shoulders down when she attempted to stand. “If you try to get up, you'll fall. You're weak and very, very hungry. You need to rest, Inquisitor. Let me help you.” He vanished, reappearing a few feet away by the remains of their new campfire, then back at her side again with a roughly carved wooden bowl, filled with some kind of broth. “Sorrow made this.” She wondered if he meant the bowl or the broth, but before she could ask, Cole answered, “Yes.”

Much as she appreciated all of the kindness, she wanted to fling the bowl away and scream in rage and frustration. She had come to the conclusion that she really didn't want to die, but if the mark didn't kill her, the Dalish on her trail probably would. Abelas didn't seem to have any actual affection or friendship toward her, so why was he making himself so helpful? What was he hoping to get out of all of this? She mastered her momentary rage, allowing Cole to help her with the broth. Cole, at least, was sincere in his desire to make things better for her. “Thank you, Cole.”

“Lingering, lost, lonely, lathbora viran,” Cole remarked as he held the bowl steady. “Sorrow can't go back to the past, and he can't go forward. Everything's gone and the future is... nothing. He wants to be friends because you're familiar and he's lonely, but he doesn't really, because you'll die and that's another reason to be sad. He has so many reasons to be sad already. He wants to learn, but everything moves so quickly, and everyone dies now. He slept so long, he doesn't want to go back, but he thinks he should. Where else is there to go? —You could stay with us, Abelas. The Inquisitor is very sad, too. Being friends might help you both.”

“Enough, spirit,” Abelas snapped. “My problems are not her concern.” He abruptly stood from his crouch on the other side of her from Cole and began to walk away. “We should be reaching Crestwood by tomorrow evening, according to a merchant we met yesterday. I did not wish to search you for gold, so we were unable to get any extra supplies. Cole will stay here, and I will find something for us to eat.”

“I only want to help,” Cole whimpered, looking back at the Inquisitor.

“I know, Cole, and you are. Even if he won't let you help him, you're helping me just by being here. It's good to be cared about. Good to know that I still have friends.” Uth'shiral smiled at him as she sipped more broth. “Do you know that it's mostly because you're here that I have hope I can get through this, somehow? And even if I don't survive, at least I wasn't alone. Maybe that's why Abelas keeps staying, even though Solas isn't here.”

“The one you love. I should remember him, but I can't,” Cole said, wrinkling his brow in frustration. “I don't know why.” He set the now empty bowl of broth aside and sat with his arms around his knees.

Uth'shiral inclined her head slightly. “I know. You'd try to help me deal with remembering him, if you could remember anything about him. Don't worry about that. That's a small pain, compared to the others.” She shifted and stood, wobbly, before Cole could think to stop her. In an instant he was also up, reaching to offer support.

“Your hand hurt even while you dreamed. I helped with a poultice but you didn't wake up. I was afraid you never would, and I came to help you. I have to help you.” Cole fidgeted even as he helped her walk across the camp to her mount, knowing what she wanted to do without any need for her to tell him.

“I understand, Cole.” I have to get better. If I don't, I'm hurting Cole, Lavellan told herself firmly. He probably isn't the only one who needs me to be alive and strong. I have to try.

When Uth'shiral glanced over at Cole again, she was startled. It was one of the very few times she remembered ever having seen him smile.

Chapter Text

“The Dalish hate Fen'harel,” Abelas stated, breaking the silence of their long ride. Crestwood was visible on the horizon, all sand and stone and ruined, moldy buildings.

“Well... Not precisely hate,” Uth'shiral responded. “His statues are turned away from camp to scare away evil spirits, and because we don't want his gaze turned on us. We leave offerings to appease him. We fear and respect him, I suppose. Keeper Deshanna said he wanders the Fade still. Sometimes I feel he's watching me, setting me up for failure so that he can laugh at me. Other times, I wonder if he's real at all, but the Creators are real. Why not Fen'harel?”

“You use the Dread Wolf as a curse. You hate him,” Abelas restated. “I find that ironic.”

Uth'shiral wanted to twist to the side to check Abelas for a smile, but it was all she could do to remain upright and hold onto the hart. Even if she had, his hood would have concealed whatever expression he wore. She had not been this helpless since she had been a small child down with fever, and it deeply angered her to be brought so low. It was worse, feeling that some ancient being was secretly mocking her. “What is so ironic about it? The Dread Wolf betrayed the Creators. He never cared for the People at all.”

Abelas allowed the silence to fall again. The sun was sinking quickly over the horizon, and it was unlikely they would make it into Crestwood before night fell. Finally, he spoke again. “That is not the story I remember. However, the irony is that you—there is no kind way to tell you—have his mark, his power, on your hand.”

“You're joking,” Uth'shiral replied, her voice flat. He must be joking. It wasn't possible that it was true what she said about Fen'harel dancing around her in her sorrow, laughing. Was it?

“No. I did not want to tell you. I know how your people view him, but knowing may help you.” Abelas kept walking beside her as if he had not suddenly revealed a horrible truth to her. Lavellan wanted the hart to stop, wanted to pull the reins—but Cole was leading it, and he wasn't stopping, either.

Now, after having used the mark to do so much good, she suddenly felt tainted, wronged. It was the Dread Wolf's power? She would never have wanted him to have this power back. Yet, knowing it was his, what would he do to get it back? Maybe that was why everything kept going wrong. “How?” she asked.

“If it is the Dread Wolf's power, the Dread Wolf may be able to do something to help. He could take it back, for instance. Contain it. You only need to find him, and convince him to lend his aid.” He shielded his eyes with one hand as he peered toward Crestwood. “We are not far now—perhaps an hour away. You should send word to Skyhold when we reach the village, and contact whatever forces you have nearby. That should make the efforts of our pursuers to kill you more difficult. The spirit who travels with you has also made it clear that others are concerned, and chaos may follow in your absence.”

The abrupt change in topic left Uth'shiral unbalanced and unnerved. Was it as simple as that? As walking up to Fen'harel, the trickster god, and just... asking his help? No; he was a trickster. There would be some price to pay, and he would always get the better end of the deal. And even if she did take his help, what if he regained this power over the Veil? What harm would he do with it? She would have to outsmart him, somehow. She berated herself silently for never having bothered to get a dog, in all of the years that she had considered it. “How would I even find Fen'harel?” she asked, finally.

“I have never sought him, but you say he wanders the Fade. You only need to find him there. Knowing what his magic feels like may help—you can use your mark for that,” Abelas suggested.

“And you'll help?”

“No, I will not,” the Sentinel answered. “The mark is unique to you, and it comes from him. Assuming I am able to follow, it would not be in time to be of use to you.” He stopped, and so did Cole, so that the entire group was at a standstill as Abelas turned to face the Inquisitor. “It is only a suggestion. There may be another way that I do not know.”

“I have to try it,” Uth'shiral said. “There are people who need me. How can I help them if I'm dead?”

Chapter Text

Though the path to Wycome was a long, hard journey north, Uth'shiral couldn't help feeling somewhat more optimistic after being greeted so warmly. The moment that her group had arrived in the Inquisition Camp, the soldiers seemed to come to life with joy. “It's the Herald! The Herald of Andraste has returned!” they cried, surrounding her hart, their faces all smiles beneath helms that gleamed with golden firelight.

Despite all of the loss she had experienced, it made her smile to see the soldiers—her soldiers—smile so brightly. It reminded her of why she had done all that she had done, and it wasn't so that she could sit on a throne in a cold stone keep. Their camp remained well-supplied, with cages of ravens and sturdy tents. She didn't have to ask them to send word back to Skyhold; the moment she'd been seen, it was done. Then hours had been spent catching up on the news, and sharing stories with the soldiers. By the time she and Abelas retired to their separate tents for the evening, she felt almost as if she had never left Skyhold at all.

Her optimism quailed as she settled into her bedroll. Abelas had told her to seek out the Dread Wolf. The Dread Wolf, the creature she feared more than anything else, was her best option for survival. She doubted she could avoid seeking him out in the Fade even if she had no intention of trying. How was she supposed to convince him to help?

Despite her exhaustion, she found it difficult to sleep. It didn't become easier when Cole appeared, sitting next to her bedroll, watching in silence, his head tilted slightly in a way that reminded her of one of the messenger ravens.

“Cole... I appreciate your concern, but staring at me isn't making it easier to sleep,” Uth'shiral said finally, her whisper unnaturally loud in her ears amid the silence of a sleeping camp.

“Listen,” the spirit said softly, one hand cupping next to his ear.

Fabric rustled from one of the other tents outside as someone exited and walked away from the tent area. Moments later, a quiet, peaceful voice rose into the darkness. The words were indistinct, but Uth'shiral could recognize the familiar lilting rhythm of the ancient Elvhen language. Faint strains of music drifted into the night, wrapping around the silence of the camp and filling it with as much warmth as any campfire. It reminded the Inquisitor of many nights spent under the stars or the canopies of great trees, listening to songs of her people whose translations had long since been forgotten. Though those people were lost to her forever, it felt like home.

“He does this every night,” Cole whispered after a moment, as if afraid to interrupt the singing. “He waits until you're asleep and he thinks I'm not paying attention. Usually it's sad, but tonight it's different.”

Tears rolled down Uth'shiral's cheeks and dampened the furs of her bedroll, but she smiled even as Cole peeked outside, trying not to be seen. “Home... he's singing about his home, I think,” Uth'shiral whispered.

“Yes,” Cole agreed. “He isn't as lonely now. We're his friends.”

She didn't know for how long into the night Abelas sang, but the peaceful memories his voice invoked soothed her into slumber, the notes and the rhythm of his song following her even into the Fade, where she sought the Dread Wolf.

Chapter Text

A thread of peaceful music whispered from somewhere nearby, but when she looked, she couldn't find the source. Perhaps it was only the wind, singing through the snow in this defeated place, but it sounded like hope and it sounded like home, with children and halla frolicking around the wheels of vividly-painted aravels.

None of that was here. Here, snow and darkness stretched ahead, and behind there was ruin—Haven, a burnt and shattered scar behind her, still burning. She could feel the heat of those intense flames on her back. Above, the Breach whirled, an angry hole in the sky. Around her, wolves howled their hunger. The night was not safe.

Uth'shiral stumbled knee-deep through snow so cold it burnt, and it only became deeper and more difficult to traverse the further she went. Her hand flared time and again in the darkness, reacting to the Breach, but tonight there were no rifts and no demons. There was only snow, falling lightly at first.

One of the wolves howled closer, and she turned in that direction to see it, white-on-white against the snow. The wolf growled, but turned and fled as wolves were meant to do. The demons had yet to take that one. She faintly remembered looking for a wolf, and stumbled after it, tripping in the snow. Other wolves, green-eyed in the night, surged forward behind her, threatening, but then she stood and they fell back. She willed her staff to light the way, looking for the first wolf, the white wolf. Where had it gone?

All she could see was snow, swirling and blinding, around her and beneath her. The wolf gave an obliging howl to her right, and she strove in that direction. The wind grew fiercer, as though she climbed a steep mountaintop. She couldn't tell where she was; there was too much snow, even with her staff illuminating the way.

The snow swirled and parted just enough for the light of dawn to illuminate a crumbling elven ruin. Colorful frescoes of riders on elegant halla danced across its ancient walls. The white wolf howled again nearby, but she couldn't see it. She pressed onward, toward the fallen structure. The snow became shallower and the wind gentler the closer she came.

She hesitated as she approached its broken grand doorway. Why would a wolf be in there? What if it attacked her? What if she needed to attack it? The remains of the building looked almost eager to crumble to the ground.

It did no good to stop. She had come this far, and she must see it through. She strode through the doorway and out of the ruin entirely.

The inside of the palace was a marvel of smooth stone and vibrant frescoes. Golden mosaics tiled the walls between frescoes, all portraying long-forgotten deeds of the Creators. A delicately carved throne sat empty on its dais, and a table laden with a feast waited for the diners. The music was louder here, and it came from all around her, as if this place derived all of its life from a song that reminded her of home and aravels and the deep forest.

At one end of the room stood a tall, wide mirror, and before it stood a figure she couldn't have forgotten no matter how she tried.

She almost didn't dare to breathe as she watched him, his elbow bending now as his hand rested on his chin, his upright posture shifting as he leaned back, examining. She'd seen him in similar poses so many times before as he decided what to paint on the next panel of his fresco. If she broke the silence, his concentration would be broken. If she broke the silence, maybe he would simply step through that eluvian and leave again forever, but he was here , and now , and that was all that mattered. The wolf she pursued was well on its way to being forgotten; this meeting was, perhaps, more important.

“Solas?” she asked so softly she wasn't certain he would hear her at all. Perhaps he wasn't really even there.

He stood so still that she was sure for a moment he had transformed into a statue, or had frozen from the chill of the mountain before. “Inquisitor,” he acknowledged finally, turning to face her. He did not approach, and his expression was devoid of any emotion other than, perhaps, curiosity. It hurt to see no warmth in his eyes, felt like an icicle had been pounded through her heart. “It shouldn't be possible for you to follow me here,” he said. “You do make a habit of achieving the impossible.” His lips quirked into a faint smile, as if he were somehow proud—of himself, or of her, she couldn't say.

“I wasn't looking for you,” Uth'shiral answered, surprising herself with her own ferocity. “You left without any explanation, and then when Leliana—I assumed it was final. I didn't think I'd see you again at all.” I'm not sure I even want to see you again, she thought.

“It should have been final,” Solas said, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “Inquisitor, I--”

“Solas, I needed you. You took my vallaslin, distanced me from my people, and then you left me. Was I never good enough for you? The Dalish were never good enough; it was never enough that we tried. And yet, I admired you. I trusted you.” She clenched her fists, glaring at him across the distance. “I... loved you.” Her hands relaxed and hung limp at her sides, her expression softening to sorrow as most of the anger dissipated almost as soon as it had begun. “I still don't understand.” She didn't dare go any closer; if she did, she would reach for him, would want to kiss him, and he would surely push her away again. She had been hurt enough.

Her accusations seemed to strike him like blows, his frown growing deeper and sadder until she stopped. “The loss of your respect and your trust is simply another burden I must bear,” he said, making no attempt to bridge the space between them. “The greater question is this: Why do you blame yourself for actions I took? As I told you then, the blame is mine. I acted with a distressing lack of foresight. That mistake will not be made again. I am sorry that my actions have cut you so deeply.”

“I had hoped to hear that I was something more than just a mistake,” Uth'shiral said softly, feeling all the more aggrieved. “When it all fell apart, I had no one but Cole. You were the one I missed the most. I waited for you to come back, but instead, everyone else scattered. If Cole hadn't come back...” She let the sentence drift, not daring to share the rest of the story. Without Cole and Abelas, she would likely be dead now at the hands of that Grey Warden, though surviving that might only be delaying the inevitable.

It was then she realized he had no idea about the news she had received the moment she'd returned from the battle with Corypheus, or any of what had transpired since. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to regain her calm as she listened to the music that reminded her of her people, her home. Solas had once made her feel at home, too. “I'm sorry, I'm sure you don't want to hear any of this. I'm fine. I've been well. There's someone else I have to find, and I don't know how much time I have to search.” Even to her own ears, the lies were obvious: She was not fine, and she had not been well. “Dareth shiral, Solas, I must be on my way,” she concluded with haste, turning her back to him and striding, then sprinting, back toward the arched entryway.

She wanted to stop, to turn back around, to embrace him, to kiss him, to beg him to take her back. But those actions were beneath her dignity, and he would only turn her away again. She would not waste valuable time she might need to save herself from the Anchor.

And yet, as she crossed the threshold of the doorway, Uth'shiral thought she caught a whisper of Solas's voice carried with the tendrils of that beautiful song that reminded her of her family in the Dales. “Ar lath ma, Vhenan. Please be free of me. I am sorry you have suffered, but mine is a path that must be walked alone.”

Chapter Text

What had previously been a snowy mountain became a steep spiral staircase that seemed to go on forever, but the chill ate through Uth'shiral's flesh and into her bones through the heavy fur of her gear. She was forced to stop and lean on her staff every few steps, the combination of cold and steep stairs taking its toll on her body. The stairwell was pristine white and unadorned. She began to wonder if she were moving at all, or if she had somehow walked into a trap.

She couldn't afford to rest. She paused, listening to the strain of elven song and trying to catch the whispers of a wolf howling. Beneath the song, however, she could hear only the wind rushing past the tower. She glanced outside of a tiny window that hadn't been present a moment ago. Although it was cold inside, outside the sun baked the dry ground, and in the distance, she could see the greasy black film that heralded the Blight. Sharp red crystals stabbed through the earth, encircling the tower she stood in.

She looked up, and there was finally an end in sight. Snow began to drift down from the top of the tower. She ignored it, pushing her feet to move faster, to reach the upper balcony. Maybe from there she could find an escape route, or at least spot the white wolf. The mark on her hand flared green as if in response to the thought.

The stairs vanished as Lavellan reached the top, finding herself in Leliana's rookery. Below, where the library and the rotunda should be, she saw the mosaic and marble of the palace she was sure she had left behind. Solas was still there, examining the eluvian.

Uth'shiral made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat, storming her way to a door—but it wouldn't budge. With nowhere else to go, she climbed onto the railing, then jumped down into the middle of the banquet table, with its many exotic dishes. Ceramic pots and plates shattered beneath her; the long table itself groaned and split in two as food and drink were flung away by the impact. Metal serving dishes clanged as loudly as a blacksmith's forge.

Her head hit the ground and the world began to spin around her, confusing and dizzying. Solas suddenly stood above her, looking at her with a frown of concern and an outstretched hand. If her reappearance surprised him, he'd mastered his reaction before she could notice.

For a moment, she considered ignoring his offer of assistance. He had no right, not after leaving before, not after sending her off with a declaration of love and abandonment only moments ago. Yet Keeper Deshanna had often warned her not to become too proud. She reached for his hand, missed it, and tried again. This time, his warm fingers closed around hers. It reminded her of the ball at Halamshiral, when he had come to offer her a dance; now, however, there was nothing between them. She let go of his hand a little too quickly, staggering as she leaned on her staff, attempting to restore her sense of balance.

He continued to frown his worry at her even as he jested, “You did know how to make a grand entrance... And a lasting impression,” he added, sweeping his hand at the table. “This table has suffered a fatal injury; how are you, Inquisitor?”

“Dizzy, confused... I left this place. How am I back?” Uth'shiral asked, finally recovering enough to stand without the aid of her staff, although she swayed on her feet.

“The Fade can be unstable at times. Perhaps there is something more you wished to settle before you left.” Solas's fingers twitched as if they possessed a life of their own and wanted nothing more than to reach for her, but instead, he turned his back to her and walked slowly back to the eluvian. “If you would speak, it should be done now, before we wake and the chance is lost.”

As Solas spoke, Uth'shiral became aware of the soft green light of his magic as his fingers hovered over the surface of the eluvian. “If you still love me, why does it have to be over?”

“Please don't. It is difficult enough already for both of us. It was painful to leave, and more painful now that you are here, invading my dreams.” He stopped his work on the eluvian to turn and face her again. “Some things are more important than how I feel. What I must do is not something you should be involved with. You have matters of great importance to attend to, as well. In the end, what we had could never be.”

“Banal nadas, Solas,” Uth'shiral countered. “I believe that whatever the problem is, if you'd just tell me, we could figure it out together. You were with me when I walked the Fade in the flesh. I know what you fear, and you're set on making it a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“You cannot know how much you tempt me,” Solas replied, “but what I am doing must come first. You must trust that I work for the greater good, and yet, walking this path leads me away from you and all those I care about. You, however—you are unique, you have high status, and you are not unappealing. There is no need for you to remain alone if you do not desire it. I have even seen Commander Cullen gazing longingly at you from a distance. Finding someone else to love will not be a difficult task for you.” He returned to work on the eluvian, and she wasn't certain whether it was to avoid her gaze or to keep her from seeing how profoundly sad it made him to think of her moving on without him.

“Commander Cullen? That--” she cut herself off before she could voice the string of insults and epithets that came to mind. It had not been his fault. He had thought his advice was sound. She had been the one to make the choice. Still, ever since, she'd had trouble even looking at him. “Nevermind that.” She walked closer to Solas and the eluvian, her hand throwing green flashes at every other step. “It would be an impossible task, because no one else is you, Solas. I can't replace you, ma'salath. Skyhold was already empty before the others left. It was missing your wisdom, your stories of the Fade, your smile. It hurt when you left, but I still love you.” She reached out a hand, hoping to rest it on his shoulder, hoping to be drawn close, embraced, kissed, accepted. Anything was better than the distance he imposed.

“Please stop, Vhenan. No matter how we may or may not feel, what we had must come to an end. I don't wish to discuss it any further.”

Uth'shiral let her hand drop without making contact. If she touched him, he might turn around and embrace her. They might kiss. But then he would insist on parting again, and it would be all the more painful for both of them. That much, at least, she understood. “If we both have to hurt because of this, can you at least tell me why?”

“No. I can't,” Solas answered, his tone firm. “But I would like to know: For whom are you searching?”

“Keeper Deshanna used to say the Dread Wolf wandered the Fade. I need to find him. Apparently, my emotions were too entangled with yours to find the way, so I've found you instead. You were right before, Solas. I'm distracting you from your duties. It won't happen again.”

“I should be glad to hear that, Inquisitor, but somehow, I am not,” Solas told her, still facing the eluvian and casting spells on its surface. “Someday, everything will be clear and you'll understand. Until then, dareth shiral. Wake up!”

Chapter Text

The mark burnt with the heat of dragon fire. Sweat rolled down Uth'shiral's back and her face and she screamed in agony as she sat up, suddenly awake in the comforting confines of the tent. It was still dark, except for the vivid green glow her hand was putting out, casting strange shadows across the heavy fabric that surrounded her.

Cole cried out and reached for her. Abelas's song cut off abruptly; feet pounded heavily toward her tent from all directions. Uth'shiral forced herself not to curl around the mark, to stay awake and aware.

“What did you do?” Abelas demanded, throwing the tent flap aside. “Is it worse?”

“I never found him, I couldn't find him!” Lavellan answered, anguished by her hand and by the keen sense of loss from her meeting with Solas—or a spirit impersonating him—in the Fade. Had she not lost enough? Must everything be taken, one by one. “The Dread Wolf mocks my suffering! Why should I even think he'd help me?”

Cole tried to comfort her, patting her shoulder in his awkward way. It did help, in a way—someone cared. Cole cared. Cole said Abelas considered them friends; for all his harshness, for all that he seemed to believe it would be his downfall, Abelas cared, too.

Abelas turned toward the owner of a pair of steel-clad feet outside of the tent. “Her troubles involve magic. You cannot be of help.” Then, when he had finally convinced the others to go away, he crawled into the tent and sat next to the Inquisitor. “It troubles me to see you brought so low,” he admitted. “I remember a respectful, honorable Dalish who deserved respect and honor in return. Why you were unable to find Fen'harel, I am uncertain. You are clearly in his favor. He has given you his blessing.”

“His blessing?” Uth'shiral asked, cradling her burning palm against her belly. She couldn't let the pain distract her—not from her friends, not from her duty.

“Yes. The vallaslin you had—it is gone,” Abelas replied, as if the answer were obvious. “That is not easily done. Either the Dread Wolf himself did it, or someone very close to him.”

The Inquisitor fell into a complete and profound silence. The pain of her hand couldn't compare to the shock of realization. The pieces of the puzzle snapped into place perfectly. How she hadn't realized this before—how she had suspected one thing, but not the other—now stunned her. She, Keeper's First to Deshanna of Clan Lavellan, had wanted nothing more than to be held and kissed by none other than the Dread Wolf—the Dread Wolf she was meant to keep at bay. It was absurd. It was improbable. It made her feel that she was indeed right about the Dread Wolf dancing around her laughing. She had, in, fact, danced with the Dread Wolf. He was an excellent dancer.

Where were her thoughts even going? No; it wasn't possible. Solas couldn't be Fen'harel. He couldn't be a follower of Fen'harel. It just wasn't possible. “That can't be right,” she said finally. “Solas took away my vallaslin, as a...” No; it definitely made sense, and denying it wasn't going to help anything. What have I done? I let the Dread Wolf in, and he has made a fool of me. He has taken my clan, he has taken my dignity.

“Why would he have done those things?” Cole asked in response to Lavellan's thoughts, genuine confusion coloring his voice. “'Ar lath ma, vhenan.' You watched him walk away from you then; his face was sad but you knew he was coming back. But then... 'Never doubt that what we had was real,' and he was gone,” Cole said, his fingers tightening on her shoulder. “I need to remember, too, so I can help, but it's gone... You were so happy once. How can who he is change who he is?”

Abelas looked sharply between Uth'shiral and Cole. “I see. The Elvhen with you—that was Fen'harel. It explains much, and not enough. You are close to him? Why would he not help you now?”

“Because he's the Dread Wolf! Because I'm not that important to him! Because I'm Dalish! I don't know,” Uth'shiral wailed. She had faced demons, she had met an elven god in person, and yet it was this revelation that threatened to undo her. “My entire life, I was taught to keep the Dread Wolf at bay. I was taught that he didn't care for the People, that he sealed away the Creators and the Forbidden Ones and then snuck away to a corner of the world to laugh as the Tevinter Imperium crushed us underfoot and enslaved my people. I was told he told lies, he spread dark knowledge, and above all that he was a trickster and never to be trusted. Then there was Solas, and he was charming and intelligent and nothing like anyone I've ever met before... All of it, every moment we shared, was a lie. He wanted the orb! And now, my clan is gone, and I can't even go back to the Dalish!”

“Fen'harel was always clever,” Abelas said carefully, “but he gave you his blessing. Would he do that for someone he did not care at all for?” He regarded Uth'shiral with his steady gaze. “You must go searching for him in the Fade again, and tell him about your misbehaving magical mark.” He glanced toward Cole, as if acknowledging that the alliteration was inspired by the spirit.

“I found Solas—Fen'harel?-- and I told him that I wouldn't seek him out again. I told him I was looking for the Dread Wolf. He didn't tell me I'd already found him.” The Inquisitor gritted her teeth as another burst of intense pain scorched a path up her arm.

“I am puzzled, then. If he knew that this magic was harming you, why did he do nothing?” Abelas rested his chin on his fist, gazing thoughtfully at the tent's heavy fabric.

“I didn't tell him. I didn't tell him much of what I've been through. He had no right to know; he left. I can't go seeking him out again—not knowing he's the Dread Wolf, and not after saying I wouldn't. I can't.”

“Do you want to live, Inquisitor?” Abelas asked, turning his sharp gaze toward Uth'shiral again.

“... Yes. Despite everything, yes.” Of that, at least, she had no doubt. “I can't do anything to help if I'm dead.”

“Good,” Cole murmured into the darkness.

“Then you must go back to the Fade, and you must find Fen'harel,” Abelas advised patiently, his voice firm. “Tell him what is wrong, and perhaps he will aid you. Perhaps not. I do not know what happened between you, but I do know that you need not rekindle... whatever it was... to ask for his help. Is it pride that prevents you? Then humble yourself. Is it fear? You have been in his company before, and he did not harm you then. Is it anger? Then calm yourself at least until your survival is assured. You had no trouble with the idea of facing him before, when you did not know he was already familiar to you.”

“Humble myself? Calm myself? He's the Dread Wolf—I know his story! What else has he done, since he stumbled out of the Fade? Is he the reason my clan is gone? Was it truly not just a bad decision on my part? And what is he up to?” Uth'shiral demanded, and began to climb out of her bedroll.

Abelas gave a weary sigh, and one of his hands settled on her forehead. “Ask him yourself.”

The last words she heard were, “Sleep well, Inquisitor.” Then consciousness failed her.

Chapter Text

“How could you? She was angry! Agonized! Afraid!” Cole followed Abelas out of the tent.

“Do not fret. She should enjoy some dreamless rest. I didn't send her into the Fade. If she goes there, that is her own doing, not mine,” Abelas replied. His patience was wearing thin. “She does have an excellent question: What is Fen'harel planning? It may be good for ones such as myself, but what of her?”

“She loves him. Would he hurt her?” Cole asked, staring hard at Abelas in the darkness.

Abelas paused, considering the question for a long moment. “I do not know,” he said at last. “Perhaps she can find the answers, though not tonight. Tonight, she needs dreamless sleep, rest. If she cannot calm herself, entering the Fade would be foolish. You know this, and I've noticed something. The more upset she is, the more likely the mark is to cause her discomfort.”

“She should have gone back to Skyhold,” Cole responded. “It's safer there. She wants to go to Wycome, to seek, to see, to set to rest somehow. She thinks that will help with the bigger hurt, not the hurt on her hand, but the hurt in her heart. Solas was a smaller hurt. It's bigger now, but not as big as the other one. She misses them so much. She thinks it was her fault.”

“I know what it is to lose everything I held dear.” Abelas looked back toward the tent. “Uthenera might be kinder.”

“Yes, you know,” Cole agreed. “Everything going away bit by bit, more pieces falling and crumbling and decaying every time you wake, never knowing if it will even still be here the next time, never knowing if there will even be a next time. She's gone, dead, bled out so long ago, but, there is always duty. --We're your friends. You don't need a duty to have a purpose.”

Abelas nodded slowly. “I understand that. It was... a difficult decision. If Fen'harel is awake, however, things are surely going to be... interesting. Perhaps she will remember to ask where there are other Elvhen, for me. Whether she does or doesn't, there will not be enough peace for uthenera for some time to come. By then, either things will be different from what they are, or I will have quickened and become a shemlen, myself.”

“You should help the people now. They aren't all elves, and the elves aren't your elves, but you're patient and used to leading and teaching. She wants to learn from you, but you don't talk much to her.”

As Abelas walked, Cole followed along behind him, offering input on his thoughts. At first, it had been an annoyance, but Abelas found he was growing attached to the spirit. It meant well. “I shall speak to her even less, now,” Abelas replied, as they left the camp, but he changed the topic quickly. “It would have been better to have elves guarding the camp. Even the Dalish see better at night than these humans.”

One of the shemlen caught his words and called him “knife-ear,” but Abelas walked on, unconcerned. “We have seen no sign of the Wardens pursuing us for the past day and a half. This concerns me. They haven't lost the trail.

“No, they haven't,” Cole said. “They followed for too long to stop now.”

“Hm.” Abelas strode quickly and quietly along the trail into Crestwood.

“She could, you know,” Cole said in response to Abelas's thoughts—Abelas wasn't sure what thought the spirit was responding to, but he had some guesses.

“It would be a bad idea,” Abelas answered. “Do not tell her. --Why are you following me?”

“You don't want to be alone.”

Despite himself, Abelas smiled. “Is it that simple? What if your shemlen also doesn't want to be alone?”

Cole glanced back over his shoulder. “She isn't hurting,” he said uncertainly. “She sleeps soundly, not suffering, serene. She isn't in the Fade. Will it help? The mark hurts. It burns, like a dragon before consuming its prey, and then it eases into an ache but the rest of her burns and she shakes, unsteady, ashamed at being weak but not saying. The hurt from the mark still isn't as much as the big hurt, but, she wants to live.”

Ahead, the town's wooden gates loomed, flanked by two guards. Abelas frowned—this was a poor town, filled with suffering shemlen. From where he and Cole stood, he could see that the town was in the process of being repaired. Broken buildings now had fresh planks that didn't quite match with the rest of the structures. Paintings had been added to some surfaces, adding life and color. He hoped the place was more pleasant than its scent and state of repair suggested.

The more pressing issue would be getting the guards to let him into the village at this time of night. “I do not know if it will help,” Abelas answered at last. “With some of the right supplies, her suffering could at least be lessened.”

“That's good, for all of us,” Cole said. “You don't know what to call her. You say, 'Inquisitor,' but you want to say other words.”

“Perceptive of you,” Abelas replied, still staring toward the gates. How would the shemlen react to the tallest, broadest elf they had likely ever seen? He knew how elves were treated. He knew he looked different from any modern elf. It was not a confrontation he looked forward to. Perhaps they should wait for daybreak—but perhaps the Inquisitor needed help before then. “She is very young, and willing to learn, even if it would take time on some topics. I could call her da'len, and it would be right. However, she is not a child in my mind. I could say she is lethallan, my kin; although she seems to be Elvhen, she is different. She must remain 'Inquisitor.'”

“You could use her name,” Cole suggested. “You never asked it. Or you could say 'friend;' she'd like that.” He, too, looked toward the gate. “They don't expect trouble. Sleepy, silent, secluded... It's a quiet night, and they only wait for their duty to end. They won't notice me, but you—you they'll see. Tell them you're with the Inquisition. They know the Inquisitor is in the camp. She's their hero, so they'll welcome us.”

“Am I with the Inquisition?” Abelas asked. Cole's silence was telling—that was a choice Abelas had to make. “I can say so, at least.”

Though he didn't want to approach the dingy, battered shemlen town, though all he wanted was to find other Elvhen or to fall into the endless slumber of uthenera, Abelas mastered his distaste and his fear and moved forward.

Chapter Text

A knife slammed hard into the surface of the table, knocking over several markers that Cullen moved to set back upright. “How dare he!” Cassandra demanded.

The knife impaled a weather-beaten sheet of paper, its ink blurred from wind and rain.

Josephine leaned back in surprise, but soon walked around the table to peer over Cassandra's shoulder.

“It came by raven an hour ago,” Cullen explained. “It wasn't one of our birds, so Spymaster Briala has caged it. It appears he believed she would be back at Skyhold by now. However, we also received a report this morning from the soldiers at Crestwood. She is there, and she wanted us to know. We are informed she is in poor health.”

“What about our Dalish allies' reports?” Josephine asked, while Cassandra paced by the war table with heavy strides. “They gave conflicting reports. Would she have done anything so impolitic? One or the other must be true, but the scandal from either of them would be disastrous.”

“She was in the company of another elf. The description suggest it was Abelas, the head Sentinel from the Temple of Mythal. If she eloped with him, it was uncharacteristically rash of her, but she did withdraw from everyone after Corypheus's defeat. Perhaps her loneliness made her rash. It was unexpected of her to ride away in the dark of night, too. Whether she killed the other elf, I don't know. If he'd been pressuring her too much about their previous arrangements, perhaps she decided to take matters into her own hands. Or, perhaps there's some truth to both stories, and Abelas had something to do with it, too.” Cullen shrugged. “To be honest, I care little about her romantic entanglements, but we need her leadership. If she killed him, it was for a good reason. If she married this Abelas, there's nothing surprising to me about that, and I wish them both good health and happiness.”

“But it renders any marriage alliance impossible!” Josephine exclaimed. “It was scandalous enough that she was consorting with the elven apostate—and then he disappeared.”

“And now, this,” Cassandra hissed, stopping to glare at the weather-beaten paper on the table as if she would have preferred to stab it again, perhaps repeatedly.

“And now this,” Josephine agreed, staring at the paper dubiously. “He should not have sent it.”

“Even if he had not left us at such a time, even if he had not lied to us about where he came from and who he was, I would still be angry that he dared to send correspondence after breaking her heart the way he did. She should have come to us, Josephine. She should have told us what she was going through. At least, she could have gone to Mother Giselle. The Maker would offer her--”

“Cassandra, that is perhaps precisely why she didn't come to you, or to Mother Giselle,” Josephine answered softly. “You know that she is very devout toward her Dalish beliefs. To hear talk of our Maker and Andraste would probably have only made her feel worse. I was busy arranging so many meetings at the time—and I had to put off several marriage proposals to her. I knew she was still getting over Solas, and then her family...” She shook her head and stood next to Cassandra, staring at the sheet of paper. “I can understand why she left to be in a familiar place, among familiar people and familiar beliefs.”

“Could you and Leliana not have taken her shopping, or something? Just to distract her for a while?” Cassandra asked, leaning on her palms to read the letter once more.

“That would have been as unfamiliar to her as our Chantry. She never cared for finery. Believe me, I tried. The best I could convince her to do was to wear a dress uniform to the ball. I had so many ideas for a beautiful dress. I even had the best tailor lined up for it! She absolutely refused.” Josephine shook her head sadly. “Such a waste. She would have been the belle of the ball.”

“Back to the matter of the letter,” Cullen prompted. “Is there any way that we can trace the bird back to its origin?”

“Only if you intend to learn how to fly,” Cassandra replied. “We can let it go, and watch which direction it takes, but that is the best we can do. Perhaps the mages can do some sort of tracking magic on it. We will have to ask. I will have him in a cell, and I will have answers.”

“Why have him in a cell at all?” Josephine asked. “He helped us through. He even fought Corypheus with the Inquisitor. He was perfectly well-behaved the entire time he was here. It's strange that he lied about who he was, but none of us came to harm from it. The only thing he took was the equipment he was wearing.”

“How do you know?” Cassandra snapped. “And how do we know he was not a spy, working for some other enemy? Perhaps he was a Tevinter slave. Perhaps he was qunari, for all that he had nothing good to say about them. We don't know!” Her fist slammed into the table next to the knife in the letter.

“I cannot argue with that reasoning. Could you please move your hand and your blade? I would like to read it again,” Josephine asked, daring to give Cassandra's fist a nudge. The Seeker obligingly moved back, but resumed her angry pacing. It was like being in a cage with a lion.

Inquisitor,

I grieve for your unhappiness, but I cannot ease it.

Please do not seek me again. There is no happiness to be found where I tread.

Solas

“Was she looking for him? Is that why she left?” Josephine asked. “I wonder if she found him.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Cassandra mused. “She said once that they had spoken in the Fade. It could have happened again.”

“We have our spy network searching. That's the best we can do for now,” Cullen responded. “In the meantime, at least we know that she hasn't abandoned the Inquisition. She wouldn't be using our camp in Crestwood if she had. Leaving without a word was a poor decision on her part, but she probably knows that. Her health, though... it may make her look like an inviting target. She needs to return to Skyhold as soon as possible. Maybe she's on her way back now from Crestwood.”

“I shall have many questions for her when she returns,” Cassandra observed in her most ominous tone of voice.

Chapter Text

Mist from the waves that crashed along the coast of the Waking Sea soaked through Fen'harel's clothing, leaving him damp and chill to the bone. He had managed to find two working eluvians out of all of the ones he had visited; the last one had taken him across the sea into a cave where he had needed to battle a small pack of darkspawn to escape. He had managed to survive without exposing himself to the taint, but it had unnerved him. Red lyrium sprouted in the cave as well—the taint was spreading too far.

Now, he welcomed the chill air and the meager sunlight. It reminded him of wandering the Storm Coast with the Inquisition. He missed them—the Inquisitor most of all, but he found he could even miss Sera and Vivienne, now that he wandered alone.

Though his plan required him to go west, this detour was a necessity for his own peace of mind. It was a way of letting go of his relationship with the Inquisitor, even if he could never stop loving her. That was, after all, the point of giving her such a permanent gift to express how he felt—she would never again wear the vallaslin, and she would always remember the truth of what the facial tattoos meant.

He turned his back on the sea. Staring across it, dreaming of the love he left behind, was doing nothing but causing him remorse. He had not met her again in the Fade for several days. Part of him wanted her to seek him out again, to tempt him, to prove that she loved him no matter what he did or said—and he quelled that part, because it was ruled by his vanity and his pride. When she realized, inevitably, that the Dread Wolf she sought was her own beloved Solas, she would surely hate him for it. Even if she didn't, she was better off not being entangled in the business that would one day soon drive him westward once more.

The only trails northward were the broken, crooked paths of game beasts. Those were not wise paths to follow, and so Solas wandered the craggy underbrush, using the position of the sun and, when evening fell, the stars, as his guide . He had become accustomed to such rough travels. In the past, it had helped him to avoid travelers who might wish to accost what they perceived as an elven apostate. Now, with some of his power restored, he felt it was kinder to them that he did not have such encounters. It was not an easy journey, but he had his staff and his wits. He would persevere.

He was not certain what he expected to find in Wycome, still so far to the north, but it was a long journey away. Perhaps he would approach her family as someone who had word from the Inquisitor. Perhaps he would simply find a camp that they had left behind and sift through the memories they left behind in the Fade. Perhaps he would do both. Yet... even if they were somehow as special as Lavellan, would that make her any less unique?

He was fooling himself, and he knew it. He was both trying to distance himself from her and become closer to her at the same time. Still, he would feel better knowing who they are, where they were, and whether they had some of that same spark to them that she did. He'd feel better knowing he could keep them safe—especially if they were as special as the Inquisitor. The Lavellan clan meant everything to the Inquisitor; she had spoken to him about them from time to time with great fondness. Seeing to it that they weren't destroyed in whatever trouble might come about from his actions was the least he could do.

In the meantime, there were more eluvians along the path in various ruins. He would not rush; some of the surviving eluvians could lead westward, and perhaps he could regain the ground he had lost from this detour. He only needed to unlock them.

Chapter Text

Uth'shiral had not slept properly in days, and she didn't want to. The Storm Coast's windy, stormy dampness was welcome, as far as she was concerned. The chill in her bones from the salty raindrops would help her stay awake, even when they stayed in one of the Inquisition's camps.

The soldiers at Crestwood had seen them off with a horse for Abelas and a spare one for their supplies and gear, once she had finally awakened from the dreamless sleep that Abelas had put her into. Cole was delighted with the pack animal he had claimed for his mount, a friendly grey mare that had once been a soldier's mount. He rode beside her along the trail even now, Abelas trailing behind on a palomino gelding.

“You need to sleep, though,” Cole interrupted her thoughts. “You're getting weak, wilting, wasting away. You shouldn't be afraid of him. You'll die if you don't get him to help. Sorrow is worried, but he won't make you sleep again.”

“Good,” Uth'shiral said firmly. “He shouldn't have in the first place.” She nudged her hart into a faster walk. “In a few hours, we'll be at the docks. We'll leave the animals with the Inquisition soldiers, pay our fare, and then pray to the Creators we make it safely to Wycome.”

“Sorrow was only trying to help you,” Cole said. “If we're leaving the animals, that means I won't have Pacer with me,” he added, sadly.

“Yes, but she'll be waiting here when we return,” Lavellan reminded him. “Besides, it'll be harder for our pursuers to find us once we're heading toward the Amaranthine Ocean.”

“But you showed me the map—don't we keep going north?” Cole asked, confused.

“We will be able to travel faster by sea,” Abelas interposed. “Wycome appears to be along the coast.”

“Ah, he speaks,” Uth'shiral quipped, looking over her shoulder at the Sentinel. “You've been very quiet. You're right, Wycome is located near the coast, along a branch of the Minanter River where it meets the ocean. If we have to ride, it won't be a long ride. We won't be going into the city proper, though. I only want to find the camp.”

“I have been quiet,” Abelas agreed.

“He's worried,” Cole said. “He wants you to rest, and he wants you to live. Searching, seeking, stopping, finding friends, facing fears. Every day is an arrow piercing him, every night he hurts, alone. Out of place, like a piece from the wrong puzzle, trapped in a time that isn't his, with people who look like his but aren't.”

“Enough, spirit,” Abelas warned sharply. “You do not fully understand.”

“What if it helped her, too?” Cole asked.

“What are the two of you hiding from me, exactly?” the Inquisitor asked, reining in her hart and turning him so that he blocked Abelas's mount. Cole stopped his horse and turned her so that he faced Abelas, too.

Abelas halted his golden steed and turned his face to stare across the Waking Sea. “There is a wall between us. We have both worked to build it, knowing I would one day leave to join other Elvhen, or enter uthenera, never to wake again. We built it so that we would not need to see one another on our opposite sides, so that we could become friends in word without being friends in truth. We built it because there is a gap of time between us, and because thanks to that gap, we are not of the same people. We built it because neither of us could trust or understand the other. If I stay, the wall shall be torn down, and we shall see one another at last. I hope what we will see will breathe life into a deeper friendship.”

Lavellan's left hand ached as she considered Abelas's words. She understood. “You're right. We've avoided telling each other much. Most of it was through or to Cole, and even that has been limited. I've tried to avoid relying on you, and you've tried to avoid letting me rely on you, even though you did so much to help. You're afraid to get too close. After all that's happened... so am I. Abelas, if we're going to go to Wycome together, the wall has to come down, whatever else happens.”

“I agree, but I fear what it may bring.” The Sentinel looked back toward Uth'shiral, the sea no longer holding his attention. “You must rest, once we board the ship. Seek out the Dread Wolf when you do, and ask his help with the mark, even if you ask nothing else.

“I fear what that may bring,” Uth'shiral retorted. “I told him I wouldn't return, and if he's the Dread Wolf...”

“You loved him before,” Cole said. “Does who he is change who he is?”

“Only if he were lying. The Dalish say the Dread Wolf always lies,” Lavellan answered.

“The Dalish are wrong,” Abelas said firmly; Uth'shiral glanced sharply at him. “Let us be on our way. There is a good chance we are still being pursued—you should have let me kill them then.”

“The Dalish aren't always wrong,” the Inquisitor said, turning her hart back down the trail to the docks. “But you might be right about the Warden and whoever he or she is working with.”

With that, the trio continued riding toward the docks in silence, the wind and rain making whispers of their mounts' hoofbeats, and erasing the signs of their passage as if they had never been there at all.

Chapter Text

The cabin in Haven where Lavellan had first awakened was cozy, even if it wasn't anything like a Dalish aravel or the feel of the wind over her cheek as she slept beneath the stars. She lay stretched out on the bed with her ankles crossed, an odd tinge of persistent nausea discouraging her from rising.

Abelas was singing somewhere; she heard his somber voice drifting through her window. She remembered he'd said something about being hunted down, but here in Haven, there were soldiers and guards everywhere; ballistas stood at the ready on the hill not far from the Chantry. She'd be safe here.

The nausea, on the other hand, wasn't going away, and it was becoming an annoyance. Perhaps something she ate? The only thing to do about it, then, was to go see the alchemist; he might have a remedy. She wasn't looking forward to passing by Solas's empty cabin, though. She pushed to her feet, feeling unsteady, as if the world were rocking and swaying beneath her feet to some unknown rhythm, and stepped out the door.

Haven was not a beautiful place to eyes accustomed to the Green Dales; it was far too brown for her liking. However, it was familiar and fondly remembered. It was also empty of all people.

Alarm began to grow within her, tying her already unsettled belly into knots. She stumbled forward, finding herself uncharacteristically clumsy. A near-fall caused her to pause and lean on her staff for balance. Where was everyone? The Breach was gone, the sky repaired, and yet Haven stood empty and silent.

Uth'shiral looked around, hoping to find life. A raven launched itself into the sky from one of the buildings down the hill; nothing else stirred, although Abelas's haunting melody still reached her ears from some unseen locale. She considered trying to follow it, but the more she tried to decide where it came from, the more his voice seemed to come from both everywhere and nowhere.

The Chantry's doors stood open as she passed, but a glance within revealed it to be empty. She wandered on, following the path toward the alchemist's hut in the vain hopes that he or his assistant would be present. Haven had never been a bustling town before the disaster; perhaps everyone had reconvened to the Conclave, or else had moved on.

As she rounded the curve toward the alchemist's cabin, she noticed that all of the doors were open, and though smoke curled from the chimneys of the buildings, not a voice or a footstep was to be heard, nor a soul to be seen. It was lonely here; they were all gone. It echoed a deep hurt that she felt, but for the moment that hurt didn't have to be real, not here in this Haven that was just the same as before. If only the people were still here! She settled on the ledge outside of the alchemist's cabin, wrapping her arms around her knees and resting her chin atop them. Without the people, Haven didn't seem anywhere near as peaceful as it should. The silence and stillness were ominous, oppressive. Where were the sisters and brothers of the Chantry? Where were the elves dashing to and fro about their business? The requisition officer, the alchemist, Flissa the bartender... no one was there, and it felt wrong, and her belly was roiling, and the world seemed to tremble and shudder every now and then.

A door nearby swung open, and she leapt to her feet, readying her staff. Electricity flowed through it, through her hands, through her, as she prepared for an unknown threat. This, at least, was behavior she had not learned in Haven.

Solas stood in the doorway, staring at her for a long moment. She stared back, relaxing her posture and dispersing the magic she had pulled into her weapon. Finally, he beckoned her over. “It would be better to come inside out of the cold, if you would speak.”

“What do you need to say that's so private it must be done indoors? We always spoke outside before.”

“Perhaps you should be more concerned with what I mean to do,” Solas replied, a sly one-sided smile appearing on his face before he turned his back and paused in the doorway. “Whatever you choose, you have found me here again, and I would like to know why.”

Uth'shiral's cheeks burned at his suggestive tone, but something felt different than it had before, as if his flirtation was out of place now—as if she shouldn't want it. Still, he had the feel of himself; she could feel it thrumming through the mark on her palm. Strange that this was the first time she'd noticed that. It had always resonated with Solas, somehow. This wasn't a desire demon come to tempt her—which was the first thought she'd had. It was truly him. She should remember why the flirting was wrong, but the memory flickered at the edges of her thought, just out of reach. She hesitated, but followed him through the doorway when he vanished into the cabin, climbing up the stairs to her quarters behind him.

A frigid wind was blowing through the open stained-glass windows that overlooked the mountains. Most of her visitors told her she should close them, but she felt more at home with the breeze blowing than she did in an enclosed space. Abelas must be singing somewhere in the courtyard; his voice whispered up in a sad song from far away. Solas took her hand and led her through the open windows to the balcony. He pulled her against his side, and she leaned against his shoulder, accepting his display of affection. It was rare that he didn't withdraw; she wanted to enjoy the moment and whatever small affection he offered for as long as she could. Perhaps this time, he would stay, and he wouldn't leave her without an explanation.

Her left hand ached, and she wrapped her right arm tighter around Solas. “I wish we could have stayed like this forever,” he murmured next to her ear. Before she could answer, his lips met hers in a sudden and bittersweet kiss that she didn't return, because he had left and told her it was over. He had told her so three times; could he really change his mind when he was so resolute before?

Their eyes met, and she could see the depth of his sorrow and regret. They were not the eyes of a man who wanted to hurt and deceive her. She suspected that their sorrow mirrored hers, especially now that she knew the truth. “Fen'harel,” she said softly, hoping that her voice didn't quake with the fear that caught in her belly, “I need your help.”

Chapter Text

The Dread Wolf extracted himself from Lavellan's embrace with obvious regret. She struggled with her own emotions; part of her wanted to wrap her arm back around him and draw him close as he pulled away, and part of her wanted to flee back down the stairs and out the door.

“You never cease to surprise me,” he told her, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. “You ask me for help—ma nuvenin. What would you ask of me?” He spread his hands at his sides for a moment, as if in offering. The smile had faded back into an expression of profound sadness that Uth'shiral could not interpret.

“The Anchor is killing me,” the Inquisitor responded. “I'm told it's your magic, your relic. I hoped you would know what to do. It's why I was looking for you before.” She desperately wanted to reach out to him in comfort, to seek comfort for herself, but instead she kept her hands at her sides.

If Fen'harel were a liar, a deceiver, a trickster, Uth'shiral thought, he was a poor one. He flinched at her words, and his frown deepened. “I believed you searched for me because we—It matters not. The Anchor connects you to me; I worried once that it would change you, make you more like myself. From the Fade, I can do little to help. Are you able to withstand this until I can reach Skyhold? There is a matter I must attend, but I will come to you as quickly as I can.”

The Inquisitor thought of Cole, determined to help, and Abelas, who was not so much determined as desperate not to lose his tenuous connection to the modern world. Abelas's mournful voice even now whispered into the room through the windows. She wondered if Solas heard it, too, as she leaned on the balcony railing and looked toward the mountains. “I will if I must,” she said at last. Cole, Abelas, the Inquisition—the thoughts of them would keep her alive even if their efforts didn't.

Solas—Fen'harel?--walked back to her side, close enough she could feel the warmth radiating through the heavy fabric of his clothing, but no longer reaching to touch her. “Your people hate me, fear me, tell false tales about who I am and what I have done. What they fail to remember is that what I did was done for their sake, even if it turned out poorly in the end. Whether you believe me, or whether you believe what you have been taught your entire life, is your decision alone, but someday soon, the truth will be apparent to the rest of the Dalish, as well. They would blindly hate you if you stood by my side, and there are places I must go that you cannot follow me. You have approached me with great courage. Keep that in your heart, and know that even if I have lied about everything else, what we shared was real.”

She could feel his eyes on her, but she continued to gaze at the mountains, as if they would somehow change while she watched. “The way you greeted me... You thought that I kept coming to convince you that it didn't have to end, didn't you? I pushed you too far, and you couldn't refuse.” She sighed. Part of her, and not a small part, wanted to sidle against him, invite him to wrap his arm back around her, to tilt her head up for a kiss. Part of her wanted to be seduced by him, and make love to him in this Fade version of her quarters at Skyhold. The silence spoke volumes; she strongly suspected she had guessed correctly. And yet... “It was difficult for me to forgive Blackwall. You... I don't know if 'Solas' is who you are, or if he was just a lie you made up, trying to get that artifact, that orb. That was your goal, wasn't it?”

“The lies I told were necessary,” Fen'harel said softly. “I do not imagine that I would have been believed, if I had introduced myself as Fen'harel, the Dread Wolf. Perhaps it would not have mattered, if Cassandra or Varric had believed—but you? You would have refused to trust me, if you even believed. Then, I would have remained in my cell, unable to help you. You would likely be dead from the Anchor's power, since I am the one who stabilized it. The Breach would still be open, the rifts appearing across Thedas. Perhaps the world as we know it would have already been destroyed by now, torn apart by the rifts and the demons. I did not only help to get the orb, Vhenan. The threat that the Breach and Corypheus posed was real and could not be ignored.” His hands rested on the railing, close to hers, and she imagined he had the same craving to place one of those hands on top of hers that she did.

Keeper Deshanna had always told her that the Dread Wolf was a liar, a trickster, a traitor. He could weave very convincing stories. Uth'shiral had traveled with the Dread Wolf, and he had lied to her remarkably little. Perhaps that was why he was such a convincing liar when he did so—it was easier when the lies were small and blended with the truth. More importantly, she knew he wasn't lying now. Fen'harel was not a liar by nature; perhaps he was not even a trickster. Maybe it was even false that he was a traitor. She had seen how he had looked upon the suffering, and how he had looked at her when she helped those in need. The Dalish were wrong about Fen'harel; it was not that he cared little for the People, but that he cared tremendously, and that still wasn't enough. It wasn't enough for the Inquisitor, either.

If he weren't lying, though, that meant... “You'll come to Skyhold to help me, and then you'll leave again. You'll ask me not to find you in the Fade, even though you don't seem to be able to keep me out while I have your magic stuck to my hand. You'll tell me that you love me, that it isn't my fault, but no matter what I say or do, you'll leave and I won't be able to follow you. Over and over again, you'll leave. Dreams in the Fade may be enough for you, Fen'harel, but I have to continue on in the realm of flesh and blood. The Inquisition needs me. I would rather the swords be put away, repurposed into tools for building and farming, but...”

“If you stop, everything you worked so hard to achieve will be ruined. I know. There are so many reasons, Vhenan...” His hand rested on top of hers. “If you stand beside me, the Dalish you are proud to be part of will hate you.” He stroked the back of her hand absently, and she turned her face at last to look into his eyes. “I won't ask you to continue a love affair between us that is literally only a dream.”

Fen'harel's hand slid to her wrist and gently tugged her toward him. She accepted the gesture, allowing herself to be pulled close against him. “We will discuss this more at Skyhold when I arrive, but for just tonight,” he said, “I wish to enjoy the warmth of your affection once more, even if it becomes our love's farewell.”

Abelas's mournful song whispered through the windows and the world rolled unsteadily beneath her feet. This time, when Fen'harel's lips met hers, she returned his kiss. She couldn't help but feel dread at the thought that they might never share another.

Chapter Text

Uth'shiral was awakened by the dual discomforts of gnawing hunger and nausea. The cabin was dark, only a single candle lamp lighting it. Cole, she suspected, was on the forward deck, making himself helpful to the crew. Abelas was probably--

Abelas was sitting in the plain wooden chair on the other side of the cabin, singing a somber song in elvish. The few words she understood suggested he was singing about lost love. It wasn't something she wanted to hear, not now, not after her conversation with Fen'harel in the Fade. It might not have been a farewell, but it had felt like one.

She groaned as she pushed herself off the bed. The Anchor sent a scorching pain up her arm, and she winced—then stumbled urgently to her feet to scramble out the door to the deck as the nausea began to get the better of her again. She had never imagined she would have such a difficult time with seasickness.

Abelas stopped singing and stood to follow. She wondered if he'd been watching over her in shifts with Cole. Since when had she become Abelas's responsibility, anyway? She tried to ignore her very noticeable shadow and rushed to the starboard railing, leaning on it and fighting back her nausea. A few of the sailors laughed at their latest seasick passenger.

Cole appeared next to her, hands on the railing beside her on her left. “Look,” he said, pointing into the distance.

“There's nothing there,” Uth'shiral replied, squinting against the sunlight on the choppy waves.

“Yes. Where the sky and the sea meet,” Cole answered. “Look. It will help.”

The ship lurched, and Lavellan fought with her rebellious stomach until she could speak again. “What do you mean?”

“The horizon,” Abelas said as he approached and stood to her right. “The spirit is right. If you watch the horizon, you may become adjusted to the movement of the ship.” He rolled his shoulders into a shrug, then peeled the hood back from his head. “Or, you may not,” he added, as if it didn't concern him in the least.

“And what will you do if it doesn't?” Uth'shiral asked, a smile tugging at her lips despite everything. She had no good reason to smile, not after everything that had happened. And perhaps that was why she needed to smile. She watched Abelas from the corner of her eye.

“This will help,” replied the Sentinel, freeing a small pouch from his belt and holding it out to her. “Take a pinch with water, if you feel no better soon.”

“That's a lot of trouble to go to for a shemlen who is dragging you halfway across Thedas,” the Inquisitor mused, her smile growing. Smiling was so much better than crying. Maybe if she smiled enough the tears would never come again.

“It is not for your sake that I have these herbs.” Abelas placed his hands back on the railing, staring toward the horizon.

“I'm surprised you would admit that to me,” the Inquisitor observed, still staring out to sea. It did seem to be helping with the seasickness.

“Did you find the Dread Wolf?” the Sentinel changed the topic abruptly. “Will he help?”

“Smiling so softly, heart shattering into slivers that slice and scrape. He seeks something, so, sojourns to Skyhold, soon. He will help but... His hand on hers, warm, 'Just tonight.' He kisses you but... nothing more. You wanted more. It isn't goodbye if he's going to see you again at Skyhold. You'll make it until then,” Cole said, even as Lavellan's face and ears began to redden at what he'd shared.

Abelas gave her a long, measured look, and Uth'shiral found herself unable to interpret it. “It was enough to know she would be helped, spirit,” he told Cole. “Inquisitor,” he began, but paused as if what he had to say were a difficult subject. “When we reach Skyhold, if he is there...” He didn't finish the sentence.

“You'll ask him where to go, and you'll leave,” Uth'shiral finished for him. “I know. This was always going to be the outcome.” She smiled, still wanting to cry. They would soon be along the coast, and sailing up the Minanter River. Soon, they would be able to locate the camp where her clan had been. If she'd had privacy, she would curl up and she would shed her tears until her face was swollen and red and perhaps her heart ached less. “It's been good to travel with you, all the same.”

“Have you decided what you will do in Wycome?” Abelas asked, releasing his grip on the railing and pushing back as if he meant to walk away soon. The Inquisitor silently blessed him for his understanding.

“I mean to put my clan to rest properly, as well as I can. That's all.” She turned to face Abelas at last, leaning one elbow on the railing to help stay balanced as the ship rolled over each wave. “Justice isn't possible, in this case, and vengeance... I don't have the stomach. I'll never feel better about sending the soldiers, but they deserve a proper funeral and I will give it to them.”

“I shall help,” Abelas replied, then walked away across the deck as nimbly as if he were an old deckhand, offering to help some of the ship's crew with their various tasks. She had first thought he meant to give her time alone; now she wondered if there were other reasons. It was difficult to tell with Abelas, she had discovered.

Cole alone remained by her side. “You smile to cover the pain, but the closer you get, the more real it gets, and the more pain there is to add to the bigger pain. He's not the big pain, but he hurts too. Why can't you be together, if you love him? Does it matter what they think?”

“Yes,” Uth'shiral answered. Solas—Fen'harel—would not have wanted her to lie. “I could endure.”

“Yes. But it would hurt, and the Inquisition needs you.” Cole stared sadly at her. “And he says he goes places you can't follow.” He paused, considering. “I hope he's wrong.”

Chapter Text

The sailors had probably never, in their short shemlen lives, seen an elf like Abelas. It was more than likely they never would again, he mused. Still, they had mostly turned away his offers to assist them, until at last he had retreated to the top of the ship's cabin, the highest point he could reach as long as the crow's nest was manned.

The spirit of compassion that had insisted on embarrassing the Inquisitor with its inability to comprehend the polite moral restraints of flesh-and-blood creatures had detached itself from her and now sat next to him. He didn't mind; he remained curious about such a unique entity, and its presence made him feel less isolated.

“You can't bring her back,” Cole said, breaking their extended silence.

“No, I cannot,” Abelas agreed. “It has been too long, yet I endure.”

“You've seen what it's like. Will hiding away help anything?” the spirit asked. “Will it really make you feel better?”

“You ask difficult questions.” Abelas untied a small pouch from his belt and took a pinch of herbs from it—the same concoction he'd given to the Inquisitor earlier. Staring at the horizon had seemed to help her, but it didn't help him. He had admitted to her that it was a problem, but she hadn't openly told him what was bothering her. The wall remained, and it wasn't his doing.

Everything now seemed unnatural, and it didn't feel particularly safe to be riding on a collection of nailed-together boards on the choppy Waking Sea. The Elvhen would have done it better—but, he reminded himself, these shemlen, the humans, the shadowy fragments of the Elvhen, the durgenlen, and even the dragon-like qunari, were doing the best they could. That they did as well as they were while living such short lives was remarkable, and perhaps even admirable. Cole stood in silence as the Sentinel mulled over these thoughts. “No; hiding away will not help the people here and now,” Abelas admitted. “It may be a comfort to be among others who know what they have lost, but it will not make me feel 'better.'”

“Then why go?” Cole sat down on top of the cabin, swinging his feet idly in a mimicry of a human gesture. “Do you even know if they'll welcome you? You're welcome here. The Inquisitor is your friend. That won't change.”

Abelas looked down at Cole as he swallowed down the bitter herbs. “I am unwelcome here, as well. They call me 'knife-ear,' and 'rabbit' and expect me to follow orders, even as they shrink from me in fear of what they see as my unusual height. One day, the Inquisitor will be dead—perhaps soon—and you will return to the Fade as spirits must do. I know where the other Sentinels are, but I am their leader. They look to me for comfort and guidance now that our duty is done; I have none left to give. Who am I to ask for the same?”

“Ask the Inquisitor. If she survives the Anchor, she might not die,” Cole pointed out. “She's different. Like you, like Solas, but not. He'll help her. He said so in the dream.” He continued to swing his feet, watching the gulls, Abelas suspected, as they wheeled around the ship hoping for scraps or a dry perch. “Why can't they be together if they love each other? It hurts her, and it probably hurts him, but I can't reach him.”

“You are a spirit of compassion. You understand better than I do how the Dalish feel about him. Perhaps that is why. Otherwise...” Abelas relented and sat next to Cole. “It is their personal business, and not something I wish to discuss.”

“But you do,” Cole countered. “She's your friend. If she loses everything, too, then--”

“She won't.” Abelas sighed in resignation and began to explain. “Whether or not he leaves, she will have the Inquisition. You mentioned she has friends there, or at least followers who are close to her. Leadership is lonely by nature, and takes strength of will and character. If she were weak, then she would already have given up. She will endure.”

“That isn't what I meant,” Cole disagreed. “If she loses everything but that, it hurts you. It's like looking into a mirror as it shatters into your face, shards cutting your flesh and blinding you. You should have stepped away, looked somewhere else, but you can't because you see you. She's giving up what you did before you made your oath, but you think it doesn't have to be that way now, for her, and it shouldn't have had to be that way for you. You worry about her because she's you.” The spirit's feet kicked against the side of the cabin rhythmically, harder than before perhaps because he was upset.

Abelas smiled in understanding beneath his hood—Cole was an innocent spirit of compassion, pure goodness—and very perceptive. “I cannot change it, Cole.” Yet knowing that someone, even a spirit of compassion, cared, made that knowledge slightly less terrible.

“You could stay.” Cole's feet stopped swinging, and he stood up. “Maybe someday the story could be true.” Cole vanished, reappearing on the deck to speak encouraging words to the sailors.

Abelas was left alone again, to his thoughts and his sorrows.

Chapter Text

Fen'harel worked at making a small camp by a half-collapsed pillar. Once, this had been a small temple dedicated to him; more importantly, there were faint traces that a sizeable group of people had camped here for a good length of time. He wasn't able to tell how long ago, though it seemed likely to have been a few months, or for how long they stayed, though it must have been quite a while to have left such lasting traces. Perhaps it had been the Dalish; he had seen a small herd of wild halla earlier, but they had scattered at his approach. He paced the perimeter first, setting wards to fend off any people or animals who might chance upon him and disturb him. A good distance outside of his wards, he placed a few dead rabbits and a fennec he had hunted for this purpose.

When he finished his magical preparations, Fen'harel set down his sleeping fur by the collapsed pillar and set up a bit of canvas over it to shelter him from the rain that the overcast sky threatened to bring. He didn't bother with a fire; it would have attracted too much attention from people in and around nearby Wycome. He had no wish to be disturbed while he searched for clues about the Lavellan clan's whereabouts.

It was easier to work than to think, now. Uth'shiral was dying, from his power, his mistake. He should have gone straight to Skyhold, but he no longer deluded himself that seeing to her clan was something he was doing for himself. He wanted to make sure they were safe, for her sake. She had seemed so terribly sad; he could at least do one small thing to make her happier. Then, at least if he couldn't help her, she could die reassured that he cared and that her family was well. She had not seemed to feel much urgency, or she would have said so. He was also already nearly to Wycome when she had asked for help.

He felt guilty.

Finally, he stretched out in his bedroll and set forth into the Fade.

The camp came alive with brilliant colors—the red of aravels, the white of Dalish banners, the painted and carved gods. A wolf statue was placed outside of the camp, staring away from it. Dalish of all ages went about their daily business. In the Fade, the Keeper told all of her stories at once, though she had undoubtedly told only one or two per night by the fire at the center of camp.

Life in the camp was quick, fleeting, here for a moment in time and then gone. The Dalish were not like his people had been, so very long ago. They were in many ways even more fleeting than the humans, always on the move even as they clung to a past that they lost more of with every generation. They twisted knowledge, rather than keeping it properly, and he was disappointed in them for that. He forced himself to quell his disappointment and simply watch. Hunters left the camp daily, sometimes staying away for a week at a time, and when they returned it was often laden with more gathered herbs and vegetables than with meat. Sometimes, they didn't return.

Solas wandered the camp, surrounded by memories of the Dalish going about their lives, searching for one familiar figure among them, or someone he could follow to their next camp, and their next, until he knew where to find them. At last he spotted the memory of Uth'shiral: One day joining the hunters to explore ruins; another day, slipping away alone to the nearest village to trade and buy books, never speaking a word of it to the rest of her clan; many more days asking questions and learning their ancient tongue from the Keeper or memorizing the tales that she was told.

He could have watched her forever, as the memories played over and over and overlapped, but it wasn't the same as being by her side. It was also invasive, finding out things that she might not have wanted to share. He tore himself away from the memories of her presence and followed the Keeper instead, trying not to pay much attention to the conversations with the Inquisitor-to-be that didn't involve lore or linguistics. Then one scene between the Keeper and Uth'shiral overcame the others, and was too crisp and clear to simply push away. This was, he thought, important.

“And so you just—what? Send me away until I stop being a problem for you, hahren?” Uth'shiral demanded of the Keeper.

“No, da'len. I am disappointed that you refused to consider Ardan'nen, but this is not about that,” the Keeper replied patiently. “Do you think I am unaware of your lonely wanderings? That I somehow failed to notice your silence on the matter, or that you chose Dirthamen as your most honored Creator? I value your discretion.” She smiled at her student warmly as Fen'harel looked on, but then her expression became more severe. “Having said that, Ardan'nen is Keeper of his clan, and after his First and Second were taken by templars... He may be older than you prefer, but he is kind, patient, and his clan is more akin to Lavellan than Clan Inarel. Besides, you are in your third decade. Will you let your blood die out?”

Uth'shiral's shoulders slumped. “So it is about Ardan'nen.”

The Keeper rubbed at her temples as if battling a headache. “This is not about Ardan'nen or your friend Morisel. I am sending you out into the world to learn more about it, and bring that knowledge back to Clan Lavellan. I am sending you because you are the one I trust the most. I am sending you because you have dealt with the shemlen in the villages here, and can deal with them when you are at the Conclave, and on your way home. I wish for you to tell me the state of the other Dalish clans, and the state of the world at large as you travel. I wish to know how the elves fare in the cities to the south in Ferelden and Orlais. Not only do I wish to know, but I wish for you and our clan to know.”

“But I don't want to leave the clan!” Uth'shiral protested. “You're my family and—and I love you all!”

“Be that as it may, da'len, you are the best qualified to go,” the Keeper said gently. “As for your personal situation... Just because you were too shy to befriend anyone else on your own, just because Morisel quickly befriended you, does not mean you should forever hope to marry him. Even you have told me you don't love him. He simply sought you out, when quieter souls failed to. You might find that some quieter soul sings in tune with your heart in a way that Morisel cannot. Still... if you insist, I can send word again to Clan Inarel to see if he remains free, while you are away. My Second could become Ardan'nen's First, if it came to that. Though I do worry that Morisel may cause trouble, given his reputation with women.”

“You may be right, hahren. I know that it is my duty to keep the bloodline strong, but...” Uth'shiral trailed off. “Ardan'nen would take me too far away from Clan Lavellan. At least, if Morisel could come here, no matter how unfaithful he may be, even if I never truly loved him, I'd have the rest of you for support. Clan Lavellan matters more to me than the love of a man or the lack of it. I will do my duty and have little mage children, but only if my place in this clan remains assured.”

“I will at least send word to them,” the Keeper replied. “Perhaps I will also send word to other clans while you are away, or...” She smiled. “Perhaps you will find other things as important to you as our clan while you are away, and will share your tales with us upon your return. Dareth shiral, da'len. Dirthamen enansal.”

Fen'harel walked away, not wanting to hear more of that conversation; he hadn't wanted to hear any of it. Would she really have married someone she didn't love, only to be with her clan? It seemed tragic to him that she felt she had to, nevermind the idea that she would have spent the rest of her life with someone she didn't love, never even knowing what it was to love and be loved. Never meeting Fen'harel. Perhaps he was wrong, and it would have been kinder for her to live such a life, or the Keeper would have had her meet someone more deserving than he was. He followed another memory, the landships rolling across the land behind teams of halla as they wandered to one camp, and another, Uth'shiral no longer with them. Time seemed to speed by, as though these memories were—No, that wasn't right.

The memories of travel stopped and exploded into fire and blood and swords. Human soldiers invaded the new camp outside of Wycome, and it was dizzying. The soldiers believed they were routing out savages who would have done them harm. The Dalish were simply terrified and confused. The Inquisition was supposed to have been protecting them. Where were the Inquisition soldiers?

And then it fell silent, except for the baying of hounds hunting for any Dalish stragglers who may yet survive. The camp was razed, smoke curling off of the sooty black ground. Hallas were slain and left lying to rot and feed the carrion birds and predators, along with the corpses of every Dalish in the camp. They had not even spared the children.

It was then that he understood what the familiar feeling was that he'd gotten from the Fade memories. These were memories of people dead and soon to be forgotten entirely.

Fen'harel fell to his knees. “Vhenan! No! No, not this... Not this...” She hadn't told him. She must have known, and she hadn't said a word to him in the Fade. Her clan had been more important to her than her own happiness, and they were gone.

He could not remain in the Fade within these terrible dreams any longer. He burst into awareness and sat up, sweating and uncomfortable. “Vhenan,” he murmured, his hands covering his face in grief. He should go straight to Skyhold, should rush to comfort her, but... no. There might yet be survivors. He would have to travel the nightmarish memories again to seek them out, to see if any hunters or children or anyone could have escaped what seemed to be certain doom. If he didn't, he would be failing Uth'shiral yet again.

Chapter Text

With every passing day of their journey on the Waking Sea, it had become harder for Uth'shiral to sleep. What little sleep she had was plagued by dreams of the horror her clan must have gone through, or of finding the bodies of people she knew and loved. Then she also began to dream of the Dalish Grey Warden and whatever friends he had rounded up coming upon her in her grief, and killing her and her friends in brutal and torturous ways.

The Inquisitor and her two companions had made landfall in a small village three days' walk from Wycome. She was satisfied with the distance, leading them into the wilderness where they could both stay hidden from the nobles of the city and search for signs of the Dalish. She didn't know how long that would take. Perhaps by now there were no traces of Clan Lavellan, but she might still be able to find another clan who could tell her where to go.

That night, they made camp quickly and quietly, not daring to start a fire despite the chill in the air and the knowledge that there were predators lurking in the woods. Instead, she and Abelas set wards, and Cole offered to stand watch and wake them if any danger came near.

As she gnawed on hard-crusted bread and equally hard cheese, Uth'shiral noticed Abelas staring at her with his most somber expression.

Cole appeared at her side, mumbling to her. “Sadness sinks into Sorrow, seeping through the silence... He wants to help, but he can't. The wall can't come down if you keep building it.”

“If he wants to talk to me, he can,” Uth'shiral replied. “Are you worried about him?” She scooted over so that Cole could sit beside her on her bedroll, if he chose. It was at least a little softer than the ground, despite the wear and tear.

“We're worried about you.” Cole looked at her steadily from beneath the brim of his hat. “You need rest. This place is so familiar to you, but fleeting, without family and friends to find, forever faded from here. You feel so alone, so lonely... It hurts, and you want to cry but you don't. You can't. They are all dead. You blame yourself, but it wasn't your fault. It was a mistake. We're here with you; you aren't alone at all.”

“Cole, it was my fault. I lead the Inquisition. I sent the soldiers. I should have listened to Leliana, and had my clan infiltrate. They'd still be alive, and those lyrium-crazed nobles wouldn't be hurting people in Wycome now. And there's nothing, nothing I can do to change that.” She broke off another piece of bread and worked at gnawing on it, not caring about the taste; she just wanted something to do other than think about her guilt. She swallowed the mouthful of bread before she spoke again. “The best I can do is--”

“Let me help you,” Cole interrupted. “You're my friend. It hurts me when you hurt. I can't bring them back, but it wasn't your fault, or Cullen's. You did what you thought was best. You tried, and they wouldn't blame you for it. The water in the well sang wrong. It was the lyrium. And now... they aren't here, but I am, and Sorrow is, and Cassandra and Sera and Josephine and Cullen are all waiting at Skyhold.”

She'd been keeping the tears in, smiling instead of crying the entire time they'd been on the ship, and she didn't let them fall now, either. She had lost her clan, she had lost Solas, she had lost Morisel, and she had perhaps even lost the Dalish. “I'll feel better once I put them to rest,” she said finally. “Then I—”

“Grieve,” Abelas said from beside her. Despite his size, he moved in silence; she hadn't noticed his approach. He settled in the spot she had made for Cole next to her as she turned to face him in surprise. “Blaming yourself does nothing. I once blamed myself for Mythal's murder. Perhaps if I had been more vigilant--if only I had done something different! But it was useless to blame myself. It happened, and I endured. I continued my duty, even as everything fell to ruin around me. You have no concept of what the People have lost, but the biggest loss of all was the People themselves. People I knew. You are going through the same thing. What you knew is gone. The people you knew are also mostly gone. Grieve, abelas'lin, and endure. The dead suffer no more. We are kindred in our sorrow. Grieve, lethallan, for tomorrow we set the dead to rest, and the days that come after are for the living.”

“It will help,” Cole encouraged, before reappearing at the other side of camp, watching for trouble.

“How do you even grieve when you've lost so much?” the Inquisitor asked, shaking her head. “I--”

The Sentinel slid a hesitant arm around her shoulders, murmuring something in elvish that she didn't understand. “If the tears come,” he translated, “let them.”

Chapter Text

Early the next morning, the Inquisitor, Abelas, and Cole were awakened by a downpour of rain. The Inquisitor vaguely remembered crying on Abelas's shoulder as he murmured comforting words in ancient elven, and she suspected her dreamless sleep had been a gift from Abelas. At some point, she had been tucked into her bedroll while Abelas slipped away to his own.

As soon as their gear was stowed away and strapped to their backs, they began their search in earnest. Uth'shiral didn't expect either Abelas or Cole to be of much help in searching for signs of the Dalish, who were experts at concealing their passage. It might be especially difficult after such a long time had passed, but she suspected the scars of battle would persist on the land, even if the humans had bothered to burn the corpses of Clan Lavellan.

They kept to the forests, using hand signals in lieu of speech, in case an enemy were to spot them. Lavellan and Abelas were careful where they placed their feet, watching the ground for roots that might trip them or spiders and serpents that might attack with deadly venom. The rain made the footing slick in some places; in others, the mud sucked at their feet, slowing their passage. Uth'shiral found herself missing her sure-footed hart, but he would not have fit on the small ship that took them across the Waking Sea.

The day had nearly ended when they approached a partially collapsed pillar that loomed out of the forest. Several other, similar pillars had already toppled, preventing trees from growing where they lay. Abelas signaled to Uth'shiral to stop, then knelt to the ground, gazing into the mud. “Someone has been this way,” he said, surprising her—not only by breaking the silence, but by having noticed signs she had nearly overlooked. He responded to her unspoken question with a somber tone. “The Sentinels worked hard to keep the Dalish from trespassing upon our most sacred site.”

He had slain her people before. He would have killed her, too, or tried, if she hadn't completed Mythal's rituals along the way. She knelt beside him to conceal her emotions as well as to examine the trail. It was better to forgive him; he had done his duty. In his place, would she have done any less? Had she not killed his Sentinels when they had attacked her companions and herself? Harm had been done on both sides.

Rather than linger on her companion's confession, she pointed to a deep hole in the earth beside the faint bare-toed tracks. “A lone traveler,” she pointed out, “probably a man, and using a staff or a walking stick. He passed this way perhaps a day or two ago, and,” she admitted with some embarrassment, “was not good at concealing his tracks.” She should have noticed before Abelas. “If we'd chanced this way any later, all traces would have been washed away. We should follow his trail, but be cautious. My people rarely travel alone, and Dalish only leave such obvious traces when there is trouble.”

Abelas nodded, and silence fell as the pair stood up again, gesturing Cole to follow closely as they approached the crumbled elven ruin ahead.

This time, Uth'shiral stopped the other two first. “Do you feel that?” she asked, as a brush of magic as fragile as a tiny spider's web brushed over her skin.

Abelas walked forward a few steps, stopped, then nodded. “Wards.” He began loosening his sword from its scabbard even as Uth'shiral readied her staff.

Ahead, someone abruptly stood up beside of the half-collapsed column, magical energy pouring into his staff and lighting the area immediately around him.

Uth'shiral would have recognized his stance anywhere, even if she hadn't recognized the armor she had commissioned for his sake. Her left palm flared, sending scorching pain up her arm; the Anchor had behaved so well lately that she had almost forgotten that it was a problem, but now it threatened to become all-consuming. “Solas!” she called out, before he could cast one of his deadly ice spells. Here in the waking world, she did not yet dare use his other, truer, name.

Chapter Text

Solas paused mid-flourish and stared at the Inquisitor. She could tell that he was taking in her other two companions, as well. “Inquisitor? Cole? Abelas?” She wondered if he'd ever call her “Vhenan” again. “You continue to surprise me,” he told her after a moment's pause. “I believed you had returned to Skyhold.”

Uth'shiral sighed with relief and lowered her own staff. “Solas, why are you here? You went west,” she said, as she walked toward him. Behind him, she could see a tattered fur he was using as a bedroll, a weathered waxed canvas canopy propped over it with some sticks. It wasn't much of a shelter, but still better than what she'd thought to set up the night before. Green flames flickered up her left arm, threatening to destroy her.

“I did,” he answered in the gentlest tone she had ever heard him use. “But letting go wasn't easy. I came here to learn of your clan, to find out what about them might--I wanted to understand the people who made you. Ir abelas, Inquisitor. I should not have pried, and I learned other things from the Fade. I am so sorry...” He looked toward the ground, anywhere but at her face, rubbing the back of his neck.

Lavellan stopped only when she was within touching distance, and she could hear Abelas and Cole walking closer to stand behind her. “So now you know,” she said, her voice breaking. “I failed them. If I couldn't ever go back, I at least wanted them to be safe. I made a mistake, and now they're gone. The Anchor is killing me, Solas. I want to set them to rest properly, in the way of my people, before it does. Abelas and Cole chose to join me here, but Abelas wanted to find you, so you could tell him where to find others like himself: ancients, isolated from the rest of the world, clinging to what remains.”

“Perhaps no longer,” Abelas replied from over her shoulder. “The world as it is now is not without value, as long as there are those willing to learn. Mythal would frown upon me if I turned my back on those in need. I endure. Still... my people would be a comfort to me.” Uth'shiral suspected that admission was a difficult one to make, nevermind how hard it would be for him to find a place for himself in the world he had avoided for so long.

“If you like,” Solas spoke softly, reaching for her marked hand, “I can look at the Anchor now. I know where they fell, and it isn't something I wish for you to see. Allow me to help you, and then... then I will attend to their rites myself. I believe there were some survivors, though I am uncertain how many. I have sensed tendrils of their fear within the Fade.” Still he avoided looking at her, whether out of grief, or guilt, or some other emotion, she was uncertain.

Uth'shiral allowed Solas's warm fingers to wrap around hers as the rain beat down on all of them, a tangible sense of guidance in the grey gloom. It was difficult to be grateful for her hood when it, and the rest of her armor, had long since been soaked through to her skin. Still the mark burned, despite the chill of the rain. She ignored the pain and stared at Solas until he met her gaze. “I have to see the bodies, but the elvhen and the halla, and I have to be there for the rites. I was the Keeper's First; with Keeper Deshanna gone, I am the Keeper of Clan Lavellan.”

“He remembers me,” Cole said, “but I don't remember him.” He appeared beside of Solas. “There was an amulet. You gave it power so that I could stay here and still stay me. Thank you. Why did I forget?” asked the spirit with genuine curiosity. Then he looked sharply at the Inquisitor. “Let him help you. Burning, blinding, brilliant... It hurts so badly. Sorrow's herbs helped before, but now it's too much. If you don't let him help you, it will consume you and you won't make it that far. Then we'll miss you like you miss them. Sorrow will sing for you, too, like he sings for her and for him and for the others, songs about sorrow and silence, not like when he sings sad songs while you sleep.”

“The spirit is right,” Abelas said firmly, striding toward the column to set his pack down. Water rolled off of his armor; he and Cole were surely the only ones comfortable in the rainy weather. “I will work on a better shelter while he tends to you. We must not linger here for longer than necessary, but there is no need to be uncomfortable while we do.”

Uth'shiral's mark flared violently again. Her knees began to give way, and she caught her balance on her staff. Solas wrapped an arm around her shoulders, guiding her toward the broken column. “Vhenan,” he murmured into her ear, using the endearment only in a moment when no one but she could hear it. “Please, let me help. I beg you.” He helped her settle into the tiny, somewhat leaky shelter that Abelas was working to expand and improve. “You won't be able to set the dead to rest if you are also dead.”

Uth'shiral offered her marked left hand to Solas without a word of protest. If she died, she could help no one. No matter how much she hurt, or how guilty she felt, she still wanted to live. That much, at least, she had never questioned.

Solas knelt beside her, cradling her hand with one of his, the fingers of the other one tracing the Anchor on her palm. She could sense the touch of his magic, matching that of the Anchor as he probed it thoughtfully. The green veilfire along her arm extinguished, the power returning to its focal point on her palm. The burning pain followed the veilfire, leaving only a single scorching point where before it had threatened to consume all of her.

“You took the remainder of the orb's power,” Fen'harel said, “and another might have died from it in that instant.” She found it harder to focus on his words than on the relief from pain that he had given her. “Surviving that much was impressive, but not enough. You must be able to master the power you took, or it will master you.” Raindrops rolled off of Solas's head, down his chin and onto their hands.

“How? If I haven't already mastered it, if My Trainer's teaching hasn't helped... how?” Solas's prodding had gradually turned into caresses along her palm, and she left her hand in his as she spoke. His touch was soothing, and it kept the pain away.

Solas looked back at her with eyes as sad as the night he had walked away from her and she had thought it would be forever. “You have to make a choice now, Vhenan. Whichever path you take, the consequences will follow you.” He glanced toward Abelas, giving a quick gesture. The Sentinel and Cole both walked away, giving Solas and Uth'shiral enough space to speak without being overheard.

“Tell me,” Uth'shiral said, knowing that her options could not be good if they caused Solas so much sadness.

He did not divert his gaze as he spoke. “The Anchor can be taken from you, if you allow it. I can take its power into myself, and it would be as if you had never received the Anchor at all. However, it is how the people identify their Inquisitor. Without it, people may lose their faith in you. Perhaps they will believe that their prophet has turned away from you whom they were certain she once favored. You will not be as connected to the Fade as you were; your magic and your dreams will be as they were before.

“The Anchor could stay as it is. Perhaps you will be able to master its power, with assistance. If you were to stay close to me, I could attempt to aid you in this, but I cannot be by your side at all times. If you are unable to master it, eventually there would come a time when we were too far apart for me to help. You would have to leave the Inquisition, you would still suffer from the Anchor, and you would be dependent upon me for your very survival. This may be true even if you were able to master the power. The situation would not be to my liking. I have no wish to chain you to me, nor to force you to rely on me.”

Solas hesitated before continuing; at first, Uth'shiral thought those were her only options, and she must choose. When he started to speak again, she realized that it must be because the final option was one he disliked as much as feeling he had somehow chained her. “The magic of the Anchor is mine, and that may provide a third option. I believe I could tie it to myself through the Fade, and that link may stabilize the Anchor, allow us to share the control. I know you value your secrets. If I do this, there shall be no more secrets between us. There are things I would rather you did not see in my dreams; I am certain there are things about which you feel the same. If I do this...” He shook his head slowly, drops of rainwater splashing down the cleft of his chin. “You are able to locate me in the Fade now, however far away I am. If I strengthen the bond the Anchor forges, we may be unable to escape one another in the Fade. This is another kind of chain. Do not imagine I mean this in any romantic way. Every dark desire, every nightmare we dream will be shared, and pleasant dreams for one may be painful to the other. As curious as you are, it would be more than you wished to know. Yet, it would allow you to remain with the Inquisition, without changing how your people see you.”

“You leave me again, whichever option I take, even if I stay with you,” Uth'shiral observed. “I need to be able to stand on my own. I've been relying too much on Abelas and Cole as it is. I want to be well again. I want to be able to do the funeral rites for my clan, to find any survivors and take them back to Skyhold with me. I will lead the Inquisition.” She stared back at Solas as he stared at her. “I can't leave them. The Anchor's power doesn't mean anything to me, but it does to them, and if there are more rifts...” She shook her head, then placed her free hand over Solas's. “No. I have to keep it. I already know who you are, Fen'harel. At least if I live out your nightmares every night of my life for the years I have left, you can't forget me. If I can endure what I already have, Dread Wolf, I can face your nightmares. Better yet, I can face them with you.”

“Vhenan,” Fen'harel said softly, “please think this through. This will be permanent. If you have hopes of one day finding another love, sharing the Anchor with me is not something you should do. How would you feel, knowing that the one you love is dreaming of someone else every night? Someone who loves your beloved? I owe you the truth, yet I would rather answer endless questions than have you see the worst of me in my dreams. And if this is what you choose... someday, I may have to tear you away from the Inquisition anyway.”

Lavellan sat up straighter. “You needed the Orb... because you needed its power. But I have its power. It's the key... You need the Anchor. What is there that is so terrible I can't face it with you? Did you believe the Inquisition wouldn't help you?”

“Vhenan, your Inquisition will not be pleased with my actions. The Inquisition will need to be ready to deal with problems that may arise, either with or without you.” His fingers tightened around hers. “Understand me when I say I do not want to involve you in this. If someone is hated as a result, let it be me who takes the blame and not you by association. Let them say I tricked you. Let yourself believe I tricked you. Ar lath ma, Vhenan. That is still the truth, more than you can guess.”

“Solas...” Uth'shiral wasn't sure how to take what he was telling her. “Are you saying you're going to do something dangerous? Something that will hurt people? I can't—I can't let you do something like that. Just because the people today aren't your Elvhen doesn't mean they aren't still people. Whatever you're planning, if you cause people to suffer... I would never, ever forgive you. No matter how I feel about you now, I couldn't love a man who would--”

“Vhenan, I do not know what will come of my actions, aside from the results that I seek. The less you know, the better off you shall be. If you fear me now, knowing who I am, then let go of your love for me and be free.” Solas released her hand, and pulled his own free of her, resting them on his knees. “If you trust me, I shall try to live up to that trust as well as I can, and return to you as soon as I am able, whatever else happens.”

Uth'shiral mulled over what he said in silence, and the chill she felt was not entirely from the rain that soaked through her armor. If she gave him her Anchor, she was enabling him to do whatever he was going to do. If she went with him, he had made it clear he would leave her behind at times to continue doing what he was going to do. If she shared the Anchor, he was going to leave her to do what he planned to do. Whatever she did, his plan was going to happen. He might love her, but his plan was more important to him, even now.

If the Dread Wolf didn't want to tell her his plan, it probably wasn't a good plan, or at least it was one he knew would produce collateral damage—damage that the Inquisition would need to deal with.

Yet, he did love her. He didn't want to use her. He was giving her every option to remain uninvolved. She suspected he wanted her to keep the power of the Anchor, even as he detested the idea that it might mean he had to use her, or that she might somehow uncover his plans, or share the blame for any consequences. If he didn't love her, or if he had only been using her, he would not warn her, would have tried to get her involved.

He would try to hurt as few people as possible, but whatever he was planning was going to hurt people. Maybe it would be indirect, but if he could do that... if compassionate, thoughtful Fen'harel, who had probably cried over the fate of the world while the Dalish believed he laughed, could make such a sacrifice, what could be worth it to him? She was afraid to find out, but she had to.

She knew what choice she had to make about the Anchor. What she wasn't sure of was whether she could love a man who might sacrifice willingly what she would only ever sacrifice by mistake.

Chapter Text

Uth'shiral closed her eyes briefly as the Anchor scorched her palm. She gritted her teeth, then as the pain passed again, she spoke. “There has to be another way. You managed before. You—you're the reason the Anchor became part of me. You're the reason Corypheus couldn't take it.”

Fen'harel stared at her somberly, rain still dripping down his face. “No. This time, it would be too much. Assuming that I am strong enough to do it, it would be...” He let the sentence trail as he seemed to think of words to express what he wanted to say. “It already binds you to me in the Fade. If I were to bind that power to your very being, you may begin to lose you.”

“What do you want?” the Inquisitor asked, staring back at Fen'harel.

He remained silent for long enough that she wondered if he would answer at all. “I want you to be free. I want to know that you are safe, and well, and alive, and whole. I want to stay with you, to be your advisor and your partner and your lover and show you all of the wonders in the Fade. I want to show you all that you can achieve with your magic. I want to show you how I feel about you, and make you understand just how special you are. I want us.” He stopped. “Not all of these desires can be achieved.” His hand reached to caress her cheek. “That,” he admitted, “is why I left. I would not wish for even an enemy to walk beside me where I must tread, and certainly not someone whose affection matters to me so much. I sit beside you even as I stare into the mouth of the void. You deserve better. You deserve someone who can give you comfort in your time of loss, not further pain.”

Uth'shiral leaned her cheek into Solas's hand, her eyes closing again for a moment as she took comfort in the gesture. “I don't know what you're planning. I know, whatever it is, you probably think it's for the best. If it's so terrible, though, if you want to be with me so badly, can't you change your plans? What if you go to do this and you can't come back? What if it puts you at odds with me?”

He smiled at her, but his eyes remained somber; she found no comfort in it. “I would rather you trust me,” he answered softly. “If you feel we shall be at odds, you should strike now, while I am on my knees beside you begging you to live. It might be a mercy to both of us.”

“I won't follow you. I will only seek you out if you do something I have to stop.” She placed her marked hand over the hand that still rested on her cheek. He had made it clear that he was giving the decision to her, even though it was his magic. She had already decided what she had to do. “The Anchor is mine. You gave it to me so that I could help people, and that's what I intend to do. If you can't tell me what you plan to do, I can't help you do it. I can't even promise I'll never interfere. You can keep your secrets, Solas. I'm keeping the Anchor, but I'm not going with you.”

Solas gave a strangled sob and engulfed her in his embrace, clinging to her with desperation. “Fenedhis! No, Vhenan! You'll die!”

“One day, Solas,” the Inquisitor replied, wrapping her arms around Solas in consolation, “I'm going to die anyway. You know that.”

“Banal nadas, Vhenan!” Fen'harel responded, his voice cracking as he rocked both of them back and forth, his embrace tightening around Uth'shiral. “Even if you must die, then do not let it be like this, not like this. Not in pain! Not from my power!”

“What do you want, then? I chose twice, and you refused, twice! What do you want, Fen'harel? Is there anything I can say that you'll agree to without argument? I want to live! People need me!” Tears streamed down Lavellan's cheeks, and she held her beloved as tightly as he held her. “You promise me you'll come back, but that may not even be in my lifetime! You promised me that you'd explain everything, and you never did! You left! You left me without even a farewell! How can I trust you the way you want me to?”

Solas pulled back, loosening his grip, and his eyes briefly widened. At first she thought he was going to let her go and walk away. Instead, he stared at her with sad eyes, then leaned in to press his lips to hers. “You shouldn't,” he answered, then planted another kiss. “I don't deserve it.” He punctuated his sentence with yet another kiss. “I have hurt you so much, and you barely begin to understand...”

When he leaned in for one more kiss, she returned it, noticing that she was not the only one whose tears now mingled with the rain. “Please, stay. After you help me honor my clan and put them to rest. Come back with me to Skyhold. I don't know what mistake you're trying to fix, but... can't we do it together?”

“I can't.”

“And I can't give up the Anchor. Not even part of it,” Uth'shiral replied. “It's your power, but it's part of me now. If you somehow can take it away, now, or channel it into yourself, I might die from that just as easily as I'm dying from its power. It isn't your fault. It's just the way things are.” She pressed her hands against his chest and gave him a gentle push, then used her staff as leverage to rise to her feet.

Cole appeared by her side in an instant. “Inquisitor! You're hurting. Why won't you let him--”

“It is her decision, Cole. We must abide with it,” Fen'harel said in a firm voice, but he didn't sound happy about it to the Inquisitor's ears.

“Cole, help me improve the camp,” Uth'shiral suggested. “I need to rest. Tomorrow, I need to be ready to perform funeral rites, and perhaps find the survivors Solas mentioned.”

“He hurts, too,” Cole said, his face distraught beneath his hair and the broad brim of his hat. “But, he closes me out, away from the hurt.” He stared at Uth'shiral as she leaned on her staff, too weak to rummage in her pack for supplies. “You want to live. So, live.” Without another word, Cole helped her with her pack and began working under her guidance to make a better shelter.

Solas began to help with their improvements to the camp in silence.

When Lavellan glanced toward Abelas, his eyes met hers for only a second before he looked away and walked into the woods, likely to hunt. She could not read the expression in his eyes in that brief moment.

Chapter Text

“Are you certain you wish to see this?” Fen'harel asked, drawing Lavellan aside from the other two and placing a hand on her shoulder. “It wasn't a pleasant scene even in the Fade. Months later... There will not be much to see but bones, if that.”

Emerald-green trees loomed around them in all directions. They did not follow any particular path, instead weaving through the trees and battling with the underbrush. It had not been an entirely peaceful sojourn, either; they had encountered bears and corrupted spiders on their way to the site that Solas had seen in the Fade.

“I have to,” the Inquisitor replied firmly as she leaned on her staff for support. “This is my duty. If Deshanna is dead, I am the Keeper. Although...” She shook her head and glanced at the ground. “I am not a good one.” She had spent the last two days asleep, despite her plans to hurry with the funeral rites for her clan. She wakened feeling weak, and she tired easily.

“How so?” asked the Dread Wolf, one eyebrow arching as he asked the question. He almost looked amused, behind the sadness that had become his permanent expression. She had no doubt he knew, but perhaps he was curious to hear her answer.

“I was supposed to keep you away, not beg you to stay. I was supposed to protect my clan from you. I should have been more worried about protecting them from myself.” She gathered her strength and began walking forward again. “You know the way, so lead us.”

“What happened was not your fault,” Solas told her. “You made a decision to help, and it went poorly. That is all. There are survivors, and we shall find them. We shall lead them to Skyhold.” He walked close to her on her left, rather than taking the lead as she had asked. He'd been observing the Anchor for the past half-day while they walked, and any time she seemed unsteady or shaky, his arm caught hers to stabilize her. She had a strong suspicion that he had also been the one to tend her for the past two days, although no one had said so outright.

“And then you'll leave.”

“I must.”

Cole walked on her right side, as closely as Solas did on her left. “Lonely, lovelorn, lost without life among the leaves, left longing for Lavellan,” he remarked. “They're frightened, their pain, their sorrow sings from the silent shadows. It chases them like arrows, and the hounds! Trembling, terrified, they hide among the trees.”

“It would be better if I found them. Or... even Abelas. To them, you'll look like a threat. Maybe they'll see me as a threat,” Lavellan replied, stumbling as her toe caught on a stone, only to have an arm caught from either side.

Abelas walked behind them silently. He had said very little, as far as she could tell, since they had encountered Solas. If he had spoken at all, it had been only to Cole. She wanted to ask him about it, but Solas had stayed too close to speak to anyone else one-on-one.

They continued walking for another hour before anyone spoke again. With the constant threat of humans or their hounds about, and with Uth'shiral's grim mood, the quiet seemed safer to her. Perhaps the others felt the same. She also found a certain peace within the dappled light of the trees. This place had once been her home, and it was only in the absence of her clan that it no longer was.

“It isn't far,” Solas observed. “We shall arrive before nightfall. Are you able to travel for that long, or shall we stop until tomorrow?”

“I'll make it,” Uth'shiral responded. “Ma serannas,” she added, glancing at him.

He nodded in acknowledgment. “If you need to, Vhenan, you can lean on me for support. If you should change your mind about the Anchor--”

“I'll accept your help getting to the—the scene—if I need it, but my decision about the Anchor won't change.” Lavellan pulled her hood more firmly over her head, hoping she could hide her expression from Solas. If he couldn't see how distraught she was, maybe he'd worry less. Or maybe she was fooling herself.

“She wants to live,” Cole told Solas.

“I cannot help her without her agreement, Cole,” replied the Dread Wolf. “Even if I could, it would be no better than harming her, myself. Besides, she may be right. I may cause more harm in trying to help. What I can do—what we all can do—is be with her in her time of grief.”

“But you won't,” Cole pointed out. “The pain sits in her heart like a boulder. Time wears at it patiently, but it never completely goes away. Another stone rests on top of the boulder—you hurt her, too, but you live and she forgives.”

From beneath her hood, Uth'shiral noticed Solas's wince, but Cole seemed not to know what he was thinking. “That's complicated, Cole.”

“It isn't. You love him. You should be happy, but he drifts away like a feather on the breeze.” Cole's voice was growing agitated, Uth'shiral noticed. She wondered what she could say to make him feel better.

“A feather that becomes caught on a breeze rarely returns,” Abelas remarked from behind them. “Although, what is lost sometimes only takes a different shape.” There was something pointed about his comment, if she had learned anything about Abelas, but Uth'shiral was uncertain what he meant. Neither Solas nor Cole reacted.

“I've enjoyed what the time I have had with you,” Lavellan told Solas. “I wouldn't trade it.”

“Ma serannas. Neither would I,” Fen'harel answered.

They lapsed into silence. As they wandered the woods, Uth'shiral found it more and more difficult to keep pace with the others. Her knees were shaky, her fingers trembling upon her staff. The magic of the Anchor scorched up her arm and reached for her heart. She gritted her teeth and kept walking. She would see this through, even if it resulted in her death.

The stench alerted them long before they reached the clearing. It smelled of burnt and rotted flesh, of death, even after six months' time. It was most likely because of this odor that they had encountered not even a single halla on their way. Uth'shiral wanted to fall to her knees, to beg the others to go on without her, to tell them to perform the rites for her. Surely Fen'harel and Abelas were qualified to do so. Instead, she ignored the Dread Wolf's concerned glance and Cole's gasp of alarm and redoubled her efforts to make it there.

The smell could not have prepared her for what she saw. It had surely been a massacre. Six months' time would normally have been enough for the flesh and the stench of death to subside, leaving only bones. In this case, the sheer amount of death—not only the Dalish, but their hallas, harts, and hounds, and the burnt and broken aravels—had prevented its total dispersal by scavengers or the natural process of decay. She clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified to come upon the scene, as Cole began to lose himself in the memories of fear and anguish left behind by the dead.

Worst of all, to Uth'shiral's mind, was that their killers had taken pains to put the Keeper and Second on display, a cruel warning to other Dalish, or to the Inquisition, or--

She began to act in a haze of unreality, not taking in too closely what she was seeing. She piled the proper branches in reverence and spread the proper herbs—she did not even know where or how she had gotten them. She rested the end of her staff above the carnage, setting it alight as she sang. She didn't notice that the two other elves followed suit, also lighting fires and joining in her song.

She spoke the names of her clan into the night, their deeds and their duties, from the youngest halla to the eldest Dalish. She spoke, too, in honor of their proud harts and their loyal hounds. She commended them to all of their Creators, even to Fen'harel, not caring for the moment whether he approved of her reverence.

When it was done, she collapsed to her knees and watched the flames until they died down, leaving nothing but ashes in their wake.

Later, she would not remember the details of the scene they had encountered—the terrible scent, or the carnage and decay. She would not recall the details of the rite, or even the sight and sound of the flames as they roared over the carnage, purifying it. All she would ever remember was the tree that she set in the center, and the fact that she had completed the funeral rite for her family. She would never be certain if she had Cole to thank for it, or if somehow her own mind had erased the scene to spare her the pain.

“We must leave,” Solas told her, after she had sat staring at the ashes for a considerable amount of time. “They will have noticed the flames, and we do not wish to be the next to die.”

Chapter Text

An arrow sang past Abelas as the Inquisitor's group arrived at their haphazard camp, and another embedded itself above Solas's head, only a few feet away from the Inquisitor. Abelas had taken the lead while Solas and Cole worked together to keep the Inquisitor on her feet.

Uth'shiral leaned against the truck of a small tree for balance as she raised and readied her staff, her gaze raking over the trees to find the source of the threat. Beside her, Solas raised his own staff and placed a protective barrier over the group.

“I warned you we should not return,” Solas reminded the group as he turned his head this way and that, looking for the archers.

Uth'shiral did not glance from side to side; she had seen Dalish hunters at work before. Her vision was foggy with pain and her legs unsteady and weakened, but her gaze followed the path of the arrows to the upper branches of the trees around the shattered ruin even as Cole pointed in that direction. She knew without a doubt that they were Dalish, but it was dark and her eyes refused to focus. The world existed in a haze.

“Aneth ara, falonen,” Lavellan greeted, but her voice was weak and rasping.

Fen'harel took her cue, and repeated her words more loudly. He gestured to their group, then spoke more, peppering it with words she couldn't translate—and judging by the glances the elves in the trees shared among one another, neither did they.

Abelas rewarded Solas with a sharp look, then addressed the handful of elves in the trees. “We mean no harm. We have come to set the dead of Clan Lavellan to rest, and now we shall leave.”

“Then you're fools,” one of the elves growled down at them, spitting at the ground. “They'll swarm us like they did before. We weren't able even to leave for the Arlathvhen, not without halla or aravels. If you're friends—”

“Mirevasa,” Uth'shiral mumbled, putting a name to the voice. “Does she not recognize her own kinswoman?” Then she realized that of course the other Dalish didn't, not at such a distance and with a bare face.

Solas looked at her briefly, acknowledging the name. “Mirevasa,” he said, “suledin. Shem'assan him abelas. Asha na lethallan, Uth'shiral.” Mirevas, endure. A quick arrow causes sorrow. This woman is your kin, Uth'shiral.

“How you know my name is another matter, but even beneath her hood I can see that woman lacks Dirthamen's vallaslin from this distance. That is not Deshanna's First.” Mirevaas looked toward one of the others, and Uth'shiral caught some of the signals passed between them before she nodded, lowered her bow, and began to descend her tree.

She could only spot two Dalish in the darkness, and the way they gestured, she knew there was at least one other somewhere nearby.

“Still,” Mirevasa said as she approached, “you know my name, and you are of the flesh. That speaks for something. Our arrows are aimed at you. Speak, if you would.” She stopped in the center of their camp, leaving a large distance between herself and their group. Moonlight outlined her silhouette, from her white hair to her unshod feet. To Uth'shiral, she resembled a spirit from the Fade—and she might as well have been. Despite Solas's insistence that there were some survivors, the Inquisitor had not believed it until now.

Uth'shiral stepped around Solas and Abelas, leaning heavily on her staff. “Mirevasa! Who survived? Please, I—”

“It is you,” the Dalish said in astonishment. “You sent soldiers to attack the nobles... the nobles turned on all of us. Your soldiers died before your clan. I'm sorry.” The explanation came out in a gush, as if Mirevasa blamed herself for what happened. Without further preamble, she crossed the rest of the distance between them and wrapped the Inquisitor into a solid embrace.

Uth'shiral's clan did not hate her; the survivors did not blame her. She had done her best, as Cole said. She had sent help; even if it failed, she'd at least made the attempt—and some had survived. She returned Mirevasa's embrace, no longer crushed beneath the weight of her guilt. “How many survived?”

“Five,” Mirevasa answered, pulling away. “Two are only children. I was away from camp with Atisha, and Sorien was with the children, teaching them about herbs. There were others... they sent hounds. We've searched, but we haven't found anyone else alive in weeks.” She glanced past Uth'shiral toward the other two elves, then back to the Inquisitor. “Who are these?”

“The one with Mythal's marks is Abelas,” Uth'shiral replied, leaning heavily on her staff. “The bare-faced man is known as Solas.”

“Is something the matter? You seem pale...” Mirevasa observed, then turned to gesture to the other four survivors to join them.

“I'm... not well,” the Inquisitor responded. “Don't worry about me. We need to pack the supplies we left behind and leave this place, before your nobles hunt us again. You're welcome to travel with us to Skyhold, and stay there as long as you need.”

One by one, four hesitant elves slipped from their treetop perches and began to form a semicircle around the Inquisitor, but Mirevasa appeared to be their leader.

“I wouldn't take those supplies,” the hunter warned. “Others passed this way only yesterday, searching for someone. There are about a dozen of them—all Dalish. Three of them were wearing Warden armor. There would have been six survivors, if not for them. I don't know what they spoke to Orthallan about, but Sorien saw them cut him down when they didn't like his answer. He followed them here, and they were poking around this camp. Bad news, if you ask me.”

“Thank you for the warning,” Uth'shiral answered.

“We had most of our supplies with us already, in case we needed to camp on the way. More can be purchased if we need to,” Solas said. “We dare not linger here, and the Inquisitor is unwell and exhausted. If you have mounts--”

“All dead,” Atisha replied, before Solas could finish his sentence. Uth'shiral wondered what the hunter would do if she ever realized Solas was more than just some flat-ear. “The ones that survived—harts and halla, too—are all scattered now, too scared to stay anywhere near this place. I don't blame them. I want to leave, too.”

“If she falters, I'll carry her. She's the Keeper now. That still means something,” Sorien stated.

“If I falter, leave me behind so you can fight if you need to. Keep the children safe,” ordered the Inquisitor.

“No, Vhenan!” Solas snapped.

At the same moment Solas spoke, Mirevasa growled, “Absolutely not!” The other two hunters and the children echoed the same sentiment.

Abelas remained silent at first; when he spoke, he stepped in front of Uth'shiral to address her directly, to all appearances ignoring the other Dalish. “They are seeking you, and you know it. You know they have been following us since one of them murdered your friend. You would let them have your life, as well, and throw justice aside? Unthinking sacrifice is not noble.” His turned his back to her to regard the group of Dalish, his eyes sliding over them until they landed on Sorien. “If she falters,” he said, “we must rest. If they come--”

“We shall destroy every last one of them,” Solas interrupted. “But for now, we cannot stay, and we should try to travel in silence.” Without speaking another word, he walked back to Uth'shiral's side, offering a shoulder to lean on for balance. She could feel the eyes of the other Dalish upon her as they began to walk back toward the port town where they had come ashore.

Cole stood at her other side, and murmured to her. “Your pain is... easier now, even the burning. The guilt is gone, and the grief survived. Loneliness lingers from loss, but, life and love lift your spirits. Fear and death lurk, listening, longing. You pass by their shadows, weak and strong at the same time. Yes... you are strong, steady, sturdy, shaky but still standing. Your spirit strives, seeks solace in silence and slumber, soon.” He looked over his shoulder at the group of Dalish, the subject dropped entirely. “They need me, too,” he observed at a normal volume.

A quick glance toward Solas told Uth'shiral he hadn't heard, but her movement caused him to look back at her. “Yes, Vhenan?”

Uth'shiral smiled at him warmly. “I think everything's going to be okay,” she said softly.

Despite her words, a sense of unease settled within her. What did Cole mean, exactly? Whatever the spirit's intentions, his words had not been comforting to hear.

Chapter Text

They were supposed to be resting.

No one was resting, though, not knowing that there were around a dozen enemies searching for traces of them—a dozen Dalish enemies, well-versed in the art of tracking. That was assuming that none of them also had hounds to help them.

Every rustle in the trees set Uth'shiral on edge, but when another wave of pain and dizziness struck, it was all she could do to stay on her feet, even with the help of Solas and Cole. She refused to be carried, so the group had stopped to rest and allow her to recover. They had been sitting in this semi-open space since the sky began to lighten. She did not know how long that had been, but it had been long enough for the pain to subside somewhat and for all of them to fill their bellies with water and rations. That was certainly long enough for the enemy to find traces of their passage and to gain on them.

The silence of the camp was tense; no one dared to speak where enemies might hear. Nervous glances were traded between all members of the group, and the two children huddled, frightened but pretending at courage, in the center, where they could be defended in the event of an attack.

The sun was beginning to peek over the horizon, its light causing the leaves in the east to glow a vibrant green, at once familiar and alarming. Daylight was not a good thing—elves could see better at night than humans, but darkness still made things more difficult. The only relief they might have was due to the fog that was descending among the tree trunks—and a mage with enough skill could probably clear that away. They had to move on.

Lavellan stood, leaning more on her staff for support than she liked, and began gathering the handful of supplies she'd carried this far. Cole joined her without a word; the five other Dalish were quick to follow her example as well. Abelas gave her a long look that made her wonder what he'd say if he dared to speak, but then he, too, conceded and packed his meager gear. Solas was the last one to begin moving again, frowning at Uth'shiral in concern.

She responded to Solas's unspoken worries by shaking her head. She couldn't stay here, and she certainly wasn't going to let the rest of them sit around to be killed. The crushing grief that led her to this part of the Free Marches was now overshadowed by urgent fear for their lives—even hers, however much of it she might have left to enjoy.

The Dread Wolf offered no further resistance, only a disapproving shake of his head as he slung his few possessions onto his back and took his place back by the Inquisitor's side. The part of her that resented him wasn't small, but for now, she accepted the comfort of his presence and support. The Anchor was behaving itself and her feet were once again steady; although she was exhausted from the hike and the lack of sleep, she didn't need to lean against the shoulder the way she did as they walked. Fen'harel glanced at her from time to time with a faint, sad smile playing on his lips—she wasn't sure whether he meant to offer reassurance or to express his awareness and appreciation of the fact that she really didn't need to lean against him. Dread Wolf or not, he was still Solas, and she still loved him.

The group's exhaustion slowed them down more than their fear spurred them onward, and it was well past nightfall again before they approached the gates of the nearest port town. Uth'shiral had thought it would be a bad idea to return to the village she, Cole, and Abelas had first arrived at; besides, she had told the ship they had hired not to wait for them there. The guards standing by the gate recognized her as Inquisitor by the Anchor on her hand. They offered polite greetings and made a recommendation for a comfortable inn to stay in until morning.

As the others began making their way through the streets toward the inn, one of the guards descended from her tower and stopped Uth'shiral. Solas walked a discreet distance away, but stayed just within her range of vision.

“Herald, might I beg a word?” the guard requested.

“What do you need?” Lavellan asked, expecting the usual request for aid.

“Two Dalish heard you were in the Marches and came here earlier looking for you. Where they got the coin, I don't know, but they're in the inn, waiting for you. I thought you should know, in case they're up to something. Maker smile on you, Your Holiness.” The guard climbed back up the ladder to her post, resuming her duty before Uth'shiral was able to properly respond.

Solas returned to her side, and the two of them rushed after the others, hoping to catch up and warn them in time to prepare for combat. Lavellan felt sorry for anyone else frequenting the inn that night.

Chapter Text

Uth'shiral was leaning on Solas in earnest when at last the two caught up with the rest of the group, halfway to the inn. Cole appeared at her other side, lending support. The rest of the Dalish remained oblivious to his presence; she wondered if she should do something about that later, when they were in a less dire situation.

While the Inquisitor caught her breath, Solas explained. “One of the guards told the Inquisitor that there are two Dalish elves waiting in the inn. From what I understand, there are Dalish pursuing her who murdered a friend of hers. I do not know the circumstances well,” he concluded, giving Uth'shiral a look that told her he wanted an explanation as soon as possible.

“We are all Dalish, except for you. We can reason with our brethren,” Atisha snapped. “There's no need for us to fear the other clans. More likely, they will offer us succor in our time of need.”

The Inquisitor shook her head, but still gasped for air. Veilfire was creeping up her arm again, and it concerned her that this time the heat of it seemed more distant than before.

“We are not all Dalish,” Abelas corrected, staring down his nose at Atisha. “The vallaslin on my face was never put there by a shemlen. I may admire your tenacity at times, but I am not one of you. I would not put Mythal's justice aside for the sake of convenience.”

“They don't understand,” Cole said to Abelas. “You'll make it worse.”

Abelas looked at Cole, nodded, and then kept his peace.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Mirevas asked, giving a questioning look between Uth'shiral and Abelas.

“Perhaps they will explain later, when we are less concerned about surviving the night,” the Dread Wolf suggested. “We must rest, but with enemies--”

“We're going into the inn,” Uth'shiral said, once her breath had recovered. “No more arguing. There are children with us, and they need a safe place to stay the night. We'll fight if we must, but then... then I need to rest.” She pushed past the remainder of her clan, Solas and Cole following close behind her, and Abelas falling in with them.

A few sparse lanterns on posts lit the path through the town to the inn. The street was narrow, but paved with cobblestones and kept clean for a port town. That didn't prevent the smell of fish from wafting up from the docks—which was not going to lead to a pleasant night's sleep—but at least they didn't have to wade through filth on their way to the inn.

Lavellan hesitated at the door, but, if there were only two, they could be dealt with quickly. Perhaps they were not the Wardens and could be reasoned with. Atisha might be right about that. And, if they had to be killed, there were only two of them, and there were six combat-ready people in her own group, if she counted herself. They would not have time to get a warning out to the other ten elves, and the rest of the night could be spent in peace—although the price of the rooms might go up considerably if things got violent.

It was time to meet her pursuers. Uth'shiral opened the door and stepped inside, Solas close behind her.

The inn was busy, but it seemed to be frequented mostly with locals, slaking their thirst after a long day of hard work on the docks. The smell of sweat, fish, and seawater clung to them as their laughter and chatter mingled into white noise, only the occasional raised voice or guffaw distinguishing itself from the rest. In another hour, most of them would be heading home, perhaps to a bath and perhaps straight to bed before another long, hard day. A bard strummed on her lute as she sang a bawdy tavern song about a lusty sailor and an elven maid. Not the best music for a Dalish woman to enter the room on, Uth'shiral mused.

Few elves frequented the inn; it wasn't clear whether the reason was a lack of welcome, a lack of coin, or a lack of elves. It made the two Dalish much easier to locate, but Uth'shiral would have noticed them even if there had been triple the number of elves there were. Even if they hadn't been wearing ragged traditional Dalish armor, even if they'd been missing their vallaslin, they were as familiar to her as Mirevas, Sorien, Atisha, Halin, and Atish'adhalen.

She gasped; Solas asked, “What is it?” as he readied his staff. Abelas pushed forward, hand on his sword hilt.

Uth'shiral held out her free arm in front of them, shaking her head. Then, having warned her group, she walked forward, uncertain how the two would react. Would they fault her, and put the guilt back upon her shoulders, or would they be as forgiving as the other five? “Bel'eranen? Assanvir?”

“Uth'shiral! It was true!” Bel'eranen exclaimed, standing so quickly that she nearly toppled the table she sat at. Instead, Assanvir's ale sloshed out, dripping onto his lap even as he hastily stood, too. “Here we worried you'd think we were all dead, that we'd be left without a Keeper, and you came back! I told you she'd be back, brother, but you're always so negative!” She embraced Uth'shiral—then saw the others behind her. “Creators bless us all, there are others yet! If we could only recover some of the halla, all would be right!”

Uth'shiral's arm was burning, but she did not dare do anything to extract herself from Bel'eranen's embrace as the other woman freely wept into her shoulder. She patted Bel'eranen on the back to soothe her. She knew what the other was going through. “I'm so glad you survived. I was expecting trouble when I heard there were elves looking for me, but... I am so very glad. It does my heart good to know that some of Clan Lavellan survives.”

“The halla helped us escape,” Assanvir said. “Some of them died for it.” Without another word, he joined the embrace, managing to get ale on Uth'shiral's armor in the process. The Inquisitor didn't care; for the moment, no matter what the Anchor did, or whatever else happened, she was happy.

At last the embrace ended, and the two Dalish in the inn realized that there were five other survivors present. The humans in the inn had begun to stare at this gathering of elves; some were bemused, while some seemed outright hostile. Uth'shiral busied herself by making her way to the innkeeper with Solas at her side while the Lavellan survivors caught up with one another while being offered soothing words by Cole. Abelas trailed behind the two of them, and Uth'shiral wondered whether it was because he didn't want to associate with the others, or whether it were simply that she and Solas were more familiar to him.

“I'm relieved they weren't enemies,” Uth'shiral said to Solas, then focused her attention on the innkeeper. “Good evening, ma'am. Would you happen to have rooms to spare?” She paused, considering. “A hot bath would also be welcome.”

The woman looked between the elves in front of her and the more boisterous group of elves behind them. If she thought it odd that a group of Dalish and apparent city elves were asking for room and board in her inn, she said nothing to that effect. Gold, Uth'shiral supposed, was good no matter whose hands it came from—and the innkeeper was giving her glowing hand quite a long look. “I've got rooms, but I don't have ten. There are five, and two are taken. If any of you are couples, I expect there won't be much privacy. Not unless someone's eager to sleep in the stable loft.” She cleared her throat. “You're the Herald of Andraste, though, so I expect I can give the best room to you for nothing, Your Holiness. The rest you'll need to pay for. Meals, too. I can only give so much without losing coin.”

“If you insist, I'll accept,” the Inquisitor responded. “I appreciate the generosity.”

“The Inquisitor is experiencing difficulties of a magical nature,” Solas said abruptly. “She may find herself in need of my presence to prevent any mishaps.” He looked directly at the innkeeper, not so much as glancing at Uth'shiral as he spoke.

The innkeeper looked sharply between Solas and Uth'shiral, then stifled a giggle behind one hand. “The Herald is of the flesh, and she does have needs,” she remarked. “Still, you might stay apart for just the one night. If--”

“He is not lying to find his way into her bed,” Abelas cut in. “She needs aid that he can provide. He knows more about the magic involved than anyone else. Anything either of them does together beyond that is no one's concern but theirs. Or would you rather your inn burn away in magical flames in the night because you didn't want people to be scandalized at the idea that their prophet is not chaste?” He advanced on the counter, leaning on his hands and looming over the innkeeper as he spoke.

The innkeeper shrank back, eyes wide with fright. More than likely, she'd never seen an elf as tall and muscular as Abelas. He'd made an impression on Uth'shiral, as well, even though she didn't fear him. “Of course! And—the rest of you can decide your sleeping arrangements, between you.”

“Abelas...” Uth'shiral warned. The Sentinel rewarded her with a bemused expression, then straightened himself, backing away from the counter. “I apologize on my follower's behalf,” the Inquisitor said to the innkeeper. “However, I have been having certain issues involving magic. Solas and Abelas are best equipped to help me, but you do have a good point regarding the potential for scandal. I wouldn't want my advisors to be too concerned over my actions while I'm away from Skyhold. Then again, they're probably trying to arrange political marriages for me. Maybe a little scandal would do them some good.”

At some point, the others had gathered closer, because Mirevas piped up behind them. “Atisha and I would be happy to stay in the stable loft. Hay's good enough for either of us, and if we can keep our bows handy, no one's likely to slip up and cause trouble for us in the night. Then Bel'eranen and the children could stay in one of the rooms, and Assanvir, your brother, and the tall one could stay in the other. Everyone's happy—no one's got too many to a room, and you've got your shiny-headed caretaker there to look after you.”

And you and Atisha get all the privacy you could ask for, Uth'shiral thought to herself, then sighed. “That sounds reasonable, Mirevas,” she admitted. She gave Cole a quick look before nodding to the innkeeper. “We'll do this the way Mirevas says.”

“All right then,” the innkeeper agreed, then told the price. It was reasonable, considering the number of people and meals, and Uth'shiral slid the gold over the counter to the other woman. “I'll have someone show you to your rooms,” the innkeeper concluded brightly as she gathered the gold behind the counter. She gestured to a girl, perhaps in her teens, who was carrying a pitcher of ale around the room.

The girl finished refilling a mug, then made her way to the counter. “Yes ma'am,” she said brightly—then glanced curiously at the visitors.

“These people are paying for rooms and a meal tonight. They are with the Inquisition. This one here,” the innkeeper indicated Uth'shiral with her chin, “is the Herald of Andraste herself. Look at the hand. So treat them well. I suppose you remember hearing about her running off and marrying some elf? I'd have thought it's the tall one, from the descriptions, but you know how rumors are. It seems the lucky man is the bald fellow. Let the two of them have some privacy in our best room.”

Uth'shiral's somehow managed to keep her jaw from dropping. She remembered the rumor that had been spread—intentionally—but nothing she had said should have implied that she and Solas were together. And if anyone described Abelas, well, she doubted the stories had him being anything less than a giant, taller than a qunari, by now. She quelled her surprise and simply responded, “Ah, so you've heard.”

Fen'harel looked at her with a puzzled frown, and the Inquisitor knew she was going to have a lot of explaining to do before she could sleep. She suspected she was getting similar looks from the remnants of Clan Lavellan who stood behind her. She felt her cheeks and ears reddening; the Dread Wolf rewarded her with an amused half-smile as he noticed her reaction.

“I'll take my meal in the room,” Lavellan told the girl as she fell in step behind her. She hoped it would spare her the exhaustion of answering absolutely everyone at once.

“Of course! I'm sure you and your husband would like a nice quiet meal together,” the girl answered, then giggled giddily. “Oh I love new couples! So cute! It's so nice to know the Herald is just like anyone else!

“Abelas, would you like to join our meal?” Solas asked.

“I will eat with the others,” the Sentinel declined. “If I am to travel with them, I would like to understand them better. Perhaps I could learn something.” He shared a long look with the Inquisitor. He had done so more than once since they had encountered Solas, and she still had yet to understand what he wanted. Sooner or later, she meant to ask him.

Normally, time alone with Solas would have been the most welcome thing Uth'shiral could think of. Now, however, she suspected he had more questions than she could possibly hope to answer—and some she didn't want to.

They strode up a set of stairs and through a narrow hallway. The three rooms were all fairly close together, with the largest one being at the end of the hallway overlooking the ocean, and she followed the girl into that one. As long as the windows weren't open to the fish smell, Uth'shiral thought it would be a pleasant enough place to sleep. For the time being, she ignored the large beds on either side of the room and sat at the small table, stretching her legs out in front of her and leaning back into the seat to stare into the darkness where the full moon was reflecting over the ocean.

The girl left with assurances that she'd have hot baths ready for them shortly, then darted out of the room as quickly as if she expected Solas to pounce on Lavellan the moment she vanished.

Fen'harel, of course, did no such thing. He settled into the chair beside of Uth'shiral, stretching out his own legs. “It seems many things have come to pass since last we parted. Someday, I hope you'll tell me of them.”

She had expected questions; his quiet acceptance only made her feel guilty. “I have a lot to tell you. I want to tell you, but I'm worried I'll only make you sadder. I know you're feeling guilty. Don't. I've made my choices for myself, and you're doing something you feel you need to.” She rested one of her hands on top of his. “When you leave, come back to me, if you can. If you come back, I'll tell you.”

“You also know that telling me that much will make me feel guilty,” he mused, a smile twitching at his lips. “Still, it is a reasonable suggestion. If I return, I wish to stay with you. I wish to now, but if I stay...” He shook his head. “I can't. Yet I will remain at least until you're safely back at Skyhold.” Then he leaned over to plant a kiss on her forehead.

“Solas... What are we, exactly? Are we even together? If we can't be, then I want to let you go. I want you to be free to do what you need to. I need to be free to do what I need to do. There were survivors. That makes me the Keeper of Clan Lavellan. I need to teach them, to guide them, to protect them. If you helped, we could raise the elves up again. We could--”

“I have tried, Vhenan. They do not want the help of the Dread Wolf.” He sat staring at the sea, just as Uth'shiral was doing, his hand warm and still beneath hers. “I don't know whether I will come back, but I can promise I'll try. It may be better for both of us if I don't return, though. We both have duties, and sometimes, such things cause rifts that can't be healed. Sometimes, people simply change and want different things. A political marriage may sound absurd to you now, but in the future you may find it necessary to keep the Inquisition together. Then I might become a problem for you.”

“I don't think that's likely to happen,” Uth'shiral responded, stroking his hand. “I want to be with you, but you're right: I have duties. I'm the Keeper of Clan Lavellan, or what remains of it, not just the Inquisitor.”

“Are you supposed to remain chaste, then? Is that why you never asked me for sex?” Solas asked, turning his head to face her instead of the view from the window.

The Inquisitor rubbed at the back of her neck. “Well... not precisely...” How was she supposed to explain to him that the only thing that stopped her was the fact that he had never asked? Or that doing so would have been frowned upon by her clan because he wasn't Dalish? Now that she knew he was the Dread Wolf, there was still another layer of taboo against it, and part of her felt terrible that she didn't care about that taboo anymore. Was it really as simple as asking him? Though that wasn't really simple; she'd never been able to muster the courage to do so, and eventually she'd concluded he wasn't as interested as he'd seemed.

“I apologize. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.” He freed his hand from beneath hers, gesturing toward the candle on the table and causing a flame to flicker to life. “The girl should be back with food soon, unless she fears she might intrude upon an intimate moment. I would welcome a warm meal, even stewed nug. It has been far too long.”

“Yes, a hot meal would be nice. And then some real rest, for once. Now that I know they haven't caught us, and we're safe in a friendly, well-populated town, well... I intend to sleep as long as I like.” She smiled at the thought, imagining the reactions of the other Dalish if she managed to sleep past daybreak—such a luxury!

“At least try to sleep in the bed for once. The innkeeper might take it amiss if you were found in the floor again. What would that say about the quality of her establishment?” Fen'harel chuckled, his head tilting back in his mirth. Then he looked back toward Uth'shiral with his eyes still sparkling with humor. “Don't worry about me; I'll go to the other room to sleep. If you need me--”

Lavellan reached for his hand again, this time holding it gently in her own, causing him to cut off his own words. “I doubt I'll get much rest sleeping in that squishy deathtrap the humans call a bed,” she grumbled, giving the offending furniture a glare. The thought genuinely did not appeal. “You might as well stay. Then if I need you, you'll be right here.”

She could see Solas's head tilting slightly from the corner of her eye; his lips curved upward into a faint, playful smile. “I suppose I'll manage well enough on the floor,” he said. “If they ask, I'll say we had a lovers' spat.” When she looked directly at him, his smile faded. “If we part ways when we get back to Skyhold,” he told her, “it might be over for good. It might be easier for both of us if we stop trying to be more than we can.”

“If that's when it has to end, and if I may not have much time to live, Fen'harel, I want to enjoy the time we have together while I have the chance.” She leaned close to him, her forehead resting against his only for a moment before he pulled her into an embrace, his lips meeting hers, his tongue exploring her mouth.

Then he pulled away. “This is a bad idea.” She didn't try to pull him close again; such a moment could never be forced. It seemed to her that he'd chosen, and his decision was “not now.” As disappointed as she was, Uth'shiral acknowledged that he was probably right. And yet somehow, that made her want to be close to him even more.

A sharp rapping at the door interrupted them. “It sounds like our meal is here.”

Chapter Text

They had eaten in silence, and now that their bowls lay empty between them, the silence continued to stretch uncomfortably onward. Uth'shiral was refusing to look at Solas, even though they were facing one another. It would be better if they could remain distant, but hurting her in such a way hurt him, too. She had some of her clan; she didn't need him. Staying apart was nothing compared to losing everything she once knew—and even with the discovery of two more survivors, he'd seen the carnage. She had lost more than she could ever recover. It was a feeling he understood well—and yet, she had not told him anything about it when they had met in the Fade.

He could stay apart from her, and that would hurt her for now, but would spare them both pain in the future. Perhaps his goals would have the side benefit of saving her life. If not, he was not inclined to watch her waste away from his power. It was his fault, no matter how she might insist it wasn't. All of it was his fault; even the Breach was his fault. And yet, if she did survive and he didn't have to watch her be devoured by his magic, he could return blighted, too dangerous to be close to her. Or the others...

There were so many things that could go wrong. It would be wrong to return, but he wanted to stay, and that was perhaps even worse. If he left, if he worked toward his goals, he could fix everything. If he lost her love in the process, what was one loss to one man, when others stood to gain so much?

The problem was that it still hurt her.

“Vhenan...” he began, uncertain where he was going with this.

Her eyes met his. He could see the lines of pain and sadness that had marked her since the Inquisition began. She must be exhausted. “Don't call me that,” she said. “If it's over, let it be over. If it isn't, then stop pushing me away. If you don't come back... Solas, even if I survive, I can live through one more loss. If you keep pushing me away, and then reaching out again...” She shook her head at him. “I can't take that. If there's something more important, I understand that. I don't want to be a... a distraction. If that's what I've been, Solas, then just let me go. If you can't decide one way or another, I will. However strongly I feel about you, there are many other people who need me, and maybe if you don't intend to stay, I can find someone else.”

She might as well have punched him, throwing his own word choice back at him. She was, however, entirely correct. He'd been treating her terribly; it was likely she would be better off with someone else. If she hadn't found him in the Fade, if he hadn't thought she was seeking him out to rekindle his affection... If, if, if. Things should have been different. They should have both moved on with their lives by now. He shouldn't have checked on Skyhold, shouldn't have even remotely hinted that he still felt so strongly about her. In all honesty, she was a distraction from his duty, but she was also more than that in a way he doubted she could understand. When she was close, he stopped focusing on just the Fade, or just the rest of the pantheon, and he thought of her and the things that mattered to her.

She had no idea what he had done. She did not know that it was his fault Corypheus had gotten the orb, his fault that the Breach occurred. His fault that the elves were in the state they were in, that they were not immortal, not whole.

She had also invoked him as a god when commending her people to the Creators—but he didn't want to be her god. He wanted to be... What did he want, besides to be seen as just her equal? He wasn't sure he even knew. It had been over two thousand years since he'd last involved himself with anyone emotionally, and he had never felt more strongly than he did now. No one else would have tested his resolve the way Lavellan did. How could he plan for a future when she was so brilliant in the present that she blinded him to almost everything else?

What he wanted in the moment was easy enough to understand—he wanted to throw aside his hesitation, forget his certainty that it was a bad idea, and take her up on her implied offer to share her bed tonight. If it were only himself he would be hurting, if he cared only about pleasing himself, it would have been easy to do so. If she'd asked him before the night by the waterfall, he would definitely have agreed to it.

He couldn't let the silence stretch on forever. “I have duties, but I have seen you hurting. I have no wish to cause you further pain. I warned you it would be kinder in the long run if I did not pursue you. Letting you go was... is... more difficult than I anticipated. I am no stranger to pain, but I have no wish to inflict it upon someone I hold so dear. The closer we become, the longer we prolong this...”

“You're slipping away from me, and I don't like it,” Uth'shiral observed. “It makes me want to pull you closer, so I can keep you safe from whatever horror you're trying to face on your own. I'm not blind, Solas. I know you still love me. You're so torn... I want to help. If I can't help, at least indulge me until we have to part. And then... if you can't make your way back, I will move on with my life. I was on my way to doing so after the funeral for my clan. Even if some of them hadn't survived, I could have picked myself up. I may only be mortal, but I don't break easily, Fen'harel. You know that.” One of her hands moved as if she wanted to touch him, but it stilled almost immediately.

“Yes. If you die before I return... or if I cannot return...” he stood, pushing his chair back to the table behind him, and took the two steps to her side. “You'll always be remembered warmly.” He reached down to her, smiling—an expression that brightened when she accepted the gesture without hesitation.

“Ar lath ma, Fen'harel,” Uth'shiral murmured against his lips as he pulled her to his chest.

“Ar lath ma, Uth'shiral,” he responded, punctuating his declaration with a kiss, lightly brushing his lips against hers. “You shall not sleep alone tonight,” he added in the language of the ancient Elvhen, as he pressed another kiss to her throat, his hands caressing her back. “Later,” he mumbled against her throat, still in Elvhen, “we shall have more matters to discuss. For tonight, I intend to find joy in your embrace, and gift you with a thousand years' worth of passion in return.”

He was uncertain how many of his words she understood, but it was she who guided him to the bed, with a smile on her lips and her eyes full of love. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

He would never be able to leave her completely. Even if he couldn't return to her, she would dwell on forever in his memory.

Chapter Text

“Inquisitor!”

She was warm and comfortable and Solas's arms were wrapped around her; Uth'shiral did not want to wake and wanted even less to leave his embrace. She had waited too long to be together with him like this to let the moment end so easily.

“Inquisitor!” the voice insisted.

Her eyes scrunched tighter, and she snuggled closer to Solas. If she woke, maybe she would find it had all been some illusion of the Fade and he'd be gone again. Maybe she wouldn't have found survivors from her clan. Maybe...

“Inquisitor! I know you're awake! You have to get up! Please, hurry!”

She sat upright, alarmed by the urgency in Cole's voice. He stood atop the table, staring at Lavellan and Solas and glancing back toward the hall every few seconds. It was still dark, and though the moon was now descending, she knew she hadn't slept for long.

Solas stirred beside her. “Vhenan, again?” he murmured. “Would that be wise? If you intend to travel tomorrow--”

“They're here,” Cole said, cutting off Solas's drowsy dialogue. “Surging, swiftly swarming toward the door as you slumbered. So I shadowed them, stealthy, to stop them. But they're coming anyway.”

Cole vanished, reappearing next to Uth'shiral's armor to lift it and hand it to her.

“What... who's coming, Cole?” the Inquisitor asked, not certain she trusted her drowsy mind to find the proper answers. She didn't question the necessity of arming and armoring herself, however, and quickly worked to throw on her gear, unheeding of what the spirit might or might not see—such an urgent moment was not the time to remember to be shy.

The Dread Wolf, too, was now rousing himself from what had clearly been a comfortable slumber, and gathering his own gear.

“The ones who followed you,” Cole answered once both were fully clad in their armor, with staves in hand. “They're coming.”

Uth'shiral and Solas shared a long look. “Wardens,” the Inquisitor said. “Maybe some angry Dalish who take me for a traitor.” Solas did not question it; he simply nodded.

“Stay close to me, or the Anchor...” He didn't finish the sentence. She hadn't thought to wonder why the mark had not flared out again, threatening to consume her in fire—but it made sense to her now to realize that Fen'harel, Solas—whoever he truly was, had been helping as long as he was present. He'd told her that he could help, if she were to travel with him.

“I need to be close to you to make sure your barrier covers someone other than just me,” she replied, teasing him instead of commenting about the Anchor. “Cole, are the others awake and armed?”

“I'll wake them,” the spirit answered, vanishing.

“Let's go, then, and see what's going on,” Uth'shiral said to Solas. “I won't see my clan destroyed entirely, not after everything that's already happened.”

Fen'harel smiled at her in the darkness. “It is good to see you taking charge again. You sound more like yourself.”

“I have to be in charge. I'm the Inquisitor... and the Keeper of Clan Lavellan,” she responded.

Without another word, the pair each illuminated their staves, walking quickly down the hallway toward the stairs. Abelas and the remnants of Clan Lavellan followed through the doorways of their own rooms only moments behind. Something was not right; all of them knew it from the stillness in the air. Cole had warned of enemies. Shouldn't their armor be clattering in the darkness? Shouldn't there be shouts and noise from the doors? Shouldn't the inn's staff be busy even at this late hour, in case of late arrivals?

“I don't like this...” Uth'shiral whispered.

It occurred to her in that instant that no one had warned Atisha and Mirevas. “Cole, could you--”

“FIRE! FIRE! They're burning the place down! Everyone wake up! WAKE UP!” Atisha dashed from the stairwell, shouting as loudly as she could. Even in the dim the light of the mages' staves, she was disheveled, as if she had thrown on her clothing as hastily as possible with no concern for appearance. She gasped for breath as she stopped before them, explaining in short, frantic sentences. “Mirevas has gone for help. I ran for the rest of you. Wardens. Dalish. At least a dozen! The inn staff... Traitors! Need to get out! The children! Halin? Atish'adahl?”

The elves began to file out of their rooms, Cole following as quietly as a wisp of smoke. Hasty footsteps pattered behind Solas and the Inquisitor. “How did you get in? Which way should we leave?”

“Why would they do this?” Atisha asked. She bit her lower lip, then shook her head. Reddish light glowed below them.

“Now is not the time,” Uth'shiral replied. “We need to leave. Is there a safe route out from below? Do we need to try the windows?”

“The side entrance!” Atisha answered, grabbing at Lavellan's wrist. “Follow me.”

“It may be a trap,” Solas remarked. “They could be flushing us out.”

“What about the other patrons?” Sorien asked, pushing to the front of the group as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “Shouldn't someone try to--”

“Gone. Safe, sleeping,” Cole replied. “They knew. Why didn't they tell?”

“Fenedhis! We've really been tricked!” Uth'shiral snapped. “Weapons ready! I don't know what we're about to step out into. Halin! Atish'adahlen! Stay close. Everyone, protect the children! If Atisha's right, we're outnumbered.”

One of the children whimpered in terror. “Don't be afraid,” Cole murmured. “Everyone will keep you safe.”

They didn't try to be inconspicuous as they made their way through the building. Fire crackled on all sides, and flames had begun to lick up the sides of the wall toward the upper story. Uth'shiral cast a barrier, hoping to spare the group the worst of the heat and smoke. Solas cast his own over hers. Even so, the thick smoke caught in her lungs and she coughed helplessly, eyes watering as she followed behind Atisha, hoping that they were picking a path of relative safety.

Behind them, a heavy beam crashed to the floor. Why would the innkeeper have consented to have the entire building destroyed in this way? But now was not the time to question; the group surged forward, pressing through a maze of hastily abandoned furniture and spreading flames.

The side exit loomed before them through the smoke, but when Atisha tugged at it, it would not open. “They blocked it!” she shouted. “They saw me go in and they blocked it! ” She chased her proclamation with a string of Dalish curses.

“So we'll get it open,” Uth'shiral answered. She raised her staff, preparing to blast the door with as much magic as she could muster.

Abelas slid past her, shaking his head as he raised his sword. “Stand back,” he advised. Atisha jumped away from him as though he were a demon making its presence known. He ignored her, waiting only long enough to make sure that the others stood far enough back before he swung his blade. With one blow, the door cracked and splintered. With the second, it split. With the third, the crates behind it smashed and scattered.

The elves and Cole surged through to the outside, disoriented by the smoke and flames and trying to catch their breath. Flames were roaring up from the stable—likely, Uth'shiral guessed, where the fire had been started.

“There she is! Archers!” someone shouted through the smoke. Uth'shiral couldn't see whoever was issuing the command.

“Murderer!” someone else shouted. An arrow sped by so close that she could feel the wind of its passage, only barely deflected by her barrier. Solas hastily cast another one, but the Inquisitor heard someone grunt in pain. She wasn't certain which of them had been hit, but there was no time to stop and check. The enemy could see them, while they were still blinded by fire and smoke. The situation was not ideal.

“Toward the docks! Stay in cover if you can. Stay together!” Uth'shiral ordered. “Solas, can you maintain the barrier?”

“Yes,” Solas answered, refreshing the protective spell as soon as he answered.

“Does anyone see Mirevas?” Atisha asked.

“They hit the big hahren!” one of the children wailed. “He's bleeding!”

“Everyone try to stay calm! Head for the docks,” Uth'shiral repeated. They needed a seaworthy boat. Reparations for taking it could come later. They would have to come later, assuming everyone survived the night. For all she knew, the boats would also be set aflame.

“Sorrow is hurt!” Cole called. “He needs--”

“He needs to manage it until we can stop!” Solas answered. “First we must survive!”

They dashed through the crooked streets, carving a path through the darkness toward the docks as arrows rained down. Just as Uth'shiral began to wonder whether they were all archers, more enemies approached from their flanks and stood blocking their path in the road. The Inquisitor's group was definitely outnumbered and outmaneuvered as well.

Chapter Text

A Warden in heavy armor stepped into the center of the road. From her build, Lavellan guessed she must be human. Her voice was muffled by her helmet as she spoke. “Give the Inquisitor over to our custody and the rest of you can go free. Let us have our justice. She's the one who exiled us away from our homes and families. With Corypheus defeated, her job is done.”

“You Wardens are fools, always meddling with forces you don't understand,” Solas snapped from somewhere behind Uth'shiral. “Defeating Corypheus should have fallen to you, but instead you fell to him. It was inevitable. Your nature ensured it. Do you suppose you would have been safer without your exile? I wonder, how many people would have suffered and died while he freely played the puppeteer with your forces?”

The Warden's hand moved to the pommel of her sword.

“Solas...” the Inquisitor said softly, forestalling him from making further protests. “I exiled you to keep the people safe. You were working for the enemy, and your actions... What would have happened if you'd succeeded in digging up an archdemon? I didn't exile you out of malice. I wanted to keep people safe. Most of the Wardens seemed to understand.”

“Corypheus is dead. Why didn't you reverse the exile? We were close to ending the Blights forever. We could have continued our work without Corypheus. We would have!” the Warden countered, one gauntleted finger pointing toward Uth'shiral's chest as the warrior advanced, step by step.

“She's hurting,” Cole whispered. “She wanted to protect. Always wanted to protect. Protect the mages from the people, and the people from the mages. Protect the people from the darkspawn. The cost to her didn't matter. She wanted to be the one to strike the blow. They could have ended the Blights forever but it was a lie... it was all a lie. So many demons... So much betrayal. She had to leave but leaving left her lover and so she stayed... So many stayed, settled, sneaky, seeking a time to strike or...”

“You had no way of knowing what would happen if you succeeded in killing the Archdemons,” Solas retorted. “Do you think that would end your Blights? What if you caused something even worse? What would the darkspawn do when they were no longer compelled to dig? Did you think they would become docile simply because you willed it so?”

The Warden continued to advance; mere words would not stay her. One hand remained on her sword hilt; the other continued to point its accusation at Uth'shiral.

“Stay back,” Sorien commanded the Warden, raising his sword. “You can't have her. You're not the only person who's suffered losses in all of these wars. To you she's the Inquisitor. To me, she's the only family I have left.”

“We don't have to fight,” the Inquisitor said softly.

“You can still help, protect, preserve, keep the promise. Go north, with the others. Regroup, rebuild, restore. It isn't too late,” Cole said. “She's needed here too. The sky still has tears. They need to be closed, healed, so the spirits don't lose themselves.

The Warden's pointing hand dropped to her side, and her other hand shifted away from her weapon. “You're right. There's... nothing left here anyway. We all swore to give it up when we took our oaths. We don't have to fight.” The rage she had radiated dissipated, and even through her armor, she somehow looked forlorn.

“Yes. We. Do,” someone else's voice said sharply behind the Inquisitor.

“Watch out!” Assanvir shouted, as someone shoved Uth'shiral to the side away from danger. She lost her balance and her footing, meeting the ground hard. A dagger glinted in the moonlight, narrowly missing her as someone in Dalish armor appeared seemingly from nowhere directly beside of her. Green light flared as Solas threw a hasty barrier around the group. She could make out Abelas's form struggling to make use of his sword one-handed as she tried to get back to her feet. Wardens surged forward, and arrows rained down.

The Warden warrior they had spoken to charged, sword raised, crying out as much in despair as in anger. And then she fell, face down, a single Dalish arrow protruding from a weak point in her armor. Mirevas stood above her at a distance.

Uth'shiral stood, feeling glad that no one had succeeded in taking advantage of her moment of incapacitation. “To the docks!” she cried again. “We can't take them, there are too many and we'd risk hurting townspeople. Fight your way to the docks! Solas, keep up the barriers!” she shouted. “Sorien, Bel'era, Cole, guard our flanks! Keep the children guarded! Mirevas, Atisha, Assanvir, keep them back with arrows! Abelas, use magic if you can, don't overwork that arm! Solas... ice wall and ice mines behind us! Keep them away!”

She shouted order after order, punctuating each with virtually every spell she knew. Bolts of lightning rained from the clear sky, and groups of Wardens were held in place by lightning that threw them back when they tried to advance. Warriors and rogues, Wardens and Dalish alike were frozen in place or hindered by Solas's ice spells. As confusing as the scene was to Uth'shiral as she tried to cast and run at the same time, she could only imagine how terrible it was for the children.

It was not the first losing battle Lavellan had fought; she recounted her clan being routed by angry townsfolk more than once, even though they'd done nothing wrong. But as the Inquisitor, being outnumbered and outmatched was a rarity that reminded her just how very mortal—and ultimately normal—she was. There were more enemies than Atisha had said. Dalish strangers mingled in with the Wardens, silent as shadows even in this urban environment. Despite every effort, Uth'shiral's group could not hope to hold them back.

The docks appeared abruptly ahead of them around a curve, as if a gift from the Creators meant to spare them. The closest boat also appeared to be the largest—large enough to hold them all, if they didn't mind being cramped. In the dark, Uth'shiral wasn't sure what condition the ship was in, or how fast it might be once on the water. It was, however, an exit strategy.

“There! To the boat! As fast as you're able!” the Inquisitor shouted. “Solas, barriers! EVERYONE RUN!”

Enemy arrows sped around and past them, deflected by Solas's barrier. All pretense of stealth or attack ceased as the Inquisitor, the remnants of her clan, and her allies stormed down the dock and across the ramp onto the deck of the boat.

A surprised white-haired human captain bolted out of his cabin. “Andraste's flaming smallclothes, what's going on here? What's the meaning of--”

“We need to get south to Ferelden. Can you do it?” Uth'shiral asked, her hands reaching in desperation for the captain's shoulders. He jumped in shock as he noticed the glow of her left palm. “We will compensate you for this. We must leave now! Please!”

“A-anything for the Herald,” the captain replied. Immediately he began shouting for whatever crew remained on board to ready the sails and hoist the anchor. To his credit and theirs, they set to the task immediately, and the ship was in motion faster than Uth'shiral would have believed possible.

“Is everyone aboard?” the Inquisitor asked, dashing across the deck to check that everyone had made it.

Cole was kneeling beside of Abelas, who slumped in the corner of the cabin and a large crate secured by netting, his eyes locked on the receding shore. Even at a distance and in this darkness, Uth'shiral thought that the man looked regretful. Sorien seemed to be attending to the Sentinel along with Cole, so the Inquisitor moved on. Bel'eranen crouched beside of the two little girls as they wept, offering them words of reassurance. That matter appeared to be well in hand, as well. She glanced around the deck for the others.

Assanvir was climbing to the top of the cabin, firing arrows at the far shore in defiance. It was a waste of perfectly good arrows, but Atisha made her way up to join him even as Mirevas was storming her way forth toward both of them—more likely than not to tell them to stop their foolishness. Uth'shiral sighed and clambered up after Mirevas. “Atisha, Assanvir. Stop wasting your arrows, unless you plan to swim back to get them. They can't hit us from here, and you aren't likely to take any of them out, either. It's useless. The best we can do now is hope that they don't follow.”

Assanvir nodded his assent, but scowled as he lowered and unstrung his bow. Atisha glared at Uth'shiral, fired one final shot, and then gave a resigned sigh as Mirevas began to storm back down from the top of the cabin away from her. “Mirevas, wait...” Atisha called, and hurried to follow her lover.

The Inquisitor wanted nothing more than to sit on the edge of the cabin roof with her head in her hands, but instead she stood and waited for Assanvir to jump down and join Bel'eranen with the children. With a gusty sigh, she finally climbed down, assured that no one else was going to indulge in a pointless display of temper. She was grateful that no one had thought to set fire to the boat with an arrow as they fled—but surely they could anticipate pursuit soon. Speaking to Solas might make her feel better. Perhaps he knew of some way to defend themselves that--

Before she could complete her thought, a tremendous howl rose up from the shore. Startled, Uth'shiral glanced back toward the town.

“Inquisitor,” Abelas called. She began to walk toward him, but he shook his head. “He said he would hold them off. He said I was welcome to join him. Ir abelas, ma falon. I do not believe he intends to return.” He would not meet her gaze or Cole's, instead staring at the stars as if his silent prayers could restore everything he had lost. He'd had the chance to find what he had been seeking, and he had chosen not to. Uth'shiral could only wonder why Abelas had followed her instead of Solas.

Chapter Text

Abelas had been the largest target on the field, and as a result, he had also taken the most damage of anyone. Others had gotten scratches, scrapes, and bruises. He had gotten no less than four arrows through his armor, the most noticeable of which had disabled one of his arms. He tolerated Sorien's ministrations just as he tolerated the nausea that the ceaseless rocking of the boat inspired. The spirit of compassion helped by blocking the pain as each arrow was removed from the Sentinel's flesh.

He stared toward the shore, toward a future he had rejected, and did not even attempt to hide that it had hurt to do so.

He could not in conscience follow the Dread Wolf. Abelas knew the plan, and he knew the potential cost of it. He had seen the people of the world, shadows of what they could be, struggling to make something of themselves. It was meaningless, and yet they seemed to find value in their existence, as did the shemlen Sentinels who had been born at the Temple of Mythal over the course of many centuries. Joining Fen'harel would have been a betrayal of his own people and a dismissal of the struggles of those who had been born into this time. Though their lives were but brief and meaningless, they had changed the face of the world. They had claimed the world as their own; it no longer belonged to the Elvhen. It wouldn't be right to steal it away.

The Inquisitor might believe he had stayed for her sake. To some degree, perhaps, he had. She had been willing to respect the old ways, and there was value in that. He had lent his aid to her because he had felt certain she would lead him to Fen'harel—and so she had. It was unfortunate that he had grown attached to such an ephemeral creature. If he had left her to whatever fate was in store for her, he would not now be tormented by his own doubt. Fen'harel would eventually have sent an agent to him, and he would have worked to restore the world of the Elvhen—the world without the Veil.

And yet... He could not claim he did not want to see the world made whole again, the Veil dispersing and the world becoming as malleable as it once had been. His people would once again be born whole, complete, intact. The world would once again have meaning to him. He would be able to rebuild, instead of clinging to the shattered fragments of the past. The renewed world could be made better than it had been before the Veil.

How long he could continue to resist, he did not know. If Solas held the power of Mythal, he had either taken it or it had been given to him, for a price that had yet to be paid. If Mythal supported this plan, then whatever he felt now, Abelas would follow that same path as soon as her will was known.

“You could have gone. If you thought it was wrong, he might see it too,” Cole said. “He doesn't want to hurt them.”

“Their lives are meaningless,” Abelas snapped. Sorien gave him a questioning look. Here was this hapless shemlen, tending to his wounds while knowing nothing. None of them knew anything. How long did they have? A few short years? Less than nothing to Abelas. It was cruel. He understood the Dread Wolf's desperation, but this... “It is nothing,” he assured Sorien.

“Your armor took the worst of it,” Sorien observed. “I know herbs and I have elfroot on hand—what I could get when we left the inn, anyway. My sister might be able to work some healing magic, if you allow it. I've never seen armor like this, though. What kind of metal is it? Does it have any particular enchantment...?”

“You cannot forge this armor, shemlen,” Abelas replied. “The art is as lost to you as Arlathan.”

Sorien looked taken aback, and paused from tending Abelas's wounds. “Shemlen...?”

“Yes. Shemlen. Short-lived and wearing vallaslin with no understanding of its meaning. You rush through your brief years with little understanding. It is not an insult to you.” Abelas could not argue that the existence of shemlen was a bit insulting to him—how could one teach someone who had so little time to learn? “It is a fact.”

“A fact. But... humans are shems. Not elves...” Sorien's brow wrinkled into a frown and he looked at Abelas as though the Sentinel had three heads.

“Mortals are shemlen. You are shemlen.” Abelas felt his patience fading. His wounds left him weary, and even Cole could not ease all of his pain.

“Are you saying you aren't mortal?” Sorien asked. A hint of excitement colored his tone. “If that is so, then--”

“It is so, and I will not impart any ancient wisdom,” Abelas snapped. “I could teach you little. You lack time. You lack magic. You lack your self. Even if you were able to understand what I could tell you, it would only give you sorrow. For you, what we once were is unattainable. Be satisfied with that answer. Make what you can of this life, in this world.”

Abelas could tell that Cole was unhappy with his handling of Sorien, but the spirit said nothing. It was likely because he could also tell Abelas was in turmoil. It had been painful enough to lose the wonder the world had once been—but to reject its potential return was more painful still.

Sorien continued tending Abelas's wounds for only a short while more, and wordlessly, before he made his way toward Bel'eranen and the two children. Cole gave a last disapproving look to Abelas before joining Sorien. “The children need me,” was the spirit's only apology.

The Sentinel struggled to his feet, swaying as pain and the rocking of the vessel shook his balance. Not immediately spotting the Inquisitor, he approached one of the other shemlen—Atisha, he believed, although he had tried not to remember their names. It was always easier to bear their deaths when they didn't have names. “I must speak to the Inquisitor,” he said.

“Why should I tell you where she is? Aren't you married to her or something? But off she went to sleep with that flat-ear anyway. That doesn't speak well of you.”

Abelas closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had already become aware that Atisha, with her otherwise serene face and silvery hair, was mostly anything but peaceful. Perhaps he should have approached the other one, instead. Mirevas, he thought. It was too late for that now. “It was a rumor that was crafted to avert suspicion when a friend of hers was slain. She was not the culprit. The ruse was not my preference, but I agreed to it. The Inquisitor was innocent, and the lie made it possible for the death to be perceived as a personal matter between jealous lovers, rather than something larger. It did not work, as you saw. We were pursued.”

“At least now I know she didn't really marry some grumpy, unpleasant loner like you,” Atisha responded. “I guess it was good of you to help her, but I can honestly say I'm glad you're not the Keeper's husband. No charisma, no charm at all. She's lucky she didn't get tangled up in your mess.”

The words stung, although he could hardly say that Atisha knew him or that he knew her. Moreover, he still wished to find and speak to the Inquisitor, and Atisha had yet to tell him where Uth'shiral was. “This charmless, unpleasant loner kept her alive until she could speak with someone better suited to do so,” he responded. “I have done more than enough to deserve a conversation, especially when the information I wish to share may be important. My patience for shemlen such as you is wearing thin. My injuries weary me. Trust me when I warn you that you do not wish to be the one who breaks what little patience I have left.”

The edge in his voice must have warned her that he was serious, for Atisha frowned and grew serious. Maybe she meant for her harsh attitude to amuse, rather than irritate and belittle, but she had not offered a good first impression. “Okay, it's important... and I get it. You've helped her out. We owe you.” She sighed. “Check the cabin; I saw her go in there earlier. Some of the crew will tell you where she went from there. Maybe she's gone to bed, or maybe she's in the mess hall.”

He did not speak another word to Atisha, despite her contrition. Instead, he turned on his heel to enter the cabin. It was a conversation he did not relish having, but one that must be had. There was no sense in putting it off; he could wait forever, but she was shemlen. He didn't ask for directions; the ship was not large and neither was its cabin or the below-decks quarters for the crew. It took only moments to locate her, sitting alone at a small table in the mess hall with her head in her hands.

The Inquisitor looked forlorn. He regretted intruding on her moment of solitude, his resolve fading as he paused in the doorway. It could wait. He could tell her later. There was time yet.

“Come and sit with me, Abelas,” she said. “I know you're there. Your footsteps gave you away. If you need to talk...”

“Yes,” Abelas answered as gently as he could manage. He approached at a sedate pace, settling across from Uth'shiral, his arms settling on the top of the table. She greeted him with a smile, but he could see the sadness in it. It pained him, but what he meant to tell her was unlikely to offer her any relief, no matter how much he wished he could.

“You could have gone with him. It's what you wanted,” the Inquisitor began.

“That isn't what I wanted to tell you,” Abelas replied, unwilling to discuss his reasons for remaining with her when there was something more pressing to say. “I tried to tell you what I have to say before, but no matter how many times I caught your gaze, you would not draw aside to speak. Why else you believed I might be staring, I do not know.” He stared at her intently. “It is about the Dread Wolf. Your lover.”

“Is he that?” she asked. She shook her head. “I'm sorry. I doubt you want to hear me pitying myself. There's something you wanted to talk about?”

“Something. Not everything,” Abelas agreed. “You likely know more than I about the rest, but within him... He has grown more powerful, falon. That power is not his own. His magic has the feel of Mythal. I don't know how he gained it. Perhaps she gave it to him, a boon for which a price shall be paid. Perhaps he stole it. I would have liked to speak with him about the matter, but with Mythal's power, and perhaps her will, doing so could have ended with my death and would not have aided you.”

“I... slept with Mythal...?” she asked, her eyes wide and confused. “But he seemed...”

“No. Your lover remains himself. If he has a fragment of her will within him, it does not direct him. It may come to direct me, in time. Ir abelas. You deserved to know. I wanted to tell you sooner.”

The Inquisitor simply stared at him; neither of them spoke for a long moment. “Could he—would he—have hurt Mythal? Or what remains of her?”

Abelas allowed the question to hang for longer than he should; the Inquisitor began to get up. “Once, I would not have believed so. Now, I do not know.” He wanted to tell her about the danger he might pose. He wanted to tell her that he didn't join Solas because he didn't want to see the people of this time suffer. But if he told her, he would not be able to remain neutral, would not be able to continue hoping for the Dread Wolf's success. And, if he told her, she'd trust him—but Mythal's will might force him to act on the Dread Wolf's behalf anyway.

He should tell her. She deserved to know, and Solas's plans were far more important than the piece of Mythal he now carried. Maybe the Inquisitor already knew, and that was why she had wandered to a place where she could be alone. In that case, telling her would do nothing.

“Inquisitor--” he began.

He felt dizzy as he stood, blood loss and weariness catching up with him. The Inquisitor noticed when he stumbled, swaying on his feet.

“Abelas? What is it? Are you all right?” Tiny as she was, she rushed to his side to lend him support. He was embarrassed more than gratified, but refusing her help would have only caused offense. He leaned on her shoulder as lightly as he could manage while still claiming she was being of aid.

“I must rest. That is all. You should, as well. There is much traveling to be done.” No; he must not tell her.

“All right. I'll help you to the crew's bunk. It's small, but it isn't as if we had our pick of ships to hire this time.”

As she helped him to the crew's cabin below decks, he wondered why he felt so guilty.

Chapter Text

For three days, Lavellan tried to avoid getting involved in any deep discussions with her clan. She often toiled alongside the crew of the fishing vessel in an effort to make up for having demanded they leave port for her sake in the dead hours of night. The Anchor no longer plagued her, but that gave her no comfort. It had been harmless for months before, and still there were rifts to seal. It must function. She must survive.

In a rare moment of peace, she had slipped away to the forward deck on her own, staring out across the horizon. Cole and Abelas had offered that bit of advice—and it had helped her to adjust to the movement of the ship more quickly this time. That was fortunate; the Fishy Fortune was by far a smaller vessel than they had been aboard on the way to Wycome, and as a result, the ocean tossed it mercilessly. This ship was also not at all armed for the Amaranthine Ocean, and barely so for the Waking Sea. She hoped that they encountered no serpents.

“Uth'shiral,” Sorien abruptly spoke behind her. She jumped—she had not known he had approached. “I thought I might find you slipping away again. You're being distant. It's not right for a Keeper to—”

“I don't know if I can be the Keeper, Sorien,” Lavellan answered. “I don't know if what I've learned can even be shared. If I share it, will anyone believe me?”

“First you have to tell us,” her brother replied, offering a sad smile. “Don't we deserve to hear it, at least? I know you've been through a lot, but many people look at you as a hero. Look at the rest of us—we're beaten down and battered, and there are just eight of us left. That's not enough to keep the clan going. You never even finished training as a Keeper. I guess there's some clan out there that's as shattered as ours, that maybe we could join up with. You should--”

“Sorien, stop.” Uth'shiral turned to face her brother. “I know. You've all got a difficult path ahead of you. I understand the anger and the hurt. But we are not welcome among our own people any longer. I went to the Arlathvhen, and it... did not go well for me. That's why we were pursued. I know not everyone's going to pose a threat, but...”

Sorien frowned, then walked to the railing to lean against it beside of his sister. “What happened there?”

“Where do I even begin? I... made a poor decision. That's why I don't have the vallaslin anymore. I was barely allowed into the gathering, and then... the Anchor was acting up, Morisel was murdered... I didn't know what to do. I knew I had enemies. I'm sure that wasn't the only group of them. In hindsight, fleeing with Abelas probably only made me look more suspicious, but... if I had stayed, I'd probably be dead. Keeper Emalla gave terrible advice. 'If they think Morisel was murdered by another suitor of yours, of course they won't think you're at fault for running away and marrying someone else!' It was foolish.” She rubbed at the back of her neck, then winced as the contact irritated a sunburn she'd sustained by working on the deck.

“I suspect there was more to the story than that. People don't normally run off with their former suitors' murderers. You were Morisel's friend—even if I didn't personally think highly of him. A lot of people knew that.” Sorien frowned and crossed his arms, waiting.

“All right...” She sighed. “It was the Wardens. They were going to kill me, but caught Morisel on his way to meet me instead, while I had stepped away. Keeper Emalla told me she'd spread the story that I was, ah, busy entertaining Abelas, when Morisel ran across some new suitor. That's why there's a rumor that I married Abelas and ran—which is not in any way true, if you wondered. The story made sense, I suppose. If someone killed Morisel out of jealousy, I doubt they'd be happy to find they had more competition. As Emalla said, most people want to hear a love story has a happy ending. But after what happened to my own clan, after the humans insisted on calling me the Herald of Andraste no matter how I denied it... I can understand why some of the Dalish were angry. The Dalish Grey Wardens had even more reason to be angry.” She leaned against the railing, too, elbows resting on the top plank as she stared out to sea.

“Speaking of your friend Abelas, he's been dead to the world for the past three days. It's not normal. If the elfroot didn't clean his injuries, then...” Sorien peered toward the door to the cabin. “Maybe he got hit by a poison weapon?” He hesitated, then looked back toward Uth'shiral with a serious expression. “I'd also like to know if what he told me was true. He said he's not mortal. Speaking as your brother, what in the name of the All-Mother have you gotten yourself into? Do you actually believe him? Is that why you let Mister Armor Wedgie follow you around?” He shook his head. “And don't come off with your usual, 'It's between me and Dirthamen and you'll never know!'”

“I'm not Dirthamen's creature anymore,” Uth'shiral answered, unwilling just yet to explain that further. Sorien's frown deepened. “Abelas is not lying,” she said, and turned back around to face her brother. Turning her back on him was not helping matters. She needed to face him, along with all of her clan.

Sorien's scowl twisted the Falon'din tattoos on his face, and his fists clenched at his side. Uth'shiral could not help but wonder if Falon'din had been as cruel as Solas said—should she even try to tell Sorien what the marks were? What kind of person Falon'din was? “Do you really expect me to believe that? He's just some cranky hermit with delusions of self-importance. No one is immortal anymore. He called me shemlen! What does he know?”

“As far as I can tell, he really is ancient,” Uth'shiral answered, pinching the bridge of her nose to stave off an oncoming headache. Of course Abelas had been rude. It made sense; he had been upset, and he had not been polite at the Temple of Mythal. “I first met him at an ancient Temple of Mythal, in the Arbor Wilds. He led the elves there—ancient priests and servants of the temple. We were trying to keep an eluvian out of the hands of Corypheus, and because we showed respect to the temple, Abelas helped us deal with Corypheus's red templars. He said that he and his fellow Sentinels stayed asleep for thousands of years, only waking when someone trespassed on the temple. We were supposed to leave, but... we discovered something that ultimately helped us win and close the Breach, and Abelas allowed us to take it. He recognized the threat that was posed to the world. You would probably hate me if I told you what the artifact was, and what I chose to do with it. There was a heavy price, and I was not willing to pay it.” She touched Sorien's arm. “Abelas doesn't see us as his people, but he kept me alive on the way to Wycome. I'll tolerate his lack of tact. You don't have to like him, but don't antagonize him or ply him with questions. If he wants to share anything with us, he will. Just be warned that you might not like what you learn.”

“We've lost so much! If he's really ancient, shouldn't he want to help us recover lost knowledge? Shouldn't he want to help us build a home of our own someplace? Why aren't we his people? Because we're mortal?” Sorien pushed away from the railing, pacing. “It makes me like him even less, but nevermind that. I saw him fight. We might need him again on the way to Skyhold, but he's as good as dead for all that anyone can wake him. I don't know much about poisons... It has to be poison, right? Because that's what I told the ship crew. If he's down much longer, they're going to throw him overboard. They're already unnerved by his looks, and they aren't happy about all the Dalish aboard.”

“I... hadn't realized,” the Inquisitor admitted, guilt tearing at her conscience. She should have been paying more attention to her people, instead of trying to ignore them. And she should have realized that Abelas hadn't actually gotten up for three days. She had thought she was only staying busy to keep her mind off of her problems, but now she saw that she'd simply been ignoring those problems. “Have you tried giving him anything to eat or drink? Soup, perhaps?”

“I tried to give him water, but he didn't stir for that either.” Sorien stood still, giving a worried glance back toward the cabin again. “Should I have kept trying? Without water, he'll die, but if he doesn't take it, we only have so much fresh water. The captain will be furious if we waste it, and really it's our fault for forcing him out to sea on a boat that's not suited for this kind of travel for this many people.”

“His injuries were worse than I thought at first—I saw when you were tending to him. All that blood... And you may be right about the poison. But if he isn't taking water and isn't doing any worse... maybe we should let him sleep.” Another pang of guilt twisted in her gut. She had been so intent on avoiding the moment she'd have to give explanations and apologies to the remnants of her clan—who might very well no longer be welcome among the Dalish themselves—that she had not even checked up on anyone. She had assumed Abelas was simply avoiding her clan, and that Cole was helping everyone deal with their problems. Could Abelas be sleeping to avoid seasickness? Had he entered uthenera? Was he sleeping to avoid boredom—or worse, questions? She shouldn't leave everyone's problems to Cole. Even if Clan Lavellan couldn't really recover with its meager numbers, its people were her responsibility. She should not have been avoiding them.

Sorien shook his head, scowling at his sister as his arms crossed over his chest again. “If you let him keep sleeping, he's going to get thrown overboard. We may be able to defend him, but none of us know how to manage a ship if it came to blows. The crew are getting superstitious about him. They think he might be possessed. It'll be hard to convince them otherwise even if he wakes up, but with his size and magic to back him up, they probably won't try anything. And speaking about him waking up... do you know anything we could try? Do you have some kind of antivenin potion or something handy? You're the Inquisitor, the one with all the resources.”

Maybe this was normal for Abelas, Uth'shiral mused, but she couldn't let him be if Sorien were correct. “I don't know what to try,” she replied. “I have almost no supplies left. There was an incident. Still... I'll check on him later. I'm not sure if I can do anything, but I'll try.”

“Just a reminder, Uth'shiral. You can't keep putting off the discussion with the clan forever. You're the Keeper. You're the one who decides what our future holds,” Sorien told her firmly. He stepped in front of her and settled a palm on her shoulder. “Learn from your mistakes. I know you can do better. And... for what it's worth, I'm sorry about Morisel.”

“You realize what my being Keeper means, with Deshanna and Nehn'era gone, Sorien,” the Inquisitor murmured. She winced in anticipation of Sorien's reaction, avoiding his gaze—but he did not flinch.

“Yes. Without any other mages...” He hesitated. She knew he didn't want to finish; he probably had a hard time admitting that so many Lavellans had died.

“You are the Keeper's First. Which means you actually have to study, pay attention, and learn things now. Deshanna didn't object to you playing the hunter, and I won't either, as long as you actually attend to your duties. We both know you're skilled, when you care to try. I will be expecting you to try.” Sorien dropped his hand away from her shoulder as if she'd burned him, and began to walk away. The Inquisitor wondered if she had been too stern.

“I've been studying. I just... use my skills differently, that's all!” Sorien called, even as he walked away.

Uth'shiral smiled to herself, shook her head, and walked toward the cabin. If the crew were as close to attacking Abelas as Sorien suggested, then she needed to check on him before they could. With luck, it was nothing; he'd turn out to be pretending or he'd wake with little effort. But lately, Uth'shiral had not been having any luck except for the bad kind.

Chapter Text

Josephine sighed to herself as she signed yet another document. Since the Inquisitor's abrupt departure nearly two months prior, she had been warding off all suspicion—and now that she knew where the Inquisitor had gone, that part was easier. What was not easy was helping Divine Victoria—formerly Leliana, or Sister Nightingale—to keep pushing back the Exalted Council. It had not even been a year since Corypheus's defeat, and already the people were forgetting the good the Inquisition had achieved. Instead, they chose to focus on petty squabbles over the Inquisition's influence and land holdings. They felt threatened.

Perhaps they were correct to feel threatened. Lady Inquisitor Lavellan had made it clear she wanted to maintain the Inquisition, that she hoped to enforce the changes she had wrought with her forces. For a while it had been necessary, but with Divine Victoria crowned, Josephine could see little reason to be concerned. Mages were declared free, and anyone, regardless of race or gender, would now be able to be a part of the Chantry. Or so declared Divine Victoria—and Leliana did have a way with words.

Lavellan could, Josephine mused, stand to keep working for a while longer. There were signs of trouble in other areas—notably Crestwood—and there had been word of an expedition into Avvar territory in search of the fate of the last Inquisitor, Ameridan. Lady Lavellan enjoyed history, and would surely wish to go. Perhaps it would even serve to get her mind off of Solas... assuming the rumors that she had married someone else were merely that. A letter had arrived from a Keeper Emalla Numin'era stating that it had been a story told to avert trouble. The details of that trouble were conveniently omitted.

Another signature, another seal. And then a sudden interruption in the form of Scout Harding. “Lady Josephine! We've received word. Lots of it, and it's kind of confusing.”

Josephine was normally fine with paperwork, but today the headache it was causing made Harding's arrival a pleasant distraction. “Shouldn't you be reporting to Briala?” she asked, mildly—though personally she did not blame Harding for her distrust.

“Er, well, I would, but...”

Josephine smiled in understanding. “She can be intimidating, yes, although I am surprised a seasoned scout such as yourself would find her so daunting. Go on.”

“Well, the reports from my scouts and the ravens are confusing. I may have to go to the Free Marches myself to find out the whole truth. Or maybe Divine Victoria will have some information. Either way... Some of our people were at the Dalish Arlathvhen, and they've been working to push back against suspicion against the Inquisitor. Word is that she used to plan to marry the guy who was murdered, or something, and not many people thought it was a great idea. And apparently the nobles of Wycome are beside themselves with rage, because somebody went and did some kind of funeral rite for the Dalish clan. There are rumors about red lyrium in Wycome, and word is a lot of the alienage elves have been killed. Maybe all of them.” Harding frowned and fell silent in acknowledgment of the gravity of that situation.

“I had no idea the Inquisitor had ever considered marriage,” Josephine remarked. “It's surprising the matter has come up so frequently of late. I did intend to breach the topic with her, in case a political agreement happened to be necessary or desired. There have been offers, although now everyone assumes—Ah. Forgive me. I would like to hear the rest of your report, please.”

“Okay, here's where it gets weird. The next report we've got of the Inquisitor has her renting rooms at an inn in the small coastal town of Fullnet Cove. Don't look at me, I didn't name the place. In the middle of the night, the place went up in flames, and there were Wardens and Dalish and Dalish Wardens everywhere, armed and looking for the Inquisitor. Even if I hadn't gotten the reports, we'd know about them because they're all stone now. Seriously. Just... statues, everywhere. I've got sketches sent by way of ravens. It's creepy. It's probably even creepier to see in person. And there were angry fishermen from a ship's crew, too, who claim that their ship was taken in the middle of the night. Then there's the talk about the gigantic wolf people saw that night. I told you it got weird, right? People are leaving Fullnet Cove by the dozens. They think there's a demon, or that the place is cursed. The only thing I can say for sure about it is that apparently the Inquisitor went out to sea on that fishing vessel. I can't say if the ship took damage or not, but knowing her, it probably means she's coming back to Skyhold now.”

“Just when I thought I'd heard everything...” Josephine sighed. “All right. This is very important, Scout Harding. I am going to send a series of letters out. I shall trust you to see to it that they arrive in the hands of their intended recipients.”

“Letters?” Harding's forehead scrunched in a confused frown. “About the damage...?”

“Those, too—but these letters regard another matter.” Josephine shook her head and smiled as she dipped the nib of her quill into the inkwell. “Lady Lavellan has endured considerable turmoil during her tenure as Inquisitor. She will endure much more in the coming days—perhaps even the coming years. There is talk of an Exalted Council against the Inquisition, and while we are doing what we can to push it back for as long as we can...” Josephine began to write with sure strokes. “We would do well to be kind to the Inquisitor when she returns. After all she has lost, I am certain she will be grieving for a long time to come.”

“So you're not gonna tell me what the letters are actually for?” Harding asked, looking at Josephine as wide-eyed as a sad mabari.

“For now, no,” Josephine replied with a smile—and a soft laugh as Harding gave up on the “sad puppy” method of information gathering. “But, as it has been discussed with Lady Cassandra and Commander Cullen, I have my doubts that it will remain secret for long.”

As Scout Harding wandered away to resume her work, Josephine returned her attention to her letter.

“To my dear and esteemed friend, Master Varric Tethras...” she began. It would be a long day; she had many more letters to write. At least now it didn't also have to be a dull or stressful day.

Chapter Text

The ship was small and battered, and its rhythmic creaking with every shift of wind or water almost created its own sea shanty. It was also a fishing vessel, and its smell attested to many successful catches in the past. As strong as the reek of fish was on the fore and aft decks, it was somehow even stronger in the cabin. Perhaps the odor seeped through the hold somehow, or perhaps it was because fish was what was most easily available to prepare for the small mess hall. Though the all-human crew—half of the ship's normal crew, or so the captain told her—treated her with deference, it certainly would not have been her first choice of transportation. Uth'shiral wondered if her position as Inquisitor were making her proud, or whether she imagined that as a simple Dalish woman she could have done better by way of transport.

She did not have to hurry to arrive at the crew's bunk swiftly, and in fact she would rather have taken her time. It wasn't clear to her what state Abelas would be in, and the situation felt awkward. Still, she owed him—and she did not have time to consider it for long. She arrived in front of the door to the bunk and braced herself against the odors of fish and sweat and sleep before she opened it. The place could use an airing-out, but then a crew accustomed to its odor and a lack of bathing facilities likely didn't even notice any longer.

Inside, the railed bunks were narrow and tightly spaced, nooks along the walls like the crevices of an ancient tomb. They had railing to keep their occupants from falling off of the thin, hard mattresses. It was better suited to a prison than to honest workers, but she had yet to hear any of the crew complain. Therefore, neither did she.

Abelas had crammed himself into one of the bunks at the far end; it had been a popular sleeping spot until he had taken a bunk there—easier to sleep for a little longer and avoid disturbances if you were not the first person the captain would see. Since Abelas had claimed his bunk, no one slept on that end; given the impression his appearance was currently lending, it would be surprising if anyone ever chose to sleep there again. Lavellan wasn't even certain that “sleep” was the proper word. All semblance of life had abandoned him. A Nevarran mummy might have worn fewer bandages than Abelas did over his wounds, and his legs and torso were bent in a way that even a corpse might find uncomfortable in order to fit them into a bunk meant for someone at least a head shorter than he was. If he hadn't so closely resembled the dead, the Sentinel's lack of armor might have caused him to seem vulnerable, and she might have paused to admire the sleek muscles that peeked from beneath his bandages. Instead it was funereal and disturbing, as if someone had lacked the time for proper burial rites and decided to offer him the absolute minimum respect due the dead by stowing him into the wooden niche of the bunk in haste.

Uth'shiral could understand why the crew were afraid of Abelas. It was as if he were in the grips of a demon, or as if he had died and for some reason was not decaying. She wasn't certain how she had failed to notice; even though he was farthest from the door, the room was small. He had said once that he was considering a blissful eternal slumber, and yet she was not certain what might happen if the crew tried to throw him overboard. Would he wake and attack, as he claimed he had done for centuries to defend against invaders? Or had he entered uthenera, never to wake again?

She took a deep breath, wrinkled her nose in disgust at the smell, and then walked to Abelas. He had not attacked Sorien. She should be fine. “Abelas? Is there any chance you are actually awake?” He did not react or respond, so she shook his arm; though he was reassuringly warm to the touch, he still didn't react.

It was possible he might wake if she harmed him physically somehow, but she immediately ruled out that option. He was a friend, and that would be a betrayal of trust. She stared at him, deep in thought, wondering how she could possibly solve this situation.

“He wanted to heal his wounds, his heart, too. So he slipped away, sleeping, somewhere safe with spirits.” Cole appeared, sitting in the corner next to Abelas. “He was hurting, so he hurt others. It wasn't right to do that. He knew.” Disappointment in Cole's voice lent an unaccustomed maturity to his tone. Uth'shiral regarded the spirit with surprise.

“Do you know something about this? Can we wake him up before someone decides the fish need an Abelas-shaped dinner?” Lavellan asked, leaning on one hand against the wall of bunks.

“He meant to wake already,” Cole answered. “He can't. The world isn't like it was before, and she doesn't call him like she did at the temple. He is lost, left lonely in a place he knows, sad the spirits he knew aren't in his sanctuary. He's stuck in solitude, somewhere, no roads or paths left to return. So he fears, and the demons find him, face him, force him to fight. He wants to flee, free himself from the Fade, but--”

Cole cut off his own dialogue, and looked directly at Uth'shiral. “You could help.”

“How?” the Inquisitor asked, although she suspected the answer involved the Fade—neither she nor Sorien had managed to wake Abelas. She might have hesitated to hurt the Sentinel, but somehow she doubted her brother would have refrained from giving him a good slap or two. If she were dreaming, she probably wouldn't remember to find him. Despite the Anchor's power, she still didn't usually experience lucid dreaming, and she had no access to the quantities of lyrium she'd need to ensure she'd be conscious in the Fade. She had found Solas mostly because of the Anchor—and because, perhaps, she had already wanted to find the man. She was more likely to find Solas than Abelas, and Solas was better qualified to help than she was.

But Solas wasn't here. She couldn't ask him for help. Cole said she could help.

“I can take you to the temple where Sorrow sleeps,” Cole answered. “He is trapped, tormented... terrified, tangled in time and treachery. Two parts that should connect, but now they don't. He lives because he was asleep, but now unless she calls him he can't wake. Two parts, disjointed, torn, tattered. Not whole.” Cole paused to look at her for a long moment as if seeing her for the first time. “Not whole, like you're not whole, except he's there and you're here. He endures, but you... can't. Not without a tie to there. And you can't understand it because you were never whole. But you are whole. You're here, and you're there. Just because you can't reach you doesn't mean you're less than you. You can reach him. You just need to go there. I can show you.”

Cole's commentary about wholeness or lack thereof confused Uth'shiral, although she wondered if understanding it would help her comprehend why Abelas could not see modern elves as his people. It was something to think about later. She considered what else Cole had said. “If he's trapped and in danger like you say, and if he's actually frightened by something, then I should help him,” she agreed. “We should try it this evening when--”

“He needs help now,” Cole interrupted.

“I can't just fall asleep on a whim, Cole!” Uth'shiral answered, beginning to feel exasperated. Not only was it the middle of the day, but now she had far too much to worry about to make a successful attempt at sleeping. “If I could, I'd go help him right now. I don't have a huge stockpile of lyrium available, nor do I have any ancient elven herbal concoctions. It's going to have to wait until I'm able to fall asleep.”

“I can help. I would go, but if I go I have to leave and if you bring me back your hand will hurt again. Halin, Atishadahlen, Sorien, Mirevas, Atisha, Bel'eranen, Assanvir... they all need me. And you need me. I could go back, but I want to stay here, for a while longer. I need to stay here—I'm needed here. But if you go to help him, I can guide you, help you both heal your hurts. Please, help me help him so I can help you too!” Cole stood, tugging at the brim of his hat in agitation as he begged her.

“You can help me sleep?” she asked. She hesitated; it wasn't a skill Cole had ever alluded to. She trusted Cole, but how was it going to look to the crew if she ended up in a state even remotely like Abelas's? Moreover, even though she often kept odd hours, she wouldn't normally go to bed so soon after she woke. That would seem strange, too. The crew was bound to think that they had a sloth demon running amok. And yet... Cole wouldn't insist if this weren't urgent. With any luck, maybe no one aboard the ship would notice her absence. And maybe no one would wander into the bunks before evening.

Helping Abelas out was going to rely on a lot of “ifs” going precisely right.

“Yes,” Cole answered. He sounded relieved; of course he was. He already knew what she'd chosen.

Lavellan walked to her usual bunk by the door, crawled into the cage-like niche, and stretched out. She had chosen it because no one else seemed to want to be that close to the exit, and because she kept odd hours. There were not enough bunks for everyone currently aboard the ship; in consequence, Uth'shiral slept when there was a bunk free. It wasn't safe to sleep aboard the deck on a ship as small as this—waves could crash over the deck when the wind blew strongly, and there was always the chance of a storm. Drowning or being swept away only to drown were not appealing options. At least three other people were also taking turns with the bunks. She wished she'd paid more attention so she would know who they were—if they were her clan, they deserved praise for it. If not, then the crew might be more welcoming than she assumed them to be. If she survived this trip to the Fade, she would definitely pay more heed to what was going on, instead of avoiding everyone.

“That would be good,” Cole said gently. “You could heal and help them heal. Everyone would be happier.” He stood staring at her through the protective railing of the bunk, then abruptly offered his hand. “We should go now.”

Her fingers brushed against the spirit's, and the small crew cabin transformed into a forest filled with brightly colored birds.

Chapter Text

The forest was dense and wild; underbrush thick with thorns and treacherous vines prevented any thought of straying from the path. And there was a path—narrow and crooked and muddy, like a game trail. The idea made Uth'shiral nervous—following a game trail was a fantastic way to meet predators. It was, however, the only way forward, and as long as the birds continued to sing from the branches, she supposed it was safe enough. What she'd do if the birds fell silent, she wasn't sure. She didn't think she'd be able to fight her way through the thorny brush more quickly than a native predator could.

She paused for a moment, leaning against a tree trunk and trying to remember where she was going. It was odd, being somewhere like this without her companions, and not knowing how she got there or where she was heading. It was something important; she remembered that much. She thought that this must be the Arbor Wilds; the birds and vegetation seemed similar. She'd promised not to return there, though. Was she breaking that promise? Maybe she'd strayed too far off the main path. Where were Cassandra and Varric?

The Inquisitor glanced behind her, half expecting someone to be jogging toward her, catching up to her lead. But instead, the game trail wound through the woods and vanished.

It must be important, whatever it was. She'd promised Abelas that she would never return to the Arbor Wilds, but with luck a Sentinel would see her and guide her to the exit, rather than attacking her on sight. It was a genuine mistake, after all—Abelas would understand. He wouldn't be happy, but he'd understand.

Wait... Abelas. Wasn't she here looking for him? Lavellan frowned to herself and stepped away from the tree, continuing her hike. They'd parted ways before she had ever returned to Skyhold. He hadn't welcomed her intrusion before, and later...

Later, despite seeming to view her as little more than a burden and a means to an end, he had thrown away whatever goals he had, declared her his friend, and... stayed, at least for a while. Abelas had returned to the Arbor Wilds to grieve for what could not be restored.

“Are you sure it wasn't your fault?” a voice asked from her right.

Uth'shiral glanced sharply, but nothing was there.

“If you'd been a better friend, maybe he would have stayed. Maybe he could have moved on,” the voice continued from behind her. She spun, but saw nothing as her heart began to race. The voice was deep and calm, with a faint hiss behind it.

“Or,” the voice continued, above her this time, “maybe he would have been better off if you'd never intruded here at all. He might have succeeded in fending off Corypheus without your help. Or he might be dead. Is dead not better than suffering?”

The Inquisitor looked up, but frowned as she saw nothing yet again. Had she taken too much lyrium, or was there a demon somewhere near?

“An excellent question. I could be a demon. Demon or not, I could be inside you even now,” the voice mused, from in front of her this time. “Maybe I was in you all along, as you agonized over each decision you made. Maybe I am the reason for your successes. Maybe I am the reason for your failures. Could you even achieve greatness on your own? It was always the Anchor. His Anchor. Solas raised you up to be a hero despite your wishes, and he didn't stay. Weren't you good enough? Hadn't you been successful? Now you stand on a pillar, and no one's waiting below to catch you if you fall. How long do you think you can stay there?”

There was nothing in front of Uth'shiral—nothing she could see. She backed away slowly, turning back toward the game path. “Abelas?” she asked, picking up her pace. If she could find him, he'd help her against this demon.

“Are you certain of that? He called you 'friend,' but he meant to use you to find Solas. Every bit of aid and effort to keep you alive for just a while longer, was for that goal. Maybe it wasn't ever kindness. Maybe it was cold practicality. Just like all the others—he wants you to help him, but he won't thank you for it in the end. How quickly friendship is forgotten in the face of a new goal.” The voice sounded pitying. It galled Uth'shiral that this... thing, whatever it was, wherever it was, had the nerve to pity her.

“And what of Solas? Kind, gentle Solas, who laughed as he trapped his kin in torment for all time. Solas, the Dread Wolf, the betrayer, the author of the elves' downfall.”

Uth'shiral forced herself to ignore the voice as it continued onward, giving voice to every angle of every concern she had. If she listened for too long, she might break. She might simply stop and curl up and cry in defeat and self-pity. She could not do that; she had work to do. She had people to help, rifts to close, and a world to explore.

“Abelas!” Lavellan shouted. She worried that the voice of the—spirit? Demon?--drowned out her voice, but she had to try. She ran onward, shaky, her legs sinking and slipping in the mud of the game trail—mud that persisted despite the brilliant sunlight and clear sky overhead.

“Are you certain he is a friend...?” the voice whispered into her ear.

“Go away!” she snapped. “Abelas!” she called again, and lost her footing to the mud. She crashed facefirst into the slippery mess, struggling to return to her feet. It was too hard—the mud was slippery and she couldn't get a purchase. She groaned and slumped in defeat.

“Inquisitor! Why are you--”

“Invading your most private sanctuary, even as she invaded the Temple of Mythal. This place is not for her,” the voice thundered. “Does she understand you? Does she respect you? How could she? Shemlen act blindly, with no understanding of the world. You tangle with such small fears. Isn't she the real threat?”

“Tangle with--” The telltale sounds of metal and magic reached her, but it was far away. She had to get there. Her friend was in trouble. She had to help. Although she was exhausted from battling with the mud, she mustered some of her magic. Enough heat, and the mud should dry. Then she could--

The ground crackled beneath her, scaly flakes of dried mud forming on top of the slippery mess. It wasn't much, and it wasn't perfect, but it was enough. She regained her footing, casting the same fire spell along the ground ahead of her as she charged toward the sounds of battle. The more confident she was of the results, the sturdier the ground became as she ran.

“Abelas, I'm on my way!” Lavellan shouted, as the shrieks and howls of demons came ever closer.

“Do you think he needs your help? Did he ever need your help?” the voice goaded.

“If you intend to be of use, then hurry!” Abelas called back.

“How could a shemlen be of use to you? If you can't make yourself wake, how could she manage it? Maybe you should have gone with Solas. You could have helped yourself. You could have helped the others. You still could. You haven't really decided anything, even now. I know.”

“Haven't I?” Abelas roared back, over the shriek of a fear demon.

“Wake? This is a dream?” Uth'shiral mumbled under her breath. Well, everything made more sense, then. She was still on that rickety fishing boat, trying to wake Abelas. Abelas, who was fighting demons and needed help right now, according to Cole.

She pushed herself harder. Knowing it was a dream meant she also knew she wasn't going to run out of energy or lose her breath.

She almost ran into Abelas's sword as he spun to face what he expected to be another attacker. They were in the courtyard of the Temple of Mythal, and it was far more ruined than it had been in person. In fact, she could swear it was crumbling before her very eyes, as fear demons leapt from the ground, shrieking in fury as they attacked.

Abelas was fast, and sturdy, but he was one man against at least ten fear demons. Uth'shiral hastily threw a barrier over them both as she struggled to think. Cole's existence had taught her that even demons might be spirits; Solas had taught her that it was mostly a matter of perception. Not knowing what Abelas was afraid of, she had no idea how he saw the demons. Still... even with two of them, they were going to have trouble fighting so many. They thrashed at her barrier, shrieking their rage and frustration. The Inquisitor struggled to remain calm. They were fear demons; fear would feed them.

The easiest way to defeat them would be to look at them as something other than fear. If wisdom could become pride, if purpose could become desire, what had the fear demons once been before they became dangerous? Fear was so primal that it was difficult to imagine it being anything else. She'd heard of spirits of valor; maybe such a spirit could turn against its courageous nature and become a bullying fear demon.

“Where is the honor in attacking people weaker than you are?” Uth'shiral demanded of a demon—no, she must think of them as spirits—as it swiped at her barrier. She cast the spell again, strengthening the protection as Abelas continued fighting.

“What are you doing? How is that going to help?” Abelas demanded.

“Did you expect better from a shemlen?” the omnipresent voice asked, its condescending tone making Uth'shiral long to punch it – if only she knew where it was. So instead, she forced herself to focus on the spirit she was addressing.

“You greatly outnumber us. This is not an honorable battle. And in the end, you gain nothing from it. No honor, no commendation for your bravery. And no emotion to strengthen you. We will simply be dead and gone.”

Was it her imagination, or did the spirit hesitate? But it was only one, and the others continued to attack.

“Why are you trying to reason with them?” Abelas snapped. “Focus and cast your spells!” He slashed at a demon that appeared from the ground far too close, then kicked away one that reached for Uth'shiral as she cast yet another barrier over them.

“You could make the fight more fair. You could help us instead. I'd make sure your efforts are mentioned. It would be one of the bravest things you've ever done,” Uth'shiral continued.

The spirit abruptly changed; so quickly she did not even see the change. Rather than a bony thing with many teeth, it had become an elven woman in heavy armor, a golden glow surrounding it. “Yes. There is no honor in this. Let us be allies, if only for now.”

“It could still be fear,” the voice cautioned. “Perhaps you are deceived.”

“It's Valor and it's helping!” Lavellan snapped.

“Reasoning with it was a risky plan,” Abelas said, “but I am thankful you succeeded. “We must fight harder. With three of us fighting, we may stand a chance.”

“Or we could even the numbers further,” Lavellan responded. She settled a fresh barrier over Abelas and Valor. “What else could become fear? Valor does not appeal to the others.”

“You were fortunate to turn even one of them,” the Voice said. “Is it worth risking your allies' lives to keep trying? They know what they are!”

“SILENCE!” Abelas snapped at the Voice, as he stabbed at yet another fear demon. “All you do is speak of worry!” He circled around to Uth'shiral's back, shoving away a demon she had not even known was there. “Fear is primal,” he said. “Many other emotions turn to fear. We do not have time to go through every single one of them, not if you plan to survive. Pay attention! Three of us can do this.”

Valor jumped back as a fear spirit began to rise beneath it, and swung its sword hard. The fear spirit roared, barely injured by a blow that would have cleaved Uth'shiral in two.

“They're strong...” Uth'shiral observed. Her impulse was to strengthen their barriers, but she had strengthened them as much as she could. She had to either fight, or speak, and she'd gotten an idea. She had no idea if it would work; it could even backfire. Still, she had to try.

The Inquisitor took a deep breath, and then she addressed the Voice. “Are you sure you know what they are? They don't seem to be doing much thinking about anything.”

“Do you even know why you are attacking?” the Voice asked the fear spirits. “Or do you attack and attempt to inspire fear because you are the ones who are afraid?”

“Did it just...?” Abelas swung his pommel at a spirit that was edging too close to Valor. Valor slashed at another spirit that was trying to reach Uth'shiral. And Uth'shiral cast a paralysis glyph on the ground near one that was walking toward Abelas.

“I'm not sure,” Uth'shiral answered honestly. It seemed to be working, but could she trust the Voice? What if it couldn't change anything anyway?

“What would happen if you stopped fighting? Would they stop, too? Would they pursue you if you fled? If you continue to fight, they might destroy you. There are many of you, but even now they stand against you. What will happen when one of you is destroyed?”

Some of the fear spirits hesitated.

“If you hadn't attacked Sorrow, would he have fought you? Is it too late to stop? Was it wise to attack this prey? Even your own kin turn against you. What happens when you lose another?” the Voice persisted.

The fear spirits had ceased to attack. They milled uncertainly for a moment. One abruptly broke away and fled; another followed. The remainder began to look hazy and uncertain. Abelas and Valor remained defensive, and Uth'shiral maintained her barriers. The spirits, however, gave up the attack. Whatever doubt they had that had caused them to cease, they now seemed resolved that it was wiser not to attack. Uth'shiral wasn't sure if they were still Fear, or Caution, or something else entirely, but one by one, the remainder milled away—likely confused and questioning the nature of their existence. Tomorrow they might be fear spirits again, but today they had a chance to be something else. And not a single one of them had to die for it—a seemingly impossible positive outcome, especially given how much of a fight they'd given the fear spirits. She almost couldn't believe that her hasty plan had succeeded.

“Thank you. A better row hasn't been had in centuries,” Valor stated, breaking Lavellan's reverie. “Who would have thought that they were all such cowards? Ah, but a win is a win.”

“Yes,” Abelas replied, seeming more than a little confused himself. “A win is a win...”

“Unless it isn't. You're still here, sleeping,” the Voice pointed out.

“Thank you for reminding me, Doubt. I had hardly noticed,” Abelas responded sourly.

“I'm here to help,” the Inquisitor said. “Cole was sure I could wake you. The fear spirits are gone, so there's nothing holding you here anymore.”

“I am severed from the waking world, Inquisitor. It is not a simple matter. Without Mythal's geas to call me to service, I cannot wake. If I had known, I would not have slept so deeply.”

“You said you woke every time there were intruders at the Temple. Surely there's some way to drag yourself out of the Fade.”

“Is there? And does he want to? He said he would like to find a place free of shemlen, to enter the blissful sleep of eternity. Perhaps he has,” Doubt said solemnly.

“That is no longer what I want. It would be easier to sleep, but I wish to be awake for what is to come,” Abelas said firmly.

“Ah, but if you wake, who do you help?” Doubt replied. “What you wanted is within reach, and yet...”

“And yet.” For some reason, Abelas turned away from Uth'shiral, as if it were painful to see her.

“Be brave,” Valor said. “Your spirit is strong. Even if you choose unwisely, you have the strength to choose, and the strength to continue even if the decision was the wrong one. You will endure.”

“Will he? I wonder,” Doubt replied.

“Don't listen to Doubt for now,” the Inquisitor said. “You came here, so you know there must be a way out. We just have to find it.” She glanced around, but the temple was in ruins and surrounded by jungle. Except...

“The paths! The only reason you didn't attack us on sight was because we walked them,” Uth'shiral said. “We should try that now. You know the paths from years of watching people come to petition Mythal, so that part's easy. If it doesn't open a way for you to wake, then maybe Mythal will come and poke you awake or something. It might be wishful thinking, but isn't it better than doing nothing? Valor, what do you think?”

Valor shrugged. “Puzzles are not my expertise. If you intend to walk those silly puzzles, this is where we part ways. I shall be off finding an honorable opponent. I would not do well to fall to my fear again.”

“I am not a petitioner, I am--” Abelas objected.

“Someone who needs help,” Lavellan cut him off. “It doesn't matter who you are, or were. Do you know another way?”

“I have tried,” he admitted. “The forest only leads back to here, whichever way I try. Perhaps it is the influence Doubt has gained over this place.” He made a displeased sound in the back of his throat, then strode toward the first path. “With the state this place is in, the paths may require both of us to reach the inner sanctum.”

“The paths may only lead you back to here,” Doubt said. “Perhaps there isn't an exit at all.”

“Don't listen to it.,” Uth'shiral warned. “What we need right now is certainty. If we don't focus on our goal...”

“I know,” Abelas snapped even as he stepped onto the golden path with quick, sure strides that made Uth'shiral feel suddenly envious. He might have hundreds, even thousands, of years of experience from watching others walk these paths, but he made it look simple. She remembered how she had agonized over every slow step, almost hopping from tile to tile. The Temple of Mythal had been built for taller elves—elves like Abelas. “It is likely I know more about certainty than you do. Doubt seems to feel a particular kinship with you, but these paths hold no room for it. Watch my steps and if the path does not stay lit, follow them exactly.”

“I'm not the one who's trapped in her own dreams,” the Inquisitor grumbled, but she did pay close attention. The paths were not in as good of condition as she thought. The structure had crumbled around them, blocking some areas. Abelas, after walking two of them with no help from her, finally hesitated. “I do not recognize this path,” he noted. “The rest I have walked from memory. This one is... new.” His eyes narrowed as he examined the arrangement of the tiles. “Perhaps if I walk it, I can leave. But the debris...” He hesitated. “It may be better to remain here, and try to repair the damage. This place should be... more. If--”

“No. You said there is no room for doubt. You've seen others walk these paths. I'm sure you walked them once, too. Look, if I walk over this side...” She hopped onto the tiles without thinking, golden light shining beneath her feet. “Ah. I shouldn't have done that, should I?”

“Probably not,” Abelas answered with a wry smile, “But you are correct. If you walk that side, and I step here...” He stepped lightly onto a tile on the opposite side.

The tile began to crumble beneath her feet. She stumbled, then jumped to the next as the tile she had stood on plummeted into endless darkness. “Well... that doesn't look good. We've got to be quick!”

“There is no room for doubt here,” Abelas agreed, hopping quickly to the next tile. Behind him, his own previous tile crumbled and fell. “We must be quick. Do not fall!”

“This is very complicated to do quickly,” Doubt mused. “I don't know if you can do it.”

“Neither do I, but I'm trying anyway!” Uth'shiral hurriedly jumped to another tile, and another, trying to always keep the path ahead clear. If she didn't leave a path... those tiles weren't magically reappearing. It could be an illusion; this was the Fade. But she didn't want to risk it.

On the other side, separated by crumbled statuary and weedy plants, Abelas's steps were a more graceful and measured mirror of her own. He managed to look completely composed despite the danger—but then, she'd seen how well he could jump when he had called up steps to the Well of Sorrows. He might be fine. Unless, of course, her hunch were correct and this was the way out. In that case, if they failed, he'd be stuck here, and his body would be thrown overboard. It would cause no end of trouble for the remnants of Clan Lavellan.

She forced herself to focus; this part of the path was simple. Two tiles right, one tile up, two tiles left, forward again, all the way right, all the way left, up and right and down and loop around the broken Fen'harel... She was now ahead of the deterioration by several tiles. She glanced over to check on Abelas; he was lagging behind. The tile behind him shattered. He jumped just in time.

“Careful! Forward and left and go around Ghilan'ain,” she said. “You're faster than me and you're used to this! The path is easy right now!”

“I do not know what your path looks like, but this one is anything but simple,” Abelas answered in a distracted voice. “Please stay quiet until we cross. The path is long and treacherous, and I do not know if we will find an exit at the end, or another path.”

“Stay focused! This is your way out. It has to be! I can get out even without it. Cole will help me. Just hurry! If you fall--”

“I will not fall.” He took a few quick leaps in quick succession; though his path looked the same from her vantagepoint across from him, it did appear to be more complicated. More complicated meant slower. Her friend was in danger.

If she could finish her side quickly, maybe she could stand at the end and guide him forward. She began to run, only to have the path open up into a wide path with several statues in the middle of it. Or maybe her path would get more complicated and she'd make a fatal error. She took a deep breath and considered it for a moment. If she went right, she could weave in and out around the statues, and go back up and forward. But she had to be quick. A quick glance behind her showed the falling tiles catching up to her, and now the statuary was falling, too. There was no safe place to cling to if the tiles fell. She couldn't help Abelas, and he wasn't going to be able to help her, either. She walked more quickly, but the golden tiles behind her were falling more quickly too. A massive wall that once held some statue or other blocked her friend from view. Would he make it? He was more agile than she, and more familiar with the layouts of these paths. More familiar with solving them. It was entirely possible that they had been changed from time to time, so no repeat petitioner would have them memorized. Abelas would be fine, she told herself.

The tile beneath her feet cracked. She jumped to the next as it fell, breaking into a jog. Every tile was now cracking beneath her feet, but she was able to see the end of the path ahead, merging with the path on the other side. She pushed herself harder, and the harder she pushed the faster the tiles cracked beneath her. Just one more tile, one more and she would be at the end. Only one! She gave a quick hop and she was clear, her feet firmly on stable ground.

Abelas appeared beside her from his side of the maze, and leaped lightly to the final tile—just as it dropped. His hands clung to the edge of the floor, digging for purchase. Uth'shiral leaped to action. She lunged for his arm, and gave as solid a tug as she could.

They tumbled backward into an awkward pile. Only then did Uth'shiral have time to wonder how she was able to move an armored man who was considerably taller and more muscular than she was.

“I thought you were the quick one,” Uth'shiral said, prying herself from beneath Abelas.

“My path was more difficult,” he answered, standing abruptly to escape their awkward position. “Thank you, though. I know the way from here. I shall see you on the ship.” He hastily ran to the other end of the room they were in, bounded up a staircase, and vanished through a massive golden door.

Just as she considered following Abelas through the door, Uth'shiral woke.

Chapter Text

Lavellan woke to the familiar unease in her gut that reminded her she was still aboard a rickety fishing vessel in the middle of the Waking Sea. Moreover, it seemed the waves were choppier than they'd been when she settled in for her nap, and her surroundings were darker. She'd slept longer than she had intended. She groaned and eased herself slowly out of her bunk, resulting in several others grumbling at her to be quiet and let them sleep—she recognized two voices as Sorien and Mirevas. The others must be part of the human crew.

“I was unaware you would find the Fade so enjoyable that you were reluctant to leave it,” Abelas remarked from his corner. His voice was strained; his injuries must have still pained him.

“I'm not the one who only just finished a three-day nap,” Uth'shiral retorted, holding her belly as she hopped to the floor. She needed to get to the deck, quickly. As if on cue, Cole reappeared beside her.

“Not this time, at least,” Abelas answered. “Is there anything to eat?” he asked, sounding so hopeful that Uth'shiral almost laughed. But the thought of food did not agree with her belly, at the moment.

The Inquisitor groaned expressively. “Urgh. I can't think about food just yet, Abelas...” How was it that she'd finally mastered her seasickness only to have it return all at once? It wasn't fair!

“I can ease the hurt until you get there,” the spirit offered.

“Abelas, are you--”

“Go. This place stinks enough without the scent of vomit tainting it further.” She couldn't see more than an outline of the ancient elf, but the tone of his voice inspired a mental image of his nose wrinkling in disgust. His voice was followed by the sounds of slow movement. Either the cramped bunk was becoming uncomfortable enough that he needed to change position, or he was getting up again despite his injuries. Although Uth'shiral didn't think it was a good plan for him to be moving around yet, she remembered that seasickness had been an issue for him, too. He might need food, but first he was going to need some fresh air.

“You don't smell so great yourself,” one of the crew members snapped. “Snooty rabbit...” the woman grumbled.

Someone else snickered; unsurprisingly, it didn't sound like one of the elves. “Rabbit” might not be as bad as “knife ear,” but it was not a compliment by any means. Uth'shiral noted that no one seemed to be as disturbed by Abelas as Sorien had claimed—but she was well aware that sometimes people would hide their reactions, especially in the presence of the woman they considered the Herald of Andraste. Her unwanted title was becoming less influential than it used to be, but it might still mean something to these people. Much as she hated to, she might have to use that to her advantage.

The Inquisitor stepped as quietly as she could out the door and onto the deck. A brisk breeze was blowing—not the storm she feared, although there was a hint of foul weather in the distance. She hoped that it missed the ship, but then she'd been extraordinarily fortunate thus far on her sea journeys. As they approached the Storm Coast, she imagined that luck would finally be running out.

Abelas walked slowly behind her, careful, she imagined, not to twist one of his injuries. She had hoped for a bit of quiet—time to reflect on what she'd seen in the Fade, and to forget that the demons plaguing Abelas had not been Sorrow or Despair as she might have expected, but Fear and Doubt. If Abelas were seeking her out, however, he had something to say; she would not have her chance at one last bit of quiet time before she had to face the others.

For a while, quiet settled between them as they both stared out into the distant storm, fighting to keep their stomachs in check. The silence was companionable, but uncomfortable, and punctuated by the crash of waves, the creaking of the ship, and the rumble of distant thunder that might or might not catch up to their ship soon enough. Abelas handed her a pouch of his stomach-settling herbs; she took a pinch and passed it back to him so that he could dose himself. A few minutes later, as they leaned against the railing watching the lightning clash over distant water, the Sentinel broke the silence between them with his somber voice. “Those handful—two children, you, the five other adults... are all that is left of your people. Too few to be a stable population. They know this. They do not know your people are unlikely to welcome you back. What do you intend to do?”

“You're right. This handful isn't enough of us to be a clan,” Lavellan admitted. “And it's unlikely the other Dalish will allow any of us back for the next Arlathvhen. Maybe the one after, or the next one.” She raised her left hand up to gaze at the glowing green mark on its palm. “I don't expect I'll be around for another ten years to find out. It seems stable for now. Solas did something, I think. It probably bought me some more time.” She sighed, her left hand joining the right one on the ship's railing as she stared out to sea. “I can't disband my clan, but other clans have been shattered, and there are other elves who'd love to join the Dalish. If my time with the Inquisition ends, or even if it doesn't, Clan Lavellan will continue, and we'll be even more dedicated to the truth about our past than before. It will be painful, and there'll be things we'd rather we hadn't learned. Still... I think you'd be surprised how resilient we are, Abelas.” She leaned forward on her elbow, almost enjoying the show put on by the lightning in the distance now that her belly was settled. But now she felt she had to make a point; as much right as Abelas had to be angry and lash out, she needed him to understand why her people were not any more patient than he was. “Do you know why Atisha is so angry?”

“She seems to be particularly unpleasant,” Abelas answered. “It has made an impression.” Uth'shiral thought that was a relatively diplomatic way to describe Atisha's recent attitude—and she also suspected that the unpleasantness had been the reason Abelas even remembered who Atisha was.

“She had three little children, Abelas. Not a single one of them survived. I remember when she was just carefree Auntie Atisha. I learned later on in life that she'd been pressured by the clan to have children, even though she didn't like men. So she had one, decided she liked children, and she had another, and took in an abandoned city elf boy after she and Mirevas became close. Those kids meant everything to her and to Mirevas. Mirevas never had her own—I heard she tried when she was younger. A lot, if the stories are true. Of course Atisha's angry; she's devastated and she feels helpless. I'm amazed at how level-headed Mirevas has been. Maybe she's already worked through it in the time since it happened. Maybe it just hasn't hit her yet, and she's going to have even worse issues than Atisha later on. Even so, they'll probably take in Halin and Atisha'dahlen as their own, in time. It makes sense...”

She could see Abelas looking at her thoughtfully from her peripheral vision. “Yes. Loss is painful, and pain makes many wounded creatures lash out, even at those who would help them. A griffon with a broken wing knows no friends.” He sighed. “I will endeavor to be...” he hesitated, “kinder.” Lavellan guessed that the admission that he had been unkind was difficult for him; in a way, he had earned the right to be unkind by surviving to see his people perish.

He spoke again, his tone somewhat lighter. An attempt to be kind, she thought, but Lavellan kept her gaze on the sea. “You were put in charge of a group, and you are doing the best you know. Sometimes it is not enough, but you only know you have made a mistake after it has been made and the consequences are apparent.” He paused for a moment, then ventured, “I had not considered that Atisha had reason for her anger, other than an abrasive personality.” A deep silence settled between them; Uth'shiral suspected her friend was thinking about what he'd learned, and what it meant about this particular group of “shadows wearing vallaslin.” “I am glad she isn't angry with you. You do not deserve it—she is good enough to realize that.”

Was it her imagination, or did Abelas sound contrite? “They probably think the same about you, you know. 'He's just a grumpy warrior,' is what they think,” Lavellan told the Sentinel. “'He's not who the Inquisitor says, or even who he says. He's probably some mercenary who never learned his manners.' I know you can be reasonable, though. I would even argue you were merciful to us when we showed up uninvited at your temple. I don't pretend I know how much you lost, or who you lost, but you're still grieving. Otherwise, you wouldn't call yourself 'Abelas.' I'd appreciate it if you were kinder to them. When everyone's suffering, harsh words and cold stares help no one.”

Cole stood nearby, watching but not speaking. Uth'shiral thought that was a good sign that, at least so far, they were doing a good job of helping themselves.

“I... You are correct.” Abelas looked as startled as she was to admit that, when Lavellan glanced over at him. “I saw no reason to be kind before. None of you are my people. You have taken this world as if by force and made it yours. You have made my people unwelcome by dwelling in a land we can no longer inhabit. You have replaced the familiar faces—the lovers, the friends—with your own. I left a lover to serve Mythal, and he was angry with me for centuries. I loved her as well, but if she knew, she never showed it. Both of them are lost to me forever, and in their place is a sea of your endless shemlen faces, faces that are present only long enough to leave grief in their wake if they are remembered at all. It is better not to know them or let them leave any impression. It is better to imagine that they belong to wild beasts that bear a passing resemblance to people, to pretend that none of you are people in your own right. I did not wish to be your friend in the beginning; I did not wish to see you as a real person. Even as I take comfort in your companionship, I grieve for your loss, just as I knew I would. We may remain friends for many years by your standards, but by mine we will barely have met before you are lost forever to the Beyond. And yet... without you, I would have been lost to the Fade, perhaps even dead. You are worth knowing, and worth remembering. There will be grief, but I will endure.”

It was not a confession she'd expected to hear from Abelas, ever, and it was the longest conversation she could remember having with the man. “Thank you,” she whispered, and hoped it was enough.

“There is something I should ask you,” Abelas said; to Lavellan, he sounded thoughtful and sad.

His tone made the Inquisitor cautious, but she decided to humor him. “Go on.”

“I have called you friend, and I have called you Inquisitor. If I am going to remember you centuries from now, that will not be enough. Inquisitor... what is your name?”

She smiled—it was a solemn enough occasion for Abelas, but it was also a greater admission to how much their friendship meant than simply calling her his friend, and she knew it. She'd become someone worth remembering, not another face he wanted to pretend he'd never seen. She was someone who mattered to him. She wondered if that had been the intent of Solas's fresco—but that was a depressing thought, and in the moment, with the lightning flashing over the Waking Sea in the distance, she wanted to be happy that both of them were healing, that everyone might carry their scars but still turn out okay in the end.

“I was given the name Uth'shiral when I was small. It wasn't the name I was given at birth, but it's all anyone has called me since then. To tell you the truth, I don't even know what my actual name is supposed to be.” Although Lavellan's smile held as much sadness as happiness, it widened. “Mother and Keeper Deshanna used to tell me I never could be still. I always wanted to be going somewhere, and if I wasn't going somewhere, I wanted the clan to go ahead and move already. I'm still a little like that. The world is full of places to see and people to meet. Though I admit, having Skyhold as a home to return to was... a welcome change.” Her smile faltered. “I'm going to miss them forever.”

“Uth'shiral,” Abelas repeated, more to himself than to her, still watching her. She had the impression that he was speaking her name aloud as much to commit it to memory as any other reason—a name to go with the face and the title. “I would have called you Suledin. I have thought more than once that you were through, that you could not possibly continue living. Each time, you survived. I do not know if it strengthened you, but here we stand.” He reached, and his hand paused just over her shoulder, on the brink of an affectionate pat on the shoulder. She turned and wrapped her arms around him in a quick hug that he did not return; when she let go, he stood still and startled, and let his hand drop back to his side.

“Here we stand, with a storm heading our way, and both of us prone to seasickness,” the Inquisitor laughed. “We can feel sorry for ourselves all we like, but that changes nothing. We must, as you say, endure.” She watched the storm quietly for a few moments, allowing her belly a bit more time to calm down. “I'm assuming you're still hungry, and I have some questions of my own, if you're willing to answer them.”

“I will answer the questions that are not too painful, or too dangerous,” Abelas agreed, turning back toward the cabin. “Are all the rations as tasteless as the last meal I had here?”

“Unfortunately yes.” Uth'shiral followed him toward the mess hall. “The Dalish have lost almost all of the culture of the Elvhen, much as we've tried to learn and keep the old ways intact. I know you say there are things we can't even understand—maybe that's true. But the language, at least... you speak it, right? Even if you don't want to share anything else, that much would be a precious gift. I would be able to teach the rest of my clan. You don't have to deal with them if you'd rather not.” She wished he would speak with them—wished he'd make other friends, that he'd be inspired to go and make the world better for the elves, if not for the other people suffering across Thedas. But Abelas was a man who'd been mourning for centuries, and even then the scars were fresh. He might never be ready for such a step.

Abelas gave a weary sigh as he stepped through the door. “Gather them together tomorrow. With my injuries, I cannot aid the crew. I am accustomed to teaching shemlen.”

“Wait, accustomed to it? How, exactly?” The Inquisitor paused outside of the mess hall door, addressing Abelas's back. When had he dealt with mortals so often that he'd become used to it? When had he had time for teaching, when he woke only to defend the temple?

He hesitated, and even seeing only his back, Lavellan knew he was choosing his wording carefully. He might be a friend, but, she realized, much like Solas, he'd never tell her everything she wanted to know. If she ever found out, it would not be from a direct source. “After the fall of Arlathan,” Abelas said softly, “all the elves born were shemlen, and all of those who were awake at the time became shemlen. Those of us who slept at that time retain—we remain ageless. Each time we woke, more of us died—disease took us, or battle, or one another. Some of those who should be ageless began to feel the press of years, as well. Some entered the endless sleep. Most of the Sentinels are as mortal as you are, and almost as lacking in understanding. I taught what I could, but some things... it is best not to teach, even if there is a chance they might understand. If they could truly understand it, it would only bring them sorrow.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Your inability to understand is not your fault, and I will explain what I can. But...” he turned his attention toward the tables and the storage cabinets, rummaging for available dry rations. “I have no intention of becoming a spectacle to your people. You have status. If it were known for certain that I am 'ancient,' as you call me, too much attention would be drawn to me by those who would take advantage or even attempt to cause harm. I cannot stay only for your sake. Once this ship makes landfall...” Sadness seeped into his tone, and she wasn't certain if it were due to loneliness or because he felt parting ways was a necessity. Maybe he was sad for her sake, being abandoned yet again. Maybe he was sad because he intended to enter an eternal slumber after all. If he did, how could she blame him? With as much as she had lost, at least she was still living in a familiar world. Abelas didn't even have that. Either way, he wore the same death-like visage of weariness he had the first time she had met him in the Temple of Mythal.

“I understand. I don't like the attention I get, most days, either,” Uth'shiral replied. “I'm grateful that you've offered to teach us even for a little while. If you were to go to Skyhold, there are even books written in ancient Elvhen that you could have helped us with...” Some part of her hoped he might be convinced to stay on with the Inquisition anyway. He was not as easy a friend as Varric, or fun to banter with like Dorian. She couldn't imagine Abelas and Sera sneaking around and playing pranks on people together. However, he was dependable and asked for little in return—and she had noticed a moment or two when he'd shown an unexpected sense of humor, a crack in his stoic facade that seemed to have crumbled away since she'd gone to his rescue in the Fade. She had earned his complete respect, she realized—and perhaps his trust along with it.

“If you wish to speak it, you must also read it,” Abelas answered her firmly. “I'll show you tomorrow.”

“We'll be making landfall within another two weeks at most,” Uth'shiral said dubiously. “Either you'll need to plan to visit us for more lessons, or--”

“You must all study hard,” he interrupted, with a wicked grin that alerted her he was at least partly teasing. “Especially you. I can't teach you everything—it would take longer than we have. It will be a beginning, and that will have to be enough, until we meet again. Gather your people tomorrow.” He gnawed on a piece of smoked fish with an expression of distaste. “Please tell me that there is drinking water somewhere nearby. This fish tastes of ashes.”

“There is,” Uth'shiral replied, between bites of her own strip of smoked fish, “but it's stale now after days in the barrels, and you won't be happy with it either.”

“Is there ale, then? Wine, perhaps?”

She shook her head. “If there is, it's the crew's and the captain's, and they're not sharing it.”

The Sentinel sighed. “Show me the barrels, and I will cleanse the water with a spell or two. Perhaps with some herbs and another spell, there will be proper drinks.”

“Really? You can do that?” Uth'shiral asked. “I wish you'd said something sooner. All those times we camped, and we could have had something better than boiled muddy water?”

She had not even noticed when Cole had left them to attend to the rest of Clan Lavellan's survivors.

Chapter Text

“You are late,” Abelas thundered, silhouetted against the light in the doorway of the cabin. “Get dressed if you aren't already. The lessons begin today. From now on, you will wake at dawn and assemble on deck. The crew are already working. If you do not intend to help them, you will be in my charge. I would see the children assembled, too,” he added firmly.

Uth'shiral groaned, then dragged herself from the railed bunk she felt she had only just crawled into. The storm had tossed the ship all night when it had finally caught up. They were fortunate not to have been caught by a sea serpent—they were often drawn by storms. However, the sails had been torn and water had been swept into the deck. Some of their supplies were lost. The Inquisitor had helped how she could, as had Abelas and in fact all of the other elves—although it was now very clear what Sorien had meant about the crew's suspicions and superstitions. Uth'shiral, Sorien, and Abelas had used their magic to keep more water away from the deck, to keep the stores that could be spared dry, and to dry the salted goods that had been soaked through. Using magic to aid them had done the elves no favor. The others, not being seafarers, had been of limited help. Cole tried to ease the crew's fears, but he had little success.

The only thing good about their situation was that no sea serpent had risen up from the depths during the storm; they often appeared at such times, demolishing vessels or even whole fleets before departing, leaving one or two survivors clinging to some scrap of a ship if they were fortunate. If not, the crew would never be heard from again.

The Sentinel's decision to teach lessons had come at a fortunate time. If the elves presented a united front, rather than squabbling among themselves, it would be more difficult for the crew to strike them unaware. Uth'shiral and Sorien had decided that a watch must be set up so that the Dalish and Abelas could sleep safely. The crew had not attacked them so far; perhaps, out of respect for the Inquisitor, they never would. She and Sorien agreed that it was better to be cautious, all the same—Uth'shiral did not count on her continued popularity.

“Lessons?” Assanvir asked sleepily. “I don't remember anything about lessons... Who is this man, Keeper?” He turned over in his bunk.

“Up, Assanvir. You, too, Mirevas,” Uth'shiral ordered. Atisha, to her credit, had not so much as moaned her displeasure as she drew herself nimbly from the cramped bunk. Uth'shiral's brother was not in the cabin; presumably he was already up and about—she hoped he wasn't causing trouble, since trouble already seemed likely to find them. Bel'eranen was moving slowly, stiff from the work she'd tried to do the night before, but at least she was moving. “A lesson from Abelas is nothing less than a blessing from Mythal. Atish'adahlen, Halin, don't be frightened. He'll be kind to you. Won't you, Abelas?” She asked, with a stern look in the Sentinel's direction.

Abelas crossed his arms over his chest, and for a moment she thought he was going to refuse. Then he nodded. “Yes. I will be kind.” His eyes swept across the handful of elves, and settled on Atisha and Sorien. “To all of you,” he added in a quieter voice. “Your... Keeper and I had a discussion. Ir abelas, lethallin. Loss is never easy. Knowledge won't replace the missing faces, but it is something I can give. What I ask is that you meet me on the deck at dawn each day, until we reach the Storm Coast. Rising so early may not always be easy, but it is a minor inconvenience at best. It is the price to be paid for learning from me. If you feel that the knowledge is not worth the effort, at least you will be among your kin. That, at least, should ease your hearts.” He was looking each one of them in the eyes in turn, Uth'shiral realized. He intended to remember these shemlen faces, at least. The realization gladdened her and broke her heart at the same time.

One by one, the Dalish filed from the cabin as the sun rose over the sparkling sea. Atisha and Mirevas each held one of the two children's hands; Bel'eranen and Assanvir walked closely together; and Uth'shiral stepped out last. If not for the damage to the ship, and the concerns about whether their supplies would last, it would have seemed as if the storm had never come.

Abelas chose a spot that was mostly dry and undamaged, out of the way of the crew. That did not prevent their suspicious stares, or a shout or two that the elves should be helping. A quick gesture from Uth'shiral brought Sorien to the group, and he joined the semicircle that had formed around Abelas, with Uth'shiral directly in front of the Sentinel. Cole lingered behind the group, listening but not interfering—as far as she could tell, anyway.

“Believe me or not, as you choose,” Abelas said softly, perhaps hoping his voice would not carry to the crew, “but I have served Mythal for thousands of years, and expect to serve her for thousands more. I have spent more time dreaming in the Fade than any of you have spent alive. In the place you know as the Arbor Wilds, there was once a great temple dedicated to the All-Mother. I was her Sentinel, guarding her temple and her knowledge from the unworthy. When she was murdered, the Sentinels slept, and we woke only to protect a temple that crumbled to ruin more every time. The children of the Sentinels were shemlen, like yourselves—quickened elves who can never quite understand what it is to truly be Elvhen, through no fault of your own. Mythal's knowledge was taken, and the temple has fallen. My duty has ended with the sanctity of the temple, and perhaps now I who meant to keep the watch forever if need be shall share the same fate as you. It matters not.”

The other Dalish did not seem to know what to make of Abelas's words. They turned to one another, murmuring and whispering. “Are you really, really old? You don't look really old,” Atish'adahlen said. “Papa was older than you.”

Abelas laughed. “Before the fall of Arlathan, none of us knew old age,” he answered. “You could spend thousands of years sleeping, learning about the deepest parts of the Fade, and a thousand more working on a grand piece of art. Now...” His smile faltered.

“You don't have to talk about things that hurt, Abelas,” Uth'shiral told him. “The language would be enough knowledge. We have lost so much of it—most of us can't even write the simplest sentence in Elvhen any longer.”

“Mythal wasn't murdered, though,” Sorien said. “She was trapped, by Fen'harel. We all know that.”

“Mythal was slain by the followers of one who wished to be a god,” Abelas replied. “The Dread Wolf did not have anything to do with it. I do not wish to discuss it further. It happened; it is done. The world we must now live in is the result. We endure.”

“There is nothing he can say to prove his position, or his knowledge,” Uth'shiral told the group. “I also know what I saw and what I learned. Abelas is who and what he says he is. If there are things he doesn't want to say, please accept that. We have lost almost everything and everyone we ever knew, but he has lost even more. Sorien, you told me I needed to pay more attention to my clan. I am. I'm hopeful that the knowledge Abelas shares can keep our clan together, now that Deshanna is gone.”

“That is why I agreed to this,” Abelas revealed. Uth'shiral's eyebrows rose. “You are surprised? You told me what you lost, what they lost. You helped me; I wish to help you. The crew of this vessel do not like us. Any of us. They especially dislike me, your Keeper, and her brother. Magic displeases them—it is difficult for me to understand why one would hate something that helps, but they do not understand magic. Elves displease them, though I do not know why. You have not lost everything, but you could. The Inquisitor has a Keep; there are others of your people there. You can rebuild together. I shall teach you as if you were Sentinels under my charge. The knowledge you gain may help you make alliances in the future. The rest is up to you.” Abelas gave a frustrated sigh and pushed back his hood to rub at his temples. He'd begun to grow golden stubble on his scalp; before, he had been as bald as Solas. Although Uth'shiral wondered what it meant, she didn't dare to ask.

“Are you sure you didn't marry him, after all?” Atisha asked. “I doubt he's doing this for the rest of us.”

“You are wrong,” Abelas replied; Uth'shiral suspected he was losing patience. “I was harsh. This is my apology. It may be painful to hear new voices speak old words, but good to hear them spoken again at all and know that they will not be lost.”

“All right, then how would you say--” It was Sorien who began the lessons in earnest. Abelas translated his words, explained possible alternate meanings, and then used magic to etch the runes for the elves to see.

Atisha took to the lessons better than anyone; the Inquisitor noticed her old calm returning, day by day. Although Atisha would likely never be the same cheerful person she once had been, her temper settled. And as the days went by and Mirevas began to become more withdrawn, Atisha was able to keep her lover connected to the others.

Sorien surprised Uth'shiral. She had told him he needed to learn, and needed to be prepared. She worried he would fail, that he would never rise to the position of Keeper's First. Instead, he took charge. He studied Abelas's lessons, even going so far as to ask for additional help with spellwork, combining it with his archery and swordwork in ways Uth'shiral didn't think had been seen since the time of Arlathan, or at least by other Sentinels. She'd never seen her twin work so hard, but somehow, Abelas had managed to instill respect and discipline into her independent brother. Clan Lavellan would not be left leaderless.

Assanvir, Atisha, and Mirevas formed their own group under Abelas's directions. Though they lacked magic, he offered his experience from centuries of observing others' technique. They sometimes set up targets aboard the ship using some of the empty barrels. Uth'shiral even caught Abelas practicing with them—he was nearly as good with a bow as he was with a blade.

Cole spent more time with Abelas now than with anyone. Sometimes, seeking one or the other out for conversation, Uth'shiral would find him sharing stories with Bel'eranen or the children, or both. In those times, she would sit with them, listening and sometimes laughing with them. On these occasions, they all learned something new. Halin and Atish'adahlen had become fond of Uncle Abelas, and Bel'eranen had not been named “many stories” without good cause. Abelas seemed to enjoy a good tale as much as she did, and Uth'shiral was glad to see the friendship form.

The Inquisitor often found Bel'eranen in Assanvir's company. Since their time on the run from the nobles of Wycome, the two had become close. Not even Abelas's stories or training could keep them apart for long. Uth'shiral thought they'd probably be asking her to bless their wedding before long, and often smiled to herself in her bunk at night at the thought.

As much as Abelas had to do with helping, it was Uth'shiral everyone came to when there was a squabble. When the crew said something off color, she was the one who was called upon to settle the dispute. When the watch was set up so that the crew would not strike them in their sleep, Uth'shiral was the one who chose who took which watch. When they weren't studying, she made sure that the elves were busy helping the crew—supplies were short, and if the crew already didn't like them, refusing to work would make them like the elves even less. Although Abelas shared his knowledge, he wasn't Dalish and still, somehow, despite becoming friendly, managed to keep a certain distance from Clan Lavellan. Uth'shiral, by contrast, was their Keeper, and found herself at the center of everything.

The shattered fragments of Clan Lavellan were healing. They would always have their scars, but they were going to be okay.

Then, at long last, the port town where Uth'shiral had left her red hart came into view over the horizon. Although the remaining supplies had managed to last, there wasn't a day's worth of food or water remaining. Everyone was slimmer than they were when the journey began, with the exception of Abelas—despite the fact that he had not eaten any better than any of the others.

Everyone aboard the ship was pleased to see the shore at last. The crew were probably as glad to be rid of the elves as they were to restock and be on their way home, but as the ship approached the docks, their joy was palpable. The rivalry between the Dalish and the human crew seemed to be forgotten. One of the crew actually grabbed and hugged a stunned Assanvir just before running away get the boat moored.

Uth'shiral stood at the railing, watching the docks and the town approach closer and closer. A small crowd appeared, drawn by the unexpected appearance of an unknown vessel. Flags were raised on the shore and the ship, signaling things Uth'shiral could barely guess at. Cole appeared at her side.

“They're waiting at Skyhold,” Cole said. “Planning, preparing, pestering, sure she'll be home soon so the Seeker and Sera can settle. You were missed.”

“I missed them, too,” the Inquisitor said. “Will you go back to Skyhold, too?”

“Yes, until you don't need me there. Others need me, too. More than you, now. When we get there, I can help them.” Cole stood on top of the railing.

“We'll all be there soon.” The boat bumped against the dock; crew members rushed to tie it. Cole showed no sign of losing his balance even as Uth'shiral clung to the railing to keep her footing.

“Yes,” Cole replied. “I need to help them.” As soon as he had spoken, he vanished.

A board was set between the ship and the dock. Uth'shiral waved to the other Dalish, then jogged across the ramp, past the stunned observers (“Is that the Inquisitor?” “Why is the Herald of Andraste on a fishing boat?”), and onto solid ground at last. Clan Lavellan jogged after her, until they were all greeted by an Inquisition soldier.

“Inquisitor! You're wanted back at Skyhold. We've had orders to watch for you at the ports and send back word at once if you arrived. You're to get back to Skyhold as soon as you can. Your hart and the two other beasts you left are still at the inn, but your company wasn't expected.” The young city elf eyed the hungry-looking Dalish elves for a moment. “They look like they could use a meal and a bath, if you don't mind my saying. I'll make arrangements. Right this way!”

She started to follow the young man, along with the other Dalish elves.

“Uth'shiral, wait,” Abelas requested.

Sorien looked at her as she hesitated, glancing back toward the Sentinel. “Go on, everyone. I'll be there soon.” As they passed by, she changed direction toward the stable. “I think I know what you want to say.”

“If you guessed that this is my farewell, then yes,” Abelas replied, walking after her. For someone so tall, his steps were unnaturally quiet.

She opened the door to the barn, smiling as her red hart stamped his eagerness to reunite with his rider. “Missed me, boy?” she asked as she approached the beast, scratching his nose just where he liked it. “I hope they led you around for exercise and fed you well.”

“Uth'shiral.” Abelas was looking at her with his arms crossed.

“Sorry. I'm not very good with 'goodbyes,' these days. Your mount—the palomino... it's still here,” she pointed out. “So you can saddle up and--”

“I dislike farewells, and I do not need a mount.” He settled onto a bench nearby. “I am still under a geas to Mythal.”

“Which means...?” Lavellan prompted, turning to watch Abelas as she continued petting the massive deer.

“It means that farewells are necessary. It means that I am parting ways to make it more difficult to act against you, if I am called upon by Mythal. It means that I may turn against you and fully believe it was my own idea. I don't wish to betray you.” He stood and walked toward her, resting his hands on her shoulders. She stopped petting the hart and met his gaze. “Distance will make doing so more difficult.”

“I... see.” Just when things began to be okay again, someone had to talk about betrayal and... Wasn't Solas's departure enough? She already knew that whatever Solas was doing probably wasn't something she was going to like. “Does this have to do with Solas? And why you wanted to find him?”

“Yes.” As harsh as the answer was, Uth'shiral appreciated his directness. He gazed at her so intently for a long moment, his hands still on her shoulders, that she expected him to lean down and press his lips to hers. Despite Solas, despite everything, she wanted him to do just that.

But he didn't.

“I'm sorry, Abelas. You must be feeling torn.” She remembered the doubt spirit, and the fear demons that had attacked Abelas. Abelas wasn't sure what to do, and was probably afraid to act whatever he chose. This world was not his; it was alien to him. She would be frightened and uncertain in those circumstances, too. She briefly considered leaning up and giving him a farewell kiss, but it would not be fair. She still loved Solas, although Solas had broken her heart many times over. Before she could even think of moving on with someone else, she needed to resolve her feelings for Solas. She was more certain than ever that such a resolution was coming.

The Sentinel's hands dropped from her shoulders. “Dareth shiral, ma falon.” He stepped backward, watching the Inquisitor for one last moment, then turned toward the door. “If the situation had not been so complicated, I could have loved you. The spirit knew. Parting ways, at least for now, is probably better for both of us. Your heart needs time to heal. As does my own.”

The Inquisitor kept her silence as he left. She didn't follow him; she knew he wouldn't want her to know which direction he went. She'd probably hear about his travels later on, from the Inquisition soldiers and scouts, whether she wanted to or not. Distance would probably make them safer. Abelas was probably right; romance was not what either of them needed, just now.

She spent some more time with her hart, but the beast was already groomed so well that he gleamed in the dim light of the stable. There was no use in putting off the inevitable. At last, she went inside the inn to tell the others that Abelas had left while she had a meal. At least there was a bath to look forward to for certain this time. And then... Skyhold, her home.

Chapter Text

The road back to Skyhold was long, but well-guarded. Although Cole had not reappeared since she had reached shore, the Inquisitor was unconcerned. People needed help; Cole would show them the compassion that they deserved. Nor did she allow herself to fret over what might become of Abelas, ancient and adrift in an unfamiliar time and an unfamiliar world. Abelas had proven, despite himself, that he was capable of adapting. He'd be fine, and Uth'shiral knew it was better that they parted. Even Solas's absence could not weigh on her mind—someday, she would see him again. Someday, she would have some kind of answer from him. If it were not the answer she wanted, then at last she would be ready to move on. She was simply glad to be with the handful of family she had left, astride the red hart that had become as much a pet as a utilitarian mount. And just as much so, she was glad to be riding back to her friends at Skyhold. It had been childish to flee; how were they to know of her suffering if she never mentioned it to them, herself?

It was eerie to ride past the once-bustling camps toward the massive bridge that led to her fortress. Now they were mostly empty; campfires blazed here and there in the darkness and the few tents that remained in place were tattered from wind and wear. The people standing watch hailed the Inquisitor and her escort as they past; the rest remained asleep at this late hour. Beneath her, the red hart pranced. She fought to keep his pace at a steady walk; her own eagerness to be back was influencing the hart.

The hooves of the animals clattered onto the stone bridge. Uth'shiral's stomach fluttered in anticipation – but no one was going to be awake, and it appeared that most of the people of Skyhold, not just the camps, had departed. She imagined servants hard at work scrubbing and cleaning and tending, and winced—they continued to attend to their duties, even as she had abandoned hers—however briefly that might be.

She reined in her hart at the gate; the others' mounts halted behind her as the guard took one look and raised the gate to let them in. Part of her had expected some sort of lavish greeting. The Inquisition soldiers from camp to camp had made certain to send word of her progress toward Skyhold. There was no doubt that everyone knew she would be home tonight. Skyhold was silent at this hour. Even most of the servants were sleeping; perhaps the kitchen staff and the stablehands had just begun to stir to prepare breakfast and ready mounts for the scouts and soldiers and officials of the Inquisition. She pictured everyone sleeping soundly as she snuck up the stairs into her quarters for the first restful night she'd had in months. She pictured the paperwork she'd surely have to go over with Josephine with considerably less enthusiasm—but it was her own fault for having left, and she would attend to her duties without complaint.

The guard who had let them in gestured to the other guard at the gate. She loped toward the stables to inform a stablehand that the Inquisitor had arrived

“I never want to ride a horse again,” Sorien mumbled under his breath

“You get used to it if you ride them enough,” Uth'shiral replied.

“So says the one riding a hart,” Mirevas countered.

“I miss the aravels,” Bel'eranen sighed.

“We're here now, so you're safe from the saddle again for at least a while,” Uth'shiral said. “I don't know what we're going to do from now forward, but... we're here. Let's get some rest. Tomorrow we'll actually have something better to eat than trail food.”

“That's the best suggestion I've ever heard you make,” Sorien said.

“And that's a terrible exaggeration,” Atisha retorted as she reached for Atish'adahlen's hand; Uth'shiral noticed that Mirevas had done the same with Halin. “Come, Adahlen. Let's not get separated from everyone else.”

They walked toward the main entrance, Uth'shiral urging everyone to be quiet so that they didn't wake anyone.

As she reached the top stair, the doors swung wide. The scents of fresh food swept toward her from the main hallway; the babble of voices murmured in an eager cacophany. At first the Inquisitor had no idea what was going on. And then she saw Josephine standing close to the entryway.

“Welcome back, Inquisitor! I received word that you would arrive early this morning. I believe you have come a bit earlier than anticipated, but we did order the cakes just in time and--”

“Everything is simply lovely, Josephine. You've outdone yourself. Truly!” Dorian exclaimed, walking up to see what the commotion was about. “I do question the décor, but we have no one to blame for that but the Inquisitor. Of course, if it makes her feel more welcome...” he gave Uth'shiral a wink. “Come, have a seat and enjoy some wine--”

“Hold it right there. Who said you get to have the Inquisitor all to yourself?” Varric demanded, pushing his way through the crowd. “She still owes me a game of Wicked Grace.”

Uth'shiral found herself passed from person to person—hadn't they all left? Weren't only her advisors and Sera left? She was too confused to give them more than the most basic of answers as they plied her with questions and greetings.

“Do you have any idea the plans that I had to rearrange to be here?” Vivienne demanded as Uth'shiral tried to push her way through the crowd. “Still, it is a lovely party, and I have spotted several nobles in this crowd. So much opportunity is not to be wasted! I thought it was meant to be exclusive... I suppose Josephine knew better than to turn away potential political alliances. Nevermind that, my dear. We simply must arrange for a spa day sometime soon. Come to Orlais and I will be sure you go home relaxed. If--”

Sera appeared as if from nowhere, engulfing her in a bear hug. “If you ever pull that stunt again I'll--”

“Sera! Give the Inquisitor room to breathe,” Cassandra ordered, walking over to Lavellan's side as if expecting her presence to keep the others at a respectful distance.

Sera released her grip, sticking her tongue out at Cassandra. “Oh come off it! You know she missed me!”

By that point, Uth'shiral had entirely lost track of her Dalish entourage. She was surrounded with familiar people, all of them treating her more as if she'd died than as if she'd been away for a few months.

“So, about that game of Wicked Grace...” she managed, grinning down at Varric. “I think we could get in a few rounds with the whole gang. We've even got snacks! And I bet my brother and Bel'eranen could tell you a few stories.”

“Oooh, Wicked Grace and cake!” Sera exclaimed. “I'll get the booze!”

“Really, darling? You should be mingling!” Vivienne scolded.

“I am mingling—I haven't seen any of you in months, Vivienne,” Uth'shiral responded. “Why don't you join us?”

“I'll warn Cullen,” Vivienne said from a doorway.

“That's no fun!” Sera yelled. “Blackwall! Blackwall, go get Cullen, fast!”

“I'll get him for you,” Iron Bull rumbled from across the room.

In the boisterous chaos that followed, Uth'shiral grew certain that no matter what the future brought, or what might or might not become of her, everyone she knew would be okay. Even if everything didn't go as ideally as they wanted it to, even if life was difficult, they would adapt and they would endure. Cassandra, Cullen, Leliana, Vivienne, Iron Bull, Varric, Sera, Dorian, Blackwall... They might not always be perfect at showing it, but they were her friends all along, and they always would be. She had no idea why she had ever doubted it.

She glanced toward the end of the hallway and saw Cole staring back at her. She didn't have to hear him to know that he said only, “Yes.”