Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Fen'Harel was distracted.

His work had brought him to the Forbidden Oasis, to his temple there. It was one he visited with a certain frequency these days; it was where he made his base. But it was not his home. His home was in Tarasyl'an Te'las. His home and his heart. And, for the last several weeks, his mind.

Truthfully his mind was always lingering there, even when he had abandoned his heart in search of his duty, but never like this. He had been drifting in and out of anxieties and fantasies since Hal'lasean had confessed she carried his child. He worried for her constantly and when he was not worrying, he was imagining possible futures, longing to be by her side, to watch her belly swell. He was still so full of doubt about this child; it was unwise, irresponsible, impulsive. It was the sort of thing he had sworn to himself he would never allow. Not while the fate of The People hung in the balance.

And yet here he was, standing in the inner sanctum of his temple with half his gear and his tunic piled neatly in front of him, and instead of fixing himself dinner and looking over the notes he had taken at the ruins from which he had just returned, his thoughts wandered errant and unruly to what Hal'lasean must be doing at this moment, to that self-satisfied smile that warmed his heart and drove him mad, to when their child might be delivered and whether it would be a son or a daughter, what they would name it -- Panowen, she had suggested, or Solan, and he had made a noise of disgust at the latter -- whose eyes it would have, whose brow, and if there was any justice in this world, the child would have her nose.

And he imagined his Hal'la laughing at him for his straying mind.

I sent you away to work, Dread Wolf, he could almost hear her saying, Might as well come home to me if you aren't.

Perhaps he could visit her in the Fade tonight, though it was a few days too early for their scheduled meeting. The idea sharpened his focus in the here and now and left a small smile on his lips as he knelt before his things and began to set up his little camp.

Fen'Harel had a fire going and a rabbit roasting over it before he bothered to see about his wards. He walked the perimeter at a leisurely stroll, confident in the magic he'd woven in ages past and patched up more recently. There would be no getting in without his permission and no attempting it without his knowledge. Here he need not even worry over spiders. They had seen to that during his time with the Inquisition, fighting at his lover's side.

As he finished his protections he passed the hidden recess where once he and Mythal had chosen to put away Andruil's spear for safe keeping when they cut off her contact with the Void. It had stayed locked behind warding they had built together millennia ago and there was no mage walking Thedas with knowledge of the spear, much less the power to reach it. It was a strange thing, the Arche, little understood even by the Pantheon. Andruil had brought it back with her from the Void, some trophy she'd recovered from no-one-knew-where, and after careful study they could determine little of its purpose or design. What they knew was that it was a thing of great power. A frightful weapon in capable hands. A terror in corrupted Andruil's unworthy clutches. A nightmare waiting to happen but that they could not destroy.

And it was gone.

"Why do you hate me, Josie?" Hal wondered. She was staring down at a steaming mug of something truly foul that the Ambassador had set before her in the little dining room she and her companions used for their meals. Everyone had immediately scooted away from it so they could enjoy their lunches undisturbed by its astoundingly malicious odor, but apparently it was meant for the Inquisitor because Josephine was looking at her expectantly. Like maybe she was supposed to drink it. As if she weren't already nauseated enough. "I thought we were friends."

"Just drink it, will you!" sighed Josie. "It will make you feel better!"

Hal’lasean let out a miserable laugh that was practically a whimper. Because of course she would drink it in the end. What other choice did she have? It was this or morning sickness. But she was dubious of the drink’s medical worth and in no mood to go down without a fight. "There is absolutely no way something that smells like that is going to help me not throw up!"

"You know,” Dorian said as he pouted down at his overly ornate mid-day meal, “most people consider it bad form to talk about this sort of thing while others are eating."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Dorian,” and Hal gingerly pushed the noxious mug in his direction, “is my constant nausea making you nauseated?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact!"

Josephine let out a beleaguered huff and folded her ruffled arms beneath her chest. "If you'd drink the tea, you wouldn't be constantly nauseated!"

Dorian was horrified. “You call that tea? Are you the reason Solas hates the stuff?”

"Have you smelled the thing you're trying to make me put in my mouth?" Hal demanded, but she was grinning.

"That's what she said." That grin promptly disappeared for the benefit of the smarmy dwarf across the table from her.

"Varric, I will stab you."

He laughed and pointed at her with a fork full of rice, looking very pleased with himself. "There's no need to get snippy, Hal. Nobody in this room knocked you up."

"Hal'lasean,” said Josie plaintively. She perched on the bench beside her friend to seek out earnest eye contact. “Please try the tea. My mother used to make it when she had morning sickness. I know it's...rather fragrant, but it will help."

Hal acquiesced with extreme reluctance, pulling the cup back toward her and lifting it with every intention of drinking it...and then chickening out at the last moment when the odor of it made her stomach turn over. She set the tea down again and backed up her chair, her nose wrinkled with disgust. “I don’t know if I can!”

"Want me to hold your nose for you, Boss?" Bull offered helpfully.

Dorian scoffed. "If you can drink that Qun swill Bull likes, Hal, you can drink that hideous concoction."

"Yeah, but that Qun swill Bull likes gets me drunk!” Hal’lasean was suddenly wistful for the time not so long ago when she could freely imbibe. She would have gladly swallowed almost anything to avoid having to swallow what filled her mug. She must have made a face at it because Josephine stood again, towering over her now, with her hands planted firmly on her hips.

"Hal'lasean, we have a very busy day ahead of us and you must eat something. If you don't woman up and drink it, I'll have you held down and pour it down your throat myself!"

The room -- all men except Hal and Josie -- stopped to stare at the Ambassador with wide, dumb grins.

"Damn, Ruffles. That was kinda hot."

Josie sniffed. "Antivan women do not take 'no' for an answer!"

"I like that about you a lot more when you're using it to help the Inquisition," complained Hal without much vehemence. She would have to capitulate soon. She eyed the thick tea with a decided curl to her lips.

"This is helping the Inquisition!"

She could do this. Hal could do this. It was just a drink. A disgusting, too-viscous, rancid-scented drink. A tea! And she never backed down from a challenge. “Fine. Fine! A toast then. To Josie, who doesn't take no for an answer." Hal’s mouth filled dangerously with saliva at just the thought of drinking it, so she took a breath and held the mug aloft.

"To Josie!" the men echoed with a laugh.

They drank. So she drank. Hal’lasean tilted back her head and closed her eyes tightly and poured the stuff down the back of her throat, doing her best to avoid any parts of her tongue and failing miserably in that regard. If the scent was rancid, the taste was unholy. But she got it down. Hal slapped the mug down on the table in triumph and promptly covered her mouth with her hand just in case as her guts rebelled violently for one too-close moment.

"Fenedhis!” she exclaimed. “It tastes even worse than it smells!"

"But is it settling your stomach?" Josie prompted in a way that suggested she knew the answer already.

Hal chased it with a generous gulp of juice to cleanse her tongue, and by the time the taste was mostly washed away, so, it seemed, was her nausea.

"...Maybe."

Josie was practically gloating. “Wonderful! I’ll inform the kitchen you’ll be eating after all!” She was headed for the door to do just that when she paused and glanced back over her shoulder, her lips pursed with delight and her eyes full of mischief. “Not to worry, my friend. I will prepare my mother’s tea for you every day so long as you require it.”

“That’s what worries me!” Hal called after her.

“What worries you?” asked a new voice at the other door, soft and full of quiet pleasure. It was a voice that blossomed warmth through every part of Hal’lasean as it had since the very beginning. She was on her feet within the next beat of her heart, darting around the long table and throwing herself into strong elven arms.

Fen’Harel caught her to him and held her tightly to his chest, leaving her bare feet to dangle just above the floor. They smiled stupidly at each other as they embraced and then their lips met, their tongues tangled, and despite Dorian’s sounds of disgust and the ribald jokes Varric traded with Bull, it felt as though it were only the two of them.

Until, at least, her lover broke the kiss with an expression of extreme distaste. “Fenedhis, vhenan,” he gasped, appalled. “What have you been eating!”

He didn’t stifle his laughter as Hal’lasean scrubbed at her tongue and rinsed her mouth for the third time. The Arche was important. It was pressing. So Fen’Harel had quickly escorted his lover up to her quarters to deliver the unpleasant news. Yet here they were, he perched on her bed and she at her wash basin, delaying the settled weight of yet another crisis she must help him solve for a few moments of reunited bliss.

When she was finally satisfied with the state of her mouth -- though still blushing her enchanting embarrassment -- Hal’la strode purposefully toward him, climbing onto the bed with her legs straddling his. She knelt on his lap, slid her fingers up his tunic, and with the feel of her cool hands on his travel-warmed flesh, Fen’Harel indulged himself in the eager attentions of her lips. Her closeness, her touch, the scent of her, the feel of her lean curves under his knowing palms. It was intoxicating. He had missed her.

“Tel’in ar emma tel’in sulahn’nehn,” he murmured when their mouths parted and their foreheads met. The depth and heat that suffused her sea-hued eyes soothed parts of him he had not even realized required care. She dusted another kiss on his lips and smiled her contentment at his return.

It did not last long.

“Tell me.”

Fen’Harel closed his eyes to collect his thoughts, to defend himself against the irresistible pull of her gaze’s gravity. When he opened them again, she chewed on her bottom lip in worry.

“The Dalish no doubt have a tale of an Arche…” he began, knowing she would offer him what information she had, inaccurate though it would likely be.

“Andruil’s spear? The Dalish don’t have a story for it,” she admitted. “But after I drank from the Well, there was a…” She shook her head as she searched for the words. “I heard a prayer, I think? A plea to Andruil to spare The People from becoming her sacrifice. There was something about...she fashioned it from the light of the stars. Blood and force. I couldn’t make out exactly what…”

Fen’Harel’s expression was dark, grim with millennia of the knowledge he was about to impart. A knowledge he and Mythal had worked so hard to hide. “Andruil would have had us believe she crafted the spear herself. As though she could do what June could not. In truth, she found it in the Void. When Mythal removed her daughter’s ability to return to that place, she also recovered the Arche.” He breathed out audibly through his nose with his weariness. “We studied it, tested it as far as we dared. It remains a mystery. We know only a few things: it is a particularly corrosive form of time magic that, best we could decipher, was created to give its maker the power to alter a single thread in the tapestry of the world. And it may only be used once.”

Hal’la was watching him warily, as exhausted by listening to such news as he was by telling it. He considered reminding her that if she thought three years of these disasters left her worn, she ought to try countless thousands of years. But Fen’Harel did not especially fancy acquiring her ire.

“What do you mean ‘alter’?” she prompted, her concern deepening. She had some idea, clearly, but wanted him to speak it.

So he did.

“The Arche is an unraveller of deeds. Select a person or a thing, a place or possibly even an idea, and use the wicked spear against it...to all the world it would be as though the Arche’s quarry never existed.”

“So…” Hal’lasean took a breath and let it out slowly. “If someone used the Arche on, say, Val Royeaux...there would be no record or memory of it ever even having been built in the first place? And everything that might have happened in Val Royeaux either...didn’t happen at all or happened somewhere else, differently?”

“That is the theory.”

She considered his words for a time, letting the concepts and consequences of Andruil’s instrument form solidly in her mind. The moment it did, her eyes narrowed shrewdly. “And what’s the Arche to us today? Do we want it? Are we looking for it? Have we lost it?” His eyes darkened and she gave a slight nod. “So we had it. But we don’t anymore.”

Her body tensed beneath his hands at the implications.

“Who took it? How do we get it back?”

Fen’Harel felt heat seep into his cheeks, knew it crept along the edges and tips of his ears. No, he did not especially fancy acquiring her ire, but he had left himself no other choice. He should have told the truth months ago when he realized she remembered nothing.

“There’s more, isn’t there,” she said rather than asked. An echo of a time before his vhenan knew who he was, when the orb lay in shattered pieces before her.

He touched her cheek, brushed his thumb over the striking line where once her vallaslin had lain. “Forgive me, ma halla.” A bracing breath for both of them. “Imagine there is not only this world, but a multitude. And in each world, one person emerges from the Conclave with my Mark in their hand.”

Chapter Text

Hal’lasean was angry. Or maybe not angry. Irritated? She was something unpleasant certainly, and what it was changed by the second. She would be hurt and insecure one moment as she tried to come to terms with the idea that some Fen’Harel might love some other Inquisitor, then full of sorrow and self-loathing and regret the next when she considered how much more smoothly the fight against Corypheus could have gone if she’d known each possible future. And of course it didn’t help that she was pregnant and prone to these sorts of moodswings anyway. But right now, Hal was filled with a muted fury that was directed firmly at the man she loved.

“Isn’t that rather self-important of you?” she asked without really expecting an answer. Her expression was imperious, her lips pursed and her brow raised. His attrition and embarrassment did nothing to dampen it. “All these other worlds and you’re the constant?”

"Well," he said with faux-swagger and a slow smirk. "I am the Dread Wolf."

She leveled a look at him that had withered lesser men where they stood. His smirk vanished.

“Vhenan,” Fen’Harel sighed, ducking his head in apology, “there are likely as many worlds in which you are the constant. I mention these not because I am proud but because they are relevant.”

“Because of this woman.”

“Evin.”

Hal’s eyes narrowed dangerously and Fen’Harel flushed. It was endlessly satisfying to know she could so easily dismantle the Trickster, but it didn’t assuage her agitation now. “This Evin, who took my place for a few hours, who another version of you...may or may not love. This Evin is our only chance at finding out what happened to the Arche?”

He reached for her, seeking her hand with his, and while she allowed the touch, Hal stood her ground when Fen’Harel tried to guide her back to the bed with him. He gave up his efforts quickly and kept his feet with her, their fingers interlaced, the Dalish huntress sniping at the contrite Dread Wolf.

“She is our best and fastest option, ma sa’lath,” he said, his voice coaxing and his eyes lifted to hers in a hope that worked its inconvenient claws into her chest.

“Because somehow, somehow, she has these special powers?” A wave of deeper emotion rose within Hal’lasean, threatening to drown her. The despair she’d been stubbornly keeping down since Fen’Harel had explained what happened. “This prescience that I-- that I don’t have!” The roll of feeling crested and she was crying despite her best efforts, crying limp tears for the things she might have done with foreknowledge. The people she might have saved.

“So many people died, Fen’Harel! And to know I could have-- that I might have--”

He drew her into his arms again and this time Hal didn’t protest when he took her to her bed. Her Wolf pulled her into his lap and ran fingers through her hair, kissed her forehead and nose, watched her with such understanding of her pain that it hurt worse because now she mourned the Dread Wolf’s dead too.

“This is why I did not tell you,” he murmured with his lips against her skin. “My bright halla. Singular spirit. Think instead on all the lives you saved, all the lives you will improve, and not because you have an improbable foresight, but because you are…” He paused to find the proper word and she curled into him, burrowing her face against his neck and breathing in his scent, dusty with the road. “Inimitable.”

They were briefly silent as she calmed, and then Hal’lasean smiled wryly against Fen’Harel’s skin even with her cheeks still wet. “Inimitable?”

She could hear his gentle amusement in the rumble of his voice. “Mm. I might have found a more poetic description for my matchless Hal’la in Elvhen, but you would not have understood me.”

Her smile stayed, stabilizing the remains of her sorrow long enough for her to wipe at her tears and collect herself. “That’s your own fault for always getting aroused during our lessons.”

Fen’Harel hooked his chin over her hair and trailed fingers along her arms. “It would be an unfeeling god indeed who could witness such exquisite music falling from your lips and not desire to savor it on his own tongue.”

Hal’lasean tilted her face up to touch a kiss to his jaw. “If this is your plan to make me forgive you for not telling me all this sooner,” another kiss, and another, “it’s working.”

He smiled. "Excellent."

When she went to kiss his jaw again, his lips met hers, a lingering touch of longing and love that eased the tension in both their shoulders.

“So,” Hal said. “How do we find this Evin?”

“We will work together in the rotunda to reopen the rift across worlds. You need only be present; I will guide the magic. Theoretically, it will open a door to her version of Skyhold, and from there it will be simple enough for me to--”

The irritation returned in full force. Hal leaned out, bracing her weight with a hand on his chest, so that she could look Fen’Harel in the eyes with the entire strength of her disapproval. He blinked at her in surprise.

“You plan to go alone.”

“Of course,” he said.

“When have you ever known me to stay behind?” Hal demanded.

Fen’Harel’s brow pulled low over grey-blue eyes that hardened with resolve. “You will this time.”

Hal’lasean let out a disbelieving breath, almost a hiss, and slid off his lap to her feet again so that they could be of a height. He realized his folly too late. “Excuse me?”

“Ma lath,” he protested, as though endearments would somehow absolve him of his crime. He was already reaching for her, palms out, both to beckon her to return to him and as a gesture of peace. “Please. I mean you no disrespect. I have no doubts that you would be no end of valuable in this other world as you always are, but you carry our child!”

No, the endearments didn’t save him from her wrath, but his appeal on behalf of their baby did. Hal softened, relaxed, but lost none of her determination. She stepped toward the bed, placing herself between his legs and allowing him to weave an arm around her waist while his other hand pressed reverently on the negligible curve of her belly. His eyes begged her cooperation.

“You plan to go see this Evin, have her check...whatever it is she’s supposed to check, and then go to your temple through the Eluvians to see if the Arche is still there, yes? And then you’re going to come right back. Because time is of the essence.” He nodded. Hal’lasean stroked fingers over his cheek and along the ridge of his ear, fond and empathetic, but unyielding. “But even if the Eluvian by your temple in this other world is activated, you’d still be a day’s hard ride to the Oasis.”

He already knew he was beaten. Hal watched Fen’Harel follow the line of her logic to its completion even as he patiently let her get there herself. She had proven herself indispensible.

“Unless my counterpart has moved the Eluvian into the temple as I have here.”

“You would, therefore,” Hal’lasean concluded frankly, “find someone who could, for instance, bring you physically through the Fade and get you to your temple more quickly to be an invaluable resource.”

"Hal'la,” Fen’Harel protested, a last ditch effort before admitting defeat. “I would have you safe.”

Hal gave him a thin, decided smile. “Then protect me.”

Chapter Text

Evin Lavellan wanted to wallow in melancholy, she just didn't have time. It was four weeks since Solas left her, four weeks since her strike team eliminated Corypheus and restored order to Thedas, and the sadness wouldn't go away. She thought of it like a puppy or a wisp or a minor demon she'd picked up in the Fade. It followed her around and wouldn't leave, and she'd had enough.

For four weeks she'd endured banquets, fêtes, and presentations in her honor. She sat through them, smiled, did everything needful to ensure the best possible outcome. The Inquisition needed a politic Inquisitor, one who was engaging and witty and definitely not curled in a ball of pain at the thought of a man who broke up with her weeks before deciding to vanish. Anyway, she'd done all that, returned to Skyhold, and now it was her time to wallow.

She was going to get over this in the fastest, least disruptive way possible, if it killed her.

So she told Josephine to clear her appointments, asked Cullen to cancel the sessions with her trainer, and retired to her chambers for a week to indulge in hysterical storms of tears that seized her almost every hour. She sat in bed with a book of elven poetry she didn't understand, read from it every so often—hearing his voice, his accent—or sometimes a volume of ghost stories from Rivain, because the Rivainis knew their way around a tragic ending and enduring love that could never be fulfilled. And she sometimes sent her attendant down to the kitchen for fairy cakes and tea, because right now she wasn't going to deny herself anything, and tea was necessary to life, and she knew that if she kept sending for food they wouldn't worry about her as much, and she didn't want visitors.

She'd absolutely forbidden visitors.

But now it had nearly been an entire week, and a new week was about to begin, but the sad hadn't gone away. She didn't know what to do.

How long did these things take? Maybe she should ask someone. Maybe Cassandra would know. Evin looked on her as an expert on love and related matters. Varric was out of the question because he loved Bianca, and their people had forced them apart, and theirs was a pure love, a real love, and they could never be together—

Varric, poor kind Varric. I'm so sorry. I never understood what you suffered!

Oh, Maker. She was crying again. Sobbing like a lost child into her pillow, shaking, and a little nauseated because all she'd eaten lately was cake and icing.

What was she going to do?

When she thought about it—as she had plenty of time to do lately—Evin had to admit part of the problem was that she simply didn't feel needed anymore.

The Breach was closed. Corypheus was dead, as dead it was possible for a blighted darkspawn magister to be. He wasn't coming back. The Inquisition had closed all the rifts that had been reported.

The Anchor in her hand wasn't needed anymore. The Inquisition wasn't needed anymore. Solas hadn't needed her anymore.

She felt lost, useless, discarded. She had no purpose.

And it was so difficult to face that thought. She'd rather lie in bed and bawl like a silly heartbroken girl than actually sit up, sift through the possible futures and pick one. What was the point? She was alone in all of them. No matter her power to foresee her own fate, she'd never been able to find a path where Solas loved her enough to stay.

She'd tried so hard not to push him away. She thought she'd done everything right.

A nap. She'd take a nap, and then she'd ask Bettina to send up her bath. And more cakes.

Another week wouldn't hurt. Maybe after seven more days she'd start to feel better. Maybe she'd gain the strength to face a future without the person she loved.

Evin always felt better after making a decision. Even if it was just deciding to sit in bed and cry.

Evin reclined in water up to her chin while Bettina washed her hair. When it was pinned up in locks and Bettina was gone she sank deeper into the water and blew a few desultory bubbles through her lips. Her hand brushed the copper rim of the tub, stirring its fire runes to greater intensity. The sleeves of her linen bathing gown billowed in the perfumed water. Steam curled in wisps around her face, sweat prickled on her forehead, and she relaxed in the ardent heat like an embrace.

She lifted her hands and watched water stream from her fingers in rivulets, droplets given random course down her skin. It reminded her of the destinies she studied with the Mark. She'd learned how after Alexius sent her forward in time. You couldn't predict which way a single drop would fall. Only in the averages did the pattern reveal itself. The course might be random but the destination was always the same—everything returned to the Void. Or the tub, in this case.

He had always intended to leave. Why had she let herself fall in love?

She should have asked Bettina to bring up another book. A Tevene epic in verse, one where everyone died at the end. Dorian knew some good ones, but she didn't want to talk to Dorian. He was too happy.

She wanted him to be happy. She didn't want to impose her misery on him. She wanted them all to be happy—all her companions—every single one, even if she never would be again—

Why did you tell me you loved me when you knew you were going to leave?

Oh, Maker. More tears.

She started at a sudden noise at the door, and wondered if Bettina had returned.

Too many feet on the stairs for that. Was it Josie's voice she heard, arguing with someone in a loud whisper?

She'd absolutely forbidden visitors.

Had something happened? Some new disaster? Maybe the Inquisitor was needed.

She saw them emerge at the top of the stairs—

It was him. It was him. And someone else.

She stood abruptly. Water cascaded from her body, crashing into the tub and splashing onto the rug, streaming from the linen shift. And she met his eyes and he looked at her like a stranger. Like she was someone he'd never loved at all. A little dizzy.

"Solas," she said.

"Evin Lavellan?" he asked.

Everything went black.

Seated at one of the padded wooden chairs by the stair railing. Josie dabbing elfroot at the sore spot on her scalp. Shivering from the sudden change in temperature, while an elven woman she didn't know pulled a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. Her head ached. She felt embarrassed, pathetic.

If there were good ways and bad ways to meet up with the man you loved most in the world, this was among the worst.

"It was the heat, just the heat, and the cold. I was surprised," Evin said. Babbling.

Her water-logged bathing gown was practically transparent. Solas averted his gaze politely, like you would for someone you didn't know. Someone you'd never been intimate with.

She didn't have any tears left for this.

"Why did you come back?" she asked. And she looked at the elven woman, who gazed back with a sort of impressive sympathy. "Solas, who is this?"

Solas wore an expression like he was trying to decide how to explain something complicated and he'd just reached a decision. "This is Hal'lasean. She's—"

"Your wife," Evin said.

His face sagged a little with surprise. Hal'lasean patted Evin's arm. "It's not what you think," the woman said. "Well, it mostly is, but not exactly—"

"Of course," Evin said. "It makes perfect sense. Why you wouldn't—why you didn't want—. Why you left. The secret you could never tell me. I knew it. The entire time. You were married."

She was wrong—she did indeed have more tears. She broke into fresh sobs.

"I can assure you—" Solas began.

"Go away, you jerk!" She jabbed a hand toward the door. "Get out!"

The three of them stared at her like she was mad. And she really, really was.

Chapter Text

Evin Lavellan was soaking wet in the most disagreeable way. And shaking with fury. After his mysterious, weeks-long disappearance Solas had returned—while she was bathing. She'd blacked out for a moment and now Josephine was convinced she was a helpless, heart-broken infant. Which she possibly was, but to be coddled in front of Solas and his new love was unbearable. She huddled in the chair and wrapped the soggy woolen blanket around herself more tightly and tried to control her rage.

It wasn't working, but at least she hadn't set the bed hangings on fire. Yet.

"Perhaps it would be best if—" Josie began.

"I assure you—" Solas said.

"I'm sick of your lies!" Evin burst out. This really wasn't how she'd envisioned this conversation would go. It wasn't how she thought of herself. But the words just tumbled out. "How could you just leave? What we had was real? What kind of a line is that, anyway? And the whole time you had this—this really beautiful woman on the side, and I bet you broke her heart too. What's wrong with you?"

Solas and Hal'lasean exchanged looks over her head. Like they'd done so a thousand times before. They knew each other. He knew her. And he'd never mentioned her. And Hal'lasean's mouth was an exasperated line and Solas looked slightly guilty. Evin had seen that expression before. She suddenly felt sick.

"Go on, ma fen," his wife said pointedly. "Tell her what's wrong with you."

What did she call him? Ma fen? He even had a cutesy nickname. Wasn't that just—

"I will," Solas said. "But first you should show her your Anchor."

The Anchor? Evin drew a deep, steadying breath. "What are you talking about?"

Instead of explaining, Solas glanced at Josephine as though to draw her attention to the ambassador's presence. "If I am not mistaken, Inquisitor, you've mastered certain peculiarities of the Anchor's magic. And you are not eager for this to become widely known."

Evin's chilled skin prickled in goosebumps. She let her eyes close for a moment. "Josie, would you give us a moment?"

Josephine's eyes flashed. She wasn't happy, but she surrendered the little elfroot-scented handkerchief with grace. "Of course, Inquisitor. If you need anything—"

"Four armed templars will be waiting patiently downstairs," Evin finished. "Yes, of course."

It was code. Four was an even number, it meant she didn't expect immediate danger. Templar meant a situation involving magic. But if Josie decided to send four actual templars to guard her door, Evin wasn't going to object.

The fact she'd chosen to use code would put Josephine on guard.

Too many secrets, and she couldn't trust him anymore. It wasn't something she wanted, but he had chosen this. He'd chosen for both of them.

When Josie left Evin flushed with annoyance and strain. "It's not a secret I keep out of selfishness or caprice. If you say anything you'll destroy more than you know."

"I have no wish to interfere with your plans," Solas said.

"Does this woman know?" Evin demanded.

"About the branches?" Hal'lasean asked.

Evin's mouth sagged open in shock. "How could you possibly—"

"You can trust her silence," Solas replied. "Hal'la would not—"

"Forgive me. I need a moment," Evin said. Without waiting for a response she pushed the sodden blanket from her shoulders and rose from the chair.

She crossed to the armoire on the far side of the bed. Her hands shook as she pulled out a clean shift and a simple embroidered kirtle. They politely turned away while she pulled them over her head. She smoothed the skirt over her hips and adjusted the pins in her wet hair as she returned to them, barefoot and unlaced.

She felt quiet, hollowed out. She couldn't remember the last time she'd gone into a conversation like this without consciously studying the outcome first. It added an edge of uncertainty and danger to their interaction. If Solas knew the truth it meant she couldn't trust her instincts where he was concerned. She hadn't made such a miscalculation in a very long time.

"How long have you known?" she asked him.

"I am not who you think," he said softly. A warning.

Hal'lasean laughed—a disturbing, knowing sort of laugh. Evin glanced at her, bewildered, uncertain. A whisper of presentiment—

Everything is going to break in a moment—

"Show her the Anchor," Solas said. "It should make everything clear... if my theory is correct."

He wasn't talking to her.

Hal'lasean lifted her left hand.

A spark of green she'd seen so many times—the Mark of the Rift—but not in her hand. As the light sparked the Anchor in Evin's flared into life simultaneously. It was like touching living flame, a jolt of energy that set her nerves on fire.

Two Heralds. A mystery worthy indeed of Solas' notice. But Evin still didn't understand. She didn't understand until Hal'lasean stretched out her left hand and gripped Evin's with hers.

Her eyes widened—sightless and staring, beholding a scene she thought no one would ever share. A vision for her inner sight she'd seen so many times before: Her destiny, her future, all the branching possibilities arrayed before her, stretching overhead like the bewildering tangle of a tree in winter. Images, actions, words, her own face, her companions, things that remained unseen. Her countless deaths: ignominious, accidental, epic. Assassination, betrayal, childbirth, disease. Sacrifice. The shape of her life and hints implied of a world the Herald molded to her will.

All she had to do was choose.

Hal'lasean—this other Herald—it was her Mark too. It was all the same. But as Evin focused her attention on it she found the branches were from someone else's life.

And she saw Solas there.

Evin jerked her hand away like a child who touched a red-hot ember.

"Why would you show me that?" she demanded. "Are you here to gloat? You won! Ir anehnas. May you find the happiness you deserve. Where did you find a second Mark?"

"We are not from your world," Solas said.

Evin's legs buckled—she sank onto the edge of her bed. She was beginning to remember. An absurd occurrence—two Inquisitors swapped in place and time. A second Solas who called her Hal'la. Who helped her to get home.

"Of course you're not," she said wearily. "How else could there be two Marks? Two Heralds?"

"The very idea is absurd," Solas said.

"What are you even doing here?" she demanded. "Are you the reason the branches disappeared? You're contaminating my timeline! Get out!"

"What timeline?" Hal'lasean asked. But Evin saw the understanding dawn in her face.

"When I was there in your world, your body, I told your Solas how it worked. But I forgot it even happened," Evin said. "Did you make me forget? Why?"

"Not I," the other Solas said.

"Did you meet him?" she asked Hal'lasean. "The Solas here? What did he say to you? Was that... the reason why? It can't be. It didn't change. I don't even know what I'm asking."

The woman shrugged a little. "I didn't even remember myself until a moment ago. Your... your Solas didn't like me very much."

A thousand Inquisitors. A hundred Lavellans. And countless destinies in the shade.

"I'll skip past how—and ask you why. Why are you here? Why would you be so reckless? I imagine you didn't come to sightsee."

"We'll get to that in a minute," Hal'lasean said. "First—"

"First," Solas smoothly interjected, "there is something you need to know. Something my counterpart tried to tell you in the Grove of Ghilan'nain."

She felt the color drain from her face.

The branches of this other Herald—exactly how much was the same? He looked so exactly like Solas—no, he was Solas—was everything identical down to the very words?

How galling.

"The vallaslin?" she asked. "What do you know about—"

"Not that," Hal'lasean said. She sounded weary. "It's what he was going to tell you, but he didn't, because your Solas panicked at the last minute, and because he's a kind of a dick. I mean, mine is too, but especially yours—"

"Then you're not married?" Evin asked.

"I would be shocked if my counterpart had a wife," Solas said. "I am confident his feelings for you are genuine."

"And you're not, say, secretly working for the Carta, or in league with Corypheus, or plotting to topple Tevinter, nothing like that?"

Hal'lasean hesitated. "Well—"

"None of that is true or relevant," Solas said. "There appear to be minor differences between this world and ours, but the broad outlines are undoubtedly the same. The truth Hal'la referred to is this. I am Fen'Harel, whom your people know as the Dread Wolf, and I assure you the man you know as Solas also shares that name."

Silence. Both of them regarded her expectantly. What, were they serious?

They couldn't be serious.

They were serious—and worse, perhaps this would explain the vision—but it was all just a bit too much—

Evin sank into her usual composure like a mask, helpless to prevent the smile tugging at her lips. "You're a Dalish god? You?"

"Neither god nor Dalish," he said, irritated. "Your people have existed for barely a millennium. I am elvhen."

"You sound so much like him," Evin marveled. "But you're really not, are you? You're different."

"I imagine there are differences, yes. Observe how far you diverge from Hal'la."

"Let's be clear. You're not a god, but you are Fen'Harel, peer to the Creators and the Forgotten Ones. That Fen'Harel?"

"I had the honor of joining the Pantheon a very, very long time ago."

"And you locked them all away—your Pantheon. Assuming the myths are correct. I don't know what to think about this. I'm stunned, really. It's absurd."

"It's true," Hal'lasean said.

"What I really ought to do is make you prove it," Evin said. "I ought to lock you up. Skyhold has a very nice dungeon—as I'm sure you're aware. There are some very strong, very secure cells. A few are rather scenic."

"I would not recommend such a thing," Fen'Harel said. His voice was dangerously quiet.

"Oh, it wasn't a threat. If I meant to do it I wouldn't have said anything. Don't you see that I can't trust my judgment where you're concerned? You have the face of the person I love. Loved. He betrayed my feelings, abandoned the Inquisition, and—assuming what you said is true—lied about everything it's possible to lie about. But you're not him. You're a copy. Some other betrayer from some other branch of history. So now I'm quite curious. What in this world do you want—and why in the Void's name do you think I'll help?"

Chapter Text

"He's not a betrayer," Hal protested without any real feeling. It was exhausting, this meeting, this conversation, these sudden memories returning to her of an encounter that was, truth be told, much nicer to have forgotten. Regardless, she made a mental note to ask Fen'Harel why he didn't bother to tell her all of what happened. Another Inquisitor running around in her body? These were the kinds of things lovers told one another. But then, so were secret identities. She supposed she shouldn't be surprised. "Well, mine's not. I don't know about yours."

"The Pantheon and your people may not agree," he returned mildly, offering one of the thin, self-effacing smiles he always had in these conversations. It made her want to slip her hand into his, but she kept her proprietary distance for Evin's sake. Because the thought of seeing some other woman with a loving Solas at her side when hers had left her...it would have been devastating. She would have survived, preferably with the kind of grace and power this woman showed, but her heart would have been beyond repair.

"Ir abelas," Hal murmured instead, earnest and open. "For all of this. Truly. We wouldn't have come if we'd had another option."

Evin was watching her skeptically, her features grim but impassive. Inquisitor face, she thought, and nearly smirked. Hal knew it well.

"We have come because there is...a weapon," her Wolf began, and she let out a breath that might have been a laugh in her timeline. But she was being more careful here. Especially after last time.

I cannot imagine any world in which I love you.

"Andruil's spear," she added. Evin's eyes narrowed in confusion. Maybe she hadn’t been able to understand the voices from the Well. Maybe she’d heard something else.

"Yes," said Fen'Harel, "an Arche she found in the Void long ago. It is a brutal instrument, and a singular one. Even among the Pantheon we could only guess at its purpose. But our best theory has always been that the Arche is capable of altering time. With the proper ritual, it could be used to annihilate any trace of its target from time itself."

"And ours is missing."

"That still doesn't explain what you're doing here," Evin replied, and Hal wondered if she always sounded like she was walking on a dagger's edge. So careful. So precise. She had seen pieces of Evin's life when they'd switched bodies, pieces of the decisions she'd made, the conversations she'd had. Most of them had been like this; even the casual conversations had been...carefully casual. Even with her Solas! But she had cried earlier too, had fainted and been angry and hurt. So this was a mask. An act. Wasn't it tiring? How could she stand it?

"It should have been beyond the ability of any free mage in our timeline to reach beyond the wards to take it, much less to do so without destroying the wards or raising my alarms," Fen'Harel explained patiently. "And yet it was done. There is, however, one other possible explanation: the Arche may only be used once. As a temporal device, it is...conceivable that its activation in one timeline would remove all iterations of it from the others."

"We need to know if it was simply stolen in our timeline," Hal continued for him, "in which case we have to get back immediately and track it down...or if it was used elsewhere." She frowned. "Elsewhen? Elseworld? The point is, we were hoping..." And here she put on her sweetest, most trustworthy face. "...that you might be willing to take a look at our...branches, or whatever they are, to see if something seems...off. Or wrong. If it was used, it would benefit us all to know the target."

"We must also travel to one of my--" Fen'Harel paused and tried again. "One of your Fen'Harel's temples. Theoretically, as the Arche in our world was held there, it would be the same in yours. If it still exists here then the fault is in our world."

Hal finished off their pitch with a dark, thin smile. "And if that's the case, we're all still screwed."

Evin took all of this in without a word, her sunset eyes appraising each of them in turn with an unsettling focus. Finally, she sat back slightly as if she'd decided something. A power play if ever Hal saw one. As if Evin sat in judgment of them. As if she held their fates in her hands.

But then, didn't she?

"How do I know you aren't seeking to steal the Arche from my timeline for your own use?"

Fen'Harel's brow lowered with irritation, but Hal was already on it. "You don't." She held out her Anchored hand. "But I do. You take a look and tell me if I seem the kind of person to even consider using a weapon like that. Look at whatever you want."

"Hal'la," her Wolf protested.

Hal grinned. "It's nothing she hasn't seen before."

Evin clasped her hand, Mark to Mark.

Hal’lasean’s vision swam, narrowed, changed. Instead of some bizarre version of her quarters, she saw now the overlapping bones of a rainforest’s skeleton. A flash of it, overwhelming, familiar but not the same as last time. These branches were not purple, not easy to follow or clear-cut as the vallaslin Hal'lasean once wore. And then something shifted, focus turned from Evin to her, and Fen'Harel's magic flared inside her in recognition of its counterpart in the other Anchor. These...these branches were her life, these bare limbs on this one tree, reaching up and out and forward, ever forward, never sideways as Evin's so often strafed. Except twice: once, just before the Arbor Wilds, and again, at nearly the end of the largest limb. Sideways from her world to this. Broken branches like they'd been felled by lightning but still gripped to life.

And then glimpses of memory, her life literally flashing before her eyes, childhood, adolescence, her clan, Lavellan in its dark-skinned, brawny glory and her within it, pale and small and Other, but kept. The Conclave, Haven, her companions before they were her family, Corypheus, Val Royeaux, Skyhold, Halamshiral, her companions as her family, despair, joy, agony, hope, Solas, Solas, Solas...

It was too much. Too quick, like spinning in fast circles on the edge of a cliff when the wind is strong. Evin thumbed through her life like flipping through a book and Hal couldn't keep up. By the time it ended, she found herself leaning heavily in Fen'Harel's arms, his face all worry, his attention split between Evin and Hal, but mostly for Hal.

"Fenedhis," she breathed in relief when her vision returned fully, when her vertigo began to recede and all that remained was morning sickness. Well. Late afternoon sickness. She pressed the back of her hand to her lips and felt her Wolf's magic move through her from his hands, cool and comforting and steadying. Slowly but surely the nausea left her too. "How do you do that?"

Because Evin seemed fine. Physically, anyway. She wasn't tilting or sick or even confused. She clearly did this all the time. Physically, she was fine. Emotionally, however...the cracks had begun to reappear in that precise mask of hers. "Then you really can't do it, can you." As though it had been a question. Evin's voice was pensively, vulnerably quiet. She opened her mouth to say something else, but a shadow passed behind those violet eyes and she decided against it. Instead, her mouth set in a firm line. Hal got the distinct impression she was keeping herself together.

But of course she was. Hal'lasean was being held by a doting and concerned man who looked just like the one who had left Evin behind. With a determined swallow of any remaining volatile acid in her throat, Hal pried away from her lover, her eyes only on Evin. She gave the other woman her distance from Fen'Harel.

"I will think over what you've said," Evin said, nearly blurted, her voice prickly but not out of malice. Defensive. A reaction to her vulnerability. "Josephine will give you a room." She paused. "His room is as he left it. Ask Josephine for the key. I'll send for you later."

"We do not have much time," Fen'Harel reminded the other Inquisitor even as Hal stood shakily to take her leave.

Evin's smile didn't reach her eyes. "On the contrary, Dread Wolf. I have nothing but time."

"Ma Fen," Hal murmured gently, and she touched his elbow because it was the most innocuous place on his body she could reach. He turned to her in question. "I'm not feeling well. Help me downstairs. She'll send for us when she's ready."

"Are you well?" Fen'Harel asked the moment they had a solid door between their conversation and Evin. Instead of answering, Hal'lasean turned to face him and slipped her arms around his neck, pulling their bodies close. Holding him to her. He already had one arm around her waist for steadying her as they left, but now he added the other, tracing the backs of his fingers along the leonine line of her middle. The one that would soon swell with his child. She kissed him, a morose, needful thing that spoke of insecurities she rarely allowed herself to entertain. He poured himself into her mouth in return, reassuring her as best he could for the moment.

It was not enough; he could tell. It was hardly a pleasant feeling, to think one's uthlath could so easily be with another.

In another world...

He had said those words himself and now wished he had chosen them with more care. This was another world and this Fen'Harel was with someone else entirely. He could nearly hear her thoughts racing reluctantly through the possibilities: that it was not her spirit that he loved but her Mark. Her place in the world. And then to hear that his counterpart had been unkind to his Hal'la. Fen'Harel experienced a dizzying mixture of disgust with himself for having done her harm even in some other form and fury for this other self. He had been kind to Evin once he understood, even compassionate as he knew Hal'la would have been.

It was foolish, reckless even to hope to meet himself in this world, but now he found he very much did, if only to repay him his cruelty. Though what he could possibly do or say to himself to ensure regret, he couldn't begin to guess.

She parted from his lips to study him in that way of hers, the one that said she knew precisely what he was feeling and thinking.

"I didn't realize he had been unkind to you." He offered a troubled, slanted quirk of his mouth. "Perhaps because I cannot imagine any world in which I am not enamored of your charms."

She smiled, sweet and wry with something she wasn't saying, and kissed the corner of his lips this time. "I'm going to need you to tell me that repeatedly while we're here."

His grin was slow and fond. "I will sing it in your ear like a mantra until we are home again, vhenan."

They kissed once more, a sealing of the deal they'd just struck, and as they turned toward the stairs, she gave a musing hum. "I'm okay. That thing she does...it was...a lot. Very quickly. But I'm better." And then she gave that sly half-smirk that sent all his blood to his groin. "I know you're desperate to hear all about it."

He smiled his affirmation.

"When we get to your-- his room." She was carefully avoiding looking at him, but there was mischief in her eyes. "She's very pretty. Very impressive. Don't you think?"

His smile grew, knowing and amused. "I see your snare, huntress."

Chapter Text

Josephine was waiting for them in the Main Hall. She was busying herself with other things, but she made no pretense about her real purpose at one of the heavy tables before the throne. The moment the door to her-- no, to Evin's quarters opened, the formidable Ambassador was on her feet, the end of her clipboard braced against her stomach. She held her quill as though she intended to make use of it for something less pleasant than her extravagant script.

"I trust you intend to stay the night?" she asked pointedly. It was not really a question. If Josie had anything to do with it, the man she knew as Solas would be Skyhold's willing captive.

Hal demurred to Fen'Harel's lead, deciding that silence was her safest shield in a world where she had already been accused once of stealing the Inquisitor's -- this Inquisitor's -- lover. If Evin's companions were anything like hers, they wouldn't let such a betrayal go unanswered. Perhaps they could slip down to the room the Solas here had once occupied without incident. Send for food, since her Josie's tea had left her nausea-free and ravenous. They could hide out until they were sent for. Talk about what had happened. Her Wolf could assuage her little hurts and jealousies over the love his other self bore this Evin. It couldn't be the same as the deep spiritual need she and her Fen'Harel shared; must be more akin to how she felt for Cullen...

And yet she remembered. Branches in purple before a pale green rift. A Solas who hated her, a Dorian who wasn't hers. A night of passion played backwards, Evin's naked body twined with his. Hal'lasean saw the love in that man's eyes. Eyes she adored. The love Evin's Solas had shown for Evin looked nearly identical to the one her Wolf had for Hal. Different, but no less...

No less.

In another world...

Yes. She would need some careful attentions once they were alone. He sensed it too, kept close to her even when they were distant to preserve Evin's dignity.

"The Inquisitor has requested we be given the keys to my former room."

The Ambassador's gaze focused like the sharp point of her pen in careful contrast to the delicacy and courtesy of her reply. "Very well. There is only one bed in that room. Will your...friend...require a room as well?"

Clever Josie.

"No," was all Fen'Harel said, as unreadable as ever. "That is unnecessary."

"Thank you for asking, though," Hal added with a smile, but the serpent's tooth look the Ambassador locked on her was so surprising and so...hurtful...that she took a tiny step back.

Not her Josie, she reminded herself repeatedly. Not her Skyhold. Not her Josie.

“I will have your things--”

"Apostate!" came a booming cry from the front doors, furious and familiar. Everyone in the Main Hall froze in place, a dozen sets of eyes snapping to attention on the one-woman force of nature that was barreling straight for them.

Not her Skyhold. Not her Cassandra.

Beside Hal, Fen'Harel's mask shifted, imperceptible to anyone but her, a slackening of the muscles of his jaw, a widening of his eyes. Subtle, but tell-tale signs of his sudden dread.

If only the Dalish knew, Hal thought dryly, they'd erect statues of an angry Cass behind every Fen'Harel.

The Seeker stormed toward them like a runaway carriage, barely stopping short of bowling them all over. Her leather gloves were clutched tightly in one hand and she gesticulated with broad, strong movements as though she planned to stab him with her fist instead of her sword, as though she might be contemplating slapping the elven mage with those gauntlets and challenging him to a duel for Evin's honor.

"You! She-- we trusted you! Where have you been!"

Even when Cassandra's ire was in protection of some other Inquisitor, Hal'lasean couldn't help but love her fiercely for it. She didn't realize she was smiling fondly until the short-haired woman turned on her like a mother bear, swinging bodily in her direction with dangerously narrowed eyes.

Eyes that saw her as a stranger. A threat. Not a friend. Not family. Not a comrade-in-arms even. To this Cassandra, Hal'lasean wasn't even a suspect in the explosion at the Conclave or a desperate hope for closing the Breach. She was nothing. Less than nothing. She was...

"And who is this!"

She was the other woman. Hal felt herself go crimson from neck to ear tips.

"This...this...woman! How could you! Do you not know true love when you have it in your arms!"

"Cassandra," Josephine broke in gently, reaching out a hand for her friend's shoulder.

"It is not what you think," said Fen'Harel in typically neutral fashion. Hal nearly rolled her eyes. As though that would do anything but make this worse.

"Is that so!" Cassandra was now planted between Hal'lasean and her Wolf, keeping them from one another, and neither of them could risk an exchange of glances when she was watching them with such fervor. "Because what it looks like to me, Solas! What it looks like is that you could not have your elven artifact--"

"Cassandra!" Josie was gripping her elbow now, glancing around the chamber for someone who might be willing to help. Someone with more upper body strength than the Antivan possessed. "This is not the--"

"And so you abandoned her! You abandoned us all!"

Why did this hurt so much? She should be satisfied to hear these things, to know that her Cass probably said something similar when Solas had finally returned to help bring her back to herself, to feel such loyalty and passion from someone for whom she cared so much. For someone for whom she would do the same.

But this was not her Cassandra. And she was not protecting Hal. She was protecting Evin, and Evin's apparently true love. And attacking Hal's Fen'Harel. Hal felt sick with it.

"Seeker," Fen'Harel held up his hands to show he meant no harm. "If you would calm--"

"Do you know what you've done to her! She loves you! Why would you throw--"

"Cass! Enough!"

Everyone went still again. But instead of looking at the Seeker, they were all turning slowly to stare in horror at Hal'lasean. Who had apparently forgotten where she was. And that she wasn't supposed to know this woman, much less have the audacity to call her a nickname and command her to silence.

Cassandra looked at her like a territorial dragon. Like she was one strong flame away from being the Seeker's next meal. Hal blanched and took a step back.

"Seeker," Fen'Harel tried again, more urgently this time, attempting to redirect the woman's anger.

"Hey, Seeker!"

Cassandra's intimidating attentions swung from Hal all right, but not toward the elven apostate. No, it was toward a new voice. A new old voice.

"I know you're excited Chuckles is back, but you're scaring our guest!" Varric trundled up to the group as though they were all having a casual chat. He winked at Hal and held out his hand. Like they were strangers. Like they were nothing to each other. Hal'lasean could have cried. Instead, she clasped her hand in his and pretended they'd never met. "Varric Tethras, at your service."

"Hal'lasean--" No. She couldn't say Lavellan. She nearly said Sabrae, but that wouldn't do either.

Think, Hal!

This was Evin's world, not hers. What had the other Inquisitor said? They were contaminating her timeline. She didn't keep this secret out of selfishness or caprice. If they said anything, they'd destroy more than they knew.

Even if this wasn't their world, these people were still real. They were still people she loved. Her clan. They felt pain and joy and had hopes and fears as they did in her world. Hal'lasean was not willing to put that in danger for them. For Evin. And to what end? For her own comfort? For her own distaste for deceit? No. No, she must be careful. She must protect their true identities with as little change to Evin's timeline as possible.

She knew only one such way to make that happen. If only she had the gift of foresight.

Fen'Harel stepped in before she floundered for too long. "Hal'lasean is my--"

"Mistress?" asked a drawling Tevene accent from the door to the rotunda. Dorian. Beautiful, wonderful, charming Dorian. But not hers. Would he remember her? Did anyone but the Fen'Harels remember? As he slinked toward them, tweaking his mustache, he continued to offer suggestions. "Woman on the side? Wife? Do tell us, Solas, who this stunning creature is to you. We're all dying to know."

"Sister!" It was out of her mouth before she even truly thought it through. "I'm his sister!"

On the other side of Cassandra, Fen'Harel started to cough.

Please let this be the right choice.

Chapter Text

Hal'lasean's ability to diffuse the tension in any conflict would never cease to amaze Fen'Harel. It was not the subtle Game played at Orlesian court, but it was a version nonetheless. She had once likened her intuitive grasp of such things in this way to a Dalish war dance, not always subtle or particularly elegant but effective nonetheless. The steps of her war dance here had shocked Evin's companions into a momentary and confused calm, but he could not help but worry for its wisdom.

What would this proclamation do to Evin's timeline? To Evin's world? They required her help, and, should she learn of the ruse, this Inquisitor might not be willing to provide it. And yet he had rarely seen Hal'lasean fail to navigate other people as easily as he could the Fade. So he would wait. He would trust her to salvage the situation as she always did.

"Your...sister...?" Cassandra formed the words as though they were foreign to her tongue. Fen'Harel merely raised his brows, neither a confirmation nor a denial. The mortals would interpret it however they wished and he would not have lied.

"You're Solas' sister?" As usual, Dorian was incredulous of any hint that 'Solas' was more than an 'unwashed hobo apostate'. Some things, it appeared, did not change even in another world.

"I didn't know you even had a family, Chuckles!"

They were surrounded now, and though it was unsettling to be studied in such detail by four sets of eyes, to have one's every feature weighed against the features of another, it at least allowed him the opportunity to stand by his Hal'la's side. Their shoulders brushed against each other and their shared power hummed between them, a communication on a frequency only a powerful mage might sense. It was therefore unsurprising when Dorian's eyes squinted at the rippling of the Veil.

"...I can kinda see it," Varric decided, and Fen'Harel tried not to think about the idea that he and his lover might resemble one another. But then, what more would these humans and this dwarf see beyond two pale elves? "Maker's breath, that's weird."

"Mmno." Dorian had one arm crossed over his stomach and his other elbow resting on that forearm. His fingers stroked at his chin and mustache as he frowned his disapproval. "No, I disagree. It simply isn't possible." The Tevinter mage's lips manifested into a roguish smile as he sidled closer to Hal'lasean. "There's no way this beautiful woman is in any way related to that bedraggled hermit." He grinned lasciviously. "I'm Dorian, by the way. Dorian Pavus."

His vhenan was unable to resist blooming a broad, pleased smile back at the man who wore her best friend's face and manners. Had Fen'Harel not known any better, he might have taken it very amiss indeed.

Cassandra vacillated now between scowling and curiosity, confusion and realization. She took a step closer to Fen'Harel, but it no longer held a threat. "Why did you never mention a sister?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but there was his Hal'lasean, claiming the space in the center of the lopsided circle Evin's companions made. "It's complicated." She smiled apologetically, and suddenly she was all charm. Fen'Harel marveled as she worked her particular magic. "I'm younger than he is." She hesitated and tossed a wry smirk his way. "Much, much younger. We have different fathers, but our mother is the same."

The weave of her truths into the cloak of her disguise was truly something to behold. She had so far lied only once, and even that was arguable. For wasn't she his sister? Were not all elves sisters and brothers in her mind? In this way she could keep Evin's secret and mitigate the ire of the Inquisition for Fen'Harel. She had no love for dishonesty, though she excelled at it. She was doing this for him. For Evin, a woman she hardly knew. His chest swelled with pride for his halla and her little war dance.

"Is this where you've been?" Cassandra demanded now, returning to a milder version of her earlier scowl. "With her?"

"Yes." And Fen'Harel did not need to lie either.

"I was...dying." Now his vhenan had their rapt attentions and she knew it. "I'd been looking for Solas. We hadn't spoken in some time. I left messages in all the usual places -- elven ruins, ancient battlefields, the Fade -- it never occurred to me to send word here. He left the Inquisition to save me."

Ah, his clever vhenan. He would praise her for this later.

They were watching him again, questioning. They wanted to believe such a story. They longed to make him a misunderstood figure who returned now to Evin after sacrificing to save the woman beside him.

"Is this true?" Josephine asked quietly. Her expression was one of eager compassion.

"You should have said something!" insisted Cassandra, ever protective. "You should have sent word!"

"We could have helped, Chuckles." Not even Varric seemed to suspect. Hal'lasean had transfigured their indignation and suspicion into sympathy. A wonder.

Fen'Harel ventured a small, grateful smile. "While I appreciate the sentiment, Varric, you could not have saved her."

"You still should have said something!"

But Josephine placed a hand on Cassandra's arm and moved diplomatically between the Seeker and the elves. "You have returned now and that is what matters. Are you sure you wouldn't prefer a second room? There is one just down the hall--"

"Thank you," Hal'lasean said, her smile slight and gentle, "but it really isn't necessary."

"Hal'lasean has lingering symptoms of her ailment." Fen'Harel did not look at his lover. But he knew she saw the spark in his eyes. "I would prefer to stay by her side to see to her needs."

"Of course," said Josie. She was suddenly smiling, and in her eyes was some secret hope that he found made him slightly nervous. "I'll have your things sent down as well. Are you sure you would not prefer even a cot?"

"You know how he is," Hal'la broke in with a sideways smirk. "He could sleep anywhere. The floor is just as good to Solas as a bed."

Varric's eyes narrowed at Hal'lasean, an idea manifesting, revealing itself in his slow, delighted mischievousness. "So. Hal'lasean, is it? I bet you have a loooot of good stories about our disappearing apostate here."

Fen'Harel sent his lover a pointed look, a plea to save him his dignity, but of course he already knew she would do no such thing. His vhenan never could resist a challenge. Certainly not one that included teasing him. By the time she met his gaze, her smirk had become a lopsided grin, brimming with sauce and swagger. He could see Dorian and Varric's immediate approval for her willingness to play along.

"Oh, Master Tethras," she practically purred, terribly pleased with herself. "You have no idea."

Varric grinned. Dorian waggled his brow. Even Cassandra and Josephine's interests were piqued. Fen'Harel groaned. He would repay her for this injustice later.

Oh, she would pay.

There were looks being exchanged, sly and communicative things passed from the dwarf to the Antivan. Before Fen'Harel could lock himself to Hal'lasean's side, they were effectively split from one another, separated by Evin's companions like a pack of hungry wolves. Wolves with plans. A dangerous combination, if Fen'Harel was any proof.

He watched as Varric and Dorian put themselves on either side of his lover, offering her an elbow each, though they were at drastically different heights. She took them, knowing well and good what they meant for her, and tossed Fen'Harel a wicked grin over her shoulder.

He stepped in her direction, determined to follow wherever they led her, and instead found Josephine and Cassandra bodily barring his way. He lifted his brow in surprise and question.

"Ambassador," he said coolly. "Seeker."

"You know, Solas," said Josie, as though it were something she had only just realized, "it has been some time since you were alone with Evin..."

"Tell me, Hal'lasean," Varric was saying as they guided their willing captive toward the main doors, "do you play Wicked Grace?"

He heard his love's laugh, sweet and cocky. "Oh, Varric. You may come to regret that question." He could imagine the twinkle in her eyes, the fun she was having. "My friends, by the way, call me Hal. So you should call me Hal."

Chapter Text

I have nothing but time.

Evin had said it from defiance, to establish distance, but it was true. She had nothing left but the Anchor—nothing except the Inquisition and its fading purpose. Hal'lasean's Solas had come here only to find the truths the Anchor revealed.

The idea there was no one else in the world for you but the man you loved—and you were the only possible person for him—it was bewitching. And it was untrue.

Here was this Solas—as similar to the one she knew as it was possible to be—enraptured, besotted with this other Inquisitor. Evin recalled the images she'd seen of Hal'lasean's life, so very different from her own. Cradled and raised by a Dalish clan, an outsider among them but still one of them. Clan Lavellan had somehow survived in that other world. The faces in Hal'lasean's past—they were her relatives, her kin. Potentially. The doom that fell on Lavellan thirty years ago, the massacre at Wycombe, had never happened.

How different would Evin's life have been?

She never would have been Inquisitor.

But she couldn't see permutations from before her own birth, nor after her death.

And Solas had fallen so helplessly and completely in love with a woman so different from herself. But then, Evin knew there were branches where she herself loved someone else—just—just not as totally, not so absolutely, not consumed in heart and soul. Somehow she'd been made for him... but the reverse was not true.

But that was just her broken heart talking. Why did she think about such things? How much time had she wasted up here in her room? How much had she missed? She'd been blindsided—she had overlooked something of this magnitude! Power was worthless if you didn't use it, if you floundered from one emotion to the next. She hated it—she hated feeling—

Distracted from her duty—

They needed the Anchor—they needed her—his Hal'la lacked her power. If this Arche they worried about was missing, she would look for it. She would bend all her thought and will to find the truth.

Although—she couldn't help but wonder—for all the permutations of the conversation she'd had with Solas in the Grove of Ghilan'nain—where he'd tried to take her vallaslin—there was one she'd never examined. One that had never been visible before.

What if she'd stopped his words with a finger on his lips and told him: I know who you are, Dread Wolf.

Perhaps that would have changed everything.

Evin pulled open the balcony doors and let the sharp, clean breeze into her chamber. The sky was overcast and shed a warm, glowing light through the other windows. Bits of colored glass threw rainbows across the carpeted floor like bright and fuzzy spirits. Late summer this high in the mountains gave the air a trace of warmth, a hint of green and flowering things, while little specks of boats scudded on the lake below.

A party of servants came up to retrieve her bath—others came to strip the linens from her bed—a charwoman scrubbed out the fireplace and laid a new bundle of kindling and aromatics. Evin sat at her desk and watched them bustle. Elves, mostly. They didn't treat her like one of them. They rarely met her eyes—fearsome Inquisitor!—an elf by birth transmuted into some other rarefied category by holy accident. They thought her Dalish—savage and aloof. Most people did, but fewer would since she'd removed her vallaslin.

Her attendant returned and exclaimed over her state of undress. Evin pulled on the stockings that matched the gown, silk ribbons tied at her thighs, doeskin slippers for her feet. Bettina's skillful hands laced up the gown and twisted her ashen curls into some kind of order. Evin declined the brocade surcoat—Bettina looked regretful—Evin would not be shamed into upstaging her guests. And the meaningful, hopeful glances Bettina kept giving warned Evin the entire household had likely made certain prurient assumptions regarding Solas' return.

This was going to be almost unbearable, wasn't it?

How did one look for an Arche, anyway?

A temporal weapon, one that destroyed utterly its target, removing it from all possible branches. Would she be aware of such a thing if it happened? If the victim no longer existed and had never existed, would she notice?

Evin thought this other Inquisitor had a rather inflated opinion of her abilities.

And yet—she remembered something she herself had blurted out: Are you the reason the branches disappeared?

Her favorite death no longer existed.

It was perhaps a morbid thing to admit, even in the privacy of her thoughts, but as accustomed as Evin was to evaluating her own future she had lost all dread of mortality. It was just another suboptimal outcome. One way or another, everyone died, herself included. Her favorite—and again this was difficult to admit even to herself—she had visited sometimes out of curiosity, wondering if she could achieve it were the chances kind enough. The memory was clear:

Her own face, withered with age, a wise and snowy-haired hahren, surrounded by her own grandchildren in the palace of Halamshiral. She didn't quite understand what she was doing there or the political significance if any, but she thought it was a pleasant way to die.

That branch had recently disappeared.

Her gray-eyed grandchildren, the knit-lace coverlet, she had all the details in her mind's eye. But now when she checked she couldn't find the branch. And she'd never really inspected all the way up to that path, so she couldn't tell if it was lost or simply no longer existed.

Unless it was related to the Arche.

She'd never seen a branch go missing before. What if there were others and she simply hadn't noticed? How would she know? Clearly she needed more information.

What was the best way to proceed?

Perhaps she could set some kind of trap....

The door below the stairs opened again—Maker, the staff were energetic all of a sudden. Evin felt irritated. She needed to concentrate—interruptions were not helpful. Perhaps she would have to flee into the Fade after all. When she saw her visitor was Solas—Fen'Harel, rather—she wasn't sure if she felt better or worse.

Worse, she decided. Mostly because of his eyes. The same but not the same—a shiver of recognition that constantly hovered on the edge of her perception, there but not quite there. Missing something she couldn't name, more than words or the simple knowledge he wasn't the man she knew, a deeper absence.

"It was not my intention to intrude," he said with a small, apologetic nod. "Josephine was quite insistent we spend some time alone together."

"Oh, no!" She pushed up from the desk. "I'll go speak with her."

"Perhaps better you do not, if you wish to minimize the repercussions of my and Hal'la's presence."

Evin glanced through the nearest branches, but it was all a tangle. Whatever the effects of the pair's arrival, she could not analyze them in a few moments. She sighed. "My apologies. You're both my guests, even if my companions don't know that. I imagine Hal'lasean's inclination would be to tell them everything immediately."

His eyes softened into a smile. "Undoubtedly."

"I'm afraid such candor is impossible here. I could quote you from the verses they add to the Canticle of Light, but I have little appetite for becoming a prophet. It ends... badly."

"I think Hal'la understands your desire for discretion," he replied.

"How long do you suppose we should pretend to talk? Shall I send for some refreshments? Wine? There was a tea he liked—well, tolerated—"

"The Rivaini stuff?"

"That's it."

"That would be fine."

She rang the bell to arrange it. When the tray arrived they sat at the small side table beside the stair railing. It was easier to remember who he was like this. Her Solas had almost never visited her here. She spooned honey and cinnamon into her tea until it began to taste halfway palatable.

Fen'Harel studied her with a kind of perplexed disbelief. "I think you added enough honey to choke a colony of bees."

"I never used to have such a sweet tooth. Maybe I've grown softer in retirement." Evin sipped her tea. "I've been considering the Arche. I have some ideas but I need time to confirm them. Where do you believe the Arche is located? —The oasis north of the Approach. Hmm."

His head tilted back, eyes narrowed. "A demonstration?"

"Thinking aloud," she said. "Normally it would take weeks to get there. But you have a faster way."

"The eluvian," he said.

"Certain suspicions—" she said. She was navigating branches as fast as she dared, fast as she ever had in a dance at the Winter Ball, flickering images, just enough to get a flavor for the outcome, searching—

The teacup slipped from her fingers.

Damn, damn, damn.

Wolf take you, Fen'Harel!

She barely heard the cup strike the floor. The delicate porcelain split down the middle, almost perfectly in half.

"He's there," she said. "Or he was, or he will be."

She stood to watch the honeyed tea sink into the thick pile of the woolen carpet. Then she deliberately lifted her heel and brought it down on one of the fragments, cracked it like a painted eggshell into a dozen smaller pieces.

Fen'Harel stared at her in alarm, lips parted, a sudden question—

"He tested me after the switch with Hal'la!" She hugged herself, clenching her shaking fingers, hearing her heartbeat like thunder in her ears. "He made sure I didn't remember. He pretended the whole thing never happened—all of it. I thought he just regretted—I thought I pressured him—like it was my fault he slept with me—but he was lying all the time! He knew everything. He knew because Hal'la told him what I saw. I was going to tell him about the branches, I wanted to, but I forgot. And you remembered. Both of you."

"I regret—" he began.

"He remembered all of it!" She drew a shaking breath. "Fenedhis. I'm going with you. If you want my help, I'm coming too."

And Fen'Harel sighed.

Chapter Text

The Rest was packed. The Chargers, it seemed, had just returned from a month in the field and after bathing, the next thing they desired was alcohol and sex. Varric tried his best to procure the trio a table, but he'd made two full rounds both upstairs and down, and he was about to give up when Bull's unmistakable bass raised above the clamor of victorious mercenaries.

"Varric! Dorian! Join us!"

He had a medium table in a far corner that he shared with Krem. Varric checked in visually with Hal for her consent (which she gave enthusiastically), and then they wove through the crowd together.

"Shit! Who's this!"

It was...different. Strange. By the time Hal'lasean had met her Bull, she was Herald. A name, a title. Someone of import. They fought together before they even shook hands for the first time. He had been impressed with her skill and her deeds. He treated her with the respect due to her position, or at least his own boisterous style of respect. Bull had not dragged his eyes down her body with an expression of open appreciation.

But he did now.

And despite reminding herself repeatedly that this was Iron Bull, more like a brother than anything else, despite practically shouting it at herself mentally, her whole body flushed with heat.

This was Bull! She had never in her life entertained a sexual thought for the Qunari.

Until now. Until he was looking at her like she was a dragon he wanted to fight.

Hal wondered if this was how the redheaded kitchen girls felt.

"Andraste's ass, Tiny, stop undressing her with your eyes! This is Chuckles' sister!"

"Yeah," laughed Bull, low and unabashed, "but look at her blush." A beat. Widened eyes. A double-take. "Wait, what?"

"Solas' sister," Dorian repeated helpfully. He was smirking smugly.

Bull started to laugh, and now when he took Hal in again, it was appraising. It was interested in the person inside the body. "There's no way!"

"I'm Krem," said Krem. Because apparently no matter the world, Bull's lieutenant was always the reasonable one. He held out a hand and she took it, smiling gratefully at him for giving her something to think about besides Bull and his notorious sexual proclivities.

"Hal. It's a pleasure."

"Hal," Varric added pointedly, "has generously agreed to tell us all about Solas. She says she has stories. And she plays Wicked Grace."

"All right!" Bull thumped the table with a ham-sized fist and drink splashed everywhere. "Get this woman some ale!"

And here we go again, she sighed. Because this was exactly how her companions found out about her condition. Maybe this time she could handle it more gracefully.

"Actually," she countered as casually as she could, "I'd prefer something..." Nonalcoholic?

The men were looking at her expectantly. These men who, in her world, knew she would drink whatever they threw at her if they goaded her enough, respected her for it, so that when she did finally have to turn them down because she was carrying a child, they didn't judge her. They didn't think less of her. But here, with these versions...

Varric seemed to understand something was up because he touched her arm and smiled. "Hey, you've been sick, right? And you've been traveling. The Rest probably has juice or something."

Hal returned his smile with a relieved one of her own. "I could maybe do a very, very watered down iced wine?"

"You've been sick?" Bull asked.

"She was dying," Dorian offered for her, as though it were particularly good gossip. "Solas had to steal away to save her."

Bull's eyes narrowed at the story. Hal's pulse quickened.

"Siblings," came a mumble from beside her, a voice as familiar as her own thoughts and just as intimate and intrusive.

"Cole!" Hal gasped before she could check herself. Her heart swelled with warmth for him even as she filled with dread.

"Siblings but not. Growing apart from the same tree, two hearts, two souls, two, twins, tell her, truth, terrible truth, things she doesn't know, can't know, but things she does, things they share, sweet, soft, simple, fearing together. Scared together. Not alone."

But the men weren't paying attention to the spirit-in-boy-form. They were staring at her. Hal blushed again, cleared her throat. Bull's expression was unreadable, which meant he knew something wasn't quite right. But it cleared suddenly, like he'd made a decision. Like he was choosing not to suspect. Or like he wanted to make her think he didn't.

Well. If she had to pull him aside and tell him some closer piece of the truth, that was hardly the worst thing; he was a man who liked honesty. He was a man who knew how to keep secrets. He was a man who would understand what was at stake for his world. So Hal decided too. She decided to enjoy herself.

"Kid," said Varric, dropping into the nearest chair and producing a deck of Wicked Grace cards from some hidden pocket, "I didn't realize you'd met Hal."

Hal'lasean laughed her embarrassment and let herself turn pink. "We haven't. I just...have heard so much about all of you, I feel I know you already."

"Solas talks about us?" Dorian's disbelief was comical. "You mean he does like us after all!"

"I didn't say he spoke well of you," said Hal, and she underscored it with a grin so he'd know she was joking.

It was an expression Dorian was all too happy to return. "Well, I’m dying to know what he says about me!"

"Sparkler just loves hearing about himself."

"You would too," Hal countered, "if you were so terribly charming."

Dorian liked that. He liked it a lot.

"...Do you mind if I join?" Cassandra stood behind them, and when Hal turned to look, she found herself the subject of intense study. So she smiled. Brightly. And the Seeker was momentarily thrown off.

Varric smirked. "Sure thing, Seeker. And did I hear you say just now you volunteered to buy the first round?"

Cassandra scowled and opened her mouth to reply, but Krem was already on his feet. "I got this one. All these coins are weighing me down." He glanced at Hal. "So. Ales all around and one wine-flavored water?"

"Yes please," replied Hal cheerfully. "Honeyed wine, if you don't mind."

The Seeker was staring again, appraising her now with something like concern. "You are still unwell?"

"Either that or knocked up!" laughed Bull.

Just like last time.

And she wouldn't blush. No. No, this time she would not give herself away.

"Well, wouldja look at that. Chuckles is gonna be an uncle!"

Fuck.

"It scares him," murmured Cole. "Scares him more than the stone teeth of the nightmare. Touch something, crumble to dust, all is dust, only she remains, living, loving, Lavellan, gentle and stubborn as halla, rare as soft gold fur..."

"Yes, yes, thank you, Cole," dismissed Dorian with a wave of his hand. As though the boy were a fly.

Not her Dorian. Not her Cole.

"Is that true!" demanded Cassandra. "You're...?"

"Pregnant," Hal finished for her wearily.

"Why are you still standing!" Cassandra scrambled for a chair and set it down in front of Hal. "You should be sitting! You should rest!"

"Ah, shit," grumbled Varric. "Not counting Cole, we're still a chair short."

"I will take one from the infirmary," said Cass, but Bull had other ideas.

He leaned back, making a point of showing off the massive musculature of his chest and thighs, and patted his leg with a suggestive smile for Hal'lasean. Her eyes rounded. "I make a pretty good chair."

"Nonsense! If anyone's going to make inappropriate advances with Solas' sister, it's going to be me!" Dorian dropped into the seat Cassandra had provided and ignored her pointed glaring as he took Hal's wrist and guided her into his lap. She went without protest, her body used to physical closeness with this man. Or at least a man like this one. Before she even registered what happened, she was perched quite comfortably on his knee.

Cass made a noise of disgust. Bull's was more akin to a jealous snort. Hal was just glad she didn't have to worry about Qun cock pushing against her ass during the game.

Krem returned to them with a serving girl trailing after him, each carrying a tray of drinks. The ale was passed around and Hal’s weak wine was placed in front of her. The party seated itself, situated itself, and then Varric was shuffling the cards.

“If only my father could see me now,” Dorian mused, resting a hand on Hal’s hip with a familiarity that faintly scandalized Cassandra, “dandling a pregnant elven girl on my knee.”

Hal tucked her chin against her shoulder so she could smile flirtatiously back at him. “If only my father could see me now, his Dalish daughter sitting in the lap of a Magister’s son.”

Varric’s hands froze with the cards shared between them. “You’re Dalish?”

“Solas is Dalish?” emphasized Dorian.

And because Hal’lasean found that idea so very funny, the entire table was laughing with her. “Solas? Dalish? I thought you knew him!” Her grin was broad. It wrinkled her nose with delight. “Different fathers, remember?”

“But Solas hates the Dalish!” Cassandra objected.

“We’re not his favorite, no.”

“If you’re Dalish,” Bull considered slowly, “shouldn’t you have face tattoos?”

“I used to,” agreed Hal. It was a sensitive subject on the best of days, but here, among this company that was not quite her own but full of those she loved anyway, stringing them along became a game. A game she was finding very entertaining. She could feel guilty about that later.

“So what happened to them?” wondered Bull.

Hal’lasean laughed. “Solas, of course! Varric, are you going to deal those cards or just fondle them all evening?”

That earned more amusement from the table. Varric answered by shuffling once more, tossing the cards in an expert bridge, and then beginning to deal, flipping cards face-down starting with Cass on his left.

“Watch out for Pavus,” Krem pointed out when Hal was gathering her hand, “he’s a cheat even without sitting right behind you.”

“I am no such thing!”

“With a face like his?” Hal teased, angling herself on Dorian’s lap so that she was comfortable and so that nobody could see her cards. “I refuse to believe it. Men that handsome don’t need to cheat.”

“I like her,” Dorian declared to the table. “Can we keep her?”

Varric let out a parental sigh. “Fine, but you’re in charge of feeding and walking her! And if she chews on Bianca, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

Hal let out a horrified gasp. “I would never chew on Bianca!” She tilted her head. “Dorian’s staff on the other hand…”

The Iron Bull cackled jovially. “Dorian likes a little teeth, but not that much!”

“Fasta vass, Bull!”

Bull grinned, but not at Dorian. The former Ben-Hassrath, it seemed, had eyes only for Hal.

Chapter Text

"Of course you must join us when we go to the temple," Fen'Harel said, and his voice was such a mix of steely exasperation and exhaustion that Evin Lavellan gave him a confused glance.

"I'm glad we agree," she said.

He sighed. "I should have expected this. You are indeed Inquisitor Lavellan."

They sat in her chambers at the top of the tallest tower in Skyhold—she, the Inquisitor, and this Solas from another branch of history. This Fen'Harel, she corrected. He and his Lavellan had crossed over to her world—her destiny—and there was no way she could let this chance slip away. There were too many lies for her to ever do that, or put her heart back in one piece.

"It's better if we cooperate," Evin said. "The Dread Wolf of this world doesn't know you."

"I admit to being rather curious—" his eyes darkened. "There are a few things I would like to say to him myself."

"Then we leave tomorrow. An hour before dawn," Evin said.

Fen'Harel lifted an eyebrow. "So early?"

"It's the best chance." Evin's throat had gone suddenly tight. She cleared her throat. "We could leave now, but I think you'd like to let Hal'la rest." She said the words, not quite sure why, too embarrassed to pry into his possible responses.

She felt her face coloring and felt an agony, a pain that this man who wasn't hers knew exactly what she felt—her desperate hope and her flustered apprehension. It was so difficult not to stare. She kept her eyes fixed on the table, but that led them to his hands, a memory of his touch. Those long and slender fingers laced with hers, and the traces of faded paint that stained his skin, and the sultry heat of his breath against her neck as she moaned.

No help at all.

She cleared her throat. "It's been enough time, don't you think? For Josie's reconciliation?"

"I imagine so," he said.

"If I'm leaving tomorrow I should make the necessary arrangements," she said.

He followed her downstairs. Evin actually hadn't been to the Main Hall in several days—not since her self-imposed week of seclusion—and really hoped Varric hadn't taken her up on his threat to redecorate. He'd joked about getting some of Gatsi's men to paint over the frescos in the rotunda. She wondered if something similar had happened in Hal'lasean's world. She wondered what Fen'Harel would think if he noticed—and then wondered why she cared.

It was her Solas, her Fen'Harel she wanted, his opinion that mattered. This one belonged to Hal'la—he was different, softer. She wasn't sure she liked soft even if he smiled more, even if he was happier. Hal'la had the Well. Was that the difference? Was that what Evin should have done? Was the Well the source of the dynamic power Evin sensed in the other Inquisitor’s lifeline? All these impossible questions....

"Ah, there you are!" Josie exclaimed. "It's good to see you on your feet, Inquisitor. Has your health recovered?"

Perhaps that was the story Josie had put about to the nobles at court. "I'm feeling better. Thank you."

Josie hooked her arm through Evin's and steered her a few steps away from Fen'Harel. "How did it go?" she hissed.

"It was—" Evin paused. "I think it went all right."

She'd only burst into tears and fainted and practically threatened him—

"You know that's his sister," Josie said, still whispering. "Not his wife! Just think, he wants you to meet his family!"

So that was Hal'la's cover story. "Ah," Evin said. "That's... excellent news."

"You're not happy?"

"We're still broken up, Josephine. We're not back together."

"Yes, but he returned! He left because he went to save her! He's a good man, you see? It's only a matter of time before he comes crawling back."

Evin took a step past Josephine and stole a peek at the rotunda. The murals looked intact. Thank the Maker, Varric hadn't executed on his threat. "Speaking of time," Evin said, "if you have any matters for my attention I should review them tonight. A sudden emergency—I need to depart tomorrow morning—"

"Oh. No. You go," Josie said firmly. "Don't worry about a thing."

"But—"

"Surely we have managed things before while you were in the field, Inquisitor? Go. Have fun. I insist!" And Josie's voice was filled with same amiable but spine-chilling conviction that made seasoned negotiators shrivel up with fear.

There would be no way out of this.

Fen'Harel joined them, having apparently decided they were no longer exchanging confidences... or no longer caring if they were. "Perhaps you might provide the key to my former room," he said.

"Someone is retrieving it now," Josie said, professionally smooth. "Why don't you two wait in the Herald's Rest until it's ready? I'll have it sent to you there."

"The Herald's Rest?" Evin asked. She would much rather catch up on diplomatic correspondence.

"I insist," Josie said firmly.

And that was how she ended up in a tavern with another woman's Dread Wolf.

Chapter Text

The banter went on as they played, lulls passing through their playful conversation when card exchanging became particularly intense or when the players studied each other across the table, trying to determine who was bluffing and why. When the Angel of Death surfaced, Bull came out on top. Hal followed close on his heels, having discarded from her winning hand at the last moment for something a little less conspicuous.

“Not bad, new girl,” Varric praised. “Not bad at all.”

But Bull was watching her carefully. She grinned at him while Krem began to shuffle.

The Iron Bull once more narrowed his eyes at her. He was letting her see his suspicion. Testing her. "So. Solas' sister."

"Hal," she corrected, and didn't fight the way her cheeks colored under his attentions. Let them think she was just bashful of his interest.

"S'that short for something?"

"Hal'lasean."

Bull nodded, pretending badly at casual conversation so she could know he was digging for information. Like announcing to your new boss that you're a Qunari spy right after introducing yourself. "That's Elvish, right? What's it mean?"

"Roughly? 'Our gift from the halla'."

His lips quirked. "No last name?"

"Do you have a last name?" she shot back.

The table was watching them with baffled focus like spectators in an absurd sparring match.

Bull laughed. "Point. But what about your clan?"

"I haven't seen them in years. I'm not even sure they'd accept me without my vallaslin."

"Vallas...?" repeated Dorian dumbly.

"Her tattoos," Bull explained. "But you didn't say which clan you're from."

Shit. Now she had to lie. Didn't she? There was no way around this. Hal's brows lifted with the corners of her lips, somewhere between a smile and an expression of distaste. Bull leaned in, putting his forearms on the table and making it tilt with the uneven weight.

"No," she decided to say in the end. "I didn't."

"I can't tell if they're flirting or fighting," Varric observed with an amused frown.

"It can't be both?" Hal wondered.

Bull smirked at her. Her ears went pink.

But the Qunari wasn't done grilling her. "If you're Solas' sister, how come he never mentioned you? I mean, not even once."

Hal tossed a shrug. "When does Solas ever talk about anything personal?"

Bull wasn't satisfied, but he made another choice. The sharpness left his eyes and he laughed. "Another good point!"

"So..." Varric cut in again. "Can we play the game now? Or are we still playing Qunari Twenty Questions?"

"Yeah, Krem," The Iron Bull teased. "Deal the damn cards!"

Krem rolled his eyes. "Yeah, absolutely, it was obviously me holding us up."

Another round. This time Hal tested Bull, let herself seem unlucky, let her frustration filter into the way she played. Varric won. He gloated. Tensions eased. Only she and Bull were aware of the higher stakes game being played beneath the one they all enjoyed.

"Better luck next time, ladies and gentlemen! Tiny. Your deal."

“So. Varric.” Hal sipped from her barely-touched glass, wet with condensation, and smiled over the top of it at the dwarf. “When do I get a nickname?”

“I’m workin’ on it.” He laughed. “You can’t rush these things. They gotta happen organically. Now, for poetic reasons, I’d like it if your name somehow complemented Chuckles’.”

Dorian let out a huff. “I still maintain it’s entirely impossible someone so very charming and gorgeous could be even distantly related to a dour hobo like Solas.”

“Actually,” said Hal with a slow, sly half-smile, “he used to be a lot more like you, Dorian.”

Behind her, the Tevinter mage started choking on the ale he’d been swallowing. “I have changed my mind! Send her away!”

“No, it’s true.” Hal raised her brows like she was about to tell a scary story around a campfire, checking in with each of her -- no, Evin’s -- companions to make sure they were with her. And they were. Oh, they were. “As a young man, he was...very different.”

“Okay,” said Varric. “I gotta hear this.”

Hal gesticulated with her goblet, imitating her Fen’Harel at his haughtiest and increasing it exponentially. Adding in some Dorian mannerisms for fun. Because if there was one thing she learned living with the Storyteller growing up, it was how to accessorize a story. “It is first and foremost important to know that the quiet elf we know and love was once an incorrigible ladies’ man.” Sounds of disbelief and hilarity accompanied the revelation. “Like now, he thought he knew all there was to know about everything, especially The Fade and magic, and like now, he was a hopelessly pretentious ass, but when he was young, it was...unmitigated. It wasn’t unwarranted, of course. He’s great at nearly everything he attempts. He’s a powerful mage and incredibly intelligent, as I’m sure you all know. But when he was younger, he was quick-tempered and hot-blooded. This wouldn’t make him so different from every other newly-antlered buck, except that he was beautiful.” Dorian scoffed behind her. “You don’t have to believe me. But many an elven woman lost her honor and her smalls with just a look and a smooth word.”

She gloried in the rapt silence when she paused for dramatic effect. And then Hal dropped the punchline:

“Of course, it helped that he had hair.”

“What!” gasped Dorian.

“Details,” insisted Varric, gesturing with his hand like they were physical things.

Hal’lasean’s smile was wicked indeed. “Long, long dark hair. Longer than mine. He adorned it with all manner of trinkets to suit his outfits. Yes, Dorian, outfits. He wore it in dreadlocks for most of his younger years, but he also wore it in ornate braids.” She let the words settle for a moment. “Which is why to this day he’s quite the adept at styling my hair.”

Varric let out a happy sigh. “This is the best day of my life.”

“So what happened?” asked Cassandra. Hal turned to look at the Seeker in confused surprise. “In books these things--” She cleared her throat and turned a muted red. “It is rare for a man like that to make such a drastic change, even with age.”

Cole was standing by Hal’lasean’s side now, appearing as if from thin air. She hadn’t thought about him since the last time he popped up, had forgotten him completely, and that was almost more distressing than the thought of trying to answer Cassandra’s question. How could she forget Cole? Hal hadn’t done done that since...well, since he was a spirit!

...Oh. Oh.

“Touch it, it crumbles,” he said softly in her ear. “A legacy of death. Doom, destruction, despair, desperation, a decrease, all that remains, detritus and dust, twisted truths.”

“Sounds like fun,” quipped Bull.

Hal was studying Cole beside her, frowning at the amulet around his neck, wondering at the things that went on behind his hidden eyes. She was suddenly homesick for her Cole with his childlike joys and sorrows, with his constant surprise and delight in the world around him, in new experiences.

“He’s me, but not,” murmured the scraggly blonde boy. She nodded, her expression wan. “You think he’s better.”

This time Hal’lasean shook her head, slow and earnest. “No. No, Cole. No better or worse. Just...different. That’s all. Different.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want, Hal,” Varric offered quietly. “You’re welcome to your secrets. We all have ‘em.”

Hal looked up in surprise at that, and her homesickness intensified sharply.

“There are no secrets where she’s from,” Cole told the table. “Not anymore. She doesn’t like them. Not since--”

“It’s okay,” Hal insisted and forced a smile. “He, uh. Solas. Everyone...worshipped the ground he walked on once. Because he was beautiful and powerful and so good at everything. He knew so much. But he made...decisions. The right ones. The necessary ones. And they cost us everything. That’s...that’s why he changed.”

“You make him better,” said Cole. “You change him too.”

The silence that followed was full of awkward shuffling and averted eyes. And then Bull dealt the cards.

Hal’lasean didn’t hold back this round. She and Bull spent it eyeing each other heatedly, somewhere between flirting and sizing one another up. She knew he was looking for her tell and she already knew his. Hal would grin at him each time his eyes narrowed suspiciously. In the end, she was victorious, but she had an inkling Bull had planned it that way. When she narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, he grinned at her. She grinned back.

Varric tapped his empty cup on the table and pushed to his feet. “I guess the next round’s on me.”

As he trundled toward the bar, a hand settled lightly on her shoulder, but Dorian’s were both accounted for and this one was long-fingered. Hal looked up to smile beatifically at her Wolf as he leaned down to press his lips to her forehead. A perfectly innocuous gesture of affection.

“Making friends, I see.”

“Solas,” Dorian ventured with delicate amusement, “is it true you used to style your hair and wear outfits?”

Fen’Harel’s eyes widened subtly at Hal’lasean. She beamed at him.

“Hey, Solas,” said Bull, his voice rumbling and jolly, “how mad would you be if I bedded your sister? On a scale of one to ten.”

Chapter Text

When Evin Lavellan and Fen'Harel walked into the Herald's Rest she found Varric standing at the bar. The dwarf gave her a sly wink. "Just ordering another round. The crew's over that way." He waved a hand in the direction of Bull's table. "Get you a drink?"

"Something cold," Evin said.

Fen'Harel lowered his eyes—a sort of apology—and slipped away to check on Hal'la.

The Rest was packed. Mostly Chargers and hangers on, people already drunk enough to salute her by lifting a sloshing flagon in her direction. Evin considered her people—they seemed happy and at ease. The minstrel picked out a whirlwind melody on guitar. Several off-key voices sang along, adding howls of laughter and stomping boots to the chorus. The air was stuffy after what passed for a hot summer's evening in Skyhold.

Hal'lasean was... sitting on Dorian's knee. They were all playing cards. An amazing amount of laughter was involved. Evin kept thinking about the branches, about the death that disappeared, but it was too loud to concentrate in here. She'd set a trap that wouldn't work if she couldn't monitor it. She really ought to leave, but she knew if she did Josie would have a thousand questions, none of which she could answer.

"Glad you're feeling better, Inky," Varric said. "Hey, something wrong?"

She gave him a bright smile to show him she was worried. "Oh, you know how it is. Crazy artifacts left by gods, time magic, the end of the world." She shrugged. "The usual."

Varric shook his head. "Always the same old shit. So, when do we leave?"

Evin studied him—of course, that was what he'd expect. The Inquisitor would gather a party and they'd all set out together. And now she realized she couldn't take anyone but Fen'Harel and the other Inquisitor. What if someone else saw the Mark in Hal'lasean's hand? What if they encountered this world's Fen'Harel—how would she explain it?

If she told her companions there were other worlds, other futures, they might wonder how she knew. They might wonder what else her power could achieve—and whether she'd been using it all along. They... might feel manipulated. She'd lose their friendship, even though she hadn't ever found a better way. She didn't want to be alone—more alone than she already was. Prophet was a word that woke her up at night drenched in sweat. Too many terrible futures branched from that word: the religious centers of the world burned to char, armies on the march, racial wars, a clash with the Qun too early. Hidden enemies waking across the sea. Far too easy to fall into those paths, making one choice and then another because it seemed the best one, but led inexorably to disaster. She'd barely managed to avoid the danger once she'd understood, and she was still only the Herald.

Her friends weren't idiots. If they learned part of the truth they'd guess the rest, inevitable as the second stone that follows the first in an avalanche. And as much as she loved them, she knew they couldn't keep a secret to save their lives. Especially Varric.

She couldn't risk it.

"There's going to be quite a bit of Fadewalking," she said. "Normally I'd invite you, but—"

"No way in hell," Varric said. "Dwarves don't belong in the Fade. Sorry, Ink."

"It's all right, Varric."

"So, are you sure you're okay with all this?" he asked. "Chuckles and his sister? Suddenly coming back?"

"What's there to be okay about? It is what it is," she said.

Varric shook his head. "Don't go all Inquisitor on me. Are you sure you're all right?"

"It will be fine," she said. "This is the first time I've been out in a week. What's fun around here, anyway?"

He smirked. "I think we can come up with something."

They dealt her into the game and brought her a cup of iced wine. After a week-long diet of spun sugar the wine tasted off to her, metallic, but she pretended to sip it, and when Dorian noticed he drained the whole thing in one gulp. She was too proud to cheat so she was terrible at the game—terrible at such amusements generally, the concentrated randomness was like a battle—saving all her spare thoughts to touch the branches, making sure they still existed, that nothing had changed. She was getting a headache from the heat but she couldn't stop smiling.

It felt good to be among her friends again, even with the discordant note of Fen'Harel and Hal'la's presence, and all that slightly shocking but good-natured flirting between Hal'lasean and Bull. If only her companions would skip the knowing glances—the elbow digs and the lifted eyebrows. They'd dragged over new chairs for herself and Fen'Harel, seating them together, insinuating in the most well-intentioned and excruciating way. It was touching, wasn't it? They were so eager for her to be happy. She almost regretted having to leave in the morning.

"You can't play the Two of Cups, Inky. It's not in a matched pair," Varric told her patiently.

"Oh, is that wrong?" she asked. "Wait, what game is this?"

"Wicked Grace!" four voices chorused.

"You should have played it last hand, when you had a small straight. Look, you didn't have that card the entire time, did you?" Dorian asked.

"Maybe," she said.

"Maker," Dorian said under his breath. "Remind me why we aren't we playing for money? Your money?"

"If you want to bet on Grace you have to drink. No exceptions, Boss," Krem said.

"She's terrible except when she's drunk," Dorian told Hal'la, who laughed. Fen'Harel did not.

Evin shook out the locks of her ashen hair to loosen it in the heat. "What do you have in mind?"

"Butterbile! Golden Scythe! Dragonsblood!" various voices called out.

"Let Bull decide," she told them with a wink.

"I have something even better," the Qunari promised. "Rocky! Bring it in!" He lifted his voice in a shout over the din.

The game paused while they waited, curious to see Bull's mysterious beverage. When Rocky reappeared bearing a small tray, they all strained to see what it was. A cluster of heavy mugs topped with foam. She could already smell it—the rich, almost earthy aroma—

"You didn't," she said.

"I did," Bull assured her. "All the way from Par Vollen. Me and the boys picked it up on the way back."

Evin felt herself melting already. "Then it's...?"

"Chocolate," The Iron Bull said, and he gave her a knowing leer.

He served Evin first, then handed out the remaining mugs—distributing one to Hal'la, Dorian, anyone else who didn't mind such a rich drink in the heat.

Evin licked at the delicate head of foam, sprinkled with chocolate shavings, then took a small sip. The sweet, concentrated liquid unfolded on her tongue like a caress. She sighed with sheer pleasure. "Perfect as always, Bull."

"Two things that can't be hurried," Bull told Hal'la. "Cocoa... and ladies. Ideally you let them steep overnight."

"Is that how you develop the best flavor?" Hal'lasean asked, her tone arch.

"Twelve hours, minimum."

"Someone hand me the whiskey," Dorian said, and added a generous amount to his cup. "Inquisitor, would you care for some?"

Evin accepted the bottle, but she had no business drinking tonight. She had to maintain a part of her awareness on the trap she'd set for the Arche. She couldn't watch for changes to the branches if she were drunk. Instead she wanted—. There. She leaned forward for the plate of biscuits and retrieved a small crock of red currant jam. She spooned a generous dollop into her cocoa. Then sipped again. Just the right bit of tartness. Bliss.

"Oooh, that looks good," Hal'la said, and Evin passed her the jam. "You know what else sounds good right now? Pickled radishes."

"Radishes?" Evin asked. "With cocoa?"

"Oh, come on," Bull said. "Pregnant women are all the same. Weird ass cravings, exotic food... just enjoy the damn chocolate."

"Oh, I am," Hal'la promised, licking the spoon. And then she stopped—concern flashing on her face—

"Pregnant?" Evin asked.

Chapter Text

"Pregnant?" Evin Lavellan asked. She was stunned, unable to react, unable to feel, surrounded by her friends in a dizzy spectacle—a game of cards in the Herald's Rest, but somehow the world had ended early.

"That's right, didn't Chuckles mention it?" Varric asked, leaning back so he could see her more clearly around Hal'la and Dorian.

Something—she had to say something—with words—

"Ir anehnas enansal," she said. Those were words, right? What did they mean?

She had never felt so completely blank.

They had everything. Everything—the Mark, the Well, that mysterious power. A baby. The only thing they didn't have was the Arche. Andruil's Spear. They'd come to Evin's world for her help, for the only thing she had to give, and in that single moment of anguish she wished she'd told them no.

The conversation picked up without her—Hal'la's intervention. Some banter about the father—was he Dalish?—Hal'la's coy response.

Evin reached for the branches again, the action of reflex, tested the ones that remained. Missing. Another branch had disappeared. How many others hadn't she seen?

Her future closed around her like a fist and she hadn't even noticed.

She felt feverish and freezing all at once, like something was about to attack her but she was surrounded by smiling faces. She couldn't breathe—

"How much alcohol did you add to that chocolate?" Fen'Harel asked suddenly.

Evin looked up at him, unable to speak. He claimed her mug, drank the entire thing, made a theatrical grimace. "Maybe it's best you retire for the evening, Inquisitor. We have an early morning."

Something passed between him and Hal'lasean. She jumped up from Dorian's lap. "Why don't I help you to bed, Evin?"

"I know where to find you," Fen'Harel said, "once that key arrives."

Did she look that awful? She didn't care. They were right—she wanted to leave. Now.

The nature of Evin's life being what it was—an all-consuming nightmare—Hal'lasean insisted on accompanying her the entire way back to her chamber. With the certainty of a seer Evin knew she wouldn't be able to persuade the woman to go, so she didn't try. Besides, she didn't want to contemplate what trouble Hal'la might unleash, wandering Evin's world on her own. Fenedhis.

"I should have warned you," Hal'lasean said when they'd finished climbing the stairs to Evin's bedchamber.

Evin gazed at the elf woman, incredulous. "How is your pregnancy any of my business?"

Hal'lasean walked around the stair railing to the little table where Evin had drunk unwilling tea a few hours before. Hal'lasean's hands gripped the back of a chair. "Still. I regret you found out that way. Ir abelas."

Evin fought the urge to sigh. Why did she have to endure this tiresome world? Must they have this conversation now? She wanted Hal'lasean to leave her. She wanted to wander the Fade for the next six hours until it was time for them to depart. Or better yet, halt time for herself and vanish, explore that desolate dreamscape for as many days as necessary to restore her center of calm. Because apparently wallowing didn't work.

"I can't accept your apology," Evin said. "You don't owe me anything. I've pressed on you a familiarity I have no right to claim."

"No right?" Hal'la said. "We came here—to your world—to ask your help. I can imagine how difficult this is. I see your pain and—it's like something I feel myself. Something I went through too. So, yes, we owe you some consideration. Besides. We're from the same clan, in a way. Aren't we? That makes us lethallan."

"That isn't what Lavellans are in this world," Evin said, frustrated. "Don't talk about things you don't understand. I wish you'd let me be."

"...I know. And I will. But you're coming with us tomorrow. Aren't you?" Hal'la asked. "Because you think he might be there."

Was that what this Hal'la did? She pushed and pushed—this was how she'd broken down her Fen'Harel. For a moment Evin felt oppressed by all her secret fears, by the darkest interpretations of every branch she'd ever seen. Her headache went from bad to terrible.

Evin pulled back the right-hand chair and sank into it. Hal'lasean took the other.

"I still don't think you understand," Evin said.

"Then explain," Hal'la said. "And I'll listen."

"You told me... he isn't a betrayer. But what if mine is?"

"A betrayer? In what way? Aside from the obvious, that is."

"Aside from the obvious." Chilled, Evin rubbed at her forearms. "A little more than a week ago, there was a... vision. Something I had no right to see. It wasn't from my life."

"You saw something... your Fen'Harel?"

"In the Crossroads, an eluvian. A place I'd never seen. A place I'll never be. The goddess Mythal—I'm not tied to her. I don't know how I saw it unless she sent it as a warning—to never, ever look for him."

Evin looked up. Hal'la's eyes were intent, her expression serious—but there was a glimmer of knowledge there. This information wasn't totally unknown to her.

Evin drew a breath and continued. "In the vision, he went to her—he killed her—and stole her power, or however you want to say it. The All-mother. His friend. I thought it couldn't be true. I hoped it was some confused, distorted nightmare. I felt so lost for days. But now you're here—with that name—and it must be true. So this is what I'm afraid of. My Solas, my Fen'Harel—what if he stole the Arche? I think he must have used it. And that's why the branches disappeared."

"I see why," Hal'la said in a neutral tone.

"What do you know?" Evin whispered. "Hal'la? Tell me please."

Silence. Then: "I know he loves you," she said.

Was she insane? "What does that have to do with anything?"

"You've seen parts of my life, remember? I've also seen yours. I know how he looks at you. It's almost the same—almost exactly—how my Fen'Harel looks at me. And that means... They can't be that different. What happened with Mythal—it was complicated. He feels so guilty about it—but it wasn't vicious. It wasn't murder the way he thinks. If you want me to explain, you can ask me and I'll tell you everything—at least how it happened in my world. Or use your vision and you'll see me tell you everything. Or however it works."

"You have the Well," Evin said softly.

"I do. Fen'Harel wouldn't use the Arche. He and Mythal were protecting it. And he didn't leave because he doesn't love you. He left because he didn't have a choice."

Tears—always tears—they fell on her cheeks and she brushed them impatiently aside. "I never thought he could be evil before. But what if—"

"He's not. Misguided sometimes, maybe. And more often than not a pretentious ass. And totally lost without his heart—without his Lavellan. No matter what world, apparently."

For Evin, indecision was death. Still she hesitated. "In most destinies I never see him again. I never even looked for the possibility until today. When you returned."

"So, you're saying there's a chance now."

Evin looked up at her. "A small chance."

Hal'lasean grinned. "Evin, I have never encountered anyone so methodical as you. I'm willing to bet if you put your mind to it you could make that chance into something more. Into a certainty."

Make the chance. Wasn't that what she always did? Evin's breath caught—but the idea was so tempting she immediately discarded it. "Foolishness. What I want doesn't matter."

"Why doesn't it matter?" Hal'la asked indignantly. "You deserve happiness, Evin. I think after everything we've done these last few years, we've earned something, don't you? I'm telling you this not just as your kin but as a fellow Herald, a fellow Inquisitor—Fenedhis, that sounds strange! What you want matters. And you should listen to me. I give very good advice."

"Do you, now?" Despite her pain, despite everything, Evin heard herself begin to laugh.

"Don't you think another god might come in handy with whatever we're facing? Look, lethallan, I think you've forgotten something important. So I'm going to give you my favorite unsolicited but very wise advice."

Maker. How had she suddenly become this woman's personal exalted march? "And what's that?"

"We're Dalish! We stop hunting, we starve. We stop moving, we're murdered. The Dalish never stop fighting. Not for a thousand years. We're not about to give up now."

It sounded like something her father would say. Evin shook her head. "You know I'm not Dalish."

"Don't you say that! Vallaslin doesn't make you Dalish. It's in your blood, in your heart!"

"No, seriously—"

"Listen to me, Evin Lavellan. As long as you wear a Dalish name, you keep fighting."

"This is the most ridiculous conversation I've ever had," Evin said. Smiling through tears.

"But I'm right, aren't I? You know I'm right."

"I'm... imagining the sudden paroxysms if I decided to rename myself Evin Tel'vhen Tel'an."

"That's a bad branch, Evin. Don't go there."

Evin considered the problem—the insanity of it. Trying to trick the Trickster. To trap him in his own temple. "Mortals can't manipulate gods so easily, can we? They just do things. As if they don't owe us any explanation. It's quite rude."

"They think they can get away with it. But only because they're dicks."

"Ah, yes. The dick theory of elven gods."

"It explains so much. But why aren't there any dick vallaslin?" Hal'la asked.

"It must be related to that erase spell of his," Evin said.

And Hal'la laughed. "Maybe that's why no one's ever seen the Dread Wolf's."

"There are some things I should do," Evin said. "To prepare for tomorrow. If you don't mind."

"That's the spirit." Hal'la grinned.

Chapter Text

He had miscalculated. Badly. He had sent Evin to bed with Hal’lasean to care for her and now Fen’Harel sat utterly alone with a table of people who thought he was someone he was not.

He was, but he was not.

Fenedhis.

The door had only just shut behind the women when the entire group turned as one to focus in on him like a pack of Fade-corrupted wolves.

Perhaps it was not too late to excuse himself under the pretense of joining the two Lavellans. These people -- these companions that were not his own -- would surely encourage such behavior. They forced him to sit quite close to Evin during the game and watch while The Iron Bull made open, unabashed sexual overtures to his vhenan. His only relief was that, as her supposed brother, his ire for the situation was appropriate and allowed. The others found it amusing.

Hal’la found it amusing. When he had her beneath him tonight, they would see then who was amused.

“So,” Varric drawled, pretending at casual conversation, “Chuckles. You’re back.”

“For now. Evin, Hal’lasean, and I will leave in the morning.”

“You’re what!” Cassandra, of course. Ever furious, ever incredulous. “You think you can just...come back here after a month without contact, after having disappeared, and simply take the Inquisitor to Maker-knows--”

“I am not taking the Inquisitor anywhere,” Fen’Harel said calmly. “Hal’lasean and I came to ask her help on a matter. When I explained where we meant to go from here, Evin insisted.”

“And where is it you mean to go?” The Bull asked, crossing his huge arms over his equally huge chest.

Fen’Harel carefully diverted his mind’s attention from sudden images of the Qunari and Hal’la engaging in acts of creative filth. It was not something he’d ever had to consider before. He made a mental note to thank the Bull in his world for not being quite so...covetous.

“It is a matter of a rather delicate nature. Forgive me if I don’t divulge details.” When no one at the table seemed to accept that as an answer, Fen’Harel sighed. “If you are worried for Evin, you need not be. She will be in no more danger with us than she would be in her quarters here.”

That, of course, was the problem.

“Chuckles,” said Varric, his voice low and threatening as it so rarely was. “If you hurt her again, you’d better disappear so thoroughly I never find you. You got me?”

“I believe I do, Varric.”

“Solas.” It was Dorian this time, his frown thoughtful as he glanced toward the door, toward where Hal’la and Evin had gone. “The father of your sister’s child. Where was he during all this? When she was dying?”

Fen’Harel’s chest squeezed unpleasantly and he allowed his mask to fall just enough to reveal his remorse, his guilt, his loathing for the man in question. For himself. “He left her before he knew and ignored the messages sent for him. He is a coward and undeserving of her love.”

“Huh,” remarked Varric. “Sounds familiar.”

In the silence that followed, a page jogged through the door. After peering about on tip-toes for a few moments, the young man hurried over to their table. “The key to your room, serah.”

“Thank you,” said Fen’Harel. He stood to take his leave, but the Seeker had other plans.

Cassandra looked as though she’d swallowed something very bitter. “If Evin is going with you, I am going as well.”

“Seeker, if she wanted us to go with her, she’d have--” Varric began.

“She is not-- she does not think clearly where he is concerned!” Cassandra protested, dropping her voice so that only their table could hear. “She has been in her room for a week now! She has only emerged because he has come back and now she’s leaving with him?”

“I admit, there’s something about the whole thing that’s decidedly fishy,” Bull agreed. “But Boss would tell us if she needed us. That’s just how she does it.”

Fen’Harel pressed his lips together, making them into a thin line. “You are welcome to make your case to Evin herself. Now if you’ll excuse me: it has been a pleasure, but I have an early morning and I am desperate for a bath before I leave again.”

He pocketed the key and turned away as Cassandra made her typical noise of disgust.

“Solas!” called Bull to his retreating back. “Tell Hal my door’s open if her legs are!”

“She hurts but she won’t let me help.”

Hal’lasean gave a half-shriek and clutched at the wooden banister on the stairs to the Main Hall to keep herself from tumbling down the rest of the way.

“Cole!” she gasped when she was stable, turning to face the large-eyed boy behind her with her adrenaline still pumping through her veins. “Fenedhis, I told you, you can’t just--”

But she hadn’t told him anything. Not this Cole. This Cole who was more spirit than human. This Cole who was not the one she knew and taught and loved. Being in this world was disorienting. It was full of bitter and painful and baffling surprises, things left just for her to find in the happy, familiar faces that surrounded her. Faces like this one.

“You scared me!”

“She won’t let me help and neither would he, never let me help and then he left. Now he keeps me out and I don’t understand.” As though she hadn’t just berated him. As though he was unaware of anything beyond the pain and his need to see to it.

Hal found herself staring at the amulet that hung from his neck. She had found such an amulet for her Cole once, but they never did use it.

“But he’s here, the same but not the same, and the hurt there is less, hurts less, heals, helped, handled, Hal’lasean, his heart. How? He wouldn’t let me help and he left but this one is...happier. You helped him. How?”

She let out a helpless laugh, her brows climbing her forehead. “I don’t know, Cole, I just--” No, but she did know. “I push him. I always have. And then...Mythal sort of...trapped him. She made me into a good enough reason for him to stay. And I knew the truth then. Who he is. But there’s nothing you could do, Cole. Do you see that? Some hurts just...for broken hearts, there are usually only two people who can mend them: the person with the broken heart and the person who broke it. That’s why she won’t let you help. It’s why he didn’t.”

“He let you help.”

Hal’lasean sighed. She scrubbed at her face with her palm. “Remember earlier, Cole? When I said you weren’t better or worse, just...different?”

He hesitated. “He’s me but not. I’m...more me, he’s more him. You miss him when you speak to me.”

She let him see her small, sad smile. “He’s my friend. My family. You remind me of how he used to be.”

“Before,” mumbled Cole. “How he was before. But he’s better now...more...people.”

Her smile bloomed sweetly across her face and she reached out to touch the spirit’s cheek. He allowed it, but his confusion was obvious. Did no one ever touch this Cole? That hurt too. “There was a Templar,” she explained softly. “My Cole was angry. So angry. Solas wanted him to use his Compassion to forgive the Templar. But Varric and I helped him go through anger. To deal with it. He’s learning...to be human now, I guess. To be a person.”

Cole nodded, bobbing his head like a pet bird. “Not better or worse but different.”

Hal beamed gently at Cole, stroked her thumb across his cheekbone. “Exactly.”

“Not better or worse but different,” he repeated, and then he focused on her with an intensity she’d forgotten he could possess. Like he was seeing into her. “She wishes she were you and you wish you were her but you’re not better or worse, just different. Like his love for her. Like his love for you. Not better or worse but different.”

Hal'lasean spent all day holding it together. After her short-lived tears in Fen'Harel's lap, she had faced each challenge, each hurt, each worry with as much vibrancy as she could find. But she was tired. So tired. Opening the door between worlds had drained her. Pretending, dancing around the truth, being a stranger in her own family...those things had taken more than she'd realized.

"She wishes she were me because I have his love. Because he stayed. Because I carry his child. But the truth is, Cole..." Suddenly there were tears in her eyes. "If I could trade my happiness now for the lives I could have saved with her foresight...I would. I would do it in a heartbeat."

"He knows," said the spirit. He hesitated and then reached out to touch her cheek, a clumsy movement of his fingers that was sweet and welcome nonetheless. "That's why he loves you. So many reasons. But that reason most."

Hal laughed mirthlessly, a laugh that was mostly so she wouldn't cry, and wiped at her eyes before the tears had the chance to fall. "He does love his noble sacrifices."

"You like stories," Cole blurted. "I know a story."

She glanced around them at the torch-lit stairs that led from Evin's quarters to the Main Hall, at this place that was so familiar and so like home but was not at all hers. Not at all home. Hal wanted to climb into bed with Fen'Harel and be held by someone who knew who she was, who didn't look at her like she was a stranger. But she was also not quite prepared to step out the door to the castle proper and endure the looks and whispers from those who thought she was Solas' wife and those who had been told she was Solas' sister.

So Hal sat down on the step where she stood and Cole sat beside her.

"Okay, Cole. Tell me a story."

Chapter Text

This room, like all of this Skyhold, was full of small, perplexing differences. It might have proved disorienting for someone who was not so familiar with the Fade, where these sorts of things happened as a matter of course. Fen'Harel imagined Hal'lasean was finding the strange little contrasts distracting at best, unsettling at worst. Still his worry for her had little to do with the minutiae of this place and more to do with her health, their unborn child, and those hurts and insecurities he had gotten but a glimpse of before they were separated.

As he always did when he was anxious about something beyond his immediate control, Fen'Harel put his mind to something else entirely. This other self, this unkind variation was still a mystery, and like stepping into an ancient ruin untouched for thousands of years, his things lay out as he had left them, presumably without realizing he would not be returning again. It was a gift, in a way. An opportunity for study. And because this man was his own self, Fen'Harel knew precisely where to begin.

The notes were meticulous but vague, just the way he himself would have written them. The hand, though, was vastly different. This man wrote with sharp economy, a script as unadorned as the clothing they had no doubt both chosen when they became Solas. His own style was light and fluid, the product of a childhood spent studying with only the finest tutors, all of whom demanded his nobility reveal itself even in his penmanship. Even so, there was a certain attitude in the writing that Fen'Harel knew well. This self's word choice, his method of organizing his thoughts, even the information he deemed most important aligned perfectly with Fen'Harel's.

Skyhold's small contrasts had not bothered him. But this was as baffling as it was fascinating. Where could such a divergence begin? Was this Fen'Harel's childhood not the same as his own? Or perhaps his counterpart had made a point to unlearn the flourishes of his privileged youth. And why these notes? Why this stack of books on his desk?

When Fen'Harel had abandoned the Inquisition, his workspaces were a monument to the years he'd spent among those he'd come to call his friends. Standing at the side of the woman he'd come to call his heart. His books had been on the Fade, the Veil, on the world that had developed beyond each of them. Of course he had entertained other reading material. In the occasional moment of weakness before he admitted even to himself how deeply his fondness for Hal'lasean had taken root, there had been a few books on the Dalish. Utter nonsense and completely useless. He had attempted many of Varric's novels but accomplished only a select few. He had found the Sword and Shield series particularly foolish and frustrating in the time before he first sank himself between Hal'lasean's parted legs.

And then there had been his quieter, personal obsession:

This Fen'Harel seemed to share it. Among the familiar titles about the Veil and a mystifying number of books on spirits and demons, there were the dusty human records of artifacts both wondrous and mundane found in the wreckage of Elvhenan. The last pieces of his twisted legacy.

The Betrayer indeed.

Fen'Harel moved a hand over his scalp and shook his head clear. His other self's books and notes were useful but not as telling as the impressions he might have left on this place. He undressed methodically, folding each article of clothing and setting it on the dresser to be donned again in the morning. There would be no point in cleaning it of the road's dust when they would be traveling all day tomorrow. But he would relish the chance to be clean, even if only for the night.

Attendants left the packs he and Hal'la had brought with them from their Skyhold to one side of the plain bed and laid out a late and easy dinner. The tub had been waiting for him too, full nearly to the brim, just as he liked it. If he saw Josephine again before they left, he would thank her for remembering. It was these little touches that made her so excellent an asset for the Inquisition.

He bit into a buttered roll as he trailed fingers in the water, idly tracing the rune that would keep it heated long after he was finished bathing. Only when it was ready and his stomach placated did he step into the water and settle in up to his chest. He soaped and rinsed and soaped again and then sank down as far as the tub would allow.

Fen'Harel closed his eyes and crossed effortlessly into the Fade.

He was surrounded instantly by amiable spirits and a few playful wisps, welcoming him back in a mixture of words and feelings and images that coaxed his lips into a smile. They were not his, not the ones in his world he had come to know and love, but they were such pure beings that the differences -- if there were any -- were refreshingly negligible. Whereas Hal'la was struggling without the intimacy of her circle of companions, with finding herself a stranger among friends, there was no such disconnect between his soul and these spirits. Most of them he recognized -- the residents of Skyhold's Fade for three years at least, though some went back nearly to the keep's beginnings -- but there were a handful that claimed his attention and friendship without his ever having seen them before. One in particular stayed in the shadows, at the blurred edges of the manifested Fade, an amber-eyed lynx with a slowly twitching tail. Fen'Harel greeted them all, unwilling to snub even the least formed of wisps, and nodded his acknowledgement to the cat.

But he was a man with a mission and could not wander aimlessly in the company of spirits the way he might have preferred. With his apologies, he took his leave and began to thumb slowly through the few memories the Fade had retained in this room since the Inquisition claimed it. It was a wash mostly, a vague trace of a man who looked like him, who moved like him, who behaved like him. Fen'Harel watched himself -- no, his analogue -- bathe, eat, study, read, sleep, wake, dress, undress, bathe, eat, study, read, sleep, wake...

It was strongest when he read, sometimes books on the Veil or on Elvhen artifacts -- tomes and pages that Fen'Harel had memorized in his world for their usefulness, for their relevance -- sometimes the impressive stack of material on spirits and demons. These three categories elicited intense emotions from his counterpart, though the imprints in the Fade were so vague as to be almost unsalvageable. Still there were moments when Fen'Harel watched his other self violent with frustration or anxiety, impotent rage, and he knew precisely the thoughts that spurred the action, remembered the same feelings, the same private outbursts, the agony of a love he could not hope to keep. A love he should not have allowed himself in the first place.

And then, quite suddenly, a memory so crystalline it was as though the spirits had saved it for him. As though the Fade itself wanted him to see it.

A man undone. He paced, lashed out, knocked books from the table. Hurriedly picked them up, replaced them, stared at some tome on the Fade. This other Solas flipped to a well-worn page, his hands pressed with excess force on either side of the book. His fingers turning white against the desk. Sounds of guttural anguish, fury, self-loathing.

The door opened.

Evin.

His opposite was surprised. Did she not come to him in his room often?

She kissed him and he responded. She read his turmoil as Hal'la would have done, coaxed him as Hal'la always knew to do. But his counterpart did not smile his self-deprecation at Evin. Her confusion was obvious. She spoke of branches and suddenly Fen'Harel knew. He knew exactly what he was seeing.

His first thought was unkind, unfair: She kissed him?

The Wolf in him snarled, bristled with jealousy. But of course she didn't know. She thought this man was her lover. Fen'Harel was not sure he would have been able to tell the difference had he not already known; even the scar above his brow was identical.

His counterpart held up a mirror and Hal'lasean's horror was evident in Evin's face.

The Wolf howled when his opposite advanced dangerously on the spirit he loved. The Fade around him trembled with his ire. But she held up Evin's chin, spoke with the stubborn courage he so ardently adored and admired.

This was the beginning of her folly. Fen'Harel suffered through it, practically squirming with discomfort, his hands over his face with the fingers spread childishly to let him see. His analogue was already agitated, already on alert, was no doubt as worried for Evin's soul as he had been for Hal'la's. But Hal'lasean, usually so patient, compassionate, usually so in tune with the desires and needs, with the feelings and goals of those around her...

Hal'lasean had turned her gift into a weapon.

She had no idea at the time that she taunted the god her people most feared. She thought she pressed only Solas, a simple apostate.

Oh, ma vhenan. You knew only enough to push and were too frightened to stop when you went too far.

She had not been so openly brash when they first met. Or perhaps she had simply been too afraid of what the Inquisition might do to the Dalish Herald should she prove to be difficult. As Solas he had watched her, had seen the keen light in her eyes as she observed the strange and foreign characters who surrounded her. He witnessed her secret smiles or private frowns, was aware of how she would sit for hours in the cold studying the people who passed her by. He was fascinated by what she withheld.

And so he pushed.

Little by little, he began to pull her thoughts from her. He validated them for they were extraordinary, debated them for they were worthy of consideration. And as time wore on and she found her voice and her place within the Inquisition, as the humans who once held her captive began to rely on her judgment, to value her opinion, she became...a force to be reckoned with. She was no longer the young Dalish woman in over her head. She was transformed into a self-possessed power that shook the knees of monarchs beneath their velvet robes.

He had already loved her by then. In his more prideful moments, he even congratulated himself on having guided her to her fullest potential as a leader. But in truth the only thing he had done was to help her learn to speak. To advise her when she required it and sometimes when she didn't want it. He had never imagined she would be the one to guide him.

But to meet her now as a Dread Wolf who did not know her or love her, had not seen her conquer would-be gods and embrace a continent, to know only that she had information she should not possess and flaunted it brazenly...

It was little wonder this other Wolf had bared his teeth.

Chapter Text

Cole's story had yet to begin. Hal gave him time to work through whatever was troubling him as she always did, patient even when she was exhausted and emotionally bruised. Because this was Cole.

Finally, he frowned. "How do stories start?"

Despite her weariness, Hal laughed. "Well, I think the shems start them 'once upon a time', but the Dalish usually begin by introducing a character or a time period. 'In the ashes of the Exalted March, there lived a wise Dalish Keeper who...' That sort of thing."

"Dalish," murmured Cole, deciding something. He took a breath and began:

"This story is about a halla and a star. It takes place now."

Hal carefully did not smile at the simplicity of the story so far. It helped that she could already tell this tale would be a painful one for her to hear.

"The star is a bright, bright white one. She shines so bright in the dark sky and she can see everything. The star sees all the roads on the ground below and she knows which ones are the right ones to take. But the star is very high above everything and she's lonely. She only knows how to shine in the dark in the sky and how to pick roads for people to take to get to the right places. She's a guiding star."

Hal'lasean sighed and leaned forward on her knees, pressing her palms against her face. Because of course the star's name was Evin. And Hal really didn't want to think anymore about the other Inquisitor tonight. Being in this Skyhold with these companions with this timeline was like having the noose of her own failures pulled tightly around her neck and being constantly separated from the one person who might cut her down. Cole, it seemed, was determined to be her executioner.

"The story's not working," complained Cole with childlike hurt and confusion. "You hurt worse now."

For a moment, Hal couldn't decide if she'd prefer to agree and leave Cole here -- because he wasn't her Cole after all, and she was so, so tired, so, so raw -- or to give into her better nature and sit with him until he got it right.

In the end, it was a mixture of her compassion and her curiosity that made her look up from her hands. "Stories have to hurt before they can help, Cole. That's how they work."

"I'll tell you about the halla," he offered hopefully. "I like the halla."

She managed a worn smile.

"There's a halla -- a golden one! She lives on the ground with all the people -- once it was just the Dalish, but now it's everyone -- and she's not lonely, not the way the star is. Sometimes she's lonely because she is the only golden halla, but she has a herd and they love each other and she has a mate -- an old Wolf. She lives with the people in the dirt and the mud but always she's shining and gold."

Hal laughed again, a tired but amused sound that took her some effort. "Thanks, I think?"

Cole smiled. Hal's heart thumped warmly in response.

"They both want the same thing, the star and the halla: they want to guide the people home. The star can see all the roads and she knows which ones go home. But the halla can only see what's in front of her. She doesn't know how to get home, only what direction it's in. She starts to walk toward home and hopes she'll get there. She and her herd and her Wolf lead the people but they're blind. The star is alone in the dark dark sky but she lights the right roads for her people to take. And one day the star looks down and there's a halla on her road. And the halla looks up and there's a bright, unreachable star. A lonely star. But the halla thinks the star is so far above the dirt and the mud, the star doesn't carry the people but guides them. The halla thinks the star is so bright and lights the right paths and so the people don't trip or get hurt or lost. She sleeps curled up with her Wolf and the herd and the people and she wants to be the star."

Cole paused, no doubt to ascertain whether or not his story was working yet. But Hal had hidden her face in her hands again. Even the idea of being a halla, carrying the people home was too much. Too heavy. And now Andruil's Arche as well. If only she could have just some small ability the way Evin did. If she could see what was coming.

"That's what the story's about," said Cole in answer to her thoughts. "The halla sees the star and the star sees the halla. And the star thinks the halla is happy. She sees the halla and her Wolf and the halla with her people and thinks this golden halla runs free and wild and happy, that she is never alone and that her burden is shared with her herd."

And then Cole just...stopped talking. Hal waited for several minutes before she finally lifted her head to see what was the matter. But nothing seemed amiss; he sat and rocked as he always did, staring thoughtfully ahead.

"...Cole?"

He smiled at her.

"...You stopped telling the story."

"That's the story."

She laughed again, incredulous and fond this time. "Cole, a story has to have an ending. What happens to the halla and the star? What lessons do they learn? What mistakes do they make? How do they fix them? Or can't they be fixed?"

Cole blinked at her uncomprehending. "This story doesn't have an ending. It doesn't go any further yet. You have to decide." He sat up a little then, his eyes suddenly seeing her from behind his bangs. "Is the halla like the star? Does the halla decide?"

"It's your story, Cole," said Hal with amused exasperation.

"No, it's not," he replied. He frowned at her as though she should know better. "It's your story. Do you decide?"

"Do I decide what?"

Cole tilted his head, his expression puzzled. "Everything."

The thought was horrifying. Crushing. Suffocating. Tears sprang into her eyes again and she shook her head fervently. "Fenedhis, I hope not."

He touched her again, his hand flat against her cheek, and it was so ridiculous that she smiled through wet eyes. "You see me. Don't you?"

Her smile slipped. "Of course, Cole. Of course I do."

"No one talks to me like you do. Like I'm real. Only Solas and Varric and you. But he left. And you won't stay. Will you forget me?"

He didn't look forlorn or worried; he didn't look any particular way at all. It was so strange to remember that her Cole had once been just like this.

Hal reached out to press her palm to his cheek, in part because she needed to look him in the eyes. "I won't forget you."

"Is he happy? The other one? The human one."

"He is mostly, I think," Hal admitted. "Or at least I hope. He seems mostly happy. But...being a person isn't just about being happy. It's about all the feelings there are to experience. It's about living with them and knowing them and finding the beauty in them and moving through them. It's about enduring and thriving. Sometimes that means there has to be pain. And sometimes that pain can't just be fixed."

Cole's frown deepened. "There was a Templar. And I was angry. I was all anger. I didn't like it. I didn't want it. Solas showed me, Compassion, not Wrath. How did you make him a person?"

Hal'lasean let out a long, exhausted sigh. She leaned forward on the step and moved Cole's hat back with her free hand, pushing the brim away from his face so she could press her lips to his forehead. He went very still under the contact and Hal's heart hurt for him again. And she missed her Cole.

"I didn't. Varric and I...pointed him in the direction of home. The direction toward...being a person. But he did the rest. He decided."

"He decided?" Cole repeated with wonder.

Hal readjusted his hat and stood, rubbing wearily at her forehead. "He decided. I don't decide everything. I...I can't. I won't." She took a steadying breath before she started crying in earnest. She couldn't do that now, not when she still had to walk through the castle to Fen'Harel's room. "Everyone should decide for themselves."

She was almost to the door to the Main Hall when Cole spoke from the stairs behind her.

"The halla won't, but the star will."

Chapter Text

Hal'lasean hesitated only briefly outside the door to the room the Solas here had once claimed. The one her Fen'Harel now occupied. This was not the first time she'd been in this room and the memory of that other encounter was salt in the open wound that was this place, this world. She hadn't knocked then. Perhaps she should knock now?

But no. It wasn't Evin's Solas inside. It was her own heart. So with a steeling breath, she opened the door and slipped inside.

There was a simple dinner waiting for her, but she was more interested in the tub. Her Wolf soaked in the magicked water, his head tilted back against the edge of the basin and his eyes closed. His chest rose and fell with easy, even breaths. The energy that lived in her now -- his energy -- sought its match in him, found his spirit in the Fade, so close that she could have opened a window in the Veil and leaned through it to kiss him.

For now, though, she let him be. He'd been traveling great distances very quickly to reach her, to explain what had occurred, and woven complex magic to help her open the door between worlds. He deserved and needed his rest, immortal vigor or no. Besides, she and the child inside her were mad with hunger. So Hal prepared a plate with cheese and honey and bread, with sliced fruit and cool water, and carried it with her to the other Solas' desk. She ate as she perused notes that were not in her Wolf's script, traced fingers she licked clean over the indentations made by quill on parchment. Considered the man she'd met so briefly all those months ago, the woman he loved, and Cole's strange, unfinished story.

It's your story. Do you decide?

The halla won't, but the star will.

Hal wondered for the thousandth time since Fen'Harel told her of this other Inquisitor's powers just how it was they worked. Could Evin see everything? Every possible permutation of action that Hal might conceivably choose? But no, that couldn't be true, or she wouldn't have thought Hal was Fen'Harel's wife. She wouldn't have been surprised by their arrival. She wouldn't have thought Fen'Harel was her Solas.

So clearly not everything was visible to her in the branches. What were the limitations? A small chance, she'd said. Was it not only possibility but probability in the branches? Could the futures be wrong?

Hal was no believer in fate. It was choice. Always choice. And the blind hope she'd made the right one.

She had considered destiny briefly when they called her Herald and spoke of the woman in the Fade who saved her. She was just a misplaced Dalish hunter. What did she know of such things? So she'd allowed for the idea that maybe, just maybe, it was humanity's Andraste who pushed her through, that it was this mysterious Maker's mark in her hand. She had carefully not dismissed it despite her own Dalish beliefs, despite her loose faith in the absent Creators because it was all beyond her ken. Until Adamant. Until Justinia or the spirit that claimed her form.

And now she knew the Creators were not gods either. There were no gods, or at least none Fen'Harel had ever seen. She trusted his judgment on that beyond her own or that of any modern mortal.

What had Andraste felt? Did she know they would lift her so high? Did she fear it? And for someone like Evin, who could see, as Cole had said, "all roads" and knew which were the right ones, would there be a similar end? Perhaps not fire, but deification?

The unreachable star.

If Evin had some sense of what the future of this world held for her, it was no wonder she would be keen to decide. Willing, even. To choose the roads that went where she wanted them to go, that arrived at favorable destinations.

Hal had assumed that it would be easier, simpler, lighter if she could just see where the roads led or even where they were instead of pushing blindly into a future that was opaque to her, that had no sympathy for her intentions and plans. But perhaps the knowledge of those roads, the will and need to choose...perhaps that was the heavier burden. To make choices not just for the present, but for all possible futures.

The star would decide the end of their story, if she was left to her own devices. But maybe Evin could use a break. Someone else to decide. To help decide. When they joined Anchor to Anchor, Hal'lasean could see what Evin did. Maybe the other woman could help her learn to bear the rapidity of her movement through the branches. Maybe if they could both see, Hal could help.

Or, if not, at the very least she could decide how their story ended. She could help the star not feel so alone, and, in so doing, assuage her own envy for a foresight she truthfully couldn't begin to understand.

Two Heralds, two Inquisitors, uniquely situated to give one another comfort and counsel, if only for a short time. If such a thing as Fate existed, surely this was its hand.

Hal'lasean finished her dinner and licked her fingers again. She would reach out to Evin tomorrow. But for now, she would wake her Wolf.

Evin Lavellan had never hunted wolves, but she knew the theory. She paced her room, tapping her chin with her thumb in a nervous gesture.

To catch a wolf you needed bait... and a trap. Bait he could not resist, a snare he could not slip. And there was an added complication with this particular quarry: Once the trap was sprung Fen'Harel could simply vanish into the Fade. Worse, he'd learn to be wary of her in the future. She'd fought at his side long enough to know he was a canny opponent, cautious and intelligent.

This meant—the nature of the trap had to be something he would not want to escape. To walk forward, eyes open, knowing—while the jaws came down.

You deserve to be happy, Hal'lasean had said.

Evin walked over to her desk and sank into the chair, leaning her head against her hands. What a charming, lovable, naive creature Hal'la was. Did she think destiny was the result of happenstance? For her it evidently was. Not in Evin's world. Not ever. For Evin, happiness had a cost weighed in lives. How could she count her emotions higher than doing what was right? But Evin could see the advantages in having the help of her world's Fen'Harel. That was the optimal outcome—and Evin believed in optimizing.

Hal'la could afford her innocent nature. She had the natural ability Evin had always lacked. What Evin had built she'd fought and sacrificed and struggled for. This would be no different.

She'd spent too many hours in the presence of Hal'la's Fen'Harel today. She longed for the one she knew. She ached to see him as he really was—with his true name on her lips—not as a phantom in her mind's eye. But she was afraid to face him. Another man who didn't want her, but this time the actual one, the one who'd cared for her once, the one she shouldn't love anymore. She bit her tongue until she tasted blood, choked back her sobs and forced herself to feel calm again. Serene, determined—

There were higher priorities than her personal feelings. Fear didn't matter. Only the outcome.

What was the best way to hunt the Dread Wolf?

Always give your opponent a lane of retreat. Advice she'd learned years before. It had served her well; it would again. Control his options. Let the choice he freely makes become as inevitable as your will.

She poured over the possible futures. As the hours fled and uncertainty settled into the past her sight grew clearer and clearer until she saw inside the temple with her own eyes. She saw his face, heard his voice, his words cold and intentionally cruel—that wouldn't do.

Everything she'd tried not to feel—she had to use it here. She would bare her heart for the killing blow and hope he stayed his hand. It was the best chance. They needed him.

Opening her eyes, she stretched out her arms, feeling the twinge in muscles cramped from hours of study. She tilted back her chair and peeked out the window at the stars. Later than she thought. She would have to do the rest in the Fade.

Every moment—every reaction—had to be as carefully choreographed as a dance. For this to work she had to fill the gaps in her knowledge. Fortunately, there was a more-or-less willing individual downstairs who might very well part with the information she needed. She didn't even have to get him out of bed. Not in this reality.

Evin visualized the sweeping lines of the runes to grab time by the scruff of its neck and yank it back. She could only sustain the enchantment for a moment, but that was all she needed. As soon as the magic took hold and the world froze around her Evin forced her mind into the Fade. And then she was free.

Evin had never had magic until the Mark, not as she remembered it. She'd never trained as a First, somehow missed the patrols of templars through the Alienage. For her, magic hadn't come naturally as it seemed to for most mages. Instead, a kind of witless luck—that's what her mother had called it. She'd never broken a bone. She'd escaped pox and scars. Until the Breach. Until the Inquisition. Now instead of luck, magic was an awful lot of work.

And Solas, harrumphing at her in the Fade. He hadn't even wanted to teach her until some idiocy of Vivienne's had driven him to act.

Hurry up! Don't look at that! Herald, that spirit is trying to distract you. Pay attention!

She’d suspected he was going out of his way to be unpleasant—his tiresome way of demonstrating the dangers of the Fade as well as the dangers of getting to know him. Until she saw the way his eyes relaxed there, how his smile lingered when she wasn't looking. She could hide her smiles too... and pretend to be thinking about whatever it was he wanted to demonstrate, when she all she wanted was to feel his hands on her body.

Until he rebuilt Haven for her in a dream, and she grew tired of waiting, and kissed him.

There are... considerations.

Talk about an understatement.

She knew Hal'la and her Fen'Harel had much the same interaction—a frequently revisited memory set in the Fade. Knowing that didn't make Evin feel regretful or sad. Instead she felt reassured. It hadn't been an accident. It was genuine.

Though nothing else had been.

Evin walked along the paths of the dreaming Fade, keeping her thoughts wrapped tightly around her. Flashes and wisps ignored her as she traveled. When she reached a quiet place she fell to her knees on what passed for the ground and built herself a clearing. A bare swept place, as foreign to the Fade as a mousetrap to a cat.

She let the Mark pulse in her hand and visualized the branches once again. Choosing one—

Rising from her desk, following the stairs to the wing where Solas slept, rapping at the door. A lengthy pause. Fen'Harel emerged wrapped in a blanket—his face flushed and annoyed. Ah. They'd been having sex.

Evin chose another branch. This time she waited an hour before descending to the room. She rapped again—. No, he was sandy-eyed and grumpy at having been ripped from the Fade. He wasn't helpful at all—and now she felt annoyed.

Evin kept tweaking, kept adjusting her approach, and finally found a version where she caught him at the right time. And she asked her questions, confirmed what she'd suspected, and realized they couldn't wait until morning.

They had to leave immediately.

Chapter Text

He was aware first of her closeness, of the way the Veil resonated when caught between their shared power. And then a sensation like cool silken bedding moving over his skin as she toyed with him, his Hal'lasean, moving the membrane of the Fade against his spirit to tease and tantalize. Then the feel of her soft lips on his in the physical world, a soothing warmth as she cupped water over his bare scalp.

Fen'Harel opened his eyes to find his heart perched on the side of the tub, still dressed, moving her hand slowly back and forth through the filmy water.

"One of these days, you're going to drown," she told him with a slow, contented smile.

He returned it willingly. "You need not worry for that, ma theneras enastena. I am determined that if I am to drown, it will only be in you."

Hal'lasean laughed and rolled her eyes, letting the hand in the water come to rest against his chest. "You're already coming to bed with me tonight, sweet talker. You don't have to work so hard."

But it earned him a kiss of luxurious depth. He smiled his victory against her lips.

"Have you eaten?" he asked when their mouths parted.

"I have. Did you find anything worthwhile in the Fade?"

Fen'Harel lifted an amused brow. "I always find something worthwhile in the Fade."

He began to sit up, to stand in the tub, and Hal'lasean went to retrieve a towel. She held it out for him, wrapped it around his shoulders when he stepped out, pressed herself against the dry side of the cloth to gift another kiss to his lips. They stood like that for some time, tongues twining, her hands rubbing along his arms and down his back to soak up the water that dripped down his body to puddle on the floor.

"I wish the circumstances were better," she murmured, letting her hands trail down his hips to rest at the top of his buttocks. "But I can't say I'm not pleased to have you back in my arms."

Her answer was another kiss, lingering and sweet, and then Fen'Harel broke away to finish drying himself off. She stood where he left her, hugging her own arms, and watched him attend to his wet nakedness with appraising appreciation. So of course he made a point to posture, to take his time, to reveal the parts of himself he knew best excited her in the positions that afforded her the views she preferred. By the time he was finished, she was grinning at him, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

"Vain Wolf," she teased. "Did you build the Crossroads with mirrors so you could always admire yourself?"

He was on her then, pinning her to the wall, pressing his bare arousal to the apex of her breeches. She let out a gasp of pleasured surprise and moved against him, just the slightest provocation of her hips. Fen'Harel made a sound low in his throat.

And then he remembered. The impression in the Fade, Hal'lasean in Evin's body, pushed back against the door with her neck offered to another Dread Wolf. This room. This very room. He blanched and stepped back, shaking his head with slow swings.

"Ma Fen?" Hal'la reached for him, followed him, placed her fingers on his cheek and the ridge of his ear.

"In the Fade," he explained, his brow pulled low, "I saw you in Evin's body. I watched him..." He swallowed.

Her concern slipped away into an unhappy reflection of the event's memory, and perhaps if the fault had only been his counterpart's she might have sought to comfort him, to assure him that she was well. Instead, she moved to the bed, sank knowingly down at its foot, frowned at her wrapped feet.

"I was going to tell you," she sighed, and he quietly noted to himself the irony of her guilt at withholding truths from him. "I didn't want you to think he was unkind without cause. Especially not if we're going to meet him."

He paused to hang up the towel and then followed her to the bed. He made no effort to conceal his nudity as he sat beside her -- they were far beyond such modesty -- and instead pulled her to him, snaking his arms around her thin frame and holding her close. Hal'lasean curled into him, delicately hooking her legs over his lap, resting her forehead in the crook of his neck. Fen'Harel kissed her silverite hair and waited.

"I don't know why I didn't notice how far I pushed him. Or...maybe I did. Maybe I just didn't care." She sucked in a breath, hesitated, let it out slowly. "I was scared. I thought I'd lost you. I thought I'd lost everything. And then there was this man who...looked like you, who smelled like you even...but who thought and acted like you at your...coldest. At your most secretive. Like before we even knew each other. And I couldn't...I couldn't bear it. To be trapped with him."

"He pushed you as well. Neither of you behaved with much wisdom," he said gently. "What happened after you left the room?"

"More of the same," she sighed. "We went to the library and there was a rift above the rotunda. We insulted each other..."

Hal'lasean fell silent, her body tensing even as she pushed more needfully against him. Fen'Harel moved his fingers soothingly over her braided hair. "Tell me."

"He said..." She swallowed, closed her eyes, shook her head. "He said he could not imagine a world in which he loved me."

The Wolf inside him growled, bared fangs with raised hackles. He tightened his arms around her, sought to comfort her even as his own lips twisted with fury.

"If we see him," she decided softly, "I think I should apologize."

Fen'Harel barked a hard, disbelieving laugh and pulled away enough to study his lover's repentant face. "He should apologize! I will see to it that he--"

She stopped his rage with her mouth, swallowed up his threatening words and replaced them with her tongue. He melted against her, forgetting the sharpness of his ire in the warmth of her body.

Fen'Harel rested his forehead to hers when they paused for breath, locked their gazes together so she could see the depth of his love and adoration. Then he smiled, sly and wolfish. "If he cannot imagine a world in which he loves you, we will have to show him. We will leave nothing to the imagination."

She returned the expression with a wan version of that half-smirk he so loved and kissed the tip of his nose. "Thank you, my Wolf. But we need prove our love only to one another."

His eyes flashed with sudden lust. "Shall I prove it now?"

"Oh," Hal'la said, pretending at regret. "I had planned to visit The Iron Bull. But I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you joined us."

Fen'Harel narrowed his eyes in playful malice and moved closer to Hal'lasean. It was another of their dances: the halla tantalizing the Wolf into hunting, the halla's delicious retreat from the stalking Wolf. Her eyes rounded with feigned innocence as she began to crawl backwards on the mattress, until only her feet hung off the end. He advanced on hands and knees, each forward motion an exaggerated roll of his shoulder, a predatory sway of his hips. Finally she was stretched out beneath him to do with what he would, held up by her forearms, teal eyes locked on grey-blue with anticipation. He crouched astride her lithe form, his cock heavy between his legs.

Hal'lasean's gaze travelled roughly over his body, taking in every inch of him with her lip caught in her teeth again, presenting herself as prey when she once more met his gaze. "Dread Wolf," she purred, and snaked out one small hand to wrap strong, hot fingers around the length of him.

"Ma halla," he replied, all breath and rumbling approval. His smile was ravenous. "Get out of those clothes before I tear them from you with my teeth."

Her grin was slow and sly, and she trailed the fingers of the hand that held him up his body to his chest, where she placed her palm with firm pressure. "Ma nuvenin, Fen'Harel."

He rolled off of her, flopping without ceremony onto his back with his elbows propping up his chest, an echo of her submissive position. Hal'lasean sat up without haste, her back to him, and deftly undid the wrappings on her feet. Her actions became deliberate then as she rose, languorous, each one designed to entice the naked Wolf who fondled himself on the bed.

She did not so much as glance over her shoulder as she worked; she knew he watched her with indomitable focus. His Hal'la angled her body to him, gave him mostly her back, but a small glimpse of her profile, so that as she crossed her arms over her chest and took hold of the hem of her tunic, as she pulled it with infuriating patience up her torso, he was granted an intoxicating view of her sinuous muscles moving beneath her alabaster skin, just a hint of the side sweep of her breasts. And then she unclasped the band that bound her.

Fen'Harel let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. They'd grown, those pert, perfect breasts of hers. It had not been apparent in their trysts in the Fade, but here in the flesh they were...

"Magnificent."

Her cheeks went a dusky rose at the compliment, her full lips twitching upward at the corners. The color crept along her skin, moving toward the ripened red of the points of her ears that declared to the elven world she carried a child.

Except that they were gone.

Her ears sloped to pretty points as they always had, but that sweet hint of dark pink that made his heart swell with anxiety and pride had completely disappeared.

Chapter Text

"...Hal'la..."

The worry in his tone turned her to him, her expression an immediate mirror of his own. If he had not been otherwise occupied, he would have been very pleased indeed at the sight of her bare chest already peaking for him without so much as a touch. But the only soft skin he could see now was the pale white of her ears.

"Do you feel well?" he demanded, sitting up fully, his erection abandoned. He reached out a hand to beckon her to him and she took it, joining him in only her breeches. She knelt beside him on the bed and he immediately fingered the sleek lines of her ears, the sensitive tips that only hours, only a world before had filled him with hope instead of dread.

"I'm tired," she admitted, confusion mixed with worry. "Very tired. And I hate that no one here knows me, that everyone thinks..." She closed her eyes and shook her head. When she was collected, she met his gaze again, questioning. "I feel fine. Why, ma lath? What's wrong?"

"Your ears..." He leaned forward to kiss each point, his features creased with his fear. "Vhenan, they are...white."

"No," Hal'lasean replied, and slid from the bed again to search out a mirror. When she found one -- the very same his counterpart had used to show her Evin's face -- she stared at her ears in shock. "That's impossible. They've been red for nearly a month!"

"Perhaps we should seek a healer."

"But I feel fine!" she protested. When she turned her attention from the mirror to him, her teal eyes were brimming with tears. "I feel fine, Fen'Harel! Wouldn't I...wouldn't I know if something was wrong?"

Fen'Harel took his feet, followed her to the vanity so he could wrap her in his arms, so he could clutch her to him and kiss away her fears even as his own hooked sharp claws in his heart. "Would you like me to fetch a healer?"

She stood stiff and still in his arms, her lips pressed to his shoulder. They stayed like that for several long, difficult minutes, calming their breathing, letting their magic reverberate between them, singing in their blood like a shared lullaby.

Their shared magic. Of course!

"Come, vhenan," he coaxed, and led her back to the bed. "Undress and lie down. I will do what I can."

Hal'lasean was numb and silent as she unlaced her breeches and stepped out of them, not bothering to fold them or even pick them up off the floor. This was followed by her smalls, until she climbed across the bed on all fours as he had done earlier, naked as the babe Fen'Harel prayed was still safe within her.

When his lover was settled on her back, cushioned by both pillows, he sat himself beside her, his expression determined, concentrated, as he moved both hands to rest gently on her lower belly.

He had never done anything like this before, but he knew the theory well enough. It was, he presumed, a slightly more delicate maneuvering of the power required for any physical examination. It would be easier because his magic already ran within her, was part of her very marrow, pumped through the chambers of her Fade-touched heart.

Fen'Harel closed his eyes to better see and gently began to probe, little rivulets of energy seeping from his fingertips so that hers rippled in response. Again he ventured into her, and again, adding near-negligible amounts of power to what he already used, until finally, finally, their twinned magics created for him an image that made his very spirit tremble with wonder. There inside the woman he loved, nestled and snugly sheltered in her protective womb, was a miraculous being no bigger than his thumb, already elven-eared. Its precious little heart beat within its translucent chest like a hummingbird and beyond that, beyond flesh, if he reached just into the Veil...a spirit. A wisp, truly. The most beautiful wisp he had ever encountered.

A child. His child.

"Our child," he said, more exhale than words. "He-- she--" He laughed. "Our child is perfect."

When he convinced himself to open his eyes, to extricate his magic from the tiny creature within her, he found the mother of his child weeping soundlessly, her hands pressed over her face.

"Hal'la," and he laughed again because he was relieved and she was so dear, because he had never loved her so much as he did in this moment. "Oh, ma vhenan, ma sa'uthlath, don't cry! Don't cry, sweet halla. You are making us a beautiful child."

Fen'Harel pulled her hands away so she could not hide her face from him and kissed each tear that she wept for their little one, kissed them and her white-tipped ears and the soft pillows of her lips until she finally responded, and then he kissed her breasts, each pale nipple, the small hill where their child grew within her, her thighs, the warm place between them...

This time when he buried himself inside her, it was not the Wolf and the halla but Fen'Harel and Hal'lasean, their bodies, their spirits, their hopes and fears. He made her come until she was too tired and sensitive to come again, and then he fell asleep sheathed inside her so they could begin again in the Fade of this strange world.

Chapter Text

Evin Lavellan's army sprang into action. Not an army of soldiers but quartermasters, suppliers, and armorers. What was she likely to need during her hunt for the Wolf? What had Hal'lasean and Fen'Harel brought with them? For weeks Evin had been the toast of palaces and royal hunting cottages. She hadn't ventured further than the outlying valleys around Skyhold since returning after Corypheus' defeat a few weeks ago.

She decided on a suit of light, almost silky ringmail, a modified and improved Orlesian design. When she donned the vambraces she found them a little loose. She'd lost muscle from lack of exercise—time to rectify that. Her armor, a light compound bow, a staff. The weight of the weapons and quiver of arrows didn't leave much allowance for other supplies. Fortunate the Inquisition already had an outpost in the Forbidden Oasis, one that would know to expect them thanks to a certain message-laden raven.

Evin paused to scan her chamber, searching her memory for everything she'd need. Spare quills? More ink? Her mind felt a little scattered, breathless with the apprehension that she might see him soon. The chances grew steadily larger, the branches ever clearer. She could almost see them without channeling the Mark, the stealthy magic that drew possibility from the Fade.

She was binding up a little packet of message ribbon when she sensed a presence behind her. Evin whipped around—and found Cole standing by the fireplace.

That was a surprise. The pale-haired spirit rarely went out of his way to interact with her—looked almost guilty when she spoke to him, though she'd never discovered why.

"Here to see me off?" she asked.

Cole nodded under his floppy, wide-brimmed hat, blue eyes downcast. He rubbed a little at his nose. "It's not that I don't like you. He doesn't want me to talk to stars. But it hurts so much, I have to tell you. Are you here deciding?"

"Deciding? Yes. I'm deciding what to bring."

"He would want you to wear the necklace."

Evin's fingers froze. The message ribbon began to unravel in her hand. Not long after the first time he'd said he loved her Solas had given her a token. She hadn't thought about it in a while—a memento of something she'd rather forget.

"That's... really none of your business, Cole," she heard herself say. She sounded calm, like it didn't hurt at all.

"Then don't wear it, but bring it with you." The spirit's voice was soft and earnest. "Best is bare against your skin—he couldn't tell you why. The tongue that falters, flounders, feeling fervor, faking flat and formal. The heart isn't closed but too open, pining passion, a reminder like the metal on a string around her neck."

"It's just a pendant with a bit of magic, Cole. Does he still think about it? I don't."

"He gave it for you not to leave behind, frightened, frantic, fingers grasping. Things unknown because unsaid, desiring discipline, willing wordless, a night that echoes, iterates, until it never happened. But you both know it did."

Why was he telling her this? Wasn't he compassion? All of this—all the pangs of memory she couldn't afford to feel. The Arche of Andruil, the vanishing future, securing the help of a powerful being—these were important. Not a necklace.

"Cole—." She stopped.

Shouting wouldn't improve the result. Neither would tears. He was trying to help. It was what he did. She didn't understand why—she hadn't seen anything about the pendant in the branches—but he must have his reasons.

She couldn't remember the last time Cole had asked her to do something.

Cole's solemn blue eyes met hers for just a moment. "I know it's not a small pain. Please decide to bring it."

"I'll think about it," she said.

"Thank you—for talking with me." And Cole glanced once more at the empty fireplace, almost furtively avoiding her gaze, and vanished.

Evin completed the rest of her packing first, thinking about anything except the necklace.

Then she spent time she hadn't allotted rooting through a chest filled with old clothing and boots. She found the necklace where she'd thrown it two months back. A small silvery pendant, a piece of wire cunningly twisted into a symmetric shape like a flower, caught on a silken string. She held it in the palm of her hand, watching the candlelight glint on the edges. She put it in her pocket with a sigh.

Solas had told her never to leave Skyhold without it, but she hadn't always followed this advice. Especially later, when its touch reminded her of his, when she couldn't bear its weight around her neck. It was certainly possible he had concealed something which now worried Cole. It seemed a common pattern of behavior for Fen'Harel.

Thinking about that made her feel a little irritated, but it was time to leave. She had to get ready and wake her guests. Judging by how late it was, this was going to be one of the grumpy branches. Well, she'd let them sleep as long as she could.

A yawning page helped her into her armor. A silk and linen chemise, quilted undershirt, and woven leather leggings. Last came the shirt of light ringmail and a dark gray surcoat over all. Vambraces, archer's glove, a belt wrapped twice around her waist. She knotted her hair in a messy braid and stuck a wooden comb through it. The necklace—that she placed in an inner pocket. No bright colors. Nothing that directly stated Inquisition. If she needed to be recognized she had the Mark. Half the world knew who she was, the Herald of Andraste.

She knelt by the fireplace and lit it with an effort of will, poured water into two small mugs. One steeped Arbor Blessing tea, the other a spoonful of Rivaini herbs. She added a generous dollop of honey to the first. When all was ready she collected a candle and the mugs on a small tray and went downstairs.

It was a door she'd never knocked at before, excepting foresight. Whenever she'd come here in person it had always been at his side.

She rapped and waited a few moments. When the door opened, Fen'Harel grimaced at the scant amount of light in the hallway.

Evin handed him a mug. "No one's in danger, but we need to leave now."

"What? Why?"

She handed him the other mug. This time he glanced down at it. "That one is for Hal'la," she said. "I sent a message to my camp in the Oasis last night. They disturbed the wards outside the Temple of Solasan. It will draw the Wolf's attention, but we have less time than I thought. I'm sorry. We need to leave now or we may miss him."

"You did what?" He was still trying to grasp the situation, but she could see the sleepiness beginning to shake loose. He lifted one of the mugs to his lips and sipped at it—the correct mug, because she'd handed it to him in the correct order.

"Can I bring you anything to help you get ready? Hot water is on its way."

"Hot—then, no. Thank you. I will wake Hal'la."

"I'll wait for you in the Main Hall."

"Stop—" he said, and she did. "Why did you disturb the wards? What are you trying to accomplish?"

"Ask Hal'la," Evin said. And left.

Chapter Text

The moment the door closed and Fen'Harel's sluggish mind caught up with what exactly Evin was demanding of them, he let out an irritated sigh. It would be difficult enough for Hal'lasean to travel and exercise the powers granted her by the orb's magic were they leaving at the agreed upon hour, but to depart even this short time earlier could prove detrimental to her health, to their child's health, to the very stability of his magic in her bones.

Ask Hal'la, she'd said.

Hal'la needed rest! Void take this prescient Inquisitor!

But that was unfair. This was his fault for not finding a way to convince Hal'lasean to stay behind. It was Hal'la's fault for insisting she should accompany him despite her condition. His fault for putting her in that condition. His fault for all her conditions.

His fault, his fault, his fault. Always.

Of course Evin would want to find her Fen'Harel. If the worlds were reversed, he had no doubt in his mind that Hal'lasean would do the same -- though without any kind of foresight there would be no need for leaving immediately. She would have sought him, caught him another way.

Hal'lasean always did have a near-miraculous penchant for creating possibilities where there had been none. Because she was too stubborn to ever admit something was beyond her means.

Fen'Harel turned to study her now, her features pale and serene in sleep, the amused arch of her brows and the constant tilt to her lips relaxed as she waited for him in the Fade. He imagined her in uthenera, walking the changeable Beyond, her physical form interred on a bed of white. He imagined this because to remember her mortality was to remember his own inevitable loss. How could he continue on alone without her?

No. He would imagine her in uthenera. There was a slight quirk to the corners of his lips as he crossed to her side of the bed and set the mugs on the nightstand. He settled lightly on the mattress beside her and brushed silver strands from her forehead. When she didn't so much as murmur or shift, he amused himself by dipping his thumb into her arbor blessing tea and painting her bottom lip with the honeyed water.

What would not he give to slip into the long dream with Hal'lasean's hand in his? What would not he sacrifice for an eternity in her arms?

But she would never allow him to forget his duty. His noble struggle. He could not love her otherwise.

Beneath his touch, her eyelids fluttered, a crease appeared between her full brows. Fen'Harel turned his hand over, the backs of his fingers against her cheek, and bent to taste the tea on her lips.

His vhenan made a soft sound, her mouth meeting his out of some intuitive knowledge that he was the one who kissed her. He let their lips linger together for a moment, enjoying the quiet hum of their magnetic magics at the joining of their mouths, the contented interplay of two energies familiar beyond intimacy, and something beneath it as well, something that drew him to her spirit and body in a way he had never noticed before. A marvelous curiosity that it pleased him to imagine was connected to their child. So he kissed her again.

When he finally sat back up, Fen'Harel found those violet-and-turquoise eyes watching him with a sweetness that sang in his soul.

Hal'lasean gave him a sleep-drunk smile. "Come back to the Fade, ma Fen."

Fen'Harel kissed her again, then her nose, her forehead, one cheekbone, the worrisome pale point of her ear. Beneath his attentions, she gave a quiet, throaty laugh.

"Again?" she asked, but already she reached for him. "But then more sleep. I'm so tired, ma lath."

He could not stop his grin. He kissed her more needfully this time, greeting her parted lips with his wandering tongue. His hand found the side of the blanket and slipped underneath, stealing across supple skin from ribs to opposite hip. Hal'la rolled toward him, her eyes half-lidded with sleep and an awakening lust.

"No, my heart," Fen'Harel sighed. Despite his own sudden willingness to partake, he doubted very much Evin would abide the delay. He certainly didn't enjoy the idea of the other Inquisitor interrupting their lazy lovemaking. "You must wake. We have to leave."

Her disappointment and toddler-like expression of stubborn denial were immediate. "Already? I just went to sleep!"

"I know, ma halla. Ir abelas. Come, sit up. Evin has brought you tea."

Hal'lasean jolted up in bed, letting the covers fall to her waist without thought to her nudity. "Evin is here?"

"She was," Fen'Harel corrected, pushing her mug into her hands. "She left. Drink."

She did as she was told for once, bringing the cup to her lips under her lover's watchful gaze. Hal'la breathed in the scent and let out a happy hum that ceased only when she tipped the liquid down her throat.

"Perfect," she sighed contentedly. "I've been craving this all week. How did she-- oh. Right. She knows everything."

Fen'Harel gave a wry smile at that. "She told me she sent word to the Inquisition camp at the Oasis to disturb the wards at the temple. She suggested I ask you why it is we're leaving early."

"How should I know?" But he could practically see the way her tired mind came to the answer to her own question. Hal'lasean smiled sheepishly. "She said...there was a slight chance we might encounter her Fen'Harel. I said...she deserved happiness. That if anyone could make that chance into a certainty, it would be her. ...I may have mentioned that the Dalish never stop fighting."

He was fond, amused, and exasperated in equal measures. "Vhenan, your consideration and compassion for others is a wonder. Truly. But I do wish you would save at least some of it for yourself! You are exhausted, Hal'lasean."

She sipped coyly at her tea, her eyes twinkling over the top of her cup. "You didn't seem to be so worried about my exhaustion last night."

Fen'Harel made a frustrated noise and tossed his hands in the air in capitulation. He rose sharply and set about the business of dressing himself in his simple earth-toned breeches and tunic. He had only just wriggled inelegantly into his Fade-coated brigandine (much to Hal'lasean's teasing laughter) when the hot water arrived.

When they were both washed and Hal'lasean had dressed in her underthings and rebraided her hair, Fen'Harel helped her into her armor: understated but beautiful pieces of dream-wrapped dragonscale that shimmered iridescent blue-green-purple in the candlelight. There was more caressing than was strictly necessary, but it made the process infinitely more enjoyable and it soothed his anxieties each time he ran fingers over the imperceptible swell of her belly.

Only when his own Fade-and-dragon-webbing robes were in place, his staff strapped to his back, only when Hal'lasean's twin barbed daggers were sheathed behind her shoulders did they take up their packs, snuff the candles, and make their way to the Main Hall.

Evin was already waiting. A serving girl stood beside her with three cloth-wrapped bundles that most likely contained their breakfasts.

"I apologize again for waking you so early," said the Inquisitor, though her tone suggested this was a mere formality. "But it has to be now."

Fen'Harel's expression turned immediately sour. "In the future, I would appreciate some warning when you intend to take action that will affect me or Hal'lasean."

He opened his mouth to say more, but Evin silenced him with a hand. She reached for the cloth bundles and passed them between the three of them, silent and efficient. When the servant no longer carried anything they needed, she said simply, "That will be all. Thank you."

They stood without speaking until no ears but theirs remained to hear their conservation. Then Fen'Harel resumed his displeasure. "It is not an easy thing to open a door between worlds, Inquisitor. She requires rest."

Hal'lasean touched his arm, sought out his gaze. "Ma lath, I'm fine. I'll be fine."

"You came here for my help," said Evin, implacable and stern. As though she might order them about as effortlessly as she did the rest of her world. "If you no longer want it, it's better that you leave. I believe you know the way to the rotunda."

The Wolf inside him snarled and Fen'Harel took a step forward. It was not a menacing gesture, but one to claim space. To claim this space as his. Instead, he found Hal'lasean before him, one hand stilling him with a palm on his chest, the other touching his cheek. It was the most contact she'd allowed them in front of Evin.

"Don't," she murmured, her face beseeching. Her eyes searching his for understanding, for calm. "I'm okay, ma Fen. It's okay."

Only when she was sure of the acceptance in his gaze did Hal'lasean turn to face Evin, conciliatory without surrendering. "We're not members of your Inquisition, Evin, nor are we beholden to you. You wouldn't know to seek him at all without our presence here. We will search out the Arche with or without your help. Ir abelas, but we cannot return home without knowing."

Evin's eyes darkened, her visage becoming determined but grim. "Things have changed. I’ve seen more -- a lot more. We need him. We can’t do this without him. And we have to go now."

Both he and Hal'lasean went still as realization took form within them. Their shared magic gave Fen'Harel the unique perspective of their hearts skipping beats as one, of their sudden dread, the hollowing out of their other emotions.

"What have you seen." He was too filled with horror to make it a true question.

Evin met his gaze, unflinching, unapologetic. Desperate.

"The spear is gone."

Chapter Text

"Gone? Are you certain?" Fen'Harel asked. He pulled the other Inquisitor's hand into his own.

"The spear is gone. And we have to leave," Evin Lavellan said. "Please listen!"

They didn't have time to argue over this. Evin didn't quite understand how Hal'lasean and Fen'Harel intended to traverse so much distance in so short a time. She only knew they could. They had the ability and they would use it. They could get her to the Forbidden Oasis before the sun rose. There her path would overlap with Solas'... her Fen'Harel. And then the real contest would begin.

Evin gazed at them, trying to determine which path they'd choose. She could only shape events so far—individual thought and will, random chance, would drive the rest. When she'd offered to escort them back to the rotunda to return to their own world she'd been quite serious. She could not let them wander without her guidance. Two Dread Wolves loose in the same world—one had generated chaos enough already! She shuddered to imagine what new calamity would arise from the presence of this Inquisitor and her Wolf from another world. Best intentions mattered nothing. There was no reason for them to go anywhere if they weren't going to help her find her Fen'Harel. She already knew what they'd come here to discover.

"I saw far enough to see inside the Temple," she said. "In every branch, every iteration, Andruil's Spear is gone."

"You could not be mistaken? A trick of some kind?"

"Shall I quote his words to you?" she said. "I didn't understand them. He said, in elvhen, Ar tu desara nev'emma fen'sher ruanis. He will not always say that but he frequently did."

"I don't quite—" Hal'la tried. "Would you translate, ma fen?"

"'The bitch goddess of disaster has a hard-on for me.' Or close to it," Fen'Harel said. "If the Spear is also gone in this world that means it has certainly been used by someone or something. You are right. We should go."

Her guests appeared surprised when she led them into the hallway to Skyhold's garden. They evidently kept their eluvian elsewhere—she supposed Hal'lasean must have one too.

She only recalled so much from the other Inquisitor's life. The unfamiliar branches concealed little, but she'd barely more than glanced through them when Hal'la had taken her hand. In comparison the broad outlines of Evin's life held little mystery for her—at least, that had been true before Corypheus was destroyed. She hadn't wanted to reexamine her future in the weeks since.

Evin unwrapped her breakfast as they walked. She chewed and swallowed the small meal of nuts and dried fruit. She had a little more food in her pack, enough to last several days if need be, though she didn't think that would be necessary. Water was more important where they were going.

She was glad the two had seen the wisdom of her plan.

A page met them outside the door to the eluvian's chamber. Evin greeted her and accepted two water flasks, shrugging them over her shoulder. Evin motioned the page to hand over the rest of the water flasks, then dismissed the girl to her other duties.

"We'll have to do some walking," Evin said. "Not much, but some. We should bring more water."

Displeasure flashed across Fen'Harel's face. "I have no intention of taking Hal'la on a walkabout to satisfy your timetable. Not without an explanation."

"He's very protective," Evin said to Hal'la.

"He is," the other Inquisitor said, "but you see, there's no need for much hiking. When I open the portal to the Fade, we can exit at the Oasis. Wherever you need."

The idea of the portal was familiar to Evin, though she didn't understand it—hadn't quite seen how it worked. Still, she nodded. "A useful gift—amazing, even. But we can't exit at the Oasis." She paused to dredge the terminology from her memory. "The latent harmonic of the Veil alters with any attempt to override its cohesive strength."

"That is correct," Fen'Harel said slowly.

"Which means your counterpart would sense our presence."

"I could. I must assume he would as well—"

"There's a monument a few hours' walk away, out in the sands," Evin said. "We can exit there or a few other places. I won't be any help in finding it, I'm afraid. I'm useless in the Fade."

"A clever notion," Fen'Harel said, and he sounded so much like Evin's Solas that her heart clenched in her chest. "I am surprised you're so adept at managing the complexities of the Veil."

"It was your idea," Evin said.

"It... was?"

She laughed a little at his disconcerted expression. "I consulted you quite thoroughly—in a different branch. Maker, isn't it funny to discuss these things aloud? Shall we go?"

"I still dislike the idea of taking Hal'la on a hike through the desert," Fen'Harel said. "She is already tired—and it's summer. Is this really necessary?"

"It's only the Arche of Andruil," Evin said. "Why don't you tell me?"

Fen'Harel scowled—and Evin handed him three water flasks. He accepted them in silence.

"Ma fen, I can manage," Hal'la said. "The Dalish don't mind a little walking."

"It will be night when we arrive. The danger is more from cold than heat. Walking will keep us warm," Evin said, recalling images of what they would encounter. She shouldered a third water flask and handed the last one to Hal'la. "You should have this just in case."

"Thank you," she said.

Fen'Harel sighed. He opened the door to the eluvian chamber and they all filed inside. "I am not certain I like the idea of your discussing matters with some other, hypothetical, version of me. Do not just assume I will accept your guidance without any explanation."

"That's what we're discussing right now, isn't it?" Evin asked. "Why don't you tell me more about how much you dislike it once we're in the Crossroads?"

He met her gaze—a bit churlish, she thought—and she smiled back. The distant smile she reserved for people who were going to do what she wanted.

And he did.

The tall, arched shape of the eluvian rested at the very end of the long, narrow room, blocking off two windows that looked out onto deep night. Fen'Harel stirred the eluvian to wakefulness. Its magic flickered and came alive, flooding the room with cold beauty. Fen'Harel took Hal'lasean's hand. Together they crossed the threshold and disappeared. They didn't look back.

Evin stared at the swirling chaos of the seeing-glass, the azure lines like cold and liquid fire captured in a pane. She felt images, faces, impressions in the mirror. Her voice, and not her voice, and voices of people she'd never met. The flickering green of the Anchor in a thousand different hands.

She took a deep breath, held it, and plunged into the Mirror.

Chapter Text

When Evin Lavellan emerged from the eluvian her boot crunched on broken glass. She blinked at the change in light, the brilliant sunny spectacle of the Crossroads in high summer. She looked down and stepped carefully to avoid bits of mirror. She paused to adjust her burden—pack, weapons, and water flasks—then joined Hal'la and Fen'Harel beneath the branches of some sort of metallic antler tree.

The sunlight—the soft music—and so many steps closer to her goal. She felt a little giddy.

"I'll give this to the ancients, they had unique preferences in art," she said.

"It's called a mirth'ariel," Fen'Harel said shortly.

"Do you know where we're going?" Evin asked. "The eluvian nearest the Oasis?"

"Is that a genuine question or sarcasm?" Fen'Harel asked.

"I wondered if you were planning to lead us," Hal'la said, not quite laughing. "So there really are things you don't know."

"I hope there always will be," Evin said. "I told you—I'm useless in the Fade. And this is close enough. If you have any stunning revelations or humorous jokes, this is probably the ideal place to tell them. I can't guess what you'll say."

"Interesting," Hal'la said. And didn't quite exchange an devious glance with her mate.

"Maker," Evin said under her breath.

Fen'Harel gestured at a seeing-glass, barely visible in the receding mist, almost hidden behind the verdant foliage of deciduous trees and trailing, flowering vines. "The fastest way is the internal nexus. Assuming it's in working order."

"I have no way of knowing," Evin said.

"If we are fortunate, someone may have repaired it," he replied. "Since I lack omniscience, I suppose we will have to walk there and check it for ourselves."

Evin read the unspoken name behind his 'someone'—an individual whose initials were 'F.H.'—or perhaps 'D.W.'—but who ought to sign his correspondence 'S.A.'—for 'smart ass'. She was certain she would have noticed if hers was this irritating.

The pair started off in the direction he'd indicated, and Evin stared after them for a moment, then hurried to catch up. Her gear rustled as she ran.

"All right," she said when she reached them. "I apologize. I was a little heavy-handed. It's because I'm worried. And I'm used to doing everything on my own—"

"A little heavy-handed?" Hal'lasean prompted.

Evin continued with her peace-offering—her attempt to propitiate them so they wouldn't punish her too harshly while they were here. "You're the first people I've ever talked to about what I do. Knowledge of the future has always been too dangerous to share. The night when we swapped was the first time I told anyone. I'm not accustomed to explaining myself."

"You just want us to obey," Fen'Harel said, and briefly lifted his gaze to meet hers.

"No!" Evin exclaimed. "Never. I want what's best for everyone. If it's in my power to achieve, I'll do everything I can to see it happen. But I can't force anyone—"

"You make decisions without consulting us," he said in a grating tone, "decisions which might very well impact our world, not just your own. And you threaten to withdraw your help when we object. This is the attitude of an autocrat, not an ally."

Some of the giddiness fled—Evin felt a little cold. "Ir abelas. It honestly didn't occur to me to ask you first. I'm used to acting on my own. To have this knowledge and not use it—. You don't know how frustrating it is to see people throw away their best chances out of ignorance."

"Perhaps a little better than you think," Fen'Harel said thoughtfully.

"The best cure for ignorance is usually the truth," Hal'la said.

"Maybe you're right," Evin said. That strange night—hadn't she decided to tell him? Hadn't she decided that was the best course, that if she loved him she owed him honesty? If only she hadn't forgotten. If only it wasn't too late. "It seems I wasn't the only one with secrets."

"And now you know—and he knows, because he remembers what I told him that night," Hal'la said. "You just have to tell each other."

Evin thought of those branches—the ones in the Temple—and suddenly felt unwell.

"It would be nice if things were that easy," she said.

They walked along in silence, and when they reached the eluvian Fen'Harel activated it.

"I see we are not the first," he said.

The Dread Wolf had been there before them.

There were tracks on the mosaic of the walking path—charred prints of some great beast. A wolf of such enormous size Evin could hardly imagine the creature could exist. The impression of four toes, each as large as her fist, and claws that scratched gouges deep into the rock. The marks themselves were black with soot as though a terrible heat had singed the stonework. Single tracked, rear prints overlapping the front ones, the sign of a true wolf.

Bringer of Nightmares, she thought, and her heart began to pound.

"These marks are fresh," Fen'Harel said. "The Crossroads will not preserve them long."

"He's already on the move," Evin said. And in a hurry, she thought.

"Are we too late?" Hal'lasean asked.

Evin shrugged—helpless to tell her. "There are no changes since we came here. We exit the Crossroads—Hal'la's portal—everything's the same. We have to keep to the same path. Please."

She gazed at them—trying to will them to understand—and Hal'la nodded. "All right. Let's go."

They crossed through the eluvian into a different part of the Crossroads, still misty beneath the summer sun, with the paths crowded with overblooming hellebore and forsythia. They walked until they reached another eluvian, but the glass was shattered and they'd left behind the wolf prints long ago.

Evin and Hal'la stopped to rest. Fen'Harel mentioned something about the repairs he intended to make, and Evin found a place to sit a little ways from them—feeling very much alone. Suddenly the idea that Solas—her Solas—was the Dread Wolf was no longer just a distant figment or some far-fetched, cosmic joke. No, it had become very real, more real than even the notion this elvhen man called Fen'Harel was the same being. Evin recalled the images she'd seen in Hal'la's life, the snatches of memory, but they hadn't felt the same. Nothing had the impact of seeing those tracks on the stone.

What in the name of the abyss was she attempting?

Harden your heart to a cutting edge, he'd told her in one of the branches. Put that pain to good use.

What if he'd been right to leave her? What if he'd been right all along?

This was—absurd. Her life was absurd. She didn't exist. It was all a joke. And she still had to go through with it.

A little while later, Fen'Harel called them over. They entered the eluvian again, and this time they exited in the physical world. The comforting magic of the Crossroads disappeared. They stood within a cave, the air dry as bone, the ceiling supported by ancient elvhen arches, the floor a soft carpet of sand. There was no sign anyone had disturbed this place in a score of ages.

Hal'la stepped a pace or two forward into the cave. She lifted her hand—such a casual thing—and sliced into the Veil.

It was time to enter the Fade.

Chapter Text

Hal'lasean tucked her arms beneath her chest once the door she opened disappeared behind them. Her hands she hid under her elbows, caught safely against her ribs. It would keep Fen'Harel from noticing how her Anchored hand shook, though he would no doubt notice the way the magic within her was spasming.

And he did. He was staring at her with dark concern, made worse by the fact that she tried to pretend nothing was wrong.

"Your pack," he demanded, and held out his hand expectantly.

She blushed, hesitated defiantly, but a wave of nausea manifested in the Fade in a rippling of green sparks. Hal avoided Evin's penetrating gaze as she unstrapped her daggers so she could slide her bedroll and supplies from her back.

"I'm fine," she insisted, but without much commitment. Because she wasn't. This level of exhaustion hadn't happened since they first began to explore the possibilities of the orb's magic within her. If its energy was a muscle, that muscle was sorely overtaxed.

Fen'Harel stepped forward to take her things and paused within kissing distance, attempting to pierce into her with those sharp slate eyes beneath their furrowed brow.

"I'm fine," she tried again, defeated this time, and finally met his gaze so he would see she meant it. Hal didn't particularly relish the idea of being vulnerable in front of someone as imposing and efficient as Evin, was too proud a halla to allow injury before the star, but if that was what it took to calm the Wolf... "I'm tired, that's all. I promise, I'll tell you if it's something I can't handle."

He studied her momentarily until whatever he saw satisfied him, and though Evin was there with them in the eerie emerald Fadelight, Fen'Harel leaned in to kiss her hair and touch her cheek. But it was brief, and soon he was rummaging in the pocket of his robe to produce some of the dried fruit they'd been given for breakfast. "Eat."

Hal pointedly bit into an apricot to appease her Wolf, and with a final brushing of his fingers along her face, he turned away to take the lead, both his pack and hers now shouldered. It trapped his staff in place behind him, but he rarely needed it these days. Rarely required it since Mythal.

Fen'Harel took the lead, a natural fit for him in this place, his place, and when Hal looked up to follow she found herself the object of one of Evin's more focused gazes. She felt her cheeks heat again.

"Hal'la," the other Inquisitor began, "I really am sorry for waking you so soon. I let you sleep as long as time allowed." This was an overture. Another attempt to smooth things over because Evin wanted something from her.

"I'm sure you did." Hal restrapped her daggers and flexed her Marked hand a few times before finally trudging after her Wolf. "Whatever it is you want, Evin, you can just ask me. I can't think of a single thing I wouldn't be willing to tell you if you just ask." She sighed then. Because it wasn’t as though Evin hadn’t meant what she said. Even if it did have an ulterior motive. "Ir abelas. I don't mean to be short. I'm just tired. I do think you let us rest as long as you could."

Evin fell in step beside her, frowning at Fen'Harel's back in thought. "You're not a mage."

"Is that a question?"

"An observation," said Evin. "This power of yours. Does it always affect you like this?"

"No," Hal'lasean sighed, turning her frustration inward. "Maybe in the very beginning, but no. I use it all the time now. It doesn't do this anymore. But opening the door from our world to yours..."

She shivered at the memory, at the frigid fire that tore through her as she channeled her magic and Fen'Harel shaped it. At the intensity of relief when the portal she'd made into the Fade above the rotunda shifted and morphed until they were looking at a near-perfect replica of the very room in which they stood. Fen'Harel had been so distraught over causing her pain.

"Normally it doesn't cost much at all to make paths through the Fade like this," Hal continued wearily. "Truthfully, I play with it more than I actually need to use it. That's how simple it is."

"You do this often?"

"Often enough. Mostly in the courtyard, after the troops have finished their drills. Dorian and I--" Maybe she should clarify. "My Dorian and I try to push my boundaries a little every day." She didn't add that it was because they were sure that one day trying to use her power to unlock the prison that held the Elvhen Pantheon might very well kill her otherwise.

Evin was quiet a moment, maybe considering what Hal had said, but more than likely deciding on the best way to get whatever information she was clearly after.

Hal sighed again. "Evin. Just ask."

"Is this why we switched?" Evin was watching her very closely now, even as they picked their way over craggy rocks and shifting Fade sands. "Is this ability the reason--is this how the rift opened in the library?"

Hal'lasean laughed, but it wasn't a particularly pleased or kind one. Because, no. No, she was not responsible for that. "I didn't even have this then. That one's on your Solas." And because she was tired and they walked through the changing landscape of dreams, she couldn't quite keep the hurt and bitterness from her voice. "He activated--"

"Yes," said Evin, with a bleak finality that would allow for no further discussion on the subject. "I know."

So apparently that particular night of lovemaking was a sore spot for both Evin and her Fen'Harel. There had never once been an unhappy moment of intimacy between Hal’lasean and her Wolf, not even the bittersweet anguish of what they had thought their last coupling, of that brutal but beautiful morning after she relinquished her vallaslin. And so Hal felt for Evin, ached for this other woman and her pain.

It wasn’t Evin’s fault Hal was struggling to keep her feet. And she had promised herself to reach out...

"Best I could figure, that was it. I don't know why it was me and not some other...Inquisitor." And Hal'lasean laughed because the very idea was absurd, but to be discussing it like this, out loud, so blithely... "Maybe our worlds are neighbors. But it wasn't this power."

Well. That wasn't strictly true.

"At least, it wasn't the part of this power I wield."

Evin invested then, her eyes intense on the side of Hal's face. "Then this power is something you acquired after we switched."

Up ahead, a spirit had joined their trek, a formless creature that soon chose to present itself to Fen'Harel as a bent-backed old dwarf woman. They were engaged in an equally serious conversation, but occasionally he would glance back to check in with Hal'lasean, and each time she offered a small smile.

After this most recent silent exchange of assurances with her lover, Hal gathered her strength and turned finally to meet Evin's keen violet eyes. "Why don't I just tell you what happened."

And Evin smiled in surprise. "Please. That would be ideal."

It was charming. Unguarded. Present. Hal very nearly smiled back. Instead, she took a deep, fortifying breath...and began.

"Right. You already know I'm no mage. And that I drank from the Well. The short version is...I was Mythal's vassal when the orb, the foci, whatever you want to call it...when it broke. And I absorbed the magic inside it. All of it. It would have killed me. It should have killed me. I should have died in the wreckage of the Temple of Sacred Ashes with Corypheus that day. But Mythal saved me."

Evin stopped short, her eyes going wide. But neither Fen'Harel nor Hal'lasean paused in their pace, so the other Inquisitor hurried to catch up. "You absorbed the orb? You took in its power? How? Why could I--I never saw that. How did it happen?"

"I have been considering that since we arrived and realized you carried only the Anchor," said Fen'Harel.

He fell back to walk beside them, moving backwards for a few steps so he could smooth a few stray strands of hair back from Hal's face and search her eyes for signs that she was worse than when they'd begun walking. The spirit with whom he had been conversing shifted again, becoming a fat nug, and wandered with them.

"I cannot say yet with any authority why Hal'la attracted the energy from the orb and you did not. In truth, I did not even feel the power move into her. I thought it gone, returned to its source in the Fade." He slipped his fingers between Hal's and carefully did not look at either woman. "Had I known, I would not have left."

Hal squeezed his hand to remind him of her love.

Fen'Harel took a breath, redirected. "I have two theories. The first is that because Hal'lasean had no magic but the orb's match in the Mark, the freed energy treated her as though she were the foci. Magic split from itself will always attract to its source. With none of her own to protect her, she was an ideal conduit for the magic's rejoining.” He frowned rather severely, and Hal wondered if Evin could read his guilt with the same ease she could. “I sundered it from myself long ago and the Mark is...raw. A part of what I gave up when I made the foci; a newer sibling. I should have known it would be drawn to her."

"Your second theory?" asked Evin.

"Mythal," and Hal laughed again, a little darkly. "Always Mythal."

"Mythal?" echoed Evin.

Fen'Harel hesitated, collected himself. "It was Mythal who noticed what I did not when the orb's magic went into Hal'lasean. It was she too who warded my errant magic inside Hal'la's dreams in the Fade to protect her from it. And then I..."

Hal'lasean stepped closer to Fen'Harel, slipped her arm around his waist and pulled him against her despite the awkwardness of his two packs. He averted his face from her vision, turned instead to look at the spirit nug snuffling along beside them. "Ma Fen," was all she said, all she needed to say.

"It is only for Mythal that Hal'lasean lives now," he told the spirit, his throat tight. "It is only by the All-Mother's blessing I was able to recover her from my own folly."

Hal tightened her hold on his waist. "Mythal put what remained of her power in this-- in our world into a ward that would keep the magic -- and my spirit -- locked safely in my dream to spare my body until Fen'Harel could return to keep it from consuming me." She hesitated, glancing worriedly at her lover and then back with thinned lips at her counterpart in Evin. She could coax Fen'Harel from his guilt later. For now, perhaps she could ease some of Evin’s pain. "That is the only reason mine returned. And he only stayed because Mythal set a trap for him. He stayed because she made me into the orb. Into his foci. So the second theory is...that Mythal is the reason I took in the power in the first place."

Beside her, Fen’Harel’s magic ached with his remorse.

Chapter Text

They walked on in silence then, Fen'Harel tense and distant even as she pulled him close. And here in the Fade, where everything was more immediate, each feeling and surge of magic more pronounced, Hal'lasean felt his half of their power twisting in knots inside him. Any other day, she might have been able to soothe him by reaching out to his magic with hers, to calm her own energy and let it ease his self-loathing. But she wasn't sure she had even that much finesse in her at the moment, and everything she had she needed to save for the next portal and whatever else they might need of her. The best Hal could do was to lean against him a little as they walked. His hand found hers where it hooked to his hip, his fingers intertwining there. His way of assuring her he would be all right.

Hal glanced at Evin in apology. Because each affectionate exchange between them in front of the other woman left Hal'lasean feeling cruel and callous. But there was nothing else for it. Hal pushed her cheek to Fen'Harel's arm so that she could whisper and have him hear her and maybe, maybe, if the Fade were kind, Evin wouldn't have to know what passed between the two lovers. "Tel'lasa abelas mala sulevin. Ar dirthen tel'glandivala ghilas."

He missed a step, caught himself, continued on as though nothing at all had been said. These were words she had asked him to translate for her, to teach her to pronounce so she could repeat them to him when he needed to hear them.

Do not regret your purpose. I know you did not wish to leave.

His magic slowly untangled, joined in a quiet humming harmony with her own. And though they didn't quite look at one another, they shared a small, secret smile.

"Ar lath ma," he murmured, turning to brush his lips against the tip of her ear.

Hal grinned. "As you should, my Wolf."

And then he was grinning too. "A na nadas."

Silence fell again, but an easier one, at least for the two of them; a happier, lighter one. Except that Hal couldn't quite stop checking in on Evin with worry and contrition in her eyes, even though she thought of nothing at all helpful or worthwhile to say to make amends.

Hal'lasean hoped fervently and quite selfishly that whatever Evin had planned for her Fen'Harel was successful. She wanted the other Inquisitor to be happy, yes, but she also wanted to enjoy what little time she had with her lover in the physical world before he returned to the field and she to her Skyhold.

It was Evin who broke their new quiet, if perhaps a little desperately. "I searched the branches for months before I decided not to drink from Mythal's Well and never saw any such future." Her lips twisted thoughtfully as she considered her next words. "Maybe it wasn't possible here, in my world. There are other differences. Why not this?"

Excellent! An academic problem would do everyone some good. Hal still leaned against her Wolf (in part because she was so very tired) but let her hand slide from his waist to hold his hand between them.

"It is a distinct possibility," Fen'Harel replied. "I imagine even an immortal could spend a lifetime studying such things and still discover only a modicum of how these worlds diverge from one another."

"So it isn't just choice?" Hal asked. "It's the governing rules of each world as well?"

"Presumably," said Fen'Harel. His hand squeezed hers, but he otherwise did not so much as glance at Hal. He was about to attempt something and he wanted her participation. "It was quite shocking to see The Iron Bull in this world."

Hal'lasean allowed herself a mask of perfect earnestness, even though she was witless of Fen'Harel's scheme. If Evin looked at her, she'd see only that Hal knew what her Wolf meant and agreed.

"What was shocking about The Bull?" Evin asked. Baited. Now to set the hook, whatever it was.

Fen'Harel looked at the other Inquisitor as though it should be obvious. "In our world, The Iron Bull is a woman."

It was everything Hal could do not to laugh. When she looked up at Fen'Harel, his eyes were sparkling with mischief.

"The Iron Bull?" Evin echoed. "A woman?"

"Yes," affirmed the Trickster. "A rather unsightly one at that."

Evin stared, the slow churning of her mind an almost tangible thing as she tried to wrap her thoughts around The Bull with breasts. Hal had to admit she was having similar but hilarious difficulty with the idea. His chest was already massive. What would he -- she -- look like with...?

Hal'lasean determined not to let her thoughts drift that way. It was too bizarre. Fen'Harel's magic tickled against her own like laughter.

"That is quite a change," Evin said finally. "No wonder you were so intrigued by him."

Fen'Harel's magic was no longer dancing quite so delightedly. Hal gave Evin a wicked grin.

"Let's just say that our Bull has quite the reputation with the red haired members of the Inquisition and I had never before really considered the possibility." She turned her amusement to Fen'Harel. "Until last night."

"Cruel heart," Fen'Harel huffed, detaching himself from her. But he played with her still, letting his half of their magic sneak out to goose her side or ass each time she let down her guard.

Well. Two could play at this game.

"Evin, were there any branches in which I spent the night with Bull?"

Fen'Harel's energy flared and Hal smirked triumphantly.

"Are you sure you want to know?" Evin asked.

Hal's eyes went wide, her cheeks red. "What! You mean there really were?!"

Evin grinned broadly. And then both Hal and Fen'Harel were laughing.

"But shouldn't your Bull be called...The Iron Heifer?" wondered Evin.

Hal's laughter cut off instantly and Fen'Harel followed her lead, both of them staring at Evin with the kind of seriousness that only comes before a life or death warning. "Oh, don't ever say that to her. That's how Sera lost her ears."

"Though I think Sera prefers it that way," said Fen'Harel.

Now Evin looked truly confused. "Sera? Who is Sera?"

Both the Wolf and his mate stopped walking. They shared a look -- one of genuine shock -- and then offered their surprise to Evin.

"Sera," repeated Hal. "Don't you know Sera? City elf. Short blonde hair, archer. Talks like she has her mouth full? Sometimes talks with her mouth full? Is an elf, hates the elves?" When Evin still didn't recognize her description, Hal reached for something more general. "Friend of Red Jenny?"

Evin laughed. "Oh! Her!" Her expression shifted then to disbelieving. Possibly even a little judgmental. "Lavellan never worked with the Jennies, not when we had a choice. I didn't ask her to join the Inquisition."

Something Evin had said to her the night before took focus, claimed Hal's attention: That isn't what Lavellans are in this world.

What did that even mean? And what business could a clan possibly have with the Jennies? A troublesome lord, perhaps, like Wycombe...

"She's with yours?" asked Evin, and Hal looked up with confusion.

Who's with what? Oh. Sera. Right.

Hal'lasean blushed and ducked her head, a gesture of how she felt about having asked Sera to join her Inquisition.

"Unfortunately," said Fen'Harel.

Hal sighed. "She'd be long gone from mine, but I can't risk the Friends of Red Jenny disrupting supply lines for spite. And I keep hoping she'll change, which is probably foolish."

"If your timeline is similar to ours," mused Fen'Harel to Evin, "you made that choice before Redcliffe. Without your foresight. A wise move." Hal shot him a look and he smiled. "You have proven me wrong on many occasions, ma lath, but not on this one."

They began to move forward again, the three of them abreast with an arm's width between each of them, the fat nug spirit tromping joyfully alongside.

"What of the rest of your companions?" Evin wondered. "Did you notice any other differences? For instance, what of Varric?"

"Just the same," said Hal.

"Though his beard seems to have migrated to his chest," added Fen'Harel.

Evin goggled and laughed. "Josie?"

"Formidable as ever." Hal widened her eyes innocently. "Are she and Cassandra lovers in your world too?"

"Lovers!" cried Evin.

"And then of course there's Cole."

"Cole?" But it was the Wolf who was surprised now, studying Hal to decide if she still played their game. But she didn't. Not for this.

"He's a spirit here," said Hal. "He wears the Rivaini pendant."

There was no trace now of that laughter in Evin's eyes, only confusion, uncertainty. "What is Cole in your world?"

"Cole is becoming...something unique. Human." Fen'Harel's expression turned thoughtful, the corners of his lips twisting down. "It has been fascinating to witness. An event I had never thought to see for myself."

"Human?" echoed Evin. "How--" But she stopped herself, shook her head. "What about the others? Dorian? Blackwall?"

"Blackwall," repeated Fen'Harel grimly.

Hal rolled her eyes. "I didn't meet Blackwall in this world. But if yours is anything like ours...he presented himself as a famed dancer from Orlais, a shem style called 'ballet'--"

"A dancer?" Evin laughed incredulously.

Fen'Harel frowned at her. "Of course. Is he not here?"

"Hardly! He pretended to be a Grey Warden, though it turned out he was a criminal, a mercenary, and an imposter."

"Same," Hal lamented. She carefully did not look at Fen'Harel, whose practiced solemnity in this game would no doubt make her grin. "Except dancer instead of Grey Warden."

"Mm," said Fen'Harel. "In retrospect, perhaps we should have asked him to audition."

Evin was gaping now, eyes round, just the hint of laughter in her bright gaze and quirked mouth. They had pushed too close to absurdity and the blinded seer was beginning to suspect.

"Ma vhenan," Fen'Harel said lightly, casually, his blue-grey eyes twinkling with mirth. "I imagine we must be nearing the monument. Are you strong enough to check our progress?"

"Strong enough?" repeated Hal, pushing her chest out with bravado. "Always!" But she deflated and stepped just ahead of the group. "The question is...am I too tired?"

She tested the Anchor in her hand, flexing her palm, flaring a worryingly erratic green power, and was momentarily startled when Evin's sparked behind her.

The other Inquisitor let out a yelp and Hal turned around to blush and grin. "Sorry. I guess we should warn each other. Well, you'll have to warn me anyway. And I'll warn you in the Fade."

"Hal'la," murmured Fen'Harel, his hand moving to the back of her neck so he could connect skin to skin. His magic poured through her from that touch, as steadying and filling and invigorating as any night spent lost in the pleasure of one another's bodies. In some ways, it was even more intimate.

Of course, it was still all his magic. So this was a little something like masturbation.

Hal's grin grew and he playfully flicked the point of her ear. "Do I want to know?" he asked, his tone suggesting he didn't.

"I'll tell you later," she said, and lifted her hand again.

With his imposing magical presence there to anchor the Anchor, it was only a little extra effort for Hal to pull the Veil aside in a thick layer like opening the heavy drapes in her quarters. A little extra effort, like returning weary from the field and still needing to climb all those infernal stairs to her bed, her legs shaking with every step.

But the moon -- the real moon -- poured light into the Fade through the closed window she'd coaxed from the Veil, dappling soft green with pale silver for an effect that was not unlike the Crossroads. An in-between place.

It was how she imagined Elvhenan.

"I see the monument over the next ridge," said Fen'Harel, leaning over Hal with a deep frown of concentration. "We're still some miles off."

Evin stepped past them both, her eyes narrowed. But instead of peering through the thin-wrought Veil to the world outside, she was studying the window.

"You can touch it if you want," offered Hal. Wording her companions would have enjoyed, were they with her. Hal's heart twinged.

Evin glanced for permission to Fen'Harel, though Hal couldn't blame her. A nonmagical hunter who seemingly stumbled from one accidental power to another was hardly the final word in a situation like theirs. The ancient Elvhen Fadewalker, on the other hand...

"Be careful," Fen'Harel advised Evin. He reinforced the magic he sank into Hal'lasean to help her maintain focus. "The Veil will respond to your Anchor as well -- perhaps more willingly as this is your world -- and it's already sensitive there. It will be easy for you to tear through it."

The Veil of the window looked crystalline as Lyrium, hard and cool as stained glass. But when Evin reached out with the tentative, testing fingertips of her right hand, it gave beneath her touch, stretched like flesh. Translucent emerald flesh. Evin let out a surprised, delighted laugh.

"This was the orb's purpose," Fen'Harel said softly. "Not to rend or rip the Veil, but to court it, to speak to it."

"That's me," said Hal brightly. "Hal'lasean Veil-Wooer."

"It's fascinating. I've never seen anything like it." Evin pressed a little more firmly until the non-substance of the Veil began to let her fingers sink into it like a Fereldan pudding.

Evin retrieved her hand carefully, surgically, her eyes bright as she turned back to face them. "Is this--is this something I can do as well?"

"Presumably," said Fen'Harel. "With someone to teach you theory and much patience and practice. Though you will no doubt always lack some control and finesse without the entirety of the orb's power."

This. This was the moment Hal had been waiting for. She could feel it in her marrow as surely as the Dread Wolf's magic.

Hal'lasean gave Evin a salacious half-smirk. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

Fen'Harel groaned. "You're no better than The Bull."

Chapter Text

The brilliant green edges of Hal'lasean's gap in the world closed up behind them like a vanishing door. Fen'Harel steadied his Inquisitor with a solicitous hand. Evin Lavellan turned her back on them and strode forward into the desert.

For Evin, stepping into the real world was like returning to a vale of choice and possibility. Instead of infinite scope and bewildering chaos there were clear, straight lines to walk. Her inner sight was no longer blinded by the Fade's limitless diversity. But it also meant resuming the burden of acting according to her foresight—a weapon only she could wield, therefore she must.

The night air was cool against her face, though she felt a little feverish from lack of sleep. A bare trace of moisture on the wind, perhaps from the Oasis up ahead, and the sound of sands shifting beneath its subtle touch. A sliver of moon ate up the stars, but she could tell the hour was acceptable. Their distance from the Temple of Solasan was correct.

Her heart thudded with anticipation, her nerves contracted with the elation of growing certainty. They were still on schedule. The glimpses she caught in the branches told her so. In more and more of them she saw herself meet with her world's Fen'Harel, all within the next few hours. By the time the sun rose like a burning amber disc above the rim of the Oasis she might be there. Waiting to tell him exactly how much she needed his help.

Evin glanced back at her companions—the Inquisitor from an adjacent world and her Dread Wolf. They stood quite near each other as usual, a relationship Evin didn't comprehend. What was it about this woman Fen'Harel loved so dearly? It wasn't just the Orb, the power Hal'la carried. It wasn't just the unborn child. Though surely all these things played a role, it was more than that. And every time they touched each other it stabbed at Evin like a poison, a physical sickness that began to eat her from within.

It was hard to even look at them.

In the Fade she'd been distracted by the bizarre stories of their world. She couldn't imagine half the things they'd said. A Red Jenny, recruited into the Inquisition? There was trouble for a start. Josie and Cassandra, a couple? Evin found she loved the idea—that two of her friends had found happiness together. Some of the other stories were difficult to fathom. Cole... as a human? Solas had said that was impossible. And what of Blackwall, the imposter-dancer?

Whatever type of dance ballet was, it must be very strange.

That or they were putting her on.

Evin regarded them with sudden suspicion.

"Varric doesn't really have a beard in your world, does he?" she asked. "And Bull... isn't actually a woman."

Hal'la exchanged a look of mischief with her Fen'Harel. "We may have exaggerated. A tiny bit."

"Of course. I would have noticed when we shared the Mark," Evin said. "I caught a glimpse of your life but nothing as strange as that. All that business about Cole becoming human—that never happened either?"

"Actually, that was true," Fen'Harel said.

"Your Cole startled me," Hal'la said. "To see him as a spirit again—it made me feel a little sad."

"Human?" Evin asked. "How is that possible?"

"He chose to become flesh and blood," Fen'Harel said. "It truly did astonish me. Though he seems happy enough."

"Fen'Harel's never going to admit that I might have been right," Hal'la confided, "but he delights in teaching Cole about this life just as much as the rest of us. Maybe more."

"Such peculiar paths our worlds have taken," Evin said wonderingly.

"Evin, what happened with your Cole?" Hal'la asked. "You said he didn't have that choice. Why not? Didn't the choice with the templar happen here?"

"Oh, it happened," Evin said. "Solas and I went with him. I mean, Fen'Harel did. But to become human? I... I don't think that was ever a possibility. Solas told me if Cole hadn't let go of his wrath he would have become a demon."

Hal'la's eyes looked horrified. "And you didn't see any other possibility in the branches?"

Evin made a little grimace. "Anything involving the Fade... it's confusing. Too many possibilities. I can't see them all, and back then I wasn't as skilled."

"So do you think you could show me how you do it?"

Evin shrugged. "Why not? We'll stop to eat something in an hour. We can try then." Evin said it as though she hadn't already checked the branches for the outcome. The words slipped out without her thinking about them. Habit. She sighed. "I mean—we will try. It will be hard for you, but I'll do what I can. There, now you know what I do."

Hal'la laughed. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Evin gazed back at her for a moment, then smiled. There might come a time when it was better for them not to know what would come. When that happened, Evin would hide the future the way she normally did. But for now, for as long as she was able, as long as it didn't worsen the outcome too much, she would try.

Even the truth had a price. One not even Hal'la would always want to pay.

They set off to the north along a much-faded road, little more than a walking path with the occasional trace of a wagon rut. Evin unslung her bow and shot arrows at rocks they passed along the way. She started laughing before Fen'Harel could finish his remark about wasting arrows—in exactly the same tone he had used three years before. In Haven, or the Hinterlands, when the world had been terrifying but much, much simpler.

As long as there was one arrow left, there would always be another. So much for hedge magic—now she was conscious of it.

Evin let them set the pace but kept a close eye on the sinking moon. At one point she led them off the trail and through a narrow gulch. They didn't ask why though she was prepared to explain. Perhaps they were learning, or else Hal'la was too tired to wonder and Fen'Harel too concerned about her to care. She'd been watching for a small, diamond-shaped rock. When she reached it she shot a few more arrows. This time a barking cry exposed a hyena who changed her mind.

Fen'Harel shook his head at this. But after a few more minutes they reached a small abandoned monument, a few carved stones piled one atop the other, and stopped to rest.

"Here?" Fen'Harel asked.

Evin nodded. The sun wouldn't rise for another two hours. "No fire, but we can eat." She rested her staff and bow beside her and rooted through her pack until she found a small, wrapped meal.

"What's for lunch?" Hal'la asked.

Evin passed them buckwheat cakes and a crock of blackberry jam. "You're supposed to drizzle honey over them. But that feels like a waste of honey."

"I think you're both part bumblebee," Fen'Harel said.

"Bumblebees don't produce honey," Hal'la said loftily.

"True—but you consume it."

"There's better food when we reach the camp," Evin said, and drank from one of the water flasks.

"Not going to eat?" Hal'la asked.

Evin stared at her hands, applying all her sense of control to make herself appear calm, knowing that actual calm would follow. Eventually. Even if she suddenly felt a little bashful. "A little nervous," she said.

"About what you've seen in the branches?" Hal'la prompted.

Evin looked over at her. "Yes, all right, we can do that now."

Hal'la laughed. "Very direct."

"We may as well," Evin said. "Fen'Harel wants you to rest a while longer. As far as I can tell you'll be fine, but we have time. The Mark will draw from my power, not yours."

Evin stood up and joined Hal'la on the carved block where she sat beside Fen'Harel. Evin extended her hand, palm out. Hal'la reached for her.

Their hands met.

The Marks surged in spontaneous, simultaneous flame.

"Normally this is where I draw myself into the Fade," Evin said. "But you're not a Dreamer. I'm not sure how you'd do that."

"I can watch, though," Hal'la said.

Evin selected the nearest branch, stirred the images to her mind's eye. Nothing too complicated. "This is where we are now. Do you see? Eating lunch." She stirred a few of the nearer branches. "These are alternatives."

Walking. A different view of the desert, as though they'd come in a different way. Hyenas. A blankness—as though they hadn't left the Fade.

"Wait, slow down. I'm a little—" Hal’la said.

Ah, morning sickness. Evin had seen those branches. She slowed down to avoid them.

"These are pictures, words?" Hal’la asked.

"Yes. Nothing internal. No thoughts or feelings. Only what I witness or hear."

"They aren't memories then. It's not like the Fade."

"Correct. Possible futures. Not prone to the distortions of memory. See if you can select one and examine it."

Evin tensed while Hal'lasean manipulated their shared Mark. It felt odd—almost unpleasant—to feel someone else do this for her. Like an unexpected, unfamiliar hand drifting up her spine while her magic made her sensitive. And she was conscious of Fen'Harel's attention, the thoughtful scrutiny.

Hal'la reached for a branch. A flood of images popped before her eyes. Blackwall. In an intimate position—

Evin tore her hand away. Hal'la burst out laughing.

"Blackwall? Really?" Hal'la asked.

"A possible future! Possible! Not likely, just... within the realm of possibility," Evin said.

"I can't tell if he was naked or just wearing a very furry shirt."

"Maker," Evin said. Then she started laughing too.

"Does that always happen?"

"With men? It's very common."

"Then... you've basically seen all of them so... intimately."

"Well—not intentionally," Evin said. "I suppose if I sat there for hours looking I'd probably find all kinds of things—"

"Hmmm," Hal'la said with a smirk.

"You didn't have to choose that one," Evin said, and this time she blushed.

"Why don't we check my branches next? Purely for research purposes, of course."

Fen'Harel scowled. "No."

Evin swallowed back a knot in her throat. When it came to a certain elven apostate she certainly had done her share of snooping—but the thought of seeing Hal'la's version left her cold. The Mark died. "I'd—rather not, if you don't mind. Unless you're worried about something. Is there something you want to know?"

"Ir abelas. I didn't mean—" Hal'la said. In a more serious tone she added, "You move through them so quickly. How do you see everything so fast? For me it's almost a blur. A dizzying fog."

"Years of effort," Evin said. Saying so easily what she'd never told anyone. "Not just here but in the Fade. Hours at a time. Days. At first I saw nothing more than glimpses. A ghost, a foreboding of death. You're doing better than you think."

"I'd like to learn," Hal'la said. "I want to help."

"If that's what you want." Evin rose abruptly to her feet. "I don't think I can do more right now, I'm sorry. I feel really anxious and... I have to go. If you need to rest, that's fine. I'll meet you at the camp."

"You would walk the rest of the way yourself?" Fen'Harel asked.

Evin rose to her feet. She slung her staff and bow over her shoulder. "Thank you for getting me here in time."

"Wait," Hal'la said. Her face looked tired—like she might fall asleep at any moment—but also determined. "There are hyenas, right? And worse things. It's safer to stay together."

Evin did her best to control her impatience. As a group they set off for the Oasis.

When they reached the Inquisition camp, the sun had just begun to crest the ledge of rock that lined the grotto. The Inquisition company came out to meet them, but there wasn't time to spare.

Evin fought a rising urge to run. Running didn't help.

He was already here.

Chapter Text

When the two Inquisitors and the Dread Wolf reached the Inquisition camp Evin Lavellan was bristling with impatience. She ran through all the scenarios in her mind, discounting them one by one, discarding one option then the next. She felt an almost frantic degree of tension. Fen'Harel was already here—her world's Fen'Harel. The one she needed to find Andruil's Arche. And if she didn't manage to find him in time, if she didn't win him over—she didn't know what would happen. Other branches had already disappeared. Someone had used a temporal weapon in some other world, but she was already seeing its effects.

The Inquisition forces who came out to meet them didn't improve matters by assuming Hal'lasean was the Inquisitor—their world's Inquisitor—under the reasonable assumption that the elven woman in Fade-touched glowy armor had to be their leader. Hal'la acted sincerely embarrassed and they all wasted a few too many seconds on explanations. By the time they all understood the mistake Evin had underlined her reputation for brisk efficiency and gained an escort to the temple.

She left her pack and extra water flasks at the camp. Hal'la insisted on joining her which meant her Fen'Harel would go as well. They were unnecessary, but Evin made no objection. She honestly didn't care about the branches where their presence mattered. She had to get there first.

They followed a narrow mining tunnel in the rock face past the oasis pool. It twisted up to the Temple of Solasan. There was no sign anyone had been there recently except for Inquisition scouts. She dismissed their escort at the entrance, then shrugged out of her quiver and unstrapped her weapons.

"You look like you're ready for a fight," Hal'la said. "But not that kind of fight."

"I don't need a staff to be dangerous," Evin said.

"Good luck." And Hal'la smiled. "Remember—we Dalish always fight."

Evin spared her a second of attention—spent a moment considering something other than the branches of possible futures—and gave her counterpart a small smile.

She went inside. Alone.

"I'm worried about her," murmured Hal'lasean the moment the temple door hid Evin from their sight. "He's all jagged edges. He's more Wolf than you, I think."

Fen'Harel's expression clouded. "Then I pity him. And her."

Hal'lasean turned large turquoise eyes to his, a gaze filled with compassion. A gaze that earned his respect and inspired his spirit. Became his heart. The tilt of her lips was wan. "Pity him all you want. Someone should. But I don't think Evin wants anybody's pity, much less ours. Especially not ours."

Fen'Harel smiled then, soft as his Hal'la's warm heart. "Come, ma vhenan, Evin doesn't want our worry either, I expect. Let's get you out of that remarkable armor so you can rest."

She blushed, a pink that was darkened by the effort of their desert journey. "I didn't think--"

"Surely she saw the possibility in her branches," he mused with a smirk. "If she did not insist you change your armor before we left, it must not have mattered."

Hal'la laughed. "I like her."

"You like everyone, ma lath."

She grinned. "Not true. I don't like Sera."

"Mmhmm," he agreed. "I recall she worked quite hard for that distinction. Come. Rest."

When Fen'Harel took her hand, she followed after him to the corner of the temple entrance. He swept it clean with a thought and set about the delicate task of undoing the puzzle of her many buckles.

"Ma Fen," Hal'lasean said as he deftly removed each piece of her equipment and laid it aside, "who knew about the Arche? You, Mythal...Andruil..."

"The whole of the Pantheon. And many more besides. Andruil was never a woman for subtlety and secrets. She gloated over the spear for centuries before we wrested it from her. But only Mythal and I knew where it was hidden."

"Do you think it was used here?" she wondered worriedly. "I told Evin her Fen'Harel wouldn't have used it, but we can't know that. He isn't you, however much he seems it."

Fen'Harel let out a soft breath in place of an anxious sigh and coaxed his magic into the stillness of a deep spring. If she were not so exhausted, it would not fool her, but for now her energy accepted the calm from his, drank it in, settled.

"I watched his impressions in the Fade, ma lath. He is not so very different." But perhaps that was not the thing to say, when his counterpart had been cruel to her. Fen'Harel nuzzled his lover just behind her ear to distract her from such thoughts. "We can do nothing about it at this moment, vhenan. Please rest. For me."

When he took her cuirass from her shoulders, she let out a groan of relief.

"I don't think I've ever been so tired," she admitted with a sheepish smile.

"Not even after Haven?"

He settled on the ground and made his legs and lap into a bed for her, searching her pack for water and a cloth.

"That was body tired. I can handle body tired." She lowered shakily to the warm stones, stretching out on her back between his legs, her head pillowed on his lap. "This is..."

Hal'lasean closed her eyes as she searched for the right words. He smoothed the wet cloth over her reddened skin. She let out a grateful breath.

"This is...?" he prompted.

Her chest rose and fell with the ease of one who walked the Fade.

He laughed and kissed her hot forehead. Then he bent all his senses toward the temple. Toward the other Fen'Harel -- the other Wolf.

Evin paused to close the entrance of the temple behind her, swung the enormous blocks of stone around the door's axis with little more than a thought.

She walked down the few steps into old shadows, hearing the sound of rock fragments scatter beneath her boots, observing the cool, blue-green light of veilfire he had lit to guide his way. With her heartbeat pounding in her ears, with that confusing elation mixed with fear, she navigated the stairs up to the inner sanctum. The Shard-locked door stood open.

She put one foot over the line of wards and waited.

Only a moment later he appeared.

Arrogant, angry. Expecting a trap. He wore the same simple clothes as ever, but heavier armor over it, and a hood pulled over his head.

When he saw her his eyes narrowed. "You surprise me, Inquisitor."

He wasn't acting Solas. Not even trying to pretend. No trace of the mild apostate he'd played for her. Maybe he'd forgotten how. And no matter how many times she'd heard him speak when she'd scrutinized her future, hearing those words in person, from his lips, set her blood on fire.

His face—his voice—it was him. Not some pallid imitation. He was the one. The real one. Hers. He had to be hers.

She steeled herself to say the correct words, and as she did so her features lifted in an expression she knew he would read as triumph.

"I crossed a continent to find you," she said.

He gave a small, disdainful shake of his head. "I told you in the grove—"

"And I heard you," she said. "Do you think I came here for my heart?"

His lips held nothing but a sneer. "You disturbed my wards. Summoned me here. Is this a game for you?"

His wards. He admitted that much. How much did he imagine she had guessed to lure him here?

"Then hear my apology," she said. She closed her eyes for a moment to steady herself. Then she looked up at him. "I'm sorry I broke your orb, Fen'Harel."

Chapter Text

If Evin Lavellan had wanted only his love Fen'Harel would have turned away from her without a word. But for all his imaginings—tender or lurid—he had never thought to see her at the Arche's door. This was no dream. It was the manifestation of a nightmare. And the Inquisitor stood before him, the bearer of secrets he had never told.

How had she learned the truth? How did she know his name?

"Think carefully what you do," he told her.

She pushed past him into the temple's sanctum, not deigning to meet his eyes. Stepping callously over the undisturbed inner wards. Had someone sent her here? Was she part of some enemy's plan to plunder the Arche? How many others had awakened?

Perhaps he had dangerously miscalculated the remaining time.

Fen'Harel had anticipated his Herald, his Inquisitor, might one day seek him out—though perhaps not this soon. He did not pursue her sleeping mind even to observe, nor allow himself to contemplate her in dreams. No mere Fade temptation or remorse would overcome his implacable will.

He had never thought she would be his enemy, or someone else's toy. She was too precious, too proud. Perhaps it had been foolish to discard her—though he could not afford to be distracted, and thought to keep her safely locked away from the deadly game he played. No. He could not have done otherwise. With her he was too tempted to look away from what had to be done.

Evin turned to face him. The cool, evaluating gaze of the Inquisitor on business. The secret intuition that guided her and made her distant—and now she used it ruthlessly on him.

"I'm not here for the Arche," she said. "I'm here because of it."

"A fine distinction," he replied. He took a prudent step away, wary of himself. The longer he stayed, the worse—

"You'll note the inner wards were undisturbed. How many in this world could escape them and your notice, Fen'Harel?"

"None," he admitted, intrigued despite his caution. "You need not apologize for my orb, though I wonder at the source of your knowledge."

"You know how little escapes me once I've learn to look," she said. "You've known all along. Since a certain night when a curious rift opened. You learned my secret, the only thing I ever kept from you. It's only fair I learn one of yours."

A stunning thought—and a quite unwelcome reminder of things he did not dare think about. Not here, not now. "Then you are consciously aware of your ability?"

"Yes."

"Fascinating," he murmured. "Some form of intuition, I thought, the inheritance of the Mark. I congratulate your discernment, Inquisitor, but it's long past time I go. I thank you for the apology—"

She flinched a little. "Wait. You don't—"

"I shall seal up the temple again, of course. I trust you will not disturb it further—"

He would key his wards against her people—anything the Inquisition touched. He would learn to avoid them in the future. She wouldn't trace him again so easily. But it was dangerous for him to stay here. Even if she left immediately, if he threw her out, her scent would linger on the air. If it wasn't the Arche, he would have escaped through the Fade. But he could not risk leaving it unsealed.

He had to go—or she must leave—or the recent scar would open—

She wasn't elvhen. She didn't know what he had stirred in her, didn't understand the interrupted pair bond that screamed at him like an exposed nerve. It begged him to touch her bare skin, to press himself against her and renew their broken union. How much of it did she feel, how much could she feel?

His rare and marvelous spirit, perfect in her imperfections. If he touched her—it would hurt a thousand times worse to leave.

"You want me to go," she said.

"You must."

Maybe it was already too late. He could not stay but did not want to let her leave—

She took a step back. Her eyes glittered with unshed tears, that desperate hint of longing. He moved forward as though he could not stop himself. She took another step away—he moved toward her again. This time her shoulder brushed the wall behind her, and she turned aside as though to move past him.

He caught her arm. "I freed you once. Do you think it likely I will do so again?"

"I never wanted freedom from you," she said.

He closed in, traced the curve of her cheek with the flat of his nails, daring himself, wanting, waiting. But not touching. Carefully not touching. Confused, she pulled away from his fingers, an expression like pain between her brows, but how much did she really feel compared to him? She didn't reach for him.

This was—reckless. Ill-advised. He knew better than this. He was better than this. He had to release her.

The blame is mine, he thought. And he intended to say whatever he needed to say to hurt her enough, to push her away. But as his hand dropped it caught on something—

Something that snagged on his sleeve. Something that fell to the ground with a soft metallic rattle.

The necklace.

He stared at it in shock. And then her face—had such a beautiful expression of unfeigned confusion and surprise. Her lips parted—

Ah, my vhenan, something you did not expect?

The pendant he'd made for her—why did she still have it? He reached down to retrieve it, turning it over in his fingers, probing its pristine magic.

"You still carry it," he said. "But do not wear it?"

"How could I?" she asked.

"I thought you would forget," he said. Disbelieving.

"How could I?" she asked again.

He flinched at the pain in her voice. He had told her to forget and he honestly thought she would. But now there was no help for it. She ought to wear it—she must. His fingers managed the clasp. And he could not quite do anything but watch his hands place it around her neck. With a sense as inescapable as destiny—his fingers brushed her skin.

The bond surged—

And he traced the line of the silken cord above her collar, sinking into the sensation of his fingertips at her throat, and then he raised his gaze and looked at her. She gazed back—completely present, no reserve—and he lightly brushed the two small freckles on her neck.

This was the worst idea in the world—but he could not do anything else. Oh, how he would pay for this later.

He took her face between his hands and his mouth met hers. Her lips parted—he tasted her tongue, her soft sigh. And probing deeper the kiss became something more, something that burned with urgent need.

The bond. Her taste—her scent—he wanted, needed to touch her, needed her bare skin beneath his hands. But there was so little to be had—

Her fingers, yes, her hands, he clasped them, but he needed so much more. He hid his face in her neck, breathing her, and she moaned and stole her hand from his to wrap her arm around him, to pull his body closer. Her aura flared around them like the silver-etched wings of a moth. All he wanted was skin, he wouldn't touch her in the Fade, he promised himself, he promised, but everything else belonged to him, everything had to be his.

He sought an opening in her confounding armor but it was all the same garment—a ringmail shirt, seamless—his hands slid beneath the lower hem and found the bare skin of her thighs above her leggings, nothing to impede him, her head tipped back in a gasp, oh how invitingly wet. That was all his focus now.

He drove his knee between her legs to separate them. Her eyes met his, dizzy with desire, pupils wide and black, and her deft hands undid his belt as though she'd practiced the knot twenty times. Her hand slipped beneath the waistband of his breeches, freed his erection from its prison, and he bit back a cry and shut his eyes to feel her fingers around his hardened shaft.

He shoved her against the wall, needing more, needing completion. He kissed her again to taste her. He hiked her thighs up around his waist, and then he plunged into her tight core.

As he buried his length inside her she cried out—cried his name, his true name—how he loved her voice—he moved his mouth aside, pressing his cheek against hers, savoring the exquisite feeling as their bodies joined. He braced her body against his, withdrew, and thrust into her again. Again. That inexorable rhythm, all he wanted was release—those two little freckles on her neck, the most precious imperfections—her gasping breath in his ear, her soft flesh beneath his hands. Half blind this side of the Veil, he wanted more—needed more—

The ringmail rent beneath his fingers, the edges of her surcoat blackened, the rings of the mail red-hot and furious as they split apart. He ripped it all down the middle, freeing her for his demands, her breasts bare, her nipples pale rose and constricted. He tore his tunic away, cast his armor to the ground.

Flesh on flesh. The bond screamed—their bodies joined as one—her little hiccuping cries as he drove into her. Her fingers pressed the hidden nub above the junction of her thighs, her eyes slid closed. He felt her legs suddenly tense and lock and spasm—her arms went limp—he hammered into her, rudely, grinding his hips against hers. The highest keening moment—perfect agony of need, hot and white—and his seed spilled into her, his cock jerked inside her till he was completely spent.

She shuddered and shivered, pressing her hands against his back. And he thrust again, adjusting his rhythm, slower, as their bodies enjoyed the let down from the peak.

Now he had no hurry—now he could properly savor his prize for as much time as he wanted. He sank down, guided her into his lap as he lowered them to the ground, their bodies still united.

"More?" she asked.

"Mmmm, much more," he murmured against her throat.

But she stopped moving with him, and he looked up at her, uncertain. She gazed down at him with a stillness in her face that made him suddenly feel cold. She pushed away from him, disengaged, and his cock pulled from her with an obscene sound.

"We don't have time," she said, sitting back on her heels. He gripped her upper arms, not willing to let that much of her go.

"Time, ma vhenan?"

"He calls her that too," she said, with a thoughtful, chilling frown.

"Who," he said.

"The other Fen'Harel."

Chapter Text

Home.

Hal'lasean Lavellan was home. Not Skyhold, not the stone walls and ceilings that kept her from the scent of rain on the wind and the stars in familiar shapes overhead, but home. Truly home.

The aravels circled in the clearing, crimson as poppies in bloom. The center fire stoked, bright and happy, the safety of a hearth protected by Sylaise. The scent of Dalish herbs drying on lines, the melodic murmuring of the contented halla -- her halla, the ones that nursed her as a foundling babe, the ones that grew as she grew, matured as she matured -- the unhurried clamor of the clan as the sun set.

And the trees overhead, tangled branches bare with the coming winter, as sheltering as any stone roof. Oh, the trees!

Hal'lasean's heart filled up with the fragrance of pine and oak and maple, her senses came alive here in the forests where she had run free and light, a fleet-footed Dalish girl with a quiver and bow, twin daggers at her thighs, hunting as silent, swift, and sure as the wolves her people feared. As sudden and relentless as the death she would deliver.

Hal'lasean. Because that's who she was here. She was not Hal -- a nickname given her by Varric and Bull and her beloved family of shems -- but Hal'lasean. A name that moved awkwardly on the tongues of the Inquisition, but bubbled clear and cool as spring water from the lips of her kin. Here she had no burden to bear alone. She was not Herald or Inquisitor with these, her people; was not even Keeper or First.

Home.

But something was wrong. Off. Not quite right. But what?

Hal'lasean turned a slow circle in the center of camp, frowning at the halla and the clotheslines and the leathers out to tan.

Bare trees. Sunset. ...Forest.

"It's not autumn yet," she said to no one in particular.

It was only then she noticed the camp was empty. But for the halla and all the signs of the clan, the sounds of their activity, the people themselves were nowhere to be seen. Strange.

Late summer. Dawn. Desert.

Someone else's world. Evin's world.

"The Fade," she laughed. "Of course."

It should have been little enough effort then to sweep the scene away, but even in her dreams, Hal’lasean found herself weary to her very core. An exhaustion so thorough there was no relief even here while she rested. Her very will was tired. And perhaps if Fen’Harel were here with her, he would insist she relax even in her dreams.

But Fen’Harel was not here with her. And Hal’lasean had something important to consider.

With gritted teeth and a shove with both hands to aid her weakened will, the aravels shot off into the distance -- the forest, her home, all of it sent away so that she was left with the empty desert Fade. A blank canvas.

And she was Hal again.

She was not a Dreamer. Not by nature the way Evin was, the way Fen’Harel was. But there were many things she was these days that were supernatural to her. And she did them. She learned them. They took her more effort, more training, and she would never be so graceful at it as a mage, but she did it.

Hal’lasean was nothing if not stubborn.

She planted her feet as though she were preparing to haul a particularly heavy load, her legs wide. Then, with a bracing breath, she conjured the memory of Evin guiding her through the branches, of the confusing and nauseating tangle the other woman navigated with such ease. Another thing Hal would have to work for. Another thing she’d have to learn.

Hal removed Evin from the image in her mind’s eye, focused instead on the limbs themselves -- the paths and possibilities she’d only glimpsed through the nest that was Evin’s power. And with a grunt, with tension in every spiritual muscle she possessed, she cast the memory from her mind onto the Fade itself. Projected it, made it real.

It was supposed to be a single tree. The tree of Evin’s life, its complicated branches, crossing and overlapping and moving in every possible direction. Instead, Hal found herself back in the forest -- a forest of violet trees like the vallaslin she’d worn, none of them identical, though sometimes only by a single twist of limb.

And Evin’s brambled branches in the center. Hal’lasean’s strong, straight tree beside it, reaching toward its counterpart in two places.

Thousands upon thousands of trees, infinite possibilities, so many branches that the Fade sky was hidden completely.

“Oh,” said Hal’lasean as she stared at the expanse of all the many worlds. “Fuck.”

Chapter Text

"There are things we should do," Evin Lavellan said.

"I can offer some suggestions," Fen'Harel replied.

They knelt before each other, surrounded by the detritus of the ancient and abandoned temple. The Inquisitor's armor and all her garments were ripped down the middle, revealing a beguiling expanse of flesh, the curve of her breasts, the hollow of her navel, the darker cleft of her sex. Fen'Harel longed to press her to the floor, perhaps over his spread out cloak, and tease that perfect skin with his caresses until their scents mingled and melted into one. He felt muggy-headed and inflamed, consumed with the rekindled bond. Their brief encounter, that hasty release, was nowhere near enough to satisfy his need.

The lifeless, stagnant air felt chill against his bare chest, his rigid and unwavering erection. He slipped one hand inside her parted shirt to cup her breast, stoked her nipple with the pad of his thumb. She leaned into the caress, eyelids faltering, as lost to his touch as he was to hers.

"Fen'Harel," she sighed.

Surely if he hurt her he would detect it at once with his keen and restored senses. He could repair her, mend her aura, instantly arrest any effect on the Veil. With his renewed power he need not fear any recurrence of the events of the night months past. No need to be so cautious in this world. His reward, his rare and precious vhenan who had returned to him, revealing her secrets, concealing his. Surely he could let himself enjoy this much—and curse his duty later. He would not even think of it till later.

In his current state, blinded by resurgent lust, such arguments possessed a vast and artful appeal.

She grasped his wrist with both hands, pulling him away from her breast, and lifted his fingers to her lips to taste them with her liquid tongue.

"Fen'Harel," she said, wavering.

"I'm certain your story will entertain me," he said, "but all I want right now is to savor your body until we both come again."

"They're waiting for me outside," she said. "What if they decide to check on me?"

"Do you really think I care?" He knelt closer to her, close enough to feel her breath on his lips, and whispered, "I went to a lot of effort to get you out of those clothes."

"You ruined my armor, Trickster."

"Let it be testimony to our reunion," he replied.

"I shouldn't laugh—but the thought of returning to them dressed in shattered mail amuses me."

Fen'Harel thought of Varric or whoever else waited for her and honestly didn't give a damn. Still, he would not sacrifice her dignity—she would never stand for it.

"Ma vhenan, you won't escape again that easily."

"I never said I'd leave."

He liked her in disarray—liked seeing the wreckage he had wrought. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer. She pressed against him willingly, trapping his erect desire against her belly. Her lips were parted, panting. Her thighs, her hot breath, her bare skin and flushed cheeks. Her maddening contemplative face. Her words stirred in his memory.

He calls her that too.

The other Fen'Harel.

Fenedhis lasa! What in the name of the void was he doing?

He released her, backed away, steadying his breath with painful gasps.

If she had come here to warn him, why would he ignore it? If she was part of a trap, he had fallen right into it!

He looked at her—at her calm and steady gaze—and felt a dreadful chill crawl up his spine.

She was conscious of her power.

If she had intended to distract him—maneuver him—

Fenedhis.

His cruel heart.

How had this happened? How had this happened?

Evin was panicking inside, alert to the minutest changes of expression on his face. This hadn't happened in her sight, none of it after the necklace. A vanishingly rare chance. Maker curse you Cole, why did I bring it? But now it was picking up exactly where the other paths left off. He was about to disappear—and she would die alone.

She was trembling with a tender weakness in her limbs. She could barely lift her arms or make a fist. But she had to move. She must. She couldn't let him leave, not yet.

Fen'Harel wasn't even looking at her anymore. His head tilted silently, considering the Veil or whatever it was Wolf Gods did, listening. Did he hear the other Fen'Harel outside? Did he sense his presence?

You can't let him leave until the Arche.

Evin pushed to her feet, unsteady, felt the slick reminder of their climax running down her thigh. Her clothes in shreds—his shameless testimony. But she would run out of here after him if that would give her any chance.

What happened next? What did she do next? She had to remember. Her thoughts were a mess, just like the rest of her. Thoroughly wrecked.

Fen'Harel, ma lath. Ma emma lath!

The difference of a word, a glance, an inhaled breath. The right branch was there. She had to choose.

Fen'Harel had summoned a mage's stave to his hand, restored his clothing with swift magic beckoned from the Fade—almost frightening to see him work with the mask removed, no pretense of mortality at all—and then the plate armor appeared, snapping into place. Now—she had to do something now!

Just as the scales of armor were snapping over his wrists she seized his naked hands and caught them. His fingers gripped hers as though by reflex.

His lips drew back in a snarl. "Dirthara-ma numin!"

"Ma halani!" she cried. “Enough, already! Listen!”

He hesitated—staring at her—until his scowl gradually relaxed. But not his eyes. "Tell me."

"The Arche," she said.

"The wards were intact—" he began.

"Aren't you even going to look? Your counterpart did."

He slowly pivoted toward the innermost chamber of the temple, his heel swiveling in line. "What will I find there?" he asked.

"I came here to see it with you."

"That, and nothing more?" he prodded, and she didn't know how to respond. "Then, by all means, vhenan. Lead on."

She closed her eyes for the merest second in relief. He still had not released her hand, but dragged her with him up the steps. She had to follow or she would fall.

What appeared to her a solid wall he broke in two halves with a gesture. The blocks folded away, revealing a gleaming metal edifice that glittered and rippled like water. The subtle hints of warding runes, too complex to understand, visible for moments before they disappeared, floating just below the surface of the metal.

"I need the Anchor," he said, and raised her hand. Not much warning—that was becoming a pattern—he seemed hastier than Solas had ever been. He activated the Mark.

Sorry, Hal'la, she thought—and the Mark flared, not in a line or a cable like it had with the rifts, but a smooth unbending plane. His power guided it, matched it with the metal facade. He modulated the Mark to repeat the fluctuations of the liquid with rapid, sophisticated refinements until they paired.

The edifice dissolved away.

A narrow vault crafted of the same peculiar turbid metal.

Empty.

Fen'Harel began to swear viciously under his breath: Ar tu desara nev'emma fen'sher ruanis.

Evin recalled the other Fen'Harel's translation. "Why does the goddess of disaster have a penis?" she asked.

"Because that is how she fucks us."

Chapter Text

Fen’Harel stared at the temple doors as though he were trying to see through them to the goings-on inside. Evin had been in there for some time. Too long. He kept hearing Hal’lasean’s words.

He’s more Wolf than you, I think.

But surely then Evin would be safe with him, as the Wolf’s mate. And she must be, this Evin Lavellan. She must be her Wolf’s mate as Hal’lasean was his. He had seen how his counterpart fretted, had witnessed his anguish as he fell for her.

It was not impossible to imagine. Evin was a puzzle. And Fen’Harel had always loved puzzles.

He would give them more time. He would not have wanted a reunion with Hal’lasean to be interrupted.

And there was that as well. He could neither leave Hal’lasean here on her own in this state nor risk taking her inside with him. His mate, exhausted and fast asleep on his lap, a small frown tugging at her brows and lips. Each time it appeared, he smoothed it away with his damp cloth, but he couldn’t blame her for her troubling dreams. The Arche was a fearful thing.

As if he had summoned the expression, a crease appeared between Hal’la’s brow, her lips twisted downward. He tipped a water flask over the cloth to wet it again and set about cooling her forehead, easing her worries.

Her hand snapped up and gripped his wrist. Turquoise eyes -- intense and urgent -- flew open to find his.

“Are you all--”

“Fen’Harel.” Even her voice was taut with significance. “There’s something you need to see.”

“I cannot enter the Fade, not with--”

“A moment,” she insisted, the frown returning and becoming severe. “Just a moment. You must come with me.”

He glanced warily at the temple doors and let out a sigh. With no more than a thought, he put them both to sleep.

His physical eyes closed and his eyes opened in the Fade. Fen’Harel stood beside Hal’lasean in on a field of shifting sands without sign of the temple or any of the other many ruins that had once been a city he helped build.

His mate clasped his hand in hers, gripped it, her trembling magic pulling needfully at his immense power. So he gave. And she drank greedily, gratefully, without a word passing between them.

Hal’lasean took only enough to do whatever it was she meant to show him, then released his hand so she could use both of hers with strained exertion to summon her will.

It was an adorable habit. Endearing in its absurdity. No matter how many times he told her she did not need--

The Fade changed. Trees of bright purple exploded into being around them, bloomed like a field of strange flowers as far as the eye could see and beyond -- beyond even his Dreamers’ senses. Anemones in an unseen ocean, reaching up and out and digging deep roots like the mark of Mythal he had so lovingly erased from Hal’la’s sweet face.

Before them, a massive bramble of a tree, stunted by its own possibilities, a trunk that gave way too quickly to an endless array of heavy, reaching limbs. And each limb a choice.

“Evin’s branches,” he said, and Hal’la nodded.

She pointed to the tree beside it, two branches caught in the tangle of its neighbor, but otherwise strong and straight and proud, reaching ever upward, ever outward, with a root system as impressive and unfathomable as its highest branches. In these, his own heart beat.

“Ours?”

Hal’la’s smile was crooked and fleeting. “Mine. But yes.”

“You made all this?” Fen’Harel asked in astonishment, turning to regard his lover with new respect. “Without help?”

Even in the Fade -- especially in the Fade -- she blushed at the compliment. But she also narrowed her eyes at his surprise. “It wasn’t hard. It’s just my memory of what I saw today. What Evin showed me.”

He gaped anew at the orchard that surrounded them, bearing its fruit of possibility. “She showed you all this?”

“No,” she corrected, and dragged her hands from Evin’s tree toward herself. His vision became only the branches there, overlayed with others. Other lives, other choices, unconnected to Evin and her life. “She showed me this. I couldn’t...make it out properly, I couldn’t see quite what she was showing me. I didn’t mean to grab at Blackwall, but it was the only one I could see through the mess. So I wanted to get a better look. A closer look.”

She released her grip on the image and it sprang back to the full forest. And she smirked. “I couldn’t see the forest for the trees.”

“Does Evin see this?” he asked then, frowning thoughtfully at the two connected trees that represented their joined worlds.

“I don’t know,” Hal’lasean said. She shook her head. “I don’t think so? Why wouldn’t she help me see through the other branches if she could? But I don’t know. Maybe she does. Maybe she--”

“The orb.” She looked up at him in surprise, her brows lifted in question. He touched her fingers with his. “The orb’s magic acts as an amplifier for your Anchor. Perhaps it amplified whatever Evin showed you.”

“She showed me her world,” Hal’la said with slow realization. “And I saw all worlds.”

“It is fascinating,” murmured Fen’Harel. He offered his lover a pleased smile. “Thank you for showing me this. You are...truly extraordinary, ma vhenan. But it is unwise to be so vulnerable with the other--”

Her grip tightened on his fingers. “Wait. There’s something you need to see.”

With her free hand, she made an effortful gesture as though spinning a giant wheel -- as though spinning the wheel of the forest in which they stood -- and the trees whipped by him in response. She let them go only a moment before she grabbed it to stillness. Fen’Harel wrapped his arms around her waist and fed her his magic to keep her steady.

If only someone would do the same for him.

Before them now was a tree blackened and diseased, its roots pulsing red, the whole of it rent down the middle by something sharp and furious. Lightning, he thought at first, though it was a foolish notion. The branches burned, fire so hot it was like looking at the sun, and from its flames a shower of sparks that lifted on an unfelt breeze to scatter them as seedlings to the other trees.

No, he realized with a sick horror, not sparks. Grains. Fenedhis!

Grains of light.

A cleansing fire that -- were they not looking at a mere moment in time, a memory of this forest -- would have eaten away the branches as they watched. Not only of this tree, but of the nearest ones. And the ones beyond that. And the ones beyond that.

On and on until there was no world untouched.

Hal’lasean pointed into the distance, a mere handful of trees across from this.

Their trees. Their worlds.

And in the very thinnest branches, the most vulnerable futures, the grains grasped like parasites. The possibilities began to smolder. Soon they could catch flame.

Power surged from the other side of the Veil, a sudden flaring of Hal’la’s mark. She cried out in surprise and pain and disappeared from his hold on her hand.

Without her to remember them, the trees began to vanish. First the doomed world before them and then the others, one by one, fading into nothingness. Disappearing as though they had never existed.

Fen’Harel’s hands shook without Hal’lasean’s to hold. Quivered with the terror of the inevitable.

No. No.

“Banal nadas,” he said sharply, admonishing his damnable fatalism. “Banal nadas.”

He woke to face the other Wolf.

Chapter Text

Fen'Harel's blood roared in his ears. The Arche of Andruil is gone. It is gone. The wards were undisturbed. He would have sensed—. It couldn't be gone. Mythal was no more. No one could have taken the Arche except himself, and he had not. Unless he was insane.

He considered the possibility seriously for a moment before discarding it.

Someone had used the Spear. If it had been used, the theory was—

Evin Lavellan gazed at him expectantly.

He began to swear again.

"I forgot to ask what that one meant," she said.

"Who is waiting for you outside?" he demanded.

She paused, a little frown marring her forehead. Deciding what to tell him, how to say it. The best way to deceive. He had to keep her off balance if he wanted the whole truth, easier lies—he'd forgotten this already.

"Do you remember the poem?" she asked suddenly.

"What?"

"The one about the Veil."

His lips drew back in a grimace. "Yes, I remember it. Evin, what are—"

"That will be our password. If I say a line, you say the next. All right?"

"Yes, very well, whatever you—"

She suddenly stretched up on her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck. His plate armor clattered beneath her weight, he found himself returning her kiss—fire and cinder and flame—surely they had a few more minutes and no he was not going to do this now.

He broke away, shaking his head to persuade himself, but his eyes were drawn to her torn clothing. And that would not do.

He matched the ripped seams of her chemise, then ran his fingers down the edges, reweaving the torn threads. Layer after layer, while she stood patiently under his hands and accepted his ministrations. The quilted undershirt was tricky stuff—he simply stitched it back together. The ringmail—he crafted new links to replace the melted ones, drew them from the Fade, the color was slightly blue, slightly iridescent, but he liked the hue near her skin. The tabard was charred—hopeless. She let him strip it from her.

"My belt?" she prompted.

He summoned her a new one.

"Am I safe now?" she asked.

"Not from me," he said.

She ducked her head for a moment—then gazed up at him with those wide, wondering sunset eyes. And he felt himself reaching for her aura, the brilliant silver-edged beauty, simply to caress it, to verify it was intact.

She took a prudent step away. "Sorry," she said, drawing a breath. "Sorry. Yes. Outside. We should go there. Because—"

"There are people waiting for you, and I should meet them," he said.

And one of them is me.

The more he thought about it the less sense it made. Evin should not be here. He had tested her power before. She had never guessed anything he circumscribed. She had never learned his Name, never that, only things he permitted himself to tell her. If he ever wavered, he was lost, but he never had.

Who had told her?

Mythal was gone. A spirit? No, he had thoroughly impressed Cole before he'd left. One of the others, then.

One of his enemies. Someone who wanted the Arche. Or something else.

This was all part of someone's plan.

He should thank them, really. For using Evin as bait, for using her to persuade him. Wasn't it wiser to enjoy her as long as time permitted? To keep her with him, safe at his side? The severance would be agony, it already had been, but he could bear it if only he had a little more time with her—if he could delay their parting until later. Always later.

That's what made the bond so dangerous—

The worst type of slave does not want to be free.

And the weight of the bond was so heavy now, a twin of the missing Fen'edal. It was difficult to think, made him angry and afraid—he needed—what he couldn't have—what Evin did not have to give.

All thoughts he'd had before. Fenedhis. He shook his head in bitter amusement. Caught in the same old trap. What a wicked enemy would use this against him....

When they reached the outer door of the temple Evin stopped.

Fen'Harel glanced at her. Before she could open her mouth, he said, "Do not try, Inquisitor. This will not go the way you plan."

Fury erupted in her eyes. "Why won't you—"

He swung the temple door open. "Stay behind me."

That was the problem with gods, Fen'Harel thought, as he strode down the steps. Or rather, the problem with everyone else. They failed to understand the scope of action at his command, the breadth of the field of view—certainly Evin never had—and they equally failed to understand the limitations. God was such a useless word for those who lacked the key.

An eternal prison on a chain was only as strong as its weakest link. When the links began to crumble, so did the prison. And the inmates began to fret. They stirred up trouble, they sought release. The sands of the glass grew thin.

He had to reset the glass, reforge the links. Only then would Evin's world—the one she wanted to build—be safe.

That was, at any rate, the story he was willing to tell her if she demanded some part of the truth.

Outside the temple he found two elvhen waiting for them. A woman with a hint of magic but no other significance and an exact replica of himself.

Almost exact.

A mirror.

Different clothing, slightly different aura, and he wore the Fen'edal.

Fen'Harel snapped his stave to his hand and drew the appropriate rune to dispel the reflection. But it didn't seem to work. His opponent's image did not so much as flicker. He tested him in the Fade—he was not there. Odd. The power he sensed—

"You look puzzled, Fen'Harel," the mirror said. His own voice. His own face to the very scar.

The mirror lifted his open palms—a peaceful gesture.

Fen'Harel began to shake his head—this was not possible. This was not right. His instincts began to scream. They said—protect Evin. Protect the Anchor. They said—attack. They said—do it before it's too late. There are no other beings free who wish you well—do it now!

He shoved the other woman aside to put her out of harm's way and tossed a shell at the mirror to see which way he'd jump.

He didn't. The shell burst in a neatly enclosed bubble—Fen'Harel admired the craftsmanship of the spell—

"Hal'la!" the man exclaimed. He threw a mark of stasis, which was curious—Fen'Harel did not bother to evade it—and then noticed it actually had a rather elegant payload. It took a moment to crumble it.

If the mirror was not in the Fade he was concealing himself—cloaking his true nature. This implied several troubling things. It ruled out a number of possibilities.

Fen'Harel raised a gleaming barrier around himself and Evin. A part of his mind noted his opponent do the same, but he was considering the best way to break down the mirror's defenses, to cut through to the truth. He would slice until he hit bone, until there were no more layers to deceive.

He would deconstruct his enemy.

If only the man would hold still—

Odd that he had not really counterattacked. Feints and distractions and defensive moves.

And then as he was marking up a raining fire to cleanse away obstructions, that other elvhen woman ran between them. Reckless woman—was she so eager to die? A mortal could not withstand these forces.

"Enough! Fool Wolf, enough!" she said. And the Anchor flared in her hand.

He caught back the enchantment—barely managed to constrain it—and stared at her in amazement. And noted the Anchor in Evin's hand—gone active at the same instant, with the exact same fluctuations.

"Hal'la—" the mirror said. In his voice.

"We're not here to harm you! We're here for your help!" the woman said.

Hal'lasean, he remembered. The name of the other Inquisitor. The boorish one. The one from another world. Hal'lasean Lavellan.

The mirror—

The other Fen'Harel.

The foolish mortal stared at him like a challenge. Fen'Harel gazed at her, at the other Wolf, at Evin whose grim determined face recalled a thousand other memories.

He planted his staff beside him in the stone. A risk he did not like, but clearly there was more to this than a duel with an opponent who did not fight back.

He drew a breath to calm himself, to leash himself again. "You are from that other world," he said. "The brazen Hal'lasean."

"Try not to look so excited to see me," she said.

And in that moment Evin walked up and kicked him in the shin. "Will you stop it?" she demanded. "I told you to listen."

Fen'Harel found himself glaring at the woman he loved. He lifted a hand to forestall another kick. "All right, then. Tell me."

Evin opened her mouth to speak, but Hal'lasean interrupted. "I've seen the branches. The trees, Evin, I've seen them burning. All the other worlds—"

"You saw other trees?" Evin said.

"They're disappearing. Destroyed. We have to find the source." Hal'lasean gave him a black look. "We all have to work together. Including you, Fool Wolf."

"I need you to help me find the world where the Arche was used," Evin told him.

Fen'Harel regarded her with frustration. "And that is why you trapped me here, Inquisitor? Why not simply consult your foresight?"

"You're not trapped," Evin said. "You've already proven there's nothing I could do or say to make you stay."

He began to shake his head. "I did not leave because—"

"Evin told us you were necessary," the other Fen'Harel said. "We came to this world for her help. I, at least, am willing to consider her words."

"Then, in your world the Arche is also missing," Fen'Harel said, suddenly realizing.

His other self inclined his head in agreement. "We should discuss this further. I imagine you have questions."

And not a few, Fen'Harel thought.

Chapter Text

"I would prefer Hal'lasean rest. I recommend we continue this back at the camp," Fen'Harel said civilly. He finally took in the disheveled state of Evin's hair, the drastic change in the make of her armor. "And by the look of Evin's mail, I imagine you could both do with a drink -- possibly several."

Evin flushed and averted her gaze, but her Wolf met his and scowled. He smiled pleasantly and reached for Hal'lasean's hand.

"Shall we?"

He did not wait for a consensus, but summoned Hal'la's discarded armor and pack to his free hand and strolled casually down the path to the Oasis proper.

Only when they were beyond even a Wolf's hearing did he lean into his lover with a stern expression that he knew would not affect her in the least. Still, he had to try.

"He might have hurt you. The spell he was preparing--"

"He wouldn't have," she replied simply. "And I know you know that because you couldn't have missed that he moved me out of the field of combat."

"I did not," Fen'Harel admitted. "Nor did I miss that you threw yourself right back into the thick of it. As always."

She gave him a crooked grin and he could not help but smile fondly back. "I knew he'd stop himself in time. The Dread Wolf is an exacting man, in life as in battle. No matter what world."

He pressed his lips to her sun-heated hair. "But not in love."

Hal'lasean beamed at him. "No. Not in love."

Fen'Harel walked side by side with his identical copy -- with Evin's Fen'Harel -- and even their strides were the same, though his were considerably more leisurely than his agitated counterpart's.

They had left the women behind -- Hal'la to sleep while she could and Evin to her own devices -- and left the camp in a pensive silence, each for his own reasons. They seemed to both instinctively understand they would not converse openly until they were a ways beyond the camp's sentries, so why converse at all?

But now they found a comfortably shaded area downwind from the waterfall's mist and sat -- he on a log and his counterpart on a boulder for the advantage in height. They stared at one another for some time before either spoke, studying, appraising, two Wolves sniffing each other out, testing for weaknesses. Who would be dominant?

And of course it was eerie, unsettling, to see one's reflection and know he had his own mind, that he lived a life separate and disparate.

"Fen'Harel," said the other man, testing it out.

Fen'Harel carefully withheld his laughter at the absurdity of the situation. "Fen'Harel. I believe you had questions."

"Yes," the man said, eyes narrowing. "Why have you come to this world? And how? The first rift was a regrettable--it was an accident. Did you learn to duplicate it?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Fen'Harel replied thoughtfully. He steepled his fingers and took his time, not because he needed to come up with his answers but because he wanted to weigh his counterpart's reactions to each. And because he would need to be careful. The Dread Wolf never played quite the Game one expected. Sometimes if only to be contrarian. "The rift in the rotunda left a scar on the Veil between worlds. Between our worlds. It was a simple enough thing to open a door where the wound had been."

"You evaded the question, Dread Wolf."

Well, yes. Of course he had.

This time Fen'Harel did laugh -- the light, airy one Hal'lasean loved best. "On the contrary. I was answering all of your questions at once."

"How."

"With elegance and efficiency, as always." The other Fen'Harel's lips twisted irritably. So he smiled again, showed the palms of his hands. "The orb, of course. In theory a door between worlds is an extension on the principles that govern any such--"

The other man sat forward intently, his eyes bright and sharp. "You reclaimed your orb?"

This was where he must be careful. To protect Hal'lasean. A desperate enough Wolf might take what he should not to accomplish his duty with little care for the collateral damage.

"I have access to its power."

For a moment the other Wolf looked as though he might press for more, but instead he leaned back to give the illusion of a man who was not currently a threat. "Why this world."

"I knew its location and that I could reach it. And because I wanted to consult Evin. She told me of her...particular abilities that night the Inquisitors switched bodies. Given the circumstances, I thought it would prove useful. It has."

The other man paused to consider their situation, and by the way his mien darkened grimly Fen'Harel knew they were about to discuss the Arche. That terrible lance of twisted light.

"I assume you did what you could in your own world," said his analogue irritably, "before you ripped your way into mine?"

Fen'Harel leveled his other self with a flat look. "We did not make a rift. Nor is coming here a thing we did lightly. If I could have found another way, I would not be here. We had to see for ourselves if the Arche in this world had disappeared in the same way."

"In your world," his counterpart began, "the Arche was hidden? Warded?"

"Yes," he agreed. "We took it from Andruil after Mythal bested her. She and I were the only two in my world who knew its location. There is no free, living mage who could have plucked it from its wards without my knowing. And yet..."

"So it has been used."

"It would appear so," Fen'Harel said darkly.

"And its target?" demanded the other Wolf. "Who could have accessed it? Taken it?"

He spread his hands out, a gesture of capitulation. "You know as much as I, Dread Wolf. A being of great power and greater desperation. Hal'lasean showed me the burning branches in the Fade. An orchard hurtling for destruction. It is still in our futures for now, but for how long? There is a tree, split by a blade of light from above, blackened and changed. That is the source. That is the target."

They sat in silence for some time. For a mortal it would have been long minutes, but for two Elvhen, it was barely the beating of a heart.

"And I?” asked his analogue finally. “What is it you want of me?"

“Evin insisted you were needed once we confirmed both Arches were missing," said Fen'Harel. "Though I cannot speak to her reasons, I do believe your help will likely be invaluable."

His analogue pursed his lips, lounged like a predator who has no fear of challengers. The promise of danger without the overt threat. "Then it was your idea for Evin to use the bond against me."

Bond? What bond had Evin used?

"Whichever bond you mean," he said, "Evin must have discovered it herself. Or have you forgotten her Sight?"

He sat up then, the other Fen'Harel, openly irritated. Every movement the anxious Wolf. "Enough, Dread Wolf. You cannot play coy with me of all people. The pair bond. Did you tell her how it worked? Did you tell her all our secrets?"

A pair bond? Surely not--

Fen'Harel could not keep his incredulity nor his disgust from his tone, from his shocked expression. "You are bonded to her? You wed her to Solas -- to a lie! -- and still you left her?"

"Wed her? How very quaint of you! I am many things, Fen’Harel, but I am not a man who breaks his vows. Nor am I so dishonorable as to--" the other Wolf said, then laughed. A cornered, violent sound. "You cannot possibly have wed Hal'lasean--"

"I have not."

Yet.

He sat up straighter, regretting his lower choice of seat. "And I do not appreciate your tone. Nor for that matter do I appreciate what you said to Hal’la--"

"But you are not paired with her? You are not bound together?"

None of this made any sense. What pair bond if not the marriage bond? He was bonded to his Wolf, a bond of spirit and flesh, but such a joining was impossible with Hal’lasean. Should be impossible with Evin as well.

"There are many types of bond in my world," Fen'Harel said, holding out his palms again, placating, surrendering. "But the one that exists between lovers is the one we equate with marriage."

The Dread Wolf did not gape as a rule. But his fellow was very nearly doing so now. It was short-lived, though, and twisted quickly into the same incredulous disdain he himself had expressed moments earlier.

His counterpart dragged his palm across his forehead in exasperation. "You equate it with marriage? Shall I explain it to you like a child? You see, Fen'Harel, when two Elvhen love each other very much..." The other man's ire gave way suddenly to fascinated realization. "You really have no idea what I mean. The pair bond, the physical longing that drives two Elvhen together. The agony of severance!”

Fen’Harel shook his head. “Are you being metaphorical? Of course I have feelings of physical longing for Hal’lasean, of course it is agony to be separated--”

“These are not just words, Fen’Harel. It is a palpable thing! Fenedhis, I never thought to explain this to someone past the age of fledging. How do I--” The other Fen’Harel sat forward abruptly, made a gesture with his hand to indicate he wanted more information. “Tell me about the marriage bond in your world.”

“Surely we have more pressing matters to discuss,” protested Fen’Harel.

His counterpart gave him a mirthless look. “Humor me.”

“Very well,” Fen’Harel sighed, baffled. “It is...a sacred and beautiful ceremony. Two Elvhen who have pledged themselves to one another into eternity weave a spell together that binds their souls. It marks each as their mate’s. Tethers them. So that even in the Beyond, they may always find each other.”

His spirit longed to be so tied to Hal'lasean's, to be able to find her even when her mortal body finally gave out. To feel himself always connected to her.

His counterpart’s brows were lifted high above disbelieving eyes. “A bond between souls? That’s a...poetic way to describe it.”

Fen'Harel lifted his brows in surprise. “Would you not describe it that way?”

“A leash. A chain," the other man said with frustration. "I separated myself deliberately to allow myself to heal. A kindness to us both when I realized I must leave. To see her again, to touch her, means all the pain was for nothing. May you remain free of such things.”

Fen'Harel's mind groped at understanding. Did this man wish to be free from his mate? Fen'Harel had never wanted to leave Hal'lasean. He had wished for freedom to be with her.

Was this a world in which love was not a blessing but a burden? As rigid and constrictive a cage as duty?

He thinks he has done them both a kindness, he realized. And is that not what he meant for himself and Hal'lasean those many months ago when he took her vallaslin and walked away?

"But," he ventured, "do you not love Evin?”

“They are not separate things.” The other Wolf made a face of dismissive distaste. And yet there was something in it. Something pensive. “Can love truly exist without the pair bond? Difficult to contemplate. Yet we know the quick-blooded claim to feel love.”

"Can love exist without...a leash?" Fen'Harel laughed, a scoff really. Harsh and disbelieving. "Is that a serious question? Hal'lasean and I are free to leave or stay. We choose to be together because we love one another. And I can assure you...I have...experienced for myself what it is she feels for me. It is as deep and true a love as mine for her. As any immortal, any Elvhen. I imagine it must be the same for Evin."

“What she feels, what any of them feel, is a shadow," his counterpart said, a casual condemnation. "But that is neither here nor there.”

His aura flared with his passion. With his indignance on his heart's behalf. "It is everything! You disrespect them both to think so."

“You know little enough of this world and the people in it,” snapped the other man. His upper lip curled before he managed to calm himself to careful civility. “Perhaps we should confine our discussions to the task before us.”

"If you think you can resist the urge to disparage Hal'lasean," said Fen’Harel. He lifted his brows in polite challenge.

“Have I disparaged her?” The other Wolf’s expression was as dry and insincere as his tone. “I thought I only spoke the truth. Emma ir abelas.”

"You do not know her as I do,” he shot back. He stopped himself, took a breath, exhaled his protective irritation. Now was not the time. “I appreciate your moving her aside before you attacked."

“I am grateful you did not retaliate,” said his analogue, suddenly frank, “as your understanding of the situation was greater than mine. But you can understand my caution. There are many who would seek to reclaim what has been stolen.” His expression turned dour. “Many… enemies.”

"What has been stolen?"

“Ah,” the other Wolf gave a knowing, cynical smile, “but I sense her power beneath your skin, Dread Wolf. If you truly do not understand I will not speak further of it. Know only that we dare not stay in this place over long.”

Fen’Harel’s blood ran cold as the winter waters of Emprise du Lion. "Are they already awakened here? Our kin?"

“If indeed they ever slept.”

"Fenedhis lasa,” he said, a winded exhale.

No wonder his fellow was furious to be found. No wonder he had attacked.

And I have brought Hal’lasean directly into the enemy’s grasp.

Fen’Harel’s fingers found the jaw bone at his chest, stroked the porous line of it like a talisman. “May your enemies never find your dreams, falon."

“Falon?” echoed the other Wolf, as though testing the word out. Something shifted in his expression, something softened subtly behind his grey eyes. “Yes…” He paused thoughtfully. “It seems if I wish to discover the reason I am here I must speak to Evin. Curious.”

"If we are in as much danger as you say, we should also see to the wards," said Fen’Harel.

“That strikes me as an excellent idea. But first, Evin. I am sorry. That must come first.” His counterpart hesitated, frowned. “Perhaps that is the bond talking? How would I know? I would appreciate it if you did not mention such matters to them.”

Was Fen’Harel so naturally secretive? Or was it just this world’s version? Had there been a time before Hal’la when he was so unwilling to trust?

There must have been. Before Hal’la. Before Mythal’s meddling.

Perhaps, he thought, he might meddle himself.

“Has there not already been enough concealed between you? You should tell Evin of the bond.”

“I am certain she enjoys the challenge of not knowing,” the other Wolf said sharply. “Do not interfere in my affairs.”

Fen’Harel held out his hands once more to show he meant no harm. "It is your choice, of course. If you wish to speak to Evin, go. I will see to what I can of the wards. Join me when you will.”

His counterpart took his feet, adjusted his armor. He was preparing to walk away when Fen’Harel decided to interfere anyway.

“And Fen'Harel? Be gentle with her. She loves you."

Chapter Text

Fen'Harel turned his toes toward the Inquisition camp and sank into troubled, cheerless thoughts. Desert sand and striking rock formations, the murmur of the Oasis pool, the shimmering sigh of the ancient Veil.

A world without the pair bond. What would it be like to be free?

Would he still have cleaved to Evin Lavellan? Would he have found a way to avoid entanglement? If his counterpart was an accurate measure the answer was no. That one did not understand what it meant to be bound. If the weight were on his shoulders, perhaps his opinion would change. Or perhaps he would simply gain a new excuse to justify his weakness.

To press himself on an unschooled Dalish mortal—Fen'Harel's lip sneered. He could not imagine binding himself to such a woman. Not in a thousand worlds. Hal'lasean had spirit, but he recalled too well the angry words they'd flung at each other when she had been briefly trapped in his realm. He could not envision himself tolerating her impudence, much less enjoying it. No, for him there was no comparison. Evin's wisdom, her poise, her exotic nature and mysterious gifts. Her love of learning. Her rare beauty, as though she'd been designed to please him....

Of course, he was deeply under the bond's resurgent influence just now, as his maudlin thoughts demonstrated.

Regardless of what Evin felt for him—her distant eyes, her cool smiles, her habit of telling him only what she thought he needed to know—a habit he must admit he shared—he loved her.

He just wished he had more of a choice. He wished it hurt less. He wished Wisdom did not desert him so frequently where she was concerned. Even here, even now, he could sense how near she was. It pained him to not be in her sight.

It was time to discover exactly what she had planned for him. What could the Dread Wolf do for a seer? And he sighed inwardly when his mind furnished all sorts of unnecessary ideas....

When Evin returned to the Inquisition camp the commander came out to greet her. He showed her into the headquarters tent and handed over a month of reports. She asked for message ribbon and composed a brief acknowledgment to send to Skyhold. The heat of late summer intruded even here, sheltered by the shadowed ravine and the oasis pool. She changed into lighter garments from her pack.

The captain's furniture and chest took up a corner of the room. She considered taking a nap, and checked the nearest branches to discover when she was likely to be interrupted. Ah. Well—in that case—

She rose from the commander's camp-desk and stretched her arms above her head to feel the lethargy in her muscles. Then she paced over to the door and peeked her head outside.

"I'm going to rest for a while," she told the guard outside. "Don't disturb me."

"Yes, your Worship."

And she waited until Fen'Harel walked up the gentle slope of the hill, and turned to let him pass inside the tent. The door fell closed behind them.

Test him? To remind him? The branches told her which one he was....

"Late in the sunless realms," he said.

That worked too. "A god gathers power in his fist," she replied. The next line. "Are you thirsty? I was going to have some wine. And take a nap. Would you like to join me?"

He reached for her hands, and clasping them stared down at her fingers with such a changeable expression on his face, neither one thing nor another. Puzzled, pained, or something else.

"Will I like the wine?" he asked.

"I doubt it. But you'll like the nap," she said.

"Water, then. And you... vhenan."

She had so many questions for him—why he had left, what put him so on edge, why he frowned so much more than Solas ever had. But she didn't want to disturb this moment, didn't want to do anything to push him away. For now his presence was enough. The way he looked at her, the way his mouth relaxed. There was time for the other things later, surely. She just wanted to enjoy the happiness of having him near her.

They drank cool, fresh water gathered from the oasis spring. She drew him down beside her on the commander's cot. His shirt joined hers on the floor.

His eyes closed as they embraced, as she nudged her nose alongside his, breathing his breath, surrounded by the astonishing scope of his aura. It left her jangly and uncertain. Had he shown her this before? Even during the single night they'd spent together all those months ago, had he been holding back?

His gorgeous mouth on hers, the light flicker of his tongue against her lips to part them. She pressed into his warm, bare flesh—and let her fingers drift up his spine. She felt his pulse quicken beneath his skin.

She pulled back a little, drew in a scattering of mana. "Meet me in the Fade," she whispered.

His eyes opened. "No—vhenan."

She was so startled she could only repeat him. "No?"

"Not there, my heart. Stay with me—stay with me here."

He kissed her hungrily as though to apologize, or distract her, and she relaxed into his embrace. Although when he made to push her down onto the cot she stopped him.

She winced. "I don't think it's sturdy enough for what you have in mind."

"An excellent point," he said.

She slipped down to the canvas covered floor and he yanked the stuffed linen mattress to the ground. Her loose skirt and his leggings joined their other garments in the pile.

She felt sticky with sweat, almost feverish, with a wetness on her thighs he would surely come to notice, lost in the memory of his touch in the temple and a dozen dizzy futures set in this very room. He planted teasing kisses on her lips and neck while his hand wandered the curve of her breast, down to her ticklish belly. She was helpless—consumed with her desire—an instrument he played with the authority of an adept.

What did he want? How could she make him feel the same? But when his fingers slipped between her legs and pressed with sterner mastery her head fell back, her eyelids closed, a cry escaped her lips. Everything else vanished.

"I want to taste you," he whispered. And that was all she wanted too—

He made her wait. Prowling lazily across her skin, pausing to nip at the flesh above her breasts, claiming them, pressing the marks of his lips into her body with a sweet, dull ache, but never losing sight of his destination. His fingers worked her—never stopped—and how she shivered with pleasure. Now he strayed closer to her cleft and the honeyed evidence of her lust for him. He took her nipple in his mouth—and ever-so-lightly grazed it with his teeth. Her entire body clenched.

"Maker," she groaned.

And he said, "Wrong god."

She breathed a laugh—and lost all breath when he abandoned his languid journey and knelt between her thighs.

He spread her flesh with his fingers—and lowered his mouth to her folds. The exquisite—sublime—oh gods—oh god, Fen'Harel—all words left her—only the sensation of his tongue, the swirling pattern, steady and insistent. And when he probed the little button—lightly at first, then harder—and sucked—

She jerked—her back arched—her fingers clawed at the mattress. A helpless cry escaped her. "Stop," she said, gasping, "stop."

His head lifted, she felt his nose pressed against her thigh, the hot whisper of his breath. "Too much?"

"Too soon," she said in a weak voice. "I don't want to come without you."

"There's no such thing as coming too soon. Or too often," he said, looking up at her with amused but understanding eyes. "I burn for your touch, ma vhenan. Tell me what you want. How shall I demonstrate my ardor?"

She felt that same energy thrumming through her core, the slick memory of his tongue, almost too severe, on the edge of pain. He lifted himself up to press his lips into her navel. "Tell me," he said.

"Did you ever think of me?" she asked.

A short laugh. "A thousand times. A hundred different ways."

"Why didn't you? You know how much I wanted you."

"You did not know the truth."

"The truth you couldn't tell me. Why were you so afraid?"

His gray eyes met hers. "Have you thought of me? Seen me in your branching futures, ma da'vian? What did we do there? Is that why you're so delighted with me before I've even touched you?"

She flicked the point of his ear, and he winked with mischief.

"There are so many possibilities. It would take a lot of time to try them all—"

He laughed delightedly. "I imagine it would."

"How do I decide?" she asked.

"I doubt it would surprise you to learn such things were studied with intense interest in times long past."

"Those shocking ancestors," she said, widening her eyes with suppressed laughter.

"Some require—preparation, but now that I think about it, I recall a certain—" He sat up, looking for something—and snagged a small square box from the commander's map table.

She looked it curiously. "A deck of playing cards?" she asked.

He opened the box and tipped the cards out onto his hand. He palmed quickly through them, discarding several—the Angel of Death, one or two others. Then he began to shuffle them with his long, slender fingers, considering her with those thoughtful, fascinated eyes.

A smile pulled at his lips as he offered her the cards. "Choose," he said.

"Each one is—"

"Each will have a different result, yes." And his smile turned wolfish.

He fanned out the cards for her—and she let her fingers hesitate over them—playing. First one card, then another, peeking up at his amused eyes to see his reaction. Finally she drew one.

The Ten of Staves.

"No, wait—" she said. She replaced that card and drew another. "Four of Cups," it read.

His mouth quirked. "Then have you decided, ma vian?"

"Yes," she said. "I want this one."

He claimed the card from her, looked at it as though considering it thoughtfully, then placed it face up beside the mattress. "An excellent choice."

He offered his hand to pull her upright. And beckoned. "Come to me, my heart. For what was promised earlier."

She rose up onto her knees. They knelt before each other much as they had in the temple, though he was naked now and she could enjoy the unmarked pallor of his skin, the lines of muscle in his torso and chest. His erection was between them, the shaft dark and engorged, the gleam of precum at its tip. She wanted him so badly—breathless with desire—and he folded his arms around her with a groan as though her bare skin gave him pain. She edged closer, until his cock tickled the scant feathery curls of her cleft, and he guided her knees outside his hips.

"Yes," he breathed, "like that—"

She slid forward onto his lap, reached down to guide him in. And as he plunged inside her she clung to him, feeling his unyielding length bear into her, helpless as he filled her. The slightest bit of pain, the reminder of his more forceful but much desired entry earlier.

"How is that?" he asked.

All she had was his name—no other words. "Fen'Harel," she said, her voice high-pitched with sudden furor as he moved within her.

He clasped her body, wrapping his powerful arms around her waist, enfolding her in his overwhelming aura in the Veil. His hungry mouth nudged at her neck—he sucked at the sensitive skin below her ear. Her back arched—but he held her tight—and drove into her with more force.

Her hips met his, and she lifted up to plunge down onto him again, feeling his cock so tight within her, almost too much. And that angle—almost perfect—gods, she could feel it, so close, that jolt of pleasure like a connection growing nearer with every thrust. Breathless, stoking each other to greater heights—

Sweat ran in slick droplets down his back. She held him, tasted the salt on his shoulder. His skin, his scent, his muttered cries.

He was lifting her with some force—lost in his own rhythm—and he gasped out—

"I can't, vhenan, I must—"

"Yes," she said, accepting him, "please—"

He pounded into her—pressing for completion—gazing up at her with perfect agony in his face—until he shuddered and broke.

He clung to her for a few moments, savoring the moment of abandon. And then he stroked again, bearing into her a new and slower cadence.

"You want—more?" she gasped.

"You asked that before," he said, amused. "I was just getting started. You?"

Early and often, she recalled.

"I—I—" she could barely speak. "Yes. Oh god, yes."

He returned his attention to her body—now she was the focus. And so began an excruciating examination of exactly what made her writhe—while his cool gray eyes watched and evaluated her reactions.

She hung from his shoulders, her breasts bouncing with the force of his thrusts, while his fingers found the little queenly node above the furrow he filled so eagerly.

When she drew closer to the peak, she went limp, unable to do anything but feel. And he shoved her over the edge—so perfectly—

The ecstasy exploded—like rings expanding outward—a spiral of light. She held onto him, helpless, while he slowed to let her ride them out. And it seemed for a moment that she did see him beyond the Veil—gazing back at her with the Wolf an immense and towering presence mingled with his own. But then it was just the two of them in the slow, lethargic world, the bare clutch of possibilities she grasped with both hands.

They made love—brought each other to another peak—until she got a cramp in her foot, and was so distracted by the magic he used to dispel it that he laughed and offered to teach her the spell. She was sleepy then anyway, and curled up beside him with her cheek against his chest. She listened to his steady heartbeat while the sweat cooled on their bodies, so filled with contentment and joy that she didn't care to speak.

And when she gathered a handful of mana he didn't object, but met her in the Fade.

Chapter Text

The Fade was where everything went wrong. Evin Lavellan couldn't even find Fen'Harel at first. She was confused by the sloping paths, a geography that didn't resemble the Oasis at all. She wandered for a while like a lost spirit, and when he finally found her he was tightly leashed, very elvhen, nothing like the glimpse of the Wolf she'd seen in his arms. Fen'Harel appeared before her as though her presence troubled him, as though he broke some rule to do this.

And she remembered his earlier hesitation. Why hadn't he wanted to meet her here?

They'd spent so many hours together in the sleeping world when he had been Solas. The countless occasions they'd rambled the Fade, when he'd shown her this or that about magic, and they'd fallen into conversation about the fascinating things he'd seen. His memories, she now realized. Although that had mostly stopped after—after—the night she'd switched with Hal'la.

Did something worry him? She would ask when they returned. She could discover what the problem was when she had clearer sight. Here, in the Fade, she might say the wrong thing, and she wouldn't know how to put it right. She cared too much to deal with him clumsily, or maybe she was just afraid, insecure about his feelings. She had always tried so hard to get things right, to be the Inquisitor everyone needed.

He knew she loved him, didn't he? Maybe she hadn't said it enough.

"Ar lath ma," she said, gazing up at him.

And his eyes softened. "Ma vhenan."

She shook off her uncertainty and began to build the clear space she needed to work, transforming the chaotic landscape of the Fade into a flat expanse for viewing.

As the plain took shape around them, Fen'Harel grew interested despite his apparent reservations.

"Is this how you see the future?" he asked.

"Hal'la said she saw a world on fire. I've never seen that before. Will you help me find it?" she asked.

"Why do you think I can help?"

She tossed him a rippled smile, the idea of amusement. "You've had four months to think about exactly what I do, ma lath. And you observed me for years. I'm certain you developed some theories in that time."

"You saw it in your branching futures, you mean."

"That, too," she agreed. He would see for himself soon enough.

Fen'Harel paced beside her while she worked, tracking in small concentric circles, clearing curious spirits from her vision almost before they registered for her. He couldn't keep still or didn't want to. But when she began to weave the enchantment that would shape the vision of the future he drew to a stop.

The image coalesced before them like the bare branches of a tree. A thicket of choices, an almost frightening knot of crisscrossing lines: her life. She expanded outward until all they could see was the confusion.

"This is my future," she said. "Every intersection is—"

"Decision." Fen'Harel's face grew solemn, almost pained. He called up one of the branches, examining it closer, inspecting it. "You... choose among them. Of course you do. I had no idea you perceived everything so clearly. Entire conversations—words—"

"Yes," she said. The simple truth.

"And this is what you see. You've always seen it."

"Not always," she corrected. "I've grown better over time."

"Of course," he said, with that same strange hesitation.

She lifted her hand to center the knotted lines on a particular intersection. "The nexus of the Temple. You see how they fan out from here. Two halves diverge."

"The sides are not equal," Fen'Harel observed. "One looks fuller, healthier. There are more... twigs, would you say? More boughs. The other looks—"

"Stunted, barren. One branch where you help us. Another where you don't," she said.

"This is why you were so insistent," he said slowly.

"You make the difference." Her voice was soft.

He looked at the branches, the ground, anything but her. "As much as I—. Evin, it isn't fair to either of us—"

She drew a breath past a bare knot of pain. "Stay long enough to set us on this branch. After that you can go do whatever it is you need to do. I won't ask for more."

I wish I could ask you to stay.

But he didn't want that. There had always been distance, reluctance on his side. Now that she knew his name she understood a little better why. She'd never been uncertain about her feelings—but she knew he was. She cherished what he had to give, as foolish as that made her look, but she wouldn't chase after him unless the world itself required it.

"What do you want me to do," Fen'Harel said.

"When Hal'la's Mark was joined with mine," she said, "I was able to see her life as well. But how did she manage to see all the others? A forest of trees? I've never seen anything like that. Do you think it's something only she can do?"

"Why would that be the case?" he asked, irritated, but his tone was abstracted. He was already thinking about how it might be done.

She pondered for a few moments, spinning the tree-concept of her life from one angle to another, receding further out, which only made it smaller. "I don't understand," she said, frustrated. "I don't know what to do."

He nodded sharply. "It's the Anchor. The answer is always the Anchor, Evin."

He beckoned—with a confident, almost proprietary gesture—and she put her left hand in his. He flared the Mark as though snapping it to life. Then she felt a quick series of manipulations, ticklish modifications that seemed to echo through her core. It was a bit unpleasant, as though he was reaching inside her to make some strange adjustment, too close and too soon after their lovemaking. She began to feel a little sick. She wondered if she should ask him to stop—and then he finished.

"Try now," he said. "It's just a guess, of course—"

A grove appeared before them. A wilderness of branches.

They were all linked.

Hers and all the others.

She saw Hal'la's tree, crossed over in two places with her own, except Hal'la's looked different in some way she couldn't quite define. And the flames—the tiny living flames—consuming everything—

They were burning.

The future was on fire.

"They used the Arche against the Anchor," Evin said. "All of us—all the Inquisitors—we're all going to disappear. As if we never were."

"The perfect weapon," Fen'Harel said, as though he was repeating something, translating it to common. "The enemy who does not exist and never did."

The breathtaking scope of the idea—she should be filled with fear. She ought to feel attacked, personally attacked, but she was fascinated. All these other lives, all these other Inquisitors. They were in danger too. They were all in jeopardy.

What would Thedas be without the Inquisitor?

If the Anchor had never existed?

If the Inquisition had never formed?

Evin felt a tremor run down her spine....

Whoever had done this monstrous thing—she would find them. She would find the wretched world where this had happened. And show them exactly how the Inquisitor rendered judgment.

Evin woke with a jolt—pulled herself from the Fade—and abruptly sat up. She found Fen'Harel seated beside her, gazing at her coolly.

"You won't ask me for more," he said, quoting her words. "I suppose you are satisfied now that I've shown you what you want. Are you finished with me, Inquisitor? Should I retire from your presence, return to my own tasks?"

"What? Why would I want that?" she asked. "You're not—we still need—"

"Do we have anything else to say to each other? Or shall I take my leave?"

She stared at him, astonished. "I don't want you to go," she said. "Are you angry with me?"

She reached for him, taking his hands. And he winced as though her touch was painful to him. He drew away with a polite smile.

"I must congratulate you," he said. "Your vision is much clearer than I anticipated. I once thought you relied on rare insight, intuition perhaps, but now I understand. You had everything planned. Every word down to the syllable. Was I so easy to manipulate? Did I ever manage to surprise you?"

"Every day surprises me," she whispered.

"When it comes to my heart, I prefer the truth," he said. "Was there ever a genuine thing you said to me?"

The words were cold—but she thought they must conceal enormous hurt.

And this was the nightmare. This was what she'd dreaded ever since she determined to keep her sight a secret. No—it was a thousand times worse. She kept checking to see if she were dreaming—but this was the waking world.

He felt betrayed. He felt—deceived. Of course he did. The person she loved most in the world, the one she had never, ever wanted to hurt.

Tears began to sting her eyes. She let them. "When I came to you in the temple I had to persuade you. You wouldn't listen otherwise. I couldn't leave a single word to chance. There were so many ways to fail—"

"Even your body, your sweet flesh—" he paused to rake his eyes down her naked form—"you ransomed that as well?"

She was so shocked—she panicked and withdrew into calm. Because she cared so much that otherwise she wouldn't be able to speak at all for crying. And she had to get this right—she had to—

"Never," she said. "What happened was—wonderful, and unexpected. I treasure it. But I never would have—. All I wanted was for you to listen. I didn't need your body too. Although I was so happy that—"

"I've seen this dance before. Do you always do this? Tell people what they want to hear? You don't make any exception for me, do you?" He laughed suddenly, bitterly. "Why would you? How much do you even feel?"

"It was the truth—"

"Daughter of Ghilan'nain," he said, his voice very cold. "How I remember it now—that you came to me under her brand like a warning."

What was he even talking about? "You're angry about the vallaslin—that I wouldn't let you remove it? I didn't want you to use magic I didn't understand. I wanted to do it myself, it didn't mean anything otherwise—"

She could already tell he wasn't listening.

"Was I the optimal outcome for you?" he said, his lips curling in a sneer. "A phrase I remember hearing from you once or twice before."

"Don't flatter yourself," she said coldly.

"Ah," he said. "Have I offended you? When you've done your best to tie me here? When I am already trapped, caught in your web? Forgive me if I take my leave, Inquisitor. I feel a little strangled."

She picked up his clothing—the items he hadn't already slipped on—and threw them at him. "Then get out. And don't come back until you learn to be civil."

The Inquisitor waited until her Dread Wolf was gone, and then she rose, put on her linen dress, and began to pace. She forced herself to calm down, to think about anything else.

She wore long miles down the axis of the tent. And when she was centered again she found a quiet place and went looking for the burning world. Because she didn't have time to wallow.

Chapter Text

Hal’lasean Lavellan was weary to the very core of her being. It was better now that Fen’Harel -- her Fen’Harel -- had insisted she toss back two health potions as well as a stamina and a mana restorative (her first ever). It was less now that she'd slept. What had been agony had become a dull ache in her bones, in her blood. Could blood ache? Hers did.

But a dull ache was something she could handle. And though he had made it clear he wanted her to head directly to the tent the Inquisition outpost had provided and stay there for the majority of the day, she was too hot and too sandy to continue to do so comfortably.

She had forgotten how deplorable the desert was. How gritty. How no matter what you were wearing, somehow the little granules of hard sand got everywhere, in every orifice: your eyes, your nose, your ears, your mouth, your…

So she was bathing. Her tunic and breeches and smalls were folded neatly on a flat stone being warmed by the unmitigated sun while she stood in a waist-deep pool beneath one of the more secluded, smaller waterfalls of the oasis. Away from prying eyes of lonely soldiers and in what little shade the rocky outcroppings provided.

She’d stolen a small piece of soap from the camp supplies and used it all up and now she rinsed herself off beneath the clear stream of water, her eyes closed, her long silver hair glued to the wet skin of her back, naked as the day she was born but for the necklace her Wolf had given her when he was still Solas.

The first time she thought she heard footsteps on the nearby stone, it was drowned by the sound of the falling water over her ears. The second time, she pushed her hands over her face to clear her eyes and turned to look.

Fen’Harel. She was already smiling before she remembered there were two of them now. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him, making no move to leave her rinsing.

“I believe you were told to rest,” he said, his voice gentle and amused. He smiled back and that was all she needed.

“This is restive,” she countered with a lopsided grin. When he seemed unimpressed, she tucked her chin penitently toward her chest. “I will rest, ma Fen. When I’m clean.”

But she was already naked and this particular spot had a distinctly pleasurable history for them…

Her grin was joined by a little swagger, a wiggle of her hips. “Unless, of course, you have a better idea.”

There was a particular spark in his eyes he had only when he was feeling devious, and he let his gaze travel palpably along the length of her naked body, lingering in all the usual places. Hal stepped out from the waterfall and turned to face him completely, presenting herself for his enjoyment with half her bottom lip caught between her teeth. His lips quirked upward when he returned his eyes to hers.

“I might,” Fen’Harel said, taking a step toward her. “But it won’t be restive...or clean.”

She took a step back, into deeper water, never letting her eyes leave his. Inviting him to give chase. “I can always bathe again.” Her brow lifted. “Or you could help.”

His smile turned wolfish and wicked as he pulled his tunic over his head. He stopped with his toes just at the edge of the water and beckoned her with three lazy fingers. “Come to me, Hal’la.”

“What, no hunt?” But she did as he wanted, making a point to stride as gracefully and enticingly as possible through the pool to stand before him at the water’s end, their bodies mere inches apart. “Shall I offer the Wolf my throat?”

Hal lifted her chin to do just that.

But something was wrong. There was magic between them, but it wasn’t...his, it wasn’t...quite right…

Oh no. Wrong Wolf.

Fen'Harel's lips twisted in a sneer that managed to be both victorious and disdainful.

"Crude little halla, offering your throat," he said, as though she were less than nothing, as though she were filth. "Do you really think I would touch you? Wolves mate with wolves. Halla are prey."

Hal’lasean felt her eyes moisten without her permission, felt her whole face on fire with humiliation and hurt. She knew her skin must be scarlet as an aravel. But she had her pride. Fine. Let him see that his words stung. But let him see too that she still stood firm before him, that she wouldn't back down.

Even if his words echoed in her ears.

Wolves mate with wolves.

Ma halla.

"And what does that make Evin?" she asked in a tight-throated whisper, not quite as defiant as she might have hoped.

"Evin is entirely above you," Fen'Harel said as though he believed that with an immortal's certainty. "She is above even your understanding."

Of course. Of course she was.

The unreachable star.

Hal'lasean hadn't felt so low, so small in a very long time.

He took a step back, then another, and once again raked his eyes along her nude body, but where before there had been some measure of appreciation, now it was like a god who found the gifts on his altar severely wanting.

"I can admire the aesthetic," he decided haughtily, "but did you think I could truly find you attractive? Your Wolf will grow bored of the hunt, little halla. You are beneath him."

Her heart was pounding furiously in her ears, her pulse racing hot through her veins. Her fingers trembled by her sides and her chest ached with each new barb, but Hal found herself lifting her chin instead, quirking her brow and one corner of her lips.

"I am beneath him," she purred, "except when I'm on top." A last, desperate attempt to maintain some dignity. Some control.

He laughed, a cold thing that didn't reach his eyes. "Is that how you ensnared him? It must be. Your only assets are the Mark and what's between your legs."

Hal'lasean dragged back a shaking fist and slammed it into the side of Fen'Harel's face.

Power surged between them at the contact -- the Anchor and orb mixing explosively with this other Wolf's magic -- so volatile, so heated when it burst across them that he was driven to a knee. She stumbled back into the water with the force of it.

She had no intention of lingering, but was too proud to flee. So she got her bearings and sauntered naked past him to collect her things.

"Bastard Wolf," she told him, but it was hurt that came through instead of anger. And she let it. "I was going to apologize for how I acted the last time we met. You've made that unnecessary. Ma serannas, Trickster."

Hal would dress when he could no longer see her. She could cry then too. For now, she made damned sure he got to enjoy the view of all her many assets as she walked away.

On a ledge high above the waterfall where Hal'la and the Trickster sparred, a Seer lifted her head from her folded arms. She'd seen enough--but not all. Enough to feel her heart split like wood beneath an axe.

"He didn't, he didn't," she whispered.

Except he had.

All the vicious things he'd said when they were alone, and now this. It felt like she was spinning, unraveling, trying to pull together what fate made fall apart.

Why would you even look at her? You were supposed to only be mine.

Evin began to sob.

Chapter Text

Water sliced down from the cliff face in straight bands, silver filaments that crashed to the pool below. Fen'Harel stared at the waterfall without seeing it, only the wretched hurt in that woman's face. A dangerous Trick to play. What he thought at first was mischief had turned darker, stained black with his own anger and resentment.

What drove him to say such terrible things? Hal'lasean Lavellan was nothing to him—it lowered him to treat her with contempt. If anything he owed her deference as the woman his counterpart had chosen, even if he could not fathom why. Perhaps his bond with Evin blinded him to her charms, whatever they were.

The bond he felt even now.

What we had was real. He'd told Evin that before he left, knowing how inadequate the words would always be, but hoping in some fashion she would understand.

It had never been real for her. Not even a shadow. Only the shadow of what he thought she felt.

He had seen Evin up close. He knew how convincing she could be. He had watched with awe as she coaxed coins from misers, kingdoms from conquerors. Even the Dread Wolf's heart.

The bond tied him to her—but not the reverse.

He had misjudged her. It was not the first time he had made such a mistake. It was not the first time he had left a broken piece of himself behind. The thought she had manipulated his affection so easily filled him with anguish and despair. She would never understand what she made him feel, and it was better that she didn't—though it tore at him like a mortal wound.

He reached down to pick up his shirt, already wet from splashed droplets, and looking back toward the ravine's edge—saw Evin.

The Inquisitor—his Inquisitor—staring at him like he wore the Wolf. Horrified. Shocked. Her eyes were bloodshot. Had she been crying? The precarious chaos in her aura—

"How could you?" she whispered.

Fenedhis, he thought.

"What did you see?" he asked.

"I saw enough," she said.

Hal'lasean? Then Evin had seen their conversation? Was she jealous? Why did she even care? Shouldn't she pretend she didn't know—soothe his anger, take his side against the rude Hal'la? Wasn't that who Evin Lavellan was?

"It was a trick," he said, "no more than that."

"Is that why you removed your clothes?" she said, her voice full of bitter hurt. "Would you have touched her? How far would this trick have gone?"

The pain in her face looked so genuine, as honest as what he felt for her. When had she ever revealed such a side of herself to him? With Evin it was always confidence and calm, the perfect word at the perfect time. To see her like this—undone, unmade—it astonished him. Frightened him.

He pulled his damp tunic over his head and closed in with her. "Nothing like that," he said. "I should not have—"

"Then you were cruel to her for no reason but spite? Did you know that Hal'la's pregnant?"

"What?" He felt shocked—his counterpart had not mentioned that, though perhaps he refrained out of an abundance of caution. That woman's strange energy— "Evin, is that true?"

"If you had deceived her, what would you have done? Should I recount the possible futures? What made you hate her so much?" Evin paused—her face tensed with sudden realization. "It's me. Because I made you stay. I'm the one you hate."

That deadly shudder in her aura—that delicate, dangerous chord—please, no, Evin, he thought. Do not try to decide now.

"I don't want you to hate me," she said.

"I cannot hate you," he told her desperately. The literal truth.

"Then why did you say such things?" She crumpled up, sinking to her knees, as tears ran from her eyes. She bent over and suddenly retched. He reached for her—she knocked his hand away without even looking at it. "That's why. That's it. How I wish I didn't care. What I wouldn't give—"

The field began to split. The signature of her strange magic—like a tone pitched just above the point of hearing, something felt more in the bones than heard. A crescendoing vibration that could tear a soul to shreds. There were excellent reasons certain branches of magic remained unexplored. Those without a god's perception would find the paths unstable. Now he had to put her back together before she split apart. But how could that be accomplished?

If only he had her foresight.

He could not undo what he had done. But he could come close.

Fen'Harel hooked his arms around her waist and pulled her to her feet. She still did not look up. Her face and skin, the luminous tint of her aura, the strange keening taste of her magic growing ever more exotic.

He pressed two fingers to the place between her eyes. "Forget," he said.

Evin's face cleared—or rather, returned to the heartbroken expression of a few moments ago. She pushed away from him as though uncertain what had happened, but not curious enough to wonder.

"How far would this trick have gone?" she repeated angrily.

He forced coldness over his face and into his eyes. "I tested her," he said. "She passed. Did you think I meant something by it? Do you imagine I could ever have feelings for a mortal like her?"

"You couldn't... have feelings for a mortal," Evin said slowly.

Fenedhis. If it happened again—. It was not safe to use the charm again so quickly. If he put her to sleep, his counterpart might notice and ask, and that would not do. He must salvage as best he could. He must trust that she would not explore this path again, that it would be too painful to ever reexamine.

"Do not question me, vhenan. I am this world's Trickster and I will play my role."

"Cruel tricks, heartless lies," she said. "Do you care for me at all?"

"I love you and no other."

"Is that so? You should apologize to her."

"For what reason?"

"Then forget it," she snapped.

He reached for her despite himself, to dispel some of the distance in her face—and she backed away.

"Don't touch me again," she said. And left.

Chapter Text

Hal'lasean had never been ashamed of her body. The Dalish -- or at least her clan -- had little privacy from one another. She had grown up swimming and bathing nude among her peers.

Bodies, she was taught, were natural, beautiful things. Gifts from the Creators, made just as they should be. A thing her Keeper had told her often when the other Lavellan children eclipsed her in height and brawn.

And she was pretty. She knew that, had been told so all her life, a pretty child, a pretty girl, a pretty young woman.

This other Fen'Harel had undone a lifetime of being comfortable in her skin with one unkind sneer. Because he was Elvhen and she had been taught to aspire to be like them. Because he was a Creator and she had been taught to obey and honor them in all things. But mostly because he wore the face and used the voice of the one she most loved, on whose love she was most dependent.

And because he had spoken to her deepest fears. Unwanted. Unloved. Unworthy.

She knew, she knew that what he said was not all true. Not entirely. Her Wolf loved her. He loved her. And she need only lift a suggestive brow for assurances of his desire for her.

But inside...some dark, secret place inside where the light of love still had not managed to reach, Hal'lasean believed each and every word the other Wolf had said.

It was there she dwelt now, tucked in a shaded alcove not far from the pool where she'd left the wrong Fen'Harel but out of the way of the path back to camp.

The very last thing she wanted was to see him again so soon.

She never thought she'd be reluctant to see that face.

Hal had dressed to cover her shame and sat cross-legged under an extended rock shelf, feeling small and struggling with the hot, horrible years that spilled down her flushed cheeks despite her best effort. In her hand she clutched the necklace her Wolf had given her, feeling the intricate twists of it when she needed reminding that the Wolf she loved thought her a halla and not another wolf.

It was a delicate thing on a silver chain: a piece of pale halla horn carved by Dalish hands into the intricate twists from which it had been taken. An elven design not unlike Ghilan'nain's vallaslin, which he disliked, but made by her people, which she loved. At its heart hung a bloodstone wolf's fang, taken from the snood he had woven expertly into her braids at Halamshiral. A blessing for cunning in the Game from the Dread Wolf himself, though she hadn't known it at the time.

It was in this state that Evin found her.

Hal quickly dried her tears, shoving her palms roughly across her face to hide the evidence. But of course it was too late. So now she heated in humiliation for that as well.

“I told him to apologize.”

Hal'lasean laughed, more to disguise her discomfort and vulnerability than because she found any mirth in the situation. "So he humiliated me and then immediately told you all about it? Or did you see it in your branches?"

“I told him to apologize but he won’t," continued Evin with all the warmth of a brusque autumn wind. Distant. "So I came here to say it. I didn’t see everything that happened. And I am sorry--he shouldn’t have done that. It’s my fault.”

Hal's eyes widened as she scoffed, too raw to attempt to laugh again lest it start her crying. "How could that possibly be your fault? I'm the one who antagonized him when we were switched. I'm the fool who didn't make certain which Wolf I had before me. I should have-- I shouldn't have--"

Evin's brow knit, the tiniest crease. If her aloofness was the first sign of her distress, this was the second. Hal'lasean knew these tells well; it was the same with her Solas before they were lovers, the same desperate mask. But Hal was hurting too much to feel particularly sympathetic.

“I don’t know everything he said--but I do know I’ve never seen him be so cruel," Evin said quietly.

"Should I feel honored then?"

Hal was snapping at the wrong person and for a moment she didn't care. For a moment. And then...

"You didn’t deserve it. He lashed out at you when he shouldn’t have. He’s angry at me.”

Hal'lasean never wanted to make anyone feel the way she did in that pool, naked before a man who was not the one she loved. Her anger cracked; insecurity and pain poured through.

"If he's angry at you, he's terrible at expressing it. He said you're above me. Above even my understanding." She laughed again, trembling and self-effacing. "Even Cole said so; it must be true."

And with Hal'lasean's composure, so went Evin's. The other Inquisitor was struggling hard to stay calm, to keep the mask in place, but as one woman became vulnerable so did the other.

“Should I tell you what he said to me?" asked Evin with the same tightly-strung, sharp note Hal had just abandoned. "We had sex inside the temple. He said I only did it to keep him here. That it was the easiest way I found in the branches. He thinks it was all… a plan."

Evin hesitated, shook her head. Turned her attention back to Hal, more earnestly this time. "I don’t think he put much thought into whatever he said to you. I hope he didn’t. I wish you wouldn’t pay attention to it--just imagine it was the snarling of an angry wolf.”

A large part of Hal didn't want to feel better. It wanted to stay in the damp, dark place inside where things were terrible and she was worthless, but it was safe. It was familiar. If she stayed in that place, if she never thought anything of herself, if she never dared hope or climb higher, she'd never fall. Never get hurt. Never find out that in the end, there was nothing to the Dalish foundling and everyone had always known it but her.

But that was never who Hal'lasean was. She couldn't always help her own pain, but the pain of others...she saw it so clearly, could be there to witness it and help them through it. And she could not do so from that wretched hole between spirit and darkness.

And perhaps because of her branches, her foresight, or perhaps because of that Fate Hal had considered only the night before that put two lonely Inquisitors together, Evin managed to say precisely the right thing.

"Are you just saying that because you can see it's what calms me fastest or because you actually believe it?" she asked, her throat tight.

Evin looked genuinely hurt by the question. "Why can't it be both?"

The snarling of an angry wolf.

He attacked her because she was near, because she was easy. Who else was he going to go after? The woman he loved, whose foresight made her dangerous and difficult? Her Fen'Harel, a mage so powerful he was worshipped as a god and a man with his same face? Or Hal'lasean, the Dalish girl who had prodded rudely at his bruised pain and fears because she knew he kept secrets and could not stand to see them in his eyes instead of love.

She was no mage. She was not someone who meant something to him. She could not know his future actions or how to play him. She was the perfect target for his ire.

The turbulence in her chest calmed some; Hal'lasean breathed in slowly and began to wipe her tears for good.

"I suppose that explains why he accused me of...'ensnaring' my Fen'Harel," she sighed wearily. Bitterly. "Apparently my only assets are the Mark and what's between my legs."

“My assets never stopped him from leaving before. I don’t know why now is different," said Evin, her own voice thick and honed with heartbreak. And then, suddenly...it was gone. Evin cut herself off from all feeling. "What a confusing man.”

All at once Hal'lasean felt incredibly selfish. What were some unkind words from a stranger compared to a woman whose lover had used her and spurned her? Hal's heart ached for her new companion.

"Evin, are you…are you all right?"

But Evin was determined to be nothing but Inquisitor now. “All is well. He stays, he’ll help, that’s all that matters.”

How did one reach the woman through the branches?

"Stop, Evin!" Hal'lasean insisted passionately. "That's not all that matters! I don't care about all; I care about you. How are you doing?"

And she left her face open and honest and raw for Evin so that it would be harder for the other woman to hide behind her mask. So that she could be sure Evin saw the care and compassion in her expression, the sympathy in her eyes.

The mask shifted, cracked just enough so that Hal could see Evin beneath -- Evin the person, the woman, with feelings and fears and no more control over what happened to her or the world than anyone else. Evin groped suddenly for the cord around her neck as if it were choking her, as if it burned her skin, dragged its pendant from her tunic, and ripped the whole necklace from her throat with a violent jerk.

“I don’t suppose you have one of these, too?” Evin’s hurt made it an accusation.

Hal’s chest constricted in empathy. Evin’s necklace was a simple thing: a ribbon of silk with a silver shape molded in wire. If the other woman meant to ask if she had that exact necklace, the answer was a definite no, but perhaps she only meant to ask if there was a necklace at all. A necklace from Fen’Harel. From Solas.

"I have this," Hal admitted softly, almost apologetically, and opened her hand to show Evin her halla horn and bloodstone gift. Her Wolf’s way of apologizing for a fight over the Dalish years ago when their love was new.

But Evin didn’t seem to see it. Or perhaps didn’t care to see that it wasn’t the same. “There must be a hundred Lavellans with one--enough to make a strand of stars on a string.”

“A star?” Hal’lasean echoed in alarm. She looked more closely at the pendant dangling from Evin’s trembling hand and bit off a bitter laugh. “Of course. Of course it would be. The halla and the star. Always.” She hesitated then, softening. “He gave you yours?”

“I wish I’d known enough not to accept it,” Evin confessed, her mask slipping further. For a moment it seemed she might start to cry, but instead she clenched her fist around her necklace and dashed it to the ground between them.

She changed again, quite as abruptly as before, like a gate being barred between Evin’s emotions and the world. Or perhaps between Evin and her emotions. She was only determined now. “I have to forget. I can’t think about it now. Or I’ll--vanish into my room for a week. We can’t afford that. I’ll find the world--I promise.”

As though it were only Evin’s responsibility. As though it were all on Evin’s shoulders. How lonely she must be! How heavily the future must rest on her shoulders!

"Oh, Evin,” blurted Hal, bursting with feeling for the other woman, “but not alone. You're not alone anymore. You don't have to do everything yourself. We're all in this together!"

Her gaze fell then to the shining star in the dirt by her feet. Hal leaned forward, leaving the safety of her little cliff nook to pick it up and brush it off, to delicately feel its weight on her palm and its imperfections against her fingertips.

"My Keeper used to say there was power in a gift,” Hal said quietly as she studied the necklace. “Like a moment in time, sealed up in a trinket.”

When Evin didn’t seem interested in retrieving her pendant, Hal’lasean closed it in her hand with her own necklace. There would come a time when her companion might wish she hadn’t thrown it away. Until then, Hal would keep it safe for her.

She turned her gaze firmly up to Evin’s, searching the other woman’s face for another weakness in the mask. “He does love you, Evin, for whatever that's worth. He certainly thinks highly of you. Our necklaces aren't the same. Our Wolves aren't the same. And if there were a hundred Lavellans in a hundred worlds and each had a necklace just like yours, they would still all be different. Unique. He's angry, but he loves you."

Evin looked away quickly, at the sky, the shrubs, anywhere but at Hal’lasean. And then she took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, braced herself, and finally met Hal’s eyes once more. “Your Fen’Harel loves you, Hal’la. Rely on that. Lean on it.” She paused, smiled just a little. “Mine’s a dick.”

The two women took each other in for a moment, smirking at one another. Something about Evin relaxed ever so slightly.

“Maybe I should make him apologize to you?” Evin wondered. She shook her head. “No, I shouldn’t. I don’t even want to see him in the branches. He’s on his own.”

Hal smiled her wan gratitude. "I don't want a forced apology. I doubt I'd believe him anyway.” Her smile went askew. “I guess now we know why they're called the Tricksters."

“Oh, he’d think it was his idea…” Evin said with a distant, devious smile. “But if you don’t want it, fine.”

Hal’lasean laughed then, her brows lifted with impressed amusement. "You can be a little scary sometimes, Evin,” she teased. “You know that?"

Evin blushed and ducked her head, but her smile was more present now. More woman and less Inquisitor. “I guess he noticed that too.”

"They're Dread Wolves,” said Hal knowingly, letting her crooked smile turn into a mischievous grin. “They're turned on by scary. They just don't always realize it right away."

A spark of inspiration caught Hal’s attention then, a plan beginning to form. Payback against the Trickster.

She gave Evin a distant, devious smile of her own. “They need their tails pulled sometimes. As a reminder. Don’t you think?"

Chapter Text

The first thing Fen'Harel noticed was that Hal'lasean was not, in fact, resting, as he had strongly suggested she do. Her hair was dripping loose and soaked down the back of her tunic, liquid silver and stunning in the setting desert sun.

So she had bathed, or at least gone for a swim, and at some point after that must have decided to fish. He had watched her do so on countless occasions, wading into water sometimes up to her shoulders and standing perfectly still until a trout or a catfish she'd spotted happened between her waiting hands. It was always an impressive feat and had fed their party on the road countless times.

She crouched low by the campfire, legs wide to keep her steady, bare toes digging into the dirt. There were six fish in all -- large for perch -- and the scent of cooking filets and the herbs she had massaged into the flesh was mouth-watering.

His Hal'la had rarely looked more intensely Dalish than she did in this moment. She was missing only her vallaslin. And though he might have scoffed once at the idea he could love something that embodied so much of a group he had come to disdain, he was no longer surprised at how fiercely he loved her like this. His wild Dalish halla.

The second thing he noticed, and only when he drew closer to her, was the uncharacteristic melancholy of his magic in her blood. His Hal'la was a spirited woman even when the world seemed darkest. He was accustomed now to the jubilant chatter of her magic with his when they were together. But at the moment it was quiet. Reticent. Withdrawn.

"I believe you were told to rest," he teased, eager to earn one of her wry smiles.

She flinched.

It was so subtle most might have missed it, but to him it was unmistakable.

"Are you well?" he asked, coming to sit on the ground beside her. "Ma halla?"

She flinched again. Away from him.

"Are you angry with me?" Fen'Harel asked, bewildered. "What have I done? Look at me, Hal'la."

"Nothing," she told her feet. She did not meet his gaze. "You haven't done anything. Everything's fine."

He narrowed his eyes at her in disbelief. He was beginning to formulate a theory. He need only test it.

Fen'Harel touched the sleek slope of her ear. The barest, sensual brush of his fingers. She stayed carefully put as though she expected something like this. A tame doe turned suddenly skittish. Her magic reached for him, as it always did, drawn to its source, its twin. It reached for him. She did not.

"Tell me," he beseeched, his voice soft and pained.

Finally, finally, she lifted uncertain teal eyes to meet his concerned grey-blue. "What do I call the necklace you had made for me?"

"What?"

"Please. Just tell me."

And then he knew. The other Fen'Harel. A protective fire blazed suddenly in the cage of his ribs.

"What did he do."

Her cheeks turned pink. She shook her head. "Tell me."

Fen'Harel let his fingers ghost along the line of her jaw, down the supple curve of her neck, to the place where the chain rested against her skin.

"You call it your Dalish Apology," he murmured, and she relaxed, sinking down to lean against him. But she was troubled still. Hesitant still. Wounded.

He draped his arms around her to pull her to him. "What did he do."

Her features darkened, vulnerable one moment then hardened the next. When she met his gaze again, there was a glint of the predator in her eyes. "Don't worry about it. I have it handled."

Hal'la leaned forward to pull the various filets from the fire, resting them instead on a flat, warm stone nearby.

"It smells delicious," Fen'Harel said. He punctuated it with a kiss to her cheek, and then, to his immense relief, she turned toward him to seek another. It was a tentative mingling of their lips, the briefest meeting of tongues. But it was something.

It would have to do for now.

When they parted, he reached to pull off a piece of the fish nearest her with magic-cooled fingers.

She popped his hand.

"Not that one," she told him, and while she still did not smile, that predatory glint became a cold, impish gleam. "That one's for him."

Fen'Harel's eyes widened in horror. "Hal'lasean Lavellan, what are you plotting."

Her gaze met his in stubborn challenge. "Nothing he doesn't deserve."

"It is a dangerous thing to trick the Trickster,” he said, studying his lover with careful appraisal.

"Yes, you're both very terrible, very scary.” She rolled her eyes. “And if I succeed, my people will tell stories of me for generations."

"I imagine that is already the case, vhenan," he said gently. Then he gave her a sly smile. "Though what they will say of you when they learn you carry the Trickster's child..."

He slipped his hand beneath her tunic before she could object, curving long fingers over the minute swell of her womb. Fen'Harel curled his body toward hers, nuzzling playfully into the hollow of her neck, tickling her sensitive skin with nose and lips, tongue and teeth. Her magic responded first, fluttering into life, and then Hal'lasean was laughing, light and shy and sweet to his ears as bird song. He kissed the vulnerable flesh of her throat to encourage her revival.

"Ma Fen," she whispered with sudden need, with such intensity of feeling that he looked up to see her insecurity etched on her pale face. "Do you love me?"

Fen'Harel stroked his thumb across her belly and drew his free hand under her wet hair to cup the back of her neck so he could ensure she saw how very sincerely he meant what he was about to say. "Ar lath ma, Hal'la. Ar lath ma, uth."

It was then that the other Wolf arrived, coming from a path that led to the oasis falls, his face an impassive mask that Fen'Harel himself wore as familiarly as the jaw bone around his neck. He stopped just short of the clearing dedicated to the fire and the preparation of food, his brow low with turbulent thought, his gaze fixed on Fen'Harel's hand beneath Hal'lasean's shirt.

His hand on their child.

One Wolf's eyes met the other's. For a moment, neither blinked. Fen'Harel slipped his hand down to Hal'la's thigh instead, where it found her fingers and laced with them. The other man turned to look behind him.

Evin came up the path as well, her expression as unreadable as her Wolf's. They stood apart from one another and Evin seemed intent on ignoring her mate. Fen'Harel studied the two of them. Then Hal'lasean and his counterpart. Then Evin and Hal'lasean. Something had happened. Something had changed and he was the only one who was not privy.

His mood darkened. Hal'la squeezed his hand. And then she smiled. Sweetly. Earnestly. At the other Wolf. At Evin. As though nothing at all were wrong. As though they were all close friends.

"You're just in time. I hope you like fish."

Chapter Text

“You made dinner?” asked the other Wolf in surprise. “You went fishing?”

Hal’lasean laughed, easy as a warm summer dream. A little hint of bravado. “Of course. I know you didn’t forget I’m Dalish. How do you think we feed ourselves?”

His counterpart’s eyes narrowed as he puzzled something out, and as he did Hal’lasean met his gaze with an amiable, cheerful smile. Something unspoken passed between them while Fen’Harel and Evin watched, and then the other Wolf smiled -- a decisive thing -- and seated himself on the other side of the fire.

Only Evin was left standing.

“We need plates,” said this world’s Inquisitor.

Fen’Harel and Hal’lasean exchanged an amused look. When Dorian had first joined the Inquisition and come on the road with them, he had been shocked and appalled when the others had eaten fish off rocks with their bare hands. He had insisted in the future on packing a plate and an absurd assortment of utensils with him on all trips to the field.

“If you like,” said Hal’la.

The other Wolf was already standing up again. “I’ll get--”

“No,” said Evin icily. “I’ll get them. You...sit. Stay.”

Her Wolf was so surprised he did precisely as he was told. Evin turned on her heel and walked brusquely to the commander’s tent.

Fen’Harel very carefully did not laugh. “Good boy.”

“Shut up.” The other Fen’Harel scowled.

“Don’t be so smug, ma Fen,” Hal’la teased, “Or I’ll tell him how I tamed the Wolf.”

Images of their passionate lovemaking in the Fade the night she’d told him she carried his child burst unbidden but not unpleasantly into the forefront of his mind. Her arching body in the Fadelight, the agony of vulnerability as he finally gave over control, perhaps for the first time in his long life.

He could feel his cheeks heating. The other Wolf must have noticed because his brow lifted slowly and his lips were pursed with the effort of not smirking.

Evin returned then, four plates and four forks in hand, as well as--

“Jam?” Hal’lasean laughed. “With fish?”

“Says the woman who wanted pickled radishes with her hot chocolate,” sniffed Evin as she sat back down, closer to Hal’la than to her Fen’Harel.

“Yes,” Hal’la laughed, “but I’m--” She stopped suddenly, realizing her folly, and glanced to her lover for help.

“With child,” the other Wolf finished for her. “Yes, I know.”

The expectant couple turned to regard him with surprise. Most of the signs of Hal'la's pregnancy had disappeared in this world. But the man was thoroughly nonchalant, as though it should have gone without saying. And more than just a little smug.

“But my ears-- How did you…?” asked Hal’lasean.

He smiled at her, almost disconcerting in how light and casual the gesture was. “It is obvious to one who knows the signs.”

“Hal’la,” said Evin grimly, passing the other woman the plates and utensils. She said nothing else, but Fen’Harel watched as Hal’lasean took in the concentrated cool of her counterpart, deduced her discomfort, and took the plates.

And then, as his clever halla was unhurriedly placing filets on flatware and passing them to their intended recipients -- or, in his analogue’s case, victim -- she artfully changed the subject, both for Evin’s benefit and to distract her target.

“If we’re to be traveling together, we’re going to have to find something else to call the two of you. If you’re both Fen’Harel, it’s going to get very confusing very quickly. So before Evin and I choose for you, I thought I’d give you the opportunity to speak to your preferences.” Hal’la beamed at both Wolves, leaned back against Fen’Harel, and began to pick at her fish.

“You’re assuming we will be traveling with each other for a while,” said the other Elvhen. “Why is that?”

The look Hal’lasean leveled at this world’s Trickster was flat but wry. “The branches of our trees are burning. Or they will be soon enough. The Arche has been used and it wasn’t in this world. So either we sit around and do nothing and watch as our futures slowly disappear or we go there and do something about it. No one here is under the impression you won’t be joining us, Dread Wolf. Not even you.”

He lifted his brows -- impressed or annoyed, it was difficult to tell even for his twin -- and drew in a breath. “I cannot set my burden aside...but I agree, little Hal’la. It seems we will be stuck with one another for a while.”

“We should stay here and rest a few days as well,” said Evin. “It will take me at least that long to figure out where we need to go.”

Hal’la grinned. “So. One or both of you will need to change.”

The two Dread Wolves regarded each other with quiet challenge, each waiting for the other to volunteer an alternative name first.

“I was born with this name,” declared his counterpart in a tone that would allow for no debate. “I will not change it.”

“And yet you were Solas, were you not?” countered Fen’Harel irritably. He had a sneaking suspicion he had already lost this argument.

“Purely out of necessity.”

Fen’Harel’s lip curled with distaste and he stalled his inevitable surrender by taking a few bites of his fish. The taste was as delectable as its scent, especially after a day’s travel with nothing but dried fruit and biscuits to fill his stomach.

Hal’lasean smiled at him, hopeful and questioning. And he was lost.

“Very well,” he sighed. “I was born Fen’Hellan. You may...call me that.”

“Noble Wolf?” translated his stunned counterpart.

He cleared his throat. “I was not Harel until I was a young man. It was a moniker given to me when I proved myself on the field of battle.”

“Ma Fen,” murmured Hal’lasean from beside him, looking up with large turquoise eyes so that he knew immediately she was about to ask for a further favor. “May we call you Hellan? It will be less confusing.”

“And you will be Solas.” The two Wolves and the halla snapped their attention to Evin, who had been quiet with her jam and fish until now. She was staring imperiously at her Wolf. “You were Solas. You are Solas. Until I say.”

“Evin--”

“Until I say.”

The tension between them was tangible, brittle as cheap glass and just as sharp. Evin returned her focus to her meal the moment she was certain he would not argue again, but the other Fen’Harel -- Solas now, apparently -- stared at her for some time following the exchange.

The only sound then was the scrape of pewter forks on pewter plates. Eventually even Solas tucked into his fish, separating a large chunk with the side of his fork. Hal’lasean did not so much as glance his way.

“The fish is delicious, Hal’la,” said Evin, as though she had not just ordered the man she loved to change his name. “What herbs did you use?”

Hal’la smiled sweetly. “Thank you! Vandal aria and rosemary. I couldn’t find any pepper in the supplies.”

Solas put the first bite of his fish into his mouth and was already chewing when Evin gave a distant smile in return. “No, I don’t mean these. I mean Solas’. What herbs did you use in his?”

Hal’lasean blanched. Solas promptly spit his fish into the fire. He was unmasked fury when he gave Hal’la the full force of his glowering gaze. To her credit, she smiled.

“Oh, his. Vandal aria, rosemary, and just a touch…” That gleam returned to her eyes, aimed precisely at the irate Wolf across the fire. “...Of dragonthorn.”

Dragonthorn. The juice of just a few berries could reduce a Qunari's bowels to quivering faucets.

Solas’ eyes widened. With one swift motion he tipped his plate and dumped the remaining fish into the coals to be swallowed up by licking flames.

Fen'Harel began to laugh. It started as a chuckle and grew, until his abs ached and he was wiping at his eyes. Evin simply continued to eat from her jar of jam.

It must have been her unruffled silence that drew Solas’ ire. He whipped around to accuse Evin with a gaze of suspicious fury. “Were you in on this as well!”

Evin’s eyes narrowed at her spoon, but she made no move to respond. Perhaps she knew already that Hal’lasean would speak for her.

“Oh no, Dread Wolf,” she said with triumphant challenge in her teal eyes, “I won’t share credit where it isn’t due. This victory is all mine. Is it so hard to admit that one crude little halla could catch you unawares?”

He fumed at her now instead of Evin, which seemed to be precisely what Hal’la was after. And when she had all of his attention...she laughed. Genuinely laughed. And offered him her plate.

“Here. The rest are safe, Trickster. I swear it.”

Solas scowled at her in suspicion, which only made Fen'Harel laugh harder, but as he accepted the new plate, something shifted behind his anger. Something Fen'Harel knew all too well from his own life with Hal'lasean Lavellan.

The Dread Wolf was intrigued.

"I suppose I should be grateful you let it go as far as it did before you outed me," sighed Hal'lasean when the man they were now referring to as Solas had stalked away with his dinner to eat alone.

"He deserved worse," said Evin coolly.

"What did he do?" Fen'Harel asked again, touching Hal's elbow.

She gave him as brave a smile as she could muster -- honest about her hurt without falling back into it -- and clasped her fingers over his. "It doesn't matter now. I'd rather just pretend it never happened."

He opened his mouth to protest, but Evin interrupted: "You should know...we found the Arche's target." She hesitated, watching both their faces carefully, no doubt trying to decipher which branch of reactions they were likely to choose. "The Arche was used against the Inquisitor in that other world. That's why the tree is dying. That's why the branches are burning."

She was so matter-of-fact that it took Hal some time to even realize what she was saying.

The Inquisitor.

Beside her, Fen'Harel had gone deadly still, deathly pale. His fingers gripped hard on her arm as though he might keep her beside him, protect her through sheer physical strength.

Hal just felt numb. Empty and numb. After everything. After all she'd been through, all they'd done. She was just going to...disappear? As if she never existed, as if...

Her Wolf would lose her and he would never even know it.

"Hal'lasean..." murmured Fen'Harel worriedly.

She forced a half-smile. The kind she always used when she thought she might be about to die. "It's hardly the first time someone's tried to erase me from time. Is it too much to ask for a little originality?"

"I'm sorry," said Evin. Then, "Ir abelas."

She stood and left. Fen'Harel and Hal'lasean sat alone together by the fire, but neither of them felt particularly warmed.

Chapter Text

Fen'Harel wanted his name back.

He was not Solas. He had never been Solas. Solas was a mask he’d worn, a truer mask than some of the others, but false for all that, a fake life and identity shrouded in half-truths. Why had Evin Lavellan insisted on that name? Did she try to make some point? He was Pride, among other things—he could not deny it. Perhaps she simply intended to punish him.

Along with his name Fen'Harel wanted back the last six hours of time. To redo them. Why hadn't Evin bent her mind to that type of time magic? She might have saved him a great deal of consternation.

Knowing he was half out of his mind with longing and remorse did not make it any easier to concentrate on the improvements to the wards. Yet it was necessary work if they were all going to remain here in the Forbidden Oasis for several days.

Another terrible idea. Hal'lasean should not... his counterpart would not wish... a cursed temple in a desert was not a fitting place for a pregnant woman.

Fen'Harel's mind careened from one subject to another like a hummingbird unable to select a flower. Bobbing, hovering, never settling on one or the other.

Evin. Hal'lasean. His duty. The Arche. The... Four of Cups.

Fenedhis.

Oh, look. His identical twin. How wonderful. Fen'Harel stood up from his work to watch the man approach.

The other Dread Wolf picked his way between red outcroppings of rock, his wrapped feet brushing gravel and sand behind him. The early evening stirred around them, sand crickets and desert bats under the deepening sky.

"I thought I would offer my assistance," his opposite said.

"Hellan," he said. Greeting him.

"Solas," the other man replied.

A muscle twitched in Fen'Harel's jaw—which surely his counterpart noticed. Fen'Harel looked down at the partially-reworked ward. "This is not enough to protect the camp," he said.

"Are things as dire as that?" Hellan asked.

"There are those who hunt the Wolf. It would be wiser not to linger. Yet if Evin says we ought to stay, I know I will not dissuade her."

"I detected some tension between you. But I am much more interested in what transpired between yourself and Hal'lasean," Hellan said.

Of course the man would ask. As Fen'Harel would ask, had something happened with Evin. Would he have been this calm? He doubted it. Without the Fen'edal it was harder to stay balanced. But he could not blame his unseemly behavior on its absence.

"I am ashamed to think on it now. Had I known—." Fen'Harel shook his head, angry at himself. "What I told her was unkind. It seems a pattern for me. I will refrain in the future. You have my word, for whatever you think that is worth."

"Hal'la may not be inclined to let the matter drop," Hellan warned, though for his part he seemed prepared to leave it there.

Well, the woman had some fire in her. Fen'Harel nodded at the rune inscribed on the cliff face. "If it were only me, I must be satisfied with renewing it, re-inscribing the original conjuration. But with both of us—"

"You wish to add something to the existing ward? Obscurity? Or equilibrium?"

It was... enjoyable to speak to someone who had the same degree of understanding. A rare pleasure. "Both, I thought," he said. "Perhaps a pair of counterbalanced glyphs. If you think it possible."

"With the orb, perhaps—" Hellan said slowly.

"Oh, you need not go and fetch her," Fen'Harel said. "I have an orb as well. Not as good but it should suffice."

"Then you know what Hal'la is," the other man said, lifting his head warily.

Was he suspicious? If their positions had been reversed—

He must keep his secrets a little better than his counterpart.

"I know she is with child. And that we need to keep her safe." Fen'Harel hesitated, then shook his head and proceeded. "Forgive me for asking this. You said you were born Fen'Hellan. I can only guess how else we differ. You mentioned the marriage bond on your world, and it sounded as though—. Is this your first child?"

"It will be my first—with Hal'la or any other," Hellan said. "Are you saying—"

Fen'Harel felt the ancient emotions stirring, and spoke quickly to move past them. He focused his eyes on the ward-rune. "Long ago for me, there was a child. A woman who said she loved me. Perhaps she did, for a time. Bonds can be broken. Among other things."

"And the child?"

"Did not survive." He felt himself grimacing. "She was not yet two years old. The games of the gods are not gentle."

"Fenedhis."

Fen'Harel did not look at him. He had no desire to see pain reflected in his own face, or worse, indifference, a lesser degree of hurt. "I would not wish such a thing on anyone. Especially myself," he said with bitter sarcasm.

"What of the woman? Will you tell me her name?"

"After she tired of me she got a new one. Perhaps you know her? They call her Ghilan'nain."

"I think the Ghilan'nain on my world is a very different being," Hellan said.

"These fascinating differences," Fen'Harel said, retreating once more into the safety of sarcasm. "The reason I mention it at all is because I would have given anything—. I would have done anything to protect them. And I have observed some hints of enervation where Hal'lasean is concerned. Fatigue, perhaps? Or strain? I did not appreciate it at first... but perhaps you are already aware of it."

A spark of anger lit his counterpart's eyes. "Hal'lasean insists on pushing herself. She promised she would rest. Instead she foraged for our meal! Opening the world rift took a great deal of power. The entire journey here she was exhausted. She needs to rest."

Fen'Harel considered, yet now he had reached the point there was no reason to desist. "I hesitate to suggest this. The burning world that Evin seeks—a world in which an enemy succeeded in stealing and using the Arche. I cannot imagine the disaster that must have befallen for those circumstances to take place. If the Arche's target was the Inquisitor, as we surmise, I wonder what will happen if we reintroduce an Inquisitor to that world."

"The fire continues to burn.... The Arche's enchantment is not yet completed. You think an Inquisitor brought to that world might cease to exist?"

"It seems possible."

"Fenedhis," Hellan said. "We must study this carefully. I can think of other possibilities, but it must be ruled out."

"Even so I cannot believe it would be a good place to take a woman in a delicate condition. If it were me, I would not permit it."

Hellan snorted a laugh. "Have you seen my Hal'la? She does not 'permit' anything. If I could have prevented her from entering this world I would have, and I knew a friendly Inquisitor would be here to greet us. But I do not see how I could endeavor to leave her behind."

"Then why tell her?"

Hellan met his eyes. And Fen'Harel had the unholy sensation for a moment that his thoughts traveled down identical lines. "There are no secrets between us. Not anymore. If I—. It would be a betrayal. Hal'la loathes dishonesty."

Fen'Harel inclined his head. "Honesty is an admirable trait." He lifted his eyes. "But not in the Game."

He could tell the man was tempted. And honestly, Fen'Harel thought it was an obvious decision. He did not understand Hellan's hesitation.

"Hal'la helped us open the passage between worlds. Without her..."

"I opened the first, unstable portal," Fen'Harel reminded him. "Though it was by accident. I am confident that between us we can accomplish it again. Let her open it if she wishes... she will simply not go through."

"She would never forgive me."

Surely the man must weigh that on his own, Fen’Harel thought. "Forgive me, I spoke from my own experience. You must decide on your own, knowing what is right for your family." He stared down at the reworked ward-stone. "As for me, I have never been able to forgive myself."

Hellan was silent for quite some time. Together the two men restored the barrier ward, drawing new sigils of protection over the camp below. Their only conversation concerned their immediate task, until they had nearly finished, when Hellan spoke again as though their earlier discussion had never left off.

"Do you think Evin would warn her?" Hellan asked.

Then he had already decided.

Fen'Harel gave a shrug. "Evin's gifts do not extend from one world to the next. In any event, she understands necessity."

"You would take Evin with us?"

"She is necessary," he said. And was pleased when Hellan did not ask why.

"Hal'la made several friends among Evin's companions," Hellan mused. "I think she would settle in among them without much difficulty."

"You do not have to decide now," Fen'Harel said, knowing the man had already done so. "Think on it. We have some days before we return to Skyhold."

And perhaps he would spare his counterpart a world of grief... to make up for the trouble he had caused.

Chapter Text

Fen’Harel could not yet return to Hal’lasean. He could not even go near the tent where she was supposed to be sleeping. His thoughts were in turmoil; his magic erratic. And she would know. She always did. She would look at the guilt in his eyes and say precisely the right thing and he would tell her everything and apologize and beg her forgiveness. And she would give it because he repented before the damage was done.

He would need to be a paragon of calm. He would need to craft a mask so close to his own spirit that even she could not see past it. She would know he wore it; there was no escaping that. But she would not know what he hid. He would tell her it was worry for her, anxiety about the Arche. She would believe him, but only if he played the Game better than he ever had in his life.

Tricking the Pantheon was one thing. Tricking his own heart was another entirely.

Just the thought of how she would look at him when she finally understood was enough to leave him in breathless agony.

So Fen’Harel took his time removing his armor and clothing, made a ritual out of folding it and setting it on the flat stone by the little pool he had chosen for his bath.

A pool that reminded him of Hal’la. A pool the color of her eyes. A pool in which they had made rough, passionate love nearly a year ago.

Fenedhis, was he really going through with this? Had not Hal'lasean proven herself more than capable of taking on any challenge?

But not since she carried their child. This was her first trip so far from Skyhold since that time. And what if Solas was right? What if taking her there was as good plunging the Arche into her chest himself?

And yet his counterpart had no compunctions about taking Evin. Was that the bond speaking? Or was it only because of Hal'la's condition that Solas was so eager to keep her here?

Or was it the orb?

Was he being played by the Dread Wolf? An ironic but frightening thought. If their kin were awake here, if things were so dangerous, would it not be better to send her home? What if Solas had some plan for Hal'la and by abandoning her in a strange world, Fen'Harel was handing her over?

And yet surely he knew himself well enough to be fairly certain that was not the case. Solas had been sincere in his story and his worry for Hal'lasean, or at least for their child. As long as she was pregnant, she would likely be safe from any destructive machinations on the other Wolf's part.

He must be absolutely positive, therefore, that if he did not return, she would be safe. That she could return to their world, where she belonged. Where she was loved and needed.

But how? He was a man of his word, but was Solas? What promises could he extract from his counterpart to ensure Hal'la's safety and return knowing how desperate the man was?

Calm, Fen’Harel, he told himself, taking in a measured breath and letting it out slowly through his nose. Calm or she will know.

He stepped into the cool water, waded out up to his waist, then dove beneath. And he floated. Held his breath as long as he could. Felt weightless, felt his lungs on fire, looked up at the little waterfall splashing overhead and saw the firefly specks of the stars wavering on the other side of the water’s surface, like seeing the physical world through the Veil.

To protect her, he reminded himself. To protect our child. She will understand. She will hurt and you will earn her distrust, but she will understand. What you do is for her.

And yet he kept hearing her shattered voice the morning after he first tried to walk away.

Let me make that choice! she had begged. Don't fight my battles for me. Let me choose my fate!

But she was young, so very young still, even with all her wisdom, even with the brightness of her dazzling spirit. There were so many things she did not know or understand.

And he had so little time with her as it was. Her life was like a butterfly's compared to his, beautiful and fleeting. He could not-- would not lose her now. Not Hal'lasean and not their child.

Even if she hated him for it.

And if that was selfish of him, if it was tyrannical...so be it.

When he felt his lungs might burst, Fen’Harel surfaced, gulping air greedily and wiping water from his eyes and off his scalp with one pass of his palms.

And there before him in the moonlight stood the vibrant vision he still barely believed was his. The one he would leave behind.

"Hal'la."

Chapter Text

“Hal’la,” Fen’Harel said in surprise.

Her hair shone like silver filigree where the moon and stars touched it, unbound and spilling over her shoulders and back like the miniature waterfall between them. Skin like white petals, eyes like the water in which he swam. Plump lips almost plum in color, perfect for smiling, for laughing, for kissing.

He thought his heart might break just with want of touching her.

“You didn’t come back,” she murmured, her words almost lost for the tumbling of the falls. “I didn’t want to be alone.”

Guilt stabbed down his spine like a dragonscale blade, crackled through each of his bones and filtered into his nerves. But he deserved it. Fenedhis, did he deserve it.

“Ir abelas, my bright one,” Fen’Harel promised, his throat squeezing the words. “Emma ir abelas.”

He held out his arms, beckoned with his hands. “Come, vhenan. You are not alone.”

Her mouth twisted, something between cynicism and hurt, but she did not move toward him. Did not so much as take off her tunic. “I need you to prove you’re mine. My Wolf.”

Ah. Of course.

“He tricked you?” Fen’Harel guessed without truly requiring an answer. “He told me he said something unkind.”

Her amusement was grim, vulnerable. “He understated it.”

He hurt for her too much to be furious with his counterpart. Fen’Harel wanted only to soothe her wounds, to be the balm on her spirit she always was for his. He could deal with Solas later.

“Will you let me undo what he has done?” Fen’Harel requested gently, his eyes crinkling at the corners with hope and concern. “Come, ma Hal’la, and let me prove to you I am yours and yours alone.”

“Proof first,” she insisted quietly, miserable and apologetic. “Please.”

Fen'Harel pondered which memory would be best to make her smile grow, how he might soothe her suspicions and her soul in one fell swoop. But he could not choose just one. So he decided to choose many. “Shall I tell you how full of joy I was last night, mamae ma’len? Shall I describe to you its little pointed ears, the sweet wisp that will be our child’s spirit? How its heart hummed in a song that stirred something new in my ancient blood? Shall I tell you of the first time I saw you gloriously naked? In the Hinterlands when we were newly acquainted. We reached a lake and made camp and you were wading for blood lotus. I watched you from the shore. Watched you toss away your clothing. I thought, ‘I have seen so many women in my life. None have moved me as this immodest Dalish girl.’ The next day I fell and twisted my ankle. I told you I had misstepped.” He smiled like the fool he was at the memory. “The truth is, you bent down in front of me and I was so distracted with admiration I did not pay attention to where I put my feet.”

Hal’lasean was blushing and pleased, too raw to take his compliments with her characteristic swagger. She tucked her chin toward her chest and smiled at him bashfully through her lashes.

“I can go on, my heart,” he assured her. “I could go on like this for an eternity and there would always be something left to say.”

She rolled her eyes, looked away and then back. She beamed shyly. “Sweet talker,” she accused.

Fen’Harel grinned and held out his arms again. “It has been too long since I made love to you in these waters. Join me, ma halla. Let me hold you.”

Hal’la’s smile faltered. He had said something wrong.

“What is it?”

She carefully arranged her lips in a brave smile, stoically pretended nothing at all was the matter. But just as she could so easily read him, so he knew all her tells. “It’s nothing.”

“Hal’la.”

She hesitated, fidgeted with the hem of her tunic. Would not meet his gaze. “Something he said.” When Fen’Harel waited in expectant silence, she finally confessed with her cheeks aflame. “He told me Wolves mate with wolves. That halla are prey. That you would grow bored of the hunt.”

He could stand it no longer; he was furious with Solas and aching for her pain. He needed to touch her, to hold her. Needed the feel of her skin against his. But more than that, he knew she needed it too. Needed reassurances of his love, needed to be told all the reasons why Solas was wrong. So if his Hal’la would not come to him, Fen’Harel would go to her.

He swam to the shallows and climbed out without thought for his nudity until her gaze traced palpably along his body. He did not hide his pleasure at the attention. He planned to return it in kind.

Hal’lasean stayed where she was, watching his approach with rounded eyes, teal endless as the Beyond itself. He rested their foreheads together, his palm on her cheek, and made certain past all doubt that she was seeing him, seeing into him, feeling what he felt through their twinned magic. “Hal’la,” he murmured, “I have something to tell you that will help. But when I do, you will have difficulty being angry at him. Will you hear it?”

She did not hesitate. She never did when it came to other people’s pain. Hal’lasean nodded.

“He had a child once, the other Wolf. And a halla of his own. He and Ghilan’nain were bound together.” He could barely manage to speak above a whisper. The weight of his counterpart’s pain, the imagining of what it would be like to lose Hal’lasean, to lose their child crushed all the air from his lungs. “The child was killed and Ghilan’nain left him, though I do not know which came first.”

His vhenan had a spirit that bent toward others, that hurt when they hurt, and Fen’Harel marveled how quickly she turned her wounds into his counterpart’s. Her eyes brimmed with tears for his loss. “He told you this?”

Fen’Harel kissed her forehead fondly. “Yes, gentle heart. He was worried for you and for our child. Ashamed of what he had done.”

“Evin said I shouldn’t pay him heed; she said it was the snarling of an angry Wolf,” Hal’la said with slow thought and great empathy. “But he isn’t angry, is he? He’s hurt. He’s wounded. All animals lash out when they’re hurt.”

“How do you do it?” asked Fen’Harel breathlessly, staring down at his lover in wonder. “Offer your forgiveness so quickly to those who have done nothing to deserve it?”

She smiled, sweet and hapless. “How can I not when he wears your face?”

Fen’Harel pulled her to him then, wrapping one arm around her slim waist and burying the fingers of the other hand in the fine threads of her hair. And he kissed her, luxuriating in the feel of her lips, melting into the tentative, slippery touches of her tongue to his, seeking refuge in the pliant familiarity of her mouth, in the intimate duet of their harmonizing magics.

They kissed until her tunic and breeches were soaked and his front was dry and then a little while longer, contented with one another in the cool night air. Until his skin began to prickle beneath her fingertips and she laughed into his mouth.

“The water is warmer,” he told her with a slow smile, “and what heat we lack we can make.”

Hal’lasean lifted her hands above her head and Fen’Harel divested her of her wet tunic. She needed rest, it was true, but the only thing he wanted was her soft skin on his, to feel her muscles clench around him, to be one body, one being.

“Will you ever grow bored of the hunt, ma Fen?” Hal’la wondered worriedly.

He swept her off her feet without bothering to remove her breeches. “Never, ma halla. I am your Wolf. I will always be your Wolf.”

Let her remember that when he abandoned her again. Let her remember and understand and forgive him.

“Ar lath ma, Hal’lasean,” he murmured into her ear.

She wound her arms about his neck and kissed him again as he carried her into the water.

Chapter Text

Fen'Harel spent the night in the Temple of Solasan. It shared his current name so he thought he might as well, and it wasn't as though anyone in the Inquisition camp wanted him—not Evin, not his counterpart Hellan, and certainly not the righteously offended Hal'lasean.

He laid out his bedroll on a slab of unbroken sandstone and balled up his cloak for a pillow, stretching out his limbs and composing himself for sleep. He would make himself pretend this was the same as any other night, as though the entire preceding day had not happened—and each harrowing, astounding, ecstatic, agonizing moment. He carefully did not look toward the sanctum, though he was well aware the shredded remnants of Evin's tabard still lay there. He forced himself not to think of how bright her eyes had been when she'd spoken his Name. Those were weighted thoughts, heavy as lead, not worth pursuing.

After the first fitful weeks of fever the pain of the pair bond would start to diminish. In a few short years his body would no longer punish him with her absence, though his heart was another matter. For now, with Evin constantly in his sight, he would bear it because he must, because his task required it. Just as he had after the Grove when he'd committed to ending their romance. He'd known he had to leave then. He still knew it. He had lost nothing but a few weeks, that and Evin's regard.

It was better she did not care for him quite so much.

He lay his head on his cloak, and folded his arms across his chest. When he slipped across the Veil his eyes remained open, just as the Wolf's never closed in the Fade.

He woke well after dawn, troubled and restless, and cleansed the sweat and dust from his body with a time-worn spell. He'd found a clear mark of danger, something he must not ignore. While there was no peril here in the Oasis, the prospect of abandoning his world for some other filled him with dismay.

Evin had not found the world of the original disaster yet—they still must ascertain how a suitable rift could be opened—surely this would take some time.

Knowing this, how could he delay?

And despite everything, he was still troubled by the vignette at last night's supper, as he innocently chewed poison while his entire mind was distracted by the necklace missing from Evin's throat.

If he left to manage the threat he feared, she should not be without it. If the worst should happen—if he did not return, or was forced into slumber—. He must seriously consider telling Hellan.

Write it in veilfire, perhaps—

Signed, in the event of my death, a voice snidely whispered to him.

He sighed, and went to find the necklace.

He started with a detection spell, thinking there could not be many items with much of a dweomer in the vicinity, but when his awareness filled with a crowd of insistent murmurs he realized the Temple itself would, of course, impact the results. Later elvhen must have buried scores of cursed artifacts here, enough to permanently warp the shades behind the Veil toward discontent and malice. The poor miners were lucky their tunnels had evaded the worst of it, though he recalled the last time he'd been here with Evin—one or two poor souls had suffered some sort of mental confusion he hadn't been able to cure. In any event, the detection spell was useless. He canceled it and considered other possibilities.

Go to the source. He could ask Evin where it was.

But his mind shied away.

She was undoubtedly furious—the reason she'd removed the necklace in the first place. He feared broaching the topic with her in his current state. All his actions indicated his lack of balance, his poor judgment where she was concerned. Even if the outcome was only half as foolish as last time... perhaps instead he might swallow a brace of knives for sport or anoint his own head with poison oak. Anything would be better that lacked the cruelty of the words he'd thrown at Hal'lasean.

If not Evin, then—perhaps a helpful spirit. He checked about him in the Fade for any familiar beings and found a genial, curious wisp he'd interacted with before. He had found it here in the Oasis a year ago, a recent transplant as yet unaffected by the place's miasma. It had not yet learned fear of the Wolf—nor would it, he devoutly hoped—and when he suggested a brief excursion to the "Other Side", the fellow readily agreed.

So Fen'Harel was joined by a small but bulbous bobbin of green light.

...? the spirit asked.

"A necklace," he replied, "a tiny thing, crafted and crude. A bit of silver wire, folded on itself like a self-referent memory."

..., the spirit said, thoughtful.

"Indeed," Fen'Harel said.

The pair walked a ravine-lined pathway through the oasis, one of the sandy paths that surrounded the camp. And they paused occasionally while the spirit considered the nearest source of magic.

After several minutes they reached a slope that continued out of the oasis basin and into the desert proper.

...? the spirit wondered.

"Hmm," Fen'Harel said. "I do not think it likely."

If she had thrown it from her, it should not be farther in the desert than this. Evin was a determined woman but had no special reason to be so thorough in this case. He did not think so, at any rate.

The necklace must be back at camp, then.

The green bobbin floated placidly beside him, and he threw an obscuring glamour over it to be polite. It would not do to startle Evin's soldiers, or stir up fear that might impact his innocent friend.

He walked up the gentle hill into the camp, stared closely at the command tent—while the spirit shrugged briefly side-to-side—and scouted between the other tents. If by some chance he encountered his opposite he supposed he must explain the spirit's presence, explain the necklace, but if not so much the better.

And then the little emerald bobbin dragged him excitedly toward the sheltered ridge of rock where the Inquisition kept its horses.

He heard a voice as they approached, a woman singing, and he shuddered inwardly as soon as he realized what it must be. But the spirit insisted, it made an emphatic "!", and he knew what must have happened. What Evin had done.

A vision from a nightmare, if he ever suffered them—

Hal'lasean, sitting on a little outcropping, singing a Dalish tune and sharpening her knives.

Chapter Text

When he saw Hal'lasean Lavellan sharpening her knives Fen'Harel almost turned around and left.

Almost.

Instead he thanked his spirit friend and helped it back across the Veil, telling it of an interesting nook he'd encountered that it might find entertaining. They parted with amicable farewells—rather distracted on his side. Likely as not the creature would forget him in a day.

If Evin Lavellan was the worst person he could imagine talking with in his nearly feral state, Hal'lasean was just a little above that. He had made a vow to Hellan that he would refrain from outraging her again, but now that he knew she had Evin's necklace—Evin's protective charm, which she needed—he had to fight back an intense surge of irritation and alarm.

This would not do.

Better to walk away. Let matters rest. Leave it there.

Except—

If he did not return from his task at Adamant. If something went wrong. He wanted to leave the charm with Evin, with his own words written in his own hand. If it came to that.

And if that did not befall him, better to get the wretched thing out of Hal'lasean's possession before they left her in this world. If that plan failed on any level—if Hellan wavered, or Hal'lasean discovered what they intended—he may as well try for it before she learned the truth.

We have no secrets, he thought to himself, and laughed.

That wasn't the Wolf's nature, as he well knew.

He took a moment to calm himself, wishing briefly for the safeguard of the Fen'edal, and reminded himself angrily that he was a being of vast years and wisdom. A singing Dalish child was not likely to fluster him unless he allowed it. And before he could convince himself not to, he stepped out into the rock-bordered corral where she could see him.

Hal'lasean lifted her gaze, met his eyes. Said nothing.

"I'm the asshole," he said, to make clear which one he was.

She paused for a moment then resumed stropping her blade. "Is that how you were introduced at the Winter Palace?"

"I believe even that title is above an elf's reach in Orlais," he said warily.

"My Wolf came as my 'elven manservant.'" And she fiddled with her dagger. "Were you Evin's?"

"I was."

He felt cautious, uncertain what game she attempted. Hal'lasean's demeanor seemed to change with every iteration. Was this another opportunity for her to punish him? Well, he'd expected that. He would wait until he saw his chance.

He read her little smile as cynical/wry, a weariness which surprised him. "I couldn't have borne it," she said. "To be thought a servant by those people. I barely managed it as the Inquisitor. I understood it let him hear things and pass places he couldn't otherwise, but I didn't understand at the time why he was so unruffled by it." She glanced up from her work with an appraising frown. "But I suppose it's a little enough thing—a game, really—for a god to spend one night disguised as a servant, knowing it won't last. What do gods remember about being made to feel small and low and helpless?"

Hellan had disguised himself? Fen'Harel remembered Evin thinking the same thing. He had never told anyone in the palace he was Evin Lavellan's servant—they simply assumed it and he had not cared. As though he minded what such petty beings thought. He replied with the truth, without really thinking about it. "Perhaps more than you know, though I can only speak for myself."

Her hands didn't cease their work. "So, Dread Wolf. I assume you haven't come just to enjoy the pleasure of my company."

For him it was no pleasure. A forced humiliation, since he had brought it on himself. But there was no helping it. He could not think of any other way—and really, it was the least courtesy he owed her, this woman who bore his double's child.

"I am here to offer an apology," he said.

"Good. You should apologize to Evin as well."

He crushed a swift flare of irritation. Of course she would meddle. "I intend to," he said, thinking of the letter. "I did not come to ask for your forgiveness, Hal'lasean Lavellan—I assume you would withhold it, which is your right. However I owe you an apology and I mean to deliver one."

"In that case, you had better come sit down so I don't have to crane up to look you in the eye."

He hesitated. "Perhaps I should stand, in case you laid out caltrops or lured fire ants."

The little Dalish girl grinned at him. "I swear by Fen'Harel I have done no such thing. It's perfectly safe."

Cheeky creature—to use his Name like a toy. Fen'Harel left the corral gate and paced over to the ledge of rock where she sat with the tools of her labor. And choosing a place to her left he began to sit—

"Except for the rashvine nettle."

He abruptly stood, jerked upward as though pulled by a string. He glared about him and she beamed, pleased as any impish spirit with her simple joke.

And she gestured to the place he'd chosen. "I'm teasing. On my honor. Please sit."

His hands clutched with tension. If he had known where Evin's necklace was he would have been tempted to snatch it away. But this was the price. He would offer his apology in the style she wanted—if she wanted him to sit, he would sit. So he did.

"Better," she said. "Go ahead."

Fine.

"Ir abelas. I should not have attempted to trick you." He lowered his head to her, submission and repentance. "I should not have spoken as I did."

"Is that because you don't believe the things you said? Or because you're sorry you said them?"

"Both." He straightened his posture, held his hands flat on his thighs. "It seems I have a pattern of saying things to you that are ugly and untrue. I can only assure you it will not happen again. Also you have an excellent right cross—and if you are attempting to intimidate me with your daggers, you have succeeded."

"Flatterer." She smiled and put the strop aside. "What did you tell me that was untrue?"

His eyes narrowed in consternation. She would not make this easy. Naturally, she would not. She would make him work for it.

"Perhaps we should start with the original sin," he suggested. "The night you came to me in Evin's body, when I was terrified for her, and said what I should not? I told you I could not imagine loving a person like you. The truth is... I cannot imagine loving anyone but Evin."

"Have you told her that? Of course not," she said half under her breath. "What else?" she prompted.

He frowned. "What I said about your relationship with my counterpart—of course you must know I have no basis to judge it or you. I've never been capricious with my affection. I have no reason to suppose he would be. I must believe he loves you a great deal."

"He does. What else?"

He struggled with his impatience. "Is this some sort of quiz?"

"Well, I am the Inquisitor. An Inquisitor," Hal'lasean said coolly. "You said a lot of things."

"Did you have something specific in mind?" he asked.

"The halla." Her face was grave. A hint of the pain he'd caused her. "You said Wolves can't love halla."

It felt as though his throat had seized up, and he paused for a moment, wondering exactly how this woman had led him down this path in the conversation. "He told you? Of course he did."

"He wanted to reassure me."

We have no secrets.

He forced himself to smile—perhaps it was more of a grimace. "Ah, but that was another poorly chosen phrase. I should have said I don't believe a halla can ever love a Wolf." He shrugged. "Mine could not. Though I have no information to judge you."

"I do. I love him with all I am." She paused. "And do you think me beneath you, Dread Wolf? I know you think me beneath Evin."

Foolish child, he thought. You require truth from me, but what you demand will cause you pain.

And this is how I end up getting punched.

"Evin named me Pride," he said as a warning. "You know what I am. Or perhaps you don't. Your mate is Fen'Hellan, not Fen'Harel."

She rose up in her seat, regarded him with quiet, pointed gravity. "He was born the Noble Wolf. Circumstances forced him to become Dread. You were born the Dread Wolf, but do you not still believe in your own noble struggle, your hellathen?"

Irritating to hear her use the word. She had no conception what it meant. Perhaps she was trying, in her way? He shook his head, dismissive—these were things he did not wish to discuss. "I believe the best of intentions can lead to the greatest of errors. I believe the greatest sacrifice can be wasted by the most ignorant."

"A noble thought for a Dread Wolf."

"Regardless. I believe you are worthy of respect and dignity, Hal'lasean, as are all people. Even if my actions yesterday failed to demonstrate it."

She smiled—sweetly, knowingly, as though she recognized something in him. "Ah. There you are. I accept your apology, Fen'Harel. But more than that, you are forgiven."

And he leaned forward, ready to turn the conversation to what he needed. But before he could begin she was already speaking.

"Now it's my turn to make amends," she said. "For what happened that night we switched. There's no justifying it, how I acted. But I do want to...explain a little. Because in some ways it's as though you're his brother. Because I see him when I look at you. And I want us to be friends. Or at least to know where we stand as allies."

"Allies," he echoed. And recalled his own voice saying falon. It had been so long since—

"I...was terrified," Hal'lasean said, pushing on. "I didn't know if I would ever get back to my world, my Inquisition, my friends and family. But mostly I couldn't stand the thought of not getting back to him. He was so wrecked after Wisdom; the thought of him hurting like that again, leaving him alone to mourn..." She shook her head, leaving Fen'Harel to puzzle over her meaning.

"I meant everything I said to you," she continued. "But I should not have said it then and I shouldn't have used it against you. It was cruel of me. Especially when you were worried for Evin. But I worked so hard for so long, you see, for even a little glimpse behind his mask. And to be there with you, a man with his face and his voice but who didn't have any love for me in his eyes, a man with so many secrets... I was wrong to treat you that way. Ir abelas. Truly."

"Ma serannas," he said. A little automatically. Too many things to think about just now, too many things to feel, and this strange Inquisitor just was not a priority.

And now he needed to broach the subject of the necklace—and she would know he had come here with that motive. She might doubt the veracity of his apology. Let her—he had meant what he said. She could believe it or not, that was up to her. And even if he failed to retrieve Evin's pendant, perhaps he could rely on this earnest Hal'la to give it to her.

"You have something that belongs to Evin," he said.

"Of course," she said—with a total lack of surprise.

"The necklace," he said. "It should not be with you. Evin is meant to have it. Will you give it to me?"

"I'm...keeping it safe for her. Until she realizes she wants it back. I don't think she would want me to give it to you," Hal'lasean said.

"She does not know what it signifies," he said.

"What does it signify?"

He spread his hands in apology. "I think... that is something I should tell her, not you."

"There may be hope for you yet."

And Hal'lasean smiled at him a bit triumphantly—and strange as it was, he found himself smiling back.

Chapter Text

Solas existed in every branch. There was no escaping him.

Evin Lavellan had assumed with a certain degree of naivety that the Inquisitor would always be Lavellan. Always a female elf, always from the Free Marches, with a few deviations permitted to explain her differences from Hal'la.

The grove of other worlds showed her she was wrong.

Who got the Mark was happenstance, apparently. A crowd of Dalish elves—though almost none from the city, like herself—and an even larger throng of humans, mostly noble or from Circles. A scattering of Qunari, even dwarves. Mages, archers, thieves, rogues. Warriors and templars, mercenaries and thugs. So many faces. So many eyes. Wide with wonder reflecting the Breach, or narrowed in suspicion at the Game, or rounded with fear while Corypheus' twisted visage stalked ever nearer.

Mostly, they died.

They died and the branches terminated, as though the Inquisitor never found another path, never found a way to survive. And the world went dark—she couldn't see further. But others kept fighting. Their other selves resumed the battle, found the way forward, marched onward through Halamshiral, Adamant, the Wilds. Just as she had. Just like Hal'la.

So many Inquisitors... but just one Dread Wolf.

He was always there.

Sometimes minor differences. She regarded them as minor. Darker skin or braided hair or slightly different features. But always Solas, always elven, always lying.

He was necessary—in a way Lavellan wasn't.

She supposed that only made sense. It was his Orb. His fault. The Breach would never have happened if not for him. There were worlds where she never saw Blackwall, or Dorian, or Cole. But Solas was crucial and required in every world she accessed.

There were unique Inquisitors. A rainbow of unique. But always him.

And so he appeared before her—in branch after branch.

She couldn't free herself from him. She shook her head and shook with nausea but still she couldn't escape.

He preferred Lavellans. She saw him kiss the others, saw him walk them through the Hinterlands, challenge their opinions, guide their views on elves. She saw him say ar lath ma—kiss them—fuck them. She didn't want to look but still she stared, caught in fascination, engrossed by all the ways he fell in love, all the women he abandoned.

She began to feel fuzzy, distorted, like she was floating and befuddled, a blurred line of paint on a mural on a wall, a flickering tongue of veilfire trapped in a swinging lamp. Not truly part of this world but something older, a remnant from a dream caught in a cage of smoke and ash.

The hours stretched through the night. She dipped into the Fade for longer and longer periods. Hunting the world. Seeking the source of the storm, the tempest's origin. How would she be able to guide her small group? That was simple. She scanned ahead. She watched herself spend days and weeks in study before she disappeared. She saw what didn't work. She learned from mistakes she never made. She had two gods to answer questions.

And she saw what they had planned.

Evin sighed. She had a splitting headache.

Her stomach was upset.

It felt like too much mana—exhaustion, rather. A little addled. And so hollow inside. Something was missing that ought to be here. Something yesterday—. Ah. Solas.

Too tired to think about it now. Not enough tears.

She opened her aching, sandy eyes and peered at the desk before her. A shaking hand reached for the cup of water set to one side. Knocked it over. Empty anyway.

Ugh. She glared at it.

And a glare of sunlight made her wince. The door of the tent. Opened.

A cheery voice. "Evin? Are you still in here?"

"Hal'la," she said. Her lips were dry.

"Guess what I found? Sweetroot! I made us cakes," the other Inquisitor said. And Hal'la did indeed have in her hand a pewter plate with what looked like freshly baked lumps of sweet dough.

Evin wasn't certain what her stomach thought about that. But she knew she was very thirsty.

"Hal'la, can I have a glass of water?" And the words came out embarrassingly plaintive, like a wounded child.

Hal'lasean froze. Her ever-so-determined energetic expression flickered for an instant, then returned in force. "Of course."

And Evin drank greedily from the cup she brought—and accepted another, not even caring that it wasn't tea. And then came the price.

"Did you stay up all night?" the Inquisitor asked, her voice suspiciously mild.

Evin felt puzzled for a moment, confused by all the selves she'd seen who'd slept. Then she remembered. "In the desert it's logical to work when the sun is down," she said.

"Which means you're going to sleep now, right?"

With the water she began to feel a bit restored. "Can I have a cake first?"

"Only if I can join you."

Hal'lasean walked her to the little cot and Evin sat down. Fresh linens because she'd ordered the previous ones burned.

"These are really good," Evin confessed around a mouthful of cake.

"Sweetroot always is. Why did you—" Hal'la stopped, sighed. "I imagine I know the answer already. Now lie down. Do you want a blanket?"

Evin shook her head. She lay back obediently. She still felt fuzzy, but she couldn't let Hal'la leave yet. "Wait.... You need the truth. You told me before that I should tell you."

"That doesn't sound ominous at all. What truth," Hal'la said. "Is it more important than sleep?"

"You have to decide that, not me," Evin told her. "They want to decide it for you."

"They?"

Evin nodded.

And Hal'la sat down on a corner of the cot, took a breath, and said, "Tell me."

Evin took a moment before replying. Her brain swam with things she wanted to forget. Loneliness. Despair. A hundred bodies twined with his. Her face among them. She felt dry as dust, what was left of a thing that had burned away.

"The optimal outcome," she said. "Do you know how often I choose to be kind? I could have said nothing. I could have waited. The truth has a price. It has its own weight, its own heaviness."

"I'm listening," Hal'la said.

Evin felt a tear escape from her eye, pool on the curve of her cheek. "I'm worried because I don't know what you'll do. This could all go wrong. The branches got pruned away, like with Solas. That's how I could tell. I think I need you. I think it has to be all of us. All four. Otherwise it doesn't work."

Hal'la's hand brushed her cheek, the mark of her tear. "It's all right, Evin. Whatever it is, we'll figure it out together, okay? And if you're worried how I'll react, then tell me what you need me to do—how you need me to react—so that we get the optimal outcome. I'll do my best."

Hal'la was sincere. She thought she was. But she didn't know what Evin did, how people lied without realizing it because they didn't understand themselves. No one really knew how they'd react to a situation until it happened. No one but a seer, and so much depended on tiny things. A lifted eyebrow. An in-drawn breath. A fleeting smile.

Evin wasn't certain she should do this now. Maybe she should wait until she'd slept. She could communicate it better then. If it were up to Evin—she would wait. But Hal'la would want to know. If Evin didn't tell her now, Hal'la would always wonder. There would always be doubt between them. Like there was with Solas.

Evin sat up in the cot. She rested her elbows on her knees, ungraceful as that was, but she was too tired to sit properly. "You can't act like you know. You can't tell them. Not even Hellan."

"Is it Solas—is he going to leave?"

"It's not him," Evin said. "If you tell them you know—they'll figure out a different way, something I can't see because they're clever. I think that's what happens. And they think they're protecting you, but the branches disappear."

"Protecting me?" Hal'la said slowly.

"They're going to leave you behind, Hal'la. When we open the rift to the burning world, they leave you here."

Chapter Text

"Leave me?" Hal'la stood abruptly. She took a jerky step toward the desk, then looked back at Evin. "My Fen'Harel would never do that. He would never—. He would tell me—"

"Not if he thought he was protecting you," Evin said.

The two Inquisitors stood in the command tent Evin had claimed for her own. It was late morning in the Forbidden Oasis, and sheltered by the ravine they were somewhat protected from the heat of high summer. Hal'la paused, and Evin watched the emotions flicker across her face as she realized, as she put everything together. Hurt and betrayal. Frustration. A gleam of tears, a muscle that twitched in her jaw. "Protecting me? He always—! Void take my foolish, stubborn Wolf! Will he never learn? For all he loves free will, he always takes away my choices!"

The words hung there for a moment, and all she could hear was the sound of Hal'la's breathing, like a gasp.

"They're in this together?" Hal'la said, biting the words, biting back the tears. "When did he decide? My Wolf? When did he— What did Solas tell him? Did he at least argue? Did he hesitate at all?"

Evin shook her aching head. "You're asking things I can't answer. I wasn't there, Hal'la. I only know the effect I saw this morning... and what Hellan will tell you later. When it happens."

If Hal'la ran after him now—if she tried to leave—Evin couldn't stop her. And as she watched the stricken expression in the other Inquisitor's face Evin wondered if that was the choice her analogue would make. She would have to make the most of the remaining possibilities.

And then the Inquisitor decided.

Hal'la lifted her hand to her forehead and drew in a breath. When she raised her eyes to Evin's they were steely and determined.

"Evin, tell me what you saw. What will happen if I stay behind?"

"What will happen? Nothing. Nothing is what happens to us. There's no pain. Our branches simply disappear. As though they never were. I can't see into a world where I don't exist. Yet I think—if the Arche erases us—if the Anchor never was—"

Hal'la nodded sharply. "Without the Anchor, Corypheus would seek another way to become a god. He wouldn't stop with Haven. Everything that happened at Redcliffe. The army of demons, the Breach in the sky. All of it. Doom upon all the world."

"We have to stop it," Evin said. "The optimal outcome... we have to find a way."

Hal'la took another step, then she sat down on the cot again. The two Inquisitors sat in silence for a while.

"What will he say to me?" Hal'la finally asked.

"He'll say he's worried about the baby."

Hal'la froze. Her eyes drifted to Evin's. There was something uncertain about her, like she wasn't sure what Evin thought about something. And she hesitated.

"What if they're right about the baby?" Hal'la asked.

Evin spread her hands, helpless. "How could I know that?"

"Can't you check? You can look at my branches, you can tell me if the baby will be all right—"

"Hal'la, it doesn't work. How can I follow a branch into another world? It feels like it ends when we go through. I don't know how to compensate for the change. Solas won't tell me, if he even knows how."

"Then don't look at the other world. Look at this one, or mine. If I went from mine to yours and the baby is okay, then at least I know that. At least I know there's a chance my child will—"

"Hal'la, you're looking for certainty that doesn't exist. What parent knows for sure what will happen to their child? Does Hellan? Does Fen'Harel? They know less than we do. They're acting based on fear. But that's all we have right now... that and the knowledge of what will happen when we're gone."

Evin looked in the other Inquisitor's face and saw... something she didn't understand. Not totally. A fierceness, a grim reckoning.

A mother.

"You have to show me what you can," Hal'la said. "I have to know, even if it's nothing. Evin, can we please try? How else can I decide? And if I have to convince him, I'll need all the information available. I'm sorry, I— I wouldn't ask this of you otherwise. Please? Evin, I'm begging you."

And the other Lavellan's gorgeous eyes gazed into hers with such a heartfelt expression, determined and intent, that Evin felt a peculiar kinship with her. Hal'la was right. She had to try. No matter how agonizing it would be to see Fen'Harel's child in another woman's arms.

Evin scooted sideways in the cot to face the other Inquisitor. She reached her left hand for Hal'la's, and their palms met, the Anchors silent for a moment—and then blazed forth.

The conflagration twinned in both their hands like jade lit from within, flickering as the Mark channeled power to fuel itself. Two identical strobes of light as vivid green as silk-moss in the Emerald Graves.

Evin sensed Hal'la with her, a steadying presence as she visualized each rune in succession, linking them into the pattern she required. She'd done this so many times it required little thought, hardly more than a series of flashing images, the quick work of her will. When the enchantment was complete she closed her eyes.

The trees—not just hers or Hal'la’s. All of them.

She centered on the one she perceived as closest, admiring for a moment the clean, statuesque lines of Hal'la's life. The root structure of her past, the living present, the fluctuating future. That was where she focused.

She followed the bifurcating trunk along the main axis, dipping briefly into images to determine how far along she would need to go. There—just as she'd thought. Hal'la in her Skyhold. Hal'la left behind.

More images, snatches of words. Evin's own companions, seasons changing as she selected branches that continued further on. A winter's snow in Skyhold and Hal'la walking the wall alone, a glimpse of her face full of futile worry, her belly grown much larger. But that wasn't useful information. They needed to see the other branch. The branch where Hal'la went with them.

Evin found it—all clouded over—and her magic warred with the disturbance of forces alien to this world. The branches bent and swayed. Difficult to determine exactly what happened when or where.

The branch went blank.

Nothing past that.

Evin sensed Hal'la's presence through the Mark. A strange power rose to meet her, mana laced with wildfire. Was this the Orb? She fought past the turmoil introduced by the link to the other world. Into the blankness, further along, seeking something, anything that might tell them what happened next.

She followed the emptiness a very long way.

She was certain this wasn't going to work. She continued only because she knew Hal'la was observing with her, and Hal'la didn't want to give up yet. Evin strung out her magic into the black. And just when she thought her exhaustion, her throbbing head, would force her to stop, she caught a... flicker.

And another.

It was Hal'la.

But it wasn't quite clear when or where. Evin's world, she thought. A Hal'la who'd returned? The images where ghostly, insubstantial. Perhaps it was only Hal'la's power that allowed her to see them.

Yes, it was Hal'la, and it was high autumn in the Frostbacks. Skyhold's little courtyard garden with leaves fresh-fallen from the trees. Hal'la with a little baby—with two little elven babies, one on each arm.

Twins?

Hal'la breathed a laugh beside her. "That's—that can't be quite right," the other woman said. "Fen'Harel checked with his magic when we noticed about my ears. If it were twins, I think he would know."

Her ears? Evin wondered, but put aside the thought. "That proves it, doesn't it?" Evin asked. "Even if it's not exactly the branch we're on. It looks like a path where you left and came back... and your baby is fine."

"I think so," Hal'la said. "Although if that’s the case, it’s babies. I can’t even imagine— Can we try for another? I want to see more! Something closer?"

Hal'la was probably right, they must have seen her holding someone else's child. Evin drew in a deep breath. She was exhausted, but they'd actually managed to see Hal'la—past a point that would have been totally blank if Evin had searched alone. She never even would have tried on her own. It meant it could be done. If they worked together, they could see through to when Hal'la returned.

"I think I can do a little more," she said.

The Inquisitors searched, hunting the void for snatches of images, pale impressions of moments from branches that shouldn't exist. Brief snatches that seemed irrelevant—they seemed to scan for hours.

Finally they caught another glimpse. Hal'la sitting in the Main Hall of Skyhold with a baby at her breast. One baby. With cute little ears and a pink face and what looked like pale blue eyes. When they saw it—Hal'la stopped everything. She stared. She didn't want to move on, or stop. But Evin was dangerously near her limits. And—and—Hal'la looked so happy—

Evin felt more than a little sick, and it wasn't just her dwindling mana. Things she didn't want to see—things that made her feel jealous and small. After seeing him with so many others—how much more could she bear?

Evin winced. "I don't—I don't think I can continue right now. We have evidence. It's good enough. Hal'la, I need to rest."

And the other Inquisitor seemed to recall herself. Evin felt Hal'la pull her fingers away. She opened her eyes just as Hal'la's Anchor faded.

"So what should I do?" Hal'la asked. "I should tell Hellan. But you don't think I should."

Evin pressed her fingers to her temples, swallowed back the bile in the back of her throat. "I told you why before. If they know, they'll look for a different way. And it still happens, Hal'la. There are smaller chances, more difficult to see. But Hal'la. They're Tricksters. They're... gods. Do we really want to go up against them both when they're on their guard?"

Hal'la looked indecisive, staring down at the palm of her left hand. And Evin had to bite back her frantic arguments. This was Hal'la's choice to make. It concerned her child, her family. Evin couldn't interfere. Whatever Hal'la did, Evin would carry on. She would make the most of the possibilities that remained. She... would give Hal'la the chance to choose correctly, no matter how much her instinct told her otherwise. Because Hal'la was the Inquisitor too.

"You've seen me decide before, haven't you?" Hal'la asked. "You've heard every argument and reasoning I could think to make in the branches. How do I usually decide, Evin?"

"Want to watch me flip a coin?" Evin asked.

But Hal'la already knew the answer. A wry, wan smile curved her rosebud lips. "I risk my child to save my world. Tell me, lethallan, are there any futures in which I'm a good mother?"

"Good? Maybe not," Evin said, and Hal'la's eyes began to widen. Evin felt just a little wicked before she added—"But you're definitely among the best."

Hal'la's grin faded into something with more than a little sadness. "You wouldn't have told me this before. You wouldn't have trusted me to choose correctly."

"It's your decision now," Evin said.

"Thank you, Evin. I can't tell you— I— Thank you." The other Inquisitor took a deep breath. Emotions flashed across her face, too quickly for Evin to read. Deciding. And then an expression Evin recognized. Stubborn, stark determination.

"So," Hal'lasean said. "We'll need to make a plan."

Chapter Text

Hal’la’s Dalish songs had a frustrating habit of getting trapped in Fen’Harel’s mind. They were simple, pretty things most of the time, and as contagious as the Blight. There was one particular tune she sang when she was sharpening her knives -- a lively song about a woman who went off to war in the Exalted March while her husband stayed behind to keep the farm, but who could not seem to keep his cock in his breeches -- and though he had heard only pieces of it earlier that morning when he went to check on her to make certain she was not exerting herself, the light-hearted melody would not leave him.

He did not even notice he was humming it as he patched a weaker section of the wards until footsteps alerted him to someone’s approach. Fen’Harel turned, expecting Hal’lasean, and instead found his twin.

“Not you as well,” griped Solas in disgust.

Fen’Harel cleared his throat and lifted his chin. He did not blush. No. Not even slightly. It certainly did not spread all the way up to his ears. “Hal’lasean’s Dalish songs are...catching. Does Evin not sing?”

“Evin is not Dalish,” replied Solas tersely. He nodded to the wards. “Your work is excellent, even if your singing is abhorrent.”

Not Dalish? With a name like Lavellan? And had they not discussed vallaslin with her? But Fen’Harel knew better than to press for information. Better instead to let it be volunteered and to pretend he did not think it worthy of his attention. He would not want Solas even more on his guard.

“I am so delighted I approve of my own work.” Fen’Harel did not smirk anymore than he had blushed moments before.

Solas scowled, which only made Fen’Harel more smug.

“Tell me, Solas, what it is I can do for you. I imagine you have not come to sing a duet.”

Solas gave a soft snort of dismissal. But then he hesitated. “I thought you would appreciate knowing that I have spoken to Hal’la. I have apologized, not only for yesterday but for the last time as well. She accepted.”

Of course she did. When did Hal’lasean ever reject an apology? When did she ever lack empathy or understanding, even as she passed righteous judgment? And she said herself last night, she could hardly hold out against a man who wore Fen’Harel’s face.

“I am glad to hear it,” decided Fen’Harel diplomatically. “Though as your counterpart, I feel I must caution you against lowering your guard where she is concerned. Unless she swore you a truce, she will strike again.”

Solas’ gaze darkened in recognition, but there was something else in it as well. Amusement, perhaps? Respect? No, neither. But a willingness to play. So Hal’la would need to be on her guard as well.

“I have no doubt of it,” said the other man. He turned grim then, stony, his brows pulled low. “In the future I would prefer if you did not tell her what I have told you in confidence.”

Ah. Then Hal’la had mentioned Ghilan’nain? Or perhaps the child? She would be worried for Solas. Eager to heal his pain. She was so like Compassion in that way. It was one of the many reasons he had come to love her.

“Of course,” agreed Fen’Harel with an inclination of his head. “I will refrain from telling Hal’lasean your secrets for as long as you refrain from making them necessary to soothe her.”

“I have said I will not do it again!” Solas took in a breath, calmed himself, and shifted his weight uncertainly from one foot to the other.

“Did you apologize to Hal’lasean so you could make a peace offering with me?” wondered Fen’Harel coolly. “You have come to ask me a favor. Or did you need something from her as well, Dread Wolf?”

And to his complete lack of surprise, Solas ignored the gibe as though oblivious to it. Instead the man drew in a bracing breath and produced from his pocket two packets and a folded piece of parchment. All at once, the other Wolf truly looked dread.

“I have to leave to perform a task,” Solas began, slipping easily into Elvhen to better convey the dire nature of his request. There was simply not the nuance for it in the clumsy common tongue of modern Thedas. “I hope it will not take long. If I do not return in three days, please open this and read it and proceed with your plans, and give Evin's to her. Do not wait for me after that.”

Such exchanges were common in Elvhenan; a warrior would often leave sealed keepsakes and letters of great feeling in the hands of those who stayed behind to be opened only in the event of their deaths. There had been a few even in the Inquisition, though infinitely cruder -- Hal’lasean herself had written her Keeper a long letter which she had entrusted to him before she even left Haven for Val Royeaux. But for a Dread Wolf with Mythal’s power in his blood to be so aware of his mortality...

“Fenedhis,” Fen’Harel breathed even as he took the offered items. “Is it so serious?”

“It is.”

He felt his heart begin to thump more forcefully in his chest. They must find this other world so he could get Hal’la home. It was much too dangerous for her here. And while they remained in Evin's world, he must know the name of the threat his fellow faced so he could be prepared should it come for them.

“Tell me, falon."

Solas looked grim indeed, unsettled at just the thought of what was to come. “A servant of the Nameless One, or possibly Geldauran, crossed my ward."

Fen'Harel made no effort to hide his horror. His blood ran with ice and his chest constricted painfully. The Forgotten Ones. The Nameless One--or Geldauran. One possibility was as monstrous as the other.

"I may have disturbed something," continued Solas. His jaw clenched and he swallowed slowly. "I expected this but not so soon. I have no choice. I must go.“

"Which ward?"

Solas' face was gaunt, almost skeletal with the severity of his thoughts. "I imprisoned Nightmare in the Fade at Adamant. It seems he has found an ally to help him win free. If he should manage to escape into the physical world..."

There was no need for either of them to speak such horrors aloud. They knew them well.

"Fen'Harel," because if this other man were to face his death, he deserved his true name. He deserved that much respect. "Surely this is a trap. You must know that."

Solas' smile was more bitter grimace. "Yes, I know. But these wards-- If they have been weakened even slightly, my world is in grave danger. I cannot ignore this." The depth behind his grey eyes was unfathomable. "I would not leave you otherwise."

For a long time neither of them spoke, oppressed by the humidity of duty and death that clung to them as though they were in the Arbor Wilds instead of a desert.

"Can you not investigate first in the Fade?" Fen'Harel suggested. "It would be faster of course, but more than that, it would be safer. Stealthier. Your magic stronger."

"It is some distance," said Solas. "Even in the Fade. Please understand that this is a simple matter of risk analysis. We cannot be sure we can do anything at all about the Arche, but this...this mess is mine. If I can fix it, I must."

"I understand," said Fen'Harel.

And they fell silent again.

Fen'Harel's thoughts ran turbulent and quick as a roaring river. How could he help? He could not leave Hal'lasean and this was not his world. His world would need him in due time, he could not-- should not-- and yet, should they lose Solas' help, did not Evin say they were likely to fail? Without the Inquisition, his world would be...a nightmare made flesh and red lyrium.

He ran his thumb over a strange lump in the packet meant for Evin, a motion meant to bring his troubled mind to the present, to be present. What was it Solas meant to give Evin? A coin? A trinket perhaps, or a necklace. If Hal'la were here, she could bring him back to himself with a touch, with a smile. She was so good at such things, knew him so well...

His breath caught.

Hal'lasean. If he could not get her home before they followed the trail of the Arche's ever-increasing damage, he would need to leave her here, in this world. In Skyhold, yes, but what good was Skyhold in the face of the Forgotten Ones? And if it was true that without Solas, they could not hope to succeed in their improbable endeavor to reverse or contain the effects of the Arche, letting him go bravely, nobly to his death would doom them all just the same.

"I will go with you." He said it like a realization.

Solas' eyes narrowed first in suspicion, then widened as he saw Fen'Harel meant his declaration. "You would...? No. You have my thanks for the gesture but I cannot--"

"It is not a gesture," Fen'Harel interrupted forcefully. "It is a simple matter of risk analysis. Your success is instrumental to our success. I will be accompanying you, but I will not leave Hal'lasean here unattended. We will investigate in the Fade from the Oasis. We will see to your wards and whatever else may turn up together and then we will wake and return to Skyhold with the Inquisitors as planned."

The other man stared at him as though he had grown a second head. But there was something in his gaze that spoke to Fen'Harel's own spirit, something that lightened the weight of obligation in the air around them. He knew it well now. It had been given him first by Wisdom and later by Hal'lasean.

It was hope.

Fen'Harel held out the packets and letter for Solas to take back. "Here. I doubt I will be needing these."

"Do not be so sure, my friend," said Solas frankly, gesturing with his hand for Fen'Harel to keep them. "Hold onto them for now, until we return. It would ease my mind."

Fen'Harel bowed his chin in acknowledgement. "As you wish. But we will survive. We must. For Evin and for Hal'lasean and for both our worlds."

They grasped forearms then as though they had fought beside one another countless times before. As though they were soldiers in Elvhenan with all the intimate understandings such experiences brought with them.

"Thank you, Fen'Harel," said Solas, apparently sincere. "Falon."

"Falon," he echoed.

They parted then and Fen'Harel was left with veilfire correspondence with his own seal to keep them secret. He glanced once at the wards he had repaired and set off toward the camp to obtain parchment.

He would write a letter to Hal'lasean and leave instructions for the other Dread Wolf.

In the event of his death.

Chapter Text

Each arrow made a satisfying thunk as it buried itself in the practice dummy’s face.

It was a soothing ritual. One that reminded Hal’lasean of home.

Reach, nock, draw, release. Reach, nock, draw, release.

For every action in archery, there was a beginning, a middle, and an end. There was no tension without an immediate relief.

Archery was not like life.

Archery was not like love.

Hal had only a dozen arrows in the quiver she’d swiped from the camp supplies, and, truthfully, she didn’t much care for the build of the bow she’d borrowed. It was a human thing, unwieldy and overlarge. She preferred the delicate Dalish designs, meant for short shots through thickets and trees. This bow was meant for sieges and enemies whose faces were too far away to be properly seen.

If Hal had to take a person’s life, she wanted to be there to witness their deaths in the same way she was present for each animal she hunted in its final moments. It was a kindness. No one should have to die alone.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunkthunk.

Empty.

Hal’lasean sighed and walked to the dummy to pull her grouping from its burlap head.

“I thought you preferred knives,” said Evin from behind her.

“I do,” Hal agreed. She struggled with the last arrow, bracing her toes on the post that held it aloft to get better leverage. The fabric ripped, but the arrow came free. “But my fingers have been itching ever since watching you shoot at rocks yesterday. I haven’t used a bow in months. And there’s something about it…”

Evin smiled. “It’s simple. Repetitive.”

“Soothing,” added Hal.

“You’re a good shot,” said Evin, nodding to the dummy’s battered face.

“So are you. Especially considering you’re a mage. In my world, Dalish mages don’t have much use for weapons. They leave it to the hunters.”

Hal tucked the arrows back into the quiver over her shoulder and headed back to the spot from which she’d been aiming. Evin stood off to one side with her arms crossed beneath her chest, looking weary but interested. Apparently the other Inquisitor intended to watch Hal’s target practice.

“I’m not--” Evin began, then hesitated and frowned. Something she was going to say but decided against, maybe because of how Hal would react...but Hal got the feeling it was more likely that Evin just didn’t know how to say it yet. “I didn’t know I was a mage until after the Conclave. I was always an archer before that." Her features darkened, drily unamused. “Solas was the one who realized what I was.”

It was Hal’s turn to become grim and dour. She whirled on the practice dummy, swiftly nocked an arrow and let it fly. It sunk in with a gratifying finality just about where the thing’s burlap heart would have been.

“Of course he was,” Hal’lasean fumed. “Isn’t he always? They have all the answers, no matter how many bloody times they’re proven wrong!”

Another arrow. This one hit the post where the man’s crotch would have been and vibrated with the impact.

“Is that what you’re doing?” Evin asked. “Pretending the poor dummy is your Wolf?”

“My Wolf is a poor dummy.”

Evin laughed and gestured for the bow. “My turn.”

Hal relinquished control of the bow to the other Inquisitor and then maneuvered the quiver from her shoulder to set on the ground between them. “Ma nuvenin. It’s your world, after all.”

She stepped aside and let Evin take her spot, watched as the other woman adjusted her grip on the bow and picked an arrow from the handful available.

“Hal’la,” Evin began casually as she took her time aiming. As though she hadn’t spent their walk through the desert the day before tossing arrows with the same ease with which she spoke. “May I ask you something?”

Hal smiled despite her heavy heart and foul mood and sat on a boulder just out of harm’s way. Because this was progress. Evin being direct about what she wanted. And because she was finding that even after only two and a half days in one another's company, Hal was becoming endlessly fond of the other Inquisitor.

“You may always ask me whatever you wish, lethallan.”

Evin glanced at her in surprise and smiled again, but it vanished when she turned her attention back to her weapon. “I was wondering-- In almost all the branches I saw of your reaction to what I told you...it seems as though you always forgive him. Almost immediately.”

She loosed the arrow and it flew straighter and truer than any shot Hal had ever made. It lodged precisely in what would have been the eye of the dummy, had the dummy eyes.

“That’s not a question,” she pointed out with wry patience.

The other woman turned to stare at her fully, her brow knit and her lips pursed with the intensity of her thoughts. “The question is: why? Why forgive him? And why so quickly?”

Ah. Hal’lasean’s expression softened into mournful, helpless introspection, but more than that, it reflected the undying warmth of her love for Fen’Harel. “Don’t you know the answer to that yourself? Even without the branches. He left you and still when you found him again you made love with him.”

Evin blushed and picked another arrow, nocked and loosed and reached for another.

“I don’t mean to accuse you, Evin. I did exactly the same thing the moment I had him in my arms again. He thinks he’s protecting me. His choice that he’s making for me is made only from love. Well...love and idiocy. But love first and foremost.”

Thunk, went Evin’s arrows. Thunkthunkthunkthunk.

“But you value honesty so highly,” she argued to the dummy.

Hal let out a helpless little laugh. “But not more than I value him.” She took in a deep breath and pushed herself to her feet. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m furious. And I plan to see to it that he pays for this for a long, long time.”

And then, even though there was only one arrow left, Evin sent three flying in quick succession. And suddenly Hal’lasean understood.

“You’re cheating!”

“I am not!” Evin replied immediately. And though the other Inquisitor was defensive and Hal was scandalized, they both laughed. “It’s not cheating, I simply...don't fire the ones that miss! I use all the resources at my disposal.”

Evin drew again and shot another two times. Each shot was perfect. Impossibly perfect. And for a moment Hal’s heart ached with the knowledge that there was yet another thing this Evin Lavellan was better at than she was. For a moment.

And then she smiled. “Now you're just showing off."

The other Inquisitor tried and failed to appear innocent. "I might be."

"Do you think you could teach me?" Hal wondered earnestly. "I'm a capable archer, but it's never been my strongest weapon. And I know I'm not a mage, but--”

Evin beamed. “But we’ll try.”

Evin and Hal'lasean quickly gave up much hope of understanding just how to translate Evin's intuitive magical boosts to her archery to Hal's Fade-limited abilities and instead settled on technique. And when they grew bored of that, Hal'lasean fetched her throwing knives.

"Like this?" Evin asked, demonstrating a slow overhand motion with a blade held loosely and carefully in her grip.

"Yes," said Hal with a cheeky grin. "But faster or it'll just fall and stab you in the foot."

"Has anyone ever told you you're a smartass?" was Evin's next question.

"Oh, constantly."

She adjusted Evin's elbow, tucked it toward her side a little more so that her arm was as straight a line as she could manage. "Remember you want it to rotate, so you have to release a moment before you think you should."

The other woman narrowed her eyes at the practice dummy and Hal stepped out of the way. Evin repeated the path her arm would take a few more times at a deliberate pace and then finally whipped the gesture at full speed. The little knife left her hand, flipped in the air just as it should--

A man stepped into view, too close to the dummy--

Thwack!

The knife lodged firmly in a tree just beside Fen'Harel's bald head.

He looked slowly from the blade to the woman who threw it, his face entirely neutral, and lifted his brows. "Is your aim terrible or excellent?"

"That depends," said Evin. "Which Wolf are you?"

Grey-blue eyes with tender light in them found Hal'lasean then. The corners of his lips quirked upward. "I am Hal'lasean's Wolf."

For a moment, for just a moment, Hal'lasean couldn't breathe. How casually he claimed to be hers for a man who treated her as though he owned her. How eagerly he made love to her last night, how cheerfully he greeted her now, knowing he would betray her in a few days' time.

But he couldn't know. Evin was very clear about that. He couldn't know she knew. So she let the heat in her face be a blush. Hal pushed away thoughts of dishonesty and abandonment and instead concentrated on how very much she did love him. How pleased she always was to see his face, the face she loved best in all the world. In all the worlds.

Hal smiled.

"Ah," said Evin drily. "Then my aim is terrible."

Fen'Harel inclined his head. "I am glad to know it. Am I interrupting?"

"Yes," replied Hal loftily. Because it would be easiest to hide behind humor until she got her bearings. "This is a very important mortal Dalish Inquisitors only discussion. No Elvhen or Dread Wolves allowed."

"Ah," and Fen'Harel made an elegant bow, "emma ir abelas, great ladies. I am afraid, however, that I must request an audience with the Inquisitorial court."

"Which Inquisition?" asked Evin.

"Both, if it please you."

She was prepared to make him grovel. Hal was almost too excited at the prospect of demanding he say his piece prostrate on the ground before them. If she wore rings, she might have demanded he kiss them.

But there was something in his mien that she did not like at all. Something steely and reserved and worried. He had bad news. He was going to say something he knew she wasn't going to like. Something even he didn't like.

"What is it," Hal asked quietly.

Fen'Harel's eyes were only for Hal'lasean as he spoke, his expression all apology and remorse. As it always seemed to be in these moments. "There is a matter of some urgency to which Solas and I must attend. We will remain here physically, but we will be gone in the Fade for a few days at the very least. We will return as soon as we can, but we cannot delay and it cannot be ignored."

Evin was frowning severely. "When will you begin?"

"The moment we are prepared," Fen'Harel said. And now his attention was on Evin with a sudden intensity of concentration. "Evin, I am afraid I must ask you for another favor."

"I'll make sure she rests," Evin promised with a nod. "I'll take care of her."

"Ma serannas, Evin."

As though Hal were not perfectly capable of doing those things herself! As if she had not constantly shown herself to be perfectly capable! As if she were a child, an invalid, rather than a fierce warrior and the leader of most of Thedas who happened, happened to be pregnant!

Men!

Wolves!

"Hal'la, do not look at me like that," Fen'Harel beseeched, moving across their practice area to reach for both her hands with his.

Her magic was in turmoil, but so was his. And he would think it was this and not the thing he hid from her. Fool Wolf.

"I know you can take care of yourself," he told her, seeking out her reluctant gaze with his infuriatingly sweet one. It made it very difficult to stay angry with him. "But I worry still."

"I know," she mumbled a little petulantly.

He hooked his finger beneath her chin and lifted until she had no choice but to lock eyes with him, to see just how strong his love for her was.

Evin watched in silence, her expression grim and unreadable. It was probably painful to see their affection, but the other woman watched, Hal thought, because she needed to know Hal'lasean could keep the secret.

Well, thought Hal, then I'll prove it to her.

"It's dangerous, what you're doing," she told Fen'Harel rather than asked.

He nodded.

"You'll come back to me," Hal insisted softly. "If you get hurt, I'll kill you."

Fen'Harel smiled his amusement. "I will keep that in mind, vhenan."

"Nothing else for it, then," and Hal gave a put-upon sigh as she tugged Fen'Harel's hand and walked him toward their tent. "I'll have to make love to you."

His brows went sharply upward in surprise. His magic sparked in excitement.

"What?" she teased him. "I cannot send my Wolf into the Fade without a clear mind."

"Ma nuvenin, ma halla."

Hal'lasean glanced over her shoulder to Evin's careful, calculating mask. Their eyes met.

Men were so easily led.

Chapter Text

Fen'Harel had written his last testimonial for Evin Lavellan by veilfire, with the sincere impression of his thoughts. The bare facts of the situation: Nightmare's damaged barrier, his suspicion of the Forgotten Ones' involvement. Things the Inquisitor of this world would need to know if he were gone. That, and his apology. He even touched upon the pair bond, briefly, because he knew she would not understand, and his dissatisfaction would soak the page. More pleasant to reflect that in veilfire she would see the proof of his affection, the depth of the tenderness he felt, and his regret.

But when his feelings ran away with him and he covered the whole of another page, he crumpled it up impatiently and blasted it into ash. How much more was there to say?

Yet he could not help but seek her out, like a wound he prodded to test the pain. He walked along the winding paths through the cliffs of the Oasis, and though he never lifted his eyes he knew exactly where to find her.

As long as it still hurt, as long as he still sensed her presence, he knew they were connected. If the pair bond on Hellan's world was a merging of souls, for him it was a piece of himself gone missing. He could reach for it and find his stolen heart with her, his Lavellan, who had numerous reasons to hate him.

Evin had sought out the highest place as she always did, because there were no real trees to climb in the desert. And resting in the shade of a wooden awning she had the little book of verse beside her that she read when she was troubled, when she only pretended to read.

She opened her eyes when she heard him, watched him walk up to her without altering expression. She must know it was him. Her Solas, her Fen'Harel. But she did not greet him.

His mind went to the bit of poetry she liked, the one about the Veil, the one that recounted the Creators. What was the next line?

"Rays of raiment gather," he said.

She drew a sigh. "I'm very tired, Solas."

"Don't call me that when we're alone. Use my Name," he said.

More than a hint of stubbornness. "No, you are Solas."

"Why?" he asked.

"You left as Solas. You will return as Solas. Or not at all," she said.

Seer's gibberish. He grimaced with distaste but sat down beside her, with the book of verse between them. The setting sun cast long shadows, mingling theirs together. He must leave her soon, he must enter the Fade with Hellan. He did not want to leave her behind with a question.

I made the correct decision once. I can make it again.

This is for the best.

"In a little while I will go with Hellan," he said. "Not physically. There is a task I must accomplish in the Fade. It may take some days."

"I know," she said.

She was so dispassionate just now. It made him want to stir her—melt her—make her look at him as she had before. Dangerous thoughts, but tempting. That was how it started. At first it seemed so harmless. The bland compliments, the double-faced remarks so innocently delivered. Until she began to blush. Until he realized the game he played had higher stakes than any he'd played in ages.

He wanted her to ask for more. He wanted her to demand everything. He wanted to taste how much she cared when he denied her—a hint of evidence that she hurt as much as he did, that they had always been genuine toward each other.

It was selfish, and oh so cruel, but he loved too much to be kind.

"Do you see me return?" he asked, giving her a hint of a smile.

She wasn't interested enough to meet his eyes. She gave a weary little shrug. "I don't have mana to spare for you. Your chances are much better with Hellan. I'm too tired to look closer."

"I understand. Are you closer to finding the Arche's world?" he asked.

"The sooner I find it, the more time we'll have to determine a solution. Hal'la disappears first," she said.

So she had seen that. "I suspected as much."

"I haven't told her. It's a truth that serves no purpose."

"I see," he said. While he could appreciate the idea of losing his Inquisitor, of losing the Anchor, it did not truly register. No matter how many times he mouthed the words, he was insulated from this. It was simply inconceivable, like so many other things about her. When she was gone he would not know or notice. In what universe was that possible?

And then he would be the false one—who did not even remember.

"How fortunate we are you have this talent," he said.

She shook her head to reject the idea. "Fortunate? In world after world, I don't see anything but you. You're always there. Always, always. I can't—I can't take it." And now, finally, her expression broke. Like a piece of glass. It snapped, and he saw the anguish, the tears she was hiding. "I don't want you to touch anyone else. I don't want you to look at anyone else. Don't think of anyone but me."

"Never, vhenan," he said, and truly smiled.

"There are so many other Fen'Harels," she said. "I don't want to think about them. I don't want to see them. None of them love me."

"Hmm. And what about the other versions of you, vhenan?"

Her vivid eyes widened. "Other... Evins? I didn't see—"

He laughed softly. "They must exist, must they not? Another Evin, very similar to you—perhaps with some unessential difference. Would this Evin have your eyes? Would she have your lips? Would she have your taste?"

"Would you be tempted?" she asked, with a little frown.

Void help the Fen'Harel on that world. He wished he dared reach for her—surely he'd learned his lesson by now. "For me the sun rises and sets in your eyes. If a thousand Lavellans stood before me, I would know which was mine."

"For me it's the same," she said.

"Yes," he said. "I am so sorry for causing you pain."

She caught his fingers. The bond flared, but she was blind to it. His heart hammered in his chest. She belonged to him—except she didn't.

He had to let her go. Again.

For the exact same reasons he had in the Grove of Ghilan'nain. For the things he hadn't told her then. For the things they each still had to do. If he stayed with her, she was everything to him—and that was an utter abdication of his duty. His repeated failures, his burden. He'd hoped to overcome it but he never would. His loving her was selfish.

He thought of the ruinous surge of her mana when she'd found him at the falls. He would give anything for that to never happen again. His errors, his appalling lack of control, and everything else. If theirs were a different world—if he had fewer enemies, if he was anyone else, if she was anything but herself.

He had nothing to offer her. He had to set her free.

His hands let go of hers.

And then Evin stole his words.

"It would be better for us to sever this attachment," she said.

The exact phrasing—precise, correct. She would spare him even this. The final proof of her love, almost horrifying in its perfection. How could he bear it. How?

"No," he said in a whisper. "No... you are right."

She nodded sharply. They did not look at each other.

"Then we both agree to end it."

"I... think we must."

"Yes. I see."

No angry words. Just—exhaustion.

They sat a while longer, until the last bit of sun was gone, and then they went their separate ways. He to the Fade to save their world, and she to seek the one that was destroyed.

Fen'Harel paused outside the entrance to the tent long enough to ascertain the two bodies inside were neither engaged in coitus nor fully asleep. Then he barged inside, ducked under the pole supporting the roof, and averted his eyes from the tangle of blankets and naked limbs.

"Are you done with him yet?" he asked Hal'lasean.

"You need him already?" she replied, her voice somewhat sleepy.

"It's time."

Hellan disengaged himself from his drowsy Dalish vhenan, snatched up some articles of clothes, and met Fen'Harel by the door. "Has something happened, Solas?" the man asked.

Fen'Harel turned his back on them, faced the door. "I need to go. Now. If you still intend to join me, please make ready."

"Of course. But why the sudden hurry?"

Fen'Harel grinned without looking at him. "One of two things is going to happen in the next five minutes. Either I'm going to get drunker than I have in fifteen hundred years. Or I'm going to go kill things. See you in the Fade, falon."

Chapter Text

Fen'Harel did not intend to wait an instant for Hellan. If his double wanted to while away his time in the arms of his Dalish prankster, let him. This Wolf had priorities. He'd accomplished what he wanted—written his farewell to his counterpart and Evin, settled his unruly heart. If Hellan still wished to accompany him, so be it, but if the man was having second thoughts better not to put him to the test, better to preserve Hellan's pride and his own.

This was his world. His problem. He would deal with it.

There was one remaining question—the best place to endure his dathenera, which might require several days. He had nearly finished rebuilding the runes at Solasan and seriously considered resting there. Behind the ancient wards his body would be nicely protected. Yet the Inquisitors remained at camp. If a threat came upon them in his sleep, he might need to act quickly.

His nerves were skittish with anxiety and the ghostly impression of absence from the severed bond, a pain that hadn't fully flowered. He had no idea where Evin was now and that was how it should be. He was glad she would not have to endure the worst, eager to get this task underway. It would distract him when the fever began.

He made one final circuit of the nearest wards as he decided where to sleep. Then Fen'Harel stalked toward the headquarters tent Evin had commandeered, ducked through the entrance and chose a bare spot on the floor, in the corner. Perhaps she would prefer him somewhere else. Yet another sacrifice to duty—it was more important no one disturb him in the trance.

He let his packs and pouches fall from his shoulder. And as he sat he removed the Fen'edal from his breast pocket. He pondered it for a moment, turning the brittle piece of bone in his fingers. Freedom had a price, but he had always known that.

The tent door opened. It was Hellan. Their eyes met for a moment.

Fen'Harel replaced the bit of bone and its leather lashings in his breast pocket.

"You choose not to wear your personal foci. Is that wise?" Hellan asked.

Fen'Harel didn't know how to respond to this nonsensical remark. It would have been an astute guess from anyone but his duplicate. "If you believe that is its purpose... our magic differs more than I suspected."

Those differences would matter, he knew, once they were in the Fade.

And without waiting for Hellan, Fen'Harel curled up on his side and flung himself into the Dream.

Fen'Harel roused his primordial form, reveling for a moment in the sheer luxury of relaxing his vigil on one side of the Veil. Nothing like complete slumber—he could never truly rest—but the Oasis had watchful soldiers and damned good wards. It was nowhere as dangerous as the Fade. Thinking of which, he should warn Hellan... except Hellan had been on this world for several days now. He likely understood the risks.

As the Wolf he dipped his muzzle to what passed for the ground, a concept which solidified beneath his paws even as he considered it. His jaws parted, his forked tongue tasted the currents of the air. He caught a scent he recognized, one much like his own. And in a scattered instant, a fleeting thought, he bounded toward it.

He met Hellan at a sort of intersection of paths. His counterpart already wore his elvhen form. Perhaps he had some idea of their opposition.

"Fenedhis! What's wrong with your Wolf?" The other Fen'Harel gazed up at him in shock.

"I have no injury," he thought back. And he glanced at himself to confirm it. His perfect body, its restless muscles gathered to respond instantly to any threat. A rippling coat of gleaming black spikes like layered scales. A seething tail that lashed with nervous anger. Keen, curved claws that sliced into the belly of the Fade.

"Does your Wolf look different?" he asked Hellan. The thought amused him. How unexpected.

The other man's eyes narrowed. "I begin to understand some things about you."

"As much as I cherish your admiration, we should not waste more time. I wish to hunt," Fen'Harel reminded him.

"Wait. There should only be one Dread Wolf per world. One of us must take a different shape," Hellan said.

Fen'Harel sighed and peered down at the tiny elvhen. "Let me guess. You want to be the Wolf."

"My Wolf will appear less... notorious than yours. How do you manage to go about unrecognized? Unless you have a less noticeable Dread Wolf. A pocket version."

"I usually cloak myself," Fen'Harel admitted. "I have other wolf-shapes, but they are not as good at killing. I suppose you're right. It would be wiser to preserve my magic."

"Very well," Hellan said. And he waited while Fen'Harel collapsed back into his elvhen form.

Fen'Harel felt a bit disgruntled, like his counterpart had cleverly maneuvered him into relinquishing his true form. He certainly would not enjoy himself as much in the shape of a man. It would remind him of things he wanted to forget. How much better as the Wolf! He yearned to sink his fangs into the flesh of his enemies—to hear their screams—and drive their evil from his territory, the whole of the world.

"Let us go," he urged Hellan. And a thought occurred to him... of another form he might take.

When he saw Hellan alter form—he—well, he could not help a cough.

"Did you laugh?" Hellan demanded.

Fen'Harel gazed up at him with his expression carefully bland. "No."

"You laughed."

"You're very fluffy," he said, fighting very hard not to smile. "Is that how you bring nightmares on your world?"

"Enough," Hellan said. "Let us go."

Fen'Harel gazed at his counterpart for a moment—truly a majestic creature, he had to admit—though it underscored the difference between them. How else did this Noble Wolf diverge? Fen'Harel discarded the thought as useless and shed his cloak and stave. He bounded up the curving path where it met a sudden drop, and threw himself over the edge.

As he fell into the void he worked the shape of his mana and burst into his other form. A saker falcon, its plumage much like the obsidian layered scales of the Wolf. He spread his razored pinions and caught the flux of air.

He soared over the twisting paths. Hellan followed on foot, a ghostly lupine shape clad in luminous silver fur.

To Adamant. To his broken wards.

Into the trap.

Chapter Text

“Staring at them won’t help them return any faster.”

Hal’lasean did not look up from her vigil between the two sleeping Wolves, but instead continued to soothe their hot scalps with a cool, damp cloth. The desert sun was setting, but the heat had not abated, and after hours of trying to distract herself in any way she could, she had finally given up and come to sit with the men’s physical bodies. To wet their lips and dry their sweat, but mostly to hold Hellan’s hand, to watch his serene expression.

But at the moment, she was seeing to Solas, studying the very few differences she could find between this man and the one she loved, taking the opportunity to watch Evin’s secretive Wolf and consider him while he was not present to stop her.

It had taken her a few minutes to get past the fact he slept with his eyes open.

“I know,” said Hal finally. She took in a breath and let it out as a sigh through her nose, letting her shoulders rise and fall with her lungs.

“They are Elvhen. Their bodies will regulate themselves,” added Evin quietly.

“I know.”

They fell into silence for a few minutes. There was only the sound of their breathing and the activity of the camp outside the tent.

“You’re worried about them,” observed Evin.

Still Hal didn’t bother to turn around to see Evin, though she did rest the rag against her knee rather than moving it gently across Solas’ forehead.

“You’ve come to get your things,” Hal’lasean answered. “You want to know if you can sleep in my tent.”

She could hear the tired smile in Evin’s reply. “Are you sure you’re not a seer?”

And despite herself, Hal’lasean found herself grinning wearily. So she finally turned to face the other woman, arching one amused brow. “Just very familiar with the ever-shifting complexities of sleeping arrangements.”

They shared a smile, though neither of them was particularly energetic about it. And Hal noticed for the first time that Evin was...withdrawn. Exhausted, yes, as she had been all day, but it was more than that now. Hal experienced the uncanny sensation that she and Evin were on completely different planes of existence. As though Evin had returned to her from the future.

“Have you eaten?” asked Hal, transferring her concern from the Wolves to the star.

“Not yet. Have you?” Hal shook her head and Evin held out her hand, stepping forward to help her to her feet. “Will you join me for dinner? I could use the company.”

But it was difficult to tell whether Evin actually wanted companionship with her meal or if she was simply phrasing it in the way that afforded Hal the most dignity. Regardless, Hal’lasean smiled gratefully.

“Of course.”

She took Evin’s hand and slowly climbed up from the floor of the tent, but instead of turning around and leaving, they stood for some time, staring down at the identical Fen’Harels -- one turned on his side with his eyes open, the other flat on his back with his hands placidly on his stomach.

“They look so peaceful like this,” Hal observed.

“Mm,” agreed Evin. “You’d never know by looking at them what walking disasters they are.”

The two Dread Wolves pressed through the Fade, driving onward to their target. Hellan's silvery Wolf dashed through the twisting terrain like a ghostly shadow. His rapid loping stride ate up the distance to Nightmare's realm at Adamant. Fen'Harel followed on wings in the shape of his obsidian-scaled sakret, the hierofalcon form he'd acquired long before his elvhen birth.

Where the path grew uncertain Fen'Harel gathered Hellan in his magic and transposed them forward. When they attracted the notice of demons he paused to shriek a warning. Then he dove at them with his crimson-tipped talons and ripping jaws.

Fen'Harel raked at the face of the nearest enemy, driving it back, while a trio of Despair demons paused to consider his threat. He gathered air for more height to dive at them again, but two of the demons lashed out with beams of freezing magic. He dodged, barely, but the third demon's lance just missed intersecting his wing. Then Hellan's Wolf was upon them, scattering them with his greater size.

Hellan launched himself at the figure of Pride, jaws snapping. Fen'Harel took advantage of its distraction to strike at the creature's eyes. It fell, screaming with rage. Hellan ripped out its throat.

Meanwhile the Despair demons converged once again on Fen'Harel. He ducked to evade their attack, gained distance, wheeled to make a new approach. His heart sang with fierce satisfaction, the thrill of an enemy he would delight in defeating, though it would lack much challenge with Hellan at his side. Fen'Harel launched fire at the demons—but they shrugged it off. He cursed at himself and drew more mana.

Hellan charged—and found himself at the vertex of their lances.

Fenedhis, thought Fen'Harel.

He reached for greater magic at the cost of his current form. He drew upon the void as he plummeted to the ground—and the demons shredded and disappeared.

The danger was over.

Fen'Harel picked himself up, a little dazed. He snapped a stave into his elvhen hand and stalked over to Hellan, whose silvery fur and muzzle were now spattered black with blood.

"Why did you do that?" he demanded furiously.

"Are you seriously asking why I helped you? Why should you take all the risk?" Hellan replied.

"You are here to help, not... leave your child without a father," Fen'Harel said. "What if you had been injured?"

"You intervened in time. Though I am surprised how powerful these demons are," Hellan said.

"Their power is strengthened this close to Nightmare's realm," Fen'Harel said.

"Even so, I do not understand why you had so much trouble with them. That fire spell should have finished them off."

Fen'Harel grit his teeth a little, but there was no avoiding it now. "My magic is not as effective against Despair at the moment."

Hellan's trio of eyes, pale and gray-blue, widened with surprise. "I... see. You did not speak to Evin, then. I hoped you would—"

Fen'Harel lifted a slashing hand to forestall him. "No," he said firmly. "No women."

Hellan stared at him in amazement. "You refuse to discuss it?"

"Categorically." Fen'Harel glared back. "We are not going to talk anything about women or Inquisitors or—or—anything else along those lines. Not while we are here."

"Fen'Harel! What did you do this time?"

"I also refuse to discuss my feelings or hug you, so do not ask."

Hellan regarded him with a sort of proprietary disappointment, as though he were looking at himself and seeing old mistakes, old behaviors he had overcome. "That wasn't—"

"No women."

But as he resumed his saker form Fen'Harel had the feeling he had merely delayed the accounting, not evaded it completely.

Well. If Hellan wanted to discuss such things—he would have to catch him first.

Fen'Harel launched himself through the sky, fast as thought—and enjoyed Hellan's startled curse. Then the Wolf matched his speed, and the two coursed ever faster through the Fade.

Chapter Text

Hours passed; the Dread Wolves' trek continued. Demons interrupted them periodically as though they wished to make the journey more enjoyable. Fen'Harel relished the distraction. At each attack he threw himself at the enemy. He kept his thoughts like his words and actions, strictly focused on doing what needed to be done and killing what needed to die. He watched Hellan to make sure his counterpart did not risk himself needlessly. Of the two of them, Hellan at least must return.

Not that Fen'Harel feared death—not with the two of them working together—but a dire enough injury might drive either of them to sleep, and the lives of the quick-blooded did not endure so long. Evin would manage without him, but Hal'lasean needed her mate. With Hellan's able assistance, however, the two Wolves had little difficulty dispatching their foes, though the numbers steadily grew the nearer they drew to the border.

Nightmare had carved out a minor kingdom in the Fade—and all Fen'Harel had time to do since his restoration was imprison him within it. Now it seemed the creature had attracted a dangerous ally. Perhaps with Hellan here he might finally resolve the issue of Nightmare's existence. He had never intended him to survive so long.

As they drew ever nearer to the boundary Fen'Harel detected a growing presence—the echo of a voice he knew, and a pang of doubt stabbed through him. He wheeled to get Hellan's attention. Hellan stopped, switching to elvhen form to wait for him. Fen'Harel met him on the ground.

"I sense someone," Hellan said, frowning at him. Dawning suspicion in his pale eyes.

Fen'Harel shook his head—that same worry began to fester. "I hope it is not—"

"Is it really her? How can it be?" Hellan asked.

Fen'Harel did not answer. Anxiety held his tongue. He kept to his elvhen body, the one she knew, and tracked the familiar signature a little way further. They crossed the echo of a meadow lined with trees, a brook that remembered a battle fought with flint arrows and stone axes.

They found her by the shore. She huddled in the corner of two upright boulders, in the shade of a rough wooden table some passerby had imagined centuries before. She bled, if spirits can truly bleed, leaking traces of her energy to scatter on the air, a gently dissipating green and yellow glow. So little magic remaining. How had this happened? Something had attacked her--the demons? What was she doing here?

Hellan dashed to the spirit's side. "Wisdom!" he cried. He lifted his hand—transferring energy—attempting to strengthen her.

Fen'Harel fought a tremor in his hands, rage or fear, one of the two. "It's not safe for you here," he said, crouching beside her. "Why did you come so far?"

"To warn you," she said in her broken voice.

"I already know the danger," he replied.

Wisdom blinked her brilliant eyes. She appeared a bit stronger now, thanks to Hellan. "Not Nightmare. A being you've forgotten. She walks the wooded paths in search of you, the one known as Geldauran."

Fen'Harel sat back on his heels. Astonished. Angry. "So soon," he breathed. "How can it be so soon?"

"Did she detect you? Did you see her?" Hellan asked.

Wisdom shook her head. "I heard her servant speak to her in prayer. She wants to waken fully. She seeks you to reclaim her power."

This, then, was the creature who'd attacked her. "I welcome her challenge," Fen'Harel said viciously. "Let her meet me where she chooses—"

Hellan touched his shoulder to shut him up. "Wisdom, you need to rest and heal. How can we help you?"

"You are not my Wolf," she said, regarding him with eyes that doubted.

Fen'Harel considered several options—one after the other, discarding them—then offered his hand. "Join me. I'll see you somewhere safe. There will be some fighting first, but you will be restored."

Wisdom hesitated for a moment. Then she accepted his hand.

A shiver passed over him—a wave of yellow and green light crashed across his mind—then she was gone, absorbed into him. A trace of something burnished over time, the merest flicker in the back of his mind.

Hellan cleared his throat. "I thought you could use a little wisdom, but not like that."

Fen'Harel clambered to his feet. "She's too small to affect my behavior, sadly. I will see her safely from here when we are done."

But it seemed Hellan intended to pursue the matter. "Solas... Fen'Harel. Forgive me but I must ask. How did you manage to save her life? On my world Wisdom was summoned by mages, a pack of vicious cretins. They damaged her—killed her."

Blank surprise. "Wisdom died on your world?"

"Do not dismiss this as another of your minor differences, falon," Hellan said. "How did you save her?"

Fen'Harel dropped his gaze. Hellan was correct—this touched on matters he had no wish to discuss. A senseless tragedy, scarcely averted. "I too thought Wisdom dead when she disappeared on the shore of the Enavuris. I preserved a remnant to remember her by—and that was how I restored her. It took what little power I had back then—it almost forced me to sleep. But I managed."

He smiled at the memory. One of his precious few triumphs, but the pride still touched him.

"I see," Hellan said, though of course he did not, not truly. "I remember observing the topics of your research when I visited your Skyhold—you concentrated more heavily on spirits and the Fade. I had no idea that difference bore such fruit."

Fen'Harel kept his voice soft, matter-of-fact. "I've long made a study of such things. I'm surprised and grieved you did not make those discoveries yourself, if it had such a tragic effect on your world. To lose Wisdom forever... I do not even wish to imagine it."

He saw a ghost of that sorrow in Hellan's face—the twin of the loss he himself had felt when he thought Wisdom gone forever. What a terrible price for a decision that must appear random to Hellan.

They resumed their journey, each of them a little more thoughtful, a little more silent. Perhaps it would comfort Hellan to know his friend had survived in this world. Fen'Harel felt a bit less eager to proceed, or perhaps it was the added burden of Wisdom. But he shook it off when they reached their enemy's lands and investigated the ward he'd placed near the border.

The stones he'd erected to establish the barrier were crumbling, almost destroyed. Disrupting the runes—the growth of a telltale crystalline formation. Red lyrium.

Someone had attempted to free Nightmare.

And with a little more time, they would succeed.

Shrouded in his most careful stealth, Fen'Harel returned to Hellan. "I cannot tell who or when," he said. "The work is subtle."

Hellan gazed down at him, his silvery lupine shape concealed by equivalent magics. "There are other barrier stones along the border? Likely equally corrupted. Was this done to lure you? Or simply to free Nightmare?"

"If Geldauran is involved I must assume I am the target. The orb, perhaps, or Mythal's power," Fen'Harel replied.

"She cannot hope to defeat you alone."

"With Nightmare as an ally? The odds improve dramatically."

"A risk worth taking for one of the powers trapped in the Void." Hellan pondered. "She loses nothing in trying."

It was like having a discussion with his own mind outside himself—his own thoughts spoken in his own voice.

"I am sorry to involve you in this," Fen'Harel said.

"I thought we weren't discussing feelings," Hellan replied, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Fen'Harel nodded sharply, recalling himself. "Yes. Of course."

"I jest. Consider this my payment for intruding on your world and borrowing your Inquisitor."

"Evin isn't mine," Fen'Harel said slowly, as though to test the ache. "But neither is she yours—brother."

Their eyes met. Hellan grinned.

"If it were me, I would poke the trap," his counterpart said. "And see what comes to investigate."

Fen'Harel's lips widened in an identical smirk. "Do you know? I like the way you think."

Chapter Text

It was late by the time Hal'lasean left the men's tent again and returned to her own; she fully expected to find Evin passed out on the fresh bedding she'd requested, given how very tired the other woman seemed. But instead when she moved aside the tent flap, Evin was settled on one of the bed rolls with her legs crossed, eyes closed, breathing with the same almost imperceptible movement of her chest as the Wolves.

Dreamers. Three Dreamers and Hal. Two gods, or close enough, a seer, and Hal.

It was no wonder the men wanted to leave her behind.

For a moment, Hal'lasean felt her heart constricted in her chest, her air trapped in her throat; for a moment, the tent seemed too small, too enclosed. And then it passed and it was just Evin and Hal as the temperature dropped dramatically outside.

She let out an irritated sigh at her own foolishness and picked up an extra blanket that sat folded by the tent entrance. Hal crept behind Evin and draped the cloth over the other woman's shoulders, tucking her into its hardy warmth and scooping her ashen locks out from underneath it. She had done the same for the Wolves; covered them with blankets and made certain the tent flap was closed tightly against the cold of the desert night.

Perhaps this was why the branches disappeared if she stayed behind. The idiots all froze to death.

Hal undressed without thought to Evin's distracted presence and carefully unwound the wrappings on her feet. She cleaned her toes and heels with another wet cloth, and, clad only in her smalls and one of Hellan's woolen sweaters, curled up in her bedroll.

She did not fall asleep for a long, long time.

Hal couldn't have been asleep for more than an hour or two when Evin began to pace. It was not a large tent and certainly not a tall one, so there was only one line even an elven woman could walk upright. And Evin was stalking it, kicking at her blankets and Hal's whenever they got in the way, mumbling a string of curses in a variety of Thedosian languages that would have impressed even Bull.

Hal'lasean let this go on for approximately five minutes before she finally said something.

"Evin Lavellan," she said tersely, "if you don't stop that immediately or take it outside, I swear to the Creators and the Maker, I will knock your feet out from under you and truss you up like a harvest hog."

Evin's footsteps came to an abrupt halt, and though Hal'lasean didn't roll over to see it for herself, she could imagine the other woman's wide eyes shining cat-like in the dark. "Hal'la," she said in surprise, as though she had forgotten anyone was in the tent with her. "You're still here!"

"Unfortunately," groused Hal.

"I'm sorry, I--" Evin stammered. "Were you sleeping?"

"I was trying."

"I'm so sorry," Evin repeated earnestly. But there was a confusion to her tone as there had been that morning, as though she wasn't quite sure where -- or when -- she was. "I'll go outside."

Good, Hal thought. And then she remembered how bloody cold it was.

"Evin, wait." She rolled over in her blankets and rubbed at her face, fighting off a headache and no small amount of anxiety. "Why are you pacing the tent in the middle of the night?"

"Because I--" Evin began, her back to Hal, one hand on the tent flap. But she stopped herself, whatever she was going to say, and in the brief moment following her interrupted thought, carefully, painstakingly composed herself.

Hal'lasean watched her do it, watched her back straighten, her shoulders tense. Watched as she donned her neutrality like armor for battle.

"It will be all right," she said, and stepped outside.

"Oh, for the love of--" Hal complained, dropping back onto her pillow with a thump. She laid there for all of three seconds, long enough to sigh up at the canvas overhead, long enough to hear Evin take a few hurried steps into the camp, and then she was tossing away the blankets and scrambling to her feet.

"Evin!" she called, barrelling out of the tent and into the cold, despite her bare feet and bare legs. "Evin!"

The other Inquisitor stood barely three feet from the tent, looking between Hal and the darkness like a lost child. Her reflective eyes blinked slowly at her surroundings, as though she were seeing something else entirely. As though she had no idea where she was or how she ended up there in the first place.

And it was cold. Fenedhis, it was cold. Hal clutched at Hellan's sweater, hugging it to her torso and dancing from freezing foot to freezing foot. Evin was wearing more clothes than she, but even so, she could see the gooseflesh picking itself out over her exposed skin. That didn't seem to register to the other Inquisitor either. She was dazed, distracted, and addled.

"Evin, come back inside," Hal requested as gently as she could with her teeth chattering.

Evin turned to stare at her like she was spotting her for the first time, and her face held that same careful neutrality. "Hal'la! Isn’t it late? Why are you still up?"

As if she could so easily go back to sleep with Evin so agitated and both the men off doing only-they-knew-what. Dreamers!

"It's very late," she agreed, coaxing, and unwrapped her arms from her own body to reach out for the seer. "I will go back into the tent and get some sleep, but not without you."

"No," and all at once Evin's expression twisted, scrunched up like an unhappy toddler's. Tears sprang to her eyes. "No, I can't do that, I have to keep searching. I have to find it!"

"Well, I can assure you it's not out here, Evin." Hal stepped carefully forward, both arms out now despite the cold shivers running from fingertips to toes. "Come tell me about it in the tent."

"No!" Evin began to sob, messy, contorted, back-spasming things that nearly made her double over. "Don't you get it! I can't! We're running out of time and I’m so afraid I’ll fail him. I can't find it-- No matter what I do! And I don't know how, Hal'la! I bent time. I've been looking for weeks and I still-- I can't--"

She sank toward the ground and Hal'lasean rushed to catch her, bracing them both with a knee to the hard packed dirt until she could find enough purchase to lift them fully to their feet. But she didn't let go of Evin; she held her tightly with both arms as the other Inquisitor collapsed against her.

"You smell like him!" Evin cried, recoiling suddenly.

Hal dug in and began to shove and drag Evin toward the tent again, backing them inside despite the other woman's confused, anguished protests.

"Okay," Hal murmured against Evin's ear as she finally wrestled her into the warmth of the tent and lowered them both to the blankets. "Okay, Evin. It's okay. I know. I know, it hurts. I know. Emma ir abelas, lethallan. Emma ir, ir abelas. I've got you. I've got you. You're not alone."

She wrapped her whole body around Evin, splayed legs and outstretched arms, and endured the awkwardness of her position while her companion wept into her shoulder and held shaking fistfuls of her shirt. Hal had no conception of how long they sat that way, the two Heralds clinging together, but eventually Evin's back stopped heaving and her whimpers died out. Eventually, she ran out of tears, or at least the energy to cry them.

"Why don't we get you undressed," Hal'lasean suggested quietly. "You need sleep, Evin. You need a break."

"You don't-- we don't have time!"

"You're no good to anybody like this," reasoned Hal, and she began to extricate herself from their tangled limbs. When she was free, she reached to take Evin's face in both her hands so she could search the other woman's lilac eyes for understanding. "We need you at your best. So I'm going to get you some water and we're going to get you undressed, okay? And then you're going to curl up in your blankets and I'm going to meet you in the Fade. And we're going to do something else for a while. Something that has nothing to do with branches and worlds and spears."

Evin's brow knit stubbornly. "You don't understand--"

"No, you don't understand." Hal sat up a little, pulling on her fiercest commander mask. "I'm not giving you a choice here. This is an order. And you have to do what I say because I'm the Inquisitor."

"I'm the Inquisitor," said Evin, but she didn't struggle as Hal began to remove her outer clothing, and when she was given a mug of water, she drank it obediently.

Hal set the empty cup aside and opened the blankets so Evin could climb into them and lie down. And when Evin didn't bother to close her eyes, Hal'lasean slid into the covers beside her and held the other woman from behind.

"There's no time," Evin murmured weakly. "I'm trying, Hal'la. I'm trying."

"Tomorrow we try together," declared Hal. "Tonight, we rest."

She kissed Evin on the cheek and stroked the other woman's charcoal hair back from her face. And because it seemed the thing to do, Hal'lasean began to sing a Dalish lullaby.

Chapter Text

Reversed lightning broke above the restless leaden clouds that concealed Nightmare's realm, the branching, spiking lines of deeper black almost like a web, the omen of a trap. Beneath the crackling din of thunder the two Dread Wolves discussed their plan to lure Geldauran's servant. They were alone outside the border—all lesser spirits had fled ages ago for their own survival. The Wolves agreed on a basic strategy, working through some details if various circumstances should arise. They decided where to meet if chance should part them. Then they separated.

Hellan circled to a different vantage, the better to detect surveiling magics. Fen'Harel established a quick but thorough line of wards as though he were alone and wary. Recalling Wisdom's words of warning he stepped forward, cautious. He lifted his hood above his head and canceled one of his concealing spells.

Nothing.

He shed another. And waited.

He was beginning to sweat. A fine sheen of perspiration coated his face. He felt it on his chest and back, soaking into his garments. He did not think the cause was his physical body. Even if the sun had risen with the desert heat, such things should not distract him here. In the waking world his unblinking eyes detected nothing untoward. It was not the heat.

Unless it was the bond.

Fenedhis. Evin—

His hand reached for his stave. He leaned against it for a moment, wondering if he should recall Hellan and suggest they alter the plan. But the thought galled him. He did not want to admit weakness before his ignorant counterpart or appear in thrall to his own weakness, the wretched affliction of lovelorn elvhen. It was only supposition; there was no pain. No reason to desist.

He couldn't turn back. He had already established his wards. He would ruin everything.

He ducked beneath a sudden flashing blade.

The strict sequence of moves he'd already mapped out—one, abolish his concealments to reduce the strain on his mana. Two, reinforce his existing barrier and link it to his wards. Three, fend off his enemy's next attack with his simple wooden stave.

The being who attacked him hissed a word of hate. Elvhen, male, his long plait of yellow hair bound almost like a crown. Brilliant golden armor in the mode of vanished Arlathan. The man drew back his sword and surveyed Fen'Harel, dark eyes glittering.

The elvhen grinned. "We knew you'd come. Do you like how my lyrium spoiled the cage you built for Nightmare? There's plenty more."

Geldauran's creature. Or vessel. He must be.

"What is your name?" Fen'Harel asked.

"I'll tell you before you die," the man replied.

At least he was confident, Fen'Harel thought.

The elvhen's magic lashed out, a blinding lance of jagged lightning drawn from the Fade like an echo. It crashed against Fen'Harel's barrier. Too strong for a mere sentinel. The Dread Wolf paused to reinforce but he was still on the defensive. That would not do.

Fen'Harel gestured at the ground beneath the elvhen's feet. Black tendrils surged up from the matted earth and twined about his gilded boots. When they reached his legs they ceased, curling into smoke.

Geldauran's servant tipped back his head and laughed. "Are you out of practice, wanderer? I've had forty ages to dream of killing you."

"And you'll have forty ages more," Fen'Harel said with a bleak smile.

His magic came slower than he would like—he already felt winded. Where was Hellan? Normally Fen'Harel would have established a place of safety to fall back. But here in the Fade, and with an ally, it had not seemed necessary. How he regretted the oversight.

The bond would afflict him less in another form. But that would sap his magic. The sakret, then, but only if he needed to flee. If Hellan failed to come.

"Are you weary already, little wolf? Do you like my crippling knife?" Geldauran's creature asked with a taunting, triumphant leer.

Of course. Debilitation. It wasn't just the bond—that had merely confused him. Fen'Harel raised the level of his senses—caught a trifling glimpse of the linked sigils—enough to understand the pattern.

Tricky stuff. Even if Geldauran had planned this for millennia Fen'Harel admired the craftsmanship. Designed to bind tighter with every spell he cast. He must plan his next few moves carefully. Even refreshing a barrier could prove dangerous—he might need that power later.

A drop of sweat ran down his temple. His muscles quivered with the urgent desire to move, to escape. But he could not—he had to wait for the right moment. It was not even certain the sakret could slip free.

For now he was caught in the trap.

The elvhen's eyes gleamed at him, savage and exultant as Geldauran in her prime. "Is something wrong, Fen'Harel? Do you perceive my thorn already? Or is something else the matter?" His eyes widened in exultant disbelief. "Oh my, Dread Wolf. Are you in love?"

Fen'Harel grit his teeth but dare not cast a spell. He held his stave ready—to cancel or reflect.

"I can't wait to thank her for you!" his opponent said with feigned solemnity, like a promise. "Now let's make sure you die alone."

Evin, he thought. The wrong thought. Such a terribly effective distraction—

The elvhen clasped his sword in one hand to give him a round of mock applause. Fen'Harel's stave lashed out—caught his enemy on the wrist. The sword went flying.

Fen'Harel shook his head with contempt. "Always premature."

The man gaped at him—fumbled after his debilitating weapon with a snarl and a flicker of will—but Fen'Harel lashed it out of reach.

Yes, this was Geldauran's vessel. Every personality tic confirmed it. Blood of Arlathan—just his luck. Fen'Harel again blessed Wisdom for her warning. But he still had to win free. Even if it meant temporarily shedding his barrier—opening himself to whatever Geldauran planned—

The vessel backed up a step, summoned his own stave. "Nightmare," the man exclaimed.

Fen'Harel spared a glance over his shoulder. And saw the horde of Nightmare's creatures. Fearlings. So many fearlings.

Just his luck again.

Chapter Text

Fen'Harel loped toward the spot he had agreed upon with Solas. He climbed a gentle slope where he could sink down on his haunches, ready to leap to his counterpart's help if needed. And settled in to wait.

It had been some time since he had felt like this -- thousands of years, in fact. He had fought countless battles at Hal'lasean's side, most of them desperate struggles of life and death. He had been injured and seen his fellows, his friends, his vhenan fall on the field. But it had not felt like this.

Here, in the Fade, with a man as powerful as himself, as skilled and knowledgeable as he himself, here among his own kind, he at last felt...free.

No matter what else weighed on his heart and mind. No matter the guilt that ate at his conscience.

He wanted to share this with Hal'lasean. He wanted her to know what it was when time was a vaguery and the world stretched out endlessly in all directions, aching to be explored, to be witnessed and touched and seen. He wanted his graceful huntress to know the thrill of this kind of war.

And he wanted her to never know. To never need know. He wanted to protect her from it. She had her own wars to fight. Wars he would fight beside her.

But they would never be such liberated bliss as this.

His senses were keen as Hal'la's daggers--his pulse came sharp and quick. The Noble Wolf extended his senses, monitoring the flux and flow of the Fade as it gently roiled with the two Elvhens' presence. He detected the tickle of Solas' similar magic as the other man lowered his concealing sorceries one spell at a time.

A flicker of movement caught his eye.

He rose up on all fours and immediately looked to Solas, prepared to shout his warning, but the other Wolf was caught up in a duel of skill and cunning with an Elvhen man; a distraction now would only be to his disadvantage. He moved instead to intercept this second threat, whatever it might be...but when he saw what came for him, all his thoughts were banished.

Before him, as far as his three eyes could see, was a shambling army of the dead. His dead. Elvhen miens twisted in grotesque expressions of horror, ancient clothing soaked in blood, flesh torn and dangling. The wretched wreckage of Elvhenan, sacrificed or murdered or worse. The crushing horde of Nightmare's creatures.

And in sharp relief on each face was a pattern he had hoped never to see again: his vallaslin.

For a small eternity, he could do nothing but gape. Not this. Not again. But then he remembered himself, remembered who he was. He was the Bringer of Nightmares. He would not succumb to subdemons of fear.

The silver wolf shook his great head to clear it, closed his third eye, and when he opened it again, the world had changed.

Spiders. They were only spiders.

Fen'Harel plunged directly into the fray, disappeared beneath a flood of legs and pincers and then resurfaced again with a snarl. His jaws snapped, fangs rent into Fade flesh. They filled him with their little terrors, each as fleeting as the next against a Dreamer in full form. He fended off their poison with his claws, letting his magic absorb their pitiful blows. He slew as many as he touched.

The spiders came in a never-ending multitude. He circled them with his magic, severing their bodies and leaving their twitching limbs to dissolve into the Fade. But no matter how many he destroyed, no matter how he tried to herd them, they surged onward.

The horde was not interested in the Silver Wolf. They were flooding directly toward Solas.

Fen'Harel bounded after them, seeking his ally and slaying any fearling that lagged behind. It did not take him long to reach his twin. And when he did--

Solas stared up at him almost as though he was frozen, dumbfounded. What had been a duel had turned into a standoff, though Fen'Harel could not yet discern why. Their enemy, a furious Elvhen man whose hair matched his golden armor, was disarmed of his favored weapon, but Solas still had his stave in hand.

Why did he not strike?

As if on command, Solas lifted his staff with precision and purpose, conjuring a ring of fire that drove Nightmare's horde back. It was only then that Fen'Harel finally began to comprehend why his companion had not already roundly defeated the other mage. Why he had gone so still.

Solas fell to one knee, shaken, weakened. The fool had used all his remaining strength to fend off the fearlings. But how was he brought so low so quickly? Moments before he had battled as well as ever Fen'Harel himself had.

"Dispel it!" Solas shouted.

Chapter Text

"Dispel it!" shouted Solas.

And Fen'Harel understood. He glimpsed the enchantment that wound around the other Wolf. It was tied in with the man's wards--no wonder he had not been able to break free, not with such opposition. It was a clever trap -- more than clever, it was a work of hateful ingenuity.

It must be broken. Now, while their foe could not reach his strange sword, while he had access only to his stave.

Fen'Harel surged forward, across his counterpart's barrier. He ripped through the binding sorcery with his gleaming teeth, scraped it from the Fade with sharp claws. Shook it from the air like snapping a rabbit's neck.

Relief swept across Solas' features as he forced himself back to his feet. "I will not fault your timing, falon."

"Better for a guest to arrive on time than too early," Fen'Harel replied.

They stood side by side, Solas in his elven form and the Silver Wolf with him. Together, they turned their vicious attentions to their prey.

"Another wolf?" the blond Elvhen demanded.

"How astute," said Fen'Harel drily. And then he proceeded to discuss the man as though he were a particularly ugly piece of art. "Who is our quarry, falon? Do you know him?"

"Geldauran's vessel," Solas explained tersely.

Vessel? Not vassel? A strange choice of words. But he could see it clearly enough -- a type of possession. A sophisticated compulsion -- intricate magics threaded through the servant's vallaslin -- but not unheard of in his world. He had seen such repugnant things enough times in Elvhenan to grasp the magic behind it.

"Sever it!" Solas said.

Fen'Harel regarded him with one thoughtful slate eye. Did the other man have no mana left? Surely Solas understood the magic of his world better than Fen'Harel did. Why waste time demanding things of Fen'Harel when he could do them perfectly well himself?

But then, why waste time considering such things? He would not ask Solas to do something he could do himself, therefore Solas would not ask it of him. There would be a reason. Besides, he would relish a unique and novel challenge. One never knew when such lessons might come in handy.

So the Wolf directed all three of his eyes to the servant of Geldauran. The puppet of Geldauran, if he was right about the compulsion. A slave. Infested and controlled by a more powerful being, a being who thought such acts her right. He must protect the servant if he was able. But could he sever the link without damaging the body?

"What a lucky god, to have such a friend as you," the vessel told him. He goaded, but beneath his confident words Fen'Harel heard desperation. He needed the Wolves to miscalculate. He must be cautious and swift in his efforts. Their cornered enemy would strike soon.

And there it was. The puppet's fingers clutched suddenly at his stave, but before Fen'Harel had even thought to deal with him, Solas snapped aside the spell as easily as a man who smacked a leaf that brushed his face.

No, Fen'Harel realized with growing dread, not easily. The way he used mana-- Solas was severely drained. Recklessly so. And yet there had been no impulsive or even astounding feats of magic in the duel -- the Fade would have resounded with the efforts.

Only then did Fen'Harel truly study his counterpart. Solas' face was peaked and fairly ran with sweat. Was he injured? There was no scent of corruption, no stain of blood. There was not a mark on him but his own rebelling health.

It would have to wait. Solas' condition, whatever it was, would have to wait. There were fearlings still left to destroy and this man to set free. Whether he wanted her freedom or not. So while Solas used his remaining force to take out the nearest spiders, Fen'Harel focused intently on his task.

The man's aura was not quite as it would have been in his world. It took a moment to--yes. There. Like a net that overlaid the servant's own. Perhaps not a vessel so much as a mount. A captured body bound through distant magic. Solas seemed confident Fen'Harel could disrupt it somehow--and after examining it for a moment he agreed.

He just wasn't certain if it would kill the poor wretch.

He exchanged a few spells with his opponent while sorting out his theory of the man's geas, each chosen specifically to return information on exactly how this net functioned, how energy traveled through it, where it began and where it seemed weakest. Solas was struggling, barely managing to hold the spiders back, but Fen'Harel could not divert his attention from Geldauran's slave.

There were too many options--and it was dangerous for all involved to guess blindly. Fen'Harel shook his head. "Is it a compulsion?" he asked.

"What?" Solas asked. "No, it is voluntary. At first."

At first. A shiver ran along the Wolf's spine. This was taking too long, there were too many choices! His canine lips curled, baring fangs in frustration. He would throw one last spell, a burst of electricity that he might trace along the contours of--

There! If he could not destroy the link without killing the host, he would simply use the link against its source. Fen'Harel swatted aside the man's next attack with an easy swipe of his magic. And since he had no staff in this form he visualised the runes, one by one, moulded the Fade with his mind until he had a solid hold on the net itself.

With one violent gesture, he twisted the very ropes that bound Geldauran to her servant, tightened and pulled until the net sank into the man's flesh, constraining him, holding him hostage with his own mutilated aura. The slave cried out in pain and fury, struggled forcefully against his grip, but the jaws of the Dread Wolf were powerful things and he had no intention of letting go.

He did not see his opponent's fingers move. Did not see them draw the rune against the amulet of power on his belt.

The very fabric of the Fade around them seared with sudden heat, a white light that blinded his third eye, that drove the other two to clench shut for their own protection. He could not see his quarry, nor Solas, nor the horde. But he could feel the net dissolve between his teeth. He could hear their enemy sprinting away.

"Hellan!" Solas shouted. A plea for aid.

The fearlings.

Fen'Harel still could not see, but a Dreamer did not require sight. A Wolf did not need his eyes to kill.

Once again, he lunged headfirst into the oncoming horde.

Geldauran's servant would gain ground, but the Dread Wolves had caught his scent. He would not get far.

Chapter Text

There was no keeping Evin in the Fade. Hal'lasean tried. Oh, how she tried. She invented tasks and games both mundane and fantastical, used all her imagination and then all her command to get the other woman to just sleep, but when Evin decided it was time to wake, there was nothing Hal could do.

Because despite her fledgling understanding of dreaming and how to manipulate reality thanks to Fen'Harel's -- Hellan's -- magic within her, she was still no mage. No Dreamer. And no match for those who were.

She struggled to return to her body when Evin decided she'd had enough and disappeared, but once the other woman began to make noise in the tent and remove herself from their cuddled sleep, Hal snapped out of the Fade without thought.

"Go back to sleep, Hal'la," Evin said, as though the night before had not happened. "Hellan wanted you to rest."

"Hellan wants a lot of things he won't be getting," Hal snapped. "Stay here, I'm bringing you breakfast."

"I can--"

"Stay. Here."

She'd pulled on her breeches and gone to the quartermaster for a ration of oatmeal for each of them, added a more than ample serving of honey and grated sweetroot to both bowls, and sent for hot water to make tea.

"You don’t have to do this," said Evin when Hal returned with their meals. "You're the pregnant one."

"Yes," agreed Hal grumpily, "pregnant. Not gravely injured. Not an invalid."

"Thank you," murmured Evin into her bowl.

But Evin barely touched her food and what Hal got down quickly came back up.

So it was she found herself kneeling in the nearest copse of trees, one trembling hand on a trunk, the other against her mouth, staring down at the rejected oatmeal.

Not an invalid indeed.

No wonder they wanted to leave her behind.

Fen'Harel fell to his knees again when Geldauran was gone, gasping what his confused mind thought was air. One of the last fearlings had grazed him a little. He did not feel it. The weight of fever on his forehead made his eyes water as if they stung. Was he in pain? How would he know? His body slumbered far away. Here in the Fade he only felt the severance, the frustrating evidence of his elvhen frailty.

Geldauran's trap had tied his magic in knots, a devious machination that leveraged his own strength against him. He'd been nearly helpless. If Hellan had delayed a little longer, Fen'Harel would have resorted to the last desperate measure—of breaking his own barrier to free himself. Would he have survived the counterattack? Presumably, but it was possible he would have taken too much damage to waken from his sleep, and been forced into uthenera to heal for countless years.

Thank the Creators for Hellan, he told himself, eyeing his counterpart with bitter amusement. Or thank Evin—she was the reason Hellan was here.

She walked the Fade without him. He felt it like he felt his own hands and fingers, the phantom pain of the wound. Her presence called to him—and he could not, must not be with her.

Hellan quickly cleansed his Wolf form, restoring his aura's neutrality and removing signs of struggle from his immaculate, silver-clad appearance. His three pale eyes were grim—his sight was already restored. "I regret I could not break the geas. We should follow Geldauran's vessel before he escapes further into Nightmare's realm. What happened to your shoulder? Are you injured?"

Fen'Harel looked down at himself, the ink-like blood that drenched his arm. "Only some of it is mine," he said.

"Your blood is black here. Of course it is," Hellan muttered.

His was different? Of course it was.

He could tell Hellan wanted to give chase, that he was frustrated Fen'Harel was not ready. He got hold of himself, forced himself to attend. He pushed up from the ground, leaning heavily on his staff.

"We already know where Geldauran will go. We should destroy the red lyrium deposit first," he said.

"Very well. But after that you will tell me what's wrong with you," Hellan said.

Fen'Harel's eyes narrowed... but he did not argue. He focused mana on his shoulder while Hellan attended to the monstrous group of red crystals that had corrupted Nightmare's cage.

It only took them a few minutes. After that, the reckoning. Hellan found a concealed place a little way from the border, where they could easily spot any creature approaching. And he drew a concealing sigil over them.

"You're still not healed? Let me see," Hellan said. Fen'Harel grimaced but let his double inspect the wound. "It is healed," Hellan said. "Is it the bond, then? Is that what left you helpless?"

"I was not helpless!" Fen'Harel shrugged away from his counterpart's touch and mopped his face with his sleeve. "Geldauran's trap weakened me temporarily. The bond is simply a painful inconvenience. I sense her in the Fade. I feel I should be with her—a terrible distraction."

"And this is why you refused to speak of women? I take it this bond of yours does not typically have this effect. What exactly have you done?" Hellan asked.

"Before I left we severed it." Fen'Harel spoke as though he felt nothing, as though he'd gone completely numb. "Evin agreed it was for the best. Think of it like a wound. Grief. Pain. A fever. A punishment or a consequence... to ensure we mean what we do. Fortunately Evin is not elvhen. I am the only one affected."

"What drove you to do this before we went away? What sense is there, if you knew how it would affect you?"

"Why am I such an expert?" Fen'Harel exclaimed. "How frequently do you fall in and out of love—whatever your version is? Do you think I would leave the matter unsettled? How could I do that to her? I simply do not understand why the effect is so strong. It should not be. Perhaps the shock of remaking and unmaking it in such a short time? I told you it was something to rue—now you see why."

"Then you still want to continue after Geldauran?"

"Is there another choice? This is my world, I will continue. I need a little time to adjust. That is all."

"Apparently you also need a cold bath," Hellan said, eyeing his sweating face.

Fen'Harel's mouth twisted wryly. "I will make sure to arrange one upon our return."

"You are no doubt sweating all over me."

"Did I tell you to sleep so close? No. You chose that on your own."

"Only because you refused to hug me otherwise." Hellan's dry amusement vanished. "You might have warned me, brother."

Fen'Harel opened his mouth to offer another sarcastic retort—and found Hellan gazing at him, gauging his state of mind. His mouth snapped shut. "Yes, I should have. We should go."

Chapter Text

Hellan, for whatever reason, decided to switch to his elvhen form before they crossed the border into Nightmare's land. Fen'Harel eyed him a little but said nothing. He considered whether to return to his true form, but it would probably be a mistake. The Wolf was less affected by the bond, less affected by elvhen emotions in general, but he did not always like the choices that shape influenced him to make. Perhaps it was the same for Hellan.

If their hunt ended in success he would have to make a few decisions....

When they passed through the border he noticed an immediate difference. The Fade was purer here, a primal chaos that blossomed against the mind. The sky overhead was a mass of ashen clouds exactly the color of her hair, threaded through with the same negative lightning Geldauran had thrust at him. No wisps or lesser-formed spirits. Nightmare had driven all away or twisted them into servants.

Each step took him further from the Oasis, further from her. Of course she walked the Fade. Evin had a Dreamer's talents—she used the Fade to illustrate her gift. While the Wolves hunted she must be seeking a path to the burning world. His mind knew it, but his heart twisted with each step he took. His hands trembled with the desire to reach for her. The fever raised perspiration on his brow and upper lip, a salt he could taste with his tongue.

He'd known there would be a price. Was he still happy with his actions? Content with the desire he'd indulged?

Somehow he did not regret it at all.

They climbed to the top of a ridge and gazed out at the terrain Nightmare had claimed as his own. Fen'Harel braced his staff against the ground and drew forth three luminous spheres. He sent them out to seek their quarry, Geldauran's wretched servant, then nodded at Hellan.

"He cannot be far," the other Dread Wolf said.

"That way," Fen'Harel replied—after one of his spheres reported.

"Geldauran's vessel seeks Nightmare. His ally?" Hellan asked. "A difficult fight were it against them both. Nightmare views this as his stronghold for a reason."

"I hope that is all Geldauran seeks." Fen'Harel shook his head. "I should have ended Nightmare long before this."

"It is not your fault," Hellan said.

Fen'Harel gave a sharp laugh. "Surely you are not as forgiving as that, falon." He paused. "Or does the Nightmare in your world have a different origin? He does, I see. How interesting."

Hellan scowled. "What do you mean?"

Fen'Harel considered for the space of a moment, leaning on his staff. It was better for Hellan to know the history—so he would not misinterpret what he saw. "Nightmare was a trap I laid a very long time ago for a certain enemy. He devoured many and took on his own existence over the years."

"You created Nightmare?"

"Perhaps with your help I can finally deal with him. To be honest I have put it off too long."

"We have a terrible habit of making these mistakes, falon," Hellan said.

"Yet they all seem like wisdom at the time."

"...Or necessity."

Fen'Harel drew the sequence of sigils that would share his spheres with his counterpart, then watched Hellan sketch them in reverse. They followed the trail—eager and excited to resume a duel with an enemy they expected to fall before them.

But of course Hellan ruined everything by nattering on about the pair bond while they walked.

"What does it feel like?" the man asked. "Is it only pain? What will I feel when we—when I... leave Hal'la?"

"You make a sizable assumption. The pair bond does not exist among your elvhen. Let us hope you will be spared," Fen'Harel told him.

Hellan shook his head. "I have noticed, since coming to this world, a... yearning. I am always drawn to Hal'la, but this is different. Tangible. A magnetism. To touch her is... exquisite."

Fen'Harel could not imagine the other man's experience or what difference he thought he noticed. The bond had been a fact for him since the age of manhood. Was love without it stale and gray? He sighed. "The bond develops over weeks and months. Perhaps you are unlucky if you noticed it so soon. I am sorry to tell you, but among us to develop a bond so quickly... you would be known as rather licentious. Better not let it get around, my wanton friend. Your reputation might suffer."

"Because that is a worry."

Fen'Harel smiled. "You said the bond on your world was voluntary."

"It is. Voluntary and... unbreakable."

"For us it is different. We learn to take great care in preventing such attachments from forming inadvertently. Anything beyond a casual dalliance may have cruel implications for one side or the other."

"Then... you could have prevented one from forming with Evin."

Fen'Harel hesitated. A pained smile flickered on his lips—he did not prevent it. "By then she already had my heart. How quickly love overwhelms one's better judgment."

"I do not think love is a mistake," Hellan said. "I think it may be the only thing that saves us."

Fen'Harel could not answer. His body was walking, fever-stricken proof he disagreed.

"How is it such strong spiritual bonds are born involuntarily on this world?" Hellan continued. A scholar's question. "In mine, it is the result of complex and powerful spellcraft. It is a wonder for it to exist so effortlessly here, to occur naturally."

Fen'Harel chuckled a little. "There are stories about such things. There are always stories. Some say a capricious god—whose name I will not repeat—was spurned by the one he loved. He inflicted the bond as a curse on all elvhen. Or perhaps it is something we inherited from our forebears, something your ancestors never acquired. A trait lost by subsequent, modern, generations... to their benefit."

"If I am developing this bond already... should I be prepared for some sort of physical pain when I leave her behind?"

Fen'Harel considered the matter seriously, as he would for any weighty question a friend asked. Everything in his experience, and everything he'd ever heard or learned about the bond over his long, long life. After a few minutes he said, "I doubt the enchantment would survive translation to another world. Perhaps it would cease to exist."

"Will it be painful? Will I experience what you do now?"

"Would the severance exist even with the magic gone, with its target on another world? I... hope not."

"Is this why you insisted on bringing Evin across? Do you feel the same way now?"

Fen'Harel sighed. "Perhaps I was unconsciously influenced, but I honestly believe she is necessary. Her talents are useful and a world that lacks an Anchor may need one very much. At any rate, I am certain you're just imagining it, and if not your bond would be in the very earliest stages. As fascinating as this conversation is I would prefer to speak of something else."

"The hunt, then," Hellan said.

And Fen'Harel agreed.

Chapter Text

It was no longer so difficult to tell the Wolves apart:

Hal'lasean's Fen'Harel slept as he had the day before, his eyes closed and his face placid. It was a simple enough thing to tend to him; all she had to do was remove his blanket and wet his lips again, all she had to do was take a damp cloth to his smooth head and gently press her mouth to his and hold his hand.

But when Hal removed the blanket from Evin's Fen'Harel and prepared to wet his lips and soothe his forehead with the damp cloth, she found him soaked in sweat. He was flushed beneath his freckles and, despite the fervent manner his body shivered, when she placed her palm against his skin, Hal discovered an unhealthy, radiating heat.

"Fenedhis," she cursed in whisper, "what have our Wolves done now?"

Hal immediately went to retrieve a basin of water, a mortar and pestle, and a variety of herbs from the camp stores. She brought them all back with her to the tent where the men lay sleeping and got to work, measuring, grinding leaves into powders, mixing them together and slowly adding water until she had a thick paste. Only then did Hal'lasean carefully turn Solas onto his back. Only then did she tuck his blanket and his twin's blanket around his body. Then she sat crosslegged behind him and tenderly lifted his head into her lap.

She opened his shirt to reveal his chest and slathered her poultice across his skin. It was cool and there was mint pressed in, so that it soon filled the tent with a refreshing but medicinal scent. The cloth she drenched in the remaining water and draped across his forehead and scalp.

Hal sat with Solas in her lap like that for a very long time, massaging fevered muscles and frowning worriedly down at his unseeing eyes. But eventually she ran out of paste and water, and the Dread Wolf had not improved.

In Nightmare's stronghold even memories were dangerous. Fen'Harel and Hellan pursued their quarry to the wicked heart where Nightmare awaited them, but for Fen'Harel every step raised another memory of Adamant.

Evin had opened a gash into the raw Fade in an attempt to save their lives. Their frightened, bewildered, brave companions. The Grey Warden left behind. The desperate fear he'd felt that everything would be too much for her, that the disorientation would break her mind. Of course she'd used the Anchor to save them—she fled where her power permitted and somehow came out the other side. Was that when he'd first begun to comprehend her uniqueness? No, it was when he realized how much he treasured it—how necessary she'd become for him.

His brilliant star.

And now he walked nearly the darkest part of the Fade with another Dread Wolf beside him—his double from another world—and what stretched before them was a vast and unending moor of graves.

Undulating mounds of elvhen burials, the lesser urns of slaves, and withered young saplings planted in rings of remembrance. It was depressing. It made him think of depressing things, like the bond he'd severed with Evin. A graveyard full of hopes. He blamed Hellan.

"Is this supposed to be all the people we killed?" he asked. "I feel somewhat confused."

Hellan looked haunted, not irritated. But his eyes held a spark of determination. He gestured with his stave. "Up ahead—a larger monument. Could that be where Geldauran's vessel fled?"

A larger, domed structure built of crumbling stone, partly toppled over with age. To Fen'Harel's eyes it dated to sometime in the Second Millennium, but something about it seemed off. He lifted his hand and summoned one of his glowing sorceries, a spell to sense their prey's location. "Geldauran seeks Nightmare, not... whatever that is."

"Let us avoid it then," Hellan said.

Yet every path led them to it, even when they turned their steps away. The two elvhen exchanged grim glances, weighing whether to interfere with the enchantment. Fen'Harel finally shrugged and said, "We may as well go there and destroy it."

It was not that far out of their way.

They were almost halfway there when he realized his mistake.

And his steps grew shorter—he paused to wipe his brow—feeling his heart clutching in his chest. Something he had not seen in long, long years—outside his dreams—something he never wanted to see again.

He glanced at Hellan, now far ahead of him—of course, Nightmare's tricks—Hellan saw something different, still confused, as though he didn't yet comprehend whatever Nightmare showed him.

Fen'Harel shook his head and cursed. He ran forward, snatched Hellan's arm. "Do not look at it!"

"I—I must," Hellan said.

Fen'Harel snarled a little, inarticulate with anger. And followed his twin to whatever doom his heart feared most.

When they reached the crumbling structure, Hellan gazed up at it with his soul in his eyes. He did not move to go inside.

"What do you see?" Fen'Harel asked.

"The Monument of all the Peoples of the World," Hellan said as though reading. He sighed and lowered his head. "The grave of the Inquisitor."

"Do not go inside, brother," Fen'Harel told him.

"No," Hellan said. And he gazed at Fen'Harel—his face was like a mirror. Fen'Harel felt his muscles twitching as though to distinguish himself from his twin, the expression of horror and remorse, the unshed liquid that glittered in his eyes. "And you... do you see Evin's grave?" he asked.

No.

Fen'Harel shook his head. "No. It is my daughter's."

"Destroy it," they both said, of one mind.

Nightmare's trap—the archdemon's devious plot—the two gods raised their will against the creature's magic. And the fearlings came in mass to stop them.

Chapter Text

The fearlings differed from the last time Fen'Harel had encountered them, at Adamant with Evin. He'd barely noticed their shape during his fight with Geldauran, but now as he wrought his magic against them it was difficult to overlook. Like the broad moor filled with graves, the fearlings were not especially fearsome to his eyes. Horrifying to be sure, but the image lacked a little bite, as though Nightmare's arrow had flown wide and missed its mark.

These fearlings were—dead? Elvhen? With a vallaslin he did not recognize. If they came from a nightmare it was one he did not share.

He pondered it while he slew—ho hum, not especially challenging with Hellan here—though the numbers made it a chore.

Was it possible—that he was seeing Hellan's version?

Had the fearlings somehow... confused the two of them? Reflected the wrong fear to the wrong man? They were both in elvhen shape now. If the sorcery was stupid enough it was certainly possible—perhaps only a more intricate enchantment would be able to distinguish between them—like the loathsome mausoleum at their backs.

If Fen'Harel saw Hellan's fearlings... he wondered what Hellan saw.

Best to kill them quickly.

The fearlings almost seemed numberless. The more they killed the more appeared before them. Masses of rotting elvhen, ancient weapons, the shuffling dead. They were surrounded by an army. At this rate it would take hours to clear them all.

"This has been fun, but I'm impatient to proceed. We should not waste further time chasing Geldauran," Fen'Harel said.

"What do you have in mind?" Hellan asked, sparing him a quizzical glance.

Fen'Harel drew forth his orb with a not-very-modest flourish. It had only been in his possession a short while and he was still quite proud of it. Despite the sometimes frustrating differences with the Focus he had built and lost, it was an actual, physical orb—not some cobbled together energy housed in the mortal body of a woman.

The orb lifted above them, pulsing with the flicker of his thoughts. He fed it a little power, stoking its glowing heart to greater life. He saw its yellow light reflected in the faces of their enemies. Brighter, stronger, its song a living murmur in his ears. His hymn, his words, his will to destroy.

His fist clenched—and the power cracked out across the plain.

The branches of the shriveled trees shivered as though a brutal wind passed through them. The lesser gravestones fractured, the fearlings came undone. Vanished, destroyed, dispersed.

Fen'Harel caught the orb in his hand once again and concealed it away. He nodded at Hellan. The two turned to regard the dismal monument.

He gazed up at it for a moment—a structure that no longer even existed in the physical world—comparing it to the one that was engraved on his heart. The last time he'd seen the tomb in person it had not been as ruined. Had it endured, it might look something like this now. If anything were left.

With almost the same impulse, the two elvhen reached out and demolished the enchantment.

Carved blocks tumbled, walls fell inward, even the sturdy arches fell apart. When not one stone remained that was stacked neatly atop another Fen'Harel stepped forward and ground them into dust, splintering the enchantment to match.

Before they turned to leave he crafted something from the Fade, shaping it with his resolve, and left it on the hill.

A small, white flower.

Fen'Harel could not put that melancholic place behind him fast enough. When they gained a little elevation he simply bridged the gap to the edge of the graveyard, pulling Hellan with him through the Fade. He wanted to test his spellcraft under his affliction. He found himself more drained than he would like, but he was not here alone. He could certainly deal with either Nightmare or Geldauran's vessel on his own, but both together would be perilous and risky.

And if Geldauran attempted what he thought—

It was dangerous to delay.

So when they climbed a rocky spine to look out to the center of Nightmare's domain he cursed a little.

What met them was a vast, unending maze—a twisting hedge of thorns. Barely visible was its darkest heart, where Nightmare kept his throne.

Fen'Harel considered his counterpart for a moment. Perhaps if Hellan had a smaller shape, like a hare or a vole. If Fen'Harel switched to his hierofalcon form—

"Nightmare must know we are coming," Hellan said.

Fen'Harel agreed.

"I do not like to play these games he sets us," Hellan continued.

And Fen'Harel saw the truth in this.

"I find them quite irritating, in fact."

That made two of them.

"What do you say we tip over the board?"

Fen'Harel grinned. "I usually only see that move attempted after the game is lost."

"Then it will be a novelty."

Hellan lifted his stave and worked his Dreamer's claws into the Fade. After a moment Fen'Harel joined him, strengthening Hellan's enchantment where he could. The underlying magic tried to fight them. It resisted their interference, but eventually it gave way, as it must beneath the determined will of two gods.

The walls of the maze began to topple one at a time, like dominoes in succession.

Hellan arranged the barriers in layers. A precise and orderly highway that led straight to Nightmare's lair.

They descended down to it, tossing violent magic at the few fearlings who'd survived. Fen'Harel used the time to gather up his strength. His shivering body, his aching head, his forsaken love that pulsed like an ember in his heart. He needed all the power at his command, all his wits, as sharp and clear as he had ever been. Not befuddled or confounded as he'd been in his previous engagement with Geldauran.

She would only enter here for one reason—to claim Nightmare's power as her own. If she expended it all at once, without any care for what it cost her, if she caught one of them off guard—

He had better sever her connection to her vassal before that happened.

When they approached the entrance he caught Hellan's eye. "I will deal with the servant. You take Nightmare."

Hellan nodded shortly. "Very well."

"All we need do is imprison him again. Keep him occupied if you can. Geldauran is the key."

She was the danger. But if there was a chance to destroy Nightmare as well he would take it.

He liked the plan. It was a good plan. It lasted about half a second.

When they walked inside they found a third Fen'Harel staring back at them.

Chapter Text

After one hundred days of searching, Evin Lavellan was still missing three worlds. Three gaps split up the distance between the Thedas she knew and the one she needed—the one where Andruil's Arche had been used. She knew they needed to go there, though she couldn't see exactly why. Maybe at the source they'd find a way to stop the all-consuming flame, the fire that destroyed all the Inquisitors one by one. Maybe on that world they'd find a solution—they could save herself and Hal'la and the others. They could prevent Corypheus from reaching across every single future and destroying his enemy in retrospect.

She honestly thought she'd seen the last of him forever.

Evin sighed and opened her eyes, winced at the glare of sunlight over the cliff face to her left. Was it only a hundred days? It might have been many more. She'd started losing track. When she'd begun the search she'd been so hopeful and determined—thrown herself into the work. What a fine distraction from her love life! She'd seen so many futures in which all four of them left the Oasis after three days. And here she was, the evening of the second day, just as lost as ever.

What was she doing wrong?

Her fear—that she wasn't on one of the branches where she succeeded. She was one of the failures.

And so she dipped into the Fade for longer and longer periods. She'd used up mana she didn't have—taking lyrium from the camp supplies to replenish her energy. She never used lyrium as a rule. She never needed to—she always knew how many spells she'd need to cast. Despite it all she had that dangerous sensation in her fingertips, a kind of burning that licked at her nerves. She'd done too much magic in too short a time. She felt sick, and when Hal'la ran off after dinner to vomit her little pregnant heart out in a copse of trees, for a moment Evin wanted to join her. Instead she drank some tea, and found a quiet place in the rocks.

Evin placed the crude pottery mug before her. It was still half full of tea—she would use it as a way to measure time. She closed her eyes, drew on the Anchor to feed the runes, and pushed herself into the Fade.

When she came back she noticed the sun had slipped a bit. That's how tired she was—the magic she used to stop herself in time wasn't fully working anymore. She poked the mug of tea with one finger. It was still a little warm.

"More tea?" Hal'la asked.

Evin jumped. "Maker, you startled me!"

Hal'la was sitting quietly as you please, still a little green, regarding Evin like she'd been there longer than a few minutes. The other Inquisitor smiled. "Sorry, I didn't mean to. You disappeared after we ate. Are you sure there isn't anything I can do? Anything at all?"

Evin paused. Hal'la had been so patient with her—more than she deserved. But what could Hal'la do to help? Evin had checked that branch—the one where she tried to explain to the other Inquisitor the problem with the resonances, the mismatched worlds that wouldn't align no matter how many different ways she focused the harmonic path. She'd seen the other Inquisitor's baffled turquoise eyes stare at her and lose hope. It only made Hal'la feel depressed! How could Evin add to her burden? Hellan had asked her to watch over Hal'la. Too often it seemed Evin was the one who needed help—

Because she couldn't bear to look at her Wolf.

Hal'la had to do it.

"I don't think so. Thank you... for what you've done for Solas."

"Of course." But Hal'la grimaced as though the answer disappointed her.

How frustrating it must be, Evin suddenly realized, to have to wait for others. No Inquisitor would handle that well. To know her Fen'Harel intended to leave her behind—if it were Evin, she would have been too furious for words. But Hal'la had time to reflect on it—and it seemed to make her gloomy in some moments and brilliantly determined to distract herself in others.

"Evin, I went to check on them... I think there's something you should know."

Evin swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat. "They're still in the trance?"

"They are. It... has to do with Solas."

"You said he had a fever. Is he still ill?"

"It's worse now. I don't know if there's some... Dreamer thing you might know about, some explanation. Is there something we can do for him? He's shivering constantly—I tried everything I know to help but he hasn't gotten better."

"I see," Evin said. "Thank you for telling me."

Hal'la stared at her for a while, and Evin silently sipped her tea. Eventually Hal'la left.

Is there something we can do for him?

No, Hal'la, Evin thought. There's nothing you can do.

It wasn't supposed to be this branch! You were supposed to wake up! I thought this was what you wanted.

"Stupid Wolf," she muttered. As she walked back to camp she kicked at every rock she passed.

The commander handed over a packet of messages from the ravens, but when she entered the command tent she threw them down on the desk. And turned to look at the Wolves.

Hellan—peaceful in repose. Stretched out like he was taking a pleasant nap.

Solas—a sweating, shivering villain. Fever-flushed face. Eyes open because he didn't even trust her to guard him while he slept.

Her hands clenched into fists. She stalked over to the corner where they lay. Hal'la must have given him some medicine—she could smell the healing herbs. Evin shook her head, irritated as she'd ever been in her life, like she was dealing with Gaspard or Vivienne all over again.

She'd done everything he asked—everything he swore he wanted—and he still demanded more. Like a voice that called out to her, a sudden insistent whisper that repeated her name. Incessant and annoying.

Evin.

She gazed down at him and wondered if he'd waken if she kicked him. He might, though. Better not.

"You're supposed to come back," she told him. "Maker—damn it—Andraste's... underwear!"

Hal'la had left a bowl of water and some clean cloths. Evin helped herself to one, wrung it out, and mopped his face—careful not to touch him with her hands. He looked a little more peaceful now, or was she just imagining it? No, she had seen this.

Void take the blighted Wolves.

Evin stripped off her jacket and folded it up. Then she squeezed in between her Fen'Harel and the wall of the tent, almost tripping over his feet. The space was narrow enough that when she lay there her shoulder and hip touched him, and she could feel the unnatural heat of his body through his clothes. She folded her arms across her chest and set her jaw, blinking back tears and staring up at the ceiling.

Though she'd intended to resume her search, when she let her head fall against her crude pillow she fell immediately asleep.

She woke a few hours later in the dark of night. Someone had tucked a blanket around her—Hal'la? Probably. She checked her Fen'Harel.

He slept peacefully. No more fever.

Maker damn him.

Chapter Text

It was a cruel and inventive form of torture, this. The gods or fate or random chance had seen fit to take a Dalish girl who had never known or expected power and teach her to rule a continent, to treat with monarchs and Tricksters as equals.

And then, when she finally began to feel that power was as natural to her existence as breathing, to expect there were few problems beyond her ability to solve them, the universe had thought it a very clever joke to remind her that in the end she was only a useless Dalish girl after all.

She wasn't even a mage.

The Tricksters treated her as equal at their own whims, not because she was worthy. And if they could see her now, crying alone in her tent because the world was falling apart and she was so helpless to do anything about it that even the man she loved would leave her behind, the monarchs she'd made bow would March on her Skyhold and burn her for a usurper.

Not that she would be there. Because she was trapped in the desert in a world that wasn't hers while the Dreamers slept, and as it turned out, she wasn't even capable of curing a simple fever.

That too required Evin. Of course it did.

Hal'lasean sobbed into her palms and then sat up to throw the pewter mug at her side viciously against the canvas wall. Because it hurt, it hurt, but not as much as she hated herself for letting it defeat her.

Or was the hurt magnified by something worse? But what?

Her Wolf abandoning her again, of course, more lies, more choices he was stealing from her. Her heart creaked in protest at a betrayal that hadn't even happened yet.

But it would.

And then she would risk their child's safety in a desperate hope to save their world. A child that would disappear if they were unsuccessful, just as she would.

It didn't make sense to mourn another thing that hadn't happened. That might not happen. It didn't make sense for her chest to feel like it was fracturing beneath the weight of her terror for her child. For how he would look at her and at himself if the baby-- if their-- if--

If.

Was this how Evin felt? Crushed beneath the massive force of Knowing? Of things that may never happen?

"There's nothing you can do, Hal'la," Evin had told her repeatedly over the course of the day.

There's nothing you can do.

And then a memory, unbidden, horrible. A burning wooden house at Haven, the screams of those trapped inside. And she, held back by strong hands -- Varric's and Krem's -- fighting to free herself so she could try, at least try to save the victims. These people, these corpses, dying in agony because they stayed at Haven. Because they were foolish enough to believe in her or in the Inquisition. Murdered, slaughtered because Corypheus wanted her. Wanted the Mark.

"Let me go!" she'd screamed at her calmer captors as the roof collapsed and the shrieks choked off. "Let me go! I have to-- they need--"

"No," Varric had assured her, his voice cracking as he dragged her away. "No, Hal! You can't help them. There's nothing you can do."

There's nothing you can do.

So when it seemed they would live, they might escape if she just-- if she sacrificed herself to--

Hal'lasean Lavellan had not hesitated. At last, at last there was something for her to do. Even if that something was...to die.

And now here, in this blighted awful desert, if she didn't find something, anything to do to help immediately, she'd collapse into the ruin of her despairs. She couldn't. Her Wolf would come back and know immediately that she knew. And it would be lost. It would all be lost.

She needed out of this blasted tent! Needed the stars overhead and the open air around her, even if she froze to death getting to them. She couldn't stay in here, alone. Not with suffocating horror in every breath she took.

Hal'lasean threw on her pants and barreled out into the night, her heart a frantic staccato.

She threw on her pants and barreled out into the night...right into Evin.

"Oh!" cried Evin as they both clutched at each other to steady themselves against the rebounding of their impact. "Hal'la! Are you...?" Evin was likely going to ask if she was all right. Then she must have seen Hal's tear-streaked visage, the haunted hurt there, and instead narrowed her eyes in careful study. "What's wrong?"

So much for not showing weakness in front of the unreachable star.

Hal shook her head. Nothing, said her gesture. Nothing was wrong. But her mouth would not obey her mind. Her mouth and her emotions ran away from her on a mount named desperation. "Evin, please!" There were the tears again, pouring hot and steady down her cheeks as she clutched at the other woman's upper arms. "Please, Evin, you have to-- you have to let me help, I have to do something or I'm going to lose my mind! Please, Evin!"

The other Inquisitor hesitated, deliberated, a frayed look in her eyes like raw distance. She was searching branches then. What could possibly require searching her branches now? Did Hal's helping somehow make things worse?

It wouldn't be the first time, said a dark voice inside.

"Hal'la, you have to understand... when I try to explain the theory to you, it only seems to make you...upset. Because you can't..." Evin rolled her lips into a thin line. "There's nothing you can do, Hal'la."

There's nothing you can do.

Hal wanted to be sick. Or scream. Or both.

"So don't tell me, Evin!" Hal insisted near-hysterically, her voice high and pleading. "Show me!" She thrust her left hand out, fingers splayed, and the Anchor sparked. Evin's flared in sympathy.

Still Evin wavered. Hal'lasean felt the humiliating heat of her salt tears drying quickly on her cheeks in the cold of the night. "Please, Evin," Hal whispered, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "At least let me watch. I don't want-- I can't be alone right now."

The other woman finally gave a small, thin smile of understanding and motioned toward the tent where the Wolves lay sleeping. "All right, Hal'la. Come on."

"Ma serannas," Hal wept in relief. "Ir abelas, I-- ma serannas."

Chapter Text

His fever had broken.

All Hal'lasean had done to help Solas, an entire day of holding his hand and soothing his hot forehead and rubbing his strained muscles as she had once done for Cullen in his lyrium withdrawals, as she had done for any of her family when they caught ill or were injured and recovering. Her people had their ways with healing herbs. It should have helped.

And yet it was not until Evin came to sit with him that his temperature cooled, that his sweating and shivering finally ebbed. Was it a mage thing? Was it a Dreamer thing? She would need to ask eventually. What if it happened to her Fen'Harel and she didn't know how to fix it?

But there were more important things to deal with tonight and now that she'd finally gotten Evin to let her at least observe, there was no way Hal was going to pester her with questions she wouldn't want to answer. So she concentrated on the task at hand -- shifting her Wolf's legs over one space and then doing the same with his torso, making sure to settle him in a way that wouldn't cramp or strain his body in his sleep.

By the time she was satisfied with his positioning and she settled down beside him, Evin was already waiting for her. It was a strange grouping of bedfellows: the twin Wolves on the outside on their backs, both placid now, and then the two women between them. Evin was sitting up as she had been in Hal's tent the night before, preparing to slip across the Veil, but Hal'lasean had to lie down next to her. Because there would be no Dreamer's trance for Hal.

She turned onto her side so that Evin could have comfortable access to her left hand and let out a long, bracing sigh. "I can try to sleep," she admitted apologetically, "but it would be easier if you could comp--"

Evin drew a rune. Hal'lasean fell asleep.

It was almost entirely unlike the orchard Hal'lasean had seen. The one she'd shown her Fen'Harel while Evin was in the temple. There were no trees at all like this in the physical world. These were...planned. Plotted.

Hal'lasean had seen their like on the well-manicured lands of the noble estates in the Emerald Graves, in Val Royeaux and Halamshiral. The strange, cold unnaturalness of what the humans called 'landscaping'. It was as if someone had marked paces between each plant, set them in straight lines, right angles, diagonals -- a chessboard, military and neat -- and made certain they did not touch. Except for two. Their two.

They were not purple either, nor did they look like Mythal's vallaslin. The trees in this place Evin had cleared for them were formulaic and orderly even in chaos, and devoid of color, if such a thing were possible. They were not transparent, nor were they black or white. It was a bizarre but fascinating trick of the eye or the Fade, where each tree was nondescript, blank from one vantage but somehow contained all colors just a step to the left.

And Hal’lasean did. Step to the left. Repeatedly. She was sidestepping, studying the way the colors lived and vanished in the trees along a path Evin had marked out in this strange, mathematical clearing. Math. That’s what it reminded her of. A type of math practiced and passed along by the master crafters of the Dalish clans. It was how they determined the size and shape of each spiraling design they implied in their leathers, how they found the perfect balance for a blade not just on its own but in the hand of its wielder. Her Keeper had shown her these things, though she had not quite grasped it -- only the enormousness of it, the connectedness -- how the Creators had made the growth of a sunflower’s seeds match the growth of a person’s arms and legs match the inside of a snail’s shell match the very fabric of the universe itself. When once she had naively offered this wisdom to the man she knew as Solas as they traveled together, he had laughed, but gently.

He called it a ratio. A golden one. She’d blushed as she asked, feeling very foolish, if a ratio was like a halla. He had not laughed, but smiled sadly at her. Pityingly. That was worse. That was the day he’d taught her about algebra.

Another thing Evin seemed to understand that Hal could not grasp.

Because while Hal’lasean sidestepped and thought vaguely of ratios and her own humiliation, while she marveled at trees that were somehow unnatural and yet more organic than any she had ever seen, Evin had been trying and failing to explain to her just what in the Void was going on.

“...so the link we build between each…tree...has to match the resonance of the burning world. I wish I could think of a better way to explain this. Are you following so far?”

"Yes,” Hal said, then, “Well. Trying. Why do you suppose the shems call this sort of thing 'landscaping'? Is it because they made the land a cage and it's always trying to escape? Don’t they know the land is wild and has to be free?"

Evin had been stalking the wide perimeter of the area they had claimed as their own in the Fade, explaining things beyond Hal’s ken and impatiently shooing away a constant but scattered onslaught of curious wisps and lesser spirits come to investigate the Anchor-bright newcomers. But she stopped short at Hal’lasean’s question and let them surround her trees like little bobbing fireflies so she could deliver an amused and baffled look. “That’s the most Dalish thing I’ve heard you say.”

Hal returned a weary, crooked smile. “If I manage to stick around, I’m sure I’ll say worse.”

“It comes from the word ‘landscape’. The ancient elvhen chose to manipulate the land in myriad ways as well. It’s hardly a human concept.”

“It’s not the same,” insisted Hal, her cheeks turning pink. “It’s the difference between...coaxing the Fade and tearing a rift. Between guiding the horns of a halla and cutting them off to mount them on your wall.”

A wisp pulsed by Evin’s ear. She ducked away from it without glancing at it only to have it bump insistently against the back of Hal’s knee moments later. Hal laughed and reached down to touch it. Evin frowned.

“We should treat them like spiders,” Hal said suddenly, focusing on their mild infestation of spirits. “The giant spiders. If you leave them something to eat, they’re usually content to live and let live. We’re the brightest thing in this part of the Fade. We have to show them something else to explore.”

But Evin was unconvinced. “What could we possibly make or find that would be brighter or more interesting than two Inquisitors and this?” She made a sweeping gesture toward the trees.

Hal’s lips pursed and twisted to the side in thought as she considered the shifting Fade around them, all hints of a long history in the Oasis, the rise and fall of empires and civilizations, the invasion of armies and the erosions of time. But these things were nothing new or exciting to the spirits that inhabited this place. They would need something...novel. And if they couldn’t do brighter they could at least do...newer.

With a burst of inspiration, Hal trotted out through the trees and past the perimeter of the clearing, taking in a slow circle to make certain she wasn’t about to do something dangerous or foolish, to be sure there was nothing around she might damage with what she was about to attempt.

Her Fen’Harel would likely not approve. But her Fen’Harel wasn’t here. And he was hardly in a position to judge at the moment.

Hal’lasean took in a breath and flexed the fingers of her left hand, feeling the Anchor tingle along her nerves in anticipation of its use. The orb’s magic swelled in her, unused for days and still tender from overexertion, but ready. Full. Brimming, really. She gathered her will, focused her imagination, formed the precise shapes and thicknesses she wanted. Then Hal’lasean lifted a delicate lace of curtained Veil off a window from the Fade into the physical world, reached into the viscous membrane that separated the two, and walked slowly into it, pushing it out with her steps.

When she’d made a little cubby in the Fade, she stood in the nook and held out her arms, head bowed, so she could concentrate on moving the three walls outward a couple more feet in each direction. Only then did she look up and around her to survey what she’d created: a little Fade-glass case that looked out into the tent their bodies occupied. It took in nothing from the physical world, nor did it let anything from the Fade out. It was a sunroom, in a manner of speaking.

Hal’lasean stepped out of it and glanced at Evin. “Can you put veilfire in there? Just a little.”

“What are you doing?”

“Making it up as I go. Veilfire please?”

Evin eyed Hal skeptically, but did as she was asked, conjuring an orb of veilfire and floating it into the miniature observatory like a small, sad moon. The wisps were already curious, already slipping away from the Heralds and their orchard even before Hal’lasean managed the finishing touch: she replaced the shimmering lace she’d drawn earlier over the entrance to the nook. Wisps slipped cheerfully inside and tapped their unformed selves against the soft, transparent Veil. When the first to enter had decided it wanted to see the orchard again, it floated toward the net...and found it could not leave its little room.

“You made a trap?” There was wonder in Evin’s voice, but something else as well. An edge? Alarm?

“It’s...a playpen,” Hal assured her. “We’ll let them out when we’re done.” When Evin still didn’t seem particularly thrilled with the idea, Hal’lasean reached out to touch her elbow. “Tell me again about the-- what were you saying?”

“Mm,” said Evin without confidence as they walked back to Anchor orchard. “I was--. Wait. So you weren’t paying attention?”

“I was paying attention!”

“Maybe it would help if you explained what you understand so far. From the beginning.”

For a moment, Hal was overcome with mild panic, the kind she used to feel early on in the Inquisition when her advisors would ask her opinion on some complex human political issue and she still had no idea what they were discussing. But she lifted her chin and faked her bravado. “You’re trying to make a path from tree to tree until we reach the one we want. There can’t be too much space between the trees or it doesn’t work. And they have to be...similar somehow? To connect? And you’re focusing light -- what light from where, I don’t know -- from one tree to the next in some kind of sequence...and...also there are...resonances?”

Evin gave her that particular look again -- the one Hal was quickly learning meant she was frustrated but trying not to let it show.

“I was paying attention! I just-- I’m not a mage, Evin. You have to talk to me like I’m not a mage. Like I don’t understand magic at all.” Hal cleared her throat. “Because I’m not. And I don’t. I can feel it now and I can see it sometimes because of the orb, but I’ll never...I’ll never understand it the way you do. The way...they do.”

And they both knew who she meant. Evin didn’t remark on it and for that Hal’lasean was grateful. She’d had enough humiliation for the week.

They reached their trees in the center of the chessboard Evin had laid out for them, and this time, instead of simply telling Hal’lasean what she was attempting to do, Evin showed her the progress as they talked. Each tree they passed along the complicated path Evin had constructed between them gave a faint green glow as though the Anchor in each world had been aroused with their closeness. With their connection. It was some time before they reached a place where the lighted line simply...ceased.

“Do you see the gap, here?” said Evin, gesturing a bit gloomily at the next group of unlinked trees. “Normally I can find another route but in these places, they won’t-- I can’t seem to find the way. I skip ahead when I reach them. No matter what I try, the edges don’t match up.”

Hal crossed her arms under her chest as she studied the darkened trees before them, frowned with concentration and chewed her bottom lip as she paced the area, circling the trunks of the Inquisitors they couldn’t match and coming up with nothing helpful whatsoever. She shook her head and looked apologetically at Evin. “I feel like I’m wasting your time. I’m-- ir abelas, I’ll just watch, okay?” Unless… “What if we backed away a few connections and tried a different route from another tree instead of this last one?”

Evin was already dismissing the idea, though to her credit, she didn’t dismiss Hal’lasean. “No. We can’t move backward. I tried. Once a tree is linked…”

Hal’s mind lit up like one of their mapped trees. Why did that sound familiar? What else did she know that was a series of...a path of lights that must be connected in a certain pattern, where going back, where a false step meant…

“Like the Temple of Mythal.”

“What?” asked Evin, only partially listening.

“Like the ritual paths, the supplicant’s paths in the Temple of Mythal!”

“Mythal?” Evin asked.

“If you can’t go forward and you can’t go back…go sideways.”

Chapter Text

A cage of splintered bones stretched over the heads of all three Dread Wolves. They thrust up from the ground like talons in a circular belt, meeting at the same central point. Above it the sky of the Fade roiled, a storm of ashen clouds and invert lightning that cracked and boomed and echoed. In the heart of Nightmare's realm, heaven itself served the Archdemon's whim.

Fen'Harel felt Hellan's presence beside him but did not check with his counterpart or lift his eyes from their strange new enemy. The third Fen'Harel, this newest duplicate, resembled themselves in every respect. His grim, narrow features, his scarred chin, his colorless eyes. He wore armor much like the make Fen'Harel favored—except his was drenched in unspeakable gore. His face was splattered red. His hands were bloody as a surgeon's. The stave he grasped was little more than a killing tool.

A version of himself completely lost to the Wolf. No, worse than that, for the Wolf had its own purity. The being that stared back at him was debased and corrupted. All that would remain when his sense of self was annihilated, once he was irreversibly astray.

Fen'Harel's flesh began to crawl as though he felt the blood on his own skin—drying, tightening, flaking. He bit back a curse.

"Did you enjoy the world you will create?" this new Dread Wolf asked.

The world?

And Fen'Harel realized—the nightmare to which he'd been immune. The vision that had not troubled him at all.

An army of dead elvhen in strange vallaslin. A wasteland of graves extending from one horizon to the next. The ruins of the world after a war to unmake the past.

His own face, lips parted in a merciless smile. His eyes, pitiless as daggers, Pride and Strife ascendant. The conqueror victorious.

The Unfeeling God.

"Ar solas halam'shivanas," Nightmare said in Fen'Harel's voice. With Fen'Harel's face.

Fen'Harel blanched. There was a burning in his throat—disgust. Revulsion. And, at last, a bitter recognition.

This cannot be, he reminded himself. This is a trick. Not a vision. Not a certainty.

Forcing past the muggy-headed fatigue of severance, Fen'Harel reached out his will like gripping fingers. He hooked his claws across the sky. Disrupting the lightning, restoring the normal Fade in gashes. Making his mark.

"I let you off your leash too long," Fen'Harel said.

Nightmare smirked at him—mirthless, malicious. "You will never cage me again."

Hellan did not speak. Waiting for an opening? Fen'Harel sent exploratory magic through the substance of the Fade, probing for traps. Or listeners....

"When all the gods are dead I will reign at her side." Nightmare's voice resounded in the wide space between them, reverberating in the pillars of bones. "I will set the subjugated world at her feet—a fitting bauble for my Bright Star. And she will recoil in horror. But not for long, hmm? I will make her feel what I want."

"No," Fen'Harel said, a sudden exhalation. And though he tried to ignore the emotions Nightmare wished to inspire he could not stop himself—his absent heart began to pound.

Beside him Hellan shook his head as though hearing slightly different words, his face gone pale as clouded ice.

Curse this infernal creature!

"You always were dreadfully effective," Fen'Harel said. He drew a swift breath and beckoned Nightmare—peremptory, commanding. "Return."

"I am free," the Archdemon said.

"Return."

"Never!"

Fen'Harel grit his teeth and planted his stave in the earth before him. He would bind this demon, bring Nightmare to heel, end his threat forever. The first rune lashed out—and Nightmare howled.

The scarlet sigil collapsed.

Fen'Harel stared at it in amazement. Until he saw the reason.

The uncompleted cage at Nightmare's back. Geldauran's working!

"It seems we were just in time," he murmured to Hellan.

"Be ready," his counterpart replied.

Fen'Harel returned his attention to Nightmare. "You've soiled the Fade with fears and terrors long enough. Choose your master, creature. You will never be free again."

"Destroy me first," Nightmare said. A sentiment Fen'Harel understood but could not heed, regardless of Hellan's presence. If power could be salvaged here he must do it—if his own weakened condition permitted such finesse.

Nightmare lifted his stave as though in mockery. Two smaller beings split off from him. His chief lieutenants, Torment and Mayhem. Gleaming elvhen generals, clad in the finest armor Elvhenan had ever wrought, men whom Fen'Harel had known, served beside, and loved. Men who'd been like family to him and closer than his own parents, long ago companions whose memory Nightmare would destroy.

For a moment his senses overwhelmed him. Every perfect detail restored more clearly than his own recollection permitted, dimmed by thousands of years. Sweat ran into his eyes and stung them, blurred his sight.

"I will deal with them. Keep him from the cage or destroy it," Hellan said.

His ally—his brother.

"Yes," he said.

He could not allow Geldauran to claim this prize. Far too dangerous. Besides, Nightmare belonged to him by right. Destroy the cage, then build one of his own, while keeping the demon occupied? An ambitious feat. Yet somehow he must manage it.

He glanced at Geldauran's spirit trap, intending to find a weakness—and in the same instant Nightmare lifted his bloody stave and called down a storm of fire. The same enchantment Fen'Harel had intended for Hellan when they first met outside the Temple of Solasan, the very same.

There was no counter. All he could do was raise the quickest barrier that came to mind. And in nearly the same breath Nightmare duplicated the spell. Bolts of fire pelted him like fiery hail. The silvery barrier absorbed them but was soon exhausted. And now Nightmare had a barrier and Fen'Harel had none. Wicked creature.

He sent a piercing magic at his opponent. It withered against Nightmare's barrier but the demon duplicated his spell as before. Harmless—he'd chosen it because he was immune.

A mirror. He was fighting himself.

He could whittle Nightmare away with similar sorceries but that would take forever. He didn't have time. Geldauran's vassal was near, he could feel it. Hellan was busy with the two generals. He needed something Nightmare could not copy.

The Wolf.

No. It was the obvious answer and therefore dangerous.

"What is the matter, Trickster?" Nightmare prodded.

"Admiring your cleverness," he said.

"Then you appreciate your future." The creature's vile laughter boomed throughout the space. "Perhaps the Wisdom you devoured taught you to accept the inevitable. Not even the All-Mother herself could satisfy your hunger. What other spirits will you consume? What other powers will fall to your lust? An orb, unbound? An Anchor, ripe for the taking? Listen—I will keep Hellan distracted. You could waken and snatch the prize before your comrade realizes the danger."

Hal'lasean. The creature was offering him Hal'lasean.

In that moment Fen'Harel's heart froze in his chest.

Chapter Text

The two Inquisitors had gone sideways as much as they could. Their last success had been days ago.

Days? Had they been in the Fade for days? Or was it weeks now? Hal'lasean had lost track. How could a person keep track when there was no sun overhead casting shadows, no stars shifting through the firmament to count the time 'til dawn? They had been in their little orchard for a tiny eternity and yet when Hal peered through the lace curtain of the playpen she'd made for the wisps -- now frozen in a moment Evin made stretch out infinitely before them -- she could see their physical bodies in the tent just as they'd left them. Evin sitting up, holding Hal's left hand in hers as she slept, Anchors joined and faintly glowing, the two Wolves bordering them as though hoping to protect their mates even in their sleep. As though it were not laughable enough when they were awake.

How? How was something like this even possible? How did a being survive -- no, live! -- without some measure of...some semblance of minutes and hours and days? The implications made her head ache.

Was this what it was to be Elvhen? Another thing Evin understood better than Hal. Because this was what Evin did. Made time meaningless. Lived in a single breath for years. Evin was just as immortal as the Wolves in this place.

And now Hal'lasean was with her, had been with her for what felt like ages, and they were no further along in their attempts to map the orchard than they had been when they first entered the Fade. Evin's frustration with the situation and with Hal'lasean broke her careful surface more and more.

Hal found it refreshing. The signs of agitation. The admittance of feeling helpless. Each time Evin snapped at her and then immediately regretted it, Hal'lasean felt a little more...comfortable with the other woman. A little more at home. But perhaps that's what came from spending weeks with one person without a break.

The other Inquisitor stood now at a stubborn copse that would not even allow them to move sideways, rubbing at her brows and silently shaking her head. They were stuck. They had been stuck. They had always been stuck, or so it seemed. Hal, meanwhile, was draped dramatically on the ground on her stomach, limbs all akimbo, drawing little powerless versions of the runes Evin used to link the trees in the malleable floor of the Fade. Neither woman had spoken in quite a while.

"What if we chopped one down?" mused Hal'lasean, her cheek squished against the ground.

"Another patented Hal’lasean idea!" Evin responded, immediately flippant. "'What if we dig underneath them, Evin? What if we turn into birds and fly over them? What if we turn them all into nugs and herd them where we want them to go?'"

Hal'lasean started laughing. Evin huffed her disapproval, but was soon joining in her counterpart's mirth.

"Okay, yes," admitted Hal, propping her head up on a folded arm so she could better see Evin. "The nug idea was a little absurd."

"Just the nugs?"

Hal pointedly ignored the question. "But I mean it. What if we find a tree where the Inquisitor died and chop it down and use it as...as a bridge?"

"For the same reason we can't simply move the trees closer to one another like you asked days ago!"

"And that reason is...?"

"Because that isn't how it works!" Evin snapped, tossing her arms up in frustration.

Hal gave an exhausted grin. "Because the resonances only exist as they were made in the universe," she repeated dutifully. "Like how some notes only make sense higher or lower in relation to others. And without those relative placements, there can be no harmony. And without harmony, there is no magic."

Evin nodded and turned back to consider the unlinked trees.

"Do you sing, Evin?" Hal wondered.

"What?" Evin stubbornly did not look at her.

"Do you sing? Or play any instruments? Everyone sings, but do you sing? Do you like it particularly? I do. I love it. I love harmonies, but I don't like to sing them. I like to sing the melody. But I love being harmonized with."

"Hal'la," Evin sighed, pressing her palms to her eyes. "I'm trying to concentrate."

"I know," said Hal. "And I'm trying to distract you so you can concentrate."

"That doesn't--" Evin let out a hard sigh and faced Hal'lasean again, her expression impatient but willing. "Fine. Let's talk about music. I sing, I suppose. I don't play any instruments."

"Evin," said Hal with flat amusement, "getting you to talk about anything besides magic and archery is like pulling out a perfectly good tooth."

Evin's brows lifted, accompanied by the corners of her lips. "Why would you want to pull out a perfectly good tooth?" She considered Hal'lasean for a moment before coming to sit down beside her, cross-legged and straight-backed with Hal still prostrate, her cheek pillowed now on both forearms. "Do you play an instrument?"

It was an innocuous enough question. Likely someone who hadn't spent so much time with Evin wouldn't have noticed the quiet awkwardness of the gesture. As though she weren't used to asking things without already knowing the answers. As if she didn't truly understand how interacting with other people worked when she didn't know how they'd respond. But Hal was beginning to understand these things about Evin, and to her the question was desperately sweet. Because it meant Evin was trying. Reaching out.

And then Evin really did reach out, absently lifting a lock of silver hair from Hal'lasean's back and gently twirling it between deft fingers. Hal went very, very still and pretended she didn't notice. This was a side of Evin she was still coming to know. A rarer side, fleeting and flighty. Hal couldn't search this side out, but it would come upon her at surprising times, and she would calm her whole self so as not to spook the little bird of Evin's more intimate friendship.

Hal'lasean let the moment be before she spoke, and when she did, she let her voice be airy and soft. "I play the vhenatar," she said with a nostalgic smile.

"The...?"

"Vhenatar," Hal repeated with a laugh. A laugh that ended the instant she realized that Evin wasn't asking her to repeat it because she hadn't properly heard; Evin was asking her to repeat it because she didn't understand.

Hal'lasean struggling to sit up and Evin's hands dropped back to her lap, her cheeks coloring slightly as though she only just noticed that she'd had her fingers in Hal's hair. Or perhaps it was her ignorance that had her embarrassed.

"Do you not have vhenataren here?"

Evin's blush deepened. "I don't know what that is."

"The vhenatar!" How could a Dalish woman not...? "It's a drum. Handheld, one-sided. Circular. Hide pulled tight over an ironbark wheel. It's played with a small wooden stick with leather on both ends."

Recognition dawned slowly over Evin's pink face. "I didn't know what it was called. I...I told you, I'm not Dalish."

All those strange things Evin had said since Hal'lasean and Hellan had come to this world. Her insistence that she wasn't Dalish, her mention of Lavellan not working with the Jennies, the heated comment that Lavellan wasn't what Hal thought.

Her eyes rounded and then narrowed, wonder and then wariness, and she braced for what her whole being knew must be something she wouldn't want to hear. Because if there was something else to Lavellan here, something wrong with the clan, and Evin saw that it would upset Hal...

"What aren't you telling me?" she asked, even when most of her better judgment told her to mind her own business. "You had vallaslin. You said-- What don't I know?"

“Tell me more about vhenataren, Hal’la,” Evin said with a morose sort of calm. “We can talk about this some other time.”

Hal'lasean studied Evin with careful, serious appraisal. She could feel the thing they weren't going to talk about just at the edge of her awareness, already making her heart race and her eyes sting with a long list of plausible explanations. Not one of them was good. There were never happy endings for the Dalish. There was only survival...and the many, many ways of not surviving.

Did she want to know?

"...Do you want to learn?" she found herself asking, throat tight with the effort of keeping her voice steady. "I could teach you. The vhenatar and...and some songs. Do you know...do you know any Dalish songs, lethallan? I could teach you those too. I could teach you whatever you wanted to know about...about what it is to be Dalish. If you want."

Evin was staring at her with pained shock, her eyes bright with gathering tears. Had she said something wrong? Hal felt her face burn with regret to the very points of her ears. "I'm-- ir abelas, I didn't mean to--"

"There's a song," Evin murmured, so quietly she was almost inaudible. Except that this was the Fade. She wanted to be heard and so she was. "I don't remember all the words, if I ever knew them. Maybe you know it?"

Evin began to hum the tune, a dirgey, dark, war-torn melody in a voice pure but uncertain. She paused shortly into it because she lost the next notes, but Evin wouldn't need to find them herself.

Hal's heart was pounding into her ribs, her skin flushed and overwarm. She knew the song. Fenedhis, but she knew this song. It was a song the Dalish sang when all hope was lost. When the shemlen armies had come and won, but the survivors had no choice but to endure.

It was a song Hal'lasean only sang these days after taking another person's life.

"Do you know it?" asked Evin hopefully.

Hal'lasean nodded numbly. "Yes."

With her heart creaking like heavy, broken limbs in a storm, Hal took a steadying breath and reached for the very Fade around them. She let her hands form the familiar posture she would if she had the vhenatar in her grasp. Then she closed her eyes, brought the image of the one that sat in her quarters at Skyhold into sharp focus, and only opened them when she knew she would see it sitting atop her knee.

Hal'lasean took her time preparing, feeling the various taut places in the skin of the drum, running her thumb over the ironbark frame. Slowly spinning the little stick that would make the drum sing. And then, like her own heartbeat...a rhythm. Pulsing. Simple. Tribal. Heavy with loss.

Hal's voice was Dalish trained, full of wavering vibrato and an interplay of hummed consonants and the ringing resonance of bell-like vowels that her Storyteller had taught her as a child. Just as he had taught her to use the vhenatar to accompany his tales. Where Evin's was clear and low, Hal's was a tripping flight in both directions as suited the song. As suited its feeling. She sang with her eyes open, with her gaze on the other Herald no matter how much it hurt to sing such a wounded song, such a vulnerable melody to someone to whom she still didn't like to show signs of weakness. To someone whose clan might have-- might not--

The lyrics were haunting, trudging things. They spoke of the coming March, of the endless slaughter of elves at the hands of the shems. They warned the listener there was no point to running for they would be found. That though they would lose, they must fight. And then it became a survivor's song. It mourned the dead and prayed for rain, for a torrential downpour that might wash clean the blood of the fallen elves as it mixed with the blood of the shems who had felled them. Shems whose blood now bathed the listeners' hands. The singer's hands. The singer urged the listeners to continue on, to start again, and, when the next March inevitably came...to repeat it all over again.

Evin joined in when she could, when she remembered snatches of the melody or words. The final verse was a reprise of the first, and Evin began to sing the melody and the words so strongly there that Hal pulled her own voice back to seamlessly harmonize with her lethallan. They were two voices in discordant union, making one aching sound, a weeping, determined minor key that was uniquely, painfully Dalish.

Hal repeated the last line three times by herself, twice in common and once in Elvish, as was customary...and then clasped both hands on the skin of her vhenatar to still the reverberation.

The Fade was silent.

"I didn't realize it was so..." Evin whispered, when the quiet began to creep.

"It's a song about the death of The People," said Hal.

For a long time neither of them said anything. Then Evin's brow knit with a memory. "My father used to tell me not to study too closely the ways of a people who had failed."

Hal'lasean's jaw clenched tightly. Her chin lifted with stubborn pride. "As long as there is one Dalish heart pumping Dalish blood, we have not failed."

Evin's smile was thin but hopeful as she reached out for the vhenatar. Hal gave her the drum and its stick so she could experiment.

"I take it back," said Evin, tapping the drum with her fingers. "That's the most Dalish thing I've heard you say."

Chapter Text

Stunned beyond words Fen'Harel gazed at the image of himself as the blood-drenched conqueror, severed from every tie, stripped of both emotion and constraint. In the darkest part of the Fade he faced his tempter, the Nightmare who wore his shape, while Hellan battled its lieutenants.

The Archdemon did not realize the danger it was in. The creature was ignorant of the trap Geldauran had placed before its throne. If the goddess succeeded in her plan she might expend all of Nightmare's power in an instant—and likely claim his life or Hellan's. But the foolish demon lingered over its meal, pleased to feast on the Dread Wolf's turmoil and self-doubt, the proposition it extended.

Nightmare offered Hellan's heart like a tempting piece of fruit. An orb unbound. An Anchor ripe for the taking. Hal'lasean.

Not even the All-Mother could satisfy your hunger.

Fen'Harel flinched when the demon said those words, shaking his head to reject them. He'd done what was necessary with the bitterest regret. That was what he'd told himself.

How well Fen'Harel knew the propensity of all thinking creatures for self-deception, the easy rationalizations that led good men to seize power. His excuses were many. Geldauran was not the only enemy to waken. She was not even the first. The All-Father, the Huntress, Mythal's first murderers. And he was all alone. How could he stand against them? Would he risk his world's freedom, the remnant of the People, on his own hasty restoration? What if his power was not enough?

He knew how the Wolf would answer. It whispered in his soul. But his entire self understood this proposal was calculated to destroy him.

Betray Hellan? He was not even tempted.

How could this creature—this twisted, misbegotten bit of his own life force—misjudge him so badly?

It could never happen. It never would. Because if he were such a man, such a monster, Evin could never love him. She might be as distant as the star that guided the first navigators across the Waking Sea, but she would always light his way. His conscience could never stray as long as he remembered her.

He was safe from this Nightmare.

And then he wondered what it offered to Hellan.

Fen'Harel forced a disdainful grimace to his cheeks. "That was a bit far from the mark," he told the demon.

"Do not pretend you did not consider it for a moment," Nightmare replied, twisting Fen'Harel's own blood-splotched features in a knowing, savage grin. "What do you think Hellan said when I told him you planned to consume his halla?"

Fenedhis.

Hellan would not have believed it. Not for very long. And whatever Nightmare offered his counterpart, Fen'Harel knew he had done everything he could to protect Evin. All his secret enchantments, all Hellan's good will. Evin lacked Hal'lasean's power. That should keep her safe. The scales of the threat did not balance, he told himself.

Of course Nightmare had attempted it. It knew it could not defeat them both. It would seek to drive a wedge of suspicion between them. But it could not turn two beings against each other when they were so damned similar.

It would take much more than that.

Fen'Harel contemplated the Archdemon's mirror magic and sighed. "Come now, ma era'elgar. You do not wish to serve Geldauran. Allow me to destroy the trap she wrought for you. Do not defeat yourself this way."

He gazed at the darkest rendition of himself, willing the creature to listen, to be receptive. But not with too much emphasis or it would notice.

"I will never submit," Nightmare said.

But when Fen'Harel drew his stave to erase the lines of Geldauran's trap the Archdemon did not interfere or reflect the enchantment back at him. Instead Nightmare began to pace a restless circuit, as though it could scarcely stay its bloodlust. Fen'Harel worked as quickly as he dared. He did not even spare a glance for Hellan to see how he fared against Nightmare's greater servants.

Which meant when Geldauran attacked, Fen'Harel was not watching.

Chapter Text

"You sound like Cassandra," observed Evin wryly when Hal'lasean made yet another disgusted noise under her breath.

But Hal was in too sour a mood to laugh. With no further advances in their efforts, the two Inquisitors had begun yet another comb through of the trees they'd linked and each unlinked tree surrounding them. This meant studying the choices and makeup of each Herald's life with the Inquisition looking for...similarities, supposedly, but at this point they were just trying to find something they might have missed in the last thousand examinations.

It required a constant barrage of images of each Herald with their Solas. This was not so terrible about half the time, but the closer they came to their own trees, the more the Solases fell in love.

It had been agony at first. Now it just made Hal angry. She's created a system to avoid it, starting with the branches after Corypheus' defeat when Solas was gone and working backwards to Crestwood. But that didn't always keep her from seeing...well, from seeing...

"They really will fuck anything with pointed ears and a vagina, won't they," Hal said in a snarl. She slapped the offending tree for good measure.

"And sometimes things without pointed ears," Evin added. "And sometimes things without vaginas. But of course they prefer to break elven hearts."

"Let them talk to you about the Fade and they'll just whip it out, heart and cock! 'Ma vhenan, ma lath, ma sa'lath! Ar lasa mala revas, what we had was real'!" Her lips twisted violently and she whirled around to find Evin several trees away. "At least...at least some of them I can understand. At least some of them...I mean, I could fall in love with plenty of these Heralds myself, but there are some--"

"I know."

"There are some-- and I just--"

"I know." Evin smiled her pained understanding.

"You, I understand! You, I can see how-- and it doesn't hurt so-- but all these others! It's-- it's gurnshit!" cried Hal, stamping her foot in protest.

"It’s not gurnshit, Hal’la… whatever that is. There are branches where we love others too. That would be painful for the Wolves to see, I think."

"Good!" Hal snapped. "Let them watch us make love with countless strangers for days on end!"

"You should take a break," said Evin gently. "I'll keep working. Go look at something fun for a change." Her smile became a weary grin. "What about all those branches on your tree with Commander Rutherford? That might be a nice distraction."

Hal was helpless to stop the bright scarlet of her skin from neck to ears. Helpless to the way her anger deflated into exhausted guilt. "I don't--" she began, then shook her head. "I can't. It feels wrong. It feels unfair. To Cullen, to Fen'Harel. He's been so...understanding, and I-- I can't. I can't do that to them."

“Go look at your Wolf then.” Evin's expression faltered. "How he smiles when he looks at you. Go remember that he loves you."

Hal made a face of intense distaste, but let out a long-suffering sigh and trudged back toward their two joined trees.

"I'll make him remember how much he loves me," she grumbled as she walked, scuffing the balls of her feet against the shifting Fade floor. "Make him remember with my foot up his ass."

Evin laughed once, a bark really, but they both lapsed into a thoughtful, melancholy silence as Hal returned to the strong, forthright familiarity of her tree. She stood there staring at it with bitterness tilting her expression askew for quite some time, debating with herself whether she was angry enough to do as Evin had originally suggested...to reach into her life and watch the things that might have been -- the things that could have been -- with steady, solid Cullen.

No! No. No, she would not torment herself and she would not betray her Wolf or use her Commander. No matter how much it hurt to see a hundred Solases exchanging the very same...the very same intimate words her Solas had given her.

Blighted miserable Wolf. And yet, oh, how she loved him!

Hal'lasean would simply...remind herself of the path her life had taken. The path she chose. The path she knew -- had never doubted -- was the one she wanted. The right one. The one she loved. She would remind herself of the healthy, vibrant tree she became when tended by the Dread Wolf's green thumb. Of her love and life with him and his with her, without...without other Heralds, other elves, other...vhenans.

Those Wolves were not her Wolf. She knew that. She just...needed to remember.

She took in a breath to calm the remainder of her anxiety and ire and let it out slowly as she reached out to slide the fingers of her right hand -- always her right hand -- into the fabric of her every choice. Like pudding, she thought. The kind the shem cooks made in Skyhold, cool and smooth and thick. Evin had taught her enough to do this, at least. She could thumb through her past like pages in a book, see her present, reach on tip-toes even a few minutes into the future. But only here. Only in this place of Evin's making and magic.

Hal skipped through those memories that seemed to be the same no matter the tree when it came to the man each Herald knew as Solas: certain discussions about the Fade and spirits, the death of Wisdom, their first kiss, their second, her balcony where he told her he loved her, the glade at Crestwood...

She didn't want to see those. She wanted to see...yes, there. The conversations that happened only between Hellan and Hal, the things that were uniquely theirs, the smiles, the laughter, the flirting, the philosophical debates, the arguments, oh, so many arguments, the making up, the making out, the making love...the making of their child...

Hal'lasean stopped suddenly. Their child. That's what she wanted to see. That's-- she wanted to see him smile at her with their newborn (or newborns) at her breast. Wanted to see his ardor in his grey-blue eyes when he felt a little foot against her belly, the pride there as she clutched his hand and cried out in the first agonies of motherhood. Wanted to watch him look down at the manifestation of their love swaddled and placed in his arms for the first time, then memorize the wonder when he returned his gaze to hers.

But Evin hadn't taught her how to see that far ahead on her own. She wasn't even entirely certain she had that kind of power. Maybe the future required magic, runes, a mage's touch. But Hal was determined now and Evin was busy. She couldn't -- wouldn't -- call the other woman away to watch things that would break her heart. So she slid her hand up the inside of the tree, following tendons of possibility until she located the muscled knot of the present. From there, she pushed her fingers up the largest limb as far as they would go, until she was leaning heavily on the trunk on the very tips of her toes...but still she could only catch glimpses of futures that didn't cross into the burning world. Futures that did not return to her own. And even then they were not so far forward in time. Weeks, maybe. Months? There was barely a swell to her belly in most of them. And try as she might, Hal couldn't will her vision into the distant future.

She knew it was there, though. She had seen it with Evin. So maybe it was just a matter of...immediate physical contact with the right branches. And if she wanted to reach the higher branches, she only had to climb the tree.

And hope she didn't somehow snap off one of its limbs in the process.

But the Dalish learned to climb even as they took their first steps. Hal'lasean's ascent was light and effortless, spry even. She scrambled up, stretching from one branch to the next, until she was a whole body length above the ground. The worrisome sparks of the Arche's influence were still high overhead, so she settled into a solid cradle between reaching limbs and very, very delicately slipped just her deft fingers inside, as though she were planning to pleasure a woman. She curved them just a little and put easy pressure on the fragile strings of chance and choice, plucking them for just the note she needed. No, not that one, she was still pregnant; pregnant, pregnant, pregnant...

Hal'lasean's eyes rounded, unseeing and yet full of images that drummed in her heart like the vhenatar. Filled her, resonated within her, spread blushing warmth through her every secret place. She was unaware of the way her jaw hung open, uncaring of the tightness in her throat, the wetness of her eyes. She was not even fully conscious of the string of stilted Elvhen, loving and weightless, that fell in trembling droplets from her lips.

There were boys sometimes. And sometimes a boy and a girl. But mostly...oh, mostly...

She came in so many shapes and colors. Eyes of blue-grey or vivid teal or violet-and-teal, sometimes his shape, sometimes hers, sometimes overlarge in a particularly Dalish way. Often his chin, only sometimes his nose. Mostly her nose, sometimes her chin. Her brow then his then hers again. Pale, so pale, translucent almost, little fat hands and little fat feet, chubby legs and arms. A belly engaged in each dramatic wail for sleep, for food, for warmth, for love. The little bend to pointed ears he admitted was one he had inherited from his father. And her hair...sometimes a pearly silver, sometimes dark mercury, sometimes the shadowed auburn of Fen'Harel. But always curly. Tight ringlets the moment her little head was dried off. And when he was there with her, when he returned in a few of the more fragile branches, her Wolf confessed his hair was just the same.

And how ardently he loved their daughter.

A daughter.

A little--

"Hal'la!" shouted Evin in panic.

Hal was so surprised she nearly fell. She had to throw her arms tightly around the largest limb to keep from tumbling down her own life.

"Where did you go? Maker, I thought you’d vanished or--or something. What are you doing up there?"

"I wanted--"

"If you hurt yourself Hellan will kill me!" Evin said, her voice high with exasperation. "The Fade is not a-- a--"

"A tree for climbing?" Hal suggested drily.

Evin was not at all amused. “If you want to see something higher I’ll adjust the visualization.”

"You were busy with more important things," explained Hal, frank and marginally apologetic, "And...I didn't want you to have to see...what I wanted to see." Her wet cheeks smouldered pink. "Ir abelas. I didn't mean to frighten you. I'll come down."

She began to do just that, adjusting her bare feet against the responsive matter of the branches that held her. All she had to do was what she had done a thousand times before on trees of bark and wood; all she had to do was twist to face the trunk and reverse the climb. All she had to do was not touch the visualized branches with her Anchored hand.

But as she shifted one of her feet to reach for the limb below, her left palm just barely grazed a sapling of possibility, a new growth that tickled her Mark like one of her Wolf's fennec fur brushes.

The Anchor sparked. The tree dazzled with color. The Fade around her came alive.

Music. It was music! An exquisite array of overtones sighing through her branches like an autumn breeze to shake the last of the colored leaves from an oak's grasp. But there were no leaves on her tree and what it released was...was...

"I get it!" gasped Hal. "The resonances! I-- I get it now! Oh, Evin, you have to come up here, it's...fenedhis, it's beautiful!"

The higher she climbed, the clearer it became. The very air sang with it, so long as she kept her left hand to the tree. When she was only a few feet below the smoldering futures of her life, she could finally see clearly in every direction, could finally see the orchard as a system. As a board. No. Not a board.

An instrument. And every tree a string. A note.

"Fenedhis," she breathed, her eyes wide. Then louder. "Fenedhis! Evin! Evin, you have to hear this! Evin, I mean it, climb up here right now!"

Evin fretted impatiently below, but when it became obvious Hal'lasean had no intentions of coming down until Evin joined her, the other Inquisitor picked the next tree over -- Evin's was much too complicated to climb -- and hauled herself to Hal's height with an easy, economical agility.

"I was going to try looking for a new junction off the thirty-fourth sequence," she chastised as she scaled. "Hal’la, what is so important that you had to--"

Hal pressed her Marked palm into the membrane of the limbs she grasped, pressed until the board sang like an Orlesian orchestra tuning before a dance. Evin's mouth fell open.

Without hesitation, Evin pushed firmly against the nearest branch with her left palm. Their two adjacent trees reverberated and harmonized together in such a sad, sweet way, Hal's heart actually hurt with it.

But Evin's sharp gaze had lost its wonder quickly. She was staring at Hal as though she was putting together something monumental. Something that should have been obvious all along.

"That's it! Hal'la, you found it!"

Hal lifted her brows in surprise. "I did?"

Chapter Text

Geldauran's attack stripped the field of light and color. A blast of pure darkness assaulted Fen'Harel's senses. But he was not the target.

Hellan shielded it, somehow, his magic flaring in a sudden, reflexive jerk that cracked across the immense cage of bones like thunder. The two subdemons he'd been fighting staggered back from the pressure. And there Geldauran's enslaved vessel stood, the golden-haired warrior who'd fled from him short hours before. A new weapon clutched in his hand: a heavy, ornate mace like a sceptre. A rod of mastery held by a goddess who had never once yielded to an enemy. And his brother did not understand her magic. He had no business facing her.

Geldauran belonged to Fen'Harel's world. She was his concern. He would not let anyone else take his place against her. Let Hellan fight Nightmare, the lesser threat. Which meant that each Dread Wolf faced the wrong opponent. Fen'Harel must fix that. Now.

Fen'Harel stole a moment more to complete his work, to deconstruct Geldauran's trap—no time at all to build his own. Sparks of midnight fell about them in the aftermath of the surprise attack. He glanced across the field to evaluate.

Hellan, turning from his two opponents to meet Geldauran's gilt-armored vessel. Nightmare, no longer restrained by self-interest, reaching for another rune—

A myriad of spells sprang to mind, but strange power seeped through the Fade. Novel devilry. Hellan's magic. Fen'Harel dared not interfere with whatever his counterpart was doing. Time for a more physical approach.

So he split himself down the center.

Two wolves sprang from where Fen'Harel had stood. One white and incandescent with red eyes, the other black and trailing shadows, with crimson teeth. Neither wolf was much larger than his elvhen body but they should suffice for what he had in mind.

"The servant is mine. Take Nightmare," he told Hellan.

The black wolf sprang at the Archdemon to distract him, breaking through his spell. He tore aside Nightmare's hurried defenses and buried his muzzle in its right calf. The Archdemon's reproduction of elvhen armor was strikingly accurate—the creature's legs and feet were protected by little more than hart leather. Striking deep, tasting blood, the black wolf's senses were confused by the scent that surrounded him, a copy of his own.

The white wolf rushed to Hellan's defense. He found Nightmare's two generals, Torment and Mayhem, beguiled by Hellan's deceptions. He must not disturb his counterpart's enchantment, so he ignored them. The white wolf's coat ignited, a blaze of blinding fire. The vessel looked away to shield his eyes—an instant of distraction which let Hellan retreat.

"I have Nightmare," Hellan told him.

But at the same moment Nightmare lifted up his stave and struck Fen'Harel's black wolf. A lattice of violet energy crushed him like a tightened net. Dazzling pain stole his breath. Too much more of that would destroy him.

Fen'Harel let go his jaws with the second blow, but not before he'd worried his fangs deep into his enemy's leg. He tasted magic and corruption. He wanted death, to feast upon this lesser demon if it refused to submit. But Hellan had arrived and that was the wolf's only task—to stall until his ally reached them. Fen'Harel would need all his magic to face Geldauran. He sacrificed the black wolf.

A tiny forgotten fragment of bone lay just to the left of the vessel's wrapped foot. A momentary focus? It would serve. Fen'Harel latched on, sinking his awareness deep inside the ancient bit of scrap. Before Geldauran could so much as twitch Fen'Harel launched himself up from it. He unfurled once more into elvhen form, pulling his stave from the Fade and grasping it with two hands.

"I don't want you," Geldauran said, a hiss of dismay. "I don't want the decoy!"

"You'll find I am quite genuine," Fen'Harel replied.

He met the heavy, decorated sceptre Geldauran's vessel wielded just as the man brought it down on the remaining snowy-spined wolf. The weapons clashed—a plain, undecorated stave versus Geldauran's ornate golden mace. Their energy at war.

Fen'Harel focused more power through his stave, as much as he could spare without destroying the other instance of himself. His wolf flared once more, its rays directed at Geldauran. Her servant gasped and spat. They broke apart.

Geldauran twisted her vessel's face through the connection that gave her dominion over him. "You flee to Nightmare, to absorb his power? Come and face me with your true self, Fen'Harel!"

"He stands before you, Geldauran," he replied. And his wolf began to growl.

Geldauran laughed, a sound better suited to a woman's throat. He recalled the last time he'd seen her in person, many ages before his own ascension. A gilded pretty thing, tall and beautiful as the fashion of that age, though a goddess as conscious of vanity as Geldauran would not permit herself to appear anything else. Eyes that winked sometimes green, sometimes blue, always brilliant, always cruel. A fall of straight golden hair to the middle of her thighs. When her servants escorted him before her he'd wondered if she chose them based on looks. If so that left him safe from her recruitment. Fen'Harel had never followed the mode of any age. He was too proud to hide his origin, and well aware his appearance did not suit. Too grim, too many scars. He had no patience for the games this goddess found so important.

Geldauran's current servant followed the same rule as the others. A hale elvhen man as tall as himself, muscled and blond, with a length of yellow hair worn in several twisted coils. Straight nose, wide brow, eyes that gleamed with his mistress' spite. His blood-writing was hidden under an enchantment but Fen'Harel could sense it there. Repeating scalloped lines like the feathers of a bird of paradise, or scales from her favorite coral dragon. They would mar his cheeks and forehead were they visible.

The actor and the acted upon. A better illustration of her litany he could not envision.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"You know it," the vessel replied.

"I was not addressing you. Whom do I have the honor of combating? Which slave are you? Do you have a name? Or did you destroy his mind, Geldauran?"

The mark of an amateur, if so. They both knew it.

"My name—his name is Mihanin," the vessel said. "Do you think to prepare an epitaph? I already know what to carve on your tomb, Dread Wolf. Here lie the ashes of a failure—"

The sceptre lashed out with each significant word. Fen'Harel blocked each blow with his stave, but was forced backward, toward the center of the ring where Hellan's complex magic battled Nightmare.

"—who fought and died alone."

Fen'Harel's foot passed some imaginary line—and Geldauran gazed at him expectantly.

"Your trap? Already destroyed," Fen'Harel said.

In that moment of stunned surprise he stepped forward beneath the man's guard. His hand touched the chiseled cheek, forcing another rune to overlap the vallaslin. A surge of energy shocked the vassal's coercive bond. Geldauran choked back a scream.

As he ducked away Fen'Harel allowed a satisfied smile to quirk the corners of his mouth. "You felt that even in your abyssal prison, I expect. You will feel everything Mihanin does, Lady. No hiding behind a slave's pain. Not today."

"I will repay this trick a thousand times," Geldauran said furiously, "on the body of whatever woman was foolish enough to accept your attentions. Do you think she is safe, now that she's rejected you? Not so. Where do you keep her, I wonder?"

Geldauran's servant lifted his sceptre once more—and now Fen'Harel observed three faceted ruby gems set into the ornate head.

He braced himself again, expecting another attack. But it went where he did not expect.

The first ruby exploded in a clash of crimson light. Fen'Harel could not react fast enough—too drained from sickness—his reflexes were just a bit too slow. The magic caught his snow-white wolf full on. And destroyed it.

Fen'Harel fell back, dazed with agony. And the vessel aimed the next ruby at his heart.

Chapter Text

Evin Lavellan slid down the trunk of the life-tree, the enchantment she'd created in the Fade to illustrate the links between every Inquisitor's life. She caught random flickers of some other Lavellan's experiences when her hand gripped the branches a little too tightly. Her mind swam with the song, the endless harmony Hal'lasean had discovered.

Every Inquisitor was part of the same music. They all fit together, but it wasn't what she thought before. It wasn't just a sequence like a line or the treble notes of a melody. It was closer to a square, a plane that warped in place, the landscape represented by a map. Multiple notes like a psaltery played to celebrate the Chant. Or something more elaborate. A... a dulcimer. The instrument Evin's mother had played on festival days with tiny wrapped hammers. Music and magic and resonances Evin didn't understand but felt instinctively, a level more primal than words or even memory.

They could use this to find the path to the final world. This would let them cross the gaps. She knew it.

She stared up at the highest branches of the trees. Her breath came quick with excitement. Hal'la clung to the trunk of her own tree not far away—eager to witness whatever Evin made of this discovery. But now that it came to it, she realized a piece was missing.

She didn't know enough about music.

The song Hal'la had sung about the Dalish had stirred something in her. Unusual melodies in a minor key. A music she'd never heard in the Chantry, only in whispers of songs elves sometimes dared to sing in the Alienage.

She could feel herself groping toward it. A new way to link each world together. A harmony she hadn't recognized was harmony at all. Until Hal'la's voice melded with hers. Until she heard the entire song of the Inquisitors.

Not long after the other Inquisitor joined her here, Evin had decided she wasn't going to leave the Fade until she found the path they needed. She wasn't in a hurry. She simply wouldn't return until she found the burning world, however long that took. But time spent in the Fade had its own hazards. Though Evin might not want to leave, there were things that could force them out. She watched Hal'la carefully to make sure she wasn't showing signs of fatigue. Isolation was a danger. And the more time Evin spent here, the less like a person she felt. The less real her memories seemed. Even the pain of that final conversation with Fen'Harel. For her it was months in the past. Everything felt more distant now.

Evin gazed down at her hands and wondered if they would eventually begin to lose shape. But that was a foolish thought, dangerous thinking for a Dreamer. It underscored that despite her determination to stay, there really was a limit. The longer they remained the easier it was to forget why she was even doing this. Hal'la grounded her and kept her steady. It was Hal'la who reminded her when Evin began to feel unreal.

Evin returned to her own tree, the crooked mass of limbs so like a tangle. Tenuous, scrubby branches that wouldn't support her weight even if she were inclined to climb them, the result of so much meddling with her own future. In the silence of her thoughts she drew a few runes, shrank the tree of her life down to a more convenient size, and tried to find a branch where she studied music.

She couldn't find a path in her childhood where she'd learned. She wasn't quite sure why. There were plenty of elves in the Alienage who knew music, who played instruments and sang. Evin's mother had discouraged her from learning such things. Music was for the elves who entertained humans, and that wasn't a future she wanted for Evin.

She couldn't find a branch that worked until after the Breach. Leliana. The spymaster had a gorgeous voice and she was easy to coax into the first few basic lessons. Evin sang scales in the Fade and memorized major triads alongside the self she saw in the branches. Meanwhile Hal'la paced about her, or grew bored and ranged through the trees, searching in her own way for the path, or stopped to amuse the little wisps that bobbed and drifted in her cage.

The problem was the type of music Leliana knew. It wasn't the same as Hal'la's. It wasn't a song Evin could use to bridge the gap.

"Hal'la?" Evin finally called.

"What is it?" the other Inquisitor asked.

Evin drew a deep breath. "I need you to teach me everything you know about Dalish music."

Right, so it wasn't everything Hal'la knew about her people's music. But it was a solid overview... with enough detail for Evin to realize the theory behind it was missing. The explanation to it wasn't there. Maybe Hal'la never learned it, if the Dalish even knew. And Evin couldn't map their harmonies onto the magic unless she understood them on a fundamental level.

Who else could she ask? Who might know something about Dalish music, or at least be able to explain some of the theory? Where could she find a person of immense learning who enjoyed discussing esoteric fields of study?

The answer, of course, was Fen'Harel.

Except hers was too prickly. Too guarded. He asked annoying questions and grew angry when she was evasive about exactly why she wanted him to teach her musical theory. When they were together... there was too much tension between them. It reminded her of things she needed to forget. It was too easy to be distracted.

That left Hal'la's Wolf.

And in a very short time she was drowning in explanations—semitones and temperaments and seventh chords and wolf intervals until her head swam with information. Each new thing she learned unlocked another question. Hal'la sat with her during all this, and though Evin wasn't certain how much the other Inquisitor absorbed when the conversation switched to magic, somehow Hal'la kept her on track.

Until finally, Evin thought they knew enough.

"Are we ready?" Hal'la asked.

"I think so," Evin said.

The two Inquisitors gazed out at the grove of trees—the farthest ones with their topmost boughs licked by flame, a fire that consumed nothing in this place where time stood still.

"So. How are we going to do this?" Hal'la asked.

And that was an excellent question.

Chapter Text

The impact of Geldauran's infernal magic ripped Fen'Harel's white-scaled wolf apart. Pain crashed over him like a massive red-tinged wave. He staggered back and caught his balance with his stave, protecting his heart from a second blow with a last-second surge of mana. Geldauran's vessel laughed—and looked to see how Hellan reacted. But the other Dread Wolf was unaffected, did not even glance their way.

Hellan was busy with his own opponents. Nightmare would fight with everything it had because its life was at risk. For Geldauran the stakes were lower but she was no less determined. A chance at freedom—and revenge. If she could not kill Fen'Harel she would inflict as much injury as she could, disable him for centuries if possible. And the sceptre was the perfect weapon for her spite. Could he destroy it? Or deflect it? He had little time to analyze.

One of the faceted ruby gems in the sceptre fractured and turned black. There were two more. He must assume they had equal power. Dangerous, he thought. Just one destroyed a part of him so easily.

Fen'Harel shook his head to clear the fog, but it was not that easy to disregard his vanished self. To break the enchantment in such a way was like losing a hand or leg. He felt it even in the absence, a trauma left behind when something tore away. And that called to mind another pain, a deeper one.

Evin, he thought. Evin.

But to think of her at such a time was foolish.

Fen'Harel wanted this fight to end. He wanted to return to the Oasis, to his Inquisitor. Exactly why or what that would accomplish was unclear. He did not have time to think about it anyway, but her name came to him like a mantra, a word his mind hissed through the pain.

As Dreamers wrought the Fade their battle could have taken any shape. A contest of wills expressed as brawn, because that was less likely to interfere with Hellan's exotic magic. And because bashing the Forgotten One's servant with his own arms was deeply satisfying on some level.

Geldauran's vessel narrowed his eyes as some new idea occurred to his mistress. "You're not the false Wolf."

"As I said. Try me again," Fen'Harel said.

"Why? I destroyed your last remaining replica," the vessel said. "Though what that that makes him leaves me a bit confused."

She meant Hellan. Yes, Geldauran would have noticed the foreign signature of his magic—a circle of runes never seen before on this world—and the way Hellan had ignored the wolf's destruction. What would she make of it? Irrelevant. He would destroy her.

"Feel free to wonder as you rot in the abyss," he said.

The vessel's sea-green eyes glittered with her malice. "You overcame me once by trickery, Fen'Harel. Not through an honest contest. What dominance do you possess? Demonstrate it now, Trickster!"

Geldauran raised the sceptre high. Fen'Harel felt the vast surge of her mana. Vessels were problematic things. In the physical world they had clumsy limitations. Here in the Fade her magic was almost unlimited. No wonder she had lured him here. If she consumed his power or Nightmare's she could unlock her prison. The world was not ready for this threat.

Geldauran's repulsive litany was a recitation of brute strength. The powerful overcame the weak and took what they wanted, inflicted vallaslin on the unwilling, ruled over their slaves like despots. Her worshipers appealed to her for the strength to escape their bondage—and do the same to others. If Geldauran favored them, someday they too could be masters. And so even the slaves obeyed, even the ones who might have resisted, who knew they were not free.

And the people recounted his Name alongside hers. They numbered him as her peer! Fenedhis lasa—what a maddening twist of history.

Fen'Harel's will lashed out with fury. He disrupted the vessel's surge of mana, breaking whatever Geldauran intended with a contemptuous flick of magic. The next attempt he crushed as well. He slapped it aside so quickly she must feel the sting.

"You must be out of practice," he said.

"Look to yourself, Fen'Harel. You're wrecked already. Why should I bother fighting? You'll defeat yourself if I stand here long enough," the vessel said.

And that was... partly true. As easy as it was for him to nullify her spells, Fen'Harel's breath now came in gasps. He was in pain, already tired, with sweat that stung his eyes. The thought came to him that if he held out long enough, Hellan would come to save him. He rejected that putrid idea the instant it occurred to him. It was unworthy of him. If anything he would come to Hellan's aid.

Which meant he must end this quickly.

He gave himself a surge of speed and attacked Geldauran's vessel once again. They exchanged blows—stave against sceptre—strength augmented with magic. A step at a time he forced the servant back. He snatched seconds here and there to weave his own enchantment.

His target was the vallaslin.

But before he could enact it, the second ruby broke.

Fen'Harel saw at a glance it was an attack he could not shield. But he had anticipated that. His orb—that crucial, treasured prize. He drew its power over him like armor.

It absorbed her magic.

And now she knew he had it.

The vessel's eyes met his. A sharp laugh. "Your thefts have not been few," Geldauran said. Delight rang in that voice. "You could not be more perfect, Fen'Harel."

The orb throbbed under its new burden. It cracked a little with the strain—the destructive magic was barely caged. The safest course was to let the energy dissipate, but he stopped himself in time. Why squander this captured power? That would be no fun at all.

Much better to reflect it at his enemy.

The strain of the effort distracted him. Geldauran's vessel landed a few blows. He faltered when he saw the extent of the power the ruby represented. Entire lifetimes encompassed within it, red lyrium concentrated to a furious gleaming jewel. Each one was enough to cripple, even kill. How fortunate they were Geldauran had targeted his wolf—a partial self which could be dispelled—and not Hellan, who fought whole and undivided.

Fen'Harel raised his stave to block another attack. Irritating now to deal with this—his magic required the whole of his concentration—he shaped the orb's excess into the point of a spear.

He aimed it at the third and final ruby.

The gem detonated in his enemy's hand.

The sceptre shattered, as did the vessel's arm. Blood and bone and metal fragments sprayed outward with a scream. Even as it happened Fen'Harel dodged to the side, ducking behind the hasty protection of a shield. His orb thrummed a bit off-key. Risky to use it again but if he must he would.

The vessel's scream continued. Geldauran enjoyed the pain too, thanks to Fen'Harel's earlier enchantment. She could not simply shunt it aside or order her servant to ignore it.

The scream choked off. "Kill you—I will kill you—kill—"

Fen'Harel glared at his enemy. "Yield or die."

"Death—for you, Dread Wolf."

Geldauran reached deep within to channel her final magic. Fen'Harel caught the shape of it partway through, in time to shout a warning to Hellan. But he could not spare another thought for his counterpart or check how he fared against their other enemies.

The vessel's body was too damaged to continue. So Geldauran discarded it. She bent his shape into another, twisting the man's joints one by one, writhing beneath his skin while scarlet-edged scales appeared in rows like a monstrous growth.

A six-winged coral dragon emerged from the vessel's body, one agonizing piece at a time.

At last we see your hidden shape, Fen'Harel thought.

It was time to show her his.

Fen'Harel let the darkness swallow him like a shadow. And when he was fully devoured his true shape loomed within. He planted his taloned feet in the blood-soaked earth of Nightmare's lair and stretched up on all four legs. His height matched hers, the greatest of the dragons.

The Wolf regarded his enemy with murderous hunger. Each flickering obsidian eye contained the dizzying swirl of a galaxy, the pale slit of a pupil set in the Void. Black ichor dripped from fangs parted in a lethal grin. He hissed a breath, tasting her scent with savage anticipation.

The dragon shrieked her rage. A frill of crimson spikes around her neck extended as a warning. She sucked in air to ignite her baneful breath, a paralytic if his memory served, though she might have changed it. The Wolf lacked much curiosity.

He circled to divert her from Hellan and allowed a growl to build beneath his throat. The dragon's sinuous neck arched toward him as she spat her venomous breath. His eyes closed to protect them—but the pelt of layered, sculpted spikes made the rest of him immune.

Six wings extended to right Geldauran's balance. With her wings extended she scraped against the roof of Nightmare's cage. The bones of the enclosure cracked and splintered. They fettered her.

He lunged at the dragon, jaws snapping, but danced away from Geldauran's lashing, barbed tail. His teeth inflicted poison. This was his true shape but a false one for her servant. She would tire eventually or the Wolf would snap her neck. He had no fever now, the memory of some pain, but scant fatigue. To the Wolf such things mattered little. The Fade itself strengthened him. And he had no concern for his conscience. She merely had to die.

He heard her laughter in his mind but did not understand it. There was a collar on her neck, a golden thing. Three cracked and fractured gems turned black in their settings. And there—on her neck—another.

A fourth ruby.

That laughter again—he saw the gem begin to flare—but he was not the target.

Hellan. She aimed for Hellan. His better self. Who would be a father. Who was not watching for this. Would not be able to deflect. No time to warn him—

One more bit of bone, discarded, what was left of Mihanin's arm. With the Wolf's own speed he cast himself upon it.

The Wolf dispersed. His elvhen form—orb raised as a shield—

He failed.

The energy struck him. A fire that slashed all his bones at once. With his last conscious fragment of will he hurled the power at Geldauran, everything he had left, everything remaining in the orb.

And then all he could see were the holes he'd torn in the sky.

Evin, he thought with all the longing in his soul.

Perhaps they would meet again in the Beyond. If fate was kind. He hoped she would remember.

His star. His bright star.

Fen'Harel closed his eyes. To sleep or die.

Chapter Text

Standing inside the spherical harmony of the Anchor's symphony was like finding oneself in the eye of a great storm. The eerie silence at its center sank the very air to the ground where it hung like soundless fog, thick and cloying in comparison to the soaring vibration of the linked trees, of their Marked energy passing through the thousands of branches of their brother and sister Heralds like a freshly rosined bow drawn across infinite strings. Each one its own glorious note.

Hal'lasean and Evin had been weaving -- knitting, really -- choice notes together into a song.

Evin, as the mage, had the more difficult job of the two. She moved from tree to tree far up in the limbs, forming and shaping the intricate spell that bound their new path together. She would do something very complex involving the branches and her magic that Hal couldn't see and didn't really understand, and then pass the energy down the trunk to Hal'lasean waiting below. It was then Hal's job to use the orb's power to guide this filigreed thread of Evin's design under loops she created in the path they plotted and then up again for Evin to take. Then Hal would move to the surrounding trees one at a time and press her left palm against the trunk until that tree's note drowned out the others. In this way, Evin would choose the next waypoint in their journey.

The secret, as it turned out, was not in finding similarities in these lives, but rather in seeking their complements. But more than that, there was a pattern: discord, resolution, discord, resolution. A loose braid in the branches that connected to the spine they built along the ground, all headed for that one perilous tree.

That was how they bridged the gaps. A hanging bridge strung between two lives, strengthened by the one they left and the one that followed.

But the more trees they had linked, the louder the cacophony became, until the overtones vibrated through their very bones. This was perfectly acceptable for Evin, but unpredictable in Hal'lasean, whose bones were filled with the energy of the orb.

So Evin had crafted her a bubble. She stood in it now beneath a tree forward and to the left of the one Evin occupied, pressing her hand into the trunk and listening to the muffled sound of its unique note. A note that wouldn't fit the path, she was fairly certain at this point, but this was their plan. Evin had to give the word. Hal pressed and pressed and waited for Evin to signal her to move on. She stopped and started again. Stopped and started. Made it a rhythm. If she were fast enough, she thought, she could run from tree to tree and play a song of her own making just by touching their trunks.

"Hal'la!"

Hal yelped her surprise. She hadn't seen Evin climb down her tree, much less heard her enter the barrier with her.

"Are you having fun?" Evin asked irritably. "I was trying to tell you something."

"You were?" Hal shook her head. "Evin, I can't hear anything but the tree I touch with the Anchor." She dug her palm against the trunk to demonstrate. The membrane of the bubble rippled with the sound and rebounded unpleasantly with the harmony of the path.

Evin's eyes widened and she paced the little warding, listening to the eye of the storm. Standing in awe of it. "You can hear it so clearly in here. It’s like a bell, isn’t it? Every life has its own purity, the sum of every choice. But Hal’la, I was trying to tell you. I can't hear it anymore. I can’t tell which tree you’ve activated. The reverberation from the existing song is too loud. It drowns out everything else." She let out an exhausted sigh and rubbed at the bridge of her nose. "Either you'll have to listen and come up to tell me-- no, I'll figure something out. I'll find the tree and handle the magic. Why don’t you get some rest?"

Hal opened her mouth to respond, to point out that it was a ridiculous idea, when Evin fixed her with a fond, almost affectionate smile. One she had never seen from the other woman. "You were just complaining how much you missed the sun. You've been in here too long. It's affecting you. You should wake up," Evin said.

But Hal'lasean was already rolling her eyes. "Do you want to play out the whole argument or can we skip to the end when I stubbornly refuse to go and you finally acquiesce?"

"You would rather sit here and watch?" asked Evin, baffled.

"No, I would rather help! I came here to help and I'm helping and I'm not going to stop helping until it's done! I don't care how tired you are of me."

"That's not--"

Hal'lasean smiled to show she was teasing. "I know," she said. "Look, we'll find another way. We always do, don't we?"

It was strange to say always when, outside the Fade, they'd only known one another for a few days. But it was true. They always did.

"So far," Evin agreed hesitantly. And then she smiled.

"Great, so. What we need is a way to communicate. Something that doesn't rely on sight or sound. Because if I can find the right tree and guide you to it, we can continue on as we have been."

They puzzled over it for a moment, mirrored images of frowning concentration.

"The wisps are so attracted to your Mark there must be some way to detect it. Some way for me to tell where you are," said Evin. "I could ask the Wolves if they know a spell. But we'd still need--"

Hal'lasean's eyes rounded with inspiration. "That's it!" She laughed. "No need to ask the Wolves. Mine already gave us the answer."

Evin looked instantly engrossed. Hal'la nearly hugged her for it. It was fast becoming her favorite of Evin's expressions.

"Look." Hal reached into her shirt and pulled out her halla horn necklace, unclasped it and piled it into Evin's outstretched palm. "It's enchanted. So that--"

Mild panic bubbled up. Wind, cold, snow, the howling of wolves, endless snow, blood on the snow. So cold. So cold.

Hal swallowed bile and forced herself to be calm. "He said he wanted, after Haven...he wanted to be able to find me. If I were...lost." She smiled crookedly. "I suspect his real reason was that he knew he was going to leave. I wasn't allowed to find him, but he wanted to be able to find me."

Evin regarded the necklace thoughtfully. "By the time we lost Haven I’d seen that he would go, but I didn’t think it mattered. I wasn’t in love with him yet."

Hal laughed helplessly, her cheeks and ears coloring pink. "I think I must have been lost to him the moment I first saw him. By our first trip to Val Royeaux I was hopelessly in love. You'd think I had never seen a man before."

"Things were confusing for me then." Evin gave a small, self-deprecating shrug, then sat cross-legged on the ground in the bubble. She poked and prodded delicately at the thin bone necklace with its dangling wolf fang, testing it with energy and coaxing it with magic. Evin studied it for several minutes, completely focused on her task, and then finally looked up at Hal'lasean with a contemplative softness to her visage.

"You found it again."

Hal felt her cheeks heat. She fidgeted uncomfortably. "Found what."

"This will work," Evin said instead. Her eyes sharpened, brightened. "What's more, I think I know how to ensure you come with us to the other world."

The two Heralds found themselves at last standing in front of the splintered, devoured tree. When they stepped to the left, there was no sudden rush of color. They no longer had need of the bubble because the space around this ruined black stump seemed to swallow their song before it could begin.

Hal'lasean shivered and crossed her arms under her chest. "...How do we do this?"

"I have no idea," admitted Evin. "But I don't think we should touch it."

Hal laughed, but it was dark. Thin. "I can live with that."

They lapsed into silence and stared for what might have been minutes or hours. Hal'lasean could no longer register time. Could no longer imagine what time felt like or what it was supposed to do.

There was only Evin and Hal'lasean and the tree looming broken and doomed before them.

"We're going to have to touch it, aren't we," sighed Hal.

"I'll do it," Evin decided. "You're pregnant."

"And you're our foresight," Hal argued. "Without you, I'm not pregnant; I'm not anything."

"But you have to open the door for us."

Hal made a face in protest and then arched one amused brow. "We could make the Wolves do this one. Men love it when you pretend you need them."

But Evin shook her head. "We shouldn't wait. What if the fire claims more trees?"

They went quiet again, studying the tree and measuring their bravery against their logic.

Hal glanced at Evin. "Together?"

Evin smiled. "Together."

Chapter Text

Fen'Harel's concentration was divided and divided and divided again. He kept an eye on Geldauran and Solas when he could, but they were the least of his concerns. Nightmare should have had most of his attention, the spirit trap he built as he herded and dodged his foes, but it was his lieutenants that paralyzed him with fear, so they two were most of his thought.

He had no hope of fighting them without a complex and ever-evolving series of runes he had painted on them when first he had shaken himself free of their custom disguises. He could not attack them otherwise. Because he would surely be crushed where he stood, stupefied and sick at heart, in the face of their perfect armor.

Mayhem wore the face of the murdered Mythal whose corpse had caught his tears. The very icon of the moment he knew what he must do to save Elvhenan. The moment he had doomed them all. This was horrible enough, but it was Torment that ruined him.

Hal'lasean. Perfect, sweet-faced...pregnant. And corrupted red with lyrium. Branded for Andruil. Her left arm consumed by his magic gone feral. Facing her death at his hands with love and understanding in her eyes even as the demon underneath fought him in her form.

It was a clever enchantment. Crafty and dangerous demons. Solas had done his work well, if Nightmare was truly his creation. He was impressed and horrified in equal measure.

He obscured their senses instead of his own self for he would need other barriers and the magics would interfere. Better to reflect their abilities back at them so that they flickered constantly from a history of the fears of other victims. The first were two Elvhen generals, the glory of Elvhenan, in some of the finest armor Fen'Harel had ever seen. One he did not recognize, but the other...there were piercings he had never worn and his hair was longer, but there was no mistaking the man who had once been his teacher. Military strategy and games theory, a fierce and demanding mentor who had never cared much for the young Wolf's impulsive bravado. Had delighted in hacking away at his arrogance.

They must be Solas'. How...queer.

Then the moment passed and they flashed again, jumping from spiders and unrecognizable humans and elves from every age, parents and siblings and enemies and children, no doubt. Bears, Darkspawn, demons, the undead, even a fair number of grotesquely twisted Dalish clansmen as though ripped from a human child's bedtime stories.

So long as they were jumping from form to form, they were no contest for Fen'Harel, but every so often, Mythal's bloodied visage would spring up just as he was blasting the creature backward, or Hal'lasean's bow-shaped lips open in agony as he cut deep into Torment's middle. Into his vhenan's swollen womb. His hands shook as he scurried to adjust his runes.

It was the only major magic he was attempting. He sparred with the three of them, a dance-like fight in which he used only his most basic attacks, in which most of his efforts went into dodging and shifting across the Fade to turn them as he wanted.

Because he should save his strength for Geldauran, just in case. Because Solas was flagging from this strange bond of his and he would no doubt need Fen'Harel's help whether he admitted it or not.

Fool Wolf, Hal'lasean had called Solas at the temple. She was not wrong, though Fen'Harel expected he was much the same before he met Hal'la. Before the halla tamed the Wolf.

So the tame Wolf would plan for the wild one when he could not think for love sickness. He sparred with his three foes and kept them distracted, kept their attentions, and all the while he drew runes in a large circle around their skirmish. It was nearly finished, his spirit trap.

And then the whole world burst red.

Solas's crumpled body lay at his feet like one of Nightmare's illusions, some prophecy of his death projected onto the Fade itself.

Fen'Harel would no be so afraid of his own mortality. But he was afraid for his fallen brother. For Evin. For what his loss might mean for the Arche. For him. For Hal'lasean. For their child. He was afraid.

But more than that, he was furious.

"You desperate--" he began, spitting the words at the downed Dread Wolf. But there was nothing to be said. Solas...Solas had saved his life. More than that. Solas had taken the blow meant for him.

They were bound now; a tie beyond brotherhood.

"Too-noble fool!" he shouted, but Solas was far past hearing.

Nightmare and his minions were stunned by the blast, Geldauran's mighty dragon in tatters from his brother's last gasp of fight. There was time enough--

He knelt quickly beside Solas, checked his spirit, suffused his brother with what little magic he could spare.

"We are not done yet, brother," he murmured fiercely. "Remember our hellathen. Fight! Evin needs you!"

They all needed him.

"...Ma Fen?"

Fen'Harel's heart stopped.

He knew what he would see when he turned around; knew that the red energy must have shaken free his spell. His Hal'la. His spirit's own song.

All at once that fury changed directions.

"Enough," Fen'Harel declared, first to himself, and then again, standing, turning to face his deepest fear in the face of his deepest love. "Enough, banal'elgaren!"

He made one motion, swift and sure, slamming the butt of his staff into the ground. A pulse of raw magic flooded the field of combat, unformed and useless...except that it would wreak havoc on every enchantment it touched.

The lieutenants were in it up to their thighs. Hal'lasean's red-veined face froze, cracked, crumbled. It would not last. But he would only need a moment.

Fen'Harel cast away his stave and robe, drew in a breath...and became the Wolf.

This was not his Silver Wolf, native creature of the Beyond, shifting and enigmatic. It was not his White Wolf, the majestic heritage of his physical form, swift and familiar.

This was the Dread Wolf.

Twice the size of his Silver form, clad in a barrier so well-wrought it fit like shimmering armor, fur long and coarse and black as the Void from which it hailed. A black that pulled in the light around it, a black that was hungry to be filled.

It would never be filled.

Six eyes red as the blast that felled his brother, teeth and claws of glinting, knapped obsidian like an ancestral blade, barbed and keen as a broken heart. He was beautiful. He was savageness itself.

Fen'Harel hated this beast. It was a puppy compared to Solas' scaled monster, but it was demonic and vile and craved the endless hunt. The freshest kill.

This was the Wolf that had driven him to feast himself at Andruil's lap for centuries.

Fen'Harel, Dread Wolf.

Terror and Mayhem were dead before they even saw him coming, torn limb from limb with all the vigor of a starving predator's first taste of struggling meat.

He knew only frenzy from then on. Nightmare fought with all the insidious determination of the fear he inflicted, but the Black Wolf kept coming. Impervious to the wounds he acquired at the archdemon's claws. He did not feel them, did not notice or care.

There was only flesh and jaws and the maddening sensation of rancid blood on his tongue. There was only the scream of pain cut off abruptly when Nightmare fell where he stood.

The Dread Wolf leaned in for the kill--

A serpent's tail, coral and vicious snapped his legs out from under him and he stumbled, folded, staggered back to his paws.

Fen'Harel turned snarling to face the dragon.

It was a pathetic thing now, most of its wings dragging the ground beside it, ripped full of holes. Its scales were raked clean in some places, melded together in others as though from a ravaging fire. One of its front legs bent savagely in the wrong direction. The others trembled beneath its bulk. And still Geldauran picked a fight.

He admired her tenacity. It would not last her long.

"Who are you?" She prepared her next attack, coiling backward like a snake about to strike. "I will know the name of my enemy!"

Fen'Harel's lips pulled back to reveal his fangs, dripping saliva stained with blood. "Didn't you know, Geldauran? Wolves hunt in packs."

She started to laugh, a rattling thing that echoed through her enormous form.

Until the Dread Wolf tore open her throat.

Chapter Text

Light-headed from lack of blood, Fen'Harel dreamed of his mate. Less than a true dream, it was the aimless recollection of a docile mind in the Fade. He saw his Bright Star in the rubble of the Conclave. No more than a shattered remnant, an impression too amorphous to address with words, with a green glint of possibility manifested in her hand. The spark he caught and clasped to his chest and breathed to brighter flame. What little power he had in those days barely sufficed to keep her from slipping away.

If the prisoner dies, apostate, I will kill you. Cassandra's heated voice.

He thought he would spare the Seeker the effort. Faced with the ruin of his hopes and schemes, he would run. But he had not failed. His strange survivor, his little Anchor, had lived.

She said her name was Star.

As a lovely mortal woman, Evin Lavellan was a bewildering blend, innocent and shrewd in equal parts. She was astonishingly ignorant—hardly a surprise considering her origin—with an instinctive gift for magic but no conscious ability to express it. He had not wanted to get too close to the Herald. Better to remain the lowly, harmless apostate. But when Vivienne tried to direct her studies he had to intervene.

Evin had such a serious way of looking at the world. She divided it into one fork and another, prodding people and nations until they found themselves in a decision. Even him.

Teach her or not. Touch her or not. Trust her or not. Each step seemed an entirely reasonable response to the one that preceded it... until he was tangled tighter than he'd ever been.

Taste her, take her, tell her....

When had the foresight started? He was still unclear on that. Too distracted to notice, captured by the light in her sunset eyes and his unwise infatuation. The bond came on him like an ambush or a sudden sparking rift. So unexpected he had not wanted to believe it. It should have been impossible. She proved him wrong again.

His brilliant light. He wanted to see her. He wanted to hold her, take her hands and—

"Are you drooling on my fur?" Hellan asked.

"Hmm?" he said.

"You must be awake by now."

Fen'Harel lifted his head a little. He was... carried on Hellan's back. Hellan in the shape of his elegant, silvery Wolf. Who seemed to have some sort of limp.

Wait. Enemies. There had been enemies.

They did not appear to be fleeing anything at the moment.

Hellan had been victorious, then?

Well. That was... nice.

"I do not think it is drool," he said cautiously. His voice was hoarser than it should be.

"Blood, then. I thought as much. Let me see."

Hellan came to a stop. And he slipped from his wolf form so skillfully he caught Fen'Harel in his hands before he fell to the ground.

"Does Hal'lasean ever warm her feet on your fur?" he asked to distract himself from the sudden jolt of pain.

"I would not put it past her, though she has not yet seen the Wolf." Hellan eyed him. "If Evin tried it your Wolf would give her splinters."

A ridiculous notion, but it pleased him. Fen'Harel grinned a little despite the stabbing sensation deep in his bones. "You are right. My shape is not suited to such things."

And then he remembered the way in which they'd parted.

It would be better for us to sever this attachment.

It was for the best. Wasn't it? He'd been so certain before they'd left. What had changed except that now he was exhausted and in pain?

Nothing. Nothing had changed.

He lost the smile.

Hellan propped him against a curving part of the passageway, a convenient ledge. Fen'Harel looked down at himself to gauge the extent of the damage. Blood the color of pitch had soaked into his garments—it was what passed for his blood in this place. All the layers of his magical defenses were in shreds. He needed healing. But he was alive. Hellan was alive. The situation was better than expected.

Why then were Hellan's pale eyes so haunted?

"You killed Geldauran's vessel?" he asked.

"He is dead," Hellan said.

"And Nightmare?"

Hellan's gaze dropped. "Caged. I needed that energy to save you. I gave you what healing I could. I had nothing to spare for Nightmare's destruction, but he will not soon escape. He will not be a threat for quite some time."

Much better than expected. Yet Hellan....

Was it Nightmare's taunts that disturbed his counterpart? Or something else? He knew what would give him the same expression.

"The Wolf?" he asked quietly.

Hellan hesitated. "Yes. I do not like to use it."

Use it? For Fen'Harel that shape was his true one in the Fade. Yet how well he knew the regret that sometimes followed in its wake.

He studied his counterpart, feeling a deeper kinship with Hellan than he'd ever felt for anyone. That was not so surprising; he would naturally sympathize with someone as similar to himself as this, a man who wore the same face, whose courage and skill he respected. He recalled the instant of terror when he feared Hellan was lost, imagined returning to the Oasis and telling Hal'lasean... telling her—.

"This was a good day. You saved my life and ultimately many more. Do not reproach yourself," Fen'Harel told him. "We can return now."

"Yes," Hellan said.

And Nightmare was caged, not dead. An unexpected bit of good fortune. If only he could manage to get these annoying wounds to close.

Fen'Harel produced his Focus. A dim yellow glow emanated from it and a slightly tuneless whine. He held it in his hands and let the energies surge back and forth, the orb's and his, attempting to restore it and himself.

"Your orb will not be enough," Hellan said. "It is exhausted. You must sleep."

"I don't want to sleep," he said. He was too afraid of not waking.

Hellan studied him for a moment. Heavy thoughts for them both. "There was a moment with Nightmare... I doubted your honor."

Fen'Harel looked up at him. He was not shocked. He was surprised his counterpart felt the need to say it.

Hellan's mouth straightened. Somber, morose. "I will not doubt you again... brother."

Though he was deeply moved he wondered if that was wise. He had no intention of ever betraying Hellan. But he knew how realities could change. As close as he felt to this other self Fen'Harel did not wholly trust him. How could he, when he knew they had both snatched Mythal's remaining power? Pressure any man forcefully enough and he would break. Undoubtedly Hellan knew this too. He was too gracious to say it.

Still Fen'Harel felt the weight of his ally's faith like a palpable burden. He hoped he would always live up to it.

"You have never given me reason to doubt," Fen'Harel replied.

And then he could not speak—the pain of the wounds came on him all at once. He curled around the orb, warming himself with its light, panting until he caught his breath. "Fen'Hellan. The noble wolf. When you were born you gave your mother joy."

How could they have begun so differently and ended nearly the same? This sterling wolf, this da'len, with his unknown magic and his precious halla. Wiser. Younger. His world was less intensely broken. Hellan's greatest fear lay in the future, in losing what he hoped would come.

What Fen'Harel feared most had already happened.

He had no great hopes to see destroyed.

He had lost or thrown away everything worth keeping.

There was only the burden of duty, the road that led ever on. The conquering warrior, stripped of all ties... and the bitter epithet: He Who Hunts Alone.

He could endure it. He must. Long ago he had learned he could endure anything.

When the pain receded, Fen'Harel wiped his face with the driest part of a sleeve sodden with his own ink-black blood. "Are you injured, Hellan?" he asked. "Let me see."

"You are the one most in need of care," his brother replied.

Fen'Harel forced a smile to his lips. "I originally trained as a physician, you know."

Hellan laughed. "Now that does surprise me. Very well. But after that, you must sleep."

In the end, he did.

Chapter Text

When Fen'Harel opened his eyes he found himself still in the Fade, carried on the back of a silver-furred Wolf. A spell held him there, the familiar touch of his brother's magic comforting as an embrace. And because he had roused on his own, an underlying anxiety relaxed. He had not been forced into uthenera. He thought that he might let himself rest a little longer and still wake within Evin's mortal lifetime.

He allowed his eyes to close again in healing sleep.

The next time he woke he felt much better. The orb was weak, as he was, but no longer hummed discordantly when he cast his attention to it. He stretched a bit to test his limbs and lifted his head.

Fen'Hellan paused his uneven lope, the slight limp of his gait ceased. "Are you awake, Fen'Harel?"

"Where are we now?" he asked.

"We have reached the border of what was Nightmare's land."

Fen'Harel recalled Hellan's words. The demon will not soon escape. And the glad news his friend had defeated Geldauran.

Hellan let him slip from his back, then resumed elvhen form. "I would like to check your injuries."

Fen'Harel was a little too unsteady to keep his feet, but he felt immensely better than before. He spared a little magic for his vanity, to cleanse the remnant of blood from his clothes. Then he leaned against the tangled roots of an enormous tree, a figment of the Fade, and regarded his counterpart with some amusement. "I am well aware of my condition."

"Nevertheless," Hellan said. He extended the query of his magic to examine the worst wound, the one in Fen'Harel's side. Blue-gray eyes peered at him intently. "Your fever is gone."

Fen'Harel paused for a moment. It was true. The severance was still there but lessened. The intensity had subsided.

Evin, he thought.

"She must be near me." And he realized the truth. "I would not have wakened otherwise."

"Could she know about the bond?" Hellan asked.

"Impossible. I never told Evin anything about it. I have never wavered." Fen'Harel forced himself to sit up, to test his strength. A sudden thought struck him—his face grew hot—he could not help a scowl. "Unless she learned it from Hal'lasean."

Hellan fixed him with a bland and mollifying gaze and sank back on his heels. "I assure you, I never said a word about your bond to Hal'la. I told her only what was necessary to reassure her of my love after your interference. I did not breach your confidence beyond that."

The reminder of his actions filled him with shame. But Hellan did not understand. Frustration surged through Fen'Harel like a wave of heat, a reminder of the absent fever. The Wolves had agreed it would be better not to take Hal'lasean with them into the Arche's world. He had no desire to risk his brother's mate when she carried a child. Did Hellan imagine their plan would succeed if he took such a careless approach?

He found himself glaring at his counterpart. "Do you appreciate how difficult it is to keep a secret from a seer? A single moment of hesitation, an instant of doubt, and your desire to soothe your halla's feelings will surface in one of Evin's futures. Do not be so cavalier."

Hellan's expression darkened. "Even if I had told Hal'lasean, I would trust her with the information. Do you not trust Evin? Perhaps it would be better if she knew. It remains unclear to me exactly why you are so secretive about this bond."

"Isn't it enough that I asked you to refrain? Why would you interfere?"

"We spoke in hypotheticals, Dread Wolf. Perhaps I should meddle," Hellan said. "It is painful to see a version of myself make such a mistake. The bond is severed, you said. Can you honestly tell me you do not love her even so?"

Fen'Harel shook his head. "The bond is not—"

"Answer the question! Do you still love her?"

"I... do. Of course I do," he said. But there was no of course about it. No necessity. He was neither chained nor free. The bond was gone and he still loved.

"Then why would you claim mortals cannot love? I assure you I have seen the devastation your leaving wrought on Evin's heart. Is it impossible to imagine Hal'la and Evin have feelings as strong as yours? I think this bond is a curse indeed, but not the kind you imagine. It confuses you into believing you do not feel when the reverse is true." Hellan shook his head, equally frustrated. "Have we not learned this lesson enough times, brother? Have we not lost enough between us to make us pay heed? We must cherish the joy and comfort we find while we have it. Because it will—it will die. And we will be alone again. Treasure your Inquisitor while you can, Fen'Harel. If you can be with her, do not disregard your feelings or hers."

He was curious—oh, so curious—what Hellan meant when he spoke of devastation. The Evin he knew was too composed to reveal any such thing, especially to a stranger. When he'd finally decided to tell her the truth, when he recognized his failure at the Grove, she'd been sad but understanding.

As though she'd expected it all along. Was that possible? Had she known he would betray her? Had she... somehow loved him anyway? Back then he thought the calm acceptance was proof she did not feel as strongly as he did—but with her foresight, wouldn't she have steeled herself before he struck?

What did he want from his serene and poised Inquisitor? Rage and tears? He must admit some part of him did—a side that he detested. He knew now she felt strongly, even passionately. He'd seen a glimpse at the falls. Hellan must have witnessed something too.

And then he realized—as though the voice of Wisdom whispered in his ear—the bitter truth. The reason he'd been so determined to believe she did not care. If she did not—if she could not—it would be easier for him when he left. No reason to look any closer then. He had even missed her foresight, her precious gift, his rare and clever vhenan.

His eyes were stinging. But he forced that aside, he needed to know more. "You told me once I should be gentle with her. You said she loved me. How do you know?" he asked.

Hellan gaped a little with astonishment. "Is that a serious question?"

"How could you tell?" he insisted. "Did she speak to you?"

"When we arrived in Skyhold Evin thought I was you." Hellan's gaze abstracted slightly with the recollection. "She assumed Hal'lasean was your lover. She fainted... and she screeched at us. She even threatened to have me thrown in prison. I learned later she had not left her room the entire week before we arrived for her grief."

"Screeched?" Fen'Harel asked, a little blank. He could not picture it.

It came to him that he had given his love to a woman he only thought he knew. He had kept so many secrets from her—but she'd withheld her own, like the silver surface of a lake that reflected the sky but hid what lay beneath, those green mysterious depths. And yet she was his heart, the crucial piece, the person he'd called out to when near death. Even now she protected him from the pain of severance, a kindness he had no right to expect.

"You should tell her," Hellan said.

Fen'Harel closed his eyes for a moment. "The bond is not my secret alone. I cannot. I should not."

"Why?" Hellan demanded. "Are you worried Evin might turn it against you? That others will discover its existence and attack her? She is the Inquisitor, foolish Fen'Harel. She is already in danger. You cannot seriously doubt her loyalty. Why, then, the secrecy? Tell her. Just tell her."

Geldauran already guessed Evin existed. She knew he'd bound himself. If she involved anyone else in her plots, if she were not already sleeping—. He saw himself struggling to hold on to handfuls of sand, fighting fate, fighting Evin's nature and his own. There were so many paths that did not end with him at her side. Paths that ended in forgetfulness, in ages of regret, in hideous disasters. The decision she'd almost made at the Oasis pool. His responsibility.

Her death, and worse than death, were what he feared. At his hands.

He could not tell Hellan the rest, the words unwritten in the letter he'd composed in case of death. The other option, the prospect he scarcely dared to cherish. If he could restore some part of the ancient world, a tiny corner of a garden, if he could build that place quickly enough....

Everything might change.

But that was the fool's hope of a foolish god who wanted something against his better judgment. He could not and he knew it.

"If you knew the obstacles I overcame to be with Hal'la, you would not give up so easily," Fen'Hellan said. "Tell me honestly, Solas—Fen'Harel. When you spoke to Hal'la as you did, strictly speaking it was not love that led you to be cruel. It was because you doubted your love, if only for a moment. Do not be that man. This severance... it is a mistake. You know Evin loves you as you love her. You owe it to her to make the attempt. Admit your error. Find a way."

Impatience drove Fen'Harel to grit his teeth. This entire conversation was fast becoming pointless—and too painful to endure. His own voice prated at him with words he wanted to believe. His own eyes shone with mooncalf sincerity.

He made a slashing gesture of rejection with his hand. "Find a way? You speak with the voice of a demon called Temptation! How can you tell me such a thing? You witnessed the opposition I face on this world. You know what I have lost. If I lose her too will you be satisfied? As much as I might desire... as much as I might wish—. Thanks to your assistance Geldauran is defeated for the present. I am grateful, truly. But the others remain. There is so much left to be done, falon. I cannot drag her into that."

"Why? Because you fear a thing that may never happen? That is cowardice, not sacrifice," Hellan said.

"Do not encourage me to be so reckless. I must walk this path alone."

"Why alone?" Hellan asked.

"You know very well why," he snapped. "Who else can stand against a god? Whom else would you endanger?"

"It was a serious question. Why alone? Wolves hunt in packs, brother. Why not us?"

"What are you saying?" Fen'Harel asked. "After the Arche—however we manage to resolve that calamity, assuming we do—"

Hellan spread his hands, persuasive and intent. "Why should we return each to our own worlds, to fight our battles alone? I owe you my life. I expect to return the favor. Why shouldn't we help each other? Travel between worlds is difficult but not impossible."

"What are you proposing?" Fen'Harel asked.

"An alliance. If you are willing."

His astonishment mingled with interest, keen and hungry as the Wolf's own howl. Such an idea offered fascinating possibilities. Why should their association end with the Arche? The Dread Wolf lived in fear of neither law nor lawgiver. They could do as they pleased. And he was relieved to consider that if danger threatened he would be ready to assist his brother and his young family.

If he had any power at all Hellan would never face the tomb of his own child.

He met the other Wolf's sharp, determined gaze. "An alliance, then."

They swore in the way of Elvhenan, their names mingling: My enemies are your enemies. Your enemies are mine. And the oath seemed to echo through the Fade, a lightening of the pervasive gloom that flickered all at once and then expanded.

Fen'Harel rose to his feet then, fatigued but resolute, and they continued home together. As they walked Hellan asked him something about the Arche, but he was too distracted to reply.

"I expect you have other things on your mind," Hellan said, laughing. "When we return do not delay. Go to Evin and apologize for everything you can. I recognize that expression, falon. I may not fully understand your bond, but I know love from the inside."

Fen'Harel felt the currents of the Fade move across his skin as he remembered. "If you had seen her at the Winter Palace, brother," he said, aching at the memory. "Like a dream of Arlathan made flesh. If you had danced with her..."

"I'm certain I would have loved her as you do," Hellan said gently.

"Yes. So it is better you weren't there," he retorted.

Then Hellan laughed at his ridiculous jealousy, and Fen'Harel smiled too.

"Be at ease, Fen'Harel. I had my own Winter Palace. I danced with my victorious vhenan. I have love only for Hal'lasean," Hellan said. "Come. We should resume our journey. I am eager to return. And you... you know what you must do."

Fen'Harel nodded. But those things were not what Hellan contemplated.

Chapter Text

With Solas conscious and well enough to walk, neither Elvhen was willing to endure the indignity of the younger man carrying his fellow on his Silver Wolf's back, so the remainder of the journey was made at a cautious, steady pace. And though it felt an eternity to Fen'Harel, whose every thought was bent toward his vhenan, eventually they did reach the Oasis once again and stood together silently for a moment to watch Hal'lasean in the distance, her Anchor blazing bright as it always did in the Fade.

"I must leave you here," said Solas, but Fen'Harel had eyes only for the shimmering dream of the elven woman before them. Solas' hand clasped firmly on his shoulder. "Go to her."

The other man gave a strong push and turned to walk away. Only then did Fen'Harel snap out of his reverie to seek his brother out. "Be safe, Fen'Harel. I will see you when you wake."

Solas bowed his head. "When I wake."

He did not wait for Solas to leave. With a steadying breath, Fen'Harel turned back toward Hal'lasean, determined to gather her to him and never let her go again.

But when he was finally close enough to truly see her, Fen'Harel found he could go no closer to his heart's most fervent desire. He could only stand, frozen, staring.

She was so beautiful here in the Fade; she was always beautiful, but here in the Fade they shaped each other with their love and esteem. She made him beautiful too. He felt his throat constrict and the ache in his heart became the strain of unwept tears in his eyes.

She was real. She was alive. She was safe.

He watched her from just beyond her awareness as she wandered bushes along a river in the Free Marches, a woven basket on her cocked hip. Wisps followed her like butterflies and she must have known she was dreaming because she paused in her berry picking to hold out her palm to one of the curious creatures so it could taste the juice that stained her fingers purple. It fluttered and pulsed its surprise and she laughed.

Fen'Harel's chest twisted with the sweet agony of his relief. He took one leaden step forward and then another, and finally his will carried him the rest of the way. Before Hal'lasean even looked up at the sudden intruder in her dreams, he was gathering her in his arms and dragging her to him. The basket fell to the ground and its contents spilled out over their feet. He did not care; he would dream her a thousand new berries with tastes beyond her mortal imagination and he would pluck them himself and feed them to her one at a time, then kiss her after each so he might taste them on her tongue. For now he wanted only to clutch her to him like a child with a favorite toy, to bury his face into her neck and hair, to inhale her scent until it became his whole world.

He pressed his lips to the skin of her shoulder, his nose hooked to the curve where it met her neck, and though she stood shocked at first, she held him just as tightly in return, her cheek soft and warm against his ear.

"Your magic is trembling," she observed in alarm. He did not need to see her face to know the vulnerability of her concern. She never could see his pain without wanting to bear it with him.

Fenedhis, but he loved her so much it hurt!

Fen'Harel wrapped her more firmly in his arms, but still he could not get her close enough to him. He wanted...to join with her, to be one flesh, to mingle their spirits until they were too tangled to remember that they had ever been separate.

"Where are you right now?" he murmured against her skin.

"Lying beside you."

His brow knit, but he was too drunk on contact with his vhenan to bother puzzling it out. "In Evin's tent?" She nodded. "Why?"

"It's a long story," she sighed. There was something disconcerting in her voice, something...tightly wound and creaking. "I missed you."

She was earnest as always, but just as she sensed the damage of fear in his magic, so he could feel sudden secret edges in the softness of hers.

"Hal'lasean," he breathed, and his shoulders sank as though they had been holding back the word. "Ma vhenan." He froze again, unable to speak or move or think. There were only the visions Nightmare had given him, her tormented face, her ruined tomb.

The terrible, wonderful truth was he needed her. Not only because he loved her, because she carried his child, because he wanted a life with her as long as he could make one, but because there was no one -- not since Wisdom -- who he thought to show the wounds of his spirit. No one but his Hal'la.

"I need you," he whispered with some effort, and did not care when his voice cracked with the weight of his feeling.

"I'm here," she promised, turning to kiss the tip of his ear.

"Not here." Never in his life had he imagined he would be so desperate to leave the Fade. But he wanted her as he fell in love with her, in the physical world. He shook his head, inhaled her scent one more time. "Wake up."

Fen'Harel longed to sweep his Hal'la into his arms and carry her to their tent; he tried, in fact, but as he climbed to his feet his knee buckled beneath him, quaking with a pain that followed him from his dreams, and they tumbled the few inches back to the ground together, he biting back his audible wince and Hal'lasean clapping a hand over her mouth to avoid waking Evin and Solas with her laughter. In the end, it was the considerably less romantic assisted limp that took them from the command tent to their own, his vhenan's arms wrapped around his chest to support him while he convinced his mind the injury did not exist in his physical form.

She helped him sit and then disappeared out into the night again to fetch a basin of water and a few basic items that he insisted he did not need. But when she returned with them, when she crawled over his stretched out legs to kiss him lingering, to kiss him until he sighed away some of his anxiety, when she straddled his lap and drew his tunic over his head and began a tender bathing of his face and neck, ears and chest, he was -- for the moment at least -- grateful she rarely listened to his protests.

Fen'Harel watched her ministrations with a wonder and a desperate, overwhelming ardor, a consuming love so intense he felt he might weep. He knew he must look a fool, an untried boy, his eyes round and wide as she caressed him, but each time she glanced up from her affections, the sight of his ridiculous expression made her blush and smile, a pleased and hopeful gesture that lit her worried visage like the full moon warming through a clouded night sky.

They did not speak; there was no need. There would be time for words later. Instead Fen'Harel gave himself to his halla with trust and willingness, a sweet opposite of the control he had lost to his black Wolf as he tore into Geldauran.

Hal'lasean soothed his invisible hurts with her palms and a cool cloth, pressing chaste and worshipful kisses on his cleaned skin like planting seeds in pliant ground. She lifted from his lap and smoothed her hands along his shoulders and back, scooping handfuls of water over his scalp and massaging muscles that had done no work but were astonishingly sore and tense nonetheless. Her calloused rogue's fingers kneaded his flesh and her energy slipped deeper, wrapping as only a lover's limbs can around the throbbing ache of his magic, of his spirit.

Hal'lasean guided him to lie on his back and trailed light touches down his sides, lifting at his hips so that he arched for her. She unlaced the breeches he had thrown hastily on to follow Solas into the Fade and pulled them down to his knees, then saw to his wrappings so that she could undress him completely. She saw to his lower half then, dipping the cloth in the basin and giving thorough attention to his thighs and the sides of his buttocks, the tight turn of his calves, his dusty feet.

Then she set the cloth aside and divested herself of her shirt and breeches, shifted easily out of her smalls.

"Hal'lasean," he murmured in quiet caution, for despite the familiar response in his loins to her nudity, he did not think he had it in him to make love to her, much as he longed to be one being, to hold his heart to his chest where she belonged, to fill her with his agonized need.

But she smiled at him knowingly, assuringly, and climbed up his legs to offer her mouth to his. He parted his lips and she coaxed his tongue with hers, teasing it to life. A promise, he felt instinctively. When the kiss was broken, she waited for his affirmation. He gave it without hesitation.

His vhenan crouched low over his prone body and settled, naked and unhurried, astride his knees. Fen'Harel's brow knit, his neck craned up to see her work, but she smiled again, that understanding in her teal eyes, and brushed her lips to the wing of his pelvis. He breathed out silently and dropped back, closing his eyes.

"Ar lath ma," he swore, vowed, as though it were the only truth left to him.

Perhaps it was.

Fen'Harel felt his Hal'la smile against his skin.

She woke him with her lips and tongue, with her strong, sure fingers, while he clutched at her Anchored hand by his side and gasped and groaned his appreciation. And when she had him, as of course he knew she would, as she knew she would, she took him gently inside her, lifted him until their chests and foreheads touched, and though still neither spoke a word, they communicated all there would ever be to say with locked gazes, with her steadying him, working him with her hot, wet walls, embracing him with firm arms as she rolled her hips. And when he lost his breath in his awe or his anxiety, she gave him hers, mingled the very air from their lungs as she had their bodies, their spirits.

This is what he would leave behind. This marvellous, impossible creature, who loved him when he deserved her scorn, who bore his child and all his hope.

Because he could not go back to a life alone, knowing the soul-singing perfection of Hal'lasean's love.

Chapter Text

Fen'Harel parted from his brother at the edge of the Forbidden Oasis. He watched Hellan's figure grow smaller, an illusion of distance in the Fade, until it resolved into the same size as the woman who waited for him. Then the Dread Wolf turned away to resume his duty. His reunion with Evin, whatever form it took, would wait a little longer.

Nightmare will not be a threat for quite some time, Hellan had said.

Fen'Harel's lip twisted with repugnance. No more half measures. The creature must never threaten anyone in his world again. It had grown too powerful. It had allied with Corypheus and now Geldauran. Its manipulations challenged even him, a master of dreams.

Fen'Harel gathered his remaining mana into trembling hands. His body flickered through an assortment of shapes. An elvhen man with aching bones. The Wolf of Many Eyes, monstrous and unsleeping. A pair of matched beasts in reversed colors. Smaller forms, other selves. He settled on his obsidian-plumed saker falcon—and soared above the twisting landscape of the Fade.

Untold miles rolled beneath him, the uncertain geography of the Western Approach as reflected in dreams. He caught the substance of the ether like a bolt of fabric and yanked, drawing himself across it at ever greater speed, retracing ground he and Hellan had covered much more slowly out of caution and fatigue. In this form he felt swift and free. Residual magic concealed him from scrying eyes. And Nightmare's defeat had warned off every other demon in the vicinity.

When he reached Nightmare's former kingdom he retraced the border, seeking out and eliminating every cache of red lyrium Geldauran had planted. The Forgotten One had intended to weaken his wards. The wards were no longer needed, but he detested the thought of corruption poisoning the Fade. Who knew what unwary creatures would stumble on it? When his business was complete he returned to the sky, seeking the heart of the realm.

He dropped down to the demolished circle of Nightmare's throne, a splintered ring of bones the Fade had not yet reclaimed. This was the battleground where Hellan had saved his life. He switched back to his elvhen form, the man Solas, and paced thoughtfully to the center.

A sacrifice of his remaining mana brought the final moments of the battle to his mind, when he had fallen and Hellan stood alone against their enemies. He scrutinized the vessel and felt a surge of dark enjoyment when he saw the ruin of Geldauran's coral dragon after his last blow. When Hellan's Black Wolf tore out the dragon's throat he pondered the image for long minutes.

Geldauran was fully engaged in the battle to the end.

She had not broken from her vessel.

Geldauran had thrown everything she had at him, knowing she would not come back from it. She was still awake but she'd spent everything. At this point her allies were more dangerous and would remain so for some time.

Fen'Harel was satisfied. He could absent himself and the Inquisitor from this world in good conscience. The situation was not ideal but he had done what he could. The Arche was now the greater threat.

But he was not much use injured.

A nest of unfamiliar runes surrounded Nightmare's cage. Hellan's seal barred the spirit trap—the insignia was identical to his. He studied the markings for a while, memorizing the method his brother used to layer runes, seeking whatever insight he could gather into the novel magic of a different world. Finally he reached the lock.

He released it and drew forth the Archdemon.

Like a worm caught between two pincers the helpless creature wriggled in his magic's grasp. But he gripped too firmly for it to ever get free. He reached deep inside the demon's substance and extracted the two most rotten aspects it had swallowed.

Torment. Mayhem. Hellan had destroyed them but their energy remained.

He dismembered them. Obliterated their essence and flung the remainder far and wide.

They would never reconstruct themselves, he was certain of it.

And that left Nightmare, his creature, left to run amok like a misbegotten child. Not as easy to destroy. The Archdemon's energy would linger here where its memory was strongest. If demolished Nightmare would rebuild itself someday, if left alone it would break free. Fen'Harel would not allow either.

Nor would he allow this power to go to waste. He hungered for it.

His teeth changed—a horror of fangs in an elvhen mouth. His eyes altered shape, assumed the aspect of the Wolf.

He devoured the demon.

And when it was done he felt the creature's evil stir within him like a multitude of lives, all the creatures it had eaten over millennia of existence. The power was... intoxicating, for a moment, rich nectar on his tongue, a mercurial liquor that flooded past his senses and mingled in his blood. So many memories. So many horrors. But the Wolf was stronger and far, far older. He had a canny understanding of the being he'd separated from himself so long ago. Like ink subsumed into blacker ink their energy merged until there was no more Fen'Harel and Nightmare. There was only Fen'Harel.

Strength stirred within his veins. His wounds were forgotten.

He walked to the edge of what had been Nightmare's lair and gazed out across it, a land of peaks and ridges concealing shadow like the dark wound beneath a scar. He lifted his hand and moved his will across it. He stood there for a while, watching the glimmer of the Fade slowly begin to reclaim the realm from fear.

The work of healing had begun.

Another task complete. Thanks to Hellan.

His next task was far more pleasant. He roamed north, crossing miles in an instant with his sakret form. When he reached the border of the Wastes he found a quiet glen. Its inhabitants were few but peaceful. A hermitage once occupied the site, a community of the learned who gathered in silence to pursue their studies. He had encountered the place long ago, and now he inspected it until he was satisfied it would make a suitable home.

And then he reached inside himself and drew forth the substance of Wisdom. She was like a tiny seed, glimmering and green.

"You can waken now," he said softly.

The spirit stretched forth. Her gleaming light unfolded into the form he remembered. When her blazing eyes opened she gazed at him for a moment, then at the landscape before her.

"You released me," she said in her spectral voice. As though it had ever been in doubt.

"Yes," he said.

But if Hellan had not offered to help him. If he had faced Nightmare and the vassal alone, suffering severance. Would he have given a different answer to Nightmare's temptation? Would he have forgotten his love in the desperation to survive?

He did not want to think about it.

Evin had saved him from his fever, ensured he would waken from his wounds. But Hellan had saved his soul.

"I wish you had not consumed Nightmare," she said.

"It was necessary."

She gazed at him for a while, his familiar spirit, and then nodded. "The more difficult path. I wish you did not bear this burden alone."

"I do not. Hellan has offered to help," he said. "Though I do not think he fully understands what that entails. Perhaps he does. I should not doubt him."

"I am happy for you, my friend."

He nodded and smiled. And intended to leave.

"Decision will never be easy for you, but you knew that," Wisdom said. "You knew it the moment you saw her. Why did you wound your star? I told you not to."

"Hellan said that as well," he replied.

"Then listen," she said.

He smiled a little sadly. "It may be too late, old friend. Be safe here. I will absent myself for a while. Do not look for me until I return."

Wisdom surprised him then. She walked forward and embraced him, the creature that he was. And so they parted.

He traveled many miles to reach the Oasis, all alone. And when he woke he was in her arms.

A soft and yielding body beneath his. The scent he knew and longed for, the curves he followed with his hands. Too muddled with sleep to open his eyes or pursue a deeper connection. He was content to hold his vhenan, to twine his arms around her so she would not increase the distance between them. He hid his face in the perfume of her hair. Magnolia petals and embrium leaves, fresher than wind from the Waking Sea. She belonged with him. No one else could understand her. They must never, never part.

Ah... that wretched bond. No, it was love. He was in love. The bond only made him want to touch her skin. He was helpless with it. But he let the desire wash over him and recede, did not act on it though it made him shake. He wanted to lie here with her forever.

Until without thinking about it he lifted his hand to trace her cheek. The action was—clumsy. Something odd?

His eyes flickered and opened.

Evin's body was no longer so yielding. She squirmed against him and though it took an explicit effort of will he relaxed his arms to let her wriggle free.

"You're back. You came back, Solas," she said sleepily. Her voice was barely louder than a whisper.

Fen'Harel lifted his hand closer to his face. The light in the tent was dim, but he could see—. What a strange thing. "I am... wearing gloves," he said, a little astonished. "In the desert. Is that your doing?"

"Yes. It is," she said, quite a bit more awake. That calm, measured voice was as familiar to him as his own. She gazed at him with eyes like darker shadows.

The gloves were made of leather crudely stitched together. Workman's garments. Had she found them in the mines?

"Why?" he asked.

"So you wouldn't touch me by mistake." Her voice was matter-of-fact, but there was something unsettled in her face.

Then she knew. She'd discovered it on her own. He felt cold suddenly. And he realized her expression was the one she wore when she was trying not to cry. "Why would you worry about that, Evin?" he asked.

Her eyes filled with tears. But she would never deign to notice them. Nor did he hear them in her careful voice. "I didn't realize until I thought back on it, when I noticed your expression when you touch me. Hellan smiles, and you—you flinch. I'm sorry I didn't see it sooner. I don't want to cause you pain."

His eyes stung with tears in sympathy for hers. She had learned just enough on her own to make this unbearable, but here she was, still at his side, trying to subdue a malady she did not understand. They could not continue on this way. He could not part from her, could not bear to. There was only one thing left he could do.

He remembered their conversation on the cliff side: Is this why she let me go so easily?

"That's not—. It is not pain, ma lath."

"Then what is it?"

He sighed, impatient with himself. "Yet another detail I failed to tell you when we walked that grove in Crestwood. Will you meet me in the Fade, vhenan? There are so many things I have to tell you."

She hesitated, but he took her in his arms once more and she did not resist. He gazed at her peaceful face for a few moments after she entered the trance. Then he joined her in it.

Chapter Text

When Fen'Harel joined her in the Fade he found Evin Lavellan regarding a trio of minor spirits with a fond but weary expression. His vhenan looked a little worn, as though her fatigue could not be cured by sleep alone. When he lightly brushed her aura he found it full of unexplained damage—the sort that only accumulated over weeks of strain and overuse. Had he missed this before he left? No, when they'd—he'd—when he'd embraced her at the time she'd been pristine and whole.

His mind pondered it as a distraction from what he had to do. He had not decided what to say or how, but the need for candor was clearer now that it had ever been. He wasn't accustomed to that and he felt unsure of himself, as nervous as a fledgling suffering the first pangs of attachment.

"Friends of yours?" he asked, quirking his mouth despite his concern.

"No, Hal'la's," Evin said. She made a shooing motion with her hands. The little spirits dispersed, drifting away as though under the influence of a breeze.

"Did something happen here?" he asked.

Evin's heart-shaped face tightened with an underlying tension. She looked up at him with a keen light in her sunset eyes. "I know how to guide the rift. Hal'la and I found the path to the origin. We found the burning world."

"You astonish me, vhenan." Then he smiled at her affectionately. "No mystery would dare thwart the combined powers of two Inquisitors."

"Solas, I couldn't have done it without her."

"Then we must go there," he said, "and do what we can."

Evin waited a moment as though expecting him to say something further. But it was unclear to him what action they could take to reverse the Arche's effects. A weapon intended to destroy every trace of an enemy, to make it as though the target had never existed—could such strange magic be undone? Perhaps it could only be contained. It must be contained. And as he gazed at Evin he felt again she was the key. Her unique insight would be crucial. As much as he wished to spare her they could not leave her behind.

Hal'lasean was a different matter.

And now his vhenan stood before him and he hardly knew where to begin. As much as he longed to pull her into his arms and soothe her wounded aura, he read caution, wariness in her face and stance. This was not a woman who was prepared to accept him. She looked more like someone going into battle. If he could fall to his knees before her and not earn her laughter or disgust he would do it, but he knew his Evin must be coaxed a different way. He honored her dignity, the self she wanted to be. She would not want a scene of fit or fuss. To win her over he must alter the terms of the engagement. He must recognize her right to the truth.

There was no easy way to tell her he'd been wrong. But he'd been shouted down by Hellan, by Wisdom, by his own heart. Every objection lay in tatters. He would reach for his Star... forever if need be. All he stood to lose was Pride. All he had to set aside was Fear.

Duty must come first. So he started there.

He drew a smile across his features. "You never asked what I left to do," he said.

The dark slashes of her brows lifted. "Would you have told me?"

"Yes," he said. "I suppose that means you did not actually need to ask. You could have seen it in a possible future."

"Why make me search out every scrap of information? Why not simply tell me yourself?" she said.

"I should have," he admitted.

And he realized—understood, finally—how much they'd been at cross purposes. His careful secrets dueled with her hidden knowledge. He had missed a truth that had been staring at him for months, too preoccupied with what he himself concealed and his struggle with a love he thought was doomed. He'd been so full of panic and despair, fighting desperately to undo the damage he'd precipitated with the Breach, focused so intently on retrieving the stolen power he needed to protect the People. All the while the answer stood beside him.

What could we make of this world if we were united?

There were perils, yes certainly, worse than Hellan had seen, but with her assistance they could overcome all of them.

She did not conflict with his duty. She was his duty. If she could forgive him.

With a trembling hand he reached inside his vest for the letter, plucking its existence from the Fade to match the counterpart Hellan must have returned to him already. A sheet of parchment, folded, closed with his own seal. Words he'd intended for her only if he died.

He placed it in her hands.

Evin opened the letter. Her eyes scanned it, blinking furiously at some sections. When she reached the end she looked up at him with that strange scrutiny again, weighing him.

"Then the Forgotten Ones are not as locked away as Dalish legends would have us believe," she said.

"Their influence on the world is limited, but the barrier has weakened in recent ages, more quickly than I thought possible. They are mad, corrupted. Corypheus merely aspired to power. If others should win free—" He paused and shook his head. "I cannot allow it."

"And this is the truth you couldn't tell Inquisitor Lavellan," she said.

"It is the truth I could not tell Evin."

"Why?" she demanded. "If I'd known I could have looked through the future for you. You knew I had that ability. You knew I'd do anything to help. Even if I didn't love you, even if the only thing you told me was the danger. I didn't need your name. You could have said you were a servant like Abelas. I would have—I could have—" She turned away from him, furious, and the forgotten letter, a thing of the Fade, perished in her hand. When she began to pace he followed.

"Vhenan, I intended to tell you the truth that evening in the Grove. But when I came to it... there was no partial truth. I would tell you all or nothing. There were two possible outcomes and when I stood before you I saw how unbearable they both were. In one you rejected me when you learned my Name."

"Were you so certain I'd reject you? Are Dalish myths so important to me? How many times did you tell me how much they got wrong? Didn't I always listen?"

"I... that may be so but I still feared it, yes. I feared more that I would abandon my duty. That was the other possibility—that you would accept me. If that happened I knew I could never leave you."

"And you don't fear it now... because I released you." Her voice creaked a little. "And this is why Hal'la can have her Hellan, why they can be together, and we can't."

And he said it. "No, ma vhenan. I was wrong. I want you always by my side."

She did not reply.

They walked together in silence for a while, the aimless wandering that comes on one in dreams. When she finally spoke she continued as if she hadn't heard his declaration. "This bond you wrote of in the letter.... Is that the reason you flinch from me?"

"Do not think it is pain, vhenan, but a mark of how intensely I yearn for you. Elvhen on Hellan's world do not experience it. That is the difference between us, not our love." His throat closed suddenly, the old taboo, but he forced himself to continue. "It is a private matter among elvhen, never spoken of with others. When Tevinter learned of its existence they ignited it against us. Some would consider it shameful for a god to allow such a weakness. It ties me to you in a way that is dangerous to us both."

"This fever you experienced—that was the bond? Because we agreed to end things?"

"I—. Yes, but I wish to reconsider. If you will agree," he said. "I am not certain what we can do about the Arche but we will fight it together. After that, if we succeed, I cannot promise what will happen. Only that I will give you everything I have."

"What kind of future is there for us?" Evin asked, glancing up at him. How he wished he knew what she was thinking.

"You would know that better than I," he said.

"How can I—?" Evin looked away. "When I was with Hal'la, she nearly asked what happened to Clan Lavellan. I couldn't tell her. I knew how deeply it would upset her. Solas, all her family here are dead. I never really thought about the Dalish before. I don't even regard myself as one of them. But now... I see something there that ought to be preserved. When we defeated Corypheus I thought I had no purpose left. No one needed me, not even you. Now I see a task only I can accomplish. Your world isn't the one I want to save. What can I possibly give you?"

"Give me what you can," he said, aching as he said the words. "No more than that."

She shook her head, as confused as he feared she might be. "We already decided it was for the best. You told me once we should focus on what truly matters."

He caught her hands to make her look at him. "We matter. You matter to me. Not all decisions are forever, ma vhenan. Is it impossible that we might change our minds? Now that we understand each other more fully why shouldn't we choose to be together? Will you allow me to try to persuade you?" he asked.

"What do you have in mind?" she said slowly.

"Surely you will allow me to court you, Inquisitor?"

She stared at him until a blush bloomed in her cheeks. "I'm not certain that's a good idea."

He smiled. "With your permission."

And he waited for her to answer with all the patience of his long years, and more hope than he had any right to feel.

Later, as they walked through a field of flowers he created to please her, he recalled something she had said. He'd dismissed it at the time, but—now it seemed appropriate to mention.

"It occurs to me there is something I never actually told you myself," he said.

"You hid something, Solas? Something else, I mean. What a surprise." She regarded him a bit warily, but he gained courage from the hint of amusement in her eyes.

He smiled a little. "The words you told me before came true. You said I would return to you as Solas—and I did, with Hellan."

"That's one way of looking at it," she allowed after a skeptical pause.

"But Inquisitor, I must confess to you... my true name is not Solas."

She lifted an eyebrow. "I've heard something like this before. From Warden Blackwall. What is it with all the treachery in my inner circle?"

And for the first time, he told her. He leaned in closer to her and whispered in her ear.

She ducked away. "No touching! I haven't decided yet... Dread Wolf."

"Ma nuvenin," he said gravely. It was safer that way, too. The Fade had its own dangers for his vhenan.

"At least you didn't make me break you out of prison," she said with a suffering sigh. "So. What made you decide to tell me now?"

He clasped his hands behind his back and matched her pace. "Nightmare gave me a vision of myself—as the man I threatened to become. It gave me much to think on. Also Hellan told me I'm an idiot."

"He's right," she said. She drew to a stop. "I've... been thinking about you too. I've spent weeks here, with little else to occupy me when we weren't crafting the chain of worlds. I hoped time would give me distance. It didn't. Maybe it would have worked if I hadn't been sitting beside you the entire time. You were constantly in my thoughts."

He liked the sound of constantly.

"You were here for weeks?" he said.

He reached for her—not to approximate a crude embrace but to examine the glory of her aura, the brilliant soul he loved—and the careworn marks he'd noticed earlier, that dulled the silver perfection of her being. She shivered a little and he said, "Allow me to mend this damage for you, vhenan. Not to touch, but cure... if you permit it."

She let him pull her down among the flowers, and surrounded by that cherished nimbus he caressed each mark of care until it healed.

Chapter Text

Fen'Harel and Hal'lasean had been drifting lazily in and out of the Fade for hours as the sun slowly climbed above the horizon, twined together in each realm without care or thought to separate. They murmured sleepily to one another, words of adoration or comfort; she listened intently as he told her pieces of what had occurred with Solas. Nightmare, but not his enchantments, Solas' selfless heroism and the strangeness of his Wolf, his own savagery in his Black Wolf's form. Geldauran and her vessel. How Solas nearly died so he might live. But especially about Wisdom.

She spoke precisely what he did not know he needed to hear in the only voice from which he might accept such words, words that lifted the blame from his shoulders and tended the scars it had left on his soul. When there was nothing left for him to say, he asked after his halla, and she responded with a leading kiss. They made love as they shifted across the Veil, a beacon of shared magic in the Oasis that drew wisps and spirits to them as moths to a flame.

He and Hal'la had come together in their physical bodies only moments ago, pawing drowsily at each other's flesh in the shade of the tent, and he rested now atop her, his cheek on her breast, his hips between her splayed legs. Her fingers hooked lightly around the back of his ear.

And then someone burst into the tent like an invading army, the blazing sun as their vanguard.

Fen'Harel scrambled to his feet, reaching for his stave and throwing one of their blankets over Hal'lasean's exposed lap in one alarmed motion. He planted himself firmly and prepared to face whoever or whatever was intruding, ready and waiting for the fight.

But there was no attacking enemy.

There was only Solas.

"Good morning, brother," said Solas. He smiled, and if Fen'Harel had not known better, he might have called it cheerful. "Good morning, little halla."

For a moment, they simply stared at one another. Solas, fully clothed, energetic. And Fen'Harel, completely nude. Unamused.

His twin glanced over his body reflexively, smirking, and Fen'Harel could not help but wonder just how similar Solas found what he saw. But he was less bothered with his own nudity than with his lover's. His unconcerned vhenan, immodest as always, was sitting up with only her lap covered by the blanket he'd tossed over her. Fen'Harel moved quickly to place himself between Solas and his Hal'la, frowning his protective disapproval at his counterpart.

Hal'lasean laughed behind him. "Ma Fen," she teased. "It's nothing he hasn't seen before."

"He has not seen yours," he retorted, but when she was silent and Solas looked mildly contrite, Fen'Harel's lips twisted irritably. Hot fury stirred in his chest for the man who wore his face. "Ah. I see. Neither of you thought to mention this?"

"So you could run headfirst and halfcocked into a fight with your match?" asked Hal'la pointedly. "I told you I had it handled and I did."

“I have apologised,” Solas said. He did not quite look at Hal’lasean.

"And I forgave him. It's done, ma Fen." He could hear Hal'la's smile in her tone. "Besides, it's only fair. You're more or less identical, so I am no doubt intimately familiar with his body. And we practically saw Evin naked at Skyhold."

"That is not the same thing!" Fen'Harel protested, but when he turned to see his lover, she was smiling with such amused delight at her effect on both Wolves' moods that his ire melted away. "I did not look at Evin," he added, mostly for Solas' benefit.

"I did," Hal'la offered brightly.

Solas scowled, which only pleased her more. "Evin is awake and eager to depart," Solas said, no longer so sunny. He flicked a cavalier glance across Fen’Harel’s naked form. "Get dressed, brother. I prepared breakfast. We have much to do and a plan to discuss. You have frolicked with your halla long enough for one morning."

He disappeared outside, the tent flap closing behind him.

"I thought you said he nearly died saving you," Hal'la said wryly. "He doesn't look nearly dead."

"He will," said Fen'Harel darkly. "When I am done with him."

Hal'lasean laughed and tossed away the blanket. "Come, Dread Wolf. One more frolick before we rise. And let's make sure your brother can hear us."

Fen'Harel smiled wolfishly. When he pounced on his vhenan, her playful shrieks and bubbling laughter filled the camp like his favorite music.

Evin Lavellan smoothed her ringmail shirt over her hips and adjusted the buckle of the vambrace on her left wrist. She emerged from the commander's tent and paced over to the campfire pit where she'd grown accustomed to sharing meals with the other Inquisitor. Evin's hair was still damp from the bath she'd taken in the Oasis pool and she regretted tying it up too soon. Water dripped unpleasantly down her neck. She knotted a bit of scarf at her throat to catch the runoff and hoped the rest would dry when the sun rose higher.

She felt a bit unsteady, and pausing to stare at the campsite she wondered if it had changed in subtle ways. No, she had changed, she was the one who'd disappeared into the Fade, and though Hal'lasean had joined her for the last part of it, she was suffering now the disorientation that came with such an intensive manipulation of time. Solas had revived her somehow, replenished her flagging energy to make her crisp and clear as broken glass. She felt detached, a little disconnected. Her memories and everything she'd learned in that long span didn't match the time that had passed for her physical body. As innocent as her power seemed there was always a price. After a while one stopped feeling connected to the world.

But the sight of Fen'Harel stumbling out of Hal'lasean's tent and the peals of raucous laughter that emerged behind him tugged her rather intensely back into it.

He grinned at her a trifle wolfishly and joined her by the ring of makeshift seats around the campfire.

"You must have brought glad tidings," she said, nodding at the laughter, which had trailed off into silence.

Fen'Harel coughed a little and guided her closer to the campfire with a light touch on her shoulder. His blue-gray eyes had a mischievous gleam. "Why should Hal'la have all the fun?"

She made a show of pondering. Studious frown. "What do you have in mind?"

Those fingers curled around her arm—a memory of warmth and heat. He smiled down at her and she shivered a little, captured by the curve of his lips and his sudden proximity. "Perhaps a kiss, Inquisitor?" he murmured.

"Well—" she said, as though considering it. "All right. But don't tell Solas."

"What?" Dire unhappiness. His mouth fell open. Then closed. "Evin—you must know I am not—I am—"

She lifted her eyebrows in mock surprise. "Oh, are you the other Dread Wolf? Hmm. No poem. No password." And she freed her arm from his grip. "You also forgot gloves. I did say no touching."

Not, at least, until she learned more about this bond. And until she figured out exactly how much else he'd left unsaid. He hadn't admitted to the Wolves' plan to abandon Hal'la. This new, supposedly honest Solas already had her suspicion.

But she also wanted to encourage him... because she hadn't made up her mind. He'd told her about the bond, which was something she hadn't already known. And he'd come back, finally. On his own.

Fen'Harel's hands fell to his sides as though to demonstrate his compliance. His throat worked suddenly while behind them the fits of giggles from Hal'lasean's tent started up again. Fen'Harel directed a vicious glare toward it. "I told him to hurry."

"They're at it constantly," Evin said, matter-of-fact, and took a seat on a convenient log. Then she gave him a delighted smile. "Ooh, did you make tea? I think you're my favorite person in the world."

"Just this world?" he asked. He poured fragrant tea into a mug and handed it carefully to her with as mild an expression as Solas the apostate had ever worn.

"Possibly all of them," she admitted, and lifted it to her lips.

He met her eyes. And such a knowing grin came to his lips that if she hadn't looked away—she'd have blushed a brighter shade of red than he used in his painting.

Chapter Text

They decided, for once, not to consummate their affections. Instead, Hal and Fen'Harel wrestled and laughed and kissed and kissed and kissed and then wrestled and laughed again. But the Arche was more important than their lovemaking, they agreed with long-suffering sighs, so they teased and kissed and groped as they dressed each other, as they buckled light underlayers of armor and tended to their teeth and faces and her hair.

And Hal'lasean kept tight reins on her emotions, but it was becoming increasingly more difficult to hide her turmoil and hurt from her lover as they were quickly approaching the hour of his planned betrayal.

Perhaps he wouldn't. Perhaps he changed his mind. But Evin would tell her if that were the case.

She could beg. Or argue. She could manipulate him; make a case for how useful she was, though she wasn't sure what that case would be. But Hal was too proud and the stakes too high.

So each time he looked at her as though he might ask why her aura trembled or what it was she was keeping so close to her heart, she took the question from his lips with her own and gave him something else to think about instead.

So far it had worked. So far he'd been in such need of care and compassion that he had been willing not to notice when her constraints had slipped. So far.

Which was why Hal was the first one out of the tent. The first one to the fire, to Evin's side, where she settled down with a light kiss on her friend's cheek. Evin smiled at her and Hal squeezed the other woman's hand. Because Evin at least was on her team. Evin, at least, was honest with her.

The two Fen'Harels stood near one another, staring at the fondness and familiarity between the two Inquisitors. Hellan was perplexed. He didn't yet know the women had spent weeks together in the Fade. What Solas knew or did not know was unclear.

Evin’s Wolf approached the fire, a bit stone-faced. "I hope you and your mate did not hurry on our account." Solas said to Hellan. “Finished so soon?”

Hal's brows shot up, but Hellan spoke first. "Do not challenge my Hal'lasean, brother," he said with a gentling smile for his vhenan, "or she may drag me back into the tent and never let me leave."

"It's true," agreed Hal brightly. "It's in the branches. Isn't that right, Evin?"

Evin smiled enigmatically. "I’m glad you were able to join us."

Hal laughed. "Evin has decided on diplomacy."

Solas frowned with impatience. "There are greater matters at stake than physical pleasure, strange as that may sound."

"Well," sighed Hal dramatically, "getting erased from existence would really put a damper on our sex life. So here we are."

Evin gestured across the fire. "Solas, I think Hal'la might like some tea."

And to Hal and Hellan's immense surprise, the irascible Dread Wolf stepped forward and took a knee beside the campfire, pouring a little cup with what Hal now recognized was Evin's favorite beverage. Solas turned his gaze fully to his counterpart’s mate for the first time all morning.

"Do you prefer sugar or honey?" he asked politely.

Hal and Hellan gaped. Hal considered briefly that perhaps Solas had hit his head. And then she saw Evin's pleased expression.

And suddenly Hal understood.

"Evin," said Hal lightly, "I'm impressed! Can you train my Wolf to do this too? What other tricks does he know?"

“I can think of a few.” Evin sipped from her mug with a thoughtful frown. “He’s very good at Fadewalking. I’m not sure if that counts.”

"Mine already does that," said Hal companionably. "Can he fetch?"

"I am not trained," said Solas, his jaw muscles flexing with his effort to maintain his manners.

But she and Evin were having ever so much fun.

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Hal assured him with great solemnity, "Domestication takes time."

The two women shared a pleased and amused look. Only then, their banter done, did Hal use the smile she kept for soothing hurt feelings on Solas. "Honey, if you please." She followed this, cup in hand, with, "Ma serannas, Dread Wolf."

Solas continued to kneel by the fire, and for a moment it seemed he might say something sharp in response. But he composed himself carefully. "My pleasure, da'halla." Then he turned his attention to Evin, obliging as any courting beau. "Did you finish your tea, vhenan? Can I refill your cup?”

“Please,” Evin said, offering her mug to him. “And more honey, too.”

“Since when have you liked sweets?” Solas asked, somewhat bemused.

“Since I decided they’re delicious,” she replied.

"Are you hungry, Hal’lasean? I made breakfast as well,” Solas said. “I will prepare plates for you both."

He almost smiled then and Hal nearly fell off the log bench she shared with her fellow Herald. Evin was enjoying herself greatly.

"You are with child," said Solas suddenly, before Hal could even think to answer his question, "Perhaps you are nauseated."

Something shifted within him then. He softened, disappeared inside himself, slipped away to a time long before this age, to a place that likely no longer existed. When he returned to them, he surveyed their little group uncertainly, holding out his palm toward Hal's stomach. "If my brother and my vhenan do not mind...I may know a remedy."

Hal's mouth fell open. He had been kind to her before, when he apologized for his trick, but that was because he wanted Evin's necklace. This, though it clearly involved Evin, was different. This was...

This was true gentleness. True compassion.

Hal smiled again, open and earnest, and then looked pointedly to Hellan. "Pay attention, ma Fen. If it works, you'll be doing this for months."

"Ma nuvenin, mamae ma'len," said Hellan with gentle ardor.

It was only when Evin nodded -- already watching studiously -- and Hellan stepped forward to observe that Solas, his calm grey eyes on Hal for her ultimate permission, pressed his palm firmly to her belly. Their skin did not touch, but a sharp shock like static shot through them. Hal flinched and Solas jerked in surprise.

"Ah, I forgot," he murmured. "Ir abelas." He adjusted his aura accordingly and their not-quite-matching magics settled together more amicably.

Hal'lasean sat very still while he worked, his brow pulled low in concentration, and when he was so occupied, with his hand on her, it was almost possible to forget he was the other Wolf. Almost possible to imagine him as hers, if she ignored the difference in his energy. His magic slipped through her skin and muscle to her turbulent stomach in a light and almost intimate manner, as though he had done this many times before. Hal could not help but imagine a young, hopeful Wolf doing the same for his pregnant Ghilan'nain.

Hal suddenly regretted her teasing. Hadn't he saved her Fen'Harel's life? She owed him everything, even if he was rough around the edges, even if he was half-feral. Even if he was helping to conspire against her.

This wounded Wolf needed a gentler touch. A subtler prodding. For now, at least, while he was still relearning to let others in. She should reward him for his efforts. Encourage them.

For Evin's sake as well as his own.

And because Hellan called him brother.

"There," said Solas, and immediately removed his hand as though worried further contact may be misconstrued. "You may still feel the morning sickness, but you will at least keep down your meal."

"Ma serannas," said Hal again, with wondering gratitude this time. "Fen'Harel."

And Solas actually smiled at her.

Chapter Text

It was all Evin Lavellan could do not to gape at her Wolf. She sat beside her fellow Inquisitor and maintained as mild and unconcerned an expression as she could manage. She didn't know the last time she'd been this bewildered by someone's behavior, unless it was the first War Council meeting in which the humans had expected her to make decisions for some reason. Her stomach tied itself in knots. She felt nervous, wired with the stimulating effects of the tea Solas kept serving her. It was difficult not to stare. This wasn't the Solas who'd served beside her in the Inquisition, the slouch-shouldered hermit mage with the mysterious stories. Nor was he the furious, agitated god she'd confronted in the Temple of Solasan. He was both versions, seemingly. Statuesque in his carriage, with as many sharp edges as a brace of daggers, and moments of gentleness as startling and sudden as the eye of a storm.

He had shown her thoughtfulness before—small gifts, small kindnesses—but there had always been something covert about it before. As though he wanted to conceal their growing affection from the other members of her circle. As if they had something to hide. It seemed the time for that was over.

Then Solas stepped forward and eased Hal'la's nausea with a spell. She found herself wishing she was sitting next to him so she could squeeze his fingers and thank him without words.

Except she couldn't touch him.

That would activate the bond.

And they weren't ready for that. She wasn't.

So she sat next to Hal'la and tried not to stare at her Wolf. And her stomach turned cartwheels but for a new reason.

Solas served each Inquisitor a plate of breakfast, leaving Hellan to fetch his own. And when Solas handed her the plate she saw the expectant gleam in his gray eyes. He was so very pleased with himself. And she concealed a smile, did not stare back, and addressed herself to the plate.

Crisp greens—at last something fresh after days of trail rations—with some sort of dressing that hinted of lemon. Redfruit he'd sliced into wedges. Redfruit. Her mouth began to water. Where had he found it? What a clever man. It was one of her favorites but it should have been out of season.

She ate the redfruit first, biting into it and letting the juices drip down her chin. Perfect. Like a burst of sweet and tart that melted on her tongue. It satisfied a craving, something she'd wanted without knowing it.

He'd also made some eggs, but when he saw her demolish the fruit he gave her the rest of his from his own plate.

"More tea?" Solas asked. And he was so gratified at her reaction she almost giggled.

He poured her another and she sipped it—then scrunched up her face with distaste. "How much honey did you add?" she asked.

"The same as your last two cups," he said.

"It's too much. Never mind, I should switch to water."

"Is there such a thing as too much tea, Inquisitor?" he asked.

"You know you hate the stuff," she said.

Was she staring? She wasn't staring. Or if she was he was staring back. She felt a blush rise on her cheeks.

This was awful. As bad as those early days in Haven. Did Hal'la notice? She'd noticed already, hadn't she? Evin had the dismaying sensation that a series of extremely knowing glances were about to begin between the other pair.

Hellan had settled down next to Hal'la with his breakfast. Now he set his plate aside and cleared his throat a bit hesitantly. "What was it you were saying before about pressing matters, Solas? Now that we are here together, perhaps we should discuss them."

"We should decide on a plan," Hal'la said. "There has to be a way to stop the Arche. In Evin's branches we travel to the world where it was used. Is that still the best option?"

They were settling into a conversation Evin had studied, a sequence that didn't mystify her nearly as much. Good. Plans were useful and essential. She leaned forward with keen interest.

Solas gave a genteel nod to acknowledge the other Inquisitor. "Hellan and I succeeded in what we left to do three days ago. My duty in the Fade is satisfied for now. If it is necessary for me to leave this world, I believe I can do so in good conscience."

"Is there a spell to undo the Arche's magic? If we go to that world, what do we think we can do there?" Hal'la asked.

The two Dread Wolves exchanged glances as though conferring with each other. Evin felt a surge of anger on her friend's behalf. Yes, they would make plans. As the Wolves already planned to leave Hal'lasean behind. And they'd include the other Inquisitor in this discussion as though intending her to participate.

Foolish Wolves. She needed Hal'la. She needed all of them—all four. That was the clearest sense she got from the branches. Who were they to interfere? If she had anything to do with it, they would reconsider.

She was suddenly much less intrigued by her Dread Wolf. She wanted to shout at him.

Solas gestured toward their little cook fire. "To understand how a fire spreads, it is necessary to study its origin."

"The Arche's enchantment is not complete," Hellan said. "It is still in the process of... It has not yet removed every Inquisitor from every world. We would learn much by examining the place where it was activated."

Hellan fell silent, grim with thoughts the rest of them shared. Evin recalled the grove of trees she'd constructed in the Fade, the enchantment that revealed the secret harmony that linked every Inquisitor. There a fire raged, one that consumed the future branch by branch, consuming down to the very roots, eliminating every man and woman who ever bore, or might have borne, an Anchor.

The number of dead would fill a city, Evin thought. And each soul represented an incalculable loss, a hero who had stepped forward—or might have stepped forward—to put right the evils of a would-be god. What would the world be without the Inquisitor?

If they traveled to the Arche's origin, they would find out.

"If we can't stop the Arche, so be it," Evin said. "The being who used it is dangerous beyond measure. To inflict such destruction on so many worlds.... Whoever they are, I intend to bring them to justice. Even if it's my last act as Inquisitor."

Hal'la's turquoise eyes were set with steel. "We'll stop it. One way or another. I'm much too fond of existence to let it go without a fight."

"I cannot imagine what manner of idiocy would allow the relic to be used," Solas said with evident disgust. "I very much hope I meet my counterpart there."

"A third Dread Wolf?" said Hal'la with a dark laugh. "That won't be confusing at all."

Two were bad enough, Evin thought. "Let's hope you get that chance," she said.

"There remains the question," Hellan said. "Opening a portal from my world to this one was difficult enough, and we had the advantage of a previous connection between the two. We must still devise some magic to enable us to specify our destination. The magic involved will be complex. It may take significant time to prepare."

"I believe the Inquisitors have already—" Solas began.

"We found it," Hal'lasean interrupted. "Evin did."

"Such magic is far beyond a mage of Evin's skill, no offense intended," Hellan said. He didn't even roll his eyes.

Hal'la bristled at her lover. "Don't be an ass, Dread Wolf. I wouldn't say it if it weren't true."

"It took weeks to learn. We did it together," Evin said, sipping her water.

"I've seen it, ma Fen," Hal'la said. "I was with her in the Fade. We found the way to the ruined world."

"All we have to do is go there," Evin said—to the Dread Wolf's stunned surprise.

Chapter Text

"You did what?" asked Hellan with unabashed shock in his wide slate eyes.

"We found the way to the ruined world," Hal'lasean repeated patiently.

The Inquisitors were explaining what they could of their carefully crafted plan to their Wolves, but Hellan was incredulous. And knowing he would be didn't make it any less frustrating for Hal.

"Yes, I understood that much," her lover said drily. But there was more than disbelief in his tone, in his face. He was...hurt. Reproachful even. For a moment, Hal felt guilty. For a moment. Then she remembered that he planned to leave her behind.

"You did not think to mention this to me either, ma halla?" he asked, quiet and wounded, for only her, though the others no doubt heard.

Hal turned to face her Wolf, giving her back to the group long enough to touch his cheek and meet his worried gaze. And then she smiled, sweet and earnest in her apology. "We were busy."

A half-truth. There hadn't been time to tell him such things when he had first woken, when his spirit was bleeding from the hurts of his journey. And when he had turned his attention to hers...

She'd had to distract him. It was the only way. If she showed him even some of what she withheld from him, she would not have been able to keep him from the rest.

And with a sudden sickening drop of her stomach, Hal wondered if this was what it had been for him. For her Solas, her Fen'Harel, to love her and be with her knowing he was more than he admitted to being, knowing that to share even the smallest of his secrets would leave him vulnerable to her seeking them all.

To spend every day of their time together walking the delicate line between honesty in his love and the guarding of his identity and purpose.

No wonder it had been so difficult to keep him present with her then.

Her magic must have shifted toward her pain because he touched her hand on his cheek and studied her with a furrowed brow, as though trying to read her spirit.

She smiled and turned to face the other Inquisitor and her Wolf. "If we are determined then to go to this burning world where the Arche was used -- and I am -- we should discuss logistics."

Hal glanced then at Evin, who nodded her approval that she'd guided them back to the branch they had decided together was their best chance. Or, as Evin had called it, their optimal outcome.

The branch in which Hal was most likely to make it to this other world.

"Certainly," said Hellan, but he sat forward to see beyond Hal to Evin. "I would, however, suggest we begin by discussing this 'way' you mentioned. A remarkable feat of magic, if indeed you achieved it as Hal'lasean says you did--"

"She did," insisted Hal frankly, giving her Wolf a pointed look.

"We did," corrected Evin.

"You said it took you weeks to learn," said Hellan, his words slow with his consideration. "You made use of some sort of time magic, I presume?"

This was what they had foreseen, Hal and Evin, huddled together in the Fade when their work in the orchard was done. Their Anchors matched so that Hal'lasean could watch when Evin explored her branches. This was what they had prepared for. Because this was the beginning of the improbable, barely-there branch where her Wolf told her he would leave her behind. In which he confessed his folly to her with agonized guilt and let her have her say. Let her at least try to persuade him not to take her choices from her.

And the Inquisitors had practiced for hours.

Hal lifted her brows as though the question and its answer were simple. "Evin has developed a method of slowing herself down in the stream of time so that she -- and I -- could spend as long as we needed in a single moment. From there it was a matter of finding the most efficient and secure way of linking the worlds between this one and our destination. Anything we didn't know when we began, we learned through the possibilities of our own lives. It is, in essence, a braid. Or a bridge, if you prefer, suspended for stability."

And Hal tried not to look nearly as pleased as she felt when Hellan could do no more than stare at her in his surprise.

Evin placed her empty mug on the ground beside her feet. She folded her hands in her lap, fingers interlaced, thoughtful. "We know Skyhold is the best place to attempt to open the portal. It’s easier there-- it costs the least amount of power. The previous rifts in the rotunda have altered the fabric that separates this world from the others. I believe we’ll be most successful if we share the burden of creating the path between us. Hal'la will create the opening with Solas' assistance. Together their power will generate the portal. Hellan and Solas will manipulate the runes and perform the more complex aspects of the required magic. I will guide the path using the map Hal’la and I built. The first waypoint is Hal’la’s world."

For a long, glorious moment, neither Wolf said a word. Evin and Hal did not look at one another to gloat. But they both knew the urge was there.

"I would like to see this map," said Solas, when he finally came to his senses.

Hellan nodded firmly. "As would I."

"What," said Hal, lifting her brows in challenge, "don't trust us?"

"It is not a lack of trust," Hellan was quick to assure her. "In my Elvhenan, there were only theories about other worlds and ways between them. This is magic so advanced its application is more symphony than spell."

"We know," said Evin with a slightly distant smile. "You taught us how to do it. Trial and error did the rest."

"I did?" Hellan asked, then made a sound of understanding. "You consulted me in your branches."

"You used those exact words," said Hal. And then she smiled, that wry half-smile she always gave her companions when she was about to do something impossible. "You were very helpful."

"I see," said Hellan with slow, quiet comprehension. He began to piece together how it was the two mortal women had learned so much in so little time. That they might have actually accomplished what no Elvhen had dared to try. "I assume you would have us return to Skyhold under cover of darkness? I cannot imagine the sudden appearance of two elven apostates is one of your favored outcomes.”

"I can handle explanations if I need to. That isn't what concerns me. The future is burning while we wait," Evin said. "I’d like to arrive around midnight if possible. With the difference in the sun between here and Skyhold that means we should leave in the next few hours. Solas, how is your orb?"

Hal tried not to be as obvious as she felt when she made intense study of Solas as he decided how to respond. She knew as well as Evin did that he had a second orb, had seen it in the branches they'd consulted to finalize their plans. It was not his orb originally, she was sure; its magic was yellow and seemed to mix strangely with her own. But if it worked, it might keep her from draining all her power, and that could very well be the only thing that got her to the burning world.

They had seen the branches in which Solas had tried to activate a dangerously dimmed orb only to see it split and crack. If they were lucky this was one of the branches where his orb healed in time, though they had no idea how to ensure that was the case. Too much was hidden from them in the Fade.

"I believe it will suffice," Solas said after a moment of hesitation.

Hal let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

"I am curious how you intend to… link this map you created with the spell that will open the portal between worlds,” Solas said, choosing his words with great care.

Evin tilted her head. She grinned a little at her mate, as though relishing a chance to surprise him. So she was enjoying this just as much as Hal. "It’s not a map so much as an application of multilinear resonance across complementary vectors."

Hal looked down at her breakfast to keep from crowing with pride.

“Multilinear? Addressing parallel worlds?” Solas asked, his interest sharp.

“It would be easier to show you," Evin said. “We can view it in the Fade.”

But this was where Evin's foresight would leave them blind. It was necessary; they knew that much. But there was no telling what might happen once they were all together in the Inquisitorial orchard.

Hal took in a bracing breath. "Someone's going to have to compel me to sleep."

For a moment when the others had already passed through the Veil to see the work the women had done, Fen'Harel stayed in the physical realm, all his focus on his peaceful-faced vhenan.

Hal'lasean was draped across his lap, deeply asleep, and he smoothed her hair from her brow and considered her with worry.

She had been happy. In the tent, all night with him, into the morning, even when Solas had come barging in. She had been herself, laughing, joking, playing.

And then he began to notice little discrepancies in her magic. Moments when her aura flickered even as she smiled, but then she would kiss him and his thoughts would turn to other things.

How had he missed this? It was so unlike her to withhold from him.

It was so unlike her.

She had done so only once before, in fact, when he had asked her if she remembered anything about her collapse. She had pretended then because she knew his true name, but the moment was not right to reveal it.

And now she had spent weeks in the Fade with Evin, doing impossible things for a being of great power when she was no mage. And the things she hadn't told him.

Something was not quite right.

Fen'Harel shook his head to clear it and stepped into the Fade.

It was not like the orchard Hal'lasean had shown him in their moment before he met his counterpart at the Temple of Solasan. It was not unlike that orchard, but it was not the same. Where his Hal'la had shown him her vallaslin made into the lives of countless Anchored hands, growing as any wild forest would, Evin's construction was just that: an approximate model, precise and carefully devised, in which each life was equidistant from the lives that surrounded it. In which each tree was not a tree at all, but a visual matrix to best allow for manipulation of the enormous amount of data, the infinite diversity of choice at its most basic and therefore most complex.

It was beautiful for its simplicity, astounding for its advanced theory. And the braid or bridge Hal'lasean had mentioned...

It was some time before Fen'Harel found the words to express himself.

"Evin," he said, and he did not bother to hide the obvious impression she had made, "this is extraordinary work."

He was staring at her efforts and not her face, but he saw her shake her head in the periphery of his vision. “Don’t look at me, look at Hal’la,” Evin said. “She’s the one who showed me which questions to ask. We never could have linked the final worlds otherwise.”

His Hal'la. His vhenan. She was clever, witty, brilliant, and wise, but intuitively. Without schooling. If Evin had told him of her involvement yesterday, he would have dismissed it summarily. His halla was no student of magic. She learned by observing, by doing, by failing and trying again. He was the scholar. And yet the way she had spoken at breakfast, her authority and confidence when explaining not only time magic but what they had created here...

She's the one who showed me which questions to ask.

Fen'Harel could not deny that Hal'lasean had always been an adamant asker of questions.

He turned to regard his heart now, expecting her to be carefully frowning down at her feet or off into the distance, anywhere but at her companions, too modest or too embarrassed by her ignorance not to fidget. Instead, he found her waiting quite calmly for him to see her. His brows raised in surprise. "Which questions were those, ma lath?"

She should have shrugged and dismissed her involvement. Her characteristic bravado always failed her in moments like these, leaving her only with her modesty. But she smiled at him, offered him her hand. "Come, vhenan," and she looked terribly pleased with herself. "We'll show you."

They began at Evin's tree and slowly walked the path as the Inquisitors explained what they had attempted and why it had failed, discussing it as though such things were unremarkable. Hal'lasean spoke of their methods of circumnavigating gaps in the trees. Evin attributed these novel insights to Hal'la in a matter-of-fact tone, as though unconscious of how revolutionary the concepts truly were. Hal’la blushed but did not shy away. And when they described their discovery of the innate harmonics of their forest and his lover pressed her left hand to the bridge they had made to demonstrate, chatting amiably all the while about wolf intervals and minor chords and music theory she had no right to know anymore than she did the magic theory to which they applied it, Fen'Harel's mouth fell open and did not close again for a foolishly long time.

“Hal'la creates possibilities,” Evin said thoughtfully.

Fen'Harel's fingers laced with Hal'la's and he squeezed, but it was too much. He could not reply. How could a woman he thought he knew so well still manage to surprise him, to leave him speechless on a regular basis? Perhaps he was an ass after all, if her one predictable quality -- that she would always surprise him -- still left him so bewildered. His stubborn, vibrant heart. As necessary and irreplaceable to him as she was to their own world. As essential as the blood in his veins, the air in his lungs, the magic in his being. She was his spirit, bound to him or not.

How he longed to remedy that offense. To tether their souls together for eternity. Solas may detest his bond, but Fen'Harel ached for it. Yearned for it...and feared for it. For his mark on her spirit and the danger it would pose.

But then, she was already marked by him. Her hand. The orb's magic within her. She was already in danger. But at least if she were in her Skyhold with her people, she might stand a chance. He might have her all her mortal life.

He would die alone, but he would not die unloved. And he would stand beside her all her days.

"Yes," Fen'Harel said softly, his unabashedly worshipful gaze on his halla's sweet, Fade-bright face. "I have noticed."

"I'm right here," Hal'lasean complained, but she grinned her sheepish delight.

Solas cleared his throat, much as Fen'Harel had done to interrupt his flirting with Evin at breakfast. "The idea," he said, clarifying it for himself, "is to narrow the portal's focus through successive approximations?"

Evin nodded, but her features were grave and drawn. “Each world is a closer match than the ones before it. They form a chain, a melody with multiple parts. But if we don’t leave immediately it’s possible we’ll lose one of those links. I'd prefer not to start over from scratch."

“And when we return?” Solas asked.

Evin hesitated, glancing at her fellow Inquisitor for confirmation. “I…expect we’ll have to rebuild the chain. Assuming we’re successful in halting the Arche’s effects.”

"We will be," said Hal'la with the quiet determination that had won his respect so many months ago. "We must be." And then she gave them her sly half-smile. The one she saved for impossible tasks. "But returning is the easy part. Once you know a song, it's simple enough to sing it again."

“Or sing it backwards,” Evin told her, and the Inquisitors shared an intimate expression of friendship.

"The membrane between our two worlds was relatively simple to manipulate where the rift had been," Fen'Harel said, still considering Hal'la. "I am confident that between us we will find our way home."

She flashed violet-touched-teal eyes at him, even more vivid in the Fade. They were the forerunners of a look that reached into the very center of his soul. "We always do," she said, her voice so trusting it ripped at his insides. "Together."

She would never forgive him.

“I do not relish the idea of being trapped on someone else’s world,” Solas said darkly.

"None of us do." Hal'lasean said, her tone matching Solas', but gentler, plying. "Is there some way we could...mark our path along the way? Like the Fallow Mire. Could we leave runes or beacons?"

Another question, another idea. His inquisitive Inquisitor. His enduring heart.

"It is impossible to know what can be done until we are in the portal itself," Fen'Harel admitted, offering an encouraging smile. "This is not a journey that anyone from our world has ever accomplished."

Evin's face was suddenly uncertain, a rare moment of vulnerability in the Fade, where she could not see the outcomes to their words. “I feel like this is something we should have asked before," she said. "Maybe I should--”

“No,” said Solas. He was sharp in his decisiveness, leaving no room for argument. “You’ve done enough in the Fade already."

Fen'Harel's attention switched quickly to study his counterpart. Solas stilled himself, apparently aware that his reaction had been harsher than perhaps he had meant for it to be.

"We can investigate the theory of beacons at a later time," Solas continued, and his dismissiveness irked Fen'Harel on his lover's behalf. "The theory we have is sufficient for travel, the rest can wait. We should get ready to depart." Quite abruptly, Solas turned to face his counterpart. "Hellan, after this I would appreciate a moment of your time. We should discuss how we intend to energize the rift. Our magic is similar but not identical. I would prefer not to destroy Evin’s library by mistake.”

"Of course, brother," was all Fen'Harel said.

"Then if we're decided," said Hal'lasean, her lips quirked, "I should see that everything is packed and ready to go." When no one said anything, she turned a pretty pink. "Ma Fen...?"

So there were still some things for which she needed her faithful elven apostate. Fen'Harel smiled his acquiescence and kissed her forehead. "Ma nuvenin, ma sa'lath. Wake up."

She disappeared from his arms as though she had never been there.

Fen'Harel refused to see it as an omen.

Chapter Text

With Hal'lasean gone to the physical realm, Evin excused herself into the depths of her careful orchard, leaving the two Wolves to their devices.

And they were devices indeed, for there was a portal between worlds to understand and a tapestry of spellcraft to practice weaving together, and, more pressing than these, a conspiracy to solidify against Fen'Harel's own heart.

So while they waited to be certain they were alone, they conversed on other things, casually, lightly, as though they had nothing at all to hide.

The extraordinary magical artifice before them and the braided path they walked provided ample material for just that purpose. Even if they had not needed to bide their time, Fen'Harel was sure he and Solas would have found them worthy topics for discussion.

"Your Inquisitor is truly astounding, brother," said Fen'Harel, his voice full of awe. And then, because he could not help his immense pride in his own Inquisitor, he added with a foolish smile, "These harmonics are breathtaking, though you would perhaps prefer something not quite so Dalish."

“I had no idea--” Solas began, but stopped himself. Whatever he had been about to say, however much it might have mirrored Fen'Harel's own attitudes, Solas seemed to have decided on a more aloof approach. “I expect Evin consulted each of us thoroughly. It is convenient to have the path already laid out -- I assumed we would have to do most of it ourselves. You opened the previous portal. Do you think we will be able to use the path the Inquisitors created?”

They strolled as they spoke, and because they walked a strange garden in the Fade and conversed in easy Elvhen, Fen'Harel could not help but imagine other times, other secrets shared, other magics discovered in just such moments in Arlathan.

"It is all theoretical at this point," Fen'Harel said, though they both already knew that. "But the mechanics are sound; the work is exceptional."

He paused then, reaching up with fingers and magic to take delicate hold of one of the woven threads Evin had made through the branches of some other Inquisitor's life. He followed it, barely touching the strand except to keep track of it, like feeling silk or a spiderweb, until the runes that governed it connected to the bright path beneath their feet.

"If we cannot create a gateway from this world to our destination, the error will not be theirs," admitted Fen'Harel, and then shook his head as his palm slipped over a cluster of such strings, suspending the path just as Hal'lasean had said. "How ingenious is this woven bridge. June himself would be impressed."

June would have been obsessed, he thought with a wry nostalgia.

“June and his toys,” Solas said dismissively. “If your version is similar to mine he gave up most useful craft millennia before his reputation was established."

And for a moment, Fen'Harel did not recognize himself in Solas. He studied the other man in surprise behind a mask of neutral curiosity. He might have fathomed loving Ghilan'nain, though it was Sylaise to whom he had nearly given himself. But a June who had given up useful craft? A June who might have been deserving of such scorn? To be discounted so easily?

June had never been a player in the Game, but his reputation for invention was among the worthier reasons for Ascension in the entire expanded Pantheon.

And more than that...June had been one of Fen'Harel's few friends. Before Fen'Harel betrayed him.

As he now planned to betray his Hal'la.

"What concerns me now is the reaction of your orb to my magic."

Fen'Harel looked up, confused at his fellow's line of thought. What had they been...? Ah. The Inquisitors. His orb. Hal'lasean.

Perhaps their wandering minds had not been so divergent after all.

"It seems--rather violent," Solas continued, grim with the effort of speaking on the matter of Fen'Harel's heart. "I would not hazard to guess what will happen if I unbalance it further by accessing my own Focus at the same time.”

"Do you mean the surge of power between Hal'lasean and yourself when you tended to her nausea? That was kind of you, by the way. Thank you."

Solas hesitated, cleared his throat, and then repeated himself as though no thanks had been offered. “It was violent. Almost uncontrolled. I worry about mingling its force with mine during such a delicate process.”

Something like bemusement mixed with an edge of protective irritation flared within Fen'Harel. He was not unaware of the irony that he would bother to push this particular subject to defend the very woman he would soon leave behind. But he began to understand his companions with the Inquisition's glee in attempting to bait him.

"My 'orb', as you call her," Fen'Harel began, not unkindly, "has a name." But he did not give Solas time to comment. "When Hal'lasean and I first touched after she had absorbed the orb's power, it knocked us both off our feet."

He began to walk again, setting the same deliberate pace for their progress along the path as he used now for their conversation. "Have you noticed, brother, that my Hal'la is particularly unguarded? What she feels, she feels deeply, and she knows no shame in expressing it."

“An awkward point," confessed Solas. He avoided Fen'Harel's steady gaze. "Are you saying for the orb to not reject me, Hal’lasean must accept me too? I’m not certain how to accomplish that. We have had our share of unpleasant moments." He hesitated. "All my fault, of course.”

"I am saying," said Fen'Harel frankly, "Hal'lasean and my orb are one and the same. When one or both of you are emotionally volatile or especially passionate, the interplay of your magics will be as well. She has had this power inside her only a month and she is no mage. She is still learning to control it."

They were nearing the path's point of origin now; they could see their Inquisitors' unique, connected trees, the first two links in a melodic chain across worlds. As they considered the lives of their respective loves, the Wolves fell momentarily quiet.

"If it were as simple as her acceptance, you could achieve it easily enough. It is a difficult thing to earn her true dislike," said Fen'Harel thoughtfully. He smiled even as his heart clenched. "It is more than that, however: there must be...an understanding. You must accept one another." Despite himself, Fen'Harel laughed. "And you must practice...touching."

Solas nearly missed a step. Perhaps someone who did not have an identical body, an identical gait might have missed it. Fen'Harel did not. He watched Solas from the periphery of his vision, though he did try not to be too obvious with his expectant appraisal.

His twin's lips twitched downward, a frown of mild horror. “That may not be a good idea.”

"Very well then," and Fen'Harel did not smile. "Destroy Evin's library."

Solas looked up sharply, appalled at the idea. “She’d never forgive me. Those books are her friends. I think she gives them names. Do you know how many hours I spent on those frescoes?”

"I do, in fact," Fen'Harel replied mildly. He had been fascinated when he and Hal'la had first stepped into Evin's rotunda by how perfectly they reflected his own work. Except, of course, for the one panel Solas had not finished. "It seems you face a dilemma, brother: your art...or your pride."

“I’m not accustomed to thinking of them separately," Solas grumbled. But he straightened his shoulders and frowned thoughtfully at Hal'lasean's tree as they approached it. "If you think it is a good idea I... will see what I can do. I wished to avoid any unpleasantness but I suppose it must be risked. With your permission. I will do what I can, for my part.”

"You do not need my permission, Fen'Harel. You need hers."

It was close enough to touch then, his vhenan's matrix as Evin visualized it, and Fen'Harel could no more keep his hands from the shape of her life than he could keep them from the familiar shape of her body. He drew his thumb over the membrane of the trunk as he might her waist, his brow pulling low over his eyes with the weight of his worries. "And I..." he said, voice soft with reluctance, "I will need her forgiveness."

Fenedhis, was he really going to do this?

“Ask forgiveness of your living, breathing vhenan when you return, my friend," said Solas gently. "Do not think of such matters now.”

But such thoughts were impossible to avoid. He could not stop thinking about it, his impending betrayal, the way she would look at him...

He made himself sick with anxiety each time his mind had time or inclination to wander.

And then Solas sighed. “Evin was rather insistent about the degree to which Hal’lasean assisted her. If you are not certain of your course...“

Fen'Harel jerked up in shock. Surely Solas was not changing his mind! Not after everything he had said of his own lost love, his own lost child!

Evin had been clear on what contributions Hal'lasean made to their bridge, but if there was something else, something...

Evin was a seer. But she could not see from one world to the next. Solas had assured him!

But then...Dread Wolves had been known to be wrong before.

"Insistent?" asked Fen'Harel coolly, instead of demanding explanations. "Did she say something else?"

Solas stepped between the two trees, their two Anchors, two Inquisitors, two hearts. Connected. He tilted his head at them both, but his attention was on Evin's, considering her existence even as he discussed her. “No more than you heard. Evin collects certain personalities. Possibilities, she calls them. Hal’lasean seems to be one of them. If your Hal’la was instrumental in creating this path, I wonder if we are wise to disregard Evin’s advice.”

Fen'Harel suddenly could not breathe. He could not draw air into his lungs without gasping, and he was too proud a man to do that now, here, before his counterpart. So he held his breath and his chest burned with need.

And for one terrifying moment, he did not know whether he was disgusted or relieved to have a reason to bring Hal'lasean with him into the burning world.

Solas gazed down at his hands and his jaw clenched suddenly. “No, I should not speak of this. I imagine your Inquisitor had her own inner circle. Evin would not be unique in that. It is your decision--and it is wrong of me to influence you. Certainly Evin should not.”

Fen'Harel opened his lungs and let air in. It took him several long minutes to orient himself, and when he did he found he was leaning on Hal'la's tree, depending on her solid trunk to hold him up.

"Yes," said Fen'Harel quietly, ignoring the rasp to his voice. This was a topic he could speak on. This was relatively safe from fear and doubt. "Hal'la collects misfits and pariahs. A fiercely loyal company of all races, entirely unique to her, or so I thought. Yet her companions are nearly identical to Evin's. It is strange where our worlds mirror one another."

To his immense gratitude, Solas was content -- for the moment at least -- to ponder such simple curiosities.

“Even Blackwall?" his twin wondered. "Do you have a Blackwall? I could never stand the man once I learned the truth. Nor… what was her name? Vivienne? I barely spoke two words to her for years. I imagine she took it as a courtesy."

Fen'Harel gave a breath for a laugh. "I know them well. So far as I could tell from my brief encounter with this world's Inquisition and what Evin has told us, the only true differences of the last few years in both our worlds lie in the choices the Inquisitors made." Finally, he could bear to look up, to face Solas' gaze. "I was fascinated to learn your Cole remained a spirit."

There was a pained sympathy in Solas' eyes when they met Fen'Harel's. “Did you lose him to Wrath?” he asked. “A pity. True Compassion is precious and rare.”

"Not at all," insisted Fen'Harel, and was less than pleased to discover he was agitated by the implication of Solas' words. Words he himself had said to Hal'lasean to convince her of Cole's importance as a spirit. "It was a concern, of course, that Cole might become a demon, but we did not lose him." He lifted his brows, unable to keep the wonder from his voice. "Our Cole became...human."

Fen'Harel was even less pleased when Solas laughed as though he had made a joke in terrible taste.

“Human?” echoed Solas, but when he saw the serious set to Fen'Harel's mouth, his eyes narrowed. “You are not serious. Such things are not possible.”

Only a few years earlier and Fen'Harel might have said the same thing. A few years and one love earlier. Before Hal'la. When his life was different. When his heart was empty. "But that is what Hal'lasean does, brother," he heard himself arguing with quiet passion. "She makes possibilities where before they did not exist."

His heart lurched, his stomach dropped. He felt himself go cold and imagined he must be pale now even for him. Fen'Harel gave all his attention to the tree before him, the visualization of his heart's finite but magnificent life, because he could not look at Solas now. Could not see his own face looking back at him without understanding. Or worse, with skepticism.

If I lose her, Fen'Harel thought, bile rising in his throat, all my possibilities go with her.

He was doing the right thing. This was the right course. If he were looking at the tree of his own life, he was sure the branches where he kept her safe in her own world would be the healthiest, the longest.

He was sure.

Wasn't he?

He was sure, at least, that all branches in which he lost her would be riddled with ruin.

He could no longer bear the silence or his own thoughts.

"She drank from the Well of Sorrows, my Hal'lasean," he said with surprising steadiness to his voice. "Did Evin tell you that?"

“I did not realize it, no.”

"I was furious, of course," Fen'Harel continued, though he was not entirely certain why. Perhaps because until now, he had not realized how sorely he needed to speak of Hal'lasean to someone of flesh and blood. Someone who understood, at least, what it was to be Elvhen. What had to be sacrificed, what had been lost. What it was to hope again. "I told her not to-- but she is stubborn." He did not manage to keep the fondness from his tone as he shook his head. "She is mortal, not even a mage, and she had no idea what she-- But she was too proud to let a human have what belonged to The People."

And then all at once he knew precisely why he was telling this story, this particular choice his Inquisitor made. The choice that had saved her life.

"I did what I could to protect her," he explained, and was gratified that Solas listened with open patience. "She bore Mythal's vallaslin. I removed it for her before she left again for the Wilds...but it was too late. She was Mythal's creature, lost to me the moment she stepped into the Well. The All-Mother watched me take Hal'la's vallaslin through my love's own eyes. Watched me part myself from her. Watched me--" It was hardly the first time Mythal had caught the Dread Wolf in the act. But it was certainly the first time she had known the Dread Wolf to make love.

It occurred to Fen'Harel as he stood before Hal'lasean's tree that perhaps there was something in it that might help ease his mind. He was not completely sure what that might be or even what it would look like. An intimate moment, perhaps? Their first physical reunion? When had she first suspected she carried his child? How would he even begin to find such a thing, to view it?

Evin had done it. And if a mortal mage could do it, so could the Dread Wolf.

He frowned at his heart's tree, probed it with little scout spells, testing vanguards to determine how best to use it, how to make it respond. In the end all he made was a sound of frustration. Solas stepped forward then, carefully minimizing his amusement at his brother's failures, and silently offered a minor cantrip. Hal'lasean's tree shrank before them, from mighty shaded shelter to small, strong sapling. Fen'Harel's mouth slackened.

Evin had done all this? In only a few years! How?

"Ah," said Fen'Harel, rather than yet again praise his jealous brother's vhenan. "Thank you."

He found the place where Hal'la's tree crossed to Evin's for the second time and gently slipped inside.

His movements were clumsy as he skimmed through his lover's life -- what he hoped was her life and not some other parallel branch -- as he maneuvered a magic that by all rights should have taken several ages to manipulate and understand. He saw pieces of tantalizing things, flashes of nudity, hints of intimacy and desire. Laughter. Such laughter. The day-to-day workings of the Inquisition as Hal'lasean sat through meetings, had dinner with dignitaries, expertly handled racial insults and marriage proposals in the same breath. But still he kept going, looking for...something. Anything. He did not know what it would be, but he knew he would know it when he saw it.

And then he realized what it was he wanted: Mythal. He wanted to watch Hal'lasean with Mythal in the Fade rather than hear of it from Hal'la. He wanted to witness Mythal's godhead, her Ascended spirit and know precisely what was shared with his lover and how. He wanted to see Hal'lasean's face when she finally knew his true name.

He guided them back only a month, searching, searching...

...But Evin was blind in the Fade. And if Mythal contacted Hal'la while she was unconscious...

What he found instead, entirely by accident, was his back to a frail Hal'lasean as he knelt before the Eluvian in Skyhold. What he found instead was his reaction the first time she called him Fen'Harel. The first time the orb's power surged between them.

It was the moment he learned of Mythal's intervention. The moment he agreed to stay.

"I...thought Mythal-- I thought to free her from Mythal when I--" He shook his head. He could not say it, even knowing Mythal saw it as a sacrifice and not a murder. "I nearly killed Hal'la instead. Mythal had been protecting her from the Well and the orb's power -- I had not even...I did not even notice she had absorbed it! She would have died! It was the All-Mother who--" Fen'Harel drew in a breath, one that gasped audibly against the sudden tightness of his throat. "Mythal saved her," he said, removing his hand from the tree and turning finally to Solas with an expression of agony and awe. "The All-Mother witnessed our love, saved this mortal woman for me, and released her from her bonds. Hal'lasean was my gift. I cannot...I cannot risk losing her again."

Solas' expression was heavy with compassion and solemnity. “Then we will do everything we can to safeguard her life. For you, and for the All-Mother."

The other Wolf held out his forearm and Fen'Harel grasped it with his, sealing their ancient understanding.

“You have my gratitude," said Fen'Harel, his voice thick. He swallowed and took a step away from Hal'lasean's tree, turning his attention anywhere but to his lover's choices, searching for distraction. But of course the next closest life was Evin's. That would have to do. "And Evin--I take it you had some sort of conversation with her? Are you satisfied she will be safe from the Arche’s power even after we arrive on its world?”

Solas' hesitation was small but obvious. Fen'Harel immediately wished he had found some other topic. “Evin is… tied to me, even with the bond in abeyance. I believe I know a method to ensure her preservation whilst there. But then we speak of hypothetical threats. It may be unnecessary.”

Fen'Harel gave a thin, apologetic smile. “Let us hope that is the case.”

“There is one thing that troubles me,” Solas said, and his expression became grave. “It occurred to me after we faced Geldauran’s vessel. Brother, as much as I am thankful for your help, I must make a confession. I do not think my world is stable enough for Hal’lasean to remain here alone and unprotected. An orb is a tempting thing, as we both know well. Evin was kind enough to link your world along the path. The very first waypoint. I propose we restore Hal’lasean to your home when we journey through the portal.”

It was an eerie and uncanny thing, to have one's own thoughts spoken in one's own voice from one's very lips. What a strange life the Dread Wolf led.

It was, as Varric would have called it, "weird shit".

Fen'Harel's lips became more grimace than smile, though he aimed for the latter. "That was my thought exactly. Evin will not see my-- my betrayal if it takes place along the path. And I will leave my broken-hearted halla with those I trust to keep her safe."

So it was resolved. He was resolved.

And she would never forgive him.

Fen'Harel kissed the tips of his fingers and placed them against the smooth skin of his vhenan's life. He would do what he must to protect her. He could beg her mercy later.

"Come," Fen'Harel said with a false air of confidence. "If we are to open this portal, we should discuss the spell. And I cannot think clearly so near to Hal'la's possibilities."

They fell in together as they walked the path a third time, but now they were not so in awe nor so distracted with other things. This time when the Dread Wolves walked the woven bridge between worlds, they would speak only of it, its construction, its application, and the magic they would need.

"I must admit I am glad Mythal did not interfere at all with Evin,” said Solas amiably as they left their Inquisitors' trees behind them.

"No," said Fen'Harel wryly. "But the Dread Wolf has."

“And will.” Solas smirked.

Chapter Text

The Anchor was the key, Fen'Harel thought. After Hellan left him Fen'Harel walked Evin's grove of trees, gazing up at them with a thousand thoughts he could not put to words. Each crystalline set of branches—which was to say, each stochastic/deterministic decision matrix—represented an Inquisitor and a world. In each one a different Dread Wolf plotted and fretted over his People and the powers arrayed against him. And in each an Anchor burned, brighter than veilfire, with a soul set at its heart. It linked them all. There could well be worlds where Corypheus never succeeded in creating it, worlds in which the Dread Wolf never bestowed his orb on such a creature or else reclaimed it without consequence. Those worlds were invisible, unaffected by the chaos of Andruil's Spear. They had never known the Anchor's touch.

This grove was Evin's magic—her creation. And what the Inquisitors had done with it was another unexpected miracle. It was clear he knew little enough of Hal'lasean or her power. Though he regretted the part he bore in Hellan's dilemma Fen'Harel could not resolve it for him. However Hellan decided, Fen'Harel would do what he could to protect his brother's orb and mate. He did not want Hellan to be alone.

And then, as though these thoughts had summoned her, he found himself standing before Evin. For a moment he felt disoriented. He should have known exactly where to find her, as simple a thing as contemplating the relative position of his own arm, his own hand. But the bond was severed. He had insight into nothing but her absence.

What a wretched being he was to regret that fact! He'd long wished for a way to escape their pairing—knowing it was wrong, he hid too much, dreading the agony when it must end. It was the compulsion he despised most, the coercive use of ecstasy and pain. The rest was not all bad. More like the bond on Hellan's world, perhaps. If he could have that, only that, and the love he felt for her—it would sustain him all the years of his life.

Assuming he could win her back.

Evin gazed at him with speculation in her eyes but did not greet him. He gave her an affectionate smile. "You choose to linger among your grove, vhenan? Haven't you spent enough time here already?"

"I stayed to maintain the enchantment. I hoped it might be helpful when you discussed your magic with Hellan," she said.

"It was more than helpful," he admitted. "Hellan stole my words when he called the bridge extraordinary work. The fact you spent weeks on its construction instead of years or decades..."

She considered him with a frown. "Did we surprise you?"

"Such has become your habit, da'vian," he replied.

Her manner was quiet—a watchful stillness—and he recalled the damage to her aura. Weeks, she'd said. Weeks compressed into a few hours. If Evin had mastered some sort of time magic—as she must have, it was clear—how frequently did she use it?

Was that how she renewed herself, the pureness he admired, that fascinated and frustrated him in turn? Was it the source of her remote expression, her cool smiles? If she vanished into the Fade from one moment to the next—if she stayed there long enough, alone—

Everything would feel more distant to her. Every emotion, every memory.

Even love.

He grimaced at these sudden worries—but that would not do. He brought an imploring, teasing smile to his lips. "Will you walk with me a while, vhenan? I would like to spend more time with you."

"I suppose we could," she said slowly, looking down at her hands. "Hal'la wants to pack some things before we go."

They continued on together until they reached the edge of her grove. He walked to her left to shield her from the sight of burning trees, the possibilities that disappeared even now. When they were past the overhanging branches he gazed out at the uncertain, shifting landscape of the Fade.

His magic moved across its surface, his Dreamer's will, sculpting a perfect nocturnal forest to contrast with hers, painting it the deepest colors he could imagine. Grand trees of immense age stretched above them like the columns of a cathedral, their stately branches extending hundreds of feet into the air. Night, so that a hint of stars spangled the black sky that peeked between the rustling leaves, and a soft breeze brushed his cheek. The sorrowful call of birds, the scent of rich and ancient loam. A few lazy, glowing wisps bobbed and drifted among the trees. And his vhenan stood at his side.

"Exquisite. It's beautiful," she said.

He did not look away from her. "No one with eyes would ever disagree."

She gave him a sharp glance. Amused. Her tone altered. "You should make me a library."

"A library?" he repeated.

"Last night you gave me a letter. Why not books?"

"Hmm. Next time, perhaps," he said. "Though it would not be nearly as romantic."

"Is that so? Books can be very sexy," she said in a lofty tone.

"A persuasive argument," he said, instantly intrigued. And offered his hand.

She did not accept. She stared at his hand like it had teeth. "What about the bond?" she asked cautiously.

"Haven't I made my choice clear?" And he sighed at his own impatience. "If the bond concerns you do not trouble yourself over it here. The bond requires physical touch to ignite. One might say that is its purpose," he said, twisting his mouth.

"Is that why it doesn't count if it's Fade tongue?" she asked.

"Fade tongue always counts," he murmured, "but not for that." He gestured an invitation at the forest. Side by side they strolled beneath the trees, admiring the quiet beauty of the evening, the trace of mist that blurred the forest floor. "Is there anything else you would ask?"

Evin's bright eyes regarded him with wry recognition. "I have many questions about all manner of things. Are you saying you'll answer?"

Now it was his turn to hesitate.

"You don't have to," she said immediately. "We'd probably be here forever."

A test. She was testing him. Every instinct confirmed it. "I have always relished your questions, vhenan."

"Though you don't always answer them accurately," she observed.

The idea of opening himself to her inspection fascinated and disquieted him in turn. But she knew so much about him now—what harm could there be in whatever she would think to ask? An intriguing way to spend what time they had together. She might walk with him a little longer if he could coax her into plying him with questions. Here in the Fade, he could set aside the idea that what she said was scripted. And that was a liberating thought. He could enjoy her simply as she was.

What he needed was some way to meter what she asked, a limiting factor she could not overlook. Something that would allow him to evade if necessary. And standing before her among the memories of his home forest he could not ignore the way he reacted to her presence. He wanted what she'd refused him at the campfire. But it wasn't safe. Or was it? If he chose something small....

"An exchange, then," he said abruptly. And claimed her hand without seeking permission—pleased when she did not withdraw it. He gave an autocratic smirk. "My knowledge has a price, vhenan. I see no reason to perform this service free."

The suspicious but amused expression on her face told him she guessed where this was leading. "What sort of price?" she asked.

"One I hope you will enjoy paying." He lifted her Anchored fingers to his lips and smiled over them. "For every question I answer truthfully... I will claim a kiss."

She pulled her hand from his grasp. "You're not serious. Outrageous Wolf!"

Try me, his expression said. "Do you accept my price?"

"Trickster!" She frowned at him with a new suspicion. "Just a kiss?"

Just a kiss. He almost ruined it by laughing.

"You have my word," he said gravely. "I will be the soul of restraint... if you are. Vhenan, the first and last time we enjoyed each other in the Fade we inadvertently tore a hole in a nearby reality. I would prefer to avoid a repetition. A kiss is a different matter. I think I can contain the consequences," he said with a different kind of smirk.

"This strikes me as a terrible idea," Evin said. But she was tempted. He saw it.

The choice stood before her—a test of his own. Was the bond truly her concern? Let her confirm it. Otherwise he must reconsider his approach. If she loathed the thought of touching him, best he know it now. All he could do was hope, the aspiration of a foolish man who had made far too many mistakes. He did not deserve forgiveness.

"A decision you must make, vhenan. I will let you think on it." He lowered his tone as though he intended to end the conversation. He began to turn away, thoughtful and slow, like he planned to leave the Fade.

"Wait!" Evin exclaimed.

A flawless, almost painful moment of anticipation. He paused.

"I... I agree to your terms."

And Fen'Harel greatly approved.

"But only here, in the Fade," she rushed to say. "And no withholding important information. Anything you would have said before—"

"I would not dream of it," he said. "Our bargain will only encompass matters I would not have discussed with you as Solas. My past, perhaps, or things you wish to know of the elvhen. No partial answers, only the truth. If you wish it."

"All right," she said.

"When shall we begin?" he asked. "Do you have a pressing question, ma da'vian?"

Evin studied him as though she still doubted his intentions. She took a sudden, steadying breath. Her eyes returned to the shadowed forest. "It's nothing critical. I'm curious why you and Hellan call each other brother. You didn't do that before."

Something he would have told her anyway. Another test? Did she have access to her magic here? Or did she ask what she already knew?

It hardly mattered. He would answer. And claim his reward.

"Brother is a term we reserve for equals," he said softly, and pulled his Anchor closer. "You can assume there is some fondness in it too, for Fen'Hellan saved my life. I recognize in him the nobility of his name."

"He saved your life?" Evin asked.

He tilted up her chin—let his fingers brush her lips. Studying her. "Is that another question, ma vhenan?"

Instead of answering she kissed him.

She leaned closer to him and skimmed his lips with hers. It was sweet but short. A tentative thing. He barely got an impression of her before she drew away.

"Do not imagine such 'kisses' will suffice in future," he said, a bit disgruntled.

"But I have another question," she said.

And she had his complete attention.

"Then proceed," he said.

"About this bond. How does the fever work? Is it painful? Do I have to stay near you? How long will it last?"

A wise thing to ask—he respected her for it. And though he never would have shared such details with anyone else, it was a safe question. He could answer it as though he were reading from a book. "The initial fever of severance lasts a few weeks. It will diminish when you are near—within a few feet, say—and for a few hours afterward. You do not have to stay at my side. I am perfectly prepared to endure it."

Evin frowned. "Is there pain?"

"Something similar to what you have felt, I imagine." He smiled at her. "I am perfectly—"

"—prepared. Yes. I understand," she said. "Is there anything else about it I should know?"

"No. That is, I do not think so."

She smiled a little, but her eyes were sad. "Thank you for answering. I know that was more than one question."

"How could I hold you to the letter of our arrangement in that instance? You saved me from the fever when I was close to death. I should thank you," he said.

Perhaps she intended something perfunctory again, to satisfy an obligation. But when she lifted her mouth from his he pulled her down beside him on the mossy forest floor. Her eyes closed; his vhenan relaxed against him. He threaded his fingers through her silken hair and claimed her parted lips. Her ambrosial taste and her tongue—the pleasing heat of her mouth and body melting into his. This place was a thought—they were both thoughts—and the moment they were too enmeshed he pulled away. Still he embraced her, his exquisite heart, this perfect silver soul.

"I have another question," she said.

He smiled gently, almost laughed. "Ask me in a moment," he whispered. "You are too much for me."

He held her until he felt more like himself. Finally he kissed her cheek. "Go ahead, but this will have to be the last for now."

She drew back from him so she could inspect his face more clearly. "This question isn't like the others. It's about your past. But I don't know if you would have answered it before. When you helped Hal'la with her morning sickness, I wondered—. Did you have any children?"

He gazed down at their linked hands, unable to answer for a moment.

"Fen'Harel has lived a very long time," she said slowly. "He's seen many things. Perhaps he's had many families. It's natural to wonder—"

"Yes," he said. "That would seem natural to you. I'm afraid I cannot charge you for this question, vhenan. It is something Hellan and Hal'lasean already know—though I never intended Hal'lasean to find out. You should know as well. You have far more right to it."

Long, silent moments passed in which he tried to speak but failed. Again and again. His attempts were silence, unbearable. A weight he could not lift that left him broken.

She embraced him again and pressed her lips to his neck. "It's all right, ma lath," she said. "It's all right. You can be upset. You can tell me later if you want. You don't have to answer now."

His throat ached but he forced himself to speak. "No, I want to. I would like someone else to remember. There was—." He drew a deep breath. Before the memories swallowed him, so vivid, so painfully immediate even now. "I had a little girl once. When she was born she had hair the hue of snow. Her eyes were like mine, not her mother's. I remember her tiny hands and feet. I remember her first words, the first time she called me father..."

Chapter Text

Fen'Harel knelt in a corner of the commander's tent, hunting through his packs as though he'd forgotten what they contained. He felt emptied and quiet, with the trace of a vanished headache muddling his temples. He frowned at belongings and equipment he didn't really see. Evin Lavellan had gone to speak to the base commander. He recalled how her lips had planted silent kisses on his cheeks, quieting his tears until she simply held him in the hushed grandeur of the forest he'd composed in her honor.

He did not deserve such kindness.

But he would accept it nonetheless.

He would seek his star and win her. There was something about the chase, the sweetness of pursuit without the weight of doubt. He could enjoy that in itself, however long it took. He was very good at waiting. And as heated as her kisses were—he thought, he hoped, the wait would not be long. He yearned to embrace her in this world as he could not in the Fade.

The canvas flap of the door rustled behind him. He glanced to see if she'd returned and found Hellan's halla there instead.

Hal'lasean Lavellan, another world's Inquisitor, a mortal shell for an immortal orb, his brother's Dalish vhenan. Hellan had suggested Fen'Harel accustom himself to her magic, but now was not the time. He was unprepared and too unsettled. They were all preparing to leave. He pondered her existence for a moment—how different she was from Evin—how much easier things must be for his counterpart. But he also pitied Hellan a little. A less intriguing puzzle.

He returned to his packs.

"Fen'Harel?" Hal'lasean asked. She spoke tentatively, as though loath to disturb him.

He forced his mind to focus. He looked up. "I am not your Wolf, little halla."

"I know." She paused and he noticed the burden she carried. "I took the liberty of preparing a pack for everyone. It's all the usual things—rations, bedroll, water flasks, tonics and potions, extra clothes. I wasn't sure what you already had, so you can go through it and leave whatever you don't need behind."

More kindness he did not merit—especially from her. He did not bother to conceal his surprise. "Thank you," he said. "You should not have."

He rose to accept the pack and made a little bow to express his gratitude. He set it near his scattering of bags and pouches and resumed his efforts with renewed purpose, folding his knit tunic to take up less space, tying up a packet of useful herbs he'd collected in the Oasis, rewinding a length of twine he used for mending. After a while he became aware Hal'lasean had not left—she remained by the entrance of the tent, her face shadowed, studying him without words.

"I cannot be that interesting," he said, uncomfortable with the weight of her inspection. "Not compared to the fascinations of your own Dread Wolf. Was there something else?"

She took a step forward into the tent. That was when he observed the heaviness in her face. A ponderous sincerity—obligation—gratitude. "My Wolf told me you nearly died protecting him. That you took a blow meant for him."

An uncomfortable silence settled on them. Fen'Harel was not certain how to respond—his gaze abstracted with the memory. "Hellan would have done the same. I believe he would—the fool," Fen'Harel added, half to himself.

"Why fool?" Hal'lasean asked.

He should not have said that to her. But now he must explain. He shrugged, impatient with himself. "Better that Hellan return to his family—the mate and child who need him."

"Evin doesn't need you?"

Evin would forget in time. They were different things. "Your child should have a father," he said slowly. Why did she make him explain this? "It was the correct decision."

She was silent for a moment. Whatever she pondered, he dreaded. He had endured enough conversations with her by now to know whatever she was about to say would either be tremendously painful or painfully embarrassing. And he was not far wrong.

"It was noble of you. Noble and selfless," she said. And to his horrified surprise there were tears in her eyes. One or two ran down her cheeks but she let them—with a sheer unconcern Evin would never have displayed. "I owe you a great debt, Fen'Harel. All my joy and all my love. And I intend to repay it. But for now you have my thanks."

He didn't want her to weep. He certainly did not want her to exit this tent with visible traces of tears—not when Hellan might chance to see it. He hurriedly snatched up a cloth and pushed it at her. Why hadn't he found something better to say? He should have simply acknowledged her words. No more was necessary. Did she cry frequently? Maybe Hellan was used to it. No, he had promised not to upset her. He hoped she would calm down. Was there something he should do?

Hal'lasean accepted the bit of cloth and dabbed at her eyes. Then—before he could stop her or duck away—she sprang at him.

She kissed him sweetly on the cheek.

He had no words—just astonishment.

He took what he thought was a prudent step away—almost tripped over his opened pack—and they both stood there in a rather awkward silence.

She smiled again, that puzzling woman, and turned as if to go.

He knelt to pick up his pack. And as he reached for it a disturbing thought struck him.

If Evin had tried to craft that bridge alone... if Hal'lasean had not been with her... would Evin have embraced him on his return? Or would she have stared at him like she had by the cliff, like he was someone from her past, with nothing but distance in her eyes?

Exactly how much did he owe this little halla?

Fen'Harel cursed at himself silently and called after her. "Da'halla!"

She stopped to regard him curiously.

And he did not know what to say. How could he thank her for such a thing, a mere supposition of a danger she would not comprehend? So he fumbled after something else, a different puzzling memory. "Da'halla, I... awoke with a strange paste on my chest. I do not suppose you know anything about it?"

She looked over her shoulder with the trace of a blush on her cheek. "It's a Dalish remedy. For fever. When the ill can't eat or drink. I meant to wash it off, but my Wolf—I apologize."

Elfroot, willow bark, mint. Yes, perhaps the Dalish would use that for the sick. "From what I understand you sat with me for quite some time. I do not deserve such kindness."

"Everyone deserves kindness. You've forgotten what it feels like to receive it," she said. Such distressing earnestness. "You were so unwell. I was... worried." Her cheeks and ears blazed red.

"I... thank you for your care," he said.

She hesitated. "The fever—is it something that could happen to my Wolf?"

He found himself smiling at her, though he could not meet her eyes. "No, little halla. And if it does, I am certain you are the cure for all that ails him."

The woman fidgeted where she stood, and he gazed at her, fascinated by the open way in which she displayed uncertainty, even weakness. Did this Inquisitor behave in such a way toward her other acquaintances? Or was it merely that he shared her mate's appearance?

"I'm glad—grateful—that whatever happens, you've pledged to look after each other." She paused then, smiled sadly. "I'll let you finish getting ready," she said.

And he stared after her for a while, bewildered. He realized only now what had happened: She'd kissed him—they had touched—and the orb's magic had not rejected him at all.

Fen'Harel continued his repacking. Eventually he opened the bag Hal'lasean had brought to him. He sorted through the necessary and duplicate items, and when he reached the bottom he found a small, mysterious pouch.

He opened it to peer inside. Then dropped it with a curse.

Dragonthorn. Dried but dangerous berries. And a little note:

For flavor.

The Dread Wolf laughed.

Chapter Text

Fen'Harel had only to walk to the tent he shared with Hal'lasean to find her. She was surrounded by packs and supplies, knees bent slightly as she leaned over to sort them. This had been one of his favorite sights since he first held her Anchored hand to the Breach. It had distracted him on an embarrassing number of occasions on their travels, the sight of her muscular rump pointed toward him while she gathered elfroot or picked an enticing wildflower for her hair. And as she always led the group no matter where they were, somehow she always managed to present this alluring target directly to him.

It took him much too long to notice when she began to do it on purpose.

Though he could not touch then, he could indulge all he liked now, taking her hips in his hands and gently fitting his pelvis against her solicitous backside. He did not need to see her face, draped behind her silverite hair, to know she smiled. Her magic sang harmony with his like an echo of the orchard, of the miraculous bridge she and Evin had made.

"Careful," she teased, "or Solas might come bursting in again."

Fen'Harel laughed. "Are you suggesting a cause and effect relationship? An intriguing theory. Shall we test it?"

She looked up at him, her hair spilling away from her face, and grinned. "Do you ever think of anything else, Insatiable Wolf?"

"How can I, when you are already so conveniently positioned?"

Hal'la pushed against his groin playfully and then stood and turned so she could lean her front into his instead. He looped his arms around her waist and they shared a simple, familiar kiss, the kind he had never imagined he might desire before he first experienced them with Hal'lasean.

He sighed against her mouth, content for the moment at least to pretend everything was fine. Was it so selfish to want to savor her like this before he broke her heart again? A few moments more to be warmed in the pleasing rays of her love, to soothe whatever hurts she might have, to seek out what she hid from him. A few moments more.

"All packed?" he asked, bumping her nose with his.

Hal'la smiled up at him, slow and pleased. "We both are."

"Ma serannas."

"My pleasure," Hal'la replied sweetly. "I like taking care of you."

Fen'Harel's heart throbbed at the memory of the previous night spent under her tender ministrations. He often had felt in the last few years that it was not possible to love someone more than he loved Hal'lasean, and yet it grew and grew and he never drowned in it or burst from it as it always seemed he would. How great she had made his heart to hold so much.

"Your care is the only cure I will ever need," he murmured, his voice surprisingly thick.

Her smile slipped off-kilter. "Funny," she said, "Solas told me almost the same thing."

"Did he?"

"Mm," and she rested her cheek to his chest. "I worried that one day you might have the same sickness he had."

Fen'Harel closed his eyes in reverence as he pressed his lips to her silver hair and breathed her in. "No, my heart. I will never have that sickness."

"Good," she declared. "I don't like feeling helpless."

His breath caught. "I know."

They stood in silence for some time then, melted against one another in the center of the tent, enjoying the closeness of their bodies and the thoughtful mingling of their quiet magics. What had it been like to hold her before the orb's power? He could no longer recall. It felt as if it had always been this way.

But Hal'lasean did not know how soon they would be parted, so she broke the hushed worship of their embrace before he was prepared for it to end.

"Did the Wolves sort out the practical side to our theoretical bridge?" she wondered.

"We did," Fen'Harel said, and pulled back a little so he could meet her turquoise gaze. He wanted her to know how truly he meant what he was about to say. "Though the Inquisitors did not leave us much to sort out."

"Did you expect us to sit in our tents and pine for your return, fragile mortals that we are?" she asked with the hint of a growing smirk.

Fen'Harel grinned fondly. "I do not know what I expected, Hal'lasean, but it was certainly not this." He hesitated as he considered her upturned face, her quirked lips. He shook his head in wonder. "Truthfully, I do not know what to say about your bridge, ma lath. I am struck dumb."

Her brows arched and he knew immediately he had said something wrong. And she was about to tell him exactly what and why.

"You were effusive enough when you thought Evin was solely responsible," she told him loftily.

Ah. Was that all? Fen'Harel cupped Hal'la's cheek and drew his thumb along the high ridge of it, his smile lopsided with understanding. "Hal'lasean, I have never before known you to be jealous."

Her eyes widened dangerously and he grinned his contrition.

"I am not jealous, Smug Wolf. I am merely stating a fact. You had plenty to say in Evin's praise. But when you realize your own heart had a hand in the process, you're struck dumb?"

There was a surprising and unpleasant edge to her tone and Fen'Harel knew he had made another mistake. He had minimized her hurt because she had said it lightly. He should have known better. Usually he had her magic to guide him on the undercurrents of her feeling, but their energies still sang a sweet duet.

Fen'Harel was suddenly uneasy. He narrowed his eyes at his vhenan's gentle aura and reached with his own to test its resolve.

He did not get the chance to see the result.

Hal'lasean crossed her arms over her chest and stepped back from his hold, staring challenge. "Well?"

This was not what he wanted. Not at all.

This time when he reached for her, it was with his hands, stretched after her to grasp her upper arms so she would not retreat further.

"Vhenan," he began, not quite pleading, "forgive me."

Forgive me.

"When I thought it was only Evin..." He hesitated, choosing his words with precision and care. Perhaps comparing Hal'la to Evin would be another error. He would appeal directly to his lover. "My imitable Hal'la..."

She smiled and rolled her eyes. A small success.

"Had I returned to find you had brought all of this world's nations to their knees with only a word, I should not have been surprised. 'Ah,' I would have thought, 'so it goes with my heart.' But I-- you have surprised me again and again from the moment you emerged from the Fade. I have grown accustomed to these. I have taken them for granted. Each day I know you will find another way to impress me, to outdo yourself. To shape the world."

And then all at once he knew what he needed to say. What he wanted to say.

"You long ago surpassed your mortal peers, ma lath, and I have begun to think of you in comparison to my peers. In all my time I have known only the Pantheon to hold such seemingly effortless sway over an entire world."

He paused to appraise her reaction, to be certain she listened as intently as he spoke. When she tucked her chin slightly, regarding him with shy approval through her lashes, he knew he had her. Fen'Harel smiled his little victory while tucking a strand of silver behind her pointed ear.

"Though if all my kin were like you," he confessed, his voice intimate, "there would have been no end to the glory of Elvhenan."

Hal'la's brow knit with the small surfacing of his pain, and she was back against him, plying his mouth with hers, soothing him and thanking him with her tongue. When they parted lips, he touched his forehead to hers and kept her tropical gaze with his own.

"I have often thought you would be unstoppable with even a fraction of the power my kin abused, but whatever else you are, ma uthlath, however highly I esteem you, however you may continue to surprise me, you are..." He sighed and she touched his ear with comforting fingers. "You are mortal, Hal'la. You are mortal and you are no mage. I am speechless because by building this bridge with Evin, you have outdone not only yourself, but all my kin. And you did it in the span of a few weeks."

"What you're trying to say," Hal'lasean said softly, leadingly, with her fingertips trailing the point of his ear in a most distracting way, "is that you underestimated me." She smiled, but it was wounded and melancholy. "Again."

And once again Fen'Harel was struck dumb. So she continued to speak for both of them.

"It's okay," she assured him earnestly, "I understand. You are an Elvhen god--" He opened his mouth to protest and she stopped him with the fingers of her other hand on his parted lips. "I know, you're not a god, but I don't know what else to call you. You're immortal and more powerful than I can begin to fathom. And here I am, delicate little mortal flower, with only her thorns to protect her."

Her magic ached and his mimicked, hurt for her hurt, guilty for his crime. Because of course she was right.

She always was.

"When we met, you thought my people were crude and misguided at best, mockeries of your beloved People at worst."

This time he did not even bother to attempt his protest. He was guilty again. Fen'Harel's brow pulled low over his eyes and he dropped his gaze from hers for shame. Hal'la hooked her finger under his chin and lifted until he brought it back.

"I knew you as my equal for all our time together with the Inquisition. You've only just begun to see that in me."

"Hal'la, that is not--"

She smiled again, knowing, vulnerable, and unwilling to hear an argument she already knew.

"I know, I'm simplifying it. But we don't have eternity for me to speak in truthful nuance, so you'll just have to bite your tongue and take it."

Fen'Harel closed his eyes then, gathered himself, inhaled her words and exhaled his foolish pride.

When he opened his eyes again, he found her watching him with expectation, with something shrewd behind her compassion. What was it she wanted so much for him to say?

"I underestimated you," he sighed. "Again. Emma ir abelas, ma vhenan'shiral."

Suddenly she had his face in both her hands and perched forward on the balls of her feet to give herself a few desperate inches. Her magic was all around him, enveloping him as firmly as ever her body had done, tingling across his skin like lightning about to strike.

It would strike and he would welcome the earth-shaking shock of it because its name was Hal'lasean.

"Mala hellathen na ma hellathen," she whispered, fervent as a prayer, "mala shiral na ma shiral. Iras na ven, emma ven tas."

Your noble struggle is my noble struggle; your journey is my journey. Where you go, I go too.

The earth shook beneath him. Fen'Harel lost his footing and found himself on one knee with Hal'la crouched before him, cupping his hands with hers now rather than his cheeks. Which was just as well because he was almost certain they were wet.

"Hal'la," Fen'Harel croaked, and found with dismay that his tongue was thick and heavy in his mouth, "where did you-- do you know what you--"

Her eyes, so like the vibrant birds of the Arbor Wilds, were steady and seeking. She knew. Of course she knew.

"Fen'Harel," Hal'la said, "did you forget I hold the Well of Sorrows in my dreams? I know full well what it means."

"The binding vows," he whispered because he still could not find his voice. "Ma vhenan, do not-- you--"

How could he accept or even encourage such devotion when he planned to rip her from him and leave her in her own world in only a few hours?

I underestimated you, he had said, Again.

"Hal'la," and though he found his voice, it cracked with strain, "there is something I must--"

But he could not. He would not tell her the truth! He was decided. It was decided.

His confession died on his lips.

Hal'lasean's eyes were round and wide and...expectant. Again, that strange sense that she was waiting for something. As if...as if she knew--

If Evin--

No. That was impossible. If she knew, he would have woken to find her on the warpath. She would not have made love to him or tended to him as she had, or she would have leapt on the chance to tell him why he was wrong once his spirit was soothed.

She did not know. How could she?

Her magic flickered, sparked. Fen'Harel narrowed his eyes.

"What is this about, ma halla? Why did you not tell me you stayed with Evin in the Fade for weeks? Why did you not tell me the entirety of Solas' cruelty to you? You have never-- you have always told me--"

But who was he to demand such things when he had always kept the most dangerous, most divisive secrets? When he still kept them?

"My heart, do not hide from me," he begged. "Tell me."

A shadow passed over her pale visage, turning down the corners of her lips with it, tamping the fire in her eyes. He had done something wrong again. But what?

Fenedhis, he did not want to leave her like this. Not like this.

Hal'lasean smiled again, but this time it was thin and hurt.

"Ask me again tomorrow," she said, and walked out.

Chapter Text

Evin Lavellan sat at a shaded field desk, surrounded by numerous and attentive agents and soldiers, and dashed off another letter. She'd composed her farewells in the Fade. Now she was in the real world, running out of time. She swiftly copied her messages from memory onto scraps of ribbon intended for the ravens. The camp commander stood beside her. He bore the delivery packet and the ink pot because his page would have dropped them.

Evin reached the end of a line and extended her quill for more ink. The commander obligingly offered it.

"This is for the Duc de Montfort," she said. "Direct it to Val Royeaux. You can send it with the others."

"Yes, Inquisitor," the Commander said.

As she handed over the message she caught a glimpse of silver hair. "Hal'la!" Evin called.

The other Inquisitor joined her small group, nodding politely at the others. The camp personnel weren't familiar with Hal'lasean's actual title. Evin's people knew her simply as one of the many skilled associates in Evin's inner circle. That was sufficient. What they thought about the pair of Fen'Harels wasn't clear... but Evin understood a betting pool was involved.

Evin glanced ahead a few minutes and found the Wolves returning from their circuit of the Oasis' wards. After that they would leave. She handed the message ribbon and quill to the commander. "It's been a pleasure, Ser Dayel. I apologize for expropriating your quarters over the past several days."

The man murmured his pleasure and astonishment at being able to render assistance. The rest came forward to bid farewell. She didn't know these men and women aside from the few days she'd spent here, but they served the Inquisition. They were hers and she would miss them. It was possible she'd never return to this world.

She was glad she'd get to see her Skyhold again before they left. The Veil was familiar there, a solid presence concealing dim but cozy memories. And she would return with Solas—with Fen'Harel—at her side. She recalled how frantic she'd been to convince him to help. With all her foresight she'd never imagined things would turn out this way. Were the Wolves really so determined to leave Hal'lasean behind? They couldn't do it. She wouldn't let them.

Hal'la stood off to the side, patiently waiting while Evin finished her goodbyes. When Evin joined her the two elven women headed toward the grassy clearing just past the main cluster of tents. Their packs lay in a heap.

"I'm sorry," Evin said quietly. "I was hoping..."

Hal'la's face was tight with purpose and determination. She shook her head slightly. "It was so close. So close. I could see it about to happen. And then—. It didn't." She winced at the memory. "I knew it wasn't certain but I'm so... hurt and angry! Like he failed. Or I did, somehow."

Evin sighed in sympathy. She reached for Hal'la and touched her gently on the arm. "That must have been painful. But we're giving them a choice. If it was always certain there would be no such thing as free will."

Hal'la's lips pursed as she scowled at the tangled pile of water flasks. "He said the first half of the sentence! I thought surely—and then his face changed and.... Is this what it's like for you all the time? Fenedhis, how do you stand it?"

"It's harder when there's hope, but there's still a chance. We can't decide for them. Anyway, that's why we have a backup," Evin added grimly. "Do you have the necklace?"

Hal'la fished it from the front of her tunic, the padded layer she wore beneath her shirt of mail. She pulled it over her head and dropped the delicate chain into Evin's waiting hand.

Evin studied the necklace, poking at the enchantment in her own clumsy fashion. She had just enough knowledge of such things to recognize the craftsmanship of the spell. Every rune in perfect alignment with the others, the dweomers layered in a careful, competent harmony. The magic wasn't flashy or obvious—nothing that would grab another mage's attention from a distance—but it was clearly the product of minute, deliberate attention and polished skill.

So she felt a bit awkward when she went about tampering with it. But it was for the best of reasons. And she knew it would work.

"The idea is to attune the necklace to the Mark," she said, frowning at the runes that glimmered in her sight. "That way you can use it to follow us. Just like Hellan would, except you're the one doing it."

"What's that shem story? The one with the trail of breadcrumbs," Hal'la said.

"That's the plan." Evin focused her magic on the runes, tweaking them slightly until they matched the configuration she'd seen would work. Then she gave Hal'la a warning glance and ignited the Mark to set the new imprint.

Evin followed a branch through a brief test and was satisfied. "Now you try," she said.

Hal'la walked a few paces away and turned her back. She extended her Anchored hand—and a shimmer passed over the necklace Evin still held. Hal'la took an uncertain step forward. Her eyes were closed. "I... there it is. I can feel it! There's a weird silvery feeling through the Mark. It's growing stronger... this direction?"

"Open your eyes," Evin said, amused.

The other Inquisitor did, blinking her turquoise eyes when she found herself within arm's reach of Evin.

"This is going to work," Hal'la said. Her eyes mirrored Evin's satisfaction. "It will take as much power as I can spare, but as long as the portal remains open I can follow."

"How do we keep the portal open?" Evin asked.

"The same way you keep any door from closing," Hal'la said, weary and wry. "You shove something in its way."

Evin clutched the necklace, gathering the silky chain between her fingers. She dropped it in a small pouch which she tied with a small, precise knot at her waist.

"That's assuming we need it," Evin said carefully.

"Nothing's changed?" Hal'la asked in a small voice.

"There's still a branch where he tells you." A narrower and narrower one, Evin thought.

"And plenty more where he doesn't." Hal'la's Anchored hand clenched. "Except now we're going into the Fade where your foresight can't help us and we have no idea what approach to take or how to get close to that branch. We've already used our best chance. Blighted Fool Wolf!"

The optimal outcome. Evin knew how scant the possibilities were. The more time passed the more their path solidified. She didn't have much hope for Hellan, but she didn't know or love him like Hal'la did. Evin had never managed to persuade her Fen'Harel of anything... until the Oasis, and there the results were mixed. If anyone could do it, it was Hal'la.

Except there was another branch—one where Hal'la gave herself away—one where Hellan noticed that Evin had the necklace. Hal'la might worry about Hellan, but Evin had worries about Hal'la. Why did everything have to be so difficult?

Evin pictured another round of Solas' little question game. If she told him what she knew, would he trade the truth for a kiss? Would he tell her why the Wolves were so intent on shutting out her friend? But Solas was clever—no doubt that was exactly the reason he'd confined their exchange to the Fade. She couldn't risk it. She had to trust in Hal'la.

Sly Trickster. He thought he had secrets.

The Inquisitors were giving their Wolves the opportunity to choose correctly. But if they failed, the Inquisitors would set things straight.

They'd clean up the Dread Wolves' mess.

The way they always did.

And when the two elvhen came up the gentle slope to join the Inquisitors by their traveling supplies, Evin walked over to her Wolf.

Solas met her eyes. "And link limb to limb," he quoted.

"Are you ready to go?" she asked.

"The idea of leaving my world strikes me as more and more preposterous every time I consider it. And yet we seem to have no other options. Are you certain you wish to accompany us, vhenan?"

"You'd let me decide?" she asked. "Curious."

He nudged closer to her, clasping a familiar hand about her arm. She gave him a skeptical, warning glance. No closer.

He grinned a little—a flash of teeth. "I would not have asked were I not confident of the answer."

"How much we have in common, ma lath," Evin said, and sighed.

Chapter Text

   Late in the sunless realms
A god gathers power in his fist.
   Rays of raiment gather
And link, limb to limb, and chain to wrist.
   Fashioned flesh releases, spent,
Decaying to feed their Lord's request,
   Emptying his vessels' souls,
Descending to half-remembered rest.
   Heavens slide, darkness falls
   As the Lord of Malice calls.

The lines of the verse tripped through Fen'Harel's mind—a purple bit of poetry. He did not know where Evin Lavellan had learned it or the author, but there were similar sordid stanzas for most of the Creators and a few of the Forgotten Ones. What had made her choose it as their passphrase? He had the feeling it was an obscure joke. If so, he was the punchline.

Fen'Harel gave his Inquisitor a scrutinizing glance. Evin ignored him, her face set in a placid, neutral smile. She was watching Hal'lasean. Ah, yes. This was supposed to be interesting—as distracted as he was by the nearness of his mate he wanted to pay attention.

Here was the power of Hellan's orb. A near twin of the one he had lost in terms of its ability, though the principles differed on a fundamental level. His Focus was not a receptacle for his magic, nor was it a portion of himself divided. It was... a Focus. And Hal'lasean was surprisingly casual with his counterpart's power.

Hellan nodded at her. She extended her Anchored hand.

The Veil—and all the intricate layers of its construction—she sliced through them as if they were silk. She peeled back the barrier and opened a door to the raw Fade.

He stared at it for long moments.

Then he covered his face with his hands. "We have to get you off this world," he muttered.

"Yes?" Hal'lasean asked brightly.

"That's why we're all leaving together." Evin's voice was sharp.

What in the Abyss had he been thinking to suggest they leave Hal'lasean here? They must return her to her world. If Hellan only knew... though he might already. If Evin developed this power... but she would not, she did not have access to the orb, unless she found a different way. Perhaps she would! The Inquisitors were infernally clever.

The Veil—this power—the danger!

Fen'Harel was suddenly glad he was leaving his realm. It would be a relief to stop worrying about these things for a time.

He lowered his hands and took a careful breath. "Another astonishing demonstration."

Hellan and Hal'lasean stepped through the portal as though it were a window curtain. Fen'Harel shook his head at them and offered his arm to Evin. "Are you ready, Inquisitor?"

Those sunset eyes considered him. "You found new gloves, Dread Wolf."

He flexed his fingers within the supple layer of doeskin that covered them. "In accordance with your requirements, vhenan."

The gloves were necessary because he had a regrettable tendency to forget he was not supposed to touch her. He did not intend to disregard her wishes, but the bond had a way of overwhelming one's intentions. The gloves would prevent a moment's inattention from overriding her decision.

And when she relented... as she would... how soft her skin would feel beneath his fingertips. How sweet her lips would taste, her aura gently blooming at his touch, and other pleasures worth the wait. His face flushed with heat. He ached for her, a shadow of the fever from before. If only she knew what he felt, she would not make him suffer.

Or maybe she would. His vhenan was obstinate—a woman not to be rushed.

Besides, the method he intended to conceal her from the Arche's effects would necessarily have an effect on the bond. But there was no point in mentioning that now. Everything would happen in due course. His orb needed careful attention first. Even now he kept a portion of his mind on it, monitoring its fluctuations while his magic worked to restore the damage sustained in Geldauran's attack.

After a moment of deliberation Evin accepted his arm.

They crossed the threshold together.

The raw Fade was not quite a merging of selves. The vigil he maintained there coalesced around his physical body. Both awarenesses were at war, and for a moment he felt divided, torn in two pieces. He almost lost his breakfast.

Then Fen'Harel recalled himself. This was the Fade; nothing happened here against his will. He stumbled a little, that was all.

Evin regarded him with concern, still with her arm around his. "Is everything all right?" she asked.

He should ask the same of her. But... she seemed intact. The sudden shift in perspective had not harmed her. And he recalled she must have taken this same route to arrive at the Oasis. Fen'Hellan had noticed nothing untoward then.

"It has been some time since Adamant," he observed.

He closed his eyes for a moment to enjoy the feeling of unfettered chaos against his skin. All at once he could breathe, even in this tiny elvhen form. The liberated magic danced in his blood and pooled in his belly like wine. He had a sudden fierce urge to do something madcap or extravagant. He wanted to dance with her. It was ridiculous.

Evin's light laughter returned him to himself. "Are you doing that?" she asked.

He peeked at her. And found a host of tiny glittering dots, wee insignificant wisps of emotion, created by his joy.

He cleared his throat. "Me, vhenan? Why no, it must be you."

"We shouldn't let the others get too far ahead."

"Indeed." But not too close, he thought. How kind of Hellan to devise such a charming method of return.

They began to follow the other pair. It was an easy stroll. As they went along he adjusted better to the difference. Part of it was simply being in her presence, and that was a dangerous thing.

Thoughts were easier to share here. And there were things she should not know. He was all too wary of his influence.

"We're in the raw Fade, Dread Wolf. Do you answer questions here as well?" Evin asked.

"Since we are physically in the Fade I think we should not," he said with a regretful shake of his head. "Perhaps I could query you instead. Hellan mentioned something about his world that amazed and fascinated me. He said their Cole found a way to become human—with Hal'lasean's assistance."

"I heard the same. Didn't you tell me Cole had only two choices? I don't remember 'human' being one of them," she said.

"I never dreamed to see such a thing myself."

"Why would Cole give up what he was? Do you think our Cole is unhappy?" Evin seemed distressed at the idea, and he felt the murky flicker of her unease.

"I doubt that, vhenan," he said to reassure her. "If it was a choice Cole made for himself, perhaps he thought it worth the sacrifice. Perhaps he saw there was more he could learn by leaving his former state. I wish I knew how it was accomplished. There may be some fundamental difference between our worlds."

"But can he truly help people if he's not Compassion?" Evin asked. "I suppose that's a silly question. I help people—I hope so, anyway—we all do. I almost wish I could ask our Cole what he would want."

"It is all hypothetical now," Fen'Harel said. Cole's choice was already made.

"It seems a little like an irresponsible leap into the unknown. Or something Hal'la would do," Evin said.

Fen'Harel smiled to cover his confusion. And he agreed—it certainly did sound like the work of Hal'lasean. A shame he would not have the opportunity to ask her about it before they left.

But as his eyes followed the pair that ranged ahead of Evin and himself, as he recalled Hal'lasean's power to manipulate the Veil at will, he knew it was for the best. He simply was not sure why he felt this hesitation....

Chapter Text

Variables upon variables upon variables. That was all Hal'lasean's thought now. How best to push her Wolf to confess, what to do if he didn't, what to say if he did, how to stay calm, the consequences if she didn't, the necklace, what to do if it didn't work, what to do if it took more power than she had to give...

She had not juggled so much with such high stakes since the Winter Palace. But she'd take on a million snooty Orlesian nobles sneering racial slurs through their masks if it meant she had Fen'Harel on her side.

They had never been at odds before. Not like this. Oh, they had argued. Sometimes it seemed all they did was argue -- about the Grey Wardens, about the Well, about Cole, about her more merciful tendencies, about the risks she took, about the Dalish -- but he had always been on her side. She had always had his support. They had always worked together.

Even when he lied about who he was...

Ass.

As if he heard the snide condemnation of her thoughts, he glanced uncertainly in Hal's direction. They walked together through the Fade, shouldering their packs in silence, a small but tense distance between them. She met his gaze and found it full of regret and apology, and as always Hal'lasean was incapable of turning her back on his pain. Her features softened from the irritable concentration she knew she'd been wearing to something more like surrender. It came with a sigh and a slumping of her shoulders. Fen'Harel reached for her hand.

Their fingers interlaced and they leaned together, their upper arms touching despite the hard skin of her armor. She rolled her eyes. He smiled. She smiled. She rolled her eyes again.

"Vhenan," he said, but he meant 'do not be angry'.

She squeezed his hand.

Let him drop his guard.

As any wolf would be wont to do, Fen'Harel eventually ranged ahead of the group, scouting their path as was usually Hal'lasean's duty. But she was stealth and silence in the physical realm; this was his place.

It left Hal wandering alone with her turbulent thoughts, constructing and abandoning plan after plan to draw a confession from her lover's lips. If only she had Evin's foresight. If only Evin's foresight could work in the Fade.

If only her Wolf would stop making her decisions for her.

Hal began to plan instead for the worst. The necklace worked, it would work, but if she used most of her power establishing the portal and stabilizing it, there was no guarantee she'd have the strength left to pick out the necklace's beacon, or worse...

What if she couldn't maintain the portal after the others had moved on and it collapsed with her in it?

A chill wind blew across the dream dunes, or perhaps she imagined one, because her skin prickled and she shivered.

There was only one way to ensure she retained enough of the orb's power to stave off such a terrifying fate.

Hal'lasean glanced behind her at the other Wolf. With his other orb.

Solas looked ridiculous. And adorable.

When Hal'lasean fell back to walk at his side, she found him barely paying attention to the raw Fade around him; all his focus was on the little Elvhen orb nestled in the palm of his hand. It sat atop a soft swatch of some material as though he intended to swaddle it like a newborn, and he caressed it with his free hand, murmuring to it in the ancient tongue of The People so that Hal could only catch a general gist of his meaning.

And suddenly Hal saw him as he might have been, the young Wolf with his child in his arms, cooing proudly down at the little elf as it slumbered and burbled.

Hal's heart ached with the image. What must it be like to love so fiercely and lose so much too soon? She didn't even want to consider it, though she already had. She'd been considering it since the moment her Fen'Harel admitted he knew no precedent for a mortal woman pregnant with an immortal man's child. She'd been facing it every moment of every day and in her more turbulent dreams since Evin confronted her in her tent.

What had Solas been like before his little Elvhen babe had been torn from him?

It was sweet, in a way, that he and her Wolf were so desperate to leave her behind. To spare her and their child from the same fate. It showed the man beneath the myth, the wounded heart hidden behind millennia of sharp armored edges.

It made her want to cup his heart in her hands as he did his orb, to coax it back to health with soft Elvhen words and patient care.

But perhaps she could start smaller.

"Fen'Harel," she broached gently, and waited for him to lift his gaze to her. Her lips twisted with amusement when he seemed surprised to find her beside him. "How is it?"

He frowned his chagrin. "Weaker than I would like."

Not, thought Hal, the optimal outcome.

She wished, briefly, that Mythal still controlled the voices from the Well in her mind, so that she might hear the whispers of what she needed instead of having to visit them in her dreams. She could almost quiet her thoughts enough, could almost focus on a question so intently that it seemed to hum against the wards in her mind...

There was something. Something she could be doing. Hal just couldn't quite grasp what.

"May I?" she asked hopefully. Maybe if she could get her hands on it...

When he blinked at her in confusion, she nodded toward the injured orb, her brows lifted in question. Solas' eyes widened then narrowed and she carefully did not laugh at him when he reflexively pulled the orb closer to his chest as though she intended to snatch it from his grasp.

Hal'lasean kept her features open and earnest, which was never difficult for her anyway, but in a way that was unimposing, that asked only for his consideration. Then she smiled just a little, and her mouth and eyes asked Solas for his trust. Like approaching a wild animal.

She showed him her hands then, slow, small movements, both palms out. It said her grasp was strong and steady and that she had no ill intentions. But he still hesitated, so instead Hal moved a little closer, her right hand hovering just beside his atop the orb.

Solas watched her, tense and wary, the Wolf with the thorn in its paw. Hal'lasean took a breath and imagined her aura slipping silken and warm over the orb, enveloping it in the green heat of her borrowed magic. The Elvhen sphere gave a pathetic attempt at a yellow spark.

"Careful!" gasped Solas, with such intensity that Evin and Hellan both turned around to see what was the matter. Evin resumed her gait without comment, but Hellan shared a smirk with Hal that she didn't dare return. Not with Solas' attention on her.

"I am," Hal assured Solas. She sought his gaze so she could be sure he understood. "I will be. I'll stay right here."

He paused in their path and she stopped with him, keeping her hand just above the orb, unwilling to touch it without his permission even as her power moved around it. Solas appraised her with a considering frown -- one that she knew and loved well from her own Fen'Harel -- and then dropped his gaze worriedly down to the orb.

And she closed her eyes, turning all her attention to the shivering power trapped in the weakened orb. She reached tentatively inside its engraved shell with her energy, past the enchantment that contained it, closer and closer, stretching out to find--

She felt the strange energy curled inside bump experimentally into her probing aura. Felt it brush against her as though it were testing her scent.

Hal'lasean looked up with an intuitive confidence that was more Dalish than Well. The part of her that knew the care of uncertain halla. That thanked each animal she killed to feed the clan for its sacred sacrifice. "I think I can help," she told Solas. "I think..."

How could she explain this?

"I think it's...hungry."

And then she made a self-conscious face because it sounded so absurd. But then, what about her life wasn't absurd?

The bridge of Solas' nose wrinkled with indecision, but finally, finally, he transferred the little cloth and the orb nested in it to Hal's deft, careful hands, as delicately as if they were worried they might wake it.

His fingers lingered as she began to pull it back toward her chest, and when at last he had to retreat or touch her armored breast, he hissed his sudden anxiety.

"I am amazed you let her hold it," remarked Hellan from further ahead. "The last one she had in her grasp shattered irreparably."

"Not helping!" Hal snapped.

She did not say what she thought: And then you left me. As you will leave me again.

For a moment it looked like Solas, in his sudden alarm, was going to steal the orb back. Then Hellan laughed and instead Evin's Wolf glowered at his counterpart. Hellan looked smug.

While Solas was distracted, Hal nestled the little sphere in the crook of her arm, trapped securely between chest and elbow. With Solas hovering overprotectively at her shoulder, Hal began to walk again. And as she walked, she fed the cracked Focus tiny handfuls of another orb's magic.

Chapter Text

Fen'Harel wasn't certain how Hal'lasean Lavellan had ended up in possession of his orb—an infernal form of mind control, perhaps—but now that she had it the Inquisitor seemed intent on never letting it go. He fought himself to keep from dancing in agitation, fingers twitching to claim it back while they followed the rest of their small party down a narrow path. The currents of the raw Fade surged and swelled around them.

Why had he let Hal'lasean take the orb from him? He ought to snatch it from her hands before a calamity occurred. Hellan's Dalish princess was toying with forces beyond her comprehension or control. But... after observing for what felt like an excruciating length of time he had to admit she had an odd knack for it. The energy she metered into the Focus was regular and calm, careful as an apothecary measuring felandaris for a draught. The instant the orb altered its hum she decreased the flow, waiting until the tension eased. Meanwhile he steadied its aura with his own protective magic. Hal'lasean held a portion of Hellan's power. Perhaps that gave her innate insight.

He thought about the vast amount of magical energy he would shortly have to expend and nearly sighed. If the Focus did not heal in time...

"You show great facility with the orb's magic," he said.

Hal'lasean smiled at him and lifted her brows, apparently surprised he would compliment her. "Ma serannas. I have an excellent teacher."

"There are not many hours left to make ready," he said, recalling the haste Evin had urged on them. "I will do what I can to stabilize the orb, though it may take both our efforts. With the proper care it should serve to open the portal. Though I understand you have experience with that yourself."

Hal'lasean grinned. "If memory serves, so do you. Just not... on purpose."

For a moment the remark rankled, an arrow that touched on a wound that had festered. Fen'Harel almost snapped something in reply. But the gentle murmuring magic of the orb was soothing in his mind, and after all they stood within the untrammeled environs of the Fade. His vhenan strolled not far from them, a contented expression on her face, safe and happy and under his protection. He caught back the sharp retort before it began. Silence was wiser with this woman, and besides, she had his orb.

Hellan roamed ahead of them, searching the Fade for shrouded dangers Fen'Harel knew well. But he did not seriously fear anything that might challenge two Dread Wolves plus two Inquisitors. Not in this place, not after Geldauran's defeat. The orb's song strengthened as Hal'lasean's ministrations continued. His anxiety began to lessen.

"Dread Wolf, may I ask you a personal question?" Hal'lasean asked after a while.

No, was his immediate response. Whatever this halla wanted to ask he knew better than to answer. But he saw the outline of Hellan's form in their vanguard and recalled what he had said:

You must accept each other.

There was truth to those words. Though Hal'lasean worked to restore his Focus with dogged effort, the process was slower than it should be. Their magics were not aligned—they did not sympathize as they should. It set the orb and his teeth on edge. If Hellan wanted them to accept each other, undoubtedly that included Hal'lasean's prying ways and her habit of poking the Wolf. Though it was all rather unstudied, perhaps endearing in a certain light. Her nature seemed generous. He had no reason to believe it was not genuine. He would have to teach himself not to bite the hand she extended, however clumsy.

He tipped back his head and examined her carefully. "Depending how personal the question is, I may have to charge a fee."

The woman laughed. "The last time one of the Creators made a stipulation like that, I ended up bound to Mythal. But since you set the People free, I imagine your price is smaller."

"You have me confused with another Fen'Harel," he said gently. "But ask, please. I am interested in what you wish to know of me."

Hal'lasean hesitated for a moment, uncertainty in her face. She took in a breath as she considered her words. "You said you were born Fen'Harel. Was that... an unusual name to give a child?"

These inquisitive Inquisitors. Did Evin think to continue their game by other means? He could claim quite a lot in exchange for such a question. Evin was too far away to listen and seemingly unconcerned, but he would not put anything past her. How amusing.

He gave Hal'lasean a slight smile. "I will answer provided you agree to my stipulation. You are not, by any chance, asking on behalf of Evin? What I tell you will be for your ears alone."

Hal'lasean appeared confused—no hint of deception—he was satisfied. "Did Evin ask that as well?" Her brow, already knit, furrowed further. "Because you don't want her to know or you don't want her to hear it from me?"

"The answer is common knowledge among elvhen of my time. I do not consider it privileged information. However Evin and I recently established an... arrangement where such things are concerned. I hope she does not think she can approach me through a proxy and avoid fair payment."

Hal'lasean gaped at him for a moment. "You're charging her for information? What would a Dread Wolf want, pray tell? Secrets? Kisses? I can't imagine you'd want a such a gesture from me."

He laughed at her incredulous expression. Considering the orb for a moment Fen'Harel noted the ticklish curl of energy wreathed about its shadow, a sprightly sort of fog. He dispelled it easily.

"Knowledge always has a price, da'halla," he said, and his tone betrayed his amusement. "For you it will be silence. Do you agree?"

She appraised them for a moment, both himself and the lively orb. "I agree."

"Fen'Harel is not a name one gives to a child. But then, in my earliest memories I am not elvhen."

Hal'lasean's lips parted in wonder, her eyes widened with shock. "What were you?"

"I was the Wolf." Part of his mind never left the orb, and despite his intention to maintain a light, unconcerned tone, his words came more slowly. "It is not an easy thing for a new parent to understand. Hence the name. It seems my counterpart had a different experience, though I do not understand how—. A fascinating dissimilarity, is it not?"

They continued walking the path, pausing to navigate a steeper incline. He offered his hand to assist. Hal'lasean sank into her thoughts for some time. And then came more questions, as he expected. Her kind knew so little about what had come before. They had forgotten the first of the People, everything but a few names and tattered legends.

"What is the Wolf? And how does a Wolf become a child? Or were you not...?" Her voice trailed off.

Here in the raw Fade, surrounded by the remnants of remembrance and strong emotion, it was easier to discuss the ancient past. His other form hovered never far from his awareness, as integral to his being as his shadow. Except here there was no division and no Fen'edal and his elvhen form was less true than the other. He was all one thing—with as many eyes as memories—and perspectives for them all.

What could he explain so this Dalish child would understand? The correct words did not exist in the common tongue. Did they exist at all? He fumbled for them, a skein of sentences with shifting dyes. He feared how she might react. He worried Evin would learn some part of it and look at him differently. Would she be afraid?

What is the Wolf?

But he had already agreed to answer. He'd told Hellan he would try. If he and Hal'lasean were to settle into some kind of coexistence, perhaps this was something she ought to know. Let her see exactly why he was not her mate. He drew a thoughtful breath and spoke.

"I remember, just barely, a time before the elvhen. I remember feeling curious and becoming aware of my curiosity. But by then the world had changed. It was not so easy to come across, to walk among them as the elders once had done. It is difficult to remember—I had fewer words back then. When I was born I did not remember all of it at first. A confusing time. You can imagine my surprise when I learned of your Cole."

"Are you like Cole then? A spirit in an elvhen body?" she asked.

"No, for I had parents," he said, "as Cole did not. He assumed the shape of another. His case—in my world, at least—is different. But I would have to meet with your Cole to understand. It is fascinating to reflect on what he achieved through a mere decision. You were there, I gather. Do you recall what happened?"

"Which decision? You mean when Cole became human?" Hal'lasean paused to deftly adjust the flow of energy directed at the orb. "I'm not certain how much of what happened to our Cole happened to yours. Where do I begin? After Adamant, Cole was worried for his freedom. He thought someone might try to bind him as the Grey Wardens had bound the demons. Is this...?"

The same. He nodded sharply. "This is what puzzles me about your Cole. There is a considerable distinction between a spirit who chooses to take on human shape and one who genuinely becomes so. Much like a shade that crosses the Veil and shapes itself into a form designed to inspire fear. It is still fundamentally a shade. To become human... I thought it impossible in this age. When our Cole became unstable I saw the choice he faced. But I could not endure the thought of losing him... of witnessing him fall to his darker emotions. Perhaps the Veil is simply different in your world to permit such things."

Had he failed Cole as he had failed in so much else? Had he influenced a gentle spirit to the outcome he desired, regardless of what Cole would wish or what was proper for him? Too blinded with his own distraction and his fears of what would happen or how the outcome would affect Evin. Everything he knew, all his studies told him Cole faced a dangerous threshold. Had he missed the true choice? And what did that say about all his other burdens? Fen'Harel's fists clenched—he grimaced with remorse and pain.

Cole's purity was precious and rare. He valued it as he did little else about this flawed and colorless world. But he had been certain he understood and knew exactly what to do. When had he been anything but wrong? What else, who else would he destroy in his blindness?

"My Wolf had never seen anything like it either," Hal'lasean said, and though she spoke with sympathy he saw his own pain reflected in her face. "He still won't admit he approves of how it turned out. He wanted Cole to forgive the Templar so that he could remain as he was. A Spirit of Compassion. But he wasn't becoming a demon just because he was angry. He just didn't understand it. He was feeling something he didn't know. Like a child. So Varric helped him understand it. And now he's... more human. He still hears pain and seeks to soothe it. But people see him now. He learns from his mistakes, he's better at healing because he's beginning to understand the complexities of being... a flesh and blood person." Hal'lasean smiled. "He laughs now."

Cole... laughs? He laughs.

What have I done?

He'd made a choice for another being he had no right to make. No right. And what did that say about so much else? Spirits did not learn and grow. They did not remember. They reflected the world around them in the purest aspects of themselves. The more complex the situation the more likely they would falter, and when denied their original purpose they twisted into demons. A knife's edge to walk for those trapped outside the Veil. He had thought he was helping Cole, not limiting him, but a moment of weakness or doubt could destroy everything.

What else had he missed? There were no words for the forgiveness he would need. He had made so many mistakes. How much more would he lose before he learned to act with more humility?

Dangerous tears pricked at his eyes. His throat felt tight and his emotions permeated his magic; he could not hope to hide them. But he kept his voice soft. "Ah, Varric. That must be it. The missing ingredient was a beardless dwarf with excessive chest hair. How blind I was not to see it before."

Hal'lasean regarded him worriedly, a mirror of the pain he wanted to conceal. "Were you the only one?"

"Evin was present as well. But Cole is happy now... and stable." Did he say this to convince himself? "Things could have turned out far worse. I still believe the choice he made was valid and fitting for him. Though I am intrigued by what might have been."

Hal'lasean gave a small, sad smile. The orb shifted slightly in her arms. "No, Fen'Harel. Were you the only one like you?"

How could he explain the nuances to her in a single conversation? He settled for the truth. "Though I cannot speak for your world, da'halla, in mine I am unique. I wonder which monster we will meet in the Arche's world. Fen'Hellan... or Fen'Harel?"

And then he noticed, a moment too late, that he had spoken as though she were coming with them. Which of course was the correct thing to say. But he had meant it. Why? Incorrect on multiple levels—

Before he could examine his thoughts he realized Hal'lasean had stopped walking. The Inquisitor stared at him with mild shock—and pain. Fenedhis, did she realize the truth? Dawning panic—until she spoke—and then a different kind of panic:

"You think you're a monster." A question but not a question. Her voice was very quiet.

He exhaled sharply. And then got a grip on himself, impatient at his own reaction. "The connotation in elven is different," he said.

"Monsters are not kind, Fen'Harel." The Inquisitor's voice was low but heated—passionate certainty he did not share, an earnest denial of a type of truth she could not understand. But she continued—"Monsters do not sacrifice themselves to save others. Monsters do not love. You are no monster."

"On my better days, perhaps." He turned pointedly toward the path, where the others already outpaced them and would soon notice they had tarried.

She stubbornly stood still. "Then I have only known you on your better days."

His face felt tight, a grimace. He made a small, self-deprecating shrug. "I think we both know that is not true, da'halla."

"That doesn't make you a monster, Fen'Harel." She lifted an eyebrow at him. "That makes you an ass."

He began to smile. "Are you an expert on such things, Inquisitor?"

"Have you met my Wolf?" she returned.

She began to walk again, steadying the orb that rested in the crook of her arm. After a moment to check the harmonic balance he followed. Evin was still in sight ahead of them, her ashen locks worn loose at her shoulders, tinted faintly green by the misted Fade sky. His precious Inquisitor, whom Hal'lasean had restored to him. If not for Hal'la and her Wolf, Evin would not have chased him to his temple. He might never have seen her again, stubborn as he was, so hardened in his certainty.

He recalled something he had meant to say earlier. "Inquisitor. While we are on the topic of my not being an ass, I would like to thank you for the potions and other items you provided. Your thoughtfulness was unexpected and appreciated. I came across something when I was packing." He reached into his vest and withdrew the item from an inner pocket. "I am not certain why I decided to carry it with me, but I would like for you to have it."

He offered the gift to the Inquisitor, opening his hand to reveal it. A ribbon made of silken thread, iridescent purple and blue, in an intricate but loosely-woven design.

Hal'lasean's mouth formed an O of pleasure and surprise. "Fen'Harel! It's beautiful. But don't you think Evin would like it?"

"This type of silk is traditionally given to an expectant mother," Fen'Harel said, and there was no point in mentioning its rarity. "For luck."

She accepted the ribbon with her free hand, peering down at it, exclaiming over the complexity of the pattern, the delicacy of the silk. He smiled at the simple delight she took in it, that she appreciated its beauty as he did.

"Ma serannas. Truly. Will you hold the orb a moment?"

Did she need to ask? He accepted it from her carefully.

"Would I be gravely insulting tradition if I wear it in my hair?"

She was already undoing one of her braids. He opened his mouth to explain the purpose of the ribbon, the simple custom behind it, but his innate amusement got the better of him. That and the image of a small pouch filled with dragonthorn. He smiled at her fondly.

"Who could object?" he asked.

Hal'lasean braided the ribbon neatly into a fresh plait. The color suited her silvery tresses. He openly admired it when she was done, privately wondering how long it would take for her to notice. When she motioned to reclaim the orb he hesitated for only a moment. And she resumed her effort to restore it.

As they went along the orb began to sing in harmony with her magic. They fell silent to listen to the music, watching the ancient and complex artifact begin to thrive, flickering with hints of yellow life. Hal'lasean smiled.

"Remarkable," he said.

"I think we have an understanding, your orb and I."

"I think we do," he said. And she smiled slyly up at him.

Their group continued on, following paths abandoned by spirits wary of the Forbidden Oasis and its foul miasma. There was little more than wisps to note their passing after Hellan drove the darker demons away. Where he could Fen'Harel used the ambient magic around them to speed their progress. All it needed was for them to desire the same destination, to feel the same urgency. Their minds' unspoken wishes did the rest, here in the cooperating liberty of the raw Fade.

Their goal was a convenient eluvian. He had forgotten one was nearby. If he'd remembered it he might have crossed the path of the Inquisitors sooner. It was interesting to consider whether Evin's predictions had included that possibility. If she'd arranged to disturb the wards and lure him to the Oasis—a machination he now very much forgave—had she foreseen how much time it would take him to arrive?

Despite the fact Hal'lasean still guarded his orb, Fen'Harel found his eyes seeking out his ingenious vhenan. An architect of wonders—from the bridge she'd woven with her counterpart to the methods she employed to examine decisions in the future. She'd exceeded his reckoning so many times. The Anchor gave her this power, but how she leveraged it.... It stole his breath away, a sophistication and inventiveness he cherished. In Elvhenan the people would have ranked her as a wonder.

Words came to him then, like a whisper: By then the world had changed.

He shook his head at his own useless thoughts. And he reached out to check Evin's aura. It was an almost reflexive habit with him, a reassuring brush of attention to guard his beloved and her unformed powers from harm. But as he did so he noticed something unexpected. Something new.

A dweomer that should not have been there.

A... device? An enchanted token. New-crafted, not ancient. She wore it at her waist.

Evin had Hal'lasean's necklace.

As he considered the puzzle, he scrutinized the sorcery woven into its strands and found it crudely altered. Well, perhaps not crude but it lacked the subtlety of his counterpart's work. Which pointed to Evin. What was this? She refused to wear the necklace he'd given her, but carried one from Hellan? Why had she meddled with it?

It was only when he checked exactly what Evin had done to the necklace that he began to understand.

Evin had foreseen everything. The Inquisitors knew.

And they were planning something.

His immediate impulse was to restore the original enchantment. This had the taste of a secret. Hellan would not approve. He did not approve.

And he was so certain the Wolves were right....

Chapter Text

Hal'lasean finally returned Solas' orb to his care only when it was time to check their progress in the physical realm.

She lifted her Anchored hand and imagined the window in the Veil they needed to be sure of their location. It was as simple as her thought, as willing the thing into being where before it hadn't existed.

It was an intoxicating power. It made Hal jealous of mages, who held such sway over the physical as well as the Fade. It reminded her of the Spirit of Command in Old Crestwood. But the spirit had been satisfied with Hal's obedience, and Hal had an entire continent over which she could affect change.

And once she had influenced only the sharpness of her blades and what the clan ate for dinner.

That naive Dalish girl seemed a lifetime ago. Another person, another world.

Quite literally another world.

"Amusing yourself, vhenan?" asked Fen'Harel when he looked away from the window and found her smirking at her own thoughts.

They smirked at each other then.

"I'm regretting that our Varric isn't with us," she said. "What would he make of two Dread Wolves, two Inquisitors, and a path to another world to save us all from the consequences of an impossible weapon of time?"

Fen'Harel laughed. "The thought had crossed my mind. But I believe we know what he would say."

Hal grinned as she twisted her left wrist and the window became a set of double doors that would let out a half mile from the desert cave with the Eluvian. "'More weird shit.'"

Fen'Harel did not notice the ribbon woven into Hal'lasean's braids until he had activated the Eluvian and reached for her hand so they could step through together. He paused before they crossed and gave her a crooked smile as he grazed the back of his index finger along the festive plait.

"This suits you," he said, and let his fingers move instead to her neck, trailing toward her collarbone in a sweet caress.

"You should have seen me on feast days with the clan, then," said Hal with a slow, suggestive smirk.

Fen'Harel's slate eyes flashed at the thought. His grin was positively wolfish. "And blue hair?" he asked leadingly. "Is that a Dalish feast day tradition as well?"

Hal laughed at the absurdity of the question. "Blue hair? Why would you--"

It was only then that Hal'lasean noticed the way her braid had shriveled up against her shoulder, the strange heat that radiated from her silver hair.

"What's--?" Hal squeaked.

She reached for her braid, scrambling to get a better look at it, to remove whatever it was that affected it, but Fen'Harel's fingers were already in her plait, undoing the weaving as deftly and quickly as he could. And laughing all the while.

It was only then that Hal registered that first question Fen'Harel had asked.

"What do you mean it's blue?" she demanded.

Fen'Harel finally untangled the mess of her shrunken braid and pulled away what remained of the ribbon. It was still iridescent purple and blue, but it was much smaller now. The weave of it had fused into a single delicate strand. As though this was how it was always meant to be. Her Wolf tucked the ribbon away in his breast pocket and pulled the loose lock of Hal's hair out where she could see it.

"It's blue!" she cried. Because it was. Each piece of her hair the ribbon touched had turned a bright metallic blue.

"Where did you get this ribbon, ma lath?" wondered Fen'Harel. His lips rolled in on themselves to keep from smiling. He failed miserably.

"It was a gift!" Hal'lasean shook her head in wide-eyed confusion. "It's a type of silk the Elvhen gave to pregnant--"

"Yes," and now Fen'Harel was grinning helplessly. "I know. But, Hal'lasean, it is not meant to be worn..." He laughed and she scowled. So he laughed harder. "It is not meant to be worn in your hair!"

"But Solas said--"

...Ah.

She glared past her Wolf to find Evin and Solas stopped a little ways behind them. Solas looked terribly, terribly pleased with himself.

"Did Solas tell you to put it in your hair?" Fen'Harel asked.

"Yes!" she said indignantly, but then immediately realized the truth. "No! I asked if I could and he said...well, he didn't say no!"

That's when she remembered what Solas had said as he'd given her the ribbon. He had been going through the potions in his pack. It was in thanks for that kindness. And at the bottom of his pack, she'd left him a friendly little present of her own.

For flavor.

And Hal'lasean laughed.

"Ass!" she called to Solas, and he laughed too.

Fen'Harel's grin softened with fondness. He ran fingers through her new blue streak and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. Only then did he fish the ribbon from his pocket. "It is a type of silk I have not seen in millennia. It was given to expectant mothers because when it touched the heat of their bodies, it would become imbued with their essence, with some hint of their power, and shrink into a gift for the baby. A bracelet in this case, I imagine. You see?" He placed the tiny ribbon in her palm and grinned again, this time full of blissful pleasure. "When our child wears this, they will be protected by your energy. They will be soothed by your presence, even when you are not with them. I had one when I was a child. You should wear it, ma halla. Strengthen the enchantment. Despite your...new hair, it is a very thoughtful gift."

"So I should thank him?" asked Hal with a mischievous lightness as she held her wrist out so that Fen'Harel could fasten the ribbon against her skin.

Her Wolf smiled slyly. "Perhaps you can come up with something to give him in return."

Hal'lasean stepped aside then to let the rest of their party through the Eluvian while she rebraided her hair, pulling the long silver-and-blue woven rope of it out before her so she could examine the damage.

Fen'Harel gave it a playful tug. "This suits you too," he said, and grinned.

Hal kissed him fiercely and pushed him backwards through the Eluvian.

Chapter Text

Hal'lasean and Fen'Harel walked with fingers and magic entwined, their shoulders bumping gently as they followed Solas and Evin through the strange paths of the Crossroads. And as they traveled, Hal slowly rotated her wrist before her, trusting her Wolf to guide her over stone walkways so that she could study the little ribbon bracelet Solas had given her. The one that turned her hair blue.

But she was not thinking now of pranks or the state of her braids. Hal'lasean had only one thing left on her mind: her future. Or, more specifically, the portal, the burning world, and Fen'Harel's imminent betrayal.

This was it; this was her chance to win his confession. She could feel it in the play of their shared energy. This was her last chance.

"Ma Fen?"

He gave her a dopey smile, pleased with the endearment and her enthusiastic invasion of his mouth moments before. For now, at least, he would do anything she asked.

Hal was overcome with love at the thought, and granted him a smile to express it. It could only help.

"What is the Wolf?" she asked softly, as charmingly as she had ever drawn out his stories of the Fade. "Is it separate from you, as an Elvhen? Or was it ever?"

He blinked his surprise but smiled and Hal was relieved and grateful to discover that she felt no ache in his bones like she had in poor, wretched Solas'.

"Such questions," he said. "The Wolf is...a spirit. An old and powerful one, who lived along the boundary of the Beyond and the Void. We were separate, the Wolf and I, until I Ascended to the Pantheon. And then we were bound and became one. But before my Ascension, it was only I. Though they already called me the Dread Wolf. Why do you ask?"

Hal leaned against her Fen'Harel and shook her head. "You never told me. There's..." She drew in a sharp breath and showed him the deep wound of her vulnerability. "There's so much you haven't told me. And I was thinking...Solas said there's no information without a price."

Fen'Harel gave a breath of a laugh. "Of course he did. Though he is not wrong."

"I only know Fen'Harel," continued Hal earnestly. "I want to know Fen'Hellan."

"You do," Fen'Harel murmured without hesitation. "You knew him even when he was Solas. I have had many names, ma lath, but you know me as no one else ever has."

Their magic throbbed pleasurably at the sentiment. Until Hal took in a bracing breath and Fen'Harel's aura went suddenly still with understanding.

"Will you tell me now?" he asked, his voice hushed as though he might frighten her away.

Hal smiled her melancholy agreement. "How can I ask for your honesty if I don't give you mine?"

And though Solas and Evin continued on ahead, Fen'Harel stopped and turned to face Hal'lasean, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone and offering her as sincere and open an expression as she had ever given him.

Her heart creaked in protest, in the agony of how very close she'd come to teaching the Dread Wolf to bare himself wholly before her. How close...and then this.

"You have always been honest with me, Hal'lasean Lavellan," Fen'Harel assured her with gentle fervor. He sought out her gaze with his so she had to face what he said. "How can I blame you for finally keeping something to yourself? I trust you, as I have never trusted anyone. Not Mythal. Not even my brother."

Then trust me to make my own decisions, Hal thought desperately. Trust me with your worries and trust me to choose!

But instead she kissed him, sweetly, lingeringly, grateful at least for his forgiveness for her discretions, even as he continued in his own.

Why must love be so complicated?

But then, it was her own fault for falling for the Dread Wolf.

"It's nothing," Hal said, and rested her forehead to his, leaned her weight against his chest to help her stay up on her toes. "It's foolish."

She hesitated then, collecting herself, bracing for the guilt that would surely come with the execution of her plan. Finally, Hal searched Fen'Harel's listening eyes to be certain she had him. And she did. Oh, she did.

"I spent those weeks in the Fade with Evin. And before we realized each tree had its own innate resonance, we had to search them all by hand, their memories, for similarities." This wasn't even what really bothered her and still Hal's cheeks and ears blazed with embarrassment at the sudden flare of remembered pain. She gave a tight, self-deprecating smile even as her throat tightened. "There are so many Solases," she whispered. "And so many of them fall in love with so many other Inquisitors."

Hal'lasean didn't want to cry. She had no intention of crying. She hadn't even cried about this in front of Evin. But now, with Fen'Harel, tears spilled hot down her cheeks.

"I watched them all, Fen'Harel. I watched you-- them--" She grimaced and shook her head. "Watched them say the same things you said to me. Watched the Inquisitors say the things I said to you. I watched...so many of them...make...make love..."

Suddenly there were strong arms around her, crushing her to Fen'Harel's chest despite their armor, and his chin hooking protectively over her head. He kissed her hair with compassion and didn't let her go for a long, long time.

"I'm so...mad at you!" Hal admitted, and didn't even truly mind when he laughed at her. "Don't laugh," she mumbled into his shoulder. "It isn't funny."

"Ir abelas, ma sa'lath," but Fen'Harel's voice was laced still with his amusement. "It is only that I am...so relieved. I thought it was something much worse."

"It's not only this." Hal couldn't keep the indignance from her voice. She pulled back from the embrace enough so that she was sure Fen'Harel saw her displeasure. "It's this and it's...you always underestimating me because I'm mortal, because I'm not a mage! When has that ever stopped me from doing what was necessary?"

"Never," he swore. His brow pulled low over his troubled gaze.

Now, Hal'lasean's instincts told her. Strike now.

"And you're hiding things from me again." There were more tears. She let the heartbreak and hurt be in her voice, let her disappointment drown out her anger. Because after so long soothing and lightening his burden of guilt, Hal knew exactly how to exacerbate it. She could ask his forgiveness later. "Something horrible. It weighs on you and I can feel it. And it's getting worse."

Fen'Harel's mouth fell open slightly, his shame mixed with anguish in his vulnerable visage. Her slow arrow had landed true, lodging deep in the Wolf's heart.

"Hal'lasean..."

But Hal shook her head, stubborn, tears in her eyes and her lips twisted down in pain. "You promised me, Fen'Harel. When you came back, you promised me two things: that you would never leave me again...and that there would be no more secrets. I told you mine, Fen'Harel. I paid the price. Now remember your promise."

Remember your promise to never leave me again.

The silence while he decided was relentless. Hal could hear her pulse pounding in her temples, the blood rushing by her ears. There was no hiding the desperation from her magic, no calming the roiling sea of the orb's energy. She felt as though she were in free fall, as though the Crossroads had turned suddenly upside down and she was plummeting endlessly into a sky she didn't know or understand.

Please, she willed him.

"Please, ma Fen, ma vhenan!"

His features, blank with shock and raw pain, twisted as she twisted the arrow in his heart. He struggled visibly, groping for emotional purchase, for some way around the trap she'd set for him, but there was no escape. This was the moment. Either Fen'Harel told her that he planned to leave her behind...or he broke his promise.

Broke his promise. And broke her heart.

His fingers found her braid as he agonized over his decision, tracing the Elvhen blue up to its berth just behind her ear...and then his touch was light as the dream of a breeze along the cartilage there, following the slanted line to its eventual end. Fen'Harel took the point of her ear between his fingers, dusted the sensitive tip with the pad of his thumb. And all the while Hal stood silent and still, afraid to so much as breathe lest she spook him in one direction or the other.

"If we were in Elvhenan," he began, and the weight of his sadness was crushing, "if you were my bonded wife, you would never wear your hair down once you conceived and carried my child. You would want all of The People to know our good fortune. And before you began to show, it would be the red tips of your ears that declared you the mother of my child."

He swallowed and blinked up at the Crossroads sky, but still when he finally met her gaze, his eyes were moist. Fen'Harel's expression was brutalized. Hal gasped in a pained breath.

"This morning when you spoke the binding vows to me..." He did not accuse, but the question was clear. His own heart was cracking and Hal'lasean could not bear it. She reached for him, took his face in both hands, showed him the desperate truth of their love in her eyes and expression.

"I meant every word," she swore, ferocious in her passion, her voice strained with her constricted throat. "I will speak the vow to you every day for the rest of my life and always mean every word, Fen'Harel. Fen'Hellan. My Noble Wolf."

He was drowning in his self-loathing, in his sorrow, but for once Hal'lasean couldn't pull his head above the waves. For once, Hal'lasean was the rising tide. Even if she hated herself for it.

Fen'Harel gave a smile like the blue-fractured heart of a glacier. The smile of a drowned man.

"Emma ir abelas, ma sa'lath," he whispered thickly. "Ask me again tomorrow."

And he walked away.

Hal'lasean couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't even walk. She stood shivering and nauseated, leaned against an Eluvian shattered like her heart, sucking in hard gasps of air that was full of Elvhen magic and that too was like suffocating.

She couldn't tell if she needed to sob or vomit. Maybe both.

The others continued on ahead, politely giving her space to fall apart. Her Wolf did not look back. Like Crestwood. Like--

"Hal'la," sighed Evin, who was suddenly standing before her with sympathy in her eyes. "He loves you. That’s why he can’t--because he loves you. Are you going to be all right?"

Hal let out a harsh, slightly hysterical laugh. "He loves me so much it'll kill us all. Not that he knows that. Not that I can tell him!" Rage burst forth, rage fueled by hurt and betrayal. "Because he won't bloody tell me!"

Evin's face was soft but calm, collected for Hal because Hal couldn't seem to manage it. "It’s not over. There’s something you told me about the Dalish when I was hurting and lost. Do you remember?"

Of course she knew the answer, but Hal'lasean didn't want to say it. She wasn't ready yet to move from pain to endurance. So instead she wiped at her cheeks and gave a wounded, crooked grin. "That we don't landscape?"

Evin smiled.

Hal sighed. "The Dalish never stop fighting."

"Not if it takes a thousand years. And are you Dalish or aren't you?" Evin wondered.

"Fenedhis, is it as annoying when I say things like this?" Hal replied, and though a tear or two still rolled fat down her face, the two Inquisitors shared a world-worn grin.

Evin squeezed Hal's shoulder and gave her a gentle push onward. Hal's feet wearily complied. The other woman fell in step beside her. They followed the Wolves in silence for a while, each brewing troubled thoughts they dared not share out loud.

"Hal'la," said Evin after some time, "I love what you've done with your hair."

Chapter Text

Fen'Harel was running out of time. He still had not decided what to do about Hal'lasean's necklace. They were nearly through the Crossroads—all too soon they would arrive at Tarasyl'an Te'las. Then they would open the portal between worlds and—what? What was the Inquisitors' plan?

He pondered it as he walked, studying Evin when she was not looking, torn with guilt over his hesitation and his honest apprehension of the danger. Evin had altered the necklace to respond to the Mark. As long as it remained on Evin's person, Hal'lasean could find her in any realm the Anchor touched. A simpler concept than the bridge—more like an unerring arrow or a beacon.

He should not allow it. He should have restored the original spell the instant he'd seen the change. He could do it in such a way Evin would never notice. Why did he delay? His fingers clenched in an involuntary fist.

Fen'Harel recalled the haunted expression on Hellan's face when they'd spoken in the Fade. In her wisdom Mythal had spared the little halla. The Wolves should return her to her world. Hal'lasean would be safe there. His brother believed it. So did he.

Evin must be furious.

It was a dilemma he would have admired as an onlooker or instigator. Did he betray his vhenan's plan? Or did he forsake his brother? He could not; he and Hellan were sworn to an alliance. Looked at in a certain light it might not be betrayal. It might be necessity—from a man who demonstrated fallibility in every thought and action.

He never would have hesitated before. Hellan should decide, not Fen'Harel. Except all of a sudden he had too many thoughts. Cole and the blind chance of choice. Evin and her possibilities. The new approach Hal'lasean had found, the growing tension he sensed between the other pair—because of course Hal'lasean knew, that was obvious—and how Evin had studied him since his return.

The wariness. The gloves.

He had failed her test.

The idea left him cold. But he could not make such a decision for the approval of a woman. Too much was at stake!

What if you trusted her, a voice whispered. Is that so terrible?

He shook his head and cursed himself and examined the problem in as stark a light as he'd ever examined anything.

There were certain facts.

Evin had not told him of her plan. Therefore she'd found no way to persuade him. She held to silence, certain tests, waiting for him to see it on his own. If he did. Even for her foresight the outcome might be in doubt.

Another fact—Evin had taken the necklace before they departed the Oasis. She could have left it with Hal'lasean a longer time. Therefore his seer was confident he would not notice, or would not interfere if he did. Or... he thwarted her in secret. His original impulse.

Evin had given him a choice.

He did not know what to do.

Long ago Fen'Harel had faced a decision of similar weight. He found himself recalling it now; both the situation and the conversation of recent days brought it eerily to mind. Over the course of many battles the sons of an enemy had fallen into his hands. He'd weighed their fate for days, uncertain whether he could spare them. Finally he'd given in to conscience. He'd released them.

At breathtaking cost. He had done it thinking he could abide the price. He had overridden his better judgment because he wanted to believe himself a good man. Wrong, oh so wrong, on both counts.

Since that day—one he could scarcely bear to remember—he had promised himself never to make the same mistake. The most important thing was duty—to one's people, one's family, oneself, in that order. To act otherwise, possessing a god's power, was the path of venality and tyranny. It led to disaster. His mistake had been to shrink from necessity. The Wolf would take all steps to protect what must be kept. Let the Man in him regret.

It was why he'd left Evin. He'd taken her in a moment of weakness—torn by fear and desperate longing and desire—and as much as he loved he still walked away. Because duty was more important.

Evin and Hal'lasean had reached a similar conclusion. They were willing to risk their lives to save the worlds that burned.

How could he overrule them? How could he steal their choice as he'd stolen Cole's?

It was fear of loss that made him extend his hand to Hellan. That and his low opinion of Hal'lasean. He had wanted to spare his brother and he'd seen no possible means by which she might contribute. Inquisitor or no, she had so many strikes against her. Mortal, Dalish, soporati, pregnant, irritating....

He had misjudged her. Hal'lasean was as real a person as Evin. She had skill and courage. She had as much right to endanger herself as Hellan did.

Though if it had been Evin in question... he bared his teeth. Unimaginable. No. The bond made it harder to see things clearly; it had blinded him to Evin's secret. He knew better now.

It made him a little sad, it slowed his steps to consider that Evin had found no future in which he told her no to her face. If he acted against her it would be with a lie. Was there truly no future in which he told her what he knew? Anger from her he could bear, but not secrets, wretch that he was. Not where his heart was concerned. He knew too well where that led.

Evin, who had walked wordlessly beside him, turned to regard him with a question. "What is it?" she asked.

He shook his head in apology and reclaimed his place at her side. Without thinking about it too much he pulled her close and kissed the crown of her head, the ashen curls scented with magnolia and amber, primitive flowers and petrified life.

At her silence an ache filled him.

The distance between them was his fault. But he had decided.

It was nearly time for the gloves to come off. One way or another.

When they reached the final eluvian Evin insisted on going through first.

"This is my Skyhold. I have everything planned. If you react incorrectly it will take forever to fix," she said, regarding the rest of them with preemptive irritation.

Hal'lasean agreed with everything. "Do you want us to wait before we follow?" the other Inquisitor asked.

"Give me one hundred heartbeats. Then it should be safe. And you..." Evin stepped closer to Fen'Harel. She tugged his hood up over his head. He gazed down at her, careful to hold still, though a smirk pulled at his lips. "Keep your head down. I don't want anyone to see two Solases."

"Why should I hide?" he demanded. "This is my Skyhold too. Let Hellan disguise himself."

"When Hellan was here a lot of people saw and spoke to him. He knows what was said. You don't," Evin said. Her tone warned him not to argue. "There were stories."

"Stories—" he began. And stopped himself.

He'd heard this voice from her before. It was fascinating to consider—as they counted to one hundred—that the convincing certitude that came over Evin at times was founded in her foresight. She, who had sometimes to him seemed abnormally assured, had more right to it than he'd dared imagine. Odd he had not put it together before. He had attributed it to unusual wisdom or luck or a leader's need to evince command.

No, for Evin the test was to pretend not to know. He shook his head in amusement. How like Mythal she was at times. Though Elgar'nan had never—

"It's time," Hal'lasean said tensely.

They filed through the eluvian. And the moment his foot hit the floor of Tarasyl'an Te'las his senses rebelled. He stepped the rest of the way through, holding his breath to prevent a gasp. Blood boiled in his fingers as though he'd been suddenly plunged to a great depth of pressure then released. Like a high current his hands and temples throbbed, water surging through a channel too narrow to contain. He fumbled in his pocket for the Fen'edal, the leather cord that bound the bit of bone. He pulled it over his head and waited for the suffocating confusion of the Veil to subside.

When he felt more like himself he rested his attention on the orb to confirm its health. A satisfying murmur greeted him. For such a working as the portal he must be in full control. His vigil in the Fade would end for now.

"Ready?" Hellan asked from the door.

They emerged into the garden. There was no moon and little starlight. Evin met them—her eyes glowed faintly in the dark. They cut through the center, ignoring the path, and when they reached the door to the keep proper Evin lifted a silent hand.

They waited long moments. Then she opened the door.

The silence of Skyhold at night was that of any bustling, populated castle. Creaking floorboards, distant sounds of footsteps or coughing, the vibration of the wind on the roof and walls. He had been absent so little time. He had never intended to return within her lifetime, much less at her side.

He somehow missed it when she called them to a stop.

He was already through the door when he heard the heavy clunking sound of footsteps.

It was Iron Bull.

They stared at each other for what felt like half a year. Or half a second. Fenedhis!

"Solas?" the Qunari asked. His eyes flicked past Fen'Harel's shoulder. To Hellan. "And... Solas? What the—"

Chapter Text

"Solas?" Iron Bull asked. The Qunari's eyes flicked past Fen'Harel's shoulder. "And... Solas? What the—"

Fen'Harel stared at the taller man in shock. Bull had seen Hellan. He'd been seen. This wasn't supposed to—

Bull's eyes narrowed... in appreciation. "Kinky."

"What? No! Forget," he said sharply. And at the same instant a voice identical to his also cried out, "Forget!"

The massive Qunari toppled under the combined force of both compulsions.

For a moment Fen'Harel felt stunned himself. Then he gazed past Bull into the main hall. There was no one there—for now. A rare moment when the Inquisition guards and night personnel who patrolled Tarasyl'an Te'las were elsewhere. They must act quickly to avoid anyone else seeing them. He took hold of Bull's booted feet and dragged him back into the hallway—using magic to assist.

The door to the main hall closed.

There was not much space with the four of them gathered around the fallen Qunari. Fen'Harel regarded Bull with perplexity.

His vhenan was not happy. "You were supposed to wait!" Evin hissed at him.

"Ir abelas, vhenan."

"What should we do?" Hellan asked. "He saw us both."

Hal'lasean made a fist with one hand. Determined and intense. "Varric keeps a barrel of dwarven mead next to the fireplace. Solas, move Bull to the—"

"Get behind the door," Evin interrupted. "All of you, out. Solas, stand him up and wake him. Do it gently but do it now."

The urgency in her hushed voice broke through their confusion like a spell. It left no room for debate. Fen'Harel followed the others into the main hall. Evin remained behind. She shut the door partway, leaving a narrow strip through which Fen'Harel might activate his magic.

He lifted the Qunari to his feet as though picking him up with a massive, invisible hand. "Wake," he said softly.

Bull winced when he came to his senses, completely disoriented. "What was I—"

Evin stood before him, blocking the way to the main hall. "You were just going back to bed," she said in a voice as certain as the Qun.

"Oh. Right." Iron Bull blinked in bewilderment. Then his confused mind accepted the suggestion and he yawned. "Good night, boss."

Iron Bull turned around and toddled out to the garden, if a man who needed to duck under the door frame could be said to toddle. The long way around, perhaps, but he could find his way to his bedchamber from there.

Evin shoved the door open. She poked Hal'lasean with her elbow as she joined them in the main hall. "You wanted to douse him with alcohol and scatter liquor bottles on the floor? Seriously?"

Hal'lasean made a face. "It would have worked! Not all of us have perfect foresight."

"Another patented Hal'lasean idea," Evin said with a smile.

"It was a great idea." Hal'lasean sniffed.

Both Inquisitors snickered. The Dread Wolves exchanged mystified glances.

All too soon, they reached the rotunda.

If Iron Bull gravitated to the Herald's Rest, Cassandra to the practice yard, Cullen to the guard captain's office, the lowest level of the round tower belonged to Fen'Harel. He had spent long hours there. As he returned to it now he found the place heavy with memory. Countless days and evenings spent in conversation with Evin, wrestling with his feelings for her, expiating them in his art, in study, in research.

It was not how he had left it. He had expected that—no reason the Inquisition should regard the space as untouchable or holy—but it still came as a jarring reminder. The quick children had already begun to push him from their minds. Someone had shoved his work desk to one side. His scaffold was no longer positioned at the last unfinished panel of the mural. His daisies were still alive. He was glad someone had been watering them.

Someone else had stacked pieces of broken furniture near one wall. Sacks of meal were piled beside the door to the outside walkway. He'd been gone a month and they'd turned the place into a storage closet.

He lifted his eyebrows at Evin. "Really?"

"You were gone," she said, not quite apologizing.

"When we return I am going to finish that last panel," he said. And then he realized he should not have said it with such conviction. It sounded like a promise. For all he knew she wanted to store grain here. He might not have time to spare. She might not want his presence.

Evin gave him an uncertain smile. "I would like that," she said softly.

Good, he thought, smiling back.

Fen'Harel thought of his decision in the Crossroads. If he intended to go through with it... this was his last chance to change his mind. Hal'lasean's necklace would be the work of a moment.

But the necklace would not be enough.

"There are people in the rookery," Hellan said. The other Wolf sounded tense.

"That's the night watch," Evin said. "It's better if we're not interrupted."

Fen'Harel forced his mind to the task at hand. He gazed at the blackness above them, the empty air that extended two storeys up, studded by hanging lamps. He blanketed the rookery with a spell.

The Wolves spoke at once:

"They're asleep now—"

"—anyone who enters will fall asleep."

"That will do," Evin said.

Hal'lasean stood beside her counterpart, watchful, her arms folded. The other Inquisitor's mouth was tight—an expression of unhappiness Fen'Harel now realized had come upon her more and more since the Wolves returned from the Fade. He extended his senses toward her, gauging the response of Hellan's magic.

Prickly as a redfruit tree. Unstable. This would not work.

Fen'Harel nodded at Hellan—who began his own preparations—and coaxed Hal'lasean out from Evin's wing.

"I will perform the enchantment," he told her, "though it will take our combined magic to avoid exhausting either of us. Do you see how Hellan stretches the line of runes into an arbor? That will form the door."

"I see," Hal'lasean said, her voice neutral.

Sudden nervousness made his voice tighten. He cleared his throat and nodded at a new construct, a circle of balanced opposites. What would it look like to her eyes? "If this is a door we are opening, you might call that section the hinge." Was he really going to do this? Fenedhis, he was. Damn it—"That portion of the enchantment is what will close the portal after us. Hellan will not empower it himself. He will use the orb's magic to infuse it."

Did she understand what he was saying? No. Her face was sullen. She was not a mage. Fenedhis. How explicit could he be? He should not interfere!

He was sweating a little, walking a very narrow line, and worried Hellan would overhear. "If those runes are not empowered, the door will not fully close after us."

Hal'lasean's eyes locked on his.

She must do the rest herself. He reached out to tweak the silvery blue braid in her hair. "Da'halla," he said. "It is time to begin."

When he offered his hand, she accepted.

Her power was an echo of the orb he'd lost, his precious Focus, dearer to him than any artifact he'd created or encountered since. Waking without it had been like walking the world without his right arm. Losing it had been like losing a limb. He still felt the pain of its absence.

He drew forth its replacement, a yellow heart captured in a shell of jagged lines, a cherished though mediocre substitute. He set it above them where he could monitor it at a glance. And he began to pour power into it, both his and Hellan's, distilling it into a single burning point that blazed like sunlight bent by a prism.

A chorus of voices grew around them as each construct of runes came alive, as Hellan wrought them from the Veil, as the components of the puzzle fell into place a section at a time. It grew by stages. One chord lead to another in a dizzying, deafening crescendo.

The Veil began to part. And beyond the Veil, beyond the Beyond, a blackness darker than the eye could accept. A whispering wind swept across his skin like a thousand voices. Echoes of himself and everyone he knew, altered versions as unfamiliar as visions in a grove, the branching spider lines of what Evin envisaged as trees.

More—they needed more power. Hellan had done this with just himself? Fenedhis. Fen'Harel drew deep within for more. The orb began to scream.

His hand in Hal'lasean's grew slippery with sweat. He was shaking with the strain. But he had to spare part of his attention for the tricky next section.

Evin stepped forward to confront the blackness. Fearless, resolute. His heart ached as she sketched the runes to guide the bridge. It was magic no elvhen had dared attempt, not in millennia of arcane experimentation. And though no mage had ever cast the spell before, though he examined it closely in case he had to intercede, he saw no errors. A flawless bridge.

The archway Hellan had crafted was now a solid mass of shadow strewn with sigils burning blue. Where it led—they must trust Evin.

Now to disengage.

He left Hal'lasean to retrieve his orb. And he met Evin at the brink.

Her eyes were bloodshot but determined. "It's ready."

He could hear the balanced harmony in her working. A hint of a minor key—what she thought was Dalish but hailed from a tradition far older. He felt exhausted but there was one thing left. The most important part, for him.

"There is something I must tell you," he said.

Evin's expression blanked for a second—he almost smiled. Then she focused. "What do you want to say?"

"Before we step through the portal, there is a magic I crafted to protect you. If you will allow it."

"What will it protect me from?"

"Hellan and I worry the Arche will claim any Inquisitor who arrives on a world under its control." He nodded grimly at her sudden doubt. "There are risks."

Evin caught her breath. Then she shook her head—this was something she already knew. "There is always risk, Dread Wolf. Hal'la knows it too. Why are you telling me this? There's something I—"

"I need to touch you," he said. "There is no time left, vhenan. I would not ask it otherwise."

She lowered her eyes. "Then do it."

Relief flooded over him, soothing and cool compared to the controlled blaze of magic around them. He peeled the glove from his left hand. And when she caught his fingers he swept her into his arms. The bond surged, a hot scream in his ears. Fire danced over his skin. She belonged here, she belonged with him, why had he ever let go? Never—it would never happen again.

It was time to leave his world.

And as he claimed her lips and walked them backward through the portal he stole a piece to hide away.

Chapter Text

Solas kissed Evin and stepped with her through the portal. The portal from one world -- this world -- through so many others, to the one that would destroy them all.

Hal'lasean was left alone with Fen'Harel in a rotunda that was not their own, feet away but worlds apart. They faced the archway that would decide their fates.

But no, Hal realized grimly, that wasn't entirely true. It was Fen'Harel who would decide their fates. Fen'Harel who would make their choices without consulting her.

He had yet to make his move, had yet to lock her out or trap her here in this other Inquisitor's world. The plan must have changed. They had seen branches where he froze her in place while she shouted for him to release her. There were branches in which he told her the truth just before he warded her from the door they'd made, in which she had moments to furiously and passionately make her arguments. Arguments that wouldn't change his mind.

Branches where he abandoned her as a stranger in someone else's world.

Hal'lasean and Evin had memorized these branches together, had looked for heralds of those choices, of those plans, so that they could identify them when they happened. But they were so close to leaving this world and Hal'lasean had not seen a single one of the signs they'd identified to help her know which branch they were on. The branches for which they'd prepared.

Had he decided to let her come? Had she won him over in the Crossroads?

Or was the necklace in Evin's care her last hope?

And then there was Solas. Strange, half-feral Wolf with his tricks and his bleeding soul. The way he'd looked at her when she'd realized just what he was suggesting. The fond little tug he'd given her braid.

Was he really helping her? But why? They hadn't seen a branch in which Solas changed his mind! But he could not have been more clear without giving himself away.

And still so much remained so blighted uncertain!

If he knew she knew, did that mean Fen'Harel knew too? Had she tipped her hand too soon?

Hal'lasean studied Fen'Harel's profile while he made the final adjustments to the runes of the portal, the ones he could achieve without the orb's power. Without her power. There had been nothing but tension between them since the Crossroads. They had traveled in a crackling silence, watching each other with wounded wariness when they thought the other wasn't looking, both desperate to say what they shouldn't, couldn't, wouldn't.

Was it possible a branch existed now that they hadn't seen before? But wouldn't Evin have found a way to tell her? To show her?

Solas' cautious hint hadn't been in any of the branches she'd seen in the orchard with Evin. Didn't that mean any of it could change? It was the future -- probability, not fate!

Maybe here, now, alone together, they could be honest...

But if she told him, if she confessed that she knew, would he admit it? Would he apologize and tell her she could come with him? No, of course not. But would he hear her out? Or would he act with impulsive power to abandon her the moment he knew she was aware of his plans?

If only she could know Fen'Harel's thoughts, if only she could gauge his heart through his magic. But they were both guarded now, both armored against one another so that their energies sat together like a stagnant pool. No, they were the hard crust of winter's ice over a river, hiding the deadly currents beneath.

Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe if she told him--

Evin didn't know him like Hal did. Evin's Wolf was so different. Hal'd convinced Fen'Harel to let her come to this world. Surely she could convince him to let her make the choice herself. There was no way to ask Evin now; she'd gone, left with Solas, and taken her foresight with her.

It was just Hal'lasean and Fen'Harel now, as it had been before this world, when their magic was one and the same and not torn apart like the rifted Veil.

And Hal had never needed a seer's power to know her lover's heart.

So while her Wolf studied the last of the runes he drew in the archway of their path, Hal'lasean moved behind him, pressed her armored chest against his back just enough to let her slip her hands along his waist, to wrap her arms around his middle.

Fen'Harel breathed out in relief. Tension drained from his shoulders, and when his spellcraft was done, he shifted in her embrace, looping his arm around her shoulders and turning in her grasp so he could see her upturned face. His energy began to thaw, a slick spring's heat that turned his icy guard into clumsily bumping plates. She imagined herself a mirror, reflecting back only what he gave her.

He gave her sweetness and affection, so she returned it. He smiled hopefully, so she smiled too.

"I thought you were angry with me," Fen'Harel murmured, clearly pleased that he had misjudged.

Hal'lasean pushed up onto her toes and met his lips with hers, soft and yielding and parting for his tongue in such a familiar, satisfying way that it hurt. Because she knew, even if he did not, what would come next.

"I'm furious," she confessed, but her smile remained. "And hurt. But not more than I love you."

Never more than I love you.

"Ar lath ma," he sighed.

"I know." Before her smile could falter, she lifted her brows. "Are we all done here?"

A pained shadow passed across his features, a hint of an expression she had come to understand meant he would soon break her heart. "Yes, ma sa'lath."

Hal'lasean slipped her hand into Fen'Harel's and pulled him after her. "Come with me, vhenan," she said with a crooked grin, and stepped toward the portal.

She expected him to stop her. He didn't.

It was a bridge paved with shimmering runes, suspended above an unfathomable blackness with ropes that hummed a minor harmony. It stretched out before them until it was nothing more than a bright speck on a horizon that didn't exist, and along its length were dozens of ensorcelled arbors, each one marking a world, an Anchor, a waypoint.

Hal'lasean and Fen'Harel were alone on it.

"Solas must have taken Evin ahead," said Fen'Harel. He squeezed her hand in his and brushed the pad of his thumb across the inside of her wrist. The Dread Wolf smiled as though nothing at all were amiss. "I am going to direct some of your energy now to seal the door behind us."

Was this the moment Solas meant for her to disrupt? Surely not! She was already inside the portal; affecting the hinges from here wouldn't do anything to help her cause, would it? If only she were a mage, her Wolf would have taught her! She would understand!

Solas likely thought she would be trapped on Evin's world. That she would be locked out and need to reopen the portal when Fen'Harel had gone. So why hadn't that happened? He hadn't even hesitated when she stepped through the arch. He had simply followed.

"Hal'la?"

Hal looked up from her thoughts to find Fen'Harel studying her with concern. "Hm?"

"I would prefer your permission."

Only days before, she might have said he always had it. That she trusted him. This time she took a step away from the arbor, a step further down the woven bridge. A step away from her Wolf.

Even the sudden rush of numbness ached. This was going to hurt.

Hal'lasean took a breath and lifted her chin. She met her lover's gaze unflinchingly, but her voice was soft. Gentle. "When do you plan to leave me behind?"

The impact of the question burst across his magic like a flask of Antivan fire, blowing it backwards, stunning it into stillness. Fen'Harel's expression was no different; a moment's vulnerability -- shock and horror and guilt -- was frozen on his face.

So he hadn't guessed. How had Solas known?

For a few seconds his mouth worked like a fish, opening and shutting several times without managing to make a single sound. And then he found his voice. It teetered on the dagger's edge between terrified and irate. "Evin told you."

"Yes."

His brow trembled, then his lips. Fen'Harel grimaced like a man who had forgotten how to smile. "When?"

Hal's eyes flooded with tears, but they didn't fall yet. Not yet. The numbing effect of her sudden honesty was beginning to wear off and behind it was relief. Oh, such immense relief! Like coming up for air just on the brink of drowning. She hadn't realized how crushing this foul secret had been.

"Just before you went into the Fade with Solas," Hal'lasean replied, her throat tight around the admission.

Fen'Harel's eyes widened, his skin paled. At his sides his hands clenched uselessly. "You--" he croaked out, then shook his head in disbelief. "You made love to me! And all the time you knew!"

Hal couldn't have stopped her gravely wry smile even if she'd wanted to. "Hurts, doesn't it."

What little anger he found melted quickly into shame. His features were contorted with his agony and contrition. He stepped toward her, both hands out to grasp hers, to plead his case. And she let him. She never could pull away from him when she could see his pain.

"Emma ir abelas, my brave halla. It is too dangerous for you and for our child to venture into this new world. If someone could steal and use the Arche, there are forces at work more powerful than any you have yet faced. And with the orb's power within you, you are too tempting a prize for any ambitious or desperate mage. We will open a portal in our world. You will be safe there and with those who know and care for you."

He cupped her cheek and she closed her eyes, leaning into his touch, giving herself a moment to empathize with him, to understand his needs, to feel protected and loved. A moment to gather her strength.

"So you would take away my choice again?" she asked quietly. She opened her eyes to see his turmoil.

"And what of my choice?" Fen'Harel replied earnestly. "What of my choice to protect my family? What of the choice of our unborn child? Has it not already chosen to live? How can we endanger what fights so hard to exist? It has a spirit, Hal'lasean! I felt it just beyond the Veil. I saw our child, held it safe within my magic! You carry it, so you must stay away from the danger to protect it. I will fight this battle for us."

Hal's heart ached in her throat at the thought of the babe inside her, tiny little elfling with barely a shape that might one day be the baby girl she saw herself holding in her branches. If the child survived. If Hal survived. If the Arche was stopped in time.

When she spoke, it was almost too difficult to make sound. "Do you think I want to endanger our child? Do you think I take this lightly? Ask Evin how I struggled to choose. Ask Evin how I loathe myself for what I have to do. I--"

"Hal'lasean," he said, and winced his apology for interrupting. "I need you to understand that I have no intention of arguing with you. I know what you will say. I know your reasoning. You will neither sway...nor stop me."

His contrite certainty was like a gauntleted hand crushing her ribs, an armored boot pressing down on her sternum. Hal'lasean couldn't breath, could not even exhale. There was simply no more room left in her burning chest. She prepared for her bones to splinter, for the shards to puncture her lungs and the chambers of her heart, and just when she thought she could bear the pressure no longer--

The weight lifted. She breathed in. And when she let out the air she gathered, she found herself filled inside with a fury like whirling daggers.

"Don't you tell me what I will and won't do, He Who Hunts Alone," she warned, her voice dangerously calm.

He blinked his surprise and even took a minute step back before he managed to rally himself.

"Hal'lasean--"

"Evin saw what happens if I don't go with you, Fen'Harel!" Hal'lasean continued stubbornly. "The moment you decided this, the branches disappeared! You're killing possibilities! She said it's all four of us. We all four have to go!"

Fen'Harel went suddenly still, his grey-blue eyes regarding her and the portal behind them and bridge before them with a suffocatingly concentrated consideration. Hal watched him weigh his options, the consequences of each, what he was willing to sacrifice for his ends.

But when he finished, he did not hesitate. The Dread Wolf shook his head as if to clear it and deny her logic at the same time. "Evin cannot see beyond the world she inhabits," he said slowly, gaining confidence in his words as he spoke. "It is just as likely that the branches we removed are ones that needed pruning -- branches in which...something happened to you..."

He could not even manage to voice those grim outcomes. But he didn't have to. Hal'lasean knew them as well: they were all death.

Hal stared wide-eyed at Fen'Harel, a creeping cold in her veins even as her heart raced. Was it possible Evin was wrong? Wouldn't two Dread Wolves know better than one mortal seer?

Should Hal'lasean stay behind?

"Hal'la," Fen'Harel murmured, lifting his brows, "I must close the portal to Evin's world. May I take from your power?"

Hal'lasean nodded numbly and held out her hand. Her lover took it delicately in both of his, barely touching it with either, and lifted it to his lips. He kissed it, then turned it over and kissed the palm, and finally the soft white skin on the underside of her wrist. He drew her energy from there, full lips against her quickened pulse. He took only what he needed and turned his back to her so he could face the archway to Evin's world.

Fen'Harel painted the runes of the arch with practiced hands, imbuing with the orb's energy the section Solas had pointed out to her. With a graceful gesture, he sealed the door.

And when he turned around again, Fen'Harel swept a hand over his head, a broad, painter's stroke, and the bridge shone until the blackness around them fled. The bridge was not suspended in nothingness any longer, but hung from the world, from the spirit of Skyhold itself. The beating heart of the Inquisition.

Surrounding them now was a flickering image of Evin's rotunda, of its one unfinished fresco, of the desk off to one side and its boxes and bags. It began to shift and spin, lit up by a constellation of sparkling runes that separated their bridge from that world, whirling faster and faster until there was only the blur of red and black and beige...

And when it slowed down again, when they could once more make out the shapes that surrounded them, the frescos were completed, the desk centered as Fen'Harel liked it, fresh flowers set on tables about the round room.

Hal'lasean's Skyhold. Her world. Her people. Her home.

Panic set in.

"Don't do this, Fen'Harel," Hal begged, stepping toward him, taking his face in both her hands so she could make him see. "Don't do this to us."

But Fen'Harel looked down at Hal'lasean as he had with his shattered orb in hand. The memory wrung out her heart until it was a damp husk. This was the face he made each time he was determined to leave without her. The face he used to convey all his sorrow and regret.

Panic became wounded rage.

"You promised me, Fen'Harel!" Hal'lasean cried. She jabbed a finger into his chest. "You swore to me when you came back that you wouldn't leave me again! What good is your word if you do this!"

He grimaced his apology. "My word is forfeit. But I would be forsworn a thousand times if it meant I knew you and our child were safe."

"You would sacrifice our trust?" The words tore from Hal'lasean's throat like hidden blades.

"I would sacrifice anything for you and for our baby!" he snapped.

The words hit Hal'lasean like a slap. She took a step back, her mouth open and her head shaking denial. "You think I wouldn't?"

Fen'Harel took in a steadying breath. "I think," he said, gentling his voice, "that you would risk our child to save our world. And I am determined that you will never have to make that choice."

Underneath her boiling indignance there was a part of Hal that loved him more for that. For trying to protect her even from the kind of decision that would likely haunt her for the rest of her life, however short it may be. A part that was drowning in the magma of her ire. Eruption was imminent.

"So you admit you're taking my choices!" Her voice was pitched high with frustration. "And you won't even hear me out? At least listen to me! Or will you take my voice as well as my free will!"

"I am not--!" Fen'Harel snarled, but he took a step back and turned his face away, mustering up what little calm he had left within him. "Do not fight me on this, vhenan," he cautioned low in his throat, "you will not win and you will injure us both."

"And you're going to cost us everything!" Hal retorted viciously. "But I suppose it won't matter to you since you won't remember what you lost!"

Fen'Harel let out a hiss between his teeth and turned on her like a rabid wolf. "Enough! Enough, Hal'lasean. You will return to our world and I will seek you when the Arche is neutralized. I must take more of your power. Come, give me your hand."

Hal's spine straightened, her shoulders squared. She wore armor already but she built a hardened aura around herself with the orb's magic as Fen'Harel himself had taught her to do. And she leveled him with a look of imperious challenge.

"Make me."

"Hal'lasean."

Hal pivoted on her heel and began to walk swiftly along the bridge, her head held high.

"Hal'lasean!"

She would walk the entire length of the damned thing if she had to, across all those worlds they'd tied together, through hundreds of strange Skyholds, and punch a hole in the fucking Veil herself if he didn't come with her.

"Hal'lasean Lavellan! I will stop you by force!"

Hal whipped around to face Fen'Harel with her arms crossed under her chest and her features set with daring. "You'll have to."

There was agony in his face, in the tensing of his shoulders. And then, all at once, something shifted. Something hard and cold slid shut behind his pained slate eyes, and over his wounded spirit he donned a thing she had not seen since Corypheus' defeat.

His mask. Fen'Harel's perfect, unknowable mask.

His eyes flashed a strange silver-white. It was like watching sharp steel come down on the neck of her hope. In one sure stroke, he was lost to her.

He did not so much as gesture. It was no effort at all to him, to this Wolf-god. Only a crease between his brows...and suddenly the air crystallized with cold.

Hal could not move. Not her fingers or her toes. She could not reach out even with the orb's energy. Only her lips and tongue remained to her. Only the air that panted in and out of her lungs, the scared-rabbit racing of her heart.

There was no Fen'Hellan before her now, no man she loved as Solas. There was only the Dread Wolf, rebel god.

There was only the Wolf.

He had left her her speech, but she could not find her voice.

And inside, Hal'lasean's heart split open along the scar he'd given her at Crestwood. Because she knew he was resolved to leave her...but she never imagined he would really fight her.

Had never realized just how helpless she was in comparison.

But she knew now. They both knew. Just how unequal she truly was.

Hal'lasean started to sob.

"I did not want it to be this way," he told her, and though his mask was brutally serene, his words shook with barely-controlled feeling. "I meant it to be quick, to ease the pain. The fault is mine. It is always mine. I-- I must take some of your power. I must. Ir abelas, Hal'lasean. Fenedhis. There are no words for how-- Emma ir, ir abelas."

"How-- how could you-- Don't leave me behind to await my fate like I'm helpless, Fen'Harel!" she gasped, each word climbing higher in her desperate, cracking voice. "Ma vhenan!"

Fen'Harel grimaced again, his own eyes wet...and shook his head.

With a gesture, he brought her to him, paralyzed with magic. Unable even to struggle. She wanted to scream. She wanted to lash out with her energy, to shove him away and shake the bridge until he released her.

But she strained against it until her jaw cramped and sweat dripped down her forehead and still his binding spell would not yield. She let out a wail of frustration and hurt.

Fen'Harel could no longer look her in the eye. He could no longer maintain any semblance of calm, could not hide his self-loathing and his pain, did not hide his resolve. He took a shaking breath...and pulled from her power. And with trembling fingers, looped the orb's energy through the archway that would open on the Inquisition they had built together.

Desperate, malformed hope seized her chest.

They had built it, all of it, together. Side by side.

"Fen'Harel, please! At least listen to me!"

"Hal'la," he gasped, as though she'd driven the air from his lungs. Still he could not meet her eyes. "I know every argument you would make! I know what I do is unforgivable!"

"I forgive you!" Hal'lasean cried. "I forgive you, ma Fen, but you don't have to do this! How many times have we accomplished the impossible by each other's sides! How many times have we saved one another! This is my life, Fen'Harel!"

She'd said the wrong thing.

His anguish intensified, solidified, and all at once it was determination.

The portal opened.

"I know," he groaned. "And I cannot lose you. Not yet."

Another gesture, and Hal'lasean's frozen form was sent gently through the portal and set on the ground before it, so she could still see the exhausted, crushed expression on her Wolf's pale face.

He took another strong pull from her power. His cheeks were mapped with tears. And only then did he meet her gaze.

"Ar lath ma," he told her. "Ar lath ma. Forgive me."

The words tore open her chest like Pride's claws and the wound they left bled until it filled her up inside. Bled until it came out of her eyes as tears. Until it came out of her mouth as throat-ripping despair. "Fen'Harel! Ma Fen, please! Please! Ma Fen! Don't do this! Don't leave me again! Ma Fen!"

He painted the runes with Hal'lasean's own energy, but he did not seal the portal. Not yet.

"Forgive me, vhenan," he murmured miserably. "You cannot follow."

Another flash of his silvery-white eyes. A barrier, thick as the castle walls, bloomed orb-like around the illuminated runes of the arbor. Blocking her from the necklace's beacon. Blocking her from Solas' hinges.

"Ma Fen!" Hal screamed.

He sealed the door between them.

It was an act of sheer gritted teeth and tautly-wrought will that closed the door on Hal'lasean and spirited Fen'Harel along the bridge to the final archway. This one would lead to the burning world. This was where Evin and Solas would be waiting for him.

It was activated and open, but Fen'Harel could not bring himself to step through. Not because he thought to go back and retrieve his vhenan or even because he hesitated. He simply could not seem to take that final step. His fists clenched until his nails bit into the palms of his hands, his molars ground together in the back of his severely set mouth.

He would push this away. He would push all this pain away and ward it from his thoughts as he had warded Hal'lasean from the portal. He would not, could not cry like a child in front of Solas and Evin.