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Chapter Text

The Inquisitor blinks against the sting of sweat that drips into her eyes. She exhales loudly and tries to make sense of the silent battlefield that envelops her. Ropes of blood weave through etchings in the stone floor, drawn to other bodies like rivers to a confluence. Around her, there is only death. The vestibule reeks of it, of torn and taken lives draining into the rocks. But there is hope yet—a tiny spark that lingers in the fallen's shallow breaths, in the labored rise of their chests. She doesn't have much time to help, but Solas is—

Cold fingers caress her jaw. They search her skin with tentative touches, smearing dirt and grime across her chin. The elf studies the body strewn across her lap and bellies the stab of familiarity as she studies his bruised and broken features. As they regard one another, she wonders how she must look to him. Her face is a tapestry of slaughter, a patchwork of blood and grime and dust. With a frown, she thinks death and destruction has become her signature, a trademark as much as a Dwarven beard or an Orlesian mask. 

Rosa takes his hand in hers and draws it to her lips. They are stained, sticky, and broken. Fingers sure and proud and steadfast that created music, summoned magic, and painted masterpieces. Fingers that curled in her hair; flattened against the back of her neck; that danced along her flesh. A sob catches in her chest like an angry hiccup. 

The mage's head lolls. He smiles. "Shh, vhenan," Solas coos.

He is quiet—so quiet—but Rosa hears his pain, hears the liquid gurgling in the back of his throat. Solas' leather cuirass is brown and increasingly red. Blood ripples out from the wound in his stomach, crawling across the surface like an infection. The hilt of the dagger glints in the dark. "Why?" she wheezes. Anguish coils in her gut while hopelessness takes root in her heart. "Why didn't you stop me?"

"I could never kill you."

A cough spews from his lips. It's thick and troubled and reminds her of sick old men on cold winter nights. It’s more than she can bear. Tears fall quickly and splatter on his brow. "This will kill me”.

"Mala suledin nadas. You must, for us both." He tugs the wolf's mandible from his neck and forces it into her hand. 

"I can't—not without you." The weight and shape of the pendant feels awkward in her palm, heavier than she remembers. 

It takes him a moment to respond. Discomfort clouds his eyes and contorts his lips in a scowl. He forces a weak smile. "My rare and marvelous spirit, do you remember what I told you?" He beckons her closer with a gesture and captures her lips in a kiss. Their first in so many years—their last.

When she pulls away, his breath is warm against her mouth. 

"In another world..."

Rosa wakes in a bed both foreign and familiar. As the haze of sleep lifts, she recognizes her room and its hallmarks; the flaking, yellow wallpaper and uninspired portraits.The edge of the moon peaks out of the corner of the window frame. It makes her think of his smile, of his pale skin, of his silly bald head; of little square teeth beaded with blood—

She winces. Stops. Collects with a breath—just as Cassandra taught her—but it doesn't help. Tension knots in her throat, threatening to spill over in a cry, in a flood of angry tears. Rosa reaches under the pillow beside her. She finds the necklace and pulls. 

The wolf's mandible is broken. It is missing teeth and part of its jaw. Bone has splintered off the notch. In places, there are patches of dull, stained blood—his blood. She grips it firmly, feels molars, incisors, and canines dig into her palm. The ache is a strange comfort that breaks the tightness in her chest. 

It's been ten years since that day. Ten years since she saved the world. Ten years since she killed her heart.  

Chapter Text

The shawl around her neck itches but she pulls it close. The mountain winds are crisp, and Rosa is too old and weary to brave the Frostbacks without it. 

An innkeeper watches from behind the bar, a cleaning cloth draped over the mug in his hands. "G'mornin'," he says. Two bottom teeth are missing, making his grin look unnaturally wide. "Happy Pride's End."

Her walking stick thuds as she turns to face him. She returns the greeting with a smile. Rosa prefers their term—Solas Ha'lam tastes like ash on her tongue. 

Children scamper down the stairs. From the way the man scowls, she decides they must be his. As their peals of laughter rip through the tavern, his expression softens. In their hands are a pair of small straw effigies. Tonight they will burn, as has become custom. 

He tips his mug as they pass. "You celebratin' tonight?"

"In a manner of speaking. It's my birthday, too."

"Double celebration, eh? Well, if yer return tonight, you'll 'ave an ale waitin' for ya."

He had a kind face, she thinks—round, with thin, dark hair and wobbly jowls. "That's very sweet, but I won't be returning—not for a few days, at least."

"Shame. You heading to Jader?" he gestures with a nod towards the sea. "They' ave a hell off'a bonfire."

Her mood tries to sour. She doesn't let it, even as his earnest, ignorant grin sends shivers up her spine. As much as she resents him for it, she recognizes the futility of her ire. Pride's End is a public holiday—all Thedosians celebrate it. And why wouldn't they? Who wouldn't honor the demise of a would-be destroyer? Rosa offers him an airy laugh instead of malice, one reserved for empresses, arishoks, and kings; a laugh well honed from years of practice. "No, sadly. Too many crowds and the smoke burns my throat. I'm heading up the mountain pass."

The man's face darkens. "Up?" His eyebrows raise emphatically as if parroting the word. "Way's blocked. There's only that castle up there. Naught else." The innkeeper lowers his voice and looks around the empty tavern. "There was an incident years back. Folk says it's haunted." 

Rosa chuckles and remembers Donal's note. "It probably is, but I've got special dispensation to visit. And I won't be alone." Hopefully. 

He nods, clearly unconvinced. Narrowed eyes study Rosa with renewed interest. She recognizes his expression; she's seen it often enough. People forget things, but not as quickly as they think. A name, a face, a misplaced pouch of coins—he knows her but doesn't. Not as she is now. She braces for the question. 

"Did you werk for the ol' Inquisition then?" 

She lets out a sigh of relief. "Yes. In the infirmary."

"Noble. The world owes you a great deal, t'day especially." As she leaves, she catches the private words spoken into his chest. "I'll keep ye in my prayers, miss."

Rosa stops at midday to drink. The water-skin is cold. She laps at her refreshment with abandon, pausing only to pant between gulps. The elf is tired, more than she likes to admit. This was easier ten years ago, even with the injuries, the loss of Haven, the troop of displaced followers crooning at her back. There had been no path then—just snow and the pain of unseen stones underfoot. But they managed. 

In the distance, there is a pop. The wind carries the sound of far-flung hooting. Somewhere, in some little town, they are already celebrating. Soon, she will be too far to hear their cheering or taste the soot and smoke in the air. 

She shields her eyes and squints at the ascent. It's summer, but smatterings of loose snow hang on gnarled roots. Grooves in the road glisten with a thin coat of ice.  

Rosa collects her walking stick. The twisted wood shimmers into metal at her touch, revealing a silver staff embellished with teal runes. As she regards the Wrath of Lovias, the mage considers using a simple quickening spell to make the journey easier. The crown flares, as if registering her thoughts, but dims as quickly as it came.

"No," she says, and sets her sights on the valley. This is Skyhold—her home, a place that demands respect for all it stood for, for all it provided. This is her pilgrimage, she thinks with a weary grin, and perhaps the last time she will see the monolith loom out of the Frostbacks like a stone harbinger of hope. 

Chapter Text

The staff clangs against the wall of the barbican watchtower.

"Fuck the pilgrimage," she rasps. "I should have gotten a horse, who am I kidding?" 

Sweat drips down her forehead onto ground. She watches the dirt darken, deaf to all but the rush of blood in her ears, the thundering of her heart. Her dragon-slaying days seem like a distant memory—an impossible one. Peace makes for weak limbs and soft skin, and there had been peace for a long time; Rosa is not the woman she was when she first hiked here from Haven.

She regards what remains of her trek with contempt, studying the well-trodden path that leads towards a wooden drawbridge. A warm welcome and a cold bath are within her grasp if she can find the strength to take it. 

With a grunt, she reclaims her staff. 

The sight of the courtyard startles her.

Thousands of voices rang out here. Their dreams and fears bled into the walls and breathed life to silent stones. There was joy once, despite it all; joy and boundless hope. If she tries, she can picture their faces, the nameless mass of people weaving, pacing, living. The sick, the soldiers—she remembers them all. The fortress' emptiness unnerves her, and though Skyhold has been unused for over a decade, disappointment twists in her gut at what it has become, at the memory of what was. 

"She's here!" Cassandra erupts behind the doors of the main hall and strides to the landing of the ramp. Lace covers the rear. 

Rosa's melancholy ebbs. She hoists her staff in greeting. 

As she approaches, the Seeker leans forward, hands-on thighs to keep her from falling. "Sweet Maker, did you walk here?" 

Rosa gawps. "Didn't you?" 

"What?" She taps her ear. Deaf.  

Rosa repeats the question at the top of the ramp. 

Cassandra's chuckle is almost a purr, guttural and low. "I'm an old woman now—and if you hadn't noticed, so are you." She guides her inside with a hand on the small of her back. With a frown, Rosa acknowledges that the main doors are new—not the ones from when she was here. 

The Grand Hall is warm, well lit—and to her infinite surprise—clean. Bare, save for a circle of chairs, an old table, and a dusty carpet, the fortress endured few changes during its most recent repair. Towards the undercroft, an enchanted mop and bucket disappears into the hold. Dorian watches it go, twirling his mustache between his thumb and forefinger. Hearing footsteps, he turns. 

"The Herald of Andraste returns to her seat of power." The Magister clasps her by the shoulders and draws her in for a polite kiss. As he studies her, his nose wrinkles. "You look awful. Why do you look like you've just scaled a mountain?"

"Because she did scale a mountain, Dorian," Cassandra says, claiming one of the chairs with a groan of relief. She runs a hand through her cropped hair, exposing dark roots peppered with grey. 

“Fasta vass—are you mad?”

"I thought it would be a nice gesture," Rosa scowls and walks to the nearby weapons rack to deposit her staff. 

Dorian follows her, arranging his burgundy cloak with heavily ringed fingers that gleam in the low light. "For whom? Skyhold? If this place had a voice, it would be laughing, too. Honestly, what's the point of having any magical aptitude if you can't abuse it every once in a while." He stops and looks towards the entrance, brow knitting with concentration. "Do you hear that?"

"I don't hear much of anything anymore," Cassandra says with a wry grin. 

Rosa nods and marches towards the door. "I do."

The sound is indistinct at first, muffled by snow, mountains, trees, and monolithic walls. The clop of horses' hooves becomes apparent as the visitors storm over the neck's cobblestones, and finally, the drawbridge. A large carriage bobbles into the courtyard, pulled by two ebony geldings glistening with sweat. 

"Who?" 

Cassandra shoulders past with a grunt. "Ack, isn't it obvious?"

The door jerks open. Varric stumbles out of the carriage, floundering uneasily on the rutted ground. "Andraste's tit, I can't feel my ass."

"Language." Bianca fixes him with a glare, one hand cradling the curve of her swollen belly. Their boy, a young lad with ginger hair and cautious eyes, hides behind his mother's skirt. 

When he spots them, Varric smiles. "Your Inquisitorial-ness. I'd bow, but my back might give out." 

Rosa descends to meet him. They embrace. 

"You remember my wife, of course. This little heathen is Bartrand." 

"And I see another one is on the way," Rosa adds.

Bianca scoffs, pushing back wisps of damp hair from her forehead. Her face is flushed, her bust straining against the bodice of her dress. "Not too soon, I hope. I already have my hands full with this one." 

The carriage shudders as two more figures stoop through the small door. Rosa recognizes Maryden Halewell by her lute; however, it is sight of the grown man behind that takes her breath away. "Cole?"

"Hello." Cole dips his head, a nervous smile tugging at his lips. His blue eyes are barely visible behind his mop of hair and wide-brimmed hat. 

"We picked them up in Jader," Varric says, dusting his hands on his trousers. "Lucky, too. Most of the stables had rented out all the horses for—" 

Bianca elbows his side. Varric swallows his words with an audible gulp. "For today... since it's busy and all."

"We were going to ride with Cullen and Lady Josephine, but Varric and Bianca were kind enough to invite us," Maryden adds. 

Rosa does not mask her surprise. "They're coming, too?"

"Yep, with a carriage full of booze. Little space for much else, let alone two extra people." He gives Rosa a once-over. "Speaking of which, how did you get here, Inquisitor? You look like shit."

Chapter Text

The tavern hums with laughter, song, and chatter. There is no awkwardness here, no nervous pauses or long silences punctuated by small talk. Despite the years and circumstances that divide them, it's like they never left. Perhaps, in their own way, they never did. 

If they feel the loss of the original Herald's Rest, they do not show it. The chairs are different, the walls are charred, and the old bar has been completely refurbished, but the feel of the place is the same. In that moment, Rosa decides it's the people, not the place, that carry on the legacy of what was. 

Josephine refills her glass and nestles beside her on the stairwell. "How are you enjoying your birthday so far?" 

"It's everything I could have hoped for." Rosa swirls her wine. "Honestly, I didn't think so many people would come." Their shoulders bump; body heat warms the air between them.

"It is very far," she agrees, "but it was a nice thought hosting it here. Skyhold was—is—important to us. It always will be." Josephine's mane bobs as she speaks. Time has done little to diminish the Antivan's beauty. From her thick hair down to her narrow waist, Josephine hardly looks her years. 

Cullen's chuckle cuts across the tavern. As he squeezes into a spare chair, ale spills over the sides of his mug, narrowly missing Bianca's head. The dwarf admonishes him with a glare before leaving to refill her water. Her grimace of pain does not go unnoticed.

"Is something the matter?" 

Bianca shrugs. "Varric's taking his sweet time putting Bartrand to bed." She winces and presses a hand to her stomach. "Baby is giving me some trouble. I have some herbs for that in my room, but I don't know if I can manage the walk right now."

"I can get Varric," Josephine offers.

"No, let me," says the Inquisitor with a meaningful nod. "I could use the walk."

"I wish we stayed for the fireworks," Bartrand whines.

Varric quiets him with an empathetic shush. Rosa stops, careful to avoid the light streaming from the thin crack in the door. 

"I thought you said she'd done it. Why aren't we celebrating then?"

"It's complicated," Varric replies.

There's a pause and the telltale shuffle of a restless boy. "Did she really do it?"

"She did."

"With just the one arm?"

"Bartrand."

"How?"

"I don't know, I wasn't there!"

"But you do know."

More shuffles, more huffs. Varric sinks his heavy boots into the floor. The bed creaks.

"I want to know."

"Andraste preserve me—if I tell you, will you sleep and let your old man play some cards?" His sigh tells her a bargain has been made.

"Fine. There was a fight in the Deep Roads. A lot of people… got hurt. She saved us, and stopped the sky falling on our asses."

"Did she kill him?"

"...Yes."

"How?"

"A dagger."

"But, she's a mage?"

"If you know the story so well, Bartrand, why don't you tell it?"

"Please."

"You are just like your mother—stop pawing, I'm thinking." Varric clears his voice. "It was a magic dagger…"

Rosa slumps against her staff. She struggles to stand. 

Charter's squeal echoes rips her from temporary lull. The elf's body hangs above a shaft of air and fire; Rosa watches as the scout's limbs contort and jerk, pulled by an imaginary force. Solas holds her there, hand poised as if to paint another line on his fresco. From his right, he deflects the blow of a berserker with a well-timed shield, gaze never shifting from the scout in his grasp. 

They are losing. All of them, these nameless warriors brave enough to fight an old god in a Maker-forsaken hole far from the surface. Rosa has cut down dozens of elves and demons just to get here, to stand broken and bleeding by their side as they fall. Seeing him now, she realizes how futile their years of planning and preparation have been. He is too strong. They never had a chance. 

 Charter is thrown across the terrain in a flurry of arms and legs and splintered armor. When she stops rolling, body crashing against a boulder, she does not get up. 

Rosa shifts her focus to Solas, the sight of his proud profile carving fresh wounds from old scars. His features are expressionless, his lips in a permanent frown as wave after wave break against his magic. He is singular in his actions, steadfast, but he takes no pride in his task. The notion is a small comfort, but it does little to lessen the weight of what she must do—what she knows must be done. 

I have to try, she thinks, as a tall Qunari arcs uselessly over his head. She lowers her staff to the ground. Even if I fail I—

Solas turns his back to her. The idol flares in his hand. 

Now. 

Rosa runs towards him, ignoring the sharp pain in her side, the blood that gushes from the wound beneath her cuirass. She pulls the dagger from its sheath. 

He hears it. Solas swivels to face her, eyes red, hand at the ready. She feels the magic, sees the particles around him shudder into sequence. The shield is impenetrable, but she jumps anyway, arms straight, weapon ready. A cry of fury rips from her throat. 

He sees her. Red eyes flicker into blue. His features soften. She is close now, close enough to see the curve of his nose; the faded scar on his brow; the pink lips that part in a forgiving smile.

The shield falls.

The dagger lands.

The idol rolls. 

Solas' arms are heavy around her waist. 

Floorboards groan underfoot. Varric opens the door.

"Rosa?" He raises the candle holder to her face to chase away the gloom. "What are you doing hiding in the dark?"

"Bianca wanted some medicine for her nausea. I got distracted by the story." She realizes she hadn't heard the end of it. "I'm sorry."

His gaze falters. "No, I'm sorry, the boy—"

"Please, it's only natural. I rather liked your rendition. The magic blade… it was a nice touch." 

His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I know it goes without saying, but if you need anything, I'm here. We all are. This is your birthday, sod all the rest of this Pride's End crap." Varric holds her arm and squeezes it comfortingly. As the moment ends, he clears his throat with a cough. "I better get that stuff for Bianca before she hurls all over the tavern and I get in shit for it." 

Chapter Text

"I thought I might find you here."

Dorian leans against the terrace door, arms folded over his chest.

His voice startles her. "I didn't mean to leave you all for so long. I hope no one's worried." 

"They were worried; now they are drunk and losing at cards." He sighs and combs his hair. 

"Don't you wish to join them?"

"And lose the rest of my fortune to the Montilyet estate? I think I'll pass. My only regret is that I'll miss Lady Josephine strip Cullen of his dignity... and underwear, too."

"He's married, Dorian!"   

"And sapphires are blue, my dear. What does that have to do with a little bit of eye candy?" 

He joins her. Together, they map the hazy outline of the Frostbacks against an inky sky, its sharp edges and towering peaks lost in the darkness. 

"I'm not going to bother asking if you're alright, because that's a pointless question. You're not. And I'm sure today of all days is a poignant reminder that perhaps you'll never be." 

"Dorian I—" 

He fixes her in a firm stare. For the first time, she sees how much he resembles his father. "Everyone in that room owes you a great debt. They have families, holds, and titles because of what you sacrificed. Unfortunately for you, that also means none of them will ever have the balls to talk to you about what happened." 

"I don't need to talk about it," she says quietly, glancing down at her hand, at the loose fabric of her jacket where her left arm should be. 

"Bollocks," he says. "Everyone needs to. Even Inquisitors. Even Magisters." 

Dorian reaches under his collar and fishes for the black string around his neck. Two sending stones appear over the hem of his tunic. When Dorian left for Tevinter, he bequeathed one to her. The other— 

He fondles one tentatively, tracing the lines of stone with practiced ease. It is chipped in one corner; its natural, iridescent light all but gone. "As it stands, I also lost someone that day. Unlike the rest of our companions, I feel I am better equipped than most to understand how you feel."

Rosa folds into her shoulders, head slumping between them. "You must hate him for what he took from you." 

"I did. I do, but I don't resent Solas for what he tried to accomplish. Or Iron Bull for sticking his nose in it all." 

Hearing his name sends shivers down her spine. It's exhilarating, like saying a naughty word out of earshot from strict parents. It has been a long time since Rosa has heard his name given freely, without malice, without reverence—given by someone who knew him as she knew him; before he became a legend, before children fed his likeness to a pyre. 

"For all it's worth, I've tried to remember who he was: an apostate with bad fashion sense, but a friend nonetheless." 

They share a giggle and watch the stars. As they settle into silence, Dorian starts to chuckle. 

"What?" 

"Do you remember the time Solas lit his coattails on fire?"

Morning breaks on the horizon, lancing through thick sheets of fog. Rosa watches the sunrise from the battlements, hand clasped tightly around a mug. She sips her drink and grimaces as the water hits her stomach. The memory of Dorian's smug grin flashes in her mind. 

"Just one more drink," she mimics in her best Tevine drawl. She braces against another wave of nausea. 

The door to the tavern's upper floor shudders open. Cole peers round the corner. When he spots her, he stammers in apology. "I didn't mean to interrupt." 

"Cole, don't be silly." She beckons him closer. "I could use the company. Maker knows after last night there won't be anyone around for hours." 

He hesitates but comes around, slinking to her side with silent steps that barely register on the ground. Rosa notices he isn't wearing any shoes. 

"How's Mary?" 

Cole frowns. "She sang until the vomit came out," he says. "I managed to save the lute, but not Cassandra's shoes."

His voice is low and reassuring, without the lyricism and lilt of his old, perplexing tones. He is normal, Rosa thinks—as normal as a spirit could be. In passing, she wonders how that has changed him, how living as a human has molded Compassion's purpose, if at all. Rosa holds his gaze and waits, but Cole says nothing. After years of hearing her most private thoughts parroted back at her, his silence is surprising. 

"Do you still help people, Cole?" she asks, focus shifting to her cup. "With Mary—do you try and heal their hurt?" 

He shrugs. "It's different now. 

"How so?"

He tugs his ear then touches the corner of his eye. "I don't hear as much. Sometimes, I look inside, to help, to heal. People build tall walls to keep out the pain, but it keeps it there, too. I can't find a way in. Not like before."

Rosa frowns and wrestles with the urge to hold him. "I'm sorry. I know how important that was for you."

A kestrel keens overhead and weaves through the steaming treetops. Cole watches it soar past with a smile that is young and hopeful, that brightens the color of his eyes. "It's okay. Mary has taught me that I don't have to know to help. She heals with songs and words. I've learned to hear and see in other ways, too." 

He watches her under his mop of hair and tenses. The air grows colder. "Something has happened," he says. His fingers pull and fiddle with the hem of his crumpled shirt. He reminds her of the boy she once knew; uncertain, cautious, and afraid. 

The mug trembles in her hand. "What is it?"

Cole shakes his head. "I don't know if I can say."

"Why?"

"Because I want to help. This could help, but couldn't. It could make it worse." In a quiet voice, he adds, "and Mary told me not to."

"Cole." Rosa places her cup on the wall. When Cole turns away, she stops him from leaving. "The worst has happened. Nothing can hurt me, not anymore."

"It can." He is shaking like a winter leaf caught on a branch. She can taste his dread, his anguish. 

"What can?"

"Hope."

Chapter Text

The carriage is unbearably hot. They sit shoulder to shoulder, knees pressed, arms folded, throats burning for fresh air. Varric's grip tightens around his son's waist. Bianca holds her belly and presses a damp forehead against her arm. Sweat pools in the hollow between her breasts; she doesn't seem to notice Cole staring.

"I should have walked." Rosa's voice is quiet. She inhales sharply as the coach lurches to one side. Mary clutches her lute and gives a wan smile.

"Enough of that," Varric grumbles. Bertrand kneads his father's belly with plump, small hands, seemingly oblivious to the danger. "We can't be far from the port now."

"We better not be, I don't know how much of this I can take," Bianca says, peeling back the window's drapes. Her features soften. "It's leveling out, thank the Stone."

"Found your religious bone on the road, wife?"

"I'll thank Andraste and all her disciples if it gets me off this sodding death trap."

"Language," Varric says with a smirk. Bertrand giggles at his father's tone and thumbs his teeth. "You heading back to Nevarra, Comtesse?"

"In a few days." Rosa hates boats. The idea of getting on one so soon after arriving fills her with dread. "I thought I might stay in Jader for a day or so."

Deep lines collect around Varric's down-turned lips. "You sure?"

She understands his concern. It's only been two days since Pride's End. No doubt the charred remnants of bonfires will remain; banners and signs of celebration still hung from high windows and tall balconies.

"I'll be fine," she says, a well-turned phrase Rosa finds herself using more the older she gets.

Varric doesn't press the issue.

It's another hour before the rumble of the dirt path morphs into the crunch of asphalt. Rosa looks behind the curtain, careful not to wake the bard snoring at her side.

The sun hangs low on the horizon, filtering through the gaps of tall apartments. Jader is gilded and golden, rosy-hued with fine filigree rooftops; its elegance matched only by the twisting spires of Val Royeaux. A few locals traipse down the thoroughfare, watching the carriage as it passes, eyes hidden behind white masks.

A gull croons overhead; the noise stirs Varric from his daydream. "Almost at the docks." Unspoken words sit on his tongue, gated behind clenched teeth. "We'll be getting on the next boat out of here," he says as the carriage slows. Bertrand wriggles but does not wake.

Rosa smiles. "Then have a safe journey back to Kirkwall, Varric. Give Hawke my best when you see him."

He nods and pushes the door open. Mary stretches awake and yawns into Cole's shoulder.

The clamor of the busy docks pierces the small carriage. Despite the noise, Rosa is thankful for the fresh air and fills her lungs with the sea breeze. 

It's a few minutes before they are unloaded and ready to say their goodbyes. The friends take turns whispering sweet things into each other's hair as they embrace.

Bianca plants a wet kiss on a cheek. "Don't be a stranger," the dwarf tells her. "When you go back to Nevarra, stop by Kirkwall for a few days, okay?"

Rosa promises to keep in touch and helps them with their luggage, and fills their remaining moments with small talk, well wishes, and encouragements for a swift reunion. After all these years, they've all grown accustomed to the routine, and disguise the fear that this might be the last time they meet behind gay smiles.

"She's hurting." Cole's voice is shrill, almost frantic. It carries over the din of the docks.

Rosa finds the couple under the sign of an old cobbler's workshop.

"Please, Cole. You can't."

They break apart as Rosa approaches, unwilling or unable to hide their concerned expressions. Mary cradles the neck of her lute to her chest and manages a tired smile. "I overheard you're staying in Jader for a few days," she says, voice quivering like a panicked lark in flight. "Whereabouts?"

"I haven't planned that far."

Cole's eyes flit from her face to the floor. He is pale, paler than usual. Mary has not let go of his arm.

"Why don't you stay with us? I'm performing in a tavern near central. It's not grand, but it's good boarding, and I know the owner. I'm sure he'll have a room spare if you're keen?"

The bard's tone makes her anxious. Rosa knows when she's unwelcome—what she can't understand is why.

Mary senses her unease and tries to console her. The bard flattens her hand along the elf's shoulder. "You'll be hard-pressed to find good lodging during Pride's End, Inquisitor. I insist. Come with us."

Chapter Text

The old elf drags the back of his hand over his lips. "What was I saying?"

"Alienages." Rosa's voice is hoarse from yelling. She takes a gulp of ale and waits for her companion to collect his thoughts.

"Ah, yes. Terrible things they were. Terrible. The one in Denerim was particularly bad. All sorts of trouble there."

A drunk chevalier with a black beard and bowed legs stumbles through the gap between them and splatters beer into the elf's grey hair. He doesn't seem to notice, even as it drips down the back of his linen shirt. "We have it good now. Compared to what was. Real good." He hiccups and sways on the high stool.

Mary strums the chords to another song—a vibrant Orlesian jive that sends red-faced men jumping to their feet. They are the only two to remain seated.

"What were they like where you're from?"

Rosa shrugs. "Kirkwall was pretty bad.

Lies come quickly to her now. It's simple enough when no one remembers your face. For each new town, there's a new identity, a new story. Rosa has passed a decade masquerading as other elves, weaving tales of troubles that are seldom her own. In a world of peace, there's little room for an old war hero with deep scars.

He nudges her shin with his boot and points at her left arm. "D'you lose that there?"

"Yes. Guard caught me stealing bread in Lowtown. Cost me dearly."

He nods solemnly as if he's heard this story before. "Fuckin' shems," he mutters. "At least none of our kind has to suffer like we've suffered, ay?"

Rosa nods and glances over her shoulder. Mary is still alone, she observes. The bard's gaze shifts from face to face in search of Cole. He hasn't come down yet. Judging by Mary's tight jaw and stiff performance, this is unlike him; she's worried, too.

The drunk beside her cackles to himself. "We have him to thank for that."

"Him?"

"You know." He tries to tap the side of his nose but misses. "The big bad wolf."

Rosa clears her throat and pretends not to hear.

The man isn't dissuaded from his monologue and rambles on. "Naught wrong with what he wanted. Creators know we have had the shit end of the stick for too long."

"A lot of people lost their lives because of this thinking. Decent people." She thinks of Iron Bull before she can help herself; of Dorian's sad smile.

"For the greater good, ‘n that." He tips the empty glass on its head and bemoans the lack of alcohol to an uninterested barkeep. "At least now theys treat us like peoples. They scared because of what could'a ‘appened—what may ‘appen again if we ain't given our dues."

Behind them, the tavern erupts in shouts for an encore. Rosa takes it as her cue to leave. As she drops from her stool, the man grasps her arm firmly.

He squints up at her, his beady eyes trying to find a marker on her face to focus on. "You look familiar, you know? It's been eating away at me all night. You sure you're from Kirkwall?"

"Born and raised," she says. When he doesn't release her, she scowls. "I hear I look like the Inquisitor. With my missing arm and all."

A throaty laugh rips from his throat. His hand falls to his side. "Naw, I've met the 'Quisitor. You're too short, but good try."

Rosa chuckles and shoulders her way through the thicket of bodies. As she climbs the rickety stairs to her quarters, the tavern bursts into a disjointed rendition of Empress of Fire.

Cole is waiting for her in the dark. Light from the street illuminates his profile. Rosa sparks the candle on her bedside table with a simple spell. He doesn't acknowledge her, even when she sits beside him.

"Cole?"

"Hmm?"

"You know this is my bedroom."

"I know."

His blue cotton pajamas are soft and one size too small. The leg of his trousers sits high on his ankles, exposing mismatched socks littered with holes. Rosa touches the cold hands folded on his lap.

"I thought, maybe, he would come. Like he used to. He liked your room—though, is it really your room if it was his first? I'm not sure."

Rosa smiles. "I know you get this a lot, but you're not making much sense, Cole."

His eyes widen in disbelief. "Can you not feel it?"

"Cole, I'm—"

"The world is different, but the same. I feel it clearly here. Skyhold has so many memories, so many songs, I couldn't sure, but here—"

"Stop, please." Rosa's voice is clipped. Harsher than intended.

Cole stops and stares sheepishly at the floor. 

"Mary should be done soon. Perhaps you should wait for her. She is worried about you."

Cole opens his mouth and closes it just as quickly, and substitutes words with a nod. The bed bobs as he gets up. "I'm sorry. I hoped…" He glances at the small window clouded with fog and shakes his head. "Sleep well, Inquisitor. Perhaps… maybe…"

Cole closes the door behind him, muttering to himself as he leaves. Rosa stares at his faded imprint on the covers and flicks her hand.

The light goes out.

Chapter Text

Rosa sleeps late and wakes early. She has convinced herself that she always slept poorly. The lie is sweeter and more manageable than admitting she dreams, and when she dreams, there are nightmares that leave her breathless and screaming, drenched in sweat.

Sometimes, she dreams of Corypheus, of his long gnarled fingers reaching through space and time to curl around her neck, squeezing, cutting, hurting. Every so often, it's her family—her clan. Her mother, burnt and sorrowful, asks why she left—why she abandoned her home. It is always the same question—the same memory. 

Last night, she dreamt of Charter, her crooked grin and wide eyes; her bruised and broken body twisted beneath shattered armor. There is so much blood—Charter's blood—in her eyes and hair, staining her hands. Rosa tells her that she's sorry that she took so long; that she wanted to save them—to save them all. Charter only smiles.

"Twelve coppers," the sandy-haired dwarf repeats. He flexes his flour-dusted fingers impatiently.

Rosa apologizes and fishes for the coins in her pocket. The baker hands over a box of cupcakes, making no effort to disguise his interest in her missing arm. She leaves before he can ask any questions. 

Jader is bright and brilliant and hopeful, a city in constant motion. Like Val Royeaux, the sea-side port has little time from rest and rumbles into action at dawn's first light.

Rosa slinks through the marketplace and holds her package against her, careful to avoid the steady stream of mules, carts, and people that walk by. Cooks barter with grocers, fingering produce with firm touches to ascertain their freshness. In the design district, mothers drag unruly children from shop to shop as they fish for new threads for their next dress. There are Dalish here too, a sight that would have been incomprehensible only ten years ago. As she passes, they stare, homing in on her unmarked face. To them, she is no more than a city elf, some creature with no clan or creed. She can sense their pity, their disdain. It quickens her steps. 

Rosa realizes she is being followed while inside an apothecary. The walls of the shop are lined with mirrors. In them, she sees a tall, hooded figure under a pink awning. Though she cannot see his face, she feels his eyes on her. When she leaves, he follows, stopping when she stops, browsing when she does. By the end of the thoroughfare, Rosa has ruled out the possibility of an assassin. He is not Carta or Ben-Hassrath, nor does he carry himself with the elegance and stealth of an Antivan Crow. In fact, it could be said he is hardly stealthy at all. Whoever this is, he is clearly new to the art of tailing. Still, Rosa decides to err on the side of caution. Without her staff, she is vulnerable, and neither Cole nor Mary knows her whereabouts.

She leads him to a quiet part of town, a section marked by tall, crooked apartments and thin alleyways. An old Alienage distinguished by an ancient Vhenadahl looms in the distance. Save for a few drunks, the area is desolate. When Rosa takes a sharp turn into a corridor, she loses him. Hiding behind a stack of empty fruit crates, he jogs past blindly. When his footsteps stop, she peers round the corner. 

His back is turned. Broad shoulders rise and fall as he catches his breath. Uttering a quiet curse, he flicks back the hood of his cloak in annoyance, exposing long braided hair and pointed ears. 

Static builds in the palm of her hand, crackling like bottled thunder. When he turns at the sound, she slinks out from behind her cover and tuts in a warning. 

"Tel' josh," she says. Lightning jumps from her fingers onto the path. "Why are you following me?"

Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his hands. Rosa hears him swallow.

"I—I don't know." His voice is low, melodic, and familiar.

Her heart stirs, thrumming in her chest with uncertainty. The magic sizzles, faltering into a dim glow. Rosa has to concentrate on maintaining it. "Are you Dalish?" 

He shakes his head. 

From the main road, the squeal of laughing children echoes down the corridor. Rosa loses focus for a second. It's enough; the spell fades with a pop. His ears twitch in recognition. He turns around. 

And right then, she felt the whole world change. 

Chapter Text

The box slips out from under her arm. Cupcakes roll across the floor, sending dust and dirt into the air. Rosa doesn't notice—doesn't care—and gapes with parted lips that tremble like pages in the wind. When her legs buckle, he jerks towards her.

Lightning surges in her hand, stopping him in his tracks. "Stay away," she whispers. "Don't come any closer."

His eyes pucker in pain and confusion. "I mean you no harm."

It's his voice, she thinks. It's his, it's his, it's his—but not. No. He is boyish, less confident, more afraid—with none of the grace and lyricism of his likeness.

"It's not possible," she tells him. And yet it is, her heart sings, beating hard with hope and longing, with an intensity that threatens to undo years of cold restraint.

"Please." The word snags on his tongue, straining past pursed lips. His hand extends in welcome. Fingers curl like wilted petals above an open palm, beseeching, pleading—imploring her to touch.

No. Rosa shakes her head and retreats, backing into a wall marred by tiny bumps that dig into her shoulders. "This is a trick, a ruse. You can't be him. You can't."

"I'm not," he concedes. "Not fully. Not yet." He takes a step towards her. Then another. Shadows snap across his face, snaking over the deep hollows of his cheeks.

Rosa realizes with increasing alarm that he is young—as young as she was then; unlined and unmarked and beautiful in a way she no longer can be.

"Rosa." He says her name, teasing each syllable. He repeats it again and again. It's a mantra that soothes them both, that keeps her rooted to the spot, even as he grasps her waist, drawing long fingers across the jut of her hip bones, the top of her trousers. He works his way to her face, mapping her lips, jaw, nose, eyes, with feather-light touches. "It's you."

She pushes against his chest and feels his heart. It flutters, soft, and quick, and fleeting, like a rabbit caught in a snare.

He smiles when she cries. "My rare and marvelous spirit. I've found you at last."

Chapter Text

Cole waits outside the tavern, shuffling nervously from foot to foot. When he spots her, he runs towards them, with a long, lanky gait that makes him look more Halla than human. His embrace knocks the air from her lungs. "I felt magic—your magic. And pain, so much pain." He pulls away and studies her, eyes enlivened with tears. "I'm sorry, so sorry."

Rosa hands him an empty box. "I bought you cupcakes, but—" She falters as Solas draws up beside her.

Cole isn't surprised. "Wisdom?"

"Compassion?" Solas returns. His tone is unsure.

"Yes, once. I'm more Cole than Compassion now." When Solas motions to draw back his hood, Cole shakes his head. "Inside," he suggests.

They come together in her room, all three of them. Rosa stands by the window and watches the street if only to give her something to do.

Cole makes an appreciative sound in his throat and tugs at Solas' hair. He finds the shaved sides of his head amusing. "You are not an egg anymore," he tells him with a chuckle. Solas says nothing.

"Cole… did you know about this?" Rosa glances over her shoulder long enough to see him nod. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I did," he protests, all wide-eyed and slack-jawed. "I left bread crumbs for you to follow, secrets hidden in words, but you didn't want to find them."

"I didn't need riddles, Cole." She sighs. There is no venom in her words, but Cole recoils anyway. "Is it him?"

"Yes… and no."

She laughs. "That's what he said, too."

Cole turns his attention back to Solas. "Do you remember me?" he asks.

Solas frowns and shrugs.

"It's okay to not remember. It might take time." He touches his shoulder and offers a comforting smile.

"How is this possible? I—" The words form knots in her throat. "I saw him die."

Outside, a gang of young boys tumbles across the street. A dark Mabari bounds after them, snapping at their heels.

Cole considers the question in silence. "We are not like you, not really. We are never really alive because being alive means you die, and we don't. Not like you, or Mary, or Varric. You go in the ground, back to the stone. We go home—our home. Sometimes, if we are remembered, we can reform. Not the same as before, but different."

"We?"

"Spirits." Cole answers. His head cocks as if surprised by the question.

Rosa faces them. "Solas was not a spirit," she says, pointing at the man on her bed. As she watches him, her disbelief wanes.

What is… was Solas? With a trembling heart, Rosa realizes she can't answer that. Not really. Not completely. What she knows is only hearsay, plucked from ancient murals and scripture. Fen'Harel revealed even less in life, their conversations a fickle back and forth of half-truths and polite deflections. 

Cole inhales through his nose, knuckles white around the covers in his hands. "It was so long ago. Before everything happened. Solas didn't want to leave the Fade, but she asked him. She needed wisdom, and he needed her. The spirit faded and became real. It became Pride."

Disappointment takes root in her gut. "So… he's not real?"

"No, he is him. Like I am me. He is real, Rosa. He won't fade away."

There's a knock at the door. "Rosa, is Cole with you?" It's Mary.

"I—I'm here," he stammers, jumping to his feet. He pushes Solas gently, urging him to get up. He points to a blind spot behind the door.

Cole slips out the room, stammering rum apologies as he goes. Mary's tone is sad and broken, but her relief is palpable. The floorboards creak as they head downstairs.

Rosa feels his absence strongly. The room is suddenly two sizes too small, warm, and constricting, a place with no exits and four walls.

Solas' touches her waist. He is so close, too close. Too—everything.

Rosa stumbles away. "Stop that. Please."

He grasps her arm. The left. The one he took. The one that glowed. The one that made her, her. The one that brought them together; that tore them apart.

"Why?" He asks. His innocence strikes her. He doesn't know—he doesn't know—and yet he longs for her touch, her heat, her approval. He reminds her of Cole, new and young, and incomplete. And yet his love is full, enduring—everything she wanted and could not have.

"It's not proper," she tells him, an empty statement that has little meaning between old lovers.

"Why?"

Rosa can't find the words to explain. Perhaps this is how he felt, she thinks. Back then, when she begged him to love her. Maybe this was what it is to love and not have; to want and not take.

"You're not you," she says.

"But you're you."

Rosa staggers to the bed and sits. Fortunately, he does not follow. She hides her face in her hand and tries a different tact.

"What do you remember, Solas?"

His features harden. The sight warms Rosa's heart—he is the same and different all at once; familiar and recognizable like an old shirt that no longer fits.

"It's hard to say. Some gaps span ages. And sleep—so much sleep and rest, and sudden disappointment." He bites his lip and glances at the door. Footsteps rumble up the stairwell. They hold their breath and wait.

Cole heaves open the door and shuts it quickly. He cradles a frilly cupcake in his hand."I have an idea," he says. The corner of his lips are caked with icing.

Chapter Text

The tavern shudders. A chorus of grunts and laughter pulses through the walls. Mary's song is light and airy and cuts through the discord of voices.

"Help him," Cole repeats, adjusting the wide-brimmed hat on his head. "You need to help him remember."

"How?" She points to the cupcake in Solas' hand. "With confectionery?"

Cole groans. "Solas has been apart from himself for too long. He has lost the bits of himself he liked and hated along the way, but it's not gone. It's just left behind. All we have to do is find the pieces and put them back together."

"And where do you imagine these pieces are?"

"In the old places—the ones that mattered. And the Fade, and the people that remember for him, like you or me."

Solas' chuckle interrupts their train of thoughts. "This is quite good," he declares. He swipes a finger across the baby-blue icing and licks it.

Rosa's cheeks flush at the sight.

"You used to like frilly cakes," Cole says as Solas takes another bite. "Do you remember that?"

Solas narrows his eyes. A thin line forms between his eyebrows. "I remember a man." He winces, as if in pain.

"Don't force it," Cole says and gestures for him to relax. "Memory doesn't like to be rushed."

"He has a black beard and a long face. And a secret." Solas opens his eyes and kneads the side of his head. "He wanted to know what I saw in the Fade."

Cole's bark of laughter is full of hope. "Blackwall!"

"Blackwall?" The word rumbles off the tip of his tongue. Solas considers it carefully.

"He was a friend. You had many before you left, before you—"

Solas winces again and squints. The remains of the cupcake fall to the floor.

Despite her reservations—the overwhelming sense of dread and disbelief—Rosa reaches out, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder.

Solas smiles. His eyes are warm, thankful. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "There is so much to remember, so many truths hidden behind locked doors."

"Don't worry, we'll help you."

"We?" Rosa straightens. "You can't, Cole."

Cole frowns. "Solas helped me," he says. "He was kind when others were not. I owe him my life."

"What about Mary?" The question stuns him for a moment.

"Mary and I came together because we both want to heal the hurt of those who need it. Solas needs me now. I will… talk to her about it."

"Thank you, Compassion," Solas murmurs, blinking with heavy-lidded eyes. A yawn escapes him.

His sudden fatigue reminds Rosa of a very pressing issue: the matter of sleeping arrangements. The bed is big enough for two—just about—but Rosa can't fathom sharing.

No, absolutely not.

Cole reads her like a map. "There's more than enough space for both of you."

"Cole, I don't think that's wise."

He cocks his head. "Why not? Perhaps you'll enjoy it as much as before."

A dry heat crawls up her skin, brightening her pale neck in red splotches. "Cole—"

"It might even help him remember. You used to be so enthusiastic at bedtime: Yes, yes, yes, Creators, yes—you always found so much to agree on. Why don't you—"

"Cole!" Rosa's voice breaks in a high falsetto.

Solas collects himself and begs for silence. Although his voice is calm and collected, he avoids her gaze and addresses his feet to hide the blush that blossoms across his neck. "I can sleep on the floor. I know enough to see that my presence distresses you, Lethallan. I would not wish to intrude further."

They agree.

By the time Cole and Rosa decide on a plan of action, Solas is snoring softly by her bedside table, head slumped against the wall.

Chapter Text

A door slams.

Rosa wakes with a start. Her neck is stiff, painfully so. It takes her a few moments to realize she is still in her traveling clothes.

She can hear Cole pleading, his tired voice slipping down the corridor in a low whine. Mary says something sharp and unintelligible. Her footsteps thunder down the stairs like hail on stone.

It must be late, so late it's early. Rosa strains her eyes to see in the dark. The floorboards beside her bed groan. She hears Solas clear his throat.

"Solas?" she says. He is where she left him, folded on the floor.

"Hmm?"

Rosa says nothing. It feels imprudent to ask questions.

"Interrogate away," he tells her, reading her thoughts. "I will answer whatever you ask of me."

"What do you hope to remember first?"

He is silent for a long time. "Everything."

"Huh, is that all?"

"I want to remember where I started. There are such old fragments of myself. I see war and strife. And feel pain—immeasurable pain. Then nothing. A millennium of dreamless nights." He clears his throat again and fidgets. From the sound, she assumes he is touching his hair. "But I want to remember us more," he tells her. His determination makes her heart flutter.

"You seem to already know me."

"Your name was one of the only things I had. Your name and one purpose."

"Purpose?"

"To find you. To be with you. My one singular goal."

"Is that why you reformed?" she asks. Her throat is dry and ashy. It hurts to speak.

"I think so. Even spirits cannot be certain of their purpose, no more than a baby is of its birth. It comes together as a sensation and offers itself up for interpretation. But I am reasonably confident in how I feel."

Solas struggles to his feet. Rosa turns around to watch him. He stands awkwardly and stretches. Bones and ligaments and muscles pull and soften, rolling into place. His dark face looms over hers without definition. She knows his eyes are on her, watching. Waiting.

"I have memories of the breach. Of the hole in the veil. Your hand, the one I took, pulses with power both old and familiar. I remember your lips in a dream. I remember how you begged me to stay." His footsteps rasp against the floorboard. He is moving away from her—to the door—the handle creaks in his palm. "I remember your smile in the moonlight. Your skin in the dark. I remember…" He falters and wobbles.

"Don't—Solas. Don't force it."

"I remember you giving yourself to me—freely. So willingly. And yet, I cannot remember why you began to hate me." His voice is small and angry in parts.

"I don't hate you, Solas."

"But you do," he challenges.

Rosa can't find the right words to console him. "It is not hate."

"Fear?"

"Yes. In part."

The corridor shakes. Mary stops outside their door. Rosa can feel her presence on the other side of the wood, throbbing with the need to look inside. But it's dark and late, and she's tired. The bard keeps walking. The door to her room clicks as it's closed.

Solas motions to leave.

"Don't go."

"I think you would be more comfortable. I would be more comfortable."

"Stay, please." She taps the side of the bed. "Please."

He hesitates but joins her. They sit on opposite sides, staring into the gloom, hunched over their stiff bodies.

Rosa wants to tell him everything. It would be so easy to tell their story, to bend words to suit her narrative. She would tell him of her indomitable focus, of his exploration of the Fade. They would talk about Rebel Mages, of Templars, and Haven. Of Skyhold. The Veil. But Cole told her it's not memory if he doesn't remember; they are just words she knows that he doesn't.

His fingers paw her shoulder. "Rosa?"

"I'm sorry, I was thinking."

His hand falls away. Rosa hears Solas stifle a yawn.

"We should try and get some rest."

The bed is a double—just barely. Rosa slinks back under the covers and nestles as close to the edge as she dares. Solas eases into the space beside her. His shoulder is warm and firm and comforting; she thinks he smells the same.

It doesn't take long for her to sleep.

Chapter Text

Solas is not there when she wakes. He is not in the bathroom or in Cole's room. He is not behind the bar or hidden behind the hulking taxidermy of a great bear. He is not inside the tavern but outside it.

Solas and Cole stand next to the road, tending to two geldings. Mary hovers under the awning of a nearby shop, watching them with palpable worry. She rolls an icon of Andraste in her hand. "Rest well?" she asks as Rosa approaches. Her eyes never leave Solas' face, watching with red eyes sore from poor sleep and heavy tears.

"I guess Cole has briefed you on the situation."

Mary tuts. The idol flashes in her hand. "By the Maker, how is this possible?" There is something in her tone that's accusational—thirsting for confirmation that this is all part of some elaborate scheme.

"We don't know. It's what we have to find out."

"When Cole told me he thought he 'felt' Solas, I told him he was imagining things," she finally says. Her voice quivers. Rosa thinks she might start crying. "It really is him, though."

"Yes… I think so."

"I tried to get Cole to stay, but he won't," she adds.

"I know."

"It's not your fault."

Lies, she blames her—that much is obvious. Rosa doesn't mind. She has been hated for worse. "What will you do?"

"What I've always done: Travel."

Rosa is surprised. "How will Cole find you?"

"He always does," she says with a shrug. Her lips twitch into a smile. "We're connected in some strange way. He always seems to know where I am."

Solas is laughing. The depth of it shocks her. It isn't the reserved chuckle of the grown man she once knew. It is unbound and unrestrained, deep in places, high in others. He is unashamedly candid over something as small as a horse licking his face. Rosa's heart quickens in her chest. It feels lighter, somehow.

"Perhaps that's how he found you, too," Mary says. She touches her arm affectionately before heading inside.

Cole's tone is sweet and hopeful. He doesn't notice Rosa approach. "You have to be patient, both of you. Love doesn't happen overnight."

Solas sees her first. He bristles and looks at Cole with wide eyes, hoping to stem the outpouring of advice with a glance.

"You've been gone a long while. You have so much to discuss. Ah, good morning, Rosa—we were just talking about you."

It's difficult for her to keep a straight face, particularly when Solas hides behind his mount's neck, the tips of his ears glowing red with embarrassment. "I see you've already fetched the horses." She eyes them appreciatively. "You did pay for them, right?"

"With my own coin," Cole says, puffing out his chest. "Horses are too big to steal—even if this one says he wouldn't have minded." He strokes the gelding's velvet nose and coos.

"Do you know where we're going?" Rosa turns to Solas.

He nods. "Tarasyl' an Te'las."

"The place where the sky was held back," Rosa translates. If Solas thinks anything of the term, he doesn't show it. When Rosa reaches for the reins of Cole's horse, he hoists it out of range.

"You two ride together," he says, failing to conceal his mischievous smirk.

"Fine, let me go collect my things." She scowls and looks at Solas. "I'll lead."

Solas unhands the horse and swallows. "Of course."

Cole looks over his shoulder at the barren path and grows solemn. A world weary sigh escapes him.

"You can always turn back," Rosa suggests. The horse whinnies in agreement. She urges it on with a small tap to overtake Cole on the path.

"Can't," he says with a heavy sigh. "But, I miss her already."

"She should have traveled with us," Solas offers.

"No, she wouldn't want to."

"Why not?"

Cole doesn't answer.

"Because you terrify her," Rosa supplements coolly. His hand tightens around her waist. She jumps, as she has done the last four times, as she will no doubt continue to do.

"That's not very nice to say," Cole admonishes.

"It's true."

"Was I unkind to her?" Solas asks.

His warm breath tickles the hairs on her neck. She tries to ignore it but can’t. Rosa allows this awkwardness to fuel her anger instead. "You were not unkind to people, Solas. You hurt them in different ways."

"Like you?"

"No, that was..."

"Being unclear won't make this any easier for me."

"I'm sorry, I forgot I was supposed to make this easy for you," she quips. 

"For someone I thought cared for me deeply, you have a funny way of showing it."

Cole's gleeful chuckle startles them both. "Arguing! This is a fine start."

"You make it sound like this is a good thing," Solas says.

"You don't fight about things that aren't important to you. You fight when you care."

Rosa scoffs. Cole's answer seems to settle Solas.

"Tell me, Compassion, why does Mary take issue with me?"

Cole tightens his grip around the reins and grows pensive. "You scared folk. To a lot of people, you meant the end of what was."

"I helped you," Solas reminds him. "I remember the breach—at least in part."

"You deceived us," Rosa answers, eliciting a cry from Cole.

"It's not true."

"It is. And the sooner he accepts that the sooner we move past it."

The trio are silent, the clop of their horses' shoes on stony ground the only constant. From time to time, Cole asks whether Solas remembers anything. The answer is always the same, and while this fails to diminish the spirit’s enthusiasm, it had begun to grate on Rosa.

When Skyhold's tall spires appears over the valley's peripheries, Cole is ready to ask again. "We are almost here, Solas. Do you feel anything?"

His sigh tells Rosa everything she need to know.

"I—"

"Let me guess: you don't remember." Rosa cajoles the horse forward with a firm kick—too firmly. The horse rears. It is almost enough to send both of them tumbling. Solas' hand darts around her waist. The other pushes against the horses' rump to support their weight. A litany of elvish curses bursts from his lips.

"Rosa!"

"It's fine, Cole," she says sharply.

The animal jitters from side to side, clearly disturbed by its rider's tone. It's only when Cole apologizes does it plod onward, trotting towards the drawbridge."You need more compassion," he tells her.

"That's your job, Cole."

"Then at least be patient."

Patient, she thinks with a clenched jaw.To what end? As they crawl over the neck, Rosa stiffens with the realization that she is scared—terrified—for him. For what may never happen; for the what if of a life with a man with no past. The question hounds her, a cruel thorn of doubt that underpins her thoughts, bleeding her of hope. What if he never remembers?

Cole's shouting yanks her from her reverie."Solas needs help!" Cole's horse's hooves pound against the drawbridge, drowning out the she-elf's confused complaints.

Solas' hands are cold and clammy. His grip on her lessens. He's falling, slipping from the saddle like a bundle of hay pushed to one side.

"I remember," she hears him say.

Chapter Text

The orb glows, spitting shards of green light across the turned earth. The Anchor flares, pulsing with energy; it is almost too much to control.

The spirits' whispers are deafening. There are so many voices, so many opinions, all reaching out at once. Many of them agree with the plan. Others do not. He begs them for quiet, but they do not relent—they do not stop.

"Every alternative is worse," he repeats to himself, to any spirit that cares to listen. Sweat drips down the sharp curve of his nose and pools around his Cupid's bow. He is panting, heaving for each breath.

This is going to kill me, he thinks. This will…

The orb hisses and spins faster, levitating above his hand. The barrier pulses, once, twice, and expands outwards, seeping out of the orb. It continues to grow and rises higher and higher until he can't see it. The Fade is turning blue around the edges. The Frostbacks seem to grow, stretching towards the heavens, their snow-tipped caps melting into the cragged cliffs. The floor gives way, or perhaps his knees do?

He closes his eyes. They don't open again.

But it's okay.

It's dark here.

It's finally quiet.

Solas opens his eyes. The canopy of the bed is dark and sequined and blurred. He tries to blink away the latter and proceeds to make it worse. He should rest, he knows he should, but confusion propels him forward, fueling weak arms and legs heavy like lead.

Solas' movement rouses Cole from his sleep. "Solas? Are you alright?" He searches the room, eyes flitting from the fire burning in the hearth to the terrace. The drapes are drawn, exposing a clear sky littered with stars. "We've been here a long time."

"Here?"

"Skyhold."

Solas glances around the apartment. Relief blossoms in his chest. "I remember this place," he says.

Cole makes an appreciative sound and rises to his feet. "This was Rosa's room."

Solas takes his time surveying the decor, the small wardrobe, the burgundy carpet, the gilded Orlesian chairs pushed to one side. The place is familiar, but lacking, he realizes. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he turns to Cole. "Where is she?"

"She was here. She watched you while you slept. Now, I'm not sure." He pours a glass of water and hands it to him. "What was the last thing you remember?"

"Her anger. The horse. I remember falling."

Cole nods. "You fell. She caught you with magic and used it to carry you here." His face tightens with worry. "I hope she's okay, too. Magic… hurts her now."

Solas looks instinctively to the walking stick beside the stairwell. It pulses with power. He knows a staff in disguise when he sees one. "But... she is a mage?"

Cole's expression morphs into a grimace. Solas can tell it pains him to think about it.

"You don't have to—"

"No, perhaps I should. Rosa will not speak of it, not to you, or anyone, but I won't tell you today." His laughter hiccups in his throat.

"And why's that?"

"Because the story makes me sad."

Chapter Text

He finds her in the rotunda.

Rosa sits in the empty room, gazing up at broad washes of grey stone with patent interest. There is nothing of note here, nothing decorative, save for the dying candle at her side.

He stumbles. Pain shoots through his eyes, lips, and head.

He sees her smiling, fingers red with paint. She leaves an imprint of her hand the bare wall.

"Stop scowling," she tells him. Her laughter is bright and bubbles like a child's. "You're going to cover it up anyway."

"You shouldn't be here." Rosa is on her feet, stalking towards him with quick steps that patter like rainfall. She walks through the memory, tearing it into wisps of smoke and shadow.

He waves her away and leans against the door frame. "I'm fine," he lies, pinching the bridge of his nose. The ache fades as quickly as it came.

"You're everything but fine." Rosa cups his cheek and tilts his face towards her. She studies him. If her lips weren't so tightly pursed, it would almost be endearing. However, as it stands, it smacks of concern, like a mother checking in on her sick infant.

"I'm fine," he tells her again.

She doesn't look convinced but nods. "Are you… feeling better?

"In a manner of speaking."

Rosa gives a clipped laugh, turns on her heels, and wanders back towards the rotunda's center. "That's a no then."

Solas follows. "Thank you for what you did," he says, filling the silence with the soft echo of his gratitude.

She stops and watches him out of the corner of her eye. He can taste her reservation, the guilt. It has a tangible weight and shape—a color that's as easily discernible as the grey of her tunic. He knows she wants to apologize, even as the words fizzle on her lips, washed away by pride.

"Do you know what caused your collapse?"

"A memory."

"And?" she presses when he does not continue.

"Of holding back the sky."

"And?"

"And I saw the formation of the Veil, in part… before I woke up."

"Do you… remember why you did it?"

He smiles. "Because every alternative was worse. I still don't understand why that is."

The candle goes out. Its light lingers long enough for him to see her pout, to see her eyes search the ceiling of the room with an anxious glance. It's almost like she's listening for something—the scuttling of a mouse, or the drone of a bug, something only she can hear.

"I assume you know something about that," he says if only to draw her attention back to him.

"Only what you told me."

She turns and walks towards the entrance, stopping to collect the candle holder. Rosa doesn't want to discuss it, for whatever reason. Despite his impatience, he decides not to force the issue—at least in a way that does not warrant her ire.

"And did you believe me?"

“I believed every word, Solas—fool that I was."

The throne clunks as she passes.

Rosa hangs her head and prays to Andraste and all the Creators for patience, for hers is wearing thin.

"Cole?" When he doesn't answer, she clicks her tongue. "You were much better at this as a boy," she murmurs.

"I only wanted to make sure you were okay," he finally says. The edge of his hat peeks behind the arm of the chair.

"I know."

"Is he still there?"

"Yes. Keep an eye on him, will you? I'm going to bed."

"Shall I send him to you when he's done?"

She sighs. "If you think it best." Rosa stops a heartbeat later, just as Cole makes his way down the Great Hall's platform."Cole?"

"Hmm?"

"After Skyhold, we're going to Ferelden."

He cocks his head. The question of why sits unspoken behind clenched teeth.

"There's someone he needs to see."

The voices purr with amusement. They are smiling, caressing Rosa with low whispers that fade into a deep hiss. Only one word reaches her, a soft, delicate note of contentment from being understood, from being obeyed.

"Good."

Chapter Text

Rosa's fingers roam across the cracks in the plaster, tracing thin lines and pockmarks as they journey. After a time, she flattens her palm against the grey wall and smiles a private smile, a smile of remembrance.

"Will you tell me what you've planned now?" Solas asks with a shudder. Skyhold is cold and crisp at daybreak, with stones that seem to amplify his chill. He brushes the raised hairs on his arms and suppresses a deep shudder.

Rosa is well-rested, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. She pays no mind to his obvious discomfort. "I wanted to ask you something first."

"Could this not be done in bed, or next to a hearth?" he gripes.

"Do you remember how you reformed?"

He arches a brow. "Do you remember much of your birth?"

She smirks. "I see your point. Am I right in assuming then that there was a period where you were 'not' Solas."

"I suppose?"

"If you have any recollection of your time in the Fade, as a spirit, I would like to hear it."

"There is not much to say." Solas lowers himself to the ground, tucking his knees into his chest to keep in the warmth. "You awake in the Fade. How long I 'gestated' in an amorphous form unknown to me."

"Were there other spirits there?"

"It's the Fade—where else would they be?"

"And they did not help you regain your memories?"

Solas chuckles. "I reformed, in part, because of them. If the feeling of what was has enough substance to permutate, it can—but that requires the memory of other spirits to do so. However, it is only a reflection. They do not know my hopes, my fears—the things in life that shaped me. Consequently, whatever imprints of my character they dispense are limited. Superficial."

"And your knowledge of the Fade? Is that not carried over from your past?"

"Wisdom regarding the Fade is passed on, taught by other spirits. It might seem convoluted to a mortal, but these insights are no more profound than a child learning how to walk, or how to speak. It is our reality, and, with time, one comes to understand it."

Rosa thumbs her lower lip and considers the information. She finally hums in acknowledgement and takes a seat beside him. "And the Breach?" she asks.

"The details are hazy at best, but fragments of it are here." He taps his head.

"Why?"

Solas considers the question. "The Breach tore open the sky, Lethallan. It is something all spirits would have experienced. Perhaps that is why some negligible recollection of it filtered into my consciousness. At least partially."

"And the rest of your memories? Do you think that might have had something to do with the Breach, perhaps formed from our past connection to it?"

Solas regards her. Rosa is closer than anticipated, staring up at him with eyes wide with anticipation and enlivened with childlike wonder that makes her look younger than her years. "Possibly," he scratches the back of his head. "Nevertheless, I think there's a more relevant reason for it." His voice is hoarse. He swallows, but there is no respite from this sudden dryness.

"Oh?"

"It's… difficult to explain," he adds when words fail him.

"Try."

"Spirits are born from concepts, ideals reflected from our world. These tend to be principles: wisdom, compassion, justice, purpose. These notions form the crux of their being, the pillars from which their existence hinges on. I… believe I formed from something more than that. Something more tangible, something that allowed me to reflect more than abstract ideals."

"Meaning?"

"You."

He sees the moment he loses her; when wonder and mystery harden into logic and disbelief. She purses her lips and looks away, fixing her gaze on the floor. "This is all hearsay," she says, muffled words spoken into the collar of her shirt. "There are a thousand possible reasons for your selective memory."

"Perhaps. And yet, my clearest memories are of a time spent with you." He cocks his head, hoping to glimpse her expression beneath her veil of hair. "Do you not find it peculiar that I managed to find you? Is it so hard to accept that some power anchored me to you—something that defies normal convention?"

She shakes her head and wobbles to her feet. He grasps her arm, pulling her back down towards him. Rosa struggles to break free. "Solas, let go—"

"It is that painful to believe in something good, vhenan?"

The slap catches him off guard. He hears the thunderous crack before the sting of it swelters across his cheek.

Rosa's eyes are narrowed and angry. She huffs and marches towards the barracks.

Cole nearly drops his mug as Solas storms up the steps of the Inquisitor's bedroom. He shuffles from the terrace to greet him.

"She is impossible!" Solas spits. He slumps on the edge of the bed and cradles his face in his hands.

Cole studies his red cheek and mouths an 'oh' in understanding. "Making women angry isn't wise, Solas. Perhaps you forgot about that. It's a crucial lesson."

"She is completely closed off—it's like trying to beat down a stone wall with my fist."

"Walls keep her safe. It's all she has had for a long time." Cole sniffs and rubs his wet nose with the back of his hand. He approaches Solas cautiously. "What did you say?"

Solas paraphrases the events. Cole nods all the while and listens with a grim expression.

"I think you're right," Cole says. He tucks himself into the bed beside him. "You love her and she loves you—she gave you a part of her to keep and you never let it go. It's why you're still you."

"Then tell her. She might listen to your reasoning."

"That's not how it works." His fringe sways with the slow shake of his head. "You can't tell her this. She won't believe it—just like we can't tell you everything that happened. It won't be real. It won't be true."

Solas sighs but doesn't press the issue. His rage seeps out of him, oozing from clenched jaws and fists, from tight muscles and pursed lips. He stares blankly at his hands and shrugs. "Perhaps I made a mistake," he murmurs. "Perhaps I misunderstood. I look into her face and all I see is fear and misery."

Cole strokes his shoulders. "I'm going to get you a cupcake," Cole says. "The cupcake will help."

As he slinks off the bed, Solas grabs his hand. "Am I wrong, Compassion? Was I mistaken?"

"No," Cole tells him. He touches his arm and offers him a warm smile. "She loved you. She loved you so much she had to forget, too."

Chapter Text

Muttered words deep and dim and garbled coax him from his comfortable darkness. As he listens, they become clearer. Sound becomes letters, mumbles become tone—and suddenly he is falling back, falling forward, plucked from a dreamless sleep and rocked awake to the din of conversation.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

A chair groans. Weight shifts. "It's not about want."

"Can you do it?"

"Of course I can."

"But—"

Solas squints against the light. The terrace comes into the focus, as do the mountains beyond and its overcast sky. It smells of rain, of budding clouds ready to burst.

"Cole."

He sniffs, uncertain, unconvinced, and worried. 

"If this helps him, it's worth a shot, wouldn't you agree?"

"Healing him and hurting you isn't right."

Rosa gets up. She moves slowly, carefully. Cole makes a noise of disapproval, like a cat warbling before a fight.

"I know my limits. It won't be like before, I promise."

"Promise?"

"Have a little faith."

"Let me come with you," Cole whispers.

"No." Her tone brooks no argument. "I won't be long. Stay with him. Make sure he's safe."

"Does this mean… you're not mad at him anymore?"

Her feet fall rhythmically as she descends down the staircase. Her words are quiet, distant—almost too small to hear. "I could never stay angry at Solas, you know that."

Thunder booms overhead, drowning out the steady thrum of rainfall. There are leaks in Skyhold, cracks in the stone that give way to urban waterfalls. The rhythmic trickling of water permeates throughout, echoing down the fortress' corridors, halls, and rooms.

Cole glances up at the vaulted ceiling of the Great Hall. Lightning flashes. White strikes the alcoves, chasing shadows from dark spaces, if only for a moment.

"Maybe we should look for her?" Cole mumbles. The heavy blanket on his lap is coarse, thick, and smells of dust, but he clings to it all the same.

Solas looks towards the hall's open doors. Rain is falling fast, a downpour of countless fractured lines hurtling towards the ground. "She'll be back soon."

"How do you know?"

I just do. "Shall we play another game to pass the time?"

Cole pouts. "No, I don't like losing."

They hear her arrival before they see her bobble across the landing. The base of her staff clanks against the stone. Magic sizzles with a pop, the barrier above her head invisible save for droplets of water that slip silently down a transparent dome. And she is laughing: high peals of laughter that cut across the rain and thunder; that bounce off the walls of the empty hall with the echo of a thousand voices.

Solas’ cheeks tighten in a smile.

"It's freezing," she says through chattering teeth. The bag falls from her shoulder, the staff is discarded. Leather boots make an audible plop as they're kicked off. "Thank the Maker it's summer—"

"—rain.

The Dales are warm, damp, and sticky. Rosa stares up at the dark clouds.

Solas hides beneath the barrier and watches as the rain flattens her hair and pours down her face, catching in the hollows of her armor.

She extends her hand towards him and laughs. "Are you afraid of getting a little wet?"

Rosa loosens the drawstring of her trousers. They slide down her hips, inching lower with every shrug. Solas comes to as she bends and tugs the tunic over her back, exposing white skin crisscrossed with old scars, ribs, and the hint of a breast hitched against the fold of fabric—

Cole wraps the blanket around her. Her clothes fall in a wet heap on the floor and bunches around her ankles.

"There's a fresh fire in your room," Cole tells her. "Did you get what you needed?"

"And then some. I found the herbs—and a pair of nugs." She gestures to the bag on the floor. "When I'm dry, I'll make us something a little more filling than crackers and cupcakes."

The door to the rotunda squeaks shut. Rosa looks round, but Solas is already gone.

Cole shrugs and pats the blanket on either side of her shoulders. "He's fine. Go get warm."

Her wet footsteps ebb into silence.

Solas sighs and rests his head against the wall, hands splayed on either side of his hips.

Blanket. Chair. Cake.

He tries to picture each in turn. He closes his eyes and ignores the persistent thrumming of his heart, the rush of blood in his ears.

But he can't.

Wet. Skin. Tight.

He sees her wet, flushed, and bare; hair slick against the curves of her neck, her brow.

The memory of her laughter reaches his core, and claws lower and lower and lower. His trousers are tight, so tight it hurts.

Solas shifts.

There's friction, perfect and coarse and warm, but not enough—not nearly enough. His hand twitches expectantly at its side, flexing in agreement, complicit with desire. The possibility is tempting, too tempting, but he won't—he can't. Not over something so simple. Not over something so juvenile.

His head lolls between his shoulders. He breathes and tries again.

Blanket. Chair. Cake.

Blanket. Chair. Cake.

Blanket. Chair. Cake.

Chapter Text

The mug she hands him is hot and filled to the brim. He eyes it warily.

"You're not going to like it," Rosa warns. She finishes what remains of her drink and joins him on the floor. "You've been here a while."

It's true. The rotunda is dark, shapeless, its bare walls masked in a seamless web of black. Outside, the rain has all but stopped.

Solas takes a tentative gulp and grimaces. "That's… unpleasant."

"Mmm, you never liked tea."

"I'm glad my sense of taste has prevailed through the ages."

She chuckles. "It's just boiled elfroot."

"For?" he asks, mouth hovering over the lip of the mug.

"An idea I had." Rosa nods towards the drink, goading him to take another sip. He does so reluctantly. "Cole claims that telling you what happened won't be meaningful. And we can't stay in Skyhold long enough for you to remember every facet of your time here."

"And tea is the solution?"

“No. Elfroot is just a relaxant.”

"Ah, so you're drugging me. How marvelous."

Rosa gives a quick bark of laughter. "Let me finish, da'len. As we are short on time, I propose we use dreaming as a means of escalating the process; seeing my memories in the Fade might help bring back yours."

"That's not how propositions work," he says, though not unkindly. "Usually, one proposes the idea before moving forward with it."

"Well, do you have another suggestion?"

He gives a defeated shrug.

"Good. Besides, if you don't want to sleep, you don't have to."

They settle in silence and acclimatize to the dark. There is no need for words or empty conversations. Solas is content to exist—to exchange body heat, feel the gentle rise and fall of her chest, enjoy the aroma of newly washed skin and the scent of rainfall in her hair.

The effects of the herb are innocuous at first, subtle and indistinct; the suggestion of sleep as opposed to the enforcement of it. It blossoms into a gentle numbness marked by heavy limbs and loose muscles. With a smirk, he decides the sensation isn't terrible. "Might I ask you something?"

She hums in agreement.

"Why are you always here? There must be dozens of places in Skyhold and yet…"

"I could ask you the same thing," she says.

He can hear the smile in her voice, the secret knowledge she holds like cards to her chest.

"Something familiar draws me here," he confesses. Solas feels foolish, admitting such things. The rotunda is blank—ordinary. A cylinder of stone and wood and stairs, nothing more. Compared to the barracks, or the Great Hall, it lacks character, a story.

And yet…

"I feel the same way."

There it is again. Another coded phrase. He takes a sip of what remains of his drink and shudders at its texture. It has grown cold. "I'm sure we could have done this without the elfroot," he murmurs.

Rosa’s body is warm, a comforting heat that only enhances his sense of fatigue. He allows his eyes to shut, to give in to the suggestion.

"I just wanted to see if you remembered—" she yawns.

"Remembered what?"

"How much you dislike tea."

Solas winks and wakes in a sea of people. The upper courtyard is crowded. Noisy. The chime of a hundred voices rings out across the grounds.

The door to Herald's Rest swings open. A band of mercenaries falls from the tavern, spluttering and laughing as they attempt to navigate their drunkenness. Solas hears Marydon's voice, soft and bright, over the strum of her lute. He's lost in the low vibrato of her voice when he feels a gloved hand on his shoulder.

"Solas, the Inquisitor is looking for you," says a woman with chopped black hair and cautious eyes. The scar across her cheek is long and pronounced.

"Cassandra," he says with uncertainty. He feels himself stand a little taller in her presence.

It is a strange thing to know and not know simultaneously, Solas thinks. Seeing Cassandra reinforces what he had already considered: that his memories are intact, but dormant. Scattered. As he glances upon her stern features, Solas sees images and pictures—echoes of a shared past. He remembers her fingers around his neck; the poisonous threats of having him tried as an apostate; her calm leadership as they brave the Frostbacks after Haven. Feelings and associations follow: respect and admiration tainted by an undercurrent of mistrust.

"What are you waiting for?" Cassandra slings the training sword over her shoulder.

"Directions."

"I thought you knew everything." As she walks towards the training area, her reflection shifts and fades. The shade of Justice glimmers for a moment before retreating. It lingers long enough to let out a mischievous chuckle.

Solas descends the stairwell down to the central courtyard.

Spirits take on the forms of guards, the injured, the sick. There are voices he remembers, many of which he does not; whispers of past conversations, tangling, rearranging, and merging into an indistinguishable cloud of noise.

Cole, a younger Cole, holds his hat and attends to a young soldier. His peculiar lilt carries over the drone and dissolves into static. The spirit is gone before he can approach him.

He finds Rosa beside an iron-wrought gate, staring out into the neck of Skyhold. A reflection of himself walks towards her. He's surprised by his own appearance, by his bald head and tired expression. He is older than he imagined.

Rosa's words are hushed and sympathetic. She reaches for him, revealing two pale hands limp with uncertainty. "You don't have to mourn alone."

There's a gentle tap on his shoulder. Rosa—his Rosa—looks up at him, her eyes narrowed with concern. "Come with me."

She guides him back towards the fortress, up the stone steps at a languid pace. Skyhold shudders and breathes, its memories in constant motion. They are anachronistic and unorganized, flipping back and forward through time.

"I'm sorry," Rosa murmurs, gesturing towards the wave of spirits forming and reforming. "I was never as good as you at controlling my memories in the Fade."

"Did we dream together often?"

"Not as much as I hoped. But sometimes." She smiles at the reminder and tucks her hair behind her ear.

Inside the Great Hall there are mosaics and lit torches, and decadent decor and banners hung from every pillar. There are Orlesians and dwarfs, commoners and royals who are watching, waiting, talking, and filling Skyhold with the imitations of their memories.

Rosa makes a beeline for the rotunda. She hesitates by the door. Her faces scrunches in concentration. The ruckus suddenly abates; spirits lose their form and fade into shapeless colors. For the first time, the fortress is subdued—quiet. Once Rosa is satisfied, she leads them inside.

Solas' murmur of surprise is louder than he anticipates. He eyes the sprawling murals of the rotunda, tracing their bold colors, memorizing the shapes and images that span the entire wall. Some of the art is unfinished, no more than sketched outlines waiting to be filled.

A reflection of himself corrects the hackles of a wolf. The room smells faintly of lacquer, paint, and plaster.

"A tribute to your great accomplishments, Inquisitor," he says, cocking his head to watch Rosa as she approaches.

Another echo appears, another variation of Solas. It marches to the desk in the center of the room and leans over the small square object. "He has lost his army, and he has lost Orlais. That eliminates military or political means to rebuild Tevinter. He will need to demonstrate that no one in this world can stand against his magic. It will not be subtle."

It's like watching himself in a play he knows the words to. The sensations and gestures are intimately familiar but guided by another's hand. Solas feels like a stand-in to his own life, living his experiences through another's eyes, even if they are his own.

Rosa shakes her head. The spirits disperse.

"Does this help?" she asks. Her voice is strained.

"The frescoes—I know them."

Fragments come together, pieces of the Breach make sense. He remembers the Mages at Redcliffe, the Red Templars in the Emerald Graves, Celine in her silver frock and sapphire-encrusted mask. Some souvenirs of past conversations are suddenly readily available, unlocked as if a cipher to their translation has been found. It's a start, but these memories are still incomplete, unfinished, like the frescoes on the walls.

"But they are not enough?" When Solas does not answer, she nods. "I feared as much." Rosa winces and looks around. "And we are running out of time."

The rotunda fills with reflections. Some half-formed, others bright and distinct, each ringing out with its own story, its own conversation. And they are all of him.

"I apologize. The kiss was impulsive and ill-considered, and I should not have encouraged it."

"A thousand dwarven corpses laid, victims of the darkspawn horde. Their last stand marked by one great ring of armor. In the middle, one small body, clutching tightly to a small stuffed toy."

"Inquisitor, I was… do you have a moment?"

Solas watches as this particular shade guides a reflection of Rosa towards the door. The memory is pronounced and clear—as solid as the stone on the floor, the paint on the walls. He follows it instinctively, drawn to the image.

Rosa stops him.

"I want to see," he tells her. Her grip is unyielding.

The image disappears through the door, out of sight.

Solas turns, his anger piqued. He is ready to demand an explanation when he sees the regret on her face, feels her fingers around his wrist. Around her, the echoes of him are speaking out in one voice—each verse flowing into the next, with no rhyme nor reason.

"Why?" he whispers.

"I can't… I'm sorry."

"Rosa?"

"Wake up."

Chapter Text

Solas is blinded by a light. He shields his eyes.

Cole covers the candle and utters an apology. "The soup is ready. You've been asleep for a while," he murmurs.

Solas is silent in his confusion. The rotunda is cold, lifeless, bland. It takes the elf some time to shake the image of what was, of what was lost. Reality tastes different, feels incomplete, and fills him with a chill that envelopes his bones. 

Cole kneels beside Rosa. Her eyes are still closed, head tilted over one shoulder. He pushes back her fringe and frowns at the droplets of sweat that collect there. 

"She's still sleeping," Solas comments, rolling to his feet. His legs feel weak, his mouth dry. The bitter aftertaste of elfroot still lingers on his tongue. 

"Rosa wants to see more," Cole whispers. "I hope it is a good dream."

"I can't… I'm sorry."

Solas frowns. "I'm not sure it was."

Cole irons out the wrinkles of his tunic and gestures to the door. "Come."

The stew is warm, comforting, and chases the dregs of cold from his fingers and toes. The bowl is empty before he can savor it or enjoy the rich blend of herbs. 

Cole takes it from him with a smile and pours a fresh portion from the pot.

"Rosa always gets hungry after dreaming," Cole says, tending to his own bowl with tentative sips. "Sometimes, I'd find her here before dawn, rummaging like a mouse for scraps. I used to help her find where the cooks hid the pastries."

"That doesn't sound like her," Solas remarks, picturing her stern face and permanent scowl.

"It's hard to be fun as an adult. People don't let you play, even if you want to. I think all grown-ups forget." He pauses and glances at the ceiling, at yellowed cobwebs sprinkled with dust. "I hope she wakes soon." 

The pantry is small and stuffy. It is a perfect contrast to the rotunda and its vast, seamless walls and high ceilings. Solas frowns as he considers the dream, the bright frescoes, the smell of old books. His heart aches with the possibility… He can't help but wonder. "Cole… the murals in that room."

"Yes?"

"Did the Inquisitor get rid of them?"

Cole's laughter comes out in a snort. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh, but it is a funny thought. She loved them. They were your present. When you left, she would go in and stare, and trace, and sigh. She did it till the day we abandoned Skyhold, until Ferelden and Orlais said she had to."

"Then what happened?"

Cole clamps up, his lips tighten in a way that suggests he won't answer. After a moment, he relaxes as if reconciled with some personal turmoil. 

"A demon came. When Skyhold was free and empty. It hurt the people that cared for her. When regret became too much, it formed from paint and plaster... to hurt. It hungered for kinship. The people who loved Skyhold stopped it, but she was never the same after." 

Solas' thoughts return to the dream. The tavern outside the courtyard was different then—the doors to the Great Hall as well. And the rotunda…

"It came from the frescoes?"

Cole looks apprehensive and nurses the bowl close to his chest. "It lived there. A small spark that grew and festered and changed. It broke the walls, the library. It destroyed your gift. Rosa was so sad when she heard what happened. So sad. She asked The Divine to help rebuild. It's why the rotunda is grey and empty, with no secrets, no words, no history. It doesn't remember what it was. It keeps her safe." 

"And whose regret was it?" Solas asks although he knows. He knows, he knows.   

"If you can't answer, then perhaps Skyhold isn't enough. Dreaming isn't enough." He stares at his bowl. "That's a shame. I liked being here. I think Rosa does, too."

"It helped, it did, it's just—"

"Lacking?"

"Like knowing the plot in the middle of a book. I know some of the battles, the characters—but the outcome? The result? It's still unclear."

At least something important was revealed, Solas thinks, glancing secretively over at Cole as he cools his stew with a breath. Something his dreams did not disclose: He left.    

The door creaks open. Cole and Solas both jump, their legs jolting against the preparation table beneath them. 

Rosa points to the pot and fire, her eyes heavy with want. "Hungry."

Chapter Text

I have to tell her... this is cruel—selfish; she deserves more—deserves better.

The wood is hard under his fingertips—unyielding; its imperfections like tiny shards against his skin. Outside the rotunda, Varric's voice rumbles with the trappings of a joke. There's a pause followed by more laughter, and the sound of Bianca’s cocking stirrups grazing the stone walls. Solas wonders briefly who Varric might be talking to.

Focus.

He straightens and turns to the murals, observing his latest collection of half-finished lines with disinterest. He breathes, filling his lungs with the scent of fresh lacquer. Ordinarily, the fragrance would calm his nerves. Instead, he feels breathless, weak, and conflicted—emotions he cannot fathom experiencing after something so banal—so juvenile.

He pictures Haven before he can stop himself, her lips and the soft kiss she plants over his like a mark of ownership. He remembers the feel of her rough clothes, the way her back folds into his palm; small, supple, willing. Solas claims he is not usually shaken by dreams, and yet here he is, mulling over the details of this moment like an inexperienced boy hinged on the mawkishness of a spring's first love.

I need to end it. It is a resolution he has set time and time before, that time and time again is broken. He steels his resolve, hardening himself to the echoes of her giggle, the shape of her smile, the fingers that tease the threads of her blouse when she knows he's looking—

Fenedhis.

Solas doesn't hear Varric issue a farewell, nor does he hear the door to the rotunda open, or her silent footsteps. She appears, as she always has: in quiet surprise; in serendipitous glory.

"Solas?"

His chest tightens and constricts, willpower fizzles into submission with an uninspired pop. As their eyes meet, reservation dies on the tip of his tongue, logic on the strum of his heartbeat. He is unmade at a glance.

"Inquisitor, I was…" he falters, feels words—words!—shudder through him with disquiet. He chastises himself for his hollow voice, his wandering eyes that drink in her image with such fervor he can manage little else. It's not banal, is it? His heart murmurs, pulsing against his rib cage in defiance and disagreement, shaking off calluses of doubt that resided unchallenged for so long.

He breathes and tries again. "Do you have a moment?"

Skyhold is teaming with people streaming from every nook and cranny. It makes him long for the quiet corners of Haven, its rundown apartments and dirt paths. There was peace there, a modicum of privacy, even though there was nothing more than rooftops and straw walls between them. Now, the only secluded setting is her quarters.

They climb the small staircase to her bedroom, silent as Chantry mice. Solas realizes, with no shortage of alarm, that he has thought of nothing to say. His litany of proud proclamations and logical debates lie in a jumbled heap at his feet. They are meaningless. Inconsequential. After all, what are words in the face of her brilliant smile? What are boundaries to a woman who breaks all that stand before her? And this is the crux of it, isn't it? Her indomitable spirit. Her boundless curiosity. In all his machinations and calculations, and eons of careful planning, he could not foresee the arrival of such a creature—for someone to shake the pillars of his convictions so wholly.

And if there is one… could there be… what if.

She changes… everything. It's a threatening notion, a whisper of dissent he should squash. It will be his undoing.

Solas pulls ahead and stalks towards the terrace, hoping the slopes of the Frostbacks unveil some secret wisdom or imbue him with the courage to do what must be done. They are silent, still, and unchanging. Utterly unhelpful. And so, as has become his custom, Solas quells his dismay with questions.

"What were you like before the Anchor? Has it affected you? Changed you in any way? Your mind, your morals, your… spirit?

"If it had, do you really think I'd have noticed?"

Clever. "No, that's an excellent point."

Her brow arches. "Why do you ask?"

"You show a wisdom I have not seen since…" Easy... "Since my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade. You are not what I expected."

There's a flicker of confusion, a skepticism he has come to expect from her. This knowledge doesn't make the flutter of his heart any easier, or the fleeting, winged worry that taunts him any less real. What if she knows? What if she suspects?

"Sorry to disappoint," she says through a smile.

"It's not disappointing it's…" Astonishing. Dangerous. Hopeful. "Most people are predictable. You have shown subtly in your actions, a wisdom that goes against everything I expected. If the Dalish have raised someone with a spirit like yours… have I misjudged them?" Is this world worth saving after all?

"Most of the Dalish care more about impressing other hunters with a good shot or talking about how awful humans are." Her scowl leaves deep grooves on her forehead. "There are only a few who seem to care about the old ways."

Validation and disappointment wrestle in his gut, fighting for a foothold. He's not sure which one he feels more strongly at her admittance. In the end, he smiles and consoles himself with the fact that he is right—he always has been. The Inquisitor is unique, an anomaly, and though the thought does little to mend the more immediate problems of his feelings, it allows him to postpone his judgment of Thedas. At least, for a little while.

"Perhaps that it is. I suppose it must be. Most people act with so little understanding of the world. But not you."

"So what does this mean, Solas?" Coral lips pucker with curiosity. The sight sends a shiver up his spine.

"It means I have not forgotten the kiss."

There is truth, omittance of fact, and lies. Solas fails to guard his feelings as he has done countless times before. He should not have kissed her in Haven, he should not have invited her to talk, and he should not have told her the truth of his concerns now.

"Good." 

The knot in his throat sinks to his stomach. Rosa is feline in nature, graceful, and in control of her faculties in a way he admires—in a fashion that reminds him of himself. Long ago. She understands her effect, the chaos she inflicts on his mental state. Rosa stands too close, too often, seizing any opportunity to ease herself into his personal space. He delights in her random touches, the brush of her shoulder against his; the tip of her fingers against his hipbone; her warm breath around his neck as they consult a map in some Maker-forsaken hole in Thedas. Solas remembers each instance with alarming clarity.

When she closes the gap between them, offers her face with all its tiny perfections and imperfections, and waits, Solas knows he has lost without ever being given a chance to fight.

You can't. Solas shakes his head, ignoring the ache that claws at the base of his gut. He turns to leave.

Rosa stops him. "Don't go."

"It would be kinder in the long-run, but losing you would…"

Her lips are soft. They are better than in the Fade—in any dream, in any reality. She gives a low moan in the back of her throat, a vibration Solas feels as his tongue curls over hers. It takes him a moment to register the cold hands at his waist, the nails that snag on the holes on his tunic. Her touch is urgent, as all young lovers are. Desire flares in his chest, hot, wanting, and desperate. The bed is just out of reach, her skin, only a layer from his own. There are so few obstacles in the way of what he wants—what they both want—that he can picture it so clearly; the echo of her moans, the taste of her sweat, the jut of her breasts, the wet heat between her legs. Solas wants to hear her beg, force broken elvish from her lips, feel her clench around his fingers. He can—

You can't.

The fantasy fades as it always does—as it must do. Reason rears its dull head, extinguishing desire like water on fire. 

She doesn't even know who you are.

He finds the frayed threads of his resolve and pulls away before he's consumed by lust.

Solas isn't what they say he is. He isn't omnipotent, magnanimous, and infallible. He is prideful, hotheaded, and in-love, with a heart that bleeds when she hurts; that pines when she approaches; that breaks every time he turns away.

"Ar lath—"

The mattress squeaks.

Solas wakes in the dark. The embers in the hearth are dim, no more than crimson shards of scorched wood. The room is quiet.

Solas blinks, forcefully trying to rid the dream—no, the memory—of Rosa's lips from his mind. The experience has shaken him. He snakes a hand to his chest and feels his heart quake. It's heavier somehow, more troubled, more pained—racked with grief and agony and fear and—

Rosa stifles a yawn and stretches. Clothes rustle as they're discarded on the stone floor. Solas doesn't make a sound, doesn't dare, and stares into the empty lounge in front of him.

She slips under the covers, careful not to disturb him. There is no movement, no sound save the low and rhythmic huffs of her breathing.

Until...

Her fingers are barely perceptible at first. They touch Solas' shoulder blade, trace the curve of his spine, and settle over his ribs. She stops. She shuffles.

Solas feels wisps of hair slide against his waist. Suddenly, she presses her forehead against his back. Warm air rushes over his skin as she sighs contentedly.

"Ma, vhenan."

Chapter Text

"Sleep well?" Rosa asks. She does not look round from the top of the stone stairwell. 

"You should have woken me," Solas says, padding up the landing. Cole feeds the horses in the courtyard below, twittering away as he works. They take a moment to watch him.

"I thought I'd let you rest. We'll be on the road for some time." She glances in his direction. "You were muttering in your sleep."

Solas pushes the memory of the kiss from his mind and clears his throat. "Nothing embarrassing, I hope?"

"Do you think I'd tell you if it was?"

Cole laughs as if he has just heard an excellent joke. He pats the speckled nose of his horse before scooping up their empty buckets to store in the barn. The sight brings a smile to Rosa's lips.

"So," she begins slowly, "did you have any interesting dreams?"

"Oh yes."

When he doesn't take the matter further, Rosa scowls. "Of?"

"That's for me to know, Inquisitor." Solas leaves her to join Cole, savoring the jolted look on her face, the way her cheeks redden at the moniker.

Cole greets him with a wave. "You're awake, good. Being woken up is not as fun as waking up yourself," he admits awkwardly. "Are you ready to leave?"

"So soon? Where are we headed?"

"Down the valley. We'll follow the river to Rainesfere, resupply in Redcliffe, and then make our way south," Rosa answers, marching past her companions to her horse. She makes a point of avoiding Solas' gaze altogether. "It should take us four days to reach Rainesfere if the weather holds."

Cole glares at Rosa, his scowl partially concealed by the saddle he hides behind. "I don't think we should stop in Rainesfere."

"It's the closest town outside Skyhold."

"We could go to Haven," Cole presses, mouth drawn in a thin line.

"That will take us further from our end destination." Rosa angles the toe of her boot against the stirrup and fixes Cole with a glower. "Is there some pressing reason we should be avoiding Rainesfere? You're not a wanted man in Bann's lands, are you?"

"Blackwall is there," he mutters indignantly.

"And? You were friends with Blackwall." The horse jitters from side to side as Rosa hoists herself onto its back.

"He doesn't like Solas."

Rosa protests but comes to acknowledge the point with a nod. "That was before."

"And Blackwall likes—"

"That was also before," Rosa says sharply, twisting the reins in her hand to guide the horse to the raised gates. She looks over at Solas. "Coming?"

He rewards her with a wry smile. "Do I have a choice?"

The trip down the Frostbacks is more seamless than their trip up it. The recent rains have darkened the path and heightened the trees' verdant greens, giving their horses ample purchase underfoot and their riders a great many things to admire.

They pass the hours with thoughtful commentary and wistful reminiscence. Cole fills Solas in on his past ten years, his travels with Mary, the lives of those he met along the way, and everything in-between. Occasionally, he slips into his old way of speaking, which only the horses and Solas seem to understand.

Solas asks questions when possible. Cole answers as much as he can. When the spirit forgets himself and their quarry's veiled attempts to extract more pointed information, Rosa is quick to dampen the conversation with a scowl.

Despite her strict command, Rosa smiles often and is the first to laugh at Cole's fatuous jokes. It's a side of her Solas has yet to see, a secret window into what was—and perhaps, what could be. Their guide is quiet for most of the trip—always looking forward, never back. She is calm, composed, and, ultimately, a different person from when they met. When Solas touches her waist, she no longer recoils; when he presses into her back on the banks of a steep slope, she urges him to hold on.

They arrive at the river's source before nightfall. Although the valley has evened out, the horses exhibit an unwillingness to go further. Rosa leaves her seat to lead them on foot, navigating pointed brushes and unseen grooves until she finds a spot to rest.

Setting up camp is difficult in the low light, but they manage to even the ground for their beds and collect enough dry foliage for a fire, which Rosa conjures with a spell much to Cole's annoyance. When their chores are done, the trio settles around their fire, tending to sore muscles and aching joints in silence. Chirping crickets, the trickle of a nearby brook, and Cole's growling stomach come together to create a highly unique ambiance—one Rosa cannot help but comment on.

"Cole, there are some scraps of bread in my bag. Take some."

He scrunches his nose and sinks further into his quilt. "It's okay."

"The pickings will be better tomorrow now that we've crossed onto level ground," she offers as if hopeful promises might fill the void in his gut. "If it were light, I'd go hunt myself." As she presses the heel of her palm into her thigh, she winces.

"Are you hurt?" Solas murmurs, ears perking at the hiss that strains through the gaps in her teeth.

"No, I'm just weary from travel." Her smile is fragile. With a groan, she struggles to her feet. "I think I'll enjoy a quick soak in the river. The cold should curb the pain and get the stench of horse off me."

Rosa reaches for the walking stick beside her bed. Cole watches as it shifts and stretches into her staff, concern written plainly across his features. She mutters a few words and a soft light glows from the opal stone embedded in the staff's crown. Rosa uses it to guide her steps beyond the camp, toward the soft susurrus of running water.

"She's going to be cold," Cole grumbles. "And she hasn't brought her blanket."

"I'm sure she can warm herself with magic. There's no harm in that, surely?" Solas says. He fingers his coarse blanket and peers into the fire, studying the way the flames twist and turn on its bed of leaves, twigs, and bark.

"It's not good for her."

When Solas lumbers into another question, Cole shakes his head preemptively. "Not now. Soon, but not tonight. It's too pretty for sad stories." He glances up into the clear sky. His azure eyes seem white in the light of the moon. "You should go check on her, make sure she's safe," Cole adds abruptly, just as Solas pulls the covers over his chest.

"What? If you're so concerned, why don't you check?"

"Because she doesn't like it when I do that. I tried to once in Skyhold. I thought she drowned. She took such awfully long baths."

"And?"

"And she threw a bar of soap at me and said a lot of things in Elvish. I don't think they were nice things."

Solas chuckles. "I don't need to have stuff thrown at me, Compassion."

"She won't throw anything at you—you've seen her naked lots of times."

The blush that floods his cheeks is raw, hot, and prickly. Solas feels its effects from the hollow of his cheeks up to the tips of his ears. "That's not true!"

"You sound very sure for someone who doesn't remember a lot," Cole challenges.

"Cole," Solas says with as much authority as he can muster, "I'm not going. I'm putting my foot down."

Solas tests the ground with an uncertain touch of his foot. Even with the moon to guide him, the terrain is challenging to navigate. He utters a curse and presses forward, arms hovering on either side to cushion his inevitable fall. His only consolation is that the rush of running water has gotten louder. With any luck—and no bone-breaking tumbles—he should find her soon.

The river that feeds Lake Calenhad appears more suddenly than a river of that size should. Solas stops beside the bank's muddy walls, scarcely avoiding what would have been a painful descent into a plane of brushes and smooth stones. The elf shudders, feeling nothing but air beneath the sole of one shoe. "Cole is trying to get me killed," he grumbles as he presses onward.

The river undulates in a gentle rhythm, shimmering like a kaleidoscope of tiny fish scales. He spots Rosa downriver. She is naked from the waist up, her auburn hair plastered against her pale skin. A jagged network of alabaster scars carves her back into small portions. The scene stirs something within him. It reminds him of his promise.

"In another world."       

Rosa sighs and snakes an arm round her chest. She turns. "Cole, I appreciate the concern, but I'm just—" Her eyes widen in surprise. 

Solas lowers his gaze. "Cole sent me."

He hears her scoff and listens as she wades towards the shore. Her feet come into view first. Solas keeps his head down and sucks in a breath—he does not look up until Rosa tells him to.

"You seem preoccupied," she continues as she tightens the drawstring around her trousers. "Was the sight of my back too much for you?"

He gives a wan smile. "No, just… this place is familiar."

"I don't think we've stopped here before."

"I'm aware, but I—" Solas falters. He is unsure whether to continue. The Inquisitor has been prickly at best when it comes to his memories. "It reminds me of..."

Rosa watches him with renewed interest. "You said something when we met," she says after a pause. "You said something that only Solas would know."

He pales. Hazy images manifest in the forefront of his mind: two halla statues, a lake, a full-moon; Rosa's hopeful face crisscrossed with faded tattoos; a whisper of hope and the dull spark of optimism as his lips find hers. And sadness, sudden all-consuming heart-ache; her eyes bright with tears—and words, spoken softly across time and space, issuing a promise made deep within his heart.

"In another world," he whispers.

She nods. "Do you remember much of that night?"

"It was the most complete memory I had. But the more I look back, the more I realize how fragmented it is. How incomplete." Solas rubs his neck. "I wish I had known that before I met you. It was… callous of me to speak of things I know nothing about. Without memory, they are empty words."

Rosa strokes the side of his face. The gesture catches him off-guard. "They're not empty."

The moment is fleeting. She pulls away and slips past him to brave the steep knoll of the hill alone. Solas remains by the river a little longer, his thoughts dark with worry.

Chapter Text

It takes them four days to get to the outskirts of Rainesfere—four days of rugged terrain, aching muscles, and stale scraps of food. The first signs of farmland are a welcome sight.

Rosa does not have to look hard to find news of Blackwall. While questioning a young family of brewers, she is overheard by an old man with a crooked jaw and smattering of silver hair. "Young Thom Rainier, d'ya say?" he says, nodding to himself from the comfort of his patio chair. "You've got a long walk ahead of yous. He lives in a big house near the Chantry."

They do not tarry. Egged by the constant ache of their empty bellies, they wade through dirt paths and stumble through tall grain fields for the better part of a day. For the first time since they left Jader, Cole is quiet, pensive, and reserved, preferring to watch his navel or the back of his horse's neck than engage in conversation. Rosa is equally withdrawn, but Solas has come to expect as much.

Eventually, the making of a small hamlet springs into view. Arl Teagan's lands have flourished since the Blight, growing out of Redcliffe's shadow to become a bustling town blessed by long summers and warm rains. Nevertheless, it retains the hallmarks of any rural hub: a strong sense of community and an acute suspicion of strangers. As they trot through the town's center, dozens of eyes watch their every move. It makes Rosa think of the good old days when an elf in any human city begged notice.

A home matching the description of Blackwall's house is found near the Chantry in a quiet part of town far removed from the bazaar, inns, and royal estate. The dirt path curls into the porch of a large, albeit derelict cottage that has seen better days. There are gaps in the roof, broken shutters, and a myriad of chipped paint and plaster, but the house itself is spacious, with two floors and a vibrant garden that is well tended to. Rosa guides the horse down the narrow walkway, mindful of the flowering plants that line it. 

Thom Rainer is there to greet them before they are halfway up the yard, pushing his considerable bulk through a door that is too short and narrow. Rosa softens at the sight of his broad shoulders and trademark beard now black in places, white in others. He squints as they approach. It is only when Cole yells a greeting does he smile.

The moment is short-lived, as Rosa knows it would be. As they tie the horses and approach, the Inquisitor's lively reception is all but ignored. Thom Rainier is looking past her, his face white, eyes widening in shock, horror, and anger. "Maker's tit, who the fuck is that?"

Rosa sits in an uncomfortable wood chair. Blackwall looms over her like some great, rugged bear, watching Solas who waits by the entrance as instructed. The elf's eyes never stray far from the short sword in their host's hands. Only Cole, content to gorges on leftover pheasant, seems unperturbed by the heavy ambiance.

"You better start making sense, Inquisitor," Thom grumbles.

"Trust me, I am as surprised as you are."

"I doubt it." He huffs and sheaths his sword.

"I am sorry I didn't write to you about our arrival. It's been... quite a series of unforeseeable events."

"But it's him, right? I mean," he falters as he studies Solas' hair and young face. "Maker, it's impossible."

"If I might—"

Blackwall fixes Solas in a glower. "Shut it."

Rosa rises from the chair. She rests her hand on the old soldier's chest, pleading for patience. "It is, but it's not him."

"That's helpful."

"He doesn't remember everything. In fact, he barely remembers anything at all."

"So how'd you know it's him? Solas was a grown man—this could be some runty impersonator."

"It's 'im," Cole interjects mid-chew, coral lips glistening with grease.

"The details won't make it any easier to explain. Just… trust us on this one, Thom."

Blackwall scowls and storms past the unlit hearth to his kitchen and back again. He repeats this several times, bushy brows curling and furrowing. Eventually, he makes his way to Solas, stopping inches from his face. "D'you remember me, lad?" he asks.

Solas backs away and gives a timid nod. "Partially."

"Awlright. Tell me something you remember about me from before."

Solas doesn't answer immediately. "You… used to yell at recruits," he offers. "You said it was the only way they'd learn."

Thom snorts and looks away. "You said that, actually." He glances at Rosa. "Did you tell him?"

"No. Cole says we can't. It won't help him remember."

"And do you want him to remember?" he challenges. Blackwall's face is tight, his gaze steady. "Do we want this nut to remember what he tried to do—what he almost did?"

"Blackwall." Rosa's tone is sharp. Commanding. It has the desired effect.

He shuffles past the Inquisitor and throws his bulk into the small seat in front of her. "It's just Thom now." For a moment, he looks his years, hunched over his folded legs, head sagging between his shoulders. "Tell me one thing."

"Ask away."

"Did you do this?"

Rosa stiffens at the question. "No."

"What if what you did before—"

"It didn't work, Thom. And I couldn't try it again even if I wanted to." She leans over, pats his leg, and offers him a friendly smile. "Promise."

Cole's sudden burp echoes across the room. Rosa and their host look over. He points at the collection of bones on his porcelain plate. "Sorry… is there anymore?"

Chapter Text

The tavern bustles with witless boys and round-bellied men enjoying themselves after a hard day on the fields.

The village's perception of the newcomers improves, morphing from suspicion into curiosity. Thom, who appears to know each of the tavern-goers by name, greets them with hearty hellos and the occasional embrace. A few brave souls are inquisitive enough to find out more about Thom's strange visitors.

Their story is simple: Rosa is an old colleague from the Free Marches. They met on the road a little under ten years ago and worked together to bring relief to those impacted by the Breach. Cole is a friend of a friend, a healer, an occasional poet, and tag-along. Solas ends up as the child of an affair in Rosa's family, with Thom insinuating loudly and often that his mother was a whore.

Gossip spreads quickly. Soon, the tavern is well-adjusted to its new company, and go about the business of drinking and flirting with busty barmaids. Cole finds a new bosom buddy in a wandering bard, a young lad with auburn hair and freckled cheeks, and lashes so light they are barely visible. While the children play, Thom and Rosa keep to themselves, watching Solas and Cole like a pair of weary parents.

"Give him a chance, Thom," Rosa says, straining to make herself heard over the commotion.

Solas sits alone at the bar, observing the crowd from behind the rim of his mug. A voluptuous barmaid does her best to catch his gaze, sauntering too and fro to collect her next tray of drinks. Solas' attempt to appear nonchalant is admirable; however, his rouged ears and wandering gaze give him away.

"Hmm," Thom smacks his lips and wipes away the froth that collects on his mustache. The alcohol has mellowed his mood, as has watching Solas for the past few hours. "He's different, isn't he?" he admits, blue eyes following the elf's awkward movements as he tries to adjust his rear on his high stool.

"He is… young, I suppose."

Her tone of admiration does not go unnoticed.

"Oh, Rosa," Thom scoffs.

"What?"

"A woman of your years—"

She silences him by shoving the nub of her arm against his rib cage. It does little to quell his laughter.

"Behave, Blackwall."

"Shh, don't use that name here."

"Then behave," she warns him again.

"I'm just saying. A… lady of your experience will eat the poor lad alive. He's as nervous as a Chantry girl."

"Hah, perhaps."

Rosa watches Solas with renewed interest and thinks back to the moment of their meeting—the timid touches and narrowed eyes, the weight of his unwavering gaze. Perhaps…

"I—erm—I'm sorry about not coming to Skyhold. Cassandra wrote."

"Don't worry. I know why you didn't come," Rosa says, lips curing into a secretive smile.

Thom lowers his gaze. "Was she well?"

"Josephine? Very. And as beautiful as ever."

"Oh, rub it in why don't you."

"She would have liked to have seen you."

"Aye. But it's an unnecessary heartache."

"I understand."

He rumbles to his feet and points at the bar. "C'mon then, enough reminiscing. Let's get more ale. I want to test something."

"I don't like the sound of that."

"Relax. I'm just going to offer the lad a chance to play some Diamondback with an old codger like me."

Rosa rubs her arm and waits for Blackwall to unlock the door. She groans when he drunkenly misses the lock for the fourth time. Cole giggles and slumps into Solas' shoulder. The pair stagger together like stalks of wheat in the breeze.

"I can't believe you beat me," Blackwall says to the door, his red face contorting with surprise. "After one game."

"Beginner's luck?" Solas says with a pleased chuckle.

"And the next five times?"

"Elven luck?" He smiles.

Blackwall manages to open the door. "Boys, you're upstairs. Rooms not too tidy, but it'll do. Rosa, you've got downstairs."

"Thank you, Thom. For the food and lodging," she says cordially. Her cheeks are warm, and her teeth feel fuzzy. "Cole, can you escort Solas to bed?"

Cole blinks up at her in confusion. "I miss Mary's pillows, Rosa. Solas doesn't have nice ones. It makes me sad."

"Oh, for—Solas, can you escort Cole to bed, please?"

"As you wish," the elf replies with a wry smile, torso bent in an elegant bow. Rosa shoes them away and watches as they navigate the tall staircase to their room.

Blackwall reclines into what she assumes is his favorite chair—a throne of padded dark leather creased from use. He wiggles a decanter of amber liquid and two small glasses.

"A word, Inquisitor?"

Rosa squints. The whiskey burns. She bites the inside of her cheek to mask her grimace.

"It's an acquired taste," Thom chortles, reclining into his chair. A fire burns in the hearth. He watches the flames with heavy-lidded eyes. "I've been thinking about what you told me—spirit things aside," he begins, "and wanted to ask what your next move is."

"Helping him recover his memories. Cole… thinks they can be found in places, in people, and in the Fade. We've tried the latter. It helped, somewhat, but he doesn't remember his distant past or much of what happened after the Breach."

"And Skyhold?"

She smiles. "Parts. Enough. Without the notion of why he was there."

"Then it's meaningless," he says with a snort. He takes another shot and hisses. "What about," he flicks his hand back and forth between them. "You know—your relationship."

"He remembers."

"And how do you feel about that?"

Rosa shrugs, ignoring the uptick in her pulse. "I'm… managing. It's a lot, sometimes," she admits.

"Naturally."

The floorboards creak. Cole's complaints are indistinct. Solas replies with something unintelligible.

"You've got to be careful," Blackwall warns. "Regardless of how he is now, he is still him." He stands with a groan and walks towards the dining table, placing the decanter and glass down with a thud. "'Ave you considered not helping him get his memories back?"

She swallows. The alcohol has left her throat intolerably dry. "What?"

"It might be kinder. Safer."

"I—" Rosa knows what he's insinuating. It has crossed her thoughts. She has dwelled on it during supper, on the road, while Cole rambles. It's the whisper in the back of her mind, the doubt that claws at her chest, the shard that cuts when he smiles.

What if he tries to bring down the veil again?

"It's wrong to deny him a past, Thom."

He huffs and folds his arms. "I'm just saying you should consider it. He's a sweet lad now, but if he finds out what he did, what he's done—what you did to him, for him, I—"

"Please," Rosa says weakly, "I don't want to consider the past, not now."

Thom walks towards her with measured steps. He pats the top of her head and strokes her hair with a calloused hand. His touch is soft—familiar. It reminds her of then: an easier time, where meaningless kisses in a run-down stable was a sufficient balm for heartbreak, for the pain of abandonment. Rosa eases into his touch and closes her eyes, and for a moment, just a moment, there is peace.

"If you had to do it again… if you had to, could you?"

"No," she murmurs. "I couldn't."

Solas watches from the top of the stairs, turning only when Rosa rises from her seat. The two embrace, a sight fragmented by the planks of wood that block his view.

He creeps back to his room and closes the door as gently as his shaking hands can muster.

Chapter Text

They depart before noon the next day. Blackwall ensures they are well supplied, filling  their bags with bread, biscuits, jams, and a canister of whiskey. He shares a private word with each of them and helps them saddle their horses. 

It takes all her strength to nudge her horse down the dirt path. It would be so much easier to stay—to take off her traveling clothes and lounge by a warm fire, even if only for a little while. There is peace here—acceptance. 

As they weave through the hamlet, Rosa wonders how different her life might have been had stayed with Thom—if she had pursued him instead of clinging to the memory of lost love. Perhaps she would be here now, tending to the herbs in his garden, listening to the echoes of their children's laughter from behind shuttered windows. She shakes her head and suppresses a grin. A foolish daydream, logic warns, tempering the unexpected musing of her heart. 

"You seem to be in a good mood," Solas remarks, fingers flexing around her waist. 

"Do I?"

"You tense when you smile."

His observation makes her self-conscious. She stiffens and sits a little higher in her saddle.  "I suppose I am."

"It was nice to see Blackwall," Cole says as he dusts the crumbs from his trousers. "Even if he is more white than black now."

"Perhaps you would like to stay longer?" Solas' tone is clipped, bordering on sarcastic. 

It sends a shiver up her spine. For a moment, Solas sounds like he used to, jaded, all-knowing, and unimpressed. It's the voice of a man that has seen it all, done it all, who admonishes her when she's hotheaded, who answers her enthusiasm for Dalish culture with dismissal. 

"No," Cole answers, weighing-in when Rosa does not. "I prefer Redcliffe, the water is prettier."   

Neither elf deigns him with a reply.

The first day of travel is awkward and punctuated by long silences. They keep near the fringes of Lake Calenhad, following the beaten path through rugged terrain peppered with jagged rocks and steep slopes. On the road, they cross paths with a handful of travelers: a middle-aged dwarven merchant with two mules loaded with canvas sacks, a family of shems, and a suspicious-looking elf with a walking stick much like Rosa's own. 

Exchanges between the three, if any, are brief, but even that is a welcome relief from Solas' abrupt melancholy. Despite their best efforts, he is silent during conversations, and unwilling to string together more than a few syllables  in response to their questions. Rosa gives up by evening. Cole is unshakable in his resolve, and engages with what is essentially a brick wall until sunset.

The second day brings little else except the promise of Redcliffe by nightfall. It is noon when Rosa stops the horse and listens, ears twitching like a wary deer on an open plain.

"What is it?" Solas says hoarsely, peering over the knolls and hills into a dense wall of forest.

"Stay," Rosa says, descending from her mount before stalking towards the glade, leaving Cole and Solas to watch in bewilderment. 

"Maybe she found something to eat?" Cole suggests as he dismounts. 

Solas shakes his head and concentrates. When the wind settles, he hears it—the rumble of laughter, song, and string. "I can hear something." 

Cole nods and leads his horse towards his. "Maybe they are Rosa's people." When Solas shoots him a confused look, he adds, "Dalish." 

"Do you think she will be gone long?" 

"Who can say. Just to be safe, perhaps you should go with her."

"Fenedhis, Cole! Not this again." 

The spirit shrugs innocently and offers his hand. "I'll watch the horses." 

The Dalish encampment is easy to find. Half a kilometre from the shore in a stone valley protected by thick trees and sweeping hills, Solas spots the fin of an aravel. Near a campfire dotted with blackened pebbles and white ash, stands a congregation of elves. Some are dancing while others watch from the sidelines. Many are deep in conversation, straining to be heard over the dulcet tones of an instrument unknown to Solas. He spots Rosa by the mouth of the valley. She stands awkwardly, observing them like a child left out from play. 

A cold snap winds up his hands, making them clammy with sweat. As he studies their distant faces, the thin sprawls of ink across their cheeks, lips and brows blur. 

He hears the crunch of leaves beneath his knees. Coarse bark splinters along his palm as he grapples for something to cling to. There is pain, brief and sharp, and fleeting.

And then nothing. 

He is here again, in this place of night and moonlight and seclusion. Rosa is unmade by his words, her young face contorted in disbelief, rage, and sadness. He watches her expression with pity and hates himself for revealing such an unnecessary truth. 

"If you like, I know a spell," he hears himself say, feels dry lips part to make way for heavy words. "I can remove the vallaslin."

"Ver a vallaslin ve." 

The old man touches his face. He kneels on the stone ground and raises his head, revealing a faded vallaslin and the dimpled skin of burn flesh. A mob of onlookers watches the scene unfold behind him, their faces hidden beneath deep cowls and thick shadows.

Solas cups the man’s cheeks and wipes away the tears that collect over his thumbs. 

The vallaslin glows.

"What ails him?" someone asks. The voice is deep but distinctly female. Solas cannot move or see but can hear the rumble of nervous chatter. A hand flattens against the side of his head and slips through his hair. He recognizes Rosa's touch by the feel of her small fingers. 

"I shouldn't have left him," Rosa whispers. "He could have gotten hurt—I should have—"

"Ea atish, da'len," the other consoles, "he is fine." 

Blackwall looks over again.

Solas sighs and braces for the inevitable conversation. 

"You haven't said much to me since... well, you know," Blackwall, now Thom, says with downcast eyes. 

The elf feels disappointment wedge in his gut. He shouldn't indulge him, but he can't help himself. 

"There is little to say. I assumed we were alike. We'd seen war, knew its terrible costs but understood that it was necessary. But there was nothing necessary in what you did. You did not survive death and destruction. You sowed them. To feed your own desires."

"I know that. I see it every time I look in a mirror. I try to make up for it."

"By wearing another's skin. You ran away rather than face what you had done. You wasted your time." Solas regrets the words as soon as they’re said. They are words spoken in anger—anger that has nothing to do with Blackwall's circumstance. 

The inquisitor looks over her shoulder. Her eyes are soft with pity. What vestiges of hate remain seeps out of him, leaving him cold and weary. He never wants to see her look at him like that, but it is only a matter of time… 

Solas stirs. The dull ache in his knees rouses him from his sleep faster than he would like. 

"Were you in an alienage, da'len?" a woman asks. 

Rosa adjusts her legs. Her warm back press against his thigh. "In Montsimmard, for a time," she answers carefully. 

"I am surprised, child. Not many city elves are so well-versed in our customs."

"I've always admired the Dalish way of life. I suppose that's what drew me to the camp. The song I heard is usually sung at weddings, or so I'm told."

"Well-versed indeed," she repeats, equal parts impressed and suspicious. "My First has been wed. May her marriage be long and happy, Sylaise willing." 

The sound of someone approaching curtails their conversation.

“Cole,” Rosa begins softly, “how are the horses?”  

“Happy,” the spirit says. He swivels on his heels to address the Keeper. “Thank you for feeding them. I think they like the food the halla have."

"Sathem lasa halani—it was no issue, young one." 

"Ma serannas, ha'len," Rosa adds. Her sincerity is piercing. Solas has not heard her sound so earnest, so genuine. "I am sorry my curiosity ruined such a happy moment for your family."

"Nonsense! If anything, it has given the clan something to talk about." 

As Solas prepares to reenter the world of the living, another pair of footsteps gravitates towards them. 

"'Ere we go. I've traded in for some of those herbs Keeper Aisleva suggested for the lad." 

Solas forgets himself at the familiar tone, eyelids snapping open in alarm. Above him, Blackwall's thick beard blocks his view. 

"For f—what is he doing here?" 

Cole, Rosa, Blackwall, and Keeper Aisleva jump in surprise. 

Chapter Text

Solas doesn't join them for supper, preferring to lie on Keep Aisleva's makeshift bed and eavesdrop on their conversations from afar. Much to his annoyance, they seem to be having a good time. 

Rosa has spoken more in the last few hours than she has in the past two weeks, chirping away to the hunters, the newlyweds, and the traders, never straying far from the Keeper's side. Thom—to Solas’ infinite annoyance—has acclimatized well, and could be heard  swapping stories with a gaggle of young elves, wowing them with tales of the Deep Roads and High Dragons and other wonders Solas doubts are even real. Cole is his only confidant, flitting between him and the other group like a messenger bird. When the spirit approaches again, Solas pretends to be deeply immersed in the threading of his bedroll. 

"I've brought you some bread," Cole murmurs to his back. "It's sour and fluffy like cake left in the sun. Will you try some?"

He mumbles a no. 

Cole sits next to him all the same, unmoved by his performance. "Why didn't you tell Rosa you remembered something?" he asks.  

Solas considers lying but dismisses the thought. Cole is strangely attuned to his fibbing. "It didn't seem like the right time."

"Because of Blackwall?"

"Because we are in a strange encampment with people I don't know."

Thom claps his hands and bellows, imitating the roar, with some accuracy, of an angry bear. 

Solas tenses and folds his arms close to his body. "And yes, Blackwall," he grumbles. "What is he even doing here?"

"He told Rosa he wanted to ride with us to Redcliffe. To 'ease his worries' and pick up some goods from the market." 

"What worries? That I might attack the Inquisitor like some rabid dog?"

"Wolf," Cole supplements to no clear end. "You should be happy he came. Who knows how long you would have been lying in the dirt. Rosa had no idea you fell." 

"I didn't fall, I—" The shallow cuts in his knees seem to ache in protest. "I fell asleep standing up."

"You shouldn't get into the habit of doing that. Beds are much nicer."

When Solas swears under his breath, Cole comforts him with a hand on his shoulder. "Turn around," he says, "I want to show you something."

He does as he is bid and rolls to face the camp. 

Cole points to Rosa. She is sat by the fire, engrossed in whatever the Keeper tells her; full lips etched into a smile that slackens only to chuckle. Blackwall looks up each time she laughs, eyes focused as if to capture each instance with a glance. 

"Are you not scared Thom will try and take her for himself?" 

"No." Solas is too quick with his denial, too brusque. The tone doesn't match his look of dejection or lessen the worry-line that forms between his brows. He pulls at the frayed threads of linen beneath his fingers over and over, plucking and peeling and unraveling until the spot is thin and bare. His apathy does not go unpunished  

Cole cups his jaw in a grip that is too tight for comfort and coaxes his face upwards. His icy blue eyes are wide and searching, peering into his mind as if to pluck the seed of his melancholy from his heart. For the first time, Solas can see the spirit within, taste the ethereal note of his existence burning inside a prison of flesh and bone. 

"You should be, Solas,” he says quietly. Cole’s disappointment ebbs; the hand on Solas’ face falls. "I'm going to sit with Rosa—you should try to get some rest. We'll be leaving before dawn."  

Solas wakes with a pat on his back. The sky overhead is purple on the horizon with tendrils of orange peeking through the trees. Twittering birds herald a new day from hidden nests buried in the canopy. 

"How are you feeling?" Rosa whispers as he sits up. The camp is quiet, save for Blackwall's rolling snore and the grunts of grazing halla. 

"Better, thank you," he responds, evading her gaze. She watches him hungrily, eyes darting like two beads across her face. Her concern shames him, and puts into perspective how unnecessarily reserved he has been—how untoward. She deserves more than his resentment, and yet, he can't let go of his ire or shake the thorn of inadequacy that has taken root in his heart. 

Rosa steps away, sensing his discomfort. "If you don't want to tell me what happened, at least confide in Cole. I'm sure he can help."

He nods and watches as she takes turns waking Cole and Blackwall. While she and Thom whisper amongst themselves, Solas readies the horses and pretends not to hear her giggle at his jokes. 

They reach Redcliffe's city gates by sunset, just in time to see merchants dismantling their stalls and throngs of fishermen docking in the harbor. The town is much larger than Rosa remembers, with apartments, houses, and shops crammed onto the hills around Lake Calenhad. The only constant is Redcliffe Castle, which lords over the land with its spires of red brick and tall, uneven walls. 

After being on the road, the sight of so many Fereldens is jarring. Unlike the Dalish, with their soft words and musical cadence, the descent through the village center is marked by guffaws of laughter, shouting, and the crass jokes of the common folk. 

"I didn't realize how busy it'd be," Thom remarks, trotting up beside Rosa. "I'd become quite accustomed to sleepy Rainsfere." 

"It's different," she agrees with a weak smile. She can feel Solas' eyes on her, as they have been for most of the trip, burrowing into the back of her skull. He's been withdrawn since they left Rainsfere—distant. She mulls over the possibility of him remembering something, of having recollections of some dark past she is not privy to. Any questions asked are deflected, any opportunities to discuss his feelings wasted on polite conversation and small talk.

"Yer doing that thing you do," Blackwall says as he dismounts. When Rosa blinks back at him in confusion, he knots his brows and grimaces in imitation. "When you're thousands of miles away—the Pensive Inquisitor, I call it."  

"You've named my expression?"

"Only a few of them." 

Solas and Cole lead their horses to the tying pole. Rosa stifles her laughter as they pass, a reflex she does not anticipate.   

"Cole mentioned the Gull and Lantern usually have boarding," Solas announces. "How many rooms should we ask for?" 

It's a strange thing for a grown woman with no love for prudishness to get riled up at such a simple question, but she does. "Three," she replies a little too sharply. 

Solas' lips curl into a semblance of a smile—his first in three days. "I'll make the necessary arrangements." 

"Excellent—that might give me enough time to find an ol' friend of mine before he closes shop. Makes the best smoked herring this side of Thedas." Blackwall turns to Rosa expectantly. "Care to join me for the walk, Inquisitor?"

The question catches her off-guard. "I—umm," she fumbles and looks at Cole for answers as if she might deign the right course of action from his face. He simply stares, blue eyes veiled behind wisps of hair. 

Solas is already half-way up the steps, head bowed, shoulders slumped. Pain gnaws at her as she watches him. There is something terribly familiar about his gait, the curve of his neck, the slope of his back. It is a sight she has seen too often—the back of a man she loves as he turns away.

Finally, Rosa nods, signing for Thom to lead the way. "I'd love to."

They return to the tavern later than intended. 

The trip to the docks is short, no more than a ten-minute walk from the horses, but Thom's man is a talker and a true salesman. His shop, which happens to be the living room of his rundown shack, is filled with all manner of smoked and salted fish. Rosa finds herself trying a little bit of everything: salmon, mackerel, whitefish, trout, sprat, and her personal favorite, smoked eel. With infectious enthusiasm, the fisherman explains what wood he uses to enhance each fish's flavor, pointing at stacks of chopped oak, maple, alder, pecan, cherry. With a sheepish smile, he divulges how he once tried using ironbark to no great success.

He quizzes Thom on his life in Rainsfere, asking after his health, work, and relationships, with a not-so-subtle wink in Rosa's direction. And when the pleasantries have run their course, he accosts them brandy, which—to no one's surprise—happens to be an excellent accompaniment to his alder-smoked salmon. 

By the time they make their way back to the Gull and Lantern, Rosa is rosy-cheeked and well-fed with an arm full of wrapped smoked eel to go. They take a moment to appreciate the griffin statue in the middle of the square, a homage to the Hero of Ferelden. As Rosa reads the plaque, straining her eyes to see the embossed words engraved there, Thom chuckles. 

"I call this the Happy Inquisitor," he says, transferring his herring from one hand to the other. 

"An acute observation," she concedes. "Your friend was quite the host."

"A good man. Knows his stuff." 

"I admit, I was a little anxious leaving Cole and Solas behind, but I'm glad I did."

"You're not their mother, Rosa—they're grown boys, they can handle themselves." 

The muffled cries from the tavern are loud, even from a distance. Rosa squints at the small signboard above it. Beside the door is Cole, hands clenched around the hem of his shirt. He looks up when they approach; Rosa notices he isn't wearing his hat. 

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Rosa murmurs as Cole jogs towards them. 

"Wait," he begs. His cheeks are flushed. Rosa can smell the alcohol on his breath.

"Where is Solas?" Thom asks firmly.

"He's okay, just not himself—he's inside. Don't go in."

"Cole, this is highly suspect," Rosa says. 

"He's not himself," Cole repeats, voice breaking in a high falsetto that smacks of a child caught in some mischief. "He's had a bit to drink. I thought it would help."

"Maker's tit." Thom steps to one side and marches towards the tavern. 

Chapter Text

The tavern is crammed. There are patrons on the floor, along the walls, and every table. Those without seats stand shoulder-to-shoulder like packed sardines, clustering in the alcoves, under the stairs, beside the stacked barrels of wine, or by the counter. Rosa squeezes through the hoard, her small frame shoved this way and that. Blackwall covers the rear. He is the first to spot Solas.

The shade of Fen'Harel sits on the helm of a long table joined by four other people: a hard looking dwarf, an elf, a soldier, and a large woman with blonde hair and dark freckles. An elven barmaid pushes through the throng of onlookers gathered around the table and distributes a round of drinks. When she's done, she slides onto Solas' lap and adjusts the wide-brimmed hat atop his head—Cole’s hat. 

"Well," Blackwall says gruffly, "I take it back—they're not grown-up at all." 

When he motions towards him, Rosa holds him back. "Don't. This isn't your responsibility."

"The hell it isn't." 

"Thom. Please." She nudges his side with her wrapped fish and cracks a smile. "Keep these with you till tomorrow?" 

Blackwall relents with a sigh. "You shouldn't have to deal with this."

"He's my responsibility." She turns to Cole. "Do you have the keys to the rooms?" 

He nods. 

"Go upstairs with Blackwall, unless you want to stay and drink some more?" 

Cole shakes his head and creeps through the crowds to the stairs. Blackwall follows. 

Solas is between games when she finally makes it to the table. 

His companions are angry—all of them—their faces red and furrowed and tight in various displays of grief and disappointment. 

The dwarf is particularly annoyed and utters a foreign curse as he checks his hand. "I swear, boy, if I find out yer cheatin'." 

"I'm not," Solas replies. The barmaid on his lap titters and strokes the back of his neck. She stops as Rosa approaches, eyes narrowed as she watches her slip past the row of onlookers. 

"Solas." 

He stiffens at his name but does not look up from his cards. A pile of silver and copper coins are arranged in a tidy pile beside his drink. 

"Back from your moonlit walk?" He discards a card and picks another. 

"What are you talking about?" His tone surprises her, as does the mild slur of his words.

He doesn't reply. Another card is drawn. Coins are thrown across the table. The dwarf folds in a slew of curses.

Mustering what patience she has left, Rosa strokes his arm and tries her best to ignores the way his escort tightens her fingers around his hair; how she settles into his lap with a roll of her hips. Rosa realizes she hates this girl. It's not something she is prepared to feel—not now, not over this eighteen-year-old wench with crooked teeth and straw hair. Rosa is too old for jealousy, and yet, it has come for her, to claw at her throat with abandon. 

Rosa retrieves her hand and rests it over her stomach. She's trembling. "Don't you think it's time to call it a night?" 

"Why on earth would I do that?" He snorts and pulls the hat over his eyes. Solas reveals his cards. 

The other elf flicks his deck away in disgust. "Dread Wolf take you," he hisses as he throws a small pouch of coins down the table. He almost succeeds in knocking Solas' drink over with it.

"Solas." 

"Vara u'em," he growls, head cocked over one shoulder. She can just about make out the tight line of his lips, his ugly sneer. 

Rosa swallows and turns on her heels before her pained expression gives her away. Over the chorus of laughs and rowdy conversation, the barmaid's giggle of victory rings the loudest. 

It's several hours before the tavern quietens down. Even now, with nothing more than the low murmur of a few remaining drunks, Rosa can't sleep. She snuggles into the bed and blinks at the wallpaper. Slivers of moonlight stream through holes in the small square drapes, illuminating a writing table, melted candle, and her pile of discarded clothes. 

She rolls the wolf's mandible in her hand and sighs. Solas' sneer is clear when she closes her eyes; the barmaid's laugh still rings in her ears.

It hurts.

Pain is something she is intimately familiar with, an old friend that dogs her steps, that never lets go. But this is different. This is irrational. 

Rosa grimaces and thumbs the wolf's canines with gentle strokes. It shouldn't be this easy to hurt her—to be unmade by such childish actions, by a man she barely even knows. 

"He's not even mine," she tells the jaw, tutting to herself. Her pep talk does little to soothe her restless mind, which replay's Solas' scornful look again, and again, and again. Logic dictates that Solas is free to do as he wants, to be who he wants regardless of their history. The love she knew died ten years ago. Reincarnation or not. 

And yet…

She blinks. Tears sting her eyes. Rosa chuckles at her foolishness, at her brittle heart. 

The handle of her door squeaks. Solas slinks inside with heavy footsteps. 

Rosa shoves the mandible under her pillow. "Solas?" she croaks. 

He says nothing for a moment and studies her. His face is dark and indistinguishable in the low light, but Rosa can make out the constant swaying of his arms as he wobbles from foot to foot. 

"Cole… won't let me in," he says. He's still drunk, she notes with some surprise. He stumbles towards the bed, feet thudding against the floorboards. Rosa suppresses the urge to help him and arms herself with the memory of his cold words. 

"Then sleep in Blackwall's room," she murmurs, pulling the covers over her chest. 

He considers it for a moment. When he nods and turns towards the door, Rosa thinks she is rid of him. Instead, he pushes it shut. 

"I don't think he'd like that." 

"That's too bad. Perhaps your new friend will let you stay with her?" 

He responds to her jab with a low chuckle. "I don't feel like getting smacked in the face again."

"Again?" 

"Again." He hobbles to the end of her bed and sits. 

Rosa edges closer, her rage partially forgotten. "Are you hurt?" 

Solas grunts a no. 

"You keep touching your face. If you're hurt, it needs to be tended to." She adjusts the blanket. "Let me see." 

He stares at the floor while she navigates the contours of his temple and forehead. There's swelling above his eyebrow; dry blood pools around a cut below his cheekbone. 

"We should get this cleaned up," she murmurs. 

"I've already washed it." 

"Still." She searches the dark for a candle and points toward the desk beside her discarded clothes. "Pass me my things. I have some balm in my bag. I can dress the wound—" 

"Why?" 

The question catches her off-guard. "It could get infected."

"Why are you trying to help me?" 

Rosa considers the reason in silence. "My clothes, Solas." 

No response. With a groan, Rosa realizes she'll have to do it herself. When she stands, Solas stops her, latching onto her wrist with damp fingers. The cover slips out from under her arms. 

"Solas!"

"What if we don't go," he whispers. "What if we just go back?"

Rosa swallows, her partial nudity forgotten. 

Solas continues to stare at the floor, voicing his concerns to his feet. "What if… I don't want to remember?"

Chapter Text

The blanket lies forgotten on the floor, exposing the Inquisitor to the cold. Rosa is too stunned to do anything but stare at the hand that anchors her in place. 

"Let me clean the cut," she says quietly. 

Solas doesn't let go. "Perhaps it's better this way," he continues. "You don't want me to remember—no one does."

"I do. Cole does," she says, but her words are hollow, half-truths with no certainty behind them. They are sentiments she thinks he wants to hear—that she wants to believe. 

"You doubt yourself. I don't blame you."

"Why are you saying this now?" She wonders what he knows, what he's heard. "Did you remember your past? When you fell, did you—"

"No, it has nothing to do with that." 

Time passes. Neither moves. Rosa feels a chill creep up her spine.

Solas senses her discomfort and let's go. Finally, he looks up, eyes gliding up the floor to her legs, across her waist, and along her breasts before resting on her face. His expression is obscure. "Could this ever be enough? Could I ever be enough as I am?" 

"Solas, you've had a lot to drink. Now's not the time." 

Solas stands. In one swift gesture, he cups her face. "Am I not enough?" His warm breath tickles the end of her nose. 

Rosa peers into his dark, hooded eyes with pity. She can taste his confusion, his despair. "You are not whole… you are… apart from yourself."

"From a part that no one cares for." His fingers climb the curves of her face and the blades of her ears. They slide down her neck, across her collarbones, and down her arms. He recoils when he meets the nub of her elbow. "I did this to you—I took this away." 

"Yes." 

"And this is the man you want to bring back? A man who disfigured you?" 

"It's not about want," she says weakly. Rosa runs her tongue over her lips and swallows. "These are your memories. This is your right." 

"And if I refuse? What then?"

"I… don't know." 

He laughs hoarsely. "Then you do know: me, as I am now, is not enough."

Rosa collects her blanket and shuffles to the bedside table. She returns with a mug of water and forces it into his hand. "Drink this and come to bed," she tells him. 

Solas does as he is told and drinks, and strips out of his traveling clothes with a huff. 

Rosa waits on her side of the mattress and attempts to exercise some control over her pounding heart. What if… I don't want to remember… no, that's impossible! She scowls at the wall. How can he say that? How can he believe the best course of action is ignorance?

But he's not the only one that thinks it, her conscience reminds her. She pictures Thom's weary face, his lapis blue eyes as they reflect the glow of the fire. Better. Safer to forget. But is it right? Is it right to deny a man his past? 

Solas touches her arm, shocking her out of reverie. She rolls onto her back, eyes searching the dark for his countenance. 

"Ir abelas," he murmurs as he hovers over her. The mattress groans as he shifts. 

"If you're apologizing for your behavior today I—" 

"I'm not." 

His lips miss and graze the corners of her mouth. The next attempt finds its mark. Pain flares in her chest at the familiarity of his touch, at the shape of his lips against hers. A broad hand settles on the arc of her hip and guides her body towards his. Protests die in the back of her throat, morphing into unintelligent sounds as his tongue seeks hers. Things are moving too quickly. It's an irrational thought—a nonsensical one—that loses to the weight of memory. Her body remembers and reacts as it would—as it has done so many times before. 

Rosa pushes against his chest. His lips find the hollow of her throat. He mutters into her skin, a wish, a hope, and a question she pretends not to hear. She strokes the soft tufts of hair and disregards the way her core flares with longing. This is not the time. 

Her hand glows dimly. "Sleep, Solas."

Solas' slackens onto her. His head slips into the crook of her neck. Rosa listens to his even breaths and smiles despite the sudden fatigue that washes over her.

"This reminds me of something," she murmurs. A quiet laugh escapes her as she recalls the moment. "Ah—this reminds me of that time…"

Chapter Text

Solas turns the page and gives a hum of approval. Sister Laudine's Manual on Marital Instruction, it seems, wasn't a terrible suggestion after all. He would have to thank Cassandra for her wise recommendation. 

He eyes the diagram of two entwined lovers with almost apathetic interest, thumb hooked on the jut of his lower lip. The Sister's footnote, detailing her own familiarity with the position's effectiveness, ignites a measured chuckle in his throat. As he unfolds his legs and reclines into his chair, Solas realizes—with no deficit of surprise—that he's sporting a rather sad erection. Under the folds of his tunic, it is barely noticeable, but Solas is suddenly profusely aware of the gentle pressure the confines of his trouser provides. 

Really?  He arches a brow and rests the book on the edge of the table. What a millennia of celibacy will do to a man, he muses and turns another page.

The doors of the Great Hall rumbles on its iron hinges. The sound does not phase him. He looks up from the yellow parchment to observe the candle on his desk. Wax frowns over the silver saucer, seeping into the cracks and imperfections of the wood. The flame is dim, barely enough to illuminate the wooden banisters that mark the rotunda's second floor.  

He's been reading longer than he anticipated—long enough for the denizens of Skyhold to be withdrawing from their night of Wicked Grace at Herald's Rest. Solas rubs the sleep from his eyes and considers the benefits of retiring to bed himself.

After one more chapter. 

Solas doesn't see her slip through the open door. It's only when it squeaks shut does he glance up from his book, from the small print that has commanded his focus for the better part of an evening. 

"Inquisitor?"

Rosa intimates with a strained giggle that it is, in fact, her. Bowed over, legs cobbled at the knees, her hands search the walls for purchase. 

Solas holds his breath as she begins a steady strut towards his desk. It is no small feat that she manages the task without falling. 

The Herald of Andraste, Clan Lavellan's Pride, the Leader of the Inquisition… is inordinately drunk. 

Solas closes the volume and slides it unhurriedly across the desk, with as much nonchalance he can muster. "Drinking with Iron Bull again?" he inquires, feigning ignorance.

She shakes her head. Damp tendrils of hair collect around the curve of her jaw, sticking to the contours of her cheeks, nose, and forehead. From her unbuttoned shirt down to her crumpled pants, the Inquisitor is disheveled, unmade, and unashamedly raw. The sight is fitting, cohesive—utterly aligned with her character, the purity of her conviction, and her inability to be anything but  what she is. There is no mask, no subterfuge, no pretext—she approaches a world founded on duplicity with candor, not pretense; love with honesty, not posturing. 

Rosa fingers the desk as she circles to his side, her heavy-lidded eyes concealed behind a line of lashes. "It's Wicked Grace night. You should have come." 

He mouths an 'oh' of dismay. "Apologies, Inquisitor. It must have slipped my mind. I've been… preoccupied."

Since their last conversation on the terrace of the Inquisitor's room, Solas has been diligent in avoiding an audience with her. Skirting war meetings, evading her at camp, diving into meaningless conversations with Varric over the place of future perfect continuous tense in modern literature—Solas has exercised any and every method to curtail their private interactions. Given the team's proclivity for alcohol during 'game night,' he was confident his evening read would proceed uninterrupted. 

"They're still playing," she adds modestly, quads colliding with a gentle thud against the arm of his chair. 

"You decided to retire early?"

Her features fall.

No, not decided. Forced.

Solas laughs, delighting in her pursed lips and flushed face, the way her cheeks puff in ire. "Wicked Grace evokes the art of deception, lethallan. It is not in your nature; everyone in that room is a much better liar than you are."

She pins him with her muddled stare. "And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Is it in your nature?"

He smiles, ignoring the uptick of his pulse. "When necessary."

She nods approvingly and lowers her gaze. They linger on the heavy tome in front of him. Her sudden purr of recognition fills him with dread. "Sister Laudine's Manual on Marital Instruction?" she reads, small white teeth bared in a grin. "You surprise me, Solas."

"A recommendation from Seeker Pentaghast," he says, failing to erase the nervous vibrato from his voice. "A dull read—"

Rosa leans across the chair, her body swimming into view like a ship berthing into harbor. She flips open the book, exposing a collection of women and men in several stages of undress. She turns to him expectantly, her expression smug. "A dull read?"

"I hadn't gotten that far."

When her hand brushes against his trousers, Solas attributes it to clumsiness, her fingers against his inseam a product of inebriety. When her palm thrusts over the bulge of his cock, the elf has run out of excuses for her wandering grasp. 

"It couldn't have been that bad, hahren, if  this  is anything to go by."

"Inquisitor—" Words falter as her legs part, one knee positioned beside his thigh. She steadies herself on his arms while he grips the chair, white-knuckled and motionless like some marble carving of a long-dead king. She mounts him with careful precision. 

Rosa doesn't give him time to formulate a defense, let alone say them. She presses her lips against his, body folding against the curves of his own. He can taste the whiskey on her breath; the robust tang of her desire; the subtle note of her desperation. 

Hands glide along her waist. As her hips begin to roll, slow, teasingly against him, he holds her steady and pulls away.

"Inquisitor," he growls, hoping the title sparks some memory of who she is and what she is doing. He searches her face for some semblance of control, any hint of reservation in those narrowed eyes and parted lips. "We can't."

"Why?" Her muscles tense under his fingers, itching to move, to stir, to grind. 

"For starters, you've probably drunk enough to make a Chantry priest blush."

Her lips curl into a scowl. Hips lift, one body becomes two—hers and his. The sudden absence of pressure brings a furrow to his brow, elicits a quiet hiss from his lips. 

"You don't want to?" 

"I never said that." 

"Good." Rosa presses against him more urgently than before, the makings of a moan smothered between clenched teeth as she rocks against his length in a gentle rhythm. 

Up, down, up, down. 

Her arms wander from the chair to his chest, grasping at the loose fabric of tunic and the wolf mandible around his neck. She pulls at it, luring his face towards her to plant a chaste kiss on his lips, his nose, his cheek, a trail that takes her to the blade of his ear.

"Please," she murmurs. "Please, vhenan."

It's his undoing, the final cut that unravels the threads of his restraint. He's not strong enough to deny her, to do what must be done—should be done. He can't—not when she begs, breath hot, sweet, wanton against his flesh. 

Hips rise, meeting her downward stroke. The motion startles her, sapping the strength from her arms, wrecking her careful tempo.   

Down, down, up, down, down, up. 

When she buckles, he laughs, and when a moan hitches in her chest, he laces his fingers through her hair and pulls, exposing the hollows of her throat to his lips. 

"Quiet, vhenan," Solas whispers into her collarbone, tongue lapping at the thin sheen of salt, sweat, and smoke that collects on her skin. "You don't want to wake the birds." 

He holds her there and dictates the rhythm, rutting against her trembling thighs, silencing her gasps with his mouth. Solas can't help but smile at her sensitivity, at the way her body shudders with each thrust. She responds to so little with so much, jerking against him when he sucks the tender spot beneath her jaw, sighing as he paws the supple arc of her backside. 

Solas knows she is getting close—can feel it in her quivering legs, in the harsh cadence of her voice, in the way her face contorts in concentration. Her unraveling is beautiful—captivating. Solas loses himself in her expression, in the crease above her brows, in the lips that part, wider and wider and wider. As she nears her climax, Solas slips a hand inside her shirt, exploring the scalding heat of her body for the first time. Her breasts quake against his palm, shuddering with the force of her movements. 

Down, up, down, up, up.   

She is begging for more, for less, in Elvish, Tevene, and everything in between; whispers muffled by the wrist she bites. It takes all of his energy not to cum when she does, watching her eyes darken and lose focus; the stunning architecture of her neck as her head falls to one side.

Rosa slumps into his chest and rests between the crook in his neck. Solas listens to the Inquisitor's uneven breaths and strokes her tangled hair and back. He shifts. There's a dull ache in his lower spine, the early throbbing of a bruise along his pelvis. However, these hurts are nothing compared to the gnawing pain at the base of his cock, the once-sad erection that strains against his trousers, thirsting for the source of the wet heat that pools around his smallclothes.

"Do you feel better, vhenan?" he asks, fingers snagging on the knots in her hair. When she doesn't reply, Solas gives her a gentle nudge. Only when the rush of blood in his ears dies down does he finally hear her snores.

Chapter Text

She wakes with a smile on her face, the remnants of a laugh on her lips.

Dawn crests on the horizon, filling the room with a purple light. Outside, Redcliffe is quiet, save for the distant shouts of fishermen.

Rosa rolls onto her side. Solas is unexpectedly close, and peers into her face with wide eyes. It catches her off-guard. "Maker's Breath, Solas," she squeaks, drawing the cover over her neck in alarm.

He struggles to suppress a smile.

Rosa wriggles away to create some distance between them. Solas watches her move, still as a statue. A strawberry bruise has formed over the curve of his cheekbone. Above his eyebrow, the line of a small cut is peppered with dry blood.

"Does it hurt?"

"Less than my headache," Solas says, pressing his fingers into his temple. He looks weary.

She smiles. "Good. Perhaps that's what you deserve."

"I deserve more," he says with a seriousness that jars her. She had not meant for him to take it to heart.

"We were all young once."

"It might sound stupid, but I should probably know better by now."

"Yes and no. You're not yourself—yet."

"Yet." Solas scowls and eases onto his back.

"That's not what I meant—"

"It is," he interrupts, eyes flitting momentarily to her face before settling on the ceiling.

Rosa nestles into her pillow and says nothing because he is right. She had hoped sleep and alcohol would erase Solas' preoccupation with his memories, but his frown and thousand-yard stare suggest otherwise.

As they lie in silence, she mulls over how to broach the subject—or whether it is tactful to do so. She has no answers, no solutions; her desires for his memories tainted by self-interest as much as she might claim altruism. Her companions are no better judges. Blackwall thinks one way, Cole thinks another—and Solas…

"You never said where we are going," he murmurs, jolting Rosa from her thoughts. "You mentioned the Hinterlands, but nowhere specific."

"I'm not sure myself." It is the most truthful answer she can give. "I have a general idea of the area."

Solas returns to his previous position and studies her face, unfazed by the distance between them, the narrow bridge of air that separates his nose from hers. After a moment, his eyes soften. "If you think it's best."

"I hope it is."

"Then, we should go."

They stay like that for what feels like an age, until the morning sun smolders behind the thin curtain. Outside their room, there are footsteps. Rosa knows it's Cole by the rhythm of his gait.

Solas' ears twitch as he listens, eyes shifting to one side. The Inquisitor grins as his expression morphs into one of guilt. He is easier to read than before, with expressive brows that quiver and lips that quirk at the slightest emotion. She prefers that about him, his honesty. It makes her question how Solas might have been in his youth—if he had one.

"I best go make amends." Solas heaves himself onto his elbows but goes no further, and stares reluctantly at the sheets.

"Shall I clean the cut before you go?"

"No, best leave it. Thom and Cole might be quicker to forgive an injured man."

As he leaves to collect his things, Rosa averts her gaze, but can't ignore the surge of curiosity that grips her. She allows herself a glance—a peek at his narrow waist and broad shoulders, the elegant arch of his thighs as he slips into his trousers—

Stop, she thinks when she catches herself staring. Despite the prickle of shame that blossoms in her gut, she is driven by something more potent, an urge that swells in her heart with crushing familiarity. They are the feelings of a much younger girl for whom lust and longing came as easily as breathing.

Solas slips into his tunic and sighs. "About last night," he starts, fingers ironing out the wrinkles in his shirt, "I—"

"Your concerns are warranted, Solas," she says quickly, looking everywhere but his face. Rosa is surprised to find her cheeks are hot with color. "I am sorry I did such a poor job of consoling you. In any case, we don't need to discuss it. You were upset, and rightly so."

Her flush does not go unnoticed.

"That's not what I'm talking about." Solas smirks. Thankfully, he does not linger and marches to the door. As it swings shut, Rosa hears his words—a parting gift that cuts across the room like a crisp autumn breeze.

"I have not forgotten the kiss."

Chapter Text

Rosa does not rush her morning routine to give Solas enough time to make amends.

He speaks to Cole first, their low voices humming indistinctly outside her room. The apology seems to be accepted almost instantly—as to be expected from a spirit of compassion. When Solas knocks on Blackwall's door, there is a greeting followed by silence as they retreat inside Thom's quarters.

Once her affairs are in order, Rosa sneaks across the hallway to Thom's room. Cole is already outside, staring hard at the russet wood of the warrior's door. He is dressed in dusty leather trousers and a frilly open shirt most definitely picked out by Mary. His flaxen hair is unkempt and sticks out in a jumble of loose curls.

"Eavesdropping?" Rosa says with fake disapproval.

Cole shakes his bed-head in a no. "Thom was loud. Now Solas is quiet." He looks over with glassy blue eyes rimmed with red. "Perhaps he killed him?"

Her hollow laugh is meant to be comforting, but hearing Cole voice her darkest thoughts throws her off-key. "I'm sure they're fine."

They wait for a time in silence, checking fingernails, their clothes, and hair to pass the minutes.

Suddenly, the door shudders open.

Thom appears first, one hand hidden behind the bale of hair that falls around his neck. His frown twists into a weary smile when he spots them. Behind him, Solas' forlorn expression bobs into view. His eyes are downcast, but there are no new marks or bruises. Lavellan can't suppress her sigh of relief.

"W'ot?" Thom says, shoulders jumping in a shrug. "You worried I'd beat the lad?"

"Never crossed my mind."

"So this morning congregation is just for fun, is it?"

"We should leave. We've wasted enough day," Cole interjects, one hand absentmindedly poised to pull his phantom hat down.

Solas notices and winces. "I'm sorry about your—" He gestures to his own head.

"It's fine. There are plenty of hats in Thedas. I'm sure I'll find another."

The party disperses into their respective rooms. Rosa folds the packets of smoked fish from Blackwall into her bag and leaves to pay the stable with Solas in tow. Cole takes what few possessions he carries and waits patiently by the entrance of the inn. Thom is the last to arrive, sauntering from the Gull and Lantern with a neatly trimmed beard, and a grubby sack thrown over one shoulder.

Thom prepares his horse in silence while Rosa relays the plan: they will take the southern road down through the Hinterlands as far as it will take them. When Cole asks for their destination, Rosa only shrugs and says, 'they'll know when she knows.'

Thom finally speaks up, grunting with the effort to secure his bags to his saddle. "You going to the Kokari Wilds?"

She hesitates before nodding.

"Dangerous place. You sure you're up to the challenge?"

When she looks over her horse, Blackwall's concern is no longer veiled, his pink lips stretched into a deep frown. His gaze pins her. It's easy to know what he wants, what he longs to hear: that they'll be safer if he comes along. Rosa will not ask that of him, though part of her longs for the company.

"We'll manage, Thom. I'll be back in Rainsfere before you know it."

It isn't much, but his shoulders relax a little. He gives a nod and hoists himself onto his horse.

They part ways at the mouth of Redcliffe beside the crossroads. Thom behaves like an old father, bellowing instructions for each of them on how to defend themselves from bandits, and monsters, and beasts. Rosa listens and adds rapt commentary when required. Solas and Cole are silent as statues. When Thom has run out of advice to give, of seeds of wisdom to bestow, he observes them with worry, sowing a private wish for invitation into the fabric of their prolonged silence. Rosa is forced to break it, kicking her horse into a slow trot down the southern road towards the Hinterlands with a soft farewell.

It's some time before Rosa dares look over her shoulder. Behind Cole and Solas, Blackwall and his ebony horse are where she left them, watching from afar.

It's dark. Rosa wonders what time it is, but is soothed by the liberating notion that she doesn't really care at all. She adjusts her head on his shoulder and listens to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. Fingers trace lazy patterns across his abdomen, following lines of muscles to the pointed peak of his hip bones.

Rosa aches. Her insides feel twisted, raw, inflamed, exhausted. She delights in the sensation, the way her clit throbs as she hooks a leg over his, in the small bites around her breasts that chart a path towards her neck.

"Your thoughts are very loud," Solas murmurs.

Her fingers stop and retreat to his chest. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to wake you."

"There are worse ways to wake up." She can hear the smile in his voice. "Royal for your thoughts?"

Rosa bites her lip. "How did you learn how to do all this?"

"This?"

"Tel' enathe," she warns.

Solas is quiet for a long moment, fingers idle on her arm. "I—"

"And please don't tell me this is some ancient wisdom you learned in the Fade."

He gives an uneasy chuckle. Whether from embarrassment or because Rosa foiled his plan, she cannot say. "No. I had a rather robust education. With a girl."

"Does the girl have a name?"

"Andruil."

She snorts. "Did you serve in her bed for a year and a day?"

"Longer, actually."

"Well, praise Andruil for her wise teachings," she giggles, pressing her lips against his ribs.

"I can show you more if you'd like?"

"Hmm?"

Solas clarifies his words with a gesture, rolling over the Inquisitor with a hungry purr.

Rosa cackles as he buries his face into her neck. "For my education, then."

"You're smiling."

Rosa looks across the way. Solas is watching her intently from his saddle. Cole's arms hang on either side of Solas' waist and jiggle with each trot. His head is pressed into the elf's back. If Rosa listens hard enough, she can hear the boy's dry snore.

It's their fourth day of travel. The road has been unadventurous at best. There are no bandits, no traps, no apostates, or possessed Templars—even the bears keep to the trees. Aside from a smattering of rain and the promise of a thunderstorm that never comes, the weather has been pleasant, with crisp afternoon winds and mild fog in the early dawn.

Rosa turns her head to hide her reddening cheeks. She is not quick enough.

"Smiling and blushing? Now I'm doubly curious."

"Hush."

"Won't you tell me what you're daydreaming about?"

"Nothing to concern yourself with," she says, fighting the urge to smirk.

Solas clicks his tongue and urges the horse forward until it's alongside hers. He says nothing—doesn't need to—and delights in the awkwardness that pools between them, in the way Rosa grasps the reins of her mount a little tighter.

Travel aches and woes aside, the journey has been enjoyable. Solas is more himself, and Rosa, less guarded. While Cole dips in and out of consciousness, sleeping whenever he can, the elves make-do with each other's company. Solas quizzes her on the past ten years, on life after the Inquisition, and of the current social climate of those in Thedas. She is happy to oblige and rambles on about the growing acceptance of elves, the strong trades between Orlais and Ferelden, and the ever-changing reforms of a less mage-orientated Tevinter. In these moments, these happy exchanges, Rosa can't ignore how her heart flutters when he laughs, how her stomach tightens when he guides his horse close to hers. Breaking for lunch or to make camp is always a nervous affair that makes her realize how out of practice she is in love. Solas accompanies her everywhere, in all of her duties. When she hunts, he follows, when she bathes, he lurks, and when they turn in for the night, he rests his bedroll close to hers.

As they trot past a narrow ravine filled with smooth stones and ancient ruins that have long lost their shape and purpose, Rosa stops and listens. The voices are loud, almost deafening, rasping in unison in a tongue that is more bestial than human.

"Something the matter?" It's a question Solas asks often.

"We're close," she admits and scans the horizon. The mountains in the foreground are tall, dotted with bare and twisted trees and gnarled roots that scar the landscape with finger-like bark.

"I wish you'd tell me how you know."

Cole grunts and stirs. He peeks his head over Solas' shoulder and rubs the sleep from his eyes. "We're close," he murmurs, echoing Rosa. "I can feel something. Old, but young, in a body that doesn't quite fit. It burns."

"Cole?"

"Who is it?" he asks, flaxen hair curling in the soft breeze.

Rosa opens her mouth and closes it just as quickly. She taps her horse's side with a kick, creating some distance between her and the worried spirit at her back. "Let's keep heading. I think the weather might turn."

Chapter Text

It starts to drizzle in the early afternoon. By sunset, it's pouring.

The rain is cold, fierce, and relentless, and blurs the foreground in a veil of mist and water. Huddled beneath a magical barrier, Rosa pants into her sternum. Her horse stops and fidgets nervously as its hooves sink into another patch of sodden earth. 

Behind her, Solas swerves to avoid a deep pool of muck. "Perhaps we should stop—the horses are getting agitated."

"There's nowhere to rest, Solas," she says.

Cole touches the surface of the barrier above him. "It's getting thinner, Rosa." 

She nudges the horse onward, finally succeeding in getting the animal to gallop a short distance away, enough to outrun any further discussion. 

Rosa knows the barrier is thin, that they haven't got much time before the three of them are forced to trek through the Korcari Wilds in the bitter cold rain. She dips her chin and brushes away the sweat that accumulates there. There's no mistaking what's coming. She feels it in her aching knees and shallow breaths. Everything is fuzzy, too light, and too heavy all at once; the magic will turn on her, as it always does. 

"I think we are getting closer," she yells, a lie she hopes will fuel her resolve as much as theirs. Staring into a clearing of sparse trees and small hills, Rosa can't silence her thoughts of doubt. The land is barren, devoid of anything: no birds, no animals, no shelter. What's more, the voices that had led her thus far are quiet and offer no guidance. 

"You're pale." Solas' voice is close. 

She turns too quickly. The grey landscape swirls into an incongruous mess of shades and colors. Above her, the barrier fades.

"Rosa? Rosa, are you well?" Solas' hand tightens around her shoulder. 

"I'm sorry, the barrier—" 

"It's just rain, don't strain yourself," Cole says. 

Rosa nods. Water streams down her face, collecting in her hair, soaking through her clothes. What little warmth remains leaves her body. Her teeth chatter, her fingers shake, and suddenly, she is all too tired for this—too tired to find a solution, to weather the storm. 

Solas' voice shifts between distant and close, his words muffled by rain and thunder. There's a shuffle, a stamp of hooves—a patch of mud flung on her ankles—and heat. It takes Rosa a minute recognize the feel of someone behind her, of the strange shape of another's body at her back.

Solas slips the reins from her grasp. "She's freezing, Cole," he murmurs into her hair, jaw pressed against the side of her face. 

"I told her not to. The magic hurts. She pushed it for too long." 

"We need to get her somewhere dry." Solas' fingers brush her forehead. "Where now, Rosa? Tell us." 

They move forward aimlessly for an age. Rosa is too tired to answer but listens for voices that never come. In the distance, she sees a light, a glimmer of something that tastes like magic, that glitters faintly like dawn on a calm sea. 

"I see something—" 

Cole gallops ahead. 

What do you see, Solas?   Rosa strains to keep her eyes open. As a strange heat creeps up her legs and into her chest, she resigns herself to sleep. 

The sound of rainfall, she thinks as she settles into Solas' chest, is quite soothing.

Solas stands in a black, endless room full of mirrors that stretch for an eternity. He glances from one to the other and hesitates. They are black, lifeless—broken. 

Pale fingers reach out from behind his back to touch the tarnished inlays of gold etched into the frame. The mirror shifts, the plane of glass rippling into an image of a crystal tower hanging above a mountain with snowy peaks. A drone of voices burst forth, in a dialect of Elvhen not known to her. But she can sense their distress, their colored disdain. 

Rosa calls out to him. He doesn't hear her, and falls to his knees. He grasps his head, his ears, his neck. Solas weeps. 

The image in the mirror fades, but the voices remain.  

Rosa sputters and reaches for her nose. The taste of ammonia burns the roof of her mouth. Her hand collides with something hard. There's a thud, a groan of displeasure, and the sound of something small rolling across an uneven floor. 

"Calm yourself, Inquisitor," comes a curt reprimand. Cold fingers catch her flailing wrist in a tight embrace. 

When she manages to open her eyes, she's blinded by the amber glow of candlelight. "Cole? Solas?"

There's a hiss. "So much fuss for so little reason. Your companions are here, safe and sound." The speaker clicks their fingers. "Spirit, your friend is awake. Comfort her, if you please." 

"I'm not a spirit," Cole says dejectedly. Rosa feels his warmth before she sees him. His touch is gentle. 

"I can't see." 

"Ridiculous." A rush of air courses over her face. The harsh light vanishes. "This is the woman who bested an ancient Tevinter Magister? The years have not been kind to you, Inquisitor."

Rosa blinks up at a low ceiling. Withered herbs grey and shriveled with age hang from hooks embedded in warped joists. In front of her, the wall is made up entirely of books, their tattered spines creased from use. Cole sits on her right, on a high chair that squeaks each time he breathes. When he shifts forward, it moans like an old maid. 

"Are you well?"

"What a stupid question, Spirit. Of course she is." 

To her left is a familiar face untouched by time. 

Morrigan, the Witch of the Wilds, twists her lips into what could be called a smile. "You are well, aren't you?"

Chapter Text

The cottage is disappointingly ordinary. There are no animal skulls or cauldrons, no vials of blood, or deformed creatures packed into vinegar jars. Instead of ancient grimoires on the dark arts, tomes of history, art, and politics line the wall. The herbs that hang over the makeshift bedroll in the pantry are nothing exotic; only bunches of basil, garlic, thyme, rosemary, and elfroot. In the fireplace behind them, soup bubbles in a clay pot.

Cole and Solas sit on either side of the front door. Cole's unease is palpable, his hands drumming a rustic tune on his trousers. Solas is composed; quiet, but alert. 

Morrigan guides a cup across the circular table. Rosa holds it to her chest but does not drink.

"You seem disappointed, Inquisitor," Morrigan purrs as she settles into the chair opposite her. She nods at the cup before bringing her own to her lips. "It's not poisoned." 

Rosa frowns and takes a tentative sniff of the brew. "I wasn't expecting you," she says after a moment, regarding the dark-haired woman suspiciously. 

Morrigan is as she remembered her: fair, with bewitching eyes and ebony locks packed high into a messy bun. The elegant Orlesian robes Rosa had become accustomed to her wearing are replaced by a simple, dark dress adorned with long sleeves emblazoned with silver details. 

The witch smiles and toys with the pendant around her neck. "What were you expecting?"

"I'm not sure."

"Tis not polite to lie to your host, Inquisitor," she says in a voice too sickly sweet to be genuine. "You were expecting mother, yes?" 

Rosa watches Solas for any hint of recognition. 

Morrigan chuckles. "Don't worry about him. He hasn't the faintest idea about who I'm referring to." Solas bristles but says nothing, much to the sorceress' amusement. "Which is why you're here."

"I'm here because I was summoned. The voices—"

"Yes, yes, the Well of Sorrows," she interrupts, staring disinterestedly at her nails, thin lips sliding into an abrupt sneer. She doesn't show her disdain for long and rewards Rosa with another smile. "I resented that you kept the Well from me. For some time, in fact. I suppose it does not matter now. Wisdom came to me in a form I did not expect." 

"Morrigan, I am not here to dwell on the past," Rosa begins cautiously. "The voices summoned me here, and I know they are your mother's work. Where is she?"

Another smile. The trinket around Morrigan's neck swings as she rolls back to her feet. She places a hand on her chest, over the gentle curve of her breast. "Here. What's the expression? Those you love never really leave you? Granted, I never did  love her, but she is with me all the same."

Rosa suppresses a shudder, but can't ignore the sense of dread that bubbles in her gut. "What do you mean, Morrigan?"

"That as fate would have it, my part in this was far from over." She turns her head and regards Solas with something like pride. "I know what you seek, Inquisitor, and unless you wish to return from whence you came, I suggest you put aside your suspicions so I might help you."

"May I?" 

Solas slinks away from Morrigan's outstretched fingers, as much as the chair allows. His eyes flit to one side, questioning Rosa with a look. 

She nods her head. "It's alright, Solas."

He sighs and resigns himself to the witch's wandering hands. He grimaces when she pulls and pushes his skin, tugging his ears with such force Rosa worries they might tear off. 

"Fascinating," Morrigan says under her breath. She grasps the tip of his chin and turns his head left and right, up and down, ignoring his mumbled protests. "Remarkable that you chose this appearance despite not having any recollection of your former life. And to manifest in corporeal form—how unusual. Where did you appear?" 

"Jader."

"When?"

"Pride's End." 

She scoffs. "How curious. Do you remember why?"

Solas lowers his gaze and fidgets with the frayed threads of his shirt. 

"Well?"

"I was… drawn  from the Fade."

"By what? Speak frankly. I feel like I'm conversing with an Orlesian politician. Tis unbecoming if you, Solas."

He fixes Rosa with a worried look. It's enough. 

Morrigan chuckles deep in her throat and pulls away. "I see... You think she somehow did it? Or that some connection you once shared was the cause of all this. How positively revolting. And yet, incomplete as you are, you never questioned the validity of your attachment? On these feeble convictions alone, you took form and burst from the Fade?" 

"I have some memories," Solas says defensively, chest puffing with ire. "I remembered Rosa."

"Oh?" Morrigan saunters around the table, circling the pair like a hungry shark. The hem of her dress rasps as she walks. "And what do you remember?" 

"I have no desire to share that with you." 

"Huh. As you wish. Rosa?"

The Inquisitor takes a sip of her cold tea and grunts a yes.

"How much have you told him?"

"I haven't told him anything."

"How very shrewd of you. So, what have you done these past few weeks?" 

Rosa gives a brief account of their travels to Skyhold, their shared dreams, and occasional collapses. Morrigan listens in silence, circling round and round with slow, silent steps. 

"—and the voices led me to you," she finishes, nourishing her dry throat with another sip of tea. 

"His memory is episodic. Interesting. Tis not what I expected." 

"What did you expect?" 

"All or nothing." She stops and thumbs her lower lip. "What you did was intelligent," Morrigan admits after a time. "Retracing your steps without revealing too much was a sensible choice." 

"I wonder about that."

"And what about his magic," she says expectantly, swiveling on her heels to face Rosa. "Did you have time to conduct a study into the basics?" 

The color drains from her face. "Why would I?" 

Morrigan's features twist in a dazzling display of emotion, her lips sagging from a toothy-grin into an uncertain smile, and finally, into a frown. "It's true then," she murmurs, "you have lost your abilities."

"And how would you know anything about that?" she spits. 

"Because if you had even a shred of magical aptitude, you would sense that Solas is brimming with latent magical potential." 

Rosa is red and angry and somehow, irreconcilably embarrassed. As she directs her attention to the table, she feels their eyes on her, their pointless pity weighing on her shoulders like a soggy blanket. 

"I recognized your spiritual fatigue, but I had thought—"

"You thought incorrectly."

"Clearly," Morrigan says gently, narrowed eyes glinting with half-veiled disappointment. "I suppose the rumors are true then. About how you lost... your touch."

"I—"

"What rumors?" Solas interjects, surprising them both. He fixes Morrigan in a stare, ignoring how Rosa's eyes widen in fear, how Cole stammers in protest. 

The Witch of the Wilds folds her arms and smiles a triumphant smile, the smile of a cruel victor for whom winning is the only answer. "Tell me, Solas. How much do you remember about your death?" 

Chapter Text

"My… death?" Solas considers the concept.

Rosa can see him working his way through it as if for the first time. Perhaps it is. Despite mulling over the details of his demise for over ten years, she is suddenly afraid. When Solas looks to her for reassurance, she cannot hold his gaze. 

"Well, well, this should make things quite interesting." 

"Morrigan," Rosa pleads. 

"What?" The Witch blinks slowly, lips parting in surprise. "Solas should know. I am just shocked you didn't tell him yourself."

"We decided there was no point if he didn't remember."

Morrigan's expression is unkind. "Is that what you tell yourself? That it was for his benefit?" 

Rosa wants to dismiss her, to argue. Part of her, a small part, rages with indignation. As a whole, she realizes Morrigan is right—that she took solace in the fact he didn't remember, took shelter behind the notion that only Solas could unmask the truth. In her melancholy, Rosa happens upon another thought, one that briefly overtakes the issue of Solas' death. "You are very well-informed for someone who could not be found for love nor money when the fighting started ten years ago. Did Flemeth keep you abreast?"

"Deflecting? As you wish. I shall indulge you this one time." Morrigan fingers the deep grooves of the table and waits, taking satisfaction in the sea of curious faces hinged on her next few words. "Flemeth is dead and has been for some time now."

"Dead?" Cole squeaks. 

The prospect seems ludicrous—Flemeth, the original Witch of the Wilds; the Woman of Many Years; Asha'bellanar; a person who had lived for centuries and guided history with a steady hand. Nevertheless, Rosa does not suspect her daughter of lying—not about this. "How?"

Morrigan extends a digit towards Solas. The room quiets. 

"I didn't," Solas protests, hands raised as if to ward an incoming attack. "I—"

"But you did. I know. I saw." 

"This is getting ridiculous," Rosa whispers. "What proof do you have?"

Before Morrigan can answer, Solas leaves the table abruptly, backing away from his companions with wide eyes. 

"I haven't killed anyone," he repeats, "I don't even know who she is!"

"Why are you telling him this, Morrigan; he doesn't remember."

"Lower your hackles, Inquisitor, and do not despair—I don't intend to leave the boy in this mental purgatory. You came to retrieve his memories, yes? I will help you recover them."

"You can do that?" Cole and Rosa say in unison. 

Morrigan laughs and tosses the hair from her eyes. "You sound so surprised. Tis the reason why you sought me out, no?"

"I didn't. I thought—" 

"The voices guided you to me. You're here. Now, do you want my help or not?" 

Rosa looks to Solas for confirmation. Still shaken, he nods. 

"Are you sure you can fix this? Can you help him regain his memories?"

Morrigan answers her with a lopsided grin. She stands and gestures for Solas to reclaim his seat. "His memories are not lost, Inquisitor. They are there, waiting in plain sight."

She saunters to the kitchen and reaches for the herbs hung overhead. She shakes one, filling the room with the scent of lavender. "They are locked away inside his mind, waiting to be unraveled." 

Rosa thinks of her vision, of Solas standing in a room full of blank mirrors, and frowns. 

"And fortunately for you, I have the key." 

"What will you do?" Rosa asks, eyebrow cocked. 

"Tis simple, really. Not unlike what you've done with Solas. We will find the place in the Fade where his memories dwell—the ones that shaped his nature; the old sights and thoughts and feelings of a much younger elf." 

"If Solas can't remember them, how can you—"

"He doesn't have to. I remember Inquisitor. I do." 

When Rosa reveals her confusion, Morrigan shakes her head. "I had always thought you were clever. For Fen'Harel to take an interest in you, I knew  you must be. You disappoint me, lethallan." She disappears into another room gated by a warped door hung on rusty hinges. There's shuffling, and the soft rasp of leather. The Witch returns soon after, cradling something to her chest. The elf's heart stops when she notices the familiar shape and color of bone—the wolf's mandible.

Rosa is on her feet before she can stop herself, stumbling towards Morrigan with fearful eyes. Bile wells in her gut and bobbles into her throat. Seeing someone hold that which is most precious to her—her only piece of the past—is too wretched to ignore. Yet, despite her fiery thoughts and visions of vengeance, Rosa moves no further than the table's edge. She stands, suspended in motion, arm mid-swing, foot arched behind her, ready to propel forward. Even her eyes are frozen, watching the sorceress gloating from the doorway. 

"My, my, I thought I sensed something special." She weighs the necklace in her hand and transfers it to the other. She studies it with a fond smile.

"It's so very familiar. Tis a feeling I shall never grow accustomed to—experiencing memories and emotions that were never mine to begin with."

The magic on Rosa lessens, just enough for her to blink her dry eyes and wriggle the tips of her toes. She has felt this magic before—only once before. 

Solas stands. He grasps Rosa's shoulder and tries to move her. She doesn't budge. "Let her go," he barks. 

Morrigan ignores him. "Have you calmed yourself, Inquisitor?" She—thankfully—takes Rosa's silence for acceptance. "Good." The spell ends as abruptly as it starts. 

Rosa falls uneasily on her extended leg with a thud. Her throat feels raw, her body winded—as if she had just endured a steep uphill climb. It takes her a moment to find her voice. "It's you," she says, wiping parched lips with the back of her hand. "You're Mythal." 

Chapter Text

"What do the voices tell you?" she says and smiles a knowing smile, a smile that reveals uniform teeth, the cherry curve of her tongue, the dark tunnel of her throat. It's as if she is inviting her in, daring Rosa to take a look inside the vessel of an elvhen god.

"I don't need to ask."

"How I do love watching one happen upon truth, though in your case, I suppose it's closer to stumbling," Morrigan says.

Rosa cannot help but be curious. Even at a time like this, on the cusp of learning about Solas, unlocking his past, discerning the truth from the lies he parried about like armor, she trembles with the need to know what Morrigan knows, to hear how the witch happened upon Mythal's soul. But now is not the place or the time.

The elf's eyes flit back to the wolf's jaw. "The necklace," Rosa begins demurely, "could I have it back?"

"Ah, yes, the necklace." Morrigan glances down at the object as if she had forgotten its existence. "The wolf's jaw. It was a gift, a token of their friendship, and a symbol of his place in the pantheon." She chuckles and is swept away by memory. "I—she had never thought he would leave a piece of himself here. She never knew how closely he watched."

"A piece?"

"Why, yes. A piece, just a fragment, is all it takes."

"I don't follow."

"I'm not sure how to be any clearer, Inquisitor." She rattles the necklace. "Solas' reappearance, the formula of his resurrection—is this."
When Rosa and Solas exchange puzzled glances, and Cole shuffles noisily in his chair, Morrigan breathes a quiet oh in understanding.

"Of course. You thought it was love that brought him back, didn't you?"

"We didn't know what to think, Morrigan," Rosa sneers.

"There is no need to get angry, Inquisitor. I am merely trying to help you piece together this great mystery."

"And how can you be sure?"

"Because mother, too, cheated death the same way, albeit more successfully, with both her magic and memories intact."

Solas adjusts his weight on the chair but says nothing. He is unnervingly quiet, with tired eyes that blink lifelessly at the wall opposite him. Rosa cannot begin to imagine the depth of his confusion, the frustration of seeing his reality torn apart by simple words. She reaches for his hand beneath the table and entwines her fingers with his.

"I don't expect you to take my word for it, however. Come—it's time you see I speak the truth."

"What? Now?"

"There is no better time than the present."

"We need to prepare—we need time to process this. Solas is—"

But Morrigan is not listening. "Sit."

Rosa remains glued to her chair.

"I warn you, Inquisitor," Morrigan whispers, "you may not like what you see along the way."

Rosa does not have time to ask her to elaborate. The witch caresses the air in a series of gestures, sending a gentle wave of magic across the room. With heavy eyes, Lavellan watches Solas' head nods onto his chin. Behind her, Cole calls her name again and again until all is quiet.

The three of them stand at the Crossroads. Rosa takes a gulp of air and completes a quick circle.

"Cole?" Her voice echoes, traveling for what seems like an eternity in every direction. The uneven pavement feels slippery beneath her leather soles, like moss coated with dew.

"He didn't come," Morrigan says, sounding equal parts surprised and impressed.

"I've seen this place before," Solas murmurs. He takes a step towards a nearby mirror and places a hand on the silver frame. "Where are we?"

Morrigan sighs. "Your mind, or a reflection of it. Or perhaps it is mine—or Rosa's. Who can say?"

"This feels different. More complete."

"Because I'm here, lending my memories to yours, giving it weight, shape, and color."

"My dreams of this place have never been so clear," Solas adds.

Rosa flicks her hand back and forth, whisking the thick mist that hangs over the realm. It smells familiar, like oak porridge and charred meat, and thrums with inert energy. Across the undulating pavement, another eluvian catches her eye. It gleams, its surface shivering with tiny ripples. As she creeps towards it, there is a nervous giggle, the echo of footsteps, the crunch of leaves. A voice tells her to watch her step—her mother's voice.

A hand on her shoulder stops her from edging closer. "Now is not the time," Morrigan warns, fixing the mirror with a cautious glance.

Ringing, like the chime of clinked crystal glass, sounds from where Solas is standing. The elf pulls his hand away from the mirror. A light emanates from it.

"I hear something," he murmurs quietly. "A voice I—"

"Go to it, then," Morrigan encourages.

Solas does not seem to hear her but reaches for the mirror once more. His fingers pierce the surface, slipping through the mercurial plane. It consumes his hand, wrist and climbs up to his forearm, curling over his skin like liquid metal.

"Solas, wait!"

Solas doesn't acknowledge her. He enters the mirror.

"Where did he go?"

Morrigan chuckles and saunters towards the mirror. She slides a finger down the edge of the frame and smiles. "We shall have to see for ourselves. Are you ready, Inquisitor?"

The witch does not wait for an answer. Rosa, clutching her missing arm to her chest, follows.

Chapter Text

She blinks into the Fade, the real one, the one Rosa tries to forget. And yet, despite the familiarity of knowing this place, it is different. The jagged landscape of rock is more organic, less affected by reality. There are less crumbling ruins, no faded statues, or alcoves filled with remnants of a forgotten past. The garish monuments that once lined the warped pavements and walls are nowhere to be seen.

When Rosa scans the heavens for the Black City, its spot is vacant. Empty. Instead, there is an uninterrupted sky where green mist fades into blue. Beyond it, no more than specs on the horizon, are the alabaster shapes and landmarks of a simple civilization buried within a sea of forest. 

"You've come again, Lethallan." 

Rosa swivels on her heels. Behind her, a spirit settles beneath the branches of an old tree. It is white and glows like the full moon on a cloudless day. As it extends what could be called an arm, the outline of its body shimmers. 

"I—"

"I have." 

A figure glides up beside her with silent steps. Tall, hooded, with a ruby cowl that hangs like a shroud over its face, it stops beside Rosa and offers a deep sigh. 

"Have you come to talk?" the spirit asks. 

The visitor pushes back its hood, revealing the dark hair and pointed ears of a middle-aged elf. She smooths the sides of her modest gown and fixes the spirit with a worried look. "I have come to ask." 

The spirit offers something like a scoff. The space around it frizzles in annoyance. "My answer is the same, Lethallan." It turns to leave. 

"I have seen you watching," the she-elf says, the corners of her lips rising into a smirk. "I know you've considered my offer."

"I observe, Lethallan. It is what I do. It is my nature." 

"Yes. Wisdom is curious, about the world, the Fade, its people. But you are hindering yourself—there is only so much one can learn behind the looking glass."

The spirit sways. "You have spun this narrative before," it says quietly. 

The elf reaches out towards him, as if to beckon him close. "I need you, old friend. I need your counsel, your wisdom. I need an ally I can trust." 

"I am here for you, Lethallan. You are always welcome in the Fade." 

They regard one another in silence. The woman nods her head. "I see." 

"I am sorry, Justice," the spirit murmurs. "I do not think I can be of any help."

"Then we are lost, Wisdom." The figure named Justice offers it a weary smile. "Without you—only you—my people are surely lost." 

The whites of the spirit flicker into amber for a moment, the edges of his arms, head, and chest glowing with color. What might have been its heart pulses and then vanishes. 

"Will you come again to talk?" it asks.

Laughter tumbles from the elf's lips. "I will come again to ask, Wisdom." 

The spirit lingers for a moment before returning to its descent down an unmarked path. When Rosa looks round, the elf at her side is gone. 

Rosa follows the spirit for what feels like an age, stalking it through the barren landscape. Though she is lost and has no inkling where her companions might be, she is not afraid. Something about the creatures' presence consoles her.  

As it floats, it murmurs to itself and stops to stare at the sky above at frequent intervals. Occasionally, its white body blossoms with colour, a change that appears to reflect its darkened mood. 

The path forks left and right; up and down. At the top of the steep slope, Morrigan lumbers into view, her gaze fixed on the horizon. Rosa calls out to her. 

"There you are," she sighs and urges her to hurry with a gesture. When she reaches the summit, another eluvian flickers ominously behind her, partially shielded by the hedge of a stone wall. To her surprise, Morrigan is alone. 

"Where's Solas?"

"He's not with you?" The witch's brows arch in surprise and fall just as quickly. "I suppose he's deeper still." Cold fingers reach out to grasp her arm and pull her towards the mirror. 

"Wait!" Rosa flails and looks over the landing towards the lower pathway, searching for her short-lived companion. 

"We don't have time," Morrigan snaps but relinquishes her hold on the elf. She enters the mirror first. Reluctantly, Rosa follows. 

A man and woman stand in small study bereft of valuables. The ceilings are low, its wooden walls composed of thick planks of varying sizes strung together with ropes and plaster and the feeble prayer that it holds. 

The woman takes the man's hand in hers and kneels. "Join me," she whispers and brings the tips of his fingers to her mouth and grazes them with her lips. Her dark hair tumbles over her shoulders, concealing her face from view. 

The man smiles at her obedience and drinks in the sight of her bowed head and curved spine with black eyes rimmed with kohl. The bronze circlet on his head shimmers in the dim light. 

"Join you?" he murmurs, in a resonant voice born deep within his belly. 

"Unite our people. Together we can build something that will last and prosper, for as long as there are stars."

He slips his hand from her gently and adjusts the fur throw across his shoulders. "Why me? You have others in your service already." 

When she does not respond, he chuckles and squats before her. "I've heard from my people that you've been to other tribes. You've enlisted the help of that she-elf to the North, and those mind-addled brothers on the coast." He wets his lips and slips a hand beneath the woman's chin, ushering her face upwards. 

Rosa recognizes her as the elf she had seen in the Fade. 

"Again, I ask: why me?" 

Justice is quiet. Violet eyes scan his face, following the jungle of auburn hair that curls like a lion's mane around his cheeks and jaw. "We need your warriors. Your power. There are others like us, others who braved existence to realize our purpose here beyond the sky. They are allies for now, but I know their hearts, their thirst to rule. When the time comes, there will be war, and I want to ensure my people are on the winning side."

He scoffs and hangs his hands over his bent knees. "These others you speak of, I know of them, too. They are rabble with arid lands and fickle followers. Their magic is weak. Their power ebbs."

"For now, Valor. For now." She cocks her head to one side. "Will you consider my offer?" 

Valor cups her face and traces the curve of her mouth with a heavy thumb. "Elgar'nan," he says softly. "That is my name. I have not been called Valor for many years."

The woman smiles and leans into his touch. "Elgar'nan."

The memory fades like ink diluted with water, and succumbs to indistinction. Behind them, the mirror hums in a warning. Rosa looks round to see that the glass has begun to lose its luster. 

"Morrigan, we have to go.."

Rosa reaches for her and stops. Morrigan continues to stare at the couple, eyes fixed on the hand that curls around the woman's neck, urging her closer. Her fingers tighten around her pendant. They tremble. 

Chapter Text

The entrance to a small temple towers over them. Built into a mountainside, it hides partially concealed beneath the shade of a surrounding forest. A pebbled pathway covered in leaves leads to what appears to be crypt; its dark walls illuminated by blue flames. An old elf with a limp hobbles across the landing, a wooden broom clasped tightly in his hands. He pauses by a silver bowl filled with figurines, brittle wreaths, and oddly shaped coins before returning to his sweeping. 

Solas is not here either, but Rosa is too engrossed by this place to worry. The world feels old. Unfinished. Untouched. It's lacking in places, complete in others, like the lines of a painting yet to be filled in. The air around the forest is dense, laden with magic that might ignite with the smallest spark. It is a world of potential, a world where creation could be realized with a thought. Above them, above the peppering of thin clouds, the green Fade blends into a blue sky. 

"Are these Solas' memories?" Rosa asks, more to herself than anything. She doesn't expect a response from Morrigan, who broods and pouts in a silence that is loud and impossible to ignore, like a thundercloud brewing over a calm sea. Nevertheless, she surprises her with an answer. 

"No," she murmurs, "these are hers—Mythal's." She walks to the mouth of the temple and touches the faded runes engraved in the stone. "This is her place. A place of worship. Where her people came to ask her boon, to beg her favor."

"It's—" Rosa bites back her words. 

"Tis all right, Inquisitor. You do not have to mince words with me. It is only natural to compare this to the one we found in the Arbor Wilds."

"It's quite modest," Rosa finishes with a blush.

"We all must start somewhere, Inquisitor. Even Gods," Morrigan says. "This was a time before the pantheon, before the foundations of any great Elvhen cities were carved into the ground. Magic, reputation, power—these must all be nurtured. Mythal was not born into a flourishing kingdom. This is a time before the wars—before the legends. Before Elgar'nan became the sun and Mythal the mother of Vengeance. They were nothing once. Beings with a purpose that outgrew the bonds of their existence." 

"How can that be true? You—Mythal, Elgar'nan—were the first of our kind," Rosa ventures, trying to mesh the fragments of her Dalish history with Morrigan's admissions. "How can you say that they were nothing when they were everything."

The witch frowns. "Tell me, Inquisitor, what do you know of spirits?" 

She takes a moment to think. Solas' stories come to mind. Morrigan does not wait for an answer. 

"The Chantry would have humans believe that the spirits of the Fade are the first children of the Maker. They were made incomplete, without a soul, and without the power to imagine and create. And so, were discarded and left to wander the Fade while He created another world with new children that closer resembled His image." 

"These are the rambling of a Chantry priest, Morrigan," Rosa notes with no shortage of skepticism. 

She chuckles. "Quite right. Despite what religion and legend state, t'was not spirits that came first, but people. "

"People?" 

"Is it so hard to believe?" Morrigan turns to address her. "You've been to the Fade, have you not? Met spirits and demons in more forms than most. Spirits of Wisdom, Justice. Demons of Pride. What are they but reflections of human virtue and vice? Spirits are echoes, Inquisitor. The dreams of a man longing for knowledge, the cries of a beaten woman who yearns for revenge. They are only concepts. Concepts with the power to take form, but the corruptible constitution to be affected by human perception." 

"I—I don't know enough to say," Rosa admits.

"You don't," Morrigan agrees. "Not that it matters." 

"Then what are the Evanuris if not the Creators?" 

Morrigan gives a hoot of laughter that reminds her of Flemeth. "Ah! Tis their most guarded secret! A lie that runs so deep the very fabric of elven history would crumble if it were ever unearthed..." 

She strolls towards the elf hobbling across the landing and leans over his shoulder. "They are not Gods or the first of your people. They were not even people to begin with," Morrigan says giddily, with the expression and mannerisms of a mischievous imp. "The pantheon of the greatest civilization that ever existed… is ruled by nothing more than a band of liars and impostor; spirits masquerading as Gods." 

The elf ambles on, deaf to her whispers. He scratches his neck and returns to sweeping. Morrigan watches him. Her expression softens, the harsh line of her mouth sloping into a frown that erases all remnants of joy from her face. 

"It was not meant to be this way. Mythal did not want to become a God. She wanted to rule, yes, to serve her people—yes—but not like this. Never like this. One's purpose is too easily twisted in this realm. Funny that the hearts of spirits are not unlike those of men."

From the narrow chest of the old elf, a green wisp slinks out from under his tattered clothes. It floats towards Morrigan, encircles her, once, twice, before disappearing inside the crypt. Morrigan follows it and hums a familiar tune under her breath. 

"Though love I was, your passion's changing fire has forged this spirit into cruel Desire."

Morrigan guides them inside the crypt and down the steep steps that descend into the heart of the earth. The glow of the wisp sheds enough light to mark their way. They reach even ground after a minute of walking, slipping into a long corridor. 

"Where does this lead?" Rosa asks. 

"We shall have to find out, won't we?" 

The wisp bobbles into motion, luring them further in. 

Rosa rubs the nub of her arm and shudders. Ancient magic has seeped into the rocks and stone. She can taste its existence, unique color, and texture more clearly than she has done in years. With an aching heart, Rosa realizes she cannot remember the last time the scent and feel of magic enveloped her so entirely. 

"Did your mages construct this place?" 

"Mages?" Morrigan replies, teasing the word as if its meaning was unknown to her. 

"This place is filled with magic. It's as if the very stones are saturated with it." Rosa knows a magical construct when she feels one. This is not chaotic energy. It has been channeled, processed from thought into form. This aura smacks of spells and ritual, of a motivation to shape and create. 

"What are mages?" 

Rosa groans and rolls her eyes. Morrigan is more like Solas than she realized. 

"Those with magical potential, those with the ability to harness the Fade," she murmurs, giving the best textbook definition she can think of. 

"Correct. More than that, it is a label, a means to distinguish magic users from non-magic users. In the past, there was no need for such names. Magic was not a gift bestowed on the few. Before the veil, ancient elves took to it as easily as breathing—with proper guidance, of course." 

"Solas said the Evanuris were mages," she argues, feet skidding against the floor. The ground starts to slope. 

"A kindness to further your understanding. The Evanuris were the most powerful users with an unprecedented connection to the Fade, but they were not unique in their abilities. With the right instruction, those who followed them were able to craft great wonders and mold the world to their liking." 

"Is that what the Evanuris did? Teach their people?" Rosa growls, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

"I see the trap you wish to set, Inquisitor. The Evanuris did unspeakable things, but that is only a small part of their long history. Elgar'nan did not always burn the eyes of those brave enough to look upon his visage. Falon'Din did not always wage wars for adulation. Before the pantheon, before the Evanuris grew fat with praise and worship, they led their people to greatness."

"In what way?" 

"In the past, Elgar'nan taught his people to fight, to mold metal and fashion armor that could ward off any attack. Andruil built a haven for women who had lost their homes and families. She taught them to hunt, to craft, to defend themselves. She gave them the tools to live in a world without men."

"And Mythal?" 

Morrigan stops. "Mythal loved her people," she says softly. "She cared for them. When the winters were hard, she grew great gardens to feed them. When pestilence ravaged their lands, she showed them which herbs to use to dampen fever and taught them spells to heal fatal hurts. She—" Her voice fades into an echo. "Solas has been here."

"Here? How do you know?"

"I simply do. Come, we might catch him yet." 

The corridor narrows until it is barely wide enough to squeeze through. Morrigan hunches her shoulders and flattens her dress over her hips and eases herself through the channel. The path soon tapers into a small cave. A mirror, as tall as a young child, shimmers green from the glow of the wisp. 

Chapter Text

They return to the front of the temple. Upon closer inspection, Rosa realizes it is the same temple, but not the same time. 

The entrance is as it was with its elegant entablature and faded runes and chipped columns, but the structure behind it is different. Bigger, grander, the dark crypt has grown, its cella expanded into a vast hall large enough to accommodate rows of stone pews. Where there was once darkness, light streams from tall painted windows carved into the walls. At the back of the temple, old offerings are piled high in a bowl beneath a statue of Mythal. 

Morrigan walks into the building with Rosa in-tow. At the foot of the statue is a man. Sprawled on his belly, face planted on the floor, his chest rises with shallow breaths. He mutters to himself, wheezing prayers, wishes, hopes, into the stone. 

"Pay attention, Inquisitor," Morrigan says as she lowers herself onto a pew. "I believe this memory will answer some of your questions."

The temple-goer lifts his head. "Mythal, enansal lanalin. Hartha ma'nuven. Ladana ma'danem dun." Across his face, the mark of a vallaslin carves his forehead with delicate lines.  

Rosa feels her heart thud in recognition, surprise, and confusion. She sees him. Beneath the grey sheet of soot that coats his skin, the sunken eyes, the dry, broken lips; beneath the vallaslin that curls around the contours of his face like an old tree; beneath the stench and weight of despair that oozes from every pore, she sees him. Solas, a shadow of his former self, stares at the statue of Mythal with hopeless eyes. The effort to speak takes its toll. He coughs and splutters—ropes of red drip down his chin. 

"Help him," Rosa says quietly. "Help him, Morrigan, please."

"You cannot change the past, Inquisitor," she replies. "And besides, there are some wounds you cannot heal. You of all people should know that."

"But this is before the Veil. Elves are eternal—this shouldn't happen."

"You are right, it shouldn't. Not all elves are equal, Inquisitor. It is true in our time, as it was true thousands of years ago. For lesser elves, for those of lower castes, immortality is not always and forever. For this one, his short life may have been a blessing."

A sudden breeze throws a spiral of leaves down the room. They swirl around Rosa's feet, filling the cella with a crisp crackle. A tall shadow appears at the entrance. 

Mythal hesitates by the door, studying the elf where he lies. Eventually, she drifts towards him and crouches by his side. 

"Is he dead," a voice asks.

Mythal sighs, her pointed diadem glinting as she shakes her head. "No, not yet, but nearly." 

"Can you help him?"

"No, I cannot."

The leaves swirl, rise, and fall once more. 

"Why has he come here? Where is his family? His people's healers?"

"These are questions I do not have answers for, Wisdom." Mythal rises to her feet. "You can come out. It is safe. Few come here anymore, not since my people began to settle in cities."

The space beside her sizzles and shimmers like a mirage on a hot day. The spirit's hazy outline is soft at first.

"He looks young," the spirit notes curiously. 

"He is young, Wisdom," Mythal corrects. "Too young for such an end."

"Why is this allowed to happen?"

"Because life is harsh and cruel, and I cannot save our people from themselves, from their prejudice and hate."

"He wears your mark."

"He does." 

The spirit's light flares and dims, like candlelight caught in a strong breeze. "He is gone."

"Yes, Wisdom. He is."

The spirit makes a sound like a sob, but when he speaks, his voice is flat, emotionless. "It makes me… sad.  

"Death is sad, Wisdom."

"No, not death. His pain—I could feel it. He reeked of it. Of regret, of unfulfillment. There was so much he wanted to do—to learn. I don't understand." 

"You have a kinship with him," Mythal explains. "His purpose mirrors your own." 

"Kinship," Wisdom repeats, testing the word for itself. 

"It's a powerful emotion to feel a connection to this world and its people." Mythal takes one last look at the body before leaving. "Come. Let us return to the Fade. There is nothing more we can do here."

Wisdom does not follow.

Chapter Text

Rosa thinks she's awake but knows she's sleeping. In this limbo, in this nexus between worlds, she touches thoughts—memories?—that aren't her own. 

He doesn't remember his name, but he remembers home. It is a small town to the north, one that enjoys copper leaves in spring and heavy snows in summer. In autumn, the air is rich with the scent of lavender. 

They keep to themselves, his people, simple folk with simple needs united by bonds of friendship, trust, and respect. There are no leaders there, no hierarchy or castes: only families, beloved elders, and the quiet spirits who descend from the sky to share stories with those who will listen.

He loves his home. He loves the alabaster rocks that pepper the forest; the painted birds that fill the sky with their tweets every morning; the warm rains that lull him to sleep every night. He loves the spirits that visit him in his dreams—who teach him things both new and forgotten. He loves a girl with hair like copper leaves in spring. 

He remembers the day they came—the outsiders. He remembers their marked faces and heavy armor, the crunch of flowers beneath their feet as they march into his village. They tell them what his people already know: there are great lands ruled by great beings that offer protection for fealty. They warn that there is evil at work, other lands and other beings that will engulf the world like a hungry wolf, and all free elves with it. These warriors offer protection at the cost of servitude. But these are simple people with gentle hearts, and the elders do not accept their aid. They have no knowledge of war, no sense for danger, no taste for fear. They do not understand this offer is anything but. 

The outsiders return the next day with flaming swords and metal cages meshed with bars that crackle like lightning. There is no battle. How could there be? Simple people with gentle hearts and spells for broken bones cannot fight. There is no battle, but there is loss. Those they do not kill are herded and chained and piled like fur coats into too-tight containers. Elves in white robes and necks heavy with gold burn the bodies and sing sweet psalms to beings not yet known to him. The spirits leave this place, this sanctuary of simple people with simple ways and gentle hearts, never to return. 

They take weeks to reach their destination. The conquered swear and cry and bleed and piss themselves in their cages, their voices silenced by soldiers with angry scowls and pitiless eyes. Screaming children and sobbing women are ignored, their empty bellies and putrefying wounds overlooked. But when the ground flattens into a cobbled path and trees morphs into high walls, these simple people are shooed out of their cages, bathed in cold water, stripped of their clothes, and branded with ink across their brows. It is the last time he sees her, the girl with copper hair: on her knees, bound and bruised and crying as they carve her pretty face with the sigil of her new master. He reserves a place in his heart for the memory: the smell of her burnt flesh, the pitch of her sobs—these are etched into his soul, ingrained in his memory. 

He is given to a man—a priest—and taken to a large structure surrounded by flowers and lush trees. The priest bellows orders he cannot understand. Their language is different. In a way, it is prettier than his mother-tongue, but there are no pretty words for him. They shake his manacles and lead him like a mule to his pen. There are others like him here—foreigners from distant lands bound in chains. 

He learns quickly. The whip at his back makes sure of that. In this place, they pray to a marble bust of a being carved with giant wings and a pointed crown. They call her Mythal. The priest teaches them words to repeat before her; a mantra all prisoners sing until their throats are raw and swollen. Day after day, he sings and bows and cowers at her feet. It is months before he learns the meaning of the prayer, longer still before he can piece together sounds and syllables to form words of his own. 

Time passes; slowly, quickly. The sun sets and rises. There is prayer, tears, anguish, despair, acceptance. He begins to forget the forest, the sound of laughter, the drone of unseen creatures scampering in the undergrowth. He forgets the color of her smile. The ritual chips away at his soul, a sliver here, a piece there. He feels it in his aching bones, sees it in his sunken cheeks, in the cough that racks his body with pain. Every day he is less of himself. Every day he exists less and less. 

In the end, he forgets his name. They call him girem'len, slave, like all the rest of them. It's the last thing he hears after collapsing on the cold floor, an accompaniment to the boot that slams against his rib cage. He has seen this before a thousand times. Slaves do not live long in this gilded city of tall spires and alabaster walls. The ritual demands a very part of themselves, their essence, thoughts, and feelings—the things that make him, him. He knew this day would come eventually. It does to all girem'lem. 

They take him somewhere—he does not know where—but he thinks he is outside the city's walls. He wakes in a forest of sparse trees framed by speckled mountains. There are others here, at least, there were. White bones bleached by the sun protrude from thorny bushes and wild grass. They remind him of alabaster stones and her laugh—whose laugh?—and a past he has almost forgotten. He crawls before he walks, using branches, twigs, dirt, and vines for purchase. A fleeting sense of relief, of freedom, slips from his heart before it can find a foothold. There is no hope even now. The coming dark will claim what's left of him if the wolves and bears do not see him first. 

There is a temple, like the one he lived in, but older. Forgotten. There are no priests here, no guards, or painted walls. Like him, it is abandoned, left to erode and wither out of sight and out of mind. He makes his way inside and sees her likeness—a terrifying creature with wings and pointed crown. There are offerings here, rotten books, bouquets, coins, clothes, and effigies piled onto a silver platter. Part of him wants to leave, to die away from this forsaken place and its maleficent gods, but the wind is cold, and the walls are welcoming. He crawls to her. The bowl at Mythal's feet has no food or water, nothing to fill the void that eats away at his core. As he looks up at her emotionless face, he is not afraid or sad. Something like anger boils in the pit of his gut and thrums through his veins. He tries to remember who he is, but cannot. He is denied that simple pleasure, the knowledge of who he is. But he remembers his hopes, the dreams of a much younger elf who wished to learn the names of spirits and tame the magic still ripe in this world. He shouts a prayer—the last request of a dying man trapped within an aging temple. 

The feeling swirls and fades. In the back of her mind, Rosa senses a change. The memory shifts slightly, a drop of white in a black sea that transforms into something more. Two becomes one, thought and feeling merge into a mind that is the same, but fundamentally different in a way she cannot fully comprehend.

There's no time to dwell.

Rosa sees a light—it calls to her.  

Chapter Text

They arrive at an auditorium with gilded walls fixed to a high ceiling colored with murals. The scent of burning incense hangs in the air. Rosa stares in wonder, turning on the balls of her feet to marvel at the decor, the marble flooring and grand statues embedded in the alcoves. Crystal lights hover above them, joined by blue wisps floating lazily from one corner of the room to the other. The Inquisitor sniffs the air. It smells of oatmeal and charred meat. 

"This is not Thedas," she says. 

"A good eye—or nose, in your case. However, it is not the Fade either, but in between."

"Like the Crossroads?" 

Morrigan nods. 

"And… you know this place?" Rosa ventures. They begin to walk. Morrigan leads the way. 

"This is home. One of them, at least."

"The Evanuris did not live with their people?"

"They did. They lived in villages and cities, in castles high in the mountains. The greater their power grew, the further they strayed from those that helped them wield it. It's ironic, really. They had all longed to be among 'mortals' once. But as their people's love for them expanded, the Evanuris began to desire the quiet of the Fade, the security of their old home. It also made ruling easier. Being able to draw directly from the Fade helped them grow strong."

Morrigan stops and considers her options. There are great doors to her left and right, front and back. She hums in disappointment and waits for memory to guide her steps. 

"All kings and empresses live apart from their subjects," Rosa says to console herself. "Why should Gods be any different?" 

"Ah—" Morrigan smiles and gestures to the door to her right. "Pardon? Gods ? No, they were not Gods, not yet. We were not even kings or queens."

Rosa pictures the slave's face, the chipped columns of Mythal's temple. "They worshiped Mythal. They erected temples in her name, sacrificed slaves for her favor. How—"

"Patience, Inquisitor. You wish to run before you can walk. There is still much to see. In time, you will understand."

They take another right, a left, and pass through rooms filled with trinkets, sculptures, paintings, gems, and treasures. This "home" Morrigan speaks of is more vault than dwelling. Finally, they enter what Rosa can only liken to a dining hall—a vast dining hall. On an elevated platform in the center of the room is a table long enough to serve 30 people. However, there are only seven chairs—two of which are occupied. 

"Ar tel din aron min, Mythal." A brutish man with auburn hair and bronze skin rims his chalice with a finger. Rosa realizes, with some surprise, it's Elgar'nan. Rosa cannot fathom how much time has passed between one memory and the next, and yet, it puzzles her to how much he has changed. His lithe form has filled out, the handsome hollows of his cheeks full and plump like a babe. The lines around his mouth suggest a fondness for frowning. 

Hidden behind a chair, Mythal places a hand on the table. "Husband, please allow me this," she responds placatingly. "I have worked hard to bring him into the fold."

"We have no need for more lords. We need more followers. More land. Spirits of Wisdom do not win wars." He clears his throat and plays with his embellished cup, pushing it this way and that. "Besides, we already have that cur, Dirthamen. Our people have enough thinkers as is."

"You've just highlighted the problem, vhenan. Dirthamen is many things, but he is no ambassador."

Elgar'nan scoffs. "The old fool is more at ease in his study with his books and ink pots than with his own kind."

"So, you agree? We require assistance."

He groans. "Your desire for diplomacy is admirable, but flawed." He waves a hand over the goblet. It fills with a perfumed liquid Rosa can taste from across the room. "Anaris has never been one to bandy words with an enemy—I doubt that will change any time soon." 

Mythal takes the goblet from his grasp and steals a sip. The drink colors her lips a fine ruby red. "You sound like you admire him. After all this time—"

"He's a man of action," Elgar'nan interrupts, eyes narrowed in warning. "He values power, he and that wretched underling of his, Geldauran. I can not fault him for coveting our strength and influence."

"They are like us. Perhaps, if fate willed it, we would be in their position instead of ours."

"Is that why you continue this charade of peace talks? Some buried guilt and empathy?" He chuckles and polishes the remains of his drink with an appreciative sigh. "What a kind heart you have. It makes you weak."

Mythal's posture changes. Rosa watches as she stiffens in her chair, her hand curling into a fist beneath the table. She fights to keep her tone level. "Unnecessary wars hinder progress, Elgar'nan. Even you can understand that." 

"Unnecessary? Un-necess-ary." He silently considers her words, mulling over his empty cup as if deciding whether to have another glass. "I know you don't believe that, Mythal. You've always been willing to dirty your hands for your followers. A curse here, a hex there."

"When appropriate. War for the sake of it is tasteless."

"Was it not you who united us because of war? Because you knew, eventually, a fight was inevitable?"

"Yes," she concedes. "A battle is inevitable, but if we can prolong the inevitable—perhaps, change their—"

"There is no stopping this, Mythal," he says sharply. "Our enemies will not stop. Hesitation will not stay their hand; stop their armies from growing, their power from amplifying." He sighs and reclines into his chair. Two fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. 

Mythal studies him carefully. "There's something you're not telling me, isn't there? You're frightened." 

He does not want to talk about it—that much is obvious—but Mythal holds him hostage at a glance. 

"There have been… reports from the Tirashan Forest." 

"Their stronghold?"

"Their people have been displaying unusual abilities. Abilities not of this earth, not of the Fade." 

Fear blankets the room. Mythal blinks and waits with bated breath, hand hooked on the pendant around her neck. "Could it be?"

"Perhaps," he says gruffly. "It's too early to tell. The only promising news is that whatever power they've manifested is uncontrollable—at least for now."

Mythal sees an opening for a new angle. She seizes it. 

"Then what we need is time. Talks, negotiation—these things can facilitate that." 

Another scoff bursts from his lips. "There's no winning with you, is there? Very well. Where is he then?" When Mythal fails to answer, he shakes his head. "If my years with you have taught me one thing, wife, is that you prefer to ask forgiveness than permission. If you are asking me about this now, then you've already gone ahead with your scheme. 

"I'll collect him. He's here, in your trophy room."

Mythal rises to her feet. Elgar'nan stops her with a gesture. "Before you do, know this: I will not elevate him to our seat. He will serve our purpose, not lead it." 

She nods in understanding. "He can serve under me."

"No. Give him to Dirthamen. Wisdom should be with his own people." 

Mythal looks ready to protest but swiftly realizes now is not the time for pointless arguments. She has pushed Elgar'nan to his limit, and a tyrant's patience is never assured. 

She returns a few minutes after. A man tails her. It is the boy from the temple, a man Rosa only knows as Solas. 

Elgar'nan lets out a bark of laughter and beckons them both forward. He studies them from the nook of his folded hands. 

"You're not what I expected," he says, eyeing the young elf up and down, taking in his slim build, braided hair, and pale vallaslin. "One of yours?" He turns to Mythal and pins her with a questioning look. Neither makes any attempt to answer. "Of all the forms you could choose to take. What is your name, boy?" 

The elf looks at Mythal hesitantly. She comforts him with a smile. 

"Girem'len," he whispers.

"Slave ? That is what you were, Wisdom." Elgar'nan releases another world-weary sigh and toys with a strand of hair. "What do you call yourself?" 

Shuffling from foot to foot, the spirit who was once Wisdom, once Ggirem'len, considers his options. 

“Solas. My name—is Solas.” 

Elgar’nan beckons them to the table. They take seats on either side of him and speak in low voices. Rosa shudders; she feels someone’s gaze on her. 

By the doorway, where Mythal and her charge entered from, is Solas—her Solas. He is watching her intently with knitted brows and purses lips. His expression softens when their eyes meet. Rosa walks towards him. In a heartbeat, it morphs into a light jog. Morrigan calls her back, but she ignores the warning the witch bellows from across the room.

“Don’t!” 

Rosa grabs his outstretched hand and is enveloped by him; his arms, scent, spirit, words, thoughts, and memories. 

Chapter Text

Dirthamen's castle lies far from the budding cities of Elvhenan, nestled in a valley of snow-tipped mountains where only a small village of disciples have opted to stay. Elgar'nan does not speak highly of Dirthamen or his lifestyle, but then again, Elgar'nan does not speak highly of anyone.

He is wary of our arrival. Mythal lures him from his cavernous home with gentle words, soft whispers, and no shortage of elderberry wine bribes. Dirthamen is small in stature. He conceals thin arms and legs under robes that are two sizes too big. His lined face is sunken, with jowls that shudder at the hint of a smile. Unlike Elgar'nan, his yellow eyes are kind, patient, and alert, drinking in the smallest gestures, the subtlest hints.

He doesn't want me here, that much is clear. Eventually, he relents. I am given comfortable boarding, light linen robes, and peculiar ointments to rub onto my skin to keep it from drying out in the cold mountain air. Mythal leaves once I am settled with the promise to visit when she can.

Dirthamen does not call on me for several days. I use this time to study his castle, its lands and walk among his people, who, much like Dirthamen, have little interest in sourcing my affairs and motivations. The elvhen here have soft hands and voices and scurry from house to temple with feet blue from cold. Their lives are more straightforward than those that occupy the lower lands; a life of prayer and contemplation marked by silence and the occasional static rumble of thunder clouds gathering nearby. What it lacks in substance it makes up for in view. The breach between the waking world and the sky is barely noticeable. I can fool myself that if I reach out, I might slip into the Fade, seize the threads of magic and energy, and be embraced by the familiar taste and shape of home. In a way, I am glad Elgar'nan chose this place for me.

I am summoned on a day the elvhen call Syl'vun'in. A Spirit of Learning shows me to a plain auditorium lined with large books and nondescript tables—it calls it a library. Dirthamen is there, but he is not alone. He speaks to a tall elf with golden eyes and thin lips that are predisposed to smirking. Despite their low voices, I can tell they are arguing, and Dirthamen is losing. They stop as we approach. The guest barely acknowledges me, but the mark across my forehead piques his interest—if only for a moment. After a brusque farewell, he gathers his possessions and leaves through a tall mirror emblazoned with ruby stones and delicate silver filigree. Whatever the mirror is, it is magical in nature and leads to a place not of this world, or the Fade.

It is some time before I see his face again, and longer yet before I learn his name.

Dirthamen, whatever his shortcomings, is not one to mull over personal issues. He is inquisitive at heart, with a sharp mind and bottomless thirst for knowledge—a fact made abundantly clear when he undresses with me deft fingers and examines my body as a butcher might meat ready for carving. Questions shoot from his small mouth like arrows from an archer's hand; quick, direct, and pointed. He asks about my existence before taking corporeal form, of my purpose and hopes and aspirations. He asks after the man I mirrored, tapping at my vallaslin with square fingertips. When I hesitate, Dirthamen answers for me, reciting the history of my "former" life as if it were his own.

He blushes at my surprise. "There are no secrets in my castle," he chuckles. "There are no secrets from Dirthamen."

Our exchange is brief. Dirthamen sends me away with a gentle nudge at my back and a bundle of my overalls cradled against my chest. Whatever the scholar divined in that instance seems to settle his concerns, for it is not long before I am summoned again.

We form a strange partnership; me, an unwanted charge, him, an unwilling teacher. Yet for all Dirthamen's complaints, I believe he enjoys the company; of sharing the secrets of his lonely life with someone new. In the end, I became a project—a plaything for Dirthamen to engage in discourse with; a child he could mold into his own design.

I shadow him for many weeks, ghosting his quiet steps through the castle, observing while he reads, inquiring as he scribes. Eventually, he tires of my incessant questions and puts me to work. I read books on magic during the day, on philosophy and elvhen culture at night. I learn of the other leaders, their tribes, and the dark forces in opposition to their rule.

When the mood strikes, he invites me to dine with him on roast pheasant and elderberry wine and quizzes me on my understanding of the world and its occupants. Any personal inquiries, I learn, are best answered truthfully. Dirthamen knows my heart, and the hearts of men—there are no secrets here, no private thoughts in this mausoleum of books and stone.

I come to grasp his role in all this—why Elgar'nan, despite his apparent disdain for him, tolerates his cowardice and apathy, why Mythal's respects his council. Dirthamen's talents are inimitable. From his quiet refuge, Dirthamen couriers the hopes and thoughts of all elvhen, collecting their unspoken aspirations, fears, and dreams. His followers are his spymasters, who listen with their ears so that Dirthamen might hear the thoughts of all that reside here. "It's why they're so quiet," he tells me with a lopsided smile, a wrinkled finger crooked under his chin. "Listening is an art talking gets in the way of."

Dirthamen's skills are of interest to the other leaders who wish to know their subjects' minds, but he cares little for their machinations. Dirthamen's true passion is knowledge, and finding a means of connecting all people's experiences in a place elvhen can access. One evening, after catching me staring at the magic mirror in his library, he speaks to me of a nexus between worlds: a secret realm of possibility where thought hardens into action; dreams into reality. Dirthamen says he dreams of a library—Dirthara—a place where past learnings might ease others' journeys in the future. It is the last time he speaks of it.

The discussion of magic crops up in several conversations, but it is an age before Dirthamen puts words into practice. I learn that the lords of this realm, these spirits made flesh, carry gifts from their former lives, talents that most here would consider supernatural. Elgar'nan has his fire, Dirthamen his secrets, and all those that lead possess great magic enhanced by their connection to the Fade. I come to find—quite embarrassingly—no definite penchant for any school of magic. My control of the elements is remedial at best (though Dirthamen attempts to console me with the fact that I am a quick learner), and I have no extraordinary flair for the finer arts of divination, abjuration, enchantment, or illusion. Despite my dismay, Dirthamen is not disheartened. All we have is time—it is a mantra he issues at any failure; when my head hangs low in defeat. It bolsters my motivation.

Mythal appears with the changing seasons. Summer and winter have come and gone twice over. Spring heralds crisp, cloudless mornings and silent rains that coat the mountain top with fluffy snow. She appears unannounced, her footsteps thundering down empty corridors, growing louder and louder until they stop outside Dirthamen's library.

Although I am glad to see her, our reunion is tainted by a sense of urgency. Mythal is not here to exchange pleasantries—she comes with grave tidings.

"You've been summoned—both of you," she says while unfastening her coat, unveiling a loose-fitted gown embellished with elegant markings. When they remain seated, she snaps her fingers. "Immediately. Elgar'nan has called together the council; everyone is to attend."

"Everyone?" Dirthamen murmurs, voice rising expectantly.

Mythal nods. "Falon'Din, too. Come, I would not try Elgar'nan's patience today. He has been irritable of late."

"Of late?" Dirthamen scoffs under his breath but rises to his feet all the same. He glances around the room as if he has something to bring with him.

"Are you sure I should come?" Solas asks. "I'm not part of any council."

"He asked for you specifically. We require your skills sooner than anticipated." She turns to Dirthamen. "Have your studies gone well?"

"Erm, as well as can be expected."

"Has he been adequately briefed? On our tribes, their leaders? The opposition?

"Yes, yes, of course."

"Good. Let us be off. I take it your Eluvian is still working? Wisd—Solas, what are you waiting for?"

"This is all very unexpected," he replies, arms propped on either side of the chair. He remains stationary. "I thought we had more time. I don't even know what this is really about."

Mythal strides towards him and kneels. "You'll understand soon enough, old friend. Have faith in Dirthamen's teachings and my judgment; if this were too much for you, I would not allow it." 

Solas frowns. "Will my participation in all this truly help you?"

"Yes. More than you realize."

He frowns again, etching deep grooves into the sides of his young face. Solas, eventually, stands.

Mythal leads them towards the magic mirror. It unlocks at her touch and glows dimly. The image reflects a dark corridor peppered with spots of light.

Dirthamen stammers and stumbles over his feet, the white shawl around his shoulders catching on his arms as he struggles to find his balance. "Wait, the Eluvians—"

"Have been working fine, Dirthamen. Have a little more faith in your own invention."

Chapter Text

Elgar'nan's fortress hums with nervous energy. Mythal, Dirthamen, and Solas exit the eerie quiet of the Eluvians into a dimly lit corridor. They follow the echo of voices to a dining hall.

"How many times must we go over this?" Elgar'nan rubs his forehead with the butt of his palm. His hair has grown in the years that have passed and curl around the neckline of his burgundy tunic.

A tall elf in dark robes takes a sip of his drink and grimaces. Solas recognizes him as the guest from Dirthamen's library. "You are making this more complicated than it needs to be, Elgar'nan. Arm our followers and overrun the dogs! Our numbers—"

"May not be sufficient," the red-haired warlord snaps. He glances up at their arrival and beckons them to the table with a wave.

"Ack!" Yellow eyes flick towards Dirthamen. They widen in acknowledgment, seethe in quiet rage. When Mythal claims the chair beside Elgar'nan and kisses his hand in greeting, he sneers. "So much for Valor."

Elgar'nan regards him coolly. Mythal's whispers of encouragement and flattery keep him mollified.

The argumentative elf lets out a snort and struts towards one of the room's many exits. "It's clear who really runs this operation," he grumbles.

As he passes, Dirthamen reaches for his robe. "Falon'Din," he whispers.

Falon'Din does not hear him, or perhaps, chooses not to.

The rejection wounds Dirthamen. His round face sags with disappointment. 

"He was such a kind soul before," Mythal comments gently, watching the space where Falon'Din once stood. "No matter, we can proceed without him."

Elgar'nan nods and issues an agreement, but extracts his hands from her grasp.

They are joined by three others—a robust man with small eyes and cropped blonde hair that makes him appear bald. Nestled close to his side—so close that she may as well be on top of him—is a raven-haired elf with nervous, blue eyes and a long, angular face like that of a newborn fawn. Solas cannot tear his gaze from the third participant.

Lounging over the back of a chair is a woman. Her long, chestnut braid hangs over one shoulder, pointing the way to toned, tanned arms, and a leather vest pressed against small, pert breasts. She is slender; Amazonian in nature, with dark eyes framed by thick lashes.

Solas feels something stir within him, a gentle heat that churns in the base of his stomach. When their eyes meet, that ember of longing sweeps into his heart and quickens his pulse. 

"Let's get this over with, shall we?" Elgar'nan says. He sits higher in his chair. "We are all concerned about the growing influence of our enemies to the south. Many of us have lost lands, holds, and followers to their armies, to stagnant skirmishes that do nothing but hinder our progress. Ordinarily, I would vouch for a combined assault on their stronghold, but the narrative has changed. It calls for a different tact, one which—yes, Andruil?"

Andruil lowers her hand and stands away from her chair. Solas realizes she is as tall as he is—perhaps even taller.

"Are you not going to introduce us?" She points to Solas, exposing a jagged scar that runs from wrist to elbow.

Elgar'nan bristles at the interruption. 

Mythal saves the conversation before it falls to silence. "He's with me," she offers, "and is part of Elga—"

"Why has he got a slave marking, then?"

"They are not slave—"

"Sorry, a 'mark of servitude'," she scoffs. "Why is he here?"

"I was just getting to that." 

"Surely we should be sending—"

"As I was saying," Elgar'nan interrupts, silencing her with a glance.

Andruil holds her tongue.

"Our opposition is dabbling in forces we do not understand—yet. Mythal and I have labored over how best to handle this development, and we have decided that it is in the interest of our people—and yours—to approach this diplomatically."

"Diplomacy? With them?" The blonde elf asks. His baritone voice is at odds with his effeminate features.

"We need to try, June," Mythal says. "This new power—it is unlike anything we've seen. It is not of the Fade."

"Sounds interesting," Andruil chuckles and gives an ugly grin. "And what? Do you intend to steal this magic for yourself?"

Elgar'nan turns his nose up at the prospect. "We have no need of it. What we do need, however, is an understanding of what it is and how it operates. My reports claim this fuel makes them go mad but imbues them with great power. If we can find out how it works, perhaps we might find a way to beat them—or find an opportune moment to strike."

"And you're going to waltz onto their lands, are you? Anaris despises you—and Mythal. I doubt after Falon'Din poisoned their rivers, they'll accept a truce from him, either."

"Our relations with him have soured, also," June admits.

"It won't be any of us," Mythal assures them. 

The council are quick to decipher her meaning; Andruil quickest of all. 

"This poor creature?" 

"We need someone new—someone different."

"Is he a soldier? What are his gifts? If Anaris or any of his thugs suspect duplicity, they will obliterate him; and need I remind you that Dirthamen is not the only one who can read the hearts of men. They will sense his deception."

"Dirthamen has educated him, so to speak. If anyone can put your concerns to rest, it's him."

The table turns expectantly to the elf.

Dirthamen glances up in surprise, still lost in his own world. "Pardon?"

"What are your thoughts on the matter?"

"Thoughts?"

"Yes, man! Your thoughts? On Solas' progress. His abilities. Are we ready to proceed as planned?" 

"His abilities are," Dirthamen trails away. A light sheen of sweat settles across his forehead. "His elemental control has progressed swimmingly, erm—"

"Any field of magic in particular?"

Dirthamen allows himself a giggle. "Not really." His laughter is cut short by Elgar'nan's unamused look. "Bu-but he is quite adept with manipulating the Fade. And spirits seem to like him."

"Spirits…" Elgar'nan's expression pales.

There are no further questions.

"If I might," Solas begins. He swallows as everyone turns to look at him. "There is no point in hiding it: I am not fully in control of my faculties. I am not powerful like Elgar'nan, but Mythal's wisdom is sound—you do not want to intimidate your opponents with another great warlord. You want to courier peace, negotiations, and earn their trust—"

"For questionable reasons," Andruil interrupts. "They will sniff out your motivations as easily a stud does a bitch in heat."

"And they will see no duplicity," Solas says, offering a calm smile. "My motivations are not your motivations, Lethallan—I bear these individuals no ill-will. They have not tarnished my lands or harmed my people. I do not go with the intent to wreak havoc or dismantle their empires."

"They'll still know you pursue the source of their power." 

"They won't. As I said, their power does not interest me."

"Then what does interest you?" She quirks an eyebrow and folds her arms beneath her chest, bolstering her petite bosom. The desired effect is immediate; Solas cannot prevent his eyes from wandering.

He clears his throat before continuing. "I want to help your people. These disputes do nothing but destroy their lives. If it comes to war, they will be the ones that suffer most. I desire nothing more than to quell this unrest and give the Elvhen the safety and security they require. So let these warriors examine me—they will find little to compromise my position.

"It's true," Dirthamen says with an eager nod. "His purpose is pure."

Andruil knits her brows. She looks ready to argue, but when her lips part, she only manages a sigh. "Very well. When do you send whatever-his-name-is to his death?"

"Soon, but not now. Solas will stay with me for a time. If Anaris responds to my proposition, we will send him over." Mythal says.

Andruil taps the back of her chair and nods to herself. "Fine. Then, once you're ready, send Solas to my keep. We will journey together."

"You… volunteer to go with him?" Mythal does not disguise her shock.

"If things go awry, he'll need support. Besides," she offers Solas a playful smirk, "I have a soft spot for weak things."

The party disburses.

June and his partner leave first. Mythal and Andruil exchange a few private words before the latter exits into another vast room in Elgar'nan's castle. Dirthamen is the last to leave and takes his time reminding Solas of their lessons and cramming as many pearls of wisdom in as he can. When he turns to leave, he hesitates.

"You… have a good spirit," he tells Solas, lips twitching into a feeble smile. "Falon'Din… you remind me of him."

Solas does not get to pry. Dirthamen scurries from the hall with a soft farewell, the hem of his robe rasping against the stone floor as he goes.

"There is one more thing," Elgar'nan says once the auditorium has emptied. He motions for Solas to join him.

"Yes?" Solas shrinks away instinctively.

"It's time to remove your mark."

Solas touches his forehead. "My…"

"Of course. I can't have our enemies thinking we sent them some low-born emissary. They'll burn you at the gates."

"We can always do it later, Elgar'nan," Mythal suggests.

"Nonsense!" Elgar'nan's warm fingers feel like hot coals around his wrist. The elf pulls Solas close and guides him to a chair like a lamb to slaughter. Before Solas can come to terms with the arrangement, Elgar'nan's hands are around his face.

They glow.

And the pain is unbearable.

Chapter Text

Mythal strokes a finger between Solas’ eyebrows. He winces. There is no pain except the memory of one—the echo of hot fingers burning away his mark. 

“Does it hurt?” Mythal’s eyes widen in alarm. She retracts her hand. “It shouldn’t—“

“It doesn’t,” Solas replies, easing her worries with a smile. 

She nods but continues to stare at his forehead. “The scar… are sure you don’t want to remove it?”

“I’m sure,” He has lost count of how many times she has asked since they left Elgar’nan’s castle. “It… is my reminder.” When she tilts her head in confusion, he adds, “of my goal; why I abandoned the Fade.”

“Oh, Solas,” she chuckles, emitting a light, raspy laugh. “You have not abandoned the Fade. It is there, as it has always been.” 

They both look instinctively towards the sky, taking a moment to study the deep green horizon melding into the afternoon light. 

“It was… good, what you said—to Elgar’nan,” she begins, golden eyes flirting from foreground to the marble banister before her with girlish uncertainty. “He needs to understand—they all do—the price of their impatience. Having an external party offer a different perspective is necessary. Their opinions have gone unchallenged for too long.” 

Solas growd hot under his tunic. “I—I meant every word.” 

“I know you did. Truth… is hard to deny—even for old brutes like Elgar’nan.” She smiles a twisted smile. “Though I don’t know for how long. Reality is quite malleable. Eventually, Elgar’nan will create new truths—more acceptable ones—to cling to.” 

“And what about you?” 

“What about me?” 

A Spirit of Justice cackles somewhere one the castle. The sound of its raspy voice echoes down the halls, shuddering into their quiet refuge. The hairs on Solas’ arms prickle in alarm. 

“What do you believe?”

“You want to know if I still stand for my people? That I still consider their lives before the privileged few?” She pauses. “Yes, Solas. I do. But—“

“But?” His shoulder slump in disappointment. 

“This task has to come first. We cannot fight two battles at once; I cannot fight both Anaris and Elgar’nan and hope to succeed. Once the issue is dealt with, once our people are safe from external threats, then will we change the hearts of those here. For now, we need power, and as barbaric as some of our practices are, we need their prayers and adulation—it makes us stronger than our opponents. You… understand, don’t you?” 

Solas considers her words in silence, wringing his hands behind his back. After a time, he nods. The gesture elicits a smile from Mythal. 

“That makes me happy, Solas. I need your support, now more than ever.” She wanders back inside, pushing back thick, velvet curtains to reveal a dark room speckled with opulent decor. “Come, we have little time to rest. Let’s fill our bellies and return to the task at hand.”

Solas does not follow immediately. He watches her disappear inside her fortress and turns to watch the horizon. He stares long and hard at the twisting green nether in the far distance. He considers her words and those of a Elgar’nan’s; the brusque strength and poise of the one called Andruil. Lastly, he thinks of the boy in the temple, of his dying words and sunken eyes, and heart filled with grievances. In that moment, he renews his promise: to create a better world, a fairer one, where those most in need are not left to rot in forgetting places. 

Chapter Text

There is a door, a door encased in darkness. It is the only path here, wherever here might be. It is Rosa's only option. As she approaches—drifts, floats, moves, for she had long lost the sense of legs or form—the door shudders open. Warmth and light emanate from this place—and something more, something familiar that hums with arcane energy the same way the Anchor did. 

Rosa did not spend much time in the underground library in Skyfall, but she recognizes it immediately—not by the patchwork of old tomes stacked high on the wall, or the jumble of crumpled parchment and cracked phylacteries strewn across the desk, but by its smell. The Inquisitor takes a deep breath, packing her lungs with the aroma of dust, yellowed pages, and forgotten memories; with the scent of home. 

The rasp of a turned page cuts across the silence like a blade against a whetstone. Schliff. 

She follows the sound. As she nears the reading table, she peeks around the alcove of the library and spots the top of an open book suspended by thin fingers and narrow wrists. Schliff.

Rosa swallows, hears her throat contract and bob and expand as precious little spittle drips down her tongue. She takes another step... and another. Schliff. 

Solas' eyes flutter meet hers, brow furrowing with the effort to see her over the rim of his book. He is not surprised by her arrival. 

"Are," Rosa begins quietly, struggling to find her voice, "you real?"

The corners of his scalp crease with his smile. The familiarity of it almost breaks her. It had been so long since she last saw it—the coy simper of a proud teacher tasked with a worthy question.

"That depends on your interpretation, Lethallan. How much of life is ever truly real?"

Her heart sinks. "Then this is all in my head." 

The book closes with a gentle thud. Dust billows from the pages, pooling around his face in a hazy cloud before dispersing. 

"I am no longer with you, my heart. Of course this is happening in your head… but that does not mean this isn't real." He gestures to a narrow space table between a crooked tower of books and an empty glass pot stained with dry ink. She takes her seat, never taking her eyes off him, not daring to blink in fear that he might disappear. 

"I have so many questions." 

He returns his book to the shelf. "I know. You always do." 

"But… I don't know where to start." 

Solas chuckles and returns to her side. "Let's pick up where you left off, hmm?" He cups her face and strokes her cheek with his thumb.

His hand is warm.  

Chapter Text

Mythal loved her people, and perhaps, that was where the problems started. Love festered, morphing into reliance, dependency. The responsibility grew too great, and like thick vines around an old tree, they began to suffocate her with their needs, their hurt, their plight. But I am getting ahead of myself… so much came before the fall. 

It can be said that Dirthamen gave me the tools to live among the Elvhen; Mythal, the understanding of what it is to live with them. 

The Evanuris, even in their earlier days, enjoyed their isolation. Falon'Din was the first to vacate to the Fade, worming his way into its further reaches for more power and prestige. Elgar'nan was never far behind, never wanting to be outshone by anyone, and built the largest fortresses within the Crossroads for himself, a seat from which he could lord over the realm like a benevolent god. He seldom delved deep into the Fade, however. Unlike Falon'Din, Elgar'nan did not care to be reminded of his former home—or dreaded its dark secrets more than he cared to admit.  

Even on the mortal plane, the Evanuris erected high walls to keep the Elvhen out… but not Mythal. The Crowned matron of a budding empire walked a fine line between corporal and ethereal as both winged matriarch and doting guardian. She once said that visibility was key to maintaining trust and belief—that if no one witnessed her existence, those that succumbed to this pyramid of power would surely abandon it—and the hierarchy that underpinned their civilization would crumble. In truth, I believe that to be only part of her reasoning, for Mythal shone brightest when surrounded by her people. Like any doting mother, she longed to be with her children, and they, loyal subjects that they were, lapped up any opportunity to worship at her mantle. 

I lost count of the years spent in Mythal's care. The details are a blur, but I remember the seasons; of countless summers spent on bare hilltops, winters in desolate valleys far from the twisting spires of her kingdom, which grew fast and tall like wheat after heavy rain. Much of our time was given to the people, blessing those who worshiped loudest, helping those whose cries etched themselves into the stone of her temple. We wandered the streets disguised as ordinary folk, enjoying the lute and song of wandering performers from far-flung places, gorging on roasted dormouse from tiny food stalls nestled in the very heart of the city.

These momentary lapses in responsibility were few and far between, of course—there were always people to reward and feuds to settle; duties Mythal tended to with the utmost care. I assisted as an advisor, supplying commentary whenever demanded. It was a superficial role at best, something to keep me occupied during my long tenure. It kept me from drilling her about my task—the one I had assumed to take precedent over the daily chores of leadership. Anaris, Daern'thall, Geldauran—the names of the opposition plagued me; for Mythal they were no more critical than an insect buzzing in her ear; an annoyance she'd swat away with a roll of her eyes and a wave of her hand. "In good time," she'd say. "All in good time." 

Before long, I adopted her nonchalance. I stopped asking about Anaris; I stopped worrying about the unseen forces gathering on the horizon. Part of me was glad. I was young then, still uncertain about the world and its occupants and forever haunted by the phantom pain of my scar. In my innocence—and ignorance—I thought these halcyon days might stretch into eternity. Mythal's gilded throne was blinding—it was easy to forget oneself in her presence. A skilled magician, she was apt at channeling my attention from the trick, effortless in her task of diverting my sights elsewhere. 

That was until Falon'Din took matters into his own hands. Dirthamen's twin was never one for patience. No one was surprised when news of a scrim reached the other kingdoms, but Elgar'nan was no less enraged, Mythal, no less despondent. Despite attempts to calm the fallout on the homefront, the threat of war came to Mythal's door—in quite an unexpected form.

"It's time to go," Andruil rubs the curved hilt of her sword.

The train of servants behind her are stooped in half bows, whispering apologies for the guest's sudden appearance. Andruil ignores their simpers. 

Mythal sends them away with a clipped wave. "Andruil," she begins with a saccharine drawl, one Solas has become accustomed to, one reserved for demanding government officials or self-important paper pushers, "to what do we owe this pleasure?"

"I'm not here to play games," The Amazonian's lip curls as she regards them in their plush overalls and high chairs. Her eyes drift over the remains of the pheasant centerpiece, eyeing the carcass with something that can only be described as disgust. Solas feels himself wither under her gaze. When Mythal extends the charade, dark brows lifting in surprise, Andruil points towards Solas like a wealthy woman selecting fabric from the atelier. "It's time to entrust Solas into my care."

Mythal's friendly facade falls. "He is not ready."
 
"He has to be." Andruil adjusts her weight from one hip to the next, folding her arms as if to guard against the cold. "You did not think you could keep him to yourself forever?"

Mythal leaves her chair and strolls to her balcony, where she and Solas have spent so many hours deep in conversation and contemplation. "I wished to keep him safe… for as long as possible," she responds. "You will understand that once you find someone you care for."

"I will treasure him as you have done, Mythal. Do not forget that I will go with him. If anything goes awry, Solas will not be alone in the lion's den." 

The conversation ebbs into silence. Solas takes it as his cue to leave the dining table. Mythal watches him from the corner of her eye but does not move to join him. A pang of disappointment shoots through him, a jolt of anxiety as he wonders whether this will be the last time they see each other.

It is Andruil, not Mythal, that consoles him. She strides towards him and takes his wrist, her long, bony fingers hanging like metal bracers around his skin. It settles his pounding heart. 

"We'll leave through your Eluvian, Mythal," she says, tugging Solas towards the door. 

Mythal does not respond. She is motionless, unblinking, staring out into vistas with head raised and arms folded. Solas thinks this is the first time she resembles the stone statues that decorate her temples. 

"I'll come back to you, old friend," he murmurs.
 
Mythal dips her head. Solas thinks—hopes—he sees the corner of her mouth shudder with a smile. 

Chapter Text

Solas clears his throat and quickens his pace. The silence is suffocating, but Andruil's permanent scowl wards off any plan he might have of breaking it. 

Years with Dirthamen and Mythal could not prepare Solas for the pace with which Andruil conducted her affairs.

There was no time for posturing, or dallying, no room for introductions, or a spot of refreshments. From the moment they ported into Andruil's domain—kingdom is too grand a word for the smattering of small huts and barracks that dusted the wooded expanse—Andruil was on the move.

Solas did not have time to take in the modest surroundings, the wooden knolls of bungalows interwoven between gnarled and ancient trees. Nor was he given any opportunity to ask about the occupants, the throng of painted women with cropped hair in thin clothes clustered outside her abode. She barely acknowledged them as they passed, even as they bowed and whispered soft praise into their chests. None of the elves seemed particularly taken with him—their eyes were for Andruil alone. 

They marched to a hut some way from the town center. There was another Eluvian here, a small, brittle thing of brass and iron. Andruil is gone before Solas can even warble a question.

They entered a desolate Crossroad with no markings or paths. Unlike the other ethereal plane he had grown accustomed to, the one which Dirthamen, Mythal, and Elgar'nan used as a pathway to one another, this route was empty. There were no other Eluvians here, not at first—not for what felt like several miles of walking through mist and fog. In the end, they happened upon one mirror, a sister to the one they had entered, with warped iron frames speckled with rust. Across the eglomise tablet, a line of rune carvings had been scratched out by magic. The Eluvian responded to Andruil's touch.

"This is our last stop," she told him. "We make the rest of our journey on foot." 

Andruil was true to her word.

They arrived in a realm not unlike Andruil's—a heavily wooded forest filled with tall trees and thick canopies that barred the sun's light from the ground. Wherever they were, they were far removed from other Elvhen. Aside from the small outpost that concealed the Eluvian, there was no sign of life; no paved walkways, no murmur of chatter, just the whisper of wind pooling through the leaves in the trees.

Andruil was on the move again before Solas can catch his breath, navigating an unseen trail without a word. 

"I'm sorry," Andruil says. 

Solas trips in surprise, stumbling over his feet like a newborn foal. He has almost forgotten what it is to hear her voice—any voice—after days of quiet. 

"I wanted to make sure we were not being followed. I don't trust Dirthamen's work," she continues. "He claims these mirrors are untraceable, but he does not know the enemy." 

"And you do?" Solas asks. 

"No one does, but perhaps I do better than most." 

Solas looks upwards, trying to pierce the impenetrable wall of leaves to reach the sky. Swiping the sweat from his brow, he abandons his quest to determine the time. "If it is safe to talk, might I ask where we are?" 

She hesitates, rubbing the tip of the scar on her elbow. "Tirashan Forest. West of Mythal's lands—southwest of mine." 

Solas consults his mental map and nods. "So we're in their territory. I'm surprised there would be an Eluvian here." 

"It is the only one we've managed to keep. The rest have been… removed. I urged Dirthamen to destroy this one as well, but the fool thinks it's unnecessary. If Anaris gets his hands on one, I shudder to think—" she tapers off and spits. 

They walk until Solas' feet burn and his pace slows to a crawl. Andruil is reluctant to stop but grumbles an order to make camp. Though he tries to make himself useful, Solas only manages to get in her way. In the end, it is Andruil who collects the kindling, starts the fire, forages for berries, and evens the ground for the bedrolls. Solas watches all this from the comfort of his seat, uttering quiet apologies while Andruil completes her chores with practiced ease.

Hours pass before Solas musters the courage to offer Andruil more than his nondescript simpers. 

"What's our plan of action?" he asks timidly, wiping the remnants of wild berry from his lips.

Andruil tilts her head to acknowledge the question. She tightens her fingers around the small twig in her hand. It breaks. "Did Mythal not instruct you on your task?" 

"She did," Solas says eagerly, hoping to divert yet another situation where his ineptitude is highlighted, "but your arrival was sudden." Truthfully, it had been years since Mythal had broached the subject of the opposition; however, explaining that to Andruil would no doubt pique her ire. It is too humid for a quarrel, and Solas too tired to take on the huntress in a verbal dispute. 

Andruil smiles. It is not the rabid grin Solas is used to or the belittling smirk she so often wore. It is sad. Disappointed. "I thought as much. Foolish of Elgar'nan to trust his wife with such an important task. Blind brute couldn't see how she'd coddle you." 

Solas stumbles to make an excuse but is cut short. 

"Falon'Din's betrayal has made this all too difficult," she sighs. 

"Why did Falon'Din instigate a scrim?" Solas ventures, happy to steer the conversation elsewhere. 

"Because he is a lunatic. It was only a matter of time before Elgar'nan's inaction goaded him. That and Falon'Din's desire to take over these lands, instead of living on the scraps Mythal left him." 

Solas' sudden silence is telling. 

"Falon'Din does not have any state of his own. He and his followers reside on the outskirts of Mythal's grounds, an arid landscape her people abandoned long ago." She points to the East. "Mythal kindly allowed him to settle there when he and Dirthamen parted ways. If the opposition is vanquished, Falon'Din will seize it for himself." 

"Falon'Din and Dirthamen…" 

"Once shared a state, yes. Well, back then, it was no more than a hovel." 

"Do you know—"

"Why the two imbeciles parted ways? No, but you've met them both. Falon'Din is too ambitious. Dirthamen has no ambition at all. It was an inevitable split." She shakes her head and fishes for another twig. "It matters little. We have to pick up the pieces, before the pride and gluttony of others destroy what we have worked so hard to create." 

Her words stir his curiosity. "Your people," Solas begins, unsure how best to phrase his statement, "they are unlike the Elvhen I've come to know back home." 

She chuckles and watches him from the corner of her eye. Her lips struggle to contain her grin. "What do you mean by that?" 

He flushes. "Well, I don't think I saw—well, I don't believe there were—" 

"You are a lamb, aren't you?" 

Solas cannot place her tone or decipher whether she is ridiculing him or not. 

"We do have men—some. A few stragglers abandoned by their people, hated for their differences, their… affliction, as Elgar'nan would say. But most in my care are women." 

"Affliction?"

She grins hungrily. "Elgar'nan believes there is an ideal form—a pure form of Elvhen. Anything that breaks that ideal is abhorrent. Many elvhen believe the same." She tsks. "For such an advanced civilization, we can be unnecessarily cruel to those that don't fit our model of what is good and right." 

Solas decides Andruil will not go into more detail and moves the conversation along. "Were the women of your village displaced by conflict?" Solas asks, remembering what Mythal once told him of the band of female warriors Andruil raised to be self-sufficient. 

"Some. Over the years, many have come to me for less: they've been ostracized by the families, expelled for loving one while promised to another, bearing children before their time, or not bearing at all. Some run from abusive fathers, husbands, brothers." She bristles—the stick in her hand breaks. Andruil rummages for another. 

Solas shudders, pulling the coarse blanket over his neck. "I didn't imagine such things would happen," he admits, even as the memory of his former life taunts him for his insincerity. You know better, he conscience goads. 

"Ah, but Mythal's kingdom is a shining example of what the world should be. Prosperous. Loving. Accepting." She sneers. "You will see soon enough, little lamb. All that glitters is not gold." 

Andruil, swift as a hawk, rises to her feet. She pulls her bedroll beside his and nestles into his side, shoulder pressed firmly against his. 

Solas stiffens at the sudden proximity but tries to feign nonchalance, even as the scent of her fills his nostrils, the aroma of sweat and earth wafting from her neck. 

"It gets cold at night," she rumbles, folding the cover over her chest. "Now… let us talk of what is important."

They spent the remainder of the evening like this, tucked in close, whispering into the night. Andruil instructs Solas on all she knows about Anaris and his brood, and together, they devise a plan to broker peace with those that wished them ill. 

Chapter Text

Solas dusts a fallen leaf from his shoulder and scans the path beyond Andruil. There is nothing but foliage as far as the eye can see, a mishmash of verdant greens and dour browns interwoven with bursts of color from low-hanging flowers. 

As they slip further into the deep, unknown places of the forest, Solas' thoughts drift back to his conversations with Andruil.

His head aches. Knowledge, questions, thoughts, fears, ideas, and suggestions spill over like a cup filled too quickly. He feels bits of what was discussed evaporate in a wave of forgetfulness, protocols, and must-dos merging with faux-pas and must-nots. He wishes he had more time, that the task been given to someone else—an elf with more experience and cunning. The closer he comes to his mission, the more his anxiety blossoms, the more eccentric his private thoughts become. 

Andruil stops. Solas almost crashes into her. 

"What is it?" she sighs, braid twirling like a whip as she swings her head round to observe him. "I can't concentrate when you do that… thing." 

"Thing?"

Andruil hmmm  and ahs, mimicking the sounds Solas can only imagine are the ones he has been making. 

He turns his face to the floor. "Apologies, Andruil. I'm just busy thinking."

"Thinking is good. In silence. What you're doing is worrying." When he grumbles to his navel, Andruil continues walking. "Come on then—out with it. What is in your mind?"

"It's nothing."

"I will only ask once, Solas."

Solas knows he will regret it, but in the end, the heart of Wisdom triumphs. "I am concerned about the stories."

"Stories? What stories?" 

"I've only heard hearsay. About Anaris—all of them. Some of the small folk have shared rumors of the dark powers they embody. Disease, terror, spite, malevolence. They thrive on the malcontent of others, that they—"

Andruil lets out of a bark of laughter that sends unseen birds darting from the treetops. "Oh, dear little lamb," she chortles, "you sound like a simple temple girl." 

He seizes with embarrassment. 

"It is what Elgar'nan and his lot would want you and their followers to believe—that these are the terrible creatures that go bump in the night. They'll steal your women and eat your firstborn." She waits for him to catch up and rewards him with an apologetic smile. "They are just like us. They are no more terrible than Elgar'nan, or viler than Falon'Din… they are not demons, Solas."

"But these stories—"

"These rumors were spread in the interest of harnessing fear. Fear breeds a desire for simplicity. Good and evil. Right and wrong. Chains of command. Without it, warlords like Elgar'nan could not sell his power for protection, nor Mythal promise sanctuary for those that follow her." She smirks. "People need to believe in otherness, Solas. You cannot rally the masses with moral greys." 

"Then… why do we fight them?" 

"Because Falon'Din needs land. Because Elgar'nan hates the idea of sharing power with those not under his command." Andruil stops and turns to face him. She cups his cheek, urging him to look at her, to meet her gaze. "This is important, Solas. For our survival. For your understanding. We are no different. These beings are cruel, yes; deceitful, yes. They have murdered countless innocents, ravaged our lands, hunted our followers… but they are not without cause. They are not beasts without reason. They hunt because they hurt; they pillage because they do not have—because Elgar'nan and his ilk will never share power. If you go into this thinking that they are monsters, we will never progress. Understood?" 

He swallows and nods. Andruil picks up the pace. 

"Andruil?" Solas calls when some time has passed. 

"Hmm?"

"If Elgar'nan is so terrible… why do you fight for him?" 

"Because long ago, a woman came to me with a dream, a dream to unite the Elvhen and build the greatest civilization this world has ever seen. I still believe in her vision. Unfortunately, for it to succeed, the opposition cannot be allowed to triumph." 

The trees begin to thin. Green makes way for purple as spots of the evening sky trickle to the forest floor.

Solas cares little for how his feet drag, stomping leaves, dirt, and twigs with the grace of a well-fed sow. His mood has soured over the day, aided by an empty belly and soles that weep with dome-like blisters. Andruil has been little help, marching onwards in silent contemplation. Solas has become quite accustomed to the sight of her back, the shape and dents of her longbow, the black moles that pepper her arms—he has even named a few. 

As they pass the winding circuit of a dry ravine, she stops, sniffs the air, and draws her bow. Solas pays no mind to the movement, having seen her take this stance dozens of times already. 

"What's it this time? Nug? Hare?" he murmurs, slinking past to overtake her for the first time in their journey. 

"Solas, don't move." 

He kicks a pebble underfoot and watches it skid with disinterest. It jumps through a bed of dried leaves before landing squarely on the tongue of a leather boot. He freezes as a diamond arrowhead slips between his eyes. 

"Fenedhis." 

"Lower your weapon," Andruil says. The drawstring of her bow squeaks as it's tightened. 

"Lower yours first, Andruil," the warrior purrs. His square jaw tenses, exaggerating the deep hollows of his cheeks.

The arrow dips. Solas flinches and squeezes his eyes shut. 

Andruil clicks her tongue. "You've heard of me. Good. Then you know that my arrow never misses its mark. If you even think of loosening your bow, you and your troop will be dead before you hit the ground. I promise you that." 

The warrior's posture slackens. Around them, the forest crackles in warning as other unseen foes register the she-elf's threat. 

It is just enough to give Solas some respite. The elf takes a step back, head bowed, arms raised in submission. 

Their enemy is a head taller than Solas, with broad shoulders contoured with lean muscles. With some distance between them, Solas can see he is shaking—whether from fear or fatigue, he cannot say. His face, too rough to be genuinely handsome, bears the familiar mark of an unfamiliar vallaslin.

After a moment, he grunts and lowers his bow. "What do you want, outsiders?"

"We are here to see your masters. They are expecting us."

"We were not told of your arrival."

"That is your problem—not ours." 

Another grunt. The guard considers his options and quickly realizes that whether he believes them or not, he has little say in the matter. He turns his back and beckons them to follow. 

Around them, behind the slopes of fallen trees and from beyond the edge of the ravine, the Elves of Tirashan Forest slip from their hiding places, arrows pointed at their targets' backs. 

Chapter Text

The walk to the stronghold does not take long, but if you blinked, you were sure to miss it. 

Solas rubs his eyes and watches tall walls fashioned from stone and wood shimmer into view. Like a pebble thrown into a lake, the barrier shudders at their arrival, woken from its slumber by their approach. Atop the battlements, stationed between the crenels, are its soldiers. 

Their guide raises his hand in greeting. "Viane," he shouts. 

The guards consult one another, arrows nodding with uncertainty. 

"Anaris esh'ala." 

Fear swells across their marked faces. A hand flies from bow to chest as a command is issued, and the giant oak doors swing open. Solas is urged forward with a firm nudge.

They are led through a muddy path leveled by footsteps. The clearing offers little: a sparse land of felled trees and small housing veiled in low-hanging smog. Solas suppresses a cough and squints against the peppery haze. There are others here, other elves with dark eyes and hard faces carved with thin, red vallaslins. 

Solas and Andruil are watched by guarded, weary denizens. Curiosity urges him to keep looking, to ingest all he can about this foreign place and its strange people. In truth, he expects more: more darkness, more mystery, the black and white signs of evil that would make his task all the more simple, but there is nothing to be found—no forked tails or sharp teeth, just the hollow expression of tired elves. 

As they march, the citadel reveals more of itself. Rows upon rows of barracks and arsenals are filled with modest weapons and armor, and manned by craftsmen with thick arms and strong jaws. Their forges burn hot, spewing smog into the air and flicking embers onto the dirt. They walk to the beat of their hammering, the clang of metal against anvil. 

An uphill climb leaves him short of breath, but their destination looms out of the thick fog that engulfs it like a flock of birds: a fortress of stone built into the side of a mountain with twisting spires, pointed peaks, and a long perron lined with guards in heavy armor. These warriors stand still as statues as they approach, their faces masked by silverite sallets. Solas cannot help but stare, eyes drawn to the glint of red burning beneath the visor. Another firm nudge to his back prods him upwards. 

The one who led them thus far hesitates by the door and frowns. Solas can sense his apprehension, the uncertainty weighing on his broad shoulders. Before long, he conquers it, finding the will to open the way. He steps to one side and points to the dark belly of the fortress.

"They await." 

Solas follows his extended finger. He nods his thanks.

Andruil returns to his side as they enter together, the ends of her hair swishing against his arm. It is a comfort he has missed. 

"So… that's what it was," he murmurs to himself. 

"What was?" 

Solas gives a wan smile. "The guard. He was shaking when we met. He was shaking now. I couldn't tell if it was fear or fatigue." 

"Was it fear?"

"Yes. It probably always was. But it is not fear of us, Lethallan. Wherever we have come to might be more terrible than we realized." 

They walk the expanse of the foyer in silence, careful not to disturb the quiet with their steps. Solas thought himself an expert in castle facade, but there was nothing familiar here: no painted windows, murals, or deep alcoves brightened with flame. The hallmarks he has grown accustomed to are nowhere to be seen; the flags, the grandeur, the decadence—these people have no need for splendor; just stone walls and tall ceilings encased in perpetual darkness. 

They meander down the only path available to them until they find a light—a light at the end of a tunnel.

An elf raises the torch in his hand to chase away the gloom. He squints and peers into their faces, bringing the flame so close to Solas he flushes from the heat.

He grumbles something incoherent and allows them to pass into a cavernous chamber. 

At a glance, Solas can only imagine that this is their receiving room, judging by the long table and uncomfortable chairs planted at its center. 

"Ah, our guests! Come in, come in!" 

Solas and Andruil stop and scan the area. Andruil reaches for her bow. A hiss stays her hand. 

"There is no need for that, Huntress," the voice continues jovially. "We are all friends here." 

"Come out, Anaris," Andruil barks, eyes darting from floor to ceiling. "I was never fond of hide and seek." 

"As you wish." 

Fire erupts from hidden braisers embedded in the walls. At the back of the room, beneath two torches, a small figure casts a long shadow down the hall. 

Anaris smiles and gestures for them to take a seat. "Forgive me. I had forgotten how your kind loves its light." 

"Water, too, if you have any. My mouth tastes like ash," Andruil says. She hesitates but finally occupies a chair nearest to her and furthest from their host.

Anaris wiggles his fingers. The table fills with elegant dinnerware and crystal glasses that feel glaringly out of place in such modest surroundings.

The huntress grunts her gratitude and reaches for the serving jug. Narrowed eyes convey her concerns as well as any words.  

"It's not poisoned, I assure you." 

"Your assurances mean little, Anaris."

"Then trust in my curiosity, ha'ren," he says with a bow. "I would not pass up an opportunity to know why Mythal sent her precious toys to our lands." 

She grins. "You've received her letters, surely."

He scoffs and waltzes to the table, taking only a brief moment to regard Solas before returning his attention to Andruil. "Pretty words on parchment make for dull reading. I'd prefer to hear unfiltered truths from those close to her." 

"Why bother? Just use that creepy  little talent of yours and read my mind."

His smile falters. "You know I can't do that to you, Huntress." 

"Ah, of course," Andruil says through a laugh, her mouth a mess of chewed bread and half-eaten cheese. She leers at him gleefully. "I'd almost forgotten the limitations of your power. I suppose the fairer sex has always eluded you." 

"Sadly. I do not share your penchant for women, Andruil. Perhaps one day, when this is all over, you can enlighten me—and Elgar'nan, for that matter. I'm sure he'd love to hear your thoughts on the virtues of womanhood."

The elf's mouth closes into a tight line. Solas watches as she struggles to swallow. 

Anaris carries on, relishing her sudden silence. "But quite right you are. Women are fickle things. Scatterbrained; their mind a maze of feelings and half-truths. You'll never learn anything from such creatures—" He clicks his fingers abruptly, a whine of triumph sounding from the back of his throat. He turns to Solas and smirks. "You're new here. I had almost forgotten the smell of the Fade. It's been so long since I've dreamed of that place, touched its dark, nebulous corners." He tiptoes to Solas' side and peers into his face, his nose a hair's breadth from his own. Red eyes search his countenance hungrily as if it were the first time he had ever seen his like before. 

Andruil clenches her hand. "Not too close, Anaris," she warns. "You'll startle the boy."

"Does the boy have a name?" Anaris straightens and turns to her expectantly. 

"Solas."

"A pleasure, Solas. Pride. What a lovely name for Wisdom to take." Anaris settles into the chair beside Solas and beams. "If I had known what Mythal had up her sleeve, I would have invited you much sooner." 

"There are no tricks here, Ana—" 

He stops her with a glance. "Andruil… why don't you have Geldauran show you the grounds. I'd like to speak to Solas. Alone." 

Andruil's laughter shifts from amusement to unease. "You can't be serious. If you think that—"

"I would like that very much, Anaris," Solas answers. He offers her a calm smile. "I believe we have much to discuss." 

Chapter Text

There are no gods. There is only the subject and the object, the actor and the acted upon. Those with will to earn dominance over others gain title not by nature but by deed.

I am Geldauran, and I refuse those who would exert will upon me. Let Andruil's bow crack, let June's fire grow cold. Let them build temples and lure the faithful with promises. Their pride will consume them, and I, forgotten, will claim power of my own, apart from them until I strike in mastery.

Anaris is petite even by Elven standards. In bygone times, a man of his build would have been abandoned; a whelp left as carrion for the birds. For a spirit to choose such a form makes it all the more puzzling. To leash his life to such a humble body hardly seems befitting of an elf branded an egotist and upstart by Elgar'nan. Solas is quick to realize his appearance does not matter. 

Seated before him, wilting under the weight of those red eyes that undress his soul at a glance, Solas decides he would rather endure Elgar'nan's anger for eternity than languish under Anaris' gaze for a second. 

"Do not be afraid, Wisdom," Anaris says gently. "I am not going to harm you—yet. I wouldn't miss an opportunity to learn what Mythal and Elgar'nan have up their sleeves."

"Mythal is not one for schemes," Solas replies. 

Anaris chuckles. "And Elgar'nan?" 

Solas fishes for some bread and tugs at it absentmindedly. "I would be doing you and my people a disservice if I said otherwise. I'm sure you know better than anyone the depths of Elgar'nan's dislike. Why spin lies about obvious truths?" 

"Why indeed." Anaris smiles and adds nothing, preferring to circle the table like a hawk around a fresh carcass. 

Solas tracks his footfalls, the gentle susurrus of leather on stone. "Read my mind if you need assurances."

"Oh, there's time for that yet. If I wasted my gift at the beginning of every exchange, my life would be exceptionally boring, and my eyes and ears would rot from disuse." He makes a half turn and saunters back to Solas to occupy the seat beside him. "So, allow me this, da'len: why have you come?" 

"Because Mythal wishes to come to an understanding." 

Anaris nods. "And the others?"

"To safeguard their homes."

Anaris leans into the hard, wooden chair and nods again. "And Elgar'nan?" 

"To find out how best to destroy you—him and Falon'Din both." 

"Good. These are truths I already know." Anaris scratches his chin, drawing Solas' attention to his pale flesh and the red veins pulsing beneath the surface. "But any good lie requires an element of truth, yes? I'm sure you know this already, even in your short time here."

"People are self-serving, particularly those in power. Learning how to lie to oneself and others is a necessary tool. I am sure you're not above such base instincts." 

Anaris' face tightens in a scowl. "I never lie, Solas," he says, all hints of comradery erased from his features. "It is not in my nature." 

Solas takes a breath and fights the urge to look away. "Nor is it in mine." 

The elf smiles. "I want to believe you. Wisdom has always been a champion of truth and knowledge. But you are not Wisdom now, I suppose. You're twisted… cluttered with pride. You probably don't even realize how much of yourself you have lost, da'len, but you will… you will." Anaris shakes his head, hurling tendrils of loose, brown hair from its bun. "Don't look at me like that, Solas. You do not understand—your eyes tell me that much, and it is not my place to shape your world as I see it. You should suffer through it as I have. Life is the best teacher after all." 

Solas does not answer, channeling all his energy into feigning nonchalance, into ignoring the thrumming of his heart that aches for understanding, that quickens with recognition. 

Kinship, he thinks. Yes, I remember now. The lost boy in Mythal's temple rears his head, plowing against his rib-cage at the sight of a kindred spirit, at the recognition of a familiar soul. It takes all Solas' strength to suppress the sentiment, swallow his words, and wait for Anaris to guide the conversation elsewhere. 

"You said 'your people'," Anaris says finally, resting his chin on the flat of his palm, "I find that curious." 

"Why?" 

"You are fresh from the Fade. Most spirits take centuries to shake the sense of otherness from their minds. Some never relinquish it at all. And yet you speak of the Elvhen as if you were born as one. Why would you risk so much for those you know so little about?" 

"Because it is right." The answer comes naturally to Solas, spoken with the ease and loftiness of one married to his beliefs. 

When Anaris thumbs his lip and sighs a heavy sigh, Solas takes it as his cue to extrapolate.

"What is your favorite shape?" 

"Hmm?"

"I have a fondness for circles," Solas continues. He rims the outline of the dinner plate at his chest. "There are no sharp edges, yet with no obvious lines, it has a beautiful kind of symmetry. And despite its uniformity, there are so many distinct markers to examine; sectors, circumferences, chord, arcs, diameters…"

Anaris watches Solas' fingers and smiles in understanding. "If I am pressed to answer, I would agree with you. And what shapes don't you like?" 

"Triangles." 

"Oh?" 

"I find the look of them... offensive."

"How so?"

"Pointed tips; the illusion of symmetry and equality. Even if all angles and sides are the same, there is still a bottom and a top—there is still something tyrannical about it all." 

Solas reaches for a glass and touches his lips to the rim. Water turns into wine. He swirls it for a time before finally taking a sip. "Elvhen society is nothing more than a pyramid: an unfair and corrupt existence that demands the suffering of the many to safeguard the comforts of the few. There is nothing good and right about that." 

Anaris chuckles—a deep rumble that intensifies into the high pearls of laughter of a tickled child. "Yes, yes! I agree," he says emphatically, the walls still rumbling with the echo of his sudden rapture. "We are aligned, you and I—but that notion does little to dampen the most pertinent issue here: that you are still a pawn to those in power. You are a slave to that pyramid, Solas—whether you like it or not."

"As are you," Solas retorts, thinking back to the mass of worn, grime-begotten faces that lined his ascent to the castle. "I had hoped that you were different, but I see the same chains of command, the same bondage of servitude."

Anaris' eyes narrow. "Careful, Solas. I enjoy you. Don't say things that might curtail that enjoyment." After a pause, he whispers, "we do not steal women and children from their homes and brand them like cattle for undeserving masters."

"I had hoped as much." 

Conversation lulls; questions and quandaries lurk behind clenched jaws. Solas gives Anaris his time to contemplate, to allow his words and actions to cross the chasm of experience that divides them in the hope some sort of bond is formed—a metaphorical bridge of understanding. Whether there is one or not, Solas cannot say. Anaris is impossible to read, his face a tapestry of ever-evolving emotions morphing and collapsing; one moment stoic, another twitching with nervous energy.

Eventually, he coughs, startling Solas from his private observations. 

"So, you are a champion of the people. Admirable. Then, assuming your motivations are pure, and you have come to broker some peace between them and us—"

"Forgive the interruption, ha'ren," Solas says softly, head cocked to one side, "but you are mistaken. I am not here to broker peace between you and our leaders." Solas bows his head. "I am here to discuss the terms of your defeat." 

Before Anaris can answer, the sound of distant footsteps filters into the room. They are joined by Andruil and the hulking figure of an elf with a cruel face marred by burns and scars. 

"Anaris," the newcomer grunts, his baritone voice thundering with the depth of a beaten war drum. 

Anaris does not acknowledge their appearance for a time, eyes narrowed on Solas' face. Eventually, he nods and pieces together the semblance of a smile. "Geldauran, is it so late in the day already? Apologies, Andruil, Solas, I have been a terrible host. You must be exhausted from your travels. Allow us to arrange some boarding for you. We can continue our negotiations tomorrow."

Solas adjusts the thin quilt around his body and sinks into the pillow at his back. 

"Come to bed," he tells her again. 

Andruil doesn't seem to hear him. She swings her finger back and forth like a pendulum over a lit candle, her eyes focused on something beyond the wall of their small quarters. 

"Andruil." 

The huntress stops. A note of fear lingers on her face before morphing into confusion. "Did you say something?"

He pats the bed to reiterate his request. She complies, shaking off her traveling gear and small clothes without a hint of embarrassment before slipping under the covers beside him. 

As her cold feet bump against his shins, he winces.

"Andruil."

"Mm?"

"You've been very quiet since you returned with Geldauran."

Andruil adjusts her pillow and draws the cover over her neck. Solas considers how very small she looks, how positively fragile. Without her bow, her armor, and a tangle of brown hair strewn across her face like sketched rivers on a tawny map, she seems little more than a frightened girl. 

Solas touches the blade of her ear with a finger. When she makes no complaint, he strokes her head and begins to pluck strands of hair from her nose and cheek. "What happened, Lethallan?"

Solas does not expect an answer, so when Andruil shrugs her shoulder and stares up at him with dark, doe-like eyes, he cannot suppress a smile. 

"He… took me around the settlement. Around the barracks, the houses, the tired granary; where the soldiers train and the children school… he took me past the mines."

"Mines?"

She nods and moves her head closer to his side. "It's where that stench comes from—that frightful smog. They are looking for something, Solas. Something in dark." 

"Perhaps ore or gems," Solas offers. 

Andruil shakes her head forcefully as if to rid herself of the memory. "It's not that, Solas. I felt it. It is something living." 

"What could live so far down, Lethallan; without light or warmth or water?"

"I don't know… but I want to—" She lowers her voice and ends with a sigh. Her outburst surprises them both. "There's something else," she adds suddenly. 

When Solas questions her with a look, the huntress collects herself and tries again. "Have you heard of the Din'sal'shiral, Solas?"

His brows knit in confusion. "The dead... life?"

"I do not expect you to know of it. It is a unseen thing that lives in the forests of my home, a creature you'd never find unless you looked, and never looked for because it does not truly exist."

"Andruil, I don't—"

She ignores him. "I saw it once, when there were only trees, and animals, and the threat of the unknown. I happened upon it by chance. There were ants, you see. A train of them, marching across the undergrowth in their thousands; an insignificant, ordinary sight that would pass one by. It was the sheer normalcy of it that highlighted the striking abnormality of the few: a handful of ants that danced and tumbled and rolled; that twitched and shuddered and walked with legs stiff, brittle, and unwieldy. It is as if they were shells, shells controlled by something apart from themselves, like a marionette on hidden strings. I had not thought of it until today."

"And what made you think of it?"

"The people here... Solas, they are not well. Something controls them. They are less than elvhen, and more than." Andruil bites her cheek and looks towards the flame. "I've heard their screams; I've heard their bestial cries echoing from the void, in the deep, dark chasm of the earth." 

Solas thinks back to the guards outside the castle, recalls the red glare of their eyes beneath their visors. He hums his agreement and holds her close. 

Chapter Text

Solas squints at the haze of grey and green that hangs over the sky like a muddy veil. He pinpoints the outline of the sun, a dim circle of light struggling to shine behind the smog, and groans. 

Hours have passed since he was summoned by Anaris to the castle's inner courtyard to watch the grass grow—literally. Aside from an initial exchange of pleasantries, the offer of breakfast, and the promise of a continuation of last night's conversation, Solas has been relegated to the voyeuristic role of watching Anaris tend to his garden.

He adjusts his weight from one foot from the other and carefully conceals a sigh of boredom, painstakingly aware of the titanic mass of Geldauran watching him from the comfortable seat of a stone pew.

Anaris tuts as he plucks another weed from his bed of sprouting Witherstalk before shuffling to another trough of fauna, watering can in-hand. In hindsight, Solas will attribute his sudden outburst to that moment: to the nonchalance with which Anaris hopped from flower to flower, bowed legs splayed like some overgrown frog rooting for a mate in the reeds. It is the first time Solas experiences it—the bitter taste of resentment, the unbridled bite of rage. 

"You will lose, Anaris. There is no other option." 

The shovel in his hand stops. Anaris returns to his task after a moment, digging under the roots of weeds to carve them from the dirt. He tosses the dregs to one side and rises. 

The ground trembles below their feet. Solas is thrown backward, his shoulder jerking awkwardly as he is slung like a ragdoll towards Geldauran. 

"What did you say?" The brute tightens his fingers until the small bones in his collar wriggle under his vice-like grip. 

"Geldauran, that is not the proper way to handle our guests." 

Anaris' pitched tone startles them both. 

Geldauran releases Solas immediately and tightens his lip into a thin line. Solas cannot help but stare at the monster of a man, at the obvious signs of his discomfort, at his palpable fear. Here was a soldier whose size rivaled Elgar'nan's, whose scarred face crisscrossed with faded lines told the tale of a hundred battles; who, at the sound of Anaris' displeasure, shirks away like a beaten hound. 

Solas swallows and bows his head, bravado and confidence slipping through his pores in beads of sweat. 

"He is right. We cannot win." Anaris runs a hand through his mottled hair and eases the muscles in his neck with his fingers, oblivious to the stunned faces of his peers. He returns to his garden to check the adolescent leaves of an Elfroot plant for parasites. "I doubt that's a sentiment Mythal and Elgar'nan share. You would not be here if they thought their victory assured. So tell me, Solas, one truth for another, why have your elders not invaded?" 

Solas clears his throat and tries his best to ignore the feel of Geldauran's gaze on his back. "There is something here that frightens them, a power they do not understand. I was sent here to ascertain that power."

"And? Have you?" 

He hesitates. "Not entirely. But, I have given it some thought." 

The shovel rattles noisily as its discarded on the stone ground. Anaris swears under his breath and pats the pockets of his trousers. "Well? Don't leave us in suspense," he says as he rummages. 

"It is not of this world or the Fade." 

"Telling me what it isn't is not the same as telling me what you think it is."

"The mines," Solas says stiffly, chest flaring with indignation at the pointed implication that he does not know. "You're digging for something, aren't you?"

"Am I?"
 
Solas cannot see his face, but he can hear the smile in his voice. Anaris is enjoying this. 

"Whatever it is, you've found it and used it—on your own people no less. On yourselves, too."

Anaris shrugs. "True."

"Anaris," Geldauran barks, knitted brows bulging with the force of his scowl. "What do you think—"

"Leave us," Anaris hisses in a tone more snake than human. He uproots a stalk of what might be Crystal Grace and chucks it at the growing mass of dead flora. 

Geldauran growls and bears his square teeth in an ugly sneer. Nevertheless, he does as he is told and marches toward the courtyard entrance with listless steps. 

When they are alone, Anaris abandons his plants with a sigh. "The earth is such a wonderful thing, Solas. There is so much wonder to be found here. In the dirt, in the soil. We build our homes on it, from trees grown from it, from stone as old as the world itself. As a people, we have forgotten how much we depend on the ground beneath our feet. We have Elgar'nan to thank for that, for luring their sight towards the sky, towards the Fade, where nothing good or real exists." 

"There is power in the Fade, Anaris," Solas murmurs, careful to mask his disdain for the conversation. "It is the reason why Elgar'nan and Mythal have accomplished all that they have."

"Gah!" Anaris shakes his head. "The Fade is nothing. The Fade is your visage in a murky pond. The Fade is a reflection of power, an imitation of the world. It is a poor likeness. Without the weight and shape of Elvhen thought, it would be nothing. Formless. Empty. It is why your elders demand the sacrifice of so many, the ardent belief of your poor. Their thoughts and actions give it purpose."

Solas wants to steer the discussion towards something more amenable, but pride goads him onwards. "The Fade imbues our magic. It allows us to shape our world, to harness its potential."

"It amplifies it. Nothing more. That is not true power, Solas. But it is pointless to argue with a spirit such as yourself. You are still new; the stench of the Fade still lingers on your skin. Eventually—perhaps not now, but sooner than you realize—you will see the Fade for what it truly is: a tool to control, to dominate, and subjugate. And you will see that even your precious Mythal is not immune to its wiles." 

Solas swallows against the knot in his throat. Something in Anaris' tone slices through his belief and opens him up to doubt. "Mythal is not like the others. When this is over, she will guide the Elvhen down a righteous path, a fair one." 

"Perhaps she will. Perhaps she will be the first tyrant to freely return power. Wouldn't that be a sight to behold?" 

Anaris' smile quickly turns into a frown when he notices Solas glowering at the ground. Wounded by his silence, the elf tries a different tact. 

"You're right, Solas: we have found something. In time, I have no doubt that it will have the power to change the world and bring Elgar'nan and his ilk to its knees. But for now, we haven't the strength nor the numbers to compete with our… brothers and sisters to the east." 

"Then why try and fight?" 

"Because we must. Because I will not sit idle and allow tyranny to triumph. Whether we win or lose, I will destroy what they have created. The Elvhen will experience grief and fear and chaos and learn that no matter how strong their leaders seem, that they are still powerless to prevent the death of thousands. How long do you think their empires will last then? How long before June's fire grows cold? Before Andruil's bow cracks, and the pyramid of power civilization hinges on, collapses from skepticism and disbelief? We will lose the war, Solas, but so will they." 

Anaris closes the gap between them and grasps Solas' face, urging him closer until there is nothing but air between them. He feasts on his expression, crimson eyes scanning every inch of his face. "But now," he begins with a giggle, "now I see another path for me and mine. Show me, Solas—show me the path hidden away in that pretty little head of yours."

"Anaris," Solas says weakly, drawn to the dark pits of his pupils. 

"Ah, ah, ah," Anaris whispers softly, like a mother comforting her crying babe. "You knew this was coming. Now, relax. Breathe. I promise this won't hurt… much." 

Andruil once said that Dirthamen and Anaris are the same, that the lies and truths of men are laid bare by their gifts. As Solas loses himself in Anaris' eyes and feels a part of him wedged into the fabric of his mind, Solas thinks that their power could not be any different. 

Anaris sifts through his thoughts and memories, flicking through images, emotions, passions, and hurts. Solas cannot stop the outpouring of information, even as he resists, even as the memories of his former life flash before his eyes, their pain and humiliation intact. He cannot stop the flush of admiration as Mythal's proud visage comes into view or prevent the nascent throb of his heart at Andruil's smile. He is forced to relive the pain of his scar—the agony—as Elgar'nan burns the vallaslin from his brow.

The images stop. Anaris' face comes into focus. His eyes are no longer red. 

"Shh, Solas. I'm here." 

Solas feels himself tremble. He winces as Anaris strokes his jaw, lips, and nose and utters a weak cry of surprise as his fingers wipe away the tears from his lashes. 

"I understand, Solas." 

The elf staggers with legs heavy like lead. Anaris keeps him upright, his firm grip the only thing saving him collapse. Gently, timidly, Anaris brings Solas' lips to his and plants a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. 

"Take a moment," Anaris whispers. "When you're ready… I suggest you run. Quickly." 

Chapter Text

Andruil pulls her dagger from the assailant's eye and wipes the blood from the blade. She searches the pile of bodies around her, ignoring the imperceptible murmur of onlookers cowering inside their homes. 

Another warrior howls, the metallic lit of his voice reverberating like a rung bell as he charges. She parries his overhead strike and shoves her weapon through his throat. Andruil watches as he falls to his knees, as his red eyes swell with surprise. 

"Mythal's bleeding tit, Solas. Where are you?" She scans the horizon for his face, unable to pierce the fog that envelops the castle. The way is clear—for now. 

She glowers at the corpse of a elf and sneers. A madness took hold of the soldiers stationed on the walls and around the trader's square. It was as if some silent command awoke something within them, turning them from simple soldiers to bloodthirsty beasts. An archer at her back had almost succeeded in slicing her ear off with his arrow. Fortunately, the next swarm of attackers would not catch her so unaware. 

A stirring in the smog demands her attention. Solas darts from the gloom, running at full pelt towards her.

"Sol—"

"Go!" 

Relief twists into concern. She watches from her vantage point atop a hillock as he zips towards her, tumbling over his feet with long, clumsy strides.

"Go!" He shouts again, teeth bared in a grimace. 

Andruil hears them before she sees them—the thud of their footsteps, the rattling of their armor. As Solas skids to her side and doubles over from exhaustion, she gets a glimpse of what he was running from—the horde of armed Silverite guards that stood watch on the steps of the castle perron. 

She seizes his arm and pulls him upright. "What the fuck did you do?"

"T-t-here isn't any time," he gasps, mopping the sweat from his brow with his forearm. Solas takes a moment to study their surroundings, paying special attention to the bodies scattered around the square. "I don't know if we can outrun them."

"We can't," she agrees, eyes narrowed on the troop marching towards them, their giant strides unhampered by the heavy armor on their backs. 

Andruil closes her eyes and takes a breath. When they are open, they are no longer the calm, comforting brown Solas had come to adore—they are white. 

Energy crackles around her, converging around her arms and legs and between the joints of her fingers. When the horde crosses the threshold into the clearing, Andruil slams her fists into the ground. A fissure forms on impact, splitting the terrain. One line becomes two; two into hundreds of jagged slits of rock, debris, and dust. Solas watches as their enemies stagger and fall like felled wheat to their knees before disappearing in a wave of dust. 

Andruil is on her feet again before Solas can come to terms with what happened. 

"Keep moving," she barks as he fumbles, "this won't hold them for long. My magic is weak."

"That was weak ?" 

"Something is suppressing my power." She coughs and stares suspiciously at the fog above their heads. "Doesn't matter now. Move ."

Solas falls head-over-heels into the dirt. He does not get up.

"I can't," he pants, arms trembling with the effort to keep his head off the ground. In the end, he gives up the fight and presses his forehead into the earth, relishing the feel of cool mulch against his skin. "I can't breathe." 

Andruil's arms are around him in an instant, heaving his listless body through the undergrowth until he finds the strength to stand. 

"We need to get to the Eluvian. It's our only chance. I can hear them—more are coming for us."

Solas can hear them too, but he doesn't care. "It's too far. We'll never make it." 

"I'll carry you." Andruil squats and gestures to her back.

"You… can't."

"Fenedhis, Solas! Get on my fucking back before I tie you up and drag you there myself." 

"You can't." 

Thwack.

Solas' head jerks with the force of her slap. He touches his cheek instinctively. When he musters the courage to confront her, Solas is shocked to find that her eyes are enlivened with tears. 

"I am not leaving you!" 

Solas shakes his head. "You're at your limit, Lethallan."

There is no question about it. Hunched over, arms and chest glistening with sweat, the huntress can barely stand. 

"Please, just—"

"Enough!" The command falls short; her voice scarcely above a whisper. "I made a promise—I promised her I would keep you safe." 

"You have," he murmurs. Solas reaches for her shoulder. 

The crunch of leaves behind them cuts his gesture short. 

Despite the fear and fatigue, Andruil is ready, bow taught against her side before Solas has time to swivel round. 

Anaris raises his hand in apology. He smiles. "Sorry, sorry. I'm interrupting quite a moment, aren't I? Don't mind me—I'll just be here while you finish off."  

Andruil loosens an arrow. It shoots past Solas' cheek and plunges towards the newcomer at breakneck speed.

Anaris catches it between his fingertips. He stares slack-jawed at the weapon in his grasp, astonishment etched across his features. "Oh dear. I didn't know I could do that."

Andruil spits at the ground and readies another arrow. 

"Wait, wait!" 

His pleas fall on deaf ears. Another arrow flies across the threshold. Anaris moves out of the way just in time. The sound of splitting wood signals that it found its mark on the trunk of a faraway tree. 

"Damn you!" 

Another arrow is notched. 

"You're wasting your time," Anaris says gently. He gestures to the bow with a nod. "Do you intend to run out of arrows before you realize that?" 

"I'll make new ones," she sneers, arms trembling with the effort to maintain her shooting stance. Even at a distance, Anaris would be blind not to read the signs of her fatigue. 

"I underestimated you, Huntress. I would have thought two days in my encampment would have sapped you of your strength." 

She ignores the compliment. "It's that blasted smog. What have you done to me?" 

"Don't fret; you will recover soon enough. A few days' rest in your homeland will set you right," he advises like a concerned healer. He nods politely before extending his hand towards Solas. "I will be taking him back with me now."

"Not while I still stand." 

Anaris sighs. "As you wish." 

Andruil shrieks the moment Anaris sets his gaze upon her. Tendons and veins pulse against her skin, threatening to break free of the body that contains them. It is not long before the huntress crumbles to the ground, the pitch of her cries swallowed by the earth she writhes upon. 

Solas rushes to her side and folds his body over hers. "Stop! You're killing her," he shouts, struggling to make himself heard over her wails. 

"Will you come with me?"

"Yes. Anything you want. Please." 

His gaze softens. 

Solas feels Andruil relax under his grip, her cries of anguish softening into choked sobs.

"I'm so very glad to hear that," Anaris says gleefully. He claps his hands to punctuate his positive mood. "Let us be off then. Geldauran might look menacing, but he is an absolute worrywart. I would hate to keep him waiting—"

Anaris stops, turns, and lifts his face to the sky. "Did you hear that?" 

Solas follows his gaze. He listens. Nothing.  

"I—"

"Shh," Anaris whispers, eyes fixed on the canopy above. "Listen."

Solas ignores the rush of blood thrumming in his ears and does as he is bid. 

The sound is indistinct at first, but he hears it: the din of distant fluttering, not unlike that of laundry caught in a strong breeze. It draws closer.

Andruil begins to laugh, the crazed, pitched warble of a woman that has lost her mind. She raises her head and sneers, revealing white teeth spotted with soil. 

"She's here."

Chapter Text

Solas touches his lower lip and smiles. He loses himself in his memories, eyes glazed over as he retreats to private thoughts. When he comes to, his lips tighten in a grin.

"I will never forget the first time I saw a dragon. Thousands of years after the fact, I still remember how loud my heartbeat was, how cold and uncertain my fingers were. Everything I ever knew, everything I had ever heard, was not enough to prepare me for the sight. I suppose that is what awe is—the realization that there is something greater than yourself, a truth that elicits feelings of wonderment words cannot even begin to describe. But I will try, for your sake, to piece together the weight of my astonishment." 

Pines and leaves and debris burst from the canopy, raining over their heads like confetti on parade. 

It circles them, once, twice, the rhythmic flap of wings a deafening symphony of sound that brings Solas to his knees. 

"Andruil… Andruil… Andruil," he whispers, a mantra that keeps him from crying out in fear. He sinks lower to the ground each time the dark shadow passes overhead.

The huntress beams up at him and wipes the trail of dried blood from her mouth. "Don't be afraid, Solas—she's here to help us." 

The forest explodes in a cacophony of noise as trees are snapped in two as quickly as dried twigs underfoot. The dragon screeches as it descends, its monstrous winds beating hard as it shapes a path to the floor. It lands beside Anaris—a tall creature with twisted horns and a sleek snout decorated with serrate teeth. It flattens its wings against its flank, revealing a canvas of black scales flecked with gold. 

The dragon snorts, sending clouds of smoke from saucer-sized nostrils. It turns its head and fixes one golden eye on Anaris.

The elf bows so low that the tips of his hair brush against the ground. 

"Blessed mother. How good it is to see you aga—"

Anaris doesn't get to finish his greeting, the echo of his voice drowned out by the colossal snap of the dragon's jaws around his body. 

Solas blinks and rubs his eyes, staring at the spot where Anaris once stood. There is no blood or loose appendages—no indication that he was ever there at all. 

"An illusion," Andruil remarks. She clambers to her feet, dusting leaves and dirt from her arms and legs. Solas hands Andruil her bow, careful not to lose sight of the dragon only twenty yards from where they stand.

She pushes past him and struts unevenly towards the creature. "What took you so long?" 

The dragon growls deep in its throat and lowers its head towards the huntress. It prods Andruil's side with its snout. 

"Shit —stop it. I know. I've broken a rib. I'll deal with it later."

"An—Andruil."

Andruil whips her head around, her face contorted with annoyance. "What?"

"You're talking… ehem… you're talking to a dragon," Solas says.

Andruil laughs, chokes, and winces all in one breath. "Ouch—fuck.  Do you really not recognize her?" She turns to the dragon and taps the side of its face as one might do a horse. "Have you never shown him this form? Some friend you are—you've scared the boy half to death."

Something like a purr rumbles in the belly of the beast, in a cadence not unlike human laughter. The entire affair becomes too much for him to process. 

"I think I'm going to be sick."

"Better now than on dragonback. I was sick on myself once mid-flight; messy business." 

"This is insane," he mutters to himself, watching the dragon extend its front leg so the huntress might climb her way up its back. 

"No, not quite," Andruil replies. She lodges herself between the stool-high ridges along its spine. "This is Mythal." 

Geldauran watches Anaris from under the courtyard's shaded gazebo, only faintly aware of the words coming out of his subordinate's mouth. The report is clear whether he hears the finer detail or not: they suffered heavy losses at the hands of Andruil the Huntress; that it would take time and energy to negate the damage. He nods when appropriate and grunts when the soldier stalls on a particular point. When he has heard enough, he waves him away. 

Anaris gives no indication that he has noticed his approach. The elf sits cross-legged on a patch of turned earth yet to be sown with seeds. His eyes are closed.

"You've caused quite a stir, Anaris." His short ears twitch at the sound of their recruits running drills in the training ground beyond the castle walls—a task he should be overseeing himself. "If you were always going to let the boy go, it would have been best to avoid so many casualties. The bitch did more damage than anticipated."

"Our losses were necessary," Anaris says. He sways gently. "Elgar'nan would grow suspicious otherwise."  

Geldauran snorts. "I suppose I will have to trust in your judgment—like always. It is Daern'thal who you'll have to convince."

"He will understand my reasoning in due course." Anaris opens his eyes. "I saw her, you know—Mythal."

"I know. I heard."

"She was beautiful."

Geldauran does not deign him with a reply. "We only lost one of the Sentinels. The Veil is working as intended. Had it not, Andruil might have brought down the entire fortress with her fists."

"You sound surprised."

"Little surprises me anymore. The boy came close."

"Solas?"

"Yes—though I still do not agree with how you handled all this," Geldauran clarifies. 

"You will not agree with what comes next either."

Geldauran sighs and folds his thick arms over his barreled chest. "I was afraid you might say that. Well? Out with it."

Anaris lurches to his feet, making a point to crack all his bones and joints as he goes. He pats Geldauran on his side but avoids his gaze. "Ready the recruits for war."

"Oh?" His mood improves. 

"It won't be long until they invade. We must be ready—"

"We are not ready. Far from it. The lyrium—"

"Geldauran," Anaris says icily, irked by the interruption. He allows his displeasure to fester for a moment, enjoying the way Geldauran slinks away from his grasp. "Solas was right—this is a battle we will not win. However, I do not intend to lose the war." 

The shriek of a kestrel draws their attention. Anaris studies it as it flits overhead, darting between clouds of smog with slight, imperceptible movements. Slowly, suddenly, it begins to fall. 

"How goes our progress in the mines? Have the preparations for our descent been made?"

Geldauran hesitates. "Some, Anaris. Not all. But soon."

He nods and graces Geldauran with a smile. "Good. Very good." 

Chapter Text

Solas is quiet. He traces the lines on his palm, mapping their shallow trenches towards his fingers. 

"What then, Solas?" she asks, trying—and failing—to disguise the childlike longing in her voice. 

He graces her with a smile, an apologetic one. "You know what happens next."

"The war."

"Yes." He grows solemn.

"What was it like?"

Solas admonishes her with a look. "I don't think I have to tell you about war, vhenan. You've experienced your fair share."

"But what happened?" she whines, shocked at how much she sounds like Varric's boy faced with the promise of a story. 

"The same thing that happens in every war: loss and chaos and death. Men who might have made a change for good were lost on the battlefield; women who might have raised families were ordered to the frontlines to fight for their home. And children… so many children left to confront eternity alone for the bravery of their parents. It's the same story, vhenan, no matter what age."

"But you won."

He winces. "It is not a term I would use, but yes. We did. Tirashan Forest was leveled, its settlements razed. All in all, the siege lasted little more than a month. It would have ended sooner, but Elgar'nan did not want his pantheon to bloody their hands with it all." 

"And Anaris? Geldauran?" 

"Vanished. Elgar'nan was furious, as you can imagine. When they discovered the mines, which had been collapsed long before their arrival, he ordered them to excavate." 

"Did they find anything?"

"No, they did not. There were many tunnels, too many to count. And what troops they did send never returned. If it weren't for Mythal's council, Elgar'nan might have never stopped sending men to their deaths in the dark. The mines were sealed off and forgotten, not to be revisited until much, much later." 

Rosa wrings her hands, uncertain of how to phrase her questions. "You won the war, Solas. You succeeded in your task… but…"

He turns to her and lowers his head. He strokes her hair and soothes her with another smile. "I thought so, too. For a long time, I was very proud of what I had helped accomplish. In war, victory, hmm?"

"And in peace?"

The question begets a frown. "I was not vigilant, my heart. I had hoped—thought—that my clever machinations were the final step in freeing the Elvhen from their bonds, but all I managed was to drive them further into their master's arms."

"The Evanuris."

Solas nods. "Yes. Anaris was right: tyrants do not relinquish power willingly. All I did was trade one tyrant for another and was none the wiser." 

Rosa is determined to find a silver lining, some semblance of triumph for her to cling to. "Some good must have come from it?" 

Solas nods and considers her words. "Yes. Peace ushered in a golden era for the Elvhen. A time of learning, of expansion, of growth. The sprawling kingdoms of Elvhenan were fashioned in this time; cities of tall crystal spires and gilded streets. For a millennium, my people prospered, creating such wonders it breaks my heart to speak of it. Nevertheless, it was all an illusion, a front... a pretty lie."

"An illusion?"

"A clever disguise, a sleight of hand to keep you from noticing the trick; that beneath the shining facade of our civilization was an undercurrent of inequality that would—eventually—swallow it whole."

"Then what you told me at the Crossroads was true: the Evanuris threatened to destroy all the Elvhen had created."

"Not directly, but in their lust for power, in their insatiable quest to dominate, they had forgotten their purpose. Pride and greed twisted their motivations, and their shared goal of creating the greatest civilization fell apart, supplanted by the need for personal gains. Instead of working together, they vied to undermine each other, goaded by resentment, gluttony, and the sanctimonious belief that they were gods with the right to shape the world as they saw fit. I—"

Solas curls his hand into a fist. The spark of anger dies as quickly as it comes. "I was no different from them."

"That's not true, Solas," she whispers. "You did so much, you tried to help, I know—"

"You know nothing, my heart," he says. Though not unkindly, Rosa cannot erase the pain of dismissal from her face. She swings her head towards the floor. 

"I was no different," he repeats. "I, too, lost my way. I was not vigilant or careful. I allowed myself to be swept away by the glamour and turned a blind eye to the suffering others endured for my benefit. If I had acted sooner, perhaps this would have never come to pass." 

Solas glances up at the ceiling. Clouds of dust and plaster fall like specks of starlight over their head, dusting their shoulders and arms. 

"We are running out of time," he says, echoing words spoken long ago. 

Rosa's phantom arm twitches at the memory, the nebulous pulse of the Anchor still dogging her steps. But Solas isn't sad—not this time; his once forlorn expression replaced with one of acceptance.

"But that's not it. There's so much more I don't understand. The fall, the Forgotten ones…" she licks her lips and bites back the tinge of jealousy that threatens to break through. “And Mythal and Andruil, too. Solas, this isn't enough."

"It has to be."

The ceiling shudders again, relinquishing another trail of dust. Rosa knows it's time to go, even if her heart is slow to accept it. 

"Don't fret, vhenan. Your time in the Fade is not over. There are others here that need your help and other truths yet to be discovered." 

Morrigan. Solas. Part of her had almost forgotten. 

Solas stands and walks towards the exit.

Rosa follows. She doesn't want to leave the warmth and comfort of the familiar; she does not want to venture back into the dark. The elf studies the door apprehensively before turning to Solas. He is still smiling, still proud. 

"And what happens next?" 

"I am your past, my love. I cannot inform you on your future… but there are others here who can." 

She thinks of Solas. Young Solas. She realizes she did not think to ask if they are the same— if the Solas of her past and the Solas of her present are interchangeable. In the end, she doesn't know if it is pertinent to ask. 

Solas' touch lures her from her thoughts. He strokes her head and brushes the mess of hair from her cheeks. "Do you remember your promise?"

Rosa hesitates. 

"To live, my heart. You have chased the shades of dream and memory for too long. It is time to let go." 

Another quake shakes the room. Small pieces of plaster shatter on the table. Then larger ones. The room fills with dust. Solas opens the door, unperturbed by his surroundings.

The way forward is dark, but for some reason, Rosa isn't scared anymore. Before she leaves, she regards Solas, drinking in the sight of him, every wrinkle and every pore until she begins to forget the minute details of his face. "Will I see you again?" 

He grins. 

The door closes. Rosa blinks once, twice, and the door is gone. 

Chapter Text

A walkway of mirrors lines her path, each colored with memories, framing a snapshot in time. The Eluvians hum and lure her close with their psalms of knowledge. Rosa loses herself in their history as eons of hurt, pain, and passion unravel before her, charting a path through a forgotten past with their story.

They stand in Dirthamen's library. 

Mythal leafs through the pages of a leather-bound book. She tears her eyes from the script at the sound of Dirthamen's laughter. 

"It's impressive work," Solas says, eyeing the Eluvian. "I am so happy the library has been working as intended."

"It has exceeded my expectations. The Elvhen have shared so much of their history already. Many elders have already lent their memories to Dithara before entering Uthenera." He wets his lips and continues on excitedly. "Soon, Elvhen from every city, every outpost, can share and learn as they please. Who knows how quickly we can progress with the shared teachings and experiences of a united people."

"Elgar'nan must be proud."

Dirthamen shakes his head, sending his jowls into a flutter. "As if..." He ends the conversation and glances over to where Mythal sits. 

She waves him on. "Don't stop on my account."

The scholar delivers a nervous laugh. "It's all progressing swimmingly," he affirms. His joy is short-lived; the glimmer of hope in his eyes fades. "I..."

"What is it?" Solas presses. 

Mythal looks up from her book and narrows her eyes. "What troubles you?" 

The elf hesitates, intimating with a groan his unwillingness to answer. "It's nothing, really."

"Dirthamen," Mythal warns.

He tucks his hair behind his ears, cheeks puffing and sagging as he struggles to enunciate his thoughts. "It's Andruil," he says. 

"What of her?"

"She approached me some days ago. She wants to activate the Eluvian in Tirishan Forest."

"Why?"

He flaps his hand. "The girl is preoccupied with something there—I couldn't get her to specify what—but it's something to do with mines beneath the citadel."

Mythal tuts. "Elgar'nan sealed them away. There is nothing down there, nothing of worth."

"She seems to think otherwise." Dirthamen shakes his head and sinks into his armchair. "I have not seen her so animated  before. She's obsessed with whatever she thinks she found."

Mythal searches for clarification from Solas. "You were there with her. Do you know what she seeks?"

Solas shrugs. "No, Mythal. I was never able to ascertain what power Anaris discovered. Whatever it is, he has surely taken it to his grave." 

"She will be back," Dirthamen says. "What should I tell her?"

Mythal is quiet for a time. She rolls the heavy pendant around her neck and issues a sigh. "Let her take it up with Falon'Din—they are his lands now. If she wants to go rummaging in the dirt, so be it. I have far more immediate problems to deal with." 

Ghilan'nain kept herself apart from the People. She used her power to create animals none had ever seen. The skies teemed with her monsters, the land with her beasts. Andruil hunted them all, and after a year of killing, approached Ghilan'nain with an offer: the gods would share their power with Ghilan'nain, but only if she destroyed her creations, for they were too untamed to remain among the People. Ghilan'nain agreed and asked for three days to undo what she had made.

Elgar'nan's light is blinding. The heat of his fury brings Rosa to her knees. 

"You disgust me," he bellows. "You will take a man, as nature intended. Your affliction will not be part of the legacy I  have designed for us."

She can taste Andruil's anguish, a muddled thing of pain, hurt, embarrassment, and longing. "I do not belong to you," she spits, "I am my own person. I am my own master, and I will choose a partner of my choice. You do not get to dictate my heart."

Elgar'nan's voice is shrill. "She is Elvhen! She is not one of us! Your aberrations aside, your paramour is mortal! Your lust for her will jeopardize everything we have created." 

"Then make her divine, Elgar'nan. Elevate her to our broken seat and be done with it."

Solas reaches for her shoulder to hold her back. She shrugs him off. 

"You dare order me? You dare suggest that I endanger the pantheon for some bitch you found in the woods? Your time in the Void has addled your brain, Huntress. If you think for a moment—"

"Do it, or I walk, Elgar'nan. Do it, or I will lay bare all our secrets. Do it, or I will ensure the people remember the history they have long forgotten—that our divinity is nothing but a lie. You will give Ghilan'nain to me, father ."

"Let it be so," Mythal's calm voice echoes in her mind. "The people will not question our motives—in fact, they may come to love our decision to elevate one of their own." The goddess reaches for her partner, begging for reason with her touch. "Ghilan'nain has kept her side of the bargain; the beasts are dead. Let it be known that the Creators keep their promises with her ascension."

This elven writing found in the Arbor Wilds is so old there seems to be no way to learn what it means.

There are whispers from the Well of Sorrows. It's impossible to understand the entire text, but certain parts suddenly reveal a shadow of their original meaning.

"His crime is high treason. He took on a form reserved for the gods and their chosen, and dared to fly in the shape of the divine. The sinner belongs to Dirthamen; he claims he took wings at the urging of Ghilan'nain, and begs protection from Mythal. She does not show him favor, and will let Elgar'nan judge him."

For one moment there is an image of a shifting, shadowy mass with blazing eyes, whose form may be one or many. Then it fades.

A tall elf regards Solas with large, round eyes framed with kohl. She shakes her dark hair; pointed tines of her crown sends shards of light along the wall. 

"You're sad," she murmurs. 

Solas rubs his mouth and turns away. "Nothing gets past you, Ghilan'nan."

"You're angry," she adds in the same muted tone. She tilts her head and waits. 

"Of course I'm angry," he snaps. He gestures to the balcony, to the city beyond the crystal balustrades of Elgar'nan's floating castle. "I have done everything in my power to help the pantheon—and yet he refuses to elevate me to any seat of importance."

"And this bothers you?" She blinks slowly. Her long tongue slips between her lips to pluck a crumb from her cheek. 

"It—it's embarrassing! You appear out of nowhere and are elevated to divinity without even—" Solas sighs and sinks his thumbs into the socket of his eyes. "Forgive me. This is not your fault."

"It's true," Ghilan'nan agrees wistfully. "I am here because Andruil wanted me here. I have done nothing to deserve this boon." 

Ghilan'nan paws the ground with her golden sandals and saunters towards Solas. After finding a satisfactory spot, she flicks a manicured hand and materializes a chair to lounge on. 

"You deserve to be part of the pantheon, Solas, but why  do you want to be?" 

"Why?" He considers her question. "Because there is so much knowledge gated behind status. I'm denied the simple pleasure of learning because I am deemed unworthy of it."

"Wisdom loves knowledge," she says gently. As soon as Ghilan'nan seems to settle, she is on her feet again, strutting towards the terrace with no clear intent or direction. "Then Wisdom should take what it wants, yes? This seems like the only course of action."

"I—I cannot."

Ghilan'nan stretches her arms above her head and yawns. As she turns her face to the sun, her tawny skin shimmers like the green scales of a forest snake. "Can, cannot. Try, do. It is your choice. Knowledge cannot be contained; the only one stopping you is you." 

Rosa pulls away."No," she murmurs, "I need the present, not the past."
She slinks towards the dark narrow path, drawn to the familiar scent of old pages and frilly cakes. 

Chapter Text

Andruil put on armor made of the Void, and all forgot her true face. She made weapons of darkness, and plague ate her lands. She howled things meant to be forgotten, and the other gods became fearful Andruil would hunt them in turn. So Mythal spread rumors of a monstrous creature and took the form of a great serpent, waiting for Andruil at the base of a mountain.

When Andruil came, Mythal sprang on the hunter. They fought for three day and nights, Andruil slashing deep gouges in the serpent's hide. But Mythal's magic sapped Andruil's strength, and stole her knowledge of how to find the Void. After this, the great hunter could never make her way back to the abyss, and peace returned.

Rosa turns on her heels and frowns. Her memory is hazy as if suddenly roused from the confines of a tremulous dream. As she stares down the length of a broad hallway dotted with doors, she remembers her intent. 

"He was here," she murmurs as she takes a tentative step. "I followed him." Perhaps it was another dream, she decides with no shortage of disappointment—an endless show of mirrors and reflections of half-truths and old memories she barely comprehends.

Soft footsteps sound from a quiet alcove at the end of the corridor. Stairs, she realizes, as she bellies a surge of hopefulness. 

"Sola—"

No. She swallows her voice. It is not him. Even in dreams, even in this limbo of uncertainty, she knows his gait, the resolute patter of his feet, the heel-first meter of his strides. 

Mythal turns the corner and pauses to catch her breath. She sizes up the hallway, staring through Rosa at the rooms that line her path. She listens; she waits. 

Her cautiousness encourages Rosa to do the same. The elf is rewarded for her tact. Din, muted voices crash against the door closest to the Inquisitor. 

Mythal follows the sound—homing in on the door closest to Rosa. The goddess places a manicured hand on the handle and hesitates. Something like a squeal shatters the calm. Mythal inhales the outset of a laugh and opens the door. 

Rosa is not prepared for the sight. She is not ready for the aching familiarity of Solas—her young one—and the vision of his tousled braid hanging off the edge of the bed, the shape of his proud face as he grimaces and winces. She is not prepared for the way his hands tremble and splay against the curve of Andruil's hips, slamming her onto his pelvis in an unshakeable rhythm. Andruil is there to meet him, thrust for thrust, her long, chestnut hair flat against her back like a living cape. Rosa can't look away from her expression, the way her heavy-lidded eyes sag under her furrowed brow, the way her nails claw fresh marks from old ones across his chest. 

Mythal slips inside and hangs by the doorway, content to watch the finale unfurl in silence. 

Andruil climaxes in a crescendo of noise and broken curses. She trembles for a time and slumps onto Solas' chest, hiding the twisted hallmarks of her pleasure beneath her hair. 

Solas lolls his head towards Mythal and grins. "We have company," he pants.

Andruil twists her head towards the doorway. "What good timing."

"Apologies for the interruption," Mythal growls. "I wouldn't come unless it was important." She gestures to the white gash in Andruil's side, a wide rift of weathered skin that had only seemed to have recently healed. "You have recovered quickly."

Andruil rolls off the bed and struts towards a pair of silk robes strung messily across a chest of drawers. She slips into one with no sense of modesty or embarrassment. "A few decades in Uthenera does wonders," she replies icily. She tosses one robe to Solas, shielding his face and chest from view. 

"We are not going to argue about that now, are we?" he says from under his makeshift veil. He throws his legs over the side of the bed, drawing the fabric around his body at the same languid pace Andruil employed. 

"I would hope not. I do not want a repeat of the last encounter," Mythal responds. Her lips curl in a triumphant smile as Andruil seizes up with embarrassment. 

"What is it, then?" the huntress asks through gritted teeth. When she turns to face Mythal, Rosa notices her eyes are red. 

"Ghilan'nan is looking for you. She wants to see you before the meeting today." 

Andruil's scowl softens. "She did?"

Mythal nods. 

Andruil opens her mouth and closes it just as quickly. The rope around her midriff rasps as it's tightened into a knot. "Fine."

She pushes past Mythal and disappears into the hallway. When the patter of her bare feet echoes into quiet, Mythal closes the door. 

"How is she?" she asks, watching Solas refill his water from a crystal serving jug. 

He finishes his drink and dabs the sweat from his lip. All former signs of humor and contentment are gone. "The same. Worse," he adds, staring at the spot where she once stood. "I wish you wouldn't push for us to keep meeting this way. This liaison is not kind to either of us."

She ignores the comment. "What parts are worse?"

"All of it," he whisks the air as if struggling to find the words to articulate his point. "The paranoia, the addiction, the rage." 

"I'm surprised she is without her armor," Mythal notes. 

"It would be hard to fuck with it on," Solas says. When Mythal nods nonchalantly, Solas rolls his eyes. "It's still in repair. It would appear a certain someone made sure the Blacksmiths would have the impossible task of piecing it back together."

The goddess saunters towards a small window. "Don't look at me like that, Solas. I did what must be done for the security of the realm and for her." 

"As you say," he agrees, fishing for the wolf's mandible from the sea of bed-covers. 

"And what are you not saying?" 

"That you might have removed the problem, but not the cause. You may have severed Andruil's connection to the Void, but not its connection to her. She is still sick. Perhaps, she will always be."

"I did all I could."

"I know." Solas wrings his hand around the mandible. "I have a bad feeling about this gathering," he adds. 

"You have a bad feeling about every gathering, Solas. 'Tis the drawback of doing something wrong—nothing normal can occur without piquing one's anxiety."

"I mean it, Mythal," Solas says, face dark with concern. "We have not been subtle of late, and your constant fights with the pantheon have put a target on our backs. First Falon'Din, then Andruil; our allies are practically nonexistent."

"We are the only allies that matter." Mythal gives a snort of disapproval. "I doubt Elgar'nan or any of them have the foresight or fortitude to see anything beyond their own private squabbles."

Solas accepts defeat with a sigh. "I hope you're right."

"I usually am." She retreats to the door. "Return to Dirthamen's castle and tend to any guests that have arrived. I will meet you as soon as I am able, old friend."

As Mythal turns the handle, Solas lets out a whimper. "Mythal…" He lowers his head, discarding the bulk of his argument in favor of brevity. "Be careful." 

"Worrying will do you no favors. The pantheon are loyal to me; quarrels or no, they would not dare bite the hand that feeds." Mythal adjusts the diadem on her head and eases strands of hair back into their proper place. As she regards herself in a mirror, she gives an uneasy chuckle. "And if they have any reservation about my leadership, what are they going to do? Kill me?"

She leaves the way she came. 

Rosa follows Mythal out of the room, desperate to be anywhere but where she is—hounded by the scent of sex and desperation that hangs in the air like some winged albatross hellbent on torturing her. 

Try as she might, the sights, the smells, the sounds of Solas' lovemaking have crippled her. Rosa is without a compass, set adrift in this nebulous prison with no route or exit. Memories and history that were once so appealing have lost their luster. She does not want to see anymore—she does not want to be here. 

The Inquisitor pinches the bridge of her nose and exhales. Morrigan's warning echoes in her mind, shattering all attempts to gain a leash on the situation. 

You may not like what you see. 

"This happened thousands of years ago," she chides herself. "A lover from another age." 

Anxiety rears its ugly head and latches onto the pain in her heart. It flares at the memory of Andruil's face, the supple skin of her body as it flexes and quivers and shakes, smooth and gilded and taut. How could she ever live up to such a specimen, goads a quiet voice in her head? How could she ever replace a God whose tattered stone figures are worshipped by the elves of her time? 

Rosa does not hear his approach. When a pair of icy fingers clench around her arm, she gives a bark of surprise. 

Solas hushes her softly and tugs her towards his chest. It is the man from the room, she realizes—the God, not the apostate; an elf with hair and soft skin and eyes bright with youthful dynamism. 

Her heart is not prepared for the sight. She is not ready to talk, not yet. Rosa whimpers and tries to wriggle free. 

"It's me, my heart. Please," Solas urges. His grip tightens. 

"I don't know you," she spits, venom morphing into choked sobs that catch in the back of her throat. 

"Vhenan, please." Fingers fold around her jaw and guide her face towards him. "Look at me."

She looks. She sees. It is not the man from the room—the Solas with a scratched chest and sweat-glistened skin. He is not the Solas of her past, the one who stole kisses in the Great Hall behind the throne when no one was looking. He is not the Solas of her present; an awkward boy with gentle hands and brittle laugh born without the weight and shape of his history. 

He is all of them. 

He is whole. 

"I—"

"I remember," he tells her. His eyes soften. "And that's why we need to go. We need to leave before she—" 

Chapter Text

You said the elven gods went too far. What did they do that made you move against them?

They killed Mythal. A crime for which an eternity of torment is the only fitting punishment.

I thought Mythal was one of the Evanuris.

She was the best of them. She cared for her people. She protected them. She was a voice of reason. And in their lust for power, they killed her.

Rosa wakes with a start, the trappings of a plea on her lips. She gurgles for air that never comes. 

The room is dark, but Rosa recognizes the hallmarks of Morrigan's hut. Across the dining table, the outline of Solas' slumped frame forms out of the gloom. 

"Inquisitor… welcome." 

Rosa struggles against her paralysis, the unseen shackles that bind her to the chair. She utters a cry for help, a pathetic sound more beast than human. Light flashes in the fireplace, basking the hut in a veil of heat and color. 

Morrigan watches from the edge of the room, a dark figure wrought in shadow. "You've made this all very difficult," she says slowly. 

Rosa splutters in response—the right move, it would appear. Whatever spell holds her lessens. As she struggles, air rushes into her lungs. "C-cole?" she croaks. 

"He is not here," Morrigan answers. She starts towards the table and rests her hip against the table. There is something uncertain about the way she gathers herself, in the way her eyes glide over Solas' sleeping face. Caution fuels the steady hand that comes to rest on the elf's shoulder. "Your dreaming must end, Fen'Harel." 

Solas stirs at the sound of her voice. When he comes to, slate eyes blinking sleepily up at Morrigan's face, she grins. 

"Vhalla, ha falon." 

"Mythal," Solas says evenly. The elf licks his lips and regards his surroundings. When his gaze finally settles on Rosa, they widen in alarm. "Lasa ash dara, Mythal." 

Morrigan tenses, unnerved by the sudden order. "I don't think I will."

"Please." Balled hands rattle against the arms of the chair. "This has nothing to do with her."

"It has everything to do with her."

"Morri—" Rosa starts. 

"Silence. If you value your ability to breathe, Inquisitor, I suggest you stay quiet. And you," Morrigan says, fingers crooked under Solas' chin, "I suggest you become more forthcoming with your information. Where is it? Where is the idol?" 

"You don't want this, Mythal. Please."

Morrigan slinks away, her surprise no longer veiled. The hand at her side trembles. "You've... betrayed me," she says quietly. "Just like all the others. Just like Elgar'nan."

"No—"

"Vin. Me and our people. And for what?" She gestures angrily at Rosa, gemmed fingers shooting shards of lights along the walls. "For one person."

"I did not; as banalena!" The room falls into a heavy silence: Solas' tenses, tendons like ridges along his neck. "She is nothing," he repeats. "If it wasn't for her, none of this would have come to pass."

Morrigan raises a thin brow and hums her surprise. "Meaning?"

"I remember what happened, Mythal. All of it. Ar eolasa." He watches Rosa's expression darken out of the corner of his eye. "I remember what happened in the Deep Roads."

The announcement returns some semblance of joy to Morrigan's face. "Then if you know, help me. Finish what we started."

Solas hunches his shoulders. There are no words for a time, just the exasperated exhalations of an elf trying to reason with his captor. "We can't—shouldn't. Don't you see? We would be destroying countless lives for the sake of a past only you and I remember. Our time is over, Mythal. The time of the Elvhen has come and gone; we were just too blind to see it."

Morrigan clicks her tongue, lips parting as if to make way for angry words. She swallows them, and slowly, lowers her hand to touch his—the spell lifts. Solas wriggles appreciatively and rubs the numbness from his wrists. 

"My time was cut short, Solas, or have you forgotten? Have you forgotten what was done to me?" There is no trace of Morrigan in her voice, no remnant of the witch in her demeanor. She has been consumed by the goddess; by her thirst to remedy an ancient wrongdoing. "I will have my revenge, Solas. I will not be denied my dues.

Solas rises to meet her, eyes searching her countenance for some sliver of empathy, some vestiges of sense and reason. "I have carried the weight of your murder for countless eons. I have plotted and planned all in the hope of returning our people to their rightful seat. All this, I did for you—out of love for you. But—" 

"But?"

"I ask you to forgive. To remember a time long past when forgiveness was your virtue, vengeance your vice. You were Justice once; a mother who bore the heavy scales of truth, who gave her life for what is good and right." Solas extends his hand towards her. "We have been fighting a war long lost, old friend. It's time to let go." 

Morrigan hesitates, fingers twitching at her side. For a moment, Rosa thinks Solas has reached her, touched some buried part that longs for an end to all this. 

She cannot be more wrong. 

Pain shudders through her. Rosa gurgles and splutters, lips gaping like a cod caught on a line. She strains against the force holding her, nails carving desperate grooves into the wooden arms of her chair as the muscles, blood, flesh, and bones convulse under the witch's gaze. 

Solas remains rooted to the spot. "Mythal," he whispers. "This is not like you." 

"Make your choice, Solas. If not for me, for her." 

"The idol is gone—Mythal—please—she can't breathe."

Morrigan scowls. "These are my terms, Solas. Will you aid me or not?"

Solas swallows and dabs the sweat from his hairline. When Rosa's eyes begin to flutter, her hands begin to still, he nods. "Yes. I'll take you there. I'll do whatever you ask." 

Morrigan holds the spell a moment longer. After a triumphant nod, the witch releases her.

Rosa folds in on herself and falls with a thud on the floor. She does not get up. 

Solas is by her side in a heartbeat. He scrambles to find her pulse. "She's alive... but she's hurt." 

Morrigan is unmoved by the announcement. "The spirit cannot be far; he will tend to her."

Solas is reluctant to move. The sight of him bowed over Rosa's unconscious frame stirs something within the Chasind, a deformed beast of rage and hurt, equal parts fury and sadness. "For a moment I almost believed," she says, "that you no longer cared. You are not the elf I remember, Solas." 

"My feelings for her and this are irrelevant; you've made that clear enough." 

"She killed you, Solas. All this pain, all this anguish, is her doing."

Solas ambles to Morrigan's side, feet dragging as he goes. "She did what she thought was right, as did I. There is no one to blame but myself." After a time, the elf fixes his gaze on her. "This is not your fight, Morrigan. Don't allow yourself to be swept away by her. You are not your mother." 

The witch pauses and searches the hut. She finds the wolf's mandible discarded beside the leg of a chair. Once collected, she forces it into Solas' hand and makes her way towards the door. "Come. Let us be done with it." 

Chapter Text

Rosa does not dream. For the first time in recent memory, she is not hounded by the past or griefed by fears of the future. No voices dog her conscience, no whispers of Old Gods, or Magisters, or the memory of long-dead friends whose faces she has tried to forget. It is quiet. Peaceful—a silence she has not felt since childhood when she was free to run and hide and jump and skip in an empty forest untouched by strife. She doesn't want to leave, but she knows it's only a matter of time before the outside world catches up with her, before she is roused once more to fight someone else's battle. 

The pain comes first, slipping through the barriers of her reverie with its obnoxious clamor. Her head hurts—as if someone had taken a hammer to her skull and wormed a nail into a brain. A relentless ache in her chest smacks of broken bones and torn tendons. Soon, even the act of breathing becomes too much to bear. 

"Fff." Rosa inhales sharply, shuddering awake into a body that feels its years and then some. A weight on her sternum holds her still. 

"Don't move. Your bones have only recently mended," comes the dulcet tones of an unfamiliar voice. Male. Fereldean. 

Rosa winks. One eye flutters, straining to open; the other remains tightly shut. A cold, wet rag dabs at a tender spot beneath her brow. "My eye—"

"There's a lot of blood, Rosa. Your lashes are caked with it. Just be still a little longer." 

Rosa wriggles, flailing gently against the thin bedroll beneath her. "I can't stay here, I need to get up—I need to—"

"I know what you mean to do," the voice assures her. The wet rag is replaced by nimble fingers that touch and dab and stroke the corners of her face. The contact is soothing and provides a modest balm for the pain. Despite the uncertainty and confusion, Rosa feels at ease, albeit incredibly groggy. 

"My head," she whispers, "everything hurts."

"You had a nasty fall. When I found you, you were face-down on the boards. I've stitched up the gash above your eye, but I have nothing for the pain."

"Who—who are you? It's so dark, I can't see."

He sighs and extracts his fingers from her face. "I put the fire out; thought you could use the rest. Would you like me to light it?" 

"P-please." 

The floorboards groan. Rosa listens as her keeper turns and fishes for something from the belly of a canvas bag—a very full one, by the sounds of it. After adding another log to the fireplace and a handful of dried leaves and twigs, there is the familiar sound of struck flint, followed by the irritated grumbles of a man failing at his task. 

Eventually, he manages. 

Warm light blossoms behind her eyelids. Rosa pries her good eye open and squints. 

Her host has a kind, handsome face—one she knows smiles and laughs often. In the low light, she detects the two-day stubble across his jawline and the apparent gaps in his facial hair that denote his young age as clearly as his bright, amber eyes. There is something familiar about him, a feeling that wrestles pointlessly in her muddled brain. His sudden lopsided grin baffles her further. 

"Mother always said I look a lot like my father," he says, sensing her confusion. 

"No," Rosa says weakly. She flops onto her side, inviting a string of complaints from her companion. "You look just like her."

His grin shifts into a smirk. In that instance, Rosa wonders how she hadn't seen it to begin with. The jet black hair, the aristocratic brow, the glimmer of gold in his almond eyes—the resemblance is uncanny.

"It's been too long, Inquisitor."

"So it has, Kieran." 

Chapter Text

Kieran scrapes the ash from the log with an iron poker. "My mother did a number on you."

"Mm. I think she meant to kill me." Her resentment does not go unnoticed. 

"If my mother wanted to kill you, you would be dead, Inquisitor." 

"I've never knew she was capable of something like that." 

Kieran scowls. "It's been ten years since you last saw her. Morrigan is capable of a lot more than that."

Rosa fingers the thin linen cover around her knees. "Did you know?" 

"Know what?"

"What she has become?" 

"What? That my mother absorbed my grandmother's soul and became the vessel of an Elvhen god?" He offers her a wry grin. "I'm aware." 

She chuckles at his delivery. Definitely gets humor from his father—whoever the poor soul might be. "If you have any information about all this... I would be grateful to hear it."

Kieran offers his palms in submission. "Where would you like to start?" 

"The beginning. Morrigan said Solas killed Flemeth—"

"He did."

Rosa sucks in a breath. "It doesn't make any sense." 

"It does when you consider the grand scheme of things. Obviously, you know Solas' intent to bring down the Veil—after the orb was destroyed, he required Mythal' power to finish the task himself." 

Rosa shakes her head. "But they were partners."

"Yes—wedded to a common cause. Solas believed they were on the same page, that Mythal still yearned for the freedom of the Elvhen and was prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice to remedy his failure. He was deceived." 

"What happened?" 

Kieran hesitates, brow furrowed in concentration. "I was young then. I did not see what happened between Solas and gran—Flemeth. But I was there when my mother received her gift. I was there on the other side of the Eluvian." He smiles sadly. "If I close my eyes, I can still see it—this crystal  of light, a spark. Her soul came through the mirror into my mother's hands. It was the last time I saw Flemeth, and the last time my mother was whole." 

"Her soul?" 

"A part of it. The part of Mythal my grandmother carried with her since time immemorial." 

Rosa takes a moment to deliberate. Kieran continues, filling the silence with his euphonious monologue. "Mother turned  then. She was no longer Morrigan, not as you and I would know her. The changes were subtle at first, and for many years, I believe she did not recognize the shift herself. Bit by bit, part by part, she was consumed by Mythal's heart, by her resentment. It only got worse after Solas' defeat. She spent years—years—in search for the idol, embittered by his betrayal. In the end, it became too much for me to bear." 

Rosa cocks her head, brows raised in surprise. "You… you haven't seen your mother, have you?" 

"Not for many years." 

Mistrust colors her features. "The Morrigan I know would have never let her first-born out of sight. I find it hard to believe she would let you go willingly." 

Kieran smiles. "I may not be the prodigy with the soul of an Old God anymore, but I have my ways. I left home and turned myself into the Circle, knowing my mother would never look for me there. Once I came of age, I returned to the Korcari Wilds, to a small retreat six miles from here."

"A retreat?"

"A downtrodden hut with half a roof and a bad case of woodlouse, truth be told. Retreat sounded better." 

"So, you've been keeping tabs on your own mother?" 

He rubs the back of his neck and is, all of a sudden, sheepish. "Yes. It's not something a good son should admit. That being said, if it wasn't for the strange blonde lad bursting into my home in search of help, I wouldn't have had the faintest idea of what transpired."

"Strange blonde—Cole? Aargh!" Rosa doubles over. "Fenedhis! Why the fuck didn't you say you saw him earlier?"

Kieran is at her side before she can blink, shouldering her weight with his flank. "Andraste's tit, you're a bloody terrible patient. Has anyone ever told you that? Chrome, or whatever his name is, is fine . He was with me when we found you. I asked him to grab some supplies from my retreat  while you slept. If your horse is worth its salt, he'll be here before long."

"I need to find them—Solas is going to help her bring down the Veil. I can't just lay  about and do nothing." 

"And what will you do? If history is to be believed, you fought the Dread Wolf in some mine in Tevinter, hundreds of miles away. I am a mediocre healer at best, and without my poultices and Lyrium, you'll bleed out of your arse before you even reach Redcliffe." Kieran wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close. "Sometimes, the best thing is to do nothing. " 

Rosa weeps, whether from pain or the overwhelming ache in her heart, she cannot say. 

Kieran helps her back into bed and pulls the cover over her neck. "Be patient, Inquisitor. You did not win a fight against an ancient Magister on your own. Trust in your comrades and rest."

"I can't—I—" A wave of fatigue washes over her. Rosa's eyes begin to flutter. "You… fucking… bast…"

Kieran shakes the numbness from his hand and breathes a quiet sigh of relief. "It's for your own good," he murmurs softly. 

Chapter Text

Cole is there when she wakes up, his small, concerned face shrouding her entire field of view. His lips pucker into a tired smile as she comes to. "Good morning."

"Morning?" Rosa adjusts to the dusting of purple light behind Cole's head, hanging over his flaxen hair in a muddy halo. 

"You've been out for a whole day and then some." He points to the fireplace before bringing a finger to his lips. 

Perched against the wall is Kieran. Rosa watches his chest rise and fall and bellies a chuckle as he begins to snore. 

"He watched you all day and night and tried to fix all the parts that she broke," Cole explains. 

Rosa touches her forehead and is surprised to find the cut below her brow has fully healed. Even her bones are bruised at best. "I shall have to thank him when he wakes up." Her expression grows serious. "Cole… what happened to you?"

Downcast eyes search the floor. He shrugs. "The Fade didn't want me back. It wanted to keep me out— she  wanted to keep me out. There was no way in, so I went out." He motions to the world beyond the walls. 

"Thank you. If you hadn't found Kieran, I'm not sure how I could have gotten out of this." 

Cole shifts anxiously from leg to leg before settling on his haunches. Attempts are made to engage in some small talk, a task the spirit is glaringly unequipped for. It is not hard to see what he wants to say; the truth he circles like an indecisive vulture. 

"Would you like to know what we saw?" 

"Y-yes."

Rosa tells Cole all she remembers from the Fade, speaking until her voice begins to croak from overuse. She fills Cole in on the events that led to her collapse, of Morrigan's fury and Solas' betrayal. She fails to hide the note of disappointment when recounting Solas' harsh words. 

Cole needs little time to mull over the information. "Solas is trying to help," he says resolutely, head nodding as if weighing the truth of his own statement. "Time is what we need, time we do not have. He wants to give us that."

"You did not see his expression, Cole," she says, shuddering at the memory of his cold eyes and dark words. "He  remembers  everything, how we fought, how I—" 

The dagger lands; the idol falls . 

Cole grasps her hand and urges her to meet his gaze. "You know Solas so well and somehow, not at all," he says tenderly. "His intentions aside, what do you plan to do? If we are to help, we must think of a plan."

Nothing.  That's what she wants to say—what her heart yearns to hear. She is tired of trying, of doing, of fighting, of sticking her nose in it all. Rosa was done that day in the Deep Roads. She was done ten years ago. What more does she have to give? She committed the best years of her life to the cause, her arm, her heart; what dregs are left should be hers to protect. 

"No one is asking you to go."

Rosa and Cole look round. Kieran is watching them from his spot on the wall, amber eyes hidden by his mop of black hair. 

Rosa swallows. "How much did you hear?"

"Enough to know that you've earned your rest." He heaves himself off the floor and tends to the crinkles in his trousers and vest. "I didn't patch you up to throw you back into the lion's den. If you packed your bags and walked out that door without giving this a second thought, no one would hold it against you."

Rosa smiles. "That all seems too good to be true."

"It isn't."

She turns to Cole. "And what about you? What will you do?"

Cole does not wait long to answer. "I will help Solas." 

"Mm. I thought as much. And you?" 

Kieran breathes a chuckle. "This is a family matter at the heart of it. Wouldn't be much of a reunion if I bailed now, would it?"

"So, the two of you are going to gather your things and battle a pair of Elvhen gods?" She taps her lower lip and gives a hoot of surprise. "As you like. I am sure you know what to do and know precisely where they are headed?"

Kieran's face falls. "I—uh, suppose I didn't think that far."

"Well… in that case, perhaps I can offer some advice if you're willing to hear it."  

She caves, as she knew she would, as was expected of her. In the end, gathered around in Morrigan's hut, knees touching, voices quiet, they listen as Rosa recounts her time with the Dread Wolf. The elf shares all she remembers of her love: his hopes, dreams, and admirations, and the private pain he buried deep within his heart. When the past has been sufficiently covered, Rosa shares all she knows of the idol, Morrigan's plan, and Solas' duplicity. They talk until Cole begins to drift off, chin nodding into his chest until his eyes flutter shut. 

"He's a good friend," Kieran muses, watching Cole as he naps. "I remember him differently—more swooping spirit than a fully-fledged person."

"He's loyal to a fault," Rosa grumbles. 

"Cole seems to think your Solas is truly a force for good," he starts, sensing her apprehension. "I hope he's right."

"Time will tell. I just hope—" She stops herself. Hope is for naive girls in summer dresses. It is a luxury she cannot afford. 

Rosa is quick to divert the conversation. "We've spoken at length regarding what we will do once we find them but haven't touched on the most pressing issue." 

"It being?"

"If the idol is what they seek, then it is hundreds of miles away. The only thing we might accomplish is slowing their progress from afar. It would mean relying on others to do the heavy-lifting for us… but… I see no other alternative."

Kieran's ears prick up. "You have contacts in Tevinter?"

"One contact." She smiles. "And a damn reliable one at that." 

"Excellent! That will do nicely. I'm sure they'll be able to keep them busy until we arrive."

"Kieran," Rosa begins, face straining with the effort to hold her smile, "I admire your optimism, but our being there is impossible. If what you say is true, Morrigan has absorbed not only Mythal's soul but her ability to shapeshift as well. Unless you have a spare winged leviathan lying around, there is no reality where we can cover that ground in time."

Kieran laughs excitedly. 

"What's so funny?"

"I—err—haven't been entirely honest with you, Inquisitor. I may have… downplayed some of my abilities."

"Yes, well, you're a better healer than you made out to be—but I have a feeling that's not what you're referring to."

"Quite. I—" He shrugs his shoulders and motions to stand. "Perhaps it's best I show you, hmm? Let's go outside." 

Few things surprise Rosa anymore. After years of fighting Darkspawn, beating an ancient Tevinter Magister, being thrown back and forth through the Veil, and finding out your soulmate is the boogeyman of Elvhen legend, there is little left in the world that can qualify as unexpected. 

Witnessing a gawky twenty-something-year-old transform into a black dragon, however, might be one for the books. 

Chapter Text

Dorian swirls his glass. As the wine settles, he deposits his nose over the rim and takes a breath.

"How is it?"

His concentration ebbs; fingers slacken against an elegant crystal stem. "I haven't bloody tried it yet."

"Oh, do hurry up."

"Venhedis, Mae, you can't rush art."

"It's wine tasting, Dorian, not a sculpture." 

Cupboards rattle inside the bedroom, opening and closing with increasing frequency and clamor. A string of Tevene curses punctuates the slamming of each draw until there is little else to be heard but Maevaris and her colorful diction. 

Dorian closes his ears to the ruckus and takes a sip, swilling the wine over his tongue before swallowing. His appreciative moan is borderline pornographic and is cause enough to rouse Mae from her assault on her furniture. 

She peeks her head around the door. "Magnificent, no?" 

"Orgasmic," Dorian affirms. "Is it treason to admit that Antivans make the best wine in Thedas?"

"Probably."

"Inspirational—and is that a hint of dragonthorn I detect? I mean, really, how hard is it to sprinkle some exotic flora into our own brews? Our people think the height of vinification comes from packing as many shriveled grapes they can find into a barrel. There's no ambition, no thirst for pushing  creative limits. I—"

"Dorian?"

"What?"

"You're rambling again." 

"Sorry, old girl." He catches a glimpse of Mae in a nearby mirror, a sea of multicolored dresses, scarfs, robes, and hats bunched around her feet. Her cropped hair, usually styled in the latest fashion, lies flat against her neck. "Don't you have a conclave or something to go to?"

"It's not a religious gathering, Dorian; it's a fucking meeting with the merchant's guild from Kirkwall. Kaffas, I just can't find anything to wear."

"Might I suggest one of the hundred dresses on the floor? The off-white pinafore might be nice."

"Piss off, Pavus." 

The door closes.

Dorian straightens his mustache and applauds himself on another victory. Glass in hand, he makes his way to the terrace, eager to whittle away the hours watching Minrathous stir to life with the sunset. After all, there was not much else for a Magister to do. Tevinter was not what it was, full of holes and empty promises held together with the hope it could grow into something more. They had succeeded in what they set out to do, to repair the cracks in their societal walls and mend the political turmoil that once threatened to tear them apart. Dorian and his team were so successful in their task, that the Magister found less to manage, and even less to do. 

An ache starts in the pit of his belly, a pang he has become accustomed to. Longing. A small part, one Dorian buries in wine and books and theater, pines for adventure; the thrill of battle, the sodden socks, the crappy makeshift tents, and dull aches of travel. As his thoughts darken, he takes another sip of wine, and consoles himself with the fact that no shit-hole in the Hissing Wastes could live up to his comfortable life and expensive tastes.

The mage manages to make it cross the threshold before a sudden heat on his chest diverts his attention. He fishes for the sending stone inside his tunic, puzzled by its activation. At his touch, the Inquisitor's troubled face shudders into view. 

"Evening, Inquisitor. Have you arrived back in—"

"Dorian, listen closely to what I'm about to tell you." 

"Mae!"

Maevaris Tilani stumbles into the vanity, startled by the abrupt thudding at her door. Dorian does not wait for an invitation, falling into her bed-chamber with all the grace of a lunging mabari. 

She draws the pinafore over her chest to hide her modesty. "Toth's tit, Dorian, I'm not dressed."

Dorian composes himself, trembling hands set to work on taming the wayward tendrils of his hair. "There's no time. We—I."

"Spit it out, man."

"It's Rosa."

It takes Mae a moment to recognize the moniker. "The Inquisitor?"

"The sending stone," he babbles, "I don't know if she's high, or drunk, or delirious, but she said Morrigan is coming—an—and Solas."

"Fen'Harel?" Mae's annoyance is palpable. "I'm too busy for one of your pranks—"

"I know it sounds ridiculous, and I am willing to put his mention to one side, but the rest—" Dorian scans the floor, eyes flitting over the patchwork of dresses and jewels that would make any nobility green with envy. "We don't have time for petticoats."

The Magister's shoulders slump. "It's that serious?"

"It is. Throw on some warpaint, Mae; I'll explain on the way." 

"Right. Well… fuck it. I'll be ready in five." 

Chapter Text

"Stop inspecting your navel, Solas. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can put an end to all this nonsense."

Morrigan lifts the hem of her dress and wades across the narrow river. She proceeds with caution, careful to avoid the moss-covered rocks hidden beneath the shimmering water. "Blast it. It's hot."

Solas sends a furtive glance over his shoulder before following. "Let us make camp, Morrigan. We are leagues from Qarinus and still a day's walk from Arla—" He swallows his words and retreats inwards, eyes rooted to the ground. 

The witch exhales. Sweat pools between the hollow of her breasts and darkens the fabric of her robes. "Say it."

"Arlathan forest—did you think the name would goad me? Further rouse my motivation for the cause?"

"It is Arlathan forest in name only," Solas murmurs. "A relic from a bygone age."

Morrigan hums. "The lady doth protest too much, methinks. Perhaps it is not I you wish to convince, but your own conscience." She takes a moment to rest, sinking onto a boulder with a grateful sigh. 

"I don't know what you mean."

"Oh… I think you do. You're scared Solas—scared to allow yourself to be swept away by your own heart; by the part of yourself that longs for a return to old things." She sniffs, small nose wrinkling with the effort. "I rather preferred that side of you."

"You know nothing of my heart, Morrigan—or Mythal's."

"But I do." She kicks off her shoes and reaches for her toes, chin tensing as she stretches and eases painful sores. "And I know you better than you know yourself."

"Is that so?" 

Solas makes his way over and kneels before the witch. He takes her dainty feet in her hands and rubs along the length of her calf, down towards her ankle, taking special care to knead and stroke along the way. Morrigan's protests morph into a moan of pleasure. 

"You've given yourself freely to her," he notes evenly. "The woman I met in Orlais was not one for puppetry."

Gold eyes flutter shut. "Mythal's vision and mine are the same. Our souls are kindred spirits; our goals are one."

He chuckles as she winces and diverts his attention to a point above her ankle. "Funny."
 
"What is?"

"How quick one's spirit is wont to change. It feels like only yesterday that the Morrigan of old was disparaging her mother for her numerous faults."

Morrigan's mouth tenses into a fine line. "You've been gone a long time, Solas; people change."

"Yes, they do, but most have the luxury of doing that on their own accord." Fingers stall, lingering on the slope of her heel. "Most do not have a vengeful spirit thrust upon them."

"It is not vengeful to seek justice, Solas."

"What else would you call a thousand-year vendetta, Morrigan?" 

"Justice," she repeats warily. "One year, five years—a decade. It does not matter. I am writing a wrong long overdue."

"At what cost?" Solas observes her, eyes searching her countenance for weakness, for some sliver of empathy hidden beneath her scowl. "By releasing the Evanuris, you promise an end to social order, willingly upend the lives of millions—and for what? Justice? The spirit I knew was above such paltry things, such base desires."

"It was a sentiment you once shared, Solas. Mythal trusted you with your task, and you betrayed her."

"I changed, Morrigan. And I hope, pray, that in the time it takes to reach our destination, you will, too."

Morrigan extracts her foot. "It's time we were on the move," she says quietly. "Thank you for your aid, I suppose."

Solas watches as she readies herself. When he smiles, Morrigan is quick to take offense. 

"What?"

"You're more you than you realize." Solas is on the move before she can slip into her shoes, marching towards the distant wash of verdant greens. 

"And what is that supposed to mean?" 

"That there is hope yet," he tells her.

She scurries after him. "Being coy will earn you no favor."

He doesn't stop, doesn't slow his purposeful walk. "Mythal hated her feet being touched."

Chapter Text

"Blasted—bloody—thing!"

Morrigan yanks the hem of her damp, muddy robes, prying it from the fingers of a thorny bush. It snags and tears. "Damn it all."

Solas disguises his grin as Morrigan gets to work on ripping the remains of her dress until the hem is cropped above her knees. He doubts it will be the last time the witch has to tailor her robes to a more manageable length. 

"It seems the forest doesn't agree with your sense of style," he notes sweetly. 

"Quiet," she snarls. Morrigan inspects her handiwork before resuming her tired march across the undergrowth, white hands balled around bunches of fabric. "I had not anticipated such a trek."

"And why's that?" Solas drawl is saccharine, his tone goading. "Was it not your plan to fly directly across Tevinter with no rest?"

Morrigan does not deign him with an answer, storming off over the terrain as fast as her feet can manage. 

Solas does not relent. "Or were you surprised to find that maintaining your shape-shifting form was more taxing than you realized?" 

Morrigan stops. Solas watches as her narrow shoulders rise in a world-weary sigh before sagging. Surrounded by hulking trees with thick, gnarled trunks, she looks small, out of her element, and out of her depth. 

"It was… exhausting," she whispers, an spark of honesty Solas does not anticipate. 

"I know."

"It shouldn't be like this," she says, a monologue uttered as much to herself as to Solas. "Mother never showed any fatigue—she handled Mythal's power with ease, never faltering, never weakening." 

"Flemeth carried Mythal's soul for centuries. Power such as hers is not attuned to one's host overnight. What's more, you have only received a fragment of her gift. Much of it has been lost over time, spread like butter over too much bread. Mythal's magic is not what it was." 

She sniffs. "Is this your way of consoling me?" 

"Perhaps. I see… much of myself in you. I know what it is like being led down a path others have chosen on your behalf."

Morrigan throws back her head and laughs. "Spare me the faux kinship, Solas." 

"As you wish."

They break for lunch at noon, nibbling on berries and bitter herbs on the slopes of gray roots. They have not spoken for some time; Morrigan is the first to break that silence. 

"The Veil is thin here," she comments, something Solas thinks is the mage equivalent of mentioning the weather. "I have not felt the weight of such magic before." 

He indulges her. "It is not just the Veil's doing. This is Arlathan Forest—the great magics of my civilization have embedded themselves in this place. It is part of the stones beneath our feet and dwells in trees old enough to remember."

"We've passed many places of power," she adds, "crumbled ruins and temples of worship. I'm surprised so much still lingers after the fall."  

"You carry within you the spirit of an Elvhen mage and travel with the Dread Wolf, but it is the existence of ruins that puzzles you?"

Morrigan smirks. "I see your point. I merely wished to comment on the longevity of Elvhen magic. A thousand years since the loss of Arlathan, and this forest still thrums with the memory of its power."

Solas frowns and scans the canopy overhead. "It was lost long before then," he murmurs. 

"Pardon?"

"Nothing." He forces a smile. 

Morrigan is content to nibble at her berries; Solas is thankful for the quiet. 

He watches as she eats, equal parts troubled and surprised. There is less of Mythal in her. The parasite within, the one that barks and hisses and warbles, is silent. What's left is the woman SoIas remembers: the brash and somewhat unagreeable know-it-all that bears the heart of a scholar; for whom knowledge and learning is more precious than gold. In this lull, this temporary calm, Solas is reminded that he is held hostage by a girl at the mercy of an Elvhen god. They are both prisoners—though Morrigan has yet to acknowledge the ball and chain that drags behind her. 

"Where are we?" 

Startled, Solas looks away before Morrigan finds him gawking. "Where?"

"Yes, where—if Arlathan still stood, where would we be now?"

Solas shrugs. "I cannot say. However, in the times before the city, I'd say we were in Andruil's lands." The unexpected pitch of his voice does not go unnoticed.

"You sound nostalgic," Morrigan says. 

"The notion shocks you?" 

"It does when you are so vehemently against my plan to return us to the past."

Solas rubs his cheek wearily. "I do not deny your observation, for I am full of remorse for what was lost... but the past is gone. What remains of what was is remembered by the stone, the Fade, and the spirits that embody its ancient history. You cannot return to the way things were. "

Morrigan bristles. "Then why did you try?" 

"Because I could not let go. I chased a mirage, Morrigan—a whisper, a hope, that I could remedy a mistake made long ago. Pride fueled my resolve; ego blinkered my eyes and blinded me to an obvious truth: that I could not fix what I broke." 

She stands. "You will never know until you try. Perhaps whatever will come to pass will be better than what was."

The witch only manages a few steps before she pauses. She observes her surroundings discreetly, gold eyes darting between the shadows in the trees. "We are being followed—have been for some time now."

Solas nods and joins her at her side. "I know," he murmurs. 

"Quanri? Tevinter?" 

"In these woods? I think not."

Morrigan grows tired of waiting for faces that never show. "We know you're out there—come out!" 

The forest answers her commands with muteness. 

"Fine then."

Morrigan ignores Solas' warnings. Blue flames gather in the witch's hands, spiraling into a ball of heat that curdles the air around her. 

"Fasta vass—stop that," comes a small voice. "You'll wake the blasted guardians." 

Morrigan cannot pinpoint his location. The flames grow. "Show yourself, or I'll let my will-o'-wisp find you." 

"Alright, alright!" The entity lets out a disgruntled snort. "Testy." 

The air around an eroded temple column shudders and diminishes, revealing a tanned, middle-aged man with wary, searching eyes. Although unmistakably human, his leather trousers and thin undershirt are of elven design, as is the ironbark staff in his hands. 

"You're a long way from Qarinus, mage," Morrigan notes. The flames dwindle but do not go out. 

"Ventus," the stranger corrects. "No one this side of the century calls it Qarinus anymore." 

Morrigan's unpleasant leer curbs any further elaboration. "Why are you following us?" 

"You are people of note," he says simply. "It's not often we get guests wading through Arlathan Forest—not any outsiders, anyway."

"Am I to presume you reside here?" Solas interjects. 

"Yes," he says, glad to address someone other than the irate woman with a stern glower. "Wasn't always home, but it is now." 

"And why would a shem be living in Arlathan Forest," Morrigan asks. 

"Because it is where my clan lives if you must know." He sniffs and folds his sinewy arms over his chest. 

"Clan?" Solas repeats. 

"Yes, the Dalish. Please don't look at me like that. You're acting like I just grew horns out of my arse."

Solas chuckles. "Humans living with the Dalish—time mends all wounds." 

"Stranger things have happened." He shakes his head and grows pensive. "Anyway, that's not the point—why are you trespassing on our land?" His grandstanding does him no favors. 

"Your lands?" Morrigan spits. 

Solas touches her arm and inserts himself into the conversation. "We do not intend to stay. We are on the way to a small, unnamed ruin south of Ventus. We have tried to avoid the heat by traveling down the edge of Arlathan Forest."

"Or to avoid unwanted attention," the stranger says, bushy brows raised in suspicion. 

"Quite. Be that as it may, we mean you and your clan no harm."

He deliberates, humming and harring as he weighs his options. "I suppose if you are dipping in and out, I see no problem—"

Solas interjects with a polite cough. He regards his shoes sheepishly, like a young boy staging a deceleration of love. "Actually, would it be inappropriate of us to visit your camp to resupply? We are running low on food and could use a safe place to rest." 

Morrigan is by his shoulder in an instant. "What are you doing?" she hisses. 

Their guest does not notice their squabble, too preoccupied with this new suggestion to pay any attention to Morrigan's muted barrage of complaints. "We would not turn away those in need of aid. Arlathan Forest is not safe for those that don't respect the old ways and the things that live here. If security is what you seek, I am at liberty to take you there." 

"Thank you," Solas replies with a slight bow. 

Morrigan manages a crooked grimace in place of a smile. 

"Forgive me—I don't believe we were properly introduced. I'm Myrion, First to Keeper Irelin. And you are?" 

"Solas. This is Morrigan." He answers for her when the witch grits her teeth and turns away. 

The one called Myrion guides them away from their original path, following an unseen route known only to him.

Morrigan shimmies to Solas' side when he is out of earshot. 

"This is not what was promised, Dread Wolf. What are you angling for? An escape?"

"A warm bed, some food, and much-needed rest, Morrigan. Besides, this might be an eye-opening opportunity for you."

"In what sense?" 

"By the way." Myrion stops and looks around. 

Morrigan darts away from Solas and cracks an uncomfortable grin. 

"I hope you're fine with wood-burrowing beetle for dinner. One of our hunters found quite the haul by the watering hole." 

 "Beetles? O-of course," Morrigan says timidly. "Sounds… delicious." 

Chapter Text

Solas slides the bowl across the table. "Eat."

They sit beside the flank of an aravel, two outsiders hidden away from the watchful eyes of Arlathan Forest's denizens. They wait, as they have been instructed, basking in the light of a crescent moon for Myrion's return.   

Morrigan scrunches her nose, making no effort to disguise her revulsion. “I am not a bird, Solas. I do not eat bugs." 

He shimmies the bowl towards him and fishes for another sauce-coated beetle. "They are nutritious and will help you regain some of your power. And—" he gurns his teeth noisy, "these are surprisingly tasty; far more succulent than I imagined."

She intimates her disgust with a groan and sinks her chin into the flat of her palm. Gold eyes flit from the forest to the table before resting on Solas' face, now plump with chewed insects. "I don't understand you," she says after a time. 

"What is there to understand?"

"You advise me against my task, are clearly abhorred by my plan, but want me to eat to regain my strength. You rope us into staying with the Dalish—a very transparent attempt to delay our journey, I might add—yet massage my feet when I'm tired. You're an enigma, Solas, one that undermines and  helps me at every turn." 

He smiles and dabs the grease from the corners of his mouth. "Hardly. My desire to prevent the world's destruction has nothing to do with my wish to see you well. They are not mutually exclusive." 

"It would serve you better to see me waste away and die," she snaps. 

"Never."

Morrigan remains unconvinced.

Solas readies himself with a sigh. "I take no issue with you, Morrigan. Though you might find that hard to believe—"

"—I do."

"—killing you does not rank high on my list of acceptable outcomes."

Dark brows rise and fall in confusion. "You say this as if there is an alternative outcome. Either I destroy the Veil, or you kill me and prevent it. There is no in-between, Solas. I mean to do as I say."

"Death is not the only solution," he says. Solas deliberates on having another morsel and decides against it. The tone of conversation has diminished his appetite. 

Morrigan scrunches her small nose and points a damning finger at her companion. "And yet death was the only thing that stopped you." The witch's sneer morphs into a triumphant smirk. She is quick to find that Solas is not angry or dejected at her observation; the elf regards his bowl in silence, hands folded on the arch of his thighs. Morrigan feels her glow of victory ebb into the shadow of defeat. 

"It was the only way. You see, I realized my mistake too late. It was only when I saw her  that I knew I had been made a fool by someone I thought loved me, understood me, understood what had to be done. It was only when I saw her, blood-soaked and disheveled—no left arm, no staff, no hope—charging through the dark, that I knew I had been played like a sacrificial pawn on a chessboard. At that moment, I understood my folly. All I had accomplished—all I thought to gain—was used against me in the name of vengeance. I gave my life for my people, Morrigan, but I died for Mythal's vanity. And those who cared, that mattered... I had betrayed their love for a lie."

"You betrayed her trust," says Morrigan quietly. 

"As she betrayed mine. And round and round we go. If we are to continue this pantomime, it will never end, Morrigan. Mythal's betrayal was unjust, but it should have ended with her. My people paid the price for a wrong I tried to correct, and it has caused nothing by hardship and terror and chaos. And thousands of years later, I threatened the very existence of all who lived here—and for what? The pride and vindictiveness of a woman I thought was my friend." 

A high-pitched giggle sounds from behind the aravel. Solas and Morrigan follow the voices. Two small heads peek out from behind the hull of the landship, watching the newcomers with sharp, inquisitive eyes. Solas' face softens. He waves at the two children—a fawn-haired girl and a red-faced boy. They erupt in a fit of laughter and scamper off towards the camps' center. 

The witch bares her teeth in a sneer, eyes vanishing behind a line of lashes as they peer up into the inky sky. "I wish this Keeper would hurry up. I feel like a chained bruffalo at a zoo." 

"They are only children."

"Dalish children. The Solas I remember had no time for their kind." 

"I spent some years with the Dalish and city elves after the Inquisition," he admits. "Hoards of them came to offer their allegiance when news of Fen'Harel's glorious conquest came to light. Poor elves, slave elves, elves with vallaslins etched across their face—elves from every corner of Thedas came to me with their sorrow and hope. After being among them, hearing their stories, fears, and aspirations… my sense of otherness melted away. These are still our people, Morrigan. Not the same as what was, but just as precious, just as deserving of our love and protection."

Morrigan is silent. For a few painstaking minutes, she offers nothing but the convulsions of her expressive brows and the subtle twitching of her lips. "I—"

"He's coming."

Myrion marches across the beaten path towards the aravel. At his side is a tall elf in beige overalls. Her cropped hair swings as she walks with wide steps, the traditional Keeper's staff bobbing into view with every footfall. As Myrion prattles away, hands swinging and gesticulating in wide circles, the she-elf's eyes focus on the two newcomers in her camp. 

Keeper Irelin's expression is anything but welcoming. 

Chapter Text

Keeper Irelin does not bear the traditional hallmarks of her station, but what she lacks in years is made up for in carriage and character. The willowy elf suffers through Myrion's introductions with a stony expression, lips red from chewing, drawn in a thin line. Her eyes dance from Solas to Morrigan, undressing them with systematic precision, like a predator sizing up its prey.  

Solas averts his gaze, acutely aware of the notice she attracts. Morrigan is more barefaced in her approach, matching Irelin's glower with one of her own.

"Why are they here?" the Keeper asks, trampling through Myrion's endless jabber. 

The mage gesticulates fiercely. "They needed help, Irelin—I couldn't just leave them!"

She sighs and collects herself, allowing Myrion a moment to babble. Irelin regards her nails as he speaks and nods at appropriate intervals. "But why are they here," she reiterates in a softer, more placating tone. "In Arlathan Forest."

Solas clears his throat. "We did not mean to trespass, hahren. Our path leads to Tevinter, not here. My companion and I chose to navigate down the edge of the forest in hopes of… an easier journey."

Irelin sniffs, her button nose creasing around the corners, accentuating the sea of dark freckles across her face. "There are only two reasons outsiders come willingly to Arlathan." She lists the items on her fingers. "Because they wish to evade the Qunari, or the mages in Tevinter. So, which is it? Horns or robes, which hunts you?"

"The Qun hunts all—I do not wish to be chained and boarded onto a slave ship for Seheron, hence our decision."

"Then why risk capture at all? It's clear you're not from around here." She gives Morrigan another once over, eyes lingering on the frayed hemline bunched across her knees. "You've come a long way willingly, outsiders. I want to know what prize warrants the danger."

Before Solas can answer, the Keeper gestures to the seats beside the aravel, indicating that they should continue this in a more comfortable spot. With a crowd brewing around them, the decision is a pertinent one. 

"We seek the mines south of Ventus," Solas says once everyone is settled. He takes the water-skin offered by Myrion with a murmur of thanks. 

The answer requires no further detail. Irelin seizes at the mention and hangs motionless above her seat. When her surprise dampens, she deposits her staff beside the aravel and sits. "And what could you possibly gain by visiting such a cursed place?" 

Solas fingers the water-skin in his hand and deliberates on his next choice of words. Part of him wishes to unveil Morrigan's plan, set the hounds of Arlathan on the witch and her murderous crusade. He disregards it. Even in her weakened state, Morrigan is a talented mage in her own right, and in ten years, there was no telling how much she learned, and how much Mythal taught her. Solas will not risk their hosts' lives on a gamble. A more prominent part, aches with optimism and throbs with the hope that the witch might yet change her mind. "We… wish to pay our respects to those lost in the battle against the Dread Wolf," Solas says. 

Irelin raises a well-manicured brow. "You're a bit young to be paying respects. You couldn't have been more than a knock-kneed lad when it all happened."

Solas smiles. "I'm not as young as I look, hahren; and besides, you are never too young to know your history or to appreciate a great loss for our kind."

Irelin nods and turns to Morrigan. "And you?"

Morrigan wrings her hands around her dress. "The same reason."

"I didn't know many shems felt that way," she remarks. Eyes dart over Morrigan's face, searching her countenance for duplicity. They settle on the pendant around her neck. "That item you wear, it is of Elven design… quite old, by the looks of it."

The witch tightens her fingers around the necklace as if to protect it from her prying gaze. "I did not filch it from some unmarked grave if that's what you're insinuating. It was my mother's."

"Your mother was an elf?" Irelin sounds only moderately surprised. 

"Oh yes," Solas remarks with a chuckle. "Quite an elf, indeed."

Irelin ignores the comment. For the first time since they met, her expression softens. She slumps onto her thighs and hangs her head between her arms. "If that is what you intend to do, I suppose I can't stop you—the same way I couldn't stop my people when news of Fen'Harel's rebellion reached their ears."

A lump grows in his throat. "Did many of yours follow him?" Solas asks.

"A few. You'd think our scattered history would be enough to warn of such folly—of some elf that called himself the Dread Wolf luring those from the Path with the promise of fortune and victory." The ground beneath her feet darkens under the weight of her spit. 

"You don't believe it truly was Fen'Harel?" Morrigan says, smirk visible for all to see. 

"Bah! Who can say? I heard the stories. Probably just another mage with grand ideas and a silver tongue. It doesn't matter who he was. He is gone, as are many of the fickle fools that followed him."

A cloud brews over Morrigan's head, churning and building as her thoughts whirl with audible static. "Be that as it may, he came with the promise to help your people—return you to the glory days of ancient Arlathan. You make it sound like the venture is an unwelcome one."

"By what? Destroying the Veil? What would that accomplish? Would Arlathan rise from the ashes? Would the ruins in this forest shoot from the stone? Turn into a home for elves across Thedas? Would it return all that was lost when Tevinter laid waste to it from above?" Irelin rubs the nub of her elbow, brow furrowed into thin trenches. "No one knew what would happen if he succeeded, but I have my doubts about the Elysium we were promised. If there's anything I've learned in my time here, if a thing sounds too good to be true, it probably is."

"Anything is better than what the elves endure now," Morrigan says, words muffled by her hand. 

Irelin offers a wan smile. "That's what my partner thought. Strife—he was the same. When news broke of Fen'Harel's cult of followers, he was the first to leave. He believed in the fantasy... that this revolution would lay the foundation for a new era for elven kind, as golden and good as our stories of Halamshiral. Stupid, stupid old man. "The Keeper hides her face behind the matted threads of her hair, but that does not disguise the sudden tremor in her hands or the way her shoulders fold inwards like weeds on a stormy day. "Who could blame the city elves for trusting such sweet promises? Servants, slaves—they had cause to reach for greener pastures. But Strife? The other Dalish? At least we were taught the consequences of when one is led away from the Path. Strife knew better. The Dalish knew better. Alas, some people will never stop reaching for more power, for more than their lot."

Myrion touches her hand and whispers a quick remark.

"Yes, I'd quite forgotten. Thank you. I have some matters to attend to. It is not good for the Keeper to linger on the past, not when there are hungry mouths to feed." Irelin collects her staff and dusts down her overalls before turning to her guests. "Please, make yourselves at home. Myrion will assist you with your bedrolls. Senril, our trade-mistress, can help you procure any food you require for the remainder of your trip." 

For once, Morrigan has no witty remark, no final say. As Irelin marches towards the budding bonfire in the Dalish camp, she is silent. 

Chapter Text

Dorian screws his eyes shut. The sharp outline of the sun burns behind his lids, an imprint no amount of blinking can erase. 

"You'll go blind like that," Mae says through a sigh. She adjusts the veridium bracers on her wrists, eyes planted on the dozen mages at her back. 

Tensions are high. It is the third day scouting the mines, far from home and the luxuries the Imperium afforded. The mages, most young-faced boys and girls who had never known war, have lost all motivation. Even the veterans Mae selected are weary, their old bodies soft from years turning pages instead of weaving spells. 

The blonde meanders to Dorian's side. "Have you heard from the Inquisitor?" she asks calmly. 

"Not a peep." 

Mae nods and deliberates on how best to phrase her suggestion. "Then perhaps it might be pertinent to return to Ventus for the time being—until the Inquisitor appears with more news. I think… Dorian?" 

"Mm?" Dorian answers her query with a furtive glance. "Did you say something?" He returns to gazing at the sky. 

"Let us return to Ventus," she repeats. 

"What? We can't." Dorian rubs the sweat from his cheek and regards her with wide eyes. "They could be here at any moment."

"Or they could be here a month from now." She points a long manicured nail at the mages. "We can't expect everyone to cook in heat until then. At this rate, the sun will do us in as surely as any dragon."

Dorian's look of surprise intensifies. "This is serious, Mae—end-of-the-world serious. If we aren't prepared, we're up shit creek without a paddle. You remember what happened last time." 

Dorian shields his eyes from the glare and from Mae's sudden expression of pity. 

"I know what you lost, Dorian. But we weren't as equipped as we are now. Tevinter was in full political meltdown; elven slaves were in revolt, and the Qun hounded us from every side. That was ten years ago. We are here now—all of us, ready when need be." Fingers search for his; they graze the back of his hand. "Please."

"I—" Dorian focuses on a spot in the distance. He rubs his eyes, blinks, and squints. "I think I see something—look, Mae, look!" 

Dorian guides her close with an arm around her shoulders. She bottled her indignation and does as she is asked, and leers into the foreground. Sand—sand as far as the eye can see, peppered with scalding air that dances and flickers with the grace of a ballroom dancer. With a groan, she swats his arm away. "It's a mirage, Dorian. There's nothing out here—no one is out here. "

"Mae! "

Mae is not listening. "Enough is enough, Pavus. I understand that you are trying to remedy a past mistake, but you are going to get us all killed in the process."

Mae does not remember the last time she has been shoved with such force, but it is an unfamiliar feeling that jars all thoughts of anger from her mind. She trips over the hem of her dress and falls with a thud on the ground. 

The fireball zips over her head, landing some yards away in a plume of dust and sand. 

The mages scatter. Barriers are thrown up; runes of power are etched. 

Dorian issues a command for calm, balled fist raised above his head. "Back—all of you."

The dust settles. Mae scrambles to her knees and peers into the haze. She sees them now, two figures fixed on the horizon, their images shuddering in the heat. They are too far away for her to discern their features. 

"Dorian… is it?"

"I think so. At least, that is Morrigan. The other…"

Sweat hangs from the tip of his nose. Dorian shakes away the droplets and swallows. After his nerves have settled, he takes a tentative step forward. 

"That woman doesn't know when to stop interfering, does she?" Morrigan growls. 

"It is not in her nature," Solas says through a smile.

They stand and wait, observing the band of mages sweltering in the sun. Their presence remains unnoticed. 

Morrigan sways. Hands, red and puffy from the heat, twitch with agitation. 

Solas can see the cogs in her mind turning, feel the bud of rage flowering within her, piqued by the sight of more opposition. "What will you do?" he asks quietly. 

A swarm of intelligible threats rumbles in her throat. "Whatever must be done. I have come too far to stop now."

Small feet patter on the cracked ground. Morrigan is on the move again, blistered shoulders swaying with each measured step. Solas covers the rear. As they approach, blurred faces take on new details. Two figures at the front of the platoon stand guard. They are bickering. Solas is the first to falter. 

He grabs the sticky threads of Morrigan's dress. "It's… Dorian," Solas says.

"What of it? It doesn't matter who they are, Solas. The Inquisitor, Dorian—whoever—it is all the same to me."

Dorian turns towards them. Solas can sense his gaze, a muddled look that cuts across the dust and heat and narrows on their faces. Recognition blossoms across his features, an expression that twists like a knife in the elf's gut. 

"They've seen us," Morrigan murmurs, her voice breaking in a high falsetto that smacks of fear and uncertainty, of panic. "We must make our move before they gather their defenses."

Solas is too engrossed in his thoughts to catch the change in Morrigan's posture or notice the magics gathering in her palm. As she swings her arm and releases her attack, Solas calls out to her. The distraction is just enough to offset the projection. It lands behind the party, drenching them in sand and dust. 

"You wretch." Morrigan pins him with her glower, golden eyes narrowed in anger.

He can feel Mythal in her, taste the coppery hint of bloodlust in her tone. "We don't have to hurt them. They have nothing to do with this."

"They are in my way," she spits. 

"Let me handle this."

Dorian motions towards them, hands raised beside his head.

Morrigan turns to Dorian and then Solas, back arched like a cornered cat."Betray me, and I will burn them to ash," she murmurs as Solas steps out of her shadow and marches to meet the Magister. 

Dorian and Solas stand face to face, a wasteland of sand and dust between them. 

The Magister lowers his hands. "I… is it you?"

Solas nods. 

Dorian exhales loudly. Loose tendrils of hair curl around his cheeks and eyes and flatten against his jaw. 

"By the Maker… how?"

"There is a lot to explain."

"Clearly." He nods his chin towards the witch at Solas' back. Wide-eyes soften into a look of uncertainty, of disappointment. "So she was right. You're here to finish what you started."

Solas stiffens. A decade of loose ends and unspoken words weigh on his chest, stifling his ability to speak. He doesn't know where to begin. With an apology? With an explanation? There is no time for either, a notion that does little to diminish the ache inside his heart. 

"Let us through. Please. Tell your people to stand down."

Dorian shakes his head. "You know I can't do that." 

"You must. Or you will die."

A coy smirk brightens the whites of his eyes. Something of old Dorian shudders to the surface. "Fear of death didn't stop Bull back then. You can bet your bony arse it won't stop me either."

Solas looks for Morrigan. They regard one another, silent thoughts passed between them, and a secret plea Dorian is not privy to. When Solas turns back, his blue eyes are sightless and white. Tears carve wet streaks down his dust-covered face and pool around his pointed chin. "Ir abelas, Lethallin."

Chapter Text

Wind whistles past her ears. Only when Cole nudges her shoulder does Rosa find it within herself to open her eyes. 

"He said we are close," the spirit yells, flaxen hair whipping about his face. 

Answering is beyond her faculties. She blinks in recognition and buries her head close to the black back she clings to. As they begin their descent, she checks the harness that binds her to the dragon, conscious of the fact that this thin strap of leather is the only thing keeping her from a long plunge into a Tevinter wasteland. 

Kieran utters a sound Rosa feels along her belly. 

Cole looks over the ledge of the beast, unperturbed by the height. "He said there's a forest nearby, but not much else—are you sure this is the right place?"

"Yes," she managed to croak. Air-dried lips crack with the effort, splintering like old bark on a hot day. As Kieran dips forward, her empty stomach lurches into her throat; a litany of elvish curses are lost to the wind. 

"I can see the ground now," Cole narrates. "You should have a look."

Rosa decides against it and waits out the remainder of their journey firmly pressed against Kieran, content to listen to Cole's narration of the scenery. It is only when Kieran bellows an ear-piercing roar does Rosa find cause to extract herself from the comfortable folds of the dragon's back. 

"There are people," Cole explains, listening intently to the dragon's bestial tongue. He scrunches his nose. "Lots of people on the ground. They aren't moving. They are lying in the sun."

She swallows, heart thundering in her ears as she waits for more detailed descriptions that never come. Life has taught her that realism protects one from disappointment, but she hopes for the best and prays that the ache in her gut is nothing more than the cynicism of old age. 

Rosa eventually overcomes her fear.

There are bodies, smatterings of colored robes, and disjointed arms positioned across a wash of yellow sand. It reminds Rosa of the artwork she saw in Redcliffe's castle, of plump, pink forms beautifully arranged on a canvas as a homage to an ancient battle. 

They land and skid to a halt. Dust and sand erupt from the dragon's paws. Cole races towards the bodies, leaving Rosa to fumble with the knot in her harness. 

Cole slips and falls to his nears beside the closest body. He rolls a dark-haired man onto his front and dusts the sand from his hair and face. 

"Dorian! It's Dorian," Cole shouts as Rosa climbs down the dragon's leg. The leviathan is there for a moment. By the time Rosa shakes off the webs of fear that nail her to the spot, Kieran is already charging to Cole's side. 

It never gets old, she thinks. The fear—the paralytic guilt that numbs the brain and weakens the limbs. She staggers wordlessly towards them, lips trembling with the effort to keep her questions gated. She wants to ask but doesn't; she wants to know if it's him and if he's alright and why he's wearing a cape at midday, but she swallows her thoughts and watches. 

Kieran checks his neck for a pulse. He asks for his satchel, fingers pulsing impatiently as Cole swings the bag from around his neck. 

Rosa waits, peering down as they work like some dull overseer at a dig site. But their quarry is not ore or ancient treasures. It is a man—Dorian, her Dorian. The Magister looks oddly peaceful, his dust-covered face serene as if lost in a deep sleep. As they jar his body between them, his head swings loosely from side to side. 

"He's not dead," Kieran says. He wipes the sweat off his brow angrily before fishing inside his canvas bag. He extracts a glass vial of blue liquid. Rosa thinks that she has seen something of its type before but can't place when or where.

"Alive?" she asks quietly. Relief has yet to set in, but it is there, a small bud trying to put roots in a sea of anxiety and despair. 

"Paralysis. Strong spell. Need time and energy to reverse it," Kieran pants. "Might be the same for all of them." 

Rosa nods and swallows. She leans forward and brushes the mess of hair from Dorian's eyes, knowing the Magister would feel terribly embarrassed if he saw himself in such a state. 

"We are going to have to get them into that mine. Your friend here isn't dead, but he's been sitting in the sun for Maker-knows how long."

"Mine?"

"The bloody hole in the ground—are you even paying attention?" Kieran stops and breathes, and collects himself. He touches Rosa's arm. "Inquisitor, we have to act fast if we are to save these people. Whatever spell they are under can be reversed, but that is no good to us if they die under this infernal sun. We have time, but it is of the essence." 

The elf nods. A fragment of her old self bubbles to the surface, fueling her listless limbs. "You look tired," she notes. 

Her observation is kinder than the fact. In truth, Kieran looks horrible. His pale skin is translucent. Dark bags hang under his eyes, making him look older than his years. 

He smiles. "You wouldn't think so, but maintaining the form of a dragon is quite difficult. I'll manage. Cole, start dragging these lot towards the mines. We'll check the vitals later. Inquisitor, help Cole; I'll take Dorian."

Rosa utters a yes and sets to work. 

Being commanded is something she is unaccustomed to. Years at the helm of the Inquisition had erased all memories of following, not leading, from her repertoire. Nevertheless, she is glad for the sense of direction. 

They make quick work of the bodies, lugging them across the sand towards the pulley system that connects the entrance of the mines to the lower depths. In the end, there are dozens of bodies scattered around the small cave, most serene and peaceful, others red-faced and blistered from the sun. Two, a young girl and an old mage, do not survive the heat. 

Rosa returns from her rounds with a handful of sodden linens. She concentrates on the mound in her hand and cools them with a spell before handing them back to Cole to redistribute. She delivers one to Dorian personally. 

Kieran observes as she places the linen over the Magister's forehead. When she scowls and glances fretfully towards the dark underbelly of the mines, he nudges her side. "You've done all you can here," he murmurs. "It will take time to undo the damage." 

"I wish I could do more," she says. 

Kieran squirms uneasily on his seat and focuses on Dorian, on maintaining the flow of magic seeping from him to the Magister, aware of the way Rosa's gaze flits from him to the mines. 

"You should go," he whispers, rousing Rosa from her thoughts. 

She purses her lips. "And leave Dorian? I can't." 

"But you want to," Kieran presses. "And you should. The reason we are here is down there. If what you say is true, and your Dread Wolf is helping my mother bring down the Veil, then our only hope at delaying this lies with you. For what it's worth, I don't believe that to be the case."

Hope, a spark dim, small, and fragile, blooms in her chest. "You don't think he is trying to?" 

"Look at them. This isn't my mother's brand of magic. Fen'Harel has an arsenal of dangerous spells at his disposal, yet he chose paralysis instead? No… I think Cole might be right—he's trying to help us." 

"Then why not stop Morrigan himself?" Rosa blinks up in surprise at her own thoughtlessness. She looks away, even as Kieran laughs to break the tension. 

"It would be easier," he admits, "but we don't know the circumstances of their arrival. Perhaps Solas was trying to save your mage friend from a worse fate, or that he believes my mother can be turned from her task—as you believed Solas could be." 

The statement begets a frown. "And do you?"

"Hmm?"

"Believe your mother can be turned?"

Kieran doesn't answer, too absorbed in his task to do so and perhaps unwilling to voice the secret wish his heart wants to protect. 

Dorian stirs. The sudden twitch of his hand is unsettling, like a corpse animated into life. As Kieran, Rosa, and Cole prop him up on the Inquisitor's lap, waterskin pressed to his lips as he gasps for air, the Magister blinks up at the circle of worried faces. 

"In...quisitor?"

"Drink." She presses the nozzle more firmly against his lips. 

He takes a sip and splutters. 

"Water? My girl, where is the wine?" 

She laughs and ignores the sting of fresh tears that hang on her lashes. There are no words for the relief, for the sudden rush of gratitude that chips away at the hard nodules of grief that set in her mind. 

Kieran rises to his feet. "I'll tend to the others." He gestures for Cole to follow.

"I didn't think I'd see you again," the Magister says gently. His eyes trace the flat ceiling above them. "Unless, we're both dead... I'm not dead, am I? Are you dead?"

"Hush now, you old fool," Rosa says. "You're not dead."

He chuckles and winces. "You're right. Too bloody painful for that." Dorian attempts to lift his hand but only manages to have it hover by his side for a second.

"The spell hasn't completely worn off," she explains. "Paralysis."

Brown eyes widen in recognition. "Is that what happened. Mae—the others?" 

"She's here. She's sleeping."

Tension leaves his body. She feels his head sink lower onto her lap. "Thank Toth for that. So, is it over? Did we stop them?"

Rosa shakes her head. "No, it's not." She recounts the events leading up to their arrival. 

As she explains their situation, Dorian begins to stir again, rousing his body's dull nerves and muscles into action. 

"Let's go get him then," he grumbles. Dorian only manages to hoist himself into an upright position before he pants and slumps into the elf's side.

"You can't, Dorian. This will take time to mend."

"Bugger that—I'm—" he coughs again and sags uselessly into himself. 

Rosa sees the moment he comes to terms with his position as the weight of powerlessness becomes a real, tangible thing. 

"Fasta vass, when did we get so old?"

"I don't know."

"We should be retired. Leave this mess to the bright and beautiful Gung hos of today."

"We should."

"But you're not going to… are you?"

She smiles. "It's my mess. If I don't stop them, there won't be anything bright and beautiful to take our place."

"You make it sound like you're going to do this alone." His eyes search her face, lips pulled into a worried frown. 

"I have to."

"You can't!" He lowers his voice. "It's suicide."

"Then it's a life well-lived," she corrects. 

Dorian babbles, throwing quiet curses and threats and commands as Rosa removes herself from his side to find Kieran. After a brief exchange, Kieran replaces the Inquisitor as the Magister's keeper. 

Rosa heads towards the belly of the mine, only somewhat aware of the string of Tevene hurtled her way. She hardens herself to the sound of Dorian's voice, to the begging and sweet words that promise that everything will be okay, even if she doesn't go. 

Chapter Text

It's dark... but even without light, Rosa remembers the path.

Ten years since her last visit and the feel of coarse rubble underfoot is still familiar. Fortunately, Rosa does not have to navigate these depths without some guidance. Above her, high in the cragged alcoves of the mines, are wisps of veilfire. They float from edge to edge, bobbing and swaying in a shroud of green mist. They illuminate the way, a trail of ethereal breadcrumbs for her to follow. 

Memories come flooding back: the old, tattered maps, Leliana's scowl, and Lace's perpetual frown. Rosa shudders at the recollection of Cullen's stone-faced plea not to go; to wait for their soldiers and lead from behind. It is a thought she could have done without.

There are no elves to fight and demons to manage, but she is left to brave the trek alone, just like before. If Cassandra's beloved Maker is real, she wonders what he thought when he created the deep, dark places of the earth; and if his existence and all the psalms and teachings are to be believed, if this is her punishment for a life poorly lived. It is her own personal hell, a cold grave without the light and wind and sun she longs for. 

There is ground to cover, but her feet are stalling, dragging along the dirt, stumbling on debris. It is better to be alone—to save her the embarrassment of her fear. What would her companions think of her now? Teeth chattering, arms heavy, legs like lead creaking as she ambles through endless darkness. Dorian would laugh at her, at her feigned collectedness, a clever pun ready to be thrown in her sallow and sunken face. I told you so, he would say—soil your small clothes and be honest with yourself, he would say to her. 

A brave face is all she has left. This place took the rest from her; her magic, her love, her hope. What remains is just the shell of a person, the husk of an Inquisitor. She deliberates on what else these mines will take from her. All that's left is her life—the dregs of a sad existence tarnished with strife. The mines are welcome to it if that is what it demands.

She goes deeper still, down steep slopes and ancient lifts that shudder and moan as she descends. The waves of fear come quicker now, bubbling in her chest, wrenching at her knees. Rosa distracts herself best she can, channeling her thoughts on the issues above ground; whether Dorian has recovered—if Mae has opened her eyes. 

She pictures Kieran's expression, recalls the glow of light emanating from his hands as he heals, and feels herself grow heavy with remorse and envy. There was a time she could do that too—a time when her hands weaved careful spells and healed hurts. The Keeper praised her for that once, foretold of a prosperous life, one filled with thanks and gratitude. The Dalish knew she would be famous one day, that elves from across Thedas would look to her for their healing.

Look at her now.

Oh, how the Keeper would berate her for her folly, for not remembering her teachings—for not heeding her warning.

All magic has a price…

Rosa weeps. The atrium echoes with her cries, repeating the pitch of her tone back a hundred times over. It is an orchestra of her anguish, the same pained note dispersing through the chasm for none to hear. It continues long after she has lost her voice, a tremor reverberating down the dark, unseen corners of the mine, echoing dimly, faintly, until it is quiet once more. 

She resolves to stay until help arrives... until someone comes for her. The Inquisitor decides to be rescued—that someone will pick up the pieces of her heart and shove it down her throat and nurse her until she is well enough to stumble through the remainder of her life. She will not move until then. Not if it takes hours—days. She will wait and rot and weep until someone remembers that she needs saving too. 

"B—oss?"

Pain and surprise flood her with adrenaline. She scrambles onto her knees and looks around, searching the sea of bodies strewn across the vestibule. 

She finds the source of the call, sees a figure wriggle against the stone floor. Rosa crawls towards it, slicing her hand against swords and sharp stones and cracked lyrium until they connect with the supple skin of an arm. 

"Bull—my Iron heart," Rosa murmurs. "I've found you—you're okay!"

He coughs, barrel-chest heaving with the effort. Liquid splatters on the side of Rosa's face, on her lips. It tastes like metal. 

"Yea’—it's all fine now," he tells her. 

She can feel him move beneath her hand, muscles coiling and shaking. Rosa hushes him and begs him to remain still. 

"Help is coming—they'll be here soon. We'll get out of here—just—just don't move." 

Fingers tremble as they glide over his neck, chest, and stomach. They sink into a hole of flesh and blood. 

Her stunned silence warrants a chuckle. 

"That… bad, huh?"

"No, I've seen worse—you've… seen worse. I—I can fix it."

"Boss…"

"I can fix it," she screams. She extracts her blood-soaked hand and concentrates. 

She digs deep for the source of her magic, a dim flicker that struggles to grow at her call. Rosa is weak. There has been so much fighting, hours of spells and magic and runes and fire and thunder. She is spent; the well is empty. But that doesn't matter. They have come out of worse spots, and they always managed. This will be no different. 

A small light blossoms from her hand, illuminating the gouge in his side. The Qunari is missing bone and flesh as if a butcher went to work carving up meat for a quick sale. Beneath him, the ground pools with blood. 

"It's warm," he tells her. "Your hand is warm."

"Please. Quiet, Bull." 

"But I have things to say."

"Tell me later. The spell will work."

"Boss—"

"For once in your life, be quiet!"

Her vision dances, the spell dims. She curses the creators and digs deeper, harder—until her lungs fill with spit, and her throat threatens to close. But still, she digs. 

"Dorian—"

"Bull!"

"Tell him it's gonna be okay." 

"You're going to tell him that yourself. We're going to get out of here."

She tells him all the things they are going to do. 

She tells him that they will find Dorian and retreat to the nearest pub—that they'll find the prettiest redheads in Tevinter to fawn over; that she'll buy him as much ale as he can stomach and then some. 

She tells him that the morning after, they'll sleep in till noon and spend the remainder of their day wrapped in fine silks with Tevene servants at their beck and call. 

She tells him about how they'll be dressed in medals and hailed as heroes and that every nobleman from here to the Southern sea will bow and kneel and scramble about like fools for their favor. 

She tells him all the things they will do ten years from now when they are old and grey, and his horns have gone back with age. 

She tells him all the things they will do long after he stops breathing. 

All magic has a price. Rosa knows this, but she doesn't stop—cannot stop. She has lost too much to go back empty-handed. They have won—the threat is gone, and their world is safe, but her world is less; smaller, colorless, without substance. The price is too high—it always has been—but if she can save one life, spare one heart more hardship, then it is worth it.

Rosa has a moment of clarity, a strange attunement she has not felt since the first time her powers revealed itself to her. She touches the threads of her magic, feels the soft edges of their shape and form skids through her proverbial fingers, caressing her with their light and warmth. It slips away, sifting between the cracks in her being like sand through a time-keeper. At that moment, she has to choose—to chase or to stop. 

But she cannot stop. 

They've come too far. If she can hold it a little longer, someone will come and Bull will be safe, and her world will be a little brighter. 

A Tevinter soldier rouses her from her slumber. She cannot understand his shouts nor discern his features from the dark. Other faces loom out of the background, darting in and out of her line of sight. 

They cover her with a blanket and drag her across the threshold. Words sit on the tip of her tongue, questions she needs answers to. Rosa is too tired to follow through. 

As her eyes close, she wonders if Iron Bull will be well enough to have that drink. 

Chapter Text

Voices echo from the vestibule. They are quiet at first, but as Rosa nears the heart of the mines, they grow more distinct. 

Morrigan's guttural cry is raw and brimming with frustration. 

Loose rock tumbles and shatters on the ground. Rosa inches forward and takes shelter behind the wall of an old stone, as she did once before. 

"Dammit, Solas—where is it? Where is the idol?" 

The witch is on her hands and knees, head propped over the rim of the vestibule, peering into the abyss of the Deep Roads. 

Solas observes her at a distance, hands folded behind his back. 

"Somewhere, Morrigan."

"You know where it is—you can sense it."

"So can you, Morrigan. It is as much your parasite's design as mine." 

She does not take well to the comment. 

Morrigan leers over her shoulder, amber eyes wide with anger. She hunches her back, nails arched against the ground beneath her. The witch is feral in nature, a stark contrast to the composed and elegant woman Rosa has come to know. Like Kieran, her cheeks are sallow, eyes drooped with dark bags. 

"You've delayed enough, Dread Wolf. I will forgive your dally with the Dalish and your pathetic attempt to keep those mages safe, but it is time you make good of my mercy. Where is the idol?" 

Solas sighs, fingers tracing circles on the wrists they clasp. "Reconsider, Morrigan. The idol belongs to the Deep Roads, returned to its rightful place. No good will come of unearthing this forgotten pestilence. Let it remain in the past—do not look to recreate my mistake." 

She sneers and returns to her searching. 

Solas' ears twitch. His fingers stop moving. "There is no way of retrieving it. Who knows how deep this crevasse is?" 

"I'll levitate you down there myself to retrieve it," she hisses. 

"With what power?" His brow furrows with concern. "Look at you… you can barely move."

"It will pass. I can do this—I will do this."

"It will kill you."

"Then I will die doing what's right and undo the mess your misguided sensitivities have created." 

"For what reason? For what cause?" Though his back is turned, Rosa knows Solas is frowning by the shape of his words. 

The query catches Morrigan off-guard. She glowers at Solas; the expression of a tired teacher arrested by a stupid question. Her face morphs into one of surprise when her lips fail to enunciate her reason. 

"B-because it is right! Our world has been deprived of knowledge—of autonomy and agency. The Veil robbed us of magic, of longevity, and of understanding the secrets of our world, the Fade, and everything in between." 

Solas laughs. "These are not your words, Morrigan. You are parroting the reasons you were taught. These are Flemeth's teachings… the poison she planted to engender you to Mythal's soul—don't you see?" 

Morrigan squirms helplessly, her arguments drowned out by the mage. 

"You have been groomed, Morrigan. You have been preened and guided and shaped by Mythal for this day. You are the instrument with which she will bring about the end of the world and have her retribution realized, as I was. But you are more than that. You are more than her right hand; more than the tool she has trained you to be—" 

"Silence!" Morrigan staggers to her feet, her fatigue supplanted with rage. "You know nothing of me or my hopes and aspirations." 

"Morrigan—"

"If you will not help me willingly, then I will resort to less pleasant means." 

He shakes his head. "Do what you will with me, Morrigan. I will die before I relent, and you will be back where you started; friendless, hopeless, and alone."

"With you?" She cackles. "Oh, Solas. You misunderstand me. It's not you that is in danger." 

Her eyes flit towards the boulder. The witch and Inquisitor lock eyes.

Solas follows her line of sight. As a surge of electricity gathers in Morrigan's hands, the elf scrambles to block her trajectory. He is too slow. 

Blue lightning zip towards the boulder. Branches of it fork from their designated direction and hurtle towards the floor and shoot upwards into the roof of the cave. The main bulk of her magic finds its mark, and splits the boulder in a flurry of dust and pebbles. 

The vestibule is uncomfortably loud, a cacophony of voices and sounds and clamor. Solas' shout of disbelief, of heartbreak, rings loudest. 

The elf swipes at the haze that clouds his vision and coughs to expel the soot from his lungs. His eyes search the gloom. When the dust settles, they widen with surprise. 

Rosa is curled up on the floor, knees tucked underneath her, arm looped protectively over her neck. She rears her head and gazes at her surroundings, at Solas, who falls to his knees with relief. Tentatively, she touches the magic barrier that envelops her. 

"How?" she murmurs. 

Morrigan's mouth hangs open. The witch takes several small steps back, inching towards the edge of the platform until her heel skid off the side of the ledge. Quiet words tumble from her lips, as silent as the tears that fall from her lashes. 

"K-Ki…"

Rosa feels a warm hand on her back. Another latches onto her arm and pulls her to her feet. 

"Are you alright?" Kieran watches her intently. He relinquishes his hold on her when she nods. When Rosa has shuffled to Solas' side, he sets his sights on the trembling witch. "Mother."

Morrigan's chin shudders with the effort to keep her tears from falling; lip wobbling like a child's after a fall. "Kieran—my boy… my baby boy."

"What are you doing, mother?" 

Morrigan cannot hold his gaze. She consults the ground beneath her feet. "Why… are you here? After all this time." 

"To stop you—to save you from this foolishness." 

"You don't understand, my love. I must do this." She pauses, the soft curve of a smile on her lips. "You've grown handsome." 

"I am my mother's son," he says. 

Her smile sinks into a pout. She shakes herself free of the emotion, of the distraction. "Kieran—you must help your mama. What I do, I do for us—for our family and for the world. You understand that, don't you; remember what I taught you?" 

She extends a hand towards him, beckoning him closer. The gesture only succeeds in repulsing Kieran away. 

"To respect the old ways? I remember. Those were granny's words. Those were her teachings."

Morrigan shakes her head. "No—no—you don't understand. For years I dismissed Flemeth's lessons. I was foolish and strong-minded. I thought she was trying to control me, but I was too young to see. Mother was trying to protect the old ways. You and I—we are the only ones who know the truth of what was lost. Without us, there will be no one else that remembers. But if the Veil is destroyed, we might all come to understand the secrets Elvhenan took with it." 

Kieran's hands ball into fists. "Do you hear yourself? You sound just like her—just like Flemeth. Have you forgotten what she did to you? Have you forgotten how you were raised to be nothing more than a vessel? What of the stories you told me of you and the Hero of Fereldan? Of uncle Alistair and grandma Wrynne? How they took arms against her for your benefit. You told me Flemeth meant to possess you—a bag of flesh to occupy when the time came. This is the woman you mean to protect?"

"I was wrong. I thought her motivations selfish; that I was no more than a means to extend her life. She was trying to teach me. All she wanted was to preserve the memories of what was, to safeguard the treasured friend she carried with her all those years." Morrigan touches her chest tenderly. "She wanted to protect Mythal and to see justice given to those that destroyed the great civilization she toiled to create. Don't you see? I am her avenger. I have been chosen to carry this legacy. All Flemeth did was to prepare me for this task." 

"You sound like some Chantry zealot. Mythal has poisoned your mind." 

Kieran pushes back his hair. He searches the ground, ceiling, and beyond as if he might find the right words buried in these cragged walls. 

"My mother  — the woman I respected — would have never submitted to being a pawn. My mother, who fought an Archdemon and thwarted Asha'bellanar's plan to possess her, would not succumb to such poor rhetoric. You are not the woman I thought you were, Morrigan."

The witch tenses at the moniker. "Kieran…" 

"I will not let you go through with this. If you truly believe this madness, then you leave me no choice." 

"My son..."

"Yes—your son. And as your son, as the progeny of a great woman who knew her worth, I will fight the shade you've become." His face softens. "Though the thought brings me nothing but anguish." 

"I've come too far to turn back. Mythal—she chose me."

"She molded you, and you chose to accept your role in all this. Everything granny planned—everything leading up to this moment is nothing but an extension of Flemeth's hold on you—a hold you once worked tirelessly to break. Remember the mirror, mother; that is the individualism Flemeth vied to crush!"

Morrigan emits a soft oh of surprise. "The… mirror?" The memory comes to her. "The mirror," she repeats, more audibly than before. 

"Yes," he sighs, voice brimming with uncapped optimism. He seizes this momentum, this crack in Morrigan's veneer. "The mirror you stole, that Flemeth smashed on the ground; the mirror that you chose and Flemeth destroyed. She never cared for you, Morrigan. She was never a mother to you. It is a truth you've forgotten, that Flemeth disguised with cheap tricks and false promises. Mythal is no different. Whatever binds she roped around Flemeth she has transferred to you, but you are stronger than that, and too smart to be bound by blind faith."

Kieran takes a step towards her. And then another.

Morrigan stares at her son. The delirious look in her eyes abates. "I've come too far," she repeats calmly, a note of defeatism in her tone. "Mythal and I—we are one. There is no coming back from this… she is… a part of me."  

"You're wrong." 

Mother and son turn to address the speaker. 

"You're wrong," Solas repeats. "A spirit cannot possess an unwilling person."

"But…" 

"You can let her go," Solas continues. "It is within your power. What you accepted can also be turned away." 

Morrigan clenches her fist around her pendant and stares down at her breasts as if she might peer into her body and glance upon the soul that lives there. "But without a host… where will she go?" 

"Let me deal with that," Solas says. 

Rosa reaches for Solas. Though she hasn't the power to voice her concerns, Solas understands them all the same. 

"Trust me," he murmurs.

Morrigan skulks towards the back of the atrium. Solas follows her. Rosa and Kieran observe at a distance. 

A faint glow brightens the dark ceiling above. Elf and witch frown over the light protectively as if to shield it from undeserving eyes. 

Morrigan nudges the item into Solas' hand and utters a quiet word for his ears only. 

He smiles in response. When the witch staggers back, he is ready, and catches her deftly in his arms as her knees give way from under her.

Chapter Text

"I've missed you, old friend." 

Solas' expression is tender, a look of such reverence and respect it renders Rosa speechless.

She waits in silence, as she feels it is pertinent to do.

The elf lifts the spark to his face. It grows radiant under his gaze. 

"It's time for you to rest. To go home. You've been away for too long, Lethallan. The Fade has missed you, as I have, but you cannot stay here... not anymore. At least there, you will be safe, can rest, and be at peace. And when my time here is over, we will be united once more—to ask, to talk. Melena sul em, Mythal."

The light flickers. It is small—delicate. No more than a wisp. The Inquisitor wonders how this tiny shard—this remnant of an old god—accomplished so much. In the end, Rosa cannot suppress her admiration for Mythal's unwavering resolve. 

Solas closes his eyes and is still. The spirit hesitates, bobbling uselessly from side to side. Suddenly, it disperses, its dull glow fading into nothingness. 

"Where did she go?" Rosa asks. 

Solas stares at his empty palms. "Home."

"I'm surprised that's all it took." 

He smiles weakly. "A soul is not forced on the unwilling. With Morrigan's change of heart, Mythal's spirit has nothing to bind to, no host to occupy. I think, in the end, part of her was relieved to be done with it."

"How do you know?"

Solas shrugs. "Intuition. A spirit will wear as easily as any human body. Mythal clawed her way back into your world, an impressive feat in itself. And for a millennia, she dictated the course of history from the sidelines, giving so much of herself to her cause as a result. This piece is but a fragment of the spirit I knew, a shadow eroded by grief, anguish, and the passage of time. She has earned her rest."

Rosa reaches for his hand and intertwines their fingers. 

He gives her a comforting squeeze. "I will miss her. I wish you knew her as I knew her. She was a beacon, a paragon of virtue with no equal. The world will never see another of her caliber."

Rosa thinks back to her journey through the Fade and smiles. "Oh, I'd say I know her a little bit," she says knowingly. 

"Hmm, I suppose you do."

"She's awake!" 

Morrigan stirs and rolls her face into Kieran's arm. When the haze of sleep lifts, she blinks up into their smiling faces.

"Kieran?" She flattens her hand against her chest and grimaces. "She… she's gone." 

Solas crouches beside her. "She is." 

"It hurts," the witch adds. "I feel… empty."

"It will pass," Kieran says. He plants a soft kiss on his mother's forehead and brushes the tears from her cheeks. "Trust me—I know better than most."  

Author's Notes

Told you it would be a short one!

I think we will have two more chapters after this and In Another World is finally over. What a journey its been. 

I wanted to take this opportunity to just cover a characterization choices I've incorporated. Ideally, I would add this to the chapter summary, but considering the word count, it might not be possible. 

1. I've put a lot of emphasis on this concluding peacefully. Originally, I had thought there to be a big ol' battle, but the closer I got to this sequence the more I longed for a peaceful resolution. One reason for this is that I wanted to echo Solas' change of heart in the first chapter. I wanted Morrigan to undergo a similar character shift where she realises Mythal has warped her purpose and taken advantage of her upbringing for her own gain; which brings me to point two.

For DA4, I see Solas as the red herring villain and Mythal as the principal mastermind guiding this to a vengeful conclusion. I base a lot of these assumptions off dialogue in Inquisition. It's clear Mythal has a vested interest in seeing the Elvhen returned as much as Solas. But while his intentions are focused on their people, FlemMythal's outburst in the Fade regarding vengeance and writing a wrong speaks of her own personal vendetta against the Evanuris. She's hellbent on getting revenge and doesn't care who gets thrown under the bus in the process. 

I really think Morrigan gets a piece of Flemeth's soul at the end of Inquisition, and that she embraces the gift willingly. DAO is all about pegging mother and daughter against one another, with Morrigan conscious of the fact that Flemeth is using her for her own gains. In DAI, there's a clear shift in narrative. In the Arbor Wilds, you see how much Morrigan seeks to protect 'old magic'; a same curiosity she conveys in DAO and Awakening with all her Eluvian research. I think Morrigan incorrectly labels this fascination as her own 'brand' so to speak -- something that she as an individual developed herself. Her conversations with Flemeth expose how much her mother had a hand in fostering this interest. For story purposes, I wanted to attach these motivations to Morrigan, not only her obstinate belief that this is for the greater good, but for the overarching narrative that sets Mythal as the mastermind behind Solas and Morrigan's downfall. Basically: Mythal takes people's good intentions and uses them to further her own goals. In this chapter, I wanted Morrigan to remember her individualism, and rage against the puppeteering she has been submitted to throughout her entire life. 

2. I said the idol is of Mythal and Solas' design and this is a big speculation. I think the original idol looked way too much like Mythal's old statues, and if its of primordial dwarven design, why does it look like her? Mythal clearly had some dealings with titans and the 'Deep Roads' before it was named as such. I wonder how much experience ancient elves had with red lyrium (though Andruil's madness might suggest that they had some bad run-ins with it). I feel like they decided to scrap it sometime during the Evanuris' reign. Lots of ifs and buts that DA4 will hopefully shed a light on. 

And that's it from me for now. Thank you again for all the comments on the latest chapter. It's late here, but tomorrow I'll get to work on replying to all these wonderful messages. 

Love you all. Stay safe <3  

Chapter Text

She finds him on the terrace, a silent figure perched above the coastal city of Ventus, motionless save for the fluttering of his hair in the breeze. He reminds Rosa of those stone gargoyles atop the sept in Jader, a timeless statue destined to watch the world pass him by. 

It feels like weeks since she last saw him, when in fact, it had only been a handful of hours. 

After Kieran and Morrigan fled, there were no healers on hand to treat the fallen mages. Solas volunteered in their stead. With no magical aptitude, Rosa's remaining talents were needed elsewhere. 

Mae and the Inquisitor took the few remaining horses to an emergency privy council held in the citadel. There, she shared her side of the story; a lone elf in an atrium filled with grey-haired men with skeptical eyes and doubtful expressions. The threat of the Veil's collapse was no more meaningful to them than it was ten years ago. Mae begrudgingly admitted that showing face was a necessary farce, one Tevinter placed more highly than action or results. 

By early evening, Rosa's day was over. However, neither Dorian nor Solas had returned from the barracks that housed the wounded mages. Mae, ever the gracious host, ensured Rosa would enjoy her solitude in luxury, giving her free reign of her seaside palace situated beyond the city walls on the outskirts of Ventus. 

The Inquisitor busied herself best she could, arms at the ready should Mae need her. But, in the end, old age triumphed over youthful intentions. Left alone in the gilded receiving hall with nothing but the sound of crashing waves and the susurrus of the soft sea breeze, Rosa blinked into a restful sleep. 

Solas looks over his shoulder. As their eyes meet, his lips fold into a brilliant smile. 

"Andaran atish'an." 

The elf gestures to the spot beside him, revealing a glass of wine balanced on the balustrade. 

Rosa hesitates, feet glued to the ground. When his face darkens with worry, she chastises herself for her foolishness, for not preparing for this moment.

After all that has happened, there had scant been a moment for Rosa to process the feelings of her own heart. Visions of the Fade are already a distant memory, a trove of information that Rosa hoped to mull over—a task subsumed by the more immediate issue of Morrigan's betrayal. 

Standing before him now, a young elf who, up until two weeks ago, could scarcely recall his past, Rosa is gripped with uncertainty. 

"Inquisitor?" 

The moniker sends a jolt of nostalgia through her. It makes her smile and settles the anxious pounding of her heart. 

"Is it you? Are you…?"

He answers her query with a chuckle, the same measured laugh she had almost forgotten. It takes her back. 

"I was always me, vhenan. Whatever do you mean?" 

She scowls. "Fen'Harel ma halam!"

He feigns a wince. "Hurtful." 

He gestures beside him once more. 

This time, Rosa accepts.

Together, they scan the horizon, the endless stretch of sea known as the Ventosus Straits. Firefly-like lights bob in the distance; ships berthed from shore. 

"It is me," Solas says quietly. He swirls the glass in his hand and takes a polite sip. 

The core of the matter is still too much for her to bear. She angles for a detour. 

"Are the mages safe?"

Solas arches a brow in surprise but indulges her. "Most. Heatstroke being the least of their worries."

"And the worst?"

"Death." He regards the wine and takes another drink. 

She nods. "A-and Dorian?" 

"As indestructible as ever." 

Solas allows himself to frown, brow furrowed as he searches the horizon for something beyond his reach. Rosa knows the look well. He blames himself for their hurts. She knows there is nothing she can say to persuade him otherwise and leaves him to his grief. 

"Mae looked well last I saw her," he adds. "Well enough to kick my shins and throw a few colorful curses my way."

"She means well."

"Does she? My skinned legs think differently." 

Solas turns to her, a move that severs the laughter from her lips. 

"Is this really what you want to talk about now?" he asks, slate eyes narrowed on her face, willing her to match his gaze.

"No," she admits. 

"Then what is weighing on your mind? If not Dorian, the mages, Mae? What do you wish to speak of?" 

Rosa exhales noisily. "Everything." 

"Everything is akin to nothing. You'll have to be more specific than that, my heart." 

"How are you here?" She notes the imprecision of her question. It is riddled with holes and flaws and open-ended answers. Nevertheless, she hopes Solas grasps her meaning.

He grins. "I told you before, did I not? Spirits do not die, Inquisitor. We return to the Fade, manifest into something else—something different. If their memory of what was is strong enough, some semblance of the past carries over."

"A spirit returning as a spirit I can understand—yet you arrived in Jader as a young man."

He smiles. "Morrigan's assessment was not far off the mark." 

Solas fishes for the string around his neck and pulls the pendant from the folds of his tunic. The wolf's mandible glints in the low light. Rosa realizes, with some surprise, that she had not thought to question where it went. 

"Long ago, Mythal developed a ritual that would safeguard her soul should the unthinkable come to pass—a secret she did not share with anyone, not even me. Over a millennia, I toiled to reproduce this magic, leaving a piece of myself in the mandible as an anchor to this world. As a result, after my death, I was able to retain much of my former self—more than any reborn spirit should."

"I don't understand."

"Think of a flower."

"Pardon?"

"When one wants to grow a crop of roses, a gardener does not need to sow seeds and start anew. If one cuts the stem of a grown plant, the flower will put down roots and grow. And the roots—"

"Will grow another flower."

"Correct. Does that help?"

Rosa voices her understanding with a curt nod. "But…"

"Mm?"

"Mythal retained all her knowledge—her history. You were no more than a husk!"

Solas erupts with laughter. "Tell me how you really feel, vhenan." When his laughter subsidizes, he fixes her with an apologetic smile. "I planned for that, too."

"Why?" 

The elf takes a moment to collect himself and finish his drink. "Perhaps it was selfish and ill-advised — so many of my machinations have turned out as such — but when I planned for my demise, prepared for an inevitable end, I thought on how best to make good of my promise. This seemed like the best course of action."

"What promise? I feel like I have made so many, and kept so little."

Solas watches her out of the corner of his eye. "In another world." 

Rosa feels the sting of heat creep up her neck and cheeks, painting her face an intense shade of red. 

"In another world," he repeats, "a fresh start, a new beginning. I wanted to give you the best of me—an elf unburdened by guilt and memories. I caused you so much senseless suffering. Death was my release from a long life of mistakes and miscalculations. If I could erase that part of myself, I had hoped we might start anew. Rosa—"

Gently, tenderly, Solas strokes the curve of her cheek, smearing wet tears across her face. 

"I never cared about all that. I told you that day at the Crossroads, Solas. My love for you is unconditional. Dread Wolf or not." 

He extracts his hand. "As I said—a life of mistakes and miscalculations. I am sorry I misjudged you, my heart. My intentions were for the best."

There's that expression again, the fledgling signs of melancholy snaking their way across his features. 

Rosa is quick to react and works to save him from fouling his mood. "And yet, despite your knack for meddling, it all worked out in the end." 

"In a way," he says. "Still, I feel you remain unconvinced." Solas tugs the braid to his front and studies it. "Is it the hair? Would you prefer if I were to shave it off?" 

Rosa shakes her head. "No… I think I have grown to like it." 

"What is it then?" 

She shuffled nervously and hides the nub of her arm behind her back. 

"Does my age not bother you?" 

He stares at her, eyes widened with surprise. "What?"

"I am not the same girl you left behind," she adds. 

"Rosa…" Solas straightens her shoulders and guides her towards him. He watches her at arm's length, eyes darting over her hair, face, chest, legs. He murmurs in agreement. "You're right."

Her throat tightens at his admission. When Solas leans forward to plant a chaste kiss on her forehead, she swallows a gasp. 

"You're more beautiful than I remember," he whispers into her skin. "My silly heart."

Fingers slip under her chin, urging her face upwards. Rosa recognises the look, tastes the subtle note of his desire. She closes her eyes and waits. 

A door slams somewhere in the palace. 

Rosa bolts away from Solas and retreats further along the balustrade. Footsteps echo towards them, growing louder by the second. The Inquisitor adjusts her hair and irons out the lines in her clothes, mindful to avoid Solas' gaze. 

Dorian Pavus arrives shortly after, strutting towards the elves with a skip in his step and a knowing glint in his eye. Were it not for the swelling above his brow and the network of bandages on his arms and hands, you would think the events of the past day had never come to pass. 

"Good, you're awake. Mae said you were having an afternoon nap. Age finally caught up with you, Inquisitor." 

Rosa moves to embrace him but settles for a formal kiss on the cheek in lieu of his current state. 

"You look as radiant as ever, Magister."

He scoffs. "Love you for a liar." His gaze falls on Solas. "And you? No broken bones? Everything in order?" 

Solas winces at his clipped tone. "Dorian—"

"I'm glad to see you're well and still sporting the same tattered clothes as ever," Dorian says, a small smile hidden beneath the shadow of his mustache.

"It's good to see you, too." 

A private word floats between them, some telepathic link of understanding. Sometime soon, when the dust has settled, they will talk. When they are good and ready, Rosa thinks. 

"How goes everything below deck, Dorian?" Rosa says before their conversation lulls into an awkward silence.

"Chaotic and somehow, moving at a snail's pace. That's  democracy  for you. All anyone's concerned with is the two fugitives that fled the scene. None of my people have any idea how Morrigan and her brat got away." 

"They overpowered us with magic and made their escape," Rosa says evenly. "That's all there is to it." 

Dorian smiles a knowing smile and taps the side of his nose. "That's what I keep telling them, my dear. That's what I keep telling them." 

The Magister gives an eruekaesque hoot. "Ah—I'd almost forgotten. Mae asked if you two would like to join us to sup this evening. She knows a great seaside joint that serves the best pickled crab this side of Thedas. I believe young master Cole has already succumbed to the idea."

The Inquisitor rolls her eyes in disbelief. "Mae doesn't know when to stop, doesn't she?" 

Dorian twirls the corner of his mustache and clears the way for them to follow. "On the contrary, my dear. All this excitement works up  quite  the appetite. And there's no better way to celebrate a successful brush with death than with some imported wine. So... what do you say?"

Rosa reaches for Solas' hand. As his fingers entwine with hers, she nods.

"Let's not keep Mae waiting." 

Chapter Text

In an unmarked mine outside Ventus, sometimes stirs.

Far beneath the bed of burning sand that swirls and shudders in the summer heat.

Far beneath the ancient Dwarven lifts and capillaries of jagged tunnels.

Far beneath the arena where the Inquisition bested an Elvhen god. 

Something sings. 

At the bottom of a crevasse, in a hole so deep and dark it has never known light or heat, a shard of stone throbs with a dim, fragile red light.

Three pairs of feet form a protective circle around it.

“Familiar,” one voice says, in a baritone voice that rumbles with the weight of a landslide. 

“Curious,” says another. He prods the stone with his toe and recoils.

“Hot?” a third voice asks. 

“No.”

Hands snake out of the gloom; fingers frowning like spider webs over the idol, mapping its shape with feather-light touches. 

“Careful, Daern'thal,” the deep voice warns. 

“But it sings.” 

“I can hear it, too.” 

Another pair of hands chases the other away. It lifts the idol. 

“Is it yours, Anaris?”

“No,” the one called Anaris answers. 

The idol throbs in response to his touch, its small light growing into that of a dinner candle. It illuminates its holder’s face, his wide grin, and pointed teeth. 

“But you know what they say, Geldauran: finders keepers.”

In an unmarked mine outside Ventus, something old awakens.

Author's Notes 

Dun-DUN-DUNNN!

And with that, In Another World is concluded. I will update once I've added the next two commissioned pieces, but for now I leave you with this :)

I wanted to take this opportunity to thank all the reviews, comments, and messages readers have sent me. Words cannot stress how incredible it is that I've had you on this journey with me. In truth, it would not have happened without you. Every comment, and every kudos has been precious, but I wish to leave a special shout out to the special few who have never missed a chapter; who, over the past year, have dedicated time out of their day to share their thoughts, praise, and love. 

Aisteach | TheJabberwokk | IntoTheFade | Scribblestuff | DreadWolfDreaming | about2dance | explodingnebulae | ZapperTrapper44 | katiebour | whatomen | High_and_blue_sky | Morgalahan

I love each and every one of you. Thank you for the support and sheer dedication to the fic. Getting to know even a piece of you has been a gift, and more than writing this fic, I will miss reading your comments and basking in the light of your boundless optimism and positive vibes. I can only pray that life treats you well, and karma remembers the kindness you've shown this old girl. 

Ar lath ma, vhenan.

Chapter Text

Hi lovelies,

Sorry for the long wait - I know I promised to update with artwork information. Unfortunately, one of the commissions fell through, but I just wanted to turn your attention to the stunning work by Kiwipon on Chapter 62. My love for her is endless and I will try and upload the monochrome line art she also made of the scene - which I am totally going to manually color-in at some point.

Missing you all and hope everything is going well!

Chapter Text

Happy Dragon Age Day, my loves.

It's been 10 years.

Let's go save our egg. :)