Chapter Text
The next night, as promised, Felassan is waiting for her in the Fade. Athera is getting used to the sudden transitions between waking and sleep, and it takes her only a moment to orient herself and realise that here, at least, they aren’t in the Lighthouse anymore.
“Andaran Atish’an, Inquisitor,” the Slow Arrow greets her. “I wondered whether or not you’d keep our meeting. I’m pleased to find that you did.”
She crosses a dark marble floor towards him, the Fade still coalescing around her and giving the impression of a castle that hasn’t yet come into focus.
“It’s sweet that you think I have that much control of where and when I dream,” she says. “But even if I did, I wouldn’t have missed it.”
“Unless Fen’Harel had been unhappy with the arrangement, I presume?”
“Solas was fine with the idea. Although he did say — what was it? That he trusted you to know which memories were suitable for observation.”
A small smirk pulls at one side of Felassan’s mouth as she comes to a stop at his side.
“Meaning that he knew you would repeat those words to me, and he expects me to identify the subtle warning hidden within them.”
“I expect so, yes.”
She tilts her head back to assess their surroundings.
“So, where are we?”
Felassan’s brow furrows slightly, and he leans against a shifting pillar with his arms folded across his chest.
“That’s it?” He asks. “No enquiring after my health? No extracting promises that I won’t let you come to harm while we’re here? Simply, where are we?”
Athera inclines her head.
“That’s it.”
His lips thin.
“Revas had led me to believe that you were concerned with the well-being of your associates to the point of absurdity. Mothering, was the word I believe he used. Am I to take it that I do not yet warrant the same care?”
Athera shakes her head.
“It isn’t that.”
“What is it, then?”
She hesitates for a moment, watching him closely. Over her time with Solas and Revas, she’s noticed more than once that the Elvhen often seem to play these subtle games of hidden meaning. Sometimes, she thinks, without even being aware that they’re doing it. She’s come to consider it a vestige of the culture they came from — probing for as much information as possible as quickly as possible, so as to come to some understanding of the person they’re speaking with.
“You’re asking me why I haven’t enquired after your health yet?” She clarifies, and Felassan nods stiffly once. “Do you want me to have asked after your health?” She asks him curiously. “What would make you more comfortable?”
“It isn’t a question of my comfort,” he replies with disgust. “It’s more a question of… of…”
He trails off, as though he doesn’t quite know why he’s asking either, and Athera finishes the sentence softly.
“Of deciding what kind of person I am.”
Felassan’s brow furrows again, thoughtful and frustrated in equal measure, and then slowly the tension in his shoulders eases and he nods again. Athera offers him a small smile in understanding before taking a moment to gather her thoughts.
“Solas and Revas do that, too,” she says. “Stacking up their expectations of people, and then judging whether or not they’ve exceeded those expectations or underwhelmed them based on criteria the other person can never even know they’re competing against.”
She chuckles fondly and shakes her head, noting that Felassan now looks more considering than aggressive.
“I don’t blame you for doing the same,” she says honestly. “But I’m not interested in playing a game with you. We’re here in the Fade — as you said last time, a place of emotion. I hope that what we share with each other here will speak for itself.”
Felassan’s frown has deepened while he listens, and he opens his mouth slightly as if to speak and then closes it again.
“I… see.” He says hesitantly, and then tilts his head in consideration.
“You are very unusual,” he says at last — and Athera promptly bursts out laughing.
Almost at once — and before Felassan is left to wonder — the Fade surges around her and the trees of an ancient forest rise up around them. A few paces away, in the clearing that’s started to form, Athera sees herself standing tall in the shadow of a large grey wolf.
She gains control of her laughter quickly, noticing how much younger she seems to look even though it’s only been a little over two years. Perhaps, just like Solas, events have painted a certain shadow in her eyes that wasn’t there before. If not a shadow of grief like the one in his, then a shadow of responsibility instead.
The tableaux remains frozen, and Felassan approaches the figures slowly. He observes the two of them in silence for a long moment, and then with a wave of his hand, the memory begins to play.
“Regardless, ma serannas, Athera Arlanan,” the wolf says formally. “It seems I owe you my life. If there is something you wish of me that it is within my power to offer, then you need only ask.”
Even from a distance, Athera can see the terror that tightens her expression, and almost at once Solas’ ears flatten to his head and he takes a step backwards as though she’s struck him.
“Ah,” he says softly. “You regret it.”
“Not exactly,” she hears herself say, her voice sounding far more unsteady than she remembers it — and immediately, a raw burst of power echoes from the furious wolf.
“Oh, well that’s alright then. As long as you only regret it a bit then that’s fine.”
In the present, Athera’s heart clenches as Solas begins to pace, his form growing larger and more imposing while the memory of her backs herself up against a tree.
“I don’t know why I expected anything else,” he snarls. “All you Dalish are the same. Children passing down half-remembered tales, shadows of the People clinging to broken remnants of what could have been, what should have been, if only-”
She watches the scene sadly while the past image of herself cowers. Now, she can see that this was the reaction of someone wounded. Anger in response to pain; fury to hide the hurt of being rejected yet again. It’s hard to believe that, at the time, she was still frightened he might kill her.
While Felassan moves closer, the memory of Solas seems to notice the alteration in himself for the first time, and he shrinks back down to the form of her charcoal grey wolf and lowers himself beseechingly to the ground.
She doesn’t need to listen to be able to remember his confession: how he had begged her not to be afraid of him, and then been so surprised when she’d said that she would listen to his explanations if he offered them.
“Do you mean that? Truly?” He asks her, and the memory of herself huffs and folds her arms.
“I don’t know,” she replies, far more haughtily than she remembers. “After that display, I can see why people might approach you with a certain amount of dread. I mean, if you’re going to become a gigantic terrifying monster whenever someone insults you, you might expect people to be afraid of you. And learn to reign in your temper.”
In the present, Felassan lets out a startled bark of laughter, and Athera resists the urge to smile. She’d been bolder than she’d realised, berating the Dread Wolf in this place where he held so much power.
“That…” Solas says helplessly, and then tilts his head. “I was going to say that is besides the point, but perhaps that would not be entirely true.”
“Perhaps?”
From her position on the edge of the clearing, she chuckles wryly at herself, while the memory of the wolf snorts and sits down heavily in front of her.
“You are very unusual,” he tells her.
“Strong words coming from the ancient wolf god,” she shoots back.
Solas’ answering laughter seems to shake the fabric of the Fade, and with an eddying swirl of magic, the memory ends and drifts away.
In its wake, she and Felassan are still standing in the copse of ancient trees, and he observes her in silence for some moments longer before walking back to her side.
“That was one of your first meetings with him, I take it?” He asks, and she nods while he considers her carefully. “You were incredibly brave to risk speaking to him that way.”
“I think I was just terrified and stupid,” she says bluntly, and a smile pulls at his mouth.
“Perhaps,” he agrees. “But it seems to have done you no harm in the long-term.”
His brow furrows, and he nods to himself as if having decided on something.
“You asked where we were,” he says at last. “And the answer is that we’re in a confluence of Fade energies that plays host to a number of powerful spirits. The Elvhen would call it the Alha’theneras, quite literally, a wild dream, but in essence it’s a place where memory and emotion can be recalled and examined more easily than in other parts of the Fade. Here, we will not have to work quite so hard to share our experiences with one another.”
He falls silent for a moment and watches her closely.
“A memory for a memory, then, as I promised,” he murmurs. “This is the first time that I encountered Solas, back when the empire of Elvhenan was still new.”
Before she can take the time to gather herself, there’s a lurch beneath Athera’s feet, a sudden sense of having shifted in space, and then she freezes in stunned silence as a great hall forms around them. At first, she can do nothing other than blink, because if she’d thought that Skyhold or the Lighthouse were grand before now, then she simply hadn’t been thinking big enough.
The place she’s emerged into is a wonder.
White marble pillars rise up on every side, climbing so high above her that the vaulted ceiling is more of an impression than an object in its own right. Stained-glass windows — far larger than Skyhold’s walls — wrap around them, the circular one at the far end showing the image of an imposing dragon soaring over a mountain range. Light streams inside, cut into shards of bright colour that meld with the wisps of Fade energy in the air, so that the whole of their surroundings seem to sparkle and dance with life.
Four lines of gleaming white tables run down a sculpted floor, and at their head the most vainglorious throne she’s ever seen, heralded by a dragon’s wings that look to be carved out of bone, stands poised like a threat above them. Athera draws in a sharp breath as she catches sight of the frozen form of Mythal lounging upon it, regal and dangerous in the centre of her own court.
Her horns are larger in this memory — starker than she’s ever known them. The silvered robes she’s wearing ripple like a tide, and one midnight-black claw is at rest in thought over the dangerous smile on her lips. The memory is still held suspended, and Athera takes in the sight of hundreds of Elvhen in varying forms eating and drinking at the tables, while soldiers in golden armour stand at intervals around the room.
She follows Mythal’s gaze to the young elf kneeling a few steps ahead of her, and realises with a shock that it’s Felassan. He’s wearing formal robes, high-necked and silver like the Evanuris, but the visible daggers at his belt make it clear that he’s a soldier as well.
Slowly, Athera draws in another breath, readying herself for what’s to come, and then the Felassan in her timeline waves his hand and the memory begins to play.
At once, there’s a great rush of noise from every corner of the great hall. Murmured conversations drift from the tables, laughter swells from the imposing doorway, and a soft sound of delicate chamber music hovers over the gathering even though she can’t see any musicians.
Ahead of her, the Felassan on the ground raises his eyes, and Mythal holds his gaze. Even though their words are quiet, Athera hears them clearly.
“Falon’din’s creation has cost thousands of lives,” Felassan is saying. “If he’s allowed to continue this practice then the People will continue to suffer.”
“Falon’din’s practice of worship through death is a problem we are well aware of,” Mythal says calmly. “I only wonder what you would have us do about it, so early in this time of peace?”
Athera notes her use of the plural we. It’s the same affectation Empress Celene had used in her court. The leaders of the land described not as a single person, but as a collective who are destined to rule.
“I would have you act!” Felassan says sharply, and then a flash of fear crosses his face and he bows his head again. “Forgive me, All-Mother, but we cannot simply abandon Falon’din’s people to their fate.”
“You would have us wage war, then? To sacrifice our People upon the same altar as his?”
“A warrior knows what they’re sacrificing,” he replies. “They sacrifice for a cause they believe in. Falon’din’s slaves have no such choice in how their lives are wasted.”
The noise of the hall continues to pitch and fall around them, but for a moment it seems as though Felassan and Mythal are caught in a bubble of silence. Unconsciously, Athera holds her breath, and then a soft wave of light breathes into life at the Evanuris’s side and a spirit stands tall by the throne.
She recognises it as Wisdom at once, although this version of the spirit is far from the wounded figure she’d met in the Exalted Plains. Its body is ethereal but powerful, the humanoid figure shifting restlessly as though an entire ocean is being contained within the limits of its form.
“Perhaps we ought to listen to the general, lethallin,” the spirit advises. “There is little wisdom in allowing the blood of the People to be spilled so carelessly as this.”
Mythal tilts her chin towards Wisdom, but her golden eyes remain fixed on Felassan.
“However,” the spirit continues. “I see little wisdom in provoking a war when war is not necessary for triumph. It may be wiser for us to wait, and assess how great Falon’din’s appetites may grow.”
“And in the meantime his People will die,” Felassan bites out. “What do the dead care of the wisdom in waiting?”
A weighted silence follows his words, and then a blinding flash of light sparks from behind the throne, and an ethereal white wolf leaps into the air. He lands without a sound, silencing the conversation around the hall.
Athera’s breath catches, not just at the sight of Solas as a spirit, but because he’s so obviously the most powerful spirit there. In the form of the white wolf, he stands far higher than Mythal’s throne, and the sheer wave of magic that accompanies his entrance is enough to raise the hairs on the back of her neck.
He lowers his great head and fixes Felassan with a stare, and then stalks down the few steps from the platform towards him. Athera doesn’t think she’s imagining the fear in Felassan’s face, but to his credit he raises his head and looks Solas directly in the eye. After a long moment, in which the only sound is the distant hum of music, the wolf turns from Felassan and stalks in a wide circle back up the stairs to the throne.
“He has pride, Mythal,” he says warmly. “Pride in the People and pride in what they can achieve. There is strength here before us. You have chosen a worthy general for your halls.”
“But is he correct in his warmongering?” Mythal asks. “Is war our only path to triumph? Ought we to risk so much for so few, simply for the sake of mere pride?”
Behind her, Solas’ ears flatten back to his head briefly, the insult striking home. But then he draws himself up to his full height and stands at Mythal’s side.
“There is pride in victory but not in subjugation,” he declares. “Pride in the heat of battle, but not in the cold waste of cruelty. However, if Felassan’s reports are true, then Falon’din’s appetite for slavery has only grown. Can we in good conscience abandon his people to their suffering and allow them to stand alone?”
“You are quick to act, lethallin,” Wisdom says from Mythal’s other side. “Eager to take decisive action, as is Pride’s way. Yet we must approach the issue from all angles before we come to a decision. It is my belief that we must play advocate for both sides to ensure there’s nothing we have missed.”
At that, Felassan’s hands clench into fists and his expression darkens in silence.
“What possible argument could there be in favour of slavery and death?” He asks. “How would you justify such a waste?”
It’s clear by the sharp flash in Mythal’s eyes that he’s spoken out of turn, but Solas tilts his head and directs his attention towards Wisdom as well.
“I, too, would be curious to know if an argument could truly be made,” he says. “What wisdom can you see in Falon’din’s choices as they stand before us today?”
There’s a darker edge to his voice than before, but real curiosity there as well, and Athera thinks that she can see very well why Mythal had once found his nature conflicted.
“An argument can always be made,” Wisdom replies. “No matter which side of a matter is taken. But wisdom lies in being able to determine whether those arguments also hold truth. In this instance, Falon’din might argue that his actions have led to his glory and also to peace in his lands. The monument built by the slaves will stand forevermore as a testament to his greatness, and his people are so terrified of his wrath that there are none among them with a will to fight back.”
“Is there wisdom in that argument though, old friend? Or are these merely empty justifications?”
It’s Mythal who puts the question to the spirit, but Athera isn’t surprised when it’s Solas who finally answers.
“Those who are enslaved cannot take pride in themselves,” he replies. “Neither can they inspire pride in others, nor cultivate the wisdom towards which all thinking beings must strive. To enslave a People is to forever limit them and to strip them of their potential. Do we not all hope for a civilisation that can grow?”
His gaze sweeps around the hall, to where the crowd of dining Elvhen are now listening to the conversation as well.
“The People have the potential for greatness but only if that greatness is allowed to flourish,” he continues. “Freedom must be the highest good that we strive towards, or else nothing of our true selves will be left.”
Gently, the memory separates and drifts away, leaving the two of them standing alone in the empty hall alongside sparkling wisps of Fade energy.
For a moment, Athera is lost for words.
She stares at the empty throne, the dragon’s wings casting their shadow across the marble, and then back at the place where Felassan had knelt at the feet of the woman whose vallaslin he still wears.
“You are troubled,” he says into the quiet, and Athera swallows and turns to face him.
“You were afraid of him,” she says. “You were afraid of Solas, I mean.”
“It is neither cowardly nor foolish to fear that which is much more powerful than you,” Felassan says seriously. “Pride was, at that time, Mythal’s greatest advisor and a legendary combatant in war. To see the white wolf shining over the fields of battle was to be left in an excess of awe, but I had never encountered him in the close quarters of the court until I stood before him that day.”
“And you knew you were challenging her even then.”
“I knew that I would put forward my case until I could be sure that its importance had been recognised.”
There’s a defensive tone to his voice, and Athera shakes her head.
“It wasn’t an insult,” she says quickly. “I think it was brave, what you did. To challenge the All-Mother openly even though you still served her, simply because you knew it was right… It’s exactly what you tried to do with Solas, isn’t it? Except that in this memory, Solas was on your side.”
Felassan frowns in thought.
“I admit that I hadn’t thought about the similarities in those terms,” he confesses. “But yes, I suppose that you’re right. You are still troubled though, Inquisitor. Tell me, what was it about that particular memory that unnerved you?”
In answer, Athera is quiet for a long time, her gaze trained on the throne. The problem, she thinks, is that even though she’s prepared herself to witness Solas’ past, the sheer strangeness of his life compared to hers is still difficult for a mortal to comprehend. Although intellectually she’d known that he was a spirit, and that he’d always had a place at Mythal’s side, seeing him standing there at her command still makes something inside her shiver.
“I think it’s mostly seeing Solas before he had a form,” she says slowly. “Seeing him as a creature of the Fade. The power that came from him when he leapt into the room — I’ve never felt anything like it.”
“Fen’Harel has always been powerful, da’len. Do not tell me it comes as a shock?”
Felassan is staring at her with a hard expression, but Athera meets it with a weak smile.
“He wasn’t so powerful when we first met,” she says softly, and the Fade springs into life once again.
She doesn’t need to look around herself to know which memory has risen. The sails of clan Sabrae’s aravels ripple in the breeze from the river, the scent of the trees is thick in the air, and Felassan lets out a cry of shock as Hahren Paivel casts a plume of magebane directly into Solas’ face.
Athera turns away as the Dread Wolf’s knees buckle and he retches, hears her own voice hiss out the words: that was unkind, and she keeps her eyes on the ceiling of Merrill’s aravel while Solas sobs over the discovery of Fen’Harel’s Teeth. The Fade morphs again, and she grits her teeth as she hears his terrified screaming and catches the flash out of the corner of her eye, as the memory of herself sprints across the camp and back into the aravel towards him.
She can sense, more than see, Felassan’s disbelief when she dumps half of the water pail over Solas’ flailing body, and the Dread Wolf shrieks and flings himself into her arms. His weeping sounds even more plaintive than she remembers it, and as he tells her the story of Elvhenan’s fall, she hears her own voice murmuring words of comfort into his ears.
When it’s over, she turns to find Felassan staring numbly at the space on the bed where Solas had been, and he opens his mouth and closes it again a number of times before turning to face her again.
“I have never…” He begins, and then breaks off. “I have never known him to be so distressed.”
In the quiet, he draws a hand back through his hair and stares into the distance for a long time.
“Even when Mythal was slain, he locked himself away. No-one was able to witness his grief. Not even me. But you…”
He cuts himself off again, and then fixes her with a look that’s both appraising and bewildered.
“You had known him for but a few short days, and he clung to you as though… as though…”
It seems he can’t finish the sentence, and instead he sits down on the edge of the bed and rubs his fingertips over his temples.
“I do not understand,” he whispers.
Athera crosses the corridor towards him and seats herself on the floor with her legs folded beneath her, and the Slow Arrow lowers his gaze and looks her in the eye.
“He was afraid,” she says softly. “After you gave the keystone to Briala, he believed he’d been betrayed. That the only person he still thought he could trust had forsaken him. He woke into a world he didn’t understand, completely alone, knowing only that more of his agents might have turned against him as well.”
She looks up at Felassan sadly, noting the new furrow in his brow and the distance in his expression.
“He didn’t realise you were trying to help him as well, Felassan,” she tells him. “After so long fighting at the head of a cause, he didn’t believe there was anyone left alive who might try.”
The aravel is silent in the wake of her words, and Felassan closes his eyes.
“That does make things clearer to me,” he confesses softly. “I knew, of course, that I was risking death when I betrayed him, but I had hoped…”
“You’d hoped you might be wrong.”
He nods slowly, and then opens his eyes again.
“I thought that our many Ages of friendship might have been enough to save me. It hadn’t occurred to me that he was as deeply wounded as this.”
Athera offers him a sad smile.
“He hides it well,” she says softly. “Most of the time, anyway.”
“But not with you, it seems.”
He observes her for a long moment in silence, and Athera holds his gaze.
“Why is that, do you think?” He asks at last.
“I can only think it’s because I met him when he was unable to hide it,” she replies. “He was dying when I found him, and although I didn’t know it then, he’d only recently struck you down. He had none of his power, and no guarantee that the rest of his agents hadn’t been compromised. And then…”
“Then, the Dalish hahren tortured him,” Felassan says sharply, and Athera feels a wave of affection for him at the obvious anger in his voice.
“You still care about him,” she says gently, and the Slow Arrow huffs through his nose.
“I have never denied that, Inquisitor. Care and hurt can co-exist.”
“In my experience,” she says tentatively. “They usually do.”
He considers that quietly for a moment and then nods.
“Yes, I am beginning to learn that about you, I think,” he murmurs. “You are an uncommon person, Athera Lavellan. I think it’s going to be quite an experience getting to know you after all.”
A softer smile breaks over his face, and Athera returns it naturally.
“I think I am going to enjoy the challenge, Inquisitor. It is refreshing to meet someone new.”