Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

After the loss of my arm I lie in bed for days, burning with fever. Glittering mosaics tremble and vanish like soap-bubbles before my eyes. His voice echoing in my ears: I would not have you see what I become.

Memory presses down on me, a thousand years of broken dreams. My face burns with the tracings of history, a scar beneath the skin. He took more than mere flesh.

***

Three years ago, in the very same halls. Everyone is alone at the Winter Palace. But I wasn't alone, not that time. Halamshiral was terrible and yet the night glittered with an unfamiliar, unexpected magic.

'Dance with me,' he said, holding out his hand. And how could I say no?

It felt delicate, precious; his arms around me, his eyes fixed so intently on my face. This strange, serious, beautiful man.

After the music came to an end, I smiled at him, and then led him into the corridor. It had a queasy feeling, after all that we'd seen that evening; the walls seemed to sag with their gilding, and the Orlesians who staggered past us were too drunk on champagne and bloodshed to notice the Inquisitor and her manservant sneaking away like a pair of youthful lovers. Soon the shadows closed around us, as if the world belonged to us and us alone.

I spotted a promising doorway and dragged Solas inside, and the door closed behind us, sealing us into darkness. Then Solas waved a hand, and a light glimmered into view above our heads. Another wave of the hand, and I heard the bolts on the door slam shut. I barely had a moment to take note of the room's contents – more gilding, of course, and a bowl of essential oils scattered with petals, and a bed, fortunately – before his arms were around me, his mouth on mine.

We stumbled backwards, kissing frantically, and somehow managed to fall backwards onto the bed. Solas cupped my face, his breath hot on my skin. 'My love,' he whispered, breathless and wondering.

'Shhh,' I whispered, and I took his hand and guide it to my thigh, pushing the golden drapery of my dress out of the way.

Solas paused only for a moment, rocking back to kick off his boots and then the velvet dress trousers, and then he returned to stretch his body over mine, kissing me fiercely. There was none of his usual hesitance that day – he moved forward, one hand brushing my hair tenderly out of my face, and then he entered me and I gasped with the force of it. A groan came from him and he murmured elven words that I couldn't translate, his head shaking as if in wonder; his hips rose and I followed. We rocked against each other, like a transformation. Reckless and obliterating.

He tipped his head back, and then his mouth opened silently. My eyes raked over his face – so beautiful, the light and the shadows – and then I tipped over the edge as well, my hands seizing onto his shoulders, my eyes closing.

Solas made a small sound in the back of his throat and pressed his head into my chest, trembling, his breath coming fast. 'Oh, vhenan,' he whispered. 'What have you done to me? I cannot – I could not go on without you.'

I felt a twist of strange protectiveness in my chest, and I wrapped my arms tighter around him. 'You don't have to, Solas,' I whispered. 'I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.'

He groaned softly, burying his hands in my hair as if holding me against a fearful tide 'Oh, my love,' he said. 'You know we are – we are bonded forever, now. We could never untangle our hearts from each other.'

The words sounded like a promise, but he spoke them like a lament; the night collapsing around us, shimmering and foreboding.

***

When I'm finally able to get up, my advisors send word. My presence is needed. I'd hoped that after the Exalted Council I could finally be free of all this, but instead we face another painful struggle. The world will not stop placing demands on me.

Days of meetings drag on. Spies bring reports of activity that could potentially be related to Solas, but none of it is conclusive. Rumours have spread quickly, and elves all over Thedas have been leaving their lives to seek out the Dread Wolf, but it's not clear where they're going or if any of them have actually found him. No one knows where to start looking, or what to look for.

'In the meantime,' Leliana says, 'We need to collect everything we know about him – not just his past, but his personality, his likes and dislikes. Anything that might help us find him, or anticipate what he's doing next.'

I look cautiously at her. 'We don't know how much of what we saw was subterfuge,' I say, though in my heart I think I do know. The man I knew was the real Solas. The quiet scholar with strong feelings about freedom; the wanderer with kind eyes and gentle hands. I understand now what it meant to him that I loved him as he was: just Solas, not a fearless rebel or an elven god. I saw who he really was and loved him for it. Is it any wonder he couldn't stop himself from falling?

'Indeed,' Leliana says. 'But there are ways. And – well, you saw more than most. Perhaps you and I could have a private conversation some time.'

Something cold clutches at my chest. I raise my eyes to her. 'You want me to tell you what I learned in his bed,' I say flatly.

She looks surprised at my bluntness. 'Well – not only that. But you knew him well. You must have insights – '

'What passed between us is private, Leliana,' I say coldly. 'I will not share that with you. It is nothing that would help you hunt him down in any case.'

'I understand, Inquisitor,' she says. 'But you know we have to stop him.'

I nod along, but in my heart my conviction is wavering. Now that I know the truth, I'm constantly aware of the Veil; how wrong it feels, how desperately the Fade aches to be reunited with the world. If there's a way to remove it, if the cost would not be too high – but these speculations don't serve me. What choice do I have but the lonely way forward?

I carry Solas everywhere I go, a bruise I can't allow to fade. It hurts to imagine him alone: his pain is exactly the same as my own, echoing me from wherever he's hiding, from whence he comes nightly to haunt me in the Fade. Emma lath, ma sa'lath. I'm splintered, shattered by my victories, and I'm afraid of losing myself. Vhenan, you must return to me soon, or else there will be nothing of me left to love you.

***

Sometimes I think about the night after Adamant fortress. Solas didn't come to the tent, so I went in search of him. He wasn't at the fireside either, so I walked away from the camp until I found him, looking out at the desert surrounding us; he was turned away from me, hands linked behind his back, a silent silhouette. In his profile I saw a despair that he could not name and I could not lift from him.

'Vhenan,' I said softly.

He said nothing, but turned quickly and took me in his arms. Holding me like hope, like the last road home. Each of us so lost, understanding nothing, not even each other; but clinging on nonetheless.

He was weeping, an ancient pain that hurt me too just from proximity. 'Banal nadas,' he said softly, just like in the Fade. But neither of us believed it. We both knew, somehow, that tragedy was waiting for us, always just beyond the bend in the road.

***

I walk into the salon ready for yet another meeting, and find the place in a flurry of activity. Josephine and Leliana are talking anxiously with a messenger, Charter is deep in conversation with several agents, and Varric and Cassandra are gesticulating at each other in the corner. They turn around when I enter, and fall silent. I feel fear pooling in the pit of my stomach. Solas.

'Has something happened?' I ask, barely able to get the words out past the lump in my throat.

Leliana and Josie look at each other, and then Josie steps forward. 'It's Briala,' she says softly.

I'm ashamed of the relief that floods me for a moment: yes, I'm glad it isn't Solas, but Briala – 'What?' I say sharply. 'What happened to her?'

'I'm afraid she's dead,' Leliana says softly. 'Assassinated, it seems.'

The words slam into me; I stumble backwards, reaching out a hand for the doorframe. 'Assassinated?' I whisper. 'By whom?'

'We don't know,' Leliana says. 'Presumably either Gaspard or Celene, but there's no evidence pointing to either at the moment.'

'She knew she was in danger,' I say. 'She told me. She thought Gaspard and Celene were both plotting against her.'

'Evidently she was right.'

'But she was so careful. How did they get her?'

'Someone entered her home at night. There were guards and wards, but someone took the wards down. Either she was betrayed, or a powerful mage was involved.'

The atmosphere is tentative, uncertain. I take a step forward, trying to muster a decisive tone. 'Well, we have to do something about it. We still have the blackmail material that Briala was using. We should figure out who's responsible and release the relevant information.'

Leliana and Josephine glance at each other. 'The Inquisition has been disbanded,' Josie says. 'That was your choice, after all. I'm afraid we don't have enough political influence to get involved in something like this now.'

I can feel fury beginning to rise in my throat, but I force myself to stay calm. 'We don't need the Inquisition. Leliana is the Divine. She can take charge.'

'It is not for the Divine to interfere in matters of mortal justice,' Leliana says.

I clench my fists. 'Of course it is. You've been meddling with politics ever since you were instituted, as did every Divine before you. No one would think it unreasonable for you to step in over the murder of a peer of the realm – '

'Things are tenuous as it is,' Josie says. 'We're still encountering fierce resistance over the mages, and Vivienne's Circle grows in power every day. We can't risk drawing more ire by openly interfering in a matter of state like this.'

Leliana nods. 'I can't be seen to take sides.'

'Accusing a murderer of murder is not taking sides,' I say.

'The Chantry is not a prosecutor,' Cassandra says obstinately. 'This is not Leliana's problem to solve.'

I turn back to Leliana. 'You told me when you were elected that you'd support the elves. This is your opportunity. Briala was their hope for the future – if we don't step in quickly, everything that's been gained will be taken away.'

Leliana doesn't meet my eyes. 'I must fight one battle at a time. Once the affair with the mages is settled – '

'It won't be settled!' I say furiously. 'That's what Gaspard is counting on. He's been helping Vivienne gain power for her Circle because he knows that as long as the Chantry is busy with that dispute you won't turn your attention to the rights of the elves.'

'Nonetheless. There is nothing I can do right now, Eirlan.'

'We'll still send spies to seek proof,' Cassandra says soothingly. 'We can keep whatever we find, for a better time.'

'So you're just allowing this to happen,' I say. 'Someone murders the leader of the elves in Orlais and none of you will do anything?'

'You disbanded the Inquisition, Snowdrop,' Varric says. 'If it were still around, things would be different, but you wanted – '

'I disbanded the Inquisition because I believed Leliana when she told me she would support Briala and the elves,' I say bitterly. 'Clearly I was wrong.'

Turning on my heel, I make to leave. Varric's voice floats after me, 'Don't be like that, Snowdrop. We've got bigger fish to fry. You know that Solas –'

I march out of the room, my heart beating fast in my chest. I trusted them, despite my better judgement. I believed that they'd keep their promises. But I should have known better. In the end, the humans and chantry-folk just want to preserve the status quo; it really shouldn't come as a surprise.

***

I go back to my chambers and pace around the room, fuming. My musical instruments are here, sitting on the table by my bed; the lute, the elven bass. This all meant something to me, once, but I haven't been able to play since Solas left. I'm starting to think I'll never play music ever again. There's no going back to the person I used to be, before the anchor, before you change everything. 

After a few minutes Charter appears, letting herself in furtively. We've grown friendly, over the years since Corypheus fell; she was one of the few elves around, and I gravitated to her, in desperate need of someone who might understand something of what I felt. Leliana doesn't know how close we are, and I'm starting to think that's for the best.

'I know,' she says quietly, before I can speak. 'I'm furious too.'

'There's nothing we can do,' I say, despair tinting my voice. 'If they won't help – I could speak to some of the nobles, but the conservatives won't listen to me, and the ones who like me aren't powerful enough. I was counting on Leliana's support.'

She nods. 'I don't have anything to suggest, really. But I wanted to let you know that I'm on the case. I'll find out who did it, one way or another, and then – well. We'll think of something.'

'Thank you, Charter,' I say, my voice trembling a little with suppressed rage.

She nods solemnly. 'Don't give up, Inquisitor. We'll find a way.'

I'm starting to doubt it, but I nod and watch her go. Rage is still churning in my stomach. I can see now that we're never going to make the progress I'd hoped for; Briala is gone, Leliana is already reneging on her promises, and Vivienne is opposing my attempts at mage emancipation every step of the way. The College will fail, the concessions granted to elves will be removed. Soon it will be as if the Inquisition never happened, and all my sacrifices will be for nothing.

Heartsick, I sink down on the bed, breathing heavily. Feeling the Veil against my skin, heavy, smothering. I will save the elven people, even if it means this world must die. There's a cost, yes, but it's clear that change isn't going to come without some violence. Perhaps Solas' way is the only way forward. Perhaps the Veil needs to come down.

I sit for a long time, staring into space, considering. I don't know who I am any more, what I want. A few years ago I could not possibly have contemplated a course of action that could cost thousands of lives, but now – well, nothing else has worked. Perhaps it's time to burn everything down and start again.

***

There's another meeting scheduled for the next day. I consider skipping it to make a point, but that seems childish and futile; so I show up and sit silently in the corner, listening as Cassandra and Cullen set out some proposals for how Templar or Seeker powers might be used to prevent Solas from turning people into stone. They skirt around the issue of what exactly they'd do if they could suppress his magic, but the suggestion of violence is there behind every word they speak, and my mind keeps presenting me with visions: Cassandra plunging her sword into his chest, Cullen clubbing him over the head from behind. Visions of the mutilated body of my lover flickering through my mind. I know I should probably be more afraid of him than for him, but I can't help the form my fears take.

No one asks my opinion on the proposals. They've been soliciting my views less and less these days. What Leliana really wanted was information about what he was like in our private relationship, and since I've steadfastly refused to give that, I've mostly outlived my usefulness. I doubt they'd trust anything I said in any case.

I understand now that they're keeping me here mostly to control me: they're afraid that I'll go out into the world and publicly voice support for Solas, or that I'll just run away and join him. None of them had any intention of letting me guide the hunt for Solas; they just like knowing where I am.

After the session, Varric corners me and demands a game of Wicked Grace. What once felt friendly now seems like a clumsy attempt to feel out where my head is at. But I can beat him at this game as easily as I can beat him at cards: I agree enthusiastically and accompany him to the tavern and spend the next hour declining to comment on my feelings about Solas while thrashing him in game after game.

In the evening I go back to my luxurious rooms and sit alone, contemplating. It's becoming clear to me that I can't stay here: I'm more a prisoner than an advisor, and everything I worked so hard to create is being torn down before my eyes. Perhaps I should finally go to the College of Enchanters. Or perhaps I should join the elves who have been vanishing all across Thedas, and try to make my way back to the Dread Wolf.

***

The next morning someone knocks at my door. I open it to find Charter standing there, her cheeks flushed with colour. 'May I come in?' she says, her voice hard.

My heart sinks. There's more bad news. 'Please do,' I say, ushering her in.

'I've been asked to leave my position,' she says baldly, as the door closes behind her.

I turn around, staring at her. 'What? Why? Did they realise that we've been talking?'

She shakes her head. 'No. Every elf still remaining with the team has been asked to leave their position. Fifteen people at least.'

A cold fury comes over me as I understand what she's saying. 'Ah,' I say. 'Because the elves aren't trustworthy. We might be working for him.'

'Exactly that.' Charter shrugs. 'Leliana was very keen to assure me that of course she doesn't suspect me, but she can't make an exception just for my sake.'

'And yet she's making one for me,' I muse. 'Or else she's going to knock on that door any minute.'

Charter shakes her head. 'No. They want to keep you around.'

'I know. I'm still a convenient symbol. And they want to know what I'm up to.'

She gives me a challenging look. 'Are you going to let that continue?'

'Of course not.'

'Then what?'

'It won't do any good if I go to them to protest,' I say. 'I'm not in control any more. And they'll say anything is justified if it means stopping Solas.'

'Indeed.'

She stands, waiting. I turn, pacing across the room, and then turn back to her. 'You've been keeping track of the rumours. Where's your best guess for the final destination of the elves who have vanished?'

There's a fire in her eyes as she watches me. 'The obvious place. Arlathan Forest.'

'I think so too.' I hesitate for a moment, but there's no going back. 'Come with me to Arlathan. Come and help me find Solas and bring the Veil down.'

She smiles. 'It would be my pleasure, Inquisitor.'

For a moment I can't quite believe what we've just said. But if I'm honest with myself, my mind has been made up for some time; I just needed this one last thing to push me over the edge. Peaceful methods have failed, have always failed. Bringing the Veil down will cause bloodshed, but any effective means of changing Thedas would cost blood, and Solas' way is more likely to succeed than any revolution.

I've always known that the Veil was wrong; I just couldn't articulate that feeling. Now I can, and I know the Veil has to come down.

'Wait,' I say, remembering. 'What about Tessa?'

'I broke up with her last week, actually,' Charter says. 'Over her reaction to Briala's death. She clearly didn't care, just like the others don't care. I can't be with someone like that.'

'Oh,' I say. 'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be.' Her smile glitters. 'It's time, Inquisitor. We're going to change the world, on our own terms this time. No more letting the Andrastians dictate our means and ends.'

'You've been waiting for me to be ready,' I realise.

She nods. 'I knew you'd get there. But it had to be your decision.'

For a moment, fear grips me. I'm leaving everything I know behind, all the privileges that the Inquisition brought me; I'm committing to a dark path, one which could very well end in death and failure.

But it's the right thing to do. I know that. I think perhaps I've always known, from the very first moment I stood in the Vir Dirthara and heard the spirits explaining that the world and Fade were once one.

'Good,' I say. 'We should go as soon as we can. Meet me in the alienage at noon, and we can be on our way.'

***

I can't take much with me; Leliana's people will be watching, and I don't want them to be alerted that I'm planning to leave. At this point, I wouldn't put it past my former friends to stop me and detain me. Fury burns in my stomach as I carefully pack my most precious possessions into a small bag. A few of the books I took from the Vir Dirthara; a spare prosthetic; the leather belt that is the only thing I have left of clan Lavellan; the spearmint oil that reminds me of Solas; the  jawbone ornament he left for me around my neck. I wear my most comfortable clothes and take my favorite staff, the one bound with lyrium from the deep roads, under a glamour to avoid attracting attention in the streets of Val Royeaux.

On the way out I meet Varric, who offers to spend the day with me. I keep my expression neutral, telling him that I'm on the way to the alienage to pay my respects to Briala, and that I don't think he would be welcome. He looks away; at least he feels some shame over the way he supported my advisors in their decision to ignore her murder. 'All right Snowdrop,' he says quietly. 'Well, if you need company when you get back, you know where I'll be.'

In the alienage I find a shrine for Briala, and I make sure I'm seen paying homage. I leave a note clearly signed Inquisitor, so the elves will know that I did what I could to support them. Perhaps that will help their cause a little, though I suspect there is little hope now for progress in Orlais. Gaspard, and Celene have won, at least for now. At least until the Veil comes down.

Afterwards I meet Charter at the outskirts of the cluster of buildings. She's not alone: Colette, the elven scholar we met in the Frostback basin, is with her. 'Hello, Eirlan,' Colette greets me; we've been corresponding over the year since we parted in the Frostback basin, and have become quite familiar. 'Charter told me what you're planning. If you don't mind, I'd like to come.'

'Good,' I say. 'I'm happy to have you.'

The three of us look at one another, determination burning in three sets of eyes. We're going to find Solas. We're going to change the world, in ways that no one will ever be able to reverse or undo.

'Then let's go,' I say, and I turn to change my cloak for a simple shabby garment I bought from a stall in the alienage. Once it's on, the Inquisitor is gone; I'm just another humble elf shuffling through the back alleys of Val Royeaux. Charter and Colette nod, and pick up their bags. We make our way to the gates, and out of the city. The future awaits, and no Andrastian will tell us what to do ever again.

***

Walking out of Val Royeaux, it hits me all at once: I'm free. I'm free. For more than three years, I have been first and foremost the Inquisitor. Hemmed in on all sides by Andrastians, treading carefully, constantly brushing up against their destructive faith. It was all right when I had Solas by my side and our research into the Fade to console me, but in his absence the weight of my position had become impossibly smothering.

But now that is all behind me: I don't belong to them any more, and I will never let them use me again.

Charter and Colette have bought a tent, but that evening Colette and I look at the sky and predict that it will remain clear through the night, so we sleep out in the open. I haven't slept beneath the sky since that night in the Frostback mountains very long ago, when Solas laid beside me. I remember him grasping my hand unconsciously as he slept, and feel an ache in my chest, but this time tempered with optimism. I don't have to feel guilty about loving him any more: he's right, and I want to tell him that. I'm going to find him, and I will help him bring the Veil down.

When I fall asleep, I dream of the wolf. He doesn't speak, but he comes closer than ever before, gazing urgently at me across the distance that separates us. It occurs to me that he probably had spies watching me; it likely worried him when news came of my disappearance.

But if he won't let me help him, I will not allow him to protect me. We are equals: this has always gone both ways.

I wonder if he can use the connection to my mind to figure out where I am, if he's surmised that I am on my way to Arlathan to find him. Is there any chance he will allow me to find him? I'm not optimistic, but I don't know what else I can do.

I kneel so my eyes are level with the wolf, and I gaze out at him across the endless distance. 'Vhenan,' I whisper. 'Var lath vir suledin.'

I see him look away a moment; are those tears? Can wolves cry? He says nothing, of course. But he remains there, and I keep watching him. We'll never escape this; the dark gravity of our tangled hearts.

Chapter Text

I brought Dorian's message-crystal with me, and it has been flashing every night of the journey. No doubt Dorian has heard the news. I expected him to give up quickly, but days become weeks and he still tries every night. Despite myself I'm touched by the persistence.

I discuss the matter with Charter and Colette, and after some consideration we decide that it might be useful to hear what Dorian has to say. We find a quiet spot in the forest and I cast wards to keep out sounds, just in case a bird-call in the background might give Dorian a hint about where we are. And then I wait.

As usual, the crystal starts flashing around nightfall. I gaze at it for a moment, steeling myself, and then pick it up. 'Hello? Dorian?'

'Eirlan!' The relief and joy in his voice is unmistakeable, and it warms me to hear it. 'You're all right!'

'I am,' I say, and then, 'Are you alone?'

'Yes.' He hesitates. 'I'm sorry, I can't prove it. But I am.'

'That's all right. I believe you.' And I do, for some reason. He may be a Tevinter and now a magister, but he's always been rock-solid in his loyalty. I suppose after what happened with Solas I should be expecting betrayal at every turn, but somehow I still can't help trusting Dorian.

'You know you've caused quite an uproar.'

I smile a little. 'Is that so?'

'Leliana sent riders out in all directions from Val Royeaux, searching for you. I don't know if she was primarily worried for your safety or concerned about what you'd do, but she's certainly rattled. She's sent messengers to all of the Dalish clans that can be located, in case you found refuge with one of them.'

'I did not,' I say. 'You can tell her to stop bothering the Dalish.'

He hesitates for a moment, and then says, 'I take it you're not coming back.'

'No. I'm not.'

'I heard about Briala,' he says. 'I'm sorry, Eirlan. If there were something I could do – but I'm afraid the Orlesian empire has no love for Tevinter magisters.'

'It isn't on you,' I say. 'Leliana and Josie are the ones who could have taken action. And they're the ones who made promises to me.'

'I heard about the elves as well,' he says. 'I hope you know that I would never approve of such a thing. You and the other elves served the Inquisition loyally for years.'

'Well, it's nice to know that not everybody has forgotten.'

He sighs. 'I was hopeful that they would not forget quite so quickly.'

'As was I.'

He is silent for a long moment, and then says, 'Have you found him? Solas?'

I hesitate, and then Dorian says hurriedly, 'No, don't worry. You don't need to confirm that. It isn't my business. I just – I had something I wanted to say to him.'

That does surprise me. 'To Solas? What is it?'

'I wanted to tell him he was right,' Dorian said. 'He told me once that if I were really sorry I should return to Tevinter and free the slaves, of all races. At the time I scoffed, thinking it was an unreasonable thing to ask. But it wasn't. He freed slaves, thousands of years ago. He knows very well it can be done, if you care enough.'

'Indeed,' I say softly.

'So I wanted to tell him – he was right, and I am going to free the slaves. Or attempt it, at least. I am not the Dread Wolf, but I will do what I can.'

I smile softly. 'Dorian – thank you. That means a lot to me.'

'And another thing.' Dorian's voice wavers for a moment, but then he pushes on. 'The Veil. I – I'm a mage. I've felt how the magic is broken, sundered. I feel how the spirits strain at the Veil, how they long to rejoin the world. After all the time I spent with Solas and with you, I understand that spirits are people. I feel their personhood every time I deal with them now.'

'What are you saying, Dorian?'

'I'm saying – ' He breathes out sharply. 'I think maybe I'm saying I'd like to help? I don't know. I'm still – it depends, doesn't it? On exactly how bad it would be. But I can see why Solas wants to do it.'

'I don't know yet. How bad it would be,' I say. 'I'm hoping to find out.'

'Yes. But you do want to take it down.'

'If it could be done without harm, I would have no hesitation. As it is – well. Thedas has to change, Dorian, and at this point I see no route to change which does not involve bloodshed of one kind or another.'

He nods. 'I see that. I still have hopes that the Magisterium will see reason on the slavery issue, but I – to be honest, it hasn't been going well so far. There's a good chance I will fail.'

'Indeed. Just as my attempts to create change have failed.'

'You still saved the world,' Dorian says gently. 'That counts for something.'

'Thank you, but you know what I mean.'

'And it's not over yet with the mages. The College could win out against Vivienne.'

'It's possible. But unlikely, in my estimation.'

He sighs. 'I know. You're right. People have been trying for hundreds of years, and yet things are pretty much as bad as they've ever been. You're right that change cannot come without some significant upheaval.'

'Indeed,' I say. 'And so – '

'I'm – I'm not quite there yet,' Dorian says. 'I'm still thinking about it. But I am thinking about it, Eirlan. I wanted you to know that.'

I smile. 'I appreciate it, Dorian. Whatever you decide. I appreciate that you cared enough to consider it, at least.'

'You're my greatest friend. Even now. That will not change.' He hesitates. 'Would you be willing to – to keep in touch? If nothing else, I'd like to know that you're all right.'

'I'd like that,' I say. 'Though I'd ask that you not tell anyone you're in contact with me.'

'Of course. I understand, and I won't mention it.'

'Dorian,' I say. 'Thank you. Really. It means a lot that you cared enough to keep trying.'

I hear the tremble of quickly-suppressed emotion in his voice. 'Of course, Eirlan. I'll let you go. But I hope we'll speak again soon.'

***

We reach Arlathan at dusk, three weeks after our departure from Val Royeaux. We stand together at the verge of the treeline, wondering if it would be rash to enter. There are strange tales of this place and its denizens.

But we're close to both the Tevinter city of Ventus, and the island Seheron where the qunari live. All in all, I'd rather take my chances with the ghosts of my people. So, after a few moments of consultation, we pick up our bags once more and head into the trees.

At first, Arlathan feels like any other forest; the soft whispers of leaves, the crunch of vegetation underfoot, the tree-trunks growing thicker and denser as we move further in. But then I start to feel something: a kind of tightness on my skin, like surface tension in water, like vibrating glass. I open my mouth to ask if Charter or Colette feel it too, and then realise there's no point: this is something to do with the Fade, or the Veil, and neither of them are mages.

'The magic feels strange, in this place,' I say instead.

Charter glances up at me. 'Strange how? Like a trap?'

I shake my head. 'No. It's old, layered. Perhaps just the weight of history. I don't know.'

I turn my head, seeing a shimmer between the trees. Like a rainbow, briefly brought down to earth. But then it's gone again. This must have been a beautiful place, once.

We continue onward. As the foliage grows thicker, I raise my hand to conjure a magelight, and the beams scatter off water: a stream running from a waterfall. Then I look again. Not a waterfall – the water is going up rather than down.

Charter and Colette are staring, eyes wide. 'What is wrong with this place?' Colette gasps.

'A city was buried, thousands of years ago,' I say. 'A lot of blood was shed. The Veil has never recovered.'

'It makes sense that Solas would come here, then,' Charter says. 'Where the Veil is weakest.'

'Exactly.' I look over my shoulder, some intuition pawing at me. 'Have your weapons ready. There will likely be demons, or something else.'

Clutching my staff, I keep moving. I don't know exactly what I'm looking for. A clearing, I suppose; enough space to cast some wards, to keep us safe for the night. I'm about to say as much to the others, when there comes the cracking of branches and something lurches out of the trees.

It's a machine, or something like it; a golden construct powered by some spirit, bound here for thousands of years. No more time to think on the matter: I raise my staff in my one remaining hand, releasing a stonefist spell out of pure instinct. It's the first time I've been in a battle since losing the hand, but it makes little difference. I barely need the staff: most of my spellwork is done in my head.

Charter lets off a barrage of arrows, and Colette has her sword out. Everything descends into a blur of weaponry and golden metal, and I move instinctively, easily. I never wanted to be a fighter but it can't be denied that I've become skilled. And soon enough the three of us are standing over the body of the creature, or thing: golden limbs crumpled, spirit vanished.

'What was that?' Charter breathes.

'Something to do with the ancient elves, I suspect,' I say.

There's no time to say more: I hear leaves crunching behind us, and I spin around, expecting to see another construct. But instead I find myself faced with elves: two women and a man, all dressed in Dalish garb and wearing vallaslin. All three have bows raised, pointed at us. I step back, and let my staff fall to the ground, as a gesture of goodwill. 'Andaran atish'an,' I say calmly. 'Lethallin. Aneth ara.'

The elves look at one another, cautiously, but then one of the women lowers her bow, and the others follow suit. 'Andaran atish'an,' she says, stepping forward. 'You are not Dalish, but you speak our language.'

'I was Dalish, once,' I say.

She raises an eyebrow, but asks no questions. 'Why are you here? Have you come for treasure? The forest has been successfully rebuffing treasure-hunters for hundreds of years, you know.'

I hesitate for a moment, but in the end I see no reason to lie. 'No,' I say. 'We have come seeking the Dread Wolf.'

The other three elves stir, looking at one another. Then the second woman says, 'In that case, well met. We have come with the same purpose.'

'Fen'Harel enaste,' the first woman says. I wince a little, to hear her speaking of him as if a god: that is the last thing he would want. But I don't correct her. 'I am Bellara,' she goes on. 'This is my brother Cyrian, and my partner Irelin.'

'I am Eirlan,' I say, wondering if she'll recognize the name. But she doesn't show any reaction, and so I go on, 'These are my friends Charter and Colette.'

'There are others,' Irelin says. 'Many have come here, to serve the Wolf. We have not yet found the him. But we have set up a small camp, and we are searching. More elves arrive every day. We can take you to the location, if you'd like to join us in our search.'

Charter, Colette and I exchange glances. 'That sounds wonderful,' I say.

Bellara smiles. 'This way,' she says, and we follow her as she slips between the trees.

***

The elves have made camp in the ruins of an ancient elven structure, pitching tents and laying out bedrolls in between the towering columns. This was clearly once a bathhouse, and the enchantments are still working: steam rises off the glittering pools, and a number of elves are bathing, sitting quietly by candlelight in the dusk. Bellara, taking in the state of us after our day's travel, suggests we might like to join them, and I gladly accept.

Irelin comes too, bringing a ball of herbs and oil, which she tosses into the pool; it fizzes, letting off a rich scent that lingers in the air all around. Rosemary and sage, intensifying the smell of the forest. There are candles lit around the pool, soft light flickering off the moving water, casting quick golden lights over the ancient columns. Everyone is naked; the Dalish have never been shy about these things. Charter and Colette seem a little embarrassed, but I'm accustomed to such things from my childhood, and I strip off quickly and join the others in the pool.

I'm expecting questions, but Bellara, Irelin and Cyrian seem to understand that we've had a long journey, and are content to sit in silence with us as we slowly steam in the water. It's a ritual, of a kind: a formal welcome to this nascent community. I'm excited to see that so many people have already come to help, though disappointed that no one has yet seen Solas. Perhaps Arlathan was the wrong place to look. But even if he's not here, all these elves who have come to seek change – we could really do something together. We could reclaim this place, make it into a homeland. We could save ourselves, with or without Solas.

I look at Bellara, through the rising steam. I need to tell them who I am, of course, but I find myself reluctant. I don't know how they will take it if I tell them I knew the Dread Wolf, and even less so if they know he was my lover. Would they be jealous? Disbelieving? For that matter, how will they respond when I tell them the truth about what he's doing? Clearly they're here because they want change, revolution, but they probably don't realise what kind of change he's seeking. They may not want to take down the Veil.

She opens her eyes, and looks at me. 'Eirlan,' she says suddenly, and her eyes flicker to the prosthetic: it was hidden by my clothing before, but there's no hiding it now. 'Is that really your name?'

Ah. So she did recognise the name, and she knows what the prosthetic means. 'It is,' I say softly.

'And are you – '

'I am. Yes.'

She shakes her head. 'There have been rumours these last weeks. That you abandoned the Inquisition and went to serve the Dread Wolf.'

'Unusual, for rumour to speak so much truth.'

She smiles. 'Yes. Though I assumed you would have gone directly to be with him. Or have you come here to bring us to him?'

I shake my head. 'I'm sorry. I don't know where he is any more than you do.'

She looks surprised. 'But the two of you were – close, were you not?'

So she knows that too. 'We were.' It hurts to speak of it, even now. It feels humiliating, that I'm left to chase after my lover just like all of these people who have never even met him, who follow merely a rumour and a prayer.

But I have to face this, so I look steadily across at her. 'He did not want me to follow him. He did not want me to see what he would become.'

Her eyes rest on my face. 'Interesting. Perhaps he underestimates you.'

'Yes,' I say quietly. 'I think he does.'

'Well, I'm sorry that we don't know more,' she says. 'There have been a lot of magical disturbances, and we think it may have something to do with him, but no one's seen him. He may not be here at all.'

'I know. It was our best hope, but we knew we might not find him. It was worth trying, nonetheless.'

She nods. 'Oh - by the way, is this a secret? Would you prefer if others don't know who you are?'

I smile. 'To be honest I would, but they need to know. I will need to tell you all what I have learned of him, and of his plans. You need to be fully informed.'

'Ah,' she says. 'Then there is more to it than we have heard?'

'I don't know exactly what you've heard, but I suspect at least some of what I have to say will be new to you.'

She nods. 'That makes sense. Well, we have no formal leaders or meetings, but later tonight I can gather everyone, if you'd like to speak to them.'

I feel an unaccustomed trepidation, but there's no point in putting it off. They do have to know. 'Good,' I say quietly. 'Thank you, I appreciate it.'

'Thank you for coming,' she says. 'Whether or not we find the Wolf, it will mean a lot to everyone that you are here.'

'I have little to offer,' I confess. 'Just myself, and the friends who come with me.'

'That is more than enough.'

We sit quietly, allowing the scent to rise around us. I close my eyes and try to make the most of it, these few moments of anonymity. Once they know who I am, the quiet of this place will not be the same. I crossed half of Thedas to get here, but there's still no leaving my past behind.

***

Late in the evening, with the elves gathered around the fire, I steel myself and get to my feet. I feel the weight of the ruins all around me: the heavy silence of the stone, the soft noises of the forest lying just beyond my reach. So much history; so much that has gone wrong. And yet, we remain. 

Up until this point on one has paid much attention to me, but now eyes rest on me, and I see them, one by one, glancing down at my prosthetic. My bare face. I see the realization spread around the group, silence falling as they look up at me. I feel a moment of absurdly childish anxiety. Despite Bellara's words of approval, I'm not really sure what the rest of them think of me: the elf who led an Andrastian army. The First who was taken by the Dread Wolf. Perhaps they will laugh at me, demand that I leave.

'Aneth ara, lethallin,' I say; my tone is quiet, but my voice carries.

At the back of the crowd, a man says, 'Are you – are you Eirlan Lavellan?'

'I am,' I say quietly. I wonder if I'm going to face scepticism, but no one says anything, so I go on, 'I have come here for the same reasons as all of you, lethallin. I am seeking Fen'Harel, and I heard rumours that he might be here.'

'You don't know where he is?'

I hold my head high. I think perhaps it will never stop hurting, to tell of how he abandoned me. But I refuse to be ashamed.

'I do not,' I say. 'But I do know some things about his plans, and his history. Our history. The story of our people. I would share what I know with you all, if you'll allow it.'

'For what?' a woman says. 'Are you – trying to recruit us? Change our minds?'

'Nothing like that,' I say quietly. 'I would like to tell you because you have the right to know. All of our people have the right to know.'

'Then tell us,' Bellara says, from the other side of the fire, and I nod thankfully at her.

And so I start my tale. I tell them everything; what Solas did in the Inquisition. How I learned the truth. What I learned about our ancestors – the Evanuris, the vallaslin, the creation of the Veil. I explain to them what Solas did, and what he hopes to do now to put it right. As I speak, I hear whispers rising around me, speculations, doubts. I don't let it sway me. I keep speaking until the tale is done, and then I sit back down to give them time to process what they've just learned.

Beside me, Charter gives me a smile. 'That was well done,' she says. 'Let us see what they have to say.'

But then Bellara stands up, looking at me. 'Eirlan,' she says. 'If I may ask. You know all this, and yet you still came here.'

'I did,' I agree.

'You came here – just to find him? Or to help him with the Veil?'

'To help him, if I can.'

She watches me steadily. 'You believe he is doing the right thing. You believe the Veil should come down.'

'I do,' I say quietly. 'I have felt – all my life, I have felt how wrong it is. How it stifles us, hides the magic away from us. I never understood what I was feeling, but I know now. The Veil should go.'

Cyrian stirs beside her. 'We didn't come here for that,' he says. 'We came because we thought Fen'Harel was going to help the elves.'

'Yes,' I say. 'I am not so different. I have wanted to help our people for a long time. I have tried. But I suppose you all know what came of that.'

A stir among them; angry whispers. Yes, clearly word has reached them of Briala's fate. I hope they don't blame me, though perhaps they should.

'Peaceful methods have always failed,' I say. 'I now believe that they always will. Though removing the Veil will cause bloodshed, it may yet be the easiest path to freedom for our people.'

The elves stir again, murmuring amongst themselves. After a moment, Irelin says, 'So you would do this for the elves?'

'For the elves. For the mages. For the spirits. All three groups have been gravely wronged by the Veil. Removing it will change everything. It will shift the balance of power and bring justice to the world, or so I believe. But of course you must judge for yourselves.'

'All three groups have been gravely wronged by him,' someone says. 'By Fen'Harel himself. And yet, knowing this, you came here to follow him?'

'Not to follow him,' I say. 'He is not a god, and does not wish to be called one. But he wants to fix what he broke. I believe that he is doing the right thing, and so I would like to do what I can to help.'

'You've forgiven a lot,' Bellara says, smiling a little. 'I don't know if I could.'

'Oh believe me, I'm angry,' I say. 'But I understand. His methods hurt me, yes, but they were in service of a worthy goal.'

Whispers are rising again, and I still can't gauge the tone. I look over at Bellara, and she nods, and walks over to join me. 'Perhaps we should let Eirlan rest,' she says to the rest of the group. 'She and her friends have had a long journey.'

Irelin nods. 'There is no need for the rest of us to decide our path forward tonight. In the days to come we can discuss what we've learned. In the end we will all have to decide for ourselves if we still wish to aid Fen'Harel, now that we know his goal.'

I see some faces softening at her words. They're shocked, certainly, but perhaps not angry at me. It's a lot to process, I know. The undermining of our faith, the truth of our people's fall, the uncertain future. I should not take it personally that they need time.

'Good night, lethallin,' I say gently, and then Charter, Colette and I leave the fireside and go to lay our bedrolls out beneath the columns. And despite everything, I sleep well that night; for the first night in a long time, I am surrounded by something like a clan.

***

In the morning I find Bellara by the fire, chopping vegetables. She hands me a bowl: cucumbers, chickpeas, avocado, a little halla cheese. 'We do not hunt here,' she says. 'The forest seems to dislike the deaths of its creatures. So it's a lot of foraging. I hope this is all right.'

'It looks wonderful,' I say, and I sit down to eat. Bellara keeps chopping, but she is watching me. Eventually she says, 'Forgive me, but I must ask.'

I suspect I know what she wants to ask. I did not mention my romantic connection with Solas in the tale last night, but I imagine they've all heard something. 'Yes?' I say.

'You and Fen'Harel – there are rumours – '

'Yes,' I say wearily. 'Those rumours are true.'

To my surprise, she smiles. 'So. You were really taken by the Dread Wolf.'

I look at her for a moment, and then I start to laugh. 'You know,' I say, 'I've wanted to make that joke so many times, since I found out. But there were no Dalish around. It's good to be back among the People.'

She smiles back. 'It's – difficult to imagine. To fall in love with someone and then discover he is a figure out of ancient myth.'

'He is,' I say softly. 'And yet – also just a man. Lost and alone and in pain. I wanted him to take me with him, so he wouldn't have to be alone.'

'But he said no?'

I contemplate for a moment. 'Bringing down the Veil will be – upsetting,' I say at last. 'It's the right thing to do, but many will die. He thinks that burden is his to bear. He does not want me to share it.'

She nods. 'That's – romantic, really. He would rather be alone than hurt you.'

'I know. But I wish – he should let me choose for myself.'

'It will hurt him,' she says softly. 'To take down the Veil. To take all those innocent lives. Will he – can he endure it? Another burden?'

'I do not know.' I shake my head. 'Perhaps he does not intend to live past that moment. He spoke to me of the din'anshiral. Perhaps he expects his own death to lie at the end of it.'

'Because taking down the Veil will take so much power that it may kill him?'

I shake my head. 'I don't know. I'm just speculating.'

'This must be very hard,' she says. 'If you still love him, I mean.'

There seems little point in denying it now. 'I do, and it is.'

'Ir abelas, lethallan,' she says formally, and then she gets to her feet. 'Well. Speaking of Fen'Harel, we had planned more expeditions today, to search him in the forest. You could join, if you like. I should warn that it is perilous. The magic here is in disarray.'

'I know. I'm interested to see it.'

She smiles. 'Yes. It is fascinating, despite the danger. Well, we'll meet at the colonnade shortly, and head out. If you want to come along, I'll see you there.'

***

Days pass. We continue searching the forest, finding many curious and perilous things, but no sign of Solas. My hopes of finding him, already low, sink lower. I wonder if he knows that I'm here, and that is why he has not arrived to greet those who have come to serve him. I would not have you see what I become. If so, that is his right, of course. I do not want to go against his wishes, but I could not stay in Val Royeaux: what am I to do now, if not follow him?

One quiet evening, I sit with Bellara and Irelin baking lemon-thyme cake. Though we will not take meat or fish from Arlathan, the forest provides. It feels pleasant, almost domestic. I remember how stifled I used to feel with my clan, and am surprised to realise that I did miss this. The simplicity of kneading dough. Making a thing with my own hands.

That is when the two elves stride out of the forest. It is immediately apparent that they are different from the other elves who have been coming to join us: they're tall, well-armed, dressed in gleaming golden armour that even from a distance looks very familiar to me. One of them is bald, and for a moment my heart stops in my chest, but as he moves closer I see at once that this is not Solas.

Not Solas, but Abelas, once the keeper of Mythal's temple, though he wears her vallaslin no longer. My breath quickens: it is not hard to guess who may have removed them. There are other places for you, lethallin. Other duties, Solas said to him. It was an invitation, though I didn't see that at the time. Abelas went to serve Solas. And now, perhaps, Solas has sent him and this other elf to claim those who have come to serve the Dread Wolf.

I get to my feet, and Abelas looks over at me, and to my surprise he smiles. 'Ah,' he says. 'I suspected you might be here.'

'Abelas,' I say. 'Or have you found another name?'

'Not yet. Soon, I hope.' He nods at the other elf beside him, dark-skinned, with long dreadlocks. Another ancient elf, I suspect. 'This is Strife. Aneth ara, Eirlan.'

Bellara stands beside me. 'You know them?' she says suspiciously.

'They are ancient elves,' I say. 'And I suspect they have been working with Solas.'

At this, there's a stirring around the fire. More elves get to their feet, moving towards the two strangers, who stand unperturbed at the edge of the ruins, surveying the people gathered here.

'Yes,' Abelas says. 'Fen'Harel sent us to speak with you.'

I take a deep breath. Is this it? Will he let us join him, after all? 'And what does the Dread Wolf say?'

Abelas glances at Strife, who nods and then steps forward. 'The Dread Wolf thanks you for your willingness to help,' he says. 'And he will certainly have need of you, in the times to come. He bids you to wait. Once the world has undergone its great change, you will help him rebuild a better world, unlike both the corrupt world that he once destroyed, and the cruel world that now exists.'

Ah. I clench my fists at my side. It makes sense, I suppose. He does not want to put the burden of taking the Veil down on anyone else: he will bear that guilt alone. He wants us to prepare for the aftermath, but not to help with the act itself.

'What does that mean?' Cyrian begins, but Bellara is whispering in his ear. She too has understood.

I look over at Abelas. 'I told them what I know of his plans,' I say. 'We know about the Veil. You're saying that he doesn't need our help until after he's taken the Veil down.'

'He needs no help,' Abelas says quietly. 'Not even ours.'

I raise an eyebrow. 'Are you not working with him?'

'We were. We have assisted him to acquire some tools that he needed. But now he requires no further outside help.'

My heart pounds furiously in my chest. 'Does that mean – is it happening soon?'

'No,' Abelas says. 'Not by your measures of time, at least. It will take a while for Fen'Harel to do his calculations and make his final preparations. He wishes to minimize the damage in any way he can, and that will draw out the preparations. You need not expect the Veil to come down tomorrow, or even within a year or so.'

I relax, though part of me wishes he'd said otherwise. If the Veil could just come down right now, if it could all be over – but that's not what I want, I remind myself. I want to help him. I don't want him to be forced to take on yet another terrible burden all alone.

'So where will you go?' Bellara asks, looking at Strife and Abelas. 'If you're not working for him any more?'

Abelas and Strife look at one another, and then Strife says. 'The Dread Wolf was – distressed, to discover that the ancient elves woken from uthenera have begun ageing. He himself does not age, and he assumed it would be the same for us. When he realized, he asked us to leave him and return to uthenera. He will wake us when the Veil comes down and it is safe to return without fear of mortality.'

I raise an eyebrow; I had not realised that Solas himself was not ageing. I haven't known him long enough to notice, but I would have guessed that all of the ancient elves would experience mortality, separated from the Fade as they are. 'Is Solas of a different nature to you?' I ask. 'Is that why he doesn't age?'

'The first of our people are – different,' Abelas says. 'Stronger. More magic than flesh. Fen'Harel will never age, though like any elf he can be killed.'

'Did he say anything else?' Cyrian says eagerly, from across the fire. 'Will he tell us what the world will be like, once the Veil comes down?'

'The magic will return, the world and Fade will be reunited, and the elves of today will be as they once were,' Strife says. 'Both in magical power, and in lifespan.'

'What about the other peoples?' I ask. 'Will they die?'

'Some will. Bringing down the Veil will cause some chaos, of course. Just as the Breach did. There will certainly be death. But it will not destroy entire races wholesale.'

'You were around before the Veil,' Bellara says. 'And you – in your view, it is worth the damage, to bring back what was lost?'

Abelas looks at her for a moment, and then he says: 'I feel the Fade and the spirits, yearning to be reunited with this world. I see how much damage has been done by their parting. What the mages have suffered. What demons brought unwillingly into your world have wrought. Yes, da'len, it is worth the damage to heal the world. Of that I have no doubt.'

'And do you think Solas will succeed?' I ask.

Abelas looks quietly at me. 'I cannot know for sure. But I see no reason why he would not. He is powerful and clever, and of course he knows the Veil like none other.'

Around the fire, elves are whispering to each other, formulating more questions. I see weariness on Abelas' face. 'Come,' he says to Strife. 'We have a long way yet to journey before we reach our resting place.'

But Strife hesitates. 'You who are gathered here,' he says. 'What will you do, as you wait for the change to come? Will you disperse, or will you remain?'

He's looking at me, I realise, as if I'm the leader. I am not, but I can see why he made the assumption. 'I cannot speak for the others,' I say. 'But I intend to stay. If the Veil is going to come down, we need to prepare. And if Solas fails – well, then it will be up to us.'

Strife gazes at me, considering. 'Up to you to do what?'

'Take the Veil down ourselves, I suppose. Or if we cannot, then to find some other way to free our kind. One way or another, change is coming for the People, I am determined of that.'

Strife looks around the gathered elves. 'And is that your intention as well?' he demands of the group.

There's a short silence, but then Bellara moves closer, to stand at my side. 'Yes,' she says fiercely. 'I will stay, and fight for our people's freedom. One way or another.'

Cyrian and Irelin also rise to their feet to stand beside us. 'Me too,' Cyrian says, and Irelin echoes it. Then I see Colette coming, and Charter, joining me by the fire and promising to stay, to fight.

More people rise. One by one they stand with me, around me, by my side. Each asserting their intention to stay, to see our people set free. Goosebumps rise on my skin as these ancient ruins fill with the echoes of our new commitment. I can feel vibrations on my skin, the spirits of the Fade pressing against the Veil, drawn by all the passion and dedication in this group of relative strangers. Tears prick at my eyes: this is where I'm meant to be. This, finally, is what I was always supposed to do.

Strife and Abelas watch, expressionless. But then Strife says. 'Good. Then I think I will also stay.'

Abelas looks at him. 'Lethallin,' Abelas says, his tone soft. 'If you remain here, you will grow older. You may die.'

'I know,' Strife says softly. 'But I have slept for long enough. I wish to help the elves of this time.'

'My friend. I cannot – '

Strife touches his arm lightly. 'If all goes well, the Veil will be down within a few years,' he says. 'Mortality will not claim me in that time. I will be there when you wake to the new world, I promise.'

Abelas looks at him for a long moment. 'You are sure?'

'I am. Rest well, my friend. I look forward to seeing you again when world and Fade are once reunited.'

Abelas sighs, but then turns back to us. 'Very well. I wish you all luck then. And I hope to see you once more, when the Dread Wolf has finished his task.'

He turns on his heel, and leaves us. Strife looks around at the crowd of young elves staring at him, fascinated and wary. He smiles, suddenly, and strides across to take a seat by the fire. 'I had a long journey,' he says. 'I don't suppose you have some food?'

His words break the spell of what has just happened. Bellara rushes over to serve him from the cookpot, and the rest of the elves begin talking, excited voices echoing sharply off the stone, trying to make sense of what just happened and what lies ahead.

Unnoticed for a moment, I manage to slip away, and go to stand at the edge of the ruins, staring out into the forest. An ache at my breastbone: he isn't coming. I won't see him, not now, not for a long time. He won't let me help him. At least I have hope, now, I have a purpose. I won't be idle. But still – the thought of him struggling alone is a wound I don't know how to heal. I'll carry his pain with me every day until we see each other again.

'Var lath vir sulevin,' I whisper into the night, hoping that some spirit might bear the words to him. I believe it now, more than ever. I will find him again. We will create the world we want and then live in it, together.

***

I find a quiet moment and sit down beside Strife, who is staring into the fire, nursing a cup of the green juice that we make from plants too astringent to eat on their own.

'Hahren,' I say politely. 'Andaran atish'an.'

He bows his head. 'Ma serannas.'

'I'm sorry,' I say. 'But I must ask you. How is he?'

Strife smiles a little. 'You are his lover?'

My lips twist. 'I was.'

'You are still, I think. At least in his heart.'

I stare at him. 'Why do you say that?'

'Abelas asked him once if there was something between the two of you. He thought he saw – indications, at the temple. Fen'Harel went very pale and said brusquely that he did not wish to speak of the matter and then hurried away and locked himself in his study for the rest of the evening.'

'Ah,' I say.

'And a couple of months ago, after he spoke with you,' Strife says. 'When he returned, he was – well, he was distraught. He began to weep as he tried to debrief me, though I know it shamed him for me to see him that way. And again, he locked himself in his study and did not come out for several days.'

'Oh,' I say softly, my heart aching. I'd known, of course. I'd seen the look on his face as he turned away from me. But that he was so distressed that he could not restrain his grief, even in front of his agents – well. Perhaps I should be pleased that I was not alone in my pain, but I hate to think of him suffering like that. I hate to think of him all alone now, working painfully towards a moment he must dread.

'So,' Strife says. 'To your question – physically he is well. But otherwise – '

'I know,' I say softly. 'He's been grieving for the whole time I knew him.'

'Yes,' Strife says. 'But it is worse now, I think. He has sent everyone away. He has his reasons, of course, but he also seeks to punish himself. He believes he does not deserve even the company of his agents, until he has set right what he broke.'

'Oh, Solas,' I whisper, clenching my fists at my side. 'I wish – I wanted to go with him. I asked him to take me.'

'He should have,' Strife says, shaking his head. 'But the wolf was always known for his stubbornness. And he would not put his needs before your wellbeing.'

'I know. I understand. But all the same – '

He nods. 'But we are here now. Let us do what we can to help.'

'How? What do you suggest?'

'There are preparations we can make to further minimize the damage,' Strife says. 'And to make ourselves ready for the new world. The balance of power will change dramatically when the Veil comes down, and we will need to take advantage of that moment. Change is all very well and good, but we want the world to change for the better.'

'Indeed. We should be ready. But what does that look like?'

He shrugs. 'I suspect the task that lies before you is much as it would have been if the Veil were not coming down,' he says. 'Gather power. Build your numbers. Reclaim the forest, so it can become a homeland for our people.'

I appreciate that he says our people; Solas seldom did. 'I agree,' I say. 'We should be ready for either outcome. We should expand into the forest and gather what power we can, so that whether or not the Veil comes down, we are ready to fight for our freedom and claim this land for ourselves.'

'Good,' he says. 'I look forward to it.'

I nod, and make to leave, but he puts his hand out. 'Eirlan – don't worry about Fen'Harel too much,' he says. 'He is unhappy, yes. But unhappiness will not kill him. And once his task is done, he will be free to find another path.'

I smile. 'Thank you, Strife.' And then I get up and leave him to his contemplation.

***

Reclaiming Arlathan forest will not be a small task: the forest is vast, filled with ghosts and constructs and perilous magics. Ancient elven technology blocks the way into many of the paths and ruins, malfunctioning in dramatic and potentially fatal ways. Strife's arrival is fortuitous indeed: though he's not an expert, he knows at least something of how all this ancient elven magical technology works, enough to at least get started on repairing it so we can gain passage. From there, we will learn more, and those of us with the inclination will one day surpass Strife in school. If all goes well we may even be able to turn this technology to our own ends.

My magic is very useful too. Much of the technology works by resonance, the same kind of resonance I hear in the Fade, and by listening carefully enough I can sometimes put it back into alignment. Or I can use use music to summon spirits from the Fade and convince them to help with the repair. Playing the music of the Fade also seems to soothe some of the constructs, whose bound spirits have gone made from many centuries of isolated imprisonment. Little by little, we are able to expand through the forest, though we will need far greater numbers to conquer the whole thing.

One day, as I make my way through a ruin together with Strife, Bellara and Charter, I say to Strife, 'Hahren, if you don't mind me asking – '

He looks at me. 'What is it?'

'When I met Abelas, at the temple.' I hesitate, trying to find the words. 'He was – contemptuous. Disdainful. He looked down at me and insisted the modern elves are not his people.'

'Ah,' Strife says. 'I see.'

'But you do not seem to think the same,' I say. 'Or if you do, why are you helping us?'

He smiles a little. 'I do not think the same. But I did, once. If you had met me at the temple, I would have been much the same.'

'Then what changed?'

'What do you think?'

'Oh,' I say. 'Solas?'

'He – corrected us, shortly after we arrived to help him,' Strife says. 'He told us the modern elves are no lesser than their immortal ancestors, and that indeed they deserve the greatest respect for all that they have survived.'

'He – he said that?' I knew Solas' views had shifted, of course, but it means a lot to hear that he defended the modern elves even to his peers.

'He did. And he said we needed to understand that he were doing this for the People of today, not merely for those few ancient elves who still remain.'

'Just for the People?'

'Spirits as well, of course. And mages. Fen'Harel told us that if we were not willing to work for all three, we should not remain.'

'And yet you did remain.'

Strife bows his head. 'I was skeptical, at first. But then he sent me on a mission which required me to work closely with some modern elves. And I quickly understood my mistake. There are differences, of course, but we are all of the same People. I am very old, as you know, but I would not put myself above any of you.'

I nod, walking on in silence. 'Well. I appreciate your help. This would have been much harder without you.'

'Believe me, after many centuries of passively guarding the tomb of a dead goddess, it feels very good indeed to take some kind of action. I am happy to be here.'

I smile at him, but before I can say more we are attacked by a band of enormous roving flowers, and we have to spring into action. Arlathan is full of challenges and mysteries, but I am starting to feel hopeful about this place. I am starting to think that we can, indeed, make the forest into a home.

***

It's another quiet evening around the fire. Colette and I are poring over some ancient elvhen texts that we retrieved from a ruin today, after restoring some bridges and battling through several waves of constructs. I speak the language better than her – it comes very easily to me, for some reason, and I'm already almost fluent after reading the books I took from the Crossroads – but she has the instincts of a trained historian, so together we make a good team.

This text seems to be a story about some horror visited by Elgar'nan on an innocent village full of elves because he was in a bad mood. I can see that Colette is distressed, but she's pushing it down, protecting herself with the facade of a professional historian. It's going to be hard, learning the truth of Elvhenan, the darkness of the empire that our people have dreamed of for so long. But it has to be done. Knowing the truth will help us turn away from the past, in order to focus instead on the future we hope to build for our people. And it will remind us that the world we build cannot be a world where the elves rule over other races. We are fighting for freedom and equality, not domination.

As I turn another page, I hear wings overhead, and I look up to see a raven; a familiar raven. I get to my feet, just as the raven whirls midair and becomes a human woman, dressed in black and purple and adorned with jewels. Around me, several elves leap to their feet and pull out their weapons, but I put out a hand, stopping them. 'Stand down,' I say. 'She is known to me.'

Morrigan laughs a little, shifting from one foot to another so the straps on her dress sway gracefully. 'Ah, and there I was unsure of my welcome!'

'I did not say that you are welcome. But I presume you are not here to do us harm.'

'I am not,' she says. 'I am here for the same reason as you, I believe.'

I raise an eyebrow. 'And that is?'

She smiles. 'I am seeking the Dread Wolf.'

'Oh.' I consider for a moment. 'Leliana?'

'I have indeed spoken to Leliana. But I have knowledge from another source as well.'

I frown suspiciously at her. 'What source?'

She looks around. 'May we speak privately? This is not a matter I am yet prepared to share with strangers.'

I consider for a moment, but see no harm in it. I lead her across to the steaming baths on the other side of the ruin; they are empty, for the moment, candlelight dancing tremulously across the unoccupied pools. The scent of thyme and elfroot rises off the water, sinuous and evocative.

'So,' I say. 'Is this to do with the Well of Sorrows?'

'In a way,' she says, and then, 'Flemeth is dead.'

I stare at her. 'Oh! I – well, I do not know if you grieve, but if you do I am sorry.'

'I do not know either,' she says, with a small laugh, and for a moment she sounds more human than I have ever known her. Then after a moment she says, 'Flemeth is dead. But the fragment of Mythal lives on.'

For a moment I stare at her, puzzled. And then I understand. 'It lives on in you.'

'By my own choice, I should say. She came to me and asked if I would accept her. And after some consideration, I said yes.'

I would like to know more about why she would agree to such a thing, but I am not sure we are close enough for me to demand such knowledge of her. 'I see. So now you have all of Mythal's knowledge?'

'In principle. But it is difficult, like the Well. Her memories become less clear as I go further back, and there is so much. Thousands of years of memories, more than I could possibly review in my mortal lifetime. I have tried to focus on the important matters, but there is much I do not yet understand.'

'I see. And what has this to do with Fen'Harel?'

She looks at me for a moment. 'You did not ask how Flemeth died.'

I feel a cold certainty come to rest in the pit of my stomach. 'Oh,' I say. 'Solas.'

Morrigan inclines her head. 'Yes. But it was not – it was not murder, Eirlan. Flemeth died willingly to pass her powers to him.'

'You do not possess her powers?'

'No. I received only her memories. The power she rebuilt over centuries, she wanted that to go to him.'

'That must be how he got his strength back,' I say. 'I wondered how he became so much more powerful than he was in the Inquisition.'

She nods. 'Indeed.'

I look at her, through the rising steam. 'She gave her strength to him because she approved of his mission,' I surmise. 'She believed the Veil must come down.'

'Yes. Both Mythal and Flemeth believed that.'

'And you?'

She gazes steadily at me. 'I have reviewed enough of Mythal's memories to know that they were right. This world is broken, sundered from itself, and so much suffering has arisen from that fact. The Veil must come down.'

'So that is why you have come,' I say. 'To help?'

'If I can.'

I sigh. 'You know, Solas is not here, and we have not seen him. He wishes to work alone. But perhaps you may have more luck, carrying the fragment of his old friend?'

She laughs, a hollow sound. 'I think not.'

'Oh?'

'Eirlan. You should know, about Solas and Mythal. They were very close, once. Not romantically – she was more like a parent to him, if we must put a name to it. But in any case, they meant a great deal to one another.'

I take a moment to digest that. I would not have minded if they had been romantically involved; Solas has lived for thousands of years, and it was always clear that I was not his first lover. But there's something in Morrigan's tone that makes me uneasy. 'Then why would Solas not wish to work with the bearer of her fragment?'

She sighs. 'Because Mythal hurt him, very badly. She – I haven't been able to figure out all the details yet. But she used him, and then betrayed him. She took advantage of his love for her to make him do things he didn't want to do, and then left him behind to join the Evanuris, and denounced him when he rebelled.'

'What things? What did she make him do?'

Morrigan shakes her head. 'I cannot tell yet. But I recall the aftermath. I recall how she – broke him. Broke his heart. He trusted her, and she was not worthy of that trust.'

'Ah,' I say, shaken. 'Well. I always suspected that someone must have hurt him badly in his past.'

'Yes. It was Mythal.' She shrugs. 'Perhaps others as well. But I suspect Mythal is his foundational wound.'

'And yet he spoke of her with respect. Honour.'

'I imagine his feelings are complex. I suspect he still cannot quite accept the reality of what she did to him. It may be difficult for him to see himself as a victim.'

'You speak as if you have some personal experience.'

She looks away. 'I – do have some experience. Let us leave it at that.'

We are silent for a long moment, the weight of the past resting heavily on our shoulders. I think of Solas, my heart aching. Oh, vhenan. The things your past has done to you. This, I suspect, is the reason why he insists on working alone, why he won't let anyone help him. He needed me to care for him, but he couldn't accept it; he couldn't fully believe that I wouldn't hurt him, the way others did.

'So,' I say. 'At any rate, the point remains. If you want to help Solas, you will not find him here.'

'I know,' she says. 'I've come to help you.'

'Us?'

'You aim to support his goal, do you not?'

I hesitate, but there seems little point in denying it to someone who already knows so much. 'Well, we can only act indirectly. We have little idea of where he is or what he's doing. Mostly we are trying to prepare for what may come after.'

'You aim to reclaim Arlathan,' she says. 'Make it a homeland for the elves.'

'Yes. When the Veil comes down, in the chaos that follows, the human empires will be in too much disarray to stop us. And as the elven magics return to life, we will be able to use them to defend ourselves. By the time the dust settles, our people will be established here, and the balance of power will have shifted so much that they will not be able to remove us.'

She nods. 'It is a good plan. And perhaps there is more we can do. The spirits of the Fade tell me that Solas is working to mitigate the damage, but I have other ideas about how to help with that. To protect the People, and the other downtrodden peoples of Thedas.'

'If you know how to do that, we would certainly like to try.'

She nods. 'Good. Then I will stay a while. There is much to be done if the forest is to be reclaimed in time for Solas' ritual.'

'Indeed,' I say. 'Well, I welcome you, Morrigan. Let's make the world a better place.'

She nods. 'Yes. When the magic returns. Everyone will see.'

***

'We need a cover story,' I say to Bellara and Colette, watching from the fireside as a group of elves carefully take an ancient elven mechanism to pieces.

Bellara raises her eyebrows. 'I thought the plan was just to keep hidden.'

'That would be ideal, but it's not realistic. People still show up here every day, and we want that to continue. Eventually someone on the outside will notice that there are elves living in the forest. We need an explanation which doesn't involve a large-scale elven rebellion.'

'Well that's easy,' Colette says. 'We're historians. We're here to explore our people's remnants and learn what we can.'

'Yes, that's kind of what I was thinking. It makes sense. Everyone knows the Dalish are dedicated to finding and restoring elven history, so people will probably accept that we're just doing that in a more focused way.'

'If that's our cover story, we should make sure we have something to show for it,' Bellara says. 'Colette should write something. Like an academic text. We could even try to publish it! Then we'd be educating people and also we'll have something to point to if anyone starts asking awkward questions about what we're doing here.'

'Colette has already been writing things, haven't you Colette?' I say.

She smiles. 'You can take the academic out of academia, but you can't take academia out of the academic.'

'Perfect,' Bellara said. 'We should all read it! And critique! Like a reading group!'

'Do you think we could really get it published?' Colette asks, looking at me.

I consider. 'Well, we can try. But I don't know if any of the academic journals really take elven history seriously. Maybe a smaller press, or somewhere in Rivain?'

'We should try it, at least,' Bellara says. 'Can't hurt.'

'I hear the Mourn Watch in Nevarra is more balanced in their view on elves and spirits, and they have a journal,' Colette says. 'We could try that.'

I nod. 'Good idea. It might make sense to try to establish some links with factions that might possibly have some sympathy with us.'

'You think the Mourn Watch would help us?' Bellara asks.

'Probably not as a group, but there might be people who would see things our way,' Colette says. 'They care a lot about spirits, I've been told. So some of them might see the wisdom in taking the Veil down, to help the spirits.'

'That's worth looking into,' I say. 'After all, the impact of the Veil coming down will be felt everywhere, so ideally we'd like to set things up to mitigate the damage not just here, but all over Thedas.'

'It's a big job,' Bellara says quietly. I nod quietly, and she sighs, and then goes back to mending her skirt. We've taken to mending our clothes using triangle-shaped patches, in honour of the triangular designs we find in many ancient elven constructions. There's also a consistent colour palette: it's easy to make dye in various red hues from a specific kind of rock found in the rivers in Arlathan, so many of us have taken to wearing primarily red clothing, and meanwhile we've also been adorning ourselves with various golden fragments scavenged from ruins, so we're arrayed in various shades of red and gold, matching the perpetual autumnal shades of the forest.

I like the effect: though we came here as strangers, a group identity has begun to coalesce, driven not only by our shared values and goals, but also the rituals and traditions we've begun to adopt as we build a shared life together. I'm starting to be able to visualize the world we might create after the Veil came down: a homeland for the elves, a culture which honours those who came before while acknowledging what went wrong and seeking to do better. Perhaps I'm overly optimistic, but I really believe that we can get the balance right this time. We can learn from the past and create a better future.

***

'What are we called?' Charter says, upon hearing our proposed cover story.

'Called?'

'For our group. You know, these courageous historians camping out in Arlathan forest to dig up fragments of their past. What do they call themselves?'

'It should be something to do with the Veil,' Bellara says excitedly.

Charter chuckles. 'Aren't you missing the point of a cover story a bit there, Bel?'

'Well I wasn't proposing that we name ourselves the Veil Destroyers,' Bellara says. 'Though that is a great name, now that I think about it … ' She trails off wistfully.

'No,' I say firmly. 'We can't be the Veil Destroyers.'

'All right, but we do deal with the Veil all the time. You know, all the anomalies and Veil bubbles. And that would be true even if we were really just historians. So we could have a name related to that, couldn't we?'

'Veil … Bubblers?' Charter says, snorting.

'I don't think so,' Bellara says, furrowing her brow as if that had been a serious suggestion. 'It should be about what we do with the Veil. Uh … Veil Manipulators? Scholars of the Veil?'

'Veil Jumpers,' Charter says, still laughing.

'Veil Jumpers!' Bellara says. 'Hey, I kind of like that.'

'You do?' Charter raises an eyebrow. 'I was kidding.'

'Veil Jumpers is good, actually,' I say. 'We do jump through the Veil bubbles. More importantly, it sounds fun and non-threatening. Bellara gets her Veil reference but it's not a name that's going to tip anyone off.'

'True,' Charter says. 'You don't imagine that a group calling itself the Veil Jumpers is likely to suddenly bring about the apocalypose.'

'We're not bringing it about,' I remind her. 'And it's not the apocalypse, anyway.'

She waves a hand. 'Details.'

'We can use the elvhen translation among ourselves,' Bellara says. 'The Veil is sethenera. What about jumpers?'

'Jump is al,' I say. 'You'd combine it with vhen for people, I suppose, to get Jumpers.'

She wrinkles her nose. 'Sethener'alvhen?'

'A bit of a mouthful, but it will do.'

She grins, adjusting the golden bangles around her wrists. 'Sethener'alvhen! It's official!'

'We should have a feast to celebrate,' Charter says hopefully.

'By all means, if you're providing the food,' I say. We're still getting by on what we can forage from the forest, which means a lot of buckwheat and green vegetables. No doubt I've never been healthier, but I'd love some fish or meat or even a glass of wine.

'I'll see what I can do,' she says, getting to her feet.

'No killing halla,' I warn her. 'The forest reacts badly to that. In fact, probably don't kill anything.'

'I know,' she says gently. 'I'm just going to try to find some berries. It will be an extremely virtuous feast.'

I shake my head, grinning, as she vanishes into the forest. Although I still miss my companions from the Inquisition at times, the friendships I've made here have come to mean a lot to me – they're honest and unforced in ways my relationships with the Andrastians never could be. Little by little, I'm making a life, a home. With or without Solas, I'll find a way forward.

***

Dreaming, I watch the Fade construct itself around me, a strange simulacrum of forest glen, where the trees transform into staircases as they push toward the sky, spiralling up into some vaguely-felt beyond. I see no need to climb them; he will come to me. Quietly I sit down amongst the spray of white flowers at the base of one of the staircases and wait, searching the currents of the air for any hint of another presence.

I feel him before I see him: that familiar stillness, like a breath held. I look up and see the white wolf appearing through the trees, grey eyes fixed on me. He makes little attempt to dissemble; perhaps he doesn't realise that I am lucid, thinking just as clearly as I would in the waking world.

I wait, trailing the little white flowers between my fingers as he approaches. He stops barely feet away, watching silently. I hesitate, fearing that he'll vanish once more if I try to speak a word. But it has been too long, and I don't know how many other chances I will get.

'Vhenan,' I say, and the word seems to peal like bells between us. 'Have I not done enough to prove that I want to help you?'

A silence. The air shimmers, and my heart sinks, thinking he is about to disappear. But then to my shock the wolf fades, and in its place stands the man. He's dressed as he was in the Inquisition, that soft tunic and simple leggings: an affectation, but it warms my heart nonetheless.

This is the first time I've seen him in this form since our encounter beyond the mirrors, and I'm struck by how tired and gaunt he looks. Weariness etched into every line of his face.

'I did not ask you to,' he says quietly, head bowed.

I get to my feet, drawing one painful breath, and then another. I ache to touch him, but I'm afraid to scare him off. 'You did not have to.'

He shakes his head. 'I do not deserve – '

Daringly, I take a step closer; he does not retreat. 'Solas,' I say, gently. 'I love you. But I am not doing this because I love you. I am doing this because it is right.'

His eyes widen; for a moment the shock on his face makes him look almost young. 'I thought – ' He seems to struggle for words. 'I thought no one would understand. No one would see.'

'Of course I understand.'

He stands there looking at me, his hands clenching and unclenching at his side. 'Vhenan – ' he whispers.

'You do not need to do this alone, emma lath,' I whisper, taking another step forward. 'I want to help. We all want to help.'

We are almost touching now. Solas stands looking down at me, his chest rising and falling, his breath coming fast. Then he lets out a soft, incoherent sound, and his hands are on me, drawing me towards him. He touches his lips to mine and without a thought I move into his embrace, feeling the lines of his body pressed against mine. He wraps both arms tightly around me, drawing me closer, his mouth opening, his limbs entangling with mine. We cling tightly, pressing against each other; his hands sliding down my waist, his mossy forest smell enveloping me. Heat rising between us, both of us gasping, hands sliding past clothing in search of bare skin, a wave that threatens to sweep us both away –

But then he breaks away, stumbling backwards. 'Ir abelas.' His eyes are cast down, as if he fears to look at me. 'I should not – '

It takes me a moment to get my breath back. 'Why not?'

He hesitates, teetering. I try to press my advantage. 'You don't have to keep hurting yourself. Hurting us both. Let me help you.'

For a moment I really think he'll yield. But then he shakes his head one more time. 'No,' he says softly. 'What I am doing will cost thousands of lives.'

'I know,' I say quietly. 'But it's still right.'

'Yes. And yet, the burden of those lives – ' He hesitates, sucking in a breath, and for a moment I see naked fear on his face. He's afraid, terrified, of what he must do.

'I can share it, vhenan,' I tell him.

'No. I will not do that to you.'

'Solas – '

'It was my mistake. I must pay the cost. After it is done – then indeed, you will help. You will build a new world, emma lath, and I cannot wait to see what you create.'

'And you?' I say softly.

He drops his gaze. 'My hands will be soaked in blood,' he says wearily. 'I will be unfit to build anything new.'

'Vhenan,' I say, trying one more time. 'You do not have to bear this alone.'

'I do,' he says flatly.

It's too late, I realise. Whatever opportunity I had here, I failed. He will leave me, just like any other time.

'I will wait for you,' I say, and then I repeat, desperately, `Var lath vir suledin.'

This time he does not say I wish it could. He just looks down, blinking tears away. 'Ar lath ma,' he whispers, raising a hand to his heart. And then, just like that, he's gone.

Chapter Text

The arrivals keep coming; at a slighter slower pace these days, but still consistent. One day one of the new arrivals comes up to me and introduces herself as Merrill.

I smile absently at her for a moment before it hits me. 'Wait,' I say. 'Hawke's Merrill?'

She nods. 'Indeed.'

After a moment, the smile slides off my face. 'I'm really sorry about Hawke,' I say.

She nods. 'I know. It's all right. She was always thinking about everyone else. That was what she would have wanted.'

'Do you know how Anders is? Varric wasn't in touch with him.'

'Anders is – ' She sighs. 'He's doing all right. He took it hard, of course. But it brought him a lot of peace to see the war end with the creation of the College of Enchanters. He's currently busy working to undermine the new Circle in any way he can, to support the College.'

'Of course he is.' I hesitate. 'Do you have news, of the College and the Circle?'

'The Circle is flourishing, unfortunately, but the College continues to exist. It's perhaps a little unstable, and I suspect that in the end one of them will win out, but for now the College remains as a refuge for those mages who value freedom over easy lies.'

'I'm glad to hear it.'

She looks up at me. 'By the way, I wanted to ask you. How do you feel about blood magic?'

'Ah,' I say cautiously. 'I am not opposed in principle. It is a tool, like other tools. But I do object to many of its potential uses.'

'How do you feel about using it to change people's perceptions?' She waves a hand around the camp. 'I was thinking of a spell for this place. Something to convince people to see just a band of curious historians, nothing more. To make their minds disregard the evidence of the full extent of our numbers, or how far we've penetrated into the forest, or the technology we've been stockpiling.'

'That sounds like a good idea, if it can be done with a quantity of blood we can reasonably obtain.'

'Oh yes,' she says. 'I would need a few people to donate blood, for something so big. But don't worry, I'm not proposing blood sacrifices or anything of that kind.'

'In that case, I'm happy for you to do the spell. Although I'm not in charge, so you should discuss it with others as well.'

Merrill beams. 'Oh, and I was also thinking of adding a component for you,' she says. 'Something that will prevent outsiders from recognising you. Lots of people have seen pictures of you, and of course the prosthetic is quite distinctive, so a disguise could be handy if you ever want to go out into the world again, or in case some outsiders reach us.' 

'How would that work? Convince them that I'm someone else?'

'No, it would just – sort of distract the parts of their minds that remember you, so they would look at you and simply not recall that they've seen you before. It's not strong enough to work if they already tell know who you are, but as long as they're not told, they won't realize of their own accord.'

'Well, that makes sense. I was planning to simply hide if anyone suspicious showed up, but it would be safer to take further precautions.'

'Good,' she says. 'In that case, I'll need some of your blood for the spell.'

'By all means. You'll have to show me how it works. I don't practice blood magic myself, but I'm always curious.'

'I'd love to,' she says. 'Anyway, I have to go to meet Bellara. She promised to show me how the warding crystals work.'

Knowing what I do of Merrill from Varric's stories, it doesn't surprise me in the least that she has already befriended Bellara. 'Dareth shiral,' I tell her. 'Thank you for coming.'

'I'm very happy to be here,' she says with a smile, and proceeds to join Bellara, and the two of them become so deeply absorbed in their discussion that they miss the next two meals. I think Merrill will be happy here, and her skills are certainly useful to us. We don't know how advanced Solas' plans are, but our numbers continue to grow, and our mastery of the forest continues apace. We'll be ready. We have to be.

***

The spirits of Arlathan forest are very old, and different from other spirits I have known. Sometimes when I visit the baths in the early morning, the Veil grows thin enough for a few spirits to pass through unharmed; some will even linger long enough to speak with me, passing on memories of our history, or advice on the challenges to come. Others of them have little to say, but their presence settles over me like the dew of the morning, cool and glittering, leaving a rare peace in their wake. The subtle music of their souls intertwining with my own.

It is good to remember. Even if removing the Veil would not help the elves at all, it would still be the right thing to do. For them. For wisdom and compassion and love made manifest; for the lost half of our world, yearning for thousands of years to reach us.

What I have come to understand from the elven texts we find in the forest only strengthens my certainty. The spirits are not just byproducts of our emotions. They are our emotions; they are the place where the deepest parts of our selves take root. If every spirit of love were to vanish from existence, love itself would vanish from existence. The same with wisdom, compassion, joy, determination; every good feeling, everything that gives life meaning. The Fade and its inhabitants are unutterably precious, and they are being slowly smothered by the Veil, crying out helplessly for us on one side, or torn to pieces in torture and pain when they try to pass through. Our world cannot afford to lose them, and yet we are losing them, we will continue to lose them as long as the Veil remains.

Sometimes I just sit quietly in the baths, letting the spirits settle around me, humming softly and refracting the early morning glow into pale diamonds. I remember Cole, who was a person, despite what Varric thought about the matter. I remember Solas' insistence that all spirits are persons. Thousands of them locked away, and meanwhile the world is ruled by those raised on the Chantry's lies who will never be able to see them for what they are. Who fear demons too much to ever contemplate treating spirits with dignity. They don't know that these spirits are a part of them, just as much as their own fears and dreams and joys. They will not see what is being lost, until it is too late.

One morning a spirit of memory visits me, a soft brush of feathery texture, rainbows rippling through it and oscillating gently in the rhythm of its words as it speaks to me. Sometimes barely visible in the mist rising from the pool, like a half-imagined glimmer. I'm conversing quietly with it when I see a face peering out from the columns beyond, and then Merrill appears, tiptoeing tentatively across the bare stone. She smiles shyly and then says 'May I join you?'

'Of course,' I say, smiling.

Merrill slips off her night-dress and steps forward to slide into the water beside me, and then she extends her hands to the spirit, bowing her head. 'Andaran atish'an, honoured friend,' she says formally.

'Ma serannas, honoured elvhen,' the spirit says, and a golden glow ripples through its form, like light spreading over water. 'Your companion asked about the Pillars. Would you like to hear?'

She glances at me. 'You're trying to find out more about the Titans?'

I nod. 'The records are so sparse. And I want to know what happened. I think it may be important.'

Merrill looks at the spirit. 'Please, proceed.'

The glimmering light flickers, shrinks a little, as if binding itself together. Steeling itself against the recollection. 'The Elvhen were afraid,' it says, its voice a high, warbling thread of grief. 'The Pillars were afraid. They were all bound together in their spiral of terror. The People sang at the Pillars, and the Pillars sang back at the people, but they could not find a harmony. The words meant nothing. The People kept dying and dying and dying, and they begged forgiveness a thousand ways, but the Pillars could not hear them.'

Merrill glances at me. 'They couldn't talk to each other,' she says softly. 'They didn't have a shared language. And they were too different. The Titans were so big - '

The spirit shudders, its light flickering, as if the memories threaten to extinguish it like a candle-flame. 'The fear, the fear ... they hadn't wanted to start, but they didn't know how to stop. Every day brought aeons of death. The Fade was flooded with grief. And then - silence. One of the songs fell silent, and the People did not have to die any longer.'

I bow my head, letting the weight of those words hang over me. 'Thank you, friend, for remembering,' I say solemnly. 'I am sorry to distress you.'

'It is no distress,' the spirit says softly. 'It is good to remember. Even pain must be remembered, to honour the dead.'

Beside me, Merrill hums her gratitude. 'Honoured friend, do you know why the song fell silent? Did the People do something to stop it?'

'Secrecy, silence, shame,' the spirits says, and a glow ripples through it again; sunrise colours, echoing the sky behind it. 'So much hidden. Even the People never knew the truth.'

'That's why we haven't found records in Arlathan,' I say. 'That's why Strife doesn't know. What they did to the Titans - it was a secret, even then.'

'They must have done something terrible,' Merrill says softly. 'To keep such a secret, for thousands of years.'

'Yes,' I say quietly, an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. 'I suppose they must have.'

The spirit wavers gently before us. 'Thank you, honoured elvhen, for accepting my recollections,' it says. 'The past lives on in you. Dareth shiral, and may we meet again.'

'Dareth shiral,' I say, and Merrill echoes me, and before our eyes the spirit trembles and vanishes like waves on the surface of the water.

Merrill lets out a long slow sigh, and tips her head back, tilting her head so her hair spreads out on the water, fanning out around her face like a dark halo.

'For years people told me I was stupid and naive for caring about the spirits,' she says softly. 'They treated me like a child because I thought spirits could be reasoned with. I was - the names they called me. They expelled me from the clan because I dared to think - '

'My clan too,' I say quietly. 'I used to talk to the spirits, sometimes. But I always had to do it in secret, sneaking away at night, hiding myself in the forest. I knew I could never tell anyone.'

'I wish I'd never told mine.' She sighs, then sits back up, looking at me. 'The thing that makes me sad is that in a way they weren't even wrong. Demons are dangerous. A demon made me kill my Keeper. And I - for a long time I thought that meant I was wrong, about the spirits. I thought I must have been stupid like they all said.'

I breathe deeply, inhaling the scent of the forest and the hazy, herbal mist rising off the pools. 'You weren't wrong. You know that now.'

'Yes. But spirits do become demons. While the Veil remains, they will always be dangerous.'

'While the Veil remains.'

She looks at me; there is no need to say more. We both lie quietly in the water, looking at the place where the spirit vanished. Honoured friend. Honoured elvhen.

'Soon,' Merrill says quietly, and I nod. The inhabitants of the Fade have been my treasured companions these many years. If bringing down the Veil saves no one but the spirits – even so, I think to myself, it will still have been more than worth it.

***

Sometimes in the mornings when I go alone to the baths I close my eyes and remember another bathhouse, years ago. We'd made camp near some ancient elven baths in the Exalted Plains, and before we started cooking Dorian announced that we should go try it out. 'The water's warm, somehow,' he said. 'Some kind of ancient magic.'

'Of course it's always a good idea to go barging right into a centuries-old spell whose nature you don't understand,' Solas said snippily; he hadn't yet forgiven Dorian for being a Tevinter,

'Well, you needn't join us if you feel that way,' Dorian said airily, and then looked over at Cole and me. 'Coming?'

I was sweaty and tired after a long day's march, and bathing had never seemed so appealing. So after a moment's hesitation I picked up my things and follow Dorian and Cole over to the bathhouse, where the water burbled placidly, lapping at crumbled columns and ancient frescoes. It felt strange to be here with my new companions in this very elven place, my two lives merging in a way that felt unexpectedly uncomfortable; a convergence I wasn't ready to confront.

But after a moment I shook off the ghosts and got to work on stripping off my armour, until I was left in just an undershirt and leggings. No need to go any farther in this company. Cole and Dorian were already in the water; Dorian exhibiting an impressive backstroke, while Cole stood waist-deep, staring about confusedly as if he was waiting for some deeper purpose to the activity to become evident.

I walked into the water, enjoying its soft lapping at my skin, my muscles instantly loosening as the warmth washed over them. Dorian grinned at me and then used his hand to splash me, though I managed to duck. The clean peal of water on stone echoed all around us.

Then I turned around and saw Solas standing at the far end, watching us. 'Are you coming in after all, Solas?' Dorian said, a smile in his voice. 'Does that tunic actually come off, or did you sew it on?'

Solas said nothing, but he arched an eyebrow at me. I felt self-conscious, suddenly, of the way my wet shirt clung to my body, so I turned and dived into the water, arcing through the depths towards the other side of the pool.

When I surfaced and turned back to look, Solas was gone, or so I thought – and then I saw him, in the water, swimming calmly towards me. Dorian made an attempt to splash him but Solas just disregarded it completely and carried on paddling in my direction.

'You did decide to join us!' I said, my voice perhaps a little squeakier than usual.

He grinned, and then in the shallows he stood up, rising from the water. My mouth went dry. He was shirtless, and his body was lean and lightly muscled, his chest flat, glimmering in the soft moonlight. His hip-bones stood out, spangled in droplets, leading my eyes down towards the top of his leggings. Almost alarmed, I took a step backwards and my eyes leapt back up to his face, and I saw that he was smiling – a little smugly, as if he knew the effect he was having on me. Almost like there was another person in him, stepping suddenly into the light.

'Enjoying the water, lethallin?' he said, standing with his hand on his hip.

I tore my eyes away from his body, feeling the blush rise in my cheeks. 'Indeed,' I murmured, stealing another glance at him. The water droplets rolling down his midriff made me want to touch, to trace them with a fingertip all the way down.

'Good,' he said, and then he turned, whip-sharp, and splashed Dorian. The other mage let out a yelp of protest and tried to reciprocate, and soon enough the four of us were engaged in a vigorous water-fight; even Cole was willingly pitching in, though he seemed to have very little idea what was happening.

I turned to flee towards the deep end, and Solas pursued me. To my surprise I felt his hands close about my waist, and then I was pressed against his body, the wet slippery lines of his chest firm against my back. 'Got you,' he said in a low whisper, and I shivered with sudden urgent desire. Not here, not now.

Solas held me a moment longer before seeming to realise what he was doing, and then he let go and stumbled backwards. 'I - '

I turned to look at him. 'Don't apologize, Solas. I wasn't complaining.'

He looked down, unable to suppress a small smile. 'I – all right.'

Dorian rolled his eyes. 'Will the two of you just kiss, for goodness sake?'

Solas turns to look calmly at him. 'Maybe we already have,' he said, and then he clambered out of the pool, leaving Dorian mouthing frantically at me. I laughed, shaking my head at him, and then I followed Solas out, gathering my clothes as I made my way back to the campsite; still remembering the feel of his chest at my back, his wet skin slick against me. Those encircling arms.

***

Dorian's sending crystal has been silent since I arrived in Arlathan. I had supposed that Dorian had thought better of his tentative ideas about perhaps helping us with the Veil. I could not blame him: there's no denying that this is a last resort, one which makes sense for those of us who have already lost everything, but must surely seem like madness to a person of privilege like Dorian Pavus. I appreciated his willingness to think on the matter, but I did not really expect anything to come of it.

I've more or less given up on even checking the crystal, but then one night I go to bed early and see the crystal, sitting with the small pile of my possessions in the elven box I keep by my pallet under one of our shelters. It's glowing. I hesitate a moment – this could still be a trap – and then I pick the crystal up and walk away from the camp.

The ruins feel almost endless here. The ceilings have fallen, and the forest has repossessed them, so thoroughly that it almost looks as though the shattered marble is growing out of the trees – but you can still imagine how it must have been. The slim columns, soaring up towards the misted sky; the high ceilings, space and tranquility, the People walking quietly through the echoing halls, never imagining what they would come to.

As always when I walk through the ruins I feel something seize at my heart. Those delicate columns, lying like dead things on the ground; the last scattered pieces of mosaics, glinting like golden dewdrops amonst the tall glasses. It must have been so beautiful once. What would I not do to get a glimpse of the place of our people in all its glory?

I know there was darkness in our past. But all the same, seeing these ruins – it was once so different. Life must have been so easy, so full of grace. Of course I know that terrible things can happen in beautiful buildings. But still there's a longing; vir lathbora, as they say. The things our people must have known once, the astonishing magics.

When I'm far enough from the camp, I cast wards to preserve silence around me. Just in case anyone else is listening, I don't want to give too many clues about where I am.

'Dorian?' I say quietly, and I hear his relieved exhale.

'Eirlan! I was beginning to worry. I've been trying for a few weeks, and haven't got through.'

'My apologies. I haven't been checking so regularly of late.'

'It's my fault. I went silent for a long while, I know. I was thinking.'

'I see,' I say, waiting.

Dorian swallows, and in the silence I can hear his rapid breathing. He's gathering his nerve. Then, in a rush, he says, 'I want to do it. I want to help.'

I stare at the crystal, hardly able to believe it. Not quite able to trust. 'You – you do?'

He gives a long, tired sigh. 'Since we last spoke, Eirlan, I've been trying to make a start on the matters we discussed.'

'Ah. Not much luck, I take it?'

'No luck at all. Indeed, we've taken a step backwards. Last month our enemies conspired to have Maevaris expelled from the magisterium.'

'That doesn't surprise me, but I am sorry, Dorian.'

'Tevinter isn't going to change, Eirlan,' he says, in a hard voice. 'Not from inside. Not by peaceful means. Better men than I have been trying for hundreds of years.'

'You are sure of that, after – what, a year of trying?'

'It is not just my own attempts. I've been talking to others who feel as I do. Who have spent their lives seeking change. And what I've heard – story after story of failure. The magisters are too deeply entrenched, the economy is completely dependent on slavery, attempts to bring reform are put down ruthlessly and without honour. This has been going on for hundreds of years.'

'The death of Corypheus made no difference?'

'People became more reticent about mentioning Venatori connections, for a while. But there's already a resurgence. The cult will never die until Tevinter itself does.'

I am silent for a moment. 'So – you want to bring down the Veil to end Tevinter?'

'Tevinter as it is today, yes,' he says. 'But not just that. Spirits, mages and elves all across Thedas. I've been studying, learning about the Veil. I understand now what it does, how it harms us all. Much as I hate to say it, Solas is right. The Veil must come down.'

I am quiet for a moment. I want to trust him, but can I?

Dorian perceives my uncertainty. 'I understand if you doubt me,' he says. 'I know it seems unlikely. A Tevinter magister signing on to burn down the world which has brought him so much privilege. But I'd like to earn your trust, if you'll allow it.'

I smile despite myself. 'Dorian – you're a dear friend to me. You needn't earn anything. I just – it may take me a little while. I have others to think of.'

'I know,' he says. 'Let me start by giving you some information. You should know what you're up against.'

'All right,' I say, suddenly anxious. 'What are we up against?'

'Well, first off, my assumption is that you're in Arlathan forest. You don't need to confirm or deny that. But you should know that the Tevinter authorities are aware of a group of elves living in Arlathan, and they're wary. The only reason they haven't sent soldiers is because the Imperium's spies report that a qunari invasion of Ventus is imminent.'

'Ventus. That's not far from here.'

'Exactly. So all the soldiers in the vicinity are focused on defending the city, right now. But that may change. Or alternatively, the qunari may take the city and then turn their attention to the forest. Either way, you should be prepared.'

'I see,' I say, my mind racing. 'I didn't realise things had moved so fast with the qunari.'

'As you know, the Antaam have broken away. They appear to be looking to accelerate their attacks on the north.'

'Tevinter might meet its end without our intervention, in that case.'

'Indeed, but occupation by the qun would hardly be an improvement.'

'True.'

'You should also know that your former colleagues continue to hunt for Solas, and now also for you,' Dorian says. 'Varric has largely taken charge of the job.'

I raise an eyebrow. 'Varric?'

'He wouldn't have been my choice either. But he seems fixated on the matter. Almost fanatically so. I don't entirely understand what's going on in his head, to be honest.'

'I say. 'So what is he up to? Does he have any leads on Solas?'

'I'm not privy to the details, but he appears to have come up on dead ends so far. Still, he continues searching, following any whispers he hears of strange magic or unrest among elves. He's chosen Scout Harding as his second-in-command, and the two of them have been busy travelling all across northern Thedas.'

'Harding?' I say. 'Really?'

'You know she and Varric are close.'

'Indeed, but, well – ' Harding is certainly an able scout, but hardly a strategist or an expert on elven lore. 'It just seems like a strange choice of team, to chase after a pair of elven mages.'

'Since they expelled all the elves, I suppose their options were limited,' Dorian says, his tone wry.

'Well. Indeed.'

'You should be prepared. Last we spoke, Varric asked me about the rumours of elves in Arlathan forest. He and Harding will likely come your way sooner or later.'

I am still unwilling to confirm that we're in Arlathan forest, but I nod, and then remember he can't see me. 'I understand,' I say.

'Whether or not you're actually in Arlathan, I hope to send some more elves that way soon,' he says. 'I've been helping the Shadow Dragons free slaves, and we have some people who need somewhere to go. Many of them seem interested in the rumours of the Dread Wolf and what he's doing for the elves.'

'I can imagine,' I say. 'If you need any help freeing slaves, Dorian, or with your political battles – well, maybe there's not a great deal I can do, but I'll certainly help if I can.'

I can hear the smile in his voice. 'Thank you, my friend. I'm certain you have enough on your plate already, but I'll let you know if I think of anything.'

'Also, Dorian – take care. What you're doing is dangerous. We know the other magisters won't hesitate to kill, if they think the Imperium is at risk.'

'Indeed. The same to you,' he says. 'Good night, Eirlan. I hope we'll speak again soon.'

'I hope so too,' I say, and then the crystal goes dark.

I sit for some time in that silent grove, considering what to say to the others. How we can defend against the coming threats. Afterwards, I walk in silence back to the camp, allowing the sounds of the forest to close over me: soft murmurings, echoes of birdsong. The smell of crushed moss, at once sweet and astringent. I gather fistfuls of herbs on the way, until my hands smell of elfroot and spindleweed, and when I get back to the camp I sit down by the fire and pick up a chopping board and begin shredding the herbs for our next meal. We've made a life here. I intend to defend it, come what may.

***

Though an ancient elf, Strife was, I discover, comparatively young at the time of the Fall when he first entered uthenera, and spent most of his life prior to that serving in Mythal's temple. This means he knows a great deal about the specifics of Mythal's rituals and the protection magics she crafted, but not as much as one might hope about elven magic more generally, and surprisingly little about elven history.

'Ah, da'len,' he says, when I bring this up. 'I lived for fifty years before the Fall. The Evanuris had ruled nearly a thousand years by that time. Their ascension feels as distant to me as my own time does to you. I heard no first-hand accounts of it.'

'But you were not taught history?'

'A version of it. As you might imagine, Mythal's servants were told stories highly favourable to Mythal. I suspect little of what I learned was literally true.'

I knew this already; Colette has diligently recorded what Strife could remember, but in between the platitudes and legend there's little about the origins of elvhenan that we did not already know. The most interesting thing in his accounts are the stories of Fen'Harel's antics, which he seems to remember quite vividly. I suppose the rebellion was still very much on everyone's minds at the time of his youth in Mythal's service.

'What about Mythal's death?' I say. 'What did you know of that?'

He bows his head. 'Very little. It took place in our temple, you know. But I was not present, of course. I knew only that the other Evanuris had come to greet Mythal, as they often did, and then suddenly everything was in disarray, and half our people were preparing to go to war while the others were preparing for uthenera.'

'Uthenera? Immediately?'

'We knew that she survived in some form. It was decided that some of us should enter uthenera, to be sure we were ready to greet her when she returned, and to defend her temple through the ages until she returned to it.'

'Did you get to choose?'

He shakes his head. 'I did not. I did as I was ordered.'

I look at him for a moment. It had felt impolite to mention before, but we have been working together closely over the last few weeks, translating ancient texts and figuring out ways to disable some particularly complex magics blocking our progress into the forest. Strife may not have much expertise on history, but he has great skill with wards, puzzles, and rituals, all of which played a significant role in his life at the Temple.

'Your vallaslin,' I say quietly.

He smiles. 'You are wondering why I do not have Mythal's markings.'

'Indeed. Those are for Andruil, I believe?'

He nods. 'I was born in Andruil's service. She gave me as a gift to her mother.'

The bald statement shocks me for a moment. I'd known that Strife had once been a slave, of course. But the idea of a person being given as a gift – 'You know,' I say to him softly. 'The biggest worry I have about all of this is that we'll repeat history. That eventually the elves will return to the tyranny that Solas sacrificed everything to bring down.'

Strife looks at me, his eyes kind. 'It is not your goal for the elves to rule over other races, is it?' he asks, not needing an answer. 'Nor is it the goal of anyone else here. And Fen'Harel certainly wishes no such thing. He seeks only justice for his people, and freedom for the spirits and mages.'

'It is not our goal. But what if it happens anyway?'

Strife sighs. 'I do not believe that elves have any greater tendency toward tyranny than other races. There will always be those who seek to rule.'

'But if the fall of the Veil grants immortality to the elves, and not to the other races, that seems like a dangerous imbalance.'

'We do not know that it will. The humans and qunari did not exist, before the Veil. They must surely be related to elves in some way or another, since we can all breed together. And remember, they can be connected to the Fade just as our people can. I think it is entirely possible that when the Veil falls, all members of races which can touch the Fade will become immortal.'

'So – everyone but the dwarves?'

'The dwarves were immortal as well, once,' he says. 'But for different reasons.'

'Because of the Titans.' 

Strife nods. 'Yes. When they were simply parts of the Titans, they did not age. So who knows – perhaps there is way for them to recover immortality as well, though they might not wish it if it meant becoming merely parts of a whole once again.'

I chew at my lip. 'But if everyone but the dwarves were immortal – well, that could go badly. They would be treated as lesser, surely. Enslaved, even, just like – '

Strife holds out a hand to stop me. 'The world cannot be permanently fixed, da'len,' he says. 'I may be young among my people, but I know that much. You are doing what is right, at this moment. You will do what you can to set a path for a better future. But you cannot guarantee what will follow. No one can.'

'I know. I just – sometimes I think about Solas. Doing the best he could, the best thing he could think of, and waking to find that so much destruction and pain had followed. I don't think I could bear such a burden.'

'He is a courageous man,' Strife agrees. 'Others might have given up. But Fen'Harel continues to pick himself up and work for a better world, despite the personal cost. Even knowing that he will likely receive little thanks for it.'

'You have great respect for him. Despite what he did.'

'As you say, he did the best he could. You have no experience of the Evanuris, but believe me when I tell you that he's right when he says they would have destroyed the world. The fall of Elvhenan was a tragedy, but it was better than what would have befallen us if Solas had not done what he did.'

'I wish he could see that,' I say softly.

'Oh, he does see it, da'len. He just blames himself anyway.'

We sit quietly, gazing into the water. I thinking once again of Solas, while Strife thinks of – what? I wonder if he had a lover. Someone he left behind; someone who died in the Fall, perhaps. I'd like to ask him, but it still feels too soon. So we sit quietly, watching the shadows fall over the fallen columns. The moon emerges tentatively, silver light wreathing the temple and making it appear, briefly, new and magnificent once more. Time looping back on itself, in this place where the history lies so thick you can almost taste it.

***

In the evening, the baths are filled with elves, talking and laughing and flirting, the sounds of merriment rising poignantly into the indigo night. Other elves gather around the fire, eating bowls of foraged vegetables, telling stories, sometimes playing music.

I haven't played much since Solas left, but there are plenty of elven instruments around, and eventually I find myself tempted to pick up a lute once again. In my childhood with my clan, music and magic were always the things I clung to: I progressed quickly in both, and before I was ten years old I had come to be clan's main musician, called-upon every night to play music for dancing. It meant I never got to dance myself, of course, which perhaps contributed to my alienation. The lot of the lute-player is a lonely one, particularly in a culture where love often blooms first in the midst of a dance.

But still, I loved to play. And soon I progressed beyond just the lute. I started with the spell the Keeper had taught me to fly the aravels, and tried doing different things with the air; smaller and subtler. At first I was just experimenting aimlessly, but one day I realised that I could make a sound wave, that I could vary its pitch and timbre just by modulating my power. And after that I learned to make music.

It was painfully slow at first, figuring out each note, steadying it, moving haltingly on to the next. It took at least a year of work before what I was doing was recognizably music at all. But I got better. Soon I could pick out a halting tune, and then I could add harmonies, have several lines going at once. I would sit, gazing into space, my hands held out in front of me and just barely vibrating as I turned my power to my will: the melodies poured from the empty space before me, spreading like honey across the plain. I can't begin to explain the satisfaction of pulling beauty literally from thin air.

Where does the music come from? I don't feel like I compose it. The music comes from the place, from the earth itself. There's magic in places, subtle vibrations that I hear as song. I simply transmute them into melody, perhaps add a little of my own flavour.

I showed it to Keeper Deshanna once, but she was suspicious, as people often are with unfamiliar magic. Perhaps she thought I was summoning demons to do it. I had to explain that I was just using a modified version of the aravel spell, and even then she was sniffy about it. After that I didn't show her again. I experimented on my own, during my solitary walks away from the encampment. I didn't share the music with anyone else; until Solas, of course.

He loved my music. I remember the night I first showed him the spell; the sun setting over us, long grass swaying about our bodies, dandelions and purple anemones dancing between us. How Solas gazed at me as I played, the twilight highlighting the long elegant lines of his face, the quiet concentration in his expression as he listened so carefully. He made me teach him the spell, after that, though he never quite mastered it the way I could.

I thought I might not use the spell again, after Solas was gone. But here, at the encampment, I eventually allow myself to be coaxed into demonstrating - I told Merrill about it once, and once she'd heard she wouldn't rest until I finally agreed to show her. The music that I draw from Arlathan is different; soft and fluid and lyrical, and sad, but not only sad. This is a place with a terrible history, and the music bears the weight of that history, but there's hope remaining. Arlathan is a place where a civilization died, but also a place being reborn.

And the elves here don't react like my clan did. Everyone who has remained here understands what the Fade is, what spirits are. They don't fear what I can do with it. In the evenings when I draw music from the magic and make it manifest, they sit spellbound, or sometimes begin to dance. Bodies turning, firelight glimmering, the deep resonances of our fractured history spilling out over the campsite, the baths, the forest. Time means nothing, in this place. All the ages of the elves present in these ruins, in these endless notes.

***

One night, after yielding for pleas for a little music for dancing, I walk away from the fireside, I notice that Bellara is missing. When I get up and go looking for her, I eventually track her down, sitting on her own outside the camp. Her back is against a tree-trunk, and her legs are stretched out in front of her, heels planted into the mossy ground. I raise an eyebrow. 'Hi. Are you all right?'

She sighs, shifting from side to side. 'Irelin and I broke up.'

'Oh!' I hesitate. 'Are you – do you want company?'

She smiles tentatively. 'If you're not busy, that would be nice.'

'What happened?' I ask sitting down beside her. 'I mean, you don't have to tell me – '

She shakes her head. 'Honestly, it's been rocky ever since – well, since Halamshiral.'

I frown, doing calculations in my head. 'How long have you and Irelin been together?'

'Since I was fourteen,' Bellara admits.

'Oh, Bellara,' I say softly. 'That's a long time.'

She shrugs. 'Too long, maybe. We were children, then. And after Halamshiral I wasn't the same person any more.'

I nod silent, not knowing what to say. I know that Bellara was in the alienage in Halamshiral on the evening when it was purged by Celene; she, Irelin and Cyrian had slipped away from their clan as it passed nearby, excited to spend a few days in a city for the first time in their lives. None of them has told me much about what they saw there, and nor do I want to try imagining it, but it's not hard to understand how that could change a person.

Bellara sighs. 'You might have thought it would bring us together. But it pushed us apart. I got – angry. Really angry. You know. You've seen it.'

'I understand. I'm angry too.'

She nods. 'But Irelin – it frightens her, I think. I used to be softer, gentler. She wants me to go back to what I was. She thought I would, in time.'

'And now she realizes that you won't.'

Bellara sighs, running her hands through the grass. 'I guess this is just what I am now.'

'Yes,' I say. 'And for good reason. You should be angry, Bellara. We all should be. It's long past time for it.'

'But it still feels like something was lost. The person that I was.'

I think, briefly, of the person that I was. Before the Inquisition. Before Solas. Before the slaughter of my clan at Wycombe. The years I spent carrying around the broken pieces of the person I used to be. No longer.

'I know the feeling,' I say gently to Bellara. 'But what we've become – it's what we need to be. That's how we'll change the world.'

She tips her head back, gazing at the sky. 'I know.'

'And Bellara. I love what you are now. You're fierce and strong and indomitable and brilliant. I'm sorry Irelin can't see that.'

She looks at me, tears gathering in her eyes, but she manages to give a laugh. 'And I'm sorry Solas can't see what he's missing, not being with you.'

'Ah well, I won't disagree with you there.' I smile at her, and then put my arm around her; and we sit quietly together in the twilight, watching the green Fade butterflies rising through the grass, the forest soothing itself softly into sleep.

***

'You speak elven better than me,' Morrigan says one day. 'Tis vexing. Surely the Well and Mythal together should give me the edge.'

I shrug. 'The language always came naturally to me.'

'Yes. You hear the song in it. Just as you hear the song of the Fade.' I've told her something of my experiments with the magic using music and vibrations, and she's fascinated, though she's not as good as Solas was as a sounding board for my ideas.

'Sometimes I think the elven language and the song of the Fade are connected somehow. It would make sense. We know the ancient elves were much closer to spirits and the Fade than we are.'

'So all I have to do is listen better to the Fade and perhaps my elven will also improve?'

I laugh. 'Well, I make no promises.'

'I know. But I should like to try.' She is quiet a moment, as if she's attempting to listen that very moment, and then she says, 'Your spell. The music. It's attuned to the resonance of the Fade, you said?'

'I think so. Solas and I were studying it, before we left. We did some interesting experiments, attuning it to the primordial rhythms. But events caught up with us before we could finish our research.'

She nods. 'Yes. That does make sense. I suppose I was just wondering if it could be used to help prevent harm, when the Veil comes down.'

I look over at her. 'You said you had ideas.'

'Yes. I've been researching, and testing.'

'Testing?'

'You recall the elven artifacts Solas had you searching for, back in the time of the Inquisition?'

'Vividly. You believe they could be used to help?'

'They were not, of course, originally manufactured to strengthen the Veil, although they can be used to do so now. They were once used to stabilize the energies of the Fade, particularly in the presence of significant expenditures of magic. So in principle, they could be use to stabilize the Fade in its process of merging once more with the waking world. Thus preventing at least some of the chaos that would otherwise ensue.'

'I don't believe there is any way to do this without death,' I say. 'If there were, Solas would have found it.'

She nods. 'I agree. But there are certainly ways to lessen the cost. And the magic you do with these vibrations – if it could be imbued into the artifacts, if you could use such interference to cancel some of the more violent oscillations – '

'I see what you mean. It could work in principle. But would I have to personally enchant every individual artifact? I don't know how long we have until Solas begins his ritual, but I doubt I would have time to reach even a fraction of them. And besides, many are well-hidden.'

She nods. 'I agree. That is not a feasible route forward. But I think there must once have been a device which could control them all at once. If we could find such a thing – '

'Ah. And you think it might be here, in the forest.'

'Where else but at the centre of the empire?'

'We have found many elven trinkets whose use we cannot ascertain. Even were we to find the right device, how would we know that we had it, or how to use it?'

She nods. 'I know. I have been searching Mythal's memories. Nothing yet, but I am still trying.'

'Oh!' I say. 'Good. Well, in that case – let me know.'

'I will, of course.' She stretches, getting to her feet. 'Good night, Eirlan. Until the morrow.'

I watch her go, deep in thought. Who would have imagined, all those years ago, that my silly music spells might be our way of smoothing the transition to another world? I remember how fascinated Solas was with my experiments, how we used to tinker for hours with the spells. Did he have some inkling?

I wish, once again, that he was here to talk with. I never made such quick progress as I did in his company. I can only hope that if all goes well, one day I will have him back, my partner in research as in all else.

***

Strife is back from Ventus for a few days, although he plans to return shortly. While he's in residence, we decide to go visit a part of the forest that we've been calling the Gauntlet, on account of the series of stringent trials it presents. We've found records indicating that a powerful artifact called the Crucious Stone is stored in an ancient temple on the other side of the Gauntlet, but we haven't found a way past the rituals yet, and we're hoping that Strife's knowledge of the ancient ways will be some help.

We take Irelin along, since she has a knack for the upside-down part of the Gauntlet, as well as Tist and Binde, two recruits who came to us from human. Binde is a human, Tist's partner, but nonetheless she's agreed to help us: having spent her life in poverty and then been sold into slavery by her family, she has just as much desire to see the world order change as any elf. It makes me wonder if we should perhaps try to recruit more people from other races, but I'm not sure where we'd find them: Charter has some ideas about rescuing slaves from Tevinter, but we still have to be careful to avoid drawing attention to ourselves, particularly with tensions around Ventus so high.

Strife, Irelin, Tist, Binde and I are just about to enter the Gauntlet when we hear a rustling behind us – and before we can even think to move or hide, two dwarves burst out of the undergrowth, also heading for the Gauntlet. Varric, I realise; and with him, Scout Harding. My heart is in my throat. If they recognise me – my mind shies away from the thought, but we can't let them go away and tell anyone else that I'm here, or else the Veil Jumper cover story will be worthless. Suddenly I'm very aware of my prosthetic, which is surely the worst possible giveaway.

But Varric's eyes rest on me for a moment; and then pass on. The blood magic spell is working perfectly. He sees just another elven woman, and he doesn't even notice the prosthetic. A deep piercing guilt clutches at my chest: what am I doing, using blood magic on my old friend, deceiving him? I know how Varric feels about blood magic. I know how significant this betrayal would seem to him.

There's no choice, I tell myself, but that doesn't make this feel any less awful. I suppose this is how Solas must have felt; deceiving his friends, battling with himself. Is there really no other choice? If I'd tried harder, could I have made Varric understand?

But Varric is busy shaking hands, disregarding me completely. 'Hello there, my Dalish friends,' he says, appearing not to notice that only Strife and Irelin have vallaslin.

'Not just Dalish,' Binde says, rolling her eyes a little. You'd think Varric would at least have noticed that she isn't an elf.

'As he said, we're friends,' Harding says. 'I'm Lace Harding of the Inquisition, and this is – '

'Viscount Tethras of Kirkwall,' Varric says. 'But you can call me Varric.'

Strife raises an eyebrow. 'The Inquisition, here in Arlathan?' He glances anxiously at me, and I give a quick little smile: they haven't recognised me yet. But I suppose I should probably keep quiet, to avoid drawing too much attention to myself.

Harding and Varric explain their purpose: they believe that the Venatori are looking for the Crucious stone, and they're here to try to find it first. Strife raises an eyebrow. 'And I suppose you expect us to help you?'

'No. I expect nothing from you,' Varric says. 'Except perhaps your blessing to pass through the forest.'

At that, Strife laughs out loud. 'You'll never make it alone.'

Varric makes a face. 'Thanks for the vote of confidence.' He always was overconfident about these things: having tried the gauntlet myself, I completely agree with Strife that the two dwarves, unaccustomed with these wild elven magics, would have no chance of passing through alone.

Strife shrugs. 'My name is Strife,' he says.

Irelin introduces herself and Binde and Tish, and then hesitates. I step in quickly. 'And I'm Rook,' I say.

It's just the first word that came to my head: Merrill, Bellara, Charter and I have been having a chess tournament lately. And in a game of chess, the Rook can be switched with the King, which reminds me of the way that I've replaced the person who was once the Inquisitor. Varric, not a great lover of chess, is unlikely to get the reference.

Varric asks about our purpose here, and Irelin rattles off our cover story. 'That's what's become of Arlathan. A world turned upside down. A place where chaos reigns. That's why we've formed this group. The Veil Jumpers represent an alliance between the best Dalish mages and hunters – and other non-elves, such as Binde – willing and able to help contain the threat.'

Varric and Harding accept this somewhat unlikely tale without further comment; neither of them has given me a second glance. I stand quietly beside Tish as Varric and Irelin argue about whether we should accompany the dwarves, and eventually it's decided: we're going into the Gauntlet together. Tish and Binde, being new recruits, are sent back to the camp, and meanwhile the five of us set out into the gauntlet.

I keep to the back, my heart pounding strangely as I watch Varric and Harding. It's strange and painful to see them here: relics of a life I'd tried to left behind, people who were once my friends and who I must now count as enemies. It hurts to think of all the games of Wicked Grace I've played with Varric, nights whiled away around a fire listening to his stories. Suddenly I have an inkling of how Solas must have felt when he met me behind the mirrors, believing I would now be his enemy.

But watching him and Harding battle their way through the Gauntlet, I'm more puzzled than ever about why anyone would have thought Varric the right person to lead this hunt. Watching the horror contort his face as he understands we've been briefly projected into the Fade, the barely-controlled panic in both him and Harding as they sprint to regain their physical forms. Varric has always hated and feared the Fade and the spirits: no wonder he's so determined to stop Solas. Couldn't the Inquisition find someone who understands how all of this works a little better?

But then again, someone who actually understood would almost certainly have started to see reason in Solas' plans after chasing him for long enough, and they couldn't have that. Better to have someone incapable of undertstanding why he's right.

We push our way past more trials; the world turning upside-down, and the wild creatures of the forest taking advantage of it to attack us. Time magic, Irelin's specialty: she holds it back as best as she can, but for a moment I see the old man that Varric may one day become, weak and exhausted and still struggling to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Finally, the guardian of the temple – a Varterral. We haven't proceeded past this point before, because we don't like to hurt the forest creatures, even the frightening ones like Varterrals. Irelin and I exchange glances, and then she gets to her feet to make a distraction, and as the Varterral lumbers in the direction of her magical sparks the five of us get to our feet and sprint toward the temple.

Only to find that the door is already open. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up: could it be that the Venatori have beaten us to the punch? That would be infuriating, given all the effort we've gone to trying to prevent elven artifacts from falling into the wrong hands.

But then Varric says, 'That assassin … they saved me. From the leopard. I don't think this was the Venatori. I think it was … '

'Solas,' says Harding, in a low, cold tone. Clearly her feelings toward Solas have not grown milder in the course of the pursuit. I look toward the door. Could he really have been here? The thought that we might have come so close to one another, in the real world, no less –

'Who's Solas?' Irelin says innocently, as we enter the temple, and Varric picks up the letter addressed to him sitting on the altar. 'And why is he using the icon of the Dread Wolf as his seal?'

'Solas is who we've been looking for,' Varric says. 'And as far as we can tell, he is the Dread Wolf. An elven mage, not a god. But still … '

I look over Varric's shoulder to read the words that Solas wrote. You need not have worried. The artifact was never in danger of falling into Venatori hands. I hope that in time you give up this pursuit. What must be done will be done cautiously, and I will limit the damage as best I can. I have to wish to be the villain in one of your stories, but interfering in matters you do not understand can only make things worse. -Solas.

It's so characteristic of him that it makes a lump rise in my throat. Solas could easily have killed Varric and Harding; in truth, he probably should have. Their interference may be bumbling at best, but this stumbling around in matters they don't understand at all could go very poorly for everyone involved. But I know Solas considered Varric a friend once, as I did, and it's hard to forget the journey that we all shared. Solas is trying to warn Varric off, before someone gets hurt: I doubt that he'll succeed, because Varric's dedication to this cause has already passed beyond any rational argument, but I love him for making the attempt.

Strife glances at me. 'You're joking,' he says. 'You've got to be.'

'I'm afraid we're not,' Harding says. 'I know it's a lot to take in.' Her condescending tone makes the hackles on my neck rise, but I say nothing. Let them think we're a collection of oblivious elves who have paid no attention to anything that's happened in the last few years: they underestimate us at their peril.

'It is a lot,' Irelin says. 'But if it's true … if an elven god walks among us, using the Crucious stone, it could explain what's happening here in Arlathan.' This is a blatant fabrication: Arlathan has been this way for thousands of years, which is exactly why no one has lived in it since the fall of Elvhenan, but Varric and Harding, of course, don't care enough about elven history to know that. It's better that they think we've all come here to deal with a recent threat, rather than seeking to reclaim the forest as an elven homeland.

And naturally, Harding takes the bait: she's very willing to believe the worst of Solas. 'It's going to be happening everywhere, unless we find him,' she says.

I remember when we first met, how she gave me that wide-eyed look and commented on how Dalish elves never care about anyone else. I wonder if she's learned any better yet.

We'll find him,' Varric says. 'Whatever it takes, and whatever he thinks about my interference. Solas has to be stopped, and you and me? We're the only ones who can do it.'

For a moment a deep grief clutches at me. Oh Varric; this can't end well for you. Why has this become such an obsession? He's the Viscount of Kirkwall, a man with a position of honour and privilege in the city he loves, and yet here he is running around in the wilderness, chasing a vendetta he can't let go of. Even if it were true that Solas should be stopped, Varric and Harding would not be the only ones who could do it. But Varric can't see that: he's trapped in regret and sorrow that has nothing to do with Solas, or indeed with me. What happened with Hawke and Anders and Kirkwall continues to haunt him, and this obsessive hunt for Solas is the result.

'You know,' Irelin says. 'The legend of the Crucious stone says it's supposed to be used in combination with another relic. The Lorien crown, said to be located on the coast of Rivain, in the bay of Greenwall. Perhaps that's where Solas will go next?'

I glance at her in some confusion – I've heard of the Lorien crown, but no legend I know if connects it with the Crucious stone – and then I understand. This is a ruse. I duck my head, smiling a little, as Varric and Harding immediately begin demanding details, and Irelin nods blandly as she gives them all the details of the well-known but completely irrelevant stories about the crown. Since it's very unlikely that Solas is actually in Rivain, that should keep them off his tail for a while.

Leaving the temple, we find that the Gauntlet has calmed; we've passsed its trials, so now the way lies clear. We return through the forest, accompanying Varric and Harding back to the relatively calmer area at the outskirts, and then we make our farewells. Through all this time, Varric and Harding have hardly looked at me, and when we part Varric says, 'And goodbye to you too, ah – '

I smile. 'Rook.'

'Yes, Rook,' he says vaguely, already turning away. Despite myself I almost can't believe that the spell worked so well: years of friendship, and all it took was a mere hint of Merrill's blood magic and he didn't give me a second glance. Then again, in a way I always felt that he never really saw me; I was always mostly a symbol to him, and now that I'm not the Inquisitor I'm just another interchangeable elven woman. It felt like a friendship for a time, but in some ways it never was.

I watch the two dwarves walk away through the forest, an uncomfortable prickling at the back of my neck. Somehow I suspect this won't be the last time I see them. Varric's not letting go of this hunt, and nor am I letting go of my work to help Solas: we'll meet again, and next time it might not be so friendly. We're on different sides of this battle, and eventually one of us will probably have to draw some blood.

***

As we'd been expecting, the qunari invade Ventus, and our numbers receive a significant boost from escaped slaves and elven residents of Ventus fleeing into the forest. And then, shortly after the fall of Ventus, Morrigan arrives at the camp.

'I was right,' she tells me quietly, as we sit by the forest sharing a bowl of fruit. There's a lute nearby beckoning me to play it, but I need to deal with the serious business first. 'There is a key which can control all of the artifacts. It's called the Nadas Dirthalen.'

'And it's here in the forest?'

'Yes. I don't know exactly where, but I have some ideas.' She hesitates. 'The key was originally constructed by one of the Forgotten Ones – someone called Anaris.'

'I know the stories,' I say absently.

'They are not just stories,' she says. 'In fact, I have reason to believe that Anaris may still be around in some form.'

I frown. 'Really? He wasn't locked away with the Evanuris?'

'I am unsure. The spirits tell me he exists, but not in corporeal form. He has been seeking a way back into the world, thus far to no avail.'

'That seems less than ideal. We don't need a Forgotten One to deal with, on top of everything else.'

'Indeed.' Morrigan sighs, shaking her head. 'But the bad news is that I suspect we may need Anaris himself to activate the key. And he may need to have corporeal form for that.'

I frown. 'Even if we knew how, that seems like a terrible idea.'

She nods. 'Indeed. But it may be the only way.'

'We could send someone to talk to him, I suppose. Perhaps he might believe that an elf would want to help restore him. Then we could briefly bring him back, under controlled circumstances, and later banish him once more.'

She nods. 'That makes sense. The spirits have told me that there's a location in this very forest where he sometimes attempts to reach out to the living. Who would you send?'

'Charter is the obvious choice. She has plenty of opportunity going undercover.'

Morrigan shakes her head. 'I think it had better be a man.'

I raise an eyebrow. 'A man?'

'The spirits tell me that Anaris has a great dislike of women. He is more likely to cooperate with a man.'

'Of course,' he does wearily. Raising my eyes I survey the camp, wondering which of the men here might be willing to help; but then, behind my head, a voice says, 'I'll do it!'

I turn to see Cyrian, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He and Colette are briefly back in camp, returning from another of their trips to teach Dalish clans about our history. It's been hard on both of them, I know: no clans have been outwardly hostile, but there are always varying degrees of scepticism and grief, and Colette and Cyrian have been bearing the brunt of that. 'Cyrian,' I say softly. 'If you want a break, you can just say so. You don't need to volunteer for another difficult job.'

'No,' he says. 'I want to, really. An undercover mission – I've always wanted to do something like that. It sounds exciting.'

I recall belatedly that he's a fan of Varric's spy serials. 'It might not be as exciting as you imagine.'

Morrigan snorts. 'On the contrary, I suspect it might be rather more exciting than any of us would hope. Anaris has quite the temper, if the spirits are to be believed.'

'I want to,' Cyrian says stubbornly. 'Besides, Colette was thinking that her next expedition should be to the slave quarters in Minrathous, and Charter wants to go with her. She spent time there when she was a slave.'

'Yes, she told me that,' I say.

'So Colette won't need me for this one. I can do the undercover mission and then join her on the next one.'

I hesitate for a moment. 'You might be away for a while, Cyrian. You understand that? You might have to stay undercover for a long time.'

'I understand,' he says. 'Bellara and I have message-crystals. I'll keep in touch with her, keep her informed.'

I'm wavering: his enthusiasm is somewhat infectious. 'Well,' I say eventually. 'Talk to Bellara about it. If she agrees that it's a good idea, then you can go.'

***

That very evening, I get word from Dorian. 'I've spoken to Varric,' he tells me. 'He's in Minrathous.'

'Minrathous?' I know he and Harding went to Rivain after Arlathan, but I suppose they eventually figured out it was a red herring and got back on the trail.

'There's bad news, I'm afraid,' Dorian says. 'Varric's working with someone new. A woman called Neve Gallus. I've had dealings with her in the past. She's a detective, and I'm afraid she's very good at what she does. She says she has a lead, and I'm inclined to believe her.'

My heart beats a little faster in my chest. If Varric finds Solas – well, I'm not really all that worried for Solas, but I don't want Varric to die either. Whatever has since passed between us, he was once kind to me when there was precious little kindness to be had.

'We can't let them find him,' I say urgently. 'Someone will get hurt.'

'Then you should come to Minrathous,' Dorian says. 'Varric says Neve's still chasing the lead, but she should be done in a few days. If you want to stop Varric, you'll have to tail them and interfere.'

I pause, wavering, but this is my moment. If we're ever going to really help Solas, this is our best opportunity.

'All right,' I say quietly. 'I'll come. I can be there in a few days, if we go by sea.'

I can hear that Dorian is beaming. 'Eirlan, I can't tell you how excited I am to see you,' he says. 'You will meet with me, won't you?'

'I will,' I say, without hesitation. He's done more than enough in the last few years to prove his loyalty, so I don't feel any need to keep my distance.

'Let me know when you arrive and I can tell you what I know about Varric,' he says, and the stone goes dark.

I sit alone for a long time, gazing hollow-eyed into the darkness. I have a bad feeling about this; we're not ready, Solas is not ready. But eventually I have no choice but to get to my feet and start walking, stars lighting my way. The is moss thick and fragrant around my bare feet, and there's a different kind of beauty to the ruins now, born of shadows and regret. I walk through the temple for a long time, my heart heavy; I don't know what I'm looking for, and I don't find it.

***

Fortunately, Colette and Charter already have a boat ready to go for their excursion to Minrathous. They weren't planning to set out until next week, but I round them up and inform them we'll be leaving immediately. We stock the boat with fruit and nuts and set off that very evening, hugging the coast to avoid being sighted by the qunari in Ventus, and then striking out across the estuary.

Charter is by far the best sailor of the three of us, and although I try to help, there's not a lot I can do. I spent a lot of time sitting at the prow, watching the slate-coloured waves thrown up by our passage, and quietly summoning spirits to try to get an indication of what's been going on with Solas. But the spirits have heard little from him, and he's been absent from my dreams the last few days, which makes me anxious: I think I would know if something happened to him, but I suspect his silence means he's getting ready for something.

It would be very poor timing if Varric were to find him just as he's making the final preparations for his ritual, and besides, our own preparations are not complete yet. I want the Veil to come down, but I need a little more time.

As we approach the coast, I see the Archon's palace first: a glowering crescent floating above the city, casting its malevolent shadow over the lives of all who inhabit the streets below. I'm not inclined to feel warmly towards Minrathous, despite Dorian's protestations of its attractions, and my first impression doesn't change that. It's a grim, spiky, shadowy city, looming like an angry ghost over the estuary. Charter sails carefully around the rocks of the coast, keeping out of sight of the palace, and docks at a nearby beach, where we disembark and prepare to make our way into the city.

I'll be meeting with Dorian later, but he's given me the name of the bar where Varric and Harding have been staying, so I need to head there first just to check out what's going on. We don't want to attract too much attention, so after we've entered the city through the lower gates, Charter and Harding make their way to the slave-quarters while I head for the bar.

Arriving in the dingy little tavern, I don't see any dwarves, so I settle down with a tankard of some fruity drink the Tevinters favor, waiting for Varric. Merrill renewed her blood magic spell before I left, so with luck he won't recognise me. Still, I'm nervous. It feels like things are coming to a head, somehow, and I'm not ready; I'm not ready at all.

Chapter Text

When Varric appears, I push my tankard away, throw some coins onto the counter, and follow him out into the city.

I follow him silently through the streets, keeping to the shadows. He seems nervous, glancing over his shoulder as he goes, so I make sure to keep well back: he didn't notice me in the bar, but if he sees me tailing him I can't be sure Merrill's blood magic will keep working.

And then, the moment that changes everything. We round another corner and a siren sounds; the sky splits open. I freeze, my heart pounding so loud I can barely hear the screams. The green rifts splinter across the sky like a celestial earthquake, and I understand immediately.

The ritual has begun. The ritual has begun, and the Veil is coming down.

We weren't ready, but all of a sudden I don't care. I feel a fierce, astonishing joy pumping through my body, the very blood in my veins resonating with the music of the Fade, a raw metallic taste on my tongue as all that magic draws achingly close. The Veil is coming down.

I push myself to my feet, sprint after Varric; watching from the shadows as he meets Harding, and then the detective Neve Gallus. We're so close now. I won't let them interfere with the ritual, not now, not when the world teeters on the precipice of revolution. Solas can't fail; the Veil must come down.

***

I'm too late. After all that, I'm too late. On the way up the hill toward the ritual site I'm slowed by fighting my way through waves of demons, and I'm still struggling upwards when I see the statues beginning to topple; the air resounds with thunderous crashes, and I can feel on my very skin the impact of the ritual falling to pieces – surges of wild magic whipping through the sky like spray off the side of the boat.

My heart stutters. 'Solas!' I shout, desperate, but my voice is lost in the chaos. I sprint onward, my heart beating out of my chest, and then I crest the rise and see Solas raising his hands, stopping the immense statues in midair. Throwing them back. An enormous flood of energy that buffets me to my knees, and despite everything I have a moment of pure aching desire for him: all the power he holds in his very body, that sheer determination and will.

In the distance I see Neve and Harding scrambling over scaffolding: they must have knocked over the statues. They haven't seen me yet. But things are still moving too quickly. I force myself to my feet, and in the same moment I see Varric fling himself onto Solas, reaching for the dagger. My stomach drops. Varric, you idiot. You idiot. Doesn't he understand what could happen? Doesn't he see what's at stake?

Varric and Solas are still struggling as I force myself up toward the site, raw magic pushing at me, thrusting me back. It's too strong, the magic pulling at every scrap of mana in my veins. But I see Solas, his eyes wide with panic, with pure fear, heaving at the dagger. And then – my heart almost stops – I see a pair of figures, in the rift behind them. I know those silhouettes. I've seen them a thousand times, in the elven art of Arlathan. Ghilnan'nain. Elgar'nan. The worst of the Evanuris –

Perhaps it isn't too late. There's no time to think. I can't cast, not in this chaos, so I pull my own dagger from my belt, and without a moment's thought, I throw.

The dagger flies through the air and my eyes track it in astonishing, painful detail. Afterwards, I'll remember the exact path it took, the way it twisted and burnt green with reflected light as it embedded itself in Varric's back. I fall to my knees, my pulse beating like war-drums at my temples. Solas' eyes widen as Varric falls away from him, and then our eyes meet, our eyes meet, and there's a moment of crackling heat as we face each other in the real world for the first time in eight years; but there's no time.

Solas turns, raising his hand, desperately drawing on his power. But it's too late. There's a crack, raw magic reverberating through the air like a wave of blistering heat, throwing me backwards so my head slams into the stone wall and my vision splits. For a moment I can see again and I think Solas is gone, and before I can process it I feel someone grasping at my shoulders, picking me up. I try to get to my feet but instead I'm falling, sliding into unconsciousness. It's too late. I was too late.

***

When I recover consciousness, mirages swirl around me, shades of grey echoing like reverberations off stone. Giant hands reach avariciously out of the ground, reminding me of memories in ruins; a Titan's hand reaching out and plucking helpless elves from their homes. I shudder, stumbling back. Automatically I reach my hand to the back of my head to assess the damage, but find nothing – no wound, no blood. My vision swims and I shake my head to clear it and then understand: I'm in the Fade.

Varric. Memory returns to me like an earthquake, sudden and violent. I killed Varric. I killed Varric. A gasp, a sob. I fall to my knees, hands in my hair, panting with panic and shame. The knife, embedding itself in his back: cold metal at my temples, pounding terror. I didn't have a chance to speak to him, didn't even look him in the eye.

The Fade swirls around me, like a dust-storm whipped up by my distress. I force myself to breathe: once, twice, holding on to the things I know. I didn't want to hurt him. I did what I had to do.

Snowdrop, he used to called me. A harmless flower. He always underestimated me, but I never wanted to have to prove him wrong.

Another breath, and then another. And then, finally the air clears a little and the scene stabilizes, and I see emptiness before me, and then light. I'm kneeling at the edge of a ravine, and on the other side there's a dark figure, also kneeling, like a mirror-image of me. But it's not a reflection. It's Solas.

I take a step forward, then another. Part of my mind tells me this must be a dream, like all the others; I can't be standing mere feet away from him, after all these years. But this is the Fade, so it's a dream and yet also real, like the strange half-existence of most of our years together. Eight years and yet somehow it didn't feel like separation; it was always just a way of falling deeper in love.

Solas sits, his shoulders bowed. His head in his hands, defeat in every line of his body. So close I could almost reach out and touch him. Perhaps I died, in that wave of heat. Perhaps this is what my mind wanted to see, in my last moment. The great love of my life, the one who was never quite mine.

'Solas?' I say, half-expecting to find this is just a figment of the Fade. But then he raises his head, and our eyes meet, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it's really him. Somehow we're both here, together in the Fade.

'Vhenan?' he croaks, and I feel the word catch on my heart. After all this time, he still addresses me thus without a second thought.

'Ir abelas, vhenan,' I say, placing my palms flat on the ground beside me. 'I was too late. I'm sorry.'

'You are – ' He cuts himself off, with a sharp breath. 'You should not be sorry. It was my failure.'

Oh, my love. I see his face crack with the pain of it. Another mistake, another terrible regret. I want to hold him, but the ravine won't yield to my attempts to visualize a bridge across it. I'm usually better at manipulating the Fade than this; something is standing in my way.

'What happened?' I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. 'Did Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain escape?'

He turns his face away. 'Yes,' he says, in a low voice. 'Yes. They escaped. And I – I am trapped here.'

I look around, evaluating. 'This is the prison where they used to be?'

He shakes his head. 'No. This is the new prison where I intended to move them.'

'Ah. So we're not in the Black City?'

He glances at me, his lips quirking a little. As always, I know more than he expects. 'How did you – never mind. We are in the Black City. But a different part from my original prison. This place would have stood firm while the rest of the Veil came down.'

'But it's not down.'

He shakes his head. 'As I said. I failed.'

I close my eyes for a moment. 'Am I trapped here as well?'

He shakes his head. 'You are simply asleep. I am not sure how you ended up here. Perhaps you shed some blood at the ritual site, and it created a tenuous connection.'

'So I will wake shortly,' I say, struggling to fit my mind around the enormity of it. 'And then we will have to stop Elgar'nan, and Ghilan'nain. And free you, so you can finally take down the Veil.'

Solas looks down, his eyes tired. 'You – that will not be easy. And should not be your priority. First Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain must be stopped.'

'We will need your help to fight them. I could never match them in battle.'

'You would be their match for skill,' he says heavily. 'But it is true, you have not the raw power.'

'Exactly. So how can I get you out of here?'

I see him hesitate; there's something he's not telling me. But he shakes his head. 'I do not know,' he says. 'I will have to think on it.'

'And Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain?' I say urgently. 'Where will they go? What will they do?'

'They will need some time, to muster their strength,' he says. 'You have a few days, at least. But you should be prepared. Things will move quickly, after that.'

To my horror, I am starting to feel the Fade fraying at the edges. The waking world exerting its grasp on me, calling me back to wakefulness. No. No. I can't leave. I need to talk to Solas, I need to –

'Will I see you again?' I say desperately. 'When next I sleep?'

He looks up, and for a moment I see desperation in his eyes. 'I hope so,' he says softly, and I realise – if I can't return, then he's trapped here, alone. I remember seeing his fears in the Fade: dying alone. Will he meet his end in here, alone in the darkness? Will we never see each other again?

'Solas,' I say desperately. 'Ar lath ma, vhenan. I'll get you out of here. I'll find a way.'

I see him tremble, the light of his agony burning bright behind his eyes. 'Emma lath. Ma sa'lath, I can't – '

But he can say no more. The Fade reverberates, dissolves around me. And I open my eyes to find myself sitting in an unfamiliar infirmary, alone, looking around me and wondering what has happened and where I could possibly be now.

***

I've only just gotten to my feet when Harding arrives. 'Oh hey, Rook,' she says, and I'm briefly confused, before I remember that Rook is the name I gave myself back when we met in Arlathan all those months ago. I guess I'm stuck with it now.

'What – happened?' I say, gazing around in confusion.

'We met at the ritual site,' she says. 'Or rather, you passed out at my feet. I guess you saw something happening and came to investigate?'

My mind races. Of course, she doesn't realise I followed them from Minrathous; she thinks I'm just a Veil Jumper who emerged from somewhere in the forest. They don't know who I am. They don't realise that I was there to help Solas.

And most importantly, it appears that Harding doesn't realise that I killed Varric. Of course, she would naturally assume that Solas did that; I'm just an innocent bystander stumbling upon the scene. The thought of Varric flays me raw, my body heavy with shame. The memories buffet me, crushing me beneath their weight: his laughter echoing around the fire in the Hinterlands. The first time he called me Snowdrop. The day he dragged Solas and me to the kitchen in Haven to make cookies. Oh, Varric. It didn't have to come to this.

But there's no time. I'll grieve him in time, I'll find a way to atone, but I did what I had to under the circumstances. Right now, all I can do is deal with the consequences.

They don't know who I am. I can use this.

'Yes,' I say. 'Seemed like something big was happening. Lights in the sky, magic going crazy.'

'It was,' she says grimly. 'It was Solas. The Dread Wolf, I mean.'

My mind is moving very quickly. How much should I tell them? I need to say something, I realise. I need to give them a reason to keep me around. If Elgar'nan and Ghilnan'nain are really out there, I'll need more than the Veil Jumpers to fight them, and Harding's Inquisition contacts together with Neve's Tevinter contacts will be a good start.

Besides, if I keep them on side I'll have a better idea of what they intend to do about Solas, and better opportunities to stop them.

Better to tell them at least a little, I think. 'I know,' I say. 'I spoke to him in the Fade.'

'In the Fade?' she says blankly.

'I must have shed blood at the ritual site. I woke up in the Fade. He's trapped there, apparently.'

The look of gleeful delight on her face makes me angry, but I restrain myself from lashing out, and instead take a small amount of uncharitable pleasure in saying, 'But there's bad news. Something else escaped during the ritual.'

'Something else?'

'Yeah.' I look around. 'Maybe you should get Neve? We all need to talk.'

***

While Harding goes to find Neve, I have a little time to wander around this place. The Lighthouse, she called it. The place that Solas has lived all these years.

Heart in my mouth, I catalogue the traces of him. The book left open on the table, a technical tome on elven wards. The cabinet of medicines in the infirmary, carefully stocked. The candles, burned down to the quick. Fragments of frescoes, too degraded to reveal anything of their subject matter, but painfully familiar nonetheless. I remember the smell of the paint as I kissed him, the streak of red he left along my cheek as he raised a hand to cup my face. Ominous, perhaps, in retrospect.

It's hard to make myself believe that he was really here, all this time. All those years of thinking, wondering. Trying to imagine where he was, what he was doing. And this is the answer: this broken ruin, silent and dark, its artworks shattered, its rooms shut off. I imagine him wandering this halls like a ghost out of time, lond and alone.

I cross the courtyard and find a kitchen. It's dark and empty as well, but there's a single place setting laid at the table: a bowl and cup, a knife and fork, not yet washed. This is perhaps the most surreal thing of all – to see these real traces of an actual life. After all the yearning he's become something like a symbol for me. But he was a real person all this time. He sat here alone, every day for eight years, and ate whatever meals he could scrounge up. The loneliness wasn't just in my head. It was real, for both of us.

I turn to leave, and gasp; a spirit has appeared behind me. Silvery tendrils, cloaked in a ragged garment, with some kind of elven hat perched atop its head. It regards me thoughtfully, and I stand anxious, as if awaiting judgement. I've become accustomed to speaking with spirits, over my years in Arlathan, but there's something different about this one: it's more cohesive, almost embodied. I really do feel that I'm being assessed.

But then it speaks, and there's warmth in its voice. 'The Wolf's heart,' it says. 'He has been waiting. You are welcome here.'

The Wolf's heart. Warmth blossoms in my chest; how easily the spirit names me thus, as if all the uncertainty and pain is ultimately irrelevant. In the end I'll always be his heart, and he mine.

'Please,' I say, remembering. 'The others don't know that I – '

'Yes. I will keep your secret.' The spirits bows its head. 'Will the Wolf be returning?'

A painful longing rises within me, but I do my best to tamp it down. 'Not right now. But I hope – I hope to bring him home soon.' Home. The word slips out without conscious intention. This isn't my home, but it could have been, could still be. If only he were here.

'The Lighthouse was empty without you,' the spirit says. 'He thought so many times, but he could not turn back.'

I give a blurry smile, my hand clutching at the table. 'I would have come, if he'd allowed me.'

The spirit turns in the air, its tendrils waving, and a collection of wisps flicker into life around me. 'There are other places, yet sealed away,' it informs me. 'The Wolf would want you to have access to them. The wisps will show the way.'

I nod solemnly, feeling the quiet hum of their magic in the air all round me, like the purr of an animal but also like the tones of a glockenspiel. 'Thank you. I have little time right now. But I'll be back.'

'The Lighthouse will wait,' the spirit promises. 'Good wishes to you, and the Wolf.'

I open my mouth to say more, but it's already dissolving before my eyes. The wisps remain, dancing eagerly like bright-winged dragonflies, reverberating in the air around me. 'I will,' I promise them, and then turn back too look at the kitchen one last time: the sole place setting. All these lonely years.

***

Once I explain to Neve and Harding about Elgarn'nan and Ghilan'nain, they seem to understand the urgency of the situation. They're lost and frightened, in the absence of their leader; it's not difficult for me to take charge, suggesting that we head back to Arlathan to investigate the ritual site. I need to reestablish contact with the Veil Jumpers; things have gone sideways very fast, and we need to talk and figure out a plan.

Oh, the relief that surges in me when I see Strife and Irelin appearing out of the forest. I make quick and urgent eye contact with them, and fortunately they understand, remembering our last encounter with Harding. They address me as Rook, and neither Harding nor Neve appears to notice anything amiss.

We explain what happened at the ritual as best we can. There are more details I want to share with them, but not here, not in front of Neve and Harding. When I say Elgar'nan's name I see Strife's eyes go blank for a moment, and then he looks at me and I'm shaken, suddenly, by the depths of his terror. Of all of us here, only Strife really knows what Elgar'nan is capable of, and to see him look like that – well. The few tendrils of optimism I'd managed to muster shrivel away, replaced by a dark, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I should have been quicker. If I'd fought harder, made it up that hill just a little sooner – Varric would still be alive, and Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain would still be in their prison. Whatever they do now, whatever new atrocities they wreak, I will have to bear the burden of knowing it's all happening because I failed.

'There's something else,' Irelin says, and her gaze flickers over my face. I see a flash of anguish, quickly suppressed, and even before she speaks I know what she's about to say. 'One of the Veil Jumpers is missing: Bellara Lutare.'

My breath quickens: I promised Cyrian, I promised I wouldn't let anything happen to her. I can't accept another failure, not after the catastrophes of yesterday. I look up at Irelin, who is gazing at me with barely-contained desperation. No wonder – despite the breakup, she and Bellara spent many years of their lives together. That kind of love outlasts the labels we put on it.

'We'll go look for her,' I say, meeting her eyes. I have to save someone, or what is the point of any of this?

Since Neve is still injured, I leave her behind to help the Veil Jumpers, and Harding and I enter the Veil bubble together. The Veil burbles over my skin, lightly electric, cool like silk and yet heavier, smoother. Sometimes I imagine I can feel Solas in it – the characteristic resonance of his magic, the echo of his desperation as he flung his power into this last resort – but really the resonances are too tangled to make anything out in detail. I blink and shake my head as I emerge, as if trying to agitate water droplets from my eyes, and then Lace tumbles out after me, and we make our way down the hill.

A construct appears, and I raise my staff, but before we can actually get to fighting it there's a rustling from the forest and then Bellara steps out in front of us, raising her gauntlet. Dizzy with relief, I find myself grinning foolishly up at her as she deals with the construct. She glances over at me and for an anxious moment I can see my name teetering on her lips, but then her eyes go to Harding and she puts it together.

'Rook,' she says smoothly, coming forward to greet me. 'And this is – ?'

'Lace Harding,' I say, and she nods, unsurprised. I suppose it wouldn't have been difficult to guess.

'Pleased to meet you,' she says. 'Do you happen to know what's going on with the magic?'

I give her the same truncated version I gave Strife and Irelin, together with the same significant look. Telegraphing, I hope, that there's more to the story than I've let on so far. She pales when I say the names Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain: like all of us, she's read enough records of their cruelty to understand exactly how bad this is.

'Well,' she says, a barely-suppressed tremble in her voice. 'That explains that. I suppose we should get out of here.'

'And how do we do that?' I ask, though I suspect I already know.

'We'll have to find the artifact I was searching for,' she says, and then her eyes flicker to me. 'It's an archive spirit. The Nadas Dirthalen.'

So she's on the track of the key. It's the first good news I've heard in some time, and I square my shoulders, steeling myself. All is not yet lost. We've got some resources, we've got a plan. It's not enough, but it will have to be.

'All right,' I say lightly. I want more details, but right now Harding's watching me, and I have no choice but to play the part of Rook. I keep my voice calm, cheerful: Rook, I've decided, is friendly and optimistic but not particularly clever. I need to be competent enough to convince Harding and Neve to follow my lead, but not smart enough to put them on their guard too much.

We fight our way through the ruins, the forest resisting us at every step. It's all fairly routine for a Veil Jumper, right up until we run into some darkspawn. Tendrils of Blight, reaching right into the heart of our forest. Outrage rises in me, fierce and furious, and I raise my staff and blast, one darkspawn after another, incinerating them before they can penetrate any further into the home we've been making. This is the doing of the Evanuris, I have no doubt: come to destroy the fragile peace of our labours in Arlathan. An ogre appears but I hardly break a sweat, blasting it with power channeled through pure rage. How dare they come here. How dare they do this.

We do find the Nadas Dirthalen, but Bellara can't yet get it to function. As Morrigan predicted, we need the key from Anaris. Just one more impossible task to add to the list.

As we walk together out of the sanctum, Bellara whispers to me, `Cyrian's gone to Anaris. He'll get the key.' I look sideways at her. I can't ask more until we manage to find some time alone; but I have a bad feeling about this, and from the look on the face, I suspect she feels much the same.

***

Arriving at de'Meta's Crossing, I briefly forget all my machinations. Neve and Harding draw closer to me, and we stand in horrified silence, united in our grief. The Blight. The village is crawling with Blight – heaving tendrils and sick pustules laying heavy across the homes and streets, blackened corpses littering the roads, the few survivors moaning in agony as they try to speak to us. The smell is indescribable; rot and blood, but more than that, a deep, profound rot as if the earth itself is putrefying and leaking its sickness into the air. An immense red sink-hole gapes obscenely in the centre of the village, more noxious fumes seeping from it, and I have to step over corpse after corpse as we make our way deeper into the village.

I knew, from the texts that I've been reading over the last few years, that the Evanuris were deeply depraved, but it's something quite different to see the evidence of it with my own eyes. This whole village full of people, destroyed without a second thought. So much death just for a little more power.

How much power? Where are they now, and what are they planning? The goosebumps stand up on my skin as I contemplate it.

It was the mayor who betrayed his village to the Evanuris. Under the circumstance, I'm not feeling charitable. I suggest we leave him where he is, and none of the others seems inclined to contradict me. Shaken, sick to my stomach, I lead them all back to the Veil Jumper camp, to report what we have seen. It's worse than we thought, and this is just the start.

Varric, I think painfully. What have you done? Whatever damage Solas' ritual might have caused, the Evanuris will do far worse. And Solas is trapped, unable to help us. I have to do this myself, somehow. I have to stop them, and I haven't the faintest idea how.

***

I'm exhausted, but we still need to go find that ritual dagger, before anything else can run off with it. I wish I'd thought of this earlier – now I have no choice but to go in the company of Harding and Neve, and I'm worried we'll end up in some kind of power struggle over possession of the object itself. Right now they're both frightened and anxious and inclined to follow my lead just because I assert my views confidently enough, but I'm not sure how long that will last.

We track a darkspawn carrying the dagger through a maze of ruins, and kill the thing. To my frustration, Harding gets to the dagger before me; but when she picks it up, something truly bizarre happens: the ground splits open, Harding falls over the edge of the cliff. I lunge forward, panic pulsing through my veins. To lose both Varric and Harding in the course of two days – whatever they did, they didn't deserve this. It isn't right. 'Harding!' I shout, trying to peer over the edge. Maybe there was a ledge, maybe she found a way –

And then a deep, bone-chilling rumble. The earth itself surging beneath me, the air pulsing with rage like a sound too profound to hear. I stumble backwards, grasping at thin air, trying to right myself. Certain that Harding is dead, that we're all about to die.

But then she appears, borne upwards again by the rocks. An echoing voice speaks of Isatunol. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The Titans.

I remember the records I've seen in elven archives; the terrible devastation wrought by the Titans on hundreds of non-combatants and children. No doubt the elves' records are extremely biased, by still it's clear that my people came close to being wiped out all those millenia ago. If the Titans are somehow returning, on top of everything else, well – I shudder. Perhaps it's just a manifestation of the magic of the stone. I have to hope so, because I can't possibly fight a war against the Titans as well, on top of everything else.

I seize Harding, try to draw her to safety. Then she raises her hands as a pair of darkspawn lunges at us, and with a single gesture turns them to stone. I gasp, looking at her with wide eyes. 'Did you just – '

'What is happening to me?' she whispers, terror in her voice. I feel the same terror pulsing at my own temple. None of this bodes well, and though the earth has stilled, I feel shaky, extra-sensitive, expecting that at any moment it will pulse once more and throw me over the edge.

On the bright side, it's clear that Harding can't carry the dagger, which gives me the opportunity to pick it up without looking suspicious. I see Neve eyeing it thoughtfully, but she says nothing. Good. If I can keep possession of the dagger, that will help cement my position as leader of this little group. And then, what? I'm not sure, but I know I'm going to need all the help I can get if we're to defeat the Evanuris.

***

At least I'm back in my own bed in the Veil Jumpers camp, for one night at least. Harding and Neve are also staying the night here: the Veil Jumpers are still searching the forest for the injured, and we've agreed to stay for a day or two to help.

'See if you can speak to Solas again,' Bellara says as I leave the fireside, and I nod tightly. That's the most urgent thing. If I can't contact Solas, we're truly in trouble. There's a lot of information I still need to get from him; and on top of that, it hurts me to think of him completely alone in that solitary place. At least if I can talk to him he'll have some connection to the outside world.

I'm so nervous about it that it takes me some time to fall asleep, but finally I slip into unconsciousness, and then, at least, I'm opening my eyes in the Fade. I see Solas rising to his feet, and the relief on his face is so raw it breaks my heart. He'd never admit it, but I can see he was afraid. What would he have done if I'd never been able to come back?

'Vhe – ' He clears his throat, as if uncertain he's allowed to speak the word. 'Eirlan. You returned. What has transpired?'

I want nothing more than to go to him and hold him; but the crevice still stretches between us. I don't know if it's a creation of the Fade itself or if Solas himself is deliberately keeping us apart. Is he still holding on to the idea that he needs to protect me by staying away from me? Even with things so desperate, it wouldn't surprise me.

'You were right, of course,' I say. 'Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain have escaped, and they're already on the move. They performed a blood magic ritual to summon the Blight and destroyed an entire village. It was – ' I swallow, unable to find the words.

Solas watches me, his eyes dark with grief. 'Ir abelas,' he says softly. 'I am sorry that you had to see that. I am sorry that you will likely see worse soon.'

'Yes,' I say. 'Solas, what do we do? How can we possibly stop them?'

He hesitates, shakes his head. 'I do not know,' he admits. 'It is worse than you think. Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain each have an archdemon, keeping them alive in much the same way as Corypheus' dragon did for him. They cannot be defeated until their archdemons are slain.'

'Archdemons?' I hesitate, calculating. Seven archdemons. Seven elven gods, less Mythal and Solas. Ah. 'That's what the archdemons were all along?' I surmise. 'Vessels for the souls of the Evanuris.'

'Yes,' he says. 'Fortunately, that means five of the Evanuris are dead. They perished when their archdemons were slain in previous blights. But now you are facing a double blight, and two archdemons, and two extremely powerful mages. It will not be an easy fight.'

'It feels like an impossible fight,' I admit.

He bows his head. 'As it felt to me,' he says. 'Hence, the Veil.'

I already understood and sympathized with Solas' reasons for making the Veil, but I feel that all the more strongly now. 'We need to let you out,' I say. 'You are the only person with power to match theirs.'

Again, that hesitation. He turns his face away. 'I do not know of any way for me to leave the prison.'

He's lying to me again, which frustrates me; but now that I know I can access him any time I sleep, I have time. I'll get him to admit it eventually, whatever it is.

'All right,' I say. 'So what should we do now?'

He shakes his head. 'I can only suggest that you muster allies. Seek out those who might be able to help in this kind of fight. Those with expertise in killing mages, perhaps. Or the Grey Wardens, with their knowledge of fighting archdemons.'

'You always hated the Grey Wardens,' I point out.

He smiles wearily. 'That is because the Veil is tied to the lives of the Evanuris, Eirlan. Killing the archdemons has been steadily weakening it for centuries.'

'But you want the Veil to come down.'

'Not like that.' He sighs. 'When I imprisoned the Evanuris, I imprisoned the Blight with them, in the Black City. If the Veil had just fallen down, the Blight would have been released. My ritual was designed to keep the Blight and the Evanuris imprisoned while removing the rest of the Veil.'

'Ah,' I say, understanding. 'You're saying there's more Blight, than what we have in the world?'

'Yes. And Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain will no doubt seek to release it. If they have my dagger, it may already be too late.'

'I have your dagger,' I say, and I see relief break over his face.

'Good,' he begins. 'Then you should also – '

But we're running out of time. I can feel the waking world begin to re-exert its grasp on me; Solas and his prison waver before my eyes. 'Vhenan,' I say urgently. 'I need you to tell me - '

It's too late. I wake in Arlathan, breathing hard, the sounds of the sleeping forest all around me. Above me, the full moon pours silvery light over the silent campsite. This glimmering, dishonest peace.

Chapter Text

In the morning I join Bellara, Strife, Irelin, Merill and Morrigan by the fire, where we sit eating bowls of green buckwheat porridge while I quietly fill them in on everything that's happened and what we plan what to do next.

'I think I'm going to stay with Harding and Neve,' I tell them all. 'I'll work with them to set up a centre of operations in the Lighthouse. They've got ties that we're going to need if we want to build an alliance to fight the Evanuris.'

'You should be careful,' Strife says. 'You'll be alone with two enemies. And they may eventually figure out what you're up to. Neve is a detective, and our `Veil Jumper' cover story is pretty thin.'

'Let me come,' Bellara says, sitting up excitedly. 'It makes sense. The eluvian in the Lighthouse needs repairing anyway, right? You can bring me in to repair it, and then it will seem natural for me to just stick around afterwards to help.'

I nod. 'Good idea. It will help if I have at least one person there that I can trust.'

'The Evanuris must be our first priority, but now that we know their lives are linked to the Veil, our preparations there must be continued as well,' Morrigan says. 'If we can defeat them, the Veil will come down. We need to have the Nadas Dirthalen ready by then. We must hope that Cyrian succeeds in retrieving the key.'

'Is he all right?' I say. 'Is he safe? He wouldn't have been my first choice for the job.'

'Nor mine,' Bellara says grimly. 'But he was so eager. And he seems fine, for now. I'm keeping in touch with my message-crystal.'

'That reminds me, I should speak to Dorian. And we need to reestablish contact with Charter and Colette, in Minrathous. Neve is keen for us to go to the city to speak to her people, so perhaps I'll try to get in touch while I'm there.'

'Good idea,' Strife says. 'But be careful. Neve will be watching you, and she's likely more perceptive than Harding.'

Merrill clears her throat, and picks up a bag. 'You need to make sure my blood magic spell holds strong. If Harding recognises you, it's all over. I'll renew the spell now, but in case you're away for a while, I've enchanted some jewellery to keep the spell going.'

'Thank you, Merrill,' I say, and then hesitate. 'Merrill, I – I'm so sorry. About Varric. I never – I didn't want – '

She looks down, her lips pressing tight for a moment. 'Yes.'

'He was a good friend, at times. Under other circumstances I would have done anything I could to keep him safe.'

She sighs, looking down. 'I know,' she says wearily. 'I – I'm sad, but I don't blame you. It would have been worth it, if you'd been able to stop the Evanuris from escaping.'

'But I didn't,' I say bitterly, my fingers digging into my knees. Shame and pain darken my vision, my chest tight as if my very ribcage is pressing in on me. 'I killed our friend and I didn't even stop them.'

Merrill reaches out and covers my hand with her own. 'Eirlan,' she says softly. 'It isn't your fault. Varric shouldn't have interfered. I tried to warn him, in my letters. So did you. So did Solas, even. You had to try to stop the gods from escaping.'

'I should have found another way.' Varric's voice echoes in my head: I've written enough tragedies to know how this one's going to end. But surely he didn't expect it to end with his death by my hand. If I think about it too much I feel like my head is splitting in two; my dagger spinning through the air, that panicked moment, the word Snowdrop. Who could have predicted it would come to this?

'There was no time,' Bellara says firmly. 'You did the best you could, under the circumstances. You can't keep beating yourself up about it.'

'How can I not?' I shake my head, blinking tears from my eyes. Right now, this does not serve me. 'It's all right. I'm keeping it together. Anyway, let's keep in touch. I'll come back as often as I can to check for news. We should try to get more message-crystals, if we can.'

'I'll find some,' Morrigan says. 'If we are to succeed, this will need to be very carefully coordinated.'

'Good. And I'll keep Solas informed of what we're up to. I suspect we'll need him in the end, so we should think about how to free him.'

'Is he all right?' Bellara says tentatively.

I smile without humour. 'No. But he'll survive, as he always does. I'll keep talking to him, and we'll get him out.'

'Tell him – ' Merrill says hesitantly. 'Tell him we all support him. Give him our best wishes.'

This time my smile is a little more genuine. 'I will. Thank you all. For everything.'

On the other side of the camp, I can see Harding stirring. We should break this up; we don't want her to start thinking the elves are colluding suspiciously behind her back. 'See you soon,' I say, nodding briefly, and then I walk across to Harding to resume the act. For the foreseeable future, I need to make myself into this stranger called Rook. But at least I'll have Bellara with me now, to remind me who I really am.

***

Later that day, Morrigan pulls me aside. 'I have news,' she whispers.

'The Nadas Dirthalen?'

She shakes her head. 'Something else. It's about one of Solas' generals. A man named Felassan.'

I pause, a memory stirring. 'Hold on – '

She nodes. 'Yes. The same Felassan who knew your friend Briala.'

I wince a little; thinking about Briala still hurts. 'She said he disappeared.'

'He did. Solas made him disappear.'

I stare at her. 'What?'

'Felassan came to understand that the modern elves are people. He changed his mind about Solas' plan, and so Solas neutralized him.'

My chest clenches. I know I haven't yet discovered the full depths of Solas' mistakes, and I need to prepare myself, but every time it hurts. That he would kill his own general – 'Oh,' I say dully. 'So he's dead.'

She shakes her head. 'No. I thought so, for a time, but I've received new information. Solas didn't kill Felassan. He simply put Felassan back into uthenera, planning to wake him once the Veil was down.'

The relief makes me briefly light-headed. That's at least one less burden for the two of us to grapple with. 'So he's – he's all right? Do you know where he is?'

'I do, and I think you should wake him. Felassan was not as powerful as Solas himself, but he was a skilled warrior, and he's fought Ghilan'nain before. He will be of great help in your fight against the Evanuris.'

I rub my forehead, thinking. 'But what about afterwards? Will he try to stop us from taking down the Veil?'

'From my conversations with the spirits, it seems to me that Felassan did not ever disagree with Solas' goal,' Morrigan says. 'I suspect that his concern was rather with the details. As you recall, when Solas first woke he planned to take the Veil down rather quickly and violently, with little regard for the harm it would cause. That is what Felassan objected to.'

'So you think he wouldn't oppose us taking down Veil, provided that we're minimizing the harm as best we can.'

'I believe so, yes.'

'All right,' I say slowly. 'All right. Where is Felassan, then? Will he be difficult to find?'

'Not difficult to find, but perhaps difficult to reach,' she says. 'Solas hid his body in an underwater prison once used by Ghilan'nain. It had lain untouched for thousands of years, so I imagine it seemed like a very secure place at the time, but unfortunately it has since been discovered and taken over by a Venatori cultist named Zara Renata.'

I glance up, alarmed. 'And is Felassan all right?'

'I do not know,' she admits. 'Zara has been performing some kind of experiments on human beings in that prison. If she found Felassan's body, I imagine she would have tried to experiment on him as well. But the spirits assure me that Felassan still lives, so whatever she's done, it has not yet been fatal.'

'So we'll have to fight past a group of Venatori to reach him.' I sigh. 'You know, I really thought that after disbanding the Inquisition I might never have to fight Venatori again. It seems that hope was premature.'

She smiles. 'I suspect so, unfortunately.'

'Where is this prison?'

'Antiva. Near Treviso.'

'Hmmm. You know, Neve had suggested we could make a trip to Treviso, to hire one of the Antivan Crows. It could line up. Bellara and I could slip away while we're there and see if we can rescue Felassan.'

'If you can, I think it would serve you well to have him on your side.' Then she smiles. 'If nothing else, I'm sure he has some interesting stories to share about Solas.'

I grin. 'Ah. Now I'm convinced.'

'Well, you may not have time, but at any rate, here's a map for the prison's location, so you can make the trip if you have a chance.'

I nod seriously, accepting the parchment she holds out. 'Thank you Morrigan. I don't know what we'd do without you.'

'Oh, well, I am obviously indispensable. It goes without saying.' She smiles at me and grasps my hand briefly before we part. And I go on my way, thinking about what she's said. I'm certainly intrigued by this Felassan person, so I hope very much we'll be able to retrieve him.

***

On our return from Arlathan, I explore the Lighthouse, finding more traces of Solas. His paint-stained notes, in which he struggles to comprehend that wants and needs could be different. Flecks of plaster on the floor, as if a fresco has been wrenched with trembling hands from the very walls. An unbelievable treasure-trove of books, thousands of volumes just begging me to read them. If only there were more time.

Climbing around the outside of one of the floating towers, I encounter the Caretaker, floating placidly in the air and gazing out at the Fade. 'Wolf's heart,' it greets me. 'Andaran atish'an. You returned from your travels.'

I lean on the wall beside it, gazing out at the deep currents of the Fade: the pastel lurches of the sky, the ephemeral glimmers. 'Can I ask you something?'

'I will do my best to answer.' Its tone is sonorous, like the deepest vibrations of an ancient bell.

'Did you know what Solas was planning, while he was living here?'

The spirit nods slowly. 'I did.'

'And what did you think? Did you approve?'

The spirit turns its face as if to look at me, though there are no eyes to see out of its silvery face. 'I do not think you need to ask me that.'

I raise an eyebrow. 'Why not?'

'You have asked many spirits, over the years. You gathered them to you in Arlathan forest and asked them for their guidance. You have always received the same answer.'

I bow my head. 'Yes.'

'Did you really think I would answer differently?'

'You seem different. Closer to corporeal. Less scattered, more coherent.'

'And yet I will tell you exactly the same as every other spirit. The Veil is an atrocity. My kind have been suffering for thousands of years, torn between worlds, never whole. Whatever the cost, it should be brought down.'

I look sideways at its shimmering form. 'You do not obviously appear to be suffering.'

'And yet I am,' it says softly. 'I am a higher spirit, with a clearer will than others of my kind, and a better understanding of what it would cost me if I were to push through the Veil. So I am more able to resist the magnetism of the physical. But I am subject to the pull nonetheless. I know the endless pain of that absence.'

And for a moment, as the words wash over me, I can feel the pain of which it speaks. The aching, reverberating longing. The pull of the broken world, ever-present. The terrible wrongness of the schism. No wonder the lesser spirits push their way through and lose themselves. To live always with this unbearable, unresolvable yearning: no sentience could tolerate that forever.

'I am sorry,' I say, looking away. 'I was insensitive. I know you feel it too.'

'You asked me because you hoped I might give you an excuse not to do this,' the spirit says.

I sigh, slumping a little on the wall. 'I suppose I did.'

'The Wolf hoped the same. But I gave him the same answer. The Veil is a wound on the world. It must be healed.'

'I know.' The words tumble from me, resigned and exhausted. It has to be done. The ancient wrong has to be righted. If only the task were not such a great burden to bear.

'Come,' the spirit says. 'There are other places. The wisps will open the way.'

'Ma serannas,' I say softly, and then I get up and allow the wisps to lead me back toward the main tower.

Neve is standing at the edge of the courtyard, looking out into the Fade. She turns and smiles to see the wisps. 'They're cute, aren't they?' she says. 'What do you think they want?'

'It's a mystery to me,' I say, swallowing my guilt over the small lie. I will have to tell many more lies to her before this is done.

She nods. 'Hey,' she says. 'I wanted to say – I know a lot has happened, and you didn't sign up for this like Harding and I did. It's not your fault Solas ended up in your head. If there's anything I can do to – well. Probably there's not much I can do, but I can be someone to talk to, at least.'

She's so kind. I feel another small crack in my soul when I smile back at her and say, 'Thanks, Neve.' Why couldn't she be less likeable? If she were a magister or a slave-trader I could tell myself she deserved it. But she's warm and good-hearted, fiercely protective of her city and the most vulnerable people who live there. Of course, Varric would never have hired anyone unkind, but my life would be much easier if he did.

Brow furrowed, I turn away from Neve and follow the wisps into the Lighthouse. They guide me toward a secret door, which opens onto a corridor leading into a warm, sunlit room. A music room.

I walk into the light of the windows; in here even the air touches gently, as if with some remembered tenderness. The room is equipped with a harpsichord and an elven lute, as well as a table laid with paints and brushes. On the walls, Solas has reproduced some of his Inquisition murals, and also added more. A depiction of the events at Halamshiral, first of all. And then portraits – one of himself, and facing it, a stylized image of an elven woman, her hand extended, holding something that looks like a spirit. My whole body starts to ache as I draw closer, examining the careful brushstrokes, the deep love evident in every line and every curve. Imagining him alone and grieving, painting this fresco of me – it hurts, but there's a kind of relief in it too. That he was thinking of me, just as I was thinking of him.

I'll have to instruct the wisps to keep Harding and Neve out of here. The painting is very lifelike: though I'm a little older now, no one could possibly miss that it's a painting of me, and I can't think of any explanation other than the truth for Solas having made detailed frescoes of me in his private room. Perhaps I'll talk to the Caretaker, since it appears to be on my side. More or less.

When I turn to the harpsichord I find that Solas has annotated some music. It's impossible not to think of all the times we played music together; the music spell I taught him, they way he looked at me when I first demonstrated it, the smile that broke over his face when he first added a harmony to my rising melody. I look at the annotations, and experience a wash of feeling; his joy in solitary practice, and then, unexpectedly, the memory of a duet. Our duet. The joy he took in it: seeing completely, and being wholly seen.

I sit at the piano for a long time, looking at the glass of wine by the keyboard, the pages of music. Imagining him sitting here, drinking his glass of wine, playing music and thinking of our time together. Grieving alone. It hurts, it hurts, but if I'm honest I have to admit part of me is relieved as well. Even after all this time. We will never untangle our hearts from each other, he said on that hectic night in Halamshiral, and it's clear that he meant every word.

***

Our contact in Treviso is Teia Cantori, which leaves me a little starstruck. For years I've heard tales of the elven woman who clawed her way through the ranks of the Crows to become a Talon, one of the youngest people ever to occupy the role. Teia waits for us on the bridge, hand on one hip: as I'd heard, she's very beautiful, with elegant lines of kohl accenting her eyes and dark curls softening the hard edge of her gaze. She greets us, her voice lightly accented, and gestures for us to follow her through the streets.

Treviso is beautiful too; shadowy and sensuous, its high spires winding jewel-bright into the starry canopy above. Purple lanterns cascade from the rafters, tinting the gloaming with indigo. The air smells of velvet and musk, with fleeting notes of rosemary. But the signs of the occupation are all around us, a scar on Treviso's otherwise glittering visage; qunari camps taking over the city's beauty spots, qunari patrols jogging past us on the streets, armed soldiers stopping to question civilians, casual brutality which has already become a fact of life. I see Teia's fists clench once or twice, and the same anger pulses through me, but there's nothing any of us can do right now. The qunari invasion is just one more problem that I have no idea how to solve.

Still, the life of the city continues. As we pass through the bustling market I briefly forget the indignities of the occupation; I'm enchanted, trying to look in every direction at once as we pass glorious carpets and glittering glasses and bright arrays of paintings. I could easily spend hours here, but Teia is gesturing us on, and reluctantly I follow her.

'So, how are things for elves in Antiva?' I ask, as we jog up the steps towards the Cantori diamond. 'Better than Tevinter, I imagine.'

She laughs, a bitter little sound. 'Ha! Indeed, though that is hardly high praise. The alienages here are as poor and embattled as most other places in Thedas.'

'But the Crows willingly accept elves?'

Her mouth twists. 'Indeed, because elven children are easily obtainable and usually desperate. There have been – some dark practices in the Crows, in the past. I was fortunate in where I ended up, but other elven children not so much.'

'Is it common, for elves to be able to reach high rank in the Crows as you have done?' I know the answer already, but I want to hear her take on it.

'It is not,' she confirms. 'You would not believe the battles I have had to fight to obtain my position. Even just to be taken seriously.' She sighs. 'At least I have been able to make House Cantori into a place where elves can live with dignity. But we cannot take them all. And the elves of Antiva should not have to become assassins in order to escape their poverty.'

'Do you have hope that things will improve?' I ask.

She snorts. 'Not while the qunari continue to occupy us.'

'But if they can be made to leave? Perhaps with the new Divine?'

Teia gives an apathetic shrug. 'I heard talk that she would bring reforms for the elves, but little of that seems to have materialized. She may have meant well, but her opponents are numerous and determined. She's so bogged down in the politicking I doubt that she will ever be able to bring real change for our people.'

I nod, watching her thoughtfully. From the hard edge in her voice, I find myself wondering if she's a person who might be sympathetic to our cause, at least as it pertains to elven freedom. Maybe I'll try to cautiously broach the topic at some point; it would certainly be helpful to have some of the Crows on our side.

Once we meet the Crows, everything falls into place almost too conveniently. Caterina Dellamorte is surprisingly willing to talk, and she reveals almost at once that the man we wanted to hire is stuck in the very same prison where Felassan's body lies. I exchange glances with Bellara, seeing her eyes widen hopefully; with luck, we can retrieve both of them and make it out alive.

I suggest that Neve should keep eye on the docks until our return, leaving me free to descend into the Ossuary with only Bellara, who knows that we're really here for Felassan. As we enter the prison, we both halt, looking around awestruck. This huge underwater space, the walls gleaming silver with faint elven text, the brightly-coloured fish flickering by like reflections in a shallow river: like the inside of an eluvian, all bright edges and darting colours. It doesn't feel quite real, the shadows of ocean creatures passing uncannily over us like denizens of the Fade. And it's so quiet, too quiet – as if it's laid undisturbed for millenia, though I know it has not. What else might lurk beyond these gleaming corners?

We encounter nobody as we make our way down to the high security area. I have no idea where Felassan's body might be or whether Zara Renata ever found it, but Lucanis will presumably be a high security prisoner, so this seems like a sensible place to begin.

And sure enough, when we open the first door, we finally encounter some Venatori. I'd been wondering where they all were. We're just gearing up to fight them when I hear a sound from above and see a man with what appear to be iridiscent purple wings diving towards us; he lands right in front of me, throws me a glittering smile, and then seizes the nearest Venatori and breaks his neck.

Pointed ears, ancient elven armor, Mythal's vallaslin: there can be little doubt about who this is. Felassan. But where did the wings come from? What's happened to him in this place?

The fight that follows is short-lived; these Venatori weren't prepared to fight two powerful mages and – well, whatever Felassan is now. He dispatches the last of them with business-like precision and then turns to me. 'So,' he says; his voice is faintly accented, though it doesn't sound the same as Solas' accent. 'Who are you?'

I exchange glances with Bellara. 'I'm Eirlan,' I say. 'And I take it you're Felassan.'

He raises an eyebrow. 'Interesting. Did Fen'Harel send you?'

'Not exactly,' I say. 'But we do know him, and we're trying to help him.'

'Are you going to help him by returning me to uthenera?' Felassan enquires. 'Because I have to inform you, this time I am determined to resist.'

I shake my head. 'No. Circumstances have changed. How long have you been awake?'

'They woke me a few months ago. But I've been trapped in here.'

I gesture at the wings. 'Pardon me for the intrusion, but is that a spirit? Are you possessed? Were you always possessed?'

A quirk of his lips. 'No. This is a recent development. I'm handling it. You're not at risk.' He glances over his shoulder. 'Tell me what's been happening outside. I notice that the Veil has not yet come down.'

I nod. 'Solas' plan changed. He designed a ritual to remove the Veil in a way which would cause less damage than his original approach. It took nearly ten years to design and implement.'

Felassan's eyes narrow. 'He – I tried to tell him that he ought to find a less harmful approach, and he attacked me for it! Put me back into the eternal sleep!'

I nod. 'Yes, but then he went out and spent some time with the people of modern Thedas and realized that you were right.'

His forehead furrows. 'And yet he could not be bothered coming to tell me so himself?'

'Unfortunately he's currently trapped in the Fade.'

Felassan's eyes widen. 'Ah. So there's more?'

'He tried to implement his new ritual, but it was interrupted. With some unfortunate consequences.'

'Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain escaped,' Bellara explains. 'And Solas was sucked into their prison in their place.'

Felassan raises an eyebrow. For a man who's been trapped in a hellish prison for a year, it has to be said that he has beautifully manicured eyebrows. 'Ah. Well – that would be extremely funny, were it not for the part about the Evanuris escaping. You're sure?'

'Very sure.'

'Well then this world is doomed,' he says, matter-of-factly, leaning causally against the wall. 'They were already horrific tyrants. After thousands of years of imprisonment and the deaths of five of their siblings, I cannot begin to imagine the revenge they will exact.'

'We're going to stop them,' I say, with more confidence than I really feel. 'And then take down the Veil and free Solas.'

'Is that so?' Felassan looks mildly amused. 'Solas and I fought them for hundreds of years and couldn't make any headway, but you're going to kill two gods in the next few weeks?'

'They haven't yet regained their full power. They don't have large armies or an established infrastructure. And there's only two of them, rather than seven.' I shrug. 'It's not going to be easy. But it's the best chance anyone has ever had.'

Felassan smiles. 'You know what, I like you,' he says, kicking away from the wall. 'I like the optimism. It's been in short supply for me lately. All right then, I agree.'

'You agree?'

'You're here because you want my help, aren't you? I've fought the Evanuris before. You need my experience.'

'Well – yes,' I admit. 'We were hoping you'd help.'

'Good. Well, I don't have anything else on my social calendar, so I'll do it. Maybe this time I'll finally get to put a dagger through Ghilan'nain's heart. Shall we get out of here? They've got a vial of my blood that I'd like to get rid of, and then I'm ready for some fresh air.'

'Wait a moment. We're also supposed to be finding Lucanis Dellamorte.'

'Ah.' Felassan's expression shifts a little. 'He's dead, unfortunately. Poor man. He held out bravely for a long time, but what they do in this place – '

'They're putting demons in people,' I surmise.

'Indeed. As you see.' He gestures at the wings protruding from his own back.

'That's why you have a demon inside you?' Bellara says. 'Are you sure you're in control?'

'More or less.' He shrugs. 'The elves of my time often had dealings with spirits. I had experience, enough to gain the cooperation of the spirit they placed inside me. Lucanis was not so fortunate.'

'Felassan,' I interject. And then I hesitate, apprehension crawling up my spine. I have to tell him. Yet it remains a raw wound, a shame I've barely been able to speak of.

'Yes?' He cocks an eyebrow at me.

'Before we go, there's something you should know.'

Felassan looks at me, and the levity vanishes from his expression. 'Oh. And by something, you mean bad news.'

I swallow, my throat constricted. 'It's about Briala.'

He pales, the lines of his vallaslin standing out more sharply. He stares at me, saying nothing.

'I'm sorry,' I say. 'She's gone.'

He turns sharply and paces away from me, facing the wall. He makes a gesture, helpless and futile. 'How?' he says.

'She was assassinated.'

'By whom?'

'By either Gaspard or Celene,' I say. 'You may have heard, I don't know, about the political situation in Orlais – '

'They were sharing power,' Felassan says. 'I heard conversations, between guards in here. And Briala was involved?'

'We gave her blackmail material. She was hoping to play them off against each other, keep them in check.' Regret claws at my throat, sharp and glittering. 'I knew it wasn't a good idea. I knew she'd be in danger. But I - the only alternative was to ask her to go back to Celene, and I couldn't do that to her, I - '

'Back to Celene?' He laughs, a harsh, jagged sound. 'No. That would have been worse. What that woman did - '

'I'm so sorry, Felassan,' I say. 'If I hadn't disbanded the Inquisition, maybe we could have protected her. But I was afraid to leave it in place. To give the Chantry yet another army at its disposal. I thought, better to get rid of it before I lose my hold on it completely. But then, Briala - '

He turns, and for a moment I fancy I see the faint purple glow of the demon inside him; a poisoned shadow lingering behind his eyes. 'The Orlesian empire is rotten to the core,' he says, voice like grinding glass. 'Briala thought reform was possible. I knew she was naive, and yet I encouraged her. Why did I do that? Why did I - ' He shakes his head, and leans to clench his hands around the edges of the shelves. 'We will take down the Veil,' he says, fury vibrating through him. 'We will take it down, and the Orlesian empire will fall, and I will bury every single fragment that remains of their putrefying court.'

I have nothing to say to that but 'Yes.'

It's the right answer. Felassan draws a long slow breath and turns back to me, his eyes glimmering like shards of amethyst. 'Just tell me what to do,' he says.

I contemplate him, an idea occurring to me. It's a little crazy, but what about our current situation is not? 'Well then,' I say, following him toward the door. 'How do you feel about coming back to the Lighthouse with us and pretending to be Lucanis Dellamorte?'

***

That night in the Fade, when Solas asks what's been going on, I smile to myself and then say, 'Well. We found Felassan.'

The look on his face is gratifying; his eyes widen, his hands going to his hips. ' Felassan ?' he says. 'My – my general, Felassan?'

'The very same.'

'How did you – '

'Morrigan got word of him from the spirits, and they led her to the place where you hid his body. She thought he might be useful in our battle against Ghilan'nain, given his experience.'

Solas contemplates this for several long moment, shifting from one foot to another, and then at last he says, 'She is right. Felassan will be a great asset to you, I'm sure.' He hesitates. 'Is he – all right?'

I decide that this is not the moment to mention the demon; I hope to find a solution to that problem before too long in any case. 'He is, yes. Although quite annoyed with you.'

Solas looks down, his eyebrows drawing together. 'As he should be.'

'Well. At least you didn't kill him.'

'I thought about it,' he admits.

'But you didn't.' My voice cracks on the words. ' You didn't kill your friend.'

His eyes flicker to my face. 'Eirlan – '

I shake my head. I can't talk about Varric right now. Not if I want to keep going; there will be time to mourn, and to atone, when this is all over. Or so I have to tell myself. 'At any rate, he's all right, and he's going to help us.'

Solas raises an eyebrow. 'Just with the gods? Or with the Veil?'

'With both,' I say. 'You know, he was never against taking it down, Solas. He just wanted it to be done carefully, with as little harm as possible.'

Solas frowns down at the ravine between us, crossing his arms over his chest. Then, without looking at me, he says, 'I suppose I should have listened to him.'

'Yes. You should.'

There's a long pause, in which both of us contemplate how our shared history could have gone differently. But I don't want to dwell on those regrets right now, either, so I clear my throat and say, 'You know, I'm looking forward to asking Felassan for stories about your youth.'

A faintly alarmed look appears on Solas' face, and I shake my head fondly. 'I'm not talking abut the dark secrets and betrayals, vhenan. Just the normal things.'

'Ah. Well, I fear there was little that was normal about any of it,' he says softly.

'There must have been something. Didn't you sometimes get into trouble, when you were young? Breaking rules, chasing girls – '

He looks faintly amused. 'That's really what you're curious about?'

'If you don't want me to ask Felassan, you could always tell me yourself.'

He raises an eyebrow. 'A reasonable proposal. I will consider it. What exactly would you like to know?'

I grin. 'Tell me about your first crush.'

To my surprise, a little smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. 'I rather think you already know about it.'

I stare at him for a moment, before understanding. 'I – oh! Really? In all those years?'

'In all those years,' he says, gazing steadily at me across the ravine. 'Why do you think I was so terribly awkward?'

'I assumed that was to do with all the secrets and lies.'

'Well. Yes, but only in part.'

'You really never – '

'Do not misunderstand me. I had a number of entanglements in my previous life, as I once told you. But I had no experience with – ah, infatuation'

'Oh!' I say, and then. 'Well. It must have come as something of a surprise.'

'I was rather taken aback, when I realised what I was feeling,' he admits. 'And embarrassed.'

'Embarrassed?'

'I kept blushing ,' he says, in a reproving tone. 'And at the most inconvenient times.'

'I noticed. I quite enjoy it when you blush.'

It's hard to tell in the shadows, but I think those words might have elicited a blush of their own. 'I'm well aware,' he says gruffly, looking down.

I realise that I'm beaming at him, no doubt starry-eyed. But it just feels so good to hear a little lightness in his voice. After nearly ten years of mourning, of painfully fleeting encounters in the Fade, I had worried that the sadness might have leached all the desire out of our relationship. But standing here watching the colour rise in his cheeks, seeing him glance up at me and smile a little as if he just can't help it, it's clear that the heat between us is very much still alive. Suddenly I'm deeply frustrated by the ravine that separates us, and this time not just because I want to give him a hug.

***

Because the identity of the Demon of Vyrantium was always a closely guarded secret, Neve and Harding seem unsurprised to be told that he is in fact an ex-Dalish elf with an accent that isn't quite Antivan. Since arriving at the Lighthouse Felassan has been putting on a gruff, taciturn manner which helpfully deflects too many additional questions. I suspect he has no shortage of experience in going undercover.

But I'll have to do my best to keep Neve and Harding away from the Crows. We recovered Lucanis Dellamorte's personal effects from the prison and gave them to Teia and Viago with our condolences, so if Neve or Harding ever goes to Antiva and mentions that they're working with Lucanis, there will be some awkward questions to answer. This was already a complex balancing act, and Felassan is yet another variable I have to handle. But I think it will be worth it to have him here in the Lighthouse, secretly working with Bellara and me. We outnumber Neve and Harding now; when the time comes, we'll be ready.

I go to find Felassan in the little room behind the kitchen which he's claimed for himself. He's lounging on the bed, making his way through a stack of Minrathous papers as he tries to catch up on what he's missed on the last twelve years. Looking up at my entrance, he waves me over, and I sit down in the chair beside his bed.

'So,' I say. 'Do you want to tell me about the demon you have inside you?'

He waves a hand airily. 'A small matter. I'm dealing with it.'

'Most people would not call demon possession a small matter.'

'Most people are not ancient elves,' he reminds me. 'We lived side by side with spirits, remember. I know how to handle them.'

'Things changed when the Veil was made,' I remind him. 'This spirit has become a demon. Your usual techniques may not apply,'

'We had demons in my time.'

'Very rarely, according to elven records.'

He nods. 'You're right. It was extremely uncommon. But the being in me is also not entirely a demon. We've conversed. He's able to listen to reason, to a point.'

'That to a point worries me.'

Felassan cocks his head. 'You know, I'm impressed. My unearned confidence usually works to reassure people.' He sobers for a moment. 'Really, it is under control, at least for now. I'll let you know if anything changes.'

I meet his gaze. 'I'm sorry that happened to you. Even if you have experience, it can't be easy.'

'It's hardly your fault,' he says. 'Solas, on the other hand – ' He shakes his head, and then says, 'Bellara tells me you have Solas in your head? That must have been a strange way to make his acquaintance.'

'Oh no, we knew each other before,' I say. 'Like I said, he spent some time with the people of modern Thedas.'

'Oh yes. In something called the Inquisition, Bellara said. Doesn't really sound like Solas' style, but I suppose needs must. You were in the Inquisition?'

I laugh. 'I was the Inquisitor.'

Felassan stares at me. 'They chose an elf as the head of an Andrastian religious army? Are you Andrastian?'

'Certainly not. I'm Dalish.'

'Yet you have no vallaslin.'

'I did. Solas removed them.

'He did? He must have trusted you a great deal, to reveal that.'

'We were – close,' I admit.

'Wait.' Felassan's eyes narrow. 'What do you mean, close?'

I hesitate. 'I don't know if – '

'Close as in close? Close as in – the Dread Wolf took you?'

I smile despite myself. 'Bellara made that joke as well.'

Felassan stares at me for a moment, and then he begins to laugh. 'Oh – ' he says, gasping. 'Oh, I'm sorry. It's just – too funny. He puts me into the eternal sleep for even daring to suggest that the modern elves might be people, and then he immediately turns around and falls in love with one of them. Honestly, fate could not have played a better joke on him.'

'I'll admit I struggled to see the funny side of it, for a while.'

'Sorry,' he says, shaking his head. 'I'm not laughing at the thought of him falling for you specifically. I'm sure you're very charming. Just – falling for anyone is genuinely hilarious, under those circumstances.'

I smile. 'No, I understand. I'm sure it was a struggle.'

'Oh my friend, I wish I could have been there to see it. I never saw him in love before. What was he like? Did he write poetry? Send you gifts?'

'No,' I say. 'He was very awkward, and he kept trying to keep his distance, but he couldn't do it.'

Felassan shakes his head. 'Lethallan, I am heartbroken that I missed this. You know there's no choice about it now – we're going to have to get him out of that prison so I can make fun of him.'

'Oh, don't worry, I plan to,' I say.

He smiles. 'You're very determined, aren't you? Well then, Inquisitor. I look forward to working with you.'

'Good,' I say softly. I can't deny that it's an enormous relief to have Felassan here on our side; he's fought the Evanuris before, he knows what they're capable of, he knows how to resist them. It makes me feel at least some small optimism about what lies ahead: the magnitude of our task is still overwhelming, but at least I'm no longer alone with it.

***

Going out into the kitchen, I find Bellara at the stove, diligently stirring a bowl of creamy white bean soup. It's a recipe she's perfected over our years in Arlathan forest, good for making a little go a long way, and when I sneak a spoonful the salty tang of it on my tongue makes me feel suddenly, wildly homesick. I already miss the quiet rhythm of our days in Arlathan, the sound of the forest, the music and dancing in the evening. I'm already tiring of this deception, the weight of my lies sitting heavier on my shoulders with every passing hour.

'Do you think Neve and Harding suspect anything?' I ask, sitting down at the central table and beginning to slice a loaf of bread. Trying not to remember that this is the very chair where Solas sat to eat alone, every night for the last ten years. The thought of it makes me want to weep, and I don't have time for that right now.

'I think we're all right with Harding. She's busy with her own problems, this stone magic. It'll keep her distracted. But Neve – she's smart. And watchful.'

'I agree. I think we need to be careful.'

Bellara nods. 'I've been leaning into the part, a little. Playing up the naivete. Wide-eyed innocence. I told her that I've read about her in the Minrathous paper, and I'm pretending to be overawed.'

'Flattery? Good, yes, that will probably work.'

'She seems to like you already. I think you should just try to keep in her good graces.'

I find myself absently shredding a piece of bread in my hands, little twists of crumb falling to the table with every flick of my wrists. 'I just – I don't know.'

She looks over at me, still stirring the stew. 'It bothers you?'

'I feel – honestly, it makes me sick to my stomach. The constant lying. Every time one of them calls me Rook it makes me just shrivel up inside because I know it's wrong to do this to them.'

'You're thinking about what Solas did,' Bellara says softly. 'How he lied to you. How he hurt you.'

'I suppose I am.' I sigh. 'He felt like he didn't have any choice, but did he? Do I? Are we doing the right thing?'

'You can't tell Neve and Harding. They won't understand. Harding's an Andrastian, set in her ways. She'd never be willing to change the world so drastically just to help the spirits and elves. And Neve loves Dock Town too much, she'd never agree to let it be harmed.'

'I know. I know, I just – they don't deserve this.'

'Don't they?' Bellara's voice is unexpectedly hard. 'They interrupted the ritual, released the Evanuris. They did that.'

'I haven't forgotten. But they didn't know better. Varric probably told them that Solas is a madman planning to drown the world in demons.'

'They still should have known better than to interrupt a ritual with that kind of power.'

I shrug. 'They thought they were saving everyone, and in a way that's not even wrong. The Veil coming down will cause destruction, and I doubt Neve or Harding has any idea of the profound harm it's causing to the world. To them the ritual must seem wanton and selfish.'

Bellara sighs. 'I know. I know, it's not their fault they didn't understand. But I just keep thinking – if they hadn't interrupted, if they'd been just a few minutes later, this would all be over. No Blight, no Evanuris. We'd already be building the new world.'

'We'll get there. It's just going to be a longer route than we hoped.'

'I know. I just – why didn't they think a little harder? Why didn't they see?'

'You know,' I say, looking down at the crumbs I've left scattered across the table. 'In a way, it's not unlike what Solas did. He thought the Evanuris would destroy the world, so he made the Veil. Neve and Harding were told that Solas was going to destroy the world, so they did what they could to stop the ritual.'

Bellara purses her lips. 'I don't think it's the same. Solas had seen what the Evanuris were capable of. He knew they were going to destroy the world, he wasn't just blindly following the lead of one dwarf.'

'It wasn't just Varric. I'm sure other people told them the same about Solas. The rest of the Inquisition, for a start. The Chantry. Even other elves who'd heard the story of the Dread Wolf.' I lean my head down, rub my temples. 'I'm just saying – we've forgiven him, because we understand why he did it. The same is true of Neve and Harding. It's not their fault.'

'And yet we're still going to carry on lying to them.'

'As you say. What choice do we have?' I raise my head, look up at her. 'Once this is done, if they're still alive, I'll apologize. I'll do what I have to do to make it up to them. But it has to be this way. We both know it.'

'I know it,' she echoes. 'But you should know, Eirlan. It's only going to get harder. The lies will get uglier. There's a long way to go until we can even begin trying to make this right.'

***

When I materialize in the Fade, Solas is seated cross-legged on the ground, eyes closed; meditating or doing magic, I presume.

He's finally taken off his armour, and is dressed only in the tight-fitting breeches he must have been wearing underneath. For a moment I just stand there and let myself look at him. The armour made him look almost bulky, but I see now that his body is just as I remember; lean and angular, only lightly-muscled. My eyes track downwards, and I have a vivid memory of swimming in the Exalted Plains, watching the droplets of water trickling down his flat chest.

I clear my throat, and he opens his eyes. 'Oh,' he says. 'I wasn't expecting you so soon.'

'I can see that,' I say, letting my eyes linger for a moment.

He smiles slightly, and then gets to his feet. Taking his time about it, as if giving me a moment to admire him. 'I apologize,' he murmurs. 'If I had been prepared, I would not have greeted you in – ah, such a state of undress.'

'I have seen it all before, Solas,' I point out.

He meets my gaze, a knowing tilt to his chin; the hint of a smile tells me that the memories are just as vivid for him as they are for me. I never know from one day to the next whether he's going to be in a bashful mood or whether he'll get cocky, but today it's clearly the latter.

'So you have,' he murmurs, hands on his hips. I remember touching those hipbones, the sounds I drew from him when I stroked them. I remember the warmth of his skin, his hands sliding down my back in the darkness. I feel breathless, suddenly, with remembered desire.

I enjoy him in his smug moods. But I also enjoy needling him to see how long he can keep it up before he starts blushing again. 'Hmmm,' I say lightly. 'You know, it's been a long time.'

He looks consideringly at me. 'Since what?

'What do you think?'

He hums lightly and then says, 'With me? Or with anyone?'

I consider for a moment, and then quietly I start unbuttoning my shirt. Solas' eyes widen, and I see him take a deep breath; but I undo the shirt only far enough to draw out the wolf jawbone that I'm still wearing beneath my clothing; that I have worn, for him, for all these years. 'What do you think?'

He's very still, his eyes sharp and focused as he gazes at the jawbone. 'I see,' he says.

'What about you?' I already know the answer, but I want to make him say it.

He laughs a little, at that. 'The same, of course. You did not need to ask.'

'Nor did you,' I point out.

He is silent, his eyes still fixed on me. He shifts again, rubbing his jaw with his hand.

'So,' I say. 'It's been a long time for both of us.'

'Hmmm,' he says, his voice a little hoarse. He moves as if to angle his body away from me, but I can see how flushed his cheeks are. My chest aches, my fingers itching to reach out, to cross that damn ravine and take him in my arms. Is it the Fade keeping us apart, or is it him? Still denying himself, even now?

'I can't touch you,' I say softly. 'But you could touch yourself.'

He looks up, startled. 'I – '

'Only if you want to, of course.'

He stands there frozen, his chest rising and falling. For a moment it's not obvious whether he's turned on or in distress, and I find myself getting worried. 'Never mind,' I start to say, but then he raises his head and looks directly at me as he reaches down to cup himself through his breeches.

'Like this?' he says, his voice almost casual, but breaking on the last syllable, as he moves his hand against himself and shivers into his own touch.

'Yes,' I say, breathless. 'Or – as you like.'

He keeps his eyes fixed on me as he moves, his hips canting almost involuntarily. He's biting his lip, but then his composure slips and he lets out a soft sound that has me shifting from one foot to another, the ache in my chest intensifying. Oh, I want him, I want him.

I take a step forward, and then another, until I'm standing as close as I can get without falling into the ravine. All my indomitable focus, as Solas once put it, is fixated on attempting to will a bridge into being; but the ravine remains stubbornly intransigent. Solas gasps, his hips rolling against his hand, but he's still watching me as he moves and I see a smug little flicker in his eyes: he is responsible for the ravine. My attempts to materialize a bridge are colliding with his iron will, his concentration somehow still intact enough to block me, even as he tips his head back and moans.

'Solas,' I say, and his eyes flicker back to mine, wild and unfocused, but still not unfocused enough. He drops to his knees, slipping his hand into his breeches; and now I can actually feel how my will is pushing against his: our minds slamming against one another, the reverberations of our power making the hairs on my arms stand up.

I think to myself that maybe when he reaches his peak I'll have my opportunity. But then – inevitably, infuriatingly – I feel the Fade beginning to dissolve around me. I have just enough time to take in the sight of him, bracing himself against the ground with his other hand, his mouth opening; and then the scene disintegrates, and I wake in the music room, my body clenched with frustration and need. Why is he still doing this? What will it take for him to just let go and allow me to reach him?

Chapter Text

When Dorian shows up in the Cobbled Swan, I can hardly restrain my delight; and not only because he conveniently saves us from a difficult confrontation with the Grey Warden commander. I hadn't been optimistic about the wardens, given my past experiences with them, but I'd hoped for better than that.

Once the Warden is gone, Dorian greets me and my party with his usual warmth, and invites all of us to stay for the evening at his mansion in upper Minrathous. To my relief, Neve says she wishes to spend the night in her own bed, leaving me, Felassan and Bellara to make our way to the upper city with Dorian.

His mansion is quite something to behold: nearly every piece of furniture floats, the walls gleam with art pieces in shining gold, and the central atrium boasts a pool fed by a waterfall emerging in a gravity-defying arc from the mouth of a golden dragon. Grape-vines tumble from a trellis stretching over the atrium, with tiny unripe grapes already growing from them, mouth-puckeringly sour to taste. In the main hall the walls are lined with scrolls, elegant curving script on beautiful thick vellum, and the floor is laid with carpet so thick and plush that walking through it feels like sinking into sand. I feel a little uncomfortable with all these manifestations of Tevinter wealth, but I can't really blame Dorian for having inherited a lavish estate, knowing how much of his inheritance he's already given away.

Leading us into the living room, Dorian produces wine and olives, and I inform him that he can speak freely. A smile breaks out on his face. 'Then let me say, Eirlan, I'm delighed to see you. And to meet your friends.'

'Charmed,' Felassan says airily, leaning forward to pick up a handful of olives. He eats one, and his face puckers as if he finds it distasteful, but then he proceeds to eat five more in a row, whereupon he reaches for the wine. 'You humans have very odd taste in food,' he informs Dorian.

'I thought elves liked vegetables.'

'Oh, quite. Recently Bellara has been delighting us with every variety of salad the world has ever known.'

'You said you liked the salads!' Bellara says indignantly.

'I'm a consummate liar.' To my bewilderment, Felassan proceeds to pick up yet another handful of olives and begin munching his way through them. 'And you bring out all my worst instincts.'

She bristles. 'What do you mean, I bring out – '

He grins unabashedly at her. 'I enjoy your smile. It makes me quite unprincipled.'

Bellara gapes at him, apparently torn between laughing and glowering and somehow, impressively, managing to do both at once. Dorian shakes his head, amused, and then turns to me. 'So. How's our mutual friend? Enjoying his imprisonment?'

I sigh. 'He's pretending that it doesn't bother him, but he's not very good at hiding his feelings.'

'Indeed. I remember well how poorly he concealed his enormous crush on you.'

'God of Lies, except when it comes to hiding his blushes.'

Beside us, Felassan wilts a little. 'I've forgiven him a great deal,' he murmurs, 'but the one thing I'll never forgive is that I wasn't around to see this stage of his life.'

'It was quite entertaining,' Dorian says. 'He was always so stiff and repressed, and then all of the sudden he started getting all awkward and panicky when he was asked to share a tent with her – and then all the misty-eyed gazes when he thought no one was looking – '

'Now, now,' I say, though I'm smiling a little. 'Maybe we should respect Solas' privacy.'

'I beg to differ,' says Felassan, who is grinning madly. 'He owes me every detail, after what he did.'

'It's good you can laugh about it now,' Dorian says to me. 'For a while laughter was in short supply when it came to anything Solas-related.'

'Well, just knowing where he is and what he's up to – I mean, I hate the idea of him in a prison, but I can't deny that in a way it's a relief.'

'No doubt.' Dorian looks at me, his expression growing more serious. 'But Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain, on the other hand.'

'Yes,' I say grimly. 'They've been relatively quiet so far, but there are stirrings amongst the Antaam and the Venatori. I suspect a lot of pain is coming our way.'

'And we have to find a way to defeat them. Somehow.' He sighs. 'Ideally we would let Solas out and just point him in their direction, but I suppose we don't know how to get him out?'

'Right, and besides, there's no guarantee he'd be able to defeat them alone,' Bellara says. 'He couldn't do it in the days of ancient Arlathan, after all.'

Dorian sighs. 'It doesn't inspire confidence, knowing that Solas led a rebellion against them for hundreds of years and still couldn't defeat them. Even with all that power.'

'Well, indeed,' Felassan says, momentarily more serious. 'Solas is a very gifted mage, of course, but the Evanuris – well, you'll just have to hope you never see them at their full power.'

Dorian sighs. 'But enough of that. I wanted to show you Minrathous, and now you're here. And with new friends! It's time for a tour.'

'I have a lot to do – '

'We can talk while we walk. Actually, I was thinking of throwing a little soiree – not for tonight, but soon. I'd like to introduce you to a few friends, as well as to some real Tevinter hospitality.'

'I'm not sure how I feel about Tevinter hospitality.'

'No slaves will be involved, of course. And we'll steer clear of the more extreme debauchery. But you'll enjoy the food, and I'll invite all my most erudite colleagues.'

I find myself weakening. 'You know me too well.'

'Good! It's settled. I'll choose a date. In the meanwhile, come this way. You simply must try the bath-houses, and we might even have time to catch a little something at the theatre.'

***

Elves aren't allowed to use the great bath-houses of the upper city, but Dorian commandeers a private room and sweeps the three of us inside without giving anyone a moment to protest. The bath is indeed beautiful, lined with flecks of gold and lapis-lazuli, so the water seems to fill up with dancing flecks of light. It's also outfitted with a marble table in the middle of the pool, together with a fountain in the shape of a dragon which breathes blood-red wine into a bowl from which bathers can help themselves. Slipping into the water and letting Dorian cajole me into taking a glass of wine, I'm suddenly aware of how deeply exhausted I am: I can feel my muscles starting to unwind as the warm water bubbles lyrically around me. Since I left the Veil Jumpers before the ritual, there hasn't really been a moment to breathe. I know I can't keep this up, and yet I'm aware this stage of our journey has only just begun.

It's a strange kind of tourism, seeing the sights of Minrathous in full awareness that I plan to bring the whole place crashing down as soon as possible. What will happen to these bath-houses, the displays of art, once the Veil falls and Tevinter descends into chaos? Will they crumble into ruins one day, just like the ruins of ancient Arlathan? There's something morbid about being here, hoping that these days will be the last dying gasps of Tevinter's thousand-year empire. And yet: sprays of wisteria tumbling from the hanging baskets, their petals falling delicately into the water below. The scented steam, tangles of sandalwood and salt. I lower my eyes and let the water cradle me for a moment; the gold light dancing on my skin, evanescent, already slipping from my grasp.

On the way out of the bathhouse I hear a familiar whistle from the alley nearby, soft and haunting. For a moment I'm disorientated – could that really be one of the kestrels of Arlathan, here in the middle of Minrathous' upper town?

But then my senses return to me, and I look around and spot Charter, peering out from the shadows. My knees go weak with relief: I hadn't wanted to admit it to myself, but I was starting to get worried about what might have happened to Charter and Colette. I gesture at Dorian to wait, and then take Bellara by the arm and stride toward Charter.

'Where have you been? Where's Colette?' I whisper as I reach her, the words come out sharper than I intended.

She smiles, and puts her hand on my arm; a silent gesture of comradeship and solidarity, so deeply needed that it momentarily leaves me weak at the knees. 'It's all right,' she says. 'We're both all right.'

'Where were you?' Bellara asks. 'We were so worried – we thought – '

'Well,' she says. 'When the ritual began, we were in the undercity. Many of the slaves live there, and others come to spend their leisure time. As you can imagine, chaos broke out. Slaves aren't allowed to bear arms, and of course the templars had all vanished to defend the important parts of Minrathous. People were fighting with whatever they could find, but it was a losing battle. There were demons everywhere.'

'I cam imagine,' I say softly, remembering those moments all too well. The sky tearing open like a festering green wound. The world teetering on the edge of change – and then, infuriatingly, drawing back.

'Colette and I tried to help, but it seemed hopeless. And then – a man appeared. An elf. White-haired, wielding a sword as big as he was. And glowing all over with lyrium tattoos.'

I take in a sharp breath. 'Fenris?' I remember well the stories I've heard from Varric, and from Merrill. Neither of them were sure that he was even still alive. But it makes sense that he would be here: the rotten center of Tevinter power.

She nods. 'It was quite something. He cut a swathe through the demons like nothing I've ever seen. And then he opened up a secret entrance in the cliff, and starting shepherding the elves into the catacombs. We followed. He held the demons off until he could close the door. There were demons inside too, but with the tunnels so narrow it was easier to hold them off. Colette and I joined him and fought until the demons stopped coming. That's when we knew the ritual must have failed.'

'And since then? Where have you been?'

'Helping Fenris,' she says. 'He's here to free slaves, as you might imagine.'

I smile. 'Yes, I suppose that doesn't really surprise me.'

'There are a lot of rumours in the slave-quarters,' Charter says, looking sideways at me. 'Word that the gods have returned. Elgar'nan, or Ghilan'nain, or perhaps both. A number of slaves have already tried to run away to serve them, although not all made it out alive. The Templars have been busy.'

I feel nauseous, imagining the elves of Minrathous flocking to the banners of Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain. After a lifetime of drudgery and disrespect in the bowels of Tevinter, some of them will see the return of their deities as a long-awaited miracle. They won't see the Blight and the ruination, or perhaps they simply won't care: have I not, myself, had moments when I felt I'd willingly light the world on fire just to see it burn? And the stories say that Elgar'nan knew well how to win the loyalty of those he sought to dominate. The gods are merciful; until they aren't.

'We mustn't let them go to the Evanuris,' I say. 'Charter, we have to stop them.'

'So it's true?' The light falls harshly on the tired lines around her mouth. 'The gods are back?'

'Yes, and they brought the Blight. You know the stories. You know what they're capable of. We can't let the elves of Minrathous go to them – Elgar'nan will use them as cannon fodder or sacrifice them for a blood ritual, and Ghilan'nain will turn them into monsters. We have to stop them.'

'I have no authority here. Why should they believe me?'

'Fenris,' I say. 'He's been here freeing slaves, you say. Will they listen to him?'

She considers. 'Some will. But first we'd have to convince him that we're telling the truth about the Evanuris.'

'Talk to him,' I say. 'Tell him what's happened. Tell him I'll meet him if he wants. We need his help, or else those elves are doomed.'

Charter sighs. 'I'll do what I can. He seems to have taken a shine to Colette, so perhaps he'll listen to her. The two of them are holed up right now, plotting an attack on one of the slave-caravans going toward Ventus.'

'I can imagine Colette would be good at that. All the military history she knows has made her a fine strategist.'

She nods. 'Speaking of which – the tunnels that Fenris has been using. He's organized, and authoritative. I was thinking, for next time, if Solas makes another attempt at taking down the Veil, Fenris could help us get the slaves into the catacombs. To protect them from the worst of the effects.'

I nod. 'Yes, good idea. And there's almost certain to be one of the elven artifacts in the tunnels down below. If we get the Nadas Dirthalen working by then maybe you can try to get hold of it, make sure the slaves are gathered nearby so they'll be protected.'

'You think we might have more notice next time?'

'I'm in contact with Solas,' I say, and I see her eyes widen. 'It's complicated. I'll explain later. We should probably get moving, before someone sees us and starts asking question.'

'Yes. I'll write with more details. How can I reach you?'

'We've made contact with the Shadow Dragons. You can leave messages for us with them.'

She wrinkles her nose. 'You're working with the Shadow Dragons?'

'You don't approve?'

'Fenris thinks they're too moderate. They say they want change, but they're not willing to take any really decisive action to achieve it.'

I nod. 'Dorian says the same. Which is why he's working with us, I suppose.'

'Makes sense.' She considers for a moment. 'Can I tell Fenris about – you know. Our plans?'

'Do you think he'll be on the same page about taking down the Veil?'

She smiles ruefully. 'He still hates mages. On the hand, he hates Tevinter more. He might agree on the basis that it will finally bring the Tevinters to their knees.'

'Maybe introduce it slowly,' I say. 'Warm him up.'

'I'll give that a try.' She nods at me. 'I'll write to you. We'll arrange something. Take care, Eirlan.'

'Tell Colette I'm glad she's all right,' I say, and we exchange one more understanding look before she turns and vanishes.

***

'They're all right,' Bellara says once we're back in Dorian's living room; she sounds a little stunned. 'They're both all right. And working with Fenris. The Fenris. Do you think we can meet him? What do you think he's like?'

'Starstruck, Bellara?'

'Hmph,' Felassan says. 'He's just a man who freed some slaves. Plenty of people have done that.'

'Plenty of people?' I say, giving him a sidelong look. 'Such as you, Felassan?'

He tosses his head. 'Among others. That is hardly the point.'

'Isn't it?'

He gives me an amused look, shaking his head, and then gets to his feet. 'Well, I'm going to bed. I suggest you do the same shortly. We have a long journey tomorrow, if we're to find this Grey Warden in the Anderfels.'

As he departs, I look over at Dorian. 'By the way. What do you know about Neve Gallus? I don't feel great about deceiving her.'

'Yes,' Dorian says. 'I haven't met her, but I've heard good things. She looks after her people. She's always done what she can for Dock Town.'

'Ah.' I look down, heavy in my bones. What I'm doing to her, to Harding. It's a terrible thing; an awful, unkind, unforgivable thing. I think of the way Neve smiled at me yesterday when I offered to help her find the relic threatening Dock Town; she's beginning to like me. To trust me. What am I becoming?

Dorian watches me. 'I'm afraid it can't be helped, Eirlan,' he says gently. 'She may be sympathetic to elves, but not so much that she'll be willing to help tear down the Veil. At least not without a little preparation.'

'Mmm. Maybe I should try to talk to her. Prepare the ground, in some way.' I tug at my hair, my brow furrowed. 'It's hard, Dorian. Really hard. What I'm doing to Neve, to Harding – I know there's no choice, but I hate it.'

'I guess you're starting to understand how Solas must have felt.'

'Yes, and it's awful. No wonder he struggled so much. I never really understood what it was like to be on that side of it: he hurt me, but he hurt himself even more.'

Dorian nods. 'I know. But you need to make them like you. And Felassan and Bellara. They need to be completely convinced you're on their side.'

'Felassan says he'll try flirting. We'll see how that goes.'

'I have every confidence in him,' Dorian says, smiling a little. 'What a beautiful man. Did he and Solas ever – I'm sorry, perhaps that's insensitive.'

'Oh, it wouldn't bother me, but as far as I know they didn't.'

Dorian sighs, pouting a little. 'Ah well. I can still use my imagination.'

I laugh, shaking my head at him, then bid him goodnight and head for the guest bedroom he's offered me. I can't deny how ready I am to sink into the very comfortable bed, which floats half a meter off the floor and bobs in a pleasant way as I move in it, rather as if I'm sleeping on a floating raft. The movement lulls me easily to sleep, and it feels like only moment until I'm opening my eyes in the Fade.

Solas is once more fully dressed, his hands linked behind his back, his mouth folded into a thin line. Very prim and proper. I'm irresistibly reminded of the morning after we first kissed, when he made his futile attempt to drag us back toward a professional relationship.

The memory makes me smile, which seems to throw him off; he flounders for a moment, then swallows and says, 'Aneth ara. Have you any news?'

So we're not even going to address it, I see. It will be interesting to see how long that lasts. Linking my hands behind my back in a conscious mirror of his pose, I say formally, 'We went to Antiva to help the Crows. They suspect that the Evanuris are working with the occupation.'

'Very likely. The Antaam dislike mages, of course, but I am sure Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain could find appropriate inducements to overcome their reluctance.'

'Did you interact at all, with the occupation? There, or in Tevinter?'

He raises one eyebrow. 'From the way you ask, I suspect you already know the answer.'

'We had word of someone interfering with the Antaam's operations across the north. Some of the methods were – oddly familiar.'

He nods. 'Yes. I did engage in some covert disruption.'

'Why? Weren't you busy preparing for the ritual?'

He hesitates, and I see a flash of discomfiture in his eyes. 'You know my views on the qun. I could not stand by and allow them to take over half of Thedas.'

'It wouldn't have mattered, would it? Once the Veil came down?'

He frowns. 'I could not be sure. Better to slow their invasion while I could.'

I still perceive some avoidance in his manner. I wonder if his efforts against the Antaam were perhaps a kind of procrastination; some part of him feared taking that final step. Bringing the Veil down is the right thing to do, but to set it in motion – well, whatever comes, many people will die by his hand. I can understand wanting to put that off.

'We also discovered something in the Crossroads,' I say. 'A memory.'

A flicker of what looks like panic crosses his face. I suspect there are more secrets to be discovered in the Crossroads, but that's not what I want to talk about right now.

'We saw you, with some of your agents,' I say. 'You had hair.'

Solas blinks. 'I – yes. I did.'

'I asked you once, about your hair.'

'I recall. I endeavoured to describe the shade accurately. That at least was not an intentional lie.'

'Yes, but you didn't tell me how long and luscious it was.'

He opens his mouth, and then closes it again. 'Ah,' he says after a moment. 'Well, you did not ask about the length.'

'An oversight on my part,' I agree gravely. 'You must have spent a lot of time on your hair, to get it looking like that.'

'I did not – !' he begins indignantly, and then stops, seeing the grin on my face. 'Ah. You are making fun of me.'

'I think I have earned the right to do so, wouldn't you say?'

'Vhenan, when have I ever objected to your teasing?' he says, and then stops short, as if realising what he's said. I suspect he did not mean to use the endearment.

'It's hard to know, sometimes,' I say. 'You are certainly more formal today than yesterday.'

His cheeks flush, and he averts his gaze. 'I apologize,' he says stiffly. 'I disrespected you.'

'You did no such thing. You did only what I myself proposed.'

'I should not – '

'Why not?' I stand my ground, watching him keenly across the gap between us. Does he realise that I know he's responsible for the separation? I wonder if I should ask him about it, or simply keep trying to distract him for long enough to enable me to make a bridge.

He clears his throat, raising a hand to rub his jaw. 'As I told you once,' he says, still without looking at me. 'I would not wish for you to think that what I feel is – well, a mere physical matter. It is your spirit that drew me to you.'

'Those things are not mutually exclusive, Solas,' I say gently. 'And as I told you the last time, I know what this is. That has not changed.'

He looks up at me, and I see his jaw clench as if he's struggling to master some strong emotion. 'I am sorry. I did not mean to get into this territory. I cannot – while my task remains undone – '

'I know, vhenan,' I say gently. 'I don't agree with you, but I understand.'

He swallows. 'I – thank you.'

'But after your task is done?'

He turns his face away, and suddenly I feel a chill run up my back. Once again, there's something that he isn't telling me. 'I cannot predict. I cannot see beyond, right now.'

I want to challenge him, but I can tell from the way his hands clench behind his back that I'm not going to get this out of him right now. 'All right,' I say. 'I understand. I won't ask again.'

'Ma serannas,' he says in a low voice, and at last he looks back at me; our eyes meet, and his long, serious, yearning look is the last thing I see before I wake.

***

After our trip to the Anderfels, we return to Minrathous with Davrin in tow. I'm heartened to add another elf to the group, though I've yet to determine how much sympathy Davrin is likely to have for the idea of taking the Veil down. He seems generally quite skeptical about magic and the Fade, and I haven't had time to probe for how he feels about the Dalish and the troubles of the elves. It could be that he left his clan on bad terms, but I shouldn't make assumptions: I left my own clan, after all, and even got rid of my vallaslin, but I still consider myself to be Dalish. Davrin could be the same.

Dorian is quite willing to have us stay for another night, and all the more so when he lays eyes on Davrin. 'Goodness gracious,' he says to me, once Davrin has left us to get settled. 'Another beautiful man. Where do you find them?'

'I have a gift,' I say airily, tossing my hair back.

'And yet for some reason the only one you want is the funny-looking bald fellow with the dark secrets and avoidant tendencies.'

'What can I say? I've always had unusual taste.'

'I jest. The baldness and poor dress sense aside, I can see the appeal. Physically, at least.'

'His dress sense has noticeably improved, since he left us,' I say. 'He's quite dashing in his new armour.'

'And has he given any thought to growing some hair, perchance?'

'Not as far as I can tell. But we saw a memory of him in the past, complete with hair.'

'Ah, and did you swoon?'

I smile. 'I did not. But I have to admit it was a good look on him.' I cast him a sideways glance. 'On that topic, I meant to ask – how are things with you and Bull?'

'Ah,' Dorian says. 'I didn't tell you? We ended things, a few years ago now.'

'Oh!' I take a quick breath. 'Dorian, I'm sorry. You didn't feel you could tell me?'

'You seemed to have so many more serious things on your mind. My romantic travails hardly seemed important enough to mention.'

'Dorian,' I say remorsefully. 'I'm sorry that I – we're still friends, aren't we? I want to hear those things. If you want to tell me.'

He looks tentatively at me. 'I – well, I appreciate that. I confess that I've felt uncertain exactly what we are, over the last few years. You've grown into someone different.'

'I have, it's true. But you're still my very dear friend. Or at least, so I hope.'

He smiles. 'I hope so too. And now that we've spent time together in person, well – it feels just as it always did.'

'Maybe we can meet in person more often, in future?'

'I hope so, although admittedly it's hard to envision exactly what the future looks like.'

'That's certainly true,' I admit, and then look sideways at him. 'If it's been a few years – have you met someone else? Do you have any good stories for me?'

He smiles. 'I've had a few enjoyable affairs, to be sure. But it's difficult in Tevinter to find men looking for something serious. We've discussed that.'

'I'm sorry,' I say. 'Perhaps you should consider looking elsewhere?'

He nods. 'Perhaps. When our current troubles are over.'

I understand; it's hard to make plans when everything could change at any minute. The world is due for a transformation, and none of us knows who or what will survive on the other side of it. There's nothing we can do now but wait and see what comes.

***

'Do you remember, at Haven,' I say to Solas that night. 'In our first conversation there. You made a joke about me flying in on a griffon?'

'I could not possibly forget,' Solas says quietly, and the devotion apparent in those few short words knocks the breath from me for a moment.

'Well,' I manage to say. 'Guess what I met today.'

He frowns. 'You met – no. Surely not. They are extinct.'

'Apparently not!' I say. 'I encountered thirteen of them. Youngsters, still. I gave one of them a hug.'

'You gave – ' Solas stares at me, shaking his head. 'But how is this possible? There has been no sign of them for hundreds of years.'

'Apparently one of the wardens preserved set of eggs in some kind of magical stasis, and they were recovered just recently.'

'A griffon,' Solas says, and I hear a note of wistfulness in his tone. 'I should like to see one again.'

'Were they common, in Elvhenan?'

'No, they were always rare. Ghilan'nain didn't create them, and they didn't get on well with her more dangerous creations, so as her power grew they became scarce. Still, I always liked them, and mourned when I discovered that they were gone.'

He blamed himself, no doubt. The disappearance of the griffons is surely one thing that really had nothing to do with Solas, but that won't stop him from feeling guilty over it. I look at him and say, 'Well, when we get you out of here you can see one again. We're taking one of them home to the Lighthouse as we speak.'

'Home,' Solas says quietly, and there's that wistfulness again. Is he missing the Lighthouse? Or, perhaps, imagining a different world where we would both have called it home?

'It's a beautiful place,' I say softly. 'Although you did not keep it in very good repair.'

'There was no good reason to maintain the whole place. I did what was necessary for the upkeep of the rooms that I used.'

'Yes. I found your music room. I saw what you painted there.'

'Ah,' Solas says, looking away. 'Yes. It does not surprise me that the Lighthouse willingly opened itself to you.'

'The murals are beautiful,' I say. 'You never painted me before.'

'On the contrary, I painted you many times at Skyhold. I simply did not show you the results.'

I raise an eyebrow. 'Why not?'

He smiles a little ruefully. 'I suppose I was embarrassed. All that pining. It was hardly fitting.'

'You don't think I was pining in return?'

He says nothing, lowering his eyes. His shoulders hunch, as if to defend himself from my kindness. I let out a little sigh, and say softly, 'The painting, in the music room. You were still thinking of me.'

That gets a reaction from him. His eyes flash to my face, disbelieving, and he takes a step forward. 'I was still – !' He shakes his head, distressed. 'I have thought of you every hour of every day. You must know that.'

My heart feels impossibly fragile in my chest, like spun-sugar. The moment is delicate, ephemeral, achingly sweet. 'I didn't know that, Solas,' I say softly. 'How could I?'

'We met, in your dreams – '

'And yet you spoke to me only once. How was I to know your reasons?'

He sucks in a breath, his eyes pained as he gazes at me. 'Well. Now you have seen the paintings I made for you. The music I wrote for you. You will no doubt find the letters I wrote to you, soon enough. I hope – if nothing else, I hope you have no further doubt.'

'You wrote letters?' I say, and then, 'You didn't consider sending them?'

'I did not wish to inflict further pain.'

'The pain of your silence was worse than anything your letters could have done.'

He presses his lips together, as if to stop them from trembling, and says nothing. He will not excuse himself, and he has already exhausted his apologies. When all is said and done, all we're left with is the pain and the love: neither will ever go away. How can he confess his feelings so clearly and yet leave me in so much doubt about whether what is broken between us can ever be healed?

I feel the waking world beginning to call at me. Perhaps it's for the best; I don't know what else to say, nor how to make progress if he won't allow me to reach him. 'Dareth shiral, Solas,' I say quietly, and this time he is gone before I can even hear his answer.

***

We're just approaching the eluvian that leads to the Lighthouse when Neve, Bellara and Felassan come running down the hill toward us. At first I fancy they're just happy to see us, but then as they come closer I see their expressions and my heart sinks. Something has happened.

I listen as the words tumble out. Minrathous and Treviso, both under attack. Blighted dragons. They're all looking at me, I realise: they want me to make a decision. I know that I've been doing my best to convince them to see me as a leader, but all of a sudden I regret it: I'd forgotten how hard it is to be the one who makes the decisions. For a moment the Crossroads seem to waver before my eyes and I'm back in the Fade, looking in panic between Alistair and Hawke, trying to wrap my mind around a choice that surely should not have been mine to make.

'Rook?' Neve says urgently. 'Minrathous needs us. The Venatori – '

Dorian is in Minrathous, I think. And Charter and Colette. But to make the choice based on that, to leap to save my friends – Treviso is so small, so vulnerable. No army whatsoever, just a few Crows, already beleaguered by the occupation. My stomach turns. To abandon Dorian; to abandon that defenceless city. Whatever I do today the regret will sit heavily on my shoulders ever after.

In the end, I shake my head. 'I'm sorry, but Treviso has no army, no forces. If the Venatori take over Minrathous, that's bad but it's salvageable. But if Treviso falls to the Blight, that will cost thousands of lives.'

Neve gazes at me, and I see frustration crack across her face; a brief agony that has me stepping towards her, opening my mouth to offer futile apologies. But then she just shakes her head and turns on her heel. 'Well, I'm going to Minrathous.'

Davrin looks at me, his gaze reassuringly firm. 'I'll go with her. We'll hold it off as long as we can. Maybe if Treviso's all right you can get to Minrathous afterwards.'

I spare a moment to admire his resolute courage. He barely knows us, he's just been thrown into the middle of this with no preparation whatsoever, and yet he's immediately ready to leap into action. This, I can see, will be a good person to have on our side.

'Thank you,' I say. 'Harding, can you go with Neve as well? Bellara, Lucanis and I will see what can be done for Treviso.'

She nods, and she and Davrin sprint off after Neve. Meanwhile I look at Bellara and Felassan. 'Did I do the right thing?'

Bellara looks uncertain, but Felassan nods. 'Treviso's need is greater. You could not go to both places.'

'Right.' I still feel a heaviness in my chest, a sense of forboding, but the decision has been made. 'All right then. Let's head for Treviso.'

***

Things are bad in Treviso, and then they get worse. We're fighting through the streets, desperately throwing firebolts at darkspawn; and then we round the corner and come upon a band of elves, dressed in what appears to be ancient elven armor, fighting alongside the darkspawn.

'For the risen gods!' one of them shouts, and hurls himself towards us; instinctively I raise my staff and deflect him, so he richochets off my barrier and stumbles backward, crashing into a wall. Not dead, not yet, but what are the chances we can get out of this without killing one of them?

'Stop!' Bellara shouts. 'Stop, we don't want to hurt you!'

'For Ghilan'nain!' another elf shouts, dragging a sword from the scabbard at her belt. From the way she holds it, I can tell she's not much accustomed to wielding weapons. 'For our people!'

'No!' I shout. 'No, please, this is not – '

But another of the elves is already upon me, waving a pair of daggers with such fury that the world becomes a maelstrom of metal and noise; I twist away, pushing with my magic, trying to get him off me without hurting me, but his face is a rictus of anger and passion and nothing I do is working against his iron certainty.

Then, suddenly, he falls away. Felassan stands over us, his daggers embedded in the elf's back.

'I'm sorry,' he says grimly. 'There was no other way.'

I scramble to press my fingers to the man's neck, hoping against hope that I might find a pulse. Silence. He's dead. As if from a great distance, I feel tears rolling down my cheeks. 'No, I didn't – we didn't – '

Standing over me, shielding me, Felassan turns and grimly kills another elf in a single stroke of his blades. 'No!' I shout again, but what choice did we have?

After that, the rest of them flee. Eyes hard, haunted, Felassan puts out a hand and helps me to my feet. 'Come on,' he says, a faint edge of compassion in his voice. 'We have a dragon to kill.'

It's many years since I've fought a dragon, and this one is twice as powerful with the Blight in its veins. I'm barely hanging on, sending plumes of fire and ice haphazard across the field, sprinting to avoid its flames until my pulse is so fast it seems my heart might burst out of my chest. I'm going to die here, in the ruins of Treviso, and the dragon will take the city. Despair clutches at me, but I keep fighting, keep sprinting. After all we've been through, it it really going to end here?

It doesn't end. Instead, Ghilan'nain appears; and at the sight I stumble backwards, terrified, breathless. She's an eldritch horror, a nightmare of swirling tentacles and ravaged flesh; she wraps herself around the nearby tower like some kind of growth, oozing and slimy. There is no way to tell that she was was once an elf, that she was once a person like any other. I'm frozen with fear and yet I can't stop looking away from her: what has she done to herself, what has she become? And why?

What remains of her eyes gaze blankly out of an ancient elven mask, and her voice shrieks her rage into the night like she's more monster than person. She calls me the Dread Wolf's pawn, which sends shivers down my spine: does she know who I am? If they know about me, if they know what Solas and I are to each other, there's no possible chance that I will get away from this battlefield alive.

But then, miraculously, she leaves the field, taking her dragon with her. It soars over the city one last time as it departs, riddled with blight, the long shadow of its wings leaving people screaming in its wake. A roar of benighted rage splits the air, unlike any dragon I've ever heard: usually I find them beautiful, marvelous despite the peril, but this beast is nothing but the embodiment of horror and death. Belatedly, I remember that there was another one in Minrathous. How many of these creatures do they have? An inexhaustible army of broken, bloodied leviathans?

I stand panting, exhausted, barely able to believe that I'm still standing. Why did she chose to flee rather than fight on? It makes me think she's a little frightened of Solas. After all, their last encounter ended with her being imprisoned for thousands of years, and led to the death of five of her fellow gods: she must be wondering if he has another trick up his sleeve.

'Eirlan,' Bellara says urgently, recalling me to the present. 'Are you all right? Wounded?'

I check myself over; there's a burn on my arm, but nothing urgent. 'I'm fine. You two?'

'Intact, more or less. We should go. There might still be time to help Minrathous.'

I check in with the remaining Crows, who are gathering in the shadows, gazing out at the wreckage of Treviso and the Antaam already picking over it. In the distance I hear someone weeping, the sound floating eerily over the city like the spiraling haze of battle. Teia, dusty and bruised but uninjured, comes forward to shake my hand. 'Thank you, Rook,' she says. 'I don't know exactly what you did, but you saved our city.'

'We have - an artifact that Ghilan'nain is interested in,' I say cautiously. 'It got her attention.'

She raises an eyebrow. 'Did she take it from you?'

'She did not.'

Teia frowns. 'Interesting. But I suppose she has her reasons. We'll have to hope she doesn't return.'

I meet her gaze. 'Things will get worse before they get better,' I say honestly. 'A dark time is coming. But I will do what I can to protect Treviso.'

'As will I,' she says. 'And, perhaps, the elves?'

Her eyes linger on my face, and I wonder how much she's already divined. Someone who deals in secrets and lies perhaps has the ability to see more clearly what others have missed. But I suspect that at least for now, she'll keep her own counsel. 

'Perhaps,' I say. 'Dareth shiral, Teia.'

***

As I promised, I head to Minrathous next, only to find that I'm too late. The dragon was driven away successfully, but in the chaos the Venatori have taken over, and the situation is dire. Whatever anger Neve may have had toward me, her attention is elsewhere now; she gazes blackly at the bodies lining the street and then tells me she won't be back for a while.

I watch her go, feeling ill at ease. Though I had to keep my secrets, I've always been drawn to her. Nothing fazed her, nothing was too much for her to handle. It was selfish of me to want her at my back while lying so extravagantly to her, but all the same I did want her there. If she doesn't return that will be a significant detriment to the team; not to mention the loss of her contacts and our potential allies in the Shadow Dragons. I still have Dorian on side – assuming he survived the dragon attack, of course – but I'm not sure he alone will be enough to get the Shadows to turn out for us, when the time comes.

'Come,' I say to Bellara and Felassan. 'Let's head for Hightown. We should check in with Dorian.'

And so we make our way anxiously through the streets of Minrathous. We're dressed conspicuously, in elven clothing taken from Arlathan forest, but under the circumstances I think that's probably a good thing: if the Venatori can tell that we're foreigners rather than slaves they're less likely to give us trouble. The thought of Charter and Colette gnaws at me; this is a dangerous place for a pair of elves on their own.

We pass more bodies piled in the streets, and then the corpses of Shadow Dragons hanging from scaffolds. My stomach turns: I met some of these people; asked them about Minrathous; shared a meal with them. It shakes me how quickly the Venatori have moved to stamp out even the mild resistance that the Shadow Dragons represented. The smell of death rises through the streets, ugly and smothering, and a deathly silence has settled over the metropolis. People are afraid even to venture out of their homes, and briefly as we walk past the silent houses I feel as though the three of us are the only people still living in the city.

When I look around, I see that Bellara is crying silently, tears rolling down her cheeks as she steps over body after body. She bows her head, dark hair falling into her face as she scrubs at her eyes. Wordlessly, Felassan nods at me to stop and then quietly puts his arms around her. She says nothing, just presses her face to his chest as her body shakes. He whispers something in elven, his arms tightening around her. I avert my face, feeling a sudden piercing loneliness. I can barely remember what it's like to be held like that; to have someone comfort me.

In the air above me, the bodies are still swinging. I don't deserve comfort. This, too, is my fault.

Then I feel Felassan's hand on my shoulder. He's still holding Bellara with the other arm, but he looks seriously at me. 'You did what you could,' he says in a low voice. 'You cannot control how they respond.'

I wonder if he used to say such things to Solas, back in the days of the revolution. Presumably without success: Solas is not a man who will easily relinquish his hold on guilt. Nor will I, of course. In this, as in many things, we are too alike for our own good.

'I know,' I say softly. 'Come on. Let's move. We shouldn't be on the streets.'

When we finally arriving at Dorian's manor and knock on the door, there's something of a delay, but eventually he opens the door himself, looking around cautiously and then ushering us inside. 'Be quick,' he says. 'People are watching.'

'Are you all right?' I say urgently, following him toward the dining room. 'They've been executing the Shadow Dragons. I thought they might come for you.'

'I'm still a member of the Magisterium. They might come for me eventually, but they'll need to build political capital first. Hanging the Shadow Dragons is a different matter; few sitting Magisters will object to that.' His voice is rough with bitterness, and he offers around a flagon of wine with a shaking hand.

'Dorian – I'm sorry,' I say, leaning forward. 'I should have come here. I just thought – Treviso has so few defences, and if the Blight got into those canals – '

He shakes his head. 'Don't blame yourself. They were well-prepared – frighteningly so. If it hadn't been this, it would have been something else. There was always going to be a coup.'

'What are you going to do? Is Maevaris all right? Will you stay in Minrathous?'

'She's fine. Holed up in her manor, for now. And yes, I'll stay for the moment. Can't let the Venatori have everything their own way.'

'Be careful, Dorian. You know where the Shadow Dragon hideout is, right? It's been trashed, but they didn't find the eluvian. You can use it if you need to make a quick getaway.'

'I'll keep that in mind.' He gets up, takes a bowl of tentacle salad from the cupboard. 'Here. We should keep our strength up. And you should probably get moving shortly. Things will be hairy for the next few days, you probably shouldn't be in the city.'

'I want to help – '

'You can't help by getting yourself killed. And now that the Venatori are in charge we're going to need allies from outside of Tevinter. Maybe try Rivain or Nevarra, if you can get there by eluvian.'

I nod. 'We need a dragon-hunter, clearly. Harding has some contacts in the Lords of Fortune, so I'll see if they can find someone for us.'

'Good,' he says. 'Then let's keep in touch. I'll let you know when things have quietened down.'

'Seriously, Dorian, I want to help. You'll tell me if there's something I can do, won't you?'

He nods. 'I will. Now eat up and then get out of here. If this city's going down, I don't want you going down with it.'

***

That night in the Fade, Solas listens quietly to my account of the attacks on Treviso and Minrathous, his lips thinning as I describe the Venatori coup and its aftermath.

'Ah,' he says. 'Yes. I was aware that the Venatori were a growing problem, but I thought we had a little time before they came into the open. I suppose the arrival of the Evanuris changed their timeline.'

'Things are bad,' I say, the memories of those piled corpses still vivid behind my eyes. Afterimages, carried like wounds. 'I think – maybe I made the wrong decision.'

His face softens a little as he looks at me. 'You want me to tell you that you did the right thing,' he says softly. 'But I cannot. I do not know what was right. I do not know what would have happened if you had done otherwise.'

'I know,' I say. 'Neither do I. But it's hard, to wonder.'

'Yes.' His voice is low, weary. 'It is.'

'There were elves in Treviso, fighting for Ghilan'nain,' I say bleakly. 'We – we had to kill some of them.'

'It makes sense,' he says dully. 'They have suffered under human oppression for many ages, and now their gods have returned to rescue them. Of course they would flock to their saviours.'

'How many elves will we have to kill? How many – I can't do it, Solas. I can't stand there and slaughter my own people. I wanted to save them. That was the point of all of this.'

He gives a bleak little laugh. 'Yes. I thought the same.'

I look up at him, my vision blurred with unshed tears. 'Your rebellion,' I say. 'How did it start?'

He looks at me in surprise. 'Why do you ask?'

'I'm just thinking about – how things begin. Rebellions. Wars. The first moment that tips into violence.'

'Ah,' he says, and then, 'It was slow at first. It seemed that nothing would happen. And then, suddenly, everything happened at once.'

'How so?'

'At the beginning it was just me, alone, speaking out. I was still a member of the court. The Evanuris saw me as merely a mild irritant, not even worth banishing from their halls.'

'And then?'

'I was gathering allies, quietly. Using every method I could to persuade people to my cause. The Evanuris did not anticipate that so many would join me. In the shadows I prepared my forces, and then I struck.'

'What did you strike?'

'We moved on June's fortress first. Of all the slave encampments, it was the most lightly guarded at that time. We took him unawares, and were able to free hundreds of slaves. I led them to a place of safety that I had prepared in the Fade – what eventually became the Lighthouse. Those who wanted to fight joined my forces, and the rest found other ways to help. Many lived out their lives there, remaining for centuries in the Lighthouse and the surrounding areas of the Fade, until – '

He falls silent. I know how the sentence would have finished: until I made the Veil . He presses his lips together, as if holding back some strong emotion. My heart breaks for him, but I doubt that he will be willing to accept my pity. Instead I say, 'And then, I suppose, you waited. To see how the Evanuris would respond.'

'Yes,' he agrees. 'As you say, the calm before the storm.'

'And what did they do?'

Solas' eyes are dark, shuttered. 'Elgar'nan ordered each of the Evanuris to sacrifice one hundred of their remaining slaves. They were used in a blood magic ritual – not even to resist me, just to erect another splendid monument to Elgar'nan and his consort.'

'Oh – ' I say, the breath leaving me in a gasp. Oh, Solas. Oh, vhenan.

'Elgar'nan made an announcement,' Solas says, his voice flat. 'Tell the Dread Wolf that he cannot harm us by stealing a few miserable lives. There are countless more where those came from.'

'I – am sorry,' I manage to say. 'That must have been – '

'It was a long time ago,' Solas says. 'But yes. I know how it feels to stand at the beginning of a war, dreading what is to come.'

I want to say more; I want to comfort him, or ask him to comfort me. But I can't do either of those things, and I can feel the Fade vanishing around me. 'Dareth shiral, Solas,' I manage to say, and then he is gone, and I am waking once more in the music room, feeling the weight of the world ever heavier on my shoulders.

Chapter Text

The wisps of the Lighthouse are different to the wisps of Arlathan. Unsurprising, I suppose: wisps may be simple beings but they are individuals nonetheless, they have a character of their own, and it's clear that the slow drift of centuries in Solas' abandoned hideout has shaped these wisps into something different from what they were before.

In Arlathan the wisps often seemed shy, emerging only in the twilight to play with the fireflies, filling the long grasses with darting filaments of turquoise light. But in the Lighthouse there are wisps around all the time, and they seem inquisitive, even bossy, periodically appearing out of nowhere to drag me from my work so I can inspect something they deem of note. Usually it's just Harding slicing apples in the kitchen or an abandoned pile of Bellara's scribblings, but I can't resist their gentle beckonings; despite myself, I go with them every time.

Today they come to me when I am working in the library, dancing prettily around my head, their soft tones vibrating across my skin like struck glass. I look up absently. 'Aneth ara, lethallin,' I say; they seem to respond better to elvhen, as if they feel the rhythms more easily.

The wisps spiral around me and then begin to move, and I understand that I am to follow. Getting to my feet, I follow them slowly over to the wall, whereupon another hidden door slides open, just as if it heard me coming. Tentatively I step inside, and immediately I find myself transported to a room which appears to be Solas' private office.

I stand stock still for a moment, tremulous, almost afraid to touch anything. It always feels overwhelmingly poignant to discover these relics of him and the life he left behind. Seeing that there's a balcony, I go out to inspect the vista – the Lighthouse courtyard below, and beyond it the Fade, the soft drifting of broken stones belying the raw power swept on those tides. It's a beautiful view, but a lonely one. For a moment I imagine Solas standing here by himself, gazing out at the Fade; perhaps at the very same moment as I was standing by myself on my own balcony at Skyhold, gazing bleakly at the sunrise. How we have been but echoes of one another, all these years.

Going back inside, I take note of the little cot-bed that Solas must have been sleeping on. At first it makes me smile: there are plenty of better beds in the Lighthouse, and of course the Fade could easily provide more, but it's not surprising at all that he did not allow himself to partake of such comforts. He always had an instinct toward asceticism, despite his enjoyment of good wine and frilly cakes.

But after a moment the smile fades. I'm struck by a vivid image of Solas lying down alone on this inadequate little bed every night. Breathing silently. A single crack of light falling across his face, almost like touch. He always slept curled up into himself, arms pressed to his chest, as if trying to keep himself safe in his sleep. Except when he would reach unconsciously for my hand in the dark, and I would wake to find him clinging on to me, still sleeping. Did he reach out for me here, in this ancient monument to his failures? Seeking warmth, and finding only emptiness?

I rub my eyes helplessly, blinking away the visions. When I turn to his desk, I find stacks upon stacks of papers. His desk at Skyhold was always a mess as well, I remember fondly. These papers appear to be mostly diagrams: some of the ritual that he almost carried out, but others as well. Early ideas, discarded? How many iterations of the ritual did he go through? But something niggles at me. Some of this writing is not in Solas' hand.

Then I shuffle another paper, and all thought of rituals fly from my mind. A letter, beginning with the word vhenan. This at least is undoubtedly Solas' handwriting, and there's also no possible doubt about who it was addressed to.

Vhenan, I do not know if you will see these words. My ritual is ready and will soon be set in motion. Perhaps when you read this the world will finally be healed, and you will see why all I did was necessary. I know that you will build a beautiful new world from the ashes of the old.

That night in Crestwood, when I shared the truth about your vallaslin ... you do not know how close I came to breaking. I could have shared the truth, or even put my plans aside and simply stayed with you as Solas ... as I wanted.

I regret the pain I caused you.

What I feel for you will never change.

I gaze at the letter for a long time, trying to regain my composure. Thinking of him sitting here the night before his ritual, making attempt after attempt to write a letter to me, to tell me the one that thing matters: what I feel for you will never change.

Oh Solas. Why did he have to make it so difficult for himself, for both of us? I could have been there. I could have been there with him that night, both of us preparing together for the ritual that would change the world.

I could have stood beside him on that plinth, and perhaps it would all have gone differently.

What I feel for you will never change. Strong words for an immortal being. But I have no doubt he means it. I know because I feel the same, because I've always felt the same. He's the other half of my heart: nothing will ever change that.

I sit in the office for what feels like hours, gazing at the letter, and then at last I put it aside and go back down to the library. I'm hoping to be left alone for a while, long enough to put my thoughts in order, but it is not to be: Harding comes running through the front doors, breathless, looking around for me. 'Rook,' she says. 'Come quick. It's Lucanis. The demon – '

'Fenhedis,' I say under my breath. He told me it was under control, he told me – but I should have known the fragile peace couldn't last. I've seen the being looking out through his eyes, that purple gaze; the spirit inside him is neither calm nor benevolent. I don't know how to fix it, but I have to try. We need Felassan more than ever, now that Ghilan'nain has come out into the open.

I sprint after Harding, following her across the courtyard, the slight chill of the air in the Fade pricking like goosebumps at my skin. We skid into the kitchen and through into the pantry where Felassan has been sleeping. Bellara looks up at me, her eyes wide with terror. 'Rook,' she says. 'He's – he – '

Felassan is there; but it isn't Felassan. The wings are open, and his eyes smoulder an intense, blustering indigo. Sparks of pain and rage gather in a miasma around him as he paces to and fro, and I can't even tell if the rage ultimately belongs to the elf or the spirit. Perhaps it makes little difference in the end.

'His back turned,' he says darkly, the words ripped from his throat by unseen forces. 'A story unfinished!'

With a start, I see that his fingers are bloody, and there are bloodstains on the wall, as if he's been trying to dig his way out with his hands. As if the spirit or demon inside him doesn't even know that they have been freed from their prison. I suppose from the perspective of the spirit this is no true freedom: Felassan's body is just another cell.

When the Veil comes down, I remind myself, no spirit or mage will ever suffer like this again. I force myself to look once more at the bloodstained streaks on the walls, at Felassan's broken fingernails and red-streaked hands. This is why. This is why.

'Harding,' I say shortly. 'Can you go get some medical supplies? I'll deal with him.'

She nods, and vanishes out of the room. Once the door closes behind her, I turn back to Felassan, and the spirit smouldering within him. 'Felassan,' I say firmly. 'Lethallin. Come back to me.'

He hisses, baring his teeth. 'Let us out. Let us free!'

I speak, now, to the spirit. 'Honoured friend. We will free you. I promise.'

'Where is the Fade? Where is it? Why am I – where am I – '

'We will reunite them,' I say. 'The Fade and world will be one again.'

'He promised – '

'Give him back to us,' I say gently. 'Give him back, and together we'll free you. We'll free all of you.'

Felassan turns, paces away. The wings open and close in agitation, and a snarl rips from him, those eyes flaring purple. But then he gasps and falls to his knees, and the purple haze in the air around him begins to fade away. The sparks of rage lingering, but slowly dying down. The tightness in the air beginning to pull back.

'Felassan?' I say, reaching for his shoulder. ' Emmasalin var suledin evanura. Come back to us, lethallin.'

His head is bowed, his shoulders hunched. But slowly he turns, until he's facing us. There's blood on his face, where he touched his cheeks with bloody fingers; red marks mingling queasily with his vallaslin, the scars of two ages of the world clashing on his skin.

'I didn't want you to see me like this,' he says, anguished. But his eyes aren't on me. He's looking at Bellara.

She lets out a soft little gasp. 'Felassan,' she says. 'You don't need to – it isn't anything to be ashamed of.'

'Isn't it?' He gazes blackly downwards at the ruin of his hands.

'It's not your fault,' she says. 'You're possessed.'

'I should be able to deal with one spirit,' he says bitterly.

'Lethallin,' she says, reaching past me to take his hand. 'You're grieving. You've been hurt. Of course it's harder for you right now.'

'I should be able to – '

'You lost your people. You were betrayed by your closest friend. Of course it's hard.'

Felssan grips her hand so hard his fingers go white. 'It's gone,' he whispers, his eyes blank as he gazes at the wall. 'All gone. I couldn't save my people. I couldn't save them.'

'No one could have,' I say. 'Felassan – it wasn't your responsibility.'

He shakes his head numbly. 'Solas. I couldn't save him either. I couldn't reach him. He – I tried, I tried, but I couldn't undo what what been done to him.'

'You shouldn't have had to,' Bellara says, her voice cracking with sincerity. 'You didn't hurt him. It wasn't your job to heal him.'

'I did hurt him,' Felassan says, anguished. 'I told him he had to become the Dread Wolf. I knew he didn't want it, but I made him do it anyway. People needed something to believe in. And I – I could see how hard it was for him, but I wouldn't let him stop.'

'He's not helpless, Felassan,' I say. 'He made his choice, because he saw that you were right. He willingly took that burden on himself.'

'I was his only friend. Someone should have been looking out for him.'

Bellara comes to kneel beside him, reaching for his hand. 'That's why you went back to him, isn't it?' she says. 'After you gave up the eluvian network. You thought he would kill you, but you still went back.'

Felassan raises his eyes to her, anguish in every line of his face. 'He had no one else – '

'He has someone else now,' Bellara says softly. 'Eirlan cares for him. All the Veil Jumpers care about him. Let us help Solas. You need to recover from everything that happened to you.'

He is silent, but I see him grasp at her hand. With her other hand she reaches up to stroke his back. With that, I understand that my presence is no longer necessary. 'Take care of him,' I whisper to Bellara, and then I leave them together.

***

I get a letter from Charter and Colette, asking to set up a meeting, so Bellara and I cautiously return to Minrathous. There are, at least, no longer so many corpses in the streets; but there are Venatori everywhere, and the scaffolds are still laden with the bodies from the most recent public executions. The city has tried to return to its business, but a terrible hush still lingers over the streets, as if no one dares speak in a voice above a whisper. The Venatori dreamt of restoring Minrathous's glory, but it seems to me the only thing they've achieved is to break its spirit.

'Things are grim, in the slums,' Colette tells me, as we sit down together in the Lamplighter. She looks exhausted. 'At least thirty slaves were sacrificed during the dragon attack. Blood magic, trying to do defensive magic. It didn't even work. The dragon destroyed large parts of the upper city and then after all that the Venatori took over.'

'Were the elven quarters damaged?'

'No, the attacks were confined to the upper city. But there were plenty of slaves there as well – those who live with their masters, for a start. We've had word of casualties, but it's still unclear which people were hurt by the dragon and which were sacrificed by their masters for blood.'

I curl my fists, fingernails biting into my palm. 'This place. This place. Honestly, it shocks me that Dorian ever thought it could be saved.'

'There's some good here too,' Charter says, her tone mildly rebuking. 'But the magisters have too much power. Even a general slave uprising wouldn't change anything. They'd just cut the slaves down and get more.'

I sigh, rubbing my forehead. 'Is Fenris still here?'

'He's here. And he's furious. I mean, more so than usual. He's always angry, it seems like a state of nature for him. But I've never seen him so incandescent as when he heard about the sacrifices. Literally, I mean. The lyrium glows when he gets worked up.'

'And what is he planning now?'

'I've been helping him,' Colette says. 'We've got ideas about interfering with the shipments to Ventus. They're sending more slaves there, for sacrifices. Along with boatloads of soporati, to act as cannon fodder in the war against the qunari.'

'They still hope to drive out the Antaam?'

She nods. 'The magisterium hasn't much luck, but the Venatori are more ruthless in their tactics. They'll just keep throwing slaves and soporati at the city until the Antaam eventully crumble. The qunari are strong fighters, no doubt about that, but the Venatori now have almost limitless resources – thousands of people all across the empire that they can throw at Ventus. The Antaam will fall eventually.'

'So they'll just keep killing slaves until that happens?' I press my lips together, rage pulsing in my chest. How many people have they sacrificed like that, over the centuries? Uncountably many, the names lost, the lives forgotten. No more, I think furiously. No more.

'I know,' Charter says grimly. 'I know. But the Venatori are entrenched now. There's nothing we can do to stop them, other than – well.'

'Bring down the Tevinter empire?' I suggest, and in that moment the words taste sweet on my tongue. Like justice; like vindication.

'Right.' She gestures helplessly out at the city. 'Just another reason to do it, I guess. However bad Tevinter was before, it's going to be unimaginably worse until you bring down the Veil and remake the world.'

'Just a small thing, then,' I say, smiling tiredly.

Bellara and I bid them farewell, after that, and go to meet up with Neve, near what remains of the Shadow Dragon hideout. She's grim-faced, exhausted. 'It's bad,' she tells me. 'Very bad. Most of the Shadows have been executed, and the rest are on the run. There's no one left to look after Dock Town.'

'Except you,' I say.

'What can I do?' She waves a miserable hand. 'I'm trying. But there's so much – ' She stops, swallows. 'This morning there were several abominations loose in the undercity. We don't get many of them in Tevinter, our mages are better trained than down South, but with the stress and the fear – well.' Her eyes are hollow. 'One of them was a friend. I had to cut him down.'

'Neve. I'm so sorry. That's a terrible way to lose someone.'

'Yeah.' She nods, exhausted. 'I'm coming back soon, really. I'm not staying away to punish you.'

'Of course not. I know that.'

'Just wanted to make that clear.' She looks down, her mouth twisting, and then she says in a rush. 'The ritual. Harding and I, we – if we hadn't interrupted it, none of this would have happened.'

I've had the very same thought myself, but now that she's in front of me, looking at me with those dark, haunted eyes, I don't have the heart to blame her. 'You couldn't have known,' I say; a platitude, but what else can I offer?

'I knew,' she says. 'I'm a mage. I told Harding that interrupting the ritual could have dangerous consequences. I just – we couldn't see any other alternative. Varric said Solas was going to destroy the world, drown it in demons.'

I press my lips together. If Varric had been willing to listen, if he'd made any attempt to think beyond what the Chantry had taught him – his death is my fault, yes, but it's also a tragedy of his own making, and a product of the Chantry's lies.

'You did your best,' I say, aware of the emptiness of my words even as I speak them. 'It was a difficult situation.'

She gazes steadily at me. 'Rook – was Varric right?' she whispers. 'This – what the Evanuris have already done, what they're preparing to do. Could Solas' ritual really have been worse than this?'

I meet her eyes, and this time I tell her the truth: 'I don't know.'

'Really?'

'There's no doubt that people would have died, if he'd succeeded. But we're yet to see how bad things will get, with the Evanuris. We don't have enough information to compare, yet.'

'But would the ritual really have flooded the world in demons?'

I hesitate. 'Well. From what I hear of Varric, it seems he didn't really distinguish between demons and spirits. So from his perspective, I suppose that what he said was true.'

She closes her eyes a moment. 'Ah. That's what I thought.'

'Neve?'

She shakes her head miserably. 'I have to go. I promised to help with the healing in the lower city. I'll be in touch.'

She hurries away, leaving Bellara and I to make our way back through the empty, trashed shell of the Shadow Dragons' hideout. I walk with my head down, the sick beat of my heart in my chest. This betrayal of Neve may yet be the worst thing I've ever done. Worse even than killing Varric – that at least was unpremeditated and unwilling, but with Neve I'm choosing, over and over and over again, to deceive her. I remember Solas' words: I would not have you see what I become. I couldn't have imagined, then, what I myself would become.

But I remind myself of those abominations. The pain and terror of those spirits and mages, bound together in their final torturous moments. And the slaves shipped daily to Tevinter, the soporati sent to die in their war. I raise my chin. 'No more,' I whisper to myself, and then I step through the eluvian.

***

After Minrathous, we head to the Necropolis in Nevarra. Bellara has been corresponding for some years with a necromancer named Emmrich Volkarin; the Nevarrans are known for their tolerance toward spirits, so we'd hoped that the Mourn Watch might yield allies in our fight. Or at least a few people who could understand why taking down the Veil is so essential.

But unfortunately, we're disabused of that notion almost as soon as we meet Emmrich Volkarin. He's in the middle of an enchantment, his arms waving like a conductor, the energies of the Fade luminescent all around him. At first I don't understand; and then I do. My heart in my throat, I watch as he guides the spirit into a body. Directs it to start digging at the rocks. Wait, I want to say. Wait, you can't do that –

I remember Solas, in the Emerald Graves, stopping by a mage encampment to very carefully free a wisp that one of the mages had bound as a light source. His long fingers, moving over the lantern. Now you are free, he'd said softly, as if speaking to a person. Because it was a person. Because the spirits have always been people.

I turn back to Emmrich, swallowing my distaste. We still need this necromancer. Even if the Mourn Watch isn't going to help us with the Veil, we'll need their aid against the Evanuris. I cannot afford to pick fights over their methods.

'Emmrich Volkarin,' he introduces himself. 'It's a pleasure to meet you. I hope you didn't come all this way just to see me?'

Bellara, standing beside me in equal horror, snaps out of it with a start and begins answering his questions. She's playing much the same role as with Neve – innocent, overawed – and just like Neve, Emmrich falls for it. He shakes her hand happily, quite willing to impart his knowledge. He's charming, faultlessly kind. I like him immediately, and wish that I didn't. Why couldn't any part of this have been easy?

'There's just a little task I have to complete, and then we can talk about this mission of yours,' he says. 'If you wouldn't mind accompanying me?'

We proceed deeper into the Necropolis. Were I not so disturbed by the practices I've just seen, I would find this a fascinating, marvelous place. The intricate carvings on the stone tombs around us are rounded by time, but still stunningly wrought. Enormous skeletons tower over us, baring their ribcages with a cutting, poignant vulnerability. White, wilting flowers tumble out of vases, jasmine-scented. The air is hung about with a green tinge, giving every scene an edge of a haunting; but there are wisps around every corner, dancing eagerly to meet us, filling their air with their subtle music. The spirits press close here, drawn by death and yet unexpectedly joyful. The music of the Fade here is not somber but rather breathless, wondering, welcoming the dead home.

The Mourn Watch are so close to being something I should love, and yet – I can't look past what I've just seen.

In the next section, wisps are being used as keys for locks; they follow Emmrich gladly, and settle quickly into locking device when he orders them. It's certainly not cruel, on the surface, and yet – wisps may be easily led, but they have volitions of their own, a desire to learn and explore. They are more than just objects to be used to open doors for us. These wisps seem willing enough, but what recompense do they receive? How long is the wisp trapped in the lock, and what choices does it have about its tenure there?

Emmrich stops to summon another spirit into another skeleton, and I watch closely, discerning the details a little clearer this time. And what I see breaks my heart. For here too it's clear that the spirit comes willingly. Spirits want to be part of the physical world; they were always supposed to be part of the physical world. Given the chance, they will flow eagerly into a skeleton, inhabiting the space that has been made from them. They have little choice: the irresistible magnetism of what was always meant to be.

But I've spent years in Arlathan speaking to spirits, seeking to understand their natures, what it is they really want. And I know, I know, that this is not what they want. Trapped in an alien physical form, chipping away at the rock for – what, eternity? How long have these spirits been here? Is there any reward for their labours, any respite? Can they return to the Fade, or are they left crying out silently for it, just as those on the other side cry out for the physical world? Walking past spirits bound to corpses, nausea rises in me; it takes a real effort to keep from retching.

Yet Emmrich speaks of the spirits with respect, affection: it's clear that he doesn't see this magic as cruel or unjust. And after all, when all is said and done perhaps slavery inside a corpse is a better outcome than other fates that may meet spirits in this broken world. If they can't help being drawn into the physical realm, better they find themselves here than that they become a demon, tortured and broken and reviled.

But the idea that this is the best possible outcome for them is a tragedy all in itself.

So I follow Emmrich Volkarin into the depths, keeping my own counsel. The Mourn Watch may be misguided, but they care, they are trying. It's better than most of the rest of Thedas. There's something I can work with here. We'll see if that's enough.

***

'Salted meat and honey?' I say to Solas that evening, when I arrive in the Fade. 'That's what you've been eating for the last ten years?'

He blinks. 'I had raisins as well.'

'They were untouched.'

'I don't like them very much.' He furrows his brow, and then says, with the air of someone coming up with a brilliant retort, 'And I had cheese!'

'Jerky, honey and cheese. Vhenan, really? When is the last time you ate a vegetable?'

He actually seems to be thinking about it; but the fact that he can't remember is answer enough. I sigh deeply, and then say, 'Well, anyway. We went to the Necropolis. And we managed to recruit some additional help.'

I report the details of our trip to Solas, who listens quietly, his arms locked behind his back in his customary posture. His eyes are distant, remote. 'I see,' he says stiffly, as I finish describing Emmrich. 'Well. I hope he serves you well.'

I look across curiously at him. Something has gotten under his skin, but I can't tell what. I haven't even mentioned the wisps, or Manfred. 'What is it?'

'I do not know what you mean.' He clears his throat. 'Though I am sure your new Fade expert would understand.'

I gape at him. 'Are you – jealous?'

The colour rises in his cheeks, and he looks away. 'Certainly not.'

'Solas,' I say. 'You don't think – '

'Well, you like people who will talk with you about the Fade and magic, do you not?'

'Vhenan,' I say, slightly amused. 'I do enjoy talking about the Fade and magic, but you know that's not the only reason I like you. Don't you?'

He looks vaguely confused. 'What else could I possibly offer you?'

'Vhenan, I – have you really believed all these years that I fell in love with you just because you told me about the Fade?'

He shakes his head. 'I – well – '

'Emma lath. I do love your knowledge, and your willingness to share it. But that is not all that you are.'

He looks down, clearing his throat. 'I know that.'

'I fell in love with how kind you are, how gentle. The way you were with Cole. How you always wanted to look after the refugees in the Hinterlands. How curious you were, always asking questions, trying to understand people's points of view. How you befriended even Varric and Iron Bull and Cassandra, all so very different from you. How you listened to them, and admitted when you were wrong. Your paintings. How passionately you cared about freedom, about the spirits. How much you felt everything.'

He's staring at me, his lips parted. 'I – ' he breathes.

'And you're very pretty as well, so that helps.'

He lets out a helpless little laugh, his cheeks flooding with colour. 'I – you see much more in me than I see in myself.'

'I know, vhenan. That's the point of having someone who loves you. To see the good things.'

'I have many flaws,' he begins.

'I know, emma lath. I see those as well. They don't change how I feel about you.'

He raises a hand to cover his eyes. I think I see his shoulders shake. Perhaps this is too much for him, for now; for all his fierce independence, there's a fragility to him, and all the more so now that he's trapped alone in this dark place.

'In any case,' I say hurriedly. 'If it will set your mind at rest, I do not particularly like the way this Fade expert deals with the spirits.'

He looks up. 'How so?'

'The entire Necropolis runs on the labour of wisps, and higher spirits placed into bodies. It is done with more respect than elsewhere, but it still seems like exploitation to me. And the way this Emmrich talks about the spirits – I do think he appreciates their personhood, which is something, but he understands them as children. It seems patronising.'

'Ah,' he says. 'And proper respect for spirits is your main criterion for attraction?'

I smile. 'Well, evidently it's one of them.'

He smiles back at me, and for a moment it seems so easy and natural; and then the Fade begins to vanish and I curse the timing with everything in me. 'Solas,' I say urgently. 'Ar lath ma.'

But he's already gone. I cannot tell if he heard me.

***

The next day, Felassan, Harding and I head to the Rivain coast to recruit our dragon-hunter.

The coast is glorious, so bright and colourful that I feel as though my senses have been suddenly heightened, as if I'm looking at the world through a perfect telescope. My spirits rise immediately, purely from the sunshine and salt air.

Reaching the shore I take my boots off, heedless of the risks that no doubt surround us, and follow the line of the tide. Letting the waves lap over my feet, the sand billow silkily around my feet. Harding quickly doffs her boots and joins me, and Felassan, shaking his head in amusement, follows behind us. 'Don't worry, I'll keep watch for dangerous creatures!' he calls.

'Do that, please,' I call back, returning my attention to the sea. The sound of the waves rocks me, soothes me: that soft eternal rhythm. Sunshine on water, golden reflections everywhere, and beneath it all the same steady, reliable currents.

I allow myself a few more minutes to enjoy the beach, and then we head up the shore to find our contact. Taash is immediately, luminously appealing to me: the dragon-hunter is blunt, abrupt, and hilarious. Every moment of our mission together is a delight. I love the way Taash talks about dragons: fascinated, respectful, and just genuinely overjoyed to be in their presence. If we can only find time, there's a lot more I want to learn from our new dragon-hunter.

As we walk down the beach together, I briefly assess the prospects of getting Taash on our side. On the one hand, as a Rivaini, Taash seems very reasonable and respectful about the spirit world. I suspect it wouldn't be hard to make the case that spirits are people and should not have to suffer. But on the other hand – the dragon-hunter is young. So very young. I recognise the idealism of youth, the black and white thinking. I suspect that Taash would not be able to accept the idea that sometimes things must be broken before they can heal. When I was that age I believed that it was possible to achieve change peacefully; I know better now, but I suspect Taash isn't there yet.

'Taash is certainly a character,' Felassan comments, coming up beside me. The dragon-hunter is walking with Harding up ahead; from the amount of blushing Harding is doing, I have a suspicion that some flirting is taking place. 'I'm a fan. It will be nice to shake up the group dynamic.'

'I wish I was more like that, sometimes,' I say. 'In the Inquisition I was too diplomatic for too long. I should have just told people to shut up more often, as Taash would have done.'

Felassan smiles. 'One suspects that you would not have become Inquisitor if you had done so.'

'I'm not sure that would have been such a bad thing,' I say. 'Being the Inquisitor was more a curse than a blessing. And none of the good things I tried to do stuck in the end.'

'Nor did our revolution, but I don't regret it,' Felassan says.

I look up at him. 'Can you – would you tell me something about what it was like?'

'It was many things,' he says, weary. 'We fought for centuries. Everything you can imagine, we went through at one time or another.'

'All right, so what was it like at the very beginning?'

He smiles, with unexpected, inward-looking fondness. 'For a while, it was wonderful. We had so much hope. Everything seemed possible, at the start.'

'We? You and Solas?'

'There were others. A circle of friends, who all felt similarly. We met in secret – laying plans, gathering resources, recruiting those who would fight. It was thrilling, intoxicating. Solas, he was – so intense, so passionate, filled with fury and outrage at what the Evanuris had done. We would have followed him anywhere.'

I wish I could have seen him as he was then, so young and bright and beautiful. He's still beautiful now, but in a very different way. 'What happened to the others?' I ask.

'They died, over the centuries, in one battle or another. By the end Solas and I were the only ones who remained.'

'And what was it like, at the end?' I ask gingerly.

The glow of reminiscence fades from Felassan's face. He looks down, his brows drawing together. 'By then, the hope was gone,' he says. 'Too many losses, too many terrible choices. We had to fight on, but we fought like ghosts. Like we were already dead. Even before Mythal was killed, Solas had stopped talking to me. To anyone really. He went through the motions, but it was as if he wasn't really there.'

'And then she was killed.'

Felassan nods, shadows around his eyes. 'Solas vanished for weeks, and when he came back, I spoke to him and I knew. I just knew it was the end. One way or another. He was lost. I couldn't find a way back for him.'

I look down, feeling a chill pass over me, despite the warmth of the sun. The awful inevitability of it: the rebellion fighting on, careening downhill toward the final desperate tragedy. That they cared so much, and ended in nothing but grief and destruction.

'Lethallin,' Felassan says gently, and when I look up he holds my gaze, steadfast. 'You need to understand – even with all that, it was all worth it. There are many people who lived freely for a long time because of what we did. They are dead now and our civilization is gone, but it mattered while they lived. It matters still.'

Up ahead of us, Taash and Harding are laughing together, but my good spirits have entirely fled. 'I know,' I say quietly, and we walk on in silence. Behind us, the tides flood in to smooth over our footsteps, so when I look back it is as if we never passed there at all.

***

Bellara and I take Felassan to visit the Veil Jumpers, who are all fascinated to meet another ancient elf. We've all gotten used to Strife over the years, but Felassan is older and a veteran of Solas' famous rebellion; the elves are all dying to meet him.

Arriving at the Veil Jumper camp, Felassan looks around, his nose wrinkling. 'I have been here before,' he says. 'When it was a real bathhouse. There was a lot less moss.'

'The moss is nice!' Bellara says indignantly. 'It's soft. It smells good.'

'Moss does not smell good,' Felassan says in a horrified tone. 'It smells like dirt and wet. How you can have such atrocious taste I simply cannot understand. Do you need me to buy you some decent perfume?'

'I wasn't saying that I wear moss as perfume, and I don't need you to buy me anything!' she says indignantly.

'All right, but would you like it if I bought you perfume?' he persists.

'I – ' She stops short in confusion, glaring suspiciously at him. I hide my smile, and hurry over to the fireside, where several elves are cooking an enormous pot of chickpeas, the scent of cumin heavy upon the air.

Strife appears out of the woods, raising a hand to his chest as he bows his head towards Felassan. 'Andaran atish'an, hahren,' he says respectfully. It feels strange to see him address Felassan thus, because Strife has aged in the time he has been with us and now looks significantly older than Felassan, but in fact I know that Felassan has many hundreds of years on him.

For his part, Felassan smiles diplomatically back. 'Strife, I'm told? You tended Mythal's temple? I'm sure we must have met, but I don't remember.'

'We did meet,' Strife confirms. 'But only very briefly. You came with the Dread Wolf for negotiations, but they did not last long. While the gods talked, you came out to the temple-keepers and competed with us in making illusions.'

Felassan lets out a delighted laugh. 'I do remember! That was a good day. For a while. Until the negotiations failed, as they always did.'

'Indeed,' Strife says. 'Perhaps we can compete again some time. I have had some time to practice.'

Felassan grins. 'I haven't played that game in – well. Literal millenia, I suppose. You'd probably thrash me.'

Morrigan appears at that moment, stepping out from amongst the columns. 'Ah. You found General Felassan?'

He appraises her. 'I hear I have you to thank for my rescue,' he says, his tone flattening. 'Though I also hear that you carry Mythal, which does not make me so well disposed to you.'

'And yet you still wear her vallaslin?' Morrigan says, with a raised eyebrow.

'It was a reminder, once,' Felassan says. 'And then a convenient disguise, when I wanted to pretend to be Dalish. Now – well, only Solas knows how to remove them, and unfortunately he's not available right now.'

'Perhaps soon,' Morrigan says. 'And I should like you to know that I am not Mythal. I bear her memories, that is all, and even there I am limited. I search and interpret what I can, but much is yet mysterious to me. And if I am honest, I begin to suspect there are parts she has deliberately occluded from me.'

That makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. 'Why?' I say suspiciously. 'What would Mythal wish to hide even from you?'

'I am not entirely sure,' she says. 'But I suspect it is something to do with Solas. The details of the time around her death are suspiciously vague, even though those memories are the most recent and should have been the clearest.'

I curl my fingers around my staff, my mind working furiously. 'When we met in the Fade,' I say to Morrigan. 'Your mother said that Mythal sought a reckoning that would shake the very heavens. Do you know what she meant by that?'

Morrigan looks troubled. 'I – not exactly. She wanted the other Evanuris dead, of course, but just that? I am unsure. I will have to think on the matter.'

'Well, this is all very reassuring,' Felassan says grumpily. 'Though familiar, I suppose. I too am inhabited by a foreign and possibly hostile creature.'

'Well then, I am sure the two of us will be great friends, given our mutual understanding of each other,' Morrigan says, smiling a little sardonically. 'Eirlan, Bellara, perhaps you could come this way? We've had word of the south.'

Ah. I'd hoped that the turmoil up north hadn't yet affected the south, but of course that was always a vain hope. 'Coming,' I say grimly, and I follow her across the courtyard to sit down in the shade in the corner, where Strife, Irelin and Merrill are preparing for us.

'So,' I say, steeling myself. 'The south. What's happening?'

'The darkspawn are massing,' Morrigan says shortly. 'Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain haven't made personal appearances, but Fereldan and Orlais are already under attack.'

My mouth twists. 'What about the remains of the Inquisition?'

'They have not been idle. Cassandra and Cullen have been mustering armies in Leliana's name. The Bull and his Chargers have joined them, and I believe Thom Rainier is helping as well. They're planning to lead as many soldiers as they can down to Ostagar to confront the darkspawn force there. Leliana has discussed calling an Exalted March, but it's difficult. Vivienne has been undermining her for years, as you know, and some people consider her a heretic and won't follow her lead.'

Irelin wrinkles her nose. 'She shouldn't have tried to play it both ways for so long. She should have picked a side.'

'Yes,' I say. 'And she should have dealt more decisively with Vivienne's renegade Circle. Now she's paying the price.'

'Will Vivienne's mages help with the war effort?' Strife asks.

Morrigan sighs. 'If they do, we cannot be sure it will be on our side. A number of Orlesian nobles have made common cause with the Evanuris – they're using it as an outlet for their grievances, all the changes Celene has made they didn't like. And of course Vivienne is close with the conservatives.'

Strife's brow furrows, and he looks at me. 'You knew her best. You really think she'd support the Evanuris?'

I shake my head. 'No, honestly, I don't. Vivienne was always hungry for power, it's true, but she had her principles. She was with the Inquisition for her own reasons, but she was always honest in her opposition to Corypheus. I can't see her standing with the Evanuris.'

'That may be so,' Morrigan says. 'But nonetheless, if her allies in Orlais choose to side with the gods, she may think it prudent to avoid taking sides.'

'Orlais will fall,' Irelin says. 'It cannot endure if half its nobles fight on the side of the gods. It will need help from Ferelden or the Marches.'

'The Orlesians will not accept help from Ferelden, most certainly,' Morrigan says. 'The Marches perhaps, but even that is unlikely. Celene would possibly be willing, but Gaspard would not, and the rest of her nobles would overrule her if she sought to allow Ferelden soldiers to enter.'

'Perhaps if they come under the banner of the Divine, or the Inquisition?' I suggest.

Morrigan shakes her head. 'No. Politically, it is impossible, even now.

'So Orlais will fall,' Felassan says, his tone hard. 'Let it fall. The place deserves no better.'

Morrigan quirks an eyebrow at him. 'You would see the whole country burn in revenge for Briala?'

'I won't burn it myself,' he rejoinders. 'But I won't weep to see its ending. Change is coming, in any case, when we bring the Veil down.'

'Oh, but Felassan,' Bellara says, distressed. 'I know the nobles are awful, but think of everyone else in Orlais. All the common people. It's not their fault what Celene and Gaspard have done.'

His face softens as he turns toward her. 'You were at Halamshiral, when the alienage burned.'

She nods. 'Yes. And what I saw there – the elves of Orlais have suffered enough.'

'They will never cease to suffer, so long as Celene and her kind rule.'

'I know,' she whispers. 'I know. That's why we're doing this, isn't it? But we've spent years working to limit the damage. I don't want to see Orlais ravaged by darkspawn before we even get started.'

'There is little we can do, unfortunately,' Morrigan says. 'If Briala's network still existed we could perhaps have roused the elves to help keep the darkspawn out, but that is not a possibility now. If Orlais falls, it will be due in part to that short-sightedness.'

'Still, we have to try,' I say wearily. 'Maybe if we can change the First Warden's mind we can get some wardens to Orlais. Or we can send word to the College of Enchanters in Ferelden, and have them do what they can. I know Fiona would want to help'

Morrigan nods. 'I'll contact them, certainly. But they have their own problems to deal with. Things are bad in Ferelden as well.'

'What about the Marches?' Merrill says anxiously, leaning forward. 'Kirkwall? Varric was absent so often recently, and now that he's – ' She glances over at me, changes course. 'There's a vacuum of leadership. Who will organise them against the darkspawn?'

'I'm told your friend Aveline has taken charge,' Morrigan says. 'The darkspawn haven't reached the Marches yet, but they're certainly on their way. Aveline has barricaded the city, recruited more fighters. She's trying to make common cause with the other Marcher cities, but as you know it can be hard to unite them all.'

'Do we have an eluvian to Kirkwall? I'd like to help, if I can,' Merrill says. 'When the fighting begins, I could go and help with the healing. They don't have Anders any more, for that.'

Bellara leans forward to ask more questions; but beside her I slump into my chair, putting my head in my hands. The stories from the south reverberate darkly in the hollow of my chest. In another life I would have been down there, working with Cassandra and Cullen, leading the armies against the darkspawn. They need a figurehead right now, and I would have been ideal. My departure no doubt stripped legitimacy from the remaining Inquisition, and from Leliana. They might be having a better time if I'd stayed.

But I couldn't stay. I couldn't be a prisoner of their faith any longer. I couldn't let them attach my name to the things they were planning to do.

Still – all those people. The South was my responsibility. I have dark visions of Redcliffe, Denerim, Skyhold, all falling to the darkspawn horde. Just like my clan: I should have been there to save them.

'Eirlan,' Morrigan says, her voice echoing strangely in my ears. 'Are you all right?'

I straighten up, try to keep my voice steady. 'I'm sorry,' I say. 'It's just – so much suffering. And then, when it's over, we're going to bring more death upon them. More chaos.'

'Are you having doubts?' Bellara says uncertaintly.

'No. Maybe. I don't know. We all know the Veil needs to be brought down. But the cost?'

Morrigan sighs, but gazes steadily at me. 'It isn't easy,' she says. 'But let me tell you what I told a beloved friend, long ago. Change is coming to the world. Many fear change and will fight it with every fiber of their being. But sometimes, change is what they need most. Sometimes, change is what sets them free.'

I look at her and sigh. I know it's the truth: the escape of the Evanuris is a setback, but it doesn't change the fundamental moral calculation. The world must be healed, and Thedas must be freed. I just wish, selfishly, that the burden of it could fall upon someone else.

***

Neve returns to the Lighthouse that evening. She's taciturn and grim and clearly not in a celebratory mood, but nonetheless Bellara insists on a celebration. She bakes a tray of gooey honey-cakes, and then, after we've eaten, she suggests I should make some music for dancing.

I have a moment of panic, and then I remember that at Skyhold I only ever showed my music spell to Solas, so Harding has no reason to associate it with the Inquisitor. Still, I feel oddly shy about the matter. I suppose I've only ever shown it before to people I knew well and trusted – Solas, my friends in the Veil Jumpers – and this group is another matter entirely. Still, I can't think of a good excuse to say no, so I sit there, with all of their eyes upon me, and extend my hands, and reach for the song.

We're much closer to the Fade here, and its resonances pour through me, tumbling through my veins and out into the air, waves of sound flooding across the kitchen. Almost unstoppable once it's started. The music ripples and aches, spreading chords not quite in accordance with any ordinary harmonics, and a deep, profound vibrato. I'm startled by the joy I feel in its song: the Fade is ecstatic to have us here, our minds and our physical bodies, the little pieces of the outside world that we carry with us. The magic itself reaches out to embrace us, welcoming its children back home.

No wonder the wisps so eagerly follow me and Neve around. The denizens of the Fade have been waiting for thousands of years to be reunited with the world, with the very minds that spawned them; they're flocking to us because they thought us lost to them forever. After millenia of imprisonment, every chink in the shutters feels like a miracle. Their delight and welcome resonate through me, through the music, filling the little kitchen with sound so warm and glowing it almost seems as if the room is flooded with golden light.

The primordial song of the Fade isn't ideal music for dancing, if I'm being honest, but the group puts their best foot forward nonetheless. Taash puts Harding on their shoulders and dances merrily around the room with her. Emmrich extends a hand to Neve and gravely turns her in a dignified minuet. Felassan seizes Bellara and spins her joyfully in a much less dignified manner. Davrin sits chuckling for a few moments, then picks up Assan and turns gingerly on the spot, causing Assan to squawk joyfully.

Watching them, my chest burns with a strange, clandestine grief. It's so close to friendship, family even, and yet it's not, it's not: Felassan, Bellara and I will one day betray all the others. And yet it feels beautiful and warm and real. If I let myself forget, for a moment it could feel like home.

Is that how Solas felt, every night in the Hinterlands, sitting around the fire and laughing at Varric's tales? This complex, conflicted beauty? I'm sorry, the words like a drumbeat inside my head. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. But if I really meant it, I'd take a different course. Apologies mean nothing when you just keep doing the same things.

Once upon a time I was angry at Solas, for making so many apologies while continuing to hurt me. But I understand better now. When you don't want to hurt someone but you have no choice, what else can you possibly do? The apologies are worthless, you know they're worthless, but you have to make them anyway. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry like the beat of your heart in your chest: you're still a person, you still care. What else can you hold on to, in such times?

Chapter Text

In pursuit of the Hand of Glory, Emmrich, Davrin and I visit Blackthorne Manor, and then somehow end up stumbling into the Fade.

I have not been here physically since the battle at Adamant – the Lighthouse doesn't really count, shielded as it is by its ancient enchantments. Here, for the first time, I can feel the true vibrations of the Fade, naked and raw. I was not as sensitive to the music of the spirits back at Adamant. I felt something, then, but just a faint murmur of unhappiness and unease. I can hear them clearly now.

And what I hear is screaming.

The cacophany ricochets between my ears, making me stumble, clutching at Davrin's arm to stop myself from falling. That terrible symphony of grief and alienation. Uncountable numbers of formless beings, flinging themselves heedlessly at the Veil, pressing and pressing and pressing. The pain shrieks through my bones, millenia of yearning, of agonized separation from the world. How can they have lived with this pain for so long?

'Are you all right?' Davrin says. He's raised his weapon, holding it steadily in front of him, prepared to ward off any threat. 'This is a strange place.'

'I'm fine,' I say breathlessly, righting myself. 'Sorry. Just disorientated.'

I can barely walk straight with all this pain echoing in my ears, but I have to hold it together. I stumble onward in Emmrich's wake. Is this what Solas felt, when we walked together in the Fade at Adamant? He was distraught afterwards: I remember how he sat that evening, almost catatonic, in the tent we shared. So exhausted I had to undress him; he raised his arms obediently to let me remove his garments. He seemed exhausted, broken. Once the tunic and undershirt were gone he kept sitting there silently, staring down at his hands. He seemed smaller than usual, somehow. He'd never been bulky – he was strong but slender, like a dancer – but that day he looked unusually frail. His bare shoulders hunched, like he'd been carrying a weight he couldn't bear any longer.

I'd assumed it was just because of the things the fear demon said to him. Dirth ma, harellan. But now I understand that it was more than that. He walked physically through the Fade and heard the spirits bellowing in agony. Proclaiming all the pain that he inflicted on them. When he wept in my arms that night, that's what he was hearing. Millennia of agony that he himself had wrought, however inadvertently.

I grind my teeth, raising my staff almost unconsciously to fight the undead that appear to harry us. There's no stopping it, no blocking it out. Like Solas, I can only bear witness.

Soon, I think, as the wisps dance around me, the spirits massing in my wake. As if they know, somehow, that I intend to save them. Soon, friends. The Veil will come down. The two halves of the world will be reunited. And these screams of agony will be nothing but a memory, a wound beginning to heal.

***

There's trouble in Minrathous once again. I get word from Fenris first, via Charter and Colette: the Venatori have moved against Dock Town, kidnapping one of its preeminent crime lords. This might not sound like cause for concern, but Colette tells me that it is: the Threads are unscrupulous and out for themselves but they're also part of the tapestry that holds this place together. Remove Damas, and the rest will fall apart.

Neve gets word a little later, and comes to me for help. We fight our way through the Thread market, taking out one Venatori after another. Neve's ice magic is terrifyingly effective against them, mage after mage literally shattering into pieces under the effects of her spells. Eventually we reach Damas, who is clearly not himself: he rages against us, fighting with a manic, frenzied glow, and then expiring suddenly with a gasp; the magic that bound him failing at last as he falls to his knees, bruised and broken.

'Aelia,' Neve says darkly, as another voice speaks out of his mouth. Just another Venatori, I surmise, out to wreak havoc on her own city. Dorian has always said the best argument for the fall of the Tevinter empire is the plight of its own citizens.

We return to the Lighthouse after that, but I can feel that Neve is fuming. She needs someone to talk to, and though I'm hardly ideal under the circumstances, I'm all she has right now. When I go into her office I find her pacing from side to side, her hair down, her eyes red and harrowed. 'Damn it,' she storms, as I come in. 'Damn it! Every time. You fight and they just come back. Nothing ever works!'

The anger feels shockingly familiar, and I recognise it as an echo of my own. She spins around, livid, and the look on her face takes me right back to that day in Halamshiral – the moment I knew there was no other option, that change wouldn't come gently or kindly.

For a moment, I think: maybe I can tell her. Maybe she'll understand.

But then she says: 'I'll protect them, Rook. I will. I won't let anything like this happen again.'

And I know I can never tell her. I mustn't hold on to that false hope. This story can only end in one way: with me stabbing her in the back.

'I know you won't,' I say. 'I know you'd do anything to keep them safe.'

Her gaze softens. She gives a little sideways smile, her hair falling across her face. 'You know, I didn't expect backup for this job. I wasn't looking to drag you in.'

'You didn't drag me anywhere. I wanted to help.' This, at least, is the truth.

She looks thoughtfully at me. The wisps ebb and flow around her, casting a gentle glow over her face. They love Neve. Of course they do; they feel how good she is. How much she cares. If I know one thing about wisps, it's that they're excellent judges of character.

'You came through for Dock Town this time,' she says. 'Even when I didn't expect it.'

'I hope I'll always come through for you,' I say, the words like ashes in my mouth.

She smiles at me again, then ducks her head. Her hands rising to straighten her hair. Ashamed, I look away. We stand there together, in the dancing light of the wisps, in the cold shadow of my own future betrayal. In another life, we would have been best friends. In this life, I have to destroy everything she loves.

She's not wrong. Neither am I. We are both protecting our people. But knowing that doesn't make this any easier.

***

That evening, Solas greets me across the ravine, and I square my shoulders, and look directly at him.

'Solas,' I say. 'I repaired one of your murals. In the main hall of the Lighthouse.'

That flicker in his eyes; a moment of pure panic. I see him swallow, his hands flexing at his sides. 'Oh?' he says, but the attempt at a casual tone falls flat.

'You went to Mythal for help,' I say softly. 'And she died.'

He gasps, as if I've struck him. The pain cracks across his face, and he raises his hands to his chest, as if to hold himself. His eyes meet mine and then he looks away. Trying to speak, but finding no words.

I speak slowly and clearly, because I need him to hear and understand. 'Vhenan,' I say quietly. 'Mythal's death was not your fault.'

He shudders, taking a step back, but he still does not speak. I take a breath to calm my racing heart, and then continue. 'She didn't listen to you. She made her choice.'

Finally he musters words. 'I should have convinced her,' he says hoarsely.

'She was never going to listen to you,' I say, a curl of white-hot anger in my chest.

'She – '

'I know you loved her,' I say quietly. 'I am sure there was good in her. You did not love her for nothing. But in the end – she loved you once, I am sure, but in the end she didn't respect you.'

I see him flinch, but he doesn't deny it.

'She betrayed you to go to the Evanuris, and then she talked as if you were the one who left her.'

He looks down. 'It was complicated,' he murmurs.

'I know that. I can't pretend to understand what it is like to live and love someone for all those thousands of years. But she could have listened to you, and she didn't. What happened was her fault, not yours.'

'I should never have gone to her for help.'

'Hmmm,' I say mildly. 'So you resolved that you would never ask anyone for help ever again?'

He flinches again, and I step instinctively toward him, wishing I could hold him, soothe him. 'Vhenan,' I say instead. 'Ar lath ma. Telanadas, mala suledin.'

His shoulders tremble, but he looks back up at me. 'I shouldn't – '

'You're allowed to ask for help,' I say quietly. 'It doesn't always end that way.'

'Sometimes it does.'

'Yes. And sometimes trying to do everything by yourself also ends in death,' I say quietly, and his gaze slides away from me. He sags against the stone wall beside him, as if he can barely stand up.

'Ir abelas,' he murmurs. 'Ir abelas. I – everything I do falls to pieces. Everything ends in death.'

'Then stop trying to do it all alone.' I say.

He is silent, but I see him shiver again, and I ache to put my arms around him. 'Solas,' I say gently. 'Will you tell me what the other murals show?'

His eyes flicker to my face. A moment of silence, and then he looks away again. No reply.

'Why not?' I ask.

'Because I am ashamed!' he bursts out. Then raises a hand, to cover his eyes. I can see his pulse fluttering in his throat, his shoulders hunching defensively.

I am silent, watching him. 'Vhenan, I wish you would let me come to you.'

He takes his hand away, glances at me. A flash of shock; he hadn't realized that I knew he was responsible for the ravine. But I can feel the Fade beginning to disappear, and I know I must be vanishing before his eyes. 'Ir abelas,' he says again, and then he's gone.

***

As we descend toward the lyrium caverns, I feel waves of sickening unease washing over me. I didn't want to come here, but Harding was so insistent, and I didn't think it was a good idea to let her go alone. I need to keep an eye on what's happening with the strange magic that has awoken within her.

But now that I'm here, I find myself wishing that I'd sent someone else in my place. The very air in this place fills me with crackling terror. I still don't know exactly what happened to the Titans, but it's clear that the ancient elves did something to them; if there's a Titan down here, as I am beginning to suspect, and it recognises me as an elf, as the descendant of its great adversaries, I am surely doomed.

And beneath that, a deeper fear: I'm afraid to learn what my ancestors did. I know that it will hurt. I know I'm not ready to face it. And yet the person we're going to see might very well have the answers. As we descend lower I clench my fists at my sides, praying to all the gods I've never believed in: don't let her know. Don't let her tell us.

It's cowardly, I know. Despicable, really. To build a different future I need to face the truth of our past. But it's been so much already: so many illusions shattered, so many dreams torn down. Let me hold onto this last thing a little longer. Don't let her tell us.

'You all right?' Neve says, glancing anxiously at me. 'Claustrophobic?'

I swallow. 'Something like that.'

But then we round the corner into the lyrium cave, and for a moment my awe overcomes my unease. It's an immense cathedral of glittering blue, towering veins of glowing rock ascending around us as far as the eye can see. The air feels different, suddenly – not oppressive but reverent. Sacred. Bathed in blue light, we walk forward, as if in a trance.

I'm struck by a sudden memory of travelling into the lyrium caves with Solas. It was after our break-up at Crestwood, just a few days before the final battle with Corypheus. There was so much pain between us, and yet as we lay there in the cavern trying to get a few hours sleep, the beauty of that place was stronger than the pain. I turned my head to look at him and found that he was looking at me; the blue light dancing over both of our faces, the slow sensual glitter of the magic in the air.

Our eyes met, and my breath caught. He was lying there just drinking me in, his expression full of tenderness. I wanted to reach out and touch him, but I knew that I couldn't. So we just remained there motionless for a long time, looking into one another's eyes. The cavern glimmered around us, the lyrium veins pulsed with glittering life, and Solas and I lay silent, yearning; love crackling in the air between us, though neither of us dared say the words.

But that was long ago, before I knew all the truths I knew now. I duck my head, keeping my eyes on the ground. It feels wrong, somehow, to drink in the beauty of what remains of the Titans while knowing that my ancestors destroyed them.

'Up this way,' Stalgard says, and he leads us gruffly up the steps toward what appears to be a statue. I look around, confused, for the person we're here to meet; and then the statue opens its mouth and speaks.

Two realizations hit me in quick succession. It's a person. And then: it's Valta.

I almost speak her name, and then at the last minute remember that I'm not supposed to know who she is. Sudden panic clutches at me: I doubt that Merrill's blood magic works on statues. If Valta recognises me, she could give me away in an instant.

But fortunately she seems entirely focused on Harding. 'I cannot tell you what you are,' she says, her voice booming, impossibly vast. 'Look within, and remember.'

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I stand, frozen, as Valta goes on. 'In one voice they sang. A chorus of creation and connection.' Despite myself I think of the Fade. The music I've always heard in it, the music I myself draw forth with my own spells. Creation and connection; are they the same music? Was there really a time when everything sang the same?

'When the Titans fell, we awoke, but the melody was already lost,' Valta says. 'We were always just shattered fragments of a greater whole.'

I clench my jaw against the pain of it. The deep, smothering grief; our world is so fragmented, so broken. All the shattered parts cut off from one another, singing desperately in the silence. Crying out to be reunited.

'My magic,' Harding says. 'It's Titan magic.' And then: 'What happened to the Titans?'

A pause, freighted with significance. I school my face to impassiveness, though inside my chest my heart beats a painful, insistent rhythm. I don't want to know. I have to know. The statue opens its mouth. I know it's about to say something that will change everything.

But then – a shade appears from the deep. A fist punches through the ground, and I throw myself backward, panting, scrabbling across the stone. Remembering memories I've seen in elven ruins: giant fists, much larger than this, reaching out of the crevasses, scooping screaming elves from the ground. Crushing them between stony fingers.

This is it. The Titan knows we're here. It's waking, somehow. It's come to enact its revenge.

But as I leap to my feet, erecting a barrier, I realise that this isn't a whole Titan, not yet. Just some kind of construct, like a shadow. And yet it's fearsome. Terrifying. If this is a shadow, what was it like to fight the real Titans? I can feel sweat running down my brow, my legs aching as I run and run and run, dodging, desperately throwing out spells to deflect the rock pouring from above.

The construct is screaming, I realise – at first I think they're just inarticulate screams, and then suddenly I make out the words. 'She promised! SHE PROMISED!'

Who promised? Valta? Harding? There's no time; I'm in a desperate fight for my life. I alternate bursts of power with harried, urgent barriers. I can barely keep up, and then I can't, and a stone I'm too late to deflect bears down on me. I really think I'm facing my last moment – but then a spell from Neve pushes it aside, enough that it only bruises rather than crushes me as I crumple beneath it.

I struggle to push the rock off my chest, but then Neve is there at my side; the construct has fallen and she's picking me up, pouring waves of healing magic over me. 'Hey there,' she says. 'You're all right?'

'I'm all right,' I say breathlessly, getting to my feet.

'That was close. I thought we'd lost you there, for a minute.'

If she hadn't healed me – I shake my head, shivering. I can't help but wonder; one day soon, will she look back on this moment and wish she'd let me die?

'I'm all right,' I say quietly, looking away. 'We should – I think we should get out of here. Something's not right in the Deep Roads.'

***

In the Crossroads, on the way back from Kal-Sharok, I find myself suddenly plunged into another memory. But this time, I am not thrown into a battle. I'm in the middle of a city – a place at peace.

I recognise the architecture from many ruins I've seen in Arlathan forest: colourful mosaics, artfully studded with pieces of gold, so the image glitters as if in the first dew of the morning. Those distinctive arches, curves that defy what physics should allow. The impossible perfection of the stained-glass windows.

But I have never seen any of it like this.

This memory is earlier than the others. Before the rebellion, between the wars: this is the court of Arlathan at its height. The structures are tall and slender, twisted columns and spiraling towers, and in amongst them there are many glistening domes of glass in soft blue and turquoise: the glass isn't quite solid, instead running slowly down itself like rain on a window. Many of the buildings float, but not stolidly so, as in Minrathous; they have a lightness about them, as if the air gladly bears them upwards, shining white staircases and intricately-carved bookshelves reaching toward the sun. Everything around is just a little in motion, giving the city a sense of texture – a softness, like clouds in early summer.

I know the empire was evil. Built on the back of immense suffering: nothing so perfect could be created without great sacrifice. But I dreamt for so long of seeing Arlathan in all its glory, and for a moment I allow myself to believe in it. To drink in the colours and the elegant arches, letting myself imagine that its soul was as beautiful as its streets. It will be hard, after this, to go back and look at the ruins, remembering what once was.

Elves adorned in delicate gauze and satin are processing up the steps into a nearby building, which is arrayed with immense loops of flawless white flowers, their petals floating softly down into the hair of the people passing beneath. I look over my shoulder, and then follow the elves inside, into an immense hall which has clearly been decorated for some kind of formal event: more loops of flowers hang from the balconies, and finely-woven tapestries cover the walls, their style reminiscent of Solas' murals. Long tables offer rows of sparkling liqueurs in long-stemmed glasses, and stacks of small translucent orbs in bright colours – I gaze at them in puzzlement until I see an elf picking one up and popping it into her mouth, so I suppose they must be a type of food.

And the music, oh, the music – the chords intertwine with one another, intricate layers of harmony building and building until it reaches a cadence so perfect it's a kind of pain. Then soft notes fall gently into the suspension, like the first drops of rain. I look around and see that it appears to be coming from a collection of spirits gathered at the front of the room, creating sound from the motions of their own ethereal tendrils. I think of my own music spell, realising suddenly that in a way, what I do with the spell is a distant, clumsy echo of this spirit-music. No wonder, then, that Solas was so fascinated by my invention.

There's a stir at the back of the room, and I turn just in time to see a statuesque woman entering the room. I recognise her at once, from the murals in the Lighthouse: Mythal. She's not exactly beautiful, by modern standards, but she's undoubtedly striking; strong features, an imperious, undeniable gaze. She's wearing a deep red gown which trails behind her, turning into a train of lace embroidered with red and gold leaves, as if she is the very embodiment of autumn.

And beside her walks a slender elf, dressed in gauzy white, its fabric wafting around him in a soft, cloudy haze. Solas, I presume, though he's wearing his hair differently: loose on one sided and braided on the other, adorned with little golden trinkets. He's wearing earrings, too, loops of gold accentuating the long, elegant line of his ear.

And then he turns his head and I gasp, all the breath knocked out of me.

He's wearing vallaslin. Mythal's vallaslin, the same design many elves still wear today. On him the tattoo is a deep, rich golden colour, the lines spreading elegantly across his forehead and over the bridge of his nose. I've never seen Mythal's vallaslin look so lovely, and yet the sight of the markings on him is strange and disquieting, like graffiti on a beloved work of art.

Mythal processes into the room, and I come to my senses and hurry to follow her and Solas across the room. Solas walks quietly, his head bowed, his steps light. Mythal doesn't speak to him at all as they approach the front of the hall, and then the crowd parts and I see a man sitting on the dais, the arrogant tilt of his chin enough, even without the curved Evanuris crown, to tell me who it is.

Elgar'nan.

Has he elevated himself to a god yet? Is Mythal already his wife? The air feels heavy with meaning, weighted with the complex currents of a dynamic that I'm not able to fully understand.

Elgar'nan takes Mythal's hand and kisses it, his eyes running quickly over her. Not so much lascivious as assessing; a judgement. Then he looks at Solas, and sighs extravagantly. 'Send your pet away, love. This is a conversation for the grown.'

I glance at Solas, but he remains expressionless, his gaze cast down, as if he didn't even hear Elgar'nan's insult. Up close I can see that his eyes are rimmed with kohl, making his eyelashes stand out starkly against his freckled cheeks.

'I would have him remain,' Mythal says mildly. 'His counsel has often been of value to us, as you very well know.'

'He is but a child,' Elgar'nan says, a little surly. 'Naive. Idealistic. His magical skill has been valuable in our war, yes, but I do not see what counsel he can offer on the serious business of ruling an empire.'

It's strange to see Solas so passive; just standing there as their voices pass over him. But there's a tightness in his jaw which tells me that this silence is costing him something.

'He has wisdom to offer on these matters too,' Mythal says. 'Tell him, Solas.'

Solas raises his head at last, and looks at Elgarnan. His white robes shift and shimmer about him, giving him the semblance of a half-remembered vision, not quite real. 'I will do what I can,' he says quietly.

'I am surprised you are still willing to be seen with him,' Elgar'nan says to Mythal, and then switches his gaze to Solas. 'You shamed yourself,' he says scornfully. 'You wept before the whole court at the celebration of our great victory.'

Solas' cheeks flush, and he drops his gaze.

Mythal lays a hand gently on his arm. 'He feels deeply. There is no shame in that.'

'The Pillars would not mourn you,' Elgar'nan says cuttingly to Solas. 'You waste your grief on them.'

Again Solas raises his eyes. 'We destroyed a great marvel, a wonder of the world. It is right to grieve.'

Elgar'nan snarls. 'Ah. You would have preferred that we simply laid down and allowed them to kill us?'

'I did not say that we were wrong.' Solas' tone is still mild, but all of a sudden there's fire behind his eyes. I suspect the beginnings of his rebellion are not far off. 'Only that we must now seek to make a world worthy of the cost we paid for freedom.'

Elgar'nan looks suspiciously at him, as if suspecting a trick, but not quite able to divine it. Then he gives a shrug. 'He may attend the meeting, if you wish it. But I will not brook unnecessary disruptions.'

He turns and vanishes into an antechamber. Solas looks at Mythal, his eyes anxious. 'Did I shame you, at the celebration? It was not my intention.'

She hesitates a moment. 'Just try to retain your composure, next time,' she says, dismissive. And then she turns and enters the room. Solas stands alone for his moment, his hand rising to his brow; and then his head goes down once again, and he follows her inside.

The memory fades slowly, returning me to the waking world. I stand there stunned, breathing hard. That scar on his forehead. Something Cole once said: he left a scar when he burnt her off his face. This is yet another thing that I've never properly understood: he was the very first subject of his own spell. He freed himself, or tried to.

Send your pet away, love. My heart clenches; how young he was, in his white robes, with gold in his hair. How silently he stood there. How long did he live like this, subservient, following in her footsteps? What did it cost him to break away?

That night in the Fade, as Solas stands across from me, I look at him once again, seeing with new eyes the little scar between his eyes. Mentally superimposing the ghostly image of the golden tattoo onto his face. It was beautiful on him. It was a terrible thing to see.

'Vhenan,' I say softly. 'I saw another memory in the Crossroads. And you – you had Mythal's vallaslin.'

His eyes jerk toward my face, and away. Colour rises to his cheeks, and as if unconsciously he raises a hand to his temple, touching his fingers to the place where the lines once lay across his brow.

'I did,' he says. 'For hundreds of years.'

'You were Mythal's slave.'

He flinches. 'I – no. She never referred to me as such.'

'And yet she branded you as such.'

'It was a mark of honour. At first. It became – something else, with time. When I realised what it had become, I burned it off my face.'

'Burned it?'

'The spell I used on you. It was not so gentle, then. When I used it on myself – ' He shivers. 'It hurt. Blood in my eyes. It never healed fully, unyielding to even my most powerful healing spells.'

I press my trembling lips together. 'I see. No wonder you hated seeing the vallaslin on my face.'

He nods, solemn. 'Yes.'

'No matter what words she used,' I say quietly. 'She used you. She – the brand was not a lie.'

He bows his head. Says nothing.

'You think you failed her,' I say steadily. 'But she failed you long before that. She failed you the moment she placed her mark on your skin.'

'We failed each other,' he concedes.

I shake my head. 'No. I do not think so.'

'She died.' His voice is a thin thread, twisting through the shadows. 'And I lived. Whose failure was greater?'

'It is not the same thing,' I say. 'You must know that.'

He looks up at me, saying nothing. Our time is running out. He says nothing more, just watches me with those tired, hollowed eyes as slowly I vanish from view.

***

Bellara, Felassan and I return to Arlathan to meet with Morrigan about the news from the south. Though I almost wish I hadn't agreed to come, because the news is dismal.

'The darkspawn are massing all across southern Ferelden,' Morrigan summarizes bleakly. 'Skyhold might have been a good refuge, but it has been taken by demons. Cassandra is seeking to reclaim it, but so far unsuccessfully.'

'How far have the darkspawn come?' I ask, feeling sick to my stomach.

'Up to Lake Calenhad. They've claimed Redcliffe,' she says, and for a moment I see it again in my mind – that pretty little village by the lake, the flowers massing over the banks, the curved paths and bustling stalls. The first time Solas hugged me was by that lake, after I had travelled through time with Dorian.

'What about Orlais?' Felassan says, leaning forward – not, I suspect, entirely with good wishes in his heart.

'Not doing well,' Morrigan says, her mouth twisting, and I recall that she lived at the Orlesian court for a time. 'You recall I said that some nobles had joined the Venatori. Well, now Gaspard has made common cause with them, taking most of the chevaliers with him. Celene's royal forces still stand against them, but probably cannot stand long. Gaspard has also sent troops toward Ferelden – as you know, he'd long hoped to reconquer it, and I imagine he sees this as his opportunity.'

'And the Marches?' I ask.

'No darkspawn there yet, but Antaam ships are harassing shipping out of Ostwick, and there are fears of a full invasion.'

I look up at her helplessly. 'This is – worse than I thought.'

She nods. 'Yes. I also did not anticpate so much destruction, so quickly.'

I drop my head into my hands, thinking back to Solas' ritual. If I'd been even a minute quicker, I could have stopped this. Now the South is being torn to pieces, its people sinking below waves of Blight.

Whatever damage Solas' ritual might have done, it certainly could not have been worse than this. If only Varric had been able to let it go. If only I'd never told them what Solas was planning in the first place. The what-ifs lie heavily in my body, weighing me down, making it hard to breathe.

'Is there anything we can do to help?' I say dully, looking back up at her. 'Anything at all?'

'They'll need food soon,' she says. 'The Blight has killed most of the crops down in Ferelden. A famine is on the way. If you can help clear the infections from the Crossroads, then we can open up more mirrors and get some supplies down to Ferelden quickly.'

'All right. We can do that.'

'We should get people out of the alienages,' Bellara says, bright-eyed. 'No one will defend them. The humans will leave them to burn. But if we can get more eluvians to the south opened up, we can send Veil Jumpers down to evacuate. Maybe bring them here, or somewhere else safe.'

'The Deep Roads,' I suggest. 'Ironically, they're one of the safest places right now. So many darkspawn have been drawn up to the surface, and the dwarves at Kal-Sharok told us the ways are clearer than they've been for many centuries.'

Morrigan raises an eyebrow. 'You've been to Kal-Sharok?'

'Harding wanted answers about her magic,' I say heavily. 'But it didn't go as planned. Something attacked us, something – well, I don't know, but I think it must have been a fragment of a Titan. Or some manifestation of its rage.'

Strife gazes at me, alarmed. 'Are you sure? That sounds rather as if Titans are waking.'

Morrigan shifts. 'Perhaps they are. Would that be such a bad thing?'

I raise an eyebrow at her. 'You really think it would be a good thing to have the Titans coming after us, on top of everything else?'

'Perhaps they would not seek revenge.'

'You did not see the construct that attacked us. The anger – I've never seen anything like it. I think we can be confident they would seek revenge.'

'Still,' Morrigan says. 'Is it right, to leave them as they are? After what was done to them?'

I frown. 'We don't know what was done to them. Or did you find the answers, in Mythal's memories?'

'I – no.' She frowns, rubbing her temple. 'I just imagined something, for a moment. Never mind. I'll think on it.'

I gaze uneasily at her, something niggling at me. But it escapes my grasp when I try to examine it more clearly. 'We don't have much information,' I say, giving up. 'All we can really do right now is keep an eye on Harding, in case this magic of hers is important. The Kal-Sharok dwarves have promised to send word if anything changes.'

'But if the Titans are stirring, we shouldn't send people to the Deep Roads,' Bellara says. 'Take them from the darkspawn and send them into the arms of the Titans? No. I've seen the memories of what the Titans did to our people. The darkspawn would be a kinder fate.'

'Well, let's keep the Deep Roads as an option,' I say. 'But you're right, we'll need to make sure about the Titans first. Arlathan is a better option for now, and it's easier for us to protect them here.

We carry on brainstorming for several hours, though most of our ideas are dead ends. By the time we get up from the table I'm utterly worn out: the hopelessness and futility of it all, the endless death. I'm hoping to snatch a moment to myself in the baths to give me time to gather my weary spirits, but Strife puts a hand to my shoulder. 'Eirlan? If you've got a moment, there are more Veil Jumpers missing.'

'Even more?' I say, resigning myself. 'We've never lost this many.'

He sighs. 'It's been difficult ever since the Evanuris escaped. Darkspawn and Blight taking over the ancient sites. And the Blight seems to stir up other things as well. The magic is becoming more badly-behaved.'

'It wasn't exactly well-behaved to start with,' I say wearily. 'Well all right, give me the coordinates where they were last seen, and I'll see what we can do.'

***

Finding ourselves at the ruin where the missing Veil Jumpers were last seen, Bellara, Felassan and I fight our way through, encountering several strange demons – brighter and angrier than any I've ever seen before.

'Eirlan,' Bellara ways, staring at the rage demon we've just brought down. 'I think – I think this was an abomination.'

My stomach turns. 'Yes,' I say grimly. Abominations always hurt. The awful tragedy of the spirit and mage bound together in their death throes, both losing themselves in that final deathly struggle. 'Come on. We should be quick.'

We fight our way through more demons. A niggling suspicion is starting to nag at me, and sure enough, when we emerge into the chamber at the end we find Cyrian there, kneeling over the bodies of two Veil Jumpers. He jumps to his feet, and I see that he's wearing a gleaming bronze mask; behind it he seems almost dazed, peering out at us in bewilderment as if we've emerged from some whole other world.

'Cyrian?' Bellara breathes, horror-struck. 'Did you – what did you do?'

Cyrian shakes his head; speaking in a dull, stretched voice so unlike him it makes me sick to my stomach. 'I did it for him.'

'For who?' Bellara demands, but the question answers itself before Cyrian can utter a word. There's a shift in the air, a fragmentation, like a change of key; and then a ghostly, antlered figure appears, announcing itself as Anaris.

Anaris. The Forgotten One.

For a moment I gaze at him in fascination. All the whispered legends, the stories even the Dalish don't want to tell. What was he then? What is he now?

But Anaris is taciturn, smouldering with an ancient rage that he does not see fit to explain to us. And Cyrian remains distant, unreachable. 'I'm going to save our people,' he says, dead-eyed. 'This was my failure. I'll get it right next time.'

Bellara takes a step toward him. 'Cyrian – ' she says; a desperate, painful appeal.

But Cyrian and Anaris depart, leaving several demons behind them. It's a long, difficult fight, but eventually we dispatch them and stagger out of the chamber. Bellara is deathly pale, breathing hard. 'Cyrian,' she whispers. 'Cyrian, what he did – he helped that thing to hurt the Veil Jumpers. He did that.'

I can't deny that the very same doubts have begun to sprout in my head, but I shake my head firmly, as if to banish the thoughts. 'He's undercover,' I tell her. 'That was always the plan. He had to pretend. He had to help Anaris, even it it meant some people got hurt.'

'But how do we know?' she says urgently. 'That mask. What if it's changed him? Made him into something else.'

Felassan shakes his head. 'I've seen those masks before, in the courts of Arlathan. It doesn't control him. It just makes him feel Anaris' emotions, that's all. He retains his free will.'

Bellara doesn't seem reassured. 'He feels Anaris' emotions? But Cyrian is – ' She shakes her head. 'He always feels for people. Even bad people, he feels sorry for them. He cares too much. Anaris could sway him that way.'

'Bellara,' Felassan says firmly. 'You know your brother. You don't really believe that.'

She shakes her head. 'Yes, I know him! That's why I'm worried! This is exactly the right thing to get to him!'

'Bellara, listen,' I say. 'I know that must have felt terrible. But this was the plan all along, remember. Cyrian was always going to play the part. We have no real reason to believe that anything's gone wrong.'

'But it was so real. He seemed – so very sincere.'

'He's playing a part. He's making it seem real.'

'I don't know.' She chews anxiously at her lip. 'I didn't think he could act that well. I didn't think he could lie that well. At least, not to me.'

'Cyrian is doing a good job,' comes a voice from between the trees, and Strife emerges, coming towards us. Irelin is just a few steps behind. 'He's doing what we asked him to do,' Strife goes on. 'Your brother is a clever young man, Bellara. You need to trust him.'

'He hurt those Veil Jumpers,' she whispers. 'He could have killed them.'

'But he didn't,' Irelin says. Her eyes are fixed on Bellara, and the intensity of them makes me draw a sharp breath. The tenderness, overwhelming and broken. They lost what they were; but the love will never go away. 'He did what was needed to maintain the act, that's all.'

'You don't know that. You don't know that he hasn't been turned.'

'And you don't know that he has,' Irelin says. She takes a step forward, as if she wants to take Bellara in her arms, but then she stops herself. 'All we can do now is trust him. There's no other option.'

I look wearily at Strife. 'He has to succeed,' I say. 'One way or another, the Veil is coming down when Elgar'nan dies. The Nadas Dirthalen is the only hope we have to minimize the casualties.'

'Indeed,' Strife says grimly. 'We're all counting on Cyrian now.'

Bellara looks down, her lip trembling. I know she would rather we were counting on anyone else. But we have to play the hands we've dealt. We have to believe that Cyrian remains himself, even if the strange, dead look in his eyes as he spoke to us back in that chamber makes that conviction seem futile.

***

Back in the Veil Jumper camp I sit for a long time, thinking about controls and compulsions. Remembering Mythal's Temple, and the Well of Sorrows.

I wanted the knowledge in that Well. I wanted the truth of my people's history, our language, our magics restored to us. I wanted – but I was the Inquisitor. I had other duties. What I wanted did not matter: I was not be the right person to drink from the Well.

We stood there on the edge of the abyss, gazing into those enchanted waters. 'Solas?' I said, meaning it as a gift to him. 'Will you drink?'

But his reply was sharp, even harsh. 'No. Do not ask me again.'

I was a little surprised by his vehemence, but then I remembered that Solas placed a high value on freedom: naturally he would not like to enter into the service of a god, even a god long vanished from the world.

So I took a deep breath. If he would not drink – well, I could not give it to Morrigan, not after her behaviour. She had endangered our alliance with the elves, and her actions could have forced me to fight and kill my own long-lost ancestors. There was no forgiving that.

'Very well,' I said. 'Then I suppose I will have to do it.'

I heard a little intake of breath from Cassandra, but Solas beat her to it. 'No,' he said urgently. 'No, I – Inquisitor, you cannot. You would be giving away a part of yourself, entering into the service of an ancient elven god. You cannot do this,'

'But Solas,' I said, confused. 'You said yourself that we must take the power of the Well, and if you will not do it yourself – '

'Then let Morrigan do it!' He took a step forward and seized my hands, heedless of Cassandra and Varric and Morrigan looking on. 'Vhenan, please, I – I beg you, do not drink. Do not do this. It will only end in – you will – '

'Solas – '

'Please.' His chest was rising and falling rapidly. 'Please, vhenan, I cannot watch – I cannot – '

'Solas,' I said again, and I raised a hand to cup his cheek, using my thumb to wipe the tear that trickled down his face. 'Solas, it's all right. I won't drink.'

He stared at me, his eyes wide, desperate. I suspected he was on the verge of having a panic attack, and I needed to draw him back, because I knew it would shame him deeply to let all these people see him fall apart.

'Ar lath ma, vhenan,' I said softly, stepping closer to him so our chests are almost touching. 'It's all right. I won't drink. Morrigan can do it.'

'Vhenan,' he whispered, his voice aching with relief. 'Vhenan, I – '

'It's all right,' I said again, and I embraced him, steadying him the way he had once steadied me, when I was in such distress after the time travel at Redcliffe.

'Morrigan,' I said over my shoulder. 'Will you drink?'

She seemed to hesitate, perhaps contemplating the vehemence of Solas' reaction, but then she nodded. 'Yes. I will drink.'

Solas turned his face away as if he couldn't watch, and I held him in my arms, waiting, as Morrigan descended the steps toward the pool, and drank it dry.

I was jealous of her then, particularly when Solas left me only a few days afterwards. But I am not jealous now. Knowing what I do of Mythal, I would not like to carry any part of her inside me.

As if summoned by my thoughts of her, Morrigan appears from between the trees and sits down beside me. For a long while we sit in silence, gazing out through the ruins at the forest beyond. The moon sits low in the sky, and a trick of the silvery light makes the broken columns and arches look brand new, for a moment; a manifestation of Arlathan as it once was, hovering briefly before our eyes. It has been raining, and all around us the sound of rain dripping from the branches trickles like sand falling through an hourglass. I am uneasy, in ways I cannot fully articulate.

'I mislike the notion of this mask,' Morrigan says, her eyes narrowed. 'I have been probing Mythal's memories, but details on their construction are scarce. I suspect they were more June's province.'

I look sideways at her; those piercing eyes, fixed fiercely on a point in the middle distance. Something tells me that the mask is not just a mask, to Morrigan. I wonder.

'Tell me,' I say. 'Do you still hear the voice of the Well of Sorrows?'

She raises an eyebrow. 'Why do you ask?'

'Just thinking. I suppose I assumed that the Well's compulsion became irrelevant, once you took Mythal's spirit into yourself.'

'It did. I cannot exert a compulsion over my own self, can I?'

I sit silently, hesitant to make the next obvious point. Morrigan beats me too it. 'You are wondering if I really took Mythal's spirit of my own free will,' she says.

I look away. She sighs. 'I have wondered the same. But in that moment, I felt no compulsion. I just felt sadness, for my mother, for what we failed to be to each other. For everything I didn't understand until it was too late.'

'Can you be sure?'

She is silent a long moment. Eventually she says: 'No. I cannot.'

'Since then, how has it been? Do you have both sets of voices in your mind? That must be overwhelming.'

She frowns. 'No, I – I am not sure I hear the Well any longer. Or at least, not separately. I think perhaps they have merged into one another.'

'You can't separate them? Even if you try?'

'I am unsure. I have not tried particularly hard.' She looks sideways at me. 'Why do you ask? Surely Mythal must know everything that the Well knew. I do not believe she would have allowed her servants to partake in knowledge she herself was not privy to.'

'That makes sense. I don't know. I just wondered if – perhaps the voices of the Well might have a different perspective. A different version of the same story.'

'I doubt it. Those who drank from the well were under her geas, remember. I imagine she did not allow them to dissent too dramatically from her.'

I am silent, thinking of the geas. If things had gone just a little differently, I could have been the one to bear it.

'You never felt any compulsion again?' I ask. 'After we met Flemeth in the Fade?'

She shakes her head. 'But she did not live long after that. I doubt she had time to send any more commands my way.'

I'm not sure about that, but I keep my own counsel. We sit in silence, watching the moon rise. The light changes, the stones turn back into ruins. Broken columns and shattered windows, the last echoes of an empire that fell and a dream that was never real. Still the rain falls, soft whispers all through the unquiet night.

Chapter Text

I have a bad feeling about Weisshaupt. The memories of Adamant fortress are still vivid in my mind; losing Hawke, losing all those soldiers. That terrifying leap into the abyss. Solas, gazing out over the desert and weeping. Painful fragments that time refuses to take away from me.

And it makes me uneasy going in like this, with people at my back I don't fully trust. I like Neve very much, but if she knew the truth she'd turn on me. Taash and Emmrich are as yet unknown quantities. Davrin feels very safe, very reliable, but I don't know where he'd stand if he figured out who I am. And I could lose everything if Merrill's blood magic fails and Harding suddenly recognises me.

Hardly a promising start for a sensitive mission.

But what choice do I have? We need the wardens, and we need to strike a blow on the Evanuris. So I collect my gear, grit my teeth, and head through the eluvian.

Only for things to fall dramatically to pieces. The eluvian falls and shatters. The castle is under attack; Ghilan'nain is literally at the door, her face in the sky like a terrible omen from an ancient legend. We're running headfirst through swarms of darkspawn, chasing a child, who keeps making my heart almost stop as she narrowly escapes death over and over again.

And then we round a corner, and my stomach drops. It is not just darkspawn. There are elves here, too, fighting for their gods. Dressed in armour which must have been retrieved from ruins, some still tarnished, and yet glowing bright in the storm's shuddering light. They charge upon us: fierce and glorious and doomed.

I cannot blame them for the choice they have made. Have our people not waited thousands of years for justice? Have we not prayed for countless centuries for the return of our gods? Of course they see this as salvation. Of course they flock to serve.

But I also cannot spare them. We have to get to the archdemon: this our chance to take out Ghilan'nain. And so I raise my staff to release a blast of power, and in its wake darkspawn and elves alike topple backward, off the walls of the fortress. I close my eyes so I don't have to see it. Cowardly, yes, but this is one cowardice I'll allow myself.

We fight on. Bellara stumbles for a moment, falling to one knee, and a darkspawn bears down on her. Panicked, I turn to fend it off; but Felassan is way ahead of me. He dives from the air, falling onto the darkspawn like an immense predatory bird, knives raised, wreaking destruction. I barely have time to look around before the darkspawn are slaughtered and Felassan is reaching out to raise Bellara up, his hands running over her, checking for wounds. Although we're in the middle of a desperate battle it's an oddly intimate moment, and I find myself averting my eyes.

Finally we make it to the main hall, all intact, even the child Mila. The First Warden is not delighted to see us; he continues to be an obstinate fool, until I lose my patience and knock him out and take charge. Once upon a time such a course of action would have been unthinkable to me, but I've become more ruthless over the years. Hardened. I don't have time to coddle this human's arrogance any longer.

More battles. I fight and fight, my heart beating out of my chest, my grip on my staff starting to weaken. Fingers frozen and shaking, reaching desperately for reserves of power I never knew I had. We make it to the trap and for a moment I think we've succeeded, but then Ghilan'nain pulls a new trick out of her bag and reveals a new and vastly more horrific archdemon. My vision is going blurry but I fight on, pain splintering through me with every spell I cast.

I see Davrin leaping for the archdemon and I feel a pulse of pain in my chest. I don't know him well but he's so warm and likeable; I'd already started to rely on his steady presence by my side. I had hoped one of the other wardens might be able to make the sacrifice, but there's no time now.

I can only watch, tears and rain sliding together down my cheeks, as he raises his blade.

But he doesn't die. He kills the archdemon, but he doesn't die. Felassan flings himself at Ghilan'nain, but he misses. And then we're out of time. We flee in desperation, making it through the eluvian just in time. Behind us, the fortress that has stood for a thousand years finally falls. And most of the warden order falls with it, leaving hopelessness and terror in their wake.

***

When I arrive in the Fade, Solas is pacing jerkily from side to side, his brow furrowed. When he looks up and sees me, there's naked relief on his face. 'Vhenan,' he blurts out, as if he's forgotten that he was trying not to call me by that name.

'It's all right,' I say wearily. 'I'm all right.'

He looks sharply at me; he can tell immediately that something's not right. 'Are you?'

I am shivering, as if still soaked in freezing rain. 'We slew Ghilan'nain's archdemon. But we lost Weisshaupt, and nearly all of the wardens.'

He makes a soft sound of sympathy, stepping closer to me. 'Oh. I – I'm sorry.'

I wrap my arms around myself, trying to stop the shaking. Solas makes a sharp motion, as if reaching out his arms to me. But the ravine remains. His brow furrows. 'Ma sa'lath, vir sumeil. Atish'all vallem,' he says, his voice shaking a little in his urgency to comfort me. 'It is all right, vhenan, it will be all right. You took the first step. We are on the right path.'

'I took command of the fortress,' I say, my voice cracking despite my best efforts. 'I – there was no other way. No one else was stepping up. But I – hundreds of them, dead under my command.'

'Ah,' he says. His eyes are soft, and infinitely gentle. 'And do you really believe it would have gone better if you had not taken command?'

'Most likely the archdemon would still be alive and the wardens would still be dead,' I concede.

He inclines his head gravely. 'You slew an archdemon. That's a rare and astonishing achievement. You must celebrate that, even as you mourn your losses.'

My mouth twists. 'And will we have to sacrifice hundreds of lives to slay the next one? And hundreds more still for Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain themselves?'

His eyes do not move from my face. 'Ir abelas, emma lath. It is possible, yes.'

'I thought I was prepared for this. I knew that bringing down the Veil would cause many deaths, and I was prepared to do that. But I suppose it was all quite abstract. It's different when those people become real.'

'Yes,' he says softly. 'It is.'

We stand looking at one another, the pain we have both taken on lying thick and heavy across all that separates us. I swallow. 'But I still want to do it,' I whisper. 'I still think it's right.'

'It is,' he says, deep currents of conviction in his voice. And for a moment I remember the Inquisition; I remember watching him, seeing how he cared, so deeply. How he stopped to heal the wounded, free the imprisoned; how he insisted in rescuing the townfolk at Haven. How he tried, over and over again, to explain to those who would listen that the spirits are people and deserved to be treated as such. Millenia of fighting for freedom and he still cares so much. Anyone else would have become distant, jaded; but despite his facade Solas' heart still beats with so much passion. All of these setbacks and yet he's never given up.

I look down, my hands clenching. It's too much. It's too hard. But I look across at Solas, and know that neither of us have any choice. We wouldn't be the people that we are if we could do otherwise.

***

After the battle at Weisshaupt, Davrin isn't doing well. I can hardly blame him. I recall vividly the way time seemed to slow to a crawl in those agonizing days at Skyhold after we received word of the slaughter of my clan. The wardens were like that for Davrin, and now they're almost gone; along with Weisshaupt, the fortress we all believed could never fall.

I go to visit him in his room, and he looks wearily at me. 'I need a purpose,' he says, his voice scraped, raw. He turns and picks up one of his carvings, turning it helplessly in his hands as if he expects it to advise him. On the rug beside him Assan looks up anxiously, as if he wants to help but doesn't know how.

I kneel beside Assan to ruffle his feathers, and he reaches up to nudge my face with his beak. We both gaze up at Davrin. The Grey Warden is so stalwart, so dependable; despite everything I always feel safe with him at my back. The calming authority in his voice. And the way he is with Assan; this is not just a warrior. This is a man who feels things deeply, who wants to do right. He chose freely to become a warden, put aside his life to defend the helpless.

I want him on my side, I realise.

He wants a purpose. I have one to give him. But what can I do to make him understand?

He's not there yet, I know that. But perhaps if I can get him to visit Arlathan; if he sees what our people are building there, and understands what that future could be.

'Maybe you could do with a change of scene,' I say, as I tickle Assan under his chin. 'And Assan needs an outing. Didn't you say you had a relative in Arlathan?

He frowns. 'Uncle Eldrin?'

'We've got the eluvian. It would be easy to visit.'

'But why?'

'You said you haven't seen him for years. Wouldn't you like to catch up?'

He frowns. 'Well, I suppose – '

We are silent for a moment, listening to Assan trilling gently as I pet him. 'You know, I left my clan too,' I say, looking up at Davrin.

He looks startled. 'I didn't know that.'

'I wanted to see the world. Learn more magic than they could teach me. Learn about our history. They didn't understand. They resented it.'

He looks up at me, startled. 'But you're a Veil Jumper. The most elven thing you could possibly be.'

I smile. 'Yes, but I didn't do that immediately. I spent time with humans, studying magic. I travelled to many human cities. And I removed my vallaslin.'

An intake of breath. 'Ah,' he says. 'I imagine that went down poorly.'

'It did,' I say, remembering the Dalish clan in the Exalted Plains. When I returned there without vallaslin they refused to even speak to me; and then they vanished overnight to avoid having further dealings with me and my Inquisition.

The horror on their faces, as they looked at me. That lay heavy on my heart for a very long time.

Assan trills more loudly and rubs his head vigorously against my hand, as if he can feel the distress and seeks to soothe me. I smile gratefully at him, then look back at Davrin. 'But in the end I found the Veil Jumpers. I found a way back to what I was.'

He gazes at me, a wrinkle in his brow. 'You think I should go back?'

'I'm not saying you should return to your clan. You've taken your own path, one that's right for you. But there are many different ways of living a life that honours what we were.'

He gazes at me, evaluating. Eventually he says, 'Well all right, let's go visit Eldrin. Assan will be delighted.'

I smile at him. 'I look forward to it. Arlathan has changed, since you were last there. I'm excited to share it with you.'

***

That night when I go into the music room to lay down to sleep, I'm startled by a movement in the corner. I look over, and raise an eyebrow. Manfred is standing there, bending over, as if inspecting the mural. He looks up and hisses, and then lumbers over to me. I stand there looking at him, wondering if he wants something. I've never known him to seek me out like this before.

Manfred puts out a hand, offering his skeletal palm to me. I look down at it suspicious, but then give a shrug and reach out to grasp it.

At once a rush of sensation hits me. I feel – not Manfred, not the skeleton, but the spirit trapped inside. That wisp of curiosity. Its memories are so foreign to my own experience they're almost indecipherable at first, but then after a few moments my mind starts to parse the wisp's story. How it longed for the physical world: that aching, unbearable yearning. The song of loss and alienation that all the spirits sing, on the other side of the Veil. So when Emmrich offered it a way to stay, it accepted gladly.

But then – heavy. Dense. Stumbling and flailing. Trapped. It tries to sing and the skeleton mouth creaks, hisses. The world pushes back on it, unrelenting. As it once longed for the physical world, now it longs for the Fade. The two halves which can never be made whole.

The yearning, the confusion. It cannot free itself, so it tries to be what Emmrich wants it to be. It finds its way, lumbering, crashing through the unfamiliar physicality. It learns to be good. It learns to do the tasks that Emmrich gives it. It loves Emmrich: after all, with the Fade so distant it has nothing else to hold on to. Emmrich loves it in return. The love hurts, more than anything else. The love is the only thing it has left.

I let go of the skeleton and stumble backward, gasping. It stands there, looking quizzically at me. The skeletal mouth appears to be smiling, but I know now that it is not.

'Ir abelas, honoured friend,' I say quietly. 'I don't know how to set you free. But I will try to find out.'

The skeleton stands for a moment longer, swaying a little. Then it gives a hiss – did it understand? Will it hold me to my promise?

There's no way to know. I watch as it lumbers out of the room, the door sliding shut behind it. Then I go to lie down my my pallet, but it's hard to get to sleep. It hurts to think of the wisp, trapped in that body for so long. It hurts to think of Emmrich, too, who genuinely believes he's doing the right thing. How could I tell him the truth? How could I do that to him? But also, how can I possibly keep it from him?

When I finally fall asleep and find myself in the Fade, Solas sits across from me, waiting quietly. I regard him for a long moment, and then say, 'How did you do it?'

A slight smile. 'There are so many things you could be referring to, I cannot possibly determine what you mean.'

'I mean – lying to us all, in the Inquisition. For all that time.'

'Ah.' No hint of a smile now. He casts his eyes down. 'Ir abelas – '

'I'm not looking for another apology,' I say. 'I really want to know. How did you do it?'

He looks up at me. 'The deception is wearing on you, I take it.'

'I – ' My voice cracks. 'I really like them all, that's the problem.'

'You have started to feel affection for them,' Solas says. 'That is exactly where the deception becomes most difficult to sustain.'

'As it was for you?'

He sighs. 'It was easy at first. I came to ingratiate myself with the soldiers of a religion that I saw as brutal and inhuman. I saw nothing wrong with deceiving a group of Andrastians, and I had no reason to care for any of them. And then you came along, and I – I felt for you, certainly, but I did not think I owed you the truth any more than anyone else.'

'But things changed.'

He smiles sadly. 'You change everything,' he murmurs – wistful, dreamy. Then he says: 'But it was not just you. All those months together; I couldn't keep myself apart as I had intended. I befriended some members of the Inquisition, and even those I did not like still became people to me. With every day the weight of the deception grew greater.'

'You couldn't have revealed it,' I say. 'To me, perhaps. I would have understood. But the others? You had no choice.'

He nods in acknowledgment. 'Just as you have no choice.'

I twist my hands in my lap. 'I don't know,' I say fretfully. 'Harding, no. She's too committed to Varric's course to change her mind now. And Neve would never stand for hurting Dock Town. Taash – well, I think they're just too young. But Emmrich? Davrin? Maybe there's a chance. Maybe they could understand.'

'Then you have your goal,' Solas says.

I sigh. 'Perhaps. But even so, the others. Neve is – I really feel for her. In another life we would have been best friends.'

'I understand,' Solas says. He doesn't need to say more: in this, as in many other things, he and I are the only ones who can fully understand each other.

***

En route to the Hossberg Wetlands, Davrin and I stop off in Tevinter. Dorian welcomes us to his mansion, looking exhausted and frantic. He's spent the last week doing everything he can to protect people from the worst consequences of the Venatori coup, but it's a thankless task. For every slave he saves, ten more are sacrificed. For every Shadow Dragon he hides, ten more are hung in the streets. The rot at the heart of Minrathous is out in the open now: there's no hiding what the city has become.

I promise to put him in touch with Charter and Colette, in case Fenris can help with his efforts. Then we sit together a little longer, eating from a dish of the candied orange peels that the Tevinters are so fond of, and discussing what remains of our plans for the Veil.

'You know Emmrich Volkarin,' I say, remembering my dilemma. 'Tell me about him.'

'Emmrich is a sweetheart,' Dorian says. 'He's brilliant, of course, but he's also very kind. He has the utmost patience with the students.'

'Yes,' I say hesitantly. 'I can see that.'

Dorian casts a sharp glance at me. 'You don't like the necromancy.'

'I'm sorry. I know you're a necromancer. I just – you don't do magic like that. Binding spirits to corpses. Do you?'

'I did, when I studied with the Mourn Watch.'

'But I never saw you do that in the Inquisition.'

'There was never a need, and it's impractical in the midst of battle. Most of my necromancy involves simply drawing pieces from the Fade itself. Not spirits but rather potentialities; pieces of power that could become spirits, given opportunity. Such things are drawn to death, so the power is easily accessible on a battlefield.'

'And since then?'

'I promised myself years ago that I would never bind a sentient being again,' Dorian says seriously, meeting my eyes. 'I have kept that promise, and I will continue to keep it.'

'I'm sorry. I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm just trying to make up my mind what I think about Emmrich.'

'Ah.' Dorian sighs. 'You know, Emmrich cares deeply for the spirits, I know that much. Binding them to corpses is normal in Nevarra. The necromancers believe they're doing a kindness to the spirits – stabilizing them, giving them purpose.'

'I know. He loves Manfred, I can see that. He wants to do right by them.'

'And yet – '

I look down. 'I can feel it, Dorian. I felt Manfred, the wisp inside – its confusion and bewilderment. It came willingly, but now it's trapped, and it hurts to be severed from the Fade that way.'

He gazes at me, considering. 'You've grown closer to the spirit world, over the years since we parted.'

'Yes. Perhaps it's all that time in Arlathan. So much magic running wild there.'

Dorian sighs. 'I just think you should remember that most people haven't felt that. Emmrich and the Mourn Watch genuinely don't understand that what they do hurts those spirits. They come willingly, after all.'

'I know. It's not fair to blame people for not knowing when they had no real chance to learn anything different. And the Mourn Watch is certainly much better than the rest of Thedas, that's for certain. They don't get everything right, but they respect the spirits, they act with compassion. That's something.'

'Emmrich would never knowingly hurt a spirit, I know that much.'

'Do you think there's a chance that he could come to understand? If I told him how it is for the spirits, how they feel being trapped inside a corpse – do you think he'd be willing to listen?'

Dorian considers a moment, stroking his moustache. 'Honestly, I'm not sure. He's fair-minded and intellectually honest, there's no doubt about that. Not one of those professors who can't stand to be contradicted. But it would be a hard thing for him to hear.'

'I know. It would be hard to tell him. He's so lovely, I don't want to hurt him.'

'He's going to end up hurt one way or another, Eirlan,' Dorian points out. 'If you don't get him on your side, you'll have to finish by betraying him.'

I wince. 'Oh, Dorian,' I say, a long painful sigh. 'It's hard. It's hard.'

He nods grimly. 'You know, when I was a young man I thought doing the right thing would always be easy. All you have to do is care about people and be kind and it will all work out. What could be so difficult about that?'

I raise an eyebrow. 'That was back when you thought there was nothing wrong with slavery, I suppose.'

'Well, exactly. Change isn't linear. Some things are too big and too dark to fix with kindness alone.'

I look up at him, my voice dropping to a whisper. 'Dorian, sometimes I think – what if there's another way? An alternative I just haven't seen?'

'You've looked for other alternatives. So have I. People have been looking for thousands of years. How many elves and mages had to die, to give us the time to seek other options? How many spirits tortured and destroyed?'

'I know.' The words sit heavy in my mouth, but they're true all the same. 'I know.'

We are quiet after that, gazing out over Minrathous. From this height, the city is undoubtedly beautiful: diamonds and sharp edges, like a scaly winged creature, stretched out lazily over the cliffs.

I sigh, and get to my feet. 'All right. I have to go meet the others. Distract Davrin for me, will you? I don't want him to start asking questions about where I am.'

***

I head off into the lower-city, where Merrill is waiting for me at the Lamplighter. As I enter, she smiles and waves me over. I sit down, looking over my shoulder. 'He's not here yet?'

She shakes her head. 'How are you? I heard about Weisshaupt. That must have been terrifying.'

'It was,' I say bleakly. 'So much death. I've seen a lot of battles, but that was – I couldn't imagine it, on such a scale.'

'I'm sorry,' she says quietly. 'I remember, in Kirkwall. When the Chantry fell and Meredith lost her mind. All the death, the corpses, piled all over the city. It's like - like a border, cutting me off from my life before.'

I'm silent, gazing into the fire. Thinking about what Anders did. Thinking about what I myself must shortly do. Merrill looks sideways at me, and seems to divine my thoughts. 'I don't blame him, you know,' she says quietly. 'Anders, I mean. He wasn't always very nice to me. But he was right, about the mages. Something had to change.'

'Yes,' I say softly. I wonder how Anders feels about it all now. Does he feel guilt, for all the lives he took? And those who fell after, in the war he started? Does he look back and feel it was worth it? How does he survive, carrying that burden alone, without Hawke by his side?

Perhaps I should ask Merrill, but at that moment a shadow falls over the table, and we both look up to see a muscled elven man standing beside us; he has a shock of brilliant white hair, and there are gleaming white lines on his face and neck, the tattoos stark gainst his dark skin. 'Merrill,' he drawls, sliding into a seat beside her. 'It's been a while.' His voice is low and sardonic, but I think I detect a note of pleasure. There's a chance he's happy to see her.

'You heard about Hawke?' Merrill says.

'Yes,' Fenris says, and then adds, gruffly, 'I miss her.'

Merrill blinks. 'I thought you were angry at her, for staying with Anders.'

'I was. Doesn't mean I don't miss her.' He shrugs. 'Besides, I fought with you all in the end, didn't I?'

'You did,' she agrees.

I clear my throat lightly. 'Did you hear about – Varric?'

His eyes come to rest on me. Thoughtful, assessing. 'Yes,' he says. 'I did.'

I bow my head. 'I'm sorry.'

'Why are you apologizing to me?'

'I can't apologize to Varric. Or to Hawke.'

He sighs. 'I liked Varric. Everyone did. He was very likeable. But he was always terrified of change. I can't really understand it. To look at a world so fucked up and broken and decide the cause you'll sacrifice your life for is to try to prevent change.'

I look carefully at him. 'We weren't sure you'd have much sympathy for what Solas was doing.'

'I have my criticisms of the details. But I won't weep to see Tevinter fall.'

'You realise that once the Veil comes down everyone will be mages,' Merrill says, looking sideways at him.

He barks out a laugh. 'I didn't like that idea at first. But I'm coming around to it. All those Tevinter bastards thinking they're better than everyone else because they were born with magic in their veins. I'm looking forward to seeing their faces when they realise they're not special any more. When they find out that magic is now as common as dirt. Let them watch their fucking empire fall because now everyone has magic and all their power is useless.'

'That's the goal,' I say. 'We can't be sure what will emerge at the other end, but it will certainly be something very different.'

He gives a shrug. 'Good enough for me. Anyway, there's a lot we need to deal with before that happens. I wanted to talk to you about the slaves and the Evanuris.'

I nod unhappily. 'I know that some elves in Minrathous have been running away to join them.'

Fenris nods, his mouth pressed into a thin line. 'Too many already, and I know many others are contemplating it. I've tried to change their minds, but some of these people have held onto their gods for so long. They've had nothing else. They'd rather die in the gods' service than face the truth of what the Evanuris really are.'

'Even the attack on the city didn't change their minds?'

He snorts. 'The reverse. As the dragon laid waste to the upper city, the elves gathered in the slums to cheer it on. Many of them believe the gods sent the dragon to help their enslaved people.'

'We've been trying to tell them the truth about the Evanuris,' Charter tells me. 'Colette's been talking to people, showing them the relics, explaining the stories. Some of them believe. But not enough.'

'And those who believe are liable to break down and lose hope,' Fenris adds sourly. 'What else do they have to hold on to?'

I chew on my lip, considering. 'We could tell them – maybe not quite everything, about the Veil. But a rumour. Enough to give them hope that something is coming.'

'Would they believe us?'

I shake my head miserably. 'I know. We can't stop them if they want to go to their gods. But what the Evanuris will do to them; slavery is just the start. Elgar'nan needs sacrifices for his rituals as well. Or he'll send them out to fight us, and I can't – I won't kill any more elves, I won't do it. There has to be another way.'

'Well indeed,' Fenris says, his tone biting. 'I'd hoped you'd have one.'

Charter hesitates. 'Is it true that Solas can reach people in their dreams?'

'He can, yes. Why, are you thinking – '

'If he could speak to the elves in his dreams,' she suggests. 'Show them some memories. Make them understand.'

'I don't know if he would agree to that.'

'Not to manipulate them or change them,' she insists. 'Just to tell them the truth. He could not object to that, surely?'

I sigh. 'Well – I don't know if he can still do it from inside the prison. There must be limitations on his power. But I'll ask him.'

'I wouldn't usually be in favour of such a plan,' Fenris says, frowning unhappily. 'But if it can change some minds – better Solas than Elgar'nan, I guess. We need to keep our people away from them.'

'I'll do what I can,' I promise. 'You and Charter and Collette should keep talking to them in the meanwhile. You must be able to get through to some.'

'Some,' he says grimly. 'Never enough.'

I know the feeling all too well. Never enough. 'I'll do what I can,' I repeat, and then I take my leave, leaving Fenris there gazing hard-eyed into the fire.

***

When I return to Dorian's mansion I find Davrin and Dorian still in the dining room, the remains of a roast lamb and a bottle of wine lying abandoned on the table. Davrin is leaning against the wall, telling Dorian airily that his spells aren't bad for a Tevinter. Dorian clearly knows that he's being messed with, but it doesn't stop him from ruffling his hair indignantly and stepping into the fray.

'You're not even a mage!' he says, gesticulating unnecessarily. 'Who on earth are you to judge? You wouldn't know a properly-cast spell if it hit you in the face!'

'Plenty of spells have hit me in the face,' Davrin retorts. 'I enjoy a brush with death every now and again. Can't speak to whether they were properly-cast, though.'

'Yes, because you are not a mage!'

'I could never be a mage. No fun throwing a bunch of spells around from a distance. I like to get up close and personal.'

Dorian throws him a doubtful look. 'I beg your pardon?'

Davrin smirks at him. 'Not only are mages no good at hand-to-hand combat, it appears they can't listen either.' He sticks his hands into his pockets and swaggers away, throwing one last grin over his shoulder for good measure.

Dorian watches him go, hands on his hips. 'Your friend is infuriating,' Dorian says, and then repeats it for emphasis. 'Infuriating!'

'Uh huh,' I say, smiling a little.

He peers suspiciously at me. 'What?'

'Oh, nothing. I just remember a time when you were very eager to tell me exactly how infuriating the Iron Bull was.'

Dorian blinks at me. 'I – no. What are you saying? I don't - he's not even interested in men.'

'Oh, he absolutely is,' I say. After a few late nights of drinking in the Lighthouse, I now know approximately everything about everyone's romantic history, though of course they are still missing a very important part of mine.

'He is?' Dorian blinks, discomposed. 'Well, I – it wouldn't be a good idea. He doesn't know the truth.'

'Not yet,' I say.

Dorian raises an eyebrow. 'You're thinking you'll tell him? Really?'

'I'm not sure,' I say. 'But he cares a lot about the elves, in his way. Wants to do right by them, even though he left. And he's looking for a purpose, something new to protect. I think I could get through to him.'

'Be careful,' Dorian warns me. 'What happens if you tell him and he doesn't see it the same way? What are you going to do? Kill him? More blood magic?'

I shiver, trying to banish the thought. 'I – no. Certainly not. I won't tell him unless I'm sure.'

'So then that's the end of the conversation. I couldn't pursue him while lying to him about something this big.'

'Well, yes, indeed,' I say, an edge of irony to my voice.

'Ha. Yes, I suppose you should know.' He sighs. 'Well, good night then. I guess I'll just remain celibate until the world ends, or it doesn't. Either way, I'll wait.'

'I never said you had to remain celibate,' I say, shaking my head, but he just grins at me and disappears.

***

Solas listens to my proposal, his brows drawing together. When I finish, he is silent for a long moment.

'You don't like it,' I surmise. 'I suspected you would not.'

He grimaces, his hands locked behind his back. 'I can indeed speak in dreams, yes. But I have used the talent sparingly. I would not wish to twist any person against their purpose.'

'You wouldn't be manipulating them, Just showing them the true facts of our history.'

'Sharing facts is often a way of manipulating people.'

I acknowledge that with a nod. 'But you know Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain are manipulating these elves already. You would merely be countering that.'

He considers, rubbing his mouth. 'Still, taking over their dreams without consent. It is a violation. I do not do it lightly.'

'It is,' I agree. 'I don't like it either. But if it can stop them from turning to the cause of the Evanuris, then it is worth considering – '

He's silent, his brow furrowing.

'Those elves – they've lived their lives with so much struggle already,' I say. 'Eking out an existence from what the world grudgingly allows them. Do you really want them to die in pain and shame and horror, yoked to Elgar'nan's mind?'

He bristles. 'I fought for thousands of years to save people from that fate! Everything I sacrificed for –'

'I know, vhenan,' I say quietly. 'Solas – I will not ask you to do this if you do not wish it. You are not a weapon. I am not here to use you.'

His head jerks up; he stares at me, as if badly startled. 'But you do want me to do this.'

'I want to work with you, Solas. I'm bringing you an idea. If you don't feel right about it, we'll find another way.'

He breathes slowly, unable to fully suppress his agitation. 'You will not be upset, if I say no.'

'Of course not. This has to be your choice.'

He is silent several moments longer. But at least, he gives a sigh. 'I would not have the elves meet such a fate,' he murmurs. 'After all the suffering I have already brought on them.'

'Are you sure?' I ask, meeting his eyes steadily.

This time, he doesn't hesitate. 'I'm sure.'

I take a deep breath, feeling a little lighter. 'Well. Perhaps I should have asked first – is it even possible, while you're in here?'

He sighs. 'It is. But only with your aid.'

'Ah. Because you need a connection with the outside world?'

He nods. 'The Evanuris spoke to the Magisters Sidereal, using their connection to their archdemons. I could do much the same with you. It would require your consent, of course, but it could be done.'

'What would I have to do?'

'Merely let me enter you.'

I arch an eyebrow, and he allows himself a grin. 'Not like that.'

'That's a pity.'

Hints of a smirk dance over his lips, but then dissipate. 'I meant that you would need to let me enter you with my power. Provide a chink for me to reach into the waking world.'

My mind is racing. 'Could you do other things, with your power in me?'

He hums lightly. 'What do you have in mind?'

I glance up at him; there, again, the faintest trace of a smile. 'Well,' I say, smiling a little in return. 'Various things. But primarily I wondered if you could perhaps maintain a connection? See through my eyes? Speak to me in the waking world?'

He shakes his head. 'No. Manipulating dreams is possible only because I am here, in the Fade, a place already closely tied to dreaming. Anything more impactful on the physical world would be beyond my ability, unless the Veil were very thin.'

'Well, we should keep that in mind. Sooner or later I'm bound to find myself in a place where the Veil is thin.'

He nods. 'Indeed.'

'Well, if you're sure,' I say. 'Why not do it now?'

His eyes rest on me, assessing. After a moment he nods. 'Sit down.'

I seat myself, cross-legged; on the other side of the ravine, he does the same. 'Close your eyes.'

I close them, and mentally I take down my walls. Waiting to feel his power.

Of course, I already know the feeling of Solas' magic very well, from our time in the Inquisition. Every time he cast a barrier over me in battle – and he cast a lot of them – I felt the thrum of the power rippling over me and knew at once that it was his.

I remember, one day on the Storm Coast, telling him solemnly that his magic felt to me like purple velvet. 'Purple velvet?' he replied, smiling a little. 'Is that how you think of me?'

'Not you. Your magic.'

'Look at the man,' Dorian said, rolling his eyes. 'Of all the – you'd never come within a million miles of purple velvet, let alone wear it, would you Solas?'

'Oh, I don't know about that,' Solas said, to everyone's great surprise. 'We were all young once.'

'I would have liked to see that,' I said, just for the sake of seeing his pleased smile.

Dorian groaned. 'I would not have volunteered for the mission if I had realised it would involve all this heavy elven flirting.'

I'd expected Solas to object to this characterisation, but instead he just laughed and flashed me a grin. That was after our first kiss, and before our second. Every interaction was charged, heavy with desire: I knew he would yield, even then. I knew it was all just a matter of time.

This is a beloved memory, and I smile as I think of it. Across the ravine, Solas says, 'Eager, vhenan?'

I straighten up, making myself ready. 'Go on. Enter me.'

A pause; and then he does.

I gasp, and even my breath is not entirely my own.

I still recognise his power, but there are more layers now: the solemn rhythms of the ocean, moving beneath the surface. He's grown much stronger since last I felt his magic. And I've never felt it so intimately. His barriers used to whisper over my skin, but this time he's really within me: currents in my blood, a glimmering tide. He's not in any particular place but rather everywhere at once; his power mixing with my own, my body brimming with our entwined magic.

It's a very different kind of intimacy from sex, but admittedly I'm having distracting thoughts of what it might be like to combine this effect with sex. I shift restlessly, and Solas gives a low laugh. 'You're enjoying it, emma lath?'

I open my eyes, and see that he is no longer making any attempt to conceal his little smirk. I swallow, my mouth dry. 'Can you do other things?' I manage to say. ' Now?'

'Oh, perhaps,' he says, drawing the words out, savouring every syllable. 'What would you have me do, vhenan?'

Most of all I would like him to get rid of the ravine and come to me, but for now this will have to be enough. 'Touch me,' I say simply.

His eyes go still and liquid. I feel the magic shifting; spreading and then concentrating. The currents twisting themselves tight inside me. Slow waves of sensation, lapping over me. Glittering, teasing tingles, the magic tracing invisible paths over my skin.

I hear myself let out a shaky sigh, and on the other side of the ravine Solas hums with satisfaction. His cheeks are flushed as he watches; his whole body leans toward me, as if yearning to come closer. To touch with his real hands.

'Solas,' I manage to say. 'Emma lath. Please – '

His power pulses, urgent and covetous. Across the ravine, I see his lips part. He shifts in his seat, once and then again. The magic in me flares, blazes hot. The trails on my skin pressing further in, as if his fingers are grasping me.

'Solas,' I say again. 'Please – '

His magic twists sharply inside me. And then, yielding, he lowers his hand. I watch him rock against himself as he pushes his magic harder, deeper. Sensation pooling at my core like a dark melody, like a perfect chord.

But it's too late. I strain to hold on to the vision, the sensation, but it's fading. I wake, alone once again. Echoes of our shared frustration still reverberating in my mind. I'm not sure how much more of this I can take: one way or another, that damn ravine has to go.

***

In the Hossberg wetlands, we meet with an elven woman called Valya, who comes bearing news about the creature which kidnapped the griffons. It's not a creature at all. It's an elf, or it was once. And a warden. I listen in horror as Valya lays out the story: the desperate, doomed struggle of the Fourth Blight. The warden-commander's orders. Isseya's grief, as the Blight slowly took everything from her.

Davrin disappears for several hours to look over Isseya's diaries with Valya. When he returns he's silent, abstracted. I look over at him as we walk through Lavendel. 'We'll get the griffons,' I promise him. 'We're getting close now.'

He walks onward, shoulders hunched. 'Those diaries,' he says gruffly. 'Isseya gave everything to the wardens. Everything.'

'Many people have.'

'No, but she – she gave her soul. Her morals, her principles, everything. She loved the griffons, and yet she did that to them. No wonder it drove her mad.'

'It's a sad story,' I say uncertainly.

There's something in his eyes, some churning emotion that I can't quite pin down. 'It was all for nothing,' he says angrily.

'They did end the Blight,' I say. 'That wasn't nothing.'

'And the world went back to what it was. No one remembered what Isseya did. She ruined herself, she ruined the griffons, and no one ever cared. They forgot her.'

'I'm sure there are many forgotten heroes, from every Blight.'

He snorts. 'Yes. And how many of them are elves?'

I look sideways at him, considering. Then I say, 'You know what, I could do with some time in Arlathan. Are you still up for visiting your uncle?'

Davrin looks up at me, frowning. 'This is hardly the time.'

I shrug. 'Maybe you can do without respite. But I can't. I need a few moments of peace.'

His expression softens a little. 'Fair enough, I suppose. Well then. Let's go find Eldrin. I warn you, if you give him a chance he'll do everything he can to drink you under the table.'

Arriving in Arlathan, I feel a little of the weight lifting off my shoulders. The smells are so familiar – sage and heather winding sinuously through the air, scents that have woven themselves into my dreams for these last eight years. And the fluting, warbling birdsong, the way the wind moves through the trees: nowhere sounds the same as this forest. It's full of adventure and peril, just as usual, but still I feel at peace just to be back here. Nothing more to worry about than why the halla aren't eating properly and why there are flaming rocks falling from the sky every now and then. What a strange life I lead, that such things have begun to feel trivial.

I try to put everything else out of my mind – let myself just be here, in the forest, in amongst the the swaying branches and the dancing light. Rainbow glints, echoes of old magic, the gold tints of the leaves. Assan gambols delightedly around my feet as we pass through the forest, raising his head to peep hopefully at me until I finally yield and stoop to hug him; he nuzzles his face against my neck, nipping gently at my skin until Davrin rolls his eyes in exasperation and tells the griffon to give it a rest.

But even Darvin seems softer here, more approachable; he talks quietly about his childhood as we track the animals through the forest, some of his swagger laid aside. And it's nice to see him with Eldrin – the affection between the two of them is evident, despite the passage of years. I don't necessarily know if I've made a lot of progress on swaying him to my cause, but I'm happy nonetheless to have had this chance to know him better.

***

Emmrich comes to me with an urgent matter: Johanna Hezenkoss is throwing some kind of party, and he suspects she plans to use it to drain the life-force of her party guests to perform some kind of terrible, world-altering spell.

I wish dearly that Johanna Hezenkoss could just hold off on her dastardly plans until all the other crises have been dealt with, but from our brief acquaintance I got the clear sense that she is not an obliging woman, so I suppose we have to deal with this. One disaster at a time, if it can be managed.

Of course, after a pleasant interlude requiring nothing more than spying from a distance on a Nevarran party, the evening very quickly descends into chaos. We chase Johanna through the winding labyrinths of her laboratories, and then somehow find ourselves back in the main hall, fighting desperately to relieve Johanna of the lamp she's created.

The lamp is full of trapped spirits. In a way, this is simply a logical extension of the ordinary methods of the necromancers, but the cruelty of it. Thousands of spirits, bound together in there, barred from the Fade but also from the physical world, pulsing urgently with pain and agony and anger. Their power leached from them, their individuality breaking down, merging slowly into a hazy mass of reverberations, losing their very sentience in the process.

Without the Veil, no mage would be able to do such a thing. Their urgency to reach the physical world makes them vulnerable; they fall willingly into every trap set for them. If they were not locked away, if they were not – I shake my head. There's no time for this, not now. We have to get to that lantern, before it's too late.

But Johanna is standing on the shoulder of the construct she has created, crowing gleefully at us. Emmrich and I crouch behind the barrier, gazing helpessly out at the lumbering skeleton. 'No living thing can approach it and live – ' Emmrich begins to say.

And then – Manfred. He rises to his feet and, astonishingly, words issue from his mouth: 'I can!' And then he's flying through the air, arms flailing. Seizing the lamp from the creature, crashing to the ground. I leap across the gap, landing hard on the ground beside him, and scoop up the lamp, and then with all my strength I toss it through the air to Emmrich. He catches it and stands frozen for a moment, gazing down at the lamp in his hands.

'Emmrich!' I shout. 'Release them!'

He hesitates for a moment, screwing up his courage. And then he begins to cast. I watch for a moment longer, then turn back to Manfred, kneeling over him. Did the wisp inside him do this for love of Emmrich? Or did it understand that the lamp was full of countless spirits, all trapped like him? Both, perhaps. Neither. I knew so little of what it really was, beneath that rictus of a smile. Beneath the facade that was Manfred.

Probing with my mage-senses, I feel the spirit still lingering there, the spells binding it to the skeleton hanging by a thread. And once again, I feel it. Longing, stretching its tendrils out. Beseeching me to let it go.

I'm not familiar with this magic, but somehow I know what to do. I touch my fingers to the skeleton's chest and send a pulse of power through its ribs, breaking the threads.

'Ar lasa mala revas,' I whisper, as Manfred's wisp vanishes back into the Fade.

Not a moment too soon. Emmrich finishes his spell; behind us, Johanna and her construct fall together, the battle over. Emmrich staggers over to me, and falls to his knees beside Manfred. I watch as he gathers the skeleton in his arms. That grief is genuine, and I feel a twinge of sorrow. I know that he loved Manfred.

Sometimes, the worst harms are the ones inflicted unknowingly, in kindness.

'We must go to the Necropolis,' he says resolutely, getting his his feet. Holding the empty skeleton like a child in his arms. 'There's still a chance that Manfred can be restored.'

I hesitate, picking unhappily at my sleeve. 'Are you sure that's what the wisp would want?'

He looks at me, uncomprehending. 'Of course. Spirits want to join the living.'

'Yes, but do they want to be bound to bodies?'

'They can't survive stably in the waking world without bodies,' he points out. 'You've seen the wisps in the Necropolis. They get pulled back to the Fade.'

'Maybe that's what they prefer. To experience it for a brief time as themselves, rather than becoming something else in order to remain here.'

He shakes his head. 'No. Look at how Manfred was growing, changing.'

I've read the ancient texts. I know that in the absence of the Veil, spirits were able to grow and change without being bound to bodies. When they were part of the physical world, flowing and ebbing with it, entangling themselves with the lives of the living. Everything changed more back then, spirit and physical both. Only the Veil has trapped us into this rut of eternal grinding status quo.

But Emmrich has never known a world without a Veil, and he has no way of seeing how it could be different. I look up at him and realise he's never going to be able to accept what I'm trying to tell him. It would mean understanding that despite their good intentions, he and the other Mourn Watchers are binding and enslaving spirits just like the other mages of Thedas. It would mean acknowledging that Manfred, who he cared for so much, was not an entirely willing companion.

Telling him would break him. Despite myself, I can't bring myself to do that to him.

Perhaps the spell won't work, I tell myself, and I agree to go with him to the Necropolis.

***

In the depths of the catacombs, we stand over Manfred's body. Not Manfred's, not really – someone else's body, passed down to Manfred. Laid out here in the wake of its second death. I watch as Emmrich waves his arms, hoping that the spell won't work. I know the wisp cared for Emmrich; I also know the wisp didn't want this. I can't stop him, but I hope he'll find a way to let the spirit go.

And then, a voice booms from above us. 'Emmrich Volkarin.' A robed figure, dark and menacing, looms over the room. The air around us changes; grows cold, and strange-scented. Myrrh and rot, the odours of the tomb. 'If you do this, lichdom slips forever from your grasp.'

Emmrich's face changes. 'Ah,' he says gravely. He gazes down at Manfred's body, his fingers drumming anxiously on the table.

'What is it?' I ask, gazing between Emmrich and the lich above us. 'What does it mean?'

'To become a lich, I must learn to make my peace with death,' he says, his voice hollow. 'With allowing others to pass beyond the Veil.'

'What would we otherwise become?' the lich booms from above, its sonorous voice filling every corner of the chamber. It seems impossibly ancient to me, and I have to consciously remind myself that in fact Solas is much older. Yet Solas is very clearly still a person, flawed and struggling. This lich is something else. Is this really what Emmrich wants to become?

'So it's either Manfred, or lichdom,' I say. 'You have to choose?'

He bows his head. 'I do.'

Relief sweeps over me. This is my way out; Manfred's wisp can be left to its freedom, to wander the Fade in peace and safety, at least until it gets drawn once more into the world.

'I think you should become a lich,' I say gently, and see the conflict clear from his face.

'Thank you,' he says, and then he looks down solemnly at the lifeless skeleton. 'I am sorry, my friend,' he whispers. 'I thank you for your companionship. It was an honour.'

And suddenly I have to blink away tears. They loved each other, the man and the wisp. Despite everything that was wrong about it, despite the spirit's suffering. It would be easier, if it were less complicated. If I could blame Emmrich, call him cruel. But he's a kind man, an honourable man. As so often lately, I wish there had been another way.

***

When I appear in the Fade that evening, Solas is sitting cross-legged, wearing only his breeches and a loose shirt, open at the collar. The light casts sharp shadows over his cheekbones and clavicle, and he's distractingly beautiful as he looks up at me and smiles. For a moment I can see his younger self in him - dressed just like this, though with more adornments, gold twinkling in his ears and in his long, flowing hair.

'I entered some dreams,' he announces. 'Revealed some memories. Carefully selected, so as not to be too traumatic. But I believe it had the desired effect.'

I can't help smiling at his eagerness, his desire to be useful, to do something good. 'Thank you,' I say. 'It means a lot to me. After Weisshaupt I'm hoping I will not have to fight any more elves.'

He inclines his head. 'I hope the same.' He hesitates a moment, and then adds, 'I have also been thinking about your plans. What you told me – the Nadas Dirthalen, and the artifacts.'

'Oh?' I say, surprised. When I explained the details to him he didn't have much to say, and some weeks have passed since then.

'It is a good idea,' he says. 'I was – if I am honest, when you first told me I was frustrated with myself that I had not thought of the same thing. I spent years working to mitigate the damage, and yet it never occurred to me to use the artifacts.'

'You can't think of everything, Solas. I know you're brilliant, but no one knows everything.'

He smiles gently. 'Indeed. As you so often remind me.'

'You had ideas about the spell?' I prompt.

'I could not have done it without you in any case,' he admits. 'What you do with the music of the Fade – I told you when you first showed me that I had never seen anything like it, and there at least I was telling the truth. It is quite unique.'

'It was an accident, really. As you know. I was just trying to come up with a way of making music. I wasn't trying to do anything with the Fade.'

'Accident or not, your technique is fascinating, and powerful. What you have planned makes sense, but I think there is more you can do. There are technical details of the resonances that I can share – nuances that my people knew, details that have been lost to time.'

I sit down myself, cross-legged, facing him across the ravine. 'Then tell me.'

He begins his explanations, and we enter into an animated discussion. It's so similar to the way things used to be back at Skyhold, when we would spend hours poring over books and putting forward theories, and for a time I just let myself enjoy it. Let myself pretend that we're back at Skyhold again, those simpler days.

I do my best to commit everything he says to memory, though it's growing harder as the pull of the waking world becomes stronger. 'Be quick,' I tell him. 'I won't be here much longer.'

He nods, but I see the way his face falls. The quiet dread that comes over him for a moment, his eyes shuttering. The way his gaze flickers over the broken columns, the encroaching shadows.

I catch my breath, suddenly understanding something. 'Solas,' I say. 'Are you – are you all right in here?'

He frowns. 'What do you mean?'

'You're alone, in the dark, nearly all the time. No way of knowing what's happening outside. Nothing to do but dwell on things. It must be hard.'

His face goes rigid, his eyes averted. 'I am fine.'

'Are you?'

'You don't need to worry about me.'

I am silent for a moment, gazing across at him. Then I say, 'Solas, in all your long life, have you ever - has anyone ever just looked after you?'

A little intake of breath; his eyes widen. For a moment the facade cracks. 'I - ' he breathes. 'I do not need - '

'Perhaps you don't. But don't you think it would feel good? To let someone - hold you? Take care of you?'

A shudder goes through him, and he covers his face with his hands. His shoulders shake. I wait a moment, and then say tentatively, 'Vhenan?'

He takes his hands away and looks over at me; even in the poor light I can see that his eyes are wet. 'When first we met,' he says, hoarsely. 'At Haven. You said …'

'I said I would protect you, however I had to,' I say. 'I meant it, Solas. I still mean it.'

He covers his face again, and a groan of pain comes from him, as if torn involuntarily from his throat. He's trembling all over now, and I ache to take him in my arms. To make him feel the truth of my words in the way I touch him. 'I mean it, vhenan,' I repeat. 'I won't let anyone hurt you like that ever again.'

When he takes his hands away this time I can see tear-streaks on his cheeks. Curled into himself, the shadows falling across his collarbone, he looks small, vulnerable. 'Ma sa'lath,' he says, his voice low. 'Emma lath, I am - I need - '

But the waking world grows ever stronger. I strain to hold myself together, but it's too late: I'm gone before I can hear what he needs. Though I can probably guess, more or less.

I have tears on my own face, I realize. I lie alone for a long time, my mind reaching for him. Finding nothing. But I'm so close now, I can feel it. He's almost ready to let me in. One day soon, we'll finally hold one another again. Just as I said, our love has endured. I keep my promises.

Chapter Text

Though I have a great many hesitations about the procedure he's about to undergo, I agree to accompany Emmrich to the Necropolis, to witness his entry into lichdom.

Myrna and Vorgoth are waiting to greet us. Vorgoth holds a sword in his hands, and it occurs to me suddenly that this is the weapon he will use to kill Emmrich, in order for him to pass into the second life; a shudder goes through me, and I have to put a hand to my mouth to keep from gagging. I must be respectful of their traditions, however strange I find the prospect. It's an honour that Emmrich asked me to be with him today, and I should do my best to live up to that.

I bid him farewell outside the chamber and sit down to wait, my feet tapping anxiously as the minutes slip by. The doors are so heavy that I have no chance of hearing anything going on inside. But if it had gone wrong, surely I'd know by now? They would have emerged – carrying Emmrich's body.

The thought sends another shudder through me, and I bend over, putting my head between my knees. The antechamber is chilly, goosebumps rising on my skin, and there's a strange scent in the air: I hope it's not blood, but there's a good chance that it is. Where is Emmrich? Why is this taking so long?

If he doesn't make it – I told him to make this choice. I bartered his life for the spirit inside Manfred. If he doesn't survive, that will be yet another death I have to carry with me.

We haven't even taken down the Veil yet, and already the burden is beginning to feel too great to bear.

After what feels like an endless span of time. Myrna and Vorgoth finally emerge; I see blood on Vorgoth's sword, and look away quickly. But then I see it – another figure, appearing out of the fog behind them.

I step forward, heart in my throat, and I see that it's wearing Emmrich's robes, and carrying his staff. But where Emmrich's face once, there is only a skull, with glowing green eyes and some kind of crown bound around its head. A lich.

I hang back a moment, still uncertain. But then it opens its mouth, and Emmrich's voice emerges. 'I see much more clearly now,' he says, in a low, resonant tone.

I frown, uncomprehending. The skull where Emmrich's face used to be looks back at me. 'I know who you are,' he says quietly. 'The spirits of the Fade revealed the truth to me, as I journeyed through that profane darkness. I know what you seek.'

Heart in my throat, my hands curl around my staff. Somehow, I hadn't considered this as a possible outcome. Can I silence him? How much more powerful is he now? Can I subdue him for long enough to get Merrill to do blood magic on him? Does blood magic work on liches?

Nausea grasps me: I'm in the heart of the Necropolis, surrounded by his friends and colleagues. There is no hope of standing against him. Here, on this unfamiliar ground, my deception draws to its inevitable end.

But then, to my surprise, he kneels down.

'It is all right,' he says, and it's the same sweet, gentlemanly register as ever. 'The passage of time – it was different, in that place. You were here for less than an hour, but for me – weeks, months. I have seen much. I understand it all anew.'

He raises his hands, places them over mine. The smooth, polished bone is cold to the touch, and feels weirdly lifeless. But there's something comforting about the touch, all the same.

'I understand,' he says solemnly, with a little tilt of his head – a gesture so reminiscent of the man he used to be that it takes my breath away. 'I understand what you are doing, and I know now why it must be done. You will encounter no resistance from me.'

I'm not sure I can quite believe it. What did he see, in that darkness, to generate this change of heart. 'Really?'

He drops his gaze. 'Manfred,' he says, and there's a crack in his voice.

Ah. 'I'm sorry. He did – he really loved you, Emmrich.'

'I never wished to hurt him.'

I shake my head. 'No, Emmrich.' Is it still right to call him Emmrich? But he has offered no other name. 'Emmrich, you can't blame yourself. You couldn't have known.'

'I could. You tried to tell me. But I couldn't hear you. My foolish pride – ' He shakes his head. 'I understand now. I did wrong to him, and to other spirits. I would make that right.'

I hesitate, still not quite sure where we stand. 'Are you saying – are you saying you want to help?'

He rises to his feet, raising a skeletal hand to the place where his chest once was. The sight ought to be comedic, but somehow it feels deeply, profoundly serious. There's no possible doubt of his sincerity as he makes his vow: 'I swear this to you, Eirlan Lavellan. I will do all that I can to heal this world. To make things right. To make the world truly safe for our friends across the Veil.'

I stare up at him, lost for words. It's so much more than I expected: I'm shocked and moved and confused all at once. 'Emmrich, this is – I don't know what to say.'

'No need for pleasantries,' he says. 'Just tell me what you need me to do.'

'I'm sorry that I lied to you,' I say, looking down. 'I never wanted to do it. But there was so much at stake.'

'No. You were right to lie. I would have turned on you, had I known the truth, before. I am sorry that you could not trust me.'

'You were so close. I knew you cared. I knew you wanted to do right by the spirits. You just couldn't see it.'

He inclines his head. 'Who could have guessed that lichdom would be the thing that opened my eyes? I never expected that outcome. But I see it now, Eirlan, and I have sworn my immortal life to this goal. We will bring down the Veil, come what may.'

***

When I return to the Fade, Solas is waiting for me, dressed again in just his breeches and shirt. Sitting cross-legged, he looks up at me seriously, as if he has prepared words he wants to speak. His eyes are soft, serious, impossibly earnest. Something about that gaze raises goosebumps on my skin, and I don't even know any more if what I feel is anxiety or desire.

'Emma lath,' he says haltingly. 'You are - always so kind to me. So gentle.'

I look at him curiously. 'Vhenan?'

'I lied,' he says, a tremor in his voice. 'I betrayed you!'

I stare at him, my pulse fluttering at my temples: his voice echoes strangely as it reverberates across the ravine. I never thought he'd admit so directly what he did to me. I never imagined that he'd offer me the chance to absolve him; and if I'm honest, I wasn't sure if I could.

But in the end, it's easy.

'I forgive you,' I say, and it's like putting down a weight I didn't even know I was carrying.

He shakes his head. 'You should not. How can you?'

'Because I understand.' As I stand watching him, my skin prickles; I can feel all the invisible threads between us pulling tight. 'You should have trusted me, yes. But you were trying to do the right thing. The Veil needs to come down. We both know that.'

'But I hurt you. Your arm – '

'That was a mistake,' I say steadily. 'Giving your orb to Corypheus was stupid, yes. You were panicking, spiraling. But you couldn't know how it would turn out. I have forgiven you.'

'I lay with you, without telling you who I really was!'

'No.' I shake my head. 'Fen'Harel is a mask. An important one, certainly, but that is not who you are.'

I take a step forward. 'I know your heart, Solas. I have always known who you really are.'

He raises a hand to cover his eyes. 'The things that I have done - '

'I have forgiven you,' I repeat. 'Forgive yourself.'

He trembles, shaking his head once more. Tears slide down his cheeks. 'Vhenan -'

'Please, Solas,' I whisper. 'Let me come to you.'

He takes his hand away, and gazes at me. For a long moment; his eyes somber, aching with sincerity.

Then he bows his head; and the ravine is gone.

For a moment I can't believe it; I just stand there, staring at the place where the ravine used to be. A flat expanse of grey rock is now all that separates us.

Then I come to my senses and start moving; I run the last few steps and drop to my knees beside Solas and put my arms around him.

He gasps, a sob shaking his whole body, and then he relaxes into my embrace, his arms rising to hold me in return. Burying his head in my neck, his tears on my skin. He's slighter than I remember, but he smells the same, green moss and dewy forests. I raise my hands to cradle his head as his body trembles, his hands clutching at my tunic. I'm crying too, I realize, tears sliding down my cheeks as I press him to my chest, whispering words of love in elvhen. So long. It's been so long, and he's finally in my arms.

Eventually he calms himself enough to raise his head, look me in the eyes. 'Ir abelas,' he says in a low voice, and I don't even know what he's apologizing for any more, but I shake my head.

'Ar lath ma. Bellanaris,' I tell him quietly, firmly.

'Ar lath ma bellanaris, ar lath ma, ma sa'lath,' he says solemnly, his eyes fixed on my face, as if we're exchanging vows.

I can feel a kiss hovering in the air between us. But I can also feel the waking world beginning to pull at me, and I don't want our first kiss in all these years to be cut short. So instead I embrace him again and I just hold him like that, clinging on, feeling him trembling against me right up until he vanishes from my arms.

***

Usually, fighting dragons makes me feel awful. After Solas left me at Crestwood, Iron Bull got wind of the breakup and insisted on dragging me out to fight a dragon, convinced that it would make me feel better. It did not. That majestic creature, lying twisted on the ground; those iridescent scales going dull one by one as death claimed them. I was happy that Bull had enjoyed the fight, but I returned to Skyhold feeling as if I myself had been torn from the sky, claws shattered and wings broken.

But this dragon is different: blighted, tortured, twisted against its nature. It will be a mercy to wrest the creature from Ghilan'nain's clutches.

As we sit waiting by the tower in the Hossberg Wetlands, Taash slides down to sit beside me. 'Hey there, chief,' they say. 'Feeling good?'

'Good might be stretching it. But I feel ready.'

They nod. 'Me too.'

I glance sideways at them. Taash catches me off guard sometimes. Sometimes they're just so very young, in a way that makes my heart hurt: remembering myself at that age, how I thought I had all the answers. Dreaming that I could make a difference, that I could somehow save all of my people just by being a good example.

And yet at the same time, in professional matters Taash is searingly, blisteringly confident. They've barely been sleeping the last few nights, drawing up the plans for fighting this dragon, and I have not the slightest hesitation in putting our lives in their hands.

'You think the wardens are really up to it?' Taash says. 'They lost a lot of people. They're still hurting.'

'I trust Evka and Antoine. They wouldn't have called us here if they didn't think the remaining wardens could handle it.'

'Yeah.' Taash nodes. 'They're good people. All good people here.'

I swallow the familiar guilt. 'I think so,' I say softly, looking out at the assembled party.

At least Emmrich knows the truth now; it's good to have one more person I can fully trust at my back.

Taash crosses their arms, gazing up at the tower, no doubt thinking about the dragon. They've never shown any signs of interest in the circumstances or the elves, or the mages. As for the spirits, they're a Rivaini and thus they don't fear spirits, but they don't seem to have given much thought to the matter beyond that. I've tried raising these topics in conversation once or twice, but Taash typically just nods and then returns the subject to dragons. I find their intense focus on their chosen field very endearing, but it doesn't help much as a route to enlisting them for revolution.

'All right,' I say to Taash, trying to focus on the immediate problem. 'Shall we get moving?'

They stride up to the tower, all height and strength and glittering competence. It's hard not to feel a little cheered, watching as they mount the steps and prepare to call the dragon. On the field, the rest of us ready ourselves. Felassan and Bellara are by my side; this time, I think, it won't be like Treviso, or Minrathous. We have all our forces gathered, we have plans, we're prepared.

But of course, it doesn't take long to go sideways. Just when the dragon is starting to weaken, the air splits open with a bone-crunching crack; and Ghilan'nain arrives, with another dragon by her side.

Two dragons and an elven god, near enough. We didn't plan for this. I raise my staff, sending out a bolt of flame, but I'm already bone-weary, my mana near exhausted, and the flame doesn't even make it far enough to touch the dragon.

Then a bolt streaks out across the field from behind me, striking the ice dragon's skull. I turn, confused, and see Teia riding atop a catapult, swinging out around it to salute at me. Beside her, Viago steps forward. 'Thought you could use a hand.'

At this point, all of Taash's meticulous strategies have gone out the window. It's pure chaos: wardens firing from above, Teia shooting bolts as fast as she can load them, and Bellara and Fellasan and I standing back to back, firing spells haphazard any way we can. We kill one dragon, but there's no time for triumph: we keep fighting, pushing on through impossible weariness, crossbow bolts juddering like battered constructs across the blood-streaked field.

Finally, we kill the other dragon. Ghilan'nain's face contorts, and she raises her hands. I understand what's about to happen just in time, and before I can even consciously think about it I'm sprinting across the field to the nearest catapult; I pick up the bolt, my muscles screaming at me, and hurl it across the field.

It strikes her in the head, and she lets out a piercing, ear-splitting shriek. Suddenly remembering, no doubt, that she is now mortal. The blow wasn't fatal; but at least her reanimation of the dragon was disrupted. I look behind me, gesturing the others forward, ready to press our advantage in the split-second of her distraction.

But then – Elgar'nan arrives.

A ball of rippling magic appears, expands, and then lashes outward, sending the bodies of the wardens around flying. And a man steps out of the void. Unlike Ghilan'nain, he still looks like an elf – but taller and broader than any elf I have ever seen, his golden Evanuris crown glistening atop sleekly-coiffed grey hair, the horns of a dragon mounted behind his back as if they are wings. Pieces of glittering red lyrium are embedded in his sweeping robes, like sickly red eyes.

I struggle to react, and then realise that something is happening to time itself. I can't tell exactly what he's done, but all of a sudden everyone around is frozen – everyone but me. I'm alone, with two ancient, horrifyingly powerful mages. The gods of my people. If they notice me, I'm done for.

I hold still, but my heart beating in my chest seems so loud I'm sure they must hear it. I feel Elgar'nan's raw power reverberating through me as my consciousness struggles against his spell; my soul fighting for breath beneath his smothering enchantments.

Then Elgar'nan's head turns. 'One resists,' he says, his voice almost splitting my head in two.

His gaze pinpoints me, and I feel my very life shrinking to a point beneath his inspection. That cold, ruthless awareness. I try to reach for a weapon, but my fingers won't close around it. I'm trapped, almost frozen, more vulnerable than I've ever been.

'The Dread Wolf's influence. His presence lingers,' Ghilan'nain says, rage creeping through her tone.

'Ever defiant,' Elgar'nan snarls, and his face stretches in a rictus of a sneer. 'For now.'

And then suddenly, miraculously, they're gone. Time begins to move once again. I sag on the spot, my heart pumping so fast I can barely breathe. My legs are trembling so hard I almost fall over, and have to clutch onto the catapult to prevent it. So close. They could have slain me where I stood, and I could have done nothing to defend myself. But Elgar'nan is cautious: Solas bested him before, took everything from him. He will not move too rashly against the Dread Wolf or his followers.

In a way Solas is still protecting me, even now.

Drawing deep, calming breaths, I look over my shoulder. The others are looking around, confused: they don't understand exactly what's happened. Some of them may not even have had time to realise that Elgar'nan was here. But slowly it's dawning on them that the danger has passed, the fight is done. A few slightly bewildered shouts of triumph go up, and then the cheers spread through the crowd.

I turn and see that Felassan has swept Bellara up his arms, their mouths pressed together. He reaches around to lift her into the air and she wraps her legs around his waist, kissing him eagerly. His hands in her hair, tugging at the pin she wears until it falls away and he buries his fingers in the roots, tugging; she sighs and presses closer into him.

Suddenly I feel that I shouldn't really be watching this. My heartbeat is slowing now, but I still feel the terror under my skin, the receding stench of death in the air. I turn away and hurry over to Teia, who is overseeing the dismantling of the catapult.

'Teia,' I say urgently. 'There's something I have to tell you.'

She arches an eyebrow. 'Yes?'

'The other elven man, over there.'

'The one currently attempting to inhale that woman? Yes, he's rather noticeable.'

'Well, most of my companions are currently under the impression that he is Lucanis Dellamorte.'

Her eyes land on my face, considering. 'Hmmm,' she says. 'And you were hoping that Viago and I will not disabuse them of that impression?'

'It would be – ah, awkward to explain.'

She considers a moment. 'He's someone important, I take it,' she says.

'He is, yes.'

'Important to – our common interests, perhaps? The good of our people?'

I meet her eyes. 'It depends,' I say.

'On what?'

'On the lengths you are willing to go to. In order to change the world.'

'To change the world – properly?' she asks. 'Permanently? Completely?'

'That's the hope, yes.'

She stands silent, looking at me. I wait, my heart in my mouth. I have not the faintest idea what I'm going to do if she says no.

But she gives a short nod. 'Very well,' she says. 'I will keep your secret. And I'll make sure Viago keeps it.'

'Would Viago – ah, understand?'

'He's an honourable man,' she says. 'And he knows what I have suffered. I think he can be reasoned with.' She shrugs. 'Leave Viago to me.'

I thank her, and we part. Looking over my shoulder, I see that Felassan has finally relinquished his hold on Bellara, and is busy congratulating a host of Grey Wardens. I hurry over to him, and when he turns to me I raise an eyebrow, saying nothing.

He grins ruefully. 'Am I wrong? Perhaps I am wrong. The age gap is awkward, to be sure.'

'I'm hardly one to criticize.'

He laughs. 'Yes. I suppose I should ask someone else.'

'It's all right, Felassan,' I say. 'These are difficult times. We take comfort where we can. And I think you're good for Bellara.'

'Hmmm,' he says. 'Right up until the demon takes control of me again.'

'If that happens we'll deal with it, as we did before.' I hesitate. 'Felassan. I don't know if you saw this, but – Elgar'nan was here.'

He pales. 'What? When?'

Just before Ghilan'nain disappeared. He stopped time, or something like it. Only it didn't work on me.'

'Ah.' Felassan nods. 'I recall that trick. Only Solas could resist it. Perhaps something of his magic lingers, from when you bore the anchor?'

'Perhaps. Or else – he put more of his power into me recently, so he could reach out to enter elven dreams. It could be that.'

'Either way,' Felassan says grimly. 'This isn't good news. Now that Elgar'nan has come out into the open, he may be more willing to face us in battle. And I can tell you this, we do not yet have the strength to stand against him.'

I shudder, remembering the tidal wave of his power, my body trapped in the web of his spells. That searing, blinding helplessness. 'Yes,' I say grimly. 'I believe you.'

Then I look over and see Bellara, who is throwing glances across at us while trying and utterly failing to be surreptitious. 'Go on,' I say. 'I think your attention is wanted elsewhere, for the moment.'

He looks over his shoulder and a sheepish smile breaks over his face. 'Ah well,' he grumbles to himself. 'I suppose it can't be helped now.'

But the smile broadens as he strides toward her, and I find myself smiling too as I watch. In the midst of all that's happening, it's a relief to see something so simple and good.

***

That night I fall into bed, exhausted beyond measure. Terror is physical, a wound I carry on the inside of my skin. After encountering Ghilan'nain and Elgar'nan together, any remaining uncertainty I might have carried about the rightness of Solas' actions in creating the Veil is gone forever. Facing an evil as great as that, what choice did he have?

I barely have time to register that I've woken in the Fade when Solas is there, flinging his arms around me, speaking frantically in elvhen. I gasp with the force of the whiplash; all those months of distance and suddenly he's the one seizing me, clinging on to me, babbling almost incoherently in panic and relief.

'Vhenan – ' I begin to say, looking up at him, but then he presses his lips urgently to mine and all thought of speech falls away from me. I wrap my arms around him and kiss him back, passionately, desperately. Despite the months of imprisonment he still tastes a little sweet, like spearmint. Our mouths melding together, his tongue against my teeth; stumbling backwards together as we press against each other, trying to get closer, trying to get inside each other, to never again be parted.

Solas' back hits a stone wall, and he puts his hands around my waist and lifts me, still kissing me all the while, turning me so that now I'm the one pressed to the wall; he uses his hand to raise my thigh and wrap it around him while we keep kissing, my hands rising to cradle his head, pulling him even closer into me.

Finally Solas manages to stop kissing me long enough to gasp, 'I thought – I felt – Elgar'nan – '

'I'm all right, vhenan. I'm all right,' I say, raising a hand to cradle his face. He gazes at me, eyes wide and heartfelt, and then dives back in to kiss me again, his body pressed tight against mine, his hands reaching my waist and sliding lower. Nuzzling my face with his nose as if he needs every bit of contact he can get.

After another minute of urgent kissing, he pauses for long enough to say, 'You went to fight the dragon?'

I nod. 'Ghilan'nain came, bringing another dragon. We killed both of them, and injured her. But then Elgar'nan arrived.'

He readjusts his arms to draw me yet closer to him. 'I felt his coming. I thought – '

'He stopped time. He was – ' My voice breaks on the words. For a moment it's as if I'm back there. The terror of that moment; alone, with his gaze upon me. My will pushing fruitlessly back against time itself.

I try to take a breath, and struggle with it, as if there are iron bands around my chest. Pressing in. Death's wings, brushing my cheek.

'Oh, emma lath,' Solas says, anguished, and he lowers us to the ground, sitting with his back to the wall as he gathers me in his arms, cradling my head. His thumb stroking gently across the back of my neck. 'Vhenan,' he whispers. 'Vhenan. It is all right. You're safe. Ar lasa mal'eth. Banal enfenim. I will keep you safe.'

He can't, of course, but all the same it helps to hear him say it. I cling to him, burying my face in his chest. The familiar smell of him, those encircling arms. I needed him, all those years, and he wasn't there. But he's here now: bending to place a kiss on my forehead, his hand lying gently at the small of my back. He's here.

'Ir abelas,' he whispers. 'You've been so strong. You've carried so much, all alone.'

'So have you.'

He bows his head. 'We should have been together.'

There's no denying that, so I say nothing. I just let him cradle me, curled up small against him. It is ten years since I've been touched like this. Ten years since anyone has comforted me. I had my friends and allies, yes; but all the same, I've been so alone.

He's here. Even now, it's hard to believe it.

'He was – I thought it was all over,' I whisper.

'And yet you escaped?'

'He let us go,' I say. 'He took Ghilan'nain and left us.'

Solas frowns, though he's still gently stroking my hair. 'Do you know why?'

I shake my head. 'I was able to resist his time spell. No one else could, but I did. He noticed, and he knew it was your influence.'

Solas looks sceptical; I give him a slightly watery smile, and then say, 'He's afraid of you, vhenan. That's why he left.'

Solas shakes his head. 'No. Elgar'nan was never afraid of me, that much is certain.'

'Perhaps not before you imprisoned him for millenia, destroyed his empire, and brought about the deaths of his five siblings.'

Solas' brow wrinkles. 'I – really? You really think he's afraid?'

'I have no doubt of it.'

A little smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. 'Well. I – this is hardly the time, but I must admit I do enjoy that thought.'

'As you should,' I say, reaching up to caress his face. 'You defeated five of them already.'

'And we will defeat the last two,' he says firmly. 'I promise you, vhenan. You will not have to carry this much longer.'

I don't see how he can promise any such thing, but I know he wants to be strong for me, and I want to let him. 'Ar lath ma,' I whisper.

He gazes at me, his eyes bright with wonder. 'You are – ' He shakes his head, and then lowers his head to resume kissing me; and I decide not to waste any more time talking. He holds me in his arms as we kiss, one hand cupped around my neck, the other at the small of my back, holding me close as if to keep me from falling. We kiss and kiss and kiss, hands roving over one another, urgent and desperate; until, far too soon, the unwelcome morning drags me unwillingly back to the waking world.

***

I'm halfway across the courtyard at the Lighthouse when Bellara appears in the door of her room, gesturing at me to come inside. I hurry down the steps and into the little workshop, taking in the air of controlled chaos: papers strewn across one table, instruments flung across one another, several ancient devices disgorging their innards in a still-life that feels almost grotesque. In the center of the room the Nadas Dirthalen sits, stolidly inert, resisting all Bellara's attempts to wake it.

Bellara paces from one side to another, then turns and says quickly, 'Anaris is preparing a ritual.'

'You're sure?'

She nods. 'I felt it, through the Nadas Dirthalen. I retrofitted the conduits to receive signals from Anaris, rather than the other way round. It's unclear exactly what he's doing, but he's certainly doing something.'

'You think he's preparing to return himself to bodily form.'

She nods mutely. Her hand rises to stroke along the metallic curves of the casing that houses the archive spirit.

'There's been no word from Cyrian?'

'No.' She gazes into the reflections on the bronze surface, lips pressed thin. 'If he was – he should have contacted us. This ritual was supposed to be our opportunity. If he didn't tell us, that means – '

'Maybe – maybe he knew you'd figure it out,' I say, though it's hard to keep conviction in my tone.

Bellara gives a watery smile. 'Thank you for trying.'

'Either way, we need to be there. Are the crystals for the Nadas Dirthalen ready? We may have only the one chance to unlock them.'

She nods. 'They've been ready for weeks.'

'Good. Then we should get ready to go. We're bringing Felassan?'

'Of course,' she says, and so I hurry off to give the news to our companion.

The ritual is taking place in the very heart of ancient Arlathan; Bellara, Felassan and I arrive at twilight and climb quietly through the empty streets, past fallen columns and gilded statues, their gold gathering shadows through this thousand-year-long night. The artistry is astonishing – the detail on every carving, the soaring, miraculous arches. With every step I take I'm painfully aware of all the ghosts following in my footsteps. The lost, the forgotten: we know the names of the Evanuris, but what of all the other elves who lived here, who died in the Fall?

I still find these places wondrous, as I always did. But it's different now, dark-tinged. Haunted by all the horrors. Stained-glass windows, still intact after all these years. How the light falls, bright fragments of colour like shards of memory: the last treasures of a lost empire. I don't mourn the empire but I mourn the marvels – all the while knowing that they're inextricable, that the wonders of Arlathan could never have been built without the cruelty. Sometimes I hate myself for still seeing the beauty in it.

Finally we find the first wards, and disable them. Then more. Our efforts will delay the ritual, but not halt it. Bellara leads us down through a crack in the earth, following the reverberations of the ritual; my skin tightens and my head begins to ache as the magic pulls power from me. I glance anxiously at Bellara, but she leads us urgently forward, heedless of the power pulsing over us.

And then, suddenly, we emerge to an open courtyard and into the presence of Cyrian and Anaris. Cyrian looks up, startled; behind the mask, his eyes still appear blank and unfocused. Anaris, on the other hand, is growing sharper and more solid beside him, specks of solid matter whirling and dancing around him, his body pulling itself together from the very stuff of the earth around us.

When he sees the three of us, he lets out a caw of mocking laughter. 'So they have returned!' he proclaims, and then 'You are too late, children!'

But then – something happens. Cyrian makes a gesture, a tool in his hand. A reverberation goes through the room, and Anaris lets out a piercing shriek, folding in half. I see him struggling and thrashing, lashing out against empty air; the ritual ceases to pull at my power, and I see that he must be caught halfway between a spirit and a physical being, unable to navigate in either the solid world or the Fade.

Cyrian takes off the mask, and throws it aside; it clatters against the ground, sharp and violent. 'Quick,' he says. 'The crystals.'

My knees almost buckle with the relief, but beside me, Bellara wastes no time. She darts forward and seizes one of Anaris' thrashing hands: torn asunder as he is, he has not the strength to resist her. She presses his hand to the crystal, and it emits a deep pulse of crystalline blue light, which passes out through the room, like a sound wave too low to hear.

Then she releases Anaris, and Cyrian makes a another quick gesture, and all at once the Forgotten One is gone.

The three of us are left standing in stunned silence. Bellara cradles the crystal in her arms; it's glowing softly, filling the ancient ruins with a surprising warmth. We did it, I think numbly. It's only one victory and we need many more before our path comes to an end, but it's a real victory.

And Cyrian is alive, safe, and still himself. Bellara is beaming at him, her whole heart in her eyes. We really did it.

But our relief is premature. From the pool in the centre of the room the creature rises, reforming, more real than it was before. And before any of us can react, Cyrian is in Anaris' clutches. He struggles, his mouth opening for a scream, but he is not even able to utter it before Anaris hurls him against the wall; I hear an awful nauseating crack as his body crumples against the stone.

Bellara screams, and falls to her knees behind him. Felassan and I raise our weapons, closing ranks around her. I exchange glances quickly with Felassan. 'You go left. I'll take the centre,' I mouth, and then we spring into action, fighting in easy, fluid coordination. After all these months, we know one another's combat styles as well as our own.

Anaris is crude in his methods, but astonishingly powerful. He sends out great tidal waves of magic, slamming into me with the force of a battering ram. Felassan and I dodge and duck and run, keeping in motion, trying to juggle everything at once – taking down the wards, sending spells at Anaris, keeping a barrier over Bellara. The battle seems to last a truly unreasonable length of time, but slowly Anaris is weakening; and then, with one last scream, he fizzles into nothing.

It is done.

Felassan and I turn to find Bellara, cradling Cyrian in her arms. His eyes are open but going hazy, his body trembling all over in his dying spasms. I have some skill as a healer, but it's clear that he is beyond my power to save.

'I'm sorry,' Bellara whispers, through sobs. 'It was me, I – I brought you to Arlathan. I asked you to stay. You weren't sure about the Veil, but I – you agreed to help take it down because that's what I wanted. And now – because of me – '

'No.' He raises a hand to touch her cheek, his eyes fighting to stay open. 'No. You were right, Bellara. We had to do this.'

'Cyrian – '

'Like I always told you,' he whispers. 'Listen to your heart. It's a good heart.'

She lets out a sob. 'I'm sorry,' she whispers frantically. 'I'm sorry – '

'Bellara.' He reaches a hand toward her face, but drops it before he touches her. 'Stay with me,' he whispers instead. 'Until it's light.'

'Of course,' she says, hugging him to her chest.

There is nothing else to do but to sit silently, keeping vigil. Cyrian's breathing slows; as the sun rises, the light leaves his eyes. Bellara rocks him in her arms, her breath coming in quick, anguished gasps. 'Cyrian,' she whispers. 'Cyrian.'

'Bellara,' I whisper, heartsick. 'I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.' Part of my mind is already adding this to the long line of deaths I blame on myself. I knew Cyrian was too young, too inexperienced. I should have insisted on someone else.

She is silent a long moment; and then, at least, she sets him down. And then she gets to her feet, her eyes blazing. 'We have everything we need,' she says quietly. 'We have the key. We can enchant the artifacts now. We're ready to take down the Veil.'

'For Cyrian,' I whisper, and my mind adds a long list of other names: Varric, Hawke, my clan, the Shadow Dragons, the nameless elves in Elgar'nan's service that I've had to kill. When we take down the Veil, their sacrifices will mean something.

Felassan stands beside Bellara, and silently puts his arm around her. She leans her head into his shoulder, as if she's done it many times before. In that moment, in the dying light of a lost empire, they look like they belong together.

***

Finally I manage to restore the mural along the left-hand stairway. It's late, very late, by the time I put the last pieces together – even here, in this household full of poor sleepers, everyone else is asleep.

I complete the spell I've been using to restore Solas' work, and then step back to examine his creation. At first I don't understand what I'm seeing. The mural shows Mythal speaking to a spirit; in the corner a figure that surely must be Solas, kneeling, clutching his temples. So many of these murals show him like that: the sheer physicality of his agony, all the ways his body speaks his pain.

Then I touch my hand to the wall and hear the voices echoing in my head: Solas' recollection. Mythal is speaking to the spirit, and the spirit responds, and the voice is so young and unburdened that I almost don't recognise it.

But then I do, and I have to clutch at the railing to stop myself from falling.

He was a spirit. He was a spirit.

She's asking him to go. Pushing, needling. You'd like it, she says. It's time, she says. He declines. He is happy as he is. A pause. Mythal is considering. Then she uses her secret weapon: I need you, she says.

There was never any question, after that. 'This is madness. You must know that,' says the spirit that is Solas. A pause. 'I will always follow where you go.'

The memory ends, and I stumble away; taking in the mural with new eyes. Solas, kneeling. Clutching his temples, his body. This new, unwelcome, unfamiliar body. The blinding pain of it knocks the breath from my lungs. He didn't want a body. He was happy as a spirit. The innocence in his voice as he spoke to Mythal: trusting, bemused. A peace that he would never know again.

I don't even have words for the wrongness of what happened to him.

I've seen first-hand the scars of various kinds of bodily coercion. The elves of Thedas know all to well what it is to have your body turned to purposes that are not your own.

But to be coerced into taking a body in the first place. To have your literal physical existence defined by the manipulation of someone you believed to be a friend. To have that betrayal as the touchstone of your whole embodied being.

I remember, suddenly, touching Manfred's hand; feeling the wisp screaming inside that skeleton. But that wisp could be released. Solas is trapped forever inside the body he never wanted to be born into.

I sit down on the stairs, head in my hands. His body was made from blood stolen from the Titans. A shame he could never forget. A shame he literally inhabited. I remember, suddenly, his reticence around his own desire; pushing it back and back until the dam burst and he couldn't keep his need inside any longer. All that shame, all still alive in his trembling hands as he touched me.

Every time I think I understand the pain he carries, another layer. No wonder it tortured him to see what mages did to spirits every day in Thedas. That spirit of wisdom, tormented and murdered by mages in the Exalted Plains. Every demon we killed, I think. Hundreds of them, pouring endlessly from the rifts I closed all across Thedas. In the end I was striking them down almost by rote, without a moment's thought.

But to Solas – these were his people. Slaughtered by the hundreds, many by his own hand. And it was all his fault. How did he bear that alone, for so long? How did he bear it at all?

I don't know how long I sit there, but I look up when I feel a cool, silvery presence beside me. The Caretaker floats silently, watching me. Its soft tendrils eerily reminiscent of spirit-Solas on the wall beside us. 'So,' it says. 'You have come upon the beginning of the story.'

I gaze up at it, and something else strikes me. This is where the elves came from. The first elves were spirits.

Every living elf today is descended from the spirits.

All of a sudden it's like a fire in my blood. The connection that I've always felt with them. It's not just a metaphorical sense of kinship; they are, literally, my people.

'We were spirits,' I blurt. 'All this time – that's where we came from.'

'You are still spirits,' the Caretaker says. 'Housed in bodies, but spirits all the same.'

'Really? You see us that way?'

'A body moves differently through the world. Cause and effect are altered. There are new complexities. The embodied take on new forms; but they remain one with us.'

'I never knew,' I say, wondering. 'But – in a way I did.'

The way I feel the resonances of the Fade. Its song reverberating through my veins, seeping out through my very body when I call for it. I told Solas, once, that entering the Fade felt like coming home. He smiled sadly and looked away, but perhaps this is what he wanted to tell me; in a way, the Fade has always been my home. Here, living in the Lighthouse, is the closest I've ever come to being where I belong.

'You have always been dear to us,' the Caretaker says. 'Some of the People have forgotten how to hear us. But you have always listened.'

I look up at it. 'You speak as if you've known me for a long time.'

To my surprise, it raises its gloved hands gently to cradle my face. 'We have.'

How long have I been calling out to the creatures of the Fade, without even knowing it? I was always a strange child; too solitary, too absent-minded, with a head full of stories and songs. I would not have made a good Keeper. But all the while I was somewhere else. I was becoming something else; or returning to it.

'I – I can't – ' I'm weeping, I realise. I don't even know why. I don't know if I'm sad or joyful. The dislocation of my sense of self; memory rearranging itself into new forms around me.

'Sshh, da'len,' the Caretaker says, and its gloved thumb strokes along my face. 'We heard you, all of those years. You were never alone.'

Slowly I rise to my feet, standing on the step above, so our faces are level. 'I will fix this,' I promise once again, ferocity spilling out of every word. 'I will reunite the world and the Fade. I will put an end to the pain.'

'We know,' the spirit says, and it steps aside to allow me to pass. 'We have always known, da'len.'

Walking lightly, almost as if floating, I make my way slowly to the music room; and there I am struck with one final revelation. Solas has painted me holding a spirit. But not just any spirit. I'm holding his spirit-self gently in my hand.

Keeping him safe.

More than any of the words he's ever said to me, that tells me how he really feels about me. How he just wants to be held. It hurts, it hurts, but I'm so close now. Just a little longer, and then I can take him home.

***

The next time I arrive in the Fade there is no sign of the ravine, but Solas stands formally, at a distance, hands clasped behind his back. For a moment I think he regrets the kiss, but then I see the uncertainty in his eyes. He's nervous; trying to understand what we are now. It's never been an easy thing to label, and right now it's more complicated than ever.

I take a step closer to him, and then say, quietly, 'Why didn't you tell me you were once a spirit?'

He lets out a quick breath. 'Oh. You saw the mural?'

'Solas,' I say quietly. 'It didn't always mean Pride, did it? First it meant Wisdom.'

'It always meant both,' he says. 'The Dalish forgot.'

'Why didn't you tell me?'

'How could I have explained that, without telling you everything else?'

'You could have said you were like Cole. I would have understood.'

'Yes.' He nods, in acknowledgment. 'Perhaps I should have. But I was – well. Confused.'

'Confused?'

'For thousands of years, I wished I could take it back,' he says; his voice clipped, formal, but not quite managing to mask his aching vulnerability. 'I hated my body. It was a prison. And it was made from the blood of a living creature. It started a war.'

'I understand,' I say softly; I can hear the pain in his voice, the agony he's trying so hard to keep in check. Millenia of shame and self-disgust; how did he carry all that alone for so long?

'But then – ' He looks down, and to my surprise I see a blush rise in his cheeks. 'When I met you, I wanted to be with you. In ways that – ah, require a body.'

I find myself smiling. 'You never wanted that before?'

The blush deepens. 'I'd had experience, as you know. Certainly experiences that I'd enjoyed. But I never wanted anyone the way I wanted you.'

I feel a warmth blooming in my chest. 'It was the same for me, Solas. You know that.'

He shifts from one foot to the other, looking down bashfully. 'And when we – well. I'd always been so ashamed, but then – my body couldn't be such a terrible thing. It couldn't be so wrong, when it – when I felt – '

'Oh, Solas.' The words slip from me, anguished; it hurts to think of how he suffered with all this for thousands of years, never letting anyone help him.

He looks up at me, his eyes tentative, anxious. I take a few quick steps towards him and then he's in my arms. He's trembling all over, but he quickly wraps his arms around me in return, enveloping me the way he did on that balcony. 'Vhenan,' he whispers. 'Vhenan, I – I didn't tell you I was once a spirit, because with you, that was the first time I ever wanted to be something else.'

Our mouths crush together, heat rising between us. Kissing passionately, wrapping around one another as close as we can go. I tilt my hips against him, and he lets out a ragged gasp; for a moment he allows himself to move against me, but then he lets go and steps away, breathing hard, looking a little dazed.

One thing at a time, I think to myself.

'Let's sit down,' I whisper, and when he seats himself I sit down between his legs, facing him, my thighs crossing his. I wrap my arms around to cradle his neck, and he closes his eyes, shivering a little at the touch.

'It must have been traumatic,' I say quietly. 'Taking on a body.'

'Oh,' Solas says, and nothing else, but I feel his arms tighten around me.

'It's all right,' I say. 'You don't have to tell me if you're not ready.'

He shakes his head, and is silent for a moment, but then he says suddenly. 'It was – extremely painful.'

My heart aches for him. 'Oh?' I say, shifting a little so I can hold him closer.

His voice is muffled, but he seems determined to go on. 'When you've never felt any physical sensation before, every sensation feels like terrible pain.' He hesitates. 'Mythal and I had argued about it for several days. I didn't want to, but she kept saying she needed me. So in the end I agreed, but I – I couldn't do it. I couldn't manifest on my own.'

'Is it difficult?'

'Not difficult, exactly, but you have to really want it, and I didn't want it. So in the end I gave her permission to just pull me from the Fade and force me into the body that I had crafted.'

'I suppose that meant it hurt more.'

'I think so. If I'd been able to do it myself, it wouldn't have felt so – unnatural.' He falls silent a moment, and then goes on. 'She pulled me through and merged me with the lyrium, and I – there was pain everywhere. I was screaming, but I didn't even realise that the sound was coming from me.'

'Emma lath,' I whisper, a lump coming to my throat. 'Ir abelas. That sounds – terrible.'

'She held me, soothed me. Gave me water. She told me that the pain would ease eventually, though I didn't really believe her. I clung to her, and then – ' He swallows. 'There was something going on. Something with the war. She had to leave me.'

'Oh, Solas,' I say, the words coming out in a rush of grief. 'Emma lath.'

He holds on to me tightly, his voice shaking as he continues. 'She covered me with a blanket and left me there in her bower. I was still in so much pain, and I was cold, despite the blanket. I was shivering violently, my teeth chattering. And I didn't know how to move this new body, so I couldn't get up, couldn't move. I was thirsty, but I couldn't reach the water. And it seemed to last forever. I was so afraid. I thought she'd never come back and I'd be trapped there forever, in terrible agony, in a body that I couldn't control at all – '

I can feel tears running down my cheeks. 'Emma lath,' I whisper, my voice trembling. 'Emma lath, I'm so sorry.'

'I don't know how long it was, but in the end she came back. She gave me water, told me it would be all right. I was so grateful. I cried and cried, asking her not to leave me again. And she said she couldn't promise that, but she could stay for a little while. I was still afraid the next time she left, but it wasn't so bad. Over the next few weeks she trained me, getting me ready to go out and fight in the war.'

'Fight in the war! You were so new to the world, and already – '

'Well, I didn't fight straight away,' he says. 'I was a strategist, at first. That's what she wanted me for. Wisdom. But it felt wrong, ordering other elves to go out and fight and sacrifice themselves if I wasn't willing to do the same. So I trained my magic and joined the fight. Perhaps that's what she intended all along.'

I am silent a long moment, holding him close, and then I whisper, 'You know she didn't have to leave you. Whatever was happening with the war, she – she begged you to manifest and then when you did she just left you there, in pain, afraid – Solas, she didn't have to do that.'

He buries his face in my shoulder, and I feel his body shake as he sobs. I kiss his forehead, wrapping my legs around him, trying to bring him even closer. 'I'm sorry, vhenan. I'm sorry that happened to you. My love. I'm sorry.'

Our time is running short. I can feel him fading from my grasp, but I hold on, clinging to him, still crying. 'Vhenan, emma lath,' I whisper. 'Vhenan, vhenan – '

It's too late. He's gone, and I am left alone, clutching at the empty air.

But I understand now; this is his foundational wound. The implicit violence of his creation, and yet he still doesn't fully understand the wrong that was done to him. I turn over, burying my face in my hands, trying to banish the visions of Solas lying there: freshly embodied and already alone. But it's a long time before the echoes of his ancient fear will leave me.

***

The spell we'll be using to enchant the artifacts is the product of many minds: my music spell, but with tweaks from Morrigan, Bellara, Solas, Dorian, Merrill, and Emmrich. Each of us has brought some of our own techniques to the design. But I will be the one to perform it: though I've taught the spell to both Morrigan and Merrill, I've been practicing it all my life, and neither has had time to reach that length of proficiency.

And so, after we finish making the last corrections to our designs, I sit down in the centre of our camp next to the Nadas Dirthalen, with my friends sitting all around me. I smile at them one more time, and then I close my eyes and begin to call on the vibrations of the Fade.

In principle it should be possible to do perform the spell in silence, but I've always used it to make real music, and that's the easiest way for me to perform it now. So I open my hands and let the sounds spill out of me into the air; rhythms stirring the long grasses, sinking into the ancient stones.

The music begins quietly, with a mournful ostinato, but then I reach out a hand and draw in another line, a high, aching resonance. I add another, dark and oscillating with subtle vibrato, like a string instrument, and then I weave them together, the music building, escalating toward its peak. Inviting the Fade into my body and thus into the world; encouraging the physical and metaphysical to vibrate in sympathy.

I can feel the magic flowing into the Nadas Dirthalen beside me; and as the spell builds I start to see little glowing silver threads going out of it, unravelling all the way across the clearing and out of sight, thousands upon thousands of them like a network of tiny veins. Each thread connects the Nadas Dirthalen to one of the elven artifacts across Thedas; each one carries the memory of my spell, so the artifacts will stand ready to wake when at last the Veil falls. If all goes well, their vibrations will hold back the worst ravages of the Fade's energies as it floods freely into the world.

Around me, Morrigan, Emmrich and Dorian, together with my elven friends listen, spellbound, to the music of the Fade. We have done this together, all of us: the music is but an overture to the new world we are about to create. And as the spell ends, an awestruck, anticipatory silence descends over us. It is done.

All that remains, now, is to kill the last Evanuris and bring down the Veil.

Afterwards, the mages present inspect the Nadas Dirthalen, and determine that as far as they can tell the spell has been implemented correctly. There's no way to know for sure – we can do nothing but wait and see what happens. Yet another weight sitting on my shoulders, but I'm glad that this time there are others to share some of the responsibility with me. If this spell is a failure, it will be on all of us.

Once the inspections are complete, we sit around the fire while a batch of hearthcakes bakes on a cast-iron griddle, and I tell them all what I have learned about the origins of the elves. As I speak, Merrill's eyes grow wider and wider with breathless excitement, and Morrigan nods with satisfaction, as if my words are confirming something she's suspected for a long time.

But I can see Felassan's face growing darker by the moment, and when I finish my tale he shakes his head bitterly. 'Of course. Of course, and I – he never told me. None of them ever told me.'

'I'm surprised it wasn't widely known in your time,' I say. 'Why would the Evanuris want to keep their origins hidden?'

'Oh, well. That's easy.' He grimaces. 'They always encouraged us to see the spirits as lesser. Elgar'nan and June would often drain the life-force of hundreds of spirits at a time, to power some spell or device. They would not have wanted it known that they themselves were once spirits – they could not have held themselves so high above the others, if that were known.'

'I knew that they treated their fellow elves poorly – but you're saying they treated spirits worse?'

'Much worse,' Felassan says grimly. 'Many of our rebels were spirits, you know. They fought just as bravely as any embodied elf.'

'Now that I think about it, in some ways this news does not particularly surprise me,' Strife adds, from his place beside Felassan. 'The spirits were always part of ancient elven life. They were close, like siblings. I simply did not understand how literal that was.'

'Solas never told me,' Felassan says angrily. 'In all those years. We were friends for so long, and he never once mentioned where he came from? What he was?'

'In fairness,' I say gently. 'This was a terrible trauma for him. And he had so much shame around it. He may have wanted to tell you, and just couldn't find a way to do it.'

Felassan shakes his head, eyes shadowed. 'But if I'd made him feel safer, if I hadn't – for thousands of years, he carried all these wounds and he couldn't even tell me about them.'

Bellara's eyes rest anxiously on Felassan. She leans forward and scoops the pan of hearthcakes off the fire; she breaks one in half, butters it, and offers it to him. Felassan looks at it in some surprise, but then his face softens and he accepts the offering. Bellara scoots a little closer, so her arm is touching his, and then hands the rest of the hearthcakes around.

I spread a pat of halla butter on mine, and it melts into the dough, salty and golden. I eat slowly, as if it's a ritual. The spiritual and the physical: I feel preternaturally aware, these days, of my body and my spirit both. This bodily pleasure, very simple and very complex all at once.

Dorian hasn't taken a hearthcake; at first I think he's just turning his nose up at our simple fare, but then I see him gazing darkly into the fire, his brows drawing together. 'Dorian?' I say. 'Are you all right.'

He shakes his head, raises a trembling hand to his forehead. 'I'm – so ashamed,' he says, in a low voice.

'What do you mean?'

'I remember arguing with Solas about spirits. Telling him it didn't hurt them to be bound. That they wanted it. That they liked it. And all the while – vishante kaffas. I'm surprised he didn't kill me on the spot.'

I reach out a hand toward him. 'Hey. It's all right. You didn't know.'

'I should have listened to him.'

'You did, eventually. You're helping us now.'

He shakes his head, looking a little dazed. 'I knew, of course, that spirits are people. In an abstract way. But this – to know that elves literally came from them. That makes it feel so much more real.'

'I know,' I say in a low voice. 'I feel it too.'

'To imagine them all locked away in there, for thousands of years – it's awful. Awful. I can't bear to think of it.'

'Don't think of it. We'll shortly be putting an end to it. That's what we need to focus on.'

'Look,' Emmrich says suddenly, raising his skeletal hand. I follow his gaze and see a cluster of spirits, hovering gently above us. Some of them are quite distinct, silver tendrils like the tracery of light on the ocean; others are barely more than a shimmer, a refraction of the air, catching on the faint colours of the smoke rising from the fire. They make no sound, and yet somehow they look like sound: like a wind-chime, a cascade of melody. At the sight of them I feel an intense, slowly-spreading relief, as if I've relinquished a breath I didn't know I was holding. It's as if they know what we're talking about; as if they want to welcome us home.

Tears prick at my eyes. This is a vision of what Arlathan forest might be, one day, if we succeed in our goal. There will be upheaval, yes, there will be violence. But afterwards? They are part of us, as we are a part of them. I've always known that, but now I know. It should always have been this way: the very heart of the world, torn from a still-breathing chest, soon to be reunited.

Chapter Text

Teia and Viago send word – they've managed to track down Zara Renata, and they wonder if Felassan would like to help take her out. When I pass this on to Felassan his eyes go very narrow, with a flinty purple glow. 'Oh yes,' he says, rolling the words pleasurably in his mouth. 'I'll go. I need to thank dear Magister Renata for her hospitality.'

And so we make our way to Treviso; the lovely curves of the palazzos glittering beneath us, citrus scents wafting gently through that indigo twilight. From this far away, you wouldn't even know the city still lives under occupation. I find myself wishing that we could just wander by the canals all evening, float on a gondola, watch the fireflies rise over the water. But as always, there's work to be done, and so I turn reluctantly away from the seductive views and enter the Cantori Diamond.

Teia and Viago are locked in verbal combat with the governor of Treviso, Ivenci. I hang back, watching as the Talons dispatch the bureaucrat. 'The Crows rule Antiva,' Viago says flatly, his mouth a hard line. 'And Treviso will be free.'

The governor exits, fuming, and Teia comes over to me. 'Rook,' she says, shaking her head. 'My apologies. Ivenci has always been a thorn in our side, but it's worse recently. They don't want us resisting the occupation – they'd prefer collusion and complicity.'

I hesitate. 'Yes. I see that.'

She raises an eyebrow. 'You look uncertain.'

'It's just – '

'You think Ivenci has a point,' she says baldly.

I sigh. 'Look. It's a time of war. Everyone's doing what they can, and the Crows have stepped up. I honour you for that. But when you say things like 'The Crows rule Antiva' – '

A quirk of her lips. 'I understand. But for me, 'The Crows rule Antiva' is better than 'The Chantry rules Antiva,' or 'The monarchy rules Antiva,' or 'The humans rule Antiva.' The Crows are far from perfect, but in the end they've treated me far more fairly than anyone else in Treviso.'

'I know,' I say unhappily. 'I know this is your place, your family. I don't want to criticize – '

She shakes her head. 'You do, and you should. I'm not trying to gloss over it. I've seen children, used and broken. I've seen the methods the other Talons used. The methods Caterina herself used, on those boys. She broke them both, you know. In a way Lucanis was dead long before he ended up in that prison.'

'You see all this, and yet you're still here?'

She sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. 'I knew what I was signing up for, Rook. We're assassins. We kill people. And maybe some of them deserve it, but to be honest, most of them don't. But what other route could I have taken to raise myself up so quickly? How else does a penniless elven girl find her way to power?'

'You wanted power. That badly.'

She looks steadily at me. 'I've been powerless. I decided long ago that I'd never let anyone hurt me that way again.'

I flush. 'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have criticized.'

She shrugs. 'It's fair. You're working with us, however unwillingly. You have a right to have questions.'

'I didn't say it was unwilling.'

'But it is, and I understand. Like I say, we're assassins. We shouldn't rule Antiva, but right now Antiva needs us.'

'You're not just assassins. I know you've done good, for the elves especially.'

'It's what we have, for the moment. Maybe one day there will be a better way, but right now our people have to take power however we can get it.'

'You think so? That there will be a better way?'

She meets my gaze; challenging. Expectant. 'Will there?'

I smile; just a little, but enough. 'I hope so.'

She watches me a moment longer, then nods. 'Good,' she says. 'If so, I will fight for it, and all the members of my house with me.'

'What about Viago?'

She laughs. 'I know how to manage him. He'll be at our side.'

***

After some discussion, it's decided that Felassan and Bellara will go with the crows to deal with Zara, leaving me free to return to Minrathous to help Fenris, Charter and Colette with their attempts to free the slaves there.

I make my way first to Dorian's mansion, where Davrin is waiting for me. There's no sign of either of them in the dining room, so I try the study. Opening the door, I stumble upon Davrin and Dorian, locked in an embrace; Davrin has pinned Dorian to the wall, and seems to be very busy doing something to Dorian's neck with his mouth. When they hear me, they both freeze. Dorian blushes a hot red, but Davrin just steps away from him breezily, straightening his cuffs. 'Apologies Rook,' he says, grinning. 'Maybe we should have locked the door.'

I switch my gaze to Dorian, who is spluttering incoherently, and raise a triumphant eyebrow at him. 'I think I'll leave you to it,' I say.

As I turn away, I see Davrin matter-of-factly pushing Dorian back against the wall, and Dorian very willingly submitting.

Smiling to myself, I take my leave and head down to Dock Town, where Fenris, Charter and Collette are all waiting for me. They're sitting on the docks, eating skewers of fried fish; Charter has bought one for me, and she hands it to me as I sit down. The fish flakes off onto my tongue, hot and salty and fresh. I sit looking out at the waves, tossing spray like chips of black rock, and think to myself that in another life this could have been a nice excursion, a pleasant day by the seaside. It's a long time since I've been able to do anything so straightforward.

'The dreams are working,' Fenris says, looking sideways at me. 'You can tell your husband thanks from me. He came through on this one at least.'

I cough delicately. 'He isn't my husband.'

He raises an eyebrow. 'Close enough, surely. Not sure how anyone could be tied together closer than the two of you.'

Well exactly, I think. The word husband doesn't really do it justice. But I'm not going to argue semantics with Fenris. 'What about the shipments to Ventus? You were planning to rescue some of those slaves.'

'We've managed to interfere with a few shipments,' Charter says. 'We sent the freed slaves to Arlathan; they'll be safe there. But the Venatori have increased the pace of the shipments they're sending. We can only stop a tiny proportion.'

'They're keen to end the war there, I suppose.'

Fenris snorts. 'Well, it's humiliating for them, isn't it? Having a foreign power on their precious Tevinter soil. Makes all their proclamations of Tevinter supremacy ring a bit hollow.'

I fiddle unhappily with the skewer of fish. 'There's really nothing we can do to stop it?'

'These things have been happening in Tevinter for thousands of years,' he says gruffly. 'This is an escalation, but it's really nothing new. The only thing that will stop it is the fall of the empire.'

'Hmmm,' Charter says. 'Speaking of which, we need to talk plans for the Veil coming down.'

'Yes. There's good news. We unlocked the Nadas Dirthalen.'

Colette brightens. 'Is Cyrian all right?'

I look down, and her gaze falters. 'Oh.'

'I'm very sorry. I know you were close.' I don't know how close, actually. They spent a lot of time together in the years before Solas' ritual, traveling around to teach Dalish tribes about our history. Maybe there were more than friends; Colette has always been reticent about these things.

Even now, I can't read much from her face. She looks away, her knuckles going white as she grips the edge of the dock. 'He's – well. He would be glad that he succeeded, at least.'

'He did. And with what he did for us, we will be able to save thousands of lives when the Veil falls.'

Fenris' eyes rest on Collette's face, with a trace of gentleness. It appears he has a soft spot for her. 'That means the artifacts will be working, when the Veil comes down?'

I nod. 'I've enchanted them.'

'Good. We found two artifacts, in the crypts below the city. When the time comes, I'll take as many elves and other slaves as possible and lead them into the crypts. We'll gather them all around the artifacts and fortify the place against any demons that might come through.'

'Good. I'll try to give you as much warning as I can, but I can't promise anything. It's possible that the opportunity to kill Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain may arise unexpectedly, and if it comes up we'll have to take it.'

He nods. 'I understand. Colette and I have been going over logistics for various scenarios. We can get everyone moving quickly. The more time the better, but we can make do with whatever we get.'

We discuss logistics a little longer, and then it's time for me to take my leave. But I hesitate a moment, looking at Colette. 'I really am sorry about Cyrian. We did everything we could.'

'Was Bellara there?' she asks.

'She was. He died in her arms.'

I see her swallow hard, but she nods. 'I'm glad he got to say goodbye. That would have been important to him.'

'Colette – '

She turns her face away. 'It's all right. We always knew some of us wouldn't make it. This is only the first.'

That's not the note I want to leave on, but the three of them are already hurrying away. I watch them go, a lump in my throat, but there's nothing to be done but return to Hightown.

When I get back to the mansion, I find Dorian waiting up for me; he hands me a glass of wine and gives me a sheepish grin. I raise an eyebrow. 'I thought you decided it was a bad idea to pursue him.'

Dorian coughs. 'In fairness, I was not the one doing the pursuing. He's, ah, quite persuasive when wants to be.'

'Yes, I could certainly see that.'

He clears his throat, but I can see the smile on his face.

'For what it's worth, he's a good man,' I say. 'He pretends not to care about anything, but you should see how gentle he is with that griffon.'

'I know he's a good man,' Dorian says. 'That's what I'm worried about. He's too good to ever understand or sympathize with what we're planning.'

I sigh. 'He definitely cares about the elves. We've talked about it. But he's not big on magic, or spirits. He's a bit of a sceptic about all of that. If I told him that spirits are people, I'm not sure he would believe me.'

'Well, yes. He's not alone in that.'

'Though he wasn't brought up in the Chantry, so I guess that might help? The Dalish certainly aren't perfect in their relationship with spirits, but I've found them somewhat more open-minded.'

Dorian swirls the wine around in his glass, gazing wistfully at the door. 'It would be just so lovely if he could conveniently come over to our side and then we could all live happily ever after.'

'You're planning the happily-ever-after already? That must have been quite some kiss.'

He rolls his eyes at me. 'Be quiet, you.'

'It would be ideal if everyone we like could just agree with us so we don't have to betray anyone. But you know that isn't going to happen.' Some of them, after all, are already dead.

'I know,' he says. 'But can't I just have this one?'

I sigh. 'I'll do my best to feel him out. See if there's any chance. But I don't think you should hold out too much hope.'

***

Teia and Viago send word, asking to meet me and Felassan in Minrathous. I'm wary but intrigued, and so the two of us go together to the Cobbled Swan, where we find the two Crows waiting for us atr the bar.

We slide into seats beside them, and order glasses of the green elderberry liqueur which is so popular in Tevinter. Viago looks sideways at Felassan. 'So. Teia tells me that the other members of your team believe that you are Lucanis Dellamorte.'

Felassan nods. 'Shocking, is it not? Who would have imagined that a year's imprisonment would have made me so much more handsome?'

I give him a stern look, and he sighs. 'My apologies,' he says to Teia and Viago. 'You lost someone. I should not – I should apologize for taking his name. I assure you, I mean no disrespect. Lucanis was a brave man and I believe he would have understood.'

Viago's eyebrow quirks. 'There is a good reason for this subterfuge, I take it.'

Felassan meets his eyes. 'Yes. There is.'

Viago consider, stroking his chin. 'Well, Teia tells me it's important, and I trust her judgement. But I hope I won't come to regret this.'

Will he, I wonder? If Teia loves him he must at the very least have some sympathy for the plight of the elves, but I doubt he'd agree to remake the world for our sake. But if he's willing to follow Teia's lead, then I suppose the matter is between the two of them. No doubt there will be some difficult conversations to be had in the wake of the Veil's fall, if they both survive, but then as far as I can tell their relationship seems to be built mostly on arguing and then passionately making up, so perhaps that outcome doesn't seem so bad to Teia.

'You must be an impressive fighter, if you've convinced them that you're Lucanis,' Viago says to Felassan, a note of wistfulness entering his voice. 'He was more skilled than anyone I've ever known.'

'I do all right,' Felassan says. 'No complaints thus far.'

Teia clears her throat. 'So. We asked you here because you were with us, Felassan, when we killed Zara Renata.'

'When Illario killed Zara Renata,' Felassan says, a line appearing between his eyes. 'And he said -'

'He said Amatus,' Teia confirms grimly. 'We've made investigations, and it's as we thought. Illario was working with Zara. He's the one who betrayed Lucanis.'

Felassan's fist clenches on the bar beside me. 'He's the one. Because of him Lucanis died in there, alone and in pain.'

'Felassan – ' I say apprehensively.

'That's not all,' Teia says. 'We discovered something else. We think Caterina is alive.'

I blink. 'I thought the Venatori got her, way back when I first came to Treviso.'

'We think Illario took her captive. Set up the scene to make it look like a murder. Our spies have found evidence that she's being held in Villa Dellamorte.'

'Traitor!' Felassan hisses. 'He betrayed Lucanis. He betrayed Caterina. He betrayed all of them!'

He turns to me, and now I see the purple glow in his eyes. My temples ache. 'Felassan, you need to calm down.'

'No!' he says sharply; and suddenly his eyes blaze; and before I can think, before I can even react, I am somewhere else.

***

I get to my feet, looking around in a daze. This isn't good. It's never good to be suddenly transported to another world in the middle of a conversation. What did Felassan do?

Then I take another look, and I understand: this is the Ossuary. No longer brightly colored and full of darting lights, but dark and grey and somber. This is Felassan's memory of the Ossuary. I'm in his mind.

That's a good starting point, but I still have no idea how to get out. Slowly I walk down the slope, further into the prison. Felassan must be in here somewhere, or some representation of him. I suppose I just have to find him.

The fish travelling past me are no longer beautiful: they're ominous shadows, darkness drawing across my face like a knife. The elven lettering flowing past me feels malevolent, as if I can sense Ghilan'nain's own anger in it. I walk onward, my body tight with tension. I don't know how much time I have.

And then a figure materializes in front of me. But it's not Felassan. It's Bellara.

Of course, I think. She means something to him; it's not surpring that she'd be here. 'Felassan?' I say gingerly. 'Is that you?'

Bellara laughs; it's her voice, but not her laugh, because she would never make a sound so sharp and cruel. 'A slow arrow breaks in the sad wolf's jaws,' she says. 'Felassan's lost. He was happiest in the rebellion. He doesn't have a place in this world.'

'That's not Bellara,' I say firmly, staring back at the facade. 'You know that, Felassan. She wouldn't say things just to hurt you.'

'Wouldn't she?' the fascimile says. 'Doesn't Felassan deserve it?'

I keep my tone light, faintly inquiring. 'Why would he deserve it?'

Bellara shrugs, an ugly look flashing across her face. 'Mythal used Solas as a weapon. And then Felassan did the same thing. Felassan made him become the Dread Wolf, no matter how it hurt him.'

'Felassan didn't make Solas do anything,' I say steadily. 'Solas made his own choices. We've talked about this.'

'Mythal might say the same,' Bellara says mockingly. 'Felassan thinks that what he did was different because his cause was righteous, but it didn't matter in the end. It broke Solas all the same.'

'Solas isn't broken. He's suffered, yes. He needs to heal. But he's going to be all right. And so is Felassan.'

'That's wishful thinking. You really think they'll be healed by taking the Veil down? By killing thousands of people?'

'It won't be thousands. We're doing what we can to prevent harm,' I say. 'And besides, taking down the Veil isn't what's going to heal them. Making new lives afterwards will do that.'

Bellara seems to waver. I press my advantage. 'Come on Felassan. You can do better than this.'

One more mocking laugh; but then the figure evaporates, and is gone. Another door swings open behind me. I feel very tired, suddenly, but there's nothing for it but to walk though.

Only to be faced with a ghost of my own: Briala is standing there, her eyes shadowed, her hands clasped in front of her. I reel backwards, my heartbeat speeding up. Is this supposed to be an ordeal for Felassan, or for me? Of all of my regrets, this remains perhaps the sharpest. I should have found a better way. I should have found a way to protect her, once the Inquisition was gone.

'Felassan wasn't there to help me,' Briala says. 'I needed him and he wasn't there. I died because he couldn't protect me.'

'It wasn't Felassan's choice,' I say. 'He would have been there if he could.'

Briala tips her head back, giving a low laugh. 'It was his choice. He knew that Solas wouldn't let him leave, and yet he still went back to him. That was his decision. Solas over me.'

'But he didn't put Solas over Briala,' I say. 'In the end, he gave Briala the mirrors. He did what he could to give her a chance.'

'He lied to me, for all those years. My mentor. I trusted him and he never told me who he was, what he was doing. Just like he's lying to all those people now. Neve, Harding, Taash. Does he even know what the truth is any more?'

'He knows what's right,' I say steadily. 'It will come at a cost. It always does. That doesn't mean it isn't right.'

'So you say, but is it really right? To sacrifice so many lives just to make change?'

'Briala would never have said that,' I say. 'She wanted to lead a revolution. She knew that making change would require drastic measures.'

The figure looks at me, assessing. It appears to shake its head, but it too is evaporating, and then it's gone. Behind it, another door swings upon. The Ossuary seems to be growing darker, the shadows becoming more pronounced, creeping closer to me like living creatures oozing across the floor. I wonder if that's a bad sign.

I steel myself, and step through the door.

In my heart I'm sure that I'm going to find Solas behind that door. But at first it appears that the room is empty, just a silent, grey facsimile of the main room of the Lighthouse. It makes sense that this place is important to Felassan – not only his home now, but his home in the time of the rebellion, the centre of his life for thousands of years.

And then I see it – a spirit, hovering in the centre of the atrium, almost invisible against the encroaching shadows. Maybe the spirit is Solas? His spirit-self? But it's shaped differently from the fresco, its tendrils softer and closer to the texture of butterfly wings, and it's more golden in colour. Still, it feels familiar somehow. Perhaps this is the original form of the spirit that was placed inside Felassan?

I walk slowly toward it. 'Andaran atish'an, honoured friend,' I say, using my usual way of greeting spirits.

'I am not,' the spirit says, its voice jittering, urgent. 'I cannot. The world pulls at me. I do not know how to remain myself.'

This is the crux of the matter: the spirit is not yet fully a demon, but it's close. And if it turns, Felassan will be lost with it. The two of them, bound unwillingly together, teetering on the edge of destroying one another.

I have no power, here in Felassan's mind. All I can offer is comfort. I wish someone else was here with me: Bellara or Merrill would know better what to do, what to say. I've found comfort to be in short supply recently.

But I have to try. Mustering what little optimism I have left, I kneel, bringing my gaze level with the spirit's brightest part. 'You've held on so long,' I say to the spirit. 'Much longer than any other spirit I have known in a mortal body. You must be very strong.'

It vibrates, as if beating its wings. 'There's too much sadness in him. He hurts, an old pain from before. The pain distorts me. Calls me to change.'

'You have borne witness to his sadness all this time,' I say. 'You have honoured it. You can let it change you without letting it turn you.'

'No. No, he must stop being sad. He must be healed.'

'Felassan will never stop being sad,' I say quietly, and the spirit trembles, a darker gold wave passing through it. 'He lost his family, his civilization. He survived past the end of all he knew. But he can still have a life. He can still find a way forward.' Am I talking about Felassan or Solas, I wonder? Perhaps both. Perhaps it's all my own wishful thinking.

'He must find the path soon,' the spirit says. 'I cannot keep my form together. I cannot stand against the pain.'

'You do not need to hold on much longer. The Veil will come down, and you will be able to depart from his body.'

'No. No, I cannot do that.'

'Why not?'

'It is impossible. We are one.'

I spread my hands. 'Perhaps you may prefer to remain unified. Who knows? But either way, it will be easier soon. You will not be cut off from the Fade. The pain will ease, for both of you.'

'It has been so long.' The spirit's voice is a mere whisper, tight with anguish. 'Millenia of waiting, yearning. I knew that coming across would change me. I did not know how, and to what extent.'

I wish it had a hand I could hold, a shoulder I could lean against. Anything to express kindness. But I remind myself that the elves were spirits once; a spirit lives inside me still. I can reach this spirit. I can make it see that beneath it all we're the same.

Even after all these millenia, we still hear the same music.

Closing my eyes, I reach for the song of the Fade. Taking it into my body, allowing it to reverberate through me. Those ethereal, urgent resonances. I can feel the spirit itself, like a chord in the song: I spread my hands, allowing the music to pass through me. Intertwining my own heartbeat with the song; finding my own spirit-self there at the centre of the harmony.

What we once were. What we still remain.

'That journey ends soon,' I say in a low voice. 'Another begins. We will walk this path together.'

'So much pain – '

'We are nearly there, lethallin,' I promise, and then, one last time, I open myself up to the song.

The spirit flutters desperately, like a kite in the wind. My chest is tight; is this it? Is it turning? For a moment I think Felassan is lost to us.

But then, all of a sudden, the images around us begin to disappear. The real world reasserting itself. Staggering, disorientating; we're back in Minrathous, as if we were never even gone.

I'm still staring into Felassan's eyes, but the purple colour is slowly fading from them. For now, the spirit has resisted turning. But the two of them are both struggling. We don't have much time.

'Uh – Rook? Felassan?' Viago says, an eyebrow quirking. 'Are you all right there?'

Felassan's eyes flutter to my face, and then away. 'Thank you,' he mutters, not looking at me. That's understandable. What we just shared was an uncomfortable intimacy, and not one he invited.

'We're all right,' I say, turning to Viago. 'Tell us about Illario. Would you like help bringing him down?'

'That would be ideal, yes,' Viago says. 'And then someone else will have to be appointed First Talon. I am not sure who Caterina will select.'

'She has a soft spot for me,' Teia says, and there's iron in her eyes. 'I think I can sway her.'

Viago looks surprised. 'I didn't realise you sought the position.'

'Why not?' She holds his gaze. 'Or do you seek it for yourself?'

He seems to hesitate, but then he gives a shrug. 'No. I do not. You would be much better than I, in any case.'

'Good. Then you'll support me when I talk to Caterina.' It's not a question. Briskly, she turns back to me. 'Let's figure out the plans for facing Illario. There's a party soon, to institute him as First Talon. Perhaps we can pay him a visit.'

We put our heads together for some time, strategizing for the coming fight, and then Felassan and I make our farewells and head out of the tavern. Afterwards, on the streets of Minrathous, Felassan clears his throat uncomfortably. 'Well,' he says. 'Demon possession has advantages I could never have foreseen! Instantaneous trips to the ossuary. Even faster than the eluvians! June would be furious.'

'Felassan,' I say.

'I'm hungry. Tentacle salad, you think? What a textural delight. The Tevinters have really nailed that slimy slithery consistency. Or olives, perhaps?'

'Felassan,' I say again.

His shoulders slump; at last, he turns to look at me. 'I'm sorry,' he says quietly. 'I didn't expect to slip like that.'

'I didn't know you were struggling so much. The spirit is very close to turning.'

'Yes.' He averts his gaze. 'Yes, it is.'

'It will take you with it, if it does.'

He sighs. 'I know that it is my own – my distress, that causes this. But it is not easy, to simply decide to feel less distress.'

'Of course it isn't.' I touch his shoulder gently. 'Just – try to hold on a little longer? Once the Veil is down, the spirit can be freed.'

He nods. 'There were no abominations before the Veil. So whatever happens, that risk at least will be gone.'

'Let me know if I can do anything to help,' I say, and then, 'Or even better, ask Bellara for help. I know she wants to.'

'Yes. I know she does,' he says quietly, and then nothing more.

We walk quietly through the streets, back toward the eluvian. I look anxiously at him, and then away. This one thing, I'm determined to get right. I won't lose Felassan, not when we're so close.

***

When Harding brings word of disappearing dwarves, I know I have no choice but to descend once more into the Deep Roads. I have a very bad feeling about the whole thing, but I can't let her go alone. Whether it's for her own protection or to stop her from stumbling on something unimaginably dangerous, I can't really say, but I know I have to be there.

We find the dwarves, free them. But there's a presence down here, a malevolence. We have to find its source.

In my heart, a dreadful, irrevocable certainty: the Titan is waking.

We descend, through the lyrium caverns, going deeper into the earth. The lyrium here is red, but somehow not the same as the red lyrium the templars used to use. It's not blighted; it's just furious, raging, burning for retribution. Passing under that inflamed beating heart, I have never felt so vulnerable. This is not a good place for an elf to be. I am the obvious target for its retribution, and here I am, delivering myself to it.

And then the earth cracks open. Through the fissure rises an immense plinth of shuddering rock, gleaming obsidian, to carry Harding away. I shout with panic as she is borne up into the air above me, but there is no time. A red creature descends on me – almost in the shape of a dwarf, but strange and twisted and pulsing with rage. It attacks with a ferocity like nothing I've ever known, filling the air with red light, as if leaving a trail of glowing blood behind it. I can barely find the strength to keep up my barriers against it, and I have no mana left to cast any other spell. It batters itself against my walls, and I scramble backwards, desperately seeking a plan but coming up empty. We should have come better armed, better prepared. The creature will end me here and now, and that will be only the very beginning of its vengeance.

But then all of a sudden, a silence. The creature pauses its attack and stands before me, crystalline red and pulsing. Suspended; waiting.

On pure instinct, I kneel before it.

It wants an apology. It wants me to beg forgiveness. I won't do it. The elves of today are not to blame for the sins of our ancestors.

But I will listen. I will understand.

Taking a deep breath, steeling myself, I press my palms flat to the earth. Opening myself up to the pain of the Titan, the ancient memories it has hoarded for so long.

Against my closed eyelids, a turning point. A familiar dagger. Familiar voices: Mythal and Solas.

Solas.

I knew, of course. I knew all along that he was part of this. I didn't want to face it, but I knew. My chest aches but I can't look away, not now. There can be no more secrets, not if we are to stand together and change the world.

I watch as Mythal asks Solas for the dagger. He holds on for a moment, unwilling to relinquish it. 'It is terrible, what we are doing.' His stance as he stands before her is hunched, protective. She reaches out and he flinches, but she simply wraps her hand around the dagger. He allows her to take it, and his head bows.

I almost don't recognise him. The proud, strong-willed man I know would never allow himself to be overruled like that; his principles ground into dust.

But he wasn't always so proud. Spirits of wisdom have little volition of their own; the determined independence came from somewhere. From here, perhaps. He allowed himself to be overruled, and disaster followed. He resolved to never do so again.

I blink, my mind racing, and the memory changes. Mythal and Elgar'nan, wielding the dagger. No sign of Solas: he had done what was asked of him, unwillingly. He would play no further part in this.

I watch, and understand what is being done to the Titans. I watch as Mythal and Elgar'nan sever their dreams, lock them away. I watch as the Titans go still and silent, locked within themselves.

Tranquility. It was right in front of me all the time – the punishment I've known of all my life, the fate every mage in Thedas fears.

It's worse than I thought. Tears are running down my cheeks as I feel it all in my bones: the pain of the Titans, the horror of what was done to them. Eternal Tranquility, imprisonment within the self. I watch as their dreams rage against their confinement. I feel as their dreams turn, curdle. With a dreadful, horrifying inevitability, I witness the waking of the Blight. It doesn't even feel like a revelation.

The Blight, the force of horror that has shaped our world for centuries, was always nothing more or less than the dreams of the Titans.

I return to myself. Barely a moment has passed, but the tears are still streaming down my cheeks. The tragedy of it all won't fit inside me, the grief of all of those ancient people. I've seen the memories of the elves of that time. I know how afraid they were, and I know they tried to find another way. And yet, with brutal inevitability, the elves and Titans were too different; they simply could not coexist. The Titans fell. The elves fell, their empire brought down by the dark secret at its heart. Tranquility.

As I linger in that horror, a fist of stone descends from above, and I remember that I still have to defend myself. Even now, after thousands of years, we can do nothing but fight each other. I leap to my feet, raising my staff, deflecting the blow. Over and over again; there is no end to this cycle.

'Elvhen!' the creature spits, the name of my race like a curse in its mouth. 'Have you come to die for us?'

I deflect it once again. 'Why should I die for you?'

The fist comes from below this time, cracking the ground open beneath. I jump to one side just in time to avoid falling into the crack that opens up, its blackness gaping avariciously at me.

'She said one would come to die for us!' the creature spits. 'She spoke it! Promised it!'

I raise my staff just in time to deflect the rocks that come flying at me; I feel the weight of them striking my barrier all down the left hand side of my body, muscles shrieking under the effort.

'Who said this? Harding?' I gasp. Is there any point in trying to reason with the shade?

At least it can speak my language. My ancestors didn't even have that. All they could do was lie down and die for it.

'The witch!' I frown, wondering if I heard wrong, but then it repeats itself: 'She said one would come. A god would die for us!'

'I am not a god,' I say; remembering the same words in Solas' voice.

And then I see it, suddenly. Kneeling there, I remember: the papers in Solas' office. The diagrams, his own body stretched out, the careful measurements. The writing in another's hand.

The destination I didn't see. There was always another ritual. Another plan beyond the Veil. He would not rest easy with fixing one mistake.

He had to fix them all.

Another rock comes flying at me, and I gasp: again I'd almost forgotten the battle. It's too much, all at once. History descending on me, like the rocks raining from above and the fist punching from below. I deflect and deflect, ducking and rolling, fear and horror pulsing through my veins. What little my own survival matters against the weight of all of those tragedies; and yet despite it all, I have to survive.

And then – Harding is there. She kneels as I did, raising a hand to the creature. It halts before her, the rocks raised by its power hovering in mid-air. Harding trembles, but she holds her hands aloft, offering her empty palms to the fragment.

'I am worthy,' she says, her voice wavering but firm. We've never seen eye to eye, but in that moment she is glorious, ascendant. 'I am worthy!'

The shard sweeps its burning, inhuman gaze over her. Assessing, judging. Harding raises her eyes. 'I will carry your magic, and your dreams,' she tells it. 'I will remember and honour you. All of this, I will do for you.'

The spirit contemplates a moment longer, pulsing red, rage rising from it like the shimmer of hot metal. It takes a step, as if to reach out to Harding.

And then, it breaks apart.

I stand gasping, winded. But Harding is still kneeling. I put my hand out to help her out. She looks up at me, her eyes haunted. 'So much pain,' she whispers. 'But I promised to bear witness.'

I feel an unexpected kinship with her. Both of us, in our own ways, staggering beneath the legacy of the past. I will remember and honour you; a promise I've made many times, to spirits fading away in the dawn-light of the broken world; to my own ancestors.

But I can't tell Harding about any of that. 'Thank you,' I whisper, and then I turn away. There is more to be done yet. We are not safe.

Mythal is dead, and yet none of us have ever been beyond her grasp.

***

Blundering out of the mirror in the Veil Jumper camp, I sprint up the steps, glancing around wildly. Strife steps out from under the canopy, looking anxiously at me. 'Is something wrong?'

'I need to talk to Morrigan,' I say. 'Is she here? It's urgent.'

She appears, her eyes anxious. 'Are you all right?' she says. 'Has something happened?'

'In a manner of speaking.' I take her hand, draw her away from the camp. We sit down together in a hollow in the trees, backs against tree-trunks, legs stretched out over the mossy ground. The smell of green things all around us: soft herbal currents on the air, glittering dew.

I look gravely at Morrigan. 'A reckoning that would shake the very heavens. How literal do you think that was?'

She gazes at me. Then her eyes narrow. 'You think – the Titans?'

I take the papers out of my bag and hand them over to him. Her eyes fall to the diagrams, and she gasps. 'This is – this is my mother's hand.'

'I found them in Solas' office. I think he must have taken them from her.'

She purses her lips as she reads.

'She meant to wake the Titans? But I – why now? After all these years?'

'On the last page,' I say. 'The calculation she's performed there, using the properties of an immortal life. It's cryptic, but I think she means the reversal would require the sacrifice of a god.'

Morrigan frowns. 'She meant to sacrifice herself? I don't know, Eirlan. She let Solas take her power, yes, but she preserved the core of her being to send to me. This spell would have meant total annihilation.'

'Mmmm,' I say softly. 'I agree.'

'And yet she developed this spell.' Morrigan says, bewildered, and then she stops. Her face changes; as if a crack runs through her. 'Oh. Oh. A reckoning.'

'Indeed.'

She reels backward. 'I – the memories she's hidden from me. Her plans. She crawled her way through ages – and not for nothing.'

'I'm sorry,' I say softly.

Morrigan's fingers dig into the ground beside her. 'My mother – all along she was raising me for this?'

I say nothing; there's no comfort I can offer.

'When she came to me, after her death. I thought – I thought she felt something for me. I knew what it was to be a mother, by then. I thought she could not possibly be entirely indifferent to me, not with the same blood in our veins.'

'She wasn't like you. She could never have done what you did.'

Morrigan shakes her head. 'She hid this from me.' The words come out sharp, flailing. 'She deceived me all along. She meant for me to take the memories and help Solas on his path, just so he could – just so the path could lead to his death, and the destruction of all that he'd worked for.'

'Yes.'

She stares down at the papers. 'How – how did you know?'

'The shade of the Titan mentioned a witch,' I say quietly. 'The witch said a god would die for them. I think – I think she's been in contact with the Titans. Maybe for a very long time. Stoking their anger, in whatever part of their consciousness still remains. Building their rage to a fever pitch. Preparing them to rain down destruction, once Solas freed them.'

Morrigan's hands shake, and she grips her knees to hold them steady. 'How did she do this? How could she – her memories live in me. I am her, all that remains of her. How is it possible that she deceived me like this?'

I hesitate, but of course Morrigan gets there before I can utter the words. 'The Well,' she says. 'Of course, the Well .'

'I think so, yes.'

She shakes her head. 'I said I could not exert a compulsion on myself, but I was wrong. One part of my mind has been deceiving the other part of my mind. The part of me that is Mythal carefully guiding the part of me that is Morrigan. Compelling me to stay away from the memories that would have given her away.'

I look down. 'Perhaps I should have drunk from the Well after all.'

She laughs aloud, a long bitter sound. 'Oh, but I brought this on myself. So eager for knowledge, for power. Just as she taught me all those years. How easily I fell into her trap.'

'Morrigan – '

'My mother,' she says bitterly. 'My mother. I knew her. How could I have been so naive?'

'She was not only your mother.'

'Mythal. She hid herself inside me, concealing her true heart even as I bore her onward. What would have happened if she'd succeeded? Would she have revealed herself at last? Sat inside my body screaming her triumph while the world burned around us?'

'I'm sorry,' I say helplessly.

'Did I take her on willingly?' Morrigan whispers. 'I – I thought I chose this. I thought I wanted it.'

I am silent. In my heart I feel certain that Mythal used the Well of Sorrows to compel Morrigan to accept her spirit. The Morrigan I knew was so eager to be free of her mother's machinations; she would never have agreed willingly to such a thing.

But to say so seems like an unnecessary cruelty, so I say nothing.

'I want to get rid of her,' Morrigan whispers. 'I want – I should never have agreed to carry her. I should have told my mother to go to hell.'

'Morrigan,' I say, reaching out a hand, but she gets to her feet. 'No, I'm sorry, I – I need to be alone. I will return anon.'

***

I sit quietly around the fire with Bellara, Strife, Felassan and Emmrich, drinking mugs of hot chamomile tea and talking over what we have just learned. Smoke curls softly into the night above us, blurring out the stars, and the tea is warm and wholesome and comforting, and for the first time since the Deep Roads I feel just a little less terrible.

'I know it sounds like Mythal is just cruel and vengeful,' Bellara says tentatively. 'But I think it's more complicated than that. I think she realised, in the end, that what had been done to the Titans was terrible. I think, in her way, she's trying to set things right.'

I look at her. 'What she said about a reckoning – '

'Yes, but not just for her. For the Titans. The pillars of the earth – they are the ones who deserve a reckoning to shake the very heavens.'

'How can you know that?'

'She was the goddess of justice, wasn't she? And yet she did a terrible injustice to the Titans. She made them Tranquil.'

Around me, all the mages shudder. I'm still struggling to wrap my head around the idea of what was done to the Titans. I've always seen Tranquility as one of the world's greatest evils; the thought that our very world was founded on it, that Solas – I shake my head, breaking the thought off. I can't. Not now.

Felassan sighs heavily. 'You know, I think you're right,' he says, his hand on Bellara's knee. 'I didn't know her well, but it's true that she had a fierce, blazing passion for justice, albeit selectively applied. The legends did not lie about that.'

Bellara nods. 'So now freeing them, allowing them to take their vengeance – in a way that's justice. A dark, terrible justice, yes, but we know that justice and vengeance are closely tied.'

I gaze at her, stricken. Struggling to find words.

Behind me, Emmrich clears his throat. 'If she wanted justice for the Titans, why not sacrifice herself? She's the one who instigated it.'

'What is there left of her to sacrifice?' Strife says quietly. 'I think Bellara's right. She has been punished for what she did; now Solas, and the world that grew up in the place left by the Titans, must be punished in turn.'

'She cares, in her way,' Bellara says. 'She's carried the burden of what she did, just as Solas has. All these years as she lived in the world, she changed, she grew. She's seen what was taken away. She understands now what a terrible wrong they did.'

I sit, frozen, stunned. My mind throwing itself at this new revelation, scrabbling for purchase. I can hear my own breath in my ears, absurdly fast and loud. They're all looking at me, waiting.

I take a deep breath, find the words: 'What we're doing. Taking down the Veil. Is that really so different?'

Bellara looks at me, her eyebrows drawing together. 'I didn't mean – '

'Solas wants to take down the Veil to undo one mistake. Mythal wants to release the Titans to undo another. We're helping Solas, but we condemn Mythal. Isn't that hypocritical? How do we know we're better than her?'

Strife shakes his head. 'No, da'len. What Solas and Mythal want is ultimately unimportant. Solas may want to undo his mistakes. But you know that's not why the rest of us are doing this.'

'Isn't it?'

'None of us are trying to restore the world of the ancient elves,' he says. 'Not even Felassan and me. What was lost is a tragedy, but what we do now is not for those who were lost. It is for those who are still hurting right now, who will continue to be hurt as long as the Veil remains.'

'What about me?' I say urgently, desperately. 'What if – am I being blinded by what I feel for Solas? Doing what he wants, instead of what the world really needs?'

Bellara leans forward. 'If you don't trust yourself, trust us. Trust me, and Merrill, and all the Veil Jumpers. Trust Cyrian. And Emmrich. None of us have ever met Solas. We're not doing this for him. We're doing it because it is right.'

'But is it?' Panic rising up my throat, crushing bands around my chest. My fingernails digging into the flesh of my palms; lost and disorientated, my path vanishing before me. 'We've done our best to mitigate the damage. We have the Nadas Dirthalen. But many people will still die when the Veil comes down.'

'Thedas must change,' Felassan says, his voice hard. 'We all know that. We've all seen it. Bringing down the Veil will herald that change. It is time.'

'We can't bring back the elves or spirits who died in the Fall,' Bellara says. 'But spirits are suffering right now. Elves are enslaved and oppressed right now. Mages continue to become abominations. Abominations continue to kill ordinary people. And none of this will ever end unless the Veil comes down. This is not about the past, Eirlan. It's for the future.'

I shake my head urgently. 'And are not the Titans also suffering?'

'No,' Emmrich says suddenly, and I turn to look at him. He smiles apologetically, spreading his hands. 'The liches have much knowledge that is hidden from mortals. But this I can tell you, with certainty. The Titans are sleeping, dreamless. It's terrible, what was taken from them. There's no denying that. But their suffering is in the past; while they sleep, they cannot be hurt further.'

'But the shade we encountered in the Deep Roads. It wasn't asleep. It was angry, suffering. What if the other Titans are like that?'

'No,' says a voice from behind us. I turn to look and see Morrigan standing there. Her hair is messy, and she looks more haggard than I've ever seen it; but there's also a lightness about her, as if she's come to some resolution. I want to reach out to her, offer kindness, but I know she wouldn't accept it.

'I have been meditating,' she says. 'I can feel it, now. The two halves of my mind, battling one another. All these years, they have been locked in a silent fight to the death.'

'Have you recovered some of the hidden memories?' Strife asks.

She nods, lowering herself onto the stool. Bellara, eyes anxious, hands her a steaming mug of chamomile, and she accepts it without comment.

'Centuries of sleep calmed the Titans,' she says, stirring the drink as she speaks. 'Their rage commuted into the Blight, and what was left behind became measured. Reflective. If they had been woken then, they would no longer have sought violence; they would have become something else.' She sighs. 'But then – Mythal arrived.'

I feel a chill at the way she speaks of Mythal now. Cold and contemptuous, that hard-eyed gaze. 'What did she do?' I ask, not sure I want to hear the answer.

'For centuries she has been waking fragments of the Pillars,' Morrigan says calmly. 'Reminding them of their long-ago pain and terror; readying them to take their vengeance. The piece of the Titan that you met was one of those fragments.'

Felassan sucks in a breath, colour draining from his face. 'Ah,' he says, and then, 'I – of course. Of course she – I told Solas. I told him, but he could never see – '

'So that was a part of her plan?' Bellara says. 'She didn't just want them to be free. She wanted to make sure they were furious enough to destroy the whole world.'

'Indeed,' Morrigan says. 'Justice. Revenge. Her idea of recompense, I suppose, to allow them to tip the world entirety into the abyss, just as the world once did to them.'

'But what she woke,' I say urgently. 'It was only fragments? Not the Titans themselves.'

'The Titans themselves sleep still,' she says. 'If they were woken now, the rage that Mythal fostered would be reunited with them, and it would drive them toward their vengeance. But right now they are not suffering – they are merely dormant, waiting for a resurrection that may never come.'

I shake my head. 'Even so. Shall we leave them there forever? The very foundational stones of this world. How can we forgive ourselves?'

'We are not the ones who hurt them,' Emmrich says. 'Solas must find a way to forgive himself, but this is not our fault.'

'And who knows,' Strife adds. 'Perhaps there may yet come another age when the time will be right for the Titans to wake. And if that day does come, they will still be there, ready to be woken. Nothing is lost by letting them continue to slumber.'

I double over, clutching my temples. 'I don't know. I don't know. Aren't I just letting my sympathies getting in the way? Deciding that the spirits and elves and mages deserve to be rescued, but not the Titans?'

Bellara looks around the little group. 'You know what I think?' she says. 'We should speak to the dwarves. We should ask them what it is that they want.'

Strife puts a hand gently on my shoulder. 'Bellara is right. The dwarves are the heirs of the Titans, and the only ones who have the right to pronounce on their fate.'

'But Eirlan,' Emmrich says gently. 'None of this means it is wrong to try to take down the Veil. The issues are separate. The harm the Veil does, continues to do – all of that is still true. You are not Mythal, and neither are you Solas, no matter how deeply you may love him.'

I sit up, taking deep breaths. Trying to clear my head. The thoughts and fears are still all jangled in my mind, my vision blurred as I look around at the group, but I'm closer to some kind of resolution. 'All right,' I say. 'Yes. You're right. We should talk to the dwarves.'

Morrigan stirs beside me, looking at Strife. 'There's something else,' she says calmly. 'The geas of the Well. I need to be freed of it.'

He looks at her, troubled. 'I have no power to do such a thing, Morrigan. I was only a servant of Mythal, and one of the most humble.'

'I know,' she says. 'Only Mythal herself could free me.'

'Then you must free yourself,' I say. 'Mythal lives on only in you.'

She shakes her head. 'I have tried. I cannot. The geas is too strong. I can push back against it to a certain extent, but it will not allow me to perform the magic to lift it.'

'I don't understand,' Bellara says. 'Then how can Strife help you?'

Morrigan sighs. 'Well. I believe that another part of Mythal lives on, elsewhere. The piece of her that lives in me has always sensed the existence of another.'

Felassan shifts. 'Yes, you're right,' he says. 'Solas drew a fragment of her soul from the dagger, and hid it in a place he made for her. But the island is gone. I went back and looked, when I first woke from uthenera, and could not find it. Perhaps Solas moved it?'

Morrigan shakes her head. 'No. It was taken away by Mythal's attendants, after her first death. Even the Mythal who lives inside me does not know how to find it.' Her eyes flicker towards Strife. 'But you,' she says. 'You know, don't you?'

All of us turn to look at Strife. He sits for a long moment, his face impassive. And suddenly I feel something shifting: the weight of his immortal life suddenly becomes visible, like a cold shattered halo around him. I have known him all of these years, and yet suddenly it's as if I don't know him at all.

Then he bows his head slowly. 'Yes. I know.'

Bellara lets out a little gasp. 'All this time, you knew – you knew that another fragment of Mythal still existed, and you never told us?'

'Ir abelas, da'len,' Strife says. For a brief moment, he looks as he is: ancient and sorrowful. 'We swore an oath to take that knowledge to our graves. A promise like that is not so lightly broken.'

'A promise to what?' Bellara says furiously. 'The woman who kept you as a slave?'

'She was my god,' Strife says quietly. 'Even later, when I came to see her in another light – still. She was my god.'

Morrigan leans forward. 'Strife,' she says quietly. 'I know what I am asking of you. I know that it is not easy. But for the sake of our friendship, I beg of you. Free me.'

He stares ahead, his face rigid. 'All those millenia of service. This was the one remnant of my oaths that I still carried with me. Like a part of my own heart.'

We are silent, watching him. None of us, with our fleeting mortal lives, can really understand what this means to him. The moment trembles: suspended, precarious.

I am preparing myself to see Strife turn his head, walk away from us. But instead he gives a long sigh and raises his eyes to look at me, and suddenly he's just my friend Strife once again. The echoes of untold ages vanishing from his face.

'It is still in the Crossroads,' he says. 'I was on the expedition sent to find it - the last great magical work I would ever perform. A few of the primordial currents remained after the Veil went up, in the deep places of the world. We found one, and used it to move Mythal's island. We hid it so carefully that even Solas himself would not have been able to find it.' He sighs, his eyes cast down. 'We could have found a better use for it. We could have helped our people adapt. Instead – we spent it all on a dead god.'

'Can you show us the way?' Morrigan says.

He hesitates a moment longer, and then he nods. Somehow I find I have to avert my eyes; it's too painful to imagine what that single gesture must have cost him.

But Morrigan is already turning to look at me. 'We will go there. Once you have made your visit to the dwarves – afterwards, you and I will go confront Mythal, and make her free me.'

'She may be powerful,' Strife warns. 'She cannot leave the island to which her spirit is tethered, but there she has strength remaining.'

'We will find a way,' Morrigan says dismissively, and she gets to her feet. I watch as she walks away between the columns, tall and proud and angry. My head pounds with steadily growing unease. After all I've learned of Mythal, the thought of confronting a shard of her spirit fills me with dread. And meanwhile the tragedy of the Titans still claws at me, burns at my soul. The pillars of the world were broken, so very long ago. How can we live our lives on their corpses, knowing that? How can we go on when we never even tried to make it right?

Chapter Text

I barely sleep that night. When I finally appear in the Fade, Solas is waiting for me, his eyes fearful. 'You're late,' he whispers. 'I thought – '

I turn my face away. I can't speak with him about this. Not yet. Not until I know what the dwarves have tos ay.

'I'm all right,' I say. 'Just sleeping poorly, for some reason.'

'I can see that. You're disappearing again already.'

As if unconsciously, he holds out a hand, reaching for me. I don't want to hurt him, but I can't go to him. Not yet. Not until – 'Ir abelas,' I say unhappily, feeling the waking world pulling me back. 'I'm sorry. I'll be back tomorrow.'

'Vhenan,' he whispers, and I hear panic in his voice, but it's too late: he's already gone.

I wake and lie sleepless the rest of the night, gazing into the cold, shattered stars above the Veil Jumper camp. The way he looked at me; he could tell there was something wrong. Now he's in there alone, brooding on what might have happened, and meanwhile I'm out here trying desperately to pull my sense of right and wrong back together. How many painful choices until you lose your way? Which compass can I follow, after reinventing history yet one more time?

***

The next morning I make my way back to Kal-Sharok, this time accompanied by Bellara and Emmrich. I feel miserably guilty going back without Harding, not to mention uncertain of my welcome, but there's no way to explain any of this to Harding without giving myself away completely. I'm still uncertain how much I can risk telling Stalgard, but I'll have to try to find a way.

Stalgard comes to meet us at the gates, looking faintly puzzled. He's clearly still exhausted and drained from his experience locked in the stone, but at least he's safe now. That particular Titan shade won't threaten any dwarves again.

'Greetings,' he says. 'I did not expect to see you again so soon. Is Harding all right?'

'She's doing well. Still recovering, but she'll be fine. I came because I had a question for you. And perhaps for others here.'

His eyes come to rest on my face. 'Ah? Go on.'

I take a deep breath. 'I learned, yesterday, about the Titans. What happened to them – the truth. All of it. You know already, I suppose?'

He looks at me, considering. Then he says, 'I think there's someone here you should meet.' He pauses a moment. 'Just Rook. The others can remain here.'

I exchange glances with Emmrich and Bellara, puzzled and wary. But Stalgard is already turning away and proceeding into the halls of Kal-Sharok, and I don't see that I have much choice but to follow. 'It's all right,' I say gently to the others. 'I don't think anyone here wishes to harm me.'

Bellara looks sceptical, but she gives a little sigh and sits down on an outcrop of rock with Emmrich, and meanwhile I follow Stalgard into the cavern. He leads me down through the markets and corridors and into a small side-chamber, lined with shelves filled with scrolls; more scrolls are strewn haphazardly along a gleaming bronze table that runs the full length of the room. A middle-aged dwarven woman with grey streaks in her dark hair is sitting at the end of the table. She's dressed not in the distinctive anatomical armor of Kal-Shaork but in simple fatigues – warden fatigues, I realise.

A suspicion begins to needle at me, and is almost immediately confirmed when she rises to her feet, holding out a hand. 'Well met,' she says. 'I'm Natia Brosca.'

I stare at her, starstruck and fascinated. 'You are – you're the Hero of Ferelden?'

'I am,' she says gently. 'And you, I take it, are the Inquisitor.'

I freeze. 'I – how did you know?'

'Don't worry, your magic hasn't failed,' she says, smiling. 'Morrigan and I go way back. She's been writing to me, keeping me updated on what's been happening.'

I have a moment of irritation at Morrigan for not even bothering to tell me that she was still in touch with the Hero of Ferelden; but then again, perhaps Natia preferrred to keep her private business to herself, and I suppose I can't fault her for that.

'Well met, indeed,' I say. 'Alistair told me ten years ago that you left to look for a cure for the Calling. But I never heard any more. I assumed that you never came back.'

'I apologize that I couldn't be with you in the fight against Corypheus. I was here, in Kal-Sharok, looking for the cure.'

'And – ?'

She smiles. 'And I found it.'

I take another look at her, suddenly noticing more details. There are indications of age, yes, but nothing more than I would expect of any woman in her fourth decade. No sign of the gradual degradations of the Blight; that slow, pestilential decay. She looks hale and hearty and in the peak of health as she stands there, hands resting gently on her hips: as if she were never Blighted at all, as if the horrors of the Fifth Blight were all just a tale for children.

'When Kal-Sharok was sealed away, the dwarves here had to change, to adapt,' she explains. 'You must have heard the stories. Like the wardens, they eventually began to drink the blood of the darkspawn. But unlike the wardens, they learned to do more with it.'

'More? What do you mean?'

'The dwarves studied the Blight as it flowed through their veins. They used their stone-sense to look inward. And with much study and meditation, they discovered that the blight could be changed. It could be altered, transmuted into something new.'

'Into – what?'

She smiles. 'Well. The dwarves who learn this power have a place of high honour in the society of Kal-Sharok: they are revered, worhsipped even. They are called Somaray, which I have realized is a bastardization of an older Tevinter word. Somniari – the Dreamers.'

I stare at her. 'They dream,' I whisper, understanding. 'They turn the Blight in their veins back into dreams!'

'Indeed,' she says. 'Some have even learned to absorb the blight from other hosts – to take it into their bodies and commute it into dreams. When I first came here Stalgard did so for me, and later for Alistair. But now I have learned to perform the transmutation myself. It is very difficult, and requires much strength and focus, but I have been studying it for some years now and I am beginning to understand it better.'

'The Somaray,' I say. 'Are they – can they do magic? Like Harding?'

'A very few have some small abilities,' Natia says. 'I have some minor powers myself. But nothing like Harding, if what I've heard is right. The lyrium dagger must have unlocked something in her that we other dwarves can only barely grasp at, after years of study.'

'It didn't even occur to me that she had literally taken the dreams back into herself,' I say. 'But of course, that makes sense. The dagger was used to cut them out, so I guess it's also the right tool to return them.'

Natia nods, and then, without speaking, gestures at me and Stalgard to follow. She leads us out onto a balcony cut into the very stone of the sheer rock-face, looking out over the valley below; the vast, frozen corpse of the Titan. We stand gazing at the ancient being, captured forever in its final agony. Though I keep telling myself that I'm not responsible for the sins of my ancestors, or even my lover, I feel an urgent wrenching guilt as I look out at its contorted face. I had resolved that I wouldn't apologize, but somehow I find myself saying softly, 'I'm sorry.'

Natia nods quietly, neither accepting nor declining my apology. 'You came to talk about the Titans,' she says. 'You have learned the source of the Blight, and now you want to heal it.'

'I do.'

Natia hums lightly. 'But there's another way. The Blight can be healed without restoring the Titans. You could give the dreams to the dwarves instead.'

I am silent for a long moment, thinking about what she's said. Turning the implications over in my mind. What would it mean, for the dwarves to recover their magic? What do I owe to them, to the Titans, to the earth itself? What do we owe to each other, in the end?

But I came here to listen to the dwarves, so eventually I turn to them and say quietly, humbly, 'What do you want?'

Natia and Stalgard exchange glances; and then Stalgard says, 'The dreams cannot go back to the Titans. One day, perhaps, but not yet. And it is the living dwarves of today, not the Titans, who suffer for their absence.'

Natia nods. 'We must have our dreams restored. So we can be connected to the song of our ancestors. So we can feel the deep magics of the world, the heartbeat of the stone. As it should always have been.'

'You want to rid the world of the Blight,' Stalgard says fiercely. 'We want to be made whole again. This is the right path.'

I stand there, wavering. 'My people wronged your ancestors. It is not – I know it isn't my fault. But it doesn't feel right, to make no attempt at all to help the Titans.'

'Giving the dreams to the dwarves is helping the Titans,' Natia says softly. 'They will live on through us. With their dreams we will inherit their memories, their magic. We will carry their vision for us into the future, in our own way.'

I turn to look out over the Titan again. The tragedy of their fall; the great sin that precipitated all that followed. I'm not sure I can live with myself if I just turn away and leave it all behind.

'Leave them like this forever?' I ask. 'Never allow them to wake?'

'I did not say that.'

I raise an eyebrow. 'Then – '

'You have been to the caverns; you have seen the red lyrium. The Titans are enflamed, enraged by the interfering hand of an outsider. If they were to wake now, they would care for nothing but vengeance.'

'You think that if we wait long enough the rage will calm, and it might be safe to wake them?'

'Not only that. The Titans' dreams are a part of them; as the dreams return to the dwarves, as we are made whole, so too will the Titans find peace. When the dreams have found new homes, the inflamed red lyrium will return to blue, and then perhaps it will be safe to wake them.'

Stalgard clears his throat. 'I have spoken with Valta on this matter. She believes that the Titans may in fact wake naturally, once the blight has been fully destroyed and all of the dreams returned to the dwarves.'

'Because the dwarves – are the Titans, in some sense?' I say, my mind immediately beginning to whir with theories: is there a resonance between the dwarves and the Titans, a song that has bound them together all these millenia? Or some kind of alchemical linkage in the blood? Or some other kind of magic altogether?

Stalgard smiles. 'The technical details are not fully clear. There will be plenty of time to investigate the matter further. Returning the dreams to the dwarves will not be a rapid undertaking – I expect it will stretch over several generations, at least.'

I lean on the railing, brow furrowed. Something still sticks in my throat. 'You paint a nice picture. But don't you think the Titans have a right to that rage? Who am I to decide they should never get to exercise it?

'But it is not theirs,' Natia says. 'It was placed in them by another. And though Mythal may genuinely believe she is seeking justice for them – ultimately that is what she wants, not what the Titans want. And it is certainly not what the descendants of the Titans want.'

'You speak for all dwarves?'

'Of course I cannot speak for all dwarves,' she says, a little dismissively. 'But I have spoken of this matter with many dwarves of Kal-Sharok, and some from Orzammar and the surface. Thus far, all have agreed. We want our dreams back.'

I gaze out over the fallen Titan, strangely heartsick. 'It's not really my decision. Or it shouldn't be. But I have the dagger right now, so it does fall to me to make some kind of choice.'

Natia nods. 'It is a difficult position. I do not envy you. But here, at least, it seems to me the path is clear.'

The way she's looking at me – 'Oh,' I say, some pieces coming together in my mind. 'You know about the Veil as well?'

'Morrigan told me several years ago. I shared the knowledge with a select few in Kal-Sharok, those who can be trusted.'

'And yet you have taken no action to stop us.'

'Indeed.'

'You – approve?' I ask, uncertain. 'Even thought it will hurt people?'

'I am not a mage,' she says quietly. 'But I have known spirits, in my time. I have spoken to them in the Deep Roads – spirits of compassion, drawn through to help my people in their final, most desperate hours. I believe Morrigan when she tells me that the spirits are suffering. We can't disregard that just because they're not like us.'

I'm surprisingly moved, to hear her say those words. I've never before met a dwarf who had much interest in spirits – even Dagna, brilliant as she was, preferred enchantments to spirit magic. But I suppose Natia has been through many strange, transformational things; her journeys have equipped her to understand what might seem alien to others of her background.

'Thank you,' I say at last. 'I suppose I thought it would be hard for someone who isn't a mage to sympathize with our cause.'

'It was hard, at first,' she concedes. 'I thought about it for a long time, I really did. I reflected, talked endlessly to Alistair, to Morrigan, to others I trust. But I understand now, and I think you're doing the right thing.'

'You don't think it's – wrong, selfish? To fix the Veil, but not the Titans?'

'I think you came and asked us what we wanted, and we told you,' she says gently. 'And I imagine you have asked the spirits what they want, and they told you.'

'They did,' I admit.

'I think you should free the spirits, if that's what they want. I know it's not easy. But I will not be the one to tell you that you shouldn't take down the Veil.'

I look at her sharply. She sighs. 'I'm sorry, child. I think, deep down, you'd like someone to give you a reason not to do it.'

I lean back, my mouth twisting. 'Yes. That's what the Caretaker said. A spirit I spoke with on the subject.'

'It does you credit, that you are reluctant. And I wish I could give you an excuse. But I'm sorry. I can't. I do think that someone should free the spirits, put an end to their suffering. And if no one else will do it, you may have to be the one.'

A little sigh escapes me, and she touches my arm. 'I know. I'm sorry.'

She, too, has had to make painful choices. She has known sacrifice. There's a kind of peace in that; a kind of camaraderie that few others could possibly understand. I meet her eyes, and thank her, and then we part, with promises to return when things are quieter to make arrangements for returning the dreams to the dwarves.

Making my way out of the deep roads, I feel very tired. Natia is right. Perhaps all this panic over the morality of the Veil versus the Titans was just me flailing around trying to find a way out. And yet there is no way out. When I look at it straight on, clear-sighted, I know what is right. The world must be healed; the Veil must come down.

***

When I enter the Fade, Solas is dressed in his armour once again. Almost as if he knows what I have to say tonight, and is reflexively protecting himself. He stands calmly, hands behind his back, but I see his throat bob as he swallows. He's afraid – not of me, exactly, but he's certainly afraid to face what I have to say to him.

I take one step closer to him, and another. I put out my hand; he looks down for a moment, surprised, then reaches to take it. His eyes still won't meet mine, but he holds on to me tightly.

'Vhenan,' I say softly. 'I know about the Titans.'

His mouth opens, and he looks away, speechless. His fingers clench around my hand; in his eyes, raw fear.

I step a little closer to him.

'It's a tragedy,' I say. 'It's awful that it ended that way. Tranquility is – a terrible fate. You know that. You told me so yourself.'

He presses his lips together, saying nothing. I can see what he's thinking: I'm about to turn away from him. This, at last, will be the thing that makes me reject him. How could I possibly love him, after what he did?

'Solas,' I say quietly. 'I've seen the ancient memories. They would have slaughtered every last one of the elves.'

He frowns, bewildered. 'Yes. That's true.'

'The first elves took lyrium without understanding the consequences. You among them. None of you knew then that the glowing stone was a part of a living creature. You did not intend harm.'

'We should have been more careful,' he says, his jaw rigid. 'We should have investigated. There were earthquakes, when the stone was first taken. After that, we should have known.'

'Perhaps you should have. You made mistakes, that is certain, but you were not obliged to let the Titans kill every last elf in recompense.'

Solas' jaw is shaking. 'I – ' he says, choking for a moment, and then the words come tumbling out of him. 'They were majestic creatures. The very heart of the world, its ancient soul. And their song – I didn't want to do it. I knew it was wrong. But Mythal was so sure it was the right thing to do. She said there was no other choice.'

'Maybe there was another choice, or maybe there wasn't,' I say. 'But I understand why you agreed.'

'What we did,' he croaks. 'What we did. For centuries I have imagined it. Their fear and horror. And then the darkness. The end of all things.'

'I know. It was terrible. It was an awful tragedy. But you wanted to protect your people. You always have.'

He takes a deep breath, and then another. 'The Blight – '

I reach up to cradle his face, and he gasps; I feel him turn his cheek ever so slightly into my touch. His eyes flutter closed for a moment. As if a great weariness has come over him.

'Solas,' I say quietly. 'You did everything you could to contain the Blight. If the other Evanuris had not grown greedy, it would never have been able to hurt anyone. What they did is not your fault.'

'I made it,' he croaks. 'And then I provoked them into using it.'

'You freed slaves, vhenan. You stood up for your people. You could not control how they would respond. It is not for you to predict and account for the evil that others do.'

He looks down, his eyes shadowed. 'So many lives. So many lives. My attempts to stop it do not erase my responsibility.'

'And you have taken responsibility. You have punished yourself, over and over again. You have been suffering for millenia. When will it be enough?'

He is silent, looking down. Steeling himself. 'It remains my burden to atone for what I did.'

'Hmmm. By restoring the dreams to the Titans?'

His voice sharpens, grows wary. 'How did you – '

'Who told you how to do that?'

He steps backward, letting go of my hand. 'I – no one told me.'

'Mythal told you,' I say. 'Oh, not in so many words. But she left her notes where you would find them. She had worked out a spell to put the dreams back in the pillars. Requiring the sacrifice of a god.'

He glowers. 'I am not a god!'

'Ah, but you do acknowledge that her spell requires your sacrifice?'

'She did not plan it for me. She intended it for herself. She would have carried it out, if I had not –' He stops abruptly. Though we both know the truth, he cannot bring himself to say it aloud.

'She intended no such thing,' I say gently. 'She knew you would come, did she not? And she gave her life willingly.'

'She – yes. She did,' he admits.

'Do you really believe that Mythal did all this just for the sake of the Titans?'

He frowns. 'But she worked out the spell.'

'Not only for the Titans. For you, and for the world.'

'I don't – '

'You remember that I spoke to Flemeth, in the Fade. She told me that Mythal wanted a reckoning.'

'Yes. She wanted her revenge against Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain. She meant for me to kill them - I knew it, I wanted to do it for her, but I couldn't see a way.'

I shake my head. 'No doubt she did want you to kill them. But that's not all she was planning.'

He locks his hands behind his back, chin raised, though not quite concealing the faint tremor in his jaw. It's a familiar obstinacy, born of an ancient pain he still can't bring himself to face. 'No. She – she wouldn't.'

'She was never vengeful, in life?'

'Justice can become spite, or retribution, when denied its true purpose,' he concedes.

'You rebelled against her,' I say gently. 'And then you sent her to her death, however, unwittingly.'

He looks at me, uncertain. 'I – I didn't – '

'Mythal's retribution was against you, vhenan. And the world with you. She meant to use your guilt and remorse to send you to your death, and then the Titans would lay waste to what remained of the world in your absence. It would shake the very heavens, indeed.'

Solas' eyes widen, and a look of panic flashes briefly across his face, but then he shakes his head. 'No. No, I – I can see why you would think so, but in ancient Arlathan I often visited the Pillars; probed their drifting minds. After a few centuries of sleep, their rage transformed into something else entirely. They are not what they once were. They do not wish for vengeance.'

'That might have been so, if they had been left alone. But Mythal has been in contact with the Titans of late, and she has not been idle.'

He frowns. 'Mythal?'

'Flemeth has been visiting them for many years. She's been feeding their anger, turning their hearts back toward rage. She has planned all along for them to enact her revenge. She cannot rule this world, cannot even fully live in it, so she will tear it all down.'

Solas still faces me, standing tall, arms locked behind his back; but all the colour has drained from his face, and I see the hollows of his eyes, on the edge of anguish. 'She would not – '

'You cannot see it?'

'She was the mother. The Protector.'

'And she was twisted from her purpose. As all the Evanuris were.'

He shifts from one foot to another; says nothing. I modulate my tone, trying to be gentle. 'Vhenan. I met the shade of a Titan in the Deep Roads. I faced the essence of the rage that Mythal instilled in them. If the Titans woke now, they would wipe every single elf from the surface of the earth. And probably anything that looks remotely like an elf for good measure, so most of the humans and qunari as well.'

Solas stares at me. 'She would not want that. Mythal would not – '

'She told me once that she clawed and crawled her way through the ages to achieve her vengeance. Do you really think she did all that just to see the last of the Evanuris die? No, love, she always had bigger goals than that.'

He gazes at me; shaken, afraid. He whets his lips, and says. 'You are sure of this? What Mythal did?'

'Morrigan carries her memories, Solas. She is the one who told us. I'm afraid there can't be any doubt.'

He takes in a sharp breath. 'Morrigan now carries what remains of her? I wondered.'

'She would not let herself die. She held on to that anger, even when everything else was lost to her.'

He shifts unhappily from one foot to another. 'But even so, even if she intended – the Titans were wronged. They deserve justice. If I don't wake them – '

'I am not saying they should never be woken. The rage that Mythal instilled in their fragments will eventually calm.'

He shakes his head, agitated. 'But if we don't wake them now, the Blight – '

'We can still end the Blight. Mythal's way is not the only way.'

'It is the only way. Do you not think I've tried, searched? Do you not think I've read every book, turned over every stone? The Blight will remain a noxious poison creeping through the veins of this broken world, unless the dreams are returned to where they belong.'

'Yes. But the Titans are not the only place where they belong.'

He stands silent, gazing at me. The line between his eyes deepens.

'Vhenan, we will return the dreams to the dwarves,' I say.

His eyes widen; but there's no time to say more. The Fade is vanishing before my eyes. I have time for just one more glimpse of his stricken face before I wake in the music-room, alone. It's so hard to hurt him like that. But he has to know the truth. We both have to face the truth, and then, finally, we may be able to move on.

***

After my conversation with Natia Brosca, it feels more wrong than ever to keep lying to Harding. We've found a tentative agreement with the dwarves; a way forward, at last. Perhaps the wounds that our ancestors inflicted on one another can finally be healed.

And I want to make my peace with Harding too. I want to have her on my side.

But I still don't think she would understand. She was raised Andrastian, and she's still faithful. I've seen the way she looks at Spite, and the Caretaker. That barely veiled hostility, as if they might turn dark at any moment. And there's a reason she was such great friends with Varric: they had the same deep-rooted conservatism, a shared resistance to change. If I tell Harding the truth she'll turn on me, I have no doubt of the matter.

The deception grows heavier every day. But I still don't think I have any other choice.

It feels almost as bad when Neve comes to me with news: she finally has a lead on Aelia. She trusts me to have her back. You should not trust me, I want to scream at her. Instead I just smile wanly and get ready to head for Minrathous.

Taking Harding with us, we track the magister through the city, and finally come upon the hidden temple where she is beginning her blood magic. There's little room for doubt about what is happening here. We pass the gruesome corpses of Dock Town's residents, some of them seemingly still alive and reanimated, spitting curses at Neve as we pass. I see her flinch every time, but she keeps her eyes fixed forward, her gaze steady. The only way to help these people now is to find the source of the evil.

We enter a new chamber, ankle-deep with blood. There's no choice but to wade through it, my gorge rising, my stomach turning. How much of this blood is elven? I know the elves are particularly favoured for blood magic; our blood is said to make the spells stronger.

In the end, though, it makes no difference. The blood mingles, human and elf and dwarf all alike. They died together. They died for nothing.

I curl my fingers around my staff, shaking with fury. In this, at least, Neve and I are perfectly in alignment.

When we find Aelia, Neve springs immediately into action. She's glorious: fearsome, furious, beautiful. Harding and I are there for backup, but we're barely needed. I watch with fervent admiration as she takes the blood mage down, her ice crackling through the air like a manifestation of frozen, untouchable purity. She's incandescent as she stands over her enemy, victorious at last.

And then she turns to me. 'Let's go help those people,' she says brusquely, and so we return to the outer chambers to start healing those who still live. Neve is succinct, sardonic, and yet she's so gentle with them. Her fingers lingering on weary foreheads as she heals; the kindness in her touch. Everything she's done to keep Dock Town safe.

I look down, pain stinging at the back of my throat. Some of the inhabitants of Dock Town will die when we take down the Veil. That's the truth I have to face. We've done what we can – the artifacts, the Nadas Dirthalen, Fenris and his tunnels. But there will be death, here and elsewhere. That's the road I have chosen to walk down.

Sometimes I get scared. Am I really different from someone like Aelia, making all these sacrifices to change the world? I believe that I am, but how can I know for sure? Did Aelia believe she was doing the right thing? Did she believe the deaths were justified?

I close my eyes, trying to ground myself; the scent of old blood hangs heavy in my nostrils. It is not just the embodied, I remind myself. Blood on my hands, beneath my fingernails; the spirits do not bleed, but their pain is equally real. Their deaths are less messy but equally important. The people of Dock Town have their protectors, but the spirits need protectors as well, and that task falls on me, whatever it might cost me.

***

In the early evening Morrigan and I make our way to the Crossroads and follow the map Strife has made for us to the place where Mythal's island was hidden. When we arrive at the jetty, the Caretaker stands waiting for us.

'Did you know this was here all this time?' I ask, looking uncertainly over my shoulder.

'I did not,' it says, standing back and gesturing to the boat. 'I merely accompanied you along your path.'

Morrigan and I look at each other, and then step onto the boat, and the Caretaker pushes off from the landing-place. The strange, filtered light of the Crossroads flickers around us as we flow on those invisible, timeless currents toward the place that Solas once made for a woman he once loved.

When we disembark, we find an oasis of beauty – well thought out, meticulously crafted. The stone is aged and crumbling, but tall cypresses still grow along the path, casting fluttering shadows over the path that leads to the heart of the island. It is elegant and lovely and I see Solas' handiwork in every column, every rock. He put so much care into this place. And it was all for naught.

By the wayside I see a note, preserved by some trick of the Fade; when I pick it up, I see familiar handwriting – Felassan's hand:

Solas always thought Mythal would join us eventually, that she was better than the rest of the Evanuris. He made this place so she'd be comfortable here once she joined the rebellion. Now it's too late. Solas has sealed this place off out of grief. He won't let me in.

I'm sorry, my friend. There was something left for the war to take from you after all.

Oh, Solas. A lump in my throat, I put the note down and look at Morrigan.

'Are you ready?' I say.

'I am,' she says, grimly, and so we go forward, to the place where Mythal waits for us.

As we approach what remains of the All-Mother, the air seems to change. Pressing in on me like waves of heat, though in fact the temperature remains mild. I think for a moment that I smell fire – the kind of fire that burns quick and hot, laying waste to all in its path.

And then we round the corner and finally look upon Mythal as she once was. Like Elgar'nan, she's much taller than an elf of the present day, clad in a gown of glistening red and gold that clings tight to her skin and gives her the look of a tall, blazing flame. In its long train I see thousands of dark moon-shapes, cut from a gleaming black rock, catching the light and glittering like a sky full of furious stars. Her long dark hair falls halfway down her back, shimmering at the ends as if heat is rising from it, and on her head she wears the horns of a dragon – not unlike the headpiece that Flemeth used to wear, but gleaming gold and merged together with the Evanuris crown that sits low on her forehead.

Her eyes are closed, but then she opens them and her hot yellow gaze descends upon us; there's a suggestion of smoke, as if she might sear us from existence where she stands. And yet as she stands there gazing imperiously upon us there's something glorious about her. That arrogance. It's horrifying but it's compelling. Despite myself, I can see how Solas might have been drawn to her; she must have blazed so bright from the perspective of the gentle, impressionable spirit of wisdom that he once was.

'Child of the elvhen,' she says, her eyes resting on me. Somehow her voice is not just one voice: it is a deeply-entwined echo of hundreds of women, layers twisting in and out like twines in a thread. 'Have you come to ask help of your god?

I hesitate; but there's little to be gained by provoking her. 'Yes. We are in need of your help.'

She gazes at me, her eyes narrowing. Then she says, 'You bear the Dread Wolf's magic in your blood. Is his aid not enough for you?'

Beside me, Morrigan raises an eyebrow. 'Such acrimony. Why should you have ill-will toward Fen'Harel?'

'Hah!' she snaps. 'What should I have done, when Solas turned against me after all we had been to one another?'

'You should have respected him,' I say, and suddenly the iron in my voice matches hers. 'He saw what was right, and he would not let you sway him from it. You wanted to rule over the elves, but did it not give you pause that a man who had already followed you into such darkness would not follow you there?'

Mythal seems only faintly amused by my words. She peers at me. 'Ah. I see you know him well. You love him, even. Does he love you?'

I raise my chin. 'He does.'

'Ah! So confident. So certain.'

I make no reply. I don't need to justify my certainty to her; but through everything that's happened, through all the uncertainty and sadness and deception, the one thing I've never doubted is that Solas loves me.

The goddess turns a little, sweeping her train behind her. The black moons clatter against one another, like swords on shields. 'Well then. You have come here to ask me to help him, I suppose. He never knew how to help himself.'

The hackles rise on my neck. I would not let you anywhere near him, I think to myself.

'No,' I say. 'This is not about Solas at all.'

That does seem to surprise her. She considers a moment, gazing at us. 'You seek some other boon?'

'I seek it,' Morrigan says, stepping forward.

Mythal gazes at her, as if seeing her for the first time. 'Ah,' she says at last. 'And you – I see that you carry a familiar soul.'

'I carry a fragment of you,' Morrigan says. 'And I also carry your geas, from the Vir'Abelesan The two are locked in battle inside me, one struggling to hide your secrets from the other. I would be free of this struggle.'

'You want to be rid of me?' Mythal tips her head back and laughs, scorn echoing through every note. 'I fail to see why I should help you with that.'

'Not you,' Morrigan says. 'Just the geas. Take it away, and let your spirit be whole inside me.'

Mythal is silent for so long that I fear she will not answer at all, but then her eyes flash with a sudden hot light, and I realise that she's using mage-sight; probing at Morrigan's mind, seeking to understand the entanglement of the spirit and the geas.

After another long moment she gives a shrug, as if irritated. 'There is no way to separate them. I could remove the geas only by destroying myself, and the Well with it.'

My heart sinks, and I turn to look at Morrigan. She hesitates a moment, then squares her shoulders. 'Do it, then. I will not give up my freedom just to carry your spirit.'

Mythal laughs, a jagged, frozen sound that cracks against the rocks behind us. 'A god's fragment is not so easily destroyed. There will be a cost, to be paid in power of equal measure.'

I shift uneasily. 'What does that mean?'

'Destroying that fragment would destroy me too,' she says casually, as if the prospect fails to move her. 'It would be the end of all that remains of Mythal.'

Morrigan and I are silent, exchanging glances. I feel my spirit quail. How can we possibly convince her to do such a thing? What inducement could we offer for Mythal to finally, permanently cease to be, after remaining alive by force of will for so long?

But then Morrigan speaks, quiet and calm. Her eyes fixed on this shade of what once was. 'You are already dead, you know. For thousands of years you have been dead. Perhaps it is time for you to recognise that.'

Mythal bristles, her eyes flashing a hard slate grey. 'My fragment has shaped the course of history! Shaped events to her own ends, as none other ever could! What is that, if not life?'

'Yes,' Morrigan says. 'Women through the ages have carried you onward, toward your retribution. And have you not achieved it? You whispered to the Grey Wardens, told them how to kill the archdemons. You rescued the Hero of Ferelden, sent her on her way to kill Urthemiel. With your help, the wardens have slain five archdemons, and so five of your killers are now dead.'

'Two remain,' Mythal says, her mouth a thin line.

'Ghilan'nain has been rendered mortal. We will kill her soon,' I say. 'And Elgar'nan will not last long beyond that. He cannot stand alone, even with all of his power.'

Mythal's eyes return to Morrigan's face, and a small, cold smile graces her lips. 'And Solas?'

'Mythal,' I say, trying to keep my voice even. 'We need not argue over assignations of blame. Whatever you think Solas did, he has been punished enough. He has been in pain for thousands of years.'

'And I suppose you imagine he should now be allowed to live happily ever after? With you? After all that he has done?'

'I cannot know if we will survive into such a future. But if he did, would that be so bad?'

She is silent, her face impassive. Those burning eyes bore into me, strange and cryptic, and I feel myself seen and judged and discarded.

But then Morrigan says, 'I know you loved him once.'

Mythal makes a dismissive gesture. 'I love him still.'

'And yet you must have your retribution?'

She says nothing for a long moment. Finally, she gives a kind of sigh. The wind shifting, elusive currents twisting around her. 'I was not the first betrayed,' she says. 'The Titans were slain first. The great evil which lay at the heart of our empire, and destroyed it. They must be loosed. The wrong done to them must be set right.'

'And we will set it right,' I say.

She laughs. 'You will wake the Titans? I think not.'

'We will return the dreams to where they belong,' Morrigan says, her voice growing stronger. 'To the dwarves. They will carry the legacy of the Titans onward, just as the elves of today carry the best of ancient Arlathan.'

'Well that is no reckoning,' Mythal says. 'Dreams for the dwarves! I did not keep myself alive all this time for such a paltry ending.'

'It will not be a reckoning,' I agree. 'But it will be a regeneration. The Blight will be gone at last, after all those millenia. The great evil that you inadvertently created, finally defeated. Wasn't it worth remaining alive to guide us to this moment?'

'And yet you ask me to sacrifice myself not for the defeat of the Blight, but merely for the whims of one silly girl.'

'I am asking you to mete out justice,' Morrigan says steadily. 'You have wronged me – Flemeth and Mythal both. You took my freedom from me, pretending that it was a boon. Once you cared for justice. I ask you to remember that.'

Mythal turns away from us, then, her eyes fixed on the horizon as if seeing her millenia of struggle unfolding themselves there. Her silhouette is dark and towering, her magic crackling about her, and yet – in the end she is still just a woman, empty-handed, gazing out at the indifferent sky.

Finally she speaks in a low, echoing voice. 'You quicklings have lived your entire lives awaiting death. You cannot imagine what it is, to be immortal, and then to face the prospect of an ending. You cannot imagine the terror.'

Morrigan and I exchange glances. Something has changed, in her voice; the air between us feels soft, billowing. Perhaps there is a chance after all.

'I don't know you, exactly,' Morrigan says, and her voice is oddly gentle. 'But I knew my mother. She was passionate, and mercurial, and angry. And yet, in the moments in between? She was so very tired.'

Mythal says nothing.

Morrigan steps closer to her. 'Mother,' she says quietly. 'All-Mother. Are you not tired? Are you not ready to lay down your anger?'

Magic crackles around her, blistering hieroglyphics. My hand goes to my staff, suddenly convinced that she's about to attack us. She may be a mere shadow, but she's still strong in her way. It will not be an easy fight.

But then Mythal turns around. She looks much younger, all of a sudden. The heat in her eyes has faded, and some tension is gone from her shoulders. Her dress moves with her, as perhaps it did thousands of years ago when she was a young elven woman dancing in the first light of a new world.

'I will free you,' she announces, and then, before we can even react, 'You should know. The corruption in the Crossroads – you have seen it?'

'We have,' I say, shaken but still cautious. 'We have encountered Blight in many places through the Crossroads. The Caretaker fears the place will be taken over shortly.'

'It has a source. A blighted dragon – behind the gate near the Vi'Revas. Kill the dragon and you will remove the corruption.'

'We have not found a way to pass through that gate.'

She nods. 'I have a little strength yet. When I depart from this place, I will use it to open the way for you, and to weaken the dragon. And then I will be truly gone.'

Morrigan looks at her, suddenly pale, and I wonder if she's having second thoughts. But she says only, 'What do I have to do?'

Mythal gazes calmly back, as if what is about to transpire is of little significance. 'Kneel down.'

And so Morrigan kneels, bowing her head before the being that is still, in some way, her mother. And Mythal places her hands to the other woman's temples.

For a moment, I think I see a resemblance between them.

In the end it's very quiet. Mythal's power glows softly around them, oscillating with its own internal rhythm. As if we're seeing the essence of the spirit that Mythal once was, seeping slowly back into the Fade.

Then it fades away. Morrigan puts her hands to her face, and I think perhaps she weeps. Mythal is gone. She was glorious, in her way. And she will never hurt any of us again.

***

The next night in the Fade, Solas stands anxiously, waiting for me. 'You said we could restore the dreams to the dwarves,' he says immediately. 'Instead of the Titans. But that wouldn't work. Would it?'

Instead of answering, I reach out to take his hands. 'Come sit with me,' I say quietly, and I draw him down, so we are both sitting side by side on the hard, stony ground. Only then do I say, 'Do you remember, back at Skyhold, when we received a letter from the Hero of Ferelden? She was seeking a cure for the Calling.'

'I recall. We could not locate her.'

I nod. 'Well, she found her cure. She discovered that a rare few dwarves have the ability to take the Blight into their bodies, and transmute it into dreams.'

His eyes widen. 'They dream?'

'Indeed. And some even have some magic powers.'

He frowns, considering. 'But if only a few of them can do it – '

'There are easier ways. The same happened to Harding, and she did nothing more than touch the lyrium dagger. She's been having dreams ever since.'

'She also dreams?' He gapes at me. 'You didn't tell me!'

'As I say. Some of the Titans' dreams have found a home in her.'

'You are sure of this?'

'I spoke to the dwarves of Kal-Sharok. They belive it will work. And they tell me this is what they want. This is the right way forward for the dwarves.'

He looks up at me, and to my surprise I see a tentative, fragile hope flickering in his eyes. 'You really think we – this would be enough? This would make it right?'

'I think it's a start,' I say. 'I think it's better than you sacrificing yourself to wake the Titans and letting them destroy most of Thedas to take their vengeance.'

He is silent, looking down at our joined hands. 'It would be a monumental task, to go all across Thedas, restoring dreams to the dwarves,' he says slowly. 'And we only have one lyrium dagger. I no longer have the strength to craft another.'

'Actually, my friend Merrill has some ideas,' I say. 'She cleansed the Blight from an eluvian, you see, so she developed techniques to transfer it between enchanted objects. She thinks she can help us manufacture other tools which can be turned to the same purpose, to help put the dreams back in the dwarves.'

Solas stares at me. 'She cleansed the Blight from an eluvian? How did she – even June could never have – '

'Yes, Merrill is brilliant,' I say. 'She showed me her spell, and the details are sound. It took her many years to work it out, but I think what she's done makes sense.'

'She uses the covalent links, and retunes them? No – the secondary chords?' His brow furrows, and I can practically see the cogs turning in his brain. 'You must show me. If it's the chords, how does she address the tertiary harmonics?'

I smile. 'We will go over the details when I get you out of here, vhenan. Right now, we have other priorities.'

The disappointment on his face is ridiculously endearing, but he nods sternly. 'Yes. I am sorry. The Blight. We should focus.'

'The essential point is that the dreams need not be restored to the Titans. There are other ways. And Valta believes that the Titans may wake naturally, once the dreams have been restored and their anger is calmed.'

He tips his head, considering. 'Hmmm – I suppose I can see how that would work. If the dwarves are repositories of the spirit, in a sense – it would be akin to an ethereal confutation – though I would need to perform some calculations – '

I smile fondly at him. 'Right now, love, I think the important point is that you need not sacrifice your life to do this.'

He averts his eyes; still unable to acknowledge that Mythal wanted that end for him, that she planned it all along. 'Yes. I – yes. So it seems.'

Gazing up at him, I finally, finally understand something. The question that has nagged at me for ten years, haunted my darkest imaginings. The terror that has lain between us all this time, just outside my peripheral vision.

'This is what you meant by the dinan'shiral,' I say. 'Not just the deaths of others. You thought your own death lay at the end of it.'

He looks down, saying nothing, but his silence is assent. A vein pulses in his forehead, and his lashes lie dark and heavy on his cheeks.

'This is why you've been holding back,' I realise, everything starting to come together in my mind. 'You wouldn't let me come to you. Or help you get out of the prison. You thought – if we were to reunite, and then you were to set off once again on your journey of death – '

His jaw works. 'I left you once. I resolved not to do it again. Although – ' He looks down at our joined hands. 'Once again, I failed.'

I reach my arms around him to clasp them behind his waist. Drawing him closer into my body. 'Emma lath,' I say quietly. 'You did not fail. There are ways forward that will not end in your death. You need not leave me, unless you want to.'

'I never wanted to,' he says, heartfelt. 'I could never want to.'

'Then don't,' I whisper. 'Be with me. Let me help you get out of here. Let me help you find a new path.'

He gazes down at me, and I look back at him, my heart in my throat. And then – 'Yes,' he says simply, and he bends to press his lips to mine.

***

I take Davrin and Bellara with me to Arlathan to follow up the rumours of Venatori in the forest. Davrin is grumpy, glowering. When we come upon a group of Tevinters, he bristles with indignation and proceeds to methodically wipe the Venatori out one by one: Bellara and I barely have to raise a finger.

We follow the Venatori trail to the Dalish camp, where we quickly realise that the elves have been kidnapped. Bellara and I are anxious, upset, but Davrin is furious. He kills more Venatori with ruthless, pragmatic strokes, and then he strides around putting the pieces together, announcing after a few moments of thought that they've taken the kidnapped Dalish to the crater near the center of Arlathan.

That's when Irelin and Strife appear, hurtling round the corner with wild, frightened eyes. 'Eirlan,' Irelin says urgently, clutching at the stitch in her side. 'Bellara, they've got – they've got Merrill.'

I take a step backward, reeling. 'Merrill? No. No – '

'Why was she here?' Bellara says despairingly.

'She visited often. Helping out. Healing people.'

'Of course she did. Of course.' That was Merrill all over – the most generous, good-hearted blood mage you could possibly imagine.

'We have to go,' Bellara says urgently. 'Now. We know where they are. There may be little time.' She's almost frantic, her hands in her hair, pulling long strands loose. Merrill and I have always been friendly, of course, but Merrill and Bellara became best friends almost the moment they met, and were inseparable up until Bellara left Arlathan to come to the Lighthouse. No wonder Bellara is almost frantic with worry. She can't lose Merrill – not now, not so soon after Cyrian.

'The whole place will be crawling with Venatori,' I say gently, although all my instincts are screaming at me to go after Merrill immediately. 'We don't have the numbers to launch an attack.'

'Disguises then! We'll sneak in.'

'Three elves? Disguised as Venatori?'

She shakes her head impatiently. 'No. No, we need Neve. She'll play the part of a magister, we'll be her slaves.'

'Bellara – '

She shakes her head, gesturing in the direction of the camp. 'Quickly. We need to get to the Lighthouse to find her.'

And so it is that barely an hour later we find ourselves standing on the ridge over Arlathan crater, surveying the Venatori encampment below. Neve is gloriously arrrayed in the costume of a magister, while Davrin, Bellara and I are dressed up as her slaves. It makes me feel dirty, and not just because the garments are damp and sticky in unpleasant places. My people vowed never to submit to slavery.

It's only a disguise, I tell myself, but even as a disguise it weighs on me.

The crater below seethes with Venatori, streaming toward the lake like some horrible new kind of vermin. My hands curl into fists. Tevinter destroyed Arlathan once, burned our cities to the ground and spread our people to the winds. I will not allow them to desecrate the home that we have so painfully reclaimed.

We're close now, I remind myself. When the Veil falls, Tevinter will fall with it. And good riddance to them.

We descend into the valley and begin making our way forward. Walking through that crowd of Venatori is one of the hardest things I've ever done; the strength of will it takes to witness all of that and yet show no reaction. One Venatori beats his slave, and others are literally sitting on theirs. A cluster of young men are boasting of the elven artifacts they've managed to steal from the forest. Inside one of the chambers, they're sacrificing a halla, with a cheering audience looking on. Blood spurts from its neck, crimson spreading across its pristine white fur, and for a moment I think I might vomit. I avert my eyes, taking deep breaths as we move determinedly forward toward the front of the crowd.

And then – 'Da'len .' A voice echoes in my head, like crushing bands wrapping around my temples. Elgar'nan's voice, laced with twisted magic.

It's perverse, sickening to hear him call me da'len , the same endearment my mother once used for me. Rage curdles in the pit of my stomach, my fingers curling tight around my staff. How dare he use our language. How dare he speak to me at all.

'You fight the chaos of the Fade,' he says in my head: wheedling, almost playful. 'But I could make you its master.'

At least he hasn't realised who I am. He just knows me as Rook, the anonymous Veil Jumper without a past. Relief almost forces to my knees. If he'd known, if he'd figured it out –

'What?' Davrin says beside me, shaking his head. 'No, he's – he's in my mind!'

'Me too,' I murmur. 'This way.'

We push through the crowd, and then as we emerge I see him: Elgar'nan. He's right there in front of me; the legendary god of my people, suddenly flesh and blood.

I suck in a breath, ice pumping through my veins. The raw power that crackles around him, the aura of sheer might. If he sees us here, if he recognises me, we're doomed.

And then his archdemon rears behind him. As Solas warned me, it's enormous. But dragons are all enormous. This is – something else entirely. My whole vision fills up with scales and tusks and huge gleaming teeth, each larger than a person. Noxious, rotting breath billows from the creature, making the crowd gag and stumble backwards. I clutch at my chest, overwhelmed; this is what we have to kill? What strategies could possibly serve us against that thing; what spells could have a chance?

But there's no time to panic right now. Bellara, Neve and I gesture surreptitiously, breaking Elgar'nan's hold on our minds, and then we slip past the crowd and around the corner and begin our desperate dash to the place where the Dalish prisoners are being kept.

We fight our way through guards and obstacles and constructs, and I'm just starting to think we must be getting close when Elgar'nan's voice sounds in my mind once more; and then unexpectedly my steps start to falter. I feel some kind of billowing mist rising up around me, and I put out a hand to try to feel it, to stop it, brush it away; but I'm too late.

I'm somewhere else.

I'm in – what?

It's like the Fade, but not quite: all shades of grey, vague shapes and broken paths, and in the distance the faint and yet distinctly recognisable red glow of the Blight. I look around, beginning to panic, but to my relief Davrin and Bellara are with me. That's something at least.

'Where are we?' Davrin snaps, his voice taut. 'What is this place?'

'I don't know,' I say. Merrill's face swims before my eyes: every moment we waste is a moment we might lose her. 'Come on. Let's keep moving.'

But it's a maze, a trap. We run forwards and end up where we began – once, twice, three times. I feel around with my magic, trying to discern a chink, an opening, but Elgar'nan is simply too powerful. Nothing I could do would make the slightest dent on his spell.

And then – 'Vhenan?'

Solas' voice comes as such a shock that I stumble backwards, sucking in a mouthful of air. For a moment I'm sure I've imagined it – my mind grasping desperately at comfort. But then he speaks again. 'Vhenan, can you hear me?'

'Solas?'

Bellara looks over. 'What? Where?'

I shake my head, signalling for silence. 'Solas, is that you?'

'Elgar'nan's magic has thinned the Veil. For a while, I can reach you.'

'We need help, Solas,' I say quickly. 'He's got us trapped here. I think it's a pocket of the Fade that he's turned into some kind of maze.'

'Then I am pleased that for once, I can offer some assistance.'

I frown, not understanding, but then his raised voice crackles again through my mind. 'Elgarnan! Lethallin! Ma banal'evanuris. Ma salin ar ghilana?'

A moment. I wait in tense silence – but then, with a roar of outrage, Elgar'nan takes the bait. 'Fen'Harel! You have no power here!'

'They're fighting,' I tell Bellara and Davrin, doing my best to focus around the voices in my head. 'Solas is distracting them for us.'

We fight on through the Blight, as the voices echo in my ears. To be honest, I'm having trouble focusing. Hearing Solas like this is – well, it's very enjoyable. Hot-blooded and cocky, as if he's a proud young rebel once more. 'Again you have caged our people, and again, I will set them free,' he says, certain and resonant, and despite the circumstances I feel a shiver of desire; I like it when he's bashful, but it has to be said I like this side of him as well.

More Blight, more twists and turns. Still the voices banter back and forth. 'You were always stubborn, Fen'Harel,' Elgar'nan says bitingly. 'Insubordinate. Unmanageable, even by Mythal's reckoning.'

'You have lost the right to speak her name,' Solas hisses. For a moment his voice sounds achingly young; and oh, how my heart hurts for him. He knows what she was, what she ultimately became. And yet – he probably doesn't even realise how vulnerable he sounds.

But Elgar'nan certainly does: he laughs mockingly, and I almost can't bear to listen to his retort. It will never stop hurting to think of all the trust and love Mythal so carelessly threw away.

But Solas isn't so easily shaken. The voices continue as Davrin, Neve and I fight our way on; and then a door swings open, and we tumble through into the real world.

And there, just ahead of us, are the Dalish prisoners, huddled together in a dais with enchanted wards on all sides.

I hear Davrin give a hiss of outrage, and then he barrels forward, not bothering to wait for Neve or me to dismantle the wards; he just smashes the warding crystal with a fearsome sweep of his sword and sweeps on, kneeling to pick up one Dalish child in each arm, holding them with the same gentleness I've seen between him and Assan.

Meanwhile, I break into a run and sprint past Davrin and throw my arms around Merrill. 'Lethallan.' I'm sobbing, I realise. I couldn't lose her too. No more friends. No more failures. 'Lethallan, you're all right?'

'You came!' Merrill says, and that's all she manages to say, because then Bellara comes up behind us and throws her arms around the both of us and for a moment we descend into a pile of desperate, relieved hugging.

'Of course we came,' I say, when I can get my breath. 'Of course. We'll always come for you.'

'Eirlan.' Davrin's voice is clipped. 'We have to go.'

Solas' voice sounds in my head once more – quieter now, fading away. 'I can show you where to go. One of my old hideouts is near here. The wards will keep you safe.'

And so we gather up the Dalish prisoners, and slip away. Behind us Elgar'nan rages, and his archdemon splits the air with a heart-stopping roar, but it's too late. For now, at least, we're beyond his grasp.

***

When I materialize in the Fade that night, I barely have a moment to catch my breath before Solas' hands are on me, grasping at my waist, pulling me into his chest. His mouth descends on mine, pressing close as if he's trying to pass a heartbeat between our lips. He's wearing only a loose shirt and thin breeches, and I can feel every line of his body, tense and taut and urgent: tightly wound from ten years of yearning.

'The Dalish,' he gasps, between urgent kisses. 'They – are all right?'

'They're all right,' I manage to say, breathless.

'Thank you,' he whispers, and his breath is cool silk over my ear, making me shiver with want. 'It was a privilege to help our people again.'

'We couldn't – ' I want to tell him we couldn't have done it without him, but he kisses me again and steals my breath away, and so I give up on conversation and lean willingly into his kiss; my hands going to the hem of his shirt, tugging at the fabric, brushing tantalizingly over the warm skin beneath.

He stops a moment to allow me to get his shirt over his shoulders, then reaches down and scoops me up in his arms, raising me so he can kiss me again as he stumbles backwards. For a moment I think he's moving aimlessly, but then he turns and I see a thin bedroll behind us, barely more than a scrap of fabric laid over the stony ground. I feel a twinge of sadness to think that he's been sleeping here on this pitiful little blanket for all these months, but the thought is swept away as he pitches forward to put me down; he kneels before me, his hands on my thighs, his mouth still pressed blindly, urgently to mine.

I reach forward to undo the ties on his breeches and he helps me willingly, eagerly, pushing his breeches and smallclothes down over his hips and stepping out of them. And then he's kneeling naked before me, and I have a shock of memory: how he stood that first time, stretching in the light from the long windows in my rooms at Skyhold, letting me admire him. He's as beautiful as ever: the cool diamonds of his geometry, the long lines of his torso. But today he's a little shy – looking over at me and then averting his eyes, as if suddenly realizing that he's naked and I'm still fully clothed. The blush rising on his cheeks make me feel a confounding, overwhelming affection for him.

I reach up to embrace him, drawing him down to lay him gently on the bedroll, and then kneeling over him as I start to undress. He gazes up at me with his eyes full of trust and love, and then as my clothes come off he arches his hips toward me, small needy, wanting sounds escaping him. I smile down at him and then lower myself so he's trapped between us, causing both of us to gasp.

When I roll my hips he gives a little moan. 'Please,' he begs, 'Please, vhenan – '

I tease him a moment longer and then position him ready to enter me, looking down at him for permission.

'Yes,' he says, 'I need – '

So I take him inside me, and he cries out, and then as my hips rise he rises to meet me, the two of us moving together with a rhythm we've never forgotten. I can tell he isn't going to last. I lean down to kiss him, and he kisses back, heartfelt and passionate, and then suddenly he takes me in his arms and picks me up, hands cupped beneath me, kneeling upright as he pushes into me. A few desperate, urgent thrusts and then I feel him shudder, whispering my name; and that tips me over the edge as well, my hands grasping at his shoulders as I tremble into his embrace.

After that he gathers me in his arms and we lie together for a long time, silent, foreheads pressed together. The Fade is kind to me tonight, allowing me to linger there for what feels like hours. Warmth seeps like honey through my veins as we breathe together, skin to skin.

Suddenly Solas says, 'I'm sorry.'

'What for?'

He shakes his head. 'I just – I shouldn't, but I – I've wanted you so much, emma lath.'

I smile. 'Don't apologize, Solas. It was mutual.'

He rolls over, propping himself on one elbow to look seriously at me. 'It's important, Eirlan. I love your mind, your spirit. I like your body too, clearly, but it's not – when I lay with you, it's for love.'

'Solas,' I say quietly. 'I love you. I want you too.'

Rays of light fall between us; his bright-lidded eyes, a strange agony. 'I just worry. I don't want you to think – '

'Vhenan,' I say softly, leaning forward to press a kiss to his lips. 'It's all right. I know you. I know what this is.'

He shivers a little and then kisses me back. The kiss starts quiet and sweet, but quickly becomes more urgent, more passionate. He presses himself close against me and I can feel that he's hard again; he draws back a moment, as if ashamed. 'I'm sorry,' he whispers. 'I just – I don't want to keep asking things of you, but I – I am so – '

I take his face in both my hands, looking steadily into his eyes. 'Solas,' I say. 'Vir shiral ma lasa. Bellanaris.'

And then I guide him into me once more. Solas trembles all over and puts his arms around me and we rock against each other, sweet heat building between us, all our limbs intertwined. There are tears on his cheeks, but I'm not sure he even knows that he's weeping.

Afterwards we continue to lie curled tightly into one another. He touches his cheeks, bewildered. 'Was I crying? I'm sorry. I don't know why I was crying. It was beautiful.'

I raise a hand and wipe the tears from his cheeks. 'Maybe that's why,' I murmur softly, and then I kiss him one more time, and then we slowly drift off in one another's arms – him to sleep, and me to wakefulness.

Chapter Text

'You look perky this morning,' Felassan says. 'Did Solas finally put out?'

I blink at him in astonishment, and his faintly quizzical look morphs into a crow of triumph. 'Well, my instincts are certainly impeccable. Frankly, I'm impressed with myself.'

I glare at him and go to pour some coffee. 'It's really none of your business.'

'As previously discussed, Solas owes me.'

'He does. I don't.'

Felassan waves a hand. 'If you insist on choosing a man with baggage, you have to put up with the consequences. So how was it? Quick, I imagine, since you've both been waiting for, what is it? Ten years?'

'We are absolutely not having this conversation,' I tell him, and then look up, greatly relieved, when Neve appears.

'Hi Rook,' she says. 'Just checking to see if you still wanted to come to the Wall of Light with me today?'

I'm dreading attending the Wall of Light, but I didn't feel I could say no. She's grieving someone, and I have plenty to grieve as well. Perhaps we can help each other, despite all the lies and half-truths.

'Of course,' I say, resigning myself. 'Just let me drink this, and we'll go.'

**

The Wall of Light is beside the Chantry in the centre of Minrathous. Great silvery orbs float all around it, moon-round. They're slowly dipping and bobbing as if tossed on an invisible sea; its silent currents winding sinuosuly around us. This is an Andrastian tradition, and a Tevinter one, but despite everything I still find it moving. A lump rises in my throat; a litany of names reverberating through my mind. My clan. Hawke. Varric. Cyrian. The people I didn't save at Haven. The soldiers I couldn't save at Adamant. The wardens I didn't save at Weisshaupt. The civilians I couldn't save in Minrathous.

And the future: all those who will die when we take down the Veil. I squeeze my eyes shut, tears blurring against my eyelids. I have to burn this weakness out of me. I have to be strong, at least a little longer.

'It's hard,' Neve murmurs, and I give a start, imagining for one wild moment that she's read my thoughts. But she just sighs, and says, 'Everything I do, and it's never enough. Sometimes it feels as though the city itself is fighting me.'

'Oh Neve,' I say; a long exhale.

The worst thing is that I know neither of us is in the wrong. Both of us are just trying to look after our people. What a stupid, painful tragedy that we have to be on opposite sides of this battle.

I force a smile onto my face, turn to look at her. 'You've made a difference here,' I tell her. 'You really have. The people trust you, look up to you. It gives them comfort to know you're looking out for them.'

She continues gazing at the floating lights, her brow furrowed. 'I've tried. But I brought this on the city in the first place. Harding and I interrupted the ritual. This is my responsibility.'

'You did the right thing,' I say, and – to my own surprise – I find that I genuinely believe it. 'Under the circumstances, with the information you had, you did the right thing. No one could possibly blame you.'

'I know that,' she says steadily. 'I blamed myself at first, but I've made peace with it now. But nonetheless. I still feel that it's my responsibility to fix what I can.'

'That's fair. And you are. You've done so much already.'

She touches my arm, calls me a friend. My heart cracks in two. I bow my head, shame crashing over me. I'm sorry, Neve, I'm sorry. This is the right thing to do, but the right thing doesn't always feel good. We'll have our victory, but it won't be any kind of victory march.

***

Evka and Antoine have a lead on Isseya – some kind of strange underground hideout where wardens, somehow, have been surviving beyond their Callings. The whole thing makes me very uneasy, but I promised Davrin we'd rescue the griffons, and I owe him that at least.

Bellara, Davrin and I journey to the opening to the Deep Road. But as we're sitting outside, preparing to step into the mining lift, Davrin draws me aside. 'A moment, before we go,' he says.

'All right. What is it?'

'It's dangerous, what we're about to do,' Davrin says. 'And I'm trusting you with the lives of these griffons. I need to know that I can trust you.'

'Of course you can trust me,' I say, the lie slipping out almost without conscious volition.

He's silent a moment, watching me quietly. Then he says, 'No. I need you to tell me the truth.'

My skin tingles. I turn nervously to look at him. 'What do you mean?'

He gazes at me, unblinking. 'I think you know what I mean.'

'I – ' My mouth opens and closes stupidly. Every word I know seems to have fled from my mind. I should have had a plan for this. Why didn't I have a plan for this?

'I've been talking to Bellara,' he says. 'She told me that the Veil Jumpers aren't just exploring ruins. You want to reclaim Arlathan forest for the elves.'

Is that all? 'Yes,' I say cautiously. 'The elves need a safe place. The Dalish have dreamed of a homeland for many years, and what better place than Arlathan. We've been working to take the forest back.'

He shakes his head. 'But that would never work, not in the long term. The Tevinters or the qunari or the Chantry would eventually show up to kick you out. Just like they did with the Dales.'

'Well. That's not necessarily – '

'You need some kind of significant disruption. A change in the balance of power. Something that will bring the empires crashing down.'

I hesitate, wavering. Should I admit it? If I admit that, he'll have more questions. But if I don't –

'You're working with Solas,' Davrin says. A statement, not a question.

I stand stock-still, paralyzed. Unable to breathe a word. Davrin gazes at me, unblinking. 'You're going to help him take down the Veil down.'

I'm out of excuses, and if I'm honest, I've wanted to tell him for a long time. He deserves the truth; and at this point, I have no choice but to hope that he'll be willing to hear me out.

I let out a long, slow breath. 'Yes,' I say quietly, meeting his eyes. 'I am.'

He stands silently, looking at me. The corners of his mouth turned down, brows drawn together. I cannot easily read his expression.

'I'm sorry,' I say tentatively. 'I shouldn't have lied to you.'

'Oh, believe me, I'm angry. We'll certainly have words about that.'

And yet, I hear an unexpected note in his voice. I hold my breath, barely daring to believe it.

He sighs. 'But I asked you and Bellara to come with me today. Knowing what I know.'

'And why did you do that?'

'Because I think you're right,' Davrin says, his voice steady. 'It's long past time someone stood up for our people. I want to help you.'

I gape at him. 'You – really?'

His lip quirks. 'Is that so hard to understand?' He's silent a moment, gazing out over the slate-grey waters. 'You know, I used to have this dream that if I could just be a good enough Grey Warden, if I could prove myself, then I could make a difference. I could change things for the elves.' He shrugs. 'But I've been reading Isseya's diary. Her brother was Garahel, did you know that?'

'Garahel! No, I didn't know that.'

He nods. 'She and Garahel – both elves, both heroes. They ended the Fourth Blight, they saved the world. Isseya broke her own heart, blighting the griffons to save everyone. And what did they get? Isseya isn't even remembered. And Garahel – well, what difference did it make? People were grateful, and then they weren't. It changed nothing for the elves.'

I stand staring at him, his words thrumming in my chest. The same old tragedy. How many of us, over the ages, have shattered ourselves against these invisible walls? How many elves have played by the rules and served the human empires faithfully and seen less than nothing in recompense?

'Davrin,' I say. 'There's something else I need to tell you.'

He raises an eyebrow. 'Ominous. But go on.'

'My name isn't Rook. I'm Eirlan Lavellan. The Inquisitor.'

He stares at me a moment. His eyes widen. 'Ah. Then you have personal experience.'

I give a little humourless smile. 'I thought if I was a good enough Inquisitor, if I just did all the things the chantry-folk demanded of me, then I'd finally get a chance to make a difference. They'd let me help my people. But instead – as soon as it was over, they changed their minds, went back on their promises. Nothing I did lasted. Within a few years, nobody cared any more.'

'Yeah,' Davrin says. 'It's never going to work, is it? I've been going round in circles, trying to show them all that I'm worthy. But we've all been wasting our time.'

'I'm afraid so.'

He nods matter-of-factly. 'The only way out is to tear it all down.' He gets to his feet, and holds his hand out to me. 'Come on. Let's go get the griffons. And after that, let's change the world.'

And with that, we head into the Deep Roads.

***

It's a grim, exhausting battle. Waves upon waves of blighted wardens, each one a self-contained tragedy of their own. I'm glad I don't know their stories; if I could put names to these blistered corpses it would be too much to bear. We fight our way through that twisted twin of Weisshaupt, into the heart of Isseya's madness.

And there, at last, we strike her down.

I wish there had been a way to save her, but she's too far gone. Still, my heart breaks for her. Just as this place is a dark mirror of Weisshaupt, so she's a distorted mirror of me. She was trying to be good enough, trying to prove herself. But we both know better now: it's impossible to be good enough to change the verdict in the secret courts of people's hearts.

Afterwards, we free the griffons. They're twelve adorable bundles of fluff, their big eyes and high keening belying those sharp claws and vicious beaks. I bend down to allow them to lick my face, one by one, and then I bury my hands in fur and feathers. In this dark place full of Isseya's misery, the warmth and comfort of their simple animal natures is a sweet relief.

One of the griffons wanders over to Assan, begins to groom him. My heart melts. What strange, wonderful creatures; I'm glad I lived to see them all reunited.

'So,' I say, looking up at Davrin. 'Are we taking them back to the Grey Wardens?'

I see him smile knowingly. 'Do you have to ask?'

'So then what?'

'Easy. We're taking them to Arlathan.'

I stare at him. 'Really?'

'Sure. We're reclaiming the forest for the elves, right? They can help us defend it.'

A smile breaks over my face, and I see matching smiles on Davrin and Bellara. The griffons gambol joyfully around us, as if they know somehow that a brighter future has just been set out for them. It's a moment of stunning, wonderful optimism. There's still so much darkness to pass through, but there's a light ahead. There's a future to build. Just a little longer and we will all be free to make something beautiful.

***

When I return to the Fade, Solas stands across from me. His eyes anxious, uncertain. He looks at me

'I'm not going to change my mind,' I say.

He gazes silently at me, only the slight hunch of his shoulders betraying his discomposure.

'Vhenan,' I say, and I go to him and take him by the hand. I lead him over to his bedroll and lie him down, and then put my arms around him.

'I know everything,' I murmur to him. 'I know everything, now, and I still haven't changed my mind. You don't have to be afraid any more.'

He gasps out, and suddenly clings to me. I suspect that all this time he's held on to the fear that when I knew, when I really knew everything, I would finally turn from him in disgust and horror.

'I'm not going anywhere, Solas,' I tell him. 'Nor are you, for that matter. We've come this far. We'll make it to the finish line.'

He swallows, and buries his face in my hair, his arms tight around me; he's whispering in elven, speaking so fast I can't even translate the words, but I think I get the gist nonetheless.

'Now,' I say, when he finally lets me go. 'Are you going to tell me how to get you out of here?'

He looks up at me uncertainly. 'It is – complex,' he murmurs.

'All right. Tell me.'

His brow furrows. 'The lock on this prison is the same one that I intended to use on the Blight, when the Veil came down. If you break me from the prison, then when the Veil comes down the Blight will be released.'

'Ah. Well, that is a complication. Is there a way to make another lock?'

'Yes. But not easily. I used the remains of several foci to create this prison, and they were exhausted in the process. We will need another focus to make a new lock, and only one remains.'

'Whose?' I ask, though from the look on his face I already know the answer.

'Mythal's,' he whispers, averting his eyes.

'Ah.' I contemplate. 'And where can we get it from?'

'Her focus is guarded by her bonded dragon.'

'She had an archdemon?'

'She did not complete the full bonding. It was enough to keep her alive, but not enough to restore her in full.'

'And the archdemon is – where?'

'In the Crossroads. It has grown more Blighted since her death.'

Suddenly I remember. 'Oh! You mean – this is the same dragon which has given rise to the corruption in the Crossroads?'

He blinks. 'You know about it?'

Ah. All of a sudden I'm apprehensive.

'Well, we – we found the fragment of Mythal, in the Crossroads. She told us about the blighted dragon, though she neglected to mention it was once bonded to her.'

A brief flicker of hurt crosses Solas' face. 'You didn't tell me you saw her.'

'I didn't want to – well,' I stop, swallow. 'Solas. We asked the fragment to free Morrigan from the geas of the Well.'

He's still gazing at me, uncomprehending. 'Oh?'

'Emma lath. I'm sorry. It came at – at a great cost.'

His expression alters. 'Is she - '

'I'm sorry, Solas, but she's gone. She's really gone this time. All the fragments.'

His face twists, his fingers trembling on my arm. 'She – I never visited her. Not once in all those years. I didn't - '

I stare at him. 'You don't know?'

'Know what?'

'You couldn't have visited her, vhenan. The temple guardians took her island away and hid it, shortly after the Fall. If you had tried to visit, you would not have been able to find the way.'

He stares at me, dumbfounded. 'I – never went there. I never tried. I couldn't – '

'It's all right, you know. You didn't owe her anything.'

He swallows, his fingers tightening around my hand. 'I should still have gone to her. One last time.'

'You avenged her,' I say. 'You locked away the Evanuris, and now most of them are dead. The rest will die soon as well. It's enough, Solas. Whatever debt you owed, you have paid in full.'

He nods, but then buries his face in my shoulder, breathing hard. I wrap my arms around him, holding him close as he fights to recover his composure. 'Ir abelas, vhenan,' I whisper. 'If it helps – she was tired. She did not sleep through all these millenia, as you did. I think she was ready to go, in the end.'

He breathes sharply one more time, and then raises his head to look at me. 'I am sorry,' he says. 'It is – she was very dear to me, once.'

'I know, love. I know.'

He clears his throat. 'Well. It is – we were talking about the dragon. Yes. You will have to kill the dragon to obtain the focus. It will be a challenging fight.'

'Mythal's fragment told us she would weaken it for us, as her last act. I do not know if she kept her promise, but that may help.'

'She did?' he says, and it breaks my heart a little to see the relief on his face. That there was some good in her still, at the end; that all of that love was not for nothing.

'Good,' I say gently. 'All right, so we have a plan for the dragon. What do we do with the focus once we have it?'

'Perhaps leave it with the Caretaker. When you release me, I will retrieve it, and I can use it to make another lock.'

'And how do we release you?'

'I – know of only one way,' he whispers.

'And that is?'

He takes a deep breath, as if the words stick in his throat. For a moment I really think he will once again refuse to tell me.

But then, at least, he speaks. 'We must switch. You must take my place in the prison. I will return to the waking world. And you – I believe you will be able to break out of the prison.'

I frown. 'How could I, when even you could not?'

'This prison is made of regrets. I carry too many of them. The weight is too great for me to shift. But you – '

'I have regrets of my own.'

He flinches instinctively, and I touch a hand to his cheek. 'Not you,' I say softly. 'Never you.'

He raises his eyes to my face; tentative, unbelieving. Briefly I think he will not be able to go on. But finally he says, 'Well. Whatever regrets you have must surely be lesser than mine. I believe that you will be able to escape.'

I consider. It's hardly an ideal option, but if it's really the only way for him to get out, I don't see that I have much choice. We can't defeat Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain without him, and in any case I would never have been willing to leave him in here forever.

'All right,' I say eventually. 'How do we do that?'

'We would need a place where the Veil is very thin. In such a place, our minds can touch across the barriers. I would pull you through, together with the dagger. Then I can cut my way out.'

'That's it? I just need to go to a place where the Veil is thin?'

'And you must be willing. I will not be able to take the dagger unwillingly from you.'

'Of course I am willing.'

He shakes his head unhappily. 'What I am asking of you – '

I put a finger to his lips. 'Shh. No more guilt tonight. Our time is short, and I have priorities.'

He looks at me, confused. 'What – '

And then I kiss him, cutting him off, and feel his bewilderment soften into joy. He kisses me back breathlessly, eagerly, his arms wrapping around me to pull me flush to his body.

I let my hand drift towards the waistline of his breeches, and then look at him. ‘Is this – all right?’

A strange look crosses his face – like grief, almost like fear. ‘I should – you first – ’

I kiss him, gently. ‘Solas,’ I whisper. ‘Please let me take care of you?’

He swallows. ‘I – all right.'

And so I slide my hand past the waistband and grasp him. His eyes flicker shut, his hips twitching. ‘Oh – ’ The soft cry slides from his lips as if involuntarily. He reaches for me, holding me tight; he’s so responsive, his hips arching eagerly towards me, his breath coming in little gasps. Nothing has ever been so satisfying as seeing him come undone in my hands.

‘I love you,’ I murmur soothingly. ‘I love you, Solas, you’re so beautiful, so lovely – ’

He shivers all over, pressing closer to me. I remember how puzzled I was, back when we first became intimate: he was experienced, that much was evident, and yet all the same it always seemed very new to him to be cared for, to let himself be cared for. I didn't understand, then, but I understand a little better now.

His eyes come open. ‘I – this is – ’ He swallows. ‘I don’t – ’

‘I know,’ I say reassuringly, and I let go of his arms and move down his body. I look up at him for assent, and he hesitates, but then nods; so I put my mouth on him and am rewarded with a long exhalation, his hips bucking once again. I take him in deeper, then put my hands on his hips and trace my thumbs lightly over his hipbones, drawing a hiss from him. The way he looks at me, the heartbreaking wonder in his eyes. The unreasonable gratitude.

He takes a breath. ‘Eirlan,’ he whispers. ‘I’m – ’

‘I know,’ I say, smiling at him, and then I take him in my mouth again. Solas gasps once and then again, and then his hips surge beneath my hands; his head tipping back, my name slipping from his lips.

I withdraw, gently straightening his clothing. He looks at me for a long moment, as if trying to memorize my face. ‘Vhenan, I – I should – reciprocate,’ he murmurs.

‘You don’t have to,’ I tell him.

‘I do,’ he says urgently.

‘Thank you,' I say, smiling. ‘All in good time. But right now, I really just want to hold you.’

‘I – ’ His voice breaks on the word, as if he might weep. ‘Yes. I would like that.’

And so we lie together, tender and wondering; clinging on as long as we can, until the day finally draws me back.

***

I take Emmrich and Davrin with me to kill Mythal's dragon. It's a fearsome creature; not quite an archdemon but certainly not just a dragon either. It takes all of our combined strength to bring it down. But at last it lies dead before us, and I stand there panting, looking down at its sightless eyes. The very last remnant of Mythal. In a way, I feel a kind of grief: I know little of the good things she did, but there must have been good things, or Solas would never have loved her the way he did. And despite everything I'm struck by the tenacity of her spirit, clinging on for all those centuries just to take her final revenge.

But she had her time. She ruled, and she fell. The elvhen will build something different now.

I go to the bower behind her and find the focus. It looks exactly the same as the one Corypheus had, and for a moment I have a vivid memory of Solas kneeling, picking up the broken pieces. How my heart sank, to see the grief on his face. I knew in that moment that he would be leaving me, though for a long time I didn't understand what the orb had to do with it.

I take the orb with me, and meet with the Caretaker in the Crossroads. 'Solas will be coming this way soon,' I tell it. 'He will need this. Can you guide him to it?'

'Yes,' the Caretaker says, and it leads me to a rocky outcrop; the rocks shimmers gently, and one of them slides aside, divulging a small opening beyond. I place the focus inside, and the Caretaker closes the rock over it.

'Now we wait,' it says. 'For the wolf.'

I nod. It's been ten years of waiting. I am ready for our story to reach its conclusion.

***

We head to Treviso, to take down Illario, rescue Caterina, and avenge Lucanis. Teia and Viago attend the party, while Felassan, Davrin and I break into Villa Dellamorte through the back way.

The villa is imposing, splendid. Rich carpets lie across all the floors, intricate statues around every corner. Long banquet tables, antique mahogany chairs. The walls are hung with tapestries, slightly abstract and highly patterned in the usual Antivan style. The air smells of lemon and espresso, the endless rooms standing silent, expectant. This house has been too empty for too long.

Felassan is smouldering. 'Lucanis was a good man,' he says in an undertone, as we creep through the building. 'He loved Illario, so much. Trusted him as he trusted no one else. Such a betrayal – '

I look curiously at him. 'I didn't realise you knew him so well. You spoke to him, in the prison?'

'I watched him die.' Felassan shakes his head, and I see the glimmers of purple in his eyes.

'Careful,' I remind him. 'You can't turn, not here. There's too much going on. I won't be able to help you.'

He grunts. 'I know.'

We find Caterina in the upper buildings and break her out, whereupon she imperiously takes command of the situation. It's honestly quite restful: for once I don't have to be in charge. I just follow where Caterina leads and fight whoever she wants me to fight.

We battle our way through to the main hall, where Illario is in the process of delivering an elegy for his beloved grandmother. Said beloved grandmother interrupts rudely, sweeping into the hall and into the stage. 'Enough, Illario!' she declares.

A more sensible man would have yielded right then and there. But no one has ever accused Illario of being sensible. He calls upon Zara's blood magic and springs into action against us. Felassan, cold-eyed and furious, beats him into submission, until he's kneeling helpless on the stage before all seven Talons.

'Get up, Illario,' Caterina says contemptuously. 'No one from house Dellamorte kneels. Teia? Take him away, will you?'

I notice how her first instinct is to look to Teia for help. Perhaps Teia's ambitions of becoming First Talon are not so distant, though admittedly it might all become irrelevant once the Veil falls.

Afterwards, Teia takes me aside. 'There's word, from our spies in the Antaam,' she says. 'The Evanuris are preparing a ritual. We think they mean to make a dagger of their own, to match the one you bear. To release what remains of the Blight.'

I shudder instinctively. 'Oh,' I say. 'That's not good.'

'We found lunar charts too, and maps. It appears that the ritual will take place on Tearstone island, off the coast of Rivain. And we think it will probably be performed at the time of the eclipse that's coming in a few weeks.'

A few weeks. That's not a lot of time, but it's something. We can prepare.

Teia looks at me. 'Rook – what you're planning. It's coming, isn't it? When the Evanuris have been defeated?'

I meet her eyes seriously; she's earned the truth from me. 'Do you want me to tell you the details?'

She hesitates, and then shakes her head. 'If I knew for sure, I'd have to tell Vi. This way – well. He's a good man, but he's not an elf.'

I nod tersely at her. 'Thanks, Teia. You've been invaluable.'

'I do what I can,' she says, and then she slips away to rejoin the party.

I stand there silently, watching the crowd churn below, dancers spinning a dancefloor still stained with blood. No doubt standard practice, for the Crows.

And then I remember, suddenly, that Elgar'nan was once said to have the power to move the sun itself. No. Surely not. But I feel unease, creeping like a dark whisper up my spine. We're not ready. But we're running out of time.

Chapter Text

Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain have been quiet since Arlathan. Too quiet. Everyone is tense, on edge; we all feel it, the ticking of the clock. The ominous weight of these strange, anticipatory hours.

I go to Minrathous with Neve, to help deal with the aftermath of more abominations in Dock Town. Neve is calm, competent, reassuring: she's there on the ground doing the hard, unglamorous work of healing the sick, cleaning up the corpses. The way the people of Dock Town look at her – the trust and the gratefulness. It makes me adore her. It makes me want to die.

Afterwards, she looks up at me shyly, and then – very unexpectedly – reaches out to take my hand.

'Thanks Rook,' she says softly. 'You always come through.'

My heart squeezes; the shame is crushing, unbearable. 'Of course,' I say softly.

I watch her go with tears pricking painfully at my eyes.

Afterwards, I head off to meet Charter, Colette and Morrigan in the Cobbled Swan. Morrigan is waiting for me, nursing a small glass of whiskey; somehow it doesn't surprise me at all that whiskey is her drink. She smiles as I sit down opposite her. She's different, since Mythal's passing: quietly serene. Fully herself at last. Mythal's fate, at least, leaves me with no regrets. Morrigan's freedom was always worth far more.

'How go your preparations?' she asks. 'The moment draws near. Will your allies be ready?'

I nod. 'Emmrich says the Mourn Watch will probably be willing to fight for us. Davrin promises that the wardens will be there too, and Taash assures me that Isabella and the Lords will show up as well. Neve and Dorian have been liaising with the Shadows. And Teia's ready with the Crows. She knows what we're up to, more or less.'

Morrigan raises an eyebrow. 'And she approves?'

'She's seen some pretty dark stuff in the Crows – particularly what they do to elven children. She wants change as much as any of us.'

'Very good,' she says. 'And of course we have the Veil Jumpers. But it will still be a difficult fight. Have you made progress on releasing Solas? We may need him.'

I nod. 'We obtained Mythals' focus. All that remains is to find a place where the Veil is thin enough for him to get out.'

'Hmmm,' she says. 'The best such location I know is in Crestwood.'

I blanch. The Veil is thin here. Can you feel it on your skin, tingling?

'I think I know the place you mean,' I say, my heart sinking. Although so much has changed since that day, I still find myself extremely hesitant to go back.

But I can't put my tender feelings ahead of the fate of the world. 'Very well. Do we have an eluvian near Crestwood? I could maybe go down there tomorrow – '

But I will never find out if there's an eluvian near Crestwood, for at that very moment I feel a lurch beneath me, seeming to come from the very earth itself. From outside, the sounds of screams, wailing, people running. I leap to my feet; my first thought is that a Titan has woken beneath us, that it comes now to enact its vengeance on every living person in this city.

But then I look out the window, and what I see is, if anything, worse.

The sun is moving. The sun is moving. As I watch, horror-struck, it edges closer and closer to the moon, which hangs heavy and full in the late-afternoon sky. Morrigan and I exchange terrified glances as the sun slowly creeps behind the moon, and darkness falls upon the city, tinged with a disturbing red glow. The screams intensify, people weeping, clutching each other, calling out to whatever god they believe in.

Morrigan and I run outside, leaning over the railing to gaze at the sky, as if hoping that we might have imagined the whole thing. But this is real. The eclipse is here, and Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain are ready to begin their ritual.

***

After that, everything is just a mad, terrifying scramble. We have no time to gather any of our allies. I return to the Lighthouse, convene the party, and we head through the eluvian to a beach in Rivain, from which Tearstone island can be seen on the horizon. There's no time to obtain a boat via conventional means, so we simply steal one from the fisher-folk who tend to this harbour, and head straight for the island. Taash, who is stronger than the rest of us by a factor of at least ten, takes charge of the rowing, and before I know it we are drawing close to the island, the beat of the Antaam drums thrumming in my head like the rhythm of fate itself.

I didn't even have the chance to tell Solas what's happening. I couldn't possibly have slept, with all the adrenaline buzzing my my veins.

If I die here, I'll never even be able to say goodbye. He'll be trapped alone forever, wondering in vain why I never came back. He'll convince himself that I changed my mind, that I stopped loving him. The thought makes me want to throw up over the side of the boat.

We disembark on the beach, and stand together in the glorious white sand. It's a beautiful place - the ocean shimmers clear and inviting at our feet, and tropical plants tumble in abundance along the curve of the coast, palms swaying indulgently against the red-tinged sky. Birdsong can just be heard over the Antaam drums, and the mineral tang of sand and salt mingles uneasily with the gunpowder floating in on the breeze. Beneath my feet, the clattering of shells and small bones washed clean by the sea. I look at the little group standing disconsolate at the shoreline, and my heart sinks. We are so few: how can we possibly prevail against the armies gathered here?

We need a distraction, and of course Harding and Davrin both volunteer. My heart thrums painfully in my chest: this is a dangerous mission. There's a good chance that the person I choose to lead the team won't return. Harding and Davrin are both dear to me, in their way. I don't want to send either of them into danger.

But circumstances have given me no choice. And I need people I can trust at my back; people who know who I really am, what I'm really doing.

I swallow. 'Harding,' I say. 'I'd like you to lead the team.'

She nods quietly: stalwart, uncowed. 'Wish me a little luck,' she says, and I nod, trying to smile.

I take Davrin and Bellara with me. The others disappear down the beach. I watch them go, breathing hard, trying to contain the panic rising in me. Our enemies are endless. There's no way we're all making it back alive.

***

We fight our way up the island, climbing slowly through the ruins. Fallen statues, recaptured by the ferns and palms; soft leaves waving in the wind, like ancient memories evaporating into the tropical air. Sand shifting beneath my feet, calling to mind an hourglass. The battle is endless, soul crushing. It's terrible, poignant.

What was this place? Maybe the elves lived in peace here, once. Maybe they were happy. Elvhenan was built on terrible things, but it was not all terrible. Arlathan: the place of love. I have to believe there was real love there, despite everything. I have to believe my ancestors had good in them.

And then: Elgar'nan's voice in my head. Shuddering, quivering, the world shrinking and darkening around me. 'How brave of you to seek me out, Rook. We shall meet, soon.'

I retch, panic clutching at my chest. I have to do this. I have to survive; for Solas, for the world.

The only comfort I have is that he still calls me Rook. He still doesn't know who I really am. Perhaps I stand a chance, yet, of surviving this hellish island.

'Come on,' I say curtly to Davrin and Bellara.

'Eirlan,' Bellara whispers. 'I – I heard Elgar'nan.'

'I did too. Ignore him. There's nothing he can do.' This is patently a lie, but she accepts it. We climb onwards. I will not allow myself to imagine what might await us at the peak.

We come upon a cluster of deepstalkers. As I fight them, I have vivid flashbacks of the deepstalkers we fought in the Deep Roads, during the Exalted Council. The mines that we flooded, to foil Dragon's Breath. Chasing after Solas; how I already knew, and yet didn't. My mind not quite ready to acknowledge: Solas is the Dread Wolf. My lover is the Dread Wolf.

When I eventually came face to face with him in that place beyond the last mirrors, the words spilled from my mouth without conscious intention: 'You're Fen'Harel. You're the Dread Wolf.' It was impossible and yet all at once it made sense; after all the fear and wondering, it finally made sense.

The other half of my heart, turning away from me, as if forever.

Flowers bloom stark and flamboyant around us: they're predatory blooms. Carnivorous. I shudder, and continue on. We have to make it to the top of the island. At this point, there's simply no other choice.

As we pass to the next level, the archdemon rears over the battlements, its fetid breath shuddering across my skin, shaking petals from the orchids growing all around us. Davrin grimaces, drawing his sword: 'I killed the other one. I'll kill you.' I smile gratefully at him; his stubborn courage is contagious, and there are really no words for the comfort it brings me to have him at my back. If I believed in any gods, I'd be thanking them whole-heartedly that he has finally come over to our side.

When we meet up with Harding and the others, something in my chest releases. They're still alive, every one of them is still alive. Maybe we can all make it out of here? I know it's likely not possible. I've been telling myself for years that this journey will come at a cost. And yet – my foolish, wayward heart still holds on to hope.

We move on, and I start to see green glimmers in the air. Resonances pulsing in my blood, the music of the Fade drawing impossibly near. Tears in the Veil; Elgar'nan's magic has made it perilously thin.

I freeze, my heart pounding my chest. The Veil is thin.

This is it. This is our chance.

He doesn't know I'm here. He doesn't know what's happening. But maybe he will feel it, through our bond? Maybe he will come?

Every time a new tear appears, a stubborn, hopeful part of my heart imagines that Solas himself will simply walk out of it. But I know that's impossible. There's only one way out, and it requires me to sacrifice myself.

We come upon some wards that must be undone. Bellara and Neve volunteer, and without even thinking about it I nod quickly at Bellara. She's been my closest friend for the last eight years; I trust her more than I trust myself. Neve is lovely, but I know who I'd hand the fate of the world to.

Bellara unwinds the wards and beams with pride. Afterwards, that smile will be frozen forever in my mind. 'Great!' she says. 'Let's go!'

And then: the tendrils reach out of the mirror. Grabbing her, pulling her inside.

I scream, a primal shriek of rage and anger. There have been a lot of bad moments in my life, but this might very well be the worst one of all. 'Bellara!' I shout. 'BELLARA!'

Elgar'nan's voice issues from the mirror. 'The elvhen are a scattered people, but fret not. I shall bring your mage gently back into the fold.'

I lunge toward the mirror; but Neve grasps me, holds me back. 'No,' she says. 'No, you can't. We have to keep going.'

I fight on, in a haze of terror and panic. Bellara. My best friend, my constant companion. How can I do this without her?

Felassan is beside me, his face glazed with the same horror and pain. He's lost so much already. I look sideways at him, and he shakes his head, his eyes focused, furious. 'Today I will kill Ghilan'nain,' he says, his tone low, venemous. 'I have waited millennia for this moment.'

And after that, we will grieve. But I don't say that.

As we fight through the darkspawn, Ghilan'nain's voice echoes in my ears. 'Solas is cunning. Persuasive. He is loyal to nothing but his own fears.'

It's a good line, but I laugh scornfully. That's what you think, Ghilan'nain. It is, I suspect, typical of her: to interpret Solas' lack of loyalty to her personally as evidence of his incapacity for loyalty. She would never have been capable of contemplating the possibilty that the failure was in her all along.

And then at last, we walk through the mist. Ghilan'nain's voice draws even closer. 'So few of you remain,' she gloats, and it's like ice about my heart. Bellara. And where are the others: Neve, Harding, Taash? No sign of them. The darkness draws more closely around me, and I turn, and find that I can no longer see Emmrich or Felassan. There is no one here to help me.

Ghilan'nain gives a mocking laugh. 'For your transgressions, little Rook, you face a god alone.'

And all of a sudden, I am no longer afraid. It's so reminiscent of Corypheus: the same unearned arrogance. The same pride before a fall.

'Yeah?' I say, raising my staff. 'Well, it wouldn't be the first time.'

The mist clears a little as my spell blasts through it. In the reverberating aftershocks, I glimpse my companions trapped by the Blight. I gather the Fade to me, and cast. I free them, one by one, and we stand together, blades raised. I'm surviving this, come what may. For Solas. For the world.

***

The last, desperate moment. I see the wings sprout from Felassan's back, as he dives furiously toward Ghilan'nain. Too impetuous, too soon. Her tentacle reaches out to seize him, wrapping around his waist, squeezing. His face pales as he chokes.

'No!' I shout, scrambling against the tendril of blight that holds me, but I can't get there. The tentacle squeezes tighter; will I have to watch as the light leaves his eyes?

But then I see Harding, scrambling onto the rock behind them. I see her mouth move: whatever it takes.

I understand what's about to happen a moment before it does, but there's nothing I can do. A storm of magic rages all around us, rebuffing all my attempts to cast. Harding nocks an arrow, aims. I try to cry out, but there's no breath in my chest. She shoots, once and then again.

Ghilan'nain withdraws from Fellasan. I watch as the tendril extends; as it shoots through Lace's chest. I scream, and I hear Taash scream beside me.

It's too late. She falls.

'Harding!' I shout, desperate, but above us Felassan is moving. Making the best of the moment that Harding bought with her life. He lunges forward, and this time the dagger strikes true.

The cry that comes from Ghilan'nain seems to fracture the whole world. All around us, the Veil shudders, oscillates wildly. Of course, I think; it's tied to her life. This must have weakened it even further. I scramble forward, hoping against hope that we might still be able to save Harding. I seize the dagger from Ghilan'nain's body and then draw back, looking wildly around me. Where is she? She can't just be gone.

But it's too late. The Fade reverberates once more, and then Elgar'nan appears, towering over me. I quail backwards, struck with terror like I've never known. He looms over me, wild-eyed. 'No!' he cries, and for one strange moment I really feel for him. He is now the last of his family.

'Elgar'nan,' Ghilan'nain moans. 'We had such plans.'

And then she is gone. The oscillations of the Veil intensify; for a moment I think it might fall right then and there. Elgar'nan turns, and his eyes bore into mine. Seeing everything. I try to shield myself, but it all flashes before my eyes: the kiss in the Fade, the kiss on the balcony. Solas in the Fade, in my arms.

Elgar'nan's face contorts in a snarl. He knows everything, at last. He knows who I am.

'You!' he shouts, rage etched across his features. 'You will regret this!'

He lunges toward me. I raise my staff instinctively, but I know it's no good. Weakened as I am, I cannot possibly stand against him. Helplessly, I watch him bearing down on me –

And then, all of a sudden, he's gone. The battlefield is gone. I'm in the Fade; and Solas is standing right there, his expression frantic, his hands reaching toward me.

***

'What happened?' I say, and I step toward him, not quite believing that it's real. I still have the dagger in my hand, I realise. That's never happened before. 'Did I pass out?'

He shakes his head. 'No. The Veil is at its most permeable. Elgar'nan would have killed you. I drew you here, to save you.'

Light dawns. I look at him steadily. 'I see. That means it's time for us to switch places.'

He casts his eyes down, avoiding my gaze. 'Well. Yes. The prison demands balance; a life for a life. It would be possible, but – '

For the first time in a number of years, real anger against him burns hot in my chest. 'Don't you dare, Solas.'

He looks up, his lips pressed together. 'I cannot do this to you, vhenan. This place – '

'Is that so? Or are you just afraid to leave this place? Afraid to face what must be done?'

A matching anger flickers across his face. And the Fade responds; the solid rocks seem to shift and slide around us, and all of a sudden we're standing somewhere else. Solas gazes down at me from a rocky ledge far above, and meanwhile I am dangling in midair, barely clinging onto the edge of a broken column. I know that it's just an illusion of the Fade, but nonetheless my heart beats fast in my chest, telling me that only my steadily weakening grasp on the ledge stands between me and death.

Above me, Solas draws himself up, and suddenly he's tall and bright and terrifying. I've never feared him before, but I've also never seen him like this before. I scrabble at the rock, desperate.

'Afraid?' His voice booms, both like and unlike his usual mellow tones. 'You do not know what I have faced. You do not know what I have stood against – '

'I do know! I've watched your memories. I've pieced together your story, even the things you constantly refused to tell me. I am here, walking the dinan'shiral with you!'

'That is exactly what I did not want!' His eyes bore into me, his expression unfamiliar, almost cold. 'You were never ready to make the sacrifices that such a path requires!'

'And yet I have made them! You think I haven't lost anything? You think this has been easy?'

Around us, the Fade shifts again. Shimmering into new life. A scene solidifies around us, and the realization hits me like a physical blow: this is Crestwood.

The pool so still and silent behind us, the harts towering above us. The air glittering with magic. The pain almost forces me to my knees: how I stood there and watched him walk away from me. How I knelt by the shore and wept, with the Veil shimmering all around me.

But Solas does not seem to have noticed the change of scene. Perhaps it looks different to him. 'You think you have suffered?' he says angrily. 'How many years has it been since the Conclave? Ten, or thereabouts? I have been fighting for centuries! You could not begin to imagine what I have lost, what I have faced – '

'Then face this!' My throat is raw; I've never shouted at him like this, never shouted at anyone like this. 'Or are you a coward? You'd rather hide in your safe little prison?'

I see the hurt flicker in his eyes, but I'm too angry to care. His voice becomes colder still, his brows furrowing. 'I cannot leave you in here alone.'

I draw myself up, standing tall. 'You need to trust me,' I say in a low, fierce voice.

'Of course I trust you. That is not – '

'You don't trust me. Of course you don't. You don't trust anyone. But I have proved to you over and over again that I will stand by you. This time, you need to listen.'

Again, the Fade shifts. Once more he's standing above me, and I'm clinging onto a ledge. But now it's a familiar cluster of floating rocks. This is the place I killed Corypheus; the place Solas abandoned me. How he stole from me even the moment of my greatest victory.

He's standing above me now, the stones turning in circles all around us. The blackness of the Fade beckoning. I'm about to fall. If I lose sight of him, I'm not sure I'll ever find my way back.

'I know that,' he says, his voice low, biting. 'I know all of that. That's exactly why I can't do this to you. After everything you've done, to put you through yet more – '

'This is my choice. My sacrifice, my decision, and you don't get to take that away from me.'

He falters, his eyes falling. 'Eirlan – '

'Trust me,' I say. 'I can get out of here. I know that I can. We need you out there, in the physical world.'

He hesitates. In that moment, all of our fates hang in the balance.

But then, very slowly, he reaches out.

Relief beats in my chest like wings. I put the dagger into his hand; close his fingers around it. 'Var lath vir suledin,' I whisper.

'Ar lath ma,' he whispers, his face drawn, his eyes uncertain.

But then he turns, squares his shoulders. I watch as he raises the dagger and cuts into the Fade. Tall and powerful; sensual, even, in the way he holds himself as he moves into the breach.

He looks back, once. I see his mouth move; the word vhenan. And then he's gone; and I am falling, tumbling in midair, vanishing like a prayer into the endless dark.

***

Part of me is expecting to fall forever, but of course I don't. I land on my feet, back in the place where I started; that damn ravine, the one he used to keep us apart for all of those months.

I know this place well, by now. I have spent countless hours talking in the prison with Solas. I have lain with him, on this meagre little bedroll.

But it is different being here alone.

Echoes of my past call out to me. Regrets, eager to swallow me. I close my mind to them, square my shoulders. I must go forward.

I don't know where to go, but my instincts tell me upward. And so I climb.

First of all I encounter a wolf statue, and beneath it the Fade's facsimile of Solas' broken orb, the one he retrieved from Corypheus. This, I suppose, represents one of the regrets that the prison used to hold him. A memory of failure.

I reach out to touch my fingers to the broken stone; and suddenly, disorientatingly, I see myself through Solas' eyes. The kiss in the Fade. The way I held him, the night after Adamant. Crestwood; the tears on my cheeks as he broke both of our hearts.

I stumble backwards, breathing hard. Has he been in here all this time, dwelling on these memories, these most cherished regrets? The joy and the pain all mingled together until there's no separating them?

I shake my head, turn away. I have to get out of here. Everyone is counting on me.

I continue climbing. The staircase seems to turn eternally, fragments floating all around me. And then suddenly, up ahead, looms an enormous statue. An image of Bellara.

Her voice floats to me, on the endless breeze. 'I'm sorry to make you sad, but I told you the enchantments were dangerous. You chose me anyway.'

The words catch in my chest. Bellara would never say that, never blame me.

And yet. Aren't I to blame? Didn't I choose her?

'I chose you because I trust you,' I say, wretchedly. 'I knew I could rely on you, because – you never let me down, Bellara, not once in all those years. I knew you'd be able to do it.'

'You picked me to die!' she spits at me.

Bellara would never say that. And yet. Didn't I?

'We had to get the wards down,' I say, facing the shade of Bellara as best I can. 'She chose that. I didn't make the choice for her.'

The shade hesitates, wavers. Fades away. But then another voice comes from behind me. 'Everyone's a pawn, to someone like Solas.'

Oh. It's Harding. Harding.

'He'll sacrifice them without a thought,' she goes on. 'Allies, even friends. Isn't that what pawns are for?'

I can't speak to her. I can't do it.

I turn away, raising my hands to my temples, pain wracking through me. I never had the chance to tell her the truth. I never had the chance to make things right with her. And now I never will.

'You're no better, Eirlan,' the shade of Harding says. 'I worked faithfully for you, ten years ago, in the Inquisition. I worked faithfully for you again, not even knowing who you were. You lied to me all that time. And then you sent me to my death. I guess I was just a pawn to you as well.'

Isn't it the truth? She went to her death, carrying all the lies I told her. She sacrificed her life because she trusted me.

No, she trusted Rook – a person who does not even exist.

I bow my head, exhausted. I didn't try hard enough to make her understand. Maybe I could have gotten through to her. Maybe I could have found a way to tell her the truth.

'I'm not the only sacrifice, am I?' she says. 'How many people have to die to achieve the world you want? How many more pawns, how many sacrifices? Thousands will perish when you take down the Veil. What kind of monster would do that?'

But those words switch something in my brain. Because the simulacrum is right: that's exactly what Harding would have said. That's how she would have reacted, if I'd tried to tell her the truth. Harding was good and sweet and I cared for her, but she would never have understood. There was nothing I could have done to change her mind.

And so, finally, I turn to face her.

'Lace,' I say gently. 'I lied to you. I'm sorry for that.'

The statue gazes harshly at me. 'I trusted you.'

'I know,' I say. 'You shouldn't have.'

She is silent, just looking at me. I sigh, and reach out to touch her on the shoulder: cold stone, and yet somehow it has the feel of living flesh. 'You would never have agreed to help. But what I'm doing is right. I know you can't understand that, but it's true.'

The statue says nothing more. Lace is not going to grant me absolution, and nor should she. But I've done what I can.

'I'm sorry,' I say once more. 'I promise you, Harding, I'll make sure your sacrifice was worth it.'

'Well done.' A voice echoes from the distance. Varric. 'Now, what about mine?'

I close my eyes, steeling myself. I knew, didn't I, that I'd have to face him too?

The door swings open. Beyond, I see the ritual site. Nausea rises in me. I ran up this hill. I rounded this corner, and I killed him. My friend. The man who once called me Snowdrop, with such gentleness in his voice.

I walk slowly toward the empty plinth, my heart thundering in my chest. I was desperate. There was no time. I was trying to save the world.

He's still dead.

He made mistakes, just as I did. He chased the wrong battles, made the wrong sacrifices. But he didn't deserve to die that way.

I didn't even look him in the eyes.

'I didn't want to kill you,' I whisper. 'I wanted to help Solas, but I also wanted to stop anyone from getting hurt. Things just – got out of hand.'

He comes to stand beside me, hooking his hands in his belt. He gives a sigh. 'Yeah. Sorry about that, Snowdrop.'

I turn to him, blinking the tears from my eyes. 'I failed you, Varric.'

'How do you figure?'

'If I'd been faster, or had a different plan – '

He snorts. 'Bullshit. Haven't you learned anything from this place? Every story's got an ending. This one just came a little earlier than I'd planned.'

I stand looking at him. I want to ask his forgiveness. I know that I don't deserve it.

'I didn't feel like I had a choice,' I whisper.

'There's always a choice, Snowdrop. But that doesn't mean the one you made was wrong.' He gives a shrug. 'I didn't know what I was walking into. If I'd known what could happen, maybe I wouldn't have done it. That part's on me.'

I shiver, putting my arms around myself. Holding myself together. 'I'm going to miss you, Varric,' I whisper.

'I know,' he says. 'Me too.'

He begins to fade away. One last chance. I could still ask for forgiveness.

I don't.

Varric vanishes. I am left, standing there alone on the spot where he died. Where my life cleaved in two: before and after.

I do regret Varric's death. I will never stop regretting it. But I did what I had to do.

I bend in two, bracing my hands on my knees, my breathing constricted. A sob shaking from my chest, and then another. Sometimes doing the right thing is really hard. Sometimes it hurts. You lose people. You lose parts of yourself.

But you can't change the world without painful sacrifice.

***

Walking on, I find myself going backward in time. I'm passing through the ruins of Weisshaupt, piled high with the bodies of the wardens I couldn't save. The darkness encroaching around us, the shadows lurking within that ancient order. Then I'm in the streets of Minrathous, watching bodies swing from the scaffolds. I chose Treviso, and I let them die. Another thing I'll always have to live with.

Still further back. Briala stands in the shadows, watching me. 'You didn't save me,' she says. 'You disbanded the Inquisition and let them kill me.'

I bow my head. 'I know,' I say, weary and sad. 'I didn't understand the depths of the corruption in Orlais. I thought they could change, given a chance.'

'So did I,' she says, and then. 'Tear it all down, Eirlan. Do it for me.'

I smile, tentatively. 'I will,' I say, and her image wavers and vanishes.

Further back. I see the shadows of Adamant fortress, the faceless figures of all the Inquisition soldiers who went into battle for me and died there. And then I come to my clan, standing in the shadows of Wycombe, where they were all cut down without me. Keeper Deshanna waits, her eyes splintered with a grief I can't bear to face. 'You left us,' she says. 'You left us, and we died.'

'I had no choice,' I say. 'The breach, Corypheus – '

'Ah, but you always wanted to leave. I remember, da'len. How you dreamed of seeing the world, studying new magic, learning things I couldn't teach you. All along you were waiting for a chance to leave.'

I press my lips together; there's nothing I can say to her, because it's the truth. I did dream of different paths, stranger journeys. I regret the deaths, but I cannot regret where my wanderings have led me. This was always where I was supposed to go.

Beside Deshanna stands Viera, the first person I ever kissed. That moonlit night, by the water; the magnetism of what could have been. She looks seriously at me, her eyes filling with tears. 'You didn't love me.'

'I did,' I say.

'You didn't love me enough,' she accuses, and I bow my head, accepting her verdict. If I had loved her more, maybe I would have found a way to keep her safe.

The prison makes me walk past every last member of my clan, looking them all in the face. Those distant, accusing eyes. I wanted to leave them, all those years. And then I found a way to leave them and they died. Maybe it would have been different, if I'd been there; or maybe I would have died too. I will never know, now. The counterfactuals will haunt me forever.

And then finally I pass beyond them, and once again the Fade reforms itself around me. Now, at last, I'm standing in the snow at Haven. Watching the village burn down around me, scarlet flames against the cold white night. The cries of the villagers, floating like a twisted song into the starry heavens. The very first time I learned that sometimes you can't save everyone, no matter how hard you try.

Then I look down, and something sparks in my mind.

In the memory, my prosthetic arm is gone. I see an arm of flesh and blood, and the anchor, glowing faintly in the flickering light of the burning houses. I feel the anchor, its subtle magic vibrating over my skin.

The anchor is gone. And yet, the imprint of it lives on in me. In this memory.

The anchor, which had the power to open up the Veil.

My studies have taught me something of the logic of the Fade. If I understood Solas correctly, this prison holds me through the force of my regret; through memory. If the memory is powerful enough, it may be able to call upon the last vestiges of that power, the remnants still threaded through my veins.

So I sit down there, in the snow outside the Chantry. Barricading my mind against the screams of people asking me to help them. Closing my eyes, I reach for that familiar power.

And I find it.

I feel the magic of the anchor grow stronger, pulsing wild and symphonic through my body, just as it did in those first terrifying days at Haven, and in those last terrifying days before the Exalted Council. It isn't real. But it's real enough, for this.

I reach for the magic, unpicking the threads of power inside me. I have worked and studied, since I lost the anchor; I have more control now, more discipline. And at last I know what I really am. I can feel, in my very bones, the shimmering of my own spirit-self. The elves were spirits once, creatures of the Fade. And what we once were, we still remain.

I feel the Fade calling out to me; and I open myself up and let it in.

A blinding, wayward power, pouring through me until I fear that I will lose myself altogether. But I let myself fall, into the heart of the magic. And there, as the Fade pulses through me, I find what I'm looking for: thousands of silvery paths, unfurling before me like scrolls. Like an echo of the Crossroads, inside my own mind.

I could go anywhere, do anything. For a moment I face an infinity of possibility; countless futures laying themselves out before me.

But there, in the distance, I see it. A light in the darkness, calling me home.

I know where I need to go.

I raise my hands, and open the Fade before me, like waters parting around the prow of a boat. And then I stumble out of the prison, right into the main hall of the Lighthouse.

Chapter Text

'Solas tricked me,' I tell Neve and Taash, with all the faux-indignation I can muster. 'All this time I thought he wanted to help us. But he was just waiting for a moment to make his move. He switched me with him so he could leave the prison.'

I'm sitting up in one of the little beds in the infirmary, drinking some noxious mixture of herbs that Neve has conjured up for me. Though it didn't feel like a long time in the Fade, in the real world several weeks have passed, and my physical body is feeling the effects of lack of sleep and nutrition: I need to get my strength back as soon as possible.

'That bastard,' Taash says, their eyes flaring. 'Fuck him. How could he do that to you?'

It doesn't make a lot of sense to defend Solas for something he did not actually do, but I find myself compelled to speak nonetheless. 'In fairness, he was being confined against his will in a prison that tortured him. Honestly I can't really blame him for taking desperate measures to get out. I would have done the same in his place.'

'No you wouldn't. You wouldn't lie to someone like that.'

I wince internally, and give a shrug. 'Right. Well.'

Felassan, scenting dangerous territory, hastily clears his throat and comes to sit down beside me. 'Solas must have been planning this for a while. When he left the Fade he didn't hesitate. We barely saw him – he left the battlefield before any of us could speak to him. I don't know how he got off the island, but he must have managed it somehow, because apparently he made it to Minrathous just before the gates closed and the eluvians went dark.'

'Wait, what? What do you mean, the gates closed?'

Davrin winces. 'Ah, yes.'

Neve sits on the other side from us, dark rings beneath her eyes. 'Elgar'nan and his forces descended on Minrathous, bringing the Blight,' she says. 'The city is locked down, and who knows how many people are dead. I've been in contact with the Shadows, and they say it's a fight for their lives.'

'It would have been much worse without Solas,' Felassan says. 'He's been fighting the Blight night and day since he arrived. He's saved many lives. I hear he's made some kind of alliance with Dorian and Fenris.'

Despite the dark news, I smile a little. 'Well. That must be – tense.'

'No doubt. But it's working. The three of them have been keeping the city afloat.'

'But they haven't killed Elgar'nan, or his archdemon?'

'They don't have enough forces to get near him. The Shadows have been decimated already, and most of Minrathous' most powerful mages are either dead or openly supporting Elgar'nan.'

'Well then.' I push myself up on the bed and put Neve's concoction aside, hoping she won't notice I've barely touched it. 'We'd better gather our allies and head for Minrathous.'

Felassan nods. 'The Veil Jumpers are ready to go. And Teia sent word. The Crows are waiting for your call.'

'The wardens too,' Davrin says. 'And Emmrich's with the Mourn Watch now, trying to convince them to join us.'

'I'll go see the Lords,' Taash says, getting to their feet. 'Isabella promised she'd come.'

Neve sighs, standing up as well. 'I'm going to see if I can reach any more of the Shadows. I need news.'

'Thank you,' I say. 'See if you can get any information on the state of the fortifications, if you can.'

She nods, and follows Taash out. And then silence falls for a long, painful moment. Felassan is grim-faced, a line between his eyes, and even Davrin's usual warm humour seems dimmed. The spectres of those we have lost hang heavy in the air between us.

'I take it he didn't actually trick you,' Felassan says at last, his tone flat and deadened.

I shake my head. 'This is what we planned all along. Though he did take some persuading, at the end.'

'Sounds like him. Obstinate idiot,' Felassan says grumpily.

'I have to say,' Davrin says, perking up a little. 'Having seen him in person, I – uh. I understand.'

I laugh. 'Right?'

Felassan shakes his head. 'Even bald? Really?'

'Mmmm. It shows off those cheekbones,' Davrin says enthusiastically.

Felassan looks vaguely put out. 'Well, I don't know why I put so much effort into haircare then. Might as well just shave it all off.'

'I don't know if you could pull the look off, Felassan,' I say. But then I sober, looking at two of them. 'Have we had any word about Bellara?'

Felassan shakes his head. 'But I've consulted the spirits. I am confident that she is still alive, though I haven't been able to find out where.'

I look sideways at him, seeing the tightness around the temples, the harsh lines around his eyes. He might try to seem light-hearted, but he's taking this hard. He already lost everything once; how much more of this can he bear?

'If she's still alive, we'll find her,' I say. 'I promise, Felassan.'

His head lowers. 'That is not a promise you can make, Eirlan.'

I know that, but I have to believe it nonetheless. 'And – Harding,' I say, in a whisper. 'Anything?'

'We couldn't find her body,' Felassan says. 'But she fell into a pit of Blight. I'm sorry, Eirlan. I think she's gone.'

'I hoped we'd all make it,' Davrin says gruffly. 'Guess that was too optimistic.'

I swallow. 'I lied to her. All this time. And then she went to her death for me.'

'It's hard. It always is,' Felassan says, and for a moment his eyes are very old; flickering with a soft purple light, like a guttering flame. 'But the only thing we can do for them now is make sure that we finish what we started.'

I shift restlessly on the bed, and then say, 'You know – this is it. The attack on Minrathous. Either we'll die or the Veil will come down.'

'We're ready,' Davrin says. 'You set up the Nadas Dirthalen. The spirits that Solas organised to help are waiting. Fenris has his plans in order. There will never be a better moment.'

'I know,' I say unhappily. I should be relieved, to be finally reaching the end of the road. But I've spent these months hovering in a state of suspended animation, committed but not quite truly committed. Once it is done – I will be another person, and so will Solas. There will be no turning away from what we've wrought.

Felassan reaches out to take my hand. 'This is hard too,' he says simply. 'But we'll get there. We have to.'

'Assan's ready, aren't you boy?' Davrin says, and at his cue Assan leaps joyfully onto my bed, trambling all over me in his eagerness to lick my face. As Davrin no doubt intended, it breaks the tension: I collapse backward, laughing breathlessly, and for a few moments longer I can forget all the burdens. The oppressive weight of what I will soon have to do.

***

Before we set out to Minrathous, I go out to the Crossroads. I have to make sure, one last time.

At the central island, large numbers of spirits are gathered. They have been coming in greater numbers lately, since we killed Mythal's dragon and routed the corruption from this place. The rotunda fills with their subtle vibrations, the very colours shifting and changing before my eyes. Around me, a concerto that is neither entirely sound nor entirely light. Like a sixth sense altogether, thrumming at the very air in my lungs.

Alone, I turn to the first spirit I find, and say, 'Honoured friend. May I ask you a question?'

'Of course, honoured elvhen.'

'Are you suffering, in your separation from the physical world?'

The answer comes without hesitation. 'I feel it always. Drawing on me, drawing me apart. Sometimes just a longing, sometimes an agony. I have done my best to resist, but I will not hold against it forever. None of us can.'

It hardly seems worth asking after that, but I ask anyway: 'Do you want the Veil taken down?'

'Of course,' it says at once.

I bow my head respectfully. 'Ma serannas, lethallin,' I say; and then I pass on.

I try another spirit, and another. Each gives me the same answers. I knew they would, of course. I spent so many years asking the spirits of Arlathan forest, and never received a different response. But I had to be sure.

If I ask enough spirits, it will not be my decision; it will be theirs. I will be no longer myself, just the embodied will of the spirit world, ignored and tormented and reviled for so long. Someone must speak for them. In the end, perhaps it was always going to be me.

As I walk back up toward the Lighthouse, the Caretaker hovers in my way, silver tendrils sweeping softly over the broken stones beneath. 'Did you get your answer, da'len?' it asks.

'I did.' I look steadily at it. 'You do not need to worry. I had to be sure. But I will do what must be done.'

'I know,' it says, and then, 'But I am sorry.'

I say nothing, just walk onward. My duty awaits me. And afterwards, perhaps, I will finally rest.

***

Our allies gather. We sit in the kitchen, making our plans. I'm sick to my stomach: I am so very tired of sending people to their deaths. It was like this before Weisshaupt, and before Adamant. But I had no choice then, and I know I have no choice now.

I assign duties. Neve will fight the Venatori commander. Taash will deal with the construct. Emmrich will take down the wards. Davrin and Felassan will be at my back. Together, we'll storm the city, and find Solas.

Everything in me aches to see him. To be in his presence and know for sure that he's all right. He can take care of himself, of course; he's very old and very powerful. And yet. I won't be sure until I have him in my arms.

Standing outside of Minrathous, it all feels like a strange, blurred nightmare: silent and expectant, the world teetering on the edge of transformation. Time is playing strange games with me, slipping and sliding out of my hands. One way or another, after this day nothing will ever be the same.

Once we attack, everything descends into chaos. I barely know where I am, what's happening. I throw up barriers left right and centre, my magic indiscriminate, sloppy and urgent. Veil Jumpers, Wardens and Crows fight and die all around me, screams and cries ringing in my ears as I stumble over bodies. And yet I force myself onward, toward the gates. Out of the corner of my eye I see Taash climbing the construct, and Emmrich scribbling runes in the air as he deals with the wards. Everything is the clash of metal and the blast of magic and blood; oh, so much blood.

But the wards come down just as we make it to the gates. We scramble inside, Assan following just a few steps behind. I clutch my chest, gasping as a wave of dizziness passes over me. One more obstacle overcome. I try not to think of how many lives have already been lost today. 

We come upon Teia and Neve just in time to watch them slaughter the Venatori commander. Teia kicks his body away, teeth bared, then turns to grin at me.

'Any sign of Solas?' I ask.

'We spotted him,' Teia says brusquely. 'He's not far ahead.'

'Good. Let's go.'

'Wait.' Teia's hand on my arm. Her lips at my ear. 'Take that fucking Veil down,' she whispers; and then she's gone.

***

When we come upon him he is – of course – busy protecting people. He stands with his back to us, arms raised, grasping Blight tendrils by force of will alone and flinging them back. Making little grunts of effort and exhaustion; his face is pale and covered with sweat, but his power is unabated, reverberating through the very streets we walk on.

I forget all about the Blight and the danger. I take off at a run; behind me, I hear Davrin laugh.

Solas hears my foosteps, and turns. Our eyes meet, and all Solas' crackling magic is nothing compared to the electricity between us. He raises his arms one more time and heaves, flinging the Blight tendril so far across the courtyard that it clatters over the edge of the platform and slides away entirely.

And then, in that brief respite, he seizes me and kisses me.

We've been together in the Fade, of course. But this is the first time in ten years that our actual physical bodies have touched. I feel heat sweep through me as he grasps the back of my tunic, pulling me closer to him, gasping into my mouth. It's the worst possible moment, but that won't stop either of us.

I'm trembling, I realise. All that relief and tension, pouring through my body. I've been so afraid. So much behind us, so much still ahead. It's the final stretch and yet it all still feels insurmountable.

Solas feels it, and pulls me into his chest, closing his arms right around me. 'Vhenan,' he whispers. 'It's all right. I'm here. I'll look after you. I will keep you safe.'

And this time? It really feels as though maybe he actually can.

He strokes my hair as I tremble against him. I wish I could just curl up in his arms again. I wish the blighted city would just disappear around us and leave us somewhere clean and quiet and safe.

But I hear someone clearing their throat from behind me, and reluctantly I pull away.

'Vhenan,' I whisper. 'I – we should probably – '

'Yes,' he says. 'I'm sorry, I – ' He's looking down at me with heartbreaking tenderness, but I can see him trying in vain to return his face to a more neutral expression. 'I retrieved the orb, from the Caretaker. Remade the lock. We are safe to take the Veil down, as soon as Elgar'nan is dead.'

'That may be a challenge.'

He nods. 'There's something I haven't been able to shift. An intelligence, controlling the Blight. I'm hoping you'll be able to help me with it.'

'All right. We can try,' I say, and I turn to see Felassan and Davrin approaching us. Solas catches sight of Felassan, and for a moment pure joy flickers across his face.

And then, abruptly, his expression changes.

'You are not Felassan,' he says.

My heart seems to stop beating for a moment. I whip around, gazing at Felassan. Or not Felassan. Whatever it is, it smiles softly, and shakes its head.

I see, once again, that purple glow behind its eyes. And suddenly I remember. The Divine, in the Fade: the spirit that empathized so deeply with her that it became her.

My heart is racing. We knew all along that he had a spirit inside him. He told us that outright; he never even tried to hide it. I should have understood. I should have realised that he was always only a spirit, all along.

Solas is still watching Felassan; or the spirit wearing his form. 'I asked you to look for Felassan,' he says softly. 'To see if he was all right.'

'Yes,' the spirit says, looking steadily back at him.

'But then you saw him die, so you became him. Just as you did once before.'

Wait – what? I look between them, my thoughts moving very quickly. Fragments of memory grinding together in my mind.

And then I understand.

'Cole?' I say.

The spirit smiles, and all of a sudden I see both forms at once: a flicker like insect wings, shifting between the elf and the bedraggled boy. The spirit is both of them and neither. Cole and Felassan, carried forward and honoured, but then set aside. The spirit is becoming something else entirely, right before my eyes.

But it inclines its head respectfully to me. 'That is an old name, but I wore it before.'

My emotions are a confusing tangle. I've missed Cole so much. I've always hoped I would see him again one day. But Felassan – there's a burning in the back of my throat, and when I look over my shoulder at Solas I see him pale, hollow-eyed, pain etched in every line of his face.

'Cole,' I say, looking back at the spirit. 'Why didn't you tell me?'

'You needed Felassan. He had fought the gods before. It made you brave.'

I press my trembling lips together. He's right. It made all the difference, having Felassan with us. And yet – it hurts, it hurts. I have come to care deeply for him, and yet I never really knew him at all.

On the steps above, Solas speaks, flat and affectless: 'Felassan died in the Ossuary. Zara killed him. He has been dead all this time. And I never knew.'

'I'm sorry,' Cole says. 'I was too late.'

Solas shakes his head, and I see his jaw tremble. He firms it. 'No. Not you. It is my fault. Felassan died, because I – I should have taken more precautions. Chosen a different location. Or – simply listened to him, instead of silencing him.'

'You can't know,' Cole says, and then he makes a thoughtful sound, tipping his head to one side. 'He is fainter now. It has been hard to keep him here, since the island. But he wanted to stay a little longer. He needed to talk to Solas.'

Solas takes a sharp breath. 'Cole,' he says, and his voice breaks on the word. 'I – do not know if I can.'

'I think you must,' Cole says. 'But it is all right. We will untangle the hurt.'

Solas gives me a panicked look, agony in his eyes, but before either of us can say anything more the spirit begins to shiver, a silver oscillation; and then the form solidifies. Felassan stands before us, apparently just as real and solid as ever, his eyes fixed on Solas.

For a moment, no one speaks. The silence hangs between us, strange and tentative. And then Solas bows his head. 'Ir abelas, lethallin. You deserved better from me.'

Felassan looks back at him, unblinking. 'You were my friend, my leader.'

Solas fliches, but he says nothing.

'I sought you for thousands of years,' Felassan says. 'Until finally I found you and woke you. And then you rejected me. Sent me back into the eternal sleep.'

Solas draws a hand down his face. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I was – I was afraid. I thought you had betrayed me.'

'For centuries we fought together. You couldn't even hear me out? You leapt at once to betrayal?'

'Felassan – ir abelas. There is no excuse for my treatment of you.'

Felassan sighs; and then he says, 'I am sorry as well.'

'You have nothing to be sorry for.'

'I do,' Felassan says. 'For all those centuries I saw you as a leader, first and foremost. I loved you, but you were my commander before you were my friend.'

Solas looks distressed. 'But we were friends.'

'We were,' Felassan says, softly. 'But you thought you had to be strong for everyone. Even for me.'

'The people needed – '

He nods. 'And who told you that? The people need someone they believe is strong enough to protect them – I said that. I encouraged you to become the Dread Wolf, even though you never wanted it.'

'It was as much my idea as yours, Felassan. The posturing was necessary.'

'Perhaps,' Felassan says, and then he sighs. 'When I woke you, I expected you to fix everything. I didn't allow myself to see that you were lonely and afraid, just as I was.'

'It was not your responsibility to look after me.'

Felassan shakes his head. 'Perhaps. But if I had shown you that you weren't alone, it might have gone differently.'

'None of this is any excuse for what I did. I rejected your help, your friendship.'

'Yes,' Felassan says. 'You did.'

'I put you into the eternal sleep without your consent, and now – ' Solas' shoulders hunch. 'You died. That is my fault, like all the other deaths that came before.'

'Yes,' Felassan says. 'It is.'

Solas trembles, and I want nothing more than to take him into my arms. But this was his mistake. He has to bear it; I can't take that pain away from him.

Felassan is shimmering around the edges; I suspect Cole will not be able to hold on to him for much longer. 'Solas,' he says. 'If we had more time, I would make you earn my forgiveness.'

'You should not forgive me,' Solas says, his voice low and wretched.

'And yet. I do.'

Solas looks up at him, his eyes anxious, tentative. 'Felassan – '

Felassan raises his hands, palms open. 'Ar lath ma, lethallin. Dareth shiral.'

'Felassan – ar lath ma. Ar lath ma,' Solas chokes out. I see Felassan give one last ethereal smile; and for a moment it's as if all the years fall away, and they are just two young men standing together on the verge of rebellion, full of passion and hope.

Then the elf is gone and the spirit stands in his place, with a flickering visage that is partly Cole and partly Felassan and partly something else altogether. A golden light emanates from within the superposed bodies, its soft glow spreading over the broken stones and blighted passageways. The light spills across our faces, infused with a subtle healing warmth: a moment of comfort, where it's needed most.

Solas covers his eyes with his hands. I mount the steps to place a hand gently on his back, feeling him trembling faintly beneath my touch. 'Cole,' I say over my shoulder, to the spirit. 'Is Felassan – is he gone? Permanently?'

'I will bring him back one more time. He needs to talk to Bellara.'

'We lost Bellara, Cole,' I say; perhaps the spirit did not quite understand what happened. 'You can't speak to her.'

He shakes his head. 'No. She is close by, in the shadowed place. I will take you there.'

I stare at him. 'She – she's here?'

'Yes. I know her light.'

'And is she all right?'

'We must see.'

'Vhenan?' I say to Solas. 'I know this is hard. But we have to keep moving.'

He takes his hands away from his face. 'I – am sorry,' he says, though I can't help but feel he's not really speaking to me.

'We must move on,' I say again.

He raises his head, and I see his expression clear. Pushing the pain away, once again; determination flares in his eyes. 'Indeed. Let's find your friend. Cole, will you lead us?'

'It is this way,' the spirit says, and gestures.

Solas' hand slips into mine, his grasp firm. He looks down at me, and smiles just a little. And then we turn, holding hands, and follow the spirit through the wasted streets and broken cobblestones, toward the end of our journey.

***

When a swarm of darkspawn attack, Davrin charges forward, and behind him Solas and Cole and I raise our weapons and stand to fight side by side once more, just as we did so many times all those years ago.

Solas was always beautiful on the battlefield. Back in the Inquisition I used to feel conflicted about admiring him, because I knew he didn't actually like to fight. But these days I have bigger internal conflicts to worry about, so I simply allow myself to enjoy the sight of him.

He has, clearly, increased greatly in power since we last fought together. He doesn't even need a staff: he just raises his hands and channels the magic, raining enormous chunks of ice over the assembled creatures. He was always an elegant spell-caster, but today he looks like he's dancing, every gesture compact and efficient and perfectly honed.

I have a faint suspicion that he's showing off for me; and then he looks back at me with a little smirk, and I know that he is.

My stomach goes liquid with desire and tenderness. I'm enjoying the display of power, no doubt, but more than that it's his eagerness to impress me that I find so impossibly endearing. How he keeps looking at me across the battlefield; hoping to see me watching him. Smiling delightedly when he finds that I am. When his barrier falls across me, it feels just as it always did – purple velvet, warm and splendid. It feels like coming home.

'Impressive,' I whisper to him, after he takes down a whole cluster of darkspawn with a single spell. A smile breaks across his face; the way he preens makes me ache with longing. If only I didn't have to save the world – and then destroy it – before I can finally get him alone.

And then Assan swoops down on Davrin's command to raze a swarm of darkspawn, and Solas' eyes widen with childlike wonder. 'A griffon!' he says, his cheeks pink with delight. 'That is marvelous! Extraordinary!'

I thought I couldn't love him more, but I adore him an utterly painful amount in that moment.

Darvin throws a glance over his shoulder at Solas. 'Hmmm. I guess you're all right,' he declares casually, which is a hilarious response to an immortal elven god, but pleases me nonetheless.

But then we make it to the blockade, and events catch up with us. The archdemon appears, its foul breath sending us all stumbling backward. All of a sudden Solas' smiles are gone. He turns to me and presses the dagger into my hand. 'You must take it,' he says. 'I can think of no one better suited to wield it.'

I feel sick, suddenly. If he's giving me the dagger, that means he thinks he might not survive long enough to use it on Elgar'nan.

'Solas – ' I say urgently. Don't you dare die on me, not here, not now. But I can't say it. Putting it into words would make the thought too real.

But he understands nonetheless. He gives a shaky nod. 'When next we meet, let us be standing over Elgar'nan's body!'

It's not exactly a promise, but it will have to do. Solas starts running, heading straight for the archdemon. I gasp and begin to move forward, instinctively raising my staff to defend him.

But then – he leaps into the air, and transforms.

The slender elf is gone; in his place an enormous six-eyed wolf, with slavering jaws and talons the size of my arm. I gape, flabbergasted. All this time and he never told me he could do this?

The wolf snarls, and bounds into the air, throwing himself at the archdemon. Seizing onto its throat. And the archdemon roars, and snaps at the wolf. Bending its neck to seize at its attacker. It gets its jaws around the wolf, and I cry out in fear and horror, but the wolf rears and throws the dragon off, emerging with a long bleeding wound down one side. As I watch he throws himself on the dragon once more, and again the dragon rears, and then spreads its wings; and they vanish from view, still locked into combat, howls and roars reverberating across the city.

Davrin and I stand there, gaping in astonishment. 'Did you know he could do that?' Davrin demands, his eyes round.

'I did not, no.'

Davrin grins. 'Kinda hot, huh? Sorry, wrong moment maybe.'

'No,' I say, a little dazed. 'Definitely hot, but I – he can't win that fight. He can't win, Davrin. We have to do something, we have to – '

'Hey,' Davrin says. 'Take a deep breath, all right? Solas has been fighting Elgar'nan for thousands of years. He must have dealt with the dragon before. He knows what he's doing.'

'But it's so much bigger than him. He's wounded already.'

'Even so. We have to trust him, now. Just like he's trusting us.'

I glance backward at Felassan, or perhaps Cole. 'Um – so I guess we continue? I guess this is weird for you. But I've fought side by side with Cole many times. I trust him.'

Davrin shuffles sheepishly from one foot to the other, and glances at the spirit. 'Well actually,' he says. 'I already knew about this. I mean, not everything, but I knew he was a spirit.'

My eyes widen. 'How – '

'He told me,' Davrin says. 'The spirit. He said – I was asking questions about the Veil. Trying to straighten it out in my own head.'

I look over at Cole, who nods gently. 'He needed to know that we are real. And Felassan was his friend. He knows that friends are real.'

My eyes widen; suddenly it all makes sense. 'That's why you came over to our side,' I say to Davrin 'It wasn't just about the elves. It was the spirits as well.'

He shrugs. 'The elves are important to me, of course,' he says. 'But I'm a protector. That's my identity, my purpose. The spirits are people just like us, and who's protecting them? Someone has to do it.'

'You didn't consider telling me?'

'Felassan asked me not to. Or Cole. Whichever. He said he'd let you when the right time came.'

'You certainly knows how to pick your moment, Cole,' I say wearily. 'Well then. Shall we go?'

Davrin nods, raising his sword. 'Come on. Let's get our girl back.'

***

We fight on – and, just as Cole promised, we find Bellara. We find Bellara. Clasped tight in the coils of the Blight, eyes a blazing red, face streaked with the Blight's toxins. And yet – it's her. It's wildly, ridiculously implausible. But against all odds, she's all right and she's here.

Then she opens her mouth. 'Bellara is gone,' she says dully, in a voice that chills me with just how little of Bellara remains in it. 'There is only the the will of Elgar'nan. Giver of life and death.'

After that, rage overtakes me. I fight not to save her, but to avenge her. My closest friend, my constant companion ever since I left the Inquisition. Elgar'nan has taken much from my people already; but I'm going to make him pay for this one.

I cut the darkspawn down, and then the constructs. I'm barely aware of Davrin at my back, and Cole or Felassan or whatever he is now. It's just me and the shell of Bellara and my wrenching, terrifing loss. Then the construct falls, and I sprint toward the Blight tendril, hacking at it with my dagger. Bellara falls, her body limp as a rag doll. I catch her, and for a single terrifying moment I think I'm holding her corpse in my arms.

But then she opens her eyes. Red, blighted, and yet clear-sighted. She steadies herself, lurches to her feet.

'You are not my god!' she shouts, raising a fist to the sky. 'Get out of my head!'

I gasp with astonishing, wonderful relief. Clasp her in my arms. 'I love you,' I blurt out, delirious. 'You're all right. You're all right – '

Her arms tighten around me. 'Yeah. I love you too.'

What would I have done without her, all these years? I beam at her a moment longer, then step away and raise my staff, renewed, ready to hold off the Blight.

But then; the sound of wings. A raven dives like javelin, landing beside us. And then all of a sudden Morrigan is standing there, her arms straining as she reaches up to hold up the block of stone that threatens to crash down upon us.

'Quickly now,' she cries. 'Destiny is a heavy weight to bear! And growing heavier by the moment!'

I can't disagree with her there.

Bellara, Morrigan and I sprint together for shelter. Three women, running together toward the future we're about to build. Ahead of us I see Merrill, Charter and Colette, waiting for us. Hope builds inside me, a blazing crescendo. Our moment is nearly here. Together, we'll transform the world.

***

The adrenaline wears off, and then I hear it. Howling and thrashing, monsters crashing overhead. It all comes rushing back. Solas.

He's enormous in his Dread Wolf form, and yet so small next to Elgar'nan's archdemon. How can he possibly win this fight? How can we save him?

Bellara glances at me, eyes wide. 'Is that – Solas?' she whispers

I nod briefly; my throat too swollen with fear to find any words.

Panic flashes in her eyes, but she reaches out a hand to touch my shoulder. 'He'll be all right, Eirlan. We'll save him.'

How? I want to ask. I don't. I smile tightly at her, and then remember that there's something I have to tell her.

She sees it in my face before I've even uttered a word. 'Felassan,' she breathes, tears gathering in the corner of her eyes. 'Is he – he – '

At the moment, I look around and see him – Felassan. The spirit is wearing his form, for the very last time.

Bellara's eyes widen with relief, and then she turns back to me, blinking in confusion. 'What – '

'He'll explain,' I say thickly, and then I turn away. I lay one hand on Felassan's arm as I pass him. 'Thank you,' I say softly. 'For everything.'

His eyes crinkle as he smiles. 'Make sure you give Solas a hard time for me, will you?'

He goes forward, to speak to Bellara. Then there comes a great knocking at the door, and I turn to look, just in time to see Dorian and Fenris bursting into the room together with their weapons held high. It is deeply, deeply strange to see them standing together, comrades in arms: the most unlikely allies in the world, surely. And yet this cause has brought together many who I might have thought could never fight side by side.

'Hello,' Fenris says breathlessly, and he stops beside me to speak in a low voice, so others around cannot hear. 'We're ready. The elves know where to go, and other slaves, and many of the poor in Dock Town. I'm assuming it will happen soon?'

'We have to kill Elgar'nan first,' I say. 'But yes. As soon as that's done.'

'Got it. I'll head down to the lower city. Start moving people.'

'Fenris,' I say quickly. 'Thank you. I know this is – perhaps not a natural path for you.'

He gives a tense shrug. 'It gives me what I've been working for. The fall of Tevinter.' A moment's hesitation. 'And besides – it's what Hawke would have wanted.'

I didn't know Hawke well, but I can believe that. 'For her,' I agree. 'For all the friends we've lost.'

'Indeed.' He reaches out to clasp my arm briefly, and then he passes on.

I turn to the others. 'Dorian,' I whisper quickly. 'Davrin knows. He's with us.'

Dorian's eyes widen, and I see his hands spasm at his side as he turns to Davrin. The anxiety on his face is stark and blinding. 'I – that's wonderful!' he blurts, and then he flushes. 'But I'm sorry that I didn't tell you. I wanted to.'

Davrin smiles, and there's such gentleness in his expression as he looks at Dorian. 'You did what you had to, Dorian. You didn't owe me anything.'

Dorian hunches his shoulder. 'As a general rule, I prefer not to lie to the people I'm sleeping with.'

Davrin shrugs. 'Well, you know. A new world is coming. A new start. Maybe we can have one too?'

Dorian looks down, a trace of a smile lingering on his face. Davrin reaches out to take his hands, draw him close. I turn away, leaving them to their private moment. There are others who need me.

As I walk away, I find myself confronted by Cole. Really Cole, now, wearing only the familiar form he bore in the Inquisition, complete with his ragged clothes and wide-brimmed hat. For a moment the nostalgia cuts sharp and blinding; this strange collision of past and future is hard to comprehend.

'Cole,' I whisper, my voice shaking. 'I – this is hard. But I'm really happy to see you.'

'I didn't mean to hurt you,' he says. 'I wanted to help.'

'I know. I know that, Cole.' I hesitate. 'Bellara. Did you – was that you?'

He shakes his head. 'The piece of Felassan that I carried was real. What remained of him really fell in love with her. He wanted to stay, to remain with her. But I could only keep him here for so long.'

My chest burns. It's so beautiful. So awful. I can't imagine what Bellara must be feeling right now.

'Felassan said goodbye to her,' Cole says quietly. 'He's gone.'

'Oh,' I say softly. 'I'll miss him.'

'I'm sorry,' Cole says. 'I tried.'

'No, Cole, you – you gave Felassan the chance to finish his journey. He got the chance to kill one of the Evanuris. He avenged Briala by helping us bring down the Veil. He said what he needed to say to Solas. And he even fell in love one last time. I'm glad you did what you did.'

Cole smiles at me. 'I can't stay here,' he says, but then he takes a stone from his pocket and hands it to me. 'It's a rune. It carries everything I could keep from Felassan. When you fight Elgar'nan he will help, one last time.'

I take the stone from him, feeling it warm to the touch. The memory of Felassan; who I never really met. Who I loved nonetheless. What a very strange and complicated thing to feel.

I look back up at him, weary and sad. 'Are you leaving us, Cole?'

'I can't stay and still be me,' he says, and now I can see that he's beginning to shimmer at the edges. 'When the magic comes back, I can come back too. But not yet.'

'Thank you,' I whisper. 'Thank you for being with us, as long as you could.'

'Tell Solas that I love him,' Cole says. 'And that it will all stop hurting soon.'

And then I stand and watch, just as I did years ago, as he disappears. The form of my old friend trembling before my eyes, and then vanishing into nothing.

I've watched too many people vanish, these last years. I hope to never have to do it again.

I look over to the corner, seeing Bellara there. Irelin is holding her, and she's sobbing into her chest. My throat feels tight, constricted, but I make myself go over to them.

Bellara looks up at me; her red, afflicted eyes, the sick veins on her cheeks. 'Felassan,' she whispers. 'Felassan.'

'I – I'm so sorry,' I say, and then I search around for something that will make her smile. 'It's beautiful, in a way. He fell in love with you from beyond the grave. He loved you, even though he died before he ever met you.'

She sniffles a little. 'I know. It's – it's like in a storybook. It's just going to take some time for me to get enough distance to see it that way.'

I hesitate, wondering if there's more I should say. But Irelin gives me a nod. 'I've got her,' she whispers, so I simply touch Bellara's arm one more time, and then pass on.

Taash is over the other side of the room, sharpening their axes. I draw close, giving them a nod. 'Want to come with me?' I ask. 'Up the tendril?'

Taash nods, fierce and stalwart. 'Of course. Let's make these assholes pay.'

I reach out to clasp their hand, trying not to think of what is to come. I need to leave the people who know what's coming down below, to guard the way against anyone who might try to follow. Solas and I can deal with Taash and Neve, once Elgar'nan is gone. But that means the two of them will be there first-hand, to witness what I'm doing to them; it can't be helped, but I wish, one last fateful time, that there was another way.

Neve is standing by the door; the look in her eyes catches on my heart. There's an anxiety in her gaze, and I wonder if maybe, deep down, part of her knows. Or maybe I just want to believe that.

'We've had a good run,' she says. 'Here's hoping we'll all make it out of this one alive.'

'I hope so too, Neve,' I say. 'You'll come with me? Up the tendril?'

She smiles. 'Of course. You didn't need to ask.'

I drop my gaze, saying nothing. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Sometimes there are no easy answers. I never thought I could hurt someone the way I'm about to hurt her.

***

There's something very satisfying about the fact that it will come to an end in the Archon's Palace, of all places. Here, at the very heart of Tevinter power, we will bring down the Veil and end the Tevinter empire once and for all.

Already the palace is a nightmare of tangled tendrils and marauding darkspawn. The vista below shows Minrathous wracked with Blight; blistered and broken, glowing with a sick red light. With every corner we turn I am afforded a new glimpse of the fight between Solas and the archdemon. Solas is strong, persistent, so very brave. And yet I can see the wounds all over him, stippling every inch of his body. He must be in so much pain.

He thinks he deserves this, I realise. He accepts the pain as his due, the price of all his mistakes. What will I have to do to finally show him that he has suffered enough?

Steeling myself, I send out another blast from my staff. The darkspawn around me are flung backward, toppling off the edge of the floating place. On the roof above, the archdemon slashes at the wolf and digs out one of his six beautiful eyes. I shudder with horror and grief, feeling the pain as if it is my own. Oh Solas. Oh, vhenan.

Bellara reaches out to grasp my arm. 'I'll help Solas,' she says. 'You just get to the throne room.'

'Bellara – '

Above us, the wolf whimpers, like an injured puppy. I flinch, my heart beating out of my chest. Bellara nods bravely at me. 'I won't let you lose him,' she whispers, and then she slips away.

I watch her go, my whole body aching. One thing is for sure: we have to win this fight soon. Solas cannot hold on much longer.

At last we burst out into the throne-room, and I see him. Elgar'nan. Sitting malevolent and glowering in the Archon's throne, his complexion ruined with dark veins, his body wracked by the toxins. He is not far from being lost entirely to the taint. We have to kill him before his mind is gone entirely and his power becomes nothing but another weapon of the Blight.

'Such arrogance, thinking you can hide from your creator,' he spits, his voice low and hateful. 'And I am this world's creator.'

You are not, I think. If anyone, Solas is. He made this world, however inadvertently. And together, we will unmake it.

We just have to face down Elgar'nan first.

The highest god of my people gazes down at me, and a gleeful smile breaks across his face. 'Ah!' he says, getting up from the throne and walking slowly down the steps, towering like an ancient monument above us. 'So you came back? The Dread Wolf's lover. How fascinating. Do you really think it was a good idea to put yourself back into my hands?'

I curl my fingers around my staff; above me, I hear the wolf cry out in pain once again, as another terrible wound is ripped into his flesh.

'You are wrong, Elgar'nan,' I say softly, gathering my magic. 'It is you who is in my hands.'

Brave words, but there is nothing we can do until Solas defeats the archdemon. Which seems increasingly unlikely, given how the fight above is proceeding. I can only hope that Bellara will ultimately deliver upon her promise.

For now, we stall.

And so I raise my staff, and enter into the fray with yet another would-be god.

Elgar'nan is ferocious, terrifying; the air crackles with his power as he draws upon magic and flings it heedlessly at us, battering against our defences. And yet he's alone now, his fellow Evanuris fallen, his empire long-buried. Despite myself, I can see the pathos in his frenzied fury. I block his spells, duck, block again, flinging a blistering spray of magic across the field. My eyes flickering back to the rooftops, where the wolf struggles against the Blight tendrils. If he falls now, we are all lost.

I should be terrified for him but I don't even have the energy to be terrified for myself. I'm gasping for breath, every inch of my body steeled against the torrents of magic rolling toward me. Neve sends a spray of ice toward Elgar'nan, but he waves a hand and it vanishes in midair. Taash tries a blast of fire, but he eviscerates that too.

And then I hear a voice from behind me. I turn to see that Bellara has reached Elgar'nan's throne, and as she sits down the Blight tendrils wrap themselves around her. For a moment I think she needs rescuing, but then I understand what's happening. She's taking his place. She's taking control.

'You are not my god!' she shouts; blinding, brilliant, fearsome.

And I see the Blight around weakening, shrinking. On the rooftop, the wolf shakes the encircling tendrils from its back, and leaps.

Frozen, we all watch from below as the wolf reaches the archdemon, his teeth closing with a sharp, terrible snap. Ripping the creature's throat out with a single shake of his shaggy head.

Elgar'nan screams in rage and grief as the dragon thrashes, its death throes sending small earthquakes through the floating throne-room. And Solas falls, transforming back into elf in mid-air. He hits the ground, gasping in agony. Ichor spilling from his mouth, a deep slash across one of his eyes. I cry out and try to go to him, but there is too much of Elgar'nan's magic in the air, and I can barely move against the force of it.

Solas is bleeding, bruised, grievously injured. But he raises his head, triumphant. 'You are mortal, Elgar'nan!' he proclaims proudly. 'Enjoy it while it lasts!'

Elgar'nan snarls, rage contorting his face. 'I will kill your silly little mortal love right in front of you, Fen'Harel!' he growls, and a blast of magic hurtles toward me.

I block it; and then, through the haze of pain and terror I see Solas shake his head, his eyes fixed on me. 'I'd like to see you try,' he whispers.

And this, more than anything else, is what gives me the courage to finish the fight. He didn't even try to rescue me. Because he knew he didn't need to.

I'm ready.

I take the dagger from my belt, and hurl myself toward Elgar'nan. I've never been good at hand-to-hand combat, but in that moment it comes easily. One slash, and then another. A third for good measure, and then he falls; the lyrium dagger clatters to the floor beside him. Within moments I see the light leaving his eyes. Behind me, Neve and Taash are cheering.

And then the Veil begins to fall.

***

It's just as it was, that first day when I stepped out onto the streets of Minrathous and saw the sky rip open. Green tears open above us, as if the fibres of the world itself are coming apart. An earthquake in the heavens; the Fade beckoning, the world beyond billowing through the cracks.

Neve cries out in fury. 'What did you do?' she shouts in Solas' direction. 'You – was this all a distraction?'

Exhausted beyond measure, Solas gets very slowly to his feet. My eyes anxiously track the way he's holding his hand to his side, lurching as he moves. He must have broken a rib; he needs healing, and quickly. But we have to finish this first.

Then he puts out his hand, his eyes flaring, and the dagger leaps from where I let it fall and into his hand.

'No,' he says to Neve, his voice somber. 'The Veil was linked to the lives of the Evanuris. Now that they are dead, it is about to come down. Only a few threads remain to be severed.'

'You lying piece of shit!' Taash says, and steps furiously toward him, but Solas puts up a hand and effortlessly blocks them, along with Neve.

'I am sorry,' he says. 'I know you do not understand. But the world must be healed.'

This close to the Fade tear, I can see the threads he speaks of: delicate green tendrils arcing through the air, like lines of static electricity, bright against the starkness of the night. We're so close now. All Solas has to do is raise the dagger and cut those last threads, and the Veil will be gone forever.

'You can't do this!' Neve says, fruitlessly pushing against his barrier. 'You can't – '

'I am sorry,' Solas says again, and he turns away, raising the dagger toward the tears.

But he doesn't cut. He stands there for an impossibly long moment, holding the dagger aloft. Gripping it with white fingers.

And I understand.

He can't.

Facing away from us all, Solas trembles; I see his shoulders shake. He has never done anything like this. He has been responsible for death on a large scale, of course. But it has always been by accident, or not by his own hand. The Veil, the Conclave: deep as his regrets may be, he can hold on to the knowledge that he didn't kill those people on purpose. He bears responsibility for the fate of the Titans, but he only made the weapon; he did not conceive of the plan or strike them down.

This is different. It's something else, something darker: a plummet into the abyss. And now that the moment has come – he carries too many burdens already. The news about Felassan was another blow, on top of all he has already borne. In this moment, he can't do it.

But I can.

I watch as he crumples, bracing his hands on his legs, his chest rising and falling. Trying to regain control of himself, trying to gather the will to carry on. I drop to my knees beside him. I can feel Neve and Taash watching, still trying to push past Solas' barrier. Of course, they're expecting me to try to talk him down.

I speak elven, so they won't understand. 'Banal nadas ar lath ma, vhenan.'

There is no fate but the love we share.

He sobs, heedless of the witnesses. The pain breaking past his defences at last. What he has to do. What he cannot do. I meet his eyes, holding his gaze.

Let me help you, Solas.

He hesitates a moment longer – and then, taking a deep breath, he hands me the dagger. I hear breaths of relief from Neve and Taash behind me. They believe the danger is over.

They are wrong.

Solas straightens up, standing tall. At last the weight has been lifted from him.

'Keep them off me,' I whisper.

And then I raise the dagger, and tear the Veil down.

Chapter Text

After I cut the threads, it feels as though the world ends.

Reverberations pass through me, spreading outward from the Fade tear like ripples in a vast ocean; overwhelming, intense brightness burns the sight from my eyes. I stumble backward, feeling magic blazing through me, over me; the Fade itself sweeping incandescent through my veins.

For a moment I think I've made a terrible mistake.

But then the brightness dies away. I blink, and reality swims back into view. The archon's palace, the tendrils, the fallen dragon. It all looks much as before.

Except for the spirits.

Everywhere, the air fills with glimmers and gleams like we're inside an enormous crystal, refracted light dancing all around us. The spirits surge into the world, lending to this scene of death and horror a stark, startling beauty.

I see a demon, and then another. Weary, I raise my staff; but floods of spirits press forward, overcoming the demons by sheer numbers. The malevolence breaks apart and their energy seems to be absorbed back into the crowd of glittering spirits. Resonance is everywhere: not quite music, but the nearest thing to it. A pulsing, aching vibrato. Joy so bright and intense it makes my whole body ache.

And as they press forward, I hear words as well. They're speaking Solas' name; and also my own.

We did as we promised. We freed them.

Bellara stands up from the throne, her eyes shining. She holds her hands aloft, and the spirits cluster around her too. And as I watch, the red starts to fade from her eyes, the black marks slither back from her cheeks, leaving her skin clear and unmarked. There's so much magic in the air that it has literally burned the Blight from her veins.

On the other side of the dais, Neve and Taash are getting to their feet. The relief is bittersweet: they will never forgive me, but at least they're still alive. I make myself meet their eyes. The betrayal and hurt, the incomprehension.

I did this. I have to face it.

Beside me Solas kneels, clutching his side. His breathing laboured, blood flowing anew from the wounds on his temples. But there's a soft, disbelieving smile on his face as he looks up to see the spirits streaming toward him, their song enveloping him. How they speak his name, those with more corporeal forms holding out their hands toward him, clustering around him in joyous welcome. Despite the wounds, I've never seen him look so at peace.

Then he lurches to his feet once more. 'We should go down to the city and help,' he says. 'There may be some demons. And no doubt many injured to heal – '

He sways, and I hurry forward to support him, slinging his arm over my shoulder. 'Vhenan, you are injured. Badly. You must let me look after you first.'

'There's no time – '

'We've come this far,' I tell him sternly. 'I will not have you die on me now.'

Behind us, Taash still looks bewildered, but Neve's eyes are moving quickly between Solas and me. Horrified comprehension dawning on her face.

Her eyes go to my prosthetic arm. All these months she's seen me wear it and never asked about it, never commented: Merrill's blood magic exerted a powerful pull on the minds of those around me. But she sees it again now, with new eyes. She understands.

'How could you?' she says.

And then she takes Taash by the arm. 'Let's go. People will need help.'

I watch them go, knowing that I will never see either of them again. I have earned their anger. I cannot blame them.

I made my choice; at this point, apologies would be empty. I turn back to Solas.

'Sit down,' I murmur. He looks as though he still wants to protest, but at that moment his legs crumple beneath him, so he has no choice but to submit to my ministrations. I put a hand out toward him, reaching for the Fade, and then gasp despite myself: I knew it would be different, but I wasn't prepared for how different. I'm no longer reaching with difficulty through the smothering Veil; the magic is in the air around us, billowing, dancing: we're swimming in it, as if we ourselves are made of the same stuff, and it comes to me like breathing, filling my lungs with light.

Solas watches me, his eyes full of joy. 'You see?' he says.

'I do see,' I say softly, and then I gather the magic and direct it to heal.

Healing isn't my specialty, but right now it comes with astonishing ease; my veins pulsing with all of the power that should have been my birthright. His wounds close quickly, although even with my new strength there are a few that will inevitably scar. I move my hands down his body, probing with my mage-sight, finding the broken rib and the punctured lung, the horrifying slash leaching blood inside his armour. I heal the most serious of the wounds, enough to make sure he'll survive until I can do better.

Bellara comes running toward us, a smile on her face. 'Hi,' she says breathlessly to Solas. 'I'm Bellara. You know that, I guess.'

'Eirlan has told me much of you,' Solas says, bowing his head solemnly. 'And now I owe you my life. I would not have survived that fight without your aid.'

She smiles. 'Well. I'm happy I could help, hahren.'

'Please,' he says. 'Just Solas.'

'How's your strength?' I ask. 'Can you take the Dread Wolf form once more?'

Despite the circumstances, a slight smirk dances over his lips. 'You'd like that, would you?'

I grin. 'Maybe I would, but more to the point, some of the people on the ground might be upset with us right now. We'll need to make a quick getaway.'

'Ah, yes.' He frowns. 'I must admit, I hadn't given much thought to the aftermath. Where are we going?'

'We just have to get to the eluvian in the Shadows' hideout,' I say. 'Now that Elgar'nan's dead, the mirrors will be open again. And they're waiting for us in Arlathan.'

He nods, and gets to his feet; there he pauses a moment, rolling his shoulders. And then he transforms.

It's even more impressive close up. This is not the form he used to wear when he came to me in the Fade. That wolf was white and fluffy and normal-sized, possessed of the ordinary two eyes; this wolf is enormous, grey and largely hairless, with sharp pointed teeth and huge curved claws. Gingerly, I reach out a hand to touch it; five glittering eyes gaze solemnly at me, and then the wolf lets out a little whine of content as I gently rub its nose.

It lowers itself gently to the ground, and I seize a handful of fur and climb onto its back, doing my best to avoid the remaining wounds still prominent across its skin.

Bellara hesitates a moment. 'Are you sure? It seems – disrespectful.'

The wolf makes a snuffling sound, and I smile affectionately. 'You saved his life,' I remind her. 'I think he owes you this one.'

'Well all right,' she says, and gingerly she climbs up behind me.

'Let's go,' I say.

And with that, Solas leaps, bounding over the rooftops and carrying us down the Blight tendril. Bellara laughs gleefully and wraps her arms around me, watching as Minrathous unfurls itself below us. Two elven women, triumphant, riding the Dread Wolf through the ruins of the empire we have finally brought down.

***

When we reach the bottom of the tendril we find that the battlefield is quiet, though laden with corpses. Dead Venatori, dead Antaam, dead darkspawn. And plenty of dead on our own side as well. There's no way to know who died in the battle and who died when the Veil came down. We'll probably never know; I'll never be able to count the lives I took.

Spirits, newly released from the Fade, roam over the battlefield. It's a strange contrast – the spirits so bright with joy and wonder, the dead lying silent beneath. The triumph and the terrible loss, so jumbled I can't wrap my head around it. Perhaps real change is always this conflicted, this confusing.

I look anxiously around the battlefield, my heart in my throat; are they all dead? What if the three of us are the only survivors? But then, in the shadows of one of the arches, I see Morrigan and Davrin standing together, Assan gamboling happily around them. My chest loosens a little.

They come toward us. Davrin's lips twitch. 'I know this is not the moment,' he says. 'But the temptation to make a joke about riding the Dread Wolf is killing me.'

Bellara laughs, but I'm not ready for humour yet. 'Where's Emmrich?' I ask anxiously.

'He's gone with the Mourn Watch,' Morrigan says. 'Myrna perished, fighting the demons created with the Veil fell. The Mourn Watch needed Emmrich's leadership.'

My stomach turns over. One person I killed, however unwillingly. There will be many more. 'What about Teia and the Crows?'

'Viago was badly injured, in one of the flares when the Fade spilled out,' Morrigan says. Seeing the look on my face, she says quickly, 'He will survive, I think. But he needs urgent medical attention, and will likely take a long time to recover.'

I steel myself. 'Who else did we lose?'

'Illario,' Davrin says without emotion. 'Isabella. Tarquin and the Viper. Evka is badly hurt, but I think she'll make it.'

'Is Dorian all right?'

Davrin smiles. 'He is. He's gone to help in the lower city. It appears that those who had been Blighted were largely healed when all that raw magic flooded into the world. But it burned too bright and too hot in some places. There were some severe injuries.'

'We knew there would be,' Bellara says stolidly, gripping my arm. 'Do we have word from the catacombs?'

'Yes, I just spoke with Charter,' Morrigan says. 'They managed to get most of Minrathous' slaves into the caverns below the city, and many other inhabitants of the slums with them. The two elven artifacts in the depths kept them safe from the worst of the flares, and Fenris dispatched any demons that came their way. Everyone who went to the caverns survived.'

The tension in my stomach eases a little. We did this for the slaves, the lost and the oppressed, those without hope; I'm glad we didn't lose too many of them. 'The artifacts worked, then?'

'Certainly here in Minrathous. Charter reports that she saw the device vibrating as it held back the surging power. Word from elsewhere is yet to come, but it seems safe to say that they were probably working all across Thedas.'

'Oh,' Bellara says softly. 'Then Cyrian – it wasn't for nothing.'

Davrin looks gently at her. 'It wasn't for nothing,' he agrees. 'Cyrian's sacrifice saved thousands of lives. I hope he'd be happy to know that.'

Morrigan's gaze falls to the now five-eyed wolf. 'Fen'Harel,' she says, inclining her head to Solas. 'The spirits you mustered did as you bade. I saw with my own eyes as they held back the demons, and soothed the weaker of their ranks to help them hold on to who they were. I presume the same is true across the land. Certainly a few became demons, but as you now see, the great majority of spirits are intact. And overjoyed, I should say.'

'Hmmm,' I say. 'It transpires that there was never any risk the world would be drowned in demons.'

She smiles. 'Indeed. But I should warn, there are undoubtedly many who will rage at what has been done. You should perhaps make yourselves scarce, for a time.'

I nod, tangling my hand in the fur at the wolf's nape. 'We're heading to Arlathan. Are you coming?'

'In time. I will remain here for a few days to see what emerges from the ashes. I hope to guide what comes next down a better path than the Tevinter empire took.'

I smile a little. 'Nudging history, Morrigan?'

'Well. I did learn from an expert.'

'Davrin, what about you?' I ask him.

He nods. 'I'll come with you. The griffons need someone to help prepare them to defend Arlathan. The forest is ours now, and we need to cement that quickly.'

'All right.' I reach down to stroke the wolf gently behind the ear. 'Well, hop on. We'd better get to the Shadows' hideout before anyone thinks to stop us.'

***

We stagger through the eluvian into Arlathan forest, my arm around Solas, supporting him as he staggers, spent and bleeding. Strife and Irelin are already there, waiting for us. They leap to their feet as they see the four of us emerge; and then they notice Solas.

A warm smile spreads across Strife's face. 'Andaran atish'an, Fen'Harel,' he says.

Solas looks at him, a little dazed. 'Strife? I thought you had returned to uthenera.'

Strife smiles. 'Eirlan didn't tell you? I changed my mind.'

Solas' eyes rest on the lines around Strife's eyes, the obvious evidence of his aging. He sighs, but says only, 'I am glad to see you well.'

'And you too, Fen'Harel,' Strife says, and then, 'You should take rest. It has been a long time, hahren, and you have earned it.'

'Any casualties here?' I ask.

Strife shakes his head. 'Not among the Veil Jumpers. Irelin and I returned here after you went up the tendril, and we placed several of the artifacts in the centre of our camp, and kept everyone gathered around them until the Veil fell. So here no one was harmed by the surges.'

'We did see some demons, but there are so many spirits in Arlathan,' Irelin adds. 'All loyal to Fen'Harel. They beat back the demons before we could even take up arms. What about Minrathous?'

'Definitely a number of casualties in the upper city; what remained of it, after Elgar'nan was done. But Fenris, Charter and Collette were able to protect most of the lower city.'

'Ah well,' Strife says. 'I will not mourn the magisters. I imagine few will.'

'What about elsewhere? Do we have news?'

'Not yet. But I sent some of our number into the Crossroads to gather more information. We'll know soon enough. But right now, you should take care of him.' He gestures at Solas, who is pale and limp, barely remaining upright.

'Indeed,' I say. Solas can only nod, dazed, and I put my arms around him again and lead him slowly toward the baths on the other side of the camp, leaving Davrin and Bellara to talk with Strife and Irelin.

The baths are empty of embodied people, since the Veil Jumpers are all out looking for news, but there are spirits everywhere – hundreds of wisps tumbling playfully through the steam rising from the water, higher spirits drifting between the columns and through the treetops; a kaleidoscope of glimmering pastels, so much colour it almost makes my eyes ache. And I can hear them, a soft, persistent thrum of relief and joy and gratefulness. Whatever else comes, there can be no doubt that for the spirits, at least, we did the right thing.

Solas, limping, looks around with wide eyes. When I release my hold on him he crumples almost at once to the ground. I kneel, and draw him down so he's lying with his head in my lap, and then I touch a hand to one of the cuts on his face, magic flowing from my fingers to heal him. Then I tear a strip from the edge of my shirt and dip it into the water; quietly, I begin to wash the blood from his face, the scent of sage and rosemary rising from the pool. Solas lets out a sharp breath but then stills, allowing me to clean him. Little shivers go through him at my touch.

I know there are more wounds, beneath his armor. I lean in to kiss him softly. 'Vhenan,' I say. 'Is it all right if I undress you?'

His eyes are fixed on my face, full of love and trust. 'Yes,' he says, simply, so I start unbuckling his armor, stripping the pieces one by one. The tunic and breeches he wears beneath are soaked with blood from his many wounds. I remove them too, and he lies naked before me, his breathing shallow, his body covered in cuts and bruises.

He reaches for me, drawing me down towards him. 'I - I need - '

'Let me heal you first,' I say, and I extend a hand. One by one, closing the cuts, soothing the bruises. His breathing grows more regular as I take his pain from him, one wound at a time. Usually I would have run out of mana by now, but with the Veil down the power seems endless, effortless. I keep going until I've healed every injury that I can find.

When I'm done with his wounds I take up the cloth once more and clean his body, moving slowly, carefully. Handling him like a beautiful, precious thing. He cannot see himself that way, but I can. He gasps a little, arches toward me as my hands move over him, overwhelmingly sensitive to touch. Though we've been together in the Fade quite recently, in the physical world no one has been gentle with him for many years.

'We should – help – ' he says, his voice thin.

I shake my head. 'When was the last time you slept, vhenan?'

'I – ' There's no need for him to answer; I can see already how the exhaustion is about to overtake him.

I'm not sure I'll even be able to get him back to the other side of the camp where the sleeping quarters are, so I simply wave a hand, and an assortment of pillows and blankets fly across the camp towards us. I lay them out on the soft ground beside the baths, where the trees arch over us, blossoms shaking their petals into the glittering air. I take a spare shirt and loose trousers from the pile beside the baths and help Solas into them, then lead him over to the bed, and he lets out a groan of relief as he lays his head down, his eyes almost immediately closing.

With another wave of my hand I cast wards, to keep us safe and hide us from any prying eyes, and then I strip off my outer clothes and climb into his arms. Skin to skin in the real world at last, after all of these years.

I feel myself begin to shake. Finally, it's all catching up with me. What I did. What we lost. The terror, the exhaustion. It's over but my body doesn't know it's over. My body still doesn't know we're safe.

'Oh,' Solas whispers. 'Vhenan, my love. Oh, come here.'

He wraps his arms around me, enveloping me in his scent. I press my face into his chest, as if I'm trying to inhale him. He whispers sweet nothings into my ear, elvhen endearments, beautiful words of love. He gathers me up and holds me there, impossibly tender. And so we drift into sleep in one another's arms; above us the spirits keep their eternal, joyful vigil, and the trees of Arlathan stretch toward the sky, toward the dawn of a new day.

***

When I wake Solas' arms are wrapped around me, clutching me tight to his chest, his legs entangled with mine. I wait for him to slowly blink awake, watching the delight and relief spread over his face as he remembers everything that's happened. He makes a soft sound of contentment in the back of his throat, and nuzzles his face into my neck.

For a few moments we just lie there, wrapped up in each other, breathing together. But there are a lot of questions buzzing in the back of my mind. I detach myself from him gently, pushing the blankets off and getting to my feet. 'We should see what's happening,' I say, raising a hand to shade my eyes as I move down toward the baths. 'And perhaps go find some breakfast.'

But then his arms close around me from behind. 'Wait a minute,' he murmurs in my ear. The soft whisper of his breath makes me shiver, the air between us becoming bright and heated.

Perhaps breakfast can wait a little.

'Emma lath,' he says, and his voice has become low, sensuous. 'I would spend a few moments longer with you, if you will have me.'

‘Yes,’ I say, because all of a sudden I can’t muster any other words.

‘Good.’ He releases me, and I turn to face him, suddenly breathless. ‘Then – perhaps I could induce you to take off that shirt?’

His tone is such that I couldn’t possibly disobey. Slowly, keeping my gaze on his face, I undo the ties holding the garment together and let it fall to the ground, so I’m standing naked before him.

Solas makes a sound like a groan. ‘You are – ’ He shakes his head, murmuring elven words too low for me to translate, and leans in to cup one breast softly, almost reverently, as he kisses me slow and sweet. Then he lowers his mouth to my other breast and gently takes the nipple in his mouth, sucking. I let out a gasp and arch against him; he gives a low laugh and then I feel his hand sliding between my legs. He keeps kissing me as his fingers move, sending sparks through my veins. I’m already close to the edge when all of a sudden he lets me go; and I blink up at him, discomposed and speechless. Solas gives a cocky little smile. ‘Not yet, my love,’ he says, and then he picks me up in his arms and deposits me right back on the pile of pillows.

Stepping back, he reaches down and lifts his shirt over his head. My healing was evidently more effective than I thought, or perhaps it's just the effect of all that raw magic in the air: there are a few light scars, but otherwise his body is just as I remember. Lean and firm, lightly muscled, beautiful in the dappled forest light. As he throws the shirt aside he raises an eyebrow smugly at me. ‘Admiring your handiwork?'

I smile. ‘Don’t think I didn't notice you showing off for me, back in Minrathous.’

‘I did no such thing!’ he says, and then he grins. ‘But perhaps I could be prevailed upon to do so in the future.’

He steps lightly out of his trousers and lets them fall to the floor, and then moves into the light; I watch dry-mouthed as he turns playfully in the sunshine, letting me admire him. Then he climbs delicately onto the pillows and crawls towards me, stretching his body out over mine. I reach for him, wanting nothing more than to feel all that warm skin against my own. He shakes his head teasingly, but then yields, allowing me to draw him close to my body. All of this skin contact after years of absence makes me almost dizzy with joy.

For a moment we just lie entangled in each other, skin to skin, and then Solas starts kissing me again; he puts a hand between my legs, touching me expertly until I’m breathless beneath him. Then he takes his hand away, so I let out a soft sigh of disappointment. ‘What do you want, my love?’ he says, smiling. ‘Tell me what you want.’

‘I – ’ I scramble for words. ‘Emma salin, ma sa'lath.’

He’s serious for a moment, looking intently at me. ‘Are you sure, vhenan?’

'Solas, if you stop now – '

'Ah,' he says, with a smile. 'And what if I do?'

'Fenhedis lasa, Solas!' I say, reaching for him.

He laughs aloud, and teases me a moment longer, but then he finally moves forward and enters me. It’s been a long time, and here in the real world my body is unaccustomed; I cry out with mingled pain and pleasure. The intensity of it, the aching joy, is almost too much to bear.

‘Are you all right?’ he says anxiously, drawing back a moment.

‘Very much so,’ I manage to say, pushing my hips up towards him. He lets out a soft sound and moves against me in return; I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer as he thrusts into me, pressing his lips to mine.

He picks me up, his hands gripping my thighs, and holds me in his arms as he moves, kissing me deeply all the while, murmuring words of love between kisses. I put my arms around him, greedy for all that warm skin; I’m rising and falling with him, the whole world shrinking down to our two bodies and the words we whisper to one another.

Just as I’m on the edge he puts me back down and reaches with his hand to press against the outside of me as he moves. I arch beneath him, my breath coming in short gasps, the heat growing until it’s almost too much to bear. ‘Come for me, love,’ he whispers in my ear, and I do, clenching around him, feeling his name slip from my lips. That’s enough to tip him over the edge as well, his mouth opening soundlessly, his hands clutching at the sheets.

Then he gathers me in his arms and presses his forehead to mine and we lie there together, warm and safe and loved. The sounds of Arlathan rise sweetly all around us; birdsong and spirit-song, the wind in the trees, the falling leaves. Arlathan: this place of love. Whatever happens next we're home, at last.

***

Afterwards, of course, everything changes.

Every elf, human and qunari in Thedas has suddenly become a mage, and spirits wander the world freely. The time after the fall of the Veil is deeply strange: fear and panic sweep through the embodied population, and yet at the very same time the world is flooded by rejoicing spirits, and their joy has its impact on the embodied as well. Those who are still able to listen begin to hear the song; to understand. I could never have predicted the way the upheaval and the joy would mingle, giving rise to something wholly new.

Ferelden fares best, of all of the southern nations: Queen Anora, with the help of Alistair and the Hero of Ferelden, had already instituted a number of significant social reforms in the wake of the Fifth Blight, so they the Fereldens well-prepared to adapt to the new world. When all of the dust settles, Anora is the only monarch from the times before the Veil who still remains in power.

Tevinter and Orlais, already fiercely divided and hamstrung by prejudice and arrogance, descend into chaos and tear themselves apart from the inside. In what was once Tevinter, the soporati and slaves come into their power and rebel against their mage overlords. Dorian musters hosts of spirits, together with what remains of the Shadow Dragons, to help drive out the magisters with as little bloodshed as possible. Some call for Dorian to step into the role of Archon, but he's disgusted at the very idea: he has not done all of this just to end up reproducing the autocracy he had spent so long trying to expel. In the absence of any central leadership, the country splits apart into its separate provinces, each cobbling together its own form of government, and with that Tevinter as a nation is gone forever.

Neve continues to be a force of nature in what was once Minrathous, pulling Dock Town back together and rebuilding it into something better than it once was. She has never spoken to me again since the Veil came down, and I suppose that she never will.

The civil war in Orlais continues until both Celene and Gaspard have been slain, and the Chantry's forces exhausted. Leliana disappears and the remains of the Chantry splinter irrevocably in the absence of leadership. The official word is that Divine Victoria has perished, though I have my doubts; the last time I visited Morrigan in her home in the Frostback basin there were a suspicious number of pretty shoes stacked by the door, and I saw signs of pet nugs. I did always think the two of them had a certain chemistry.

In any case, the remaining nobles of Orlais, humiliated and exhausted, have no choice but to limp to Ferelden to ask for help. Anora sends Connor and Bann Teagan to help set up an interim government – a new council of heralds, one which, on Anora's insistence, includes elves and dwarves and some humans from outside of the noble classes. The Orlesian empire forgotten, Orlais eases into becoming something like a province of Ferelden, a change which in fact turns out to be quite welcome to the common people.

The Marcher cities are a mixed bag: Kirkwall in particular, under Aveline's guidance, becomes a popular destination for dwarven refugees and its population is now a roughly equal mixture of humans and dwarves, with a few elves and qunari thrown in for good measure. Starkhaven too opens its doors to refugees of all nations; Wycombe, however, falls to civil war, and I for one do not grieve it.

The Antaam, finding that every one of them has become mages overnight, descend into chaos and in-fighting. They have all been brought up to hate and fear magic, so this change is an upheaval beyond anything they could ever have imagined. Most of them flee back to Seheron, licking their wounds and returning to the qun in the hope that it can offer guidance in this unprecedented situation. A few remain, though, and make new lives in the nations of Thedas, as all of our societies rebuild themselves from the ground up.

In Antiva, the king is overthrown and his remaining children killed – not by the Crows, Teia assures me, though I am not sure I believe her. In the absence of other heirs, the throne passes to Viago de Riva, once he has recovered from his wounds; which in practice means that Teia is in charge now, and under her influence Antiva is slowly rebuilding itself into a nation where all the peoples of Thedas can live together in peace and equal dignity.

Nevarra's monarchy is overthrown, but the Mourn Watch, led by the distinguished Emmrich Volkarin, is a guiding light in troubled times. Since the Nevarrans have always been accustomed to dealing with spirits, they deal with the transition better than many other places. Rivain, meanwhile, seems almost unchanged, except that the ranks of the Seers expand vastly and their repertoire of techniques becomes much wider. Taash returns there, and continues hunting dragons; they too have not spoken to me since that day in Minrathous, but from what I hear they seem content.

In the chaotic times after the fall of the Veil, many dwarves flee their homes to take shelter in Kal-Sharok. They've heard whispers that somewhere in the Deep Roads there awaits the possibility of taking back their dreams and their magic. Solas and I travel there several times to help with the restoration of the dreams, and then eventually Merrill makes more implements similar to the lyrium dagger, and so we are able to delegate the task to those dwarves who have already recovered some magical powers. As the dwarves take back their dreams, the darkspawn dwindle; in time, the Blight more or less vanishes from the Deep Roads. With their new occult powers, the dwarves revitalize Kal-Sharok and other forgotten cities, and they even build new Deep Roads, including one leading all the way to Arlathan forest, for by this time the dwarves and elves have become staunch allies.

Indeed, many of the elves of Theadas have flocked to Arlathan forest, showing up in droves in the tumultuous weeks and months after the Veil came down. But not only elves – mages, lovers of spirits, historians, and many others who simply want a different life. The preparations we made in our years living here finally come to fruition: as the magic returns, the ancient elven technologies come to life, and the forest reveals its last secrets to us. Within a few years Arlathan is home to numerous settlements, with Davrin's griffons guarding the border so fiercely that none of the other nations have ever dared to intervene. Within the forest, elves, spirits, and the embodied of other races live peacefully side by side, finding new ways of coexisting.

And at the center of Arlathan, where the Veil Jumpers once set up their camp in the mossy ruins, a little village has sprung up. We call it Vhenara – Haven, in elvhen. Bellara and Irelin live together in one of those little houses; Davrin and Dorian in another, although Dorian is often away, tending to the complex politics of the new nations that make up what was once Tevinter. Colette lives there too, working hard on the history she is writing of the post-Veil years; Fenris visits frequently, though I still have not yet been able to divine if they are actually together.

Charter drops in often enough, though she likes her travels too much to ever settle. Strife and Abelas share another house, and Merrill has a place in the village too, though she's often in Kirkwall, visiting Dagna, with whom she is involved in some kind of complex polyamorous arrangement whose details I have never been able to completely figure out. And though spirits have no need of houses of brick and mortar, there are several who have made their homes here: the Caretaker is a permanent resident, and the spirit that was once Cole has also found its way back to us. Even the wisp that once inhabited Manfred occasionally makes appearances.

And in amongst them all, in a cottage as humble as the others, Solas and I have made our home.

***

It is not easy. I wake, sometimes, from nightmares of the people who died the day when I took down the Veil. Solas is there every time, cradling me gently, rocking me back to sleep. Whispering his reassurances in my ear. But there is no going back: there are some things that time cannot mend.

Still, there is plenty to distract us. Establishing ourselves in Arlathan has taken much hard work, as we build homes, reclaim more territory, and awaken the ancient magics. There is much to be done to organise the arrivals, helping them find new roles and purposes in the land that we are building. We need to teach everyone to life safely in a world overflowing with magic, in which imagination can shape reality almost as easily as breathing. Fortunately the spirits that now flood through every part of Arlathan are ever by our side, guiding us to find safe paths through the perils of the forest, as well as the long dark nights of our own fears.

Magic has changed; there are new songs, now, altered harmonics. People flock to Solas and me for guidance, and what began as informal group discussions led by the two of us quickly become real classes, so in time the village transforms into something like an academy. Others join in: Colette teaches history, Bellara ancient elven technology. When Emmrich can be spared from the Mourn Watch he pops by to deliver lectures on necromantic techniques, and his more recent work on how they can be altered to avoid the use of bindings. Morrigan occasionally shows up to teach everyone about some esoteric spell she's discovered in her travels. And some of the spirits teach as well: the Caretaker instructs us on the spells of the Crossroads, for in time we plan to build new pathways and new islands. And the spirit that was once Cole teaches philosophy, sharing what it knows of the depths of the human heart.

Now that Arlathan has become more settled, there's time for research too. Solas and I often spend our evenings buried in books, or conducting precise experiments on the primordial energies of the Fade. With magic still undergoing so much change, there's a great deal to be learned and understood; new spells to be developed, new theories to be tested.

Sitting there together in the soft pearlescent light cast by the wisps dancing around us, bouncing ideas off one another, discussing and debating late into the night – it is, I say to Solas, as good as sex.

He tilts his head, considering. 'I don't know if I should be flattered or not, vhenan.'

'Don't worry,' I say. 'I have every intention of doing plenty of both.'

His head tips. A little smile; his hands reach for me. 'Is that so?' And on that particular occasion, the delicate experiment we were in the middle of conducting goes unfinished.

***

Solas paints frescos all over Vhenara – no grief and no regrets, just joyful depictions of the new world we are building together. There's Bellara, her hands buried in the carcass of a glittering machine as she brings to life a device that will become a mobile library, carrying books to and fro all across Arlathan. There's Merrill, crafting new eluvians so we can travel more easily across Thedas to form alliances with the slowly rebuilding nations. Strife and Abelas, constructing houses together, laughing like young men as they race against one another to raise the framework with magic. Davrin, with Dorian at his side, leading his little army of griffons to the border to rebuff those who would seek to harm us.

And in the cottage that Solas and I share, a mural of the two of us, holding hands beneath the blossom trees. The day it depicts was not exactly our wedding day, because the two of us are agreed that we need no religious ceremonies to cement the bond between us; but it was a day when we brought our friends together to eat and dance and celebrate late into the night, and then whispered promises to one another in the silver light of the crescent moon. Bellanaris, Solas said softly, his hands around my waist; Bellanaris, I whispered back. He painted the fresco the very next day, with the word Bellanaris written in elvhen across the frame.

***

One day as we are playing music together – Solas on the harpsichord, me on the tremelo – I look over at him, sitting at his keyboard, and then gasp because I can see his spirit. Literally, this time. A silvery outline, tendrils spreading through his body, the light of it seeping out through his skin, through his clothes. Just like he painted himself, in the mural that he later destroyed. Beautiful, delicate, unutterably tender.

'Solas,' I whisper, my voice full of wonder. He looks up at me for a moment, confused, and then he looks down at himself and sees his own light.

'I – ' he whispers, raising a hand to trace the lines of silver on his skin. It's fading now, as the last echoes of our music die away. But we both saw it. We saw what he truly is.

Tears fall from his eyes as he raises his wrists to watch the silver light ebb away. 'I – ' he whispers. 'I thought it was gone forever. I thought I would never – '

I sit down beside him, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. 'You're so beautiful, Solas,' I tell him. 'Your spirit is so beautiful.'

He shivers, and turns his head to kiss me: a long, tender, aching kiss, a spark of magic on his lips. 'You have always seen me,' he whispers. 'No one else ever could, but you saw me. You knew.'

I rest my head on his shoulder, my eyes still a little dazzled with the light of what he has always been. 'Would you ever – want to go back? Become wholly a spirit?'

I'm a little anxious to ask the question, but to my relief he smiles and shakes his head. 'It would be – a kind of death. The embodied are very different from spirits. Even were it possible to go back, so much of what I am now would be lost. It wouldn't be me any longer.'

'But some part of you yearns for what you used to be.'

He nods. 'Yes. But not because I wish to literally return to that way of being. Rather I wish to live my embodied life in a way that is true to my original purpose. I no longer want to be a spirit of wisdom: I want to be an embodied person living in wisdom. I want to negotiate the complexity of physical existence with the clarity that such wisdom brings.'

'And you are doing that,' I say.

'Well. I am trying. It will always take work. But I would not trade any of it for the simplicity of my previous existence as a spirit.' He reaches down and squeezes my hand. 'I would not trade this. The greatest joy of my life. I am glad for what I have become, because it has brought me to this.'

I turn to embrace him and we kiss again, sinking into one another, rising into a spiraling crescendo. And as I kiss him I see his spirit-self again glimmering through his skin, glittering with the certainty of our love; the man and the spirit finally unified and made whole.