Chapter Text
Athanise blinks open her eyes, and for a bright and shining moment, she knows nothing but peace.
There’s the quiet confusion at first, unable to remember where she is. The room is plain, wood and plaster walls bereft of almost any decoration save some threadbare curtains doing nothing to slow the stream of warm sunlight scattering across her skin. She’s lying on a mattress, soft enough to be serviceable, as are the plain clothes she’s in, barely scratching her skin as she sits up slowly. Everything feels so muted, her thoughts jumbled as she tried to listen for the undercurrent of music in the air, looking for the iridescent sheen of the magic that sang to every living being.
Instead, she was met with quiet birdsong, and beneath that, silence.
Then the crushing weight of memory and grief grips her heart and tears it from her chest, the murky world she had barely taken in wobbling and warping with the tears now streaming freely down her face. Flashes of memories flit unbidden through her, crashing against the walls of her mind as her last moments awake before falling into uthenera slide unwillingly into focus.
The chaos after whatever Fen’Harel had done, a ritual that had blanketed the world in damning silence, leaving the remaining Elvhen in chaos. She and her mother were heading through the Inoranor ahead of the crowds at Felassan’s insistence, but too late, too late, before the deafening silence rang across the Fade.
Her mother was halfway through the Eluvian when it shattered.
She blinks rapidly, trying to shed the memory of screaming and blood and viscera and cold hopelessness into the path of her tears and away from her thoughts, but stubbornly it stays, staining her mind much as her mother’s blood did her hands, seeping into every nook and cranny until she was sure that she would never be clean of it again.
It’s here she starts hyperventilating, gasping for breath as though the air was suddenly stripped of oxygen; she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe, it’s not enough, not enough, help me, someone, please! Her blood is pounding in her ears, so loud that she doesn’t hear the door open, nor see the man whose familiar face might break her heart all over again. Athanise doesn’t hear him cross the room, or feel the blanket pulled from her body, but she notices herself being jostled and pulled by gentle hands into his lap, hears him humming comfort into her ears, drowning out the chaotic swirl of her mind. She feels his sun-warmed skin bleeding the cold from hers, why was she so cold?
Felassan always did know how to comfort her.
He stays a long while, stroking her hair and letting her soak his tunic with tears, occasionally soothing her with a song or comforting words. Her tears dry up, long after the sun has set, and he helps settle her against the pillows to sleep, curled against her body as she slips into unconsciousness.
The next day goes much better than the first, mostly because she awakens pulled close to his chest, limbs tangled together, the strong tattoo of his heartbeat against her ear. He does make her sit up and drink some honeyed water, then herbal tea and some crackers, the first solids she’d had since entering her uthenera.
“How long has it been?” Her voice cracked from disuse, but she needs to know.
“Approximately 4000 years, give or take a decade or two. There’s a lot to fill you in on.”
She can’t fathom that amount of time right now.
They stay in bed a little longer while she finishes her crackers and tea, then Felassan helps pull her to standing, legs wobbling and trembling while he helps wrap her up in a cloak. They exit the small cabin, nothing ramshackle but clearly built by less than talented hands, and all she can see is green, trees towering up into the sky, grass and moss and loam soft and cool beneath her bare toes. The forest trembles, anger and grief and loss reverberating in the air and through the trees, echoing back into her ribs and settling uncomfortably against her skin, each pain of hers made real by the spirits who dwell here.
“They call it the Emerald Graves now. We are right on the edge of the territory, though I was loathe to build any closer. There’s too much pain here; our kin press against the Veil constantly, seeking what they know and fighting against the Veil in an effort to reach it.”
She hums quietly, an affirmation without words. He lets her sit in the moment for a while, hand warm as it brushes comforting circles around her back.
“Nissa, do you remember who you were Before?”
“Hope or Joy, I think? I can’t quite remember anymore. I suppose it doesn’t matter much now.”
Speaking Elvhen was still easy; she understood what he was saying, though she could feel some of the music slam against an unseen barrier. It wasn’t even conscious, closing her eyes in pain against how much had been lost. Felassan hums in silent agreement, his arm around her shoulder pulling her close again. They sit quietly, the silence heavy against her skin like a thick blanket, muffling all the songs of magic until nothing was left. She fought the urge to pull at the Fade, to cast something into the world, unwilling to bear the disappointment if her magic was gone too.
“He’s here, you know. The Rebel Wolf.”
She doesn’t say anything at first. Her thoughts shudder to a stop then sprint away from her as she parses his meaning. Fen’Harel is here? He’s here, likely in another of the rooms in the cabin. Felassan must feel her body tense as she thinks, saying nothing as he leaves her to work it out, not pushing the conversation forward until she’s ready.
How does she feel?
She was part of his rebellion. Her position at Elgar’nan’s side for the entirety of her life up to that point had granted them powerful insight to the things happening behind closed doors, shared freely with Felassan and delivered directly to Fen’Harel. Nissa hadn’t formally met him, not even in Dreaming; all of her correspondence had been between herself and Felassan. He’d had more important things to do, working to keep it all secret even as he attempted to undermine all the Evanuris barring Mythal.
The day She died was etched permanently into her memory.
The Fade had echoed with his mournful howling for months, marking the beginning of the rebellion kicking up into full swing. She had gone from giving occasional information to dumping all of it into Felassan’s head, Dreaming him schematics and calendar updates from within Elgar’nan’s study, no more than a few feet from where her master slept. Her position was as precarious as it was necessary; they needed someone on the inside to give everything they could and stay alive doing it. It wasn’t hard to act as she usually did. She spent a lot of her time perpetually anxious and afraid in his presence, and her body had long since gotten used to the beatings.
The day she escaped and Felassan took her vallaslin away, she’d cried so hard she puked from the relief.
“I’m not mad at him. I could be, easily. But that would take all the good he did away. He may not know my face, or my contributions to his cause, but despite all I lost— all Elvhenan lost— I won’t forsake him. All his Wisdom could not have prepared him for the magic to go awry like that.”
Felassan says nothing. She knows he’s pleased with her answer, though if he’s still anything close to the man he was before, she doubted he would truly care either way. He would defend Fen’Harel with his life, but people’s thoughts and free will were theirs to do with as they pleased, a topic they both agreed on.
“I should tell you everything that’s happened since you fell asleep. I will, in due course, though feel free to read any of my journals in the meantime. There’s the history as it happened, and then the revised versions the world ‘remembers kept separate.”
Good to know that no matter the age, people were always trying to rewrite history in their favour.
⬫◊⚜◊⬫
She spends several months reading up on everything that happened in the millennia she slept.
It’s 9:10 Dragon when she awakens, the 9th Age since the Chantry calendar started keeping track, though Felassan’s research indicates that Arlathan’s founding is dated somewhere in -7600A; 1:01 Divine was a little over 800 years ago. The timeline, as she understands it, puts the Veil’s creation roughly 1000 years ago. How very wrong they were, a fact she’d have to get used to now.
Kingdoms rose and fell, as did the elves. The entire section on the history of Blights and their supposed causes fills her with more dread than she’d like to deal with in the new world, and it takes several tries to get through it all and understand it. Felassan hadn’t woken up until well after the Third Blight, around the middle of the fourth age, but witnessed enough of the Fourth Blight to have written an entire journal on its effects.
Felassan teaches her the Trade tongue the fun way, a reasonable excuse for them to tumble together and relieve stress like the old days. It’s not her first foray into bed with Felassan; it’s something they did plenty Before, but she’s thankful he waited until her body stopped feeling clumsy. Her body’s base needs were still an adjustment, but pleasure still tingled like it used to, even dulled without the echoes of the Fade to pull from.
He speaks about his story too; a spirit of Compassion had managed to cross over safely, seeking to comfort the small group he’d fallen into uthenera with. Most had already passed away, unable to work out how to cross back, but Compassion helped them all, maintaining Felassan’s body while working with the other spirits to cross back over. It woke him up, though he didn’t say why, and helped him adjust as best it could, but soon he needed to venture out and see the world.
He’d wandered for a while, slowly picking up the Trade tongue now in use, though eventually came across a Dalish clan who knew enough of his elvish to put together a rudimentary conversation. She and Felassan devolve into another bedroom romp while he tells her how he’d properly learned Trade, an echo of how he’d taught her, the cheeky bastard.
It doesn’t even take them a full year for them to slip into a routine, and though he says nothing, she knows he’s grateful for the extra set of hands. She’s able to pick up supply runs to the nearby Dalish clan; Felassan had been trading information from Before in exchange for any supplies they could spare. She continued that exchange, though added several lessons on embroidery that could make them more money, much to the delight of their clan.
Years pass, as it is wont to do, and both elves maintained Fen’Harel and his network in his absence. They grow closer as friends, though the distinction between that and lovers is rarely spoken of. He starts entrusting more work to her, leaving her to care for Fen’Harel’s body when he’s out, each trip taking longer and longer. He tells her of his adventures, and she is content to listen to them rather than experience them. Her life Before was enough adventure to last her a lifetime, even one as extended as her own.
He still recruits for the network, often enough that her skills in the Dreaming become more necessary; she maintains lines of communication with them all in the Fade, easier than relying on ink and parchment in the new world.
They hear word of a new Blight, and though it’s closer than either would like, it comes and goes faster than any Blight before it. They’re grateful not to have to move, if a little confused, but she and Felassan both are pleased to see an elven man named the Hero of Fereldan.
She spends a lot of time in the Fade as part of her work, watching the edges of Fen’Harel’s dreams respectfully, and as such senses his stirrings far sooner than his physical body would indicate. It gives her time to call Felassan back, offering to take his place on a supply run to get Fen’Harel new clothes, as well as a fresh supply of honey.
By the time she returns from the trip, both Felassan and Fen’Harel are gone.
She thinks nothing of it, at first. Perhaps he’s just showing Fen’Harel what the world looks like now. An agent sends word from up near Val Rouyeaux that they’re starting work on securing the few working eluvians, leaving her an eased mind to focus on the house upkeep. Several months pass without any news, and though the worry creeps back, she ignores it.
When Felassan returns, he’s accompanied by an elf named Briala.
He isn’t the same.
The Felassan she knows is joyful, annoying yet endearing, a sweetheart who consistently goes out of his way to help those around him, life and light to any place he’s in. Now he’s quiet, dull, barely a shell of the man he used to be.
Tranquil.
He can’t remember why, and Briala found no witnesses. All accounts assume he crossed paths with a particularly bored Templar who left him in the alienage to be found by one of Briala’s agents. She managed to get directions to their little cottage from him and had brought him here personally, unable to trust anyone to guard him with their life.
Nissa is grateful, even though her heart breaks.
⬫◊⚜◊⬫
The cottage is too quiet now.
At least until she gets word from another agent in the network. One of Fen’Harel’s higher-ups is gathering a team together to retrieve his Orb. She makes a note of it but doesn’t volunteer. This isn’t her speciality, after all.
Not long after, there’s a pulse of agony that echoes throughout the Fade, leaving her weak and shaking for days afterwards.
More messages get passed along; there are plans for the orb to get found by a Tevinter cult starting to grow in power thanks to some Elder One, all surrounding the same talks of a peace council being planned in the Frostback mountains. Felassan should be with him, so she reaches out to the Dalish clan nearby and begs them to look after him while she’s gone. If he can’t be there, she’ll go in his stead.
What’s the worst that can happen?
⬫◊⚜◊⬫
She wakes up in a dungeon, chained and aching all over.
Humans, who she’d managed to avoid for the first part, are arguing at her and about her, though it’s hard to care much when she’s staring in horror at her hand.
The bones feel like they’re vibrating, tugging at the very essence of her soul as it flashes and sparks in anger. She recognises the magic, though she can’t place where yet. They don’t give her much time to think, the shemlen, before she’s being pulled to her feet and marched out of the Chantry? Since when do Chantry’s have dungeons?
The Breach, as they’re calling it, is awful to behold.
Looking through it doesn’t make her think of Before. Or, it does, but it’s too close to her mother's death; volatile and wild and chaotic, a reflection of the steady decline of the world and its magic. Spirits turned demons are constantly pouring from it, and though she’s a well-practised mage, it’s torture listening to their cries and screams echoing through her mind.
The next hour is a blur of pain. On more than one occasion she’s brought to her knees, the mark on her hand shooting agonising streaks of anger along her arm. Cassandra, the angry shemlen woman, hauls her back to her feet every time. A bridge collapses under them, which does wonders for the migraine pulsing behind her eyes, though finally she gets a weapon and can help, rather than hanging back helplessly.
Then they come across Fen’Harel.
He’s fighting alongside a dwarf with entirely too much chest hair exposed in this weather. Angry spirits are pouring from a tear in the Veil, screaming in rage and despair. She joins the fray, begging them to please relax, she wants to help, but they don’t listen, and she’s forced to kill them before they can harm her. Nissa knows that they’ll form again, but the loss of what they were still sits heavily against her ribs all the same.
After the last one falls, Fen’Harel strides over, grips her marked hand, and shoves it towards the rift. Something pulses then tugs, like threads in her embroidery, his magic mixed with hers. The rift seals shut in a bright flash of light and pain. She can’t help but wrench her hand away, tucking it to her chest as she hisses in pain, begging the throbbing to stop, please just stop…
“W-what did you do?”
Fen’Harel stands before her, and all she can do is whimper and stammer. It’s not even her fault, really. The pain is still shooting up her arm, though abating slowly with every pulse. Then she watches with barely concealed confusion as he practically folds himself in half, tone changing from the barked order to something demure and quiet.
“I did nothing, the credit is yours.”
She wants to call him out on that but stays quiet. More than just her magic did that, she’s sure of it. But she has no idea what the shemlen know, and considering how small he’s making himself, she doubts they have any idea what his true identity is. As powerful as she might be compared to most mortals in this Age, it took years of practice to get back to some semblance of her previous skill. Being quiet and unassuming had saved her and Felassan more times than she could count.
His Tranquility bubbles in the back of her mind uneasily.
“—Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.”
She turns, seeing the dwarf approaching.
“Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller and occasional unwelcome tag-along.”
“Are you with the Chantry, or…?”
Fen’Harel chuckles.
“Was that a serious question?”
She’s barely getting over the derisive chuckle when Varric and Cassandra look like they’re about to start arguing again.
“It’s good to meet you, Varric.”
There’s more conversation, though she’s barely able to keep track of it all. Her hand is throbbing, and her head is pounding. Then Fen’Harel catches her eye.
“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live.”
“He means ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept’.”
Ah. The irony is bittersweet in her mouth.
“Oh? How did you do that?”
“Healing magic and minor wards. But I fear your mark is now past the point where those will help you.”
She can’t help but wonder if that’s all he did, or if there was more to it. The conversation meandered on, Fen’Harel/Solas claiming to be an ‘expert on the Fade’, and eventually, the consensus was to head to the forward camp. From there, they headed up the mountain pass, saved several of Leliana’s scouts, and continued to the Temple. Nothing but burnt rubble and twisted bodies remained.
She doesn’t remember much of what happened after that.
Red Lyrium, flashes of her interrupting the ritual, and a giant pride demon (she wonders if Fen’Harel knew them once). Then, pouring everything she could into trying to close the Breach, barely able to cut off the flow of magic before she began pouring her very soul into it as well.
Darkness.
Fading in and out of feverish dreams, the Dread Wolf patrolling the edges and protecting her mind as she wavered between the border of life and death.
Then she’s awake, and though the mark is still throbbing, it doesn’t feel as if her bones are being crushed anymore. An elven woman prostrates herself, and Nissa feels something uncomfortable coil in her heart at the thought. She dresses quickly and exits the cabin.
Unease simmers low in her gut watching several dozen shems all falling to their feet to praise her. How in the Void the Evanuris enjoyed this is beyond her meagre understanding. She’s desperate to find Fen’Harel, but instead she’s being forced up to the Chantry by the crowds, hemming her in on a singular pathway directly to its doors. She wades through the politics of the modern world, reflections of the Game echoing into every false smile and faked ignorance she speaks.
Finally, she’s released, taking several moments to breathe in the cool mountain air. Her gut is still churning, the waves of unease settling into bouts of queasiness she has to breathe though, lest what little she may have in her stomach be lost in the snow. She wanders for a bit, passing Varric and speaking with him briefly, though seeing how pale and clammy she looks, he directs her to the apothecary.
It wouldn’t do to present herself poorly to Fen’Harel, she supposes.
As her void-cursed luck would have it, that’s exactly where she finds him, though it takes her several moments to process him taking orders from the shem man, sleeves rolled up and grinding down herbs for poultices and potions.
Adan, as it turns out, is the one that kept her alive for her latest bout of unconsciousness. She thanks him profusely, then asks to borrow ‘Solas’ so he can assess her mark. Adan acquiesces, and Fen’Harel leads her over to another cabin, apparently assigned to him and the dwarf to share. He seats her in front of the fire after checking her temperature, and before she can even open her mouth, his magic slides cool and soothing along her feverish skin, pulling the last dregs of discomfort from her body.
She can’t help but slump in relief, sagging into the chair.
He crosses the room and grabs a journal and charcoal from his pack, propping the book against his knee as he takes her hand in his. His skin, much like his magic, is cool against hers, fingers gentle as he inspects the mark. Something tingles in her spine when he presses her palm more firmly, warm and fuzzy and entirely unexpected. He makes a note in the journal, writing in a cramped but elegant script on a page already full of information.
“I want to thank you, again, for your help with the mark.”
“Of course. It was that, or risk Cassandra’s wrath, and potential imprisonment.”
“Naturally. Shems are good at that, aren’t they?”
“Quite.”
She doesn’t know how to ask. He’s Fen’Harel, her superior! But she’s supposed to pretend to be his boss? He must see her stewing in her thoughts and take pity on her.
“When did you wake up lethallin?”
“Oh! A couple of decades, I think.”
She huffs a sigh. This is part of the conversation she didn’t want to have, but he has to know.
“As you can guess by my lack of vallaslin, I’m not pretending to be Dalish. But before I left for the Conclave, I left another of us behind. He’s Tranquil, and I’m worried about him. I left instructions with some friends—’ she tries not to choke on the word, ‘—but I want him where I can look after him myself. I won’t always be here to keep an eye out on him, though. Would you help me make sure that he’s looked after properly, once he’s here? I’ve already seen some of the ways Tranquil are treated in this world.”
“Of course. I’ll keep an ear out for him. What’s his name?”
She doesn’t want to tell him. She has to.
“Felassan.”
His careful mask of indifference cracks into despair. It hurts, knowing she’s delivering this news to him, adding the weight of grief to his already burdened shoulders, but the alternative was worse.
He hasn’t explicitly said who he is, beyond Solas. She knows he kept his identity hidden Before. The anonymity of his face versus his title was something important. It allowed him to walk places Fen’Harel would otherwise be barred from. She continues to operate under this assumption until he tells her otherwise. To do anything else would be foolish.
“Ir abelas, Solas. I understand he was a friend of yours. I’m sorry to have to bring you the news this way.”
“You know me?”
Fen’Harel's words are sharp, startling her. His eyes flash with something, gone too fast for her to catch.
“I…yes. Somewhat. I helped Felassan tend you during your uthenera. I didn’t want to say anything in front of the shemlen.”
He says nothing at first, though his careful mask is back up now.
“Did he speak of me?”
In truth, Felassan hadn’t spoken much of him. He hadn’t wanted to; she suspected the memories were too painful for him and his jovial personality to deal with.
“Yes, and no. He told me you were both very close, and that he served with you in the war, but mostly he talked about your youthful escapades, rather than anything private.”
He makes a soft noise in his throat, quiet and broken, but says nothing.
“I’m sorry again, that you found out about him like this. I know what it’s like to lose somebody.”
His eyes raise to meet hers, and either he doesn’t bother or is unable to hide the grief and regret in his eyes. His face and body are heavy with it, and she knows that sensation so intimately she can’t help but squeeze the hand he still has grasped around hers.
“I need to go organise his travel here. Dareth shiral, Solas.”
He mumbles something too quiet for her to hear as she leaves.