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Chapter Text

Eight years were nothing in the infinite sea of the lifetime of an immortal. At least that was what June supposed as he joined the remnants of the Inquisition and the might of the Veilguard forces in the ruin of the Archon's blighted palace. Eight years of time-biding, of scheming just like the old Dalish legends spoke. A blink of an eye to the Dread Wolf that transcended the ages. Naught but a droplet of tear into the salty pool that was the fathomless expanse of time itself. Lukewarm waters that stung in the wounds that same time had left across June's tired, weary body.

Scars on the hands from blocking daggers, swords, spears and spells. Scars on the legs from cheap shots and clever feints. Scars on the chest, where the healer's scalpel had reshaped and reformed his body.

Those were the scars that stung the worst as he climbed up the blight tendrils, readying himself to face his once-love; a man who hand only ever known June by the facade he once wore of a self-loathing woman. Eight years. Almost to the day since their last kiss, their last touch. Since Solas left June behind in his pursuit of destruction and resurrection.

And what was eight years to the dread wolf?

To June, those years might as well have been a lifetime. He had grown from an insolent sapling into a wizened Vhenadahl. Bark wrought with the paint and scars of the people. Savior of humans, but also the hope of the Dalish, was he. He was patient now, hopeful but tired. Much of his coarse brashness had weathered away into solitary wariness. His freckled face was lined with the weight of the years. His vallaslin seemed darker as he spent less and less time in the field soaking up the sunlight. The same vallaslin he had once refused Solas the privilege of removing. Now, with the full and total context of it all, he questioned the wisdom of that choice.

Though his eyes were still a clear, deep honey, they now lacked the stalwart sternness they had once possessed. Where once the little elf man had been rigid steel, now he was as malleable as clay in his desire for, and openness to, new belief and knowledge.

Lastly, his body, it was wholly changed. Reshaped and reformed from the aethers of the Fade and beyond into something new. Something beautiful. Everything June had always been within, he now wore outwardly like armor. From his flat, strong chest, to the lower, gruffer tone of his voice, to the angualr cut of his cheeks… he was new.

Well.

New to Solas.

To his inner circle, to all who knew the once-inquisitor, he had been "He" since just after Solas had stolen away with his arm.

What Solas had known was the wriggling wretched form of a worm on the dirt, writhing about with no mouth to eat nor eyes to behold. And now the Dread Wolf was to be faced with the full beauty, radiance, and truth of a moth reborn.

June was… afraid. Because Solas was about to learn just how long eight years truly was. Eight years stood between June and the man he loved. Eight years concealed the glorious, perfect truth of who June had always been. Even before either of them knew.

Eight years…

It was terrifying, the prospect of being stripped bare and made to march through the streets of Minrathous before the scornful eyes of millions. So long… and the dread wolf had missed so much. What would he say? What would be think? What would he do when faced by all those he perceived himself to have wronged? What would the Dread Wolf do in the face of release, forgiveness, love.

Eight years…

And the kairotic moment came.

Elgar'nan lay dead, and with him went the little stability that remained to sustain the veil. as had been Solas' plan all along. A final moment of duplicity before he destroyed the world as it was.

Death to all tyrants, indeed.

And in this final moment of deluded trickery, he took the lyrium dagger from Rook and turned in preparation to remake the world into the one he had left behind in his slumber.

But Morrigan was there, who was and was not Mythal, and when she appeared Rook invoked that piece of the goddesses memory which was separate from her. And, as Solas buckled and wept, he was both forgiven and released from her service.

It was then, as Solas doubled over in pain, that June stepped forward from the safety of the shadows.

Solas' eyes, wet with tears looked up as he choked on pained breaths. Breaths he had been holding within for a thousand-thousand years. His stare was one of limpid amethyst, glistening and exacting.

"V-vhenan," he whispered, and because eight years had passed the ancient elf almost seemed unsure. Because June's face was older, lined, more angular from the blood potions he took to masculinize his little body.

"It's me, Solas," June spoke. The depth of his voice, the new roughness of it… Solas' violet stare pinned him down. He felt utterly helpless beneath the Dread Wolf's gaze, and he felt the truth of those old Dalish sayings about escaping the eyes of the wolf.

Solas blinked, and a small, cracked gasp escaped past his handsome, bruised mouth. Fresh tears welled in his dusky eyes, as a drop of blood ran down his ravaged visage. He seemed to understand, and June braced for something, anything. Yet, somehow, he was completely unprepared for what came next.

Solas spoke, and, with a tremulous sort of candor, his tone shook June to his core.

"Vhenan," he straightened, and took a step forward, down to where June stood.

That word, heart, that one beautiful word. It fell past his lips, thick, heavy, scorching like molten metal from the Dread Wolf's maw. It was laden with eight years of longing, longer, a thousand years of waiting, of sleeping, of warring and dying and watching others die for him. Loss. And also that word was brimming with Solas' understanding, his sudden, pointed realization that this was June. The real June. The moth, not the grub. Exposed, raw like a wound for the first time beneath the salt of his teary gaze.

June's head spun. And he too stepped forward, tears streaking over his cheeks. His chest was tight like a vice, it ached, his heart thundered like halla hooves in his pointed ears. Something clattered to the paving stones, it must have been the lyrium dagger, but June couldn't look away from Solas' handsome, bloodied face.

"I-

June's voice broke. Eight years of betrayal, loss, anger, all of it came biting back into his stomach, sinking through his chest like an icy stone. Still, despite that rage and hurt, he managed a croaking, "I forgive you."

Solas sobbed, lips pulled back to reveal his bloodstained teeth. Tears streaked through the filth on his cheeks, and he extended a trembling hand. The tip of his pointer finger wiped a year from June's cheek, trailing down to the plush of the Inquisitor's lower lip. Then, following the line of his vallaslin down his chin.

He dropped his hand.

With glassy eyes he looked to Rook and Morrigan. Lifting the lyrium dagger off of the bloodstained ground and sliced his left palm in a single smooth motion. Crimson sprinkled down like rain.

"My life force now sustains the veil. With every breath I take I will protect the innocent from my past failures."

June sucked in a sharp breath, edging closer. He was filled with the aching desire to soothe Solas, to kiss him, to slap him for eight years of absence.

"The Titans' dreams are mad from their imprisonment. I cannot kill the blight. But I can help to soothe its anger."

He pressed the lyrium dagger into Rooks tattooed hands.

Solas' despondent, lost gaze lingered on June as he spoke, voice coming stronger.

"I will go and seek atonement…" Sorrow tugged at the corners of his eyes, and the corners of his mouth. The vision of a new regret coming to fruition. "I- I wish I could've known you as you are."

He turned away.

Eight years.

Trembling all over, June stepped forward, he would not be left behind, not again.

"But you do not have to go alone," June stepped into Solas' shadow. He placed his small hands on the taller elf's strong, armored chest.

"Where I am going is terrible," he said in elven. His violet eyes sparkled with sadness and duty.

June managed a small smirk, and his new voice uttered in tremulous, fluent elven spoke, "It's won't be terrible if you're with me."

Solas' eyes widened.

"We make this journey together, always." June said, and he ached for the pieces of his journey Solas had missed.

Eight years.

June stood on his toes and pulled Solas into a slow, chaste kiss. It tasted of blood, ash, and hope.

When they parted, they held one anothers stares for a long, warm moment.

Solas looked to Rook, "Thank you, Riven."

The tattooed elf smiled, gaze bordering on affectionate for the men who had once inhabited their mind.

And the two elven men turned, June taking Solas' big hand in his small one. They stepped forward and into their own personal pocket of Fade.

Eight years lingered between them, still.

They had so much catching up to fo with eternity laid out before them.

Chapter Text

In a dream, he wanders the halls of Mythal's grand palace with a mindless sort of familiarity. He knows each step, where each door leads, each chip and in the marble flooring. Solas has been called her "lapdog", and, for a moment, he knows this to be true. He is seeking her out. For guidance. For affection and approval. But each door leads to empty chambers. Each step of his bare feet echoes high and loud across the arched ceilings, rattling against the stained glass windows.

He is alone here. And he knows this to be true. Because Mythal is gone. He absorbed from her the power of his kin as he fled from the Inquisition. And he knows this to be only a dream, an impression of a place he once knew. It is a reflection in the Fade of his own nostalgia. His desire for a time he can never return to. But also was it not a world that could be remade? At great cost… perhaps.

The Dread Wolf wanders through the grand labyrinth of halls, towards the room where the throne… thrones, sit in wait.

The grand reception hall is resplendent and opulent in its decor. Sweeping tapestries threaded through with the Fade touched memories of Elvhen Glory eternal. The stain glass windows each glimmer in the watery Fadelight with the stark reliefs of the Evanuris. A plush violet carpet unfurls ahead of Solas as he approaches the dais where the thrones wait in solemn stony silence. The larger, higher of the two is shaped like a dragon's maw, the arms of it are spliced with rows of jagged teeth. The lower chair is plainer. Solas' seat at his once-friend's side.

The high back of the lower chair is etched with the wisps and tendrils of a spirit of wisdom. It glows a soft, pleasant turquoise blue. Inviting him forward.

I would like to wake up now.

Ordinarily he had exceptional control over his own dreams and Fade wanderings. And he has no desire to sit in that cursed chair ever again, even with the veneer of slumber between himself and the memory. Guilt pangs readily in his chest to lay eyes upon Mythal's voided throne.

But he does not wake up… in fact the world of the dream seems to solidify further. Becoming more difficult to distinguish Fade from fiction.

His feet move of their own accord, ever as he tries to resist. Solas has no interest in engaging with whatever the world of dreams might seek to impart unto his unconscious mind. He has no need to be reminded of the very past he longs to restore and repair. But there is no stopping the compulsion.

So, he sits.

Facing into the grandiosity of the throne room.

Initially nothing happens. Solas drums his fingers boredly on the bare, plain stone arm of the chair.

Something changes. His vision blurs, swirling into watery circular patterns. Colors bleed and fuse and a new image takes shape in his sight.

A room, with tall clear windows facing out onto a busy thoroughfare. The air is thick with a rich, unfamiliar scent, and people and spirits alike are gathered around high seated tables, sipping steaming hot beverages from strangely colored cups.

The brightness, the smell, the sound of tens of voices all vie for his attention. It is overwhelming to the senses. He blinks confusedly, the memories of Ancient Arlathan fade from his minds eye. Even as he actively tries to recall them. Instead his mind is flooded with thoughts of Elvhen language, nouns, adjectives, parts of speech. And then history, events that he has no real memory of are suddenly engraved across his frontal lobe, stunning him. And then there are thoughts of papers to be graded, classes to teach and office hours in his busy schedule.

He is so taken aback by all of this, that he nearly misses the sound of a man's voice, threatening at the edges of his reverie.

It is high, but masculine, with an unfamiliar but graceful accent… strange, it makes his heart race.

Solas' eyes focus on what is directly in front of him. A counter, a pin pad for monetary purchases (the use for which he knew instinctively). His card is in the reader, it is asking for his pin. He taps the green button, skipping the prompt.

"You good, professor?" The young man behind the counter asks.

"Yes," Solas' voice rings out without a thought. Surprising him. He removes the card from the reader as the screen displays "APPROVED".

"I get off in five," the man says, and for the first time since his arrival in this strange place, Solas blinks and focuses on the person in front of him.

It's June.

The Dread Wolf's chest and throat constrict almost painfully.

It's June.

But something is different, the smaller elf wears a pin on his green apron, it reads; "he/him/his". That's… different. And his voice is… and his face, bare of vallaslin is more angular. He has a ring piercing in his lower lip, and Solas swears he can feel the warm metal touching his own lip.

June is smiling, so different from when they last met in the crossroads. His honey eyes are bright and affectionate. Freckled cheeks slightly flushed. He turns to make Solas' drink.

Again, Solas moves without any control of his own body as someone steps up to the counter from behind him.

He steps to the side to wait politely as another elf in green steps up to take the next order.

Watching June work with swift confidence, he easily recalls his usual order; half caff vanilla latte. Solas knows that he doesn't care for the sweetness of the vanilla flavoring, but he orders it anyways because June likes to steal sips. And June can't stand the flavor of plain espresso.

Why would he care…? Why does June…?

But he knows. He knows that, whatever world he has fallen into… he knows. June has chased him here from Ancient Arlathan, through time and through the Fade. Because June is in his blood, his heart, scorched into his very flesh is the memory of that… that man's touch. He is branded into his visage deeper than any Vallaslin.

He has ventured from his past, from Mythal's empty throne and pangs of a guilty conscience, to this future. To as place where June and Him are able to love openly and freely, emancipated from the burdens of their stations in the real world.

Then June is in front of his, shedding his apron and pressing a hot cup in a paper sheath into Solas' hands in a single smooth, practiced motion.

"Thank-

June stands on his toes and kisses Solas on the mouth.

Heat explodes in Solas' chest; love, affection, desperate infatuation. It shatters like glass, rendering his flesh as he agonizes. He wants to kiss June back, because June is his lover, his partner, the person who chases him across universes and timelines. But June is gone.

He sits bolt upright, groping with his hands at cool, damp air.

Nothing.

He is alone in his hideaway in Minrathous. With none but his paintings and the chains of liberated slaves to keep him company. He shudders, buckles, weeps.

His lips still burn from June's kiss.

Chapter Text

Lips, hot and fast with the scrape of teeth on his throat. Tracing the cut of his jaw. The dimple of his chin. Tongues lance, sweltry breaths pass back and forth between them.

Solas groans into June, pulling the smaller elf into his lap, flsuh to his chest. Flesh to flesh, hands groping, seeking between the little elf's thighs.

How the Dread Wolf has longed to know his heart like this. As a… man. Self assured and true.

Watching from the shadows of clandestine slumber, Solas knows who June is. Who the humble Halla he had once known has become. Antlers, spindled, weaving and proud upon his crown; gilded with radiant sunlight. They were the striking sort of ornaments that could render open a prowling wolf's chest, were the predator not cautious of the many points of his kingly crest, surely his heart would be taken.

"I know you now," Solas breathes into June's hungry kiss. "I have seen you."

June, face lined with the ruddy vallaslin of his namesake, pulls back. His honey eyes are sorrowful, but a taunting, cruel smile splits his handsome, freckled visage.

"What does the Dread Wolf know of that land of the wakeful?"

"Vhenan?" He blinks confusedly, but he is given no reply as June's naked body slips away, shifting and morphing into something new. Abruptly the simple, quiet chambers of the Inquisitor have transformed to be like a thick, verdant wood. June, now a halla, a large, proud stag; bounds away gracefully, prancing with sunlight catching betwixt his golden antlers.

Ah, Solas thinks with a budding of realization. This is a dream. I am dreaming.

He attempts to awaken himself, having so desire to contend with his subconscious, but his heavy eyelids do not budge in the waking world. So, body now that of a wolf, he gives chase to the halla that is June. It feels good to hunt like this, to feel the soft mossy soil underfoot. To feel the wind passing through his fur like so many soothing fingertips.

He witnesses June in only flashes of alabaster and sunlight through the endless bramble of the dreaming thicket. His maw is wet, hungry at the scent of his bondmate which lingers on the air; sweat, man, leather, cold iron, wet cunt.

June. He calls out through the thick reality of the Fade. June!

And who is June? The Fade itself seems to pose the question as he carries on in hot pursuit. He pivots as the golden halla banks a hard turn. But the stag who is June is gone into the dark, taking with him all of the light in this cursed place.

Solas is left alone on the encroaching darkness. It surrounds him like grasping fingers. Black talons of midnight threatening at the edges of his vision.

And who is June?

The same question is posed once more by the ambient voices of the Fade.

Solas pauses, keen mind working through his set of present circumstances. Clearly this is a dream from which he cannot awaken. Something is holding him here. A spirit, perhaps.

I mean no harm to you or your dominion.

He projects more than speaks. But whichever spirit rules over his surroundings is not so easily swayed away from its convoluted goal.

And who is June?

It repeats.

What nature of spirit are you?

Solas asks.

Suddenly the darkness closes in, grasping, choking out Solas' vision. It takes away the very air in his lungs, like fingers prying open his wolfish maw and twisting into his throat. Gagging him.

AND WHO IS JUNE?

Solas chokes and sputters and tries to pry away from the terror that besets him. It is only a dream, and yet he cannot escape its clutches. Never before has he so longed to be free from the Fade. He collapses forward, now more elf than wolf. He cannot see for the oppressive darkness that consumes him. It is both hot and cold. Searing and biting against his tender flesh as the presiding spirit of this place demands he confront that which had only ever lingered in the fringes of his regretful subconscious.

AND WHO IS JUNE?

The spirit booms. It is omnipotent here. It demands the truth. And it reflects back onto Solas the icy suppressive depths of his own mind. Black as pitch. Without light. Without guidance as his regret consumes him.

The Dread Wolf can barely formulate speech. Jaws trembling, teeth aching with the pressure of this horrible place.

"J- June-

A light. A twinkle on the black horizon like a droplet of liquid gold.

And who is June?

The pressure lessens as Solas delves reluctantly into his own memories. When he last saw June… Inquisitor, Dalish, Woman… or so he had appeared. He was so much more than that, it was in the reluctance of his kiss, the bindings on his chest. Hesitant, self-effacing, all of it because he was secretly a man. And perhaps because… because…

Finally, the spirit provided for Solas the context, the painful truth of all the Dread Wolf had denied himself in the intervening years since he had reabsorbed the power of the anchor.

Even with you, Hanal'Ghilan was not himself.

Hanal'Ghilan, the spirit had invoked a legend which extended from the world and word of the Dalish all the way back to the grandiose crystalline cities of ancient Arlathan. Pathfinder, Waymaker, The Golden Halla. The prickle of light in the distance increased in size, coming into focus as the oppressive darkness relented. Relinquishing its grip on the Dread Wolf's heart. It was a gilded halla, antlers spun from pure golden sunlight. A stag. Not a doe.

"June is…"

There was a dearth of sound and air as what was undoubtedly a spirit of truth awaited Solas' conclusion.

"He… he is my… how did I not see?"

In hindsight it felt obvious.

Solas doubled over, once more surrounded by deep, dark forest.

The leaves rustled mournfully in that thick, fade-touched breeze.

He exhaled shakily, once more split between his duty and the temptation of a life beyond.

And who is June?

The spirit of truth asked one final time.

Solas shook his head, mustered all of this strength and threw the dream off of his shoulders like it was nothing more than a heavy blanket. Even as tears streaked hot over his cheeks, even as his heart thundered and ached and splintered like shattering glass.

His duty was to the past.

And the Pathfinder looked only to the future.

Chapter Text

That which is inexorable is inevitable.

That is what Solas believes as he takes up the proud mantel of the Dread Wolf. He is the liberator, the breaker of chains, the Evanuris tremble to hear him howl.

And what is a title but a Throne. A crown worn heavy on the brow.

It is an inexorable thing, an inevitable march of progress. If not him, then it would have been another. No people will linger forever in subjugation.

He wears a crown forged from the chains which once fettered his people. He sits a throne crafted from the bones of his enemies slain.

The Dread Wolf carries with him these trappings of reluctant royalty across the ages. Through the sundering of worlds wrought by his hand. He brings them with him to the doorstep of the fledgling Inquisition. His inexorable crown, his heavy throne, these things are invisible to the humans who bustle to and froh. To them he is naught but a pair of pointed ears.

And then he meets June. Clever, blunt, preceptive June, who notices the distance behind the silent wolf's eyes. Who sees how Solas bends like the reed of a willow tree beneath the weight of his self imposed crown. And June, he is also beset by the heavy crown, the inexorable throne. These things which are foisted upon him by the human world he never truly wanted to be a part of.

And, of course, Solas muses, if not him then another would have stepped up. But who better to wear the crown than the same person who denies its authority?

These small parallels are amusing enough to the Dread Wolf, until he kisses June. And June kisses him back.

And suddenly each of them is besieged by the fragile, insidious hope of a selfish future all their own. But they each wear that heavy crown, and they each sit their inexorable throne. And these things weigh them down like fetters to the bottom of the Waking Sea. Where there is no air, no light, nothing but the thick, black weight of duty upon their shoulders.

These duties will render them apart, even as their hearts beat true. Their crowns, their thrones, they are set in opposition to one another. Kings and Queens faced against one another on the grand board of Thedosian chess. Solas' duty, his inexorable march leads him down the Dinan'shiral. His crown is one of grief, his throne sits upon a dais of regret.

Var lath vir Suledin. June's crown is woven of sunlight. His Inquisitor's chair is the hope of the people. The inexorable march he walks is that of progress, of forward motion in the face of great odds.

What is inexorable is inevitable.

Solas' crown is heavy. His throne was fated to him. And now they are his chains. They hold him back from his very heart. His very soul.

And the weight of them both burdens him to his violent fate. A final grand deceit.

His new crown will be one of bone. His new throne will be one of flesh rendered by demon claws. These are the price he pays for the righting of his wrongs, for the restoration of all that once was. This is inexorable, his throne, his crown… if not him, then another.

June's kiss frees him. June's promise rejuvenates his time weathered body. And for the first time in a thousand-thousand years, he lifts that bloody crown. He rises from his sovereign's chair.

And that which was heavy becomes light as air. And that which was inexorable becomes wholly improbable.

Both of them. Liberator. Inquisitor. They leave these trappings of authority behind them in the world of the waking.

Together, hand-in-hand, they step into a dream.