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Chapter Text

This is the story of a woman who was more than a mere mortal, and for that, she had to choose.

In the days when All Father's gentle guidance ruled our days and Dread Wolf shadowed over our people, an elf born of bastardy and blood of The First Born sought shelter. Many great warriors would have accepted their fate as the spear went through their core, but the daughter of the Sun himself would not kneel that easily.

With knuckles raw and tender, she snapped the old wood of the haft in two, leaving only metal rusted with blood lodged between her ribs. Pain flared. She gasped and strained as she dragged her tarnished body from the corpse of her beloved Halla. Such a graceful animal befallen by rebel thugs. Pity. Lanalath might have wept, were it not for the sound of hooves drawing near. The men shouted with bloodlust, discussing what they would do with Elgar'nan's bastard herself.

The Dread Wolf's rebels.

The so-called fighters for freedom of Elvhenan, for they could not see that they did not need saving from anyone but Dread Wolf himself. He was the one who raged against the Gods who kept them fed and content.

She knew his men to be no better than beasts, tales of their cruelty spreading fast and wide, and thus, she threw herself at the mercy of thorns, her legs pushing through thick bramble, and vanished into the embrace of the woods.

Something inside her pulsed. Writhed. Pulled at her to turn around. Still, she pushed forward.

She knew the ethos of these trees and to whom they belonged. And she knew his men were smarter than following her through the bramble. That would not stop her.

Bandits would think themselves wise, waiting for her on the other side of them, instead of struggling against nature. Her dizzying mind tried to determine the direction she came from according to the angle of the sun, but as soon as she made it through the tree line, it had perished.

The woods were odd, unnatural, twisted and cursed, but with life seeping from her, their darkened touch and moss floor moist with stale dew was a fate befitting. One she fought still, leaning against a mighty oak, crimson smearing on its bark. Just move, she told herself.  As she stumbled, it seemed like the trees themselves bent from her way, a path winding ahead of her, leading her deeper in, as if nature itself had picked a place for her to abandon life and let her broken body reach it without resistance.

The All Father would forsake his dirt-blooded daughter for such a thought. She pleaded to him, looking up at the sky, only to find a thick canopy of branches hiding the sun from her.

Roots and vines twisted beneath her feet like veins in her core, slowly giving to the rot of infection. If it were not for the mercy of her father's essence making half of her, she would have fallen already. If not for the blessing of his strength, she could not have carried further.

Where she walked, she bled. Red on yellow, red on yellow, was all she could see as her feet stumbled, torn side brushing past golden petals with a sting. No part of her felt like her own. A daughter of the divine rolled on her back, looking at the darkness of treetops above her. The richest auburn curls splayed amongst flowers said to induce euphoria, she giggled.

She was free.

No one could touch her here.

Not even death.

No overbearing eyes upon her.

Forsaken daughter of a god, set to bleed out on hollowed grounds.

If not, the growls that came from all around her. She moved on her feet, first with a crawl, then on twos, swaying, for blood loss caught up with her now. Everything blurred. Sense, smell, vision. The pain had abandoned her flesh, the dizzying high replacing thoughts and struggles, but not fear, when Lanalath could've sworn somebody was watching her.

Giggles turned into sobs.

Violent, strangling breath in her.

Elevation of short-lived ecstasy crashed down on her heart.

And she stumbled away from the feeling, fleeing the predator in the woods, yet deeper into them, away from the path shown her, weaving between the trees that now looked like hands reaching for her, grabbing, holding on, letting go, letting her run. The darkness thickened, as if saying this was no place for the Sunborn, the golden sword of the Almighty, the carrier of his justice and punishment, his favourite chosen. The trees spoke of her crimes against Elvhenan, mocking her pride.

"The Spent of Sun Tamer, you are mistaken if you ought yourself privy to soiling these grounds with filth of your blood."

"Be gone, be gone, be gone"

She would not be gone.

Her blood seared in the will of her birthright. None born from those chosen by the Gods would meet a mortal's end. One torn from her mother's womb with the brutality of God's love could not be taken out of existence in the same manner. The fates of old would never agree with such waste.

Yet, she was still broken by her injuries.

She forced her knees to bend and straighten; lungs filled with the forest's choking dampness, the lushness overtaking her hollowed innards as she made her escape. If there was an escape to be made.

But the eyes, the eyes, they wouldn't stop following. And when she collapsed into the mouth made of stone, rough floor greedily taking her tender fluids in, she feared the shame she had brought upon The Golden City, its bravest warrior to be rotten in the cursed lands of the Betrayer. For fleeing the foul-mouthed men instead of fighting to the end. Such a disgrace to her father's name. A stain from her leaving the battle. Perhaps decaying where the sun could not reach was a befitting punishment. Her putrid, cowardly flesh was undeserving of her father's touch.

His mark on her face burned in shame of passing, shame of not winning the war those beasts would bring upon them. The battle must have gone by with its general lying in the pitch black of the cave, lights dancing in her eyes. Worst, if the stronghold of Elgar'nan fell due to the trickery of The Great Betrayer, the owner of the woods would claim her. It had to be he who taught his soldiers to lure her men into the swamp with a false retreat. It was he who made her watch one she had trained to hold a sword from a young age disappear into the murky waters. Made her call in desperation for the remaining men to flee, when a spear punctured her flesh, and her gentle Halla carried her away, as far as she could before being struck down too.

Blood coated her teeth now.

Lying on the side, a bloodied hand splayed before her was glowing in shades of cyan and chartreuse. Flowers blooming from underneath the skin, their roots running through her like cobwebs, marring her flesh. She laughed, and laughed, as the move made the spear tip drive in deeper. Her mind told her it was not real. But did it matter?

The happiness flooded her heart, a thought, how just a push deeper of the spear tip in her side could end all of this. The beauty of her own destruction was blinding, satisfying, a free fall. Her back against hard rock, her body in flight, all at once. And the eyes.

The eyes now looked at her from above.

There was a sorrow in them, and she whispered. "Wolf, is it you?" He had finally come to finish off the last of Elgar'nan's forces.

The crown of blackest fur and eyes shining colour of the crystalline waters, the beast regarded as four more eyes of his opened. The six-eyed wolf. Fen'Harel. Her body shivered from his hot breath on her flesh. Eyes lingering, too soft to be predatory. Pity.

He Who Hunts Alone. And her, a prey, already beaten, open and willing to be devoured.

Beast did not open his mouth, yet his voice echoed through her mind, warbling the thoughts inside.

"You have trespassed onto the grounds of one who walked with the Gods. For such transgression, they shall keep you if you ever dare to set foot here again."

The ground underneath now coddled her, praying for rest, she resisted, as The Wolf loomed over. "This is a promise you shall keep, lethallan."

A touch of something curled underneath her massacred ribs, telling this to be true, making her chin dip in a nod. She did not know if it was her own volition or Wolf’s will pressing against her. "Ma nuvenin." She breathes, the blood now creeping into the lungs.

The Wolf retreated as the embrace of calm engulfed the broken woman. "Ar lasa mala revas. Mala suledin nadas. Dareth Shiral"

Familial heat cradled her face, her face like a stubborn child refusing to open her eyes. If she were dead, what did it matter? But then chirps of birds in the early morning crept into her ears, forcing her lashes to flutter. She flexed her fingers, only to feel the soft bend of grass blades between them. Eyes open, she saw the sun staring back at her, yellow burning her irises. Blossoms of various colours leaned over her, as if they guarded her dream. Her injured side ached, yet no blood was found when she brushed her fingers by it. The only proof of a mortal wound was the gaping hole in the plating of her armour, chainmail broken, a tender pink flesh seen underneath.

Closing her eyes, she could have sworn she saw six eyes looking back at her from the darkness, but she moved her lips in prayer, Elgar'nan, thanking him for his mercy, for there was no other way she could have escaped that gnarly faith. He must have guided her through the delusion of the Madcap she brushed past in her stumble. She should request that the plant be burned out of existence for this.

The shouts came, and they were calling for her. She sat up in the meadow, her leathers stained with pollen so rich, she was painted golden. Her father hasn't turned his eye on her. There was no Wolf, no eyes, only paranoia of the poison. The wound must have been barely as bad as she thought, if in such delirium she managed to make her magic close it, and make her way here. Her head spun, too much life force lost. Mouth parched, when she tried to scream back, a strangled gurgle came out. So she sat and she waited to be found. In the warmth of the sun, she was safe and free. No crown of fur was to be seen in the tree line, for it never existed. But the trees seemed to watch her, so she turned her eye to the other horizon, one where she could see the glory of Hallas approaching, a cheer breaking out as the men recognised the Golden Blade of All Father in the bed of flowers.

“You’re late.” She finally managed to say.

Chapter Text

Air reverberated with the echo of her steps, rough bare heels steadily touching on the golden inlaid mosaic of the floor. The long, open hall stretched before her, its arches soaring, their columns carved with scenes of their everlasting history. The myth of the Titans and how they massacred their kin, for they did not wish to share this bountiful land. How the Sun Tamer put them to slumber, saving all that graced the land. She heard the tale many times, yet his bravery never ceased to amaze her. What a blessing for her mother it would have been to be chosen by him.

What a grace for her it was to be the pick of the litter, the one to live and walk these halls. The golden light leaked through the honeycomb roof above her, the grapevines stretching their evergreen fingers around the bannisters.

It was an odd thing to announce a hunt this early in the year, but she did what her father asked of her, bending to his hand with reverence. His will was above all.

She had not expected to be summoned before the hunt, but court had its whims and she had her eons to learn of them. If posturing, drunkenness and tall tales of her survival in the woods of Fen'Harel were what the crowd wanted, she would perform. The greatness of her grew even in a battle lost. Never was there a warrior as revered, Elgar'nan told her, his heavy palm resting on the nape of her neck, as he turned her to face the people and announced their victory against the traitor. Masses did not need the truth; they wanted to feel righteous, and her brazen vitality was there to serve as proof of it. Even bodies lost were made to be a symbol of victory in their eyes. The Wolf's woods could not consume the half-blood like her, so how could she withstand the wrath of the Gods if they came? Of course, it was theatrics too. No one soul from the court could enter Fen’Harel’s ground. But people did need to know.

The hunt was to be concluded amongst his cursed trees. Or, more truthfully, just at the edge of them.

She gazed at the garden as the voice caught up with her.

"Andruil is rather disappointed in you, Lanalath. It is abysmal of you to disregard her orders." The youngster said nervously, even though words carried much of a gall.

"Inaean, pray tell, why would she not bestow the honour of speaking with me of these matters, then?" She stopped in her step, turning to face the man. Words and cadence never swaying, for she knew how to speak in court tongues.

Honeyed waves rolled over his shoulders, down to his bare chest. Her sight lingered on his sun-kissed skin, knowing the heat would soon reach his cheeks. Father picked the right one for her. Inaean served her needs well, eagerly, with fervour, undying devotion even some of the goddesses were yet to feel. Though he was just a mere mortal, which made their consummation barely fitting of her sitting, she would indulge anyway, for that was the way of the court.

"I-um," He stammered when she caught his eye. "I am not quite sure."

"Then it was too little of an offence and too much of mouthing, if she could not bother to bring it to my father, like any would do for true transgressions." She shrugged, touching his shoulder, another hand cradling his face until the crease in his brow softened, his eyes glazing with familiar longing as he looked upon her. In his world, her word was final. Even if sometimes she would catch the tick in his jaw when he disagreed. "Do not fret for nothing, Inaean."

"But… Lana—" He sighed, shaking his hollow head. Too much thought was unbefitting of him. She preferred him softened by debauchery, glazed eyes and glossy, wine-stained lips. "Andruil will soon get her lover the seat."

"Which one?" She jested. "Ah, Ghilan'nain. Soon is a relative term; in decades, Andruil will have forgotten this particular instance. And if she won't, she always bends her knee to All Mother."

Her arm hooked around his elbow, and she led them further down the golden hall, smiling faintly as servants passing them would bow, limbs trembling in the presence of the Chosen. The mark of Elgar'nan on her face, bleached by the sun, but still revered.

The Grand Hall of Evanuris was unlike any space one could easily capture, for its beauty was too glorious for those of the simpler minds. Soaring arches of pale sandstone rose high, reaching for the skies, ever vibrant blue, above. The sweeping curves of them were etched with numerous scenes of their past, though, for those fortunate enough, those were merely memories to be gazed upon. Elegance of roots and vines, grounding and lifting the visage, carved into the stone. Above them, sunlight streamed from an oculus, dappled with lattice work, casting the ever-changing shadows on the mosaic floor, seven faces anyone could put a name to, the eighth one defaced, and the ninth just rumoured to appear, perhaps taking the place the Betrayer once held.

At the far end, before the intricate windows rose a semi-circular dais, with seven seats for divinity. Each was made to reflect one that occupied it. The central throne was the tallest, a crown of sunrays adorning the top of it, spikes reaching outwards, gleaming with gold – Elgar'nan's seat.

Seats remained empty as servants, scholars, and priestesses hurried themselves to ready the space, all instinctively bowing at the sight of her.

"Elgar'nan'enaste, Lanalath," A drawling voice behind her came. Mistaken, she was to believe servants were nearly falling on their knees for her. The rustle of his cape brushing the ground could be heard before the fall of his footsteps.

"Dirthamen, first to arrive. Staying off your usual allure of lateness for a day?" She released Inaean from her grasp, letting him know her interest was elsewhere now.

Dirthamen stood tall, lean, though the shape was barely discernible through the layers of his hefty, light-absorbing robes. He seemed like the void itself, with raven hair, falling in waves down to his waist, strands shrouding his long, angular face and narrow eyes, that always seemed in a smirk, as if he knew of something you did not. No one dared to question exactly what it was, for he was the keeper of secrets and thus knew you better than you ever did. Silverite crown reaching up, framing his heavy brow, more subdued than the rest of the pantheon, as if not to draw eye to it.

He lifted his brow, his gaze slow as he looked her up and down. Eyes back on her face, the familiar hum of silence befell them, servant whispers gone. Dirthamen was never flashy in his ability; it would creep on you, gently lulling you into a sense of security. Even the sun seemed dimmer in his presence, ever-growing shadows wrapping around him. "Your spirit trembles, though your lips speak not."

Marred by scars, her hands wrapped in the finest silks crossed against her chest, head inclined, chin lifted, she spoke, even when his words stirred something within, something she did not ponder on for months. "Speak plainly or not at all, Dirthamen, I do not bend my mind to riddles."

"Some bargains echo further than All Father's words. You would do wisely not to rethread your steps." He said, his constellation eyes tracing the shadows stretching across the tall ceiling.

"I choose my own paths, Keeper of Whispers, for where I walk, shadow does not dare reach." She gazed at him, rage bubbling at her sternum that he would not spare a look for her when speaking of such nonsense, even when she could feel the damp of the cave of her flesh, breathing with her. She pushed the feeling away. She saved herself; the tale was simple. There was never a cave.

"Blind you are not to see that it is not the mark you wish to bear that's been laid upon you, not the one you crave to wear." He clicked his tongue, a sly smirk lifting the corner of his lips, eyes drifting back to her as shadows retreated, the sound of the hall washing back over them. "Pride will be your downfall…” His words drifted, just before his neck snapped to the side, eyes on the door.  “They are coming."

He was right, the great of Elvhenan were now flooding in, as he took a step back with a mocking half-bow, before straightening up. "Good feast, Sword of Sun Tamer."

Inaean slid beside her once more as they watched the pews fill with bodies, waiting for divinity to grace them. Dirthamen took his place, far right of the row, the opposite of Falon'din. Throne of darkest wood, two ravens perched on the back rest, many of their eyes watching over him and them.

The Heartkeeper and the Master of Craft were the second to arrive, fingers intertwined, paying no mind to priestesses bowing in their unanimous step. The architects, the creators. The cold that Dirthamen brought was dispelled with their presence.

June stood tall, unlike most, foregoing the floor-length robes and capes. He wore the subtle greens and browns, more abstract plant motives embossed on the cloth of his vest, falling to his knees, the warmth of his golden shirt, opened wide at the chest, gave off the subtle blue shimmer of lyrium dust. Naked skin of his arms glowing too, faint lines crawling up from his gloved hands, up to the muscular shoulders, splashed with freckles. For once, his fiery locks were braided, many times over and pushed back from his sharp features, green eyes that seemed to only see Sylaise at his side, while they approached their rightful places, besides Dirthamen, the second and third in the row.

Sylaise, the Hearthkeeper, in her own right, was ever radiant, blazing, her dress bearing little practicality of June's clothes. Heavy garments, gold against deep crimson, embroidered flames climbing, entwining her limbs, like evergreen flowers, an undying testament of her beauty. Everything about her told of heat, of comfort, of home. The crown of gold atop her head and golden flakes on her lids, lips reddened, she smiled at June once they sat down, not saying a word, a language only two of them could understand.

"Ever magnificent, they are," Inaean whispered, leaning close to her ear. Something about the two always gnawed at her, but she could not say exactly what that was. All she knew was that no one in court had more pliant servants, always carrying a smile just underneath the masks June had crafted for them. Some said the masks made them feel emotions of their gods, making them eager to keep them pleased. She nodded at Inaean’s words, electing not to say a word as another entered.

One would have expected Elgar'nan to be the next to arrive, and they would have been mistaken.

"Lanalath," Falon'din, of course, did not enter through the main door; he swaggered between the pews, nearly glowing in his white silks touched by sunlight. The perfect mirror of Dirthamen, though reversed. He may have carried the same face and same lean body, but he moved with ease, drawing every eye to him with a light, comforting smile. Friend of the dead, and flirt of the living. The shade of his hair blended with his stark milk colored gown, making him the brightest thing in the room, bodies shifting to gaze at him unwillingly. Even her body in his presence felt lighter, more pliant. She did not know if it was part of his might. "Radiant, as always. All Father's grace be upon you."

"And you, as well." She curtsied, returning him the wink.

"Never have I needed it." He laughed an easy laugh, sauntering away to his place. The throne of white oak, the backrest carved into a curious owl, its wings embracing its god as he sat down, one leg perched on the other, hand resting in his palm as if he was already bored. He sat far left, glancing at his twin sitting on the other end.

The main door swung heavily, crying out and shutting with thunderous might. Andruil's steps were loud, echoing, the heavy weight of her armour not bending her stature, leather wound tightly over muscular limbs, cape of fur shrouding her wide shoulders, helmet under her armpit, general returning from yet another fight. The tip of her ear was missing, her face marked by unfortunate hits, scars whitened by time, clashing against the dark of the paint around her golden eyes. The hair pulled in a tight braid high on her head, golden strands threaded through brown waves.

She walked past Lanalath and Inaean without a glance, her beloved inventor, Ghilan'nain, following close behind. A twisted reflection of the goddess of the hunt, all cold to balance Andruil's heat. Dark straight hair, colour of a tree bark, eyes of palest grey, framed in the same dark paint, lips smudged with it too. Leathers stained black, geometric, adorned with aged gold, but flowing from her body more freely, allowing for subtle elegance that Andruil lacked in her strength. Ghilan'nain nodded at Lanalath, a faint smile on her lips. Lanalath did not smile back.  Those who did not fight in the Great War were unworthy of the seat of the gods. Something deep within Lanalath was unsettled by the mere gaze of Ghilan’nain.

Mother of Halla, they called her, even if the seat of Evanuris was not yet hers to hold. She stood behind Andruil's, whispering over her shoulder as they waited for the rest to arrive.

The shuffle of robes became a quiet choir when all those who were seated rose to their feet, as Mythal, the Protector, entered the hall. The silence was now different from what Andruil brought. More of reverence than fear. The deep red of wine, ivory and glinting silver adorned her heavy dress, dragging across the floor behind her, as she walked slowly, a kind but restrained smile upon her face, framed by the same long, black locks Dirthamen had. Even their noses were alike, though hers were more regal, wide grey eyes enclosed in the crown upon her head.

"Mythal'enaste," whispered words repeated as she passed, necks hung not in dread, but respect.

"Lanalath," She nodded firmly, face set softly, gaze lingering as if she wanted to say something more, but duty turned her towards the throne, a white dragon built from stone.

The silence fell upon them again, pulled taut like a string, anticipation stirring the anxiety in the hearts of those who waited. The sun passed its peak, and he was still not there, and now shadows stretched long through the high, arched windows, the mosaic glass positively glowing with colours, painting the surroundings.

In months since the last battle, Lanalath grew weary of theatrics, of the posturing, but she still had her foot that wanted to tap the floor in annoyance at Elgar’nan’s stalling.

The tension was butchered when sunlight exploded, twirling before sinking back into the body of the Almighty, his flesh already on the throne, a smile stretching through his cheeks. "Elgar'nan'enaste." There were no whispers now, only shouts, when those filling the space jumped to their feet and dropped to their knees, heads bowed. Lanalath only curtsied, neck held straight and up, for it would be unbefitting for his champion to kiss the floor with common folk. She glanced, seeing Inaean's forehead pressed to the tiles.

"So many adoring faces gathered. Lift your eyes, brethren, when I speak," Elgar'nan flicked his wrist, and each who kneeled at the vision of him scurried to their feet. She was never sure if they had any will in those moments, or just bent to the sheer power of his being.  "Many are eager to draw blood come tomorrow. But let it be known that the hunt this year bears two purposes. To honour our strength—and to test the worth of those who might stand at your side, who might cherish the honour of your hand, as I have cherished you, Lanalath, for you are to be wed come next solstice."

The sound abandoned her hearing; the only thing her body felt was the frantic beat of her heart. She stood there, eyes wide, shins trembling. She could have stepped forward, said anything, something. But she knew the rules of the court. She knew of the sentinels lining the edges of the throne room. No one was to step over a line. Not even a word.  Spit stuck in her mouth, as she only managed to blankly stare ahead, and say, "Of course, my lord."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“A marriage? And you did not spare a word to me?” Inaean rustled, trying to catch up with her firm steps echoing through the long hallway as she stomped, a feigned smile on her face for passersby. Sharp echo of his steps betrayed his annoyance.

“I did not know.” She seethed. “Even if the knowledge were bestowed upon me, what makes you think I want a marriage or would share such news with you?”

He picked up the pace, his shoulder brushing against hers, brushing the delicate golden paint off her flesh, some servant had spent hours painting on that morning. “Gods, look what you have done.” She muttered, flicking her wrist for the door to the living quarters to open.

“Well—“ His words were cut off by the door slamming between them as she made her way to the spiral staircase, crawling up through the empty innards of the building, no servants in sight today. Inaean took a second and a lot of his might to force it back open, now running to catch up. “You don’t seem pleased with this arrangement.”

She turned in her step, fingers clutching against the wood of the handrail, eyebrows scrunched before she remade her face to a blank canvas. “Of course I am. It is All Father’s will and so it must be.” She had hoped for him to be less observant and not see the tick in her brow following the words.

“Well, then.” He gasped an excited breath. “I may join the hunt.”

She quirked her brow, now slightly amused.  “For beast or woman?”

“If I were to be lucky, both, Lanalath.” Peach cheeks, golden curls splayed on his chest. Positively angelic. But something in his eyes made her gaze linger. His eyes and lips were telling different tales. If she believed him to be cunning, she would have suspected something.

“Then I hope The Lady of Fortune may look away.” She laughed, one of the many false laughs reserved for court, turning her sights back to the stairs. “Come. Help me undress. The feast of the Eve before awaits.”

If she were to be wed soon, she should have her time enjoying bodily pleasures of her own choosing right until then. She tried not to think of her flesh being given away just like that. Elgar’nan’s voice haunted her being, the joy he had said to them with. Another spectacle for the crowds. But he must have had a reason, she had to believe. And she believed.

Chapter Text

Abundance. One word was ever needed to describe their feasts. Goldstone turned orange in the torchlight, soaring arches bent and reaching like ribs of some ancient slumbering beast, curving into an oculus ceiling decorated with lattices. Which, in turn, were adorned with stained glass; the light of the moons painted the glittering gold marbled tiles on the ground in whimsical dots. Each column holding up the magnificent ceilings, carved to reflect their pantheon — antlers, ravens, bears, stars, and the moon, imagery that perfectly flows one into another.

The middle of the floor —a golden sun against black marble, every eye drawn to it. Tables surrounded the open space in the middle, creating a spiral of festivities, servants moving between them like ants. Edges of the ballroom lined with piles of pillows, some with a drink and lover by side, already feeling the spirits of the upcoming hunt.

Her redressing took longer than expected, for she too released her inhibitions, as marks blooming across Inaean's chest could tell any onlooker. "Go. Feast." She told him, letting it be known she was done with his company for a night. Bedding him did not help much with her frustration, but perhaps other indulgences could.

The ballroom was for the masses, which she had no wish to mingle with. Instead, she weaved between bodies, escaping into the gardens, where gods, their chosens, advisors and personal servants were sequestered. Not two steps in, a familiar shape stood in her path, cutting off the view of the Gods' table. She would have rolled her eyes if it were not considered terribly against etiquette. Most Chosens were just a speck, a blip in existence to her. Many have come and perished, except for one. And she had no wish to speak with him, already reeking of wine.

"You have exited quickly after the announcement. Did not offer me a chance to congratulate you." Mathalin, one of the few low-life elves that made it to this part of the Arlathan, was known for the sheer tenacity and strength of character, or as she knew him, an insufferable nuisance that would lick dirt off Andruil's boot if ever allowed such privilege.

His eyes barely meet the same level as hers, shoulders broad enough to scrape the door frame, hands like plates, ones that would mangle your whole body if provoked. Luckily, he was hard to provoke unless he wished it. Lanalath preferred keeping him frustrated, just like his goddess, Andruil. "Yes, getting a hunt in my honour is rather thrilling. You would understand if you knew when to release your bowstring."

Mathalin laughed, a sound jarring, satisfied. "Oh, I am hunting no beasts, unless you view yourself as such."

She did not waver, her eyes trailing above his shoulder, trying to see who was seated. She had hoped Father would have a moment to explain the reasoning behind his sudden decision. Lusacan's fiery wings were nowhere to be seen, and if the beast was not there, Elgar'nan would not be there either. Andruil, at the table, looked particularly happy, Ghilan'nain's hand wrapped around her neck, both with wine-stained lips. She gazed back at Lanalath, a grin growing wider, a sinking feeling growing under her ribs suddenly. She would not let her voice betray her. "As if Andruil would waste her hunter on a marriage."

"Elgar'nan is giving away his sword hand, is he not?" He raised a brow, laying a hand on her shoulder. "And I mean to wear it proudly, for as long as Gods bless us, Lana. Andruil finds fellated men to be a better company."

Her gaze did not stray from Andruil, and Andruil answered in return, a slow wink, like a curse, responding to her.

"Break a leg." She wished him luck with a bite before walking around him in wide perch, not paying him more mind. She angled left, keeping the gods’ table in her periphery. None of the gods, except for one, bothered to turn their heads when she approached, all too deep in their celebrations. Once again, those born of mortal blood would have to perform the actual hunting tomorrow, if they were not too distracted to catch her. So far, it seemed that the Golden Sword of Elgar'nan was a piece of flesh everyone was after.

The only one who bothered to track her step as she closed in on the table was Mythal. Lips agape, as if to say something. Pity. Lanalath knew that particular emotion on Mythal's face well. Her whole existence in Mythal's eyes was pitiful, a terrible failure of her, allowing Gods to go that far.

When wars took too many losses, Elves quickly found that they would not be able to use enough Titan blood to rebuild armies, as Titans would struggle against them. At first, it was the common folk who started to repopulate their thinning forces. Then Elgar'nan grew interested in what power his offspring would carry. True children, not those created of spirit and lyrium, like Falon'din and Dirthamen. Very few born of him lived. Many perished because their mothers were too weak to carry such power, and others were deemed unworthy upon birth. None, except Lanalath, made it to court. A personal failure for Mythal to observe daily, it seemed. A reminder of what came to life when Elgar'nan was given rein on what he pleased. And she was glorious.

Mythal’s pale blue dress, flowing and pooling around her, in a way that only revealed as much as Mythal wanted to reveal, was a mirror to the solid blue of Lanalath's garments. Lace wrapped her all around, held her tightly. Where the goddess was free in her feast, the godling was bound. By duty, by weight of tomorrow. When Mythal opened her mouth again, a sorrowful howl dragged Lanalath's attentions away from her, making her turn, when eyes of the cave burned on her painted flesh. She would have blamed substances on her shaken mind, but she had yet to consume anything.

"You, of all, should have known better, da'len", Mythal spoke, but the howling did not stop. Lanalath had to force her mind to the goddess before her instead of looking over her shoulder for ghosts.

The wolf howled, and her mouth filled with a tinge of copper, her ribs burning. And still, she smiled.

"What it is exactly I should have known—" Mythal just raised her hand, shushing her. Much to her annoyance, she obliged.

"It matters not, your fate has been decided before you set foot in the throne room. Do well with it. Care for it." The look in her eyes indicated that the null conversation was over before it began. She turned on her heel, now unsure of why she was there. Perhaps a night of good sleep would fare her better than revelry. The wolf howled again, mocking her for the sour mood she was in. Once inside, she would not hear it again, surely, she had to tell herself, even if the howls were ringing within her.

Chapter Text

The path between trees curved, wide, laid with cobble until that shifted to trampled mud and then disappeared beyond the turn.

The fog, thick and milky, lay low, spilt between the tree trunks, obscuring the view. Dew glistened and shone in the umber sunlight, rays leaking between branches, lighting their way. Lanalath shifted the belt of the quiver, her thighs tightly hugging the sides of her Halla. A new one. Still not broken in. Beast barely listened to her, but she straightened her back with a grin of someone ready for slaughter. Many things came with being part of the court. Never showing fear came early to her. Not showing annoyance was something she still had to work on, especially with furrowed brows in thoughts of today.

She knew how hunt worked. She knew how the chase for marriage functioned. Never had she hoped for both to happen at once and for her to be the huntress and the prey. She was no maiden in a threadbare shirt playing pretend until the first man that caught her eye got a chance to grab her and pull her into the bushes to consummate a new matrimony.

She was a warrior, and no man chose her. She took her pick of a litter until she got bored or morning came. Then she would continue living as she was. A weapon she was built to be, not a shiny trinket or a pillow decoration. All men and even fellow women now stared at her, salivating at the thought of taming this royal mare. Once the first horn sounded, she would get her head start. On the second, the gods' champions would follow. On the third, whoever was left and brave or foolish enough to try. Many of them were familiar faces, now only seeing the flesh instead of her.

Heels kicked against Halla's sides as she made the animal move to the front, careful hoof after careful hoof, it grazed the sides of other animals in waiting as they made it to the front of the congregation. Gods that were so graceful to demand the hunt did not bother arriving for it. They did not care for chasing through the mud and bramble. The bounty and the celebration were all that mattered. Lanalath furrowed her brow in thought of herself as a bounty now. Their absence did not allow her to waver in her appearances, so she let her frown fall into a proud smile.

Dark leather she donned would blend her with the bark once she crossed the tree line. Her unruly Halla, unusual in colour, was why she stuck with the animal. Riding a white beast through the woods would have been foolishness, and she would have preferred not to find herself a halfwit.

The woods on the edge of the Golden City. The same woods last battle with Fen'Harel's forces took place. Woods, she and Andruil would clash over, for Lanalath would never limit herself to such frivolous things as lesser gods' wishes. She went where the thrill of the chase carried her, even if it was grounds said to be forbidden to be hunted on by Lady Of Fortune, Lady Huntress herself, Andruil.

And now Elgar'nan mocked them both by using Andruil's land for such a purpose. Only a narrow road and a meadow separated the lines drawn between gods and rebellion.  She now knew to be careful not to cross it again.

Just like the night before, a soft howl called to her, making the fingers tightly wrapped around reins prickle. She wondered if others heard it too, and if they did, would they step back, thinking the revelry was being watched by the Betrayer.

Rules. She knew the rules. She did not need to listen. Those who came for beasts can do as they please and, before nightfall, bring their offerings to the gods; those who came for a woman must race each other and her, until she's brought back in. The talking head did not say "whatever means necessary", but he did not need to. As long as she was alive, she was to be wed and bred.

One would have to break her to have her. There would be no convenience in this marriage, and Elgar'nan would learn the bitterness of a daughter scorned. He did not bother explaining his decision, and so she was left to respond with insubordination.  Even if it meant many of the suitors would not come back to the Golden City, their blood and marrow left to enrich the soil before them.

The horn sounded, the reins in her hands creaked under strain, and the race began.

Her Halla, the beast, knew the fear of being chased in her nature; she was born with it. And so it bolted, the dark furs of the animal and stained leathers of a woman blurring between trees, leaving admirers behind. The shouts of blood thirst did not sound much different from shouts of admiration.

The second horn sounded.

She was still close enough to feel the earth rumble from many beasts coming after her.

The third horn.

She pulled the reins, leaving the path, letting herself be swallowed by the woods, the pace slowed by the thicket, but soon fully obscured from the road. She could hear hooves continuing straight, someone shouting after her, but also the hum of the nature that fell over her as soon as she let it take her, hide her. The breathing of Halla, still calm, her own, a little ragged.

In the choir of dried, rotten wood breaking under the pressure and branches brushing, tearing against her clothing, she could hear another. Feel another. She urged the animal forward, quicker, glancing over her shoulder.

"Lana, it is futile to struggle against fate, you should know," Mathalin laughed dryly, a bow raised in his hands, arrow aimed at her. His beast did not need to be steered by hand, most likely, under Andruil’s command. "Do not make me ruin that sublime flesh of yours just to have you."

The wolf howled again, calling her.

And she heeded the call, pushing her Halla through the thicket, faster and faster, beast's ribs and lungs expanding with every hard-fought yard they broke. She could see the light growing as trees became sparser, the opening and the meadow, she said to herself, a fairytale now made real again. The yellow flowers that had poisoned her once now greeted her, their vibrancy a grim reminder of a pact made. One, she believed to be a dream.

She would've stopped to think if Mathalin's voice did not grow closer. If a familiar buzzing did not make her press her chest against the back of her Halla, the moment before an arrow flew past her. He was aiming too high to be trying to lightly injure. Perhaps he did not want the victory as much as he said. Perhaps Andruil just wanted her dead.

She straightened, turning, hand raised, as fire grew between her fingers, sinews boiling beneath the skin. Power so pure it put any forest blaze to shame.

"You get one warning." She seethed through her teeth, the flame growing higher in her hand.

He closed the distance, bow still in his hand, stark white Halla submissive, steered by knees only. "Must you be this difficult, Lana? We would make you happy."

In her periphery, a particular shade of gold blurred, quick and coming closer.

"We—?" The question fell from her mouth as the buzzing sound came again, this time, without a notice to turn or dodge. Methallin held his bow low, not aiming. Where did the arrow come from? Metal sank between her ribs, opposite where the spear had hit her back then. Her body swayed on her animal, but she did not allow herself to slip. Hand, instinctively grasping her side, came away bloodied. Pounding in her ears grew instantly, and the world turned sharper before suddenly dulling.

She looked in the direction it came from, her vision blurry, doubling, sweat suddenly beading her forehead as sickness in her throat rose. Gold. The golden hair. His lips smiled again, and his eyes…

 "Inaean," she gasped, her body nearly collapsing in the saddle, leaning back but also ahead. Lanalath knew the searing of poison; she tightened the reins with strength threatening to leave her. "Run," She screamed at her Halla with what little conscience she still had, beckoning her to the only way she saw ahead.

A wolf howled again, sorrowfully.

They would not follow.

For nothing, except her, ever came out of Dread Wolf's woods. No one except her had ever crossed into them. And she was about to do it again. Willingly.

Everything blurred. Her blood boiled. Just a little further, she thought.

The darkness swallowed her body first when they crossed the tree line. Then, it took her mind too.

The pounding in her ears stuttered.

What she believed her dying thought to be was that Elgar'nan's wrath would take them too.

Chapter Text

"Don't you think it's odd?" A voice came through the darkness, but it wouldn't let her out. Muscle, fat, and bones burned and ached where the damned arrow hit her. The voice of a man, gentle and curious, not one she knew. She tried to move her lips, wondering what was odd, but her body would not budge. "Those of Evanuris' blood should not—"

"But she is not of Evanuris' blood, is she, Felassan? Not truly, or fully, at least," Another man answered, a voice she felt she knew. A hand trailed against her nude ribs, soothing the sensation, taking the pain, absolving. He murmured. "Soon, she'll be awakened."

Air moved around her as the other man shifted. "And then?"

"She'll live." The Wolf answered confidently. "She had been warned, and still, she came back. And for that, she will live."

A scoff came now, from another side, as the man the Wolf called Felassan moved. "Where? Here? Do not be foolish; send her back. The least we need is Elgar'nan coming for his bastard."

"He cannot trespass, and she cannot leave once she has. That's the rule of the grounds, and I will not struggle against it again, for it would be a waste." Wolf talked calmly, as if his word was final without ever pressing it. "And why would he come for one he set a pack of two-legged dogs on?"

Felassan spoke again, his voice coming in close and distancing, as if he was bending down and up to inspect her. "She bears his mark. Seeing such a thing might make people doubt you."

"If she remains bound to the Lighthouse, it will not matter, no matter how deep her affections run. They will not be heard."

"So the great Dread Wolf speaks." Felassan teased. "But I know your heart and its failings. Do not trust easily, brethren."

"I will not, Felassan. Not again." The Wolf promised, as her lashes fluttered. Something heavy shifted from her bare hips, covering her breasts and closed wound. A breath against her cheek, inquisitive eyes against her skin. "She's coming to. Leave us be."

The shuffle of bare feet across the floor. The groan of hinges as the door moved. The heavy thud of it closing. Darkness exchanged for muted dark brown, betraying candlelight around her, one she would see if she would just open her eyes. She did not wish to see the six eyes from the cave once more, proving that the silly words she whispered while facing death were a pact she truly made, one he would make her uphold. She will live, whatever that could mean for one who would tear their way of living apart? One who would wage war against those he once called family, or so the whispers in Arlathan said? One who broke All Mother's heart with his rebellion.

The room smelled faintly of molten wax and crushed herbs, elfroot burnt. She must have been in the infirmary.

"False slumber will not fool me, Lanalath." The Wolf spoke once more, "I know full well how long it takes to wake from my mending, do not play a halfwit hand. A general of Elgar'nan's should know better than that."

"Everyone assumes a lot of what I should know." She muttered, pressing eyelids shut, gathering breath to look at her jailor.

"I assure you, my form is more pleasant than the one I donned for our first encounter." It almost sounded as if he was joking, but just with enough earnestness. "You may open your eyes."

"Or what? Will you force me?" Hands crossed against her chest, she could not help but raise a brow at the lack of pain in her body. "Like you decided to keep me here, wherever here is?"

"Oh, she hears." He chuckled. "Unfortunately, she does not listen. It is your own convictions and unfortunate circumstances that led and bound you here.” She could feel sarcasm seeping from this tongue.  “I am but a mere witness. You would do well to thank me for saving your life. Or at least pay me the respect of looking me in the eye before accusing me of evildoing."

She sat up, fury burning, eyes open, "Why would I not accuse The Dread Wol—" Her words fell silent as she finally saw him. Truly, saw him.

Not a wolf, but a man. Tall, wide-shouldered, his robes brushing against the floor, chestnut waves braided away from his face, rolling down his back. Deep shadows under his eyes, face serene. As if her screaming was just a drop in the noise surrounding, drowning him. As if he wasn't the cause of his own suffering. All that she knew, she would have loved to hear about what their fear looked like. While Evanuris looked proud, their Great Betrayer, The Trickster Wolf, stealing their people away and befalling their forces, was… Just a man, no crown of fur, no six eyes.

"Take in the view, if you need. I can spare you a moment." He said, but words barely teased despite the smirk. Exhaustion was deep in his bones, and hers too. He watched her, curiously, his eyes tracing her features more intimately than any dared back in court. The gazes did not linger there. They passed. He did not care for rules. Fitting, she supposed, not breaking her observation either.

She did not turn away and did just what he said. She looked at him, silently, for minutes, before asking, "Where am I?"

“My sanctuary, one I call The Lighthouse. The healing quarters, to be precise.”

The layout of the room seemed familiar; she visited such quarters of the palace after many battles won. Dark grey stone walls, shelves lining them, filled with various vials, dressings for wounds stacked in neat piles, herbs drying on the table, the scent—a comfort in all of strangeness.

“And how necessary was getting me here?” Her head spun, but she would not betray her weakness. “If you despise Evanuris so, letting one of them die would have been a satisfying conclusion.”

He looked up from his thought. “If you were one of them, you would’ve bled out without ever crossing into my grounds months ago; none of their standing can enter. You are aware of the fact. You can see yourself as you wish to, but that does not change your nature.”

She hugged the thick sheet he covered her with around her chest, before swaying her legs over the edge of the table he had laid her upon. “Setting me free is in your best interest, Dread Wolf.”

He chuckled at her words, eyes, the shade of soft violets, never straying from her. “Is that so? Pray do tell me why.”

“You do not wish for more bloodshed of your rebels.” She said, keeping her voice neutral, as if she did not try to threaten him. Her words were true, so she did not worry, no matter what he thought. “All Father will send for me.”

“Then you had better pray he moves faster than I decide to end this hospitality.” He said the threat with a smile, as if speaking to a child.

She blinked, slowly, heat growing in her cheeks as the pain in her ribs returned. “You said I cannot leave.”

“That much is true. And Elgar’nan has not sent for you. Long weeks it took for you to heal; the poison and the wound were efficient in their brutality. Coupled with many wounds you’ve sustained stumbling into the forest, your Halla running until it reached a bramble too thick… Suffice it to say, there was a mangled mess for me to put together. One who would now scoff at one who saved her. Does Elgar’nan’s court teach no manners now? The mighty keep belittling themselves; how unfortunate.” He clicked his tongue, proud of himself. “Tales of your death in Dread Wolf’s hands had more resonance than your marriage ever could. Touched many hearts, though whispers say that more were rejoiced than saddened. An unfortunate fate for Golden Sword of Elgar’nan.”

In the candlelight, the hollowness of his cheeks, the ridge of his nose, the darkened circles under his eyes blended into a visage of a man who’s seen enough and could not be bothered to pick his words carefully, and still, all that he said felt just like it. Measured, precise. He calculated the hurt he could inflict.

She stared at him, mouth agape, legs still dangling off the edge of the table. Weeks? Death? Fen’Harel, the lord of Lies. None he just said could be believed, even if hurt grew inside her and her mind slipped into just that — belief. “You speak lies. No one would believe me dead.”

“Elgar’nan got the distraction he wanted. Either a wedding or an eulogy, all feed masses, and you were a fine feast.” His gaze held her in place, pressing against her skin.

“Lies!” Her voice rose against all reason as she stood on feet that did not know how to keep steady after being dormant for so long. She had to move to prove he had no power over her. But she swayed, having to grab onto the edge of the table. Her ankle threatened to give out, and she bit her cheek trying to display stability. Just a glimpse of his hand twitching to reach, to steady her, made her recoil.

“Oh, but Elgar’nan knows that it’s a lie. Does not care for it much. You were ends to means, and ends were reached. People are more united against the Dread Wolf than ever. You should be proud.” He glanced at the shape of her, all of her. “And cold.”

“I’m not—“

“Felassan!” He called for the man who had just left. “He will show you to the grounds. Oh, and, as it is… You are not to leave. But I believed you had heard of it already. The Lighthouse will give you everything you wish for and more, except freedom in your unfortunate case. Treat it wisely.”

She forced her leaden limbs to take a step. Then another. The Wolf straightened up, watching her struggle. His brow cocked, he followed her movements, without offering help. As she made it to him, finger raised, he smirked. “You cannot keep me caged. I’m not yours to keep.”

“It was not for me to decide. We are both victims of this abhorrent circumstance. Be dear and sit down before you collapse.” He offered the chair close by, and she sneered at it, raising her hand, too slow, muscles too weak to fight. He pushed her hand aside like a light hindrance. “If it is how you ought to be, fine. Make it difficult for yourself.” He rolled his eyes with a sigh.  “Felassan—“

“Oh, she’s already up. That’s unwise to keep a lady on her feet in such… state.” A voice came from behind her. Only then she remembered her naked behind turned at the man.”I’ll bring her some clothing.”

“Better hurry before she loses the last shred of dignity she has left. That sheet is hanging truly precariously,” The Dread Wolf mocked her. “Perhaps I should leave you for now. Collect yourself and the questions you may have. It might help you.”

She huffed before finally collapsing into the chair he pointed her to. “Many things are said about you. But none mention how utterly cocksure you are.” Her words made him stop in his step. He looked over his shoulder, surprise and something more written in his features.

“At least we share the view of each other. That’s a start.” He laughed. “Unfortunately, I must leave you, for I have matters of greater importance to attend.”

“Matters of greater importance, and yet you leave your closest general to watch after me.”

“I don’t remember saying you were of no importance.” He raised his brow.  “Felassan will help you out just until we’re sure you’re not going to break your neck trying to navigate the premises. It would be wretched, considering you have forever to spend here.”

He fixed his robe, brushing off the dried herbs stuck to the soft material, before nodding at the man, Felassan, as he reentered the room. She had heard of Dread Wolf’s general, the face to the masses, one who rallied his forces. She had no image of him in her mind, just a whirlpool of whispers and stories, most sounding like fairytales meant to scare children. “The Slow Arrow will eventually get you.” Foot soldiers would say when they thought generals could not hear them. The Dread Wolf exited without sparing them another word, except for one last small look at her.

The famed Slow Arrow, one that sowed fear in many hearts and awakened admiration in others, was, to her deepening disappointment, also just a man. Around her height, not particularly strongly built, hair of darkest brown pulled back and tied into a mess of an updo. He looked as if he had just woken from his slumber, a linen shirt crinkled as if dragged through the restless sleep.

“It seems you two really dug into each other.” He whistled, unbothered.

“What hour is it?” She asked him, watching curiously as he placed a pile of clothes on the table nearby.

“Near dawn.” He said, returning the look, his eyes drifting to her hands, the fingers she lazily stretched, trying to feel her power, and if any was to be accessed. “Do not bother, in this state. It would be my pleasure to put you back to sleep if you insist on fighting.”

She put her hands in her lap, feigning a lovely smile. “Any reason for such early awakening?”

“Solas could feel you stir from the dreaming. How could we miss such an occasion?” He inclined his head, pointing at the clothing waiting for her. “You should dress yourself.”

She stared at him, ignoring the request, even as her body was giving in to the shiver, as her feet stuck to the cold floor. She had heard the name before. It had been a long time since it was prohibited from being spoken in the halls of Golden City. “Solas?”

“The Wolf is a man, and men usually have names. So does he.” He smiled, leaning against the table beside her. “You should get clothed. Or freeze, if that’s more to your liking. Either way, we’re to get moving if I am to show you your new life.”

Chapter Text

The Lighthouse was a sanctuary. Much to her despair, she could not bring herself to name it a prison. It fed her, clothed her, and kept her company when The Dread Wolf and his general would leave. She was not to listen to their conversations, ever. She was not to leave either. The very first day, when she still took wobbly steps like a newborn fawn, Felassan took her to the very edge of the place he called the Crossroads. As he said, it was "neither here nor there", meaning they were both in the waking world and the Fade, reality and dream conjoined.

The Lighthouse was in itself a singular building, but its premises spread wide, many pathways overlapping, some going seemingly nowhere just to end with a tiny house by the end, others hid entire oases, waterfalls and temples, and beaches.

 All ways led to the Lighthouse, but none, except one, led back to the real world. That road was clear, joining three places only. The woods, the Lighthouse, and the place Felassan called the Converged City. There was a point where the roads split off, something he jokingly called the Branch of Rebellion. The three most important places are held together by thin paths of road. The Lighthouse, their operations base, Converged City, the heart of Rebellion, and the Woods – the only place Crossroads rubbed shoulders with lands of Evanuris.

They walked for hours, with no end in sight. He told her how this place came to be, Solas and Felassan spending every waking moment to build a fortress Elgar'nan could never breach. None of Evanuris may ever step foot into Wolf's territory, for the ground itself repels them. But she was of Evanuris' blood. Was it the grounds to blame for her captivity, as the Wolf said? Could it feel her being not quite divine but above ordinary, and thus it trapped her? She was still weak in body even after the initial days had passed, her muscles frozen from lying for too long. It did not matter to her anger, which grew with each step. The walk was a welcome reprieve, something that made the flesh feel pliant again, even if through struggle. Made her feel alive. And thus, furious.

Now, at the end of Dread Wolf's world, all she could see were trees. "Is this—?"

Felassan nodded, "Yes, those are the Woods. The only place from the waking world through which you can access the Crossroads without using an Eluvian."

"And why exactly is this place impossible to leave for me?" She asked him, body weary, supporting herself on the walking stick he so kindly provided.

"Blood binds." He said, seemingly disinterested in the topic.

"The pact? The rambling of a dying woman was enough? Or is there something else at play here, something I am yet to see?" She prodded.

"Either… Or… Does not matter." Felassan smirked. "Agreement offered graciously was broken, and your blood has betrayed you."

His nonchalance set her blood to boil, but she bit down her tongue, holding onto the appearances she was trained to have. The way Felassan spoke was unlike anything she had witnessed before. A certain liberty to let his words spill, unfiltered, yet contained just enough.

Neither of the people who forced her back into the woods was her blood. Only one person alive was of her blood, and Elgar'nan did not betray her. Dread Wolf and his advisor were keen to change her mind from the moment she woke, but she knew better. They had to be lying, no matter how many easy smiles they shared with their words.

All Father created a festivity, and if she came out bloodied with no man to marry, the spectacle would've worked just the same. It was those forsaken men who herded her away from the path.

"My blood has not betrayed me." She told him once again. If she were smarter or quicker, she would be back in Elvhenan, enjoying her way of life, instead of this. How could she ever come back now, if Dread Wolf was to be believed, if everyone thought her dead? How could she look All Father in the eye after being declared dead, swallowed by Fen'Harel's woods? She shook her head. She would be believed. It was them who wanted her confused. "It was I who failed him."

He gave her an understanding smile, bordering on pity. The mark of Mythal on his face just deepened her annoyance. All her hauntings compressed into a singular figure of a man. "You will figure it out in time."

She watched as the fox disappeared between the trees, its red fur just a blip of colour in never-ending darkness. She walked after it, expecting to be stopped by Dread Wolf's general, but he stood aside, watching her go back to the place that called for her, that once offered salvation, protection, and obscured her and her wounds. She picked up her pace, even if the animal had already disappeared in the thicket.

Something in her core pushed back at her, but she did not pay mind to it.

As her foot passed the threshold, it was as if the icy water was poured off her spine, a sharp twist in her bones, blinding pain, taking her knees out, only for moist soil to be felt through the leathers she was given to wear.

When she looked up, her back was to the Woods, and she faced Felassan, still standing, watching. The Woods were calling, beckoning her to stand up. A wolf howled. Why was he howling? He already had her. She stood up, turned, tried to move forward through the tree line again, only for the jolt to repeat, and repeat every time she tried.

Her anger did not subside. It twisted into desperation, breathing growing shallow, and chopped. She tried again, on trembling legs.

The Woods sang to her and rejected her all at once. She could not pass through them, back to her life.

„As I said... Blood binds." Felassan smirked, now closing the distance, leaning over her beaten shape, hand outstretched—an offering of help she did not want to accept, but her body was too weak now to get up on her own. Whatever force was keeping her out, it also latched onto her, drained her. She was weak, and tired, and angry, so beyond furious, and still it took all of her pride to refuse his hand. “Do not tire yourself further. The Wolf is not around to heal you, and I have not been allowed to do so."

“You what?" She scoffed, annoyed.

“He said he would take care of matters of your body and spirit. I am only here to guide both." He nudged his hand closer, suggesting his help further. „Perhaps your blind arrogance was a saving grace in Elgar'nan's court, but here it has no use. Take my hand, let me walk you back."

She rolled her eyes, a gesture she, until now, kept for private quarters. His mannerisms infected her.  Shoulders slumped, frustration from her new clothing already ruined, growing. Everything from the moment she woke grinded against her composure, and it fractured.

Felassan watched it all, and she was almost glad it was him rather than someone whose opinion she would care about. She was tired. Too tired. She did not want to appear as if giving in, but… His offer still standing, she took his hand, squeezing the fingers harder than needed. He glanced at their joined hands quickly, before looking back at her, winking. "No need for attempts at superiority either. Under Wolf's watchful eye, we are all equal, as it was always meant to be."

She knew that the jab was at all too well. The rebels loved spewing poison into people's minds about how no mage should rule over them. Bearing the mark of Evanuris on your face was a sign of subjugation, shame, and powerlessness. Her mark, her Vallaslin, was her pride. And so was Mythal's mark for Felassan, for Dread Wolf's general still wore it.

"Such a charmer I was given for companionship." She winked, words forced through gritted teeth, standing slowly on her feet, wrapping her arm around the nook of his elbow.

"Oh," He laughed with a bite. "Do not be mistaken. We are not to be friends unless you prove to be more than a bastard of Elgar'nan with insufferable character. Stunning, yet shallow."

The bastard winked. She looked at him with her mouth agape, but did not rebut. Perhaps he thought it smart to draw the lines early, but she already dreamed of redrawing them, right until they are blurred enough, and the answers she needed were given to her freely. He was frustrating and a fool, but fools were useful.

He had given her an idea that could bring her freedom already. Wolf and his mirrors. If she could just walk through one of the Eluvians in the Crossroads, she could be free. The fact that Felassan did not shy away from mentioning them suggested to her some more information—they would not be easy to use. The Wolf was cunning, and so he would have some security measures placed on them.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The quarters they gave her were comfortable. The Lighthouse, Wolf's domain, was a congregation of buildings, many pathways branching, but all connected to the main building, the high tower, watching down on them all. She was given a small room with high, panelled windows with light streaming in from all sides. Just a table, some empty bookshelves and a bed. Bath was to be taken on the lower floor.

It was a communal bath, of course. One she was used to. What she was not used to was the quiet emptiness of it whenever she would come in. She did not know what she expected—to find Wolf lying naked in steaming waters, gazing at her? She might have been there for a while, but she would not be desperate. If she were, she would have tried bedding his general already, even if the Wolf was more to her liking, if thinking of physical. She frowned at such a terrible thought.

Vile to think of a man that would ruin her life in such a way, but perhaps simple pleasures were what was needed to bend the Wolf to her will? No, she would not stoop so low until it was clear that there was no other way out. Her own thoughts recoiled at her hopelessness.

The Lighthouse was also, as she learned, the place where Wolf himself resided. She could come and go as she pleased, but never to visit his quarters. If he wished to speak with her, he would find her. Except, he never did. Perhaps his curiosity faded. Perhaps Felassan reported her every move. It did not matter much, except when she started to notice their absence more profoundly. When the chatter had gone quiet, somewhere in the building became akin to loneliness and Lighthouse more like a grave, where she was the only one buried.

She caught a glimpse of him and Felassan leaving for a battle more than once, the door to the Eluvian room snapping shut before her face, not a hint of how he travelled revealed.

When night would come, they would meet in the dining room, the three of them, eating silently. Felassan would inquire about her life, her battles and victories, searching for amusements. She did not want to give them freely, so for a long while she would brush off his questions, offering very little for an answer. He got weary of his own game soon, and thus silence became more permanent, impenetrable.

Wolf did not pay attention to her at all, not the obvious kind at least, except for once, when he asked if she required any further healing. With a stern no from her, he stepped back, smirking. "I am pleased to hear," He said, but his smile did not reach his eyes. Instead, they followed the lines and swirls of Vallaslin on her face, brows furrowed in slight disgust. She pointed her chin up, returning the smirk. He left the dinner early that night, much to her enjoyment.

Felassan put down his fork, looking up from the plate. “Don't take it personally. All reminders of Evanuris disgust him all the same.” He stopped for a pause. A grin marked his face.  “Though you might be an accumulation of them."

The first months were quiet with frustration. No one, except for three of them, ever stayed in the sanctum. Was it by design? Was Wolf trying to break her down with the absence of contact, void of admiration, void of words exchanged? The two of them would sometimes leave her in the Lighthouse for days.

On one of those days, she discovered the Wolf's library. She knew of its existence, but each time she tried to enter, she would find him, sitting at the table close to the entrance, burrowed in between many missives, lost in thought. She had no wish to watch the Wolf like that, or for him to watch her back, that furrow in his brow and exhausting reminder of her being a mistake in flesh in his eyes.

And now, she was alone here, for once. He had gone hours ago, and she was not quite sure if he was gone to the waking world or just out there, somewhere, traversing the Crossroads with Felassan, creating yet another new space. The two men would often walk around, exchanging ideas of how to improve upon their hideout, and even when she had her own thoughts, she held them to herself, for it would foil her appearance of strength. She did not need them to keep herself occupied, she reminded herself. Her mind was her escape.

Grand spiral staircase, reaching for the top of the tower, circular walls lined with bookshelves, which were in turn filled with many prints. So the Lord of Tricksters was either a studious man or wished to be seen as such. She heard the stories of him before the rebellion. Mythal's trusted advisor, always by her side. Mythal's wisdom in the shape of a man. Said to be charismatic, charming, one who never lacked a word in his pocket, exactly why his betrayal came to the gods as such disappointment. No one could foresee Mythal's most loyal general turning his back on his people. Or so they said.

She stood on the balcony, at the very top of the library, watching the expanse of the Fade before her. Wolf had to be cunning to choose such a place to hide. Locked behind many wards, and the Fade itself obscuring his every step, out of reach for Evanuris. She tried to count the days since the hunt, only to skip a number or mix them. Has it been months or years? Time flowed precariously in the Fade, its movement unfelt, but warped. Both running and leaking, yesterday feeling like tomorrow, like no day at all and all of them at once.

“Found a taste for reading or viewing?" His voice was an odd sound in the vacuum of emptiness she was used to. She did not turn to look, waiting for him to approach. "You would pass the doorway with neck stretched so high up, I worried the presence of books was inducing a reaction in you." He spoke cruelly, but his voice remained soft.

“Perhaps I am trying to find answers to Dread Wolf's secrets." She offered almost the truth, half a tease. She did not mean to sound desperate for conversation, but his shifting face told her enough of what she sounded like.

„Then you would have more use prodding Felassan for those. He's grown quite thwarted with the absence of your charm." He stood beside her, hair loose, dressed in a shirt too big and open, milky skin almost reflecting the sun, daring to touch it. The Wolf looked happier in his stance, face relaxed as he looked into the distance. Suddenly, like lightning on a bright day, his closeness became apparent. She shifted her hips subtly, stepping to the side, further away from him.

“He said he found me gorgeous but shallow. Who am I to bother him with my narrow mind?" She bit back.

From the corner of her eye, she could observe the corner of his lips twitch into something resembling a smile.

“He could make conversation with anyone, even a rock. You're proving more difficult as time goes on. If I were one to care, I would say it's a worrying development." He glanced at her, just for a short while, before returning his eyes to the skies. "If it's secrets you are after, he's got a loose tongue."

She stared at his profile, trying to discern just how serious he was in his suggestion. The Wolf looked unbothered by her interest in him.

“And you don't mind me acquiring them?"

“It is not as if you can carry them out.” He reminded her.  “They will be safe with you as they are with me, for they will stay within these walls forever."

“Are you here only to mock my circumstance?" He must have known how infuriating he was.

„I am here to tell you that it's turning. The other areas of Crossroads will now be needed for my forces. You are not to speak with them, unless you have more to say than praises to Elgar'nan."

„Elgar'nan does not think of you as much as you think of him." She teased.

„I assure you, he does. Especially now that his forces are weakened. But that's none of your worry, for you are no general of his no more." Wolf turned to her, watching her curiously. She did not notice how he closed the distance she tried to keep. “Perhaps some reading and speaking would not hurt you. Discovering who one is beyond their duty has profound effects on the spirit. Do not obstinate yourself in misery."

“Says a man who wages a losing battle against his betters." Again, her words earned her half a smirk. She shouldn’t have felt satisfied with the result, not when he was observing her so keenly.

„Of course you would say that. You might think your life was kind to you, but just because you did not know better. If you look beyond yourself, you will find it was all a lie." He promised, before turning to leave. His voice dropped lower, words spoken slowly and carefully. „Do not dream of the Eluvian room. Only I know words that would let you pass. And that is one secret I will not be sharing, nor will Felassan help with that. Learn to live the new life you have been given, with grace."

Chapter Text

Slow Arrow was a mystery to her. Irreverant, sly, charming, and, most importantly, talkative. She did not want to take The Wolf's advice to heart, but loneliness wore at her like a river at the rocks, smoothing her edges, lowering defences. Was it the first or second year, when she finally found it in her to sit around the hearth with the Fox boy and listen to his tall tales? She exhausted all she could—travelled each corner of the Crossroads, trained daily until she was in better shape than ever before, her magic stronger, her mind fed with many of the scripts from the library, sunsets followed and dawns reached, even a paint brush landing in her hand, but nothing could replace a simple conversation.

The Wolf moved his forces into the Crossroads, in a place they called Converged City, a place where spirits and living dwelled, exchanging all that they had.

They would not visit the Lighthouse, for Wolf and Arrow would come out to them. She was not to visit the City unattended if at all, and getting such privilege meant stepping on her own convictions and sitting down in conversation. Far from thrilled, she was to lower her inhibitions and let Fen’Harel’s general mock her, but the hope of gaining information had not abandoned her.

She found Felassan seated, a mug of mulled wine in hand, eyes locked onto the flames, reflections and shadows of which danced on his tanned skin, playing with the mark etched into his skin. "Mythal?" She asked.

"For someone told to be so brazen, you took your time." He smiled, the lines prominent in his cheeks, just like dimples. "We all once had our allegiances. But those change." He did not seem to care much for it, as if it were a question answered many times over. It had to be, considering his position at Wolf’s side.

"But your mark has stayed." She pressed, sitting across the room, in the other chair, with the dining table behind them.

"I did not keep it for her." Felassan shook his head, eyes narrowing in thought. For a moment, he seemed somewhere, away from there, from the conversation. He blinked quickly, shaking his head lightly, returning to the present. The voice he spoke with was different now, more sombre. "She does not possess my mind or spirit. People need to see the choice. They need to know our will is not going to be pressed into them. They are allowed to carry their past and still live freely."

He seemed so genuine in his conviction, heart on his sleeve. She learned not to trust people like him. No one who smiled and talked freely in court was to be trusted. But this was far from the spires of the Golden City.

"How is rebellion freedom? It's just an offer of unneeded death." She shook her head. How could they draw people from their lives in Elvhenan with illusions of life that were not needed? Their people were cared for under Evanuris' watchful eye. No pretty words and soft smiles he gave her could change the truth.  "People live in peace, never to be harmed. Their order keeps us from turning into animals, away from collapse. That is no lie. Before them, all people knew was bloodshed."

"Except that there was no before them. They drew first blood and never ceased power, unlike what they said they would." Felassan shook his head before taking a sip of his wine, licking a stray drop off his lips. Line in his forehead tensed, but he kept his voice steady. "If all were right, they would not bind you with blood. They would not carve their will into your skin and call it devotion.”

Now he looked straight at her, as if trying to draw shame out of her, pointedly staring at her mark. Something in his voice told her of history with his own Vallaslin, but both knew he would not share word of it. She broke eye contact first, pointing her gaze to the fireplace.

“They would not need spectacles of myth to keep people subdued. Haven't you, yourself, been paraded as a prize to distract those suffering? Haven't you been told that the masses needed a myth to consume to feel satisfied?”

Lanalath did not have words for him to spare when Elgar’nan’s voice crept back into her mind, announcing her victory, making her a trophy…

“Safe folk do not need to be fed lies. You cannot see what you defend. You've never left your golden cage.” He paused, taking another swing of his drink.  “Your mother was a victim of such circumstances, of a cycle of abuse that perpetuates, but none of those who raised you would say that to your eye.”

Against her will, fingers grasped the armrest tighter, her jaw locking in place. She would have spat venom back at him if she had any.

“Well, except for Mythal, I suppose.” Felassan clicked his tongue. She could not help but glance at him.  “Spare me the look — I've seen it often enough. Knowledge is the only loyalty I've ever kept. You should not be surprised that I know your truths, for it is my duty to learn and keep them."

Wrath within her festered. So much for conversation. Perhaps silence was more precious, something she should not abandon. But now, once she's broken it, she cannot deny a sliver of truth in his baseless pondering.

She felt the wrongness stir in her after returning from the Woods the first time. Her men were slain in battle, she escaped by what she believed to be divine blessing, only to stand before the crowd and be declared victorious. All Father would not let their people lose sleep over the threat of Dread Wolf's forces. They were wreaking havoc on their way of life, and now his general dared mock her and them.

"You did not answer my question." She pivoted the conversation, refusing to show his words stirred in her. "Mythal, why?"

"I gave myself into the hands that moulded me. I did not know what weight it would have on my existence until I was offered a choice." He said, swirling wine in the mug, gazing at the flame. "Solas knew that weight more than anyone, and so he unshackled me. Offered choice when I thought I had none. Told me I was more than a servant to a god."

But Solas was just a servant to Mythal, as stories told. Her general, right hand, but still, small in comparison to the power of Evanuris. He was also bitter and jealous. Some with more proficiency in sung words would even let a song fly of a general who loved the moon as if he could separate her from the sun. "Grand words from Mythal's lap dog."

"If that's what intrigues you." Felassan raised his brow. "Solas may hold hatred for all of Evanuris, but Mythal is not of them, in his eyes. Never was, never will be. I cannot tell if it's naiveté or love, but—"

He fell quiet, glancing at the doorway, as if expecting Wolf to enter. "—But it does not matter. Either you want something or you are being eaten by loneliness to finally sit with me. Which is it?"

"Must the choices be this limited?" She answered, trying to conceal her annoyance with a smirk. "As it was made to me so abundantly clear that you are to keep me company, I thought said company would come with less resistance."

"I offered my hand in keeping you occupied. Do not think of it as a desirable task. You do not make it easy or pleasurable." He looked at the fireplace when belittling her, seemingly lost in thought. "Solas could not be bothered with the spawn of Elgar'nan, and letting you fall from what you think of as divine grace end in insanity sounds like a pitiful finale. So here I am, ready for a conversation if you are willing to have a genuine one."

She leaned back in the chair, forcing her body to stay in the exchange. It did not take long to remember why his company was something she did not wish to seek. "Pray tell me, then — how is this not genuine?"

"You come here, asking about my mark. It is not how people talk outside court, Lanalath. You elected to prod at the question to see how deep my loyalties lie, how easily I could be persuaded to help you escape." He put his wine glass down on the armrest, leaning in, eyes trained on her. "My Vallaslin has no relation to my allegiances. If you seek company, try again. For example, you could inquire how my day was."

A perceptive man, he was. Pity, she thought. She did not harbour much hope for him becoming her escape, and even less for befriending him at all. What could a man spreading lies about her father offer her except for information? Still, she was curious, and it wasn’t as if she had much else to do, so she asked. "So… How did your day fare?"

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The grounds were empty when she exited the main building that evening. Conversations she had with Felassan over the months would be shared sparingly, still biting, pushing and pulling. Dinner tables stayed silent, neither willing to spar under the Dread Wolf's eye. He only watched, expectant. With the rebel forces moving into Converged City, he would be less present, and Felassan would leave with him, without saying goodbye. His absence became more present once she dared to indulge in those short talks.

From what she knew, the Wolf and his general were gone again. She made her way into the dining room, expecting another quiet evening. A year of such evenings, she got accustomed to silence. What bothered her was having to learn how to cook on her own. She never had such worries back at the palace, and with cupboards always full in the kitchen, she could have lived on dried meats and aged cheeses for a while. Right until it bore her, which came sooner than predicted. Her experiments at making a meal were less than disappointing and, at worst, inedible. She wondered what tonight would bring.

The smell caught her off guard at first, and only then did she notice the silhouette next to the hearth, a spatula in his hand. A confusing mixture of relief and annoyance passed over her. "Ah," Felassan turned to her. "You look positively shocked to find me here. Well, are you here to stand around or perhaps help me make this meal for us?"

"Help you?" She asked, confused.

He chuckled. "How else will you learn? Can't let you poison yourself while unattended."

Lanalath leaned against the doorframe, hands crossed, voice with a note of bitterness. "Both of you seemed fine with that arrangement."

Felassan cocked his brow before turning towards the pot, stirring it a little. "Oh, I still am. It's Solas who grew worried. For someone who doesn’t talk with you at all, he frets too often about you. Interesting, wouldn’t you agree?" He shrugged, not waiting for an answer and turned to her with a grin. "Surely sulking in the doorway is less dignified than stirring a pot."

They stood there, staring at each other for a moment, his eyes both challenging and inviting. The steps she took were not because his company was better than none, she told herself. It was a practical opportunity, even if addled with the inconvenience of Felassan — and his smile that lingered too long.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

"Did not expect you to find reading to your liking," Felassan spoke, jolting her from the slumped position she had taken in the armchair behind Dread Wolf's table.

Sitting inside, even if in this place, was better, now that the cold months were back upon them. The heating system in the lighthouse was one she was familiar with, the heating furnace hidden just outside the building, connected to it, the hot air from it travelling through passages built into the walls. Passages that could be opened to warm the specific room. At this point, she knew Wolf's habits well enough to know that the library would always be at a pleasant temperature, and she would find herself hidden in there a lot.

Today, she was absorbed by local myths from some village written down by a sturdy hand, one that would not allow any mistakes to slip past into his recording of the story. He never signed, but something about the way stories flowed told her it was Wolf who retold the tales on paper.

The chair was uncomfortably large, even if by no standard she could have been called a small woman. And utilitarian to a point, no comforts of cushions, just plain wood now digging into her thigh muscles as she tried to maintain a portrait of composure, while her body desperately wished to change positions. "He had warned me that I might find you hiding away in here… Never pictured Elgar'nan's darling curled up with a book. It ruins the image."

"Huh." She laid the book on the table gently, lifting her eyes from the text. "Do you spend much time imagining me, Felassan? In all sorts of places?"

Just for a moment, he seemed caught off guard, his brows raised slightly. Felassan tried to chuckle at her remark, but choked on it, blushing. "It is not what I meant."

She leaned on the table, resting her face in her palms, watching his unnerved form. The Fox boy loved to pretend he was unshakeable, and his flustered face evoked a smile she had trouble hiding. "Oh, please, elaborate on what you meant."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The heat of summer passed them by quickly. Conversations with Felassan grew more frequent, and so did the absences of Dread Wolf. There were fewer days in the week when he would visit than those he did not. She did not notice when she started counting days in between.

At first, his general would avoid mentioning his absence, but eventually even he slipped. Many spirits were being wiped from existence, making Solas more driven, more obsessed with giving a blow to Elgar'nan.

"But those are only spirits," She murmured, hearing that.

Felassan shook his head. "So was Elgar'nan, so was Mythal, everyone you dare call a god was once a spirit. So was I. The novelty of being born from the nothingness of flesh is just that. A novelty. You are of a new kind, unlike us. You could never understand what it means for spirits to make a body their home."

She did not answer. Rarely was that mentioned back in Elvhenan. They lived with spirits, let them take care of them, and many befriended them. But no one truly saw them as equals. More like guides, welcome distractions, short-term amusements. How could existence based on one singular feeling compare to the life of a body?

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It was one of those nights when Wolf was out again, his general returning early, alone. Felassan did not come to dinner, nor did he haunt the corridors of the tower. She did not know why she went looking for him until she saw the light leaking from the staircase she had never touched upon. There was no use for her to do so, since it led to the Eluvian room, one she could not access. She followed the light, just to find the door ajar, a familiar shape sitting on the threshold, wine pouch in his hand, head leaned back as he took a sip.

"You are worried for him." She said, after watching Slow Arrow repeat several rounds of heavy sips and sighs.

"He's late," Felassan said, without moving, his eyes fixed on the Eluvian at the end of the long corridor lying before him. "He's never—"

The mirror rippled. Once, twice. An armoured leg appeared first, followed by the shape of the man. Bloodied, beaten, his jaw clenched. Blood matted his robes, his hands were streaked red, up to the wrist. He made hurried steps toward them, only glancing up briefly, his eyes turning from sharp to tired for a flicker of a moment before he walked past them, without a word. His steps were steady, as they echoed behind her, almost rehearsed. He left them there without acknowledgement, but she knew the Wolf must have been rattled to not say a word to either about her standing in the room she was prohibited from visiting.

Felassan took another greedy sip, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, before finally looking at her, shaking his head. "Fuck." He breathed, standing up, and gestured for her to come with him. The door to the Eluvian room closed behind them without a word, and the faint hope she had to learn how it was operated was killed in an instant. She saw the only way to freedom, and just stood there, waiting for the Wolf to show. She did not grasp her own stupidity until there was no way back again. Why would she wait for him? Why would she keep company with Felassan?

"I must go to him," Felassan said, in clipped tone, as if trying to force down the emotion that came over him upon sight of the Wolf's state.

She almost felt pity for the poor general. Or she actually did feel sorrow, but would not admit it to herself. Lanalath had no wish to ponder it. "He seemed to wish to be left alone."

"He always does," Felassan said, leaving her standing alone, "It is a lonely pursuit, the way he chose. But it does not have to be. It is my choice as much as his."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The courtyards were empty, save for her and the thuds of wood against grain sacks. Lanalath's arms ached, but she forced her body through another arc, sweat dripping down her temple as she brought the staff overhead and slammed it against the dummy body. Solas was inside, standing in the library, pretending not to watch. She pretended not to notice, but her sweaty palm slipped across the wood on impact, making her stumble. Too heavy. Too slow. Too distracted. Blush splotched her cheeks, feeling his gaze.

"You're leading with your shoulder. And your eyes are off target."

She spun, staff raised, teeth bared in a grin. Felassan leaned in the doorway of the tower, mouth quirking like he got wonderful news. Perhaps he did, for he was closed inside the library with the Dread Wolf for a while.

"And you're leading with your tongue," she shot back, but her smile was treacherous, leaning more friendly than annoyed.

He stepped into the courtyard, slow and deliberate, until he stood just out of reach. "If I'd known Elgar'nan's prized general trained like this, I'd be less worried about you eventually trying to kill us both and escape. Ah—“ He raised his finger, shaking it. “Do not indulge those thoughts; it won't help you. And this training won't."

Her grip tightened on the staff as she attempted to keep her face straight. Her skill was renowned; how dare he… But then again, he loved to tease. With time passing them by, she got more accustomed to his mostly well-timed remarks, even if they still bruised her ego. "Care to demonstrate your skill?"

The grin widened. He plucked a staff from the rack nearby; lighter than hers, quick in his hands.

"Careful what you wish for." He winked, his mood certainly more elevated than usual. Something must have happened. Something, like many things, she was not privy to.

The first clash was uneven. She struck hard, raw strength behind her swing, and he sidestepped with an insulting ease. The second hit came quicker, her staff skimming his ribs, and he raised his brows as if to say Better.

"If you manage to hit, I will tell you the reason for my sunny disposition." He winked, as if he knew what she was thinking of.

On the third, she nearly knocked him off his feet.

The sound of his laugh startled her more than the hit. He recovered, spinning his staff, jumping back before she could try to land a blow. "Perhaps you're more than Elgar'nan's ornament after all."

She sucked in a sharp breath, forcing herself not to grimace at his words. "And perhaps you're more than Dread Wolf's shadow."

His smirk faltered, only slightly, but she caught it, quickly enough to swing again, now hitting his shin, making him lose balance and stumble. "You said to land one hit. I did. What is the news?"

"That hurt," He laughed, straightening himself out. "You are visiting Converged City tomorrow. And no, you are still not allowed to speak with rebels. Solas doubts you might manage restraint, but I find myself hoping. Even he couldn't deny the benefits of allowing you to try stretching your legs."

"I stretch my legs plenty." She put her weapon back on the rack, dusting off her hands on her pants, still not used to the simplicity of the clothing provided.

He followed her steps, stopping just beside, staff back in its place. "As you wish, it's truly your thing to reject—"

"I did not say I wouldn't go."

A feeling she hadn’t felt in a long time came around her heart. Excitement. Rare and fleeting, but it was there.

Chapter Text

The city was hidden behind the mist so thick that one could barely make out the shapes of buildings as they already towered over them. Ghastly figures moved with a crowd before them, elves stumbling on their feet, seemingly crumbling apart in the last stretch of their journey. The gates were already wide open, voices calling for those weary and lost to come in. The green glow was the only marker of the road still left before them, the enchanted stones laid on both sides of the path, illuminating the cobblestones in soft light, just clear enough to see but not harsh to disrupt the night.

The words came first, low and soothing, seemingly out of the Fade itself, a promise: "Fen'Harel bids you welcome. Rest, knowing the Dread Wolf guards you and his people guard this valley. In this place, you are free. In trusting us, you will never be bound again."

And there they were. The Converged City.

The Dread Wolf's sanctuary.

She heard whispers of those walking before them, "They say he is but a man, but what man stands before gods?"

"A god"

"I do not care as long as we're free"

Felassan cleared his throat, lightly shaking his head, picking up his pace, stepping in between people talking, pulling her with him, before speaking up. "Fen'Harel is as mortal as any of you. He takes no divine mantle and asks that none be bestowed upon him. He leads only those willing. Let none be beholden but by choice."

A scoff escaped Lanalath's mouth, followed by a mutter. "None except for kin of Elgar'nan, it seems." She did not want to make a scene or draw attention to herself, for this was a test of her fortitude, but that did not mean she couldn’t make it a more miserable affair for Felassan.

Her voice carried low, but Felassan did not miss a beat, did not let his warm smile falter as new followers of the Dread Wolf walked with them. "It would do you good to accept that your choice was made, too, even if by circumstance."

Only when the lights of the city touched upon the crowd surging in through the gates, she observed the pitiful state they were in. Surely these could not be servants of Evanuris. No person in Arlathan looked this worn down, broken, muddied, with clothes hanging off them like rags. Whoever these people were, they were nothing like the proud people of Elvhenan she knew. Were they here for show? Bring Elgar'nan's child to prove them wrong with a spectacle?

They reached the outer court, chock-full of travellers. Some huddled over fires, a few tending their steads and Hallas, near the stables that lined the outer wall. Despite the distorted bodies that came in with them and were quietly urged away by those dressed in finer robes, life moved the proper way in the courtyard. She followed Felassan's step, the heat and lingering steam of the forge licking at her skin, making it harder to breathe under the shawl tied tightly around her face, with only a slit left for her eyes. Fen'Harel's general wouldn't risk her being recognised. She glanced at the hearth beside them, seeing a shape of a woman, bent over ambers, staring at the chains hanging from her palms, etched with blue glyphs that glowed faintly. So did her hands, the markings matching. The woman was oblivious to the heat, seemingly lost in the swirls etched into her.

The sudden weight of a contact made Lanalath flinch and turn suddenly to see Felassan urging her forward.

He did not linger, making his way to the turmoil of people. The ones they came in with. Many people surrounded them with offerings, a sight she could recognise, but in her other life, reserved for gods and their chosen only. A man stood at the edge of the crowd, his hand holding on tightly to the tiny fingers of a girl beside him.

Felassan saw him too and almost walked by. But then he stopped, stepped back, something in his demeanour shifting. He was in a rush, but could make time for them.

Felassan approached the man and the child, slowly, as if coming close to wounded animals. "Welcome to the Converged City. Do not be afraid to take the offerings. All here is free and to be shared. You may call me Felassan, for our paths are due to cross again."

The man nodded, eyes sunken, without responding. Lanalath watched as Felassan regarded the child curiously, asking softly, "What should I call you, fair lady?"

"No names." Father squeezed the girl's hand tighter, pulling her closer, but the child watched them. Face caked with grime, eyes glazed, wide, watching Lanalath, just over Felassan's shoulder. "Forbidden. A tool does not need a name. If we were to speak them, we were to lose our tongues."

"Under Fen'Harel's watchful eye, you need not worry," Felassan reassured the man softly. "Suledin is a lovely name, is it not?" He added, looking at the child.

The man was watching his daughter with the same eyes as his, the same weary look on their faces. A child should not look that worn, that… Lanalath blinked at tears prickling her eyes. Why were there tears if it was a spectacle? If this was just a spectacle to gnaw at her heart, why couldn’t she steel it?

"It is." The man nodded softly, lowering himself to the girl’s eye level. The girl would not look at him, still transfixed on the masked woman. Lanalath wished to escape those glistening orbs and their curiosity. It was as if the mask did not mean anything; the child, already marked by Falon'din, could see through it. "And what is my name to be?" The man asked gently, looking back at Felassan.

"Now it's in your hands to choose," Felassan reassured the man. "Do so wisely, do so bravely, for no ill can touch you here."

The man finally braved himself to approach people handing out fresh clothes and nodded along as they explained the way around the city. The girl still stood next to him, her head turned, watching Lanalath, unblinking. As if she could feel the growing restlessness within her. The disarray of her mind, as she debated how much of the truth here was.  It made little sense for it all to be falsehoods, but it was worse if it was a reality she did not see. If the horrors of these people's lives were real, then she was a pawn who helped sustain them.

She was many things. A daughter of a god. A mage. A fighter. General. How could she have also been blind?

Little made sense.

She found that doubt hurt. Doubt grew like a void within her chest, with fried and raw edges. She could not stop its spread.

Felassan's hand found her shoulder again, moving her forward and away from the gate area. He led her between the stalls and the temporary tents where people still with fresh marks of beatings resided. She did not need to ask whose servants they were, for she recognised the thick flower patterns covering their faces, belonging to Sylaise.

Just to the right of the stairs leading to the inner gate, she saw men, bruises on their half-dressed bodies yellow, bandages rusted with dried blood, as they talked, while repairing arrows. One man has lost an eye, face still wrapped. Another sat, his legs unmoving. The child next to them flinched at the sudden movement as Felassan raised his hand to greet them. They did not exchange words, just moved forward. "Elgar'nan's," Felassan murmured. "Used as a shield. Front line, no weapons. A few hundred men, these ones made it out. Barely."

Bile rose in her throat, and her steps stuttered as she turned her neck backwards, still looking at the men. It couldn’t have… It couldn't have been true.

Lanalath did not mutter a word, could not do so, just walked after him, letting the noises of the courtyard wash over her, letting the noise drown out her thoughts. The Lighthouse was silent, strange. Unlike her life before. She was used to the crowds, to the faces, voices. Now the faces were just shadows of people, unlike the ones radiant back at the city of crystalline spires, her home. Was it even her home anymore? What has happened to them to sacrifice their people? None of the battles she ever led sacrificed their men. If she were to trust her father… Did she trust him? She could not trust rebels either. Something within her wanted to fight the accusation. "I never—"

"Admirable—keeping your hands just lightly stained." Felassan smiled, but the lines under his eyes did not crease; his eyes were steely. "Your reality is shaped by your experience. Universal truth is bloodier and less known. Here, it's bare."

She nodded, at a loss for words to say. Was this what they were fighting about? The sides of Elvhenan, she did not know? But if Elgar'nan played her hand in declaring nonexistent victories, who was to say the sick and injured housed here came from where Wolf and his general claimed? Arrange the sick and battered, make those you wish to use believe in the savagery of gods, seed hatred in their hearts, win the war of spectacle? Perhaps the war was just a play of shadow puppets, where each side played whatever hand it had. How could she, living in the heart of Elvhenan, not hear whispers of such horrors?

But if these were lies, could Wolf truly be this crude?

She believed her father capable of it.

And that realisation made all of this worse.

"Lost in thought? That's a rarity, don't hurt your head." Felassan mocked her, while his face remained a mask of nonchalance.

With her face hidden, she did not need to worry that he could see the burn in her cheeks. She was chewing on her lip, trying to swallow questions that grew, one opposing another. She could still pretend.

"Is this time for foolery?" She nudged him back as they neared the gates to the inner city, two sentinels standing guard beside them.

Felassan turned, smiling softly. "Showing fear or anger will not help them or me."

Sentinel did not react to his presence, letting the gate swing open. As she followed close by, a staff hit against her sternum, stopping her in her tracks. Her hand twitched, wanting to pull at her mask. None would stop her from passing by. She had to remind herself of having no standing here.  The armoured fighter regarded her as if waiting for something. "She needs no password. She walks with Slow Arrow." Felassan reprimanded the sentinel softly, eyeing the weapon resting against her chest until it fell low, and the guard stepped back.

"Can't let just anyone in." Felassan winked, waving her to follow.

"So everyone but you must know the password?" She inquired.

"And Solas, for we built the place," He told her, stopping to admire the view before them. Another courtyard, but from this, what seemed to be market square, she could see streets sprawling, new buildings rising to the sides. "Eventually, the place remembers your imprint on the Fade. As long as you come in peace."

The extensive, half circular square was marked by a fountain, a statue in the centre of a figure bowed, blade to their face. She could not discern the gender, and perhaps it mattered little. The figure was colourless save for deep carving dragged through the face near the blade, filled in with red. The flowers and offerings lay at its feet.

"Many tried to carve the bond out with their own hand. Hopeless notion, lives lost to thirst for freedom." Felassan gazed up at the statue, his voice void of the happy note. He looked like a man lost in memory. "Of course, it was not failure that killed them. It was a disgrace to the gods that did it."

What an odd sight it was. Vallaslin was not forced upon; it was an offer, an opportunity, a blessing. One would bend the knee and pledge themselves to the deity they believed in, and would get a life in return. Family fed, hands full of work, and bellies sated. People took them on because they believed. She took hers as soon as she was of age, once a weapon in her hand could make the All Father proud. Her face told everyone whose hand lay upon her shoulder in protection, in whose name the blood she shed. She took the blessing and turned it into an aegis for their people. How could she believe that their markings could be a burden or a curse that one would try to slice out of their skin?

It could not be. Those who suffered under the rule of the Gods must have transgressed somehow. She knew Mythal to be cruel to those who would not be fair to others. Andruil, punishing those who would disrespect the lands. Taking on a mark was a promise bound to both sides. To accept god, you had to obey him too. Every action reacted.

It couldn't be that their suffering was pointless, just entertainment. Nothing was pointless in Elvhenan. Confusion grew to fury, but the feeling stayed. The girl's eyes lingered on her, still, even if she was nowhere to be seen.

"Solas is just ahead," Felassan said, as if reminding her to move. She was glad for the wrap around her face, hiding the redness creeping on her cheeks, blooming through her chest and neck. Was she furious at herself for not knowing what to believe or at the gods?

Her eyes now couldn't stop searching. Looking through people, living their lives in this liminal space, in a promise of peace, she was still suspicious of. How they walked was different from what she was used to seeing around the palace. Those who were unmarked or mere servants of Evanuris grazed the ground with their eyes, their step careful. Here they laughed, they talked, they moved out of their way, smiling at Felassan and regarding her with their eyes narrowed, a stranger intruding on their existence. Lanalath was used to respect, and in turn, all she saw was fear. These people did not want strangers. But they let her pass, because she walked with one of Dread Wolf's.

Eventually, they made their way inside. The building was unassuming, one story tall, much larger on the inside than outside, the entire floor just a large space filled with beds, air thick with the scent of tonics and curations, and the overbearing smell of dried herbs.

Here, silence reigned, only broken in short bursts of coughing or moaning. Some called his name, asking for aid. The faint pang of sweat and blood finally reached her. Cots lined the walls, most of them occupied. Too many, she lost count.

In the middle of them all, he kneeled above the woman, seemingly in deep slumber, chased by nightmares, as her limbs trembled, his hand hovering over her shoulder, marked by deep gashes, as if a beast tried to tear her apart. Light spilt from his palm, engulfing the wounds, the Fade humming at his call. When light faded, the woman's breath eased, and now she was truly asleep.

It must have been minutes only, but the ache of watching stretched into hours. He moved on to another. And another. He did not stop. Dread Wolf exchanged words with those who were conscious. One after another. Burned skin, sweat-slick foreheads, broken bones, blackened skin. His movements grew slower, his hands less steady, breathing laboured, as even the Fade became harder to wield, and he did not stop.

Almost like a ritual, Lanalath thought. Man going through motions, and still finding it in himself for a kind smile, even if his eyes turned from alert to weary. Felassan did not mutter a word since entering, letting her watch. Dread Wolf, just a man, exhausting himself beyond his limit. She did not want her doubt to abandon her this easily, and still it slipped. A healer, with his hands bloodied, back hunched, and a promise on his lips. All will be well. Where she came from, all would have been according to All Father's will, which now seemed more like a promise of suffering for those unfortunate enough.

Her fingers curled into fists, crescents of nails biting deep into her palms, wanting blood. Was she so blind? Was that the curse her blood gave her? To see only what others wanted? But if that were true, how was this different? She stood there with pieces of a story offered, but the full landscape of it was broken. Worst of all, the seeds were taking root, with every wound Fen’Harel closed.

The last straw of her composure broke when his hand trembled. He faltered, healing an older man, his back hunching over as he was short of breath, sweat dripping from his brow onto the man's chest. Still, he pushed.

Lanalath tried to reprimand herself, stay strong in her conviction.

Before she knew it, the word escaped her.

"Enough."

Silence was too loud. Even though it was filled with heavy breathing of the sick, a quiet whisper from Felassan she could not make out, and a brush of cloth as many of Wolf’s agents turned to look at who dared to speak.

Solas lifted his eyes, unfocused, not looking at her.

He looked broken. She should have felt anything but sorrow. Disgust should have coated her tongue at the shape of him, but instead, an ache came. And then, care.

"You are wearing yourself thin." She approached, and Felassan stood back, as if to watch what would happen next. "More just came into the city. You cannot bear them all."

Two of his agents moved from a far corner of the room, as if her words gave them permission to try and step in too. He gave them a dismissive look before they could approach. Fen’Harel now looked at her, his brow furrowed, as if readying words of banishment. His lips disappeared into a thin line, his jaw tightening. Despite the sharp lines of anger lining out his face, his eyes were tired. Some burdens were made to be sure. She did not know why she wanted to share in his.

She tried, still, against her better judgment.

"I'm no healer of your calibre." She admitted, voice trembling against her will, admission sticking to her throat, almost choking her. She cleared her throat before the unsteady offer. "Let me—Let me help you."

Chapter Text

Loss of home came and went. Some days, it was dull, barely there. Others, it would ache, haunt. Every smell would remind her of the palace grounds, every sound — a cacophony of voices of those she hadn't seen in years. She was more Lanalath than she was when the woods had swallowed her, and also barely there. When prayer would fail her, she would find herself walking. The Crossroads grew in the time she was there. New islands were added, and more and more rebels settled there permanently. Even with new additions, their territories inched closer to the Lighthouse. Her world grew smaller.

The Wolf let her out of the cage to visit people regularly, opening a new side of said world. Still, she bore a mask, hiding the mark of her father. Rarely did she say a word, except for an offer of help or encouragement.

In days she could not bear the cyclical nature of healing, she found herself wandering. Back to the edge of the woods. She stood, bare feet on barren land, just out of reach of branches. Many times she tried to cross the line, only to be thrown back again.

Eventually, she stopped.

Not for the lack of wanting to get back.

More so, the uncertainty of whether there was anything to come back to.

And now she stood, wind playing with her hair, which got outrageously long, unbefitting a fighter, getting into her eyes. The sun was soon to set, but her gaze did not look for it. Woods stood there, still, all the same as the day she stumbled in. The only scar on her side that was being stolen by age was proof of a godling that fell into Wolf's jaws.

She felt the weight of his presence before she heard his words.

"You miss it." He said, the crackle of dried grass betraying his steps. "Is it the place that you long for, the people or your circumstance?"

She inched closer to the tree line, knowing it would change nothing. Closer to the Woods was further away from him. She preferred the distance kept. "It's so close." A sigh escaped her mouth, frustration following it. "Why can't I leave? Why won't you let me leave? You returned me once."

Leaves crackled under his feet again, the distance carefully maintained, broken again.

"That was an exception. Allowance." He stood shoulder to shoulder with her, the heat of his body lingering between them. She tried to pay no mind to it, but she knew that if she outstretched her fingers, their hands would brush. A thought almost turned into temptation, intruding on her suddenly. She chased it away. The woods creaked and cried in the wind, but it was his stillness that disturbed her. "I miss it too." He spoke, at last, with sadness she did not expect.

"You left. You—"

"I was chased away, like you were. One with my beliefs had no place among them. So I found somewhere else. Away. Here."

"You made this. You can reset the rules. Why not let me go?" She asked, once more.

"I stole this. It was his, as you are." His. Fen’Harel would rarely speak of the name. As if it stung his mouth. His. Elgar'nan's. "But I did not set the rules. I agreed to them. I made a pact that I have broken once, by offering you a way back. All that happened after was fault of none."

"So the lands are keeping me?"

"The spirits of this place agreed to repel all of Evanuris and those marked by them and let others pass freely. But you are neither Evanuris blooded, nor one of the people. You are his hubris made flesh. And thus, the power of the place got warped. The spirits got confused. They set new rules for you."

"You were betrayed by your own blood." She repeated words Felassan once told her.

Fen'Harel nodded. "I am sorry."

His sorrow did nothing for her. It was easier when she could hope to cross the Woods back one day, go home. Now, the push against her sternum became clearer, a ghostly reminder that she could not. Not ever.

Anger boiled within, sour, spilling.

"What about your Eluvians? They do not require physically passing the border between here and there; you just get there."

"I cannot allow you to use them." He turned, watching her now. He stood too close and did not mind it, leaning in even closer. "It is not you whom I worry about losing. One crack in my network would claim a cost too high. Setting you free is more than a crack. Eluvians remember. I can't let you march an army on my gates."

"Why would I betray you?" She asked, looking him in the eye, not squirming from their closeness now. His breath moved the stray strand of hair on her cheek, like a caress. "I just want to return to where I belong, where I have purpose, and am not stuck as a perpetual guest. I would not get back here willingly."

"You are his daughter. And you would stand opposite of Dread Wolf once more, willing or not. " He said, something in his voice betraying frustration, a plea to see what he saw, understand it as he did. Gentleness, one he did not spare lightly, and to her, not at all, slipped into his words. He leaned back, as if suddenly aware of the distance between them, furrow in his brow returning. "What you are here is what you create. You are more than the purpose you were born for, Lanalath. I dare to hold the belief you will see it too. It's been long enough."

He left her there, at the edge of the woods she could not enter, the only way forward — The Lighthouse. His sanctum. His rebellion. And her, a general without a war to wage. Hands once stained with the blood of enemies, now turned healer if she were to accept it. She turned away from the Woods. The Branch lay before her, one way back to the cage she now called home, and another, to the Converged City.

There were many broken spirits out there, waiting for a comforting touch. That was all she had. Fen'Harel's words lingered. Perhaps it was what she could become if she wished for it.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The next morning came with a surprise. A few of her wild dreams involved a man, standing at her door at sunrise. None involved him.

"I heard you were to leave for the City." Fen'Harel stood in her doorway, no heavy armour weighing down his shoulders at this early hour. She could not read the expression on his face. Was it shy curiosity, a gentle challenge, or an offering? "I thought I could accompany you."

"Has boredom gotten to you to willingly come asking for my company?" She said, coming closer, but stopping just out of reach, waiting for him to move out of the way. He stood, ignoring the clues she gave, an infuriating smirk crossing his lips as he regarded her barely dressed state.

Suddenly, she became uncomfortably aware of it, and his eyes on her uncovered shoulders, her arms crossed against her chest, scarcely covered by the nightgown.

He seemed… Amused. Amused. Tongue tracing the inside of his cheek before he spoke. "I had hoped yours did."

She could not tell if it was a teasing or a friendly remark. Unlike Felassan, who wore his heart on his sleeve, face marred with compassion, Dread Wolf lived up to his name. His gaze might have softened, but it still measured her every move. It was an odd play they acted, watching each other from the corners of their eyes, never truly meeting midway.

She could have stayed inside, seeing him walk off. There was no need for her to join him. The first time she offered her help, she did not think she would ever falter like that, reaching to help one who caged her like that again. For months to come, she would travel with Felassan, making it a point not to visit when he was there.

But Felassan was not there, and the sudden offer was tempting.

"My company is demanding." Hands still crossed against her chest, heat now spreading across it, flooding up her neck, she said, head craned back, looking up at him.

His lip twitched in an almost true smile as he stepped out to the corridor, letting her pass. "I will try to keep up." He waited a moment before adding. “Though I would advise dressing up for the trip.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It was a rare day to arrive and not stand in line. But then again, Fen'Harel spent most of his time these days in his sanctum, his back bent over the table, a steady hand drawing something. She would not linger to see what he worked on, and he would only play niceties as she passed him in the library, making her way upstairs to read in a hidden corner. The corner she made her own, leaving furs on the ground to make it more comfortable to sit tucked in between the bookshelf and the railing, and pretty soon, a table and chair appeared there instead.

She did not ask, and he did not boast about his generous nature.

Approaching the gates, he said. "You may speak."

She stopped, turning to look at him.

"What?"

They resumed their walk, he pretending her stopping didn’t entertain him.

"To the people. If you wish for it."

"What changed?" Her eyes narrowed, her step halting, forcing him to stop as well, again. He turned to her, and only now did she realise that he looked right at her face, not just her golden eyes, when the mark was covered with the scarf. She wondered what legends had been kept quiet, erased, rewritten. Why, out of all the pantheon, Elgar'nan's brand was the one that had such an effect on the Dread Wolf. Was it a principle? Was it her? It was not as if she was afraid to question; she just did not know if his answers would have been worth anything. Still, his reactions intrigued her. Sometimes soft and pliant, sometimes dismissing, as if Wolf could not choose the leg to stand on.

"Nothing. And perhaps, that's what needs to change." He spoke calmly, stepping closer. "Even when you lift your hand to heal them, even as you look into their eyes, you do not feel or see. You do not believe. The suffering is just shrubbery on the vast landscape, one you would not trust me to paint to you."

"Aren't you a god of trickery?" She took a step, hoping he would take one back. He did not. One move and her feet would touch his toes. She found her own breathing shallow all of a sudden. "How am I to believe your intentions pure?"

He blinked, slowly, as if trying to hold down whatever emotion burned in him, his eyes drifting, rare redness appearing in his face. "How were you to believe Elgar'nan, when he was the one who buried you?"

"Per your claims."

"Ask them." He said, eyes softening, as the offer almost turned into a plea, when violet and gold clashed again, her holding his stare. "Talk to them."

If either moved, their bodies would have clashed, the awareness of him growing with each second held. She stepped back before either thought too much about it.

"Why do you care if I change my mind?" She muttered, walking past him, trying to lose the heat of him that lingered, walking closer to the gate, their shoulders almost brushing when he caught up. "I am stuck here, whether my heart finds any of this true or not, if you were to be believed."

She did not see his face, with her back turned, moving away from him, but she could hear a faint compression in his voice. Softness shed, he put back his mask of indifference. Perhaps, for the better. "I do not. You are free to brush off any sane thought and get back on your knees for the father, for all I care."

Lanalath scoffed. For a god of lies, he was terrible at them; his voice lowering just a tad at the end betrayed him.

She did not wait for him to exchange pleasantries with the sentinels guarding the gates, approaching them first, head held high. They regarded her, but did not wave to pass until their metallic faces turned to see Fen'Harel approaching. Only then did they let her go, much to her frustration. They knew of her; they did not need to do it.

She had to calm her breath and steps as she walked into the city, eyes set on the clear path forward, straight to the infirmaries. Weaving through the bustling inner courtyards, she kept on the straight line, cutting through the market.

"You do not take shortcuts." He commented, following close behind, as if he caught her in an act of something mischievous and was amused once more. He watched her even when he was not around. So much for idle curiosity.

Not buying into his remarks was the way she had to go. With every step, his motives became blurred, a constant irritant scratching at the back of her head. While Felassan was infuriating, the talk with him was straightforward. He said what he meant, when he meant it. Back in court, he would've been called weak, easy to manipulate, usable. But here, he was seen as irreplaceable. Voice of the people. She could not fathom what people saw in The Dread Wolf, except for moments Felassan spoke of him. He knew how to paint mysteries in pleasing shades. He wasn't here to soften the blow, so she persisted, with Wolf's steps echoing behind her, as they entered the infirmary. At last, he separated from her, going to the furthest end, where one of his agents worked, silently fixing the herbs.

She looked over the beds. Very few of those that still needed healing were awake. Looking over them, she did not know where to begin, eyes drifting back to the edge of the room, seeing as Wolf was speaking with the agent, suddenly becoming animated, his shoulders tense, as he nodded, turning to leave. He glanced at her before reaching the doorway, but did not say a word before hurrying out. Just like that, he left her, unsupervised. In Converged City, she was never to be left alone. Always followed and watched over. But not now. She could've just left, but instead, she turned to the only awake woman, sitting up on her cot, her hand outstretched, her looking at her fingers as if not recognising them, bending and straightening the fingers, slowly, again and again.

"Good day," She said, approaching the woman. Woman, in turn, flinched, glancing up.

"Oh," She gasped, "Oh, dear. You sound just like—"

The woman looked at her inquisitively, gaze piercing, as if trying to see behind the scarf wrapped around her face. Lanalath fixed her robes before kneeling beside the woman, her back straight, gaze steady.

"I could swear you carry a presence of someone long gone." The woman said, her eyes still exploring each inch of Lanalath's body. The way her back was set, the way she held her gaze. Lanalath let her shoulders collapse, eyes shifting away from the woman's whitened irises. Last time they met, her eyes were still vibrant blue. Lanalath made a note to speak as commonly as possible and keep her body relaxed. If what Wolf said was true, no one would suspect she was the daughter of Elgar’nan, living and breathing. "Don't mind me, I am just a weary woman, my mind must be confused."

"It's alright." Many people she met here muttered names, talked to people who were not there. Until now, she could not answer, and so their tales went unheard. "You can tell me about this someone."

"Oh, she wasn't just someone," the woman's voice shook. "A general, famed one. Said to be Elgar'nan's own. Would always have her nose stuck up as she passed us through corridors, always somewhere important to be, always to be cared after."

Lanalath's hand stilled, still reaching to look under bandages wrapped around the woman's forearm. The aged woman offered her hand, but Lanalath was frozen before a moment settled in, and she forced her eyes to smile as she asked. "You said she was long gone." She gently grasped the woman's arm, nimble fingers untying the knot that closed the bandages. "What happened?"

"Oh, who knows?" The woman chuckled, "They said that the Dread Wolf shot her down with poisoned arrows for trespassing on his grounds."

Lanalath's brows furrowed. "And you are now here, in his sanctum, after hearing that? Killing innocents?"

"The girl was not one of those. None of Evanuris are, and she proudly served them; it served her well to get such an end." The woman smiled, wide, soft, as if remembering something fondly.

Lanalath's palm shook as she brushed it past the woman's wound. The brand burned into was still festering, tissue death running deep. Anger festered deeper yet in Lanalath's heart, but she steadied her voice yet again. "And what of her body?"

The woman now narrowed her eyes, watching her curiously, leaning in, as if trying to perceive the truth hidden just before her. "Burned, like all who died. She had such beautiful curls, eyes of gold. Spitting image of her father, if anyone asked. Eyes were much like yours. The body was mangled, so many arrows went into it. "

Spit stuck in her throat as she pulled at the magic within, pressing her palm to the woman's wound, trying to maintain her composure.

"Elgar'nan's grief was short-lived, though, if there was any at all. A girl gave her life to him, only to be replaced before her body finished burning."

"Replaced?" Lanalath asked, moving her palm away, inspecting the wound again. Better. She would need to pick a new bandage, but she could not move until she heard the end of the story.

"Some golden-haired boy, one that followed her like a pup, took her place." The woman clicked her tongue, and irony felt heavy. "All those years finally paid, I suppose."

Inaean. Bastard. Lanalath stood up, suddenly, feeling heat in her cheeks. The burning spread until she felt flame igniting in her palm. She pushed it close to the chest, willing the power to die down, her back turned to the woman. "I'll just grab new bandages." She muttered before taking numb steps away. The agent Wolf talked to watched her, like a wounded animal walking to the tables where wrappings and poultices lay. The servant scribbled something down in his notes, then glanced back at her. A report to the Wolf, surely. Had the Wolf made a point to bring her in? Was this sick entertainment for him to read notes on her suffering? The room swayed for a moment, and all that Wolf told her now suddenly felt more real, despite the wrath bubbling just under the surface. He wouldn’t have cared for the inquintessential detail of Inaean.

How could it not be, if her own chambermaid just told it to her face?

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The Converged City was just a place. So was The Lighthouse. But as people reshape their surroundings, the environment changes them in turn. What once was a cage can become home if you just give time. Time was one commodity she could not run out of. And so the buildings she despised grew souls and held her dearly. Passage of days and years did not change a thing about her, not outwardly, at least.

Lanalath was a proud, stubborn woman. Biting and snarling like a dog that had never felt a loving hand. Grinning with her teeth like a predator. And shaking in her own irrelevancy like a bug. A daughter, a general, a bride, a captive. And who was she now?

A woman, standing on a precipice of? Fen'Harel turned to look at her, his eyes curious.

"You can come in," He gestured to the seat in front, as if the chair had been added for her.

She did not know what she chose the moment she offered assistance. It was clear that he wasn't certain of what he received either. So they continued stepping around each other, like two beasts unsure of who would strike or yield first. He did not trust her as much as she did not trust him, and thus the weird dance began. Getting worse after their mutual visit to the Converged City. At the end of the day, when he returned, she did not speak. He did not ask.

For weeks, they watched each other behind corners, slowing their stride as they passed each other in winding corridors, no words exchanged. It was months before she dared to make it a habit to wish him good morning. A year later, she wished him luck in battle. It was odd, yearning for victory against your own. But who was she now? He once asked her if her soul was conflicted now, and words failed her.

She knew where her heart lay, but her eyes and mind strayed. The prayer to All Father burnt her lips, so she abstained. Mornings with Sun looking down on her brought shame. She should have worshipped still, and yet. Betrayal was poison to the spirit of the most potent kind. Whenever she found herself calling All Father's name, all she could remember was Inaean leading her armies. The armour that adorned her now glinted proudly on his shape.

It must have been boredom that made her sit down in this instance. At least, that’s what she told herself. The habit of lying to oneself developed quickly in the Lighthouse. For a long while now, formalities were enough. A greeting, a farewell, a thank you. She did not want him to see her faith shaken, so she avoided him. Keeping her distance, she hoped, would keep the cracks forming unperceivable. But as he sat in the library, watching over some plans, her interest piqued.

"Where is Felassan?" She asked to appear as if she had a purpose in being there.

Wolf lifted his eyes, gently laying his hand down on the papers, pushing them ahead, as if opening himself to conversation. "Away, but I am certain you were aware of it.” Once again, his eyes found hers, pinning her in place.  “It's been long enough for us to forego games of this nature. You do not need to explain your purpose of being here. You can just be."

A nod was all she offered, taking a seat before him. Carefully drawn schematics, a dream of a mighty fortress lay before her. "Another sanctuary?"

"A refuge. People need walls. Safety. Skyhold could give it." He smirked, his eyes gliding through the plans masterfully drafted.

"Skyhold?" She glanced at the papers again before relaxing in the chair. Schematics of a stronghold were a language she could appreciate. The battlements, the towers. She knew the function, she knew the purpose of it. She knew how to build it and break it. Once, she might have ordered one just like this built. "Mountains, snow, stone—a fortress fit for songs and praises. But tell me…"

The idea caught him entertained, his attention shortly turned to her, but his eyes were unwilling to stick to her face, anywhere other than her eyes, facing away, only watching out of the corner of his eye. He did not say his allowances, just waited.

"Who builds this fortress of yours? Those you've taken from chains? How is that not more servitude? And don't tell me it's a choice."

His eyebrows raised, "It is for them."

"All of Elvhenan was theirs once."

"To see from a distance, perhaps? To touch? It was not theirs to be had. Only to marvel." He clicked his tongue, annoyed. "What would you know of its making? It was ages before you were conceived."

"Then tell me." She challenged him, and now he met her gaze, steadily. She saw how his lashes fluttered following the lines of Elgar’nan’s mark framing them. Something in him shifted, just for a blink, from annoyance to softness and back to sternness. A decisive look of a man who felt he knew better, scrutinising her resolve.

"Is it idle curiosity?" He asked, a careful prod. "Or have travels to Converged City stirred something within you that the prayers can no longer soothe?"

"Does it lighten a burden of shame to call it a choice, putting new shackles on those you freed, just because they outstretch their hands?" Anger bubbled, quickly, mixed with embarrassment of feeling his gaze on her so keenly, and it took her a lot to keep it from spilling over. Her rage was satisfied when his palm slapped against the table, jaw tense as he muttered.

"You don't know what you're speaking of."

For someone who claimed to wear his truths around his throat, he suddenly looked choked by them.

"Then tell me." She challenged, leaning closer over the table, making his chair release a whiny sound as he pushed back.

"I am not here to entertain your ignorance." His jaw twitched, his hand tapping slowly on the table, and his eyes shifted away.

"Call it ignorance, call it a whim, if you like, but entertain it."

"Felassan volunteered to entertain you. I may teach you, if you're willing to be taught."

"He made his way around that, too."

He glanced at her, his expression shifting, and then… He laughed. At first, she stared at him, bewildered. The sound startled her. Fen'Harel did not laugh. He was solemn, tortured, and lost in thought. Fen'Harel would smirk; sometimes it would even reach his eyes. She found herself staring, not at his maps, not at his plans, not looking for cracks in his mask of superiority. His laugh, that sharp sound, stirred something within her, close to liking.

 "Of course he did. Surprisingly, his charm did not affect you." He teased.

The thought of pushing him once more, just to hear the emotion again, was tempting. She did not let it pass easily, pulling at his smile. "It takes more than charm to touch me."

Only a light chuckle, lines under his eyes when his smile reached his eyes.

"Then I shall count myself fortunate you still sit here, despite my more obvious shortcomings."

Her fingers tapped the armrest, restless. One part wished she stood and left, and the other, one she could not explain, stayed seated. When his smile faded, she still watched him, the furrow in her brow relaxing. In the low candlelight, he looked older, wearier. The weight of the world on his shoulders, she, now part of it. He did not seem to mind. She did not either. Not in this instance. And that scared her.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The grunting and clattering from the yard was what drew her attention from the drawings once. Then twice. Another shout, and her palm slammed against wood in annoyance. How could she concentrate with the noise? She glanced at the library balcony, telling herself she did not have to make it known they were disturbing her. But then, laughter rang out, and she stepped away from the table, the shadows, and stepped into the evening sun. Another step, and she looked down. Fen'Harel stood, his back straightened, head cocked to the side, one foot on Felassan's chest, his staff pointed at his chin. She could not make out the words he said, but they could not have mattered much. A step back, and her back was flush to the wall, barely visible from the ground.

Curiosity, nothing more, she told herself. She heard whispers of the Wolf in battle, but had never witnessed it. All that she saw was the after, the bloodied face, hair caked with blood, blossoming bruises he would wipe away, straighten his back and leave for another fight morning come.

He stood, drenched in sunlight and sweat, wind in his hair, naked shoulders, glimmering in the sun, so wide, making her wonder how she had never noticed it through his robes, and she could not wrench her eyes away. But eyes found hers. Felassan looked at her, a grin that said he knew something she did not, growing, followed by a wink. Wolf stepped back, moving his staff away, offering Felassan a hand, as he told him something. Wolf's head turned, and she did not wait for Dread Wolf to look in her direction, but retreated into the library, her heart fluttering, foolishly.

With his hair molten copper in the golden light, the bare flesh and taut muscles, she once again forgot why she hated him. Such a blind feeling, misplaced, and she did not know who to blame.

Loneliness came in many forms. This, she thought, was the most dangerous.

Chapter Text

The pot was bubbling, the chopping of the knife and crackling of wood in the hearth the only sound filling out her lone evening. She did not mind it much, it seemed. He lingered in the doorway, pondering whether he should announce his presence or if she was already aware. He noticed how often she pretended not to feel him near, stubborn pride playing the upper hand.

 Solas walked into the common room, adjacent to the kitchen, seeing her back turned to him. He could have left; there were other places to spend the night. But he was weary, his bones aching and calling for his own dwelling. Many places were suited to house him, but only The Lighthouse felt like home. Even if it's curiosities, one of them being her.

His agents did their job well. As they were trained to be. It was not fair of him to pull strings of fate in such a way, but once Elgar'nan's servants arrived in the Converged City, those he intended to use for the yearly Solstice hunt as bait for Andruil's beasts, and one of them happened to be Lanalath's chamber maid, he had to play the piece given to him freely. The girl did not care much for those who served her. But her pride—her pride was something of a prey animal —easy to capture and wound.

He did not want to manipulate. He did not want to lie. But neither he nor Felassan could break through the gease Elgar'nan still held her under. A truth-wearing face of those who you thought respected you was the best cure for the soul, he believed. It's what kept pride contained.

Solas watched her, unmoving, wondering how long she would act as if she hadn't noticed his arrival. His patience was running thin after a long day, and he elected to take a first step. "How long will you make me stand here, Lanalath?"

"How long are you willing to stare at me… Solas?"

She caught him by surprise once more. A decade. It took a decade for her to muster his name. He blinked, slowly, stopping mid-step, his cheek twitching with a smile he tried to withhold. Next words had to be chosen carefully. But his mouth moved quicker than his mind.

"I wondered if I would ever hear you say it." Words left with ease, he did not expect nor thought of. His mind ran to adjust his tone. Just enough bite to hide how flustered he suddenly felt. "Thought you might choke on the sound."

She turned to him, knife still in hand, before glancing at it and putting it away. "A slip of a tongue, don't get used to it." Tone serious, but eyes inquisitive. Curious. Always, so curious. And still, avoiding him. He was getting weary of this game and worryingly eager to get to know her.

The pot still bubbled as they stood in the ambience of it, neither saying another word. "Won't you sit?" She finally offered, motioning at the chair.

Audacity. He had witnessed a lot of it come from her, and yet it never ceased to amuse him. "Last I remember, this is still my sanctum."

She did not respond, except for raised eyebrows and a scoff. He took her offering, collapsing into the chair, exhaling heavily as his body could not take much longer of keeping itself upright. The crackle of fire and aroma of herbs changed the ambience of the room. It felt more like home, as much as he did not like admitting it. His shoulders slackened against his efforts to keep his visage. He shifted in the chair once more, but his body was unwilling and beaten. She never faltered in her act of general. Even with her armour stripped, she still stood as if ready to give orders. Old habits clung like scars, but tonight even his had gone numb.

"You cook well." Words slipped again. He was well aware she wouldn't have known that he would indulge in meals she left stewing through the night, when Felassan was absent. Once again, his guard quivered before her. Was it not what Felassan warned him about when he pulled her from the woods? "Curious. Elgar'nan's sword hand cutting roots for broth."

"Was it not you who sent Felassan to teach me?" She turned once again, resting her back against the cooking table, hands folded against her chest. He trained his eyes to stay there, knowing the discomfort his gaze on her mark caused both of them. With the years, he got used to the sight of it, and she grew more aware of his observation. Now he looked beyond the mark, and despite the breathtaking beauty he saw, he recognised the sharpness of her eyes, the slight curve in her jaw. There was so little of Elgar’nan, and yet…

The mark did not bother him as much now. The grounds shifted and remained unstable. So he avoided, he made a point to look her in the eye or away.

"You still can't look me in the face." She noticed. Of course, she did. She stepped closer, leaning down, so her face came into view. "Is it me or him that disgusts you so?"

His fingers flexed on the armrest, as if the wood itself could anchor him. He let the silence stretch between them, her golden eyes burrowing into him.

"Neither," he said at last. Voice calm, but stretched thin. "It is what was carved into you by your own volition. You took it as an honour because your purpose was to always wear it. You never had a chance."

Her jaw tightened, lashes fluttering, as if something in her had been hit, but still she forced her chin up in something close to triumph. She still did not understand that it was not about the mark, but her. "So it is you. Always right in your convictions. Isn't pride unbecoming for you?"

He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, eyes finally dragging up to hers, as their faces came just a tad closer than what was comfortable. He found that they often skimmed that line, braver each time, like a gravitational pull of their argument begged them to clash. "You would know, Lanalath."

She turned away with a scoff, her hand lingering against the handle of the knife before getting back to work. The chair screeched against the wooden floor as he stood to leave. There was no use in ruining their evening further. It was better if she were angry with him, and he was frustrated with her. Understanding would only bring ruin.

"Don't be foolish." She murmured, without turning to look at him. "Stay for supper. You’re exhausted. What good is a general who can barely stand?”

His eyebrows shot up, glad she could not see the change in his expression. One evening could not change a thing. "Careful, it almost sounds as if you care for my victories."

"And what if I do, Sol—?" His name, only half formed on her tongue, felt quiet, and she glanced over her shoulder. In the firelight, her skin glowed, warm summer day, gold turned flesh. He soaked in the view, as if it was the first time seeing her, truly, seeing her.  "Would one marked by your enemy, cheering you on, be such shame?"

He lost his words, still dissolved into the visage of her profile, leaning over the table, watching her. "Your heart has changed." Words were slippery, unyielding, his will crumbling under something else, something he did not wish to feel.

"Perhaps I found a truthful man wearing the skin of a treacherous wolf."

For once in a decade, words failed him completely. And he knew his own trickery brought it on, but his tongue couldn't turn to confess. He could tell her that he took her to Converged City, and he lifted the speaking prohibition just so she would see his ways. His mouth opened and closed. The shadows of flames in the hearth danced across her curls.

Then the footsteps echoed just behind the door.

"Oh, Lana, my best pupil," Felassan said cheerfully, but Solas could not bear to wrench his eyes away from her. Her shoulders slackened as she turned with a smirk, nodding her greetings at Felassan, before glancing at Solas once more, holding his stare.

Perhaps Felassan was right. He should have listened all those years ago.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The supper was long forgotten by the time he ended up here. Weeks passed, and his duties hung heavily on his head, especially on a night like this.

He bit back his curses as the flesh stung and burned, heat coming from a wound, hard to shake or close. His mind could not sit still, trembling at the thoughts of horrors witnessed. They could not save them. Not a single one. Time and time again, he visited the village, begging them to see sense. First, it was animals that went missing, returning in contorted shapes, only to pass days or hours later. Sometimes it was hard to tell what animal it was first as well. Ghilan'nain, the gentle spirit he once thought he knew, changed. Her creations, too. Instead of grace and beauty, all he saw was terror.

Then a child went missing. And another. Still, villagers wouldn't heed his warnings. They lived on Andruil's land, hunted her prey, and for their bounty were rewarded. How could life such as that be any danger to them?

Then, they met him with spears and tirades. It was his wolves that took their children away, they said. It was he who brought disease upon their lands.

Any word of sense fell flat on their ears.

And then, the children returned. Changed. Animalistic. Rabid. Eyes reddened, mouths foaming. Villagers would not listen that it was the lover of their beloved goddess who warped their bodies. They gave all they had to gain Andruil's favour.

The last time he came, conscious eyes were looking back at him. But their bodies were not their own anymore. The village was no more. All he could hear was animalistic grunting from mouths that once spoke words. He did not fear getting his hands bloody, and still they shook as he lifted them to end their misery. It was then that they attacked him. Even monstrous beings had the instinct of survival. Only a beast could take such abominations down. And so, he turned. Unfurling from his skin to fur, his body breaking and reshaping until his howls of pain echoed as a wolf call, and his body shadowed the creatures at his feet. Some looked at him like frightened people, ones he warned. The ones who wouldn't listen. They ran, but he would not let them get away. Ghilan'nain could not have them. She took their personhood, and he would not let them be used further.

Only then, his naked, blood-covered shape collapsed at the edge of the woods, shivering from the cold that found him once he returned to his form, he wept. Red was all he could see, tasting copper in his mouth from where sharp fangs tore at tainted flesh. He did not remember how he passed the Eluvian, or how he made it to his room. He did not remember closing the door.

Because he did not, a blood-curdling realisation came too late.

She stood in the doorway, mouth agape.

Eyes wide, hand trembling. Anyone would have taken a step back. But instead, her face fell, changed by worry as she stepped into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft thud. Solas could not help but lean into himself, only a thin sheet across his lap hiding the terror of his state. She lingered, not daring to move, eyes darting around, taking in the carnage. And then, she moved, without a word, picking the cloth he fisted tightly without resistance, dipping it into water, painting it pink in the basin beside him. And when she leaned over him, all he could bear to say was "Don't." But she pushed his weakened wrist away, breath held just for a moment, before rag touched upon his skin, the chill of water against the skin made him flinch. Or was it her touch? He did not know. He leaned into it against his better judgment. Any judgment.

Her hand shook, and still she touched his shoulder lightly, pushing him back into the chair from the collapsed position, eyeing the mess made from his body. Hot breath caressed his flesh as her hand brushed the rag over and over again, shifting his arm to see the wounds. Were she touched, ants crawled under his skin, heat spreading. He could not help but watch the set in her brows as she tended to him.

In this moment, he could not see her father in her. All he could see was Lanalath. That thrilled him. No, frightened him. He could not allow the distance between them to dissolve, but she was here, and he was in her hands, and it was as if the world had tilted, everything shifting to the angle he had never seen before.

She would turn, wring out the rag, and repeat. Not a word spoken. In the darkness of his room, her golden eyes were the only thing he could focus on to stop himself from giving in to the tremors of shock that finally settled on him. She met his eyes, then glanced back at the rag in her hand, leaning back, as if only now she recognised her actions.

"Never saw myself caring for my captor." She meant to be bitter, he was sure. Then why did she sound sorrowful?

They looked at each other, and now the danger of the moment dawned on him. He should have moved. He should have bit back. He should have pushed her back. The warmth of her breath, the soft fingers against his tarnished body, the tenderness. It was all too much. Neither of them deserved it.  How could he allow himself to be weak in her arms? Anyone's, but hers? How could hands brought into being by his sworn enemy be ones salving him?

"Will you tell me what happened?" She asked gently, standing up, making her way to pick up the herbs he kept in the shelf, opening space between them.

With her away, he could breathe, but the pull was already there. He could feel the space she filled around him. He was a lonely man. Hurt, tired. It did not mean anything. It couldn’t have.

Down his chest, many of the gashes and punctures ran. It was foolishness to take them all alone, but he would not have this hanging like a noose over Felassan's consciousness. It was his burden to bear for their cause. The legend of Dread Wolf could not be seen as terror. He could not allow Felassan to falter in his words when spreading their message. Witnessing such horrors would change him. This war would leave no one untouched over time.

But why then, something within him wanted to share it all with her? Was it the idea of the promise that it would remain bound to the Crossroads with her? His weakness hidden away in her consciousness, halfed, his burden lightened?

"Would you believe me if I told you?" He murmured.

"At least this truth would not be staged to turn me." She said, turning to face him. Oh. He thought. She knew. He could've laughed. Naïve it was of him to think that she didn't see through his scheme. Just like him, she knew how to hold knowledge until it was convenient.

She returned, her hip resting at the table before him, and in the low light, he could see the mess of her curls flowing over her shoulders, the firm set in her brow. Despite the bite in her voice, she still reached for the gash on his chest, a deep drag of a claw. "You don't have to tell—" She talked slowly, voice low, as if talking to a startled animal. He must have looked like one, too. Was it softness she was giving him or pity? Did it matter?

"Ghilan'nain. I have warned them that she was coming. They would not listen." He collected himself, trying to keep his voice steady, but his efforts were failing. "The things she has done—their bodies… Their shrieks turned into the grunting of animals. No, beasts"

She did not say a thing, but her hand, resting against his skin, stilled.

"You know what the worst part was?" He inhaled shakily. "Their eyes. They knew what had been done to them. I failed them. They did not believe me and so—"

Her hand moved away, lying down in her lap, her eyes now trained on him. "They had to die."

"Yes."

Moment hung, her looking away, then turning back to him, observing his stature, his wounds, before drifting back to his face. Felassan once told him that she was watching like a curious feline, unsure if she wanted to close the distance. Now he thought that she wasn't the only one watching. And the distance was closed. Where would they go from here? His arm itched, as if wanting to reach, but he thought better of it.

It would be one too many weaknesses he could allow himself, a terrible distraction. So he remained unmoving.

When their eyes met once more, she sighed, "Ghilan'nain was always a whore for power. Must be close to getting her seat, though not sure what for if she will still worm around Andruil's feet."

Words caught him off guard so suddenly, he did not stop himself as laughter shook his shoulders, not a gentle chuckle, a cackle, making him lift his bruised hand to cover his mouth. “She wasn’t always like that.”

Glancing up, he saw her smile and the confusion set in deeper. Her smile faltered as she sat lost in thought, as if remembering that this was not where she was supposed to be. He straightened in his seat, the shame washing over him. It was better not to name what caused it, not to think of it, not again, and so he murmured, "You should go."

She did not argue.

Chapter Text

The wolf's bones were not hidden deep in the woods. They lay bare upon the grass, sun-bleached, scattered by scavengers. A once-mighty beast undone by hunger, by age, or by a beast like itself, unwilling to bow, teeth bared. Lanalath crouched beside the ruin of it, fingers brushing over what little of its fur still clung to the bones. Entire woods to die in stretched before her, but the wolf came into the sanctuary. Like calls to like, the saying went. Perhaps it came to die in peace, knowing its home, home of The Dread Wolf. No meat was left, somebody ripping the tissue clean off the bone.

The jagged line of its jaw. Even the greatest of beasts fell, she thought, a tale familiar, and for the first time that day her lips curved in something near a smile.

When she crossed the threshold of the Lighthouse, she carried it with her. Not as offering, not as insult, but as jest. Meant half to amuse herself, half to test him.

Solas was bent over a map, candlelight catching the hollows beneath his eyes. She let the jawbone clatter onto the table, scattering his carefully placed markers.

"A reminder," she said lightly, leaning on the edge of the table. "That even wolves meet their end. Thought you could use one."

He regarded it, then her, with that patient stillness she found most infuriating. At last, he lifted the bone in his hand, turning it once as if it were a precious rather than useless trinket, a mockery.

"A fair lesson," he murmured. A smile touched the corner of his mouth—tired, but real. "I will remember it."

That was all. He returned to his work as though she had not pierced the air between them, pushed at him. She left him then, unsettled by the ease with which he accepted her jest.

Only later, once he arrived back from one of his many days-long trips, did she notice the cord looped around his neck. The jawbone hung against his chest, stripped of rot and polished clean. Her mind travelled to the image of him, working the bone to this state. The care he put into it.

"You kept it?" she asked before she could stop herself.

"I did," he answered simply. His hand brushed the curve of bone, and his eyes met hers. "Because you were right. Wolves are not infallible. I often forget simple truths in the schemes of things. Better to carry it close than pretend otherwise."

There was no mockery in him, no sting. Just a quiet acknowledgement. And for the first time, her jest felt heavier than her anger. His earnestness dug deeper than his remarks. She could not remember the last time they had argued. It was so long, and the softness in his eyes became too familiar. Words failed, but perhaps it was for the better. She could stand in silence with him.

Chapter Text

Ordinary life grew onto her like a second skin, though she doubted if she ever could shed the original one. Armour and opulence were traded for robes that withered from years of wear to be exchanged for clothes of similar quality. She did not look apart from those who walked the Valley of Dread Wolf’s sanctuary. Years in the making, the Converged City outgrew its bounds, sprawling, overtaking new islands of the greater Fade.  The many new streets to get lost in, the landscapes she had never seen in her former life, the thing the people called snow, and even the dunes were not what drew her eye most.

The statues. Once she had seen destroyed or defaced back in Elvhenan, now many offerings lay at its feet. The shape of the Wolf, sitting or lying peacefully, sometimes howling without sound. People would pray for him. People would fear him. They would admire him and worship him. Never speaking his true name.

Once, she used Dread Wolf as an insult, and now a chorus of voices echoed it as the name of a saviour. They did not care for his insistence that he was no god. In their eyes, he was nothing except it. To them, only a god could defy the Evanuris. They did not care for reports of the casualties of his war. If many more came out alive, it was all that mattered. But the tides were changing, she could feel, from the long hours, lights would flicker up in the library.

The days he would not come back. His broken shape when he would collapse at the edge of his table, only to be patched up by her again. She did not know if the suffering made his lips loose, or if her care made her open to his words. Perhaps, it did not matter.

They would find themselves at the table, his stories of battles gone, failures survived, the terrors witnessed. She did not know why she came into his room again after the village incident. And again. And every night since. She was lonely, she told herself, with that inner voice quieting. Nights passed, and she could not hear it anymore. All she could hear was his shallow breathing as her fingers traversed the map of his scars, his words whispered.  She did not need an excuse to feel the way she did, except for the moments his eyes would drift to her mark again, and she was reminded of why it was wrong to feel so.

Lines in the sand had been dragged before she drew her first breath. She knew the story and then learned his tale. The promise made when Titans still walked the lands. The power, one that Evanuris held, was to go back to the people. Something in his eyes told her that he missed the naiveté he had in those days. The belief. She knew the feeling well, now. To be under the shadow of a great power and to believe it to be a shelter.

The spirits that dwelled in Converged City grew stronger. More willing. Those who joined Dread Wolf’s side soon set out for the fight. What started and continued for centuries as sabotage, more often than not became battles, both sides growing desperate. The more Solas freed, the tighter leash Evanuris pulled on the remaining people. And the Wolf, the fearless leader before crowds, sat with head in his palms, in private, weeping. He swore it was his hand that forced the atrocities Evanuris turned to, to keep the masses subdued. No word from Felassan or her could console his spirit. Still, he called for her, and she came. Not because she had nothing better to do, which was a lie she abandoned, but because care became larger than the shadows of anger still dwelling within her.

Each time she passed the statue of the Dread Wolf, she ached for the man behind the myth, face burning in shame, now unmasked, with Elgar’nan’s mark for all to see. When she looked at the sun setting on Wolf’s sanctuary, she turned her back, without thinking of her Father’s name, the prayer long silent.

Instead, she returned to the shadows of the Lighthouse and made her way into the Wolf’s den, where he waited for her already.

She did not pass the threshold, one foot still in the air, when she saw his silhouette shake. “The spirits.” He whispered, and she knew. Lanalath now could tell what Solas felt from the shadowed frame, from a single gesture, the barely audible crack in his voice.

He did not need to say.

The spirits he set out to recruit. Those he ushered to join him. Those who would rather linger in places long abandoned. They were no more. She did not know which, for she had not felt those emotions long. But once every living thing that sustained them went, spirits embodying those sensibilities perished too. Such a demise.

The Sun Tamer would burn anything from this world if it meant he would get to keep it in his grasp. Even if his hands were now full of ashes.

As one of his casualties, she knew ache too well. By now, it was a numb, dull feeling, an itch at the back of her mind, and an intrusive thought that slipped away far too easily. Was this how Elgar’nan’s Sword was finally reforged? Dulled not in fight, but by the stream of sacrifices he made to keep his obsolete power? The body of his general was buried among countless others; he deemed a good forfeit. And Solas resurrected her, a woman carrying the same name, but changed.

In the long nights, she bandaged his wounds and discussed battle strategies; never had he touched her back.

But when she found herself kneeling before him, trying to find his gaze, to see where it hurt, he reached. She did not move back. He did not narrow his eyes at the sight of her shame. And when his hand lay on her cheek, her mind conjured the image she saw painted on city walls. Dread Wolf was removing the shackles. The marks were fading from the faces of those who followed him. And for the first time, she wondered if she wasn’t now, truly, one of them.

Chapter Text

That day, a message from the warding sites arrived. Solas sent Felassan out to Andruil's lands to get a better grasp on what was going down there. Confirmation of many captives came rather quickly. It was unusual, even for Andruil. People were not there to serve the expected purposes: building, catering to the needs of her or her chosen, not even as bait for hunts. Many just stayed locked away for days, then groups would be moved. Each time the group was moved, a new warding site would rise, strengthening the walls of her domain. It did not matter much how much she warded, if his ears and eyes were already inside. It wasn't that frightened them.

The fact that none of the people came back did.

Revas, one of many of his agents, did not spare a word when handing him a note, just stepped back, bowing deeply, before walking backwards a few steps as if afraid to turn his back immediately on Fen'Harel. Solas did not bother reminding him of his non-divinity. It would not matter much, anyway. He could forbid them to worship, and still they would bend the knee. The displacement on his face must have been evident, since her words came soon after.

"People need to believe." She stood shoulder to shoulder with him, overlooking the city square. He was to head downstairs soon, for the line was already forming. Once word of his arrival spread, they would rush to his door, some barely capable of holding themselves up, yet still dragged their bodies to him. "Once you have grown to trust that there must be a god to look over you, you will always find one to do so."

"I am not a god." He whispered, glancing over his shoulder, down at her. She stood there, shoulders slack, face relaxed, just until she noticed him watching her. She shifted, letting the wild mess of curls drape over Elgar'nan's mark. His tongue ran faster than his manners. A far too common occurrence around her, he feared. Just as the need to stay close. He still didn’t dare tell her he did not care much for her mark. Now, he could not even see what made him weary all those years ago. He knew who she was, not who she used to be. The thick canopy of curls blocking the sight of her profile irritated him irrationally, fingers itching to move them away.  "And you are hiding."

" Deflecting won't change what has happened.” She shook her head, the note in her voice betraying a smile.  “God or not, they will heed you as one. You can either use it to your advantage or—"

Felassan had gotten into her head. He often spoke of Fen’Harel as a symbol.

"Advantage?" He scoffed, stepping back, before anyone had noticed him on the balcony. He did not need his presence to be followed by hollow prayers. Rebellion needed more fighters. They needed better reinforcements. And he knew she was right. He did not need to open Felassan's note to know that more sour news was coming. More bloodshed, more loss. Each victory carried a heavier cost. Lives. Many of them were praying to him now.

Lanalath was a general, still, somewhere deep within. The softened gaze and weapon exchanged for bandages did not dull her mind. She knew how followers came to be useful, for she led armies of them against him. She was right, and he was a coward, at times. "I've taken advantage enough."

"Isn't freedom worth it all?"

"You have forsaken yours." He reminded her, hoping she would falter, refute his words. They found each other agreeing more often than not these days.

"I found mine." She corrected him, turning to face him, hair slipping away from the mark, her features uncovered at last. "And I am here with a request. But first, you should read the letter. I am sure whatever got Felassan writing instead of coming here himself must be of great importance."

The crowd grew restless; they both could hear the clatter of people looming larger in the background. He would soon have to step out there, without Slow Arrow to accompany him. Speeches did not come easily to Dread Wolf. Posturing was easier to achieve when it was to be shared between the two.

But she was here. Perhaps it could be enough to put his mind at ease.

The study was a mess of paper strewn around, ink spilt, maps disorganised. Agents with assignments took off hours ago. He would not hear from most for days, from some, perhaps, never. It was the reality of their fight, but it still did not make it easier to hand out tasks that had only one possible outcome. Still, men and women came to him, offering whatever skill they had to aid the fight. And so he used, and used.

He opened the note.

The warding sites have been destroyed. Many have died, far more than their forces had inflicted on Andruil's. Instead of giving people up, they killed them en masse. Felassan, agents and the few they managed to rescue barely made it out before the news of Fen'Harel's agents trying to make an example of Andruil's servants by killing them was spread.

Solas slammed the note down, resting on his palms, pressed against the table, wood grain imprinting on his skin, breath stolen from his lungs. No. No. He breathed heavily, shoulders shaking. Felassan did not take more than a few sentences to foresee what would happen now.

"I know you're likely berating yourself reading this."

How could he not?

"Just remember the faces of the people we saved."

Many of those who awaited him were outside.

"We can't control what Evanuris does. And yes, we have to keep playing up the Dread Wolf. The people need someone they believe is strong enough to protect them."

Solas did not know how long he could keep being strong enough.

He exhaled. And breathed in again, letting his palms relax against the worn wood. He turned to face her, the head of curls still lit like a halo from the back, worry all over her face. Was she not one of the people he saved? "What is your request?" He did not need to tell her what happened. Lanalath learned to read him better than most, sometimes better than Felassan thought himself capable.

She did not move, held her chin high, in a way that would've amused him in another circumstance, the one in which his heart was not fracturing all over again. "I pray you remove my mark, and let me join your fight."

With note still circling his mind, and the whispers from the people below growing too large, too consuming, somehow her words made it all silent.  He blinked, slowly. Was this not what he wanted?

"Lanalath, you cannot leave the Crossroads."

"There are many ways to fight."

False strength wouldn’t have fooled her, so her spoke from the heart, letting his voice falter. "You do not know what you ask of me."

"Unbound me from his will. His Sword no more, I am my own woman.” She stepped closer, and he found himself waiting for her hand to rest on his arm. Ground him when all became too much.  “Free me, so I no longer see his shadow in reflections that follow my step."

Solas did not answer at once. His silence was rarely for the lack of words, and in this instance, he had too many of them. Most questions. His observations went on long enough for him to know this was coming. The way she watched him as he talked to refugees, at first, from a distance, but then it closed as time passed. How her constrained smiles grew into genuine grins, small talk with people turning into full-fledged conversations. A time came when either he or Felassan would have to linger, waiting for them to finish, so she would be taken back home. And in the many lines exchanged, one question haunted her over and over. "Why remove it?" A fragile question, more like a plea to find a reason not to do so.

And then the nights with bandages and whispers came between them, pulling the thread of fate he did not foresee tighter, against all sense. Her company was a solace. One, he was drawn to, one he promised himself to find distance from, and yet still collapsed into it more and more. Who had ever cared for him like she did in the years that had passed? Why was he fighting the only thing she asked of him in so long?

"You can join the line," He finally said, words leaving his mouth with uncertainty.

Was this him trying to delay the moment? Brittle wishes for her to change her mind while waiting for hours on end? Was this not what he hoped for when he decided to save her life? Would this not be a major hit to Elgar'nan's ego? To hear the rumour that not only his bygone daughter was still breathing and speaking, but that she had also bent her knee before Fen'Harel, renounced All Father's name? Prospects were great in his mind, and still, it did not ease his heart.

Because when she nodded shortly and made her way to the door, he wished she had stayed.

Perhaps, years ago, he dreamed of using her like this, pushing his own narrative. Now all he dreamed of was her.

And that—that was against any plan he had woven.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The door clicked shut softly, leaving him behind, amidst the scattered maps, ink-stained fingers and faint smell of desperation. He didn't need to say a word to know that the news were bad, perhaps, worse than usual. Outside the door, where she stopped, hallway walls pressed closely upon her, a weight of decision made. "Unbind me," Words still coated her tongue, echoing within her, and something shifted. The burn of shame that followed her turned into something more vicious, lashing, lacing pain, as if, by some forsaken grace, Elgar'nan knew. He buried her alive, and still, he knew when she said those treacherous words, his leash unable to pull from the distance.

People had warned her, told her tales of their gods whispering sweet nothings in their ears as they braved to leave with rebels. Many couldn't; fear was seeded in them so deeply.

Something did pull at her, whispered in her ears, but she found it to be her own conscience, asking why she left Solas alone. Why was she not still on the other side of the door? She had to move from this feeling, do what she promised. Join the line. One breath, two.

All she could hear was the clatter of weapons being prepared on the floor below, the shuffle of agents, the whispers, asking if Fen'Harel would join the people soon. Someone had to calm their spirits, so she straightened her back, pulled her chin up, ignoring the tightness curling around her ribs, strangling breath within her. If it were her Father, she would not bow now, when words had finally been said. Generals kept their promises, to whatever bitter end, he told her once. And so she would.

Her feet carried her forward, a step after step, until she landed between his men, looking over them. Well prepared for whatever mission he was to take them on. The chatter died down in her presence, as it would often do.

Many of his longest-serving soldiers knew who she was and were sworn to secrecy once it became apparent that she would remain between the rebels, instead of being shackled to the Lighthouse forever. None had said a word to her about it through the years, most exchanging short pleasantries as they passed each other on the streets or brushed shoulders in the market. Never had she gone out of her way to address them properly, and none treated her as she was — an enemy general. Solas told them she was just a woman, and as such, she was treated.

So when she now stood before them, eyes turning to her, expecting to see their commander and instead finding her, she did not know what came upon her.

"He will be with you shortly." She declared, before turning for the door, leaving, brisk steps, a door slammed.

Outside, the voices rose as soon as she stepped out and then suddenly lulled back to quiet when the ones waiting realised that it was not Dread Wolf that came out. So many faces, none that she could recognise. She heard news of Felassan sending refugees of Andruil's lands, and had no doubt his message to Solas was about them. The people looked tired, but none had visible injuries, or at least none that were unattended. She weaved through the bodies, to the back of the crowd, listening to their whispers. Most were scared.

Felassan's name circled their lips as reassurance that no evil could send a man like that. But none believed Fen'Harel to be good either. "Then why are you here, waiting for him to remove your marks?" She murmured, to no one in particular.

But a woman, no younger or older than her, but her back hunched from strenuous work already, glanced at her, but more so at her mark. "What choice do we have, pray tell? They learned to turn them against us. Our faith, our—The Slow Arrow said they were not gods, but mages. He might be right."

"But you fear Sol—The Wolf." Lanalath watched the woman curiously, waiting for a response, a familiar instinct in her, one to protect, awakened.

"He cannot be worse than them. We all know the tales. Even if it's running from the bear straight to the wolf, it cannot become any worse than it was."

"The tales about Wolf are wrong," Lanalath promised, trying to keep in the tone of a woman’s speech. Elvhenan's manners have long faded from her being, only a faint memory remaining. "He is but a man who wishes for freedom in a shackled world."

"You must know him personally, and still wear Elgar'nan's mark." The woman retorted.

"Not for long." Lanalath smiled and turned her head to see Solas leaving the building, and a mass of bodies moving towards him, hands outstretched, but bodies leaning in on themselves, cowering.

He said his greetings, sparing little words. He knew what people had come there for, and did not want to force them to wait any longer, or, more likely, felt a certain discomfort standing before them by his own. The formless crowd quickly straightened into a line, Lanalath taking her place as the last one standing. She waited for restlessness to grow, for doubt to dawn on her, but all of those senses were fleeting. A certain serenity had come instead, as if this was a tale years in the making coming to an end. She wondered if he felt so too, as only a few bodies separated them.

His hand on the face of the youngling, cradling the cheeks, as he murmured something to them, calming their spirits, just before the Fade answered his call and his palms filled with gentle light, engulfing Andruil's mark. The adolescent did not flinch; instead, they leaned into the touch, their eyes widening, face relaxing, losing the fear that held it tight. She had seen Solas heal many, speak to many more, his face and voice softening at the rare moment of gentleness he could allow himself.

This was one of them.

And she could not look away from him, once more.

Stuck in her place, she stood, watching him repeat the same cycle with one person after another, until he said goodbye to the last one.

"Lanalath," He breathed, as if surprised to see her, still waiting.

His hands hung free by his sides, a light shimmer still surrounding his fingers. Neither of them moved.

"You waited." He said, as if it was a surprise for him, focus etched into his features while freeing others exchanged for something softer.

"It seems you expected me to change my mind," She smiled at him, "Thinking of it, I might have waited longer than I myself knew."

The murmur of the people who were yet to fan out hushed, like a breath held between them. If she were romantic, she would have thought it was him giving them a moment's peace. If she listened to her heart, she would have known it was she who wanted to remember this moment like this. Maybe it was both.

His eyes searched hers, and in the searching she found something she could not name. Something she would not dare think of, for it was too fragile for her to dare hope to hold. Something he could not allow himself to give out freely, but he wanted. Or she wished that he did.

If he did not dare, she would, she thought, as she closed the distance, reaching. Her fingers wrapped in the straps of the necklace lying on his chest, she held the jawbone she gave him and asked again. "I was bound twice. And only one of those binds… can stay."

He softly shook his head. "Have you…"

"Just… Unbind me from him, Solas." She asked softly, and he did not speak back.

Instead, his palms came into view, in the little space there was left between, slowly moving to her face. Would she feel the tether to her Father snap, after being held taut for centuries? Would something in her crumble? As if sensing her doubt, Solas did not dare touch, his skin just close enough for her to feel the heat of his hands. She met his eye, realising that her fingers never let go of the string around his neck, and the suddenness of his touch, as he laid his fingers on her cheeks, was electrifying. He hadn't called for the Fade yet, but something in her stirred. It wasn’t the first time he had touched her, but in this very moment, it felt different, it felt new.

Like something that promised that nothing would be the same once the moment came to pass.

Light gathered beneath his fingertips, seeping into her skin, reaching for the lines that had been etched into her since girlhood. She waited. For burning, for agony, for Elgar'nan's wrath, anything, to reach her. But nothing, except the warmth came. Just the soothing touch of the Fade and his hands. His hands.

The ink unfurling silently, gently, as if words spilt across the page and then reclaimed, the light tingle following where his power touched upon her. His magic was unlike anything she had ever felt before; some could have called it pure, divine. Even as she felt it take away, the ghost of the weight the mark carried still touched her, as if a memory she would never be able to escape. It could be erased, but not forgotten. It was not absolution, it was an offer of a new beginning. One she took into her own hands, and then let him execute.

It happened slowly, seemingly forever, just the two of them standing there, yet suddenly, and all at once. Something in her snapped, she knew. But it did not hurt, not when it was he who undid it.

She knew tether was gone before she exhaled, before he leaned back to look at his work. Both of them knew it was done, yet neither moved. But the murmur of the crowd echoed, and she could see the shapes moving around them, as the light in his palms receded. Bare skin against bare skin, they stood, and the moment asked for remembrance. For something to tie it forever.

She reached for his face in turn, never letting go of her gift. "The world may remember you as Fen'Harel, but I—"

The crowd moved, for she was the last line. Centuries of being under her Father's watchful eye died in silence. No one screamed or cheered; nobody knew of Elgar'nan's buried daughter. The common folk never saw her from up close, now a woman who personally cared for refugees. For them, she was among them, one of them, and so this was just part of it. No one, except them, knew what had just happened, and she still clung to him. Only between them had Elgar'nan's daughter devoted herself to his greatest adversary.

His eyes drifted to where her palm pressed against his cheek, then back to her face, lingering just a touch too long on her lips.

"Careful. Too many eyes watching," He joked with a warning, leaning back, glancing at onlookers.

He chuckled, on unsteady feet, and only then her fingers unfurled from the jawbone against his chest, and her unnaturally lightened body dared to step back. If only he knew how close his jest landed. Maybe he did, by the way his cheeks flushed, as he cleared his throat. "You…" His eyes glazed over her face, and for once, there was nothing but softness in his expression. "Look beautiful, Lanalath."

Chapter Text

The lights flickered low when she entered his dwellings. Solas did not raise his head, only moving his hand to push an unruly strand of hair behind his ear, completely lost in his reading. Still, he murmured "Lanalath"

"Solas," She answered, softly closing the door behind her. He did not move much, robes pooling around his shoulders from where they slid off in his absent-minded state. He did not sleep much in the past days, or much at all lately, with more and more refugees joining the forces and new operations having to be set in motion. The first group set out to relocate many of the freed people to the Skyhold, now finally ready to house them.

She stepped closer, drawn by the usual mess of ink and parchment, maps laid open. Many of the notes scribbled with meticulous hand, new schemes to grow rebellion's reach sketched out carefully.

"You'll stretch yourself thin," She warned quietly.

"Would you prefer I sleep while others march without guidance?" His tone was dry, but the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying the weariness beneath it, his palm coming up to rub his temple thoughtlessly.

She looked over the maps once, then twice. "These passages were always too narrow for bigger forces. If Elgar'nan had grown half as much brain as his self-importance, he would have made them unusable by now."

She walked around the table, leaning next to him, fingers tracing the lines he had drawn. "He would not risk it with you having his general in your midst. If you send them through here, they will get stuck, or worse, cornered."

That captured his attention. The chair screeched against the floor in a sudden move, and he stood behind her, leaning forward, over her shoulder, body pressed tight as his eyes followed her finger on the plan, breath hot against the dip of her collarbone. "Show it again." He murmured, not moving an inch, as if closeness did not scare him, unlike her. She froze under the heat of his skin pressed against her back, thin fabric barely a barrier.

Still, she reached across the paper again, but her mind reeled and her body lost itself between the desire to turn into his arms and her stubbornness to prove his strategy flawed.

So instead of moving, she talked, her finger planted firmly at the passage she spoke of. Breath was her betrayer, too shallow, as if afraid to press against him. His warmth was a distraction too grand, making her stumble on the words. It's been too long since she felt another like this, and she had to remind herself it was all it was. It had to be. Even if now he would offer her a hand or join her in training, limbs clashing more often. Even if he was not shy to stand this close. It was like some door they left ajar, ever since her mark went, and neither pressed a threshold. She felt stuck on it once more.  A little insistent voice in her head tried to offer her an alternative, but before she could move, dare to brush against his hand resting close by, he leaned back, stepping around the table.

"We'll divert them through here, then," He tapped a safer passage on the map, voice back to awake, commanding. "I'll pass this to Felassan, thank you."

The moment was gone as soon as it happened. Solas, despite his dishevelled state, was standing like a general once more. The eyes betrayed them both, a knowledge of something they both felt, over and over again,  but neither could voice. Instead, she wished him a restful night before leaving with hurried steps, the cold of the night biting at the skin his breath touched.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The drums made the atmosphere vibrate, the bonfire smoke curling into their eyes, a gentle breeze carrying it away, as the people circled it, laughter and dance, strings harmonising, and cheers being shared. Felassan had lured them, promising a war council, and then thrown them into a celebration, one that looked out of place in the midst of war. Footsoldiers came back, most of them, few injured, but all glad to make it another day. So glad, wine flowed freely.

"Felassan," Solas said, his voice flat, tone already curdling into warning.

The Slow Arrow strolled up with a grin far too wide to be innocent, a mug of something foaming in one hand. "You didn't think I'd let the people starve on solemn speeches and war plans, did you?" he asked cheerfully. "They need this. We all do. Even you, Solas."

"This is not—"

Felassan thrust the mug into Solas' hand before he could finish. "—optional."

Lanalath bit back a smile. The great Dread Wolf, cornered by his own advisor and a crowd too busy cheering to notice his disapproval.

Solas glared at the mug, then at Felassan. Even in his armour, he could not hide the weariness bending his shoulders; the firelight caught the shadows beneath his eyes. He looked more like a weary man than a legend, standing there robbed of command by a song, unsure of his standing in a crowd of happy faces.

"Come," Felassan said, with mock gallantry, offering his other arm to Lanalath. "If he won't dance, at least you will."

Before she could refuse, Solas' hand closed around her wrist. His grip was firm, too swift to be planned. "You should not—" He stopped, realising how tightly he held her. His gaze flicked down, then away. "…some might mistake your intentions, Felassan."

"Intentions?" Lanalath arched a brow. "I'm sure Fel only has the purest ones."

Felassan laughed, glancing at Solas before retreating a step. "Well then… Then you'll both dance. No one would question Fen'Harel's intentions." He pretended to think for a moment. “Well, perhaps, just a smidge.”

The crowd shifted with the music, pairs spinning into the open space. Solas hesitated, still clutching her wrist as though letting go would cost him something, and, choosing not to, a mug pressed tightly in his other palm.

She tilted her head. "Well? Or shall we stand here sulking, hoping it will pass, or shall we join?"

Something in his eyes — irritation, maybe, perhaps, shame, or something far less easily named. Then, slowly, he pushed the mug back at Felassan, who did not need to be told twice to take it and go on his merry way. Then, his fingers found hers, shy at first, then his hold tightened, and he led her into the throng.

The first steps were stiff. His hand hovered at her waist, and her palm rested too lightly against his shoulder. But the rhythm pulled at them, dragged them into its sway. She stumbled once, laughing despite herself. His grip steadied her, fingers tightening around her waist just enough to make her breath hitch.

Around them, the rebels cheered louder, some even clapping to keep time. Few mouthed his title, surprised to see their saviour join the festivities. With a woman in his hands, no less. A woman, they knew. Whispers soon would be traded between the masses.

For one fleeting moment, she let herself forget the weight of titles, of gods, of war, of wounds that waited to be healed. They were only two figures turning in the firelight that she thought of, faces too close, steps falling into the same rhythm. All else faded. And then, as the song drew to its end, he smiled, leaning in, murmuring, "How's this for a Dread Wolf?"

"A little stiff," She teased lightly, stealing a laugh from him.

"Just trying to match you." When he smirked, she wished a moment would stop, and morning would not come.

Many of those moments she would have, right until she found her head resting against his shoulder as dawn came up on them, wine skins empty, fire settled into coals, and revellers retired to sleep. They lost sight of Slow Arrow hours ago, and neither mentioned his absence. They just let themselves and the moment be.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When morning chased them back to the Lighthouse, he told himself he would walk her to her door, clumsy hands bumping against each other, but never truly touching, her body swaying, always closer to him in their step. He told himself through the haze of spirits and light headiness that what he felt was all the high of the celebration, and not entirely induced by her. It couldn't have been.

It's been so long. It's been so long since they shared meals and late-night talks. She touched him in a training struggle and mending his wounds, her hands would graze his skin unthinkingly, lightly. Never had he paid it much thought until he took her hand in dance, and did not want it to end.

The night was over, but the emotion remained, despite his better senses.

As she stood in the doorway, hair a wild mess, still full of flower petals caught in the curls, he wanted to touch it. Touch her. Upon first seeing her, Felassan warned him of his heart. He did not listen. He should have. He thought he did, when for years it only carried withheld curiosity. The moment it shifted was hidden even from himself. It was far away, just an idea he could not allow himself to entertain.

His duty must come above anything, he told himself. Solas did not notice how he forgot her origin, how now, all he could see was Lanalath, not the daughter of Elgar'nan. Not someone he should have feared. Not someone who could still betray him, someone who, if given a chance, could find a way to destroy him. Undo the myth of Fen'Harel, doom his rebellion. He did not know how she would achieve it, but he believed she could, if she set her mind to it. He gave her all his cards, against all logic.

Alas, it did not matter.

Credulous it was for him to aim to hold her, self-sabotage to yearn for closeness, and he was a fool, a weak-hearted fool.

The innocent idea grew teeth. It was a need gnawing at his gut whenever she pulled him close. Her eyes asked him something, and all he wanted to say was yes.

And she stood in the doorway, golden eyes gazing at him with more softness than he could handle. His hand reached for her, as if summoned, tempted, drawn to the tan skin and freckles splayed over it. She gifted him a smile, one of many, but this one felt different. Like a calling. Invitation. He leaned against the doorway, and she did not move. She should have wished him goodnight and closed the door. But she didn't, and his cheeks warmed under her observing eye, and something inside him begged him to do something he would regret.

She moved an inch. An inch too much, her fingers brushing against the leather of his sleeve, as his rest against her cheek. "Lanalath…" He said, unsure of what words or actions should come next.

Ever since he left his old life, he could not allow himself to want for anything other than the safety of his people and victories. For Evanuris to fall. For freedom. All of that suddenly sounded banal, overused, worn, chafing against his body, wearing him down. Those were concepts, and she was here, real. And her eyes, the eyes of her father, for this fleeting moment, were one thing that mattered.

And it was wrong.

"Goodnight," He said, letting his hand fall, taking a step back, instead of the step forward, the one he nearly leaned into. Her answer went unheard, as he hurried his steps, hoping distance would drown out the feeling. He had duties to attend to in hours to come; he had entertainment enough. They did not need to sour their coexistence with complications. He was just… The excuses were running out, and seemingly, time too. Their lips did not touch, but he felt stained in a way that would never expunge.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The sharp notes filled the halls of the Lighthouse, dancing off the walls, making the few wisps that often visited the grounds gather, slip through the solids, and float closer to the source. She followed the lively spirits, all of them slipping into the same room, one she visited rarely. Late evening sun seeped through the tall windows, painting everything, including him, gold. Trained hands for once stained not with inks, but with paint, he sat on the floor, a brush stuck behind his ear, some of the paint dried now and flaking off his hair that burned in the dusk with amber shades. Lilac eyes bright with wonder, finally rested after the years spent in deprivation.

She did not think of wars, generals or rebels when she looked at him. All was well, and so was he. He was not where he was supposed to be yet, but Evanuris were scrambling, and rebellion could feel the tide change. For the better, for once.

And so, he was home more and more.

The mornings spent with hushed voices over mugs of herbal tea were now a habit. The quiet that Felassan's departure to live closer to the rebels once left has faded with their talks. Solas offered her to follow in Felassan's steps. She could never leave the Crossroads, but the Crossroads had become a world of its own. In Dread Wolf's domain, she did not have to stay. But she chose to. She would only leave for infirmaries or help with passing intelligence between agents and Solas, always coming back to their sanctuary. He never commented on it again, a pact silently signed.

No words needed to be exchanged when she entered, watching invisible fingers run over the keys of the instrument, enchanted to play a song he had written. The back wall of the music room was a mess of colours, an image she could not yet make out, and did not know if it mattered. She settled on the ground beside him, shoulders brushing. Neither adjusted their position, now comfortable with the distance erased,  just the two of them and his vision before them, warmth between them.

"Solas," She drew him back from his thoughts, making him turn his head, the paintbrush now hanging off his ear haphazardly. She pulled it away before it could fall and stain the floor, the little floor space between their hands, and he looked so beautiful, her breath hitched.

She had thought of it in increasing frequency these days, when she would find him alone and in rare moments of peace. The deep end she had fallen into came over her like a wave. From glances to late nights, his blood under her fingernails, his hand on her waist. Always toeing the line, never stepping over it. What did it matter who they were when she collapsed into his world? In the now, only this mattered. The shared silence, a look, a touch.

"Lana—?" He mouthed, and before he could think on it, or she would find a way to dissuade herself, her palm found his cheek, brushing the hair away, paint sticking to her palm, as she leaned closer in. She could almost taste her name upon his hesitant lips. The music drowning out their shared breath wined a discordant note. He stilled under her touch, just enough to keep her guessing, a light shake of his head just before he closed the distance. Their titles shed at the touch of their lips, that burned hotter than she could've foreseen. His breath still vaguely tasted of the tea they shared that morning. As her lids pressed close to feel him, the mess of colours on the wall suddenly made sense; the six-eyed wolf looming over them was not a threat anymore. The wolf was a man. The man whom, despite all forces between them, she loved.

Chapter Text

The change wasn’t sudden. Whispers grew at an aching pace, especially when fewer and fewer newcomers came. Everyone knew it wasn’t due to the failure of Wolf’s forces; it was the simple truth of finding death where they expected to find life. Evanuris would rather let their servants hang in the forests, bodies swaying to the low hum of the storm coming than allow them to be taken by Fen’Harel. The intel rebellion would get turned less and less reliable, when even the most feverish followers of the Gods started to vanish, and all talk turned to one of them.

Ghilan’nain was soon to ascend to the ranks of Evanuris.

She had been granted her own lands, separate from those of Andruil’s, a sprawling maze of buildings in a faraway corner of the empire. No one said the quiet part aloud, for all knew what it meant. Creator of Halla, one whose ingenuity gained the attention of the gods, was given a task. And all she did was create. Solas feared what her new creation might have been, and made it his personal mission to uncover it.

That morning, he kissed her temple in the dark hall to the war room, the loose shirts of the Lighthouse exchanged into the strict leathers and plates of the armour again. “It will not take long,” He promised, squeezing her fingers, his brow tensed, in a way that promised nothing good.

She followed him into the council, standing beside him as he retold the agents the plan they had built last night. Without ever seeing Ghilan’nain’s lands herself, she had to rely on the accuracy of his scouts and mapmakers to avoid being mistaken. They had already sent the first people out there, and if all went well, Ghilan’nain’s guards would have them already jailed inside. If Wolf’s scheme went right, they would have a key to reach the innards of the fortress by the time he and the people surrounding the table arrived.

"Tarasahl is a good agent. Aware that failure is not an option. If we are to find out what Evanuris had planned and to curb it, she will wait with the keys to Ghilan’nain’s room in her hand.”

No one argued. No one dared to. The uptick in deaths during missions scared them enough to agree, because the only battles everyone walked out of were led by Wolf, and so, by extension, in their eyes, it must have been his divinity guiding them to victory. No one bothered to ask the man behind the myth about the doubts that ran through his mind the whole morning, in every hesitant step he took to reach this meeting.

“You should kill her before she ascends,” Lanalath said as soon as people dispersed, leaving the Dread Wolf and his newest general alone. She knew of murmurs that Dread Wolf had gotten soft, letting someone who never joined the field command his forces, help him draw up his plans. A woman he took for a dance once, and then no one saw them separate since. The elder rebels turned their backs, refusing to follow the word of someone who kissed the ring of Elgar’nan’s. Solas only smiled at the face of such whispers, saying that they did not have a choice in this matter, as always turning his words in a way that the shame of stupor flared in the eyes of his warriors, and they seized their tongues.

“If there is one of the pantheon who has a shred of heart, that would be Ghilan’nain.” Solas said, “She once was the kindest of them, long before your time.”

“You can’t possibly believe you can change her mind.”

“She was my friend, once. I have to try.”

Words he said would soon turn into foolish nonsense, wistful wishes and self-betrayal. Whatever hopes he had before entering Ghilan’nain’s domain were quickly shattered, as Lanalath learned, reading the reports. Tarasahl succeeded in getting the Wolf inside the fortress, but besides her, only one other agent remained standing. His descent into her labs was told in visceral detail, written down by a shaking hand, parchment crumpled and stained both by tears and ink, his fingerprints marring the words.

Where he expected the grotesque but nearly familiar torture of elven slaves, he instead found macabre mockery of all that was natural. The walls were overtaken by monstrous growths of rotten tendrils spreading, reaching for anything that had a heartbeat, their blackened veins pulsing in response to every movement near them. As if the taint was aware, sensitive, ready, to latch onto anything that dared to touch it. Finding corpses in such circumstances would have been a relief. Instead, he discovered Ghilan’nain’s test subjects contorting and twitching, whites of their eyes painted red, webbing of blood vessels under their skin painted pitch dark, pungent with decay that spread through their manipulated bodies. He was given little choice but to bury the hope of saving anyone, and instead, he sent Tarasahl ahead alone, staying alone with warped bodies.

Brave, cunning, Tarasahl. One who would crack one joke after another in barracks. One that every child in Converged City knew for she would always make time to play with them.

He walked out bloodied and shaking, trembling breaths hitching in his throat. It wasn’t the words he used in the report, but she could see the stains on his leathers and fingers, the blackened blood stuck in his hair, leaving a clear imprint on where he touched it to move away from his face. In the report, he left the lab alone, having given mercy of death to malformed slaves, only to find no one waiting for him behind the doors.

Screams followed soon after.

Tarasahl was begging for Wolf’s help. He made his way through the corruption, encountering stranger and stranger forms of it. The taint followed him, tendrils reaching to touch him, as if the Fade within him called them to him.

He found her. Wounded and wailing, left to die on the ground. He saw the corruption already running through her veins, face contorted in pain, voice breaking as she answered in whispers he could not hear.

Ghilan’nain looked over the struggle of his agent, boasting of her greatest creation.

“She did not create it,” Solas murmured, collapsed in the chair beside Lanalath, as she continued reading the events that followed. They were to soon leave for Tarasahl’s funeral. Bringing bodies of those fallen was the least Solas could do, but that did not even touch upon the rawness of the wound things he had witnessed ripped into him. The light in his eyes she found so often was extinguished, his limbs still shaking, now that he did not have to hold the appearance of being in control. Felassan did not say a word, just stared through the window.

“What is it?” Lanalath asked, curious as to why Solas did not even try to heal Tarasahl.

He did not answer, just looked at her, face resting against his fist, thumb against his lips, teeth sunken into skin, as if pain could distract him, numb him. Solas wasn’t all there, and she waited for him to get back from the memory he was lost in.

He shifted in his seat. Once. Twice. Hands in his lap, hands on his face. Deep breaths to barely any.

“My deepest regret. My worst crime.” He said finally, fingers pressed against his temples, as if whatever memories he was experiencing brought him pain.

“What did you do?”

He finally looked up at her. “The blame is to be shared.” He shook his head, his voice lowered. “How much do you know about what happened to Titans?”

“They wanted our people destroyed, and Evanuris banished them, bringing peace and prosperity.” She said, before thinking on it, the words that were drilled into every young soul of Elvhenan.

He sighed, throwing his head back against the backrest of the chair, eyes locked on the ceiling, voice brittle. “We were losing.” He swallowed hard. “I told them, her, that it was madness what we were to do. That it would haunt us and destroy us.” His lashes fluttered. Solas rarely spoke of the days he himself was a general for Evanuris. The days before rebellion. “But it was the only way to win the war.”

“What did you do?”

Solas closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling sharply. Felassan turned towards them, but his eyes told her that he already knew. He was looking at her before the shoe dropped.

“Created a weapon. One that could— one that… Sundered them from the Fade.” Solas’ breath hitched, his fingers clutching the armrest of the chair he sat on. “We took their dreams. Drove the Titans mad. Their madness became the Blight.”

“The Blight?”

“The taint that will ruin us all.” Felassan finally commented.

“Why would you—“ She couldn’t understand how something like this could be out there, and it was her first time hearing of it.

“We hid it away.” Solas said,  “So it wouldn’t corrupt anyone. So no one would abuse its’ power.”

“But Ghilan’nain—“

“Yes.”

The three of them remained in the quiet for a suffocating moment too long. Did it matter that he helped create it? They hid it away. It wasn’t his fault Evanuris couldn’t stay away, couldn’t withstand the lure of power. She had to believe it was not his fault. What else was there to do?

“They would use it to subdue our people,” Solas said. “Ghilan’nain is to ascend tonight, and we’re already too late.”

“Not unless—“ Felassan’s gaze shifted to Solas quickly, as if a thought came over him. 

“A messenger is en route already.” Solas straightened out, but his eyes were unfocused as he looked ahead. “If response comes, if she—it might be our only fighting chance.”

Lanalath felt thrown into a conversation that was passing her by, the gears of the plan she did not know already turning. “Who are we talking about —“

“Mythal,” Both men said, Felassan’s hand instinctively touching upon his mark, as if it burned to speak her name.

The day that started with his lips against her skin ended with All Mother’s name on them. In the morning, she feared the storm coming, but it was futile emotion for they were already in the eye of it.

Chapter Text

That morning, he did not hurry to wake. As if he knew that once his foot left the bounds of their bed, nothing would ever be the same. Her fingers lost in his locks, foreheads pressed, he did not say a word, but sadness was evident in their hearts. The bath could not get all the blight out; the remnants of it still stuck to her fingers as they brushed past his hair, much like paint the day their lips first touched. It seemed forever ago now.

The messenger came back in the early morning hours with a promise of a visit. Mythal would meet him on the edge of his woods, the line between the dark and light, a sliver of a stream between them, as if the lands themselves had drawn the inescapable border between him and the rest of Elvhenan. And the mother of their people would come to see her, once most devoted general, her former slave and the daughter she had never wanted.

Felassan begrudgedly accepted the idea of him having to join, and Lanalath had to bend Solas’ will to allow her to follow them.

Now the early sun streamed through the windows, kissing his face, and the quiet peace they lay in felt too brittle. Too short-lived. Something told her she had to savour the moment, her gut twisted in knots, ideas of what’s to come plaguing her mind.

“Mythal must understand the danger.” Solas opened his eyes, narrowly, avoiding the rays that fondled his freckled face. He raised his hand, reaching for her, pulling closer, bare skin against bare skin.

“Ghilan’nain did that under her watch.” Lanalath reminded him.

He shook his head lightly, pulling her closer yet, as if trying to hide his face by burying her between his arms. “There must be an explanation.”

Felassan once told her it must have been love or naiveté that still bound Dread Wolf to the All Mother. Now Lanalath felt like she knew the answer, when the world was threatened, and his belief in the one woman he once called God never wavered. He once told her how long it would’ve been since Elvhenan’s fall if not for Mythal, always trying to save her people, raising above voices who treasured power more. If there was anyone Evanuris would bend knee for, it would be Mythal, he believed.

But Solas haven’t seen the Evanuris in ages. Haven’t lived with them. All he had were reports.

The Evanuris of now would not bend the knee.

“Solas—“

“Lana,” He breathed. “Without her, we have already lost.”

She had to let him believe. And she had to believe in him.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“I was not certain you would come,” Solas said, despite the confirmation message.

It was an ordinary day, a beautiful day. The sun above them promised many such days to come. But the sun did not know what those living under her were capable of.

"You are the ones who walked away." Mythal was void of emotion, standing tall in her darkened dress and furs, unfit for the environment to which she came. She looked at Felassan, who turned his gaze, then at Lanalath, her eyes narrowing, examining a face that now bore no mark at all.  "I never turn my back when my friend needs me."

Lanalath’s eyes traced every movement in Solas’ face, the flutter of his lashes upon the word friend. He stood straight, as if afraid to fall apart at one wrong gust of wind. Barely had he slept between the message and now, horrors of Ghilan’nain’s lab still flashing in his mind, she was painfully sure of it. 

“The Evanuris seek the magic of the Blight.” He said, muscle in his jaw twitching in place, brows furrowed, watching Mythal with steely eyes.

Mythal did not miss a beat, even if her face fell for a blink. “Impossible.” She shifted in her stance, fixing the shawl slipping from her shoulder. “The Blight is safely sealed away forever.”

“He had seen it,” Lanalath said, despite promising to keep her tongue tied. His eyes closed slowly, eyebrow raising.  A low exhale, as he collected himself.

“She speaks truth,” Solas said, glancing at Lanalath, wrinkle in his forehead straightening. He would’ve lost it to the frustration of her disregarding the rules they set, but the cost of Mythal not listening to his words now was too high.  “I have witnessed it. I have felt the breaking of the wards.”

Mythal looked over the three of them again. Her expression shifted from annoyance, to anger, to disbelief, as if she was feeling the Fade for something and realising the truth of what had happened under her watch. “I will investigate your claims.” She finally said, her voice clipped. Glancing over her shoulder, as if a presence haunted her, she said, "If they forget the danger of the Blight, I will endeavour to remind them."

“She’s afraid,” Lanalath said barely above a whisper, words just for Solas to hear. Mythal was above fear; she was something to fear. The dread from the past hours finally seeped into Lanalath’s bones; every moment savoured now soured by the thought of what was out there, the sickness that made even the great All Mother stumble over her words. She kept the court manner, kept her head high, but Lanalath knew.

 “I am aware.” He said, his gaze never straying from Mythal.

It would be a mistake to let her go alone. Mythal had a choice to make, and Lanalath was not sure if in the end Mythal would keep her promise if there was no one to witness her complete. She lost control of Elgar’nan long ago, and now, perhaps, only duty could bind her. “Allow me to follow her.”

Now, his head turned, attention all on Lanalath.

“You cannot—“

Felassan stepped closer. “Lana—“

“She is the only voice of reason in that court,” Lanalath said, keeping her reasons for herself. Her mistrust of Mythal would only hinder her chances of following her back to Elvhenan. Someone had to be there to witness Mythal keeping her word to Solas.  “You had broken the rules the first time I bled on your grounds. If Mythal is afraid, there soon might be no lands to be had, once blight takes it all.”

“What you are asking for—“ Solas shook his head.

“Betray spirits once more, force them to let me leave.” She pushed again. “I will keep her safe.” She glanced at Mythal.

“Must I stand here, listening to your petty squabbling?” Mythal said, annoyed. “I do not need an escort.”

“Solas,” Lanalath started again, before he could spiral into doubts, her hand squeezing his forearm, turning him to look at her. “I will come back to you.”

He snapped from his thoughts, something in him shifting, something akin to pain crossing his face. “Once you are in the palace, you can use Eluvian to quickly escape back to the Lighthouse. Just say these words—“

He leaned, whispering into her ear, one hand gently cupping the nape of her neck, before he shifted, looking her straight in the eye. “Do not betray me, Lanalath. Keep her safe.”

He asked her to guard the one who would end both Elvhenan and Crossroads with one wrong step. And Lanalath would keep her safe, for his sake.

She held his stare, and once again the world melted away, stripping everything other than them away. Something in her told her this was the last time gold would look back at lilac, and a jarring pain went through her heart, the one that told her that all was about to change. Words stuck in her throat. He was letting her go with the keys to destroy his rebellion. She made a promise deep within her heart to die before giving it away. “Solas, I—“

His eyes softened, as if he did not want to let her go in anger, their foreheads touching once more, her fingers finding the jawbone on his chest, holding onto it until it stung her palm. “You can tell me once you are back.”

Ambience shifted, and she heard it again. The call. The Woods stretching through the horizon behind them called her one more time. She begged it to be the last. Over Solas' shoulder, she could see the Branch, one path to the Lighthouse, one to the Converged City. The only home she has ever known, one she must protect.  Felassan did not bear to look at her, as if one look would break a spell of a temporary goodbye.

Chapter Text

“Foolish child,” Mythal seethed as they walked the road from Dread Wolf’s forest, the same way her Halla stomped on all those years ago. She could almost hear the leather of the reins creaking in her empty palms. The same path that she saw as a road to ruin. Ruin, that became her salvation. “You should have remained with him. I require no protection.”

“I know.” Lanalath did not argue, but could not force herself to speak in a court manner anymore, either. “It is not as if I could do anything if Evanuris decided upon killing you.”

Mythal’s eyebrows furrowed, but her body did not shift. She walked, her head held high, looking straight ahead. Lanalath was sure that if she weren’t present, Mythal would have abandoned this fragile form minutes ago and travelled back to the Golden City on the blaze of her red dragon wings. The accusation she was bringing before her fellow gods was heavy, heavier than a crown on her brow, and she would not waste her time with timid performance of showing up on foot.

“You had escaped,” Mythal said, quieter now. “He needs you more.”

“You hadn’t known him for years.”

“Do not lessen our connection, girl.” Now, Mythal looked at her. “I had known him before he had a body, and I would still know him if he lost it.”

“Yet you betrayed him.”

“I chose our people.”

“No,” Lanalath shook her head, “He did.”

She hadn’t seen the blue spires of the Golden City in what seemed like forever, and expected something, anything in her, to feel all those years lost. But she could not. All she could now think about when looking at them was the rot beyond the beauty. Even if it still smelled like her childhood, scraped knees and fighting lessons, her first armour. The disease of the rule of Evanuris, ruling place she once called her own, its roots taking so deep, it was unclear if it could ever be uprooted.

The armour she wore felt suffocating, unlike the simple clothes her body was now used to. Constricting, moves odd, body lost between the way she now moved and the way she was expected to when walking amongst people of Elvhenan. As if days in The Lighthouse and Crossroads had chipped away at all that she was and little by little replaced it with new parts, ones that were not made to function here. She truly wasn’t Elgar’nan’s sword anymore, and now she had to force her body back into the shape of one, move like one, and it felt like the oddest form of torture. They did not go through the main gates, taking a path less travelled around the city walls, to the entrance only Mythal knew of.

One, which led to her chambers, of all places.

“If you’re not to be killed on sight, you need to redress,” Mythal said, glancing over her shoulder before ushering Lanalath inside and shutting the door.

She knew what her brass armour spoke of. She was not naïve like that. Worn cape and hood that hid her curls, leather detailing that only rebels wore. It must have been one of the many reasons Mythal allowed her to see her hidden entrance, why she checked and checked over her shoulder to see if anyone followed. As if it would’ve mattered. Elgar’nan knew of all ways in and out, had eyes in every wall. Memories of the palace were now flooding back, and Lanalath started doubting her decision to come back. But Mythal’s eyes pressed against her, and her armour, and she could not allow doubt to show cracks in her composure.

Lanalath did not miss gold. The cage to lock her body in to be presented to Elgar’nan. Gold would not fix her obvious flaw, her mark, erased from her face.

Mythal did not waste minutes, inviting one of her guards into the room and ordering her to strip. The guard did not argue the order, did not frown at the words, just did as she was told, quickly. Poor girl was sent out of the room only in her undershirt, without a glance of pity from the goddess, and Lanalath was commanded to take her armour and dress.

It was a taxing thing to perform, as Mythal’s hawk eye never strayed from her. Even with cloth still covering her skin, she felt naked, as the gaze burrowed into her. “Armour won’t matter much.”

“Nothing to be done about your mark. If asked, you can say Dread Wolf forced it off you.”

“And I, the ever loyal daughter, bid my time to crawl back to her father?”

“It would soothe his ego, to an extent.” Mythal had a plan, one she was not willing to share. One, Elgar’nan would see through, Lanalath was sure of it.

Lanalath finally turned to look at All Mother, standing there, and just… watching her. Was the pity she saw in her eyes for all those years just the thought seeded in her by court rumours? Was it easier to handle than the simple truth, that perhaps, Mythal never… “You never hated me, did you?”

“I despise Elgar’nan for what he has done, but not all things that came from it.”

“What about the other children? Were the stories true, of them all dying?”

Mythal was done feeding old myths, it seemed. “They had to die. None of you should have existed to sate his ego. But you, you lived. Perhaps Spirits of Fate are not as extinct as Elgar’nan would want us to believe.”

“I am not of spirit.”

“One must have been looking over you either way.”

As Lanalath finished clasping the last of the buckles on her boots, she murmured, “Let’s have faith it still does.”

“Just keep your mouth shut. You are a peace offering. Proof that war with Dread Wolf does not resort to such measures as Blight. We need Elgar’nan pleased just long enough for me to reseal the taint. He knows when to listen to my voice.”

A lamb to the slaughter, that was once prey to be bedded. Time did not stop moving, but the path it took now seemed circular.

“And once it’s done?”

“If it’s done, you will return to your home, where you belong.” Mythal fixed her hair, approaching the door on the far-off corner of her quarters. One that must have led to the main corridors of the palace. “It was foolish of you to accompany me.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Just how foolish it was, Lanalath realised when she passed the threshold to the throne room. Unlike her last time here, there was no waiting. The thrones were already filled, with Elgar’nan sitting, the throne of All Mother empty by his side. As if the heart of Evanuris was ripped out and only the monster father and their spawn were left, looking at the two women like birds of prey. Silence weighted on her throat like a rope, constricting her breath, forbidding words.

There were eight thrones now. Another face was inlaid on the floor, the place where the portrayal of Solas was once left defaced. Ghilan’nain had ascended.

The guards lined the walls, and magic thrummed off every surface. It was different now, magnified, intrusive, as if something tacky was sticking to her own mana, threatening to change it. Promising power. Evanuris were changed already, all under Mythal’s so-called watchful eye. She looked at them, knowing that just a few steps before her, a line in the Fade was drawn. None wishing harm to them could pass and live.

They were just as remembered; their faces burned into her mind, even if she tried to scrub them clean, replacing them with faces of rebels, those who dared oppose them. She was not one of them. Never was. Never would be.

“Elgar’nan,” Mythal said, approaching the thrones, without ceremony that any would perform. Lanalath, as if commanded, stopped walking at a respectful distance, just before crossing the line. Nothing was stopping her, nothing was tearing at her to stay back, except for old habits resurfacing and the changes she had noticed. Her neck strained as she forced herself to bow, showing respect to the corrupted she despised now. Where was the honour she believed when she served the worst of them? Mythal continued, “You dare break our most sacred agreement. Behind my back, no less.”

Elgar’nan shifted in his place, with a laugh, one that made Lanalath flinch in place. One, which was followed by a dread creeping in on her. He did not care that Mythal knew, and still All Mother walked ever yet closer to Sun Tamer. “Agreement is null now, that the power is needed, my dearest.”

“Tis not power you are unleashing,” Mythal stepped on the stairs, lingering on the first one, raising an accusatory finger. “It is by your hand that wards fell, and now you will tell me how you accomplished such a feat.”

“Why, with your lap dog’s toy, The Wolf’s Fang, of course.” Only now did Lanalath notice a hilt pressed tightly in his palm, a blue lyrium blade laid across his thigh, as he looked down at Mythal, a smile spreading unfeigned. “Always so fond of his creations, you were. This might be the greatest of them all. Such irony for his rebellion to fall to his own creation.”

The fear in Lanalath’s heart was quickly replaced by something much more dangerous—wrath. How dare he mock Solas when he was losing the war to him? The Dread Wolf would live on while Elgar’nan would fade into obscurity. Her skin ablaze, she thought of ripping out his mocking tongue, her stance finally breaking, a foot moving forward, drawing the eyes of all of the Evanuris to her.

Including Elgar’nan.

Stepping back would have done nothing now.

She was just on the line. Another move would spell her death. So she stopped. Their attention was gained and held, and so she dared to use it. The voice in her head told her resistance was futile. It told her to kneel. The heavy hand of her father pressed against the nape of her neck, right where Solas touched when saying their goodbyes.

“The Wolf is falling under your armies.” She breathed in. Stopping the use of Blight might buy rebellion just enough time to find new ways to crush Evanuris’ forces. The voice in her head was shoved away, her now recognising his presence, disallowing him to take her knowledge. “You do not need the blight to wreak his spirits, Father. Use your sword.”

The lies slipped out of her too easily, too convincing, even if her eyes did not dare meet his. The burn in her chest and hands was yet to reach her face, and she forced herself to quell the fire growing.

“Child speaks truth. The Wolf sent her as proof of his goodwill.” Mythal echoed her words, taking another step. Elgar’nan leaned forward in the throne, looking both women down.

“Used and ruined, he discards her at my feet and calls it goodwill? Perhaps your judgment has dulled, Mythal, but mine hasn’t. The Dread Wolf and his rebels will receive the retribution they deserve, and our people once again shall know peace.”

“Listen to yourself, Elgar’nan,” Mythal now was at throne level, standing before him. None of the other gods even looked at the couple that created them, seemingly bored by their squabble. “It is not peace you offer, but subjugation. Has the blight tainted you already, that you would risk forsaking everything we swore to protect?”

“You can either partake in our new glorious purpose, mother, or step back.” Finally, it was Andruil who dared to say a word.

“Of course it would be the most blood thirsty of you who would hunger for more power,” Mythal mocked. “And what about you, June, Sylaise? Do you wish your beautiful creations to be turned into vehicles of destruction, distorted bodies of abominations? Do you care for Elvhenan so little?”

“If you truly cared for Elvhenan, you would join us, mother,” Dirthamen murmured, not looking at Mythal, as if someone was pulling at his tongue to speak.

“Do you not hear your children pleading for your guiding hand?” Elgar’nan told Mythal, rising from his seat. “Would you abandon them as such? Although it was always Wisdom you looked at to guide you, he had led you astray. And Lanalath, my dear daughter—look at you both, taken by The Dread Wolf.”

Mythal did not have time to say a thing.

Lanalath did not have time to move.

“Such a waste,” Elgar’nan added, before the blade in his hand shifted and sank between Mythal’s ribs, alien blue glow leaking with her blood. A muffled thud followed, as her body collapsed, mouth open for things left unsaid.

No one said a word.

Did anyone besides her care?

Mythal, the untouched, the spirit of benevolence, goddess of love, the first of all elves, was dead.

And all that followed her death was silence.

Only Dirthamen shifted in his seat, his eyes pointed from the body, as if he couldn’t handle the sight. Andruil smiled, as if admiring a prey fallen in a hunt.

Lanalath did not move. Did not scream. She just watched, mouth agape, as the blood pooled and spread on the floor around the lifeless body. A stone sank in her stomach, because she knew this to be the end. Elgar’nan now looked at her, and through fluttering lashes and tears tipping over the waterline, she finally looked back at him, eye to eye. If Mythal was not to be spared, a fate no better awaited her.

Mythal’s blood dripped from the upper stair now, tap tap tap of it drawing her eye back to the body.

All she could think of was Solas. Solas, who waited for Mythal to stop the blight. Solas, who waited for her to come back. The man, who would soon find out he had lost everything in one brush of Elgar’nan’s will.

“Sister,” Elgar’nan spoke, and Lanalath did not know who he had addressed, until someone to the side of her periphery vision shifted. Her breath hitched when she turned her head and saw her. Her, whom she could barely recognise. Ghilan’nain was changed, as if the blight she had worked with had seeped into her, eyes glinting red in the shadowed throne. Elgar’nan commanded, not letting the panic set in her bones fully just yet. “Take the Wolf’s pet. Find out how she can walk us through his lands.”

“Better kill me,” Lanalath said through tears that rolled down her cheeks against her wishes, that anger she wanted to dip into being extinguished by the void of anguish growing within her. Never had she thought she would mourn Mythal. Or was it the senselessness of her death that struck her? It did not matter. What mattered was that Elvhenan was doomed, and she would not let him have the Crossroads, too. Her road was almost at an end.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It was fitting that the person who walked her down the corridors of the palace for the last time followed her down them for years. Except now she walked constrained, trapped, and almost certain that only death waited for her beyond the walls.

“It is a pity you fell to Wolf’s lies.” Inaean mocked, his fingers bruising her forearm, unnecessarily, when she walked willingly, keeping up with his stride. She would not fold into herself or beg for mercy or offer secrets of rebellion. The pass phrase to the Eluvian network would go with her, to the fiery grave. She hoped for a quick passing rather than Ghilan’nain taking her as one of her test subjects. “You could have been such a feast as my bride.”

“What happened to Mathalin? Weren’t you supposed to share?” She needled.

Inaean looked older now, wearier, his face scarred, one eye taken in battle. He had a certain venomous spite in his voice upon mention of the Wolf, and that told her enough of where his injuries came. “Did not make it back from the hunt.”

“Oh?”

“Wolf’s arrows hit him too, or so the stories tell.” He smirked, and she was almost proud. Her very own pet played them all, with unexpected consequences.

If he had never tried to kill her, she would have never been free.

“Thank you.” She said, bringing confusion to his face and stealing his voice.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Ghilan’nain already awaited her. They did not bring her out far out of the city; she knew full well of the turns of the roads they had taken her on, her body draped over a Halla, limbs tied and mouth stuffed, face covered by a hood. The ride was short, and thus it must have been Andruil’s abode they had taken her to. Laid her across the table, three men holding her down, even without her trying to fight. She knew whatever Ghilan’nain had in store for her was to be worse than the bruises they could bring her.

“Futile it would be to struggle, child of Sun Tamer.” Ghilan’nain loomed over her as soon as the blindfold would be removed. “We know the Wolf has his network of mirrors, cleverly stolen from June and changed. You can still save yourself.”

A bitter laugh was all Lanalath could muster. “I have been dead for years, and corpses tell no tales, Mother of Halla.”

She made sure the mockery seeped through her last barb and steeled her mind. Ghilan’nain made ways to extract truths from people. Solas told her the tales of what happened to her servants and, even worse, his agents. When she was young, Elgar’nan once sat her down, saying that the mind of his child had to be a solid block of marble. Smooth, impenetrable. He did not think then of how his lessons would pay off.

The smell of copper, crushed herbs and something rotten invaded her senses, irritating her lungs, but she forced the cough down.

Something scraped at the back of her head, poked, trying to gain entrance. Asked her about Wolf and his pack, tried to conjure a memory of him. Lanalath found herself in the Woods again, with her eyes closed, cold taking her body. In the Woods, there were no Eluvians, no secrets.

Ghilan’nain clicked her tongue at the conjured image, disappointed.

“Even dead, you can still bleed. If it’s not your tongue that will show us the way, it might as well be your essence.” Ghilan’nain shrugged her shoulders, joints moving too smoothly for flesh, which in turn was wrong in colour, greyed in tone. Her head cocked at an angle no neck should take, turning from her, metal against metal clinking on the table nearby, as she picked a blade to mutilate her.

Lanalath swallowed hard, closing her eyes. She had to be in the Woods. Go back, she told herself.

She did not need to waste words further, did not plead or lie, or give the monstrous goddess hopes she could be broken. She would rather welcome the cold embrace of the end, with her mind elsewhere. The dream of the Lighthouse, the moonlight kissing Dread Wolf’s freckled cheeks, Felassan making dinner, rebels huddled around fires. Warms arms… She had to forget them and find herself in the cave, the woods, in the thick of it, where the sun could not reach. Where only knowledge was the rule of the land. Where Ghilan’nain could gain nothing from her.

The pain came sharp and sudden, as the blade travelled across her wrist, too deep for a surface scratch, burning. The trickling of blood, it hitting the metal dish, all she could hear, drowning out the breathing of Solas asleep, she tried to focus on it in her memory. Still in the cave, but his breath against her neck. Imagines bled into each other.

The image of him seared into her mind flickered as cold air touched upon the wound, irony tang filling the air, a nauseating feeling touching her innards.

“Your blood has betrayed you.” Felassan once told her. Tried to warn her.

Her blood.

The one that confused the Crossroads spirits.

The one that, instead of repelling, allowed her to be taken in with no way back. The blood, Ghilan’nain, was now draining to make a path to Solas for Elgar’nan. Her blood had betrayed them all. The Woods now took hold of her in turn. The rules of the land. In refusal to give up the key, she bled it out. She was the only one born of Evanuris who could pass through the threshold. Your blood confused the grounds. And now Ghilan’nain had it. And had bodies to fill.

Somewhere, far away, a wolf howled in anguish.

Chapter Text

The first two times she crossed the edge of the woods, she ran away from her fate. The third, and the last time, she was dragged through there by the vicious hands of inevitability, ones that once belonged to her father. The godkiller, the traitor, the tyrant. All would Elvhenan would soon know his brutish touch, and in her dying breath, she would know she brought its doom, taking the rebels first.

Like a bag of rock she had been dragged, for her feet could not carry her after Ghilan’nain released her from her grasp. The smell of rust seeped into her skin, wounds the vicious torturer would not bother closing still oozing with blood, it crusted so thick around edges where she was bled over and over again from skin broken, healed and broken again, it appeared black, rotten, dead. She felt like it, too. Death would have brought her more peace than the last hours she lived before Elgar’nan came to retrieve her, for the march. The siege of Crossroads.

Walking, stumbling, her shoulders collapsed, and her body swinging, vision coming in and out, the dimmed stars flashing in her eyes as she tried to remain conscious. Her breathing shallow, by the time trees grew sparser, and she could see the layout of the Branch, the edge of the Converged City, and the Lighthouse just opposite it, choking the last of the air out of her.  Tears stung as they streamed down her face, getting into cuts, latching onto bitten lips, which she chewed on to keep quiet as Ghilan’nain worked her body.

She did not sob then, did not give Mother of Halla and Monsters the satisfaction to see her crumble. Her stomach sank when the first soldier entered the lab. And then the second. And then the third. All to be filled with blood stolen from her. Ghilan’nain used the magic most perverted, rendered her blood into force, infused them with it, one after another and yet another and another and when Lanalath lay close to death, she forced close her wounds, just to open them anew. Basins upon basins filled. A legion fed on her.

She could have avoided it all if she had just given them the pass phrase. If she had given the key to the Lighthouse. But she knew the cost, and it was too high.

With the opening to the Eluvian network, Elgar’nan would have destroyed all of the rebellion before sunrise. The sun was coming down on them now. Her blood gave them less than twelve hours. Centuries of living boiled down to mere moments.

Her blood could only breach one entrance, Elgar’nan knew of.

The Woods.

The damned Woods.

On one side of the Branch, the Converged City dwelled.

Another path, Lighthouse.

But it was not all of the rebellion.

If he did not get access to the Eluvians, he would never kill all of them. The Skyhold still stood strong. If Solas was as clever as she believed him to be, most of the forces would have been moved by now.

Even as her head lightened from bloodshed and limbs trembled from sudden cold seeping into her, as her bones begged to be laid to the ground, still Elgar’nan dragged her. From the Woods, to the Branch. One last battle for his general to witness.

She did not let a sound escape. Perhaps, she couldn’t anymore. At least until she heard a wolf howl, once again, calling her home, voice strained in the heaviest of agonies.

“Solas,” She managed to mouth, seeing the silhouette, like a mirage, just as they reached the convergence of roads. The Branch. Midway of the Crossroads. Elgar’nan brought forces, a few hundred men strong. All those hours wasted on the table, so close to death's embrace, empowered hundreds to tear all she held dear apart. The noose on her throat tightened, and she could not get her lips apart to whisper his name again. Body dissected. Mind was bound to go next. Elgar’nan’s will pressed against it, now.

Standing far off in the distance, the six eyes looking back at her, narrowing, glancing at Elgar’nan, holding her elbow, before turning away from her, for the last time. “Solas," she repeated, voiceless, calling only in her mind.

But no howls answered.

The silhouette of the wolf over the horizon stood tall, just for a moment, before it disappeared into the fog.

“Perhaps you, my daughter, had finally made something of yourself. The Wolf Slayer, one who brought rebellion to its knees.” Elgar’nan said, lacing his words with venom and mockery. “And to think I was to wed you.”

He released his grasp, but she wasn’t free, still pulled by his power, step after mournful step, flesh dictated to move against its withering state. What little of her was left with The Wolf, and now only the corpse was hauled forward. The Tower she called her prison, her home, her solace, rising from the fog, before which two figures stood, only two.

Alone to defend their home. Their home. She was on the wrong side of the line and could not do anything, anything, not even collapse, allow her body to perish here without seeing what came after. Elgar’nan wished her to see the collapse of it. Made her body witness, bent her mind to keep her eyes open. Just a figurine built of clay in the hands of a tormenter, with a mind trapped and trampled inside.

The men who awaited them were not her friend and her lover. Two generals, their staffs ready for the last stand, as Elgar’nan’s forces splintered, parts of them turning on the road, away from the Lighthouse. To the only place she adored more. A place full of broken people trying to live. Trying to build themselves back up. What was it for? For her blood to allow the pestilence of war that Elgar’nan’s forces would bring. The death and the suffering, deliberate erasure from history.

He effaced her once, and now the same fate awaited them. She prayed to the one god she believed in that he had made Skyhold stand strong. That he would turn and retreat, save whatever forces he still could. Save himself. Save Felassan.

But the distance grew shorter, and Solas did not move, the dizziness that obscured his features from afar fading now, the sharp set of his jaw and disgust quirking his lips telling her all too much.

He looked at her, as if she was still marked by Elgar’nan.

Perhaps she was, for only she could bring his nemesis to his sanctum. She could see his brow fall, the look in his eyes shifting. Horror. To understandment. To hatred.

Their path was cut short as Elgar’nan stopped, just close enough for them to see the Wolf’s face clearly, as All Father waved his hand, commanding his men to continue. To take the Lighthouse. To break it, the Wolf, and his Arrow, apart. Solas did not step back, did not waver. Just waited, not looking at her. His eyes were transfixed on Elgar’nan.

“Elgar’nan,” Solas shouted. “Never had I imagined your cruelty would stretch as far as to strike Mythal down.”

What about me? She thought. What about me?

She wanted to scream, but no sound could come out of her. Elgar’nan stole it, hushed it in her chest, and as she looked down on her broken form, it was not blood she saw. Not the torn leathers Ghilan’nain released her in. Not the lyrium bonds on her wrists.

She remembered the woman she saw the first day in the Converged City, trying to pry those same cuffs from herself. In her mind, they were mirrors now.

Reality was crueller than memory. The shining armour, pristine. Her hands, unstained, unrestrained. No. No no. No. It was not her. It was not how she was. Was that what he saw? Elgar’nan’s general, not meeting his eye, adorned in golden armour. Her face stung, burned, the burn she knew well.

She did not need reflection to recognise the pattern.

She turned to face her Father, a knowing smirk on his face.

He had remade her.

As he always wanted her to be.

Even if it was glamour, a lie, a trick.

Her mouth would not open to curse him. But he could hear her mind.

He finally had a perfect daughter and rebellion in the palm of his hand.

Did she truly stumble through the woods, or did she walk proudly? Who could she know what was real except for the revolt in Wolf’s voice as he addressed her. “And you—you, who I thought one of us, one—“

His words cut off, as if his voice was taken too. A different force had ceased him. Heartache. The wind blew the smoke from the side. Direction of the City. The heartbeat in her chest was drowned out by the heavy armour rattling as forces moved towards Solas. He stood, unmoved, except for his eyes. The gorgeous, violet eyes, now void. Faith itself was burnt out of them. The look in his eyes was the same as it once was. The mark glamoured on her was all he could see, the love painted over.

She should have told him.

She should have told him before leaving.

And now, she would never get to.

The Woods called her again. Pulled at her.

And she begged for them, silently, to free her once more.

Chapter Text

The soldiers marched on, not minding the raised hands of Solas or Felassan, the two of them lifting a ward over themselves, across the one path to the Lighthouse. Lanalath stood there, at the Branch, Elgar’nan’s hand weighing down her shoulder, until she could feel the wound reopening from where his fingers dug in. He watched and waited, his eyes pleasure-filled, as his sentinels started breaking down the wards, pushing against Dread Wolf’s power. The Woods creaked, as if they felt the danger the Crossroads were in, and shivered in its presence. 

Between the heart and the mind, torn and broken, she did not know where to look. The man she was soon to lose, even if she was already gone for him, or the Woods? The forsaken Woods, place where this all began, place where it could all end.

The wards broke. Not ahead on the path to the Lighthouse, but away, at the very end of the other fork of the Branch, one where the City dwelled. The fires ignited the skies, and she did not dare turn. The City was built on hopes and dreams. On faith.

Ablaze in Elgar’nan’s vengeance.

She could hear the bone-chilling scream of Fen’Harel, Felassan stepping ahead of him, trying to keep the shimmering wall of protection as the Wolf contorted in his own heartbreak, his eyes never straying from the horizon, looking at the heart of his rebellion, being razed, throwing only one wild-eyed look back at the spires of the Lighthouse. As he turned, it was not a man she saw; the soft lilac of his eyes was exchanged for a terrible blue glow.

For a moment, it was as if the Fade itself held breath, waiting for what was to come. She could feel the ambience shift before it happened. As magic warped around her, her heart stuttered. It could not be. He would not.

And the ward.

The ward.

It fell.

By his own hand.

Solas was to make his last stand. He would not let Elgar’nan take what he built that easily. He would draw blood, personally. Solas wasn’t known to choose force. But Solas was also Fen’Harel. The Dread Wolf. And the Dread Wolf would not allow Sun Tamer to win the day with his skin intact.

Another sound caught her off guard. Made her flinch. Clapping.

A slow, deliberate clap of Elgar’nan.

That made her flinch. He let go of her, and she could move. Move.

Her fingers twitched. Her mouth opened. She could feel words ready to roll off her tongue. Her mind was light again without his oppressive touch. She could move.

She did not think twice before she started running. She could have run to Solas and stood by his side. Tell him all she had to say when she had a chance. But the Woods answered her call, and so she ran back into them. The flashes of sun and fires in the distance on Sun Tamer’s armour faded, just like the ghostly metal of a glamour Elgar’nan built to encase her in. Her face, in scorching heat, felt her own, but she did not stop.

She could not allow him to retake control.

The tree line was there, and her lungs heaved as she stumbled over it, pushing through the branches.

“Save him. Take me.” Finally, her voice came back, with a whimper. Hoarse, worn, as if unused in decades, her Father’s finger still wrapped around her throat. She did not know what she was calling, but she knew what they did. A deal to protect the lands. A blood pact, to repel. A pact Ghilan’nain managed to warp to Evanuris' advantage. But Evanuris were arrogant. “Curse those of my blood. Let them fall.”

The Woods were silent. Too silent. When she looked upon the skies, they were gone. Just like the first time, her head spun, nausea climbing her throat with her heart hammering, threatening to give out. It was as if the night had settled over her, as it dragged her body further in. Even in the dark, she could see the blood stains on the tattered clothing, wounds both closed and opened, jagged scars, all that Solas wasn’t privy to. All he could not see. The last time he saw her was just as first. Marked, wrapped in Evanuris' gold. As if she was never his and he was never hers. All between them erased. All tainted with betrayal.

“Do not betray me, Lanalath.”

Part of her wanted to turn, leave the Woods behind. Scream across the field, right until her voice gave out. I did not betray you.

The truth would not save him.

Elgar’nan might have destroyed what they were, what they had, in a single spectacle. But not this. Not the truths she had learned. So she pushed, speaking to the Woods, even as the absence of noise made her ears ring. And there it was.

The Cave.

And she knew what she had to do.

Take me, she asked the spirits of the land once more.

She bled here once, and it changed everything then.

Now, her body had finally stopped, and as she looked back, there was nothing but darkness. Just her, and the grounds that have swallowed her whole and made her anew. And she knew what she had to do, once more.

Tearing your own skin open is a feat, unless it’s barely holding together. At first, it was her forearm that her nails dug into, just deep enough to feel the warmth beneath the scabs and pulled, pulled until the red-hot trickled freely. Under the clavicle. Beneath her ribs.  Side of her neck. Carefully undoing every wound Ghilan’nain would not care to patch up.  Wound turned into a step. And another. Just until she was at the entrance of the Cave, and the world collapsed, her body following it.  

Death had the embrace of a lover. Back on the cold stone, must of the moss climbing up her nostrils, trying to drown out the smell of her own annihilation, she lay, with eyes wide open, despairingly wishing the six-eyed Wolf would emerge from the dark, offering a pact. The cycle would begin all over again, for her to wake in the meadow and think of it as a dream.

But there was no cycle.

Only a straight line that found its end, somehow, back at the beginning.

There was no Wolf.

No one called for her.

But the woods had answered.

She could not make out the words, but she knew the meaning. They had chosen. They would show her.

The darkness parted, and it was, for one blissful moment, as if the Woods never existed. Straight line of sight of the Crossroads, Solas and Felassan in the heat of battle, as Elgar’nan circled them. The end was near. Converged City had fallen, the black smoke rolling over the horizon.

The Woods creaked. Water dripped somewhere nearby. And still, she watched. Waiting, just a little longer. A heart that had beaten itself against her ribs like a panicked bird finally steadied. Slowed. Everything slowed.

Thud, Thud.

Silence.

Thud, Thud.

Just a little longer.

Thud, Thud.

A sentinel in golden armour fell. And then, another.

Thud.

Many followed suit. Sun Tamer stopped mid swing, turning to witness his forces, those he filled with her blood, collapsing.

Thud.

One by one, the thuds of bodies falling, she could not hear. Only her heart tried to echo them. Too slowly, too sparsely.

 Thud.

All Father looked back at the woods, just one look, before he vanished. Retreated, like a coward, he was. The Wolf and the Arrow stood on the road, littered with corpses, mouths agape.

The view dimmed, her body becoming unbearably heavy, wanting for nothing but sleep. “Not yet,” She asked.

Thud.

Just a moment. One more. A breath.

Thud.

Solas turned to look at the woods, to see nothing but the trees. But she knew, “Ar lath ma, Solas.”

The moment passed.

The roots stirred now, accepting Faith dying in their arms.

Chapter Text

What happened after everyone eventually learned. How the Dread Wolf, in his despair over losing his dearest friend, stole back The Wolf's Fang. How he lured the Elvhen pantheon, tricked them, and imprisoned them, creating a Veil, separating the Waking World from the raw magic of the Fade. Evanuris trapped beyond reach, Golden City turned black with Blight. The gods were blighted in their cage; the Blights in the Waking world began. How kingdoms rose and fell, and Elven people, instead of being free, were subjugated to new terrors, humans taking over their lands, enslaving their people, destroying their culture.

Solas missed all of it in the slumber he had fallen into after his failed ritual. He never intended to sever the magic from the world, and then woke to a world tranquilised, alone, and his heart still raw from terrible losses.

The Elven were dying, mortal now, and it was his fault. He had to fix it. But when he tried to tell them, at first they mocked him. Then, upon realising the truth of it, they tried to kill him. The Dread Wolf was the great adversary of their people. Not his. Dalish did not want him. Did not need him. Mortality had made them numb to the wrongness the world had bestowed upon them.

His Eluvian network was barred; someone had taken hold of it.

All that he had, all that he built, even the stories of him, were destroyed, ruined, erased.

There was only one person for him still out there.

Felassan.

But he hadn't forgotten how the Dread Wolf allowed their forces, both spirit and flesh, to die in his pursuit of Wolf's fang. How he lied and avoided, hid away, while crafting his plan to defeat Evanuris. He did not hate Solas for it, but he had never forgotten it.

And so when the opportunity presented itself to retrieve the Vi Revas, the Lighthouse Eluvian key— Felassan stepped back, already knowing Solas’ plan.

Tear down the Veil, fix the greatest error. Return immortality to the elves. Restore the empire lost.

But Solas came too far to give up.

At last, he returned to the Lighthouse. Centuries since the last time he set foot in there, now alone and irreparably damaged. And so was the Lighthouse. The Crossroads were torn apart; he could not see the Converged city no more. The paths he had built had collapsed, and the lands he created turned into islands separated from one another. The heart of his rebellion, just as his own was shattered. And it fell to him alone to fix the damage done.

The sight of the courtyard strangled breath in his lungs. Where once he found sun, shade, comfort, all he could see was ruin. No lights were flickering in the windows of the communal building, for no one was keeping the hearth warm. No familiar sounds or smells, the air stale, ambience taunt with the ghosts of what used to be. He almost expected demons to appear, drawn there by all feelings abandoned in the walls, all the love, the hope, the faith wasted. The short moment of comfort he had revisited time and time again in the coldness of his slumber.

The voice came, but he felt the presence before it spoke. "His back was turned."

The image came to his mind. Felassan. His face was cradled by the amber glow of the bonfire. His belly was full of meat he had hunted for himself. The lushness of the woods filled his lungs as he restrained himself from sleeping. The moment he tried to avoid.

Then the other image came, and his hand now clasped the Wolf jawbone hanging on his neck.

Lanalath standing beside Elgar'nan. The battle. Elgar'nan's Vallaslin once again etched into her face. The wards he shattered. The singular moment in which she disappeared, and all the love he had ever felt, was gone with her. How could she betray him? How could he be so blind?

But he was not.

He knew now.

For centuries in his slumber, he revisited the moment.

Elgar'nan's forces were collapsing. The Woods were calling him afterwards, as if trying to tell him something. Rebels whispering of a woman in the Woods, who would talk to them. Inspiring a feeling in them, they felt long gone the longer their battles went on. Faith. Solas did not understand then, did not want to. He wanted Evanuris punished. She was just one more in a long line of betrayals. Whispers could not reach his ears if he was locked away in his tower.  But they haunted his slumber for years after the Veil came to be.

He hadn't understood.

Until now.

"I am sorry." Solas breathed, his eyes closed, when he felt the presence shift around him. "I was blinded by fury, I was—"

"His back was turned." She repeated, slowly, as if still absorbing the terror of it.  She loved Felassan dearly. Back then, sometimes he would wonder if Felassan was dearer to her than he was. Such childish thoughts.

"Lana—" He turned to greet the ghost he loved a millennium ago. Perhaps, loved still, now that he knew. The jawbone in his hand dug into his skin.

"Welcome back," The spirit said.

It felt like her. But when his eyes were opened, all he could see was a shattered piece of a whole. A fragment, stuck here, waiting. 

"You are not her."

"Not entirely, Wolf."

"Then what should I call you?"

The spirit did not answer, but he felt the need to care leaking from it, latching onto him. It waited all these years, in the cradle of his rebellion. Waited. Waited for him to come back. Keeping faith alive in walls long dead. It cared so much that it could never leave.

"Was any of this true?" A voice brought him back to the present. The Lighthouse was once again out of his grasp, his body and mind stuck in the prison of his own making. Rook stood opposite him on the other side of the fissure he opened between them, the distance kept. "Caretaker is… was a woman?"

Solas smiled. "Not entirely”