It was a secret kept so close to the chest that, if whispered, the words would cut to the heart-blood of the rebellion and all could be lost. There was no name for this place protected by eluvians and disinformation; only a description measured in tempera pigments. It illustrated a cryptic, colourful story understood by no one. It wasn't discussed or questioned, however, for Fen'harel would have his privacy.
It was a privacy which was now insulted.
The elf girl's self-imposed bonds were injuries keeping her from becoming a nuisance. Upon detection, guards had pursued her to a small garden where she curled up near a bed of embrium given to weeds. Trembling yet resigned, she concentrated on the seconds when the pains she felt were not so bad. Her singed cloak was in tatters enough to afford a view of flesh slicked with blood like it was sweat.
The sounds of his pace preceded him. Fen'harel was soon in the desolate garden of his home with his people, the spy, and the blossoms of night-blooming cereus.
"She came from where?"
"The library, my lord, is where we found her."
Fen'harel considered the girl watching him with the wary, wet eyes of a fawn. An unnatural beauty by any standard of tastes, laying on the dirty ground like a wounded beast wanting of mercy. For all her charm she implied an ugly problem.
"You've come far, and gained where dozens have failed. Who is owed the compliment? The qunari or the Inquisition?"
She hiccuped and it hitched into a self-sorry moan while she stared up.
"The Inquisition," Fen'harel guessed thoughtfully at the child. "Your lack of stoicism smacks of the spy master's limited choice in agents. Yet you are deserving of credit. Were it any other stronghold you had stumbled upon, you may have been given leave. An offer of recruitment, perhaps. Sadly, this place is the exception. "
Fen'harel began to pace before her, giving the impression of the prowling wolf to his guards who were watching with wonder as their leader worked. The elfmaid sighed in measured breaths as her lungs cringed and wounds gaped like slurring mouths.
"To cause suffering is regrettable. However, given the circumstances, it would be necessary." Fen'harel's gaze hardened somewhat, as ice stills a small, clear pond. "If there remains a lost eluvian I will know of it."
He crouched down before her. Two fingertips threatened the stomach wound which was defended by a limp hand. Her other fist was lost in the flowing cloak which gave no indication of the body beneath. Indeed, the item didn't appear to belong to her at all. The collar was stretched, the arms ill-fitting; much like a child in her parent's formal silks playing at pretend.
"It is not mortal," Fen'harel said while pressing at the slice in her skin. The girl gasped and strangled a scream behind clenched teeth. "But it could yet be. Consider the cost of your loyalty. You may regret what you might have given freely."
The rebel god stood and nodded at the two guards behind him. Under the steeled scrutiny of their lord, they collected the girl and made to move her somewhere more conducive to confession. There were many dark rooms where her injuries and the prospects of new ones might secure the information Fen'harel sought.
But the trespasser had found her voice.
"I will not give freely what you can take, Dread Wolf."
And how Fen'harel's brow darkened, a forest dimmed in fear. His composed arms fell like dead tree limbs, and the protective bark of mastery became a broken mask at his feet. A mighty oak ruined, there he stood.
"You're alive," he said, his tone deepened to black depths of disbelief as he stared. This face he did not know, but the voice he heard in his mind at all times: in argument with his conscience, in congruence with his compassion, and crying when he wished he could afford tears. He could have questioned it, but there was no doubting the knowing triumph and obvious love in the stranger's eyes.
"My lord?" asked one of the guards.
"Bring the Inquisitor to my quarters," Solas ordered.