A/N: Hello everyone! This is a continuation of the tale of Illyria Lavellan and Solas which began in my other fic "But I, Being Poor, Have Only My Dreams" - You are of course welcome to start reading here and now if you like, but I'd suggest going back to that one to get introduced to these characters. Otherwise, read on and welcome back. This installment of their story is inspired by lines from T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men."
We Are the Hollow Men
We are the stuffed men
The Inquisition seems to explode out of nothing. The Chantry sees at first only a minor, transient annoyance; Orlais sees a novelty, nothing more; Ferelden sees even less, a bizarre offshoot from greater concerns - rebellion, war, a hole in the world. And then she rises, this strange elf girl touched by a god, and suddenly the world is as clay in her hands to be molded. Thedas watches on in wonder and terror, and waits for a girl they reviled to save or destroy them. This is the Inquisitor.
Leaning together
This is not the first time he's been here, but this is certainly the worst. Once again, he finds himself at his desk, box propped open before him, lyrium shining and singing blue. Today, the pain is bad; last night the dreams drew terror close around his heart; and now the song is particularly sweet. So lost is he in the loathing of it, the aching of it, he does not hear her enter, does not notice her there at all until slender, gentle fingers flip the box closed, reach to his forehead cooled by magic, and wipe the sweat from his brow. Cullen mumbles protests as she drags him upstairs, resists weakly while she pulls off his heavy cloak, but ultimately submits when she pushes him into bed, body trembling and exhausted. He opens his mouth to insist that he does not want to sleep, does not want to dream, but before he can muster the words, she starts to sing. Low, soft, in a language he does not understand, until finally he drifts away. He dreams only of green forests and grey eyes and sleeps deep for the first time in a long while. This is his Inquisitor and Maker, she is mighty.
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
It is all she can do most days to keep from groaning aloud at the stack of letters on her desk. Countless nobles clamoring for the Inquisitor's attention, never once guessing that every piece of paper that entered Skyhold was first vetted by her (and by Leliana even before that), and she often wonders if even the Inquisitor knows how much paperwork Josephine keeps off her desk. And then one day she walks into her office to find her desk...empty. She panics at first - so much sensitive information locked in those drawers - before she notices a package on her chair. Inside are a daintily wrapped box of Orlesian chocolates and a bottle of Antivan brandy. Try as she might, no one can locate the Inquisitor for her (Leliana says something vague like, "Oh, I think she's off on a mission" as though she doesn't know, which Josephine knows is nonsense because Leliana always knows), and the woman effectively in charge of the free world is conspicuously absent from Skyhold all day. The next morning, Josephine finds a stack of completed paperwork on her desk and a bemused (and suspiciously innocent-looking) Illyria insisting she has no idea who could have done it all. She winks and then wanders off shortly afterward, leaving a flustered Josephine in her wake. This is her Inquisitor, and she is infuriatingly kind.
Our dried voices, when
Leliana sees all things, hears all things, knows all things. She knows where all Inquisition members are at all times. She knows that Dorian and Iron Bull meet in the middle of the night for quiet conversation and less-quiet tumbles in the library. She knows what Vivienne schemes for as the Chantry scrambles for a Divine. She hears Ben-Hassarath whispers and knows what enchantress holds the ear of the Orlesian throne. She knows truths about Blackwall that she saves until they may be of use and secrets that keep Sera under control. There is little that escapes her notice - so when the Inquisitor returns from a trip to the Exalted Plains with a party member missing and an expression more akin to heartbreak than loss, she kicks herself for not noticing sooner. Solas is the one variable in the Inquisition about which she has been left unsure. And as she watches Illyria ascend the ramparts day after day, looking hopefully to the road, Leliana redoubles her efforts to track down his origins. This is, after all, her Inquisitor, and it is her duty to protect her.
We whisper together
Iron Bull was a spy - he gets people. He knows what they want and what they're going to do often far before they do. As a result, he finds it difficult to trust the judgment of others over his own; after all, he always has the most information at the end of the day. But when he watches a man he used to call friend stare him down and demand he sacrifice his men or declare himself traitor, he realizes...he did not see this coming. He realizes he should have - there was no way the Ben-Hassarath were going to let him go so easily - but he isn't prepared, not for this, not to make this decision. So he does the only thing he can think of. "Boss?" She doesn't even seem phased by having yet another responsibility added to the weight on her shoulders. She merely places a hand on his arm, looks at him with conviction the Qun would be proud of, and tells him to call the retreat. He does not question her, merely calls his boys home, and brands himself Tal-Vashoth. When the assassins come for him later, she spits on Qunari fanaticism and raises him from outcast to family. This is his Inquisitor, the only creature in Thedas he trusts more than himself.
Are quiet and meaningless
He used to think Hawke was the only person in Thedas who could strike such a heroic figure in a story, who could provide heroism and villainy in equal measure, who could inspire the common folk with her trajectory to greatness. But Varric is forced to admit that even she has nothing on this little wisp of an elf that fell from the sky and wrapped the world around her finger. He's not sure what to believe - he's never had any stomach for magic or demons - but he can't deny she's special. So he resolves to tell her tale, all of it, so history will someday know and remember the woman who shook the world despite all the forces of gods and men arrayed against her. This is his Inquisitor, and Thedas will know her story.
As wind in dry grass
She hands him the letter and he notices she's unusually quiet. She doesn't enter with her usual flair or barrage of obscenities in exchange for a book. When he opens the letter, he understands why. "Your father wants to see you," she says after a long silence. He doesn't want to see him, Dorian thinks, not at all, but then she says she'll go with him and he's already faced a dragon at her side, so he might as well go see his father.
The meeting goes nothing like he expects and as the confession of his sexual tastes rolls off his tongue, he's suddenly absurdly afraid of what she'll say. But she just nods, as though she's always known (and of course, she probably has), despite all their outrageous flirting. And when they get back to Skyhold, she just wraps him in her arms, presses a kiss to his cheek, and murmurs, "I think you are very brave. It is so hard to love somebody." When she wanders back down to the rotunda, he's sure she's right, but this is his Inquisitor, and she is an easy one to love.
Or rats feet over broken glass
The first thing Sera notices is the ears. Shite, an elf. The second thing she notices is the stupid face tattoo. Arse, one of those elfy elves. The third thing she notices is the giggle that bubbles up in the elfy elf as she listens to Sera prattle on. That's not usually how it goes. The more time Sera spends with the Inquisitor, the more things she notices. Like how she likes to sneak into the kitchens at night to steal cookies or how she enjoys a strong drink after a good fight. And when Sera says run, play, prank, the Inquisitor always, bafflingly, says yes. She's not very used to this acceptance thing; she is an arrow nocked on a string, primed, ready to fly at the first sign of trouble, but so far she hasn't seen the need. This is her Inquisitor, and for her, she'll stay put.
In our dry cellar
She hands over the wyvern's heart without question or comment. She watches Bastien die anyway without a word. Vivienne appreciates both more than she will ever express. The girl never fails to surprise her. And though she regards her backwards Dalish upbringing with disdain and cannot help but disapprove of her increasingly obvious dalliance with the apostate elf, she finds a delightful conversationalist in the girl, an unfailingly loyal ally, and… shockingly… a friend. This is her Inquisitor, and though Vivienne will never admit it, she's not so bad.
Shape without form, shade without color
She asks far too many questions about the Grey Wardens. To begin with, they are a secretive lot, and for another thing, he doesn't know shit about the Joining. But when she comes along with her holy cause, he answers, because finally this might be enough to absolve him and Maker help him, but she's a magnificent woman to boot, so he's happy to sign on. As he watches a no-name elf reshape herself to be the most powerful woman in Thedas, he cannot help but wonder about grace and rebirth. The confession of his true name hangs on his lips every time he sees her, but then she smiles at him and the words die on his tongue. This is his Inquisitor, and the worst thing he can possibly imagine is disappointing her.
Paralyzed force, gestures without emotion
She is not a sentimental woman, not really. For all she loves Varric's foolish romance novels, she does not romanticize her own role in the world, or the way that she will be remembered. She's a practical woman, all sharp edges and hard lines; there is no room for softness here. Except… sometimes the Inquisitor leaves poems rolled up in the scabbard of her sword (annoyingly), or she forces her to listen to the minstrel in the tavern play the lute while Illyria sings (badly), or she picks flowers and tells Cassandra that they match her eyes (they don't, usually). And though she often scoffs at the Inquisitor's antics (hardly befitting the Chosen of Andraste), at the end of the day she has a room of full of flowers, a heart full of poems, and the echo of a song on her lips as she readies for bed. This is her Inquisitor, and Cassandra imagines the world will remember her as a romantic heroine in more ways than one.
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us-if at all-not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.
She is bright, hard to look at sometimes, shining with the magic of Pride. Compassion remembers only the dark before her light and things are better now. He does what he can to help. Hide the knives, feed the spiders, make the cats dance. Remind them it's not their fault, never their fault, so hard to make them see, but he does. She lets him and it makes his heart glad. He wants to help her hurt. He knows she loves the Wolf, wants to guide her to the knowing of it, but sometimes the light scares him, so instead he listens.
Burning searing pain...nothing here is real...why am I here… how did I get… running to divinity's outstretched hand… all is darkness before the Seeker sought her and demanded truth… just green now, hole in the world, scar in the sky… why is everyone bowing… can't sleep for the memory of charred bodies and faces in worship, swept away by the fury of mountains… stand up, please stand up… I'm not your fucking Chosen One…
Sometimes the loudness of her is too much, so he focuses on him. His mind is soothing, a clear pool of water, thoughts like ripples from a smooth, perfect stone. He does this on purpose. But sometimes the wolf howls and Cole can hear him, loud and longing. When Wisdom gives way to Pride, he hears it for the first time. Ages of heartache, the pool is suddenly a river and it is angry, beating the stone smooth, bursting like the water that drowned Crestwood.
Now I must endure...Ma banal las halamshir var vhen… rage of years beyond counting… she was my only friend and you butchered her… she fades like they faded, forever into the place I cannot see anymore... Emma ir abelas, ma vhenan, I'm so sorry.. I thought it would make things better...in tu setheneran din emma na… fool, says she, you are too hard on yourself… Ir tel'him… don't go, please don't go...I'm so afraid of failing
She sends them away, but he can hear the screaming. Her mind is quiet in the aftermath. On the way back to Skyhold, her heartbeat thumps in a steady what if he doesn't come back and every day before she gets to work there is a longing look over the walls and her heart beats maybe today. Cole busies himself with healing hurts until one day, as he stirs honey into Leliana's tea, the heartbeat bursts into exultant butterflies. The Dread Wolf has come home.