Solas reached out to the fade, and grasped the edges of reality. Using a skill that few possessed, and backing it with power and experience that none could match, he pulled himself bodily into the fade with little more than a thought. Around him, ephemeral as ghosts, the battle raged on in time so slow as not to be noticed. He continued to run for no more than a few steps before releasing his grasp on the fade and slipping back into the physical world. Time jumped back to normal speed, and the warrior who had been attempting to cut off his head was met with nothing but air. He could travel vast distances in the blink of an eye in such a manner, but contented himself with using it to simply step out of immediate danger. Solas turned to face his aggressor and in a well-practiced two-step motion, he surrounded the man with frigid air, then blasted him with water such that his armor froze in a sudden snap, pinning him in place with his arm mid-swing. Blackwall roared in challenge and crashed head-on into the man with his shield at a full sprint, breaking him free of the ice, but also sending him crashing to the ground. One quick slash of Blackwall's sword, and the man was dead. Solas scanned quickly for more enemies, but it seemed the warrior had been the last.
"Everyone all right?" Inquisitor Lavellan asked, to a murmur of replies to the affirmative. When Solas failed to respond, she pinned him with a glare.
He inclined his head to her in wordless communication.
She huffed, but relaxed, finally affixing her staff to her back before bending to rummage through the dead men's pockets. Initially, she had cringed away from such acts, preferring to leave the dead with their dignity. But much had changed in the months since Corypheus had destroyed Haven, and she acted now with far more cynical practicality than she had before. Grunting in satisfaction, she retrieved an elfroot potion and tossed it to Blackwall, who gulped it down gratefully. The second went on to Sera, who drank hers as well, but ended with a wrinkled nose and a shudder at the awful taste. Neither the Inquisitor nor Solas needed one. Lavellan, because she was always well-protected, and Solas because he was far too quick with his fade-step.
"Someday, you will have to teach me how you do that," Lavellan said, with a meaningful glance at the distance between where Solas stood and where the dead warrior lay.
"It is not a skill that can be taught, lethallan," Solas said mildly, "but one that must be possessed from birth. I am afraid that you do not have the proper inclinations."
The Inquisitor sighed and turned away, leading them out of the dank hallway of Dirthamen's Temple and into the light. "I was afraid you were going to say that."
"I'm surprised at you, Solas."
"Hm?" Solas raised his head, from where he's been flipping idly through his sketchbook.
The Inquisitor was looking at him from over the fire, the flickering flames making her expression unreadable.
"In what manner?" he asked, closing the book and sliding it away in a hidden pocket.
"I expected you to ask to stay in the temple. To explore the fade."
They were at a camp manned by some of the Inquisition's soldiers, and as such had no need to set watch. Sera and Blackwall had already retired for the night, but the two mages still sat up, enjoying the night air.
"Ah. It would take too long to make a proper search of the fade, the temple is far too old; holds too many memories. We haven't the time to spare. I will return, after all this is over."
She cocked her head to the side, birdlike. " 'Too many' memories?"
Solas shifted slightly, where he sat in the dirt, trying to find a more comfortable position. "In places of importance, it is not uncommon for many interesting things to happen over the course of time. A courtroom, for example, is full of drama. Lives condemned and spared. Mercy granted or withheld. It may not be a battlefield with bloodshed, but the mortal interactions draw the attentions of certain spirits nonetheless. It is the same with the temple. It is many thousands of years old, and each event is layered upon the one before, pressed down by the one after. It takes much time and skill to peel them apart, to view each memory as a whole in and unto itself. I could spend decades there, dreaming the memories, learning secrets long forgotten." He smiled softly at her, sadly. "Such time cannot be spared, our mission is too dire."
She stared at him for a long moment in silence, the shadows across her face revealing nothing. Then, "You never cease to amaze me, Solas. The things you say...they're so obvious. I mean, of course, there would be lots of memories in a place like the temple. Why didn't I think of that?" She gave him a wry smile. "I like talking to you, but sometimes you make me feel so slow."
"Not slow at all, lethallan. You simply hold a different world view. We are all confined by our natures. We may strengthen the areas in which our talents naturally lean, seek out others to teach us new ones. But in the end, talent determines where your efforts will be best spent. Such diversification is desirable. You have talents of which I am envious. Your fire glyphs are clean and faster than any I've seen. Your Storm is precise and deadly. I have no such skill. My abilities lie more towards Winter and Spirit. We compliment each other well."
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Solas wished he could pull them back. There was an attraction between them that he could not afford to feed. A desire for companionship, affection...perhaps more, that could not be allowed to grow. This world was warped, twisted, wrong. It had strayed far from the path, and must be brought back into line. Love would just get in the way, a distraction he could ill-afford to have.
"Oh?" both of the Inquisitor's eyebrows went up, and her smile turned wicked. "I bet we would compliment each other in other areas, as well."
Even knowing it was a bad idea, fully aware that he could not allow her to draw him down this most pleasurable of paths, Solas couldn't help himself. "Of that, I have no doubt." He chuckled as her jaw dropped open slightly, shock written upon her face. He rarely returned her flirtations. He continued before she could respond in kind. "What secret have you stolen from Dirthamen's collection?" he asked, nodding at the object she held in her hands.
She looked at him for a moment longer, contemplating his chance of topics. Then she looked down, turning the object over in her hands. "I don't really know. It looked important. But not too important. I didn't want to take some sort of weapon back with us."
"You do not wish to hold a weapon of Elvhenan in your hands?" Solas asked curiously.
She snorted. "Are you crazy? Why would I? I wouldn't know how to use it, and would likely only get myself hurt - or killed."
Solas stood up and walked around the fire towards her, smiling as he did so. Such wisdom she showed. Most people would grab at any power they could find, and find themselves holding the lion's tail. He settled beside her. Close, but still with a proprietary space between them. He held out a hand, "may I?"
She handed the item over to him, and he looked down at it. The size of both his clenched fists, it was made of smooth grey rock, carved by the rushing of water and sand. It was hollow on the inside, with what looked like a spout on one side, and a flat hole on the other. The top side was ridged, the bottom completely smooth. Between the two, on one side, a gap in the stone ran the length of it from the spout to the hole, allowing one to peer into the interior. He smiled, she had chosen well.
"It is a musical instrument," he told her, offering it back.
"Really?" she lifted it from his hands reverently, turning it over, searching for a way to make it reveal its secrets. "How do you play it?"
"With breath and finger placement."
She held it out to him. "Show me?"
He paused. Dare he? "Ma nuvenin." As you wish.
He took it from her once again. He cupped the bottom side with his right hand, the smooth rock nestling comfortably in the curved palm of his hand. His left came up, fingers resting between the grooves at the top, his fingertips evenly spaced along the length of the opening in the stone. He brought the spout to his mouth, took a breath, and blew gently into its interior. As with all objects of Elvhenan, it required magic to work properly, and Solas imbued the air with a tinge of his magic. Unseen runes lit up along the length of the instrument, a softly glowing gold the color of sunrise.
The sound that emerged was quiet, so as not to wake their companions. A low note, powerful but sad, warbling gently in the air. Then it rose, sliding through the register to a higher, sweeter sound. A bird's trill upon the morning air, hope blooming in a heart. Then down again in a sorrowful glide, telling of loves lost. Loneliness joined the chorus, its high wail a haunting counterpart to sorrow's deep thrum. The dual sounds wound around each other, feeding each other, each strengthening the others pain. Ellana's breath grew short as she sunk into the sound then - up again the music soared sharp and high, tickling hands upon ribs, a mischievous titter, and she giggled at the sensation. Solas lowered the instrument, the colors died, the sound faded away.
Ellana gasped as the sensations abruptly cut short. "Wh...wow. That was…"
"Elvhenan was a world of physical delights, its people sensuous and free with affections. Their music reflects this reality." He offered it back to her, eyes unreadable.
Ellana didn't know what to think. "What is it called?" She made no move to take it back; she wanted to hear those notes again.
"Rodhe'sil,"
Ellana frowned, trying to pick the word apart. She shook her head, "I don't know that one."
" 'Rodhe' is taste, or flavor. 'sil' is thought, or mind. It is a poetic language, so rodhe'sil would be more accurately translated as 'flavor of the mind'," Solas told her. "A phrase that makes no sense in the Common tongue. It requires understanding of nature of the instrument itself. As you experienced, the music is more than sound, it is thought and emotion as well. It is whatever the musician puts into it, whatever they desire the audience to experience."
Ellana thought of the dark notes at the end, the sorrow and the loneliness. He was so aloof most of the time. But she'd always suspected that he held a deep sadness to him. She saw it most when they were in the ruins, surrounded by the ashes of Elvhenan. He was deeply affected by the things he saw in the fade, felt them as strongly - or even stronger - than the things he experienced in the waking world. Perhaps he felt at times that he was elvhen, rather than elf. That might explain his attitude towards the Dalish.
She hated to see any of her friends upset, learning to be Keeper had instilled in her a need to care for those under her command, but Solas held a special place in her heart. It wasn't love - not yet - but it so easily could be. But she fought it, even as she strove to draw his attention. It would hurt all the more if she came to love him and he rejected her. She...cared...enough for him that she didn't want to just let it go, but he was so difficult to read most of the time. This instrument had revealed more about him in five minutes than she'd gotten in three months of conversations. He revealed his thoughts only rarely. But sometimes...sometimes he opened up a little, and she saw the man underneath the stoic facade. And that man was one she could come to love desperately.
These bursts of openness were the whole reason she kept trying. He never - not once - told her to back of. Never said no. If he had, she would have left him alone, retreated behind professional curtesy. But though he was slow to respond, he was responding. And so she felt confident in her pursuit.
She leaned towards him, placed one hand upon the rodhe'sil where he offered it to her, but instead of taking it, she wrapped her fingers around it - and his hand. "It's beautiful," she told him, her voice soft and intimate. "You play it well. The sounds," she thought of the the tickling trill. "You're more mischievous than I thought; you should show that side of yourself more often." She grinned at him, and it seemed as if a spark from the fire caught flame in his eyes.
He swayed towards her, as if drawn by her proximity and she wondered if he was going to kiss her. His free hand came up, moving as if to tuck a strand of hair behind her ears. But her hair was cropped short, failing to provide him with an excuse to touch her. He did it anyway, and she sucked in her breath as the tips of two fingers followed the line of the top of her ear to its crest, then down and around the bottom to reach her neck. He followed it, stopping only when he encountered the fabric of her tunic. She tilted her head slightly, inviting him, and his face abruptly closed.
"Have a good evening, Inquisitor."
Inquisitor Lavellan stared in disbelief as he pulled his hand from hers, allowing the rodhe'sil to fall to the ground. He stood without another word, stepping into the tent he shared with Blackwall without ever looking back.
She went looking for him a few days after they returned to Skyhold, and found him in the rotunda. He looked up at her entrance, taking in the pained look upon her face, and the untidy stack of papers in her hands.
"You seem distraught," he told her, placing his quill on the table and folding his hands. "Is there any way I may be of assistance?"
"Yes. Maybe. I hope?" She moved around the table, and he moved his papers out of the way so she would have a clear space to set hers down.
He ruffled through the top few layers, reading a word here, a phrase there. There seemed to be no particular pattern or rhythm to the topics. He looked up at her wordlessly. She chewed her lip for a second, before she began to speak, pacing back and forth a few steps, her hands gesturing with her words.
"Only Keepers and their Firsts and Seconds are taught written El'vhen'an. It is a complicated language, so much depends on context, and, well. You know what I mean." She looked at him for confirmation.
"I know its complexities, yes," he said with dark eyes. "But why are only the mages of a clan taught the written language? Is that not the opposite of the Dalish desire to preserve what was?"
Lavellan blew out a breath and rubbed the bridge of her nose with a thumb. "Believe me, I agree with you. I argued with my Keeper about it before my magic manifested. And then again when she caught me teaching my friends after it manifested. She tried explaining it to me; why only mages are allowed to learn. But it never made much sense. Something about the words themselves being magic and only one possessing magic will ever really understand them…"
Solas didn't even bother to hide his horrified disbelief. "It is a language. Like any other. All that is required to learn it is a willing mind. It seems to me that your Keepers withhold information to keep themselves in a position of power."
Lavellan stiffened at the insult. "That is not true!"
"No?" Solas folded his hands across his stomach and leaned back in his chair, watching her with appraising eyes. "You have a different explanation for the deliberate and unnecessary withholding of a basic skill?"
Her jaw worked in outrage as she struggled to come up with a reason that was less damming. "Well, because...we travel a lot! And it takes a lot of time and effort to teach just the First and Second. The Keeper leads the clan - they don't have time to teach reading and writing and magic and make all the decisions necessary to keep the clan in good health!" She said the last exultantly, sure she'd hit upon a valid excuse.
Solas's eyes glittered with triumph, and Lavellan's heart began to sink. That was the face he made when he was about to cut Sera down to size.
"And the refusal to allow the First and Second to teach the rest? How do you explain that?"
"I-don't…" Lavellan slumped. "I don't know, Solas. It's just taboo. I don't know why the Keepers won't let the others learn. I just know it isn't a power play. At least not for my Keeper. Dashanna isn't like that." She sighed. "I didn't come here to argue with you about clan politics. Or Dalish taboos. Or whatever it is we're arguing about. The fact is, I agree with you. I think everyone in the clan should know how to read and write in El'vhen'an." She gestured at the pages in front of him. "I've been collecting these. I had more - many more - in Haven. But they were lost."
He looked down at them, "what is your intention?"
"I want to translate them. Create a beginner's book for learning El'vhen'an, like the humans have for the Common tongue. I want to pass them to everyone. The elves in the alienages, the Dalish in the plains and woods, the humans in their towns. I want copies of the originals and translations everywhere. I want to gather this knowledge, and then spread it to the world - so it can never be lost again."
Her eyes began to shine with passion, and Solas watched in wonder as his dream fell, whole cloth, from her lips.
"I hated the Inquisition when it started. Hated them for accusing me of all those murders, for threatening my life, and yours, and Varric's, when we were only helping. Hated them for labeling me the Herald of Andraste - a woman and a religion I do not follow! But then we went out into the fields and streams, and I saw people that needed help. So I helped them. Because I could. Because it was right. And they started to listen to me. Me! A savage knife-ear from the wilds! And I realized that I might make some good come out of all this. Real good, not just a return to the status quo."
She stopped, and Solas could not help but stand to his feet, moving closer. Drawn by the wonder he felt in her light. Her passion. Her. "And the papers?"
"We've gone to how many ancient elvhen ruins? Found how many artifacts? More than I have ever seen or heard tell of in all my life. This is the history my people search for. This is the knowledge that has been lost! I won't have it broken and discarded in the hands of those to whom it does not belong." She paused, looked around the room for the first time, as if checking to see if they were alone.
Understanding her desire for secrecy, Solas summoned a barrier, large enough to encase them both, hardening its sides so that sound would not pass through. "Please," he gestured, eager to hear her next words, "continue."
She looked up, traced a finger along its edge in wonder. "Marvelous," she breathed, distracted for a moment before she turned to look at him again. "I want to make a home for my people. Our people. Like Halam'shiral, but better. Like Arlathan, but strong enough to stand against the humans. I want a land of our own. With houses that don't have wheels, and towns surrounded by walls for protection, not exclusion. I want elves ruling elves. A place where we can be blacksmiths and ambassadors, and farmers and yes, even servants if that is our desire. But where we can choose."
"Has this not always been the Dalish desire?" Solas felt compelled to point out.
"Yes!" she hissed in excitement. "But this is the first time I think it can actually happen! Look at how much influence the Inquisition has! How much power! We are in a stronghold based in Orlais, but we owe them no allegiance. We are a power unto ourself. And if we were to declare ourselves independent - a nation sovereign - no one would argue!"
Solas recoiled. "You want to make the Inquisition your new Halam'shiral?"
"No," she laid a hand on his arm and he fought the urge to throw her off. "I want to use it to create something new. Enlea'sileal."
To spark wisdom, Solas translated numbly in his mind. The name of her new land?
She continued, unaware of his thoughts. "I want Josie to speak with the nobles of the lands. I want Leliana to whisper in their ears. I want Cullen to...well. Perhaps not Cullen. Spilling blood for this is not a good idea. But I want to carve out a place. Form alliances with Ferelden and Orlais and Nevarra - even Tevinter! - so that there will never be another Exalted March. And I want to use the Inquisition to make it happen. But I don't want the Inquisition to actually be this new country. It's purpose is too important. But if I have this power, this potential, am I not stupid if I fail to recognize it? To jump at this opportunity which may never come again?"
Solas's knees almost buckled at her words. Instead, he staggered backwards, to slump in the chair he'd just vacated, his breathing shallow, eyes wide with panic.
"Solas?" she asked in concern, kneeling at his side, hand to his head. "Solas, what happened? Are you alright?"
"In-Inquisitor," Solas shook her hand away, licked suddenly dry lips. "Lethallan. You don't understand - you can't - what it means to me, to hear you say these things. Every night, I dream of Elvhenan, of the strength and grace our People use to possess. And when I wake, it is to this." His hand waved around, and Lavellan knew that he spoke of the wandering Dalish, the elves locked in servitude in the towns. "Is it any wonder I prefer my dreams? But you...I saw the potential your position holds. But I never thought you would recognize it. Or that you would be willing to use it if you did." He looked at her, eyes piercing, and it was like he was a different creature. No longer the self-contained mystic, this was a man of raw passion, given that which he sought for so long. Ellana thought him beautiful. "I share your desires. If there is anything, anything I can do to aid you, all you need do is ask. All the knowledge I possess, all that I am, is entirely at your disposal."
Ellana was stunned. She hadn't suspected that he held such fire inside of him. He'd never seemed so animated, so alive. And such a promise…from him, it meant everything. She was grateful, so grateful. But this was too much, too intense. She didn't know how to handle a Solas that vibrated with such passion. She had not come expecting to lay her heart bare, and she certainly had never expected that he would do the same. Her opinion of him was rapidly shifting, and she did not yet know what form it would take. So she smiled, patted his arm, stood, and leaned against his table. Stepping back from the raw emotions of the moment.
"All I wanted was a few lessons in El'vhen'an, Solas."
His gaze shuttered, and she knew he was doubting her previous words. She couldn't let that stand.
So she leaned in, close enough that her lips brushed his ear. "For now," she said, and as she pulled back, she saw him shudder.
Once again, his eyes burned. But the fire was banked - for now. "Yes," he said, and she knew he understood.
Night fell quickly in the mountains, the sun sliding away behind brilliant snow-capped peaks. Skyhold was bathed in the brilliant reds of sunset for a few brief moments before darkness took her over. Fires were lit to combat the dark, but the shadows were deep, and the flickering flames seemed to hold no sway over them. The men huddled next to them, ostensibly for heat, but they could not hide they way they scurried quickly from fire to fire when movement was necessary.
Solas found it amusing.
He walked through shadows and light, without distinction between the two, headed for the rotunda where he had made his temporary home. There, he moved to the small table he'd set up in the middle of the room and laid out in careful arrangement the various plants and soils he had acquired. He was almost done, with one last panel of the mural left to go. Much of the wall still remained blank, but that was as it should be. The Inquisitor's tale was far from complete. He spent some time preparing his colors: grinding herbs to a powder, pouring them into the soil, adding water to make it paste, and finally, infusing it with enough magic to give it a touch of the fade. A link between two worlds, telling her story to the visitors of the room, as well as the spirits that gathered to watch it shimmer into existence on the other side.
He moved to the next section in the wall, vibrant red in his hands. He used no brush for this, and instead dipped his fingers into the thick paste before crouching and applying it to the wall in careful strokes. A few minutes later, he felt Cole appear behind him, but he did not pause in his work. A few more hours, and this section would be complete.
Neither spoke as those hours slid slowly by. Solas because of his work, and Cole for the feelings the paint drew out in him. The spirit missed the fade, with its ever-changing landscape, and came here to reconnect with it - if only by proxy - as Solas gently pressed his paint into the nothingness of the fade, changing it into a tangible reality.
Upon their initial arrival to Skyhold, while the tail end of the survivors were still straggling in, Solas had drawn the spirit aside and offered to return it to the spirit world. And though he could see that Cole was tempted, the spirit had eventually declined; pulled too strongly by the pains of the people. Cole was content to sit as Solas painted, feeling the weak waves of the spirit world wash slowly over him. He would need to return eventually, but for now, this was enough.
Solas finished the panel, and felt Cole leave as soundlessly as he had arrived. The spirit was not one for pointless words; Compassion did not act without cause, and Solas accepted the spirit on its terms, never attempting to change it from its purpose. He put his paints away, washing his hands with water from the basin, tidying up his area. Lavellan had a tendency to say his murals appeared as if by magic, which was a half-truth if it was anything at all. He indulged her by painting only at night, while the rest of the hold slept, and by disposing of any unused paints at the end. It required him to make fresh ones each time he desired to work, but that cost him nothing more than time, and that he had plenty of.
It was now late enough that most of the hold would be asleep, but Solas was nothing if not careful, and he took a casual midnight stroll. Thirty minutes later, he entered his rotunda from the wall-side entrance, passed through to the stairs….and never made it to the top.
If fade-stepping involved insultingly short distances, Solas was now doing something that could only be described as fade-walking. Solas reached inside for his sense of self, and gave it a twist, warping his self identity from a man - to a wolf. As he expected to shift, so he did. A massive white wolf, with eyes of ice. He shook himself, particles of snow falling from his shoulders, snowflakes forming with each of his breaths. The Dread Wolf stood in the fade, and was home. He took off running, his canine body eating away at miles that didn't exist, charging through the waters of ephemeral streams, and bounding among amorphous clouds. Outside time, outside cares, he rushed and played, always headed towards his ultimate goal.
As was mentioned in countless mage books, time passed differently in the fade. This was where men came to dream; mages to be tempted, tested; and where Solas came to play. All things in the fade are connected, and the fade is a reflection of the mortal realm. Travel here was easy; a mere thought, a stroke of imagination, and he was miles and miles from where he had begun, without ever having traveled at all.
Solas slowed from a sprint to a trot, the snowdrifts behind him slowly sinking away; his head swiveled, ears pricked alertly. It was around here somewhere. A twist of imagination, and he was a man again; a trickle of power, and he was free of the fade. A simple trick for him, childs play. But one that was beyond the ken of most - and one that Corypheus coveted desperately.
He glanced around, noting the spot they had camped in weeks ago already being overgrown by vegetation, and the position of the sun so far from Skyhold. Minutes had passed for him, while he had traveled a hundred miles in the fade. Turning away, Solas slipped into the mostly hidden entrance of the temple, finally allowing his emotions to show. Dirthamen had once been a close friend.
He walked slowly, trailing a hand over the bare patches of stone walls, his feet calf-deep in stagnant water. There was power here, if little of it. Enough for Solas to feel the essence of his old friend; enough for the memories to pull hard. If he were to sleep here, to dream...he might dream of his own memories, events he remembered played out as if on a stage. It was no chance that the Dread Wolf statue was displayed so prominently at the entrance. Tricks and secrets were brothers, after all. As were Fen'Harel and Dirthamen, in ages past.
Dalish lore told the story of Falon'Din and Dirthamen as if they were brothers - twins who went everywhere together. They told a tale of Falon'Din carrying a deer to the afterlife, and Dirthamen following after a brief period of being lost, during which he acquired his companion-servant ravens Deceit and Fear. Solas had laughed until tears had run when he'd heard the tale - it had earned him the ignominious honor of being the first flat-ear to be kicked out of a Dalish camp for mirth. Because, while Falon'Din and Dirthamen had indeed gone everywhere together, it was not because they were brothers. They were lovers. Dirthamen was Fen'Harel's brother, while Falon'Din was the only child of a set of tavern owners who never knew how high their son rose.
Solas could restore this temple, if he should so choose. It would take him a few weeks - he had not that power he once possessed and would require time to recover spent magics frequently - but it was within his talents to do so. But for what purpose? There were none, save he, who knew the old rites. None at all who kept the secrets. Whatever the high priest had known had long since been lost to madness when Lavellan woken him from his tormented slumber. No. Restoration would serve no purpose, save that of the mirth of creating a suddenly restored temple when next Leliana's people came to inspect this place. And while he was briefly tempted, Solas had more important uses for his time and efforts. He was here to remember, and bear witness.
Still, the longing was there, and it was enough to cause him to reach into the fade once more. It remembered what the temple did not, and he drew the two close, overlaying the shimmering image of pristine halls over the overgrown ones before him. It was temporary, but beautiful. Solas maintained enough of an awareness of his physical realities to avoid tripping over tree roots and stumbling over fallen stone. But beyond that, he immersed himself in his new reality. The walls gleamed with subtle luster, the murals depicting coquettishly the secrets contained within them. Candelabras, tucked into corners, drove the gloom away, and tapestries stirred in the light breeze. He wandered from room to room, absorbing the feel of a world gone by. There were no people, he had denied the spirits access when he laid down the illusion, but the spaces breathed all on their own; seeming to speak of books just closed and rooms just vacated.
He found small treasures wherever he turned. Here was a scrap of a poem he'd read long ago, there a hint of a song half-forgotten. The books on the shelves did not exist, but he pulled one down anyway, and read the secrets contained inside. Most were pointless, tales of infidelity and betrayal by peoples long gone, that he had never known. A few were charming, shy secrets of love blossoming in the dark; of guilty pleasures nevertheless indulged. None told him anything about Corypheus and he returned the book to the shelf.
Another room held artifacts, ancient and forgotten, items of power thought lost to the ages. As he studied the block of wood that would one day become his orb, left unfinished by an accolade who liked to whittle, Solas could not help but laugh bitterly. These object were lost to the ages. Only the fade remembered them now.
He wandered on, casually tucking a sprigh of gnome's beard into his pocket even as the space he had pulled it from was occupied by a lit candle in the illusion. For all that this was Dirthemen's temple, and devoted to secrets of all kinds, Solas had not really expected to find much to help him here. He had hoped...but little had gone to plan since he had awoken. Still, it eased something inside of him to wander these halls; breath the air of the People again. So much had been lost while he had slumbered - won and lost again until they were less than a shadow of who they were. Until they no more resembled the Elves of Elvhenan than the humans did.
But he had hope, now, where before there had been none. Ellana Lavellan saw the good she could do from her position, and was taking steps to make that potential a reality. She was dedicated to the task of learning El'vhen'an. She brought a stack of papers with them everytime they went out into the field, straining her eyes to read by the campfire light, her lips shaping the words as she struggled. He would need to teach her how to create a magelight.
He translated the texts she brought him, and she was stunned to find that most of them were simple nothings. Shopping lists, receipts. The one with gilded edges was an invitation to a party. There were a few that held higher importance. A treatise on the worship of Anduril, a writ of laws. But they, like the books hidden in this temple, revealed nothing about Corypheus. She was thrilled with the progress they were making, her primer for El'vhen'an growing quickly. But Solas was frustrated. These things were simple. Small. There were bigger things that he could be doing. Magics and research that would make larger, tangible change. But he hadn't the depth of strength to achieve them.
The most burning madness of it all was that Solas could feel his power just beyond his reach: tangled in the rifts, twisting in the breach that was closed but not sealed. And burning in the palm of the Inquisitor. Fully half of it was still locked in the orb; which was more than enough for Corypheus to be hideously dangerous. But the parts that weren't….were still not to be his.
Frustrated with himself, for Corypheus, for his doubts, for things both ancient and new, Solas dropped the illusion, pushed the fade away, and stared down with impassive eyes at the ruin of his brother's temple. This at least he would not hide from. This was his fault. His, and no others'. The Dalish were right to hate him, even if their reasons were false.
He turned away from the destruction he had wrought, twisting his reality so that his next step fell into the fade. Once again the wolf, he raced back to Skyhold. Tarasy'lan Telas, in the language of his People. The place where the sky is held back. Appropriate, given the nature of their enemy.
He returned to himself and slipped back into the stairwell just as he heard the door to his rotunda open.
"Messer Solas?" the person in the other room called.
Solas did nothing to hide the sly smile that played across his lips as he entered the room. Sure enough, one of Leliana's people stood inside his room, looking around the corner of the door that lead to the battlements. No doubt they had just come from the stairwell he was emerging from. It was a game he played with Leliana and her people. She desired to know where he was at all times, and he delighted in denying her.
"Yes?," he called blandly and watched as the agent spun about in surprise.
"Messer! Where have you been?" the agent asked in frustrated annoyance. No doubt they had looked for him all night.
"Here, of course. Where else would I be?" Fen'Harel was not known as the Trickster for nothing, and while it was a blatant lie, it was delivered with such innocent confusion that the agent actually doubted herself for a moment.
"Messer…"
"Solas!" The door from the great hall banged open and the Inquisitor breezed in with a cheery smile and a cup of something hot in her hand.
"Yes, Inquisitor?" he asked, and heard the agent sigh and slip away.
She paused, eyes glittering. "Have you been teasing Leliana again?"
Obviously not what she had intended to say, but he could not fault her observational skills.
"I have not seen our spymaster in several days," Solas assured her, an answer that neatly dodged her question.
One corner of her mouth lifted in a smirk, before she hid it behind her cup as she took a sip. "That's not exactly an answer," she said, her voice dry with suppressed laughter.
"How were your dreams?" he asked.
She chuckled and leaned one hip against his table. "Empty. Boring." She shook her head. "I envy you, seeing the fade as you do. I've tried viewing it your way, trying to draw out the memories of Skyhold while I sleep. But," she shrugged, taking another sip of what he could scent was jasmine tea, "all I get are benign spirits, or demons trying to tempt me. And I've had enough of those to last a lifetime."
Solas chuckled and moved farther into the room, moving towards his small travel bag where he kept the things he was willing to admit owning. All his truly precious things were stored in the fade.
"I see the wisps visited you in the night."
Solas glanced up to see her studying the completed panel. "Indeed. I am fortunate to have received their grace."
She threw him an amused glance over her shoulder. "How do you do this? It's amazing." Her voice was soft, full of something he dared not call awe, and she reached out with one hand, almost brushing the paint and plaster he'd applied so carefully the night before. "It's like," she paused, trying to put words to impressions, "like you've drawn out what was already there, revealed something the walls have always known."
His eyes softened, and he padded barefoot over to stand next to her. "One of the things I learned in the fade," he lied. "It is how the ancient elvhen produced their art. I am no master, but...I have replicated their skills as best I am able."
"I wish I could see it," she mused, a far away look in her eyes. "Arlathan as it used to be. Elvhen, as they used to be. The world before this," she made a vague gesture with her hand, "happened."
Solas paused. He could show her, of course. It was nothing for him to twist the fade into shapes, and it would not be too much more effort for him to invite her into one of his dreams. But...while Arlathan had certainly been beautiful, there was a deep blackness to its shadows, and his vision of it was forever colored by the things lurking in the darkness; he did not want to expose her to more sorrow. "I have seen some things while I dreamt. I could share them with you, if you so desire," he offered instead.
She turned to look at him, and her eyes shone. "You wouldn't mind?" she breathed.
"No, lethallan. I would not mind." He gestured for her to take the lone chair at the table, while he moved to stand before it. He prefered to pace while he talked, a facet of his personality that she was well aware of.
She moved towards the chair, but instead of sitting, she stood behind it, grasping its high back with both hands. "I'd love to stay and listen, I really would. But…" she trailed off, biting her lip.
"But you are the Inquisitor, and have duties to attend to. I understand." And he did. Once upon a time, it had been his job to lead an army, to make the decisions that moulded the world. Ironically, from this very place.
"I-yes," she flushed in shame.
She had put off duties to speak to him, had sought him out before all others; Solas was absurdly pleased. "Another time, then."
She smiled, picked up her discarded cup, and left.
He returned to Dirthamen's temple the next night, and the next. But now, in dream only. His body remained in Skyhold, laying on the settee in the rotunda. He enjoyed torturing the Nightingale, but he dared not push too far or her mild suspicions would flare. And besides, he did still need to sleep on occasion. This was an advanced technique that allowed him to recreate the temple from memory, filling in the parts he did not know with a link to the part of the fade that did remember. He would be drained when he woke, maintaining the connection over such a long distance was tiring. But it was worth it to search the temple without suspicion.
The fade books on the fade shelves might not hold the secrets he could use, but they held secrets nonetheless. And a thread of carefully nurtured optimism had him reading them anyway. If he survived and got his orb (and thus, power) back, then he would hold these secrets, and would be able to share them with the Inquisitor and whoever came to live in the land she was creating. For now, he was focused on the retrieval of his power. But a small part of him insisted that he consider what would happen should he not retrieve the orb, even if Corypheus was defeated. He could not decide if his identity as Fen'Harel would help, or hinder him when that time came. He was one of the "Creators" that the Dalish prayed to, but only in an effort to appease him, to keep him from hunting them as he had hunted the other gods. He was simultaneously amused and annoyed at the tales of him that had survived. They knew he had locked the "gods" away, but no reason was given beyond spitefulness. He had supposedly spent the intervening centuries cackling to himself in glee for the tricks he'd played on them.
They did not know the truth. And while he was willing to tell them...eventually...he was not sure how he would be received. He could prove that he was the Dread Wolf, they still had tales of his frost-encrusted coat, but he was also the Trickster. They may not believe what he had to say after, simply because of that alone. It might be best if he remained Solas, an elf - rather than elvhen - who learned what he knew from the Beyond. Then again, he was the only god they had left...even if he was no god at all…
The thoughts went round and round in his head, making reading impossible. He folded the book closed in his hands and replaced it on the shelf before allowing the fade-image of the temple to drift back into a half-formed dream. Shifting into a wolf, Solas threw his head back and howled. An announcement of his presence, an invitation to play. Mortal dreamers would not hear him, mages who were close-by might, if they were not caught up in other things, but it was not to them that he called.
Spirits of joy and mischief answered him, becoming wolves as well; their coats were silver, their forms smaller, but it did not matter. They bound up to him, their leaps graceful and long in ways no true wolf would manage; that did not matter either. Pride hovered on the edges, Solas banished it with a thought, it had no place here.
He crouched low, tail wagging in the air, and Mischief slunk up behind him, trying to nip his tail. But the Dread Wolf was clever, and this was not the first time he'd played this game. He spun around, catching Mischief on the ear, earning a yelp. A pink tongue lolled out of a snowy muzzle in silent laughter, before it was put away to be replaced by an impressive snarl. Mischief, understanding, yipped once before dashing away, and the Dread Wolf took off in chase, with Joy racing alongside.
Author's Note: This story is complete. Twenty chapters, plus an epilogue, and an extra with deleted/alternate scenes. I'll post regularly, though I've not decided exactly how often that will be. Hope you enjoy reading as much as I loved writing!