They bring the prisoner in through the gilded doors.
Rusted iron drags across the white marbled floors, clacking loudly with each hampered step he takes. Down the length of the hall, nobles titter and talk behind manicured hands at the dirty elf whose skin is only clean where the shackles have made his wrists red. Clothes are torn and smeared, face haggard, but he straightens as much as he can as he approaches the Dread Wolf's throne.
A voice rings through the crystalline hall. "We bring forth Pherin tel Dales, a blacksmith from this beloved city, who murdered Aerinvathor tel Arlathan one month ago. He awaits final judgement."
Guards bring the accused down to his knees and Fen'Harel does not wince at the impact made, ignores the way a quiet hiss slips through clenched teeth. It would do little good to show his displeasure before this throng. "Do you have any words you wish to say before your sentence is announced?" the lord asks.
A tongue moves across cracked lips as deep and large brown eyes lift to face the cut of clear blue ones. There is awe in the gaze, reverence, and yet a determination unwavering from the daunting task. "I won't deny it. He was-he was forcing himself upon my daughter. I meant to only stop him and I…I killed him, but it was not in cold blood nor with true intent."
"Intent does not change what was done." There are few who know this better than the figure at the head of the room.
"I know, my lord. I only beg for understanding and mercy."
The air is quiet for a few moments, breathes held in anticipation, before the judgement falls. "And you have it. You will be executed by a swift blade tomorrow."
Pherin's face twists, all manner of supplication leaving him now that there is no reason for it. There is only anger and something like pity that digs daggers into Fen'Harel's chest. He has seen it before as the world burned and her love turned to ash. "How generous of you to spare me a painful death. Would an Elvhen meet with the same sentence in my place?"
"The payment for a life is one in return. It has always been our way."
Laughter barks from Pherin's mouth, broken as the guards yank him to his feet again. "Then you have struck a fool's bargain. We all know a Dalish life is not worth the same to you as an Elvhen!"
"Did you hear? He called Fen'Harel a fool."
"He deserves more than a clean death, the savage."
"Remove him." Fen'Harel's order echoes over the whispered gossip. A few more comments and curses fly from the prisoner's mouth, but the guards are quick to drag him from the glistening hall. Lord Fen'harel instead watches how the noble elven and elvhen begin to separate in the crowds, eyes narrowing and faces turning down in scowls. Fancy birds remembering the differences of their feathers.
He stands abruptly and all chatter stops. "We are finished for the day. Disperse."
Fen'Harel does not wait to see if they obey as he turns behind his throne and disappears through a curtained doorway. He walks on and on, metal boots clipping with each hurried step, reminding him of the prisoner's chains, until he is far from the crowds and staggered sentries. Alone, he pauses before a window open to the sprawling cityscape below.
Magic drifts through the air, translucent shimmering currents where spirits fly in between the Fade and the waking world with barely a thought. Golden spires reach high into the clear sky no longer scarred, white gleaming buildings and houses caught like clouds expand across the city. It is everything he remembers from his world, but some things have changed. His eyes glance towards the west where a visible line divides a small portion apart. The houses and stores were once vibrant colors alive with possibilities, but now many of them are faded, blackened by fires and circumstances.
The world of the Elvhen and of the surviving Elven, oil and water that resists mixing and sometimes does with a volatile force. For now, he can only hear the sound of seagulls calling, bells ringing in the distance to herald the coming hour, but he can feel the strain unseen, hear the earth shaking before the major quake. This was supposed to be the dream made real, not nightmares dredged up from both worlds. It was not supposed to happen this way, but she told him it would be so and like all the times before, he would not listen.
Fen'Harel glances away from his kingdom showing cracks and places a hand over his heart. He should have listened.
At least they are kind enough to remove his shackles for this last night.
Pherin rubs the tender flesh of his wrists gently as he paces his small cell. The window far from the ground offers little light in the night, but he has memorized the length of it during his month of captivity. He had nothing but time and now, now it is all but spent. Tomorrow he will die by the Dread Wolf's justice.
With a growl he plops down on the bench and throws his back into the hard, stone wall. There is no mercy to be found in the whims of the Elvhen, but he hoped Fen'Harel would be different. It was the ancient god that first held out his hand to the modern elves when they all emerged from the rubble of Thedas remade. For a time, it seemed every elf would finally find their place in the world, but something changed. The Dread Wolf rules from his ivory tower and does not walk among them anymore, does not see what has become of his creation. Or refuses to see.
"It looks quite cozy in there."
Pherin jumps back to his feet, gasping, as a strange voice fills his room. He glances towards the steel studded door, but there is no one peering through. The walls around him are thick, complete in their isolation.
"I'm sure you'd like to get out though."
He glances up to the window and finds a figure beyond shadowed by the night. "What…who…"
"Would you move back a little, please?"
His feet obey even if his mind is still trying to wrap around the fact that there is someone hanging outside his cell nearly fifty feet up in the air. There is a brief, blinding flash of light, the air wobbles, and he watches as the iron bars disintegrate into dust. They waste little time and climbs through to drop a few feet in front of him. Pherin can only see a shape in the dark, something large with pointed ears, and he slowly backs away until he bumps into the door.
A softer light fills in the room and reveals his companion. It is no beast, but his trepidation does not disappear completely. There are claws on their left hand made by a metal gauntlet that extends all the way up to shoulder, but a familiar body is encased in dark leather and cloth, a body he thinks might be feminine from the gentle curves. He cannot be completely sure for they wear a large mask covering most of their countenance. It is the top part of a wolf's face, a long black snout with dangerous teeth, yellow eyes, and russet fur that reminds him of dried blood draping behind their head and across their shoulders.
"Who…what are you?"
A smile greets him first. "I heard how you stood against the Dread Wolf today," she, he believes now that he can hear better, says. "Not many elven would dare to do such a thing."
"My fate was already decided. It didn't seem to matter."
"And do you think Fen'Harel deserves to pass judgement upon you from his polished throne?"
Pherin pauses before answering, wondering if this is some trap or trick. He doubts any of his kind would be able to pull of such a feat of obvious magic as to scale these walls. "There is…a lot of injustice in this world," he says carefully and watches the smile widen.
"There are many others that see the same things you do. There are many that would fight back against the oppression of the Elvhen before they are once again driven from their homes. They will fight for freedom and equality, and they could use someone of your skills to help. I will take you to them, if you so wish."
"I have not heard of this movement."
"That's because it truly begins today. With this, with you." She holds out her hand and he is happy to see no claws on this one, just long fingers. "Will you join us and bring justice to our world?"
In the distance, he hears the heavy footfalls of the guards walking the long corridors, a signal of his current fate and the inescapable reality of most of his kin. They are all prisoners beneath the heel of oppression when they were once promised with so much more. It was not the shemlen that lied to them this time, but their own, their god who betrayed them once more.
"What will become of Fen'Harel?"
"I will see him bleed."
Decided, Pherin reaches for her hand and watches her grin grow sharp.
"What happened?" Fen'Harel asks as he climbs the last of the steps to this level and follows the sentries. The hall is dimly lit but clean although there is a certain smell as he passes a series of cells. He will comment upon it later. These Dalish may be criminals, but he will not see them living in complete squalor.
"We are not sure. Magic was surely used, but we cannot tell how it was done. They left a strange marking upon the wall we have not seen before as well. Here it is, my lord."
Another guard holds open the door ahead of them and he sweeps by, shoulders squared and hands clasped confidently behind his back. His mannerisms abruptly change, however, body stiffening and feet sliding to a stop, once he is within. He does not notice the tipped over bowl in the corner, the scratch marks on the walls, nor the missing bars letting unfiltered sunlight stream through.
All of his attention is for the symbol chalked into the far wall and some forgotten feeling slithers up his spine. Breath becomes a difficult thing to catch, the blood in his veins roars, limbs struggle to hold the weight of his body and the realization of what it is, what it represents. For he has seen it before, has stood beneath those flaring lines of fire and the tip of the sword. He watched the last banner burn, a legacy never to be seen in this new world.
As Fen'Harel gazes into the all seeing eye of the Inquisition again, he realizes what that feeling latching on inside is. It is fear.
