She expected to find him perched on the scaffold, paint smudging his fingers and perhaps his face, lost in the final panel of his mural. That he would forgo the party to complete it did not surprise her; Solas could be reclusive even on the best of days.
In her hands she carried a scarlet napkin, an assortment of tiny Orlesian pies folded within. Mostly lamb and sage, his favorite, but a few that smelled of herbs and elfroot and reminded her of home. Hopefully she could coax him from his perch and convince him to eat, maybe smile if she was lucky. He had been nearly distraught over that elven orb, shattered with the death of Corypheus.
The door at the end of the hall was closed, and she nudged it open with her elbow, calling his name as she entered. She fell silent, seeing the room was dark. Even the veilfire sconce on the wall, an ever-present greenish glow, was snuffed out.
"Solas?" she repeated, slowly. Silence, even the music and laughter from the main hall so faint she could barely hear it.
A wave of her hand and the torches along the wall blazed to life, bathing the room in warm orange light. The scaffold was empty, the final painting barely half-finished. She approached the desk in the center of the room, which had seemingly been cleared of all his belongings. All but a single neatly folded parchment, bulging around an object contained within, a single word written on it in his flowing hand.
Lavellan.
There was the faintest tremor in her hands as she set aside the napkin and lifted the envelope, a prickle of apprehension in her chest. She turned it over, breaking the seal and carefully unfolding the paper. Inside was written a brief note, obscured by the length of leather cording coiled around…
The Anchor flared and stung when she touched the object, green sparks skittering after it as it clattered to the desktop. She hissed and shook her wrist, flexing her fingers as the mark fell dormant again.
It was his necklace. The fragment of a jawbone he had always worn, had sometimes fingered when deep in thought. Tentatively she reached for it again, and this time the Anchor did not respond. Lifting it, she ran her thumb along its edge. The pendant was smooth and denser than any bone she had encountered, though if it was blackened by fire or age she could not tell.
She looked from the pendant to the envelope, hoping for some sort of explanation. Quickly she read the few lines he had left her, and then read them again, searching. The paper drifted onto the desk as she sank back into his chair.
Ir abelas, vhenan. I go where I cannot ask you to follow.