Author's Note: This chapter has a soundtrack: Young God by Halsey.
Disclaimer: BioWare owns Dragon Age and its characters. I just play with them.
Chapter 1 - Sloth
We lost eternity
Time won't help when the land of dreams is no longer our journey
We try to lead despite the eventual failing of our markings
To the inevitable and troubling freedom we are committed
When we could no longer believe, we lost glory to war
When the Wolf failed, we lost the People to war
9:42 Dragon
Skyhold
Ellana Lavellan—former First to the Lavellan clan's Keeper, now Herald of Andraste and leader of the new Inquisition, servant to the will of Mythal—stared morosely into the mirror on her vanity in her quarters and tried to find herself. But a stranger stared back at her in the reflection.
For the past twenty-four hours, fifteen minutes, and thirty-four seconds she'd studied herself.
The white-blonde hair was familiar. As was the rigid hairstyle it was pulled back into—two long braids that were woven intricately at her nape, not a single hair out of place.
The eyes were familiar too—a sharp silver color that brought to mind silverite. They were her mother's eyes, or so she'd been told, and her only pretty feature. But she didn't recognize the plain face those eyes were set in.
Ellana turned her chin, studying this face. The pointed ears and wide cheekbones felt right enough, but the lack of any intricately designed tattoos was utterly foreign to her. Only days ago they'd covered her face completely, the ink black as pitch and stark against her pale skin. But now…
Thirty-five hours, ten minutes, and twenty seconds ago, she'd let the man she loved alter her face. Why? The answer was hard to find now as she stared at a face she did not recognize, feeling lost in a dark well of grief.
At the time, she'd thought Solas had wanted the marks gone, that they somehow disgusted him. She'd agreed because she wanted to please him. She wanted him to think her pretty. She wanted…
She was a fool, she chastised herself now with an angry shake of her head.
A fool with an altered face.
A fool who'd changed herself physically for a man.
Pathetic.
A pathetic fool.
With a permanently altered face.
She'd spent years designing the tattoo, at least conceptually on parchment and in her mind. She'd wanted it to tell of the elf she was—intelligent, bold, gifted with magic, at times wise beyond her years, and passionate about her people's culture. Direct and unapologetic bluntness had always been her preferred operating style over a diplomatic and civilized conversation. She wasn't above shamelessly using her power and title as a way of browbeating obstinate opponents into obeying her commands. As a result, some called her a bully and a thug.
She didn't get along well with people. She knew that. She knew she could be difficult. Apart from her unfortunate temper, she really was a nice girl, honest she was. She was just bitter about her people's plight, distrusting of humans, and opinionated. "Strong minded" was one she heard often, so was "bitch".
She didn't have any family. They'd all been killed and she'd been orphaned at the age of six after a group of human bandits had attacked her clan. She'd never had many friends either. Not even among her clan. She was First to the Keeper. She was always secluded. She studied magic and history while the others were learning the Vir Tanadhal. Even at Skyhold she was secluded. Everyone treated her differently, like she was some sort of demigod, which she wasn't. She trusted very few, couldn't find it within herself to trust humans.
Now, as she sat there at her vanity with her face completely bare, she felt so lonely she would have given anything at that moment to see her clan again. But what would her clan say if they ever saw her face?
Horror suddenly struck her.
Elgar'nan! What would the Keeper say if she ever saw him again? How was she to explain this?
Andaran atish'an, Keeper! My face? Oh, well, you see, I fell in love with an elf who magically took the vallaslin from my face and then proceeded to shatter my heart beneath his heel. How are the halla?
Her clan already considered her a traitor to the elven gods for being the Herald of Andraste. If they saw her face, saw how she'd washed away their blood, they'd undoubtedly exile her.
Ellana winced at that doom-laden forecast and she watched the unfamiliar face in the mirror wince back at her.
It was all Solas' fault, she thought bitterly.
In the beginning Solas had taken her under his wing as a protégé of sorts, becoming her hahren. But she'd instantly taken to thinking of him as more than just her Fade expert, as a figure of wisdom.
Befriending Solas had been so effortless, so simple, like breathing. Yes, Solas was fifteen years older than her and more experienced while she was a naive five years and twenty, but the age difference had never been a problem for them. They'd formed a bond of friendship almost immediately. And then they'd found there was explosive chemistry between them.
She'd fallen in love with him without any thought of a different course of action. It had just happened. She knew it was crazy but found it impossible to resist. Nothing had prepared her for the depth of it or alerted her to how vulnerable she was making herself to him.
She'd felt she'd known Solas, but now she didn't think she'd ever known him at all.
Self-loathing boiled through her. Even after two years she still knew almost nothing about him. The only thing she really knew about Solas was that he was as mysterious as he was volatile. So very, very volatile. Like magic. He seemed so refined, imperious and austere all the time, where formality and reserve as chilling as ice seemed to rule him. But then there were moments when his passion and conviction would blaze like an inferno, like when he'd burned those mages alive for killing his friend, a spirit of wisdom. Other times, when he was alone with her, he could be so incredibly tender, so honestly affectionate.
He alternated between fiery heat, lacerating cool, compassionately warm, and darkly seductive. He could switch from one mood to the other within seconds. He was an enigma wrapped in a riddle dipped in a mystery. What you saw was most definitely not what you got. But at least she saw more than most. It had made her feel special, but had also blinded her to his inevitable rejection.
She should have realized what was happening to her and been terrified by it - walking off a cliffedge and falling… and falling… and falling into something that she should have known would end up hurting her. He'd given her enough hints. But she'd hidden behind ignorance and denial, and for a few brief, blissful moments in time she had allowed him to make her feel desired and wanted and loved.
But it had all been an illusion, a chimera made of delicate crystal glass that had shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.
She was still laboring beneath the weight of the nullifying shock that the first man in her entire life to ever show any kind of real interest in her couldn't bring himself to love her in return.
He'd never said he loved her. Not once.
She'd foolishly believed he'd actually cared for her, and yesterday he'd decided that he couldn't let her continue on believing in something that didn't exist. Her worst suspicions were confirmed when she'd confessed her love for him for the first time in the hope of drawing a reassuring response and he'd just stared at her, saying nothing. It had been a full-scale demolition of her inflated expectations. She'd never been so humiliated in her life.
"I'm sorry," was all he'd said in the end, quietly and so gently that she'd almost crumpled in a heap of misery on the grass, her heart ripped out and replaced with an empty cavern full of nothing but the hollowing ache of desolate rejection.
Ellana glared at the bare face of a stranger in her mirror, her eyes stinging with a hard-to-take sense of personal bitterness in knowing that he could leave her so easily, hurt her so easily, that made her wish she had never met him in the first place! Two high spots of color flared over her taut cheekbones. She would never forgive him. Not if he crawled and begged for a hundred years!
At her most vindictive, she wished she could've punched him. She wished she could've shoved him, called him a son of a bitch, and hit him. She must have been temporarily insane to have agreed to start a relationship with him!
Elgar'nan, why had she kissed him that first time in the Fade and doomed herself to this pain? Why had he encouraged it when he was just going to break her like this? Why had he kissed her with fire, with the kind of raw desperation and burning heat that could only exist in another world? Why—?
She choked on a strangled sob, then quite ruthlessly controlled herself, refusing to succumb to the intolerable ache inside her that could actually make her physically ill.
Fiercely, Ellana brushed away the tears welling in her eyes. She never cried. It made her ashamed of herself for shedding them. She had to pull her battered emotions together. She was the Inquisitor, for Creators sake! There was no love in war. She had to quit pitying herself and stop pinning for a man who had made it abundantly clear that he didn't want to be with her.
Anger suddenly rose inside of her, anger at her stupidity. She had only herself to blame. He had warned her again and again and she'd never listened – too caught up in the illusion.
Well, it was over now. There was no point continuing to want what he wouldn't give her, didn't even want to give her, she reflected painfully. She only wished now that she'd kept her stupid mouth shut about loving him. At least then she could have walked away from him with some semblance of dignity intact.
At that moment a raven flew through her open window along with the night breeze. The black bird landed on the vanity in front of her. The Inquisitor removed the note from the small metal canister attached to the bird's leg.
It was a summons from Josephine.
Moments later and Ellana dragged herself away from her solitary sanctuary and stood uneasily in the throne room. She hadn't dared to so much as step out of her quarters after returning from that secluded cove in Crestwood for fear of being waylaid by people she did not want to see or talk to.
Her gaze nervously scanned the throne room—lingering on the door to the atrium. She was afraid to death that Solas would come walking out at any second to find her looking as devastated as she knew she did.
Living under the same roof as Solas since he dumped her last night had become an agonizing ordeal. No matter how hard she tried she found it impossible to rise above that rejection and behave as if nothing had happened. She just couldn't bear to be in the same room as him. She just couldn't bear to look at him or speak to him. Thankfully, she hadn't had to yet.
She sighed with relief when he didn't walk out of the atrium. Despite her anxiety, she knew he wouldn't. She'd given her companions the day off to see their family and loved ones before their fight with the Elder One. Solas had left with the others. She didn't know where he was, and was convinced she didn't much care. All she knew was that she felt very much like dying, that she was wretchedly miserable.
Moments later, she entered the Inquisition ambassador's chambers after a quiet knock on her door.
"Josephine, you wanted to see me?" Ellana found a smile from somewhere that only just made it.
The gorgeous, Antivan woman looked up from her desk and gasped in shock. "Inquisitor?! Forgive my surprise. I hardly recognize you. Your face is… I admit, I know little of their meaning, but I did not think it was possible to remove Dalish tattoos."
A sudden stillness grabbed hold of her, and Ellana felt it freeze the muscles in her face. "Most Dalish would agree with you—and see little value in doing so."
Josephine frowned. "Then how—?"
A delicate blush, barely perceptible, tinted the Inquisitor's cheeks. "It was done in a… private moment."
Josephine eyed her with something soft and tender that looked akin to pity. It made her want to vomit.
"You and Solas… something's there, isn't there?" Josephine asked with a sickening amount of empathy.
"You think so, do you?" she asked dismissively, schooling her voice to sound bored, trying to keep calm.
"Yes, you look at him all the time, and then you look embarrassed and pretend you're busy with something else." A small, sad smile pulled at her lips. "And every time you look away, he stares at you with those sad, longing eyes."
Ellana swallowed and looked away. She didn't, couldn't get into that one. Not now. Not when it felt as if her whole world was balancing precariously on the edge of a great, yawning precipice.
"You wanted to see me about something?" Ellana had to force the words out of her tight throat, trying desperately to sound indifferent.
"Right, forgive my curiosity," Josephine apologized swiftly. "I asked you here because I met with all of your companions yesterday to… to make arrangements for them should the worst come to pass. The final battle with Corypheus could be any day now and it's very likely that we will lose people."
Elgar'nan, how depressing, Ellana thought glumly, her gaze returning to the ambassador.
"Have you any family I can contact on your behalf, Inquisitor, should you… you know… not survive the battle?" Josephine prompted gently.
Even though it hurt, she turned her head away in self-protection again. "Nobody."
"There's got to be somebody. Your clan? Keeper? A friend, a relative, surely?" she persisted, each words like a knife to the ribs.
"I've got nobody," Ellana muttered in a voice that wobbled in spite of all her efforts to control it. "The Keeper said I was not to return, not as the Herald of Andraste. And he wouldn't want to see me like…" Her voice faded to nothing as her hand rose to unconsciously touch her cheek bare of ink, a lump forming in her throat.
"Inquisitor, is something wrong?" Josephine asked in a small voice with troubled eyes.
"I'm fine," Ellana said as she bit the inside of her cheek. How many times had she repeated that in the last day?
She didn't look well. She knew that. There were bruises around her eyes and a white ring of tension around her mouth. Her skin was too pale, and her fingers trembled where they rested on her lap.
"Inquisitor, are you ill?" Josephine asked with concern.
I am, she thought. Soul-sick and heartbroken.
"I'm fine," Ellana repeated, gritting her teeth. "Look, if I die fighting Corypheus tomorrow or the next day, just… I don't know… just scatter my ashes off the Storm Coast and send a note to my clan to let them know."
Josephine directed an utterly pitying look at her and Ellana escaped quickly, unable to bear the sight of it.
Minutes later, the Inquisitor found herself in the middle of her room, not remembering how she'd gotten there. But as she stood there the night stretched before her like a blank slate, shorn of anticipation, excitement and happiness.
She took a step toward her balcony when a burning pain sliced through the muscles in her left hand, like they'd been cut and were contracting along rough, bloodied vessels inside her palm. She cried out as unimaginable pain shot up her arm, her left hand sparking to life, filling her room with its eerie green light. Her other hand instinctively went under her glowing hand to clutch it close to her chest.
She managed to take a few terrible, ungainly steps before stumbling to the ground. In her hand the pain was extraordinary and violent. Her body convulsed with torment. The pain filled her fingers and palm, and it cut like broken glass, and her cries became sharp and shrill. She felt as if she were coming apart, as if the ancient elven magic was killing her for daring to use it, and in that moment she almost would have welcomed such an end.
With a pain-stilted groan she rolled over onto her back on the floor in front of her fireplace, and somehow in the cloud of pain that enveloped her, in the shroud laid over her by the magical currents that felt as though they were peeling back the skin from her bones, she realized that she was dying after all.
"Your mark is spreading and it's killing you."
Cassandra's words from so long ago smashed into her like a Winter's Grasp, chilling her from the inside out. Her stomach plummeted and her vision blurred as she looked down at her left hand, at the Mark pulsing there, remembering what Cole had said to her only a few days ago.
"Your hand hurts, more than ever. It's slowly pulling you apart. You don't have much time. I'm sorry."
It hit her then, like a slow, rolling tide. Her hand was dying from magic too old and too powerful for one such as her to endure.
I'm going to die from the Anchor or Corypheus.
Ellana took a deep breath and let that irrefutable fate settle in her chest. It slid down slowly like a piece of ice into her stomach where it melted and chilled her from the inside out, encasing her in ice, leaving a desolate coldness lingering in her bones.
She really did have the worst sort of luck, she thought as she managed to get herself to her feet, holding her still throbbing hand close to her chest.
How much time do I have left to live? A month? A week? A day?
In an instant of searing honesty, Ellana recognized that her life was not at all what she had once dreamt it would be.
She had no clan.
No Keeper.
No family.
No friends.
The few companions she had here at Skyhold were going to leave her in a day or so if they killed Corypheus to return to their own lives.
Even the Inquisition would be disbanded soon and there would be no need of her, no life for her to return to.
She had no children.
No husband.
Creators! She'd only ever been kissed three times in her life! All by Solas.
This Mark on her hand was a cancer that would expand until it killed her. She was going to die soon and the life she'd lived had been filled with nothing but duty, blood, and death and three stolen kisses.
I'm going to die a virgin.
She could not stop the thought from coming and, once there, it left her numb and even more miserable.
She tried to move and found she couldn't—couldn't remember how to make her limbs work. Her face felt stiff and drawn downwards, her shoulders aching from the rod of tension braced across them. Her head was throbbing, her stomach was queasy, and her eyes were burning in their sockets—not tearful, but hot and dry.
Time ticked by, the quietness of the room having no effect on her whatsoever. Her hands hung limply at her sides now, her fingers feeling oddly heavy. Her mouth drooped downwards too, as though a weight was tugging on each corner.
You should be celebrating your freedom not wallowing in self-pity, Ellana thought as she continued to stare blankly at the floor. Life is far too short for regrets. You only get one life and you've already wasted the last two years of it on him. Sometimes you have to be true to yourself to make the most of it.
It was a foreign concept to Ellana, who had been forced to put other people's feelings and needs ahead of her own. But now that her own world had come crashing down around her she could see how being true to herself could give her the freedom to do exactly as she liked, seek out that which she'd always wanted but which Solas would never give her.
Tonight would be the perfect night to do something about what she regretted most. All of her companions were gone from Skyhold and wouldn't be returning until tomorrow. The rest of the Inquisition was still making their way back from the Arbor Wilds. The only people that were here were some of the Inquisition's agents, Bull's Chargers, and a handful of nobles and refugees. She could go to the Herald's Rest and find someone who could—
She swallowed both tears and hysteric laughter, her fingers flying up to her mouth to cover the piercing sound that escaped her.
Madness. It had to be. Why else was she standing here thinking of sneaking off to a tavern to seduce a complete stranger? She'd always wanted to lose her virginity to someone who would cherish the experience as much as her. She wanted it to be with someone she loved and who loved her back. She wanted it to mean something more than just sex. But that was just a dream, and she was running out of time.
Tomorrow could be the day your name is etched in stone, she told herself fiercely. Why not do something about it?
Ellana lifted her chin then to stare at her altered face in the mirror. She was changed now, wasn't she? Changed down to the bone. Solas had done that to her. Why not go all the way? Why not change entirely? How good it would feel to be someone else, especially tonight.
She watched her hands rise slowly to her hair. One by one, she pulled the pins and bands from her hair. Long, white-blonde hair fell in straight strands to her waist.
She ran her fingers through her hair and winced when she was attacked without warning by a tormentingly painful image of Solas' fingers sliding gently through those same white-blonde locks with a look of pure, unadulterated adoration in his eyes.
Don't ever get it cut.
With his softly spoken words echoing in her mind, Ellana gathered her long hair in a fist at her nape and, with a swift swipe of her dagger, cut right through it.
Over twenty inches of blonde hair fell flutteringly to the floor around her.
She placed her dagger on the vanity, the ends of her freshly cut hair falling to just below her ears as she sullenly surveyed her reflection.
Plain and average, that was her. There was nothing about her looks that was striking or eye-catching. She was of average height for an elf with a slender figure that was lacking in feminine curves and muscle due to her being a mage and not a rogue or a warrior like the rest of her clan.
Insecurity, doubt, and hesitation assaulted her. Would she even be able to find someone else so soon? What if no one wanted her… just like Solas?
To her chagrin, it was this last thought that she worried over the most.
It was a poor position she was currently in, especially without the beauty or outrageousness that might garner a second glance. She didn't attract the opposite sex, never had. She'd never had the time nor the opportunity. Sure there had been a few hunters who'd asked her out from time to time, and occasionally she had accepted, only to discover that they didn't want her company, they wanted sex. And that was why they had approached her. She was plain and they'd undoubtedly imagined that she would be so grateful for the attention that she would fall into their bedroll on the first outing with the barest minimum of effort.
She didn't want to be plain tonight. She didn't want to be her tonight. She needed a change. But she didn't know how.
Perhaps Josephine would help her.
Nearly thirty minutes later, Ellana returned to her quarters from Josephine's room. Catching a glimpse of her new self in the mirror, she did a double-take because it was like looking at a total stranger!
Ellana stated at her reflection—at her short, choppy, white-blonde hair that framed a face that was expertly made-up by the far more experienced Josephine. A willowy body encased in Antaam-saar armor, which Leliana had given to her weeks ago, that gave a tantalizing view of exposed skin. More skin than she'd ever shown in her entire life.
If the Keeper saw her dressed like this, he'd have died of horror.
So, do you wear it? she wondered pensively, eyeing the blood-red ropes that wrapped around her upper arms and crossed over her chest just above the ring velvet that covered only her breasts. Her back was completely bare, revealing an unholy amount of milky-white flesh, except for the crimson ropes that crossed over her shoulder blades. Her stomach was also completely bare—from just below her breasts to her hipbones were more red rope held up loose black pants that tucked into black boots.
Yes, I'll wear it, she thought, answering her own question.
She needed to be someone else tonight—the woman she was staring at right now—an illusion. A disguise the real Ellana could hide behind. This was the disguise that would allow her to take a chance, gather her courage, and put forth her desires. And no one would recognize her like this, not the prim and proper Dalish elf who always wore demure keeper robes that covered her from neck to ankles.
She put on her dark blue winter cloak. As she put on a pair of black gloves to hide the Mark on her hand, she realized she'd never been more anxious and nervous at the same time.
Was she about to commit a huge mistake? Could she live with herself after tomorrow? Could she really give herself to someone that wasn't Solas?
She lifted her head and squared her shoulders as if that might ease the thumping void behind her ribs. She refused to let herself think about tomorrow. Solas didn't love her, didn't want her, so it wouldn't hurt anyone if she went through with this, would it?
His own fault, she defended her reasoning as she headed down the stairs. He didn't want her, and knowing that had given her the incentive to go through with this!
Outside was bitter cold. The midnight sky was so clear, the moon rising over Skyhold, lighting its ancient stones. A fog was rolling in and carried a light mist and the scent of winter. All was quiet, save the wind, which rustled the leaves on the trees that surrounded her as she crossed the lawn toward the Herald's Rest.
The Inquisitor paused at the tavern door. Her heart pounded and deep in her stomach was a bundle of fraying nerves.
What am I doing? Am I crazy? Am I on the edge of a breakdown to be inviting an intimacy that I don't even want?
But she did want it. She knew exactly what she was doing, didn't she…? Didn't she?
For an instant Ellana had a frightening glimpse of her own emotional turmoil and knew that she was actually on the brink of an abyss, knew that she simply couldn't bear the thought of returning to her room, to the long, lonely hours of the night which stretched ahead, knew that experiencing love, anyone's love, would be a balm to her savaged ego and her shredded heart.
Ellana's hand flexed then fisted before pushing the door open, and she used that moment to take a deep breath to prepare herself for what was to come next. It didn't help much, and a fresh attack of nerves almost had her turning to run in the opposite direction before this decision of hers was taken right out of her hands. She removed her winter cloak and hung it on the coat stand in the corner by the door.
With a straightening of her spine, Ellana moved into the tavern as gracefully as always, and so well controlled that no one would have known how badly her insides were shaking or that her throat was tight with a mixture of anxiety and apprehension at what she was allowing herself to do. Yet, abhor herself as she undoubtedly did, her footsteps did not falter nor did her resolve. The stakes were too high and the rewards at the end of it too great to allow any room for doubt.
The tavern was dimly lit with candles and the air was filled with smoke and the scent of alcohol. A bard was playing her lute, but the sound could barely be heard over the idle chatter of the patrons that were lonely and scoping for that next one-night stand. No one took interest in her.
Good.
The Inquisitor's steel-colored eyes scanned the tavern, searching for anyone she knew. No sign of Solas or any of her companions or advisors. She saw some people she recognized, but no one seemed to recognize her.
Good.
She made her way through the people that seemed to collect in the middle of the room and never move. She headed for the bar, getting a quick pinch along her path but she never saw who had done it. Taking a stool at the bar, she ordered.
Instead of pouring the tea she'd ordered, the young, human, male bartender poured a shot of lime green liquid into a glass before pushing it towards her across the solid oak bar.
Ellana eyed the glass warily. "I don't drink alcohol."
"You do tonight," the bartender answered with a sympathetic look. "You've got the loneliest eyes I've ever seen."
Ellana stared down at the glass. "What is it?"
"Qunari whiskey and a few other stuff I really shouldn't mention," he replied. "It's called Qamek."
A blonde eyebrow rose. "Why do they call it that?"
"Because it will knock you on your ass and wipe out your memory." He smiled. "Drink up, rabbit."
Ellana bristled, her pointed ears burning. "Call me 'rabbit' one more time, shemlen, and I'll rip one of your eyes out so you can watch me beat you with the other."
Watching the bartender scurry away fast in fear, apologizing profusely, Ellana tossed back the glass and downed its entire contents in a single swallow, feeling the alcohol burning down her throat and into her chest and stomach. She felt the effects immediately, warming and startling.
After another drink, she became more bold in looking around, but no one recognized her.
She swept the room covertly with her eyes again and was shocked to find a few lascivious looks aimed her way. She thought it would make her skin crawl like it did the few times she'd received such looks from Dalish hunters. But it didn't. It felt shamelessly, unbelievably good and like an elixir to her flaying self-esteem: a short-term anesthetic against the enormous pain waiting to jump on her—the pain she could not yet face head-on again. As long as she didn't think, let the alcohol take away her ability to feel, she could protect herself and gather the courage to follow through with this insane plan of hers.
After three more drinks, the Inquisitor decided to take action.
She stood up from her stool at the bar and turned to face the patrons of the tavern. She swayed drunkenly on her feet as she finished off her drink before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"I want to lose my virginity tonight," she slurred to them. "Is there anyone who wants to… who might be…" she hiccupped. "…is there anyone who can help me?"
Author's Note: I know Solas says he loves the Inquisitor on the balcony scene in the Game, but in this story he hasn't said it.
