Chapter One; Where do all the good elves go?
He didn't know why he expected anything different this time. He guessed that the small part of him that still held the ability to hope wasn't housed in his left hand, otherwise he may be rid of that too. Yet the Ghilain Dalish camp was just as barren as all the others that he had managed to track down. Small clothes clung to dry on frayed ropes between trees, weapons and armours were left lazily strewn outside open tents and half empty cups and bowls littered tables and stumps all around. With each camp he found, he hoped to find a clue as to why the elves would leave so quickly as to take nothing with them, not even their treasured tomes on Elven history that the Dalish so protected against all odds. Perhaps it was because they discovered that most of their memories were in fact nothing but mistranslated lies and whispers, whispers that have only grown more and more distorted across the ages. Or perhaps a great beast or plague urged them to flee with such haste, or a flood, slide or storm. The retired Inquisitor's questions remained unanswered. What did remain however, was the unease in the air; a sense of unease was generally felt by all travelling the footpaths of the Brecilian Forrest. Except when it came to the camp of the clan it was a sense of unease enough to caution the likes of bandits and looters, spiders and birds, from entering and plundering what remained. He drove his longsword into the ground outside what he deduced was the tent and cart of the clans Keeper and began to plunder through the haystack of books and grimoires.
He grunted and exhaled deeply as he was immediately met with nothing more than more of the same. Transcribed lore of the Elvhen pantheon, healing tonics, a daemonology index, a census of the clans members etc. Hours passed, words blurred across the page and the once Inquisitor decided it was drawing time to call the Ghilain Clan just another dead end. He fell to his knees and dropped his head to his hand, eyes fixed on the ground, feeling numb except for the breath that he let in and out and the weight of his eyelids. He exited the tent and sat on a stump next to a rack of dry wood left next to a long extinguished burning fire. He thought about how Corypheus hadn't managed to see him to the side of any god or maker, how many had tried and none had succeeded. But this quest for answers, to save his friend, may just drive him to that point. He couldn't take another dead end. Another month of searching the furthest corners of damp woods and rocky coastlines and high mountains only to find another quickly abandoned camp to learn yet another method of effectively mixing elfroot. He threw fresh wood on the old fire and lit it, deciding simultaneously to rest there for the night before returning to Drakons River and back to Denerim, empty handed.
He imagined that outside the camp the forest would be alive with the howls of wolves and yet under his particular spot of moonlight within the camp, the only sound was the rumble of his stomach, the blood in his ears and the crackling of the fire. He longed for the comfort of Skyhold, the warmth of his beloved next to him. The breath on the back of his neck. He raised his hand to the pendant around his chest. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the sending crystal. Moments that felt like ages passed before he heard the word that made him feel safer than Skyhold ever did. "Amatus," Grayson opened his eyes to see Dorians' face reflected in the calm flames of the campfire, "are you alright?"
"I'm fine. I just wanted to check in," Trevelyan lied.
"My love, you may excel at a lot of things, slaying demons, reshaping continents...but lying isn't one of them. Your heart is heavy, I can feel it as though it were my own. Talk to me."
"I hate talking to you through reflections, Dorian. Whether I see your face in the quake of flames, or the ripples of a lakeside...it's not the same."
"Magic isn't perfect, as you know, had I the power to bring you to me at the snap of a finger, the world would burn because we wouldn't get anything done," Dorian said cheekily in a veiled attempt to lift Grayson's spirits.
"I'm serious Dorian." Much to no avail.
"I know. I hate it too," he replied, "come to me my love, Minrathous is lovely this time of year."
"You know I can't," Grayson replied quickly, growing increasingly tired or Dorian's attempts to make light of their situation.
"You mean you won't," Dorian threw back bluntly, "you thought it yourself earlier, Grayson. This stupid quest to save someone who doesn't want to be saved may actually be the thing that kills you!"
Grayson's brow furrowed, "Where did you-"
"You know the crystal does more than just allow me to converse with you. This magic may not be perfect but it does give me a window into your mind. You can't lie to me, so it's best you stop trying and save us both some time." Grayson met Dorians' gaze through the flicker of the fire. A look into those dark pools and all frustration faded from him. " I don't want to fight, Amatus."
"Me neither," he conceded, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't take my frustrations out on you."
"So you found the Ghilain Clan then? I take it Ameridans' lineage didn't bare much fruit?"
"If it did it was taken with them when they left. I guess I'd hoped that this particular clan may have records of something that the others did not. Some secret they protected from the Ancient Age or earlier maybe. But their keepers library was basically a mirror image of near everything I've seen so far. I've searched every alienage of every major city in Thedas, searched the libraries of all the old Circles of Magi that didn't burn in the revolt, scoured Chantry records from the Anderfells to Antiva City...if the Dalish Clans continue to turn up nothing...I fear I don't know what to try next." Grayson suddenly felt an incredible wave of defeat. It was like a rock on the chest that pierced his breast plate right to his centre. Throughout every struggle that came with the Breach, the Anchor, the Orlesian game of court, the Qunari invasion, he always remained optimistic. He now feared his ability to be so was lost with the elves.
"Oh Amatus," Dorian began, his heart breaking twice; once for the heart break of seeling his beloved so subdued, and magnified by the actual feeling of it, "you cannot be so concerned with what comes next all of the time," he added, "otherwise one misses what is happening in the now. You made every effort, explored every lead and every option. If we cannot thwart Fen'Harel-"
"Don't call him that," Grayson snapped with a venom that virtually dripped from his lips.
"If we can't thwart Solas," obliged Dorian threw gritted teeth, "...before he destroys the world, then Maker knows we will thwart him the very second he tries, all of us, together."
"All of us?" Grayson retorted. "There is no us anymore, Dorian. After Solas left through the Eluvian...after Bull turned on us...after Stroud died...after the Inquisition was infiltrated by spies...I had no choice but to release them from the noose that the Inquisition had become. Everyone who made it through all that deserves what happiness...what purpose they've found. I can't ask them to give that up to fight another war. Cassandra, Tom, Sera, Josephine, Cole, Cullen-"
"All know that they owe what purpose and happiness they have found to the Inquisitor. To you. because of your sacrifices, just as I do. And they, and I, will drop everything at once to take up your cause once again. Maker knows Leliana would take off her silly Divine hat to answer a call from you before a call from Him!" Grayson hung on every word, he felt them as profoundly as he did the heat from the fire on his face and the smell of burning wood in his nose.
"How is it you always know just what to say when I have my pity parties?" Trevelyan smiled.
"Luckily I have time to rehearse because you're not a man who often wallows in pity. Another reason I love you by the way. Plus, thinking on your feet is essential for keeping ones head on ones shoulders when meeting with the Magisterium!" Dorian joked however sincerely. Grayson rolled his eyes with a grin. Reading Graysons' expression, Dorian continued, "you're tired my love. I can feel it so I know you can. Choose your enemies, Amatus, don't make sleep one of them."
"Ever the voice of wisdom," he uttered through the same grin. "I left Harding chasing a lead at an Inn just off of the West Road, a merchant drunkenly boasting about trading supplies to a group of travelling elves supposedly headed toward Ostagar. I'll check back in with you when I leave the Inn. Please try to keep your head on those shoulders in the meantime," Grayson jibed. Dorian's smile flickered in the fire and reflected brightly in Trevelyan's green eyes. Dorian knew he would sleep all the better knowing he'd lifted his spirits, even if just a little.
"Says the man sleeping alone in the forest in an abandoned camp!"Dorian uttered light-heartedly, "really I think you want me to lay awake at night with worry!"
"Goodnight," Grayson breathed, his grip on the pendent loosening and the visage of Dorian fading from bright flame to smoke.
"Amatus wait," Grayson gripped the pendent tight, "promise me. P-promise me that...that if Harding's lead is another dead end, that you'll head straight for the nearest port along the coast of the Waking Sea, get on the quickest vessel you can find, whether it be a pirate ship or the back of a fucking mermaid...and come to me."
"Dorian," Grayson began.
"I'm not saying abandon your quest...I know asking you to give up would be like trying to get Varric not to cheat at a game of Wicked Grace, but just come to me, be with me, just for a while. The Dread W- Solas...isn't going anywhere. It's been three years since the crossroads and he still hasn't made any serious move for power. We can steal some time together surely. Can't we? Please tell me that we can." Grayson paused for a while, his heart beating so boldly it almost dented his breast armour, his eyes stinging from trying to feign strength, ignoring how futile that attempt is because of the crystal he loathed and loved. He blinked away a single tear. He opened his mouth to speak but his breath caught in his throat. He cut his gaze from Dorian and shot it to the canopy of withered trees above him.
"I love you, Dorian," was all he could manage, the sense of defeat stronger than it ever was.
"Grayson-"
"I'll talk to you when I get to Harding, alright?" Trevelyan said hurriedly.
"Grayson!"
With that Trevelyan let go of the pendent and tucked it behind his armour, feeling the warmth against his skin. The fire dimmedand Dorian's voice was carried away with the smoke. The loud silence of the clans camp grew deafening as Trevelyan lay his head on the ground and closed his eyes. In that moment, the only thing stronger than his want for an end to what felt like an increasingly likely suicide mission, was his want for dreams of Minrathous at summertime, of nights not spent sleeping alone to fill his head for the remaining hours of darkness until the sun woke him in the morning.
When morning came, Trevelyan washed his face as best he could in a stream that ran the outskirts of the camp. He knelt beside the stream and while letting his bottle fill he allowed his gaze to wander. It fell on a small pile of stones, possibly arranged as a shrine or grave, just down the stream. He got to his feet and wandered over, blinking away the night terrors of demons that had plagued him the night before. The carvings on the stone were ages withered, whoever or whatever the stones commemorated was another mystery lost to time. Beside the stones lay a small velveteen book, undamaged by rain or scavengers. Trevelyan, sapped of hope of finding anything other than a deep mushroom stew recipe, almost bitterly kicked the book into the stream. Fighting this urge he raised the book to his eyes and unfolded the cover. The name 'Lanaya' was scribbled in ink on the parchment. He went to turn it over when something silently fell from between the pages to the ground. Upon quick glance the book revealed itself to be the personal journal of the clan's Keeper. The last written words were a brief entry reading, "some have confessed to hearing the howl of the Dread Wolf's temptation in the forest winds. Can it be true? Has the Dread Wolf called on us? I've sent a raven to the surrounding clans and called for early Arlathvhen. Mythal keep us." Trevelyan's head began to spin.
Finally something. He didn't know exactly what. But something. Not just ghosts and empty beds. His capacity for hope that ran like a dry well suddenly burst like a dam, flooding every vein in his body. He crouched to the ground and discovered it was a Wicked Grace card of the Serpent of Deceit that had fallen from within the pages. Sprawled on the back, as if written with such haste that whoever Keeper Lanaya was, Trevelyan knew that it was one of the last things she did before the change, perhaps the last thing she did before the Dread Wolf's howl whispered to her too.
-Bones of an immortal
-Feather of a Griffon
-The tears of a High Dragon
-Mercy of a Demon
-Blood of a hero.
Trevelyan's legs began to buckle beneath him. He had no idea at that point what he'd discovered, but knew it was something crucial. It had to be. Suddenly his excitement broke at the sound of a raven squawking at the streams edge. Other than Trevelyan, this raven was the first bit of life this camp had seen in years, its gaze fixed on Grayson's green eyes. Trevelyan tucked the serpent card into Keeper Lanaya's diary and deposited it into his sack. He edged to the bird, who didn't flinch or avert its gaze, and noticed the small rolled note tied to its leg. He knelt to take the note and unrolled it, his heart beating so fast, a satisfied smile growing on his face. Finally, after all this time, after everything, every night spent alone with only bugs for company if he was lucky, the tide was in his favour. He hurriedly scrutinised the note under the gaze of his green eyes. His smile faded, his strength feigned. He dropped to his knees, so hard that he disrupted the stones beside him. The raven cried out one last time before taking to the skies and leaving the scene and Trevelyan alone once again. The note dropped into the stream and the ink began to wash away. It once read;
Inquisitor Trevelyan,
Josephine Montilyet is dead. You must go to Kirkwall at once. I fear for the rest of you. For my love. For us all.
Admiral Isabela of the Raiders of the Waking Sea.