Notes:
Feneradahl is an OC who carries ancient Elvhen blood. This fic occurs only a few months after she meets Abelas.
Elinan: Inquisitor and Solasmancer. At this point she is aware of Solas' true identity and is seeking the last remnant of Mythal's soul.
Sorry, not sorry for Abelas not sporting the white braid that has become canon in the Abelas thread. I think the explanation (fan generated, not canon) for ancient elves being bald is that they do cast a "no grow" spell in Uthenera to avoid waking up with a mass of matted hair and ridiculous nails.
Finally, it all belongs to Bioware. I'm just playing with their toys.
Interlude
The miles seemed endless, from the ancient bones of Arlathan Forest across the fields of the Free Marches and Nevarra and along the rocky headwaters of the Minanter River eventually exchanging their mounts for sturdy pack mules at an Inquisition outpost near Perendale before they began their ascent into the treacherous Hunterhorns. Ever westward they traveled, bound by the Well's unspoken compass, the Inquisitor its lodestone. Abelas held no purpose, no guide, other than the tattered remnants of millennium of service. His strides were long and steady even as his thoughts wavered and meandered, set adrift of purpose by time and circumstance. Mythal was long gone, the Dread Wolf bowed beneath guilt and necessary purpose. His Gods were lost or broken, the Temple a ruin, the Well interred in mortality. Mortality who sought the last fragment of his purpose and joy. Uthenera sang its siren song, a song many of the Sentinels lifted their voices to join. Yet Abelas felt incomplete, unworthy of a final rest without answers.
He had no need to lower his hood to place each of his companions on this journey, weary footsteps light and heavy, betrayed their presence before and behind. Bull's solid tread, his axe slung over his shoulder, close but not touching the fanciful trail of his lover as the Tevinter mage occasionally detoured in distraction. Cole's ghosting stride to the rear, steps felt in the faint shimmer of the fade as the former spirit struggled to reconcile human form. The Inquisitor, Elinan, her mark a beacon of other times overshadowing her soft prints in the dust. Last, Feneradahl's steady purpose, worn boots marking distance in repairs, new replacing old, the fate of Thedas told in worn leather and thin spun cord.
"Smoke on the horizon, enough to mean a village." The Inquisitor's dust clogged words drew her mismatched company from reverie.
"I do hope they have an inn. What do your elf gods have against cities anyway? I'm tired of sleeping on rocks and I do not wish to even think of ram jerky again."
"Your memory must be failing you, Vint. It is not rocks you usually sleep upon." Bull's good eye lazily appraised his partner, a grin tugging his lips.
"It was you I was referring to, you big ox. Qunari are lumpy." Dorian grumbled.
Bull's hearty laughter flushed a flock of partridge from the brush.
"The whistle of wings, sun on the trees, scent of summer in blooming flowers and pine laden air. Blessings of the land never change, do not bend to the turn of the ages." Cole's sing-song chant broke off as he realized his intrusion. "Sorry, Rada, it was peace, I did not mean to speak."
"Tel'abelas, Cole. I don't mind sharing such thoughts. Amid all the troubles of the world we must find happiness in the moment. A summer afternoon in the mountains with golden light warming the earth and the song of the wind in the trees, surely that is reason enough to celebrate life." Feneradahl's auburn braid dangled free as she lifted her face to the sun.
"Serannas, Lethallan. It is easy to forget." Elinan turned her gaze toward Abelas who, as usual, had not joined in the conversation. "Has abelas sunk so far into your bones that nothing brings you joy? Gods forbid, your smile is rarer than a Qunari dancing the remigold."
"Oh, I would pay to see that. And in a skirt too." Dorian threw a teasing glance at his lover.
"But what would you pay?" Bull replied as he executed the first steps of the complicated dance. Dorian tripped and nearly fell watching him, drawing a disgusted snort from Abelas.
The ancient elf turned from the clowning shemlen to the Elvhen keeping pace at his side. She was an odd creature. Elvhen not of Arlathan but after, who had walked through the ages while he had guarded and slept. Her steady gaze held no condemnation, no expectation, only acceptance.
Before Feneradahl's quiet blue gaze he found his lips tug upward slightly, almost but not quite, a smile. His hands lifted to push his hood back and allow the mischievous breeze to play with the thick strands of white hair growing again after his last long sleep.
It was near dark when they reached the town. Travel through the Hunterhorn Mountains was neither direct nor easy, even in high summer. And it was a town, dozens of homes and at least two inns nestled in the fertile farmland of the valley. Even a quick appraisal yielded signs of dwarven architecture and commerce suggesting proximity to Kal-Sharok as explanation for the thriving but remote community. They settled on the first of the two inns, a bustling hostelry crowded with an assortment of humans, elves, and dwarves.
Searching for a table Elinan spied two elves seated in a shadowed corner. The woman with Dirthamen's vallaslin looked up from conversation with her blonde partner, eyes widening slightly as she assessed their mismatched party. Whispered words and a grin from the blonde elf prompted her to wave them over. Within minutes Bull's grin and a few coins from the blonde elf with the odd tattoos had vacated a nearby table allowing both groups adequate seating.
"Zevran Arainai." The Crow bowed with a flourish before continuing. "I do wonder what brings Inquisitor Lavellan, the famed Iron Bull, Cole and Dorian Parvus the rebel Tevinter so far from the hub of civilization. Alas, it does seem my information is out of date though. It is a sad day when I do not have names for such lovely elves." Zevran flirted, hiding cautious appraisal behind his mask of interested sensuality.
"Feneradahl, my friend is Abelas." She attempted to steer the conversation as Abelas stood stiffly at her side. "If you are Zevran, then your companion must be Aithne Mahariel, the Hero of Ferelden."
"Shh, not so loud. Or I'll have to give a speech and wind up drinking half a barrel of beer to acknowledge all the toasts." The Hero laughed, tugging Zevran down beside her. "Sit. Or Zev will have to massage the crick out of my neck from looking up."
"But, my dear, a massage sounds like such fun." Zevran gave his love a wicked grin.
"Behave. What will they think of us?" Aithne winked at him while waving at the Inquisitor and her party to be seated.
Abelas remained standing, uncertain. The couple's vibrant and unconscious sensuality stirred memories long buried. Memories from before his life was service, long before service became sorrow. Rada's hand lit gently on his arm, bringing him back to the present. He sat gracefully in a chair next to her, as far from Hero, the Crow and the clamor of exhumed wants and desires they represented as possible.
He let the conversation eddy around him as food and drink were ordered and the Inquisitor bridged the gap from correspondent to friendship with the other elves. He was nursing a fourth beer after a filling meal before the Antivan turned his attention to the end of the table.
"The ladies do love a strong, silent type. A suggestion, though, if I may. If you do not wish a cold bed tonight you need to speak to one of them. Or, is it the fair Elvhen lass at your side you prefer?" Years of Crow training made keen observation as instinctive as breathing to Zevran. His desire to stir the pot was purely his own.
Abelas sipped his beer, ignoring the provocation.
"Or perhaps it is gentlemen you prefer. Alas, I am spoken for," Zevran's fingers idly toyed with the earring in his lover's ear, "but I am sure there are many others who would be happy to accommodate a handsome specimen such as yourself."
The sentinel found the nuances of his beer more intriguing than the brazen elf, failing to even turn his head in acknowledgement.
"Conversation is clearly not your strength, perhaps you should try poetry." With an impish gleam in his eye in spite of the warning squeeze on his thigh from Aithne, Zevran stood and recited.
"There is a lass from Ghislain,
Whose assets have made her quite vain.
When she unclothes,
The men fall in droves.
For her breasts are as big as her a…"
His recitation was interrupted by his lady unceremoniously pulling him back to the bench beside her. "That, that… Ugh, Zev, that one was truly awful." The rest of the table, saving only Abelas lost in memories and Cole who did not understand, dissolved into laughter with the Hero of Ferelden.
Feneradahl stilled her own amusement after only a quiet chuckle, concerned for her silent companion. She turned to check his reaction while Iron Bull, Dorian and Zevran engaged in a contest of indecent and puerile poetry. Abelas sat stoic, long fingers wrapped around his beer, eyes distant.
"It was for fun, to laugh at and laugh with, now and before. Break down the bowstring tight and relax. Not for hurt, he did not know you lost the memories, did not want to find them." Cole's concern drew Abelas back to the smoky tavern.
"It was long ago, before the Fall, even before I pledged service to Mythal." Abelas surprised himself with the words. Perhaps the beer was stronger than he thought.
"To old friends and tavern tales." Rada lifted her tankard in private toast.
Abelas paused, surprised she understood, before raising his own mug. He drained the earthy liquid only to have a barmaid refill it as soon as it came to rest on the scarred wood of the table. He should stop, the heavy stout was more than he was accustomed to, but the ghosts of the past mingled with the sun-warmed pine scent of auburn hair at his side, and he did not.
When the cards came out for Wicked Grace he declined play but stayed to watch. So intent was he on the Elvhen lady beside him he nearly missed the innkeeper slipping away from Zevran's seat, the glint of gold in his hand. The Antivan's saucy wink disturbed him however. Tired of the games, Abelas rose to depart for bed. Zevran's wink became a grin as the tavern erupted in a cheer. "To the newlyweds!"
A cacophony of drunken human and dwarven voices slurred a half dozen wedding songs as grasping hands pushed and prodded Abelas and Feneradahl toward the stairs. Bewildered and unwilling to start a drunken brawl Abelas turned back to the Crow, only to find a cocky grin and a shouted, "You're welcome."
He could only return a cold, "Fenedhis," before he lost sight of the smirking Antivan.
Thankfully the raucous crowd was cowed by his glare after forcing the two Elvhen into what was clearly the finest bedchamber the inn possessed. He shut and bolted the door against inebriated intruders and turned to find Rada dissolved in laughter.
"I fail to see what is so funny."
"This room…" Rada attempted to stifle her giggles, the beer she had consumed making the task more difficult than it should be. "This room is the only one on the east side of the inn above the stairs. All the other rooms are on the west side of the stairs."
"And?"
"We might be the only ones here who are spared Iron Bull and Cole's snoring." Rada chuckled again, "the Crow outsmarted himself this time."
"Possibly. We still need to sleep, and we have only the one bed." Abelas frowned, his life had not been one of luxury, but he had been looking forward to a proper bed after so many nights trying to avoid rocks. "I can take the floor."
"Why? I don't bite and I promise not to molest you in your sleep, no matter what the crowd outside thinks." Rada pulled a boot off and dropped it to the floor with a thud. "Unless you are afraid of the smell of my feet."
"No." Abelas moved around the bed and began methodically unbuckling his armor, laying each piece on a small table there.
"'No', you think I'll molest you, or 'no' you aren't afraid of my feet."
"No, the bed is fine and I'm not afraid of your feet."
"I'm glad, because if they smelled anything like Bull's I'd have to learn to wear those foot wraps the Dalish use again."
"They are lost lethallan, but at least they are lost in their own time." Too many beers, Abelas silently berated himself as thoughts slipped out as words.
"Sometimes, Abelas, home is not a place or a time, but something we find within ourselves. Now come to bed, we shouldn't waste the mattress. Tomorrow we'll be back to rocks."
"You may be right." Abelas allowed it then, the faint smile he held within the whole day. The smile he found in sunshine and pine-scented auburn hair.
He reached out to her in the moonlight; not in desire, he had been too long a servant to allow that – even in slumber, but for simple comfort. He dreamed that night, not of the wonders of Arlathan or the nightmare of murder and crystal towers falling, but of warmth and comfort and home, of pine and wild roses.
Interlude – The Next Morning
Abelas woke in the weak light of dawn to the same pine-scented hair and confused awareness of warmth nestled in his arms. Only thin linen separated skin from skin and he began his retreat as quickly as memory surfaced.
A slender hand halted him before he completed his escape. "There is no wrong in seeking comfort." Blue eyes caught yellow as she turned to face him. "It need be nothing more than shared warmth and peaceful dreams."
He completed his decampment, but not in previous haste. Buckling his armor in place in slow, thoughtful movements he was aware of the faint scuff of leather and bare feet on wooden floor as his movements were mirrored on the opposite side of the bed.
Breakfast was an exercise in patience as the two Elvhen endured the innkeeper's knowing smirk and the snickers of the serving girls. Patience was redeemed at last when Aithne and Zevran appeared, blinking sleep from unrested eyes.
Rada couldn't resist, "Quite night?"
"By the Dread Wolf, no! How do you sleep with that racket in camp?" Then Aithne turned to her lover. "Why do I put up with you?"
"Because I swept you off your feet in proper Antivan fashion and left you breathless with my skills?" Zevran grinned and swept his Warden into his arms to demonstrate a proper Antivan good morning leaving his lady properly breathless.
Abelas shook his head, only Rada heard his whispered, "shemlen."
The amorous pair were finally seated for breakfast. Aithne and Rada resumed their conversation from the previous evening on variations in potency of various herbs from different regions. Their debate on the secondary effects of deathroot found in Ferelden marshes versus that found in the arid Western Approach was interrupted by a startled, "Brasca!"
Zevran was holding his previously steaming mug upside down in mid-air, curls of frost chilling his fingers from its now frozen contents. The Antivan swept a bow to the ancient sentinel, "well played, now could you unfreeze my coffee?"
If Rada hadn't been watching she would have missed the slightly arched brow and faint curl of Abelas' lips as steaming liquid cascaded from the inverted mug to shower flamboyant Antivan.