AUTHOR'S NOTE: I apologize to all of my readers who probably assumed that this work (along with my Labyrinth piece) was abandoned. I've been working through some serious health issues in my real life and they've left me depressed and unmotivated to write. I seem to be through the worst of it now (fingers crossed) and hope to return to regular updates on both of my stories, but they will probably be sporadic (just more frequent) for a while longer. That said, I am determined to complete both of my current stories and they have definitely not been abandoned. Thanks for reading.
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This story is AU and completely ignores Trespasser—I'm actively trying to block out that particular DLC. Most of the events will follow the canon storyline, but there will be alterations made and the divergence from canon will increase as the story progresses. Rating may increase in the future. Feedback is always appreciated. Thanks to everyone who has Favorited, Followed, or left Feedback. It means the world to me.
The Elvhen terms used in the story come from a mixture of sources including my own fevered imagination. Translations of all Elvhen terms at the bottom. Thanks to FenxShiral's Project Elvhen for increased Elvhen terminology and improving my understanding of the Elvhen language.
The use of bolded italics inside of quotation marks indicates that the entirety of what is said is spoken in a language other than the common tongue and has been translated. This language will be ancient Elvhen unless otherwise specified.
Dragon Age and all of its splendors belong to Bioware. I gain no financial benefit from this hobby.
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Chapter 4: Wake the Wolf
Nothing had gone according to plan. From the moment Fen'Harel had awoken into this blighted, broken world, failure haunted his every step. The People were no more. In his desperate ploy to save them, he'd been the instrument of their destruction. Only tragic echoes of them remained: desolate ruins; stolen bits of spellcraft; and worst of all, the frail, weak things that the Common tongue called 'elves.' They weren't even a race of mages anymore. The legacy of his victory was a world filled by Tranquil—creatures so severed from the Fade that they'd forgotten their own souls.
From behind a mask of lies, Fen'Harel walked briefly amongst those poor shadows, trying to discern a means by which to save them. The elves that dwelt in the city were no more than frightened prey, bowing and scraping before human masters as surely as their ancestors had bowed before the Evanuris. The arrogant elves of the wilds were even worse. The Dalish clung to their false history like frightened children clung to a parent. They proclaimed themselves free, but branded their own faces with slave markings. They were all lost, beyond salvation. He walked away and didn't look back.
Fen'Harel had failed them, those he meant to save. They would have been better off living for eternity as slaves to his brethren. At least they would still have been Elvhen. He knew his duty. In his hubris, he'd broken the world and the People. It was left to him to repair the damage he'd caused. He found his way to a familiar place, to the ruins of what had once been a small shrine to Mythal. There was little left of it now. Vines cracked the stone as they grasped for sunlight. Time had worn away the murals that once honored his friend. Mythal's great statue at the shrine's center laid on its side on the mossy ground, one wing broken away.
As Fen'Harel remembered, the hidden door was in an alcove behind the central statue. The intricate, tree-shaped mosaic that concealed the door was undamaged. It was the one perfect thing he had seen in this place. He bowed his head and whispered the words, "Mythal'esan samahl." The door slid open with a low groan. The magic had been weakened by the passage of millennia, but it still held true. Fen'Harel slipped into Mythal's sanctuary, one of the many she'd granted him access to over the years.
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Fen'Harel grimaced in frustration. He knew that his many years in uthenera had weakened him, but he couldn't even unlock his orb. He'd been unable claim his proper form in the waking world. When Fen'Harel tried to shift, he found that he could transform only into an ordinary wolf. Anything more was beyond him. Even so, he'd never imagined this. This was not meant to happen. He could imagine Andruil mocking him: "Where is the fearsome Dread Wolf now? The Master of the Fade can't even open his own orb!" Disgusted, he dropped the orb into his lap and rubbed his hands down his face. Clearly he would have to find another way to access the power. He couldn't correct his mistakes without it.
Fen'Harel bent forward, his elbows on his knees and his forehead resting on his hands. He tried to think of other ways to open it. A stray braid fell over his shoulder and dropped into his line of sight. He glared at it, the symbol of his vast ego. The Dread Wolf was known for his long, auburn braids. The carved bone beads that dotted them were trophies, tokens of his countless victories in combat. His rivals always stared warily at those beads, knowing well what they represented. He had been proud of them, delighted by his own prowess. Fen'Harel snarled and pulled a knife from his boot. That's all I am, he thought, misguided pride. Arrogant enough to think I have the right to change the world and strength enough to do it.
Later, he sat in the tatters of his shorn braids. He ran his fingers across his newly-bare skull and sighed. He had a plan. Not a good one, in truth, but the best he could think of in this unfamiliar world. I must repair that which pride hath wrought. Solas stood and left the shrine in search of answers.
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Solas was near Haven when the Conclave exploded. He watched in horror as the sky tore asunder, as the Veil was shredded by violent, misspent power. His power. That Tevene abomination had painted the heavens with a promise of destruction and it was his fault. What have I done? He didn't know how to fix this, how to undo this atrocity. He wished he knew to whom a false god should pray. He wanted to scream, to weep, to lash out with all the power remaining in his weakened frame. Instead, he fell to his knees on the snowy ground, eyes locked on the Breach.
Solas had known there would be an explosion when the orb opened. An explosion which should have killed the abomination and left the orb his for the taking. He'd assumed that it would happen somewhere remote and unnoticed, somewhere a darkspawn magister could work his twisted magic without rousing attention. When he first discovered Corypheus's destination he'd tried to hold on to the vain hope that the darkspawn wouldn't attempt the opening there. He hadn't truly been able to make himself believe it. Tevene magisters loved their blood magic and the Conclave would provide a wealth of sacrifices, sacrifices that would give Corypheus the power to open the orb.
That possibility had been horror enough. But this…this was beyond Solas's imagining. Used properly, his orb could have easily opened a gate into the Fade, a doorway permitting free passage back and forth. The Breach was no gate. It ripped unwilling spirits into the physical world, twisting their natures, and leaving demons in its wake. In the back of his mind, Solas could hear their screams as they fought against its pull. The spirits not trapped by the Breach's fell power had fled the area. For that small mercy, he was grateful.
I don't know how to fix this. The thought curled through his mind, leaving desperation in its path. The snow he knelt in was painted emerald by the Breach's light. He threw back his head and howled his anguish to the broken sky. The mountain wolves howled with him in a symphony of despair.
After several shaking breaths, Solas heaved himself to his feet and turned them towards Haven. He would join the humans there and provide what help he could. It was all he knew to do.
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Rumors flew through Haven like startled birds. They claimed that the prisoner had fallen from the Fade, whispered that her left hand glowed with the Breach's unholy light. Solas listened silently and avoided attention. He overheard one of the guards who'd found her after she tumbled from the rift: "She was dressed like one of them wild Dalish, but she ain't got those weird tattoos." Odd, he thought. Then again, everything he heard about this prisoner was. The guard went on to tell his fellows that the Seeker hadn't been able to question the prisoner. The woman was unconscious. The healers said she was dying and they didn't know why or how to stop it. Her hand… If she'd been marked by his power… Solas knew that he needed to see this prisoner for himself.
The Seeker took convincing before she relented. She didn't trust Solas and he couldn't fault her for it. He presented himself as a humble apostate, an expert on the Fade, come to hear the decisions of the Conclave. He could see the doubt in her eyes, but he saw more desperation. She needed the prisoner alive and coherent for questioning and her own people weren't up to the task. Finally, she ordered the guards to grant him access. "You have your chance. If she dies, I'll execute you as an apostate," she vowed, her dark eyes flashing warning.
Solas nodded his understanding. His face was an expressionless mask. "Of course, Seeker." He allowed the guards to lead him into the building and down a damp stone staircase into the Undercroft of their Chantry. He could feel the ancient power thrumming in the stale air. He could sense part of his own power, but there was something else here as well. Something old and familiar, like the forgotten words of childhood lullaby.
The guards led him to an isolated cell lit only by the flickering light of a single torch. There, they left him with instructions to inform the Seeker if there was any change. A huddled figure lay on a cot at the cell's center, swathed in moth-eaten, woolen blankets. Solas saw cascading copper waves tumbling out from beneath the rotted fabric on one side. It was a rare shade, one he hadn't seen since the days Arlathan.
Ancient magic pressed against him as he approached and drew back the blankets to better see the prisoner. Solas gasped as the light fell over her face. Andruil? But how… He shook his head and looked closer. No. This is not the Huntress escaped from her prison. This maiden's face had a softness to it, a delicate beauty that Andruil's visage had never possessed. Even so, the resemblance was…disconcerting. Not Andruil perhaps, but this girl could have been her daughter. Who are you? he wondered. Since his awakening, he had seen so many of the so-called 'elves' of this unfortunate age. They were NOT of the People. None of his race would ever mistake a modern elf for such. He was still surprised that they couldn't tell the difference and took him for one of their own. But this maiden, she…she could have been Elvhen. He would have believed her to be some remnant, one of the People displaced in time by the Rift, or an awakened survivor like himself, except for the fact that she was young. Not simply youthful as his people always were, but truly young.
The girl whimpered as his power crackled angrily in her left palm. He felt another pulse of magic answering his own, warring against it. What is that? Solas could feel this second power resonating from the girl's spine and arcing through her trembling form. He leaned forward and pulled the fabric of her tunic away from her back, his eyes searching for the source. For a moment, it was as though time had stopped. He stared at it, frozen by the sight. The sigil etched into her pale flesh began at the base of her neck and continued down past where his eyes could see. The design was seamless, the Serynium merged with her skin as though she entered the world with it already in place.
This. Isn't. Possible. His thoughts denied what his eyes told him. How could I get this close without noticing it? Even at the height of Arlthan's power, Serynium was rare and precious. Any mage should be able to hear its song. He, who had once earned countless favors by retrieving it from the depths of the Fade, should have been able hear it from far beyond the Chantry walls. Of course, he thought, I did feel something, but only faintly, and it was unrecognizable.
The sigil itself was a masterpiece of Elvhen design. Solas could discern that it was meant to offer its bearer protection…and to hide itself. Ah… he thought. That's why I didn't sense it sooner. He was certain that it had more functions, but without further study, their nature was unclear. Besides, this piece was far beyond his understanding of sigils. He had been considered more than competent in such magics, but they weren't his area of expertise. He'd always favored action and lacked the patience needed to truly master that precise art.
In his youth, he'd seen sigils of dazzling complexity—intricate pieces that held awe-inspiring power and took centuries to create. This piece was beyond all of them. In Arlathan, the master who created this sigil could have presented it as proof of their right to Ascend and take their place amongst the Evanuris. And the way it was crafted…a memory tugged at his mind. He was certain he'd seen something like it before, not the design, but the way it was made: Serynium merged seamlessly into skin. He tried to remember, but the knowledge eluded him.
The girl whimpered as the warring powers raged through her again. At least he now knew what was killing her. The sigil's magic was attempting to drive out the foreign power of his Mark and it was tearing her asunder from within. He grasped her left hand and reached for his Mark. The power welcomed him, twinning around his aura joyfully. He pulled at it, attempting to transfer it to himself to no avail. The girl keened in agony as his power snapped back into her. Solas bowed his head in resignation. There was no use. For now at least, his Mark was a part of her, anchored as tightly as one of her limbs.
Solas growled and ran his hands down his face. There had to be some solution to this. Her body couldn't survive the conflicting magics for much longer. That she lived at all was a testament to her strength. His thoughts were in turmoil as he gazed at her face, lovely even in her agony. He NEEDED her to live. He had to preserve his Mark until he could find a way to reclaim it. Besides, he needed answers. If there were still Elvhen living in this world, Elvhen in command of this sort of skill and power, he needed to find them. He would have to be cautious though. He had no way of knowing what they knew or whom they served. They could be loyalists to the other Evanuris who sought to free their masters as easily as they could be his people. He shook his head. None of his plotting would aid him if the girl died in this filthy dungeon.
If his Mark had less raw energy running through it, then the different magics inside of her might reach a working equilibrium, at least temporarily. It was far from a perfect solution, but it could buy him time to find a more permanent answer. Unfortunately, he didn't have the strength currently to drain the energy off by himself. Weakened as he was, he had spent too much of his limited power trying to reclaim his Mark. Moreover, he doubted that she would survive for the hours it would take for his reserves to replenish. If another mage were to assist him, it might be feasible, but that wasn't an acceptable risk. If another mage saw the sigil, or questioned his knowledge of it, the cost could be far too high.
The sigil, Solas realized. It's Serynium-forged. Serynium was MORE than lyrium, after all. It might not be sentient exactly, but it absorbed its crafter's intent. That very quality is what made it so dangerous to work with and was why multiple mages could never perform such a working together. A single stray thought, a moment of hesitation or doubt, any slip of focus could ruin the working and twist its purpose. But a true master crafted this, he reasoned. They would not have faltered.
Solas placed one hand flat on her back and grasped her Marked palm with the other. He projected his intent towards the sigil in a flow of emotions and images. Protect, he told it. Push the energy into me to save the girl.
Solas could feel its attention focus on him. Slow. Considering. He continued to show it images of his plan. It hadn't been able to rid her of the invading power because there was no place for the power to go. He could give it an outlet, a way to rid her of it. Finally, the sigil responded and Solas sighed with relief at its agreement. The sigil's power began pushing the foreign energy through the Mark and into him. He drew it into himself eagerly. As he absorbed the last of the excess power, the girl relaxed, drifting from unconsciousness into true sleep.
Solas projected his gratitude towards the sigil as he pulled away. The girl would live. He had time to seek the answers he needed.
As the returned power settled into him, Fen'Harel's lips curved into a wolfish smile. He was still only a shadow of what he had once been, but the power he'd absorbed had restored him immensely. For the first time since he awakened, he felt like himself. The beast that lived within him stretched as it rose from its long slumber and blinked the sleep from its burning eyes. For now, it was enough. For now, he would remain Solas and play the part of the humble, helpful apostate. After all, the mask he wore was of no consequence. For the first time in millennia, the Dread Wolf once more walked the world.
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Please Review! My Muse is hungry!
Andrava is the forgotten Elvhen goddess of wisdom, intuition, and perception. She was the twin sister of Andruil and the daughter of Mythal and Elgar'nan; Clan Lavellan has long believed that the Seers are the mortal descendants of Andrava, but have kept these beliefs, and the Seers themselves, hidden from other clans.
Elvhen Terminology
Evanuris: The Elvhen pantheon. Called 'the Creators' by many modern elves, especially the Dalish.
Mythal'esan samahl: "Mythal's laughter."
Uthenera: Literally translates as "long sleep" or "endless dream." The slumber-like state that ancient Elvhen elders would enter into when they wearied of life. Their bodies would remain in this sleep-like state while their spirits wandered the Fade. The uthenera did not equate with death as many elders would awaken centuries later. However, some failed to return and their bodies died in truth.