All at once, a wave of sound hit her ears, the shock of it throwing her into consciousness with a violent jerk.
A chorus of voices rang through the fortress: soldiers, stationed on battlements and in courtyards, barking orders that echoed and warped into an indistinct cacophony of sound. Too unintelligible to pull a single word, though she strained her ears to try. The shouts were underscored by the sound of dozens of armoured boots on the move. Followed by loud clangs as shields were equipped over armour. The echoing screech of swords and daggers hastily sheathed in their scabbards. A series of electrical cracks as magical barriers went up.
Ellana searched her memory for an explanation. Some sort of surprise training exercise from Commander Cullen? Perhaps a drill, or battle role play, to keep the troops on their feet? It was possible she'd missed a note, or simply forgotten about it amidst the upheaval of the past several weeks.
But then, there came the rickety clanks of the portcullis raising, followed by a thunderous pounding of many hooves. The sounds growing fainter with each passing second.
This was no exercise: people were fleeing.
That jarred her into action.
She threw aside the great cover of furs upon her bed, and leapt to her feet. She did not dally in her quarters; a brief glance at the mirror showed her reflection dressed and ready for battle. Clad in a fine suit of golden armour; a mix of mail and light plate polished to a mirrored shine. It was rich, form fitting, and finished with the drape of a heavy, woollen cloak that fastened at her neck with a jewelled clasp. The heavy greaves pounded a booming rhythm against the stone tiles as she made her way out of the tower — taking the rickety, wooden stairs two at a time — until reaching the door to the great hall. She threw it open with a mighty heave of her shoulder.
The sight that greeted her there froze her in her tracks.
It was chaos.
Dozens of men and women, all clad in similarly matching sets of armour, ran, frantic through the fortress. Most were armed with silver daggers, carried on a hip; one hand poised over the hilt and ready to draw. Seasoned warriors carved a path through the crowd, carrying themselves with the confidence that bespoke years of training. While those who held no visible weapons moved with far less grace — widened eyes searched for exits, answers, or a superior whose orders to follow. Newer recruits not yet battle-worn, but tossed into the fray all the same.
The hall itself was in disarray. Walls once adorned by colourful cloth banners now stood bare, the décor torn to the ground. Symbols of pride and power, now crushed beneath a frenzy of panicked footsteps. Ripped, and forgotten. Several tables and chairs sat upended against the far wall. Next to one, lay the remains of several bowls once filled with fresh fruit and cooked meat. A puddle of fragrant wine pooled upon the floor by a shattered crystal bottle.
Her advisors were nowhere to be seen, and she did not immediately recognize any of the scattered troops. She'd yet to take the time to fully acquaint herself with the Templars and mages that had sworn fealty to the Inquisition – and was sorely regretting it now.
There was so much going on at once, and at such volume, that it was difficult to isolate any one voice to get a read on the situation. And the crowd was in such a panic that no one had yet noticed her presence and thought to inform her. Amid in the din, she was only able to pick out a few words here and there.
Away. Refuge. Coming. Quickly. Eluvian.
…Eluvian?
Her head snapped in the direction of the little room off the garden where Morrigan stored the artifact. Strangely, no one seemed to be headed that way. If anything, they were headed in its opposite.
Finally gathering her wits, she made toward one of the soldiers standing by the main doors. A tall, hooded, man in silver plate armour. One of several who had taken it upon themselves to stay by the doors; direct others toward the courtyard and stables. An icy blast of wind and snow met her approach, blowing in through the open door. With a wince, she tugged the hood of her cloak down over her face to shield it from the bite, cursing the mid-winter cold. It was just their luck to face a damned blizzard amidst the crisis.
"You there!" she called to the soldier, now recognizable as a bare-faced elf. He did not turn to face her when she addressed him, and so she raised her voice a little higher. "What's going on? What's—?"
From behind, someone took hold of her elbow, and pulled her bodily against the wall. Instinctively, she reached for the dagger at her hip, but when she whirled round to face her attacker she found a familiar face greeted her instead, both hands raised in defence.
"Solas!" she cried, in equal measures relief and alarm. Strangely, he was dressed neither for battle nor travel, something she found rather unsettling considering the circumstances. Instead, clad in his usual woollen tunic and a pair of worn breeches, the toes and heels of his bare feet visible beneath his leg wraps. She grasped his arm and, "What's happening?" she demanded.
"Peace," he soothed, lowering his hands. "We are in the Fade."
Frowning, "…The Fade?" she parroted, regarding him with no small amount of confusion.
With a small smile, his eyes slid from hers, focusing on a point somewhere over her shoulder near the centre of the hall. He nodded. A subtle gesture; gentle encouragement to look around. Curiously, she followed his gaze.
Understanding came to her slowly.
The pandemonium waned to a dull roar as she scanned the room. The clamour of noise and activity that was so sharp in her ears a moment past, paled; colours seemed to bleed together as soldiers and civilians alike drifted in and out of focus. Fading to a cast of indistinct characters on a hazy backdrop, leaving only her and Solas, standing clear and sharp among them. Sole members of an invisible audience.
He was looking at her, she noted. Eyes soft and patient; watching as she slowly became aware of the dreaming. It was only once she recognized the scene as an illusion that she was capable of perceiving all the subtle differences she had missed before.
It was Skyhold and yet… not Skyhold.
The first thing to draw her eye were the windows. They looked odd. Out of place. Another moment spent contemplating them and the reason became clear. Gone, were the stained glass scenes that Josephine had commissioned from artisans in Orlais. Replaced by sheets of soft, blue … something, which shimmered with an odd — beautiful — sort of iridescence. It looked a bit like water, though that could not possibly be true. Whatever it was, it shone with a brilliant, bright, light — one far more intense than that normally provided by the late morning sun. It was almost as if the material were its own light source; enchanted by unknown magic.
The statues, curtains and mid-level platforms were all gone, too. As was the throne she occupied for judgment, though the dais beneath it remained. The chandeliers were missing as well. In their place floated little orbs of light — magic — that danced in circles all about the ceiling. Some spell that, rather miraculously, appeared to be self-sustained. She saw no mage nor foci beneath it to feed its power.
Even the tables and chairs were different: carved in a strange fashion by unfamiliar craftsmen. Long, thin tendrils of swirling branches and vines made up the legs. Flowing up and around the edges of its surface in an intricate pattern of knots and whorls, as though grown instead of built. Their shape as beautiful as it was foreign.
When she looked again to Solas, he was smiling. "Very good," he said, pleased. "Focus on the differences. Your ability to perceive the truth before you is governed by your existing memories of this place; separate yourself from them and the scene will grow clearer. Easier to understand. Lose sight of this distinction, and you will become enthralled."
An armour-clad elf ran past her — unsettlingly, almost through her — and her eyes followed them until they disappeared through the main doors, directed toward the yard by a nearby soldier.
An elven soldier. Just like the one she had tried to hail, still standing behind her.
The coincidence seemed peculiar. It was not often that one saw an elf in a position of authority, let alone several of them congregating together. She cast her eyes about the hall, searching the faces of the men and women around her.
They were all elves.
No, she corrected, Elvhen.
Every soldier in the hall shared the same broad, tall, build as Solas —men and women alike. They were almost unrecognizable as kin of modern elves but for their large, bright, eyes and high cheekbones on faces free of vallaslin. That, and the slim, pointed ears — though on a whole, much longer than those of her Dalish brethren — that peeked through gaps in their hooded cloaks.
Someone nearby shouted something about a sword, or dagger. A woman was searching for supplies in the armoury to disseminate to others. The words pricked strangely in Ellana's ears. Spoken with an accent that was entirely foreign and yet somehow oddly familiar. It was only once she paid close attention to a single individual's speech that the answer came to her.
Stunned, she turned to Solas with widened eyes. "They're speaking Elvish!" she marvelled. His lips curled into a small, amused, smile and he nodded. Regarding her fondly as she turned her attention back to the crowd. "How is it I can understand them?"
"I have altered your perception of the language," he explained. And, at her bewildered expression, quickly amended, "For the duration of the dream."
She quieted then. Closing her eyes and taking a moment simply to absorb the miracle that it was to hear the true language of her people. A long dead tongue made of metaphor and emotion, flowing like a river from the mouth of every elf around her. Echoing in her pointed ears. A lost legacy her people had worked so hard to uphold.
Never before — nor again, she imagined — would she be able to hear such a wondrous thing.
Over time, she found that the more attention she paid to the words, the more easily their meanings came to her. Bringing a wide, pleased, smile to her lips. This was a gift — unintentional though it may be. And while certainly inappropriate, she found she could not curb the giddy sense of excitement that thrummed in her breast. She had always wished to know more of the language, and Solas' occasional lessons aside, this may very well be the only opportunity she would ever have to understand it with perfect fluency… if only for the night.
She was startled from her reverie when the door to the war room — or, well, the war room of her Skyhold — flew open behind her. Three soldiers emerged, two women and one man. All dressed in identical sets of gold armour, rather than the silver that so many others wore. An indication of their rank and standing, she assumed. Heavy, velvet, cloaks floated behind them as they walked, giving them a presence that commanded attention. Their stride poised and confident. Other soldiers gave them a nod as they passed. Generals, she decided. One of the women paused near her to direct another toward the rotunda, before she headed toward the tower from which Ellana herself had first emerged.
Somehow, only then did it occur to her to ask the obvious question: "What is this?"
"A memory," Solas replied vaguely.
"Do you know whose?"
He met her gaze. "Mine."
Immediately, she took to scanning the crowd in earnest. Searching for a familiar face amidst the dwindling crowd in the room. A bald head, or perhaps one sporting the long, dark, braids he professed to once having.
With a push away from the wall, she made toward the centre of the room; slowly turning in place. The fortress was emptying quickly. Whatever disaster had befallen it spurred its populace into swift action: there were now less than a dozen elves remaining in the great hall — those left had delegated themselves to directing others to safety.
And yet, none appeared to be Solas himself.
Incredulous, she asked, "You were at Skyhold?"
He tucked his hands behind his back and stepped past her, artfully evading the remaining figures in the hall as he made his way toward the rotunda. "It was my stronghold, and a base of operations, for many centuries," he explained. Then, realizing she had not followed him, he paused by the open door. A brow raised while he waited, clearly intent on guiding her somewhere.
Ellana canted her head to one side, the corner of her mouth lifting with a small smile. "Why am I not surprised?" she quipped with a huff of laughter. Adding, "Thank you for the castle, I suppose."
He tipped his chin in acknowledgement. A flash of humour visible in his eyes when he replied, "You're welcome."
Turning, he entered the atrium, and this time she followed. Once inside, her eyes quickly found the walls. Bare, of course — she wasn't sure why she expected anything more — this would have been well before he would ever paint his frescos.
"How long ago was this?"
A quiet hum as he considered. "Two thousand years ago, give or take a few hundred," he answered. As though centuries worth of a margin of error were naught but moments.
She supposed they were, for him, and the thought was sobering.
She quickly pushed it aside.
Upon reaching the side door on the second level, he held it open; and with a sweep of his arm, gestured for her to follow him outside and onto the battlements. Together, they made their way toward the stairs that lead into the courtyard where a group of soldiers were climbing onto the backs of halla.
She could not help but stare, awed, at the sight of Elvhen riding the creatures with such ease. Within the Dalish, halla-riding was a difficult — if not near impossible — skill to hone. And among city elves, unheard of. The animals were intelligent, wickedly temperamental, and slow to trust. It took weeks, months, or even years of care to earn the rare and sacred right to mount one.
And yet, below her, scores of halla bowed readily to the warriors. Carrying them even as they clattered and banged in their heavy armour; never so much as flinching. There was not even the slightest hint of hesitation as the soldiers took hold of the reigns, and kicked them into action.
It took great effort to tear her gaze away, and finally ask the question that had been plaguing her since she became aware of the dream.
"What's happening here? Were you under attack?"
Shaking his head, "No," Solas replied, "They were evacuating."
"Why?"
Presently, they reached the main courtyard. It was similar enough to her Skyhold to be recognizable. The shape was the same, at least. Though, it was clear that, like the rest of the fortress, much had changed over millennia. The tavern was missing, though that was not surprising. Its architecture was clearly Ferelden; suggesting it had been added to the hold relatively recently, and likely by human hands. Many of the other courtyard structures were gone, too; like the armoury, and the building that housed the clinic.
The one striking difference was the rows upon rows of trees that bordered the inner walls: flora the likes of which she had never seen. Their branches sagged with both colourful blossom, and pebbled fruit. A strange sight, given that it appeared to be mid-winter. A fact made all the more obvious by the flurry of snow swirling around them. Already, there were several inches of fresh powder upon the ground, and more falling every minute. It gave way with a muted crunch beneath their feet.
"It was not safe," Solas was saying. "The spell I cast on this day required an immense amount of power, and its effects were far-reaching. I was uncertain what impact it might have on those too close to the source, and so bid them to find refuge in one of my safe houses. While my command of magic left me reasonably assured of my own survival, the same could not be said of those who followed me."
Ellana looked pointedly at a group of Elvhen who were fleeing through the portcullis at a run. "Looks like they weren't exactly prepared for this."
A pause. "No," he conceded with a frown. "I had little time. I imagined it would not take long for the false gods to discover that I had deceived them, and come for me."
The revelation was offered so casually she nearly missed it.
She blinked. "This was when — was where — you locked them away?" she marvelled, the surprise and awe clearly evident in her tone. Now more eager than ever to locate his image in the dwindling crowd. "How?"
Slowly, his gaze lifted toward the sky and, curious, she followed it. To her eye, it was unchanged. A storm brewed in the distant west, dark and foreboding. Advancing on slow winds that pushed it by inches across the Frostback Mountains. If the sky held anything else of interest, she could not see it. A blanket of muddied grey clouds, currently covering them in snow, obscured all else. Large, fat, flakes fell feather-light around them both, leaving no trace upon their skin. Now, nothing but forgotten wisps of ancient memory.
Several, silent, moments passed while Solas gathered his thoughts. Brows furrowed and face drawn as he watched the empty sky. When he finally spoke again, his voice was low. Quiet. "I created a barrier like no other," he explained. Sadness weighed heavily upon his words, though she was not sure why. Given all he had said about his kin, it seemed unlikely he would regret having banished them. But, if there was any one thing to take away from all she'd learned, it was that there was much more to the old stories than she knew. And so she listened.
"A barrier that separated the waking world from the dreaming," Solas continued, "and trapped the magic that was inherent to it, beyond. Bound to those forces while they searched for a weapon that did not exist, the false Gods too, became trapped. Then, separated from their physical forms and unable to pass beyond this barrier, they slipped into deeper realms, and slept. There, they remain."
High above, the sky flashed. The heavy clouds illuminated by soft, green light: a ripple of magical energy that flared to life, but only for a second, before disappearing.
And all at once, it clicked.
A barrier like no other.
With newfound wonder, Ellana cast her eyes around the yard, taking in the scene once more: the castle with its strange lighted windows, the trees with their winter fruit, the halla, the snow-covered ground… Everything in this old world was tied to magic; power that flowed all around them, free and infinite.
It occurred to her then that not a single one of the Elvhen she'd seen in the fortress carried a staff. Their ability to use and manipulate magic was inherent to their very existence; no need for staves, no worry of mana burn. No circles, Templars, or prejudice. For the Elvhen people, magical skill was as natural as breathing, Solas had once said, because there was nothing to hold it back.
"The Veil," she murmured in reverent whisper, and looked to Solas in awe. "You're talking about the Veil."
His gaze was heavy when he turned it upon her. Eyes hard, and tight at the corners. Steeling himself for what response he would receive when he nodded, once, and replied, "Yes."
For a long moment, she could do little more than stare, open-mouthed, in shock. The idea that the world she was born into had been so changed — crafted — by the hands of a single person who balked at the notion of divinity seemed ludicrous. The sheer magnitude of power required to accomplish such a feat, unfathomable. She almost laughed, amid her shock, but somehow managed to swallow the urge. Instead, stammering out a halting, "You… created the Veil?"
Her blatant incredulity brought the barest hint of a smile to his lips, and he inclined his head in agreement. Quickly adding, "It was not a task I accomplished easily," as a caveat. As though the idea that the spell was challenging would somehow negate the fact that he was once capable of casting it. "The spell took years to conceive, required an immense amount of power, and casting it very nearly destroyed me.
"Once the Veil was in place, I was left virtually powerless, and ultimately forced to rest in uthenera for over two thousand years waiting for my strength to return." With a grimace, he turned away. Adding an embittered, "It has yet to," under his breath.
Before she could take a moment to ponder the implication of his words, the scene began to shift, and her attention was drawn away.
When the new memory came into focus, the hold was empty — all of the Elvhen rebels and refugees now safely evacuated. She could not be sure precisely how much time had passed between the two memories, but it couldn't have been more than a few hours. The snow had stopped falling and now blanketed the courtyard, calf-deep. The once-distant storm churned overhead.
It was eerily quiet. The song of distant birds, and chirps of mountain creatures, curiously absent. She could hear only the creaking sighs of the fruit trees swaying in the breeze. The silence lent a sick, creeping, dread to the scene. As though the entire Frostback Mountain range were holding its breath in anticipation.
A knot of anxiety curled in her gut, and she shifted her weight from one foot the other to hide the way it made her twitch. Made her nervous. She crossed her arms over her chest, and tried to convince herself that the sudden chill she felt was merely a product of her imagination, and not the unease felt at knowing she was about to witness the sundering of the ancient world. An event so catastrophic that the only surviving stories describe it as divine betrayal.
There was distant movement on the bridge.
Something — someone — was approaching the main gates through the raised portcullis. As they grew nearer, she was able to make out the silhouette of a tall elf seated on the back of a pure, white, halla. The animal's great, twisted, horns parted around the figure, who was dressed in a fine suit of golden armour. Similar to what the generals wore — those she saw exiting the 'war room' — though notably finer. Looking down at herself, she realized the vision had bestowed the same set upon her. Almost identical, really, save for a few details. Instead of a cloak, the figure wore the pelt of a wolf, wrapped around both shoulders with the tail tucked into their belt. The upper skull of the animal rest upon their head, under a hood that cloaked their face in shadow. Only their mouth and jaw were visible beneath. Details that came into focus once the figure entered the courtyard.
A dimpled chin and full lips.
Ellana glanced between Solas, and the figure before them. "That's you," she noted, more statement than question. She'd recognize his sharp features anywhere.
He nodded curtly, but said nothing. Together, they watched as the memory of The Dread Wolf reached the centre of the yard and dismounted less than 50 paces from where they stood.
It was unsettling; the experience of looking upon the apparition of her lover. An image of himself taken from his own memory. Thousands of years before she was ever born, and yet virtually identical to the man who stood beside her now. Her eyes passed between the two uneasily. Even knowing of his origins, somehow she'd expected him to look different. Younger. Softer. Inexperienced, somehow. Yet the figure before her was a mirror image of the one by her side; he'd not aged a day. A living relic of an ancient, bygone world known only by the misremembered tales of her people. So much had happened in his lifetime — so much had changed.
She wondered if she could ever know it all.
She wondered if she wanted to.
The vision reached behind his back to adjust a cloth sack that hung from one shoulder. The fabric straining as it shifted; heavy with unknown treasure. Then, he laid a hand upon the side of the halla's neck, leaning in to whisper words too quiet to hear. Whatever secrets he'd imparted were lost long ago.
The beast flicked an ear once — twice — before bowing its head. Twisted antlers touching the ground at Solas' feet, before it left the keep at a gallop, while three figures looked on in silence. It was only once the halla disappeared from the horizon that The Dread Wolf retrieved what he carried in the satchel: a large, round, object — partially hidden by shadow — that he tucked into the crook of his elbow. He cradled it as though it were made of the finest glass, his free hand resting atop to hold it steady while he took his place in the centre of Skyhold's courtyard.
Deep grooves ran along the surface of the stone. Whorls and parallel lines creating a pattern not unlike a fingerprint. A design that insisted at the edge of Elanna's memory with nagging familiarity. It was only once he'd moved the object from elbow to hands, causing the marks to catch the light, that recognition struck.
That was no stone, it was an orb.
"A foci," she thought aloud, and found herself recalling the conversation her and Solas had at the mountainside camp, following the destruction of Haven.
Solas confessed then, that the orb was Elvhen, and expressed his concern that humans would blame elves as a whole for the destruction Corypheus wrought with it. At the time, still reeling from her near-death experience, she had not truly considered his words, and so missed the more subtle implications of such a warning. But with the clarity of hindsight, his fears sounded both presumptuous and hyperbolic. To hold an entire people responsible for the mere existence of an ancient weapon wielded by a mad, blighted creature seemed absurd — even for humans. Had she not known Solas so well, she would have brushed it off as paranoia — or prejudice — but for all she'd learned since, it cast the warning in a different light.
Somehow, she felt as though she'd just found a trail of breadcrumbs.
"These foci," she began, "You'd said there were more; that they were dedicated to members of the pantheon. That was yours?" Turning, she found Solas was not watching the scene anymore. Instead, his eyes were on her. Brows knit over a gaze as pensive and unsure as she'd seen on the night he first confessed. He did not offer her a reply, though his silence was answer enough, and that sense of dread began to crawl its way back up her spine again.
Before them, the Wolf lowered himself to the ground. With the orb held firmly between his palms, he sat back upon his heels in the snow, and hung his head. Taking a deep, shuddering, breath in through his nose and holding it.
Then, for the briefest moment, he hesitated, and she was struck by the enormity of the task before him.
He was alone then, seated in a frigid bank of snow, balanced on the edge of thought and action. Faced with a choice he did not want to make, but was ultimately forced to. It was clear enough that he understood the risk; casting the barrier that would become the Veil could possibly — even likely — have dire consequences for both spirits and elves alike. But just how changed the world would be when the dust settled remained an unknown.
The false Gods were dangerous, violent, and unpredictable. Tens of thousands of innocents had already died at their hands, and countless more would fall if they were allowed to remain in power. He had to believe that the exile of the pantheon would do enough good to outweigh the spell's potential for harm.
His fingers twitched against the surface of the foci as he sat, silent, buried to his thighs in the snow. Thinking. Considering. Passing the weight of his choices from hand to hand. To see the path that was laid out before him, and make himself understand that he had no choice anymore: there was only one viable option left to put an end to the oppression of the Elvhen people, and he had already waited too long to take it.
He pushed a heavy breath through his nose, steeling himself for whatever came next; be it their destruction or his own. And so, closing his eyes tightly, he dropped his shoulders, curled his body inward, and began to cast.
The magic built slowly.
At first, visible only as waves of energy; an odd sort of warping of the space around his hands. Like the strange, rippling, mirages Ellana had seen while traversing the Western Approach, when the hot air rose off the rocks. But unlike heat waves, these began to shift in colour — from a wavering, transparent, illusion to a soft, verdant, light that began to travel up his body. A deep green glow that grew in intensity as the spell charged, drawing upon a well of ancient magic from both within and around him, passing the energy through his body like a conduit.
As the aura engulfed him, his body appeared to crack. Fissures and tears of light spreading across his skin like a network of spider's webs, as though the force of the spell was tearing him apart, too. Somehow, he held together; and with teeth bared against the pain, he released the orb, floating it into the air above him. Tense seconds ticked by until, finally, the spell was released with a mighty bang as loud and powerful as a lightning strike. The blast creating a shockwave strong enough to crumble the walls of the ancient courtyard, sending chunks of stone tumbling to the ground around them.
Ellana stumbled backward, startled by the intensity, and instinctively brought up her hands to guard her ears. Needlessly, it seemed, as what followed was not so much quiet as it was the absence of sound. An odd sort of muted silence that made her ears feel as though they were stuffed with cotton wool.
Before her now stood a great pillar of light, cast by the orb, that stretched upward from the shattered ground into the swirling maw of dark clouds high above. Magic churned and rolled with the storm, devouring angry forks of lightning as readily as the broken pieces of Skyhold's shattered walls, floating up from the ground. It was a scene not unlike the one they'd witnessed in the Fade, over Adamant, and she did not miss the implications of such a coincidence.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over.
The pillar shattered to dust with another thunderous crack, and the sky itself seemed to snap. The shock sent out a second wave; ripples of magic that stretched over the mountains and disappeared beyond the horizon. Leaving only a few, lingering, sparks in its wake; little pieces of shattered spells now disconnected from the magic that once sustained them.
When the dust settled, all that remained of the scene was an endless expanse of rubble, snow, and two silent witnesses.
The figure of The Dread Wolf and his orb had disappeared. Gaps in his memory wrote him out of the aftermath; leaving behind only the destruction he'd wrought, frozen in time.
The silence that followed felt deafening, and for several long moments, Ellana neither spoke nor moved. The weight of understanding fell heavy on her shoulders, and for the first time since all of this had begun, she wished she could take it back. Return to a state of blissful ignorance, when the lines on the battlefield were clearly drawn. A conflict between two sides: light and dark, good and evil.
It was easy to blame a monster for the world's chaos.
The truth was so much worse.
Her gaze fell upon the edge of the courtyard; the trees, standing colourful and proud mere moments before, were now cracked and wilted. Branches heavy with rotted fruit. Their roots, unearthed by the fissures opened in the ground when the Veil tore through it, clawed at the earth like gnarled fingers. Reaching for the magic that once sustained them.
One of many beautiful things lost by the raising of the Veil.
It was a fitting image to herald the fall of Arlathan.
"It's yours," she said quietly. It was neither question nor accusation, and begged no reply. "The orb Corypheus carries. You used it to cast the Veil, that's how it created the breach. Created…" she trailed off, raising her anchored hand. Cradling it in the other as she traced a thumb over the tear. Gently at first, and then with nails drawn, pressing them deep into her flesh as though she could dig the cursed magic from her palm.
She thought back to the torrid night of confessions, and how the anchor flared beneath Solas' touch. Power he could not only draw from her, but quell with nothing more than the gentle brush of his fingers. And, It's his, she realized. All of it — all of this — was his.
His orb.
His anchor.
His magic.
His fault.
The thought drew a humourless laugh, and, "What luck," she said pointedly, meeting his eyes at last. "To have fallen for the one person who could potentially control the anchor, and fix all of this."
Solas frowned, "My feelings for you have always been genuine," he assured.
She held his gaze a moment more before she turned away; eyes scanning the empty horizon, lost to the silence. It was dusk now, she noted, the sun just beginning its descent behind the mountains. In the distance, snow-capped peaks sparkled, picking out shades of red and gold from what sky could be seen beyond the clouds. It was as beautiful as any sunset she had watched from her tower room. The view virtually unchanged, even after thousands of years. Even after the world was split in two.
"Is that why you're here? To retrieve this orb of yours?" asked Ellana softly.
"And to stop Corypheus," Solas added. Then, with a note of tension in his voice near to pleading, "His rise to power poses a threat to all of us; possession of the orb has only made him more danger—"
"This is your magic — the anchor?" she cut in, talking over him. He blinked, briefly taken aback by the interruption, and at his nod she continued, "Could you remove it?"
After a moment of silent contemplation, he extended an open palm, gesturing for her hand. She did not hesitate to give it. A familiar crease formed in his brow as he considered the mark, fingers playing across her palm, skirting the edges of the scar with careful precision. "I could, were my power restored." A pause. "As I am now, however, I cannot."
"And I assume that has something to do with the orb as well?" she challenged, retrieving her hand from his own before he could indulge in cradling it.
"Yes," he admitted. "When I woke, I was too weak to unlock it." Another pause, as he took a breath to steady himself. Standing tall to feign what confidence he could not muster before the sting of her anger. Deserved as it was. "Allowing it to fall into Corypheus' hands was a calculated risk," he explained. "I believed he had the ability and opportunity to unlock the orb, and the resulting magical explosion should have killed him. I had no way of knowing he had discovered the secret to relative immortality."
"You— this— all of this!" Ellana began haltingly, gesturing around them with her anchored hand. "—All of those people at the temple!" Her eyes were wild when she turned them upon him again. "They all died so you could have your power back? And it didn't even work?"
"Ellana—" Solas began, taking a step toward her.
But again she cut him off, pushing his hand away before he could touch her. "What did you intend to do with it once you had it 'unlocked'?" she pressed.
He fell quiet, suddenly aware of the chasm between them. A cavernous gulf of his thousands of years — of war and of death — that hung, unrealized, in the space of the two steps she'd retreated from him. In her short life, as difficult as it had been, she could not possibly experience enough to understand the sacrifices one must make in the quest for peace. The sacrifices one makes in the name of war. To her, his actions would seem reckless. Cold. Ill-thought, perhaps… rather than the culmination of centuries of meticulous plans. To share them was its own risk; a conversation he'd practiced a hundred thousand times before. Though in no version did he see it ending with her sympathy.
In no version did he see that she would not oppose him — and stay.
Ultimately, there was nothing for it but to see it through the end, and so he took in a breath, and steeled himself for her fury.
"I would tear down the Veil, and restore the Elves."
The shock of this revelation silenced her for but a moment before her face twisted with anger, lips curling over bared teeth. This, at least, was something he'd prepared well for.
"And how many would die, then?" she snapped. "Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? When we are flooded with the magic the Veil held back, what will happen to those who have lived in this world without it?"
"I have no way to know for certain," Solas replied evenly, retreating behind the guarded façade he'd worn for so long. He spoke quickly — confident and detached — as though he were reading from a scouting report rather than a death sentence.
"I suspect that many would perish. If not from the initial flood, as you say, then from the chaos that followed. Human and Qunari mages may be disproportionately affected: their limited training, coupled with their lack of natural affinity for magic, would leave them dangerously overpowered. Elves and elf-blooded would fare better, though learning to harness their abilities would not come without cost. It would be as though all the power of the highest Grand Enchanters and Magisters were placed in the hands of infants."
The insult was paid so thoughtlessly that it left her momentarily stunned; she'd thought him beyond such prejudices. Hoped him beyond, at least. Hearing him refer to her people as helpless babes stung even more than his refusal to count her among them. She was spurred forward by the fury that twisted in her breast, and the wounds left by his distain. "Have you even tried and find a way to mitigate the damage, or are we so meaningless beneath your divinity that you could not be bothered to care?"
The accusation struck true enough to pierce beyond his mask, and for a moment, she saw it slip. "I have thought of little else since I woke," he countered, hackles rising. "If such a way were possible, it is outside the scope of my knowledge and ability."
And so does not exist, he left unspoken, though she did not miss the implication.
"You are immortal, Solas," she hissed through clenched teeth, gesturing toward him in emphasis. "You have the luxury of endless time to find it."
"And the fact that you do not is my burden to bear! Bringing down the Veil would restore immortality to all elves!"
This time, she did not recover from the shock so quickly. And the silence that followed his admission only served to widen the gulf between them ever further.
"The anchor was not intended to be wielded by anyone other than myself," he said after a time. Voice straining with the effort of remaining calm. "It will ultimately consume you, leave Corypheus in power, and throw the world into even deeper chaos." He scoffed, shook his head, and uttered a quiet "No," almost to himself. Then, louder, "it would be preferable, though hardly ideal, to act sooner rather than later."
"But you could act later," she interjected, pointing an accusing finger in his direction. "If you could slow down the process — to draw it out over years — would that ease the transition for those most at risk?" He held her gaze, but said nothing.
It was all the confirmation she required.
"Why not take that path, instead? We may not be immortal mages we once were, but we are still people. We have built meaningful lives with unique cultures, history that you would so readily sacrifice for—"
"You would call hundreds of years of oppression and violence at the hands of Humans a worthy history?" he retorted. "Following the Exalted March, what little was left of the Elves either gave themselves over to Orlais, or retreated to the Dales to live as savages."
"Watch your tongue, Solas," warned Ellana in a low growl, "I am cut of the same cloth."
"No, you are different—"
"Different? Not one week ago you said our people were not so far apart, but here — now — you draw the line?" Wrath sharpened her words, and she spit them from her lips as though they were poison. "Is it just my lack of magical talent that separates me from your worthy kin, or are my ears not long enough, as well? Tell me, if we still lived in the ancient cities as mages, would we suddenly be worth saving?"
She knew what the answer would be before she asked the question, but foresight made it no less painful to hear the hesitation on his breath before his lips parted to reply. A denial he took just a second too long to conjure. And so with a bitter laugh, she cut off the aborted attempt, accusing, "Not worth saving — but worth taking to bed?"
He bristled. "That is not fair."
"Fair?" she echoed with a mocking laugh. "Fair?! None of this is fair! You putting the fate of all Thedas in your hands is not fair! What gives you the right?"
"Because I must fix this!" he yelled, pressing an open palm to his chest. The last vestiges of his control giving way in one, long, stride to close the distance between them. An attempt at intimidation that utterly failed to faze her. Though he stood head and shoulders taller, she had never been one to cow so easily in a fight. On any other day, it was a trait he'd come to appreciate — to love — but here in the Fade, in the heat of this argument, he found himself wishing she were not so unmovable.
As their voices rose, and Solas' focus shifted away from maintaining the illusion of memory, the setting of ancient Skyhold began to deteriorate around them.
Snow-capped battlements melted into the ground, the sky above them darkening. The scene of a lonely mountaintop fortress slowly shifted into one of destruction, war, and death. Of cold fury, and the cursed nightmares that feed upon it. With this, came a malevolence that insisted at the edges of their awareness, drawing the presence of spirits and demons like moths to a flame.
Like a pestilence, the miasma grew faster the further it spread. Seeping into the ground, tainting it as it traveled along the sprawling landscape. Swallowing everything in its path.
Neither took note of the change, or the way their arguing fed it. In turn, how it served to heighten their anger.
"This is my mistake, my wrong to right!" Solas was shouting. "I sentenced Elves to generations of suffering. The consequences of my actions were far more grave than I ever could have anticipated. Spirits, confused and terrified by the sundering of the Dreaming, tried to pass through the Veil and twisted themselves into demons. Beings who are then ultimately slaughtered. Beautiful creations — libraries filled with the knowledge of all the ages, places and structures intrinsically tied to the Fade — shattered and destroyed in an instant. The paths between the cities disappeared, dooming thousands to die in the spaces between." He cut the air with a swipe of his hand.
"And what happens when your perfect world falls prey to the same cycle once more? What will you do then?" she countered, still unaware — though not unaffected — by the darkness that had encroached upon their shared space. The fog nearly surrounded them now, a cloud of poison that had shaped the scene into one of its own make.
She continued, "War and corruption always has, and always will, exist. You know this better than anyone else possibly could. You sacrificed everything in the hopes of freeing your people from the oppression of powerful beings, and then would proudly restore this imbalance as long as Elves came out on top! Our lives are no longer the only ones at stake. Put aside your Elvhen glory for one minute and consider the impact of your actions, of all it could destroy — again! For all your pride you would—"
"I am not Corephyus," he bit with another sharp sweep of his arm, cutting her off before the accusation could leave her lips.
"No," she conceded, "but if you truly intend to walk this path without seeing us as equals you will be remembered as no better."
"Have I not already been? Your people's myths cast me a monster for opposing the Evanuris, for raising the Veil!"
"And tearing it down will only bring about more ruin. It will not slake your guilt!"
With fists balled tight at his sides and pulse racing, Solas pressed his mouth into a hard line, jaw clenched to bite back the cutting remark had been ready on his tongue before he thought better of it. Instead, he let the silence speak for him, and it was by grace of this choice that the torrent of fury and righteous indignation that threatened to overwhelm them both, lost just enough of its hold for him to become aware of the shift in their surroundings.
The miasma, now a turbulent mix of wisp and hostile spirits drawn to the turbulence they had created in the Fade, had eclipsed the scene almost entirely. A cloak of living darkness that obscured all but for a circle around their feet. Ellana made to take a step backward, into the cloud, and lost her footing; reeling from the vertigo Solas had unwittingly caused with his inattention.
One hand darted out to catch her firmly by the wrist and yank her back, gathering her in his arms — so tight against his chest he could feel the thrum of her racing heart. Stunned by the sudden shift in his demeanour, she blinked up at him with eyes wide. The heat of her furor tempered by bewilderment, and then fear, as she too became aware of the danger they'd inadvertently put themselves in.
Solas closed his eyes, and drew in a long, slow breath through his nose. As he exhaled, the darkness dispersed, as if blown away by a powerful wind. Retreating back over the mountains and out of sight, until once more they found themselves standing in the centre of a crumbling courtyard amid a fall of snow.
They held each other a moment more, still reeling, before Solas let his arms drop and fall heavy at his sides. Once free of the embrace, Ellana took a step back. Awkwardly evading his gaze and shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
They were silent a long time.
Until at last, "What would you have me do?" Solas implored. With his anger spent, and the weight of her disapproval like a yoke around his neck, he was left defeated, and exhausted. He did not reach for her again.
Softly, she asked, "Could the Veil come down peacefully?"
He shook his head. "I do not know."
"Find out," she commanded, and though her tone lacked the bite it held before, her words were far from gentle. "If this would truly put the world right, as you say, I would do all I could to help you. If you can restore magic and immortality to the Elven people, without bloodshed, I will help you. But if you truly intend to raise Elvhenan at the expense of the entire modern world, I will not stand beside you." And though she knew that it would follow her words, the flicker of hurt that crossed his face was no easier a burden to bear. She looked away, and with a subtle shake her head, "I love you," she added in a whisper. "More than I have loved anything. I fear I would die for that."
"No," Solas answered sharply. "I would not allow—"
"My life is no more important than any other — be it Elf, Human, Dwarf or Qunari — simply because you have come to care for me. If you took the time to see the value in this world, as I do, I believe you'd see the merit in saving it. After all, I came from it, didn't I?"
For that he had no reply.
Once more they stood a world apart, silent for the space of several shaking breaths, before Ellana finally turned away. "Now please—" she plead. The threat of tears lending a quaver to her voice she couldn't quite hide. "Wake me up."
She woke with a gasp in a room blanketed by darkness. Silent, but for the sound of the dying fire crackling in the hearth, and her ragged breaths.
It was still early; the sky only just beginning to shine with the first light of dawn. There were hours yet before someone would come to rouse her, though she doubted she'd be able to rest until then.
For a time, it was all she could do to lie still and wait for her pounding heart to slow. Swallow the lump in her throat and press her fingers to the knot in her stomach that stubbornly refused to untangle.
She closed her eyes tightly, and took a final, deep, breath to lend her the strength to turn and look at the empty space next to her where Solas had laid mere hours before.
And in the quiet safety of her tower room, she buried her face in both her hands, and cried.
