"A part of me is convinced that this is brilliance, another part can't shake the feeling that it's a ridiculous farce."
"It's a glamour." Dorian impresses, "Of course it's a ridiculous farce; that's the point."
"You mentioned before that people in your homeland typically don't use this sort of magic because they're too proud to dabble in outward concealment. I'm beginning to think they don't bother with it because it's both exhausting and stupid." She remarks blandly, opening her palm to reveal a charming sprig of alyssum, conjured from thin air. "For you." She says, holding her hand out to Dorian.
"A bit of focus, El'una? You're supposed to be my distant and long-dead cousin, not a gardener."
Her eyes narrow darkly and she pelts him with the flowers, "And who's to say that Lady Evelyn Trevelyan doesn't enjoy gardening as a pastime?"
Dorian smirks at her retort, coming back easily with one of his own. "Careful, Lady Trevelyan. When you get all worked up like that, your ears get all… pointy. It's quite odd."
She groans and clenches her teeth in frustration: She wasn't jesting when she said this was both exhausting and stupid; even with her handle on staffless magic, a glamour requires constant maintenance and concentration for it to work effectively. It isn't the same as shapeshifting, which requires two tremendous exhaustions of power; one to transform, and one to turn back. A glamour is only an illusion cast over oneself to give themselves a different outwards appearance. It requires drawing power consistently from the Fade and only works so long as those it is being worked on have reason to believe it: Another likely reason why it is so rarely used in the modern age. She makes a fist and her knuckles pop as she breathes heavily through her nose and turns back to face the large mirror set in the corner of her chambers. She tosses a glance over her shoulder at Dorian who is lounging imperiously on the settee, enjoying a glass of wine.
"Must be nice." She quips. "Getting to watch me do all the work."
Dorian shrugs and reaches for the bottle sitting on the nearby end table. "I'm not the one that needs a disguise. Besides, even if I did have to use this magic, it wouldn't last for long. Between the two of us, you're the only one who has mastered the expenditure of limitless mana."
"I think 'mastered' is being generous. I fell asleep last night at half seven."
In order to pass herself off as Evelyn Trevelyan, she had to confidently maintain her focus regardless of what came up. Over the past fortnight it had been a course of building up the skill required to maintain the glamour while performing routine, day to day tasks. First came standing still, then came walking around Skyhold, then came trickier things like eating meals and carrying on conversations. There was a particularly nasty period where Dorian incessantly prodded her about Solas, asking a series of extremely personal questions that ranged from topics that were downright embarrassing, to accusations that filled her with guilt. It wasn't nice, it wasn't kind, and it wasn't Dorian, but the last thing either of them wanted was for El'una to lose her handle on her emotions in a tense situation with some bureaucrat. The former Inquisitor materializing in the middle of a room full of Magisters would surely spell disaster.
She sighs heavily and closes her eyes, drawing on the Fade, connecting with the initial resistance she is met with from the Veil. It pushes against her intent, serving its purpose as a barrier between herself and the magic that lay beyond it, but instead of pushing back, she relaxes her pressure, recalling the old words and ancient songs that live in the windblown grass and the stillness of freshly fallen snow: The same words and songs thrum in her own heart and come from the same place. I am the same, but not the same. I am older.
There is a metaphysical shudder as The Veil acquiesces to her truth and politely dissipates in the path of her reach, allowing her to draw upon the magic necessary to not only make her look like a shem, but to also falsify an arm.
When she opens her eyes again, her connection to the Fade remains strong and consistent, but she is staring into the face of a woman of similar age. Her hair is pale and falls past her waist and her eyes are wide and blue. Her skin is sun kissed and scarless and just like her own, free of any trace of the vallaslin. She's a beautiful woman, well suited to the rich fabrics and finery that adorn her. The convincing disguise does little to dispel the guilt at the fact that she is hiding behind a dead woman's face.
A pang of guilt sweeps over her at the thought of the real Lady Trevelyan; the one that died in the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She had not met her formally, but she had seen the noblewoman and her contingent of Circle mages in passing during the council. She was a proud looking woman; fierce in the eyes and straight in the back. How she was going to live up to such a presence with any consistency was a mystery to her. The real Lady Trevelyan likely never imagined that her legacy would be an elf reviving her through means of falsification.
She lifts her left arm and looks down, wiggling perfectly manicured and existent fingers. It still feels strange, having an arm in one sense or another after learning to be without for so many months. When Dorian first explained to her that the glamour could also falsify an arm, she was elated at the prospect of having the limb back, even if she had subverted the need of a staff. She was surprised to find that she had more difficulty with it than she expected: She keeps forgetting it exists; talks with her right hand only when conversing, leaving the left to hang limply by her side ridiculously. The day before last, she closed it in a door and it vanished.
It functions like a real arm to an extent - A real arm composed of magic and intent. Like the rest of the glamour, it only exists as long as she continues manifesting its existence on other people's senses. The problem with constructs composed of magic, is that they tend to be fragile to things that are not also composed of magic. Dorian had given her the go ahead to use the arm; eat and drink with it, move it, open doors with it, but to also favour it and attempt to avoid anything that might be a sudden shock to the fabric of the magic; no throwing punches, no exasperated slamming of fists, no physical blocking: It was to be treated as if it was made of spun sugar.
"We need to consider the eventuality that I may have to fight like this. At the very least I need to be able to act like a mage." She says, clenching and unclenching her left hand. Although she no longer requires a staff, having the arm back in one form or another does create a longing in her to hold one again.
"One thing at a time." Dorian reminds her. "Before you need worry about roasting adversaries as my cousin, you must first learn to act like her. I mean nothing by it of course, but your social decorum needs some work."
A derisive huff of air falls from lips that aren't her own. "Might I remind you that I charmed the pants off of the Winter Palace? Without this." She motions up and down her figure.
"Yes, well. You must forgive me if I can't remember clearly. By the end of the night I don't even think I knew where my own pants ended up, let alone anyone else's." Dorian smirks over the rim of his goblet. "Honestly though, you look ravishing outwardly, but people are going to wonder why this stunning specimen from the Marches sounds like an elf that has lived her entire life in the back of an aravel, hunting shems."
She lets the jab slide and instead turns away from the mirror, crossing the room to the settee with long, purposeful strides that are considerably different than her typically short, somewhat scattered rhythm. When she reaches Dorian's side she closes her eyes and smiles politely, dropping into a deep, sweeping curtsy. She even has her fingers rounded and the tips pressed daintily against each other.
"Magister Pavus, it is so kind of you to welcome me into your home. I hope the duration of my stay at your estate is no hassle to your good graces and hospitality. If I may; could I entreat the Master for a sip of wine? The road was terribly dusty and I fear that I am utterly parched." She speaks in a deeper, raspier tone, but it is still her voice. Her slight Dalish lilt is replaced with long, sticky vowels and snappy consonants. Long eyelashes lift, and she blinks slowly, straightening from her curtsey.
Dorian's mustache twitches from side to side in what might be annoyance.
"Very well." He snips, passing her the wine goblet, which is in turn accepted with the most graceful of fingers. "You've certainly got a presence about you despite all your years in the Circle, Lady Trevelyan."
"Don't patronize me, Dorian." She says in a voice that is still unfamiliar. "I haven't been surrounded by nobles and their posturing for the past years to be so ignorant as to not pick up a few things." Lady Trevelyan passes the goblet of wine to her left hand with more deliberation than it should take and stretches her right palm out the the Magister in front of her. A beautiful, deep blue delphinium weaves into existence from nothingness. "My thanks for the wine." She purrs, tipping the flower into Dorian's hand. "To the yard now? My pets are hungry."
I have created some sort of monster.
The thought leaves him be long enough so he can throw up a barrier strong enough to repel the wave of fire that is hurtling towards him. He hears El'una laugh and he straightens and recovers to see the figure of his dead cousin enrobed inside a web of flame that is composed of more than simple pillars of fire: No. She's gone the full on theatrical, bleeding-heart Tevinter path of making each stream of fire into a different animal: There are fish, and halla, and serpents gamboling through the air around her where her hands conduct them. Her face positively glows as she watches with delight.
She will fit right in with the culture of the Imperium if she keeps this up. She will be the fucking belle of the ball.
He narrowly dodges the hound that has made its sole priority in life to bowl him over. The pup (if the massive beast can be called that,) skids to a halt and drops its front haunches, tail slicing through the air with a sense of barely contained joy: At least one of them was having a good time. He has a hard time faulting her for this stroke of madness: These creatures will grow to be loyal till death and that is something El'una is in great need of. He would not revel to be at the receiving end of those jaws when these animals are fully grown, hungry, and beholden to a small, angry elven woman.
"How certain are you that this is wise?" He pants, remorseful of the amount of sweat he is covered in. He warily side-eyes the hound, who is circling him threateningly again. "Don't get me wrong: You look fantastic. You are fantastic. You've clearly got a grip on all of this, but it leaves one to wonder exactly how safe it is for one to be poking around the Fade with the mentality of 'Hang the Veil! I do as I please!'"
El'una's hands drop, and the fire does too. It dissipates on the ground around her, leaving the grass smoking slightly. "Oh, no it's not like that at all. You mean demons, right?" She laughs lightly before breaking into a rather harsh fit of coughing that takes her a few moments to recover from. He feels his brow press in concern. "You can't have forgotten any of Solas' numerous 'Demons are just Spirits' speeches." She teases after catching her breath.
"For someone so staunchly set against his actions, you certainly seem to be using a lot of his knowledge." He observes; it's true. Nearly every concept she's proven in practice or mentioned since his arrival harkens back to Solas' own theories and beliefs. He would know: He was constantly privy above the rotunda, listening to the elf tell El'una all manner of concepts that at the time were simple to dismiss with a quietly whispered, "Lunacy," as he flipped another page of a book from his comfortable armchair in the library.
"Why not? It's the knowledge of not only an ancient being, but of a world that thrived prior to our own." Still sounding rather hoarse, she takes a long drink from her waterskin and wipes her mouth with the back of her arm. "They're around, absolutely: Purpose, Curiousity, Temperance and more. Duty is especially piqued by my actions of late; but if I were I to drag Duty through the Veil as it is, it would likely become Rage. I am not seeking to draw them into this world, however; I am happy to let them observe from afar. If they choose to pass through the veil, it is at their own behest. The magic I use today is magic from a time where Demons did not exist because there was no Veil for them to cross through and become twisted by an incorrect purpose. I figure I'm at little risk of becoming an abomination. So long as my aims remain noble, I am in no danger."
He presses his lips together, and pours some water over his head before he speaks, unable to ignore his concern any further; her logic is far from sound and her quarry is dangerous ground as it stands. "The more you talk about it all, the more you sound like him." He states. "You claim you have no interest in confronting him, but with every spell I watch you cast, I can't help but understand why your people used to be viewed as gods. I'm afraid that there is too much knowledge at your disposal… too much potential for divergence." He leans his staff against the fence and lifts his hand; fire dances between his fingertips before forming into a perfect sphere that rolls in his outstretched palm. "This," he says, looking down at the sphere of fire, "Is casual. There is little thought or effort in this act. Any mage can do this out of boredom to pass the time." He places his other hand on top of the sphere and raises it, causing the orb to balloon in size until it is nearly two feet across. "This, on the other hand, is exhausting. I could put motion behind it, and I could almost surely kill a man with it if I wanted to. But…" He falters, his nose creasing as he fights to maintain the ball of fire. "Making that happen would almost surely kill me."
"Stop." El'una demands darkly. "Dorian. Let it go." When he doesn't and she sees the beads of sweat snaking down his neck past his collar, she acts instead: With little more than a blink from her, he feels his magic sent away, scattering back to the Fade by a will stronger than his own; the space between his hands is empty and he is gasping for air while she stands before him, breathing with ease. He feels his knees weaken and the ground meets them a moment later. Her arm is around his back and her warm hazel eyes are gazing into his with concern; she looks like herself again.
"I want you to succeed." He concedes. "There is no one better than you in this world as a saviour for such a fucked up load of people, but… I worry for you." He hates the crack that invades his voice at this admittance, but pushes on regardless. "Where is this path going to lead you? It is a path that I have seen more friends walk than I care to admit." He laughs bitterly then at the thoughts of Alexius that have been lurking on the edge of his subconscious since El'una had related the truth of her unnatural progress to him: Progress is all well and good, but too much and at one time has the tendency to gain more muscle and hunger than one can handle before it is too late.
El'una coughs again deeply in her chest and she shoves away the curious hound that has plodded over and began sniffing invasively at Dorian's ear. "Stop that." She chides the dog softly. She wraps her right hand around his wrist and rocks back on her heels, raising them both to their feet. "Dorian," she says sincerely, squeezing his hand, "Please don't fear for me. I fear for myself in large enough quantities already. I… I don't know what else to do. How can I have any hope of getting close to him if I can't measure up to him? How might I parlay with him if I can't even defend myself if I have to?"
"Answer me only one more thing."
"Anything." She pledges.
He gazes firmly at her face; the face of a woman in her mid-thirties, bare-faced despite her origin, with eyes rimmed with dark circles. She looks exhausted.
"If you are unable to meet your ends; if you cannot dissuade our friend. Will you be the one to kill him?"
El'una draws a long, shaking breath, but does not break eye contact.
"If all other options are exhausted, if there is no hope in my course and all that I aim to achieve is lost… yes. It will be my hands that are soaked with his blood. If I must, I will kill Solas myself." She releases his hand from hers and turns away, the last sight of her face a mask of misery. "I am ready to leave when you are, Dorian. I am comfortable enough in my ability to maintain this facade."
She departs across the yard alone and the hound remains by his side. It stretches its muzzle skyward and lets out a baleful howl that Dorian thinks he hears returned by a beast far outside the castle walls.
