The scent of fear was so thick in the air of the Fade, the wolf could almost taste it. The presence was strongest here, and it should have been simple enough to find the demon, or whatever it was, but it managed to elude him as easily as it had the spirits. He pressed his nose to the ground in the hope of picking up one definite track, but it was no use. The scent of terror was everywhere, like a foul residue. He prowled, hunting and stalking, but was unable to find any physicality to the feeling. Demons and whispers teased and tormented the edges of his vision, but as soon as he turned his head, they were gone. He howled in frustration, digging his claws into the hard clay ground.

A shadow appeared at the edge of a grove of trees. Just a small flicker, but his sharp eyes detected it instantly. He twitched his nose at it, suspecting a trap. It smelled strongly of the terror that tainted his hunting grounds, and it made his hackles stand on end. He pursued, cautiously at first, stepping silently through the wet leaves that carpeted the forest floor. The shadow grew and began to purposefully evade him then, moving faster and dodging every lunge and leap. Without a thought, he found himself chasing it deeper and deeper into the forest.

Allara ran down dark, twisting, narrow alleys in pursuit of the voices that cried out to her for help. The rushing air burned her tired lungs, but she couldn't stop. Every time she slowed, the voices screamed louder. A rock caught her boot and sent her sprawling head first onto the cold cobblestone ground. When she looked up, she was in the center of a deserted marketplace. She heard the voices calling to her from behind a huge warehouse door. The door was plain, but there was a menacing aura around it, and Allara didn't understand why it terrified her. Marshaling her courage, she pushed herself up from the ground and ran to the door. The voices were just on the other side. She tried the knob, but it was locked tight. Reaching for her belt pouch, she withdrew a selection of lockpicks she kept on her and got to work. Seconds later, she heard the lock mechanism clunk open inside the door and she heaved it open.

Keeper Istimaethoriel and several other members of Clan Lavellan sat manacled together on the ground of the warehouse. Old Efren the shepherd was there, and several of the clan's older children. Young Faelan had finally gotten his vallaslin, Allara noticed with a pang. The fresh tattoo, a tribute to Andruil, was covered with dirt and dried blood. The young elf's head lolled, unconscious. He must have put up a fight. The Keeper had been badly beaten as well; both eyes were purple and swollen nearly shut, and dried blood crusted from her nose down her chin. The other elves looked little better. "Da - da'len?" croaked the Keeper, turning her head so that her less-injured eye rested on Allara. Allara felt the hot tears falling down her cheeks.

"Yes, hahren. I'm here," she said, taking the woman's manacled hand in hers. "I'm going to get you out of here."

"No, you mustn't!" said Istimaethoriel. There was plain terror in her voice and she looked around wildly, as if some monster were going to appear at any moment.

"What? Why? Who did this to you? How did you come to be here?" asked Allara.

"Tevinter slavers," said the Keeper, by way of explanation. Allara's stomach dropped. "We're all that's left, da'len. The rest of the clan, they -" The Keeper's words were cut off by her sobs. "They'll kill you if they see you. You must leave, now!" Allara stared at the Keeper, not believing the words she was hearing.

In the corner, Faelan groaned. Efren steadied the boy with a hand on his shoulder as he came to. He blinked a few times, taking in his surroundings. He felt the weight of the manacles on his wrists and ankles and thrashed in frustration. Efren shushed him, warning that a struggle might bring unwanted attention. His eyes found the Keeper, and widened in alarm at the state of her. Then he turned his eyes to Allara and the look of hope that filled his face made her heart hurt. "Allara, I knew you'd come! I told them you would save us," he said.

"Yes," she said, determinedly sifting through her lockpicks to find one the right size. "I -" She was cut off. A force held her frozen. The only part of her that she was able to move was her eyes, and they flicked around wildly trying to find the source of what could only be magic. She was the only one who had been frozen. Her clan remained manacled on the floor, all staring at her with looks of mixed hope and fear on their damaged faces. They seemed unaware that she was unable to move.

A door deep in the warehouse creaked open and several hooded, faceless figures filed out. They came to collect the chains to lead the elves out. One of the figures held a coiled whip, and without warning, it cracked the whip at Faelan. The young elf lunged at the figure, and was jerked up short by his restraints. The figure threw its head back in soundless laughter at his struggle and moved in to kick Faelan to the ground. Keeper Istimaethoriel rose to her knees then, the highest she could get given the shackles. "Stop!" she commanded, with as much authority as she could muster. The figure turned from its fixation on Faelan to focus on the Keeper. "He's no good to you dead," she said. Another of the figures stooped by Faelan to drag him up, its hands forcing his head up. He resisted, struggling. The figure struck him hard on the back and he went slack enough to be dragged up by the figure again. The Keeper screamed out of terror for Faelan and the figure near her struck her down. Faelan roared in rage as he witnessed the figure whip Istimaethoriel mercilessly on the ground, tearing open the back of her Keeper's robes with the force of the lashes.

Allara struggled with all her might to get free of the power holding her there, but all her efforts were useless. The figures did not seem to know or care that she was there. They did not appear to hear her screaming from her static prison. Whoever or whatever had held her fast had wanted her only to witness this. She heard the words in her mind as if Solas had said them to her directly. She felt the warmth of the pendant he had given her on her throat, and suddenly she knew. This was the Fade. She felt foolish for not realizing sooner.

She breathed deep, channeling her focus through the pendant as she had done so many times before. She felt the force holding her release, but when she looked up, her clan and the hooded figures were gone. The warehouse was empty. Only a nightmare, she thought to herself, calming slightly. Or was it a vision? She took another deep breath and closed her eyes, expecting to feel the now-familiar rush of traveling back to her physical body from the Fade. The rush never came. She opened her eyes, and she was still in the warehouse. She felt a strange weight on her hands and looked down. They were chained together. From the shadows, a dark, hooded figure emerged. It was laughing a terrible, raspy, joyless laugh. It moved before her and she felt the sharp sting of the whip across her face before she heard its loud crack.

It was closer now, so tantalizingly close. The wolf nipped at the edge of the shadow he chased, the scent of terror thick in his nostrils and throat. If he could just get a burst of speed, he would catch it. The thought of it drove him into a frenzy.

"Stop!" came an echo of a voice. It was faint, as if it were carried on the wind. Yet the voice was familiar, and he felt a pang of emotion. It made him pause just long enough for the shadow to pull forward. He drove the voice to the back of his mind and put on speed.

"No! Why?!" said the same voice, louder, but still barely more than a whisper. The wolf's ears twitched.

"You're gonna have to kill me!" roared the voice, this time clear as crystal. The wolf stopped dead. He knew that voice. She was in trouble, but she was also in the Fade. Was she coming through to him? Would she find her way here? The thought turned his blood to ice. She couldn't see him like this, he could not let her. The shadow had paused as well. It seemed to leer at the wolf and he growled at it, baring his fangs menacingly. The shadow taunted him, emanating waves of fear and dread. They washed over the wolf, and he saw his priority. The shadow must be stopped, that was his purpose. When the shadow was stopped he would help her. Meanwhile, he had to stop her from coming to him. She would not understand if she found him like this. Now was not the time. She could handle herself, he knew. She would be fine without him.

Allara ran. The air stung the raw skin at her wrists and ankles. She pumped her legs with as much strength as she could, willing them to carry her faster. She was no longer sure whether the hooded figure was still behind her, or if she had lost it. She tried again to channel her will through the pendant, to find Solas. She should be able to find him, she had done it nearly every night since he showed her how. She could feel his presence there, she should be able to reach him, but something was preventing it. She tried again, this time focusing on somewhere safe rather than trying to locate Solas. She closed her eyes and immediately felt the pulling of the current rushing her away to a different place in the Fade.

When she opened her eyes again, she was at Skyhold. She released a breath she didn't know she had been holding. She walked through the open iron gates, expecting to greet the Fade versions of the usual host of guards who were usually there, but the place was oddly deserted. It was interesting, she thought, of all the places she had explored in the Fade both by herself and with Solas, she had never thought to visit Skyhold. Perhaps this was normal for this part of the Fade, or perhaps she had willed the fortress to be empty subconsciously. She shrugged and made for the main hall. She would find her quarters and sit for a moment to collect her thoughts. Her limbs felt like they were made of lead and the tang of fear still tinged her mind and ran as adrenaline through her veins. Once she was calm again, she would be able to leave the Fade. She would be able to wake up.

As soon as she stepped into the main courtyard, she knew something was very wrong. The normally bustling square between the steps of the main hall, the tavern, and the armory was as deserted as everywhere else and it looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. The tavern door had been torn off its hinges and was laying several feet away from the building. Allara could see that the inside had been thoroughly trashed as well. This was no force of nature. Skyhold had been taken. If it had been sacked, there had to have been people here. She scanned the mud and cobblestones for tracks, but couldn't tell the age of any of the shuffling footprints she saw around her. Her stomach dropped to the floor and she rushed up the stairs to the main hall to observe the damage there.

She found the doors closed and locked from the outside. Heavy chains were wrapped around the steel window grates of the main hall's doors and padlocked. Panic hit Allara full on. She fumbled for her lockpicks with numb fingers and got to work on the padlock. The chains fell from the grates with a series of heavy, echoing clunks. Allara pushed her full weight against one of the heavy doors and it barely budged. Something was blocking it from the other side. She managed to open the door far enough to squeeze herself through, and she did, shimmying through the narrow opening.

The smell was overpowering. It had been noticeable outside, but nothing like it was inside the main hall. As soon as she opened the door, the stench of sulfur and old blood assaulted her nostrils. When she finally entered the hall, she saw where it came from. She had found the residents of Skyhold. She tried to force herself to look at the aftermath, to try and determine what had happened. Looking at the mangled, mutilated corpses of the people she had been responsible for was too much. She strangled a scream and it turned into violent retching. Her stomach was empty, but she heaved and spat bile onto the blood-covered stone floor.

The population of Skyhold had been herded into the main hall and then someone had opened a rift and locked the door. Along with the corpses of of the Inquisition forces and staff, Allara saw the unmistakable remains of demons and horrors. She picked her way through the waste, her heart replaced by a gaping hole. She wanted nothing more than to turn and run, but she knew she had to look. It was a nightmare, it was put there by something for a reason, with intention. A nightmare.

"Solas, I need you. Help me," she whispered weakly. If she couldn't go to him, maybe he could come to her, she hoped. She moved aside a fallen table and gasped at the sight of Varric's body. His gloved finger was on Bianca's trigger, but he had run out of bolts. Cassandra lay sprawled and bloody not far away, her sword firmly embedded in a pride demon's skull. "No no no no no," Allara muttered. She knew what she would find, but she continued searching anyway. One by one, she found all of her companions and advisors. She knew that they had all died protecting the weaker and unarmed among them, and she knew that they had all known it was one of the things that might have been asked of them, but that didn't make it better. Iron Bull's sightless eyes stared at her, and seeing his powerful form so broken and bloody sent Allara to her knees. She saw that one of Dorian's hands was pressed into Bull's while the other clutched his now broken staff to his chest. She forced herself to stand again, to see what the nightmare had for her. The terrible visions of her destroyed friends weren't enough. She knew as soon as she stepped into the main hall to find this bloody mess. She knew she had to find Solas.

His rotunda was trashed, but empty. Demon ichor had been spattered over his beautiful frescoes. The door leading outside toward Cullen's office was locked. It didn't surprise her. She turned to move up the spiral staircase in the tower, but heaps of broken furniture barred her way. She ventured back into the main hall. Tears moved freely down her cheeks as she stared at the scene once again. Cullen's body lay surrounded by at least a dozen demon corpses. The blood on the stone floor soaked into his blond hair. She lay a hand on the cracked plate armor that covered the commander's chest and sent a silent prayer to Falon'din. This was a nightmare, she reminded herself firmly. She willed anger to take over the paralyzing terror and grief, but the scene wouldn't let her. At last, in the corridor leading to the war room, she found what she knew she had been led there to see.

She thought she was prepared for it, after seeing the rest of her friend made into corpses, but she was not. Solas lay crumpled against the door to the war room. He had been separated from his staff, and Allara suspected that he had kept off the attackers as long as his mana had let him. She rushed to him, turning him onto his back. His robes were soaked in blood and ichor. His head had been crushed somehow, and his face was so mangled that he was nearly unrecognizable, but she knew the feeling of his body in her hands. The body she had held with love and passion so often that she knew every curve and plane. The body that was now limp and lifeless. She clutched his soaked robes in her hands so hard she heard the fabric tear. "Nightmare, nightmare. This is a nightmare!" she roared, sobbing. Her cries echoed off the stone walls for what seemed like forever. Her whole body was shaking and it seemed as if she would collapse or die before she would leave this place. Her body shook, and then suddenly, she felt the sensation of being shaken.

Allara woke up with a gasp. The sharp intake of breath burned her throat, which felt raw even though she had been sleeping. She was drenched with sweat and she could feel the tears still wet on her eyelashes. Above her was the dark canvas of her tent, and Solas. His face was drawn with concern and he put a gentle hand to her face, wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb.

"You were calling out. Are you all right?" he asked. The sight of him there, alive, and with her was overwhelming when the sight of him dead on the floor was still so fresh in her mind. She touched his face with a trembling hand and drew it back sharply as if she had just touched fire. She tried to speak, to answer him, but the words turned to sobs in her throat. Fresh tears spilled out of her eyes, and the quiet sobs that had managed to escape became huge, racking, and hysterical. Solas pulled her in close to him, cradling her against his chest. She felt his strong arms around her, gently rocking her against him as she continued to pour herself out to him in sobs that were muffled against his tunic. She heard his voice rumble in his chest as he comforted her softly in old Elvhen. At last, when she felt as if she were cried out, she was able to pull away and face him on her own.

"It was a nightmare, it was awful," she said. He took her hand and squeezed it, a strange look of pain in his eyes. "You were - you were dead. Everyone was dead. My clan, they - they were enslaved. I tried to find you, I could sense you, but I couldn't get to you. It must have been magic." The pain in Solas' eyes deepened and he took his hand away. "I think something was interfering with it. What could interrupt the magic of the pendant?" Solas wrapped his arms around his knees and ducked his head.

"The pendant only responds to my magic, so far as I know," he said quietly.

"But then how -" Allara started. She looked at him, his face full of pained remorse. "You?" He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply.

"I didn't realize how much you were suffering. You were so tired when we got back from the Winter Palace, I thought it must have just been the stress working itself out."

"You heard me calling? In the Fade?" she asked, incredulous.

"I had other matters that needed to be attended to, I found you as soon as I could," his voice was helpless, pleading. She stared blankly at the floor at his feet.

"You - you blocked me from finding you? Purposely?" she whispered, directing her question to the floor. Several long seconds passed before he spoke.

"It was necessary. I do not expect you to understand."

"I needed you."

"I am sorry."

Allara stared at her marked hand, her eyes soft on the faintly glowing green mark just beneath her skin. She didn't think she could possibly feel worse than she had in the nightmare, at least she could count that all as a cruel illusion. This was real. She was fine, obviously. She was alive, he was alive, they were all safe in the Inquisition camp, not murdered in Skyhold, but the betrayal was still there. It was real. She shook her head violently, refusing to accept the thought. He couldn't have meant what he said. It couldn't be as blatant a disregard for her as she thought. She looked up at him, and he could not meet her eyes. Maybe -

No, she realized. He knew what he had done, and it was clear that he expected her to react in some way. Was he expecting more tears? Anger? Violence? She had called out to him in the worst nightmare she'd ever had and he had ignored her. He had intentionally prevented her from coming to him the way he himself had given her the means to do. He had effectively, if unintentionally trapped her in the nightmare. Maybe it was true and he didn't realize how terrible it was, but what could she really believe? How could she put her trust in him now? She had the impulse to grab her things and leave him in the tent alone. She could bunk with Leliana and Josephine, answer their questions in the morning. She felt the anger rise up in her chest like fire in a dragon. Why should she have to go anywhere? She turned her teary, red-rimmed eyes to him.

"Get out," she said. Her tone was quiet, dangerous. "I can't look at you right now." She could hear him swallow in the silence that followed.

"Allara, I am -"

"Get. Out. Of my tent. Now," her voice sounded exponentially calmer than she felt. He bowed his head to her, his eyes full of deep remorse, and he quietly untied the flap of the tent and went out into the night.

Allara crumpled up a wool blanket and buried her face in it. The rough homespun absorbed the fresh, hot flood of her tears. She pulled the blanket tighter to her; it smelled like him.