Author's notes at the end. Enjoy!

He was weak and disoriented. Something inside of him wasn't right, but he didn't have time to wonder what.

His swift paws had beaten the cold-packed earth and kicked up splatters of mud in their wake. As he passed through the forest to the outskirts of the Wilds, he clearly saw the destruction he had sensed at his awakening. Trees were laid bear, animals gutted, all leading toward the towering fortress of Ostegar. The stink of darkspawn filled his canine senses and made him gag, but he rushed ever onward, his mind beginning to circle around one devastating word: Blight.

Solas didn't slow his pace, didn't stop for breath until he reached the barrier. With aching muscles and a rapid beating of his heart, he quickly put on his human form and pierced the seal of protection with growing urgency.

It was like waking from a nightmare to enter another dream, a glass bubble - the air was holdings its breath, ephemeral, pressing in close. No breeze, no birds chirping their songs. But still the putrid smell wafted toward him, that unmistakable stench of rotting flesh and death. Everywhere, death. Was there no escape even here?

Firelight flickered through the windows and would have seemed a welcome haven if not for the smell. Surely it isn't Flemeth's body or, Creators forbid, her daughter. A shiver went through him. The Creators are in no position to forbid anything.

Regardless of what he might find, there was no turning back. There were too many questions, and he knew this was where the answers were most likely to begin. Stepping up to the threshold, he knocked. Silence. He knocked again, louder. Again, no answer. Resolute, he clenched his jaw, held his breath, and entered.

He had seen death in many forms, so much so that his reactions were dulled beyond the point of surprise or disgust. This, however, was different. There was no Flemeth. Only a husk of a man laying prostrate on a wooden table with his arms at his sides, a cadaver ready for the pyre. But this wasn't just any corpse. As Solas approached, his vision flashed white with dizzy shock and he stumbled over his own feet. His gut clenched, his palms began to sweat, and his ears took in the agonizing roar that erupted from his throat. If the man weren't dead already, Solas would have made it so in an instant. He fought back rage with rapid blinks to try and glean what could have created such a scene before him. The Deceiver was dead. Dead. He should be glad, relieved. The Illusive One would never stalk him again, at least on this side of the Veil. And yet, only a bitter hatred rose in his throat like bile. Death is too good for this one. Endless torment would be more fitting.

Instead, Solas was left to carry out that sentence. Harellan, they called him. Traitor to one's own kin.

Against his will, his mind flashed back to ages ago when he first encountered the man with the unsettling gaze that would prove his undoing. He had only been a youth then, impetuous, proud, eager for knowledge beyond what his people could give. Being a part of a small clan didn't lend him many opportunities for learning outside of elven lore, but the 'Illusive One', as he liked to call himself, changed all of that. He came to Solas when he was most vulnerable, and he showed him wonders. Through 'holograms', Solas saw other worlds, the stars so close he felt he could skim them with his fingers, and fantastical creatures that rivaled the most active of imaginations. He was offered something so tantalizing, the ability to consciously walk the Fade in dreams and converse with the very Spirits who resided there, that it was too good to refuse. "You're special, Solas," the stranger had said as his unnaturally blue eyes settled on the young elf like a beast circling its prey. "You're not like the others. Be my apprentice, and with the knowledge you'll gain, you can surpass even your so-called gods." It only took one demonstration for Solas to bow to temptation and agree to the Deceiver's terms: to teach this man from another world everything he knew of elven lore and the workings of Thedas. And he did it eagerly, for that young, foolish elf revered his mentor, respected him, and was in awe of his power. The Illusive One spun his web well, convincing him that he, Solas, was the future of the elven race. Only the Creators held them back. Remove their gods, and the elves could truly be free of the superstitions and rituals that bound them in ignorance. They could evolve into something greater. All the Deceiver needed was Solas' aid in using the artifact that could break the barrier to the Fade, for the good of the elven people...

It was the worst mistake of his life. The worst mistake any living creature has ever made or will ever make. Soon after fulfilling the Illusive One's plan, he was captured by Zathrian and tortured by having every part of himself bound, gagged, stripped away. Looking back, he was sure now that this man had delivered him to into Zathrian's hands. He supposed it was a fitting punishment. He did evil in the sight of the Creators willingly. Then he did evil against his will, going on a rampage of terror to kill innocents. So much blood...so much blood...and nothing in the world will make me clean again.

What destruction had this demon-made-flesh wrought after Solas handed him the keys to the kingdom? What had been his aim? He stood over the bloated corpse, rigid, as though willing the answers to come forth from those rotting lips.

The creak snapped his attention back to the present moment, and he tensed slightly. Flemeth had finally returned, and he waited for her to speak. Surely she would be surprised to see him, and willing to give him answers, he hoped. When he heard no words forthcoming, he furrowed his brow in confusion and turned, fully expecting to see the Witch of the Wilds in all her rough-edged glory. What he beheld instead was another he immediately recognized. Could it really be?

Flemeth's little girl, although she was a girl no longer. Years ago, even entangled in the throws of Zathrian's vengeance, he had used his last burst of free will to visit this hut to warn the vessel of Mythral of the Illusive One's deception. While it felt like mere days ago that he had watched Morrigan play in the spindleweed, her long, black hair tangling in the wind and her small, innocent hands clutching wildflowers, here she was before him, a woman, her eyes locked onto his with as shocked an expression as he must be giving her now. "Morrigan," he breathed. "It has been a long time."

"Where is my mother?" she asked softly. Her form was framed by the open doorway with diffused moonlight outlining her silhouette, and she looked as though she were a part of the night, her eyes a manifestation of stars and her shape that of shadows. By her look of anxious panic directed at the dead man laying like a plank behind him, he ventured he also saw recognition in her features.

He dropped his head to hide the inner turmoil raging within and turned once again toward the empty shell behind him. "I do not have the answer to that question. All was as you see it when I arrived a little while ago." He ventured that he didn't have the answers to a lot of questions she might have, so he asked his own. "Do you know who this is?"

Taking a step toward him, she wrinkled her nose, thought better of it, and left the hut to gulp in fresh air. He followed her out into the coolness of the night, grateful for the reprieve himself. After casting her gaze left and right, looking for Flemeth no doubt, she shook her head as she replied with a curt "No." He pursed his lips. She's lying.

"It is important that I find Asha'bellanar," he stated firmly. Morrigan's eyebrow twitched at hearing her mother's elven moniker, and he regarded her with curiosity. What kind of woman had she become, and would he ever have a chance to find out? "Do you know where I might look for her?"

Her laughter took him by surprise, but it was not an unpleasant sound. It was, however, her answer. She likely knew less than he. Struggling with what to do next, the adrenaline and subsequent fury that had carried him this far were sliding away, replaced by weariness. The Dread Wolf, weary. How pathetically sardonic. Until...

"I don't know that man, but I do know someone who does." She rubbed her arms pensively, struggling with what she should reveal. His outward composure was calm, patient, but inside, he was roiling. What? What does she know?

In an instant, he felt it in his gut, confirmed by Morrigan's shock at the sight of that broken body. Somehow, he knew it to be true: the Deceiver is alive, and this corpse is his ultimate deception. Of course he would still live and breathe. One such as he would not die so easily. Instead of anger, a strange calm much more dangerous came over the Dread Wolf. If he lives, then there is still hope that he might suffer by my hand. And Morrigan may be the key to finding him. Another wave of dizziness swept across his vision and he shook it away abruptly. But I can't face him like this. I must have all of my strength. And that was something he most definitely didn't have. Yet.

Morrigan's voice sounded strangely distant despite her nearness to him, her gaze even more so. "I was looking for you, although I never imagined you would make my task so easy." Her low tones slid through him as she spoke, and he found himself hanging onto every word. "There is a certain curse, cast by a dead elf, that turned his victims into werewolves. A curse that was broken for all but one." At her words, his heart again hammered in his chest, but he dared not let his anxiety show.

"Of all mages and apostates, I have never heard of one as powerful as you. Do you have insights into how to rid this man of his affliction?"

His weakness, the sliver of himself that was missing, wasn't misperceived. It was still caught up in Zathrian's revenge. He nodded slowly. "A curse such as you describe takes powerful magic to undo, and it is not something I can share. I can, however, perform the ceremony myself." Finally, a thread he could pull to bring him closer to his goal. One question, at least, was now answered. He hoped his quaking voice didn't betray his emotion. "Take me to him."

"What of my mother?" Morrigan asked coolly as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Do you no longer have need of her?"

Standing to his full height, he looked her in the eye to convey what he hoped she would perceive as sincerity. "She may be gone for hours or days, as you well know. Your friend may not have that much time."

While the curse still resided inside another, Solas would never be whole. If he wasn't whole, he couldn't make things right. For the good of all and to rid the world of the Illusive One forever, he must have the full extent of his power. He knew of only one way to accomplish it.

The one that is cursed must die.

By the time Leliana had returned to camp, Alistair and Shepard had traded roles. Doing his level best to avoid Shepard was a challenge; she seemed bent on drawing his gaze and smiling weakly whenever his eyes involuntarily glanced in her direction. He was once again left to wonder how this woman he had met mere weeks ago had so powerful an effect as to drive him to near insanity. Despite that, one thought kept coming back, over and over, like a broken record. She doesn't trust me. I'm not her peer. Only her blunt force object until she can get back to her real friends.

Her real lover.

He swallowed bitterly and chased back the stinging in his eyes as he mounted his steed to fall in line with Shepard in the lead. With nothing else to capture his focus, he watched the graceful sway of her hips in the saddle. Her black armor was pitted and cracked, but she still insisted on wearing it. She rode with an easy posture, her elbows softly bent, moving forward and back with each neck-bob the mare made. She had been a fast study when it came to riding, a natural. There would likely never be cause for them to ride together again, and he found himself missing the feeling of her form settled between his legs and pushed against his chest. She had been so close that he swore he could physically feel the hum of her warmth flooding his senses, rippling up and down his spine. She was like a magnet and he was a hunk of steel, and regardless of how hard he tried, he was unable to resist her pull. It was like a force of nature. But after her harsh rebukes and biting tone, that pull had a little less draw. She doesn't trust me. Without trust, they had nothing. Knowing that, how far was he willing to follow her now?

Will you tell them? With each downbeat of Lucy's hooves, I ran that question through my mind over and over again. Well, Shepard, will you?

The way Alistair had looked at me, with such incredulity and shock, I couldn't have gotten a more stunned reaction than if I had slapped him in the face. I was trying to protect him from the truth; the more he knew, the more his life would be at risk. But what if being ignorant of the truth was just as dangerous? What if losing his confidence resulted in losing him altogether?

I could hear Leliana's voice behind me, rising up and down like a songbird's trill, trying her best to alleviate the thick tension we carried with us as we set off for the Normandy. In contrast, Alistair's tone was low and muddled, weary and full of frustration. I didn't have the nerve to turn around. Better to let the dust settle. Then...what?

Will you tell them?

That damn question again. Sighing deeply, I rolled my neck and chewed the inside of my cheek apprehensively. The Illusive Man had already pulled the natives into his web, that much was clear, and his reach was likely farther than I was giving him credit for. He's here, in this world, affecting it for his own means. Alistair and Leliana deserve to know. I trusted them with the information. That wasn't the real issue. The issue was whether or not they would stay with me after they knew. I suddenly wondered how much Morrigan and Theresa had been told. Everything? Bits and pieces? But even they deserved the full truth. This was their world, after all, and we were the strangers in it. Alistair was right; they knew the dangers and risks better than anyone, just as I claimed to know the risks behind the Illusive Man's traps. We needed to work together with our eyes open to have the best chance of winning this fight. No more secrets.

Well, that's that, then. As soon as we reach the Normandy and I'm briefed, I'll tell them everything I know. Then, with everyone's help, we'll form a strategy. Together.

Alistair's first glimpse of the massive ship was in shimmers through the treeline as they crested a relatively high hill. As they drew nearer, he was alarmed to see the sheer massiveness of the damage, supposedly from the crash. The gouges in the forest floor were wider than the breadth of Redcliffe Castle, and the trees had been uprooted, crushed, ground into the dirt, all of them facing the same direction as though pointing 'this way' like a gigantic arrow. Although he had believed her when Shepard told them of her 'space ship' that flew in the sky, nothing could have prepared him for the reality of it. Her ship fell from the sky. How was that even possible? And furthermore, if the destruction was this vast, how vast was the ship? He soon had his answer.

Leliana's intake of breath matched his own as they came into the clearing. In his mind, he had envisioned something akin to a bird, with wings to fly by and limbs to land on. This was nothing of the sort. If someone were to ask him later what he had seen, he wouldn't have been able to compare it to anything. It was entirely foreign, totally alien, completely not a part of this world.

The sunlight glinted off its hull and shown around the letters clearly spelling out the vessel's name. He marveled at where it had skidded to a halt; they couldn't have picked a better location if they tried. And then, Alistair saw him, unmistakably him, emerging from the belly of that gigantic ship. By the sudden gallop of her horse, Shepard saw him, too.

Leliana was next to follow after her with Alistair trailing behind, and he slowed his stallion to a plodding gait. This was Shepard's moment, her reunion with her ship and her crew, the thing that had kept her moving and given her hope. Seeing her here, seeing the Normandy, it suddenly all made sense. He had a context for her that he never had before, and he could clearly see that this was where she belonged. She fit, and he became keenly aware that he so very much didn't. Is this how Shepard felt when she first arrived here, this overwhelming sense of being completely out of place? Then he remembered her enduring spirit, her pride in who she was, how confident she had been when faced with the enemy and how quickly she had garnered allies. He smiled despite himself. He couldn't imagine Shepard ever seeming out of place. Not to him.

He shielded his eyes from the afternoon sun and watched as she dismounted, drew Kaidan into an embrace, and brushed away his hands that flew to caress her split cheek where a bandit had shoved her face into the scree. Kaidan's expression was full of concern, hers full of that stubborn streak Alistair had become intimately acquainted with since they had first met. She pointed to Leliana, who had caught up with her by then - an introduction, no doubt. It was cut short, however, by another man, Admiral Anderson if Alistair recalled correctly, suddenly bursting from the ship and running toward them. After a quick nod to Shepard, Anderson began to talk with as he motioned back toward the Normandy. Obviously, something was wrong. Kaidan and Shepard's faces flitted from shock to alarm and back again to settle into a hard-set grimace while Leliana looked on in bewilderment. With apprehension blooming in his gut, he briefly wondered if this was another development that Shepard would keep from him. If so, he certainly wasn't going to interject. Best to begin setting himself apart now. It would make leaving her that much easier, although the thought still made him wilt inside. He slowed his mount to a halt and rested his hands on his saddle horn. Holding his breath. Waiting.

Then, she turned to look back at Alistair. She was still talking, saying words he couldn't hear from so far away, gesturing toward him, the horses, concern plain on her face. Kaidan cocked his head to the side in a show of consideration. Shepard pointed toward the Grey Warden and crossed her arms in front of her chest. Anderson and Kaidan both turned to look at him now as she spoke. What could they possibly be talking about that has anything to do with me?

Anderson nodded first, then Kaidan followed suit. Shepard echoed their movements with a curt nod of her own. Leaving Kaidan's side, she broke into a run not toward her ship, not toward the rest of her crew that were pouring out of the Normandy to greet her, but running toward him. Why him?

With his anxiety giving birth to dread, he licked his lips nervously and spurred his mount forward to meet her.

Um, so...uh...yeah. Hi. I swear at some point it will get LESS confusing and not MORE confusing. Like, by the next chapter. I think. Hopefully. Please don't give up on me! I have a plan. I have a personal belief that I know what I'm doing (ha). When this is all said and done, you can totally disagree with me.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Another double cliffhanger for your reading pleasure!