Solas found his son in the rotunda late that night, deep in his cups and focused hard on his research. He was surprised he was even coherent with the number of empty bottles around him. When he approached, the rider looked up – and immediately he seemed irritable, his mouth a hard scowl and his brows stitched together. For a moment, the dense shadows cast out by the firelight appeared to grow and deepen.
"My son," he greeted.
"Father." The tone of Fabriel's voice told him he was in no mood for talk.
"I see you've wasted no time in acquainting yourself with the Inquisitor's reserves."
"I've full access to 'whatever I need' for my work. Tonight, I needed this."
"All of it?"
The rider rolled his eyes and set his bottle down, "Enough, Father. I'm not a child in need of scolding."
"No. But this is a poor example of maturity."
"Enough!" he commanded. Solas' face softened and his voice grew gentle as he spoke.
"Forgive me, ma vhenan. It pains me to see you this way."
Fabriel leaned forward in his chair and looked at his father. His lips were thin and his eyes difficult to read. After a moment of pregnant silence, the rider stood and picked his bottle up from the table.
"Do you know when I had my first drink?" he asked as he walked to the other side of the desk. His pace was steady, almost relaxed, and Solas wondered if it was the alcohol or apathy.
"No," he replied.
"It was on a ship to the Free Marches. We were sailing to Kirkwall and the waters were rough. The captain opened a case of Butterbile 7:84 to help the men sleep. I was twelve years old, surrounded by sailors I would never see again, the day I became a man." He leant against the desk, taking another swig of ale. He paused to swallow before he continued, but his eyes never left the elf's face. "It's not right. A boy's first drink should be shared with his father."
Fabriel offered Solas the end of the bottle.
"It's not my first," he said, "but it's still important."
Solas hesitated, but accepted the offer. He took a long draught of ale that burned the back of his throat. As he did, Fabriel picked up a new bottle and opened it with practiced ease. He drained around half of it while his father watched on, uncertain if he should speak or simply offer a sympathetic ear.
"I sense you're upset. Has something happened, Fabriel?" he asked. The rider laughed, but it was a bitter, short exhale of the nose, his smile never reaching his eyes.
"Love," he replied, "Love happened. It's a curse."
"Would you like to talk about it?"
Fabriel put the ale to his lips and drew. "There's nothing to discuss. I'd rather just sit here and share a drink with my father."
The elf smiled and started to settle himself on the sofa at the side of the room. He rested his bottle on one knee and his hand on the other, and looked at his son leaning on the desk.
"Very well," he said. "Then perhaps you could sate my curiosity about something. I heard a story from Blackwall about a cult you came across in the Exalted Plains. He claimed that you believe one of their artefacts was elven in origin. Could you tell me more?"
"Gladly. That thing almost killed me."
Fabriel sat beside his father and explained what he knew of the artefact – a queer staff that had seemed to beat with a pulse of its own, and radiated a chaotic energy that had more than once exploded in his presence. The leader of the cult, a woman who fashioned herself an elven priestess with some sort of connection to the ancient Evanuris, had used it as a prop to ensure obedience from her flock; and the rider had uncovered that, not only was she not Dalish as she had claimed, but that she had no idea how to use the staff. He had elected to remove it from her possession. In the aftermath of the leader's assault to protect the artefact, and the deaths of both herself and her most loyal followers, it had been lost.
"I tried to recover it," he told him. "I searched the rubble for days, but I never found it. Perhaps it was crushed when the building collapsed. I burnt the site, just in case. The cult was put to rest, and whatever remained was destroyed in the fire."
"I doubt the artefact was destroyed if it was as powerful as you suggest, vhenan. We would do well to take a journey there and see if we can find it. It sounds truly fascinating."
"Perhaps after we're done with the mission," Fabriel said. Solas noticed his eyes seemed to darken. "I have no other plans, after all."
The elf feigned surprise. "None at all? Not even with Dorian?"
"Dorian doesn't want what I do."
"Surprising, given your relationship. What do you want?"
"To retire from the Maker's service," he replied and took another draw, "To establish myself permanently in Tevinter, as far from the Chantry's eye as possible."
Solas' heart skipped a beat when he heard him say 'Tevinter'. He immediately wanted to dissuade him, to convince him that the Imperium held no future for him – but he caught himself before he did, and simply replied:
"And I suspect Dorian had objections?"
"Apparently so." Fabriel leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his ale still clasped in hand and his eyes staring out at the shadows around them. "I don't understand. He claims to want to stay together, to be with me even after the Inquisition ends. But he doesn't want me to move with him. He wants us to have this great distance between us – entire oceans separating me from him. Either he's lying about wanting us to remain a couple, or there's more at play here than I can see."
"Perhaps he worries for you. The Imperium could prove dangerous for you long-term, especially if involved with a magister. The scandal alone could impede Dorian's ability to reform his homeland. Ah, but I digress. It's clearly upset you, whatever the case. It will resolve itself in time."
He waited for Fabriel's response, but found the man silent. The Dragon-Slayer's despondency had returned, and in an attempt to dispel it Solas leaned forward and gave his son's shoulder a comforting squeeze.
"Tevinter isn't where you will realise who you are, what you will become," he said. "There is still so much for you to learn. I cannot wait to show you."
"I want to be in Tevinter. I want to feel closer to my mother. I miss her."
Fabriel's voice was quiet – not so much that Solas thought he was upset, but rather dejected. Solas rubbed his shoulder sympathetically, and it seemed to prompt more from him.
"I don't even remember her face. It's all so blurred, like a picture underwater. Her smile, her laugh, her scolding – it's all lost to me. I just wish I could see her again, one more time."
The elf paused. His son's hurt was almost tangible, and for a moment he saw him as that little boy he had journeyed with through the Fade, so naïve and vulnerable, needing protection even if he did not realise it. He stood suddenly and to the surprise of Fabriel, and gestured for him to do the same.
"Come with me," he said, "I want to show you something."
The rider protested, "But our bottles—"
"Leave them!" his father called. "The servants will tend to it. Come, this is worth the effort."
Solas did not leave him much room for argument, and when he stepped outside of the door Fabriel snapped out of his confusion and hurried to follow.
"Father, why are we here?"
"This place contains strong memories. It's drawn spirits before – I'm hopeful it will do it again."
The pair walked in the Fade, in a peculiar village that Fabriel was certain he had seen once before. The buildings were made of bent and twisted wood and the doors opened not outwards, but upwards, like the yawning mouth of some creature. Windows were at angles and the forest that surrounded it seemed to hum with energy. He felt the ground underfoot to be hard as ice, but when he looked he saw it moulded to the bottom of his boot much as mud would.
There was a house that sat high up above the rest, built on a rounded platform with an uneven and cracked stone staircase curving around it. It was towards this that Solas wandered, and despite his hesitation the rider followed. As they ascended the stairs, his father smiled.
"Ah, I can sense them now," he said, "Compassion and Wisdom. An odd coupling, but this place has seen its fair share of oddities."
"What is this place?" Fabriel asked.
"This is your home, vhenan," he explained, "or at least how the Fade represents it. It means much to you, and yours is a tale that attracts spirits of all kinds."
"We've come to speak to them, then."
"No, not this time. We are here to watch them."
The pair came to the door of the house. Solas reached forward and clutched the handle, shaped as a dragon with malevolent crystal eyes.
"Insulting," the rider noted.
"It's not meant to be," his father told him. "The spirits reflect what they see. Dragons are a large part of who you are. Now, hush, my son. We must be quiet if we're to watch."
He entered. Fabriel paused for a moment outside, marvelling at the scene – the crude representation of his homeland, the little village where his legend had begun. It was beautiful.
He soon had his fill of the sight, and hurried to join his father's side.
It was not his home as he remembered – at least, not exactly. The small rounded living room had not had tilted windows, and his father's wall adornments had never moved and blinked. But the very sight of it brought memories flooding to his mind. He suddenly remembered the smell of his mother's hair as she comforted him – jasmine mixed with elderflower – and the sound of her lullabies at night, almost ethereal in their softness. Solas watched as he wandered the room, draped in a heavy silence. He touched this thing and that, and a small, sad smile appeared and disappeared on his face as he went.
"I see no spirits," he pointed out.
"They are here," he assured, "Patience, Fabriel. All will be clear in a moment."
Fabriel continued to occupy himself with his childhood home to pass the time. Soon, he felt that strange thrum of the arcane in the air, and quickly he returned to his father before the room started to almost glow with energy.
The pair watched the scene in front of them quietly, Solas' eyes calm and collected while Fabriel's held a note of trepidation. A green mist rose up, engulfing the furniture for but a moment, before it receded to reveal one of those ever-in-flux figures in the shape of a woman. A familiar woman. Fabriel's eyes widened as her features became sharper, as if forming from the very deepest depths of his memories.
"Mother…"
"Hush, Fabriel," his father whispered, "Remember, this is just a reflection, a warped mirror into the past. Don't disturb it."
The rider settled to the best of his abilities. The spirit was cradling something in her arms, murmuring Tevene whispers, until a door beside her opened to reveal another – a compassion spirit, taking the form of a child. He saw his unruly locks and broad shoulders, and recognised immediately whose shape it had taken.
"Fabriel," said the mother, "Come here, my son. Your brother wants to see you."
"I'd forgotten her voice…"
The spirit hurried to her side with all the carefree joviality of a real boy. He leaned in, his smile was wide and bright, his actions rushed and eager. The mother-spirit seemed thrilled to have him so close to her.
"Ah, my boy," the mother told him as she cupped his face. "There's so much for you two to see in this world, so much for you to learn and explore. I can't wait to see who you grow up to be. It's going to be wonderful."
Fabriel closed his eyes and lowered his head. Tears threatened to wet his cheeks, and he sighed in a choked voice:
"I'm sorry, Mother."
By the time Solas and Fabriel had left the house, the rider was in an odd mood and acted strangely. As he and his father descended into that twisted village, he paused to lean against one of the houses. Solas stopped when he noticed he was no longer following him.
"Fabriel?" he asked, his voice concerned. "Is something wrong?" The rider shook his head.
"That was…a lot to remember."
"I apologise, vhenan. Perhaps I should have been more restrained."
"No, it's…" he trailed off. Fabriel looked out at his village and, for the briefest of moments, he could see all of his old neighbours and friends; the children he had played with, unaware that in a few short years they would die and he would be heralded a hero. He felt the weight of their deaths like one crushing blow from a maul.
"You do this often, don't you?" the Dragon-Slayer asked. When Solas tilted his head, he explained, "Talk to spirits. See memories."
"I do. It's my main area of study."
"And you taught yourself this?"
"Yes, I did."
His nod was small and almost imperceptible. Fabriel continued to be silent for a moment, but Solas could see that he was deep in thought. Then, suddenly, he straightened and caught his father's arm – not aggressively, but with purpose.
"Teach me." He said. His words came as a shock, and the elf could not quite process them before his mouth reacted.
"What?"
"Teach me," he repeated. "Show me how to do what you do. I'm ready to embrace whatever this is. Whatever I can do, I want to."
Solas stared at him for a beat, and then finally his words registered and his mouth stretched into a smile. His joy was apparent when he replied:
"I will teach you everything I know, vhenan. Welcome to the first step of your destiny."
