A/N: As usual, my chapter ended up longer than anticipated, so it was split up. More soon! Please enjoy!
Guest1995: Thank you for your inspiring and insightful review! I grinned like an idiot while reading it. So glad you enjoyed the reference!
Chapter Inspiration: The Last of Her Kind (Peter Gundry)
Dancing in the Fade
The trio finally departed House Pavus late in the morning. Inara and Leliana debated over whether to bring the Inquisitor's guard detail for long enough that Dorian retreated for an hour to banter with said guard detail. Inara won in the end – barely.
Picking their way to Perivantium's main gate was the next challenge. Being on horseback gave the three travelers an advantage over the foot traffic, but maneuvering their small party through the pressing crowd was painstaking enough. The rising chaos on the coastline to the north had driven the Tevinter populace into the area in ever-growing droves as they sought the protection of the Magisterium and the nearby garrisons. The looming threat of the Qunari, the red lyrium, and the slave uprising – not to mention the little detail of the tearing Veil – was transforming citizens into a scared mass of bodies.
Thankfully, they managed to reach the exit without incident and were soon well on their way, trotting across the tree-spotted plain toward their southern destination. As they had hoped, the journey itself was peaceful. Toward evening, they did spot a suspicious red crystal glittering behind a waterfall – Inara, of course, insisted on shattering it before they moved on.
That night, they made camp in an unclaimed cavern, keeping the fire stoked throughout the night to ward off the perpetual chill in the air. Lavellan found her way to a quiet spot in the Fade that night and dreamed of two lovers meeting secretly in that very cave. She awoke with a smile.
They arose leisurely that morning. Leliana went her own way for a time to hunt for their supper in the blackened hills along their route, while the other two merely enjoyed each other's company. The sun was beginning to set by the time they crested the final hill, looking down upon a lightly forested basin lined with the remnants of moss-covered stone buildings. One by one, they loosened their thick coats, noting how much warmer it was in the valley. Perhaps a nearby hot spring?
The companions found an appropriate campsite against a decrepit ten-foot wall with little comment, though Inara continued to scan the area while collecting firewood. The way the moss muffled every sound…the utter abandonment of what must have once been a thriving community, lost to memory…it felt wrong to disturb its sacred stillness. For the remainder of the evening, the elf took greater care to leave the ruin undisturbed. Still, their company persisted lightheartedly as they exchanged stories over Leliana's freshly killed rabbit, and the Inquisitor once again rested her head peacefully that night.
Inara Lavellan reclined against a tree stump, wrapping a thick cloak around her supple frame. As her mind drifted in the Fade, she began to hear laughter, a mother scolding her child, the clink of a hammer striking against an anvil…
The elf opened her eyes to a bustling village: Tarasuvun.
Luscious trees towered above the houses, and dirt paths wove between both in a natural, vein-like pattern. Most structures were cabins made of a combination of wood and rock, though several larger lodges stood out further into the town. The sky swirled overhead through the trees – ever-changing, the color continuously shifting between blue, purple, pink, and black against a background of green… She thought she spotted a city amid the color, but the sight of a pale white spirit chasing a griffon through the cloudless expanse quickly distracted the woman.
A commanding male voice drew Suledin's attention back to the ground. The elf mage folded his arms sternly, standing in the middle of the main path while he watched a group of his peers further down the street. Knowing that she was merely a shade to these people – or spirits or memories, rather – Inara openly approached the man to study him. He was the picture of health and strength, with broad shoulders, smooth features, and dark, unruly locks that nearly diminished his severity. But his eyes…
His eyes were ancient beyond reckoning. The Inquisitor had long heard the tales of her people's lost immortality, how they would enter uthenera as they tired of life and allow their spirits to wander the Beyond. Something else occurred to the Dreamer even as she looked on: The vallaslin. Not all the elves here possessed it, but there were some – all going about their work with uncommonly feverish purpose. The man before her was one of them, sporting black markings that honored the elven god Falon'Din. But didn't Solas say that they were slave markings? The Great Trickster had always been careful and elusive with his words, but he never lied.
Musical laughter echoed down the path, causing Inara to turn toward the sound. A group of perhaps six elves – all grown, but still younger than her original mark – had just entered the village, cheeks ruddy from the brisk air above the valley. Like the other people here, they seemed to radiate magic, yet none apparently had need of a staff. Was that part of the world before the Veil – floating cities, endless skies, spirits playfully chasing griffons? She closed her eyes, recalling that this was exactly what he had tried to tell her…
"Imagine instead spires of crystal twining through the branches, palaces floating among the clouds. Imagine beings who lived forever, for whom magic was as natural as breathing. That is what was lost."
The laughter of the younger elves died down as they neared the living blockade. Only two of them possessed vallaslin, the rest bare-faced and bold.
"You've spoken against the others," the older man stated, his icy gaze targeting the last of the new arrivals. Though he was speaking in ancient Elvish, she recognized his words. "Why must you test the gods, after so long of fighting at their side and becoming one of them?"
Suledin's breath caught in her throat when the man taking up the group's rear stepped forward. He looked almost the same, though there was no trace of the broken bitterness she had come to associate with her vhenan since that day. A rich grey tunic was wrapped around his toned body, topped with a familiar cord that hung about his neck. The others watched him with a hungry charisma that reminded Inara of her own zealous supporters at the height of the Inquisition.
After all she had heard from Solas of their people's history, she wondered when this had taken place. Clearly, the Evanuris had grown beyond the status of warriors, heroes, or even leaders. Many of the elves here apparently worshipped them as deities, if the statues and tattoos were any indicator. Yet she had a feeling this may have been the early days of the Great Trickster's rebellion, before everything began falling apart. Of course, the term 'early days' was rather relative; her mortal mind tried to grasp the potential hundreds of years it took for Solas to go from a hot-headed young fighter to the savior of the People. From the look in his eyes, it all could have been some great game that he already knew he would win.
"Are they now above reproach?" Solas quipped lightly, his eyes dancing with a sparkle that was both mischievous and challenging. "You know as well as I the sins committed by our betters, Halen. You are bound to protect our people, yet you readily hand them over for enslavement and slaughter."
"You know they call you Fen'Harel," Halen accused, glaring at the jawbone pendant.
"An insult I gladly take as a badge of pride," the Dread Wolf stood a little taller. His followers parted when the other mage raised a threatening hand. "I am doing what is right, and I will neither cease nor apologize for it."
"Even Mythal must not approve of your actions."
"Actually…" The younger man cockily folded his hands at his back. "…she encourages me in my quest. She is the only voice of reason among the Evanuris – the only one who rules with justice and fairness rather than for glory and cruel dominion. She seeks to redeem her fellows. I intend to free the People, though you may not see it now in your blind obedience to your master. The brutality of the Evanuris cannot remain unchallenged. They are changed, corrupted." He glanced at his five companions. "I believe I have overstayed my welcome, but they have chosen to accompany me. I trust you will leave us in peace, in the name of our past kinship?"
"So you may continue to poison their minds with thoughts of rebellion." With his feet planted, the senior elf summoned a ball of blue fire, which danced teasingly in the palm of his hand. "I am sorry, but I cannot allow that, old friend."
Inara frowned at the two bristling men. Why did so many of her visions of Solas involve heartbreak, conflict, and death? She was aware the Fade only provided interpretations of reality, but there was certainly a distinct consistency with this man. Had he never seen contentment before she stole a few breathless moments of the god's time?
Solas smiled with confident amusement, anger seeping into his eyes.
"Not rebellion, but redemption."
Before the first blow could be struck, a spectral child in a bright green tunic caught Inara's eye. Unseen by the challengers, she tore across the path with overwhelming giggles, straight through Halen's legs and down the street.
As the scene of the duel faded into the nothingness of the past, the Dreamer wandered after the red-haired da'len toward the far end of the settlement. A glance backward confirmed that the battle had served whatever purpose the spirits had in mind; there was no sign of the Dread Wolf, nor his prey.
The path continued to wind between buildings and trees, encouraging the eye to wander. As a breeze moved the leafy branches aside, she witnessed another griffon swooping overhead, carrying a young woman howling with joy. In the distance, another structure – a temple? – floated within sight in the heavens before it faded back into whatever pocket dimension had been created for it.
Vaguely drawn by the laughter, the Inquisitor eventually came across a town square packed with townsfolk. Banners flicked in the breeze overhead, and those who stood idle each carried a flagon of sweet-smelling wine. Most, however, were crowded in the center of the courtyard, their feet hopping and twirling to the lively skip of a flute. The watcher smiled at the joy emanating from the dancers, vaguely noting that none possessed the vallaslin this time. This reflection could have been hundreds of years earlier, maybe even thousands.
A familiar laugh resonated richly on Inara's right, and she turned to discover Solas directly at her side, clapping along with the song's invigorating beat. He looked no more than twenty years old this time, his face free of worry and sorrow. After a few moments of her being allowed to enjoy his ghostly presence, the young mage was pulled into the joyful fray, his eyes gleaming with reckless mirth.
She lost track of how long she stood in that square, soaking in the intoxicatingly delightful atmosphere. Her eyes occasionally wandered to the open sky overhead – its shifting colors, the spires of the floating city, and the occasional spirits drawn to the cheerful raucous. But she always found him again in the crowd, this time frolicking with the little girl who had originally drawn her to the plaza.
Unable to resist the ambience any longer, Inara finally joined in the dance, her lithe body weaving in and out of the reflections.
Suledin lost herself in the infectious scene, laughing along with the brightly colored spirits who had chosen to reflect the memory of this place. They mostly ignored her; however, she did eventually catch the eye of a Spirit of Innocence who perhaps was responsible for the scene. The lanky young lad swung her around by the waist, his feet effortlessly tracing the complex dance steps. Inara followed his lead, giggling as she allowed herself to be pulled into the spirit's burning delight, tripping over her own feet on more than one occasion. The shade choosing to pose as Solas hardly acknowledged her existence, flitting from one girl to the next with careless abandon, yet it was enough to see him happy.
But just as the Solas of this dream was blissfully unaware of the Inquisitor, she was blissfully unaware that a spirit not of this place was watching her. Hungry and primeval, it waited for reality to crash back around her with a chilling, clawed grip. The real world – magisters, slaves, red lyrium, Qunari, and impossible quests – all lurked in the back of her mind, though she managed to push it away in this moment of delight.
The Din'anshiral waited. Despair waited.
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