AN: and with this chapter, we break 100k words! woohoo! i never thought i'd do it! it took me 5ever but still! prepare for a bunch of character building and revelations!

It's Valera's birthday today.

The thought struck him like a bell, stopping his routine as he rose with the dawn in his cabin. He hadn't slept that night, merely meditated. He's shuffling his notes into something resembling an orderly pile but when he thinks about it, he just stops. He's not going to be able to get past it now, so he sets the papers down and finds his desk's chair, lowering himself into it.

It would have been Valera's birthday, he corrects himself, then frowns. No, it was Valera's birthday, he just… wasn't around for it.

Valera was an orphan, without a family, when their father found him, and try as they might they could never pinpoint a specific date of birth, nor even an age, so they'd picked the date that he was adopted, and set him as a year younger than Atlas himself. Whether it was true or not didn't really matter.

As the one who'd been born with everything, it fell to Atlas to show Valera what it was like to live as a member of the Royal House. It was natural that Val became his little brother. It had always been that way, in a sense; Atlas was the Lord Commander while Valera was just below him in rank, and again when Atlas took the crown, and in following his lead when he abdicated it and discharged himself from the military. Perhaps someone else would've been resentful over it, would've seen it as following in the elder brother's shadow, but Valera… hadn't.

He knows the age, the exact year, could probably even count it down to the hour if he gave it some thought, but towards the end, the year had stopped mattering to either of them. Each century was just another marker, and though when compared to some of their ancestors, their lives were barely even beginning in length, when conflict and strife became their enduring reality, the years started to feel like centuries, and the centuries like millennia.

The occasion had come and gone the year previous, when he was living in Markham, but he was hiding then; hiding from the weight of his decision to flee Aethys (and it was fleeing), hiding even further than Eo. Here, in the midst of things that were happening and meant something in the grand scheme of things, the reality of it seemed more real.

He'd been hiding for three hundred years, from everything. From the pain of it, the grief, the responsibility. It wasn't even that he hadn't allowed himself to mourn, he just… refused. It was the start of his arguments with Thalia, and perhaps, in the end, the reason she'd left.

He wished then that he'd brought something with him. Anything; a keepsake, a painting, a memory gem, maybe, that he could look at their faces. Thalia had taken their rings when she fled, probably so he couldn't track her, but even if she had taken Valera's, he wouldn't have brought it to Thedas.

He longed for his brother so much it burned, setting ablaze a furnace inside his chest. He wanted to hold him again, wanted to hear his laugh, wanted him to appear and crack a joke and make it seem like there was still light in the world. He wanted the man who unfailingly knew what was wrong whenever Atlas developed a mood, usually because he himself felt it alongside him. He wanted the man who, deep in his soul, was a creature of love, and fought for it almost every day of his life, even when no one else would.

But that man was gone. Had been gone for a long time, now.

In the solace of his cabin, Atlas did the only thing that made much sense to him. He cried. He cried for the part of his soul that had gone with him. Cried at days that would go on unfairly unlived and unloved. Cried for the joy that could have been but wouldn't be.

But mainly, he cried because he missed his friend.

He allowed himself to grieve, then. To feel alone and lost amidst something beyond himself, where before he had only been hiding, and probably would have always been hiding, from his fears. It wasn't release, and it was by no stretch letting go, but it was looking at the scars etched into his being and acknowledging them for what they were.

It didn't feel good. It felt terrible, actually. But it was lesser, in many ways, than having never truly felt the pain at all. When the tears dried and breathing began to come more naturally, he felt less like a facsimile of himself and one step closer to truth.

In light of the fears which still existed, the crippling self-doubt and hatred, the guilt and sorrow which still did and would likely continue to linger, he did not know what his truth was. He did not know if he would like the truth when he found it, but he was very sure he did not like himself as he was now. Gods, he didn't even know if he would ever truly find his 'truth'.

Sahaquiel spoke of enlightenment, had spoken of enlightenment, when they had met, but Atlas was a long way from figuring out what that meant. He thought he'd known, once, until his world had ceased to be anything except his island and his isolation.

He sighed, his heartbeat at last under control. His gaze flickered about the room, before stopping to rest on his sword.

"Albitr," he said, testing the name, and the blade that had been his companion for longer than most creatures would ever live seemed to hum quietly in response.

-horiz divid-

For one whose life had become war, was it not natural that combat should develop its own meaning? Maybe it was a survival mechanism. Under the assumption that conflict was not one's natural state and that peace was necessary to meaningful growth, it was reasonable for him to have found peace amidst conflict; paradoxically, not just amidst combat, but through it.

What is the storm? It is nature's will made manifest. Change embodied through the elements. Continuous rain will flood even the driest of rivers, and the oncoming torrent will erode even the sturdiest of stone. Lightning, destruction perhaps in its purest form, striking randomly and without preference. Wind, sharper than any blade, colder than any ice, cutting to the bone. It is without emotion or consideration; it simply is.

What does one do when they embody the storm? They cease to be themselves, and simply become. The storm does not advance nor retreat; it is, and then is not. The storm is not concerned with gain or loss, nor with strength or weakness. The storm is not changed, the storm is change.

Atlas was called the Stormking because he could summon the fury of Eistibus Himself in the form of lightning and wind and water. On land he was formidable, and on the ocean he was unstoppable. His ally was nature itself, and it was a powerful ally indeed. The fact that he'd held the crown then had also helped with the naming, one supposed.

But he was the Stormking for more than the fact of his mastery of that branch of magic; it was because he knew what it was to become simultaneously lesser and infinitely greater than oneself.

Combat, and moreover, conflict itself, was about change. What changes should be made, how, and sometimes why. Atlas was the victor not because his changes were the best, the strongest, or the most well-applied, but because he became the change itself.

Of course, that was all a very philosophical approach to a very physical thing. 'Becoming the change' was all well and good, but you would have a very difficult time explaining to a new recruit how that was going to help him not trip over his own feet in the process of fixing his footwork, or how to properly utilise a shield without breaking an arm in the process.

He hadn't tried it, of course. Training recruits wasn't something he'd done in a long time, but he'd been perfecting the art of combat for so long that the trivialities of technique were easy to critique. And for most, it was all they ever needed. Technical expertise could carry someone very far, and it usually did.

He liked to indulge himself, though. 'Slipping out' of Haven made it sound like he was trying to escape the attentions of a strict parent, when in truth he was just trying to find an open space away from prying eyes. There were too many guards on rotating shifts in the early morn for all of them to be 'familiar' with him, per se, but he had something of a reputation around Haven, and that was enough for him to stroll into the surrounding forest unhindered. Ironically, the very same spot he'd chosen for meditation when Commander Rutherford had happened upon him.

With Albitr as an extension of his arm, he'd slipped into the intimately familiar motions of a sword form which he'd designed but never properly named. He'd toyed with calling it 'the Way of the Sky', but it hadn't stuck, and his daughter had called him unimaginative when he'd shown her.

It was neither defensive or offensive. It ducked and weaved, leapt and rolled, braced and secured itself. Once he'd said it was everything it needed to be, but he'd later amended himself, as instead everything else became what it needed to be. More of his philosophizing, he supposed.

He was in the forest, the familiar curve of his blade cutting the air. It was silent but for his feet kicking up the light layer of snow which had fallen overnight.

He was on Morn Thorum, the sky filled with ashes, the forces of Tiknatren's army falling beneath his army's last-defense-turned-rout.

He cut a falling leaf in half with a single graceful stroke, eyes closed. He didn't smile at the small feat, though a part of him wished to, no matter how juvenile a celebration it would be.

He was a boy in Thaen, in the courtyard of his family's castle, with his uncle chiding his footwork and telling him to strike again. The target was a grain of rice, held in the air via magic. He was blindfolded. He missed.

He disarmed another imaginary opponent before cutting them down; a kata was no place to debate the merits of mercy.

He was in Thaen again, but older, watching his father lead his best warriors to the city's gates to confront the Dread of Merellion. Despite the fact that it wasn't proper, he clutched his brother's hand in his and reassured him that everything was going to be okay. He knew their father would not return.

Caught up in the motions of his form, his body and mind relaxed, retreating into the safety of moving meditation. Answering him now more clearly than ever was the song of magic, flowing through his veins as it always had but adapted to the complexity of Thedas, the difference in the fabric of reality that necessitated a change in perspective. It was not the maelstrom of power that he had control of in his own world by any means, and he doubted it ever would be. Nonetheless, the ability to really feel it course through him, to allow it to heighten his awareness and guide one action into the next was infinitely comforting.

It was, perhaps, the most at-ease he'd ever felt in Thedas up until that point. He did not need to torture himself with what-ifs nor was the taunt of could-bes hovering at the edge of his mind. There was nobody else, not even him, just the next technique to be executed, the next move, the next extension of will.

In it's true application, the magic would follow his will and take the form of lightning, sheathing his blade and striking further than he could physically reach. Physically becoming the storm, and all that.

He finished with his blade poised for a riposte, opening his eyes into the silence of the clearing. His footwork had created clear swathes through which he'd walked, and to his now-attuned senses, the magic which had coursed through him had left its imprint on the air itself, which hummed on a frequency just barely in-tune with that of his sword. Slowly, he lowered his blade and fell into a neutral standing position.

Atlas sighs.

"I'm a mess." He says aloud. It was time he sought some old-fashioned guidance.

-horiz divid-

It's definitely blasphemy to seek out one god in the chapel of another, but it's getting cold and Atlas has no wish to go back to his cabin. It's too early for the troops to train, and Eden left the previous day for the Storm Coast - not that Atlas particularly wants to drag her out of bed again if she was around. There is a little too much complexity there that he needs to consider before he comes back to it.

Thusly, he makes his way across Haven to the Chantry, ducking inside and to a door on the left, where he knows a small room of pews and an altar awaits.

He enters it silent as a ghost, but he finds he is not alone. Sitting on one of the furthest pews was Commander Rutherford, sans his metal plate, though of course never without his customary fur pelt around his shoulders. It was beginning to get a reputation of its own, or so he'd heard. At the sound of a door opening, the man turned, and Atlas could feel the tension alight when their eyes met.

Before Cullen could make a remark or excuse to leave, Atlas spoke, "It was not my intention to interrupt." He speaks softly, in reverence of the atmosphere of the place of worship. The door closes behind him, leaving the room insulated against the rest of the Chantry, the only sound being the delicate burning of candles at the front, as well as in the sconces about the room.

"Please, continue." He says, then takes a seat on the opposite end of the room. He knows Cullen was likely not comfortable with him for reasons unknown, and it wasn't like he came to bother him. The Commander hesitates, but then nods without a word, turning back forward in his seat. His hearing allows him to pick up on the faint mouthing of words, likely verse, but he tunes them out; it was not his place to listen.

Lord Sahaquiel, he thinks but does not say aloud, I hope You can hear me. I know it's been some time since we've spoken, and I know I am… a bit outside Your normal realm of influence, at the moment. I just thought that this might work. Might help.

I am afraid. I have been afraid for a very long time now, but outside of my fear I found denial, and buried myself in it. It is a poor companion. You know this, doubtless, of course, and Your relative omniscience has long been a point of frustration, but that's beside the point.

We spoke at length, before my self-imposed exile. I told You that no longer could I devote myself to Your cause, champion Your ideals through my actions. Not because I was angry with You - I suppose, in a way, it was because I realised then that You were no less fallible than me; an actual conversation with one's god tends to do that, I suppose. In hindsight, I think I was trying to do away with any bonds that held me to the old world before I disappeared entirely, to a place where I hoped I wouldn't have to deal with it ever again.

And now I've left that place. And I find myself feeling the full force of my fear. Because I do not have Your words to fall back on; You released me from those vows then, and it's not something I would devote myself to now anyway. I am alone in a strange place, faced with new decisions, and I am afraid that should I remain the same, should I become who I was, I will make the wrong choices all over again, and I will end up no better here than I was then.

I stand to gain… something beautiful, maybe. But if I were to lose it, it would break me, I think.

I wish there was someone here who knew me - who could slap some sense into me. But then, maybe it's best that there isn't, because I've relied on other people my entire life, and that's never gotten me or them anywhere.

He sighs quietly. He knew there would be no answer. Lord Sahaquiel spoke to him rarely, and to others almost never. There were perhaps one or two records that he knew of, and they were all millennia ago. He knew as well that his silent prayer was a plea, too, more reliance on something else.

"I didn't take you for a believer of the Chant." came Cullen's soft voice. The emptiness of the room lent itself well to the acoustics, and Atlas could hear him clearly.

"I'm not." he responded, equally quiet. "But my god has no shrines here, and I thought perhaps that the Maker would not mind if I borrowed his space." He paused. "I know that's probably sacrilege of some sort - my apologies," he said, only half in earnest. The polite part of him cared, but the part that was in turmoil and wanted answers didn't.

"You were looking for guidance?" Cullen sounds almost surprised at this.

"Yes, I suppose I was. Or maybe just someone that would listen. That's probably it." He could hear the mild frown in Cullen's voice when next he spoke.

"I was under the impression that you had friends here." Atlas pursed his lips. He considered for several long moments. How to explain?

"Do you know what it's like," he begins, "to be afraid of yourself? Of what you can do? Of what you have done?" Cullen doesn't respond, but he doesn't need to; Atlas knows intimately the familiar pain in the man's eyes, hidden behind cordialities and obligations born of duty and devotion to one's work.

"That fear eats at you. It erodes your common sense. Because those fears are lodged at the base of your soul, and baring it is no easy thing. It's not… maybe I have people who would listen. But I don't think there's anyone who would stay afterwards. Thus…" he gestures to the altar at the front of the room, although Cullen's back is mostly turned.

"Yes. I know what that's like." Cullen says almost a minute later, surprising him by not going with the easier question, or the safer one. He didn't expect acknowledgement. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"

"To pray? If you wanted to call it that, yes."

"No - with the Inquisition. That's why you've never asked for anything, just offered your skills. Atonement." Atlas hums in thought at the insight.

"It might be," he concedes. "I think my reasons are more selfish than that, though. Maybe the promise of atonement, as well as… hm. Friends. Who would not only stay, but listen. Do you?"

"...do I what?"

"Have friends here. Who would both stay and listen."

After a few beats he answers, "Yes," not offering who.

"Then you've half the work done already. I'm happy for you." He says earnestly. Cullen and the other advisors may distrust him, perhaps even rightfully so, but he bore no ill-will against them. Cullen doesn't respond, probably uncomfortable with the sentiment. He probably has regained enough control to probe the man's emotions with magic if he wanted, but that would be rude.

"Who is your god?" Cullen asks a few minutes later. This, at least, is a comfortable question, one Atlas is all too happy to answer.

"Sahaquiel is referred to as the Lord of Light, but forgotten by most is that He is not the Lord of Light, but Enlightenment. His domain is… explained as that of Knowledge, for ease of mass consumption, but that's not entirely correct. He is knowledge with purpose." He's omitting a lot of information, but Cullen didn't come for a sermon, nor does Atlas think he'd go along with being inducted into his church.

"You have ten gods?" Cullen decides to question. Atlas pulls a face.

"Why is everyone so surprised at that? Creation is a big job, you know. And besides," he waves a hand, "entirely different realm. A bigger one, too." He wasn't going to mention the whole 'seven planets', thing. He figured they just wouldn't believe him.

Cullen shifts in the pew, having hitherto been talking half-over his shoulder and half ahead of him, loud enough for the sound to reach him. Now he turns and looks at Atlas, the depth of his thoughts written into the furrow in his brow.

"Who were you, before?" Cullen asks, and Atlas' breath hitches. He holds Cullen's gaze for a few moments before he looks away. Distantly, he notes that Cullen's eyes look not dissimilar to his brother's.

What a question. There were a lot of answers, to say the least. He decides to go with the simplest.

"I was a warrior. One of my kingdom's best. I led men and women into many battles. I…" here he hesitates, because what he wants to say sounds dangerously like an excuse. "In my time, I committed many evils in the name of my kingdom's safety." he elects to say, which is closer to the truth. "I left when it became clear that war was not just what I was doing, but who I was becoming." It is the most concise answer he can give, because a thousand years of history are not easily condensed into a single conversation. He was more than that, he likes to think, but some of the other things don't bear mentioning. Not at present.

He looks back to Cullen to find something similar to grief in his expression. No, not just grief - understanding. He grieves because he understands. Atlas wonders what pains the man has suffered, that he can find a kindred spirit in someone as broken as himself. He wonders, and then he grieves that, too, because his pain, though drawn-out and greater in scale, was not a unique thing. He very much wishes it was. Cullen, from what he could understand, was a good man; though he doubts the man himself thinks so.

"You don't sleep very often, do you, Commander?" He asks. It is early in the morning, not so early that it would be unreasonable for someone of his responsibility to be awake, but Atlas guesses he's been awake for much longer than is reasonable.

Cullen's expression neutralises into something closer to a polite mask without completely bringing up a wall between them.

"I don't need to," he says, which is a blatant lie. Atlas raises a single challenging brow, and Cullen has the grace to wince. "You don't either," he adds instead.

"True," he concedes, "but the reasons for that are biological. Yours, I suspect, are not."

"Yes, well, sleep does not make itself my ally these days." Cullen responds mildly, shifting in his seat. He can guess why. He's simultaneously glad that Cullen elects not to ask about the 'biological' reasoning. From what he can gather, his world is rather more advanced in the realms of science, even if their technology is comparable. Well, whenever magic wasn't in the equation, that was.

"In most cases, prayer makes a poor substitute for medicine. Have you spoken to Adan? I'm sure he can come up with some kind of healing draught."

"Can we go back to the part of our conversation where I asked you about your gods? That seemed safer." Cullen almost grumbles, and Atlas has to smile. He's beginning to get a feel for the man.

"If you want me to try and convert you, I can." He says evenly. He can see Cullen's shoulders bob up and down when he scoffs, though it isn't derisive.

"In the Maker's own temple? Bold." Atlas' smile widens at the turn of conversation, which is nearing the territory of banter. It faded quickly though, as they both lapsed into silence. It was Atlas who broke it.

"You know, the troops should be waking soon. For training, and such like."

"Hmph. They should be, shouldn't they?" Cullen responds, thoughtful. When he says nothing more, Atlas persists.

"Considering our respective responsibilities - or perhaps, our mutual ones, would you be opposed to meeting them together? I haven't been able to catch you about formal changes to their regimen." It's a reasonable request, he thinks, with a generous helping of duty atop it. He's not completely without tact, after all.

A few beats of thoughtful silence, of which there have been many in the past few minutes, as Cullen considers the request. No doubt considering the best way to politely decline, but coming up short. Or maybe he was just being pessimistic.

"It's not a bad idea. And a conversation that is overdue, at this rate. But I must change first. I… will meet you at the training grounds, then?" Cullen stands, and Atlas does in tandem. He offers a bright smile.

"That sounds most agreeable." He nods. "I'll leave you to it. See you when I see you, Commander."

"And I you," Cullen returns. In order to spare the man more pleasantries considering the revealing conversation they'd just had, Atlas inclines his head and leaves the room.

He finds his heart surprisingly lighter afterwards, walking through Haven as the morning light crests over the distant treetops. He didn't know what he had expected to find in the Chantry, but it hadn't been a pleasant conversation with Cullen - let alone some sort of mutual understanding to be reached. Oh, maybe he'd hoped for it, because if he was going to be here it would be nice to have some form of rapport, or coexistence at the last, with the leadership, instead of being favored with some mistrustful glare. Or a polite smile that didn't reach their eyes, in the case of Ambassador Montilyet.

It was… nice.

-horiz divid-

Eo was, quite likely, the most beautiful place in the Realms. Or at least, he thought so. It probably had an advantage of being one of the most magical places in the Realms, too, as well as being untouched by anyone for several millennia. There were places in Morn Thorum that had once been quite beautiful before Tiknatren's invasion. Tirisia had some lovely cities. Thaen, he thought, was still the loveliest city, but he was quite biased.

Eo was several degrees more natural. There was no stone architecture on the entirety of the island, only natural rock. The entire island was his home, technically speaking, but the place he actually lived in was built long ago by one of his kin.

A kirlethi tree wider than any house had been manipulated via magic; instead of being cut or hollowed out, the wood itself formed the foundations of the abode and some of the furniture. An inexperienced or perhaps imperceptive eye might think the furniture was hewn from wood the same as any other, such was the mastery of craftsmanship. Other places were much natural, such as when roots sprouted above ground to form convenient shelving for some of his books, or the occasional chair.

The balcony was his favorite location, and his spot of choice for reading, meditating, or occasionally training. It was wide, encompassing a good fifth of the radius of the tree in its span, and extending several meters without. He enjoyed it mostly, however, because of the view it provided.

The nature of magic and its permeation of the island meant that life of all kinds developed there in ways that wouldn't occur without it. That is to say, with unique quirks of appearance or in the actual biological makeup, things that would be considered 'unnatural' if they happened anywhere else.

Philosophers could and did write treatises upon essays upon books on whether 'magic' was to be considered natural or an aberration, or if magic was the 'default' component of existence and everything outside of it was abnormal, or if everything was magical, and normalcy was simply a spectrum. Still, though, one would be hard pressed to call Eo natural, yet it was beautiful all the same. Moreso, he thought.

Eo was primarily forested, and trees of all shapes and sizes dotted it. Their leaves were the main attraction, a menagerie of colors, all of them bright and vibrant; reds, oranges, greens, yellows, blues, purples. They seemed to have no common theme except their complexity, a rainbow through which the wind danced and light blossomed.

Through them were birds whose feathers and occasionally plumes complemented the colors of the leaves, their song in tune with the wind. Karasi, the Aethan equivalent of elk and deer from Thedas, were exotic here, their fur adorned by artistic swirls, as well as carved into their horns. He'd never been able to discern why such traits only occurred on Eo, but then, there were a lot of things about 'his' island that he didn't know.

Ponds containing the purest water were spread beyond, connected by small streams. If he closed his eyes, the sounds of running water, along with that of the wind and the wildlife, made him feel as though he were simply a part of the environment, a small piece in the labyrinthine structure that was the natural existence.

He'd never dreamed of it so in-detail before.

"I have dreamed of many places, but none could match this in terms of beauty." said Solas, soft footsteps padding the wooden floor of the balcony. He stopped at the railing, some meters to Atlas' right.

"I was wondering why it was so vivid. My dreams are not ordinarily so." Atlas commented. He added a moment later, "I share the sentiment."

"Is this your home?" Solas asked. The both of them were simply observing the scene before them.

"The most recent," Atlas nods.

"But not the only one." Solas surmises.

"No," Atlas says, feeling a tug at his lips at Solas' inquisitiveness, "but the only one I would return to." Solas hums at that, not pressing further, for which Atlas was mildly thankful.

"Did you bring me here?" he asked, turning at last to gaze upon the elf. Solas was dressed casually, light robes. The only adornment was his necklace, at the end of which was half of a jawbone of some animal; he thought it might have been a wolf.

"In a way," Solas demurred, "though not entirely. This location is your doing, but the vividness you mentioned is mine. Ordinary dreams are difficult to speak through, much less remember."

"Intriguing." Atlas said earnestly, ponderous. "Some variation of oneiromancy?"

"No," Solas answered, though he seemed pleased with the question. "I do not dabble in divination, much less divination based on something as fleeting as dreams."

"Troublesome," Atlas agreed. Divination of any sort was never worth the trouble.

"How much of the Fade do you know?" Solas inquired, likely a precursor to further elaboration.

"I've read much of it," Atlas answers, "though, granted, most of the sources were of the Chantry, which, I understand, presents something of a biased view." The quirk of Solas' lips at mention of the Chantry spoke of his displeasure, though he didn't voice it. "The elves write very little on their own interpretations, though my friend Lethiel is voracious in his search of manuscripts. Even so, there was little. The Qunari's view of the Fade and magic is rather absolute." Which was to say, useless. "Practically, it is the medium by which magic is cast, a realm separated from the physical world by something called the Veil."

Solas nods. "When the inhabitants of Thedas sleep, their minds reach into the Fade. Few aside from mages remember their time there, though those that do call them dreams. Some mages are able to enter it at will while asleep - while 'dreaming'. Like myself." Atlas tilts his head.

"Fascinating. Are we in the Fade now, then?" He looks around, wondering how much of his 'dream' was influenced by the Fade. He had no idea what it looked like, since there were, to his knowledge, no illustrations.

"In a form. Your mind connects to the Fade in a… unique way. For most - for all, in fact, excepting dwarves, the connection to the Fade is a tether. From what I am able to glean, yours is rather more like a rope tied around the piling of a dock." Which brought about its own connotations.

"Temporary," he deduces, and Solas nods.

"Not in danger of deteriorating, but… able to be removed." Atlas frowns, considering.

"What effect would that have on me, if it were to happen?"

"I cannot say. You are an especial case, I suspect." A small smile, which Atlas mirrored. That was one way of putting it. "To guess, we would have to determine what effects the Fade currently has on you. You are a mage." It wasn't a question, but he nods anyway. "Have you been able to cast magic normally since… arriving?" His tone indicated curiosity on the nature of his arrival, but that was a question for another time.

"No. When I arrived, I was hardly able to cast at all. The Fade, as I know it, is a distinctly separate yet intertwined piece of reality of Thedas. What you call magic is the act of manipulating the Fade to achieve certain effects, yes?"

Solas tilted his head, ears flicking outward. Atlas made note of the body language, which he hadn't seen on elves before. "To put it simply, yes. Although, mages do not manipulate the Fade so much as tap into its power, which allows them to achieve those effects." Atlas nods at that.

"In my world, there are… planes similar to the Fade, but magic exists separately. Magic is more akin to a force in and of itself. It permeates all of existence, though it does not necessarily cause it. Of course, the word 'magic' is also used interchangeably by most to mean the effects achieved through its manipulation." As he settled into the flow of the conversation, growing more at ease with explaining one of his greatest passions, he began to gesture indistinctly to accentuate his words. "Magic exists everywhere, but it exerts a mostly passive and unnoticeable influence on the physical world by itself. The acts of sapient beings can cause magic to gather in certain places, which then goes on to affect the physical surroundings." He gestures to Eo before them. "The particular quirks of life here are, I believe, a result of magical concentration. Nowhere else in Aethys looks quite like this." His explanation was a gross oversimplification, as was that of the Fade. He was skipping over various facets of magic's function as well as the rules that governed its use and effects.

"Similar effects can and do occur in Thedas. Certain events, such as great battles or feats of magic, can wear down the Veil and result in spirits from the Fade pressing against it, among other things. People often call these sites 'haunted'. I go to these places to dream, and in the Fade I see… echoes of what happened. Like looking into history."

"Fascinating." Atlas said, his intrigue entirely genuine. He'd been a magical scholar in his time, and the chance to learn of an entirely different magical system was extremely enticing. "Similar events occur in the - in Aethys," he'd almost said the Realms, which was a facet of his world that he didn't wish to approach yet, "wherein powerful magical events leave an imprint on the physical world. Largely, though, looking into the past as you say, is a feat of time magic. Which, I think we can both agree, is dangerous territory."

It was simultaneously captivating and frustrating, because there was so much of magic from his world that he wasn't mentioning simply due to the fact that there were numerous exceptions to the rules, and almost every time he made a comment about something 'in general' there was bound to be something which was, in fact, not that way. It didn't help that he was probably the foremost expert on (his) magic due mostly to the sheer amount of time he's had to study it.

Judging by the twinkle in Solas' eyes, he probably felt similarly. "Your statements raise additional questions, but we should focus on one lest we converse for eternity." Atlas smirked, knowing full well that they probably could. "You said that you could not perform magic when you arrived. Presumably, something has changed.

"Something has," he agrees, "though I could not precisely tell you what. Perhaps it is my spirit adapting to Thedas unconsciously. Although I can tell you that I doubt my magic will ever be as potent as it was whilst here - that is, whilst back home. I'm regaining use in small ways. Lighting a candle, opening and closing doors. Meditation makes it easier to grasp, which is what the Commander discovered."

"Have you discovered any reasons for this? Or postulated?"

"I've postulated plenty, and written down my thoughts. I have not experimented, however, because I am not in a position of trust. My being a mage has not exactly helped in that regard."

Solas' lips quirked, glancing outward again. "No, it rarely does. It took some time before the Inquisition considered putting my skills to full use. The mistrust of mages is incredibly common in Thedas. Unless you go to Tevinter." His tone went slightly flat when he mentioned 'Tevinter'. Curious. Solas looked back to him. "Is it the same where you come from - in Aethys?"

He blinks. "No, not at all. Certain kinds of mages, or more accurately, certain kinds of magic, has more stigma around it than others - but it is acknowledged that non-mages are no less immune to being terrible people than mages are." He paused. "Individuals are feared, not magic itself." He and Valera were outliers in that regard, their reputation emphasised by the fact that they led hundreds of thousands into wars aplenty. Not to mention their age. Granted, the both of them showed that one can do terrible things with ordinary magic, but… he didn't wish to think about that just then.

"Mhn. If only the same could be said for Thedas." Atlas hummed his agreement. Magic was something to be… cautioned against, and certainly nothing to be taken lightly. But he'd learned long ago that fear of the unknown was largely useless, and that nothing was black and white. Nearly. "What of your coming here? How did that occur?"

"Innocuously, as it happens. I was investigating a magical anomaly on the island. That is," he gestures around them, "on Eo. They're not… uncommon, but this one was unusual. A portal, of a kind I've never seen before - they aren't supposed to exist without a source, or supervision, like a caster."

Solas raised a brow. "And you entered this 'innocuous' portal?" His tone wasn't judging, per se, but bordering it with a touch of amusement.

Atlas gave a small shrug. "I was curious. I couldn't determine where the portal led, but I could determine that it was stable, if unusual in its nature." Okay, so, yes, maybe it sounded idiotic when you said it out loud, but it felt like a good idea at the time. "I needed a change of scenery. Admittedly, I hadn't anticipated one so… drastic."

Solas was smiling, so at least he found the humor in it. "Did the portal have a match, when you arrived here?"

He frowned. "No, it didn't. It was… a curious experience. I had expected it to behave by the magical laws I knew of, naturally, which would have dictated that I exit the portal in the same condition I entered it. However, I instead woke up in the forest, next to a road, which I now believe to be somewhere north of the Vimmark mountains."

"A portal which defies the magical laws of your world - and, admittedly, mine as well - and yet is able to transport you to another, disappearing afterward." Solas summarised.

"I don't know that it disappeared," Atlas noted, "merely that it wasn't there when I awoke. Thedas is a big place. It's entirely possible that the spatial dimensions between works shifted, relocating it."

Solas seemed considerate, ears flicking outward as he tilted his head. "Perhaps. But the best explanation is one which makes the least assumptions."

"Fair. I -" he paused, looking outward towards the balcony's view. Something was off.

"Atlas?" Solas inquired, trying to see what Atlas was looking for.

"The animals are gone. It is quieter." Atlas says neutrally.

"Ah. I should have paid more attention. You will likely be waking soon."

Atlas looked back to him, raising a brow. "Already? Ah, don't tell me. Time is relative."

Solas smiled knowingly. "That it is. We should speak more on this in the waking world some time."

"That we should," Atlas agreed, smiling back easily. It was not a conventional connection, but one of shared knowledge and curiosity was a bond easily made, if also easily broken.

He blinked, and he was no longer on Eo. He closed his eyes on reflex, regulating his breathing to maintain the slow, somewhat irregular rhythms of a sleeping person. He focused on his hearing. Someone was nearby - no, two someones. Involuntarily, he tensed, his mind jumping first to danger if someone was in his cabin.

He opened his eyes, utilising his superior reflexes for once to take in the scene before him in an instant, that he might decide his course of action. Two individuals, neither standing over him, one - female, human, dark hair - with her back to him over his desk. A second - male, human, dark hair - standing adjacent to him.

Ah.

"How kind of you to notify me of your arrival." Atlas said dryly, not moving from his prone position on the bed. Slicer and Flint both jumped.

"Atlas -" Slicer began.

"- we were just -" Flint said.

"- securing the area -" Slicer said.

"- didnae want to wake you -" Flint said.

"- or anythin'." Slicer finished. What started out in panicked tones quickly turned neutral, and the initial startle had them both controlling their posture into passive, unassuming posture. Slicer had her hands clasped in front of her, and Flint had his at his side. Or, it would seem, he was holding his left hand flat against his side, in an attempt to appear innocuous, but was hiding something behind his leg.

"Securing the area of anything interesting, I see." He amended their statement, keeping his tone bland.

"You gave us a key." Slicer said, as though this excused everything. Atlas raised a brow.

"I did." He conceded. "Given your dispositions, I suppose I should have expected some snooping."

"You redecorated." Flint noted, in a similar tone as his sister did moments before; like that fact perfectly justified their actions. He noted the tension in their posture.

At length, he laughed, sitting up. "I didn't redecorate," he said after a few moments, "I've just gotten busier. You don't need to sneak around whilst I'm asleep if you wanted to look into my things. You could ask." At his laugh, and then his words, they seemed to relax. "But, ah, do put my sword back. I'm rather partial to it." Flint remained unmoving for a few seconds, before shifting his left hand and grabbing the length of his sheathed blade, which he'd tried to keep unseen behind his leg, and set it against the wall next to his bed.

"While I'm asleep was quite possibly the worst time to come in here. There are several times in the day when I'm not about - why not then?"

"We weren't actually sure if youse was asleep." Flint said with a light shrug. He took the opportunity to lean against the wall.

"Ye have the weirdest sleep schedule of anyone we've ever seen. Targets included." Slicer said. Ah, yes. So young and yet they've already had assassination targets. He couldn't judge, because once upon a time he'd had agents in the same fashion.

"Unsure if I was asleep, eh? That implies looking about wasn't your first course of action. You would have waited until I was out. You were looking for me in the hopes that I was awake, then." he deduced. "Whatever for?" He shifted his legs off the bed and leaned his back against the wall, right next to the window.

A shared glance. Short, though. If his sibling-speak wasn't too terribly rusty, then it was merely a glance to confirm, not to communicate anything.

"We want to know why ye seem intent on lookin' after us." Here, Slicer crossed her arms, and the tone of the conversation shifted.

"Ah." Atlas intoned. "I had wondered how long it would take you to ask."

Flint's brows furrowed. "You knew we would?"

"Well, it was natural. I was a person you knew only for a day at best, a few hours at worst, witness to your mentor's passing," there was a subtle yet noticeable wince from them both at that, "and yet I offered you a place in my cabin with the assurance you could stay as long as you needed. I was more surprised that you took it at all, instead of declining, politely if I was lucky, and then doing your best to never see me again."

Another shared glance. "Those… were some of our concerns, too." Flint admitted.

Atlas sighed. "The simplest answer is that I swore at Ryder's grave that I would." The both of them raised their brows at that, and he raised a hand to forestall any questions. "To my people, that's a serious vow. Why would I make it, you ask? Because in a single evening, in a single, unfortunate ambush, you had the foundations of your world swept from under you. I know intimately what that's like. And, because I was there, and because I could, I felt like I should. If you were going to let me, I would. And you did."

Their relationship, if it could be called that, had been uneasy, at first. Though the banter was easy to come, and the occasional bout of training was relatively productive, it had stalled. He knew very well that if he wasn't careful, they would see him as simply some stranger trying to replace Ryder. He'd done his best to appear available, but not pressuring them. He had expressed that availability by giving them a key to his cabin. Occasionally they would stop by, and he'd make them tea. If he had time, he'd make them dinner, or lunch, depending on when they stopped by. He tried not to ask questions unless it seemed like something they'd volunteer first. It had softened into acceptance, but not quite trust. He could see in their demeanor that they were unwilling to be too much at ease, like they expected it to change at any moment, or for him to present some price they had to pay.

"That's too easy," Slicer protested, frowning. "People don't work like that."

"People don't, no. But I do. People are greedy, selfish, panicky animals. A person can be sympathetic, and understanding." Atlas retorted.

"You say ye know what it's like. Whad'ye mean?" Flint pressed. Atlas hesitated. Not because he was lying, but because he didn't know how much he wished to say. "Yer trying to help, right? That needs a bit of trust."

He pursed his lips. In their conversations over food (when they'd stayed to eat with him, at least), they'd often asked where he'd come from. Once he'd told the others in the Inquisition, he'd had no trouble saying the same to them; that he was from a different world. Naturally, they hadn't believed him, but he'd shrugged it off. There was a lot to unpack, and many answers to Flint's question.

"How about a father figure dying to protect you?" He said simply. They both tensed. "Mine did. Different circumstances, I suppose. He chose to sacrifice himself for the greater good, but… I had to watch him walk to his death all the same." He didn't think about that day often. He tried to think instead about what it represented of his father; his sense of justice, duty, his unwavering dedication to his people. It was better that way. He looked back up at the twins. "Don't pretend that Ryder wasn't your father. He raised you."

At that, they both minutely relaxed, but their expressions were still tight, sadder. Maybe a bit angrier.

"I'm sure," he said gently, "that there were many times you wished that it had been me instead." They both looked at him uncertainly, but they didn't try to deny it. "I don't begrudge you that. In hindsight… it should have been me. But the universe has a funny sense of justice." It would have been simpler, if he'd been the one who was shot with a punctured lung. Considering their physiology, he might have survived the wound where Ryder had died. Between all of them, Atlas had by far done the worst, deserved an arrow to the chest the most. People rarely got what they deserved.

"We've never had anybody else." Slicer said, voice tight with emotion. "Before the Inquisition, before Lady Nightingale, before any o' this, we was just two kids on the street. And he was the one who took pity on us, but instead of tossing a coin our way like all the other 'generous' souls, he actually did something fer us. He was the reason we didn't starve, or die in the gutters." Atlas simply nods.

"He gave us a purpose beyon' simply stealin' food and trying not t'get caught by the guards. He was kind, and…" Flint hesitates. "Aye. He was our father." To his perceptive eyes, he could see something in their stances visibly release once the words were spoken aloud.

Slicer looked up, dark green eyes meeting bright blue. "If ye think for one second ye can replace that, yer a damned fool." Atlas immediately shook his head.

"No," he said softly. "I can do no such thing. Nor can I repair the hole in your heart. Moreover, you're not children on the street anymore. You are adults, and I hope I've treated you as such." He paused. "My circumstances were different - but, I know what it was like to discover that even in light of loss, the world keeps moving, with or without you. My hope isn't to coddle you, or try to replace him. My hope is to ensure you're not lost in the tide. To… slow the world down a little. If only for a little while."

Their gazes were searching, probing still for that hidden clause in his statements, the fingers crossed behind his back, the surprise to be revealed later. Atlas did his best to be open, because he was entirely honest. He looked between them. He blinked as he came to his own realization.

Valera would have called him a sentimental fool if he were there, for certain. Needled him for his habit of 'picking up strays'. He looked away from them and chuckled.

He could hear the frown in Flint's voice when he asked, "What?"

"Nothing, I…" his smile faded into something almost sardonic. "I just remembered something. History has a way of repeating itself."

"Is bein' needlessly cryptic just a gimmick of yers now?" Slicer probed.

Atlas smiled wistfully at that. He sure was being open today. "I had a daughter once." He said. When he looked up, their eyes widened in surprise. "She was an orphan, didn't have anybody. Her town was razed by a passing war party. I adopted her. I just hadn't realised the similarities between the situations until now." He sighed. "It's nothing of consequence, though."

"...I hadn't realised ye were actually that old." Flint remarked, and Atlas raised a brow.

"That hasn't stopped you from calling me an old man." Atlas notes.

Slicer snorted. "Now we're justified in it."

Atlas smirks. "I suppose you are." They had no idea just how justified they were. They were all quiet for a few moments.

"What was yer daughter's name?" Flint asks, in a tone that was probably as close to gentle as he managed.

Atlas took a deep breath. "Thalia." he says softly, the word an exhale. She wasn't dead, he thought. He liked to imagine he'd know if she was. But she was… beyond him, now. He'd searched, but never found anything, not even after hundreds of years. His last connection, and he'd driven her away.

"Maybe we should start over." Slicer said, and Atlas looked up, using the words to draw himself out of his moping. "My actual name is Kara." Atlas raised his brows in surprise.

"My name is Finn," said Flint. Atlas looked between them, baffled at the sudden revelation, before he felt his lips tugging toward a smile. He let it happen. "What, ye didnae think those were our actual names, did ye?"

"I suppose I might've," he admitted. "A pleasure to meet you both. I'm Atlas. Would you like some tea to start off the day?"

He saw some light flicker into their eyes that wasn't there before. The both of them started to smile, the expressions similar yet distinct.

It was, he thought, a very good start.

AN: yasss. this chapter, ANs aside, is exactly 9,001 words. this is probably my favorite chapter thus far.

some minor bomb drops in here. maybe not minor, but delivered in such a way as to appear minor - because to Atlas, this is just a part of his life, stuff that's happened. remember folks, not every narrator is reliable!

i know this might be seeming kind of atlas-centric, and it kinda is, but he just has... a lot of stuff to work through. i mean, a thousand years of life comes with a fair bit of baggage, and stuff. eden has stuff coming too! i adore her she's such a lil cinnamon bun.

this chapter brings us to a crucial point in the storytelling; not in terms of plot progress, but in terms of... i never really thought i'd get this far. i never have before, and i've had a lot of writing projects (some of which were actually really neat). 100k words always was my goal, not as an endpoint but just a kind of, 'wouldn't be it be cool if i could make it there?' and... now i have. that's kinda cool!

i'm still kinda busy though, which is why i don't hold myself to any kind of upload schedule. well, there's a whole host of reasons, but hey, when i occasionally deliver long-ass chapters like this, maybe it makes up for the wait!

favorite, follow, review, some combination of the three, or none at all, if you like! thanks peeps

cheers!

~ylri