A/N: Hey, folks! As you may have noticed, I have not been able to update as consistently lately. I have some major life changes going on (all good things, thankfully), and they have taken up my normal writing time quite a bit. I have neither forgotten nor abandoned this story (especially being soooo very close to the finish line!), but please forgive me for my tardiness, which will likely extend well into the summer. Thank you for everyone's support! Reviews are happily welcome. Enjoy!

Shelter in Storm: Part 3

"Hawke, behind you!"

Howling something between a laugh and a war cry, the mage sent a bolt of lightning through the mighty ogre's heart. Suledin couldn't help but spare a few seconds to marvel at her fighting companion as the human launched herself into the air to stab her staff into the neck of a second brute, which had been distracted by a cluster of Qunari. She was about to rejoin the raging battle when a cruel, lilting mockery of her own voice warbled through the air:

"Ebasit kata. Itwa-ost."

Inara frowned at the nearby echo of the Dread Wolf's words. Only the rotting corpse of a mighty mountain troll kept her from seeing the speaker. But hearing the god himself respond drove her halting steps hesitantly forward. Did she really want to see?

"I am sorry."

Hawke wiped away the gore that had splattered across her face as her bloodlust waned, glad that the magic of the Fade would erase any visible evidence of battle the moment she departed this Dream. If the words of the Inquisitor and other Dreamers were true, she had been wandering this place for over three years.

It seemed impossible, the time she had lost. She was able to navigate this place with almost no effort at all. She could identify the spirits with a mere glance, knowing which to converse with, fight, or flee. She had guided wayward dreamers and spied on the Dread Wolf himself as he recruited friends of Valor, Wisdom, and Innocence. It had become a part of her, and her of it – and that terrified the Champion. She wanted out. She wanted Fenris. But would he really want her?

"Ebasit kata. Itwa-ost."

Inquisitor?

Hawke pivoted in place upon hearing Qunlat pass through Inara Lavellan's lips, but the speaker was not Inara Lavellan. It was a demon – a demon of Despair – creating the exact nightmare that was guaranteed to prompt a reaction from its intended target.

And where was the real Suledin? A quick glance found the elf frozen in place on the other side of a fallen troll, her vision blocked from seeing the mirage. When the vision of Fen'Harel spoke, the real Inara turned with the clear intention of seeing the spirits for herself.

"I am sorry."

"For what? Say it," the demon hissed.

Should she intervene? She could stop the Inquisitor from torturing herself with this madness, distract her, or maybe attack the demon. But Hawke ultimately convinced herself that this was something Inara needed to face alone. The elf stood no chance of killing or saving the Dread Wolf, or whatever Fate dictated, if she was not given the chance to face her own fears. Decided, the mage stayed at the ready in case things went south.

"For failing to tell you the truth, and for not remaining at your side," Solas continued, his voice brimming with regret. "I'm sorry that I destroyed your home. And I am sorry for breaking your heart, vhenan. It tore me apart to be the one to hurt you. It was not what I wanted."

"You broke my heart, yes." Hawke flinched at the sickening crunch that followed. The real Inara flew into action. "Now allow me to return the favor."

Lavellan passed the body of the troll just in time to see the demon in her own form – radiant white dress and wild hair flying in the nonexistent breeze – slowly drawing her bloody fist from the chest of Fen'Harel himself.

None stood with him. He had no weapons, but he had his unstoppable power and did nothing to save himself. Had he allowed this? Was this his plan – to fix the world as he saw fit, only to surrender himself to the consequences?

With a cry of rage and agony, Lavellan charged the spirit from the shadows, intending to land a sneak attack with her two daggers buried squarely in its back. Her blades burned with a red-hot magic she should have never possessed. Halfway in her race, the fake Inquisitor flickered and disappeared, leaving nothing but the limp body of a god.

Solas will not outlive you.

No golden armor or fine furs; he wore only the simple clothes from his days of painting frescoes in the Skyhold tower. No proud posturing; no efforts to save himself. And no chance for her to tell him that she never stopped searching. War had taken that chance; his own pride has taken it. As she tripped to a stop with no demon in sight to focus her wrath upon, the rogue dropped to her knees.

The Dread Wolf remained out of sight, blending with the grey canines summoned by his vhenan to watch her back. He remained still and surveying while they circled the area, but she was too distracted to notice the dissident behavior of a single beast.

He had observed the Despair Demon executing his mirror image, a crazed and malicious glint in her eyes. So the Herald feared losing herself, and she feared that she would be forced to kill him. It was not an unrealistic fantasy for Despair to choose, and he regretted that. He regretted much.

Despair had disappeared the moment Inara drew close for a killing blow. And the moment she knelt beside the false Fen'Harel's corpse, it disappeared, leaving behind only his jawbone pendant. Not even a body to mourn. This demon was certainly efficient. A dull ache charged through the mage's chest as the woman grasped the trinket and shakily forced herself to her feet. She seemed aware that Despair was still lingering, though unseen. A barely noticeable sob wracked her body and she doubled over with overwhelming grief.

So you're suggesting I'm graceful?

No, I am declaring it.

Even now, how could such a foreign mortal creature be so real and enchanting and overpowering to his better judgment? He had forced himself to remain distant, but at what cost? She chased him relentlessly, to her constant detriment. She struck out on her own initiative to assist the slave rebellion, save the Champion of Kirkwall, and protect the people of Thedas, all the while losing sleep, sanity, and hope for herself. She was supposed to live peacefully and learn to forget about him. It was not supposed to happen this way. Why did his plans always manage to implode?

Despair reappeared on the scene just as suddenly as it had vanished. The instant it materialized beside Lavellan, the double seized her by the throat, lifting the elf off the ground. The wolf jaw necklace slipped from her fingers as the Dreamer grappled for air, but the demon's grip was unbreakable.

"You'll never see him again," the spirit taunted, her voice ringing mercilessly on the empty battlefield. "What makes you think you can save a god? You are nothing to him but another pawn on the board."

A flicker of movement on the other side of the unfolding drama caught the mighty wolf's attention. Hawke, the exiled Champion of Kirkwall in the flesh, stared at him expectantly. She knew him. With a pointed glance at the doppelgangers, she tapped her staff against the earth and disappeared in the Void.

"You…will not have him," Inara gasped, feet kicking at thin air. "I will…not let myself become…you!"

"They called him the Dread Wolf when all was said and done. What will they call you when this is all over?"

Solas hunkered down, silently commanding the summoned wolves to take formation at his back.

Don't go.

It would be kinder in the long run. But losing you would…

Enough.

With a growl that managed to reverberate off the invisible walls of the Nightmare, the shapeshifter charged forward and launched himself at the unforgiveable spirit assaulting his beloved. Teeth flashing, claws swiping through flesh, and the sweet scent of blood overcame his senses as the wolfpack tore into the demon with murderous intent. The dying shrieks of the spirit as it fought back melded with the dogs' snarling in a frightful cacophony. It would not escape this time. She had suffered enough on his behalf.

All at once, both demon and wolves exploded in a sickening blast of red and black smoke. All that remained was the triumphant Trickster. Reluctantly, he turned to see what scorn the rescued damsel would turn upon him, yet there was none. Fear, yes. A denial that anything she saw was real anymore. She sat on the blood-stained dirt, the jawbone held tightly between her fingers, watching him with anxiety and distrust in her own senses.

He took a tentative step toward her; she flinched, but did not flee. She was like an injured halla – no, an injured predator – backed into a corner and waiting to strike, surviving beyond mortal endurance.

If you had just told me.

Ah, the burden she carried… Solas cautiously continued to close the distance between them, the ruby eyes of his wolf form boring into her beautiful, uncertain gaze. Yet despite her despair, she never gave up on him.

He stopped with his mighty snout mere inches from her crumpled frame. His hot breath teased the wisps of hair that had escaped her braid. She closed her eyes, and he pressed his forehead against her brow, gently nuzzling her in a hopefully comforting way. The woman shakily reached her hands up and buried her fingers in his thick mane.

"They say you are lost," she breathed exhaustedly. Solas shifted, debating his next move; her fingers held tighter, deciding for him. "Stay. Just a little longer."

Unable to resist, the Wolf curled up beside the sleep-deprived rogue and commanded the Nightmare to end. A meadow sunset beside a soft brook was much more worthy of Suledin. Seemingly unaware of the change of scenery, Inara had melted into his coat, resting comfortably at last. With another thought, he returned to his more customary form. He silently relished the simple sensation of the moss under his fingertips and the fair lady resting against his thigh.

"Sleep, vhenan," he instructed, stroking her silken hair. She caught his hand, eyes still closed.

"Ir abelas. I would not have you see what I become."

He winced at her words. Even overcome by physical and mental exhaustion, she knew what he had witnessed between her and the demon – the future she feared most.

"Tel abelas. You create your own future; you always have. That demon will trouble you no further." Decidedly, the mage guided her hand with his own and created a portal to the physical realm with deliberately slow pace. "Can you feel it, vhenan? The magic is part of you. It is time for the Champion to return, I think, and you are the one who must make it come to pass. You are ready. Be well, my love."

Dorian yelped in surprise, spilling his drink as Inara awoke. Having been slumbering quite peacefully with her head on her friend's lap through the better part of the night, the poor mage had not expected such a rude disturbance from his drowsy reading.

"Blasted, are you all right?!"

After a few heavy breaths while she stared around to confirm that she was truly awake, the Herald nodded. Archon Pavus hesitantly offered the remainder of his drink.

"I can do it. It's time."

"For what, dear girl?"

She locked eyes with her friend, her smirk almost masking the sadness in her eyes.

"I know how to open a rift from the other side. We're getting Hawke back."

Hear me
Can you hear me
I am begging from you for the last time

Hear me
Please forgive me
I am calling out to you for the last time