beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

two pieces of Solas' dialogue and the epitaphs/elegies from the statues are taken from the game.

Morning dawned clear and bright, the air warm and soft with the scent of moss and flowers. Scouts bustled around the camp, some coming, some going, and one standing sleepily in the center, stirring a bubbling pot of porridge over the campfire.

Ciri left her tent and helped herself to a bowl, then sat on a fallen log beside a distracted-looking Olgierd.

"How did you sleep?" she asked.

He shook his head at her. "Same as always."

"No Vlodimir?"

"Nay."

"Perhaps tonight, then." She bumped his shoulder with hers and offered him a sympathetic smile.

He smiled back wistfully. "Perhaps."

Ciri turned her attention to her breakfast as Solas and Varric joined them. The meal passed quietly, and soon another scout came around to collect their empty bowls. She stood from the log and looked down at her companions.

"We'd best head straight to the elven ruins if we want to finish there before nightfall," she said. "Solas? Any thought on what we can expect?"

"Din'an Hanin is the last resting place of the Emerald Knights," he said. "I explored the area in the Fade last night. I watched as elves of ages past toiled to convert a manor into a crypt fit for heroes. There is an air of sadness to the ruins, but far less danger than we faced in Dirthamen's lost temple."

"I hope Taven and the other elves with him haven't gone in ahead," Ciri said.

"They should be fine," Solas assured her. "Your soldiers chased off the red Templars who attempted to take over the ruins. Whatever danger is left is solely that of Din'an Hanin and not Corypheus."

"Still, we'd better not waste any more time."

With that said, they all made a last-minute check of their weapons and armor and headed off toward the ruins. It was more of a pleasant stroll than anything else; late summer had given way to early fall, and the temperature was mild beneath the shady tops of the towering trees. Shy, antelope-like creatures with a funny bluish coat darted past them a few times, and those little hairless nugs were in the undergrowth almost everywhere she looked. The silvery-white blossoms on the bushes Ciri occasionally spotted gave off a fresh, almost herbal fragrance.

In another time, in another place that held equally reverent meaning to another group of elves, she'd seen a different bush covered in white flowers with silvery markings. Elves had come to pay their respects there, to mourn and remember.

She looked over at Solas the next time they passed a bush. "Did these flowers grow in Elvhenan?"

He looked at them and frowned slightly. "They did, though they were not as they are now. The ones I saw in the Fade had larger petals, and the silver markings were golden."

"I've seen these in the Inquisition garden," Olgierd commented.

"Yes. Crystal Grace, they call it," Solas said. "It is used in healing potions. The Elvhen used to make herbal cordials from it when they weren't simply content to have it beautifying their gardens."

The little bush covered in luminous flowers, tucked between two giant tree roots, felt keenly like a living memorial of flowers planted at a grave. She'd heard the history of the Emerald Graves from Maxwell and knew that each tree stood in honor of a fallen elf. The silvery flowers at their roots reminded her vividly of Shaerrawedd and the rosebush that bloomed there. A part of her wanted to pluck one and pin it to her clothes, as Geralt had done for her then.

"Do they mean anything to the elves?" she asked.

"You'd have to ask one of the city elves, or one of the Dalish," Solas said dismissively. "They were only flowers back in Elvhenan. Beautiful, but symbolizing nothing in particular."

Ciri bit back a sigh and gave the Crystal Grace a last look before moving on.

The roving patrols of Inquisition soldiers had kept the area safe, and their journey was unimpeded, save for another brief fight to close a rift near a creek. Once again, someone within the rift fought with them, and Olgierd smiled at the faint laugh that echoed over their heads before Ciri sealed it shut.

"Tonight," Ciri told him, "surely."

He dropped his hand to her shoulder and gave her a brief, grateful squeeze. "He'll do as he pleases," he said. "As he always has."

They reached the ruins of Din'an Hanin an hour later. Its grand walls had long since crumbled to a shell of its former glory, leaving behind only the outline of the manor that had once graced the grounds where they stood.

Solas gazed around with an unreadable expression. "My people built a life here. It must have been something to see."

Ciri looked at him in surprise. He'd never claimed modern elves as kin before. But perhaps the Emerald Knights and the elves who'd ruled the Dales were as close to Elvhen as he'd allow himself to accept. Their fall at the hands of humans must have been bitter to learn about.

Solas' unreadable expression turned faintly unhappy as they rounded a corner to see the distinctive red sails of an aravel. The halla were unhitched from their leads, calmly grazing along a half-broken wall. Not a single Dalish elf was in evidence.

Olgierd frowned. "Appears they've already gone in."

"Guess that means we're playing catch-up," Varric said. "Let's hope the old elven nobles of the Dales didn't booby trap their tombs."

Ciri led the way to an old, splintering pair of doors and pushed them open. On the other side, they found a shady pavilion of sand-colored stone, the high walls surrounding it slowly losing the battle with the encroaching forest. Piles of fallen bricks lay along the sides of the courtyard, and in recessed niches all around the area, gleaming, stylized statues of wolves sat back-to-back, their heads thrown to the heavens in a silent howl.

She spotted engraved writing on a toppled statue by the staircase leading to the left and went over to investigate. "Varric," she said as she knelt for a closer look, "do you have charcoal and parchment? I'd like to do a rubbing of this for Mihris and Mahanon."

She heard a rustle, and Varric came over to press a slightly crumpled parchment and stick of charcoal into her hands. "Looks like Elven," he commented from over her shoulder.

"Then it's a good thing Solas is with us, isn't it?"

She flattened the parchment to the stone and rubbed the charcoal across it firmly. Four lines came through clearly, and she got back to her feet, studying her prize.

"I recognize some of the words," she said. "Past, place, sun, people, lands, lady, gone. The rest is somewhat beyond me."

Solas came over and gently tugged the rubbing from her hands. "'Curse the past—the place where lies were born,'" he read aloud. "'For beneath their sun, our people fall. The lands their Lady once bestowed now stolen in Her name. So when these words are read, we shall be gone.'"

"An entire culture lost, not once, but twice," Ciri murmured. "I hope something good comes from Briala's elevation to the nobility."

"She doesn't strike me as a woman who'd rest on her laurels," Olgierd said.

"No," Solas agreed as they headed up the stairs together. "But even so, she is a noble of Orlais now, not of her own people. As you said, the elven culture was lost. It will be a struggle to recover even part of that, and that's presuming the new emperor and the human nobility allow it."

"Mihris would call it hellathen," Ciri said. "And Briala is better positioned to achieve it than she's ever been."

Solas looked at her with surprise and offense. The expression swiftly faded to be replaced by faint warmth. "The 'noble struggle' of the city elves. Yes, I suppose you are correct, lethallin. Perhaps one day elven nobles will stand shoulder to shoulder with their human counterparts. It will not replace what was lost, but it would be far better than what the elves currently face."

Past the stairs, the ancient manor turned crypt was in an even worse state of disrepair. Signs of a long-ago battle still marred the building, with collapsed walkways and scattered bricks everywhere. There were even boulders at rest against the intact walls, once flung against them during the height of the Second Exalted March. Ciri could see spots of rust-colored dried blood smeared across the old, broken stones, and for a moment she worried. Then she remembered Chandler's words from the day before.

"This must be where our soldiers fought the red Templars," she said. "Another elven ruin for Corypheus, do you suppose?"

"It seems likely," Solas replied. "Though this one is hardly old enough to have whatever it is he seeks."

An eluvian, Ciri thought. She wondered what Solas had done with the keystone he'd stolen from Briala—if he'd made use of it already, or if he was simply holding on to it for a more opportune moment. Was he looking to gain entrance to the Crossroads as well?

What held him back from acting? She was glad that something stayed his hand for now, but she couldn't help be suspicious that it was a lack of something—resources, time, power—rather than a benevolent reason.

The large metal orb Corypheus had wielded flashed through her mind. Solas had called it an Elvhen artifact of immense power, a magical focus dedicated to a god of their pantheon. Could it have belonged to his god, to Fen'Harel? Was that what he was waiting for? A chance to claim the stolen and corrupted orb for himself?

She'd like to think he stayed because he cared for her and Cole and Olgierd. Or even because he saw worth in the Inquisition's work under her leadership, however reluctant she might have been at the start. But she couldn't count on that being the case.

They made their way deeper into the destroyed ruin, heading down a short flight of cracked stairs. A large pile of red lyrium crystals scattered across the flagstones gave her pause, and she glanced around for signs of more growing from the walls.

Olgierd shook his head and pointed a few feet away. "Look," he said grimly.

She followed his finger and sighed. A worn Templar skirt, almost lost in the shade and half-hidden beneath the overgrown vegetation, was the only sign that the pile of shattered crystals had once been a flesh and blood human. "Damn it. Damn them."

"The Wardens are looking into it, aren't they?" Varric asked. "That's what Bianca went to go help Blackwall and Malika with."

"We haven't received any updates from Soldier's Peak about that in a while," Ciri said. "But we have to hope that something can be done."

If the Warden mages and Bianca couldn't figure out how to at least mitigate the danger of red lyrium, she didn't want to think of what Thedas faced.

They skirted the red Templar's broken remains and headed up another staircase, then another, in search of the entrance to the tomb. Ciri eyed the boulder lodged in the broken railing as she passed, and she ran a careful hand over the finely chiseled masonry the projectile had smashed through.

"This place was beautiful once," she said.

"So it was in my dream last night," Solas told her. "Master artisans from across the Dales gathered to make a simple noble's manor a monument to the Emerald Knights that would stand for eternity. The work was nonstop, and tears and anger were abundant."

Around the next corner, the walkway opened into a spacious, open-air hall. At the end stood a massive statue of an armored elven woman bearing a sword with an oddly shaped blade. On the plinth, Ciri could see a few lines of engraved writing again.

"Lindiranae, I presume, or one of her brethren," Solas said. He looked down at Ciri. "Would you like to do another rubbing for the Dalish scouts?"

"They'll want to know everything about this place," Ciri said. "Varric?"

Varric obligingly handed over a fresh piece of parchment and the same charcoal stick as before, and Ciri knelt before the plinth to take a rubbing. She examined the lines of writing carefully once she'd finished, but again she could only understand a handful of the words.

Solas took it from her as she stood and read it out again. "'Cry for the past—only there does glory dwell. For here, the bow was strung, the sword bequeathed, the vows sworn. So glory was born within the hearts of elves.'"

Varric made a face. "Kind of defeatist, don't you think?"

"Wouldn't you be, staring down the end of all that you stood for?" Olgierd replied. "Can't say I agree with the sentiment, however. Dwell too much on the past and the present will slip right by you."

Solas stayed silent. He carefully rolled up the rubbing and tucked it away in his belt purse, and with a final glance at the statue, he nodded to Ciri. "Lead on."

They headed through the passageway to the left of the statue, and Ciri asked, "Do you know much about the Emerald Knights, Solas?"

"They once patrolled the borders of the Dales, protecting the elven people," he said. "The elves saw them as romantic heroes. The Chantry called them ruthless butchers. I suspect both sides have some element of truth."

The interior of the tomb was far less damaged than the outside, and Ciri marveled at the meticulous carvings along the pillars and railings of the walkway as they walked along in search of Taven's party. The carpet beneath their feet, though old and threadbare, still held its deep green color all these centuries later, and the edges shone with gold embroidery thread.

"What would modern Thedas make of the Elvhen if they suddenly came back?" Ciri asked Solas. "Would they be seen as heroes out of a romantic legend, or as ruthless butchers?"

Solas looked at her quietly, taking a long moment to ponder her words. "Much like how spirits reflect memories in the Fade, there is truth to all perspectives. An empire of immortal elven mages would be seen as both heroic and villainous, I imagine, depending on where one stood."

"That's the way of all the best stories," Varric interjected. "Anyone with a big enough reputation will become a hero or a villain to someone. The most memorable characters are both at once. Hawke and Blondie are proof of that."

"As is Ciri," Olgierd added with a small smile.

"And so are you," she retorted, elbowing him in the side jokingly.

Olgierd laughed at that and slung an arm around Ciri's shoulders to pull her into a quick half-hug. "Quite literally the latter, in my case," he admitted. "Though I'd not dare call myself a hero, let alone a romantic one."

"Don't worry, I'm sure Ruffles will tell your tale for you, and better than you ever could," Varric joked. He looked up at Olgierd, his friendly smile fading. "'Quite literally'? Back in Redcliffe with Cole, you told him you wouldn't let him walk down your path. Not a good one, I'm guessing?"

Olgierd rubbed scarred fingers across his mouth briefly, then looked down at Varric. His lips twisted in a rueful smile. "The line between a free company and a gang of bandits is razor thin. A man can call himself and his followers a company all he likes, proclaim to all and sundry that he adheres to a code of chivalry, but if they burn down taverns and raid villages in between sanctioned work for the crown, they're naught but criminals at the end of the day."

Momentary surprise crossed Varric's face. After a second, though, he just gave a shrug of his strong shoulders. "Rivaini caused the Qunari occupation of Kirkwall," he said. "Responsible or not, Blondie blew up a cathedral and killed a couple hundred civilians. Hawke and Fenris have killed a lot, and I mean a lot, of people. I can't say you don't fit in with the rest of my friends."

Olgierd clapped him on the back. "Far better company than I used to keep."

At the far end of the walkway, signs of damage appeared again. The battles of the Exalted March had reached the inside of the crypt as well, to Ciri's dismay. She proceeded down the stairs into a rubble-strewn hall and looked around at the broken railings and loose bricks covering the aged rug.

"Do you think Taven and his party found something here?" she asked.

"There's no way of knowing without looking for ourselves," Solas said. His expression was once again unreadable as he looked up at the carved stone owls that hung along the banister above their heads.

Varric gestured to the stairs. "Up to the left, or up to the right?"

"To the right," Olgierd suggested, and he set off in that direction.

The stairs led up and up, then abruptly dropped and curved to the left. They ended in a small room, bare but for another outsized statue of an elven warrior. In the corner, a withered body in ancient armor lay, too old for Ciri to determine gender or race.

Varric anticipated Ciri's request and got there before her, kneeling in front of the statue's plinth with parchment and his diminishing stick of charcoal and rubbing across it with smooth, even strokes. He handed it off to Solas when he was done.

"'Sing for the past—where rests those who came before,'" Solas read. "'For each knight, a seed was sown, roots twisting with their brothers and sisters. So the forest grew, a reflection of our might.'"

"They knew it was their end," Ciri murmured. "This, all of it—the statues, the words, the tomb, the forest—it's all a monument to a time they saw passing right before their eyes."

Her sense of walking through Shaerrawedd with Geralt came back, piercing and poignant. The ancient corpse in the corner there—had this been the last stand, like Aelirenn had made? A last battle in a tomb of all places. To lie unburied surrounded by your own heroes…

She looked up sharply at the sound of cracking pottery.

"Shit. My fault," Varric said. He stepped to the side, looking down in regret at the sight of the cracked lid at his feet. "It was in the shadows back here. I completely missed it."

"It isn't your fault," Ciri assured him, though she too felt a pang of sorrow at the damage to such an old vessel.

Olgierd came over and peered down at the toppled jar. "What's this?"

He bent to scoop up something that glinted brightly in the dim light of the tomb, and he gently rubbed his thumb across the surface.

Ciri and Solas joined him for a closer look. It was an intricately enameled pendant of some sort, a vibrant shade of green with a stylized gold tree in the center and strung on a fine gold chain. It felt enchanted, like her necklaces, but the purpose was beyond her.

"It has the feel of an incomplete key," Solas said. "Perhaps there is a lock deeper within that we'll need this for."

Ciri frowned. "We aren't here to grave rob, only to help Taven, and possibly learn something."

"And that is commendable," Solas said. "You need not take anything, lethallin. But the option of looking deeper and learning more should be available to you."

"Very well." She nodded to Olgierd, and he tucked the pendant away carefully. "We'll keep an eye out for more of these. In the meantime, let's try another staircase. Taven and the others have to be around somewhere."

"After you, Songbird," Varric said with a playful bow.

She took one last look at the statue and turned to head back up the stairs, a sea of elven ghosts at her back.

Relief washed over Ciri as she heard faint voices up ahead, all of them thick with the lilting accent of the Dalish. Their exploration of the tomb had been a long and solemn one, and they'd diligently recorded each engraved epitaph and elegy on every statue they'd come across. Varric had written down the names of the interred Emerald Knights as well, to share with Mihris and Mahanon and their clan.

"It should be working," one of the voices grumbled.

"Face facts, Tav, you missed something," another said, sounding torn between annoyance and amusement.

"See, there are empty spots. Should we go back and look?"

"Mythal'enaste, just let me think!"

Ciri rounded the corner to see four Dalish elves standing before a tall door, all of them staring up at it in frustration. "Perhaps we can help," she said.

The elves spun around, their hands flying to their weapons.

"Easy now," Olgierd cautioned. "We're with the Inquisition. One of you must be Taven, Keeper Hawen's First. We met your clan some months back."

The tallest of the elves, a ruddy-cheeked older brunet with unusually brawny arms, fixed them with a hard stare. "Peacefully?"

"You have our word," Olgierd said.

"Human words don't count for much," a young-looking blond elf said. He had vine-like green vallaslin tattooed across his pale face and wore the beautifully crafted armor of the warriors of his people. In his hand, he held a hardwood staff. "But the Inquisition helped us earlier, so we'll accept it for now."

Ciri nodded to him. "I'm glad our people could help you. I'm Ciri. These are Olgierd, Varric, and Solas."

"Taven," the young elf said. He inclined his head at the three other elves with him. "Athras is our grumpy hahren. Haleir's the felasil with the attitude problem. Isene's the pretty one."

"The answer's still no," the lone woman among them said dryly. "You can't have my dagger, no matter how much you flatter me." She was, as Taven had said, quite pretty, with thick, dark hair and big blue eyes. A smattering of freckles almost disappeared against her light brown cheeks.

"Felasil, he calls me," Haleir complained to the company at large. "I'm not the one who can't get through a door, am I?"

Athras rolled his eyes and reached out to scruff up Haleir's hair. The two of them had a strong familial resemblance, and Ciri guessed they were brothers, or perhaps cousins.

Ciri approached the door in question and looked up at it curiously. Six round pendants, all of them the green of new leaves and shot through with gold, were set into little recessed notches. Three more notches sat empty.

"We have the other three," she told Taven. "Olgierd?"

Olgierd handed them over, and she slotted them in easily. A faint, nearly imperceptible light washed over the door as the last one settled into place. Athras nudged her aside and tested the handle.

"There we are," he said in satisfaction as it slid open smoothly.

"You were right," Ciri said to Solas. "We needed them after all."

"Come on, Inquisition," Haleir called out, jogging ahead of them. "You'll miss the fun!"

Ciri turned to Taven as they all filed through the door and into the room ahead. "What exactly are you looking for here?"

"We heard a rumor from a passing clan that there was an artifact buried with the Emerald Knights," he said. "Something of great power, or possibly of as much significance to our people as Lindiranae's missing sword, Evanura."

"We found her talisman," Ciri said. "Valorin was searching for it when he died, and we finished his work."

He looked at her sidelong. "And what did you do with it?"

"We gave it to your clan," she said patiently. "It wasn't ours to keep."

"Ha." He shook his head and gave her a boyish smile. "You're not so bad after all, shem."

Ciri had to suppress the urge to sigh. "Thanks ever so much. But why break into the tomb for an artifact?"

"You don't know what it was like, having the shem armies waging their war across the Dirth for nearly two years," Taven said. "Clans lost members to their soldiers' patrols, halla broke their legs in the trenches and had to be put down—some clans even stayed away from the Dirth entirely. We need something to rally around, to bring back hope."

"Emperor Cyril has put an end to the civil war," Ciri told him. "The armies have been disbanded."

"We'll see," Taven said, looking skeptical. "One human ruler's as bad as another, as far as I can tell."

It would take time and effort to undo that perception. For all that Emperor Cyril seemed to be inclined toward reform, he was battling an empire built on centuries of oppression, and his immediate predecessor's actions had been brutal.

Varric's long, low whistle drew her attention from Taven and back toward their surroundings. "Look at this," he said in admiration. "The elves of the Dales sure knew their craft."

This crypt was untouched, had been so ever since the Emerald Knight within had been interred. It had the grandeur one might expect for a king of ages past, not a simple knight. But the elves of the Dales had held their heroes in such reverence, it was little wonder the monument to them would be kingly.

"That must be the artifact," Taven said, gesturing to something straight ahead. It burned with a cold, eerie violet fire and hovered before a seated statue, well out of reach even for Ciri to climb to. All around the statue, a deep, square pit yawned, lit from within by an unnatural light. To either side, the tomb sprawled into two wings, with braziers still burning all these centuries later.

"Let's take a look around," Taven told the other elves. "We'll figure out how to get the artifact one way or another."

"Respectfully," Athras said in a low voice.

Taven nodded in agreement. "Of course. Ciri, if you don't mind—it's not that we doubt your intentions, but we'd feel better if your people stuck with ours."

"That's entirely understandable," Ciri said. "Shall we go left or right?"

Isene drew her dagger and began walking off to the right. "This way, Inquisition. Keep up!"

Ciri and the others fell in behind her. Her hand strayed to her dagger's hilt as she looked around with interest. The right-hand side of the pit surrounding the statue held only a sturdy stone sarcophagus in the center of a sunken chamber, with an ever-burning torch at its head. Along the walls, great painted jars filled with rushes sat in the carved nooks.

The Dalish elves bowed their heads respectfully to the sarcophagus before turning to inspect the area.

"Here," Solas said from a short distance away. "Veilfire braziers. Do you remember how lighting the ones in the Fallow Mire released demons, lethallin? Something similar may happen if we light these."

"And if we don't, we might not get the artifact," Taven said with a frown. He sighed and lifted his staff, adding something in Elven to his companions.

Ciri unsheathed Gynvael as Solas lit the first brazier. Taven was quick to follow suit with the next one, and a dry, rattling sound echoed through the crypt. A handful of skeletons picked themselves up from the corners of the chamber and staggered toward them, bony fingers wrapped around bows and sword hilts.

"Fenhedis, these things?" Haleir complained. He drew a curved sword from its sheath and lunged for the nearest skeleton.

Ciri lashed out at another, striking hard at its spine. It shuddered beneath the blow, and ribs fell to the stone floor. Another strike and it broke apart entirely. All around her, she heard the strange sound of metal striking dry bones and caught glimpses of fire and green light blooming. Then it was over.

Taven leaned on his staff and looked over the scattered bones toward the pit and the burning artifact. "There must be something else," he said. "Let's try the other side."

Solas cast a glance at Ciri, and she nodded in agreement. "Very well."

The other side of the crypt was a mirror to the right, with the sunken chamber and the lone sarcophagus. Solas and Taven went to the two Veilfire braziers and lit them in tandem. Once again, a rattling filled the air—along with a low growl and a rushing noise that had Ciri spinning around in alarm.

"Revenant!" Varric called out in warning. He fired a bolt from Bianca as he hastily got clear.

A barrier settled over Ciri as she brought her blade up to block a jarring blow from the revenant. It stood head and shoulders taller than her, a massive, armored skeleton armed with a kite shield and a gleaming longsword. She spun out of reach and darted back to land a strike against its sword arm.

Large, thorny vines grew from the stone floor and twined around the revenant, rooting it in place.

"Strike!" Taven shouted.

Ciri struck again, her aim sure, and it released its sword with a growl. On its other side, Olgierd cleaved deep into the revenant's bony, unprotected neck. She twisted out of the way as its helmeted head hit the floor with a loud clang.

The reassuring clack and twang of Varric's crossbow sounded out a final time, and the last skeleton dropped in a clatter of bones.

"Is everyone alright?" Ciri asked.

"It's just a scratch," Athras said gruffly. "Taven. Look."

They all turned at his nod toward the pit, and Ciri took a step forward in curiosity. The deep pit was no longer there—the floor had risen to the level of the rest of the crypt.

"The artifact," Taven breathed. He started forward eagerly.

Ciri headed for the statue instead. It differed greatly from the statues of the armored elves on the levels above; this one sat at ease in simple robes, their genderless face serene and their hands folded in front of their heart. She spotted engraving on the plinth and beckoned to Solas and Varric.

It took the very last of Varric's final charcoal stick, but she got her rubbing, and she handed it off to Solas. As he began to read it, a hush fell over the Dalish elves.

"'Cry for the past—it shall claim us all. For here rests our saviors newly slain. Others lie beyond our reach. So we remember. Let the true name burn away and enter Din'an Hanin, the place where glory ends.'"

He looked up at Taven. "There are names. Would you like to hear them?"

"This is our heritage," Taven said fiercely. His hand hovered in the air, just shy of the burning artifact. "Yes."

"'Andrale, whose song inspired,'" Solas read. "'Soran, with bow in hand. Siona, who kept the bridge. Talim, who saved the child. Rin, who led them out. Ilan, who kept watch.'" He paused. "'Elandrin, whom we betrayed.'"

"That can't be right." Taven dropped his hand and strode over to peer at the rubbing. "Elandrin…harellir. But…betray their own knight? Why?"

"Perhaps that will shed some light," Ciri suggested, gesturing at the artifact still blazing violet behind them.

Haleir hesitated, then grabbed it from the air with a wince. The flames went out immediately. "It's a scroll?" he said, his voice rising in confusion. "I thought you said it was an artifact, Tav."

"Give it here."

Taven unrolled it carefully and frowned down at what he found. After a long moment, he admitted in a low voice, his tattooed cheeks red with embarrassment, "I'm not good enough with written Elven to read all this. Could you—"

Solas accepted the scroll from him silently and read. When he reached the end, he sighed and looked up at Ciri, then over at the Dalish elves. "Humans killed Siona and Elandrin's sister in retribution for rumors of elves abducting someone from one of their villages, and the knights believed Elandrin's sympathies lay with the humans. He stole away in secrecy night after night, and finally, he was followed to a village where Siona saw him with a human woman. She saw them look upon the chantry together and assumed the woman had turned Elandrin against his people.

"Siona rallied the knights to the village to confront Elandrin, to bring him home, or to face justice. The human woman saw Siona, his sister, on that moonless night and mistook her for him, racing toward her outside the village. Siona let her arrow fly just as the woman called out Elandrin's name—and daisies fell from her hand. No weapon. Just a village girl in love."

Haleir cursed, and Isene bit her lip and looked away. Athras sighed heavily. Taven shut his eyes, a pained expression crossing his youthful face.

"The men of the village heard her cry and rushed to confront the knights, but they were no match for the protectors of the Dales." Solas let out a soft scoff. "And Elandrin knelt in despair over his slain love and refused to move or defend himself, even when the humans' arrows found his heart." He rolled the scroll back up and said with quiet, biting scorn, "Her name was Adalene. He wrote her a love letter."

"Ah, shit," Varric muttered. "That's Red Crossing."

Ciri looked to Olgierd. "Evelyn sang that song about it once. 'Oh I know she is there, daisies in her hair'—"

"—'Waiting by the chantry to marry me,'" he finished. "I hadn't thought it based on a true story."

Cheerful Haleir looked sick. "They declared the Exalted March over Red Crossing. That was—that was the knights' fault? Our fault?"

"There had been fights and tensions for years before it happened," Athras said firmly. "If it wasn't this, it would have been something else. But still." He shook his head and extended his hand for the scroll, the other resting on the hilt of his sword. "We can't let this get out."

"Don't," Olgierd warned him, his voice almost kind. His hand didn't stray to his saber. "It's a mistake you'd not have long to regret."

"We Dalish have suffered enough," Athras said, his knuckles going white around his sword's hilt. "We can't let you turn us into scapegoats all over again."

Taven came to Athras' side and gripped his wrist. "You can't kill the Inquisitor, Athras. If Red Crossing was bad, this would be the end of us."

Ciri looked at him in surprise. "I only introduced myself as Ciri."

"We're Dalish, not idiots," he said, mild annoyance coloring his tone. "A human woman in red and black armor with white-streaked hair and green eyes, in the company of a red-haired, bearded human man and a bald elven mage? Of course you're the Inquisitor."

She felt her cheeks heat. "I didn't mean to attempt to deceive you."

"No, I can see that you're modest," Taven allowed. "You're no pompous Orlesian noble looking down on everyone around you. So you should understand. We need to keep this silent. Let us take the scroll back to Keeper Hawen. Orlais doesn't need to know."

"And then the Keeper does what, sends Red Crossing a mourning halla and calls bygones bygones?" Isene said scornfully. "Were you listening to the same story I was?"

Athras wrenched his wrist from Taven's hold. "Yes," he retorted. "The shems killed Siona and Elandrin's sister first for petty revenge over those rumors of abductions. They weren't innocent."

Haleir groaned. "Fenhedis, lethallan, they probably weren't even the same shems!"

Varric cleared his throat loudly. "If anyone wants the dwarf's opinion? There's a way to tell this story without turning the elves into scapegoats."

"I'm listening," Taven said noncommittally.

"Go on, Varric," Ciri encouraged him.

"Picture this," Varric said. He walked back and forth, gesturing emphatically. "Opening night at the theater in Val Royeaux. The curtain rises on a tragic love story about star-crossed lovers. The man, a brave knight of his people, committed, kind, romantic. The woman, a sweet village girl, tender, thoughtful, loving. In the background, conflict rages between their peoples, both alike in dignity. Her people kill his sister, and his love for her doesn't waver. But both elves and humans forbid their romance, and it has to stay a secret, even from the knight's own family."

On he went, laying out a painful, heartbreaking tale of loss and misunderstanding, of lovers who only wanted peace but found their dream dashed in the shadow of the chantry they pledged to marry in.

"And then the playwright takes some liberties and has them reunite in the afterlife," Varric concluded, "looking out over modern Orlais and wondering if someday an Elandrin and an Adalene might live happily and openly. The end."

He gave his audience a flourishing bow.

The Dalish elves stood in silence for several seconds, and Athras and Taven exchanged an unsure look.

"Would that even work?" Taven asked. "These shems might see through it."

"See through what?" Varric asked him in return. "Kid, it's the truth. Just told in a kinder light. And Orlesian nobles love the theater, especially tragedies. It'll work."

Olgierd smiled a bit. "Another writing project to add to your pile?"

"Who, me? I'm no playwright, Red. Ruffles will have the right contacts, though, I'd bet anything."

Athras grumbled, but Taven shot a quelling glare at him before nodding to Varric and Ciri. "Very well, Inquisitor. We'll do this your way. This new emperor you speak so highly of will have his chance."

"Though no one in our clan will hold their breath," Athras muttered.

"He means thank you for trying," Haleir said, rolling his eyes at his older kinsman. He took a long look around the crypt and let out a deep sigh. "Back to the Dirth, Tav?"

"We've been gone long enough," Taven agreed. "It's a shame we won't have anything to show for it."

Ciri looked to Solas. After a moment's hesitation, he reached into his belt pouch to retrieve the carefully folded stack of rubbings and held them out.

"We were going to give these to Clan Lavellan's First," Ciri said, "but you ought to have something to take back. The names of the knights, and all the elegies carved in their memory."

Taven took them reverently, and he inclined his head to Ciri in a gesture of respect. "Perhaps there is something of the People about you after all. Ma serannas, Inquisitor."

Ciri nodded back, and in wordless agreement, they turned toward the exit and began to make their way from the lonely crypt and back towards daylight.

They left the elves by their aravel in the ruined courtyard as the sun slowly fell toward the horizon. Ciri looked up at Solas as they headed to the nearest Inquisition camp, her curiosity pricked by the contemplative expression he wore.

"What's on your mind?"

"The Dalish elves were far more reasonable than I expected them to be," he said. "Even Athras needed only his First's words to calm him."

"I do wonder about your experiences with the Dalish that you'd have such a terrible view of them," Ciri said.

He gave her a flat look. "Mihris' clan summoned one of the Forbidden Ones and held the late empress hostage. That the few clans I spoke to chased me away for trying to share knowledge seems almost benign in comparison."

"Each clan is different. Each person is different. Look."

Ciri spotted another bush of Crystal Grace and darted away to pluck one of the silvery blossoms. She hurried back and held it up before his face. "It changed, but it still has worth. Instead of growing in gardens and being used in cordials, it grows wild and is used in healing potions. What does it matter that its petals have silver instead of gold, or that its size is smaller? You still recognized it as the same flower."

He looked from the blossom to her and back, something pained and conflicted in his eyes.

"You can still miss the golden flowers you saw in the Fade," Ciri said carefully, "but these are the ones that grow now. And they have roots." She reached out and twined the stem through the cord of his jawbone necklace, feeling him tense beneath her hands.

"Flowers can be a living memorial," she told him. "Just as the Dalish do their best to keep the memories of the Elvhen alive."

He reached up to touch the flower gently. His eyes were piercing as he stared down at her. "You are wise for one so young," he murmured at last. "Roots, indeed."

"Come on," she said, giving him an encouraging smile. "Camp isn't far. We ought to get there before dark and write down everything we read in the crypt before we forget it."

The fragile air broken, Varric loudly started complaining that he wasn't a playwright, and Olgierd laughed and needled him about his fame in Orlais.

Ciri snuck another glance at Solas as they walked and found him contemplative again, his elegant fingers resting lightly on the petals of the blossom. Beneath the lowest petal, the blackened jawbone's teeth protruded.

I'll get through to you one way or another. Somehow.