A/N:
Getting this chapter in earlier than expected! I got inspired ;)
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Arl Urien Kendells spared no expense on the occasion, from the catering, to the decor, to the fifty or so minstrels composing the equivalent of a chamber orchestra. The Kendells manor cleared out its courtyard for the wedding to present a sweetheart table presiding over banquet tables nearly spilling with food. A wide, square dais was temporarly set up behind them to host quadrilles, drawing eyes to the last third of the courtyard closest to the manor's central structure. There, a path of roses led to an arbor painted in Kendells seafoam green and wreathed with the grapevines of the Cousland heraldry.
Deep blue and pastel green drapes zig-zagged overhead to offer strips of shade, gently stirring when a breeze blew in a whiff of the ocean. The Maker Himself seemed to be watching over the wedding, for the weather was so clean and cheerful as to inspire wide smiles between the Couslands and Kendells. Even Carver briefly forgot that he was attending out of obligation. He otherwise couldn't have been stuffed into the red and gold finery of a Shielder. That was not without declining Anora's willingness to fashion him alternate finery, in reflection of his private relations across the Waking Sea.
Maker's breath, it was someone's wedding. Carver refused to become a magnet for attention.
Oren and Amethyne, in comparison, gracefully received their guests' flattery and the well wishes of the queen in attendance, for the king was in the royal palace watching over the young prince. Growing up with a fiancé and a fiancée in the world of court, Oren and Amethyne had evidently developed a friendship, and in time a relationship with each other, going by their twin grins and giggling. They were as pups in love.
Constantly around the couple were Oren's parents, Amethyne's grandfather, and Kallian Harthon. Carver understood that due to the Wardens' neutrality, Elissa had dutifully declined her wedding invitation, but had still written to her brother's family. In a letter to Carver, Elissa had also revealed that Connor Guerrin apparently maintained contact with Alistair from Ferelden's Circle, thanks to Wynne's leadership. Upon news of Isolde's birth to a daughter a few years after the blight, Connor had remembered the kindness shown to him as a child by two men with Templar abilities, and reached out to Alistair. Out of his promise to Carver, Alistair didn't speak of Carver in great detail to Connor, since much of the captain was a secret. Instead, over time, Alistair and Connor's closeness began to resemble that of a father and son, spurring Elissa to help conceal the correspondence from other wardens.
Elissa was gracefully happy for her brother and sister-in-law when they had Brice Cousland, named in honour of Bryce who, along with his wife, had died protecting the family from Rendon Howe and the Howe legion. Now seven years old, Brice's chatty attendance of the wedding showed that the strong-willed, patriotic blood of Couslands ran hotly in him – along with the passionate blood of his Antivan mother. Dragged around the courtyard by Brice was his fiancé since birth, Eirian Howe born a year ahead of him. A delicate young man, Eirian grew up at the knee of the sensible and politically-savvy Nathaniel Howe, who had managed to raise Amaranthine up after Rendon and his legion's treason against a great name. Coddled by his parents who would be equally happy in a commoner's life, Eirian was humble despite his origins.
Per Ferelden custom, Oren was to become arl regent under Amethyne upon her succession, since Urien Kendells's old age meant he was likely to retire sooner than Fergus Cousland. Given Nathaniel was younger than Fergus, Eirian would grow up to become teyrn regent under Brice. The tradition was why the Kendells could host Oren and Amethyne's wedding, and why the Couslands could invite the Howes in the name of peace.
Carver noted the absence of Eirian's parents from the wedding, who were occupied in Vigil's Keep with another child on the way. Nathaniel alone was present as Eirian's guardian with the help of his maternal uncle Leonas Bryland, the arl of South Reach. Though initially wary of Rendon's blood, Leonas now doted on his sister's children given their close resemblance of her in character and looks. Leonas honoured Nathaniel's decision to bring him to the wedding as a plus one, despite his daughter's pleas to let her tag along as a guest's guest. Habren Bryland was rumoured to buy one puppy a month from Denerim's markets; evidence towards a spoiled child. Around Nathaniel's calm rationality, Leonas was starting to put his foot down with his daughter.
The thought of Habren Bryland evoked a snort from Carver, which he hastily hid behind a cough. After the blight, Carver had recruited a certain Daveth into the king's army. The pickpocket had fought off darkspawn from Fort Drakon, risking his life to protect the citizens, and had afterwards stayed in Denerim to help with the reconstruction. Daveth had seen the blight and its collateral damage as an issue for everyone, regardless of social or economic standing. He had given Carver a hard time arresting him for suspected thievery against the South Reach arl's spendthrift daughter, but the chase had reminded Carver why he saw Daveth as a good fit for Maric's Shield, should Daveth rise to it. Carver kept his plans to himself in the meantime while he trained Daveth in the king's army.
Anora quietly stood next to Carver on the sidelines of the venue. "I see the weather has encouraged even you to smile."
Carver shed his musings. "Your Majesty."
"Don't sober up on my account," Anora commented. "We wouldn't be here at a wedding if not for you. Unless you find amusement elsewhere."
Carver dryly hummed. "You've been bullying the Chantry."
"Speaking facts," Anora demurred. "The Canticle of Shartan was originally part of the Chant. Ambassador Briala also stated so."
Anora had recited a verse in the anniversary of Adahlan's founding, while Briala had delivered a speech – nearly a sermon – about the elven uprising beneath a Chantry mural of Shartan, Andraste, and her disciples. Where Shartan's pointed ears had been docked in the original mural, they were faithfully elven in a reproduction at the University of Orlais. Briala had highlighted this during her speech, piously quoting Shartan and Andraste that they were all the Maker's children.
In response, the Chantry upheld Briala as an example of a devout Andrastian while the institution considered the mural's restoration. In reality, the Divine was sick of hearing Orlais' political issues. Like a mother with countless children, Divine Justinia hadn't slept since taking the sunburst throne. She didn't have time to address Orlais' problems with mounting pressure regarding mages all across southern Thedas, but she couldn't escape the fact that the Chantry was headquartered in Orlais. Justinia and Celene exchanged sharp words the few times they wrote to each other.
Anora and Carver straightened when Grand Cleric Elemena strode in. Everyone quickly stepped out of the woman's way and headed towards the arbor. Carver and other knighted attendees lined the rose path and drew their swords above them to create an archway of shining blades, inspiring a ripple of muted gasps at the sight of Vigilance and Summer Sword.
Finally, Amethyne strolled down the rosy path for the arbor, where the grand cleric and Oren stood waiting. The knighted attendees sheathed their swords and turned to the front, before the grand cleric united Oren and Amethyne before the eyes of the Maker. Elemena bestowed a kiss of peace upon Oren's forehead, who turned and placed a kiss on Amethyne's lips. The minstrels' music swelled with the declaration that Oren and Amethyne Kendells were wed.
Carver exhaled deeply. One wedding down….
As everyone gaily moved for the dance floor and the banquet tables, the young children in attendance wove between the adults' legs in excitement, now free to run off and play. While the adults were distracted, Carver caught sight of several children huddled around Eirian, before one of them pushed him to the ground and jeered at his frailty.
Brice flew in and grabbed the bully's collar to shove him against a wall.
The children erupted into a brawl.
"Andraste's flaming t––!"
Carver exasperatedly waded through infantile punches and kicks to snatch Brice by the collar, separating him from the bully. Guests, guards, and the wedded couple turned to peer at the commotion in bewilderment while the nearest adults hastily intervened. An adult grabbed the bully by his doublet and wrenched him away from Brice and Eirian, kicking and screaming. The other children's parents caught up, spurring the little ones to hurriedly vanish into the crowd before they could be punished. Upon sight of Fergus and Oriana, Carver held Brice by the shoulders and turned him towards his parents, but the tyke vainly wrestled from his grip to swing at the bully.
"He started it!" Brice yelled.
Like a feedback loop, the bully mirrored the accusation, inciting a shouting match at knee-height.
Nathaniel brushed grass off of Eirian and helped him stand up. "Now, lad," Nathaniel addressed Brice, "let us not lose ourselves to a frenzy, hm? You won't be breaking out of the grip of Summer Sword's wielder anytime soon."
Brice and the bully quieted into sniffles, red-faced but curious. Brice twisted in Carver's hands to peer over his shoulder at the sheathed golden sword. Fergus replaced Carver's hold on Brice with a grateful look as the bully's parents came to claim their son. While the guardians and children sorted out the mess and everyone else returned to celebrating the wedding, a Kendells soldier that had been guarding the venue rushed to Carver's side.
"Ser Carver," the soldier spoke. "A soldier of the king's army is at the gates. They said you wished to be apprised of Circle matters."
Carver stepped aside. "What happened?"
"A meeting of sorts," the Kendells soldier shook his head, stunned. "It ended poorly. A mage-Templar war has begun."
The Divine's research into Tranquility had finally crystallised into a desire for institutional change. To reform Circle policy, the Divine invited the College of Enchanters to convene not in Cumberland, but the White Spire to discuss reformation between themselves, and with only first enchanters allowed to attend. Lower-ranked enchanters were allowed to come based on the depth of their possible contribution to the discussion. Lord Seeker Lambert conceded to let the College meet on the condition that they be restricted to their quarters in the White Spire when the conclave was not in session. In this solemn state, a handful of enchanters convened to discuss reform.
Edmonde and Wynne were among the Aequitarians. Irving, among the Loyalists. Bethany and Rhys represented the Illuminati, while the Isolationists sent no one and the Lucrosians likewise saw no profit in attending, knowing they would prosper regardless of Chantry or Circle law. Finally, Fiona led the conclave as the Grand Enchanter and a representative of Libertarians, supported by Jeannot and a senior enchanter of the White Spire named Adrian.
The last two were secretly Resolutionists, and they hadn't come alone.
During the conclave, Fiona derailed the discussion into the topic of seceding from Chantry rule, sparking friction in the small crowd. When no one could agree on even the act of voting, the Resolutionists passionately revealed themselves, bringing up rumours that there was a way to reverse Tranquility. Naturally, given the number of Tranquil that had moved from Kirkwall to Therinfal Redoubt and become Seekers, it grew harder to contain the secret of Tranquility's origins. Lord Seeker Lambert was aware of Cassandra and Pharamond's research, but didn't know how the rumours could have spread, so he tried to quell the Resolutionists' cries with vague logic – then demands.
One didn't reason with terrorists.
The Resolutionists responded with violence, splitting the room between those who would defend Seekers, and those who would defend mages – even passionately confused ones, in the eyes of Fiona and other mages who had known the Resolutionists as friends. Then there were those who were merely bewildered and found themselves locked in a chamber where one either fought or met their peril. The conclave disintegrated into a slaughter where no one left unharmed. Blood ran in the White Spire that day, and like a chain explosion, Circles around southern Thedas began to fall apart.
Not a year later, the Chantry learned that Dairsmuid's Circle in Rivaini had been perpetuating hedge magic since the Circle's establishment, and had been training seers who sometimes allowed themselves to be possessed like Avvar augur apprentices. The Right of Annulment was delivered on Dairsmuid's Circle in response. With uncertainty spread as far north as Rivain, Bethany, the Illuminati, and fleeing mages relocated to the Château Haine under Garrett's name for their safety.
It was a full-blown Mage-Templar war.
Carver found himself busier with his actual job than his extra-curricular work. Apostates and Templar hunters were running in and out of Ferelden, public hysteria was on the rise, and thus so was banditry. The king's army barely had the manpower to maintain order, which was how Nails ended up rotating Carver and other Shielders out in highway patrols. Everyone was working overtime. Given Orlais was host to the Chantry's heart, the western country was suffering the most from the conflict. Carver didn't want to imagine Celene's stress on top of balancing elven uprisings with Briala and handling pro-annexation nobles like Gaspard. The duke was taking advantage of Celene's distraction to quicken his plans for the throne.
Because that was what southern Thedas needed: a civil war in its largest, most powerful country that was the reason why Tevinter hadn't invaded the south since the Schism's provocations. The controversy regarding the "true" Chantry still fiercely divided Tevinter and southern Thedas even now. Carver would rather take a blight.
He immediately knocked on his wooden desk, just as Nails swung his door open.
"What's that for?" Nails raised a brow.
Carver glowered at the stack of papers Nails dropped on his desk. "I was just imagining your head–– already leaving?"
Nails briskly walked out of his office with a toss of his hand. "I haven't slept in three days!"
Carver slumped in his chair as he considered his growing paperwork. First the king's army, then Maric's Shield, and now "Cauthrien's Secretaries." The army loved its divisions, but not as much as Nails and Carver did. They were only able to handle their workload due to the efficient support of the secretary department. Which Carver promptly decided to do, with the thinnest trail of whispers mentioning red lyrium in the Brecilian Forest. He acknowledged the possibility he was merely hearing words from ignorant eyes seeing "shady elves" and hearing common or volatile words like "red" and "lyrium." Still, after what felt like aeons of silence, Carver had to pounce on mere whispers before they could vanish – even if it meant combing the mystical forest.
With a reshuffle of documents to Cauthrien's Secretaries, Carver packed up and headed south past Dragon's Peak, then east for forested coast. While the dizzying forest at first turned Carver around twice despite his tracking the sun's angle, he eventually found himself trekking ground with less underbrush. Massive tree roots twisted in a net of wood and moss made slippery from recent rain. At times, Carver could actually see where he was stepping. Then he realised that the past few trees he had been leaning on for stability were sporting faint notches.
Like the markings of a trail.
Nearby shrubs rustled, and Carver whipped his head around just in time to catch sight of a flying club.
When he came to, his head was throbbing and his hands were tied above his head. The light was dim, but Carver recognised he was in elven ruins, possibly an underground level based on the smell and humidity. He was bound by rope to a hook in the ceiling of a cramped stone room, likely a fixture meant for a hanging brazier. Cracks in the ceiling suggested that the room above suffered from invasive tree roots, allowing sunlight to stream through collapsed walls down into Carver's ceiling. He was dehydrated. He had been unconscious for hours, and he was currently stripped to his underwear with none of his gear or possessions in sight.
The door to Carver's room eased open, then closed, allowing an elf with a cloth bag over their head in like an executioner's hood. The elf cracked their wrapped knuckles and punched up Carver's exposed ribs, startling a pained cry from him. Rope around his ankles twisted, drawing his eyes to his bound feet. He couldn't feel them.
Thwack. Another blow.
Carver gasped, wincing. "Why are you doing this?"
The elf didn't answer for the next dozen blows. Finally, the stranger retreated, picked up a bowl that had been out of Carver's sight, and poured water into his mouth. The stranger set it back down before Carver could finish a tenth of it, and left the room.
The pattern repeated for days until Carver finished the water. Then the questions came – about what brought Carver to the forest, how he knew to follow the trail, how he thought to even look for something like red lyrium. Over the course of Carver's ingrained non-answers, a horrific realisation slowly dawned on him. He didn't receive confirmation of the idea until one day, a different elf entered his room.
The man was tall, easily reaching Carver's height, and lithe like a hunter, moving silently in plain robes with a straight, even posture. He wore no hood, drawing attention to his wide, sloping shoulders and clean-shaven head. He tilted a narrow chin and grey-purple eyes at Carver.
"You know who I am."
Carver's dry throat choked out a breath. "The black hood…has green eyes."
Elves were hazel-eyed on a scale from green to grey-green, sometimes nearly black, marking their close ancestry with the Fade in mixed colours.
Ancient elves were on a scale of purples.
A hum answered Carver's response. "Few analyse history's echoes without bias, and find truth."
Carver inwardly cursed. The rumours of "shady elves" he had chased on a whim were about agents for the bloody Dread Wolf. Who else would also seek the red lyrium idol, if not the one who seemed to know the most about it? Carver decided to label the man in front of him as "Solas," even if he would end up sorely corrected.
Solas lit a spirit blade down his hand.
Carver's breath quickened. "I didn't hear a question––"
A gesture, and Carver found himself severed from the ceiling, collapsing forward into his captor with freed hands. Pins and needles ran down Carver's entire body, seizing him in paralysing agony. He barely noticed Solas holding him up by the back of his smallclothes' waistband, before dropping Carver backwards into a wooden chair. Carver grit his teeth and tensed in an unnatural position, wracked by the pain of his blood flowing. The sound of rushing water filled his ears.
Solas dragged over another chair that had been out of Carver's sight and sat across him. "Are you thirsty?"
Fear jolted down Carver's spine. Was the question an invitation to summon the other elf back and resume Carver's torture?
"I'm fine," Carver decided.
His company sighed, triggering a complicated sense of guilt like Carver had disappointed Solas. Carver could see that accepting water was ultimately rational for the sake of extending one's life, but he hadn't felt rational since a week ago.
"You know much," Solas commented.
Carver coughed. "You want to know how much?"
"I ask the questions here."
The pain began to subside, allowing exhaustion to slam down on Carver like a hammer. He slumped in his chair, fuelled only by sugar water. Solas reached into his robes and produced a familiar journal with a lock. Carver had maintained the leather journal from the moment he had acquired it in Lothering as a child, filling its pages with his knowledge of a certain video game in a script only he understood. He referenced his journal for when he couldn't recall details, especially when time stretched and they began to blur in his memory. Carver wouldn't have been able to accomplish everything he had during the blight or in Kirkwall if he hadn't had his records.
The lock on Carver's journal required a key he kept in his coin purse, but he knew it wasn't foolproof. When Carver had reunited with Bethany in Kirkwall, he had requested for his sister to protect his journal from decay and prying eyes to the best of her magical ability. Only aware that the journal was Carver's diary, Bethany had teasingly obliged. With someone else's inspiration, Bethany secured the journal behind a secure phrase and a handprint upon its cover. Now, it seemed, Bethany's skills as the founder of the Illuminati were about to be tested.
Carver flicked his gaze up from the journal, only to realise that Solas had been watching him. Fear triggered Carver's eyes to suddenly wet with surprise, and he swallowed a rush of saliva.
"Even a scholar must preserve his musings somewhere," Solas commented.
It wasn't a question, but something in Carver's body language must have betrayed him, since Solas set the journal down in his lap.
"What is the verbal code to this book?"
The honest question shocked a laugh out of Carver, already accepting that Solas had deduced the journal's security. "Are you seriously asking me for my password?"
Solas lifted his chin. "I could separate your soul from your body and break down your memories in the Fade, like one would topple a tower to count its bricks. However, I prefer the faster and less messy route of giving you the opportunity to present a friend in yourself."
Carver cleared his throat, bewildered. "I doubt we could ever be friends. And why would I? You present me two paths: one where you peep into all of my memories like a pervert, and you read my diary –– or one where I give you my password, and you read my diary. You want to be civil? Offer me something in exchange for my privacy."
Solas tensed. "A bullheaded human as you would gain little from accessing my personal thoughts."
"I'll be the judge of that," Carver countered. "Two questions. You must answer one, then I share my handprint. Answer my other question, and I will tell you my password. Sound fair?"
Solas's brows furrowed, and a stretch of silence preceded his response. "I am disinclined from enlightening others when they draft themselves the losing end of a bargain. You, however, I suspect have enough intelligence to be aware of this much."
It was true that in exchange for Carver's personal journal, Solas wasn't being asked to surrender the equivalent of his own. Two answers were only as good as the two questions advancing them. The burden was on the inquirer.
Carver's mind slowly caught up with Solas's meaning. "You think I'm somehow going to cheat you. This is madness. You…the immortal trickster…are afraid of making a deal with me."
"Wary," Solas sternly corrected.
"Of a bullheaded human," Carver tossed back. Perhaps it was the incredulity of moment, or of the greater setting, that choked Carver's throat with the briefest and most silent of giggles. When they passed, he shakily pressed his fingers over his closed eyes and exhaled. "I am aware this deal sounds unfair for me, but you must consider. Perhaps the answers to my two questions are as valuable to me, as the contents of my diary are to you."
Solas's lips thinned, unsatisfied. He surprised Carver by not pushing. Maybe Solas imagined that Carver thought his diary was not so insightful as to matter to an elven god.
In characteristic evasion, Solas returned, "I'll be the judge of that. Your second question?"
Carver's eyes shot open, and he gaped at Solas. "I haven't asked my first!"
"You asked me if this deal sounded fair," Solas evenly reminded. "I answered."
"Maker's breath…" Carver muttered. "Fine. Though I have to say you aren't making any friends here."
Solas held his palm up unabashedly.
Carver sighed and placed his hand flat on Solas's. A faint shimmering like light off rippling water ran around their hands. Carver didn't know how much time the spell required, so he resolved himself to sit there for a while as if he had the energy to do otherwise. Solas watched him expectantly.
After a beat of gathering courage, Carver straightened and peered into purple depths. "How does Urthemiel refer to you?"
Solas stiffened, ambushed. Combined with Carver staring into his eyes, Solas's fluster was perceivable. His loss of words was genuine. "I'm –– I don't –– I have never personally spoken with the one widely known as Urthemiel. The answer you seek –– I simply don't have."
"A shame," Carver began, but Solas broke their eye contact and cut Carver off with a trembling voice.
"You deceived me."
The god was furious.
"Not my intention," Carver quickly defended. "Well, not fully. I'm not so cruel as to dishonour the spirit of our bargain. You merely owe me an answer."
Solas was vibrating with emotion. "I can hardly locate and communicate with Urthemiel this instant."
"Then don't," Carver bluntly stated. "Whether you have to embark on a long journey or not to find an answer, I don't care. Unless you regrettably perish in such a journey. I might celebrate a little. Fact of the matter is, I am owed an answer before such a time as I perish."
Solas's glower eased, though a subtle shadow caught the short scar between his brows. "You are delaying your death."
Carver shrugged. "Not how I'd phrase it. More like setting terms."
"You expect to die by my hand," Solas continued, crossing gazes. Suddenly, even up close, the deified trickster's expression was stony and unreadable. The heat that had possessed the air around him abruptly vanished as if he and Carver had suddenly dived into ice water. "You…."
"I believe I'm asking the questions here," Carver hesitantly reminded.
Solas blinked. For a moment, Carver could believe that the elf had forgotten what era and world he was in –– so unfocused and ancient was his gaze –– before Solas returned to earth and dropped Carver's hand from his grip.
Solas's face had shut down. When he spoke, his voice was low and flat. "An answer, you shall receive." He paused. "You are a soul confined to another's body, now treading a new life. When did you live your first?"
Carver twitched. "If you touch Carver, I'll kill you, Dread Wolf or not."
Solas stood up, slipping the journal back into his robes. He stepped out of the room. "We're done here."
The hooded stranger returned, and before Carver could breathe another syllable, the man knocked him out.
When Carver eventually came to, he was face-up in the Brecilian Passage with all of his belongings except his key and journal.
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A/N:
Not going to lie, I've been looking forward to Solas' appearance. His and Carver's scene was one of the first scenes I wrote before committing to a full-fledged fanfiction. OG!Carver and SE!Carver's scene was another one.
Thank you everyone for your support. You guys keep me going!