This time when Ellana woke in the dark it was not nightmares that roused her — just the chill on her skin.
A breeze had slipped in through the gap in the balcony doors. Slightly ajar, they framed a midnight moon — full and high. The light through the lattice drawing criss-cross shadows that stretched across the darkened floor and disappeared into the orange glow of a dying fire. Spring nights in the Frostbacks were crisp as their winter, the hearth burned all night. But lit to a roar hours ago it had since settled to embers.
It was the first peaceful rest Ellana had enjoyed in months. Her body light as air. Drained and sated to pleasant exhaustion by their lovemaking. Tingling from the pinch of muscles not used in years. Sticky where the remnants of release dried on her thighs. She smelled of him: her hair, her skin, her bed. Warmth lingered in her belly where his magic touched her. Even the sheets felt softer for having shared them.
So long she'd ached for his company… to finally have it felt like a dream. A terrible, wonderful, dream.
It made her giddy like a girl in love. Cheeks flushed pink and smiling in the dark. Dizzy with the thought (the privilege) of kissing him again. She turned and reached for him… but found nothing there. A faint impression of his weight lay in the sheets beside her, but it was no longer even warm where he'd once slept. Confused, she scanned the room, but did not see him there either.
She sat up. "Solas?"
"I am here," came his voice, but distant, and she followed the sound to where his reflection hung suspended in the glass of the patio door. Distorted by the ripples like a desert mirage. Ephemeral — ready to disappear if she looked away.
He was on the balcony, seated in a chair taken from her desk and dressed down to only his breeches. The rest of his clothes still scattered on the floor where they'd left them. Pensive, with his chin rest on folded hand, he looked out over the mountains while he toyed with his necklace. Fingers tangled in the leather cording and counting the teeth with his thumb. So quiet and still that her eyes had passed right over him.
Ellana slipped from the bed and gathered the sheet around her body, knotting it at her breast. It was a brisk, clear, night, and the chill in the air was so startling that it made her gasp when she stepped outside. No place to be underdressed.
Solas didn't notice her approach, offering neither greeting nor glance as she crossed to his side. She touched a hand to his bare shoulder and all but recoiled: his skin so cold it stung. Whatever melancholy dragged him from her bed was dear enough to deny him even the comfort of a shawl.
"I thought you'd left," she said quietly.
'Again' left unspoken.
In reply he reached up and covered her hand with his, giving it a small squeeze. Murmured, "No," and inclined his head toward her a little — but nothing more.
The gesture fell short of comfort. If anything, it only lent assurance to the fear that he'd considered it. Perhaps even still.
Though she knew him to be grim by nature it was hard not to feel slighted by how quickly that had preyed upon the warmth they'd enjoyed together. She'd hoped her arms could hold it back. That this joining would prove stronger than the force that parted them before. But he nurtured it — that sense of inevitability — it had been his lover longer.
"Come back to bed," she said, and gave him a squeeze in return. It was not a proposition — just the promise of warmth. But he gave no answer to the invite, nor even an indication he'd heard it. Just the quiet, ambiguous, hum of someone only distantly aware they'd been spoken to at all. She frowned. "Is something troubling you?"
Another sound, this one like a scoff caught in his throat. Then he said, "I am often troubled, but tonight no more than usual."
It was evasive, and that was not unusual, but something about it sounded off to her ears. There was a tremble, like a nick in his throat, where hesitation caught like a loose thread and thinned the façade.
Solas was a careful man. Reserved to a fault. Those times she'd seen him struggle with emotion were few and far between. Brief, fleeting, slips in the midst of deeper turmoil — each one shocking for its rarity. Wisdom's death, the Well of Sorrows, a kiss in the Fade…
When she walked a slow circle around the chair and came to stand before him his eyes met with hers for a startling moment, and she saw it there again. A slip: ripples on a still pond. His eyes red-rimmed and shining with dark, deep, circles drawn in the pale skin beneath. Clouds swollen with rain, ready to burst.
"Solas, have you been—?"
Crying?
She dropped to her knees on the stone balcony, placing a hand upon his thigh. "What is it? Tell me what's wrong."
It shook her, to see it so plain, and she was not as gentle as she should have been.
Under scrutiny, he demurred. And when she looked again that glimpse of something was gone. Safely tucked away where she would not find it. In its place he wore a thin smile that did not reach his eyes.
"I am fine, vhenan," he soothed. It sounded no less honest than any other platitude, though she knew better. "Please — forgive my nights are rarely as pleasant as this one. I've spent much of them sleepless, thinking of the trials that lay ahead of us, and I allowed that familiarity to led my thoughts somewhere somber. I will join you in a moment."
Distance and evasiveness were kin to him, but this lie rolled off his tongue with the sort of practiced ease he'd offer a stranger. That stung — not that he'd try, but that he thought she'd be assuaged by it. As if they'd not cradled each other just hours ago.
She wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him.
But instead, "That's not an answer," she said. Not so gently. It drew his gaze for a long, pensive moment before ultimately — predictably — he chose not to reply. Turning away, with an apology left unspoken in the silence.
How different he'd looked after they'd made love. How beautiful his peace; the contentment so clear on his face. A weight had been eased — the yoke removed — like he could finally breathe in. It was a look she'd never seen on him until the moment she raised her head from his chest, when her breath was still ragged, and he smiled back at her with such happy disbelief. For a moment he had trusted her with that vulnerability.
But there was no trace of it now. He was pulling away.
Was this always going to be their fate? A few precious hours of reprieve before that cold, familiar, distance settled in again?
She caught his chin in her thumb and finger and turned his face back toward her. "Lasa em juhartha, Solas," she told him, leaning into the soft, rolling, accent he'd taught her. Regular lessons had gifted her with an uncommon inflection, he so loved to hear her use it. When he took her hand in both of his and brought it to his lips she even thought it enough to shake his resolve.
But then he brushed his kiss across her knuckles and said, "There is no need."
She could have laughed. Could have screamed. They'd done this so many times already.
Enough.
Her hand fell from his as she pushed to her feet. "No," she said. With such conviction that his smile faltered. It was not a plea — this was an order. She was done dancing. "No more of this, Solas. I can see you are troubled, I am not blind. I don't know what it is that weighs on your thoughts so heavily but it's clear it consumes you. Whether it's worries for the future or if you truly believe yourself unworthy, if you regret it… whatever it is you can talk to me about it. You need to, because if you cannot bring yourself to do it after taking me to bed I fear we'll end up going in circles forever."
A flicker crossed his brow — hurt — and there, she thought, with a pang of shame at the cruelty of it. Something has finally reached him. Please let something reach him.
His lips parted as if to speak, something ready on his tongue… but then he paused, and closed them instead. Looked away, almost shamefully. The reply either reconsidered, or never quite grasped at all.
Are you hurting? Are you scared? Are you angry? Is it too much? Too fast? I cannot help you if you do not tell me!
Anger was easy — and it would be easy to indulge it. To lash out and start another fight; arouse another passion. They were so terribly good at it. But it was different now, all the rules had changed after a night spent together.
So, after a pause — after a breath — she bent, and placed her hands upon his cheeks. Holding his face in their cup. She leaned in until their foreheads kissed together. "Please. I do not want to lose this."
He winced, but did not turn away this time. "Nor I."
"So don't let it be for nothing. You once told me that it had been a long time since you'd trusted another—" she implored. She touched her thumb to the corner of his mouth to guide a kiss there. "—Trust me. Am I not worth that?"
"Yes," he agreed, as though it pained him to admit. "You always have been."
"Then why not talk to me?"
He shook his head, eyes downcast, and took her hands in his. Fingers curling into the cup of her palms, he pulled them away, extracting himself from the embrace.
"It is not a matter of trust," he began, "but rather that it is…" and stalled. Thinking carefully. In the silence he rubbed a thumb across the back of her hand. Small gestures to stay present in the moment. Eventually, "Complicated," he settled on. "I do not wish to hurt you more than I already have."
"You will if this is the alternative," she countered. "Do you think it's less painful to keep pushing me away? I don't want to do it again. I love you — and I know you love me. You cannot convince me it is better to avoid talking about why that pains you so."
Slowly, he took her left hand in his right and urged it to turn. Sliding his fingers into its cradle, he unfurled her fist to reveal the glow of the Anchor. "You are right, of course. But it is not so simple. There is so much to say — I am not sure where to begin. From the moment we met…" A thumb mapped the ragged edges of the mark's border, where the scar cut across the creases in her palm. Magic displacing the fate born to her. "What I must tell you will be difficult to hear."
Rarely did he speak with such gravity. She swallowed back a surge of dread. "Start at the beginning, if there is one. Or 'a' beginning, if there are many. From the moment we met."
When his eyes lifted she met a gaze so deep and clear she could see beyond it. Past the mask of quiet confidence, into the sea toiling beneath. Where the tremble of his lip and the urgent press of his thumb between her knuckles conveyed a message clearer than words ever could. There was a storm in crystal blue, and within itshe saw what stilled his tongue. Not doubt — but fear. He was afraid. For all his vast and worldly knowledge he was still just a man scared of connection. Of vulnerability. Of love.
Dying alone.
With both his hands grasped in hers she stood and took a step back. He frowned, confused, but allowed her to pull him from the chair. Two more steps and they came to stand in the frame of the open door, hand in hand, silent, still, and bathed in moonlight.
His eyes darted between hers, searching for an answer to the question he'd yet to ask.
In reply she smiled. And wrapped her arms around him.
He tensed at first. A reflex. It had been so long since he'd been held. Since anyone had offered him the gift of affection. Reassurance. Touch. Yet his body yearned for it with such clawing, fervent, need that the instant he felt the warmth of her skin upon his own — he collapsed. Held aloft only by the anchor of arms around her waist and his head on her shoulder.
They stayed that way for some time. Holding — and being held. The tension easing from Solas' shoulders a little more for each passing second.
"Ar lath ma," she whispered to him. "I am not afraid of your troubles."
The hold on her tightened — you should be — and with only the thin sheet between them she felt the frightened leap of his heart against her breast. A steady pounding growing faster as the silence stretched on.
She'd never seen him like this before — not just anxious, but fragile. Frightened of his own secrets. Of her, and the love they'd made. Of what that meant to a man who worked so hard to guard his heart. A hundred times he'd faced death, braved the odds to heal injuries numerous and grave, battled demons and dragons, talked down dangerous opponents… yet in all that time she'd never seen him truly shaken. Not like this. Cowed to his own darkness. For how little she knew of his past, there was something deeply unsettling about that.
He was quiet for a very long time.
Long enough that she wondered if it would end here. If he would choose not to speak any more about it tonight and instead just take her words as comfort. Revisit it another day when he was stronger, and braver.
She could accept that. They would just hold each other like this until he was ready to return to bed. They'd tangle together, and sleep, with the promise to visit it soon.
That could be enough.
But then he took a deep, steeling, breath and — with almost painful slowness — straightened to his full height.
Thinking he meant to part them she started to take a step back, but he stilled her with a hand touched to her hip. It skimmed up her back, into her hair, where he grasped it tightly — too tightly — and tucked her face against his throat. As if to press her teeth there. A plea for trust if he should falter.
Then, in a whisper, "I have not been honest with you," he admitted. "About who I am. About what I am."
"I know that much," Ellana replied, without judgement. "You came here with secrets. Many of us did. In the time I've known you you've told me very little of yourself. There was not much to be dishonest about, Solas."
She could hear the smile in his voice as, "Yes," he agreed. "I suppose you're right. Still, you have shown me a depth of kindness and trust I have not deserved. Not when—"
"Solas, that's not—"
"Please," he begged, before she could finish. "Do not offer your forgiveness so easily. Whether or not I intended to, by not telling you the truth from the start I have taken advantage of your trust."
She pulled back just enough to look at his face. To measure his reaction when she asked him, "Are you a spy? An agent of someone?"
He blinked. And for a moment she thought perhaps she'd guessed correctly, and reeled with the impact of having taken a spy to bed. But then his lips quirked into a strange sort of smile that held for only a second before he sputtered and laughed. A little breathless. A little manic.
"No," he managed, shaking his head. "But were it so simple."
The smile fell as quickly as it came.
She swallowed. "Alright… not a spy, then."
"Not a spy," he repeated. Almost disappointed. His fingers found a curl by her ear and played with it in a distracted, desperate, sort of way. Winding it round and round. "But not what I've presented myself as, either. The deception has only grown harder as this — we — continued. I would not— I didn't— I had no desire to lie to you. It was necessary, at first, but over time… the closer we became the more inevitable — and more difficult — the truth became. I did not expect to find someone like you. To fall in love with you."
Now his fingers wandered. Through her hair, around her ears, drawing a curled knuckle along its shell, stopping briefly at the tip before continuing down the inner edge. On to her jaw, chin, and throat. He traced her features as though he were mapping them. Committing every part of her to memory just in case it was the last time he'd have this chance.
It wasn't a good feeling.
"You deserve the truth. You have deserved it from the beginning. I should— I should never have encouraged your affections without it. That was selfish. I enjoyed your company, and soon wanted more of it, so said nothing until I could no longer deny how dear you'd become to me. I wanted to tell you, back in Crestwood, but thought it kinder to ensure this went no further. You may even yet agree." He exhaled a shaky breath. Almost a laugh. "I do not regret spending this time with you, Ellana, but I regret not telling you everything before it. I cannot in good conscience allow this to go on without remedying that."
The beatof his heart kicked up until his pulse was jumping at his throat. The effort to steel himself evident in the deep, steadying, breaths and long pauses with nothing but the wind to fill the silence.
Twice his tongue caught against his teeth before he finally found the strength to begin.
"You have often asked for my insights on the People. Elvhenan and Arlathan. Your curiosity, your desire to learn, it has brought me great joy. There are so few now that seek to know those memories — fewer still who carry them."
"It's our history, Solas," she said. Caught on his emphasis of the word, 'now'. "I may not always share your opinions on it, but I've always loved hearing of the things you've learned in the Fade. The journeys you've had there."
"Vhenan — ina'lan'ehn elgar—" He slid a hand along her jaw until his thumb rest against her ear, cradling her face in his palm. "I did not learn of them in the Fade."
The revelation was not instantaneous.
Later she would think back — counting each second — and wonder why it took so many.
First came only a breathless, punched-out, sensation. Her spirit ripped out the back of her. She was hollowed out. Disconnected, before she even understood why, suspended in time and stretched beyond infinity. The world around them narrowing to the stone tiles on which they stood; dark and mute, alone together in a starless abyss.
The shock of it startled a laugh from her — "What?" — but she could barely manage a whisper when she tried to speak. "What do you mean? Then how do you—?"
But she already knew.
It was the grief in his voice, so old and so heavy, that finally made it all make sense.
When that understanding took root it froze the blood in her veins. Then she wasn't standing anymore — but floating. Light and impossible. Looking down on him with new, naked, eyes. Recalling every moment she'd thought he was different. All the times he'd implied the same.
Higher cheeks, longer ears, fuller jaw. Tall, broad, and lean — he stood out among Elves with a build better found among the Avaar than their people.
Not my people.
Not Elf, but— "You're Elvhen." It was already out of her mouth before she'd had the thought to say it."That's…"
Not possible. And yet—?
A hundred little mysteries begin to click into place; pieces of a larger puzzle she'd been doing since the day they met. Memories, stories, language. Strange little gaps in his contemporary knowledge and yet so flush with history. Every question she ever had about the ancient world he had an answer for.
How had she not seen it before?
A memory pushed its way to the forefront of her mind — Solas' cryptic, careful words when he spoke to Abelas at the temple: 'your people yet linger'.
That was his People.
She took a step back, out of his embrace, and his arms fell heavy to his sides. He did not try to stop her. By the pale moonlight she looked upon his body with eyes that had never truly seen it before, and found him covered in scars. Small, light, little marks lost in sprays of freckles. All old — so terribly old — and so numerous that she thought it nigh impossible she'd never noticed. In every moment they'd stolen she'd not bothered to look too long, nor too closely. Love had made her blind to all that stood before her.
Now she saw it true: borne upon his skin were the thousand footprints of a life too long and difficult for her to fathom.
With trembling hand she reached for a mark on his side, between his ribs, and drew a line across the thickened ridge of scar tissue. Old, like all the others — ancient — and clearly an attempt to puncture a lung. A fatal strike if it had been deeper. Perhaps only fatal to another, came a thought, and in the cage of her mouth she held a word she couldn't bring herself to speak aloud.
The world began to spin and darken before she realized she was still holding the breath she'd taken a moment ago.
"How old are you?"
Solas shook his head. "I do not know. The calendars have changed. Many years passed uncounted between the time of Elvhenan and the rise of Tevinter — the Chantry's — method of time-keeping. I am not certain how much."
The weight of ignorance settled on her shoulders like a heavy cloak. How little she knew of him! Solas had always been an enigma, it was part of what drew her in. The mystery of his character felt playful and attractive.
But this…?
When she could drag her eyes back up to his face she saw the fear so clearly writ upon it, and understood. Like prey, he was cornered — resigned to a terrible fate. This revelation would not be the last. There were secrets brimming just beneath the surface, bubbling over as the cup tipped… and he did not expect her to stay once it was all brought to light.
"Did you— did you know Arlathan? Were you there?" she managed, more breath than voice. No answer would do; she needed to hear the words aloud more than she needed his confirmation of their truth. "Before the Fall?"
Again, he nodded. "Yes. It was my home."
What things he must have seen! Such beauty and tragedy both. An eon of knowledge, culture, and history — lost. The fall of an empire. The terrible weight of grief. She swallowed past a lump in her throat, suddenly too tight and her tongue too thick. She could not speak around it. There were so many questions she couldn't manage to think long enough to pull one from the maelstrom. Instead she stood paralyzed, shaking her head as she beheld him, struggling to reconcile the knowledge of ages past and the expanse of time with the man standing before her. A living, breathing, legend somehow much more real than their experience at the temple.
She had known him. Touched him. Loved him.
And he was ancient.
Eyes that had seen crystal towers, ears that heard the word of Gods — he'd been at the birth of their kind!
"Solas that was thousands of years ago. Before the Dalish. Before Tevinter. You can't be—" A sudden fear struck her then. Shot deep in her breast like an icy spear. It stole her breath. "Oh Gods, what have I done?" She took a step back, clutching at the knotted sheet. "If you're—You're immortal?"
"I am," he said. Frowning as she retreated from him.
She dragged a hand up over her face, into her hair, and grasped at the roots. When Solas reached for her she pushed his hand away. Stammering, "I've—have I… hurt you?"
"'Hurt me'?"
"You're immortal," she said again, a little higher. Now that she'd loosed the word she could not seem to stop saying it. "Y-you've not quickened, you've not fallen. The stories, it was always said that contact with Tevinter did it… but not how. That it was stolen from us. If we've been together, and I am not, have I— have I done—?"
His face fell, and in an instant he had closed the distance put between them by her staggered steps. Gathering her in his arms, he held her to his chest. Tight enough to leave no room for doubt.
"No," he assured. "No, no, no. Vhenan, that is not…" He breathed a sigh across her temple. Then kissed it. "You cannot harm me that way. It was not contact that changed us: all born after the Fall led mortal lives. Those from before, like myself, it is innate. It cannot be taken by accident or force."
Again, he tucked her face against his neck. Teeth to his throat. "You will not hurt me."
She was shaking, she realized. Fear, shock, denial — perhaps just the cold. In the moment she'd forgotten where they stood. Half-dressed and barefoot on a windy balcony high in the Frostbacks. Even with her heart pounding and his arms around her the chill could take her breath away.
In her scramble for an anchor — anything to steady her — she took hold of the leather cord around his neck. Winding it tightly round her fingers like it was the only thing keeping her in this world. If she let go a rift would open up and swallow her whole. She closed her eyes and thought of its texture on her skin, the rough square cut, the press of his body against hers, and the gentle caress of his breath upon her brow… pieces of reality to cling to so her bandied knees would not cut her to the floor.
It wasn't hard to imagine: Solas walking ancient streets up winding stairs to towers made of woven crystal that stretched into the sky. Just like the stories he'd told. A place where magic was everywhere — as natural as breathing. That is what was lost. Only it wasn't a story, it was real. It was his own memory! And that noble disposition would be far more at home stood upon those ancient towers, gazing down at a city that crumbled to ruin long before she was ever born.
It had all seemed so fantastical. Like long-forgotten dreams or tales told around the fire.
That wonder seemed so childish now.
"The sentinels we met in the Arbor Wilds — at the temple — are you the same?"
"Only in that we are both Elvhen," he replied. "The Sentinels are bound to the temple on the will of their master. They serve Mythal; by vow enforced by her magic. It cannot be broken. While the wards are undisturbed they rest in uthenera, and are awakened only to do their duty. To defend her sanctuary. They are held to that unless released by death or order. I am bound to no one, no place."
"Mythal?"She repeated, drawing back in surprise. "But you said the Gods weren't real."
With a slow shake of his head, "No, Ellana. I said they were not gods," he said. "They lived, and they ruled — and they were powerful. But not divine."
"I don't understand. If not gods, then…?"
"They were mages first," he began. Each word delivered so carefully that there was no doubt in her mind he'd rehearsed the conversation a hundred times. "In a time where that title was reserved for those with rare and exceptional talent. All Elves could use magic, but mages honed their skills in such a way as to set them apart from the rest. It granted them many admirers and they enjoyed the adoration. Then there was a war, and there was need, so they became soldiers.
"Soldiers became generals became commanders. Not without merit: they were brilliant tacticians. The conquests they won granted them a taste of power, and soon they wanted more of it. Factions formed, skirmishes broke out — battles over territory and resources. What they won they hoarded, creating scarcity. Then desperation. They offered protection only to those who came to them with offerings or promises of service. If they felt the tributes inadequate they razed their homes and took everything by force. That taught them fear was a better motivator than love: they needed no followers, only supplicants. So they made themselves into kings, and then gods.
"They were not benevolent leaders. They were tyrants. Greedy, monstrous, sadistic… obsessed with their own power. Once they'd secured their position few were willing to challenge it, and once all their enemies were vanquished they grew bored and so argued amongst themselves instead. The smallest disagreement could start another war, and to settle it they would conscript thousands to fight and die at their behest. For years. Decades. For their amusement. If that wasn't enough they'd demand worship, sacrifice, disgusting displays of wealth. Hallowed statuary and opulent temples. Idols built by the bloodied hands of a People they'd once sworn to protect. People now forced into eternal servitude! Imagine an immortal life in the hands of such cruel masters. Under their rule Elvhenan and its people did not prosper — they suffered."
Solas always had a way of wielding knowledge as a weapon.
It was something she loved. Something she hated. It was the hammer that broke the chains of ignorance and ushered her into a new world, and the knife that cut her from every tether tying her to the old one. How innocent she'd been before: a Dalish girl out in the wide world. Lost, found, and born again from the fire as the Herald of another god. Day by day her faith carved away like a dead limb. The pain of that loss made the chrysalis that changed her into someone else. She'd never questioned the stories before leaving her clan. Before the Temple. Before him. That girl from a year ago would've never let a flat ear speak such blasphemies.
But it wasn't blasphemy… was it?
A cold weight settled in her stomach.
The Gods — her Gods — the only Gods that had ever mattered, whom she'd prayed to for as long as she could remember, that her people had spent millennia paying tribute to… they'd only ever been worshipped and beloved. Gentle creators who cherished their people. Who protected them from evil and built an empire more beautiful and precious than anything Thedas had ever known, before or since… Never had she doubted this truth.
Lies!
Countless generations struggled to protect what was lost, to preserve those few remaining scraps of history, and this was what they were left with? A fable crafted from the propaganda of despots? The Gods were monsters. Slavers. Feared and reviled! Their tales made of the shattered hopes of a People forced to love their captors. Thousands of years had passed between the fall of Elvhenan and present day, time that managed to warp the memory of oppression into reverence.
It turned her stomach. At once, she was disgraced by a life spent in service. Days wasted in ritual and song; sticks of incense and bowls of fruit set at the feet of old statues. When she had no one else who loved her she put her heart and soul into deserving theirs. Prayers to keep them sated; curses to ward against evil. Never anything less than a loyal supplicant. Bowing dutifully to the empty thrones of those who would have called them all dogs at their feet, and kicked them away.
Her nose stung with the threat of wanted to be strong. To let it all go: shed it like an old skin. It should be easy, she'd been doing it for a year already. All the pieces of her old life disappearing and forgotten since the day she woke in irons. It had been such a long time since she'd been that Dalish girl. This should not hurt.
Yet, in the moment, she just felt… sad.
Solas turned from her and walked to the edge of the balcony. Leaning heavily on the railing, he gripped its edge so hard his knuckles blanched white and tension rippled through his shoulders. There was anger on his tongue. A sneer on his lips. Rarely had she seen him wear it so plainly.
She thought of the day he burned the mages on the Exalted Plains. The rage that burned in his eyes, then. Hotter than the demon's whip. This wound was older, but the pain just as fresh.
"Those they kept as slaves were marked by their master's brand, or that of their favoured god—" he continued, and gestured to her face with an open hand. "—so that everyone would know who they belonged to. Some hoped that would protect them, to be owned by another, and so took the brand willingly. Most never had a choice. But to be marked meant only that they served their god's house, not that they were cared for. A rival might slaughter a thousand slaves to send a message, but a master could cut them down for burning the meal. There was no safe place for them. Once marked, they lost the ability to refuse an order, and there was no hope of escape when they could so easily be tracked. They could only obey."
Ellana touched her fingers to her cheeks, following the lines of a vallaslin she no longer wore. It had been a part of her for so long she hardly recognized her face without it. Months had passed since he'd taken it from her, yet still she startled at the sight of her own reflection.
What pride she'd felt when she sat for the ink. The memory was bright and happy. Surrounded by a sea of smiling faces, she was beloved. Celebrated for her maturity, her identity, and the right to choose her path. The needle drew more blood that day than she'd shed in all her red moons before it, and so she thought of it as her true menarche. The mark of womanhood earned in the back of a rickety aravel, biting on a leather strap with her hands held tight by elders — she was forever changed. No longer just a lost child who'd found her way into a clan, but proudly Dalish. Part of the community.
The Gods had made her belong.
Not a single tear was shed in their service that day, though she nearly bit a hole through her tongue to manage it.
What strange irony it was to shed tears for them now.
"They said June created himself," she said softly, and blinked her vision clear. "I was drawn to that. I thought that by wearing his marks I could show that I created myself, too. That blood or origin didn't matter… it was what I'd made of myself. What I'd done with my life that mattered."
"And you have," Solas said. "Created yourself. Inquisitor from humble origin. Nothing I have said, or will say, can ever take that from you."
"No," she agreed cynically, "I suppose you did that already when you removed them." It was an attempt at gallows humour, but a poor one. Too close to a bitter truth. She tried to temper it with an easier one. "I didn't want to be marked anymore. When you told me what they meant… with all that's changed, with all I've become, it didn't mean the same thing to me as it once did. It was just another reason to want it gone. Before then I didn't even know they could be removed. I'd never seen that sort of magic before."
"Nor are you likely to again. It was a spell I created myself." He tapped the scar on his brow. "And it was not always so gentle."
That was the first truly surprising revelation.
"You were a slave?"
He dipped his chin in a somewhat reluctant nod. "At first. Though in that time I would've called it 'duty'. I served a cause — a leader — on the battlefield, not at the feet of a master. I was a soldier; a tactician." In anticipation of her next question, "Mythal," he added, before she could ask. "Far before she ascended into godhood. She… called on my service, and I was bound to that oath — as the Sentinels are. Halam'shivanas. I removed the brand as soon as I was able, but I was not mistreated. She was a fair, if ruthless, leader. She was the best of them. Even in the end. She cared for her people, protected them, as justice and vengeance both."
"You speak as if you knew her personally."
"I did. I served in her court, and later as an advisor."
His wist was soft, but still she bristled. "Yet you counselled me not to drink from the Well when I had the chance. When I could have known her as you did. If she was good, why would you hold me back? That knowledge belongs to our people — to elves! — wouldn't you rather have seen it go to us?"
Solas shook his head. "If it were simply a matter of knowledge, Ellana, I'd have had no objection — but that was not the only issue at stake. Would you have given your freedom for it? Your life? Whoever drinks from the Well is bound to Mythal. Regardless of whether you felt her orders were just, or her intentions good, to drink meant you'd have no choice but to follow. For better or worse, Lady Morrigan is her creature now.''
"What 'will' can a dead God — a dead mage — truly exert upon her?"
She'd pressed him before. When they'd returned from the Temple she was angry and hurt and confused after he'd so vehemently denied her. But in the wake of discovering Corypheus' immortality the details of that betrayal seemed less important. The argument was brief — he was careful only to imply, not reveal — and in the end they dropped it without a resolution.
Here, he could afford honesty.
Hard eyes met hers. "The first of my people do not die so easily. A part of them endures beyond death — beyond exile — every supplicant that prays at their altars sees that the influence remains. Morrigan would not be my choice of vessel, I would have rather seen the Well of Sorrows untouched, but every alternative was worse. You were in irons when I met you, in a dungeon cell under Templar guard, I could not see you bound again. Not to her. Not to anyone. I will not apologize for wanting to spare you that fate."
The intensity of his gaze was almost too much to bear.
She looked away.
"The others — Gods, kings, mages, I don't even know what to call them now — do they 'endure' as she does?"
"The Evanuris," he provided. "It is what the false gods called themselves. And that is a complicated question. There are places they built, works they created, that even today would siphon power to what remains of them. Most lost or buried. I am not sure how many are still active. Mythal was killed before the others met their fate — murdered — and so her connection to them was not severed, merely interrupted. What aspect of her persists is… different. Difficult to describe in a way you would understand. Death is rarely so straightforward for immortals, let alone ones who have achieved such power."
It was starting to make a terrible kind of sense. She could almost see the line where the truth stopped and stories began. She said, "At the Temple Abelas said she was murdered too. Was it them? The Evanuris?"
"Yes," Solas replied, "but not for vanity. The number of her followers paled next to an army of slaves — they did not covet her power. And the spoils they claimed from razing temples would amount to a pittance next to their own wealth. They still paid her that insult, but the motive was not petty vandalism. It was her voice that threatened them, and all the places she might speak it from. She supported a rebellion to free the slaves that threatened to disrupt the Evanuris' power. For that, she was silenced."
Another piece snapped into place.
"You were a part of it."
It was his passion when arguing with Dorian on Tevinter's culture of slavery. With Bull, over the demands of the Qun. It salted the wound cut by Rainier's deception. And drove his passion for the right of spirits to remain unbound, unchanged.
She could see the answer in his eyes when they met hers again. "I led it. I could not stand by and do nothing for the People when I had the power to break their chains. I built a network of agents that smuggled slaves out of noble houses and brought them to sanctuaries where they could be safely hidden. I removed their vallaslin before relocating them, to ensure they could not be found and recaptured. Those who wished to stay I trained; arming them with knowledge and skill. They fought at my side, for the cause of freedom against tyranny."
The scale of such an undertaking would be staggering. The planning alone… Operations she'd led to extract agents or civilians rarely involved more than a few people — a family; a village once — and still they took months to carry out. Dozens of contacts to coordinate. What he described was a hundred times larger.
"How many did you free this way?"
That gave him pause. After a moment, "I'm not sure," he said. "I did not keep any sort of record for fear that it would compromise the safety of those freed. The rebellion lasted decades. Over that time… thousands, I should think."
"Solas, that's amazing. You were a hero."
The awe was genuine, but he winced as if cut by it. Shook his head. "I was not. Many died in the attempts. Many more on the field."
"You were," she insisted. "Every person rescued from bondage had you to thank for it. If they died fighting that was a fate they were able to choose with the freedom you granted them."
"My conscience is far from clear." He'd never been comfortable with praise. Adulation was worse. He flushed, shifted, and cast his gaze aside. "I have spilled more blood in my lifetime than you can possibly imagine. You do not lead a rebellion against immortal mage-kings without getting your hands bloody."
Heavy was the weight of that world, and he wore it like a second skin: the guilt and secrets. A tapestry wove from every name, unwritten; all the lives lost to save countless others. This fight had consumed him, once. It had been his purpose. Just as Ellana devoted her youth to keeping the Gods, he'd worked for lifetimes to depose them.
How strange it must have been to encounter the Dalish, an eon later. 'Crossed paths'. No clan would've taken in a man who so brazenly denounced their way of life, and no mage would be safe in a city full of Templars. How lonely then, to live apart — a man out of time, searching for the remains of his people. The silence wrought by the Fall would be deafening.
How long since he'd felt a loving touch before tonight?
Three light steps brought her back to his side, and she lay a hand upon his back. Pressed gently between his shoulder blades. He shuddered. Craving the comfort, he allowed himself a single, deep, breath spent with it. Eyes closed to better feel the loving guidance of her hand.
Then he shrugged it aside.
He was not ready to accept such a gift. It was not honest when there was still more to say.
When he spoke again, his effort to measure the emotion lent a quaver to his voice. It cracked and whispered, threatening to rend what brittle courage he had summoned to carry him through this next confession.
"For the better half of a millennia I worked to weaken the Evanuris' hold on the People and bring about the end of their reign. Much of their power came from influence; the fear they inspired in others. I thought that by empowering the common People I could undermine it. Sow doubt and discord, destabilizing the system they upheld, I chipped away at their followers. I had no intention of ever meeting them on the field — their power was too great. Too many innocents would die. But I underestimated the lengths they would go to hold on to it." He turned to face her. "They killed Mythal. And when all her shrines and sentries had burned to ash they promised to murder thousands more as punishment for the plot against them. In my name — the name they gave me. Their lust for vengeance consumed them. They would have destroyed the world, if given the chance. I could not stand by. I had to stop them."
Something prickled at the back of her neck. The cold, creeping, sense of having walked into a trap, just before the jaws snapped shut. There's a rush of adrenaline before it hits, instincts take over, hair stands on end, and then all that matters is survival. She could hear it whispering in her ear.
Run!
But she resisted. Fighting against the urge to flee, whether brave or foolish, she stood rooted to the floor. Helpless as a frightened child watching fear take form in the shadow.
What did they call you?
It was all coming together, like rivers pulled to sea, tumbling together toward a single, undeniable, truth.
Wars. Slaves. Gods. Kings. Murder and rebellion.
Rebel gods.
Her eyes dropped to the pendant around his neck. Not a trinket but an albatross: a wolf's jaw tied with leather cord.
The book on his desk.
The bottom dropped out of her stomach.
"How—" she stammered, "How did you stop them?"
But she knew.
She saw it catch in his throat. The hard swallow and shaky breath. This final truth, not a shout but a whimper: "I locked them away."
Nausea surged with such sudden intensity that she nearly retched. It filled her throat. Her chest. Stole her breath, and sent her reeling forward with a hand cupped over her mouth. She made a sound like a strangled sob and choked, "No." Shaking her head, she took one, stumbling, step backward and almost tangled in the sheet. "That's not true." Another step. Her mouth twisted. "That's not true!"
Give me any other answer and I'll believe it, she wanted to say. She wanted to scream it. Beg and plead and demand. Any other answer!
The floor gave way beneath her feet. She was falling. Scrabbling in the dark, clawing for purchase on a scrap of shattered reality. But all the pieces had floated away like a barrel broken by the river. The rest of Skyhold would surely follow, collapsing in upon itself, burying her in a tomb of the world caved in. Then she would wake and find it was all just another nightmare.
Only a dream could be this cruel.
In her shock she loosed a prayer — "Mythal'enaste lasa em," — it was thoughtless. Automatic. A reflex hewn by a lifetime of worship… but still Solas could not help but wince all the same.
He did not dare reach for her as she retreated. Only whisper, "Ir abelas, ma vhenan," and heard it echo in the empty space left between them.
She stumbled backward through the balcony door, into the room, tripping on the sheet tangled round her ankles and clawing at her chest as if to rip her searing lungs from her breast and force herself a breath. The air was too thin — she was suffocating. Drowning! In the back of her mind a voice begged her not to believe — tricks, lies, deceit! — but, no… she knew it was true. It was all true. This was the final piece. The last mystery of the man she loved. Every moment they had shared had led to this. All the way back to that first, unguarded, smile that made her stomach flip.
She saw it all.
Early days: an infatuation took hold outside that tiny cabin. With her cheeks flushed pink, wind-swept and sore from smiling, she bit her lip and wondered on the taste of his kiss. The warmth of his hands. They sat on crates by his door each afternoon, sharing bread and fruit, while she listened to his tales. Captivated by his wisdom and the generous spirit he shared with her. Trying all the while not to stare too long at his mouth.
It was new and exciting. Her heart leapt — you think I'm graceful? — swept up by his sly flirtation, all wrapped in clever compliments. She laughed too loud and smiled too often. He was beautiful and fascinating. She watched his gaze fall to her lips, once — just for a second — and was giddy with possibility. Lovesick and punch-drunk, she lay in bed that night all tangled in her sheets, like a teenage girl, face buried in a pillow thinking of his hands in the dark.
The sly coquetry had been her undoing — the affection they'd grown from cautious beginnings. She loved to tease it out of him. Piece by tiny piece, each lingering look and brush of hands as he tried, andfailed, to resist the gravity of love.
What a rush it had been when he finally succumbed to it, embraced her, and called her his heart.
All this time…
One trembling hand fisted her hair, the other clutched the sheet knotted at her breast, she twisted both until they held so tight she could scarcely breathe. It was too much: she was going to be sick.
In the space between one breath and the next she found her thoughts turned to Cole.
'But then you turned away. Why?'
'I had no choice.'
He knew, she realized, and almost laughed. He'd always known.
Somehow that granted her the strength to find her voice. It called out from the dark. "Show me."
Solas' gaze lifted. A look of anguish on his face. "Please, vhenan, I—" he pleaded, and took a step toward her.
She took a step back. Screaming, "Show me!"
He flinched.
She sucked in a shaking breath. "If you truly are—" The Dread Wolf. Lord of Tricksters. He Who Hunts Alone. Bringer of Nightmares. Fen'Harel. She could not bring herself to say the words. "—then show me." Their eyes met across the room and the intensity had her reeling, but she couldn't look away. She swallowed hard, and softer, "Please," she added.
For some time the silence went unbroken. His face contorted and downcast. Breath echoing in the emptiness.
A moment passed — then nearly two — before, finally, he shook his head. Not in refusal… but defeat. With head hung low he took a step through the open doors, into the room, and she could not stop herself from falling back two more. Maintaining the distance between them. Her heart pounded like a drum, ready to break free of the cage of her ribs and fly out into the night and over the mountains. She pressed her marked hand there — begging it to slow — to give her strength enough to see this through.
Before her Solas stilled, closed his eyes, and began to cast a spell. The air around him rippled and warped. On the next, slow, exhale the tension bled from his shoulders. Something shifted — the energy changed — and at once all the hair on the back of her neck stood up.
He lifted his face and looked at her with eyes not icy blue but brilliant white.
Dark smoke began to pour from them. Curling out from the corners, swirling around his face, his shoulders, chest, and arms. A shroud of magic, powerful and ancient, that enveloped him like a cocoon. She could feel it tugging at the pit of her stomach. Tingling on her skin. The Veil stretching, thinning, like a rift about to open.
The Anchor sparked.
"Ah!" she hissed, and tucked her hand against her stomach. Smothering the pain and the pale green light. The mark felt drawn to Solas — as thought the magic was being dragged out of her. Ancient magic to its like.
The smoke surrounded him now; there was nothing left but a great, dark, cloud. Churning like a storm, faster and faster, until it burst! Expanding to twice its size. Startled, she took several panicked steps back, toward her bed, and caught herself on a post for support. There she watched, transfixed, as the roiling storm began to disappear. Burned away like fog in the morning sun.
When the air settled he stood transformed: not a man but a great, black, wolf.
Thrice the size of any beast she'd met in the wild, even seated on its haunches, and wearing a thick coat of shining fur that twitched in the breeze, gathering in a heavy ruff around its neck. Silver claws, sharp as daggers and twice as fierce, caught on the cracks in the stone floor. Black lips curled around a pair of gleaming fangs. And when it breathed a wet, shuddering, sigh she could track the sound as it bubbled up from rattling chest, out between its jagged teeth, to the cloud of steam hanging in the night air.
This was not an animal that wandered forests hunting rabbits. It did not stand with weaker brethren. No claws so long and teeth so sharp were wasted on such trivial things.
This was a God.
It raised its head and blinked open six blue eyes, three on each side, and trained its terrible gaze upon her.
A gasp tore from her mouth, hand darting up to catch it as she scrambled backward, panicked, and collided with a table. The impact knocked over an empty pitcher, sending it crashing to the floor at her feet. Shattered pieces skittered across the tiles in all directions.
The wolf flinched and turned away.
In her shock, she almost laughed. What a notion! As if the breaking of a glass could startle such a beast.
The space between them felt like miles. For all the secrets he kept, it might well have been. In this guise he was a stranger; not her lover, but a monster. A remnant of an ancient world, sprung from the pages of old stories told to frighten children into good behavior. Yet, somewhere beneath it all was a man she'd just taken to bed. Gentle, passionate, and so starved for touch that he crumbled at the lightest brush of her fingertips.
All she could do was stare, awe-struck and paralyzed by the horrible beauty of his figure — her greatest love and deepest fear.
Minutes passed.
Silent but for the gentle rise and fall of the wolf's chest as it breathed. It sat framed by the open doors, moonlight casting a shadow that stretched twice its length across the floor. Reaching out for her — stopping just inches shy of her feet.
With just a single step she would stand in the shadow of the Dread Wolf.
When she glanced around the room she saw no way to leave the corner she had backed herself into without passing through it. She'd never been one for superstition, but still the thought struck her cold.
The Wolf made no move to approach or to speak to her. No offers or apologies. It simply sat with its head bowed, turned away in shame or submission, awaiting the Inquisitor's judgement like any other prisoner before her throne.
She'd forgotten how to breathe.
"Is— a-are you still you? Under this?" someone said. It came from her mouth but the voice was that of a child. Just a tiny, frightened, whimper.
The beast turned its eyes to her and she was struck by their softness. The familiarity she saw in them. An aching, pale, blue of unfathomable depth.
"Yes," said the Wolf, in a voiceless growl from neither mouth nor lips. Within it she could so clearly hear the lilt of Solas' accent. Like the melody of an old song, carried on the wind, it beckoned her to find him.
Somewhere beneath the fear there was curiosity.
She slid her toes along the stone, into the shadow — paused there to take a breath — and then shifted her weight. One foot ahead of the other moved her forward in careful, halting, steps across the floor — carefully avoiding the spray of broken glass. Six eyes watched her approach, slow and silent on pointed toe, and bowed his head below the line of his shoulders as she neared. A gesture of submission. Of deference.
She came so close she could lift a hand to touch him, if she dared.
The Wolf's brow was a tight, worried, line, with its ears pressed flat to the sides of his head. It looked like a frightened dog cowering before an angry master, and she thought it strange this face would be so expressive. Perhaps he could not hide his emotions as easily, in this form. Or perhaps he did not want to.
This close, he did not seem so terrible.
She lifted trembling fingers, reached, and touched his nose. She wasn't sure how she expected it to feel — it was cold and wet, like any other animal — but somehow it surprised her. Then there was a sudden huff of hot breath against her hand and that was so startling she leapt back in surprise. The Wolf blinked, then lowered his head a little further and closed his eyes. A silent apology.
Several heartbeats passed before she reached for him again. But slower this time… and with both hands.
They shook like leaves, trailing delicately along the curve of his muzzle, up between his eyes, and over the top of his head. Curling behind his ears where the fur was longer. Shaggier, but unexpectedly soft. Everywhere she touched it was like silk. She found herself toying with it. Drawing it neatly through her fingers the way she played with the rolled satin edging of her bedclothes.
How strange that such a fearsome thing could be so fine to touch.
She dug deep into the ruff at his neck, pushing her fingers into the thick fur to find the heat of skin beneath. Felt it rise with his breath. Then dragged them up, around the back of his head, to gently cup his face in her palms and urge it to turn. He offered no resistance, allowing her to do as she willed. She tilted it to and fro, up and down, studying the way it moved. Two fingers drew along the seam of his mouth, pushing his lips apart to feel the sharp teeth within. Then ran along the curve of a jaw much larger than the one he wore as jewelry.
She took his face in both her hands and angled his head downward. Pressed her forehead against his own, closed her eyes, and breathed.
There came a quiet whine. Somewhere between pitiful and hopeful. She almost laughed when he followed it with a soft thump of his tail. Almost cried.
"This…" she whispered, "This was why. All this time."
Why you resisted.
Why it hurt each time we kissed.
Why you left.
Why you were afraid.
It was not a question — she did not need an answer — but he gave another soft whimper nonetheless.
With both arms she reached, encircling his neck, and pulled him down. The movement loosened the sheet wrapped around her body and it fell to the floor, pooling at her feet, leaving her standing naked as she embraced him.
Her heart ached for all she'd learned. It felt like a dream. A terrible, wonderful dream.
"Are you not afraid?" came the rumble of his voice.
She huffed. A laugh that sounded like a sob. "Terrified."
"Your legends… I am not the monster they have made of me."
"I know."
Tears stung her eyes. It was not grief or anger she cried for, but for everything. So much had happened since she'd left her clan. So much changed; taken or stolen from her since she was named the Herald. This was not a loss — it couldn't be — yet it hurt the same as one.
How could she ever go back to that life now?
There was wetness on her cheeks. She buried them in a pillow of dark fur. Sucked in a ragged breath and let the emotion move through her. From the pit of her stomach, into her chest, and out into the night with a long exhale.
There was a sudden rush of air and a swirl of black smoke that surrounded them both as Solas dropped the form. The sensation of falling. Then only warmth, skin against skin, and the soft circle of his arms around her. He was trembling, so she held him tighter. Fingers digging into his skin. She wanted to consume him: feel his heart beat inside her chest and hold him through the dawn. The whole world had been turned upside-down and they were set adrift in the void — but there was peace in this embrace. The soft rise and fall of his chest, an anchor. Shallow, anxious, breaths that were easing with time.
When the sun rose over the mountains tomorrow it would shine on a new, changed, world. After tonight nothing would ever be the same.
He whispered to her, "Ir abelas, ma vhenan," and pressed her to his breast.
She loved him.
That truth that could not be unwritten. No confession could negate it. She could sooner tear her heart from her chest than deny what had blossomed there.
If she closed her eyes and reached for that feeling she could find her port in the storm.
"Now you know," he said. As if it were all so simple. "What will you do?"
She lifted her head to look at him. There was worry drawn in every line of his face; the press of his mouth, and the way his eyes darted between hers. Awaiting judgement like a prisoner of her keep. He meant to answer for his crimes: the lies he'd told through evasion and omission. His fate was in her hands. She knew he would leave if she asked him to. Turn around and never look back. Or stay, out of loyalty, and follow her. Fighting to the end.
It was startling to realize she'd follow him, too.
For all that he had told her, he was still just a man. And he loved her. That, perhaps, was the most difficult to reconcile.
She shook her head. "Nothing."
It was not the answer he'd thought to hear. In the orange glow of the dying fire she saw the tremble of his lip as, "Nothing?" he repeated, and knew it was the one he'd wished to.
She rolled up on her toes and pulled him down until their mouths met. Whispered on his lips, "Nothing," and kissed him. That too was unexpected, for he stilled at first — uncertain what it meant — until she deepened the kiss with the subtle parting of her lips. And then he fell apart in her hands.
It was different the second time.
There was a clawing desperation in the way he touched her — an urgency — as if he thought she'd disappear if he let her go for even an instant. A little too fast, too clumsy, and in turns too rough and too gentle. He moved like he was on fire. Afraid to stop for a single breath.
But it was not her he feared would shatter.
"Ar lath ma."
He whispered it against her neck. Along the curve of her jaw and over closed eyes. Painted the words across her mouth with his breath. When their bodies joined he offered it as prayer; prostrate before the mercy she offered. Grateful for every tender rock of her hips.
"Ar lath ma," she returned. Pressing her forehead to his, she quelled his frenzy with the gentle guidance of a soft hand; softer words.
He called it at his end — when he fell, and she caught him — his body buckling as he broke.
He loved her.
He loved her.
And she still loved him.
In the quiet afterglow he was weightless in her arms. Naked and shining with their legs tangled in the sheets, fingers dancing on her back and shoulder. This was a different kind of freedom. One he had never known, and did not ever wish to part with.
He indulged in all those simple, easy, affections that were once only possible in dreams. Playing with a curl of her hair, a kiss on her temple, an arm wrapped around her waist, fingers skimming over the curve of her breast. All the things he'd denied himself and was now free to enjoy. It felt natural to touch her. Right.
He'd not realized how close he came to drifting off until she pulled him back.
"Can I ask you something?"
Her voice was low and husky from their lovemaking. A little sleepy. Vulnerable in a way that charmed him. When he hummed a soft, approving, noise she said, "What colour was your hair?"
He stilled.
For long enough that Ellana raised up on her elbows to give him a curious look. There was a small quirk of a smile on his lips. "Of all the questions you could ask now that you have the opportunity, was that truly the most pressing?"
She laughed. Harder, once he joined her. The sound was bright and honest and it thrilled her to hear it. "It's something I've been curious about since I met you."
"Brown," Solas replied, laughing. "It's a dark brown."
With two fingers she swept a line over the top of his head, ear to ear, marvelling at the softness. Not even a hint of stubble. Never had she seen him shave it, and so assumed he used some spell to hinder growth. "Why have it like this? Is there a specific reason, or just your preference?"
"When I was a young man I kept it in great, thick, braids that nearly reached my waist."
She sat up a little straighter — "Are you serious?" — and her blatant surprise had him laughing again.
"Is that so hard to believe?"
"Yes, actually! I cannot picture you any other way. So then truly, why the change?"
There was a thoughtful pause. "Penance," he said after a time. "In Elvhenan, one's appearance was closely tied to their status. Great care was taken to ensure the styling of nobility reflected their place in society. Clothes, jewellery, hair — these were difficult to maintain and the look could not be achieved without the aid of servants. Slaves, more commonly. Not unlike the courts of Orlais. Those of us in the highest class lived in opulence, and presented ourselves in a manner appropriate." The smile fell, and his brows knit. His eyes became distant and unfocused. "There was a time I enjoyed that life as well. But, once I began my rebellion I abandoned all of the luxury my position had awarded me. It was a show of my devotion to the cause; that I had left it all behind. We could not, otherwise, be equals."
"I think I like you better like this," Ellana replied.
He nodded. "As do I, which is why I continue to maintain it."
There were a hundred other questions she wanted to ask. Centuries worth of memories to visit… but she hesitated, not wanting to push too hard too soon or risk delving into topics that could be painful for him. She bit her lip. Quietly considering how best to temper her curiosity with tact… but ultimately—
"Did you have a family?" she asked.
"No, I did not."
"A partner?"
"Leading a rebellion against false gods wins one few friends, and fewer prospects," he said, with meaning, "and it was not something I aspired toward."
"And you never just… fell for someone?"
The answer was immediate. "Not before you."
She fixed him with an incredulous look. "As much as I appreciate the sentiment, Solas, that's a little hard to believe."
"It is true regardless of your belief in it."
It was clear he was put off by the teasing, so she softened, and clarified, "You've lived a long life — much longer than I can fathom. I would assume that you've had many lovers—" There was a nearly imperceptible shift of his brow and a hard blink. Almost a wince. She rephrased, "I only meant that that's a very long time to spend alone. I meant no disrespect, only that it seems likely you'd have fallen in and out of love many times."
He was quiet for a moment, thinking, then replied with a question of his own. "How did you feel when you were at Halamshiral?"
The sudden change of topic took her by surprise. "What?"
"When you were at the Winter Palace — how did you feel? The dress you wore likely cost the Inquisition a small fortune. Clearly intended as a show of power. But, more to the point, you were a vision in it." One hand began to wander. Up her side and over her arm. "The way it held your curves when you walked, giving only a hint of what lay beneath." Tracing her collarbone and shoulder. A single finger dipped between her breasts. "The neckline." To her stomach and the leg slung over his hip. "You looked beautiful."
She grinned. "You were certainly paying attention."
"I was," he conceded. "But so was everyone else. How did it feel?"
"A bit like a toy everyone wanted to play with."
It was an honest answer, but too quick to have given the question the deeper consideration he intended. Solas tilted his head curiously. "Was there no part of you that enjoyed the attention? Even a little?"
Halamshiral was dripping with excess, Orlais was a culture built on indulgence. Tables stacked with rich meats and sweet pastries that were hardly touched, yet refreshed every few hours just the same. Barrels of wine from every corner of the continent, sipped carelessly until party-goers were too drunk to care. Beautiful fabrics draped on every figure and curious artwork in every nook. Hours were spent on her preparation, from hair to undergarments, everything carefully staged to ensure the illusion of power was maintained. It was exhausting and exhilarating in turns — but beyond the plotting and debauchery it was the flirtation that stood out in her memory.
Their relationship was new enough that its intimacies were still tentative, but Solas was emboldened by the chaos (or perhaps just the wine) — more than once she caught his eyes on her from across the room. Standing in a darkened shadow, toying with the stem of his wine glass, he watched her move from arm to arm. She made a point to stand just near enough that he couldn't help but overhear her response to the advances of the more charming nobility, watching him for any sign of jealousy. Not to upset him, but in the hope of goading him into doing something… reckless.
When he finally broke and pulled her behind a statue for a searing kiss that feeling of victory stayed with her the whole night.
The Game was not so hard to play: flirt, smile, tease, mislead. She even enjoyed it some of the time. The dance was intoxicating. Being admired was intoxicating. Before that final fight she'd been the most interesting thing in the room.
And she did like that.
Still, it felt almost shameful to admit. "Yes, I suppose I did."
But Solas did not begrudge her the vanity. Only nodded, knowingly, and continued, "Now, imagine if you were not a guest, but instead a permanent fixture of the Palace. A star of grand balls that went on for days. Weeks. The halls filled with important dignitaries from all over Thedas — all vying for your attention.
"Some might shower you with gifts in the hope of earning your favour, others may desire your ear for conversation, your presence at a negotiation—" He gave her a look. "— or a chance to warm your bed. Imagine if sons and daughters were thrown at your feet in the hope one might catch your eye. Such a union would gain their family notoriety; or political sway when they used their position in your bed to their advantage. Imagine if sex held no taboo in your culture, and was freely enjoyed not just for pleasure but in the negotiation of powers and houses. If you were a lesser woman than you are today — a younger, selfish, and lonely one — would you have indulged in what was offered freely?"
She was beginning to understand where this was going. "Yes, I think I would."
"And amidst these indulgences, would you ever be able to trust that their affections were genuine? That a declaration of love wasn't just another attempt to bask in the reflection of your power? Even if you found yourself infatuated with one, or two, would you ever be able to trust that what you felt was mutual?"
Sadly, "No," Ellana whispered.
Solas ran his fingers through her hair, playing with the ends, before tucking it gently behind an ear. "Then believe me, vhenan, when I say that I did not form attachments to anyone the way I have with you." He took her hand and softly kissed the back of it.
She took his face in her hands and kissed him hard.
After, they slipped into the Fade together. Having fallen asleep in each other's arms. The warm embrace of an honest, safe, love.
TRANSLATIONS:
Lasa em juhartha = Allow me to listen
Vhenan — ina'lan'ehn elgar - [My] heart — beautiful spirit
Halam'shivanas = The sweet sacrifice of duty
Mythal'enaste lasa em = Grant me Mythal's mercy/blessing
Ir abelas, ma vhenan = I'm sorry, my love