Roses Where Thorns Grow

by bdafic

Approximately a month after their unexpected break-up at Crestwood, Ellana struggles to maintain a working relationship with Solas. But reoccurring nightmares and the fear that demons may be creeping into her dreams drives her to seek his aid, as much as she does not want to. When they are drawn back into a rekindled affair, Solas' guilt drives him to finally tell her the truth.

10. Chapter 10

Once meek, and in a perilous path
The just man kept his course along
The Vale of Death.
Roses are planted where thorns grow,
And on the barren heath
Sing the honey bees.

— William Blake, "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell"

---

Though it was clear Solas' discontent had not gone unnoticed, it took a week before someone deigned to approach him about it.

Both inner circle and staff alike had given him a wide berth; the only words he'd exchanged with anyone in days were polite, passing, greetings accompanied by a strained twitch of his mouth meant to intimate a smile. Perhaps a comment on the weather, or a cordial nod at the suggestion of there being some sort of interesting news coming out of Orlais. Spending no longer than a moment or two before he managed to extricate himself from conversation and return to his task.

Work was an easy and attractive escape; a few reports for Leliana and Josephine notwithstanding, he'd done little more than bury himself within it. Alternating between mornings at his desk and afternoons in the lower archives before retiring to his room early with a request to have the evening's meal left by the door, if he requested it at all.

A schedule tailor made for isolation.

He'd barely interacted with anyone, and truth be told few had any desire to interact with him. Not that he was ever much of a socialite, but the heavy tension knit in his brow by the prison of frustration and guilt he'd built for himself did little to endear him to idle conversation, and it was apparent to even the most casual observer. A marked difference from the ease of which he carried himself upon first returning from Redcliffe with the rest of the Inquisitor's entourage. To those who had remained behind, his uncharacteristically pleasant mood seemed to last barely a day before he'd slipped back into a more familiar pattern of quiet brooding, and so let him be. But he was well-acquainted with being alone, and under most circumstances would prefer it.

As such it had not been terribly difficult to advertise his preference just enough to ensure he remained that way. Standoffish and stoic, though not so much as to risk his preoccupation being mistaken as rude.

All things considered, when a visitor dropped by in the late afternoon and greeted him with a pointed question, he was left rather flummoxed by the interruption.

"What'd you do?"

Solas glanced up from his papers, inked quill stilled upon the parchment in mid-stroke, and found Varric Tethras leaning against the opposite side of his desk, propped up on one elbow.

Somehow he'd failed to notice the dwarf's approach, and furthermore the motivation for his visit. Varric almost never came to the rotunda, instead preferring to spend his afternoons seated at a table in the great hall, just outside the doors. The coveted spot awarded him the opportunity to eavesdrop while remaining largely unnoticed by his quarry. A trait of particular import for a writer who gathered much of his inspiration from those around him.

It had become a favoured haunt of his and he rarely left it; Solas had seen him there as recently as an hour or two previous, scratching at his notes.

A quick study found the dwarf carried neither parchment nor package for delivery, and his demeanour conveyed no sense of urgency. If anything, he seemed bored; leaning heavily on the side of the desk, gaze averted, as he idly picked at a fingernail and brushed the resulting dirt off the lapel of his coat before moving onto the next one.

Solas searched his memory for a conversation, or even a vague suggestion of an appointment that would have prompted the interruption, but ultimately came up empty.

Once a moment had passed between the two without Varric giving any further explanation for his presence, Solas returned to the task before him and offered a brusque reply. "If this is a social call, I would prefer you return later. I am quite busy with—"

"—The same thing you were 'busy with' the last time you were avoiding her," Varric finished for him, his tone disarmingly informal. "Yeah, I noticed that."

He allowed a moment to enjoy Solas' predictably stunned silence before he continued. "You've been skulking around Skyhold all week like you've got a raincloud as your personal escort. I was hoping she'd pick another fight with you so you two could wander off and make up, but you've barely even looked in the direction of her quarters all week, let alone spoken to her. And, for whatever reason, she seems just as unlikely to start a conversation with you." He shrugged, and scratched at his chin. "So, I'll ask again: what did you do?"

Once Solas had recovered from the initial bewilderment, offence was quick to take its place. This was overstepping, even for Varric. He hadn't the faintest desire to participate in a conversation on this subject; not now, not ever. His personal affairs were his own business and Varric's untimely peek into them during their previous journey hardly granted him the right to meddle. The fact that he knew anything at all about his relationship with the Inquisitor was purely by accident.

Furthermore, discretion was of the utmost importance — the Inquisitor had worked hard to gain a modicum of respect as an elf leading a pseudo-religious Human organization — and if their entanglement became common knowledge it could cause irreparable damage to her reputation. Varric knew this perfectly well, and for whatever reason still chose to bring up the subject in the middle of the rotunda.

The fact that no one in the building would be able to hear them speaking at a conversational volume was beside the point.

Once more, he returned his attention to the papers before him, replying with a not-insignificant note of irritation, "While I appreciate the concern, I would respectfully ask that you—"

"With equally due respect," Varric interrupted with a smirk that toed a dangerous line between amused and patronizing. "I really don't care what you respectfully ask of me. I'm not here for your benefit, Chuckles." He paused, hummed as he considered his words, then corrected himself. "Alright, maybe a little for your benefit — but mostly for hers. It's clear you're both miserable and that, given the chance, you'll continue to be for long enough to spread that misery to everyone. It's like a plague of sadness."

Solas took a measured breath. "Colourful metaphor aside—"

"And really, you've been almost pleasant to be around since you two started spending your evenings together. If anything, it's in the best interest of the Inquisition on a whole that you continue to do so."

Completely inappropriate.

"Varric—"

"It does get me wondering what you two could possibly have to argue about. Battle strategy? Ancient Elvhen artifacts? The religious practices of the Dalish? The colour of the curtains?"

This time Solas held his tongue, waiting until he was absolutely sure Varric was finished with his rambling before trying to get a word in. The repeated interruptions were chipping away at what little patience he possessed for the dwarf's probing questions. It was only after a sufficiently long and expectant pause where he, presumably, was actually expected to offer a reply that he risked another attempt.

"I—"

"Not that I'd think you so domestic."

Varric cast a sidelong glance at Solas' reddening ears and the muscle twitching in his jaw before turning his attention back to his fingernails. "You don't strike me as someone who has strong opinions about window dressings."

That was the tipping point.

Solas brought a palm down upon the table, the resulting clap loud enough to give Varric a start. "Is there a point to this?"

"Of course," answered Varric. His tone was infuriatingly jovial, and it seemed to only encourage him to see the way it rankled Solas' already frayed nerves. "Ideally, to persuade you to go talk to her."

"And what would you suggest I do?" Solas snapped, returning his quill to its bottle with enough force to rattle it. Varric raised a single brow at the brazen show of anger, but did not deign to interrupt him again. "Waltz into the middle of an advisory meeting and demand she drop everything to continue an argument? Persuade her to see reason and from there on dolefully accommodate every one of my positions on matters of contention?"

"Is that what you want?"

"No! Of course I don't want that. I have always welcomed her candour, but she does not underst—!" And abruptly, he stopped. Closing his mouth with a snap. He watched Varric's brows climb a little higher on his forehead, accompanied by the smallest quirk of the corner of his lips. The complete look falling just enough on the side of smug that Solas knew he'd been had.

This was now the second time Varric had successfully tricked him into revealing far more about his personal affairs than he was entirely comfortable with.

It was with a heavy sigh that he realized the entire encounter had been crafted to push him to lose his temper. Forcing him to lower his guard in the hopes that he would inadvertently discuss — or at least mention — what was troubling him. In retrospect, the ploy was glaringly obvious. The rogue was maddeningly talented in this brand of manipulation and his susceptibility to it only served to stoke his temper. He'd even seen it employed on multiple occasions.

Solas leaned heavily into one hand and, over a single measured breath, scrubbed his fingertips across his forehead before settling on pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed.

Good intentions or no, the man was infuriating.

When it became obvious that he was unwilling to offer anything more, "You know, you're pretty terrible at this," Varric prompted gently.

Solas scoffed. "Conversation?"

With a soft chuckle, "No," the dwarf replied. "Being in a relationship."

Truthfully, he could concede that point.

It had been more years than he could count since he'd had a lover, and regardless of the length of his affairs, none had grown into a proper partnership. What few memories he had left of paramours were fleeting passions, brief connections and no promises. Be it years or centuries spent with another, it was never anything one could define with such a label.

Once his rebellion began, the desire for companionship was a distraction he could not afford, and so was cast aside for the greater good of the people he was fighting for.

Harden your heart to a cutting edge.

Upon waking, his only purpose was attaining the orb to further his plans, and the mission made him rigid and single-minded. Before joining the Inquisition, he felt naught but pity for the modern people and their disconnection from magic. For all his careful planning, he never anticipated falling to the temptation of a quick wit, delicate fingers and soft lips. And while he was still unsure if this dance between them could be called a relationship, what he had felt and experienced with Ellana thus far was closer to it than anything that had come before her.

Beyond attraction was the desire to be heard, to share; to connect on a deeper level than purely physical. To know her: her fears and desires, history, her aspirations and failures.

To kiss every freckle and scar, and learn every curve of her body so well he could carve stone in her likeness.

To have her love and respect and return it in kind.

At no point, he realized, had he cultivated a connection with another person deep enough that an argument with them felt painful. He did not want nor need her unwavering loyalty; mindless acceptance without debate. More than anything, he desired understanding. What was lost, what remains, and the need to set it right.

The people in this time lived quickened lives, their memories short and fleeting — they did not take time to build monuments to progress and share their knowledge. Instead, they hoarded it. Worse, the short-lived elves of this time had no concept of their own origins or history. The sheer gravity of harm that raising the veil inflicted upon the world, and the splendour that could be recovered should he succeed in tearing it down.

It was impossible to impart this knowledge to her. The gulf between them stretched too wide to bridge, and his kin too different from her own. Though still, in his solitude with pithy hopes he'd not give voice to, he yearned.

A long silence passed while Varric left Solas with his restless thoughts. It was clear enough to him that whatever had transpired between the two was more complicated than a lovers quarrel. He had no wont to drive the full story out of Solas — nor would he ever consider himself talented enough to do so, the man liked his mystery — only to make him approach the problem from a different angle. For all his scholarly knowledge, the elf was completely inept at communicating with another person and needed all the help he could get, even if he'd only accept it at knife-point.

"Look," Varric offered after a time. "Do you want my advice?"

"No, though I doubt that will stop you from giving it."

It didn't.

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself and go talk to her. The trick to solving an unsolvable argument isn't brow-beating them into taking your side, it's giving them the context to understand your position even if they don't share it. The goal isn't to come out victorious, just to leave things better than they were before."

That, Varric noted, was something Solas did not have a counterpoint prepared for. Instead, he stared down at his desk beneath a furrowed brow, and said nothing. While it seemed unlikely, Varric could only hope this meant he was at least considering his words. He had no real expectation that his advice would be heeded, but at the very least he'd hoped to plant a seed.

He allowed another moment for the speech to sink in before adding a light, "And you could stand to dial back the pomposity a bit," and flashed him a wry smile.

Solas appeared unmoved.

"If you're done with the lecture," he replied dryly, "I would bid you leave; this research is important to the Inquisition, regardless of your personal views on it, and I have much of it to tend to."

Well, at least I tried.

Varric sighed. Shrugged, and lamented, "Alright, alright."

Turning, he headed toward the door that exited into the great hall; mulling over the conversation as he walked. Could he have added more sage wisdom? Find some other compelling point to make that could have made Solas drop his immutable facade long enough to actually listen? To someone other than himself, that is. Maker help him, he was so damned resistant to the slightest implication that someone may know more than he did about something. No one would argue that the breadth of his knowledge wasn't impressive, but his capacity for self-reflection was virtually non-existent. Perhaps he'd simply spent too much time as a lonely apostate to be humble. His response was predictable, but disappointing nonetheless.

Until he went and did something completely unexpected.

"Varric?"

The call came just before he'd stepped into the alcove by the exit, stopping him in mid-stride. He cocked his head to one side. Surely that wasn't an apologetic tone he was hearing?

"Yeah?" Varric tested.

Solas hesitated on the reply for long enough that he had very nearly decided he'd hallucinated.

"Thank you."

Now I know I'm hallucinating.

Varric tossed a glance over his shoulder. Solas gave him a respectful nod and held his eye for just long enough to convey his sincerity, then gently plucked his quill from the bottle of ink, and continued working.

He knew better than to push it, and so hid a smile with downturned gaze as he once more turned to leave. Just as he approached the door a flutter of movement from the stairwell caught his attention. A flash of gold from a lavish pair of shoes.

Dorian quickly descended the last few steps and joined stride with Varric, exiting the rotunda at his side. "That was clever," he commented, pitching his voice low so not to carry. "I heard some of that. Not all of it, but well enough to get the gist."

Varric smirked. "And here I thought I was being discrete."

"Oh, you were, I'm just a very practiced eavesdropper," Dorian quipped.

Once they'd made it through the great hall and safely out of earshot of any passing staff, he leaned down a little and asked, "Do you think it will work?" in a stage whisper.

"Maybe," Varric sighed. "Solas is pretty proud, but she tends to unbalance him. He is terrible at this."

"Atrocious."

"Completely," he agreed. "And you should leave him alone for a bit so he can work this out, if he's going to. For her sake."

The mage's lips twisted into a comically displeased sneer, but after some reflection he eventually settled on something resembling reluctant agreement. He gave a deep, exaggerated sigh. "Alright, that's fair. Wouldn't want to spook him." Raised fingers flicked at the air in emphasis.

Varric's grin widened. "You can always tease him later."

"I'll make sure that I do."

He laughed. "I'd expect no less."

---

Ellana kept to herself most evenings. Found a small stack of paperwork from Josephine's desk — letters, requests, orders and lists — and took them to her room for review. She wasn't expected to answer them all, or any really, but it gave her something to keep her mind focused on a single task when she felt overwhelmed by all the other little things that were drawing it away. Furthermore, it was an opportunity to practice her reading and writing; skills she had no need for as a Dalish hunter, but were expected of her as the Herald. With all the rumour and superstition about savage elves standing on the tails of her rise to power, illiteracy and letters that looked to be written in a child's hand would not play well to her detractors.

Josephine was a fine teacher of Common, but true mastery was coming far more slowly than Ellana liked. The path to knowledge laden with unexpected bumps and detours. Before her introduction to the lesson plans, she'd never have anticipated that the process of learning to write would be so complicated. There were so many niggling details: having to learn the correct way to hold a quill and why it mattered, how long it took for various types of ink to dry on various types of parchment, and the fact that there were two versions of every letter of the alphabet. One of which could only be applied in very specific circumstances — names or the beginning of sentences — and almost never in sequences over one. Useless, arbitrary rules that seemed to cater to perfectionism over legibility.

When she complained, Josephine insisted this all the more reason she learn. True proficiency meant memorizing all the quirks and eccentricities of the written word. Playing too hard by the rules, she'd cautioned, would only serve to draw attention to the gaps in her education.

In spite of her stumbling, Josie was always ready with an eager compliment on her progress. How her penmanship had become smoother, almost elegant, despite the fact that it still took her three times as long as anyone else to write a paragraph. Or how her oral reading flowed, though she still stumbled on unfamiliar words and names.

"You'll be ready to read bedtime stories to adorable orphans in no time," Dorian had quipped as he walked by during her last lesson. She'd laughed, but tossed a book at him all the same. While Josephine was rather put out by the joke, Ellana didn't mind his teasing. It provided a balance to the more blatant fawning.

It was not letters from Ferelden or Orlais that lay on her desk this night, nor many of the previous. Instead was a sheaf of papers drawn with horizontal lines, each one headed by a single, flowing letter of the Elvish alphabet. Guides Solas had made up for her months earlier to practice her cursive. And unlike learning Common, she'd only one option for Elvish language teacher and no resources other than the ones he created for her.

With all the excitement of the last few months, she'd let her Elvish studies fall by the wayside. Forgotten, until the venture through the Temple of Mythal reawakened her desire to connect to her roots.

Shemlen, the sentinel had called her. An insulting observation of her ignorance that she took far too personally for someone in her position. It left a deep cut. The Dalish were the keepers of memory after the Elvish diaspora. Her people worked tirelessly to preserve what wasn't lost to wars with Tevinter, the Exhalted March and Alienages.

You know nothing of my people, she'd thought then. I am closest kin to the glory of our once-proud race. I am no Shemlen.

Oh, how much she'd learned since.

It was frustrating, this process. She could speak and understand far more of the tongue than she could read, and though Solas had cautioned her against trying to learn two languages at once she was determined to take them both on no matter the difficulty. Prove herself not just an honest leader, but a learned one; beyond simply granting boons to the rich and powerful. To represent more than just the interests of the Chantry; to act as a voice for Elves both Alienage and Dalish. To be better. Not held back by superstition, or the archaic custom of hoarding knowledge among Keepers. With formal education, she could be a Herald of the people that was worth following.

Worth keeping.

Worth saving.

But at this rate she'd be dead before she learned to read a single chapter in a book of Elvish nursery rhymes.

If learning to read in Common was a lazy stream, Elvish was a slog through the mud.

It wasn't supposed to be this hard. Elvish was supposed to come naturally. It was in her genes, in her bones, and yet eluded her.

In the Fade, Solas was able to manipulate her proficiency without her even knowing. As though she'd some switch hidden in her mind all this time — a direct connection to ancient knowledge that could be activated at will. If this could be done so easily in the Fade, surely the ability rest somewhere within her? Within all Elves? There must be something to be said for ancestral knowledge, and the keepers of eons of secrets.

Surely it could not be this difficult to recreate the practiced lines of Solas' flawless cursive?

She could not possibly be so far removed from his — their, she corrected — people that this skill would continue to confound her.

I am no Shemlen.

A surge of anger lent enough tension to her wrist to nearly crack the tip of the quill when she pushed it to the page a little too hard. She swore softly, snatched the sheet she'd been working on from the desk and balled it up, tossing it somewhere over her shoulder. She took another blank piece from the pile on the corner of her desk and arranged it, staggered, over Solas's guide so that the line of letters would peek out from beneath the new page. That way she could practice without destroying the original.

She dipped her quill into the ink pot and tapped it twice against the edge, then set to work again.

The first attempt on the new sheet was another mess of pooled ink and jerky, thick lines. Too slow, she chided herself; crossed it out and tried again. The second was more of the same. On the third line she remembered to rest her elbow on the table so her wrist would not tremble from the effort of keeping still.

There was only mild improvement.

Gritting her teeth, she gave up on copying the whole sheet and instead decided to focus on the same letter, written side-by-side, over and over again. With each one done, she challenged the next to come faster, fingers to press lighter; mimic the way Solas' strokes transitioned from thick to thin and curled off so beautifully at the ends. She tried not to think about how every letter she wrote looked sloppy by comparison.

The Keepers of Dalish clans had all learned to read and write, and their Firsts following them when it was time to prepare for ascension. They were proud to inherit the gift of literacy; act as sole beneficiaries of ancient wisdom. To lord the skill above the rest of the clan, and remind them that the tradition was sacred. Only the most wise and important of us would carry this knowledge. Only those worthy.

"I am no Shemlen," she muttered aloud.

No, you are different.

Loyalty to her clan would have never offered her this chance. In spite of their claims they would not have allowed her to discover their past, or share in its majesty. Solas was a living, breathing, relic of the lost empire and the sole reason she had the chance to learn its truths. He was willing to impart his knowledge.

Only because she was Elven.

Only because she wasn't Elvhen.

Because she was both, and neither. Because she'd had the luck or misfortune to fall in love while embroiled in a war fuelled by religion, myth and legend. Sought the truth and found more than she'd bargained for in a lover.

The tip of the quill rest too long at the end of a letter and left an uneven stain that threatened to bleed through to Solas' guide. With a grunt of frustration she balled it up, tearing it a little for good measure and tossed it over her shoulder. Another ball to join the rest, now more than 10 mounting by one corner of the room. She grabbed another blank sheet, and set to work again.

There was a quiet knock on her door.

Josephine always came by in the late evening to take back the pile of documents Ellana had made off with. But tonight she'd barely gotten through two over the hours she'd spent in her tower room, too focused on Solas' damnable handwriting instead.

One large curve, a long line down, curl it inward. Make it thinner. Thicker in the middle. A dot here, a cross there, then join one letter to the next. Solas always added an extra curl at the end, though she did not know enough of her own language to tell if it was a legitimate part of the cursive or a flourish he'd added himself.

We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path.

Another curl, another curve to follow. Down, up and across. Make her work look like his; like the work of an Elvhen hand.

She scoffed. It was difficult to say which was worse: to be placed upon a pedestal as the single being he had met in his travels worthy enough to learn the painful truths of her own people, or to be cast among the rest upon this plane, may they all be considered lowly equals.

And could she truly say she was any more than that? Try though she might she could not make herself any different from what she was born to be. No magic flowed in her veins, no ageless body would carry her through eternity, no floating castles and white spires awaited her at home. Only little camps of colourful painted aravels in forests hundreds of miles apart, and the stilted, butchered remnants of a language to call their own.

Her hand was rushed; quick, flickering movements of her wrist translated to thin scratches and inelegant swirls across the page. Repeating the same motions over and over again until she stopped paying attention to how they looked. Eyes unfocused upon the parchment, she was only barely attentive enough to know to move her hand down to the next line when she came to the end of the previous one. The more her thoughts raced, the less she paid attention, and the more natural the movements became. Relying on muscle memory over hyper focus.

She didn't stop until the sound of the quill tip dragging against the wooden desk startled her from the angry reverie. She'd reached the end of the page and not even realized; and in her carelessness, begun to scratch out a series of letters on the wood beneath. With a whispered curse, she reached for a nearby cloth and dabbed it on her tongue. Went to clean the fresh ink from the desk that almost certainly cost a small fortune, when something stilled her hand.

The letters looked… clean. More than that, they looked lovely.

Somehow she'd managed to fill the paper from edge to edge with sweeping curls and confident lines and not even noticed. Even continued onto the desk without faltering.

It wasn't as skilled as Solas' guides, but it was the first approximation she'd achieved that did not look like it was writ by the hand of a trembling child.

There was even a flourish on the end.

She lifted the parchment off the desk to get a better look at the finished work — admire her skill — and a blackened thumbprint on one corner caught her eye. The mark had smudged several of the better writ letters across the bottom, obscuring them completely. She quickly put the paper back down, loath to risk a single blemish on the finished page, and picked up the still-wet quill to return to its glass pot.

Again she reached for the folded cloth.

… And caught her wrist upon the feathered tip of the quill's plume, upending the bottle it sat in.

Thick, black ink splattered across the desk in ribbons, hitting the stack of Josephine's unfinished letters and several of the books that were scattered about. But beyond that, the worst lay before her; the record of her hard-won accomplishments slowly disappearing beneath a seeping puddle of ichor.

She stared agape in silent fury at the destruction — hours of work, wasted — felt a tide of anger and frustration build up until it bubbled over. With a roar, she grabbed the fallen ink pot and hurled it at the wall, where it broke with a satisfying crash. Leaving shards of blackened glass in a pile on the floor. If she could not reap the satisfaction of her hard work, she would at least have the pleasure of destroying that which took it from her.

The impact was immediately followed by a startled gasp from the direction of the stairwell. Turning, Ellana found not Josephine, but Solas, standing on the topmost step. His eyes cast upon the mess of ink and glass before him, studying it only a moment before turning a curious gaze to her, brows high on his forehead. An unspoken question on parted lips.

"It spilled," she provided, rather lamely. Then again, "I spilled it," gesturing to her ruined work. Stammering out her excuses. "I was— it—" A flush crept into her face, hot and ashamed, and she turned away. Embarrassed to have been caught throwing things around her room like an ornery child. She cleared her throat; bit an angry, "What do you want?" at him to cover her shame.

The harsh edge of her tone made her wince; she hadn't intended to sound quite so cold. Though loath to admit it, her heart leapt at the sight of him. A little light of hope that he'd come to make things better. Somehow. And they'd go back to how it was between bitter break-up and righteous anger, in the brief few weeks of stolen kisses and secret glances where things weren't quite so terribly complicated. Despite it all she loved him, and quietly nurtured the part of her that was foolish enough to believe that alone would carry them through.

He didn't answer right away. Instead respectfully averted his gaze from her reddened cheeks and bent to collect the glass by his feet. The shattered bottle left behind no more than a handful of jagged shards. In silence he swept them into his palm, then walked to the writing desk and deposited the remains into the wastepaper basket by Ellana's side. After, he pulled a folded handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the wet ink from his fingertips.

"I'm sorry if I surprised you," he said quietly. "I knocked, but you did not answer. I wasn't sure if you had heard me." He offered her the kerchief, eyeing the stain on her palm from grasping the upturned bottle.

She took it. "I thought it was Josephine."

They lapsed into painful silence. Solas watching her stubbornly work at the stains on her skin, more spreading the mess around than cleaning it. When the task proved fruitless and her frustration got the better of her, she balled up the little cloth and threw it onto the table with the rest of the mess. Made angrier still for its soft landing, crumpled and useless like everything else. The kerchief settled on the one side of the sheet that had yet to soak through with ink, the movement drawing Solas' eye to the work.

Slow and cautious, as though afraid she might snap at his hand should he move too sudden, Solas moved it off the ruined parchment. Turned his head to line up with the angle of the guidelines. Ellana watched his eyes scan the paper — reading over what remained of her lines of cursive — and felt an uncomfortable mix of anticipation and self-consciousness. Awaiting his assessment like an anxious pupil. Studying the line of his brow for the weight of disapproval or a subtle turn of his mouth for appreciation.

He offered neither. Only a soft hum and a quick flicker of his eyes to hers and back. "The lines were impressive," he noted. There was such gentleness in his voice that it made the compliment sound more intimate than a simple appraisal of her skill. "Your penmanship has improved considerably since last I saw it."

But it sounded sincere, and so, "Thank you," she replied.

They slipped into another uncomfortable silence, a pattern that Ellana was determined not to keep repeating. She broke it with a pointed, "What did you want?" in the same instant that Solas began, "I would like to—".

Both stopped. Waited for the other to continue. And when neither took the opportunity, Ellana gestured toward Solas with an open palm, inviting him to finish. He shifted uncomfortably, and tried again. "I would like to show you something, if you'll allow me."

Unmoved, she countered, "What is it?"

"It is…" he began, pausing for thought, "not something easily described."

"Vague as ever, Solas," Ellana replied dryly. It was far past the time for the clever games he so often played.

He tipped his head downward a little. Folded his hands behind his back. "My apologies, that was not my intention. It is only that you have no frame of reference for such a thing; any description I could offer you would only lead to further questions. Ones best answered, I would think, by joining me. It is a repository, of sorts. A library."

One brow lifted. "A library? Do we not already have one?" The reply was laden with sarcasm that he did not seem to pick up on.

"Ah," he stumbled, "Here, yes. This one requires some travel to reach. Through the Eluvian Lady Morrigan keeps in the room off the courtyard."

Cautious, she considered the proposition and what possible motive was laid behind it. He did not often share such things unprompted, and given the result of their last foray into Elvish memory, she felt she'd earned some trepidation. With all the anger and sorrow she still clung to, she had half a mind to refuse him on principal alone. Had intended to, until he added, "It is a place from my own time, which still stands today."

In spite of everything, her curiosity was piqued. And truly, she had no want to argue. The promise of an ancient relic was enough to make her put aside her hubris. For the moment, at least.

She stood, wiping her stained hands on her pants. "Alright," she said. "Show me."

---

The courtyards were always empty in the late evening. What made up the skeleton crew of men and women on night watch were posted along the ramparts, evenly spaced between towers with crossbows in hand. Watchful gaze turned upon the mountain paths at the front and rear of the fortress, searching for signs of encampments or would-be intruders. Those few assigned to guard the interior were rarely found beyond the main doors. Leaning on the walls when no one was looking to ease the load of heavy plate armour on tired bones. Oft left bored by uneventful shifts, they paid no mind to the rare passers-by in the halls at night. With the kitchen closed and most of the castle's populace in bed, it was rare to encounter anyone other than a wandering insomniac or midnight snacker looking to raid the unlocked pantry.

While such behavior was usually discouraged, the guards often joined them and so politely ignored it.

No one was assigned to the interior courtyard past late evening. Surrounded on all sides by high walls, bedrooms, and storage made it inherently more secure than the outer yards; it saw little activity beyond a patrol of two that passed through a few times a night. And because only the advisors and Inquisitor herself knew of the existence of Morrigan's Eluvian no additional security measures were placed to protect it. Just a wooden door with a simple lock. The thought being that anything more complex might arouse suspicion — and though Leliana ran a tight ship between aggressive vetting and her network of spies, one could never be too careful when it came to the storage of such an artifact.

Solas and Ellana made their way to the garden without incident. Passing only one guard as they exited the main hall. He nodded respectfully — disinterested — it was not yet so late that a walk about the grounds with a friend could be considered unusual. Once out of the couple's eyesight, he surreptitiously returned his attention to a book he had secreted away in his armour.

The garden smelled of sweet spring flowers; roses and jasmine. Night blooms heralding the end of spring, with only a crisp breeze blowing in from snow-capped mountains to remind them of the harsh winter that came before. A single lantern hung in the centre of the yard, its wick burned to a low flicker, but it was the light of the waxing moon amid a shower of stars that drew long shadows on the ground.

All things considered, it was a beautiful evening. Mild and quiet. The sort of setting one takes a lover to. A romantic stroll for sharing whispered words and fevered kisses. Quick fingers seeking bare skin to warm each other with the promise of a tryst. It was a thought that made Ellana that much more uncomfortable.

Their presence felt… awkward. Having struck some strange balance between lovers and not. A relationship too new to have yet built the foundation of time and trust needed to assure that an obstacle caused only temporary strain. In this state of limbo, she was hyperaware of every glance, sigh and sound. Every accidental brush of his hand as he walked beside her. How easily they fell in step, and how close they pressed. The way his hand twitched when she rubbed her shoulders to block the chill. Too near, yet not near enough.

When they came to the storeroom door, Solas took a step ahead and removed the lock from its hinge. Holding it in his palm as he flipped the latch open. Careful not to move too quickly, lest the sound of the creaking door carry far enough to attract attention.

"It was unlocked?" Ellana queried, eyeing him as he pushed the door wide.

"I came by earlier," he replied, choosing not to elaborate further. The statement raised a number of questions, first and foremost how he would have gained access to the keys that only Leliana and Morrigan possessed. And without their notice. She had doubts that magic — even advanced spells — could unlock a door. But ultimately she decided to let it lie; the detail felt unimportant before the promise of ancient secrets and conscious walks in the places between the Fade and waking world.

Once inside, Solas put the padlock in his pocket and pulled the door closed. Then raised two fingers and drew a half-circle in the air. The act conjured a complicated series of interwoven circles and lines that glowed upon the wooden surface and disappeared a second later. When he turned around, Ellana had him pinned with a questioning look.

His answers came much more easily now than they had before. "A minor illusion, and ward," he offered. "To an observer it will appear the lock remained untouched, and the door will be difficult to open if tried. The ward will alert me should someone attempt to tamper with the spell. We would do well not to raise the suspicion that someone may have learned of, and tried to gain access to, the Eluvian."

She nodded. Murmured quietly, "Smart." Then was struck with another thought. "How did you come to know it was here?"

"Aside from being able to sense the aura of the artifact?" he countered. That should have been obvious. "It was brought in by several men directly beneath the room where I sleep. It would have been difficult not to notice." There was the first hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. A twitch, and a curl. The first she'd seen in days. She could not help but return it.

It took much less effort for Solas to activate the Eluvian than Morrigan, she noted. Requiring a movement that could barely be called a wave of his hand, performed almost absently, compared to the witch's aggressive two-handed thrust. She had forced the mirror open like a strong wind rattles a barn door, where he gave no more than a light push. Regardless, it blazed to life just the same, filling the small room with a bright blast of light and a crack as the magical barrier broke open. Once the surface had calmed to a gentle roll, Solas gave Ellana a nod and stepped forward. She followed on his heels.

The mirror's surface clung to her skin when she emerged from the other side. An odd sensation conjuring images of soap bubbles; tension peeling away from wet fingers. Childhood memories of the way she used to play in the washing tub instead of doing the chores she'd been assigned. The first breath she took on the other side felt clear and light, filling her with a strange sense of relief. As though she'd had a weight on her chest and not known it until this moment. She'd noticed the feeling the first time she'd come as well, with Morrigan. Though she'd not thought to mention it then, too enraptured with the discovery of the spaces between.

Solas was waiting for her off to one side. Nodded his acknowledgment once she stepped free of the mirror, and then gestured for her to follow him down one of the paths between the darkened Eluvians.

She kept pace with him, but only barely. Finding herself easily distracted by their surroundings; an environment that was at once alien and familiar. Not unlike the way it felt to visit the memory of Skyhold in the dream Solas had crafted for her. But it was more than just the fact she'd been here once before.

This place drew her.

Called.

Shook loose some spark hidden deep in her chest that was nurtured by the very act of moving along the crumbling walkways. Despite the desolate landscape of shrouded fog, and the distant horizon fading into infinity, it gave her a sense of comfort to be here.

"What did you call this place?" she asked after a time. Knowing it only by the no-doubt-incorrect title Morrigan had come up with.

"Bel viren," Solas replied in melodic Elvish. "It means—"

But Ellana supplied the answer for him, "Many paths."

That awarded her another smile. "Yes," he affirmed. Carefully manoeuvring over the remains of a shattered mirror, and the broken stones that had reclaimed it. Explaining as he walked. "Once, there were many of these places. They acted as a nexus: connecting cities, homes, locations of import or repositories of memory. We rarely travelled outside them; often only for a hunt or to explore. They were often full of travellers, particularly in times of important events or ceremony." With wistful sadness, he added, "It was rare to see them sparsely populated, let alone empty."

Presently, they passed a pair of tilted Eluvians that stood out amid the neat rows of their brethren. The mirrors supported each other by precarious balance of angle and broken stonework. One appeared to be melting into the other, one corner missing where it met with the surface of its twin. Both were long dark, shattered, and surrounded by coils of petrified vines. Cracked stone skin scattered with thorns and strange leaves. It gave way to dust when Ellana stepped on it.

Strange remnants of a once-living crossroads, now nothing but gravestones and old bones.

They travelled for what seemed like hours, largely in silence. Solas leading one step ahead, guided either by strength of purpose or clarity of ancient memory. He strode down the twisted, dizzying paths with confidence, and rarely stopped to find his bearings, while she could not tell the difference from one area to the next until their surroundings began to change.

The further they walked, the more the environment shifted from dreary grey and broken stone, to soft earth and bare trees. Not long after, Ellana spied the first breath of life she'd seen since they arrived: a soft, baby pink blossom growing on the end of a twisted branch. Beyond it stood a sapling with half a dozen. After another quarter hour spent travelling, the trees around them sported hundreds.

In contrast, the path they'd followed from the Eluvian had become fragmented. Broken. As though what powers sustained this place could only support one or the other: beauty or stability. It was brighter here and more vibrant, but travel had become treacherous. This deep into the crossroads their surroundings were a patchwork of floating dirt paths, carved stairs, fragments of ancient structures and perilous edges that threatened to drop them into an infinite well of clouds and sky. The setting had become a beguiling, twisted landscape; it was as though someone had reached through each Eluvian and taken a handful of what lay beyond to pull into this plane. Stitched them all together in a piece-meal approximation of ancient Elvhen realms.

Through it all was the distant roar of rushing water. Quiet at first, growing louder the more displaced the environment became. Soon they passed pools of stagnant water dotted with petals fallen from the trees, then lazy streams that gave way to churning rapids and waterfalls that cut through the jigsaw of stonework, disappearing somewhere below them.

When they passed a river that flowed upward into the sky Ellana was moved to stop and stare. Solas was 30 paces ahead before he noticed, turned round and came back to join her. Following her gaze to the impossible waterfall.

"What happened here?" she asked, unable to tear her eyes from the spectacle. "Is this because of the Veil?"

"Mostly, yes," answered Solas. "These spaces do not occur naturally. They were constructed for the convenience of the Elvhen people by means of powerful magic. As neither waking nor dreaming, their existence relied on the flow of magic between these planes. Once the Veil was raised, and that flow stymied, there was no means to support it. Over millennia, they have deteriorated. Some areas, like that which we first entered, have withstood remarkably well. I imagine due to the fact that so many Eluvians were placed there, and continued to be used for some time before being lost or destroyed. Other areas, like this one, hold only a few remaining mirrors that lead to other constructed planes. With no firm hold on the waking world, they've become… confused. The barriers between the constructed planes weaken, and eventually disappear. What was held within them begins to spill into this middle realm. Ultimately, it will all collapse upon itself.

"There—" He took hold of her shoulder in one hand, and pointed to a floating island with the other. "—do you see part of a room over there? The floor is made from another structure. They are not from the same building, but have merged together through the collapsing of the boundaries between the spaces they occupied."

Ellana followed his direction to the strange little room in the distance. Blown apart with walls standing askew, platforms and windows from other places jutting out at all angles. Water flowed from an open window, pooled in the centre of the room and disappeared somewhere else. Never quite collecting enough to overflow.

Behind them came a sudden crack, loud as a thunderbolt and far too close for comfort. Ellana spun round, searching for the origin, but found only the same scatter of the floating islands and pieces of buildings that surrounded them. Then, on closer inspection, she saw the source: a chunk of the stone wall to their right had broken off. But instead of falling to the ground it simply began to float away. Slowly spinning in place.

Curious, she picked up a small stone from near her feet and lobbed it at the debris. But in spite of the power she put into the throw, its speed slowed to a crawl just before impact. Stopping just short of hitting it. It floated, still, as though placed by divine hand. Frozen in some pocket of space where neither time nor gravity had an effect.

Perhaps being drawn to this place was not as harmless a compulsion as she'd originally thought.

Solas' fingers touched on the small of her back, just for a second, before he pulled his hand away. "Come," he said. "We're almost there."

The Eluvian they found at the end of their journey was larger than the others. Its surface rolling and churning with active magic. A door that had never quite been closed. It stood, ageless and simmering with quiet power, begging their entry.

Around it were piles of books. Torn, cracked and bent, though a scattered few seemed to have remained untouched by the force that split the sky. Here, it seemed even the most ancient detritus was spared the rot and decay that centuries of exposure would normally have wrought. However, the books that survived offered no hint of what secrets they contained; their spines blank, covers wrapped in fabric or cured leather. No titles nor authors. Not even a single Elvish rune. Similar, she thought, to the book of old stories she'd found on Solas' desk when this all began.

A few were stacked in small piles off to one side, presumably to clear a path to the Eluvian they stood before. Though most were scattered about, face down with pages curled, as though thrown outward from the mirror by a great blast of wind or magic. Skidding along the dirt path in all directions and gathering in corners like paper cobwebs.

Solas seemed unmoved by the scene, and she followed his lead. As dangerous as it appeared she trusted he would not blindly lead her into peril.

He made to walk through the mirror ahead of her, but thought better of it and offered a hand for Ellana to hold. She took it without hesitation, and allowed herself to be pulled through.

Nothing could have prepared her for the sight that lay beyond.

Her bared feet touched upon a marble floor; it was the first thing she was aware of once she emerged on the other side. Smooth, yet warm to the touch. Sensation that begged her toes to curl. The environment was pleasantly warm. Torches and fireplace alike sported blazing flame, as though lit mere moments before in anticipation of their arrival. The wood and oil that sustained them still full, untouched, and she wondered if the fire even required fuel at all.

She was surrounded on three sides by towering shelves filled with books, far taller than she could reach though she saw no ladders to assist. Small piles of the mysterious tomes they held clustered on the floor near the edges of the walls, laying still where they'd fallen centuries before. Where a fourth wall should have been, there was nothing but a gaping hole. Through which she saw more floating islands, statuary, bits of paths and endless sky. Above her, in the distance, was a similar court filled with the same bookshelves and decor, floating upside-down. And before her, a path of broken stones and stairs that invited her further into the realm.

It was larger, and more beautiful, than any ruin she had ever seen. Earth tones and stone walls blended seamlessly to create stunning patterns on ceiling and floors. By the wall stood tables and chairs crafted by the hand of one whose technique was lost to ages. In the centre of the upside-down courtyard was a fountain of flowing water that ran from the spout of a carved statue. Somehow unaffected by the inversion.

Awe-struck and overwhelmed by the grandeur she made her way forward, out beyond the confines of the three-walled room they'd entered. Feet moving on their own volition, carrying her down a path that led to a crumbling archway. She passed a wood-carved table that stood next to the last shelves in the room. It held an array of books, stones, and — most disturbingly — a partial skeleton. The remains of its arms held outward, clinging to the polished surface while hip and leg bones gathered in a pile beneath. Its skull turned to one side, jaw crooked and agape in silent wail. Empty sockets seemed to follow her as she walked.

A chilling reminder of what tragedy was dealt to those who lived in Solas' time.

Morbid curiosity nearly made her stop to investigate it further, but superstition won out in the end. Her outstretched fingers stilled, hovering just above the bone, before recoiling.

Leave the dead where they lie.

Ahead, beyond the remains of the path she was upon, was another room. Larger — much larger — and adorned with artworks and supplicating statues of eagles, dragons, bears and wolves. Images of worship to placate a disdainful pantheon of pretender-gods. They were carved of dark stone. Or — no — gold? Light glinted off the surface of wings, paws and talons, casting a warm glow upon the shelves that surrounded them.

With her eyes locked on the majesty in the distance, she did not notice the spirit until it greeted her.

"Andaran atish'an mithadra Elvhen," said a soft, feminine voice.

Startled, Ellana spun round and instinctively reached for the bow at her back, only to find nothing there. It had been left in the tower bedroom at Skyhold; she'd been under the impression they would not encounter anything on their journey. With a sharp curse, she stumbled backward a few steps and took a defensive stance near a rock wall.

But the spirit made no move to pursue her. If anything, it seemed bound to the location it appeared upon. Translucent body floating in place, flickering like a candle, waiting patiently for… something. A returned greeting, or perhaps a question? She'd never seen a spirit quite like this one; neither aggressive nor curious. It was as much intriguing as unsettling. Faceless and formless, its body was little more than smokey outline of chest and arms. Palms held outstretched in welcome, blank face turned toward her. It bobbed up and down, silent and expectant.

It had greeted her in Elvish, she realized belatedly, suggesting that it might await her answer in the same. She took a single step toward it, wet her lips and, "A-andaran atish'an," she returned with a nod of respect. Nervous tongue catching on the words.

The spirit did not respond.

Solas stepped forward in her place — she'd nearly forgotten he was there — and held up a hand. "Atisha, Ghil'Dirthalen," he greeted the spirit softly. It replied in kind, and what they said beyond that was lost to Ellana. A fluent stream of ancient Elvish she couldn't possibly keep up with. She caught only a word here or there amid the short exchange. The most notable of which was, 'Speak' and, 'Friend'.

A moment later the spirit answered Solas in unaccented Common, "Honoured Elvhen, I will speak so your guest will understand." It turned in place, facing Ellana once more. "I am Ghil'Dirthalen: 'one who guides seekers of knowledge true'. I am Study."

She passed an uneasy glance between it and Solas, unsure of how to proceed. No spirit she'd ever encountered possessed the power of speech with such clarity — or any speech at all, really. And though Solas had often talked of intelligent spirits that mingled freely with the Elvhen people, Cole remained the only 'living' example she'd seen of such a thing. And this 'Study' had far less cohesion than he, it seemed.

Solas gave her a nod. "This is the Vir Dirthara," he explained. Sweeping an arm wide to encompass all within their view. "A repository of Elvhen wisdom and memory, both past and present. What remains here is the lived experience of those who witnessed the rise and fall of Elvhenan." He gestured to the spirit. "Study and its kin were the curators of that knowledge. They are keen to share it, as was the purpose that drove them to first inhabit this place."

"This is a connecting place," offered Study eagerly, adding, "I knew all, once. Now broken; only fragments or knowledge new, since the fall." It paused, sputtering for a moment as if stuck on a reply. Its form flaring and fading in turns. Finally it stabilized. "Apologies. Apologies, I will try to answer your questions to the best of my ability."

"I…" Ellana hesitated, glancing again to Solas for guidance. Of course she had questions — too many to count — but to stand before a spirit of Study in this ancient, undiscovered place was overwhelming. Each time she reached for some curiosity, her tongue stumbled over the words and she'd find herself struck dumb by her circumstance. Eventually she managed to sputter out a clumsy, "How do we get to the main room?" and gestured to the covered courtyard floating beyond the path. It was further away than she originally thought; at least 300 paces if not more. And between them was a sheer drop into the void below.

If Study was offended by the query it did not show it, replying with a matter-of-fact, "Raise the paths." As if the answer were so obvious.

When she looked again to Solas for clarification, she found he was already headed toward a wayward pile of stone bricks and large, flat rocks. Descending a hidden staircase down toward the remnants of another Eluvian, where he had a better view of the chasm they needed to bridge.

He raised a palm upward, fingers curled, and levitated one of the large standing stones. Fist and rock glowed a faint blue as he directed it from the lower platform where he stood, to the space where the path they'd taken had crumbled into nothing. Once satisfied with its position, he reached for another, then another after that, and so on until the first half of the chasm was crossable.

The spells he cast seemed effortless here; more so than when she saw him on the battlefield. While he was much more powerful than most mages she'd encountered, he still relied heavily on his staff to channel and direct the magic he wielded. It was rare she saw him cast without it, and even then only small spells. Fire to light a torch, or a chill to douse. Nothing so grand as a flick of the wrist to casually reshape the earth and rubble to carve a stable path for them to cross. Such feats required lyrium potions and powerful staves enchanted with runes and gems.

Study's voice pulled Ellana from her reverie. "Know what has not been lost."

She blinked, turning to the spirit. "I'm sorry?"

"Know this," it continued, oblivious to her confusion in its excitement to speak with another, "Many were trapped here when the material and Fade were sundered. Paths broke. I preserve their last words. Do you wish to hear them?"

Ellana considered the request. Morbid, surely — but her curiosity got the better of her. And so, hesitantly, "Alright," she replied.

The spirit's once pleasant, melodic voice turned shrill. Angry, and afraid. "'How could the Dread Wolf cast a Veil between the world that wakes and the world that dreams?'

'The Evanuris will send people! They will save us!'

'What is this Veil? What has Fen'Harel done?'

'I will end him.'

'What happened? Where are the paths? Where are the paths? Gods save me, the floor is gone. Do not let me fall. Do not let me—" And abruptly, it quieted. Allowing the silence to stretch on just long enough to feel dreadfully ominous. "On this spot, that is all."

The revelation chilled her to her bone.

Voices of the dying. The long dead and long forgotten from thousands of years before history was written. Trapped by curse of circumstance in this shattered construct and sentenced to live their last moments in fear. In anger. In betrayal. Collateral damage from a desperate act that both saved and doomed the rest of their people.

How many had been here when the Veil rose?

How long did it take them to waste away?

It was then that she noticed another pile of bones beyond the spirit. Mixed up with broken stone. Several ribs curled out from beneath the rubble, along with part of a skull. The back of it was crushed, pressed flat against the ground beneath as though it had fallen from a great height and been shattered by the impact.

Do not let me fall.

It was a wonder, she thought, that the last moments of the dying had not attracted more malevolent spirits to this place. For all the wonder and promise it offered to its ancient visitors, it would be remembered as a graveyard.

A hand touched her shoulder.

The sudden contact giving her such a start that she jumped. Pressing an open palm to her mouth to catch the choked gasp she gave as she spun round to face Solas. His eyes slipped from hers, to the spirit behind her, the bones on the ground, and back. "I've repaired the path," he said. "We can reach the main room. It is home to most of the tomes this place holds."

As grateful as she was for the distraction, there was an immediate problem with his idea. "I would love to see them but I can barely read Elvish, Solas. Unless they're made for children I doubt I could enjoy them the way you do."

"You do not need to read to understand. The tomes here are not like those you'd find in libraries across Thedas today. They are…" he paused to consider his words, frowning. "It would be easier to show you. Come."

Moments later they stood before one of the larger shelves. Packed end to end with books of all shapes and sizes. Solas walked along the rows, searching. Fingertips barely brushing the spines; a touch soft and delicate as though he were caressing an old lover. In that moment, it was not hard to see how he belonged there. A man out of time, at home in this place between present and past.

He pulled one of the books out by its spine, flipped the cover open and scanned the pages. Then, apparently satisfied with his choice, he offered it to Ellana. She took it, but regarded him with open skepticism. With her studies still in their infancy her ability to read Elvish was severely limited at best; a novel of this size was far beyond her skillset. Yet, Solas was watching her expectantly. Waiting for what would surely be an embarrassing attempt to read it.

But she chose to give him the benefit of the doubt; cradled the tome in one hand, and opened the cover.

Walking amidst a group of Elves packed into a tight hallway he pushes forward. Manoeuvring gently past some but outright shoving those that do not step aside when he politely asks. It is dark and musty. The mage lights in the ceiling provide poor lighting and he's relying on the path of those in front of him to ensure he does not get lost in the twists and turns.

Finally, he reaches the mouth of the colosseum, and the sight before him is just as he'd imagined. Thousands are already here, with thousands more still pouring in from each of the dozen entrances. The size, impossibly huge — seats filling rapidly with other Elves come to watch the festivities. Most do not seem near as excited as he; it is likely they have seen the display a hundred times. But he is young, and new, and has not had the opportunity to attend lavish balls and ceremony.

The air is crisp and warm, the sky painted with reds and golds as the sun begins to set, and he can smell the food and drink wafting in the air. Hear the anxious murmur of thousands. See the faces of all that surround him.

He does not find a seat, instead stays pressed against the rails that separate the performers from the audience. Rapt with attention. Ready to stay hours, months, years; an entire lifetime would not be enough to take in all the wonder of—

Ellana was torn out of the scene by the sound of the cover flipping shut. Thrust violently back into awareness as though she'd been asleep for hours and lost in a deep dream. Her vision swam, eventually focusing on Solas' hand where it rest atop the book still held between her own. Holding the cover in place. The experience happened so fast, and with such intensity, that she was left dizzied and confused. For the first few seconds she couldn't quite remember where she was or how she'd managed to get there.

Vertigo made her take a clumsy step backward, stumble, and find her bearings with the help of Solas' firm grip on her shoulders. She blinked up at him, bewildered. "What on— what the fuck was that?"

He hid a smile in pursed lips. Coughed to cover a laugh. "That was one of the many tomes you'll find in this place," he answered. "They are memories. Experiences. That one is of a young man attending his first festival with his family."

"Are they all like this?" Ellana asked, eyes wide.

He nodded, his smile growing. "Yes, for the most part."

She could not hide her growing excitement. "How long do we have here before dawn?"

"As long as you like," Solas replied. "Here, time does not pass the way it does in the material plane. This is a construct; you could spend days and be gone mere hours. Though I would not recommend it. Exhaustion will catch up to you long before that."

The admission successfully quelled any lingering doubts she had about the books. Bursting with curiosity, and free to explore the library at her leisure, Ellana burned through the shelves around her. Taking down book after book to experience. Running her fingers along the paper and ink to lose herself in the pages. While she did not understand much of what she experienced, the emotional impact alone made it worth any confusion.

War, joy, grief, art, family and foe; memories both enthralling and mundane.

Maps, roads, poetry and philosophy.

From long forgotten ancestors a trove of wonder was left behind. One not even Thedas' most accomplished scholars of Elvish lore could ever have dreamed to find. All the pride and folly of the Elvhen people, before the collapse of their society, and she alone standing in the ruins of their greatest library to rediscover it.

Each book assaulted her senses with a flurry of images, sensation, smells and sounds; as though by simply glancing at the pages the experience itself was imprinted upon her own memory. Some were disconnected and difficult to discern, like that of some sort of theatre where people came and left at will while spirits imparted knowledge and experience. A school, perhaps. The memories were fragments made up by the thousands of elves who had come and gone during the time this particular spirit was present, and when they all came at her at once it was impossible to separate them into something coherent and linear.

Others were much sharper. Like that she found in a book containing the memory of two young children running over hills and fields to chase a playful spirit. It left her heart pounding and breath shallow, with an irresistible urge to do the same.

She glanced over her shoulder and found Solas leafing through a book of his own, leaning his back against the shelf. He seemed largely unaffected by comparison. His expression changing only slightly as he read; a twitch of his lip or pull of his brow, but nothing near so intense as what she felt.

It must be easier, she thought, clearer. The books were created by and for Elvhen, and she was not attuned to magic the way he was. Perhaps ease came with literacy.

Turning, she pulled another from the shelf. A moderately sized book with a deep red cover that seemed to exude a sense of intensity even before she even opened it. She slipped a finger between two pages at random, and began to read.

They come together as lovers in a fiery embrace; rolling and twisting, burning hot and endless. So lost that nothing else can exist around them. Only promises, and whispered words. Oaths and praises. Heat betwixt thighs, in bellies and on breath. Bodies shifting to accommodate each other, to bring the greatest pleasure and the wildest passion. Peaks and valleys, breath and sigh, years lost to love without a thought for what lay beyond the boundaries of their beds. Alive, in love, with no obligations but to each other.

In her surprise, she dropped the book. It landed with a clap, open and face down upon the floor. She pressed a palm to her chest and felt the pounding of her heart beneath it, and the warmth of a guilty flush upon her skin. She stared at the tome and it's crumpled pages, and at once felt both unsettled and terribly curious about what the rest of it might hold.

The sudden gasp had caught Solas' attention. He was looking at her with brows raised in inquiry, but the shock of the experience had left her momentarily too stunned to supply an answer to the obvious question.

Taking her silence as invitation, Solas approached and bent to retrieve the book at her feet. As he stood, he turned it over in his hands and glanced at the pages. "Ah," he commented, and closed it. The knowing curl of his lip as he handed the book back to her brought the flush into the apples of her cheeks.

She cleared her throat, joking, "Is this the Elvhen equivalent of erotica?"

"More like voyeurism," he quipped, the smile growing playful. "I'm sure there were many others."

"Books, or readers to enjoy it?"

He smirked. "Both, I imagine."

Rather than risk embarrassing herself any further, she merely hummed a reply, and ran a thumb along the book's textured cover before replacing it upon the shelf above her. A little regretfully. When she turned back, Solas was already taking down another tome to peruse, gratefully choosing not to call any more attention to her fluster. Still, her interest was piqued, and with this taste of the experience of lovers in Elvhenan, a question nagged at her persistently enough to give it voice.

She cleared her throat to get his attention. "Was it always like that?"

Solas glanced up from the tome he'd chosen. "Was what always like that?"

"Love," she answered, her inquisitive spirit lending her the confidence not to falter. "Sex. Was it always such an experience?"

She'd expected him to be put off by her question, given his penchant for modesty and the shaky ground they were on, but instead he seemed surprisingly receptive to her broaching the topic. Perhaps happy just to share the knowledge.

He tilted his head in thought before offering her a tactful reply, "It could be," he said. "It was—" Pausing, he turned the words over in his mind. Considering the potential implications of what answer he gave and how it might reflect upon their experiences. "Different.

"Sex between lovers was not the same as that between two individuals who desired little more than a passing encounter, nor that for the purposes of procreation."

"How so?"

He closed his tome and tucked it under an arm, giving her his full attention. "When choosing to create a child a pair must shift focus away from simply the experience of each other, and toward the interests of new life. It requires a level of vulnerability, desire and familiarity between the pair that would not be present in another situation. While not less enjoyable, the direction and impact of that experience is felt differently. One cannot be compared to the other."

Ellana folded her arms, countering with a flippant, "So which was the best?"

The sheer gall of the question rewarded her with a little quirk of his mouth in the pause before he answered. "That between lovers."

"How romantic," she remarked, her tone touched by a note of good-natured sarcasm. "For any particular reason or simply because it was poetic?"

"Connection," he replied simply. A single raised brow queried him for a more detailed explanation. He placed the tome under his arm upon a nearby stack of books to free both hands, and then held them out before him, palms facing his chest, and touched his fingertips together. "The deeper the bond between lovers, the easier it is to share sensation; to stoke or sate desire." Slowly, he slid his hands together. Fingers entwining until they rested against the back of opposite hands. "To put it simply, a pair in love have a deeper connection to each other than that of ones merely infatuated, and so are able to use that connection to manipulate the magic within each other in a way that others cannot."

She frowned, blurting out, "But I am not a mage," before she could think better of it. It was impossible not to draw upon the experience of their first night together, and she was left rather baffled by the implications of his use of the spell. Not so much because he was able to heighten her pleasure when they were intimate, but that she was able to feel his own.

He gave her a pointed look. "You do not need to be proficient in magic to feel its effects."

It was a fair point.

"Additionally, you are an Elf; magical affinity is in your nature. The fact that you have not used magic in the past does not prevent you from doing so in the future." He gestured to her marked hand. "Using the anchor to close rifts may not take the form of a cast spell, but it is a use of magic nonetheless, and requires some skill to learn. To manipulate it, you must be aware of its existence within you, and direct it toward a target — in most cases, a rift — at will."

Ellana's gaze fell to her palm, considering his words as she turned her hand back and forth. The explanation made sense in theory, but she felt no different for it. The mark seemed to act on its own accord; there was no forethought, no conscious summoning of power involved in the act of closing rifts. She merely raised her hand and it happened. All by itself. When the rift was gone, the anchor returned to its inert state until she happened across another.

Furthermore, the mark regularly caused her pain from the sputters and sparks it threw out when she was in the vicinity of demons or strong magic. One would think that if she had even a modicum of control over it her want to soothe the pain caused by those encounters would have some notable impact on it. Instead, she was no better at wielding the thing now than she was when she first awoke in the Chantry dungeon.

Mages are trained in magical use for years in the Circles, she mused, perhaps with similar time to study I could come to understand it better.

But…

"You said that, in the end, the mark would consume me," she said quietly.

His face fell, and in his woe he offered only a reluctant, "Yes," as reply.

Her fingers curled into a fist, and held. Nails digging crescents into her palm until the bite of pain overpowered the thrum of energy she'd felt in her arm since first stepping foot into the crossroads. The Fade granted her a heightened awareness of the magic that cursed her skin, but offered no more ability to use it than she had in the material plane. Even here in a realm crafted by the same ancient magic that flowed through her veins she was given nothing.

No greater understanding, no brilliant insight into her magical kin, or connection to the gifts they wielded with such ease.

That Solas wielded with such ease.

And there was no time to find it; not the way she could have were she his kin.

For the first time, she felt the weight of her own mortality as an anchor, and it frightened her. A sudden awareness of how short and insignificant her life would be compared to those who once walked these halls. There would never be enough time, and everything she'd experienced since leaving her people had only accelerated what little she had left.

She did not notice Solas move closer to her until his hands had slipped around her own, cradling her fist between them. Fingertips tracing a path over blanched knuckles and pulling gently, urging her to open for him. When she obliged, a warm light blossomed from his palms, and sank into the marks she'd left in her skin. They disappeared at once, leaving no trace behind. Not even the comforting pinch of pain the injury had offered her.

"I will do everything in my power to prevent any further harm from coming to you," he began solemnly. Admitting, "Though I cannot take back that which I have already caused." He reached up to tuck an errant curl behind her ear, his touch lingering on her neck for just a few seconds too long to be seen as innocent. Though she did not rebuff his affection, she did not return it either. Not yet. And so Solas did not linger, and once more wrapped his hands around her own.

"My hopes for retrieving the orb no longer rest solely with the restoration of the Elvhen people. I would see you safe from the effects of the anchor before I could move forward."

"But you would still move forward," she lamented, willing the tide of frustration and grief to not lend itself to another argument. It seemed they were doomed to go in circles and she was determined not to make another turn around this one. "You would still carry out this plan without hesitation and risk the lives of countless others beyond me. My friends. Your friends. Have you even given any thought to any of the things I said to you in the Fade?"

The reply he gave was not the one she was expecting. "Yes, I have."

"You have?" she challenged, cautious.

"What you are suggesting, I am not sure is possible," Solas admitted. "Even my own understanding of how to bring down the Veil is limited to theories at best. The consequences of its destruction, little more than an educated guess. The timeline was expedited by Corypheus' rise to power and his continued possession of the orb, but should we succeed in defeating him and retrieving it, it may unlock enough of my power to be able to use it to slow the anchor's growth. If I were successful, and the chaos of the fall of the Inquisition averted, it would leave me with significantly more time to employ a… different strategy, if one could be found."

Ellana regarded him with measured care, weighing present sincerity against past defensiveness. "What has changed?"

"You," he answered with a nod. "You were… unexpected. Before I met you— loved you—" Solas corrected, "—my goal was clear. Those I encountered following my awakening I felt no affinity toward, and there was no reason to alter my plans to accommodate them. A world filled with people lacking the conscious connection to the Fade was a world of ghosts, and I owed them no favour. But you have become important to me, and through that you have shown that there was more to this place.

"It is not your fault that Elves lost what they did. All of the history, the knowledge of your people was left behind in places like this one. In our arrogance we thought it safe from the conflict, we thought our empire invincible… until the day it wasn't. So much was lost when I raised the Veil, and the paths between these places disappeared. With no one to cultivate the knowledge, truths turned to rumour, turned to story, turned to legend. Degrading, as it passed from generation to generation. What little the Dalish have left is a pantomime of history, but it is more than most would have been able to preserve beneath the force of genocide and targeted oppression.

"You are not all that you should have been, you are different, and… I did not give the consideration I should have to what grew from the remains. This is something I must see to its end." Solas gave her hand a gentle squeeze, hesitating in the uncertain space between them. "But it is also something that is worth considering carefully."

For that, she had no reply ready, and could only stare in silence. Eyes searching his own. Moved by the sincerity of his words and the humility with which he spoke of his mistakes. Beneath all his arrogance and pride he was as lost as the rest of them, and within that was perhaps the chance for him to see the world as an equal. It was a balm on her weary heart, and an ease off the weight she carried for an identity she could not reconcile with all she'd learned in such a short time.

Somehow, their fingers had become entwined. She squeezed his hand and, "Alright," she said. Low and quiet; reverent in this setting of majesty and misery, where he had humbled himself before her.

In a time too old to be remembered, this place was full of beauty and wonder. Long ago reduced to a mausoleum; a monument to his miscalculation. He'd brought her here both to show her the legacy of her ancestors, and the far-reaching effects of his choice to raise the veil. This place with its upside-down courtyards and crumbling walls made for apt symbolism of the guilt he carried with him, always.

There was so much she could give voice to, but no words would come, so she settled on holding tight to the embrace instead.

She could not say who first began to move, but suddenly they were both leaning in, lips meeting in a soft kiss. Tender, and slow; with heat to soothe bruised hearts rather than stoke a flame. Something gentle, and vulnerable. Solas brought up one hand and ran two fingers along the curve of her jaw, then cradled it in his palm. Thumb resting against her bottom lip as he pulled away.

When the silence grew too long, "Thank you for showing me this place," she murmured.

His eyes searched hers, a moment spent in silence as he measured his reply. Ultimately choosing not to say more. Anything he could have offered would fall short of his intention. This was a sacred place; a memorial to a people, lost. Words could do no justice to the wonder, and the pain it represented.

Time passed. She could not be sure how much they spent amid the endless shelves with their curious books, but the night had taken its toll on her by the time they returned to Skyhold. The puddles of wax in silver candleholders on the tables suggested it was well past midnight. The fortress was virtually empty. Silent in the wee hours when not a soul was left awake to wander.

Solas offered no protest when Ellana urged him toward the tower, and took him to bed. Too tired for anything beyond falling asleep together; enjoying the warmth of his skin and the gentle weight of his arms around her.

She slept soundly, curled against his chest, drifting off to the beat of his heart beneath her ear. Savouring each breath that moved his chest, and what the time they had to hold each other until he slipped away with the dawn rising over the mountains.

---

End of part one.

Thank pushtheheart for the fact that this story is continuing from here, because originally it was going to end - permanently - at this chapter, instead of opening a whole new narrative with the next. Stay tuned, next chapter is a timeskip. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

TRANSLATIONS:

Andaran atish'an mithadra Elvhen = This is how the library spirit greets you in game, but there's no official translation that I can find. Closest is, "Enter this place in peace, honoured Elvhen".
Atisha = Peace