A/N: My apologies for the jumps, but it didn't feel right to cut this anywhere but where I ended it. Thank you for your patience during the brief hiatus; I had a lot of personal projects I had to deal with before I could finish this chapter. I hope it was worth the wait. :-X

The sound of a book, thrown in anger, striking the floor before skidding to a stop against a marble statue broke the months of silence that had preceded it. The impact echoed in the empty realm; a lonely note with only a single pair of ears to hear.

Solas was not prone to such displays. He was wiser. Better, than to lose his temper and demean himself by behaving as a petulant child would when they succumbed to frustration.

But this? This had worn him down.

Days and nights equivalent worth of time spent in the shattered remains of the Vir Dirthara. Searching, reading, thinking, hoping. Desperate, and growing increasingly more so each time he returned to Skyhold with nothing to show for his quest but empty hands and wasted time. The frustration finally proved too much when yet another lead turned false. A promising one, he'd thought — perhaps naively.

Or perhaps this task had begun to drive him mad.

He slid to the floor, defeated. Dragging himself down the side of a bookshelf that dug uncomfortably into his back when he came to rest at its base, head in hands. This wall was all but empty now. Its former contents laying in a spray upon the floor at his feet. Each book removed one by one over the hours and evenings he'd spent secreted away. Stacked neatly at first, given the respect they were due, but as the nights wore on without progress he began dropping them into jumbled towers that tilted and fell into piles like so much refuse. The last dozen he'd read through were face down upon the floor, spines bent, carelessly discarded once he browsed them far enough to know they offered him nothing. Then he'd reach for the next.

How can there possibly be so much, yet offer so little?

Each successive evening of failure brought his fear and doubt into sharper focus. A dire omen looming in the periphery of his thought like a gathering storm: that what he sought could not be found. This archive held mostly knowledge of old; that of Elvhenan, Arlathan, and the thousands of years worth of culture, art and history that the empire had amassed. There were entire rooms of tomes devoted to a single epoch, but precious little of what came after he raised the Veil and tore this place, and the world, asunder.

He'd found an abundance of records on the corporealization of spirits, birth in its dual forms, procreation between Elvhen and what few complications arose from it. Where spirits took form and how others assisted in the crossing over… but there was virtually nothing relevant to his plight. To Ellana's plight. Just a few, scattered, bindings filled with faded pages and vaguely whispered memories of the first few generations that came after the raising.

And thus far, what little he'd gleaned from those was not what he'd hoped to find.

Following the division of Waking and Dreaming, the surviving Elvhen did not venture far from their homelands for hundreds of years. Fear and confusion kept them close to the ruins like little birds too young to leave their nests. It was only the next generations that felt compelled to explore the new world. Still Elf, yet different from their parents in ways they did not yet understand, they set out on their own to forge a new destiny. They were long-lived, but slow to master their skills: they struggled to wield fire and ice with the same ease their kin displayed — and the further they drifted from their ancestral home the less powerful they became.

At first it was the distance they blamed, then the loss of the spaces between to find their way back, but it did not take long for them to realize the heart of the matter: that they'd been born incomplete. Magic did not flow so easily in this world as it had in the one previous, and they were not immune to this as beings born of it. Each new generation possessed less and less prowess, until non-mages began to emerge. Not simply unable to wield the gifts inherent to their existence, but devoid of the magical talent entirely.

Worse, without the connection they began to age. To wither, and sicken, and die.

The first true ancestors of modern elves.

Believed a blight, they were cast out, and the remaining Elvhen went into hiding. Or chose to drift into endless sleep. And like the world that they'd lost, one people were sundered in two. Over the millennia that followed knowledge was lost, history forgotten, and language evolved, until elves and Elvhen became different races entirely… and mages were an uncommon occurrence in the new people. Dreamers: practically non-existent.

There was virtually no record he could find of the two groups intermingling.

More to the point, of the effects it could have on the mortal mother that carried a child born of this union.

It was an impossible notion: outliers existed in all places, in all of history. Even if the idea of such couplings had become so taboo that their occurrence was rare, that was hardly damning evidence that it did not happen at all.

Where there was existence, there was memory. From memory, begat history; and there would be the records it carved. There he would find the knowledge he sought. Hidden somewhere and awaiting discovery, of that he was certain. And so returned night after night in search of it.

Surely here in this library full of all the collected knowledge of his people and the eons of their empirical study there would be something.

Some treatment. Some therapy. Some ritual to mitigate the danger inherent in creating an immortal life with a mortal body.

Anything.

But what memories of the new world that existed in this place were as fragmented and confused as the spirits who tended to them.

Those few leads he'd found were faded, like old tracks he could almost follow onto a path before losing his way, making the task all the more maddening. One in particular showed early promise: a partial memory of one Elvhen man's turmoil over falling in love with a mortal elf, and his grief over the knowledge that he could not create children with them.

Why? What caused this to be a foregone conclusion? Was it injury, age, sickness? Or something more innate?

There has to be more here!

It proved irrelevant when his lover turned out to be male as well: reproduction was not possible between same-sex partners in this world, nor would it have been possible for them regardless if they weren't both Elvhen. An all-together different tragedy.

A few tomes he unearthed a week later contained vague references to the surviving People's awareness of unions between mortals and Elvhen. Unfortunately, those whose memories wrote them held either distain or indifference for the idea, and so lacked any finer understanding that might otherwise have helped him.

But the fact that they existed at all was encouraging.

Post-Veil collected history he'd exhausted before he'd ever thought to come here. Combing Skyhold's archives as well as book lists from libraries in Tevinter, Orlais, Kirkwall, Starkhaven and Nevarra. He'd devoted days to it. Ultimately, none contained any writings pertaining to ancient elves that were remotely useful. Nor even accurate. It was all hearsay, legend, and folklore. Even to Tevinter, the oldest human connection with Elvhen, his kind were a myth at best; mere whispers until the Inquisition met the sentinels left behind at the Temple of Mythal. What record he found of birth among those first encountered by Humans, generations removed from his kin, were related to conquer and slavery… and too reprehensible to endure learning more of.

This night, like so many previous, went to waste following the thread of a sort of journal: a record created by another Elvhen man. But rather than grief for a family he'd not have he wrote instead of long-lived — though ultimately mortal — children born of a mortal woman he could not bring himself to name. There was sadness in his heart, and a sense of inevitability, though for what remained unclear. The era it originated in was unknown, but unlikely to have come from a time following the migration and settling of human tribes, which pointed toward a time period around the first thousand years after the raising. It was this Solas was aiming for, as it was the most probable time to contain what he was after: Elf with Elvhen.

Infuriatingly, the journal proved… incomplete. There was no other word to describe it. Large sections made blank by gaps in memory, time, or some outside force whose effects he did not understand. These tomes were not made of parchment and leather and yet it was as though pages had been torn from them just the same. What remained was faded, like old writing and distracted thought. Summoning the focus to pull forth any tangible information from it took hours of meditation, and what he gleaned was barely worth the effort.

Imagery that was fleeting and puzzling.

A woman, fevered, and a fixation of the width of her wrist. A smile that always curled one corner of her mouth higher than the other, and how endearing her lover found it. Her sleeping form curled around a swaddled bundle on a bed of straw and animal furs. The smell of old blood and sweat, like an animal's den. A whispered curse, when her attempt to light a fire by spell alone could not be summoned from her hand, and the magic fizzled in her palm.

Scenes from a tapestry wove of any life, any love. There was nothing here to gain. And when his frustration got the better of him he'd thrown the book away. Leaving him adrift once more in the oppressive silence of this broken place.

That an act of such unrepentant temper drew the attention of Study came as a surprise. Though perhaps it should not have… after all it was a spirit who, not unlike Cole, was drawn to the satisfaction of helping others find answers. Insight, if not resolution.

"Do you require assistance?" he heard it ask in Elvish.

Study floated idly before him, curious and innocent in its ethereal form. No emotion drove its inquiry; it was not moved by his plight, nor worried over his turmoil. It sought only the reward of knowledge guided and shared. And so, he did not bother to hide from it the tremor in his voice when he answered.

"I do not believe you can help me," Solas replied. Then, in Common, "I fear the answers I was looking for may not exist. I had thought — had hoped — that I may find them here, in spite of that. But I am afraid I was mistaken. I seek knowledge, old, but from a time after the raising of the Veil. Shared between Elf and Elvhen in what scarce connection they had."

The spirit followed his lead and spoke in a mix of both languages in its next reply. "Here lies the collected memories from before the Veil was cast. What came after, what was not so easily saved, may be found with my kin."

He scoffed. "I have my doubts the facets of Study that reside here will be able to help me any more than you can, my friend."

"Seek Knowledge, true," it replied flatly, as if this answer were so obvious. "There lies what has not yet been curated."

It shouldn't have — he should have been better than to allow it — but the reply rankled. Irritation lent a sharp edge to his voice. "I have searched the knowledge that is held here and it has provided nothing of use to me!"

Infuriating — it did not understand the query and gave him only riddles in return.

This is pointless.

The echo of his own shout informed him of how harsh his voice had become when he lost his temper. Recognizing this, he paused for deep breath. Centred himself. The spirit's shortcomings were not its fault. Study was a mere shade of its former self, with only a fraction of its faculties still left. It would not possibly understand the gravity of what was at stake, or how long he'd struggled for answers already. The onus was on him to make his requests more simple.

He sighed. "My apologies for the outburst, my quarrel is not with you."

In its broken state, it was neither offended nor discouraged by his ire. "Knowledge," it repeated. "Apologies. Apologies. I cannot offer more."

"You are fine as you are," he assured. One hand raised to halt any further attempts it may make toward amends. "I merely—"

Knowledge.

It struck him sure as any blow. The shift between dialects wasn't only to complement his own habit of switching between them, and he'd missed the more subtle inflection as a result.

Eolas.

He repeated the word back to the spirit, with Elvish emphasis on it as a title rather than an idea. "Knowledge?" When Study did not reply, he clarified, "Seek Knowledge?"

"Knowledge true," it replied in his mother tongue, once more taking his cue. "Knowledge gathers what the Library lacks; passes on what it gleans from memory and experience of the People. It assists in the creation of what tomes you find in this place. Knowledge helped to shape the library, but has been silent for so long."

A spirit! Ancient, surely — but powerful, and familiar. No closer brothers were there but Wisdom and Knowledge. And Wisdom had remained his oldest friend until they perished. That familiarity could guide him to its kin.

"Where?" He was on his feet in an instant. It was the best lead he had by far. "Where can I find Knowledge?"

"Unknown."

Of course. The Veil severed the library's connection to the rest of the Dreaming long ago. There was no way for Study, nor any denizen of these places between, to have the faintest idea of the location of any being outside of them today. At best it might hold a vague memory of what spaces it once preferred, thousands of years prior. Not terribly helpful when dealing a spirit as fluid and eager as Knowledge could be. While he'd not met it previously, an educated guess told him it was unlikely to still be lingering in its ancient haunts after all this time.

Although…

Perhaps there were still breadcrumbs left to follow.

"Do you know where they used to be?"

Seeking Knowledge proved a much more difficult challenge than finding Wisdom.

When his friend still lived, he had only to enter the Fade in sleep and recall their studious nature to be drawn together. It mattered not where they'd come to rest, or explore, since the last time he sought them: their connection through a long friendship gifted him an easy path to follow. Furthermore, Wisdom wanted to be found. It was Wisdom's purpose: to be obtained, discussed, shared, and beloved. Their presence in the Fade was magnetic and intriguing, and the quiet power they'd achieved over eons of existence gave them the experience to pose no threat to those few that sought them out. It made it an easy enough task to find them, when he wanted to.

The more chaotic entities, those more dangerous like spirits of Desire or Rage, were even more conspicuous. They possessed an aggressive need to seek their quarry; an existence reduced to hunting mages and Dreamers for a taste of influence, with hope of possession to grow their power. They made their presence known through a mix of gaudy temptation and invasive prowling, always watching for a flare of uncontrolled magic or emotion to latch onto and pull themselves in. One did not seek them out, as much as they found you first.

Such spirits were plentiful, but Solas had more than enough experience and wit to avoid them and make himself unappetizing while he, too, searched.

But Knowledge, as it happened, was elusive. Oddly so.

There were no threads to follow from the Vir Dirthara; if any once existed, they'd long been cut. Study offered few clues to go on other than the vague suggestion to search for the spirit in places deep, and old, where ancient things lie untouched by time and dominion. And undiscovered knowledge was ripe for the taking. Few such places now existed in Thedas, and rarer still were those Solas could easily travel to for the purposes of his quest. His time was precious: limited not just by the gradual decline of Ellana's health but the more pressing fact the longer he stayed away the more likely someone was to notice.

Searching beyond the Library required leaving this plane and moving to a different physical location to enter the Fade. It required finding and dreaming at these places, or near enough to them that he could feel the impressions they left upon the Veil and step inside their memories.

And such places were only reached by way of Eluvians or other, more traditional, means of travel. Which could potentially take hours, or even days, if they were far enough away.

A complication… as he had chosen not to share any of this with Ellana.

Nor had he thought to sell her a plausible lie to cover for his absence, should she discover it.

The hours he spent each night in the library after she retired for the evening were no challenge to hide. A mix of exhaustion and the disinclination to visit him at his door made it easy to slip in and out of his room without alerting her — but potentially travelling for days through the network of mirrors would not go unnoticed. When she realized he'd disappeared she would be furious, and if he was gone long enough she might go to her advisors for assistance in finding him.

It was a calculated risk, but one he resolved to take: this was too important. Better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission, and he would beg her later, should he earn the chance to.

And so, "Ir abelas, vhenan," he whispered aloud as he walked before a row of dark and shattered eluvians. Stopping only once he came to one that stood apart from the others, wrapped with a particularly ornate frame. Familiar, with it's curls of gold, though the decor was now tarnished and dark. The glass cloudy, but unbroken.

Only recently had Solas regained control of this section of the eluvians from Briala, relinquishing it from her possession during the Inquisition's last foray to the Winter Palace where he acted as an agent of his own network in a tense — and private — negotiation. Ultimately, he won his prize, and was relieved to know her spies had not made good use of them prior.

Only the few left ajar, like unlocked doors, had been utilized in the time since the People walked freely along these paths. Most were long dark.

Others, like the one before him, still functioned but required a key — a phrase, act, or the touch of powerful magic — their use reserved only for those specific individuals who could wield it. Their make was always more extravagant: grand entrances created exclusively for the upper class. Doors never meant to open for just any traveller.

It had been an age since he'd needed the use of his once-high status to walk through one.

With a simple gesture, Solas sent a pulse of magic from his palm into the mirror's surface. It set the glass ablaze, and with a crack of energy that echoed through the plane the eluvian roared to life. Absorbing and then bursting with a force it had not felt for thousands of years.

In a place this still, he could sense the way other mirrors reacted to this awakening. A shimmer upon their surfaces or a snap of electric tendrils reaching out for connection, yearning for a taste. Parched for the smallest drop of magic as they lay crumbling, lost to time.

A vision of a stone corridor came into focus — the other side of the path — lit only by the pale light of this realm shining in upon it. With this confirmation that both sides of the door were still in tact, Solas stepped through.

He emerged in an old temple set deep in the uncharted forests of territory once held by his people. The air was musty and thin, and a puff of dust rose with his first step inside. Once the mirror closed behind him he was plunged into total darkness. A small blessing, as it meant no spell had activated upon his arrival — his presence had gone undetected.

He was well within the innermost chambers, he surmised, though the path ahead was unfamiliar. If he'd walked these halls once, it had been far too long since then for him to remember their layout. He had only the vague recollection of needing to head in a northeastern direction to reach another mirror.

Had he the luxury, he might have taken along a journal and mapped the structure. Spent hours, or even days, puzzling out its secrets.

But there was no time for curiosity.

He summoned a ball of fire to hold in his palm for light and headed down the hall. There was no danger here: any wards left behind by supplicants and caretakers had deteriorated long ago. If the holes and scratches in the stonework were any indication, animals had been making homes of the ruin for centuries. He passed more than one along the way: furry spiders lurking in corners and the startled squeak of rodents fleeing from the light. Their presence assured him of his safety as he traversed the ancient halls, though he was not foolish enough to let down his guard completely.

As he walked, he took note of the faded tapestries hung on the walls. Most had almost completely rotted away: what remained was little more than a few ragged scraps hanging on wooden stakes. Preserved by the still air in the depths of the chamber. A pity. The silvery threads from which they'd been crafted with were harvested from creatures long extinct, and the unique patterns of knots and colour used techniques no longer known to this world.

A moment was spared to stop and run his fingers along a ragged edge, marvelling at the feel of the weave and what memories it triggered. Then he pressed himself to move forward.

There was no time for nostalgia, either.

He located the next mirror with little difficulty, and to his relief found it still in tact. Two more followed, setting him along a path he walked with neither direction nor destination but was determined to follow all the same.

Hours passed.

The sun rose and crossed the sky. He quickly lost track of time: the journey had taken him in and out of the spaces between enough times that it was virtually impossible to tell the hour. Time and distance flowed strangely within the eluvians. The Elvhenan empire covered much of the world in his day, and many crossings were built to span its borders. He could cross the world in a matter of hours, should he find the right road to take, or spend months on a meandering path skirting vast forests and glittering lakes. It was a simple pleasure, once, to enjoy a twenty year walk. Paths like these were not made for mortals.

Precious time was lost to dead ends. Presumptions built by false memory and overconfidence. He'd travelled very little within the network since waking, and much of the world had changed around the crossings since their construction. It was an oversight he would clearly need to remedy.

Eventually, he managed to locate another space populated with a dozen unbroken mirrors all leading to common areas; plazas and market squares once accessible to the Elvhen public. Many had lost their partner and so were useless to him. Those left would lead him to places untouched by modern scholars and adventurers.

Places full of lost knowledge.

One exited into a crumbling tower overlooking a small lake. The building was modest, but well-constructed — full of the remains of magical crafts and furniture. It was someone's home and business, once. He tried sleeping there to see what spirits were drawn into the memories of a common man, but found nothing more than a few scattered wisps overseeing visions of a warm hearth.

In another, the Fade offered him the scene of a long road packed with vendors selling fresh fruit and baked treats, offering samples to passers-by. A temptation of pungent scents amplified by subtle magics. Clever acts of trickery and sleight of hand to lure in patrons, though there was no harm in the deception; it was part of the experience. Encouraged, if anything.

It wasn't until he explored the dream of a public square that he caught upon the first hints of another presence.

At first, the scene was like any typical afternoon in a bustling city. People came and went, engaged in idle conversation, met with friends, acquaintances, and exchanged pleasantries. A few pairs purchased bustles of rich food or shiny trinkets and found grassy hills on which to share them together. It was a comforting view, and Solas stayed within it for some time as a reprieve from his journey. Flitting in and out of the scene so he might walk among its people as though he belonged.

He had almost resolved to leave when something odd caught his ear. Or, more accurately, the lack of something.

In the time he'd spent observing, he'd not witnessed a single disagreement. Not one ornery customer haggled over price; no misunderstandings, nor even a lover's quarrel. It seemed unusual, given the setting and populace, that all the interactions here would be positive ones.

Of course, dreams were shaped by the dreamers themselves and so were not always accurate… but there was a certain unease that came with taking notice of this imbalance. A skipped note in a sonata that only a trained ear might find. And as the Fade was wont to do, once that anomaly caught his eye, more followed.

There were no beggars here, no plain clothing, no refuse or broken things. Each market stall was finely craft and kept in perfect shape. When he ran a finger along the raised edge of a fruit cart not a single splinter caught his skin. Patrons and sellers alike were dressed in rich fabrics dyed with bright colours, making it impossible to tell their class and station. Children were quiet, well-behaved, and stayed by their mothers' sides; walking in step and never reaching for what they shouldn't. Passers-by smiled too often and laughed too loud.

The attention to perfection was unusual. This memory was an eerily idyllic version of an ordinary day; viewed through the lens of fond nostalgia.

And try though he might Solas could not pierce beyond the honeyed lie that veiled this scene. It wasn't so much that the memory felt fabricated as much as it seemed that pieces were missing entirely. It left the dreaming to re-write itself around the gaps, creating a likeness of the original that could easily fool a casual observer but did not stand up to closer scrutiny. This was not a trait he'd encountered in a memory before; and that ignorance left him unsettled.

Something had interfered here — pulled at loose threads and sewn the Fade back together.

Nothing about the scene felt inherently foreboding. If anything, it was clear that whatever was responsible had worked to preserve it in an ideal, if inaccurate, state. While the ultimate goal of the meddling remained a mystery, one thing was certain: it was purposeful. An act only a powerful spirit was capable of.

It was the first sign of Knowledge, or some spirit like it, that he'd encountered since he set out… and more than enough motive to dig deeper.

Eons of experience navigating the Fade had gifted him the patience and insight to narrow his focus. To look for the parts of the tapestry where the edges had been stitched, and the pattern didn't match. A signature left by the work of an imperfect hand.

Soon, he found snags. A gentle tug at them created rifts.

And then voids.

In reaching for them he sensed the faint impression of something ancient, beyond. His fingers, pushed into the hollow of memory, brushed against the remnant left behind and he sensed a vast and quiet power.

Old.

As old as he, perhaps.

It compelled him.

More than simply curiosity; he was drawn to the presence of something almost familial. A distant connection from a time long passed. This entity could have the answers he so dearly sought. If nothing else, promised a kin like that he'd lost when his last friend died.

The power resonated with his own in a way he had not felt since his last time visiting Wisdom in their domain. There was a comforting harmony in the way two beings of a common origin touched upon each other in the Fade; an emptiness filled. And though he had only this fingerprint it left behind when it passed through, it would gift him a proper trail to follow. A starting point.

With a thrilling leap of his heart he reached for it.

If he was fortunate, the spirit may even have enough awareness to feel his presence searching, and reach out to him in turn. He could only hope against the possibility that the passing of thousands of years had resulted in its loss.

But before he could spare more than a moment to attune himself, something cold wrapped round his wrist.

Then, with a strength that far outmatched his own, it pulled.

In an instant he was torn through the gauzy plaza memory and into a void of the Fade beyond it. The whole of the dreaming was pulled out from beneath his feet. Its colourful scene and happy denizens blown away like so much smoke.

He was left floating, instead of falling, disoriented and horizontal with his grasped arm held out before him. Fingers outstretched toward a destination unknown. Though he could see no hand upon his body, the grip was real, and firm. He could not break it if he wished to — whatever had him was intent to take him somewhere and he was helpless to resist.

He chose not to try.

While the surprise was unsettling, surely, the change in locale was hardly a threat in and of itself. If the spirit wished to do him harm, it would have: he was caught off-guard, overpowered, and did not attempt to defend himself — easy prey. This was not an aggressive act, but an invitation.

The method might leave something to be desired, but he could hardly fault the peculiar manners of ancient things.

Transit lasted only a moment, and the new setting was far from the malleable and familiar Dreaming he'd come from. Bare feet touched down upon a rough stone path that disappeared into the mouth of a tunnel built of charred bricks. The inside was dark and time-worn; walls wreathed in the gnarled roots of long-dead trees that pushed through gaps in the mortar and twisted back upon themselves. Moisture seeped through the cracks they left, pooling on the ground in dark puddles that made Solas think of demon's blood on the field after a battle.

The air was stale; it smelled of empty temples and rot.

This is old.

On a whim, he pressed his palm against the wall at his right and pushed into it a pulse of energy. A simple but effective test: a developing lair would bend to the influence of older magic.

He felt only cold stone.

Very old.

"What a curious thing. It's been so long since someone like you has ventured here," came a voice. It was everywhere at once: at his ear and in the distance, emerging from the tunnel and echoing off the walls."What do you seek?"

It spoke in Common, smooth and mild as honeyed milk. Alluring like Desire.

Creeping like a spider on his neck.

"I seek Knowledge," Solas answered in the tongue which he was questioned.

The voice paused to consider the answer, then offered, "How fortunate: you have found it." A careful reply: he did not miss the more subtle implications of its evasiveness. Spirits did not lie, but could manipulate. He was being baited. "What is your intention?"

This…

This didn't feel right.

Knowledge quested. Knowledge opened. Knowledge was impartial and inquisitive. It gave what it had freely, without reservation or judgement.

This felt greedy.

But there was no point in subterfuge; it would not only see through the attempt, but might also take offence. He had no desire to quarrel with his oldest kin, and so he provided. "I have been searching some time. I have questions I wish to find answers to, if possible."

"Curious," it said again.

Once, he'd told Ellana that the temptations of spirits were no worse than ripened fruit on the vine. The option to let it be was always there, no matter how sweet a taste it promised. One had to choose to enter the trap to have it sprung upon them.

The voice that spoke now was less like fruit, and more like a cup of water offered to a dying man.

"Do you know what is said of curiosity and cats?"

It enticed.

It was also his best option. There was no way left but forward.

"It is a good thing, then, that I am not a cat," Solas replied evenly, and entered the tunnel.

A moment was spared to wonder if he should change his appearance, be it for respect or reverence. The vision of himself he'd created in the Fade was clad in the same simple traveling clothes his body currently slept in, in a copse of trees somewhere in a quiet forest. Surrounded by wards and bowls of food set out for curious creatures.

But the moment his feet touched the tunnel floor, a light appeared ahead, and the thought seemed unimportant.

It flickered. Distant, like a candle in a window. As he walked it picked highlights out of the brickwork. Gold stones worked into the pattern. Each one found revealed another up ahead, leading him along the path to Knowledge like a trail of breadcrumbs. A necessary guide, as the deeper he ventured the more difficult it became to navigate.

Veils of blackened moss hung from the ceiling like spiders' webs, shrouding each bend and curve ahead. In a matter of moments he'd lost his sense of direction. The tunnel was smaller now than where he entered, and though he could not be certain how much progress he'd truly made through it, he sensed there was not far left to go — this was not an endless labyrinth, but an ingress.

Looking back, he saw there was no way behind him to retreat to. Only swirling fog left in his wake. He was being guided. Or pulled. Like a puppet on strings.

The master spoke: "What is your name, Elvhen?"

"Solas," he replied.

A presence insisted at the back of his mind. Crawling fingers sifting through the knowledge and memories he'd left unguarded. Far more intent than Cole's gentle brush over the surface in search of pain to heal.

Briefly, he considered allowing it unfettered access as a show of trust. Earn its favour. But — naive — he cautioned himself, and raised a mental barrier instead.

A moment too late, it seemed.

In Elvish, "Your other name?" the spirit probed.

There was power in a name so old it had become myth. Influence in titles gifted in respect, or uttered in fear. And though he felt compelled to give it all it asked of him there was a distant part of his mind which begged caution against revealing those secrets he held most dear.

Do not give it what it wants, trade only what is necessary.

Instead he offered it an answer as carefully crafted as its own had been. In a lilt of Elvish, with emphasis on the archaic accent he still carried. "I suspect you know it already, or you would not have asked."

It switched back to Common to reply. "Clever."

There was a short pause for thought before it spoke again. This time in a language which Solas did not know. That was rare. The words came out a string of hard consonants and lisping vowels, delivered in a throaty brogue that sounded just familiar enough to tell him he'd heard it in passing, but not had the opportunity to learn. The rhythm reminded him of Varric's chuckle when he teased.

"Dwarvish?" he guessed. They were the only race he'd had no contact with in the Dreaming, and minimal since waking. The spirit gave no reply. "I am sorry, my friend, I do not yet know their tongue."

"Kadan? A katari?" they replied. Qunlat this time: friend or foe. It was testing him. Looking for the gaps in his knowledge that might give it a better picture of his motive, or ability.

"Kadan," Solas affirmed, and ducked to avoid a twist of withered root that hung, thick, from the ceiling. Beyond it, he found the source of the light he'd followed through the chamber.

The tunnel opened into a great, round, room not unlike Skyhold's rotunda. Simply furnished, though it hardly offered the same pleasant ambiance: instead of a bright, open atrium this chamber was dark and cramped. The rear half lined with wooden shelves that stood in staggered rows. Stretching wide and tall until they disappeared into a vaulted ceiling so high it could have continued on into infinity. Burning torch sconces dotted the walls, their light too low to chase the darkness from its corners. Long shadows cast on the floor stretched from end to end, with strange shapes playing in the flickers.

The shelves were all closed in heavy iron bars. A vast collection of books, scrolls, curios and vials lay behind. Trapped like prisoners in cells no key could open — for there were no locks nor hinges to suggest a way in.

The books had no covers or runes on their spine and the bottles were made of darkened glass without labels, hiding their contents. Mysteries put on display not for consumption, but for pride.

A glittering hoard of secrets.

In the centre of it all stood the spirit warden. It had taken on the form of great owl in black plumage, and wore a blank, porcelain mask. More like a doll's face than the costumes of Orlais. It was easily twice Solas' own height, and its broad chest — turned to bid him welcome when as he entered — gave it an intimidating presence. One he felt more keenly for each step it took in his direction.

But when it came near enough to greet him properly, he was oddly soothed by its aura.

Comforted.

The full weight of temptation settled over him like a warm cloak. A lure that begged him yield to the power here. It pulled at his heart in a way that rivalled the love of Wisdom, and offered a far larger reward in return for his loyalty.

Protection. Familiarity. Safety. Strength. Quiet.

It would take more than just his wit to leave untouched. Beyond the risk of possession was a powerful desire to simply remain: to join with, submit to, or otherwise become a part of this place.

It would be… right.

He had to consciously will himself to resist the geas, but like the call of the void it remained in his periphery, never so far as to be forgotten. Once he'd shaken free of the draw and saw the snare for what it was it sent a frisson of fear crawling up his neck.

This was not the den of a being of intrigue and wonder. These shelves held no lore for perusal. No art or history was on display. No invitation extended by the presence of overstuffed furniture or tempting fireside.

No part of this realm possessed a shred of the comfort and intimacy that was ever-present in Wisdom's home.

This place is wrong, he thought. This cannot possibly be the lair of Knowledge. Something darker lurks here now.

"Welcome, falon," it said.

The spirit brought its masked face down to his height, regarding him with empty eyes that surely would have held unabashed interest, could he see them. But beyond the holes in the mask was nothing but swirling darkness. A void that begged him to stand and stare; lose himself in the allure of the mystery.

He shook it off.

Steeling himself, he cast his eyes to the locked shelves instead. Their contents shrouded by just enough mystery to ensure he could not properly discern their nature, but not so much that he'd be left unaware they were there at all. An important detail: 'Knowledge' was proud of the collection. It desired approval, or at the very least recognition.

"The square I visited earlier, the memories there," Solas inquired carefully, "That was your doing?" He knew the answer already, but was curious how it might frame its reply.

It swelled with something like pride. Chest puffed out, and wisps of black smoke rising from the spaces between its comfortably ruffled feathers. A voice, strong and loud, echoed through the room like quiet thunder. Reverberating off the walls and playing amid the shelves. "What was worth recalling, I left. I took only what was already forgotten."

Knowledge does not omit; it preserves.

There was an opportunity there to test a theory. "To re-write history does not lend itself to the truth," challenged Solas. "You cannot tell a story with half the pages missing. If Knowledge is truly devoted to the preservation of history, why allow the scene to become warped by the biases of those who choose to remember it best?"

The spirit's reply was immediate. Practiced. Its voice seemed to come from all around; everywhere but the body before him. "Memory is imperfect. Mortals work to forget what is painful until no one is alive to recall it at all. What is left behind becomes the truth." He had his answer: it did not challenge the presumption that Knowledge was no longer it's true form. Moreover, it was aware of — even pleased with — this change. It did not try to hide it. "Why should they hold onto what pains them? What good does it do those who do remember to suffer for it needlessly?"

It moved so suddenly he did not notice until it had already disappeared from his view. Curled talons made no sound on the stonework as it sped across. Gliding — silent — just above the surface; no hint of its direction. It appeared behind him, settling on the stale air like a quiet sigh. Mask cocked just over his shoulder and tilted to one side in emphasis.

A challenge? It wanted his reply. Perhaps some part of it that quested yet remained.

"To suffer teaches strength, and humility. We cannot learn from our successes, only failures."

"And what does a fight in a public square teach?" It replied, and its tone dropped to a low rumble. A warning not to argue. It wanted his agreement. "A bitter man's jealousy over another's earnings, or a woman's guilty conscience when her eyes strayed from her lover?"

Solas considered. Cautious. Weighing what it clearly expected from his answer against his instinct to debate. Knowledge had become prideful, and impatient. Selfish. It wanted, more than anything, to be praised.

This place reeked of its arrogance.

He should not linger here.

"It is not my place to say what lessons were learned by those who lived it, only that their experiences in memory deserve to remain unchanged."

There came a soft huff, like a quiet laugh, but it gave no reply sure enough to inform him if it approved of his answer.

A different tactic: the mask lowered, independent from the rest of its anatomy, until it hung before him at eye level. Wings tucked demurely behind its back. It imitated the body language of a respectful peer viewing him as an equal, but its voice held only contempt. "Knowledge," it seethed, in mocking Elvhen. "Memory, unchanged. What good is an age of it in the hands of mortals who would only take from the bounty what made them most powerful? Then reshape it for abuse and dominion?"

Its great, feathered, body began to warp and shrink — swirls of black smoke coalescing behind the porcelain face — until it had remade itself into a creature roughly Solas' own height and shape. A sharp jerk of its head to one side revealed a pointed Elven ear.

The voice spoke from within the mask now. "You know of what I speak."

The point flattened into the soft curve of a Human ear, and a single arm was thrust out toward him. In it appeared the shadow of a bejewelled staff topped with an orb, not unlike those favoured by the Magisters of old Tevinter.

The message was clear: an aggressor, welding an artifact stolen from the wreckage of his people's fallen empire, used it to subjugate the last survivors.

The spirit rapped the butt of the staff twice upon the floor, like a gavel swung in judgement, and the sound echoed through the room. Loud enough that his ears twitched, hands flexing at his side as he fought the urge to cover them.

All the while the mask faced forward, intent and expressionless. "Knowledge was not shared, but stolen," it accused. "Changed to benefit new masters. I have watched it hoarded and brewed into a poison that destroyed nations for thousands of years.

"But… if you take away its darkest parts—" The orb on the top of the staff disappeared, leaving the weapon a useless rod in the hands of its owner. A second later it, too, disintegrated — and an empty human hand turned, palm up, as though in apology. "—you spare those who would have suffered the consequence of its misuse." The human form swelled and shifted, briefly, before settling back on an Elvhen body. "Wouldn't you agree?"

It was startling to realize, in that moment, just how much he did.

If his people had left behind a less complete legacy, what difference might it had made to the last survivors of Elvhenan? If their most powerful artifacts and knowledge were never used as chains to bind them?

What would it have meant to his surviving kin to have never had to see what thousands of years of prejudice and conquest wrought?

What of the Exhalted March? The Dales? Alienages?

For a fraction of a second, he saw a pair of lights flicker behind the spirit's mask. Eyes — red, ravenous, and greedy — focused their sight upon the seeds of understanding it had planted in him… an unspoken accord that bridged across their shared disdain. What had become of — what was left of — modern Elves.

That awareness was just enough to snap him out of it.

Dangerous.

Do not tarry here.

He swallowed, hard, past the knot in his throat. Voice tight. "My views on history are irrelevant to my purpose here. I want—"

"I know what you want." It cut him off with a wave of something like a hand, then once more reshaped itself. Wide, sloping shoulders grew wider still as its body grew taller. Hands to wings, and form to feather, until it had shifted back into its original shape of a giant owl.

Through each transition the mask remained a lone constant. Detached and floating over the ichorous cloud of energy that was its changing body. It wore an unsettling expression of neutrality: blank eyes fixed forward, unblinking on pale skin with features too vague to pin down as Dwarf, Human, Elf, Qunari… or even some amalgamation of them all. The mask moved fluidly, like smoke on still air, while the rest of the spirit's body jerked and twitched like the animal from which it took its inspiration.

"You are here for a mate you've sickened." It was a cruel, almost mocking way to frame his circumstance. "Your kind are so few, now; their lives almost forgotten. So much misery after the Veil."

An attempt to bait him, now — and an obvious one at that. Responding with anger or offence would only give it more power; he was in its home. It was enjoying his company.

Solas pressed forward. "There have been others. Couples made of Elf and Elvhen who produced children… I was unable to find the memories of their experiences, and of how their mortal partners persevered. Have you taken them, like those you took from the market?"

"To what end would you seek the memories of their pain, if not to prolong your own?" it countered. As if the answer to this quandary were so simple: walk away now, lest it all be made much worse. "Why dally as you do? Mortal lives are so fragile, and fleeting. You will grieve, as they did when their mates expired."

He bristled. "As do all things, be they immortal or not. The inevitability of suffering is hardly reason to bid one experience more when knowledge exists that might ease it."

"You say, yet keep so much to yourself. Your pride protects you. Protects them." It swooped low and closed the distance between them, until the mask became a mirror in which Solas could see his own image reflected back. Its next words were uncomfortably close, whispered in his ear like the sweetest poison. "You wear your secrets so close they have become your face."

It used his own voice to taunt him with words he once spoke aloud: "We are not so far apart, you and I."

There was a rush of black, and suddenly it had returned to its post near the centre of the room. Looming over him like a shadow. He could feel its impatience with him growing; it wanted allegiance and he'd given it a debate.

Dangerous, he reminded himself.

But he needed…

"Do you know what happened to your kin? Those who partook in mortal affairs and brought forth children from their unions?"

"I imagine they lived well with their families, while they could. Then grieved, as you said."

"Terribly," the spirit affirmed, pouring so much power into the word that it was as cruel to hear as any blade was felt. "When their mates bore their children the mages survived best. Of those without magical affinity, most perished. Rituals saved but a few. In the end, they still watched all they loved wither, and were left with naught but fleeting memories doomed to fade with time. Pain." Darkness impressed upon the edges of the room, creeping like a sickness, until it had surrounded them both in a steadily shrinking circle. Here, Solas lacked the power to push it aside the way he did in the dream he'd created for Ellana, and so was forced to take a step toward the spirit so not to be lost in it. "Some chose death, or endless dreams, rather than live with the loss. A precious few found Knowledge. Asked me to keep what they could not."

Again its form shifted, settling on the body of a tall elf on their knees. Helpless. Begging.

It continued, "I took their memory; I made their unions taboo. What I left was but a taste of what they'd felt, and it stood as a warning for others to not to suffer the same fate. To stay far from the affairs of mortals."

It took pride in the revelation of its own perversion. Of the will it had stolen, unwitting, from so many of his kin. This, more than anything else it had taunted him with so far, hit its mark. Sent his heart careening into his throat.

Things were so much easier in the Fade — both to feel, and to falter.

"You took only their freedom to choose," Solas snapped, his voice now sharp with ire. "What of those who persisted? If you took it all, including those memories of the ones who lived through strength or action, then those others were denied that which might have saved them unnecessary grief."

"For each foolish enough to persist, hundreds were spared by the truth I created."

"A lie."

"Only by omission," the spirit teased, its great chest swelling once more. "I peddled no falsehoods. Their pain was less a burden with those memories gone; I did only what was asked. What was needed to ensure an end to their suffering, and discourage those who would suffer in the future, needlessly. Only pain and death exists on this path: if you pursue it you will watch all you love sicken and die under the blanket of the Veil. Your mate, and any children she survives to bear. What, truly, would you earn? Her death is inevitable. What difference does it make to delay it by a day or twenty years?"

It had found a thread of fear and uncertainty. One he guarded in the deepest parts of himself: away from Ellana, away from Cole, away from the Nightmare when he was in its realm.

But here, he could feel some part of him unraveling.

Persevere.

"I know that many non-mages died, but others—"

"Others who survived suffered greatly for it," the spirit interrupted, cutting across his protest.

He persisted. "—But some did survive; those without affinity were given a chance by the actions of their partner." The question hung in the air unasked, if only not to reveal his growing desperation for the answer.

How?

The spirit spared not even a moment of consideration before reacting. Both wings raised and stretched high above its head, crossing the room in long, powerful, strides until it stood mere inches away. "Only to suffer later. Beings as yourself do not need to weigh themselves with such things. Knowledge brought no peace to them, and neither will it to you."

"If we are truly not so different, then allow me the opportunity to do with those memories what I will!" he plead, and felt his knees grow weak. His voice rang, broken, through the cavernous room like a shattered bell, and down his walls went with it.

A moment too late he realized his mistake… only when his next breath drew out of the air a ghostly hand with fingers outstretched that disappeared into his open mouth.

The demon saw its opportunity; reached, and then grasped.

The consequences of his negligence were immediate and terrible: a familiar scene was drawn from his own memory, formed by the Fade around him. He saw himself on Ellana's balcony in the moonlight, seated in a chair he'd pulled from her room. Leaving her asleep in the bed where they'd laid together, for the first time — it would have to be the only time — agonizing over the desire stay over the need to leave.

His thoughts were a torrent of regret and desire. Self-loathing and recklessness.

What came after changed the course of his life: she woke alone, and far sooner than he'd anticipated. Before he had the chance to slip away. She confronted him, and he'd told her all he could — more than he should have. The soft touch of her hand upon his back guided him to a night of confessions he never intended to make. Had decided not to make. Yet somehow, against all odds, she'd neither run nor turned him over to a guard. Instead, she embraced him.

In the perversion of this memory, that which the spirit had recreated for him, he saw himself take the opportunity he was not awarded.

Rise from the chair, grab his discarded shirt and belt from where they lay on the floor next to the bed…

And leave.

She'd be none the wiser; asleep, and content to believe he'd stayed the night by her side. Tucked against his body and sharing in their warmth, sated and beloved.

She'd be furious come morning. Broken-hearted, but safer in the long run. Her love would warm the heart of another, more deserving, and better suited to spend a life with her.

The vision melted away with a wave of the owl's wing. "Would it not have been better this way?" it cajoled.

Careless, Solas admonished. It already had so much more of him than he'd intended to give. It had found a kinship in his secrets and his fears and that bond was more dangerous than any demon's lure.

Once more he tried to separate himself — to raise a barrier powerful enough to keep it from taking any more — but found he couldn't. There was an unmistakable presence in the back of his mind, now. It had a hold of doubts he'd kept carefully secreted away, found a loose thread to pull from the web he'd woven of truth and lies.

It continued. Taunting. "There is wisdom in deception, even beyond self-preservation. What fruit will your truth bear in time, now that you've chosen to burden others with it?"

Another vision took shape before him. In it, he saw Ellana dressed in a thin robe; her body swollen and heavy with child. Close to the end, but she was left sick and small for the effort.

Skin too tight, too thin, too pale.

She cradled her belly, staring down at herself with sunken eyes and sharp cheekbones turned grey with a deathly pallor. Gone was the pleasant curves of her muscled arms and full jaw. All that was left was pock-marked skin and wrist bones that protruded at odd angles.

The ghost of his lover looked up and met his eyes, briefly, before melting into the ether.

"Think of all you'd have spared her, had you considered the value of Omission? Is this the future you desire for her?"

No. Never.

"Yes," he lied. He confessed. In selfishness and desperation. He would not lose her; he would not lose them. She would not suffer a day more for silence and secrets. That would not be her fate. It would be better. Different.

She was different.

"You are willing to bind her with the weight of all your truths and damn them both to a life of danger solely so you would not spend those years alone?"

He felt, more than saw, the prediction it gave him in a false memory:

A baby, born in violence and in fear, hidden from those who might wish it harm.

Long pointed ears and small fingers.

A powerful scream gifted by a first breath. A hand that cupped its mouth to quiet any further cries. A hand — his hand — to hide it away.

A child cowers in a cupboard. A target. A bargaining chip.

A powerful message, as a hostage — more powerful as a corpse.

Fire erupts, and a scream rises from their mouth: high and terrified. A horrible sound.

A flash of blackened flesh and a wound that spreads across its sides and chest as it is consumed.

He flinched away from the sight, then reached for it in guilty apology. Desperate to intervene, and save the vision from the trappings of his own nightmare… only to watch it succumb. His stomach turned.

No!

But, "Yes," he choked.

This will never come to pass. It cannot. I would never—

"Then know what your kin wished banished from history and see what good it gifts you."

A tucked wing was brandished like a knife. The movement so quick he had no chance to see it coming. The mass of feathers thrust toward him tapered into a single pointed finger, pressed into the centre of his forehead.

Memory hit him like a storm.

A cacophony, funnelled into his mind in the space of a single breath.

Places, times, loves, losses, names. So many names. He could not possibly learn them all, though he longed for the opportunity to cherish each one and hold it dear. The way their lovers had. Ensure that they lived on somewhere in the world that had forgotten them.

A dozen of mortal lives ended, swollen with child and sick to death while their lovers prayed for mercy from a pantheon of Gods who never heeded their calls. Fragile bodies, weak and weary, grew thin from the strain; a punishment worthy of Falon'din's judgement for the common crime of loving and lying with a race of ancients.

A dozen mortal lives continued, brought to kneel but not conquered by the task of bringing forth a new life made in love. Sweat and blood clung to pallid skin as mouths opened to let forth screams of pain and triumph. Ringing in the silence of bedrooms, tents, caves and forest clearings… followed by the mewling cry of newborn babes, eager for the comfort of their mother's breast.

He saw a hundred Elvhen bury bodies of their mates and children.

He saw a hundred more surrounded by generations seeded from a single union.

Amid them were a precious few non-mages who carried on with the help of their immortal partner. What was done took on different connotations for each pair, though the result was the same.

A ritual. An evening. A moment. A gamble. A hope. A prayer.

A sudden burst of power, shared or given, to awaken a hidden nature.

A gift, to give the strength to carry on. Be it grant them merely a year more, or twenty.

Solas woke with a gasp in the lonely clearing he'd settled in. The last light of the setting sun disappearing beyond the Western edge of the old forest. His chest ached as though he'd been drowning, suffocating, and only just breached the surface of dangerous waters for breath. And the spirit's haunting words rang in his ears like a warning.

We are not so far apart, you and I.

It was night when he returned to Skyhold. The quiet hours, when the typically paired guard shifts were down to singles for an hour or two, and the fortress much easier to navigate unseen. A year of routine shifts at their posts had made soldiers careless when the populace slept. This time was by far the safest for sneaking about.

The isolation of the mountains was deceptive. It offered a certain sense of security: a castle nestled deep in the snow-capped peaks of the Frostbacks was well protected by the rock and ice. Travellers to the area had spent days or weeks on the road with this specific destination in mind, and all worked their way up the same cold roads, entering through the same main gate. Nothing arrived here that did not mean to, and it was scouted well before it reached the bridge. It was far less likely for Skyhold to be unexpectedly attacked than a village closer to the main trade routes. And so the soldiers posted on the walls followed the same routine each night as they did the hundred previous, and grew bored.

Those on guard at this hour had become too quick to allow each other the reprieve of a short walk, a book, or spiced bread stolen from the unwatched larder. Never gone so long as to risk arousing suspicion, but long enough for a knowledgable individual to bypass the remaining guards undetected.

On any other night the lapse in security was a constant source of concern, but tonight it was a blessing: it worked in Solas' favour. For once he was grateful. Both for their carelessness, and for the borrowed, beaten copy of Sword and Shields that lived on the second floor of the rotunda. The young Ferelden man in polished plate stationed in the great hall was far too deeply absorbed in the latest chapter to notice Solas sneaking into the Inquisitor's tower room.

Another time, he might have allowed a door to slam shut. Made a memorable statement of their carelessness.

But punishing oversight was not important this evening, so he let it slide.

Ellana's room was silent when he entered. Her breath almost too quiet to hear in the cavernous space, even to his ears. She was deeply asleep. He made a point to close and latch the balcony doors, then draw the curtains closed, before he found her. Just in case.

He passed Cole on the desk as he crossed from one set of doors to the next. "She was waiting for you, but was too tired to stay awake," he said.

"I am glad to see you kept her company," Solas replied in a whisper. "How is she?"

"Tired," he answered, and their eyes met as he raised his chin beneath the cover of his floppy hat. "Angry."

It couldn't be helped, Solas thought.

"Thank you," he said.

Cole nodded, then appeared at his side a second later. A cold hand touched Solas' wrist; gentle, but insistent. Begging him caution. "She would not be happy if you hurt yourself to help her," he warned.

With a sigh, "I know," Solas replied.

The spirit disappeared, and he was left alone.

He steeled himself with a breath, and approached the bed. Ellana lay asleep on her side, curled around a pillow with the covers pulled up to her chest. Her nightclothes had fallen from one shoulder, leaving it bare. It was cold when he lay a hand upon it, and shook her gently.

"Ellana," he urged. She did not stir; too exhausted by ongoing sickness to sleep as lightly as she once had. "Ellana," he repeated. "Vhenan, wake up."

That seemed to reach her. He watched, anxious, as her eyelids began to flutter and she shifted beneath his touch. The room was dark, with the sole exception of the streams of moonlight that cut through the gaps in the curtains, but Elven eyes saw well enough in a low-lit space. He needn't light a candle for her.

Once she'd blinked herself awake, and focused on his face, she looked more confused than anything. Brows knit in an odd mix of question and concern. Eyes darting rapidly between his.

He smiled, warm, to reassure her.

An expression wiped immediately from his face when she slapped him hard with an open palm.

The force — and surprise — of it enough to turn his head and draw a cry of alarm that rang through the room as loud as the strike itself.

"You self-righteous, arrogant, selfish, horrible, ancient, bastard!" she seethed. Each new epithet spit louder and angrier than the one previous. It was followed by an equally furious string of Elvish that left him rather inappropriately impressed with her creative usage of a vocabulary she'd only very recently expanded. "It's been two fucking days!"

With both hands she shoved hard at his shoulders. Still left reeling from the strike, it was almost enough to knock him off the bed completely. He had to grab hold of the bedside table as anchor to save himself the pain of falling backward onto the floor.

"Do you just think you can sneak away from Skyhold without even speaking with me about your intentions? About your plans? After everything! After all of this?! You swore to me no more secrets, you fucking asshole! You didn't tell a soul where you'd be — you just disappeared! I didn't even know you were gone until Cole told me!"

He frowned. "Cole told you?"

The interruption went unnoticed. She was on fire, and her words burned as much as the welt rising on his cheek. "Do you know how terrible it would have been if, when Josephine asked about you the next morning, I hadn't even known you'd left and had gone searching for you? I had to make up a story about you being ill for two days that I'm not sure she even believed!"

"Ellana," Solas cut in.

"Do you know how many times you've actually been ill since we've met? Because I don't think it's any!"

"Ellana, please."

"How dare you! How dare you do that to me, you unbelievable fucking—" Fists came up, either to strike or shove him again, teeth grit and eyes wide, and for a moment he thought to stand and take it. But when the moonlight caught a glint of unshed tears in her eyes, his heart clenched.

He caught both her wrists before she could push him again. Lowered them, gently. "I know, I know. I'm so sorry," he soothed, his voice barely a whisper to her furious shout.

The tears were on her cheeks now, curling under her jaw, and though her lip quivered with the effort of holding them back her eyes remained hard. Mouth defiantly twisted into a downward sneer. "How was I even supposed to know you'd return?" she accused, and her breath caught on a sob.

It was horrible, how sincere the question was. How fearful her voice. As though she could honestly believe he'd walk away from her now. After everything.

"I would never—"

But now that she'd begun she found it hard to stop, and everything came pouring out. "It has been ages since you've shared a bed with me, Solas. Even just to sleep. You retire early to your room each night and spend the rest of the time working. I have barely even seen you. What few opportunities I've had to invite your company have been met with excuses or requests that I take the time to rest, instead. For weeks! And then you disappear! What else would I think?" It all came out a rush that left her breathless by the end. Chest heaving from exertion. He could see the sheen of perspiration forming at her temples, betraying how exhausted she was already, if only just from the expression of her own rage.

"I didn't—" he began, and stopped. A lie. Too easy to tell himself. He did know. He'd be a fool if he truly believed she had not noticed how much he'd kept to himself over the last few weeks spent chasing answers. He'd had a dozen opportunities to speak with her, but missed them all to spare her the weight of his own worries.

It was in her best interest, he'd decided for her — it would only cause more pain.

He would tell her only what she needed to know, and not a word more.

And what prize had his secrets wrought?

She wore her anger openly upon her face now. An ire near to hatred, awash with a mix of relief, confusion, and betrayal. She was furious, and righteous.

What else could she think?

The pain in his voice was just as open. "I'm so sorry." Carefully, he lay a hand upon her shoulder. Telegraphing his movements so she might have an opportunity to push him away, should she need to. Rebuke any advances and curse him again. But when his lips touched her tear-stained cheek and pressed a kiss there, she could only loose a wretched sob instead. "It was never my intention to make you worry. You deserve your anger: it was wrong to leave without word. I felt I had little time. You can yell all you like in the morning, and I will tell you all you ask of me, but for now I would ask that you trust me and lie back. You are already exhausted, and I am unsure if this will make it better or worse in the immediate aftermath."

There was a desperation in his voice she'd not heard from him before, and it gave her pause. Stilled her hands against his grip. She lay her body back upon the prop of pillows, and allowed him to arrange himself to sit more comfortably next to her. His forehead rest against hers, and with both hands cradling her cheeks she clearly felt both the shuddering breath he drew, and the way his fingers shook. Just a little.

"What is it you intend to do?" she asked. Not entirely unafraid.

When next his eyes opened, they were nothing but white light.

"Help."

She felt a great wave crash into her body. Like ocean waves in a vicious storm.

There was no pain… just sensation. So much at once that she had no ability to process it all.

She felt each thread in the sheet against her skin, every hair on her head, the whisper of her breath on the air, and a crackling power that existed in and upon everything around her.

Waiting, wanting, to be touched and manipulated.

And then she felt nothing.

Ellana woke to pounding.

Morning light spilled in through the gauzy curtains, bathing the room in a soft orange glow that stretched from her balcony to her bed. The dawn warmed her legs and stomach, exposed beneath the hem of her nightdress, bunched up around her chest. During the night she'd wriggled down the bed, atop the covers, bringing her clothes up with her. The small swell of her middle now only just visible to her, when bared.

She lay a hand over it, as she often did in the mornings, and took in a deep breath to test her constitution for the task of getting up for the day… then, strangely, found that the familiar wave of nausea didn't follow. Normally just the act of being roused from sleep resulted in at least one bout of sickness.

A soft snore came from her right. Turning, she saw Solas asleep on the bed next to her. He lay on his stomach with a hand stretched out toward her. Still dressed in his traveling clothes, complete with thin leather shoes that had left scuffs on the duvet. He'd not even bothered to remove them before laying down.

That was curious.

It was unlike him to stay at all, there was far too much risk in it. They had an unspoken agreement on the rules of sharing her bed: he was always to return before sunrise — there were too many people in the halls come morning, and it was too easy to be witnessed leaving her rooms at times he had no good reason to be there.

She put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a gentle shake. No response. Another, harder shove made no difference either. Not a sigh or catch in his breath to show he'd even noticed her attempts to rouse him at all.

Very curious.

She decided to leave him be: deeply asleep, and clearly exhausted. Enough so that she went as far as to check if he was breathing regularly. Though she was loath to leave him in her bed, she trusted he would find his way back to his room without the slip being discovered somehow.

The sound came again: pounding. Followed by a muffled voice. "Your worship? Your worship! Are you alright?"

It was a handmaid, come to wake her. Normally they came right in and called out to her from the landing to ensure she did not sleep too long. They'd wait there for permission to approach with breakfast, tea, or messages to deliver — human inhibition to protect her modesty, in case she was not yet dressed. It was a familiar ritual, and one she'd come to trust. For whatever reason the girl had not even made it through the threshold this morning.

More banging. The door shifted in its frame, and with it came the sound of an iron bar rattling.

"I'm alright!" Ellana called out, and the noise immediately stopped. Slowly, she sat up. Rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "You locked the door?" she whispered down to Solas' sleeping form. Predictably, he gave no reply.

Louder, "I'm coming," she added, and slipped from the bed. Rearranging her loose linen nightclothes to ensure they hid her figure. She passed a small key placed very deliberately upon the centre of her writing desk as she walked by, and took it.

When she unlocked the door she found one of the younger girls, Ana, standing on the other side with hand still raised to resume her banging. She was an excitable youth, human, who had come in from Redcliffe for work. Always polite, though rarely reserved; she was open with her gratitude over being employed by what she viewed as a truly prestigious organization. More specifically, the honour to serve as handmaid to its Elven leader.

The instant the door opened her worried expression melted into one of palpable relief, and Ellana was embraced by an all-encompassing, tight, hug.

Though the gesture was decidedly endearing, it made her immediately very aware of the girl's body pressed flush against her middle. She took her by the waist in both hands and pushed her back; just a little, not so much to imply she'd been offended.

Ana quickly stepped back into the stairs. Shuffled her feet and ducked her head in apology. "I'm sorry, Inquisitor. I was just worried when you didn't answer! You've never locked the door before. And you've been so ill," she rambled, the Ferelden accent causing her words to string together close enough to make it hard to understand. "Are you alright? Are you well?

"I'm fine," Ellana replied, and it was mostly true. The queasiness was by far the most manageable it had been in weeks. She came up with an excuse quickly. "I was busy, and I locked it last night to avoid any interruptions, then forgot about it."

The girl nodded sagely, as though the lie was not painfully thin, and Ellana was grateful for the unique combination of hero-worship and naiveté that led her not to ask questions. She'd already moved on, eager for a chance to assist.

Carefully, "You're looking less green today," she commented. "Would you like to try some breakfast?"

No one was more surprised than she by the honesty of her reply: "Yes, actually. I think I would."