The evening they establish the camp at the fens, Solas finds Leas standing at the edge of it, looking back out into Ghilan'nain's Grove. He leans on his staff, uncharacteristically ignoring the mud and dirt that have accumulated over the day's travel, and there is a distant expression on his unsmiling face, his eyes unfocused and almost blank. Leas has been quiet since they came to the Exalted Plains, almost solemn sometimes, not that Solas can blame him, but now he cannot help but wonder. Has it become too much for him, seeing the land that could have been his home if not for the Chantry?
"Arani," Solas says, and Leas looks at him. He focuses on him, but no smile comes over his face, which remains neutral. "Are you all right? You seem distracted."
"I am fine, Solas, but 'ma serannas," Leas says, turning his gaze away again. "It's simply… hmm." He trails off for a moment, brow furrowing as if in concentration. Solas sets his staff in the ground and leans into it.
"Is it difficult, being here?" he asks. "Seeing the Chantry 'memorials' and the ruins?"
Leas blows out a long breath and shuts his eyes for a moment. "It is difficult, but I try not to think too much about it beyond offering prayers and wondering what sort of memorials I can have installed for the elves who died," he says. "Tragic though this place is, I'm more concerned about the present moment. The undead and…"
Solas waits.
Finally, Leas exhales and stands up a little straighter. "I believe there is a group of Venatori close by," he says. "I spotted their banner as we approached Ghilan'nain's Grove."
"You said nothing about them then? We could have gone to their camp and got rid of them."
"It was getting into the late afternoon, and we were already tired, even you," Leas says, and Solas inclines his head, acknowledging the point. "I felt we'd already done enough for one day, and I don't believe the Venatori saw us. If they did, they've made no moves to attack us so far. Besides, I… had an idea. I've been giving it some thought."
Solas gives him a curious look. "An idea? Do you care to elaborate?"
Now Leas smiles a wry, even cunning sort of smile, as uncharacteristic of him as his solemnity. "I thought it might be a surprise," he says, and Solas raises an eyebrow, not liking his tone. In this case, 'surprise' can only mean something exceedingly dangerous. Leas seems confident enough about it, but the man is not always the most cautious in the world, so that is not especially reassuring. "One that will need to wait until we're asleep."
That catches his attention. "Something in the Fade? What are you going to do, arani?" A hint of alarm creeps into his voice, though he remains otherwise calm.
Leas grins at him. "You'll see. You'll be there to haul my arse out of the fire if something should go wrong. So will Dorian, but he's no dreamer. Trust me, Solas. I'm not going to do anything too dangerous, I shouldn't think."
Solas stares at him for a moment, trying to understand what he means, but he ultimately gives up and nods. "As you say. If you have learnt something new, I suppose I would be interested in seeing it," he concedes.
"Exactly," Leas says, grin only widening. "Now go on. I'll see you tonight." He walks off to speak to Dorian, laying out his robes to dry and grumbling while he does so, and Solas observes him for a few moments more before walking away and heading back to the campfire to read one of the books he picked up over the course of the day's travels. Now and then, his thoughts wander back to whatever it is Leas has planned, but he tries not to worry: the man has become skilled enough over the past months and should be capable of handling himself.
He is, perhaps, a little too skilled for Solas' comfort… but that is a concern for another time.
That night, Solas finds himself awake in the Fade, as usual, this time in a simulacrum of the camp. Usually, he would take a moment to adjust before wandering off to seek those regions of the Fade he has not explored yet or to speak with his spirit friends. This time, however, he waits, partly eager to see what Leas has planned but increasingly uneasy, despite his best efforts, as to what it is. What if he should overextend himself or attract the attention of demons, or worse? What if he and Dorian will not be able to rescue him?
As he waits, the doubts grow ever louder. Thankfully, however, he does not have to wait long before Leas appears, followed shortly by Dorian, who inevitably takes a little longer to come to grips with his surroundings than the both of them. (Very convenient that they all should have appeared in the same place at roughly the same time, but Solas can only suppose that Leas gave Dorian some lyrium to facilitate his entrance to the Fade.) When he has adjusted, he approaches them, narrows his eyes, and observes them for a long moment before pulling back, apparently satisfied that they are not demons.
"This is a first," he says. "Meeting fellow mages in the Fade itself for a mysterious expedition. Whatever next, oh Lord Inquisitor?" As he speaks, he raises an eyebrow at Leas, who grins at him, the expression and the way he holds himself—hands behind his back, his chest puffed up, his shoulders held back—all screaming self-confidence much like Dorian's own. Seeing it, Solas can't help but roll his eyes. The two are so much alike—small wonder they like each other.
"What's next, hopefully, is that you get to watch me do something in the Fade that's only known of in stories," Leas tells him, tipping his head back while maintaining eye contact with Dorian, his grin sly and proud. "Key word being hopefully. I haven't tried this before. And before you ask, Solas, you haven't taught me how to do this. I saw mention of this in my research and, well, I just had to try."
Solas' eyebrows bounce. "Well, I appreciate your initiative," he says, and that much is true, even as he wonders with ever more alarm just what Leas is trying to do. The old dreamers had many mythical abilities that he could be referring to. "This should be something to see."
"Or it could be a disaster," Leas says, laughing. "Which is why you're both here. In case I need backup."
"How do we know it won't be a disaster for the both of us, as well?" Dorian demands, also raising his eyebrow, and Leas shrugs carelessly. Far too carelessly, if Solas has anything to say about it, but he has learnt from experience that the man is completely incorrigible.
"I'll be the only one trying to do anything," he says. "You two will hang well back and will only jump in if I get into trouble." That explanation seems to only barely satisfy Dorian, but the man nods and asks no more questions. "Now, let's get going." With that, Leas turns and heads north, while the pair of them follow a little behind him. They soon reach the boundary of this region of the Fade, and Leas pushes it aside as though it were as natural as breathing—which, it occurs to Solas, it might well be, after months of practice.
That should be no cause for concern; learning and improvement are to be expected. But Leas is stronger than Solas would have liked, has adapted too quickly to the ways of the Fade and the nature of his powers. As with all mages, there is a spectrum of talent for dreaming, and he'd hoped that Leas' decade of inability to do anything with his powers showed weakness on his part. However, the degree of skill and potential for more that he has shown would be noteworthy even in Arlathan, and Solas suspects that this cannot be laid solely at the feet of the Anchor. He is powerful, and yet he is still mostly unlearned, and when the Anchor is gone, he will remain a threat.
Perhaps he should cease the lessons. Leas has enough to do as it is without coming to him on the regular for his studies, and Solas needs to resume work on his plans, anyway. The thought flickers across his mind, but he tramples down on it before Leas can look back and see, and afterwards, he keeps his mind carefully blank as they head through the raw Fade, through the simulacrum of Ghilan'nain's Grove, and around the corner to the Venatori encampment.
On the very edge of the camp, Solas spots the resident spellbinder, wandering the Fade and dreaming of his false god. "Solas, conceal us," Leas murmurs, and at once, Solas raises his hands and warps the Fade around them as he has done before, distorting it and turning it into a shroud. Dorian watches with an expression of almost amazed fascination, but Leas is the one to explain. "He's hiding us. That spellbinder won't spot any of us now."
"Useful, to be sure," Dorian says, with a polite nod of acknowledgement in Solas' direction. "What next?"
"Let's enter the camp. I want to map it out," Leas tells him, and though they are concealed, he steps forward carefully, as though trying not to disturb anything in the Fade. Solas follows him, and Dorian almost at his side; the other man says nothing, but Solas can tell from the way he glances around all the time as if searching for demons, that he is wary. But they pass in silence, and soon, they arrive in the camp.
There is not much to look at, only the wandering spellbinder, two marksmen, a solitary brute, and a handful of zealots, plus their equipment and tents. They walk among them for a time, and Solas peers in interest at their dreams and thoughts—mostly of Corypheus and a Tevinter empowered and triumphant, but some of their families and others of a Tevinter cleansed of corruption and made glorious, a somewhat more tragic dream. "Can you see these, Dorian?" Leas asks though he should know the answer. "Their dreams and thoughts?"
"See—no!" Dorian says at once, staring at Leas as though he's lost his senses. "I'm no somniari. Why would I see them?"
Leas shrugs and chuckles. "I just thought I'd ask. You're missing out," he says, cheerful. "There's so much I can only begin to conceive of being able to do…"
"So, what are you planning to do now?" Solas asks, and Leas comes to a halt at the head of one of the marksmen.
For a few moments, there is silence as Leas apparently examines the marksman and pats at his belt, as if checking for his dagger. Then he swallows and looks up. "I'm going to enter his dreams."
This is not much of a surprise to Solas beyond his wondering why the man intends to do that with an enemy. Dorian, however, blurts out, "What, you're capable of that?"
Leas nods and shoots Solas a grateful look before shifting his gaze to Dorian. "Solas has allowed me into his dreams many times over the past months, for educational purposes," he says, with a sudden grin. Dorian abruptly raises his brows, no doubt intrigued, and Solas rolls his eyes but resists the childish urge to tell them to work this out already. "I don't need his help with entering anymore, so I think this should be simple enough."
"And when you're in his dreams? What do you intend to do then?"
Another wry smile crosses Leas' face, and he glances meaningfully at Solas, as though he's sharing an inside joke with him. At the same time, however, his eye twitches, and his smile trembles a little, with just the barest hint of doubt and disquiet. "I'm going to kill him. In his dreams."
Ah.
Dorian stares at Leas for a long moment, and Solas watches as comprehension dawns on his face too. "And when you do that, he'll die in the real world, too," he muses. "Yes, I've heard of that. The dreamer magisters in Tevinter were infamous for using such tactics against their rivals. No surprise coming from them, but from you? I'd have thought you would have preferred a straight-up fight."
"I needed to see if I could do this," Leas says. He glances at Solas again and continues speaking. His tone is placid, but there is an undercurrent of something else there, a certain lack of confidence that flies in the face of his previous attitude. "You've taught me much, hahren, and I thank you for it most sincerely. But there are things I need to work out for myself, and in my position, as I've said before, I can't really use my abilities for the pursuit of knowledge. Better to hone them into a weapon… and in the present circumstances, what better weapon than the ability to strike at my enemies in their dreams, killing one or two and terrorising the rest?"
Solas can feel his eyes widening, and out of the corner of them, he can see that Dorian is equally taken aback. Well, then. His tone is full of doubt, but I suppose he might have fit in at the court of Arlathan after all.
"Spoken like a true magister," Dorian says, but rather than take offence, Leas only chuckles and rubs the back of his neck, blushing faintly. "Fasta vass. Not that they don't deserve it, but what exactly are you going to do to these people?"
"I played with ideas for a time. I considered picking them off one by one, striking at random every few nights—the psychological impact alone would be undeniable," he says, and his tone remains placid, with that same undercurrent of doubt. Still, it sends a chill up Solas' spine. Fenedhis, how often did he see in the nobles of Arlathan such terrible serenity while contemplating atrocities? "But I don't think I'll do that. It's cruel, and impractical to boot. You needn't look so pale, Solas, it was just a passing fancy."
Solas nods and tries to trample down on his alarm. "Ir abelas. Continue."
Leas rests a hand on his hip and leans into it, a more thoughtful expression coming over his face, though the faint grimace twisting his mouth shows his doubts are coming to the surface. "I thought of nightmares. I've been back to visit my clan many times, and as many times I've weaved dreams for Adhlean. Not that he knows yet—I suppose I must tell him… Anyway, I'm getting good at dream-weaving. It follows that I should be good at weaving nightmares. I found in my research that some dreamers could manipulate people into killing each other by giving them horrible nightmares featuring their fellows. That's something I want to try. But not this time, I think. This time, I'll kill one of them, or maybe two. Then we go back in the morning, while the others are wondering why their friends apparently just dropped dead, we catch them by surprise, and we kill them all."
More shivers run down Solas' spine, even though the plan is logistically sound. That Leas seems bothered by what he's contemplating hardly helps matters—how can he of all people have come up with such an idea? "I applaud your practicality," he says, "but you almost seem to forget that you are killing people." In the grand scheme of things, the hypocrisy of his statement is breathtaking, but the point still stands, especially given Leas' usual respect for life.
Leas looks at him, grimacing outright now, and he says, "Trust me, Solas, I have not forgotten. I know this is an ugly way to die, and I still regret there is no reasoning with these people. But it is no uglier than being barbecued to death or electrocuted or any number of the things that ordinary mages can do, and surely you of all people can see the practical side of this. If I can sneak into our enemies' camps in the Fade and take out their commanders, or those who might pose the most trouble, before we all have to go in, well…" He raises a pointed eyebrow at Solas, and Solas exhales and nods.
"I am aware. You just seemed rather… too interested in this, is all I am saying."
"It's as much an intellectual exercise as anything else," Leas admits. "I just want to see if I can do it. If I can, I'll be praying to Falon'Din and the Maker for the man's soul as surely as I would have normally. Besides, I don't intend to make a habit of it," he adds, and he gives Solas his patented kicked puppy look, and Solas allows himself a moment to listen to the man's surface thoughts.
There is regret there, disquietude—stronger in his mind than it is in his words. Beneath even that, there is a hint of worry about his interest, some concern that this is too uncharacteristic of him, and what if he is losing himself to his abilities? Lost enough of myself to my title and my gifts—can't lose more. This seems too easy, easy to fall into because it is easy. I do not wish to become a cold-blooded killer because I can kill people while they are helpless in their dreams, and though Solas cannot read more because the man's mental barriers are very strong and he seems to have a vested interest in nobody getting too deep into his head, still, he is satisfied.
"Fair enough," he says, and he glances at Dorian, who still seems uneasy but also relaxes when Leas turns his gaze on him. The man's muscles loosen, and he inclines his head slowly.
After a moment, he says, "This should be interesting. But—a word of advice? Perhaps say nothing of this to Sera or Cassandra. Possibly Bull as well. I can't imagine they'll take this well at all."
Leas chuckles again. "Absolutely not. Sera almost ran away from me when she learnt of my abilities. I had to do some very quick talking to reassure her, and there's a reason she insists on sleeping on the other side of camp from me. She, at least, doesn't need to know about this. Cassandra and Bull might be more open to the idea, but… not just yet, you're right." After a moment, he adds, "Of course, this is assuming I can pull this off. Well, no point standing around. I might as well get to it. Dorian, if I disappear, don't be alarmed. I'll just be… in his head."
Dorian laughs. "There's a sentence you don't hear every day," he says, and he steps up to Solas' side as he speaks. Solas senses that his alarm has more or less disappeared and been replaced by pure curiosity, even fascination. Well, whatever the man might be, he will at least give him credit for being open-minded.
After months of practice and instruction, Leas needs no reminders from Solas to clear his mind and focus, or at least, that is what Solas assumes. He reaches behind and pulls out his dagger, a simple thing of Dalish make, then he kneels at the head of the marksman. He lays his hands on the man's fitful dreams, screws his eyes shut in concentration, and for a few moments, there is nothing more. Then, the dream distorts, shifts and expands almost, enveloping Leas within it until he too is nothing more than a gauzy image within it, here one second and gone the next. Beside him, Dorian's eyes go wide for a moment, but he recovers himself soon enough.
"What are you seeing?" he murmurs to Solas.
"Not much. He is in the man's dream, and I can see him… moving, sneaking behind the man… but without entering myself, I cannot make out much more than that." Dorian nods and falls silent, evidently realising that this venture is likely to be rather dull for him, and Solas wonders for half a moment why Leas brought him along in the first place before it occurs to him that the younger man was probably hoping to impress him.
He shakes his head. Fenedhis. The man is besotted. But there's nothing he can do about that, so he relaxes his posture and concentrates on observing the dreams of the unfortunate marksman.
This one—his name is Valerianus—dreams of Corypheus, like most of the others. In his mind, the magisters of Tevinter kneel before their Elder One, and all the people of the world, from Par Vollen to the lowest reaches of the Korcari Wilds and the Dales, kneel before them, and Tevinter stands triumphant, eternal, and restored. A world that once was and will never be again, though they try, Solas thinks, and an image of Arlathan flickers through his mind, and his guts begin to churn and twist.
Where is the difference?
With Arlathan restored, and the Veil destroyed, the elves will be freed. With Tevinter reborn, no one will be freed. But still the question dogs him no matter how much he focuses, and even the sight of Leas appearing just behind Valerianus in his dream is not sufficient distraction, though it is welcome.
Still, he is only observing it from the outside, and so it becomes increasingly difficult to make out what is happening, though what little he can make out suggests to Solas that Leas is attempting to find the most efficient and the quietest way to kill the man. Do not tarry. The man may not be dreaming lucidly, but he will notice you if you delay too long.
Moments later, however, the marksman's back arches, and he lets out a quiet gasp that attracts the notice of the solitary guard stationed nearby. As quickly, however, he falls back to the ground, and his gasp is so otherwise nondescript that the guard soon turns his head away, no doubt presuming his fellow to be having some sort of dream and guessing far nearer to the truth than he could ever have imagined. Dorian leans forward, and Solas nods to himself as the man's breathing slows, then stops entirely, and as the blood drains from his face.
Shortly after, Leas reappears, holding his spirit blade in his hand. He stands up, sheathing the blade, stares down at Valerianus for a moment, then shifts his gaze to Dorian and Solas.
"Well done," Solas says, and he means it. "It appears you have also avoided attracting any attention."
"Just like out of the stories, and not a scratch on him," Dorian muses. "Impressive, Inquisitor. Perhaps you might try again on another one of these cretins?" He eyes the brute, in particular, his maul, and what he is thinking is obvious, not that Solas can blame him. He does not relish coming up against warriors wielding such weapons, either.
But Leas only shakes his head. "No, one's enough," he says, and his voice is firm. "This one here, Valerianus, he wasn't scheduled to be on watch tonight. That's why I chose him. If I kill any of the others, we'll lose the element of surprise for the morning. And, well…" He shifts on his feet, eyes darting left and right while he plays with his hair. "It was almost too easy. Too easy to go in, catch him unawares, and kill him. I know they probably deserve it, but I don't want killing to be that simple. I fear I might become… desensitised, if it was."
Solas exhales in relief—there, at last, is the concern he was looking for earlier; no need to read the man's surface thoughts to find it. Dorian, however, raises an eyebrow. "The day you become desensitised to killing is the day your bleeding heart freezes over," he says.
"It's a slippery slope, much like hatred," Leas counters. "Thus, I'd prefer to avoid it. How many somniari before me, I wonder, found it so easy to kill men in their dreams, got addicted to it, and soon lost sight of what they were doing and the weight of it? I will not fall into that. Tualanen lanasta em, I killed this man for an intellectual exercise. It had to be done, but I'd much prefer not to do it again." He bows his head and murmurs a prayer, and while he does so, Solas shakes his head, unsure whether to tell the man to harden himself or to encourage his softness, for the world would be so much better—more redeemable—if people were willing to remain soft and kind despite everything. Next to him, he sees Dorian looks equally torn.
"This still has a practical side," Solas reminds him after a moment. "It can be used to the Inquisition's advantage."
"I know, and I won't shy away from using it where appropriate. To take out commanders and the like. I just… never thought I'd be assassinating people, you know? Especially not in such an insidious manner. It feels… wrong."
Dorian goes and puts a hand on Leas' shoulder, and to Solas' eyes, the action seems almost instinctual. Interesting, but ultimately irrelevant. "What about weaving nightmares and the other possibilities you mentioned? Will you still be trying those?"
Leas exhales, seeming to lean into Dorian's touch, but he keeps his eyes averted and now tugs at his ears in his unease. "I will, if only to find out if I can do them. Which I probably can. But again, I have no intention of making a habit of it. I know I need this to be a weapon, but psychologically tormenting people like that… it sits no better with me."
"Hold on to that feeling," Dorian urges him. "Better you remain troubled than become a mass-murdering, power-hungry maniac."
"I agree," Solas says. "You have great power, arani. It is good to keep the weight and cost of it in mind even if it eats at you. I have seen what happens when people forget those things… The results are never pretty." In a roundabout way, his own actions could be traced to the Evanuris forgetting the weight and cost of their power—if they ever knew it in the first place—just as so many other problems in this world can be traced to the magisters, the Chantry, and the nobles of Orlais doing much the same thing. That Leas remains so troubled is… gladdening, even if it does nothing to change those who have already forgotten.
"Power corrupts," Leas says with an exhausted nod. "It would corrupt the Dalish as easily as it corrupts the humans, not that this is no reason for us not to have any power. But that is neither here nor there." He shrugs, rubs his eyes, stares down at Valerianus for a few moments more, then steps around him and rejoins them. "Come. Let's go. We'll have to be up early tomorrow if we're to catch the rest of these Venatori by surprise."
They head back out of the camp and around the corner to Ghilan'nain's Grove again. "An interesting venture, Inquisitor," Dorian says. "Thank you. We should try this again sometime," he adds, and he winks. Solas rolls his eyes again.
Leas chuckles faintly and rubs the back of his neck, blushing. "I'll see what I can do," he says, then he looks at Solas. "Ma serannas, tas, hahren."
"De da'rahn," Solas replies at once. "You have come far, and in such a short time. It is a pleasure to see." The lie rolls easily off his tongue, and Leas grins, suspecting nothing—as he always does. Short of anti-elven propaganda, the man would believe just about anything that's fed to him, even if it's by an Orlesian noble, Solas wagers. He sees so clearly, but he trusts so blindly, and Solas' heart almost aches for it.
"And there's so much more to find out," Leas says, smiling more widely this time. "I suspect I would never uncover it all even if I spent the rest of my life doing nothing but searching."
"That much is true, but do not let that discourage you," Solas says, chuckling as well and trying to ignore the churning of his stomach. "The gift should not be lost."
"Agreed. Dorian, do you have any Tevinter resources on the dreamers back at Skyhold?"
Dorian considers for a moment. "Nothing that immediately comes to mind. When we get back, I'll go through the most promising texts, though I can't promise I'll find anything that'll tell you something you don't already know. Somniari have mostly died out among us, too—the only two I know of are Aurelian Titus and some magister's son. Titus came to a messy end, as you do, and the other one is kept shut up in his parents' estate day in and day out because he's a haemophiliac and wouldn't last five seconds in the company of his fellow high-born. Altogether, a shadow of what they were in the days of old Tevinter, like so much else."
"Like so much else," Leas says. "I almost can't blame the Venatori for wanting a restoration. Key word being almost."
"Quite. No point in going back to a dead world," Dorian agrees as they enter the simulacrum of the camp again, and Solas' mouth twists, but whether it is with guilt or bitter amusement and irony, even he isn't entirely sure.
At the entrance to the camp, he says his goodbyes and lets them leave, and then he turns and heads back into the raw Fade, in search of spirits who might advise him. Perhaps he might find Wisdom, hear what she has to say about the path he has taken with Leas. The man has become too powerful, too quickly, and all Solas can foolishly do is encourage him even as he knows that all he is accomplishing is making him even more of a threat. He should stop this—he must—but as much as he does not want Leas to become over-powerful, as little can he endure that the knowledge of dreaming should be lost. Fenedhis, if only Leas were not the Inquisitor, then his newfound ability to kill people in their dreams and the possibility that he can weave nightmares for them and manipulate them into killing each other via the Fade would not be so worrying. His brother Iselen would be a very poor substitute—the man is a prat, everything Solas hates about the Dalish, someone who always seems two seconds away from calling him a bare-faced flat-ear and who condescendingly tolerates him only because he is Leas' instructor and knows much of elven lore—but at least he would not be so much of a threat.
He is distracted from the thought, however, by a cry that echoes across the Exalted Plains.
Wisdom's cry.
Translations
"Tualanen lanasta em.": "Creators forgive me."
"'Ma serannas, tas, hahren.": "Thank you, as well, elder."
"De da'rahn.": "It was a little thing."
All translations taken from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen.