I think my body is afraid of being a body again.
It was nothing for the longest time.
—Meggie Royer, Missed Connection
A word and everything is saved.
A word and all is lost.
—André Breton, Le revolver à cheveux blancs
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A staging area had been covertly set up in the forest outside of Redcliffe, a mile from any of the magical wards which would have betrayed their advance to the magister. The pines towered overhead, staggering in their height, which effectively kept their forces from being spotted from afar.
The Commander had not been pleased with her decision to meet with Alexius, nor Leliana's plan to infiltrate through the secret tunnels beneath the castle, but she found she had little patience for it. Val Royeaux had proved the futility of approaching the templars, as the Lord Seeker had barely acknowledged her, and heartily refused in aiding with the Breach. The templars had followed him out of the city, no better than armored sheep. Approaching them again would have been an exercise in futility.
Though facing a magister who could manipulate time itself was not a particularly promising option, either.
The tension had spurred her to step away, to take a breath, to seek a moment of peace before the inevitable conflict which laid ahead of her.
Get the mages, close the Breach — then it's done. Then you can go home.
It had been the only thing keeping her going — the thought that it would be over eventually, once she'd done what was needed of her. But what was needed had become a complicated, many-headed beast. Each time she dealt with one thing, two more cropped up. If she closed the Breach, would that truly be the end of it?
Tephra had the sinking feeling that it wouldn't be.
Her life as the Herald of Andraste loomed large and long ahead of her, no matter how she tried to imagine an eventual release or escape from the manacles of duty.
Suddenly at her side, Solas informed, "Your advisers are prepared to begin."
He left without a further word.
Tephra turned and looked to where her companions idled at the makeshift war table, going over diagrams of Redcliffe castle and the tunnels running beneath it.
Solas continued to pointedly avoid her gaze as he rejoined them.
The tension had not eased since they departed the Storm Coast, and Solas had largely kept to himself in the time that followed. He was distant with her, and watched her with a wariness she hadn't seen before.
This was different from his earlier caution he'd exercised around her, and held a guardedness that felt very much like self-preservation.
Tephra could hardly blame him, though; she'd had far too much to drink that night in the tavern, and for it, most certainly made an ass of herself.
What in the Void had spurred her to be so provocative with him?
It was clear now to her that she'd crossed a line with him — the kiss, particularly.
What had possessed her to do such a thing?
Especially to Solas, who kept himself so carefully apart from those around him.
He had clearly shown before that he did not care much for being touched, from the way his posture so often tensed at her approach, or if he even suspected that he might be touched — accidentally, or not. Either it was a natural aversion, or perhaps she simply made him uncomfortable.
Was it because of the title she'd been given? Because of the way that the entirety of the Inquisition seemed to follow her, despite the organization having no clear leader?
It left her feeling stricken, and questioning the complexities of social status and matters of consent.
She'd been thrust into a world she barely understood, and whose customs and taboos entirely escaped her. Even now, after all this time after having rejoined her people, certain social cues tended to escape her — especially in the world outside of her clan.
Whatever it was that had unsettled him, she very much wished to rectify it. However difficult the start of their companionship had been, she had become increasingly fond of him and did not wish to break that bond with impropriety on her part.
Perhaps in time her embarrassment would subside, as well as his, so that either of them could look each other in the eye as comrades, and not whatever this was.
She stepped back to the war table, and into the middle of Varric's grumbling rant of their current situation.
"—hole in the sky, mages and templars in a pissing contest all over Thedas, and now some magister's playing with time magic. Couldn't get any worse, could it?"
Vivian gave a musical laugh as she chided him, "Do try and not tempt the fates, dear. We've already plenty to deal with today."
"Yes, if history is anything to go by, it most certainly can get worse," Dorian added, with a laugh.
Tephra looked over the diagrams again, as she felt the weight of leadership settle over her once more.
There had never been an official discussion on leadership, or what precisely her role was beyond being the "hand-glowy rift-closer" — as Sera so succinctly put it — yet, here they were all the same. Looking to her for guidance, and awaiting her command.
She looked to Leliana, and asked, "Is your team prepared to begin?"
The spymaster stood with her hands locked behind her back, "By your leave, Herald."
Commander Cullen shifted, as he advised, "We still have time to retreat, and consider the templars. The mages have made their choice. I still do not see the point of putting Lavellan at risk."
Leliana bristled, "They're desperate. They're trying to protect themselves, and their loved ones. Can you blame them for it?"
"If it means putting Lavellan in a position to be killed for it, I absolutely can," Cullen countered, in a heated tone. "Are the mages worth risking our only chance of closing the Breach?"
Tephra's hands fisted on the table, knuckles white with frustration.
Each of her advisers were considerably different from one another, and very often viewed the handling of various problems in very different ways, which predictably ended up in heated bickering on what precisely was the best approach in handling the matter at hand.
Tephra pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing in frustration — she was more than tired of their bickering and inability to compromise.
Leliana gave an incredulous laugh, "So we should just condemn them to be used as tools in whatever terrible thing the magister plans? To be manipulated by a foreign power, and used against us?"
"I did not—"
"Enough."
The Seeker's sharp voice cut through their argument more effectively than any blade.
Cassandra turned her attention from the bickering advisers and back to Tephra, and said, "Leliana has briefed her agents, and they are ready to begin when you are. Those of us accompanying you inside also stand ready. We await your word, Herald."
Tephra glanced around the table, before giving a small nod, "Then let's begin."
"You will be right in the middle of it all, Herald," the Commander intoned. "You can still back out."
His concern was touching, if unnecessary.
She'd made her decision, and did not plan to back out now.
"I've been in danger since this began. That hasn't changed, and it likely never will," she replied. "Dorian will manipulate the wards for us to pass through undetected, as he is familiar with the magister's magic. Your soldiers, the Chargers, and Madame de Fer will remain just outside of them to avoid detection. If things go south, the scouts will signal from their position."
"We will not be able to take the castle, if you fall," Cullen reminded.
Persistent, isn't he?
She understood the risk which lay ahead of her. Retreat would have been easier, but leaving Alexius to toy with time itself was not an option.
"No, but you can evacuate the town," Tephra mused. "Take those who will listen to reason to the safety of Haven."
"No where will be safe if—"
Tephra fixed him with a sharp look, "I don't mean to die today, Commander."
"Few ever do," Solas interjected, in a clipped tone. "How do you mean to defy your own mortality?"
Now I have his attention, of course, Tephra mused, with morbid amusement. Gods forbid she die and leave them without the power to close the Breach.
Her marked hand flexed idly, gripping at the sudden surge of magic flaring in her palm.
She was starting to think it was directly tied to her sense of annoyance — specifically when it was aroused by him.
Tephra gave him a crooked grin, and quipped, "However I have to."
It was a cheeky call-back to what she'd told him, when he asked how she meant to protect him from the Inquisition. It got precisely the reaction she desired as the muscles of his jaw worked silently, as though he were suppressing either a biting rebuttal, or perhaps a smile.
Whichever he meant, he kept it to himself and said nothing further.
She lifted her bow from where she'd left it on the table and shouldered it, "If there's nothing else, then we're done here. Heaven forbid that we keep Alexius waiting."
As her companions departed, she caught Solas by the sleeve. Tephra was careful to not make contact with his skin, and released him as soon as he turned back to her.
"Was there something else, Herald?"
His tone was formal, and tightly clipped — distanced.
She ignored the knot in her stomach, and said, "I don't know what's going to happen in there, but I wanted to apologize, in case anything does."
"You have not wronged me in any way that I'm aware of," he replied, simply.
There was something oddly pressing and urgent — a bad feeling settling into her gut.
Something about this was all wrong — the magister, the time magic, the taking of the mages. It was far more disquieting to her than the Lord Seeker's retreat with the templars to Therinfal Redoubt. The wrongness of Alexius's pursuit and manipulation of time itself made things feel oddly pressing and urgent, as though she needed to get this out before she lost the chance to.
"For the Storm Coast," she pressed on, stubbornly. "I did not mean to disrespect your boundaries, Solas, nor take advantage of our friendship. You just have a way of—"
Tephra frowned, sharply, at a loss of how to put it exactly.
She wasn't entirely sure what this was, to begin with, only that it was complicated, and it had become important to her.
"—drawing me out."
Yes, that.
All this time, even with her clan, she still retreated from making any lasting bonds with those around her. She largely preferred solitude, and the few bonds she'd entertained were purely shallow and emotionally distant.
Loss was not something she tolerated well, you could not miss what you didn't have to begin with.
Perhaps it was that self-same wariness she saw in him, that same hesitance — the fear of rejection, or loss. That self-same sense of oh, you too?
Of kinship in exile, in not belonging.
"I'm not good at being so open with people, or letting my guard down, but I've told you more than I have told most anyone in my life," she confessed. "I'm sorry if I've gotten too familiar with you — for assuming you'd invite it in the first place."
His silence was crushing as he regarded her with a tight, measured frown. "As I said before, you have nothing to apologize for. What lies ahead of us has made me rather grim and taciturn, for which you have mistaken for offense. It is not, nor is it your fault."
"Give me time, I'm sure I'll offend you again soon enough," she teased, with a tight smile.
It was a futile attempt to coax him out of his gloominess, as he neither laughed, nor cracked the slightest smile at her jest.
"There is no saying what may transpire between us, though I do not wish to see it ended or diverted from its course. But it is a matter for another time, and you should ready yourself for the unexpected. There is no knowing what may transpire in there, with a magister toying with time magic," Solas advised.
"If you insist," Tephra sighed. As she shouldered her pack, she snarked, "Maybe one of these days we might have a real conversation, Solas. You know, actual communication — without omitting, or holding back."
She could have laughed at how positively alarmed he looked. She hadn't meant to put pressure on him, she'd only meant to leave the door open for when — if ever — he cared to step through.
"No rush, Solas," Tephra teased, with a crooked grin. "There's always later, right?"
She turned on her heel to follow after the others, and to avoid the sudden look which crossed his face. Grief — endless, and old, which he couldn't quite keep hidden from her.
It made her think of the mark in her hand, and of time running out.
The consolation — the assurance that there was always later — felt hollow and brittle, yet she clung to it all the same.
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Solas's pulse pounded as he followed after the Herald, as he walked amongst the others, straining to not betray the racing torrent of his own thoughts.
Redcliffe castle loomed ahead, ominously still and vacant of Fereldan soldiers. The magister had driven them all out when he'd taken up residence. If Alexius's men were present, they were cleverly concealed, even from him.
Solas could feel the weight of distorted magic pressing down on him, could feel the inherent wrongness of it, heavier with each step towards its epicenter. He could see that Dorian sensed it as well, if not as acutely.
Whatever magics the magister toyed with alongside time, it was a desperate, grasping reach for power he should not have been able to reach for.
Despite the gravity of the situation, he could not quiet the war drum beating in his head with every pump of his heart.
He needed to focus, to concentrate on what lay ahead of them, just as he had urged the Herald to — time magic, meddling magisters, impossibilities made possible by the Breach — but all he could think of was how easy it would be to simply reach out and grasp her arm. To assure her that there was no world in which he would not wish to continue exploring whatever this was building between them.
It took great effort to keep his silence, to not confront such an open invitation, to question its context or depths, to—
Escape.
Confronted with such an impossibility, with something that ran so divergent with what he'd come to expect of this world, the urge to flee to safety was all-encompassing. To reassess, to see where his logic had gone wrong. Not just of what was possible in this veiled world, but of its occupants. Of a singular occupant, with dark gorgeous eyes that challenged him at every turn in the best of ways.
Impossibility made possible.
A shadow that was not a shadow, but real, devastatingly real — whose spirit was bright and marvelous and utterly rare.
It made the prospect of fleeing seem quite natural, given the frayed state of him worn down by loneliness.
It would be far too easy to simply fling himself right over the edge of her abyss.
Retreat was his oldest and safest compulsion, as nothing in his long life had ever been more reliable than his own company. In his youth, there had always been spirits, if he had need of them; if he kept to his path, there always would be spirits to be found. Reliable company that neither shunned nor judged him, and always readily accepted his presence. They were safe, in that they required nothing of him beyond sating their curiosity. They saw him as he was, without the trappings of titles, nor shared the scorn of those who derided him for his pursuit of truth and knowledge for knowledge's sake.
Perhaps that was why it had been so liberating to him to have approached the Inquisition as he had — as simply himself. He had worn the mantle of Fen'Harel for so long, he'd almost forgotten how to put it down. Even in uthenera, when he tried to reach out to the few dreamers he came across, he could not be separated from it.
After he'd raised the Veil and was forced to submit to uthenera in his weakness, his first attempts to reach out to the waking world had been a cacophony of hysteria and confusion. Those first attempts had shocked him, to be met with such vehemence. And then, as his people were sundered from magic and immortality, those he could find in the dreaming became less and less, until near-silence reigned over the long centuries that followed.
He had promised freedom and salvation in breaking from the Evanuris, in stopping them, and all he'd brought his people was ruin.
Liar. Betrayer. Madman.
It had become such a familiar chorus, that even in waking amongst his agents, he'd been afraid of being shunned. Resolved to his path, but wary and ready to deal with dissent. Felassan had not been the first, nor was he likely to be the last — to waver, to doubt, to turn their back on what needed to be done. It was all he could do, but cling to the mask to protect what remained of himself that was still his to keep. So it had been a relief, in its own way, to be able to move among those of the Inquisition as no one — as just another face among the crowds.
They had acted predictably, of course — seeing only the ears, seeing only the mad apostate. That had not changed since the time of his youth, and he'd gotten quite used to even his friends regarding him as such — as an oddity, as a fool. As a madman.
Those words, even when bestowed affectionately by his comrades, had been directed at him for so long that they no longer affected him any more. Even his most loyal companions had, in their own ways, struggled to understand his more divergent beliefs — if not offering acceptance, they at least managed to tolerate them.
In the end, for all he'd sacrificed to save his people, all it had earned him was betrayal and invalidation and his name cursed for the centuries that followed.
Wisdom had warned him that such knowing came with a price, and it was his to pay alone — the estrangement, the isolation, all of it his to carry. Even now, for what he had to do, to make things right.
They needed him to be that — the mantle, the mask, the madman. A figure, not a person, on which they could project all of their hopes. They relied on him to keep strong and to lead them into a better world; he could not afford to be weak.
As she could not afford to be, either, for her people.
As much as she refused to accept the title placed on her, she had begin to learn what he had long ago — to put forward another face, to lock away one's own weaknesses to become what was needed. It pained him to see her learn such a lesson, to be held apart from the world as he had been before — as he was still.
Perhaps, in that — together — there was kinship between them. An odd sort of redemption. A safe-keeping. Where one could put down the weight of all they carried, without fear of judgement or being sent away.
Its own kind of healing, even if he could not tell her the whole truth.
He had nearly given in to despair, nearly lost all hope, nearly given up and fled outright in the face of the Breach. She would not wake, and he had no other option available to him. And then, she'd defied his expectations not only in waking, but in defying those who held her, in not breaking under the sudden reality of the Breach and what was needed of her. And against all odds of surviving, even with her body dying, she had proved that she could not only seal the rifts, but stabilize the Breach as well. And with that, had reignited his hope that he could see this through to its end.
She had no way of knowing how much he leaned on her, at this point. How much he relied on her stubbornness, her refusal to give up, her inability to admit defeat.
Yet, a part of her had to have known — had to have recognized that same need for reassurance. Why else, of all of her companions, would she continue to seek him out when she needed to confess her fears, or seek solace in mutual understanding?
There was something startlingly open about her, in that she neither rebuked him, nor derided him — she had not made him feel foolish for his thoughts or beliefs. She challenged him when she considered him wrong, but she was not inflexible to considering other truths. She listened, and she learned — just as he listened and learned from her.
It occurred to him, that in many ways, they were on equal footing with one another.
There were still unbreachable disparities — the vast gulf of time and lived experiences between them, her disconnection from her true self, and all of the things he could not tell her — but what they shared bridged that distance far more effectively than any other being he'd known in a very long time.
She was trapped between two worlds, just as he was. Trapped between her people, and the world around her. Trapped between duty, and self.
The others could never grasp the entirety of the weight she carried, not as he could. The weight of expectation, of failure, of loss, of having to keep going for the sake of others.
He understood what it was to be a figure of hope, to be an idea — to be a figure on which those around him could project their own expectations and desires. To be depended on, to protect and care for them — and to sometimes fail them.
She had given him her word of protection, long before she had even tolerated him, and she had continued to fiercely enforce it. She had his back, as he had hers.
It was dizzying, to suddenly have someone beside him on which he could depend. Someone just as strong in spirit, and just as broken. Strong enough to protect herself in most situations, as well as him.
The scar tissue deep in his thigh ached as he kept pace with the Herald, as if to remind him of how far she'd gone to preserve his life.
Her stubborn strength offered him anchorage — ballast. Someone he could lean on, when the weight became too much. Someone he could be vulnerable with, without fear of judgement or being forsaken.
With her, he was not Fen'Harel — not the Great Betrayer of her people — nor was he dismissed as a madman, as a hysterical dissident.
She offered him a sense of acceptance, in a way he had never known outside of Wisdom. It felt safe, and that terrified him — that she could be an equal; a partner.
In all of his long life, despite however many lovers had come and gone, he had never truly had that. The sudden prospect of it inspired a reckless, consuming sense of hope.
It was a dangerous thing — hope.
He could not reach for it, could not trust that it would bear the weight he carried. There was no certainty, no guarantee that he'd seen what he hoped for in her. His absurd loneliness put him at great risk for projecting onto her what he desired most, and it appalled him to even presume what she may or may not have wanted of him, beyond simple companionship. Yet still, even in that small thing, he feared being turned away. He feared losing what small ember of compassion she afford him, simply by treating him as a person.
Whatever this was, what they had now — this tentative friendship, however small it was — it had become precious to him. It anchored him, and kept his morale up. He could not risk losing that, not when there was still so far to go to stop Corypheus, to reclaim his focusing orb, to see his mission to its end.
It was selfish of him to lean so heavily on her, especially in that he could not tell her everything, but she came so willingly to share in his burden, in whatever small way she could. Perhaps he could, in his own way, help her to carry hers. That she could be vulnerable with him in a way the others could never understand, as he might with her.
To know, and be known.
He could not give her the whole truth, but perhaps he could give her enough to make the weight bearable.
It lightened his step, to think he could.
To think that, yes, there was a later — however small, however limited — and she offered it to him all the same. She could not have known how precious a gift it was, and how little of it she had left to give anyone, least of all him. It conjured a different kind of fear in him — first, in the hope that she would offer such to him. Her time was her life, her most precious thing to give away; a mortal, fleeting thing — burning brighter than any spirit in this blighted world had any right to. And secondly, the knowledge that he would lose it all the same, that it had been taken from him the moment he'd set foot on this path. That he'd robbed himself of any honest chance of ever deserving her — not in this world, or any other.
It was no one's fault, but his own.
As they passed through the open gates of Redcliffe castle, Solas fell into pace beside her. He was acutely aware of her proximity as he walked beside her, and the memory of her touch ghosted his nerves.
Still, despite knowing that he could never begin to be worthy of her, he felt compelled to give her his gratitude. Perhaps after they returned to Haven, he could find time alone with her to convey his appreciation for her patience with him, and her continued attempts at companionship.
She was right, in that.
There was time.
It was a funny thing, in this world — time.
It moved at a dizzying pace, as did the mortals. It forced him to consider things more quickly, to think on his toes, to act far more impulsively than he cared to. Yet it also gave him an appreciation for the finite, for the fleeting — for what could not last. For what could exist in the small space between now, and the next.
Guilt, however, ensured his silence; it stayed his hand more effectively than any doubt could.
Even if she had lived the long and healthy life of a mortal, it wouldn't have been enough for him, and the mark in her hand ensured she wouldn't. What remained to her was perilously short in a mortal's perspective, more so in his.
"Look alive, Chuckles," Varric quipped, suddenly beside him. He'd hefted his beloved crossbow up on his shoulder, and strolled with his usual swagger which belied his obvious unease. "Just because this place is empty, doesn't mean it is."
"Surely the magister doesn't intend to ambush us outright," the Herald mused. "That would be terribly rude of him."
The courtyard was empty and still, but for an errant breeze stirring the flowering trees.
"We of course are known for our manners in Tevinter," Dorian joked. With a flourish, he began to weave a spell, "I'll meet you inside. It's probably best that Alexius doesn't know I'm here, just yet."
With that, he slipped into concealment. The magic was sharp and efficient, if a bit flashy for Solas's taste.
The massive oak doors leading into the castle were left wide open, in a cocky display of anticipating the Herald's prompt acceptance to meet with the magister. It put him on guard, and he discreetly began to scan the area for hidden traps and offensive wards, as well as Venatori agents lying in wait. He was surprised to find nothing, but for a valet awaiting them just inside the entrance.
Further inside, there was only a handful of the magister's men, which again seemed to be a brazen display of arrogance — as if to say, I do not fear the Herald.
The valet gestured to stop them, as he blustered, "The magister's invitation was for Mistress Lavellan, and no one else. You lot wait here."
"Where I go, they go," Tephra shot back, sharply.
Her tone was stolid — a practiced affect that reflected her attempts at mimicking those in positions of authority around her. Perhaps one day she might be more convincing, if she ever fully accepted the reality of her own power.
The valet glanced nervously between the Herald's companions, before relenting and giving a stiff nod. He turned on his heel to lead them down the hall, to where the magister awaited them.
Predictably, Alexius occupied the throne, as though it had always belonged to him. He sat almost slouched, relaxed into a casual stance as though he awaited friends, rather than opponents. His son stood beside him in fraught silence.
"My friend! It's so good to see you again," the magister declared, in a falsely cheery tone. He glanced over the rest of them, as he added, "And your... associates, of course. I'm sure we can work out some arrangement that is equitable to all parties."
The Grand Enchanter idled just down the steps from the throne, clearly anxious at her predicament. "Are we mages to have no voice in deciding our fate?" she demanded.
"Fiona, you would not have turned your followers over to my care if you did not trust me with their lives," Alexius chided, in a tone that one would use with a particularly petulant child.
"If the Grand Enchanter wants to be part of these talks, then I welcome her as a guest of the Inquisition," Tephra said, her tone as smooth and unyielding as stone.
Solas felt a rush of pride, as he watched her deftly counter the magister's dismissal of the Grand Enchanter.
Fiona inclined her head to the Herald, "Thank you."
If the magister was perturbed by having control of the situation briefly pried from his grasp, he did not show it. He simply shifted where he sat, to lean forward as he continued on, "The Inquisition needs mages to close the Breach, and I have them."
His posture was loose and seemingly relaxed, but Solas could feel the magic bristling just beneath the magister's skin, and he could not help but brace himself in anticipation of an attack.
"So, what shall you offer in exchange?" Alexius mused, as though they were not simply playing at the farce of negotiating terms.
For her part, Tephra was not fazed by the magister's flippant behavior. Amused, she quipped, "I'd much rather discuss your time magic."
On that, the magister tensed.
"I'm afraid I have no idea what you mean," Alexius replied, in an affably dismissive tone.
Felix sighed, as he turned to face his father, "She knows everything."
The magister turned to his son, thrown off by shock, "What have you done?"
"Your son is concerned that you're involved in something terrible," Tephra remarked, in a gentler tone.
"So speaks the thief," Alexius replied, dropping any pretense of civility. He rose from the throne, and demanded, "Do you think you can turn my son against me?"
"Father—"
The magister bellowed over his son's futile pleas, "You walk into my stronghold with your stolen mark — a gift you don't even understand — and think you're in control?"
Solas tensed as the Herald stepped forward, as she shifted slowly into a defensive stance.
"You're nothing but a mistake," the magister spat.
"If I'm a mistake, then what exactly was the Breach supposed to accomplish?"
A good question.
Even now, as he attempted to focus on preparing for battle, her uncanny perception caught him off guard.
"It was to be a triumphant moment for the Elder One — for this world!"
"Father, listen to yourself," Felix pleaded. "Do you know what you sound like?"
True to his ostentatious nature, Dorian strolled out of concealment, as he mused, "He sounds exactly like the sort of villainous cliche the world expects us to be."
"Dorian?" Once again, Alexius was thrown off by losing control of the situation. "I gave you a chance to be a part of this, but you turned me down. The Elder One has power you would not believe; he will raise the Imperium from its own ashes."
The Herald frowned, "That's who you serve? The one who killed the Divine? Is he a mage?"
"Soon, he will become a god," the magister replied, with fervor. "He will make the world bow to mages once more. We will rule from the Boeric Ocean, to the Frozen Seas."
Aghast, Fiona shouted, "You can't involve my people in this!"
"Alexius, this is exactly what you and I talked about never wanting to happen," Dorian pleaded, attempting to reason with his former mentor. "Why would you support this?"
Behind them, arrows whizzed past with brutal efficiency. The magister was too distracted to see his men begin to fall to Leliana's agents.
"Stop it, Father — please," Felix implored. "Give up the Venatori, and let the southern mages fight the Breach. Let's go home."
Alexius gave his son a pained look, "It's the only way, Felix. He can save you."
"Save me?" the young man parroted, incredulous.
"There is a way, the Elder One promised," Alexius insisted. "If I undo the mistake at the temple, he will spare your life."
Gently, Felix said, "I'm going to die. You need to accept that."
The magister would not be reasoned with. The love he had for his son and his desperation to prevent his death had driven him to this madness.
"Seize them, Venatori! The Elder One demands this woman's life," the deluded magister commanded.
It was only then that he took notice of his fallen men; Alexius staggered back a step, as the last of them fell to arrows and swift daggers.
Tephra stood her ground, as she declared, "Your men are dead, Alexius. Concede."
Despite the apparent victory, Solas's pulse quickened. He could feel the sudden weight and surge of magic building in the air, as the magister gathered an enormous amount of mana.
Solas turned just enough to conceal reaching for his staff, unbinding it from his back. He held it aloft, turned just so, as he tensed and prepared for the inevitable fight. He too worked to gather himself, preparing to snap a barrier in place should the magister be foolish enough to attack while so vastly outnumbered.
"You... are a mistake!" the magister spat, seething with rage. He slipped a small object from where he'd concealed it in the sleeve of his robe, brandishing it as one might a weapon.
It was nothing more than a simple pendant, and yet Solas felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.
There was no time to shout a warning, as the object sparked to life in the magister's hand.
"You never should have existed!"
Dorian reacted before he could, and sent an offensive spell hurtling at the magister as he shouted, "Alexius, no!"
The spell split across the magister's chest, sending him staggering backward. Disoriented by the sudden impact, Alexius's control over the spell he was weaving faltered.
The pendant in his hand exploded in a burst of verdant energy.
Solas staggered backward, and brought his hands up to shield his face against the massive torrent of magic tearing through the fabric of time and reality around him. The others were sent sprawling to the floor from the force of the explosion, but he managed to remain on his feet.
Despite his weakened state, he was still far more resilient against magic than his companions.
A portal spawned briefly as the spell tore through the world itself — a gaping maw of unstable magic, hissing and sparking — before it collapsed in on itself.
When the spell dissipated and the air cleared, it became immediately obvious that the implosion had swallowed itself out of existence.
And with it, it had taken the Herald.
No.
Chaos erupted around him as the others flew into a fury, as the soldiers charged the magister outright.
Solas staggered numbly to his knees, crushed beneath the sudden realization that he could no longer sense the Anchor — could no longer sense her.
Its magic, as well as her spirit, had been erased from the world.
Sick with sudden grief and abject despair, Solas sat heavily on his heels, even as the fighting raged around him. His staff clattered uselessly to the floor.
No, no — this cannot be.
She was gone, and she had taken all the hope that he'd had for saving this world — or his own — with her. It was as if she had never been, had never filled this ruinous world with her light.
Venatori swarmed in from the courtyard, and swiftly overwhelmed the Inquisition soldiers.
Cassandra was howling with rage, as she charged the magister. His magic sent the Seeker hurtling back in a boneless heap.
"Take them alive," the Magister shouted over the chaos.
Sera was a blur of fury, as she fired on the Venatori. She loosed arrows until her quiver emptied, and shattered her bow over the head of the closest mage. A concussive spell sent her sprawling, and it was only then that she was subdued.
Solas was pulled to his feet by a pair of Venatori, and he sagged in their vice-like grip, boneless and numb with disbelief.
How had this happened? How had he not anticipated what the magister had planned?
"Take them to the dungeons," Alexius barked at his men.
Solas was pulled along on shaking legs, still not grasping the entirety of his situation.
The magister's voice followed them out of the hall, as he mused, "The Elder One will decide their fate."
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Time had long since ceased to be anything discernible to him.
Captivity and neglect had a way of eroding the casual markers of time's passing, and there was no light but for the glow of the red lyrium, no way to mark the passing of days, no way to tell night from day. Minutes and hours and days all bled together, until time was nonsensical, irrelevant. He could only measure its passing by the spaces between his breaths, and counting the distance drip of water echoing through the prison halls.
It had been weeks, by his estimation, since the torturers had bothered with him last.
The others were held, as always, in separate areas of the prison. He did not know whether they still lived, or if they had succumbed by now — either to the careful ministrations of their captors, or to the red lyrium feasting off their bodies. He had not seen them with his own eyes since they were first taken from the throne room all that time ago — years, he could only assume — but on occasion he heard the distant cry that might have belonged to one or another.
He'd long since stopped wondering at why they had been kept alive for so long, beyond being kept as entertainment for Alexius's people — what remained to him, at least. Whatever pertinent information that could be wrung from them had surely been done so long ago.
His own body was not long for this ruined world. He supposed that he should feel relief, some measure of peace that this hellish nightmare would come to an end. He wasn't even sure why he continued to fight to draw breath, to grasp what little remained of his mind.
Isolation had proved an effective tactic in breaking them — in breaking any hope for rescue. There was only silence to keep him company, and the whispering of blighted lyrium creeping through his thoughts.
He had long since ceased to fight his tormentors when they came for him. It was a futile endeavor, as the red lyrium in his body had effectively rendered him useless. The simplest of spells taxed his body immeasurably, and shortened what remained of his pitiful life.
The questions remained the same, even after all this time — How did Lavellan know of the Divine's role as a sacrifice to unlock the orb? How did Lavellan come to learn of the magister's plans? How did Lavellan wrest the Anchor from the Elder One's grasp? — as though they'd pry loose some truth the magister suspected was being stubbornly withheld from their self-appointed god.
The great irony of the truth of it — that it had been entirely an accident — seemed too impossible for them to accept. So they returned, again and again, to wrest from their battered bodies a truth that did not exist.
Holding out against his captors had not been terribly difficult, as he was no stranger to such tactics. Yet, as the taint of the red lyrium spread through his body, it took away the one thing preserving his sanity.
He could no longer dream, no matter how hard he tried to reach the Fade. There was no reprieve, no escape to be had.
In the beginning, he'd attempted to save what he could.
He would recount the stories and history he'd witnessed in the dreaming over the long span of his life. He would tread through his own memories, recalling the faces of those once dear to him and quoting conversations they'd had together. As though his voice could somehow conjure their faces as once the Fade had.
But as time wore on, alongside his inability to dream, madness crept in. He was forgetting things — more and more, with each passing day. Details and specifics became hazier, until finally dissipating into nothingness. Winking out, like candles in the dark.
When he realized that he was beginning to forget the faces of those he'd known, he began to picture her as often as he could — grasping at her from memory as though she were water, and he was dying of thirst.
The tainted song was getting harder to ignore, and he could only silence it briefly when he thought of her, or recalled things she had said to him once, in another world. It was all that sustained him anymore — holding on to her, as everything else was being stripped away from him. Soon, the red lyrium would strip everything from him, even her, as it consumed him entirely.
The sound of groaning metal cut through the silence.
Solas did not react.
Reactions pleased his captors, and he no longer cared to entertain them. They would do what they wanted regardless of how he responded to their torments.
He kept his back to the bars of his cell, and continued to think of her.
She had gotten him through many sessions beneath their instruments of torture before — thoughts of her would once-again comfort him when the agony tore through him and became too much to bear.
Two were approaching, which did not surprise him as the guards often came in pairs, but they sounded different this time. There was no heavy clank of templar armor, and they were oddly silent. No taunting jeers, no clack of the weapons along the bars to stir him from lethargy.
A trick, the lyrium whispered in his mind.
He'd long since stopped falling for their manipulations, for the games they adored to play with him — giving him false hope, and then snatching it away again. Sometimes they pretended to be his companions, coming to rescue him. Other times, he would wake from dreamless slumber to find his cell door ajar, only to be caught just outside the hall when he attempted to flee.
He sighed, and asked, "Is someone there?"
He expected them to snicker, to give up their pretense, or perhaps curse him as they often did before dragging him out to face whatever new experiments they'd come up with.
When she spoke, the nightmare shattered around him.
"Solas?"
No, it can't be.
Her voice cut through the tainted song, through the madness, through time itself — and anchored him.
The Anchor.
Its song sang to him, piercing through his core.
Solas turned on his heel and staggered backwards at the sight of her.
She was there, just beyond the bars.
Not real, his tainted mind whispered.
Her dark eyes, her face — the grief which knit her eyebrows together in that familiar look of absolute empathy — all just as he remembered. There wasn't a trace of red taint on her skin, or in her eyes. She was healthy, and whole.
But the Herald was dead; she could not be here.
Was he dreaming once again, at long last? Had death come to claim him?
No, this—
This cannot be real.
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Author's Notes: I do try to avoid quoting too much from the game, as we've all tread over these scenes many times, but sometimes it is necessary to the plot to recount them. I will try my best to freshen them up, and keep it interesting. This chapter ran a bit short, only because it was egregiously bloated and I needed to split it into parts. They will be posted fairly shortly, I do apologize for the wait.