Fen'Lin keeps no throne but they begin to fall before her all the same.
It is the news Merrill brings back with her a week later, face drawn with weariness and a small amount of annoyance.
"I heard the rumors that she welcomes the Elven to come and tell her injustices so she may see them righted, but she has no court it seems. Moves from day to day, hour to hour, all very secretive. I don't know how people find her. The city is in quite an uproar with demonstrations in the streets by Red Knights wearing masks. They're quite scary looking, Orlesian I think."
"What of their leaders? This Fen'Lin cannot work alone."
"I didn't see her or anyone that looked important other than one person we do know." Merrill leans forward as if it is a secret even though they are the only two outside in the gardens at the moment. "Briala is one of them."
"Unsurprising, but it is good to have confirmation."
"I don't know how much more snooping I can do. She will have told them about me, if they don't already know. Most people do. They call me Fen'Harel's pet Dalish, after all." She shrugs, smiling, but he can see the sadness in the gesture. "This is not the first time people have hated me for my beliefs. I should be used to it. It's only…I forgot how lonely it was. Back in Kirkwall, with Hawke and everyone I-oh, look at me babbling on. I'm sorry."
"Visit our noble Elven of this city and uncover what you can. I would know how far this affliction may spread."
"As you wish."
He spends a few more minutes among the flowers and vines once Merrill departs and is drawn to the edge overlooking the Waking Sea. A few ships rest at port while others drift across the waters with sails puffed out in an accommodating breeze. He watches a curious spirit, massive in size and shining in bright colors, dip beneath the surface and rise again, its low rumbling pleasure heard even from this distance.
There is a storm on the far horizon, dark clouds sporadically lit with dazzling lightning that catches on currents of magic and Fade. If he forgets recent history, it is like he is back before the great fall, when time and death were of little import, when the world was only limited by one's creativity, when everything was new and shared by spirit born and earth born. But he cannot forget.
"Lord Fen'Harel?" A timid servant stands behind him, dark lines of Falon'Din across his face. "Lord Abelas sent me to fetch you. There is something he wishes you to see in the upper markets. It seems a matter of some urgency."
"Lead the way."
It has been many months since he has walked through his own city. He sees it in the way citizens stop and glance at their ruler, how the bustling market grows quiet around him. Fen'Harel pays little attention the throngs around him, hands held behind his back and chin tipped up, but in the shadows where he reaches their meeting point his shoulders droop just so, brows coming together for a moment as if he has carried a great weight. If Abelas notices, he gives no inclination and Fen'Harel is once again glad for his discretion.
"One of my scouts discovered this an hour ago. I have kept it sectioned off since."
"What is it?"
Abelas motions around the corner. "Decide for yourself."
He is not sure what he expects to find but braces himself for blood spread across cobbles, for destruction and ruin. It is nothing so macabre and yet the sight makes his own blood go cold and ravages his mind. Across a grey wall another drawing spreads and paints bright a moment not forgotten. The Breach looms high in the sky above, crackling green and black, while he embraces Keela beneath its light and falling flakes of snow.
He holds onto more than just her hand this time but the desperation is still there, made even stronger by the desire to feel and live when everything around him is nothing but a faded dream and she, she is a lighthouse burning bright across a dark harbor. The artist has captured well the atmosphere of the moment as they held on tightly to this glimpse of truth within all the lies and he can almost hear the way her pulse races in time with his own.
Beside them a sentence is written in red paint and he feels it slash across his heart, feels the folded note he could not burn away nor reveal weigh heavy in his pocket like the mass of all his mistakes. You change everything, it reads, taunting with every letter stroked. Someone has snuck into his suite, into his city, into his memories, and is waging war with paint and brush. Looking at this newest offering, however, it seems more like a challenge.
"Are you positive it is not her?" Abelas asks, quietly, influenced no doubt by the magic of this moment as well and Fen'Harel does not answer, cannot answer, for in this old world made new where everything is known and familiar he is unsure of what is before him.
He leaves Abelas with instructions on removing the artwork and retreats to his rooms high in the clouds and away from the gaze of his people. He untwists the wolf's mantel from around him, lets gauntlets fall to the floor in loud disagreement, shrugs from metal plating and heavy ornaments, peels himself out of armored leggings. It is an outfit worn for so many years, something he considered a second skin in the days of Elvhenan. He remembers how it bit and chaffed, how it seemed ten sizes too small and wrong when he adorned it once more to continue his plans.
Fen'Harel had grown into something else, into hers, and it was a painful thing to shed that skin for another again.
Free of his clothes he sits on the edge of the bed and gazes down at the parchment in hand. The artwork is beginning to chip and smudge across the creases where it has been folded numerous times already. He will have to tell them of it eventually for it is a clue to this mysterious Fen'Lin, but for now he cannot escape Keela's eyes as they follow him wherever he goes. He should storm into Halamshiral and burn out this resistance, but he falls back into the bed ensnared by the branches of her vallaslin. He needs to tend to his world, but instead Fen'Harel sleeps and dreams of her again.
A memory from a year after leaving the Inquisition forms around him into the marbled floors and gilded halls of the Winter Palace. He has come to finally collect the eluvians from Briala. Although she has used them well, they were never hers to own. There is another reason he has chosen this night for the task, however, and it has nothing to do with his glorious purpose. He stands within shadows of the small garden, hidden from most inside his servant's clothing and mask, and watches the Inquisitor enter.
Keela comes to sit on the edge of the fountain and brings her fingers across a rippling surface. She is radiant wearing a vibrant gown of blue velvet cut close to her body and a shimmering, sheer cap encrusted with glistening gems. Head held high, fluid grace as regal as the gold and sapphire circlet placed atop her hair, and Fen'Harel smiles even as his heart aches. He has heard of her skilled maneuvers across the ballroom tonight and swells with a selfish pride he no longer deserves.
She says something he cannot hear at this distance and turns to the man behind her. Fen'Harel has treated the former Knight-Captain with care throughout the night for his eyes constantly scan the area for any threats to his charge. It has been a few months since he was made Keela's close bodyguard and Rylen's protective presence is comforting, but Fen'Harel cannot forget the other reports of just how close the man often comes to the Inquisitor these days.
He shouldn't risk moving nearer but he longs to hear her voice again outside of the Fade. He grabs an empty tray and skirts around towards the entrance at the same time Keela stands to face her chaperone.
"…will not hesitate to step between me and a sword?" For a brief moment, he closes his eyes as her cadence crashes over him in consuming waves.
"It would be an honor," is Rylen's response and he scoffs, smirking to himself at the foolish sentiment. The shemlen might have taken his place beside her, but he does not know her well it seems.
"Yes, to sacrifice yourself for the blessed Herald of Andraste, savior of Thedas. Inquisitor, First Thaw, Basalit-an. What a wonderful honor indeed." As Fen'Harel predicted, Keela's words are filled with frustrated fury, but there is a cold bitterness to them that turns the ache in his heart to something with teeth.
The feeling grows as he watches Rylen reach out to hold her arm in a gentle touch. It is a barely noticed gesture in the dark, but the action speaks volumes in this place where even a cough can be an act of war.
"I would die for you, Keela."
It should be him touching her skin, him making declarations of adoration, him causing this bloom of beautiful hope across her face now. The impassioned words shake Keela's solid defenses and he can see her struggling to remain strong when all she wants to do is crumble. In the end she takes a step forward and smiles. It is just a small thing, but it is true and wonderful, as rare and treasured as a cactus rose that blooms only once a year.
And it was his once. It was his, she was his, and now there is another who basks in her glow.
"Come. Dance with me before the band stops playing."
His gasp is drowned out by Keela's as they both startle, shocked by Rylen's words. She looks stricken, a hand clasped tight around her throat as if she can strangle the emotions warring over her features and Fen'Harel feels them swarm relentless within.
"Are you all right?"
She moves away with the guards around her heart reformed. "Yes. I am sorry, but I do not feel much like dancing anymore. I would say my farewells and retire."
"Wait." Rylen grabs her elbow to stop her and there is nothing subtle about the motion now.
"Let go, they will see."
"Hang them all. What's wrong?" Her silence must tell him all he needs to know. "It's something to do with him, I'd wager?"
"And if it is?"
"Still doesn't change a thing about how I feel about you if that's what you mean."
Keela lets out a heavy sigh at that. "You are entirely too stubborn, Ser Rylen."
"Pot calling the kettle black with that one, don't you think?" The pair grow ever closer and with each passing glance and coy word the wretched, twisted thing inside Fen'Harel grows sharper.
The tension across Keela's shoulders have lessened, the metal of her mouth melting to allow mirth again. "There were many others who could have caught my eye tonight. Lord Denout's son was quite charming."
Rylen groans. "Maker, anything but an Orlesian."
"And what does a mere soldier from Starkhaven have to offer me?"
He leans in, saying something too quiet for Fen'Harel to hear, though he cannot escape the way Keela's eyes flash, the way she bites into her lip with cheeks flushing not from embarrassment but desire. He bears all this but is tortured by what comes next as her features soften, for he knows the look she now gives beneath starlight and whispered words. He saw it under snow and above the mountains, held it close when he was too weak to deny it, shattered it when he finally let go.
It is love and it is no longer for him.
With a growl, Fen'Harel tears at the dream and follows the pieces as they drift away into oblivion.
Fen'Lin picks at paint under her fingernails as Reiveth rattles on. They have amassed quite a number of petitioners since their grand display of judgement against Lord Volasile and while they would like to help every Dalish, it is impossible to right every wrong under Elvhen rule at once. It doesn't take her long to notice the trend, or the bank accounts, of all the ones he puts forth for consideration.
"There's a noble in-"
She throws a paper across the table. "I'm doing this one."
With a scowl, Reiveth picks up the assignment and his displeasure only grows the more words read. "This is hardly serious. What would be the benefit?"
"The benefit? To helping people?"
Reiveth scoffs like a teacher with a stubborn student. "An enterprise of this nature requires strong allies and many resources. There is a cost to revolution, my dear. If we are to make our mark, we much choose what will help the most."
"I have no interests in playing politics. I have only one goal and I will pay the cost for it. And you," she steps closer, static crackling between her fingers. "I am not your 'dear' anything. Do you need a reminder of who I am?"
"Peace." Nevaelathsan's soft yet strong voice cuts through their conflict. "We have a long road ahead of us and will get nowhere arguing at every crossroad. Only united will we succeed against such forces."
"She knows quite well that we will crumble without continued support," Briala adds before turning to her. "And you know Reiveth speaks the truth all the same. We cannot do this alone."
Fen'Lin stands in silence for a few moments, fighting the rolling anger down. They are right, of course, but she has long been tired of these games. With a sigh, she relents. "I will defer to your expertise on most matters and I am not suggesting we take coppers instead of gold, but I must be a symbol for all."
"We do not disagree. If you believe this will make a difference, then please proceed. We respect your decisions and insight. We only ask that you tend quickly to this matter and let us decide upon another in your absence, if that is agreeable?" Nevaelathsan proposes.
It will have to do.
She waits until the night before the grand opening. The lights still flicker in the studio as an Elvhen walks with a clipboard in hand and an eye for perfection as they shift sculptures and dust paintings. It is too easy a thing to sneak inside. The Elvhen are comfortable still with their ideas of safety and superiority, their noses held too high to see what is festering beneath them. Fen'Lin hovers in the shadows until the owner picks up a rather delicate looking ceramic statue.
"Be careful with that."
The man gasps, fumbles with the art, but to her great disappointment does not let it shatter to the floor. "I could have dropped it! What are you doing trying to-"
The dismay upon his face when she steps into the light in her full regalia brings a smile back to her face. "What does it matter? It is not yours, after all."
"You're-you're that troublemaker. Fen…Fen…"
"Fen'Lin." She steps closer, backing him up towards a wall. "Don't worry, you are likely never to forget it after tonight. I am something of an artist myself. Paintings only, I'm afraid. I don't have such a wide variety of skills like the artist behind all this. I wish there was time for other pursuits, but I have my hands full at the moment."
"What do you want?"
"The truth," she says as she leans in. "Is any of this art yours?"
"Of course it is!"
Fen'Lin slams her hand down and through the painting next to his head, fire flaring for a brief moment between her fingers. "The truth, I said, or the next time it will be your skull. Did you create all this?"
The man swallows before shaking his head. "No. It is my assistant's."
"Who will receive nothing in return for all her efforts."
"We have an arrangement!"
"Of which she has had very little say, pressed with more urgent matters of feeding her family. She told me you went to the same schools, had the same instructors. You were friends but instead of helping her succeed, you're extorting her. Why?"
His jaw shuts soundly, unwilling to answer the question even in the face of her violence, but it does not matter. She knows what lies beyond his weak stare, has seen it enough times in the eyes of her compatriots as they glance at the glistening world of possibilities right outside their reach. "Let me guess. Because she was always the one with more talent, more praise, and it burned a hole in your already blackened heart. When the moment came for opportunity you took it, took everything for your own. How very Elvhen of you."
She backs away and circles a podium nearby holding a statue twisting with branches and color. "You should not take what does not belong to you. A lesson you should teach your daughter. Olia, isn't it?"
"H-how do you know this?"
Her eyes stay locked on his as she lifts her hand and sweeps away the piece of art, watches as he jumps when it crashes to the floor. With deliberate slowness she reaches into her satchel and pulls out something to put in its place. It is a simple doll, rows of golden hair and sapphire gems for eyes, nothing as grand as the items around them, but something very treasured to a certain, little Elvhen girl.
"What have you done to my child?" he demands, voice rising with anger and panic once his shock passes.
"Nothing, and I will do nothing if you follow my directions. You will give Ceras the credit she is due. When these doors open tomorrow night, it will be her name upon the artwork, her pockets that fill with gold, and when it is done you will leave this studio to her and this city behind and never speak of this to anyone. Ever."
He shakes his head. "I will be ruined."
"But you will be alive." She pats the soft threads of the doll's head. "Do not bereft your daughter of her favorite doll and her only father. So, what is your decision?"
They watch each other, gauge one another's intent and purpose, and whatever he finds in her expression defeats his. "I accept."
He slumps back against the wall and another victory scratches a mark inside her heart and, although it bleeds with the shame and disgust on his face, it is another battle won that will bring her closer to her goal, to him, and she will do whatever it takes toget her there. "Pleasure doing business with you."