There was no body to bury, but there is a grave.
A month passes and the flames of rebellion do not dim. They grow, unconcerned with every Arbitrator sent to keep the peace, fueled by every action Fen'Lin makes. News spreads across Elvhenan like a thick smoke, of this wolf who fights for the freedom of her people, and the irony of it is not lost upon Fen'Harel. A point he is sure she meant to make before she even donned the name and the mask. While Halamshiral races towards its flash point, he slips through eluvian after eluvian away from all the turmoil to someplace quiet and calm. There are paths in the Crossroads that only he knows, places beyond Elvhenan restored that are protected by his magic. Skyhold is one, the oasis of the west another, and this place.
The barrier washes over his skin as he steps into the tunnel leading towards the grove. It has not changed in the years since he was last here, untouched by the ravages of war and the reshaping of the world. The great elk statues still lift proud heads, green life still grows around gentle pools fed by slow waters, and in the middle rises a marble statue placed by his shuddering hands.
A bowl at the top holds a forever flame, red and gold swirling together like the power in her palm, the light of her eyes. There are other statues and memorials to the former Inquisitor throughout Thedas. To his knowledge, the one within the Winter Palace still stands although the one outside his own city has been chipped away over the many years. This one before him was not created to honor the Inquisitor, however. It is for her, the flesh and blood elf that loved warm bread and bemoaned the broken bump of her nose. Who hated the cold and kissed him with a fire that made him alive.
It is for his heart.
Fen'Harel rests against the cool slab and gazes out towards the persistent waterfalls. It is an easy thing to recall the moments spent together here - its initial discovery, the stolen holidays they managed to obtain somewhere in between the constant chaos. The final time. He had not meant to turn their cherished refuge into a bitter place but if there is one thing to be said of Fen'Harel's legacy it is how much ruin was created with the best intentions.
There is no regretting it now, however. He cannot remember how. These things are buried beneath time and loss. It is why he clutches close the drawing of their first meeting, keeps the sight of the Inquisition's symbol in the forefront of his mind, and refuses to scrub the kiss beneath the Breach from his mind even as servants wash it from the wall. It is why he is here, in a place so full of feeling, when he has become such an empty thing. He wants to remember, to chase after this even if it turns on him with teeth, but it is not the only reason he is here.
Her being is etched into the glade as deeply as her name is written upon the stone behind him. If he is to find her, if she can be found at all, it will be in places such as this where her emotions of fear, of love, of anger, are burned into the very air. His councilors may be underwhelmed by his current methods, but he was a Dreamer long before anything else and if he must face this rebellion as a god it will be with blood and another breaking. Their fledgling world may not survive it. He may not survive it.
Eyes close and he falls into the Fade between one breath and the next. The memories are already formed around him, blending together and building upon one another so it is difficult to tear them apart. He watches Keela and himself battle a wyvern at the same time they stand together within the cool water, bare and breathless beneath a sunrise. He hears himself tell her she is free while she laughs from the mud stuck to his feet and it aches, this absence where something heavy once rested.
He climbs up and away from the glade and reaches further into the Beyond, chasing at the strings of her woven through the fabric like glistening spiderwebs catching in light. There are hundreds of connections still lasting through the years, stretching across Thedas and even further. Hundreds of memories so laden with emotion that time and catastrophe have only dimmed them somewhat. Though parts of Keela drift through eternity, she is nowhere to be found.
It is a continuing realization that fills him with shades of disappointment and relief. There is the desire to see her again, to be touched by the blazing fire of her even if it consumes him, but it would only hurt her to see what he has made of what he swore to save. For Fen'Harel made another promise he could not keep and it shames him even more to know she would not be surprised.
He falls into the moment the decision was made. Almost a year has passed since the destruction of the Veil and the world is catching its breath again. Pain still lingers with every inhale, but they are full and hopeful and closer to being healed. Although he assumes it will not be easy, the added burden of assisting the other races makes progress slow. Everything around Elvhenan is still in chaos. The elves are meant for this new world while the others struggle like sprouts buried beneath deep snow. He does what he can by inviting the shemlen, the children of the stone, even the remaining Qunari into the fold of their lands and sends his people outward to heal the hurts, but there is quarreling and anger across every city, sentries who never return.
There is no saving himself, he knows. There is only the knowledge that one little girl is growing up without a father and this is what he can give her, give them both. He will keep his word and perhaps in doing so, keep some of his heart.
Until the day comes when it no longer matters.
"M-my Lord Fen'Harel?"
He stands upon his balcony when a messenger calls out. There are two of them, dressed in plain clothes and wearing no badges, and he knows at once they are agents placed to monitor Keela. He promised he would never let his people interfere in her life again, but in good conscious could not abandon her completely. It is a good lie. The truth is that news of her, of them, is a poultice against weeping wounds. At the same time he recognizes who is approaching he also sees the way they shift from his gaze, the red sheen of their eyes.
"We…we have news, my lord." A hand holds out a crinkled scroll, but he does not take it. He cannot take it. After a moment, the lead scout drops their arm and inhales a deep breath. "As we reported earlier, Lavellan was moving towards what remains of Redcliffe. It seems she was there to meet with old acquaintances. We witnessed former Commander Rutherford and Ambassador Briala enter the building, the others saw Lady Montilyet and Teryn Cousland, and we suspect Empress Celene was there as well. An hour or so later Briala came outside to speak with one of her agents and then…"
The reporter stalls, driven to silence until their partner's hold comes to rest on a shoulder, squeezing with reassurance, and the fallen god before them feels something tighten inside.
"There was-there was an explosion. Much of the building was destroyed and the fires…we could not approach for a long time. I-" Eyes lift and Fen'Harel resists the urge to turn everything to stone around him so that he will not have to hear what will come next. "Lavellan…she is dead."
He does not know how long they stand there, if the agent speaks again or if days pass without words. There is only this rush of noise building and surging within his mind, the sound of a thousand moments gone and thousands that never will now. There is grief at the edges, a sharp knife caught in the dark, but for the moment all he can feel is an intense disbelief. Of all possible things, she could not be killed by fire.
"And the child?"
The elf breaks at that, chin quivering as tears course down their cheeks, and the knife finds its mark even before the words are spoken. "We didn't think, we would've…next to her, there…there were-" he gestures wildly, as if the idea is incomprehensible. "B-bones-My lord, I'm so so-"
If there is more, Fen'Harel does not hear it as he rushes into the Fade. Such an easy thing to do now, to grasp it, change it, become it. All it took was a sacrifice that seems to have no end. The moment he enters he knows, he knows, but he will not believe it. He sniffs and searches, calls out into the endless void. There is nothing but choking ash and silence in return. The god makes the rains pour down, covering the lands with his sorrows. The elf tears at his clothes and skin, knowing he will never touch hers again. The father mourns the loss of a child whose name he never knew. The agony of it all makes the wolf howl long and hard as it claws and shreds itself so it may never feel again.
A day later, Fen'Harel emerges from the Fade straight backed and stone faced, and orders his people recalled from the foreign lands. A week later, he forces the other races from Elvhenan and into their own again. A month later, Fen'Harel and his council create a new barrier. It does not separate the Dreaming and the Waking this time, but the world of the elves from the others so none may enter, so none but his people will have his protection, whatever it is worth.
With his heart turned to stone, Fen'Harel turns his back on the rest of the world and lets it burn.
It is difficult to pull himself from these memories, especially here. They cling like overly stubborn ivy tangling around his limbs and he feels it now, a seedling of something growing inside his chest where only barren soil once was. There is something else he missed, as well, noticed only when he moves to stand. Within the cracks of her grave is the edge of a parchment sticking out and with unsteady fingers does he reach and pull it free.
As it unfurls he recognizes the lines of his mysterious artist and the moment captivated in simple charcoal. Wisdom drifts away on a steady breeze as he kneels into the harsh ground. The spirit's face is upturned towards the sky, mouth touched with a smile. Now I must endure, he had said. Even though there was pain he remembers how Keela stood by his side, waited for his return on the steps of Skyhold soft and supportive and more than he thought possible. It was then he truly knew, accepted what he would try to deny. He loved her and it was no mistake.
The seed sprouts into a sapling, branches climbing through his ribs and reaching upwards. Hope blossoms inside, brushing against his heart and chipping away at the rock holding it hostage. For there was another whose blood he weaved into the making of the glade's barrier, one other person who could pass into this sacred place without harm, and his hand rests upon her grave.
The crunch of the apple between her teeth is loud, but not loud enough to wake the unconscious form at her feet. She scowls even as sweetness fills her mouth and takes another bite before throwing the apple against his shoulder. With a jolt he wakes, jaws opening to scream or gasp, but no sound comes out. To the world he appears to be a common beggar - grime on the hand that comes up to wrap around his throat and wearing clothes that would never be considered clothing in any of the lush stores down a boulevard such as this one. To her he is a vulture who has watched the dying for too long.
When he tries to rise and call out again she slips from the box she sits upon and into his line of sight. "I'm sorry, you're going to have to speak up. I didn't quite catch that."
He glances at her and she wishes she wore the wolf's mask instead of her golden one so she could watch his eyes grow even larger, but she cannot cause a scene here. Not yet. There are more peace keepers out in force in Halamshiral, more notices with her visage posted around almost every corner, and her name only passes in whispers through the streets. She must wait until they shout it, until the rage of the Elven is greater than their fear.
"Look out there, Lord Nhilen. How many times have you passed this exact spot and never once cast your eyes upon the lowly lost in the shadows? How many times have you watched an Arbitrator take the hand of a Dalish desperate enough to steal food no noble would even dare touch? I know the proposal you've put forth. You want to rip down part of the Elven district. You'd like to put in a park instead. How very lovely. Where will they go, I wonder, when you destroy their homes?"
Fen'Lin crouches down by his side, grabbing onto his arm when he moves to scoot away. "You have never even been to that district. You've lived your whole life here pretending to be Elvhen and forgetting your own people. You do not know their struggles, their hopes, and it is a blessing, isn't it? You do not want to know, do not want to see. Caring would make it real and you want to live in the dream."
She reaches out for his chin and forces his eyes upon her. "Well, I'm going to make you look and perhaps you will reconsider your proposal. You may have noticed I put a spell upon your voice. You can try but removing it will not work. It will wear off on its own by sunrise tomorrow. I also have several agents across the square watching you. Try to flee and they will cut you down. However, I am not without kindness. If you can beg for thirty gold before time is up they will give you a potion to undo the spell."
Fen'Lin grabs the fallen apple, covered in dirt and bruised, and places it in his hand. "I suggest you don't squander this. It will likely be the only thing you eat for some time. Good luck, Lord Nhilen, and welcome to the world beneath the world."
With a twist of her wrist her cloaking spell wraps around her form and she races through the city to the nearest eluvian unnoticed. She has little time to squander before the council will expect her back with a report. Glass shatters around her and for a moment she almost dares to remove her mask and feel its cool touch against her skin, but she keeps in on despite her invisibility. One never knows what types of things they may run into when magic threads through the very air.
She passes into the Crossroads and beyond several more mirrors before she finds herself within Vir Dirthara. The old library is no longer falling to rubble nor abandoned. Sections still float on lopsided strings, pieces broken and needing mending, and even though it will never be as great as it once was, there is life slipping between the shelves again.
It takes her some time to travel to a more secluded part of the archives, somewhere still in need of much repair and mostly empty because of it. Quick feet fly up crumbling stairs before finally reaching their destination. There is no one occupying the space so for a moment she lets her eyes wander to the murals above. The muted oranges, the bright blues, the sharp lines. She knows them well. Did he spend much time here chasing after wisdom, or did he spend it all painting and dreaming instead? How could such hopeful promise end with such blind pride?
A wisp of mana brushes up against hers before she hears the footsteps approaching. With a sigh she takes off her mask and drops her shield to face the elf drawing near. Here, with him, she can at last be herself if for a little while. Pale lines of Dirthamen cut across his dark skin and around silvered eyes. Fen'Lin sees concern and relief in them briefly before his arms reach for her and pull. Instinct has her tensing, magic rushing up to tickle skin, but he only urges her into his embrace with gentle insistence.
"I have been worried for you. There have been far too many rumors and far too little facts."
His voice rolls with a breezy accent and as she presses her face into his chest, she tries to imagine the sweeping land of Antiva from where he came. She shouldn't pause here, shouldn't curl her fingers into his robes and listen to a steady heartbeat, but there is no denying how good it feels to be touched again with such care. The Blood Wolf has no need for soft things, but even she sometimes forgets there is a person beneath the symbol.
"Are you all right?"
With reluctance, she moves away to meet his gaze. "I am fine. You?"
"I have remained undiscovered and very few question a child of Dirthamen in such a place as this."
"I don't have much time. They are waiting for me. Things are going as expected only faster than we thought. Briala has uncovered something big, something I think will turn the tide in Halamshiral. Once it falls, the others will follow until only the capitol remains. Nevaelathsan has almost completed the eluvian as well. Fen'Harel is a fool for ever letting them live."
"Did you bring what I require?"
Her fingers dig into the secret pocket of her armor and pull out a small satchel to pass into his awaiting hand. "There is nothing more?"
"I have collected all the necessary ingredients save for one, the last. I need the blood of the Wolf."
"I will have it for you soon. He will not be able to stay away for long now."
"How can you be sure?"
She smiles, not with the promise of a predator but something mortal, wistful and fragile. "He has found the drawing in Crestwood."
"I see. And you are truly set upon this path until its end?"
He still holds onto her, a loose touch around her elbow to give comfort, but there is something more in the way his thumb moves in a slow circle. She watches his light eyes darken as she wraps her fingers into his clothing again with more urgency this time, as she leans closer to smell the elfroot upon his breath. "I wouldn't be here otherwise."
A moment trembles between them, heat rising to chase away the ache her missions make and replacing it with a different type. Now that she has been touched, she wants to feel again too. "I…I cannot," he says even as his hands lifts to tangle in her hair.
"No, you shouldn't," she corrects as she presses her mouth into his full lips and forgets about false names, faded murals and empty promises, if only for a little while.