The crowds part for the Lord of Arlathan, but they do not bow.
It has been some time since he has come down from his tower and walked among the lowly, even longer since he left his city. As predicted, not even two days later does Fen'Harel come to Halamshiral. She watches from a rooftop as he walks down a cluttered Elven street with Merrill and Veranna close behind. The Dalish elf keeps eyes on her people, shoulders trying to stay back despite the weight of the poverty around her, while the Elvhen huntress glances everywhere ready to strike at a moment's notice. With her in the city, Fen'Lin will need to be extra cautious for what is to come.
Fen'Harel and his council pause outside the glass maker's shop. In the few days since his arrival they have already visited Lord Volasile's former villa and the square where his body was found, traveled to the eastern warehouses where weapon shipments disappeared, listened to Lady Ladaina complain about the defacement of her famous gardens, consoled the victims of a riot in the Elvhen quarter that ended in fire and death. Fen'Lin and her Red Knights have been busy while he sits aloft and dreams of lost things, the Elven even more so as they pull upon their chains. It is with a sense of pride she notices that Lord Nhilen has not yet made his plight known, however. There may be hope for him yet.
Fen'Harel stands to the side as Merrill talks with Frelen and his family. There will be little they can reveal about her yet there are others in the throng that could point directly to the head of the rebellion. Not many, for they have been cautious, but it only takes one whisper in the wrong ear, one careless act of trust. Her faith in the people is bolstered by how they are reacting to Fen'Harel's presence now - respectful yet devotion lined with suspicion and consideration. The Evanuris will always be looked upon with awe but he is not the only wolf that prowls the world anymore.
"Do you think anyone will talk?" Fen'Lin asks and turns to the figure crouched nearby.
Briala shakes her head. "Not right away. They will wait to see which one of us will give them the greater advantage. Now that he is here we must move quickly with our next target before the decisions begin to be made for us."
"Are we ready for tonight?"
"Our agents within the estate are in position and I have secured two wagons. It is the best to be done on short notice. One will take the cargo to the orphanage as you requested while the other ferries our people outside of the city."
"They are risking much by turning upon their master in his own house."
"It took little convincing. The governor is known to show little mercy to his Elven servants if they displease him."
"The poor elf. Who will clean his floors now?"
A quiet string of laughter escapes through Briala's nose and Fen'Lin can recognize the dark flash of a strong memory inside her eyes. It is gone before she can dissect its reason. "And are you prepared for what will come? Something so important should not be rushed if-"
"This is not something that will be made easier with time, Briala. I am ready to face him."
"You are right. However, it is often not the person we struggle with facing but the lost possibilities of what could have been." There is a note of authority in her voice that speaks of experience on the matter. "I have heard of your...gifts to Fen'Harel. A bit more romantic than what I expected although certainly effective. I only hope you are keeping in mind what's important. That you do not forget what he has taken from you, from us. He is the reason we are both alone in this world."
Down below, Fen'Harel and the others leave the shopkeeper and continue upon the road. Seeing him strikes against something inside, something that has been long festering beneath the yoke of their tangled fates. He walks tall, unbent, like all the years and choices have not touched him somehow. So many things could have been different if the Dread Wolf had only yielded when it mattered. They could have been different.
She feels a great many things but lets the rage rise to the surface. "I have not forgotten, but he has. It will be no victory for me to destroy something so hollow that won't even feel the knife's edge. I want him to remember what it is to be mortal, what it is to hope and fear and want. And when his heart is full and ripe then I will claw it from his chest."
Whatever Briala hears in her voice is enough to convince. "Then so shall our two wolves meet and the true battle begin."
There are signs of revolution everywhere in Halamshiral yet little evidence leading him towards its source. Fen'Lin's forces appear to be small, contained, careful. A valuable lesson learned by a veteran or advice well taken from one. Larger organizations are too easily corrupted and a rebellion rarely needs comprehensive battle plans and tactics. He knows from experience that sometimes all it needs is a push in the right direction, a small spark to ignite sifting powder.
"You discovered nothing of significance? They have made no demands?" asks Abelas, water dripping from his clothes onto the floor. The setting sky is clear above this city but the land must be grey and dark through whatever eluvian he used to enter the Crossroads and come here.
"We will get nowhere asking nicely. A few hours under my persuasion and these Dalish will sing." Veranna paces in front of the window like an excited cat catching sight of birds just outside.
Merrill sighs in response. "Yes, I'm sure that will really make the people trust us all the more. Halamshiral needs peace, not more nastiness."
"It needs Fen'Lin's head on a pike! We should smoke her out before our prey has a chance to become predator."
"That will not be necessary," he speaks up at last. "She will come to us."
"How can you be sure?" Veranna asks.
He knows he must share his further findings and suspicions though the prospect of doing so fills him with hesitation. The pieces of art are intimate moments, each line drawn with his memories and Fen'Lin's dedication, and with each one a new, fractured story is being told. A story linking past and present that he has yet to decipher. More than anything, however, he fears saying everything out loud may shatter this fragile hope building inside.
In the end there is little choice but to tell them everything. "So it must be her then," Veranna says once he is finished.
"Anyone could use a vial of her blood and a good book of spells to go beyond the barrier," Merrill mentions. "It could be anyone."
"And the scenes of the drawings? How do you account for that knowledge?" the huntress counters.
"All right, anyone that was in the Inquisition or close to it somehow most likely. It's not as if their relationship was exactly secret. No offense."
"Briala could supply useful information on her own and we do not know who is behind the masks of these other leaders," Abelas adds.
The former spy beneath the Orlesian empress proved a worthy opponent in her time, knowledge stretching as far as the eluvians she once controlled. Fen'Harel does not doubt she would have many secrets to share. "Whoever they may be I suspect their intent was to catch my attention and draw me into this conflict."
"If it is Lavellan, or another former member of the Inquisition, bringing you here to face this Fen'Lin could be the bait for a meticulously planned trap." Fen'Harel inclines his head at Abelas' words and the sentinel gives a mirthless laugh. "One you fully intend to walk into."
"Despite whatever foresight involved I believe this is merely the beginning. They will seek to see Elvhenan torn asunder and me unseated before claiming my life, if that is their ultimate goal. It will be the only course that could lead towards lasting change. Of course, their intentions may be more insidious in nature. We will not know until one can be found."
"I suppose you would know how all of this works, Dread Wolf. It appears someone is playing by your rule book." There is an old wound bleeding out with Veranna's words. He sees it sometimes in the way his kin look at him and remember it was Fen'Harel who both saved and damned them.
"Oh good. Then we know what to expect!" He does not share Merrill's optimism. For if it is Keela, perhaps even someone that knew her well, the only thing he can expect is the unexpected. "Maybe we shouldn't attend the banquet tonight."
"No. We will proceed as normal and hope to catch the spider in its own web." They discuss possible outcomes for tonight and preparations for the foreseeable future within Halamshiral before separating. As Merrill and Veranna depart, Abelas remains behind with intent clear upon his face.
"You have become distracted, Fen'Harel. I can see you are already married to the idea of it being her but I promise you, whatever this is, whoever she is, you can be certain no good will come of it no matter the strength of your desires."
"I could not be swayed before. I will not be so again," he replies with a conviction not wholly felt. Before she was alive. Even if she was not by his side the thought of her laughing, loving, living despite all possible odds, was enough to see him through. She would hate him, curse him for taking her world, but she would live in his. And now, now would he risk losing her again? Could he?
"Let us hope so or all we have built will crumble to ruin once more." Abelas moves to leave the room but pauses when he passes, his next words spoken quietly. "There is one other who could be hiding under the Blood Wolf's mask we have not discussed. It is as unlikely as Lavellan rising from the grave but...the child, she would be of age would she not? Perhaps you are searching for the wrong ghost."
It is a thought that has not occurred to him and now planted within his mind sticks with insistent thorns. It has been a long time since he allowed himself to think of what else was lost upon that fateful day, of the innocent soul punished for the misdeeds of others and those who should have protected it. Fen'Harel has many sins to call his own, but it is this one that no amount of penance could ever grant him forgiveness.
His first instinct is to travel into the Fade and continue his search but he does not know the texture and scent of the child's dreams. Visiting her was something he forbid himself. Walking inside her slumber would only add more complications, more pain, and he has felt and caused enough. His eternal life has taught him many things, some learned through harsh lessons, but it was yellow eyes full of betrayal cementing that it is a kindness to be ignorant of what one does not possess. Even so, Fen'Lin should leave tracks in the Beyond bright and strong with her desires for no one wearing the wolf's mantle dreams of things in paltry shades.
The venture will have to wait until later as he climbs into a carriage and crosses town with Merrill. It will be better this way, waiting until the dead of night when one cannot escape so easily from the threads of the Fade, but he is not looking forward to the pageantry awaiting him in the meantime. The governor of Halamshiral has called them to his mansion for an extravagant feast held in the Dread Wolf's honor. He is glad, at least, not to be dragged into the halls of the Winter Palace. He suspects the memories there would seep out of the Dreaming and follow him like hungry hounds.
As they walk up the expansive stairs, the main entrance swings wide to spew forth a plethora of elves. Elvhen in flamboyant attire and Dalish elves in muted colors standing behind their employers. Beside him, Merrill takes a bolstering breath and he cannot blame her for the precaution. An Elvhen in more extravagant robes than all the others swiftly approaches, arms outstretched, and Fen'Harel hardens his spine for what will come.
"My Lord, I bid you welcome to my estate," Governor Thoressalan bows deep at the waist as another noble moves to join him. "We are honored to be your humble hosts for the evening. May I introduce my husband, Lokhen?"
"Thank you for your hospitality," Fen'Harel answers.
"Come, my chefs have prepared a twelve course to slate our hunger and curiosities."
"Twelve courses?" Merrill repeats with her nose scrunched up as they walk into gleaming halls.
Thoressalan's smile falters. "Is that not sufficient? I can assure what has been selected will rival the meals prepared in the capitol, but if-"
"It is more than acceptable," Fen'Harel intervenes. "Please, lead the way."
He understands the displeasure on her face. They will never be able to consume such a large amount of food. It will be wasted, thrown into the sewers or burned away. Some Elvhen may even practice purging themselves to taste more of the feast while across the city Elven gnaw away on stale bread or starve. Such wasteful displays of wealth have plagued every society and it pains him now to see it as it always has, even more so in this world that was supposed to be better.
"I recommend the duck," Lokhen says as he waves a hand for the servants to open the silver polished doors before them. "It is a favored recipe."
"Yes and the..." The governor's words trail away as they step inside and look at the long table before them. There are beautiful plates and polished silverware, crystal containers and glasses shining in the light of a gleaming chandelier above, gems sewn into the very fabric of the elegant tablecloth. The aroma of cooked meat and something sweet swirls beckoning mouths to water in anticipation.
It is an elegant display and would rival any dinner across the land if not for an obvious fact- the table is bare of any food. There is not even a single crumb or drop of drink anywhere across the expanse, no decadent cream delights or savory soup sending curls of steam in the air. There are only empty plates and empty chairs, save for one.
At the head of the table sits a wolf waiting for her feast.
Red like the color of decaying leaves and drying death spread across the floor, the headdress so familiar to the one he once wore for a moment he is thrown back centuries. Fen'Harel's movements are measured and slow as he approaches and so are hers as she rises from the table to greet him. The Dread Wolf takes in his newest challenger. She is tall and lean, wearing a long, black coat over matching leather armor. A full silver gauntlet is strapped to her left arm, fingers ending in sharp claws. Everything about her speaks of danger, of a force barely contained.
When he stops a good distance away she tilts her head up to reveal more. Exposed skin is a brilliant, unnatural white, lips red and the paint dripping down the sides of her mouth like a beast victorious in the kill. He cannot tell if it is flesh underneath the gauntlet or something else, cannot recognize her for the mantel and the colors covering her, but he does know the yellow eyes placed inside the mask. When she smiles, something challenging and mischievous and hers, there is no controlling the wild hope from exploding inside at the sight.
"Vhenan?" it escapes in a whisper, dragging through him and yanking all the air from his lungs.
Her smile widens, changes, white teeth growing and turning sharp, limbs shivering. In a flash of red and violence she transforms into the wolf she represents, unnatural in its massive height and rippling fur. In the next breath she is gone, leaping through a side door and out into the night, and the Dread Wolf can do nothing but give chase.
He dives forward despite the protests calling and with four paws of his own lands on polished stone. Fen'Lin is already across the expansive grounds and shooting through the heavily ornate gates by the time he finds himself outside. He follows her deeper into the city through alleys and across squares, hurdling over walls and dashing across rooftops. His lungs burn with the exertion but the thought of that smile forces him forward. It cannot be, his mind screams but his heart, oh his heart begs his feet to keep moving, to keep reaching.
Never does he grow close enough to catch this prey. She darts around corners as he approaches, goading him with quiet barks that sound suspiciously like laughter. The game seems to end in an empty courtyard within the Elvhen district. There is no flash of scarlet, no burning golden eyes peering through the darkness. It is silent and still save for the trickling waters of a fountain in the center. He approaches it slowly, ears swiveling and searching for sounds of ambush or attack, but it is his eyes that catch sight of something instead.
Fen'Harel morphs back into his mortal form to inspect the item sitting on the fountain's edge. A piece of parchment secured with twine wraps around a strange shape. He sends probing magic towards it first and only reaches out when no warnings scratch in the back of his mind. Quick fingers make quick work of the knot and still at what is revealed.
It is a large perfume bottle topped with a diamond shaped stopper, barely a drop of amber liquid left crowded in a corner. Rather an unremarkable thing in its design, certainly less opulent than the crystal and marble of the fountain beside him, and yet it is miraculous all the same. For it is familiar, something that has been in his hands before, something that has survived the sundering of the world when its owner did not. It was a gift, a gift he gave to his heart when he thought he might keep her somehow.
He shifts his grip on it to open what can only be another drawing. It is of the night at the Winter Palace when Corypheus' assassins threatened a tumultuous peace, but it is long after blood was spilled in the courtyard and plots discovered. They dance through a dream and the grand hall of Halamshiral as it was in the days of the Dales when magic floated in the air and trees arched above. He can see the way the spirits of the Fade crowd around her, resplendent in an emerald gown and glowing with her own light, and there is so much more he wants to show her besides what has been lost to her people. Dance with me he had said and has always wondered if she regretted taking his hand that night.
Gently, he places the paper into a pocket and turns his attention back towards the bottle. The memory of the perfume's aroma has weakened over time, slipping through his grasp in dreams, and he cannot resist the temptation even if it clamps upon his lungs and never lets go again. With a final glance around the still vacant square, Fen'Harel uncorks the bottle and breathes in.
It is not vanilla and creme that drift into his nose, however. It is a potent and sharp scent, a chemical that stings instead of soothes. The inside of the container swirls with a putrid, grey smoke that flies up and around his face. He realizes too late it is a potion of some kind as he tries to cough the thick, choking substance from his lungs, the edges of his vision blurring until darkness swallows him whole. The last conscious thing he knows is the sound of glass shattering against hard stone.
The part of the Fade he finds himself in is strange, dark and mist covered with tendrils of dreams sticking to his skin and pulling him down. He finds he has little strength to combat them. They drag him to his knees, wrap around his wrists like ghostly shackles, and it is merely a struggle to lift his hands under their weight. The poison has weakened not only his body but his connection to the Dreaming it seems. Such a powerful concoction to bring even him low.
Ahead, the green fog parts and the russet wolf prowls close. A growl rumbles through Fen'Lin, lips peeling back to show vicious teeth, hackles raised and shivering like flames upon her back. He feels hot breath against his face as she snaps jaws only inches away. Her energy sparks around them as wild as the form she takes, strong and vibrant and lashing out against his weakened magic and the world.
When she seems satisfied with her display the wolf sits back on her haunches with a huff and glares at him, head cocking to the side in thought, and it reminds him so much of her that his heart seems to strain forward inside his chest to reach out. He waits for her to change or speak, for he finds he can do nothing but hang on at the edge of possibility.
"I expected a better hunt from Fen'Harel himself. What do you see when you look upon me, Old Wolf? Your beginning or your end? I know which one I see."
It is not her voice or one he recognizes, nor a voice at all. It is a hundred of them overlapping upon another so he cannot hear just one by itself. The hope flourishing within his breast withers. Keela was not one for games and now he realizes that is all they are playing - the costume, the name, the breadcrumbs left for him to find. He is a toy to be tossed and trampled, destroyed at its owner's whims, and he has let them for just one taste of what could be. He feels foolish, furious, but it is all buried beneath a deluge of disappointment so harsh it feels like needles in his skin.
"Feeling under the weather? I took some of your blood after you fell unconscious. I hope you don't. Your people found you long before you could bleed out, but that and the spell I've made will make you weak for quite some time."
"You are not her," he says finally, words whispered and heavy in his mouth.
Fen'Lin is quiet for a moment. The Fade churns, anger and some other fathomless thing he cannot grasp writhing around him. He sees restraint in the way her tail thumps and legs shake, feels her power pressing close yet not touching before it all falls away to the margins. When she speaks again the voices are low, mocking. "I am what you have made me, Solas."
The name cracks through his skull, washes over him with frozen waters that make him gasp. It has been decades since he heard it last. He glances up into those yellow eyes to watch them soften and wonders how cut open his own expression must be to warrant even her slightest sympathies. "You cannot be her," he amends, begging to be proven right or wrong and still not knowing which would be the greater boon.
"And what would be left of her in the wake of all your ruin, I wonder? You of all people know how masks work, harellan. They are a shelter from the truths you do not even wish to show yourself. Sometimes the mask is all we can be."
He is becoming wearier with every passing moment, the chains around his wrists and the battle in his heart aching, and he has long since grown tired of riddles and half truths after spewing forth so many of his own. "Tell me who you are."
"I am Sera, Cole, Cassandra. Cullen, Josephine. Rylen, Mythal, Celene. I am the lover and the daughter you left in ash. I am every soul you have condemned to the void because of your pride. I am even you, the parts that were sacrificed for this hollow victory. I am the blood that cannot be wiped clean no matter how hard you scrub and I will not be forgotten."
She steps back and the Fade pools in after her, this time covering his body and forcing him all the way to the ground. He looks up one last time to see her walking away and changing into something mortal. Through the mist and blackness filling up his eyes he can only catch a glimpse of darkened hair before the Beyond claims him completely. "Dream, Dread Wolf, and wake to another world on fire."
And dream he does. He flies through endless memories that he cannot keep at bay. He is a boy running through lavender flowers that spark and sigh as his small fingers touch them. With fire in his veins he chases a maiden into the shadows and tastes desire for the first time. There is copper in his mouth as an ancient war with ancient beings claiming divinity rages. His throat scorches as he consumes his own means towards godhood in defiance and desperation.
Then there is her. Always her. Keela weaves seamlessly into every memory until it seems like she has forever been a part of him. At first he cannot latch onto any dream but as time passes, if it does at all in this existence, everything seems to sharpen and the shackles loosen. The churning waves calm, the silt of a lifetime separating, and the current casts him into clearer waters and a memory months before the Veil's collapse.
He has walked willingly into one of her traps this time. They stand within the ruins of an old temple, dust streaming through shafts of sun and lighting her up like a star, but it is her own strength rekindled and brighter than ever that draws him closer. There are no more smudges beneath her eyes, limbs thick with muscles retrained. Her false hand is clear with furious flames swirling inside ready to leap forth at command and even he marvels at its ingenuity. She is the Inquisitor no longer, a herald of nothing, and instead something of her own making. All the shattered shards forged back together, all the tenacity of her will focused, all the sacrifices made to bring her here. They have made her even greater than before.
He does not fear her efforts any longer, however. It is why he has allowed this meeting despite all protests from others and himself. She has been cunning and clever in her attempts to stop him, but it has always been a fight no mortal could ever win. There is not much she can do to stop his plans save perhaps for driving the dagger she now holds between his ribs.
He knows the moment she realizes that she has only tangled herself in this snare and bitterness turns the flames of her power darker. "You knew I would be here."
It is not a question but he answers it all the same. "Yes."
"Why come then? Because my efforts are futile or because you wish for me to succeed?"
He comes to a stop as the dagger's tip touches against his armor. "It is all I wish for, but I have told you there will be no other way."
Keela's fingers pulse around the blade's handle, the light in her eyes shifting with conflict. Metal grates upon metal as she presses in but the action is as useless as her battles have been. He watches her, waiting to see if she will shift to the weak parts of his armor, wondering what he will do if she does.
"Why are you here?" she asks again, quiet over the rampant beating of his heart. It is done, it will be done soon, and he can no longer concentrate on the upcoming victory or the glory that will await the elves after the chaos has settled. Due to her influence, he has even made sure the other races will survive in some capacity. All he can think of, dream of, is standing right before him now.
"Vhenan-"
"No!" She pushes him back with her hands, shoving both of them towards the other side of the temple. "You want me to stop trying to save my world, to accept this fate, and then expect me to fall into your arms? You cannot have everything!"
As his back slams into the stone the knife comes to dig into his throat and instinct has his grasping for her wrists. She does not fight him nor burn him away in her fury for it is cooled with tears collecting in the corner of her eyes. "How dare you ask this of me. Have I not given you enough?"
She has. She has given him her love, her purpose, her body. It is far more than he has ever deserved or wanted, but now he finds he wants more. Needs more. The beast inside him desires to devour her and this world whole, to gorge itself until it cannot contain what it has consumed. He wants and he wants and he wants and it is tearing him apart and only she has ever been able to keep him together.
Blood drips warm into his collar, the sharp edge digging into his skin with promise, and he does nothing. It will be her decision for he is still so very much a coward. She shakes her head, knowing his intent as well as she knows his heart. "You were wrong. You are a monster."
"Yes."
Keela takes a breath, breaking with the exhale, and for once he is there to pick up the pieces. The dagger clatters to the floor as he spins them around, mouth claiming hers, hands claiming every inch of her that he can reach. There is nothing gentle between them, only desperate hands and hips, demanding teeth and nails. Even in this surrender there is still a battle to be fought. He holds her tight knowing that there can only be letting go no matter how hard they might wish it.
"Solas," she says over and over and he swallows every utterance, every cry and moan from her lips even knowing he cannot keep them all.
She does not stay long after, does not beg him to come with her, and it does not pain him to see her walk away. What hurts him is the hope he still sees within her eyes but here, in the beginning of the end, they will both need something to see them through it. In the end, they are both fools.
He wakes not with cold stone against his back but supported by soft sheets. It takes some time to recognize the bed beneath him, the familiar drapery dancing in the wind, the shape of his own rooms back within the capitol. Before he can rise completely a hand moves into his vision holding a wooden cup.
"Drink," Abelas commands and the Dread Wolf obeys, coughing around the taste and the dry parchment of his throat. With tremendous effort he manages to finish every drop and feels exhausted from the simple task. "I will send for healers now that you are awake. They could do precious little in that poisoned slumber."
"I..."
"It is unknown what type of spell it was. Likely some shemlen artifice for it was unrecognizable to us. You have been incapacitated for almost a week under its influence." Abelas takes the empty cup from him and with a loud thunk drops it on the nearby table. "It was a grave mistake to step into their trap."
There are severe lines beneath Abelas' vallaslin, weary tracks at the corners of his eyes and an irritation in the grim set of his lips Fen'Harel doubts is from worrying for him. With sleep falling away he can feel the air trembling, hear echoes of something large rumbling through the Fade and into the waking world. "What has happened?"
"Halamshiral has fallen."