It is a heavy thing, the mantel of the wolf.
It rests beside her feet at the moment, cast aside there when she stormed into the room. She ignores it still as she finishes the final touches upon her next gift to Fen'Harel. The mural blissfully takes most of her concentration, each layer needing to be precise and timed correctly or else the whole will fail, and she doesn't have time for mistakes.
A week has passed since she claimed Halamshiral and the flames of rebellion need continuous coaxing as they spread across the land. Lydes is already theirs, the Elven of the city rising up against their oppressors before other fires were even quelled. The Red Knights set their sights on Montsimmard next, but her gaze is on the magnificent city across the Waking Sea and the capitol Fen'Harel claimed as his own. Just a short distance and still such a long road ahead.
Elvhen forces stand against them and fall just as quickly. They lived too long in their waking coffins, have grown too complacent in the luxury and comfort Fen'Harel provided for his chosen people, and find themselves at a loss without his current favoritism. He still slumbers in the spelled sleep she placed upon him, drifting through dreams and memories. The Elven have never forgotten what it is to fight, to know the scent of prey as they haunted in a hostile world or how to disappear and strike sharp like those who lived under human heels. The descendants of the Dales do not fear a world in shambles for it is all that they know.
The ground trembles from the thousands upon thousands now uniting together for their cause, but it is not hers. She may be the head of this beast, lift banner and voice for the freedom of these people, yet it is not what she seeks.
With her task finally completed, she moves away from the walls and approaches the desk in the center. Fingers run across old wood, pass over marks scored into the grain, and she wonders what determination saw them created. She sweeps her gaze around the circular room to see every side painted and takes in the story told with every stroke- the fires of Haven, the mists of the Fade, the grandeur of the Winter Palace.
Decades ago an elf looked upon these barren walls of Skyhold and created something beautiful, something that was not the designs of a god but of a mortal heart with its own desires, and that is what she seeks to conquer. Yet she fears losing herself to the flames of her own war before it can come to pass, of becoming an even greater monster than the one she hunts.
Fen'Lin looks down at her hands covered in splotches of green and blue paint and only sees the red that covered them not long ago. Her mind throws her back to the night after she bested the Dread Wolf. Word has spread about her victory and it rattles through Halamshiral, whispered by Elvhen and Elven alike, and it is what the Red Knights uncover next that sets the rebellion in full motion.
The building above is filled with polished stone and elegant conversation. The richest of Halamshiral come to bet and gamble, to dine and despair about their extravagant lives while Elven entertain them for meager livings. Tonight the grand space is bursting for a special concert featuring Elvhenan's latest muse and the sweeping staircases and lavish halls are filled with Elvhen wagering away their endless supply of wealth for laughter and smiles.
It is a different matter in the building below. Below coin is passed in payment for flesh and bone. Many months and much cost went into the discovery of it, this great, dark secret beneath the glistening colors and radiant things, and if there has ever been something to prove the hollow nobility of the Elvhen it is found here where they barter for Dalish lives to sate their vile lust.
By the time Fen'Lin enters the seedy underground the guards and employees have been dispatched by her knights. She walks through rows of patrons kneeling, swords and bows pointed at their heads, and approaches the owner bookended by Briala and Reiveth. Even through his mask, Fen'Lin can see the disgust upon her adviser's face at what they have stumbled upon.
For her part Briala forgoes a mask once again, but her anger is a hardened thing. "Across the empire, each of your slave rings are being raided by our people. All of Elvhenan will know of your crimes and the Dalish will not stand for what has happened here."
The Blood Wolf glances at the others in the room. It is mostly women that stand against the far wall, some barely clothed while others are dressed to entice, and all of them Elven. Sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers stolen from the streets and their homes to fill base desires. He has allowed this even if he is ignorant of its presence. Every Elvhen has allowed this as they turn their noses up on the children of their children, the last remnants of Arlathan that survived alone for so long.
Fen'Lin's gaze falls upon a small figure in the line - a girl who can be no older than ten or eleven, lipstick smeared across half her cheek, and rage storms bright and vicious inside. This world is made of nothing but betrayal and she will see it burn. It is with a swift motion that she slices through the neck of the elf before her and the first blood she spills that night soaks through the lush carpet at their feet.
She is a wraith of death and destruction as she cuts through the crowded rooms above next, her Red Knights slaughtering any Elvhen that manage to escape her wrath. Their vengeance spreads throughout the city until by daybreak every citizen of Halamshiral knows of the great misdeeds of those born of Arlathan and the great retribution Fen'Lin promises. As the sun reaches its highest peak, she stands upon the steps of the governor's mansion with his head in one hand and her sword raised high in the other, and the thousands of Dalish below answer her with a thunderous reply.
It is with some amount of mercy she allows Elvhen to abandons the city, even escorts a few that know well enough to listen to first warnings. The gates remain thrown wide open, clear of traps or tricks, but those that would not take heed are massacred trying to reach them. She lets her people have their revenge, joins them in the revelry as rivers of blood rain down Halamshiral's streets. Only the young have her protection - for every child she sees harmed her fury is worse against the offending Elven, but she knows even some of them will be sacrificed for this cause.
The Blood Wolf does not care as she stands atop a pile of rubble and bodies and knows the red of her fur has darkened with all the life lost, but standing here, among silence and portraits of victory over evil, the soul beneath the mask screams until her throat feels as torn as the soul inside.
Slowly she manages to return to herself, wiping tears from her eyes and paint from her fingers, and retrieves her fallen headpiece. It weighs a great deal more than it did only hours ago and before she shrugs it back into place, her eyes take in the fresco she has added to Skyhold's walls. It is a memory under starlight and the gaze of great statues, a quiet place where the sound of falling waters fill the air, where truth was offered and love given. Two elves kneel together with magic lifting away marks of slavery and replacing them with new loyalties bound by the heart. Ar lasa mala revas. In that single moment before a final embrace, they both were.
Some day they might be again.
Fen'Lin replaces her mask and leaves the rotunda behind. She takes steadying breath after breath as she walks through the narrow hallway and into the main area of the keep, for there will be more blood and battle ahead. A great eluvian has replaced a throne at the head of the hall, shinning just as brightly as the sun through the stained glass beyond, and her feet walk towards it without thought. Her mind is beyond its surface, on the next task, on the next part of her to be sacrificed, so much so she does not notice him until she's reached the end of the long, empty tables.
At the foot of the dais, Fen'Harel waits for her.
In dreaming memory, Keela waits for him on the balcony.
For months the pair have been meeting in secret to continue this ill-advised affair. They collide together, desperate fingers seeking flesh, mouths hot and hard, minds clouded with heavy desire. He's taken her through eluvians and listened to her screams of pleasure fill a place no person has been in centuries. She's made him beg, pleas drifting up with curling steam inside the palace's bathhouse. With his fingers in her mouth he's held her against the wall while in the next room her companions contemplated their next move to defeat him.
The Dread Wolf and the former Inquisitor have become nothing more than lust filled youths searching for secret corners and hidden places to chase after what's been lost, holding onto whatever is left as the end threatens to crash down. It is wrong, a beyond impulsive thing that will see them both broken, but it was difficult for him to resist when she only knew his lies - it is impossible to let go when she knows truth and still chooses him.
He knows as well that there has been a hope building the longer they linger together after each embrace that perhaps the next time he will simply stay. So many times he has considered it. He considers it now as he looks at her, hesitating to rush forward and cut another wound into both their hearts. Hair falls over shoulders like spilled ink, skin colored by the stained glass and glistening sun. His eyes trace the scar beside hers, a gift from the Deep Roads that he was not there to witness, fall down her false arm to where an obvious seam reminds them both of his transgressions. She no longer squirms away from its attention but the evidence of her pain is in the hardening of her features, the beginnings of lines like weathered roads trampled from harsh travel. It is his attempts at immortality that have aged her and now they are both out of time.
Keela does not approach at first either, facing him yet frozen in place by some thought of her own. It is not defiance nor disgust, a challenge or cunning ploy. It is not love either, but he has not dared to wish for that for some time even when she holds on a little longer each time before he leaves. No, he knows the expression on her face for he has worn it many times. It is the struggle to speak what is unthinkable, to free something that wants to be let out of its cage but will tear the world to shreds with its knowledge.
Whatever it is she keeps it locked inside instead and he cannot condemn what he has done to her countless times. At last they move together at the same time and he allows himself to once again be swept away by her touch, her mouth, her hands, her. He carries her to the bed and lays down his own burdens, forgets to ponder hers. It is a somewhat difficult thing to do, here in this place that belonged to him and then to her. Like his heart. He remaps memories across her skin, pulls familiar sounds from her lips. Things she gave freely to an apostate who knew he no longer dreamed and yet could not believe she could be anything but a figment.
She makes a noise against his shoulder, something not from pleasure or pain, and he is swift to pull away to find it is sorrow that has seeped into her throat. Tears track down her cheeks, lip quivering despite her best efforts to hold it into submission. Unmindful of the weak protests, he stills to wrap his hands around her face and wipe the warm saline from her skin.
He does not ask what has caused her suffering - it is him, always him. For a moment he wonders if she has discovered the last truth he holds from her, that tonight is the last they will meet in this world for tomorrow a new one will be born. Later, when he lays feigning sleep with her dagger at his neck and she fails to finish the task, he knows she did not suspect until it was too late. Much later, he comes to understand what has shattered her as she stands opposing him growing heavy with their child and he is a wretched, thankful thing that she kept the truth from him. A small mercy, the choice he didn't have to make.
Her legs wrap around him, arms pulling him back to cover her again. "Solas, please. Please, I need you."
Tomorrow he will take everything from her. Tonight he gives in, gives her all that he is - the god, the elf, the battered beingl she has saved even in her defeat. She is his only cause, his only salvation. There is no Veil, no dawn nor day, only the narrow space between their heartbeats and hips. He writes a symphony of his love across her body, makes her sing in exalted bliss until they are both exhausted, and does not think what will happen when the music finally ends.
Enough strength remains in her afterwards to throw an an arm around his chest and hold tight, and he marvels at her perseverance in even this. "Will you stay the night with me?"
It is a simple request, one he has never denied and will not do so now even if it will give her hope when there is none. It is not with a faltering resolve that he agrees, however - it is with a goodbye. She lifts her head to look at him in the fading light. "Will you be here when I wake?"
He gives her one last thing, one last lie. "I…I do not know."
A moment passes as she struggles again to decide to speak, but the confession never leaves her lips. Instead she leans in and captures his in a gentle touch that speaks of devotion and forgiveness and a thousand other things that he does not deserve, least of all this- "I love you, Solas," she says, and he does not understand how he survives it.
The next time they meet she calls him Fen'Harel and he thinks perhaps Solas did die that day.
He rouses himself from the dream and back into the present, but it is some time before he manages to lift himself from the bed. Laying here amongst the dust and decay seems only fitting for that is all that is left of him, still weakened from Fen'Lin's poison and now the pains of memory. So many mistakes, so many good intentions - would it be the right thing to simply give up now? Would inaction be preferable to action, no matter how misguided? Once, he believed he knew the answer. Now he wonders if he was asking all the wrong questions from the beginning.
Necessity finally drags him to standing. He did not come here to chase after ghosts. Skyhold is the most secure fortress he commands even if it is empty, banners long since torn down and tables bare. It is because of what hovers here in the highest tower - his new orb, crafted from an old world destroyed. There is no evidence it has been tampered with, no signs that anyone has managed to break through his barriers, and yet this does not comfort him as it should.
He takes a moment to siphon some of its energies into his weary body. Even if the power belongs to him it is still a troublesome thing, as if the souls of the past refuse to give up what he stole with whatever fight still remains. Futile but fearless, a fortitude he took advantage of, a legacy he learned was never his but theirs. A thing he wishes he could give back if it were possible.
The orb doesn't return to its resting place but instead slips into one of his pouches. Fen'Lin has set fire to Elvhenan and coated its streets with the spent life of his kin. She has answered the savage treatment of the Elven with savagery of her own and the mania she has amassed is stronger than any Elvhen spell or blade. For those that have had everything taken from them, they will fight with nothing left to lose. He knows this, knows what further carnage will await if he doesn't intervene. The Dread Wolf can sleep no longer.
With his prize in possession, he leaves the former Inquisitor's tower and makes his way back to the eluvian standing in the main hall. His first task will be to locate the leaders of the Red Knights. It will not be enough to capture Fen'Lin alone and he imagines doing so will only make a martyr of her, a bolster to the Elven cause. He must decapitate every head, scatter their forces beyond hope. It is was the Evanuris failed to do to his rebellion and it was the downfall of them all.
As he enters the main hall he cannot believe his eyes to see who else occupies Skyhold. The daunting task ahead seems to be made all the easier as his very prey walks towards him now. He waits for the illusion to break but it is no trick of the light, not trap set by a very unwise or very brave spirit. It seems an added impossibility that she doesn't appear to notice him with head bowed low, the tips of the wolf's ears pointed down. He could take her unawares, end more bloodshed before it's spilled, discover who it is that haunts him so.
Instead he waits at the bottom of the stairs for her to notice his presence. There is something about her demeanor that stops him. She is not the proud wolf who paraded around Halamshiral and pranced around his defeated dreams. She is slumped, slow, so much smaller than he remembers. This cannot be the one who tricked a god of Arlathan, conquers his cities, kills his people like cattle for her righteous slaughter, yet he knows what a burden the mantel can be, how it changes you into something inhuman, and he sees its influence upon her now.
Fen'Lin jerks to a stop when she finally recognizes him, mouth gaping open in silent surprise even as her fingers reach for the wicked daggers strapped to her back. He should attack now and disarm her, turn the Blood Wolf to stone and be rid of her all together, but he thinks about yellow eyes and a puzzle still not solved. It is enough time for her to compose herself into the rebel leader of the Dales.
She springs forward, flame and daggers shining, and he would marvel at her bold tenacity if he was not expecting it. He avoids her initial attack, stepping from the grasp of her blades and creating a staff of rock and light to meet her next. It has been some years since he needed to carry a true one and even now this dance is unnecessary, but he watches her carefully, eyes looking for familiar patterns and tells of someone he has sparred with many times.
It is challenging to tell for Keela rarely fought with knives in their time together and Fen'Lin moves with an unnatural quickness that makes him focus on the task at hand lest she manages to pierce through his defenses. They move across the hall, flashes of fire and fur, stone and steel. Perhaps any other time, in any other life, he would enjoy this. She is skilled, smart, but he has played this game for far too long.
"Enough." He reaches out with his magic and pulls. Daggers go flying by him, bouncing off the wall and clattering loud to the ground. Fen'Lin digs her feet in, limbs shaking as she resists his influence, but she slides closer with every heartbeat. He will catch her, rip the mask from her face and end this once and for all, even if it will finally be his end as well.
When she is only a few steps away a snarl of defiance roars from her mouth. Power wraps around her, red and purple bands of lightning that thrums with violent will. She does not use it to lash out at him - it barrels off behind her, launching her into the air above his head as she uses their magic combined to catapult beyond his reach and right in front of the eluvian. A daring, foolish move, but one he was not expecting this time.
"No, Fen'Harel. It is not enough. Not yet." With a quick bow Fen'Lin jumps into the rippling surface, disappearing beyond his reach once more.