Aldaron walked each of the Paths of Petition without faltering. Though each was longer and more complex than the last he had little hesitation. The route he needed to take was as clear in his mind as if it had been marked out. One by one the platforms lit up with ancient magic, magic that had been waiting for centuries, perhaps, for someone to activate it. And it helped, somehow, to dampen all the lingering guilt for all those who had died because of him. He couldn't explain why, because ultimately the ritual was meaningless. Mythal was not watching him or waiting to offer forgiveness. Yet as the last tile on the final path lit up and set the whole thing into a steady glow Aldaron did feel better.
"That's the last one," he murmured, stepping off the platform carefully.
"Oh good. You can put these back on now," Dorian said, holding Aldaron's boots out to him. The elf was actually surprised that he'd held them this long. "If you don't, I'm leaving them behind."
"Didn't you agree that this was a better idea than charging through and tearing the place apart?" Aldaron asked even as he accepted the boots and tugged them back on. As much as he disliked wearing shoes, he had to admit they were useful. He didn't want to fight heavily armored templars barefoot.
"That was before I realized it involved you walking about barefoot on ancient magical puzzles," Dorian complained. "What exactly was the point of this exercise?"
"When asking for protection you must go before Mythal with a pure heart and good intentions," Aldaron explained. After shoving his feet into the boots he kicked the toes lightly against the floor to get comfortable. "If you're false or accuse someone wrongly she'll punish you instead. This was a way to prove your worthiness." At least, that was what he'd gathered from what Morrigan and Solas were able to translate.
"Inquisitor," Morrigan interrupted, "I believe we will find the final door unlocked now. We should continue without delay."
Aldaron narrowed his eyes slightly as he looked to her. She had counseled against rushing ahead before, yet now she urged it. It only fueled his suspicions that she was after the Well of Sorrows. Even without fully knowing what it was or the power it wielded she wanted it for herself. Greedy. But Aldaron was eager as well, to find out what it was and to keep it away from grasping, power hungry humans. "Let's go, then."
Just as predicted, upon returning to the center of the hall they found the wide door at the far end had swung itself open a fraction, and when Aldaron pushed it the door swung open easily under his hand, admitting them into a wide tiled hall. Immediately Aldaron's gaze was drawn toward the high platform at the far side, then further up to the vaulted ceiling. This part of the temple looked practically untouched by the ravages of time or looters. The wonder he felt at the sight, however, was quickly overshadowed by a growing sense of dread that brought his attention sharply back to the present. "We're being watched."
They appeared as though from nowhere, the strange elves from the forest and the entrance to the temple, with bows drawn and arrows trained unwavering on the Inquisitor and his companions.
"Venavis." The voice drew Aldaron's attention immediately. There on that high platform stood another of the elves, his armor slightly different from the others. A leader, perhaps? "You are unlike the other invaders," the elf spoke thoughtfully. "You have the features of those who call themselves Elvhen. You bear the mark of magic which is familiar. How has this come to pass? What is your connection to those who first disturbed our slumber?"
Slumber? Aldaron had a hundred questions, but now was not the time to ask. Even though he was also elven, these elves clearly saw him as a threat. And Aldaron could not blame them. "They are my enemies, as well as yours," he said, nearly begged.
The elf looked down on them and seemed to consider the words for a moment before speaking again. "I am called Abelas. We are Sentinels, tasked with standing against those who trespass on sacred ground. We wake only to fight, to preserve this place. Our numbers diminish with each invasion. I know what you seek. Like all who have come before you, you wish to drink from the vir'abelasan."
" 'The Place of the Way of Sorrows.' He speaks of the Well," Morrigan murmured to him, as though Aldaron did not understand his own mother tongue.
If Aldaron had a hundred questions before now he had a thousand. Tasked to guard this place? Tasked by whom? What did he mean they woke to fight? He couldn't possibly mean… That was impossible. Instead he asked "What is the vir'abelasan, exactly?"
"It is a path, one walked only by those who toiled in Mythal's favor," Abelas explained, though it did not explain much. "More than that you need not know."
Frustratingly vague, as all elven legend tended to be. But some pieces were starting to come together in Aldaron's head. Still one question nagged at him, because the way that Abelas spoke made it sound as though he knew more than legends. The ancient elves had been immortal, the stories said, but those who grew weary of life would enter an endless sleep. Was it possible these Sentinels had been in such a state until the war on their doorstep disturbed them? "So…" He shouldn't be asking, really, but he had to know. "You're elves from ancient times? From before the Tevinter Imperium destroyed Arlathan?"
"The shemlen did not destroy Arlathan," Abelas stated.
Aldaron's mouth fell open in surprise. It answered the question, certainly, but raised a hundred more in its place. But before Aldaron could make his mouth work to ask for clarification, Dorian blurted out "Wait… that's not right. What are you saying? Are you saying there wasn't a war?"
"A 'war' of carrion feasting upon a corpse, yes," Abelas mocked in reply.
The answer stunned Dorian back into silence, and Aldaron could see the conflicting emotions running across his face. Aldaron himself was not certain what to think. The whole world accepted that history as truth, could it possibly be wrong? And if they were wrong about that, what else was wrong? There was so much they didn't know. So much they could only guess at. "Our people have lost everything," Aldaron beseeched, "They need you. They could learn from you."
" 'Our' people?" Abelas sneered, "The ones we see in the forest, shadows wearing vallaslin? You are not my people."
The words felt like a knife in his heart. Solas had said much the same thing when they first met and it had hurt just as much then. The Dalish were not perfect, but they were trying. Anyone who could help – Solas, Abelas, any of these Sentinels – they all looked at the Dalish and their struggles and they mocked, they scorned. They never even considered sharing their knowledge.
"You have invaded this sanctum as readily as the shemlen," Abelas accused.
Another knife in the wound, because it wasn't true. Aldaron had tried. He knew this place's importance. He'd walked the paths, he knew what they meant. He was trying, damn it. Why wouldn't they see that? "We knew this place was sacred. We respected it as best we could," Aldaron protested; defensive, pained, but it was too much to keep inside.
For a long moment the Sentinel stared down at them, and Aldaron was barely able to hold a straight face. He needed, desperately, some sort of acknowledgement or acceptance. He was a child all over again, trying to make his elders proud. After what felt to Aldaron like an eternity, Abelas spoke again. "I believe you." Aldaron released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Trespassers you are, but you have followed rites of petition. You have shown respect to Mythal. If these others are enemies of yours, we will aid you in destroying them. When this is done you will be permitted to depart… and never return."
Any happiness or relief that Aldaron had felt in that brief moment were gone in an instant. Never return? But there was so much here he wanted to see. So many questions he wanted to ask of these elves. There was so much his people could learn from this place and it was being denied because Aldaron wasn't good enough. Even though he wore the same vallaslin as Abelas, even though he had completed all the rites, he had done everything possible and still he was not good enough. Not Elvhen enough.
What more could he do, though? They were not here to satisfy his curiosity. He had a mission, an important one, and he should not get distracted by his own selfish desires. "I accept your offer," he said, solemn but accepting. What other option was there?
"You will be guided to those you seek," Abelas acknowledged, "As for the vir'abelasan… it shall not be despoiled, even if I have to destroy it myself."
Before Aldaron even had time to process the words the Sentinel had turned to leave. At his side Morrigan cried out in dismay and raced forward. Aldaron reached out to stop her, but in a puff of smoke and a swirl of magic the woman disappeared and a raven took her place, winging quickly out of his reach and after the departing elf. Cursing himself in frustration, Aldaron was helpless to stop her. He should have seen this coming. The woman greedily wanted the Well for herself, he should have known she would try something like this. There was no following her, however, unless Aldaron suddenly learned to fly as well. No choice then but to follow the guide they had been assigned. All the other Sentinels had disappeared as quickly and silently as they had first arrived, all save a woman in light armor who leaned heavily on a staff as she walked as though injured.
Their guide lead the small group through halls seemingly untouched by time, with gilded statues and glittering mosaics lining the walls. It was a grandeur that other ruins only hinted at. They were on a mission, he had to remind himself. Time was of the essence and they had already wasted enough. Aldaron couldn't stop himself, though. Each mosaic, each statue they passed drew his attention, slowed his steps until he had to be pulled away. He could have spent days in this place, staring at the walls, but he didn't even have hours. Occasionally sounds of fighting drifted to them from beyond locked doors, but their guide never faltered. Wherever they were being lead it seemed they were bypassing the bulk of the fighting.
Both too soon and far too late for Aldaron's liking the elven woman halted before one final door. She spoke in Elvhen, as she had done exclusively. Perhaps she didn't even understand the common tongue. With a mere gesture the door swung open, then the woman turned away from them, heading back the way they'd come. This must be their destination. The Well of Sorrows.
The red templars had beaten them there.
Without the aid of the Sentinels, Aldaron was not certain they would have been able to hold the templars back. Even after a full day of fighting through the jungles and the temple the red templars fought as though not tired at all. The Inquisitor's party was not so lucky, but at long last the fighting was over as all the templars lay dead or unconscious at their feet. Samson, Corypheus' own general, was somehow remarkably still alive, captured and trussed up. If possible, Aldaron would see the man transported back to Skyhold. Perhaps they could learn more of Corypheus' plans.
This was not the end, though. The Well itself still needed protection. Corypheus was still out there, and he would not stop until he had what he sought, even if his entire army lay dead. But what to do about it? They could not even reach the Well.
As though in answer to his question Abelas came running into the courtyard. He spared them hardly a glance as he raced toward the Well, steps appearing by magic below his feet. Aldaron followed, racing after the elf up to the high cliff where the Well resided. Above his head a raven winged past. No, not a raven. In another swirl of magic Morrigan returned to her original form, blocking Abelas' path to the Well.
"You heard his parting words, Inquisitor," the witch warned, "The elf seeks to destroy the Well of Sorrows."
"So the sanctum is despoiled at last," Abelas observed. He did not sound angry, as Aldaron would have expected, but resigned.
"You would have destroyed the Well yourself, given the chance," Morrigan protested.
"To keep it from your grasping fingers!" Abelas snapped, "Better it be lost than bestowed upon the undeserving."
"Fool! You would let your peoples' legacy rot in the shadows!" Morrigan argued.
She did not understand. A human never could. Better to let it rot than to see even more of that legacy stolen by humans and used for their own purposes. If it could not be returned to the People, then it was better off lost. "Enough, Morrigan!" the Inquisitor ordered.
The witch turned toward him in surprise, "You cannot honestly—," she began to protest.
"I said enough!" Aldaron would rather see it destroyed as well, than in her selfish hands.
"The Well clearly offers power, Inquisitor," Morrigan protested even so, "If that power can be used against Corypheus, can you afford not to use it?"
"Do you even know what you ask?" Abelas demanded. "As each servant of Mythal reached the end of their years, they would pass their knowledge on… through this. All that we knew, all that we were. It would be lost forever."
Knowledge. That was what Samson had said as well. All the memories of Mythal's servants. All the things the Dalish could do with that knowledge. It would change everything. Maybe destroying the Well wasn't the only option. "Look around you. Everything our people were… it's already gone." But with the knowledge in the Well it might be restored.
"It is," Abelas agreed solemnly. "You have shown respect to Mythal, and there is a righteousness in you I cannot deny." He turned his attention solely to Aldaron now. "Is that your desire? To partake of the vir'abelasan as best you can, to fight your enemy?"
"Not without your permission," Aldaron assured. And not just to fight his enemy.
"One does not obtain permission. One obtains the right," Abelas stated. Then with a sigh he turned away from the Well. "The vir'abelasan may be too much for a mortal to comprehend. Brave it if you must, but know you this: you shall be bound forever to the will of Mythal."
"Bound?" Morrigan scoffed, "To a goddess who no longer exists, if she ever did?"
That was not something that Aldaron feared. The tattoos on his face already marked him as Hers. But if she was dead or locked away then drinking from the Well would be no more binding than his vallaslin, a symbol only. "Is it possible Mythal still exists?" Aldaron asked. What if those legends were wrong, just as they had been wrong about the fall of Arlathan?
"Anything is possible," Abelas replied dismissively.
"Elven legend states that Mythal was tricked by Fen'Harel and banished to the beyond," Morrigan said.
"Elven legend is wrong," Abelas sneered, "The Dread Wolf had nothing to do with her murder."
"Murder? I said nothing of-," Morrigan stammered in a shock that Aldaron felt equally.
"She was slain," Abelas continued, "If a god truly can be. Betrayed by those who destroyed this temple." Then she was dead after all, and the other Creators likely dead as well. It changed nothing, but hearing it confirmed still made Aldaron sad. "Yet the vir'abelasan remains. As do we. That is something."
"Are you leaving the temple?" Aldaron asked.
"Our duty ends. Why remain?" Abelas asked in reply.
"There is a place for you, lethallin," Solas stepped in, "If you seek it."
"Perhaps there are places the shemlen have not touched," Abelas granted, though did not seem terribly optimistic.
"The Imperium went to great lengths to destroy elven history. You might be the last to know the truth," Dorian pointed out.
"Would the 'elves' of your lands listen to the truth?" Abelas asked bitterly.
"They might," Dorian shrugged, "Would it hurt to try?"
"It very well may, shemlen, yes," Abelas replied. There would be clans unwilling to hear change, unwilling to accept the truth, but there also had to be those, like Aldaron, who wanted that change and could accept that the legends might be wrong. "It may be that only uthenera awaits us. The blissful sleep of eternity, never to awaken. If fate is kind."
He sounded so resigned, so willing to accept death as the only future for himself and his people. Aldaron did not want to accept that. The Sentinels may have lost their purpose in protecting this temple and the Well of Sorrows, but that did not mean it had to be their end. If these were the last of the ancient elves, Aldaron did not want to see them die. "You could come with us," he offered," Fight Corypheus. He killed your people." A new purpose, even if only for a short while.
"We killed ourselves, long ago," Abelas said, and when the elf turned to leave Aldaron had no words to stop him. He could not fathom their existence up to this point. Perhaps he had no right to ask them to stay. Maybe he was idealistic to believe they might help or that Abelas would ever see the Dalish as his people.
"You'll notice the intact eluvian," Morrigan said, breaking Aldaron out of his contemplation. Indeed, one stood at the far side of the pool that was the Well of Sorrows. "I was correct on that count, at least."
"Is it still a threat?" Aldaron asked, "Can Corypheus use it to travel the Fade?"
"You recall when I took you through my eluvian-," Aldaron would rather not, actually, "-I said that each required a key? The Well is that key. Take its power, and Mythal's last eluvian will be no more use to Corypheus than glass," Morrigan explained. That was a relief, to know they only had the one artifact to worry about. Aldaron would rather not destroy any more artifacts if it could be avoided. Turning her attention then to the Well once more, Morrigan stared at it thoughtfully, almost enraptured. "I did not expect the Well to feel so… hungry," she murmured.
"Don't go any closer, Morrigan," Aldaron ordered, suddenly at full alert. She would try to take the Well's power for her own if given the chance. He would not let that happen.
The woman turned to him and frowned, "I am willing to pay the price the Well demands. I am also the best suited to use its knowledge in your service."
"Or more likely, to your own ends," Solas commented. "You are a glutton drooling at the sight of a feast. You cannot be trusted." Aldaron was in full agreement.
"Of those present, I alone have the training to make use of this," Morrigan argued, "Let me drink, Inquisitor."
"You alone?" Aldaron asked in disbelief. "This is my heritage!"
"I have studied the oldest lore. I have delved into mysteries of which you could only dream!" the witch continued to protest. "Can you honestly tell me there is anyone more suited?"
"I would be," Aldaron growled. So he was not a mage, he was not as educated on their history as he could be. A Keeper would be more suited, but there were none here. Solas might be, but the elven mage cared little for the Dalish. He likely knew much of what the Well had to offer and had made no attempt to help the People. Aldaron did not want the power of the Well. Not for himself, at least, and that was what made him more suited.
"You lead the Inquisition," Morrigan argued, "This is not a risk you can take. I have the best chance of making use of the Well… for everyone. Let me drink."
"What's to stop you from taking the knowledge and leaving?" Aldaron asked. What would Morrigan do with the power of the Well? Keep it to herself, share only what little was necessary. Aldaron would see this knowledge returned to the People, where it belonged.
"My word," Morrigan bit out. "If that seems insufficient, Corypheus threatens all – even myself. He must be stopped."
"And who stops you?" Aldaron demanded.
"I, Inquisitor, seek neither immortality nor your life," the woman replied.
So she was a better choice than Corypheus, but Aldaron would not choose the lesser of two evils when there was another option. Aldaron looked to the Well, a moment of hesitation. It would be a lie to say he did not fear it at least a little. He was no mage, he did not understand magic. Already the mark on his hand terrified him, yet here he was contemplating receiving even more power. Willingly this time. He looked back to his companions, suddenly uncertain if his decision was the correct one. "Thoughts?"
"She is right about one thing," Solas said, "We should take the power which lies in the Well." But not that Morrigan should have it, left unsaid. No support for Aldaron as a better candidate, either, which was not reassuring.
"If it is truly between you and her… then let her take the risk. Maker help us all," Cassandra said. Unsurprising. She'd had nothing good to say about anything in the temple. She would choose what she deemed safer for the Inquisition, not what was best for the elves.
Aldaron turned at last to Dorian. None of the others supported him, but surely— "I don't want to risk loosing you to a well," the man said, voice pained. Aldaron had to look away. Even Dorian? Aldaron had thought for certain at least he would understand why he could not let Morrigan have this.
"Enough deliberation," Morrigan interrupted impatiently. "Give me your decision."
Too eager, too arrogant. Aldaron couldn't trust her. Dorian would be angry at him, but he had to do this. He could make his excuses later. "If anyone is to use the Well, it will be me."
"So you will take what little knowledge you can understand and let the rest go to waste?" Morrigan argued furiously.
"And who's to say it will go to waste?" Aldaron demanded in turn.
"I do," the woman sneered, and turned away from him. She looked back to the well, thoughtful but resigned. "I am forever balked by those who think they know better than I. Drink if you will, for the sake of us all, but steel your will to do it."
Aldaron had already. He was frightened, yes. They did not know what the Well could do, not truly. However, this was the best choice, not only for the Inquisition, but for his people. There was no other option. Bound to Mythal, that was apparently the price to pay. Aldaron was already bound to Mythal, symbolically. Why not make it literal as well? And if Abelas was correct, if Mythal was dead, then how binding could it truly be?
His companions, his friends, disapproved, but Aldaron was no longer uncertain. If it was between he and Morrigan, than he was the better option. He did not look back, however, as he stepped up to the edge of the pool. If he could see the disapproval on their faces – on Dorian's face – he might change his mind. With a deep breath to gather his courage, Aldaron stepped down and into the pond.
The next thing that Aldaron was consciously aware of was Dorian's voice, "If you don't come through this I swear I'll kill you." Aldaron was lying on the ground. Everything hurt, but mostly his head. Like the worst hangover in the world. By the time he managed to open his eyes he was greeted with the sight of Dorian hovering beside him, his face lined with concern and fear. Aldaron was dazed, disoriented, it took him a moment to remember where he was. Dorian reached a hand out to him, but Aldaron waved him off as he slowly pushed himself back to his feet, legs unsteady under him. "How… do you feel?" Dorian asked hesitantly, watching and hovering like he was afraid Aldaron would fall over any moment. Aldaron felt like he might fall over any moment.
Otherwise, he was fine. He was not injured; the Well had not harmed him. But there was so much in his head, he could not make sense of his thoughts and there was a white noise, like a hundred people talking at once but so far away he could barely hear it.
Aldaron staggered to his feet, raised a hand to his aching head as he tried to steady himself. That was when he saw it. Corypheus. The darkspawn had finally caught up with them. His terror must have showed on his face because the others quickly followed his gaze to the other side of the chamber. Aldaron felt like he couldn't move. He couldn't fight like this, he could barely stand.
"The eluvian," Morrigan said urgently.
Aldaron tore his gaze away from Corypheus and turned toward the mirror. He felt a power surge through him that he could not identify and the eluvian flared to life. That would be their escape. "Though the mirror, hurry!" They could not fight him now, not with the state that Aldaron was in. Not with all of them exhausted from fighting all day. Thankfully no one questioned him, even as Aldaron turned and raced toward the mirror, physically shoving Dorian ahead of him. The Inquisitor ensured that the rest of his companions went through first, ensured they were safe, then without a second thought Aldaron turned and ran through the mirror – and straight into someone's back. Dorian's back, he recognized after reorienting himself. The man had stopped dead a few paces from the eluvian – now dark and inactive behind him – but the impact jolted him out of whatever stunned daze had come over him.
The man took a stumbling step forward and looked over his shoulder. His eyes met Aldaron's, wide with surprise and then his brow furrowed. "You… you reckless idiot!" Dorian turned fully toward him and grabbed him by the collar of his coat.
"Dori—," Aldaron could not even begin his protest, or apology, or explanation, whatever had been on the tip of his tongue before Dorian's lips crashed into his. The man's hands were on his shoulders, gripping so hard Aldaron thought it might bruise. The kiss was fierce and rough and sloppy and full of desperation and all the feelings that Dorian had never been any good at saying out loud. When they finally parted Aldaron was panting softly, his hands fisted loosely in the fabric of Dorian's robes, and only vaguely aware of the others still nearby. "I'm sorry," Aldaron said breathlessly. He knew why Dorian was upset, they had been through this before, after Adamant, and Aldaron expected they would go through it again before everything was done.
Much to his surprise, however, Dorian laughed. It was breathless and soft and a little bitter, but it was a laugh all the same. "You daft… fantastic man. What are you apologizing for?"
"I made you worry again," Aldaron replied softly. "And this time I knew what I was doing. I'm sorry." He had known it was dangerous, Dorian had protested the entire thing, but Aldaron went and did it anyway.
Dorian sighed, moved his hands up to cup the elf's face gently. "That's what I get, I suppose. Can't stop you from risking your life if you think it's the right thing to do. Not even if I tied you to the bed and never let you leave."
If Aldaron's head didn't still hurt so much he might have had something to say about that last comment. As it was the only thing he could think to say was "I am sorry." Because he was. He did not like to make Dorian worry, though it did seem inevitable. "I know you didn't want me to drink from the Well. But I… I couldn't let some shemlen witch take away what might be the last of my peoples' history. I couldn't-"
"I've heard your lecture before, no need to repeat yourself," Dorian assured him. "I understand, amatus. I'm not happy about it, not by a long shot, but I understand why you did it."
"I'm sorry," Aldaron said one more time, just to be sure.
"Yes yes yes, you've said that," Dorian sighed, then smiled softly and kissed him again, gently this time. "Are you alright? How do you feel?"
"Like I have the worst hangover in history," Aldaron said honestly, and let his eyes fall shut for the small amount of solace the darkness provided. "Everything is… so loud."
Behind Dorian someone cleared their throat loudly and Aldaron forced his eyes open again, reminded that they were not alone. As Dorian stepped away from him the Inquisitor finally turned his attention to the others. Cassandra was looking pointedly in the other direction, her face somewhat redder than usual. "We should not linger here, Inquisitor," Solas commented.
Aldaron was finally able to register their surroundings. The eluvian had admitted them to that strange between-place that Morrigan called The Crossroads. "Can he follow us?" Aldaron asked in concern, glancing over his shoulder to the now-dark eluvian.
"No," Morrigan answered, "With the Well and its power gone the eluvian will not function from that side. We will be safe here for now, but he is correct, we should not linger."
Aldaron nodded. He did not want to stay here anyway. "Do you know which mirror will take us back to Skyhold?"
"This way," the witch answered, pointing into the distance.
Aldaron gestured for her to lead the way, not feeling up to it himself. He was exhausted and aching and as they walked soon fell to the back of the group. Dorian stayed by his side, matching his pace no matter how much Aldaron shuffled his feet as they trudged along. "I can see why you don't like this place," Dorian murmured softly. "It's giving me a headache already." Aldaron hated it; too much like the Fade for his comfort and it made his skin crawl. Dorian's presence at his side was a comfort, however, and he hesitantly reached out, brushing his fingers against the man's. Dorian didn't look down, but returned the gesture ever so slightly, twining one finger together with Aldaron's. The elf took the invitation for what it was and laced all their fingers together, clinging tightly to his lover's hand as they walked.