A/N: This chapter's Solas portions are running a bit in the past at least in the beginning. Solas is not far behind Ellana, as you'll see...

Thank you very much to everyone reading, and especially everyone who took the time to review!

Thirty-Nine

The Wolf and the Bull

On the path just beyond the palace Solas saw the bodies of dead elves in servant's livery. The hart rode over the carnage too quickly for him to get a decent look, but Solas saw evidence of magic use as well as swords and arrows. The presence of magic meant the Divine's group, lacking mages, hadn't done this on their way out. Someone else had fought these elves as they fled the palace.

Further outside the palace, down the road and near a sharp bend, Solas felt his skin flush with warmth, tingling in a familiar and pleasant magic. He jerked abruptly on the hart's reins and it reared, letting out another piercing cry in its irritation at the sudden stop. From his mount, Solas surveyed the scene, eyes narrowed and heart pounding, but other than the lingering familiar magic of the Anchor there was no sign of what'd happened here, other than some scattered footprints. Yet, it was enough for Solas to realize Ellana had come this way.

"Josa," Solas shouted in elven at the hart, flicking the reins. The animal tossed its head as he dug his heels into its flanks and took off, hooves beating the path beneath it, but too slow. Ellana could be dying this very instant. Solas' stomach rolled with horror, his mouth going dry. He pushed the hart to go even faster, clicking his tongue and leaning into the wind as it rushed past. The relatively treeless landscape ahead showed him the road was empty all the way to the city gates.

And Halamshiral was burning, afire and in chaos due to his rebellion. Let her be alive, he prayed, though he didn't know to whom. What power was there that could answer, other than the whim of chance? And if there was some deity, a Maker as the humans called their sole and likely imaginary creator, surely He would delight in this torture, considering the state of the world. Solas could only ride on through the night, his heart pounding faster than the hart's hooves.

Just outside the city gates, Solas slowed the hart as he saw bodies in the road—and a dead horse. The villa off the road was burning in a wild conflagration, flames rising high into the sky as the fire devoured what had likely once been a lovely Orlesian home. Clutching the reins in white-knuckled hands, Solas scanned over the scattered bodies, seeing they were all elven. Arrows stuck out of several of them, and there were scorch marks from mage fire.

A helmet lay on the ground, glinting orange in the light from the fire raging in the villa, and Solas recognized it as being an Inquisition helm. Recalling the "Inquisition guard" accompanying Josephine, Leliana, and Cullen, Solas guessed Cassandra had lost it in the fight, but he doubted she had died here. Solas' eyes landed on round depressions in the dirt, leading off the path and into the brush, away from Halamshiral. There was no sign of anyone traveling away from the road on foot, and no indication they'd found more mounts here.

They separated here, he thought. Three or more riders had left the road and headed north. Meanwhile, the walkers on foot had not gone with them. They must've gone into the city. But why? Where to?

Then, suddenly, Solas felt the warm, pleasurable tingling of the Anchor's magic on his peripheral senses. It was like a light at the edge of his vision, flashing as it lit up the night like a firework. He whipped around in the direction he sensed it, inadvertently tugging on the hart's reins and making the beast let out another of its shrieks with irritation. It pawed the ground, tossing its head.

A burst of the Anchor that strong had to be a blast, one of the attacks Solas would've used when overwhelmed by too many enemies in close range. Because it was magic and controlled by will alone, Solas could command it to harm and knock over only those hostile to him, making it a bit like a veilstrike or mindblast—but far more destructive. It shouldn't have been something Ellana could wield.

Unless the Anchor had finally chosen now to destabilize.

Shouting again at the hart, Solas urged it forward and through the city gates. The hart gave a screech of protest, head lowered at the scent and sight of the fires consuming the nearest buildings, but Solas pushed spirit magic at the animal, shaping it into a spell of courage. His heart was in his throat, his eyes stinging and running from more than just the ash and the acrid smoke thickening the air.

Hold on, vhenan.

He never saw the arrow that shot out of the darkness down a nearby alley, striking the hart through its shoulder, just shy of Solas' knee. The beast stumbled and fell with a shriek, throwing Solas from its back and to the rough cobblestone below. With no chance to brace himself, Solas tumbled, skidding and rolling. His head struck the stone, sending sharp pain through his skull, obliterating everything else.

Blackness took him.

"Oh, how lovely," Dorian grumbled in a falsely sugary voice. "Another ruin in the middle of the forest and undoubtedly surrounded by hungry bears and wolves. How I so missed this part of life with you, darling!" Sweeping his hands in a broad gesture to encompass the crumbling stone pavilion they'd found upon stepping out of the mirror, he sighed. "At least there are no red Templars and Venatori here, I suppose."

The lush jungle around them was dark and quiet except for the sigh of the wind through the trees. The plants here showed no sign of winter with their full complement of leaves and foliage, but the air did hold a faint chill that suggested this place did see some change of the seasons. Yet, it was warm and humid enough that Ellana started unbuttoning her coat and fluffing it to increase airflow over herself.

Seeing her action, Abelas said, "I selected this place for its remoteness and my personal familiarity with it. Also, because I knew it would be mild at this time of year when many places in Thedas are still very cold."

"Very cold?" Rainier asked with a grunt. "I take it you're used to a climate like this one, Abelas, because Halamshiral and Orlais were quite comfortable."

Abelas ignored his comment, turning instead to deactivate the mirror with a wave of one blue-glowing hand.

"For you, maybe," Dorian griped, picking up where Abelas had chosen to remain silent. "I agree with Abelas, except that this place isn't civilized or clean. It's hardly the place I'd want to give birth in if I were a woman."

"You are a woman," Sera said with a snigger. "Or good as, anyway."

Dorian sniffed with derision. "Very funny, but patently untrue. I'm the very image of manliness. I shouldn't need to remind you of all people that I—"

"Would you three knock it off?" Ellana said, frowning as she walked over the uneven, cracked stones of the pavilion. Abelas moved to take a position at her side, shadowing her as Solas would have once done. The thought made something in her chest ache.

"Sorry, milady," Rainier apologized at once. "Shall we try to make camp?"

"With what?" Dorian rejoined, voice sharp. "Stones for pillows? Leaves for bedrolls and blankets?"

Rainier shrugged, his armor glinting with the pale milky light of the moon. "I've had worse."

"Like what, exactly?" Dorian asked, his tone incredulous.

"This could be like the time I was caught in the desert. Starving and dying of thirst. Hot in the day and freezing our asses off at night." He grunted. "I'd take the Arbor Wilds over that any day."

As the others continued to banter, Abelas asked quietly, "How did you stand such incessant, inane jabber?"

Despite the heaviness of her conflicted, painful emotions, Ellana chuckled. She shrugged at him. "You grow to love it." She looked at the bickering humans and the mischievous Sera, still clutching her bow. "Well, at least when they're not having a real disagreement. They're not so different really from my own clan—just stockier and with rounded ears. Well, except for Sera of course."

The sentinel nodded. His face, shadowed in the darkness, was hard to read but Ellana thought she saw contemplation in his eyes. After a moment of silence, he said, "I believe it is safe enough here that we may sleep for the night. I will gather some supplies and set up camp. We must make tea before we sleep."

Ellana arched an eyebrow. "You have the herbs to block dreams on you right now?"

"I always carry a supply," Abelas revealed and Ellana frowned, intrigued and perturbed simultaneously. Why had the herbs been so important to him that he'd keep them on his person at all times?

At her bemused look, Abelas smiled slightly. "An old habit borne of necessity from Elvhenan to avoid assassination," he explained. "High ranking sentinels such as myself were often targeted by rivals serving other Evanuris." As he spoke, Abelas reached into the gray-black surcoat he wore over his metallic armor and produced a large leather pouch, cinched shut and with well-worn wrinkles. "My stocks will not last long, however, with five of us. Fortunately, the herbs we require grow in abundance in this area."

Taking the pouch from him and gently teasing it open, Ellana smiled at the rich, earthy smell emanating from it. "Another reason you chose this spot, right?"

"Correct," Abelas said with a nod. "I will begin collecting more tonight. Any new herbs will need to be ground and mixed with tea to be completely palatable. Perhaps the archer could—"

"I'll do it," Ellana said firmly, cinching the pouch shut again. "I'd also like to learn which herbs you need so I can help forage."

Abelas scowled and shook his head, eyes drifting to her very round, pronounced belly. "You should not exert yourself."

"And what should I do instead of being useful? Sit around camp on my butt feeling sorry for myself?" Ellana grumbled, passing the pouch back to him. "No, thank you. I'll pass on that. Maybe you've forgotten, but I'm Dalish. A few years being pampered in the Inquisition has done nothing to dull the lessons my clan taught me before I got this." She raised her marked hand, wriggling the fingers. Her palm still showed the faint green gleam of the Anchor, though it didn't hurt.

Abelas' gaze dropped to the ground and he turned his head away. "Forgive me. I know little of the travails of childbirth—except that I witnessed my younger sister's birth a very long time ago and the trauma of it proved difficult even for my mother, who was immortal with the power of the Fade. You have no such luxuries here, unless we create a rune circle to restore this area." Meeting her gaze again, she saw a muscle tighten, feathering in his jaw. "I would agree to use my blood for the runes in the Fade if you wished."

"We'd have to fight demons to do it," Ellana murmured, frowning. "And Sera would rather leave than be in the Fade permanently." She smirked to herself, remembering the archer girl's panic only minutes previously. "I'm surprised she followed us into the eluvian at Halamshiral, to be honest."

"Their devotion to you is remarkable," Abelas agreed. "It is impressive even to me, lethallan."

Ellana eyed him, torn between smiling to accept his compliment, offering her thanks, and choosing a more humble and wary response of dismissal. Was he flirting with her? She found the thought mind-boggling and fought the sudden heat that leapt to her cheeks. She was glad for the darkness that would hide it from him. Here she was, having grown to twice her normal size, a clumsy and veritable whale, about to burst with another Elvhen man's child, and somehow Abelas was flattering her.

"Thank you," she answered, chuckling dryly. "But really, I think you're impressed because you made the same mistake Solas did: your expectations of modern elves are far too low. We can do little but surprise you."

Abelas dipped his head to her, silently conceding the point. "As you say, lethallan." He gazed out of the crumbling pavilion at the overgrown clearing around them. "I must make myself useful. Keep the others awake and advise them on the tea until I return. Be watchful as there are great bears and other beasts roaming these forests."

"I'll let them know and we'll keep watch," Ellana reassured him. She watched as he walked down the jumbled stones of the stairway nearby and through the tall grass and brush. Moonlight glinted from the sharp points of the armor at his shoulders.

After a few moments, Ellana left the edge of the pavilion and moved to begin setting up camp with the others.

Solas woke to pain pulsating through his skull, pounding in time with his heartbeat. Smoke stung his eyes and burned in his throat. Orange firelight danced over the buildings he could see at the edges of his blurry vision. His blood made a whooshing sound in his ears, muffled and echoing as if his head had become hollow.

Jagged memories rose up from the depths of his mind: the round impressions of hoofmarks in the dirt off the road outside Halamshiral, the warm wash of magic from the Anchor as Ellana unleashed it somewhere within the city in a blast, and the realization that she would be dying soon without him to remove her arm. Fear and determination made his heart hammer, made the pain in his head worsen as the world blurred and spun. How long had he been unconscious? What had happened that had thrown him from the hart?

Reaching for his core, he found it sluggish and drained—a consequence of hitting his head. Yet it stirred at his touch, ever responsive and eager, even despite the strangling hold of the Veil. Siphoning a significant portion of it, Solas willed it into healing magic and sighed with relief as the pain in his head receded to something dim and tolerable.

Accented voices cut through his awareness then as a youthful sounding male said, "D'you feel that? Thought you said he was dead, Bail?"

"Feel what?" a gruffer voice answered. Solas heard the shuffle and scrape of booted feet over the stone, coming closer.

"Magic," the first one answered. "Guy must be a mage, but he's wearing too much metal for that. Thought he was dead. D'you even check afore?"

"You daft twit, I'm a dwarf. Of course I didn't feel any magic. And I never said he was dead. I said I thought he was dead. Elves are fragile, like little birds. Ever wring a pigeon's neck?" The gruff voice chuckled as the shuffling reached Solas' side, letting him see through his swimming vision the bulky shape of a bearded dwarf.

"No," the youthful voice replied. "Always liked pigeons."

"Then let me show you how easy it is to do one of these little shits in." His knees cracked and he grunted as he knelt, reaching for Solas' neck.

With a flare of his eyes, Solas petrified the dwarf before those meaty hands could touch him. Then, as he heard the other man yell with shock, Solas drew mana for a mindblast, exploding the energy of it around him with a weak flick of one hand. He heard the man cry out, his feet scraping over the cobblestone as the blast blew him backward. The barrage also knocked over the petrified dwarf. The statue clattered on the road, smashing into multiple pieces on impact.

Solas pushed himself to his feet, swaying as vertigo made the world spin. His head still ached, pounding even more now that he was upright. Drawing more magic, he muttered another healing spell and let out a long breath as again the pain diminished.

He felt along the back of his head underneath the wolf headdress, which was secured in place with magic so not even being thrown from the hart could remove it. His fingers came back damp and sticky with half-dried blood and he grimaced. It'd been some fall, apparently. No wonder the dwarf had believed him dead.

A human boy about five meters down the street gawked at him, eyes round with astonishment and glittering with orange firelight. His hands were covered in blood and he carried a bow in one fist. "You're him," the boy shouted. "You're really him!"

Before Solas could react, the boy turned and bolted, arms and legs pumping at a frantic pace. He disappeared into a dark alleyway, leaving Solas alone in the street. If he'd been in a better mood he might've laughed at the dark humor of the boy's panic and realization when, as far as Solas was concerned, this was one of his weakest and least impressive moments. He'd been flung from his mount and nearly killed by head trauma. It'd make for a rather anticlimactic end for the infamous Dread Wolf.

Walking unsteadily in the direction the boy had fled, and where Solas had come from while on the hart, he searched the street for any sign of his mount. Bricks had fallen from the burning building nearby, scorched black. The heat of the flames licked at Solas' skin, making him sweat. Ash was thick in the air and all the windows on this street had been broken, raided early in the chaos of the rebellion. As such, the street was littered with bodies, rubble, and other refuse. Solas passed a chamber pot coated with dark stains, a massive crinoline bustle, and a wooden washbasin that were just lying in the street or on the sidewalk.

About five meters from where he'd awoken, Solas saw the hart's body and immediately fury made him shake, recalling the boy's bloodied hands. They'd been butchering the hart for meat, right in the street. The animal's eyes stared unseeingly now, glassy and lifeless. Its tongue was missing, cut out. Orlesians will eat anything, Solas thought with a disgusted sneer.

No matter. The desperate, urgent beat started up inside him again, remembering the Anchor's caress of magic from earlier. He'd lost time in the attack. He needed to make up for it. Solas oriented himself toward where he recalled the magic coming from and, drawing in a deep breath and ignoring the lingering weakness and lethargy in his limbs, focused on his core to weave the powerful shapeshifting spell. Gradually he felt the magic expand over him, creating ghostly sensations, twitching his muscles as he became the Wolf.

After a few moments he opened his eyes, cringing as he found the firelight suddenly too bright for his night-adjusted predator's eyes. The Evanuris had forbidden shapeshifting into the greatest beasts—dragons. They reserved that right for themselves and although Solas could have taken that form once he joined their ranks, he'd never done so, preferring a humbler and cleverer animal. Most nobles dabbled in reshaping themselves into griffins, six-legged harts with wings, ogres with claws, and anything else that struck their fancies. Solas had spent plenty of time wearing the shape of a Wolf in the wilds to hide his face without knowing it was fashionable among Elvhenan's nobility. Now it just served to terrify and speed his passage, though with the Veil it was difficult to maintain for prolonged periods.

Arching his back, Solas flexed his four paws on the stone beneath him, relishing in the grip of his pads. Then he ran, cutting through the same alleyway the boy had fled through, following his magical senses toward the Anchor. He heard a scream as the boy, hunkering down and hiding in the shadows of the alley, scrambled to escape, but Solas had no interest in him and simply ran right through. He caught the whiff of urine as the human boy panicked and wet himself.

In the next street over, Solas picked up speed, leaping over rubble and weaving through blockades of abandoned carts or dead horses and other mounts or beasts of burden—or dead bodies: humans and elves alike. Halamshiral was a burning mess of death and destruction as a thousand years of mixed history, both human and elven, turned to ash. It was all his doing, his fault.

It wasn't hard to imagine how repulsive this would have been to someone like Ellana. Solas could view it dispassionately, aloof and removed as Fen'Harel. This was merely chaos, necessary and unpleasant, but temporary as elves reclaimed what should have rightly been theirs from the start. He'd seen worse in Elvhenan, carnage wrought by Falon'din's armies as he destroyed and murdered thousands in Dirthamen's territory. But to Ellana it was carnage, wanton and bloody and as bad as anything she'd seen in her short mortal life.

Short. Mortal. The realizations rang through him, piercing like knives. She was dying, perhaps already dead. And it was his fault, on multiple levels, just as Halamshiral's burning was. If he'd taken the time to warn her, to prepare her and open himself to her counsel, she wouldn't have run. She'd done the same thing when he left her in the dark about leaving to attack the Forgotten Ones and dismissing the plan Mythal had suggested in favor of his own, no matter the cost.

Cutting through another alley between two burning noble's homes, Solas leaped through the disintegrating, smoldering coals of what had once been a tall wooden fence. He was the size of a large horse while wearing the Wolf shape, easily tall enough to barrel through such obstacles. He shook the burning embers from his coat without stopping, racing through a yard and into the street beyond it where he felt the Anchor's magic still lingering like a foul odor.

Bloody chunks of corpses lay scattered over the street, flung about and torn asunder by the power of the Anchor's blast. Solas trotted through the slaughter, sniffing and circling, ears flicking to and fro as his skin—and fur, really—bristled with the power of the magic. It had been millennia since he'd felt such powerful spirit magic, his own spirit magic, used in a battle. Closing and opening rifts and forming Aegis were all small uses of the Anchor, requiring fairly little magic. The massive damage Ellana could deal with Mark of the Rift was due to the Fade-tears themselves, not the Anchor's magic.

The blasts would destroy her; consume her from within and without. It was meant for him, designed to channel the magic from the Fade through his body and his spirit. Solas had the capacity to carry it, to shape and wield it without being consumed. In Ellana, who wasn't even a mage without the restored Fade, it'd be like striking stone with a sledgehammer. Eventually, pieces would break off. Slam it enough times and even the strongest stone would fracture and crumble.

He closed his eyes as the scorched stink of the fires and the tang of blood and salt seemed to claw at his throat and eyes, accusing and damning. The Wolf shape around him rippled, failing as his concentration slipped and dizziness gripped him as his thoughts kept drilling into him like a torturer's blades beneath his fingernails. From the moment she'd been marked at the conclave, Ellana had been doomed, her death assured. And the killing blow would always be by his hand.

And now, as though losing his heart wasn't bad enough, he'd lose their child. Just as with everyone else precious to him that he'd lost over the ages—Mythal, his parents, countless friends—their deaths were his fault. Without Ellana and their child, what point was there in saving this world? In living? He would still fight as Fen'Harel, but he would walk the din'anshiral, the path of ultimate sacrifice, and welcome oblivion when it finally claimed him. Solas would already be long dead.

Feeling the magic of the Wolf shape fail brought Solas out of his dark reverie. He reached again for his core and summoned the shape once more, refocusing. Padding through the center of the blast, where the magic was strongest, Solas made a wide circle, checking the perimeter for her body. He found no trace of her, but he did discover the body of a sentinel—Darae. If one sentinel had been with her, Solas knew that confirmed his suspicion that Mythal was the one leading this. Where was she taking Ellana? What had she planned?

Urgency tightened its hot grip on his heart as he let his magical senses follow the residual energies of the Anchor, leading him at a swift trot down the street. His mind spun, trying to calculate how much time had passed since the blast and wondering if Mythal had the strength inside Morrigan to sever Ellana's forearm or even quiet the Anchor the way he could temporarily.

I should have taken it when she begged me, Solas thought as pain cut through his chest, hurting more with each breath in a way that had nothing to do with the smoke in the air. He'd held back, primarily determined not to maim her, but also unwilling to lose the Anchor. Ellana didn't seem to realize that in taking her forearm Solas wouldn't be reclaiming the Anchor as much as shattering it. He could recollect pieces using the foci Zevanni carried, but it might never be whole and functional again.

At the end of the street Solas saw a tall, bulky figure emerge out of a house that was, miraculously, not burning. He slowed his trot, head low and lips curling back from sharp fangs, ears flattening and fur bristling. Most spells in the Wolf shape were impossible, but he had the Wolf's teeth, claws, and superior senses on his side. As his muscles bunched, ready to launch him through the thick haze of smoke, he saw the figure pass in front of a fiery building in the distance and realized it had enormous horns and a familiar great axe.

Iron Bull?

Still wary, Solas kept the Wolf shape as he sprinted ahead, rapidly closing the distance between himself and the Tal-Vashoth. Iron Bull was jogging fast through the street, away from the home he'd stepped out of. Solas marked that spot in his mind, but there seemed nothing unusual about it just yet and he couldn't let slip the chance to confront the warrior.

Darting out of the smoke to cut off Iron Bull's path, Solas halted in front of him, tail raised and fur standing on end. Iron Bull skidded to a stop, flailing a second in his abruptness and alarm. Solas could smell the sudden surge of acrid fear pouring from the Qunari and would have frowned if the Wolf could have managed the expression. Why would Bull react that way?

"Fucking demon," Iron Bull spat, answering Solas' question. He let out a roar and hefted up the great axe, swinging for Solas' head.

Solas twisted nimbly, avoiding the head of the axe and catching the haft of it in his jaws, in the gap left between Iron Bull's meaty fists where they gripped it high and low. The haft tasted good against his tongue with a mixture of salt from Iron Bull's sweat and the pleasant flavor of the wood itself. Solas' teeth sank into it as he clamped down and then pivoted on all four paws, jerking to try and rip the axe from Iron Bull's hands.

With a deep-throated curse in Qunlat, Iron Bull clung to the axe one-handed, though Solas lifted him bodily from the street and swung him in an arc. Iron Bull slammed his other fist into Solas' jaw, sending a sharp spurt of hot pain through him. Solas let out a noise that was both growl and whine, realizing that he needed to change tactics. He'd expected Iron Bull to see him and recognize the Dread Wolf, but of course the warrior had never seen him make such a transformation before and just assumed he was a demon. But if he released the Wolf now, while Iron Bull was in a bloodlust fury of attack, he was liable to wind up with the weapon embedded in his chest before he could stop the warrior's next swing—unless he petrified him and that was not an option.

Raising a paw, Solas pushed on Iron Bull's chest, ignoring the next punch to his snout though it burned in his nose and he smelled blood. Iron Bull bellowed out his rage, but even in fury and with his Qunari strength, he couldn't withstand the Wolf. His grip finally failed and Solas tore the axe free, quickly hopping backward and tossing his head to throw the weapon down the street with a clatter that was lost over the roar of the fire.

Then, releasing his focus on the Wolf, Solas let the shape vanish. The magic evaporated, leaving him coated in sweat and diminished, standing a few meters from Iron Bull in his dirty armor, the surcoat and wolf headdress he wore both stained and torn. To be safe, Solas quickly put up a barrier with a flick of one hand as he shouted, "Where is Ellana?"

Shoulders and chest heaving, skin glistening in the light of the fires burning across the street to their right, Iron Bull gawked at him. Then his brow furrowed and his mouth formed a snarl. "What the fuck, Solas?" he demanded, hands curling into shaking fists at his sides. "I thought you were the fucking demon."

The demon? Solas frowned, heart pounding and head spinning. He didn't have time to be curious. "Tell me where Ellana is," he ordered, almost growling.

"I don't know," Iron Bull answered, shouting and still snarling. "And even if I did know, I wouldn't tell you."

Solas' guts seemed to turn to liquid even as rage made his muscles tense and his heart hammer harder in his chest. He edged forward a step, unconsciously trying to intimidate Iron Bull, feeling his core churning with the desire to call hostile magic. "The Anchor has destabilized. I felt it," he bit out, spitting the words with his fury. "She'll die without my help." Breaking off, his chest seemed to seize, causing him to make a sort of whining noise, weak and plaintive as emotion overwhelmed him. "Please, the Iron Bull. I cannot lose her."

Iron Bull's expression and body language softened. "She isn't dying. Morrigan stabilized the Anchor doing some bullshit in the Fade."

"Stabilized it?" Solas blurted, stunned into staring stupidly. "How is that possible?" He shook his head. "You must be mistaken."

Iron Bull shrugged, his posture stiffening again. "I don't know how she did it, but Morrigan said it's been stabilized. Ellana is safe. That's why we brought her here." He paused a moment as Solas' mouth dropped open again with shock and he started looking around, searching for Ellana with new desperation. But then Iron Bull said, "That and she just wanted to get away from you."

Flinching as Iron Bull's words hit him, Solas took a step back, dizzy from the smoke, the heat of the roaring fires around them, and confirmation of what had motivated Ellana. Her words echoed through his mind: Don't call me vhenan. His stomach clenched and he swallowed, suddenly certain he was about to vomit.

"Where is she?" Solas repeated, voice gruff and tight with desperation. Even if she was safe with the Anchor somehow stabilized…he had to find her and keep her safe, make things right between them if at all possible. He could not miss their child's birth.

"Like I said," Iron Bull growled. "I don't know."

"Why did you leave her?" Solas demanded, gesturing angrily. "Who was she with?"

"I left because my men are out there in this mess that you caused," Iron Bull snapped. "And I have nothing else to say to you." Iron Bull glowered as he stomped forward straight for Solas, as if he planned to barrel through him and crush him underfoot.

Gritting his teeth, Solas sidestepped to avoid Iron Bull and then Fade-stepped with the usual whine-pop of the maneuver, crossing the distance back to the house he'd seen the warrior emerge from. The door was unlocked, the air inside cooler and clearer than outside. Now that he was closer, Solas felt the lingering energy of the Anchor here in the back of his mind, along with the pull of an inactive eluvian.

Like a bloodhound, Solas followed his senses through the darkened interior to a large bedroom with a walk-in closet containing the mirror. Thrusting his palm to the glass, Solas tried to reactivate it, but the magic kept doubling back to him, like a rubber ball rebounding from a hard surface. He tried twice to be certain, frowning with concentration as he willed the eluvian to make a connection with whatever mirror it'd last joined with. Yet the magic failed, repelled.

"Fenedhis," he cursed, snarling with frustration. The eluvian had been reset from the other side and for all of Solas' power, he could not override it to re-forge the connection. It was like trying to piece together broken glass. Out of curiosity, Solas laid a hand over the golden metal holding the glass and closed his eyes, slipping a little of his magic into the metal to taste the energy left by whoever last activated the mirror. He grimaced as Mythal and Morrigan's magic flowed back to him.

Making a fist, shaking with fury, he fought down the desire to punch the glass with frustration. Breathing hard and fast, he left the closet and paced through the bedroom like a caged animal, head bowed and shoulders hunched beneath the stained, dirty headdress. He wanted to believe Iron Bull had spoken the truth, even if the giant warrior hadn't provided any explanation as to how the Anchor could be stabilized when Solas himself had no idea of how to do it. Yet he had no way to go after her, no way to find her when she could be anywhere.

And he'd be needed at the winter palace. The People needed someone to restore order after the rebellion. Solas had never considered himself the greatest ruler or political leader, though his time presiding over Falon'din's lands hadn't been without success in the times he could outwit the other Evanuris causing him difficulty. Still, the Dalish had no singular leader amongst them and Zevanni was only adept at chaos and carnage. Mathrel and Lyris might maintain a semblance of order and honor for a time, but Celene and Briala would never negotiate peace or strike an accord with the arcane warriors they'd only known as his bodyguards.

And, of course, there was the added frustration and dangerous fact that the Inquisition leaders and the Divine had escaped. He had Orlais and the Dales in his grasp, but the Inquisition and the Chantry could march against Halamshiral and reduce it to rubble in an Exalted March. Orlesian nobles were sure to send forces as well. Solas' people would be overrun, routed and slaughtered.

Unless they had the strength of the Fade and an Evanuris at their helm. But without the Anchor that wouldn't be possible.

That is why she left, Solas thought and felt sick again, ready to vomit or scream. He wasn't sure which. He wanted to rage, angry that she could put him in such a vulnerable position, but he knew he'd done the same to her when he set this rebellion in motion. If he had just spoken with her first…

You drove her away, just as you did before, but this time it is much worse.

Her voice shouted again in his mind: Don't call me vhenan. If I was your heart you would have sought me out when this was still a choice.

A vase beside the door caught his attention, inlaid with gold and made of delicate white porcelain. Snarling, Solas made a punching motion, sending a focused mindblast at it. The vase exploded, the pale flecks of shrapnel flying in a spray, some bits as fine and white as snowflakes.

"May you learn," he growled to himself. "May you learn."

Whipping on one heel, Solas strode to the closet and thrust his palm to the glass, willing it to reactivate. This time, however, he gave it a command it could obey: connect with one of the inactive eluvians in the winter palace storage rooms. The mirror acquiesced with a musical chime inside his mind as the connection solidified.

Shoulders slumping with defeat even as his hands still trembled, Solas stepped through the eluvian.

Next Chapter:

"What?" the blonde asked, grinning so wide Ellana was sure she could see the archer's every tooth. "I really wanna know, honest. I won't tell, promise."

Ellana frowned, cheeks still afire. "The last time you promised not to tell anyone something I wanted kept secret the whole winter palace knew the very next day."

Sera scoffed. "What you on about? What'd I do?"

Glaring, Ellana said, "You told everyone I was pregnant at the Exalted Council."

"No I didn't," Sera said at once, nose wrinkling as if Ellana had genuinely insulted her. "I only told Iron Bull." Pausing a moment, her brow furrowed as she considered. "Oh, right, and Rainier. And Widdle." She winced then and giggled nervously. "Oh, and the barkeep in the tavern. And the server grabbing glasses."

"And everyone, really," Dorian quipped from the shore. "Long story short, Ellana was right."