Knife-ears.That's how the human woke him up. Derision in two words.
Solas rolled to his side and collided against the wall. Heavy boots fell inches from his head, sending dust mites flying from the flagstone floor.
"Get up, knife-ears!"
Solas got up slowly from the pile of hay on the floor that was his bed for the past night. His body ached from the cold and hard floor. He looked around the dimly lit cell to search for his leather-and-fur pack where he kept his meager belongings, and remembered that the soldiers took it when he surrendered his staff.
The soldier tied his hands together with rope and left an arm's length of it as a lead. With a tug of the rope, he led Solas out of the prison cell.
"Where are you taking me?"
The soldier gave him a snarl and a contemptuous look in reply.
Bare elven feet followed the soldier, one foot after the other, soles slapping the dusty flagstones. He marched to the din of the soldier's steel footfall echoing in the dimly lit dungeon. They were a ground below the Chantry. He expected catacombs the first time he walked through it. But perhaps a prison was more fitting for a village where pilgrims flocked. Where the faithful go, the sinners follow. It would have been apropos in Arlathan as well, where the pious and the enslaved were one and the same.
If things had proceeded as planned, he would have been at the Crossroads by now. He would have had his strength back, his power, all of it that he had stored and locked away expressly to be used for his return. That power led armies, commanded the shadows, freed slaves. It sent people distances, to fight and bleed and die for his cause. It exhilarated as much as terrified, burdened as much as it empowered.
With it, he would restore his People once more...
The soldier tugged the line again, pulling Solas back to reality. The legion bearing his banner faded away, along with the glinting green-gold armor with a wolf's hide slung over his shoulder and the sword hilt he imbued with spirit-power. In its place stood a shivering middle-aged elf who was starving, thirsty, and sore. His body felt like ill-fitting clothes, as thin and threadbare as the green tunic and fitted gray pants he wore.
The fall from grace is much harder for one who embodied pride as he did. That power he commanded was frightening; in the wrong hands, it can transform from a tool to an identity one wore to cover up one's imperfections. It was tempting to use it to elevate one's self above others, to great heights that transcend rules, laws, and morality. It was precisely why he parted with it and made it useless to others.
No one should have that kind of power.
He had never thought he would crave it back. The future he envisioned, the one he fought for, had no need for gods and overpowered rulers. But he needed it now, and found he had sealed it too well. And so like a parent forlorn, he had parted with it for some time, knowing in his bones he would reunite with it.
If Solas knew one thing, it is this: none of the quicklings can behold that power and survive.
Not even ancient magisters with designs for world domination.
The soldier took him to an office where another human in a simplified Templar-looking heavy armor pored over maps and papers laid out on a wide oak table.
"Seeker, the prisoner you requested."
The Seeker, he realized too late, was a woman, and spoke with an accent he guessed to be Nevarran. She introduced herself as Cassandra Pentaghast, Seeker of the Chantry. Solas knew of the Chantry; the Seekers were a hazier entity.
"I am the Right Hand of the Divine. Or was. I am the highest-ranking officer here. I tell you this so that you know that regardless of the war between templars and mages, regardless of the breakdown of Chantry hierarchy, I still have the authority to decide your fate as an apostate, and the power to execute that authority. Is that understood?"
He nodded.
"Now tell me how you came to be captured."
Solas had already told this story to an interrogator, but he was glad to repeat it to someone with real authority. He cleared his throat. "I wasn't, ser."
"Seeker."
"Seeker," he repeated. "I surrendered."
"So you say, but reports say you were seen near the second basecamp trying to avoid detection."
"There were only a handful of soldiers who remained at the basecamp, Seeker. If I was trying to get past them, I would have easily done so."
Her gray eyes were cold wet steel. She raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"
He could tell her he had secretly bypassed the first basecamp at the foot of the Frostbacks, a day before the explosion. The place crawled with templars, pilgrims, and merchants. He also avoided the deserters after the explosion, who killed on sight any person carrying a staff. The soldiers he surrendered to were also raw recruits judging from their nervousness at being approached by an apostate; how terrified they looked thinking he was going to burn them alive! But he held his tongue. He could tell raw recruits from experienced, bloodied soldiers, but the Seeker didn't need to know that.
"They are not templars, Seeker," he said, instead. "And I am quite skilled with magic."
"Hmph. And how did this—" she wiggled her fingers at him "—surrendertake place?"
"I approached them as close enough as I could and threw my staff at their feet. I told them I meant no harm and only asked to be taken to someone who commanded the army that remains near the Breach. And it seems I have found her."
"Just like that? I suppose you asked them to tie your hands as well?"
"I preferred not to be bound, but as you can see, Seeker, I bear no mark on me. There was no forced apprehension. They did not capture me and I did not fight them. It went as peacefully as I'd hoped."
The Seeker eyed the soldier behind Solas. He need not turn to know the soldier crumpled under the Seeker's rebuking gaze. She ordered the soldier to wait outside.
Once they were alone, the Seeker sat behind the large table and observed him closely. He followed her eyes as she contemplated his face, his height, his clothes. Her eyes lingered on the wolf's-jaw hanging by a woven string around his neck.
"Tell me who you are and what business you have with the Conclave."
"I am Solas." Name and essence in two syllables, it was the earliest name he could remember having. He earned titles and became known by other names, and he used those more extensively, the better to bury the former. But the Seeker didn't need to know that. "I am a traveling hedge mage. I was in the Hinterlands and wanted to see the Temple of Sacred Ashes when I heard about the Conclave. I was curious but decided it too dangerous to approach, what with all the templars. I was headed south to the Kocari Wilds when the explosion happened. I heard from survivors and refugees that an army remained near the Temple, and that they intend to defend against the Breach in the sky. When I saw the nature of the rifts that appeared in the Hinterlands, I realized I am presented with a rare opportunity to help. And so here I am."
She seemed to digest this information for a few moments, and reached for paper, quill, and ink to jot down notes.
"A traveling hedge mage. From where, originally?"
"A village in the north, Seeker."
She cleared some items from the table and gestured at the map of southern Thedas etched upon the surface of the oak. "Point to it."
Solas scanned the map quickly. He looked for the border between Nevarra and the Tevinter Imperium, near the edge of the table on the Seeker's side, and pointed at an unmarked location where he knew an old village stood. Only ruins of it remained–something the Seeker also didn't need to know.
"And this is where you grew up?"
"I did not grow up in any one place, Seeker. As I said, I traveled around."
"How old are you?"
Centuries by human reckoning, plus thousands of years inuthenera. Not that it was relevant.
"Too old," he said, unable to hide a smile.
"Something funny?"
He straightened his face. "I only meant I have grown too old and too soft now that I surprise even myself by coming here to help. My younger and wiser self would have stayed away."
She seemed to accept this."What is the name of your clan?"
"I never said I was Dalish, Seeker."
"You said you traveled around? The Dalish sometimes abandon their mages, almost always before they are old enough to get their mark."
"I'm aware of the practice, Seeker. I detest it, and I'm glad to not be part of any of it."
"So you are a city elf. Which alienage?"
"I never said I was a city elf, either."
It was suspicious, of course, but Solas knew better than to use a backstory that they could easily verify with enough digging. He didn't need this additional lie hanging over him. Better an improbable tale he could back up than a probable-sounding one he couldn't prove.
The Seeker's eyes narrowed. "Explain."
"I have vague memories of my parents, and I do not know how we came to live near that village. I only remember being young and being taught how to survive."
"You have no siblings, other relatives?"
"None that would claim me."
"What age did your magic awaken?"
"Young," he said, realizing this was one detail he forgot to add to his supposed backstory. In his time, everyone was born with magic, just as everyone today was born with a soul. He took it for granted that mages in this age did not realize their power until the environment or circumstances forced their magic to manifest. Mages are born with magic; channeling it should be as instinctive as learning to crawl, walk, and run. These quicklings believed they come upon it by accident.
"It would benefit you to be specific, apostate."
Solas, he wanted to say, fighting the urge to correct her. Instead he just accepted that for the quicklings, respect was not inherently given. And he had not yet gained enough of it to be called by his name.
He fumbled for half a heartbeat. "Not ten summers old."
"And the templars never found you?"
"I was a careful and crafty elf. I still am."
"How did you come upon your magic?"
"By accident." When he saw the Seeker's irritation, he pulled a memory attached to the frozen lake on the Frostbacks, near where he camped before he surrendered. "It involved drowning, desperation, and…a sudden burst of ice." The child was trapped under the waters that he turned solid with his newly discovered magic, and his lifeless body floated down to the bottom of the lake next to the stone-carved toy horse he accidentally dropped. It was a true story, even if not his. He licked his lips to relieve the ashes from his dry mouth. "I was…abandoned soon after."
She asked for more details about his family, and he eagerly gave her elven names that were common enough to be inconsequential.
"So your parents raised you in the outskirts of civilization, away from humans, and when you discovered you have magic, they abandoned you? How did that happen?"
"One day they never returned home. They were simply gone."
A flash of sympathy crossed the Seeker's face. She then asked him to point to the village again on the map and he did. Following her eyes, Solas knew she was making the connection between the village and the Imperium. She then took down notes.
"Nobody came looking for you? Templars? Villagers?Slavers?"
"I did not stay long to find out."
"Have you ever returned to the village?"
"Once. I only found ruins."
"And how did you survive?"
"There are caves and ancient tunnels in the region, most of them empty. I was taught enough life skills to fend for myself. I foraged and relied on the forest when the seasons allowed it, and moved to warmer regions to hunt in the winter."
"How did you learn magic?"
This was a more difficult story to sell, but one he carefully crafted to lend credence to the expertise he hoped to bring to the table. "I am naturally curious and motivated to master magic for my protection and survival. And I found teachers willing to show me the way."
"Other apostates?"
"I believe the Chantry calls themspirits."
Realizing what he meant, the Seeker raised an eyebrow. "You meandemons."
"I can tell the distinction, Seeker. I would not be standing before you now, otherwise."
A shadow fell over her eyes. "The mage who blew up the Chantry in Kirkwall was an abomination who lived for years—years—before he was discovered."
"Then he must have had a reason to agree to a deal with a spirit—or a demon. Fortunately, I have found no such need, and the spirits possess nothing that can tempt me."
Her eyes darkened. "Exceptknowledge."
"Which I only accept if and when given freely."
The Seeker leaned back on her chair and crossed her arms. She regarded him again with cold eyes that tried to puzzle him out.
"Did you know that Seekers have the ability to cleanse abominations? Mages who get to witness it tend not to survive the expulsion. The demonsalwaysrefuse to leave, and the mages are powerless to cast them out. They always fight back, to the point where nothing of the mage remains for us to save."
"Ah. And I suppose you wish to subject me to such a cleansing ritual?"
"If you want to live, yes."
"Is this what you offer all mages you suspect of abomination?"
"The smart ones start running away at this point."
Solas smirked. "Go ahead, Seeker. I have nothing to hide."
He rooted himself where he stood, legs apart for balance, knees slightly bent to center his gravity and mana pool. If he had his staff, he would be preloading it with mana; instead, he positioned his bound hands in front of him as another counterbalance. If the Seeker's ability resembled an expulsion spell or a ward, he didn't want to fly off the ground.
And then his stomachgrumbled.
His cheeks warmed with embarrassment as the Seeker didn't even make the effort to hide her amusement at the timing.
"It seems you have nothinginyou, at all!" She sheathed her sword and went around the table. Solas was surprised that he missed how quickly she whipped her sword out. He didn't even hear it leave the scabbard on her hip.
It took her calling out twice before the door opened again and the soldier guarding outside peeked in.
"Have the kitchen prepare supper. And tea, the usual. Make it quick."
The soldier acknowledged his orders and closed the door behind him.
"Sit," she ordered, directing Solas's attention to a chair set against the wall.
Finally. His feet were getting sore. Solas took a step…then heard steel kissing steel behind him.
There was no time to react; the ground where he stood burst into a circle of light that sent expulsive magic shooting up and through his body like daggers of ice and searing lightning. It was strong, throwing him up inches off the ground.
Solas dropped soundly on the floor, his head and cheek smarting where his skin skidded against the rough stone. Sparks showered down on him, pinching his skin where they landed. He coughed and tasted sizzling ozone in his mouth.
"Huh." The Seeker leaned over him, brows furrowed. "It seems I was wrong."
