Chapter Text
One of his oldest friends was gone. And the ones who had tortured and killed it walked free. It was almost more than he could bear. Rage snarled and snapped within him, waiting for him to unleash it. He could still follow the foolish mage who had committed this atrocity. It would be a simple enough matter to track him down and tear his beating heart from his chest, a quicker and cleaner death than Wisdom's corruption and slow torture. Clariel would never know what he'd done.
But he would, and he couldn't bear to tell her more lies. Solas continued striding up the riverbank, looking for a quiet place to sleep. The dying grass beneath his bare feet curled into smoke as he walked. He headed down to the water, dipping his hands into the cold stream.
He couldn't dream like this, with his mind in turmoil and every nerve screaming for vengeance. The Inquisition hadn't yet secured this area, and he could sense how weak the Veil had become between the Breach and all the fighting to the north. There were still active Fade rifts, and he wasn't about to draw even more demons through. His Inquisitor's life was difficult enough already. He pulled off his armor and pack, leaving him only wearing his breeches and a thin linen shirt.
Solas waded into the river up to his waist, embracing the meltwater's biting chill. It numbed his senses, forced his mind to focus on his body instead of his grief. Carefully, he turned to float on his back, letting the water carry him downstream.
"Lethallin, ir abelas."
Thousands of years of wisdom, gone in a heartbeat, and for what? The lives of a few worthless, ignorant humans?
"Mala suledin nadas."
He had endured so much already. His own destruction of the People, the guilt over Corypheus and the orb, and now the senseless destruction of a spirit the world could ill-afford to lose.
"Solas..."
One word from Clariel was all it took. His name, and the flames had died in his hands. Solas flipped himself into a standing position, numb legs carrying him out of the freezing stream. He started to shiver violently as his wet skin hit the air. A thin line of fire erupted from his fingers, burning away the rivulets of water running down his body.
A grove of young oak trees stood over a rocky outcropping further up the bank. Perhaps here, with no sign of people or civilization, he could find some rest. He stretched out in the mossy shade and closed his eyes. He tried to relax his clenched hands, matching his breathing to the gentle lapping of the water on the river bank behind him.
Usually when he entered the Fade, he waited for it to give him some cue, some direction in which he could explore. But today, he had a destination. The place where Wisdom had been was not far; it was never far for him. He walked with quiet purpose through fragments of dreams; Rajmael standing defiant and bloodied, the Grand Duke's men holding off an enemy charge, a pair of young Dalish lovers sneaking away from the circle of aravels under a moonless sky.
Wisdom would have remembered these dreams, cataloged their events, eagerly discussed the mortals who dreamed them with him. And now, it was gone.
Something stirred around him, drawn to his grief. Solas looked up to see a spirit in the form of a small bird, circling just above his reach. A starling with iridescent green-and-purple wings. He held out a hand, and it landed on his palm gingerly, tilting its head at him.
Spirits who enjoyed imitating the form of animals were common enough, only slightly more powerful than simple wisps. He transferred the spirit to his shoulder, wishing for one moment that Clariel could have seen this. She loved animals; a family of starlings roosted on her balcony at Skyhold, and she wouldn't let anyone remove them despite the ceaseless clamor they made.
He wondered what Wisdom would have thought of his Inquisitor, had they met under less dire circumstances.
Eventually the little spirit on his shoulder grew bored and fluttered off into the Fade, shifting seamlessly to a fiery red dragonfly as it disappeared from his sight. Solas was close to his destination now. He took a deep breath, composing himself.
For him, Wisdom's glade resembled one of the amphitheaters of ancient Arlathan, several rings of marble benches rising out of shallow, crystal-clear water. It was empty now, without the spirit's gentle presence anchoring its heart. He could feel its dispersed energy stirring, swirling in the void. Solas sat down on one of the benches, closing his eyes. His memories were the only gravestone his old friend would ever have. When he left, this echo of Arlathan would slowly fade and disappear, never to return.
He wasn't sure how long he had lingered there when he sensed a different presence. She sent ripples through the very fabric of dreams, then left utter stillness in her wake.
"Mythal," he whispered.
The witch descended into the amphitheater, her footsteps heavy and echoing in the stillness. "You should be more cautious," she chided as she sat beside him. "Anyone with ears heard you storming through the Fade."
"Then I am fortunate that few in this age have them," he replied.
"Are you?"
Solas had no answer for her. He felt her place a hand on his shoulder. She was without her usual intimidating facade, an old woman with wrinkled hands who shared some piece of his burden. It made everything just a tiny bit easier. The two of them sat there for what might have been a second or an eternity, gazing into the empty space where Wisdom had been.
"Is this the end of what you can endure?" Mythal finally asked. "The proverbial last straw?"
Solas shook his head. "No. The Inquisition still needs me."
She gave him a painfully knowing look. "Your Inquisitor still needs you."
It was pointless trying to deny it to Mythal. He didn't trust himself to speak, so he merely nodded and clasped her hands in his, a silent thank-you before he got to his feet and left the empty dream. Something might reform here someday, but it would not remember him. It would not be the friend he knew.
He had so few friends left. He could not afford to waste the precious time he had with them.
Solas waited until it was after midnight before slipping through the gates of the ancient fortress. Skyhold was never quiet, even at night. The Bull's Chargers were still going strong in the tavern; raucous laughter and snatches of drunken song drifted out into the courtyard. Farther away from the ruckus, crickets chirped, soldiers chatted over braziers on the walls, and the soft rumble of the waterfall beneath Skyhold held it all together. He walked through the courtyard toward the stables, where he could hear Clariel's hart braying.
He rounded the corner to find her grooming the big red beast. "Shut up, Prongs, you'll wake the castle," she said, stroking the hart's nose. Prongs snuffled at her hair, making her giggle. "Be good, and I'll have Master Dennet put some dried fruit in your breakfast tomorrow, ok?"
Solas cleared his throat, leaning against the wall of the stables. "Inquisitor."
Clariel yelped softly and whirled around. She must have been exhausted if he managed to sneak up on her. "Solas. You startled me."
"I apologize. I didn't realize you were still up."
She waved away his apology, turning her attention from the hart to him. "Don't worry about me. How are you?" she asked quietly.
"It hurts," he admitted. "It always does, but I will endure." The words came easier than he expected.
"I'm glad you came back."
There it was, the implication that he might have been upset enough to leave for good. She certainly had cause to think so. "You were a true friend. You did everything you could to help." He felt a small but genuine smile tug at his lips. "I could hardly abandon you now."
For a moment, he thought she might reach out and grasp his shoulder, but she stopped at a safe, courteous distance. Solas let out a soft breath, unable to decide if he was disappointed or relieved. She hadn't touched him since that haunting kiss in the Fade, respecting his request for time and space. If anything, she was tiptoeing around him, afraid of pushing boundaries. He suddenly realized how acutely he missed her smile.
"The next time you have to mourn, you don't need to be alone," she said gently.
He'd been alone for long before she existed, and would be again after their paths parted. But for this tiny span of time, she was right.
"It's been so long since I could trust anyone," he murmured, half to himself and half to her.
His Inquisitor's eyes were bright with wisdom and compassion. "I know," she whispered back.
He let his gaze drop to her lips, and the longing that she'd awakened in the Fade flared within him again, even stronger in the waking world. He wanted to let her comfort him, feel her arms around him and her voice soothing his tired spirit.
"I'll work on it," he said instead. "And thank you."
Prongs snorted impatiently at her and Clariel laughed, turning away from Solas. "You big selfish idiot," she said affectionately, lifting the coarse brush in her hand. "I'm trying to have a conversation here."
"It's all right," said Solas. "Sleep well, Inquisitor." He left the stables and made his way up to the side door of the rotunda, hoping to slip into the Fade before attracting any more attention.
Cole was perched on his painting scaffold, looking down at him. Solas sat down in his chair and braced himself for the inevitable barrage of emotions and questions, but instead, Cole simply slid down the ladder and started heading for the door. He caught Solas's puzzled expression on his way out.
"I thought you would need me but you don't," the spirit of compassion explained. "You have her. She is song where there was silence, she is raindrops over broken earth."
"It's not like that," he replied automatically.
"Yes, it is," said Cole, and his words rang with a simple, undeniable truth. "Like counting birds against the sun. Too bright, too real, but you can't help yourself."
Solas could only sit there, staring at the spirit. Unbidden, his mind drifted back to Clariel's words in the courtyard. You don't have to be alone.
Cole kept going, his eyes fixed on Solas with that familiar, soul-shattering intensity. "Vhenan. It's on your lips, and you wonder what it would sound like on hers. Why don't you say it?"
That was too much. Every alarm bell went off his head, mental walls closing seamlessly around him. "Cole, enough." While he took care not to sound angry, he felt the spirit briefly push at his thoughts in confusion before backing away. The heavy oak door closed behind him, leaving Solas alone again.
It was difficult to enter the Fade like this, with his thoughts in knots and Clariel at the center of the tangle. It was foolhardy, even, to try. While he was not easy prey, he would certainly attract the attention of desire demons while so preoccupied. He laid down on the couch, looking up at the frescos he'd painted. He remembered each line, counted brushstrokes, and soon his mind quieted enough for him to slip across.
Instinct carried him back to where Wisdom had been. It was harder to reach from Skyhold; there was so much history to the castle, so many spirits and dreamers and memories that he had to wade through. But he was nothing if not patient, and eventually, he found himself back in the amphitheater.
Mythal was gone, though he hadn't really expected her to linger. The water was a little duller, the sky a little grayer, the marble bench under his fingers less solid. Nothing lasted in the Fade.
For a few minutes, he allowed himself the childish indulgence of breathing life back into the dream. A thought from him restored color to the sky, raised more benches, sent a gentle spring breeze stirring the surface of the water. It wasn't Wisdom's dream, just his own recollection of it, but he couldn't help himself. Was it really so terrible to just hold on for a few moments?
"Solas?"
He whirled around to see Clariel standing at the edge of the dream. The Anchor glittered like an emerald in her outstretched hand.
The last time she'd found him in a dream, he wound up kissing her. He slowly got to his feet, determined not to make the same mistake twice. How had she found Wisdom's home? Few apart from Solas and Mythal even knew such spirits existed.
"Inquisitor," he said cautiously. She didn't seem to know she was dreaming, and for the first time since he started sharing the Fade with her, he wanted to keep it that way.
But nothing he had seen on either side of the Veil could have prepared him for what happened next. Clariel took one step toward him, and his recreation of Wisdom's home began to unravel under her feet. The displaced dream coalesced around her, drawn to the Anchor. It began as a trickle, then a flood, the amphitheater dissolving into little streams of light with each step she took.
Solas took a few hasty steps back and raised his hands to stop her approach. "Lethallan - " Cracks appeared in the dream as the shifting light of the raw Fade seeped into the gaps where she walked.
She stopped walking but didn't seem frightened, imbued with the unknowing courage of dreamers. "Wow," she whispered, golden light dancing in her eyes. "Are you doing this, Solas?"
He had no idea, and that frightened him more than anything else. For once, he couldn't tell if it was her, or the Anchor, or him projecting in his current emotional state. The dream had almost completely disappeared save for the water beneath his feet. Clariel laughed in delight, turning on the spot as the lines of light around her swirled higher and brighter, rising up into the dream-sky like a beacon.
With a sudden start, he recognized the energy that had once formed Wisdom being drawn from the raw Fade around her. He ran to her and raised his hand, gathering his own magic to dispel whatever she'd done.
"Clariel, stop!" His voice shook as he desperately tried to get her attention, for her to focus on him instead of the Anchor. "You don't know what you're doing!"
Even as he said the words, his heart fell. She wasn't a mage; she wasn't even lucid. She had no idea what was happening to her or how to stop it...and if he was entirely honest with himself, neither did he.
She turned toward him, beaming, and the spell fizzled in his fingertips. "Don't worry," she said, and the glow of the Anchor became a blaze, blindingly bright. "It won't hurt me." Her hands found his, pulling him into the maelstrom of light with her.
Wisdom finds it first, the memory they both were seeking, the echo of the dwarven empire of old. They stand in the lost Shaperate of Kal-Sharok, literal eons of knowledge entombed in stone and memory. A young Shaper carefully repairs cracks in the bas relief on the wall, and curses when a careless slip obliterates the tip of a Paragon's hooked nose.
Clariel commits the Chantry hymn to memory, running it through her head during the long march to Skyhold. She doesn't say anything to anyone; she has enough trouble being compared to Andraste as it is. But one evening on the Storm Coast, she sets the song free, trusting the pounding waves to keep her secret. She doesn't know that Solas is listening, drowning in her voice.
"What can change the nature of a man?" Wisdom asks when they leave the memory of a mage forced into Harrowing and Tranquility. He can't find an answer for either of them, still trembling like a leaf as the mage's last thought of helpless terror grips his heart.
"Sweet talker," Clariel whispers playfully, waiting for him to pull away, to brush off her teasing the way he always does. But when he finds himself rooted to the spot, her lips find his, a fleeting brush of warmth and life.
The maelstrom became a beam, pouring through them both as the Anchor drew the stuff of dreams around them like a cocoon. Then just as quickly as it had come, the storm dissipated. The sound of great beating wings filled the air, then all was silence and the unformed Fade.
Clariel blinked up at Solas, dazed. The Anchor dimmed into invisibility. "Did you see that?" she whispered.
He couldn't form the words to answer her; he barely had the wherewithal to let go, forcing himself to wake. The dream clung to him as his eyes slowly opened, the sound of wings still filling his ears. The rotunda gave a nauseating lurch when he sat up from the couch, and he had to steady himself against the painted wall, his hands shaking.
He looked up at the finished frescos. Her fortress, her actions. He couldn't decide how he would paint the previous night's events, or even if he should.
The dream was too difficult to shake through mere force of will, and he hastily made his way down to the kitchens to brew a cup of tea. Cold, grey, pre-dawn light filtered through the narrow windows; even the baker wasn't awake yet. Solas brought the tea back to his room and took two scalding, bitter gulps. The teacup clattered in the saucer as he put it down on his desk and stared into its depths.
He still hadn't moved from the desk when the castle began to stir and the smell of breakfast wafted in from the great hall. He could hear the chatter of the Inquisitor's inner circle: Varric grumbling about the lack of pastries, Iron Bull's deep and raucous laughter. Clariel's softer voice drifted over the others now and then, and each time it sent another shiver through him, the same feeling stirred by the beating wings in the Fade.
Eventually she came looking for him, as she always did when he was missing from meals. Usually it was because he simply forgot to eat. Her gentle knock came at the door, five soft raps that he knew by heart.
"Morning, Solas," she said, effortlessly balancing a basket of Orlesian butter rolls and a bowl of apples in her arms. There were no shadows under her eyes. She dropped the food on his desk, helping herself to one of the apples.
"How did you sleep?" he asked as casually as he could. "No nightmares while I've been gone, I hope."
"Not that I can remember." Then she gave him a small smile. "If you're tired of babysitting me in the Fade, I'll miss the company but I'll manage."
"It is no trouble," his voice said as his mind reeled.
She had raised Hope from the ashes of Wisdom with nothing but the magnetic pull of her spirit, and she didn't even remember.
She should have been a dreamer. She would have been one in the days of Arlathan, the rare sort who built temples of light and joy in the minds of the People, who pushed back against despair and stood for freedom. Had she lived then - Solas ruthlessly stopped that train of thought. It was no good dwelling on what might have been.
Instead, for the first time since awakening, he allowed himself to think of what could be. He smiled at her fully for the first time, a smile without guilt or regret or fear, without his usual mask of courtesy. And when her fingers found his and closed around them, the spark of hope that she had ignited fluttered again in his chest.
His voice didn't say it, but his spirit whispered to hers.
Ar lath ma, vhenan.