Chapter Text
Hal'la's quiet declaration tore the air from Solas' lungs. He felt suddenly lightheaded, the rotunda all at once much too round for the way this world was spinning. If he hadn't already been sitting, his legs might have given out beneath him. He knew his jaw was slightly slack in his shock, but he couldn't remember how to close his lips. Had he been good at hiding himself behind the mask once? Or had he dreamed that?
They had never discussed it. Never talked about what they had seen in that particular corner of the Fade. It was too personal; too terrifying. But they had stood together in the graveyard of their fears, hooking fingers despite their armored gloves, and read each headstone in a silence that buzzed like a hive. Not even Dorian had been able to make a joke. Not when faced with that.
Hers had been gut-wrenching and he had made love to her endlessly when her injuries had healed as though his passion alone could work the fear from her soul: Hal'lasean: Unworthy.
When the Nightmare had taunted her, her fears were brave and selfless. Solas swelled with love for her each time he thought of it, that booming voice mocking her with the details of every death suffered because of decisions she had made and predicting future failures of her friends and the world, all in the shemlen tongue that meant her companions could understand every malevolent word. They would know that inside their Herald was a young elf convinced she was a petrified charlatan.
The Nightmare had been ruthless to her in all ways. But it had spared him his mask.
The Fade had not been so kind.
Solas, his epitaph had read. Dying alone.
They never spoke of it. Of any of it. She never asked him what the Nightmare had said to him in Elvhen. They both knew that he would tell her in his own time, in his own way, if he ever told anyone. He was infinitely grateful for her patience with him. Her patience with everyone. It was a trait rare even among the immortals of Arlathan; they were always willing to wait for results and events, to play the long game for their plots and schemes, but they were fatalistic and unforgiving with people. As he had been. Before Hal'la.
He might have stared at her for ages, wounded and wondering and unsure, if it weren't for that brave, hopeful little smile. She wasn't throwing his fear in his face or manipulating him as others might have done. She was, as always, offering herself to him, even when he was hurting her, even as he abandoned her. She was forgiving him. That was extraordinary enough on its own, but to remind him just how well she knew him and to still offer forgiveness...
She doesn't know you, said the man he used to be. And if she did, she would never forgive you.
He suppressed the cocksure voice of the Dread Wolf, smothered it heartlessly so that he could warm himself a little while longer in the ease and purity of her affections. Just a little while longer.
Solas finally remembered to close his mouth. And then he remembered to close his heart. It was time. But with the graveyard fresh in his memory, he could not leave her without something.
"It may be a long time before I can say this to you again," Solas murmured, his voice low and his throat tight. He placed her palm -- the one that marked her for him, the one that had changed his life -- on his heart and sheltered it there with his own hand before closing the distance between them. This, it seemed they both knew instinctively, would be the last time their lips would meet. They had said their goodbye with their bodies; this was merely the closing ceremony. The benediction. When their lips parted, a rehearsal for their own fast-approaching separation, he moved his mouth to her ear. "Ar lath ma," he promised. "Ma sa'uthlath. Ma vhenan." The final blessing.
When he pulled away to see his words work their magic on her delicately featured face, Solas found her surprisingly serene. Hal'lasean sat naked before him, unmarked, undressed, unmasked. But even without guise and guile, her expression spoke of her patience, her forgiveness. Her sorrow spilled down her cheeks a few fat tears at a time, but she still offered him that same unsteady smile.
He ached for her already.
"Ar lath ma," Hal'la answered in kind.
Solas reached for her once more, touching only the wet tracks of her pain on her pale skin and soothing them away with the length of his thumb. She closed her eyes to savor the sensation, leaning into his hand, and then, as though a spell had been broken, they both turned their attentions toward their discarded clothing. They didn't speak or lock eyes while they dressed, but just as surely as he could feel her gaze on him when he wasn't looking, Solas stole last glances of her familiar body as she reluctantly hid it away from his sight. When they were done, she adjusted his tunic and he smoothed and untangled her hair.
Above them, the rookery came to life with the squawks of hungry ravens and the Tranquil were beginning their empty, efficient day in the library. Solas dismantled the barrier that afforded them their final privacy...and the two lovers shared a heartbroken smile.
Solas picked up his staff to keep his hands from reaching for her again. She crossed her arms protectively beneath her chest.
"Solas?" she asked as their quiet departure was upon them. He didn't trust himself to reply without using an endearment, so instead he inclined his head. He was listening. "I don't want to die alone. So try to hurry, okay?"
The smile that bloomed across his face was fond and pleased, tinted though it was with his loss. Hers was a longing echo.
"I will try."
These were the promises he could keep. He loved her. He would try. But he could not promise he would succeed.
Hal'la stood with him a few moments longer, uncertain of what to say or whether to say anything at all. And then, with a final flash of that adoring smile, she stiffened the space between her shoulder blades and left him there. She didn't look back, but he couldn't look away, even when the heavy wooden door closed behind her, separating him physically from his own heart.
He would be Fen'Harel from now on.
~~~
Hal'lasean had completely forgotten about her vallaslin until she checked her reflection in a window on her way to the sunny little room that her inner circle had commandeered for their meals and the occasional game of Wicked Grace. She only meant to glance at herself to make sure there were no hints of her long night of crying before she went to meet the others for breakfast, so she was still walking past when the bare-faced elf girl caught her by surprise. For a moment, she thought it was some young recruit from an alienage come to join the Inquisition until she remembered that this particular window looked out to a sheer drop off on the windiest side of the fortress.
That stranger was no city elf.
It was her.
Her breath abandoned her in a sharp exhale and her eyes widened with a growing panic. No longer Dalish. No longer his. No longer anything. What was she now? Who was she now?
"Inquisitor."
Ha'la jerked her head up in shock as an ailing old man -- a mage from Redcliffe, she recalled -- continued on his way down the hall and disappeared around a corner.
"Morning, Inquisitor," greeted a young woman from the kitchens as she hurried past with a towering tray that was no doubt headed for Iron Bull.
"Oh right," Hal told herself out loud, and then laughed only slightly hysterically. "Inquisitor. Inquisitor Lavellan, Herald of Andraste, drinker from whispering wells, closer of holes in the sky, very powerful, very important, responsible for all life in Thedas. And completely, totally alone." She laughed again, harder this time, and pressed her hands over her face to collect herself before she started to sob.
"Inquisitor?"
This time it was one of Josephine's assistants, a pretty Orlesian noblewoman named Nanette who fancied herself scandalous for being here with the exotic Dalish Inquisitor instead of back in Halamshiral, whelping blue-blooded pups with a proper shemlen match. Despite the early hour, she was already decked out in her newest and most fashionable finery with her hair and face impeccably done, taking tiny heeled steps in her ridiculous slippers and amiably guiding some Lord Unimpressed of a minor house toward the main hall to take in Skyhold in all its renovated splendor. Or at least, she had been doing those things until she had come across their unshakable leader laughing helplessly into her palms.
Later Hal would remember to be grateful for the run-in. Because though the Dalish elf was having an identity crisis and the young woman was nursing a broken heart, the Inquisitor did not have the luxury of those messy emotions. So when she took her hands from her face, she was all power and charm, even when Josie's assistant practically gaped to find the Inquisitor's infamous Dalish tattoos had vanished in the night.
Hal pretended nothing at all was amiss and turned her attentions to the visiting noble. It was a pleasure to meet him. Oh, yes, she had visited his estate on her way to Halamshiral. Yes, she was sure it must lovely this time of year (for the wealthy shemlen, not for the displaced elves). She was very sorry to take her leave, but she was very important and very busy. Yes, she would be sure to see him later today and the Inquisition appreciated his support.
His guide led him in the opposite direction and Hal found herself feeling much more in control.
"I was told she would be Dalish," she overheard the lord say like a disappointed theatregoer.
Well. A little more in control anyway.
She took a closer look at herself in the window, making sure Solas had properly adjusted her hair for her and that her clothes were on in a presentable way. She practiced smiling a few times, just to be sure she still knew how to do it without looking pitiful. And then she turned on her heel, squared her shoulders, and started her walk of Dalish shame.
It was like attending the Orlesian ball all over again. Anyone who wasn't too aghast or too overtly racist to remember to greet her gave her the customary "Inquisitor," but there were far fewer of those than was usual. Her morning salutations had been replaced by whispers and gasps that rippled out in front of her like the first winds before a storm, so that by the time she moved from one room to the next, there was already an audience of wide eyes waiting to see her naked face for themselves. She felt sure that somehow, up in the rookery, Leliana had already heard all about it.
Hal thought of the Solas everyone else saw, proud and unflappable, the noble elf apostate who was above it all. And though each ignorant comment she overheard was a nail being hammered into her chest, she kept her chin high and her eyes forward. She would not give them the satisfaction of looking embarrassed or ashamed. They could not humiliate her. They would never see her blush. Not even these people, who professed to follow her. Especially not these people. They were under her protection, but she was not protected from them. The Inquisitor could not falter.
It took every bit of discipline she had to keep her hands from touching the places her ink had claimed only a few hours before. All she had to do was make it into the dining room. They would stare at her there, her friends and closest advisors, they would ask her oblivious questions. But they would support her. She had that much, at least.
With overwhelming relief, she pushed open the thick door that led her to them and headed straight for the unoccupied head of the table. Not because she wanted to sit there, but because they made her.
The tray had indeed been for Bull and was already sitting in front of him in various stages of disarray. He held a massive leg of lamb in one hand and his face was covered in marinade as he laughed uproariously at something Varric was in the middle of saying. "For five hours! I thought we were going to have to send Harding in to--"
"Boss! It's about time! We were just talking about you!"
Hal's chest warmed pleasantly as she took in the scene: Varric's self-satisfied storytelling, Bull's enthusiasm for a good punchline, Cassandra trying and failing to pretend she wasn't listening to, much less enjoying Varric's tale. It was too late to have caught Leliana or Cullen, and no doubt Josie was breaking bread with some visiting figurehead in their rooms, but even just the three of them lifted the suffocating weight from her slender shoulders at least enough for her to finally breathe. And smile. Oh, how she smiled at them. She was delighted to be enveloped in their din.
"Heeeey, Hal!" called Varric, lifting a hand to wave her over. "I was just telling Bull here about that time--"
Sudden and astounded silence. They had all noticed at once. And they were staring. Blatantly, unabashedly. Staring. Hal felt her cheeks burn an impossible shade of pink, made all the more visible by her lack of vallaslin. Half-chewed lamb fell in a wet clump from Bull's gaping maw. Cassandra's eyes were narrowed as though this were a prank aimed at her and she was not happy about it. Only Varric, who usually managed to take even the weirdest of the Inquisiton's experiences in stride, managed to speak.
"Andraste's shapely ass!"
Hal changed her mind. She wanted to go eat in her room. Alone. Forever.
She became acutely aware that she was glowering at Varric in challenge, daring him to say the wrong thing. Luckily for him, Cassandra jumped in, giving him time to find just the right joke. "Your face! It's...!"
"Hideous!" declared Varric lightly, and suddenly Hal was laughing near-hysterically again. She sank into the closest empty chair, the one Dorian usually preferred, and laughed openly until there were tears in her eyes. The dwarf's shrewd gaze took in the the weariness of her uninked face and the slightly disheveled state of her hair and clothing. Bull and Cassandra were still staring, especially now that it looked like the Inquisitor might be losing her mind, but Varric was searching for clues. Varric, the storyteller, her almost constant companion, could see what the other two could not. He still looked baffled, but just because he didn't understand didn't mean he couldn't be understanding. "You wanna talk about it now or later?"
"Is there a third option?" she wondered dryly, and was rewarded for her miserable humor with a wan smirk from Varric.
She'd have to talk about it to some of them sooner or later. In part because they were her friends, these misfits and malcontents, in part because she would probably need to talk about it eventually for her own well-being, and, ultimately, perhaps most importantly, because after everything they'd been through together, how intricately their pasts had intertwined their presents and futures, after all the secrets and revelations and hidden meanings, Hal'lasean had made it her personal mission as the unworthy leader of this tightly-knit team to always trust her people with the truth. No matter how complicated. No matter how painful. Because if she was not willing to give them her truths, why would they ever volunteer their own?
And so she was open with them. Always. Unfailingly. Even when it was torture. Even when it meant letting them down. Even when it felt like betraying The People.
"Solas," she started tentatively, and the held-together pieces of her shattered heart shifted against each other like an aftershock, "informed me that what the Dalish believe to be a...rite of passage into adulthood...to honor our gods..." She sucked in a rough breath and forced herself to continue. She could do this. She had to do this. Her cheeks were on fire with her shame. "He told me they were, in fact..." No tears. No tears! She clamped down on her feelings with all her strength. "They are...slave markings. And he...offered...to...remove them. For me." She hesitated and then warned them as sternly as she could, "This must stay between us. My change will get out, but my reasons cannot. The Dalish...they won't understand. They won't believe. Not yet." Her lips rolled in on themselves and she dropped her gaze to the table, fighting back the tide of her insecurities as she waited for her judgment at the hands of her comrades.
No one said anything for far too long, and then Varric asked, ever-so-gently, "...Doesn't that mean you can't go back?"
Hal's heart spasmed in her chest and she lifted her gaze to meet Varric's in surprise. His face was all sympathy as she answered with the barest of nods. He let out a low whistle under his breath.
"What does he mean, you cannot go back?" demanded Cassandra, narrowing her eyes at Hal'lasean as though she were interrogating her for a crime.
"It means she can't go back," reiterated Varric with a warning edge to his voice. When he was sure Cass got the message to back down, he turned to the Inquisitor with a twinkle in his eyes. "Tell you what, Hal," and he smiled at her, "we'll start our own clan. You and me." He cast a sidelong look at Iron Bull. "And Tiny here." And then he winked at Cassandra. "Vote's still out on Seeker, though. She'll have to audition." Cassandra glowered and Varric beamed.
"Sounds intriguing! Is there room for a dashingly handsome Tevinter mage?"
They looked up to find Dorian leaning against the door frame. He had clearly been there for some time, but none of them had noticed him come in. While Hal had been with Solas, Dorian had apparently taken the time to properly bathe and had dressed himself far more elaborately for the day than what he'd thrown on earlier for the confrontation. He had even outdone himself with the carefully styled pomp of his hair. But it was not these things that drew Hal to him so quickly she almost tripped over the table leg. It wasn't the new polish on his staff that left her speechless or the scent of his expensive, imported cologne that made her heart thump clumsily in her chest. No, Dorian earned the watery, emotional smile from Hal because of what he didn't have.
Dorian had shaved his magnificent mustache.
He gave her a helpless smile and a shrug and she threw her arms around him, kissing him firmly on his moisturized cheek.
"I didn't do it for you," he told her with an affronted sniff as she pulled back to look at him, just in case she thought she was going to get anything even remotely akin to genuine emotion. "I did it for the rumors."
Hal grinned at him stupidly and he smiled and rolled his eyes.
"You're blushing," she told him with a pleasure that practically wriggled through her.
And now he was grinning too. "As are you, my dear."
Hal hooked her arm with Dorian's and turned to take her place at his side so that they could stand before their friends together to present their newly naked miens.
Varric snorted so hard he started to choke and Cassandra floundered and gawped, but Iron Bull sat up a little straighter in his seat and made a point of wiping his face clean. If anything, the Bull seemed...pleased.
"Sparkler!" Varric coughed and laughed at the same time, slapping a hand on the table. "Looks like you finally twisted that lip-warmer right off your face!"
"I like it," rumbled Bull, and Dorian grew redder.
Hal narrowed her eyes at Varric, playful and dangerous. "I'll take you up on that clan, Varric," she informed him as though she'd reached a difficult political decision. "But there'll be a price of admission." The dwarf wiped away imaginary tears as he continued to guffaw. "If you want in, you have to prove yourself a loyal member of the group. So you'd have to shave your chest hair."
Varric blanched. Hal'lasean smiled wickedly.
"Yes," agreed Dorian with great solemnity. "In solidarity."