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Sera made it to the top first. All that clamoring and complaining to get ahead of the group granted her a few moments alone to catch her breath, wipe the sweat off her brow, and take in the puzzling view at the summit. It was not quite the one she’d expected.
Instead of a cave, or a door, or virtually anything that looked even remotely like the opening they’d been promised she found herself facing a wall. A pretty solid-looking wall, all told.
Lots of rock. Good angles. Nice colour. Probably granite. Definitely part of the mountain.
Was there more to go? Was this not the top?
She turned a full circle to scan the plateau and
no,
she decided -- not without some confusion --
the path definitely ends here.
There were a few jutting columns and a rocky elevation or two that stretched higher, but no summit lay beyond the one she was standing upon. She frowned.
I thought that arsehole said there was a shrine up here?
There was a few minutes to consider the puzzling scene before the others caught up, and she spent it well. At first just furious at the notion they might have been sent half-way up a fucking mountain for nothing. Then irritated at Solas for not properly vetting the rumour. Really the responsibility was on all of them to separate fact from fiction, but he was the smart one and it felt right to blame him instead.
However, the longer she stared at the wall the more she became convinced an entrance lay beyond it. If she thought about it, really thought about it , she could find plenty of reasons why that made sense. More than just the surety of the men they’d spoken to about the rumour, or the testimony of the farmer who swore up and down he’d seen the shrine himself when he chased one of his goats up here. The fall of rocks around the base of the wall was far was too symmetrical to have been left by nature alone. The pattern made it look like it might have once marked the edges of a path not unlike the one they’d followed up here. And it was weird that it just ended at the wall… then there was nothing. It wasn’t even faded in any way, it just stopped.
The most damning evidence was the grooves carved into the rock about 12 feet up.
Another moment spent considering them and yes, she affirmed, those were not just random scratches. Definitely runes. Writing.
What’s more, it looked vaguely Elvish. Especially when she tilted her head to one side. Was probably Elvish. That one loop in the middle was definitely Elvish. Too pretentious-looking to be anything else. Most of the ancient languages she’d seen looked like scratches and math. Tevene, like faces. Qunlat was a mystery. This had too many weird-looking flourishes.
Ugh.
Hopefully it was just a password and not instructions for some ridiculous Elfy ritual.
Based on the description they were given someone would’ve had to make it beyond this wall and into the thing proper at least once before… maybe even the goat-man himself. And he wasn’t even a mage: just a regular farmer guy with nothing but a pair of stained overalls and a skinning knife. That bode well for them. Whatever was required to let them through couldn’t be too challenging.
Regardless, he’d know for sure.
So, “Hey elfy, what’s this say?” she called over one shoulder, and tossed a glance back to confirm he wasn’t far behind.
Sure enough Solas had just crested the top of the hill, leaning heavily on his staff for aid as he stepped over the uneven ground. It was with some satisfaction that Sera noted how rumpled he looked. Sweaty and dirty and tired enough enough to be as properly uncomfortable as the rest of them. The landslide that revealed the ‘shrine’ -- or whatever it was supposed to be -- had hit the area not a month past; nothing was quite settled yet. It made for perilous climbing. They’d all fallen more than once on the way up. Even him. By the time they made it back down to the village later they’d have a wonderful array of colourful bumps and bruises to show off.
Surely, they’d argued as they ascended, what awaited them at the top would be worth the effort.
There were ample supplies to soothe their cuts and bruises, but they’d would sting all the worse if the time taken to acquire them gained the party nothing. It had been a while since they’d come back from any journey with treasure worth bringing to Skyhold for appraisal. They needed a win. Even a small one.
Once he made it to the top Solas took a moment to collect himself. Dust the dirt off his pants and pull the burrs off his jacket. Or bide for time, she thought, to make sure his answer sounded smart.
Sera rest a hip against one of the thin trees and waited while he considered the lack-of-door with its suspicious detritus and weird runes. Bracing herself for what would surely be another long and boring diatribe about The People and sacred whatzits before he finally got to the point.
Strangely, he didn’t offer one.
She watched his gaze flit across the marks, back and forth, reading it over several times -- and when he didn’t immediately offer up a translation she prompted him again. A little more insistent this time.
“ Oy , did you hear me? What’s it say? It’s a door, yeah?”
His eyes cut between her and the wall. Then he sighed. Deeply . It was even more weary than normal.
Great, she thought.
“Right,” she lamented, before he could answer. And rolled her eyes. “Not a password, then.”
Just great.
Somewhere behind them Varric slipped on a loose stone and fell into Blackwall. There was a chorus of grumbling and cursing as the pair disentangled themselves and retrieved their fallen supplies before they finally managed to scramble their way over the last hurdle.
Varric summited first. “Find something?” he asked as he approached the pair. Sporting a predictably miserable expression and rubbing at the back of his head. He made a show of checking his fingers for blood. There was none -- he’d hit his rear more times than his head -- but the theatre counted for something. Varric hated climbing and everyone needed to know about it.
No welcome was given by the elves. Their dour expressions spoke for them.
When Blackwall made it up he dropped his pack on the ground along with his shield. Then rolled and stretched his shoulders to work out some of the tension knit by hours upon hours of climbing. He pointed at the runes. “What’s this, then? A riddle?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Solas replied. Not quite answering the question. He cleared his throat and read aloud in lilting, almost melodic, Elvish: “ Sa Elvhen i’vhenanen, vena. Gonathe’or vhallem. An’in haur venemah. Es’var dunen shala saron, lathen uth’saron. ” There was a brief pause while he considered how best to translate the message with the meaning preserved. Then, “Ones with heart of two, approach. Consider thee worthy. Within, find treasure to protect that which connects them.”
A quiet, contemplative, moment passed as they all considered the instructions.
Varric, Blackwall and Solas stared at the wall. Sera stared at Solas. He didn’t look very happy. Elvish shit always made him happy. That was not a good sign.
Varric made a thoughtful noise and, “Poetic,” he commented at last. He didn’t look very happy either. “But not very convenient. I hate to think we came all this way for nothing.”
Sera wrinkled her nose. “Just needs a pair, right? How is that a problem?” With two fingers she mimed walking to the wall and back. “Two go, wall opens, they grab what’s inside and get out. What’s there to wonder about?”
His face fell into a sour expression not unlike the one Solas wore. When he met her eyes he looked... defeated . A little sad beneath a patient smile. “Only one needs to open it, it’s the ‘with the heart of two’ that’s the problem. Whatever protects this place is only going to let you pass if you pay a toll.”
“An offering?” asked Blackwall hopefully, already reaching for the pouch on his belt. As a party they didn’t carry much on these journeys, but between them there was surely enough to make a tidy sum.
But somehow he didn’t look convinced of his own suggestion.
And before he could get any further Solas raised a hand to stop him. “Entrance is conditional,” he began, “but not material. It’s likely a spirit once, or even currently, resides here. As avatars of emotion they have no use for riches so rarely want for them. A spirit of Fortune we might ply with gold but the text implies a different kind of contribution. It’s not asking for a gift... at least not a tangible one. I suspect it’s looking for an individual to share itself with them; their experience is more intimate than coin.” He chose his words deliberately, and she did not miss the careful way he wove another layer of meaning within them. Always talking circles rather than speaking plainly.
Horrified, Sera recoiled. “ What?!” She took a step back from the wall. “Like is there something in there that wants us to have sex with it?”
Solas opened his mouth to reply.
Then closed it.
A quick breath in and finally, “No,” he said at last. The tight corners of his mouth and the quirk of his brow spoke to the effort he’d made in holding back whatever clever retort first came to him. “Nothing so base. But you are not entirely mistaken. The passage does refer to a lover. And Love wants only to be shared and enjoyed. The thought of a partner, and your feelings for them, would likely make a sufficient offering.”
There was a pause as she considered this.
“So you can just think about sex and it’ll work?” Sera turned her eyes toward the runes, her expression twisted with concern. Curiosity, too… but mostly concern. “I don’t want whatever’s in there rooting around in my head listening to my raunchy thoughts. Or any thoughts! One of you all-- well ...” Her eyes bounced, not even subtly, between Blackwall and Varric. Deliberately avoiding Solas. “One of you two can go instead.”
Solas began to correct her, but Varric cut over him with a strained laugh. “I don’t think we’re working on the same definitions of ‘love’, Buttercup. Chuckles said it already: spirits are beings of emotion. Physical love, a memory or otherwise, isn’t going to cut it. It’s gotta be real. It wants someone in love.”
Silence fell upon the group.
All four looked at the text. And then looked at each other.
Then Blackwall sighed.
“We are the worst possible people sent for this task.”
“Never? Really?” Sera asked as she passed the skin over to Blackwall. “But you’re so old. ”
He glared at her from beneath a lowered brow. “Thanks for that.”
“You know what I mean!”
The fire spat and crackled between them, a pop sent a spray of sparks into the air that floated down like falling stars. No one startled -- they barely noticed: each lost in their own thoughts. Pondering the riddle that had barred their entry.
They’d set camp not far from the wall; no one was in the mood to try and make their way back down after almost a full day spent getting up. Tomorrow they’d figure out what to do about the spirit’s requirements and if it was worth the effort to call in others. For now the only obligation was to finish off the wine Sera found tucked in a pile of rocks nearby. It was stashed with a damp journal that had the pages rotted out, a ribbon, some rings, and amusingly… someone’s smallclothes.
The warden took a swig as he mulled upon his answer. It wasn’t that he was ashamed to give it as much as he wasn’t sure how best to phrase it to not paint himself poorly. It did not make a good picture to admit you’d lived most of your life without a lover you’d given your heart to. Those that shared his fate were largely cheats, liars, or scoundrels… men unworthy of a lifetime of partnership. For all his faults, he didn’t wish to count himself among the undeserving. Not truly.
To say so amid friends stung less, at least.
Ultimately the buzz of the drink won out and he gave up on crafting a more careful reply. After a time he shook his head and, “Never,” he affirmed. “Never had the time. Takes commitment, that: a permanent home, or a place to come back to at least. Love is something you nurture.”
There was a weak laugh. “Not necessarily,” offered Varric. Kindly, though his smile spoke more to his discomfort than any fondness. This wasn’t his favourite subject either. “Sometimes it sneaks up on you. Not at the most opportune times, or even for the best people. It can be tricky like that.” He chuckled, but it was thin and hollow for the effort. Then he lapsed into silence.
Blackwall cleared his throat and offered the skin back to Sera. “You’re young,” he tested hopefully. “Has no one caught your fancy?”
She flushed, scoffed, but did not answer. And neither did she drink again. But before any assumption could be made of her silence, or a reassurance offered about the years that lay ahead of her, she threw the skin at Solas. A vain attempt to shift the conversation to someone else. Anyone else. While he didn’t see it coming he still managed to catch it -- barely -- but gave the same reply by way of passing it off to Varric with a meaningful look. There was no need to elaborate. Blackwall’s initial assessment had been correct: none of them were qualified to solve this problem.
Quiet descended upon the camp like a rolling fog. A lonely, uncomfortable, hush that threatened to consume the last spark of a good mood and leave them with nothing but dashed hope and sullen reflection for their shared circumstance. If the skin of mediocre wine made another silent round between them it would only make it worse. Being drunk was fun only if there was fun to be had -- if something didn’t break the sorry monotony they’d be miserable the rest of the night and into the morning.
Varric took the task upon himself. Stood and announced, “Do you think it only counts the present? Because if it’ll allow the past, well… I may have a leg up on the rest of you.”
All eyes turned to him. Hopeful, curious, and a predictable shade of doubt from Solas. He kept the wine in hand as he approached the wall. Then stood before it and raised his arms wide. A gesture intended as supplication, but in practice toed the line between reverence and mockery.
“O, spirit of the mountain,” Varric intoned, “I have loved before, so grant me entrance!” As an afterthought he added a quiet, “ please? ” under his breath.
He closed his eyes and thought of Bianca. Of their meeting, and the lingering looks that grew into something more. Of trysts, forbidden, and of secret meetings they should not still be hoping to arrange.
But then his thoughts lingered on the time that had passed; the long, lonely, stretches between each occasion he saw her face again. How painful they were at first, but less so as the years went on. He was always happy to see her, but as his life took him to new and interesting places the time between became fulfilling enough that he could… forget . He’d met so many new people, and these days he was terribly busy with responsibilities; missions, research, politics. Hearts and minds. Somewhere along the line she stopped being the most pertinent thing on his mind... though he could not say when that had happened.
A moment passed in silence. Contemplating. Anticipating.
Then two.
Nearly three.
His arms dropped heavily to his sides.
“Damn, I actually thought that might work.”
It was both disquieting and a little relieving -- an unexpected mix. Thoughts to explore another time.
Varric took a hearty drink and finished off the last dregs. It burned all the way down. He winced as he turned back to camp. “Anyone else want to have a turn?”
No one volunteered.
He returned to his seat by the fire, sighing as he sat. “How sure are we that it’s not talking about sex?” The suggestion was only partly in jest: while the others might not have the experience of a past love to call upon, sex was something they all had in common. Probably. It might keep them trying things.
There was a beat where no one said anything, each waiting for another to offer, before Blackwall scoffed. “That one I can try,” he said, and stood.
Sera leapt at the chance to tease. “Oooh, did you take someone for a roll in the hayloft?”
“Quiet, you,” he scolded, but was smiling as he called it over his shoulder. “A man can keep some secrets.”
“Was it--?”
“I said quiet! ”
She didn’t. Instead cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled. “ Hope you remembered what I said about the peach! ”
Ignoring her, Blackwall approached the wall and stood before it just as Varric had. Then waited. Not for nearly as long as the dwarf did before he started getting restless. Awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other and digging the toe of his boot into the dirt.
He scratched the back of his neck. “How long should I wait before I know it hasn’t worked?” It had barely been a minute.
“It likely would have already, were you to meet the requirement,” replied Solas patiently.
The warden threw his hands up in defeat. “It was worth a shot. And no-- ” He locked eyes with Sera as he returned to the fire. “--I haven’t. But I thought maybe an old flame could qualify. Would you care to try, Solas? Perhaps it’s just been too long for me.”
“I can assure you that for me it has been longer,” the elf answered thinly. “Were that to qualify, which I doubt, Sera would likely make the better candidate.”
All eyes turned to her.
It took a moment the attention to register. She balked. “What? No! I’m not going to let some… some… thing rifle through my head! We don’t even know what’s in there! What if it’s just a sack of elfroot and 12 gold pieces? Some moldy book from 50 years ago? Forget it. No way. ”
The silence that followed was not unlike the first. It did not last, however. With all options supposedly tried and failed and little left to lose Sera gave a loud, frustrated, growl and drew upon a well of courage she found in the second bottle of wine she’d surreptitiously slipped into her bag. She popped the cork and took a long, messy, drink that dribbled down her chin.
“Fine!” she shouted. To no one. To everyone. Then leapt to her feet with all the power of a stalwart warrior -- and half the grace. Stumbling a little as she rolled one of her ratty sleeves up to her elbow and stomped over to the wall. She threw her arms out wide.
“Go ahead! Have at it!”
Later, Solas would give her credit for her patience -- not even entirely sarcastically. A whole five seconds passed before she decided it hadn’t worked, this didn’t count, and she turned around and walked back to the circle to join her friends.
Before the watches began they finished off the second bottle of wine.
It was decided that in the morning they’d fetch one of the farmers from the village below -- maybe even the one that had originally reported the shrine to them. Surely someone had a wife, or a husband, that they loved.
Either that, Varric suggested, or they trek all the way back to Skyhold and put their hopes in Vivienne.
Solas volunteered for dawn’s watch. He often did, as he slept less hours than the others and did not mind handling breakfast in the morning. It aroused no suspicion to offer it that night, too.
Sera woke him for his turn as she often did: by entering his tent without asking permission and giving a sharp kick to the side of his leg. She did not hear his scolding as she stumbled to her own bedroll, either oblivious or unconcerned, grumbling about a burgeoning hangover.
The first half hour he spent as he should have: listening, watching, tending the fire, gathering rations and a fresh clutch of eggs and herbs to prepare for the meal once the sun rose. But following that, the routine changed. He left his post to walk a circle around the outermost edge of the camp checking for signs of fauna larger than rabbits or mice. After three laps he extended the boundary even further until he had mapped the most habitable edges of the plateau they’d settled upon. Cataloguing every burrow and trail. Once it was clear that nothing more dangerous than a fennec made its home this high, he set wards. Six: evenly spaced and carefully considered at the points where one might best approach if one were a predator that laid in wait after following them up the mountainside.
He sacrificed one of his own rations for the cured meat and sharp cheese, splitting it into pieces to leave as offerings by each glyph. Just in case.
Then with all his preparations complete, and one final check on his companions to ensure they slept soundly, he approached the wall. Stopping just short of standing before it. There he hesitated and found he could walk no closer. His feet unwilling to obey.
He could feel the spirit’s presence just ahead. Dormant, but listening for any sign of trespassers welcome. It’s aura was soft and light -- curious -- floating in the ambiance like cobwebs rising on a warm wind. Whatever had first drawn it here must have been equally as gentle: young lovers on their first night, acts of deep lingering affection, the old and enduring love of an elderly couple. It could not be known which came first: the designation of this place for lovers, or the spirit that watched over it. Regardless, once it found a home here it would have shared the warmth it harboured to all those who visited since. Softening hearts for hundreds of years.
A few more steps and he would be within its sight. It would turn its attention upon him.
It could be that nothing follows , he reasoned. Just as it had with Varric, Blackwall and Sera. ‘Nothing’ would be a relief. ‘Nothing’ frightened him less than ‘something’.
A part of him did not want nothing to happen.
A long life had led him to share his time with many partners. At least in the beginning… before the Fall. Before he had promises to keep. Though whether those encounters were fleeting or long none had ever captured his attention so fully that he would consider putting aside his promises but for the chance to spend another day with them.
Time flowed differently here in this waking world. Things felt faster. Pressed. A month passed like a hundred years.
A day could be forever, if he spent it at her side.
The thought had been on his mind since long before this journey, but he’d never truly given it any consideration. Never named it.
When his pulse leapt at the sight of her he chalked it up to infatuation at best. Lust, at worst. The unfortunate side effect of an extended rest in uthenera . His heart had become vulnerable and raw, like his pale skin that had not seen the sun in centuries. Too sensitive. Her attention too heavy. It bruised him. It softened him. It was only natural to lean in.
But…
It was more than desire that made him look twice when she crossed his path. More than intrigue that guided his fantasy. More than approval that made his chest rise when he shared in her successes. It would be easy to dismiss if all he sought was a few meaningless nights to satisfy his baser needs… far more complicated if what he wanted from her was a more profound connection.
But that wasn’t--
It can’t--
He would not call that ‘love’.
Still, curiosity made him itch. This being knew it truer than any other, and would only reach out if he had it within him to offer what it sought. He’d not dared to share this with Wisdom, before they died. When he first woke the spirit warned him that his conception of these disconnected people was wrong. Then chided him, gently teasing as Wisdom often does, that the way he’d come to describe the Inquisitor’s deeds sounded less like brotherhood and more like reverence as time went on.
Without them he was adrift… and could not help but wonder if, like so many times before, they had known the truth far better than he did.
He took a breath to steel himself.
Nothing would be lost by stepping forward. Ideally -- (painfully) -- it would grant him a solemn confirmation: this was nothing more than passing interest. No more valuable to a spirit of Love than Sera’s last tryst or Varric’s faded memory.
With his pulse at his throat he closed the last few steps. He did not raise his arms as the others had -- he would not pantomime respect. This offer was made honesty, as all spirits deserved their due. He opened his mind to it.
At first there was nothing.
For a moment he thought, with some regret, that what he gave had not met its standards.
And then he felt it reach for him.
A slow, sliding, warmth like gentle hands that brushed across his jaw and cradled his face. Softly, like the care a mother showed when she brushed a lock of hair from her child’s face. The way lovers caress each other when they lie in the afterglow of blissful union. Safely. Carefully. It sank into his neck and chest as it reached for memory… leaving warmth to blossom where it touched.
Eyes closed, he saw a vision of Ellana standing before him. Smiling the way she did when he’d caught her looking. A flash of teeth as she tucked her lip between them, mouth curling into a lopsided grin. Always crooked when she tried to hide it -- never quite succeeding. There was a freckle over her lip, under her nose, that he’d noticed the last time she kissed him. Somehow he’d never seen it before.
It charmed him like the curl she could never quite keep tucked in her braid. Or the little sound of fury she made when well and truly frustrated.
A dozen more memories followed. Quick, sudden, flashes as though the spirit were rifling through them like the pages of a picture book. Each moving the vision of her nearer, warmer, until it was upon him with the ghost of her lips on his mouth.
His fingers twitched at his sides.
He sensed, more than heard, the spirit’s words.
Tell her.
It is complicated.
It does not feel complicated.
Nothing here as as simple as it once was. There are many considerations to take; and love is not always wise. It will not bring her joy in the long run, when it must end.
But it will bring you joy until then.
Then like a sigh, it left him. He felt the cold, mountain, air in his next breath and the warmth faded from his body. He was left empty, and alone, standing before the open mouth of a cave clutching at his chest. The thin sweater grasped in his hand.
A moment was spared to collect himself and still the beating of his heart before he entered.
An hour later he made breakfast and woke the others.
They did not question the story he told. When he presented them with a pair of necklaces that would ward the wearers against death they were too grateful to be skeptical. The climb had not been a waste! He explained that he'd found an alternative way in. A protective ward had been placed by the spirit which created the wall that barred their entry: it could either be appeased by an offering, or temporarily bypassed with a powerful dispel.
It was not entirely a lie -- capable magic surely could have circumvented Love’s requirement… he just did not use any. And with no other mages present to argue and none among them more knowledgeable than he regarding the nature of spirits it was not hard for them to accept the fiction.
Better still, Sera begged him not to elaborate further when he tried. Citing he whole experience as terribly unsettling; she had no desire to spend another minute thinking about it, nor lingering at the top of the, “shit-forsaken sex-crazed demon hill”. Additionally, she had a hangover and tired of his voice. After finishing her meal she set to work breaking down her tent and bid the others do the same lest she leave them behind in her haste to leave.
The necklaces were stowed together in one of the outer pockets of his pack. Their twin gems -- fire red, and warm to touch -- catching the light as he tucked them away. As he packed Varric watched him from the edge of camp. He was patient, quiet, but there was something about his stance that gave Solas pause. It was clear he was waiting for something more than just his readiness to return to the road.
But all he offered when he finished was a friendly, “Ready to go?”
It wasn’t until they were more than an hour into the journey back to the village that he showed his hand. Waiting, or perhaps planning, to fall behind the others due to his short stature and the awkward, uneven, stumbling required to make it down the remains of the rockslide. Solas lingered to assist him more than once. A kindness the dwarf had counted on.
He waited until the sixth hand across a gap to comment. “That was good work, finding a way into the cave. Or was it a shrine?” The crooked grin was genuine and his tone as jovial as ever. But Solas knew him to be more clever than he appeared.
“Neither,” he replied. “Merely a place designated important by those who visited. I suspect the spirit that resides there may have come to pay tribute to their belief, and was empowered by the mythos they’d created. With time and worship a spirit can empower artifacts left there, too.”
“Lucky for us,” murmured Varric, still smiling. Then something changed -- a pretense dropped. And suddenly his gaze was sharp. “Can anyone wear them, or does it have to be you and her?”
It would be easier to lie. To pretend he had no idea what Varric meant, and weave another tale with a shrug and a half-truth he could spin into a believable answer. He’d misheard him. He’d misunderstood. He had no idea who a ‘she’ could be…
But Varric’s eyes pinned him, and he knew no answer but the truth would do. So he gave it.
“Anyone can wear them.”
“Good,” he replied. The half-cocked smile returning. “Then it was worth it.”
He handled the terrain better after that… eventually catching up with Blackwall and even leading the party. Solas maintained his position at the back. Spending the rest of the day mulling over Love’s questioning touch, and the warmth they’d given him. The push.
Tell her.