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They'd played cat and mouse before, she recalled as she fell through the floor of the ruin and into a buried chamber. They'd played it for years. He, ever distant and hidden, and she, ever vigilant and hunting. She never thought they'd end up quite like this.
She hadn't known he was here, honestly. Why would the mighty Fen'Harel, undisputed ruler of the new Elvhen nation, be poking around ancient ruins in the middle of nowhere? On his own? Of course, she could ask herself the same question.
Well, she had been looking for the place. Somewhere half remembered from her childhood, from a time before she was a warrior for her clan. When there was still an order to the world. When she still had the comfort of the Creators who gave her culture its backbone. And the Veil! She mustn't forget the Veil. Once upon a time she'd even had inconceivable power as the Inquisitor. All of it had been stripped away by him, leaving her a rootless, gods-less figurehead.
And now they were tumbling into a hole in the ground, and she had no idea what to expect after that.
She landed on her back with a thump that knocked the wind out of her. She could see the hole through which they'd fallen, now looking rather small from her vantage point so far below it. She groaned aloud; how was she going to get out of here?
“Virlas!” he called to her, his voice coming from somewhere nearby but slightly above. Had he managed to somehow land on his feet? When had he become a cat?
She cackled to herself as she lay there, and idly wondered if she might have sustained a head wound. Laying on her greataxe was certainly doing her spine no favors.
“Are you all right?” he asked, sounding breathlessly worried. His face came into view over hers, blocking out the sunlight streaming through the hole in the floor. Ceiling? Surface. That worked.
She blinked and focused on him. He looked the same, of course. Gray eyes, long nose with an old, old crook in it. High cheekbones and a jawline that could slice like a blade. Cleft in his chin, scar on his forehead. Her heart spasmed in her chest and she held her breath against the pain of it until it subsided.
“You're still bald,” she said when she was able. She forced flippancy into her tone to hide how much her entire being had just tilted, seeing him again.
Some of the worry on his face bled away and he lifted an eyebrow at her sardonically. “Hold still.”
She rolled her eyes at him. Where exactly was she going to run off to at this point? He ignored her silent sarcasm and passed his hand over her body. The glow of his magic hadn't changed appreciably since he'd taken down his creation. If anything it was softer, as if he didn't have to put as much effort into it. When magic was as natural as breathing. She closed her eyes; she didn't need reminders of the earliest days, when she still had hope and optimism and youth on her side. She'd also had confusion, pain and religious zealots chasing her down to fix the world's problems too. She didn't need to be reminded of that either.
“No bones are broken,” he said after a moment. “Can you get up, Inquisitor?”
“I thought I'd lay here awhile. Contemplate this view of the world. And my place in it.” She didn't have to be looking at him to visualize the exasperation on his face now and felt a half smile tug at her mouth.
“I see you have not changed much.”
“Did you expect me to?”
“I thought...perhaps...”
She cracked open one eye and squinted at him. He was smiling gently. Fondly, even. “Go on, Fen'Harel, what did you think?”
“I thought you might not wish to speak to me as you once did.”
“Because you're the mighty Dread Wolf? Should I quake with fear instead? Bow and scrape like someone seeking favor?”
“Not on my account.”
She could feel her smile growing, even though she hadn't given her lips permission. “Perish the thought.”
He held out his hand, his long fingers open and offered simply. She reached for it automatically with her left and the smile faltered on his face. Still, he did not hesitate to grip her prosthetic firmly and help her to her feet. Once standing, she brushed herself off and pretended not to see the consternation furrowing his brow. Did he really think she would be out here one-armed? Of course she wore her prosthetic when adventuring. For all the good it did her when she fell into holes in the ground.
“Where are we?” she asked. “And I mean that in the immediate sense, not in general. I know we're in a ruin in the Free Marches between Starkhaven and Ansberg. Before you decide to get pedantic on me,” she added at his once more lifted eyebrow. She smiled to take the sting from her words, and took the opportunity to look around her now that she was upright. Anything to keep her heart from pounding just from being in his presence again.
“It was a shrine,” he said softly, taking a look around as well. “We are in the sanctuary below.”
Something in his tone snagged her attention and she peered at him while he wasn't looking at her. He appeared sad. Or maybe that was mournful nostalgia. The ruin itself was fairly overgrown with roots and the kinds of weedy things that grew between stones no matter how much care was given to stopping them. There might have been mosaics on the walls once. Or a fresco. Certainly there were remnants of colors besides earthy gray and brown.
“Was it yours?” she asked, equally as soft as if this place was hallowed. In a sense, it was. To both of them, perhaps, it was a reminder that they had not always been adversaries. Once their goals had aligned rather well, if she did say so herself. Before she'd learned that the quiet, reserved apostate was really the traitor of her pantheon. Or that her pantheon had deserved it.
She had come to terms with what that meant in the intervening years. Looked at through the lens of hindsight, nothing he'd ever told her was strictly untrue. And in fact, he had confessed that he had only ever lied by omission. Granted, that omission was a large one. I am the Dread Wolf, but I messed up and I needed help to undo it. With all that she'd learned from spirits since the Veil fell, it no longer surprised her that he had never just asked for the help.
Pride. He certainly embodied the emotion to its fullest.
“Well,” she said after he nodded. “I suppose that makes sense now. Why you're here. Well...no, it really doesn't. Why are you here?”
The corner of his mouth pulled up a little. It seemed her habit of speaking her mind plainly still entertained him. “I needed some time.”
Implied in his tone was everything he didn't say. He needed time away. Away from duty, from advisors and sycophants alike. Away from keeping the world from falling apart. Again. Virlas Lavellan, Dalish born Inquisitor, could relate. She smirked at him as she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the most solid looking of all the walls. There was more, she was sure of it. He was too well practiced at misdirection for it to be so simple. And the habit was too ingrained in him for her to trust that he didn't have an ulterior motive at all times.
“I see.”
“And you? Why are you here, Inquisitor?”
She looked around again, not that the current surroundings were the ones she'd actually been looking for; she hadn't known this was here. But it gave her a moment to collect her thoughts and put them into words. “When I was a girl, my clan would come through this way every year.” She shrugged. “I suppose I wanted to see if it was still here. Seems silly, doesn't it? Where would it go?”
She wondered then if he knew just how much they were alike now. Wycome could never be home, even with all her kin there. Skyhold was lost to her beneath layers of pain and the regret of a man who claimed he was no god. Her very identity was lost. She was adrift in the world. Too humanized for Fen'Harel's new nation, still too elven for the humans.
“And how is Var'Bellanar'an coming along?” she asked, since she was thinking about the center of elven prosperity he'd carved out of what remained of Tevinter. It spanned across the Arlathan Forest and skimmed along the upper borders of Antiva, the Marches and Nevarra before turning north towards the Donarks. The Imperium had withdrawn after years of battling both his forces and the Qunari. Now the former ruler of the world was but a small state hugging the coastline of the Nocen Sea, surrounded on all landward sides by the elves who were once slaves. The Anderfels had retreated as well, once Weisshaupt was thrown down by the Dread Wolf and all the Grey Wardens with it. Only Orlais had any measure of success resisting the advance of the elves after the fall of the Veil, and to this day there remained skirmishes.
“You would be welcome there,” he murmured, answering her question. “Should you wish to see it for yourself.”
She snorted. “That would be signing my own death warrant, I think. Or letting myself become a hostage. I could never leave and think there wasn't a target on my back.”
“I could protect you.”
She pushed away from her slouch against the wall and stalked the distance between them. He retreated backwards, until his own back landed against the ancient, crumbling ruin. She leaned into his face, seeing his pupils widen in a flare before contracting once more. In this position they were near enough in height that she could call them eye to eye. Other men had been intimidated by her height and heft, but not him. Never him. You enjoy my muscles?
Since you asked...yes.
A long winding road that led them to this moment, where she felt his breath on her face, could almost hear the blood thundering in his veins. She most certainly could see it pulsing in his throat. It was madness to allow herself to be this close to him, near enough to touch. She watched color creep across his skin, faint at first, then blooming to a blush that warmed him from the apples of his cheeks to the points of his ears.
“Could you protect me from yourself? Could you protect yourself from me?” She shook her head slightly, leaving herself so close she could almost taste his skin. “We never could resist temptation.”
She made herself step away. She forced her eyes away from where he bit his lip on the breath that was almost a word. A word he was not allowed to call her anymore.
A split second reaction had just utterly obliterated any attempt by Virlas to keep her emotions under control around him. Even now she wanted to turn back to him, pin him against the wall and make him beg for her mercy. The look in his eye had given away that he'd welcome her. He could deceive and manipulate all he liked, but there were some things he could not hide. Not from her.
She rubbed her hand down her face and peered into the shadows that clung to the sanctuary beyond the circle of sunlight. A wolf's face was there, carved from stone. Calm, gentle. A guardian and a comfort to those who'd needed it most. If this was his shrine, then this sanctuary could only be one of his safehouses for escaping slaves on the run during his rebellion. The first one. Before the Veil. Before human conquest and Blight and the fall of their race. No matter who he had become in his long life, first and foremost Fen'Harel was one of the People. A champion of them. As she was.
They were ill-suited to be adversaries. It had made her position as Inquisitor more precarious, believing in the deliverance of her kind and the right to free magic as she did. She was Dalish, of course she wanted freedom for all those who lived under the yoke of oppression. Never again shall we submit. She had politically maneuvered just enough to keep herself relevant. But she refused to make the Inquisition another angle of opposition as he battled Tevinter, the Qunari and the Evanuris simultaneously. Granted, two of those had been too busy with each other to worry about him much.
She had concentrated on keeping the little people safe from the chaos until the land settled again once his final battle had been won and the Veil fell. An equal number of voices had clamored for allying with him as they had for striking him down, as if that was possible. Keeping herself neutral had been hard won. Harder yet had been trying to hold up the fiction that she didn't still love him. Few were fooled, least of all her.
And all of that equanimity had just been utterly thrown aside with one small action.
She took a steadying breath and spoke without looking at him. “We should leave. Find our way out to the surface and pretend this never happened.”
“I...”
She let the pause linger. He would say what he wanted sooner or later, no prodding from her was necessary. But she did not look back at him. Not while the image of him breathless and yearning was freshly seared in her mind. For years she'd been trying to erase the memory of him from her soul. That she'd failed was not really a surprise to her.
“I don't want that,” he said at last.
She had learned, in the years since his departure from her life and everything that happened after, that he'd been forged in a society where context was malleable. His simple words could have several meanings, and she wouldn't know which one he intended if she didn't pursue it. A decision was before her, she realized, staring into the dark to meet the eyes of the wolf statue. He didn't seem averse to her presence, and he hadn't done anything overt to hinder her leaving if she wished. She could walk away and prove – even just to herself – that she could do it.
Or she could turn around and face him. Ask for clarification. Accept what followed.
Virlas was many things. A warrior, a powerful world leader, even if it was in name only these days. A friend, a daughter. A woman with a crisis of faith, and standing with her was the root cause of it. But there was no sense in denying it; she would always be defenseless against her feelings for the Dread Wolf.
She turned on her heel and looked at him. He was still against the wall of the sanctuary, the angles of his face softened by the shadows, his eyes wide and shining with reflected sunlight. His expression was desperate. His posture was...wary. Her warrior eyes noted how he held himself there, his back bowed over so he slumped, his fists tight, legs bent so they could either hold him up or propel him forward. His open surrender had always been a gift to witness. No less now than ever before.
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She swallowed around the dryness in her throat and tried again. “You don't want to leave, or you don't want to pretend?”
“Both.”
“And here I thought pride held some wisdom in it.”
He didn't bother to look affronted. It seemed he was as well aware of their present foolishness as she was. His lips parted, hanging open and softening the stark lines of his face to something vulnerable and needy. He wanted something from her, something only she could give him. But what could that possibly be at this late date?
“Inquisitor, I...” He faltered, then tried again, his voice softer, but steady. “Virlas. You have a hold on me that I cannot relinquish. In truth, I have stopped trying. I...I have sought you out...”
A flare of anger went through her. “You followed me here? Did you make the floor fall from under our feet to keep me here with you?”
The sheepish look in his eyes came and went so fast she nearly missed it. Then it firmed, as if he remembered who he was and that he didn't have to suffer the wrath of anyone. And yet...
Yet...
She thrust herself back into his personal space before she even knew her feet moved, crowding him against the wall of the ruin. “Answer me, Fen'Harel.”
“I can never be certain when the eyes of the Inquisition are upon you. This was the best way to...”
“Get me alone,” she finished for him. “With no fear of reprisal from either side.”
“Yes,” he breathed, and it had the weight of a painful confession in it.
“Why? What do you need from me that you want no other eyes to see?”
“Absolution.”
She shook her head. “No. I can't do that. I cannot.” She stepped away from him. “Don't ask that of me.”
“Virlas, please.”
“You did what you set out to do, and I opposed you as best as I was able. I don't have the power to absolve you, anyway.” She glared at him, although she knew there was little heat to it. Her will to fight him had never been strong, and was slipping away now like sand through her fingers. Barely clinging. “I was never Andraste's Herald. Only yours, however unwitting at the time.”
She had always known there was a power imbalance between them. From the start she knew it, but pursued their tentative romance anyway until it flourished for one shining moment. Before the Exalted Council, she thought the power had lain with her. She was the Inquisitor, and he was a lowly apostate. After seeing him walk slowly away from her and into that Eluvian, his fist clenched and half waiting for her to draw him back as she had once before, she realized that all along it had been a lie. He had always been the one in control. Whatever he'd received from her had been what he allowed.
She'd been raised on tales of Fen'Harel giggling with glee in a corner of the Fade after sealing away the Creators. She'd never dreamed that one day she would sympathize with the urge. It wasn't glee at all; it was madness. To think that she had led him to beg for release with her flesh, that he had submitted to her will, this powerful, immortal creature she could hardly conceive of...madness.
And it was madness still, to acknowledge to herself that she wanted to touch him as she once did. That she ached to hear his breathing falter and break. And now it was made more powerful by knowing that when he had surrendered to her in the past, he was giving up far more than control over his body. He was laying down a burden the likes of which he could tell no one.
She understood then, why he asked for absolution from her. She was the only person who could comprehend the shape of him, of his duty and the awful, necessary choices he'd had to make. She was the only one who could give it, from one reluctant leader to another.
“Would you have me sit in judgment of you, Dread Wolf?” She tilted her head to the side, to see his eyes as he ducked them away from her. “What penance can you offer that would lead to mercy from me?”
“Nothing but what these hands can give.” He raised them, palms up and open. They were ridged with calluses from countless years of staffwork, from holding palette knives and brushes, from tearing the world apart and putting it back together again. If only it was that simple.
If only he was but a simple mage with a talent for art rather than the last Evanuris to draw breath.
If only she didn't love him so much. It might be possible to deny him. But she knew she wasn't going to do that. She knew she would be as selfish as he was, battering their hearts against the jagged rocks of all that lay between their first touch and their last.
She took his wrists in her hands and pressed them to the wall next to his head. His eyes widened in both surprise and a deep yearning that made her heart stumble. She held him there, impossibly. She was no match for him. She never had been. But he craved, and she could give.
“Solas,” she said, so softly the sound of it didn't leave the air between them. It hurt to say his name again. It hurt with the fierceness of breaking a bone. Or cracking open armor after a battle that drew heart's blood. “It will not change anything.”
“You have always changed everything,” he replied, easy as breathing. Honest in this moment as he had never been before. There were no pretenses to uphold, not now. No secrets left, no world to destroy or save. There was only the certainty in his voice and the warmth of him under her fingers. The steady beat of his pulse.
Virlas gave in, and kissed him.