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Skyhold, weeks after the defeat of Corypheus.
His words lingered in her mind, slipping unbidden into the quiet moments. Over the clatter of boots in the war room or the scratching of quills on reports, his voice whispered: "No matter what comes, I want you to know that what we had was real."
The sound of it echoed with painful clarity, as if he were standing behind her, just out of reach. It made her flinch, her breath hitching in the silence of her chambers.
She had memorized every detail of that moment. His eyes, usually so guarded, had softened with a sadness that stilled her breath. His voice, rich with conviction, carried the weight of a promise she hadn’t understood until it was too late. Then he was gone. No farewell, no explanation—just the ghost of his touch lingering in the air.
And she was left behind, as she always seemed to be.
Once, she would have turned to her clan for companionship. Their laughter had been a balm, their presence a constant reassurance. Now, they lived only in fragments of memory, haunting and bittersweet. Her Keeper’s voice rose unbidden in her mind—gentle but firm, guiding her hands as she fumbled through her first spells. She could almost feel the Keeper’s touch, warm and steady against her trembling fingers, before the memory dissolved into silence.
Her brother’s songs, once a constant undercurrent to their daily lives, were gone too. He had always hummed as he worked, the soft melodies weaving through the forest like threads in a tapestry. Without him, the silence between the trees had become unbearable, heavy with the weight of all that had been lost.
The elders who had taught her to weave stories and string beads, their fingers deft and sure, were now nothing more than ash scattered on the winds. The aravels stood still in her dreams, empty and cold, the vibrant voices of her people reduced to a cruel echo of what had been.
Now, the Inquisition demanded everything she had left. But when the halls of Skyhold fell silent and the torches flickered low, all she could hear was his voice and the hollow echo of her own heart.
Ellana stared at the reports scattered across her desk, the inked words swimming before her tired eyes. She had tried to lose herself in duty, to drown in the endless demands of running the Inquisition, but the ache gnawed at her still, slipping through every crack of her resolve. Her fingers curled around the edge of a missive, the parchment crumpling beneath her grip. With a sharp exhale, she shoved it aside, its contents forgotten.
Her gaze snagged on the delicate vase perched on a nearby table, its painted flowers pristine and mocking in their perfection. The sight twisted something deep within her—a surge of frustration too raw to contain. Before she could stop herself, her hand shot out, seizing the vase and hurling it across the room. The crash was thunderous, the shards catching the firelight as they scattered across the floor.
For a fleeting moment, the sound filled the emptiness in her chest, like a dam breaking under pressure. But the relief ebbed just as quickly, leaving her standing amidst the wreckage, breath shallow, her pulse racing.
She fled to the balcony, the walls of her chambers suffocating. The cold wind struck her like a reprimand, stinging her skin and whipping her hair into a wild halo. She gripped the stone railing, her knuckles white, as her gaze fixed on the Frostback Mountains. Their jagged peaks stood steadfast against the night, bathed in silvery moonlight.
“An emotional entanglement that would benefit neither of us.” His words echoed in her mind, sharp and bitter. Had that truly been all she had been to him?
Her thoughts drifted back to the Exalted Plains, a barren stretch of land where even the earth seemed to mourn. The wind had carried with it the faint, mournful cries of forgotten spirits, their whispers tangled in the dry grass. Bloodied corpses marked the path to the captured spirit—his friend, the one they had come to save. A grim testament to the violence that had shattered everything in its wake.
Solas had been different then. Unsettlingly so. His usual control had slipped, his presence taut with something unspoken. His steps had been heavy, deliberate, as though each one bore a burden only he could feel. She had never seen him like that before—his shoulders stiff, his face unreadable, a mask of quiet dread he could not shake. It was as if the very air around him thickened with his thoughts, but he kept them locked away.
When they found the spirit, it had already been twisted into a Pride demon. Its once-gentle presence had been distorted by the desperate magic of mages fleeing persecution. They hadn’t understood the destruction they’d wrought, acting in haste, believing they could control what was never meant to be bound.
Once the summoning stones were dismantled, the demon transformed back into its spirit form. But the damage had already been done. Its wounds were fatal, and Solas had known it.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the spirit.
“I’m not. I’m happy. I’m me again. You helped me. Now you must endure. Guide me into death.” The spirit’s words were hollow, yet resigned.
Solas had bowed his head in quiet defeat. “As you say.”
“Dareth shiral.”
The surviving mages had cowered, pleading for mercy, but Solas had raised his hand, his magic crackling with fury. Ellana had stepped forward then, trembling but firm, her voice cutting through the tension as she persuaded him to lower his hand.
When he had looked at her then, it hadn’t been with anger, but with grief so raw it nearly shattered her. His eyes burned with something darker, an aching sorrow that made her heart twist.
“I need some time alone,” he had said, his voice hollow and distant.
He left the party afterward, her heart had twisted in a way she couldn’t explain. She waited at Skyhold’s gates, breathless with worry, relief washing over her when she saw his familiar silhouette on the horizon. She had taken his hand then, her touch hesitant but grounding. “You don’t have to carry this alone. I’m here. I will always be here.”
The memory burned as brightly as the pain in her chest now. That moment had seemed to draw them closer, his walls cracking to reveal the vulnerability within. And yet, it hadn’t been enough to make him stay.
The tears came harder now, spilling freely as she stared into the empty expanse before her. Somewhere out there, Solas was watching, plotting, moving forward with whatever plan had torn them apart. He had broken down her walls, made her believe in something real, only to vanish and leave her bleeding.
Exhaustion, thick with grief and frustration, finally overcame her. She stumbled back to her chambers, the bed—too large, too soft—felt suffocating, a cruel mockery of comfort. She collapsed onto its silken expanse, her body aching, but sleep didn’t come. Not at first. Her mind was a tangled mess of his voice, his words, his absence. But eventually, the weight of her grief pulled her under, and the familiar pull of the Fade welcomed her into its embrace.
The landscape unfolded like a tapestry woven from longing and loss. She stood in a familiar clearing beneath a twilight sky, the air thick with the scent of moss and rain. A waterfall sang its endless lullaby, its silver cascade glinting like the blade of a dagger.
Ellana’s heart clenched at the sight of the clearing. This was where they had shared their last private moments together, where his hands had cradled her face as he stripped away her vallaslin, his voice filled with an honesty that stripped her bare.
“You are so beautiful,” he had whispered, his words a caress that lingered on her skin, deeper than any ink could mark. His kiss had consumed her—urgent, desperate, as though he was trying to merge with her, to hold onto something that felt real.
But then, as though some unseen force had torn them apart, he had pulled away, his expression twisted with pain, regret. He took a step back, the warmth between them dying like a flame suffocated by the cold. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice so cold, so final. “I’ve distracted you from your duty. It can’t happen again.”
The words were clipped, sterile, a stark contrast to the passion that had burned so fiercely only moments ago. But behind them, there was something deeper—a rawness that he couldn’t hide. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to tell her everything. To reveal the truth, to confess the weight of the secrets he carried, to tell her he loved her and always would. But he knew the cost.
His heart, already shattered by his own choices, broke again as he spoke, each syllable tearing him apart. He couldn’t keep her —couldn’t let her believe in something that could never be.
The guilt churned inside him, fierce and unrelenting, as he watched her confusion twist into hurt, and then into searing anger. “Tell me you don’t care!” she demanded, her voice trembling with betrayal. “Tell me I was just some casual dalliance, so I can call you a cold-hearted son of a bitch and move on!” Her voice was sharp with venom, and in a rush of emotion, she shoved him aside.
He staggered back, unable to speak the words she demanded—words that would destroy them both. “I can’t do that,” he whispered, his voice shaking, the truth lodged in his throat like a dagger he couldn’t bear to pull free.
She didn’t wait for him to say anything more. Without another word, she turned and stormed away, her anger a storm he could feel tearing at him from behind. His chest tightened, the weight of what he had done pressing down on him with unbearable force.
Her retreat left him standing there, frozen in place, his own heart in pieces. The silence between them was deafening, and in the quiet, he whispered into the space she had left behind, “I’m sorry.” His voice cracked, the words bitter in his mouth, a final echo that seemed to stretch into eternity.
The memory lingered like a phantom in the corners of her mind, its edges blurred, but the pain... the pain was sharp and real, gnawing at her chest. Her thoughts slowed as exhaustion settled in, her body heavy, lost in the dark night of the Fade. The ache in her heart softened in the space between wakefulness and sleep, and the world around her faded into the pull of dreams. As the weight of sorrow and fatigue wrapped her in a blanket, Ellana slipped away, the darkness claiming her with a familiar presence lingering on the edge of her dream.
When she awoke, the dawn light filtered through the curtains in her room at Skyhold, soft and golden. She stretched, her hand brushing against something cool and solid beneath her palm. Frowning, she lifted it into the light. Her fingers closed around the jawbone necklace as if afraid it might vanish, its smooth, worn surface warm against her palm. She turned it over, tracing the intricate carvings with her thumb.
A soft laugh, trembling and edged with tears, escaped her lips. It wasn’t just a token; it was a promise, one that whispered across the veil separating them.
He was still watching.
Still protecting.
And as she vowed to save him from himself, a whisper of hope lingered—maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance to reach him.