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Elusive. They'd call the Dread Wolf a cunning trickster, a liar, something to be feared... but the word that Lavellan found herself repeating in the quiet dark of night would be 'Elusive'. It was all she could do to think about the different paths she hadn't taken yet. Who needed counting sheep when figuring out how to save the one she loved from himself was enough to occupy her mind.
It was almost always like he knew where she would be, each and every time. There would be a lead, she'd go to follow it, but it would slip out of her grasp moments before she could find another clue. Informants disappearing, places of interest ransacked before she could get there, trails that would grow cold before she ever knew they were warm.
Trekking through the Emerald Graves for their latest search, the Inquisitor found herself devoid of her bright attitude. It was already chalking up to be a bad week—they had to find something this time, anything. Solas was out there still, and whether or not he knew it, he needed help. It had been a year since she'd seen him last, and her promise still held true.
He had knelt before her, placed his hand upon her cheek and kissed her, all while saving her life.
All while breaking her heart.
It seemed almost ironic, the way that the path she and her agents had been taking led her to a familiar sight. There, amidst the trees, lay a single, solitary statue of a white wolf. What was once a beautifully pristine coat, freshly washed from a recent storm, now lay under a sheet of dust and withering leaves. The base of it was coated in a spatter of mud and dirt, with no real disturbance save for the offering bowl.
Stepping closer to it, Lavellan could see that the bowl was not empty. In fact, in it lay a few strips of rotting meat and a few bones. A spark of pure red rage surged through her, erupting in barely-contained static around her fingers. Her staff flared once, twice, and she shook her head. With a flash of white, she sent a wall of pure force toward the display, sending the bowl cascading off the base. Her anger got the better of her, and she cried out, planting the staff directly into the sullen ground beneath her. Her healing magic rooted itself into the earth, snaking into roots and rejuvenating the withered clearing around her.
The inquisitor wasn't all that certain as to how long she'd knelt there, crying out in frustration, anger, sorrow... all she knew was that once she was done, the statue was tangled with vines of wisteria, almost like a protective embrace. Nature preserving the wolf's honor.
She felt a stocky hand upon her shoulder and heard Varric's words of comfort, but could not process them. With a slow nod, she stood once more and stepped up to the statue. Resting the staff against her other shoulder, she reached for the vine and picked a weave of flowers off.
"I don't know if you ever felt these," she whispered, eyes trailing up to the gaze she couldn't quite meet anymore. "These prayers. These... offerings. I don't even know if you care about them. You've probably got too much on your hands as it is."
It was only when the drops met the back of her hand that she realized she'd been crying. She wiped the tears away and placed the flower gently upon the base, giving the wolf an offering it deserved. Her hand pressed firmly against the white coat as she spoke, "I don't know if these ever reach you somehow, but if they do... if you can hear this..."
Please come home.
The elf shut her eyes a moment, taking a breath to steady the searing ache in her chest. When she opened her eyes again, that momentary weakness was locked up behind them. She stood taller once more, hair whipping around her in the breeze as she raised her chin up high. "Of course you can't. You're just a fucking statue."
Grinding her jaw, she turned on her heel and marched off, her agents and her friend in tow.
Of course, it would have been easier to get a sign from him, a word, a whisper—anything.
A whole lot easier if she knew that the wolf had indeed been watching.
That he had never even stopped.