Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Solas caught Lavellan’s face into his hand, one hand per each side. 
“Despite it all, smile and laughter… happiness… runs and floods your face. It flowed in lines over your face, decoring your eyes so.” 
His eyes followed each and every fragment and aspect of the lines now more numerously signing her face. He was trying to read each and every story they told, the stories he consciously and forever regrettably left to return the ones forcefully taken and obscured. If it was not him, one could think that a damp tint of betrayal would take his mind that her wrinkles were of happiness, of all the laughter he could not see himself nor hear himself — be it not for the dreams he, against his better judgment, haunted. But only wonder and devotion arose in his mind. The worshipful curiosity. Respect for her standing her ground, unshaken by others, even himself. Her own act of opposition. Of course he would respect that and descend even further from the heavens to rest in her dreams. That was possibly why he could not refuse her, not in their time, not in her fade-walking, not in his own mind. 

Solas would think she would refuse his touch and hands with rashness and abrasiveness. And yet to Lavellan the most important thing was to keep him in her memory and mind. In her story and legend. If she could see him just once, not in a dream, not as adversaries, it was all worth it. She never thought to feel the touch of her love again and yet there it was. The love was there without it and now when it was present she knew not what to do nor what to feel. But the giving into it came naturally — no thoughts, knowledge was needed. 

And she did lean into the touch when he took the mark from her palm, sending the green prisms of magic with rays of all existing and invisible to her eyes colors. With that a recurring prompt of need to see even a snippet of him or hear his name spoken not just by her mind grew, searching for another occasion. 

Maybe one day after he either failed or succeeded, he could look for her. And he did, in the dreams. Even if his fate of success or failure was not certain yet, when he worked meticulously, he ventured when he assumed Lavellan was so far in the Fade-walking that his presence, obscured by the magic he never taught her, would never be noticed. Nevertheless, each time her eyes searched and reached his being, touched the most raw and spirit fragment of his presence on the peripheries of her dreams. Lavellan learnt to always look for the borders surrounding her, always in search of him. Each corner of her room, each crevice analyzed just to find one thing. When in open space she always looked for the furthest visible thing, even if it was all blurry colors and unregisterable and indescribable in the gaze and mind of hers. It soothed her and gave her comfort. In that she found a fragment of Solas, maybe he even had written himself in the reality to always stand where she could only almost see him. Maybe it is how it has been in her mind, a connection made to find what was lost. 

Lavellan laid her hand on his shoulder in the call of reassurance and moved it almost imperceptibly onto his face. Her thumb, as she always wished to do since his departure, rubbed slowly the skin of one she knew as Solas. He could feel all the bolts of his well-prepared and well-maintained mechanisms and structures whine from the pressure of the touch. 

The fortifications of his presence started to tip towards the gravity of her hand. This was exactly why it'd have been better in the long run. This is exactly why even with deep considerations and great immaculate plans this was a regrettable choice. She could shake the foundations of the world, shake Solas' plans and rearrange them to do not exactly what was right and necessary but what his whole being called for him to do — to make sure she's unharmed by his hand. But it was right, wasn't it? It all became right and necessary when she picked up the Anchor, when she picked up the mantle, when she picked up the sword of the Inquisition and when she cared in selflessness. To not impact her further with his plans was both right and selfish, both planned and impulsive, both out of scheming and true love. The love was necessary and unavoidable, fated and uninhibited. He feared not death for Lavellan as it was outside of his jurisdiction to stop the whole world and what was inevitable but having the harm inflicted by his hand. Even an off-hand motion that would harm her would wound him.

Lavellan analyzed Solas' brows and closed eyes decorated with grief and exhaustion. 

“Mala taren aravas, ara ma'desen melar.” Solas opened his eyes at the sound of familiar words. Lavellan’s hand felt soft and warm against his that seemed forever to be frozen over. She tilted her head to the side seeing Solas’ saddened confusion. “Melava somniar, vhenan.” 

Lavellan placed a kiss on Solas’ forehead before a ray of displaced and source sunlight obscured her disappearing from before Solas. The vision unblurred before him to show him his dwelling space. Ambient light sipped through from somewhere ahead only slightly disturbing the shadowed space. How long has it been already? He connected his fingers against his lips trying to force out the waves of pondering Lavellan's whereabouts. Just theories of what she was doing in that specific moment could be enough for him to reach out or search for her on his own call, not one of her's. Was this what has just happened? He did not remember falling asleep at his desk. He was certain he had not fallen asleep but he was certain too he felt her presence next to him in the dreaming. Was his mind playing tricks and putting mirages of his heart's call? Or did her Dreamer abilities retain still even after removing the Anchor? Has she been strengthening her abilities to search the Fade for answers? 

Solas stood up and walked away from the desk. 

No more mistakes. 

Chapter Text

When one takes care of themselves they ground themselves; they make themselves real, they acknowledge their existence. With every touch, grounded and alive. Every soapy rub, every balmed glide, every sip of water, every bite of food, every washed cup and every swiped bit of a floor — all these small movements, all these small actions and decisions anchor the existence with acknowledgement and love or necessity. To Solas it came with every bit of ordeal and doing only what is necessary. At least after in uthenera, after harrowing awakening to see things how they came to be. 

Before, when given a form, a body, he loved ornamenting himself with every bit of beauty and glistening in the everlight metals. Now, there was no need, no necessity, no time really. Some part of him too did not wish to remind himself he is real, he is material, he shares a form like those around him, those whose sacrifice he once deemed necessary. Now it was not as easy a choice. 

Parts of him fought inside him — one part wished for him to embrace the form he has to acknowledge and give importance to those who will suffer from his cause, other wanted to, against his judgment, protect him from the grief and regret that'll overtake his mind and soul for the rest of eternity. But it shall nevertheless. Nevertheless no matter if he succeeded or not, it'd take him and swallow whole. 

Therefore he observed Lavellan moving with much grace, decorated with the beauty of her people both in her presence and the details of her clothes. He saw in her the familiarity of who he once was if seemingly more sedated and easy. The earthen-connected Lavellan so proud and unshaken in her love for people of this land and the land itself. Every step tinted by her love and the anger stemming from it. Her back straightened, her chin raised but then every step quiet and quick, her outfits fitted, not overzealous with materials and layers to take little space, take little from others for herself. The complicated and complex nature of Lavellan, the Dalish of these times, took his mind to a place of wonder and curiosity. At first the curiosity was concerned only about observing and trying to understand who she was, her values, her approach, what kind of mirror to her people and her ancestors she was. 

But with observation something else wandered in wonder into his mind. In crowded halls of Skyhold or in the quiet part of rotunda he found himself awaiting and searching with his gaze for her presence. Every time when he realized his heart he shook his head in displeasure of himself but a slight smile always entered the corners of his lips, uninvited but welcomed with a warm feeling nonetheless. Wonderful was the feeling unfelt for so long of that curiosity rooted in familiarity even if kept to himself, in the cage of bones, blood, and years. 

Maybe the care for herself and others pulled him in. She offered help in a way of being the strongest and most well-prepared and that counted in the care of her body and mind. How she did that in the events of importance surrounding her? How was she able to find the space and time for herself? He wished to know. 

One day he approached her to ask if it'd be fine by her for him to come and paint something for her in her quarters. He assured her he can come in in times of her absence but she invited him to come any time of day he wished and that she'd actually prefer to see him work. He came in after some time to sketch out the idea he had while she sat at her desk, working tirelessly, writing letters of response or action. Little words were spoken between them but soon the dark of the evening fell with the cold air from the steep steps of the mountains. With the evening inviting itself to Inquisitor’s quarters, Solas excused himself. When the next period of free time arrived he returned and each time he awaited the moment with more of excitement. He found himself awaiting each and every small window of time to spend some time in the presence of Lavellan. Just them, no words to interrupt them. Each time he felt Lavellan’s gaze follow the painting process for longer. Each time her eyes slipped from watching the paint interact with the wall to observing Solas' hands and his shoulders with variously placed muscles. It was easy to feel her presence following his as the process of sketching and then choosing pigments was a less elaborate process than the process of creating frescoes he had already made in the rotunda. In the end this was more of an excuse and a gift than actual vocation of memory for the future. 

He could feel her observing him but he provided no acknowledgement of it, no words spoken if just a faint smile on his lips. In the end she presented curiosity and he never wanted to condemn curiosity and interest even if it'd be wiser. In the end he too was in her presence due to the same reason, curiosity. To lead it any further would be unnecessarily cruel and unwise, that he knew. He proclaimed to not allow her to get so close to understand his fascination and adoring he had for her. Solas let her focus on what she can see of him in physicality. He wished that she'd stay in the shallow waters of the ocean of his soul. But the ocean is an uneasy and restless beast. And the beast doesn't know it's nature of storms and wrecking. And often it wins over the plans of the sailor. 

The sun once again slowly descended the heavenly stairs and with this taking their shared time. As always Solas began gathering his things when he felt Lavellan pass by him. A coldness entered the room unfamiliar to the one that was ever-present in Skyhold. She sat beside him, observing the painting. 

“Beautiful... A life surmised. Will this be retained just like the rotunda? Will this survive, Solas?”

Solas moved the gaze from his painter’s kit through the painting to the vague idea of Lavellan's presence. 

“This is not what happened then.”

“I know. But it is a peaceful moment, no?”

Solas did not look for the face of Lavellan as it would be too much to bear and he refused the pulling he felt. It was wiser to refuse it as it was both what he wished for and what called him. And the call felt cold and expectant. It could be her, once again. It could be her, visiting his dreams. It could. 

Solas looked at the painting, followed the outline and the images that now moved and danced slowly exiting the lines keeping them in place. 

“I will remember.”

Chapter Text

Ghilan'nain had grappled Lavellan in her softly covered branches-like limbs. They kept overgrowing every bit of Lavellan's body and twisting it slowly under the pressure. Ghilan'nain bowed down to face the contemporary elf with an inquisitive tilt to the side. She pulled her closer by the chin and up to her stretching her back painfully, almost bound to break. Almost. 

“Oh and she's marked by your favorite too! Two birds with one stone, Fen.” 

Lavellan gave no sound of struggle and did not give in to the pain that was to overwhelm her up to the satisfaction and measured expectation of Ghilan'nain. Only her eyes gleamed golden, reflecting the honey colored mask of Ghilan’nain. 

“We can make some corrections, Fen. Doll her up to suit you more. Or she can be one of mine now. Free to grab, out of the grasp of secrets.” 

“I forbid you from changing her form, Ghilan'nain.”

“Oh and why is that? Because she got some droplets of what the People used to be? Get over yourself, they're here for us. For us to grab, for us to change… and change is good, isn't it, Fen? You aimed for it with your big ideals. I, too, want change. Get my nails and fingers deep into the thick of change. I can start with the Inquisitor, whatever the quicklings’ title means.” 

“Let’s barter, Ghilan'nain. I can give you some critical knowledge on whatever you require and I'll answer truthfully. In exchange you pardon Lavellan from the alterations.”

A pause took as she gazed upon the elf before her. A pause of disinterest and dismissal. 

“Go now, Fen. You're no god of secrets nor god of craft to share any vital information thus your offer proves invalid. We'll meet soon. The three of us.” 

Ghilan’nain glided her gilded fingers from under Lavellan’s chin onto her cheek with a flair. A golden lichen rose over the walls surrounding and slowly began creeping their way over Lavellan’s body as the gaze of Ghilan’nain’s mask fell onto Solas. 

He felt the limbs of Ghilan’nain grow over his body, latching onto it like ivy with sharp talon-like roots and hooks. But the pressure was one of a snake's; starved and driven by instinct. The limbs climbed over him precisely, calculatedly. Taking each of the most efficient turns to quickly catch it’s prey into the unrelenting embrace. The touch was almost soothing like linen wrapping a burial but just as suffocating. Ghilan’nain was always succinct, efficient; a quick arrow straight through the eye. He once admired their differences. A counterweight to his underhand chaos and disruption. A complete control and precision. 

The gold illuminated the space with reflection of sourceless light. Just before the limbs covered him whole and pulled him from the space, Solas saw Ghilan’nain prying deep into Lavellan’s mind. Her thoughts, like claws, searching for the weakest point in Lavellan’s skull. 

The anguine hand covered his eyes in a delicate yet stern manner. Solas fell into a darkness from which he felt and almost knew there was no awakening awaiting. A darkness warm but solitary. Centuries of absence fell upon him. 

And it only brought to him comfort and peace of heart which was broken with awakening that yet did come.

Chapter Text

A light too bright shone over the forever scintillating plains where sunlight pooled in heat and golden rush. With a burning the sun pools were prisoned in the forever moving ground, writhing away from the rage of the sun. The plains were never-ending, ever-expanding as the ground gave way in pain to the gathered light. In viscous form of melted metals and stardust it sipped through every miniscule crack of the brittle and bereft soil. Nothing could ever grow from the sun covered earth. 

Two powerful forces of light fought against each other: the gold pooled and prisoned to the ground, bound to be hidden and absent from the skies and the white sourceless light which burnt deeper and straight to the bone. It reminded him of a fiery sword coming from above to strike the heart. Aimed and accurate. The white almost silvery light finding its quickest and smoothest way to enervate the heart laid out like a soldier carried on shield from the battlefield. Not yet dead but with legend and honor sprawled throughout their name. But with the bleeding kissing the curved metal, it all dissipated into scoff and shudder. 

No shadow was to be seen nor even be present. No droplet of water or moisture turned damp to be gathered in the unseen cracks. Both shadow and water perished and vaporized from the space. 

The light of the skies landed so Solas’ eyes looked only where he was allowed. Too bright was the light as it scorched Solas’ eyes when he looked away, when he looked to the sides and peripheries of the place in search of answers hidden in the unseen. However, he soon learnt, the unseen was absent from the space. Almost as if shadow and secrets never existed in this space. Everything was grand and in the open. A sunlit and sunmade monument to the grandeur and totality of its maker. 

Through the overbearing light Solas did not see the pools of the sun broken and gathered. He felt the allotted power and presence of the sun moving with a rhythm with the ground and the light above. And in the light above a break was allowed in between the searing white where Solas was expected to follow and place his steps. The steps seemed to be chiseled into the stone and scorched dirt under his feet and every step misplaced and misstepped came with a lightning hurt rising from the ankles — like ivy climbing forever higher. 

Solas tried to cover his gaze from the brightness overcoming from every side besides the one he was to follow but it only ended with his hands and eyes burned. He felt the scorch eat through the layers of his skin and almost reach the part in-between material and spirit and yet no wound fluted in the flesh, just a glow reflecting off the pinks and oranges of his skin. 

The passing space of white light, geometric in its shape and perfectly sculpted from the light and what was shadow no more was etched in the landscape. Seemingly foreign to the landscape and yet a part of it. The contrasts introduced by a skilled painter. The still bright but grotesquely welcoming and expectant triangular space of delicate light above the geometric geography surrounding Solas called upon him with an order and warm demand. Solas knew who he was about to see at the end of the walk. 

The flatlands seemed almost to tip towards where he was supposed to follow so the walk was easy and supported by the shoulders of this space. The heat in the light from above was still almost unbearable but in comparison it seemed almost soothing. In the calling space Solas felt a slight breeze or an afterimage of flowing air. If a flow of air could drop a shadow this was exactly what he felt upon his skin. In that travel Solas felt the wisps of the sun encircling him during his walk and he could almost hear its whispers. The ground, as always, static and silent, bearing bravely the harm inflicted. Solas knew of the never-ending movement of the ground beneath him but he felt not a tremble, not a shiver. 

Elgar’nan awaited, with back straightened and chin raised. Overlooking the ever-expanding space perfectly designed. Breathing in the acrid smell of the burnt earth and ever-escaping moisture perishing in the soon to be empty skies. A smell of hot metal filled the air as it sneaked towards Elgar’nan. This place called for birds chirping or flapping their wings, it called for the sound of waves crashing on the burnt shore, it called for the sounds of people’s steps or just their presence, this space called for the sounds of leaves falling and dancing with air. In the complete and perfect silence Solas could almost hear flashes of what this place lacked. Maybe his mind filled in for what was absent to be able to deal with this foreign nature of the space. Even the ground was silent. Not a tremble, not a shiver. A barren land. 

Solas looked at Elgar’nan’s side profile as he overlooked the space with pride and accomplishment. Elgar'nan closed his eyes as he basked in the fiery shine, breathing deeply in the awful smell of blood stained metal. 

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Elgar'nan looked at Solas, his eyes just barely open and decorated with long black lashes now tinted through with the white glittery ever-present light. He smiled a warm welcoming smile but some mocking shone between the lines. “Perfectly planned, don’t you think, my friend?”

“Perfect? Yes, perhaps. If it’s perfection one searches for. This land bears no value.”

“What is the value of a land? People? Spirits? Animals? Life?”

“Possibly. Or the capacity for choice and change. This? This bears no choice nor a way for change. A static and constant land. No bad overhead but no good takes root if the soil is barren.”

“But there is life, my friend! This is all as designed. No more of the chaos. Just as it all should be. Just as it was before.”

Solas shook his head, refusing to register Elgar’nan’s words. 

“The sky and the land can be one now. An ever-present light in place of the treacherous shadows. Shadows where secrets hide and pride champions. In the light all will be equal. In the light and easy wander of these lands all will be the same. Isn’t it what you wish for? The equality and even chances? The People returning to the lands and the realm.” Elgar’nan gestures to the space surrounding them. “Isn’t this exactly what you want?”

“There’s no life here. Just a common coffin for all in a bereft land. And barren does not mean perfect and perfect bears no value. An easy choice to unify all and allow for cruelty to gather.” Solas looked towards the pooled sun matter that in a sign of sentience tried to reach Elgar'nan but he always knew where it moved and where it reached. “Nothing is innately bad or cruel, no power is corrupted from its beginning. The wielder of the blade of power is bound to be tested by corruption. And you’ve proven that under your rule, everybody will perish. Become what somebody wished upon them.”

“Under my rule, they all will be equal! They will be where they are all supposed to be — a piece of the land, a part of the collective of the universe. To achieve harmony is for them all to return and be back with their Mother. When all is in the embrace of earth, it’ll harmonize. A song of the universe will reach our ears finally and we’ll understand the genesis. No more stories shall be needed. Just a warm embrace of the earth and a mellow song to lull us all.”

“Your theory calls for the death of all. You’d shatter the foundations of reality to bring this.”

“Yes. A sacrifice to bring what was before — perfect and harmonized — at a price of individuality.” Elgar’nan reached for Solas’ arm with a rising enthusiasm. “My friend, this land was never meant to be shattered into separate parts. Don’t you see it in the ways the people, the life brought from the land and the sun suffers? It’d be cruel to let this stay as it is and allow for the suffering, the death, the inequality wrought by the chaos of creation and uneven birth. The separation brought an uneven spread of the qualities of existence. To bring the people and all life back to the earth is showing them mercy, it’s showing them love. Isn’t this your goal, in the end? To show them love and that they deserve to be equal and loved and cared for? That they deserve the effort to be and exist. We do not have to be enemies, my friend. We share the same goal even if you do not see it now.”  

Elgar’nan by this time moved closer to Solas, beholding his shoulders supportingly and with a warm and hopeful expression. Solas felt a shuddering of disgust and nervousness from Elgar’nan’s words and the touch pierced deep into his muscles and stomach. How he sees them as one and the same or so similar, almost indistinguishable. And the biting and howling thing was the talk of similarity sipped through the barriers like flood sneaks in-between the seal and caulk and cloth barring the water. 

He knew that this is how it is, how it seems. Sharing the same roots and past with him, with other Evanuris. He’ll always be seen as one of them just when it questioned and sprawled around the root of distrust, the foundations of trust of the People of the past and the people of the present but be separate when it showed his knowledge and power. 

Elgar’nan told Solas of the beautiful space he was about to create. Tranquil and peaceful, just as it all was before. 

Elgar’nan opened the skies with a movement of a blade cutting through parchment or skin sprawled to dry and straighten and Solas saw the sun sipping from the cracks into the earth. Like honey it dripped and overflowed the earth that whines and encloses it in itself. 

The earth dances with the minerals and star material to create a one whole. The light above is separated from the sun, it’s power shattered into various smaller bits. 

First, the sun’s form returns to the land. 

Then the children of earth and sun return to the embrace of the sun-earth, now peaceful and superposable, sharing one mind, one space. 

Then the moon with it’s mirror quality shall melt and sink into the earth. 

Last will enter the light silvery and separate and with it’ll take the sound, the touch, the taste, the sight, and every feeling and emotion back to the love of the earth.

“Don’t you hear it, friend? The harmony from the beginning. All once again whole and not alone.”

But Solas could not hear it nor see it. He felt nothing. He feels nothing. Elgar’nan’s words felt just like an aftertaste of existence. 

There was not even silence. This was not even death. Just…

Chapter Text

// descriptions of death by fire (both human & animal)

A step from the void into a space so viscously damped. Air so suffocating and cold glided off Solas’ skin. It found it’s way underneath each and every layer of his clothes with its scaly cold. He felt the heat beneath the cold muscles that tangled around him with the breeze — or he knew it was there. He knew the blood and energy rushed underneath the freezing winds. It all was life and energy. 

The numerous and thickly twisting brambles of the hot climate forest rose and seemed to forever shift against the borders of the space. The trees — ginormous and titan — towered over him. The tree crowns blurred from the distance between the leaves and Solas’ bellflower eyes. They seemed to circle around him and be forever closing in on him. A prison of twigs and muscle. And he suffocated from the contrast of the surrounding freezing air that was too sharp and icy to be caught and gathered into lungs. Shallow breath taken in opposition to the surrounding bark-covered shackles. A perfect coffin. 

Solas knew this to be a realm of it’s own if not a whole new space existing outside of the Eluvian roads. 

Each step placed on the cratered with giant tree roots ground appeared as a weeks long journey. The cold unrelenting rain left behind lashing wounds. Each drop deepening the hurt. Each drop reaching further into the flesh. Solas was soon to allow for his last breath to escape in the luscious and mellow tomb. And to his wake would only come the gospel heard between the drops of the water. Only the whispers of the space would look upon his deathbed.

Solas pushed back his last breath. Only half-breaths allowed. Sharp and painful against the heavy rain. 

Solas stepped through the rainy forest chilled to the bone. His feet bones bruised, pulsating with the forest’s rhythm. Like a heartbeat it slithered into his tendons and wriggled uncomfortably beneath the skin. 

When he comes across a cave to escape ever closing in darkness of the canopy that grows threatening to swallow Solas whole, the last breath finally deserts the garrison of Solas’ lungs. Right away it gets mauled by the muscle strength of the cold pressure from above. 

He enters the darkened cave, hugging himself in trying to fight off the cold and praying to ignite back the departed breath. Up to no avail. 

Sylaise awaits in the space and, with a slow gesture, invites him to sit next to the fire that offers no warmth. It flickers, fighting with the cold but it loses each time. The warmth shushed into submission by the heavy curse of the place and it’s dweller. The foot of the curse-wielder is heavy and stomped out the life-keeping heat. 

Solas feels he is about to die in shivers. But he allows that. With that invitation a pulse washes upon him and the body excuses the trembling. He finds the rhythm to the cold and attunes to it. The empty pits engraved in his muscles are still present but it doesn't distract him further. 

Sylaise walks from the darkened back of the cave with a pale and dry face. When she moves her fingers they crackle like a breaking off icicle falling from above. Or like fire flickers against a well-preserved and dry wood. 

Sylaise speaks of fire, how in the eyes of the People it was supposed to support them, offer them help and ease. However that was not what the fire was for. 

“So we let them burn! Let them burn! Let them!” 

Sylaise speaks of how the fire swam over the plains with it's fiery tongues curving like wave’s frost. Her fire melted all. It melted metal and stone, the wood and crystals smolden or made ash. The pikes, broken and smashed by the heat of the slithering flames. Helmets pushed in and shattered into just sharp edges and blades. 

Sylaise speaks of the heat, how it rose around her followers at the battlefields. She tells of how numerous bitemarks were left on the skin of the steeds and their riders. How the flame marks were not enough, never enough, and the fever made a pulse to the temples and muscles and fire overtook the body before its collapse. Swallowing the rest of the air in their lungs. All consumed by the heat and fire. 

That is what made flame so beautiful and lasting. What made it god-like and divine. It was exactly what made fire worth worshiping. An unstoppable force. A calamity of friction and waste. Of creation and equation. 

Sylaise speaks how the magic-fed fire rose in rays cutting through the sky. Her fire could rival one of the sun and the Sun-Sent and Earth-Touched son. It ascended following the branch and licked the soles of one who was supposed to be unburnt. 

Her eyes widen when she recounts all what fire brought. The auburn plains dancing on the crops and touching with the borders of sunset and sunrise. Her resolve returns to her muscles and gestures. Lively and determined leader was back in the skin before Solas. One he knew once. 

But then her eyes land blankly in the darkness as if she saw something in the lack. Her raised hands and shoulders weaken and slump to her sides. Her gaze from looking upon the exit and the now present sky skitters away into the darkened space. She looks at the ground as if she tried to hide from being found. She steps back into the half-shadows. 

Then to her stance comes a tone of regret about disappointing the People, not offering them what they wanted but she never offered them what they wanted; she offered what she had and what she wanted to give and that was never enough but why did it have to be? Her power was greater than one of hearth and light illusions. Why is she remembered as the hearth-keeper, not one who wields powers equal to the Sun’s Wrath? But does she want to be remembered as the one who scorched the plains to the raw bone? 

She speaks not a word of it but she looks into Solas' eyes pulling him into his orbit. And he knew. He heard the thoughts as if they were his own. He felt the fear of what hides in the back of the cave. Solas knew Sylaise would not look to the heat spot of the darkness. Something flickered there and crackled but he could only hear it with this imposed connection from Sylaise. 

The thread of thoughts flowed further. Fire was her love. The power it held. How it danced in the hearth, how it danced with the hair, how it all made one. How it invited rest and respite, how it made lovers search for each other even in the darkness. 

She loved the many sides to fire and yet the repentance was there at the same time as was the love for fire and it’s destruction. These feelings fought in her mind. Love for fire and the wisdom to know what it brought. Not regret but acceptance. Sylaise felt foreign and separate in her own body. Parts excluding the others and yet they persevered together in the awful symbiosis. 

The heat rose from the lightless and obscured side of the cave. Implosions of fire light up from behind the fog. Sylaise’s eye contact, still unrelenting, pulling Solas closer into the cave and the dark at her back. 

The fire took the shape of the People glowing brightly in oranges and yellows with glittery specs through their effervescent bodies. They seemed to be no stronger than the common wisps but there appeared many. They all faded through each other to reach for any sliver of Sylaise’s form. Their light bodies searched in the dark for the pale visage of one that used to call fires forth and with their rage and revenge they pulled at her. 

All the while she allowed that and welcomed the harm inflicted onto her, she never let go of the eye contact with Solas. The fiery hands cover Sylaise and only her eyes reflecting the fires caused. All the afterimages of what had been done appear in the feverishly glistened eyes.

The hands cover Sylaise and finally she blinks and is pulled into the darkness with a feeling of fairness.

Solas stands in the cave. The fire, still going, seemingly gaining in power until extinguishing abruptly.

The sound of fire accompanies Solas when he wakes up from his meditation. It crackles in his ears while his hands hurt from the cold. 

Chapter Text

// death of an animal

The heavy frames of the mountain above brought Solas to the consciousness of this vision. 

A sound of hammer meeting the anvil brought a crisp and crystalline soberness to register what he saw before him. 

A sole anvil standing on a secluded island hanged in place by the heavy duty chains and ropes. Solas felt the uneasy swaying underneath him and the shivers of the wounded ground. His steps were unfoundedly careful and soft. He directed them towards the steps leading to the anvil, uncertain when the drop would come. 

A blueish light of early morning shone from the back of the space with swirls and wisps of the fog that obscured all paths beyond. 

When the dissipated rays touched upon the worked metal shouts echoed from wall to wall, they jumped around like a closed off animal trying, in their panic, to find any escape from their box. They pained Solas' ears and with a bleeding they told a story and with the new-found pigment they painted abstract shapes of the past. 

A war going off with people present and focused before the beginning of incoming battle. A brisk morning came over the battalion and swept over the soldiers fighting against their exhaustion. They all prepared however they could to fight and bleed their enemies. They placed their necessary tools before them both in mind and place. Their blades ready where their mind could not reach and comprehend. 

Amongst it all the anvil and the hammer meeting in the in-between. Solas stepped closer to the anvil and with it the battle changed from swords and shields to the battalion marching with the blue shields raised. They all knew the planned maneuvers. A step to a step to a rhythm learnt by heart and by the painstaking hours. One misstep and the house of cards and shields falls to the ground. They all had to play their role in the war. Every step and every obeyed order made them useful tools in the great plan. 

Solas made his way towards the anvil. 

The battalion changed into a siege with artillery and ballistas. The force the contraptions held just at a person's fingertips. They could move or eviscerate the mountains if devoted enough with such an object. 

Another step taken by Solas led to another change of scenery.

The battlefield moved closer towards the place of interest. A beautiful castle with lush vegetation around and within. It glistened in the still blue and gray sky but warming with the early oranges of the morning. The battalion moved closer towards their goal. So many people died on the way. They have to make this right; they have to find meaning and make it all worth it the sacrifice. They've prepared their battering ram. Everything was in place. Just protect the ones trying to get through the walls. Do not allow for the exhaustion to win. We're so close to winning!

The soldier takes a step and something clicks. A light pierces through the mud and they do not understand what happens as they don't have any time to comprehend that they and their closest compatriots are dead. Another is pierced through with a pike of a contraption hidden in the soft mud beneath them. Before they know and understand what happens, it is too late. They are trapped in a plain of traps. 

With Solas closer to the anvil and hammer the siege changed into a deep brush forest and a hungry and desperate huntress. The huntress aimed her arrow at a halla. An arrow pierced through the eye and the animal fell to the ground. Her family will be well fed. When the huntress reaches the halla the scene changes to a person killing one of his kin, his family with a knife. Nobody stops him, all look in bewilderment as it happens. 

And with that Solas arrived at the place where the anvil and hammer were but he found nothing but the sound of hammer hitting the hammer as Solas was alone. In its rhythm he heard anticipation and waiting. A great many things can yet be wrought upon by the marked by time and overuse anvil.

Chapter Text

A hand reaches in the dark to search for purpose and reason. 

One looks and ventures deeper into the unknown. The lithe and lethality-infused hand moves its fingers, uneasy and awaiting. 

The lingering hope and frustrated anticipation is ensorcelled by the pale swirls of the void. It wraps, first uncertain but curious around the fingertips. Questioning the reason and motivation. Searching for purpose in the hand outreaching. Apprehensive, unused to contact of such clear and direct force and mind. 

The vacuous and complex form began to manifest directed by the slow and precise movement of the hand. With its invitation and purposeful welcome the being reached further to the place where curiosity won over fear. Fingers straightened and warm awaited the moves of the awakened void. 

This newly awakened, still shy and uncertain in its form, only encircled the hand but reached no further; no touch even a slight tap as the sole possibility felt like a leap of no return into the chasm beyond. The hand waited and ready to give purpose and with it offer a road to a new and first in this being’s name. 

The longer the meeting took place the fragment of the void gained in confidence. And with a slight and soft touch it reached out back to the hand, feeling all it had to offer; feeling all the emotions, sharing all the goals and reasons, gaining motivation and purpose. With memories came experience. This was an offer of existence. 

With considering the offer, a spirit formed, unspecified but present, complex and yet simple upon the first awakening. Something offered in the place of all-presence. Individuality presented in the place of whole. All breath of fluid possibility directed into a stream of purpose and love. 

Clarity came to the spirit but yet not a full purpose. It lacked a name and physical form. Naked in the eye of creation. But the hand was warm and inviting. Waiting for whatever the newly out of the timeless slumber spirit chose for themself. 

The silvery swirls paralleled the hand above and moved into various shapes and forms. Building whatever came to them. It dances around as a ball of energy and then moves onto incomprehensible geometric shapes, bouncing between one and the other. And the hand still waited, warm and inviting. 

The spirit tried to recreate the intricacies of what the hand was. In the colorless absence it introduced the color, in the shapeless space it offered form, in the ephemeral state it offered matter. With curiosity it mirrored what the hand was. With frustration though as it could not reach the warmth and invitation it beheld. 

The hand moved in helpful manner to present all it could do. It wriggled it's fingers, it mimicked shapes of circle or movements of two legs walking. It showed all of its angles and spirit recreated the best it could. 

Then the hand called forth a small fire and the spirit felt in it a familiarity. A third emotion felt after curiosity and fear. The spirit found themself in various parts of the fire and their immaterial hand recreated it with ease. Frustrated they grew as no matter came to the spirit but happy with the process of creation. Fourth then fifth emotion came to the spirit. The hand was still warm, welcoming, and material. 

The spirit grew even more curious about the foreign idea of materiality. It seemed out of reach and yet the hand was still there, warm and inviting. Still waiting and present. Patient and similarly curious. The hand offered a goal and purpose. And with a slight tap at first and then a full embrace it felt and now knew all the waking world had to offer. 

And with this insatiable curiosity it all faded together and became one. 

Chapter Text

// tw blood and wound

With ears always cautious and ever-listening a hare sat amongst the brambles and the brush. Always gazing ever beyond even when listening was its stronger attribute. 

Overhead a hawk circled the forest with its eyes analyzing the forest bed. Its ears directed and keen even when its eyesight was a stronger attribute than hearing. 

Where one could not reach, the other lent its strength and attention. When the hare was in danger the hawk descended quickly to scare off the attacker. When the vision of the hawk was obscured, the hare listened to the surrounding forest to direct the hawk to its prey or out of the forest. 

They both listened to the disturbance of the grass and both saw a fresh trail cut through the undisturbed until now parts of the forest.

Now the hare and the hawk gazed upon the dreaming onlooker. Searching within them for the reason they both were brought before them and a hint of what their intentions were. The hare's ears twitched, tickled by the air and irritated by the sounds from the deeper forest. Always cautious, always wary. The hawk cleaned its feathers listening to any move the onlooker might make. Always present, always ready. 

Solas looked at the scene both without and within. Both as an observer of the scene and the onlooker before the animals. 

He felt the tattoos on his body. Their presence — prickling and painful as he knew what they beheld in the ink mixed with blood. He understood the power they hid and he felt a tether to it. He knew if he didn't have the power of Mythal bound to him, he would not feel any connection to this vallaslin or any specifically made in her name. He was — or he tried to at the very least — be of free will and choice; be not one to bind a creature to his power. His power over this elf was miniscule and just right out of his grasp but he felt the bond made in blood and the tether pulling towards the patron-mage. He was afraid what it'd mean for this elf and himself if they had Mythal’s vallaslin when even now the connection felt so strong with them bound to another Evanuris. He was trapped both without and within. 

He felt the hair slowly and softly moving as directed by the air. The hair strands were thin and light so they gave easily into the warm air moving in between the trees. 

This elf knelt on the floor just right before a tree. Solas felt a smell of metal rising higher and further and mixing with the wind that brought the air of the forest. They mixed together — the dry smell of the forest’s opening with the fresh blood. Solas could barely trace the wound as his vision was stuck in between two places. He felt the blood on the fingers that were both his and somebody else's. The smell of blood was fresh and yet the blood had dried up enough to remind of wax on a candle holder. His fingernails were full of the blood and he could not stop the bleeding. He could not find its source. The knees were bruised and with numerous leaf cuts from arduous trek from the deeper and thicker parts of the forest where light barely touched the bark. 

Time passed and the forest seemed to fill with the smell of the blood. The bleeding, untamed and flowing still when a foot stepped into the forest. The forest was peaceful and tranquil, overlooking the space with a somnolescent gaze. Only soft and idle rustle of the trees and small critters running on their branches was to be heard in the vicinity. 

Solas knew it was impossible to hear the sounds of the hunter and yet this body knew it by heart. 

The hair flowed softly in the air and brushed lightly by the sticky from the blood face. They melted into the half sun-dried, half fresh blood. 

The Huntress stopped in the shadow on the border of the forest and the clearing and looked at the elf before her. The bow, still in hand, ready to strike. Just then did she saw the arrow in the elf’s hand and the two guardians that kept careful and vigilant watch over the elf. Solas didn't even know that in the hand he held the arrow. Trapped both without and within. 

The Huntress left the warm shadows of the noonday and hid her bow at her back. She stepped quickly into the clearing lit by the welcoming golden light accompanying this scene. Her hand reached knowingly and familiarly at the face that Solas was behind. 

He knew this story well. Even if it was solely a myth it showed a grain of truth. The care and love was there. Even when blinded by ego and pride, The Huntress stayed by The Wounded Girl. 

The Huntress stopped the analysis of damage to look where Solas stood in the far end of the clearing. Forced out of the body he shared, he stood alone, pierced by the eyes of master of the hunt, Andruil. At his sight anger arose in her eyes and it showed with wrinkles and tears. 

She ignored his presence and took the face of her beloved while the ground turned golden. With a wave of golden speckles it changed from the peaceful forest bed into a city drowned in gilded arches and glistening mosaics. The floors were cold here to enunciate the dominion and divination of this place dwellers. Then it moved, altered, to a decrepit cellar filled with gorey bits and ever-present pulse. From there it went into a great battlefield with only The Huntress and The Wounded Girl alive. 

In every version the gold and blood were there but so was the care. With it came the grief of not being able to stop the hurt and the loss no matter the power.

The Girl knelt in white dress back in the welcoming golden forest. In her hurting, waiting, peacefully and ready. She knew The Huntress would come. She always lent her aid. 

Ghilan’nain’s hands already stretched out, awaiting in a loving way the hands of the beloved to hold her. The hands of a skilled killer that were the only ones she could trust, caressed her face with devoted care. No matter the blood, no matter the hurt. 

The precise and strong hands that kept her grounded and steady, that pulled her in each time she was in need. She reached out her hands with an invitation shared with a soft smile. With no reservation and full reverence she entered the embrace of eternity. Lulled softly into the tranquil forest of dreams and the arms of the beloved.

Both without and within.

Chapter Text

A cold and brisk dream set upon Solas’ mind. 

This dream was different from the previous ones. More vivid, more vibrant, more clear and sharp. Like winter water rushing from the mountains, biting at the ankles with an insatiable hunger. 

No blurs between space and time characteristic of dreams or visions. He felt that time held little power here. Time always was subjective, how it flowed through space and matter and that place was the epitome of that truth. How time changed things, how it changed emotions and memories. Time lent limitation. Time lent severance. In a timeless space only what counts are actions. 

Time, Solas learnt after his awakening in this new quick and fast-paced world, often is referred to as water. It's measured in flows and uneasiness of the ocean. Even though he knew it to be a metaphor that was made consciously or unconsciously by the speakers of this new and foreign, still bitter on his tongue, language he felt some tangency to it, some truth encapsulated by the words of waves and flowing. Language made reality as feelings were manifestations. Only in this world did he learn of where intentions’ borders lie and where feelings rule. In this world he learnt of separation of these two; before communication was all: intentions, feelings, truth, and reality. There was no conflict between these even though conflicts still arose as they always do, no matter the times, no matter the circumstance. 

As he knew the timeless place or time-place — the now-past, then the ever-presence — he felt the heavy billows of time upon his shoulders and back, weighing heavy on his hands but thus keeping them steady. Time or existence of time reminded Solas of what he had done and that knowledge first held back his hand from further involvement but later it was what led him to a timely opposition no matter how small it seemed at first. 

Time frothed around him evermore. It bore heavy on his back but he tried to move through — past it — steady and proud. But with every step further down the shallow water the heavier were the layers on his body, weighing him down. But in he went, steady and proud. With every step placed a new drop of regret scorched through his skin. With every step somebody forsaken and forgotten. Sometimes that somebody forgotten and forsaken was him. In the name of the cause . Was this sacrifice pride or selflessness-driven? What is the reversal of pride when wisdom is not reachable? 

He stood at the entrance of what looked like an old Elvhen ruin but he could not recognize who the place was dedicated to. Evanuris’ pride and hubris made them make up easily discernible signifiers of who the lord of the place was. Amassing the beauty and marking it with their own brand. The geometric and golden trims around every corner and edge, rotund and layered ornaments, the clear and wave-like shapes etched into walls, they took and assigned much of visual beauty to themselves. Was it to highlight their own vanity or to celebrate all they governed, all they possessed Solas could not tell beside his theories and deductions he was always prone to make. But he knew that that one was of neither he knew, not even of the now so called Forgotten Ones.

He walked the place with the labyrinthian halls and empty chambers. Only ivy and gooseberries sprouted and rose above to the forever-roof with no end in sight. No people, no light, only thorns and tangling roots. Was this a prison or shelter? No windows in sight and no doors either, only arches between rooms and those unseen above. 

The air tingled with dull magic, sleepy and somnolent. Severed from what he knew and yet it left a familiar aftertaste. If he could grasp it then he could analyze its type and know about this place but it was out of his reach. And out of reac h was something he grew to know like a habit. 

And there she sat, pious and righteous. Unlike her — her chin raised and back straightened, elegant but brittle, about to break. He knew if she was to break it'd be like a dam overflowing, the weak point breaking under force and pressure, and bringing death to everything and everyone in her path.

He knew as he saw that before. 

The visage before him stunned him into stone and his feet felt like they were rooted deeply into the soil. So deeply they grew he could swear he felt the hum of regret hidden in the hymn of the Stone. Her long hair was straight and it glistened like the mirror surface of a peaceful and undisturbed lake. All so unlike her. 

“Solas.” Her voice, airy and whispered, distant and cold but still familiar and loving. “Welcome to the space I overlook. This is the place of my dwelling and the eternal watch. I altered the place to match the imagination of whoever might wander to such a distant and secluded realm as this one.”

He could not place a step, frozen still into the ground beneath. The ground was in a constant state of overflowing and flooding. The incessant rush of water passing through the layers of the shoes paying it no mind as if matter had no hold here. Only the energy of the water reigned here. Only the rushing and never stopping action and movement were king here. 

An empty feeling echoed through the glassy halls of Solas' body and soul. A familiar feeling. He felt it before as he saw this before. 

He looked at the face of one he grew to love. Of one he learnt to love. The time spent together was what kept him stunned into stone and inaction. The time of shared knowledge and passing glances and quick and barely not missed touches. Time shared in the battle or intimately devising many stories and solving puzzles they offered. Time of learning of the material world and what it meant to feel and think in the limitation of the body. 

Before the reality or feeling that accompanied time shared was one — a manifestation, not roads diverged into intention, want, need, thought, and feeling. It was because it could be imagined, it existed because it was conjured by one's mind, it was because it could be shared with others. 

To Solas, first a timeless spirit so a being of feeling, time and love were one of the same. Both he got to know when he made his body. Before it all was one and the same. His presence knew all as it was a part of the whole. What was felt was also known by the others so language was just an addition when one was a spirit. Then language became a necessity to comprehend what others felt again and again with more becoming material. And then a shackle that created more complex problems as what was felt could never be expressed to its full potential and to the full extent. Neither love nor what time spent together meant to one could ever be fully and well expressed. Time, love, and possession of a body complicated everything that once was simple. 

Time and body were similar as if not the same. Time came from the body; from becoming material and severed by the Veil. Time came from a body that is from the Titans but even they were eternal. Once. 

Once he was a spirit — a being of change and reflection — soon he became the oxymoron of what and who a spirit is and even, to the retribution of it all, he became even the opposite to what the Stone was or he became as It is now, as he made it all, when he stood lifelessly and numb during the war aimed by the pointing fingers of Arlathan. He stood lifelessly and numb as he devoted his all to the death of the Titans. And with their death came time, born of their pain, time. 

Time came from a blade and he was its creator. Solas said once that blood magic is a tool and in of itself is not inherently evil — it's the wielder of the tool that makes a purpose for the tool and it's goal. The wielder gives it intention and so does its maker. Is time and its consequences all due to his intentions? If the blade was not cursed by the wielder with the wicked purpose would time not have led to death? Would have his blade not brought the Titans’ wrath in the form of Blight? 

It all mattered not anymore as he could not move nor speak as his skin was of stone. It cracked around his lip corners, hesitant but desperate to speak. But no words came as his lungs were overtaken by the cooling verdigris blossoming further and overtaking the breathing system. A wholesome yet alien feeling, moving through the body with a soothing sensation almost as if to calm all that was disturbed. 

Solas looked upon her at the top of the stairs, kneeling and resting like a halla that found it's way into a secluded cavern, safe from predators even if for just a moment. Sullen and gentle. Resting but cautious, reveling in the safety and seclusion of her wander. 

The water dripped slowly through the space and were it not for the sound of the water rushing this place would be of total quiet. 

“What is this place?” 

“Don’t you feel it?” He looked around as if hesitant and unprepared; lacking the knowledge he was supposed to always possess. “Here is where I roam, where I live, where I rule.”

“You rule but I see no followers here. Secluded, solitary, separate.”

“Is this not how you rule, Fen’harel?”

Solas awaited elaborations of proving her prowess, her unmistakable right and righteousness, presenting justice on a platter like all the Evanuris have done; as everybody does when speaking to him. He awaited the signifiers to make him deflect her words with the perfect riposté. Words swirled in his mind already, ready to strike with a perfect note. But no further addition came. No further explanations or ulterior motives implied, no hidden messages. Just a simple question, truthful and sincere in its nature even if sharp and rushing. But oh she did want him to see . There were two meanings to it but they came from the same source deep in her heart. She wished to see and be seen. To be understood and understand. 

He said nothing back. 

A soft smile acknowledging the refusal to answer. She continued “You act on your own because of two truths: one is that it has to be you and the second that it can't be anybody else. It mustn't, it needn't, it shouldn't. Is this correct or incorrect?”

He said nothing back. His lower lip trembled slightly until he made it shut and secure, bearing instead the grimace of abstaining from answer. 

“As wisdom would. It's wise to not answer when asked empty questions. But where does the line between wisdom and pride lie when it comes to silence?”

“This place is silent, you can barely hear the movement of branches searching for the absent light. Here's only the reflection of what is light and what is world. Is this silence pride or wisdom? Command or benevolence? What does it reflect and say about its ruler?” 

“What does it mean?” She looked around the place in a slow blinking manner but with a small tinge of dramatic flair. “What does it mean, do you think? It's a great question, I myself have some answers, however I wish to know what you think is my intention.” 

Profiled before, now softly peering into Solas, awaiting his answer with curiosity and something else he knew not of. He could not place it, what feeling it encapsulated. But he saw and knew of it, now he had to understand. 

“I’ve not known you to be prideful besides the time the Wolf accompanied you. You're no command even if it came easy to you. Hate grows in your heart but it's not a constant spite. You're many. One of multitudes. Many feelings, many titles, many contradictions.”

“I am many,” she said in a tone that confirmed it as a correct answer but suggesting there were others also correct. “I held many names and titles, my old friend. What is one of them?” 

A soft smile he could almost swear is only half there. He wasn't sure if it was actually there or the shadows played with his sight. 

He looked at the one he loved. And one he still does love. Time had no hold here, he knew. No matter what had been, there it still was.

What is her name? 

He looked for the name of his beloved but he could not reach it. Out of grasp, tingling just barely beyond. He could feel the water rushing with such force if he had pushed his hand in he would be pulled in and never released. Forever moving, never knowing rest or peace. 

If not name then memories . A few moments ago or maybe centuries or maybe no time has passed but he just reminisced about their past — one tangible memory would be enough to bring it all back to him. 

It was all blurry. Afterimages of what was there. Flashes of incomprehensible colors and shapes, he could not register any of it. Vague. Barely retained any information. 

What is the name? Who is the one he loves before him? 

How can he remember the love but nothing of her? Is it really who he loves or some pretender, spark of his manifestation or reflected sprite coming to his sharp end? 

She looked at him while he traversed the corridors of his memory and he felt as his back pained him and the soles of his boots were trodden and used as if he truly returned after a tremendous journey. 

Weary and worn out, he stood still shackled into the constraints of his own making. But still reaching, trying to find a fragment of what once was. It certainly was , there's no love without memory, without the past. There's no love in the unknowing and unknown. 

There was once love in the unknown and stranger but in the veiled world it's absent or too rare, so rare it's better if nonexistent. Love for the unknown was exchanged for an array of feelings: respect, care, empathy, compassion. Before it all was one, in the new world new languages and new concepts were created. 

And yet here he is, loving but with no memory of who was the person before him. Heart aching, lips trembling in yearning, hands outreaching, asking to be held and invited. 

Soft smile accompanied by the straightened back. She awaited the answer, patiently. He looked everywhere  — he could not find the answers but one. When it dawned on Solas he knew not, she asked again. 

“What is my name?”

“I… I do not know.”

“A truth. One before me and one before yourself. The same truth this time.” No smile anymore but a surly approval with a side of smugness. “Some answers. Where we are is a space outside of the realm and time. This is not Crossroads, this is not Fade. A separate thing; where I roam, where I live, where I rule. As she declared .”

Solas' whole body rushed with hot boiled water like flush only to be drenched fully of all the colors in the next second. The realization struck him. 

He now knew of the one before him. 

Water as the measure of time felt correct to Solas, only right. How it corroded any stone placed against it, hid any sunken ship to be forgotten, and how well it melted into any shape offered. How it meant both life and death. The one he knew to bear both lethality and life behind the element of water he knew well as a young elf. 

Time was inseparable from water and thus Mythal, all-mother bearing the existence of time while Solas bore its sin. It all came back to her. All streams of time all connected back to her. 

“I’m not her. I'm all her followers wished her to be. Their generational manifestation finally came to fruition. I'm fulfilling the role now. It's barely acknowledged by the myths but one of the greatest parts of Mythal were her followers as you well know; the faith they brought and the power she harvested from their devotion. Mythal and I are not so dissimilar.”

“You should not live by what is dictated by others. You shouldn’t, you mustn't sacrifice what's yours for a promise made by another!”

“Who am I to deny them?” Her voice rushed through the empty echoey space and the tunnel halls bringing forth the power of a storm. “What was promised must be paid! Why should their faith and sacrifice go in vain; why should they shatter and disappear as if they never existed, never lived their lives, never sacrificed what was theirs in the name of another — their god? I am willing, Solas. I see their pain. I hear it, I feel it. I feel as if I lived through the lives of each one of them and I know it to be true — they're a part of me as I am of them. They don't deserve to be forgotten. Is this not what you wanted?” 

The answer pained his with the force of every word. The similarity of her sentiment to his own paralyzed him further and he was thankful he was sustained in the stone-like feeling, unable to move. Steady and unshattered. He could pretend once more he could not do anything this time either, he thought to himself. Out of reach and held in inaction. It was both: a curse of bad timing and trying to do the right thing the right way. But there's no right way to win a war but in opposition. 

He was wisdom once. But the wisdom gave into pride quickly as it was what was cultivated and focused on back in the Arlathan and by the words or actions of everyone around him. When both were appeased by the ones next to him he felt correct and vindicated in his ways and his choices until he heard the whines of the Stone and the screeches of the Elvhen sacrificed, abused, and treated as fuel or calculated gain of power. It was difficult then to listen to the reasoning of those in power when he heard, felt, and was the pain caused to the Titans and he witnessed the death of the People who were nothing different or lesser than any of the Evanuris. 

His pride made him align with the Evanuris at first but soon after his pride turned him away from them too towards the belief of his own moral superiority. He wished to trick them all, Evanuris, Titans, and the Forgotten Ones but with every trick came a consequence. His tricks — or plans as he preferred to call them — always bore something unforeseen and almost unrepairable. 

Was this what he wanted? For what he did all of this?

The Elvhen should not be forgotten. Mythal should not be forgotten but Evanuris should not be revered and either forgotten completely or remembered solely as the tyrants he believed them to be. 

He was both pride and wisdom. It had to be him to do the right thing. Only he knew what it was.

He forced himself to break the stone underneath his feet; it shattered into thousands of infinitesimal fragments and they glistened in the clear waters below. He placed step after step, the shattered glass-like stone cut deep into his feet but the water soothed the pain and lulled it back into submission. The cool of the water brought easier passage. 

The Eluvian came alight. The blueish light from the doors outlined her shape as he stepped slowly up the stairs, weary and breathless. 

He thumped onto his knees, giving up his need for control of every situation he was in. The time-tinted memories now freshly returned to him still tumbled at the back of his mind only to be dispelled by her hands outreaching to him. 

Her hands were cold, almost freezing. They used to be warm and inviting, they invigorated whole armies with just one pat at the back. They used to be electrifying, jolting others into action when their reserves and hope were dying. Now they were cold and freezing. 

He caught her hands into his own, trying, desperately, to warm them up. With a feeling of loss and irreversible change he breathed his own warmth into them — without any effect nor change. Her hands were cold, almost freezing. His warm hands seemed almost stuck to her fingers as the cold slightly frosted over his fingertips. 

He knelt before her on the stairs so familiar. So similar to the ones before the Skyhold’s throne. And to the ones he found Mythal placed down on, breathless and lifeless. He clutched her hands first into his, then he pulled them into his chest and lastly his own face, trying to find a way to warm the hands so they felt like the ones he knew before, briefly and only in passing but their warmth burnt it's passageway into the mind and memories of Solas. These hands felt foreign as if made from the softness of brass or the pragmatism of iron. He wished to return the one he loves to this cold statue of the one who stood now before him. 

But her hands were cold, almost freezing and he knew there was nothing in his power to stop this. He had no power over the rush of water or the angered sea. He could sit at the coast and observe it, howl at the reflection of the moon in the glass surface of the easy lake. He could not contain it nor convince it to follow and do his bidding. Water was free and self-governed. Nothing could take a true hold of it as it changed and shaped itself into whatever vessel it was forced into. It shattered all that was against it and nothing could stop the gallop of water waves — all he could do was to only watch it pass to sustain or destroy like a wolf on the coast, unable to interfere with the natural order. 

Once his wishes would be known to her. However now his wishes and what he bound himself to do were in opposition to each other. Spirit against body, love against obligation. He was both pride and wisdom. It had to be him and couldn’t be anybody else. 

Her hands, like a slow trickle of water followed his hands and he embraced her — as she allowed. 

“I feel your mind wander. You may stay, Solas. You can .”

Once again, he said nothing back but pulled her closer in. She smiled slightly, acknowledging the answer.

He knew what he had to do as he saw this before. 

“A truth before both of us now. I understand.”  

He knew what he had to do as he saw this before. Not once, not even twice. It was a maelstrom of memories, a constant constraint whirling unstoppably in his mind when it was at rest. It always caught up to him in one way or another. 

Now his hands were cold, almost freezing when he reached the only doorway out of her kingdom, leaving it all behind and yet still whirling at the back of his mind but dulled further with his own sound of the notes of the water. 

in the map lines i search for your story 

in the sky pigments i look for your presence 

the branches of your memory unfurl 

and i’ll look for you in every light i pass 

the warmth of your presence, it follows me still 

 

the aimed arrow rises between the crowns 

and i’ll look for you in every breathless whisper 

the aimed arrow falls between the feathers and hares 

and there you are, —