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Being in this world is like walking among the dead.
The past would sometimes come back to Solas in luminous impressions, unfocused flashes. Fading memories of a lost empire, the numina who he called friends, the way spirits once mingled with the material world in a glorious symphony of light and energy, all of that which he knew--gone.
The pain of that loss still debilitates him, millennia later. It makes each step--each breath-- painful with searing grief, but he carries on, for he brought on the destruction of that nirvana, and he is the only one who can undo it. He has to restore what was lost.
Redemption.
For now, however, he must focus on Corypheus, and unfortunately the only way to do so is to heed Lavellan’s instructions. He is the one with the Anchor, and he is the one who must decide the course of things--at least for now. Certainly, answering to the call of a mortal was not his first choice, not by any stretch of the imagination, but there are some things even gods do not have sway over. He finishes healing one of the Iron Bull’s wounds with a flourish of his hand, trying not to think about the futility of this all, how he is working to rescue a world he will only raze when the time comes.
Pointless. But Corypheus presents a serious issue, and Solas helps out of principle. He does not want to cause undue harm before his moment arrives. And of course, there is the matter of the orb. Everything hinges on the orb.
“Thanks, Solas. I think the Boss is hurt too-- stepped in one of those Templar shadow’s traps. You might want to check up on him,” Bull says, flicking his massive head in Lavellan’s direction.
Solas nods, and ducks away from Bull as soon as he is dismissed. it makes him uneasy to be in the presence of the Inquisitor’s companions for too long, in the same way it is uncomfortable to be alone in a room full of corpses, animated by the remnants of an ancient hex. But there is something different about the Inquisitor. Perhaps it is only because he is marked by Fen’Harel’s relic, but there is a certain fire--a trace of life--about him that Solas does not sense in the others. It does not feel quite so wrong to be around him.
“Are you hurt, Inquisitor?” Solas asks, kneeling besides him. He has to stop himself from using Lavellan’s first name--Ambriel. He does not take kindly to the others using it.
“No.”
Stubborn.
Lavellan stands up defiantly, wincing a bit as he puts weight on his right foot. He is smaller than Solas--short even as far as elves go-- and his face is alarmingly youthful, but Solas knows better than to be fooled by this impression of fragility.
“Your leg is clearly injured.”
“And I'm clearly still able to stand on it,” Lavallen counters, eyes aflame and mouth curling into a grimace.
Solas stands quietly and watches the little elf trudge away with his head held high, fixing his Fade-green scarf and pulling arrows out of Templar corpses, particularly mindful of traps that he had not yet triggered. To his left, Varric and Bull exchange exasperated glances.
When Lavellan is finished, Varric urges him to call it a day and let everyone get some rest at the nearby Graves camp. He begrudgingly agrees, after some deft arguments and promises of good campfire stories on the dwarf’s part.
Lavellan’s pride will be his undoing.
Not unlike yourself, a small voice within the back of Solas’ mind says. He chooses to ignore it.
Denial.
***
Solas heals the Inquisitor’s leg without his knowledge that night, back at the camp.
Lavellan falls asleep the instant his head hits the cot, and it is quite easy for Solas to perform work on his wounded leg without causing so much as a twitch. For someone who is usually so alert, he is quite a heavy sleeper, he muses. Perhaps Lavellan is in the Fade at this very moment, dreaming of his Clan and their apocryphal tales.
It reminds Solas of the work he did to keep the mark from killing Lavellan back at Haven. Asleep, the Inquisitor’s features are placid, unmarred by furrowed brow or disapproving scowl. It is only the third time Solas has seen him as such; the second was when they found him in the snow after Haven’s destruction, delirious from exhaustion, close to death.
It had frightened Solas more than he cares to admit.
He does not quite count Lavellan as a friend--the living have never truly been among his friends--but there is a certain kinship that compels Solas to protect him. A common history, a shared heritage. A trace of life. An unpredictability that is unique among his kind, but often ascribed to the Dread Wolf.
Fire.
The material world would be quite barren without him.
Solas takes his leave, before the Inquisitor can wake up and lambaste him for tampering with his clearly-not-injured leg.
He is just a moment too late.
“Solas?” Lavellan’s voice is husky with sleep.
“Yes, Inquisitor?” He turns around and stands primly with his arms on his staff, putting on his best innocent look.
“What are you doing?”
“I was checking for any other injuries. The battle with the Templars even left Bull with some scars. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.” It is not entirely a lie.
Lavellan scoffs. “That's because Bull charges straight into the fray without so much as a damned breastplate. That oaf needs to learn to take evasive action.”
“With all due respect, Inquisitor, he is not all that suited to evasive action--being that he much larger and stronger than you.”
“You say that now, but wait until we get back to training. Then he’ll get a taste of Dalish fury,” Lavellan says, balling one of his hands into a fist and falling back onto his cot, asleep once more.
Solas blinks.
Either the Inquisitor is drunk, or he just managed to have an actual conversation with one of his companions--even if it was just a criticism of one of his underlings.
He allows himself a little smile before exiting the tent.
Fascinating.
***
The calm does not last long.
They had returned to Skyhold shortly after the skirmish with the Templars. Solas had assumed his usual place in his study, adjacent to the Great Hall.
Even from his chamber, he heard the shriek reverberate violently from the War Room.
Solas had later learned from Dorian that Clan Lavellan had been completely wiped out. Leliana’s agents were not able to save them from Wycome’s mercenaries.
People have been avoiding the Inquisitor for days. Even Cole, for whom Lavellan had a particularly soft spot, was not safe from his wrath.
The meek little spirit enters Solas’ study, wringing his hands, looking like a kicked puppy. “I tried to help, but he won’t let anyone in. Locked up, livid, lamenting, doesn’t want to believe it. He hates help, loathes love.” His eyes are big and wet. “I don’t know what to do, Solas.”
Solas puts away the Dwarven manuscripts he was examining.
“You don’t have to do anything, Cole,” he says. He strides over to him and places a hand on his shoulder. “Some people do not want to be helped.”
“But I want to help,” he protests.
“I know.”
Powerless.
Cole looks up suddenly, soot-gray eyes gleaming. “Maybe you can help him! Birds of a feather, plucked from the same wing, perhaps he will listen to you. Yes? You will help?”
Solas is skeptical. He thinks back to the Graves, where Lavellan wounded his leg--he is not one to readily accept aid.
“If I do this, I doubt it will go the way you want it to, Cole.”
“But you have to try. Please?”
It does not take much for Solas to relent. The spirit has always had a way with him. “I suppose.”
He beams. “Thank you!”
Cole can sense that he cares for the Inquisitor. He would not have suggested that if he thought Solas did not want to help.
Apprehension.
The walk to the Inquisitor's quarters feels like a death march.
It pains him, to know that Lavellan had to have a taste what he did so many ages ago, when he fabricated the Veil.
Grief.
He knocks on the door. Places the noose around his neck.
There is no answer.
“Inquisitor?” he tries.
After a few moments of silence, he hears a voice: “Leave me be.”
“It is important to discuss your struggles, lest they fester and consume you.” He pushes on the door--it is unlocked.
Perhaps Lavellan was waiting for him to come.
“There is nothing you can say to me that I haven’t already heard before.” The Inquisitor is sitting cross-legged on his bed, facing away from the door.
“Then allow me to word it in a way that affects you.”
Solas takes the silence that follows as an invitation to continue. “I have experienced loss as well. All those who I once called friend--save the spirits--are gone. I have walked alone in this world for longer than you can perhaps imagine.”
Lavellan is still facing away from him, but at least this time he responds. “What did you do, then? Afterwards.”
“I wandered aimlessly, from place to place. I spent nearly all of my time dreaming, to avoid the despair that pursued me in the waking world. But I did not have people around me who cared for me, nor the structure of the Inquisition to guide me. You do.”
Lavellan shakes his head. “I don’t know why you’re here. Telling me this. I thought you hated the Dalish.”
He truly thinks that?
“I do not hate them, nor do I wish death upon them, Inquisitor. We have had disagreements in the past, but it does not bring me joy to see you or your people in such a state.” Solas rounds the Inquisitor’s bed, to look him in the eye. “It frightens the Inquisition as well, to see their leader balk and crumble.”
“I wasn’t meant for this, Solas, I wasn’t meant for any of this.” Lavellan purses his lips and draws in a strangled breath through his nose. “My Clan and I didn’t even get along. They were all too eager to send me off to the Conclave as a spy. I didn’t expect to feel like... like this.”
“It is difficult to tell how one will truly react, in a moment of distress,” Solas offers. “But they obviously trusted you, to put you to such a task.”
“I was saved only by circumstance. I should be dead, too.”
“You know that is not true.”
Lavellan finally looks up, his fire-brown eyes striking in the evening light. Solas is taken aback; it has been awhile since he felt anyone look at him rather than through him.
“No, Solas, I don't know that. I don't feel like I know anything.” His face contorts like he's just tasted something bitter. “Though you seem to know an awful lot.”
“I know only that which I have gleaned through experience.”
The Inquisitor’s scowl deepens, and Solas takes it as his cue to leave.
Guilty.
***
A few weeks pass, and the Lavellan is back to his duties again. Solas wonders if it is truly healthy for him to forget his grief by plunging headfirst into the arduous work of the Inquisitor, but it is certainly a step in the right direction.
Solas truly does admire the Inquisitor for all that he has done. Had someone back at the Conclave told him that he would feel as such now, he would have scoffed and said they’d had one too much to drink. But he finds himself in awe of Lavellan’s heightened perception, his rare spirit, his ability to persevere in the face of hopeless odds. He did not think he would ever come to count the Inquisitor as an equal.
Enamored.
If anyone deserves to know the truth, it is him.
He finds the Inquisitor just emerging from Cullen’s office, marching stoically across the battlements, thoughts probably racing with different plans and all the complexity of military stratagem. Solas climbs the stairs to meet him. “Inquisitor. A word, if I may?”
Lavellan nods, and begins heading towards the edge of the battlement.
“No, not here--I’ve something to show you.”
Confusion is plain on Lavellan’s face for a moment, but he swiftly follows behind him. Solas is warmed by the apparent trust the Inquisitor has in him.
“Don't worry, it is not far.”
Gratitude.
***
“The Veil is thin here. Can you feel it?”
Lavellan’s head swivels around slowly, taking in the cascading waterfall, the lush scent of lilies and pond grass, the effervescent prickling of magic on skin.
“Yes, I think I can.” He looks at Solas, cocks an eyebrow. “Why have brought me here, exactly?”
“I was… trying to determine some way to show you what you mean to me.”
Lavellan’s expression changes. If Solas had to quantify it, he would say it was a mixture of confusion, offense, and skepticism.
“What do you mean,” he says flatly. It is less a question than a demand for an explanation.
“You have shown a wisdom beyond what I thought possible of worldly people. You are intriguing, Inquisitor, but more than that, you are kind.” He steps closer. “Long ago, you asked me why I did not share the wisdom I gathered from the Fade with the rest of your people. I did not think they would listen, but you--you are different.”
Lavellan considers this, but still seems troubled over the implications of it all. He shuffles ever-so-slightly away.
Solas continues, “I saved your life once, but you have saved mine many times over, in battle. The best thanks I can offer... is the truth.”
Lavellan’s gaze hardens into a glare. “The truth?”
“Yes. In all Thedas, I never expected to find someone who would share my inclination towards these matters. You have become important to me, Inquisitor.”
Solas expects a reaction--this is the best declaration of his feelings that he can muster--but he receives none. Silence reigns, and Lavellan’s gaze still lies on him, hawk-like and expectant. Solas decides to oblige him.
“Your face. The vallaslin. My journeys in the Fade--I have seen things. I have discovered what they truly mean.”
“They honor the Elven gods. Mine is for Mythal, specifically.”
“No. They are slave markings. Or at least they were in the time of ancient Arlathan.”
There is a long pause. The two elves stare at one another.
“That…can’t be. You're wrong.”
This takes Solas slightly aback. He was expecting Lavellan to be more receptive.
“No. Elven nobles would mark their slaves to honor their patron god. When Arlathan fell, the Dalish forgot.”
He suddenly wonders if this was a good idea. “I'm sorry, Inquisitor. I do not tell you this to upset you. I only thought you deserved to know the truth.”
Silence again. Lavellan turns his gaze to the ground.
Solas gestures with his hand, summons a blue light that makes Lavellan squint. “I know a spell. If you like, I can remove it for you.”
“No.”
“Are you--”
“No!” Lavellan rounds on him suddenly. The light peters out. It is Solas’ turn to back away.
“Is this your idea of a friendly consolation, then? Is it?”
Before Solas can answer, he continues, “First Corypheus, then the death of my Clan, and now this--this. Why else would you tell me that, other than to hurt me? Does smearing shit in the face of my traditions please your spiritual sensibilities, Solas? Hm? Does it?”
The way Lavellan spits out Solas cuts him like a knife.
“It was selfish of me. I'm sorry. I thought--”
“It was selfish of you. And you shouldn't have said it.”
Lavellan leaves without another word. Solas remains in the glade, arms dangling listlessly at his sides, watching him leave. Whatever thread of trust there is between them has just been severed.
Perhaps Lavellan was not the man he thought he was, after all. Neither hound nor wolf could have seen this coming.
Regret.
***
The next time they speak to one another, there are no more pretenses.
The Anchor is killing him.
Agony.
Time is running out. Solas knows what he must do, but the Inquisitor refuses help, one last time, in true Lavellan fashion.
“Please, Inquisitor--”
“No. Get away from me.”
“Ambriel, the mark is killing you. Doing this will allow me to save you, at least for now.”
“You sure have a funny way of saving things, don't you?” Lavellan snarls, distorting the vallaslin on his cheeks.
Another pulse from the Anchor.
Torment.
Torment, on account of Fen’harel’s orb. Just another thing he has done to hurt Ambriel.
Lavellan falls to the ground. A few pained moments pass, and his suffering must have moved him to accept the offer, because he offers his trembling hand out with a heavy sigh. Despite this, when Solas lowers himself to cast the spell, he warns, “I will stop you.”
Solas meets his gaze somberly. “I have no doubt you will try,” he says quietly.
“You will regret letting me live, Fen’harel.”
Hatred.
It is not a prediction. It is a promise.
The Dread Wolf has made his last mistake.