Chapter Text
Flowing pink silk brushes against Iris’ legs and an attendant wearing Elgar’nan’s vallaslin carefully pins up the long lace sleeve of her gown, while another applies pink lipstick to her lips. “Our lord despises bright red lips,” the woman murmurs while she looks mournfully at her tube of red lipstick on the vanity. How long has it been since anyone but Dorian has seen her without her red lipstick?
“Your lord. Not ours,” she mutters.
“It will be easier for you if you accept that you are his honoured guest,” the woman pinning her gown, a Dalish woman in her mid-50s says, her tone sympathetic. “He’s accepted you, even though you were marked by the wolf.”
Anxiety roils in her belly as she considers the situation. She is a pretty bird in a gilded cage, but a comfortable confinement is better than chains on the floor. If she plays nicely with her kidnapper, she may gather intel that will be useful when Solas rescues her.
If Solas rescues her.
She’d been careless; in denial that the freed elven gods would give a damn about the long-retired Herald of Andraste, but the gods were watching and Elgar’nan was clever enough to know how to quiet resistance in the south: take their Herald and threaten to give her back in pieces. He knew how to win her cooperation too: all it took was a blade to Dorian’s throat and a whispered promise to spill his blood to create her bindings.
Dorian had tried to fight, of course. Until she asked him not to, agreeing to step into the cage if it would save her best friend’s life. That had been yesterday - the lord was kind enough to grant her a day’s reprieve from the evening meal; time to “adjust to her surroundings”. Her room is smaller than her quarters at Skyhold - about half the size, with a picture window looking out over the Hundred Pillars mountain range. Elgar’nan appears to be courting the Venatori, offering himself up as their god, just as Corypheus did, and the extremist bastards are slurping the man’s shit right up. Elgar’nan’s fortress is elvhen, reminding her of the stone fortresses held by the Orlesians during the civil war, though her quarters are cozier than any she’d seen at those fortresses, with floating candles offering warm light, a large, plush bed with black sheets, a soaker tub that fills with steaming hot water with a tap of a rune that she will never, ever use for fear of leaving herself vulnerable and nude in Elgar’nan’s fortress, and a closet full of gowns tailored specifically for a woman a petite as her.
Solas’ ritual failed two weeks ago, so Elgar’nan must have been planning her kidnapping from the moment he slipped free of his shackles. Why wasn’t she more careful? Why did she think wandering Arlathan Forest in search of any clues about Solas’ whereabouts would be a good idea?
She knows he’s imprisoned in a prison of his own design, but not how to find the prison. She knows Rook’s intervention caused this mess and that the woman is trying to clean things up - and apparently Solas is advising her from his jail cell. Her suspicion is that Solas’ confinement is by choice; a clever way to hide himself from his enemies while using a guilt-stricken Rook as his blade. Still, there’s a good chance he’ll need some help to break free, and she’d sooner have her eyes on her once-lover than leave him alone in a prison to plot outside her notice.
Or, that was her thinking before she became a prisoner herself. Now, Solas is her best hope at escape, which means the situation is dire, indeed.
The woman pinning her gown places a pair of white shoes with a tall heel down in front of her and she shakes her head. “I don’t wear shoes.”
She fucking hates shoes and this isn’t the fucking Winter Palace. Even there, she wound up throwing her heels at one of the assassins who tried to kill her and it fucking worked, because heels are torture devices.
“Our lord prefers tall women.”
“Seeing as how I fail to crack five feet tall, he’s just going to have to get used to disappointment,” she snaps.
“I have my orders, Inquisitor Lavellan.” The woman’s tone turns desperate and she softens, not wanting something to happen to one of Elgar’nan’s slaves simply because she’s too hard-headed to wear heels, and slips them on, wincing as they pinch her toes. Her steps are wobbly; those of a newborn halla as she leaves her quarters, making her way down the winding stone steps to the dining hall, a large, open space in the middle of the fortress. A long, red carpet guides her way and in the centre of the room, at the end of the table, sits Elgar’nan. The man wears his crown, with the tall horns, but his armour is not the heavy armour he’d been wearing when he took custody of her yesterday, but a set of lightly armoured silk robes. When she approaches the table he stands, gesturing to the seat beside him and smiles. It’s meant to be warm, but his eyes radiate a cold so intense it burns and his mouth is just a little too wide, exposing too much tooth and she shudders, making her way to the seat.
An attendant pulls the chair out from the table and pushes it back in once she sits, and places slices of ham, mashed potatoes, peas and a dinner roll on her plate. Another attendant pours red wine into the emerald-encrusted gold goblet that sits next to her silver dinner plate. Elgar’nan, she notes, serves himself. Once her plate and goblet are full, Elgar’nan flicks his hand and the attendants scurry away.
A brush of magic touches her bare hand, similar but not identical to one of Solas’ barriers and she casts, trying to discern the nature of the barrier and Elgar’nan tuts at her as if she were a misbehaving child. “I would not toy with the barrier separating you and I. We would not want to see you infected until you choose to accept my gift, would we?” His tone is that of a man trying to be warm without ever having experienced warmth himself. “Is the food to your liking?”
She hasn’t taken a bite and he gestures to her plate. She says nothing and Elgar’nan slices into the ham on his own plate, bringing it to his mouth, followed by the mashed potatoes and peas, and then finally his own dinner roll. “I would not poison a guest. It is poor form. You eat what I eat.” Quickly, she runs her options through her mind: she can refuse to eat, but is liable to be starved, or she can eat, hope the man is not lying, and try to obtain information on him that will be useful to her allies. With the side of her fork, she tears a chunk of ham and brings it to her mouth. “I will have one of the attendants cut your food until we can have your arm fixed.”
“I do not need help,” she says, narrowing her eyes at Elgar’nan. “Nor do I need to be fixed.” She hadn’t been wearing her prosthetic in Arlathan Forest and has decided not to reveal to her captor that she can cast a spectral arm when necessary, albeit one she cannot maintain for long or use for any fine motor activities. At Dorian’s house she has plenty of assistive devices, including a rocker knife that allows her to easily cut food, but she’d have been shocked if the man holding her prisoner thought to ensure she has access to the tools she’s grown accustomed to.
“You are not whole and my magic can repair what the Dread Wolf stole from you.” He gestures to her, smiling once more. “You knew him well once, yes?”
“We have not spoken in a decade.” The man is fishing, but she suspects he already has his fish on the line and is simply looking to toy with her.
“I have not spoken to him in thousands of years, yet I still know him well, Inquisitor Lavellan. Or, would you prefer familiarity? Iris is a lovely name.”
“‘Inquisitor Lavellan’ will suffice,” she says, gritting her teeth. She’ll not have this man speak to her as Solas once did, even if hearing someone call her by her title makes her bristle every time.
Elgar’nan finishes his own meal faster than she does; the ham is difficult to slice through with her fork, but he does not push and insist someone cut her meat for her - a miniscule point in his favour. “Unlike my once-compatriot, I believe in honesty. Transparency. I am a god, Inquisitor Lavellan,” she resists the urge to roll her eyes, “but so are you. Incredible how the south embraced you - a Dalish elf, to be their saviour. You have power that you tossed away, and that is a shame. Why did you choose the life of a servant to a human politician in Tevinter when you could have been a god?”
“I am no servant to Magister Pavus,” she growls.
“My apologies,” Elgar’nan says, pushing his plate aside and turning to his own gold goblet, taking a long drink out of it. She ignores her own, focusing on the silver cup of water that had been placed, inconspicuously to the side of her. “He is your dearest friend, yes? I did not wish to threaten him, but I do require your cooperation. I am sure you understand the necessity of unfortunate actions in the pursuit of greatness.”
She does, but not in the pursuit of greatness. People died, on her orders, because the alternative could not come to pass. As soon as it became clear the Inquisition was a liability, she disbanded it, walking away from power she had never wanted.
“You will be relieved to know that he is safe; my commander escorted him back to his home in Minrathous. Quite the sharp tongue on him, I’m told. I do have someone keeping watch - the Magisterium is a pit of vipers and I would hate for something to happen to him while his dear friend is away.” She stiffens at the implied threat, glaring at her jailor. “I am sure it will be unnecessary for my man to act.” Elgar’nan takes another drink from his goblet and gestures for an attendant to refill it, as well as her own half-empty cup of water. “Now, the Dread Wolf. You had been detailing your relationship with him.”
She thinks, pondering whether it’s worth trying to lie about the nature of their relationship, given that the man clearly already knows and has someone in place who could harm Dorian if she does not cooperate. “We had been lovers once,” she says, defeated.
Elgar’nan brightens, going so far as to clap his hands. “He always was skilled at crafting a compelling story around himself. This may be his best one yet: the drama of a god seducing a mortal offered apotheosis by the people who picked at the remnants of her ancestors’ civilization? Beautiful. Do you truly think he loved you?”
“Does it matter?” she mutters, staring down at her now-abandoned silverware.
“I find people are most defiant when there is truth spoken, don’t you?” His tone is pleasant and he gives her another one of his creepily kind smiles. “I believe we can come to an agreement, Inquisitor Lavellan. I will not disrespect your station by spinning half truths as your lover is known to do, so I will be blunt: the people of this world know no peace and I will give it to them. I will rule, but do not wish to spill more blood than necessary, and if the… what do they call you? The ‘Herald of Andraste’?” She nods, numb. “If the Herald of Andraste asks the south to bend the knee, the people will. You can save lives with one,” he taps his finger on the table, “single,” another tap, “order,” a third tap, harder than the previous two. She opens her mouth to speak but he holds his hand up, shaking his head and tutting. “I’ll not hear your answer now. You are my guest and I will see that you are cared for, as a woman of your station deserves. Take time to consider your options, and know that I can be reasonable. I am sure we could even come to some form of… arrangement, concerning your former lover. I hear you still believe him to be the pretty picture he painted of himself.”
Elgar’nan stands up, but when she tries to follow, he gestures for her to remain sitting. “It would be rude of me to expect a guest to stand at attention for me, yes? Relax and enjoy my fortress freely. It is, after all, your home now too.”
He walks away from the table, his steps heavy on the stone floor and it is only now that she notices the racing of her panicked heart.