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The portrait was beautiful, in all the ways Araniel Lavellan was not.
In it, she was fierce, regal; brown hair flowing like caught in the wind, golden cloak draped over white-gold armor with the Inquisition’s seal molded on her chest and contrasted oddly with the copper tone of her skin. In her right hand she carried the Sword of Mercy (transparent much like her spirit blade was), plunged into the Blighted earth; in the other, the orb, that almost looked like an eye, floated above her open palm in a vivid green glow. Behind her head stood Andraste herself, ready to place a crown of light on her herald. The people in the background, peasant and noble alike, bowed low in clear worship. The Golden City floated above them all, bright instead of black.
To say it was too much for Araniel was a vast understatement.
The woman in the portrait was not her — though as a jaded and faithless Dalish elf who was the head of a force that rivaled several nations, she barely knew who she was anymore. Yet she did know she was not the elf in the painting, someone who was ascending to the bride’s place as if she was some sort of second coming of Andraste. Fated to become a living goddess on Thedas’s soil; a herald of a new age.
It was disturbing. And it was wrong. Even if she had ever wanted it, there was no way such a thing could exist. Not in this world, at least, much as she wanted to leave it at times.
It was a thought that made a flare of ice-cold pain shoot through Araniel’s left hand and up her arm, like a thousand needles plunging into her flesh all at once.
“Ahem. Inquisitor.”
That was Josephine. Araniel blinked, and the world came back to her in a rush.
She remembered that she was holding court, convened to greet the Orlesian ambassador to Felerden, who had stopped in Skyhold on his journey west to the Winter Palace. There had been the exchanging of pleasantries and gifts, followed by the renewed commitment of the Empress’s friendship with the Inquisition. “Know you have her full support at the upcoming Exalted Council,” the ambassador had said, and Araniel had offered her gratitude and thanks, as was expected. (As if the Empress could do little else, she had thought, but only to herself.)
Then came the portrait, three meters in size and needing four elven men to carry it in. The painter, a Messere Perréal, bowed so low to her she was sure he would topple over, expressing his fealty and devotion and love for the Maker. From there, he revealed his masterpiece, in all its blasphemous glory.
Which was where Araniel found herself: The court awaiting her response and Josephine shooting increasingly expectant looks from her position on the lowest step. Messere Perréal was rubbing his hands together in a way that expressed growing nerves, while the ambassador watched her with beady eyes from behind his golden mask.
Araniel winced to herself. Her silence was clearly being interpreted as disapproval, and despite everything, she did not want that. So she made herself put on a smile that would have made Vivenne proud, leaning up in her throne to properly address the court.
“It is beautiful, Messere Perréal,” she declared and the painter’s shoulders sank with relief. “Words cannot express how honored I am to be the muse of the greatest painter of our time, or that you would come so far to present it to us. The Empress chose well in naming you her new painter of the Imperial Court.”
It was all she needed to truly say, the court twittering now that she had given approval. Messere Perréal was shaky in his second bow, thanking her profusely, and she could have dismissed him with a simple nod. From there, court would have moved on, they would have some sort of feast in the evening for their guests, and then she could find the portrait later and burn it until it was nothing but ash. It was all she needed to do.
She, unfortunately, did not do that.
It was almost a compulsion, the pain seizing up her arm, or just that jaded Dalish elf that still made herself known from time to time.
“But perhaps you should cover my ears, Messere,” she continued, in the same approving voice, “so your lovely painting is not ruined when it is eventually decided that they must be docked.”
Silence. A pin could have been heard hitting the ground.
Perréal turned a ghastly shade of white beneath his mask. Josephine looked at her in horror. Even her honor guard, standing aside her throne, glanced at her.
Fenedhis, Araniel thought.
“We shall hang it in our halls,” she said swiftly, to save face. “And we will request permission from the Empress to commission several more in dedication of all the others our blessed Andraste guided during the great war. The late Divine Justinia, perhaps, Messere Perréal?”
“M-My lady,” the painter stammered with a quick bow, and after a moment of delay, the court began to applaud. The situation remedied for the present moment, Araniel threw a fleeting, desperate glance at Josephine. Get me out of this, please, she begged.
Josephine, bless her, understood, and called for the end of court proceedings. Anariel rose from her throne with a declaration of “Her Lady Herald!” from her stewart, and she was followed by her guards as she stepped away from her throne and crossed Skyhold’s Great Hall. As she passed, the gathering nobles parted to allow her through, bowing to her with a soft series of your worship.
Decorum dictated that she had to walk away with grace and serenity. Internally, she could not get away fast enough, but where she was going, she didn’t know until she was there. Her feet were familiar with many of the pathways through Skyhold, but there was only one it returned to again and again. It was no surprise when she found herself in the rotunda, standing before the other paintings of her exploits, forever embossed on the walls.
Since she was there, she sat at the settee by the far wall. As she did, her cumberbund, made of metal and carved into an intricate pattern, dug into her stomach and chest. The pauldrons on her shoulders, carved in the same pattern, weighed on her heavily as well. Yet it was nothing compared to the growing agony in her arm, a pain she was finding more and more difficult to not react to it.
Her guard, and her kin, came to her side. Since he had left his clan to join the Inquisition, he had stayed loyal to her; even when she had removed her vallaslin, much to her surprise. “Lethallan, are you alright?” Loranil asked, crouching down to meet her eye.
“The mark,” she admitted quietly, and Loranil glanced down at it. It flickered a sickly green across her palm, and then its magic flashed up her arm, making her veins throb the same hue.
Loranil whispered to Elgar’nan, before he was back on his feet. “Find Master Tariel,” he ordered her guard, Maxwell, who was quick to thump his chest with a fist and stride off. To the others, he said, “Mind the doors. Keep guests out of the library. Let no one disturb us.”
Her guards rushed to do as told and Araniel could not have been more grateful.
“Ma serannas,” she murmured to Loranil, before she found her gaze drawn back to the rotunda walls. From her position on the settee, she faced the first fresco, with its large eye, the sword plunging toward the ground and, what was still an odd sight for her, the howling wolves. Studying the fresco kept her from thinking about her arm; kept her from thinking about anything really.
Yet as she so often did when she was in the rotunda, she soon found herself lost in memories.
“Why the wolves?”
Solas glanced at her from his desk, where he was sketching out the design for the next section of the rotunda with a piece of charcoal. “Are they not a bad omen in your people’s culture? It seemed … appropriate.”
Araniel twisted around to look at him, surprised. To lend him credit, Solas had been less harsh when giving his opinion on her people since their argument so long ago in Haven, yet she wouldn’t have guessed he was at the point he would knowingly include Dalish elements in his work. It was oddly touching, in its own way, and made her blood run hot.
He was also quite wrong, however. And Araniel was not about to let an opportunity pass to tell him otherwise.
“Fen’Harel is, yes,” she told him, swinging her legs from where she sat on the edge of his desk. Most days, she couldn’t shed her corset and ridiculous dresses fast enough in exchange for a simple tunic, leggings and blessedly bare feet. “Any lone wolf is truly, but you have a pack here, so less so.”
Solas lifted an eyebrow. “A strange distinction, considering.”
“I should point out that one should not so casually invoke him,” she went on, tossing her hair back and reaching up to tap her chin. “He does ward off harmful spirits, however. Which I will explain was your intent if the Dread Wolf ever stops by to ask. I’m sure he will be appeased and come to appreciate his likeness.”
That made Solas’s nose wrinkle. “I imagine such an event would be highly unlikely,” he deadpanned.
It was a thought that had Araniel stop the swing of her feet and think on it. The Dread Wolf’s realm was the Fade, she mused. Surely he was pissed that someone had put a large hole in it, wasn’t he?
“At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t,” she muttered, earning her a scoff from Solas. The thought was quick to pass, and she went right back to teasing. “Would you like to know more about the Dread Wolf, just in case, Solas? He’s not one you should mistake for a regular wolf.”
Solas lifted his eyes back to hers, expression unreadable. In response, she tugged her lower lip between her teeth playfully, and was rewarded when his gaze dropped to her mouth next.
Yet Solas, with an indomitable focus that she would never see dominated, went back to his sketch. “I am sure I have nothing to fear,” he said, casually.
She hummed. “Then let us truly hope Fen'Harel likes your painting.”
Solas was unable to resist the bait, rolling his eyes and scoffing again. She smirked when he looked back at her with a shake of his head.
“Unless I misinterpreted that particular part of Dalish lore incorrectly as well, are you not meant to protect the people from the Dread Wolf?”
Araniel went still, smirk falling. That was no laughing matter.
Yet she did not hesitate. “Yes,” she declared, fiercely, and left no room for doubt.
Solas’s lips twitched toward a rare smile, before he returned to his sketch. “Then, as I said, I have nothing to fear.”
Araniel shivered despite herself. Solas always had the habit of flattering her in ways that made her blood rush. It made her take in a breath; take him in too: The curve of his jaw and swell of his lips; the elegant sweep of his arm as he sketched like he was casting a spell. Under his unassuming tunic, she knew that arm connected to wide shoulders and a firm chest, and was matched with equally muscular thighs. She had only acquainted herself with one of those thighs once so far, but it was an experience forever burned into her mind.
The place between her legs began to ache. Creators, she wanted him.
Yet that moment had passed, and the heat from below began to spread upwards to warm her heart instead. He had thought of the Dalish when creating his masterpiece. He trusted her to protect him. “Your work is wonderous, Solas,” she murmured, twisting slightly to grasp his free hand pressed against the desk. “Truly. Even the gods would covet it.”
Solas lifted his vivid violet eyes back to hers. “They would,” he drawled, with no small amount of smugness. His voice grew dark, deep, luscious, and he leaned in toward her to whisper into her ear.
“Advise them, however, that it is meant only for you.”
“Araniel!”
She came back to the present like she had been slapped, seeing Josephine stride into the rotunda with all the ferocity of a thunderstorm. Araniel’s arm throbbed as if lightning had struck it, spots popping in her front of eyes like drips of falling ink.
“I did commission more portraits,” she said to head Josephine off, blinking to clear her vision. “Celene will be thrilled we’ve acknowledged him. A Ferelden artist as the Imperial Court painter — really, what was she thinking bringing him on?”
That succeeded, but only in taking the wind out of Josephine’s sails. She closed her eyes with a pained expression. “That won’t matter. The whole court heard you,” she moaned. “When what you said gets out—”
“Most of Orlais will agree,” Araniel tried, putting on a weak, tired smile. Loranil, now at the side of the settee, huffed. “I’m sure Leliana will make some sort of decree too. She likes those.”
“Inquisitor, please,” Josephine begged, “Orlais is our only supporter in the coming talks. With you disparaging yourself in front of the ambassador and the Imperial Court painter, and, if we’re frank, questioning the Divine’s reforms—”
She trailed off and a wave of guilt rolled over Araniel. She was compelled to reach out with her good hand to grab Josephine’s, squeezing it tight.
“Josie, please. I am deeply sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. It just slipped out.”
Josephine turned tired eyes to her, but whatever response was on her tongue disappeared when the healer burst into the room. Araniel dropped her hand and Josephine stepped away as the mage, Tariel, rushed over to her. He threw himself to his knees in front of the seat, robes pooling around his feet. From there, he reached for her arm.
“Your worship, I came as fast I could,” he panted, quick to remove her bracelets and rings and push her sleeve up. He lifted his hands over her arm, hesitating briefly, both knowing what was coming. “Please forgive me for this.”
“I forgive you, lethallin,” Araniel promised, and Tariel nodded before he began to cast a healing spell.
Where her arm felt like it had been drowned in ice water, Tariel’s magic was akin to boiling tea being spilled on her flesh. Araniel had to close her eyes to fight back tears, the nausea that had slowly been crawling up her throat all day ramping its way to her mouth. The tiniest whimper escaped her, despite herself, her teeth clenching so tight she was sure they would break.
And then, the magic leveled off. The searing heat cooled, and with it, the pain faded, like she had dipped her arm in a warm bath. Araniel almost sobbed at the sheer relief, but settled for a sigh that bordered on a groan.
“My Lady,” Josephine said so quietly that Araniel forced open her eyes, instinctively wanting to reassure. Yet it would have been a pointless endeavor; not with the tears threatening to spill down Josephine’s face. “By the Maker: It is getting worse, isn’t it?”
It’s killing me again, she did not say. “It’s fine,” Araniel deflected instead through a ragged breath. And it was: Tariel eased off his magic, and the glow of the mark eased with it. “You know it comes and goes. Today. Today is merely a bad day.”
”And yet, there are more bad days than good now.” Josephine shook her head and straightened her shoulders, lifting up her tablet, ready to take a note. “This must be investigated properly. I insist, Inquisitor. I will send missives to the College of Enchanters and the Circle of Magi at once.”
Josephine rarely had terrible ideas, but that was absolutely one of them.
“No,” Araniel almost shouted, but caught herself in time, dropping her voice. “No. You know we cannot let this get out, Josephine. The world cannot know that Andraste appears to have taken issue with the mark still on her Herald’s hand. Not with the Exalted Council mere weeks away.”
If Ferelden somehow didn’t push for their dissolution immediately, this would do it. Orlais would petition to have her replaced, and even Leliana in all her skill and power, would not have a persuasive argument to counter it. Araniel had little hope for her fate, but she did know what fate she did not want for the Inquisition. Not one that led to more war.
“But what is happening to it?” Josephine protested. “It is Elven magic, is it not? Messere Tariel, have you any theories?”
The tips of Tariel’s pointed ears turned pink, and he looked between them. “It is Elven magic, ma’dam, but it is ancient. It is beyond my expertise or the expertise of anyone I know in the College or the Circle.”
“Then we go to the Dalish,” Josephine tried. “Your clan. Any clan. Loranil, have your people returned to the plains?”
“They would not help,” Araniel said quietly before Loranil could respond. He didn’t disagree with her however, which was answer enough.
“There is only one person I know of who can assist,” Tariel cut in. “Master Solas studied the mark extensively, and he healed it before from my understanding. If, perhaps, he could be reached out to…?”
Araniel wanted to laugh, but it would have been a dark and bitter thing more akin to a sob. “I do not believe that is possible, lethallin,” she lied to him. “He has not sent word of his current whereabouts for some time. Besides, you’ve done a fine job. The pain is nearly gone.”
Tariel pressed his lips together, eyes falling to the mark. It sparked the same morbid green, lulled for now. Yet that was the catch: For now.
“Then I do not know what else can be done, my lady,” the mage murmured, “Beyond what has already been done.”
The mark flashed its green again, and Araniel’s eye was drawn to it. She was hit with yet another compulsion, wanting to dip her hand into it, pull the color from her flesh and let it run down her arm. From there, she would slap the color against the nearest surface: all over Solas’s fresco and its ominous wolves; the blasphemous portrait of her in the hall. Or perhaps on herself, until it dripped off her like blood and she became a living portrait instead.
Not a Herald. Not a Keeper. Not an Inquisitor if the Exalted Council had their way. Just her, whatever she was now, doomed to her fate of being eaten alive by the very mark that had created her in the first place.
Yet, she could not let that happen. Not yet. She would accept her fate, but not yet.
“Then we will continue as we have,” she declared, gathering herself together and pushing to her feet. Her legs held, and she was able to compose herself, clasping her hands in front of her and lifting her head high. “And do what we can with what we have, as we have always done. That always has been what the Inquisition has done best, is it not?”
Josephine had tears in her again when she nodded, while Tariel, Loranil and her guards bowed to her. Araniel thanked them, and with one last look at the howling wolves on the walls, she strode away.