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The truth feels like a rock sinking into the pit of her stomach.
Sawen stares at the mosaic before her with unblinking eyes as the anchor flares to life, green sparks shooting out from the palm of her hand. She can't explain the feeling that overcomes her, nor the echoes of ancient words that whisper in the back of her mind: "The gods, our Evanuris, claim divinity, yet they are naught but mortals powerful in magic who can die just as you can. In this place, we teach those who join us to unravel their lies."
Images flash behind her eyes like rapidly turning pages in a book. She sees them as clearly as a bad memory burned into her consciousness: those she knew to be the Creators, not gods but powerful elven mages, subjugating thousands upon thousands. The faces of the slaves they rule over are freshly tattooed, blood and ink trickling down their cheeks, some of them marked with the very same patterns she herself wears with pride.
The rock sinks deeper, and now Sawen can feel nothing but shame.
Creators, she thinks, and if spoken aloud the word will taste more like a curse now, sour and foul on her tongue. She vows right then and there never to speak it again. What have you done?
The tiles of the mosaic begin to dissolve, peeling back in a flash of green light to reveal another hidden chamber. Sawen shouts as the link between the anchor and the mosaic breaks and pain shoots up the length of her arm. She shakes her hand and waits for the sparks to die before she speaks.
“This claims the elven ‘gods’ were just ‘Evanuris’—powerful but completely mortal mages,” she says.
Her voice wavers, despite her best efforts, and she can hardly believe the words as they leave her mouth. She doesn’t want to believe them, doesn’t want to accept the consequences of their meaning. What other secrets and forgotten truths about her people has she yet to discover?
“Whoever ran this place was trying to rebuild the slaves’ confidence,” The Iron Bull replies. “Get rid of old propaganda.”
Sawen nearly jumps at the sound of his voice, having forgotten about the rest of her party. Her heart races as she shakes her head in opposition. The thought of her religion being nothing more than propaganda fills her with profound anger.
“Then they were not truly gods,” Abelas remarks from behind her.
Sawen turns around to face him slowly, reluctantly, afraid of what she might see. Abelas looks more distraught than she has ever seen him, and the rock sinks even further, now a manifestation of both her grief and his. It twists in her stomach like a jagged knife of betrayal. Abelas already shared with her the story of Elvhenan’s downfall, how the gods were responsible for Mythal’s murder. She has had plenty of time to accept the truth of their misdeeds. But the fact that they were never truly gods at all is something that neither of them could have ever prepared themselves for.
Sawen reaches out and takes Abelas’ hand into hers, squeezing it gently, caring little for their audience. She needs to feel the comfort of his presence, the presence of someone who can understand the implications of this revelation as she does, more than their companions need not witness their public displays of affection.
“If that’s true,” she says, “Fen’Harel was teaching these freed slaves the truth about these ‘false gods.’”
His frown deepens as he turns his gaze to the open archway where the mosaic previously was. Sawen watches him in anticipation, her eyes searching his face for a reaction, for a sign, for anything at all.
“I served Mythal personally,” he says quietly. “I witnessed the immeasurable power she possessed. I stood faithfully by her side for millennia. If she was not a goddess, then...”
“I am so sorry,” Sawen whispers.
Abelas turns to look at her. His eyes are intensely guarded yet glossy with unshed tears, and she can sense the turmoil behind his stony gaze. She squeezes his hand again, and this time Abelas squeezes her hand back and nods, not trusting his voice.
Even so, no more words need be spoken.
-*-
“Well, as expected, the Exalted Council is breathing down our necks.”
Abelas looks up from his lap as Sawen returns to their guest quarters in the Winter Palace. She locks the door behind her and leans her back against its surface, sighing deeply and shaking her head. Her meeting with her advisers went as well as expected, given their current circumstances.
“A group of qunari all but declares war on the Inquisition,” she continues, “yet in the meantime we still have to play politician with pompous shemlen.”
“Is that not already a daily occurrence for someone of your status?” Abelas retorts.
Sawen barks out a sharp laugh and regards him with a tired smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I’ve never had much luck with timing, I suppose,” she agrees.
“Nor when it comes to getting yourself into trouble.”
“That, too.”
She pushes herself off the door and makes her way toward him. In turn, Abelas stands from the edge of their bed and meets her halfway with arms outstretched. Sawen leans into his embrace, grateful for both the physical and emotional support, and rests her head against his shoulder. He moves his hands comfortingly across her back, working the tension out of her muscles.
“Today was...” Sawen pauses, unsure how to describe it. “Well. Long.”
“Indeed,” Abelas murmurs. His hands venture further up her back, massaging her shoulders.
Sawen hums softly and closes her eyes. To her relief, she can feel the stress from the day slowly start to relinquish its hold on her as she relaxes under his touch.
“Creators,” she says, “I—oh, shit—”
She stops abruptly when she realizes her misstep, after having sworn to never again speak that word aloud. A force of habit, yes, but no less discomforting now that she knows the truth, the full extent of their deception against her people. How can she ever refer to the Evanuris as her divine Creators when all they ever did was destroy?
No, she thinks. They are not my Creators any longer.
The reality of it all settles in her mind, planting its roots. Sawen lets out a heavy breath. She feels as though her lungs are made of ice, each breath she takes cold and strained.
“Ancestors guide me, for I have no one left to turn to,” she whispers fearfully. She squeezes her eyes shut to keep the sudden prickle of tears at bay, hiding her face against Abelas’ shoulder.
Abelas takes a step back. He removes one hand from her back and gently cups her cheek instead. He stares into her eyes, his own narrowed into slits, betraying his concern for her. Sawen swallows audibly, clenching her teeth as she tries her hardest not to look away and hide her shame.
“You have me,” Abelas says softly, and then his lips are upon hers.
Despite her best efforts, Sawen can no longer stop the swell of her emotions, and the tears leak from her eyes and roll down her cheeks. She closes her eyes once more and returns the kiss, her hands curling into fists around the fabric of Abelas’ tunic, dragging him closer. His lips are smooth and warm against hers, both a welcome comfort and distraction.
He breaks away from her mouth only a few moments later and begins leaving a trail of kisses down her chin, across her jaw, her neck, stopping only once he reaches her shoulder. He pauses then, breathing in the scent of her skin before exhaling shakily.
Sawen nudges the side of his face gently, wondering why he has stopped. “Abelas?”
Abelas says nothing. His grip around her tightens, slackens, and then tightens again, and Sawen can feel his hands twitch at her sides. He buries his face deeper against the crook of her shoulder, and she realizes then that Abelas can no longer contain his grief, either.
“I’m here, emma lath,” she assures him gently. “You don’t have to bear this alone.”
His tears fall then, silently, and they dampen the skin at her neck. His shoulders start to tremble as he tries desperately not to outright sob in Sawen’s arms. Sawen continues comforting him, stroking his hair, his back, whispering assurances that she is there and that he is not alone.
When at last he lifts his head from her shoulder, his eyes are bleary and bloodshot, cheeks stained with tears that mirror her own. Abelas averts his gaze, ashamed of his vulnerability, but Sawen frames his face with gentle hands and draws him close, resting her forehead against his. Abelas sighs deeply, soothed by her touch.
“I have spent thousands of years living a lie,” he finally says, his voice broken and weak.
“You have not,” Sawen says with a slight shake of her head.
“I have,” he insists. “I chose to dedicate my entire existence to a goddess who was no more divine than the masses she presided over.”
He spits the word out like it’s poison on his tongue. Sawen frowns at the bitterness in his tone, her heart stuttering in her chest. Abelas endured many hardships in his long life; he witnessed the murder of his beloved matron goddess, along with the demise of his people as a result. Now, after all that pain and sorrow, to learn that Mythal was never truly holy...
Sawen swallows against the lump in her throat and fights against her own tears. His sadness is her sadness, and she feels it now more intensely than she ever has before.
“My service was a farce,” Abelas continues. “I was led to devote myself to her under false pretenses.”
“You protected the ancient knowledge of our people from those who would abuse it,” Sawen says, choosing her words carefully. “That still means something. It’s important.”
“She led all of us to believe she was something more than she truly was,” Abelas replies bitterly. “She manipulated us so that we would readily sacrifice ourselves to serve her.”
He stops and takes a moment to collect himself. Sawen strokes her thumbs across the high plains of his cheeks, brushing the wet tracks that still glisten on his skin. She remains silent and patiently waits for him to proceed.
“For ages, I led countless sentinels to their deaths in her name, Sawen,” Abelas finishes gravely. “That is not something I can forgive.”
Slowly, Sawen nods. “And you shouldn't. To deceive you all in such a way, it wasn't right. But, Abelas, you cannot allow your grief to convince you that all you've ever done in life was a waste. That is a dark and dangerous place to be.”
She pulls her face back just enough so that she may look him directly in the eyes, willing him to understand.
“I will not allow it,” she continues. Then, quietly: “Not after the path you've taken has brought you to me.”
Abelas inhales sharply. His expression immediately turns to one of regret. He lifts one hand to cover hers, and his thumb tenderly caresses the backs of her knuckles.
“Sawen,” he whispers. “Forgive me. It was not my intention imply that I regretted our meeting, nor did I mean to take away from your time of grief.”
Sawen shakes her head. “No, it's all right. This isn't easy for either of us. But together we will endure. As we always have.”
Nodding in agreement, Abelas leans forward and kisses her softly. Sawen can taste the salt of his tears on his lips, which only makes her want to draw him closer, kiss him longer. He ends the contact before she has the chance, but then pulls her tightly into his embrace, cradling her to his chest as close as he is able. Sawen sighs and lifts herself up so that she is standing on her toes, wrapping her arms around him.
“I will forever remain at your side,” he declares, the words muffled by her hair.
Sawen feels her throat begin to tighten as fresh tears gather in the corners of her eyes. She simply nods, enjoying the warmth and comfort of his embrace.
What's more is that she believes him, despite having been so sure that she will never have anyone to believe in again.
Elvhen translations:
shemlen - human; literally "quick children"
emma lath - my love