Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

Before comes After

Her side hurts, but then her everything hurts - painfully so. The moments leading to her waking are a complete blur, well, not completely. She can recall the sharp tip of the lyrium dagger wedged deeply in the soft spaces between her ribs, the burning sting of its overwhelming raw magic flooding her system - foreign and wrong. Her hand is pressed there now, to reduce the ache and slow the bleeding. And she groans as her lungs expand with a deeply needed inhaled breath and the pain resonates anew. 

She blinks against the sun, the thick curtain of golden yellow fraying the edges of blackness lingering at the ends of her vision. She holds up her free hand, the one that isn’t pressed to the bleeding wound, and shields her face from the intensity. It wasn’t sunny before, or at least she doesn’t think it was sunny. She closes her eyes again, brow furrowing in concentration, as she thinks on before in comparison to now. The sun was red, a sickly crimson sphere in the nighttime sky, wrong and unnatural - a festering infection bleeding taint into the world. She can recall her magic wavering in response, the second the moon passes between the world and the sun, and then it snaps - hard and taut like a bowstring - and flares with something unknown. 

The ground beneath her feet then isn’t ground, but polished stone, gleaming bright with a lavish luxuriousness of no ordinary room. Marble, she thinks, squeezing her eyes tighter, it's the polished marble of an audience chamber. The world spins, or no, it’s not the world - it’s always turning and spinning naturally - it’s the room, ascending and rotating in time with the synchromatic resonance of the Fade. 

She moves her hand to the ground beneath her now. She’s laying atop grass, it is soft, damp, and untainted. Against her better judgment, she breathes deeply again, her nostrils flaring and can smell the freshness of her surroundings. That’s good, she thinks relaxing somewhat, her tense muscles melting at the meager reassurances. This is how it should smell. 

The sound of rushing water makes its way to her ears. It’s fast, crashing and splashing in a large body with the immense power and force of nature. Her mind flickers to the image of a waterfall. The bubbling, spitting waters spilling and slapping against massive rocks nestled in the sediment at the bottom of the lake. She hesitantly opens an eye, the Spring hued iris constricting and dilating in response to the brightness, and once her vision clears, it’s as if the world has been born again. 

There is something beside her, hovering silently near her injury, and she realizes with a subtle turn of her head that it isn’t human. 

“You have an unnatural opening,” the disembodied voice says from lips that aren’t lips. “You are seeping liquid onto the ground - are you in need of assistance?” 

Spirit. The word flashes searing white hot in the looking glass of her mind’s eye and brands her. 

“You are one of the People,” it says resolutely, “I have helped many of your kin before. If I can help now, I shall do what is within my purpose. It looks very painful. But then, I have never understood the necessity of a physical form, though I do not begrudge those who take one.”

She splays fingers reflexively against her wound. Her fingers are stiff and crusty with dried blood, though the wound has yet to actually stop bleeding, but it is slowing - if only marginally. 

“You are -” she begins, throat dry and harsh from lack of use. “A spirit of Compassion?” her tone is confused, the infliction wrong. She meant to say it as a statement of fact, rather than a legitimate question. She learned, somewhere, how to identify spirits based on their shape and their purpose. 

There is a humming eagerness that vibrates the air around them. She can equate it with happiness, she thinks, or maybe, possibly excitement - the two are difficult to differentiate for non-emoting spirits - but it feels her with a warmth she hasn’t felt in a long time. 

Tendrils of white extend with grasping, groping fingers that aren’t real fingers, and crawl inside the wound. She winces, a sharp gasp of pain hissing through clenched teeth, as if the spirit of Compassion is opening the gash further. The warmth continues to spread, a warm blanket spread over chilling limbs, and she finds herself easing into the comfort of the healing embrace. 

The wind stirs the grass around her. It’s an undulating wave of green that tickles the naked parts of her. 

Compassion continues to work, stitching her flesh with a healing magic that she can taste in her blood. It’s not any sort of healing magic a physically formed person can do, not with the limitations possessing a form brings, the magic slips into the fibers of everything that is her - all the pieces that make her a person - and instructs them to make more of her, somehow. 

“You know of Spirits of Compassion?” it asks, a gleefulness in its tone that makes her reluctantly smile. 

“Yes,” she croaks, then coughs. The spittle is red when she does so. She can see it plainly on the recesses of her vision as she looks down her nose. The smattering of red is miniscule by comparison to the sticky wetness pooling around her. Her clothes are heavy with it, saturated by the weight of her life as it seeps from where it belongs. “I have met many Spirits before and I am fond of Compassion.” 

Compassion gestures in a way that can pass for a nod of agreement or perhaps acknowledgement, she can’t fully determine which at this particular moment, and resumes its work of aiding her.

“And what are you called?” Compassion asks, white curling tendrils slipping in-between organs and bones. “These forms assume names, do they not? Not with purpose, as Spirits do, but with something else. I cannot think of the word.” 

She coughs again, digging blunt nails into the soft earth and bearing down against the pain. “Sometimes we are named with a purpose - not one we give ourselves, but by those who…” she pauses thinking of how to explain birth to a Spirit, and then mildly wonders if it perhaps already understands. “Who create us - that bring us into the world.”

Compassion seems to dwell on this for a bit, a conflicting notion against an understanding it already has on physical formed beings. “Those that look like you, assumed a form after departing the world of the Dreaming, they had names already, but took others. My favorite is not far from here. He can help - he is good with helping. He can help with a name if you do not have one or…” it reconsiders, then adds, “If those who created you did not give you a name.”

She smiles, despite herself. She thinks about the name she was given - Rook - and why the name stuck. She loved Varric for it, and thinking about it now hurts - more so than the stab wound does. It doesn’t fit, not anymore. She is no longer that person, the person who was and became Rook. That person was stabbed and died in the Fade.

“My adoptive father named me Jonquil,” she says, the name sounding foreign on her tongue after so long. 

Compassion tilts its head. “Like the All-Father?” then it shakes, a shiver or chill reverberating through its long, curling body. “He does not care much for spirits. Not now that he has taken a physical form.” 

All-Father. Elgar’nan. Right, how could she forget him. 

“Yes and no.” is all she can manage to say. 

“Well!” Compassion exclaims suddenly, its slick body slipping free from hers. “You are done, though I cannot fix the aches, the wound itself is healed. You will feel better soon.” its inner white light flickers, like a candle flame in the wind, but it returns to a steady glow after a moment with little to no reaction from Compassion itself.

She leans up slowly, bracing herself for the wave of pain that’s surely to come, but when she’s upright the ache is dull as if days old rather than the mere hours it originally felt like. Hair the shade of amber spills down and over her shoulder in a tumble of soft, clumped waves. It’s matted with blood and grime, but she’s hardly worried about it - all things considered - at least she is alive with hair to possibly worry about. 

“Do you require assistance standing?” Compassion asks, fluttering about her with the nervous energy of a hummingbird. Wing like tendrils, four writhing appendages on each side, searching and feeling the air around it like the flicking tongue of a snake. “I can help you stand, it can be difficult after such an injury.”

She rocks to her feet, the momentum builds just enough for her to stand, but maintaining a sense of balance after lying for so long, is another story entirely. She careens to the right, her body falling over in slow motion, and she can see and feel the fall before she actually hits the ground. Compassion is there, hovering above her face as she peers up through partially grass covered vision.

“I will help,” it says.

And so it does. 

Compassion helps her walk to the lake, supporting her with unseen hands that tingle like magic as they move. It's not far from where she fell, just a few paces, though it feels, in truth, like a mile. She leans down unsteadily, feeling very much like an ungainly newborn halla, and with knees folded beneath her body she cups her hands to gather water and splashes it on her face. The coolness is nice - refreshing - and makes her feel clean in a way she hasn’t in a long time. She drinks too, very deeply, with an unstated thirst that threatens to drain the entire lake. 

Compassion hums. “You will make yourself sick drinking so quickly.”

She knows it's right, but she can’t help herself. She feels as if she is dying of thirst. 

Birds call overhead and trees sway to the music of the wind. Even the fish, dwelling unbothered in the clear water below her, spin and twirl in their watery home to the muted tune. She closes her eyes thoughtfully, her body involuntarily swaying to the song the wind sings. She can hear it. It's not uplifting or joyous, but it's beautiful all the same - hypnotic in a way. 

“Compassion, do you know where the nearest settlement or village is?” she turns to ask, face dripping with water. “How many days of walking would you guess?”

“The capitol is not far,” Compassion replies, looking in the direction she can only assume is where the capitol resides. “Not so far that you cannot reach it before nightfall.”

She thinks on this and nods, though a sense of dread is building in her gut. 

“I’m going to bathe, or at least attempt to here before we get moving.” She says, unclasping the ruin that is her armor. Thankfully, it's lighter armor and so it doesn’t take long to remove the gold inlay scaled breastplate and the half scaled guard-brace. “Do you think your friend will be able to help me with supplies and maybe a place to sleep tonight?”

Compassion jumps up and down excitedly, glad to have another task that will help. “Yes, yes! I will retrieve him. My friend will know what to do.” 

And before she can stop Compassion, it's flying off and out of sight. 

She heaves a heavy, world weary sigh and immediately regrets it as her chest constricts and her body throbs just underneath the bottom of her rib cage. Right. The pain is still there, Compassion told her as much. Be mindful of the pain. 

She finishes undressing, slipping free of her tunic, breeches and undergarments and then sinks into the glassy depths of the water. The sigh that escapes her this time is less painful, thanks to the cooling, medicinal effects of the pure water. It massages her aches in a way, much like Compassion, but is less intrusive. She walks to the center of the lake, her toes disappearing under the disturbed muck and sediment at the bottom, and watches as the shimmering surface rises just below her chin and washes away the dried blood on her face. 

She floats for a time, minutes or hours, she really can’t say for how long, but the time she spends doing so is blissful. She feels weightless, buoyed by the selfishness of the moment, because for at least a little while she cares about absolutely nothing. 

The moment is interrupted by the crunching of gravel beneath unadorned feet. Her eyes are closed, basking in the wonder that is the cool, crispness of the lightly lapping water, but she hears them both just fine. Compassion has returned with their friend, she can feel the stirring of their presence like a magical signature buzzing in the air, but the friend they mentioned…

“Are you unwell?” the all too familiar voice asks, and her eyes snap open in utter horror.

She turns her head, hesitantly, reluctantly, with the horrific resistance of someone refusing to face down death when it beckons them to the Great Beyond. “Compassion sought me out and informed me that there was one of the People injured here in the forest.”

The pieces fall into place heavy and thick as lead. One, two, three, but it's only the edges. The pieces that encompass the perimeter, denying her the whole picture, but she can see it beginning to shape and she knows then exactly what's happened. 

“Here, this is my friend,” Compassion near squeaks, a giddy elation reverberating them like an instrument in need of a honing tune. “He who once was Wisdom is now Solas. Solas, this is my new friend - the hurt one - she is called Jonquil. I helped her to fix her hurts, but she requires more.” 

She shifts her head, the slightest fraction of an inch, the left side of her face and vision skewed by the glittering jittery surface of the water as it dips below. It slices her peripherals in two creating mirror images of what she sees and what she remembers. 

It is him, but it isn’t. He’s young, younger than she’s ever seen him even in those shadowed memories harbored and sheltered in the heart of the elusive Crossroads. But there’s no denying it's him, even with the branding of Mythal’s vallaslin across his cheeks and forehead. The smug, regality of his features and posture. Cheeks refined and sharp enough to cut the thickest glass, the slightest dip in his chin - hinting at the only flaw in his otherwise perfect visage - and those burning, haunting violet eyes. Gooseflesh breaks out across her skin the moment his eyes settle on her own but she tries to dismiss it as a chill from the water. 

She realizes belatedly that she is utterly, embarrassingly naked, and she scrambles to the water edge where he stands to seize her clothes. 

He lifts a thick curious eyebrow then turns to face Compassion, the same questioning look on his face. He has hair like he does in his memories and regrets, the cascading chocolate hair with the sides shaved just barely to the scalp. He appears unsure, like she’s something he can’t quite figure out, or that he knows without knowing is out of place, somehow, someway. 

The recollective rage of the past fills her then. She grits her teeth, her jaw tense and working as she tries to tamp down the fiery anger of contempt she feels for him. He sought to destroy the world. He is a liar. The God of lies, treachery and rebellion. 

Eyes of green fire flare, then momentarily cool as he extends a gloved hand to her by way of offering assistance. With deliberate movements, she slips her tunic over her head to cover her bare breast and pointed nipples - the bare minimum she should have done - and accepts his expectant hand. 

“Come, I will take you to the best healer in Arlathan. Compassion is a great healer, but there is still for them to learn about the vulnerability of physical forms.” He offers Compassion an affectionate smile, then returns his focus to her. “You are called Jonquil - like the flower? Can you walk? The distance is not far.”

She slides her hand in his and though it’s covered a stringent heat floods her palm and she immediately wants to snatch it back, but her minor hesitation prevents her from doing so. “Yes,” she replies simply.

“Well, Jonquil, you may call me Solas.”

The Fox and the Wolf live together in harmony. The harmony is afforded to the Fox because it is the weaker of the two - she knows this - and she is sure to always please her Wolf neighbor while being ever mindful of what he asks of her. The Wolf uses this to his advantage season after season and manipulates the Fox into doing his bidding. Whether by subtle suggestion, cleverly veiled threats, or outright angry demands - the Wolf finds a way to get what he wants. 

One Winter day, he demands the Fox find him food. She does so, eagerly, willingly, but cautions him against gluttony and pride. Do not eat so much that we cannot feed ourselves for the rest of Winter. The Wolf dismisses her concerns knowing that he has stores of food he’s squirreled away from other endeavors.

The Wolf demands more, for he needs to be full and well to sustain body fat and heat throughout Winter. And so she brings him more, only this time, she steals a lamb from a nearby farmer. Discontent with just one, the Wolf desires more. And so when he watches the farmer, notes when he tends to his herd, monitors the fence, and butchers two lambs once every six days, but he cannot find an opening small enough for himself to slink in to steal another lamb. 

His hubris prevents him from surrendering to humility, and so when he goes to Fox he shares the knowledge he has learned by watching the farmer, and begs the Fox to steal three lambs this time instead of just one. The Fox warns the Wolf that the farmer will notice if three lambs are missing, but she tells him of a possible plan - The wolf will dress himself in the fleece of the dead lamb so that when the time comes to count for the farmer’s herd it will only look as if two are missing - the two set to be butchered.

The wolf agreed, deeming the plan one without folly, so as the wolf dressed in the fleece of the lamb and played the part of a lamb by making bleating noises, the Fox used her secret entrance to enter the lamb pen and steal two lambs without being seen by the Wolf or the farmer and thus left the wolf to either reveal his true nature to the farmer or remain forever in disguise.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

Ghilan’him Banal’vhen

Jonquil is in awe of Arlathan. In its proper impressive glory, the seat of the elven kingdom is nothing short of beautiful. Solas and Compassion lead her to the beating heart of the city, it thrums and pulsates with unforeseen raw magic - itself a living organism. It's natural here, like breathing, and it is interwoven into the fabric of everything. She has to remind herself, as her eyes roam every inch of the architectural marvel, of how all this is possible. Not by any true greatness of the elves, but instead from the stolen blood of the Titans. Right. Can’t forget that. Its the lyrium that makes all of this possible.

 Towering golden crystalline spires float above the gilded streets littered with elven people. They bustle around them, eyeing her with curious caution, as they go about their business carrying loads of goods or shuffling away to tend to market stalls or mind whatever tasks set before them by their masters. And they have masters. Each is marked with the vallaslin of the evanuris. She remembers the tales, but wonders exactly when it all started - at least from this point of when - and thinks its thought better kept to herself. 

Jonquil looks to Solas, bedecked in lavish flowing robes of lapis lazuli and gold, a twisted glittering chain interwoven along his right forearm bearing the mark of Mythal - similar in many ways to her branding vallaslin - and hints of the natural world sew into all that covers him. Leaves stitched with thread of gold along his broad shoulders, corporeal figures - the People- depicted in shades of sapphire at the edges of his coattails, and animals, many, many animals. The style is reminiscent of the murals at the Lighthouse, the ones tied to his regrets. She wonders off-handedly if this is where his sense of creativity stems from. And it is both the most casual and normal she’s ever seen him. Before, it was all twinkling polished armor imbued with ancient magics, he’s a warrior and a general in his own right…and now, he’s just a nicely dressed man. Like all those she’s seen in Orlais or Nevarra.

The People, the shades of elven dressed in sheaths of plain cloth, appear more like phantoms than the legendary immortal elves of ancient times - true proud elves, the Dalish call them. There is a haunted fear brimming in all of their eyes, an uncertainty of what tomorrow will bring, of what the fabled evanuris will do, or perhaps they worry for meat, mead and their families, just like elves of she’s come to know and call her people. 

Her people believed the Elven pantheon - the Evanuris or Elven gods - were the fabled beholders of all that constitutes being elvhen. But here they aren’t fabled, here they are leaders - revered war generals even - and they protect those that bear their names…at least initially. She shivers against the truth of what they will become, what she presumes they become, only this time it's not just two elven gods, it's the entire pantheon.

“We are passing through the heart of the city, Jonquil.” he tosses over his shoulder, as she trails behind him like a lost mabari puppy. “It is from here that you can find all that you need, the best food and drink, even a room to rent for the evening, and it is easy to navigate to places beyond.”

“Beyond?” she finds herself asking, somewhat unintentionally. “What’s beyond?”

He thinks on this, his steps faltering only slightly and he turns to glance over his shoulder to assess her once more. “There are many places beyond Arlathan. What resides in its entirety is all of Elvhenan, the great Kingdom of our People, and then there are lesser beings such as the beings that scurry from the stone that dwell beneath our places - the Durgen’len, and -” he pauses abruptly and stops walking completely. Compassion floats at his shoulder, its radiant white light glowing brightly and patiently as it looks between them both expectantly.

Jonquil catches herself just before slamming into his back. The suddenness hurts her feet - she isn’t unaccustomed to traipsing around barefoot - but she attempts to play off what happened by feigning  interest in the massive aravels lining the opposite side of the now cobbled streets.

“Where are you from?” he asks, “To whom do you belong? You do not bear the vallaslin - so you do not serve the Evanuris - so you must instead come from one of the tribes at the edges of the forest. Those that linger in the shadows, yes, that must be it.” he begins to circle her, determining for himself exactly where she must belong. 

She feels beads of sweat gather along the length of her back and even form and gather beneath her brows. Jonquil clears her throat, a stalling tactic because honestly what did one say in this particular situation, and the answer came to her rather dully in a moment of sheer panic. 

“I don’t remember,” she says, the slight hitch in her tone conveying a newly forming fear, or confusion - that quite frankly she didn’t actually feel - but that she realizes she needs to force in order to be convincing. “I think I hit my head at some point after being attacked. Or perhaps afterwards, on a rock or something else…”

“Attacked?” he asks, surprise coloring his words. “Attacked by what?”

She winces her hands flying frantically to her head as if to gingerly touch an injury. She’s laying on the dramatics a bit thickly for her tastes, but this is the Dread Wolf before her, or at least the man who would one day become the Dread Wolf, and thus it seems justified, if not somewhat necessary- at least for now. 

“Oh, does your head hurt?” Compassion asks, leaving the comfort of Solas’s shoulder to inspect Jonquil’s head. “There is no liquid present, I see no bone or leaking flesh, but then it is difficult to tell due to the immensity of your hair.”

“I…I,” she begins, her brain scrambling. She winces, this time the pain is real, but not from her head, it is instead from the newly healed stab wound. It burns slightly, as if the lyrium dagger is still embedded there, and a series of curses come to mind. 

“We would do well to hurry. While I am versed in several spellcrafts of healing, what has happened to you may require a deft touch - a more specialized hand than my own. Come, the palace is not far and it is possible that Mythal can help you.”

“Mythal?” again, an asked question that should have been rhetorical. Of course Mythal is alive and well, why would she presume otherwise? But, she supposes that she’s still attempting to catch up, in a manner of speaking, to wrap her head around the idea that she’s in the past. She thinks again, back to the murals, back to the regrets, and attempts to determine when in the past exactly. It's not a great frame of reference, even if the understanding she retains she will forever be an interloper on the matter. And yet…now she’s a displaced interloper witnessing the past firsthand. Creators above, now her head really does hurt.

They press on up the streets with the wary eyes of the People on them. The immense city is sectioned off in tiers, or more aptly carefully constructed rings that separate the common places from those of either esteemed rank or nobility. The change in scenery, from the shimmering expensive materials used to form buildings and shape homes, to the near pristine nature of streets with lush green accented gardens or marble spewing fountains veined blue and humming with magic. 

The familiarity of the floating stone bridges floods back to her in a wave of memories from all the time spent hunting the elven gods in her future. The energy crystals hover and rotate above the carefully constructed bases, the same thrumming magic that runs like blood through the entirety of the city sings a lyrical song that calls out to her own magic. It’s like a siren’s call, beckoning her closure, lulling her into a false sense of security with the promises of oneness or wholeness. Or, perhaps the sense is not false at all, it's a guarantee because here in this time it can actually be fulfilled. 

Jonquil becomes painfully aware of how different she truly is as an elf in these ancient times as she stands beneath the curling golden pillars of the palace. All whom they have passed are pale, tall, willowy beings with pointed tipped ears far larger than her own. They look similarly, as if each elf is a carbon copy of the other with the only divergence being in their shade of hair coloring, but even those are plain by her future’s standards. What’s the common human saying, standing out like a sore thumb? Well, she’s never been more keenly aware of the saying until now - elven features aside. 

“Do you spend much time outdoors - in the sun?” Solas questions, as if reading her thoughts. 

The armored sentries stationed at the mountainous oaken doors, the full height reaching that of the palace itself, acknowledge their entry with a head nod before tapping gemstone encrusted staffs and revealing the grand hall to them with an audible groan of wood and metal. “I have never seen one of the People with that particular brown shade of skin. I assume that it is perhaps caused by long laborious days beneath the heat of the sun or perhaps…” his voice trails off in thought.

“And your hair, is that magic of some kind? It is so very red. I am not familiar with that particular spellcraft…or the need for such.” 

She blinks, unsure of how exactly to respond. 

“It is indeed very much like the sun.” Compassion pipes up, “a combination of the sun and fire. The color changes and shifts in the light, like when a puff of breath causes the flame to flicker.” 

“It has always been like this,” Jonquil says, “It is no more magic than anything else. I suppose.” 

A long intense silence punctuates the air between them. Solas is contemplative, a characteristic she is grateful is still a constant given how much everything else isn’t, but of course she can’t speak to it. They’ve only just met, after all.

Statues lined the long hall and chiseled frozen eyes peered down at them in judgement as they passed beneath their looming presence. There were a number of other halls that branched off from the main. Jonquil took note of them as Solas led them up a spiral staircase. How many hundreds of thousands of elven servants lived here? How many walked these expansive halls utterly unimpressed and numb to the wondrous nature of its existence? All of them. She knew. 

After a time, they are deposited into another large hall with a series of golden studded doors inwardly lining the space, like books tucked neatly on a shelf, with each door labeled with an ancient elvhen writing just above the door frame. Solas walks three doors down, hands folded properly within themselves behind his back, and knocks on the fourth.  

They wait for a moment, Compassion floating and trilling at Solas’ side merrily as they did so and while waiting Jonquil’s mind starts to drift and she absently questions the ancient elves concept of distance and time as she flexes and stretches her toes.

Eventually the door does open and an ancient elf, older than Solas in appearance, more akin to an actual elderly elf - which seems more out of place than she somehow - stares at them skeptically with one hand posed over the golden door knob. 

“Ah, Grand Healer, we are in need of your well practiced hands.” Solas says, as he steps aside to reveal Jonquil fully. “Jonquil was injured whilst in the forest and she could use your healing touch to ensure all is as it should be. Compassion here has done what it can, but alas it possesses no great understanding of flesh and the hurts that can reside beyond the obvious.”

The Grand Healer strokes his chin thoughtfully, seeming to mull over whether or not it was worth the waste of magic to heal Jonquil. 

“Have you informed our High Lady?” His voice dipping into wariness as his amethyst eyes roam over Jonquil. She is filled with the inclination to sneer or hiss, either she feels will do in the moment, but given the time and place she refrains. “I doubt she will approve of such riff raff wandering about this illustrious hall. Is she even clean? She will sully the floors.” he sniffs in her direction but rather than speak to her personally, it's more so sad as if she actually isn’t there or truly a person - ah, now the pretentiousness makes sense. 

He claps the Grand healer on the shoulder companionably and with the gesture Jonquil thinks how unlike Solas. But he smiles, a stunning, brilliant smile that reaches those enigmatic violet eyes and she immediately looks away - the confliction of emotions with just how sinister that smile becomes too great to bear witness too. 

Her side aches along with her ribs and truthfully, she’s been suffering from several head splitting spasms at the base of her skull since leaving the depths of the forest. She’s pretty certain they have to do with this place and how disjointed the entire situation truly is, but since elusive time magic isn’t her speciality Jonquil can’t speak to the actual percentage, so she surmises it’s more of a highly intuitive hunch rather than fact.

“Do not fear, Grand Healer, I go now to speak with her. She will undoubtedly wish to be appraised of our guest - more so than any of the evanuris, and hearing such news from my lips will go a long way in regards to making the others more amenable to providing her shelter.” he turns to her then, a swish of brown locks and piercing eyes. “The Grand healer will see to your hurts and look after you until I return. I’ll be sure to send for more appropriate garb as well. You will desire to be dressed more, ah, comfortably before appearing before Mythal.”

The healer grumbles something lowly in nearly incomprehensible ancient elven to her ears, but permits her to enter the room. 

“I shall stay and wait with her!” Compassion trills, eagerness seeping from its spiritual frame like blood that won’t clot. It’s overwhelming and influences Jonquil’s mood, if not slightly, and it's an uncomfortable disembodied feeling to know something outside of yourself can have the power to sway what is meant to be so inherently personal. Kind of like Bellara, in a weird way. The infectious spirit of indomitable kindness. But then, she guesses that’s part of Compassion’s purpose. Solas departs with a conveyance of his gratitude for what she can only assume is some grandiose audience chamber where Mythal must be.

In that fleeting moment, before she is ushered in and instructed to lie flat on the sterile table, her thoughts gravitate to the others. Where are they now? She ponders, stretching out with some effort along the crisp white sheet before the healer’s nimble fingers begin poking and prodding at her wound. There's punctuation, a new sensation of piercing and squelching of flesh, and the healer grunts in confirmation before slicing and opening the recently restitched skin. Jonquil swallows a scream of agony. It catches in her dry throat, but she forces it down as all thoughts are instantly consumed with death. All the shit she’s been through, death can’t be so bad, can it? She might actually prefer it now. 

“Healer,” Compassion begins, drifting from one shoulder to the next to get a better look at Jonquil’s wound. “Did I not help after all?” there's a hint of sadness, a provoked sorrowfulness that snuffs out the light and joy that Compassion contributes to the air. 

“Tis’ the problem with Spirits. For all your usefulness with matters in the physical realm, there yet linger aspects of physicality that you are incapable of ascertaining.” He points a bloody glowing finger, “See here, look closely, there you see? The bones need mending, not just the flesh.” 

And this, she thinks drooly as her eyes flutter close, is actually how I die. 

***

The Fade is different when she dreams. Like Arlathan, it feels alive. A living breathing entity that’s curiously cautious of her. She feels the tug of coalescing magic all around her, it's nearly tangible, as if she could simply extend a few fingers and pluck at the interwoven threads like the strings of lute. She finds that the Fade is testing her, gently and somewhat subtly, at least initially, then after a heart beat of a time, its exploration of her increases and the intrigued magics digs a bit deeper in the collection of her own magic as if inwardly sizing her up. 

Her shape changes when the Fade touches her. A blue-green gossamer of light wraps around her body and limbs in a similar fashion to a healer that bandages a series of wounds. It fluctuates, a miniscule pulse of power that vibrates through her and causes her to shiver. She’s on all fours in the blink of an eye, her body blanketed in a melding of amber and russet colored fur, and her face elongates - almost canine in nature. Jonquil is unfamiliar with this shape, or really any shape that isn’t her original form. She’s never been anyone but herself in the Fade. 

Large ears twitch. They turn this way and that, hearing what her eyes currently can’t see and she lowers her head slightly, dipping in a pseudo bow to the mist covered ground, to attempt to decipher the sound further. 

But there was nothing. No stirring or whispering of wind, or the chilling hush that often fills the Fade. Nothing but stillness persisted. She peered around, her triangular head lifting and turning to take in her bleak surroundings. The area beyond was utterly monochromatic. The underbrush that sprang up like newly budded plants in the Springtime sun, and the now looming forest of trees that cast long grasping shadows before her were even colorless. 

She yips, a sound that was neither happy or sad, at least how her elven mind interprets it, and waits for a response. The call echoes back to her, with the sound changing each time the repeated noise reverberates off the trunks of the trees and the dense canopy of leaves overhead.

Jonquil takes off swift as a loose arrow, the Fade throbbing and warbling around her like invisible concave walls as she did so. Her heart pounds, the sound loud and frightening in her massive ears. She can hear her blood there, rushing through all the small veins and back to the heart pumping violently in her chest. Six glowing crimson eyes watched her as she ran. They reside within the gloomy dimness of the bushes beneath the trees just a yard’s length from where she currently was. Jonquil charges ahead, panting and breath steaming in the air, but even as she moves she draws no closer to the eyes. The red eyes give her an impassive, slow blink. 

Dreadwolf. The air seems to wheeze, like a parched tongue after days without water. 

A quiver of fear shudders through her, but he remains where he is, hidden in the shadows and blinking. 

The Dreadwolf is gone. This she knows to be both a truth and a definitive lie. But, how can both be accurate?

In the dimness of the night, or perhaps just of the dark, a wide yawning mouth opens and reveals rows of gleaming white fangs. Saliva drips in large globs to the ground, gathering in a pool below the mouth, and the reflection ripples briefly altering the appearances of the eyes and the teeth to reveal Solas.

He smiles contemptuously, the corners of his full mouth curing, the smug hitch of the lips undeniable. The reflection shakes his head, a petulant sneer on his face when he looks up at her.

A howl pierces the air, slicing swift and true - sharp as a honed dagger. 

His bitter chuckle weaves into the bone shaking sound and her ears flatten atop her head. 

This is hardly the outcome you envisioned, his voice whispers icily, if millenia has taught me nothing else, it is that even the best laid plans can turn to ash before our eyes. 

A low growl rumbles from within her chest and she bares her own fangs.

While not at all what I wished - our tenuous connection yet remains. This is the very last recourse available to me. 

She belts out a defiant yip and grounds herself, her hackles rising. 

One last effort, now it is the Wolf who speaks. The sound, a thunderous bellow that hurts her ears and forces her to grit her teeth with significant effort to withstand the horrible noise.

I may be one with the Fade, but I maintain some sense of self - sly fox - I am still able to influence some aspects as a dreamer, both in the present and the past.

The Dreadwolf’s grin is a terrible thing to behold. 

And within an inhaled breath, the gluttonous wolf consumes her whole. Body and soul.

* * *

When Jonquil wakes, her eyes straining against the brightness of the room, her vision hazy with lingering sleep, that she immediately convinces herself the entire ordeal was one, long, convoluted dream. That is until Compassion appears, white light magic song humming, just at her left elbow.

“Your hurts are completely healed now. I watched and the Grand healer did a wonderful job tending to you. I understand how to help better now, should this happen again in the future.” 

“I’m really hoping it doesn’t” Jonquil manages, clumsy fingers scrambling to her right side. The wound is healed, and for that she is thankful, and she can breathe without significant pain. Jonquil counts herself fortunate, given the situation, and tries not to dwell too much on the dream she had. 

She peers down and blinks rapidly with a look of significant surprise on her face as she has been clothed in some sort of ancient elven robes. Jonquil swings her legs around, positioning herself so that they dangle slightly above the ground, and inspects the stitch work of the robe’s sleeve. The symbols are those that honor Mythal. Fantastic. She appreciates the wardrobe change about as much as bearing the mark of the Dreadwolf - that is not in the least.

“I am to accompany you to the supplication room. That is where Mythal will take an audience with you.” 

Jonquil glances around for the Grand healer. He is nowhere to be found and apparently deemed her unworthy of further regard. Pity, she was just warming to him. 

“Who dressed me?”

“Solas instructed servants of Mythal to attend to you whilst you slept. These robes were deemed more appropriate than what you wore before. Though, as a Spirit, I must say that I do not understand how even with a physical form, you corporeal beings can stand such coverings. You are already encased in flesh, why restrict yourself more?”

Jonquil laughs and decides then that this spirit of Compassion will become her new best friend. Far more humorous than the Caretaker ever was, anyway. 

“It was not my choice. To have skin or that people should wear clothes” she says, “but it would seem that at this particular time that propriety dictates I be clothed in a specific way.”

Compassion nods. “Yes, I understand that. I do not think that Mythal or Solas would approve of your naked flesh as you were in the lake. I was confused by Solas’ feelings on the matter upon returning to you. Everything ran together in one complex stream of emotions before he closed himself off to me.”

Jonquil stands, unsure what to make of this new information, and reflexively inhales deeply to test the limits of her rib cage. 

“Well,” she says, ruffling her amber hair in an attempt to make herself presentable. This will be her second time before the goddess of love, afterall. “Let’s not keep them waiting.” 

Mythal is much more intimidating in the flesh than the broken remnants Jonquil is familiar with. She sits, ethereally upon a cushioned seat, her arms resting on carved roaring dual dragon heads arm rests, her face illuminated with interest. She’s much taller than the essence Jonquil met in the crossroads, she can tell simply by how her long legs are folded elegantly beneath the skirts of her flowing sienna dress. 

This Mythal is encased in a black shawl like robe, that billows and drapes opulently around her arms. Along the collar is what appears at a distance to be black feathers, but Jonquil can’t determine completely from her positionality in the room, they could very well be large scales or even wolf fur. And then, atop her stream of straight raven hair and pressed to her brow is her signature three-pronged diadem. 

Solas stands at her side, a match in every way to her refinement, regality and mortal depictions of godhood. Which, ironically, the Solas Jonquil has come to know would absolutely abhor, which unironically pleases her greatly. Dumbass. 

“Be welcome, my child and be at ease. By my grace you will know nothing but comfort and peace while you are in this place. Welcome to Arlathan” Mythal says, by way of greeting. “Solas has told me your name, Jonquil - a peculiar name for one of the People - but, a fitting one it would seem. You are one who is blessed with the beauty and grace of the flower you are so aptly named for. Tell me, from where do you hail and how did you come about your injuries?”

The great domed room is cast in the magnificent twinkling colors of the rainbow. Four large arched windows reside behind Mythal, stained glass images illustrating the rise of the elves. They glitter prettily, a sickly sweet contrast to the reality that Jonquil knows to be true. Spirits who deemed themselves above the laws of nature, perhaps even after a time grew envious of the bodies of man thus driving their desire to live as they do, and allowed the corrupted desire to justify draining the blood from the Titans. 

Jonquil steels her heart against that horrific, ugly truth and hopes her face does not betray her. 

“I don’t remember where I come from, if that is what you are asking.” she replies, her tone even. “And my injury…well, it was caused while I was trying to prevent a terrible thing from happening.” If she’s learned anything from her time with Solas, the Solas she knew, trapped in her head, is that cleverly worded half-truths are better than outright lies. Lies must be constructed and require creativity and time to craft. One the spot in front of one of her gods - time is something she is currently lacking. 

She keeps strictly to the facts, vague as they are. Jonquil was found on a battlefield in Ventus, born to an unknown mother and father - which is what she’s referring to when she responds. Somehow, sharing that she’s from this world’s probable future, seems like a wildcard that should be kept firmly in hand, at least until Jonquil can determine how beneficial revealing such would truly be. And, well, the orchestrator of the terrible thing that happens, is standing loyally beside his precious goddess.

Mythal’s eyebrows rise in surprise, disappearing into the curved shape of her diadem, but her eyes are hard - skeptical even. “Oh? And what pray tell is this terrible thing that you aimed to prevent? Did fortune not favor your endeavor?”

“I believe,” she starts, mulling over the words carefully, “That I have more so delayed it in a sense, than actually preventing it. And what it is, exactly, I suppose can be considered cataclysmic. If it comes to pass, a lot of people will get hurt or die. The world, as we understand it, will end.” Saying it aloud feels right. Jonquil doesn’t believe for a second that the Dreadwolf will accept any semblance of defeat - especially so when her dream is taken into consideration. 

The goddess nods in understanding and looks to Solas beside her. He is standing, stiff and straight, his muscles taut with tension pulsating in the veins within his neck. His hands are clasped behind his back and he looks at Jonquil as if appraising the gravity of her words - the cogs of his mind testing for the lies mingled in what she has said. 

“So you are a warrior, as well as a mage?”

“I can fight and cast spells, yes.”

“And you believe yourself best suited to combat this terrible thing? Why?” 

Jonquil senses that the longer this inquisition continues the more likely her story will begin to fray at the edges. “Not best suited, by far, but willing to stand against it.”

Something in both Mythal and Solas changes, she the most visibly. “Yes, I am beginning to see that. You possess a strong spirit, bright, determined - tis’ partially the mark of youth, but also the mantle of a warrior - a hero.” She shifts on her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs in a manner that could be mistaken for fidgeting, but maybe it's simply a trick of Jonquil’s mind and she’s really just determining what to do with her. “It is my belief that by some fashion you have come here by way of passage through one of many eluvians that exist within the forest. The mirrors themselves are temperamental and respond to unfamiliar magics like a wild animal caught in a trap. There was one not too far from where Compassion found you, perhaps you crawled and lost consciousness there.”

“That is the most logical explanation, surely.” Solas agrees, but something in the line of his mouth and the tightening of his eyes says he’s not fully convinced. 

“We too continuously fight a great and monstrous evil here. One that has threatened the elvhen people for generations and at the cost of numerous lives. We persevere, however,” Mythal explains, “Your arrival here is fortuitous. Whatever skills you possess, magical or otherwise, will be put to good use in our battles against the wretched Titans - our greatest adversaries .” She raises her hand and indicates to Solas, “Solas will see to it that you are given a place of rank among those of the  Dirth'ena Enasalin. Our generals will test your skill, ascertain the degree of your mettle, then assign you a battalion. Prove yourself and I may be willing to offer aid to your cause.” 

“The Arcane warriors - they are fearsome, both in physicality and spirituality.” Compassion pipes, fluttering into view. You will do well among them, I can tell!”

Solas’ eyes grow wide at the implications of her words. “That is incredibly generous, Mythal. Are you sure that is wise? We know nothing of whatever battle or war she previously fought, nor of the enemies that she wages this fight against. We could be risking much - you would be risking much.” 

Mythal raises her hand to him, both a command of silence and a mild supplication. “It shall be an even exchange. She shall learn, aid us in combating the Titans, then for her loyalty and good service we will learn and then return aid in kind. Tis’ both fair and just, is it not, Solas?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but the words falter and die on his tongue. “You are right, as always Mythal. I spoke out of turn.” 

“Nonsense. Your voice is always welcome here, as you well know, Solas.” Mythal says, with a well-mannered shake of her head. Her focus reverts to Jonquil. “Heed these words, Jonquil, you may have my blessing to wander these glorious halls, but you shall require my mark to receive my full protection.”

The vallaslin, is what she is referring to. How else does a would-be god bound their subject to them to command will with the same measure as they demand worship? 

“Mind my husband, Elgar’nan, and our children. Though we all guide and protect the People with the same fervor, the way in which we do so varies. They will not regard your presence here with the same warmth.”

Solas snorts derisively and Mythal shoots him a chastising look.  A mother reprimanding her son. Though the way he looks at her, his eyes always flickering to the corners to catch glimpses, is anything but how a son looks at his mother. 

“Am I to be a slave then,” Jonquil asks. “Obligated to serve you as repayment for your kindness?”

Solas blanches, those violet eyes so wide the whites overwhelm the colored iris. Mythal simply blinks, then throws her head back and laughs. 

“You are hardly a slave, young one.” she smiles, “One as unique as yourself would be wasted among the ranks of slaves.” 

It was intended as a compliment, all the right things are blended in with the inherent wrong, but rather than denounce the entire wrongness of the institution of slavery Jonquil accepts the words of this would-be god with a polite inclination of her head.

“Go now, and rest easy, Jonquil. All the preparations have been made. You will be given a chamber of comfort in my wing of the palace, near others in my service, including Solas. Seek him out should you ever need anything. He will show you to your rooms momentarily.” 

Then Jonquil is dismissed, banished to wait in the hallway for Mythal to conclude her secretive conversation with Solas, the golden doors of the supplication hall closing with a mute click of metal behind her. 

“You have been blessed with the esteem of Mythal, that is quite something.” Compassion says after a time. “A mark of immense honor for a stranger. Perhaps fortune does indeed favor you. To have brought you to this place, here and now.” 

Jonquil doesn’t feel especially fortunate, least of all does she stow her faith in a universe that believes she should fight the beginnings of the war she had no place finishing in the first place. It comes back to her then, the spectral woman who loved the Dreadwolf - ma vhenan she called him - she who saved Thedas from the Breach. So, perhaps it really isn’t the universe’s fault, but instead Inquisitor Lavellan for loving him when she should have killed him. A quick death then to secure the survival of the world tomorrow. Damn her.

When Solas departs the hall she is sitting slumped against the wall, one arm tossed haphazardly over a bent knee, her eyes staring at something far off and elusive with Compassion perched on her shoulder like some brilliant white trilling bird. 

“I have been excused from my duties for the rest of the day and as you heard, am tasked with taking you to your chambers as well as ensuring all your needs are met whilst you remain in the palace walls.” The last is spoken with a degree of heat, his obvious contempt at being treated like a glorified babysitter not sitting well with his sensitive constitution. Pity. 

He strides away, a sense of purpose driving each and every step, and Jonquil trails behind him with her eyes downcast and mind reeling. 

“Your manner of speech is…peculiar,” he says after a time. “You speak the language of the People, but do so with a degree of inflection and accent I have never heard. Is that common, where you are from?” 

She shrugs nonchalantly. There’s that inquiring mind. Assuming a physical form hasn’t changed wisdom’s true purpose, it would seem. “I can’t say whether others pay much mind to it. We just converse with one another, then go about our business.” 

“Ah,” is all he says.

“It is different,” Compassion says, “But I think I enjoy it. Different and new offer opportunities to learn.” 

“They do indeed, Compassion. Though the manner of speech in which you choose to speak is always reflective of the intelligence and capability of the individual. Some would say that more elevated levels of conversation require a deeper understanding of the complex language or even, if you permit me to be fanciful, an innate attunement to rhythm despite skewing the overall structure.” 

She swallows a growl, the thinly veiled insult plainly identifiable within the pleasant, and utterly condescending, response. Once an insufferable ass, always an insufferable ass. Jonquil tamps down the anger that has been steadily rising since her eyes landed on the puffed-up bastard. At least that’s the case in this timeline, past, presently…or whatever. She’s still grappling with the concept of time magic - more so the fact of actually being sent to the past - and that she’s trapped here for the foreseeable future. Ah, fun times with word paradoxes.

Her chambers are located on the third floor at the very end of an expansive jeweled corridor. The decor and overall architectural structure is very much the same as in the future, which she supposes is nice, it indicates that even with the downfall of the empire there aren’t significant changes to the culture artistically. Soft gold, vibrant colors of various hues, curving and spiraling structures with glowing threads of magic woven strategically within; all convey the story of how it became the center of all Elvhenan. 

Jonquil both loves and hates it. And her heart aches because of the conflict. How different life would be for the elven people in the future if the empire never fell - if the veil never came to be. There are numerous other ‘ifs’ that contribute to the differences, and it's short-sighted to solely lay blame on the creation of the veil. It’s a tale she’s well versed with, one that she’s currently meant to experience firsthand. 

“Here we are,” Solas says, turning the ornate knob to open the door. She steps across the threshold tentatively, her hands unconsciously clenching and unfurling as she surveys where she is meant to live. The room is large, opulent, and bigger than any given four homes on the streets of Dock Town in Minrathous. It’s an odd shape, the intermediate between a square and a circle that opens to a wrap-around ivy-covered balcony that looks out to the beautiful courtyard. A large four post bed is pressed to the furthest wall, tucked within the more angular square corner and flanked by two side tables, a wide sylvan wooden wardrobe, a vanity table and opulent basin. 

“Meals are eaten communally in the Gathering Hall and are enjoyed at the same time every day for each meal. While there is a bell, I will retrieve you and escort you to each, at least until you grow accustomed to our ways here.” 

“And if I’m not hungry?” she challenges, her arms folding over her chest. “And instead want to eat when I’m actually hungry, not when I’m told or called?” 

“Then I wish you luck convincing the kitchen staff that you are above eating meals with the rest of us. And why you, specifically, are deserving of special treatment. ” 

She frowns. “I’ll be ready when the bell rings.” 

“Excellent. Then I shall take my leave.” He looks to Compassion, “Will you be accompanying me, Compassion?”

Compassion considers, and again it rather like attempting to discern whether a tree in a forest enjoys the weather, or if a piece of fruit contemplates its existence right before being devoured - too difficult to prescribe words too. 

“I shall remain with Jonquil, I think. She is different, but the same in many ways. I wish to learn more from her - about her and what makes her different.” 

 A flash of panic seizes Jonquil’s heart upon that declaration. Compassion might prove to be a tad more problematic for her, especially with vocalizing such proclamation so openly and enthusiastically, than she anticipated. She notes the quirk of Sola’s brow, the uptick of peculiarity that he, himself, has identified - maybe even felt - but has no explanation or the correct words to speak on. 

He nods, a minor concession in a grand, more complicated undertaking within the inner workings of his mind, and Jonquil sighs in relief. 

“Were you always so blurry?” Compassion inquires, as Jonquil ventures to the bed and plops down on the feather bed with exaggerated effort. 

Eyes tight shut and an arm cast over her face to shield her from Compassion, she replies in a monotone voice. “And by blurry you mean?” 

“It is as if there is an oscillating shimmer swaddled around you. It makes what should be loud and visible, difficult to see and quiet. The ambient energies are like that of the Fade, but then at the same time, feels like you and something else. Familiar, but strange - twisted and convoluted, or maybe diluted? I cannot tell which.” 

Jonquil snatches the pillow from the neatly tucked edges of the velvet coverlet and muffles a loud, ear deafening scream.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

A Measure of Will

When the first light of the new day breaks, orange and golden yellow brimming with a thin line of crimson, she wakes from an unsettling nightmare of wolf howling. The sun streams through the iridescent wide arched glass doors of the balcony and enhances what illumination the room organically emanates. Like many experiences thus far, it is both beautiful and obnoxiously strange, but she is thankful, however, that the light drives the darkness and the howling from the recesses of her mind. And it is because of her fitful night that she permits herself a moment's grace to dwell and sulk before scrubbing the heels of her palms over her eyes to relieve herself of the gnawing remnants of sleep. 

Jonquil uncovers herself, slipping free from the deliciously soft coverings, and walks to the beaten bronze basin residing near the vanity table. She pads over, thankful that it is filled with fresh, clean water, and plunges her entire face into it. 

“I do not think that is normally how it is done.” Compassion says, rousing from its perch atop the four post canopy. “You are meant to dip your limbs inside and cup the water for your face. Do you not know this?”

Water runs freely down the lines of her face. It drip drops softly from her hair, the sound reminiscent of gentle rain after a heavy storm - soothing, calming. She closes her eyes and envisions a thousand droplets dripping into a reflective pool in the mirror of her mind. Each drip causes a ripple, said ripple, each an imperfect crease chiming like resonating silver in the wind. It's nice and eases her spirit. Her eyes fly open when she feels wetness between her toes - a small puddle has gathered at her feet, tickling her toes - and so she wiggles the naked little extremities and mentally pats herself on the back for retaining some sense of immaturity. 

“You seem happy with yourself.” Compassion floats down to her, but drifts towards the puddle to peer down into it. “Does wetting your feet make you happy? I do not have feet, so I do not understand the need to do this or why it would make one happy.”

“It’s not happiness, per say,” Jonquil says, pulling the rumpled tunic from her body and tossing it to the floor. There, build on that immaturity and mess up the room. The thought is childish and she knows won’t accomplish anything of consequence, but it lifts her dower mood -marginally. “The feeling is more of satisfaction.”

“I am confused.”

“That’s okay, Compassion. It’s a person thing. If you ever take a physical form, you’ll understand. Maybe.” 

She leaves Compassion with those words to stride to the wardrobe to dress for the day. Jonquil isn’t certain when the breakfast bell supposedly tolls, she assumes its sooner rather than later given its only now dawn. She wakes earlier here. Way earlier than she ever did back home. An internal synchronization with the world that surpasses any such nonsense like a biological clock, because really if you want to talk about something that’s utterly ridiculous…she instead blames the heightened magic. 

There are a handful of outfits available to her, mostly light and medium armor, but there are other things such as simple tunics, breeches and trousers, plain mages robes, and undergarments. There is not a single pair of boots or shoes to be found anywhere. How much of an elfy elf can you really be? Shoes are so practical. 

She shakes her head as she removes  a silver tunic, a pair of green and beige breeches with soft, silken stirrup openings for her feet, and a light linen emerald robe. As she slips the clothing on, it all feels elfy too. And it makes her feel inadequate and insecure, like she’s some great imposter or a child playing dress up. 

The bell clangs. The sound is lyrical, low and deep, a baritone of a chime rather than the airy, high pitched clang she was expecting. A light rap of knuckles to the door follows. 

“Good morrow, I trust that you slept well?” Solas asks, but makes no move to cross the threshold of the door. That’s fine with Jonquil. The more distance between them the better, she thinks. It’ll diminish the likelihood of that ancient elven brain of his from wandering places it shouldn’t as far as she’s concerned. 

“Well enough.” She doesn’t mention the nightmare. Intuition tells her it's either something he’s painfully aware of, given his connection to the Fade and dreams, or he will intentionally seek to interpret by way of the Fade. Neither are good. 

He accepts this in silence, but his eyes rake appreciatively over her body before landing on her eyes, a beat too long to be comfortable, and then avert quickly on a cough of composure. 

She blinks.

Is he…blushing?

She’s not a shy or modest person, something her adoptive father begrudged her for most of her teenage years, and so Jonquil is keenly aware of the shape and look of her body. Not very ladylike, he’d often say. Not that she was a lady, or at least she wasn’t raised with any ladylike etiquette - the streets of Minrathous will do that to a young female elf, and quickly. And so when she thinks back to him seeing her naked, floating in the lake, she wonders exactly how old he really is. Because come on…blushing? 

Solas’ cheeks are somewhat flushed. The added heat and tinge of pink causes the dusting of freckles along the bridge of his nose to stand out. 

Unheedingly, she wonders if Solas and the Inquisitor have ever kissed, seen each other naked, or had sex. Then just as quickly dislodges the thought and image. Jonquil isn’t sure that someplace she’s ready to dwell yet. 

He clears his throat, a forced, dry sound that grants him an easy distraction to compose himself. “After we break our fast, you are expected to train with Master Samahl in the training yard. I will join you and report your progress to Mythal.”

A furrowing of brows is followed by a pinching of her brown face. “A day's worth of progress? Hardly seems worth the time or effort reporting.” 

“On this we can agree, but it was a request designated to me by Mythal.” 

“Can’t say no to her…” she mumbles absently, with a brief roll of her eyes.

“Excuse me?”

“We should get going if we’re to beat the rush.” 

She side steps him to enter the corridor, Compassion trailing after her, enraptured by the exchange between the two, and waits for Solas to join them.  He does so, his stride measured, calculated, but it’s a far match to the quizzical demeanor. 

“I am not familiar with this phrase. Beat the rush, what rush and who is rushing and why do we need to beat them? There is no competitive situation that requires this nor a task that necessitates we succeed where others fail.” 

“I am also interested in this,” Compassion adds.

Oh. Right. Too modern. 

“It’s a saying. It just means to hurry so that we can arrive at the meal before a large group of people get there before us. Hence, beat the rush.” 

He’s contemplative, or confused, Jonquil isn’t completely sure, but he’s working through the saying as if trying to place it. It doesn’t fit - it's something that’s foreign and out of tune with the song. But he naturally nods, understanding settling around him light rain. 

The series of winding spiral cases feels excesses after they step on the landing of the third set. The stairs are gorgeous - there’s no denying that - but walking up and down them for a millennial would get really old, really fast. Jonquil chuckles at her unintentional jokes and is rewarded with a questioning look from Solas. She sighs, that is also starting to grate on her nerves. The way he looks at her, like she’s some fantastical beast that the world originally believed either non-existent or extinct. 

Like how she gawked at Assan. 

Or, and much more likely, as if she’s a crazy person. Jonquil inwardly shrugs, after everything she’s been through how can she not be at least somewhat fucking insane? 

Scant glances, pinched faces, and furrowing brows aside, Jonquil is immediately overwhelmed by the oppressive, unwelcome air of the Gathering Hall, as all eyes mark her entrance and trailed movements beside Solas.

He is greeted in equal measure by proud, loud salutations and more dignified mutterings in high eloquent words of Elven. Solas means something here. The acknowledgements are interwoven with affectionate sayings, things Jonquil has no connection to : stories, updates on the city, gossip. 

She understands most of them, though most are by far too formal to have ever been integrated into her speech. Consequently, that’s what you get when a young elf doesn’t have a formal teacher in their native tongue. Just more of the same, a fraction of a fraction - the blind leading the blind. Thankfully, one of her best characteristics - aside from being meddlesome - is the insatiability of her own mind. A hundred or so books and a few dozen papercuts later she can comprehend and speak the language as well as any formal First or Keeper of a Dalish clan. 

Yet here she doubts it will do her much good. It is clear that the civilization the elves have established is rooted more so in the human values of elitism rather than affinity of tipped ears. Several generations and a great cataclysm resulting in the destruction of the empire - the Dalish elves center themselves on the same horrid value. A true elf lives in a clan. A true elf understands the language and culture - and the histories! Ah. Don’t get them started on the wonders of elven histories. Her eyes glaze over just recalling her initial encounters with the clans outside of Minrathous. 

The room is nothing but endless rows of long dining tables. All reside beneath a tiered, looming dias. Floating cobblestones winking with gemstones lead to one grandiose table situated vertically to face the rest of the room and those seated below. And behind the table are eight elaborate and unique thrones.

“Ah, Solas! There you are. We were beginning to wonder where you might be. Tis’ not like you to not be present before the bell tolls.” A handsome elf says waving  from one of the long tables. He nudges a woman to his right with an elbow. Her face is long and drawn when she glances in their direction and grunts a welcome.  His sunny, playful demeanor is a bright spot in this otherwise solemn atmosphere. For all the ranting and ravings of the good old days of the elves and the glory of the empire, thus far it is a drap, serious place devoid of real gusto or effervescence of life. But, perhaps that’s a tad judgy. She’s only been here a short time - two days, in truth. 

“Greetings, Felassan and to you Tarasahl.” 

Felessan and Tarasahl. Two elves most loyal to Solas that die as a direct result of his ruthless actions. The universe has a morbid sense of humor indeed. Of course they would be here, living and breathing during this time. She shouldn’t be as surprised as she is, but she is, and extremely so. The notion ranks right up there with all eight elven gods also being alive and well - especially Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain, whom she distinctly remembers killing. 

Felessan appears as he did in all of Solas’ memories. It’s really fascinating. When one considers all of the scientific studies done on the Fade that deduce emphatically that it is not a reliable source of accuracy for memories and dreams, and yet here he is looking very much the same without so much as a deviation in his appearance. Such faithfulness can either be attributed to some affinity specific to Solas or some innate mastery of manipulation possessed by the entire generation of the first elves. She hopes it’s the former rather than the later. 

Thick, full hair the same shade as Solas, heavy dark brows to offset laughing violet eyes, and a strong jaw. His features are more square by comparison to Solas, however, Jonquil determines. Less sharp and chiseled, and instead are softer and more well rounded, somehow. The biggest distinction is the deep green vallaslin detailed across his flat forehead, wide cheeks and chin - Mythal’s mark. 

Felassan appraises her, those violet eyes absorbing each and every detail from her amber colored hair to the bareness of her brown uncovered feet. After a moment, he smiles, and does the most un-elfy-elf thing she can think of by slapping both of his hands on her shoulders and gently squeezes. She stiffens, unsure of what ancient custom this might be. Emphasis on the might. 

“So you are to be the one the entire city whispers about!” he rotates her shoulders, turning her this way and that to inspect her further, “You do not appear to be any different than any other member of the People. Though, I cannot say that I have ever seen an elf with such a hair color or tone of flesh as deep as yours - but apart from that I fail to see why it is of such significance. Solas, tell me, what is it our High Lady sees with this one?”

“Perhaps she sees what they all see - an able body willing to fight their exhaustive war.” Tarasahl grumbles while reaching for a glittering goblet. “How many elven bodies have been wasted to combat and push back the dreaded Titans?” 

“Peace, Tarasahl!” Solas hisses, but then smiles to soften his words and settles a hand on her shoulder. “The Titans are a threat to all of the People. We do what we must to ensure their safety. That very same safety paves the way for the next generation to thrive, without the fear or reprisal of earthquakes destroying their homes or massive rock formation terrorizing them in the streets or hills.” 

“So deems the favorite of Mythal.” she all but hisses in return and yanks her shoulder free of his grasp. If Solas is hurt or bothered by her brashness, he reveals little to no indication of so. His hand simply drops, falling to his side with a slight sway, before he returns them to his usual clasp position behind his back. 

“There is nothing significant about me,” Jonquil shrugs casually. Reduce attention by way of deflection and distraction. The Shadow Dragon way. “I am no different than anyone else here, except that I happened to be in the wrong place at the right time and was wounded for my efforts. I’m just a normal elf.” 

His brow creases and she assumes it’s at the word normal rather than anything else she’s shared. Felassan leans forward, his features all steeled to seriousness completely devoid of its previous lightness and joy, and forces her to take a tentative step back to avoid their noses touching. “And what, may I ask, is a ‘normal elf’?”

“Leave her be, Felassan.” Solas orders on a sigh, his tone world weary and it's hardly morning. 

Just when she opens her mouth to say what she believes is a clever retort to his question, a clamorous fanfare erupts near the dias. Several elves flank the floating stone steps, horned instruments pressed to their lips and their cheeks red with rounded effort from the music they are creating.

A grand procession enters the Gathering Hall and an instantaneous hush befalls the room. Mythal and Elgar’nan enter, her hand delicately in his, from a curved set of double doors behind the elevated dias. Twinkling balls of white blue lights, blooming magical flower petals, and a burst of relative ambient energy proceed them, marking the path the two elven gods walk their way to their adoring followers.

The all consuming urge to vomit, profusely, roils in Jonquil’s gut. She takes several deep breaths from her mouth to calm herself, but the higher the would-be gods climb, and the louder the elves cheer, the once calming breathing method swiftly morphs into a full blown panic attack. 

The others follow and the procession turns into a nightmarish spectacle. They are all paired and the entire ordeal is wrong. She feels it in her marrow. The unsettling awareness of the horrors these elves are capable of and - sometime in the near future - commit the worst types of atrocities this world has even seen. Jonquil swallows down rising bile and nearly gags on it. 

Falon’Din walks shoulder to shoulder with his brother, Dirthamen; Andruil and Ghilan’nain are two steps behind, each cradling the hand of the other as lovers would - and Ghilan’nain’s true, elven form is a sight to behold. She is of regular flesh and blood, pale of skin, deathly so, like the white of the Halla for which she is the Mother of, with dusty brown hair rather than deep brown or black like the others and ashen violet eyes. Her beloved, Andruil, who raised her up to the ranks of the evanuris, stares at her adoringly - as if she is the very sun and moon of her universe. Her sister, Sylaise,  and her husband, June, make up the end of the sickening display. 

“Good morrow, Elvhenan!” Elgar’nan bellows, hand raised and palms flat facing the throngs present in the Gathering Hall. “There is no light save for the glory of our wondrous empire, rejoice and be merry, for today the respected elders of evanuris bless you.” 

There is another uproar, an immense banging of cups and utensils on the surface of the tables, and numerous calls to the evanuris for their favor cry out with long, wanting fingers. Solas sneers at the display, but doesn’t add his voice to the storm. He instead sits, his posture rigid and yet tense as a coiled spring, and waits for the servants to deliver the food to the table. 

“The day soon comes when our People ascend higher than any other living being in this world. We are greatness awaits us, and with each setting of the sun and rise of the moon we draw ever closer to our true destiny. Keep faith, elvhen.”

Mythal stands. “Eat, drink well, and be content, my people. For we are an unimpeachable empire - a boon of perfected intention upon this world - and once the great war has ended, and we are victorious, all of Elvhenan will be the brilliant light that banishes those that would shroud us in darkness.” 

And with her word food is brought forth in copious amounts. Far too much for a simple breakfast. Endless platters of ripe fruits, bright and vibrant, are the first to arrive. Steaming roasted meat, Jonquil thinks hare, and crispy fish are next both bringing with them the scent of spicy pepper, and smoked herbs. Bowls of bread are slid between the growing platters, crowding in as a palate cleanser to balance the protein and the sweetness of the produce. It doesn’t end there; pitchers of cool milk, boiled oats with sweet cream and drizzled honey along the top, and jugs of squeezed berry juice.

A chaotic melding blend of overstimulation and disgust overwhelms her. Compassion has disappeared in the rush of bodies carrying food. Everything feels too loud and too quiet, and it's a jolt of pain to her system that causes her blood to sing in softer parts of her ears. Like a child, cowering under the covers in the gloom of the night, hands pressed tightly to the shell of her ears, Jonquil wishes to block it out. Tears threaten to escape from her eyes and it takes an immense draw of strength to fight them back. 

The propaganda is so easily twisted - masquerading under the guise of survival - makes her ill. It's a poisoned tree, roots set deep in the soil spreading its sickness, and with gluttonous branches reaching for the sun to sustain it. 

Jonquil has never hated being an elf more than in this very moment. She is seated across from Tarasahl, her dower, sullen face slightly worse than the sour, drawn one she was previously making. Marginally. She’s far more impressive and imposing in person than in Solas’ memories. Jonquil supposes that must be Solas’ doing. She reaches for a heel of bread, it's still warm and smells heavenly even though her stomach is in knots. Jonquil plays with the bread instead of eating it, ripping off bits and pieces here and there and placing them on the shimmering plate in front of her. The tide of interest in her has thankfully shifted, small blessings, but she has a niggling suspicion the reprieve will be fleeting.

The bitterness, the resentment, it's eating away at worse than starvation ever could. The feels are clean and pure, real, and she holds on to them tightly as reminders for why she is here.

Everyone at the dining tables enjoy their meal, even while hollowed eyed servants slick like black cats to the dark corners of the room - neither seen or heard by the masses - and the stark contrast indicates how much Tevinter legitimately replicated from the elves and how little, in the future, it has improved. Thousands of years of enslavement, oppression, and tyrannical rule leaping frogging from one race to the next. How do you fix that? How do you truly make it better?

Looking up through ruddy lashes she catches Solas’ eyes on her. How long he has been observing her, she can’t say, but he does so with ease while still engaged with Felassan discussing matters of state and the war effort. She notices, with some immature amusement, that Solas only has fruit on his plate and that it’s all drizzled in honey. 

She forces herself to look away and bites her lips to prevent a Rook-like comment from spewing from her lips. The ease in which it comes to her, quick and sudden as a flash of lightning, is dangerous. Her sarcastic barbs are all tongue tied with the Dreadwolf. One small slip just might give her away. 

Jonquil takes a nibble of the bread, filling her mouth is a better, smarter idea than talking and keeps her somewhat occupied. She smears a dollop of butter to the tender crust and then a good helping adds honey. It sates the angry hunger and aids in elevating her mood. 

“You are to join us on the training grounds then, Jonquil? Another hopeful for one of the Arcane?” Felassan flashes that damn infectious smile. “Might I ask, what is your magical affinity?” 

She stares at him, lips covered in butter and honey. “Is that your way of asking about my specialization?”

He ponders this, a seemingly stunned expression alighting his features. “Does magic require a specific level of concentration or expertise to cast where you are from?”

Solas leans forward a fraction of an inch while sipping juice. His eyes are downcast, but thoughtful, and she can tell he’s intrigued by the line of questioning. 

“For some, yes.” she replies, “For some, it can take many years to master their magic - or at least not be afraid of lighting your breeches or bed on fire.” 

All three exchange wide eye looks. 

“Is that common place?” Solas asks, voicing the burning question written on their faces.

“Depends on the will of the mage.” She shrugs. Again, she needs to keep things vague enough to justify and satisfy their curiosity, but not so vague that the questions build on each other. She can see how it might grow challenging to keep it all straight and determines she’ll need to be even more mindful of her responses from now on.  Like walking on eggshells…or broken glass. Never know when the misstep might lead to a sharp shard in the foot.

Tarasahl grunts, Felassan nods and Solas…is contemplative, or broody, both look the same to her as far as he’s concerned. Neither she particularly likes. She faced enough of both whilst he was trapped in her head. She grimaces as she remembers. Bastard. 

“It is my understanding that what is ‘common’ is more so a matter of perspective. It is ‘common’, here, for all elves to possess and tap into magical energies. Arcane abilities are merely dormant within those who have not yet awakened their connection to the Fade. Those with considerable knowledge on the delicate characteristics of weaving spellcraft, dispelling residual energies or resonances, are looked to simply to help hone the magic wielder - should they wish it. Many learn on their own.” Solas explains. “It is our deep interrelatedness to the Fade that permits us to be thus. And so magic is like the breath in our lungs, natural and a part of us. It requires no specialization.” 

Jonquil narrows her eyes. “So everyone is gifted with the same level of control for elemental magic? Lightning, fire, ice - every elf can summon each with the same amount of power, will and concentration?” she scoffs, dubiously. “Next you’ll say healing, shapeshifting, and creation magic are all the same too.” 

“Are they not, in essence?” he challenges, a heated edge added to his words. “What does a healer do with mending broken bones and stitching flesh that a shapeshifter does not when their body morphs from its original form into a new one ? An individual’s personal aura grants them access to the Fade to then extend their will to reshape or bend what is already there.”

“That has not been my experience.” she says. “Where I come from, there are limitations and boundaries. Checks and balances for magic. A fire can’t create its own flame, it requires air and something to burn. And eventually, once it has burned long enough, it dies out. Can’t sustain itself. That’s the way it is.” 

“What a sad, and unequivocally grim perspective of magic. I both pity you and feel sorry for you.” 

A flush of anger creeps up her neck, ruddying her ears, and inflaming her cheeks. 

“That’s rich! Your pity, is the last fucking thing I want.” And with that, she slams her hands down on the table, pushing away from it, and storms off. 

All of the eyes in the Gathering Hall seem to fall on her again - even those of the evanuris - and she is once more the object of their undivided attention. Well, too fucking bad. There’s only so much she can tolerate and that, that - his pity - absolutely not! The line needs to be drawn somewhere, and that damn near is the longest and biggest line - just the audacity!

The rational part of her brain whispers she’s being somewhat unfair as practically stomps from the Gathering Hall and into the main corridor. And that her little comment most certainly is going to come back and bite her in the ass. While this Solas isn’t the same as her Solas, er, or the Solas he will become in the future, he’s still Solas. The fact his core essence is there, even buried in all that distracting handsome youth, he’s the same. The condescension alone. 

It’s enough to make her want to set a series of tapestries on fire or kick over a few marble busts. Or both. Yeah, she thinks both might do the trick. 

* * *

The training grounds are littered with enchantments and wards of every kind. The swirling, spiraling marks are pure elven, lyrical and majestic. Unfortunately, she can’t read them. It’s beyond her scope of comprehension, but they are something of an interest and Jonquil wonders if sheer number is to keep ornery, stray magic from causing some unforeseeable destruction or to keep something from breaching the training grounds. 

Others are all around. Long, lilith athletic bodies dressed in light practice armor, flinging spells left and right at their opponents. The control is breathtaking - she can admit that as a mage. The strong, confident steps, the way the magic effortlessly flows in any given direction like the breath of the wind, it’s almost like watching a dance.

She has been tasked by Master Samahl to demonstrate her magical capabilities on a sentinel. The imposing machine made of the Fade and glittering gold stares down at her, green eyes ablaze with magic fire, with a massive axe poised above its head. Jonquil hates these things, they always seem to pop up at inconvenient times. Breaking them, however, in her time while romping around Arlathan forest with Bellara was one of her favorite past-times. Like stomping on roaches. The ancient artifacts moved then with a restrained control that inhibited the full capability of movement - which meant good for her, bad for them. Bye, bye sentinels. A solid summoning of a tempest always does the trick.

Here, however, the damn thing might as well be alive with how impressively fast and agile its movements are. Sweat rolls from her brows to saturate her face and by the tenth dodge, she’s disgustingly drenched and wants to blow the fucking thing up. The restraint she’s actually demonstrating should be classified as godlike. The idea to call forth her mana blade has been all too tempting. While Jonquil isn’t one-hundred percent certain she can summon it, from her understanding the spell is too new - too modern - but can’t deny she’s thought about it. Once or five times. 

The training grounds are a sprawling combination of soft, supple dirt and lush overgrown gardens. The balance between the two is reflective of everything else here, from the art and the People to the air and the taste of magic. It's all perfectly in tune with one another. Isatunoll. The word comes to her suddenly. A wink of remembrance as she feints left, nearly avoiding the swing of the axe’s double blade, then doubles back with a sloppy tumble roll, and upon gaining her footing releases a bolt of lightning straight through the breastplate. 

The sensation of oneness, when everything sings with the same song - perfected balance. This is what Lace was referring to. The interconnectedness of all things, even the elves, to trill of magic stolen from the lyrium veins. What Jonquil would give to have her here now to experience it, unchanged and undamaged. 

She’s panting heavily when the sentinel crumples and collapses to its knees. Jonquil isn’t sure if she’s won, while it's not moving, its eyes are still glowing with the hum of magic. 

Master Samahl, whom Jonquil thinks is comically misnamed - she hasn’t seen the elven trainer crack a smile, let alone laugh - isn’t the least bit impressed with her little display. He stands a head taller than her, a permanent scowl etched into his pale thin lipped mouth, with what looks to be a mane of unruly raven hair piled tightly into a bun at the back of his skull. It exaggerates his features to the point of painful severity and distorts the lines of Andruil’s vallaslin. 

“You would conserve more energy were your movements and casting not so…loud.” 

Jonquil huffs and wipes the sweat from her face with the back of her hand. 

“You would aspire to center yourself to draw from the flux of energies rather than aggressively manipulating against it. Such tactics are akin to attempting to push a boulder up stream during a downpour.” 

She sighs. “My skill has served me well so far. I’m still alive.”

“Yes, well…” he says on a snort. “There is much to say for fortune’s favor.” 

Okay, now he’s shitting on her too? Mythal’enaste! Seems like the entire reason, her purpose, for being here is to be dragged through the mud and told how absolutely wrong she is. 

A few of the mages pause their work, intrigued by this elf who doesn’t act or look like the other elves. She’s wrong and they are right. Jonquil is too displaced from what she was meant to be that she’s confident the gawking, interested parties don’t even view her as an actual elf. Just like humans look down their noses at elves - they might as well be thinking “rabbit” or “flat ear” in their minds. 

Solas isn’t too far off. She gets this prickling, hair rising sense of heightened awareness. The feeling is similar to the initial manifestation of magic. There’s this tension, uncomfortable and unsettling, then a strange build-up of unknown power that is almost indistinguishable from the discharge of lightning but you can’t place the exact reason why you know to compare the two. 

He steps to the outermost edges of the training boundary line from the shade of the tiled mural shaded courtyard about five or so feet from where she currently stands, a quirk of a smile on his full lips.

“Andaran atish’an, Solas. Well met.” Samahl says, and is given a formal greeting in return by Solas. “Have you come here to refine and test your own skill outside of battle?”

He shakes his head, sending that luscious hair fluttering. “Today, I have come merely to learn.” 

“I now see what you meant by those aforementioned ‘limitations’ and ‘boundaries’. Is this what the formidability of your specialization looks like? I am afraid to say that I am not wholly impressed. You wield your gifts like a blunt object.” Solas muses, his attention fixated on Jonquil. “It lacks grace and creativity. And you wield it poorly.” 

Jonquil pushes slick amber strands from her eyes, then narrows them at Solas. 

Master Samahl nods in agreement and in this moment she hates them both. Her skills never seemed to bother anyone before - especially not the Shadow Dragons. If anything, her more guerilla fighting and magic wielding style is why she was accepted. Well, that’s not completely true. She was accepted more so because of her father’s name. The Dragons took a chance on her because of her military background - the assumption there being she could follow orders. And then there was also that one time, when she caught the attention of the Venatori by freeing a dozen or so slaves…and pissed off the ruling elite in Minrathous…and then she was pseudo excommunicated. But that was hardly related to her overall skill. 

“Yes, I would say the same.” Samahl says, “It is an extension of entirety, not a mere blade or dagger to thrust and wave about.” 

“I would hardly call what I just did ‘thrusting’ and ‘waving’ about.” she grumbles. She runs her hands along the length of the armor, patting free the dust and debris collected from her skirmish with the sentinel. “And magic is a weapon. Anyone who believes otherwise is just lying to themselves.” 

Solas tilts his head, those sharp eyes peering into her very soul. “Do all people where you come from possess such a barbaric interpretation of magic?”

She scowls. “What else do you use physical magic aside from a weapon or to defend yourself?”

“I can name a multitude of things, as a matter of fact. It is a shame that I do not believe you would be willing to listen and learn from me sharing them, however.”

“Perhaps,” Samahl interjects, sensing the rising tension between the two elves. “It is more so a matter of the target. It is easy for one to view our sentinel constructs differently than they would a being of flesh.” 

“Maybe then, we should find her an inanimate object to practice her skill on. Less of a challenge.”

Her hands clench into fists at her sides. Her nails bite into the soft flesh of her palms as she squeezes tighter and her knuckles pale from the strain. Oh, how easily the temptation floods back into her system to kick his ass. She remembers the incredible sense of satisfaction she felt when her fist connected with his jaw in the future. Jonquil had been itching to do so since their first conversation in the Fade and boy, that punch didn’t disappoint. It unfortunately was short lived and she’s pretty sure he deserves more than just one. Hotheaded prick. 

“Do you want to go?” she asks through gritted teeth. “You clearly have a problem with me.”

He seems taken aback by the suggestion at first, his brows creased, and full lips pressed into thin line. “I am certain that I would not want to go anywhere with you in this particular moment. You are a stranger. And have not proven you are trustworthy. I fail to comprehend why Mythal would even -”

“I mean do you want to fight?” Jonquil interrupts him, her patience with this time period wearing thin. “Me versus you. Right now.” 

Samahl lifts his hands hurriedly, his eyes slightly wide with panic at her suggestion. “Come now, that is hardly necessary. I doubt our High Lady would approve.”

She shrugs and crosses her arms over her chest. “It's easy enough to say you are afraid. Fear can be more powerful than a blade at times.”

“Challenge accepted.” Solas partially snarls. “I will not go easy on you.”

“I would say the same to you.”

Samahl glances back and forth between them trying to determine whether or not he should intervene further, then sighs in resignation and steps outside of the skirmish training boundaries.

“Very well,” he concedes, “Opponents will continue until one submits. Ground rules are as follows - “

“I shall like to invoke Sulevin ghilana hanin,” he says, as he slides into his fighting stance. 

“Solas!” Samahl exclaims, “That is hardly appropriate for training -” 

Jonquil snorts. While she isn’t knowledgeable on the training custom, she roughly comprehends the translation. He’s demanding a free for all - meaning no rules need apply. 

“Ma nuvenin. Na abelas.”

“I sincerely doubt that.” 

She knows him. And so rather than approach, her usual brashness roars in defiance against her caution, she waits and watches. Jonquil hopes that this Solas will fall prey to the weakness that plagues all youth. Fitting, naturally, for one is named Pride yet was born Wisdom. Youthful pride will blind a man to reason and wisdom every time. 

They circle one another within the ground’s boundaries. Their footwork is light and sound less. He’s practically dancing on the balls of his feet, the eagerness, the arrogance, is undeniable. Solas needs to prove his merit now that she’s openly challenged him. It’s not something Pride can tolerate. 

He rushes forward, his hands and fingers ready for their spellwork, and calls forth a circle of massive ice shards. She breathes through her nose, exhales from her mouth and watches the air steam in front of her. Jonquil takes that, her fingers splayed wide and beckons fire to her palm just as he launches the spiral of ice shards towards her.

She flings the fire just in time to melt three of them and with another exhale creates a barrier, drawing from the nullification enchantment she cast shortly after the fire, then redirects it and sends the barrier hurtling towards Solas in a towering wall of broken shards. 

He leaps away from its path with a dodge to the left, swift and sure as the strongest wind. She alters its course with a motion of her index finger, gritting her teeth against the amount of energy it drains. To her surprise, Solas uses what ice shards remain to him to pierce and break the erupted barrier. Too quick, she thinks with a bite of her lip. She’ll need to slow him down and knock him off balance - maybe a distraction is needed.

A hasty plan falls into place in her mind’s eye. The series of events plays out in slow motion, and it just might work if she can bait him into it. Jonquil blinks as a breath of cold air rushes forward. She drops to her knees just in time to tuck and roll out of the way of a spiked cone of ice. Perhaps Solas has the same thought as her. It doesn't matter in the long run.

She calls to the magic of the cone. It comes to her, eagerly, seeping into the marrow of her bones and causing her teeth to chatter. She centers it in, but the spell is messy, sloppy, and the blizzard explodes in a whirl of snow and ice. 

Solas slips into the heart of it with ease and it is when he’s pushing his way through the thick of it that she deems this moment is her opening. 

“Had I known you’d fight more rigidly than the sentinel, I wouldn’t have accepted this pointless fight.” 

The gleam of anger flares in his violet eyes. He repels the ice and snow, deflecting each strike she angles towards him. It’s rapid fire, a blur of blue and white in a miasma of cold. With enough energy conserved, he counters by nullifying the entire spell, and with a last puff of chilled breath the snowy vortex vanishes. 

She attacks and hurls blistering crystalline structures of fire toward him. He’s close, too close to safely avoid being hit. With a grunt of effort he manifests a shanty barrier and bares down against the attack. Jonquil surges forward, her foot step sure and strong, and dips to the right where the opening is. 

Solas tracks her, but there’s little he can do unless he drops the barrier and allows the barrage to hit him. She watches him - his mind is working overtime in an attempt to anticipate the consequences of his next move and her possible response to it.

An engrossed crowd has gathered around them. They press close with their faces, a combination of amusement and consternation, fixated on each blow from Jonquil and Solas. She can hear the jeers and muttered comments. What will it mean if she wins? How will Solas live with the shame? What will Mythal think should he lose? Samahl is the only one who seems concerned about the safety and security of the training ground. He’s anxious. His apprehension radiates off him palpable waves and Jonquil wonders if he might actually intervene. 

She can’t dwell on it too much - she needs to focus or risk missing her moment. Jonquil does the one thing she knows she shouldn’t and generates a void blade. There is a collective gasp and a wave of whispers quickly overwhelms the crowd like wildfire. 

Solas detonates his barrier, twists left to evade the final remnants of her spell, but is struck in the shoulder and falters. She moves then, dashing forward in a flash of surging dark energy, and pounces with a great downward slash. 

She rolls away and stops in a crouched position. Blood slowly drips from the manifested blade, the wetness a deep crimson that saturates the ground. There’s a loud groan of pain that is then followed by a roar of rage. She spins around to witness the incoming attack and, as she was trained to do, Fade steps out of Solas’ line of sight. 

Solas doubles over after missing her, hands supported on his knees, and he pants heavily as he succumbs to the exertion. 

“That looks like it hurts,” she calls, the shimmering black void blade still vibrating in her furled fingers. “Do you yield?”

There’s a miniscule of a moment when everything is frozen in time. The blinking eyes of the crowd are slowed, the pulse of the Fade magic through her blade is nearly nonexistent, and the song of her blood is but a muted tickle of a whisper in her veins. Solas lifts his head to gauge her and Jonquil is stunned to stillness to see the wolfish grin spreading across his face.

“I would not be so self-assured, friend.” he chuckles. The sound is almost menacing. Dark, twisted and unnatural in a way. It’s enough to make her take a tentative step backwards. 

The crowd around them began to mutter again. 

Utterances of impressed onlookers slip under the sound of her rapidly beating heart in her chest. It all reverberates there, like the deep poundings on a taut drum, starting in her chest before moving to her head and ears. She realizes then that the feeling is her blood streaming from a jagged cut along her forearm. 

She grunts and releases her hold on the magical blade to free her hand to put pressure to the cut. 

“What is going on here?” the unmistakable voice of Elgar’nan bellows. “Fools all of you! How dare you diminish this place without the leave of your betters!” 

The throngs of spectators disperse to allow Elgar’nan through. He looms over all, his face a mask of anger personified. There is a twist in his mouth, edges primed for a snarl, as his eyes roam over the scene before him. Mythal is on his arm, her delicate face perplexed by what she is seeing. 

“My lord, High Lady,” Samahl says, dipping into a bow. “This is but a training exercise. Nothing more.”

Mythal’s eyes dart from Jonquil to Solas and back again. Jonquil can’t read her. She’s either extremely pissed at Jonquil’s audacity or beyond disappointed that her friend and appointed protector is wounded by his lesser. 

“The fault is mine,” Solas says with a grunt of effort. “I sought to test the mettle of Jonquil myself, against Samahl’s recommendations and better judgement.”

“So it would seem.” Elgar’nan sneers. “I expect better from Mythal’s lapdog. Mind yourself, Solas. Such behavior from one of our own will not be tolerated.” His gaze only briefly flickers to Jonquil. However, she isn’t worthy of his attention or acknowledgement - she is as insignificant an ant beneath his foot. But with his warning delivered, he turns on his heels and strides away. 

Jonquil saw that Mythal lingered in the crowd, her fingers woven together in front of her in a tight knot, her eyes brimming with all she wished to say. But, she says nothing and instead follows after her husband in a swirl of robes. 

Solas watches her go, his expression pained but doesn’t follow. 

Jonquil's respect for him increases a sliver. It’s one thing to be loyal to a friend, and completely another to chase after them like a whipped dog. In all the time of knowing Solas the pendulum swings back between the two far too often. And the elven people are the ones who pay the price for it.

“Well fought, Jonquil.” Solas says in a pained voice, hobbling toward her. “Perhaps there is some…worth to your manner of magic.” 

She’s not entirely sure what to make of the last part. He says the words almost warily, and she wonders for a moment if this too will come back to bite her. 

“Same to you, Solas.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4 

A Fox’s Gambit

Time passes differently in Arlathan, or at least Jonquil presumes it does. Occurrences happen at a slower rate than back home. There’s this odd delay in the movement of the sun and moon that makes it difficult to determine the correct time. Or there's the way the weather passes, clouds gathering and morphing during a light rain, the influx of heat before a sudden cooling. It's unnatural. She knows this because since the incident at the training grounds with Solas, she’s been restricted to her chambers with limited to no access to other aspects of the palace and thus her concept of time is skewed.

At this point on house arrest, weeks or months have passed without her truly knowing. No one has bothered to check on her, aside from the servants that deliver her meals. She hasn’t even seen Solas. The last time she did was the day that followed their little tiff, and it was solely him informing her of Mythal’s will. Jonquil was to remain in the chambers until the situation smoothed over. Jonquil interprets this to mean: Elgar’nan is pissed that a little nobody is making waves within the palace, and making a mockery of the untouchable evanuris. Mythal should be called the Great Mediator, for all the conflict resolution she does while living.

But it’s good in a way. It’s given her time to think through everything and to set a course for righting the wrongs of the past to create a better future - or that’s what she hopes will happen. It is when she’s lost in deep thought, thinking through topics such as time travel, the limitlessness of the Fade, and the Dreadwolf’s manipulations, that she desperately misses Emmrich. No one can compare to his expansive knowledge of primordial powers and level of comprehension of the Fade, at least other than Solas, she supposes. But, he would know something about time magic, she’s certain, and have some ideas on how to proceed forward with altering the past. 

From what she can gather the elves are still very much in the midst of their war with the Titans. Both sides at present are evenly matched. This means: the tides have yet to shift in the Titans favor. Jonquil closes her eyes and thinks about Solas’ regrets. Back to those moments in the Lighthouse witnessing them for the first time. She scours the depths of her mind, searching desperately for the missing link. Something caused that tide shift. She’d bet her life on it. But what, exactly, the catalyst is…is the question. 

The war goes on for years, hundreds, and multiple generations suffer. Then randomly the Titans start winning and begin to push back the elves, devastating all of Elvhenan but specifically focusing on Arlathan. Mythal, earning her namesake as the Great Protector, seeks out answers for shielding the People and so who does she turn to - none other than Solas. He, at this point, is still faithful to his purpose and yet to be perverted into Pride by the actions of the other evanuris, and so he is willing to offer aid, albeit warily. 

“And then they create the lyrium dagger…” she mutters aloud, sifting through the pieces. “And the dagger works because it’s a part of the Titans. Lyrium is their blood. Meaning the only thing powerful enough to kill them - or in this case render them powerless - is themselves. And so Solas then uses the dagger to sever the dreams from the Titans along with their connection to the Fade. This then makes them tranquil and unbeknownst to Solas and Mythal they inadvertently create the Blight from said severed dreams.”

Even with the understanding of what happens before anything has even occurred, it's all still a mess. There are still too many missing pieces - too many questions. How did Solas know that the lyrium dagger would do anything? How did he come about the idea to craft a dagger - specifically? And of course the ultimate question: What caused the Titans to start winning? 

There’s something else buried within it all those lingering questions too. What corrupted Mythal? Perhaps that's really where to start. She was a spirit of Benevolence that departed the Fade to live ‘as humans do’. Her seeking the end of the Titans is completely counter to her purpose. Jonquil doesn’t have any hidden expertise in Spirits, and so she can’t claim any mystical mastery of how they exist or manifest. But something in her heart tells her that’s right. 

Speaking of spirits, where has Compassion gone? While she and the little spirit were still acquaintances rather than genuine friends, Jonquil appreciated the aura of calm and peace it emanated. But like Solas, Compassion hasn’t made an appearance since originally disappearing in the Gathering Hall. And since Jonquil wasn’t permitted to leave looking for the spirit herself was damn near impossible.

Jonquil sighs and stands, collecting her chaotic thoughts and troubled heart, to walk over to the balcony. Today, whatever day it was, is pleasant. There’s a light breeze in the air, a puff breath that smells of Spring and freshness, and a balmy warmth that could be mistaken for summer. The great trees of Arlathan sway to the song of the word. It's a weightless dance that gives way to the wind freely and openly, the expression of health and balance pronounced in each gesture of the branches or rustling of the autumn tinted leaves. 

Untouched by the Veil. That’s the difference. While Arlathan lives back home with thriving plant and animal life, it's a shadow of its former self. The songs that are sung are sorrowful and melancholic. As if the entire forest remembers the time before when magic bloomed like blossoms on a vine. 

A knock disrupts her reverie and the curving doors open to reveal none other than Solas. 

“May I enter,” he asks, without really looking at her. 

“If you must.” she replies.

He steps in but moves to the side to permit a couple of servants to carry in a small, squat table. Her eyebrows immediately raise, curiosity for the purpose of the new furniture…piqued. Two large overstuffed cushions are brought in next along with what appears to be some sort of chest board. Jonquil blinks, wholeheartedly confused at this point. 

Solas thanks the servants for their aid and then waits for them to depart before turning on his heel to address her. “I thought you might be interested in some mental stimulating entertainment.” 

She folds her arms over her chest, a dubious expression on her face. How very un-Solas like. 

“And you picked chess?” 

“I’ve found that time passes more quickly when one is mentally stimulated. That aside, I can imagine that you are long overdue for a bit of enjoyment, would you not agree?”

Ah, there it was - the fishing expedition. Jonquil’s confusion rapidly melted away and was replaced by an immediate, if not urgent, sense of hypervigilance. All those carefully erected walls she’d curated, reinforced, and maintained over the last thirty-one years with the Shadow Dragons were now protected by several hundred deadly enchantments and a severely pissed off high dragon. There was absolutely no way there wasn’t some ulterior motive attached to this gesture.

“You’re making quite the assumption.” she replies, defensively. 

“How so?” he asks, gracefully situating himself on the cushion in front of the board and table. “Do you not enjoy playing?”

“You’re assuming that I know how to.” she retorts, “Or that I would even want to play with you.”

His face compresses. For her the change in his expression is akin to clouds shrouding the sun. The little light that was there, that small glimmer of hopefulness at her possible acceptance instantly diminished by her words leaving nothing but cool rejection in its wake. 

“Then I will take my leave,” he states in a crisp, cold melancholic tone. 

Warning bells sound in her head, loudly. This is a trap they whisper, he is attempting to trick you. The probability of this indeed being a trick is extremely high, Solas is after all recognized as the God of betrayal, lies and trickery…depending on the story. Such ploys of lulling her into a false sense of security wouldn’t be above him or beneath him. A friendly gesture now, a mere extension of an olive branch under the guise of kindness or peace, simply to shield the dagger before driving it into her side. She winced at the thought, her palm fluttering to the scar left by his gracious esteem. 

But, just maybe…

Solas is at the door, hand reaching for the knob when she says, much to her genuine astonishment. “You can go first.” it’s said with a reluctant sigh, because she knows she’s willingly, stupidly, she’s a lamb walking right into the wolf’s jaws to be devoured. Or, perhaps a fox. 

He rejoins her at the table once more folding his long, lean frame in a comfortable position on top of the supple cushion. She tucks her legs underneath her behind, her feet wiggling slightly, before she settles in. 

His first move: King’s pawn to E4.

She moves in kind, pawn to E5. 

The next is pawn to F4. 

“Is that how you view yourself?” she asks casually, her eyes surveying the board. “As a King?”

He blinks up at her, bewildered, then swiftly masks his facial expressions. “I need not the responsibility of a kingdom’s rule to feel whole or satisfied, if that’s what you’re implying.” 

She takes his pawn. “That is indeed, what I am implying.”

Long, nimble fingers move the white mage to C4. “We are hardly acquainted. You know nothing of me or I have you. So what are you basing such assumptions on, I wonder?”

She leans forwards to prop her elbows on the edges of the table, her mind a whirl of possibilities for her next move. She absently tucks a strand of hair behind an ear, then by chance glances upward, or rather sensing the heat of his gaze looks up, and notes with a flush of heat that those violet eyes are tracking her movements intently. Ever the predator. 

Jonquil thinks of moving her queen to call a check against his king. It's a pretty aggressive move so early on in the game. He might even call her out on such a brash decision. It wouldn’t be unlike him to do so, thus far young Solas has demonstrated glimmers of the man and would-be destructive god that he is in the future. 

“Already plagued by doubt?” he smirks.

She rolls her eyes and moves her tower to C6. “Not in the slightest.” 

They continue on, back and forth across the board, with him relinquishing the majority of his pieces and ground to maneuver his mages towards her. At this point, she’s extremely curious and she feels rusty by comparison as she attempts to anticipate his next moves.

“Might I ask you a question,” his tone is even, and somewhat cool. As if he is endeavoring to shield the implications of whatever his inquiry is.

Her eyes narrow and her body shifts instinctively into a defensive position, arms crossed at her chest with her lips pressed into a thin, hard line. “Depends on the question.” 

He shakes his head in exasperation, tousling his long locks, but when he finds her face again there is a twinkle of amusement within his eyes. “Are you always so hostile towards those seeking to learn about you?” Again, the words are said with a disarming earnestness that immediately causes her to feel guilty. That is until she remembers who it is she’s talking to.

“Well, you did try to kill me in the training yard - in front of half of the palace no less.” There’s a bit of heat, rightfully so, but then she concedes with a resigned sigh. “And to answer your question, no, not usually. But, go ahead and ask.” 

“Firstly, I did not try to kill you.”

She shrugs indifferently. “Could have fooled me. Your attacks felt awfully personal.”

“As did yours.”

Solas brings his thumb to stroke the cleft in his chin, his mind assessing the board and debating the handful of moves remaining to him with his limited pieces. A twinge of something stirs inside her, pooling in her belly that causes her heart to skip a pleasant beat. Oh, no. No. No. Absolutely not. No!  What about that unassuming gesture was so attractive? What an utter betrayal by her body. 

“Do you truly not recall where you are from?” 

The question snaps her to reality with the sting of a magic whip, dampening the effects of his random allure. “No.” She replies a bit too quickly, but the haste is unacknowledged for he’s already moving on to his next question.

“But you can recollect teachings, your culture and customs, perhaps even other aspects of where you come from somewhat perfectly, it would seem.” He advances his pawn to F6 and she calls a retreat of her mage to B6. 

He’s referring to her slip ups in the Gathering Hall, she suspects. “Bits and pieces.” she lies, “ In times of heightened stress or duress…” 

“Is that normal for you?”

She groans. “Can you stop using the word normal, in your line of questioning.” because let’s be honest, none of this is even remotely normal. His use of the word rakes her in a way that makes her want to grind her teeth to nubs. What does he know of normal, anyhow? A spirit that crafted a body from the stolen blood of elemental giants! What about that is normal?

“I am sorry. Does the word offend you?”

“Yes.” she responds resolutely, “It really does.” 

Those violet eyes flicker to hers, the hue of newly emerged leaves after a harsh winter, then they drift back to the board. “Forgive me then. It is not my intention to upset you.” 

“Again I say, could have fooled me.” 

Solas halts, his hand hovering above his last tower. His face pinches drawing in his thick brows over his regal nose. 

He reclines slightly, tenting his elegant fingers together in consideration. “You believe that I do not like you?”

She bites, once again, dumbly. “To quote you, we are hardly acquainted. But, no. I don’t think you  like me any more than I like you. That much is obvious.” Jonquil leans back herself, supporting her body weight by shifting much of it to her extended arm. The floor is cool to the touch, almost like ice. The sensation is a welcome reprieve from the feverish heat building beneath her skin. 

She adjusts her body in an awkward angle to put some much needed distance between herself and Solas. They’re making too much eye contact. It’s too intimate. Too uncomfortable. But even with the discomfort her thoughts wander to his relationship with the Inquisitor. Did he look at her this way? Jonquil shakes her head vehemently to dislodge the inane line of thinking. What the fuck was wrong with her? 

“Are you well?” his voice breaks through, all tranquil and serene, real concern seeping into the words. 

“I’m fine. It’s your move.” She’s peering at the afternoon sun from the balcony opening when she speaks. A flock of birds fly by, their calls to one another loud and irregular, as if they are yelling at each other and someone within the flock is arguing back in response. It’s a nice distraction.

“It is your turn, Jonquil.”

Her focus returns to the board. He has moved his tower to D1.

“Are you expecting me to just chase you around the board all day?” she muses. “Your moves aren’t very militaristic or tactical.” He has seven pieces remaining to him, eight including his King. The majority of which are pawns. His mages, however, are positioned interestingly - one at E7 and the other at B5.

“As intriguing as that may sound,” he chuckles, “It will not take so long for me to win.” 

Cocky bastard. 

“Also,” he breathes, so low that she nearly doesn’t catch what he says. “ I apologize for my behavior, from before. It was reprehensible and I am ashamed I behaved in such a manner.” 

Now she’s the one shifting uncomfortably under the weight of the apology. Jonquil gives it a moment, letting the words settle around them both. “Oh. Alright.” is all she can think to say.

He offers a small smile in gratitude for her acceptance of his offense. 

There’s a soft tap at the door that causes both of them to avert their attention. A servant enters, balancing a pitcher in one hand and two goblets in-between the fingers of the other hand, and serves them both wine. 

“From the High Lady Mythal.” he says, as he pours. “She believed you both might be parched and in need of some drink.”  

Her eyes flash and shoot to Solas. He thanks the servant for the refreshment, his demeanor cool but grateful, and the servant offers a half bow then shuffles back through the door.

“So, Mythal sent you?” She says, her voice cold as ice. “That fits. You don’t do much on your own accord, do you?”

He sips the wine, eyes rolled back in indulgence of the heedy blend of sweetness and sharp tartness, then sets the goblet on the table beside the board. “She merely suggested I inquire after you. The game was completely my idea.” 

As if she needs looking after. 

Correction - as if she needs him looking after her.

“It is her concern that Elgar’nan would respond…unkindly to what happened in the training yard. Though I reassured her that her husband could not be bothered to sully his hands with something so trivial, she believed otherwise.” 

The way he says, husband…abrasive and with a slight snarl. She wonders if that’s jealousy or just his awareness of Elgar’nan’s awful nature. Could be either, she supposes. Given all that Solas faithfully does for Mythal and that eventually Elgar’nan leads the pack of the evanuris to slaughter her. She inwardly shrugs. While she doesn’t abide by Mythal’s murder, that’s one piece of the puzzle she knows can’t come to pass, Jonquil doesn’t much care for the implications of Solas’ jealousy. At all. 

Jonquil feigns interest in her fingernails, inspecting them and then picking something invisible from her cuticles. “Now I’m a child that needs to be watched.” Her eyes slant to him. “Funny how you weren’t punished and locked away in your room.”

He sighs, as if he actually is talking to a child. “You can be quite insufferable.” 

Jonquil refrains from responding in kind and sticking her tongue out at him for good measure. She is, after all, an adult. He won’t know insufferable until he meets his future self. She doesn’t know how much more of this, of him, she can tolerate. 

She slams her palm down flat on the smooth decorative surface of the table. The chess board shakes, the pieces wavering faintly before stilling, and starts to rise. “I’m sick of being insulted, so I think I’m done playing for the day.” 

Solas audibly releases a great breath of air on a growl. “Must you let emotions govern you? Are you truly incapable of setting aside your feelings and looking beyond to the larger issue? Have some self control.” 

She turns away, striding in the direction of the balcony. Jonquil trains her gaze on the horizon and thinks of better times with better company. The times when she wasn’t trapped in the past, when she at least had an idea of what she should and could do to accomplish the problem in front of her. Here, though…it’s seeing all the puzzle pieces, but being unable to put together the entire image or being overwhelmed by all of them. There’s no concept of time - whatsoever. That she doesn’t know when things happen, to an exact moment or date, complicates everything. All those things aside, even if she does fix what’s broken, how does she get back? That weighs on her more than anything else. Getting back to her team - her friends - and the Shadow Dragons. To her life.

 Her shoulders sag as she leans against the ornate stone banister and for a second she thinks about breaking down in tears. She can feel the heat of his glare on the back of her neck, the hairs there are standing at full attention because of the prickling awareness.  

He subsides after the deliberate silence becomes too unnerving, and his glare transforms into a frown. She likes it more, can sense the change in his demeanor by the diminished intensity of his gaze. 

“Jonquil,” he says her name calmly, and it reminds her of the way hunters coo to skittish animals - like the halla. The Dalish are always cooing and soothing the halla, it makes her stomach churn to think about it. Knowing full well who Ghilan'nain truly is and her connection to them - as the Mother of Monsters - makes her mad enough to want to spit.  

“It is your turn.” he adds, while she’s lost in thought. Her mind is currently occupied with contemplations of either burning or driving her void blade into Ghilan’nan’s flesh. She can’t decide which, but determines that either would be a mercy given the atrocities she commits. 

“Pawn to H5,” she says with disinterest. It’s a throw away move, one that indicates her unwillingness to continue playing and participate in his inquisition. 

She can hear him moving the piece forward on the board, the light clink as it knocks against it. 

“Mage to D-” but he is abruptly cut off when the room begins to violently shake.

* * *

Jonquil sees it happening from a distance, it’s almost a disembodied experience. It’s as if her spirit is floating above her body, watching her with the same intentness that the physical version of herself is watching the scenery, and the world, past the palace. Then she knows the banister cracks, massive chunks tumbling away to the courtyard below, from the severity of the earthquake. And again, there’s this moment of time seeming to slow, as she turns around to see Solas already up and moving towards her as she begins to fall. 

A deafening scream escapes her throat, the blood-curdling cry piercing the air sending flocks of birds to take flight in terror. Now time has increased, speeding up at an impossible rate, and she can’t concentrate enough to draw from her mana to cast any semblance of a spell. 

Her surroundings blur, the crashing sky around her nothing more than a blur of melding colors and streams of light from the sun, then there’s an audible pop and pain slices up her arm from her wrist. Her feet dangling beneath her - suspended in open air. The shattered pieces of stone on the ground below, and elves are rushing around dodging the crumbling building, appearing like nothing more than scurrying ants.

Jonquil peers up, peeking through one eye hesitantly opening it as she wonders when the impact will come, and is dumbfounded when she sees Solas. His right hand is tightly gripping her wrist with such vehemence that his fingers and knuckles are pallid as the left desperately clings to the remaining banister beam. He looks back and forth between her and the destroyed balcony, his teeth gritted from the strain of holding her freely swaying body.

A massive crash rings out, followed by a series of smaller head-rattling tremors splinter around the courtyard jostling the very foundation of Arlathan palace, and then a great bellowing erupts from within fissures in the ground, and it’s as if the very world is roaring in agony. Three stone golems barrel through the Northeastern wall, stomping right over the protection enchantments, their colossal onyx clubs veined glowing blue lyrium hovering above eyeless heads, primed to strike any unsuspecting victim. 

Solas’s eyes widen in terror, the soulful violet depths growing watery as he witnesses the chaos and destruction below. 

“Solas,” she manages in a strangled whisper. “You can…you can let go. It’s okay.” She attempts a reassuring smile that she knows doesn’t reach her eyes, but nevertheless she rallies hopelessly to try and convince him of her sincerity. 

“Are you mad?” He is mortified by the suggestion. “You will not survive, Jonquil. The fall will surely kill you.” 

He’s probably right. The balcony easily towers more than twenty or so feet off the ground - if not more. And while she’s highly skilled for someone her age in magic, she’s not feeling wholly confident in her ability to maintain a barrier, or anything else really, with the frantic fear of death looming over her head - ironically. The memory of Weisshaupt floods her mind unbidden: Ghilan’nain’s archdemon ramming into the centuries old fortress with legions of darkspawn underfoot, the gigantic slab of the wall in the armor falling away to empty air with the eluvian, and Lucanis’ shout of “you call that nice and quiet?” as he reappeared from the unshattered mirror hundreds of feet below. Kinda making her wish she could free fall into an eluvian now.

Screams and cries of Mana. Ma halani fill the air, rising high above the cacophony of roars from the raging golems. One tumbles forward, its steps like thousands of rocks grinding and clattering together as the earth shudders underneath it, and swipes at a fallen elf directly below Jonquil’s dangling body. The elf barely misses being struck as she rushes and hides behind a stone remnant of the balcony. 

Jonquil glimpses down then back to Solas, her face stricken. He can tell what she’s planning long before she says it aloud. “I’m sorry!” she yells, before slipping free from his grip. 

He yells her name, his arm still outstretched with empty fingers grasping for her as she falls. But she can’t think about him, she has to focus on falling and not dying. Under the circumstances, doing so is proving to be more challenging than she originally even anticipated. She takes a deep breath and says a silent prayer to whoever is listening above and releases a burst of power in rippling waves to Fade step herself to safety. 

The golem swings its club right into the broken stone piece - it shatters on impact, clear down the middle - and the elf woman scampers away to a different collection of debris where other elves happen to  also be cowering. Jonquil Fade steps again, she thinks it's the fourth or fifth time and she feels drained - nearly boneless, but she pushes the feeling aside even as her arm and side flare in pain. She’s never extended herself so much magically in one sitting. How times of immense stress can make a person sentimental for the good ol’ days, like when hordes of darkspawn swarmed and attacked her and her team during their wondrous time fighting against Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain. Good times. 

Another rock golem starts to amble to join its brethren, slamming down its club on anything and everything in its path. The elves cry out again for help, louder, shriller - completely desperate - as tears stream down dust covered cheeks and leave dirty streaks to stain their faces. Once more, she can Fade step one more time. She knows she can. If she’s right, the radiating waves of power from her magic and her sheer proximity to the first rampaging golem, should hypothetically, knock it backwards giving a small window of opportunity to launch a counterattack against the other.

“Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die.” she chants, propelling herself forward. At the last second, she flips her body, abruptly closing down her magic to regenerate mana, and practically flings the invisible waves at the golem as a warrior would a shield. 

Her landing is horrendous, but she survives with nothing more than a few scrapes on her hands and feet - so, points for resiliency. The golem stumbles back, clumsy and awkward from the disproportionate segments of rock that make up its body, and she smiles triumphantly as its own momentum and weight works against it. The reprieve is short lived, however,  she needs to distance the second from the group of elves. 

Jonquil dashes forward allowing the swiftness of Fade step to once again carry her the great distance towards the other golem. She channels more power from the ambient energies of the Fade, her body acting as a corporeal conduit, then releases an explosion of flame, hot and deadly as dragon’s breath, from her crossed index and middle finger. 

Everything happens in a rapid blur of red orange flames, a blinding flash of blue as lyrium strikes the ground, and hurtled slabs of earth. Jonquil stands between the golems and the elves, brows furrowing with her hair blowing tumultuously behind her as if some great flailing amber banner, and hand compressed into fists. There have been far worse adversaries, she reminds herself for the confidence boost, far worse and far stronger - how bad can two mounds of rock be? No more difficult than her time with Lace in Kal-Sharok. In fact, it might be a tad easier, given they are above ground. Reduces the likelihood of a cave-in crushing her to death. See, the bright side. 

The golem lashes out in a frenzied attack of downward and diagonal swings breaking the pattern only to jab forward or slam the damn thing down in an attempt to bash her skull in. Jonquil dodges with somewhat ease - she has speed, agility and flexibility on her side. She flips backward, pivots, then counterattacks with a chain of lightning spell. The jolts zigzag from her splayed palms, the high voltage charging the air with such an intensity she can hear it sizzling. 

The discharge strikes the first, then jumps directly to the second, sending them both into a convulsing dance of shock. She seizes upon the moment to briefly focus on the elves. “Go! Get out of here and find some place to hide. Stay away from windows and stick to the lower levels - hurry!” 

“But, what of you?” a young boy, barely older than twelve or thirteen, asks in a small voice. “They will kill you.”

An older woman stands beside him clutching his slender arm and attempting to tug him along. Her face is a mask of fear, but there’s a glimmer behind it of her protective instincts, and Jonquil realizes they must be related. 

She rushes over and ducks behind the rocks, tucking in close to their trembling thin bodies and offers them all a reassuring smile. “I’ll be alright. Don’t worry about me.”

“The monsters are returning!” A man screams to her left.

“We’re doomed!” another woman screams, clutching her face in terror.

Jonquil reacts quickly, spinning on her heel and slamming her palms down flat on the ground. A chill sweeps over their small alcove of protection like the deathly grip of mid-winter. The golems have recovered and are indeed advancing, one of them even holds a large segment of earth in its hands and readies the hurl the godsforsaken thing. 

She grunts with a bit of effort, sweat beading and dripping from her brows, as she pushes down harder on the ground, and just as the golem flings the rock a wall of jagged ice shoots out and up forming a semi-circle around them. 

“Go!” she screams. And they nod, still fearful and unsure of what to do, but nonetheless stand and take off for the central hallway. 

Jonquil is exhausted, her breath comes in ragged, quick gasps, and she knows if she doesn’t end this soon she’s not going to make it. The twin golems are beating and pounding on the ice, attempting to shatter it. It holds - thankfully - but she's in need of a hasty plan before they break through. 

Behind her there’s a great deal of commotion. Warriors casting their own spells to combat other golems that have breached the Northwestern walls of the palace. Where the hell are the evanuris, she internally curses, while surveying the battlefield. They’re either incapacitated or dealing with golems of their own. They better be, is her last thought before the golems shatter the spiked ice wall and shards explode around her. 

Now, she’s back to everything hurting - especially her wrist. Solas might have dislocated it, or worse broken it, while saving her. But, since he did so, she won’t begrudge him the injury…this time. 

It dawns on her that here she can’t expect help. Not from her team. Not from the evanuris and definitely not from Solas. She can only rely on herself to finish the job - as she always has.

Something smacks into her and knocks the wind free from her lungs. In an audible oomph, she’s winded and doubled over clutching her chest. That’s another broken rib. Jonquil inhales and immediately screams when her chest agonizingly resists expanding. Yep. Definitely another broken rib. 

She wheezes and shakily stands. Jonquil plants her feet with some extra effort, her legs wobble below the knee and feels more boneless than before. Her mind reels debating between the possible spells or tactical plan she can conjure quickly and with the least amount of effort. The answer is zero - naturally. 

“Jonquil! Hold on!” Solas shouts from her right. He’s sprinting toward her, determination etched into his features. 

He pauses to momentarily create a barrier as debris falls from overhead. His hands are stretched above his head, anchoring one foot to the ground and planting himself firmly and solidly as a sylvan in a storm, and then by pushing off the balls of his feet he’s able to heave and catapult the debris away - saving three injured elves in the process. 

The golems roar, and the sound is like rocks grinding and scraping together. 

“You can do this, Jonquil. YOU can do this.” another wishful chant to gather her courage. 

Then she plunges toward them. 

“Wait, no!” She can hear Solas’ call, but she doesn’t bother to acknowledge him. It’s far too late anyhow. 

Jonquil cups her hands together, piling them one on top of the other, to start the spell. The black vortex begins small, no larger than a bead or a pearl, then grows quickly as she pours more mana into it. The undulation of the entropic energy reverberates through her like a tuning fork, setting her teeth on edge. She’s never been this close to the center of the vortex before, but desperate times and all that. 

Some primal instinct has kicked in and the golems attempt a hasty retreat, but it’s too late. The purple black vortex has already begun sucking them towards the center, drawing now on the residual bits of castoff energy from her personal aura and blending it with the Fade. The vortex is nearing critical levels as the whirling winds and fluid energy pull everything that isn’t anchored towards its pain inflicting center. 

The golems swirl within it, their screams a garble of incomprehensible mess of mashing stones and earth. Jonquil dives backward and digs her nails into the ground where an upward jutting stone is. A lame attempt to secure herself, she knows, but it's better than nothing. 

The wind whips her face and stings her eyes. She snaps them shut, to shield herself from the forceful gale. The sting remains and it causes them to water. 

Suddenly she feels a warm palm on her back and her head snaps in the direction of its owner. 

“Keep your head down and hold on.” He yells over the howling winds. 

Jonquil tries to respond, but her voice is swallowed by the shrieking vortex. 

Solas leans closer to her to wrap his left around her then lifts his right to summon a partial barrier around them. A soft, muteness fills the little bubble and it’s nice. Too nice. Makes Jonquil want to let go and drift off to sleep. The diminished sound is like having cotton batting wedged deeply in your ears. Sound still exists, it is there, faintly, but you know this because your eyes can trace the place of origin and not because you can actually hear it. 

There’s a tremendous detonation, like a misfiring barrel of gaatlok, as the golems, magic and whatever else is trapped within the vortex condenses and turbulently explodes.

Rock pebbles plummet to the ground in a downpour all around them. The angry song is lulled into a pacified hum, and things feel right again, all in synchronization as before. 

Solas, however, is pleasantly content with disrupting said synchronization. Once he confirms the immediate danger has passed, he launches candidly into a fitful tirade. 

“Are you completely devoid of your senses? Only a fool would leap into uncertain danger with no plan or means to subdue their enemies.” 

She coughs a laugh, it’s pitiful, down right pathetic actually, given all the fights and battles she’s been in and won with worse trauma. She’s reminded of an old saying her father used to say, smiling and laughing through the pain are markers of a true soldier. Something Jonquil never truly believed until Varric and Solas entered her life.

Painful as it is, her initial thought is to say something in pure Rook snarky fashion. But, her pain is dumbing her, overriding every other sense governed by her brain, and it leaves her numb and unable to think of anything clever. Probably for the best, she surmises while struggling to stand, might just piss him off more and the last thing she needs right now is Solas yelling in her ear. 

“You’re right, but in my defense…,” she huffs, clutching her throbbing wrist. Yep, it is surely broken. “It was less thinking and more of just acting. Those elves were in trouble and needed help.” 

Surprise in the first emotion that flashes across his face, then it softens slightly the warmth of her words filling him with something she can’t place, and then curiosity replaces it as the moon does the sun at the fall of night. 

“You would risk yourself for these people, who are not your own, just for the sake of protecting them - you who is an utter stranger to them?” 

She wheezes, gods her body really fucking hurts. 

“My Father….my father,” She’s fading, fast. Blackness seeped into her vision like droplets of ink on parchment. The edges blur and the world becomes awash in gauzy dimness as all color dies and structure loses shape. “Always told me…those with power…is their job to shield and protect the defenseless…” The words are all slurring together in a jumbling heap of incoherence. She’s not sure if he can understand her, she can hardly understand herself, but she says the words and means them. They are branded into her soul as the vallaslin is to the essence of elven culture. 

Solas’ expression is unreadable. “You are an impossible fool.”

And then Jonquil welcomes the warm, comforting embrace of unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

One of the People

Death and dying are easy. You simply let go and surrender to whatever will compels you to return your body to the earth and your soul to the realm of the Dreaming. Clean, without fuss or embellishments. Jonquil wonders if she is dead. She’s weightlessly floating in an inky blackness dotted with twinkling starlight. Is she in the sky? Is she in some sort of heaven - a void paradise far beyond the reaches of a mortal’s comprehension. Her senses tell her no, dulled as they are. But the stillness is nice, peaceful and serene, like how she imagined being rocked in the tightness and security of a mother’s womb might be. Jonquil never knew her mother, her birth mother, so she can’t recall the exact feeling - just the approximation. 

After some time of just drifting she leans forward to take in her surroundings. Disappointment pings harshly in her chest as realization dawns on her. Not heaven, just the Fade. Of course. 

Her eyes sting and she wants to weep.

Her stomach roils and she wants to vomit. 

Neither actually happen, who’d want that in the Fade anyways?

Jonquil does sob, however, there are no tears or wetness, just heart wrenching sobs unleashed selfishly for herself. It's the only time she’ll ever have to herself - Jonquil has to seize the moment while she can.

“Do you weep for what you have lost, little fox?”

Her head rolls reluctantly in the direction of the voice. She knows who it is without needing to look, but she does because it's a very mortal thing to do. 

“Must you plague even my dreams, Dreadwolf?” 

He chuckles, that wolfish smile spreading across full lips, and approaches her. He’s donned the attire of the wolf: full ancient elven armor, shimmer gauntlets and gorgets, with the wolf pelt adornment slung over his shoulder. 

“Unfortunately, I do. If I had elsewhere to be, I would be there already.”

She snorts but has nothing to say to that pronouncement, because seriously…the sentiment is mutual. 

“How fares your time in the past?” he asks with a quirk of an eyebrow. “I would have assumed what was broken would be fixed by now, you have been there quite some time now, have you not? Was I mistaken in my assumption? Are you incapable of working through the puzzles of the past to prevent the destruction of the present?”

Jonquil squeezes her eyes shut tight, willing herself to wake.

“Did you send me back to fix your mistakes?” she redirects, her body still splayed and floating in the abyss. Constellations wink behind her eyelids, vivid, bright, all rotating in a large wheel of the world and the Fade. It’s hauntingly beautiful, as if the stars are somehow alive. “Why not just send yourself, you are after all a god.”

He growls. “I am not, nor will I ever be a god.” 

He paces around her, arms clasped behind his back, eyes alert and assessing. Always assessing. 

She can feel the ripples of his footsteps lap against her body. The wakes softly ungulate around her, truthfully rocking her as if she was in the womb. 

“It was the Fade that sent you back, not I.” He says after a time. “The Fade is a metaphysical realm and its power is derived from willpower and expression of thought. And for a lack of a better turn of phrase - possesses a mind of its own.”

“As I’m well aware.” 

She can hear the smirk, see in her mind’s eyes the curl of his lip as the smile slants to the side. Jonquil doesn’t open her eyes to actually see if she’s right, however.

“I know not why the Fade sent you over myself to the past, but I suspect it has more to do with my fragmented memories and my close connection to the Fade. I am not myself, at least not as I was. And it has prevented me from doing much, such as escaping this place…again.” 

“So in truth, you don’t know anything more than I do about the situation we now find ourselves in. That’s just great.”

But, he’s telling the truth. She doesn’t know exactly how she knows, but she does. He’s softer, subtler somehow, if not quieter, as if all his trauma has been washed clean. Without his fury, his rage, and pain…all the lingers is the loneliness - he is now a mere shade of the Dreadwolf.

“I suppose that means I can’t just will myself back either.”

“Have you yet tried?” 

She hasn’t, but much like many of the other creepy things she randomly understands without the expertise or experience to actually recognize how she knows, Jonquil is certain she can’t magic or will herself back home through the Fade. 

The Fade transforms, shifting as a chameleon does, into true raw Fade form. The twisted and frightening landscape looms like a perpetual nightmare above her. Dark jagged rocks jut from cracks in the ground like crooked teeth and raw lyrium veins pulse with the song of oneness. Massive rock formations and landmasses float seamlessly overhead, some even move in the opposite direction descending downward into a mist of nothingness. 

Jonquil is suddenly very cold. 

“Last time you mentioned ‘one last effort’, were you referring to tearing down the Veil?” 

He paces again only this time he is upside down standing on a rocky platform above her. 

“Yes and no. While the Veil was and remains a terrible mistake, it is one I am willing to amend, given the circumstances. However, and more specifically, when I stated that this was my one last effort, I was referring to your recent time traveling endeavors. You may be able to prevent me from creating the Veil to begin with.” 

“So you remember the Veil? How convenient.”

Solas stops mid-stride both eyebrows rising. “I have a recollection of memories that are connected to you, meaning only those that we share. I have an awareness of our conversations in the Fade, your goal of defeating Elgar’nan and Ghilan'nain, and of course of our battle that sent us both back into the Fade. I do not, however, recall many of my actions prior to our introduction. For instance: The exact damage the Veil caused, I no longer know. The reason is denied to me. Even the reason why I created the Veil is gone. I simply know I manifested it.” 

“But you remember that it was a mistake?”

He shakes his head. “It is not as simple as that. I have no way of personally connecting anything of myself to the memories and reasonings tied to the Veil. I instead have witnessed reflections of dreams or experienced the emotions of spirits, who in turn emulate what they believe is the reality of the Veil. My dreams, however, are no longer reflective or accessible here.” 

“And my memories and dreams?” she asks, already dreading the response. 

At this he laughs in earnest, his grin morphing into a genuine smile. “Those are safeguarded. Only dreams that we share are accessible to me.” 

Jonquil forces herself to stand. The pain is still there, the hurt and the bitter sting. The hatred is there too, buried deep within all the others, and bites worse than the burning discomfort of new wounds. And old hurts. 

Robe coattails billow behind her as she is suddenly walking, then running toward him. She’s dressed in all white livery robes and supple white leather boots. She doesn’t know where they came from, but they feel like an extension of herself and so they remain. 

Her feet are pounding against the ground, harder and faster, propelling her forward towards him. Solas, however, doesn’t move. He remains in the same place above, still out of reach. Jonquil skids to a stop, panting and exhausted. How does one get tired in the Fade?

“How am I, in the past?” He asks, hesitantly. There is a reluctance in his words as if he is fearful of her answer. 

“Insufferable, as you are now.” She replies. He accepts this with grace and doesn’t ask her to expound further on what specifically makes his younger self insufferable. That’s a blessing, because Jonquil’s not entirely sure what else can be said about the Solas before Solas. 

The horizon alters, changing from the swirling, monstrous green that the Fade is known for to a kaleidoscope of rainbow colors that transports both of them back to the inky well of the abyss. She peers down, feeling the wetness seep into her soft boots, and something in her head tells her to lie back and float again. “I will endeavor to seek out more knowledge on time travel magic, here in the Fade. What is accessible to me will be limited, but perhaps there are spirits here who know something of note.” 

“Alright, sounds…reasonable.” But of course nothing about the Fade is reasonable. 

And in a blink of an eye he is at her side.

“Our time together here is running short,” Solas whispers in her ear.

Overhead the constellations dance, each wearing finery dusted in glittering silver and dazzling white. The wheel where they reside spins again only this time there are only two winking constellations that are visible in the darkness: Fenrir and Vulpecula.

* * *

“She is waking!” Compassion trills, hovering beside the four poster bed. 

The Grand Healer ambles from the end of the bed where a long skinny table is set up with a series of salves, potions, and surgical-like instruments. His attendant, a lean wisp of an elf with overly large sapphire blue eyes, scuttles to keep up to remain by his side. The Grand Healer is dressed for one of his station, light-weight silvery multilayered robes with great tapered sleeves and frilled high collar. His attendant is similarly styled, but less opulent, with fewer layers and she’s wearing a sheath gown rather than trousers or breeches underneath. There’s an interesting sequence of curling elven letters threaded in gold on her and the Grand Healer’s chest, Suledin - finding strength in pain, to endure. 

Solas is gracefully seated in a high back ornate chair on the left side of the bed tucked in-between the bedside table and the low burning sconce. He is frowning, whether in displeasure or concern it's difficult to say, but his expression is the only tell that he is anything but at ease. 

Jonquil groans as her eyes flutter open. She feels like death, as if she needs to sleep for a thousand years. Oh, what a glorious break that would be. But, she’s here and awake and battles with the rock golems rushing back to her anew. 

“Was anyone badly hurt?” she croaks, her throat dry and scratchy. 

The Grand Healer lifts her damaged wrist while simultaneously casting a healing spell. She wines from the movement, but bites back a yelp of pain. 

“Four warriors slain, two scores of civilians and and servants injured, but no other casualties. Funeral pyre rites will be held for the fallen, to honor their valiant efforts to protect the castle once we are able to recover and catch a moment’s respite. The brunt of the attack was solely fixated on the palace, not the city itself. That aside, many are fearful and confused, their minds consumed by when the next attack will occur.” Solas explains, his tone clipped and matter of fact. 

“Yes, yes. Minor injuries. A few scrapes here, some bruising, and naturally mental fatigue - nothing rest will not cure.” The Grand Healer adds. He instructs his attendant to fetch him one of his numerous vials. She pads to the table, grabs a vial filled with blue-green liquid, and hands it to the Grand Healer. 

“You, consequently, suffer from a great many injuries. I am beginning to wonder if you take pleasure from harming yourself. I do not often visit the same person twice within such a short time frame. If you can, lean forward, yes, like that, I will need to remove the bandages from your head to apply the salve. It will sting now that you are conscious - that is good, however, means it is working.” 

Jonquil does as she is instructed, her teeth gritted all the while, as the sharp stringent bite of the salve pierces her skin. 

Compassion flutters above her tucking itself nicely into the canopied space of the bed. Its tendril-like wings hum a tranquil tune that soothes Jonquil, and she relaxes immediately, slumping back into the feather down bed in a boneless heap.

“Where did you go?” Jonquil asks, sounding drunk, her words slurring together. “I looked for you.” 

“I returned to the Fade,” it says merrily. “I sought to learn and help, but I could not find what I believed would be there.”

“Yes,” Solas interjects, “Compassion informed me that it desired to help you remember what it was you have forgotten.” 

She hums thoughtfully or blissfully, she’s not entirely sure why she’s making the sound. In the back of her mind she is screaming, the alert portion of her mind blaring warning horns of how Compassion might reveal too much - might learn too much. Any revelations pertaining to Jonquil’s identity or purpose here will undoubtedly be met antagonistically - especially by Solas. It might inadvertently trigger the series of events she’s struggling to prevent. 

“Thank you, Compassion. But you don’t have to worry yourself over it. I’m sure it will all come back, in time.” 

“But -” There’s a tremble in Compassion’s voice, as if Jonquil has offended it. “What am I to do if I cannot help? Helping will bring you comfort - it will ease that pain.” 

Solas says nothing at first, seemingly intrigued by the determination of Compassion’s pursuit of this particular goal, but just stares at Jonquil inscrutably. 

“Halani, would you retrieve the bandages and the onyx dagger from the table, as well? The cut is clean, but might need stitches rather than a healing spell.” The Grand Healer leans down to inspect the open flesh further, his pale grey-lavender eyes narrow in their assessment. “It will scar, but in time, once your body has received it, we might try a spell that will lessen if not completely remove its appearance.”  

He pokes around a bit more. Mending her bones to the best of his abilities - since there is no open wound, he is operating blindly - and then deposits a small glass bottle on the right bedside table for the pain. Both he and Halani pack up his things and then shuffle from the room. 

Solas and Compassion remain - the silence is deafening. 

“What you did was commendable, though I may not agree with your methods, you saved a great many lives. And for that you have my thanks.” Solas says. 

She shifts her head on the pillow to look at him, her gaze critical. A vein in her head throbs near her new wound, an ugly gash she can feel that cuts diagonally across the top of her right eyebrow to the corner of her bottom eyelid. Every time she blinks the tender skin screams. 

“Yes, yes! You were very helpful. Though I do not understand the rock creatures. They are filled with anger and sorrow. A fury that resonates deeply within them. I felt it even within the Fade.”

Solas sighs and nods. “Yes, they are but a symptom of a…misguided decision. And now, nothing can breach their stone defenses, so battle and death is all they know. But, we do what we must to protect the People.”

Jonquil scoffs with a disappointed shake of her head and rotates away from him. 

Solas blanches, clearly perturbed by her response. “Do you disagree with my assessment of the creatures?” 

She stares ahead, her eyes burning holes into the draped canopy of the bed. “Didn’t you just say they are a symptom of a misguided decision? It's a bit hypocritical to judge them while being the cause of their pain.” 

His anger flares. “And what do you know of it? Stranger who happened upon this place? You understand nothing of what we have been through - what I have been through. How can you pass judgement on me?” 

“I’m not judging you.” Though, she really is. It’s better to tell the lie rather than dive down the endless hole of truth. “I’m merely restating what you yourself said with an added observation. Seems you’re projecting a tad.” 

Solas huffs then eases back into his chair, one long leg folded over his knee. “Now you are implying that I am somehow upset with myself. You who acts heedlessly without so much as considering the consequences. Perhaps it is you who is upset with yourself” The response is petulant, riddled with emotion and devoid of sense or logic. 

But, again, could he be any more hypocritical? Wisdom, who allowed himself to be peer pressured into creating a physical body, manipulated into forging the lyrium dagger and forcibly making the Titans tranquil - and she acts heedlessly? Hello pot, meet kettle. 

“You both are upset.” Compassion says, stating the obvious. Compassion turns to Solas, its light thrumming in the tense silence. “Perhaps you could tell her -”

“That is not for you to share, Compassion.”

Compassion flinches, taken aback by the sharpness in his tone. “But it will help, understanding eases the way for empathy and compassion.” 

He’s quiet for sometime, his expression an interesting blend of consternation and strife as the wheels of his mind turn. Solas is weighed down by whatever he is currently thinking about; it shows in the incline of his shoulders, and the tautness of his arms as he squeezes himself tighter. 

It loosens, whatever it is, and Solas returns to his composed, seemingly unaffected self. “You do not need to do that Compassion, though I do appreciate the sentiment.” A redirected apology and for a moment Jonquil is curious about what they are referring to. He runs a hand through his hair, his fingers tangling in the tresses and tousling its keptness. It’s a fleeting moment of dishevelment for him. 

Solas sighs again and glances over at Jonquil, his eyes focused as if he’s debating whether to press the issue further. He concedes and instead stands. 

“I will go.” 

He looks at her. 

“Sounds good.”

Solas stares for a bit longer and then leaves the room on a soft click of the door closing behind him. 

Compassion drops down beside her face, clearly upset over the entire ordeal. 

“You are upset with Solas.” Compassion states, wispy tendrils skimming over her left cheek. “It is old, displaced, and you are beside yourself with anger…and opposition. He is wisdom made flesh, he will understand.” 

Jonquil shakes her head and instantly regrets it as pain slices through her temple. “Wisdom is fickle, Compassion.”

“I do not understand.” 

And how could Compassion understand? Such comprehension is beyond its purpose as a spirit. It is a gentle spirit, unlittered by terrible dreams of horrible people or the reflection of the atrocities that are to come. Compassion is pure and innocent as a child. And, Jonquil decides, it will stay that way. 

She pulls the decadent coverlet up under her chin, her gaze growing hazy as exhaustion creeps back in to claim her. 

“Compassion,” she says, her eyes drifting shut.

“Yes?”

“Promise me that you won’t share what we talk about with Solas. I’m afraid of what he might do if he learns the truth, so can you please promise that it stays between us?”

The spirit seems confused, uncertain of what keeping a secret entails notably from a person meant to be its friend as Solas is. 

Jonquil understood its hesitation, so she rephrased her request. “How about we just don’t talk about it with him or when he’s around. It is a hurt that you and I can work together to fix. Does that sound good?”

Compassion bobs up and down in agreement. “Yes, that sounds good. I will do my best to help.” 

By the grace of Elgar’nan and Mythal Jonquil is given a three day respite to recover before she is expected to present herself to them. Solas is the messenger of this news. He delivers it politely, yet coolly before spinning on his heels and striding from her chambers. She’s not sure whether to be grateful for the information or irritated that he won’t inform her of why it is they want to see her - of all people. 

Jonquil remains abed the majority of the time. Much like her original confinement, there aren’t many places for her to go - even if she desired to - and so regaining her strength within a lavish palace in a comfortable bed isn’t an undue hardship. She’s visited often by Compassion who shares news of the city, the restoration efforts, and gossip from around the palace. It’s nice to hear, almost like her own spy embedded with the intricate system of Arlathan or talkative nosey younger sibling.  

One of the most interesting tidbits that Compassion appraises Jonquil of, is that some of the people have begun calling her - Durgen Slayer. It’s as amusing as it is concerning. Firstly, surely there were more clever names; and secondly, and a bit more serious than the first point, she can hardly be the first elf to have slain a rock golem. Presumably, the war between the Titans and elves has been ongoing for a century or two, at a bare minimum. Right? The elves should be used to warriors killing them - if primordial entities can ever truly be killed, that is.  

She files the thought away for another time, one when she’s not battered and bedridden. But of course as one day turns to two, and then eventually three, Jonquil is forced to leave the sanctuary that her bedchamber has become to return to the ancient world. 

On the third day, the dawn sky is clear and bursting with the colors of a ripened blood orange. In another life and another time, she would have enjoyed sipping a steaming cup of coffee and watching as the sun rose. Perhaps, even with a special someone. Instead she is hastily collected by Mythal’s personal attendants the moment she rouses from sleep. Their mistress has instructed them to escort Jonquil to the soaking baths so that she may be made presentable. Aside from her skin crawling at hearing the elven women call Mythal…mistress, she doesn’t actively resist. 

Jonquil is paraded through several majestic corridors and elongated tapestry laden hallways before they reach the baths on the first floor. The attendants - there are three in total - each wearing embellished grey-green sheath dresses, see to undressing her and assisting her into the large, steaming bubbling pools. The baths, which is a very humble way of describing the room, are enormous. Magically crafted waterfalls spill near scalding water into shoulder deep marble and stone sunken pools practically the same size as her chambers. 

“We are to wash you,” the woman with ashen brown hair says, with downcast eyes. She sinks to her knees, a scrub brush in hand, and goes to work.

“And to brush and style your hair.” another says, her hair is pulled back and piled atop her head with two dangling braids to frame her heart-shaped face. She has a soft bristled brush held aloft in her right hand, whilst the other pours a pitcher of water over Jonquil’s head.

“Then, we will pat you dry and add oils to your skin and then dress you as one belonging to our mistress.” the last says, her pale freckled face solemn.

And so they do. Her amber hair is brushed and styled intricately with four small braids climbing the sides of her head towards the center where they are all interwoven into one thick, she-warrior type braid that trails down her back and skims the top of bottom. A few wispy strands of amber hair are permitted to fall delicately around her face, and it’s oddly refreshing. Jonquil normally isn’t one to bother with styling her hair, just comb, brush and then get on with her day, but it feels as if a velvet curtain has parted to allow in a crisp breeze, and it dawns on her what she’s been missing out on all these years.

The perils of being raised by a single father, she supposes. 

The perfumed oils she is decidedly less thrilled about. It is a combination of three harvested plants: moon blossom, sandalwood, and canavaris - elfroot. She sneezes as the attendants finish dabbing the viscous liquid on the most tender parts of her body, the overpowering scent of the canavaris causes her eyes to uncontrollably water until the women start slipping pieces of clothing on her.

“There is one more thing we must do before you will be permitted in the audience chamber.” the freckled one says, once they are finished. 

The three elven women wander off to the far corner of the dressing room they are all in. In the corner there is a large oaken vanity overflowing with crystalline jars and a palm sized green box. They return in a whisper of naked feet, and reveal their last task to Jonquil: applying the vallaslin to her face. 

“No.” she says in a tone that brooked no argument. 

The three women hesitate, flinching and stilling at the severity of her tone.

“It will be better for you…” whispers the ashen brown haired woman, from beneath tense lips. “She will look upon you more favorably.” 

“As will Elgar’nan,” the woman with the heart-shaped face adds. “It will temper his rage if you are under Mythal’s protection.” 

Revulsion is the only word that comes to mind at the notion of the tattoos being applied to her skin. She recalled Mythal mentioning it to her, her first handful of days here, but Jonquil assumed that because she was but one elf among many the suggestion would be forgotten. Apparently, she was wrong in her assumption. She suspects she has no one to blame but herself. That’s what you get for saving people, truly a thankless job. 

The freckled one peers around cautiously, her head snapping back and forth as determines whether or not it’s safe to speak freely. “We will use paint stain rather than the customary ink. With a good scrub, hot water and lye soap, it can be removed.” 

Jonquil blinks. Multiple times and rapidly in surprise. That was the absolute last thing she expected the loyal followers of Mythal to say. 

“My mother and younger brother service the courtyard and kitchens. You saved them from those horrible monsters.” she explains, with a nervous smile on her lips. “Thank you. They are the only family I have.” 

She nods, uncertain of what else to do or possibly say. Jonquil chews her lip in consideration, while the three elven women stare at her expectantly. It could be a trap of some sort, though to what benefit to these women…she’s not sure. It’s safe to assume that any unmet demands on their behalf will be dealt with by the would-be god herself. Jonquil knows how vindictive Mythal can become when enraged or vexed. Her venomous words from the Crossroads still haunt Jonquil: You saw a recollection he cultivated like a tree twisting to catch the sun. Spiteful words said by an embittered friend who was betrayed by her most loyal follower. If she can think and feel that way towards Solas, any consideration for Jonquil, or lack thereof, will be a million times worse. 

“Alright, go ahead.” She concedes, “Do what you need to so that we can get this over with.” 

Steady hands do deft, elegant work painting the curling, branch like vallaslin symbols along the ridges of her cheekbones. They settle for the simplistic version, the climbing branches, like a twisting tree - she muses ironically - that brushes her eyebrows and then curls inward. It’s somewhat painful on her cut, but she bears the pain in relative silence. 

“Now, you are ready. Let us hurry.” 

Jonquil is led in a procession to the audience chamber. Servants take note of them, their wide eyes swiveling, pausing in their work to track her steps, while they whisper inaudible words to one another behind colossal columns and looming statues. She’s not sure what to make of the behavior. It’s possible it has something to do with the fight against the rock golems, but there are also a million other possibilities - each one more worrisome than the last. Have I been discovered? The thought flints across her mind unbidden. Well, if she’s unfortunately subjected to whispers she supposes it is the least worrisome consequence of her slight deception. 

The great doors of the audience chamber glitter like the sparkling sun. Carved within the dense wood are depictions of the phases of the moon, and above an eerie rendition of a solar eclipse. When the massive doors do finally part, it is after the posted guardsmen announce their arrival and they open with a thunderous boom. 

The three attendants hastily abandon for the rear of the chamber and as she is ushered by a guardsman in twinkling golden elven armor toward the throne dais. There is a long, vibrant velvet rug that runs the entire length of the audience chamber leading up the dais and towards the two oversized solar and lunar thrones and the top of the triangular platform. The room is cast in rainbow colors from the stained glass windows encompassing all of the pressing walls, and it’s as if everything and everyone is a spectral shade of refracted light. 

Solas stands poised below Mythal’s throne, face rigid and jaw taut as a bowstring. 

“Ah, Durgen Slayer, you have finally deigned to join us.” Elgar’nan all but sneers.

Though she knows him, know what he looks like - he is a presence. She can feel the magnitude of his power, his ability to draw from the Fade seemingly without channeling mana or even the need to think about summoning magic, from where she stands at a distance beneath him. Elgar’nan sits proudly before her, his chin jutted out, eyes narrowed and hard as he assesses her. He’s donned the attire of a tyrant, there are no other words for it. Dense gold and bronze armor spectacularly made with winking metals and branded stories of his triumphs all along the breastplate, his way of letting all know that he is an authority - meant to rule. His surcoat is plain by comparison, but no less elaborate or lavish.

Mythal, by comparison, is dressed more plainly. A modestly wrapped layered robe over a simple brown and black gown. She has fitted her brow with her trident shaped diadem and Elgar’nan with his enormous shimmering crescent headdress. Elevated royals on the brink of godhood. 

His face is filled with an icy, indifferent fury as he regards the vallaslin across her face. 

“I see you have committed your allegiance to my wife, a pity.” he says with a tsk. “Mundane as you may be, I was informed of your magical abilities - the raw, untapped power and talent you demonstrated whilst eradicating those vermin.” He all but spits the last word. 

“Peace, Elgar’nan.” Mythal says, placing a calming hand on top of his. “This one is not as mundane as she seems. She comes to us from a realm beyond our own - a warrior fighting her own war.” 

He settles back into his throne, but he appears unconvinced. “A warrior, you say? She is not of our People, that is for certain. Such dusky brown skin and peculiar hair…” he leans forward, a deep set frown etched into his face. “Tell me, strange warrior, of how you know to cast such spells against the stone monstrosities.”

Solas looks down from his place on the dais, catching her eyes and silently attempts to communicate something to her that she’s unsure of. From here, his expression is a cross between shock and like he swallowed something disgusting. She wonders absently which it could be.

“I’m self taught,” she says, hoping he can’t sense the lie. “It’s not unheard of for mages to access the Fade and teach themselves spell crafts and how to wield their magic.”

He reels back as if she’s slapped him. “What manner of speech is that? I can understand her, but the accent and words are befouled.”

“Yes, my love.” Mythal agrees. “It is her native tongue. You will grow accustomed to it.”

“I see.” he refocuses on Jonquil, his eyes made of stone. “You are a self taught mage? With untold knowledge on the vulnerabilities of one of our greatest adversaries. That seems entirely unlikely.” 

Her gut twists into a sickening knot at her…accommodating play acting. She could rush him now, slice his throat with her void blade. Easy and clean. Mythal might prove to be a challenge should she transform into a dragon - one death in all this she hopes to avoid - but given Jonquil has fought and killed five or so high dragons it’s not super concerning at the moment. Her eyes slant to the side for her to count the number of guards lined along either side of the chamber, their faces shrouded by intricate elven helms. There are a total of eight. Each wields a standard long sword and shield and is clad in heavy armor. The odds aren’t particularly favorable, at least not if she’s wanting to actually survive.

“I’ve fought similar creatures where I am from.” That’s all true and she ensures it’s conveyed in her body language. “My actions were more so of luck and assumption, than anything else.”

“I,” Elgar’nan began, his teeth clenched. “Do not believe in luck. Lapdog, what say you? You witnessed her skill first hand, would you deem it luck?” 

Solas stifles cold outrage and preservers to respond in a rational, calm tone. “Jonquil’s magical prowess is, indeed, quite impressive. I would surmise that she perhaps possesses an innate gift for such advanced magic. It is rare, but possible. And she saved a great many of the People during the battle and should be commended for her bravery and swift action.”  

 “I agree with Solas. Jonquil has proven herself worthy of both commendation and our favor.” Mythal’s eyes slip to her, and Jonquil has to refrain from shuddering. “She will be elevated to my personal honor guard, given the title of arcane warrior, and be expected to teach our warriors these advanced magics. Such a boon should not be looked at blindly.” 

Elgar’nan scoffs, as if he has never heard of anything more absurd than the notion of Jonquil being uplifted in such a way. “One battle hardly necessitates such a bestowal, lest she forget herself and her place.” 

“The People speak highly of her throughout the palace. Her deeds have already reached the ears of those within the city, they all but whisper that she is our salvation.” 

“Against the beastly Titans?” Elgar’nan throws his head back and roars with laughter. “Those creatures pale in comparison to the real threat. The Titans can level mountains, decimate entire cities, and what knowledge this…child meagerly comprehends will put an end to them?” 

Oh, how what little of Rook remains to her wants to flay him alive. Damn the consequences. How many countless lives will she save by burning him to death here and now? The number is high as is the level of gratification she’d get from doing it. She clenches her hands into fists and simply endures.

“Solas speaks wisdom. After such heroism, what would it look like to the People for us to turn her away? No, far better to keep her close as an extension of ourselves, rather than release her to the wind.” 

Elgar’nan turns on his throne to level Mythal with an incredulous glare, one that brimming with pure malice and malcontent. She, to her credit, doesn’t flinch away from the heat of his gaze, but instead embraces it. “To win this war we will need every advantage that we can marshal. To turn away one with such power, who has won some of the hearts of the People, would be utter foolishness. The People need strength, guidance and wisdom from their leaders, and that is what we must be. I foresee this girl proving her usefulness to aid in our vision of all of Elvhenan. The righteous sword and shield of the evanuris.” 

Elgar’nan growls his displeasure, but said nothing more. 

“It is decided then.” Mythal nods. “Jonquil, you shall now be recognized as a daughter of Arlathan - you are now, and forever more one of the People.” 

Jonquil now holding a title and status in a place she didn’t want to be, surrounded by would-be gods she wants nothing more than to kill. Fate is one twisted bitch.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

Wisdom’s Lament 

In under four weeks, or what Jonquil calculates to be four weeks based on some loose tracking of the sun and moon, she is thoroughly integrated into the normal flow and routines of the palace. She’s been presented to the other would-be gods, Andruil and Ghilan’nain don’t think or look upon her fondly, at the behest of Mythal; aided with the reconstruction efforts of buildings and homes throughout Arlathan guided by Sylaise and June, with some reservations, broached the task of instructing her battalion of her more guerilla warfare tactics, and offered insights to elder arcane warriors, those that make up the specialized legion, under the ever watchful eyes of Elgar’nan.

And the more she familiarizes herself with the servants, attendants, and warriors, and the ways of Arlathan the more suspicious Elgar’nan becomes. Untrusting and cruel by nature, his lack of warmth or even mild acceptance wasn’t unexpected, nor did she really wish for it. In fact, as those days intermingle and blend together, she gradually learns more of the man rather than the myth, and Jonquil can honestly say she’s glad she kills him in the distant future. He abuses the privileges of his esteem that those who look to him for protection have granted him. And he does so readily, eagerly, and with little regard for the lives impacted beneath his cruel fist. At times, when witnessing his menace, Jonquil often wonders if it would not be better to kill him now and save herself the future trouble, but such thoughts are simple musings. And yet…

To Mythal’s credit, and Jonquil begrudgingly affording her this particular consideration, she does temper his worse impulses. Where he would blindly pursue to attack the Titans’ “nest” and slaughter them and the insignificant Durgen’len, his boisterous words; she pushes for prudence and strategic responses to threats. The Evanuris in kind were split between them, with some clinging to the words of Elgar’nan, their leader and All-Father, and the others that of the great mediator herself. And, anytime Compassion updates her on the developments of council meetings with the Evanuris, including Solas, Jonquil is never surprised to learn that Falon’Din, Andruil and of course, Ghilan’nain are the most vocal supporters of murder, destruction and conquest. 

But, even with the divide and the demand for an immediate bloody response to end this exhaustive war, no true action is ever actually taken. Rock wraiths, frenzied stone monsters infused with ear-deafening wedges of lyrium, and other Earth-like creatures, such as the golems, attack periodically and randomly. During each assault the creatures would surge forward from the rocky mountain cliffs, their sights set on the edge of the city, or the outskirts before the forest, or even villages that encompassed what would one day become the Brynnlaw, to cause havoc and earthquakes to terrorize the elves. Leading to the elves pushing back with even one or two of the evanuris joining the fray. A vicious cycle with disastrous ends. 

The Titans’ themselves, however, have yet to make an appearance. 

Ultimately, it is both a good and bad thing, for Jonquil. No sudden appearance from the Titans means that neither Elgar’nan or Mythal are provided with the opportunity of murdering them - which she believes is the catalyst that bolsters the Titans efforts to start winning the war. A considerable positive aspect, but consequently it also means that she is no closer to preventing or fixing anything. Which worsens her mood significantly - every hour of every day.

The palace library is the only place she finds any semblance of refuge. She stands among the shelves, several tomes flipped open to heavily dictated pages on the Fade, lyrium and the speculations the elves have of the connection between the Titans and all living things, with her mood black as night. 

At this point she is convinced that the only way anything can be altered is if the Evanuris murder one of the Titans. It’s a fact that at some point during all these assaults and battles in this ongoing war, that eventually the Titans do indeed reveal themselves and either demonstrate such immense power that the Evanuris fear of complete eradication is what forces Mythal’s hand, or one of Evanuris is killed by the show of force. They aren’t yet gods. Neither do they have access to the blight or access to enthralled Dragons…yet. The Evanuris are just extremely powerful mages that have deemed themselves divine, or nearly so, they can, however, still be injured or killed. The not yet constructed lyrium dagger is proof of that.

Maybe that’s it. Deaths on both sides of the spectrum - one Titan and one of the Evanuris.

Jonquil sighs and slams the book shut, then winces as hot pain cuts through her healing wrist. A small cry escapes her lips and it takes her biting her lips to muffle the sound. 

Losses on both sides, that theory feels right. But there’s still something too clean about it. Too easy. She sinks to the floor in despair, her head a throbbing mess consumed with deciphering the intersection between past and future events. She leans her head back to peer up at the domed crimson ceiling of the library. The craftsmanship is a work of art. The internal wooden beams and planks are masterfully woven and adhered together in a pattern similar to that of a silken spider web. There are entire panels of the roof missing, they move and shift with the change of the winds, and reconfigure themselves in new areas without warning. 

The Fade and magic are imbued in quite literally everything. There’s no poisonous doctrine of the Chantry, no one runs away in fear of conjured magic, or angrily call for the head of fire wielding mages. There are no templars or magisterium, or need to regulate who can utilize their magic and when. Magic, here, is just a normal part of being. 

Perhaps, Solas - the Dreadwolf Solas - was right. That this is how the whole world was always intended to be. To be ever in forever harmony with magic and physical beings, the freedom of simply existing, rather than petty ambition driven feuds over who has the right to govern and who should submit to that right. 

Jonquil watches a book levitate overhead before it neatly tucks itself into an empty slot on one of the bookshelf. If he’s right, then what about all the lives he destroyed along the way? Or even the lives he was willing to sacrifice to achieve this version of the world again. Was it justified? Such contemplations fill her with doubts upon doubts. 

And what about the enslavement of the elves? That hasn’t changed in the slightest. It might be considerably more heinous and insidious because it is elves subjugating other elves. 

The Dreadwolf’s words ring hollow in her heart and mind - the necessary sacrifices leadership requires. Sacrifice elves today, or in the future? Neither is much of a choice.

Three spirits of Curiosity float up from the floor and pass through a section of the bookshelf right above her head. They congregate here naturally. Drawn to the knowledge and memories captured in the ancient pages of the books. She can hardly blame them, she is too. If only she could take a fraction of this knowledge to the future - what Thedas could learn! Maybe even prevent history from repeating itself. 

Creators, if only. She groans and scrubs a hand down her face. One apocalypse at a time. 

Alright, enough moping and enough of feeling hopeless. Jonquil smacks her cheeks lightly as a means of fortifying her resolve, then stands to gather the scattering of books around her. 

“You seek refuge in the oddest of places, Jonquil.” Solas says, rounding the corner of a bookshelf.

She jumps, slightly, surprised to find him here, and what appears to be looking for her. This is one of the more remote places in the palace designated specifically for those bestowed with the favor of the Evanuris and it is only accessible by way of eluvian. The library itself is a creation of Mythal’s and her passcode is needed to travel between it and the palace. Jonquil shouldn’t be surprised that Solas possesses the passcode.

“Oh, hello, Solas.” She greets, in a guarded tone after recovering from the initial shock. “Can I help you with something?” 

Solas frowns and regards Jonquil with a tentative look, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Was it nervousness, or something else? An eyebrow quirks suspiciously at the uncharacteristic behavior. 

“Um, yes. I have a question of sorts for you. If you would not mind indulging me?” 

His tone is innocent enough, but that is in no way reassuring. Pride is clever and capable of concealing itself within false nicety and offers of friendship. Her hand unconsciously falls to the scarred gash on her side. She’ll likely carry the reminder of such for the rest of her life. 

Jonquil bends down to slip a book into a shelf, somewhat stiffly from the mending her ribs have needed, walks a few steps down the aisle and replaces a few others, her small stack diminishing with each breath. Her back is to him, which all things considered isn’t the smartest place someone in her position should do. Predators are as much opportunistic hunters as they are natural hunters. A sign of weakness, of vulnerability, is the mark of easy prey. 

“You are…well, what I mean to say is that you seem to be very young. As a spirit, I never dwelled much on the concept of time or the passage of such, and since taking a body and donning immortality even less so. But I comprehend that there may be markers of age and a significance to those who view it as a metric for expertise and experience. ” 

She looks over her shoulder quizzically at him. “What are you asking, exactly?”

He begins to pace, walking back and forth a handful of steps and then back again, his face forlorn and brows knit. 

Solas is dressed plainly today, by ancient elven standards, a high collared velvet robe embroidered with leaves the color of autumn along the chest and coattails. There’s no gold, opulent embellishments or jewelry. It’s a mute look for him, like casual everyday Solas, rather than armored obliterate the world Solas. 

“My apologies, I am sure I am not making much sense.” 

“Not in the slightest.” she agrees, turning the corner for another aisle of books. 

He lifts his gaze to follow her, increasing his stride to match her own. “What I mean to ask you, is this: are you immortal? You are an elf, as we all are; however, you are not native to this place, and thus I have spent many a nights deliberating on whether or not you may be. And since neither of us have discussed such matters…” He trails off, whatever other words he’s prepared disappearing into the complex void that is his mind. 

Oh, now she’s keeping him up at night. That’s rich. 

When she doesn’t immediately respond, he interjects quickly. “Have I offended you?”

She looks at him and frowns, her patience worn thin. “And why would you care if you had?”

“It is not my wish to offend you. Although I seem to find myself always doing so, but, it is not my intention to cause any offense - I hope that much is plain to see, at least.”

“Solas…” she sighs exasperatedly, “Your wishes aren’t really my priority at the moment.” Jonquil retreats to the scribe bureau in one of the many alcoves within the library. Hers is littered with scribbled, half incoherent notes and key steps for prospective plans all in disorganized stacks that wholly cover the bureau’s glossy wooden surface. 

“Ah, yes, I understand.” His tone is dejected, and his face seems to sag with the acceptance of this new rejection.

This type of interaction has become commonplace between them. Solas intentionally seeks her out in the palace, heart set on insightful, robust conversation, and Jonquil does all that she can to discourage the interest. Decreased proximity and avoidance are her true allies. Solas can’t and shouldn’t be trusted, and the more he pushes to ingratiate himself into her daily activities, the more her defenses bolster and resolve to deter him. 

Before the initial attack from the rock golems, during their game of chess…something had passed between them. Something that didn’t settle well with her. Attraction. Her recollection of that entire ordeal was somewhat spotty, thanks to the head injury; however, Jonquil can recall snippets. The prickling awareness of heat between them, even while arguing. It was always there, simmering like a covered boiling pot…over a raging open fire. 

“And no, I’m not immortal.” Fucking shut up, Jonquil. Creators, what the hell was wrong with her? When will she learn? “Or at least, I wasn’t born immortal, or however it is viewed here.” she pauses organization, hands stilling above parchment. “Why does that concern you?”

Solas averts his gaze, now visibly more uncomfortable than he was previously. Now he’s squirming and she starts to wonder if perhaps she’s dreaming and this is nothing more than a sick, twisted, game of the Fade.

“I found myself…concerned after you lost consciousness. Your injuries were significant as a result of the battle.”

“Okay…And?” She says. 

“And, your reckless heroism…” His eyes flicker to her, then away again. “It causes me to contemplate death of the physical form and what awaits a soul, or more aptly a person’s spirit, within the Fade.” 

She frowns, but nods as if in understanding. “You were once a spirit of wisdom, weren’t you? You should theoretically know more than other elves, or at least more than the new generation of elves. It’s well documented here.” She points to emphasize her meaning. 

“Yes, well…” He paces again, arms clasped behind his back, his eyes roaming the bookshelves surrounding them and the centuries of ghosts hidden within the pages. “It is a difficult thing, you understand, for a one who was once a spirit to contemplate death, mortality, or even being vulnerable...” 

He stops suddenly and turns to face her, a fierce determination set in the hard lines of his face. “The People look up to you, see something of themselves reflected in you. You are not like other elves - we who are the first elves - and yet they feel a kinship to you because of it. Should something happen to you…it would be an immense loss. That is all I wished to say.” 

That declaration settles in her like the powerful swing of a golem’s stone club to her diaphragm. The last thing she needed to add to her already overly complicated plate, was the hopes and expectations of the elves here. Who knew what effect that would have on the future, what other possible changes would occur because of the impact of her presence. She finds herself struggling to swallow a lump of intense emotion. 

“I’m just an elven mage - among many elven mages. There’s nothing worth looking up to.” She manages, “They should look to themselves for strength.” 

Solas turns to face her, a sad smile on his lips, and shakes his head in disagreement. “You are gravely mistaken. You are unique, even beyond that of your mysterious origins. You act selflessly, placing the safety and needs of those who are weaker or are deemed beneath you above yourself. You view them as your equals. I have heard talk from the servants and attendants alike, and seen that you speak to them gently and engage them with regard and kindness - a kindness that many are not familiar with.” 

A torrent of heat floods her face. He’s watching her that closely? For what possible reason? Malicious words of warning slither into her thoughts, words that she’s already painfully cognizant of. The Dreadwolf is always watching. His powers of observation are a well mastered skill that has served him well across millennia, aiding him in both his rebellion and his endeavors to punish the evanuris. But, even still. Something about his admission feels dangerously intimate, it's as if he’s stripping her bare. 

“Are those the teachings from your home, to act with a subtlety but high regard for others? I must confess, it is not something that I expected from a stranger. That to say, you were an enigma, still are in many ways, and I believed you to be a threat. Someone not worthy of consideration. And it is not often that I am wrong, however, I am grateful that I was.”  

What is happening here?

“I am who I am.” She forces an impassive shrug. “Some influence might have come from my father, but the choices I make are my own.” 

Solas beams. “Yes! You are right to say so. There is wisdom in knowing how to sift through the guidance and sway those closest to us often, unsuspectingly, impress upon us and that we, often unwittingly, emulate.” 

Jonquil rolls her eyes while collecting her notes and steps away from the bureau. She has mixed feelings on this line of conversation, the way it continues to dip into awkwardly intimate territory. A part of her, clearly the sane and rational part, rages against it. Betrayer. Liar. Deceiver. An inner voice chants fanning the flames of the dormant fury inside her. Then, the other part, perhaps the lonely and lost part of her, desires to lean into this offering of…possible companionship. She possesses no true friends here. The circumstances are so completely different from when she created her team, intentionally gathering those with vested interests and expertise in stopping the elven gods, and now, when she lacks the ability to fully trust…it’s near impossible to be willing to let anyone in. To risk such vulnerability again.

He broke that piece of her. 

All the moments in the Fade seeking his counsel and insights on Elgar’nan and Ghilan'nain, and he - the Dreadwolf - fooling her into believing that she could beat the odds. He, who had centuries to perfect his art of deception, and she blindly following his bread crumbs knowing that ugly truth of him, and was still shocked at his betrayal. Varric warned her, but then in the end even he was fooled, and it cost him his life…didn’t it?

Solas takes a confident step toward her and she takes two steps back. There is too much of herself wrapped up in him, past and future, and it's complicating everything. Jonquil is an emotional wreck. Her headaches are now a steady constant, not a day goes by when she doesn’t have some form of one, and there’s this version of Solas confusing her further adding to the incessant strain. She wonders how he would react if she suddenly unburdened herself. If she in this reality warping moment divulged his future to him along with her true identity. Would it make a difference? Could him knowing what he’s capable of prevent him from walking down that path? Selfishly, Jonquil’s not entirely certain she cares. The truth, the whole truth, would be enough for him to cease…whatever this was. 

His entire face twists in grief, whatever expectations he convinced himself of pertaining to this moment snuff out instantaneously at her retreating steps. 

“I have misread the…situation.”

She looks at him, her eyes hard and flat. “I agree. You really have.” 

Silence hangs between them, but the tension - the ever growing torrent of seething heat - lingers. Jonquil can’t deny it, that doesn’t mean however, that she will give in to it either. He can feel it too, she can see it in his eyes, words he wishes to express and now can’t. 

The truth is Solas, whether the past or future version, would always belong to Inquisitor Lavellan. She genuinely possessed a special spirit unmatched by the likes of Jonquil. Somehow, even with the loss of her arm, and the death of her dearest friends - she learned to forgive Solas. It spoke to her character and why she rallied and sought to redeem him for over ten years. Jonquil isn’t that type of person. With all the atrocities he’s committed for the sake of his selfish vanity project masquerading under the guise of atonement, she isn’t willing to absolve him of his sins. There are just some things that leave a stain on the spirit that can never be washed clean.

“Solas,” She says his name firmly, earning her a somewhat startled expression. “Whatever it is you are trying to do - stop.” 

Jonquil doesn’t elaborate her meaning. From her perspective she could be referring to any number of his actions, and maybe by being explicitly vague she can count it towards preventing the apocalypse and the inevitable betrayal.

He’s hurt and without, and she’s broken and displaced. And together they are just two people caught in the tumultuous web of fate and time. 

Solas stares at her, long and hard, as if he’s looking for some fault in her resolve, and for a brief second she thinks he finds it. Jonquil feels the walls she’s reinforced nearly a hundred times over, start to crack. The voice whispers to her that it’s not fair, he’s not him. She can fix him, even if she can’t forgive him, Jonquil can still make this Solas better. But she can’t and she won’t. That’s not what she’s here to do. If his time with the Inquisition and falling in love with Lavellan didn’t change him, then how feasible is it that she can? It isn’t. 

Jonquil folds her arms and scowls at him for show, hoping it will be enough for him to turn and leave. “I’m not interested in whatever you’re offering, Solas. Beyond Mythal making me your charge, there’s no need for us to be anything other than cordial. We’re not friends and most likely never will be.” 

And that was the dagger to the heart, or more aptly to the back. 

For a moment, she thinks he might lash out angrily and demand answers for the constant rebuffs of his rather timid affections. He doesn’t. Solas instantly inclines his head, as if a servant demurely carrying out his master’s wishes, and turns away unable to look at her further. And then he is gone through the eluvian in a rolling ripple of watery glass. 

* * *

“General,” one of the battalion soldiers - Adahl - calls to her while jogging across the training grounds. 

She looks up from her bent position having just demonstrated a combination move that blends the essence of Fade stepping with casting a chain of lightning spell, and wipes the sweat from her brows with the back of her hand. “Yes, what do you need?” Her tone is rougher than necessary due to the title. It’s not something she likes or appreciates the other warriors using. She’s insisted they refer to her by her given name, but no matter how many times it's stated they always revert back to general. Each time it's uttered it sets her teeth on edge.

“The High Lady Mythal has summoned you. Master Samahl requested that I be the one to pass the summons along since I am within your assigned battalion.” 

Adahl is a youthful looking elf with a stock of russet colored hair and eyes the shade of plums. Unlike the others of his battalion, he has only seen a handful of battles and even less so of the war. Jonquil thinks he might be younger than her thirty years, but guessing the elves' ages here is akin to counting the clouds in the sky. Pointless. Adahl could be well over two hundred and not look a day over twenty. 

His arcane iridescent armor shifts around uncomfortably on his body, a tad too big for this man-child, and he tugs at the rounded collar pulling it away from his neck and chin where it's been chafing. 

She rises to her feet then looks to the rest of the battalion. The five elves are staring at her expectantly, their various shades of glittering purple eyes hauntingly beautiful. The battalion consists primarily of men, there are four in total, with the women - Renan and Mirthadra - making up the remaining two spots. They are her harshest critics and the least likely to voice their opinions out of the entire group. While Jonquil hasn’t pressed the issue, she wonders if the reason is some influence of Mythal. They all, after all, bare her vallaslin. 

She dusts her hands off then does the same to her robes, making a show of it. “Was anything else passed to you? Like what is it regarding?”

Adahl stares back at her, wide eyes blinking, and utterly scandalized. As if he would question Mythal. Right. She knew that. It’s still quite the culture shock that no one vocalizes their dissent or doubts. At least not anywhere within ear shot. 

“Right, of course not. Theneras - you take over leading the drills. I’ll be back shortly.”

Theneras pads forward from the rest of the battalion formation line, his face set in stern neutrality. He grunts his acknowledgement, with a head nod and an utterance of general, before he begins barking orders to the rest of the warriors. 

As Jonquil makes her way to the audience chamber the palace is eerily quiet and still. There’s less hustle and bustle from the servants, no attendants paired off within the halls or corridors whispering gossip, or even the odd guardsmen on patrol. Both odd and concerning. 

There are, however, two guardsmen standing sentry at the audience chamber doors. Their pointed helms pull down clear over their noses, hiding their eyes from her, and only giving the briefest glimpse of their hard set mouths. They are dressed in identical armor - the gold green heavy plate - paired with a rich fabric iridescent cloak and long sword and shield.

When she draws near, they slam their swords across the surface of their shields to announce her arrival. It is a strange custom, one that maybe wouldn’t seem so strange if the elven empire hadn’t fallen in her time, but experiencing here and now…just seems ridiculous.

The great doors part and she enters, her senses on high alert. Within the chamber, there is only Mythal, sitting atop her lunar throne, and a sentry of guardsmen lining all sides of the room. Okay, this looks extremely bad. And it dawns on her that maybe after all this time, she will finally be exposed. 

Mythal’s face is expressionless, save for the slight twist in the corner of her mouth. Today, she has donned robes dark as pitch and paired it with a glittering belt of moon pearls and twinkling high collar of silver starlight. She looks very much the part of a celestial goddess. And Jonquil isn’t sure if the look is meant to be intimidating or not, but when considering the hitch in her mouth, she determines Mythal is going to play the smiteful god today.

“It has come to my attention that you have upset Solas.” She says simply, her face still as stone.

Jonquil swallows an immature retort. So, she’s here because she hurt Solas’ feelings. The desire to shake her head and roll her eyes overwhelms her. Of course he’d run and tell Mythal. He can’t exist without somehow being tethered to her.

Jonquil opens her mouth to defend herself, but Mythal silences her with the raise of a hand. “He has not expressly shared this information with me. In fact, Solas does not speak of you at all when we converse. But I can sense the change in him, and I suspect it has much to do with you.” Then she smiles, a stunningly beautiful smile that damn near stops Jonquil’s heart.

“It is not often that my Wisdom lacks control of his emotions. Though, I cannot say in the centuries we have shared together I have not seen him ill tempered or perhaps even a shade arrogant. Wisdom often gives way to Pride, when left unchecked or challenged. He has, however, grown to be a man of consideration and contemplation. And so seeing him these last few days beside himself - it is intriguing.” 

When she lowers her hand, Jonquil clears her throat to speak while simultaneously reminding herself to mind her tongue. “I can’t be held responsible for the feelings of others.” She says coolly, “Hardly seems right, or fair.” 

Her smile wanes faintly, her wide lips sliding over her teeth shielding them, but the amusement at Jonquil’s response is apparent. “On this we agree. I do not fault you for Solas’ capriciousness as of late. If I were to blame you or punish you, then I would need to do the same for myself, lest I be blamed for my husband’s volatile nature.” She shakes her head, her curtain of inky umber hair undulating in needle straight waves around her. “Tis’ a ridiculous notion and our efforts would be better served elsewhere. No, I must say that my comment is merely one of observation and light curiosity.”

Jonquil doesn’t want Mythal to observe or be curious about her. At all. The less the would-be god even thinks about her, the better off Jonquil will be. “Then I can go?”

“Not quite. I have summoned you here for another matter.” She says, leaning forward on her throne. She taps slender, emaciated fingers on the ornate gilded arms, her face contemplative. And it is during the short lived pause, that Jonquil notices her tapping matches the thrum of magic in the air.

“I wish to send you on a scouting mission to the Northeast, there is a mountain peak there that we call the White Spire. Once there, you will endeavor to learn what has become of a small part of our People sent there to discern the whereabouts of the Titans’ nest.” 

Jonquil attempts to steel her face, and she can tell she’s failing miserably. “How many elves are we talking about?”

Mythal muffles a polite laugh behind her hand, a gesture that is the hallmark of a highborn woman. Perhaps something that is learned generationally that then the humans adapt after she is murdered. Food for thought. “I will say, at times the manner in which you speak, it is so peculiar.” she sobers after a time and returns to the matter and hand. “The party was small, no more than four elves. Some of our swiftest and most cunning. We believed their skills would allow them to pass through the mountain undetected and then once the nest was located, report back with whatever findings they discovered.”

Jonquil closes her eyes and inhales deeply through already flared nostrils. Evidently, Mythal sent these elves unprepared on an apparent suicide mission. She tries to recall mentions of any Titans’ nest from her conversations with Lace. It's interesting, at least to Jonquil. The concept that beings such as the Titans would congregate in one particular area to do…what procreate? Again, another idea that seems a little farfetched. The Titans are creation personified, they are the very earth - The Pillars of the Earth - to be exact, why would they need a nest?

Maybe instead it's some part of the Deep Roads. In her time, many dwarves claim that the Deep Roads stretch far beyond the reaches of the known and lost thaigs. Could this nest be something along those lines, a new or in this case old thaig? Anything is possible, she supposes. As far as she knows, the elves have yet to invade the dwarven kingdom. Or have significant conflict with them. 

“You’d like me to do more than rescue them, I assume.” 

“Indeed,” Mythal nods, an acknowledgment of appreciation for Jonquil's perceptiveness. “Should these elves be captured or dead, you are to complete what they started with the expectation that you will return with information required.” 

“And if I fail?” 

Mythal smirks. “Then you shall either be dead or wish for death. Do not mistake my gentler nature for that of demure submission. My displeasure can be every bit as horrible as my Lord husband’s. You should endeavor to succeed in what I have commanded you to do.”

There she is. The sliver of the elven woman she met in the Crossroads, while minus the slight bitter resentment towards Solas for murdering her the second time and abandoning her in the Crossroads…but still. Jonquil flinches back from the flare of Mythal’s powers. It burns, bright and searing hot against her skin as if she is within touching distance of the sun. The familiarity of it overwhelms her. The essence resonated with much of the same power, only now, in physical form and unfragmented, it is amplified a thousand fold.

It is silent in the chamber aside from the light hissing of Mythal’s magic pushing against the ambient energies of the Fade. She tempers it, the magic retreating back into her in a soft whoosh of air, and she settles back into the throne pleased with herself. 

The banners draped from the columns shudder in the presence of her might.

“So, I’m supposed to go alone?” Jonquil asks, dumbly, knowing full well Mythal, least of all the Evanuris, will let her venture too far without some spy or keeper tracking her whereabouts. She’s inadvertently become one of Mythal’s favorite toys. Or tools. And it makes Jonquil realize that even one with somewhat reasonable ambitions when compared to Elgar’nan and his followers among the Evanuris - She’s still ambitious, which makes her deceptively dangerous, and more cunning than all of them combined. Well, save for Solas.   

“Solas will accompany you. He will be my eyes and ears should you be unable to complete this task - he will ensure that whatever occurs, whether it is death or otherwise…” This is said with a toss of her head and a playful smile. “Not only shall it reach me, but the knowledge will still benefit us in our war against those primordial monsters. Him aside, you may take with you whomever you deem suitable. I would caution a large party, however, the Titans may be beasts but they are intelligent beasts. A large party roaming in their territory will draw significant attention. With this task, stealth will be your ally.” 

“And where is Solas now?” Jonquil asks, and peers around to emphasize her point of him not being present during this conversation. 

Mythal’s milky pale, beautiful face grows sorrowful then. And Jonquil thinks then that it is her face that artists secretly pray for when seeking muses. No wonder she is able to inspire such loyalty in her followers. It is her beauty and the facade of the delicate and graceful rose that fools them, when in truth Mythal is as deadly as nightshade. 

“Solas has entered the Fade to seek out acquaintances of his. Spirits to whom he was very close once, before taking a corporeal form. You shall find him within the shade of the forest there. It’s a peaceful place, secluded and tranquil.” 

The question of why Mythal didn’t join him in the Fade manifests within her mind, swift and clean as the cut of a dagger. Jonquil can only imagine the complicated inner workings of their fucked up relationship. Friends. Lovers. Soulmates. A twisted combination of all three? Beyond the glimmers of understanding gained from Solas’ own memories, all she can do is speculate. Especially when considering he attempted to erect a bridge of acceptance between them as an extension of friendship and she set dragon fire to it…. and then proceeded to burn it to cinders. 

And now, they were being forced to travel together on a confirmed suicide mission. When taking into consideration her history with Lace, her exposure to lyrium and the devastating magic it unlocked within the dwarven woman, and not to mention her numerous interactions with the rock golems and frenzied stone creatures, it wasn’t likely she’d walk away from this unscathed. But then, that was her life, wasn’t it? Just surviving by the skin of her teeth. If teeth had skin, she supposes. 

“I can choose any elf to join us on this mission?” She asks, somewhat dubious. Even with all the freedoms Mythal has afforded her, Jonquil finds it difficult to believe she’s permitted to enlighten just anyone to the machinations of the Evanuris. 

Mythal scrunches her nose as if she smells something revolting, her mouth pinching and eyes narrowing in irritated speculation. She finds her composure quickly enough, the mask of Mythal the High Lady and would-be god slipping back into place in the blink of an eye. 

“I shall put forth a few recommendations for you to choose from. You are permitted, however, to take an attendant, should you wish to do so - one of your choosing.” 

Jonquil refrains from snorting. Mythal says the words as if Jonquil should be grateful. She truly believes the permissions she extends are a privilege, one with the ever present threat of being taken away should she desire it. Like a parent would a child’s toy after misbehaving. Her tone is commanding, confident, and above all menacing. There’s a subtlety to the threat, the way it trickles through the cracks between each uttered word. Mythal doing so is indicative of the authority she presumes she holds over Jonquil - over her freedom and her very life. 

Before she turns to excuse herself from the chamber, Jonquil finds herself asking without realizing what she was saying until the words tumble from her lips. “Where is everyone? The halls and corridors are all empty. Except for the elves at the training grounds, I haven’t seen anyone in several hours. That’s usual.”

Mythal’s brow quirks upward as does her mouth, once again amusement tickling her features. It's a look she gives Jonquil far too often to the point where she wonders if Mythal doesn’t view her as some exotic pet of hers. She makes no mention of either to Jonquil, which she imagines is for the best. Mythal’s opinions can forever be a secret as far as Jonquil is concerned. 

“Many are off preparing for the Great Hunt.” She says simply, as if Jonquil already possesses some awareness of what she is referring to. She can infer to an extent. Many Dalish clans also host hunting festivities to celebrate the seasons, and unfortunately the gods - specifically Andruil. But, since the Evanuris aren’t widely recognized as gods yet…

“A hunt?” Jonquil inquires incredulously. “What is being hunted?”

“There is a creation of Ghilan’nain’s that yet wanders the forests with no heed to its master. The People have come to call the beast, the Black Hart. Not simply for its coloring, but for its ability to taint all that touches. It has eluded us since its creation for nearly a century.” 

Jonquil asks her next question with confidence and already knowing the answer. “And Andruil is leading the hunt.” 

“Yes. It is unfortunate that you will miss it.” Mythal says the words with such a sickly sweetness that it causes Jonquil to inadvertently shudder. “To find Solas go by way of the Uthenera chamber. It will ease your travel into the Fade.” 

The Uthenera chamber could hardly be called such. In truth, it was a dark, cold cavernous place comparable to that of a stone dungeon. Fingers of water ran underneath the massive slabs of stone and mortar like veins, the gurgling bubble of it could be heard the moment you began your descent down the hovering crystalline staircase. It causes Jonquil to wonder where the water is coming from and where it is going. There are no large bodies of water near this area of the palace for it to sound so close. Not to mention the dank, yawning alcoves where seemingly forgotten elven busts resided, pressed close to the slime covered walls where water also trickles from. 

Magical fire illuminates her and Melanada’s way down the shadowy pass from high hanging sconces along the walls. Here, she thought eerily, the flames don’t dance or sway as they should. All the way down in this cryptic place there is no breath of wind or randomly stirring of air, and even sound beyond that of rushing water. Where there should be the hallowed echoes of their footsteps instead what presided is mute absence. Nothing but stillness and silence lingers here. 

“It is only a little ways further,” Melanada says, while guiding Jonquil through the abyss. She looks back over her slender, boney shoulder and offers a helpful smile. “The Watchers are expecting us, it will be best if we hurry lest we risk upsetting them.”  

That seems to be the prevailing theme in this place - it’s best not to keep so and so waiting. Which, all things considered, is both ironic and comical. There is nothing but time here, so why the impatience? Jonquil deliberates on whether or not to share her little joke, but then thinks otherwise. She doubts Melanada will grasp her intent. She is an ancient elf and all. 

She looks over at the elven woman now, somewhat critically. Melanada was one of Mythal personal attendants, the freckled face one who thanked Jonquil for saving her family, and now she has been given to Jonquil for her great service to Arlathan. The creepiness of a person belonging to her as if they are an inanimate object…is horrible to say the least. Jonquil wonders if with more time the two might grow close enough to establish a familiarity that surpasses, if not completely dismantles, Melanada’s servitude. 

Melanada might never truly understand, but at least she’d be accustomed to it and possibly even gradually learn to accept it. Which is more than Jonquil currently has. She determines then that it might be nice to have a confidante, or at least someone to not be so guarded with. Her loneliness is starting to eat away at her, body and spirit. And at this rate she might easily slip into a state of unwitting despair and succumb to demon possession just to unburden herself. 

Jonquil shivers. What a grisly thought, becoming a demon. She’s not sure where the idea suddenly came from, let alone why she seemed willing to welcome the disgusting acceptance of that likelihood, but there it was shimmering like wanton temptation within her mind. Jonquil shakes her head roughly, and attempts to dislodge the entire line of thinking.

“Why do I need to enter the Waking Dream to access the Fade. Isn’t it the same as going to sleep at night?” It’s long since been a curiosity of hers since this entire mess began. Why are some dreams disconnected from the Fade and others aren’t and why is it easier to enter the Fade after tapping into magic? 

“Our High Lady has informed me that the part of the Fade where Solas dwells is difficult to find. One such as yourself, or rather any one without the proper training, will not be able to retrieve him without assistance.” She replies, somewhat hesitant while they walk. “A Watcher, one of our Elders that safeguards those who enter the Waking Dream, as you call it, will be the one to aid you in finding Solas.” 

“What do you mean, as I call it?” Jonquil asks, as Melanada pauses at a fork in the passageway. 

She whispers a few words in their shared tongue that has been eons lost before Jonquil ever deigned to learn the language. The double curved arch of the fork begins to glow once she finishes and a burst of magic surges forward in immense whooshing of air. There is a ripple of light, a churning kaleidoscope of colors that waves and ripples before them creating some type of portal. 

“We call it the Eternal Waking Dream.” She says, beckoning Jonquil to follow. 

The sensation of stepping and walking through the portal is similar to parting the curtain of a rushing waterfall. She’s first overcome with droplets of erupting water, or perhaps more aptly bubbles of magic, that roll and flow off her with ease, and when she plunges forward into a liquid like substance where her hearing is muted and vision blurred. 

There’s another great whoosh of magic, but in reverse as the portal pulls against their departure in a suction of air and coalescing energy. 

The room they enter is entirely different from the chamber in which it is held. Here, there is color, life, and warmth. A massive mosaic covers the ground beneath them, depicting the Fade, spirits and the elves. She’s seen the tale from Sola’s perspective, the transformation from spirit to The First elves and the consequences that followed, but the mosaic conveys a different message, one of purity and creation. 

Lining the room in a semi-circle shape somewhat reminiscent of a crescent moon are raised cushioned platforms to accommodate a sleeping body. Velvet coverlets are elegantly draped along the exposed stone edges of the platforms and paired with other luxuries such as feather pillows. And at the base of the platforms is a solitary lit candle. 

Jonquil’s eyes go wide as she notes the four bodies occupying some of the platforms. Her attention shifts, however, as phantom-like elves approach them. These elves appear as some distorted vision of what the Chantry will be. Priests swallowed under the weight of robes and the memories of the elven empire. 

Melanada bows, a subtle incline of her head, and Jonquil remains standing, unmoved and uncertain about what she is seeing. 

“You are to enter the realm of dreams by means of the eternal waking dream,” A ghastly elf says, with a slow drawling blink of his milky violet eyes. “High Lady Mythal has granted this passage. I am Then’taren, and I will be aiding you with entering and departing. ”

He extends his hand, a gnarled, knobby thing poking out from beneath the endless layers of robes, and guides Jonquil to one of the platforms. “You will remain here, to watch and serve, should she linger amongst the dreams.” He fixes his rummy gaze on Melanada. “Prolonged periods amongst the dreams is not safe for those who do not wish to remain eternally. Swiftness will be necessary to sustain the body, mind and the spirit. Do not tarry.”  

“What happens if I am unable to find him?” Jonquil asks fearfully. At this point waiting on Solas to return freely and willingly sounds preferential to entering the Fade in this manner. Even if Solas idles for weeks in the Fade before returning to his body, it sounds exceptionally better than whatever the detrimental alternative is for her should this venture prove ineffectual. 

“Then I will attempt to retrieve your mind from the Fade, from here.”

The keyword there being attempt. Jonquil sighs wearily, resigned to her fate and climbs atop the platform and makes herself comfortable. 

“I will be waiting here for your return.” Melanada says reassuringly, a timid smile spreading across her lips. 

“Let us begin,” Then’taren intones, as he places two fingers in the center of her forehead. “Silence your mind, and let all thoughts of this realm be free as you slip within the spaces in between." 

Jonquil’s eyes flutter shut as her body sags into a state of teetering lifelessness. 

* * *

Jonquil immediately decides that utilizing the ability - the power - to choose how and when you enter the Fade is a mistake. She feels sick and disoriented. It’s as if someone hoisted her into the air and shook her violently like a children’s doll. Jonquil wants to cry out, to shout a plea for help to escape the pain. She doesn’t, however. Jonquil instead fortifies herself, by biting back welling tears and swallowing the cries caught in her throat, and then with the strength remaining her limbs shakily stands. The pain remains, sharp and mean. It presses down on her oppressively like the looming weight gathering pressure before a summer storm. 

Whatever part of the Fade the Watcher has transported her to is foreign and wholly different from other parts she’s experienced before - currently and in her present.  This place is a bleak, unsculpted wasteland of a crumbling pathway and rolling mists. The absence of anything physical or visible is unsettling and it grows with each slow, laborious step she takes as the hum of magic dips low and melancholic around her. It feels wrong, as if something has been wholly erased from existence. 

Jonquil squinks blearily hoping with some childish, wishful thinking that it will improve her eyesight. It doesn’t of course. That’s too much to ask for in this fucking place, in the fucking past, trying to fix every fucking thing that’s broken. She reluctantly presses on, the pathway continuing to sprawl before her endlessly with just the shimmering hiss of the mist to break up the monotony of the surroundings. 

An unrelenting twist of despair greets her after some time, a strong knotted cluster pulsating with so much distress it suffocates her. Jonquil gasps, her lungs seizing and struggling to take in air, as entangled threads of despair lash out and pierce her. Jonquil wants to succumb to it. To crawl into the dark hopelessness and surrender. What is this…why is it so powerful?

She fights the urge to close her eyes and sleep, and it’s hard, so damn hard. 

“Why have you come here?” Solas demands, the anguish in his tone undeniable. “How did you even come to find this place?” 

How odd that he should manifest now as Jonquil stands on the precipice ready to fall into the blackness of oblivion. Her heart lurches forward and she can swear for a fleeting moment her chest expands and bursts open. 

“I’ve….I’ve…” she tries to explain, but can’t muster the words or the energy to do so. 

The despair persists, leeching away the warmth within her chest, limbs and even the heat of her blood.  

“You should not have come.” His voice cracks, the sadness seeps into the Fade and the air around them swells. “I do not need you or anyone to help me with my grief and pain.” 

She remembers something that once was told to her about the Fade whilst her mind sinks to the inky coolness of sleep. About the malleability of it. How susceptible the Fade can be to heightened emotions and unruly magic. To demonstrate either runs the risk of capturing the attention of demons and drawing them to you like moths to a flame. 

“Solas…let me help…you.” Jonquil somehow manages to say, fighting against whatever sinister darkness has enthralled her. She struggles to force herself to wake fully, but the whispering promise to come…of succumbing awaits her in a peaceful deep sleep. It feels…nice, but also…hungry.

Her eyes snap open. The realization dawns as if curtains are being opened to reveal a bright and brilliant new day. This is a demon. A demon is attempting to possess her. 

She peers around frantically, her heart hammering against just barely healed ribs, to determine the location of the demon. It doesn’t take long. A grasping black hand reaches out from a throbbing whirlpool of grey-black quicksand beneath her, latching on to her ankle and yanking her to the ground. Her chin slams on to the only tangible piece of the pathway remaining near her, and the metallic twang of blood and salt fills her mouth as teeth pierce her tongue. 

Solas sits on the other side of the remaining pathway cradling his face in his hands. A thick, black aura coalesces around him, gluttonous tendrils shooting out from his body in every direction seeking desperately for more emotion to sate its hunger. 

Jonquil flings herself forward, her fingers scrambling for perchance as the demon continues to pull her towards the center of the swirl blackhole. Her fingers bite into the viscous ground doing nothing more than slowing the demon’s progress. 

“My friends have gone. They were here once, but I cannot find them now. I have called, searched, and slept - dreams within dreams - and have found them to no avail. Why?” He mutters obliviously, his sorrow too thick, too profound to climb out of. “Faith and Hope, pure and innocent spirits who prevailed in even the darkest of places. I have continued to seek them out, to no avail. Where have they gone? It is to become of my friends? And what am I to do now that I have neither comfort that what we do and what has been done is right nor the certainty to continue.” 

Jonquil screams as she fights against the strength of the demon. It hisses, its corrupted black arm snaking further up her leg and morphing into a curling whip. “Solas! Listen to me!” She bares down to concentrate on summoning enough mana to form a bolt of lighting. One blast and she’s sure she can free herself. “I will help you find them - your friends. Both Faith and Hope. You need to snap out of it!”

His head whips around in an instant, his angular face twisted into a sneer of contempt and pain. “You?” He laughs maliciously, “How could you ever expect to?”

A yawing black mouth filled with protruding jagged teeth emerges from the center of the demon, its own mouth contorted into a perverted smile. “Come to me, child. You need not resist any longer. I can sense your own despair and fear…it is so close I can taste it.” 

Her heart beats wildly as her instincts kick in to help bolster her magic. A shimmer, a quick flashing spark snaps between her index and pointer finger - it was enough - it would have to be enough to at least disorient the demon. “Fuck…that!” She growls, releasing the bolts into the demon’s mouth.

The demon rages. Shrieking away from her in agony and disappearing from beneath her to lick its wounds. It’ll be back, she thinks miserably, they always come back. If she was to defeat the demon here in the Fade, Jonquil would need to disrupt the conduit generating most of its power: Solas. 

She staggers, crying out in pain as her knee buckles. Jonquil quickly glances down, her eyes shifting from her leg and back to Solas, and she sees nothing but the stark contrast of crimson against the monotone nature of the pathway. For fuck’s sake, when this was all over, she’d be nothing but mangled flesh and war scars. 

In a combination of stepping, shuffling and hopping, Jonquil rushes to Solas. She trips as she reaches him, and she can feel the sticky sickness of her blood running down her leg, but there isn’t time to worry about it. A rush of panic floods her, sending a searing pain to her leg as her heart pumps faster. Jonquil can hear the demon pacing somewhere in the mists around them, biding its time until the last possible moment.

Jonquil forces herself up and with a burst of adrenaline she grasps Solas by the shoulders. The corrupted black aura shudders at her touch, seizes, then fluctuates in a pattern of ripples before engulfing her too. 

His emotions are overpowering, deep rooted and unwavering. She grits her teeth as her emotions are drawn from her to meld with his. Solas stares at her, those haunting violet eyes hard as stone, but doesn’t motion to move either himself or her. The demon cackles around them, the sound resonating as an echo in a hollow cave would - growing then decreasing in proximity with each passing moment. 

There has to be more to this than two missing spirits, she concludes. The Fade is an immense metaphysical realm with intricate multifaceted layers. He knows this - better than anyone. The spirits could dwell elsewhere. For him to sink into such a state goes beyond atypical behavior for the man she knows…or will know. Jonquil thinks of Compassion then and the spirit’s suggestion to confide in Solas, to tell him the truth. However, her doubts…she immediately discounts the idea and slots it under too prejudicial. Solas knowing that eventually he will create the Veil and bring about the ruin of the elves, nevermind the justified reasons behind doing so, is exactly the opposite of helpful in this moment. 

That line of thinking, however, may be exactly what she does need.

The demon materializes from the mists in a plume of black and grey churring magical energy. 

“Give in…” It hisses, “Surrender to all that is miserable and hopeless in your heart.”

Jonquil ignores the demon and focuses solely on Solas. “Solas, think of the People - all those elves back in Arlathan. They need you. Who else but Wisdom will ensure that the People are guided down a right and just path?” She asks. “And the Evanuris - who else will keep them from turning to corruption? Will you wallow here and leave Mythal to be the sole voice of reason, the sole voice to temper Elgar’nan?”

His head snaps up, his eyes wide with dawning comprehension. Violet eyes soften slightly as they scan Jonquil’s, his pupils scouring for a level of recognition and comfort that was previously denied to him. For the briefest of moments, the tiniest of fissures in the ticking of a second, that Sola seems to find something, an acquired piece of truth that substantiates her words.

“You both are mine!” The demon roars, lunging towards them in an explosion of foul magic.

“I will help you find your friends,” She promises, unsure of what else to say and knowing she will regret the words later. “I promise.”

And just as the demon surges, the ambient energies swirling around its enlarging grotesque frame, Solas nods his head in solemn acquiescence and his eyes are flooded with an intense, blinding blue-white light. The last thing she feels, before the realm of the Fade dissipates from around them, is Solas' fingers brushing against the tender flesh of her knuckles. 

Jonquil gasps, a sharp intake of breath that sends tingles through every fiber of her body. It's both wrong and right, just as this place is, and she's felt it only once before in the days after finding her mage killer. In a head whiplashing moment blackness swims before her vision and the sense of falling and rushing air flows over her eagerly. It is the impact, the sensation of her spirit plummeting into itself as the realities of gravity condense around her - that green eyes hesitantly open to greet the blurry light of the Waking world.