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[Brass_Buckles]

Ediit:  Since posting so many chapters and getting some really kind comments on it, I've finally decided to post this on a fan fiction site, AO3:

 

Endless Journey Alternate Site

 

This is a post-game fic about my Lavellan, Uth'shiral, who has basically lost everything and is trying to work through it.  If you haven't beaten Dragon Age: Inquisition, then be aware this contains possible spoilers.  Story parts will be dropped under Spoiler tags, just in case.

 

Also, there may be some romance content (Uth'shiral romanced Solas in this fic), but this will be smut-free.  Be aware I don't know if I'll ever really "finish" this fic, and I make no promises in that regard.

 

Alternate title suggestions are welcome; feedback is also welcome.

 

Part 1:

 

Spoiler

It had been six long months since that fateful battle with Corypheus at the destroyed Temple of Sacred Ashes. Uth'shiral Lavellan had spent every day since then in the same way. She would wake up, she would wander the slowly emptying hallways, she would visit the War Room to attend to business. Every time she passed the rotunda on her way to the library, she couldn't help but look for him. Every time she spoke with Leliana, she was hoping for news that never came. Then she would go on a long ride on her favorite red hart – the closest thing she had available to one of her halla friends – and wouldn't return to Skyhold until her cheeks burnt from the sun, the wind, and the cold, and dusk had settled firmly over the mountaintop.

 

Every evening ended only after she stood on her balcony gazing toward Skyhold's gates, and then curled up on a pile of furs she'd thrown at the foot of the bed that she ignored – a pointless, all too human, luxury that she refused to partake of lest she become too used to its comfort to return to her clan and their wandering ways.

 

That night, as she stood on the balcony beneath the full moon, she realized that it was time to move forward.

 

He was gone. He had promised an explanation that never came, and he hadn't even said a farewell. He had lied to her, again and again, and she had soaked up his lies just as Skyhold's cats lapped up saucers of milk. She wanted to be angry, but she'd always suspected he wasn't precisely what he said. After meeting Abelas, she had wondered even more. Did she ever even love him, or did she love only the lies he presented to her? Had there been a purpose to his actions, or was he simply as crafty and manipulative as the Dread Wolf himself? On this night, just as every night before it since he had pushed her away, she wasn't sure.

 

The very evening she had arrived back at Skyhold, with Solas no longer at her side, Leliana had taken her quietly aside to inform her that her entire clan had been slain in a ruckus with the nobles of Wycome. With or without Solas, her plan had been to return to her kin and immerse herself in a sense of familiarity that no amount of time in Skyhold could provide her. Now, that would never be possible.

 

Skyhold had never been her home. The Inquisition had never been her family. Every day, one more person left her, and another piece of her heart shattered. Finally, it had only been Uth'shiral and Sera, and the three advisors—Sera, at least, had a home with the Inquisition. Soon enough, Leliana would be gone, as well, off to serve the Chantry. Those closest to her – the spirit, Cole, and the dwarf, Varric – were already gone away. Cole had returned to the Fade, and Varric to Kirkwall. The advisors, particularly Josephine and Leliana, were concerned at the increasing distance between the Inquisitor and those who followed her.

 

As far as Uth'shiral was concerned, she'd had enough of being in charge. The Inquisition had completed its purpose. Empress Celene would have to find other ways to defend her throne, for her Dalish ally had no desire to send the Inquisition's soldiers to be Celene's pawns. There had been more than enough death and destruction, more than enough loss and broken hearts. She was not fool enough to believe she was the only one who had lost someone she loved in all of the fighting.

 

Not only that, but more and more, her heart followed her name. She was the Eternal Journey, the one who could never rest. Always seeking knowledge, looking for a home that would never exist, least of all now, with her vallaslin gone and her clan dead. Who would vouch for her among the Dalish, when only a handful of people could possibly recognize her? Ah, but they'd know her soon enough when they saw the mark, if she didn't cover it. That didn't make matters better, and as for the city elves... no matter how much sympathy she had for the elves of the cities, their lives and their ways were not hers any more than the ways of the Chantry's supporters.

 

She comforted herself with what Varric had once said – that you won at life, at the world, by simply continuing to get up every morning and face the day again. Yet, it wasn't enough. It had been six months, and it was time to face the reality: Her clan was gone, and Solas wasn't coming back. She could stay with the Inquisition, increasing her power and changing Thedas by spending the lives of her troops. She had considered it, for a time. With nothing else to live for, could she not reclaim purpose by trying to do good for others? The problem was that it was no longer easy to see how causing more fighting and more death could possibly be good for anyone, even if the elves and the mages, and everyone else as a result, benefited in the end.

 

The Arlathvhen, she had heard, was coming soon. Though she was now barefaced – a child all over again in the eyes of her people – she had a few cousins who had married into other clans and could vouch for her. Others would recognize the Inquisitor who had stood up for her people. Surely there was a clan somewhere who needed a Keeper's First or Second. Someday, when the pain was less, she would find a good man to marry—a good man she might never be able to love, but with whom she could share a culture and a family, and forget about the past and the burden that had weighed her down ever since she had become a part of the Inquisition.

 

She fought back the tears her reflections threatened to bring and began to throw various small possessions together, bundling them into the furs she'd been sleeping in all this time. She knew that some of the people remaining would see her fleeing across the courtyard; she was a mage, and rarely needed to be stealthy. She didn't give anyone a chance to seek her out or stop her; she didn't even pause to saddle her hart. She leapt onto his bare back and set out into the night, wolves making their fearsome music in the mountains all around her.

[Brass_Buckles]

Part 2:

 

Spoiler

Arlathvhen.

 

The Dalish gathered once every ten years. She should have felt at home among them. They were her people; their culture was her culture. Here deep in the forest, surrounded by colorful aravels and colorful people with vallaslin-marked faces, she felt more alone even than that last night at Skyhold. Murmurs bubbled from the crowd about her mark, about the Inquisition, about her lack of vallaslin. People she was related to and people she had simply known avoided speaking to her.

 

Worst of all were the accusing glares from some of the less charitable among them. She had been responsible for the orders that resulted in the death of every last member of Clan Lavellan, down to the smallest child. She should not even have dreamed of forgiveness for that, even though it had been an honest mistake.

 

As dusk began to fall on the first day, she wondered why she had even come.

 

“Andaren atishan, Uth'shiral. It has been too long,” a once-familiar voice, soft and lilting, greeted as its speaker approached her from behind a large aravel marked with halla carvings. “Do you remember me? Morisel?”

 

Morisel, with his tawny skin and his long face and his thoughtful amber eyes... Yes, Uth'shiral remembered him quite well—as an attractive young man she had once met very briefly and asked after often, in simpler days. Now, he was still handsome, but more weathered, more scarred, and beneath his eyes were shadows as dark as bruises. Perhaps they were bruises. “Morisel... I remember last Arlathvhen our Keepers were trying to pair us together, for the good of both clans. I remember thinking I liked the idea, at the time.” Her lips curled upward into a smile despite herself, but when their eyes met, his held as much sorrow as she knew hers did. “If this is about that... Much has happened, Morisel. I'd bring no benefit to Clan Inarel, just another spare mage.”

 

“Much has happened, indeed, lethallan,” Morisel agreed. “Our clan has fallen on hard times, as well. You might be of more use than you think, if you cared to come with us, but that isn't why I've sought you out.” He gestured to Uth'shiral to follow him to a small campfire nearby, and sat there quietly, staring into the flames for a long while, even after she sat beside him.

 

“You say you've had hard times?” Uth'shiral prompted.

 

“Not your doing,” Morisel said brusquely. “We lost half our clan to shemlen. They were angry at us. They're always angry at us. The Keeper had sent some of our hunters out raiding; it was a bad plan. I told him it was a bad plan. If Inarel were more like Lavellan... if your clan...” He shook his head, and she could see the redness of his eyes now, and the brightness of tears that he refused to let fall. “The Keeper is gone, and the First. That makes me Keeper now, and I'm not ready. I never thought... I never took it seriously, lethallan. Dread wolf take the shems!”

 

“Don't be that way, lethallin,” Uth'shiral replied, reaching to touch his arm briefly. “We elves... we are no better. I... have learned much, and could tell you much. I'll leave it for another time,” she offered, but in her heart she wasn't sure she would ever share the stories.

 

“It isn't why I wanted to find you, anyway. I watched you lurking like a starving wolf watching the halla. You're lonely tonight. As am I. My loneliness will heal, with time. Yours...” His amber eyes gleamed golden in the firelight as he scrutinized her face, the scar where a human had once nearly removed her eye. “If you want to be with the Dalish, you should look the part of one of us, and not a child or a flat-ear,” he said bluntly. “How you even lost the marks, I almost fear to ask.”

 

“That's as well, because I won't answer,” she countered, her voice sharpening momentarily. Then she slumped. “You're right, of course. It was an... ill-considered decision.” She bit her lower lip, giving physical presence to her emotional pain. “Do you think the others will welcome me again, if I let you redo my vallaslin?”

 

“I don't know if you will ever truly be welcome again by some, but you will always be Dalish. That alone might be enough for most. You... you're a hero to many, despite the mistake with Clan Lavellan. You've done so much...” Morisel trailed off. “I doubt you want to hear that. Ir abelas, lethallan. I only remind you of your distance. You want to be among the people, not a legend set apart from them.” He smiled sadly at her. “So, the vallaslin... I can do it now, if you like. The supplies are available, and the tools.”

 

Abelas... it made her think of that sad, lonely Sentinel elf, losing everything he had ever known and clinging to the ruined remnants. Morisel's sorrow was nothing compared to that, or to the deeper sorrow she thought rested within Solas. She didn't want to be like Abelas or Solas, alone and sad because of... because of what? Because she chose to be? Did they choose to be? But Abelas and the other Sentinel Elves were on a different level from the Dalish entirely; Abelas could barely conceive of the idea of kinship with Uth'shiral and her Dalish compatriots. “I'll take the vallaslin again,” she responded, after a long pause. “It's part of who we are,” she added, attempting to convince herself. Never again shall we submit. Could she be free among the Dalish without it?

 

“Yes... yet you say that as if you doubt.” Morisel smiled in reassurance, but to her his face only looked tired and sad. Once he had been so vibrant, self-assured... “You remember the ritual, correct? I need your silence when we begin. It was Dirthamen, wasn't it?” He stood for long enough to retrieve his tools and his inks, reminding her of old and almost-forgotten pain. Getting vallaslin the first time hadn't been fun, and she'd been prepared for the pain then.

 

“It was,” she agreed. “But I've learned much. I'm no longer sure if the god of secrets suits. Perhaps Falon'din.” She hesitated for a moment. “And yet, have I not fooled them all? They thought they had a hero. They wanted to believe I was their prophet, their divine figure. I wasn't any of it. I tried to tell them so. I've changed the entire world, and I don't know if it's for the better. Maybe... Do you know the marks for Fen'harel? Does he have marks?”

 

“The Dread Wolf?” Morisel laughed until he realized that her expression held no humor. Then he scoffed. “Who would want to mark themselves with that? You'd be naming yourself a trai—Oh. Oh. Did you do it on purpose...? You can't have...”

 

“No, I didn't. It was a mistake. A terrible one.” She rested her unmarked palm on her forehead. “Everywhere I've gone since the Conclave and the Inquisition, I've seen the wolf of Fen'Harel. It has given me the feeling that somewhere, he watches me, never turning his gaze, but dancing around my life and laughing as every part of it goes awry. If I didn't know better, I'd say Fen'harel was responsible for this magical mark I wear.” She raised head again, staring at the green glow of her mark. “If Fen'harel is going to pay such close attention to me, then fine—I will make him happy, and then one day I will outsmart him, and it will be me laughing, victorious at last, and Fen'harel won't know what to think of me anymore.” She sighed and dropped both her palms to the ground beside her.

 

“When you explain it like that, lethallan, I can respect the idea,” Morisel murmured, kneeling beside of the runaway Inquisitor. “Maybe we should all wear vallaslin for Fen'Harel. If we'd been smarter, or better at flattery, maybe he'd have cared about the elvhenan enough not to lock the other Creators away. I never learned of any vallaslin for Fen'harel, though. Not with Clan Inarel. Did Lavallan know of any such marks?”

 

Uth'shiral considered the question, then shook her head. “None. I suppose I could keep Dirthamen, or pledge myself to Falon'din.”

 

“I can't say I recommend Fen'Harel, but your reasoning was sound. I could come up with something appropriate,” Morisel offered, half-smiling now. “I don't know if you'll like the results, but... Are you ready?” His hands brushed her temples, turning her face this way and that. “It's the first time I've done vallaslin. If I'm going to practice on an elf, might as well be you, right? You can always just go back to the Inquisition if I mess it up.”

 

“No... I don't think I can,” Uth'shiral answered. She didn't bother explaining. “I am ready, Keeper Morisel. I am ready to rejoin the People and to brave the wrath or the laughter of Fen'harel.”

 

Silence fell, and from the corners of her eyes Uth'shiral could see people gathering to watch, as if vallaslin had suddenly become a spectacle. Of course, no one else had ever lost theirs before, or willingly had it removed. No one else was the Inquisitor, either. She closed her eyes, ignoring the pain of the needle as it pricked and poked.

 

Morisel cried out in alarm suddenly, and Uth'shiral's eyes flew open in surprise. “HOW?” he demanded. “What did you DO?”

 

“You can't be finished already!” she shouted back. “What do you mean what did I do? I was sitting in silence!”

 

“No, look, your marks--” Morisel hastily snatched the small mirror used to show young elves their new adult faces, with fresh vallaslin. Even as she watched, the marks only just placed onto her forehead faded, leaving only red, raw scratches. It was as if Morisel had never used the blood and ink.

 

“You forgot the ink?” she asked, but she knew that wasn't it. She'd seen the ink; it vanished. “Perhaps got the formula wrong?”

 

“No, I... Keeper Emalla, do you have your inks with you?” Morisel asked, sounding almost as alarmed as Uth'shiral had begun to feel.

 

Her heart was pounding in her chest; panic and fear welled up within her. This was not normal, but maybe the ink had been wrong. Or maybe Morisel hadn't done it right. There was some magic involved; that's why a Keeper had to do it. Why she might have to do the task, if she rejoined the Dalish. This had nothing to do with what she'd agreed to with Solas. It couldn't.

 

If she rejoined the Dalish. When had it become a question instead of a certainty?

[Brass_Buckles]

Part 3:

 

Spoiler

Keeper Emalla, fair-haired, elderly, and stately as any noble at Halamshiral, knelt beside Uth'shiral. Uth'shiral didn't remember her well, but she'd been told Emalla was one of her great-aunts. Perhaps that was why she didn't hesitate to approach so closely now. “Farien, could you fetch my inks? Morisel was only recently a Second, and not a very good student. Perhaps he did get the inks wrong, or the method,” she murmured as a youngster with no vallaslin pelted off to fetch her supplies.

 

“If I do this for you,” Emalla said, kneeling so that her face was close to Uth'shiral's, her voice taking on the chill sharpness of steel, “you will not be wearing anything of Fen'harel. You were Keeper's First, and even though I am no longer one of the Lavellan clan, I won't tolerate it being dishonored in that way. Would you honor the Dread Wolf, or mock him, when it is your solemn duty to keep him at bay?”

 

Uth'shiral let out a gust of breath, and closed her eyes. “You are right, Keeper Emalla,” she agreed. “I'm letting my emotions run away with me... So much has happened. So many horrible things... I've missed being among the Dalish. I've missed everything, even sleeping on the hard ground and all of the hard work that we do just to survive. But now that I'm here... Is there even still a place for me, when it was my mistake that got them killed? Am I even still Dalish, or am I now only the Inquisitor?”

 

“Morisel is the Inarel clan's Keeper. He needs a First, but he would probably be happy to be your First instead, now that he is their only mage. Their lives are not the same as clan Lavellan's, but you could join him and recover some scrap of your old life,” Emalla said, the steel gone from her voice. “Some hate you for your mistake. Some feel you abandoned the Dalish, and would never welcome you back. I think your journey and your actions have taught you much, and I think you have every right to be hurting. If you joined with Inarel, maybe the hurt could begin to heal, and maybe you could guide them into a new direction. Maybe you could be the leader the Dalish need to bring us into the future. Da'len, I've seen clan after clan diminish and disappear. Something has to change.” She settled her hand on Uth'shiral's shoulder, and Uth'shiral looked at it blankly.

 

“I appreciate your advice, hahren,” Lavellan responded quietly. “But I can't join a clan of Dalish who think of the city elves as flat-ears, or who have such hatred toward the other races. Morisel will try to change them, I'm sure. I could maybe even help him, to a degree. Change... doesn't come quickly, though, and if he and I followed through with the old arrangements... if... No, I just can't. Morisel is a good man, even if he is naïve, and he deserves to be with someone who loves him.”

 

Emalla settled from a kneel to a sitting position, lowering herself with difficulty. Getting up probably wouldn't be easy for her either, Uth'shiral reflected. “This is a discussion that I suspect will take some time,” she said. “Would you mind giving us some privacy for a bit, my dears?” she suggested to the few members of the crowd who had lingered. “Farien, you're back,” she greeted with a smile. “Hand me those tools and inks, and be on your way. I heard Halinlin had some sweets from the human village. Maybe you could get some of those if you hurry.”

 

“Sweets? From the village? Does she have pies?” Farien wasted no time waiting for the answer, scampering away toward one of the halla keepers; Uth'shiral did not recognize the woman, especially not at this distance.

 

Emalla's attention quickly returned to Uth'shiral. “I cannot order you to do what's best for you, da'len. You know Morisel is a good man. He is also attractive, and the Keeper of his clan—as you are Keeper of yours, now that there are no other Lavellans. Still, joining his clan isn't the same as marrying him. I think, given the circumstances, Inarel may be the only clan that will have a place for you. Your fame has spread far and wide, and so has your infamy. Your presence may endanger whatever clan you join. That... is fact, no matter how much any of us admire you or hate you. Inarel needs another, stronger mage. And, if you did join with Morisel, your children would be--”

 

“I am not a brood mare, to be bred for prized magical stock, hahren!” Uth'shiral snapped, and then clamped her mouth shut until she could master her temper. Emalla waited, watching her. “I apologize, hahren. I know you don't mean any insult.”

“No, and while you aren't wrong to find offense, your reaction tells me much.” Emalla sighed. “I can redo your vallaslin, da'len. I can share the tale of Red Crossing that you brought to Keeper Hawen. But, if your heart isn't in your duty anymore, I cannot make you Dalish.”

 

“And a Dalish should find a Dalish to marry, and if she's a mage, she should marry a mage and have little baby mages to take her place, in the hopes that someday the humans will make a massive mistake and we can take their place,” Uth'shiral replied. “There's no shame in wanting to preserve and remember the past, but we aren't in the past. We have gotten--” she cut herself off before she could tell Emalla that they'd gotten almost everything wrong. “Hahren, we're dying out, little by little. We make no allies among the city elves and humans. We can wait forever and our chance won't come. Even if we did get that chance, would we be any better than the Tevinters, oppressing the humans?”

 

“We wouldn't enslave the shemlen, da'len,” Emalla told her mildly, dropping the hand on Uth'shiral's shoulder back into her lap. “As for alliances... the city elves submitted to human rule. If we ally with them, what will that say about us? If they leave the cities, we can accept them in limited numbers. If we don't, the blood will surely die, but if we let too many in, how will we feed them?”

 

“No. I've seen the hatred in many of the Dalish clans, hahren,” Uth'shiral countered. “We wouldn't enslave the humans, we'd probably exterminate them entirely. The city elves, too, for not being brave enough or capable enough to do better for themselves. Those weren't the ideals my clan embodied. We believed in looking forward even as we tried to preserve our past, our culture. I'm proud to be Dalish, proud of how we manage to survive and be free against all odds, but I'm not sure if the Dalish really understand who we are.” She rubbed at the back of her neck. She was coming close to sharing information that she couldn't prove, and that she didn't think she should share. If her clan had survived... But no; she wasn't going to say it. “We can do better. We can be so much more. I believe it. What I'm starting to see is that I can't do anything to push for that from the inside.”

 

Emalla's sad frown told Uth'shiral everything she needed to know. “Very well, then, da'len. Please silence yourself while I restore your vallaslin. And then... enjoy the Arlathvhen, and go where you will. You should give Morisel your answer on your own. I believe he had hoped to have the union settled before the Arlathvhen ended, and perhaps he thought he'd have another ally within Inarel if you were there. He's always been taken with you, just as your mother and grandmother once told me you were with him. I understand that minds and hearts can change, but when you tell him, tell him gently.”

[TanithAeyrs]

Oh, my. This is really good. Sad though, and so appropriate. Hope you keep going with it.

[Brass_Buckles]

Part 4, In Which We Briefly Revisit Skyhold:  (AKA that part in which I totally mess up Sera's voice, I'm sure.)

 

Spoiler

“You,” Cassandra snarled accusingly at the rag-clad, smirking elf, pointing an index finger right at her stubby nose. “You saw her leaving and you said nothing! Nothing at all! How could you? The Inquisition needs its Inquisitor! All of these changes she put into motion need to be supported. Divine Victoria can only do so much.”
 

Sera was unintimidated, smirking more the more Cassandra raged. “Wotcha want me to do about it?” she asked, with a shrug. “Ladybits was tryin' to be all sneaky-like, and taking all her elfy stuff with her. I guess she was gonna go do something elfy. Maybe look for Baldy, I dunno. What was I gonna do, point fingers at her and tell her stay here? She's still all mad at me for laughing about her being all elfy-elf without those ridiculous marks on her face. Could've told you that wasn't gonna be good for us lot.”

 

Cassandra ran hands through her hair in frustration. It was tempting to frighten the smirk from Sera's face with a dagger to the table in front of her. But... No. “You knew the night she left, and you said nothing,” Cassandra growled, pacing again in her fury and frustration. “It has snowed three nights in a row since then. There is no trail left for our agents to follow. She could be with Solas, and if she is, she could be in danger. She could be without Solas, and... if so, she could still be in danger. I never thought I would say this, but I truly wish Cole were here. He would have known what was wrong. He would have been able to find her.”

 

“That thing? No thank you!” Sera shuddered expressively. “It creeped me out. I'm glad it's gone! But you're right, Elfy might be in trouble. Wouldn't like to think what that creeper Solas might be up to if he's involved. Oh! She left this in his room, tucked away-like. I was curious so I snatched it,” she remarked with no remorse, reaching into her cleavage to pull out a slip of paper. “Looks like a note or something... maybe she dropped a hint to him where she was going? Not that it'd do her any good, with him gone.”

 

Cassandra snatched the paper without ceremony and began to read it aloud.

 

Solas,

 

I kept hoping that you would come back someday soon. Every day and every hour that hope faded. You promised me that we would speak, and things would be clear. We haven't spoken, even in the Fade, and I'm still confused. What was it about me that drove you away?

 

Before he returned to the Fade, Cole told me that it wasn't my fault, but if it wasn't my fault, why did you choose that moment to end what we had? Why did you leave with no explanation and no farewell? It makes you look like a traitor, Solas, and I can't believe that.

 

Leliana says you lied. I'm not sure what to believe.

 

Every night when I sleep, I am plagued by demons. Desire demons offer me what I know I can't have anymore: They say I could have my clan, alive and well, that I could have you, still by my side. Lies, all of it. Despair demons tell me that there is no reason to hope. My clan is gone, my identity is gone, you are gone. The despair demons are harder to dismiss than the desire demons. I know you would disapprove of it, but I sleep less and less, just to avoid the Fade and the demons. Then again, you aren't here to offer any sage advice, so you can hardly pass judgment on me now.

 

In this state of mind, I have no business heading up any organization—and I'm sure that's what you expected me to do. When I go to the War Room, all I can picture are the soldiers still dying in my name, and I hate it. Have I truly done the world any favors? I've changed things, but my family is dead and that is my fault. That's something I can never fix, even if I try for the rest of my life. What's done is done.

 

If you return to read this, I will be going to the Arlathvhen to find either my welcome or my condemnation. Don't seek me there; only Dalish will be welcome among the Dalish. Perhaps I will find a new life for myself, or perhaps not. You have decided for me that you will have no place in my future, but I will decide for myself what my future without you holds.

 

I am sorry you couldn't find it in yourself to trust me. Perhaps you were right not to trust.

 

Dareth shiral, Solas. May Fen'harel turn his back on you.

 

 

 

Inquisitor Uth'shiral Lavellan

 

 

“See?” said Sera, swinging her feet idly above the ground where she sat in her chair. “Toldja. Off to do elfy things. There's not much we can do about that, now is there, Seeker?”

 

As Cassandra began to fume about why Sera hadn't shown her this sooner, Sera hopped to her feet. “Honestly, I thought it sounded a little private. Just because I don't like elfy things, or Solas, doesn't mean I hate Her Glorious Ladybits. She did right by me, letting me stay. She's family, like I never had.”

 

Cassandra's fist crumpled the paper into a wad. “If she is still with the Dalish at this... Arlathvhen, we will send Dalish agents to find her. I will let your involvement in her indiscretion pass. However, the Inquisitor is an important figure, and she needs to act like it. I do not agree with all of her decisions, but without her leadership, everything will fall apart.” Her pacing halted, and she hung her head, shaking it. “She is my friend. How could I have failed to notice that she was hurting so much? They were her family, and I didn't think...”

 

Sera frowned, stopping mid-step as she began to walk away. “She came to me all sad, before, and I tried to make her laugh about what happened. She told me something about those marks, they were slave marks or something, yeah? So I laughed, 'cause I mean the Dalish are idiots, right? You think I made it worse?”

 

Cassandra's glower said more than any words she could have spoken.

[Brass_Buckles]

Part 5, In Which There is More Arlathvhen:

 

Spoiler

 

Needle met flesh again with a burning pain. Slow, delicate motions, meant to set the caustic inks into her skin and honor Dirthamen, flowed over her forehead. Uth'shiral bore it in silence as she had the first time, at her coming-of-age, until Keeper Emalla abruptly stopped, and set aside her tools, gripping Uth'shiral's chin hard, turning her face from one side to the other.

 

Respect for Emalla as a Keeper—respect Morisel had yet to earn—had given them privacy, this time. There were no more Dalish crowding close to watch, to make sure that she didn't flinch or gasp or cry out.

 

“Morisel was right,” Emalla mumbled. “The ink... it's not taking. I've never seen anything like this.”

 

“Hahren?” Uth'shiral asked, startled to hear her own voice wavering.

 

“It starts to take, and then it beads back up on the surface of your skin and...” Emalla's brow furrowed deeply. “It turns into smoke. It won't stay. How did you lose your marks, da'len? What happened to you?”

 

“I made a bad decision,” the Inquisitor replied, unable to avoid Emalla's gaze with the Keeper holding her face in place. “Apparently, now I must live with it, just as the other bad decisions I've made.” Cold fear coiled against her spine; something was definitely not right about this situation.

 

“No more explanation than that, then?” the Keeper asked, staring intently into Uth'shiral's eyes. “Then I won't demand it. But go and speak to Morisel, and then... I don't advise that you stay for long. The others will think that you are too weak to take the vallaslin a second time, or that you chose to remain apart from the People. Those who think you're weak won't respect you as much. Most will think you simply chose to stay apart... and that won't win you any friends, either.” She released Uth'shiral's chin, and the Inquisitor rubbed at her face where Emalla's fingers—and fingernails—had dug in painfully.

 

Keeper Emalla struggled to her feet; normally Uth'shiral would have already stood and offered assistance, but her mind was reeling from the implications. What had Solas done to her, exactly, that night? Whatever he had done, it had been a very private, even intimate moment—almost religious, in a way, with how reverently he had run his fingers over her face. He'd brushed her cheeks so gently, had told her she was free... had told her for the first time that he thought she was beautiful. They'd kissed. And then it all went wrong.

 

Now she sat here, forever severed from her people. Solas, what did you do? What kind of spell was that?

 

She didn't know how long it was before she finally stumbled to her feet, but day had sometime since transformed into starry darkness. Morisel, she reminded herself, and looked for the Inarel banner among the firelit tents and aravels.

 

As she walked, she told herself, I don't have to turn him down, even now, but if I don't, then... what? If I refuse, does that mean I'm no longer Dalish? They may not chase me away, because I will always be their Inquisitor—but without a clan, where will I go? And if I agree... I won't make Morisel happy, and Inarel will make me unhappy.

 

She paused by the first aravel marked with Inarel's emblems. It shouldn't be difficult to find the Keeper's aravel; it usually had all of the Creators carved into it, and of course carvings of Fen'harel, turned away from them all. She wandered among the evenly spaced landships with their vibrant sails, the paintings and carvings that adorned them coming to life in the flickering firelight. It reminded her of long evenings listening to Keeper Dorran's tales of the Creators and of Fen'harel. She fought the sudden urge to run back to her hart and bury her tears in his soft, furry neck. That animal was her only confidante left—and the only one who would listen to her without judging.

 

Refusing to give in to her sorrow, she made her way to Morisel's aravel. He sat beside a fire in front of it, whittling a small piece of wood into the shape of a wolf—a charm to keep Fen'harel away, Uth'shiral immediately recognized. “Keeper Morisel, if I may have a word?” the Inquisitor asked softly, settling by the fire across from him.

 

“Uth'shiral! Of course,” he agreed, then frowned across the fire at her. “Your face is bare still. Did you change your mind, after all? I think I got the ink wrong and--”

 

“It doesn't matter if you did or didn't,” she replied. “The ink won't take. Keeper Emalla tried.” She stared blankly at the fire for a long moment. “Don't ask me why, or how. I'm uncertain, myself. As I said, it was an ill-considered decision.”

 

“Have you considered taking the position of First... or Keeper... to our clan, then? Or perhaps...” He cleared his throat uncertainly. “I know that before the Breach, our clans were having discussions about the two of us again.”

 

“Realistically, Keeper Morisel,” Uth'shiral began carefully, “I doubt that the talks would have gone further than they did after we first met, at the last Arlathvhen. Both of our clans had plenty of mages at the time, and Lavellan and Inarel are as different in their outlooks as they could possibly be.” She continued staring into the fire, not daring to look at Morisel when she shared what she wanted to say next. “Even if I were unaware of how unhappy I would be in your clan, there's another reason I can't. I gave my heart to another, Morisel. I now know that what I felt for you was a youthful crush. I don't tell you this to be cruel. I think you are a good man, and you deserve to be first in someone's heart.”

 

“I... see,” Morisel replied so quietly that she almost couldn't hear him. “Are you... with child? With this other man? I could still take you in, and we could raise the babe as--”

 

“It's not like that, Keeper Morisel!” Uth'shiral snapped, almost coming to her feet in her vehemence, using his formal title to keep some emotional distance between them. She shifted, resettling to the ground. “No, I loved him, but there was never any sex with him, any more than there was with you. There will never be a child.”

 

“From the first time I saw you, Uth'shiral, I wanted to be with you. As we made fast friends, I pictured the two of us happy with your clan. Peaceful clan Lavellan would be my escape from all of the raiding, from the accusations that I was too soft, or a shem-lover. I would be your first and only lover. We'd be married, and we'd be so happy that Fen'harel would avoid the clan out of pure disgust. Our children would be the cutest, best-behaved children the Dalish had ever known.” Morisel smiled sadly. “But was it love? No,” he shook his head. “I thought it could be. Worse matches have been made. It could still go that way, Uth'shiral—we could find love together in time. You need a clan, and I need an ally within my clan. It could work for both of us. It wouldn't even need to begin with our union, just... you being my friend, within the clan.”

 

“Please don't. I can't,” Uth'shiral answered, rubbing at the stinging scrapes on her forehead where two different Keepers had tried two different times to apply vallaslin.

 

“This love of yours—was he shemlen? Was he a flat-ear? Where is he now?” Morisel frowned, amber eyes distant as he attempted to puzzle through her unexpected information. “I'd like to meet him,” he added after a pause, perhaps realizing that his questions might be taken as hostile.

 

She wasn't certain how to answer those questions. “He was...” she paused, seeking the right word. There was only one word she could use. “Elvhen,” she finally answered, remembering an exchange between Solas and Abelas at the Temple of Mythal that had answered a suspicion she had about Solas that she had never dared to voice. “He was... brilliant, mysterious, and terribly sad. When he smiled, that was all that mattered to me. And now... he is gone. I'm sorry I can't introduce you. You're the type of person who might have made friends with him. You made friends with me, after all, and few others did.”

 

Morisel chuckled softly. “So, a flat-ear then. As for being your friend, I did have incentive to do so, if you recall. You weren't any less pretty ten years ago than you are now. The surprising thing is that you never found someone other than me before now. Or, do you think if you hadn't met him... you and I... Well, it's not worth worrying about, is it?”

 

“No,” Uth'shiral replied somberly, taking note that Morisel's laugh barely disguised his disappointment and sadness. “You shouldn't worry about it. You're still young, you're attractive enough, and... most of all, Keeper Morisel, you are a good man. If you can't find or make your own happiness, I hope that it finds you.”

 

Morisel's sad smile became more genuine at the praise. “I'm still your friend, Uth'shiral. I understand what you mean about Inarel. I'll work hard to make us a better clan, even if it kills me. I don't think you know how much you've inspired the Dalish, even despite your mistakes. Even despite what happened to your clan. The shems call you 'Herald of Andraste.' Some of us say you're the Herald of Mythal, instead. So you'd better be careful of saying anything more about laughing at Fen'harel. I don't want you to be the Dread Wolf's Herald.” He reached to pull a long-handled kettle from the flames. “As long as you're sitting here, would you like some tea?”

 

“No. I need to get some rest. You should, too. As Keeper, you'll be busy all day tomorrow, telling tales and inscribing vallaslin. It would be easier if you had a First. Maybe you should start speaking with the other clans about that. Someone always has a spare mage.” The Inquisitor stood up, brushing the dust off of herself—a habit she'd only picked up at Skyhold, where she'd been scolded repeatedly for not leaving things clean.

 

“You're leaving again soon,” Morisel observed, also rising to his feet. “Here. So Fen'harel stops dancing around you and gives you some peace.” He extended his hand, and when Uth'shiral reached hers out, he dropped the tiny wolf carving into it. “If I don't see you again, lethallan... Dareth shiral.”

 

Uth'shiral found her way to where she'd left her red hart and stowed the gear she had brought that she wasn't wearing or carrying. The hart had already curled up on his side, his head down in slumber. Uth'shiral settled against his smelly, furry hide, wrapped a fur around herself, and stared at the stars for a long time before she finally submitted to sleep. The demons would come again, but she must rest at least a little if she were to resume traveling in the morning.

[Brass_Buckles]

Part 6, In Which Solas Checks on Skyhold:

 

Spoiler

From the Fade, it was not clear what had happened at Skyhold, except that the Inquisition was in turmoil. There was a distinct sense of absence there. Solas found that his thoughts could brush against the dreams of Sera or Cassandra, but the others...? Even the memory of most of them had vanished. There were two absences he felt more than most: Cole, the spirit of compassion who had attached himself to the Inquisition, and perhaps had more influence on it than Solas wished to admit to the Inquisitor... and the Inquisitor herself.

 

Certain memory fragments repeated themselves: The Inquisitor slipping out late at night, carrying little but what she wore and the furs she used to sleep on, the hart she rode growing smaller and smaller as wolves sang into the night.

 

Vhenan, you could have been killed, all alone... He quickly substituted “Inquisitor” for “vhenan” in his mind. There could be nothing more between them, especially now, with the new addition to his personality. If he clung to his love for her, then he would never be able to do what he needed to. If his plan succeeded, though, she would be better off, and there was a high probability that he would be dead, or unrecognizable.

 

A letter, snatched from the rotunda, its contents private, meant for... himself? Its memory was wrapped in distaste and disgust and disapproval, with subtle hints of sympathy.

 

The letter, read in Cassandra's voice, but all he could hear was, “Elfy Egghead, blah blah blah blah, Dalish idiots.” Sera's memory, most likely.

 

Of course. Uth'shiral. Eternal journey. He hadn't thought that the Dalish took their names quite so literally any longer—or perhaps other things were amiss.

 

It had been difficult getting close enough to Skyhold, amid all of this chaos, to even glean as much as he had from the dreams of its inhabitants. Without going through the gates, there would be nothing more to learn, but he couldn't go back, any more than he could seek her out directly. There were other, more important matters he still had to attend to. And yet... her absence was troubling. She needed to be at Skyhold, safe, directing the Inquisition, protecting it against corruption—protecting the people of Thedas against the reversal of all of the changes she'd made, too.

 

It wasn't his problem. He shouldn't—couldn't—interfere. What was he to do, take over the Inquisition for her until she came to her senses? Somehow he doubted that he would even be welcome, now, just as much as he doubted that word of his reappearance would cause the Inquisitor to reappear, too. He had seen himself in the dreams of the sleepers at Skyhold, and he bore the sense of a traitor in most of them.

 

She had the Anchor, and she'd absorbed the remaining power of his orb. It would be good to know where she was, and that the power wasn't being abused. What if worst came to worst and he needed that power? What if he had to take it back, or he needed to ask her—or trick her—to use it? What if it started to kill her—No. He couldn't let his thoughts wander into lathbora viran; she was the Inquisitor, a potential ally or rival. He must not allow himself to worry over her as if she were still his vhenan.

 

Yet, he loved her, and there was something about her... She was Elvhen, even if she were mortal, and he wasn't entirely convinced of that, especially now that the power of his orb was one with her. As unique and special as she was, were the others the same, or capable of becoming that way? Had he overlooked it? Perhaps he could pause in his wanderings and seek out the Lavellan clan. A meeting with her family could offer some insight into the mystery, perhaps put it to rest. It could be that her family was special in some way that other Dalish were not. His task was not urgent; his plan would take time and people to succeed.

 

Solas's eyes opened slowly, and he stood, dropping the wards in the cave near Skyhold where he had slept. Wolves regarded him with their own sleepy eyes, then huddled back to sleep. Yes; he must go visit the Lavellan clan. They had been far to the north in the Free Marches region, in Wycome. It would take a long time to get there, but there were things he could do along the way to further his own goals. Memories of several temples and cities flashed in his mind. There were probably some eluvians still there—perhaps some were still functional.

[Brass_Buckles]

Part 7:  In Which We Have the Mandatory Fade Scene:

 

Spoiler

Something was different in her dream tonight. At first, Uth'shiral could not place it. And then, she saw him—Cole, daggers drawn, keeping the demons at bay. For a brief moment, the joy of seeing someone she missed so much overpowered the grief of the past six months.

 

“Cole! Are you--?”

 

“Inquisitor, you're hurting. Let me help you! The demons can't stay if you don't feed them.”

 

It was definitely Cole, then, and not some impersonator. “I don't want to forget, Cole! I just--”

 

“You need someone who knows. Someone to listen, not laugh, lend the luxury of a lightened load. I understand. I'm sorry I left,” he added, giving another slash at a demon. “You wouldn't let me help. I thought I might slip. You thought I'd make you forget, but you worried that not helping would change me.”

 

She had almost forgotten that he knew every painful thought she had. “We should probably talk about this someplace safer, Cole,” she said, hefting a staff that leaned on a nearby stone. Tyrdda's staff, she recognized—and she'd given it to Solas, before he vanished.

 

“You were happy to see me. I'm glad.” Cole pushed away the demon he'd been fighting, and it vanished as the rogue walked from the clearing where the Arlathvhen was held into a Skyhold corridor. It was an arrangement that made sense only in dreams—or the Fade. “Follow me. I need you to open a door for me.”

 

“I thought you could open any kind of door,” Uth'shiral answered with a smile, falling in step behind Cole. “At least I never saw one stop you before.”

 

“This one needs a key,” Cole said. “I don't have it. You do.”

 

“The Anchor?” she asked, looking at her hand—miraculously unmarked, in the strange world of the Fade.

 

“You aren't the only one who is suffering,” Cole said, instead of answering the question. “Sorrow seeks something... suffering sadly somewhere. They think he's like them, but he isn't. But he--” Cole gasped, and stopped mid-stride. “No, we have to hurry. I need you to open the door for me, before it's too late!” From a dead stop, he sprinted into a wild dash down the hallway, toward the closed front gate.

 

Uth'shiral followed, running at what she felt was an unnaturally sluggish pace, unable to go faster, but somehow keeping up with the spirit.

 

“Hurry, they're going to think it was you!” Cole yanked at the door, but it didn't budge. “You have the key!” he shouted.

 

She reached for the door bar, and the world blazed with green.

[Brass_Buckles]

Part 8:  In Which... You Know What?  It's Just Part 8:

 

Spoiler

Uth'shiral's eyes flew open as pain surged from the mark on her hand. She cried out, her other hand reaching to cover it. Her back hit the ground hard, her head knocking against a stone as her red hart stood, grunting and trumpeting his own surprise. It was a credit to his superior training that he danced in place instead of fleeing into the forest.

 

The stars spun overhead as she struggled to recover. Then they were blocked out by the silhouette of someone wearing a very wide-brimmed hat. “Sorry. It wasn't supposed to go like that.”

 

“Cole...?” she asked, confused and dizzy from the blow to her head. “But you--”

 

“I told you to open the door, and you did. The door wanted to open. It would have hurt worse if you left it closed. Thank you.” Cole reached a hand down to her, offering to help her stand. “You didn't do it, but they'll think you did. It will look like you did. If they think you did it, they'll--” Cole gasped. “Is that true? We need to go!”

 

“What...?” Uth'shiral took hold of Cole's wrist, allowing him to pull her to her feet. His head darted from side to side. She wasn't sure if she had ever seen him so nervous before.

 

“You don't want to see this. You really don't want to see it,” Cole replied, his voice shaky. “It will hurt you. I want to help. Please, Inquisitor,” he begged, and moved to stand between her and whatever it was he wanted to hide.

 

Lavellan hesitated for a moment. Maybe waiting just a moment to recover wouldn't be a bad idea. Her hart... She glanced back toward the animal. He had already calmed, and was now peacefully lying back down. On top of her sleeping furs, of course.

 

There wasn't any excuse to delay, then. “Cole, I have to know what it is, no matter how bad it is. If I don't know what it is, how can I deal with it and make things better?”

 

“You don't want to you don't want to you don't want to,” Cole repeated over and over, but his protest was quieter even as Uth'shiral stepped around him—and nearly stumbled over someone lying prone only a few steps away from where she had just been sleeping.

 

“Creators... who would sleep here of...” Her voice trailed off. There were no furs, no blankets, no fires near the prone body. In the moonlight, a dark spot stained the soil around the body. She recognized his clothing. She'd spoken with this person perhaps only a couple of hours ago. “... Morisel?” She knelt down quickly, reaching to shake his shoulder, but he did not respond. “Morisel! Morisel!” She shook him again. It had to be a prank, right? He played pranks, once, at the last Arlathvhen. He'd told her of other pranks in the letters he'd sent, when they'd both imagined a future together.

 

Now, whatever future he might have had, was ended. She could feel Cole watching her back, miserable from sharing her misery. Her entire body shook, and she stumbled back, dizzy, to her knees, then gathered them close to her chest and rocked back and forth. She wouldn't cry. No; she wouldn't let the Dread Wolf laugh at her tears. She had to be strong. She was the last of clan Lavellan.

 

“He has been dead for the past hour,” someone said flatly from nearby—someone who wasn't Cole. Uth'shiral's mournful reverie was shattered. “He glanced behind himself several times.”

 

Still dizzy and in pain, with her hand throbbing in a way it hadn't since she first had the Anchor attached to it, the Inquisitor looked toward the new voice, but couldn't even make out a silhouette in the darkness against the trees. She squinted, trying to coax her elven eyes to work as they should in the dark. Her vision wouldn't quite focus. “He came to hurt me...?”

 

“No,” Cole answered.

 

At the same time, the other, who didn't seem to see or hear Cole—or at least not to remember having seen or heard Cole, answered, “It did not appear so. He was unarmed. His staff is still by the... aravel?” The voice seemed to taste the word, testing its flavor.

 

“Did you--”

 

“Sorrow hurts, hopes to help and heal however he can,” Cole said, answering Uth'shiral before her question escaped her lips. She felt so very light-headed. “He sought someone in Skyhold. You left. That made him sadder, so I helped him search. He doesn't remember.”

 

“--kill him?” asked the other. “No.”

 

The Anchor pulsed again, and sent another wave of light-headed dizziness through Uth'shiral. The feeling was familiar as it was frightening. It wasn't the blow to the head, then. Somehow, the Anchor was unstable—maybe because of letting Cole through the Fade, or maybe it had something to do with the final battle with Corypheus. Or maybe I'm just running out of time. Didn't Solas say it was killing me? That there might not be a way to save me? I thought it had stabilized, but...

 

“I did not pursue the killer, because your... artifact... was behaving strangely.” The tall figure stepped closer; the mark of Mythal was on his face, and he wore closely fitted armor of ancient design. “He saw me with you and fled. Perhaps he thinks you are dead, or soon will be. Shemlen confuse me.”

 

“... Abelas?” Uth'shiral asked, her body shuddering in agony as well as grief, as green light flared around her hand again.

 

“Yes.”

[Brass_Buckles]

Okay, so I thought Istimaethoriel (which might just be a fake name to confuse the shemlen, I don't know) went by Dorrane or something, but it turns out she's Deshanna.  So I'll have to find that part and edit it, later.

 

In the meantime, here, have another part:

 

Part 9:  In Which I'm Not Telling Because Spoilers

 

Spoiler

Abelas knelt down, taking Lavellan's wrist so that he could examine the mark on her palm. “I noticed this before,” he mumbled under his breath, following it up with a string of words in Elvhen that Uth'shiral understood little of.

 

“Pardon?” she asked, remembering her manners as the pain subsided enough for her to think. She watched him poking a finger at the mark, as if that would somehow shift it around on her hand. After a moment of having her palm prodded, she jerked her hand away. Being prodded forced her to come to her senses, become more aware of her surroundings. “... Morisel,” she said sadly, glancing to the side at the corpse. “Cole is right. They'll think I did it. If I leave, it'll be even more suspicious.”

“He thought he might be followed,” Cole offered up helpfully. “So he kept looking, watching, but he didn't see what killed him. A sharp pain across his throat, hot liquid warmth flowing, fire, thirst, and then...” He trailed off. They all knew what happened then.

 

“Cole?” Abelas asked, glancing around in confusion. “The hart?” He frowned at the beast as if expecting it to start talking. He had, at least, decided to quit prodding at the Anchor, and instead began examining Morisel's body in the darkness, prying something from the dead elf's stiffening fingers.

 

“Can you let him see you, Cole?” Uth'shiral requested. She breathed deeply, trying to regain some semblance of the control that the combination of grief, shock, and pain had cost her. Then she turned to watch Abelas do... whatever he was doing. “Did you find something?”
 

“A letter,” Abelas answered. “Though we need more light to read it.”

 

“Dalish Wardens,” Cole said softly. “He overheard them whispering about you. Others, too. New arrivals tonight. They came to him after you left his campfire, asking about the Inquisitor.”

 

Abelas actually looked startled as Cole spoke, and then his eyes narrowed as if uncertain what he was seeing and hearing.

 

“Thank you, Cole. Assassins?” Uth'shiral asked. If she could take control of the situation, if she could understand it, it would be better than kneeling by a corpse and crying.

 

“Fierce, feral, frustrated... Why did she send us all away? How dare she? They'll regret it when the next Blight comes. She isn't even Dalish anymore! She's here! I shouldn't have run. I should have stabbed the other one, too, but they'll think she did it, they'll want to kill her and then the Inquisition will hunt us and we'll kill them one by one and...” Cole began to walk toward a particular group of tents as he spoke the thoughts of the killer, until Uth'shiral stood hastily and grabbed his arm.

 

“Wardens! Dread Wolf take them... they brought their exile upon themselves! Even if they hadn't, what were they going to do as long as Corypheus was forcing the Calling on them?” She let out a strangled noise in frustration, then turned to Abelas to speak, only to realize he was watching her with an expression of baffled curiosity.

 

“Why did you stop him? You could deal with the killer now, and it would be over,” Abelas said, already readying his staff and sword.

 

“Because there are probably more than one, and there are lots of people here who aren't happy with me already,” Uth'shiral explained patiently, walking toward where she left her hart—and her gear. Without preamble, she began shrugging on armor over her nightclothes and snatched up her staff. Abelas remained standing by the body, looking down at it and holding the letter that Morisel had been grasping, but Cole stayed close. On impulse, Lavellan reached out and pulled the spirit into a fierce hug. “I can't thank you enough for coming back, Cole. I know this has to be agonizing for you.” He stood awkwardly still even as she let him go, rubbing at the corners of her eyes where she hadn't succeeded in holding back her tears.

 

“It is,” Cole answered, “but you're a friend, and you're hurting. Even if I can't help, I have to try.”

 

“If we cannot leave, and we cannot kill the killers, what are we to do, and why are you arming yourself?” Abelas asked as he joined the other two. “Is the other Elvhen here to advise you?”

 

“We're surrounded by the elvhenan, and you ask if one's here,” Uth'shiral retorted. “We're going to speak to Keeper Emalla, and hopefully we can do something about this with the help of others.”

 

“You're as good as two other mages. I fight as well as any ten of your shemlen. Tell me: why do we need help?” Abelas demanded.

 

“Because if we kill them, we look like the culprits, for starters, and that makes enemies for us. If our enemies are Wardens, they are also the best of the best. You may be as skilled as ten Dalish, but you might find yourself coming up short against a pair or more of Dalish Wardens—we don't know how many there are, how skilled they are, or how many of them are here who actually want me dead.” Her palm flared with a green light again, and she leaned on her staff for support.

 

“These shemlen are not my people,” Abelas snapped. “Should I care if they are offended?” Power gathered around his staff, and he began to stride toward the tents Cole had alerted them to, their plain, pale fabric noticeable even in the darkness against a backdrop of hundreds of brightly-colored aravels.

 

“If you take one more step toward those tents, if you cause trouble for the Dalish, or the Inquisition, for the people who have risked their lives for me and my causes, I will fight you, Abelas, even if it kills me,” Uth'shiral warned, raising her own staff.

 

There was a moment of tension as Abelas stopped in his tracks. Cole looked between them, muttering their thoughts so quietly that she could not understand what he was saying. Then, to Lavellan's great surprise, Abelas lowered his staff, the crackling magic dissipating, his shoulders slumping in the darkness.

 

“We shall speak with this... Keeper Emalla, as you say,” he agreed, turning back around to follow the Inquisitor.

 

It was the first time since the journey to fight Corypheus that she had actually felt like the Inquisitor. It's too bad that the Anchor is unstable again. Who will lead them if I don't get back in time to name my successor?

[Brass_Buckles]

Part 10:

 

Spoiler

“They killed an unarmed man, would have killed her. How is this justice? Suppressed, simmering, seething... Submission,” Cole mumbled as he walked along behind Uth'shiral in the dark, the red hart trailing behind him with her few supplies bundled onto its back. She would have preferred that Cole remain silent; any second the Wardens in those tents could wake, and the killer could turn his cruel dreams into action against her, this time, and not some hapless soul like Morisel, only come to warn her.

 

This time, she had allies—or so she hoped. Whoever had killed Morisel had been acting alone, had run away because he'd seen Abelas. Abelas was, she admitted, an imposing figure, in no small part thanks to his height and powerful build. Before meeting him, she would never have imagined an elf could be so... threatening. Yet, if the killer were camping with allies, he might not act alone next time.

 

She wouldn't be able to return to the same camp, and perhaps she couldn't stay at the Arlathvhen. She was Dalish, even if the Dalish didn't think so, even if she felt disconnected from them.

 

Abelas had not been patient as she gathered her belongings and her mount, at least until she had reminded him that if they needed to leave, the hart would be the fastest way to do so. He had paced, glancing toward the tents where the killer slept repeatedly, and occasionally crackles of energy sparked around his staff or his hands or his sword. Lavellan had her doubts that he would able to hold his power in check when they spoke with Emalla, so despite his display of anger, she had taken more time than she strictly needed to—he might be able to talk himself down, given enough time.

 

“It isn't justice, not yet. Keeper Emalla is reasonable,” Uth'shiral said quietly toward Abelas, as if he had spoken his thoughts, rather than Cole doing so. “I wish it were that simple, that we could just... But no, that's vengeance. It isn't justice. It may be that we can't do anything at all. Sometimes, fights break out among the Dalish at these gatherings. It isn't that unusual for there to be deaths. But Morisel... he was such a good person. He deserved better than that.” Her voice wavered as the words caught in her throat, but she mastered her grief again.

 

“Are to stand by, or leave peacefully, if nothing is done?” Abelas demanded sharply, his expression unreadable beneath the shadows of his hood. Uth'shiral imagined his eyes narrowed and his jaws clenched.

 

“These are my people, Abelas. Perhaps, someday, they could be yours, if you can't find what you're looking for. Morisel is gone, and I can't bring him back. I've already caused a stir with my bare face, and...” she took a breath to steady herself, “and the mistake I made. If I take justice into my own hands, maybe they'll never welcome me again. Maybe they'll kill me on sight, or hunt me down like the hound in Keeper Deshanna's story hunted the Dread Wolf. I don't have a tail, so they'd take my life instead.”

 

“Ah. The Dalish and their fear of the Dread Wolf,” Abelas mumbled. “This Keeper Emalla, is she far?”

 

“I haven't seen her clan's markings yet,” Uth'shiral replied. It seemed Emalla must be at some far corner of the gathering, or in the woods. “Humans always go on about how well elves see in the darkness, but I think you see far better than I do. Maybe you can spot it. Her clan is Numin'era. They always use a raven catching an arrow, for Dirthamen and Andruil. Emalla's aravel has Mythal's symbols all over it, though, so it definitely stands out.” She stopped speaking abruptly, worried that terse Abelas might think she was rambling. However, he nodded, pausing in his stride to glance around.

 

The night was dotted with campfires attended by those just arriving, those who were speaking with friends and family who had joined other clans, and those who were indulging in whirlwind Arlathvhen romances, but none of the trio had stopped to ask anyone if they knew where the camp was. Lavellan had avoided asking not only because she feared for her safety, but also because she feared to find herself unwelcome. Perhaps Abelas didn't want to deal with shemlen. Perhaps until now he'd thought she knew where she was going. She wasn't sure. Cole seemed to have almost shrunken in on himself, and Lavellan wondered if his actions were a reflection of her own fear.

 

“You lost your old family, but you made the Inquisition your family, too,” Cole said into the silence. “Most people just have one, so you're lucky. Just because they left doesn't mean they don't care. They didn't know you were hurting. You didn't tell them.”

 

Something about Abelas's continued silence made her glance in his direction, only to notice that he seemed to be staring intently at her. Perhaps he wanted to know what Cole was referring to, but Uth'shiral was glad when he didn't voice the question.

 

“We'll talk about that later, Cole,” Lavellan told the spirit quietly. “I know you just want to help, but...”

 

“He needs to hear it, too. He's so angry! You said to go to Skyhold, but—”

 

“Enough, spirit. The shemlen is correct. These are matters to be discussed later,” Abelas said firmly, before pointing into the darkness. “That way. I see a raven and an arrow. Perhaps that is the camp we seek.” He strode toward the group of aravels he'd spotted without waiting for Cole, Uth'shiral, or the hart that they led to join him. His pace was so swift that Uth'shiral had to jog to catch up with him.

[Brass_Buckles]

Yes, I'm aware this fic is terribly sad.  I think after this part, things will start to cheer up somewhat, if only gradually.

 

Part 11:

 

Spoiler

Keeper Emalla was sleeping when the group approached her aravel. “I'll do the talking,” Uth'shiral declared, struggling against another wave of fevered dizziness as she stepped in front of Abelas again. Who knew what he would have done, or said? She could almost feel his rage at being unable to mete out justice—he, Mythal's most devout follower.

 

“Very well, then. Speak, shemlen,” Abelas answered, his arms crossing over his chest as he stood behind her. If all he did was stand there like a statue, at least he'd be imposing statuary. It wasn't as if she'd expected him to lend any support when he so fiercely disagreed with her, after all.

 

Cole, on the other hand, didn't keep his distance. He didn't need to; Keeper Emalla would never notice him for more than a second, unless he wanted her to. He held his daggers ready for combat, as uncertain about what was to come than Uth'shiral was.

 

She rapped on the side of the aravel with an armored fist, giving its occupant time to react. “Keeper Emalla?” she called in a soft voice, before knocking again. “Hahren?”

 

“Lavellan, da'len, is that you?” the Keeper asked from within.

 

“It is. My... friend and I must speak with you, as privately as we can. It's urgent,” Uth'shiral replied. “I would never interrupt your sleep otherwise.”

 

“Your... friend?” The Numin'era Keeper's voice could not have sounded more disapproving, but the aravel door swung open as she struggled out of her sleeping furs. “I cannot judge your heart, da'len, but may the Dread Wolf take you if you've broken Morisel's heart to indulge in a dalliance that—”

 

Emalla's eyes widened as she took in the silhouette of Abelas behind Uth'shiral before she noticed the expression that the Inquisitor was wearing. She let out a yelp, then tried to regain her composure.

 

“I won't be blessing any unions at this time of night,” Keeper Emalla said, and began to duck back into her aravel.

 

Lavellan thought she heard Abelas let out a bark of laughter behind her at hearing that assumption, but it was quickly suppressed.

 

“This is not a dalliance, and we are not speaking about marriage!” Uth'shiral felt suddenly desperate. “Please, speak with us, hahren. I don't know who else to trust.”

“Into the aravel, then,” Emalla beckoned the Inquisitor. “You should keep watch outside,” she warned Abelas, who hadn't even made a move to join Uth'shiral as she clambered into the landship. Cole, on the other hand, slipped in and perched in a tiny corner, daggers still at the ready.

 

“Hahren, I woke to a disturbance about half an hour ago,” Uth'shiral began. “When I got up to investigate, I found Morisel lying dead, his throat cut. I think he'd been on his way to visit me. To warn me of something, maybe. Abelas,” she gestured outside with her chin, “found a note he was carrying.”

 

“Dread Wolf take you for your dalliance,” Emalla replied, then gave a gusty sigh. “Such things happen at the Arlathvhen. Clan Inarel was unhappy with having him as a Keeper—too untrained, too inexperienced, they said. And too soft on the shemlen. Did you know why they chose to raid the village that got their Keeper and their First killed?”

 

“I didn't ask him, hahren. I assumed it was for supplies, as usual,” Uth'shiral answered cautiously.

 

“They had found Morisel... enjoying the company of a shemlen woman. Don't be hurt; it can't have been serious. They had only been in the area for two days; he had never met this shemlen woman before. If it helps, her description bore considerable resemblance to you. Morisel's clan wasn't having any of it. No explanation would work. They'd already been making arrangements with clan Lavellan, and to be shamed by a shemlen... They wanted to erase all evidence, and as you guessed, da'len, they needed supplies. They might have killed more if there hadn't been templars passing through the area at the time.” The Keeper sat in silence, her hands folded in her lap.

 

Uth'shiral clenched her jaws. There were plenty of her people who would have done the same, but not among clan Lavellan. Not in her family. “So I take it that the reason he wanted an ally so badly, even without Clan Lavellan's backing, was that Clan Inarel was infuriated with him. They did have good reason, at least; he could have endangered them all if she'd told anyone.”

 

“The wise thing to do would have been to leave the clan for a while, rather than return to them and lead the shemlen back,” Keeper Emalla agreed. “Worse, the young woman ended up with child. Her family was ashamed she'd have dallied with an elf, so they tried to send her to Clan Inarel. Inarel didn't take her in, but I was surprised to learn they didn't kill her, either. They are a violent clan. I don't know what became of her, after that, other than they sent her away. Morisel told me that he slipped provisions to her.”

 

“So you think someone in his own clan murdered him?” Uth'shiral asked, then shook her head. “No... Morisel's note spoke of a Warden. The Wardens should be exiled from here, and yet... there is at least one. I believe I was the target, but Morisel would have been an inconvenient witness. Had the killer not seen Abelas, I would probably be dead.” I will be dead soon enough, anyway, Wardens. The mark on my hand will see to that.

 

“Da'len, I don't see how that is possible. There may be Dalish Wardens, but surely...” Emalla let the sentence hang unfinished. “It bothers you none that Morisel was unfaithful, even knowing that your clans were discussing a marriage agreement?”

 

“We were friends, hahren. If a human woman could have made him happy, then I wish he could have been with her. At our age, I didn't expect him to be celibate, anyway. He certainly enjoyed plenty of female companionship at the last Arlathvhen. I won't pretend not to know—I caught him at it, a time or two. I wonder if I should have told him yes back then, too. It didn't make me happy, but I knew I could deal with it. I wanted to be with someone who would be loyal to me, but finding a man like that, who is also a mage and interesting to talk to and Elvhen... I was never going to find someone perfect.”

 

“And the man outside... is he...?” prompted Emalla, crooking her eyebrows.

 

Lavellan sighed. “No. When I call him 'friend,' it's only in the sense that he isn't yet my enemy. I doubt he would be interested in romantic entanglements, even if I knew him well enough to consider it. He came to the Arlathvhen to find me, but I haven't had the chance to ask him why. I'm almost afraid to.” She brushed idly at her armor, as if that would somehow remove the stains that hadn't come out last time she'd cleaned it properly. “So what do we do now? If I leave, the others are going to think I'm trying to evade capture. If I stay, I may still be under suspicion and will definitely be in danger. But I don't want to let a murderer go free...”

 

“Agents from your Inquisition have been asking about you,” the Keeper responded. “If I take action against any of the other Dalish, there will be problems. Problems from the Dalish, problems from the Wardens, problems from Clan Inarel—even if they saw Morisel as a problem, he was their problem. But what I can do is play on what people suspect—it was an argument, Morisel and his assailant were drunk, and his attacker killed him in a rage over... perhaps you, since Morisel was on his way to see you. His assailant fled when he realized you had another lover already, and the two of you only noticed after you finished and this... Abelas was on his way to rejoin his clan, and stumbled over the body. Now you are hurt over your intended's death, and ashamed at having been caught with another, so you will use the Inquisition as your excuse to leave.” Her lips quirked into a slight smile. “I would rather handle this more honestly, but I do not wish to see you harmed, da'len, or for the Dalish to hunt you, or be split asunder because we aren't sure what to do.”

 

“If I didn't have other suspicions about what happened, I might believe your story, myself,” Uth'shiral replied, uncertain whether to admire the Keeper for her story-weaving, or to fear her for her trickery. “But Dread Wolf take your lies, I—”

“Dread Wolf take you if you don't play along with these lies. Do you have any idea what it would do to the Dalish who are here if they suddenly find they must take sides between you and whoever it was who killed Morisel? You, who are now bare-faced as a child? Whose decisions cost you your entire clan? Better to say that it was jealousy, spurred on by drunkenness.” The Keeper rested a palm against her forehead for a moment, then shook her head. “Please... take my advice. It would be better if you left now, and I can spread the story and say that you fled with your lover with my blessing for your union. If they believe Morisel and his killer were selfishly trying to intervene in your love for someone else, the Dalish will forgive you in time—except, perhaps, the Wardens. If there's one thing I have learned in my years, da'len, it's that people have great sympathy for a love story, and tend to hope that it has a happy ending. This may be even more so, for the Inquisitor, that poor lonely Dalish cut off from her people, with no one but her subordinates to keep her company.”

 

“You sound like Josephine,” Uth'shiral observed, allowing herself a tiny smile. “She would always say the same about the Orlesian nobles. I suppose the fascination with love is universal. It's too bad that not every love story has an ending at all, nevermind a happy one.”

 

“She's right,” Cole said, “even if it feels wrong to lie. The killer isn't the only Warden here, and you don't want to fight them all. If we tell the truth, other people will be hurt and die. You'll be hurt worse, too, because they're hurting, like me, but not.”

 

The Inquisitor gave a slight nod, both to Cole, whom Keeper Emalla didn't notice, and to Keeper Emalla. “Fine. I'll agree to this. But please, try to find out who did it. Morisel was a good man, and he didn't deserve this. If anyone died, it should have been me.”

 

“I promise, I will try to find out, and justice will be done. As for you... You need to live. You can inspire us all, and you can make this world better for all of us. You just need to keep trying, da'len,” Keeper Emalla told her with a smile. “Dareth shiral, my dear.”

 

“Dareth shiral,” Lavellan replied as she clambered out of the aravel, Cole already standing on the ground outside before she could even complete the motions.

 

“Abelas, we must go. Keeper Emalla will do what she can. Survival has to take precedence over justice, hopefully just this once.” Uth'shiral closed her eyes as her palm flared with green light again.

 

For a moment, Abelas tensed again. Uth'shiral thought that they might fight, then and there, but instead he gave a nod and mounted her red hart, reaching a hand down to help her up as well. “Where will you go?” he asked as she settled in front of him, as if he had not invited himself along.

 

She paused for a long moment. Skyhold was the obvious answer. Skyhold was where she should be, directing the Inquisition's movements. Skyhold was where everyone would expect her to be, after Keeper Emalla spun her tale. It was also there that her inner circle might show up, one by one, as their concern about her and her whereabouts grew.

 

She couldn't go back, yet. One last trip, and then I will go back to Skyhold, and I'll pick the next Inquisitor. Then when the Anchor kills me, Falon'din can guide me to the Beyond in peace.

 

“Wycome,” she said at last, nudging the hart into a quick walk with her heels. Cole perched in the animal's antlers, weightless enough not to hinder it at all.

[Brass_Buckles]

I was wrong.  Things aren't cheering up yet.  I think I may have a vendetta against myself.

 

Part 12:  In Which the Inquisitor Remains Sad (Really, I Could Say This Of All The Parts)

 

Spoiler

The trio rode in silence all night and into the day; they did not stop to camp until the sun was once again setting. Uth'shiral was unaccustomed to riding for so long, and found she could barely hobble on her tired thighs. Though Abelas didn't speak of any discomfort, she noticed he was not moving very quickly, either. Cole fretted over them, suggesting elfroot salves, and then over the red hart, as well.

 

Uth'shiral prepared most of the camp. She lent Abelas her spare fur to sleep in, though it meant either sleeping in the cold or using the hart for warmth again. He seemed at a loss for most of her preparations, apart from starting a fire and roasting a nug that she managed to kill—to Cole's dismay. It wasn't her favorite choice of food, but it had been all she could find readily, and she was hungry enough to eat it.

 

When at last the three of them settled around the campfire, the Inquisitor and Cole seated and Abelas leaning against a tree, she Uth'shiral had begun to prepare for an entire night endured in painful silence; even Cole seemed afraid to speak.

 

“You,” stated Abelas abruptly, staring directly at Lavellan, “are strange.”

 

“How do you mean?” she asked as she tore a piece of meat from the nug's haunches.

 

“You said to come to Skyhold, that there would be purpose with the Inquisition. I went, but not for you. It was poorly guarded. Everyone was looking for this... Inquisitor, who had left. You. You who kept company with an Elvhen mage, who now wander in the company of a spirit of compassion. Tell me, Inquisitor,” Abelas mused, hesitating each time he hit the word “Inquisitor,” as if he were testing the feel of it on his tongue, “do you take your duty so lightly?”

 

Something about the tone of his voice caused cold fear to wrap around her spine, tingling into her left arm where the green magic of the Anchor flared. With the flare of power came a flare of pain, and she gritted her teeth before answering. “I don't! But how can I keep going, knowing that every choice I make leaves more people dead? How can I live with myself knowing I've taken apart families? Knowing I send good people to their deaths?”

 

“They were gone,” Cole's sad voice offered up into the silence, his eyes glinting behind his hair, “and everyone else was leaving, too. You needed to leave, at least for a while. You needed—familiarity, firelight, family, friends, food, forests... The family was gone but the rest was there. Then it went wrong all over again.” He turned his head toward Abelas. “You lost everything, too. You didn't stay, either.”

 

Was it her imagination, or had Abelas's expression suddenly softened? Was it just the firelight?

 

“'You lost everything, too?' What could have happened to drive you away from your purpose?” Abelas glanced between Cole and Uth'shiral, as if to tell them he didn't care who answered, but he expected someone to do so. He did not move an inch, did not twitch a muscle where he remained leaning against the tree. It was as if a statue were interrogating her.

 

Abelas was the last person she wanted to tell her story to, so instead, she looked at Cole as the tears finally defeated her resolve and began to spill down her cheeks. “Cole... It was my fault. I sent the soldiers to Wycome. Commander Cullen said it was the right thing to do. He said my clan would be slaughtered if I didn't. I listened, Creators help me, I listened. If I'd sent Leliana's agents, had the Dalish go in by stealth... if I'd listened to Leliana... Dread Wolf take me, I killed them. I killed them. My whole family. The little ones, even. And no one said a word to me, not in six months' time. They cheered, they drank to Corypheus's defeat, to good times, and then they scattered like a flock of birds. And the only one who cared was you, Cole. Skyhold can be so cold, distant, without anyone you know... I had to go. I had to be with my people, for a while.”

 

“It was a mistake,” Cole's sincere voice told her. An awkward, leather-clad arm slid over her shoulders, weightless but clearly intended to comfort. She wasn't sure she deserved it. “Yours, and theirs. They didn't know you were hurting. They knew you'd helped them win. You didn't tell them you were hurting. How could they know? And your family wouldn't have blamed you. You didn't do anything wrong. You were trying to save them. How could you know what would happen? It hurts, Inquisitor, it hurts... but you couldn't have known, and your friends still care. They're trying to find you. They're worried, hurting too. To them, Skyhold is your home, and special to them because of you.”

 

“Ir abelas,” Abelas said, and settled by the fire with Uth'shiral and Cole, unheeding of the Inquisitor's tears and sniffles. “I should not have asked. Sorrow is something I understand well.” His voice was considerably softer, and when she glanced at him to acknowledge his words, his face reflected the sadness of his words.

 

“And you? Why come looking for me? You knew I left. I already failed you,” Uth'shiral demanded, rubbing away a tear roughly as anger built within her.

 

“No. I was seeking the other Elvhen. He implied there were others, besides Mythal's sentinels. I thought he would be with you; I was wrong. Then you were endangered, and leaving an ally to her fate would have been worse than leaving justice undone.” Abelas wrinkled his nose at the nug roasting on a stick over the fire, but peeled a piece of meat from it anyway. “I seek a place of refuge, now that my duty is at its end. Dealing with you is one thing; surrounding myself with other shemlen is another. Uthenera may be the only refuge I can find in this world.”

 

“Then it's Solas who failed you,” she said. The nug suddenly had no flavor at all. She continued eating anyway. “I thought I knew him, too.”

 

Cole finally let go of the Inquisitor's shoulders. Her tears had been mastered, and his words had helped. “You feel better now. I'm glad. Sorrow understands.” Cole, at least, had not spoken of Solas since the night Solas turned up missing.

 

“I wish we could have done something more at the Arlathvhen,” Uth'shiral grumbled—anything to get away from the topic of Solas, or of how she was now feeling. “I don't like letting the murderer go like that.”

 

“I like it less than you. Mythal's justice was not done. What tale will the Keeper spread to ease tempers, I wonder?” Abelas asked, one eyebrow quirking upward beneath his hood. It surprised her that he so quickly accepted her change of topics—perhaps he had not lied when he said he understood. “We fled. Surely that will be suspicious.”

 

“She's telling the Dalish a dramatic tale of our love and how she blessed our union as we rode into the night. Morisel came to reclaim my affection, and a rival of his killed him, then saw that I was already with you. In truth, it sounds more real than what actually happened, but I'm concerned what the Inquisition will think, when their agents send word back to Skyhold,” the Inquisitor said, a blush burning in her cheeks, beneath the drying tears—there was no comfortable way to explain the story to Abelas, even when she left out the more suggestive bits. She was having a difficult time managing her emotions, after trying to suppress them for the greater good for six long months, and between her grief and embarrassment she was uncertain what sort of expression she must be wearing.

 

Abelas did not react to either the content of the story or to Uth'shiral's embarrassment. “That will solve no problems. The killer still escapes. We should keep watch for followers. They can ride faster than us, with one rider to a deer. And, if others fail to believe the tale the Keeper wove...” Abelas shook his head slowly. “It would have been better for you to return to Skyhold immediately.”

 

“I have to go to Wycome.”

“What do you seek there, Inquisitor? Peace, justice, or vengeance?”
 

Uth'shiral opened her mouth to answer, but her words became a cry of pain as the Anchor roared with power. Cole reached out to her, but the world was filled with green light, and then with blackness.

[Brass_Buckles]

Part 13:  In Which the Inquisitor Wonders Why That One Guy Is Still Here

 

Spoiler

Her eyelids felt heavy at first, and the light was much too bright for her eyes. She lifted a hand in reflex, shielding them from the sun—and hitting someone's face in the process.

 

For a moment she was confused. Why was someone else in her quarters? Then she felt the breeze, and the memory of the past few weeks returned. Or was it longer, now? She had been dreaming she was back at Skyhold, looking for Solas. She'd caught glimpses of him, but he'd always been too far away to approach. She wasn't sure what she would have done if she had caught up to him. Before that, she could remember dreaming of the camp her clan had set up before she'd been sent to the Conclave. That had been a peaceful dream, but she couldn't hold onto it for long.

 

Before the dreams, though, there was the Anchor and its flareup. Uth'shiral groaned and squeezed her eyes shut again. Her hand wasn't hurting, for now, but she had no doubt it would be—and the fever would come back with it.

 

“Inquisitor?” someone asked. No, not just someone: Abelas.

 

“Bright, blinding, brilliant, better to blink than be blinded,” Cole murmured. “It was a good dream, but it was only a dream. The real world hurts. It would be easier to stay asleep, but she can't.”

 

“No, she can't,” Abelas agreed. “Even if I could show her, she would die without anyone to guide her. I do not know whether to admire the shemlen or pity them.”

 

“You're still here...” Lavellan groaned. “Is it too late to ask for more cheerful company?” She tried peeling her eyes open again, propping herself up on her elbows to get a better look around. The camp had... changed. The furs looked dirtier, more tattered. The shelter looked a bit more haphazard. And the scenery... it was not where she remembered camping at all. They had traveled, and she didn't remember any of it. Did they even know the way to Wycome? Were they going to Skyhold instead?

 

“Don't worry. We're on our way to Wycome,” Cole said, without being asked. “We can read the signs. We've been traveling for three days now. We couldn't stay, because someone is following.”

 

“They didn't believe the story, it seems,” Abelas added. “Or maybe they did not care.” He shrugged. “I have been trying to understand your magical relic, trying to stabilize it.”

 

“It's killing me,” Uth'shiral declared. “I know.”

 

Abelas nodded. “Yes,” he agreed in the gravest of voices. “There is nothing I can do to help, but I will accompany you to this 'Wycome,' and I shall see you to Skyhold before we part ways.”

 

“Nothing? But you—” Lavellan began, only to be cut off by Abelas.

 

“—Do not know anything about this type of magic. Part of the reason that I remain is that I am curious. You meddle in old powers, but you seem to know nothing about them. You wear the token of a god on your hand, yet you are not a god. Your vallaslin has vanished since I saw you the first time, and that should not even be possible. When I sleep and wander the Fade, you are... different. I am uncertain whether you are truly shemlen, or something else.”

 

Abelas stared at her until she finally turned away to avoid his intent gaze. “Cole said I'm very bright to look at, once, when I asked,” she said. “I don't know what that means. I also have no idea what you mean about the token of a god. This mark came from an ancient elven artifact, an orb that Corypheus had. I ended up with it by accident, but with the rifts and the Breach, it was a fortunate accident. I don't want to imagine what Corypheus would have achieved if he'd been the one to get it.”

 

“It isn't that confusing. She should know, but she doesn't, because there isn't anything to know. She told you the truth, so don't be angry. She isn't hiding anything.” Cole appeared by Uth'shiral's side, as if feeling compelled to defend her.

 

Lavellan pushed herself further upright, but Cole surprised her by pressing her shoulders down when she attempted to stand. “If you try to get up, you'll fall. You're weak and very, very hungry. You need to rest, Inquisitor. Let me help you.” He vanished, reappearing a few feet away by the remains of their new campfire, then back at her side again with a roughly carved wooden bowl, filled with some kind of broth. “Sorrow made this.” She wondered if he meant the bowl or the broth, but before she could ask, Cole answered, “Yes.”

 

Much as she appreciated all of the kindness, she wanted to fling the bowl away and scream in rage and frustration. She had come to the conclusion that she really didn't want to die, but if the mark didn't kill her, the Dalish on her trail probably would. Abelas didn't seem to have any actual affection or friendship toward her, so why was he making himself so helpful? What was he hoping to get out of all of this? She mastered her momentary rage, allowing Cole to help her with the broth. Cole, at least, was sincere in his desire to make things better for her. “Thank you, Cole.”

 

“Lingering, lost, lonely, lathbora viran,” Cole remarked as he held the bowl steady. “Sorrow can't go back to the past, and he can't go forward. Everything's gone and the future is... nothing. He wants to be friends because you're familiar and he's lonely, but he doesn't really, because you'll die and that's another reason to be sad. He has so many reasons to be sad already. He wants to learn, but everything moves so quickly, and everyone dies now. He slept so long, he doesn't want to go back, but he thinks he should. Where else is there to go? —You could stay with us, Abelas. The Inquisitor is very sad, too. Being friends might help you both.”

“Enough, spirit,” Abelas snapped. “My problems are not her concern.” He abruptly stood from his crouch on the other side of her from Cole and began to walk away. “We should be reaching Crestwood by tomorrow evening, according to a merchant we met yesterday. I did not wish to search you for gold, so we were unable to get any extra supplies. Cole will stay here, and I will find something for us to eat.”

 

“I only want to help,” Cole whimpered, looking back at the Inquisitor.

 

“I know, Cole, and you are. Even if he won't let you help him, you're helping me just by being here. It's good to be cared about. Good to know that I still have friends.” Uth'shiral smiled at him as she sipped more broth. “Do you know that it's mostly because you're here that I have hope I can get through this, somehow? And even if I don't survive, at least I wasn't alone. Maybe that's why Abelas keeps staying, even though Solas isn't here.”

 

“The one you love. I should remember him, but I can't,” Cole said, wrinkling his brow in frustration. “I don't know why.” He set the now empty bowl of broth aside and sat with his arms around his knees.

 

Uth'shiral inclined her head slightly. “I know. You'd try to help me deal with remembering him, if you could remember anything about him. Don't worry about that. That's a small pain, compared to the others.” She shifted and stood, wobbly, before Cole could think to stop her. In an instant he was also up, reaching to offer support.

 

“Your hand hurt even while you dreamed. I helped with a poultice but you didn't wake up. I was afraid you never would, and I came to help you. I have to help you.” Cole fidgeted even as he helped her walk across the camp to her mount, knowing what she wanted to do without any need for her to tell him.

 

“I understand, Cole.” I have to get better. If I don't, I'm hurting Cole, Lavellan told herself firmly. He probably isn't the only one who needs me to be alive and strong. I have to try.

 

When Uth'shiral glanced over at Cole again, she was startled. It was one of the very few times she remembered ever having seen him smile.

[Brass_Buckles]

Part 14:  In Which There Is Hope

 

Spoiler

“The Dalish hate Fen'harel,” Abelas stated, breaking the silence of their long ride. Crestwood was visible on the horizon, all sand and stone and ruined, moldy buildings.

 

“Well... Not precisely hate,” Uth'shiral responded. “His statues are turned away from camp to scare away evil spirits, and because we don't want his gaze turned on us. We leave offerings to appease him. We fear and respect him, I suppose. Keeper Deshanna said he wanders the Fade still. Sometimes I feel he's watching me, setting me up for failure so that he can laugh at me. Other times, I wonder if he's real at all, but the Creators are real. Why not Fen'harel?”

 

“You use the Dread Wolf as a curse. You hate him,” Abelas restated. “I find that ironic.”

 

Uth'shiral wanted to twist to the side to check Abelas for a smile, but it was all she could do to remain upright and hold onto the hart. Even if she had, his hood would have concealed whatever expression he wore. She had not been this helpless since she had been a small child down with fever, and it deeply angered her to be brought so low. It was worse, feeling that some ancient being was secretly mocking her. “What is so ironic about it? The Dread Wolf betrayed the Creators. He never cared for the People at all.”

 

Abelas allowed the silence to fall again. The sun was sinking quickly over the horizon, and it was unlikely they would make it into Crestwood before night fell. Finally, he spoke again. “That is not the story I remember. However, the irony is that you—there is no kind way to tell you—have his mark, his power, on your hand.”

 

“You're joking,” Uth'shiral replied, her voice flat. He must be joking. It wasn't possible that it was true what she said about Fen'harel dancing around her in her sorrow, laughing. Was it?

 

“No. I did not want to tell you. I know how your people view him, but knowing may help you.” Abelas kept walking beside her as if he had not suddenly revealed a horrible truth to her. Lavellan wanted the hart to stop, wanted to pull the reins—but Cole was leading it, and he wasn't stopping, either.

 

Now, after having used the mark to do so much good, she suddenly felt tainted, wronged. It was the Dread Wolf's power? She would never have wanted him to have this power back. Yet, knowing it was his, what would he do to get it back? Maybe that was why everything kept going wrong. “How?” she asked.

 

“If it is the Dread Wolf's power, the Dread Wolf may be able to do something to help. He could take it back, for instance. Contain it. You only need to find him, and convince him to lend his aid.” He shielded his eyes with one hand as he peered toward Crestwood. “We are not far now—perhaps an hour away. You should send word to Skyhold when we reach the village, and contact whatever forces you have nearby. That should make the efforts of our pursuers to kill you more difficult. The spirit who travels with you has also made it clear that others are concerned, and chaos may follow in your absence.”

 

The abrupt change in topic left Uth'shiral unbalanced and unnerved. Was it as simple as that? As walking up to Fen'harel, the trickster god, and just... asking his help? No; he was a trickster. There would be some price to pay, and he would always get the better end of the deal. And even if she did take his help, what if he regained this power over the Veil? What harm would he do with it? She would have to outsmart him, somehow. She berated herself silently for never having bothered to get a dog, in all of the years that she had considered it. “How would I even find Fen'harel?” she asked, finally.

 

“I have never sought him, but you say he wanders the Fade. You only need to find him there. Knowing what his magic feels like may help—you can use your mark for that,” Abelas suggested.

 

“And you'll help?”

 

“No, I will not,” the Sentinel answered. “The mark is unique to you, and it comes from him. Assuming I am able to follow, it would not be in time to be of use to you.” He stopped, and so did Cole, so that the entire group was at a standstill as Abelas turned to face the Inquisitor. “It is only a suggestion. There may be another way that I do not know.”

 

“I have to try it,” Uth'shiral said. “There are people who need me. How can I help them if I'm dead?”

[Brass_Buckles]

This one's short, but I didn't have a good reason to draw it out...

 

Part 15:

 

Spoiler

Though the path to Wycome was a long, hard journey north, Uth'shiral couldn't help feeling somewhat more optimistic after being greeted so warmly. The moment that her group had arrived in the Inquisition Camp, the soldiers seemed to come to life with joy. “It's the Herald! The Herald of Andraste has returned!” they cried, surrounding her hart, their faces all smiles beneath helms that gleamed with golden firelight.

 

Despite all of the loss she had experienced, it made her smile to see the soldiers—her soldiers—smile so brightly. It reminded her of why she had done all that she had done, and it wasn't so that she could sit on a throne in a cold stone keep. Their camp remained well-supplied, with cages of ravens and sturdy tents. She didn't have to ask them to send word back to Skyhold; the moment she'd been seen, it was done. Then hours had been spent catching up on the news, and sharing stories with the soldiers. By the time she and Abelas retired to their separate tents for the evening, she felt almost as if she had never left Skyhold at all.

 

Her optimism quailed as she settled into her bedroll. Abelas had told her to seek out the Dread Wolf. The Dread Wolf, the creature she feared more than anything else, was her best option for survival. She doubted she could avoid seeking him out in the Fade even if she had no intention of trying. How was she supposed to convince him to help?

 

Despite her exhaustion, she found it difficult to sleep. It didn't become easier when Cole appeared, sitting next to her bedroll, watching in silence, his head tilted slightly in a way that reminded her of one of the messenger ravens.

 

“Cole... I appreciate your concern, but staring at me isn't making it easier to sleep,” Uth'shiral said finally, her whisper unnaturally loud in her ears amid the silence of a sleeping camp.

 

“Listen,” the spirit said softly, one hand cupping next to his ear.

 

Fabric rustled from one of the other tents outside as someone exited and walked away from the tent area. Moments later, a quiet, peaceful voice rose into the darkness. The words were indistinct, but Uth'shiral could recognize the familiar lilting rhythm of the ancient Elvhen language. Faint strains of music drifted into the night, wrapping around the silence of the camp and filling it with as much warmth as any campfire. It reminded the Inquisitor of many nights spent under the stars or the canopies of great trees, listening to songs of her people whose translations had long since been forgotten. Though those people were lost to her forever, it felt like home.

 

“He does this every night,” Cole whispered after a moment, as if afraid to interrupt the singing. “He waits until you're asleep and he thinks I'm not paying attention. Usually it's sad, but tonight it's different.”

 

Tears rolled down Uth'shiral's cheeks and dampened the furs of her bedroll, but she smiled even as Cole peeked outside, trying not to be seen. “Home... he's singing about his home, I think,” Uth'shiral whispered.

 

“Yes,” Cole agreed. “He isn't as lonely now. We're his friends.”

 

She didn't know for how long into the night Abelas sang, but the peaceful memories his voice invoked soothed her into slumber, the notes and the rhythm of his song following her even into the Fade, where she sought the Dread Wolf.

[Brass_Buckles]

Not going to lie, this part was miserably difficult for me to write.  It is terribly, terribly sad, but, things will be optimistic again soon.

 

Part 16:  In Which The Inquisitor Is Clueless

 

Spoiler

A thread of peaceful music whispered from somewhere nearby, but when she looked, she couldn't find the source. Perhaps it was only the wind, singing through the snow in this defeated place, but it sounded like hope and it sounded like home, with children and halla frolicking around the wheels of vividly-painted aravels.

 

None of that was here. Here, snow and darkness stretched ahead, and behind there was ruin—Haven, a burnt and shattered scar behind her, still burning. She could feel the heat of those intense flames on her back. Above, the Breach whirled, an angry hole in the sky. Around her, wolves howled their hunger. The night was not safe.

 

Uth'shiral stumbled knee-deep through snow so cold it burnt, and it only became deeper and more difficult to traverse the further she went. Her hand flared time and again in the darkness, reacting to the Breach, but tonight there were no rifts and no demons. There was only snow, falling lightly at first.

 

One of the wolves howled closer, and she turned in that direction to see it, white-on-white against the snow. The wolf growled, but turned and fled as wolves were meant to do. The demons had yet to take that one. She faintly remembered looking for a wolf, and stumbled after it, tripping in the snow. Other wolves, green-eyed in the night, surged forward behind her, threatening, but then she stood and they fell back. She willed her staff to light the way, looking for the first wolf, the white wolf. Where had it gone?

 

All she could see was snow, swirling and blinding, around her and beneath her. The wolf gave an obliging howl to her right, and she strove in that direction. The wind grew fiercer, as though she climbed a steep mountaintop. She couldn't tell where she was; there was too much snow, even with her staff illuminating the way.

 

The snow swirled and parted just enough for the light of dawn to illuminate a crumbling elven ruin. Colorful frescoes of riders on elegant halla danced across its ancient walls. The white wolf howled again nearby, but she couldn't see it. She pressed onward, toward the fallen structure. The snow became shallower and the wind gentler the closer she came.

 

She hesitated as she approached its broken grand doorway. Why would a wolf be in there? What if it attacked her? What if she needed to attack it? The remains of the building looked almost eager to crumble to the ground.

 

It did no good to stop. She had come this far, and she must see it through. She strode through the doorway and out of the ruin entirely.

 

The inside of the palace was a marvel of smooth stone and vibrant frescoes. Golden mosaics tiled the walls between frescoes, all portraying long-forgotten deeds of the Creators. A delicately carved throne sat empty on its dais, and a table laden with a feast waited for the diners. The music was louder here, and it came from all around her, as if this place derived all of its life from a song that reminded her of home and aravels and the deep forest.

 

At one end of the room stood a tall, wide mirror, and before it stood a figure she couldn't have forgotten no matter how she tried.

 

She almost didn't dare to breathe as she watched him, his elbow bending now as his hand rested on his chin, his upright posture shifting as he leaned back, examining. She'd seen him in similar poses so many times before as he decided what to paint on the next panel of his fresco. If she broke the silence, his concentration would be broken. If she broke the silence, maybe he would simply step through that eluvian and leave again forever, but he was here, and now, and that was all that mattered. The wolf she pursued was well on its way to being forgotten; this meeting was, perhaps, more important.

 

“Solas?” she asked so softly she wasn't certain he would hear her at all. Perhaps he wasn't really even there.

 

He stood so still that she was sure for a moment he had transformed into a statue, or had frozen from the chill of the mountain before. “Inquisitor,” he acknowledged finally, turning to face her. He did not approach, and his expression was devoid of any emotion other than, perhaps, curiosity. It hurt to see no warmth in his eyes, felt like an icicle had been pounded through her heart. “It shouldn't be possible for you to follow me here,” he said. “You do make a habit of achieving the impossible.” His lips quirked into a faint smile, as if he were somehow proud—of himself, or of her, she couldn't say.

 

“I wasn't looking for you,” Uth'shiral answered, surprising herself with her own ferocity. “You left without any explanation, and then when Leliana—I assumed it was final. I didn't think I'd see you again at all.” I'm not sure I even want to see you again, she thought.

 

“It should have been final,” Solas said, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “Inquisitor, I--”
 

“Solas, I needed you. You took my vallaslin, distanced me from my people, and then you left me. Was I never good enough for you? The Dalish were never good enough; it was never enough that we tried. And yet, I admired you. I trusted you.” She clenched her fists, glaring at him across the distance. “I... loved you.” Her hands relaxed and hung limp at her sides, her expression softening to sorrow as most of the anger dissipated almost as soon as it had begun. “I still don't understand.” She didn't dare go any closer; if she did, she would reach for him, would want to kiss him, and he would surely push her away again. She had been hurt enough.

 

Her accusations seemed to strike him like blows, his frown growing deeper and sadder until she stopped. “The loss of your respect and your trust is simply another burden I must bear,” he said, making no attempt to bridge the space between them. “The greater question is this: Why do you blame yourself for actions I took? As I told you then, the blame is mine. I acted with a distressing lack of foresight. That mistake will not be made again. I am sorry that my actions have cut you so deeply.”

 

“I had hoped to hear that I was something more than just a mistake,” Uth'shiral said softly, feeling all the more aggrieved. “When it all fell apart, I had no one but Cole. You were the one I missed the most. I waited for you to come back, but instead, everyone else scattered. If Cole hadn't come back...” She let the sentence drift, not daring to share the rest of the story. Without Cole and Abelas, she would likely be dead now at the hands of that Grey Warden, though surviving that might only be delaying the inevitable.

 

It was then she realized he had no idea about the news she had received the moment she'd returned from the battle with Corypheus, or any of what had transpired since. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to regain her calm as she listened to the music that reminded her of her people, her home. Solas had once made her feel at home, too. “I'm sorry, I'm sure you don't want to hear any of this. I'm fine. I've been well. There's someone else I have to find, and I don't know how much time I have to search.” Even to her own ears, the lies were obvious: She was not fine, and she had not been well. “Dareth shiral, Solas, I must be on my way,” she concluded with haste, turning her back to him and striding, then sprinting, back toward the arched entryway.

 

She wanted to stop, to turn back around, to embrace him, to kiss him, to beg him to take her back. But those actions beneath her dignity, and he would only turn her away again. She would not waste valuable time she might need to save herself from the Anchor.

 

And yet, as she crossed the threshold of the doorway, Uth'shiral thought she caught a whisper of Solas's voice carried with the tendrils of that beautiful song that reminded her of her family in the Dales. “Ar lath ma, Vhenan. Please be free of me. I am sorry you have suffered, but mine is a path that must be walked alone.”

[stonerbishop]

Moar pleeze

[Brass_Buckles]

Well, you want more of my sad fic, you got more...

 

Part 17:  In Which the Inquisitor Grows Tired of Stairs

 

Spoiler

What had previously been a snowy mountain became a steep spiral staircase that seemed to go on forever, but the chill ate through Uth'shiral's flesh and into her bones through the heavy fur of her gear. She was forced to stop and lean on her staff every few steps, the combination of cold and steep stairs taking its toll on her body. The stairwell was pristine white and unadorned. She began to wonder if she were moving at all, or if she had somehow walked into a trap.

 

She couldn't afford to rest. She paused, listening to the strain of elven song and trying to catch the whispers of a wolf howling. Beneath the song, however, she could hear only the wind rushing past the tower. She glanced outside of a tiny window that hadn't been present a moment ago. Although it was cold inside, outside the sun baked the dry ground, and in the distance, she could see the greasy black film that heralded the Blight. Sharp red crystals stabbed through the earth, encircling the tower she stood in.

 

She looked up, and there was finally an end in sight. Snow began to drift down from the top of the tower. She ignored it, pushing her feet to move faster, to reach the upper balcony. Maybe from there she could find an escape route, or at least spot the white wolf. The mark on her hand flared green as if in response to the thought.

 

The stairs vanished as Lavellan reached the top, finding herself in Leliana's rookery. Below, where the library and the rotunda should be, she saw the mosaic and marble of the palace she was sure she had left behind. Solas was still there, examining the eluvian.

 

Uth'shiral made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat, storming her way to a door—but it wouldn't budge. With nowhere else to go, she climbed onto the railing, then jumped down into the middle of the banquet table, with its many exotic dishes. Ceramic pots and plates shattered beneath her; the long table itself groaned and split in two as food and drink were flung away by the impact. Metal serving dishes clanged as loudly as a blacksmith's forge.

 

Her head hit the ground and the world began to spin around her, confusing and dizzying. Solas suddenly stood above her, looking at her with a frown of concern and an outstretched hand. If her reappearance surprised him, he'd mastered his reaction before she could notice.

 

For a moment, she considered ignoring his offer of assistance. He had no right, not after leaving before, not after sending her off with a declaration of love and abandonment only moments ago. Yet Keeper Deshanna had often warned her not to become too proud. She reached for his hand, missed it, and tried again. This time, his warm fingers closed around hers. It reminded her of the ball at Halamshiral, when he had come to offer her a dance; now, however, there was nothing between them. She let go of his hand a little too quickly, staggering as she leaned on her staff, attempting to restore her sense of balance.

 

He continued to frown his worry at her even as he jested, “You did know how to make a grant entrance... And a lasting impression,” he added, sweeping his hand at the table. “This table has suffered a fatal injury; how are you, Inquisitor?”

 

“Dizzy, confused... I left this place. How am I back?” Uth'shiral asked, finally recovering enough to stand without the aid of her staff, although she swayed on her feet.

 

“The Fade can be unstable at times. Perhaps there is something more you wished to settle before you left.” Solas's fingers twitched as if they possessed a life of their own and wanted nothing more than to reach for her, but instead, he turned his back to her and walked slowly back to the eluvian. “If you would speak, it should be done now, before we wake and the chance is lost.”

 

As Solas spoke, Uth'shiral became aware of the soft green light of his magic as his fingers hovered over the surface of the eluvian. “If you still love me, why does it have to be over?”

 

“Please don't. It is difficult enough already for both of us. It was painful to leave, and more painful now that you are here, invading my dreams.” He stopped his work on the eluvian to turn and face her again. “Some things are more important than how I feel. What I must do is not something you should be involved with. You have matters of great importance to attend to, as well. In the end, what we had could never be.”

 

“Banal nadas, Solas,” Uth'shiral countered. “I believe that whatever the problem is, if you'd just tell me, we could figure it out together. You were with me when I walked the Fade in the flesh. I know what you fear, and you're set on making it a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

 

“You cannot know how much you tempt me,” Solas replied, “but what I am doing must come first. You must trust that I work for the greater good, and yet, walking this path leads me away from you and all those I care about. You, however—you are unique, you have high status, and you are not unappealing. There is no need for you to remain alone if you do not desire it. I have even seen Commander Cullen gazing longingly at you from a distance. Finding someone else to love will not be a difficult task for you.” He returned to work on the eluvian, and she wasn't certain whether it was to avoid her gaze or to keep her from seeing how profoundly sad it made him to think of her moving on without him.

 

“Commander Cullen? That--” she cut herself off before she could voice the string of insults and epithets that came to mind. It had not been his fault. He had thought his advice was sound. She had been the one to make the choice. Still, ever since, she'd had trouble even looking at him. “Nevermind that.” She walked closer to Solas and the eluvian, her hand throwing green flashes at every other step. “It would be an impossible task, because no one else is you, Solas. I can't replace you, ma'salath. Skyhold was already empty before the others left. It was missing your wisdom, your stories of the Fade, your smile. It hurt when you left, but I still love you.” She reached out a hand, hoping to rest it on his shoulder, hoping to be drawn close, embraced, kissed, accepted. Anything was better than the distance he imposed.

 

“Please stop, Vhenan. No matter how we may or may not feel, what we had must come to an end. I don't wish to discuss it any further.”

 

Uth'shiral let her hand drop without making contact. If she touched him, he might turn around and embrace her. They might kiss. But then he would insist on parting again, and it would be all the more painful for both of them. That much, at least, she understood. “If we both have to hurt because of this, can you at least tell me why?”

“No. I can't,” Solas answered, his tone firm. “But I would like to know: For whom are you searching?”

 

“Keeper Deshanna used to say the Dread Wolf wandered the Fade. I need to find him. Apparently, my emotions were too entangled with yours to find the way, so I've found you instead. You were right before, Solas. I'm distracting you from your duties. It won't happen again.”

 

“I should be glad to hear that, Inquisitor, but somehow, I am not,” Solas told her, still facing the eluvian and casting spells on its surface. “Someday, everything will be clear and you'll understand. Until then, dareth shiral. Wake up!”

[stonerbishop]

Your poor Inquisitor

[Brass_Buckles]

Part 18:  In Which Uth'Shiral Is A Horrible Keeper's First

 

Spoiler

The mark burnt with the heat of dragon fire. Sweat rolled down Uth'shiral's back and her face and she screamed in agony as she sat up, suddenly awake in the comforting confines of the tent. It was still dark, except for the vivid green glow her hand was putting out, casting strange shadows across the heavy fabric that surrounded her.

 

Cole cried out and reached for her. Abelas's song cut off abruptly; feet pounded heavily toward her tent from all directions. Uth'shiral forced herself not to curl around the mark, to stay awake and aware.

 

“What did you do?” Abelas demanded, throwing the tent flap aside. “Is it worse?”

 

“I never found him, I couldn't find him!” Lavellan answered, anguished by her hand and by the keen sense of loss from her meeting with Solas—or a spirit impersonating him—in the Fade. Had she not lost enough? Must everything be taken, one by one. “The Dread Wolf mocks my suffering! Why should I even think he'd help me?”

 

Cole tried to comfort her, patting her shoulder in his awkward way. It did help, in a way—someone cared. Cole cared. Cole said Abelas considered them friends; for all his harshness, for all that he seemed to believe it would be his downfall, Abelas cared, too.

 

Abelas turned toward the owner of a pair of steel-clad feet outside of the tent. “Her troubles involve magic. You cannot be of help.” Then, when he had finally convinced the others to go away, he crawled into the tent and sat next to the Inquisitor. “It troubles me to see you brought so low,” he admitted. “I remember a respectful, honorable Dalish who deserved respect and honor in return. Why you were unable to find Fen'harel, I am uncertain. You are clearly in his favor. He has given you his blessing.”

 

“His blessing?” Uth'shiral asked, cradling her burning palm against her belly. She couldn't let the pain distract her—not from her friends, not from her duty.

 

“Yes. The vallaslin you had—it is gone,” Abelas replied, as if the answer were obvious. “That is not easily done. Either the Dread Wolf himself did it, or someone very close to him.”

 

The Inquisitor fell into a complete and profound silence. The pain of her hand couldn't compare to the shock of realization. The pieces of the puzzle snapped into place perfectly. How she hadn't realized this before—how she had suspected one thing, but not the other—now stunned her. She, Keeper's First to Deshanna of Clan Lavellan, had wanted nothing more than to be held and kissed by none other than the Dread Wolf—the Dread Wolf she was meant to keep at bay. It was absurd. It was improbable. It made her feel that she was indeed right about the Dread Wolf dancing around her laughing. She had, in, fact, danced with the Dread Wolf. He was an excellent dancer.

 

Where were her thoughts even going? No; it wasn't possible. Solas couldn't be Fen'harel. He couldn't be a follower of Fen'harel. It just wasn't possible. “That can't be right,” she said finally. “Solas took away my vallaslin, as a...” No; it definitely made sense, and denying it wasn't going to help anything. What have I done? I let the Dread Wolf in, and he has made a fool of me. He has taken my clan, he has taken my dignity.

 

“Why would he have done those things?” Cole asked in response to Lavellan's thoughts, genuine confusion coloring his voice. “'Ar lath ma, vhenan.' You watched him walk away from you then; his face was sad but you knew he was coming back. But then... 'Never doubt that what we had was real,' and he was gone,” Cole said, his fingers tightening on her shoulders. “I need to remember, too, so I can help, but it's gone... You were so happy once. How can who he is change who he is?”

 

Abelas looked sharply between Uth'shiral and Cole. “I see. The Elvhen with you—that was Fen'harel. It explains much, and not enough. You are close to him? Why would he not help you now?”

 

“Because he's the Dread Wolf! Because I'm not that important to him! Because I'm Dalish! I don't know,” Uth'shiral wailed. She had faced demons, she had met an elven god in person, and yet it was this revelation that threatened to undo her. “My entire life, I was taught to keep the Dread Wolf at bay. I was taught that he didn't care for the People, that he sealed away the Creators and the Forbidden Ones and then snuck away to a corner of the world to laugh as the Tevinter Imperium crushed us underfoot and enslaved my people. I was told he told lies, he spread dark knowledge, and above all that he was a trickster and never to be trusted. Then there was Solas, and he was charming and intelligent and nothing like anyone I've ever met before... All of it, every moment we shared, was a lie. He wanted the orb! And now, my clan is gone, and I can't even go back to the Dalish!”

 

“Fen'harel was always clever,” Abelas said carefully, “but he gave you his blessing. Would he do that for someone he did not care at all for?” He regarded Uth'shiral with his steady gaze. “You must go searching for him in the Fade again, and tell him about your misbehaving magical mark.” He glanced toward Cole, as if acknowledging that the alliteration was inspired by the spirit.

 

“I found Solas—Fen'harel?-- and I told him that I wouldn't seek him out again. I told him I was looking for the Dread Wolf. He didn't tell me I'd already found him.” The Inquisitor gritted her teeth as another burst of intense pain scorched a path up her arm.

 

“I am puzzled, then. If he knew that this magic was harming you, why did he do nothing?” Abelas rested his chin on his fist, gazing thoughtfully at the tent's heavy fabric.

 

“I didn't tell him. I didn't tell him much of what I've been through. He had no right to know; he left. I can't go seeking him out again—not knowing he's the Dread Wolf, and not after saying I wouldn't. I can't.”

 

“Do you want to live, Inquisitor?” Abelas asked, turning his sharp gaze toward Uth'shiral again.

 

“... Yes. Despite everything, yes.” Of that, at least, she had no doubt. “I can't do anything to help if I'm dead.”

 

“Good,” Cole murmured into the darkness.

 

“Then you must go back to the Fade, and you must find Fen'harel,” Abelas advised patiently, his voice firm. “Tell him what is wrong, and perhaps he will aid you. Perhaps not. I do not know what happened between you, but I do know that you need not rekindle... whatever it was... to ask for his help. Is it pride that prevents you? Then humble yourself. Is it fear? You have been in his company before, and he did not harm you then. Is it anger? Then calm yourself at least until your survival is assured. You had no trouble with the idea of facing him before, when you did not know he was already familiar to you.”

 

“Humble myself? Calm myself? He's the Dread Wolf—I know his story! What else has he done, since he stumbled out of the Fade? Is he the reason my clan is gone? Was it truly not just a bad decision on my part? And what is he up to?” Uth'shiral demanded, and began to climb out of her bedroll.

 

Abelas gave a weary sigh, and one of his hands settled on her forehead. “Ask him yourself.”

 

The last words she heard were, “Sleep well, Inquisitor.” Then consciousness failed her.

[Brass_Buckles]

Part 19:  He Didn't Do What You Thought He Did

 

Spoiler

“How could you? She was angry! Agonized! Afraid!” Cole followed Abelas out of the tent.

“Do not fret. She should enjoy some dreamless rest. I didn't send her into the Fade. If she goes there, that is her own doing, not mine,” Abelas replied. His patience was wearing thin. “She does have an excellent question: What is Fen'harel planning? It may be good for ones such as myself, but what of her?”

 

“She loves him. Would he hurt her?” Cole asked, staring hard at Abelas in the darkness.

 

Abelas paused, considering the question for a long moment. “I do not know,” he said at last. “Perhaps she can find the answers, though not tonight. Tonight, she needs dreamless sleep, rest. If she cannot calm herself, entering the Fade would be foolish. You know this, and I've noticed something. The more upset she is, the more likely the mark is to cause her discomfort.”

“She should have gone back to Skyhold,” Cole responded. “It's safer there. She wants to go to Wycome, to seek, to see, to set to rest somehow. She thinks that will help with the bigger hurt, not the hurt on her hand, but the hurt in her heart. Solas was a smaller hurt. It's bigger now, but not as big as the other one. She misses them so much. She thinks it was her fault.”

 

“I know what it is to lose everything I held dear.” Abelas looked back toward the tent. “Uthenera might be kinder.”

 

“Yes, you know,” Cole agreed. “Everything going away bit by bit, more pieces falling and crumbling and decaying every time you wake, never knowing if it will even still be here the next time, never knowing if there will even be a next time. She's gone, dead, bled out so long ago, but, there is always duty. --We're your friends. You don't need a duty to have a purpose.”

 

Abelas nodded slowly. “I understand that. It was... a difficult decision. If Fen'harel is awake, however, things are surely going to be... interesting. Perhaps she will remember to ask where there are other Elvhen, for me. Whether she does or doesn't, here will not be enough peace for uthenera for some time to come. By then, either things will be different from what they are, or I will have quickened and become a shemlen, myself.”

 

“You should help the people now. They aren't all elves, and the elves aren't your elves, but you're patient and used to leading and teaching. She wants to learn from you, but you don't talk much to her.”

 

As Abelas walked, Cole followed along behind him, offering input on his thoughts. At first, it had been an annoyance, but Abelas found he was growing attached to the spirit. It meant well. “I shall speak to her even less, now,” Abelas replied, as they left the camp, but he changed the topic quickly. “It would have been better to have elves guarding the camp. Even the Dalish see better at night than these humans.”

 

One of the shemlen caught his words and called him “knife-ear,” but Abelas walked on, unconcerned. “We have seen no sign of the Wardens pursuing us for the past day and a half. This concerns me. They haven't lost the trail.”

 

“No, they haven't,” Cole said. “They followed for too long to stop now.”

 

“Hm.” Abelas strode quickly and quietly along the trail into Crestwood.

 

“She could, you know,” Cole said in response to Abelas's thoughts—Abelas wasn't sure what thought the spirit was responding to, but he had some guesses.

 

“It would be a bad idea,” Abelas answered. “Do not tell her. --Why are you following me?”

 

“You don't want to be alone.”

 

Despite himself, Abelas smiled. “Is it that simple? What if your shemlen also doesn't want to be alone?”

 

Cole glanced back over his shoulder. “She isn't hurting,” he said uncertainly. “She sleeps soundly, not suffering, serene. She isn't in the Fade. Will it help? The mark hurts. It burns, like a dragon before consuming its prey, and then it eases into an ache but the rest of her burns and she shakes, unsteady, ashamed at being weak but not saying. The hurt from the mark still isn't as much as the big hurt, but, she wants to live.”

 

Ahead, the town's wooden gates loomed, flanked by two guards. Abelas frowned—this was a poor town, filled with suffering shemlen. From where he and Cole stood, he could see that the town was in the process of being repaired. Broken buildings now had fresh planks that didn't quite match with the rest of the structures. Paintings had been added to some surfaces, adding life and color. He hoped the place was more pleasant than its scent and state of repair suggested.

 

The more pressing issue would be getting the guards to let him into the village at this time of night. “I do not know if it will help,” Abelas answered at last. “With some of the right supplies, her suffering could at least be lessened.”

 

“That's good, for all of us,” Cole said. “You don't know what to call her. You say, 'Inquisitor,' but you want to say other words.”

 

“Perceptive of you,” Abelas replied, still staring toward the gates. How would the shemlen react to the tallest, broadest elf they had likely ever seen? He knew how elves were treated. He knew he looked different from any modern elf. It was not a confrontation he looked forward to. Perhaps they should wait for daybreak—but perhaps the Inquisitor needed help before then. “She is very young, and willing to learn, even if it would take time on some topics. I could call her da'len, and it would be right. However, she is not a child in my mind. I could say she is lethallan, my kin; although she seems to be Elvhen, she is different. She must remain 'Inquisitor.'”

 

“You could use her name,” Cole suggested. “You never asked it. Or you could say 'friend;' she'd like that.” He, too, looked toward the gate. “They don't expect trouble. Sleepy, silent, secluded... It's a quiet night, and they only wait for their duty to end. They won't notice me, but you—you they'll see. Tell them you're with the Inquisition. They know the Inquisitor is in the camp. She's their hero, so they'll welcome us.”

 

“Am I with the Inquisition?” Abelas asked. Cole's silence was telling—that was a choice Abelas had to make. “I can say so, at least.”

 

Though he didn't want to approach the dingy, battered shemlen town, though all he wanted was to find other Elvhen or to fall into the endless slumber of uthenera, Abelas mastered his distaste and his fear and moved forward.

[Obvious_Shining]

Nicely done, gonna read them all tomorrow

[Brass_Buckles]

Nicely done, gonna read them all tomorrow

 

Just be warned that it's sad and I have no clue if it's going to end well.  I intended it to, I really did... but it's kind  of... well, you'll see...

[Brass_Buckles]

Part 20:  In Which Cassandra Is Angry

 

Spoiler

A knife slammed hard into the surface of the table, knocking over several markers that Cullen moved to set back upright. “How dare he!” Cassandra demanded.

 

The knife impaled a weather-beaten sheet of paper, its ink blurred from wind and rain.

 

Josephine leaned back in surprise, but soon walked around the table to peer over Cassandra's shoulder.

 

“It came by raven an hour ago,” Cullen explained. “It wasn't one of our birds, so Spymaster Briala has caged it. It appears he believed she would be back at Skyhold by now. However, we also received a report this morning from the soldiers at Crestwood. She is there, and she wanted us to know. We are informed she is in poor health.”

 

“What about our Dalish allies' reports?” Josephine asked, while Cassandra paced by the war table with heavy strides. “They gave conflicting reports. Would she have done anything so impolitic? One or the other must be true, but the scandal from either of them would be disastrous.”

 

“She was in the company of another elf. The description suggest it was Abelas, the head Sentinel from the Temple of Mythal. If she eloped with him, it was uncharacteristically rash of her, but she did withdraw from everyone after Corypheus's defeat. Perhaps her loneliness made her rash. It was unexpected of her to ride away in the dark of night, too. Whether she killed the other elf, I don't know. If he'd been pressuring her too much about their previous arrangements, perhaps she decided to take matters into her own hands. Or, perhaps there's some truth to both stories, and Abelas had something to do with it, too.” Cullen shrugged. “To be honest, I care little about her romantic entanglements, but we need her leadership. If she killed him, it was for a good reason. If she married this Abelas, there's not much surprising to me about that, and I wish them both good health and happiness.”

“But it renders any marriage alliance impossible!” Josephine exclaimed. “It was scandalous enough that she was consorting with the elven apostate—and then he disappeared.”

 

“And now, this,” Cassandra hissed, stopping to glare at the weather-beaten paper on the table as if she would have preferred to stab it again, perhaps repeatedly.

 

“And now this,” Josephine agreed, staring at the paper dubiously. “He should not have sent it.”

 

“Even if he had not left us at such a time, even if he had not lied to us about where he came from and who he was, I would still be angry that he dared to send correspondence after breaking her heart the way he did. She should have come to us, Josephine. She should have told us what she was going through. At least, she could have gone to Mother Giselle. The Maker would offer her--”

 

“Cassandra, that is perhaps precisely why she didn't come to you, or to Mother Giselle,” Josephine answered softly. “You know that she is very devout toward her Dalish beliefs. To hear talk of our Maker and Andraste would probably have only made her feel worse. I was busy arranging so many meetings at the time—and I had to put off several marriage proposals to her. I knew she was still getting over Solas, and then her family...” She shook her head and stood next to Cassandra, staring at the sheet of paper. “I can understand why she left to be in a familiar place, among familiar people and familiar beliefs.”

 

“Could you and Leliana not have taken her shopping, or something? Just to distract her for a while?” Cassandra asked, leaning on her palms to read the letter once more.

 

“That would have been as unfamiliar to her as our Chantry. She never cared for finery. Believe me, I tried. The best I could convince her to do was to wear a dress uniform to the ball. I had so many ideas for a beautiful dress. I even had the best tailor lined up for it! She absolutely refused.” Josephine shook her head sadly. “Such a waste. She would have been the belle of the ball.”

 

“Back to the matter of the letter,” Cullen prompted. “Is there any way that we can trace the bird back to its origin?”

 

“Only if you intend to learn how to fly,” Cassandra replied. “We can let it go, and watch which direction it takes, but that is the best we can do. Perhaps the mages can do some sort of tracking magic on it. We will have to ask. I will have him in a cell, and I will have answers.”

 

“Why have him in a cell at all?” Josephine asked. “He helped us through. He even fought Corypheus with the Inquisitor. He was perfectly well-behaved the entire time he was here. It's strange that he lied about who he was, but none of us came to harm from it. The only thing he took was the equipment he was wearing.”

 

“How do you know?” Cassandra snapped. “And how do we know he was not a spy, working for some other enemy? Perhaps he was a Tevinter slave. Perhaps he was qunari, for all that he had nothing good to say about them. We don't know!” Her fist slammed into the table next to the knife in the letter.

 

“I cannot argue with that reasoning. Could you please move your hand and your blade? I would like to read it again,” Josephine asked, daring to give Cassandra's fist a nudge. The Seeker obligingly moved back, but resumed her angry pacing. It was like being in a cage with a lion.

 

 

Inquisitor,

 

I grieve for your unhappiness, but I cannot ease it.

 

Please do not seek me again. There is no happiness to be found where I tread.

 

- Solas

 

 

“Was she looking for him? Is that why she left?” Josephine asked. “I wonder if she found him.”

 

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Cassandra mused. “She said once that they had spoken in the Fade. It could have happened again.”

 

“We have our spy network searching. That's the best we can do for now,” Cullen responded. “In the meantime, at least we know that she hasn't abandoned the Inquisition. She wouldn't be using our camp in Crestwood if she had. Leaving without a word was a poor decision on her part, but she probably knows that. Her health, though... it may make her look like an inviting target. She needs to return to Skyhold as soon as possible. Maybe she's on her way back now from Crestwood.”

 

“I shall have many questions for her when she returns,” Cassandra observed in her most ominous tone of voice.