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[Brass_Buckles]

Part 42:  In Which Cole Wants to Help

 

Spoiler

The ship was small and battered, and its rhythmic creaking with every shift of wind or water almost created its own sea shanty. It was also a fishing vessel, and its smell attested to many successful catches in the past. As strong as the reek of fish was on the fore and aft decks, it was somehow even stronger in the cabin. Perhaps the odor seeped through the hold somehow, or perhaps it was because fish was what was most easily available to prepare for the small mess hall. Though the all-human crew—half of the ship's normal crew, or so the captain told her—treated her with deference, it certainly would not have been her first choice of transportation. Uth'shiral wondered if her position as Inquisitor were making her proud, or whether she imagined that as a simple Dalish woman she could have done better by way of transport.

 

She did not have to hurry to arrive at the crew's bunk swiftly, and in fact she would rather have taken her time. It wasn't clear to her what state Abelas would be in, and the situation felt awkward. Still, she owed him—and she did not have time to consider it for long. She arrived in front of the door to the bunk and braced herself against the odors of fish and sweat and sleep before she opened it. The place could use an airing-out, but then a crew accustomed to its odor and a lack of bathing facilities likely didn't even notice any longer.

 

Inside, the railed bunks were narrow and tightly spaced, nooks along the walls like the crevices of an ancient tomb. They had railing to keep their occupants from falling off of the thin, hard mattresses. It was better suited to a prison than to honest workers, but she had yet to hear any of the crew complain. Therefore, neither did she.

 

Abelas had crammed himself into one of the bunks at the far end; it had been a popular sleeping spot until he had taken a bunk there—easier to sleep for a little longer and avoid disturbances if you were not the first person the captain would see. Since Abelas had claimed his bunk, no one slept on that end; given the impression his appearance was currently lending, it would be surprising if anyone ever chose to sleep there again. Lavellan wasn't even certain that “sleep” was the proper word. All semblance of life had abandoned him. A Nevarran mummy might have worn fewer bandages than Abelas did over his wounds, and his legs and torso were bent in a way that even a corpse might find uncomfortable in order to fit them into a bunk meant for someone at least a head shorter than he was. If he hadn't so closely resembled the dead, the Sentinel's lack of armor might have caused him to seem vulnerable, and she might have paused to admire the sleek muscles that peeked from beneath his bandages. Instead it was funereal and disturbing, as if someone had lacked the time for proper burial rites and decided to offer him the absolute minimum respect due the dead by stowing him into the wooden niche of the bunk in haste.

 

Uth'shiral could understand why the crew were afraid of Abelas. It was as if he were in the grips of a demon, or as if he had died and for some reason was not decaying. She wasn't certain how she had failed to notice; even though he was farthest from the door, the room was small. He had said once that he was considering a blissful eternal slumber, and yet she was not certain what might happen if the crew tried to throw him overboard. Would he wake and attack, as he claimed he had done for centuries to defend against invaders? Or had he entered uthenera, never to wake again?

 

She took a deep breath, wrinkled her nose in disgust at the smell, and then walked to Abelas. He had not attacked Sorien. She should be fine. “Abelas? Is there any chance you are actually awake?” He did not react or respond, so she shook his arm; though he was reassuringly warm to the touch, he still didn't react.

 

It was possible he might wake if she harmed him physically somehow, but she immediately ruled out that option. He was a friend, and that would be a betrayal of trust. She stared at him, deep in thought, wondering how she could possibly solve this situation.

 

“He wanted to heal his wounds, his heart, too. So he slipped away, sleeping, somewhere safe with spirits.” Cole appeared, sitting in the corner next to Abelas. “He was hurting, so he hurt others. It wasn't right to do that. He knew.” Disappointment in Cole's voice lent an unaccustomed maturity to his tone. Uth'shiral regarded the spirit with surprise.

 

“Do you know something about this? Can we wake him up before someone decides the fish need an Abelas-shaped dinner?” Lavellan asked, leaning on one hand against the wall of bunks.

 

“He meant to wake already,” Cole answered. “He can't. The world isn't like it was before, and she doesn't call him like she did at the temple. He is lost, left lonely in a place he knows, sad the spirits he knew aren't in his sanctuary. He's stuck in solitude, somewhere, no roads or paths left to return. So he fears, and the demons find him, face him, force him to fight. He wants to flee, free himself from the Fade, but--”

 

Cole cut off his own dialogue, and looked directly at Uth'shiral. “You could help.”

 

“How?” the Inquisitor asked, although she suspected the answer involved the Fade—neither she nor Sorien had managed to wake Abelas. She might have hesitated to hurt the Sentinel, but somehow she doubted her brother would have refrained from giving him a good slap or two. If she were dreaming, she probably wouldn't remember to find him. Despite the Anchor's power, she still didn't usually experience lucid dreaming, and she had no access to the quantities of lyrium she'd need to ensure she'd be conscious in the Fade. She had found Solas mostly because of the Anchor—and because, perhaps, she had already wanted to find the man. She was more likely to find Solas than Abelas, and Solas was better qualified to help than she was.

 

But Solas wasn't here. She couldn't ask him for help. Cole said she could help.

 

“I can take you to the temple where Sorrow sleeps,” Cole answered. “He is trapped, tormented... terrified, tangled in time and treachery. Two parts that should connect, but now they don't. He lives because he was asleep, but now unless she calls him he can't wake. Two parts, disjointed, torn, tattered. Not whole.” Cole paused to look at her for a long moment as if seeing her for the first time. “Not whole, like you're not whole, except he's there and you're here. He endures, but you... can't. Not without a tie to there. And you can't understand it because you were never whole. But you are whole. You're here, and you're there. Just because you can't reach you doesn't mean you're less than you. You can reach him. You just need to go there. I can show you.”

 

Cole's commentary about wholeness or lack thereof confused Uth'shiral, although she wondered if understanding it would help her comprehend why Abelas could not see modern elves as his people. It was something to think about later. She considered what else Cole had said. “If he's trapped and in danger like you say, and if he's actually frightened by something, then I should help him,” she agreed. “We should try it this evening when--”

 

“He needs help now,” Cole interrupted.

 

“I can't just fall asleep on a whim, Cole!” Uth'shiral answered, beginning to feel exasperated. Not only was it the middle of the day, but now she had far too much to worry about to make a successful attempt at sleeping. “If I could, I'd go help him right now. I don't have a huge stockpile of lyrium available, nor do I have any ancient elven herbal concoctions. It's going to have to wait until I'm able to fall asleep.”

 

“I can help. I would go, but if I go I have to leave and if you bring me back your hand will hurt again. Halin, Atishadahlen, Sorien, Mirevas, Atisha, Bel'eranen, Assanvir... they all need me. And you need me. I could go back, but I want to stay here, for a while longer. I need to stay here—I'm needed here. But if you go to help him, I can guide you, help you both heal your hurts. Please, help me help him so I can help you too!” Cole stood, tugging at the brim of his hat in agitation as he begged her.

 

“You can help me sleep?” she asked. She hesitated; it wasn't a skill Cole had ever alluded to. She trusted Cole, but how was it going to look to the crew if she ended up in a state even remotely like Abelas's? Moreover, even though she often kept odd hours, she wouldn't normally go to bed so soon after she woke. That would seem strange, too. The crew was bound to think that they had a sloth demon running amok. And yet... Cole wouldn't insist if this weren't urgent. With any luck, maybe no one aboard the ship would notice her absence. And maybe no one would wander into the bunks before evening.

 

Helping Abelas out was going to rely on a lot of “ifs” going precisely right.

 

“Yes,” Cole answered. He sounded relieved; of course he was. He already knew what she'd chosen.

 

Lavellan walked to her usual bunk by the door, crawled into the cage-like niche, and stretched out. She had chosen it because no one else seemed to want to be that close to the exit, and because she kept odd hours. There were not enough bunks for everyone currently aboard the ship; in consequence, Uth'shiral slept when there was a bunk free. It wasn't safe to sleep aboard the deck on a ship as small as this—waves could crash over the deck when the wind blew strongly, and there was always the chance of a storm. Drowning or being swept away only to drown were not appealing options. At least three other people were also taking turns with the bunks. She wished she'd paid more attention so she would know who they were—if they were her clan, they deserved praise for it. If not, then the crew might be more welcoming than she assumed them to be. If she survived this trip to the Fade, she would definitely pay more heed to what was going on, instead of avoiding everyone.

 

“That would be good,” Cole said gently. “You could heal and help them heal. Everyone would be happier.” He stood staring at her through the protective railing of the bunk, then abruptly offered his hand. “We should go now.”

 

Her fingers brushed against the spirit's, and the small crew cabin transformed into a forest filled with brightly colored birds.

[Brass_Buckles]

Holidays are super busy at work and I'm also in the middle of a computer upgrade... update to come soon.  Unless of course, computer parts I bought aren't functional.  In which case, I don't know when there will be an update (clearly, not until the computer is rebuilt and working).

 

Update:  New computer built, functional, and speedy.  Will resume work on fic... soon.  (Have a lot of things to install on new build...)

[Brass_Buckles]

Part 43:  In Which Many Events Occur

 

Spoiler

The forest was dense and wild; underbrush thick with thorns and treacherous vines prevented any thought of straying from the path. And there was a path—narrow and crooked and muddy, like a game trail. The idea made Uth'shiral nervous—following a game trail was a fantastic way to meet predators. It was, however, the only way forward, and as long as the birds continued to sing from the branches, she supposed it was safe enough. What she'd do if the birds fell silent, she wasn't sure. She didn't think she'd be able to fight her way through the thorny brush more quickly than a native predator could.

 

She paused for a moment, leaning against a tree trunk and trying to remember where she was going. It was odd, being somewhere like this without her companions, and not knowing how she got there or where she was heading. It was something important; she remembered that much. She thought that this must be the Arbor Wilds; the birds and vegetation seemed similar. She'd promised not to return there, though. Was she breaking that promise? Maybe she'd strayed too far off the main path. Where were Cassandra and Varric?

 

The Inquisitor glanced behind her, half expecting someone to be jogging toward her, catching up to her lead. But instead, the game trail wound through the woods and vanished.

 

It must be important, whatever it was. She'd promised Abelas that she would never return to the Arbor Wilds, but with luck a Sentinel would see her and guide her to the exit, rather than attacking her on sight. It was a genuine mistake, after all—Abelas would understand. He wouldn't be happy, but he'd understand.

 

Wait... Abelas. Wasn't she here looking for him? Lavellan frowned to herself and stepped away from the tree, continuing her hike. They'd parted ways before she had ever returned to Skyhold. He hadn't welcomed her intrusion before, and later...

 

Later, despite seeming to view her as little more than a burden and a means to an end, he had thrown away whatever goals he had, declared her his friend, and... stayed, at least for a while. Abelas had returned to the Arbor Wilds to grieve for what could not be restored.

 

“Are you sure it wasn't your fault?” a voice asked from her right.

 

Uth'shiral glanced sharply, but nothing was there.

 

“If you'd been a better friend, maybe he would have stayed. Maybe he could have moved on,” the voice continued from behind her. She spun, but saw nothing as her heart began to race. The voice was deep and calm, with a faint hiss behind it.

 

“Or,” the voice continued, above her this time, “maybe he would have been better off if you'd never intruded here at all. He might have succeeded in fending off Corypheus without your help. Or he might be dead. Is dead not better than suffering?”

 

The Inquisitor looked up, but frowned as she saw nothing yet again. Had she taken too much lyrium, or was there a demon somewhere near?

 

“An excellent question. I could be a demon. Demon or not, I could be inside you even now,” the voice mused, from in front of her this time. “Maybe I was in you all along, as you agonized over each decision you made. Maybe I am the reason for your successes. Maybe I am the reason for your failures. Could you even achieve greatness on your own? It was always the Anchor. His Anchor. Solas raised you up to be a hero despite your wishes, and he didn't stay. Weren't you good enough? Hadn't you been successful? Now you stand on a pillar, and no one's waiting below to catch you if you fall. How long do you think you can stay there?”

 

There was nothing in front of Uth'shiral—nothing she could see. She backed away slowly, turning back toward the game path. “Abelas?” she asked, picking up her pace. If she could find him, he'd help her against this demon.

 

“Are you certain of that? He called you 'friend,' but he meant to use you to find Solas. Every bit of aid and effort to keep you alive for just a while longer, was for that goal. Maybe it wasn't ever kindness. Maybe it was cold practicality. Just like all the others—he wants you to help him, but he won't thank you for it in the end. How quickly friendship is forgotten in the face of a new goal.” The voice sounded pitying. It galled Uth'shiral that this... thing, whatever it was, wherever it was, had the nerve to pity her.

 

“And what of Solas? Kind, gentle Solas, who laughed as he trapped his kin in torment for all time. Solas, the Dread Wolf, the betrayer, the author of the elves' downfall.”

 

Uth'shiral forced herself to ignore the voice as it continued onward, giving voice to every angle of every concern she had. If she listened for too long, she might break. She might simply stop and curl up and cry in defeat and self-pity. She could not do that; she had work to do. She had people to help, rifts to close, and a world to explore.

 

“Abelas!” Lavellan shouted. She worried that the voice of the—spirit? Demon?--drowned out her voice, but she had to try. She ran onward, shaky, her legs sinking and slipping in the mud of the game trail—mud that persisted despite the brilliant sunlight and clear sky overhead.

 

“Are you certain he is a friend...?” the voice whispered into her ear.

 

“Go away!” she snapped. “Abelas!” she called again, and lost her footing to the mud. She crashed facefirst into the slippery mess, struggling to return to her feet. It was too hard—the mud was slippery and she couldn't get a purchase. She groaned and slumped in defeat.

 

“Inquisitor! Why are you--”

 

“Invading your most private sanctuary, even as she invaded the Temple of Mythal. This place is not for her,” the voice thundered. “Does she understand you? Does she respect you? How could she? Shemlen act blindly, with no understanding of the world. You tangle with such small fears. Isn't she the real threat?”

 

“Tangle with--” The telltale sounds of metal and magic reached her, but it was far away. She had to get there. Her friend was in trouble. She had to help. Although she was exhausted from battling with the mud, she mustered some of her magic. Enough heat, and the mud should dry. Then she could--

 

The ground crackled beneath her, scaly flakes of dried mud forming on top of the slippery mess. It wasn't much, and it wasn't perfect, but it was enough. She regained her footing, casting the same fire spell along the ground ahead of her as she charged toward the sounds of battle. The more confident she was of the results, the sturdier the ground became as she ran.

 

“Abelas, I'm on my way!” Lavellan shouted, as the shrieks and howls of demons came ever closer.

 

“Do you think he needs your help? Did he ever need your help?” the voice goaded.

 

“If you intend to be of use, then hurry!” Abelas called back.

 

“How could a shemlen be of use to you? If you can't make yourself wake, how could she manage it? Maybe you should have gone with Solas. You could have helped yourself. You could have helped the others. You still could. You haven't really decided anything, even now. I know.”

 

“Haven't I?” Abelas roared back, over the shriek of a fear demon.

 

“Wake? This is a dream?” Uth'shiral mumbled under her breath. Well, everything made more sense, then. She was still on that rickety fishing boat, trying to wake Abelas. Abelas, who was fighting demons and needed help right now, according to Cole.

 

She pushed herself harder. Knowing it was a dream meant she also knew she wasn't going to run out of energy or lose her breath.

 

She almost ran into Abelas's sword as he spun to face what he expected to be another attacker. They were in the courtyard of the Temple of Mythal, and it was far more ruined than it had been in person. In fact, she could swear it was crumbling before her very eyes, as fear demons leapt from the ground, shrieking in fury as they attacked.

 

Abelas was fast, and sturdy, but he was one man against at least ten fear demons. Uth'shiral hastily threw a barrier over them both as she struggled to think. Cole's existence had taught her that even demons might be spirits; Solas had taught her that it was mostly a matter of perception. Not knowing what Abelas was afraid of, she had no idea how he saw the demons. Still... even with two of them, they were going to have trouble fighting so many. They thrashed at her barrier, shrieking their rage and frustration. The Inquisitor struggled to remain calm. They were fear demons; fear would feed them.

 

The easiest way to defeat them would be to look at them as something other than fear. If wisdom could become pride, if purpose could become desire, what had the fear demons once been before they became dangerous? Fear was so primal that it was difficult to imagine it being anything else. She'd heard of spirits of valor; maybe such a spirit could turn against its courageous nature and become a bullying fear demon.

 

“Where is the honor in attacking people weaker than you are?” Uth'shiral demanded of a demon—no, she must think of them as spirits—as it swiped at her barrier. She cast the spell again, strengthening the protection as Abelas continued fighting.

 

“What are you doing? How is that going to help?” Abelas demanded.

 

“Did you expect better from a shemlen?” the omnipresent voice asked, its condescending tone making Uth'shiral long to punch it – if only she knew where it was. So instead, she forced herself to focus on the spirit she was addressing.

 

“You greatly outnumber us. This is not an honorable battle. And in the end, you gain nothing from it. No honor, no commendation for your bravery. And no emotion to strengthen you. We will simply be dead and gone.”

 

Was it her imagination, or did the spirit hesitate? But it was only one, and the others continued to attack.

 

“Why are you trying to reason with them?” Abelas snapped. “Focus and cast your spells!” He slashed at a demon that appeared from the ground far too close, then kicked away one that reached for Uth'shiral as she cast yet another barrier over them.

 

“You could make the fight more fair. You could help us instead. I'd make sure your efforts are mentioned. It would be one of the bravest things you've ever done,” Uth'shiral continued.

 

The spirit abruptly changed; so quickly she did not even see the change. Rather than a bony thing with many teeth, it had become an elven woman in heavy armor, a golden glow surrounding it. “Yes. There is no honor in this. Let us be allies, if only for now.”

 

“It could still be fear,” the voice cautioned. “Perhaps you are deceived.”

 

“It's Valor and it's helping!” Lavellan snapped.

 

“Reasoning with it was a risky plan,” Abelas said, “but I am thankful you succeeded. “We must fight harder. With three of us fighting, we may stand a chance.”

 

“Or we could even the numbers further,” Lavellan responded. She settled a fresh barrier over Abelas and Valor. “What else could become fear? Valor does not appeal to the others.”

 

“You were fortunate to turn even one of them,” the Voice said. “Is it worth risking your allies' lives to keep trying? They know what they are!”

 

“SILENCE!” Abelas snapped at the Voice, as he stabbed at yet another fear demon. “All you do is speak of worry!” He circled around to Uth'shiral's back, shoving away a demon she had not even known was there. “Fear is primal,” he said. “Many other emotions turn to fear. We do not have time to go through every single one of them, not if you plan to survive. Pay attention! Three of us can do this.”

 

Valor jumped back as a fear spirit began to rise beneath it, and swung its sword hard. The fear spirit roared, barely injured by a blow that would have cleaved Uth'shiral in two.

 

“They're strong...” Uth'shiral observed. Her impulse was to strengthen their barriers, but she had strengthened them as much as she could. She had to either fight, or speak, and she'd gotten an idea. She had no idea if it would work; it could even backfire. Still, she had to try.

 

The Inquisitor took a deep breath, and then she addressed the Voice. “Are you sure you know what they are? They don't seem to be doing much thinking about anything.”

 

“Do you even know why you are attacking?” the Voice asked the fear spirits. “Or do you attack and attempt to inspire fear because you are the ones who are afraid?”

 

“Did it just...?” Abelas swung his pommel at a spirit that was edging too close to Valor. Valor slashed at another spirit that was trying to reach Uth'shiral. And Uth'shiral cast a paralysis glyph on the ground near one that was walking toward Abelas.

 

“I'm not sure,” Uth'shiral answered honestly. It seemed to be working, but could she trust the Voice? What if it couldn't change anything anyway?

 

“What would happen if you stopped fighting? Would they stop, too? Would they pursue you if you fled? If you continue to fight, they might destroy you. There are many of you, but even now they stand against you. What will happen when one of you is destroyed?”

 

Some of the fear spirits hesitated.

 

“If you hadn't attacked Sorrow, would he have fought you? Is it too late to stop? Was it wise to attack this prey? Even your own kin turn against you. What happens when you lose another?” the Voice persisted.

 

The fear spirits had ceased to attack. They milled uncertainly for a moment. One abruptly broke away and fled; another followed. The remainder began to look hazy and uncertain. Abelas and Valor remained defensive, and Uth'shiral maintained her barriers. The spirits, however, gave up the attack. Whatever doubt they had that had caused them to cease, they now seemed resolved that it was wiser not to attack. Uth'shiral wasn't sure if they were still Fear, or Caution, or something else entirely, but one by one, the remainder milled away—likely confused and questioning the nature of their existence. Tomorrow they might be fear spirits again, but today they had a chance to be something else. And not a single one of them had to die for it—a seemingly impossible positive outcome, especially given how much of a fight they'd given the fear spirits. She almost couldn't believe that her hasty plan had succeeded.

 

“Thank you. A better row hasn't been had in centuries,” Valor stated, breaking Lavellan's reverie. “Who would have thought that they were all such cowards? Ah, but a win is a win.”

 

“Yes,” Abelas replied, seeming more than a little confused himself. “A win is a win...”

 

“Unless it isn't. You're still here, sleeping,” the Voice pointed out.

 

“Thank you for reminding me, Doubt. I had hardly noticed,” Abelas responded sourly.

 

“I'm here to help,” the Inquisitor said. “Cole was sure I could wake you. The fear spirits are gone, so there's nothing holding you here anymore.”

 

“I am severed from the waking world, Inquisitor. It is not a simple matter. Without Mythal's geas to call me to service, I cannot wake. If I had known, I would not have slept so deeply.”

 

“You said you woke every time there were intruders at the Temple. Surely there's some way to drag yourself out of the Fade.”

 

“Is there? And does he want to? He said he would like to find a place free of shemlen, to enter the blissful sleep of eternity. Perhaps he has,” Doubt said solemnly.

 

“That is no longer what I want. It would be easier to sleep, but I wish to be awake for what is to come,” Abelas said firmly.

 

“Ah, but if you wake, who do you help?” Doubt replied. “What you wanted is within reach, and yet...”

 

“And yet.” For some reason, Abelas turned away from Uth'shiral, as if it were painful to see her.

 

“Be brave,” Valor said. “Your spirit is strong. Even if you choose unwisely, you have the strength to choose, and the strength to continue even if the decision was the wrong one. You will endure.”

 

“Will he? I wonder,” Doubt replied.

 

“Don't listen to Doubt for now,” the Inquisitor said. “You came here, so you know there must be a way out. We just have to find it.” She glanced around, but the temple was in ruins and surrounded by jungle. Except...

 

“The paths! The only reason you didn't attack us on sight was because we walked them,” Uth'shiral said. “We should try that now. You know the paths from years of watching people come to petition Mythal, so that part's easy. If it doesn't open a way for you to wake, then maybe Mythal will come and poke you awake or something. It might be wishful thinking, but isn't it better than doing nothing? Valor, what do you think?”

 

Valor shrugged. “Puzzles are not my expertise. If you intend to walk those silly puzzles, this is where we part ways. I shall be off finding an honorable opponent. I would not do well to fall to my fear again.”

 

“I am not a petitioner, I am--” Abelas objected.

 

“Someone who needs help,” Lavellan cut him off. “It doesn't matter who you are, or were. Do you know another way?”

 

“I have tried,” he admitted. “The forest only leads back to here, whichever way I try. Perhaps it is the influence Doubt has gained over this place.” He made a displeased sound in the back of his throat, then strode toward the first path. “With the state this place is in, the paths may require both of us to reach the inner sanctum.”

 

“The paths may only lead you back to here,” Doubt said. “Perhaps there isn't an exit at all.”

 

“Don't listen to it.,” Uth'shiral warned. “What we need right now is certainty. If we don't focus on our goal...”

 

“I know,” Abelas snapped even as he stepped onto the golden path with quick, sure strides that made Uth'shiral feel suddenly envious. He might have hundreds, even thousands, of years of experience from watching others walk these paths, but he made it look simple. She remembered how she had agonized over every slow step, almost hopping from tile to tile. The Temple of Mythal had been built for taller elves—elves like Abelas. “It is likely I know more about certainty than you do. Doubt seems to feel a particular kinship with you, but these paths hold no room for it. Watch my steps and if the path does not stay lit, follow them exactly.”

 

“I'm not the one who's trapped in her own dreams,” the Inquisitor grumbled, but she did pay close attention. The paths were not in as good of condition as she thought. The structure had crumbled around them, blocking some areas. Abelas, after walking two of them with no help from her, finally hesitated. “I do not recognize this path,” he noted. “The rest I have walked from memory. This one is... new.” His eyes narrowed as he examined the arrangement of the tiles. “Perhaps if I walk it, I can leave. But the debris...” He hesitated. “It may be better to remain here, and try to repair the damage. This place should be... more. If--”

 

“No. You said there is no room for doubt. You've seen others walk these paths. I'm sure you walked them once, too. Look, if I walk over this side...” She hopped onto the tiles without thinking, golden light shining beneath her feet. “Ah. I shouldn't have done that, should I?”

 

“Probably not,” Abelas answered with a wry smile, “But you are correct. If you walk that side, and I step here...” He stepped lightly onto a tile on the opposite side.

 

The tile began to crumble beneath her feet. She stumbled, then jumped to the next as the tile she had stood on plummeted into endless darkness. “Well... that doesn't look good. We've got to be quick!”

 

“There is no room for doubt here,” Abelas agreed, hopping quickly to the next tile. Behind him, his own previous tile crumbled and fell. “We must be quick. Do not fall!”
 

“This is very complicated to do quickly,” Doubt mused. “I don't know if you can do it.”

 

“Neither do I, but I'm trying anyway!” Uth'shiral hurriedly jumped to another tile, and another, trying to always keep the path ahead clear. If she didn't leave a path... those tiles weren't magically reappearing. It could be an illusion; this was the Fade. But she didn't want to risk it.

 

On the other side, separated by crumbled statuary and weedy plants, Abelas's steps were a more graceful and measured mirror of her own. He managed to look completely composed despite the danger—but then, she'd seen how well he could jump when he had called up steps to the Well of Sorrows. He might be fine. Unless, of course, her hunch were correct and this was the way out. In that case, if they failed, he'd be stuck here, and his body would be thrown overboard. It would cause no end of trouble for the remnants of Clan Lavellan.

 

She forced herself to focus; this part of the path was simple. Two tiles right, one tile up, two tiles left, forward again, all the way right, all the way left, up and right and down and loop around the broken Fen'harel... She was now ahead of the deterioration by several tiles. She glanced over to check on Abelas; he was lagging behind. The tile behind him shattered. He jumped just in time.

 

“Careful! Forward and left and go around Ghilan'ain,” she said. “You're faster than me and you're used to this! The path is easy right now!”

 

“I do not know what your path looks like, but this one is anything but simple,” Abelas answered in a distracted voice. “Please stay quiet until we cross. The path is long and treacherous, and I do not know if we will find an exit at the end, or another path.”

 

“Stay focused! This is your way out. It has to be! I can get out even without it. Cole will help me. Just hurry! If you fall--”

 

“I will not fall.” He took a few quick leaps in quick succession; though his path looked the same from her vantagepoint across from him, it did appear to be more complicated. More complicated meant slower. Her friend was in danger.

 

If she could finish her side quickly, maybe she could stand at the end and guide him forward. She began to run, only to have the path open up into a wide path with several statues in the middle of it. Or maybe her path would get more complicated and she'd make a fatal error. She took a deep breath and considered it for a moment. If she went right, she could weave in and out around the statues, and go back up and forward. But she had to be quick. A quick glance behind her showed the falling tiles catching up to her, and now the statuary was falling, too. There was no safe place to cling to if the tiles fell. She couldn't help Abelas, and he wasn't going to be able to help her, either. She walked more quickly, but the golden tiles behind her were falling more quickly too. A massive wall that once held some statue or other blocked her friend from view. Would he make it? He was more agile than she, and more familiar with the layouts of these paths. More familiar with solving them. It was entirely possible that they had been changed from time to time, so no repeat petitioner would have them memorized. Abelas would be fine, she told herself.

 

The tile beneath her feet cracked. She jumped to the next as it fell, breaking into a jog. Every tile was now cracking beneath her feet, but she was able to see the end of the path ahead, merging with the path on the other side. She pushed herself harder, and the harder she pushed the faster the tiles cracked beneath her. Just one more tile, one more and she would be at the end. Only one! She gave a quick hop and she was clear, her feet firmly on stable ground.

 

Abelas appeared beside her from his side of the maze, and leaped lightly to the final tile—just as it dropped. His hands clung to the edge of the floor, digging for purchase. Uth'shiral leaped to action. She lunged for his arm, and gave as solid a tug as she could.

 

They tumbled backward into an awkward pile. Only then did Uth'shiral have time to wonder how she was able to move an armored man who was considerably taller and more muscular than she was.

 

“I thought you were the quick one,” Uth'shiral said, prying herself from beneath Abelas.

 

“My path was more difficult,” he answered, standing abruptly to escape their awkward position. “Thank you, though. I know the way from here. I shall see you on the ship.” He hastily ran to the other end of the room they were in, bounded up a staircase, and vanished through a massive golden door.

 

Just as she considered following Abelas through the door, Uth'shiral woke.

[Brass_Buckles]

Just finished writing the next chapter.  I want to go over it before I post it; it's late and it may need edits.  So expect it tomorrow night, most likely.

 

After that one there should just be two more chapters left.  I was aiming for just one, but I need one more in between to wrap some things up.  Not all loose ends will be tied simply because the story is set before Jaws of Hakkon, The Descent, and Trespasser take place.  Yup, no DLCs!

[Brass_Buckles]

Part 44:  In Which Our Protagonist Speaks with a Friend

 

Spoiler

Lavellan woke to the familiar unease in her gut that reminded her she was still aboard a rickety fishing vessel in the middle of the Waking Sea. Moreover, it seemed the waves were choppier than they'd been when she settled in for her nap, and her surroundings were darker. She'd slept longer than she had intended. She groaned and eased herself slowly out of her bunk, resulting in several others grumbling at her to be quiet and let them sleep—she recognized two voices as Sorien and Mirevas. The others must be part of the human crew.

 

“I was unaware you would find the Fade so enjoyable that you were reluctant to leave it,” Abelas remarked from his corner. His voice was strained; his injuries must have still pained him.

 

“I'm not the one who only just finished a three-day nap,” Uth'shiral retorted, holding her belly as she hopped to the floor. She needed to get to the deck, quickly. As if on cue, Cole reappeared beside her.

 

“Not this time, at least,” Abelas answered. “Is there anything to eat?” he asked, sounding so hopeful that Uth'shiral almost laughed. But the thought of food did not agree with her belly, at the moment.

 

The Inquisitor groaned expressively. “Urgh. I can't think about food just yet, Abelas...” How was it that she'd finally mastered her seasickness only to have it return all at once? It wasn't fair!

 

“I can ease the hurt until you get there,” the spirit offered.

 

“Abelas, are you--”

“Go. This place stinks enough without the scent of vomit tainting it further.” She couldn't see more than an outline of the ancient elf, but the tone of his voice inspired a mental image of his nose wrinkling in disgust. His voice was followed by the sounds of slow movement. Either the cramped bunk was becoming uncomfortable enough that he needed to change position, or he was getting up again despite his injuries. Although Uth'shiral didn't think it was a good plan for him to be moving around yet, she remembered that seasickness had been an issue for him, too. He might need food, but first he was going to need some fresh air.

 

“You don't smell so great yourself,” one of the crew members snapped. “Snooty rabbit...” the woman grumbled.

 

Someone else snickered; unsurprisingly, it didn't sound like one of the elves. “Rabbit” might not be as bad as “knife ear,” but it was not a compliment by any means. Uth'shiral noted that no one seemed to be as disturbed by Abelas as Sorien had claimed—but she was well aware that sometimes people would hide their reactions, especially in the presence of the woman they considered the Herald of Andraste. Her unwanted title was becoming less influential than it used to be, but it might still mean something to these people. Much as she hated to, she might have to use that to her advantage.

 

The Inquisitor stepped as quietly as she could out the door and onto the deck. A brisk breeze was blowing—not the storm she feared, although there was a hint of foul weather in the distance. She hoped that it missed the ship, but then she'd been extraordinarily fortunate thus far on her sea journeys. As they approached the Storm Coast, she imagined that luck would finally be running out.

 

Abelas walked slowly behind her, careful, she imagined, not to twist one of his injuries. She had hoped for a bit of quiet—time to reflect on what she'd seen in the Fade, and to forget that the demons plaguing Abelas had not been Sorrow or Despair as she might have expected, but Fear and Doubt. If Abelas were seeking her out, however, he had something to say; she would not have her chance at one last bit of quiet time before she had to face the others.

 

For a while, quiet settled between them as they both stared out into the distant storm, fighting to keep their stomachs in check. The silence was companionable, but uncomfortable, and punctuated by the crash of waves, the creaking of the ship, and the rumble of distant thunder that might or might not catch up to their ship soon enough. Abelas handed her a pouch of his stomach-settling herbs; she took a pinch and passed it back to him so that he could dose himself. A few minutes later, as they leaned against the railing watching the lightning clash over distant water, the Sentinel broke the silence between them with his somber voice. “Those handful—two children, you, the five other adults... are all that is left of your people. Too few to be a stable population. They know this. They do not know your people are unlikely to welcome you back. What do you intend to do?”

 

“You're right. This handful isn't enough of us to be a clan,” Lavellan admitted. “And it's unlikely the other Dalish will allow any of us back for the next Arlathvhen. Maybe the one after, or the next one.” She raised her left hand up to gaze at the glowing green mark on its palm. “I don't expect I'll be around for another ten years to find out. It seems stable for now. Solas did something, I think. It probably bought me some more time.” She sighed, her left hand joining the right one on the ship's railing as she stared out to sea. “I can't disband my clan, but other clans have been shattered, and there are other elves who'd love to join the Dalish. If my time with the Inquisition ends, or even if it doesn't, Clan Lavellan will continue, and we'll be even more dedicated to the truth about our past than before. It will be painful, and there'll be things we'd rather we hadn't learned. Still... I think you'd be surprised how resilient we are, Abelas.” She leaned forward on her elbow, almost enjoying the show put on by the lightning in the distance now that her belly was settled. But now she felt she had to make a point; as much right as Abelas had to be angry and lash out, she needed him to understand why her people were not any more patient than he was. “Do you know why Atisha is so angry?”

 

“She seems to be particularly unpleasant,” Abelas answered. “It has made an impression.” Uth'shiral thought that was a relatively diplomatic way to describe Atisha's recent attitude—and she also suspected that the unpleasantness had been the reason Abelas even remembered who Atisha was.

 

“She had three little children, Abelas. Not a single one of them survived. I remember when she was just carefree Auntie Atisha. I learned later on in life that she'd been pressured by the clan to have children, even though she didn't like men. So she had one, decided she liked children, and she had another, and took in an abandoned city elf boy after she and Mirevas became close. Those kids meant everything to her and to Mirevas. Mirevas never had her own—I heard she tried when she was younger. A lot, if the stories are true. Of course Atisha's angry; she's devastated and she feels helpless. I'm amazed at how level-headed Mirevas has been. Maybe she's already worked through it in the time since it happened. Maybe it just hasn't hit her yet, and she's going to have even worse issues than Atisha later on. Even so, they'll probably take in Halin and Atisha'dahlen as their own, in time. It makes sense...”

 

She could see Abelas looking at her thoughtfully from her peripheral vision. “Yes. Loss is painful, and pain makes many wounded creatures lash out, even at those who would help them. A griffon with a broken wing knows no friends.” He sighed. “I will endeavor to be...” he hesitated, “kinder.” Lavellan guessed that the admission that he had been unkind was difficult for him; in a way, he had earned the right to be unkind by surviving to see his people perish.

 

He spoke again, his tone somewhat lighter. An attempt to be kind, she thought, but Lavellan kept her gaze on the sea. “You were put in charge of a group, and you are doing the best you know. Sometimes it is not enough, but you only know you have made a mistake after it has been made and the consequences are apparent.” He paused for a moment, then ventured, “I had not considered that Atisha had reason for her anger, other than an abrasive personality.” A deep silence settled between them; Uth'shiral suspected her friend was thinking about what he'd learned, and what it meant about this particular group of “shadows wearing vallaslin.” “I am glad she isn't angry with you. You do not deserve it—she is good enough to realize that.”

 

Was it her imagination, or did Abelas sound contrite? “They probably think the same about you, you know. 'He's just a grumpy warrior,' is what they think,” Lavellan told the Sentinel. “'He's not who the Inquisitor says, or even who he says. He's probably some mercenary who never learned his manners.' I know you can be reasonable, though. I would even argue you were merciful to us when we showed up uninvited at your temple. I don't pretend I know how much you lost, or who you lost, but you're still grieving. Otherwise, you wouldn't call yourself 'Abelas.' I'd appreciate it if you were kinder to them. When everyone's suffering, harsh words and cold stares help no one.”

 

Cole stood nearby, watching but not speaking. Uth'shiral thought that was a good sign that, at least so far, they were doing a good job of helping themselves.

 

“I... You are correct.” Abelas looked as startled as she was to admit that, when Lavellan glanced over at him. “I saw no reason to be kind before. None of you are my people. You have taken this world as if by force and made it yours. You have made my people unwelcome by dwelling in a land we can no longer inhabit. You have replaced the familiar faces—the lovers, the friends—with your own. I left a lover to serve Mythal, and he was angry with me for centuries. I loved her as well, but if she knew, she never showed it. Both of them are lost to me forever, and in their place is a sea of your endless shemlen faces, faces that are present only long enough to leave grief in their wake if they are remembered at all. It is better not to know them or let them leave any impression. It is better to imagine that they belong to wild beasts that bear a passing resemblance to people, to pretend that none of you are people in your own right. I did not wish to be your friend in the beginning; I did not wish to see you as a real person. Even as I take comfort in your companionship, I grieve for your loss, just as I knew I would. We may remain friends for many years by your standards, but by mine we will barely have met before you are lost forever to the Beyond. And yet... without you, I would have been lost to the Fade, perhaps even dead. You are worth knowing, and worth remembering. There will be grief, but I will endure.”

 

It was not a confession she'd expected to hear from Abelas, ever, and it was the longest conversation she could remember having with the man. “Thank you,” she whispered, and hoped it was enough.

 

“There is something I should ask you,” Abelas said; to Lavellan, he sounded thoughtful and sad.

 

His tone made the Inquisitor cautious, but she decided to humor him. “Go on.”

 

“I have called you friend, and I have called you Inquisitor. If I am going to remember you centuries from now, that will not be enough. Inquisitor... what is your name?”

 

She smiled—it was a solemn enough occasion for Abelas, but it was also a greater admission to how much their friendship meant than simply calling her his friend, and she knew it. She'd become someone worth remembering, not another face he wanted to pretend he'd never seen. She was someone who mattered to him. She wondered if that had been the intent of Solas's fresco—but that was a depressing thought, and in the moment, with the lightning flashing over the Waking Sea in the distance, she wanted to be happy that both of them were healing, that everyone might carry their scars but still turn out okay in the end.

 

“I was given the name Uth'shiral when I was small. It wasn't the name I was given at birth, but it's all anyone has called me since then. To tell you the truth, I don't even know what my actual name is supposed to be.” Although Lavellan's smile held as much sadness as happiness, it widened. “Mother and Keeper Deshanna used to tell me I never could be still. I always wanted to be going somewhere, and if I wasn't going somewhere, I wanted the clan to go ahead and move already. I'm still a little like that. The world is full of places to see and people to meet. Though I admit, having Skyhold as a home to return to was... a welcome change.” Her smile faltered. “I'm going to miss them forever.”

 

“Uth'shiral,” Abelas repeated, more to himself than to her, still watching her. She had the impression that he was speaking her name aloud as much to commit it to memory as any other reason—a name to go with the face and the title. “I would have called you Suledin. I have thought more than once that you were through, that you could not possibly continue living. Each time, you survived. I do not know if it strengthened you, but here we stand.” He reached, and his hand paused just over her shoulder, on the brink of an affectionate pat on the shoulder. She turned and wrapped her arms around him in a quick hug that he did not return; when she let go, he stood still and startled, and let his hand drop back to his side.

 

“Here we stand, with a storm heading our way, and both of us prone to seasickness,” the Inquisitor laughed. “We can feel sorry for ourselves all we like, but that changes nothing. We must, as you say, endure.” She watched the storm quietly for a few moments, allowing her belly a bit more time to calm down. “I'm assuming you're still hungry, and I have some questions of my own, if you're willing to answer them.”

 

“I will answer the questions that are not too painful, or too dangerous,” Abelas agreed, turning back toward the cabin. “Are all the rations as tasteless as the last meal I had here?”
 

“Unfortunately yes.” Uth'shiral followed him toward the mess hall. “The Dalish have lost almost all of the culture of the Elvhen, much as we've tried to learn and keep the old ways intact. I know you say there are things we can't even understand—maybe that's true. But the language, at least... you speak it, right? Even if you don't want to share anything else, that much would be a precious gift. I would be able to teach the rest of my clan. You don't have to deal with them if you'd rather not.” She wished he would speak with them—wished he'd make other friends, that he'd be inspired to go and make the world better for the elves, if not for the other people suffering across Thedas. But Abelas was a man who'd been mourning for centuries, and even then the scars were fresh. He might never be ready for such a step.

 

Abelas gave a weary sigh as he stepped through the door. “Gather them together tomorrow. With my injuries, I cannot aid the crew. I am accustomed to teaching shemlen.”

 

“Wait, accustomed to it? How, exactly?” The Inquisitor paused outside of the mess hall door, addressing Abelas's back. When had he dealt with mortals so often that he'd become used to it? When had he had time for teaching, when he woke only to defend the temple?

 

He hesitated, and even seeing only his back, Lavellan knew he was choosing his wording carefully. He might be a friend, but, she realized, much like Solas, he'd never tell her everything she wanted to know. If she ever found out, it would not be from a direct source. “After the fall of Arlathan,” Abelas said softly, “all the elves born were shemlen, and all of those who were awake at the time became shemlen. Those of us who slept at that time retain—we remain ageless. Each time we woke, more of us died—disease took us, or battle, or one another. Some of those who should be ageless began to feel the press of years, as well. Some entered the endless sleep. Most of the Sentinels are as mortal as you are, and almost as lacking in understanding. I taught what I could, but some things... it is best not to teach, even if there is a chance they might understand. If they could truly understand it, it would only bring them sorrow.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Your inability to understand is not your fault, and I will explain what I can. But...” he turned his attention toward the tables and the storage cabinets, rummaging for available dry rations. “I have no intention of becoming a spectacle to your people. You have status. If it were known for certain that I am 'ancient,' as you call me, too much attention would be drawn to me by those who would take advantage or even attempt to cause harm. I cannot stay only for your sake. Once this ship makes landfall...” Sadness seeped into his tone, and she wasn't certain if it were due to loneliness or because he felt parting ways was a necessity. Maybe he was sad for her sake, being abandoned yet again. Maybe he was sad because he intended to enter an eternal slumber after all. If he did, how could she blame him? With as much as she had lost, at least she was still living in a familiar world. Abelas didn't even have that. Either way, he wore the same death-like visage of weariness he had the first time she had met him in the Temple of Mythal.

 

“I understand. I don't like the attention I get, most days, either,” Uth'shiral replied. “I'm grateful that you've offered to teach us even for a little while. If you were to go to Skyhold, there are even books written in ancient Elvhen that you could have helped us with...” Some part of her hoped he might be convinced to stay on with the Inquisition anyway. He was not as easy a friend as Varric, or fun to banter with like Dorian. She couldn't imagine Abelas and Sera sneaking around and playing pranks on people together. However, he was dependable and asked for little in return—and she had noticed a moment or two when he'd shown an unexpected sense of humor, a crack in his stoic facade that seemed to have crumbled away since she'd gone to his rescue in the Fade. She had earned his complete respect, she realized—and perhaps his trust along with it.

 

“If you wish to speak it, you must also read it,” Abelas answered her firmly. “I'll show you tomorrow.”

 

“We'll be making landfall within another two weeks at most,” Uth'shiral said dubiously. “Either you'll need to plan to visit us for more lessons, or--”

 

“You must all study hard,” he interrupted, with a wicked grin that alerted her he was at least partly teasing. “Especially you. I can't teach you everything—it would take longer than we have. It will be a beginning, and that will have to be enough, until we meet again. Gather your people tomorrow.” He gnawed on a piece of smoked fish with an expression of distaste. “Please tell me that there is drinking water somewhere nearby. This fish tastes of ashes.”

 

“There is,” Uth'shiral replied, between bites of her own strip of smoked fish, “but it's stale now after days in the barrels, and you won't be happy with it either.”

 

“Is there ale, then? Wine, perhaps?”

 

She shook her head. “If there is, it's the crew's and the captain's, and they're not sharing it.”

 

The Sentinel sighed. “Show me the barrels, and I will cleanse the water with a spell or two. Perhaps with some herbs and another spell, there will be proper drinks.”

 

“Really? You can do that?” Uth'shiral asked. “I wish you'd said something sooner. All those times we camped, and we could have had something better than boiled muddy water?”

 

She had not even noticed when Cole had left them to attend to the rest of Clan Lavellan's survivors.

[Brass_Buckles]

Part 45:  In Which Knowledge Is Shared

 

Spoiler

“You are late,” Abelas thundered, silhouetted against the light in the doorway of the cabin. “Get dressed if you aren't already. The lessons begin today. From now on, you will wake at dawn and assemble on deck. The crew are already working. If you do not intend to help them, you will be in my charge. I would see the children assembled, too,” he added firmly.

 

Uth'shiral groaned, then dragged herself from the railed bunk she felt she had only just crawled into. The storm had tossed the ship all night when it had finally caught up. They were fortunate not to have been caught by a sea serpent—they were often drawn by storms. However, the sails had been torn and water had been swept into the deck. Some of their supplies were lost. The Inquisitor had helped how she could, as had Abelas and in fact all of the other elves—although it was now very clear what Sorien had meant about the crew's suspicions and superstitions. Uth'shiral, Sorien, and Abelas had used their magic to keep more water away from the deck, to keep the stores that could be spared dry, and to dry the salted goods that had been soaked through. Using magic to aid them had done the elves no favor. The others, not being seafarers, had been of limited help. Cole tried to ease the crew's fears, but he had little success.

 

The only thing good about their situation was that no sea serpent had risen up from the depths during the storm; they often appeared at such times, demolishing vessels or even whole fleets before departing, leaving one or two survivors clinging to some scrap of a ship if they were fortunate. If not, the crew would never be heard from again.

 

The Sentinel's decision to teach lessons had come at a fortunate time. If the elves presented a united front, rather than squabbling among themselves, it would be more difficult for the crew to strike them unaware. Uth'shiral and Sorien had decided that a watch must be set up so that the Dalish and Abelas could sleep safely. The crew had not attacked them so far; perhaps, out of respect for the Inquisitor, they never would. She and Sorien agreed that it was better to be cautious, all the same—Uth'shiral did not count on her continued popularity.

 

“Lessons?” Assanvir asked sleepily. “I don't remember anything about lessons... Who is this man, Keeper?” He turned over in his bunk.

 

“Up, Assanvir. You, too, Mirevas,” Uth'shiral ordered. Atisha, to her credit, had not so much as moaned her displeasure as she drew herself nimbly from the cramped bunk. Uth'shiral's brother was not in the cabin; presumably he was already up and about—she hoped he wasn't causing trouble, since trouble already seemed likely to find them. Bel'eranen was moving slowly, stiff from the work she'd tried to do the night before, but at least she was moving. “A lesson from Abelas is nothing less than a blessing from Mythal. Atish'adahlen, Halin, don't be frightened. He'll be kind to you. Won't you, Abelas?” She asked, with a stern look in the Sentinel's direction.

 

Abelas crossed his arms over his chest, and for a moment she thought he was going to refuse. Then he nodded. “Yes. I will be kind.” His eyes swept across the handful of elves, and settled on Atisha and Sorien. “To all of you,” he added in a quieter voice. “Your... Keeper and I had a discussion. Ir abelas, lethallin. Loss is never easy. Knowledge won't replace the missing faces, but it is something I can give. What I ask is that you meet me on the deck at dawn each day, until we reach the Storm Coast. Rising so early may not always be easy, but it is a minor inconvenience at best. It is the price to be paid for learning from me. If you feel that the knowledge is not worth the effort, at least you will be among your kin. That, at least, should ease your hearts.” He was looking each one of them in the eyes in turn, Uth'shiral realized. He intended to remember these shemlen faces, at least. The realization gladdened her and broke her heart at the same time.

 

One by one, the Dalish filed from the cabin as the sun rose over the sparkling sea. Atisha and Mirevas each held one of the two children's hands; Bel'eranen and Assanvir walked closely together; and Uth'shiral stepped out last. If not for the damage to the ship, and the concerns about whether their supplies would last, it would have seemed as if the storm had never come.

 

Abelas chose a spot that was mostly dry and undamaged, out of the way of the crew. That did not prevent their suspicious stares, or a shout or two that the elves should be helping. A quick gesture from Uth'shiral brought Sorien to the group, and he joined the semicircle that had formed around Abelas, with Uth'shiral directly in front of the Sentinel. Cole lingered behind the group, listening but not interfering—as far as she could tell, anyway.

 

“Believe me or not, as you choose,” Abelas said softly, perhaps hoping his voice would not carry to the crew, “but I have served Mythal for thousands of years, and expect to serve her for thousands more. I have spent more time dreaming in the Fade than any of you have spent alive. In the place you know as the Arbor Wilds, there was once a great temple dedicated to the All-Mother. I was her Sentinel, guarding her temple and her knowledge from the unworthy. When she was murdered, the Sentinels slept, and we woke only to protect a temple that crumbled to ruin more every time. The children of the Sentinels were shemlen, like yourselves—quickened elves who can never quite understand what it is to truly be Elvhen, through no fault of your own. Mythal's knowledge was taken, and the temple has fallen. My duty has ended with the sanctity of the temple, and perhaps now I who meant to keep the watch forever if need be shall share the same fate as you. It matters not.”

 

The other Dalish did not seem to know what to make of Abelas's words. They turned to one another, murmuring and whispering. “Are you really, really old? You don't look really old,” Atish'adahlen said. “Papa was older than you.”

 

Abelas laughed. “Before the fall of Arlathan, none of us knew old age,” he answered. “You could spend thousands of years sleeping, learning about the deepest parts of the Fade, and a thousand more working on a grand piece of art. Now...” His smile faltered.

 

“You don't have to talk about things that hurt, Abelas,” Uth'shiral told him. “The language would be enough knowledge. We have lost so much of it—most of us can't even write the simplest sentence in Elvhen any longer.”

 

“Mythal wasn't murdered, though,” Sorien said. “She was trapped, by Fen'harel. We all know that.”

 

“Mythal was slain by the followers of one who wished to be a god,” Abelas replied. “The Dread Wolf did not have anything to do with it. I do not wish to discuss it further. It happened; it is done. The world we must now live in is the result. We endure.”

 

“There is nothing he can say to prove his position, or his knowledge,” Uth'shiral told the group. “I also know what I saw and what I learned. Abelas is who and what he says he is. If there are things he doesn't want to say, please accept that. We have lost almost everything and everyone we ever knew, but he has lost even more. Sorien, you told me I needed to pay more attention to my clan. I am. I'm hopeful that the knowledge Abelas shares can keep our clan together, now that Deshanna is gone.”

 

“That is why I agreed to this,” Abelas revealed. Uth'shiral's eyebrows rose. “You are surprised? You told me what you lost, what they lost. You helped me; I wish to help you. The crew of this vessel do not like us. Any of us. They especially dislike me, your Keeper, and her brother. Magic displeases them—it is difficult for me to understand why one would hate something that helps, but they do not understand magic. Elves displease them, though I do not know why. You have not lost everything, but you could. The Inquisitor has a Keep; there are others of your people there. You can rebuild together. I shall teach you as if you were Sentinels under my charge. The knowledge you gain may help you make alliances in the future. The rest is up to you.” Abelas gave a frustrated sigh and pushed back his hood to rub at his temples. He'd begun to grow golden stubble on his scalp; before, he had been as bald as Solas. Although Uth'shiral wondered what it meant, she didn't dare to ask.

 

“Are you sure you didn't marry him, after all?” Atisha asked. “I doubt he's doing this for the rest of us.”

 

“You are wrong,” Abelas replied; Uth'shiral suspected he was losing patience. “I was harsh. This is my apology. It may be painful to hear new voices speak old words, but good to hear them spoken again at all and know that they will not be lost.”

 

“All right, then how would you say--” It was Sorien who began the lessons in earnest. Abelas translated his words, explained possible alternate meanings, and then used magic to etch the runes for the elves to see.

 

Atisha took to the lessons better than anyone; the Inquisitor noticed her old calm returning, day by day. Although Atisha would likely never be the same cheerful person she once had been, her temper settled. And as the days went by and Mirevas began to become more withdrawn, Atisha was able to keep her lover connected to the others.

 

Sorien surprised Uth'shiral. She had told him he needed to learn, and needed to be prepared. She worried he would fail, that he would never rise to the position of Keeper's First. Instead, he took charge. He studied Abelas's lessons, even going so far as to ask for additional help with spellwork, combining it with his archery and swordwork in ways Uth'shiral didn't think had been seen since the time of Arlathan, or at least by other Sentinels. She'd never seen her twin work so hard, but somehow, Abelas had managed to instill respect and discipline into her independent brother. Clan Lavellan would not be left leaderless.

 

Assanvir, Atisha, and Mirevas formed their own group under Abelas's directions. Though they lacked magic, he offered his experience from centuries of observing others' technique. They sometimes set up targets aboard the ship using some of the empty barrels. Uth'shiral even caught Abelas practicing with them—he was nearly as good with a bow as he was with a blade.

 

Cole spent more time with Abelas now than with anyone. Sometimes, seeking one or the other out for conversation, Uth'shiral would find him sharing stories with Bel'eranen or the children, or both. In those times, she would sit with them, listening and sometimes laughing with them. On these occasions, they all learned something new. Halin and Atish'adahlen had become fond of Uncle Abelas, and Bel'eranen had not been named “many stories” without good cause. Abelas seemed to enjoy a good tale as much as she did, and Uth'shiral was glad to see the friendship form.

 

The Inquisitor often found Bel'eranen in Assanvir's company. Since their time on the run from the nobles of Wycome, the two had become close. Not even Abelas's stories or training could keep them apart for long. Uth'shiral thought they'd probably be asking her to bless their wedding before long, and often smiled to herself in her bunk at night at the thought.

 

As much as Abelas had to do with helping, it was Uth'shiral everyone came to when there was a squabble. When the crew said something off color, she was the one who was called upon to settle the dispute. When the watch was set up so that the crew would not strike them in their sleep, Uth'shiral was the one who chose who took which watch. When they weren't studying, she made sure that the elves were busy helping the crew—supplies were short, and if the crew already didn't like them, refusing to work would make them like the elves even less. Although Abelas shared his knowledge, he wasn't Dalish and still, somehow, despite becoming friendly, managed to keep a certain distance from Clan Lavellan. Uth'shiral, by contrast, was their Keeper, and found herself at the center of everything.

 

The shattered fragments of Clan Lavellan were healing. They would always have their scars, but they were going to be okay.

 

Then, at long last, the port town where Uth'shiral had left her red hart came into view over the horizon. Although the remaining supplies had managed to last, there wasn't a day's worth of food or water remaining. Everyone was slimmer than they were when the journey began, with the exception of Abelas—despite the fact that he had not eaten any better than any of the others.

 

Everyone aboard the ship was pleased to see the shore at last. The crew were probably as glad to be rid of the elves as they were to restock and be on their way home, but as the ship approached the docks, their joy was palpable. The rivalry between the Dalish and the human crew seemed to be forgotten. One of the crew actually grabbed and hugged a stunned Assanvir just before running away get the boat moored.

 

Uth'shiral stood at the railing, watching the docks and the town approach closer and closer. A small crowd appeared, drawn by the unexpected appearance of an unknown vessel. Flags were raised on the shore and the ship, signaling things Uth'shiral could barely guess at. Cole appeared at her side.

 

“They're waiting at Skyhold,” Cole said. “Planning, preparing, pestering, sure she'll be home soon so the Seeker and Sera can settle. You were missed.”

 

“I missed them, too,” the Inquisitor said. “Will you go back to Skyhold, too?”

 

“Yes, until you don't need me there. Others need me, too. More than you, now. When we get there, I can help them.” Cole stood on top of the railing.

 

“We'll all be there soon.” The boat bumped against the dock; crew members rushed to tie it. Cole showed no sign of losing his balance even as Uth'shiral clung to the railing to keep her footing.

 

“Yes,” Cole replied. “I need to help them.” As soon as he had spoken, he vanished.

 

A board was set between the ship and the dock. Uth'shiral waved to the other Dalish, then jogged across the ramp, past the stunned observers (“Is that the Inquisitor?” “Why is the Herald of Andraste on a fishing boat?”), and onto solid ground at last. Clan Lavellan jogged after her, until they were all greeted by an Inquisition soldier.

 

“Inquisitor! You're wanted back at Skyhold. We've had orders to watch for you at the ports and send back word at once if you arrived. You're to get back to Skyhold as soon as you can. Your hart and the two other beasts you left are still at the inn, but your company wasn't expected.” The young city elf eyed the hungry-looking Dalish elves for a moment. “They look like they could use a meal and a bath, if you don't mind my saying. I'll make arrangements. Right this way!”

 

She started to follow the young man, along with the other Dalish elves.

 

“Uth'shiral, wait,” Abelas requested.

 

Sorien looked at her as she hesitated, glancing back toward the Sentinel. “Go on, everyone. I'll be there soon.” As they passed by, she changed direction toward the stable. “I think I know what you want to say.”

 

“If you guessed that this is my farewell, then yes,” Abelas replied, walking after her. For someone so tall, his steps were unnaturally quiet.

 

She opened the door to the barn, smiling as her red hart stamped his eagerness to reunite with his rider. “Missed me, boy?” she asked as she approached the beast, scratching his nose just where he liked it. “I hope they led you around for exercise and fed you well.”

 

“Uth'shiral.” Abelas was looking at her with his arms crossed.

 

“Sorry. I'm not very good with 'goodbyes,' these days. Your mount—the palomino... it's still here,” she pointed out. “So you can saddle up and--”

 

“I dislike farewells, and I do not need a mount.” He settled onto a bench nearby. “I am still under a geas to Mythal.”

 

“Which means...?” Lavellan prompted, turning to watch Abelas as she continued petting the massive deer.

 

“It means that farewells are necessary. It means that I am parting ways to make it more difficult to act against you, if I am called upon by Mythal. It means that I may turn against you and fully believe it was my own idea. I don't wish to betray you.” He stood and walked toward her, resting his hands on her shoulders. She stopped petting the hart and met his gaze. “Distance will make doing so more difficult.”

 

“I... see.” Just when things began to be okay again, someone had to talk about betrayal and... Wasn't Solas's departure enough? She already knew that whatever Solas was doing probably wasn't something she was going to like. “Does this have to do with Solas? And why you wanted to find him?”

 

“Yes.” As harsh as the answer was, Uth'shiral appreciated his directness. He gazed at her so intently for a long moment, his hands still on her shoulders, that she expected him to lean down and press his lips to hers. Despite Solas, despite everything, she wanted him to do just that.

 

But he didn't.

 

“I'm sorry, Abelas. You must be feeling torn.” She remembered the doubt spirit, and the fear demons that had attacked Abelas. Abelas wasn't sure what to do, and was probably afraid to act whatever he chose. This world was not his; it was alien to him. She would be frightened and uncertain in those circumstances, too. She briefly considered leaning up and giving him a farewell kiss, but it would not be fair. She still loved Solas, although Solas had broken her heart many times over. Before she could even think of moving on with someone else, she needed to resolve her feelings for Solas. She was more certain than ever that such a resolution was coming.

 

The Sentinel's hands dropped from her shoulders. “Dareth shiral, ma falon.” He stepped backward, watching the Inquisitor for one last moment, then turned toward the door. “If the situation had not been so complicated, I could have loved you. The spirit knew. Parting ways, at least for now, is probably better for both of us. Your heart needs time to heal. As does my own.”

 

The Inquisitor kept her silence as he left. She didn't follow him; she knew he wouldn't want her to know which direction he went. She'd probably hear about his travels later on, from the Inquisition soldiers and scouts, whether she wanted to or not. Distance would probably make them safer. Abelas was probably right; romance was not what either of them needed, just now.

 

She spent some more time with her hart, but the beast was already groomed so well that he gleamed in the dim light of the stable. There was no use in putting off the inevitable. At last, she went inside the inn to tell the others that Abelas had left while she had a meal. At least there was a bath to look forward to for certain this time. And then... Skyhold, her home.

 

My bird died today.  I wrote this to not think about my bird so much.  As such the quality is probably not the best.  I don't really feel up to going back over it.  Maybe I will eventually.

 

For the explanation of how the Inquisitor/Abelas arc ends... please read the end notes over at AO3.  Link to my page is in my signature.

 

Thank you for reading.

[Brass_Buckles]

Part 46:  In Which She Goes Home

 

Spoiler

The road back to Skyhold was long, but well-guarded. Although Cole had not reappeared since she had reached shore, the Inquisitor was unconcerned. People needed help; Cole would show them the compassion that they deserved. Nor did she allow herself to fret over what might become of Abelas, ancient and adrift in an unfamiliar time and an unfamiliar world. Abelas had proven, despite himself, that he was capable of adapting. He'd be fine, and Uth'shiral knew it was better that they parted. Even Solas's absence could not weigh on her mind—someday, she would see him again. Someday, she would have some kind of answer from him. If it were not the answer she wanted, then at last she would be ready to move on. She was simply glad to be with the handful of family she had left, astride the red hart that had become as much a pet as a utilitarian mount. And just as much so, she was glad to be riding back to her friends at Skyhold. It had been childish to flee; how were they to know of her suffering if she never mentioned it to them, herself?

 

It was eerie to ride past the once-bustling camps toward the massive bridge that led to her fortress. Now they were mostly empty; campfires blazed here and there in the darkness and the few tents that remained in place were tattered from wind and wear. The people standing watch hailed the Inquisitor and her escort as they past; the rest remained asleep at this late hour. Beneath her, the red hart pranced. She fought to keep his pace at a steady walk; her own eagerness to be back was influencing the hart.

 

The hooves of the animals clattered onto the stone bridge. Uth'shiral's stomach fluttered in anticipation – but no one was going to be awake, and it appeared that most of the people of Skyhold, not just the camps, had departed. She imagined servants hard at work scrubbing and cleaning and tending, and winced—they continued to attend to their duties, even as she had abandoned hers—however briefly that might be.

 

She reined in her hart at the gate; the others' mounts halted behind her as the guard took one look and raised the gate to let them in. Part of her had expected some sort of lavish greeting. The Inquisition soldiers from camp to camp had made certain to send word of her progress toward Skyhold. There was no doubt that everyone knew she would be home tonight. Skyhold was silent at this hour. Even most of the servants were sleeping; perhaps the kitchen staff and the stablehands had just begun to stir to prepare breakfast and ready mounts for the scouts and soldiers and officials of the Inquisition. She pictured everyone sleeping soundly as she snuck up the stairs into her quarters for the first restful night she'd had in months. She pictured the paperwork she'd surely have to go over with Josephine with considerably less enthusiasm—but it was her own fault for having left, and she would attend to her duties without complaint.

 

The guard who had let them in gestured to the other guard at the gate. She loped toward the stables to inform a stablehand that the Inquisitor had arrived

 

“I never want to ride a horse again,” Sorien mumbled under his breath

 

“You get used to it if you ride them enough,” Uth'shiral replied.

 

“So says the one riding a hart,” Mirevas countered.

 

“I miss the aravels,” Bel'eranen sighed.

 

“We're here now, so you're safe from the saddle again for at least a while,” Uth'shiral said. “I don't know what we're going to do from now forward, but... we're here. Let's get some rest. Tomorrow we'll actually have something better to eat than trail food.”

 

“That's the best suggestion I've ever heard you make,” Sorien said.

 

“And that's a terrible exaggeration,” Atisha retorted as she reached for Atish'adahlen's hand; Uth'shiral noticed that Mirevas had done the same with Halin. “Come, Adahlen. Let's not get separated from everyone else.”

 

They walked toward the main entrance, Uth'shiral urging everyone to be quiet so that they didn't wake anyone.

 

As she reached the top stair, the doors swung wide. The scents of fresh food swept toward her from the main hallway; the babble of voices murmured in an eager cacophany. At first the Inquisitor had no idea what was going on. And then she saw Josephine standing close to the entryway.

 

“Welcome back, Inquisitor! I received word that you would arrive early this morning. I believe you have come a bit earlier than anticipated, but we did order the cakes just in time and--”

 

“Everything is simply lovely, Josephine. You've outdone yourself. Truly!” Dorian exclaimed, walking up to see what the commotion was about. “I do question the décor, but we have no one to blame for that but the Inquisitor. Of course, if it makes her feel more welcome...” he gave Uth'shiral a wink. “Come, have a seat and enjoy some wine--”

 

“Hold it right there. Who said you get to have the Inquisitor all to yourself?” Varric demanded, pushing his way through the crowd. “She still owes me a game of Wicked Grace.”

 

Uth'shiral found herself passed from person to person—hadn't they all left? Weren't only her advisors and Sera left? She was too confused to give them more than the most basic of answers as they plied her with questions and greetings.

 

“Do you have any idea the plans that I had to rearrange to be here?” Vivienne demanded as Uth'shiral tried to push her way through the crowd. “Still, it is a lovely party, and I have spotted several nobles in this crowd. So much opportunity is not to be wasted! I thought it was meant to be exclusive... I suppose Josephine knew better than to turn away potential political alliances. Nevermind that, my dear. We simply must arrange for a spa day sometime soon. Come to Orlais and I will be sure you go home relaxed. If--”

 

Sera appeared as if from nowhere, engulfing her in a bear hug. “If you ever pull that stunt again I'll--”

 

“Sera! Give the Inquisitor room to breathe,” Cassandra ordered, walking over to Lavellan's side as if expecting her presence to keep the others at a respectful distance.

 

Sera released her grip, sticking her tongue out at Cassandra. “Oh come off it! You know she missed me!”

 

By that point, Uth'shiral had entirely lost track of her Dalish entourage. She was surrounded with familiar people, all of them treating her more as if she'd died than as if she'd been away for a few months.

 

“So, about that game of Wicked Grace...” she managed, grinning down at Varric. “I think we could get in a few rounds with the whole gang. We've even got snacks! And I bet my brother and Bel'eranen could tell you a few stories.”

 

“Oooh, Wicked Grace and cake!” Sera exclaimed. “I'll get the booze!”

 

“Really, darling? You should be mingling!” Vivienne scolded.

 

“I am mingling—I haven't seen any of you in months, Vivienne,” Uth'shiral responded. “Why don't you join us?”

 

“I'll warn Cullen,” Vivienne said from a doorway.

 

“That's no fun!” Sera yelled. “Blackwall! Blackwall, go get Cullen, fast!”

 

“I'll get him for you,” Iron Bull rumbled from across the room.

 

In the boisterous chaos that followed, Uth'shiral grew certain that no matter what the future brought, or what might or might not become of her, everyone she knew would be okay. Even if everything didn't go as ideally as they wanted it to, even if life was difficult, they would adapt and they would endure. Cassandra, Cullen, Leliana, Vivienne, Iron Bull, Varric, Sera, Dorian, Blackwall... They might not always be perfect at showing it, but they were her friends all along, and they always would be. She had no idea why she had ever doubted it.

 

She glanced toward the end of the hallway and saw Cole staring back at her. She didn't have to hear him to know that he said only, “Yes.”

 

So... This is the end.  Thanks again for reading.

 

I want to go back and rework this final chapter sometime and flesh it out more, because even though it gives sort of the "feel" I wanted it to have, it is pretty rough.