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Chapter Text

She was nearly 2,000 years old before it was known that she was the Dragonborn. 

For countless centuries, Alatariel had been assisting her father, Knight-Paladin Gelebor, and uncle, Arch-Curate Vyrthur, maintain what was most likely, the last Sanctuary of Auriel. But without the necessary staff of hundreds required to run such a vast network of wayshrines, the Chantry had quickly fallen into ruin, though its magicks still held strong. It was a thankless task, an endless duty, one dedicated to eliminating as much of The Betrayed as she could, and keeping the shrines in working order.

Alatariel had not bore witness to the fall of her people, but her father and uncle's stories could only fill her with deep melancholy and a vindictive satisfaction at the disappearance of the Dwemer. As the last known female Snow Elf, she had a duty to perform. Alatariel continued onwards with her life, content with staying within the confines of the crumbling Chantry, until the moment Auriel decided otherwise. 

When the two dragons that were sleeping beneath the Frozen Lake of the Forgotten Vale broke free, Alatariel slew them with the help of her father and uncle before they could threaten the total destruction of the shrine. Although the return of the dragons boded ill, it was not meant to impact the last three Snow Elves so deeply...until the moment she absorbed the dragons' souls. She was filled with so much fear, trepidation, only for it to increase tenfold when The Greybeards of High Hrothgar called for her not long after, their thundering voices shattering the skies. 

Her father and uncle had turned to her then, eyes shining with so much hope, one long gone since the ignominious fall of their brethren. 

"You are the Dragonborn, Alatariel, Auri-El's chosen." Her father had said, a calloused hand caressing her long, silver hair. She'd stared at him, wide-eyed. "The All-Father calls upon you."

"Indeed." Vyrthur conceded, staring up at the sky. "The return of the dragons means the return of Alduin. We know that the Dovahkiin could be of any race, but for it to be a Snow Elf this time...our Lord has plans for our kin."

Alatariel had not uttered a word then, still in the depths of shock. Her lilac eyes strayed to the corpses of the dragons they'd slew, naught but bone and cinder. 

"Go to them," Gelebor said. "Answer The Greybeards' call." Her uncle nodded to show his agreement.

Alatariel shook her head. "What about the Chantry? The Betrayed, you can't possibly-"

"We've guarded this Chantry long before your birth and the fall of our kin. We shall persevere as we always have." Vyrthur replied firmly. Her uncle's faith was absolute and unbending–or at least she thought it was.

And so it began. The discovery that she was a Snow Elf was a surprise to all she encountered. 

But from then on, she was no longer Alatariel, acolyte and potential Knight-Paladin to Auriel, she was Alatariel the Dovahkiin, the Qahnaarin, slayer of Alduin and Miraak, favoured of the Daedric Princes, leader of the Thieves Guild and The Dark Brotherhood, and honoured 'head' of the Volkihar Clan and The Companions. 

It was a colourful life, to say the least.

Alatariel returned to the place of her birth, the Chantry, once the mess with The Dawnguard had concluded. Knowing that only her father would be waiting for her caused a deep, lancing pain in her heart. The loss and betrayal of Uncle Vyrthur was one of the biggest blows she'd experienced, his wisdom and experience lost forever. 

She had always intended to refurbish and restore the Chantry, but lacked the coin and resources to do so. After all, her duties to Auriel and his shrines took precedence. 

But now? She was an infinitesimally wealthy woman–especially after killing Mercer Frey and taking his place at the helm of the Thieves Guild–with plenty of time to spare. There were no world-ending problems to solve that required the immediate attention of the Hero of Skyrim. So, she had had the path to the wayshrines and Darkfall Cave cleaned out of The Betrayed with the help of Serana, Lydia and a couple other trusted travel companions before building work could begin.

Her father had welcomed her with open arms, surprised but quietly pleased at the restoration work that was happening. She felt he was simply happy to have her home.

Alatariel had her hands aloft as magic weaved between her fingers, in the midst of repairing a broken roof within the Inner Sanctum. Her friend Farkas wheeled away the iced remains of the Falmer to burn them, his brother Vilkas hacking away at the frost creeping the walls. Just as the last remaining brick slotted into place, Serana entered the room. 

"Tari," Serana called, her hood pulled down, yellow eyes glowing in the dark. "Your father and I have finished fixing up the Chapel. Want to come see?"

Alatariel's eyes lit up in excitement. "Of course!" She then turned to the werewolf twins. "Are you two alright to take over here?"

"Yeah, you go on ahead." Vilkas replied, interspersed with the sounds of ice shattering beneath the blade of his axe. He rubbed his nose, something he always did when Serana was near. "Farkas and I will finish up here soon, anyway,"

Alatariel nodded, before following Serana out of the Inner Sanctum. As soon as she entered Auriel's Chapel, the place where she'd battled her own uncle, she was infinitely pleased to see the roof had been restored. All of the ice coating the floors had been melted away, along with the debris that was left behind in the aftermath. She climbed the steps towards the balcony, smiling in satisfaction as she scanned her surroundings. The Snow Elf saw her father standing by the balcony railing with her back towards her. 

Gelebor turned around the moment she passed the wayshrine at the centre, a soft, welcoming smile gracing his eternally youthful features. 

"Daughter," Gelebor said, his smile widening, "I must commend you and your friends' efforts. The Chantry has not been this way in a long, long time. To see it restored as it had been when I was a boy...Auriel would be pleased."

"It's something that I've always wanted to do. I wished Uncle Vyrthur would have been alive to see it."

At this, Gelebor lowered his head, his face drawn and sorrowful. "Yes, it would've made him ecstatic, if he'd seen it before..."

He left the words unsaid. Alatariel nodded, lips pursed. Gelebor then turned to the sky, humming in contemplation.

"Let us turn in for the night. It is close to nightfall, and I know your friends could use some respite."

"I'll stay up to take first watch even though I know we don't need to," Serana said, "I don't need sleep as much as the rest of you."

"I'd very much appreciate it," Gelebor nodded. The three of them walked off towards the Inner Sanctum, aiming to tell the twins that they were done for the day. As they ambled out of Auriel's Chapel, a voice reached her sharp ears, barely reaching a whisper.

Alatariel...

She paused, eyes flitting about in alarm. The Snow Elf's fingers instantly curled around Dawnbreaker's hilt, thousands of years of battle experience guiding her actions. Gelebor and Serana noticed, and were immediately on guard. 

"Did you hear that?" She whispered.

"Hear what?" Serana responded in confusion.

"I confess I don't hear anything," Gelebor supplied. "What is it you hear, daughter?"

"Someone is calling my name," the Last Dragonborn said. Alatariel, the voice said, though louder this time. "There! You must've heard it!"

Both of them shook their heads. They both shot her twin looks of bemusement and concern. 

"'Tari, I'm a vampire. My senses are second to none and I didn't hear anything." Serana looked at her for a long while. "Maybe you're just tired."

To the courtyard, Alatariel, the voice continued, come to the courtyard.

"I'm still hearing it," Alatariel insisted in exasperation. 

"What is it saying now?" Her father asked.

"It's telling me to come to the courtyard."

Yes, the voice said approvingly, the courtyard, Dovahkiin.

Serana frowned. "Is it malicious?"

Alatariel's eyes narrowed as she thought. "No, not at all."

Stand before the statue. You are needed.

"Now it's telling me to stand before the great statue of Auriel in the courtyard."

"You must go at once." Gelebor said in an instant, straightening.

"Father?"

"Are you insane?" Serana asked at the same time she spoke. "What if it's a Daedra?"

"Do you remember where you are, Daughter of Coldharbour?" Gelebor reminded sternly. "No Daedric Prince would think to step foot in Auriel's domain. There can only be one being capable of doing so."

"Auriel," Alatariel whispered in reverence.

"We feel His blessings, but Our Lord has not deigned to speak to us. Go to him, my daughter," Gelebor said, switching to Falmeris, "Auriel lightens your path once more."

"May Auriel continue to find me worthy," Alatariel bowed her head, hand against her heart. She bid them a temporary farewell, venturing the familiar paths leading out towards the main courtyard. A grand statue of Auriel stood as it always had for more than a millennia, his hands held out before him, the rays of the eight-pointed star floating above. 

Closer, child. Stand before the statue.

Alatariel descended the steps, rounding the path to stand as directed. 

"I am here." She called out in her mother tongue. "My Lord Auriel, is it you who calls upon me?"

To her surprise, the statue's hollow eyes began to glow, its radiance steadily growing brighter and brighter to the point she had to look away. When she opened her eyes once more, she gasped. She was no longer in the courtyard of the Inner Sanctum. Alatariel stood amidst a barren expanse wreathed in golden mist. 

"Dragonborn." A deep voice spoke in Falmeris, reverberating from behind her.

She swiftly turned, and was met with a sight she'd not readily forget. A man walked forward, the golden mist parting as he did so. But Alatariel could tell he was no mere man. After all, who could radiate such light, and stir such awe-inspiring reverence than-

"Auriel."

The man-no, elf-approached, outfitted much like his statue in the Inner Sanctum. Long, white locks fell past his golden crown, eyes radiating fire. No statue or painting could capture his likeness, for he was utterly beautiful in a way only a god could be. 

His lips pulled into a gentle smile. 

"Of all the Dragonborn that came before you," Auriel spoke, his voice thrumming in her ears, "none have succeeded my trials like you have,"

"Trials?"

"Slaying my wayward offspring Alduin was just one part of it. What came after...resolving the Civil War, Miraak, the Daedric Princes, The Companions, and finally Vyrthur and Lord Harkon. Of course, acquiring my bow helped boost yourself in my esteem."

Alatariel flinched. "My uncle?"

"His mind was already in the process of disintegrating long before he was turned into a vampire. Vyrthur merely hid it better than others. I did not save him from his predicament due to what perforated his mind; creating the prophecy merely cemented my decision." Auriel revealed. "In truth, it was the final test to determine your suitability. I initially doubted you had the strength to deal with the threat in the shape of a family member. But it seems I was mistaken."

"Suitability, my Lord?" Alatariel echoed, bemused. "I fail to see how killing my own uncle puts me in a suitable position to do anything."

Auriel shook his head, huffing in amusement. "On the contrary, my child, it showed to me that you were prepared to do anything, whatever the cost, to achieve what was intended."

The All-Father began to pace around her. "For years, I have searched, for a warrior worthy to carry out my ultimate will. The past iteration of Dragonborns–courageous though they were–had neither the will nor the strength of character to see it through. I have watched your journey with great interest, Alatariel. You hold great power within you, but remain incorruptible. And in spite of the hardships you've faced throughout your journey, your compassion and innate sense of justice has never abated."

"You are doubtless aware of how Nirn and the other worlds were created. As my brethren and I are sundered from mortal planes, we require a proxy to enact our Will. As such, you will be the one to mete out my Will."

Alatariel breath hitched, disbelieving of what she just heard. 500 years ago she would have fainted, but her battle-hardened psyche strengthened her will to remain conscious. After all, it would humiliate her to no end if she had passed out in front of a god, especially before Auriel Himself!

A glimmer of amusement shone from the god's eyes, as if cognisant of what she was internally going through.

Regaining her composure, she asked:

"What am I to do?"

"There lies another world, where its elves have fallen into such a wretched state. I tremble with rage each moment I bear witness to the atrocities committed against them. Its humans are the worst of their kind; there are other non-human races present, but their injustices do not compare to the ones meted out to its Elven inhabitants." Auriel explained, his beautiful face twisted in his ire. "Long ago, their elves were mighty, eternal, and felt the touch of  Magnus, Syrabane and Stendarr. But like my son Alduin, they used these gifts to pursue their own misdeeds. One of their own turned against them, separating the world from the blessing of Magnus. Although I commend him for taking action, it was unbearably short-sighted."

"Now the elves are shorn from their immortality, their magic and live akin to slaves. You, my Champion, will turn them to the light of Auriel, Xarxes and the rest of my brethren, and not these false gods that call themselves The Evanuris. You will guard them, shield them, until they can learn once more to stand on their own."

"It shall be done." Alatariel held firmly.

"Good." Auriel nodded. "I trust you to do as you see fit. I will open a bridge between Nirn and the other world, Thedas. The door to Skyrim shall always remain upon your person."

"I may return whenever I see fit?" She asked, looking down at the eight-pointed golden star that suddenly appeared in her hand. It was the size of a human heart and it practically radiated magic, an aura not too dissimilar from the shrines in the Chantry.

"As I said, I trust your judgement, my child."

"What about the other non-human races?" Alatariel questioned. "What if they choose to follow you?"

"They can do as they wish. It is the lives of that of Thedas' elves that are most at risk. Skyrim's Chantry is yours to use as you wish it."

Alatariel nodded. "I will not fail."

"I know you won't, daughter." Auriel conceded, hands clasped behind his back. "Know you do not have much time. But I suspect you're quite familiar with accomplishing marvellous feats within a limited time frame." Was her Lord teasing her? She wasn't aware that deities had time for such a mundane act as teasing.

"Now go. Walk knowing you have my blessings and that of mine brethren."

"Alatariel? What did our Lord command?"

Those were the first words her father said to her as she entered the room, dazed, gripping tightly onto the eight-pointed star the god had given her. She entered a hidden section of the Chantry, replete with a suite of chambers for the exclusive use of Chantry staff, though it had been repurposed to fit the needs of her party of companions during their stay. 

They all stood when she appeared.

"Auriel spoke to me. He showed Himself to me, Father."

Gelebor's eyes widened considerably. His eyes drifted to what lay in her hand.

"That's..." Vilkas began, though his voice died off in his state of disbelief. 

"-absolutely fucking crazy." Farkas finished. 

"And what did Auriel bid you do?" Gelebor questioned, ignoring the twins.

"He asked me to travel to another world, to save its elves."

Silence reigned. Their resident vampire was the one to break it in her usual deadpan manner. "Saving elves from another world, huh? I mean that's right up there with all the world-ending stuff you're doing so far, anyway."

Her housecarl, Lydia, spoke up. "It is an honourable quest, my Thane. Will you require my sword during this journey?" Ah. Practical and blunt as always. Auriel bless you, Lydia, the Snow Elf thought.

"Not this time, Lydia," Alatariel replied. "Although Auriel had given me this key to unlock the door to this other realm, I'm allowed to return to Skyrim whenever I please."

"Blessed be Auriel," Gelebor whispered to himself. No doubt her father's heart was aching at the thought of her leaving once more, to a place only gods could reach, though their duty to Auriel had always been paramount.

Serana stepped forward. "Let me accompany you, my friend."

Farkas and Vilkas did the same in tandem. "Going to another world on your own? Seems like a tall order, even for you, Dragonborn."

"I thank you all, but I need you all here in the Sanctuary, for what's coming."

Serana cocked a brow, one hand on her hip. "You have a plan, I take it?"

Alatariel grinned. "I always do."

She rose early the next morning, strapping on her set of Nightingale Armour. Alatariel would have preferred her Daedric Armour, but she knew she would've stuck out like a sore thumb. She needed to get her lay of the land first, and she couldn't do that if she drew eyes upon her person. 

Checking her magically enhanced pack where she kept all her essentials: food, coin, armour, weapons and Daedric artefacts. Alatariel hummed in satisfaction as she saw that everything was in working order. The Snow Elf strapped Auriel's Bow to her back, sheathed a pair of Daedric swords to her sides and slipped daggers in hidden nooks not many would see. 

She met her father's eyes as soon as she turned. He wore an expression of hope and resignation as she hefted her pack onto her back in a practised fashion. 

"There have not been one whom Auriel has shown much favour to since Trinimac," Gelebor began, approaching her. "I trust Auriel would have sent His blessings, but allow me to do so to you, my beautiful daughter."

Father and daughter embraced. Alatariel felt a warm wash of golden light envelop her. Her lilac eyes slid shut as she relished in the Blessing of Auriel, her body fortified and cleansed. She felt her father kiss her forehead and stroke her hair, before slowly, reluctantly, letting go. 

Alatariel looked to the doorway, seeing her friends standing by respectfully, before each came forward to embrace her. 

"Fight well, Dragonborn." The twins said in unison.

"I will be here if you need me, my Thane," 

"Don't be dumb, alright?" Serana said, crossing her arms. "If you need help, just say it. You know where to find me."

Alatariel smiled, holding back from tearing up. Her journey as Dragonborn had been rife with disappointments and betrayals, but the friends she had made along the way were priceless in her eyes.

She gave them a short bow, before turning to a blank wall bereft of decorations. Alatariel had chosen the Chantry's dining area as the entryway to this other world. Planting the eight-pointed key on the wall, she turned it twice clockwise, and pressed it deep into the wall, wherein it sank and began to spin rapidly until it was a golden blur.

Akin to The Chantry's wayshrines, a door carved itself into the surface of the wall. She couldn't see what was on the other side, as she could with the wayshrines here. With one last look at her father and lifelong companions, Alatariel took her first step past the threshold. The Snow Elf paused, as she found herself facing a bridge hewn from gold. The starry night sky surrounded her, towering arches festooned with leafy vines loomed above her, and on the other end, a door. 

Thedas, she thought. 

Without further hesitation, Alatariel traversed the golden bridge, reaching the other door. She passed through it and instantly, she understood that what Auriel spoke was true. This realm of Thedas was bereft of Magnus's gifts, though slivers of it linger. It was a choking, suffocating sensation. She drew a deep breath to steady herself, her Thu'um rumbling within her, aching to break free. Conjuring fire in her palm, she gave a prayer of thanks to Auriel. Alatariel was thankful she drew her magic from Auriel and the great reaches of Aetherius, and not whatever this abomination Thedas had was. 

She looked around, finding herself in a ruined temple. Alatariel could glean that it was Elven; it seemed however far their realms are, Elven architecture retained common features. Turning around, the eight-pointed star withdrew itself from the wall and flew right into her palm. Hmm, she thought, it seems its physical form is not beholden to Nirn. It was very handy. She initially thought she'd have to leave the key behind and make repeated returns to this dilapidated shrine, but it seems it would always remain on her person, as Auriel said. That removed the dangers of anyone ever finding the doorway to Skyrim or laying their hands on such a precious artefact as this. 

Gathering her bearings, the Dragonborn took her first steps into Thedas. 

Chapter Text

The Hinterlands

Thus far, her first impressions of Thedas had been less than positive. 

She was struck by the beauty of this realm, however. The moment she left the temple, she was greeted with the sight of lush, verdant greenery, replete with rolling hills and colourful flora. However, the natural beauty of her surroundings was spoiled by the sight of corpses not too far from the small shrine she’d left. They were wearing flowy robes, and the staves next to them indicated they were mages. It was evident that they had been slain, the stench of their rotting carcasses clouding her nostrils. Alatariel whispered a short prayer to Auriel, before burning their bodies. 

The Dragonborn was interested in the animals she’d seen, some she believed did not exist in the whole of Nirn. Bears seemed to be everywhere in this part of Thedas, and they were ferocious, too. It was nothing a simple Calm Spell couldn’t solve. There was, however, an odd little creature; it was small, skinless, pink, with rabbit-like ears and body. She thought it ugly, but they were harmless at least. 

Her first priority was to obtain a map of the region. The farther she walked, the more she began to notice the scars of war. It was clear to her that this war was still ongoing. Alatariel did not have to wait long before the first signs of trouble arose…the first signs which shone a light as to Auriel’s extreme concern for the plight of Thedas’ Elves. 

Peering from behind a tree, her lilac eyes narrowed as she watched the scene. She saw as three, awfully thin elves were dragged roughly through the brush. A human male in odd, overly flamboyant mage robes holding a staff was shouting at them, and what Alatariel assumed to be his guards stood behind the small parade of elves. One of the elves’ faces were painted with what seemed like branches, while the others were bare. When one of the guards punched the painted elf in the face, it was then that Alatariel decided to act. 

Centuries of battle experience came to the fore as she leapt from the trees, drawing Auriel’s Bow and unleashing two Sunhallowed Elven Arrows at the guards. They screamed as the sun’s power caused them to melt in their heavy armour. The elves shrieked in shock, backing away as Alatariel made quick work of the remaining guards, whipping out her twin Daedric swords and slicing at their necks with terrible efficiency. Their lifeless bodies collapsed to the ground before they could even unsheathe their weapons.

“Behind you!” The painted elf pointed over her shoulder. Alatariel knew not what she said, but she understood the message.

She quickly sidestepped as a bolt of ice stabbed the ground where she once stood. The human yelled out a string of gibberish, his staff glowing as he aimed at the elves. Alatariel didn’t hesitate. 

“Yol Toor Shul!”

The elves fell silent at what they saw. Bathed in a hurricane of flame, the mage dropped his staff, falling onto the ground as he desperately patted at his clothes. But it was all for naught and he stilled, the flames continuing to eat at his body.

She put away her weapons, directing her attention to the elves. Unlike the other two, who cowered as she approached, the painted elf stood tall, as if daring her to come. The painted elf unintentionally dragged her kin to their feet as she did so. Alatariel smiled behind the cover of her Nightingale Hood. Impressive, she thought to herself. 

“S-Step back, demon!” The painted elf screamed, and launched a clumsy fireball her way, landing ways away from her feet. 

Alatariel sighed, quickly casting the Translation Spell, fingers wreathed in wisps of turquoise. All three flinched. 

“What did you do?!” The painted elf shouted, and Alatariel was relieved she could finally understand her. 

“A simple Translation Spell, nothing to worry about. I wouldn’t be able to understand you, otherwise.”

“I won’t fall for your tricks, demon!” The painted elf hissed. 

She pulled down her hood, to the gasps of the three elves. “Do I look like one of these demons to you?” 

“You’re an elf…” one of the bare-faced elves whispered, his eyes widening. “I’ve never seen an elf like you.”

“How are you so tall?” The other bare-faced elf said. 

“My name is Alatariel,” she introduced, bowing her head slightly in greeting, her hand on her chest, “and before I can explain further, I think you’d like it better if I undo your chains.”

The painted elf growled as she drew near. “You’re just going to kill us!”

Alatariel didn’t even look at her as she began picking the locks. “If I’d wanted you dead, you’d have joined your captors. Now, what are your names?” As soon as she finished speaking, the chains fell onto the grassy forest floor in a heap. 

The bare-faced male elf replied first, rubbing at his sore wrists. “My name is Iswin.”

“And I’m Hila. Thank you for freeing us.”

She bowed her head, before turning to the painted elf, who huffed before replying with a terse: “Ellana of Clan Lavellan.”

“Pleased to meet you all,” Alatariel replied. “Will-”

“Are you one of the Elvhen gods?” Hila asked, large brown eyes shining with awe. 

“How dare you speak that way of the Creators, flat-ear?” Ellana growled. “Yes, she may look different from other elves, but that doesn’t mean she is one of The Evanuris.”

Alatariel’s ears perked at the mention of the false gods. “Ellana is right, I am not one of these Evanuris. Nor do I believe in them.” 

“Don’t tell me you believe in the shem’s Maker?” Ellana spat in disgust. 

“Quicklings?” Alatariel echoed, the Translation Spell working its magic. “Is that what you call the humans? Interesting. But no, I do not believe in their Maker. I believe in another. Auriel.”

“Auriel?” Hila and Iswin questioned in unison. 

“That sounds Elven,” Hila continued, “though I’ve never heard of Auriel.”

Ellana’s green eyes narrowed. “Nor have I. He is not one of the Creators.”

“He is not.” Alatariel confirmed. “Auriel is the All-Father, the father of all elves and dragons, dragon god of time and creator of worlds. That is who I follow.”

“Lies!” Ellana shouted. “This Auriel is something you created! He isn’t real!”

“Is He? I’ve spoken to Him, and He has shown Himself to me.” Though she believed in Auriel, Alatariel wasn’t above doing whatever to get her way. It was what brought her to the apex of the Dark Brotherhood and Thieves Guild alike, and continue to remain so to this day. Did Auriel not say to do as I see fit? She buried a sly smile. “Feel the Blessing of Auriel,” she said, and threads of golden light streamed from her fingers and enveloped the startled elves before they could utter a word.

As soon as the glow died away, Ellana reached up to her formerly bruised cheek. 

“It’s gone…”

Iswin and Hila’s eyes were as wide as saucers. 

“I-I feel…” Hila’s eyes watered as tears fell from her eyes, undoubtedly overcome from the peace Auriel’s Light had brought her. 

“This is…” Iswin checked his wrists and ankles, “it no longer aches...my lungs are clear…”

She saw the seed of doubt that began to creep into Ellana’s eyes. Alatariel pulled her hood back up, hiding the grin that stretched her pale lips. 

And so it begins.

“Would you like to hear more?”

Skyhold

Evelyn Trevelyan, the newly instated Inquisitor of the organisation aimed at destroying the would-be pretender god Corypheus, walked into the War Room. She paused, startled. Her entire party was present, when it would usually only number herself, Leliana, Cassandra, Cullen and Josephine. It brought a sense of disquiet to what she initially thought would be a quiet day. She should’ve known better than to expect normalcy after the Mark fell upon her hand.

The fact that neither Varric nor the Iron Bull were cracking jokes deepened this feeling of disquiet. Nearly everyone had a troubled mien; those such as Blackwall were merely confused. Yet even Solas, who was usually unflappable and stoic, was looking extremely perturbed.

“What’s going on?” Evelyn asked, walking forward quickly. “Why is everyone here? Is it Corypheus?”

“Apologies for not informing you about this sudden change, Inquisitor, but we believe that everyone should hear of this.” The Ambassador said, quill in hand. 

It was Leliana who took over soon after Evelyn’s nod of assent. Placing her gloved hands on the table, she gazed upon everyone with a grave expression. 

“Some of you may have already heard, but I will say it again anyway for the benefit of those of you who are unaware. This morning we received a letter from the Winter Palace. There is no other way of saying this, Inquisitor,” Leliana took a deep breath, “but the elves of Halamshiral have disappeared.”

Of all the things that Leliana could have said, Evelyn did not expect this. The Inquisitor rubbed her aching temple, shaking her head in disbelief. 

“By the Maker…” Blackwall whispered, touching his beard, something Evelyn noticed whenever the Grey Warden was nervous.

“You can’t be serious!” Dorian cried, reeling from the shocking news.

Evelyn regained her composure. “W-What? What are you saying? All the elves of Halamshiral?”

“Every single one of them.” Leliana confirmed. “Though Ambassador Briala is the only elf left in Halamshiral at present. I initially casted my suspicions upon her, but changed tack once I realised it simply did not make sense.”

“Agreed,” Vivienne said. “The Ambassador would not be so foolish as to utterly remove the source of her power. I could only assume she is left scrambling to find whatever foothold she has left with the Orlesian court. She does not strike me as a witless woman, but if she were wise, she would leave Orlais entirely.”

“Start from the beginning,” Evelyn ordered, pinching the bridge of her nose, “how did this happen?”

“The how is the mystery, Inquisitor,” Josephine stated. “All the guards and chevaliers on duty last night were questioned, and all of them swore that not a single elf left the gates of the city. By the time morning came, they were all gone. The Winter Palace and all the noble houses residing in Halamshiral have also reported their elven staff missing. They didn’t leave a clue as to where they went.” 

“Would there be a secret passage they could have used?” 

Leliana shook her head. “There is, but there were no tracks to indicate that a vast horde of elves went down that route. My agents have confirmed it. There was a mirror of elven make, however, but it had long been shattered.” 

“That would be an eluvian,” Solas commented, his brows knitted. At the questioning looks of the other members in the room, he elaborated, “Magical mirrors used during the halcyon days of Arlathan. They were a means the Ancient Elvhen used to travel great distances, for they did not use roads. You mentioned that the mirror was shattered? Then it is safe to say that they couldn’t have gone through a broken eluvian.”

“So now we are back where we began,” Cullen muttered, rubbing the nape of his neck. “I’d venture a demon had taken them. But that’d be impossible. What demon is powerful enough to cause thousands of elves to vanish?”

Evelyn spoke up. “Could it be Corypheus? He could be using the elves of Halamshiral as part of a blood magic ritual.”

Leliana shook her head once more. “Negative. That was what I thought initially, but if they had taken them, the sheer number of elves they’d be transporting would have caught anyone’s attention. A logistical impossibility that Corypheus himself couldn’t afford after losing some of his forces at Haven.” 

An disconcerting silence fell upon the members of the Inquisition. 

Varric Tethras gave a loud sigh, catching everyone’s attention. “I should’ve said something sooner.”

Evelyn’s eyes widened in surprise, and so did many others. 

“What are you saying, dwarf?” Cassandra said loudly, suspicion clouding her features. 

“What is it you know, Varric?” Evelyn prodded gently.

Varric’s eyes flitted about nervously, before he crossed his arms. “It’s not only happening in Halamshiral. Some of the elves at Kirkwall’s alienage have been disappearing, and the same thing is happening in Denerim’s alienage. Everyday you’ll find an empty house in some alienage in Thedas.” 

Cassandra snarled, slamming a fist on the War Table. “Why didn’t you say anything!”

Varric looked at her as if she’d grown two heads. “Did you suddenly forget how elves are treated, Seeker? The reason no one’s sounded the alarm yet is ‘cause nobody cares about a couple missing elves.” 

That cowed Cassandra, and she drew back, ashamed. Solas’ brows narrowed and uncomfortable looks were shared amongst party members. 

“It isn’t only elves that have been disappearing. Mages of all races have been vanishing all throughout Thedas. Incidentally,” Leliana cut in, “the Chantry sent us a missive not long after. They want us to investigate a cult that’s been gathering ground at an alarming rate. Apparently they worship an elven god called Auriel.”

“What heresy,” Cassandra muttered, arms crossed.

“Wait, they want us to investigate?” Cullen barked. “We’re not some lapdog for the Chantry to use whenever they feel the need.”

“Be that as it may, the appearance of this cult…their growing popularity and the disappearing elves and mages. Coincidence?” The Nightingale murmured, eyes glinting. “If there’s any chance we could find out what happened to cause them to disappear, I say we investigate.”

Evelyn sighed. “I don’t really know much about the Elvhen Pantheon, but I’m pretty sure there is no Auriel.”

“You’re correct, Inquisitor,” Solas affirmed, hands behind his back, assuming his usual scholarly pose. “He is not one of The Evanuris. In fact, I have never heard of this Auriel.” 

“And Bull? What has the Qun discovered about this cult?”

“Yeah I’ve heard of them, Boss,” Iron Bull said, his deep voice reverberating the chamber. “The Light of Auriel, they’re calling themselves. Par Vollen’s concerned…really concerned. They told me their magic is something they’ve never seen and to be wary of the cult’s leader, someone they call The Dovahkiin. This Dovahkiin must be really dangerous for the Qun to tell me to be careful. Bah!”

“Well, we’ve dealt with cults before,” 

“Yeah, but they’re a ragtag bunch. This Light of Auriel? They’re organised and very well-funded. Like, extremely. Well-trained, too, if even the Qun haven’t managed to catch one of them. I’d say they’re much more than a cult.” 

“Magic never heard or seen before? If what you’re saying is true,” Solas ventured, “then they’d be more than capable of being the perpetrators. I will search the Fade to see if I can find out more about this Light of Auriel.” 

“Thank you, Solas,” Evelyn replied. “Alright, we’ll investigate this cult-”

“Light, His Blessings, as warm as a candle, peaceful as the sun’s rays hits my face. Once I was lost, cold, dark, and alone. Dovah, Dovahkiin. But now I see…Auriel the All-Father.” 

“What are you on about now, demon?” Vivienne sneered. 

“He is no demon,” Solas asserted in exasperation, before turning to Cole. “Are you hearing the mind of one of Auriel’s cultists, Cole?” 

“The path opens, the sun showers upon me. Power like no other. Auriel is real. He is real, The true All-Father, He is real, He heralds the salva–Oh. He’s gone.” Cole said, snapping out of the trance-like state. 

“Is he dead, Cole?” Solas questioned amidst the uncomfortable silence. “Was he killed?”

Cole shook his head. “Not dead. Just gone.”

“Gone? Gone to where?” Dorian asked, intrigued. 

“The Beyond,” was all Cole said, and when it was clear that he would speak no more, Evelyn took over the conversation. 

“I think Cole’s just given us a clue,” Evelyn said, clearing her throat, “something we might be able to decipher once we start our investigation. As I was about to say, we’ll set out for Halamshiral tomorrow. Josie, let the Empress know of our imminent arrival.”

“At once, Inquisitor,” Josephine gave a little bow of her head, before her quill began to scratch furiously against the parchment on her portable writing desk.

“Solas, Dorian, Vivienne, Bull, prepare yourselves. We set out for Halamshiral before dawn breaks on the morrow.”

“Unless there’s nothing else, I should like to retire,” Evelyn said, pursing her lips, “I’m already feeling the onset of a headache.”

“Nothing more, Inquisitor,” Leliana nodded and Evelyn could not get out of the War Room fast enough. 

Solas followed suit, quickly returning to his quarters, eager to slip into the Fade. 

He needed to contact his agents.

The Chantry of Auriel

Forgotten Vale, Skyrim

Ellana, formerly of Clan Lavellan, could never tire of the beauty Skyrim had to offer. It had been nigh 6 months since she first arrived in this other realm, one that had cemented her belief in Auriel, and banished the final threads of faith she had in The Evanuris. As she reminisced of the months past, she could only shake her head in disbelief at how pompous and resistant she was to The Dovahkiin. The longer she spent time with Alatariel, the more convinced she was that the woman was a demigod, capable of trembling the earth and splintering the skies with her voice alone. The truth about the Dovahkiin’s origins–or Dragonborn as she is known–merely served to further corroborate her hypothesis. 

She’d thought herself wise, armed with the knowledge of being her clan’s First, but Iswin and Hila had ended up being the wiser ones. The two city elves had never left The Dovahkiin’s side since that first meeting, nor had they questioned the existence of Auriel like she had. Once Alatariel had deemed them trustworthy enough, she’d brought them to her homeworld, and everything, as they say, was history. 

There was none like The Chantry of Auriel anywhere in Thedas: its expansive network of magical wayshrines, the veritable waves of Auriel’s magic seeping through the air, ice glistering as they were bathed in the breathtaking rays of the ancient sun. Despite the cold of Skyrim and the Forgotten Vale, the Chantry was always warm. 

Stepping foot into the sacred grounds, into Nirn itself, it was as if she could breathe again. Ellana had never realised how smothered she felt in Thedas. She could appreciate the peace and beauty she found in Skyrim, but she still longed for Thedas. Despite its many flaws, it was still home. And it did not dissuade her from helping Alatariel in her quest to uplift her people, whatever it took to make Thedas a safer place for Elves, for all non-human races. 

Alatariel had placed Iswin, Hila and herself under her father, Knight-Paladin Gelebor’s, tutelage. She’d even brought veteran mages from a place called ‘Winterhold College’ to teach them to draw magic from Aetherius, to the surprise of Iswin and Hila, who weren’t ever mages. And Alatariel was Archmage of said college, which didn’t shock her at all, honestly. The Snow Elf was Dovahkiin and Champion of Auriel, after all. 

For months they trained, and they were fed better than they ever were in their entire lives. Ellana never realised how malnourished Theodosian Elves were. As centuries of continued malnourishment under the hands of Thedas’ humans, it became normalised, to see an elf with drawn shoulders, petite frames and legs like twigs. The revelation made her boil with rage, and trained all the harder. She, Hila and Iswin felt the same anger. Though they were initially wary of Skyrim’s humans, Serana and the others, they were patient and kind, and they followed The Dovahkiin with fierce loyalty. Ellana grew to like them, especially Serana’s blunt mannerisms and deadpan humour.

Now, she, Hila and Iswin were part of the Dovahkiin’s Inner Circle, and being the first of the Freed was a great honour. They filled out their armour, standing slightly taller and broader than their previously emaciated frames. They returned to Thedas, utilising their training to save more elves and spread The Light of Auriel. Ellana even returned to her clan, and though she was able to convince some and take them with her, it still hurt to hear her brother Mahanon call her a traitor. Her expulsion from her clan and family was a great loss, but the many elves she’d saved since then soothed the pain in her heart.

They had grown massively, numbering the thousands, spreading all throughout the Forgotten Vale. And with the addition of the elves of Halamshiral, it was sure to finally draw eyes upon Auriel’s followers. Secreting the mages and elves gradually, quietly, away from Thedas had been a steady process, one that Alatariel was confident would not raise alarm–and she was right. Nobody cared about a bunch of missing elves or mages. 

It was their most audacious move yet, transporting all of Halamshiral’s elves to Skyrim. Hila had been concerned about the repercussions to all the other elves remaining, as the disappearance of Halamshiral’s elves would undoubtedly cause retaliation. Thedas’ Chantry and all the human kingdoms would think it a precursor to another elven uprising. Well, they weren’t exactly mistaken, but Ellana isn’t going to be the one to outright confirm it. 

“It is a daring move, Dovahkiin,” Hila had said, her blonde hair cut short to the nape of her neck. “So far the Chantry has been ignoring us. If we do this, it’ll put them on the warpath.”

“Yes,” Iswin murmured, dark eyes drawn. He crossed his sculpted arms, a far cry from the bony limbs they once were. “The Chantry isn’t kind to non-human races in general. In my mind, they’ll probably send the Inquisition after us.”

“Wouldn’t they be too busy dealing with this Corypheus?” Ellana had asked.

“Our people on the ground have informed me that Corypheus is currently licking his wounds. I suspect he didn’t expect to lose as many as he did when he attacked Haven.” Iswin replied. “I was also told, Dovahkiin, that this Corypheus commands a dragon.”

At this, Alatariel’s head snapped up. “A dragon?” 

“Yes, though my sources tell me that something is off about it. Corypheus might have infected it with red lyrium. He is a darkspawn, after all.”

“What say you, Dragonborn?” Hila questioned. All eyes fell to their leader. 

From the moment Alatariel took off her hood that fateful day, Ellana thought the Snow Elf beautiful. She did not know if it was simply part of being a Snow Elf, considering the only other she’d met was her father, Gelebor, who was handsome himself. The Dovahkiin’s bountiful silver-blonde hair framed her oval face, her enchanting lilac eyes capped with full, white lashes, high cheekbones with skin the shade of porcelain–it was as if the Snow Elf race had been hewn from the very ice that surrounded their once-great snowy kingdom. Ellana knew something had happened to the Snow Elves, but refrained from asking because it was clearly a sensitive topic. Perhaps when all of this is over, she thought. 

“We were bound to be noticed. If not now, then some point in the future,” Alatariel began. She only revealed her face amongst her friends in Skyrim and the first batch of the Freed. The Snow Elf was more than aware that spies could be among the hordes of elves they transported; though they’d be stuck in Skyrim without a way to report back since Alatariel held the key. Ellana knew she would reveal herself to Thedas someday, just not today. “If we remove all the elves from Halamshiral in one fell swoop, it will not only save them, but serve to make a statement to all of Thedas. By the time all of them are in Skyrim, I suspect the Orlesians won’t be able to find anything when they investigate. So yes, they will send for the Inquisitor. If she doesn't find anything, then I’d be sorely disappointed.”

“And it’d be symbolic in a sense, too, wouldn’t it?” Hila smirked. “Our first official, public act will happen in the old capital of the Dales.” 

Ellana couldn’t help but smirk as well. It would be the sweetest of ironies. And the ultimate vengeance they would enact for the Exalted March of the Dales.

“So, we’re actually doing this?” Iswin said, ever the cautious elf. 

Alatariel looked all of them in the eye. “We’ve sowed the seeds of doubt, watched them flourish. All the elves of Halamshiral sing Auriel’s name before they sleep, or am I wrong in this, Iswin?”

Iswin bowed his head. “No you are not, Dovahkiin.”

“So let our contacts know,” Laat Dovahkiin ordered firmly, “we make our move tonight.”

Ellana watched with sharp eyes as one of her Lieutenants guided the Halamshiral elves past the magical doorway Alatariel opened. They came in an endless, single file. Some settled themselves and their meagre possessions in the dining area, while Hila helped guide the rest out into another room once it got too crowded. All of them held wide-eyed expressions of wonder as they took in the marbled halls of The Chantry of Auriel. As soon as the last of the Halamshiral elves went through the door, The Dovahkiin walked in, clad in her Ancient Falmer Armour. The key removed itself from the wall and flew into her hand, the door closing thereafter. 

“I welcome you all to The Chantry of Auriel,” Gelebor’s deep voice echoed throughout the massive halls of The Chantry, quieting all the chatter. “Please, settle yourselves. You are free to explore The Chantry so long as you respect it. For those of you suffering from disease, approach any of the shrines we have here, and you shall be cured. We will be handing out food in a few short moments.”

The chatter started back up again, cries of joy, relief and disbelief arose in the air in equal measure. Shouts of “Praise Auriel!” and “Long live The Dovahkiin!” surged about; Ellana spotted from the corner of her eye Alatariel taking it all in stride–she must’ve been used to it. The noise got louder as sweet rolls, cheese and vegetable soup were passed around. As predicted, some were wary at the appearance of Serana and Lydia, though Alatariel’s assurances helped, especially after seeing Lydia’s obeisance towards The Dragonborn. 

Gelebor approached, eyes filled with sorrow as he observed them. “Though it were not the first time, I’m still overcome with sadness each time I see them. It is unthinkable that Theodosian humans could starve an entire people in such a way. It is good that Auriel Himself set you on this path, Daughter.”

“There is still much to be done, Father,” Alatariel replied, as she saw them eat as if they’ve never eaten in their lives. It was amazing to Ellana that she was the same not so long ago. “The path is still long, but I will get there.” 

“Auriel put His trust in you, my child,” Gelebor smiled, “I have no reason to question His decisions when I know my own daughter so well.”

Gelebor truly is the sweetest man, Ellana thought, watching father and daughter embrace. They broke apart when they saw Hila and Iswin walk over, trusting their Lieutenants to do the rest, as they’ve done innumerable times before.

“All settled, Dovahkiin.” 

“I’ve already have quite a few among them eager to pick up the sword and begin training.” Hila reported.

“Good. You know how this works. Send them to Tolfdir for magic, then give them to either Serana or Farkas for a bit of an…introduction.” Ellana shuddered. She’d prefer Farkas anyday; Serana was a beast and faster than any rogue she’d seen. “But most of all, make sure the children are alright, particularly the orphans.”

Hila bowed. “As you say, Dovahkiin.”

“There is one other matter,” Iswin said. “I’ve just received a message from The Ghost. He informs me he’ll be coming through with a group of newly freed slaves from Tevinter. Says to wait by the entrance to The Deep Roads at The Storm Coast.”

“Thank you, Iswin.” Dovahkiin replied, and turned to Ellana. “Ellana, grab Serana and some of your best. We might have to enter The Deep Roads ourselves. If there are slavers, darkspawn or other manner of beast, which I suspect there will be, then we’ll have to be prepared.”

Ellana nodded, before leaving to fetch Serana and three of her best men. She’d been itching for some action.

Skyhold

Solas opened his eyes, a frown already etched in the space between his brows. Questioning his agents in the Fade had not borne as much fruit as he’d hoped. They’d merely repeated what was said in the War Room, and confirmed what he already suspected, which was the involvement of extremely powerful, alien magic. And from what Cole said at the impromptu meeting, it could only lead to the likeliest conclusion he could place his bet on. They were transported to another realm. He could barely restrain from showing his joy at being chosen to accompany the Inquisitor to Halamshiral. After all, all magic left traces, and The Dread Wolf could hardly refuse an entreaty to a hunt. 

“Ah, Solas, spent too much time in the Fade again?” Dorian greeted him, in the midst of hitching his pack onto his mount. He wasn’t late by any means. He spotted the Inquisitor standing on the landing near the entrance to the main hall, in deep conversation with Leliana. Vivienne and Bull were already by the gate atop their horses. 

“Good morning, Ser Pavus,” Solas replied, saddling his Fereldan Forder. “Sleep well?”

Dorian’s well-groomed moustache twitched. “Please, call me Dorian. Calling me Ser Pavus would only lead me to infer that my father’s behind me. Needless panic, and all that. Only causes wrinkles. But to answer your question, no, not really.”

“I’d take a gander that not a single person in Skyhold had a restful slumber,” Solas muttered, glancing about at dark eyebags that Skyhold’s inhabitants were sporting. His sharp eyes narrowed at a pair of elvish serving women that were whispering in a darkened corner by the tavern, mouthing the word ‘Auriel’ occasionally. It’s already spread here, he thought ominously, in the beating heart of the Inquisition. 

Dorian snorted. “How could they? As if we already do not have an evil has-been of the Tevinter Imperium trying to kill us all, an entire city known for its majority population of elves, vanished into the night without a trace. Whispers of a heretical cult? Strange magic? The list is getting saucier and saucier. This Dovahkiin could’ve done it to any alienage in Thedas. If he or she chose Halamshiral, then it’s got to be symbolic.” 

This Tevinter mage is a sharp one, Solas mused, but Dorian had been continuously surprising him with his keen observational skills. Behind a veneer of privilege lies an individual not to be underestimated. We are true opposites at present.

“That’s what I concluded, as well.” Solas nodded, mounting his horse. “The former capital of the Dales, the last known homeland of Thedas’ elves? Yes, it couldn’t have been selected by mere chance.”

“Why, Solas, if it weren’t for your abhorrent taste in fashion, I would’ve counted you among the intelligent. Shame.”

Solas’ resulting smirk was barely there. “What a shame indeed, Master Pavus.”

Dorian stared at him as if struck. “Why you crafty little-”

“Let us be off,” the Inquisitor cut in, leading her charger to the gates. Solas and Dorian hurried to do the same. “The sooner we solve this mystery, the sooner we can return and focus solely on Corypheus. Joy.”

All the party members exchanged a sceptical look as they filed out of Skyhold. 

“I can literally hear your doubts,” Evelyn grumbled as she took the lead. 

“Not in that way, my dear,” Vivienne tutted disapprovingly, “we’re barely past the bounds of Skyhold and you’ve already committed what’s considered a faux pas. However shall you survive The Great Game without me here to assist?”

Evelyn groaned. 

Solas hid a secretive smile, content to keep silent, an ever humble hobo apostate. 

Chapter Text

Halamshiral

It would usually take three days to reach Halamshiral on horseback, but the Inquisitor’s party rode hard and fast. The urgency of the situation was not something they could afford to let stew for another day, lest their enemies took advantage of the situation. 

They rode past Lydes and were soon at the gates of Halamshiral. Evelyn paused, keen eyes taking in everything. There were double the number of guards than there usually were and its gates were heavily barred when it would usually be open at this hour. A guard outfitted in Orlesian armour approached, one hand on the hilt of his sword, while the other he held aloft, indicating them to stop.

“Halt!” He shouted. “Halamshiral is closed to outsiders until the Empress commands otherwise! Nobody can leave or enter without Her Majesty’s express permission!”

“You’re speaking to Inquisitor Evelyn Trevelyan, ser, ” Vivienne sniffed imperiously, in her usual condescending tone. 

The guard peered at her through his simple, silver mask. The sickly green light of her Mark flickered through her glove right as he did so. He drew back. “Inquisitor! Forgive me, I did not recognise you. We were informed to expect you.” The guard turned around and shouted in Orlesian: “ Open the gates! It’s the Inquisition!”

“How’s the city?” Evelyn asked the guard, as the gates groaned, swinging open slowly.

“Quiet, quieter than usual, Inquisitor,” he replied uneasily, “I believe it’s best you see it for yourself.”

The Inquisitor shared uneasy looks with the rest of her party. She nudged her horse forward once the gates were fully open, her party close behind. They traversed the first row of gilded, overly ornate buildings, the clip-clop of their horses’ hooves echoing back to them as they approached the city square. Evelyn pursed her lips, her hold on her horse’s reins tightening. Halamshiral was one of the jewels of Orlais. It was meant to be teeming with life but it was dreadfully bereft of activity. Occasionally, she’d see the odd human skittering about, undoubtedly taking over the tasks usually left to the elves of the city. Evelyn could only imagine how much the noble houses and merchant establishments of Halamshiral were reeling from the sudden loss of manpower. It was unbelievable how much a single city relied on its elves to keep its economy going. In summary, Halamshiral was a ghost town. 

But before they could enter the city square proper, a small contingent of guards waved them over. What she assumed to be the captain–wearing a wide-brimmed hat with plumes of feathers sprouting from it–stepped ahead of his men. 

"I am Captain Champlon. My apologies, I'd offer you a warm welcome to Halamshiral, Inquisitor, Madame de Fer," the fact he ignored Solas, Bull, and Dorian was not lost on her, "but the disappearance of the elves leaves no time for pleasantries."

"Agreed. I should like to get to the heart of the matter," Evelyn concurred, dismounting. "If you could tell me, in detail, what exactly happened the night before they vanished?"

The captain sighed. “Where to begin? Well, it was just like any other day, we were all going about our business as usual. Once night fell, all of the elves returned home-”

“ All of them?” Vivenne interrupted. “Pardon the interruption Captain Champlon, but I thought elven servants stayed in the noble residences of those they serve.”

“They do indeed, Madame Vivienne, but for some reason they all headed to the Lower Quarter that night.”

“And you didn’t think it was odd?” Evelyn asked.

“In hindsight, it was odd. But when we asked one of the rabbits,” Evelyn’s jaw ticked, though Solas did not even react at the slur, “all they said was they’re choosing who’s going to be the next Elder or some other nonsense. We didn’t look into it too much; elves and their festival rites aren’t of much interest to us.”

“And now it has cost Halamshiral, and the Empress herself, dearly,” Vivienne sniped. And with Orlais in the midst of a civil war, it was something Grand Duke Gaspard would use against his cousin. Evelyn could picture it now: How could Celene be worthy to sit on the throne of Orlais if Halamshiral’s elves disappeared under her watch? She was starting to experience another headache at the potential political implications. Maker take this Dovahkiin.

“Y-Yes,” the captain replied, cowed beneath Madame de Fer’s cutting remark. 

“Continue,” Evelyn prodded.

The Captain cleared his throat. “We went through our patrols as usual. The last person who saw the elves was one of our scouts, Pierre. He claimed he saw them all congregate around a certain house in the Lower Quarter.”

She shared a look with her companions. “We’ll need to speak to this Pierre.”

“He’s currently out on patrol. I’ll send for him but it may take a while before he’ll be back. You may as well head to the Lower Quarter while waiting.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do. Thank you, Captain.” She turned to her companions. “Let’s go.”

They left the city square, the sun stark and bright, beating upon their faces and causing the city’s golden roofs to nearly blind them wherever they turned. Merchants still put up their stands, some shops remain open, but it was a far cry from the usual hustle and bustle of this stunning metropolis. Whoever is out running errands, they’d do so as quickly as possible, fear seeping from their every breath, eager to not be out on the street. As if it were possible, the closer they got to the Lower Quarter, the more the silence pervaded. It was as if one could hear their very breath, the thudding of their hearts growing louder as it beat against their ears.

“I don’t know what’s creepier, this or The Fallow Mire,” Bull commented.

“I’ll take a ghost town over a murky swamp any day,” Dorian shot back. 

They entered the Lower Quarter, its houses dead and empty. 

Evelyn looked around, rubbing her forehead. “If only this Pierre is here, then we wouldn’t need to cover such a large area.”

“Not necessarily, Inquisitor,” Solas said suddenly. He’d been extremely quiet thus far. “The Captain mentioned they gathered around a specific house. I presume that that would be the Elder’s house.”

“That’s wonderful, Solas, but I don’t see how that’ll show us the way to this Elder’s house.”

“Magic leaves traces and it wouldn’t be too ludicrous to assume that extremely powerful magic is at play. It could lead us straight to where we need to go.” 

“Do you sense something, Solas?” Evelyn asked, as they stood at what would have served as a marketplace for Halamshiral’s elves. 

“Yes, though I should think Dorian and the Enchanter would be able to. I mean, how could you not?” 

Vivienne appeared incredibly miffed. “Yes I do sense something, apostate. Indeed there is magic, but it clouds and infiltrates the senses. Powerful. How do you fare, Dorian?”

“Much the same, unfortunately,” 

Solas’ eyes widened. “Then that could only mean one thing.”

“Don’t leave us in suspense, my good man!” Dorian cried, sending nesting sparrows fleeing to the sky. 

“It is Elven magic. I see a cornucopia of colours, but there is a path outlined in gold. That should lead us to the Elder’s house.” 

“How fascinating!” Dorian whispered excitedly. “So only elven mages can make sense of it?”

Solas hummed. “The fact that it still left such a substantial mark days after the occurrence…Whoever we’re dealing with, if it is even this Light of Auriel, we should not take lightly.” 

“And there goes my hopes that all of this could be resolved quickly,” Evelyn groused. 

“Lead on, Solas.”

They followed their resident elven apostate, whose eyes managed to capture what Evelyn and the others could not readily see. At times, Solas would crane his neck, as if marvelling at what he was witnessing, but he spent most of the way there with his head lowered. Their pilgrimage of silence continued through the deserted streets and empty, run-down homes. It was one thing to hear of it, yet another thing to see it entirely. 

“There.” Solas pointed to a ramshackle old house, with plaster peeling from the walls and bricked over a couple times over the years. It seemed to be leaning for support against the two, taller buildings that flanked it. “The trail leads into that house.”

“Good work, Solas,” Evelyn praised, “let’s see what’s inside.”

Before they could even open the door, Bull growled low: “Someone’s inside.”

At that, Evelyn unsheathed her sword, the rest of her party on high alert, their own weapons at the ready. She scanned her party and when they nodded, they all burst in, Solas instantly casting a barrier. They were all met with the sight of a female elf, who instantly turned around, ready to launch a throwing knife at them. 

It was Vivienne who paused in surprise. 

“Ambassador Briala?” 

The “Ambassador” halted her motions, putting away her weapon. “Madame de Fer,” the masked elf turned to regard Evelyn and her small coterie of followers, “and you must be Inquisitor Trevelyan, then.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to find you here, Ambassador Briala,” Evelyn murmured, sheathing her weapons and bidding her companions to do likewise. “I assume you, like us, are searching for answers on who took them and how they were able to accomplish such a feat.”

“ How my people disappeared still remains a mystery to me, but as for who took them, I already know the answer to that.” A small, bitter smile plucked at the edge of her lips. “Could you hazard a guess?”

“The Dovahkiin,” Solas supplied. Briala nodded.

“Wait, you’ve interacted with this Dovahkiin?” Evelyn inquired. 

“Interacted? No,” Briala shook her head, “I’ve never had the pleasure. But I have had… dealings with The Light of Auriel. They are dangerous, and their leader is what makes them even more so. I didn’t know that they’ve been operating in Halamshiral for months, and I realised too late by then that they’ve indoctrinated my own agents. ”

“And the fact that elves have been disappearing throughout Thedas, for the past few months? Whoever’s running this show is experienced, capable of impossible magic, with a seemingly bottomless vault to match. Dangerous.”

Bull gave a teasing smile to Evelyn. “Told ya, Boss.”

Evelyn pushed onward. “You said you’ve had dealings with this cult. What sort of dealings are we talking about exactly?”

“I was approached by one of them. I could tell she was one of their higher-ranking members. She attempted to convert me but obviously I refused. She tried again, but I stood my ground. That was the last time I saw her.” Briala clenched her fists, teeth gritted. “I should’ve predicted she’d turn her focus on stealing my entire network of agents!”

“What did she look like?” 

“Surprisingly, she’s Dalish,” Briala replied, “said her name was Ellana but she didn’t supply me with her clan name.”

“Dalish?” Solas echoed, astonished. “Dalish elves are known for being intractable and hostile towards any other religion than the Elvhen Pantheon. The notion that this Light of Auriel could even convince some of the Dalish is worrying.”

“And nobody’s tracking the Dalish,” Dorian mumbled, patting his moustache. “Their numbers could be falling at a rapid rate and nobody would notice. Entire clans  could disappear…Maker’s Breath, this has been happening for longer than a couple months!”

Evelyn exhaled in a rush. She had never been so stressed in her life. 

Solas interrupted her chaotic thoughts. “Inquisitor, if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to continue investigating the magic that was used.” 

“Yes, of course, Solas,” she waved him off, and the elven apostate slithered past the Ambassador and down the flight of steps towards the cellar. Evelyn walked over to a rickety chair, carefully settling herself on it.

“Do you have any idea how they operate?” Evelyn asked, continuing her line of questioning. 

“All I know is that they have well-trained spies infiltrating almost every known noble house and institution in Thedas. Their network is vast and they know how to disappear. Knowing what I know now about my former agents, they must’ve been meeting in secret for months. Evidently, they didn’t include me knowing how I felt. It seems The Dovahkiin only takes those that he or she has fully converted.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” Dorian groaned. 

“It’s not supposed to.” Briala deadpanned, before continuing, crossing her arms as she did so.

“I can give you everything I have on The Light of Auriel, as well as what I’ve found here, if you let me stay with The Inquisition.”

Evelyn cocked a brow. “And what’s stopping me from just killing you and taking what I need?”

Briala scoffed. “Then you’ll never get your hands on it. Simple as that. I’m not stupid enough to have vital information on me so that someone might steal it off my corpse, Inquisitor Trevelyan.”

“I’m still not convinced that you should be joining the Inquisition, my dear Ambassador,” Vivienne sniffed disdainfully, “it-”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not asking you, ” Briala threw back, and directed her gaze back to the seated Inquisitor. “Well?”

Evelyn hummed. “Before I make my decision, what’s the real reason you’re joining me? It can’t be because of Corypheus.”

“I won’t lie to you, Inquisitor. My reasons aren’t entirely altruistic. With Halamshiral’s elves gone, I’ve lost any form of bargaining power I had with the Orlesian court. All the progress I’ve made for my people has disappeared along with them. Celene won’t and can’t help me, not that she has any reason to. Gaspard and many others will see it as a chance to eliminate me. I will not fall prey to the wolves that await me.” Briala straightened, a determined set to her shoulders.“The Chantry has charged you with bringing down this Light of Auriel, and I see it as my only chance to recover my people.”

Evelyn stood, offering a hand to the elven woman.

“Welcome to the Inquisition, Ambassador Briala,” 

Halamshiral

Cellars 

Solas slipped down the steps, leaving the rest of the Inquisitor’s party and the elven Ambassador behind him. Finally meeting this Briala in the flesh was not what he’d expected. It was jarring, to say the least, to at last place a face onto the person that caused Felassan to turn against him. The thought of Felassan’s betrayal still rankled him, the stabbing pains he experienced whenever his name came to mind never abated. Solas closed his eyes, shaking his head. There were things that needed more urgent attention than what had become of his old friend, Corypheus and his missing orb was one, but this Dovahkiin presented a tantalising opportunity. Would he or she prove friend or foe to his cause? That was what The Dread Wolf needed to ascertain. 

Alighting off the final step, he drew in a sharp breath. It was much stronger here. A golden sheet blanketed the dusty cellar, so much so that he didn’t notice the musty smell perforating his nostrils. Solas walked forward, lifting a hand as if to touch the golden mist, watching as it danced around his fingertips. 

“Fascinating,” he whispered beneath his breath. He knew it was Elven magic, something only his kin would be able to perceive and conceive, but there was still something about it that was alien, unlike even the Elvhen. 

His eyes immediately strayed to the bare wall on the far side of the room. He crossed the small distance, his hands making contact with the cold surface. Solas sucked in a sharp breath. There were remnants of a door, a pathway opening, powered by strong magic. He needed it confirmed. His ears caught the sound of Ambassador Briala’s voice and the Inquisitor’s. If he wanted to do this, then he needed it done fast. He didn’t want the sharp Tevinter and obnoxious Enchanter to disturb him.

Solas moved away from the wall, settling on the floor. He began to cast a ward around the immediate area. Setting his staff on the floor beside him, The Dread Wolf laid on the floor, drifting into sleep. He found himself in The Fade as was custom, at ease within his domain. Solas turned, riveted at the fact that a multitude of spirits and demons gathered around a particular area, fascinated by the memory that was being played. The one he was in search of, no doubt.

One of the spirits turned at his approach, in the guise of a young, elven boy. A spirit of Joy, he mused. 

“ Andaran atish’an,” the spirit greeted, “have you come to see what intrigues us so?”

“ Ma serannas.” Solas replied. “Indeed. Forgive me, I do not have much time, I need to witness what happened here last night.”

Joy hopped up and down. “Oh, oh! See the one who came the night before to spirit all the elves away? I’ve never seen a person shine so brightly in The Fade. Can you tell her to come by soon?”

Her? Solas bowed his head. “I shall remember your request.” Joy was eager to return to the memory and Solas was quick to follow. The spirits and demons alike parted at his approach and he was soon confronted with the memory of what happened, leaving its imprint in The Fade. 

He watched, brows arched in astonishment, as a golden outline of a door formed on the bare surface of the wall he’d been inspecting. Out came a figure wreathed in light, a light so bright he had to lift a hand to shield his eyes. As soon as he adjusted, he saw a clearly feminine figure in white, gilded armour of elven design–shame the hood she wore obscured her features. Two elves emerged from the door after her, one female and one male. The male elf was bare-faced, while the female was clearly Dalish. This must be Ellana, Solas thought. To his surprise, they had strong, sturdy frames, unlike the diminished physiques he saw the elves of this present era have. Solas’ brows narrowed at the mysterious figure. He knew instantly that she was their leader: The Dovahkiin.

An elderly male elf shakily walked into the scene and immediately fell to his knees.

“Dovahkiin,” he spoke tremulously, “praise Auriel! We are saved!” 

The Dovahkiin walked over, gently setting the old man on his feet. She lifted both her arms and cast a spell, one that caused golden light to swirl around her arms and envelop the elder. Wind chimes drifted to his ears, and Solas rushed over to inspect. He had never seen a healing spell so effective and powerful.  

The elderly elf stood straighter, eyes wide. “My knees…they no longer ache…”

“You must be the hahren ,” The Dovahkiin spoke. Her voice was soft, delicate, yet firm. Solas was surprised to find that he was eager to hear more of her. “Are they all ready?” 

“Yes, just say the word, Dovahkiin,” 

The memory of the Dovahkiin nodded at the two other elves in the room. They bowed slightly and were soon off. “Please, go past the door, hahren. My father will be there to welcome you.” Father? Solas frowned. Does the Dovahkiin not truly be running things? Was she deferring to her father instead? Most complex.

The elder shook his head, speaking firmly. “Not until every one of them goes through, Dovahkiin.” 

The Dovahkiin was silent, before saying: “You are an asset to your people, hahren.”

“Your words do me great honour, Dovahkiin.”

Their conversation ceased when her underlings returned with a sizable group of elven children. Solas saw them crowding on the stairs, and he suspected they must’ve filled the upper floor and out the house. They were being extremely quiet, likely to not alert the guards. 

“Through the door, quickly now,” The Dovahkiin ordered. 

“Do not get distracted,” the hahren reminded them sternly.

Ellana disappeared through the door and the elven children entered in a single file, departing with great speed. Soon, all of the children were carried off, and elves of varying ages scurried through, bowing at the sight of the Dovahkiin. Solas witnessed in awe as Halamshiral’s elves vanished through the magical door until all that remained was the hahren. 

“Iswin, go on ahead and help Ellana and my father sort matters out,” 

The male elf, Iswin, nodded and fled through the door. 

“Now hahren, if you please,” The Dovahkiin offered a hand. The elder took a deep breath before taking her hand. The mysterious woman guided them through the door. Solas quickly positioned himself before it, eager to catch a glimpse of what lay on the other side. He only managed to make out an extensive golden bridge that stretched as far as the eye could see, before it closed on him. Solas’ sharp eyes strayed to a spinning golden disc not far from where the door was. He gazed at it, jerking back when he saw an eight-pointed star lift itself from the stone, before vanishing back to wherever it came from. 

“Ingenious,” Solas said to himself, “they are not constrained by geographical location. A magical transporter that is tied to an object and activated whenever needed. Truly remarkable.”

“Out on a hunt, lethallin ? This one’s not so easy to catch, I’m afraid.” A Pride demon growled, before unleashing a nasty laugh. 

Solas frowned. “I do not require your input to arrive at such a conclusion. What attracts you to this memory?” 

“Her power, ancient, pure and true. What doesn’t it attract? Demons and spirits of all natures are attracted to every memory The Dovahkiin has graced with her presence.” 

“There are others?” 

“Foolish, blind old wolf, of course there are others!” The Pride demon shot him an unpleasant grin with its many, bladed teeth. “But you have to find them first. Perhaps…we could bargain?”

Solas laughed sharply. “You presume too much, demon, to speak to me in such a way. Begone, or I shall remove you myself.” 

“You were so much more entertaining when you were younger, lethallin, ” the demon sneered, before turning away and directing its attention back to the memory.

“Perhaps I was,” Solas said quietly to himself. He cast one last look at the tantalising figure of The Dovahkiin, itching to pull back her hood to reveal herself to him. What would he find, he wondered. In time, he promised himself. 

At least, he knew more about The Dovahkiin than the Inquisition could ever fathom. It was most satisfying to be three steps ahead from the competition. Now he knew what to find, and could take steps to control the flow of information regarding The Dovahkiin and her cult to the Inquisitor. 

“Solas?” Evelyn’s voice called to him from the waking world. 

He pulled himself from The Fade, returning to his body. 

“Did you find anything?” 

“Yes, Inquisitor,”

More than you will ever know.

Storm Coast

Entrance to The Deep Roads

Alatariel hated the Storm Coast. 

How is it that it always rained? Dressed in her Nightingale Armour, she and her party had landed in Thedas some time ago, creeping through the underbrush to avoid enemies and The Blades of Hessarian, in particular. Serana hated the Storm Coast more than she hated the cold of Skyrim. Though she didn’t need to put her hood up, the constant pelting rain made it a necessity. 

 She had paused momentarily to watch a giant and a dragon battle things out. The Dragonborn had been surprised to find that the dragons of Thedas did not speak, but most of all, that they were female. She wondered what Odahviing and Paarthurnax would think if she called them here. Is that even possible? She wondered. She had to test it out sometime.

They had then progressed to the Deep Roads entrance, led by one of Ellana’s people, a Dalish named Feytriel. As far as Alatariel knew, he didn’t hail from the same clan as Ellana. Apparently, his clan had once travelled through these parts, and that made him more than capable of leading them to the Deep Roads entrance. Ellana had chosen one of their few dwarves to come along, a talented rogue named Destrien, and a former city elf from Denerim named Tarlen. 

Alatariel had initially thought Destrien would be the one to lead them, but Ellana had told her the dwarf considered himself a ‘metropolitan’ dwarf. Whatever that meant, she mused.

They’d elected to wait by entrance to see if The Ghost would appear. Though he’d be late on occasion, he always came through. But never this late, the Dragonborn thought. 

“Gird yourselves. We’re going in,” Alatariel let her party know. 

Once they were inside the entrance, Alatariel cast a Magelight spell, practically illuminating the whole area. “Real handy,” Destrien commented, whipping out his daggers, “I know the Grey Warden mages would kill for that spell.”

“Or any other spell Nirn has,” Tarlen added, nocking an arrow on his bow in preparation.

“Well, I’d love to share the depth of my magical knowledge, once they stop killing mages when they so much as sneeze,” Alatariel replied, taking out Dawnbreaker, the unique sword adding to light pervading the previously darkened space. 

“Ain’t that the truth,” Feytriel said, both he and Ellana had their staves out. Though they no longer needed it after Tolfdir’s relentless magical training, it was still handy to have once you’re exhausted of magicka.

They proceeded down a narrow passage and emerged in a ruined courtyard, dotted with blazing fires, fallen pillars and detritus. 

“Looks like the ruin of an old Thaig,” Destrien observed. His bushy brows furrowed when he saw the massive cracks on the floors and walls. “I’m not liking the feeling of this, Dovahkiin. Darkspawn could come crawling out of those crevasses at any moment.”

“I don’t like it either,” Alatariel said, “but we’re not leaving without The Ghost and the slaves from Tevinter.”

“I really hope they’re close by,” Serana mumbled. 

“Let’s keep moving,” Alatariel said, and the group ventured further past the ruins of the old Thaig, before facing a path that branched in two different directions. 

“Which way do we go, Dovahkiin?” Ellana asked. 

Alatariel paused. She could see that the path to their left led to an enormous archway, while the remaining path led to a rickety structure, with ladders snaking further downward into the depths. She really hoped that The Ghost was close by, but it was better than going down the wrong route in the labyrinthine network of The Deep Roads. 

She felt the dragon soul roar within her, before unleashing the Aura Whisper Shout:

“ Laas Yah Nir!”

All manner of living creature was revealed to her eyes, including the dreaded darkspawn. Taking the path to the right seemed a death sentence, with how much darkspawn was skittering about down there. Her eyes strayed to the only path remaining to them, widening when she saw them. The Ghost’s life force was moving about in rapid motions in a sea of red, while the ones he was protecting were huddled together a few metres away from him. He’s in battle, she realised. 

“Quickly! Down this path!” 

Alatariel dashed down the vast road to the massive archway, the sounds of fighting growing louder and louder as she neared. She reached the archway in record time, diving into a long stretch of hallway, the Aura Whisper Shout still remained active as she turned right. She watched The Ghost move in a whirlwind of white and blue, wielding his greatsword Lethendralis as if it were an extension of himself. He sliced through the darkspawn with deft motions, keeping them back from the recently freed slaves. 

Alatariel dove into the fight, Dawnbreaker severing through the darkspawn like butter. Serana sent an Ice Spike through a hurlock’s torso, before charging at it with frightening speed, tearing its head off its shoulders for extra measure. The rest of her party dove into the fray, spells flying and blades whirring in a dance of death. 

“Remember not to get any of the blood in yer mouth!” Destrien yelled through the din. 

“Then shut up, Destrien!” Ellana commanded, quickly casting a barrier on everyone before casting an Ignite spell on a shriek, and smacking it down with the end of her staff. 

Once the fighting died down and Alatariel made sure all of them were alright, she turned to face The Ghost. His white hair was stained with flecks of blood, his lyrium markings dying down as he wrenched his hand from within a limp hurlock. 

“Fenris, if you had taken any longer, we would’ve thought you dead.”

“Dovahkiin,” he greeted, nodding to her before addressing the freed slaves. “It’s safe to come out now.” Fenris frowned. “You needn’t come. I had it taken care of.” 

“Now now, there’s no harm in accepting help once in a while, Mr Doom-and-Gloom,” Serana chipped in, a smirk tugging at her lips.

“Lady Serana. Always a pleasure.” If Fenris took a bit of smug satisfaction in Serana’s disgusted face, he didn’t show it.

“Let’s move,” Alatariel said, feeling uneasy, “I saw many of the darkspawn below. We wouldn’t want them creeping up here whilst we’re making our way out.”

Without much complaint, they herded the freed, and tired ex-slaves back in the direction they came from. They moved as quickly as they could, but all hope of coming out without further fighting was vanquished when darkspawn began steadily pouring out of the cracks. Alatariel and her group were ready, The Dragonborn occasionally Shouting ‘Fus Ro Dah’ to send them tumbling back through the fissures, but more kept coming. 

We need to give them time to run, Alatariel thought, as she beheaded a Shriek. 

“Serana!” She called out to her friend. “I need you to take the elves to the entrance now! We’ll stay back to give you time.”

Serana trusted her long-time friend and gave her no backtalk, doing as she was bid. 

The Dragonborn and her party fought fiercely, but the waves of darkspawn were never-ending. Who knows how long Fenris had been fighting? She knew the former Tevinter slave had admirable battle stamina, but she was well aware that fighting for days on end would put any warrior through their paces. Even now, she could see Destrien slowing down slightly. Channelling her magicka, Alatariel cast a Mass Paralysis spell at their enemies, causing them to fall over like mannequins. 

She knew more were coming so the time to run was now.

“Fall back! To the entrance!” She screamed. She quickly recast her Magelight spell, dashing up the steps leading out of the abandoned Thaig. Her party was quick to follow suit. The shrill shrieks of darkspawn travelled her ears and she bade her followers to hasten the pace. She quickly put away Dawnbreaker in favour of Auriel’s Bow, occasionally turning around to shoot Sunhallowed arrows at their pursuers, with Tarlen pitching in. Blasts of sunlight illuminated the walls of the cave, to the angered, pained roars of the darkspawn. 

“We’re almost there!” Feytriel shouted, pointing ahead to the shafts of sunlight filtering through an opening. 

“Keep moving, kid!” Destrien snapped, huffing and puffing as his short legs worked overtime.

“Move, move!” The Dragonborn ordered, standing to the side of the entrance. She continued to shoot using Auriel’s Bow, making sure all of her followers were out. She utilised her Unrelenting Force Shout again, blasting the first in line to bits while the rest fell over the chasm. Once she was through the exit, Ellana levitated debris to seal the Deep Roads shut. 

Everyone was breathing heavily, Ellana leaning against a boulder while Tarlen flopped onto the ground, taking a swig from his water pouch. The Dragonborn paced her breaths, closing her eyes briefly, before turning to regard The Ghost. She still remembered approaching him two months into her mission. He’d still been on his interminable quest of freeing as many slaves as he could, but the realisation that destroying the bonds of slavery was not as simple as he once thought. The slaves Fenris freed had long been under chains, and suddenly finding that they were without them would only cause them to yearn for the yoke once more. It gradually chipped away at him, causing him to quickly grow despondent. He had retired by that point.  But The Dovahkiin had heard of his feats, though he was a hard man to track down, she found him hiding in a safehouse in Denerim. He was predictably resistant to her overtures of partnership at first.

She had to show him proof of her operations, of Skyrim, of the possibility of offering a haven for all elves to heal away from the chaos of Thedas. Alatariel didn’t care that he didn’t believe in Auriel. Fenris was good at what he did and as long as their goals aligned then that’s all that mattered to her. Besides, it helped seeing the cracks within Fenris heal as he went on his self-imposed crusade.

“For what it’s worth, you have my thanks, Dovahkiin,” Fenris sighed, sheathing his greatsword.

Alatariel straightened. “It’s of no consequence.”

“Let’s head to The Sanctuary, shall we?”

Fenris grunted. 

“Please. I don’t want to be in this shithole any longer than necessary.”

Alatariel observed the freed elves, who looked dead on their feet. Rags hung limply on their gaunt frames, hair greasy with deep bags lining their eyes. They probably didn’t get enough rest while running from darkspawn.

“Then let’s not tarry any longer.”

Chapter Text

Inquisition Waypoint

On the Road

Solas arose from his bedroll, standing up to dress himself. He turned to the bedroll opposite to his, seeing Dorian was still asleep. For a man raised to have genteel and refined manners, he sure did snore like a boar. He shook his head, walking over to the wooden basin to rinse his face. 

They had stayed for a night at Halamshiral, where he’d gotten the worst room in the inn alongside The Iron Bull. He’d given a carefully selective debrief of what he’d gathered from his own investigations to the rest of the Inquisitor’s party. Solas had omitted the mention of the Dovahkiin’s father as well as the means used to transport the elves. Oh, he’d told them the Dovahkiin had opened a magical doorway, but didn’t divulge the appearance of this magical transporter. 

As soon as the Inquisitor dismissed them for the night, Solas had said a perfunctory ‘Good night’  before returning to his shabby room and leaping into bed, always eager to return to The Fade. But this time, he was more eager than the prior occasions he’d traversed his realm. He spent the night searching for memories of the elusive Dovahkiin and her cult. It seemed her network stretched far and wide, enveloping the whole of Thedas. Solas had witnessed her ferrying elves from the Denerim, Kirkwall, Gwaren and Amaranthine alienages. He saw as she then drew in mages from all corners of the continent, likely seeking the freedom and lack of persecution The Light of Auriel preached. He saw as she repeatedly opened the gateways, taking in children of all races–though mostly elves–with the help of her army of underlings. Solas pondered. It was not out of the realm of possibility that The Light of Auriel operated using cells, all unknowing of one another aside from their sparse contact with The Dovahkiin and her Generals. 

They’re building an army, Solas mused, but what is their true purpose? And can they be persuaded to aid me?

Solas affirmed his goal as he patted his face dry with a clean cloth. He needed to find and speak to The Dovahkiin first, before the Inquisition did. If there could be potential for an alliance, then it would be Fen’Harel himself at the fore. The People relied on him to return them to what they once were and he will not fail. The die is cast, and The Dread Wolf shall see to it that he prevails.

A groan sounded from behind him. Solas straightened, the smirk that had pulled at his lips disappearing in an instant. He assumed his cold, impassive mask, one that Orlesians would envy, and turned to greet the Tevinter Altus. The man stared back, bleary-eyed, clearly not one with the waking world yet.

“Good morrow, Master Pavus.” 

That caused Dorian’s dark eyes to become alert and the man sat up, his blankets pooling around his bare waist. His usually coiffed hair was sticking out in odd ends, moustache askew. He shot Solas an unamused glare, which caused a sheen of amusement to appear in the old wolf’s eyes.

“Breakfast should be ready by now. I’ll see you there after your ablutions,” Solas said, unruffled, as he turned around to head out of their shared tent. 

Dorian’s vexed shout trailed behind him. “I’ll get you for that, you shabbily-dressed rascal!”  

Solas bit down a grin. 

“Ser Solas,” an Inquisition scout greeted, eyeing him warily due to his mage’s staff. He handed him his bowl of slop before turning back to tend to the simmering pot. Solas proceeded to sit down on one of the logs provided. He ate his fill, grimacing at each taste. The elven apostate watched as the scout filled a bowl of slop for an approaching Iron Bull, only to fill another four bowls with the sludge. Solas noted with keen eyes that the scout sprinkled an extra helping of cinnamon and rosemary on only two of the four bowls. Undoubtedly for the Inquisitor and the Enchanter, Solas noted, irritated. He shrugged it off easily, however. It won’t last, nothing ever does. 

“Hey Solas,” The Iron Bull greeted. “Have a good rest? Meet any buxom Fade ladies?”

Solas sighed. “I had a restful sleep, thank you. And you?”

“Well enough.”

The Iron Bull appeared as though he intended to say more, but was tragically cut short by the appearance of the Inquisitor and the Enchanter, followed shortly thereafter by Dorian and Briala. Predictably, the scout hands the spiced bowls to the former duo, leaving tasteless stew for the latter. All of them settled around the fire, partaking of their meals just as the sun was cresting over the mountains. 

Solas subtly scrutinised the Inquisitor’s appearance. The bags beneath her eyes had darkened, and her complexion was sallow, a marked contrast to its prior rosy appearance. Though her dark hair had been groomed and pulled back into a severe bun, the slouch in her shoulders betrayed her exhaustion. Solas suspected the added weight of The Light of Auriel’s exploits alongside Corypheus was proving stressful. 

“Are you well, Inquisitor?” He asked, breaking the silence. 

Evelyn stopped chewing, looking up at him. She gave a thin smile. “No, I suppose I’m not.”

The Inquisitor took a deep breath. “Something’s worrying me.”

“Something other than rebel mages, rogue Templars, and Corypheus?” Dorian pitched in with his usual wit. 

“Yes, other than that,” Evelyn rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Wait, actually it concerns them as well. Has it not occurred to anyone here that Corypheus might reach out to The Dovahkiin for a potential alliance?”

Solas drew in a sharp breath. He had not considered that. Foolish old wolf. 

“Worrying, yes, but I doubt Corypheus, a Tevinter Magister he was, would consider allying himself with someone who spirits away the backbone of Tevinter–and many other kingdoms’–labour force.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure, Vint,” The Iron Bull interjected, scratching at his horns. “Based on what I’ve seen of him so far, I don’t think Corypheus refrains from allying himself with those he hates. He’ll take one look at The Dovahkiin and see power, and then kill him or her when the whole thing’s over.”

“That does sound like him, yes,” Vivienne concurred. “The heretic would prove too much of a threat for Corypheus to keep around should he succeed.”

“None of you have even considered if The Dovahkiin would accept this hypothetical alliance,” Briala pitched in, setting aside her half-eaten slop. “Even if they were to meet, I’m not sure it would end well. After all, we have no knowledge of the true power of The Dovahkiin.”

“And considering what they’ve accomplished so far by helping the elves and other non-human races, I doubt The Dovahkiin would be enthusiastic in allying with a former Tevinter Magister,” Solas added. Hums of agreement resounded throughout the camp. 

The Iron Bull groaned. “I can’t wait to meet this Dovahkiin on the battlefield.”

“Famous last words.” Dorian muttered, permanently put off by his breakfast. 

The Inquisitor slapped her palms against her thighs. “This is all purely conjecture at this point. We can figure out what to do next about The Light of Auriel once we return to Skyhold.”

Vivienne daintily set down her spoon, patting at her lips with a silk napkin. “In spite of the disappearance of Halamshiral’s elves, the masquerade is more of a priority at present, Inquisitor. We cannot waste time dealing with what-ifs when we know what Corypheus’ next steps will be.”

Evelyn groaned as if in pain. “Can’t we just send a letter informing the Empress?”

“Informing Celene of what?” Briala cocked her head. 

Everyone shared secretive glances. Evelyn pursed her lips, seeming to have come to a decision. “Since you’ve joined the Inquisition, I guess you’re within your rights to know. We’ve uncovered a plot by Corypheus to assassinate Empress Celene during The Winter Ball in order to throw Orlais into chaos.”

“Celene is in danger.” Briala’s hands curled into fists. “Without me there, without the elves of Halamshiral, she’ll be vulnerable to Gaspard as well. Ugh, all that progress for nothing.” She then spat. “The Dovahkiin knows when to pick the time to meddle, it seems.”

“A letter will not suffice, Inquisitor,” Vivienne said, lips curling slightly in disapproval. “Far too easy to intercept. Even if it did reach the hands of the Empress’s spymaster, they’ll need concrete evidence of such a plot and not rely merely on someone’s word, even if it is the Herald of Andraste’s.”

“We need to be on the ground, face-to-face, in order to affect things directly. ”

The Inquisitor hummed, clearly displeased. “You’re right, Vivienne,”

“Naturally, my dear.”

Solas watched their interaction, pensive. It was worrying that the Inquisitor was listening to the Enchanter’s advice. Not that it was disallowed, and nor was the Enchanter’s advice erroneous. He, in fact, agreed with her. But the notion that the Enchanter was growing more in influence within Evelyn’s Inner Circle does not bode well. The Enchanter was pompous and resistant to change, believing that all mages belonged in Circles, blind to the fact that her own circumstances made her the exception, and not the rule. And though Evelyn was a grown woman, she was utterly inept in this so-called ‘Grand Game’. 

For Solas, it had been an utter delight. Evelyn wore her emotions on her sleeve, and thus it was easy for him to decipher her moods and opinions. She’d be played like a fiddle, Solas thought, as he continued to observe Evelyn and Vivienne’s interactions. And judging by Briala and Iron Bull’s placid expressions, they could see it as well. The Enchanter was becoming a trusted ear of the Inquisitor. There are so many things wrong with this world.

“Rider approaching!”

Everyone stood at attention, weapons at the ready. A lone horse appeared, and Solas relaxed the moment he saw the familiar green of the Inquisition of the scout’s hood. They all put away their weapons just as the scout dismounted from her horse. One of The Nightingale’s people, no doubt, Solas thought to himself. 

“Message for you, Inquisitor,” the scout bowed, before handing Evelyn a small scroll.

Evelyn unfurled the parchment, a furrow forming between her brows. 

“What’s it say?” Dorian asked. 

“Well, it seems we might have a lead on The Light of Auriel.”

“How so, Inquisitor?” Solas inquired humbly.

“A Dalish elf approached Leliana, saying he’s got some information about the cult that might be of some use to us. Apparently he’s unwilling to say more until I return.” 

“He could be a spy,” Vivienne said.

“I say it’s well worth listening to what he has to say. If he’s a spy, then we’ll deal with him.” Evelyn responded, chucking the scroll into the campfire. 

“Then shall we be off?”

Forgotten Vale

Skyrim

The sun rose high in the sky, causing the snow and ice of the Forgotten Vale to gleam like crystals. Elven children giggled and screamed, chasing one another up and down the sloping pathways that spanned the once-mighty kingdom of the Snow Elves. On the Frozen River, where the Word Wall stood, Tolfdir was in his element, teaching his second class of the day in the arts of Restoration magic. Elf, dwarf, human, and the occasional Tal-Vashoth gathered around the Master Wizard of Winterhold College as he guided them with the basics of healing magic, demonstrating both the Fast Healing and Lesser Ward spells. Meanwhile, Farkas led a mixed group of Dalish and city elves toward the wayshrine leading to Darkfall Passage. Occasionally, the Theodosians would be brought out of the isolation of the Chantry and introduced to the wider world Skyrim had to offer. It was a way of showing and acclimatising them to the different races that inhabit Nirn, as well as the dangers of this world. 

Alatariel walked down the path overlooking the Frozen Lake. A group of Theodosian Elves were climbing up the path, armed with bows and arrows, carrying freshly killed carcasses of goats and vale deer. They bowed as she passed, murmuring the word ‘Dovahkiin’ reverently. 

“A bountiful hunt, it seems,” Alatariel acknowledged. The hunters stared at her, wide-eyed, as if they could not comprehend that The Dovahkiin herself would ever deign to speak to them.

“Y-Yes, Milady, it was,” one of the hunters replied, a former city elf, she presumed, judging by his bare face. 

“How does everyone fare? Do you want for anything?”

“Food is no issue here, Milady, we’ve never been better fed,” another piped up, one of the rare few humans that came along with them. “The children are happy, and I don’t have to fear a Templar coming to lop me head off for farting fire.”

“It’s just racial tensions, Milady,” he continued, scratching at his beard. “Those things aren’t solved so quickly.” Alatariel silently agreed.

“Is it so dire?” Alatariel questioned, an undertone of worry lacing her voice.

They all shook their heads. “No, Milady. When a quarrel or fight breaks out, Lady Serana and Ser Farkas would sort that out very quickly. Lady Serana even bound them at the wrists once and forced them to work together for three moons. It worked, amazingly.”

Alatariel huffed in amusement. That sounds like Serana.

“I see. Thank you for the information. I shall not take up your time any longer.”

She let them be, a whispered chorus of ‘Milady’ trailed after her. Alatariel continued on her way, intending to reach the Inner Sanctum where the slaves freed by Fenris were currently being housed. All bowed to her as she passed, and she trudged forward, hiding the increasing discomfort she felt. Although it was not the first time she was regarded with reverence, it was still disconcerting to be the focus of their attention. Alatariel stopped to grace Auriel’s grand statue–where she once stood to begin her god-given crusade–a low bow and quick prayer for guidance, before trudging up the steps and into the massive keep.

The Inner Sanctum was a vastly different picture compared to the one it presented after she killed her uncle. Gone were the hordes of frozen Falmer, their faces perpetually stuck in the midst of animalistic rage, and gone were the fallen arches and crumbling stones. She sighed in contentment as she navigated its labyrinthine halls, finding comfort in its vaulted arches and high ceilings, of the torches that gleamed with fire runes, of the heady sensation of Snow Elf magic everywhere. It was home. 

It warmed her heart to discover that some of the Theodosian refugees she saved had signed up to become initiates of Auriel, inspired to become a Knight-Paladin like her father. They were one of the first to declare that Skyrim was their home, and refused to entertain returning to Thedas. Garbed in pristine white robes similar to the ghosts guarding the wayshrines, they scurried about the temple grounds, tending to the shrines and consulting old tomes. She made sure to make her steps light and silent, not desiring to disturb them. Turning right and toward an antechamber, Alatariel found the former Tevinter slaves partaking of their meals, with Fenris leaning against the wall, a silent sentinel. 

He looked up when he saw her shadowing the door and straightened. She jerked her head and he nodded. 

“Quite a statement you made,” Fenris began, as they leisurely strolled toward the chapel, “nabbing all of Halamshiral’s elves.”

Alatariel hummed. “That was the intention, yes.”

“And you are not concerned it will bring the wrath of Thedas’ Chantry down upon you and the Freed?”

“Sooner or later, we will be discovered. But how we are discovered is something that I would like to control,” Alatariel replied, entering the throne room.

“It’ll make things harder,” Fenris muttered, “but you’re right. No one can hide forever. But I’m afraid this could lead to war.” 

Alatariel eyed him carefully. The Blue Wraith did not seem disapproving, he seemed almost expectant, anticipatory of the inevitable clash. “We represent a new beginning, a radical change. Neither Tevinter nor Orlais and the other kingdoms would concede to treating other races equally. Of course, war is inevitable. However, we must continue freeing as many elves and other non-human races as we can until Corypheus is defeated.”

“Are you allying yourself with this Inquisition?” 

“Don’t be silly, Fenris,” she chuckled. “No matter how many times they whine and whinge, the Inquisition is their Chantry’s tool. If The Chantry tells them to shit, then they’ll ask to be pointed to the nearest privy. They would have let the rebel mages fall into the bonds of slavery to Tevinter if I wasn’t there to stop Alexius.” She had caught wind of the plot, and was crestfallen at not being able to save them all. She used her Slow Time Shout, channelling all the power of the dov to stop and kill Gereon Alexius before he could deliver the rest of the rebel mages to Corypheus. “I will never ally myself with them, but I will not be outright hostile towards them–”

“–unless they cast the first blow.”

“Quite.”

“What’s next? Planning to spirit Denerim’s alienage?” 

The Dragonborn shook her head as they climbed the steps out to the balcony. “No, we must lie low for the time being. Thedas is shaken by their disappearance, no doubt. They’ll declare war if I empty Denerim’s alienage and then it’ll be a war on two fronts in their case. I want them to focus on Corypheus and end him as soon as possible–can’t leave Thedas more damaged than it already is.”

“And after?” Fenris inquired, crossing his arms.

Alatariel smiled softly, used to baring her face to him. “Then my work truly begins.”

Fenris shot her a sceptical look, and The Dovahkiin gave an enigmatic smile, unwilling to reveal more. Hasty footsteps reached their ears, and the veteran warriors immediately reached for their weapons upon reflex. Though she was only armed with an elven dagger, she knew she could make any weapon as deadly as Dawnbreaker or the Ebony Blade. The Dovahkiin, slayer of Alduin, will not be felled by a mere assassin.

She let her arm fall when she saw that it was one of her agents, one of Hila’s people. Her lilac eyes fell upon the scroll held in his hand. Immediately she drew back, a hand on her nose as she recoiled at the vile stench which emanated from the rolled-up parchment. Whomever sent it to her, reeked of pure evil. 

“A letter for you, Dovahkiin. One of our agents in the Storm Coast received it at one of our drop points.”

“That is concerning. How could anyone know of that?” Alatariel frowned, lips pursed. “Have Hila investigate.”

“She’s already on it.”

With great reluctance, the scroll was placed on her open palm. She shuddered in revulsion. 

“What’s wrong?” Fenris asked, eyeing her oddly.

“Do none of you smell that? The stench is revolting. ”

Both of them shook their heads and The Dovahkiin sighed, waving her hand dismissively. Courtesy of her time as the Guildmaster, she saw that it had been resealed, no doubt Hila had been apprised of its contents–as her spymaster should.

Tamping down her nausea, she broke the seal and surveyed the letter’s contents. 

Alatariel began to chuckle, before igniting the letter, allowing the crisp breeze to carry its embers to the sky. 

“What is it?”

She wore a thin smile, lilac eyes as hard as amethysts.

“It seems a certain Tevinter Magister is keen on speaking with me.”

Skyhold

Evelyn was not afforded much rest once she and her party returned to Skyhold. Her limbs ached and her head was throbbing, but she gritted her teeth, setting them aside to deal with the matter at hand. She handed her reins to a stableboy, and bid goodbye to her followers, before marching the steps up into the keep. 

As expected, the infamous Nightingale stood awaiting her by its great doors. Her red hair peeked out from beneath her cowl, her arms clasped behind her back. Evelyn nodded in greeting. She knew The Nightingale was not in the mood for pleasantries, and in truth, neither was she. There’ll be plenty of time for that at the Winter Ball, Evelyn grumbled internally.

“So, where is he?”

It seemed Leliana was appreciative that she’d cut right to the heart of things.

“I’ll have him brought to your rooms.” 

Evelyn nodded and the two parted ways as soon as they entered the throne room. All the nobles that had flocked to the Inquisition were gathered there, tittering behind gloved hands and silken fans. All conversation lulled when she entered, but she did not stop, not acknowledging the small bows and curtseys her way. Once she made it through the first door leading to her rooms, Evelyn felt she could breathe again. How am I meant to survive the vultures of the Winter Palace? Evelyn sighed to catch her breath. She was relieved that she had someone of Madame de Fer’s calibre by her side. 

Shaking her head, Evelyn climbed up the steps and headed towards her chambers. She clambered up another flight of stairs that led to her bedroom, her feet sinking into the plush, velvet, Orlesian rugs Vivienne had ordered for her. Walking over to her writing desk, she grabbed the carafe and poured herself a goblet of wine. She sipped at her wine, leaning against her desk as she waited for this Dalish elf to arrive. Evelyn would like nothing more than strip herself of her armour and riding leathers and leap into a tub of steaming water. But she needed to appear the Inquisitor and not a human woman readying herself for bed. For when one is Inquisitor, duty prevails over comfort. 

She heard the tell-tale sound of footsteps approaching and sighed, placing her goblet down and straightening herself. She spotted a sliver of Leliana's red head before she revealed herself, followed by the Dalish elf she was informed of. The elf had a head full of dark hair, with painted branches sprouting from his nose, spreading across his temples. He was clad in Dalish-made leather armour that had seen better days, with footwraps coiling his feet the way Solas does in lieu of shoes.

“Inquisitor.” Leliana greeted, before gesturing to the elf. 

“What’s your name?”

“M-Mahanon. Mahanon Lavellan, Y-Your Worship.” 

Evelyn hummed. “Welcome to Skyhold, Mahanon of Clan Lavellan. I believe you have something for my ears only regarding The Light of Auriel?”

“Yes, though I doubt you could call us a clan any longer. A large number of us defected to The Light of Auriel after my…sister Ellana told us of them, though few of us remain to honour the old ways.”

“Your sister’s name is Ellana?” Evelyn began, eyes narrowed. 

At Mahanon’s nod, her grey eyes gleamed with interest.

Evelyn turned to Leliana. "Briala said that a Dalish elf named Ellana approached her."

"A high chance that this is the same person. A lead worth looking into."

She redirected her attention to an anxious Mahanon. “Start from the beginning.”

“About six moons ago, my sister Ellana left our clan to head to the Conclave as she was our clan’s First. As I’m sure we’re all aware of what happened…when she didn’t return, we all thought she’d died in the explosion.” Mahanon heaved a great sigh, shoulders slumping. “But to everyone’s surprise, she showed up four moons later, the healthiest that I’ve ever seen her. She was…taller somehow, and broader, and wearing an elven-style armour that I’d never seen before. I was overjoyed to see her. I thought it meant she was back, but imagine my dismay when she started spouting about Auriel and how it means the salvation of all elves.”

“And then?” Evelyn prodded.

“Keeper Deshanna was scandalised. We all were, at first. But then she showed all the…gifts Auriel had blessed her with. She healed all the aches and pains, the diseases our elders were suffering. Then she spoke of The Dovahkiin, and how she could tear the skies and rend souls with her voice. Ellana then pointed to herself, saying she was what a well-fed elf looked like, and how our people had been purposefully starved for centuries and nobody realised.” At this, Evelyn and Leliana shared uncomfortable looks of realisation as well. “I think that statement drove the final nail in the coffin for our clan. Within three days, a large number of Lavellans had rallied for this false Elven god. Ellana took them with her, and that was the last time I saw my sister.”

“She? The Dragonborn’s a woman?” 

Thank the Maker for Leliana’s sharp ears, Evelyn thought.

“Yes, that’s what Ellana said.”

But Evelyn was curious about one aspect of his tale: “Why didn’t you join your sister?”

Mahanon’s face twisted in his rage and hurt. “She spurned all we’ve been taught! How could she ask me to abandon everything we’ve been raised to believe, all based on some strange god we never knew? It was an even bigger blow for the clan because she was the most devout, most passionate in discovering ancient relics of the Elvhen.” The Dalish elf then shook his head slowly, his voice was naught but a whisper as the strong emotions that took a hold of him left him sapped of energy. “I love my sister, but the woman that came to me that day has changed. She’s no longer the Ellana I knew.”

Leliana broked the solemn silence that ensued. 

“Why did it take you this long to come to us?”

The elf’s face hardened. “Who would listen? Especially to an elf, and a Dalish savage at that? During Arlathven, it wasn’t hard to notice that our numbers have shrunk. All the other clans said they were approached by Ellana and a number of Dalish exiles. Apparently, they looked to her to lead.” 

Leliana turned to Evelyn. “Then it won’t be too much to assume that Ellana is quite high up in the chain of command.”

Evelyn nodded in agreement. She crossed her arms and asked Mahanon the same question she asked Briala. “Do you have any insight into their operations?”

“No, sadly,” Mahanon responded, wringing his fingers. “Ellana didn’t reveal anything about that. Though I believe it won’t be so hard to go to one of their gatherings.”

Both women straightened. “Gatherings?”

“Oh yes, but they don’t use pamphlets to spread the word. I assume they’ll take your measure first, before inviting you in. They usually target elves, as you can imagine.”

“Clever. Keeps word from spreading too quickly and reaching the nobles.” Leliana acknowledged plainly. Suddenly, a gleam shone from her spymaster’s pale, blue eyes. 

“What is it, Leliana?”

A small smile pulled at The Nightingale’s delicate lips. “I have a plan.” But before she could reveal what it was, Leliana turned to Mahanon. “Thank you for the information, Mahanon. You will be aptly rewarded.”

“Please, I have no want for gold.”

“Then what do you want?” Leliana asked, suspicious. 

“All I ask, if it pleases you, Inquisitor, is that we be kept informed on Ellana. I still wish to know how my sister is doing.”

Evelyn shared a look with Leliana. The spymaster gave a subtle shrug. 

“That’s a reasonable ask. I’ll grant it.” 

“Thank you.” Mahanon bowed. “I shall take my leave now.”

Once the Dalish elf shut the door behind him and his footfalls faded, Evelyn regarded Leliana with a curious look. “Alright, what is it you have in mind?”

“I have a plan on how we could capture one of them,” Leliana smirked, “but we’re going to need Solas for it to work.”

Evelyn blinked.

“Solas?” 

Leliana nodded in affirmation. “It can’t be Sera, she has an odd aversion to anything ‘elf-y’ and is far too caustic and unpredictable. No, for this to work, Solas would be the perfect candidate to send in.”

“So you want Solas to infiltrate one of these gatherings, I presume?”

“It might take a few days, a couple of weeks, give or take,” Leliana replied, “but once he gets in, gives the go-ahead, we’ll set up an ambush and take them in.” 

Evelyn tapped her chin in contemplation, before sighing. “Fine. Let's send for Solas. But I don’t want any civilians hurt.”

“Of course, Inquisitor. I’m no amateur.”

Chapter Text

Kirkwall 

Outside the city

The last thing Solas expected when the Inquisitor summoned him was her intention to turn him into an infiltration agent. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to refrain from laughing in their faces at the irony. 

Solas held onto his impassive mask for dear life as both Evelyn and The Nightingale laid out their plans to him, requesting–no, ordering– him to participate. It was overall, quite simple–in theory. Although the notion that elves are more sympathetic and open to others of their own race is sound, a stranger is still a stranger. Solas couldn’t imagine an agent of Auriel simply coming up and inviting him based on ear shape alone. 

But he’d be a fool not to take this as an opportunity to make first contact with the cult. As The Dovahkiin did not reside in Thedas, he could not reach her through the Fade. No, he would need one of them to send a message to her to request a meeting. 

“How long will I be away?” Solas had asked.

“By the grace of The Maker, you’ll accomplish your mission before we set off for the Winter Palace,” Leliana explained, trying to stare down at him down her delicate nose. Solas made the calculations in his head. He’d be away nigh three moons. He was irritated at this, for though he had agents stationed in Skyhold, he wanted to be in the pulse of things concerning the latest discoveries the Inquisition made about his orb. Yet The Dread Wolf couldn’t deny that The Light of Auriel could prove more useful than The Inquisition ever could. So yes, this is proving to be beneficial to him in more ways than one.

Solas remained unflappable under Leliana’s scrutiny. The Nightingale might think herself an intimidating, master player of The Game, but he’d been playing it for aeons. Leliana was naught but a mere babe in comparison to him. 

“Of course, I won’t be coming along. We wouldn’t want them to know that the Inquisition is sniffing around the area,” Evelyn butted in. “But you’ll have Varric to tag along with you.”

His head snapped sharply to regard the Inquisitor. “Why Kirkwall, Inquisitor?”

Evelyn’s eyes widened in surprise momentarily, before resuming. “In comparison to Halamshiral, Kirkwall has the second highest rate of disappearances. We suspect that The Dovahkiin intends to capture its alienage’s inhabitants in one fell swoop like in Halamshiral-” Which is unlikely, Solas thought,“-and who better to let you know the lay of the land than Varric?”

“I’m sending some of my agents to participate in this mission,” Leliana said, taking over.“They will be watching you closely throughout, so once you’re in, I want you to give a signal that they can either clearly see or hear. If you’d like to use a spell, then that’s fine, so long as it’s harmless.”

Solas nodded. “Understood.”

“Let’s not waste any time. Leave at first light. I’ll notify Varric of this as well.” 

Knowing a dismissal when he sees one, Solas gave a short bow, before turning to pack for his impromptu mission.

“We’re nearly there, Chuckles,” Varric murmured. Returning to his place of birth did not seem to cheer the surface dwarf much. But considering the events that occurred when he was a companion to the Champion of Kirkwall, it’s hardly surprising. “Soon, you’ll see sights you’ve never seen! Streets laden with shit and piss, murderous Carta, blown out buildings–which yours truly may or may not have contributed to–and more than enough misery to go around.”

Solas smiled, amused. “Since you put it that way, Master Tethras, what’s not to like?”

“Ha! I’ll hold you to that, Chuckles.”

Instead of cantering through the front gates into the city of Kirkwall, Varric led Solas away from them, directing his steed past a congregation of merchants’ stalls and into a copse of poplar trees. 

“I take it that your status as a wanted individual prevents you from availing Kirkwall’s main entrance?” Solas ventured, slowing his mount to a leisurely pace once he saw Varric do so. 

“Now if this was official Inquisition business, Chuckles, then I wouldn’t give a nug’s ass about galloping through the main gate.” Varric replied. “But since we’re on unofficial Inquisition business, I don’t have the Inquisitor’s protection to stop the City Guard from hauling me off to the stocks.”

Solas made an understanding hum. “I take it we’re meeting a contact of yours?”

Varric nodded. “Daisy’s just as worried as everyone about the cult, maybe even more so. She used to be part of a Dalish clan, you see, and is extremely devoted to the elven gods.”

Solas refrained from wincing. “I see.”

“Now, now, I know you hate the Dalish, Chuckles, but don’t go judging her before you even meet her. Daisy’s sweet.”

He sighed, snapping at the reins to urge his horse to go faster. “If you say so, Varric.”

The conversation trailed off into silence as the two Inquisition members rode further into the darkening wood, the dying light of the sun beating its final breaths on their backs. Solas was content to follow Varric’s lead as the surface dwarf manoeuvred past the trees, emerging in a small clearing where a lone tree stood. Its thick trunk was gnarled and twisted, ashen in colour as its spindly branches attempted to pierce the sky. Beneath the tree, a lean figure stood, taking shelter under its great shadow. The figure straightened, walking out from beneath the shade when she saw them approach. 

“Varric!” The figure waved, her features became clearer as she stepped away from the darkness.

“Daisy!” Varric greeted cheerily, pulling at the reins to force his horse to a stop. He hopped off his mount in a practised motion, brushing dirt and dust off his coat, before embracing his friend. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

“Oh, Varric, it’s so good to see you!” 

“How are things going for you, Daisy? Still stealing flowers from all the gardens in Hightown?”

Solas heard the girl gasp as he dismounted. She was lithe, though not as frightfully thin as all the emaciated shadows that were her kin. Daisy–of which Solas has little belief is her actual name considering Varric’s propensity for gifting nicknames–had dark hair that came to her neck, green eyes and, to his dismay, Sylaise’s vallaslin tattooed onto her face. Garbed in Dalish-style armour dyed white, the mage’s staff tied to her back denoted her magical status. Solas peered closer, and sniffed in quiet disapproval. The girl’s a blood mage, Solas mused, sensing her shorn ties to The Fade.

“Is that why they looked so angry?” Solas blanched. She couldn’t be serious.

“Never change, Daisy, never change,” Varric said good-humouredly. “Ah, Chuckles, meet Merrill. Daisy, this is Solas, the elven apostate I talked to you about.”

Merrill jerked in surprise as she took him in. “Oh! Andaran atish’an, hahren.”

Solas nodded in acknowledgement, but was cut off when Merrill spoke again. “My, you’re very tall and broad for an elf. Handsome, too.” Solas cocked a brow, his lips pursed.

“Ma serannas, da’len,” Solas said reluctantly.

Varric chortled. “I think the two of you will get on like a house on fire. Especially since Merrill’s been trying for years to fix that magic mirror.”

“It’s an eluvian, Varric,” Solas’ ears perked up, “and I’m trying to reconstruct it as well.”

“How did you come by an eluvian , if I may ask?”

“Oh, it’s a most fascinating tale actually!” Merrill replied, eyes glazed over in excitement. “It was long before I met Hawke–”

Varric cleared his throat. “No offence to either of you, but we’re not here for the eluvian. ” Solas nodded, conceding the truth of the dwarf’s words, however much his resulting disappointment. However, he took comfort in the fact that the Light of Auriel, was, for lack of a better phrase, the bigger fish to fry than a single eluvian. 

“Yes, you’re right, Child of the Stone,” Solas concurred, gripping his staff tightly, before addressing Merrill, “whatever help or information you can offer about the cult would be wonderful.”

“That’s easy. Varric’s told me the gist of what you’re doing here, and I know where–or rather, who–you can start,” Merrill answered, “there’s an elf by the name of Tamlin. I must warn you, though, he’s quite ornery. Doesn’t trust people easily.”

“And how do you know this Tamlin is connected to the cult?” Solas inquired.

“I’ve seen him talking to some folks in the alienage. It wasn’t even a full moon’s turn and they all vanished. They all spoke to Tamlin before disappearing.” 

“I see,” Solas nodded, pensive.

Varric looked up at Merrill. “And how are things at the alienage, Daisy? Must’ve been even tougher to do anything after what happened at Halamshiral.”

“Oh, you don’t even know the half of it, Varric,” Merrill sighed in distress, shaking her head. “There are more guards posted at the gates now and no one leaves the alienage for fear of being beaten. Everyone’s on high alert, but most of them are…hopeful. I’m worried they’ll declare for Auriel.”

“You think so?”

“Well, if we let matters lie like we did for Halamshiral’s alienage, then I think yes,” Merrill said ominously. She then sighed. “I’m not going to lie to you Varric, but what The Light of Auriel preaches, what it promises…it’s more than anything the Elves could ever dream of since the founding of the Dales.”

Varric seemed astonished. “Are you siding with them, Daisy? Do you still believe in your Dalish gods anymore?”

“No, of course not, Varric!” Merrill protested hotly. “And I still believe in The Evanuris most of all,” Solas tapped his fingernails against his stave, “but I don’t blame them for finding hope.”

They all fell silent after that. Varric shook his head, scratching at his exposed chest hairs. 

“By the way, Daisy,” the dwarf muttered, “have you heard from Broody?”

Solas felt a sliver of irritation thread down his spine. He wished he didn’t have to continue playing a guessing game every time the dwarf dropped an alias of one of his many vaulted companions. It was a waste of time and made it needlessly difficult for him. At times, Solas had had to wait until Varric slipped and revealed their true names in conversation with the Inquisitor, but his patience was running thin. He hoped that this dopey blood mage would provide the relief he needed.

“No, unfortunately. Fenris has not sent a single letter to anyone, not even Hawke.” 

“That’s troubling,” Varric grumbled beneath his breath.

“Aye. Hawke and Isabela’s been on the hunt for him. They’re afraid he’s either dead or captured. But I wouldn’t worry either way. Fenris can get himself out of a sticky situation, and Hawke’s known to be in a stickier situation than most.”

Varric chuckled. “Ha! You got that right, Daisy,”

The Blue Wraith, Solas mused, an asset he’d intended to meld into his ranks even before the Inquisition business was done. But with the news that he’d gone missing as well–well, it was something to update his agents on. He had his suspicions on where The Blue Wraith had gone, though it was unconfirmed as of yet.

No, he needed to be the first to make contact with The Dovahkiin's cult.

And this farce of a mission is the perfect start in accomplishing that. 

The Hissing Wastes

“The Hissing Wastes,” Alatariel muttered quietly beneath her breath. “Very aptly named.”

Generally, it was an undesirable location. A barren, arid wasteland littered with rocky crags, murderous beasts and sand as far as the eye can see. From what her agents informed her, there was a nesting dragon roosting in a dwarven ruin and a couple of hostile stragglers living in ravines and crevasses. But otherwise, it was the perfect location as a meeting spot for two of the most dangerous living beings in Thedas. The desert was neutral and nearly entirely uninhabited, away from prying eyes. 

Her council had unanimously argued against her meeting with Corypheus. They were undoubtedly afraid for her safety and what underhanded intentions the deluded Priest of Dumat had in store. Of course it’s a trap, Alatariel thought. She predicted that the minute she refused to join in on Corypheus’ deranged schemes, he’d attempt to capture her, which was why she intended to spring a trap of her own. 

She had heard of what Corypheus had done thus far. He’d torn a hole into the sky using a mysterious magic-infused orb, causing all manner of demons to fall from it and terrorise Thedas. The Inquisitor had closed the massive Breach with the help of the Templars, only for Corypheus to beset them with the entirety of his forces, alongside a diseased dragon–the latter was almost reason enough for Alatariel to end the maddened Tevinter mage. Based on what she learned of the magic of Thedas, no mage, no matter how ancient Corypheus was purported to be, could have the power to tear the skies. Corypheus was no Dovahkiin, he was no god, and only the power of a god would allow him to do what he did. She suspected that the orb was a magical focus, similar to Azura’s Star. Nevertheless, Alatariel’s sole intention for agreeing to this meeting was to get the pompous Vint to reveal his ultimate weapon, before snatching it from him. 

After all, was she not Skyrim’s premier collector in Daedric, god-like artefacts?

Aside from the salvation of Thedas’ elves, she pondered on the sundering of Magnus’ blessing upon the wretched continent. Alatariel attributed it to the asphyxiating sensation she and her fellow Skyrim natives felt when they crossed over occasionally. She consulted with the mages she saved, asking them for tomes and all they knew about how the magicks in Thedas worked. When she’d first heard of the Fade, it became an object of amazement for her. To sleep and awake in a conscious, manipulable dreamscape, capable of revealing ancient memories and beings–a veritable fount of wisdom at their grasp. 

In Nirn, dreams are the domain of the Daedric Prince Vaermina, and one interaction with the volatile deity was enough for her. She had spoken to more of the premier Theodosian mages residing in Skyrim about this metaphysical realm and the Veil that separates it from the physical world. Alatariel was growing closer to her conclusion about the magical state of Thedas, but she needed to experience the Fade for herself. It was something she desired, and one she intended to do once she reclaimed the artefact from this deranged buffoon. 

“You sure about this, ‘Tari?” Serana spoke quietly from her side. “You know I’ll back you up any time, but this Corypheus sounds a lot like my father.”

“I know. Corypheus isn’t here for an alliance, he wants us to bend the knee and serve him,” Alatariel replied scathingly, “but I need to wrest control of the artefact this madman wields. And what better chance than this? The orb sounds too much like Auriel’s Bow, and you know better than anyone that can’t be left in the hands of men like Corypheus and Lord Harkon.”

Serana gave a grunt of agreement, however tentative it sounded.

“And what do you intend to do with the orb?”

“Seal it in a vault in The Chantry,” Alatariel replied instantly. “Until Tolfdir and I can ascertain what it does and who it belongs to, then there it shall remain.”

“Be ready,” Alatariel said loudly, to the party members she chose to follow her to The Hissing Wastes. Some were mages who had passed all of Tolfdir’s tests, hidden under expert-level invisibility spells, with rogues ready to unleash their fire bombs at her order. “I suspect we’ll not get out of this without staining our hands with blood, so attack the minute I unsheathe Dawnbreaker.”

“Yes, Dovahkiin!” They said obediently.

Alatariel scanned the horizon, sand dunes greeting her lilac eyes as she peered through the slits of Miraak’s robes. Though her fellow Dragonborn had been a pain to annihilate, she couldn’t deny that his weapons and armour were too useful to simply discard. Making her look even more intimidating proved an added boon in her books. Say what you will about my fallen brother, but his style was impeccable, Alatariel mused, tapping her fingernails against the pommel of Dawnbreaker.

“Quarry in sight!” One of her agents called out.

The familiar screech of a dragon resounded through the sky. Alatariel watched as a lone dragon descended from the sky, landing before her with a thundering crash. Immediately, she fought the urge to recoil. Though dragons in Thedas were slightly smaller and lacking sentience in comparison to those of Nirn, that did not make them any less a dragon. And the dragon before her was truly a grotesque sight to behold. She had only a moment to reflect that the scream the dragon unleashed to herald its arrival was layered with unimaginable pain. The Snow Elf felt her rage rise at the insult paid to the dragon, the dov soul howling within her for retribution–but cooler heads prevail. Directing her attention at the thing that alighted from the diseased dragon, it was more monstrous than she’d imagined. The pervasive, malignant odour wafting from it seeped into the ground and her nose curled at the stench. It would not only honour Auriel, but Meridia as well, to end this walking undead where it stood. But no, Corypheus’ end would not be hers to mete; she was not the hero of this tale.

Focus on the task at hand, Alatariel reminded herself. 

The sneer that sliced his face told her that her hunch was correct. This thing is not here to make an alliance, Alatariel thought. She scanned around the dragon and could find naught but sand. And to come alone? Arrogant fool. 

“ You are the so-called Dovahkiin?” Corypheus jeered mockingly. “The one responsible for the disappearance of Halamshiral’s elves? I’d expected more.”

“And yet it was you who reached out to me.”

“Do not fool yourself into thinking you are greater. For it was I, in the infinite wisdom that the gods gave to me,” she heard Serana choke on her saliva, “who recognised that you must be brought into the fold. The fold that leads to my triumph.”

Patience. Just a little bit longer…

“You may have powers I know not, but it pales in comparison to mine own. Behold!” Corypheus held up the glowing green orb with its taloned fingers, eyes glinting avariciously. “I will herald the dawn of a new age, for t’was I who breached the Fade, and found the throne of the gods empty. There is none better for it than I.”

“So kneel to me, Dovahkiin,” the maddened darkspawn continued in his pretentious tirade. “Bend the knee and bear witness to the birth of a new world!”

Alatariel could feel Serana about to burst into peals of laughter, but the rest of her party were not feeling the same way as the Daughter of Coldharbour. Their bodies were strung tighter than a bow, their hands a mere breath away from the hilt of their weapons. Perhaps it was because both her and Serana had faced worse evils than this Corypheus, who appeared a pale shadow compared to Miraak or Alduin. She would not suffer its presence and insufferable grandstanding any longer, when it brandished the orb so tantalisingly–and foolishly–before her eyes. 

“A lofty speech…one I’d expect from a delusional lunatic such as yourself.” 

Corypheus’ face grew uglier in his rage. The darkspawn raised its orb in her direction, and its sickly green light began to crackle and spit. “You will pay for your insolence-”

“GOL!”

The orb flew from Corypheus’ palm and right into her own. 

The Dovahkiin’s eyes widened at the sheer amount of power seeping from the orb. It was most definitely akin to Azura’s Star. But unlike the impersonal touch of the latter, this artefact held a distinct, magical signature. Oh, Tolfdir’s going to love this.

“I shall always treasure your…generous tribute, Corypheus,” Alatariel hummed, hefting the orb in her palm. “Worry not, for I shall ensure it is used responsibly.”

Corypheus thrusted his hand towards the orb in her grasp, its ruptured features turning aghast as it continued to refuse its former master’s call.

She clucked her tongue in disapproval just as Uncle Vyrthur did whenever she misbehaved as a child. “The orb has been purged of your stench. It no longer answers to you, I’m afraid.” Alatariel then sighed in mocking disappointment. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re greater when you’re naught but a husk. You thought I’d ever surrender to willingly join you? For someone claiming to be a god, you seem to have a difficult time besting the Inquisitor, a mere human. Shame.”

“Kill her! And bring me the orb!” Corypheus roared in anger as it ran back to its dragon. As soon as the first words left his mouth, Alatariel unsheathed Dawnbreaker and chaos erupted all around her. Red Templar Shadows seemed to manifest from thin air, Corypheus’ dragon shrieking as it took its master away from the battlefield. 

Coward, Alatariel spat, as she parried a Shadow’s blade-like arms. All the Red Templars she encountered–along with the darkspawn in The Deep Roads–shied away from Dawnbreaker’s light, screaming in unthinkable pain whenever the magic sword skewered them. 

Fire bombs pelted the Shadows from all sides as her mages regularly cast barriers, her front-line warriors charging forward and mowing them down. The Shadows were wickedly fast, taking down two of her archers and one of her mages. But Serana was faster, able to counter and supersede their rate of attacks, and coming to the aid of more than one of her men. 

Alatariel unleashed her Frost Breath Shout, allowing Serana and her tanks to shatter them to pieces. With only one Shadow left, the small skirmish was soon over. After burning their corpses, The Dovahkiin sheathed her favoured sword, the orb still remaining in her grip, thrumming ever so strongly. She turned to one of her approaching scouts: “How many did we lose?”

“Four dead, one injured, my lady.”

She nodded, remaining in solemn silence. “Gather the dead and carry the injured. I will make sure they receive the proper rites befitting the warriors of Auriel.”

“As you say, Dovahkiin,” 

Sighing, she stared at the orb in her hands. Alatariel just did a huge favour for the Inquisitor, even if the woman herself wasn’t cognisant of it. She doubted Corypheus would be screaming to the world that it had just lost the very thing that allowed him to terrorise the continent–but it would not remain a secret from the Inquisition’s agents for long. 

Alatariel absentmindedly traced the patterns carved into the orb, its magic following her finger as she did so. A familiar hand fell on her shoulder and she shook herself from her stupor. 

“Alright?” Serana asked, her perfectly shaped brows narrowed slightly in concern.

“I intend to enter the Fade tonight,” Alatariel replied. Her friend was clearly taken aback.

“So soon? And I’m not too sure that’s a good idea, ‘Tari. This Fade thing sounds…freaky,”

“Freakier than venturing into the Soul Cairn?” 

Serana groaned. “Okay, maybe nothing beats that, but–”

Alatariel patted her friend on the shoulder. “It’ll be fine. I need to confirm something and the Fade is the only place where I’ll find some answers. I can’t keep asking the Theodosian mages back at The Chantry. They’re more than alright with Nirn’s magic, but here? They know next to nothing about the Fade other than to avoid it because it’s full of demons and they’re always at risk of being possessed.”

“Well, I don’t think The Dragonborn is as easily susceptible, but…I worry for you.”

“I know, old friend,” Alatariel said warmly. “I shall return to Skyrim to seal this,” she gestured to the orb, “away before coming back to Thedas. You can guard me while I sleep if it helps soothe your worries.”

“What’ll soothe my worries is you coming back to Skyrim, but you’ve always been a stubborn one.” Serana sighed wearily, before relenting in her usual grumpy manner. “Fine, yes, I guess that works.” 

Kirkwall

Merrill’s House

“You got a nice little set-up here, Daisy,”

“Do you really think so? Nothing beats sleeping in an aravel, to my mind,” Merrill groused, shutting the beaten wooden door to her humble home. 

They’d left their horses to graze by the tree Merrill had been standing under, before following the Dalish into a tumbledown hut, wherein they climbed down a hatch to navigate a series of winding tunnels, only to emerge inside of Kirkwall’s Alienage. Handy, Solas noted the route they went down to give to his agents. Even if this bit of information never ended up being useful, one might never know when it might come in handy. 

“Ah, please make yourself comfortable, hahren, ” Merrill addressed Solas kindly, as she cleaned up her rickety dining table as best she could. “Both of you must be hungry! I have some bread to share if you’d like.”

“No, thank you,” Solas responded, “I’d like to find this Tamlin and get started as soon as possible.”

Merrill hummed, understanding. “You can always find Tamlin hanging about the alienage square. He has sandy brown hair and a scar down his left brow. He used to work down at the warehouses in Lowtown, then hang about the square once night falls. Now he’s there all the time.” 

“Huh, wonder why?” Varric said sarcastically, cocking a brow at Solas. 

“Indeed,” Solas muttered. “I shall make my way there now.”

“Uhh, I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” Merrill interjected. “It’s better if Tamlin approaches you rather than the other way around. If you come up to him, he’ll get suspicious.”

Solas gritted his teeth, cursing his impatience. “ Ir abelas. You’re right. The cult vets its would-be members first, do they not?”

“We do have three months, Chuckles,” Varric said. 

“Yes we do,” Solas sighed, relenting, as he slipped into one of the chairs.

“Worry not, hahren, Tamlin will approach you soon,” Merrill piped up, eyes smiling, “he approaches all the elves around Kirkwall, even me. As soon as he sets his sights on you, hahren, he’ll set out to talk to you. Mark my words.”

“Your boundless optimism is a source of comfort, da’len,” Solas mumbled. “In that case, I shall go and rest. Where may I find my quarters?”

“Past the kitchen, first door to your right,” Merrill shouted from her makeshift kitchen. “Oh, Varric, would you like some vegetable stew for dinner…”

Solas was deaf to the world, the floorboards groaned beneath his weight as he walked and used his staff as support. He followed Merrill's instruction, heading to his assigned room. It was as plain as he’d expected and outfitted with only the bare necessities. A narrow cot was pushed up against the wall, positioned beneath a small window that overlooked the main street. Solas closed the door behind him, settling his pack and stave against the table set across from the bed. 

He shed his tunic, folding it and laying it on the table, before settling onto the rickety bed. The jawbone necklace hanging around his neck felt cold against his bare abdomen. Solas shuffled about, making sure he was as comfortable as could be on the stiff mattress and cast a ward as he was wont to do whenever he craved his realm. The elven god of rebellion gladly let the alluring embrace of sleep transport him to the Fade, blue-grey eyes drifting shut. 

As soon as he was in his domain, Solas gasped. A light so bright nearly blinded him the moment he entered the Fade, causing him to bring his hand up to shield his eyes from its brilliance. He turned slightly when he felt a spirit approach. Once his eyes adjusted to the glare, Solas found that it was the very same spirit of Joy that had spoken to him back in Halamshiral. The spirit still wore the guise of an elven boy, features split into a happy grin. 

“She’s here! She’s here!” Joy practically screamed. “The Bright One is here!”

Solas’ eyes widened. “The Dovahkiin?”

Joy twirled about, nodding vigorously. “The Bright One holds court with many spirits around her. The demons recoil from her as if she smelled bad. But that’s not so! She's so kind and warm! Just as a dragon such as herself should be.”

“Dragon?”

“I shan’t keep you for much longer, Fen’Harel,” Joy squealed in glee, “I must return to her side.”

“Wait!” Solas growled in exasperation when the spirit turned tail and speedily disappeared toward the great light. Without further hesitation, the Roamer of the Beyond shifted into the fearsome form of legend that he was known for. His hands morphed into clawed paws, his form altering into that of The Great Wolf, a hulking mass of dark fur replete with six, red eyes. Just as Joy did, he set off in the direction of the light, easily gaining speed in his wolf form, thunderous echoes resounding throughout the Fade each time his paws settled on the ground. As he drew nearer to the light, he increased his pace, excitement he’d not felt in an age at the prospect of discovering something altogether new, was heavy on his tongue. And as he broke through, he was not disappointed. 

A massive, silver dragon stood at the centre of a snowy mountaintop, the sky was clear, and the winds were ever so strong. The dragon nestled her great heft against a crumbling wall, its large head adorned with horns that curved upward at the ends. She was nodding at something one of the great many spirits crowding around her was saying, as it gesticulated excitedly with its hands. Solas took a breath to observe where he was. He did not recognise it as any place in Thedas, and the lands and rivers that stretched beyond its lofty peak was not one he recognised either. 

Solas moved forward, and immediately, the dragon’s head snapped up. Eyes the shade of lilac turned to regard him, one that caused him to suck in a sharp breath. The gathering of spirits respectfully departed at his approach, and he stopped once he was at a respectable distance from the massive dragon. 

“I know not this place,” Solas began, when the dragon stayed quiet, “and I have seen every inch of Thedas. Is this your homeland?”

The dragon stayed silent for a moment more, before replying : “It is.” She did not elaborate further. The voice he heard was delicate and soft, yet there was an undertone of authority. It was clear she was used to meting out commands. No doubt this is the Dovahkiin, Solas thought to himself. 

“Are you a Prince of this realm?” She inquired. 

All six of his eyes narrowed slightly at the question. Prince? “If you mean I hold some measure of dominion over the Fade, then you are in the right.”

A rumble emanated deeply from the depths of the winged beast’s great chest. “To be able to access the Fade through dreams, a completely malleable, metaphysical realm, is a magical marvel.” At this, Solas couldn’t help puffing out his chest in pride. “I hear you’ve been awaiting me.”

“The spirits talk, I presume?” Solas murmured in exasperation. “Indeed. I have spent countless nights in the Fade, witnessing memories of your feats, Dovahkiin.” The dragon straightened, wings unfurling. “You have not once entered the Fade in your slumber, or else we’d have met far earlier. I’ve watched as you spirited away the elves of Halamshiral and those of multiple other alienages to what I can only assume is your homeworld. Tell me, what is your purpose here?”

“I do as my sire bids me,” The Dovahkiin answered tersely, clearly vexed at the notion that her every move was easily monitored through the Fade, “though now it is out of my own volition. The elves of your world are pitiful, the vast majority of its humans inhumane.”

“Saving the elves of Thedas is a noble cause, true, but I am not so naive as to believe it to be your only goal.”

A trail of smoke left the great dragon’s nostrils as she huffed. “When I first stepped foot on Thedas, I felt smothered. It was as though invisible hands arose to circle my neck and choke the life out of me. I knew Auriel spoke true, that Thedas is a realm long sundered from Magnus’ gifts, but to experience it for myself…” The Dovahkiin shook her head. She then stared directly at him, almost glaring. “You have not misspoken, for indeed I do have other goals in mind. Forgive me if I am not so keen to share, as I know not if you are friend or foe.”

“I applaud your caution, Dovahkiin,” Solas replied, “and I have been remiss in introducing myself. They call me Fen’Harel.”

At this, The Dovahkiin drew up to her full height, opening her maw to let out a roar of anger. Solas found himself bemused. He wasn’t sure what it was he’d said to cause such a reaction. Was there a breach of etiquette I was unaware of? 

“Fen’Harel? You are one of The Evanuris!”

“Yes, a fact that I’m not proud of.” 

The dragon inched nearer, her large head a hair’s breadth from his snout. “How can I know what you feel or say is true? Do the Dalish not say you are the Lord of Tricksters? The Great Betrayer?”

Solas flinched at the monikers, before baring his teeth. “The Dalish know nothing! They are naught but children grasping at shards of the past. What they perceive to be elvish history, elvish culture is all wrong. And I did not betray the People; I sought to undo the chains which leashed them to my so-called brethren.”

The Dovahkiin seemed ready to breathe fire down upon him, only to stop at the end of his explanation. She settled back on her haunches with a ringing crash, her front claws digging into the snow-laden earth. Humming in contemplation, she opened her maw to speak, “Auriel spoke of one who took action, one who turned his back against the many misdeeds of his kin.” Solas felt his heart stop, his breaths stuttering as her lilac eyes judged him. “And one who, finally, separated the world from magic. The Fade is brimming with it.” She uttered those words with clear distaste.

“The Veil is your creation, is it not, Fen’Harel?”

Within his mind, Solas was in tatters. How could she have known?   Solas was greatly sceptical and wary of gods due to his experience. The Dovahkiin said it was Auriel who informed her of the truth concerning Thedas, and he wasn’t sure if he could take her words at face value. He needed her as an ally, so with gritted teeth, he bit out: “Yes, it was.” 

“We can sit here all day and speak of what possessed you to do such a thing, but unfortunately, I’m pressed for time.” Solas would be lying if he didn’t believe his pride to be wounded by her comment, but she was clearly intending to wake, and he refused to miss this opportunity. 

“I believe our goals are aligned, Dovahkiin,” Solas ventured. The dragon paused in her movements, turning again to meet his gaze. Her head tilted slightly in bemusement.

“You intend to take down the Veil as well?”

Heaving a great sigh of relief, Solas nodded, his dark fur swaying as he did so. “I intend to rectify my…mistake, yes.”

Humming–though more like growling–in contemplation, The Dovahkiin finally spoke: “Then we shall speak again, Fen’Harel. Perhaps next time, we should do so in person.” 

“May I inquire as to when and where?” 

The dragon’s lips stretched, showcasing bladed teeth the size of a full-grown man. “Worry not, Lot Grohiik, I shall approach you.” 

“Wait! Before you leave, what is the name of this place?” 

The silver beast paused. She tilted her head to the sky. The heavens shifted, the sun disappearing to allow two moons and green-blue auroras to take its place. Solas’ throat tightened at the sheer beauty of what he was seeing. 

“The Throat of the World,” she responded longingly, before disappearing. 

Solas sighed, before a satisfied smile bloomed upon his face. 

The Dovahkiin is a Dreamer. 

Chapter Text

Inner Sanctum

The Chantry of Auriel, Skyrim

All the Theodosians came out in droves as they marvelled at the night sky. Though they’d seen the auroras before, the colours were varied this time. Ribbons of dark orange light marked the heavens, with Masser and Secunda in full view. There were no such marvels in Thedas, and the Theodosians could not get enough of the auroras whenever they did appear. And when they did, it was an occasion for celebration. 

Casks of Honningbrew Mead–which proved a swift favourite amongst the Theodosians–and Cyrodilic Brandy were opened, and tankards deftly filled to the brim and passed around. Children were given honey cakes and tarts, as well as harmless sticks that caused sparks to fly whenever it was swished. Lutes and fiddles were fished out, and soon many danced in the courtyards to the tune of ‘Ragnar the Red’ and ‘Rise’, laughter and drunken singing arising from the valley. Alatariel sighed wistfully. She had never heard the Forgotten Vale so…full of life before. This is what it’s meant to be, she thought, and not a practically deserted temple home to the last two Snow Elves and a dozen ghosts. 

“It’s been so long…nearly thousands of years hence, since I’ve seen the valley so populated,” Gelebor said, eyes glassy with unshed tears. “It brings joy to an old man such as I.”

“You’re not so old, Father,” Alatariel beamed, resting her snowy head against his shoulder. “You looked no different to me from when I was a child. That means you’re still as handsome as the day you caught Mother’s eye.”

At that, Gelebor laughed. “Your mother was the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen. She had a silver tongue, and all were enchanted by her. Everyone desired her…wanted her, even your Uncle Vyrthur.” Alatariel’s head lifted in shock, lilac eyes widening. “Oh yes, so imagine my surprise when she only had eyes for me.”

“She pursued me relentlessly and I…did not reciprocate for a time as I didn’t believe she was sincere.”

“What changed your mind?” 

“I tried many things to push her away–many things I’m not proud of, mind you. I spoke harshly, cruelly, to her, but not once was she dissuaded.” Gelebor reminisced, beholden by memories ages past. “I opened my heart and my mind after knowing she’ll never leave. Those were the happiest years of my life. And then you were born, and my happiness grew tenfold. But then the fall of our people began, and we kept losing. We were the last bastion of the Snow Elves, and as The Betrayed chipped away at our numbers, your mother was lost to me. I would’ve lost my way if I didn’t have you and Vyrthur with me.” 

“Father…” Alatariel whispered. 

Gelebor shook his head, as if willing those painful memories away. He turned to regard his daughter and smiled warmly. A calloused hand reached up to gently cup her cheek and Alatariel leaned into it eagerly. “Never have I been happier that you’ve inherited your mother’s beauty and charm. It’s as though my Beldila never left my side.” 

“You’re not losing me, Father,” Alatariel said firmly, “unless Auriel Himself wills it.”

Gelebor’s eyes now held a tinge of melancholy. “That’s what I’m afraid of. Our Lord gives much, but He asks for just as much in return.”

“And I’m ready to meet it.” 

Her father sighed one of his many sad sighs, though his smile was laced with pride. He patted one of her hands fondly. “Come now, enough talk of the past. You mentioned that there was something you need my help with?”

“Oh, yes! But I believe it is better I show you,” 

Gelebor gestured for her to lead the way. Alatariel did so, weaving around the many hallways of the Inner Sanctum to arrive at what both knew to be a hidden door. She lifted a hand to channel a hint of Snow Elf magic and the panel slid open, allowing father and daughter to step inside. A sickly, green light shone upon their faces as they entered the vaulted chamber. The orb was perched atop a slim, marble pedestal, flickering, and emanating a great deal of power that could not be denied. 

Tolfdir was already in the room, eyes glued to the orb as he ran magical tests. He nodded at them in greeting, but soon returned to his research. Gelebor gasped and walked closer, though maintained a respectable distance from the artefact.

“The orb is of elven make,” her father said in hushed tones. “If I hadn’t looked closer, I would’ve thought it one of our own, but it has distinct features that proves it is dissimilar to our magical artefacts or that of the High Elves’.”

“It is as I suspected as well,” Alatariel murmured, refraining from reaching a hand out. Although she’d purged it of Corypheus’ influence with the Bend Will Shout, its effects had faded, and now it awaited a new master. She knew it belonged to someone, someone extremely powerful to the point that they stored parts of their power in a vessel such as this. Hints of the mysterious individual’s magical signature were vivid on her tongue, tasting distinctly minty and sweet at the same time. Turning to Tolfdir, she asked, “what have you gleaned thus far?”

“Signs of extreme magical buildup, Archmage.” Tolfdir muttered plainly, scribbling notes into his journal. “Any attempts to unlock it would surely kill the person attempting it. I heard from many of my Theodosian students that an event akin to an Oblivion Gate is currently wreaking havoc in that continent?”

“A former Tevinter Magister named Corypheus used that orb to tear a hole in the sky and unleash a horde of demons into Thedas, yes. But I think Oblivion Gates are much worse,” she uttered the last bit beneath her breath. She shook her head, turning back to the topic. “An explosion occurred and killed thousands, including The Divine–the head of their religion–as well.” 

Tolfdir hummed. “Then the great cataclysm that followed after was not part of unlocking the orb, as Corypheus would not have had the ability to tear the sky. The beast should’ve been dead by now, however, but apparently is still alive to run amok. Could he have unlocked the secret of immortality?” The Master Wizard waved a hand dismissively. “As you’ve mentioned, Archmage, Corypheus is not our concern. What I’m trying to say, Dovahkiin, is that the orb has been unlocked and thus its magical repository is safe to absorb.”

“However, I’d still advise against doing such a thing,” the grizzled veteran mage warned, looking up from his notes. “I’m sure you’re not remiss in noticing, Dovahkiin, that the magic kept within it holds an unmistakable…identity. You know better than most what happens when we play with magic that already belongs to another.”

“It’ll eventually turn on you,” Alatariel acknowledged, thinking back to the many magical mishaps she’d encountered. Ancano and Miraak came to mind instantly.“I know.”

Gelebor turned to his daughter, inquiring, “do you intend to return the orb to its owner?”

“I haven’t yet ascertained who it even belongs to, Father. But when I do, I’ll need to discern if they're of…sound mind to reclaim such a powerful artefact.”

The two men concurred, giving off hums of agreement. 

“On another note, I met one of the so-called Elven gods.”

This caused Gelebor and Tolfdir to exchange incredulous glances. “Called The Evanuris, were they not? Which one of them did you meet, daughter?”

“Fen’Harel. I wanted to experience the Fade for myself-” at Gelebor and Tolfdir’s concerned gazes, Alatariel huffed, “I was completely fine! Serana was there to watch over my body as I slept. But the Fade… ” her lilac eyes became glittery with excitement and longing, “it is one of the most wondrous things the Aedra could ever conceive. I was in the form of a dragon, sitting as Paarthurnax did upon the Throat of the World, shifting the heavens as I deemed fit with all the spirits around me-”

“It is clear you admire the Fade, Alatariel, and both myself and Tolfdir should like to experience it for ourselves as well. But you were speaking of Fen’Harel?” Gelebor prodded.

The sheen of excitement in her eyes faded slightly as she regained her composure. Though she appeared a woman grown, being over 2,000 years old meant that she’d just emerged from adolescence in the eyes of their people. Gelebor gave her a fond look. Magical discoveries were a great passion of hers, and she wished to visit Winterhold College more often to indulge in academic pursuits, whilst continuing her duties at The Chantry. Alas, were she not Dragonborn, she’d have done so, but Auriel’s decree was made known. “Right, yes. As I was speaking to the spirits, a massive black wolf with six, crimson eyes appeared. He eventually introduced himself as Fen’Harel and I’d have burned him to ash if I hadn’t realised he was the one Auriel spoke of. The one who rose up against the false gods in rebellion.”

“Then,” she sighed, “he proposed an alliance.”

“An alliance?” Tolfdir echoed.

Alatariel nodded. Gelebor hummed in contemplation. 

“Fen’Harel was the one who created the Veil. I don’t think he realised the consequences of doing so since he sounded remorseful. However, he did say that he intends to remove the Veil and return Magnus’ blessing to Thedas, and thus, our goals are aligned.”

“If what you say is true, then why did he not remove the Veil now or better yet, much earlier?” Her father murmured, fingers drumming against the pommel of his mace. 

“Fen’Harel must be very powerful to be able to completely separate two realms from the other. I could only assume, as much as my magical knowledge would allow, that simply undoing the Veil would cause terrible ramifications on the denizens of Thedas,” Tolfdir shuddered. “All that magic held back for countless millennia and suddenly released into the world to a people that had long been left unexposed to magical assimilation? Millions upon millions will die.”

“It’ll be the end of Thedas,” Gelebor said sharply. 

Alatariel crossed her arms. “Then there must be a way to remove the Veil carefully and mitigate the damage. And as Fen’Harel is the greatest source of knowledge regarding the Veil since it’s his creation, the offer of an alliance is growing ever more tantalising.”

“You didn’t accept his offer of alliance?” Gelebor questioned in surprise.

“No, but I did not outright reject him either. I merely told him we’d need to speak more, and better it be in person.” The Dovahkiin sighed, suddenly weary. “It’s why I’m telling this to you before I tell the others because I need your counsel. What do you think I should do?”

“Trusting him would be foolish, as you well know, Archmage,” Tolfdir replied. “But you are right, he seems to be the only one we can rely on concerning the Veil.”

“I concur. If he had the courage to turn against his kin, then I’d say he’s an ally worth having. Moreover, Fen’Harel must be more than a millennia old. He has insight into the world of Thedas that no one else has. We need his knowledge.”

Alatariel took their advice to heart. She pursed her lips. 

“I won’t come to a decision until I speak to the others,” she groaned, massaging her temple, “but both of you have been incredibly persuasive.” 

Gelebor smiled in amusement. “You’ve always intended to ally with him, dear heart.”

“Yes, yes, Father, I can’t hide anything from you. But I should like the two of you with me when I broach the topic with the others.”

“You needn’t ask, Archmage,” Tolfdir smiled his usual, warm, fatherly smile, “I’d be glad to.”

Gelebor agreed. “But first, you must rest. Remember, a deft arm wins battles, but-”

“-a clear mind wins wars.” Alatariel grinned, nodding. “I know.”

Alatariel bid them farewell shortly after. Using the stealth skills honed during her time spent at the Thieves Guild, she nabbed a bottle of Black-Briar Reserve behind her retreating father’s back. She was giddy, feeling like a child doing something she shouldn’t be doing as she slinked back to her chambers. 

Sitting on her bed, she took a swig of the rare beverage and hummed in satisfaction at the slight burn. 

She drifted to sleep to the sound of muffled cheers and inebriated singing, the image of six, crimson eyes vivid in her mind’s eye.

Alienage Square

Kirkwall

Garbed in his worn, threadbare, and less-than-flattering tunic, the wolf’s jawbone necklace swung as Solas traversed the alienage square. He’d walked around the alienage earlier in the day, taking note of the empty houses he spotted along the way with keen eyes. The moment he ventured in the square, he immediately spotted Tamlin based on his appearance. The elf was exactly how Merrill described him. All he did was lean against the wall of a tavern, spinning his dagger deftly in his hands. 

Solas had kept a low profile for the first week, walking back and forth from the square, and even acquiring a job selling earthenware goods at one of the stands. He’d quickly gained favour with the potter, his silver tongue drawing customers in to purchase one of her wares. It was the perfect place to watch his quarry. Interestingly, he noticed the same groups of elves approaching Tamlin at varying hours of the day throughout the first week he was in Kirkwall. By the time the second week passed, another group of elves replaced the first, and the first batch never appeared again. Solas had queried Merrill about the first batch of elves, outlining their appearances to her. Merrill recognised them, even set out to their house to observe them from a distance, only to find neither hair nor hide of them. Their houses were left as barren and empty as those of the elves of Halamshiral.

The Dovahkiin must’ve taken them, Solas thought to himself. His meeting with the leader of The Light of Auriel was unexpected, though not unwelcome. He still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that for a mere few moments, he bore witness to another world entirely. Solas had only caught a glimpse of what it offered and he wished to see more, and to see what sorts of magical marvels it held to produce one such as The Dovahkiin. Appearing to him in the form of a dragon, the most supreme and sacred form reserved only for The Evanuris to master. They would have struck her down as punishment. Solas shook his head, drawing himself out of his stupor. What mattered was that he’d accomplished one of his main goals. All that remained was for her to find him again in the waking world. 

Solas wasn’t sure how she’d be able to do that, but he wasn’t too worried. Her feats thus far indicated a more than capable woman, and after their short encounter in the Fade, one that was filled with surprises. So whilst he waited, Solas focussed on the true purpose of his spontaneous sojourn to the shithole that was Kirkwall, as Varric put it. And the dwarf was right. It really was a shithole. 

As he approached the stand where he worked, Solas sent a surreptitious glance to Tamlin, who, to his surprise, was looking straight at him. He managed not to seem caught off guard, however, continuing his way towards the potter’s stand. Exchanging greetings with the potter, Anatre, Solas took his place behind the stand, helping her arrange her wares. Though it was quite the dull occupation, he weathered through it as he did all else. After all, this was merely another stepping stone in his crusade to restore the People. 

It was nigh two hours before Tamlin finally approached him. Solas had felt his heavy stares settling on his shoulders as he worked, successfully selling two bowls and–ironically– a figurine of Fen’Harel thus far. He kept his shoulders relaxed, his breaths steady as his quarry neared, not even meeting his gaze when he finally stood before him. It was only once he cleared his throat did Solas’ blue-grey gaze lifted to meet Tamlin’s dun coloured ones. 

Before he could open his mouth, Tamlin had beaten him to it. 

“I’ve never seen you before, stranger,” Tamlin eyed him suspiciously, his scar was naught but a white line down his left brow, “and I know everyone in this vermin-infested shithole.”

Solas hummed in reply. “I should hope not. I’m not originally from Kirkwall.”

“The Viscount of Kirkwall himself could’ve told me that,” Tamlin said shortly, unimpressed, crossing his sculpted arms. Upon closer inspection, Solas noticed that Tamlin was not as viciously underfed as the other elves in the alienage. His shoulders were wide and not shrunken, and his legs were lined with muscle. Even without Merrill’s help, Tamlin would’ve stood out to him as a cult member through sheer physical differences alone. He’d never seen a fat elf, much less a well-fed elf in the eight millennia since the fall of Elvhenan.

“Well? Where are ya from?”

 “I hail from a village up North. All that’s left of it are ruins now, and with the chaos that ensued after the Conclave I became a wanderer.”

“And why Kirkwall, eh?” Tamlin probed further. “Why come to the ass-end of Thedas? Where the Mage-Templar war started?”

“Simple. Everywhere else brings nothing but painful memories for me. Humans wreak destruction wherever they go, and I am not immune to its disastrous effects. I have no such memories in Kirkwall, so it seemed a good place to start anew.” The half-truths slipped from his lips as easily as air filled his lungs. He even took a deep breath as he spoke; it was easy to bring forth the melancholy, for wherever he went, it was a reminder of how severely he failed the People. His was a life of penitence. I walk the dinan’shiral, he reminded himself.

Tamlin appeared to accept his explanation, going quiet in the aftermath. Solas shook his head and cleared his throat. He assumed a warm countenance, the sorrow he momentarily displayed seamlessly faded away.

“Now, then, is there anything I could assist you with? Would you be interested in purchasing-”

Tamlin cut in snappily. “No, but there’s something that you could be interested in.” 

Solas tilted his head in mock confusion. “Oh?”

“The time of the elves is nigh, my friend,” Tamlin smirked, confident. Here comes the sales pitch, Solas thought. “Soon, the humans shall rue all the evils they have done to us. You’ve heard it already, haven’t you? How could you not? Elves have been disappearing all across Thedas. Halamshiral, Gwaren, Amaranthine, even here in Kirkwall.” Tamlin leaned closer and Solas could smell the ale on his breath. “I have no doubt that within the year, all of Thedas will tremble.” 

“And who shall bring about the salvation of the elves?”

Tamlin gave him a knowing smile. “The Light of Auriel, of course.”

Solas drew back, blinking, before looking about and speaking in hushed tones. “I have heard of this cult.”

Tamlin’s face twisted in indignation. “We are more than a cult,” he hissed, fingers white as he gripped the hilt of his dagger with a fury, “more than what shem ’s Chantry decries us as being. For centuries, city elves have envied the freedom and the knowledge,” Tamlin spat the word, “the Dalish possess of elven culture, but it turns out, there’s nothing to be jealous of.” The elf laughed derisively, before shooting Solas a grave look. “The Dovahkiin has shown us the truth. The Evanuris were false gods, children who misused the gifts of eternal life and magic Auriel the All-Father gave to us. And look how far we’ve fallen. It is no wonder we are the lowest rung in the ladder due to their treachery. But now, Auriel’s Champion has arisen, and the age of penance is over.”

Solas refrained from letting out a shuddering breath. He could not show that he was disturbed, disturbed that many of Auriel’s devotees accept the truth that he’d been trying to tell the Dalish when he first awoke. How much has this Auriel revealed through The Dovahkiin? He did not much like being exposed, his secrets laid bare for all to see. What other dark secrets of his could potentially be revealed?

“But enough of my rambling,” Tamlin sighed, waving a hand as if to dismiss what he just said. He attempted an air of indifference, one that an average person would have fallen for had Solas not danced this waltz a thousand times before. For the sake of the mission, he had to bite. “I’ve bothered you plenty.” The elf pushed himself off the counter. “I must go–”

“Wait!” Solas bit out. Tamlin stopped, eyes afire. “I would like to hear more of The Light of Auriel.”

He smiled, pleased. “My name is Tamlin, lethallin,”

Solas gave a small bow. “And you may call me Revas,” 

Tamlin regarded him with an amused expression, thumbing the silver pommel of his dagger. 

“When you are done for the day, meet me by the back entrance of Melas’ tavern. You know where it is, don't you?” 

At Solas’ nod, Tamlin bid him goodbye, whistling a jaunty tune as he went.

Solas pulled up the ratty hood of his cloak over his bald head. As soon as he had finished work for the day and pocketed his day’s wages, the elven apostate had immediately crossed the square to make his way to Melas’ tavern. The aforementioned establishment was all the way on the other end of the alienage, quite a lengthy walk from Merrill’s residence. He had no time to inform Varric of where he intended to go, and he hadn’t the intention to either. Varric could find ways to occupy himself while he was away; he didn’t believe Varric meant to escort him to Kirkwall simply because he knew the lay of the land. The surface dwarf had connections all over the place, from the Dwarven Merchants Guild to the vicious, seedy underbelly of the Carta, and maintaining those connections while reaping secrets from his spy network was part of his motive for being in his hometown. 

Staff in hand, Solas continued down the main path, weaving past reeking detritus and animal droppings. He ducked behind a pile of crates and entered a narrow alleyway. Without knowing it was even possible, the stench grew ever more powerful, and he lifted the fabric of his cloak to his nose. Steeling himself, Solas pressed onward, and circled around the tavern to reach the back entrance Tamlin indicated. 

“On dhea’lam, Revas,” Tamlin greeted quietly when Solas turned the corner and walked to stand beneath the shade of the hanging lantern. 

“On dhea,” Solas returned placidly. 

Tamlin eyed his staff. “Should’ve gathered you were a mage,”

Solas cocked a brow. “Will that be a problem?”

He barked out a sharp laugh. “Not if it’s turned against us, it won’t,”

“If it would reassure you and your comrades, I’ll gladly hand it over.” 

“Won’t make a difference,” Tamlin said sardonically. “Mages could be dangerous with or without their staves, The Dovahkiin taught us so.” The elf then eyed him. “And you seem skilled enough not to need it.” 

Solas stiffened slightly. Although he needed a staff when he first awoke from uthenera due to how weak he was, he'd since recovered enough of his magical strength to not need one. Not enough to restore the People, an snide voice chided in his mind. He shook away his inner demons to address Tamlin. “I assume you have a way to address this issue? I’ve heard Auriel welcomes magic rather than lambasting it like The Chantry does.”

Tamlin smiled slyly. “You’re a sharp one, Revas. Come,”

Tamlin gave three knocks on the door. At first, nothing happened. Then, a gruff voice emanated from behind the door.

“ Who’s there?”

“Aran av adai ashantava,” the words spilled from Tamlin’s lips like spring water. [ The King of Gods will return.]

Solas’ ears twitched at the sound of this alien language. It held a similar lilt and cadence to Elvhen and judging by Tamlin’s sly grin, he wasn’t able to cover his curiosity in time. 

“What language is that?” He asked as the door opened to reveal, to his surprise, a dwarf. The dwarf had dark hair braided to the sides, with streaks of white at the temples. He gave Solas a suspicious scowl but stood to the side to let them pass. 

“Aldmeris,” Tamlin replied easily, stepping inside and bade Solas follow. “Language of the High Elves.”

“High Elves?” Solas echoed, brows raised, as the dwarf slammed the door shut behind them. 

Tamlin did not elaborate further, instead directing his attention to the dwarf. “Jatug, is everyone gathered?” 

“Aye,” Jatug replied, before narrowing his tawny eyes at Solas. “Ya sure you want ‘im there?” the dwarf pointed a beefy finger in his direction. “Mighty soon, wouldn’t ye say?”

“True, but the All-Father doesn’t turn away from His children. Besides, if he should betray us, then let The Dovahkiin have him.” 

Jatug guffawed, smirking at him. “Oh aye, I like that idea.”

“But for now,” Tamlin said, “give him the amulet.” 

The dwarf nodded, and hurried off to fetch it. 

Solas grew wary. “What amulet?”

A pleasant smile settled upon Tamlin’s lips and he grew even more alert. “A way to…address the issue,” and just as Solas understood what he was referring to, the door swung open and Jatug returned. The dwarf handed the amulet to Tamlin, who swiftly handed it to Solas. 

It was a clunky, ugly thing and it gave off no magical signatures. The pendant was in the shape of a hexagon, set with a cobalt blue stone. 

“Put it on,” Tamlin ordered.

“Else we throw you out.” Jatug finished, who was more than eager to do so. 

Seeing no other choice, Solas hoisted the amulet over his neck and the pendant settled just below his collarbone. At first, he felt nothing. Then, he staggered as he felt all his magic fade, smothered into cinders. Horrified, Solas turned to the pair, eyes glinting with rage. They dare stultify his magic? Him? The Dread Wolf! Damn the consequences, damn this mission…

“What. Did. You. Do.”

“Peace, lethallin. There’s nothing to worry about. Once you take it off, your magic will return to you as normal. ”

“It’s an Amulet of Nullification. That’s what it’s s’posed to do,” the dwarf added unhelpfully. Tamlin glared at him, before rolling his eyes. 

“I think it goes without saying that you’ll only take it off once our meeting is concluded.”

Solas took a deep breath to dull his rage. It’s only temporary, he reminded himself, you’ve been through much worse. His chest heaved as he released a breath and he was calm once more. Or as calm as he could be. “Ma nuvenin.”

Solas ignored them after that, his staff reduced to a walking stick at present. He kept silent the entire way, keeping a keen eye out as he observed the goings-on around him. The three men entered a small chamber–clearly a storage room by the crates and casks of cheap wine–where all the cultists were gathered. The door that led to the legitimate operations of the tavern judging by the noise, was barred shut. Solas estimated that those gathered numbered about two dozen. His eyes widened in shock when he saw Anatre, whose weathered face lit up at the sight of him. 

His employer weaved her way past bodies to reach him. 

“Revas!” She greeted him happily. “Auriel gains another devotee this night. I knew this would happen! Tamlin’s been askin’ questions ‘bout you since you started workin’ for me.”

Solas kept his face pleasant despite the roiling emotions within him. “It is good to see you, Anatre. Auriel is…a hope for Thedas and its elves.” 

The potter nodded. “Aye, He is.”

Tamlin cleared his throat, gaining the attention of all. “We shall now commence.” And without another word, Tamlin turned around and made his way out of the room and down a flight of stairs. All made to follow him. Anatre nudged him forward. 

“I’ll explain as we go along, if that helps?”

Solas sighed in relief, before sending her a genuine smile. “Ma serannas,” he replied, before trailing after the others down the steps. A cavernous chamber was revealed to him as he descended, and pushed up against the rocky wall was an altar, and upon it the golden, eight-pointed star. He recognised it immediately, as it was an exact facsimile to the magical transporter The Dovahkiin used. 

The elves that gathered all queued up patiently as one by one they approached the golden shrine. And to Solas’ amazement, they were wreathed in a golden light that swirled around their bodies, to which they would emit a joyous cry. He could taste the sweetness of its magic upon his tongue, one that made him recall for a brief moment the glory days of Arlathan, wherein magic seeped into every fabric of civilisation.

“It’s customary for all members to approach the shrine and receive Auriel’s Blessing.” Anatre explained in hushed tones. 

“And what is Auriel’s Blessing?” 

Anatre giggled. “Just wait and see, my friend.”

And Solas did so. Once it was his turn, he neared the shrine, reaching a tentative hand out to touch the golden eight-pointed star, as he’d seen the others do before him. Golden light encircled his form and he sucked in a sharp breath. The ceaseless ache in his neck vanished and the pressure bearing down upon his temples–one he’d not even been aware of–followed suit. Not even the many shrines erected for The Evanuris could boast such a magical feat. He must have not recovered his composure quickly enough, as his employer giggled once more. 

“It heals diseases too,” Anatre smiled happily, before gesturing for him to join the others who’d partaken of Auriel’s Blessing. Solas walked away from the altar, breathing deeply. It was no wonder The Light of Auriel could amass such devoted followers within six moons. He watched in the sidelines as more of the shrine’s magicks was utilised, Anatre beaming as she stood straighter. She soon joined him at his side, keeping her word to explain everything that was happening. The male elf after her limped forward, supported by another, as the veins in his forehead noticeably throbbed in his pain. The man was breathing heavily, as if every breath proved an effort.

Anatre took on a saddened expression. “Poor man,” she said, before leaning in. “The City Guard beat him bloody for leaving the alienage gates to visit an ailing friend in Lowtown. But he’ll be as good as new, and The Dovahkiin will deliver us justice.”

Solas looked at her briefly, then quickly returned her gaze to the injured man. As before, Auriel’s Blessing was given freely, and Solas’ eyes widened for what seemed to be the hundredth time that night. The golden light died away and the man tested his injured leg, rubbing his hands down his torso in disbelief, before prostrating himself before the altar. He sobbed in gratitude, whole and hale, as if the injuries he’d sustained never existed in the first place. Jatug went over to help him up, escorting him away to join the rest. Tamlin stepped up before the altar, smiling in satisfaction at his congregation. 

“What happens now?” Solas asked Anatre. 

“We will sing a small prayer to Auriel and the rest of the Aedra,” 

“The rest?” He echoed. “Is Aedra the name of a pantheon of gods?”

“Aye. In Aldmeris, Aedra means ancestor spirits, as both elves and men were created from them.”

“Spirits?” Solas grew wary. Both he and the rest of The Evanuris were once spirits themselves, yet powerful enough to single handedly attain physical forms for themselves.

Anatre seemed to understand what he was referring to. “They’re not like the spirits here in Thedas, Revas. The Aedra created the mortal planes. Not only Thedas, but other worlds as well. According to the creation myths, they were tricked by Lorkhan, the god of mortals, into investing their power into creating Mundus, the mortal plane. As a result, they were sundered from the mortal realms and could not affect it directly.”

Scepticism still abound within him. “Then would praying to Auriel and his brethren seem futile, seeing as they can’t help us directly?”

Anatre stared at him like he was stupid–which he did not appreciate. “The Aedra are not the only gods out there, Revas. And who says they’re not helping us? It’s sort of like the shem ’s Maker. They say the Inquisitor is Andraste’s champion. Well, The Dovahkiin is Auriel’s champion, and she has proven it ten times over, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps this Dovahkiin is simply just an extremely powerful mage. She could just be using Auriel’s name as a way to build an army and conquer Thedas.”

“Perhaps,” Anatre conceded, before grinning, “but a mage, as you say, who can spirit away an entire city’s elves into another mortal plane doesn’t need any of us to do that.”

Before he could say anything more, Tamlin cleared his throat. “Let us begin.”

Hands wrapped firmly around his stave, Solas listened as The Light of Auriel descended into song:

“ Praise we now Mara
O Goddess of Love
Bless us with children
Our mother above

Clap hands in praise

Exalt the Divines !

Clap hands in praise

Our ancestral lines!

Praise we now Y'ffre

O first Ehlnofey

God of the forest

Earth Bones showed the way

Last praise Auri-El

Forefather of all

Formed us to be like him

Wise, noble, and tall”

“I thank you all for coming.” Tamlin said, once they finished. “Auri fey va hame av Auriel,”  [(Be) welcome in (the) sanctuary of Auriel]

“Nu hectane fey hevla,” they all chanted in unison. [(This) we receive in joy] Solas wondered if the language of these so-called High Elves were taught once one entered the fold, or simply select words and phrases they used as greetings or passwords and the like. He was content to watch, and rifle through all his observations and questions with Wisdom later in the Fade. 

“As you all know, our Dovahkiin continues to make waves throughout Thedas,” Tamlin declared, eyes glistering with triumph. “What was once a mere ripple in the ocean has borne a tidal wave throughout the continent. The elves of Halamshiral are merely a step in the direction to the deliverance of all elves and non-human races.”

Shouts of approval rung throughout the cavernous chamber. Tamlin raised a hand and they all fell silent. 

“I have received word from one of The First of the Freed. Transport is imminent. Remember, those who are of immediate danger are of highest priority.” 

“Will Kirkwall become another Halamshiral?” A voice called out. 

Tamlin shook his head. “It does not seem so. Unlike Halamshiral, there are those in the alienage who spit upon Auriel’s name, as you are doubtless aware.”

Angry whispers erupted from the gathering. “That blood mage Merrill is one!” Another said, and others echoed this fury. 

“Aye, she’s the most vocal,” Tamlin agreed. “But remember, my friends, the real danger here are the shemlen.”

“I hear they’re getting even more violent in other alienages across Thedas,” a woman murmured, “and Kirkwall’s nobles are no exception.”

“Increasing the speed and rate of transportation is the best way,” Jatug pitched in, “and with the Inquisition bein’ no better than The Chantry’s bitch-” this caused quite a few chuckles to go about the room, “-I don’t see no other alternative.”

Tamlin unfurled a small roll of parchment. “Here are the numbers for the month: 25 families from Denerim; 4 from Edgehall; 8 from Ghislain; 35 from Val Royeaux; 15 from Verchiel; 7 from Redcliffe; 1 from Highever; 10 from Wycome; 16 from Ashburg; 5 from Gwaren.”

“As for the Dalish,” Tamlin continued, “around 40 of them have joined us. A huge increase, no doubt due to what happened in Halamshiral. We also have 28 dwarves, all surfacers. 126 mages, of different races.” The parchment in his hand then caught aflame, reducing it to ash. 

Solas’ eyes positively ballooned at all the figures Tamlin announced and he noted them down in his mind. I didn’t sense he was a mage when I first met him, he frowned as he mused, deepening when Tamlin shot him another one of his painfully obnoxious smirks. At this point, he concluded that he must safely assume that every individual he met was a mage when dealing with The Light of Auriel. 

“Alright, now give me the names of those who need transport.” Jatug gruffly ordered, dipping his quill into an inkpot on the altar, parchment laid out before him.

“Saerin and her family. They’ll starve ‘fore the month ends…”

“Please, save my children. I don’t trust the guards any more than I can throw ‘em…”

“Tessa’s girl is a mage. Circles are gone but we’re not riskin’ it…”

“Amreth. My wife serves some noble in Hightown. She was able to fend off his advances, but I’m afraid…”

And on and on it went. Jatug noted the names down diligently. Once all was said, the dwarf blew upon the parchment, waiting for the ink to dry, before rolling it and tucking it into his vest.

“I believe this concludes our meeting.” Tamlin pronounced, clapping his hands once. “Sil av Auriel emera ni.” [(The) Light of Auriel guide you]

“Ae ni,” they all replied, and one after another, they filed out of the room.[And you]

“I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morn!” The potter said, gifting him with another of her friendly smiles, which he was wholly undeserving of. None of the people gathered here deserved his coming betrayal. All they wanted was help, and brimming with so much hope for a better, safer future without further discrimination–and The Dovahkiin could offer that to him. He cursed the Inquisition and The Chantry.

Perhaps the Dalish moniker isn’t so ill-fitting after all, Solas bitterly thought, taking off the Amulet of Nullification and handing it to Jatug’s open palm. He breathed in relief as magic flowed through his veins and settled in his fingertips. 

“How did you find it?” Tamlin said, once everyone had left. 

“It was…unlike anything I’d ever experienced before,” Solas answered truthfully.

Tamlin hummed in agreement. “We have another meeting scheduled in a fortnight. Shall we be expecting you then?”

“Vin.” He replied, before daring to ask: “Has anyone here ever met The Dovahkiin in person?”

Tamlin eyed him carefully, then responded, “I’m the only one here who has. But I’ve never seen her face. The only one privileged enough to see it are her Inner Circle: The First of the Freed; her father; her companions; lastly, The Ghost.” 

“The Ghost?” Solas echoed. Now that was new.

Tamlin shot him a mysterious smile and Solas knew his time for questions was up. 

“I’ll be seeing you, Revas,” 

Solas nodded, taking the dismissal for what it was. 

“Dar’eth shiral.”

Chapter Text

Kirkwall Alienage

Merrill’s House

“What’s got you in the dumps, Chuckles?” Varric broke through his thoughts, “don’t like nug?”

“Oh why didn’t you say so, hahren ?” Merrill fretted, horrified at the notion she’d served something unpalatable to her guest. “You should’ve told-”

“Atisha, da’len,” Solas placated hurriedly. He could not pay any mind to the blood mage’s incessant ramblings when he had other things to worry about. It had been nigh two moons since he attended his first meeting with The Light of Auriel, continuing to do so every fortnight. And in each meeting, he bore witness to the true scale of The Dovahkiin’s influence in Thedas, with, to his surprise, clandestine support provided by some noble families throughout the continent who are either elf-blooded or possess elven sympathies. He watched as the numbers in Tamlin’s list grew with each meeting, the humans powerless to stop it. Solas never saw The Dovahkiin spirit these people away, however. No matter how many meetings he attended, it seemed he was still not deemed trustworthy enough to be present for that, which grated him immensely. After all, he was running out of time. The Inquisitor only gave him three months to complete his mission before the masquerade began. 

In truth, the ambush could’ve occurred in any of the prior meetings, but since there were no families announced for transport, he thought this next meeting would be the opportune time.

They were not his People, but they did not deserve the cruelty meted out to them. Seeing their desperate faces lined with both misery and hope tugged at his wretched, broken heart. If he’d set the Inquisition’s agents upon them, then he shuddered to think of what fate would befall them should they not be able to escape their misery. And what’s worse, the repercussions of an ambush on The Light of Auriel here in Kirkwall’s alienage would doubtlessly reach Hightown and Lowtown alike. The Nightingale–however efficient and competent she was–could not wholly stem the reports of what occurred in the alienage from leaking to the upper echelons of the city. Once that was to happen, he shuddered to think of what action they would take next. A purge, most likely, Solas thought.

“It’s time,” Solas breathed out in a rush, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. 

“What?” Varric asked, muffled as he chewed on nug. 

“It’s time,” Solas repeated, setting aside his broth.

“Huh.” Varric replied intelligently. “This pleasant mission is about to end and you look like you were just told you’d have to marry a Dalish.” Merrill’s affronted squeak of “What’s wrong with us?” was duly ignored by both men. “What’s on your mind, Chuckles?”

Solas sighed, levelling a grave stare at Varric and Merrill on the opposite end of the table. 

“Once the ambush is well and done, then we must be prepared for the consequences.”

Merrill’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, hahren? Removing Auriel’s cult from Kirkwall would be a good thing, no?”

“Yes and no.” Solas raised a placating hand up at the irritated frown on Varric’s face. “And please bear with me.”

“Once the cultists are captured, Leliana’s agents will do their very best to keep word of this incident from spreading. But we all know that information is currency, and word is bound to reach the ears of the high and mighty of this city. The moment it does, what do you think they will do? What do you think the nobles of Kirkwall will do, what the Viscount will decide upon in order to pluck the rot out root and stem?” The dawning horror on Varric and Merrill’s face told Solas all he needed to know, that their minds had understood what conclusion he’d reached.

“It won’t come to that, surely!” Merrill protested, face ashen.

“Is that something you are willing to risk?” Solas shot back. “What better way than to ensure that the cult would not be able to sink its teeth into the elven population of Kirkwall? To lessen the numbers of those that would join The Light of Auriel? And with The Chantry’s backing? Because The Dovahkiin is building an army, let us not fool ourselves into thinking otherwise.” 

“But-” 

“He’s right, Daisy. Alienages have been purged for less.” Varric shook his head with a heavy sigh. “Did the Inquisitor and Leliana even know that this could be the consequence?”

“Either they know or they simply don’t care,” 

A solemn silence ensued once Solas uttered those words. The tension was palpable and an undercurrent of doom filled the hearts of all present. 

“Maybe The Nightingale thinks her spy network is so foolproof that the coming ambush wouldn’t reach the ears of the nobles,” Merrill proposed, ever the hopeful optimist. 

Solas nodded, acceding to her theory. “Not only must we confront this possibility, we must also keep in mind how and when The Dovahkiin will retaliate.”

“It’ll be war,” Varric muttered. “The Mage-Templar war just ended and we haven’t even dealt with Corypheus yet.” The surface dwarf took a swig of his ale. “Thedas must be cursed.”

Merrill’s eyes were steely with determination. “If the alienage will be purged, then I must get as many people out as I can.”

“I’ll use my contacts. Keep an ear out in Hightown and increase our chances of being forewarned before another massacre happens.” 

“For now, it’s the best we can do,” Varric finished, his appetite truly gone. He was usually the life of the party, but he was not in a jesting mood, and neither was the elven apostate. With a grim countenance, he locked eyes with Solas. “When shall I alert the ravens?”

“The meeting shall occur in the next two days. Once I make for the tavern, you may act.”

And with that, the enigmatic elf bid them good night before retiring to his rooms. 

“Hey Varric?”

“Yes, Daisy?”

“Doesn’t Solas seem odd to you at times? Almost…”

“Almost?’ Varric echoed, prodding her to continue.

“Almost authoritative,” Merrill said in hushed tones, eyes faraway, “like he’s used to doing these sorts of things before?”

Varric remained quiet awhile. Solas was mysterious, inscrutable, and undoubtedly sharp and intelligent. In truth, he’d expected the reclusive elven mage to be uncomfortable and awkward when it came to carrying out this mission, but to his surprise, Solas had acquitted himself flawlessly. He had taken complete control of their entire operation, and was able to swiftly snag himself a job that placed him within the heart of the alienage’s society, privy to its goings-on. Now, they were poised to conclude their mission before the three-month deadline was up. 

Without a doubt, whom Dorian once japed as a ‘woodsman’ was scarily efficient. And where would an insulated elven apostate learn how to do that? And what for?

“Where did he say he came from?” 

“Some village up North,” Varric replied immediately, “a ruin now, apparently.”

Merrill hummed, tapping her spoon against the table. 

“Awfully vague,”

“Some things don’t add up, true. But let a man have his secrets. I doubt the truth is all that bad.” Hopefully, Varric added in his mind. He’ll have his contacts trace Solas. But if even The Nightingale couldn’t find anything on the fellow, how would he fare any better?

“Hm, I suppose you’re right, Varric,”

“That’d be the day.”

Steadying himself, Solas took a deep breath, before venturing out to Melas’ tavern as he had done so many times before. After helping Anatre shut up shop, he stuck his mage’s staff to his back and prepared himself for the chaos that undoubtedly lay ahead. Each time he saw Anatre’s kind gaze, he resolved to meet it head first. It was the least he could do considering what was about to transpire. Harellan, Solas spat maliciously in his head, your many titles cannot even begin to do you justice.

He kept his hands out of sight, hidden by the folds of his ratty cloak, afraid he would see the blood on them, thick and slippery, dripping from his fingertips. Solas’ gaze was perpetually fixed to the roofs, catching figures diving out of sight. One even nodded at him before disappearing alongside his fellow comrades. Leliana’s spies. The ravens are in position. Releasing a small sigh, Solas turned the corner into the alleyway where he was first admitted entry by Tamlin. Standing before the backdoor, he spoke the password in Aldmeris, and was granted access into the tavern by Jatug. Through the meetings he had attended, Solas had begun piecing together the language of the High Elves, as well as receiving bits and pieces of information concerning this elven race. Apparently, they were much longer lived than the Theodosian Elves, able to reach 1,000 years if they were lucky. However, much reverence was spoken more for the Snow Elves–Falmer, they were called–who were supposedly immortal, though their numbers were vastly diminished due to war and conflict. 

Of course, to Solas, these were purely fairy tales until he could meet The Dovahkiin face-to-face, affirm an alliance between the two parties, and gain sufficient trust to step foot on the golden bridge towards the beyond. He tucked these goals to the back of his mind. There were other things to worry about at present. The minimisation of casualties in the oncoming ambush feels like a pipe dream, especially considering the potential massacre that was heading their way. 

Solas bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement once he saw Tamlin walking towards him. “Revas!” The man called out in greeting, the wary glance he shot at his staff did not escape him. Tamlin was in the right to remain distrustful of him. If things were different, Solas would’ve recruited Tamlin in a heartbeat; the elf had the right qualities needed to head one of his cells, but he assumed The Dovahkiin and her Inner Circle were discerning enough to notice such qualities.

“Tamlin,” Solas replied. He paused as he looked around. “There does not seem to be as many gathered here today as in prior occasions.”

Dread arose within him as a secretive smile tugged Tamlin’s thin lips. 

“I should think not. It’s going to be a skeleton crew tonight, Revas. Most of our numbers are away and helping the other alienages. I believe they won’t be back in another moon or so…unless this troubles you?”

“Not at all,” the words slipped easily from his mouth. It was all so familiar, this dance. Approach, infiltrate, observe, evade, detract…kill. He could not help feeling both relieved and disappointed that Leliana’s–and his own–agents would have to make do with less than they’d initially hoped for. As soon as word got out of the ambush, they’d scatter to the wind, making it all the more difficult to track them down again. He had not the time for it either. “Their loyalty knows no bounds. I thought it odd that they’d willingly miss a gathering of Auriel’s faithful unless there are other more pressing matters which drew their attention. And after your explanation, I am glad to hear that they are merely fulfilling Auriel’s bidding.”

Tamlin hummed, before resting a firm hand on his shoulder. Solas fought not to shrug it off. 

“I believe it will soon be time to prove your loyalty as one of Auriel’s faithful, Revas.”

“In what way?”

He leaned in, before speaking the words that sent ice through his veins: 

“I know about the ambush, Ser Solas.”

Solas stiffened, shrugging off the urge to jerk back. How?

Tamlin smiled, eyes empty. “Your dwarf friend gave you away. He’s far too infamous around these parts, I’m sure you know. Too bad he doesn’t know one of the Dwarven Merchants’ Guild is a plant. Told us who he was, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who you were after that. Both Varric Tethras and a mysterious elven mage wanderer showing up in Kirkwall at the same time?” He tapped his nose. “Sloppy.”

If he could he would wring Varric’s neck–and Tamlin’s too, come to think of it–he would. The dwarf should’ve known better that his network must have been compromised the same way Briala’s had been. “So, will you kill me now that all has been revealed?”

“No, I merely ask you a favour.”

Solas cocked his head. “It’s too late to call off the ambush–”

Tamlin shook his head, his hand cutting through the air as he did so. “I know that. We’re all going to be captured and we knew that death is a close friend the moment we joined The Dovahkiin’s cause. We’ll meet it in whatever form Death takes.” He sighed, face weary. “All I ask is you give me time to alert my General that a purge is coming.”

“And how am I to know that you won’t bring The Dovahkiin’s forces here instead?”

“And risk a potential massacre? I’m not stupid, Solas, and I value the lives of those under me.” Solas flinched slightly at that but stood his ground. 

“Who else knows?”

“Only me.” Tamlin replied quietly. “I’m trained for this, but most of them aren’t. I can’t risk them letting our deal slip under torture.”

And Solas knew that Leliana would torture them, but that’s only if the Inquisitor sanctioned it. He prayed dearly that Evelyn wouldn’t–Solas couldn’t say how The Dovahkiin would react to what was about to transpire, but she’d undoubtedly retaliate against the Inquisition–but worldly wisdom shattered his optimism. Solas lowered his gaze, contemplating the risks and rewards of allowing Tamlin to do this one thing he asked of him. Pursing his lips, Solas made his decision, and nodded. A rush of breath left Tamlin the moment he realised Solas had agreed to his request, and the elf disappeared further into the tavern. It did not take him long to emerge again once more, his countenance grave yet resolute. 

“Do as you intend.”

Unstrapping his staff from his back, Solas channelled his mana, pulling through the Fade and causing a searingly bright light to radiate and pierce through the windows of the tavern. Shouts of surprise and pain blended together, never abating even as the light died.

“What have you done?” A horrified voice cried. He turned to find Anatre staring at him, her gaze filled with hurt, fear and rage.

“Two-faced scum!” Jatug growled, before turning to the rest. “We all have to leave–”

The doors burst open and the familiar sight of Inquisition green flooded through, nearly filling the whole tavern. Screams soon reverberated through its thin walls and to Solas’ surprise and horror, a small-scale battle soon broke out. The fact that he had not once sensed that everyone– barring Jatug–that was part of the cult’s Kirkwall branch was a mage was worrying to him. And it seemed none of Leliana’s agents had expected it as well, as they were taken by surprise as blasts of fire, lightning and ice added to the chaos. Solas had to pause and blink in surprise when one of them conjured a spectral knife and shoved it through the eye of an unsuspecting agent. Jatug was not one to be left behind, lifting one of the chairs and smashing it over an agent’s head, sending him toppling over. Tamlin did not remain idle and threw himself into the fray in an icy blaze.

Centuries of battle experience came to the fore and Solas managed to cast a barrier over himself in time when he saw an ice spike careening his way. 

“Harellan!”  Anatre screamed in fury, wisps of frost seeping from her fingertips. “I trusted you! Ni joranet nu!” [You betrayed us!]

“Yes.” Solas replied sombrely. “Ir’abelas,”

“Tel’abelas!” Streaks of lightning unleashed from her palms. Solas dove easily out of the way. 

“Yield, Anatre, else they kill you,”

“It seems you still do not know much about us, Revas,” she spat, “if I’m to die today then I’m taking you with me!” 

In Solas’ estimation, though the cultists of Auriel had magic, they were far from what he’d describe as expertly trained in the arts of magic. It was evidenced as Anatre threw every spell in her arsenal in his direction, in both a sloppy and unsophisticated manner. Solas maintained his barriers, weaving past her attacks as he inched closer, before taking hold of her arms and pulling her to the ground, restraining her. As Anatre yowled and struggled beneath his grip, Solas directed his attention to the surrounding chaos. It appeared that the Inquisition agents were gaining ground, perhaps coming to the same realisation as he did after shaking off the initial surprise. Many of the cultists were soon on the ground, arms bound behind their backs. Tamlin willingly surrendered, dropping a bloodied dagger once he saw most of his members were down, urging the more pig-headed of his number to do the same. The whole operation did not come without cost, however, with Solas spotting two of the cultists lying dead on the floor. Though not fully trained, the cultists managed to eliminate four of Leliana’s agents through sheer desperation and rage.

Anatre’s voice drew his attention back to her. The woman had now stopped her struggle, eyes dull with resignation. 

“If there was ever a sincere, compassionate bone in your body,” she whispered, and a pleading note entered her voice as she continued, “I ask that you kill me before we reach Skyhold.”

Solas remained silent as yet another one of Auriel’s devotees begged him for another favour. He gently pulled her onto her feet with firm hands, unrelenting in his grip. The elven apostate held her gaze as she was pulled away by one of the agents and ushered roughly out of the building alongside her fellow cultists. Jatug spat within his general vicinity, and Solas huffed–the dwarf was tenacious, suffice it to say. The tavern was in evident disarray, and Solas knew with their impoverished state, that the establishment might not be operating anytime soon, if ever. The agent Leliana put in charge of her little contingent of operatives walked up to him, giving him a small incline of his head. 

“We’ll take it from here, Serah,” the nameless agent said. “The Inquisitor ordered both you and Master Tethras head back to Skyhold alongside the prisoners. We leave the moment dawn breaks.” 

After acknowledging his message, Solas left the tavern through the front entrance. He watched in silence as the cultists were piled up into a cart. Turning his head slightly, he locked eyes with Tamlin. The elf gave him a nod, tawny eyes burning with an indecipherable emotion. 

Solas inclined his head and turned around to venture deeper into the night, hands awash with blood. He could only hope that, once news reached the nobles of Kirkwall, they’d be wary to react rashly. The Elvhen God of Rebellion loved the sensation of being right, but in this case, he had no desire for it. 

Alas, barely three days after they left Kirkwall, its alienage was razed to the ground. 

Council Chamber

Inner Sanctum, Skyrim

“Fen’Harel…”

Eyes flitted about, sharing twin looks of uneasiness with one another. Silence permeated, layered with astonishment and disbelief after The Dovahkiin revealed what happened during her first jaunt into The Fade. All the Theodosians present–meaning herself, Hila and Iswin–were astounded at the fact that their leader was a Dreamer, but what she said next quickly overshadowed this revelation. And now, they were informed with the potential of an alliance with the being of legend himself. Though she now knew Fen’Harel and the rest of his ilk were not gods, that didn’t mean he was to be trifled with. I mean, he put up the Veil, for fuck’s sake! Ellana thought. If they agreed, then would that mean she’d meet The Bringer of Nightmares himself in the flesh? Ellana screamed internally at the prospect.

The Dovahkiin cleared her throat, tapping her gloved fingers impatiently against her arm.

“ Well? Thoughts?”

Hila, the most pragmatic and practical of the Generals, was the first to respond: “Fen’Harel is a false god, true, but it cannot be denied that he possesses knowledge of the oldest mysteries which plague Thedas. Although the Dalish decry him as a deceiver of the elven people, you have shown us that their myths can hardly be relied upon as truth…no offence, Ellana.” Ellana merely waved her away dismissively. “Yet he must’ve done something to be called what he is. However, I’m still of a mind to accept this alliance. It’s better to have him near us where he can be watched rather than turn him away and allow him to scheme someplace we cannot reach him.”

“I agree.” Iswin said reluctantly. “We didn’t even know he was still around. The wolf is crafty and able to hide himself well. Aye, Dovahkiin, we must bring him to the fold from which we can keep him within sight.”

The Dovahkiin nodded, before turning to Ellana, silently commanding her opinion.

Ellana sighed, taking a swig of her mead before speaking.

“It would certainly help our efforts with saving more elves. Who knows how many hidden elven sanctuaries Fen’Harel knows the location of in Thedas? We can erect portals. The Dovahkiin can’t be everywhere at the same time and we all want the alienages to be emptied entirely . This way, we don’t have to wait for her each time we need to spirit away more elves.”

Approval flowed from The Dovahkiin, and Ellana restrained the urge to preen before the demigod. 

“Marvellous point, Ellana,” Alatariel stated, lacing her fingers together. “We’re not going in blind, I assure you. The old wolf will have eyes on us but we’ll do the same to him in turn.”

“So we’re doing this, then? Allying ourselves with Fen’Harel? ” Iswin mouthed the words, eyes glossing over with disbelief as if he couldn’t believe the words leaving his lips. Which…in Ellana’s opinion, was understandable–she couldn’t believe it herself either.

Alatariel straightened from her place at the head of the table. “I shall meet him face-to-face.”

“You know what he looks like?” Ellana murmured.

The Dovahkiin shook her head. “No, but I know his scent. Anyway, I hear there’s to be a ball at this Winter Palace. Quite bold to do so when most of their staff is missing.” 

Ellana snorted into her cup. 

“The ball has been in the works for months before our….intervention,” Hila added, before smirking. “Should Empress Celene cancel it, she’ll be seen as weak. No, she needs to show that recent events have not shaken her. To cancel would give ammunition to her enemies, especially to her adversary, the Grand Duke Gaspard.”

“Yes, I’m attending.”

All heads snapped up from their plates of grapes and cheeses. “Milady?”

“I’m attending,” Alatariel repeated firmly. Iswin blanched.

“But it’s far too risky! And whatever for–” 

“A mask here, and a spell or two there and they won’t even notice me. After all, this isn’t my first time being someplace I shouldn’t be,” Alatariel said, smiling to herself in amusement. “And to answer your question, Iswin, I need to take my measure of the Inquisitor and her companions. A spectator, if you will. Oh, it will be most amusing.”

“Take someone with you at least, Dovahkiin–” Hila began. The Dragonborn’s spymaster was void of emotion, as she was wont, but the slight downturn of her lips showed her displeasure. 

“I shall go alone.” Alatariel affirmed with a tone as unyielding as steel.

Always uncomfortable with any prolonged silence, Ellana raised her cup. “Well, have fun, Milady. Don’t leave all the juicy gossip to Hila when you return, I beg you.”

 Alatariel gave a laugh, lilac eyes twinkling. She was about to respond when Gelebor entered the room. Ellana watched as the gleeful light in her chosen leader’s eyes faded at her father’s solemn countenance. The Dragonborn stood.

“Father? What’s wrong?”

“I bear grave news, I’m afraid. I take it you remember Tamlin, Hila?”

Hila stood this time, brows drawn. “Aye, I scouted him out myself. Why? Did he betray us?”

Gelebor gave a shake of his head. “No, he sounded the alarm. The Inquisition has raided and captured nearly all of Tamlin’s cell.”

A hush fell over the room. Alatariel stiffened.

“What? How did this happen?” 

“A spy. One of the Inquisitor’s companions, by the name of Solas, infiltrated the cell and The Nightingale’s agents staged an ambush. Two are dead.”

Ellana curled her fingers over the hilt of her dagger. Hila closed her eyes, no doubt suppressing the rage and grief she was experiencing. Iswin turned to The Dovahkiin, awaiting her command.

“There’s more, however.” At Alatariel’s nod, Gelebor spoke the words that sounded a death knell for the whole of Thedas. 

“The Kirkwall alienage is no more. Its inhabitants were put to the sword and their homes torched.”

In an instant, the room began to shake. It was clear Alatariel’s sheer rage caused her to lose control of her Thu’um. Gelebor was quick to react, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder as he spoke to her firmly in Falmeris. Slowly, the rumbling ceased, and The Dovahkiin ordered the guards posted outside to leave once they came in with swords drawn. 

Regaining her composure, she addressed her Generals.

“We must clear the alienages now. Hila, let all your agents on the ground know to prepare. Iswin, Ellana, gather all of the mages we have and tell them to meet me in the dining hall.”

“It will be done.” Ellana said, eyes glinting with cold fury.

“The mages? What do you intend to do?” Gelebor asked gently.

Alatariel turned to her father and the Generals paused to listen. “I intend to syphon enough magical energy through the transporter Auriel gave me to open multiple doorways.” Gelebor’s eyes widened in realisation. “Yes, Father, I am ferrying all the city elves simultaneously.” 

“And then?” 

The Dovahkiin, slayer of Alduin the World Eater, gave a smile that sent shivers down Ellana’s spine.

“First, I’ll rain fire on Kirkwall. Then, as the Inquisition celebrates its victory in Skyhold after seating whoever on the Orlesian throne, I’ll strike.”

Reverence surged in the eyes of the First of the Freed, a fervent devotion that was not soon to be quenched.

“I’ll show Inquisitor Trevelyan,” Alatariel spat, eyes aflame,“that Corypheus is the least of her worries.”

Chapter Text

Griffon Wing Keep

Western Approach

Sand, sand, and by the Maker, more sand. Sand as far as the eye can see. Sand for miles upon end, hills, mountains and rivers of sand that scorched the eyes. The sweltering heat that bathed this accursed region of Thedas did not improve matters. It was harsh and unforgiving, forcing you to squint your eyes so much you’d rather close them and surrender to sleep instead. 

Sweat gathered at the nape of her neck, a trickle dripping past her brow whilst a veritable waterfall gathered by her armpits. Evelyn hated the heat, and with so much occupying her mind now that she was the Inquisitor, it was utterly unbearable. Baking in her armour, Evelyn wagered she looked more the part of a lowly infantryman than the vaulted Herald of Andraste.

It grated her that Vivienne appeared completely unruffled by the extreme temperatures, clad in her Enchanter’s Coat, with a touch of gold glittering at the belt and bracers. The ruff collar the Orlesians loved so much fanned past her neck to cradle the base of her skull, gleaming a fantastic bronze under the harsh sun of the Western Approach. With her cinched waist, embroidered trousers and headdress chased with silver, Vivienne was every inch a regal creature. With nary a thread out of place, the Enchantress seemed not to sweat, despite Evelyn knowing that she should be cooking in that overdone piece of finery. 

Madame de Fer’s visage was polished to perfection, in stark contrast to Evelyn’s flushed face and undignified panting. At the lift of a well-groomed brow, the Inquisitor knew what was coming.

“You’re slouching again, my dear,”

Evelyn bit back a groan and made to correct her posture. Her armour felt ten times heavier than it usually was, and she swore it was because of the heat.

“Why must I do this in armour again?”

Vivienne shot her a look, one that told her the reason was perfectly plain. 

“Because, my dear, Orlesian court dress is as heavy and cumbersome as the armour Commander Cullen is wearing. If he were here, I’d have demanded he hand over his armour to you and make do with something else,” Evelyn giggled at the image it produced in her mind. The noise caused Vivienne to tilt her head. “There is a certain method to giggling in the Orlesian Court, Inquisitor.” The giggles died, and she stared, gobsmacked. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

“Firstly, one does not boisterously laugh as if one were in a tavern. Giggles and titters are acceptable, and highly encouraged for both sexes.” Evelyn could not imagine Grand Duke Gaspard giggling , of all things, but she supposed he just avoided finding anything funny. “Should you be so desirous as to laugh, simply raise your hand like so, close to the lips, but not too much that it should obscure them. If you have crooked teeth, it is not advised to show them. I was glad to find that you were not afflicted with such a feature, so I’d highly recommend you display them.”

“When you laugh, do not do so from your chest. It should be like a flutter of butterflies, light and airy when expelled from the throat.” Vivienne finished, she then gracefully turned in a swirl of satin and silks, the heel of her boots clacking against the flagstones. Evelyn felt dread building in her chest when Madame de Fer smiled at her. “Now, let’s see if you can emulate my teachings, Inquisitor.”

Evelyn took a deep, calming breath, and felt her lips pull open to showcase her teeth. She raised her hand where Vivienne had directed it, and worked her throat…only to emit a pitiful, croaking noise. Maker’s Balls, she thought, cringing, that wasn’t even close to a giggle. Even Vivienne could not restrain from showing emotion on her usually uncrackable veneer, her lips curling in disappointment. 

Madame de Fer sighed. “We shall be working on that.”

Behind her, Blackwall gave a gruff chuckle as he sharpened his sword, one that died a quick death at Vivienne’s sharp glare. Evelyn frowned at her failure, though she thought it ludicrous that the Orlesians had the time to create a set of rules that included how to giggle. 

“Shoulders!” Vivienne’s voice cracked like a sharp whip across the main hall. 

Evelyn straightened, pauldrons glistering in the morning light. “Wait. I can’t wear Orlesian court dress! If I’m to gallivant about the Winter Palace and collect secrets and reveal who Corypheus’ spy is, I very well can’t do that in a dress heavier than Iron Bull.”

“Modifications, Inquisitor,” Vivienne said patiently, “stylish modifications, of course. I have a seamstress in Val Royeaux who is more than capable of enacting such changes while ensuring you’re la belle du bal. She’s absolutely brilliant–oh! That reminds me, we must schedule time with all members of the Inner Circle–yes, even you Warden Blackwall–over dress fittings and the like.”

The Inquisitor nodded, the picture of surrender. “Well, no one could dispute your expertise on matters of the Orlesian Court, Madame Vivienne.”

“Naturally, my dear,” Vivienne preened, before reassuming her facade of polished ice, “now, let us run it over again. What is the first thing one does when entering the Ballroom?”

Evelyn mulled over the question. “Curtsey to Her Imperial Majesty and wait for the herald to announce us.”

Vivienne hummed in approval. “Whom amongst the Orlesian Court is imperative for the Inquisitor to speak with?”

“Grand Duchess Florianne, she’s the one hosting the ball,” Evelyn replied, biting at her lower lip to think of who else in the court of unnecessary fripperies to socialise with. “Gaspard is a given, and perhaps the Empress’ own ladies.” 

“Adequate, Inquisitor. But you are missing a key arm of the Court, one who ultimately decides who sits the Orlesian Throne.”

It clicked in Evelyn’s mind. “Ah! The Council of Heralds, of course!”

“It is vital you approach them, Inquisitor,” Vivienne murmured firmly. “I’ve had word from both Leliana and my contacts that six of their members will be attending the ball. They are the highest-ranking players of The Game. They see everything. They will have something we could use.”

At Evelyn’s determined nod, Madame de Fer smacked her hands together, the sound bouncing sharply off the sandy cobblestones and ancient bricks of the old fortress. “Now, Lady Mantillon–also known as the Dowager–is considered the most esteemed member of the Council of Heralds. It is vital you get her to speak with you, or even better, invite her to a waltz. After all, you must dance with the Dowager in order to play the Game.”

“Well, what does this Lady Mantillon like?”

Vivienne shook her head. “It is not as simple as likes and dislikes, finding common ground and such. A member of the Council of Heralds would not be so easily swayed. As the most prestigious players of the Game, they cannot be seen consorting with those of far lesser rank, especially a foreigner.” Evelyn’s jaw ticked. “And you, my dear, fall into that category. The Court will not know what to make of you. That’s why you must needs charm the entire Orlesian Court before even thinking of approaching the Dowager.”

Evelyn groaned in exhaustion, rubbing at the pounding headache beating at her brow.

“It all sounds so complicated.”

“We’ll have hundreds of vipers to contend with at the Winter Palace, Inquisitor. And the Maker would not have deemed you His Herald if He thought you would not rise to the occasion.”

She didn’t believe herself the Herald of Andraste, Evelyn thought she was merely at the right place at the right time. Of course, Josephine and Cassandra would have a conniption if she’d gone and shouted it from the top of Skyhold, seeing as her supposed status as the Maker’s Champion drew increasing numbers of the faithful beneath the Inquisition’s banner. 

Evelyn stiffened when she spotted one of Leliana’s scouts approach. Blackwall paused what he was doing, suddenly alert. Vivienne’s eyes were as sharp as an eagle’s. All knew what the appearance of Leliana’s creature would mean. The Dovahkiin was a pervading thorn in the back of Evelyn’s mind, but her torturous sojourn in the Western Approach had somewhat pushed this new threat down her list of priorities. No longer, it seemed. 

Maker, please let it be good news.

The scout bowed, then straightened. “I was informed to bring this to you with all haste, Your Worship,” the man then revealed a small scroll and handed it to Evelyn. Bowing once more, Leliana’s agent disappeared as soon as he arrived.

Evelyn quickly unfurled the scroll, her hands shaking slightly as she did so. Peering at the parchment, a relieved smile bloomed on her face when she read the message, though it died as soon as she got to the end.

“Targets secured. Minor casualties on both sides. Two died en route to Skyhold. 

 Suspected voluntary suicide, but no proof yet.

 Kirkwall nobility alerted. Alienage suffered a purge. No survivors.”

“By the Maker,” Evelyn gasped, a hand over her mouth. Vivienne and Blackwall shared twin looks of concern. She gave the scroll for Vivienne to read, who sighed, closing her eyes, before showing its contents to Blackwall in turn. 

“Maker’s Breath!” Blackwall cried, the Warden’s thick brows disappearing into his hairline. “They killed them all? This is a travesty!”

“I agree that it is far too extreme a measure,” Vivienne replied, burning the scroll with a spell until it was naught but cinders. “But there is none to blame but The Dovahkiin.”

“Say what you will, Madame de Fer, but The Dovahkiin didn’t give the order to massacre city elves by the dozens. Those ponces in Hightown did the deed, Maker damn them!” Blackwall’s moustache twitched in his fury, eyes ablaze with a desire for justice. His hands curled into fists, shaking, as if he was restraining himself from riding to Kirkwall, drawing his sword and cutting down the knaves where they stood.

“But it is the Dovahkiin’s fault, dear Warden. If she had not intervened the way she did, causing needless panic in cities across Thedas, such retribution against the Elves would not be so catastrophic. Leliana achieved her objectives, we have a way of stopping the Dovahkiin once and for all before another tragedy such as this occurs again because of her careless folly. Find strength in this, Inquisitor.”

Evelyn took a deep breath. Fear choked her the moment she read of what befell Kirkwall’s alienage. The Dovahkiin had the magical capability of vanishing the entire population of Halamshiral’s elves in a single night. None in Thedas had seen her offensive abilities yet, though Evelyn suspected The Dovahkiin had never been provoked enough to do so. But now–Evelyn shuddered to think what she might do in her anger.

“I know I mustn’t allow this to cripple the Inquisition’s mission. But we must be prepared. It’s foolish to think The Dovahkiin will not strike back in retaliation.”

“Pack up your things,” Evelyn commanded, striding to her rooms. “We’re leaving for Skyhold at first light.”

Kirkwall

City Outskirts

The City of Chains stood before her, its looming black walls standing strong since its days as a slave outpost for its Tevinter overlords. Never had such a sight filled her with such ire, such disgust. 

Alatariel had emerged from the base of the Vimmark Mountains, resolute, determined and frothing at the mouth in her need for vengeance. The Theodosians she had rescued were outraged once word had spread, thirsting for blood, though she’d pacified them once she explained her intentions to empty all the alienages in Thedas in one fell swoop. Yet first, she’d have vengeance for her people paid in blood. Let it be known that the Dovahkiin deals in kind to her enemies what was done to those loyal to her. 

None had protested, nor stood in her way when she decreed that she’d be going alone. Her oldest companions said not a peep, comprehension dawning in their eyes, knowing better than most not to argue when a Dragonborn was filled with wroth. 

She could see smoke stacks from where she stood, though there was a particular section of the city that seemed to emit more smoke than in other areas. The alienage, she thought darkly. An entire elven population decimated for fear of them rising against their overlords. From mages to non-human races, the humans of Thedas had no reservations of displaying how much they despised the elves, happy even to drive them into extinction, then bemoaning who were left to do the jobs they thought themselves too important to stoop to. Such atrocities could rival the Thalmor. 

You must make an example of them, the dov soul within her raged for violence and domination, show them what happens when they think to cross a child of Akatosh. Show them the power of your Thu’um! 

There were instances where she wilfully gave in to the domineering power of the dov soul residing within her. She had done so during the last stages of her fight with Alduin and Miraak, a helpful boost of indomitable strength to triumph over her enemies. Yet now, at this moment, she wanted nothing more than to mete out justice to Kirkwall’s denizens, its City Guard, the spoiled and overfed nobles and their detestable Viscount. 

Alatariel had forewarned her own agents stationed within the city to run, stating that the coming tempest will deal destruction to all. They had no need for further instruction, gathering their belongings and scattering to the wind, no doubt towards one of Hila’s outposts. Mayhaps she should feel guilty for the untold number of children that would perish in this onslaught. Mayhaps there were some among Kirkwall’s residents who sympathised with the elves. But if there was anything the years had taught her, innocents always died, and in this case, the toxin had seeped too deep for it to stop. None of the elven sympathisers rose to help them, their false virtue plain for all to see. After all, thousands of years of indoctrination, normalisation of cruelty to non-human races required a clean slate. 

For did not Auriel say that she was chosen for this duty due to her willingness to do whatever is necessary, at whatever the cost? 

With that in mind, any guilt that could have arisen within her dissipated. Alatariel walked forward, cloaked in a dark shroud to cover both her ears and her features. The Last Dragonborn marched forward, a Shout burning between her lips.

Craning her head to the sky, she unleashed the Shout she learned from Alduin all those years ago:

“Strun Golz Mah!”

Jerran sat slumped against the wall of the bailey that led into the city of Kirkwall, a tankard of ale that tasted like piss in his hand. His eyes were heavy, desirous of sleep. It would be so easy to surrender to slumber, but every time he did so, the demons were ready for him. They’d re-enact every horrific scene, every terrible act of the week prior. The massacre of the Kirkwall elves was a travesty, one that Jerran had no choice but to partake in as a member of the Kirkwall City Guard.

The screams of children, of elven women raped and murdered, their men beheaded…Jerran curled forward, covering his watery eyes with a calloused hand. Immediately, he jerked away when his palm came into view. Wet and heavy with the blood of innocents. Jerran hurled to the side, emptying the contents of his stomach–not that there was much, considering how he’d lost his appetite completely after. 

For in the moment, he felt worse than the slavers of Minrathous, worse than the Tevinter blood mages. Did they not do the same as they did? In spite of the lack of magic involved, murdering an entire population was amoral. The Captains and Commander of the City Guard assured them that it was just, for the elves were traitors who fell to the heresy of the Light of Auriel, and thus with the Chantry’s sanction, were to be culled. 

They can use whatever word they like, Jerran thought, as he inhaled his tankard, murder is murder. 

The weeks after the massacre–it was a massacre was what it was, not a mere purge–the tension in the city did not abate. Instead, it intensified. Fear was tangible in the air, choking them with its poisonous breath. Mages were banned from entering the city, not that there were any left in Kirkwall in the first place. They were now synonymous with either Corypheus or the Light of Auriel. But the people were afraid.

Won’t be long now, they would say, surely there’ll be retribution!

Nay, the Revered Mothers and clerics spoke as one, it is the Maker who had spoken. The punishment for heresy is death, as the Maker decreed.

Jerran knew better. Something was coming, he could feel it. And so could his brothers , he spat the title in his head, in the City Guard. There was a reason there were more of them patrolling the gates and making rounds around the city streets. It was not enough, however, and were the leader of the heretical cult were to attack, who could Kirkwall ask for assistance? 

They’d sooner fall on their own sword than ask the poncy Orlesians for help. Besides, the cheese-loving, powder-wearing fops were mired in a civil war of their own to assist with anything outside their borders. The Orlesians couldn’t even assist the Inquisition against Corypheus, apparently having to hold a Maker’s damned ball of all things to resolve the issue.

A caustic huff of laughter left him. 

Trust the Orlesians to hold a fancy party to end a civil war. 

The Inquisition created the mess that led to the massacre of all of Kirkwall’s elves and they scrammed the minute they got what they wanted. Jerran could wring the neck of the Inquisitor herself if he could–her and her fucking spymaster.

No, Kirkwall may have to stand alone. 

The sound of clanking armour and chainmail caused Jerran to straighten. He dropped his tankard by accident, having no time to curse at the wasted ale before straightening in his place. Three figures came into view and Jerran relaxed when he saw that they weren’t the Captains. He had no desire to stand in the presence of those bloodsuckers any more than he had to. The massacre had revealed the true nature of the men he served alongside, and most had been found lesser–the Captains, the Commander, and a large majority of the fuckers he once were proud to call brothers. 

But Tom and Coran he could tolerate. Amara, however, Jerran could give a wide berth if he could. 

“Is it time to switch already?”

“No, we got stationed here,” Tom replied, a Fereldan as hardy and tall as a tree.

Jerran hummed, displeased. His gaze returned to peer down the dirt road and grassy fields, the Vimmark Mountains looming large and ancient. He heard the other three move, stationing themselves as they were bid. Coran went to stand beside him. He looked down when his boots stepped on the tankard, denting the low-quality metal.

“We’re not s’posed to drink on duty, y’know,” Coran murmured softly, so softly Jerran had to expend more energy than he cared to to hear his words, “Commander’s orders.”

“Fuck his orders,” 

Coran sighed but made no move to argue. Jerran looked at him, noting the dark bruises beneath his eyes. 

“I think this is my last night alive, Jerran.”

Blinking, Jerran frowned, concerned. “Why’s that?”

“I’ve been havin’ nightmares every night since…” Coran swallowed audibly, eyes hidden as he lowered his head. Jerran heaved a breath, understanding. “But last night, I did not dream. That tells me it’s all comin’ to an end soon.”

“You’re just seeing things that aren’t there, Coran.” Jerran tried to assure the exhausted man. “Aye, that’s all. It’ll pass–”

“Was wrong, what we did,” Coran sobbed, “the Chantry says we was actin’ by the Maker’s word. But why don’t I believe it? I’m a good Andrastian, I always was. Did the things I thought was right. Joined the City Guard ‘cause I thought I’d do meself and me family good.”

“But this…I’m no better than that madman Corypheus. No better than animals. I’m a murderer, Jerran, a murderer!”

Coran’s voice had risen in pitch, growing louder and louder as he spoke. Jerran panicked and attempted to shush the man before he could draw the attention of the captains and be beheaded as a traitor. He shook Coran hard, but it only made the man dissolve into an intense bout of pitiful weeping. 

“What are you blathering about, Coran!” Amara demanded, stomping over, her attention no doubt drawn by Coran’s aggrieved ramblings. Tom had come along as well. And judging by the look in the man’s grey eyes, knew what Coran was going through. 

“He didn’t get enough sleep. Back off, Amara,”

“You’re no Captain. You don’t tell me what to do, Jerran.”

“We’re all going to die, we’re all going to die!” Coran cried, eyes bloodshot, forehead shining with sweat. Upon closer inspection, the man looked really unwell. Jerran couldn’t see too well in the dim light, but with Coran so close…the man should have stayed home.

“I’m taking him to the healer,” Tom decided reaching forward to take Coran by the arm. 

Coran shook him off, his breaths ragged. “Nothin’ could save us now. Too much blood. Nothin’ could save us now. We must wait for the sweet release of Death.”

Jerran’s head snapped up when he heard the song of steel, of a sword being removed from its scabbard. 

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Stand aside, Jerran. It’s clear he’s turned into an abomination.”

“Are you daft?” Tom snapped, stupefied. “If he was an abomination, he would’ve blown all of us up back in the city. Just like that mage Anders did.”

“Maker’s Balls! Put your sword away, Amara,” 

“I’m not daft. Abomination or not, Coran’s been a sad sack of shite the entire week! It’s clear where his sympathies lie. I’m doing the whole of Kirkwall and the Chantry a favour by removing sympathisers ‘fore they could build a following! Corypheus is running rabid and this Light of Auriel nearly had a chokehold on this city. Culling the alienage was the best decision the fat nobles of Hightown could have done. I will not stand by and fail like the Templars did when that abomination blew up the Chantry.”

“Andraste’s tits, you’re mad,” Tom growled, a hand on the hilt of his sword, moving to stand before Coran. 

“Amara,” Jerran warned.

“Traitors,” Amara shrieked, eyes ablaze, “traitors all!”

Jerran had readied himself in case the mad bitch moved to strike. But before she could even swing her sword, the sound of what seemed like ten thousand drums beating in unison splintered through the sky. Jerran gasped and Coran fell upon his knees, screaming of Death and its coming. Amara and Tom both stumbled where they stood, righting themselves just in time when another ear-shattering noise tore through their eardrums, sending them all to their knees. 

Past the bailey, he could hear the horses whinny in panic, and dogs barking and yowling like they’ve been hurt. Shouts and screams emanated from inside the city. Jerran stayed down to the ground, waiting for another round of terror-inducing noises, but nothing happened. Slowly, Jerran got to his feet with unsteady movements. He made to help Coran up only for his eyes to be drawn to the sky.

“Maker’s Breath…”

What was once a clear nightscape was not so any longer. Stormclouds gathered above the city, an ominous whirlpool which circled them all. Bright flashes set the night sky alight, paired with a deep, rumbling noise which sent Jerran’s gut roiling with fear. 

By his feet, Coran had quietened. He tilted his head back to blink at him. 

“It’s the last night for us all.”

Before Jerran could question him further, chaos was unleashed. Great shards of lightning shot down from above and struck the tallest tower of their outpost, sending it crumbling to the ground. Screams began anew and continued as an unending shower of lighting spewed from the gathered storm, seemingly intent to raze the city to the ground. Faintly, he could hear Amara screaming beside him, but he was pulled from his thoughts when Tom pulled him forward, dragging him somewhere he knew not. He looked behind him, just in time for a searingly bright flash to envelope Coran and Amara. When he turned to look again, nausea built in his throat as all that was left of them were black scorch marks on the grass. 

The terrible noise continued as Jerran realised he was running further and further from Kirkwall. Tom ushered him up the crest of a small hill and that was where the two men witnessed the destruction of their home city.

The screams were terrible, nightmarish to the extreme, as the sky raged, spitting magnificent torrents of lightning all over the metropolis. From Hightown to Lowtown, Jerran witnessed towers collapsing, thatched roofs catching fire and entire houses destroyed as lightning pierced through them. But then the sky opened and to Jerran’s horror, rocks the size of a carriage tumbled through and smashed into the city below. 

“We have angered the Gods,” 

“Do you not mean the Maker?” Jerran whispered, voice trembling as he watched the chaos continue. 

“Nay, the Maker has lost, Jerran.”

Jerran’s breaths came out in shuddery gasps, his face illuminated in the night as the carnage proceeded without end. Boulders wreathed in flame crushed manor houses, taverns, halls and keeps. The Gallows, an ancient bastion dating from the halcyon days of the Tevinter Imperium was now a defiled ruin, its old, yet strong towers unable to withstand this onslaught of divine wrath, lightning and rock alike sundering it to pieces as if it were made of clay. The outpost where he had stood watch mere moments before was a pile of torched bricks, the gates blasted open by a meteor. The animals within had gone silent, most likely dead.

But it seemed Hightown bore the brunt of the assault. Its fabulous mansions and cobblestone streets appeared as if they had borne both the entire might of the Qunari forces and innumerable gaatlok attacks. Humans, dwarves and Qunari alike scurried about like frightened rats, their blood smearing the walls and painting the city a morbid crimson. 

A barrage of meteors struck down the ghastly slave statues, and the giant archaic figures celebrating the Tevinter slave trade shifted, before careening into the waters below in quick succession–chains and all–causing a massive tidal wave to smash into the harbour and destroy ships carrying passengers who’d thought to make their escape by sea. Penned in by the lightning and hail, and now the seas, none were fortunate enough as Jerran and Tom to be outside the city before the tumult began.

He did not know how long he had stood there, bearing witness to the fall of Kirkwall, as large chunks of the city fell into the sea under the might of the skies. It must have been a long time, he thought, for he had a gut-wrenching realisation that the city grew quieter and quieter with each passing minute, though the meteor and lightning did not abate, appearing determined to annihilate any remnant of Kirkwall, both of its people and its buildings. 

A sharp gasp and a loud gurgle sounded beside him. Jerran pulled his gaze away from the ruined city just in time to see a bloodied blade protrude from Tom’s chest. Tom bore a look of surprise as he collapsed, his blood seeping into the soil. 

Jerran swiftly turned, sword unsheathed, to be greeted by a cloaked figure, the oddly curved sword used to murder Tom in his hand. Sword pointed at the enemy, Jerran spoke:

“Who are you?”

“City Guard,” the figure hissed, circling around him with a cat-like grace. Jerran’s eyes widened when he heard the distinctively female voice. The Trade Tongue on her lips held an odd accent he could not place. “You’ve escaped justice for the elves you murdered.”

His lips fell open as he deciphered the words. “You did this.”

“Auriel will grant you no quarter, human,” the woman murmured. “Lay aside your sword and I shall grant you a quick, painless death.”

“Human?” Jerran echoed, his sword falling to his side. “What are you–”

The song of steel whipped through the air. Jerran blinked as his world tilted and he fell to the ground, his eyes were on the same level as the stranger’s finely made boots, nose brushing the leather by a hair’s breadth. He opened his lips and tried to speak, only for blood to spill past the seam. Jerran’s gaze drifted about in a panic when it fell upon his body, his headless –sweet Andraste. 

The final thing Jerran of the Kirkwall City Guard saw was the dark stranger, standing still and quiet amongst the scent of smoke and ash, overseeing her work to the last.