Chapter Text
Snow. He still hadn't quite gotten the hang of the stuff. It spiraled down from above with its silent promise of damp collars and frozen knuckles, undisturbed by the faintest breath of wind in this sheltered hollow where Fenris huddled, buried deep in a fur cloak the color the flakes coming from the sky. Snow. Bah.
He hadn't lit a fire. Hadn't dared to; not with the freezing landscape crawling with mages and templars alike. He had made the concession to boots, it was true, for all that the hardened soles of his feet felt deafened, locked away from the earth beneath. But these frigid southern climes were too cold for his usual garb. Too cold, he would have thought, for anyone to want to come down here at all.
The swarms of clanking guardsmen and shifty-eyed mages spoke volumes to the contrary, however. Fenris had already avoided two patrols en route to the much-publicized summit that morning; when the snow started he hoped it meant he might have a moment's pause to get his bearings. He only hoped his quarry was taking the same opportunity.
And if he told them? What then? Fenris stared into the bleak mountains enfolding him like a blanket without warmth; imagined charging through the drifts to any one of the banner-bedecked commanders--the templars? the Seekers? The obedient, pro-Circle mages, even?--and warning them that the murderer of Kirkwall might be lurking in their midst.
At which point, of course, their faces would turn inward, the brows tilt down in disapproval or up in sarcastic feigned belief. For he had no proof, it was true. "This is the sort of thing he might go to," would carry little weight with anyone--as well it shouldn't, Fenris thought. Nor would "I just have a feeling he's here somewhere" serve as much of a warning to those thousands pouring toward the tiny mountain town of Haven and, beyond it, to the temple in its snowbound refuge. They had bigger things to worry about, they thought. Yes, the explosion at Kirkwall touched all this off, and yes, what happened there had been awful--but that was then, they would say. Like the blind fools they were. That was then, and this was now, and moreover it was a chance to fix things--a chance that couldn't afford to be squandered over the hunches of a no-name elf with strange markings on his flesh and the same Kirkwall stories that had been on everyone else's lips two years ago.
"Idiots," Fenris growled to himself, in the dark depths of his cloak. He knew quite well the mental infrastructure behind their optimism, and to him it was as though they were trusting a boat made of rushes to carry them across the Amaranthine Ocean. Boats with sails of hope so bright it would light the whole ship afire before it ever left sight of land. Drowning or flames--pick your poison. "You could tell them the world was about to end, and they'd fault you for spoiling their dinner," he spat.
"Well it would sour the taste of the wine, you have to admit."
Fenris was on his feet in an instant, sword drawn, eyes crawling about the shadowed clearing seeking the owner of that droll voice. Ah. Around the edge of a boulder, drawn up against it like ivy to a building. Thin and lithe, slim build. Elf. Dalish? No face markings, but he'd never asked Merrill if all Dalish had face markings. He had a staff, though--could be a mage. Fenris's eyes narrowed.
"Do you make a habit of creeping about like that?" His voice grated in his own ears. Hoarse from disuse, these long months of lonesome hunting.
"Do you make a habit of talking to yourself?" At Fenris's flat stare, the elf stepped away from the boulder into plain view, his head seeming to glow palely in the stormlight filtering down through the snowflakes. Head uncovered, clad only in homespun, he seemed completely untroubled by the cold--which only hardened Fenris's suspicions that there was something magical about this man, and therefore dangerous.
"What strange markings you bear. Where did you acquire them?"
"Painfully." Fenris had not lowered his sword, though the elf took a few inquisitive steps toward him, peering openly at the white lines winding around his neck and arms.
"Oh, I expect so. Lyrium, is it then? Fascinating."
Fenris felt the tendons in his jaw twang, every muscle in the arms that held the sword thrumming mage, mage mage! Still, best to extract information first; best not to squander this opportunity to--
"Whoever you're hunting, I doubt I have anything to do with them," the bald elf said simply. "I am called Solas." He inclined his head.
"I don't particularly care what you're called, apostate."
"Then why trouble to speak with me? Why not simply cleave me in two with your weapon?" When Fenris hesitated, Solas allowed himself a small twitch of the lips that would have to count for a smile. "You see? You wish information of me. As it turns out, I too am seeking information, so perhaps we can be of use to one another."
"I find that unlikely."
"Such a chronic lack of imagination." Solas tilted his head a moment, squinting, and Fenris had the distinct feeling of being peeled open like an orange, his thoughts spiraling into rinds around his feet, ripe for the reading. "Garas quenathra, ghilan'him banal'vhen?"
Fenris glared. "I am no Dalish elf, mage."
"That makes two of us, then."
"Are you with a Circle?"
Solas ignored this question, stepping carelessly past the sword bared at him to gain a better vantage point down the length of the hollow in which they stood. "This place will fill with snow soon. The wind doesn't reach, here. Passage without leaving a trail will become impossible."
"That's not my concern."
"Clearly. You are the predator, and not the prey." Solas turned back to look at him then, face unreadable and wreathed by snowflakes. "But consider the dilemma from your quarry's point-of-view. Whoever they are, they are likely to seek shelter rather than to leave so obvious a trail through this snow. You might want to consider that before you assume every second man with a staff is mage on the rampage, out for blood."
"If you had seen what I have, you would fear a mage out for blood as much as I do."
That ghost of a smile again. "You are free to maintain that belief, if you so choose. I doubt I will have the time to sway you from it."
"Oh? Leaving so soon?"
"I told you I needed information. Once I have it, I will be off."
"To the summit?"
"I expect so."
Fenris's eyes darted from the elf's staff to his lightweight clothing--and his seeming inability to feel the cold. "What could one such as yourself possibly desire from me?"
"Are there any patrols about?"
Fenris snorted. "Templars, I assume you mean."
"Templars or mages, either one."
"You really need me to tell you that?"
Solas sighed. "I am asking you to, yes."
"What makes you think I wouldn't just send you straight into a templar trap?"
"They don't have time to form traps. They are as invested in reaching their destination as am I. I, however, wish to arrive alone. A desire with which I am sure you are familiar." Solas quirked an eyebrow.
Mage, Fenris's mind howled at him. And he listened. He had no idea whether the strange mage would trust him or not, but he was not going to send him away into the open countryside. "Just over the ridge, yes," Fenris growled, carefully ladelling his voice with as much dislike and distrust as he'd voiced earlier. Not a hair's difference, and the mage none the wiser to whether he was telling the truth or not. "Templars. I took shelter here to avoid them. They'll be moving on in this storm, though--I expect they're gone by now."
Solas inclined his bald head with respect. "I thank you for the information. May I ask what you would like in return?"
Fenris hesitated. Why should he trust this man? He didn't. And yet, if the opportunity was presenting itself, he might as well take advantage.
"I seek a mage. A human, likely traveling alone. Blonde hair, Ferelden. Have you seen him?"
"Not quite alone, is he?"
The flatness of the statement, with the barest hint of a rise at the end to intimate the question, told Fenris all he needed to know. Yes, this elf had seen Anders and yes, he had known--through means Fenris had no time to fathom--about his possession; about Vengeance. With a yell, he leapt forward at the bald elf, blade raised--
--only to find himself, what felt like mere moments later, sprawled in the snow, blade lying by his side under a thick crust of snowflakes that grew thicker by the minute. Numb fingers scrabbled for its hilt and he hauled himself to his feet, head spinning, only to find no sign of the elf Solas. Any footprints he might have left were long gone by now, and the snow-shod hollow was as deathly still as it had been when Fenris entered--how long ago had it been? How long had he lain here? Frantically he ran his hands over his body, seeking a wound that might explain his lapse in consciousness. He was untouched. Cold, stiff, but untouched, and utterly alone in the snow.
Glowering, he swung his sword back over his shoulder and began a slow, steady plod out of the hollow. One foot after another. There was a mage to find--possibly two. And he would brook no delay.