Work Text:
The Anchor burns.
That's how she knows she's dreaming.
Dorian has a theory about it, that her dream-self reflects her self-image, and that she feels, subconsciously at least, most like herself with her arm intact and the Anchor on her hand. Lavellan takes his word for it, mostly, because the person she'd usually ask about dreams, about the Fade, is -
Well.
She doesn't think about that, for the same reason her dream-self doesn't turn around. She knows what she'll see - the wolf, watching her from afar - knows if she turns, if she runs after him -
Her dreaming mind isn't very original, these days. She's tired of this dream.
Lavellan wakes up.
A hubbub of sound and movement disorients her for a moment, before she remembers that she is not, in fact, in her rooms at the Grand Cathedral. She's in her tent, in camp.
On the March.
It takes her longer these days to dress in the morning, even after five years of practice with only one hand. Even longer today, since it's been ages since she wore proper traveling gear and not her Inquisition formals.
Her gear is new, tailored in exacting detail. Its buckles are specially fashioned to be done up with one hand. Dagna's grappling-hook prosthetic connects directly to this armor, rather than to its own harness, a feature she greatly appreciates.
By the time she gets to Cassandra's tent, it's clear the others have been waiting for her for some time.
"Divine Victoria," Lavellan greets.
"Inquisitor," Cassandra returns, with a nod. She is resplendent in her golden armor, Leliana no less so at her side, though her armor isn't nearly as heavy. With them stands General Fontaine, who has been operating as Cassandra's commander in the field. All three are armed, though Lavellan highly doubts Cassandra will see much of the actual battle.
She wishes there wasn't going to be an actual battle. But it's too late for that now.
General Fontaine clears his throat and fixes her with a pointed gaze. Lavellan resists the urge to roll her eyes.
"As I was saying," he says coolly, "the White Lion stands ready to move at Most Holy's command."
"Thank you, General, that will be all," Cassandra says. No sooner has he left the tent than Cassandra makes her patented noise of disgust. "Chevaliers," she laments.
"A necessary concession," Leliana agrees. "Ser Barris has done wonders for the Templar Order, to be sure, but without General Fontaine's chevaliers we wouldn't have the numbers for any march at all, let alone an Exalted one."
"And so we put up with his grandstanding," Cassandra says.
"I'm sorry I missed it," Lavellan says.
"No, you're not," says Cassandra.
"No, I'm not," agrees Lavellan.
"Are you alright?" Leliana asks.
Lavellan hates being asked that question.
She is the Inquisitor. For all that her Inquisition has been reduced to glorified ornamentation in Divine Victoria's court, she remains a "symbol to the people," as Josephine is so fond of reminding her. People don't want to know if she's actually alright. They want reassurance that the Inquisitor is well, and if the Inquisitor is well, so too must be everything else.
But Cassandra and Leliana are her friends, and Leliana's eyes as they study Lavellan's face are kind, if concerned.
"No," she admits. "But I must be."
"It's not too late to turn back," Cassandra offers, but Lavellan shakes her head.
"It is," she says, "and even if it wasn't, I - I have to do this. It's my responsibility."
Cassandra opens her mouth as if to argue, but they've had this debate countless times already. She doesn't want to hear it again. "It is," she heatedly insists. "I let things progress this far, Cassandra, I was the one who said that he - that he would see reason, that he could be saved, that I could -"
She swallows.
"That I could redeem him, somehow," she continues, quieter. "And it was selfish of me to think that just because I wanted things that way, that meant they were possible. But I of all people should know him well enough to realize that he won't change his mind. Because he really - he really does think that this is the right thing to do. But I will not allow it any longer."
She takes a deep breath. "He -"
She falters. Tries again.
"Fen'harel has to die," she says, set. "I have to kill him. That's all there is left, anymore."
Both women regard her with something akin to pity. It makes Lavellan want to punch things, or throw up. Or both.
"What's the plan, Leliana?" she asks instead.
Leliana takes the hint. "The forces Queen Anora promised have already arrived," she says. "They're laying siege to Solas' stronghold as we speak. General Fontaine's chevaliers will provide support as well as a distraction, so your party can sneak in undetected."
"Cullen will be waiting for you on the front lines," Cassandra adds. "He'll be your escort."
The Inquisitor scoffs. "I don't need an -"
"That's non-negotiable," Cassandra cuts her off. "You're a formidable foe, my friend, but you're not the fighter you once were. That is a fact. And since I cannot accompany you, I will not let you go without ensuring you will have the next-best shield at your side."
"Don't let Cullen hear you call him the 'next-best,'" Lavellan grumbles, but knows better than to argue.
"My agent Gardener will meet you inside," Leliana says. "He's secured your way in."
"Are you going to at least tell me who to expect?" the Inquisitor asks.
"If I were just going to bandy around my agents' names, I wouldn't bother giving them aliases in the first place," Leliana says, exasperated. "I think the name is his idea of a joke, actually. And in this particular case, his true name is unknown even to me. You remember the passphrases, no?"
Lavellan nods.
"Gardener tells me you alone will not be strong enough to stand against Solas. He's too powerful. So Gardener will provide you the means to defeat him. He dared not share that secret with me, for fear the message would be intercepted."
"So she is to risk her life on this agent's loyalty, and his word he has the weapon we need?" Cassandra demands.
"It's the best idea we've got," Lavellan says, "and we're out of time. The ritual is happening today, whether we know how to stop it or not."
"We'll stop it," Leliana says. "We have to."
"I have to," Lavellan says.
"Even so."
Lavellan rolls her left shoulder against the weight of Dagna's harness. It's become something of a nervous habit. "Alright," she says. "Anything else I should know?"
"It's very likely the only point in your favor will be the element of surprise," Leliana says. "Use it, and do not hesitate. Solas will not allow you the chance to strike a second time."
"Don't I know it," Lavellan agrees grudgingly.
"Maker guide your steps," Cassandra says.
Sometimes Lavellan forgets she's the Divine. "Thank you," she replies, squares her shoulders, and goes.
She makes it barely ten feet out of Cassandra's tent before Sera is falling into step beside her, fiddling with the various flasks strapped to her hip. "Mood a bit heavy, innit?"
"Can't imagine why," Lavellan replies, heading towards the makeshift paddock the horsemaster has arranged.
"Face like that, you're bound to scare the little people, yeah?" Sera tells her. "Chin up, 'Quizzie. Whatever happens, it's over today, right?"
"I suppose," the Inquisitor agrees.
"Then at least it's over," Sera says. "And I can stick old Droopy-Ears full of arrows."
"No, that's my job," Lavellan reminds her.
Sera sticks her tongue out. "As if. You don't even use arrows."
"Well, we can't all smash a bottle and zap ourselves full of lightning," she retorts.
"Nope, but you can smash a bottle and just disappear," Sera says. "Useful, that." It's true, but Lavellan doesn't think stealth alone will do her much good, today.
The Inquisitor's Frostback elk stands out like a sore thumb among the other mounts. The chevaliers give the hart a wide berth, wary of massive antlers and stamping hooves.
"Hey there, Fuzz-ball," Lavellan coos, ruffling the giant beast's thick coat. "Ready to smash some heads, pretty girl?"
"Still can't believe you named your fancy deer Fuzz-butt," Sera says.
"Her name is Fuzzykins," she corrects, "and she's an elk."
"Whatever," Sera retorts, sticking out her tongue.
Lavellan ignores her and wedges her prosthetic into its groove in the saddle, hauling herself astride. Easier to remake a saddle than to retrain an animal, Dennet said, but she still feels a bit silly doing it. Sera climbs up behind her. No one had ever had any luck convincing Sera to get her own mount. Then again, no one could really picture her riding a horse anyway.
They find Cullen easily enough, already astride his own charger, checking and double-checking the straps of his armor while talking to someone Lavellan can't see, blocked from view by Cullen's horse. It isn't until they get closer that she sees his face.
"Dorian!" she exclaims, sliding easily off Fuzz to run at him. Her best friend sweeps her up in a hug, and she plants a sloppy kiss on his cheek, only to notice -
"What's all over your face?" Sera gapes.
"I believe it's traditionally called a beard," Dorian tells her, rubbing a dark hand over his jaw. "All the rage in Minrathous these days."
"You're furry," Sera accuses.
"I've been planning on shaving it, to tell you the truth," says Dorian, "only these southern climates are so blasted cold I thought I'd keep it for a bit. No sense ruining my lovely complexion."
"I didn't think you'd make it," Lavellan says.
"I wouldn't leave you to do this on your own," Dorian tells her. "The Lucerni will be just fine without me for a few weeks. They have Mae, after all."
"Thank you," she says quietly.
"Of course, amica," he says, then turns his gaze on Cullen. "Care to escort a poor, horseless magister? I promise to keep my hands to myself."
"Do you," Cullen says dubiously, but offers him a hand up anyway.
"Come now, Commander, I don't bite unless you ask me very nicely," Dorian teases.
"We shouldn't need the mounts for long," the Inquisitor tells her friends, and explains Leliana's plan as they ride, chevaliers massing around them.
"Easy enough," Dorian says. "Fight through an army of elven miscreants, infiltrate a stronghold under siege, rendezvous with a spy we don't know, retrieve some sort of mystical weapon, and kill a mage who's literally been alive for thousands of years. Sounds like a regular Thursday, don't you think?"
Lavellan appreciates his attempt to keep the mood light, even if she knows his heart's not really in it.
Their army crests the mountain, and their destination comes into view over its bulk. "Tell me, Inquisitor," Cullen says, "even through all the insanity we experienced... did you ever once imagine we'd be marching on Skyhold?"
"No," she says honestly, and they begin their descent.
-
The siege of Skyhold is madness.
Trebuchets and ballistae, she is used to. But seeing them turned upon her former home is painful, to say the least. She grits her teeth and tries to ignore the feeling.
And in the middle of it all, the keep's central tower is obscured by a roiling green cloud, crackling with Fade-energy.
Well, that can't be good.
There's not much hope in sieging the Keep, to be honest, and their enemy has to know that. The only way past the walls is the main bridge, which she knows can be held by even a very small force - and the force occupying it is not, by any means, small.
Maybe if they'd had a dragon. Or two.
But the Fereldans anticipated this issue, it seems, and have stationed mage battalions and siege equipment among the two peaks surrounding Skyhold; fireballs and magically-enhanced projectile boulders fly from every angle, drawing the occupying elves' attention away from the bridge.
Still, they don't seem to be making a dent.
That doesn't matter, though, because the Inquisitor's destination is not the bridge, but the myriad tunnels underneath the Keep itself. Lavellan hadn't even known there was an entrance in the catacombs, but Leliana insisted her intel was good.
Their enemy is much more familiar with the keep, though, and Lavellan is under no illusions - he knows the catacomb entrance is there. It will be well defended.
That's Gardener's job, though. Lavellan hopes he comes through.
They abandon their mounts, the Inquisitor handing her reins off to one of Leliana's agents - Charter, picked specifically because she shares a build similar to Lavellan. Fuzz is recognizable even at a distance - with any luck, their enemies will believe the Inquisitor is with the main bulk of the Orlesian forces, and not look for her elsewhere.
The four of them are practically on top of the tunnel entrance before they even see it - it seems to have some sort of magical geas on it, drawing the eye away. The aura around it feels similar to the one on the door to Solasan, subtly encouraging anyone nearby to avoid it.
The Inquisitor knows what she's looking for, though, and they manage to find it.
Inside, it's almost too quiet. The sun's light doesn't seem to penetrate far into the tunnel mouth, darkness obscuring the rest. Briefly Lavellan wishes for the familiar, if odd, green light of the Anchor.
Dorian conjures a tiny witchlight, reddish in hue, only enough to light their way a few feet ahead. There's no doubt that anyone in their way will see them first, though. "'Ware ambush," Lavellan warns, and nods at Cullen, who leads the way, shield at the ready.
It's not elves that greet them, however, but walking corpses.
Sera makes a noise of disgust as Cullen beheads the first, Dorian's barrier descending over all four of them with a feeling Lavellan has always compared to slipping into a warm bath - soft, familiar, decadent. All of Dorian's magic feels decadent, compared to Vivienne's almost clinical, icy spells, and the more primal pull of -
Not thinking about him, she reminds herself.
They dispatch their undead foes easily enough; Dorian and Sera have killed countless at her side in the Fallow Mire, or Crestwood, and Cullen's templar training hasn't failed him despite his abstinence from lyrium. They fall in together like they've been doing it all their lives.
Which they sort of have.
After the shamblers, the tunnel opens up to corpses of the mundane, actually-dead variety - elves, most of them, some armored like the Sentinels they'd encountered in the Arbor Wilds, others dressed in more of a hodgepodge - city elves, perhaps.
Some are very obviously Dalish, despite their strange, bare faces.
Lavellan doesn't think about that, either.
She hears the footsteps before she sees their owner, and signals Dorian, who douses the witchlight without further prompting. All four of them freeze.
"Roses don't bloom on a dead bush ," calls a voice.
It's one of Leliana's passphrases, and a recent one at that. The spymaster keeps them changing as often as possible. Lavellan recites the response: "But roses always bloom for redheads, in a manner of speaking."
"Is that a sex joke?" Sera asks. "Sounds like a sex joke."
"I think it's just a Leliana joke," Lavellan says, and shoves her dagger into place on her back.
Dorian summons his light once more, and Leliana's agent walks towards them. To the Inquisitor's surprise, his face is familiar, though it takes her a moment to place him.
It's been seven years since she last saw Abelas, left behind in the Temple of Mythal as she and Morrigan escaped through the eluvian. She'd assumed him dead, along with the rest of the Sentinels, since Corypheus hadn't been far behind them.
Apparently she'd assumed wrong.
"Gardener, I presume," she says, and now she sees the joke - Abelas retains his vallaslin, Mythal's tree carved into his nose and forehead.
Abelas gives a crooked nod. "Andaran atish'an."
"I'd no idea you were even alive," she admits. "Let alone that he'd recruited you."
"He didn't," Abelas tells her. "I came of my own volition. Without the Vir'Abelasan, there seemed little point in remaining. I thought it the will of Mythal that I see her world restored."
"Yet here you are, working for Leliana," the Inquisitor points out.
"Your spymaster holds little interest for me," Abelas replies coolly. "I would not have reached out to her, except..." He trails off.
Lavellan can guess his meaning. "Fen'harel no longer has Mythal's best interests at heart."
"As you say," Abelas allows. "He is... changed. Consumed. He can see nothing but the path he already walks. It is not a path I think Mythal would approve of."
"Probably not," she agrees. "Can you get us to him?"
"He knows you are coming," Abelas says. "He sent me here to stop you. He hasn't learned of my treachery, yet, I think. There may still be time. We won't stop him, but we may still kill him. It seems to have come to that."
"Need I remind you both that this is the same man who turned an entire army of Qunari into stone?" Dorian says. "With his mind?"
"He's not unkillable," Abelas says. "The Evanuris were, perhaps, but he is not an Evanuris. He is but a man. An immortal man, but not invincible. He has weaknesses." He raises a hand and produces a familiar orb.
"That can't be," Cullen breathes.
"I retrieved the pieces of Fen'harel's orb myself," Lavellan says, disbelieving. "I still have them, in Val Royeaux. Vivienne said there's no magic left in them."
"This is not the same orb," Abelas says, and turns it so she can look closer. The markings are similar, but Lavellan can see now that they're slightly different, humming with a pale golden energy. "This was Mythal's."
"Fen'harel's orb ripped open a Breach in the Veil," Dorian says. "Dare I ask what Mythal's is capable of?"
"Not much, when not in Her hands," Abelas says. "But Fen'harel's current power comes mostly from the soul he carries - a fragment of Mythal's own soul, taken from her last avatar. I believe, with the proper guidance, it can extract that fragment from Fen'harel - and render him no more powerful than he was when he first woke from Uthenera."
"The proper guidance?" Lavellan asks. "Yours?"
"I can operate it, yes," Abelas says. "But the orb must be locked once the fragment is within. Locked with blood magic. I could use my own blood, but I am bound to the will of Mythal, and should she command, I would have to unlock it for her."
He looks at her pointedly. "You have no such compulsion. You did not drink from the Vir'Abelasan. Your will is your own."
"I'm not a mage," she points out.
"It wouldn't need your magic," Abelas clarifies. "Just your blood."
"No," Sera says instantly. "No blood magic. Not even."
"It's only a small amount, and would mean that you would be the only one able to unlock it, if you chose," Abelas says. "Without the soul, Fen'harel can be slain, and Mythal's soul passed on to a new avatar, in time. The choice would be yours."
Lavellan looks at Dorian. "Thoughts?"
"The theory seems sound, though I admit I'm not very familiar with ancient elven magic," Dorian admits. "But blood locks are common enough, and incredibly secure. In Tevinter, we often pair them with a vocal component. A password, in your voice."
"Easy enough to enchant," Abelas says.
"Cullen?" Lavellan asks.
The former templar looks taken aback. "Er... I don't know? Why are you asking me?"
"She likes to cover all her ground," Sera says. "Make sure she doesn't lose any approval."
Cullen shrugs. "I trust you, Inquisitor."
Lavellan nods. "Alright, then. My blood, and a password?"
Abelas nods. "I can activate it now, and once the soul is within, it will close and lock immediately." He holds up a small knife. "If I may?"
Lavellan offers her own hand, palm up. He speaks a few elvhen words she doesn't recognize, and makes two swift cuts - one up the length of her ring finger, the other horizontally across her palm. The knife is so sharp it barely stings, until blood starts to well at the intersection of the two lines.
Abelas turns her hand over and lets her blood drip onto the orb.
"A password now, if you will," he says.
Lavellan speaks the first words that come to mind. "Ar lasa mala revas."
I give you your freedom.
The orb glows brightly before fading once more.
"Is that it?" she asks.
Abelas nods, passing a hand over hers, and the cuts seal as if they'd never been there in the first place. "Ironic, if a touch dramatic."
"It was the last friendly thing he said to me," she says wryly.
"Before he took your vallaslin?" Abelas asks.
She hums agreement. "I notice you still have yours."
"As I will, always," he says, and offers no further explanation. He stows the orb away once more. "Time grows short. He is in the tower already, preparing his ritual. We must be swift and silent. Are you ready?"
Lavellan spares a brief glance towards her party, none of whom are particularly specialized towards 'swift and silent.' "Stay here," she tells them. "Make sure this tunnel stays clear. Once he realizes what we're doing, he'll try to cut off our escape. We'll need a way back out if - well. If."
If she succeeds, the battle will end. If she fails, she'll be too dead to need a way out.
No one says it, though. Perhaps they want to believe in her.
"Be safe," Dorian says quietly.
"I will," she says. It rings hollow despite her firm nod.
Abelas leads her through the winding tunnels, sure in his steps. They emerge into what Lavellan recognizes as the lower vaults, beneath Josephine's old office. The inner keep is bare and deserted, quiet as the grave.
It hadn't been her choice to abandon Skyhold - she'd grown fond of its halls, and the dormant, protective power of its stones. But it had been one of the accessions she'd made, when the Inquisition reformed as Divine Victoria's peacekeeping corps. Without an army to occupy it, Skyhold had little purpose. They'd left nothing behind, leaving the keep as bare as the day they'd discovered it - if in better repair.
Still, Skyhold doesn't feel as if anyone lives in it now - not a home at all, just a place where the Veil was created, and therefore where it must also be torn down.
If she'd known Fen'harel was going to move in, she might not have abandoned it so easily.
The halls echo as they pass through. Abelas makes for the tower where Leliana's rookery once was - the highest point in the fortress, where the green cloud of magic had been visible even from a distance. She isn't sure whether Fen'harel needs to be closest to the sky, or simply wants to for simplicity's sake.
As they enter the rotunda, she half expects to find him hunched over the desk, or perhaps perched on the scaffolding, brush in hand. But it's empty, nothing left save the brilliant frescoes on the walls. There is one difference, however.
When last she'd seen the fresco, the last panel had been unfinished. It is complete now, a massive black wolf with its head bowed over a slain dragon.
Fen'harel and Mythal.
Abelas closes the rotunda door behind him and seals it with magic. "He is above," he says, a little unnecessarily. Green light filters down from the top floor, a dissonant hum in the air. It brings to mind the crackling in her bones when she closed Rifts with the Anchor. She can feel him, up there. "He is dreaming. His wards will prevent me using Mythal's orb. You will need to goad or trick him into dropping them."
"How am I supposed to do that?" she asks.
"You are the Inquisitor, are you not?" Abelas replies, a little impatiently. "Find a way. Once the wards are down, I will activate the orb. He'll come after me, then. You would do best to kill him before he does."
Straightforward enough.
Abelas sits in the middle of the rotunda and holds the orb in both hands, eyes already drifting shut in preparation.
"Ma serannas, hahren," she says.
"Well, go on, then," he responds, without looking up. "And do not hesitate."
"People keep telling me that," she mutters.
Lavellan's feet seem to get heavier with each stair as she ascends. The second floor is as empty as the first. A greenish barrier covers the next staircase up, smoke swirling behind it like the inside of one of Sera's elemental flasks.
"Daunting," she mutters to herself. She pokes it. It seems solid enough, the surface smooth as glass to the touch.
"I know you're in there," she says irritably. "Let me in." She presses harder, palm flat; if she pushes with all her strength, it bends a little, almost elastic, and she can almost hear voices within.
"You absolute, insufferable arse," she yells, and strikes the barrier with both fist and prosthetic hard as she can. Dagna's grappling hook rebounds off the surface as if she'd struck steel, and phantom pain reverberates through her missing arm where the Anchor used to be.
The Anchor, she thinks.
When the Anchor had first started acting up, Vivienne and Dorian had spent hours poring over it in the Skyhold infirmary. Lavellan had been the one to first suggest that they simply chop it off - almost jokingly - but both mages had agreed it wouldn't solve the problem. The Anchor was linked to her spirit, not just her arm, and as it was magical rather than physical, removing the hand would likely not remove the mark's effect on her well-being.
When she'd awoken after Dragon's Breath to find her hand missing, mark and all, they'd gone through the rigamarole again - healers, mages, experts alike theorizing over magic they didn't understand.
Every healer that examined her arm gave the same diagnosis. The nerve endings and blood vessels in her arm hadn't been cut off, they simply rerouted as if her arm had always ended at the elbow. The stump was smooth and unblemished, not scarred as it should have been after an amputation.
Dorian had compared it to time magic. Her arm hadn't been removed - it had been erased, as if it never existed in the first place.
And she'd never experienced the phantom aches and itches that most amputees described.
Until now.
She can sense with perfect clarity the place where the Anchor should be, feel the jarring electric crackle of how it overloaded, in the eluvian labyrinth. She'd forgotten how excruciating it was. A pained scream bursts unbidden from her throat.
She rips Dagna's prosthetic from her arm, buckles tearing like paper. She presses her phantom limb towards the barrier like she used to in order to close the Rifts -
and it opens.
She charges up the stairs to the rookery and emerges in the Arbor Wilds.
What?!
No, wait.
She looks down at her arm - whole. The Anchor on her hand. She's in the Fade, then.
"You came."
She turns.
He wears the regal armor she'd last seen him in, ancient as the man himself. His face is impassive, unchanged. He hasn't aged a day, looks exactly as he did the last time they were here, the night he took the vallaslin from her face.
"Of course I came," she says. "Did you expect Abelas to stop me?"
"No," he admits, walking towards her. "In fact, I hoped he wouldn't. It may be selfish of me, but I confess I - I wished to see you, one last time."
Lavellan spreads her hands. "Well, here I am."
"Here you are," he returns. "Trying one last time to stop me." He looks up, at the sliver of sky visible through the trees. The Scar left from the Breach crackles against the night sky, blotting out the stars. "But it's far too late for that. You no longer have the strength."
She's not sure he's wrong about that, to be honest. Despite the hurt and anger she has been nurturing, there is something terribly fond within her at the sight of his face.
"You've always been a woman with no small reserve of wonders at your disposal," he continues. "But there's nothing you can say to change my mind, vhenan."
"I'm not here to change your mind," she says angrily. "I'm here to kill you."
If he's shocked to hear it, he gives no indication. "You can't," he says.
"Small wonder they call you Pride," she spits.
"It's not a boast," he says. "It is fact. And even if it were not... could you do it?"
"You think I'd be here if I couldn't?" she retorts.
"You haven't tried yet, my love," he points out.
"Stop it," she snarls. "You are not my love. Not any longer, Fen'harel."
That makes him flinch. "Don't call me that," he says quietly. Apparently, the insult the Evanuris once flung at him still stings. "Not you."
The cracks in the sky are spreading. He takes a step towards her. He's close, now. Close enough to reach out and touch, if she wanted to.
She doesn't want to.
She wants to.
"You've always known me better than that," he says.
"I never knew you at all," she whispers through gritted teeth. Darkness spreads from the Scar, seeping into the edges of the Wilds, of the Fade.
"You know the truest part of me," he says. "The part of me that was never Fen'harel, that was only ever a man. That's all I ever was, vhenan. Only a man, who loved you. Who still loves you."
"Stop," she says, and she's not sure if her tears are from anger, or from -
"Vhenan," he says again, and cradles her face between his hands. "If this is to be my last memory of you - if this is to be our last moment, let it be a good one."
She doesn't pull away.
"Solas," she says, and she breaks.
He kisses her, and she shakes apart in his arms, clutching at him to hold herself up, and -
the Wilds shatter as if made of glass. Bright golden light pierces the illusion, and she remembers.
Abelas. The Orb.
Solas goes rigid against her and recoils, but it's too late. They are back in Skyhold, and his wards are down. Abelas appears behind him, Mythal's orb alight with golden flame. She watches Solas turn to fight it, eyes filled with blue fire. He raises a hand and clenches it into a fist.
Abelas collapses like a puppet with its strings cut.
She leaps upon Solas from behind and hauls him back one-armed - feels the fight go out of him as Mythal's soul drains away, sealed into her orb.
"No," he chokes.
Her knife is in her hand; her knife is at his throat.
She hears Leliana and Abelas telling her not to hesitate -
her hand trembles violently, dagger's wickedly sharp edge drawing blood, but -
"Do it!" he screams.
- she can't.
She can't.
"What have you done," Solas is saying, "what have you done!"
She can't.
She screams, a primal sound of frustration, and hits him in the back of the head.