Chapter Text
Ellana stared up at the sky, scarred with tangles of light, but quiet in the aftermath. There was no more breach, Corypheus thrown into the Fade by a rift of her own creation. Debris of the Temple of Sacred Ashes lay around her, once held in the sky by the power of the one who claimed to be a god. She turned to find Solas, and found him crouched down and staring at something on the ground. She approached with tentative steps until she saw fragments of the orb, the largest of them cradled gently in his hands. It was broken, but he still handled it as if it were precious.
"Solas?"
"The orb..." He sounded so broken, so distant, she was unfamiliar with that infliction of tone from him.
"We could try to fix it --"
"That would not recover what has been lost." He interrupted before she could finish her suggestion. He placed the broken piece of the orb down amongst the others, gently, with reverence. He rose in one graceful, fluid motions, and turned to her. His eyes met hers and the look on his face made her heart clench, ache.
She had never seen him look so broken, the appearance matching that of the tone in his voice. Both were unknown to her, until this moment. Both of them held tears, restrained but she saw them on the precipice, saw a man about to shatter like he was about to lose all he had held dear.
"There's more...?" She pressed, gently, for answers. Desperate for the answers he had promised should they have survived. And they had, they were both breathing.
"It was not supposed to happen this way. No matter what comes, I want you to know what we had was real." He backed away from her as she began her approach by a single step. She froze, not wanting to send him away. Instead, her eyes searched for answers in his face but found none. He, too, hesitated, as if he wanted to do the same. To reach out and drink in her comfort.
"Inquisitor!" Cassandra's voice cut through the silence between them, the shrill panic of her voice was like ice water had been poured over her head. She had never heard the woman sound so afraid.
She turned to where the Seeker’s voice drifted from, looked to the stairs where she was certain the rest of the Inquisition had now gathered in the wake of their victory. She was thankful for the fact that they waited on her, rather than rush up to greet her. Hopefully, they would remain there until she could receive answers.
"A moment, Cassandra!" She called and hoped that would assure their privacy for a touch longer. Solas had previously shown reluctance towards sharing information among the humans, and she did not think now would be any different, despite the time spent with their companions. He was still secretive, even among them. His expression never softening, always a mask, except when he spoke with Cole. And her as well, at one time.
She turned to him again when they didn’t come rushing up the stairs, assured that they would have a few more minutes alone but Solas was gone from where she had last seen him standing. She rushed forward, desperate to find him. He could not have gone far in that short period of time. Yet, there was no trace of him when finally she came to a stop. It was as if he had vanished. No answers, no note, nothing aside from the questions he always left in his wake.
Her gaze fell to the orb that now lay at her feet, blinking back the tears as she knelt down beside it. The orb was quiet, lifeless, unlike how it felt when she held it in her hands moments ago and used it to seal the breach. It was strange that it would simply die like that, with no hum of magic lingering or any indication that it was once so powerful. She reached down, and with reverence, took the two largest pieces into her hands and cradled them as gently as he had.
"Why was this so important to him?" Clearly, it was more than wanting to research the artifact and preserve their culture if he vanished.
She sighed as she pieced the two parts together, careful and intent. They melded together as if they were always meant to be, as if they had never parted. From their union, a spark burst from the unseen seam between them. And from that spark began a hum, the life of the orb suddenly restored and vibrant. It grew louder, a sudden crescendo that left her deaf to all other sound. The sparks began to multiply, spilling forth from the crack before they climbed up along her arms.
'Release it! Quickly!' The voices of the Well broke in through the ringing, a brief relief to the sharp sound in her ears.
Her hands trembled before she tilted them forward and allowed the orb to fall. It struck the ground, but it did not break. Instead, light burst forth and left her blind as well as deaf. Shouts, muffled, made distant by the ringing, joined in. Cassandra's, from the pitch, and then Dorian's joined followed. Others joined in, too many to distinguish separately. She turned to the direction that she had known the stairs to be, desperate to get away.
She fell. Backwards. The sensation of it being the only indication.
It felt like an eternity with no ground, no sky, no sound. Falling but still. The light that had blinded her was gone, replaced by pitch black.
The impact against the ground was sudden, the breath was forced from her lungs and she struggled to draw in a breath to replace what was lost. As she continued her attempts, she dared to open her eyes that she didn't know she had shut. She expected to see the faces of those in her inner circle, and likely a healer. Yet, she saw no faces, only the sky.
A sky that bore no scars of the breach that had once tormented it. She turned her head to the side, and saw no ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Again, her gaze tilted skywards as words echoed through her mind.
Imagine, instead, spires of crystal twining through the branches, palaces floating among the clouds.
She wondered why Solas' retelling of ancient Elvhenan filled her thoughts, but it was an echo of thy sky that was laid out above her. The trees she had seen and now rested at the edges of her vision were how he had painted the image in her mind. It was possibly the influence of the object that had knocked her out, the dream heavily shaped by that thought.
‘Logical, however, incorrect. We have been… Displaced.’
The voices of the Well spoke clearly, no longer the distant whispers she had grown used to. They sounded different, as if more voices had joined in the distant echoes.
Displaced how? She wondered, and silence was her only answer.
Ellana’s brows drew into a frown as she sighed and pushed herself up onto her elbows. She hesitated a moment as her muscles screamed in protest, the impact was clearly harder than she had imagined. She pushed through, checked herself for obvious injuries but found none. It was a strange thing to do in a dream, but the imagined pain of the impact was vivid in her mind and the Well was convinced that this was reality. Regardless, she pushed up from her feet ignoring her muscles and began to survey her surroundings.
It was a courtyard of sorts, or a garden. It was hard to pinpoint the precise word for it, as it appeared to blend the two terms together. The structure reminded her more of Mythal’s temple but smaller, more modest but still a temple of similar nature.
“To whom, I wonder, is this temple dedicated to?”
As she continued to observe, she stretched her arms out and over her head. The air tingled against her skin, sparking then dancing along her arms and downwards to her toes. She stared in wonder at the sight. She felt it, then, the magic that surrounded her. It engulfed her entirely, she could swim in it. She drew in a deep breath and her whole body responded, her blood sang; she felt truly alive. It was overwhelming, the feeling, the power that coursed through her, the way her magic responded, and how natural it had felt despite the fact that she had never experienced such a sensation.
She lowered her arms and looked to her left hand, where the anchor rested, and stretched out her hand. The magic came at her call, the anchor sparked to live in a flourish of greens and vibrant yellows. It sang a response to a call she couldn’t hear, but she felt it. Her heart fluttered, oddly but her gaze was caught by the way the magic swirled and danced in a rhythm set by her heartbeat. Strange that it never matched before. She closed her hand and drew the power back into herself.
The mark continued to sing, alive but quiet for her. It had changed, somehow.
It was the sound of footsteps that drew her out of her revere of the anchor. She turned, quickly, and spotted a group of figures approaching from the temple. They were tall, like the Sentinels of Mythal’s Temple. A group of five, they moved in a formation with one at the head of the charge. Of the five, four of them carried weapons, a bow and a satchel of arrows.
She reached for her staff, but found nothing. A quick look around her told her that no weapon was in sight, but she was not defenseless without it. She took a defensive stance as they drew closer.
The four that carried the weapons wore vallaslin upon their faces. This brought her pause, and she faltered as they continued closer. This particular motif, she wasn’t familiar with. Who, exactly, was their god? It was jagged, rough, almost feral in appearance.
“Ma! Lan’aan san? Garas quenathra?” The one without the vallaslin, the leader, spoke. His tone was not pleasant, his face contorted into something akin to rage. She felt herself fluster under the words as she found herself struggling with how to respond. Elvish was almost lost to the People.
‘You. How have you come to this place? Why are you here?’ The Well supplemented what she struggled with, and seemed to hesitate in waiting for her thoughts on how she wanted to respond. Then, as if they were thoughts of her own, the words came to her, spoken clearly and slowly so that she could mimic.
“I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know where I am.” She spoke and it felt foreign on her tongue, her own voice sounding strange as she spoke the tongue of her people with so little knowledge. She would have to remember --
No. The feeling of disappointment overwhelmed her next. A dream, where the words were unlikely close to being what elves had truly spoken. It was a fragment and she had clung to it, even for that brief moment. It left a nasty taste in her mouth.
The four elves that stood fast behind their leader bore no expression, while the leader’s contorted again. Anger’s kin became rage, cheeks flushed a faint shade of red, restrained. It was almost entirely contained, the barest of sparks that she would have missed, had he not stepped closer to her and into her space. He descended upon her in the next moment and she attempted a retreat.
He latched onto her, his fingers dug into the skin of her arm and wretched her closer, twisted her arm and waved it at his followers as if her arm was meant to bend and wiggle in such a manner. She restrained her sounds of protest.
“This,” he hissed, “how did you acquire this? Have you stolen from our god?” His fingers dug in deeper, as he pulled her closer twisting her hand to her to see. Her hiss of pain escaped before she could stop it. He looked satisfied for this.
“I haven’t stolen from anyone.” She managed, the words came faster as she adapted to what the Well had supplied. “I don’t even know where I am!”
“I don’t believe you. It is not my place to judge, fortunately for you. I, in my humble opinion, do not believe He would grant such a gift to anyone.”
She struggled against him, now, the rage that seeped into his eyes spoke many volumes. But he stilled her as if she were made out of nothing. He threw her forward, into the four sentinels that had flanked him before. The two closet caught her, grasped her arms and twisted them behind her. They still wore no expressions, the only hint of curiosity rested in their eyes. She was some puzzle to be solved.
“Take it. He will want to see.”
Ellana didn’t need to see his face to know there was a sneer settled there, his voice gave away plenty. She would have retorted about being called a thing but the two that held her arms twisted them up behind her. A hiss of protest escaped before she could restrain it.
They shoved her forward, down the path that led back to the Temple but also held her fast. She stumbled in an attempt to meet their pace, her foot caught on something unseen. She bit back a cry of pain and instead, turned to face her captors. The sentinels did not stop, did not allow her to right herself as they lifted her easily off the ground to where her toes barely touched the ground. She had never felt more inept in her life. Her cheeks colored red, but she bore the shame and kept her protests to herself.
They took her deeper into the temple grounds. The further they ventured, the more of the crystal twined trees they passed. Color variation amongst them became more prominent, vibrant, like being inside of a rainbow. The trees were one thing, but what had drawn her curiosity were the statues of wolves that served as the guardians of the sacred ground. As they continued onwards, they grew more numerous and far more colorful. They had gone from statues of stone to those made of crystal.
The sentinels did not slow their pace to allow for observation, so she twisted in their arms in an attempt to see better.
Not the wisest of her decisions.
Fingers dug into the flesh of her arms, the tips of them surged with magic that twisted her blood, the pain serving as a warning. She hissed and stilled, twisting again to face forward. She allowed them to carry her still, focusing her observations on what they had yet to pass.
What came into her sight first as they approached the temple’s entrance was the fact that they were heralded by two large wolves at the base of the grand staircase. Along the sides, more wolves lined the stairs with eyes made of bright sapphires that seemed as if they were watching any and all who dared to enter. It brought a shiver down her spine, those cold, blue eyes.
They brought her forward and up the stairs with no particular flourish. Not that they should, either. The crossing of the threshold was just as bland, unexciting, no ceremony or ritual was needed to enter, unlike Mythal’s Temple.
Though, much like Mythal’s Temple, the inside foyer was large and spacious, leading off to many different rooms. They had hardly scratched the surface in their chase of Corypheus’ forces. She longed to explore this creation of her mind. She wondered how in depth she could truly paint a world she knew so little of. She wondered if the workings of her mind could conjure something so elaborate as this temple if she could accurately replicate the look of Mythal’s.
The sentinels stopped abruptly, but they did not let her feet touch the ground. The pair that didn’t hold her captive broke away suddenly, both going to opposite doors of the temple and disappearing from view.
Their departure had allowed her to see more details of the temple. The walls were lined with various mosaics, crafted from gold and various metal tiles; they told stories she was unfamiliar with, and couldn’t grasp from the imagery alone. She saw magic twisting in the air, providing a soft light. A single fleck of this magic alone was dim, but as they danced together, they shone brightly enough to color the halls. They were brilliant shades of color, shifting and dancing to some rhythm she was not privy to.
She longed to see more.
Further exploration of her surroundings were cut short by the voices that reminded her of her current situation. They were distant, faint to where she could not hear what they were saying but knew that they were speaking. She was far too distracted, and that was her own fault. But, she didn’t worry over them striking her dead. For now, at least.
They did not drag her further into the Temple as she had expected, when they began to move again. They turned and moved to a door that she would not have seen, if they were not approaching it. It was small, modest, meant to fade into the background and remain unseen by those who did not wish to see it. A servant’s door — or a slave’s.
The halls were dimly lit by the use of candles that burned but used no wax. The walls were not decorated, held no importance and were uninteresting overall. Yet, she took in the details, the way they branched off and trailed elsewhere. They stayed on a straight path, twisting and turning only when the hall did.
Another small door greeted them and they stepped through into a small, dank room. The air was muggy, but not entirely overbearing. A small pool rested at the center, towels of plain white lined the walls. She could safely assume this was where the servants went to bathe. It was more than what she would expect to be given to any servant or slave, but it was still modest.
Her feet touched the ground, the feeling of the stone beneath her barely registered before deft hands nudged her forward. With no balance, no chance to ground herself, she fell forward and into the water. She sank rather ungracefully. The water was lukewarm, leaning towards the side of cold. She shivered, pushed up from the bottom of the pool and emerged, sputtering for air.
Laughter greeted her as she pushed her hair from her face.
”What was that for?!” She yelled and the silence was instantaneous.
The two elves stared at her as if she had grown a second head. It was as if they dare not look away, the Well took the opportunity to supply her with the elvish she had meant to say.
“What was that for?” She repeated, a little more calmly, anger restrained in that instant.
They looked between themselves, skeptical but the woman recovered first.
“So, you can speak.” Her smile wry on her lips, eyes holding a wary caution. “We thought you’d gone lame. You didn’t protest much. Most usually kick. And scream.”
Was she disappointed? Ellana couldn’t tell.
“He doesn’t take well to scents that offend him, even if it’s doubtful that he’ll judge you as innocent.” The man spoke next. She wondered if any of them thought this He would spare her. “Bathe. You will be provided with more… Suitable attire.” He was wary, too. More so than the woman who stood beside him. His eyes also looked upon her with disdain.
The woman gestured for her to get on with her business, leaving no room for further conversation. With a sigh, she relented and turned away from them. She stripped out of her wet clothing, wringing out what water she could and using her magic to dry the rest. They were neatly settled upon the edge of the pool and folded neatly. That, apparently, was enough to satisfy them that she would not fight them.
They turned from her, slightly, and leaned close to one another from what she could see when she peeked over her shoulder.
“She’s different. Tiny, and her ears… Are they shaped funny?” The woman whispered to the man. She felt her cheeks flush.
They were going to whisper about her as if she couldn’t hear them.
She turned away again and busied herself with attempting to clean her hair.
“What she said when she came out of the water. Do you think it was a curse? A spell? Something isn’t right with her. That magic on her hand… Her magic. Nothing’s right about her.” The man returned just as softly.
Her ears burned under their whispers. She sank below the water, unwilling to hear the rest. Some dream this was, to where she was insulted by figments of her imagination. Once, she had been upset by the shape of her ears, and the shape of her body. Once.
She shivered under the cold and pushed her magic forward to bring the water to a more bearable temperature as she began to scrub herself clean.
’You say this is a dream because you are in denial of your reality. You have been displaced. In time. This is real. Be cautious. Should you die, there is no alternative. Be mindful of your actions. Even a minor offense could…’
The warning remained unspoken, but it lingered in the air, almost tangible.
She emerged from the water, ran her fingers through her hair. Dirt and grime came loose, mixed with blood and tainting the water. She thought on the Well’s insistence that this was a dream. Her dreams would not contain the remnants of her battle with Corypheus, there was no reason for them to. The Well had no reason to lie and it would explain the dirt, blood, and the aching muscles.
Now the questions were: ‘how did I get here’ and ‘how do I go back’.
The Well supplied no answer for either, and she suspected it was just as clueless as she.
The two sentinels from earlier returned to their group as she continued to wash away the signs of battle. She peeked, briefly, over her shoulder again. The second man carried runed shackles, the woman held a plain white cloth. They piqued her curiosity further, but she did not speak.
The man caught her gaze and she tensed under the scrutiny of his gaze. His eyes narrowed into a glare and she wondered if there wasn’t one of them who didn’t hate her already. He strode forward to the pool with quick, precise steps and she was given no time to recoil or make space between them.
He grabbed her by the upper arm and hauled her from the water.
If modesty was important in this time, he gave her no chance to preserve it. Her gaze met his defiantly, her jaw squared and her chin lifted to meet his gaze more boldly. The other sentinels now remained utterly silent in the wake of his anger and the two chatty ones had schooled their faces into a mask of neutrality.
He released her, allowed her to stand on her own two feet for once. Only, he snatched the white cloth from his counterpart and threw it at her. Again, he gave her no warning and she fumbled to catch it. It fell open in her hands, revealing a simple dress.
Though, to call it a dress was generous. It was a glorified bag with holes for the limbs to poke through and allow movement. It wasn’t meant to be flattering. It was meant to cover -- it was meant to be temporary. Such an outfit did not bode well for her fate. She hastily pulled the fabric over her head.
“He expects you.” Sneered the sentinel that seemed to hold the most disdain for her, from his behavior alone. The others said nothing, stoic figures, unmoving as if they had been made of stone. He stepped forward, again, with the same speed and determination as before. He grabbed her arm, yet again, his fingers bruised the skin and twisted her to angle her arm in another direction. A shackle clamped around her wrist, then the second followed as he repeated the action. She had bit back her hisses of protest.
She doubted he would have held any sorrow for ending her life if she complained. He did not seem as lenient as the others. She assumed the only thing that kept him from doing so was this He they all referenced.
She did not fight the chains, even as he tested them by pulling her forward with a sudden yank. She couldn’t bite back her hiss though she bit her tongue to fight any further protesting against him.
He grinned, wicked and cruel, the first among them all. A broken mask, truly broken, and unlike the mask the two chatty sentinels had dropped. He seemed satisfied, at least, as he activated the runes. They glowed and hummed, she felt the magic in her halt and freeze inside her. All of her was frozen, aside from the anchor. That, oddly, was resistant to the call of the runes. Because this mark was supposedly stolen from their god?
She didn’t dare test them, though. The way they felt promised pain for even the slightest attempt to pull forth her magic.
It was curious, though, to shackle her with runes.
Imagine beings who lived forever, for whom magic was as natural as breathing.
The memory came back to her quickly and realization struck: They were all mages. It was only natural to assume that she was a mage, for them, someone who was born without magic would be an oddity. The thought was thrilling. Exciting. And frightening.
Her feet came out from under her, the sudden movement of the sentinel who held her shackles startled Ellana from her thoughts. Her knees hit the ground with a thud, skinned and bleeding. Her skin flushed with embarrassment, her shame, and humiliation. He waited only a moment for her to right herself before he continued forward once again. The three others followed in a continued silence, saying nothing on her treatment at the hands of the man.
She assumed Grumpy was the leader for their silence alone. Abelas seemed to command a similar silence for those under his charge in the Temple of Mythal. She had not heard a single word uttered when they were in his presence.
They returned down the hallway they had traveled to arrive in the bathing chamber. The approached the stairs of the inner chamber of the temple and she focused all her attention on keeping pace with Grumpy. It was unlikely he would show her further kindness if she stumbled on the stairs. He would likely be done with her and drag her the rest of the way.
With her focus on her feet, climbing the stairs passed far more quickly. She had no idea how far she had yet to go, or how far she had gone. That much was a relief. Blood trailed down her knees, the feeling grounded her, kept her focused elsewhere. As they approached the door, she felt her stomach clench and protest.
As they came to a stop before a door, however, her gaze lifted and she craned her neck to peer at the door. It was large, touched obvious magic. It told her it would only open for a certain few. Aside from that, the patterns on the door depicted wolves in a pack, on a hunt. One served as leader, one that was larger than the rest. Their eyes were all colored with gems that seemed to move, and looked alive.
The magic of the door suddenly surged forward, searching. They opened, the key that was needed apparently among them. She was entranced, examining the spell and the doors as she was pulled forward.
The door paled in comparison to the chamber itself, magic sang loudly in this room, unabashed, bold, wild. But none the chamber was not lit by the same means as the halls outside, instead, it was lit by a more natural means; two hearths roared with fire on either side of the room, burning a deep and lively shade of red. The lights of the fires illuminated the walls, showing hand painted murals that seemed to glow in the light, likely a trick of magic.
The murals held the pelts of animals in the place of painted ones, replacing imagery with reality. The eyes of these creatures glowed with a life that was frozen in time from the moment of their death.
A shiver ran down her spine.
She allowed her gaze to find the center of the room to where a throne sat. She avoided the figure that sat there as much as she could, unwilling to see the face of this god. The throne, however, was draped in pelts much like the ones that lined the walls in the murals but these? These pelts were wolves. She would have taken in more detail, if the figure of the god did not begin to peek into her vision.
Her eyes dropped, skipping past the god and focusing on the ground.
Perhaps it was fitting that she was to be judged like those whom she had cast judgment upon in Skyhold.
The shackled were yanked and she fell to her injured knees. Her blood did not soften the blow. She cried out in pain, her head bowed low from the force of it and rather than look up, she attempted to look the part of apologetic sinner.
Let this be a merciful God.
“Fen’harel --“ Ellana’s head jerked up to stare at Grumpy, breaking her illusion as quickly as she had tried to form it.
Her blood ran cold as all the blood drained from her face and terror gripped her heart. She felt herself sway, the pain in her knees suddenly unbearable, she was dizzy. She was hot and cold all at once. ‘May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent, da’len.’ Keeper Deshanna’s final words rang in her ears as if mocking her, mocking her folly. They faded and only the ringing was left. She felt herself struggle to draw air, and barely resisted the urge to break into full panic.
Grumpy’s lips moved, explaining something but she could not hear.
Fen’harel.
The worst possible outcome for her as there would be no mercy. The Dread Wolf hates the People. He had slaves because he hated them, mocked them. He would have no mercy for her: she who had apparently stolen from her. Her left hand clenched tight.
She felt a wave of illness sweep over her. She bit back the urge to vomit.
If she had stolen this magic from him -- if his slaves could sense his magic… It was safe to assume that the orb was the Dread Wolf’s. Solas had said the Gods had them to channel their powers, a foci. Had the Dread Wolf hated the People so much that he provided the orb to Corypheus? Or, what if it had been by chance? Surely, he would not like humans more than the People? What if --
A harsh yank on the chains drew her arms upwards and her frantic thoughts vanished. She stared at Grumpy but his eyes were not on her. He forced his magic forward and the anchor came to life against her will, pulled in response to a call, like before.
“This is the proof, master.” Grumpy’s tone plead but held more of a demand than what she would expect from a slave of Fen’harel. If Solas was correct in saying the pantheon had marked their slaves. “It is your power. You have the right to judge her, there is no need to involve Mythal!”
She wondered if it was normal for them to speak so freely? Maybe Solas’ understanding of their slavery had been different? Slavery was, in the end, still a bondage and freedom taken. Perhaps she was just desperate that Solas’ memories from the Fade were wrong.
“Elgar’nan bound all to seek Mythal for judgment, if the reason for judgment is valid.” That smooth, silk-like voice filled her ears and her breath caught in her throat. It was so familiar. Hauntingly so. “Fortunately, Mythal’s judgment will not be necessary. There had been no theft.”
“But --“
She dared to look away from Grumpy as he had the gall looked crestfallen. She trailed her gaze along the ground, her eyes fixating first on Fen’harel’s foot that rested on the ground.
“Have you not considered that this creature could be mine?” The smooth voice shifted, restrained but anger lingered. “Or, am I incapable because I have held no previous desire of creation?”
Ellana lifted her gaze past the foot, taking in the lounging form — one leg idly crossed over the other, his foot settled firmly against the opposite thigh. — relaxed and without any tension, looking much like a wolf in his den. She looked higher, her gaze trailing over his torso, past the sculpted jaw, each part of him making her blood run colder and colder. She looked past his sculpted jaw and took in the lines of his face.
Her heart shattered and she couldn’t breathe.
Upon the throne of the Dread Wolf, Pride looked down upon her.