Chapter Text
The wind carried the scent of smoke and death across the undulating grasslands of the Exalted Plains, with its forgotten strongholds and relics flecking the region with sinister memories. It had been seven hundred years since the elven army fell to the Chantry, but wounds endured.
Scout Harding approached the company and presented her status report. Violence prevailed on the Exalted Plains, with the Undead rising to overrun a cluster of Empress Celene’s battlements. There was also a Dalish clan living somewhere along the Enavuris River.
Fen’Asha and her group got to work, forming a rescue party to seek Solas’ friend. This was no easy task. The rest of the Inquisition dispersed to handle hordes of Undead dotting the way.
Soon, they came upon what was left of a bandit camp. A thick crimson trail led from it, coursing through to a congregation of corpses.
Solas’ discomfort grew as they followed the trace of blood and bodies maimed by deep claws and found what they were after.
“My friend,” gasped Solas.
A monstrous pride demon crouched before him in the midst of a ritual circle. It growled. Reverberations echoed through the ground.
“The mages turned it into a demon,” said Fen’Asha.
Solas nodded.
“It was a spirit of wisdom,” said Fen’Asha. “And now…”
“A spirit becomes a demon when denied its original purpose,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
A man approached the group, selecting his steps with care. He was dressed like a former Circle mage.
“Let’s ask him,” said Solas.
“You are a mage,” sighed the man. “You aren’t one of the bandits? Do you have any lyrium? We’re exhausted. That demon…”
“You summoned it,” said Solas.
The former Circle mage opened his mouth.
“It was a spirit of Wisdom at the time,” Solas continued. “You turned it into a killer, perverted it against its purpose.”
The mage shook his head as if to fight off Solas’ frozen glare.
“You…” continued Solas.
“Look,” stammered the mage. “I know how this looks. It’s probably confusing for someone who hasn’t studied demons, but…”
Solas co*cked his head, his eyes allaying to the heavens.
“If you’d help us…”
“We are not here to help you,” Solas rumbled.
“Listen…”
Solas stared through him.
Fen’Asha winced.
“Look,” said the mage. “I was in the Kirkwall Circle. I know what I’m…”
“Shut up,” said Solas.
“Excuse me?”
“You summoned the demon,” said Solas. “To protect you from bandits.”
The mage shifted.
“And you bound it to obedience, commanded it to kill. It turned,” continued Solas.
The mage assented reluctantly.
Solas turned to Fen’Asha. “We break the summoning circle, break the binding.”
“If I may interject,” the mage said. “That binding is the only thing keeping it from killing us. Whatever it was before…”
“Please,” Solas said, ignoring the mage. “There’s no time, Inquisitor.”
“I’ve studied this,” said Fen’Asha. “I think I can disrupt the binding.”
“Thank you,” Solas whispered.
The pride demon roared, growing in its distress.
Solas’ eyes widened. “Hurry.”
Fen’Asha spread the group out, shouting calls to action. “Attack the pillars, not the demon.”
Predictably, the demon lunged first. Its furious energy lashed through the air and the group scattered, attacking the pillars dutifully and cracking the stones with the blistering force of weapons and spells. Within seconds, the demon disintegrated into the fog of broken magic.
When the haze cleared, a slight figure remained.
Solas approached it, knelt at its side. “I am sorry,” he said.
“I am not,” said the figure. “I am myself again. You have helped me and now you must endure. Guide me to death, friend.”
Solas closed his eyes. “As you say.” He raised his hand to what was left of his friend, what remained of the spirit of Wisdom. A black haze enveloped the figure, fragmenting into dust and nothingness.
“You helped your friend in the end, Solas,” said Fen’Asha as he returned to her side.
“And now I must endure,” he said. He gazed at the passing Enavuris River before casting his eye to the mage that’d been the source of such suffering in the first place.
“Thank you,” said the mage, clutching at his robes. The others in his group joined him in a tentative gathering.
Solas stepped toward them.
“We would not have hazarded a summoning, but the robbers are…”
“You tortured and killed my friend,” said Solas.
“We didn’t know,” said the mage.
“The book said…” said another mage.
There was a flash of red and heat and what was left of the former Circle mages dispersed like dust in the wind, a staggering and sudden end caused by the tips of Solas’ fingers.
He hadn’t left Fen’Asha’s side, but the violence made him seem miles away. She looked at him, trying to force words from her lips. Nothing came.
“I need some time,” he said without looking at her. “I will find you at Skyhold.”
Solas walked away and she watched him. The party remained silent, as they had throughout the entire interaction. It had taken mere minutes, maybe even seconds. There was nothing to do, nothing to say.
Fen’Asha had to continue. She, like Solas, had to endure. The Exalted Plains needed her, needed the Inquisition. She turned to the group, offered a slight grin as if to say that everything had gone according to plan. She collected her thoughts and continued on.
Days passed with Solas gone, with the unit working in the Exalted Plains. Fen’Asha kept mostly to herself. The distance she felt from Solas was acute, bestowing itself as an intense pain she submerged within.
They fought Undead by the hundreds, winning back ramparts and barracks until it became routine. They spoke with the Dalish, fostering a connection with the disinclined elves. They closed rifts. Iron Bull rejoiced at the slaying of another dragon at Crow Fens.
Camp was made outside the springs and they arranged to depart for the Western Approach in the morning. The Inquisition gathered to celebrate another successful campaign.
Fen’Asha avoided the festivities, preferring the privacy of her tent until the moon was high.
And then she crept out. She watched, waited until the night sentry turned, until he wouldn’t see. She stole away from camp to seek her secrets in the still of night.
The water was warm on her bare feet. The moon reflected in the ripples of her steps. She hugged her filmy robe tight, not caring that it tread water as she slinked through the spring.
Solas was gone.
She was empty.
She was terrified of the gravity of her feeling, of her wanting. There had been love in her heart before, she thought. This was deeper. The absence burned, tortured her worse than hunger.
He had guided her through everything. Hadn’t he?
She was lost.
Yet something called from elsewhere, from an unexpected but familiar warmth in the cool of her loneliness. Something loomed, yowled, murmured.
She felt the energy earlier in the day. The shrine called to her, its song reverberated with the core of her being. She had to see it again, had to be in its presence again. She fingered the wolf of her chain as it draped from her neck. It caught the moon. She swore she heard indistinct howls, smelled fur.
Her heart pounded. All her life she was warned to stay away, stay vigilant. But all her life she felt a tug, a wish, a kindred spirit.
She climbed stairs, approaching the Shrine above, through the vapour and humidity. The smell, the taste…
The two wolves awaited her in the soft moonlight. One black, one white, unified in their eternal cry to the moon.
She told Solas she worshipped the Wolf, hadn’t she? That she loved the Wolf?
The necklace felt hot. She towed at it, removed it from her neck. It drifted from between her breasts reluctantly and she held it in her hand for a moment before placing it in the silver plate in front of her. An offering. She knelt at the altar, on her knees in the Shrine.
She was lost.
Fen’Harel was the Trickster. The Deceiver. The Lone Wolf.
She was the Inquisitor. The First. The Wolf Woman.
She was found.
Her eyes were drawn below, to the foot of the altar, to a small dark stone. She touched it. It was smooth, round, warm. She put it in her pocket.
She exhaled heavily, her pulse rushing with the wolves toward the luminous moon.
With business attended to, the Inquisition carried on to the Western Approach.
Fen’Asha held the stone when she prayed. Her loneliness ebbed each night under the moon. The vast expanse of desert sand seemed to reflect the endless hours the Inquisition had spent reaching their destination. More than one of her companions stated that if they saw the inside of a carriage again, it would be too soon. But the Inquisitor was eager to complete their work quickly.
Lost in the sun and the heat of battle, time once again passed as though it was nothing.
The Inquisition tracked Hawke and Stroud to the Tevinter ruin, discovering a blood sacrifice and demon-binding ceremony. The Grey Warden mages were without free will. They lived in bondage to Corypheus, followed orders without thought.
Livius Erimond, the Tevinter magister, was in charge of the travesty. His mind had twisted itself to believe that he was to become a god-king, with Corypheus ruling the Golden City.
“Release the Wardens,” Fen’Asha said as he droned on.
He ignored her.
“I’m not asking,” she said.
Erimond sighed. “No, you aren’t.” He lifted his hand.
Fen’Asha collapsed. The magister was toying with the anchor and the pain ripped through her hand.
“The Elder One told me how to deal with you,” Erimond sneered.
She moaned.
“That Anchor of yours? You stole it,” said Erimond.
Fen’Asha groaned. She drew focus, forced the pain from her mind, clenched her teeth.
“Corypheus will reward me greatly,” Erimond continued.
She rose and he didn’t see her jerk her hand forward, heaving him ahead with it in a swell of rift magic. He sailed through the air like she’d just tugged on his leash. In many ways, that was exactly what she’d done.
Erimond dropped to the ground, his chin scraping on the stone. “Kill them,” he grimaced.
The Grey Wardens, indoctrinated and dilapidated, were no match for the Inquisition. The battle was over before it began and all that remained was a mass of dust, magic and noise.
In the commotion, Erimond absconded with his life.
Fen’Asha cursed his escape, but Stroud suggested that he might be headed to Adamant Fortress. He offered to venture there with Hawke, while Fen’Asha returned to other business. The plan was agreeable.
Fen’Asha took to the rest of her tasks with vigour, gaining the prize of Griffon Wing Keep with clear victory and disposing of Venatori agents. It was becoming routine, like any other vocation. Before long, it was time to return to Skyhold. To Solas.
As soon as she’d met with her advisors and exchanged updates, Fen’Asha rushed to the rotunda. To Solas.
Solas was gone.
Solas was hiding, playing a trick.
She pacified her sprinting heart, playing with the papers on his table before rushing from the rotunda. She needed answers.
There were none. Leliana had not heard word. Cullen had not received any reports. Scout Harding didn’t see him on her travels.
She fished in her pocket, clutched the stone and prayed to the darkness. To the moon. To the Wolf.
The time passed again, as it did. There were things to do.
Josephine was keen for Fen’Asha to learn more of the Great Game. There were invitations to the Winter Palace. There was fun to be had, business to attend to.
Fen’Asha also received a letter from her Keeper. Bandits were creating problems for her people.
Every day she checked with Leliana, Cullen and Harding regarding Solas. Every day they had no news.
She clung to her companions, watched Cassandra train on the dummies, sat with Blackwall as he carved wood, drank with Iron Bull and his Chargers, studied magic with Vivienne, played cards with Varric, scrutinized books with Dorian, observed Cole’s way of helping the people, and threw things at Cassandra with Sera.
There was the new arcanist, a dwarf named Dagna. She shared Fen’Asha’s inquisitive spirit and her enthusiasm was contagious. Sitting in the cool of the Undercroft, they fathomed the far reaches of magic. She helped Fen’Asha place the stone in a necklace.
Finally, one bright day Leliana came with news that Solas had been spotted on the mountain pass. She barely refrained from embracing the serious woman. She fretted over her hair and clothes briefly before giving up the idea. Then rushed to him, ashamed only slightly by her zeal.
“Inquisitor,” he said. He nodded, strolling into Skyhold’s courtyard.
“Are you…” she stammered, winded.
“It still hurts,” he said. “It always will, but I will survive.”
“Thank you for returning,” she said.
“You are a true friend,” he said. The corners of his lips turned up faintly. “You helped me. I could hardly abandon you now.”
She swallowed. Attempted to slow her rapid pulse. Attempted mere cordiality. “Where did you go?” she asked.
“I…” he looked up at the stretch of Skyhold’s towers. “I went to sleep.”
“Oh.”
“I visited the Fade,” he continued. “I found the place where I spent time with my friend, where we used to talk. It is deserted now.” He looked down.
“I’m sorry, Solas.”
“There are stirrings, Inquisitor,” he looked up. His eyes shone. “One day, something may grow again.”
“What happens when a spirit dies?” she asked. She frowned, the question sounded too methodical.
“It isn’t the same as it is for mortals,” he said. “The energy returns to the Fade. If the essence forming the spirit is strong enough, it may rise again.”
“So your friend…?”
“Not necessarily,” he said. “The natural state of a spirit is peaceful. A semi-existence. It is rare to reflect reality again. Something may reform, but it will not be the same. Its memories gone, its essence different.” He looked down.
“You’re not alone,” Fen’Asha said. She looked down too, unsure of the impact of her hurried words.
“It has been so long since I felt I could trust someone,” he said.
She smiled.
“Thank you, my friend,” Solas said.
