A/N: I do not own the lyrics, video or gif.
"Dreamt a dream,
now I'm spitting bitter tears."
- What Love Looks Like by Mirel Wagner
DEEP IN THE WOODS outside of Kirkwall, two trespassers crossed paths. Naturally, as with all tales of intrigue, the familiar strangers met in the dead of night.
"It appears that you've finally awoken from your slumber," Mythal, with her silver-spun curls and her cunning smile, surveyed Fen'Harel from across the forest clearing.
Fen'Harel lifted his frostbitten eyes to greet hers with impassivity.
Even in his weakened form, the ancient god of Betrayal exuded a notable power that Mythal and the other Evanuris had wrongfully underestimated. With bitter amusement, her eyes raked over his sculpted body and she observed that he was now clean-shaven compared to his previously feral appearance. His regal features remained, however, just as calculating and impassive as ever. He knelt next to a fire, a lethal calmness in his gaze.
Mythal stepped closer to the Dread Wolf, choosing her steps carefully.
Her eyes lowered briefly out of anger over the fact that he had kept his form and she had to sacrifice hers. While possessing Flemeth certainly had been entertaining for the past centuries, she missed the eternal youth her previous body had possessed. Although, she had come to see that her vessel held its own beauty and power.
The moon hung low between the ancient gods, almost in reverence.
"It is good to see you too, dear friend," he replied, his voice holding no warmth.
Mythal smiled at this and raised her eyebrows.
"You lie just as sweetly," she remarked, circling him. "How familiar this all feels. And I suppose you already know why I'm here."
Fen'Harel's eyes bore into hers before settling on the flames.
"This world should never have come to pass," he replied with finality. "There is no other option than to fix my mistake. You cannot change my mind."
Mythal let out a cruel laugh.
"Oh, how I've missed your fanaticism with self-destruction," Mythal hummed. "And it's true, I understand better than anyone not to stand in your cataclysmic path. Although, I do know of someone who shares an opposite sentiment."
A flicker of emotion, an almost unnoticeable crack in his mask, revealed that she had been accurate in her assumption.
"And she is precisely why you're here, outside of an insignificant city, speaking to a friend who is neither dear nor pleasant to be around," she continued as her steps slowed around him. She relished in his unfamiliar hesitance. "For one so cunning, you are ineffably foolish."
"As are your own exploits," Fen'Harel pointed out coolly. "To have possessed someone as ambitious as yourself cannot possibly end in trouble. Not to mention your personal dealings with the humans."
Mythal smiled a wry grin, seeing that she had touched a nerve.
"I did not come here to quarrel with you, despite how enjoyable it is," she replied. "Rather, I've approached you out of concern, from one dear friend to another."
With languid steps, she slowly tiptoed to the edge of his brimming chaos. In response, a hum of power coursed through the cold night air, a telltale sign of his own irritation. With the eyes of a predator, he observed her.
"Despite your inclinations, she is not Harellan," she warned with a grim expression. "She died centuries ago, when you established the Veil. Whoever, whatever, this imposter may be, she is undeniably a trick crafted by the Evanuris you trapped in the Fade."
"How unsurprisingly disappointing," Fen'Harel replied, his expression frostbitten. "Presented with the end of the world, and you've claimed it an act of love."
"I never claimed it an act of love," Mythal countered quietly.
"Humor me, then," he challenged. "I am curious as to what base act you've reduced the survival of our people to this time. You have witnessed the suffering of the elvhen, and what have you done besides mettle and make deals for your own amusement? For someone all-knowing, you're blind to your own desire for ignorance."
Mythal raised her chin, eyes cooling considerably.
"Pride," she declared. "Both hers and yours spell catastrophe. However, if you were truly wise and all-knowing, you would heed my warning. She doesn't belong here, Solas."
His face flickered with brief trepidation at the name he had been given before he had been known as Fen'Harel.
"I'm well aware," Solas replied, stepping away from her. Sweet bitterness tinged his voice. "Consider myself warned. Is that all?"
Mythal's amused mouth soured and a pang of sympathy coiled in her gut at his response.
"I suspect that whatever I say will fall on deaf ears," she stated. "Our paths will cross once again, young one."
"I suspect they will," he said with a sad smile before walking into the night.
⋘ ──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ──── ⋙
"Potions!" a Lowtown merchant yelled. "Get yer potions! They're blessed by Andraste herself and at shockingly good prices!"
"What a load of-" Anders hissed as his eyes narrowed into slits. He turned to face Varric and Aveline. "Hawke leaves me behind on an expedition one time, and I am subjugated to such bullshit."
Harellan, who had been walking along Anders, couldn't help but agree with him.
While Merrill, Isabella and Fenris travelled to Sundermount with Hawke, Harellan and the others had been left behind in Kirkwall to run errands and complete side jobs. And, while Harellan thoroughly enjoyed Varric's company, she didn't think she could stomach balancing both Anders and Aveline in Lowtown.
"How long have you exactly been in Kirkwall, Blondie?" Varric sneered. "You do realize that more than half of its population is comprised of scam artists and sleazeballs?"
"Oh, I'm well aware," Anders replied with narrowed eyes. "How can I forget when we have one of Kirkwall's finer citizens in our current company?"
"Alright, that's enough," Aveline interrupted. She stood in front of the group, broad-shouldered and exhibiting a no-nonsense attitude that Harellan secretly envied. "I think that we need to separate the children, Harellan. You take Varric and I'll find a use for Anders."
"Excuse me," Anders began, going red in the face. "How dare you-"
"Excellent idea, we'll get more done split up," Harellan interrupted with a grin as she grabbed Varric's hand. "We'll take the Gallows and Hightown, it'll probably save you some trouble."
"Works for me," Varric smiled, swaying their joined hands.
"Rude, I was going to-" Anders' glare settled on the retreating elf and dwarf.
"Deal," Aveline nodded with a relieved sigh. "And Andraste bless you. Probably will spare me some additional self-righteous speeches."
Anders looked between the separating parties with unconcealed disdain.
"Are you all just going to ignore me, then?" Anders spat, fists clenched.
"Yes," all three replied.
⋘ ──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ──── ⋙
The Gallows were no less depressing than the other countless times Harellan had the misfortune of visiting.
High walls eclipsed the concrete-jungle, casting a perpetual shadow on those who dared to enter the courtyard. Dozens of rogue mages, termed apostates, sporadically filled along the Gallows, with many more Templars nearby and keeping close observation.
The Templar Order, a subdivision of the Chantry who worshipped Andraste, held a strong and pervasive presence in Kirkwall. While the Templars were self-proclaimed protectors of the humans of the city, no one was truly relieved when they appeared; the sight of a Templar indicated that death and destruction would follow soon after. Harellan held mixed opinions about their harsh and contradictive order; while she could appreciate their attempts at peace-keeping, she did not believe that all apostates deserved their cruel mistreatment. Despite the fact that apostates were at the heart of nearly every misadventure she had in Kirkwall, she recognized their desire to be free from the oppressive confines of the Circle of Magii. At times, she had admittedly agreed with Anders' ramblings, as the mages deserved their freedom like any other citizen of Kirkwall.
Their freedom, however, had most times come at the price of other people's lives.
Her eyes briefly met Commander Cullen's across the courtyard.
With a painful thump, she remembered how Kieran had perished at the hands of apostates. Kieran had been both a Templar and a mage sympathizer; he attempted to set free a group of renegade mages, and they repaid his kindness with suspicion and open hostility.
And she too failed him as she was unable to save him.
Commander Cullen was the highest ranking official of the Templar Order. With his blonde, curly hair and roguish features, he had been the youngest Templar to accomplish his current rank. Kieran had been well-respected within the Templars before his betrayal. Facing his brother-in-arms once again would prove difficult.
"The sooner we get this over with the sooner we can play some Wicked Grace," Varric interrupted her reverie. "Or at least, I'll have fun kicking your ass at it again."
"In your dreams," she muttered. A beat of silence passed before she acquiesced. "You're on."
Varric snickered.
Harellan let out a breath that she didn't know she was holding as they walked towards the Commander.
"Miss Lavellan," Cullen addressed the duo with cool brown eyes. "Varric. I imagine you are here to collect payment for the bounty placed on the leader of the Invisible Sisters."
Harellan nodded, her eyes searching anywhere but the blonde Templar. With contempt, she internally pointed out her hypocrisy of her own cowardice. Kieran's death happened weeks ago, and yet she still couldn't face one damned guard.
Her fists clenched.
Guilt was truly a terrible, suffocating thing.
"You guessed correctly, Curly," Varric piped up. "You know, you really should smile more. You're too young to develop frown lines."
A beat of silence passed before Cullen let out a chuckle, and Harellan couldn't deny the flood of bitter relief that filled her at the sound. Had it been any other Templar, she knew that they would have met Varric's humor with open hostility. Despite his current affiliation, Harellan knew that the Commander held a kindness and good-nature to him that few in his position possessed.
"Duly noted," Cullen remarked, slight warmth returning to his expression. "I'll be sure to take your advice with a grain of salt, but thank you anyway. Since you're here, I actually have something that requires your assistance, if you're interested."
"And what fresh hell has Meredith tasked you with doing today?" Varric asked. "Choir-practice? Tormenting all mage-kind? Wait...don't tell me there's a murder mystery that needs solving."
"Not exactly a trivial mystery, but there has been a string of murders, yes," Cullen replied, his eyes tightening. "If you'll follow me, I can explain more."
"That doesn't sound ominous at all," Harellan murmured to Varric as they followed the Templar.
"Guessing right this time somehow doesn't feel satisfying," the dwarf grumbled back.
⋘ ──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ──── ⋙
It had been nightfall when the three entered Kirkwall's Chantry.
Solemn stone statues of Andraste and the Maker's insignia of red and gold graced the overarching Chantry halls. A suffocating, incensed air hung within the triangular walls, constituted by the scrutinizing eyes of the clergymen and women who worshipped in the church. Harellan resisted the urge to shiver, and with a glance she confirmed that Varric was just as uncomfortable.
They were both considered trespassers here; Varric was automatically seen as a Child of the Stone and Harellan a sacrilegious worshipper of the Old Gods.
"Over the past three months, we've had a higher amount of desertion amongst our ranks," Cullen murmured to Harellan and Varric as he led them to the back of the Chantry. "Mind you, our order has always had the occasional deserter, but not to this extent; we've lost over a dozen good men and women in the span of months. And, even more significantly, those who have deserted are never to be heard of again."
Cullen led the duo through an archway, and started to descend the staircase to the Chantry's basement.
"Isn't that the point, Curly?" Varric challenged.
The three entered the musty basement, to find a room guarded by two stern Templars. Harellan instinctually tensed when her eyes landed on their weapons, notably unhidden. Varric stepped closer to her reassuringly, sensing her unease.
"Not quite," Cullen said as he stopped walking. "Meredith, out of curiosity, or more-likely paranoia, assigned soldiers to follow up with the deserters. It turns out that as soon as they quit, the deserters ceased to exist. Or, at least until now."
Harellan's eyes narrowed.
"So, I take it your friends are guarding a mortuary," she remarked quietly.
Cullen said nothing as his lips thinned and he opened the guarded door.
And, as soon as Harellan entered the room her stomach sank to her knees.
Seven pale, lifeless bodies laid bare on wooden slabs.
However, it wasn't the solemnity of death that hovered in the air, nor the eerie calmness of the room that made her head spin. It wasn't the fact that the lifeless bodies were recognizable, nor the fact that the two guards who had assaulted her the other night were among the recently deceased.
It was, rather, the mark of Fen'Harel carved into their flesh, and a single word, unmistakably elvhen, repeated over and over.
Din'an.
And, in a blink of an eye, all of her repressed memories instantly resurfaced, refusing to be unfelt and undreamt.
"My friends," Cullen breathed, as he faced Harellan and Varric once more, "are guarding a secret that could divide this city even further, if possible."