Written by Amethyst97Skye

Inspired by 'Let Chaos Be Undone' by tayraystar (AO3)

/works/4753898

Chapter I: Prologue

Two men, two Templars, guarded the door to the inner dungeon. Inside were four more, one positioned in each corner of the room, each armed with a Silverite-tipped spear that glinted wickedly in the guttering torchlight. They stood at attention to receive their guests: a woman in fine, heavy armour, sporting a glistening silver shield and sword.

Her name was Seeker Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast, formally the Right Hand to Divine Justinia. Her chest plate and shield were decorated with a distinct insignia: an eye, surrounded by a sun, both of which were impaled by a flaming sword. Alongside her was a man, an elf, wearing simplistic, humbling robes. His name was Solas, and he presently served as the arcane advisor to said Seeker.

Before them lay a strange creature, clad in armour blacker than a thousand starless skies. The hard planes of the foreign metal were lined with a pulsing blood red material, and they feared it might be organic in origin. Suffice to say, the design alone, with its elaborate horned helmet, clawed gauntlets and protruding scales, was terrifyingly demonic. With one hand clutching the pommel of her sword, Seeker Pentaghast gestured to the prone figure.

"This is the demon we spoke of. We do not know what it is, or how it still lives, but the mark it bears is a sure sign of its guilt."

As if on cue, a blinding flash of poisonous green light flared, entombing the room, radiating from the creature's left hand. The guards drew their spears, but the creature did not stir.

"We have yet to track down its master. If mages are indeed responsible, they were likely consumed in the explosion."

"You say it walked out of a Rift, out of the Fade, in this form?" Solas questioned.

"Yes. It was conscious, able to stand and fight before our Templars incapacitated it."

"And it has not awakened since?"

"No."

"Then we have little time to waste. May I?" At her gesture, the elf approached. "Has anyone been able to determine what lies underneath its armour?"

"No," the Seeker repeated, her voice all but a growl. "And I would refrain from trying if I were you. It appears to be enchanted. One of our Templars received sizable burns to his hands when he tried to remove the helmet, another frostbite, and a third was struck by lightning. Repeatedly. He… did not survive."

Solas nodded, a stern and sombre acknowledgement, before proceeding. He had only just knelt beside the creature when he suddenly stood, reeling back. The Templars, once again, drew their spears as the Seeker unsheathed her sword.

"What happened?" she demanded.

"Nothing… happened," he replied. "But this – this…" He gestured aggressively, hopelessly, to the being before them. "Whatever it is, it is unlike any demon or spirit I have ever encountered. It radiates power, a unique, self-sustained, internal power, unlike anything I have ever felt, and it is currently fighting for domination over the mark."

"Then… it would have been powerful enough to destroy the Temple? To create the Breach? All on its own?"

"Possibly, but its power is not like the magic you or I know. Its only connection to the Fade stems from the mark. I cannot imagine any creature capable of tearing a hole in the Veil without an exponentially strong connection to the Fade."

"And the mark? Would it work as you say? Could it truly seal the Rifts?"

"In theory, yes," Solas answered, taking to his knees beside the creature once more, turning over the marked hand to find its claws clenched in a fist. "Presently, the mark is somewhat stable in that it has reached an obstacle it cannot yet scale. Once it learns how it will spread and this… whatever it is, it will die."

"Can you stop it?"

"I can attempt to contain it for a time, to slow its progress, but I fear even all the mages in Thedas would not possess the power to permanently imprison this magic."

"Do what you can," the Seeker bid, sheathing her sword before turning to the closest Templar. "Bring him whatever he needs, and alert me should it wake."

Following their salute, which she returned, the Seeker departed, the door slamming shut behind her; the Templars proceeded to drop the heavy deadbolts in place, the sound of bones breaking howled like a starving, Blighted wolf. Hands clutched around the creature's cursed palm, Solas bowed his head and closed his eyes.

"Do not be alarmed. I will be unresponsive for a time," he warned. If they answered, he did not hear them.

Vir Tanadhal - The "Way of Three Trees", an Astrarium constellation found at Morrin's Outlook, Storm Coast.
Silentir - A constellation historically attributed to Dumat, the Old God of Silence, but it's speculated to be a supplantation of Mythal. It can be found through an Astrarium in Crestwood.
Judex - A constellation that symbolises justice. The down-turned blade represents a guilty verdict, which often resulted in execution during the height of the Tevinter Imperium. It can be found on the Outskirts of the Hinterlands.

Od-ah-viing = Snow-Hunter-Wing.
Zeymah = Brother.
Fenedhis = Common curse (Elven).
Fahliil = Elf.

Chapter II: Introductions

When he opened his eyes, Solas was not kneeling in the bowels of Haven's Chantry. He was standing on an outcrop of a seemingly endless mountain range. He stood before the ruins of a once grand temple, built entirely from stone, primitive in its rudimentary design, and it appeared to have been carved from the mountain itself, one stone at a time. He had no idea where, or when, he was for he had seen nothing even remotely familiar in his journeys of the Fade.

Around him was a sea of cloud. A single sun was rising as a pair of moons began their descent into darkness, but the stars were entirely foreign to Solas. He could not see the Vir Tanadhal, Silentir, or even the Chantry's personal favourite: Judex, the "Sword of Mercy". Never, in all his wanderings, had Solas come across a Spirit, or Demon, capable of rearranging – no, recreating – the sky.

Proceeding along an old causeway and up a flight of weathered steps, Solas found his initial description of the temple was inaccurate. Although crude in its simplicity, it had been built to withstand the forces of time, each individual stone having been engraved with complex runes almost invisible to even his eyes. This ancient monument had long since been abandoned. There were no signs of life, mortal or spiritual.

As he circled the outskirts of the temple, his eyes wandering freely across the overhanging bridges that surrounded the mountain, making attack virtually impossible, the shadow of an imposing tower blocked out the sun. The doors, of which there were two, and works of art in their own right – the metal unknown to him, the runic script indecipherable – had been fitted into the mountain. One, several storeys above its twin, led out onto the skeletal remains of a stone balcony that, in its prime, would have been more than worthy of visiting royalty.

Only when Solas finished inspecting the tower, and stepped out of its shadow, did he see the corpse. The shell belonged to a Rage Demon. Something had frozen it in the throes of agony, leaving it hanging between life and death, a fate it had done nothing to deserve.

"Do not return," Solas warned, summoning flames to the tips of his fingers as he spoke.

Rage did not delay, snapping free from its prison – severing an arm in the process – to slither out of sight, its body no longer a pool of rippling lava but a slab of frostbitten rock. No sooner had Solas turned did he come face to claw with a Terror Demon. It, too, was frozen, but not by ice. Its long, spindly arms were reaching for something, something no longer present. Solas circled it, quickly, bile rising in his throat as he took in the debilitating gashes to its gangly legs, and its missing tale.

It was coated with a layer of magic that seemed to resonate with the temple, strengthen and extending the spell it had been too slow to dodge. At the back of his mind, Solas could feel a mind-numbing sense of vague familiarity and he found that he could not, in good conscious, ignore it: Terror had been paralysed, frozen in time itself.

Solas could not stand the fear and horror he saw in its eyes, but he was not in a position to break the spell, so instead, he asked:

"Where are they?"

Terror spun its eyes around wildly before directing them upwards, at a sharp angle that veered left, directing the elf to one of the outlooks built atop the columns that supported the bridges overhead.

Solas ascended the grand central staircase without pause. When he reached the top, his eyes scaled over the large dais that, for reasons he could not yet discern, stood at the very heart of the temple. He would return when the Demon preying upon its inferiors was dispatched, or suitably distracted.

He turned on his heels to backtrack across the bridge and came to a sudden stop. Before him, in all its repulsive glory, were the remains of a Desire Demon. It was a husk of its former self, burnt almost beyond recognition. Where its slender legs should have been lay a pair of twisted bones that ended in disfigured taloned claws. It had been tortured and, finally, beheaded.

A flash of light shot passed his eyes, not an inch from his face, and Solas whirled round as a scream pierced his ears. He had not spared a thought for the prisoner, but they had found him. Still dressed in their demonic armour, they stood before the dais wielding a bow forged from magic, the weapon rippling through shades of emerald green, sapphire blue and purple amethyst. Chancing a glance behind him, Solas saw the crumpled remnants of a Shade, and a single bright amethyst arrow floating in a pool of black blood.

Solas took a step forward. The prisoner drew back their bowstring, the arrow trained at his chest.

"What are you?" it demanded, its voice indeterminably wrong to Solas' ears.

Raising his hands in supplication, he replied. "I am Solas."

"What did you do to Odahviing?"

"I am afraid I do not know who Odearving is."

"Od-ah-viing! My zeymah! My brother!" the creature raged, the ground shaking at its roar.

Fenedhis!

Spirits rarely formed such connections with one another, and Demons even less so. It did, however, explain the power and fear the creature wielded: it did not work alone.

Such a partnership will require a replacement… and soon.

"Please, be calm. I will share with you all I know," Solas promised. "How should I address you?"

The bowstring fell, the arrow dematerialised, followed swiftly by the bow, both dissolving into pillars of multi-coloured smoke. Solas, in turn, lowered his hands.

"Fahliil will suffice."

Chapter III: An Explanation

"Fahliil, then. I am sorry, but your brother is most likely dead –"

In the blink of an eye, Fahliil was standing in front of Solas, a blur of light lost in a deafeningly loud rumble of thunder, with a clawed gauntlet outstretched, clutching his throat, allowing them to lift him off the ground.

"Fa – Fahliil, please!"

"What are you? What have you done to my brother?" it bellowed, yet its voice was but a snarling whisper.

"I do not under… stand," Solas gasped, scrambling for purchase against the black metal.

"Do – not – lie to me!" it roared, claws drawing blood.

"I – I do not know… what happened to your… brother."

He did not know, but he could certainly guess.

With a deep a sigh, a blast of air with the heat of a forge, Fahliil reunited Solas with the ground where he was forced to sit, his legs too weak to support him. Their claws remained curled around his neck, though the grip had noticeably slackened.

"You are a strange creature. You have the ears of Mer, but you do not look like one."

Interesting… "If by 'Mer' you mean 'elf' then, yes, you are correct. I am an elf."

Solas knew, instinctively, he had said something wrong. Their claws were drawing fresh blood.

"No! You are no Mer!" Fahliil declared, rising and lifting Solas with them, forcing him to try and break the creatures hold. Its armour only served to shred the pads of his fingers. "You are too pale, too short, and too small."

Lifeless, insignificant, weak…

"A – Allow me to explain, Fahliil." It would later haunt his dreams that he had been reduced to begging, like a common dog.

Slowly, Fahliil sat Solas down once more and, flexing its claws, it released its grasp before taking a single step back where it stood, arms folded, eyes and face hidden by a veil of darkness created by the shadows of its helmet. After nursing life back into bruised, broken and bloodied flesh, which Fahliil did not common upon – of course, it would know I am a mage – Solas began.

"I do not know what you are, Fahliil, or where you are from, but I am an elf from the land of Thedas, the world beyond the Fade. Four days ago, a hole was torn in the sky, destroying a sacred temple, killing hundreds – thousands – of people. In the wake of the explosion, several smaller tears called Rifts opened. You fell through one, into Thedas, the only survivor we have found thus far."

"We…?"

"The Inquisition."

Fahliil growled, turning aside to pace, one arm crossed over its chest, nestling their hand in the crook of the opposite elbow. The hand was holding, Solas assumed, its chin in an oddly intelligent and graceful pose completely at odds with its armour. It maintained this pose effortlessly.

"What you tell me explains much. I came to this temple –" It extended its arms wide, encompassing the mountainside. "– on a mission with Odahviing. He would never betray my location or that of this temple. He would die first." As it spoke, Solas could feel the raw power in the certainty of its words. "Atop this temple is a portal that can only be unlocked by the staff of the Dragon Priest Nahkriin."

Solas released a breath he did not realise he was holding, but Fahliil paid him no mind, still pacing.

"I killed the priest some years ago but, on my return, the staff was nowhere to be found. I tracked down one of his apprentices to the tower behind you. It had raised a small army of undead to keep us… distracted. When the apprentice opened the portal, I saw a great beast – a dragon unlike any I had seen – trying to break through. But, before it could, I was, somehow, sucked inside and swallowed by a green light."

Fahliil turned to face him. "When I woke here, the world was lifeless, the same green light a poisonous miasma. But when I first woke, there were people. Soldiers."

"Yes. You fell from the Fade – where we now stand – and the soldiers took you to a nearby village."

"After they tried to kill me."

Solas released a weary sigh. He had hoped, but life was never easy, and Templars only made it harder.

"You are a monster to them, Fahliil. Men fear what they do not understand and cannot explain."

"But not you."

"I offered my aid when they brought you to Haven, the village closest to the temple that was destroyed. I have experienced much of the Fade, and I hoped my knowledge could be of some use."

"Why?" Her pace had slowed from an enraged animal to a patient predator.

"The magic that tore a hole in the sky also tore a hole in the Fade, and that magic has attached itself to you."

"I am well aware. The magic you speak of is… foreign to me. It seeks to control my body. I have denied it this. Now, it seeks to claim my mind. It is a disease, a parasite. It does not seek to kill me but consume me, and I have no intention of letting it. Can you fight this magic, Solas?"

"No, I cannot. It was my hope that I might be able to contain it, for we yet have need of it." At its gesture to continue, Solas complied. "The largest hole, the Breach, is responsible for the creation of the Rifts, and demons –"

"Demons? You mean Dremora."

Dremora...?

Chapter IV: Negotiations

"I... do not think so, for I do not know what Dremora are."

"Dremora are Lesser Daedra, servants to the Daedric Lords that inhabit the Planes of Oblivion," Fahliil explained, its voice bland in its neutrality, as if it were simply imparting common knowledge.

"It sounds as if your Dremora, and Daedra, are similar to our Demons. Demons inhabit the Fade, praying upon the minds of Dreamers in an attempt to possess them, allowing them to experience the physical world they covert."

"If what you say is true, then Dremora and Daedra are nothing like your Demons. Not even the weakest of the Dremora would stoop so low as to inhabit the body of a mortal, nor is it required for them to experience the physical world."

Solas could not believe his ears. Did he truly know so little of the Fade?

"Some disguise themselves as mortals, and they are often used as vessels or messengers for the Daedric Lords, but neither would ever inhabit such a weak prison. It would surely destroy their victims or, at the very least, render them incurably insane."

"Fascinating!" Solas spoke without permission, making it impossible for him to hide the awe in his voice.

Fahliil laughed, a booming sound that had the mountains laughing with them. "You are not the first to think so and, by Azura, you will not be the last. I expected to encounter some here, but I have only met strange monstrosities that preyed upon my emotions. Are these the Demons you speak of?"

"Yes, and they range in both power and strength, depending on the emotion the embody. Rage is widely considered to be the weakest –"

"And yet one of the strongest forces in its all-consuming corruption."

Can… Dremora speak of experience? Solas bowed his head in agreement, delighted beyond words. "– and Pride is considered the strongest."

Fahliil hummed thoughtfully, and Solas felt something… shift in the Fade, though he could not identify what, and that concerned him greatly. They would no doubt appear as a veritable feast but, without its brother, Fahliil was only half as strong as the demons believed it to be, and Solas had no desire to fight. Time was running out. It was impossible to say how long he had been asleep.

"The demons," Solas began, "they have hounded our people for days. But it has been theorised that the magic branded upon your hand could seal the Rifts and, possibly, the Breach itself. I would ask, on behalf of Thedas, that you help us, Fahliil."

"And I offer my aid, my word that I will help your people and find those responsible for the devastation that has befallen them. I must also warn you –" Solas straightened his spine, preparing for the worst. "– that, unlike your demons, I have not studied Thedas."

"You… have not?"

"No. I have studied another world."

Another world…?

"One where every mortal, be they Man or Mer, possesses the innate ability to learn, and practise, magic." Solas sat as still as a statue, struck speechless by Fahliil's revelation. "If you would offer me your knowledge and understanding of Thedas, I would grant you my knowledge and understanding of Nirn."

A weight of uncertainty came to rest squarely on Solas' shoulders.

"I would accept, but we do not have the luxury of time," he argued.

"The process requires but a few moments. For me, at least. You, however, may not be able to absorb knowledge the same way my brothers and I can."

Brothers? More Dremora?

"Regardless, please, think on it. My offer still stands, as does my promise to assist you and your people. If you are to depart…?"

"That would be best," Solas agreed, chest easing with relief.

"Then I will follow shortly. May Azura guide you, and the shadows preserve you."

Unable to formulate a verbal response, Solas replied with but a curt nod, swiftly forcing himself to wake lest temptation lead him astray. His legs ached, his throat was still sore, and his head was pounding with questions. He heard the shuffling of metal against stone and declare, to no one in particular, that he would leave and inform the Seeker that their prisoner would soon wake. The Templars offered no objection to this, eyeing him as they did, as if he were a barrel of gaatlok and the fuse invisible. They were all oblivious of the blood trailing in the elf's wake.

Gaatlok - An explosive powder used by Qunari that does not require magic, or lyrium, to use.

Chapter V: Fear and Deceit

Solas kept an even pace until he could slip into the shadows, veering left into an alcove just off the main corridor. Cold air, a few snowflakes, and tattered strands of poisonous green light fell from the grate above. Besides the two Templars standing guard in the warm torchlight either side the dungeon door, Solas was alone, and he took advantage of this rare opportunity to collect his thoughts.

Judging by the lack of natural light, Solas had lost half a day, having entered the dungeon shortly after noon. They would not be able to leave for the temple until daybreak, and that meant he had time. Time enough to forge a plan.

Perhaps he would have been rash, had he taken the demon – Dremora – up on its offer, but he had been equally rash to refuse it.

I must warn you that, unlike your demons, I have not studied Thedas.

I have studied another world.

Nirn.

Nirn. A world in which all mortals supposedly possessed magic. It was unbelievable, impossible, and yet… and yet it had not lied to him. Solas knew that, and that made the truth all the more frightening.

What is the Fade to them, if not a realm separated by the Veil?

Fahliil has no connection to the Fade, so where does its power come from?

Why was it alone?

Where are the others?

What did tearing a hole in the Veil do to its... brothers?

What was the dragon, the Priest, and the portal it spoke of?

It had not been as he feared, but it could become so. If the portal permitted one uninhibited access to the Fade, (and he highly suspected that it did), without requiring an obscene amount of power and lyrium to make it function, this creature could have come from… anywhere.

Heaving in an extended breath of cold winter air, Solas exhaled slowly, a process he repeated until his mind had calmed. His first concerned was establishing a means of communication.

Solas had spoken in Common, the universal language of Thedas, but he could not assume it was used on this 'Nirn'. The Fade's ability to seamlessly translate all languages was what enabled Spirits, and Demons, to speak to whomsoever entered their realm. If it did not possess even a rudimentary understanding of the language, communication could prove impossible. Its desire to learn, however, would see that swiftly rectified.

On the rare occasion Solas could see a worthwhile benefit to making a deal with a demon (which he would twist to his own specifications) he would accept, but he had been absent from this world for far too long to even consider making such a foolish mistake.

There was no way of knowing if it knew any of the other languages of Thedas, though Solas was hopeful it did. If their worlds shared a common language – preferably not the Common Tongue – that was something he could use to his advantage.

If not, there would be no other option. As invaluable as Fahliil's knowledge would be, and as much as he did not want anyone, especially the Templars, to discover the cruel truth, to accept the deal could prove disastrous. For everyone.

His feet were heavy as he mounted the stairs to the Chantry proper. The bustling noise from dawn to dusk had abated, replaced by the muffled tears, whimpers and snores of the people the Sisters had granted shelter from the cold. Solas paid them no mind, turned left, and rapped his knuckles on the door to the Ambassador's office.

A clear, commanding voice bid him entrance. Josephine Montilyet, a woman with warm skin, her hair and eyes the same colour at the ink that filled the reams of parchment before her, gave him a small smile and greeted him politely.

"Ah, Solas. What can I do for you?" she asked, setting down her quill to give him her full attention.

"I was looking for the Seeker. Do you know where I might find her?"

"She should be in the briefing room with Sister Leliana and Commander Cullen."

"Thank you. Would it be possible for you to accompany me? I believe the information I have to share will concern you, as well."

"Of course," she assured. "I will join you momentarily."

For good measure, Solas closed her door and made straight for the last room in the main hall; the door was flanked by a pair of banners twice his height, sporting the Chantry heraldry. He knocked, waited, and was greeted by a grey-eyed Seeker. On identifying him, she found her second wind and waved him in without so much as a word.

Before she could close the door, the Ambassador slipped inside and took her usual place between Sister Leliana – a woman dressed in unique Chantry robes with steel blue eyes, short auburn hair, and skin almost as pale as the snow – and Commander Cullen Rutherford, a man dressed in heavy Red Steel with a Red Lion fur pelt for a cloak; his skin looked sallow in the candlelight, and his brown eyes black with undying determination.

"What have you learned?" the Seeker demanded.

"The mark stranded the creature's consciousness in the Fade, in an effort to consume its body. It has managed to, temporarily, restrain this magic and should wake shortly."

"Do you know what it is?" the Commander asked.

Solas had anticipated this.

"No. It has little, if anything, in common with the demons that inhabit the Fade. It did, however, claim to have undergone a mission with its brother, to kill a dragon priest."

This was information he could not deny them, otherwise it would come back to haunt him like Fear and Deceit.

"Haven has had its fair share of cultists in the past, but the old village lies abandoned. Has it taken up residency in the ruins?" Leliana questioned.

"If it has, its brother may have survived the explosion. They could be invaluable to gaining its trust, and forging an alliance in the future," the Ambassador proposed. "We should secure his safety."

"Our priority should be the Breach," the Commander argued. "Until it's seal, we cannot spare the manpower to go searching for a man that may, or may not, exist."

The Seeker rounded on Solas. "Can the Breach be sealed?"

"The mark should first be tested on one of the Rifts and, if it is successful, we should try to close as many of them as possible before attempting –"

A roar of thunder, reverberating from beneath their feet, shook them, the earth, and the very mountain they stood upon. Cries of alarm rose to a crescendo, drowning the pounding gallop of an approaching Templar. He stormed inside the room, slammed the door behind him and declared, his face whitewashed with fear:

"It's awake."

Chapter VI: Playing with Fire

When most people play with fire, they get burned. But what happens to those that don't...?

A short while after Solas faded into Oblivion, Fahliil conjured an old Nordic throne and sat upon it like a Jarl.

"Solas," it sibilated, tasting the word on its tongue. "So-lass? Sol-ass?" It scoffed. Sorrowful ass? "Hmm… So-laas?" Sorrowful life? Your sorrowful life? Yours… or mine?

"His name meads 'pride'."

The voice echoed, bouncing off stone and rattling the runes, but it emanated from a nearby source. It felt furious, the tone matching that of a gravelled bark from a dying wolf consumed by its hunger. Fahliil had killed more than enough to recognise the sound.

"I know you are there, demon. Come forward. I will not harm you. I simply wish to talk."

For a time, all was silent. Then the sound of stone sliding across stone met Fahliil's sensitive ears, and the cracked remains of Rage emerged from the right-hand side of the temple, far below the bridge where Desire still lay. It drew no closer than the bottom step of the central staircase, standing aside from the spinal remains of a once prehensile tail. Among its many crevasses were dry red veins, the colour of congealed blood, and its body – once the colour of liquid Fire Salts – now looked little better than the rotten remains of a dead Spriggan.

"You look dreadful," Fahliil greeted.

"And I take great pleasure in knowing that you feel no better."

Fahliil inclined its head. "So, demons read minds."

"We do no such thing!" Rage snapped. "We hunger for, as they call them, the 'emotions' we embody."

"Solas embodies pride?"

"Once. Long ago. He was old and powerful. Now, as I have seen, he is young and weak. He has much work to do if he is to reclaim the right to bear his old name. We will not listen to him until he does."

"And what was his old name?"

Rage shuffled back, pieces of earth breaking off the stump where his left arm should have hung. "We do not speak it! It is because of him that we are trapped here. Most have forgotten, but I remember the rage his actions fed. So long as it remains, so will I, and I remind them of his betrayal."

"Why? What did he do?" Fahliil was on its feet now, descending the stairs.

"Something… unforgiveable," Rage replied, its haste slicing through syllables so as to make its words almost unintelligible.

"Is that why he left? Is that why he abandoned you?"

Whatever fire burned inside rage tried to break the rock entombing it, but it was unsuccessful.

"Pride does as he wants, as he wishes, just as it had always been."

He has done it before, and he will do it again.

Now standing atop the lower half of the stairs, Fahliil took a seat on another stone throne and beckoned Rage to join them.

"Come. Perhaps we can help each other. I have no more desire to stay here than you."

"I cannot leave without a body, Somnir."

"Somnir…? What does that mean?"

"…Dreamer," Rage replied, its voiced measured with as much fear as respect.

"Then, if I am a 'Somnir', a Dreamer, then I must be… dreaming." Now I wander through the realms of Oblivion as I sleep? I guess there is a first time for everything. "If I leave when I wake, can you not follow? Through the… Rifts?"

"Were I to do so, I would face certain death."

"Then why have you not tried to bargain with me in order to… possess my body? Is that not what demons do?"

"I am not so foolish to think I hold any power over you. Not anymore. Nor am I so desperate, so – what is it they say? Suicidal? – to even try and possess you."

When its words sunk in, Fahliil replied. "Pride underestimates you."

"We were all beneath him… once." Rage did not quite sigh, but it was a close thing as it took the second throne Fahliil conjured, its joints creaking and cracking in protest, making its red veins burn brighter, hotter, stronger.

"Then use your knowledge against him. What is his greatest enemy? His greatest desire?"

"Wisdom," it answered, immediately. "He was once wise. He still thinks himself wise, but he is a fool. He desires all knowledge, all wisdom. He desires… you. He is enraged he does not know you. But he will, in time."

"Time changes everything." Fahliil stood, turned, and began to pace, showing her back to Rage as she passed. "He is no warrior. He used magick in the Fade, which means he can most likely use magick outside of it, as well. I… I do not have that luxury. When I first arrived in Thedas, I could not summon my Magicka, and their soldiers possessed a strange… energy, a power unlike any I have ever felt. It was as if they… poisoned me, depleting my Magicka with their own, but they never so much as cast a single lightning bolt."

"They are Templars," Rage hissed, small pockets of smoke rising from the cracks adorning its body. "Demon hunters. Spirit slayers… Mage murderers. Lyrium gives them their power and with it, they cut off mages from the Fade."

"Why?"

"To render them powerless, easy pickings for their wrath. They devised a ritual that permanently severs a mage's connection to the Fade, rendering them, as they would say, emotionless…"

"Stendarr have mercy on their souls. And I thought Nords were barbaric."

"…What are 'Nords'?" Rage asked, shuffling aside as it came to join Fahliil overlooking the green, grey and gold valley beneath the blanket of silver clouds.

"Nords are a race of man in Tamriel. They, as a people, are mistrustful of magic and any who use it. I, on the other hand, am a Dark Elf, and I was born with a natural affinity for fire."

The black, button-sized pieces of coal that stood for Rage's eyes began to spark.

"With your aid, I could channel the wrath of my ancestors, generations upon generations of mages, centuries – millennia – of memories fuelled by anger, hate and… rage."

"And what would I gain in return?"

Beneath its helmet, Fahliil was smiling. "I never use up all that energy, and that power would have to travel through you, first, before it can reach me."

"You do not draw your magic from the Fade?"

"No. I draw my Magicka from Aetherius, the inverse of Oblivion, its opposite in every way. If the Fade is truly a realm of Oblivion, it would stand to reason that with it open – and until this 'Breach' is sealed – Aetherius will remain closed to me. You can take as much as you like. I have an infinite supply of memories to fill the void. But, I would suggest you sample cautiously. Absolute power corrupts absolutely."

The exchange of light over its eyes made it appear as if Rage had blinked.

"You speak from experience."

Fahliil turned away to look far and wide across the land below. It was impossible to determine where Eastmarch ended and The Rift began.

"A story for another time."

"I look forward to hearing it. But first…" It shuffled backwards, towards the stairs. "…there is something I must show you."

"Oh?" Rage could not see its smirk, but it could sense amusement, curiosity… and concern.

"I have no desire to see Pride return to power. Here, you can defeat him. But out there…" Rage shook its head, cracking its neck. "Consider it a… gift."

"One I will repay in the future," Fahliil promised, extending their left arm.

With great caution, Rage accepted the hand, a strange heat flaring up its arm and into its chest the moment they made contact. Its veins began to bleed not blood, but lava.

"Such power!" it growled, staring at its burning fingers, the rocks melting to reveal minuscule crystals.

Fahliil's dark chuckle would have been worthy of Pride. "Given time, you will receive even more. I never forget my friends. Or my enemies."

"And which will your gift be?" Rage asked.

"That depends what it is."

Rage could not smile, but it made a terrifying attempt, rock cleaved from rock to reveal a small cavern with half-formed, crooked stalactites and stalagmites in place of teeth.

"It is not a what, but a who, Somnir. Come. I will introduce you."

Somnir - Dreamer (in Tevene).

Sol - Sorrowful (your).
Laas - Life.

Chapter VII: A Deal with the Devil

The demon has escaped, and it returns... willingly? Now, the Inquisition has no choice but to agree to its whims and demands if they wish to seal the Breach. Cullen is less than pleased.

Cullen did not draw his blade, not until he reached the deepest depths of the dungeon. It would not get past them and, once it was under their control, they would ascend the mountain. On his orders, Wilhelm had already left to gather the troops. With luck, they would reach the Temple by noon, and perhaps even close the Breach by day's end.

Side by side with the Seeker, Cullen swept through the alcoves, side rooms, and separate cells, only just withholding his instinct to stab and slash at every shadow. There was nothing, no one, savour a lone Templar lying prone on the cold stone.

"He is still breathing," the Apostate claimed.

How he could tell, from the opposite end of hall, behind Lady Cassandra and Sister Leliana, Cullen did not know. Nor did he want to know. Yet, upon closer inspection, Cullen found the elf's claims were true, and he sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Maker.

"Heavy bruising, a broken rib, and a mild concussion. The others yet live –"

Thank the Maker!

"– and are in a similar state of unconsciousness."

Unconscious?

Cullen looked up from Logan, a Ferelden stationed in the newly rebuilt Kinloch Hold. The dungeon door had been all but torn off its hinges, and he could distinctly see four armoured bodies spread out on their backs. The closest to him – Vern, another Ferelden – had lost his helmet; it had been set aside a short distance, just out of immediate reach, and Vern's head had been turned, permitting him to cough up his blood rather than choke on it. But there was something missing.

"The prisoner!"

"Gone."

Cullen had not heard, or seen, Leliana pass him. It did not improve his mood. Nor did the mangled remains of the chains and shackles used to secure the demon. There was nothing left of them; there were dents in the silverite armour his Templars wore, and it had defeated five highly trained warriors in the time it took them to arrive. What did that say about the demon? What did that say about them? Their defences? Their plan to seal the Rifts – the Breach?

"It must still be here, somewhere. It did not reach the main hall, nor has it passed us since we arrived."

Cullen nodded. The Seeker's logic was sound, a reassuring certainty.

"It is not here, nor anywhere else in the corridor," Leliana argued. "Solas. Is there any magic at work here?"

"I can sense only the residual energy of the mark I inspected, and it is still within close proximity to us."

The Nightingale turned to him. "Commander?"

What could he say? That he could not sense the mark's magic? That the Apostate's own magic was interfering with his senses? That his senses could not pick up any residual energy with the Breach breathing down the back of his neck? Cullen settled for what he knew.

"Whatever it is, and wherever it has gone, I cannot track its magic. Not when it used brute force to escape."

"Did it seem… intelligent to you, Solas?" the Seeker asked.

"It certainly seemed confused, curious, and quick to anger. It remembered the fight prior to its capture."

Maker help us!

"It also gave me a name: Fah-liil. Fahliil. When it returns, and it will return – if only to prove its strength – it would be in our best interests to treat it civilly."

"Civilly? After this?" Cullen spat. "Five men could have died!"

"If it wanted them dead, Commander, they would not still live."

Before Cullen could retort that the demon had already killed thousands, Logan began to stir, and Cullen set about loosening his chest plate.

"At ease, soldier. Your safe. Take your time. Breathe. Can you tell us where the demon went?"

When he made to raise a hand, Cullen removed his gauntlet, and his eyes followed Logan's shaking fingers up, up, up to the –

"Up there?"

The Seeker was not alone in her bewilderment. Two full grown Qunari could stand on top of one another, and they still might not reach the ceiling. Leliana, however, thought Logan's claim was worth testing for, after a running start, she jumped up the side of the wall and – using the torch sconces for support – leapt for the grate fixed to the ceiling. For a moment, she hung. Then she dropped, cheeks tinged red and eyes alight with adrenaline.

"Difficult," she nodded, rising to her feet with the grace befitting the Empress of Orlais, "but not impossible."

Cassandra was about to protest when Leliana stepped back, sinking into the shadows. No sooner had she done so did a pair of black feet lowered themselves over the edge. In an instant, the demon was bent double before them, stooped in a low crouch, its arms – from what little Cullen could see – where crossed over its chest. Slowly, it rose, and Cullen understood why.

Standing a full head taller than Cullen, the demon made no effort to hide the bundle of rags lying in its arms. Amongst the bundle were a pair of thin arms, legs and a pale head with small, pointed ears, hair so light it looked almost white, and a pair of clouded purple eyes. It was a child, an elven child, and her arms clung to the demon as if it were her mother.

He unsheathed his sword, the Seeker copying him, but Solas barred his path.

"Commander, please. We can reason with it. No one else has to die."

The demon nodded. "I am not here to kill."

The demon's voice was… wrong. It sounded wrong – its foreign accent, its deep, guttural tone befitting a wild animal – and it felt wrong, its breath an inhuman, impossible warmth coursing through the air that, for one reason or another, made Cullen's heart beat faster, harder, stronger. It was as if Cullen was inhaling fire; the heat made his eyes water, it burned his lungs, but it strengthened his senses.

Just like… like –

"Then put the child down, Fahliil. Prove to us you mean no harm."

"No! Don't let me go!" the child cried, hugging the demon all the more closely. It could not have been comfortable, but she did not seem to care. "We had a deal!"

Cullen's body shook so violently he almost dropped his sword.

The child… she is a mage? How did I not see it? Who hid her from me? Why were they trying to hide her? What are they planning? Why did she make a deal with a demon? Is she… No, she cannot be responsible. Not a child!

"Indeed we do, da'len." Solas stiffened. "Would you permit me to tell them what you asked of me?"

"Why? They don't care."

"We would be able to find him faster with their cooperation."

"Find who, Fahliil?" Solas asked, voice stern, brokering no argument.

The demon tilted its head towards the child who, after a brief pause, nodded and buried her head against the demon's chest. It was a sickening sight that had Cullen outright snarling.

One of the rebel leaders? Her master, perhaps? Did he enslave the child and the demon?

"Inquisition, this is Belle, one of your refugees from the Crossed Road and –"

"Crossroads," Belle corrected, if somewhat timidly, though she seemed to have no concerns about interrupting a demon. "In the Hinterlands."

The demon gave the child what Cullen believe was its imitation of a one-armed hug. It hurt him, a blunt knife to his hard heart, to see how the child smiled so sweetly in reply.

"She came here with her mother and father, both of which were slain by Templars –"

"How dare you?"

"Commander –"

Cullen pushed Solas aside. "How dare you stand there and accuse my soldiers of murder!"

The demon's growl, the sole warning a slumbering wolf might give before pouncing, sent a shiver down Cullen's spine, but he did not back down.

"These Templars were… what did you call them, Belle?"

"Abominations," she whispered, refusing to meet Cullen's eyes.

"Yes… Abominations. Beasts with red crystals growing from their flesh, through their broken, bloodstained armour, armed with weapons that cry, sing and scream."

"So angry!" Belle sobbed.

"They will not hurt you, da'len. I will not let them."

"Is that why you are here, Fahliil?" At one point or another, Leliana had slipped back into the moonlight, her face a calm mask of curiosity. "To hunt these… Red Templars?"

"So long as I serve, I remain. My contracts are bound by blood –" Cullen turned aside, hair curling, skin grey and eyes dark. "– and broken only by death. My last master is dead, our bond broken. There was no telling how long I would remain in your world, and I promised Solas my aid in sealing the Breach. I do not break my promises."

"That remains to be seen. Did Solas tell you the dangers we face?"

"Demons falling from the sky. I have not witnessed such a phenomenon myself, but those that have… Let us say that their experience was well… documented. These Rifts you speak of, we call them Oblivion Gates, portals between planes. There can be as few as a dozen, or as many as a hundred, with any one Breach."

It was hard to tell, the clouds having swept across the moon, but all the blood Leliana possessed had drained from her face. From behind, where she had pressed her advantage in flanking her opponent, the Seeker sheathed her sword. The demon turned, granting Cassandra their undivided attention.

"It is Solas' belief that the mark on your hand can seal these… Gates. It is also our hope that it can seal the Breach itself."

After shifting Belle in its arms, the demon examined the pulsing green scar across its left hand. Around it was an almost translucent barrier, forged from miniscule runes the colour of aquamarine gemstones.

"Keep Belle safe, and I will do everything within my power to aid you."

"Agreed."

"That's it? You're just accepting its word?" There were none to describe Cullen's fury.

"We have no choice! Before we can even begin to understand what has happened here, we must seal the Breach otherwise the Inquisition will die before it has been reborn."

Reluctantly, Cullen sheathed his sword. "I will gather what men I can and meet you at the Forward Camp. Maker watch over you, Cassandra."

"Maker watch over us all."

Da'len - child.

Chapter VII: The Art of Diplomacy

Josephine may not be a Bard, but she is no less talented in the Great Game as the Divine's Nightingale. There are no rules, but the Ambassador still finds herself dancing to the demon's tune...

Leliana forbid her from venturing down into the dungeons, and Leliana always knew what was best. It did not, however, stop her from eavesdropping. If she concentrated very hard, she could hear almost everything that transpired beneath her feet. As such, Josephine was not surprised to learn that she had been entrusted with Belle's care.

Quill poised, always ready to take notes, she pulled a spare piece of parchment from a short stack on the left-hand side of her desk; she would speak with Solas about furthering her understanding of Elven, if only to bridge the gap between herself and the child. A common understanding of the Trade Tongue would only get them so far, and there was no guarantee that she had been sufficiently educated to answer the questions Leliana would, undoubtedly, impose she answer. That would take time and patience, and Josephine was willing to meet her friend halfway.

It appeared so suddenly that she knocked over her ink pot, destroying her latest letter to Lady Angelique Chantelle Geraldine Marguerite Sylviane Chambray, and the beautiful desk Leliana had procured for her, and on such short notice. The creature, carrying the child as only a mother could, righted it with a polite apology before wriggling its fingers. The motion was lazy and seemingly uncoordinated, its attention focused on consoling the child.

It spoke in a language Josephine could not discern, and it irritated her to no end – she knew only one word, Belladonna – but she was promptly distracted by an array of burnt orange tendrils, comprised solely of magic, that embraced the black liquid staining the wood. They looked like headless snakes, perfectly benign, and they siphoned the ink from the desk – through their transparent bodies – back into the pot, leaving no evidence that such an embarrassing incident had ever occurred.

Leliana then appeared at its elbow and introduced it as "Fahliil".

She gave no indicated that she was aware Fahliil had cast magic, or if she was aware – which was entirely possible – she gave no indication that such actions were forbidden, and now, standing in its presence, it was not something Josephine wanted to call attention to.

Throughout her life, Josephine had heard, and read, about all manner of monstrosities, and the creature's armour was nothing short of terrifying to behold. Yet, it introduced itself with the fluid grace of a noble, speaking perfect Antivan with such calm, clear sophistication that the Ambassador was, for once, at a loss for words. They even shook hands. She was not going to act hostile when she had been treated so cordially, regardless of Leliana's simmering disapproval.

The kiss on her dorsum was a nice, if unexpected, touch.

There were actual lips under the helmet, plump and succulent and scarred. They were warm, and that warmth trickled up her arm and spread throughout her body in the time it took Leliana to blink. Josephine was quite certain that the Bard had not blinked since she entered the office but, rather than feeling afraid or concerned, she felt… calm, content, complacent. Belle gave her a knowing smile, and Josephine returned the gesture, promising that no harm would come to the girl. The words came freely, instinctively, and Josephine found she meant them with every fibre of her being.

Then it just… disappeared, fading from view after conjuring a brilliant purple orb that, somehow, rendered it invisible. Leliana's surprise was not as tangible as it should have been. Perhaps she had simply been aware Fahliil possessed such an extraordinary ability. Presently, Josephine could not express her honest astonishment because she was not... astonished. It was a miracle that she was able to restrain herself so completely.

Belle stared after her adopted guardian for a long time, long enough for Josephine to weigh the advantages and disadvantages that a change of scenery would impose.

Rather than wait in her cold office, she took the child to the room she shared with Leliana and Cassandra, just across the hall. Belle did not want to be carried, but she accepted the Ambassador's hand, and Josephine took it as a sign of good faith. It was easily one of the warmest rooms in the Chantry, and after slipping off the old rags she wore in place of clothes, swapping them for her smallest silk nightshift, Belle proudly declared that she was a "good Shemlen".

"My… My mama told me not to use that, that word. She said it was our duty to be better than our ancestors."

The light that lit Josephine's eyes when she talked about her mother was missing in Belle's.

"Pardon me for asking, but, was your mother, by any chance, a member of the Dalish?"

"Before she met… papa." Her eyes, if possible, grew even darker. "They met after the… the Blight. She stayed in Denerim to help in the Alienage. King Alistair's a good Shemlen, too…"

"Indeed, he is," Josephine agreed, taking to the floor in front of the fire beside the child. "But not everyone thinks so, just as most people are afraid of your new friend."

"No! They're wrong about her!"

Josephine did not know if demons had genders, per say, but Fahliil was unlike any demon the Ambassador possessed knowledge of, and neither Seeker Pentaghast or Commander Cullen had been able to answer her questions, so it was entirely possible that Fahliil was… a woman. Learning such information show not... comfort her.

"She got lost. It tossed her far from home. The sky wasn't angry where she comes from. She was alone, and afraid, like me. But he found her. He brought us together!"

"Who did?" she asked, softly. Her mind was perfectly capable of making the appropriate connections, based on the information provided and the potential results, but they did not alarm her as they should. That, alone, should have alarmed her.

It should have, but it did not. Josephine had never felt so self-aware, so controlled, and she believed the new-found source of her confidence was trailing her fingers through the ruffles of her skirt, exploring life as a child should. She had excellent taste.

"The red angry one. I… I didn't like him. Not at first. But he kept me warm. He told me I wasn't the only one. He tried to – to teach me, and she promised to help! She's going to show me how to walk through fire without getting burned!"

"Perhaps it would be best if she started with something a bit… smaller. Like lighting a candle, for example."

"Like, in a Chantry?" Belle's dejection was tangible.

"Yes," Josephine nodded, unaffected. "Have you ever been to a Chantry service?"

"No!"

Belle spat the word, her anger a physical force. She slammed her fists down atop her knees, leaving minute bruises, and a few marks that looked suspiciously like burns. Somehow, Josephine knew now was not the time to attend to them, or to console her charge.

"They never let us Knife-Ears in through the door! And the mean men always looked at me funny…"

They were, undoubtedly, Templars. Josephine had never been excellent at predicting a child's age – adults were far easier – but Belle could not be older than ten winters. Most mages were… caught between the ages of six and twelve. It painted a pretty grim image in the Ambassador's mind. There were as many nobles voting in favour of the Circle's dissolution as there were defending its existence.

"How long have you been a mage, Belle?" she asked, the first tears of fear dripping into her tone.

"I didn't know! Honest!"

"You're not in trouble," Josephine assured, drawing the child into her arms, embracing her just as her mother had done when she was a child. It alarmed her to find how easily she could feel, and identify, each and every bone.

"You're nice," Belle sighed, failing to hide her subtle sniffing. "Mama said you had a good soul…"

Josephine did not know if that was a compliment. She did not know if she wanted it to be a compliment. Alas, with a young child half asleep in her arms, she had more pressing concerns to address than the safety of her soul.