A/N: Hello all! So I've been consumed by Dragon Age: Inquisition lately, so here I am trying my hand at this. This is basically what's been going on in my head as I play through with my Elven Inquisitor, so I thought I'd share it with you all. The title of the fic and the titles of the chapters come from Yeats' poem, "Cloths of Heaven," if you were wondering. Please enjoy!

Had I the Heavens' Embroidered Cloths

She falls from a hole in the world.

Compared to what will come later, this is the least surprising thing about her.

She is Dalish and that is surprising. So rarely do her people venture into the world, let alone take steps that may change it forever, perhaps irrevocably.

He wonders if she dreams, lying there, tortured by the mark on her hand. Late in the night, when even the Seeker is forced to sleep, he steals into the prisoner's quarters and stretches himself out on the floor beside her. Had the area been secured, he would have tried sleeping at the ruins of the Temple to see what answers he might find there. Now, though, what remains at the Conclave is overrun by demons and too dangerous even for him. Instead, he settles down beside the strange Dalish elf who had been branded by the Veil and wonders if he perhaps can taste her dreams, find some hint of who she is and from whence she comes. In truth, if he could not see her chest rising and falling with each breath, he would think her dead. He closes his eyes and reaches out his mind, searching, but the Fade guards her secrets carefully. He catches only snatches, wisps of memory, and he has no way of knowing to whom they belong. A flash of green, the smell of the earth, the twang of a bow...fire...tears… searing pain… kill the elf … - he gasps awake. That voice.

He stumbles back to his room and thinks about leaving. He should go. Flee and find someone somewhere who can answer his questions. But the girl… The thought of her wrenches his heart. She is probably his best hope for answers and yet… can he wait that long for her to wake? The Seeker is growing restless.

With shaking fingers he reaches towards his staff and curses that young girl for ever waltzing right into the heart of the mess he's made. Perhaps he would deal with her later, but he can't stay here now, he decides. With that he steals away from Haven as early morning brushes against the wound in the sky. Once more, Solas tells himself. One more attempt to seal the Breach.

She comes in a blaze of fire, flanked by the Seeker. Fenedhis lasa, she's a mage. He can hardly believe she's standing, let alone flinging fire at the demons pouring from the Rift. The thought draws his eyes suddenly to the green light burning in her fist. An idea strikes him.

"Quickly!" he shouts, dispensing with all introduction and explanation. "Before more come through!" She seems to know what he wants even before he reaches for her and without a moment's hesitation she slips her hand into his and allows him to focus it towards the Rift. A blind hope, the last desperate attempt… but it works.

In that moment he feels a shift in the turning of the worlds. It resonates to his core, as though the universe itself had coiled in the deepest parts of him, only to relax when she healed the tear in the sky. The sensation would drive a weaker man to his knees; as it stands, Solas barely manages to keep from staring at her in abject amazement before she turns to him.

"What did you do?" Her voice is much gentler than he expected.

"I did nothing," he says quickly, feeling Cassandra's eyes upon him. "The credit is yours."

"Well, at least this mark was good for something," she mumbles, an attempt at levity, but he can hear the tremor in her voice, can see the way she holds her hand away from her, as though something diseased, foreign.

"Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand," he explains quickly, equal parts uncertain if his words will help and vaguely worried he will reveal too much. "I theorized the mark might be able to close the Rifts in the Breach's wake." He forces a smile. "And it appears I was correct." The Seeker surges forward to exclaim about the possibilities, but he cannot tear his eyes from her. The elf looks back at him, hope dawning in her eyes, perhaps for answers he isn't sure he has.

"It seems you hold the key to our salvation." He regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth. She sways slightly on her feet and all at once he can see the weight of this descending on her. He suddenly wonders where her clan is and why they sent her. This is only the beginning. He can see that realization building in her and in that moment they both understand: she is never going to see them again. He opens his mouth to say something more, but the dwarf chooses that moment to sashay into the conversation. The tension between the storyteller and the Seeker is palpable and Solas cannot help but smile when the elf asks Varric if he's with the Chantry.

"Is that a serious question?" Solas ignores the following spat between the Seeker and the dwarf and turns to the elf. "I am Solas, if there are to be introductions." He makes an effort to keep his voice light. "I am...pleased to see you still live."

"He means," Varric pipes up. "'I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.'" Her face brightens immediately into a smile.

"I did not realize," she says. "Ma serranas, lethallin. Emma Illyria Lavellan." Solas blinks, surprised at the sound of the elvhen words (most Dalish see his bare face and assume him to be lost, too removed from the forest to understand the old tongue) and at the ease with which she named him lethallin. Friend.

"You are welcome," he says, cautiously returning her smile. "Illyria."

Charge with the soldiers, she says when they ask. He wonders if she notices the way Cassandra and Varric fall in line behind her as they make their way towards the Breach. He too is surprised by the implicit trust the Seeker places in her, but he brings up the rear of their little party nevertheless.

They cut down the demons quickly and when the Rift can no longer spit them out, she tentatively raises her hand. "Solas…" He tears his eyes away from the Rift and realizes she's staring at him, eyes pleading for guidance. He gives an encouraging nod, ready to lend her his will if she needs it, and then with little more than a wave of her hand, the Rift closes, stilling the air back to silence.

"You are getting quite proficient at that," he says, placing a hand on her shoulder as she almost sags with relief. The triumph is short-lived, however, as they progress into the Temple. So many bodies, charred and twisted beyond recognition. Solas senses the thinness of the Veil and feels it like a stone in his gut.

"Setheneran," Illyria whispers. The word sends a chill through him. Land of waking dreams.

"Yes," he murmurs. "I feel it too." Her eyes - grey, he realizes - are wide, her breath comes in short, staggered gasps, and Solas realizes that if they don't seal the Breach soon, the mark will consume her.

"You can do this," he urges, leading her forward. "This Rift was first and it is the key. Seal it and perhaps we seal the Breach." She forces yet another smile at him and looks up, all the way up, at the hole in the sky. She doesn't seem convinced. He can feel her weakening, can see the green fire clenched in her fist burning her up from the inside. He wonders if it hurts; she hasn't complained yet.

Without a word she reaches her arm up and, with a flick of her wrist, tears the Fade open.

He tries to keep an eye on her while he battles the demons that pour from the Rift, but all he can see are flashes of fire and Illyria throwing herself into the thick of the fighting. She fights more like a warrior than a mage at times and he struggles to swallow his mounting distress as he watches her out of the corner of his eye. With a sigh he pushes his will out and around her, throwing a magical barrier over her and the Seeker while he's at it. No sooner has he cast the spell than her head jerks up and she flashes another brilliant smile at him, even as she's bringing her staff down on an enemy in a manner that is far more melee than it is magical. He wonders absently how she can so clearly feel his magic, even in the heat of battle, but he pushes the thought away and contents himself with a nod in her direction and renewing the barrier with another expulsion of will.

Finally the Rift quiets, having exhausted itself of demons for the time being, and Solas screams, "Now!"

And then, with a gesture, she seals another hole in the world.