A/N: I finished Trespasser several days ago and the final scene was so heartbreaking ungh; writing this was strangely cathartic (although editing it was frustrating!) Contains major spoilers, obviously. I think some people may disagree with how I portrayed Lavellan here, but I was really holding out hope for some form of reconciliation. Also, what if Lavellan didn't mind watching the world burn with him at her side? ;)

Two years is an excruciatingly long time when your heart has been broken into a million little pieces by the one who you thought loved you. It is also frighteningly short, as I came to discover quickly. The Inquisition's work was never done - would probably never be done - even after the fall of Corypheus. Stuff like pining for love and shedding tears seemed superfluous, trivial somehow in the face of greater things.

The first few months after Solas' leaving were difficult. But as time wore on we were simply inundated with things to do, problems to solve, and while my heart ached still, I didn't have the luxury, strength, and energy to dwell upon it. It was only in the dead of the night, when sometimes I awoke, did I have time to think of him.

Which was a mixed blessing, actually. His departure was so sudden, and despite her best efforts, Leliana found herself unable to locate him. It was odd, surely, and I thought back of the time at the Temple of Mythal, when Abelas called him elvhen with a cool sense of familiarity. When Solas told the sentinel that his people still existed.

Solas was mysterious, cryptic, an engima. But yet he was my anchor, my guide and hahren in a strange world in which I was flung in under even stranger circumstances. He was ice like I was fire, tempered steel to my brash iron. He was calm, cool, collected. I could not understand him, even now, after these two years, when I thought I knew him. Maybe I never actually understood him at all.

The saddle jerking beneath me brought me back to reality. I laughed, a short barking sound that caused both Josephine and Cullen to turn their heads. Even after two years, I was no better on a horse. Now, marching amongst the Inquisition's troops, I had to be extra careful, lest I lose control of the armoured mount. Still, the sight of the troops, the grand parade, the towering Winter Palace – undoubtedly built on the blood of elves – instilled a sense of pride in me. Pride I never knew I had, and pride I thought I had lost. It still frightened me, somehow, that a Dalish girl, First to her Keeper, had gone on to spearhead one of Thedas' most powerful and influential organisations in the mere span of less than three years. The same Dalish girl, however, still felt lost in her shem clothes on her shem throne.

I looked across to see that Josephine was still looking at me, and in truth, I suspected she still worried for me. After that fateful day slightly more than two years ago when I had returned, bare-faced and morose through the gates of Skyhold, I think she suspected I had changed.

Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't want to deny it, I thought bitterly as we neared the gates. Solas said it was for the sake of my duty that he left, and I loosened my grip on the reins slightly as my thoughts turned back to the present.

My hand hurt. The ache had always been there, even after the fall of Corypheus, a dull feeling that marked the anchor as something entirely foreign. But as of late, the mark had begun hurting again. It had started as a slight itch, and now morphed slowly into a dull pressure. Sometimes, the pain would randomly flare up, like now. I grit my teeth and tightened the reins until I was very sure my knuckles were white beneath my gloves.

"Another parade, another bloody negotiation." Cullen, next to me, complained atop his horse. We were suited up in militaristic formal dress, and while I hated wearing the boots, I was at least glad I didn't have to show up as a shemlen princess. No doubt the Orlesians would get a kick out of that. Thank the creators for military dress.

"Smiles, everyone. We must be careful how we present ourselves." Josephine said carefully, and I bit my lip. Over the past two years the Inquisition had come to be viewed as a somewhat military organisation, which left both Orlais and Ferelden concerned about the potential threat at their doorsteps.

"Why did Divine Victoria call the Exalted Council? She's kept Orlais from bothering us for the last two years." Cullen continued softly beneath a guarded, careful smile.

"At increasing political cost, yes. She has done all she can, but the Exalted Council has become necessary." Josephine smiled politely as she waved at the Orlesian ambassadors. I mimicked her wave, having been schooled patiently in the way of their customs and etiquette by none other than her.

"Orlais would control us. And based on their many marriage proposals, they have specific plans for you." Josephine couldn't keep the smile out of her voice at the last part, and Cullen groaned.

"And Ferelden would see us disbanded." I continued softly even as we waved at the Fereldan ambassador. Arl Teagan's face was polite but reserved, his smile less effusive than Lord Cyril's. "You would think they would be more grateful." I couldn't keep the edge out of my voice.

"Gratefulness and fear can come hand in hand, Inquisitor." Josephine reminded softly. "Nevertheless, this council is necessary."

"I don't think I'll ever understand politics." Cullen sighed.

"You're not alone, then." I whispered as we neared the grand entrance. So much for saving the world.

It started with the body of a dead qunari. Which somehow led to a trail of blood which led to a secreted eluvian in the palace grounds.

Cassandra, next to me, muttered several choice curses. I could think of no better to describe the situation. The Inquisition's work was never really done, then. We entered, and emerged in a land full of bright and vivid colours. I recognised it, somehow, from a vague memory two years ago with Morrigan: The Crossroads.

It felt like old times; we were adventurers, companions, once more in a strange land. Dorian looked about curiously, having returned to the Exalted Council as the ambassador to Tevinter. His father was dead, assassinated he said, and now the Magisterium seat back at Minrathous awaited him. He wouldn't be coming back anymore.

Blackwall – Thom Rainier now – was still somber as usual, although after his reveal (and subsequent redemption) he seemed more at ease with himself, dedicating his life to give hope to the condemned and forgotten, showing faith in those who had none.

Of all the three companions around me now I could say that Cassandra changed the least, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing. She still served the Divine – now Divine Victoria – and she still did so with the utmost zeal and pride. It was heartening to note that some among us still remained somewhat optimistic despite the events of the years past that have surely taken a toll on even the most hardened soul.

We were all changed, somehow, even though none wanted to admit it; and I was saddened to discover that, while this felt like old times, it was nothing like old times. After the fall of Corypheus we had all gone our separate ways, and I was ashamed to admit that we kept in contact less than we should have. I felt like I was surrounded more by acquaintances than friends, although, truth be told, it was entirely my fault.

For in those months between the rebirth of the Inquisition and Corypheus' death, I had always stuck to Solas. I clung to him, and he was my closest friend and confidante; Dorian couldn't compare as a distant second. Perhaps Solas and I shared a common similarity, being both elves and mages, although he certainly wasn't Dalish, and I was convinced he wasn't a city elf.

But what drew me most to him, I reflected, as we trudged quietly along the path, was his quiet wisdom. His intelligence, his aura of charisma and mystery. I was smitten, like a halla enraptured by a wolf, and I couldn't pry myself away. Not that I wanted to, at all. Solas wore an armour about himself, built a fort to keep everybody out, and slowly but surely, I had chipped away at the wall, chipped away until I found his heart. And he had found mine.

"Inquisitor." Thom began, shaking me out of my useless thoughts.

"I'm sorry. Let's proceed." I said quickly, and ignored the dull ache in my hand as I led the way to the next eluvian.

What I found – what we found – in the elven mountain ruins was nothing less of a shocker. To say I was surprised would be a gross understatement, for we gleamed so much new knowledge that I had begun to rethink my people's lore.

We stumbled upon doors, gleaming gold in mosaic tiles like that we saw back at the Temple of Mythal, magicked and protected by a glowing green that shone even brighter when my anchor neared, that sent a wave of words tumbling and rushing through the very air. Words that were felt rather than heard, not only by me but by all of us:

Fen'Harel bids you welcome. Rest, knowing the Dread Wolf guards you and his people guard this valley. In this place, you are free. In trusting us, you will never be bound again.

"That was like veil fire. It claimed... This place was a refuge for elven slaves. This whole valley was a sanctuary, 'created by the Dread Wolf, Fen'Harel.'" I whispered aloud in reverence, at ancient knowledge, although it did little for my understanding. "This doesn't make sense. In Dalish legends, Fen'Harel is our god of misfortune."

There was more, as we proceeded further and further into the ruins, that only served to confound me even further. But the seeds of doubt were planted in my mind already, and there was no turning back.

Fen'Harel has been falsely named a god, but is as mortal as any of you. He takes no divine mantle, and asks that none be bestowed upon him. He leads only those who would help willingly. Let none be beholden but by choice.

"This is... Fen'Harel helping former slaves as a mortal. Not a god."

"He took great pains to renounce his supposed divinity." Cassandra chipped in helpfully, and I was grateful. For the lack of conversation between the four of us, I would have thought I was exploring the Dread Wolf's sanctuary alone.

The gods, our Evanuris, claim divinity, yet they are naught but mortals powerful in magic and can die as you can. In this place, we teach those who join us to unravel their lies.

Going past this final door, brought us to a large chamber. The qunari were dispatched ruthlessly and efficiently and I raced on ahead to a statue of a wolf, like so many I had seen before, surrounded by a large mural painted on a wall that surrounded the semi-circular room.

"That's Fen'Harel – removing Dalish vallaslin?" I held up the veil fire to the wall to get a closer look. The man was wearing the pelt of a wolf, his face partially obscured by its jaw. In one hand he held a staff, and in the other he removed the vallaslin from elves before him. He removed the vallaslin...

"Solas said they were used to mark slaves." My voice trembled slightly. Out of instinct rather than anything else, I lit the brazier beneath Fen'Harel's hand, and we watched, amazed, as the wolf statue in the centre of the room slid to the side to expose a descending flight of stairs.

I gulped, tightened the grip on my staff, and led the way down carefully.

And one last magicked door, another message, felt rather than heard:

The brand of the Evanuris can be lifted from you, that all may know you oppose their cruelties. None here are slaves. All are under our protection. All may choose to fight.

The Vir Dirthara was a beautiful place, splendid even in its decay. The archivist, however, painted a clearer if not more painful picture. She repeated the last words of many, more sensation and emotion than anything else. The Vir Dirthara, she explained, was the living knowledge of the elven empire. The last words of those caught when the paths crumbled, however, were much more telling.

"How could the Dread Wolf cast a Veil between the world that wakes and the world that dreams?"

"After he held back the sky to imprison the gods, the Dread Wolf disappeared!"

"You're wasting your time. Fen'Harel's Veil has turned our empire to ruins."

"So the ancient elven empire collapsed because the Veil weakened magic?" I whispered, although it was more to myself than anything.

"Do you realise what this means? What this place is? The actual history of the elves could change everything." Dorian exclaimed.

I scarcely had time to ponder, and we had no time to investigate. The qunari were everywhere, and time was of the essence. It was one particular qunari, however, that gave me the penultimate piece I never knew was missing from my nonexistent puzzle.

She was the Viddasala, their leader, and she accused the Inquisition of helping the "agents of Fen'Harel" – the rebel god and his freed slaves. There was a self-satisfied smug look on her face, and I hated it. While she fled through the eluvian we quickly dispatched the qunari she sent after us. I was, however, more deep in thought than anything else. The archivist had provided answers to my questions, but had also raised a lot more new thoughts in my mind.

The knowledge I gained changed everything; all that my people knew and held true. Solas was right; the Dalish knew nothing, and instead stubbornly clung to their beliefs. But if he was right that we were wrong, then what, exactly, was the truth?

"Ellana, you may want to take a look at this." Dorian held up a note from the table. We were at the top of a squat tower in Darvaarad now, having taken a quick break from the qunari crawling over the area. I took the note from him. It was written in a messy hand more accustomed to Qunlat than Common but still undeniably legible: Excavated mural. Believed to be a self-portrait by Fen'Harel.

I lit the veil fire quickly and held it near the wall.

And there it was. A wall-length painting, of a man in robes, two large wolves behind him. One of the wolves had three eyes. A man – Fen'Harel – had his hands outstretched as he rose in the sky, his robes flowing behind him.

All the wolves, all the wolves. Murals in Skyhold. Murals of wolves. The final piece of my proverbial puzzle; now, at last, it was complete. Like the astrariums I encountered on my journeys, the dots, there all along, had finally been connected in my hazy mind. And now, I was finally one step closer to figuring out who Solas really was.

I felt faint, and stumbled slightly and braced myself against the rock. No, no no no no no, it couldn't be. It was impossible.

"Are you alright?" Firm hands supported me, and I turned to see the concerned face of the Seeker.

"I – I am fine. Just suddenly felt faint."

"It's the mark, isn't it?" Cassandra continued.

"I –" I looked at the mural quickly again. The figure before the wolves seemed so familiar suddenly, and I thought back of the other notes and letters and murals – all the other clues – I had found in the place.

A mural of Fen'Harel, the man wearing the pelt of a wolf, his face partially obscured by its jaw, removing the vallaslin from elves who then turned to stand behind him.

The removal of vallaslin. Slave markings. The god of rebellion. Instinctively I raised a shaking hand to touch my bare face. Whispers of a conversation from a long time ago.

"Then what I must tell you. The truth. Your face. The vallaslin. In my journeys in the Fade, I have seen things. I have discovered what those marks mean."

"They honour the elven gods."

"No. They are slave markings. Or at least they were, in the time of ancient Arlathan."

"My clan's keeper said they honour the gods. These are their symbols."

"A noble would mark his slaves to honour the god he worshipped. After Arlathan fell, the Dalish forgot."

"So this is… what? Just one more thing the Dalish got wrong?"

"I'm sorry."

"If what you're saying is true, then my people vowed never to fall into slavery. Remove the vallaslin."

Another whisper in my mind: "That's Fen'Harel – removing Dalish vallaslin? Solas said they were used to mark slaves."

I swallowed, and closed my eyes for balance. No, it can't be. I gripped the table for support and Cassandra stepped closer. I needed to breathe.

"I need some air." I pushed past my concerned friends softly as I stumbled out to the balcony. No no no no

I leant against the balustrades and felt faint. I was vaguely aware that the rest were staring, each encouraging each other to take a step forth, but I didn't care.

These walls of blue flame were cast by the agent of Fen'Harel as he ran through this place bringing chaos and destruction. Do not light fires from them. Do not go near them. Fen'Harel's Mage-servant made them to hamper us, and they bring only death.

I buried my face in my hands as I thought of what the Archivist back at Dir Virthara said, about the last words of those after the veil was formed.

"How could the Dread Wolf cast a veil between the world that wakes and the world that dreams?"

"Fen'Harel's Veil has turned our empire to ruins."

No no no!

Beware the forms of Fen'Harel! The Dread Wolf comes in humble guises, a wanderer who knows much of the people and the spirits.

My blood ran cold as I stood back upright and pushed myself away from where I had clutched the railings. There was only one explanation; one incredibly ridiculous but yet, in the face of overwhelming evidence, somehow plausible, explanation.

Solas was Fen'Harel.