The Promise

When she had called him to her chambers, he had expected it to be for a multitude of other reasons—a request for council, for scholarship, or for comfort. He had not expected to find her standing there, nervously fidgeting with something in her hands, a serious expression on her face.

"What is wrong?" he had asked, expecting and preparing for the worst. A brutal attack. More loved ones lost. Or more aristocrats seeking to dethrone her, attacking her political credibility in revenge for her actions at the Orlesian court. More death, more destruction, more proof this world was crumbling faster than they could save it.

"Nothing," she replied. "I have a gift for you."

He tilted his head, curious as to what she meant, and—before he could ask—she had planted a carved wooden pendant in his hands.

It was light and supple, the craftmanship exquisite—did someone assist her with it, Blackwall perhaps?—and sweeping, branching imagery reminding him of days long gone, a time long past. Of kings and queens, gods and goddesses, of a pantheon so powerful they answered to none. This was no Dalish pendant he held, it was something evocative of a history forgotten and buried, when items such as these were as common as trifles. But it shimmered with a power that was different than those of the past, a magic so thoroughly linked to the woman standing before him, filled with love and compassion and empathy and the fundamental desire to protect those she loved.

"Why?" he asked, his voice nearly breaking. How could she make such a thing and then give it to him? Did she even know what she had created?

No.

No, she didn't know.

She couldn't know.

Venara was a woman of the present. No matter how far back she reached, she could never truly see Elvhenan. No matter how curious she was, the Fade could not bring her there. The Fade did not reflect an accurate image of the past. It was twisted, changing images to suit the desires of the dreamer—or the desires of the spirits who inhabited the realm. If she went searching for something of the past, what she had created was not the real thing. It was nothing but an echo, free from the corruption that had clung to every dirtha'varen hasem.

"Why?" he repeated, though it was more a question for himself than her.

She blushed, the stammering words falling out of her. He watched her quietly, her green eyes brightening as she spoke of her desire to find a way to thank him, to create something that truly meant something to him. Of how she went into the Fade and found remembrances of pendants given from one to another in ancient ceremonies, vows made and promises binding two people together.

And created something for him—for them—to show her love, her gratefulness that he was a part of her life.

There was something achingly beautiful about the earnestness in which she spoke, the passion behind her words, even as the conversation turned to her own mortality. She feared that her own death was coming. She wanted to leave him with a way to remember her.

Oh, Venara. If only you'd known what you have given me. The purpose of the dirtha'varen hasem. It bound two people together, but not in the way you imagine. It isn't a marriage, it isn't a joining of souls, it is a curse. A binding. One person sworn to do the other's bidding forever. A servant to a master, with an unbreakable chain.

A slave chain.

He had to tell her the truth.

One of many truths.

"Venara…"

He could not keep hiding who he was. It pained him to see her, this bright, clever, passionate woman invoke her ancestors' past without understanding the truth of Elvhenan. From the markings on her face to the pendant he now held in his hands, he could not stand to see her be misguided any longer. He had never felt more out of his time, the place of his youth and all the deeds, both heroic and demonic, transformed into something no longer recognizable. And while he hid this fundamental aspect of himself, he could not truly love her.

She needed to know.

She needed to know who he was.

The words fluttered on the tip of his tongue, even as he held her to him, one hand gently brushing through the tangles of her beautiful, loose brown hair.

I am not the man you think me to be. I am not the lover who stayed by your side, who protected you all these months, who taught you and guided you on down this path.

I am not your friend.

I am not your companion.

I am the god your people dread most, the god whose name strikes fear into the hearts of those who hear his name.

I am Fen'Harel.

But then he could not speak. The words strangled themselves in his throat as he stared at Venara, at this beautiful, scarred woman in his arms. If he told her now, what would they lose? What would she lose? Her companion, her friend, the only person she truly trusted.

She needed Solas more than she needed the truth.

The truth could wait.

He promised.

"It is a beautiful gift," he said softly. "I will treasure it always."

Liar, liar, liar.

And so Solas clenched his fist around the cursed-but-not-cursed pendant. As he held Venara and kissed her gently and called himself a fool, he desperately wished the path he walked could be a different one.

the end