Chapter Text

Val Royeaux was…Fen’Falon felt she did not have to words to properly describe it. White glittering, filled with poncy people in masks, stunning. The city had been amazing, not in the least because it was her first time in a proper city and not one of the little towns and villages they had been traipsing through. Val Royeaux had been both a success and a failure for the Inquisition.

Failure because the Templars had intervened. The Chantry Mothers speaking in the marketplace clearly had never had any intention of buying into the Herald of Andraste business, especially when it turned out that their precious Herald was a Dalish elven mage. Just being a mage would have been a bitter lemon, but a Dalish on top of that? Absolutely not an option. The Templars had stormed off, completely stonewalling Cassandra’s attempt to talk to the Lord Seeker.

And then Fen’Falon had nearly been skewered by an arrow! With a strange message attached. On their way out of the marketplace the group had been approached by an Orlesian Circle mage with an invitation for the Herald to attend a party at the request of Madame de Fer. And then again by the First Enchanter and leader of the rebel mages, Fiona, who asked to meet with the Inquisition soon in Redcliffe. Fen’Falon had also brought a foul-mouthed city elf into the group somehow, who turned out to the person responsible for the arrow message. She wasn’t quite ready to forgive the city elf - Sera she said her name was - for nearly shooting her. Stung pride would heal in time though, as the Keeper liked to say.

The half week to Val Royeaux had been a tense trip filled with petty disagreement between herself and Solas as she forgot to be nice to him, and the constant banter between Cassandra and Varric. The half week back, with all that had occurred in the city, was measurably less so. In the wake of the Templars, Fen’Falon had decided that she would do her best to keep from judging her companions. Cassandra had seemed genuinely hurt by the Lord Seeker refusal to acknowledge her. Varric seemed at home under the open sky and in the city, a complete opposite to all she knew of dwarves. And Solas...well, he was quiet. Until they met Sera.

Sera was doing her best to make the return trip to Haven memorable, at least. Sera had taken to calling Solas all kinds of unflattering things ranging from “elfy” to “baldy” to “shine-head”. The last, at least, had made Fen’Falon and Varric laugh, much to Solas’s consternation. It was less funny when Solas did his best to stop reacting to Sera, so Sera set in on Fen’Falon instead.

“So, you’re like, the glowy Herald of Andraste and shit, yeah?” Sera asked.

“No,” said Fen’Falon. “I’m not. Everyone keeps calling me that.”

“Fuck off, glowy. Y’sure your trip outta the Fade didn’t muck with your brain too?”

“Positive,” Fen’Falon said. Well, mostly positive. She felt it would be rather hard to tell, given the nature of the Fade. Who knew what the dangers of entering physically were.

“Then ‘ow come you’re like, leading everyone and shit?”

“I’m not. I’m just here to close the breach and go home.”

“Yeah? Home to more elfy elf shit and stuff? Where’s the fun in that?” Sera made a face at Fen’Falon, showing the Dalish elf what she thought of that.

“Yes. Home. Now please shut up, Sera.” If Sera didn’t shut up soon, Fen’Falon was going to find a way to use magic to make it happen. If the choice for elven company was now Sera or Solas, well, she was going to really have to make nice with Solas. There was no way she was going to voluntarily spend time with the foul city-elf.

Sera made a pout before bounding off to scout ahead.

“Oh thank Mythal she’s gone,” Fen’Falon breathed.

“Indeed,” Solas said from next to her. “I had not realised it was possible to be such a child while being an adult.” Fen’Falon laughed - it was true. Sera was the most immature elf she had ever met.

“I think she’s worse than even my clan’s children, Solas.” Fen’Falon caught the edges of Solas’s mouth tilting upwards in amusement before. She wondered what he looked like properly grinning, the smile lighting up his grey eyes. Over the past week she had noticed that alone of the group, Solas seemed to really understand her, understand the drive for knowledge and history. She caught herself thinking about him more frequently, wondering what he would think of an item, of a story, of the Dalish tales about their gods.

In the evenings when they made camp, Fen’Falon sat near Solas and he would share his journeys through the Fade with her. Frequently the stories were related to the amulet they had found, or the ruins they caught glimpses of on their way up the mountain and through the pass. Sometimes though, he would tell of spirits he had befriended in the Fade, ones who had not yet been twisted by mages to their darker counterparts. Spirits of Wisdom seemed to be his favourites, though sometimes he came across Compassion or Purpose. Fen’Falon grew to love those stories, giving her an insight into the workings of the Fade that had been beyond the abilities of her Keeper to teach her. Keeper Deshanna had helped Fen’Falon to walk the Fade without fear, to keep the demons from her mind, but had never said that there could be truly helpful spirits there.

By the time they reached Haven, everyone was sick of Sera’s dirty little commentary, but Fen’Falon and Solas had finally reached a point that could almost be called friendship. An easy companionship of sorts. Fen’Falon wondered if Solas would stay with the Inquisition once she had left. She didn’t think so - it seemed he was only sticking around out of an interest in the mark on her hand and its connection to the breach. Maybe he would let her travel with him through the ancient ruins he seemed so fond of.

Predictably, Sera made a beeline for the tavern, Varric following her. Fen’Falon assumed they were both going to get drunk and sing bawdy tavern songs. It seemed for some unfathomable reason to be an enjoyable pastime for the shem. Fen’Falon dropped her pack off at the house she was using and grabbed a change of clothes. She would bathe in the river, cleanse the dirt of more than a week on the road from her clothes, and then see what could be had for a meal.

There was an excellent spot upstream, away from the regular washing spots of the town and camp. The chill of the wintry river felt amazing on her bare skin, but she knew not to linger in it for too long. A quick scrub with the river-bed sand saw the day’s grime away, and soon Fen’Falon was enjoying the simple pleasure of washing her things with no one to see.

A twig snapped a little ways behind her, just enough time to bolt out of the river and snatch her clothes to cover herself. Not out of a sense of modesty for herself - the Dalish truly did not care about such things - but for whoever was coming upon her. She had noticed during the weeks camping and traveling with Varric and Cassandra that they cared a great deal about seeing her bare body, and so had gotten into the habit of hastily grabbing nearby fabric to keep them from stammering and blushing and apologising entirely too much.

It was the wolf from the night in the Hinterlands. A pale gray, nearly white coat made the creature seem old for its kind and made the wolf’s bright blue eyes sparkle in the fading sunlight. It looked almost exactly like the wolf from the ancient amulet she had found, but everyone knew the Dread Wolf had six eyes red as blood, with fur as black as pitch.

Fen’Falon breathed a sigh. “I thought you were a person, you know,” she told it. A quick surreptitious glance told her the wolf was male. The wolf grinned at her. “Well, go on then. Get. I have business to finish here, ser wolf.” The wolf gave a wag of its tail and loped off into the woods, out to do only Fen’Harel knew what with a town so close. She hoped no one would shoot it - it was a gorgeous wolf for its kind. And apparently without pack - what a terrible thing, to be a pack animal and yet alone in the world. Rather like being a Dalish elf surrounded by humans.