She's waist-deep in the cold waters of a lake the first time he sees her; bare to the moonlight and stars that covered the endless tapestry above their heads, snow-white hair covering too much and yet too little of her slender form. It's disrespectful to stand so close, to stare for so long and he knows that, yet it's not her astounding beauty nor the gentle curves of her body that gets his full attention, that traps him in a spiderweb he can't escape; she's singing quite happily as she bathes, melody and words that'd been long forgotten by the People dancing easily on her lips as if she's sung that many, many times before.

It's a song he hasn't heard since his fall from grace, since he condemned the elvhen to disgrace and war and a never-ending life in a world made Tranquil.

(She's a spirit, she must be.)

The song lures him closer and closer, like a siren casting their spell on the foolish, and his body moves against his will. Echoes of memories burst into life in his mind, images and sounds from happier times, forgotten and scattered through the wind just like his people's history, and he clings to what's left of his People as if it'd be enough to bring them back to the world, to repair what he's destroyed. He falls on his knees at the lakeside, staff all but abandoned by his side as he allows himself to get lost in the sweetest voice, eyes closed as he drowns in the tune he never thought he'd hear again.

It's a blatant show of weakness for anyone to see and mock, but he's still weak, still shaken and powerless after too many eons of a restless slumber, after waking to a disheartening world he's created in his blind rage.

"Nuvenas mana helanin, dirth bellasa ma." She says after the last words of the song die on her throat, and the Dread Wolf recoils at the sudden memories crashing against him with a force of a tidal wave. It's too much to remember and he can't deal with the guilt, the shame-- not now, when he's so filled with despair.

(He must be dreaming again. He must've found another friendly spirit.)

She's waiting, and he lowers his head. She knows much, wise and old, a spirit like none other he's ever met before during his travels, and he knows better than keep her waiting for so long. "Ar-melana dirthavaren. Revas vir-anaris." He finally answers, eyes still pressed closed; he doesn't dare to look at her face, doesn't dare to let her see the truth he's trying so hard to conceal. The ancient greeting feels heavy on his tongue, poisonous and bitter just like before; he doesn't belong here, he shouldn't indulge to the spirit's whims--not when he's walking a dangerous path.

"Amae lethalas."

There's a hint of amusement hidden between velvety words, like she's smiling; water shifts into the lake, sounding too close, and he dreads what's about to happen--but he doesn't move from his post, even if he could, even if his treacherous body decided he's had enough torture for an evening. Wet fingers against his skin, warm and soft; the touch feels too real, too wordly to be from a spirit; he loses his breath for a moment as gentle hands cup his cheeks, pulling his head up softly in an invitation he should refuse.

But he can't.

He looks up slowly, keeping his gaze away from her naked bosom as much as possible, heart leaping into his chest as he traces the lines of her face; she's beautiful, delicate in her almost divine gracefulness. Their eyes finally meet and he feels like choking on his own breath. Hers are a pool of bright whiteness, irises opaque enough to get lost in the sea of magic that pours like silent rain from her eyes.

It hurts to look at her, in a way he couldn't put in words both known and forgotten, and not a second later he finds himself pressing his face against the curve of her neck, seeking for a comfort only someone so blessed could offer. She knows him, from times long erased from memory, from fragments and bits of golden ages left in the Fade; blind to the awaken world, always watching from the Fade itself, from the eyes of spirits and creatures that dwell still on the Beyond.

The People used to have a word for her kind, and it's been lost to wars and chaos just like everything else from their history.

(So much knowledge lost because of him.)

"I know I'm quite a sight for sore eyes, but it's cold."

The light-hearted accusation jolts him into motion and he pushes himself away, scrambling to his feet as if he were once more a hot-blooded youngster, red tinging his cheeks and the tip of his ears for a few moments. She laughs, arms wrapped around herself not in shame, but to keep her body steady as she snorts and giggles like a child, and the knot painfully stuck on his throat gets loose enough for him to swallow it back--and she's still laughing as she climbs the lakeside slowly and pats the grass carefully, in search of her clothing.

"May I..." He clears his throat, shakes the awkward shyness away and slips back to the always-polite persona because it's the right thing to do in the moment; her small, makeshift camp is close enough to the lake and her spare clothes are no far away than a few steps, so he rushes to them and back, places the soft fabrics into her hands. "Here. I deeply apologize for disturbing you, my lady.."

She smiles, brighter and gentler than before, and he needs a moment to remember how to breath--it's something that's been happening quite often tonight, and the urge to smack himself for such stupid thoughts is almost great enough for him to reach for his abandoned staff and just do it. Instead he turns away, offers her more privacy than he's given her in the past minutes, and waits-- he should leave, really. He should walk away and forget this place and this woman but there's something about her that won't let him.

She's more than another elf, more than another mage hiding in the woods, fearful of templars and Circles. She's the embodiment of the old, of what's been lost to his selfishness. How is he supposed to walk away from that?

She's sitting by a fire when he finally turns to her, dressed in light robes that resemble the ones of Keepers and elders of the Dalish, legs crossed and staff safely tucked by her side-- either to protect herself from him or to keep them both safe from the dangers lurking in the shadows, he doesn't know. The bright light that's filled her eyes before is gone, along with the overwhelming feelings that had assaulted him when he dared to look at her, and he's grateful for her keeping the magic of the Fade to herself.

He's exhausted and starving and she knows that; so instead of dwelling on his thoughts for a minute longer than necessary, he throws caution out of the nearest window and allows himself to step closer, taking the vacant place by the fire she's so kindly offered.

Next thing he knows, his hands are curled around a warm bowl, with stew-like content that smells both familiar and welcoming. "Ma serannas, da'len." He says and sips on the stew, humming at the wonderful taste that fills his tongue. She smiles, head tilted softly towards him and he knows she's listening; curiosity sparks, and for a moment he wonders how she can see the world, if she can at all, beyond her connection to the Fade. Not that he's going to pry, to poke and prod into matters that doesn't concern him.

"I'm Ellana, from the clan Lavellan." She says after a minute, hands resting on her lap. He nods at the greeting, out of habit, and swallows down the remaining of his stew before setting the bowl aside, shoulders tense as he fixes his gaze on her lithe form, wondering how much she knows, how much of himself she can steal before she's done. "Your Dread Wolf is showing, friend."

The snort that escapes him is all but gracious and she laughs at the noise, tension dissipating easily under the jokes he didn't expect to hear from someone so blended to the Fade and to the ancient magic. "I'm Solas." He replies easily, adjusting his body to mirror her position, even if he knows she can't see it-- it just feels right, somehow, like an ancient form of tradition that's been forgotten even by his own spirit during his slumber. "Fen'harel came later."

Ellana hums in understanding, fingers playing with the rim of her Dalish-styled shawl, tracing the lines gently. If she's curious about his true face or in awe for meeting one of the "old gods" the elves worshipped for so long, he doesn't know and he doesn't push either. A comforting silence falls around the small camp and for once he relaxes in a place that isn't his, accepts another round of stew when she offers it.

There's no reason to fear her, he's decided.

Not because she's blind to the world of flesh and bone, bounded to the Fade and the Veil he's crafted so many ages ago; he's smart enough to notice the way she keeps the staff, close enough to reach, and the small scars covering her hands and face, the light armor barely hidden under the robes. She's experient on the battlefield, probably someone that either left or has been left behind by her own clan a long time ago. A warrior that fought for her life whenever she needed to-- disabled, but not useless.

(There are more ways to see the world when one drowns in darkness.)

As silence stretches and she turns her attention to her own bowl of stew, he takes time to really look at her, bare from the divine aura that clung to her before. There's a lonely, old scar cutting her lips, almost reaching her chin and it doesn't look like a battle scar-- that one looks like a result of someone bumping against the wrong side of their staff, in fact. Her pale face bares no vallaslin, only some freckles marking the bridge of her nose and disappearing into her cheeks, and when she smiles, he can see an adorable gap on her front teeth.

She's an elf and a mage just like him, flawed and mortal.

(Perfect in her imperfection.)

There's no reason to fear her because she's an equal.

"I didn't mean to disrespect you earlier, in the lake." He says out of sudden, even before his mind could even register what he's spilling, and for a second he wonders if it's too late to smack himself with his staff. "I shouldn't have approached like that nor touched you."

"You did nothing wrong." Lavellan replies, her empty bowl laid forgotten by her feet as long, delicate fingers work carefully on her hair. She braids the white locks slowly, still smiling with too much gentleness at his direction. "Fade bleeds from you, within you. Ancient magic weakened, concealed, caged behind too many doors that shouldn't have been locked. Easy to see if one knows where to look. I wanted to touch you, to be sure you were real. The Veil is thin here, makes it hard to know who's a person and who's a spirit. But you're both, and neither. I like you, Solas."

He chuckles, sadness masked as contentment even if she can see behind the faked feelings he's putting on display; it's only a natural response, one he'll never shake off no matter how hard he tries. It's easy to lie and hide in the shadows, to pretend everything's fine when the world seems to be falling apart on his head. The fire cracks and his attention shifts easily to the flames, away from the too many thoughts trying to pull him down.

"You mentioned a clan," the Dread Wolf decides to change the subject, forces the conversation on her because he's still curious, still interested. She nods, adding another thin braid to the growing pile over her shoulder. "Yet you carry no vallaslin."

Horror dawns on her face for a moment before she schools her expression, shaking the sudden tension off her body as she focuses once more on her hair. She knows, and the happiness that blossoms within his chest is too much to be contained. The Dalish have forgotten, but maybe some clans... maybe something, anything from their broken history can be saved, recreated and reshaped into something newer and more beautiful than ever before.

Hope is as treacherous as it's comforting, and he finds solace in clinging to the new idea with all his might.

"I refused, when the Keeper said it was time." Lavellan finally says, seemingly done with her hair; there are too many braids resting on her shoulder now, among free locks that resemble fresh fallen snow, and it's just beautiful, breathtaking even. "I tried to explain what the markings were, to make them see, but... I suppose you've met some Dalish clans by now. So I left."

"It must've been hard." He replies gently, curiosity subduing into something akin to compassion; it must've been way too difficult to survive in a world that can only see her as the most evil enemy, in a world full of prejudice and malice. She shrugs, dodging the masked question as one would dodge a poisonous knife, and he laughs softly. "But you survived. You didn't turn back on your beliefs. Sometimes the right path isn't the easiest one. I've been on my own for some time, too. I woke to a world that... that I never thought I'd see."

"And you like what you see in this new world?"

"No. I look around and all I can see is a world full of Tranquils, and our People and history forgotten and destroyed. The Dalish insult themselves, carrying slave marks with pride--"

And he swallows back whatever else he was about to spit, finally noticing her gaze on him; she can't see him nor his expression, it's true, but he doubts she can't feel the angry, dangerous power thrumming under his skin, begging to be released. He takes in a deep breath, pushes the fury away from his muscles; acting like a youngling with no control whatsoever over his magic never helped anyone, and she surely wouldn't appreciate the display.

"Forgive my melancholy." He says, hands resting on his lap in a poor attempt to ease the anger still bubbling inside, hot and old and painful. "You remind me too much of what's been lost. Enough of that. I hope you're living in safe conditions, since you've left your clan."

"The Dread Wolf cares more than the 'great' gods of old." Lavellan offers a sweet giggle in response, child-like and soft, and he feels a shadow of smile dancing on his lips even if he tries to fight it for a moment-- it's a lost battle and he simply decides to relax once more. "I swear ancestors are turning in their graves as we speak."

(Oh, that's something he'd never doubt, even for a second.)

"I fought my way through the Arbor Wilds a few years ago, after leaving the clan." She keeps talking, and he forces his attention to shift back to her words before his mind wanders away again to get lost in her beauty. "Ended up in an ancient place, a temple built for Mythal. And there were elves living there, but... Not like the Dalish. Ancient elvhen, the real deal. They weren't happy that I disturbed their slumber, but they took me in."

"Some of the People are... still alive in these times?"

"Yes. They're meant to watch over the Vir'abelasan forever."

"The Well of Sorrows." Solas repeats, astonished and mesmerized, and she nods quietly, unaware of the small flame of hope and happiness growing within his spirit, pushing deep roots into his heart. "I've-- heard about it during my travels in the Fade. I believed it to be lost forever, just like the rest of our culture. But... we're far away from the Arbor Wilds."

"Something stirred in the Fade, and I was curious." Lavellan just shrugs once more, and he just knows there's more than that, more than what she's letting him know. He doesn't push, though. It's not his place to say, not his story to tell. It's hers. "And... it was time to leave the temple. As grateful as I am for their support, I'm no protector. Maybe one day I'll return to visit the Vir'abelasan and offer all I know to it, like many of our People did before."

It's a honorable goal, one that he'd be happy to assist her with if she desired; but he sighs, pushes the thought away because how dare him? They're not friends. They're just strangers meeting in the middle of nowhere under the moonlight, nothing else. But he couldn't just leave her, not when he knows she's unique, special. She belongs to the People, his People, the ones still lurking in the depths of the forests, and he should make sure she finds her way back to where she truly belongs.

(He's failed them all before, he can't fail the last shreds of his shattered past too.)

"I'm heading towards Haven, a small place hidden between the mountains of Frostback. If you wish, you could accompany me." He offers, pushing hope away because of course she'd refuse. (What was the old Dalish curse? May the Dread Wolf take you?) But she's different and she knows more than most, even if raised among the ones that know nothing about their real culture. "I've traveled far through the Fade, and we could share knowledge of our discoveries. It's a lonely path, da'len, walking in between."

"And one cannot remain in between forever." She recites easily, words dancing on the tip of her tongue as she smiles, the cute gap showing only for a moment. "Yes, I'd very much like to join you. A silver tongue like Fen'harel might have the most wonderful tales to tell, after all."

The title doesn't come with anger, hatred as he once more expected to find; instead Lavellan laughs and mocks the name, and he can't help but smile in relief. In one night he's found so much more than he's found within an year of travelings, and he couldn't be happier, more content. He knows it won't last; just like her, he's felt the shifting of power within the Fade, in a way that just screams something real bad will happen real soon.

But he can worry about that and his missing orb another night.

"I might have a few stories to tell right now, if you wish to listen."

(Tonight, his only concern will be to satisfy her curiosity.)