Ferelden is nothing but mayhem and chaos, to put it lightly.

He's heard about the war raging between mages and templars, about the fall of Circles and the many lives lost to battles that'd never see an end unless someone stepped in and tried to make them see the errors of their ways. It's not his war nor his People. The elves amongst them are nothing but shadows of broken shadows, tainted and corrupted beyond salvation, and he turns a blind eye, keeps himself in the shadows, keeps Lavellan out of harm's way; she's more powerful than she lets him know and he can feel it. He feels the cracks of lighting and sharp breezes of winter lashing against his skin whenever danger is imminent, even if she tries to hide and conceal her magic behind too many layers of caution.

She relies on her staff to find her balance and the ground of a strange land when he can't hold her hand, and together they make their way through paths long abandoned by travelers. It's safe and serene, and she hums more often than not, fills their travels with merry tunes and ballads from better times and memories of when the People walked freely throughout the same roads they now cross.

Something in the back of his skull hints that she simply enjoys the way he cares and watches for her, amused and satisfied enough to follow him happily towards the north, towards his lost (and found by other's hand) orb, or maybe she just loves to see him struggle; it's an unfair game, this one they insist on playing. Beyond her blindness she can see more than most and he can only stumble blindly around her, trying to comprehend the true extensions of her powers and failing every time.

(As if he doesn't truly enjoy such a sadistic game.)

It's late when they finally set up camp around the borders of a small village, close enough to their destination but not there quite yet. They could've walked for a little longer and stopped by the village if so he wished, but there are too many templars around to attend to the Conclave now. If he were alone, things would've been different-- and he knows she's no damsel in distress, he knows she can take care of herself with or without his help and she's done it many times before but she's the last of his People and some irrational part of him wants to--needs to keep her safe at any costs.

She braids her hair in silence as he cooks; her skills are far better than his, it's true, but he indulges it tonight and offers to take her place. It feels right, somehow. Friendship is something he's never comprehended fully, always too worried about freeing the People from the old gods' clutches. Getting too close to another one would mean worrying too much, caring too much--he'd end babying them when he had no time for such trivial things so he kept his distance, guarded his heart against any and every thing that could him deeply. It's different now, with her. He's himself around her, because he knows she wouldn't judge him, she wouldn't push him away.

But sometimes it's just too much. Sometimes he doesn't recognize himself.

Sometimes he doesn't like to see the monster he's become.

Her eyes are onto him now, but she doesn't talk. He lowers his head, hides his shame and fear away before she can change her mind and attack him with too many questions and words he can't hear right now--he doesn't deserve her sympathy, her pity. The guilt gnawing him from the inside out is less than what he truly deserves and he allows it to fester, to grow bigger and bigger each passing hour. Instead he wonders about the colors of her eyes, could she see the world like him, about the color of her hair if she had not been dressed in delicate threads from the Veil in her birth.

Would it kill her, if he decided to rip the Veil apart right now?

Or would it free her instead? Would his actions break the chains bounding and binding her?

Maybe she could survive the power of the Anchor; maybe she could survive with its power.

He wants to ask, to demand answers he knows she hides close to her heart. The question burns in his tongue, treacherous and poisoning as his own past wrongdoings, mistakes he'll never be able to undo no matter what he does, and he turns away, pretends such outrageous thoughts never crossed his mind in a moment of blind stupidity. He can keep her safe once the Veil is torn. He'll be powerful enough to heal any damage left on her by his actions. The People need him to fix everything he's done.

The stew is done and it smells better than last time he tried and the smile on her lips is more than enough to banish every harmful, depressing thoughts away from his mind. He presses a warm bowl to her hands and sits by her side, taking her hair into his fingers to finish the braid. The act feels too intimate, like they've known each other for all their lives, yet she doesn't move away as he's half expected her to do-- for a moment he thinks she presses her body against his crossed legs instead, humming into her stew, but he knows better than truly believe in such a thing.

(She sees the wolf, the rebel, the elder and nothing more.)

He decides against the pattern he's been working on, unties the braid gently and starts over. The motions are relaxing and he truly appreciates she's allowing him to do such an intimate thing for her--there are times he catches himself wondering if someone ever cared for her as much as he does, if anyone ever did something for her not because she's blind, but because she deserves every small act of kindness. But maybe it's better not to dwell in such thoughts, not tonight.

"Our People had a word for you in times of Arlathan." He says instead, scooping another section of hair. "It's been lost, like too many other wonders of our time. Dirth'elgar. They were seers, if I can use the word loosely."

"Meaning?" Lavellan replies, setting the bowl by her feet to really press herself in a more comfortable position against his legs. He clears his throat, pretends not to feel his hands shaking for a moment and instead moves his focus back the task in his hands.

"There was no Veil in the times of Elvhenan. The Fade was our sky." And he remembers it all, everything that's been lost because of his harsh actions. The pride in his voice can't be concealed and he doesn't even try, just allows a shadow of smile to cling to his lips for a moment. "Imagine instead spires of crystal twining through the branches, palaces floating among the clouds. Imagine beings who lived forever, for whom magic was as natural as breathing."

"It must've been beautiful." She says after a moment, and he offers only a soft sigh in response. So much of that beauty has been lost, so many eons of knowledge destroyed... but they could've lost it all. "Tell me about the ones like me."

Her request is simple, the curiosity in her voice restrained almost as if she fears the answer, and it easily pushes his self-loathing away, banishes the wave of guilt trying to climb its way back into his heart. It's good to talk, to tell tales about golden ages, to share what's been forgotten to someone willing to listen.

(The crown-braid settles beautifully on her, like a queen from times beyond reach.)

"We all could reach the Fade and explore its wonders, learn from the spirits laying beyond. It was a delicate task, for there was much to learn before wandering into the Fade, and it'd take decades, centuries-- even from dreamers." His body moves before he can notice, hands resting around Lavellan's smaller frame as if to keep her closer. "The dirth'elgar needn't to wait for so long. For them, to walk into the Fade was as easily as walk into an eluvian. Even in golden ages they were rare spirits, and those who were found were preached as oracles, demi-gods. When war broke out, they were the first to disappear."

"Do you know what happened to them?" Lavellan inquires, her fingers finding his easily; he doesn't pull away when she holds his hands, pretends not to feel the way his heart beats a little faster for a moment.

"Sadly, no." He could've protected them for a little longer if he knew. He could've kept them safe--but would have it mattered in the end, after the Veil? The too many unanswered questions are like a plague, gutting him from the inside out, and he shakes them off before it's too late to turn back. "Many of our people fell to the Evanuris during the war. I believe the dirth'elgar were to first to disappear."

She hums in understanding, but there's sadness barely concealed on her face; and he shares her grief, even if she never lived through that as he did. Mourning all those wasted lives is a sweet gesture, and he's grateful he found her before someone else did-- before a templar or a slaver crossed her path, and the thought alone is enough to send shivers down his spine. He clings to her hands tightly, presses his face in the crook of her exposed shoulder and dwells on the softness of her skin just because.

(To make sure she's real, she's here.)

Feeling is straining from a path delicately crafted during agonizing years, it's abandoning the People, his People for something fleeting, unrequited. It's wrong, foolish, dangerous. Falling for her would cost him too much; she doesn't see it all, not the true monster lurking underneath nor the man willing to sacrifice his soul so his brethren can rise from the ashes once more. Lavellan sees shapes of broken mirrors, tainted glass behind burnt curtains. The wolf in sheepish clothing, playing pretend over and over so one day his lies can become the truth.

"I'm sorry our People lost so much." She says, and he knows she means it; he's sorry too, and more often than not he finds himself thinking about what he could've done to prevent their downfall--and he wonders why he keeps torturing himself like that, even if he knows the answer. The guilt is too great, too overwhelming sometimes and he deserves every moment of pain and frustration; he deserves to pay for what his brethren has lost-- but not yet, not before he fixes everything he's broken.

So the Dread Wolf takes over and he pushes himself up, away from her arms just as he should've done too many minutes prior to that moment; and for a second she almost doesn't let go, for a second he almost wishes she'd hold him in place and allow him to pour all his fears and doubts on her shoulders-- but then her fingers slip away back into her lap easily and he clears his throat, moves to sit as far as safely possible from her. Maybe everything will fall into place once he recovers his orb and his powers, maybe all the doubt and hesitation plaguing his mind will be gone once he sets his plans into motion.

He just needs to be a little more patient, a little more reserved.

He needs to drown his feelings into a bottomless well and forget about them.

(How many parts of himself is he going to throw away before he reaches the end?)

Easier said than done, of course, but the prospect of having yet another plan, one that's way simpler than every other one, to follow is enough to ease his mind for the moment. He dares to look at Lavellan for a second--to just force himself not to care as much as he knows he should, as he truly does, and for once he's grateful she can't see his face, the way his hands are trembling around the staff. It's easier to lie when his eyes can't betray him.

Her expression is blank, almost cautious, guarded even. She knows he's watching, waiting for something she can't offer him right now-- and instead of dwelling on her lack of response, he takes it in his own behalf, uses it to seal away whatever feelings he has for her in a cage deep inside his soul. He shouldn't have let it go too far, he shouldn't have fallen so easily but he blames the nostalgia clinging to his soul whenever he talks to her, the longing for golden times that'll never return to him-- he blames the loneliness, the guilt, the grief.

It's not love what he feels for Lavellan. It's no more than passion, a strange kind of infatuation that soon will be gone and forgotten. She'll find someone else eventually and he has no doubts of that. She'll find someone she can see as a partner, a friend and he's not that kind of man, he's never been. He's a rebel, a fighter, the one willing to do anything, to sacrifice everything without a second thought if the cause is just, righteous. How can she feel anything for someone so twisted and broken like him?

(He doesn't deserve to be loved, anyway.)

--

They arrive at the small village close to Haven's borders a few hours after dawn, and it's quiet and peaceful despite everything else happening all over Ferelden. Maybe the Conclave being set so close to the place has something to do about it, and it's not a bad thing at all. The fact they don't need to worry about Templars or rogue mages alone is a good change of pace, for once. Between children playing and screeching and adults getting ready to their daily tasks, the village is sweet and humble-- the kind of place he'd be content to live in for long years if things were any different, if he could give up on his plans.

And despite his judgement, instead of turning their backs or sending them away, the humans welcome the couple warmly, happily. How rare it is to find kindness among people that aren't his, in times of so much blood and chaos, and he indulges in the compassion they're offering so freely. Sometimes he wishes there were other ways to deal with the Veil, less harmful, less dangerous than the path he's taking because he's no monster and the last thing he wants is other people to suffer for his actions-- but there's no other ways, and he can't afford to sit idle for much longer.

Lavellan finds her place amongst some small girls easily, allowing them to play with her hair as she teaches them old elven lullabies and tales from golden times. And the children listen carefully, repeating the words over and over until they get it almost right, tongue still heavy on an accent they've never listened to before--but it's a sweet moment, and humans around don't seem to be bothered at all by the seer's doings; some of them linger around her for a bit longer, smiling to themselves as the words warm their hearts, and it's the first time he's seen humans accepting their tales so freely, welcoming their stories with open arms.

(It's beautiful and endearing and once more he finds himself wondering if he's truly doing the right thing.)

And just like the humans he stays close enough, because the tales she shares are far too different from the ones he's heard from the Dalish people he stumbled upon during his travels. Her tales resemble those he once could've found in Vir Dirthara, filled with so much detail and beauty it's hard to not cling to the nostalgia burning through his spirit, seeding its roots deep within his heart. She avoids talking about Fen'harel and the Evanuris, instead focusing on stories from before slavery fell upon his people, from times when peace reigned over Arlathan-- and he smiles at every lullaby, every ancient tale.

Tales he had believed to be lost to ages, shattered across time due his own foolishness, his egoism.

Yet something shifts within the Veil-- he feels it on the magic running through his veins, notices it on her expression as she turns her blind gaze to the sky. The wave of overwhelming power comes next, swift and deep as a blade; it steals his breath, leaves him gasping for air for too long a moment, heart beating faster against his ribcage. An explosion shakes the foundations of earth and blinds him mercilessly, throws him out of balance as if he didn't know how to stand anymore-- he falls on the ground by Lavellan's side, her hands tightening around his wrists before he could truly comprehend it, looking for a comfort he can't offer in the moment.

There's a sickening mix of green and black and red adorning the sky when his vision returns-- a breach in the Fade, forcing spirits into the awake world and twisting them into demons. The knot stuck on his throat feels painful, poisoning even, yet he swallows it dry, pretends he doesn't know what has just happened. It's easy to ignore Ellana's questions when there are screams piercing through the air, when the raw magic pouring from the Fade is too much to be ignored; he dwells on the feeling for a moment, even if he knows he's still too weak to recover his former self yet.

(It feels just right to be himself again after all that time, even if for nothing but a minute.)

"We have to go." Somehow his voice echoes above the screams and cries of the villagers, fingers wrapped around Lavellan's arm just as tightly as she holds him-- and for a moment he pretends not to feel her accusatory, yet blind gaze on his face, pretends he doesn't know she knows way more than even himself; until he finds his orb and regains his powers, such small details can be overlooked for now. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine." She replies, standing up before he could offer to help; he doubts she's offended by his doings or his plans, but for a second he wonders if she's truly willing to follow him to the edges of that numb world. It shouldn't matter-- not as much as it does, and the Dread Wolf banishes the thoughts away quickly. "The Fade bleeds into this world. There will be too many demons on our way."

"Then we should move on before the situation gets any worse."

Her only answer is a soft nod, but it's more than enough for him.

Somehow it feels comforting to know he's not walking such a dangerous path alone anymore.