Chapter Text
“Rue the day you cast out those who loved you most.”
A darkness lurked within the depths of the Frostback Basin.
It’d been putting Lavellan on edge ever since their arrival a month ago. He’d chalked it up to all of the old magic that the Hakkonites had disturbed, but even after slaying Hakkon and freeing the spirit of Glory within, the unease yet lingered.
Lavellan sat nursing his drink, watching but not registering the fight in the Avvar’s arena below.
Stone-Bear Hold had invited the Inquisition and a few friend-sworn holds to celebrate Hakkon’s defeat, but not even the merriment and festivity around him could dispel that clawing unease. He hadn’t felt like this in the previous timeline. Still, he had no wish to dampen anybody’s spirits, so he retreated uphill to the augur’s hut. It was one of the only places here that could soothe him, surrounded by the calming ambient magic from the augur’s frequent congress with spirits.
Although, the augur himself had been apprehensive about Lavellan’s presence since the Avvar believed that the gods — the spirits — must remain in the land of dreams lest tragedy befall the realm.
It reminded Lavellan of Falon’Din’s words from so long ago. That Lavellan would only bring misfortune if he were to return.
Lavellan had explained some of his history to the augur, his role in Clan Lavellan having been akin to that of the spirits within the Avvar holds.
“You are older than you say,” the Augur said in response. “Even older than the whispers that cling to you. I see that you have descended to guide your people, and that is a choice worthy of respect, but I still worry. Your soul is ill.”
“My soul?”
“The gods tell me they do not know of a cure. I am sorry, lowlander. It must be difficult.”
Maybe the Augur had been talking about Lavellan’s struggle with Entropy.
Lavellan went around the side of the hut, walked carefully over the rock ledge, and sat on a space free of any ferns. His vantage point offered a view of the hold below and the sea beyond, the waters burnished from the twilight.
Wings flapped overhead. A burst of wind ruffled his hair and Vergala’s familiar weight settled on his shoulder.
“Gala, can you scout for me?” he asked.
She tilted her head and clicked her beak.
“Anything suspicious. Maybe any remaining cultists. See if there’s still some residual magic from whatever method they used to free Hakkon.”
She cawed and took off. Left in the quiet, all he could do was fiddle with his hand brace beneath his glove. His skin kept prickling from that strange unease. What was this? What else was the Basin hiding? Come to think of it, when they’d been searching for clues on Ameridan’s whereabouts, they’d passed a strange door beside the river…
Wooden tones sounded behind him.
“I thought I would find you here.” Solas sat beside him, the wooden wolves on his staff swaying. “Is everything alright?”
“Just tired. Hakkon wasn’t an easy opponent.” He leaned against Solas. “And I suppose I’m still thinking about Inquisitor Ameridan.”
“It was not any easier seeing him the second time, was it?”
“No,” he murmured. “But I won’t allow the truth of him to remain lost this time either. I’ll accompany Professor Kenric to Orlais and support his findings. He worries he’ll be welcomed with a decapitation instead of a tenure.”
“The Orlesians do take concerning glee in seeing heads roll. Did you hear of the new apparatus that was presented?”
“I did. What did they call it? A guillotine? At least it’s… more humane than an axe. Swifter.” He shook his head. “While I’m there, maybe I can help Briala sort policies for the elven students in the University. Possibly visit Leliana too.”
“Shall I accompany you?”
“No, we’ll be leaving for the Arlathvhen soon. I didn’t think we’d be gone for this long… I was going to ask if you can sort out the books I’ve written and help pack up our things.”
“Ah, of course.”
Below, the celebration continued. A few people brought out an entire, roasted pig, and the others cheered and whooped.
“No, that isn’t it,” Solas said.
“The pig?”
“No. Whatever is on your mind. Ameridan and Hakkon are understandable concerns, but I have not seen you this troubled since Corypheus changed his plans.”
The daylight was fading fast, the seawater darkening from the advent of night.
That unease within him kept scratching.
“There’s this… presence,” he admitted, “that I’ve been sensing in the Basin. It’s been making me uneasy. I thought maybe it was from all the old magic in the area being disrupted, but even with Hakkon gone, it’s still there. I didn’t feel this last time.”
“What manner of presence?
“I’m not certain, but when we were going along the river and we spotted that ancient elven door… It grew stronger there.” He sighed. “But I don’t think there’s time to investigate. We’re leaving tomorrow, and the river’s too far from the hold.”
Solas smiled at him. “Then it is a good thing I can turn into a large wolf.”
“What, now?”
“You said it yourself. You may not have enough time.” His smile widened and he offered his hand. “Would you care for an evening run with me, vunlin?”
Lavellan grinned and accepted the hand.
They snuck away from the hold, and once out of sight, Solas shifted into a large wolf. Lavellan swung onto his back and held onto his fur. Solas raced through the forest floor, the wind whipping at Lavellan’s hair and cheeks, the daylight fading ever faster until only the silvery fingers of moonlight could slither into the darkness. Vergala wasn’t alerting him to any dangers so far, at least.
“It’s on the eastern bank of the Varsdotten river if you approach from the south,” said Lavellan. “Do you remember the way?”
“I believe so.”
Solas carried them there, sure and swift, and he deterred hostile wildlife with a quick bark or growl. Lavellan smiled. He wrapped his arms around Solas’ neck and pressed his cheek against the soft fur. He smelled of the forest and of ancient magic. Warm. His beloved wolf.
Upon reaching Vardotten river, Lavellan’s smile faded and he sat up. Solas walked along the eastern bank and followed the river upstream until they reached the ancient elven door carved into the canyon. A large circular lock cut into its middle held twelve indentations around its circumference.
“Shards,” muttered Lavellan, and dismounted. Solas shifted back.
The stone door towered over them, and Lavellan ran his hands over the intricate patterns carved into its surface. The Well of Sorrow’s whispers surged slightly. The uncomfortable pluck in Lavellan’s gut grew stronger.
“We can’t get in,” said Lavellan. “The keys are probably lost or destroyed by now.”
Solas stepped forward and hovered his hand over the centre of the lock.
“The magic keeping it shut has weakened considerably,” said Solas.
He pulled his hand back.
Lavellan frowned. “What—”
Solas thrust his hand forward. A shockwave of magic ripped through the air and a sharp burst of wind lashed at them. Lavellan raised his arm and shielded his face. The carved patterns flashed with light, and the Veil trembled.
The lock cracked.
Solas dusted his hands off and nudged the door ajar.
“Thank… you,” said Lavellan, staring at Solas. “How many of these doors have you forced open in Elvhenan?”
“I did not keep count.”
“So, a lot.”
“Who is to say?
“Is it too late to scold you?”
“Somewhat, yes.”
Lavellan snorted and pushed the door open wider, a cold, ghostly gust of air skating past him like a breath. He shivered and stepped foot inside. Solas waved his hand and the wall braziers flared to life.
An unnatural chill saturated the small chamber within, parts of the wall frosted over, the stone floors carpeted with snow. A stone sarcophagus rested in the centre of the room. Ancient elven, judging by its shape. Was this a tomb? But ancient elven sarcophagi usually had intricate carvings on the outside, and the tomb should have had some of the deceased’s belongings. Strangely enough, both sarcophagus and room were bare. It couldn’t have been looted either; the door had been locked.
“How odd,” said Solas. He examined the sarcophagus. “There is no name or epitaph on it.”
Lavellan looked around him. Besides the chill, there was that feeling again. Foreign, yet familiar.
“You don’t feel that?” asked Lavellan.
“Besides the cold, I do not sense anything else. There is no malicious magic at work.” He paused. “The Veil is also rather thick here.”
Which meant that spirits avoided this place…
A flash of red caught Lavellan’s eye — a symbol carved into the wall. He walked closer and inspected it. The Well’s whispers retreated, as though fleeing. The symbol shifted before Lavellan’s eyes, separating and reforming into a block of writing in an ancient elven script.
“Solas,” he called. “Come see this. This is in the Southern Marshes dialect. Can you read it?”
Solas gave him a quizzical look. “It is in the Arlathanian dialect for me.”
Language-shifting script. A common mechanism within the texts belonging to Elvhenan’s clergies. Was this a tomb for a priest? But priests would have had highly embellished sarcophagi and a much larger tomb, as well as an indicator of which god they’d served.
He read the writing for any hints.
There are no gods, it began.
Off to a fantastic start.
There is only subject and the object, the actor and the acted upon. Those with will to earn dominance over others gain title not by nature but by deed.
I am Geldauran, and I refuse those who would exert will upon me. Let Andruil’s bow crack, let June’s fire grow cold. Let them build temples and lure the faithful with promises. Their pride will consume them, and I, forgotten, will claim power of my own, apart from them until I strike in mastery.
The room was already cold, but somehow, a new wave of shivers still rippled over Lavellan skin. He wrapped his arms around himself.
Geldauran. The leader of the Forgotten Ones.
“This priest…” Lavellan’s breaths fogged. “They weren’t serving the Evanuris.”
Solas made no noise, no movement. Lavellan looked at him and faltered at the look in his eyes.
“Solas?” He grasped Solas’ arm and shook him out of it. “Are you alright?”
“I…”
Solas closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I have met Geldauran before,” he said. “He is… patient. Intelligent. Powerful. When he speaks, you listen. Not because he demands it, but because he inspires it.”
“He frightens you.”
“If you had seen him, you would be frightened, too.”
The wind swept in through the open door, whistling faintly. Another bout of chills wracked through Lavellan and he huddled further into his cloak.
He knew little about Geldauran, only that he’d been a well-respected general in the war against the Earth, and that he’d once been Elgar’nan’s shield-brother. It was said that before the Forgotten’s banishment, Geldauran attacked Elgar’nan in his own throne room as he’d grown envious of Elgar’nan’s rise in status and coveted his power. He’d rallied others in his jealousy and marched upon the palace, seeking to overthrow the new sovereigns and take the crown for themselves.
They were banished to the Void as punishment.
But Lavellan no longer trusted narratives spread by the Evanuris. Judging by this message, Geldauran didn’t sound motivated by jealousy. Whatever had been initially motivating him, however, must have already been twisted by the Void.
He paused.
On the subject of the Void… This strange presence he’d been feeling was coming from this inscription. He’d felt this same unease during his missions in Elvhenan sometimes. Whenever he had come close to a Forgotten cult’s base of operations.
Could it be Void energy?
Whatever the case, he no longer wanted to be near it.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Lavellan.
Solas nodded. “Agreed.”
The faint whistle of the wind drifted into the room once more.
But there was no wind.
Lavellan strained his ears and focused on the whistling. No, not whistles. Musical notes?
“Solas, do you hear that?”
They quieted. The river’s calm rush murmured outside.
Then, the whistles again.
“I hear it.”
“Someone playing an instrument nearby?”
Stone cracked behind them.
Their heads whipped towards the sarcophagus just as its lid burst open.
Hunks of stone and a cloud of dust shot up in the air. The corpse within jerkily sat up, its eyeless head snapping towards them, its flesh desiccated. It crawled out of the sarcophagus and scuttled towards them unnaturally fast.
Solas and Lavellan dodged to either side and backed away.
“Possession?” Lavellan asked frantically, but he could feel no spirit inhabiting the body.
“No! Reanimation!”
The corpse stood, its movements as disjointed as a marionette’s. Lavellan drew his daggers.
“Hurting it is no use,” said Solas. “So long as the caster is manipulating it, it will not die!”
But it was only them in the room. The whistling — a flute, he realised — continued.
Lavellan sheathed his daggers and flames licked up his arms.
“Then we give it a fucking cremation.”
In tandem, Solas and Lavellan unleashed a stream of fire at the corpse. If the body were no longer viable, the reanimation would no longer be effective.
Despite the heat, none of the snow or frost in the chamber thawed.
The corpse ignored the flames and ran at Lavellan.
Solas stopped the flames and cast his hand out. A magic circle bloomed beneath the corpse. Ethereal chains burst from the ground, wrapped around the corpse, and bound it to the ground.
The flute stopped.
With its strings cut, the corpse slackened.
Lavellan dashed out of the room, looking around the river and the canyon in search of the caster, tracking their magical signature. He alerted Vergala as well and she surveyed the skies in search.
But nothing.
Damn.
He walked back into the room and eyed the corpse’s bound, blazing remains.
“Cute date night activity: set fire to a reanimated corpse together,” said Lavellan.
“And you accuse of me of being uptight.” Solas sighed. “Did you find the caster?”
“No. Vergala couldn’t find anything either.” He crouched by the corpse, the fire dwindling. The foul smell permeated throughout the room and stung the walls of his throat with every breath. His nose wrinkled. “This is powerful magic.”
Necromancy involved the intervention of spirits to animate the corpse, but he’d sensed no spirits.
“The music we heard earlier must have had a hand in it,” said Solas. “I have heard of rumours in Elvhenan before of such a magic.”
Lavellan stared at the cultist’s corpse, then stood.
“So have I,” said Lavellan. “And I know who devised it. My Master of Spies in the El’amelan was a musician. She determined a way to use music as a medium for blood magic, but she commonly used a lyre, not a flute. Someone must have stumbled upon a similar method, or had somehow gotten a hold of her methodology.”
She could have taught someone after his death, and the knowledge had lived on.
“I can’t really tell if this is blood magic, though. It smells rank.” Lavellan couldn’t pinpoint the tell-tale metallic smell even if he tried.
Solas levitated the body back into the sarcophagus and returned the fragments of the lid back over it. He sealed it shut with layers of runes.
“There,” said Solas. “The sarcophagus can no longer be opened.”
Lavellan hugged himself. “Let’s get out of here.”
Solas shifted back into a wolf. They left that chamber behind and returned to the warmth of Stone-Bear Hold.
The next morning, the unease that Lavellan had been feeling the entire month vanished.
He and Solas returned to the chamber. The sarcophagus was as they’d left it, and a bitter chill still coated the room, but when they shifted their focus to the wall...
The inscription was gone.