Chapter Text
It was a moonless night in Halamshiral. Against a vast and cloudless maw of darkened sky, the Winter Palace's gold and ivory curves proudly stretched their arms into the ether. Few stars were visible, the rest smothered by the light of the palace chandeliers.
It was deep within those walls that a Game took place. Who was the prettiest? The wittiest? The scandalous one, the one with the good jests, the one whose finger bore a distinct pale line, naked without its now-discarded wedding band?
If there was one thing that Ilmarë Lavellan's defenders and dissenters alike could agree upon, it was that he was all of the aforementioned. The bit regarding the wedding band was more metaphorical in his case— albeit many swore to Andraste that they harbored memories of him and his elven serving-man wearing matching rings during the ball at this very palace, ten violent winters ago.
Such games were far too much. Far too much noise, far too many people (far too many kiss-ups), far too many politics, and yet, Ilmarë still waited. He waited upon the balcony as though some forgotten lover would come forth and sweep him into a lovely dance, whispering in his pointed ear that damned be the nobles, we are all things beautiful that exist in this universe.
Ilmarë sighed softly, tucking a lock of long, ink-black hair behind his ear with his free hand before bending his head down to kiss between the ears of the little rosy-pink nug tucked into his arms. "I forgot how utterly loathsome this place is, Biscuit," he muttered into the creature's long ear, earning him a soft, affirmative squeal. "The whole lot of them, sycophantic bastards."
He adjusted Biscuit's jumper, an emerald-green garment with tiny leaves embroidered into the cuffs of the sleeves. It had taken a great deal of persuading Celene that the nug would behave himself at the ball, and a brief argument with Josephine over whether or not the great former Lord Inquisitor Lavellan's public image would be even further negatively affected by the presence of a chubby nug wearing a jumper— and, more so, a chubby jumper-wearing nug that he had stolen from a dwarf ten years ago, effectively causing the Inquisition to lose favor with several dwarven factions.
"Inquisitor."
He turned, meeting the eyes of a woman clad in a crimson and white raiment, who stood upon the threshold of the gold-hazed ballroom within. A few sprigs of auburn hair peered out from beneath a tall headpiece, which, in his ever-secret opinion, looked ridiculous.
"I told you to call me Rook," he said, squaring his shoulders. "Unless you would like me to start calling you Victoria?"
"I would like that, in fact, given that we're at a ball with several of the most influential people in Southern Thedas. There are eyes everywhere," she replied. "And we must keep up pretenses, but just for tonight."
"Just for tonight," Ilmarë echoed. Tonight be damned, his entire past decade had been one singular, grand pretense, a Ser Pretense, perhaps, who had swept him into some kind of aggressive waltz and had refused to let him go till his head spun and his stomach roiled. "I suppose you are here to deliver some grave news?"
"Tragically, yes," she said. "I just received word from the belfry keeper that he is about to signal the start of your address to Halamshiral. Are you ready?"
Ilmarë gazed across the sprawl that was Halamshiral, tiny pinpricks of structures sprawling for miles across the land, the entirety of which was gathered here to listen to him speak some nonsense drivel about peace and prosperity in Thedas (or, the entirety of those who could afford to look pretty enough to be allowed into the palace, that was). Staring into into the ink-black heavens one final time, he dropped his head and sighed, "as I will ever be." Passing Leliana, he wordlessly transferred Biscuit into her arms. The creature happily squealed as he snuggled into her shoulder. She giggled, scratching between his pink ears with a gloved hand.
"You will be alright," she said. "This speech is merely for show. You practiced with Josie, did you not?"
"I did," said Ilmarë. "I am not the Inquisitor I once was, though. I fear that my speech skills have gathered dust over the past seven years."
"There will—"
Leliana's words were cut short with the distant tolling that echoed from the Winter Palace belfry, a low and melodic song that drowned his very marrow in nostalgic dread.
Ilmarë took in a shaky breath, murmuring a quick "please, bid me luck" to Leliana before slipping through the doors.
He stepped into the ballroom, bare feet padding against the floor as he made his way to the banister that overlooked the ballroom floor. A thousand glassy, partially inebriated eyes that shone like marbles blinked up at him, some in loathing, some in adoration.
The bell grew silent and Ilmarë let old memories of speech lessons with Josephine come flooding back to him. Back straight. Speech slow, clear, clipped. Confidence prioritized.
"Dear friends of Halamshiral," said Ilmarë. He drew in a breath. Josephine had warned him against using elven language. Too alienating, she said. "Andaran atish'an," He continued.
"Ten years ago, our humble leaders were brought to a truce. Gaspard, Celene, and Briala." He nodded to each as he said their names. "We are gathered here today to celebrate peace and prosperity in Orlais, to meet on a former battlefield of bloodshed and treason, and look toward a brighter Thedosian future.
"It was seven years ago that I disbanded the Inquisition in an effort to free Thedas from the hand of yet another king. And, it is now that I invite those who stand within these walls to remember those lost to the battle against Corypheus, the very symbol of all that the Inquisition fought to protect Thedas against."
A flush had begun to creep up Ilmarë's neck, and he resisted the urge to fan himself with his hand. Noblewomen, he thought, were quite lucky that fans were an essential part of a fanciful wardrobe, and that fanning oneself was considered an elegant gesture. He was already eyed warily by some for choosing to wear skirted braies to a party, but the addition of a lacy fan would have surely been the metaphorical death of him.
"As much as I am fain to call this ground sacred, a testament to victory— I cannot turn a blind eye to those who sacrificed their lives for the peace and prosperity of Ferelden and Orlais. It is now that I—"
The room had grown hot in less than a moment. His brows furrowed as he gripped the banister, gazing across the sea of faces that stared at him expectantly.
His vision tunneled in on a group of women in blue ballgowns, and he could hardly pick out their faces through the light of the chandelier, which violently glistered in the corner of his vision. Sweat beaded on his forehead, a faint nausea roiling in his belly like a distant thunderstorm.
It was in an instant that the room began to tilt. The soft murmurs of the crowd were muffled as though blotted by some dark dream. Oh, but his skin— his skin tingled with the force of a lightning storm, gooseflesh prickling on his arm. The contrast was maddeningly dizzying.
Ilmarë wiped the sweat from his brow, steadying himself against the banister. "It is now that I—"
Murmurs rippled through the crowd and something terrible flashed through his mind. Dirty paws against the floor of an ancient forest. Teeth and claws. Heartbreak. Wrongfully spilt blood that glowed like twenty suns and coagulated into something barbed and lethal. His stomach churned harder. His head throbbed.
"Inquisitor?" He glanced up for just long enough to see his white-knuckled hand clutching the balustrade, already halfway down the steps. Hundreds of people watching, staring, witnessing the great Inquisitor make a veritable fool of himself.
"I—" Ilmarë forced down the bile that rose at the back of his throat, barely conscious as Leliana and Cullen rushed to his side. Suddenly, pain shot through his left arm— burning, excruciating, maddening pain, a pain that he had not felt since the day his arm had been severed from its shoulder. Hyperventilating through his teeth, he grappled at the straps of his prosthetic, clawing at his skin as though a fire roared beneath it.
"Get it off!" he cried. "Get it off!"
"Please excuse us," said Leliana.
His friends all but dragged him out of the ballroom. The palace walls warped and twisted around him as he fought down the urge to empty the contents of his stomach onto the imported carpet that bunched beneath his feet as he scrambled to keep his footing.
It was hardly a moment after Ilmarë staggered through the vestibule that he thrust his shoulder into the large palace doors, collapsing to his knees and vomiting upon the threshold.
He heaved, gulping the cool, night air. In, out, in, out, but it was still too much; too much but not enough. He rubbed his damp palms on his skirts before staggering to his feet.
"Maker…" he mumbled. "What have I done?"
"Breathe," Leliana said, rubbing his back.
"N-no," said Ilmarë, wiping his mouth on the gold-embroidered sleeve of his robe. "There's something— something is not right. I had a vision, I saw… things. Claws, ancient magic, something glowing…"
"Once you are well, you must return to the—"
"Cullen, he's ill," scolded Leliana. "Josie will finish the address for him."
"This will be terrible for my image," said Ilmarë.
"Take no offense, Rook, but your image is already rather desecrated," said Leliana. She set down Biscuit, who rushed to Ilmarë's side and nuzzled into his hip.
Ilmarë absentmindedly scratched between his ears, sighing. "No offense taken."
"Walk with us," said Cullen.
Ilmarë took in a shaky breath, his mind churning as he trailed behind Cullen and Leliana. What was hiding within his vision? Buried in the alien seemed something familiar, like a lyric-less song whose name he could not recall. Who are you? He asked the vision, but nothing echoed back save a faint click, rattle, rattle.
What?
"Did you hear that?" asked Ilmarë.
"Hm?" asked Cullen.
Rattle. "Shit!"
It just so happened at that moment that they were passing a locked door, one that thrashed against its hinges like a man possessed.
"Who goes there?" asked Ilmarë.
"I swear by Andraste's tits, if this lock doesn't open—"
Suddenly, the door swung open with a final thud, and he found himself gazing into the eyes of two figures whose faces he hardly bothered to take in before he cursed and tackled one of them to the floor. "I swear to the Maker, if you—"
"Whoa, Rook, easy! It's me!" The man lifted his head, holding up his palms as though he had been caught at the scene of a murder.
Ilmarë froze momentarily before allowing his muscles to relax. "Varric," he sighed, laughing before tackling the dwarf back to the floor in an embrace. "How did you—?" He lifted his head, meeting the eyes of the other that he had nearly attacked. Her fiery orange hair glowed in the light of the swirling mirror around the corner.
Oh.
"Heard about your address to Halamshiral, Rook," said Harding. "We tried to navigate the Crossroads on our own. Had a few run-ins with some bad guys, but we're here and we're in one piece."
Suddenly, Varric piped up. "I love ya a lot, but can you give me a second to breathe?"
Ilmarë's cheeks flushed as he realized that he had been clinging to Varric for far longer than was probably appropriate.
"Apologies," said Ilmarë, scrambling to his feet and dusting himself off. "Anyway— I suppose neither of you are here just to say hello."
"Afraid not," said Varric. "Listen, Rook— your old beau— think we've found him. He's conducting a ritual. And it could mean the end of Thedas if we don't haul our asses over to him right about now."
"Solas," whispered Ilmarë. Maker curse that name, he had spent years trying to erase that man from his memory. Chasing off the six-eyed wolf who moped in the corner of his dreams from time to time. Trying to forget how warm his lips were against his skin, the way his ears blushed when he gave him pretty stones and flowers. Trying to forget his familiar smell of moss and arbor's blessing as he buried his face in his neck. Trying to forget him.
But, how could he forget when his reflection bore a missing arm and a bare face? How could he forget when he used to pleasure himself to the thought of his voice ten years ago? How could he forget the man who had casually referred to himself as his husband for a year?
"Is that what my vision was about?"
"Vision?" asked Harding.
"Yes," said Ilmarë. "I collapsed during my speech. I heard strange voices, saw strange things."
"You once told me that Solas visits you in your dreams," said Harding. "Could this be some kind of magical thread connecting the two of you, giving you the same sensations?"
"It could very well be," said Ilmarë. He turned to Leliana and Cullen. "I will need the both of you to conceal my absence— tell them that the Inquisitor has fallen ill. In the meantime… Varric, Harding— I believe that now is the perfect time for me to personally deliver my regards to my ex-husband."