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You don’t need to destroy this world. I’ll prove it to you.
He needed to show Solas that this world, his world was worth saving.
I would treasure the chance to be wrong once again, my friend.
Travelyan feels the ache of the Anchor dull, the thought of the danger it posed on his life being shoved aside as Solas walks through the Elluvian.
I’m sorry.
No, wait!
Live well while time remains.
Solas!
Solas steps through the Eluvian without a second glance, leaving the Inquisitor behind. Stunned and stuck between feeling like he wanted to smash the Eluvian or run away, Trevelyan replays the scene over and over in his head, trying to envision other paths; useless as that is.
✶
Travelyan stands with some difficulty, the Eluvian seals itself off and thus his only connection with Solas disappears along with it.
He can feel the anchor pulsing at his side, he didn’t have a lot of time. Dorian catches him as he tears through the Eluvian back where he’d left the party, “What happened? Did you find Solas?”
Travelyan visibly flinches.
There was a lot to say, and not a lot of time. “We need to get back, now. I’ll explain on the way.”
And he did, he told them about Fen’Harel, about Solas’ plans to tear down the veil and return the time of the old elves at the cost of the entire world. Back at the Winter Palace, Travelyan could feel the magic begin to wane and the pain slowly but surely returning.
At this rate, the Inquisitor himself posed a much larger threat to the Inquisition than anything else at this second. If any of the horrified expressions were any indication, everyone was having varying degrees of trouble processing the influx of information.
How could he?
We trusted him!
I knew he was hiding something!
Furious words were thrown about, the noise was deafening, but the emotions rang clear: hurt, sorrow, fear.
The Anchor chose that moment in the chaos to flare up, a small one but it silenced the room into a shocked stillness. Travelyan hisses through his teeth and bites back a groan, Dorian is at his side immediately, he leans into him for support.
“There’s more.” He squashes down the manic laughter bubbling in his chest at the sheer incredulity of it all.
A steadying breath. Two.
“The Anchor is getting worse, Solas couldn’t stop it from spreading. I’m out of time.” There was a sharp inhale from somewhere and a soft gasp off to the side, who it was he couldn’t tell. The grip on his arm tightens incrementally, he places his hand over Dorian’s and squeezes.
“What do we do?” Ah Cassandra, the voice of reason.
Dropping his gaze, Trevelyan frowns, unable to look them in the eye. “One of two things: I leave and take the Anchor with me, so when it fully discharges, no one else will get hurt but me.”
“And the second?” Leliana asks, her words are flat, but her eyes are piercing through his like the mere suggestion was offensible.
There’s a smug sort of self-satisfaction in the back of his mind, he’d made a good choice in promoting her as Divine, especially with that silly hat.
“Or..” he speaks uneasily, “we find a way to get rid of the Anchor.”
Without a second’s hesitation, people began moving in a flurry of action, already accepting this solution as the only.
“I’ll speak to the College.”
“The Dalish should have some information on this.”
“We’ll evacuate the people to a safer area.”
“I’ll relay the information to the council.”
Just like that, the room is empty save for Trevelyan, Dorian and Cassandra. He quirked an eyebrow at her and she shrugs, “Someone has to make sure you don’t wander off alone.” Smart gal. She leaves to guard the door and soon it’s just him and Dorian, who’s very decidedly not looking at him.
“Dorian, I…” a hand lifts in front of his face to stop him and he shuts up. Dorian steps back and turns away, shoulders trembling slightly, Trevelyan allows him the space, no matter how much he wanted to embrace him at this moment. He balls his fists at his side to restrain himself.
The cold wash of dread runs up his spine as the thought of death suddenly becoming a very real reality drains all the energy from his body. All he’s left with is the horrid thought of leaving Dorian and flashing images helpfully machinated by his mind of his comrades’ lives moving on without him. It twists deep in his gut like a bad dagger wound perfectly placed so it’ll never heal right.
Dorian spins around, Trevelyan opens his mouth to say something but gets slapped across the face. It stings but it’s laughably tame compared to how much it hurt to see Dorian’s expression. His eyes are red-rimmed and full of anger, Trevelyan supposes he deserved that. Dorian grabs him by his lapels and pulls him in for a kiss, it’s desperate, uncoordinated and not at all romantic, especially with Dorian muffling curses against his lips. His hands hover around Dorian’s waist, afraid to touch.
They pull apart and Dorian fists his collar tight in his fingers, “Don’t you EVER suggest going off to die by yourself ever again, is that clear? Or I’ll bring you back to kill you myself!” Trevelyan bites his cheek to resist the urge to cry or laugh inappropriately, though all he wants to do is hold Dorian close to him and never let go.
Maker, I love him so much.
What could he say at this point? Oh lots of things probably, like how much he loved waking up tangled with Dorian in the bedsheets, or how his eyes positively sparkles whenever he talks about his homeland like a besotted fool, or about the first time he’d realized he was in love with the mage during a game of chess where he was bested quite awfully and gotten the smarmiest grin he’d ever seen. It was unfair, really.
Varric’s prose must’ve rubbed off on him, he couldn’t help waxing lyrical to every little endearment he’d discovered about Dorian over the years they’d been together. He could say all those, any of them truly, but the words had gotten lodged in his throat and all he could do was nod tersely instead and finally pull Dorian into his arms.
Muffled against his hair, the mage continues his rant unperturbed while running his hands absently along his back. “Didn’t know you had such a martyr complex, we’d have to let you compete with Rainier for that honor.” Dorian couldn’t hide the slight waver in his voice however.
Trevelyan chuckles humorlessly, he turns his head to further bury himself into Dorian’s neck, inhaling the smell of leather and the lightly scented soap he’d bought from Tevinter that coated his skin, committing it all to memory.
✶
The spies turn up with nothing, the Dalish camp has even less information on this type of old ancient magic, even the Well of Sorrows is suspiciously quiet and the trail stops cold. His advisors work quickly and tirelessly, but nothing seems to help, the Anchor is as much a mystery and illusive as the man who it came from. With the power of the Eluvians at his fingertips, Solas is everywhere and nowhere at once, and if even he could not stop the Anchor, what could?
“Dorian stop pacing.” There’s an exasperated huff as Dorian snaps the tome closed and throws it over his shoulder with a flourish to flip through another dusty book, “Did you know, there’s more information that Solas is really the Dread Wolf than there is on this type of elvhen magic in these old writings. How the Dalish retain any information solely through old legends is quite a feat.”
They’re surrounded by a large pile of tomes, scrolls and old documents that were hastily gathered by various agents, though reading them has proven useless if Dorian’s griping is anything to go by.
Trevelyan looks down at the Anchor, it’s unearthly green swirling and pulsing with fade magic. How much time did he have left? The short bursts of sizzling pain were starting to happen more frequently, but they were manageable with potions and healing magic. Now however...
On cue, the Anchor splits up his arm, and the crackle of energy shoots across his body and rips him apart from the inside. A scream is torn from him and he crumples where he once stood. Him and his big mouth, no, not here, not yet!
The pain isn’t stopping this time, if anything it grows in intensity and Trevelyan clenches his jaw stubbornly. Dorian makes a run to his side, but he stands with incredible effort, and grapples against the wall. He holds his arm out and tucks the Anchor close to his body.
“Don’t come near me!” He shouts amidst the mind-numbing pain and makes for the door. He prays to Andraste Dorian listens to him, but he knows him too well and Dorian gives chase.
Every step pulls new unpleasant sensations, Trevelyan only gets to the courtyard before the Anchor sizzles and spits out a green light that encases him in a vault of furious gnarling raw power. Wild rampant magic spreads across his skin, it leaves bright green cracks of pure uncontrolled energy all across his body and sets all of his nerves on fire. He’s definitely screaming now, he faintly hopes that others had heeded his warning to stay as far away as possible.
He was out of ideas, and now, he was truly out of time.
Absently, he wonders how Solas is doing, and how he’d react knowing the Inquisitor was dying right this second.
Right, that’s what he was doing, dying.
Somewhere in his periphery, he sees Cassandra approach him, futilely he tries to wave her off. You’ll die too! Leave! I beg you!
He pleaded silently.
Cassandra, now with a barrier thrown around her, continues to step closer, she has a determined set of the jaw, but her eyes reveal all of the fear she’s holding back. The howling energy from the Anchor licks at her face, her skin burns with it, but she presses on resolutely.
Trevelyan doesn’t have the ability to scream anymore, his joints have locked up in his knelt position and all he can do is writhe and curl up further into himself. No noise comes out of his open mouth, the tears have dried up, he isn’t sure he’s even breathing anymore.
Everything hurts.
In the back of his mind, he apologizes to Dorian, to Cassandra, to all of his friends, and then to Solas, for not being able to save him from himself.
He hardly registers Cassandra kneeling next to him, her lips move to signal someone else but he can’t hear anything, his vision starts to swim around the edges.
Suddenly, there’s an additional burning sensation above his bicep, it was hard to tell with the overwhelming feeling of what seemed like the Fade trying to open him up from the inside out that numbed the rest of any auxiliary pain. Then...things get strangely quiet. His body collapses. Overhead, there’s an explosion of some sort, a thunderous boom that shakes the ground and sends rippling shudders through the air.
Mercifully however, he passes out. Before his eyes flutter closed, he sees Dorian’s face, stretched thin with concern mixed with something else he couldn’t place.
Relief, perhaps?
And that’s when the void takes him.
✶
Trevelyan jolts upright in his chambers, sunlight streams through the drapes, though it doesn’t feel any warmer. Strange. Out of bed, he takes a moment to listen: Skyhold is eerily quiet from up here, it occasionally is, but it’s never silent. Trevelyan descends the stairs leading to the main hall, unable to shake the feeling of wrongness.
How had he gotten back? The last thing he remembered was...Trevelyan grips his head as memories flood into his mind. Cautiously, he peers at his left hand, flexing it and feeling absolutely nothing. Either the Anchor was gone, or he was; a thought that made him frown.
Had he died and gone to the fade? Seems unlikely, but this certainly felt familiar.
No matter. Trevelyan thinks to himself as he walks through the fade-created version of the tavern in Skyhold, it’s close enough, save for the blurry faces of the bar goers. Leaving the tavern, he wanders around what has been his home for the last few years and is struck with a sudden gripping homesickness.
The fade is weird. This is what Solas wants to bring back into the world? Even in his dreams, Trevelyan found that the fade only supplied him with eerie imitations of his friends in even stranger recreations of almost-real life situations. It was like looking at reality in a broken mirror, and just plain weird.
The last time he was physically in the fade, all he could think about was how gross it was, all wet and spidery. No thanks to the Nightmare, that’s for sure.
Without realizing it, he’d stumbled into Solas’ alcove, surrounded on all sides by the mural he’d hand-painted of the Inquisition’s path. Curiously, he wonders if Solas had also painted all the murals about Fen’Harel, and the thought of him painting himself like a large black wolf startles a laugh out of him.
“I had a feeling I’d find you here.”
Trevelyan leaps back and reflexively reaches for his nonexistent weapons, but stops when he spots who the intruder is.
“Solas..?”
Solas smiles, strained and incredibly sad. His eyes are unreadable as Trevelyan relaxes but remains wary. He has to remind himself he’s in the Fade, and whatever you imagine manifests before you. Solas is in his apostate robes, just like how he’d looked back at Skyhold, it stirs up bittersweet feelings.
“It’s nice to see you.” Trevelyan speaks honestly and casually to the imitation, “When you left, we didn’t have a chance to say goodbye...uh...both times.”
The apparition is silent, but tilts their head curiously.
Words tumble out clumsily from his lips as the Inquisitor tells the Solas-copy all that he’d wish he could tell his beloved friend.
“I read what had happened to the Elven people, you saved them from slavery and from the Evanuris.” Trevelyan gestures emphatically, “I can’t imagine having to make that decision, and I’m the Inquisitor, half my job is making judgements! I mean...You created the Veil, by the Maker, how powerful were you??” He reins himself in a little, he’d lost the point there for a bit. The copy looks almost, fond?
“What I wanted to say was…I’m sorry.” The Solas-imitation frowns. “I know why you have to do this, and you know why I have to stop you. We’ve got a tough battle ahead of us.” Trevelyan chuckles a little self-deprecatingly, he straightens out and approaches Solas, can he touch Fade spirits? He was about to find out, placing a tentative hand on Solas’s shoulder.
He makes contact and is surprised at how soft his robes are, Trevelyan swallows around the lump at his throat. Gently, like Solas was going to disappear again, Trevelyan pulls him into a one armed hug.
“I’ll find you Solas wherever you go, and I swear I’ll stop you.” He says as he releases the apparition, who looks away.
“For what it’s worth,” the apparition says as he disentangles himself, “it's also nice to see you my friend.”
Trevelyan is hit with a sense of déjà vu, recalling a certain walk in the Fade version of Haven he’d taken with Solas back when they first encountered Corypheus.
Could it be?
“Solas? Is it,” he reaches for him but Solas retreats, “..it is you. How…”
An awkward moment passes between the two before Trevlyan speaks.
“Why are you here?” A simple question. Good start.
Solas’ clothes shimmer and change, the Dread Wolf armor wraps around his form like an animal settling home, his posture stiffens. “You are alive, just barely.” He sounds relieved, though slightly vexed.
Trevelyan has the ridiculous desire to give Solas a ‘thumbs up’ in reply. What could he possibly say now that he hasn’t already said?
“Good to know.” Opting for humor, he mumbles out under his breath instead, shrugging nonchalantly. “Guess I’m just stubborn like that, you can’t get rid of me that easily.”
They share a brief amused glance, before their gazes fall away, the new wound between them still raw. “What now?” Trevelyan asks Solas.
“You’ve been asleep for quite a while, there are people waiting for you Inquisitor. It’s time for you to...wake up.”
✶
His subconscious startles awake in frightening clarity before the rest of him does, the first thoughts of ‘am I dead now?’ are immediately proven wrong as feeling slowly returns to his body.
The pain comes swiftly after that. It’s nothing compared to the Anchor of course, it’s more of an incredible soreness that permeates deep into his bones, added onto the feeling of newly healed skin pulling in all the worst places.
Trevelyan groans, he cracks a heavy eyelid open and is met with the very ornate ceiling of the Winter Palace.
Nope, still kicking. By Andraste’s ass, I’m sore.
Off to his side is a sharp intake of breath and deep shuddering exhale, followed up with a lot of shuffling around.
His eyes fall closed again as healing magic envelops him and he slips gratefully back into the darkness. The fade is much emptier this time around.
As Trevelyan finds out after, Cassandra had run over to him and in one swift downstroke of her blade, cut off his left arm and severed the Anchor from his body. With the disembodied arm starting to glow brighter and brighter, she tossed it to Bull, who proceeded to throw the arm as hard as possible up and far away from the area. Not a second later, his arm had exploded in a brilliant display of uncontained ancient magic...oh and blood.
Cassandra had sustained injuries from being so close, but she was up and walking to the Inquisitor’s quarters the very next day, fiercely protective. He did love that gal dearly, he swore that he would spoil her like she deserved the moment they returned to Skyhold. Maybe he’d get some exclusive preview from Varric’s next series and surprise her.
After a few days of recovery, between disgusting amalgamations of healing potions of every hue and members of the Inquisition's inner circle mother-henning their Herald, he was about ready to bolt.
Coincidentally, Dorian never left his side, he’d taken up residence in his room, even setting up a small sleeping area consisting of plush chairs and cushions stolen from around the Winter Palace. He personally oversaw the Inquisitor’s recuperation and was the first person he saw when he awoke. Albeit groggy and all out of sorts, Trevelyan beamed to the best of his abilities when Dorian’s face swam into view, he couldn’t tell but he swore Dorian was crying, not that he’d admit it anyhow.
One downside, Trevelyan noted, to being newly injured however was that Dorian refused to do anything more than chaste kisses and fleeting touches like he was made of glass. Being cooped up on orders of bedrest and medicine was fine for the first few days, but cabin fever was setting in quickly and he was going stir-crazy.
“I’m fine, Dorian. Look, all better!” Trevelyan stretches convincingly and waves with his freshly lopped off arm stub. To his credit, he only winces a little. Seeming much paler than he was before, Dorian only shakes his head and folds his arms across his chest. “Just because you look fine, doesn’t mean you’re all cleared to go. And stop flailing your arm around, you’ll pull the stitches apart.”
The exalted council was informed of the Inquisitor's speedy recovery and had scheduled to reconvene in the afternoon, which Trevelyan was adamant he’d attend, much to everyone’s combined chagrin.
“You’re a terrible sick patient, do you know that.” Dorian chastises, helping Trevelyan into his formal wear, acquiescing that there was nothing anyone could truly do to stop him from going.
They were deciding the fate of his Inquisition after all.
“I did know that, but you know,” he bends to kiss his mage deeply, “it’s just one of my many rakish charms.” With a smirk, he pulls away from a dazed Dorian to fold up his sleeve up to his bicep, clipping it in place.
“Besides,” Trevelyan opens the door and turns back, jaw set, “..we have a job to do.”
He steps through the door.
✶ ✭ ✶
