Chapter Text
Prologue
Our tale begins, as all the best do, with betrayal.
The Golden City - Arlathan - six thousand years ago
The sun had begun to set on the Elvhenan empire, casting dappled shadows across the great spires and gilded, floating towers. The God-King himself—Elgar'nan, the All-Father— strode purposefully down a marbled hall, hoping to finally catch them in the act.
A tryst, they had called it. High advisors, his closest confidants, trading whispers behind their hands as he passed, scattering to the winds when he pinned them demanding answers. But he would have them, only a matter of time before he found their lair of sin, hiding away somewhere within his own home.
He pushed the crown higher on his bald head, absently scratching his paunch as—
"Varric, didn't you say this was going to be a horror story?" Dorian asked, an eyebrow arched curiously. He leaned back from the table, pulling his elaborate cocktail with him. "We are going to have some terror soon, surely?"
"Come now, Sparkles," Varric complained, looking up from the book draped across his knees. "I'm just getting started, you know I gotta lay the groundwork first."
"Hush, Pavus." Cassandra said, nodding back to Varric with her fingers tented beneath her chin. "You have my attention, Varric. Continue."
"Thanks Seeker, I had a feeling you'd like this one. Now, where was I…" He muttered, drawing his finger down the page. "Right, anyway—"
He pushed the crown higher on his bald head, absently scratching his paunch as a sound ahead caught his ears. A scuffle, ceramic breaking and then a sigh that sounded rather more salacious than frustrated. His lip curled in disgust. She had been creeping around for months—his Queen, his consort! Mythal, chosen for him by his own divine decree and yet she defied him at every turn. Rage boiled over, his hands balled into fists as he marched toward the door at the end of the hall.
An unused meeting room, with the Queen's men standing guard. They stepped aside hesitantly as he approached, seething and spitting, shoving the door open with all his might. Caught, the Queen kept her calm, resolute even in the face of her treason. It was then that the God-King faltered, catching sight of the man who kept her company.
Fen'Harel, the Dreadwolf. Ever belligerent, a fierce thorn in his side since his arrival in the gilded city. It was him who coveted her—his consort—him who turned her from the light of the Sun. Shock was replaced by rage as he reached for the nearest man's sword, replaced again by agony as the dagger pierced his back. And then again, and again, and again, for as much as he could remember, the breath stolen from him as he was viciously shoved free, toppling flat onto his face.
But then, in the aftermath of their depraved regicide, there was a sudden stillness. Footsteps pounded beyond, the God-Kings men come to see them to their final end as they stood rooted, motionless. Another moment and Fen'Harel gathered Mythal to him, his now crimson hand laying delicately on her cheek as he pulled her to him for a final kiss. His voice lifted in a lilting elvhen as he promised his everlasting love to her with his final breath, before he turned the glowing dagger on himself.
Mythal stood defiant as the guard approached, smoothing down her robes as she clasped her hands across her bloodied middle. Her crown still sat, thorned and imposing upon her brow, her bearing regal and tall as she allowed herself to be taken alive. It was a foolish gambit, the God-Queen believing a quick death lay at the end of her treachery. But no, for the crime of murdering the divine king himself, for sullying herself with the trickster god of lies, she would be the first to endure a terrifying punishment, one reserved for only the truest of blasphemers.
Blind-folded, and with hands tied behind her back, she was shoved into the back of a carriage with her remaining guard. Driven across the face of the empire she once helped rule, through night and day and night again, counting the sunrises until they reached the fabled city of Tel'nalan. The Black City, where the God-King was told to hide away his vast fortune, and where the final resting place of the Evanuris—should they ever die—would be.
She was dragged bodily from the carriage, her now bare feet sinking into the sand as they trekked further into the desert, the sun becoming a distant memory as they made their way deep below ground. It was there that her remaining guard were slaughtered, the sounds of wet violence screaming in her ears as she lay blindfolded on the funerary table. And then, when the noise had faded and the footsteps had once again approached, they started their work on her.
The Blight, was what they came to call it. A curse so evil—so perverted—it had never been performed before. Something was tipped into her mouth, foul smelling, a thick black liquid that burned as it went down her throat. She could feel it change her, felt the wrongness of it leak into every part of her and take hold, her veins and eyes and tongue going black. She tried to scream, her gurgling voice silenced in a choking cough as ravenous beetles were poured down her throat.
After, with her still alive and convulsing, clawing at the air in agony, her captors carried her to the simple stone coffin which would be her final resting place. Her tomb was sealed, the key stored away safely in the vain hope that nobody would ever find—or indeed, unearth—her remains.
The Sentinels, descendants of the God-Kings honour guard, protected the location of her final resting place over the thousands of years that followed. That is, until a chance encounter with a cocky, Ferelden gunslinger, and a minor territorial dispute changed the course of their history, forever.
In the sands of the Western Approach - six thousand years later
Her tenure in the Orlesian Foreign Guard had taken her to some truly void-forsaken places, but none was so befitting of the title as the desolate sands of the Western Approach. Caked in sweat and filth, Eleanor Lavellan cursed under her breath as she spurred her horse forward, holding steady against the charge before her. She slipped her rifle forward, preparing to take aim as soon as the enemy were in firing range.
"Screw this, Lavellan! I'm out," shouted a voice, hoarse and terrified. She turned to see Rook, of course, fleeing into the distance, his horse bucking him off into a nearby dune as it made a swift escape.
"I knew you'd be too much of a chicken for this, Rook!" She shouted back, unable to stop herself from taunting him. That little weasel had whinged non-stop their entire journey across the sands, and Lavellan had been tempted more than once to tie him up and just leave him for the vultures.
She took a deep breath to steady herself, methodically aimed and fired. One man fell from his horse but dozens more pushed through, an inexorable tide she knew would overwhelm her. The captain had already fled, his trousers flapping in the wind like flags, and now there she was with a battlefield promotion she didn't want, and a hundred calvary bearing down on her. All her compatriots, if one could call them that, criminals and louts and not one amongst them was a good shot.
So, of course, Eleanor Lavellan did the only thing she could: she started blasting. More shots rang out from her rifle, more nameless faces went into the sand, before she was knocked bodily from her mount. She landed heavily, the wind knocked out of her, rolling just in time to avoid a hoof to the face as her horse nickered and whinnied and ran for its life. She couldn't blame it, really. It was every man, woman and horse for themselves out here.
Back on her feet she crossed her arms, pulling free a revolver from a holster on each side. The antique service pistols had never failed her, and even now, outnumbered and outmatched, she held her ground, firing in a steady, two-handed stance as her shots easily found their targets. The sound was deafening, shouts and cries and the noise of horses lost above the din. The familiar ozone stink of powder filled the air, catching in her lungs.
Then, an explosion. Lavellan ran for her life, leaping over a crumbling wall and into the dunes as another BOOM rang out. Sand was everywhere; in her eyes and ears and places she did not want to think about. And then she felt a hand on her shoulder, trying desperately to shove her back over the wall.
"This is my hiding place," Rook protested, trying to push Lavellan out with both hands on her back. "There's no room for the both of us."
"Rook, don't you dare—ah, void take you, you shifty little—hmph—"
Knocked suddenly flat on her face, she spied Rook, throwing down his rifle and making a proper run for it, hurriedly shambling away in an s-pattern to avoid the bullets that pinged after him and kicked up a cloud of sand.
"Well," she mused, "at least he finally learned how to zig zag."
She dragged herself to her feet, brushing the sand off her tan trousers as the muffled sound of footsteps and voices signalled the soldiers approach. Eleanor squared up, her guns now empty, nothing left but for her to fight tooth and nail with all she had left; her knife. And she would: never one to do things half-assed, it was one-hundred percent effort or none. Soon, she was cornered, a dozen men in all, their uniforms belonging to a local tribe of people who contested the rights to this land.
Her knife came free from the strap on her thigh and she advanced forward, her face set in grim determination. Sweat and sand were in her eyes and she wiped them free with a quick swipe of her hand, the sleeves of her cream blouse rolled up to the elbow showing the tanned flesh beneath.
And then, right when the soldiers had her trapped, there was an ungodly sound—an otherworldly howl that split the air and almost shattered her ear drums, her knife falling uselessly into the sand as she clapped her hands over her ears and grit her teeth against the onslaught. The wind whipped up and she swore for a moment there was something within, a crowned skull with a gaping mouth, and then as quick as it came it whirled around them and was gone, sand sifting down slowly through the air.
The soldiers dropped everything and ran, leaving guns and horses behind. They fled into the desert, voices raised in terror as she stood there alone, stooping to pick up her blade.
"Yeah, you better run," she muttered, surveying the scene for anything else she could take.
Her eyes drifted up to a rocky outcrop above, frowning as she saw a group there silhouetted by the setting sun. She squinted in the glare, unable to make out much detail but the hazy shapes of cloaked figures, on horseback wearing the all-encompassing black vallaslin of Elgar'nan, the All-Father.
"Great, more religious kooks," she quipped, turning her back on them."That's just what I need."
She pulled free her canteen from her belt, taking a swig of water before she splashed some across her face. Her cheeks were pinked from effort, her own vallaslin glimmering in the amber sun, the golden thread above her brow just visible through the muck. Her mark honoured the Lady of Fortune, but she put about as much stock in that as the Maker and all the others, which is to say zip, zilch, nada.
Lavellan stretched her shoulders, lighting a cigarette and taking a puff as she picked her way through the remains for supplies. Then she gathered her things, squared her shoulders, and took off into the desert for the nearest town and a stiff drink. It would be a long while, before she found either.
"Um, Varric did you mean to make her so hot?" Sera asked, waggling her eyebrows at the dwarf as he looked up from his novel. "Because, wise-cracking lady gunslinger is kinda my type."
"Mine too," Bull muttered, throwing Sera a conspiratorial glance. "Might have to fight me for her."
"And she's not even an elfy elf!" Sera added, wiggling with excitement in her chair.
Varric chuckled, looking pleased with himself. "I'm glad you like her, Buttercup. She's written to be kind of a fan favourite, you know. Who doesn't love a dashing rogue?"
Cass made a disgusted noise in her throat. "Yes, yes we can all agree the main character is attractive. Can we move on to the next section, now? We've barely heard any of the story yet."
"As you say, Seeker."
Val Royeaux, Kingdom of Orlais - A few months later
The Department of Elvhenan Antiquities at the Museum of Val Royeaux housed Thedas's most prized and priceless collection of artefacts from the ancient period, believed to be the highest concentration of Elvhen artwork and writing anywhere in the known world. As he sat behind his desk, shoved in an out of the way, windowless space he suspected was once a utility closet, Solas had to consider whether the place had lived up to his expectations.
He had spent the better part of four years there, toiling away diligently in the records department as an assistant, working his way up to keeper as he set out to complete his doctorate. His work was a treatise on ancient Elvhenan burial practices, and he had been beyond miffed—indeed, thoroughly vexed—by the Theodosian Journal of Elvhenan History's refusal to publish his research without significant corrections.
They insisted his work needed more real world practical application! His work, of which he was keen to point out, dealt with the burial practices of an ancient civilisation from six thousand years ago. And the tombs of the Evanuris themselves had never even been found, all his research based upon letters and writings dating from the period. He had heard rumours of an ancient buried city out in the desert, but no credible evidence to remotely suggest that it was true. If there had been, he would have gone in an instant.
Still, he had finally been able to defend his dissertation at the University of Val Royeaux and now Solas Raine—Doctor Solas Raine, he corrected—was finally an Evanurist. He didn't like to think how much their involvement had bolstered his career, but he knew he was following closely in the footsteps of his mother and father, both respected Evanurists in their own right and benefactors of the very museum he currently sat in, wasting time musing over nonsense. And then there was Felassan—
He let out a disgruntled sigh, inadvertently knocking a pot of black ink over, splashing all over the manuscript he was meant to be translating.
"Oh heck—oh gosh, not the Arbor Wilds writings—ah!"
He jumped to his feet, somehow managing to knock the bottle over a second time, splattering black ink down the front of his linen shirt and trousers. He looked down in dismay, holding the now soaking page between two blackened fingers.
"Oh, she's going to have my head for this."
"I'm going to have your head for what?" Came the reply, in a heavily accented Orlesian voice. He winced, knowing it would be impossible to hide the truth from her.
He turned, holding his blackened hands up in surrender with a grimace. A stony silence met his gaze.
Leliana Nightingale, director of the Department of Elvhenan Antiquities and curator of the Museum of Val Royeaux, was a slight woman with her ginger hair cut into a bob, and who always carried a no-nonsense air. She spent a moment taking in the sight of Solas, ink splattered and sorry, before she spied the parchment he had so easily destroyed. Her hand came to her face, rubbing across her eyes as if she could clear it from her sight.
"Raine," she sighed, gesturing to the mess. "Honestly, if I didn't know you better I'd think you did this deliberately."
"Ah, but you do know me better and this was just—um, a petty distraction—" he tried to explain, before she cut him off with a sigh.
"Yes, but there always seems to be something distracting you. It's like you live out your life in daydreams, Raine. This work is important, it deserves your undivided attention. I need you to pull your head out of the clouds."
Solas nodded, somewhat chastised. "Of course, Director. I will find some way to clean up this mess."
He looked around for a rag or cloth or anything that could mop up the ink that was now sticking his shirt to the skin of his belly.
Nightingale made an irritated noise in her throat. She took a deep breath and he braced himself, clearly awaiting a dressing down.
"You would do less cleaning up after yourself if you just learned to pay proper attention in the first place, Raine. You give me more migraines than the rest of the graduate students put together. And don't think I've forgotten that incident in the stacks, or when you managed to topple the statue of Fen'Harel in the atrium. Honestly, Raine, remind me why I keep you around—"
"Because," he jumped in, drawing himself up to his full height, the effect somewhat less impressive than intended given he looked as though he came off second best in a fight with a squid. "You need me. I'm the only one here—aside from yourself, of course—who can read and decipher ancient Elvhen. And I've read all the research there is about ancient Elvhen cultural practices and burial rights."
Nightingale scoffed, continuing to look unconvinced. "Is that really an achievement when it's your own culture?"
"And," Solas finished, ignoring her last comment as he held one finger aloft. "I am the only one here who knows how to use your stu—ahem, ah comprehensive filing system. Nobody else knows the first thing about your card catalogue."
Nightingale scowled, still clearly miffed. "Dr Raine, your position here was linked to your status as a graduate student. If you still wish to keep your tenure with the museum, you're going to need to provide me with more than just an understanding of my card catalogue. Understood?"
He nodded, preparing to give her his assurances before she turned on her heel and stalked from the room. Solas just sighed, turning back to the ruined parchment.
He grabbed a rag and some rubbing alcohol from his desk drawer, trying to clean some of the ink from his hands. When they were finally only grey instead of black, he slipped his glasses from his nose and wiped them clean too. When he put them back on, he could only sigh at the mess that awaited him.
"Oh, what am I meant to do with all this?"
"BOO!"
He about jumped out of his chair, turning in time to smack Felassan on the shoulder as he tried to duck out of reach.
"Brother!" Felassan teased in a sing-song voice he knew Solas hated, grinning as he stuffed his hands in his pockets and waggled his eyebrows. He was dressed in the usual sloppy suit with his tie hanging loose, and his jacket open to show a stain on the pocket of his shirt. "That's no way to treat your new best friend."
Solas scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Felassan, I really don't have time for you right now. I just messed up this priceless piece of writing, and the director was very clear I needed to cut out all distractions, and I know just how much you love being one of them."
He folded his arms across his chest, giving his best impression of a stern glower. Felassan was unbothered. Instead, he looped an arm casually around Solas's shoulders, dragging him across the room as he protested and tried to shake himself free.
"How did you even get in here, Fel?" Solas demanded, shoving Felassan off with a grey hand. "You were supposed to be banned after your fellowship was cancelled. You know how lucky I was not to be tarred with the same brush, I can't have you just gallivanting around here like this."
"It all worked out in the end." Felassan replied, pulling his hair up into a messy ponytail. "My career will bounce back any day now, I'm sure of it."
Solas rolled his eyes as his brother got two hands on his back, and started pushing him toward the nearest window, where a beam of sunlight managed to peek through.
"Oh, you know I hate it when you manhandle me Felassan," Solas muttered, scowling before he wrinkled his nose. "Have you been drinking? You stink of brandy."
"Too much trifle." He quipped, waving him off.
Solas just snorted, a decidedly inelegant sound and definitely not one a professional man should be making.
"I hope you haven't brought me another worthless trinket, Felassan. I'm running out of ways to convince Nightingale—"
"My dear brother, you will not be disappointed with what I've found." Felassan declared, beaming as he dug into his pockets for something. He rummaged around for a long moment, before he pulled something free from the inside of his jacket pocket. "Well, I bloody hope not anyway."
Solas stopped fighting as he caught sight of the object, a strange dark green orb with cracks inlaid all across the surface. He reached out absently to take it, turning his back on Felassan to hold it up to the light. He could swear he almost felt—something—radiating from it, some buzzing, electrical feeling from within that set his teeth to itch and his skin to crawl.
His eyes couldn't help but trace the cracks along the surface, following them as he turned the orb over in his hands. He looked up to see Felassan watching him eagerly, his eyes bright and a smile across his lips.
"Well, I finally found something good didn't I?" he asked, nodding to the strange orb.
Solas hummed thoughtfully. He had never seen anything like it, in truth. Though it was clearly Elvhen, with markings in their script all across the surface of it. His mind began to make associations, linking all the places in the literature he had read about supposed items of power, and artefacts such as these. He drew a complete blank.
He ran his hand absently across his bald head, then across the smooth jaw to his chin where he let it rest for a long moment. His fingers drew back to the orb, tracing along the cracks, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he tried to discern any kind of latch or opening.
"Where did you get this?" he asked, without looking up.
"Oh—ah, on a dig up in Arlathan." Felassan replied, after a short hesitation that went unnoticed. "Plenty of Evanurists up there recently, since they found that gilded tower and all."
Solas hummed, and then pressed his finger firmly along the edge of a crack. He gasped as the orb sprang open, a piece of parchment falling out. He ducked to grab it at the same time as Felassan, the two of them cracking foreheads together with a pained yelp.
"Ow!" Solas complained, rubbing his head absently as he took the parchment from Felassan's hand. He unfolded it carefully, the document rough under his fingers but well preserved for something that appeared to be from the period this was.
"We need to show this to Nightingale," he said quickly, carefully re-folding the document. "This could be exactly what I need to get back into her good books."
He took Felassan by the arm, dragging him and the strange orb to her office on the upper floor.
"Are we going to get the action any time soon, Varric? Or are we going to be stuck with this dreadful bore of a historian until we all expire?" Vivienne asked, languishing in her seat.
"I don't know, I think he sounds kinda hot," the Inquisitor disagreed, ignoring Sera who stuck her tongue out at the thought. "Who doesn't want a flighty librarian? I bet he's gonna be all damsel in stress and she'll have to save him."
Varric snorted. "Ah come on, you know I don't write damsels."
"I do appreciate this Felassan character," Dorian interjected, his amber eyes sparkling. "I hope he enjoys a large part in the story."
"Well, Sparkles, if you all shush we can get back to it. And Cass, it's your round for drinks."
"I'm sure of it, Director," Solas said excitedly, showing Nightingale the orb and the document within it. "It dates back at least six thousand years, and the markings on the outside have been found on other pieces of writing pertaining to the God-King and other members of the Evanuris. It has to be it, see for yourself."
Nightingale looked unconvinced, putting on a pair of pince-nez as she gazed intently at the document.
"This is a map," Solas continued, unperturbed by the director's lack of excitement. "To the Black City, the lost ancient city of Tel'nalan where Elgar'nan was said to have housed the greatest wealth of the Elvhenan empire. And, where they planned to bury the Evanuris in the event they died, but there is no record of that happening."
Nightingale gave a non-committal response, holding the map up to the light of a nearby candle to read the inscriptions better.
"So I did finally find something worthwhile!" Felassan crowed, shimmying around as Solas watched helplessly, trying not to laugh. "A treasure map—"
"We are scholars here, Mr Raine, not treasure hunters. As you should well know." Nightingale admonished, glowering at him. "The Black City is a myth, there is no ancient treasure—"
"I know all the blather about it being protected by an ancient curse, and an evil undead or whatnot," Solas cut in blandly, waving off Felassan's eager look. "But there is evidence in my reading that the city itself did actually exist. And this map shows the location, look there."
He pointed to the centre of the map where, in the midst of endless sea of sand, there was a temple marked 'Tel'nalan'. From his research he knew that meant 'place of not gold' which lined up with just about every other Elvhen translation he knew, being ambiguous and open to interpretation.
"Hiding a big treasure chamber?" Felassan asked, grinning.
Nightingale scoffed, rolling her eyes. "We dismissed that rumour many centuries ago, Mr Raine."
But Felassan wasn't listening to her, excitedly turning to Solas as he continued his train of thought. "They said the entire city was rigged to sink into the sand if invaded by looters, and that traps were set to stop wayward humans from picking around where they weren't welcome."
"Yes, yes," Nightingale said absently, "But as the Fereldens would say, it's all just baloney and—oh my gosh, how clumsy of me—"
Felassan grabbed for the map as it caught fire, throwing it down and stomping on it to put out the flames. Solas looked between the map and the director, his mouth open in shock, his big break literally turning to ashes in front of him.
"You burned the map," Solas said tonelessly, leaning down to pick up the damaged parchment. He pushed his glasses back up his nose, turning the paper over in his grey hands to review the damage. There was a neat hole, right in the centre where the location of the Black City had been, fully half the map now lost.
"You did that deliberately," Felassan accused, pointing his finger at the director.
"I did no such thing," she replied, shaking her head as she feigned innocence. "Now please, I really won't hear any more of this fairy tale nonsense. The Black City does not exist, and there is nobody alive to argue otherwise. Please see yourselves out."
She waved them off, looking resolutely back to her work.
Nightingale was mistaken, as it turned out. There was precisely one person alive who could tell the tale.
Felassan was his characteristic, exuberant self on their ride over, looking out the window of their tram as they moved noisily down the streets of the capital, pointing out people and buildings and anything that caught his eye. They weren't from Val Royeaux originally, not Orlesian, but had grown up there with parents who were big into philanthropic ventures and spent their summers in Antiva or Rivain.
Solas had tried his utmost not to let his upbringing lead to nepotism, and found that actually the opposite often felt true. And certainly for Felassan, his family donations had not saved his career or his reputation, after things went pear-shaped with an artefact that was eventually found to be both fake and stolen. The fact that he was following Felassan's lead on this orb and the map and whomever he was being dragged to meet, did not inspire a lot of confidence.
The prison was not a place Solas ever intended to find himself. It was with a genuine reluctance that he allowed himself to be dragged there, only capitulating under the tantalising prospect of learning more about the orb, the map, and the Black City. It was crowded, the condemned jeering and cursing behind the steel bars of their cages, or worse still, hurling fluids or other objects at them.
The warden screamed and shouted, trying to restore order to no avail as Solas and Felassan passed by the gallows and made their way over. It stank, of old vomit and piss, and the stench of neglect and decay. He wrinkled his nose at the smell, finding it only worsened as they reached the warden himself.
"I hear you want to talk to a prisoner," he stated, taking a bite out of a cherry tomato which spat juice all over him. He wiped his hand down his already stained shirt, sucking his teeth as he spat out a gob of something unpleasant.
Solas turned to see undisguised disgust on Felassan's face and bit his lip, trying not to laugh.
"Ah, yes we think you have someone here—a Fereldan, arrested in an altercation at a drinking establishment two nights ago. My brother here bought something from them, and we need to ask them something about it."
"Fine, fine," the warden waved, motioning to a nearby holding pen. "We'll bring the Fereldan up. But don't be long, the clock is ticking."
Solas nodded, moving to the holding pens as he and Felassan waited for the prisoner to be brought up.
"So, you bought this off him? Why would anyone let something like this go?" Solas asked, patting his satchel where the orb and map were safely contained.
Felassan just muttered something under his breath, looking over his shoulder as if someone had called his name.
"Felassan, you did buy this right? You didn't steal—"
He was cut off as the door to the holding pen swung open with a bang, the guards wrangling a struggling prisoner to the front of the cage before they threw them bodily in a heap. The person grunted, slowly pulling themselves to their feet. Solas noticed they were unkempt, with wild hair and dirt-stained cheeks, barefoot and with manacles on wrists and ankles.
But he was most startled to see it was a woman, who ignored him, narrowing her eyes at Felassan.
"We met, buddy?" she asked, tilting her head to one side. "Because you look awfully familiar."
"Ah, no…" Felassan answered, looking anywhere but at her. "Just one of those faces, you know."
Solas sighed internally. "Mr—ah, I mean Ms Lavellan," he started, pulling the orb free from his satchel. "I would very much like to ask you about this if it's not too much trouble."
She was still ignoring him, her eyes fixed on Felassan. The woman crooked one finger, in a 'come here' gesture. "Could you just come a little closer? I swear I've seen you before. You don't play Diamondback, do you?"
Felassan stepped closer, opening his mouth to say something before the woman reached through the bars and punched him. Below the belt, right where it hurt. He doubled over, gasping, and Solas took the opportunity to take the woman's undivided attention. He deftly stepped over Felassan, clutching his satchel to him.
"Please, ma'am. Would you tell me where you got this?"
"You really wanna know?" she asked, smirking as Felassan sat clutching himself and howling behind them. The prisoners jeered and laughed, pleased with the spectacle.
Solas nodded, eagerly. "Yes, please. My research—"
"Then I need two things," she interrupted, beckoning him closer.
He stepped in, his nose now only inches from hers through the bars. He could feel her breath on his face, and smell the cigarettes and scotch on her lips. Her eyes were soft brown and clear as they fixed on his, startling in their intensity.
"You've got five minutes before I'm set to swing, so put your ass in gear and get me out of here and I'll take you to the damn city myself." she hissed, struggling as her guards reappeared and tried to drag her away.
"And the second thing?" Solas asked urgently, leaning in through the bars as she continued to fight her captors. She kicked one in the shin and they retaliated with a smack to the face, splitting open her eyebrow just below where her vallaslin ended.
She didn't answer, instead grabbing his face between her two hands and planting a firm kiss to his stunned lips. The woman was dragged back before he could react, reaching up a hand to touch his lips as the memory of hers faded.
"Never, ever call me ma'am!" she shouted, the sounds of scuffle fading as she was led back around to the gallows.
He blinked in shock, unmoving until he was shaken from his reverie by Felassan, who groaned and finally tried to stand.
"Oh come on, brother." Solas tutted, grabbing Felassan by the arm. "We need that woman, she's the key to all of this."
"Are you sure? She did just punch me in the d—"
"Come on," he repeated, dragging Felassan with him over to where the warden sat in the stands.
Solas swallowed, remembering the perfect features his mother put on when she needed to schmooze some diplomat or another. He plastered what he hoped was a friendly smile to his face, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the foul odour that came from the man.
"Warden Danarius," he said, aiming for charming. He reached out his hand, finding the other man's was sweaty and disgusting and he instantly regretted it. "May I call you Danarius?"
"No." The warden replied shortly, waving to a guard. "Bring her out!"
Solas felt his heart leap into his throat. Ms Lavellan was about to hang and all her knowledge would die with her. It had nothing to do with that stupid kiss, it wasn't even that special a—
"She knows where the Black City is!" Felassan said, pointing at the woman in question who was now being dragged up onto the gallows, her head being shoved through the noose. Her long braided hair swung free, the cut above her eye now bleeding down her face.
The warden raised a hand, and the activity paused. He turned to focus his beady eyes on Solas, giving him an appraising look. "Is this true? This Ferelden swine knows where the Black City is?"
Solas rankled at his crass speech, and worse still the feeling it sparked low in his chest. Something defensive he didn't want to have or inspect.
"She knows where the city is, yes. And she will take us there but she can't do that if you hang her first, be reasonable."
"Yeah," Felassan added, jumping in unhelpfully. "What did she even do?"
The warden turned on him, glaring darkly. "She had a very good time."
Solas had no idea what that meant, or how Fereldan ladies spent their evenings when they were free in the capital.
"Enough," the warden said, raising his arm. "Hang her!"
"Wait!" Solas said, as he saw them secure the noose and reach for the lever. "What if we give you some of the proceeds? Ten percent?"
"I would pay ten percent just to see her hang!" he declared, spitting on the floor. "You know she kicked me—me?"
"Probably deserved it." Felassan muttered under his breath.
She was still tied, the noose still around her neck, struggling with the manacles on her wrists as she glared up at them. Solas didn't need to hear her words to know what her white-hot stare meant.
"Hang her!"
The prisoners let out a cheer, delighted once again with the spectacle.
There was a sickening thud as the door dropped open beneath her and she fell, a pit opening in his stomach as saw her still hanging by the neck, struggling as she now slowly strangled. His brain was reeling, trying to pull the pieces together as he spun back to the warden.
"Twenty percent."
"Fifty," the warden countered.
The prisoners continued to jeer, the sound deafening.
"Thirty."
"Twenty-five!"
"Ha, deal!" Solas declared triumphantly, offering his hand.
The warden groused as he realised he had played himself, spitting in his hand and offering it back to him. Solas shook it quickly, resolving to wash it properly later. With soap, and alcohol.
"Cut her down," the warden called as he sighed dramatically, his fun suddenly ruined.
The woman fell heavily, the guards shuffling over to remove her manacles. She tore free the rope from her neck, flinging it casually onto the sand as she rubbed the welt on her neck. When she looked up at Solas and their eyes met, the breath caught in his throat. And then a smirk tugged at his lips as she offered him a mocking curtsy before she turned and took off.
Solas and Felassan gave their farewells to the warden, finding the woman waiting for them just outside in the street beyond the main gate.
"So," she said, eyeing them up as she pressed a scrap of cloth to her forehead. "Whoever is bankrolling this better buy tickets on the steam ship Siren's Call. It's leaving tomorrow morning, heading down river, and we need to be on it.
Solas nodded. "Alright, I will ensure we are booked for the journey—"
"And try to pack light, Doctor Raine," she cut in. "I don't want to end up carrying all your equipment when you get tired."
And with that, she turned on her heel and left, her bare feet striking the flagstones.
"I guess we'll see her tomorrow, then," Felassan said, shrugging his shoulders before he threw his arm around Solas. "What say you and I head down to that nice little pub on the corner and get a drink, hey?"
Solas sighed, allowing himself to be pulled along as a stray thought came to him. Looking back, he was sure he hadn't introduced himself.
"Felassan, how exactly did she come to know my name?"
His brother, he noticed, remained uncharacteristically silent.