written for @ancientimpudence.
a memory of the ancients, tucked in the deepest fade, when the earth had not yet been brought to heel and the people still stumble without the hands of gods to guide them.
“What is it?”
Fear asks the question with an air of revulsion and fascination as the gathered party gazes upon the creature that sits on the table. They look first to Creation for explanation, for in Ghilan’nain’s company she had witnessed the birth of a whole host of beasts to lay claim to the earth. Yet she has no answer for what crawls towards her.
Its keeper rights it before it falls, hissing punishment as the creature struggles against their grasp. Fat legs strain, helpless. It is both like and unlike them, squat and round, but with ears that taper towards the heavens the elves emerged from. Muttered observations converge towards concordance: it is horrible, it is hideous, it is—
“It is a child.”
It is Wisdom who answers the question Fear hesitated to ask, unshirking as he sweeps through the crowd. They part with the deference due Mythal’s second, his late coming unremarked upon (for Wisdom can never come too late to an immortal people). He stops before the creature— the child— who stills in the newcomer’s presence, eyes wide as they look upon him.
“I have seen them before. The dwarves begin as them, and some of the People now bear them. They are the same manner of being as what made them, only smaller.”
“The dwarves are already small,” Observation, of Dirthamen’s court, remarks.
“Smaller, then,” says Wisdom. He looks to one of the parents, and the air stirs with the promise of a question: “What is their name?”
They falter, frown. When Wisdom approached with an answer, they had hoped for understanding (perhaps approval) as to the nature of this experiment. “We, too, saw the fledgling elves, and asked if we could perfect that dream. All the power of—”
“— You may wish to consider something shorter,” Wisdom snorts. “A nickname, perhaps.”
Their grip on the child falters and it, undaunted by the hands that had tried to still it, crawls towards the table’s ledge. “Miolvun,” they say, their own names stricken from all narrative, all story, yet their creation’s persists, if only in memory.
“Miolvun.” At the sound of their name, the child veers towards where Wisdom stands, mindless of the drop.
His heart jumps as he catches them, clumsy as his hands fumble with them, four squat limbs seeming suddenly endless as he rights them in his arms. They laugh, ignorant of their brush with danger, little legs clinging to his waist. Wisdom’s body had been set for a darker purpose since Mythal first grounded him, yet somehow it seemed the shape had been made to hold this weight. They beat their fists on his chest, and he stays them with one open palm, little fingers pulling at his, trying to make as much sense of him as he is of them.
“Fascinating.”
Miolvun’s creator shines at the compliment, although it is not truly theirs he credits it to. As they weary of his left hand, they look at him; in the wisplight, wide brown eyes reflect aimless lights, like fireflies in a summer’s field.
“What can it do?” flies the voice of Andruil’s Discipline, seeking purpose in every corner of creation.
“Everything,” answers Wisdom, hiking them closer to his waist.
The room murmurs with conversation, steadily louder as each party debates what their best use would be. A wail pierces the party, and Wisdom’s ear. Too young for language, Miolvun shrieks, perhaps cognizant enough to be aware that the commotion is on their behalf.
Wisdom, wincing, reaches to the answer he knows best. The deeper Fade answers, summoning songs which soothe the child’s crying.
As the tears turn to shining pinpricks in the corner of their eyes, Fear remarks disparagingly, “It will do nothing with those tears.”
“They will learn,” Wisdom protests, “as we did. Or do you not remember the terror of your flesh, Fear?” A tinge of envy tugs at his words, wondering if they will remember what he can never forget: the horrible pulse of a heartbeat, the tearing of an empty stomach, the tremor of his lungs.
As the room falls silent, reflecting upon the trembling of the earth, a lone Hope lingers:
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"You look well." Felassan's face twists with a smile, violet eyes twinkling. "Mostly, anyway. Considering." Miraen always has an air about them, after all. Like if no wrongdoing is presently being done, they expect one near on the horizon.
"I take it there were no complicati- oh." The intent is slight, but palpable, and his attention snaps to the elf standing in his peripherals: Halana, if he isn't mistaken, fresh-faced and newly relieved of her vallaslin.
She hesitates when the general and the spy's attentions turn, flinching as her eyes slide to Miraen. "Forgive me," she says, head ducking out of sheer force of habit. "I've come with questions. The others said you were the one to ask."
"They said correctly, but what are you waiting for?"
"Permission, hahren."
"You don't need our permission to speak. Attend one of our war councils and you're sure to learn that." When he looks sidelong at Miraen, they do not seem to share his amusement, face pulled into a frown that could strike a sparrow from the sky. "Ask your question, da'len."
"The books in the library- they're the Dread Wolf's?"
"They're ours, yourself included." Halana lights up with an learning desire so intense he's sure Solas's ears pricked. "Go, enjoy them. Duty will wait."
She doesn't need to be told twice, even if she cannot help bowing towards them both. Still, her back is straighter than when she approached them. He'll count that as a victory.
"You know," he says to Miraen, once she's far enough away. "If you spared a smile or two, they might not nearly faint at the sight of you."
Dirthamen's eyes move from Hope to the North-northwest, the general direction of Mythal's seat. She plays the game with more grace than some of the Evanuris were aware.
Fear and Deceit fluttered to perches just outside his peripherals. Some of them lacked subtlety.
But Hope isn't exactly... what he'd expect. Kindness, perhaps, but Hope? Perhaps the All-Mother was losing her touch after all. Perhaps Wisdom's defection had ripped out more than he'd initially thought.
A task for Silence later.
"Of course, sweet Hope." His gaze flicks over them once more, but before he can consider them further, Persuasion appeared at his elbow.
"Your entourage awaits," she said, her curtsy quick and effortless.
Turning on his heel, Dirthamen walked in long, quick strides towards the center of the room as his Virtues flocked around him. As always, Fear and Deceit moved in front of him, announcing his presence with their caws. Loyalty took up his spot at Dirthamen's right, quietly radiating warmth. Silence, at his left, was a cool breeze in contrast. As Persuasion, Conspiracy, and Adaptation began taking their places in a third tier behind them, Dirthamen sighed.
Hope.
Regardless of why Mythal had sent them now, they would report back with whatever they saw and experienced. While they'd never see any of his works, it would be better to ensure they had a good time. Surely good feelings would be simpler for them to communicate.
"Loyalty." Dirthamen turned, laying eyes on his beautiful First. Their vallaslin glittered in the soft light of the chamber, the gold, silver, and bronze fluidly pooling and shifting as he'd intended. His best work. "Escort Hope. They seem a little... lightheaded."
"Of course." Loyalty bowed deep, auburn hair falling past his face, hiding the way his jaw tensed momentarily.
Dirthamen's lips curled in a smirk as he began walking, Silence's grin flashing wide as they settled into step where Loyalty had been. As the rest of the Virtues moved to follow Dirthamen out of the building, Loyalty finally let himself straighten, frowning after them.
The expression cleared with a shake of his head. Looking towards Hope, he offered them his arm. "You'll have to forgive him--humor is not one of his Virtues."
He winked at Hope, adjusting his stride so they wouldn't struggle as much to keep up. "You arrived at a wonderful time. I take daily walks around the city, but today is when Dirthamen himself goes and ensures the People are happy and flourishing. It's also market day, so there should be many crafts and wares on display."
As they stepped into the light, the broad, shallow steps of the front of the palace leading down to the courtyard, revealing a beautiful overview of the city, Loyalty paused. "Ah. I realize you just arrived--please, let me know if you tire at any point or start to feel sick from the elevation. I believe the mountains here are more steep than where you live, at Mythal's court?"
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"4. Bloody. Fuckin'. Years. That's how many years I dedicated t'understandin' the Orrey of Dirthsomethingornother. It's like, this elven artifact that just- it *senses* stuff and gives you info. I've been- I'd been usin' it for Veil research. Measurin' fluctuations and- and the like."
"BUT I SPEND 4 FUCKIN' YEARS DECIPHERING LETTERS. TRACKIN' DOWN MISSIN' PIECES. EXPERIMENTIN' AND PRAYIN' I DIDN'T BLOW MYSELF UP."
"AGAIN."
"And do you wanna know somethin'?"
"That little cu- fucker? They had the fuckin' manual for it. They'd snatch it RIGHT from the bloody cave I found the Orrey in. FOUR. BLOODY. YEARS. I COULD'VE HAD THAT TRANSLATED AND UNDERSTOOD IN A MONTH. BUT I SPENT FOUR BLOODY YEARS."
"AND DO YOU KNOW WHAT THEY SAID?"
He mimics Mio's voice with... scary accuracy. "Well, you got a really good lesson in figuring out elven artifacts, huh?" He huffed. "Maker damned fetid hindside of a nug."
"If Strife doesn't strangle 'em, one of these days I MIGHT."
Characters: Solas, Original Ancient Elvhen Character(s), Agent(s) of Fen'Harel
Pairing: Solas & Original Ancient Elvhen Character(s)
Fandom: Dragon Age
Rating: G
Other Tags: Platonic Friendships, Solas as Wisdom, Pre-Rebellion Solas
Summary: After Wisdom's judgment failed his friend, he stayed by their side a year as they recovered, sleeping off Elgar'nan's cruelty. The world does not wait for love, however, and at Mythal's bidding another servant of her will seeks to coax Wisdom from his grief.
The paint begins to chip as the lapdog finds his teeth.
"It is springtime, lethallen."
Anvallar does not crowd the room as she enters it, her presence gentle as the turn of the seasons; the yielding of hard winter to the soft beginnings of spring.
Her words are not wasted, but they are self-evident. His lungs swell with the blossoming of flowers, the expansive gardens of Mythal's palace like a mist on a wet morning, seeping into the room they occupy through an open window. Daras clings close to the winter in his heart, nevertheless, clawing at it until his knuckles are white as driven snow.
He does not move to greet them, kneeling at the side of his own bed as though it were an altar: its occupant, the holy flame he stands vigil over.
"I hadn't noticed," he says, frustration driving him to the point of petulance.
Anvallar does not accost him, the shape of her smile felt at his back. "Perhaps that is because it was spring when you laid them here."
"The sun beat too fiercely for spring."
Read the rest here on AO3.
Inspired by @ancientimpudence's The Forgetting. You can read a little more about the concept of the evanuris having a court made of their most treasured virtues here.
