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The Inquisitor appointment ceremony ends like a thought splintering into a thousand fragments; recruits return to sparring in the courtyard, merchants call out to passersby, visiting dignitaries resume their hushed whispering. Nothing has materially changed, but there is a subtle shift in the air. It feels like everyone else breathes easier while oxygen is slowly siphoned from my lungs.
A hand clamps down on my shoulder, making me jump. I turn to see Cassandra’s face alight with hope.
“Back to work then, my friend.” She heads down the stairs to join a band of sparring recruits. The familiar indigo hue of her armor is swallowed by the throng.
“We have faith you will see us through, Inquisitor,” Leliana says, and then she too is gone, leaving me alone on the landing.
Inquisitor. I’m the head of a godsdamned religious order. The idea slams into me like a cold wind. Being the Herald was one thing—marked by a god I didn’t even believe in, something I could brush off to remain unremarkable. Inquisitor is an appointment, not only by the friends I cherish, but by all the people who enlisted to pull the world back from the brink. I feel the solid, unchanging weight of the sword in my hand. No Maker swoops in to steady the tremors in my fingers.
Corypheus’ words return to me with a jolt.
I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty.
The rantings of a madman? Maybe. But hundreds of faces beneath my perch on these stairs expect me to act as a conduit for the divine, and yet the only voice in my ear is my own ragged breathing.
My feet start moving before I tell them to. I march up the rest of the steps into the great hall. Faces pass by in a blur, bleeding into one another like ink in water, until I reach the door to the rotunda and barrel through. Solas is knelt atop a scaffold against the far wall, paintbrush in hand. The image he is working on is too bare to be discernable yet. Hues of orange and red glare out from the wall like a warning.
Solas finishes a stroke of the brush before glancing over his shoulder. His gaze lingers for only a heartbeat before he returns to his work.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” he calls.
“Solas, do you believe in the Maker?”
Solas’ hand stills in mid-air. The room itself seems to hold its breath for a moment before Solas lowers his hand and turns to face me. His expression is pensive.
“Like the Fade, this world operates as a collective. We each have our own hand in shaping it, making our small corner into a form that suits us,” he muses.
“Very poetic. Doesn’t answer my question,” I say with a wry smile.
Solas’ own lips quirk up at one corner. He hesitates for another moment.
“I do not have strong beliefs one way or the other,” he concedes. His brow furrows the longer he looks at me. “Why do you ask?”
Okay. I won’t be crushing his worldview by saying this, then. I let out a sigh and lean back against the wall, using the chilly stone to ground myself. It finally occurs to me that I’m still holding onto the sword. I prop it against the wall beside me and fix my eyes forward so I won’t have to see it. Green fabric swishes across my field of vision. Solas descends the scaffold and crosses the room to stand beside me, folding his arms in tandem to gaze out at the room and its furniture still cloaked in white sheets. The sword stands between us as a silent but undeniable reminder.
“I’ve been thinking about something Corypheus said back in Haven,” I say finally. I glance at Solas out of the corner of my eye and he nods to coax me on. “He said…when he broke into the Black City, he found the throne of the gods, and there was no one there.”
“Ah.” Solas considers for a moment. “A lie, perhaps, to throw you off balance.”
The image of Corypheus’ eyes, seething with hatred but unmistakably human, returns unbidden. I shake my head to banish the memory.
“Those were the eyes of a fanatic, Solas. He believed every word he said,” I murmur.
Solas sighs.
“There could be a multitude of explanations. Perhaps the Fade merely took the shape of what he expected to find, or he only thought he entered the Black City, or the Maker was simply someplace else. But I suspect those will fall on deaf ears, so I will ask this instead. Why does it matter?” Solas’ stormy blue eyes search my own. “Unless my memory fails me, you don’t believe in the Maker.”
“I don’t. I…didn’t. Mostly because I didn’t want to.” I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. “I’ve seen a lot of fucked up things in my life. We both have,” I say, meeting Solas’ gaze again. “If the Maker exists, that means He saw all of it—the cruelty, the abuses—and chose to do nothing. Forget apathy; I would spit at the feet of a god like that.”
“I won’t tell Cassandra, if that’s of any concern,” Solas reassures me. His tone is light, almost playful, but worry sharpens his face.
“It’s not just her. It feels like everyone believes, in their own way. Even Sera. Even Varric,” I say helplessly. “And every time I bring it up, they say the same thing: it’s too scary to think of a world where no one is watching out for us. But for me, it’s the opposite. I can’t bear the idea of our world being ruled by someone so…well, hateful in the best case. Apathetic in the worst. And yet…”
“Without a god to blame, the chaos of the world exists for its own sake,” Solas finishes.
I nod. My next words lodge in my throat before I force them out.
“And now, not only am I expected to bring order to that chaos, but I have to speak for a god I know isn’t listening. It’s all a lie.” I grow more emphatic with every word, my hands whipping through the air of their own accord, before I smack the sword by mistake and it clatters to the ground. Both Solas and I flinch at the noise. I fold my arms to trap them against my body. “Shit. Sorry,” I say.
Solas gingerly picks up the sword and sets it beneath the scaffold, out of view. His gaze is measured when he returns to my side.
“Suppose you walked out on the battlements right this moment and told everyone the truth. What then?” Solas asks.
“I know I can’t. Most people wouldn’t change their minds so easily. And even if they did, it would cause…pandemonium on a scale I couldn’t imagine,” I mutter, shaking my head. I imagine the looks on Cassandra’s and Cullen’s faces, their devout faith ripped from beneath them, and can’t bear to entertain the thought.
“Indeed,” Solas agrees. “But it is not your lie. You never perpetuated the idea of being the Herald, but it has served you up to now. This needn’t be any different.”
“It’s still a lie by omission,” I argue.
Something unnamed passes over Solas’ face before he composes himself. He turns his gaze to the rotunda, his index finger tapping idly against his arm, before facing me again.
“Ellana, I have seen you turn everything in the environment into an asset during a fight—fence posts, torches, even the very dirt beneath us. Being Inquisitor offers you the power to do a great deal of good. It is simply another tool,” he says.
“It’s not the same. At least throwing dirt in someone’s face is honest.” I freeze the moment the words leave my mouth. Solas looks like he’s trying to stifle a laugh. “Okay. Realizing how that sounds. Point taken,” I acquiesce, catching myself scratching the back of my neck. I’ve been spending too much time around Cullen.
Solas places a gentle hand on my wrist as I lower it.
“I do understand.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“The weight that leadership brings. Being unable to control how others see you. Trying to correct them, only to realize their image of you is so solid in their minds that nothing can change it.” Solas seems to choose every word with care. I wonder what he’s referring to—the mysterious, nondescript military service he mentioned to Blackwall? Something related to the Fade?
I resolve to let the matter go. He can offer more details when he’s ready. I place my own hand briefly over Solas’, relishing the warmth that bleeds onto my skin.
“Thank you for listening.”
“Of course. I wore the mantle of leadership poorly, in my time, but I am happy to lend my ear,” Solas says. We stand in companionable silence for some time before he speaks up again. “Do you paint, lethallan?”
I smile a little.
“Never. I’m afraid your supplies would be wasted in my hands.”
“Then it is fortunate I have supplies to spare,” Solas counters. He retrieves a second brush and some parchment from a nearby crate. “Even if you have no desire to participate, I would be glad for the company.”
The conversation evolves to Solas’ murals, returning to our usual easy companionship as he details the events of the Inquisition he wants to immortalize. My eyes pan over the vibrant colors and the scene just beginning to take shape as Solas’ brush arcs over the stone. The parchment he handed me is delicate to the touch, too fine to be wasted on my scribbling, so I take to unveiling the furniture instead. One white sheet reveals a desk—practical, but barren. When Solas’ back is turned, I crawl beneath it and peer at the blank underside.
What to draw…what to draw…
Strangely, I watch as Solas paints an honor guard of wolves beside the Inquisition’s emblem and remember my trek through the snow after Haven fell. The distant howls of wolves guided me through the mountain pass. There seems to be another memory buried deeper, a dream perhaps, but the details wink out like wisps in the night.
I dip the brush in a bottle of green paint, raise it to the underside of the desk, and outline a canine silhouette.