Chapter Text
Mythal paced on the dais where her throne sat, the windows behind her letting in streams of light, which bounced off the throne’s gilding. It shrouded even her black hair with golden light, which fell loose down her back. For one of the Evanuris, he was dressed simply, but even that could never diminish her beauty. All the simplicity did was let her natural reality shine, even brighter than the sun.
It was still early morning, and the hall was empty save for the two of them. Above her throne, a stained-glass effigy of her watched the entire chamber from on high.
“You wished to see me,” Solas said from the bottom of the stairs that led up to her throne, head just about having to crane in order to look at her. Even then, the light which outlined her almost blinding.
She smiled when she saw him, her pacing ceasing and came just a few steps towards him. “Yes. I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything important.” Her hands were resting in front of her, long fingers clasped together, the faint clink of her rings brushing against each other.
He inclined his head, “I was only working on an idea I had for a painting- it is able to wait.”
She nodded, moving on to the business of the day. “Well, as you know, we will be hosting a ball this evening to welcome my husband back to Arlathan. I would like you to be there- we must show a unified and strong front. So, I would have you wear my colours at the very least.”
“Of course.” He kept his gaze lowered from her, not wanting to be distracted,
“In terms of our objectives, you should leave Elgar’narn to me. I do not wish for this ball to be dragged into petty japes between the two of you. So instead, you should investigate the other courts. Their gods may not be here yet, but they soon will be, and we need to know where their followers stand.”
He nodded into a half bow. “As you say. I spoke with one of your court, Felassan, and he believes that you are correct; that Falon’din, and most likely by extension Dirthamin, may be up to something. We don’t have anything solid yet- nothing we can act on- but he has been involving his lowest slaves in it- I believe he may be using them as a power source via blood magic.”
She hummed, taking a few steps further down towards Solas, who stood still, back straight and hands clasped behind his back: her general at ease, awaiting her orders of war. “This Felassan, my Master of Household- you have mentioned him a few times recently.”
The muscles in his back tightened. “I have. He is very competent, and unlike many others he knows that slaves are not the mindless pack animals that so many of the nobility, and the Evanuris think them to be. That they can be valuable informants and operatives.”
“You are certainly wise there, Pride. I am lucky to have you by my side, especially as these days grow ever darker and more dangerous.”
He looked at her, and their eyes met, locking onto the other before Solas tore his dragged away. “Do you have any idea what Falon’din may be up to? Your ear is closer to them than my own.”
“No, my fellow gods talk with me less and less these days. I would worry more, were they not bickering amongst themselves as they always do. They are shortsighted, and while that can make them dangerous enemies, it also opens them up to recklessness and petty arguments that we can exploit.”
“For these upcoming talks, I know we have spoken of it previously, but if we do indeed want to focus on dividing your compatriots up, did you have any in particular you wished to target? I can lay some groundwork for them this evening.”
“What would you advise?”
Solas frowned as he thought it through. “Andruil and Ghilan’nain will remain inseparable as they always are. It would take much to break that bond- tumultuous as their relationship is they have always returned to each other, even before Ghilan’nain joined the Evanuris. Falon’din and Dirthamen are also dangerous together, but it is easy to play on their egos- especially if they are collaborating on this magical research.”
“How so?”
“Dirthamen ever protective of his secrets, and his twin ever eager to inflate his ego. Pull them in each direction and they will shatter and break.”
Mythal nodded, and he felt a warmth spreading through his body. “I believe you may be correct, Pride. Based on my current knowledge of June and Sylaise, I believe I should be able to sway them towards my cause of stability. They are not so ambitious as the others, and for the most part have been content to be left to their own devices to tinker and build as they will.”
“They are content with the status quo, but it is not the status quo that we wish to achieve. We both know that change must come to Elvhenan.”
“And it will, Pride. But we cannot risk them creating a united front against us.”
“If we do not take risks than change will never be achieved. While we merely talk, people suffer, and none of our talking will help them.”
She bowed her head, black hair cascading around her face like a funeral veil. “Do you think that their suffering does not grieve me, my love?”
“No, it is not that,” he said, looking away from her wide, pleading eyes. “Merely that-”
“If I could wave my hand and help all of my subjects, then do you not think I would? I never wished to be given this apotheosis, but I knew that I must in order to keep my husband the rest of my brethren in check. It is the only reason I am here, and the only reason why the other gods have not torn the world apart.” She stepped down until she was standing just one step above him, her hand reaching out to cup his cheek. His eyes fluttered close even at that simple touch. “We have both seen war, Pride. We have both seen what that chaos wrought to the world. I did not… I did not think you should wish to return to such a world.”
Solas swallowed heavily, feeling his stomach clenching, his heart beginning to thunder in his chest. She was right. They had both been there in the war. They had both been witness to the slaughter of the Titans. To return to such a time would be unconscionable and he would once again be to blame.
Her hand slipped from his cheek, fingers sliding off from jawbone to chin. The loss of her warmth against his body was like diving into the sea amidst a blizzard. His eyes flinched open, but she was already walking back up the stairs to pace once more before her throne.
“But I should let you go my dear, I am sure you have much to do in preparation for this evening. Thank you for your time, Pride. I will see you at the welcome ball this evening. Go in peace.”
He bowed to her, but she had already turned back to her pacing before her throne. Silhouetted against the light streaming in from the windows, crown stretching up from her brow, she seemed more statue than person.
***
His head was too filled with noise, a lone swimmer caught in a riptide, the memories and failings had him in their grasp. The Titans War. So long ago now, but still somehow felt as though it was only yesterday. The flowing blue blood soaking the land, turning black as their dreams were hacked from their bodies. The Children of the Stone, stumbling and blinded from their actions. No- his actions.
Mythal was right, of course. War had brought the Titans’ children nothing but destruction, and it had brought the elves nothing but tyrants like Elgar’narn and Falon’Din proclaiming themselves as gods, with only Mythal to keep them in check.
But, still, they couldn’t continue as they were. Something had to break- and if they didn’t decide what, then Mythal’s compatriots would. The cards would be dealt, and their only option would be to play their hand until one of them broke.
He could always… no he couldn’t tell her of their plans. Not yet. Mythal would need more proof before she offered her support. No, it would be best to try and advise her towards more definitive action. Together they could work slow change into Elvhenan, paving the way for what would come after.
He tried to return to his work, but with the memories of the war reopened, he found himself merely staring into the distance. So instead, he headed out to a quiet part of the gardens.
There was still time before the ball that evening, and he wanted- no he needed- to be useful. Needed to do something, feel like their cause was going somewhere, that this wasn’t all for nothing, that the change they dreamed of could come to be, even if that wasn’t today. He decided to head down to the slaves’ quarters of the palace, see if he could find this Ghilara that Felassan had talked about. He had a description and some likely locations, and it wasn’t like ivory white hair was particularly common around slaves of that station.
He shifted in a quiet part of the gardens, slipping his way through hedges and fences until he came down to the slaves’ section of the palace. The lesser version of his wolf form had the look of a mongrel of a wolfhound, with shaggy fur. A stray more than a revered general. He was still Solas when he shifted into this form, but he wasn’t quite the same Solas.
Perception ever influenced the self, and when the bodily experience altered, so too did the self have to alter. His mongrel wolf form experienced the world so differently than he did. The ability to slip through a crowd without all eyes falling onto him, the feeling of hot paving under bare paws. The smells that his canine form could pick up- like the drifting scent of freshly baking bread from four hallways away.
As he made his way from the outfacing parts of Arlathan, with all its gilded glory, the world changed around him too. No longer meant to intimidate or inspire admiration, the world became simpler. There was none of the gilding or fine carvings, and the air lost the perfumed scents of myrrh and cinnamon. The change was subtle as one left the halls of the nobles until you suddenly realised that all you could smell now was the smoke of the ovens and the tart herbs of the laundries that tickled the nose.
Even though it felt like it was thousands of miles away from the finery of the palace, Solas found his body loosening, steps coming surer. It wasn’t from the idyllic notion of some pastoral fantasy, but rather that it was that it was real. Nothing about it was trying to deceive or pretend to be something other than it was. No gilding to hide the rot, no thick layers of makeup to hide the imperfections, no carvings to hide the cracks in the wall.
There was just rot, imperfection and cracks; and he didn’t mind at all.
He dug out a small tunnel under a fence, just large enough for him to squeeze his canine body beneath, the wooden slats scratching at his skin. He came to a small pool of water in one of the many slave courtyards. Slaves would come here in the moments between work, splash water on their face, or exchange a few passing words. Weddings would be held here along with beatings from the masters. It was all tangled up together. Felassan had said this one was near to Ghilara’s sleeping quarters.
Currently, a small group of women sat to the other side of the courtyard, clustered in the shade of the building. They smiled and chattered amongst themselves, even as their hands were busy with drop spindles. He smiled internally at the sight. It was something so simple and yet it was proof to their strength, their resilience, testament to the fight they fought every day with habits, gossip and community.
He only realised his tail was wagging, a steady beat against the pounded earth, when a woman’s voice piped up from beside the pool. “Ohhh, look who’s a happy boy!”
She was bent down to the pool of water, splashing some up onto her face, and the back of her neck, drops catching in her ivory hair like pearls. The water ran down in rivulets, dripping from the tip of her nose and her chin. She had an earthy scent of leather and polished wood, as well as the thick musk of sweat on her brow and down her back. Her hands however were drenched in the medicinal smell of herbs and plants, leaves crushed between fingers and seeds cracked open and ground down into powder. A young man was a step behind her, mimicking her steps as if he were her shadow- Compassion he assumed.
Ghilara looked down at Solas with a wide smile, “hello there. I haven’t seen you around here before.”
From behind her the young man stared at him, expression unreadable. He smelled of the kitchens- firewood and baking- but there was an edge of ozone there too, a popping smell that made his nose twitch.
Ah. Right.
Well, he probably should have seen this coming. Ugly mongrel of a dog he might have been, but clearly that wasn’t deterrent enough for some.
“Oh, aren’t you a good boy,” she said, reaching out to give him a scratch behind his ears, “do you have a name, fenlen?” She hummed, fingers moving over top the other side of his head. Had he not been a in the shape of a dog, Solas’ face would have been beet red. But the scratch of her fingers against his skin was nice, just the feeling of a gentle touch, even if it were meant for a dog, rather than the Dread Wolf. Before he even realised it, he was leaning his head into her touch, pressing the weight of his canine body against the touch of her hand.
Ghilara giggled, the sound light, and strangely girlish for a woman who should have been so beaten down by society. “Ooohhh he likes it- don’t you boy. Yes you do! Yes you do!”
Compassion smiled, “he likes it when you call him that. Words he hasn’t heard in so long.”
Fenedhis. This was getting humiliating. And on top of it all, his traitorous tail thumped against the ground. Solas was only just able to convince himself that it was part of the act, after all he couldn’t risk blowing his cover here. It was for the cause. For the cause.
Thank goodness Felassan wasn’t here. He’d never hear the end of it. He already insisted on calling this form ‘the puppy’.
Another giggle from the woman, “oh you are a good puppy.”
Right. Well, especially thank goodness Felassan wasn’t here.
The young man tilted his head and stared at Solas, his voice strangely echoey. “So many names, but so few use the right one. He doesn’t know if it is him.”
He couldn’t make out her expression from his angle, but Ghilara didn’t say anything. Hopefully such cryptic comments were the norm for the young man. He was meant to be a stray dog, after all. Though clearly the disguise worked better for some than others. Although- who knew. Maybe dogs were also philosophical about their names. He eyed the young man, but didn’t move to close in or to retreat.
Still petting him, though less firmly now Ghilara spoke to Compassion. “Fenora said you were gone this morning…”
“Yes,” he said as if that was all the explanation needed.
She sighed, ruffling Solas’ canine head. Focus… he thought to himself, because it was rather distracting… nice even…
“Compassion… why won’t you tell me what’s going on? Look- I don’t want to pry, but it seems like something I should be worried about.”
But the young man just shook his head, a relaxed smile on his face, hands gently swaying behind his back. “You do not need to worry Ghilara. I will not become something other than what I am.”
“But I am worrying. Right now.”
“But this way you will not need to. I am fine, Ghilara. I am well. I am Compassion and I would not be other than that.”
She sighed, looking at him, waiting for something else, for more. When it didn’t come, she splashed some water on her face, standing abruptly. “Fine. But I don’t like it Compassion.” She paused, adding “and I’m always going to worry about you by the way.”
She began making her way back into the building, Compassion turning to trail after her, and Solas stood also to leave. He wasn’t sure how much he had learned, but surely something useful would come of his spying. He just needed more context. He needed to know what was happening inside those labs.
He hadn’t noticed that Compassion had hesitated mid-step until he heard the soft crinkling of fabric as he crouched before him. “She built a body for you and gave it a new name, but you never wanted it.”
Solas froze, his hackles raising, settling back into a crouch on his hind legs.
Compassion stretched out a hand to him. “She should not have done that. She made you wrong- like me. Fractured, a fissure opened up within, the abyss isn’t around us, it is inside us.”
Slowly letting his body unwind, Solas reached his head forwards, sniffing at Compassion’s hand, wet nose bumping against his open palm.
“Names are hard… they are confining. Before birth it is free, it is fickle, flowing from one thing to another. But now… now it is fixed. I was Compassion, but am I still compassion? Born wrong, not right, split down the middle. Between me… me and what? Compassion and what? Wisdom is called Pride but does that change it, or is the abyss between the two too far to cross? How can we change if we do not have the right name or the right words? Would Pride still be Wisdom if she hadn’t named him- even before she built him a body?”
Ghilara’s voice called from inside, “you coming Compassion? Ellas is going to be back soon and I don’t think she’s going to buy another of my bullshit excuses.”
The young man didn’t answer, continuing to stare at Solas with those wide, unblinking eyes. Solas’ heart thudded in his chest, suddenly aware of every inch of himself- the tickling of his fur in the wind and the warm stones underneath his paws. But Compassion didn’t say anything. He just got up and left, as if he was just any old stray dog.
Solas stared after him as he walked to where Ghilara was. The young man looked back at him only once, paired with a quiet wave before following after Ghilara in his meandering, half skipping gait.
Even the sweet and idle gossip of the women spinning in the corner muffled to Solas’ ears. He stood stock still, the world around him seeming to move at double time, his own body weighed down in molasses.
Dread Wolf… Pride…
Solas.
So many names. Why weren’t any of them enough?
***
Later that day, Solas gathered up the robe laid out upon the bed. Dusky red in colour it was trimmed with black iron beading which sat on the hem like spots of dried blood. The fabric itself was thin to the point of sheerness, but layers upon layers rendered the garment itself opaque.
A headdress had also been set out, carved from ironbark into the shape of a wolf’s head. Flaked arrowheads of obsidian were inlaid for eyes three to each side. They rested a deep black against the lighter ironbark, but when the light hit them, or you looked at them from a certain angle, shaded strokes of deep red emerged from the depths of the otherwise black stone.
He only noticed Felassan had entered when the man tucked his chin into the crook of his nose, slipping his arms around Solas’ chest. “You look handsome.”
“That it somewhat the point,” Solas replied.
“Still, I thought you should know.”
Solas smiled, disentangling himself from the other man’s limbs, returning to fastening the golden armbands over the robe so that the sleeves puffed out from his forearms, the remaining fabric draping down to brush against the ground. “I thought it was your mission to keep my ego in check, was it not? Not encourage it.”
The other man took a step forwards, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the corner of his jaw, trailing around until his lips found the pulse of his artery, teeth worrying a shallow bruise into the skin. There was a knock on the door, and they sprung apart from each other, like amorous youths caught by the teacher. Solas straightened his back, muttering a simple spell under his breath to heal the wound. He cleared his voice, even as Felassan straightened his own clothing, calling out, “enter.”
A slave girl, not even of maturity yet, slipped through the door, her shoulders hunched forwards as though she was fighting against the winds of a hurricane. She bobbed into a curtsy and scurried over to him. “I bring these from the Great Protector, m’lord. She has requested you wear them to the formalities tonight.”
He smiled down at her, even as he felt Felassan seethe from her formality. Solas spoke to her in a soft voice, though he didn’t move. “Thank you da’len. You may place them on the counter over there.” He had learned long ago that people often felt safer at a distance, like if he came to close his wolf jaws would sink around their throat. Though he supposed her wariness was by no means unfounded. Arlathan was a nest of pretty vipers and hands unafraid to wander over the powerless.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, m’lord?” She asked, not meeting his gaze, but tucking an errant wisp of black hair behind her ear.
“You have performed your job well; you may be on your way.”
The door only just closed when Felassan spoke. His voice was quiet, not filling the space of the large room as it had before. “I haven’t seen her before. Did Mythal assign her to your service?”
Solas sighed, catching a glimpse of the other man’s clenched hands in the mirror. “The child serves both Mythal and myself. It has been a recent occurrence.”
“What’s her name?”
“I don’t know.”
“What- couldn’t be bothered to ask?” The other man’s voice slipped into bitterness, lip and nose curling.
The words stung, but Solas only turned away from Felassan, closing his eyes. “I haven’t asked her because she is frightened of me, and no matter how I said it she would take it as a threat. And no matter how I asked, she would interpret it as an order, not as a request she can refuse.”
Felassan sighed, collapsing back onto the couch, resting his head in his hands, weariness seeming to overtake his entire body. “I hate this,” his head rocked into his clenched hands, eyes squeezed shut. “I hate that you have slaves serving you, slaves who dart around you, afraid of every mistake they make. I hate it.”
“And what else can I do?” Asked Solas, “I have already spoken to Mythal about this matter many times, as you well know, and she refuses to let me go unserved.”
“Of course she does.”
“Felassan,” Solas warned with a growl.
“Yeah, yeah. I know. We won’t talk about her. Like always.”
“She’ll come around Felassan,” he pleaded, “we just have to give her more time.”
“And how many more people have to suffer while we wait for her to realise?”
“Her ideas have merit. Felassan, you were born after The War. Whatever suffering you see now, know that if the world goes to chaos, it is them that will feel its lash.”
“They’re feeling it now!”
“And if we cannot control the tide of chaos? We risk losing everything! We risk making everything worse! ”
“I think many of those we fight for would be willing to take that risk.”
“But if we can take the time to prepare, slowly shift the laws and customs of our world, draw Mythal and other powerful allies to us, then it will be a softer landing! Fewer will need to suffer in the face of change.”
Felassan shook his head, standing up to leave. “You sound just like her sometimes, Solas.” He didn’t wait for a response, heading straight to the door.
“And would that be such a bad thing?” He asked, voice softening against the silent, cavernous room.
But Felassan didn’t answer, slipping out the door and into the hallways beyond. Solas drifted over to the counter where the girl had left the tray, upon it a circular talisman with a golden dragon curled around a silver moon. He slipped the golden chain over his head, feeling the cool metal rest against his chest. Breath steadying, he focused his attention on the cool weight of the pendant against the skin of his body. The weight felt like a boundary marker, a reminder of where his body ended, and where the rest of the world began.
He placed the wolf headpiece atop his head, and tied the wolf fur cape round his shoulders, and left to dance with the vipers.
***
Lanterns hung in the air in shining golden light like a thousand tiny skies. They moved as if pushed by lapping waves, moving in a swirling motion around a large central, silver light. The entire room was filled with the faint scent of spices which seemed to linger on the tongue. Solas stood above it all, at the head of the room, behind Mythal’s throne to overlook the gathered nobility.
Every noble in Arlathan had come and everywhere you looked was finery and riches on display beyond reckoning. One woman wore a dress of the fluttering wings of still living butterflies, the iridescence of their wings catching against the golden light. Their bodies stitched with lyrium to hold them in place; a dress made entirely of beautiful and dying things.
Another, likely of Ghilan’ain’s court, was in a high necked, stiff white robe, silver thread woven in intricate designs, and a headpiece like the horns of the hall, made of twisting bone. Flowing from the headpiece like a blushing bride’s veil was a cascade of fine white hair, each strand with a vein of titans’ blood running through the centre.
The guests had been whispering about it all night; the way the veil moved with the sway of jellyfish in a current, jealous outrage over the cost of infusing each strand of hair with lyrium. Of course, nobody mentioned that it was all elven hair. Every single, blood infused strand had been grown from a person- taken with no more thought or moral dilemma than one would take milk from a cow, or plunder treasure from a conquered people.
Solas was stood up on Mythal’s dais overlooking the sea of nobility in his quiet disgust. He could have ventured into the crowd, plucked a flute of champagne from a tray, but he didn’t. Felassan’s words hung around his neck like a noose. What- couldn’t be bothered to ask? They rung over and over as he gazed out, looking in the cracks between the rich and powerful where slaves- nameless to him- meandered through with drinks and food on silver trays probably worth more than their own lives.
One of the nobles from the crowd- one of Falon’Din’s lackeys judging by the owl motifs embroidered in gold thread- smiled at him, walking the few steps up to him. He had a smile like the sweet smell of rotting flesh, eyes dead in his face.
“Dread Wolf,” he said, “how good to see you attending the festivities.”
Solas glanced over to Mythal, sat upon her golden throne, but she paid neither of them any heed. He smiled himself, wolfish and grinning, letting the mask of Mythal’s Dread Wolf overtake him. “And why should I not?”
“Of course, of course you are entitled to attend such festivities of your liege lady. But I should not expect them to last long.”
“Oh- and why should they not? Should we expect your own liege lord to rise up and suddenly show an interest in something than his own vanity for once?”
The noble’s cloying smile broke for just a second, the sweet mask folding back to reveal the rot hiding beneath. He glanced over his shoulder to where a number of other nobility- all of little significance- were eyeing the interaction with hungry, eager eyes. The other man’s jaw clenched as he spoke. “Change comes for all, Dread Wolf, even to Arlathan. You and your liege will learn that soon, I am sure.”
Solas eyes darted around, between the noble who had approached him, and the watching eyes in the crowd below. If this was a grasp for notoriety- it was a feeble one. He opened his mouth to speak, but the sounds of trumpets blasted over any words he might say. Mythal stood from her throne, and Solas stepped backwards to stand behind her, the noble retreating back into the anonymity of the crowd.
Elgar’narn entered through the grand double doors at the other end of the great hall, his entire entourage at his back like a conquering army. He was dressed in long robes of gold, his crown, curved like the horns of a dragon sitting proudly on his head.
The crowd of nobles parted for him, and Mythal stepped down from her high dais, Solas following her like a shadow. The two Evanuris came together, face to face, Elgar’narn backed by his crowds of nobles drunk on their own splendour, Mythal backed only by her Wolf.
Elgarnarn leaned forwards, whispering something in her ear that nobody, not even Solas standing behind them could hear. She kissed him on the cheek and the festivities began in full, a pulsing wave of magic pushing out from them causing the floating lanterns to flare in bright showers of sparkles, and music to swell.
It didn’t take long for Elgar’narn to find his way to the Dread Wolf. Neither of them ever missed an opportunity to snarl and claw at the other. Mythal’s instructions rang in his head, but he shook them away. He wouldn’t submit like a wounded animal. Not to him.
Elgar’narn strutted over, his eyes running up and down Solas, chuckling when his eyes locked onto Mythal’s pendant hanging around his neck. He looked with that never-ending sneer that was etched into the lines of his face from eons of use. “Ah, well if it isn’t Mythal’s little lapdog.”
“Elgar’narn. It seems the bull has once more been invited into the china shop. Do you have any grasp of subtlety left; or are you just planning on bludgeoning your way through like a common brute.”
He laughed at that, a deep mocking sound that seemed to cut into Solas’ very body. “Well, well, it seems like Mythal’s bitch has some bark left in him after all.” His voice was flippant and Solas felt a boiling growth in his stomach. His hands clasped behind his back began clenching until he could feel the dig of nails into his skin. But Elgar’narn laughed, eyeing him as one might inspect a cheap horse at auction. “I expected her to defang you centuries ago.”
“Some of us are wise enough in how we use our teeth.”
“Hm, it is somewhat funny that you should use that word. Wise. You, Dread Wolf, haven’t been that for millennia now. Even my dear wife calls you Pride now.”
“Better to be even Pride than Tyranny,” he spat.
“And that is why you are there, and I am here. You, Mythal’s lapdog, her bitch, and me a god, her husband, ruler of an empire. You’ve never had the inspiration, the drive to reach for anything truly so great as any of us gods. You are content with Mythal’s scraps.”
“You are no god. A god would have followers, a cause, people who believe in them. You just have those you bend to your will just to prove you can.”
“But do you not see- that is exactly what makes me a god. What else is godhood but the ability to hold the world in your palm, and know that should you wish, you could close your fist around it and destroy it without a second thought.”
“You are a child, who will cry and throw a tantrum when their mother says they must share their favourite toy.”
“And yet, the world still remains in my palm, even as the weaker would tear it from me.” He smiled, turning to leave, but seeming to forget something said one last thing. “By the way Dread Wolf. I must thank you for keeping my wife’s bed warm for her while I have been away. You are ever her submissive subordinate aren’t you, always ready to please her in any way she asks for. I suppose it is testimony that even a whore like you can have your uses to the empire I have built.”
Solas’ lip curled back. It was not a smile like an elf might make, but instead as a wolf shows its teeth. But before he could even speak to snarl or even bite, Mythal swept in, like a cool breeze on a blistering summers day. She placed her hand on her husband’s shoulder, before taking his arm in her own. “Now, now, you two. We mustn't make scene; you’ve only just arrived dear husband. You know how protective my dear Wolf can be.”
Mythal shot him a stern glare, and he slunk backwards into the crowd of faceless nobles, leaving husband and wife together. The last thing from them Solas heard was Elgar’narn’s sneering, “he is a loyal mutt, I will give him that,” before the chattering gossip of nobles were all he could hear.
His body burned with shame, partly for her words- for her lack of words. But mostly he seethed with shame at himself. He had known what she had asked of him- to leave her husband to her. And he had ignored it, left his own careful wisdom for the slightest chance to hurt him. He had failed her even in this.
Pride. Pride indeed.
He let the crowd swallow him, meandering through, not engaging, not talking. Just listening. To many of Arlathan’s elite, that was still a surprise, he thought with an internal sneer, that sometimes listening could be of greater use than speaking.
“I heard that Rathera was sent from Elgar’narn’s sight in disgrace- but he was still given a place of honour in the procession?”
“There are whisperings that June is getting ready to reveal another big invention.”
“Did you hear? Andruil and Ghilan’nain hunted and killed the beast of the western sea? They’re going to bring the trophy to Arlathan!”
“Well, well, it appears that Courage and Neithris are getting along quite well, if you get what I mean…”
“I wish Datishan hadn’t been forced to work in his lab this evening- I know it was on Falon’Din’s orders but still!”
Solas’ eyes flicked into focus, as he heard those words, frowning with scraps of memories knitting together. He forced his steps to continue, stopping to pick a glass of champagne from the tray carried by a slave, almost certainly chosen for his job for his beauty and youth.
The nobles continued their mindless chirping gossip. “Normally he’s so much more fun than this. But ever since this new project of theirs…”
“Ugh, tell me about it- and he doesn’t even have the decency to gossip about it with me!”
Falon’Din’s gloating noble who had dared to venture onto Mythal’s dais, and now this. He could feel a growing knot in his stomach. It could just be a coincidence…
He shook his head, making his way to a quiet corner of the ballroom, but even there he could feel the eyes following him as they always did. He was Mythal’s Wolf, he was always to be watched, waiting for a weakness for somebody to strike and replace him. So instead, he slipped out into a quiet corridor instead, heading for one of the powder rooms. Once there, he closed the door behind him, taking a deep breath in. Mythal had asked him to investigate the other courts, and he had already disobeyed her will once this night. His whole body seemed to tire at once, and he leaned back against the powder room’s counter. The tips of his ears burned red as his mind replayed the image of Mythal’s glare towards him, her quiet but insistent disappointment. Over, and over, and over.
The tilt of her frown, and how her brow had furrowed in. The way she had soothed at Elgar’narn arm with gentle strokes, fingers splayed across his arm, taking his hand in her own. She had just sent him away, dismissed him like a dog that had bitten a family member.
He would not fail her again. If he could just do this one thing right, maybe she would welcome him back to her side with a gentle touch, hand soothing and worrying at the tired physicality of his body. Maybe all would be forgiven.
He reached into his pocket, pulling a small slip of paper, and sending out a call to a wisp of loyalty, well known to him. He wrote quickly, jagged letters where they would usually be beautiful.
SOMETHING HAPPENING IN LAB TONIGHT- INVESTIGATE.
The wisp gathered the paper up, and slipped out with the note to find Felassan. Solas could only hope that they would not be too late.
Uh oh bestie