"Does it sound like a paradise?" He is a little surprised. "I suppose it might; the sky was lovely, after all."

He weaves his fingers with hers.

"I was none so happy. The village moved so slow the river where we got our name wore tracks into the rocky ground before our very eyes. And I was treated with caution, because I had been born with an ability known to invite strife." He looks up, and above them, the sky is progressing into late sunset, with traces of stars starting to appear above. "I could dream down the sky."

He sighs, his gaze dropping again.

"These memories," he tells her, "are as far from this place," gesturing to the fountains, "as we are." Unbelievably ancient times. "It is difficult to bring them to mind again."

He pauses, and he explains dream down the sky.

"When I slept, I called the Fade to me. And spirits, as well. This was not a threat to those of the village, but it was an annoyance, and I began to roam, wider and wider, before I even reached a century. I welcomed the spirits, because they were the only ones who could teach me about what I could do." A hint of a smile. "Some of the first mages learned at the feet of dragons -- that legend is true. My path was different.

"We are far from the Evanuris yet. The Elvhen were not the only race on Thedas; the dwarves were below, not as long-lived as we though they built to last. We had peace, for they lived at the root of sky and Fade, and we lived in the branch, and far above the spirits in the leaves." In this last sentence, he slips into the same rhythm he often used to tell of the Fade's memories.

"Such things do not last."

He moves to his feet, but it is not to break away from her, just to pace, to move. The distance between them is not the point, and he is not withdrawing.

"The truth is that I do not know how the war began," he confesses. "I was not there. I already knew what the dwarves were, of course, and I suspect the dragons did as well..." He waves a hand. "I am sorry. I forget: you only saw pieces of the puzzle when we descended to the deep places. Dwarves then were not as they are now. They were more like... ants. Not that they were small, but they were pieces of a whole, united by the song of the stone. The Titans. Each Titan had their dwarves, but those are not quite the right words. Titans were not anything without the minds of the dwarves, and in that, they were a sort of creature of the whole, something like the way a city is nothing without its people. But, then, the opposite was true as well; the dwarves lacked something animating without the Titans, and it is wrong to say that they weren't commanded, on some level, by the Titan's will.

"I knew this, of course, because I had already walked a Titan's dreams."

That is an experience beyond words, and yet it is the only way that he knows to get into a dwarf's dreams now. Common wisdom has it that dwarves do not dream, or have no connection to the Fade. This is wrong.

"As I said, I do not know how the war began. The stories that came later were all self-serving, true or not. The dwarves said that the Old Gods, the dragons, wanted to bleed the lyrium out of the stone because their own power was beginning to fade. The dragons communicated to elves, later, that dwarves had begun to destroy their homes beneath the earth for their endless Deep Roads. It is true, regardless, that dragons had begun to try to harness individuals the way the Titans harnessed dwarves. Perhaps the Titans felt that was a threat."

He spreads his hands. "These things were all inevitable, in retrospect, but at the time, it was very sudden. We were at war. Against the Titans, because the mages of the Elvhen were promised power by the Old Gods."

It is very hard to summarize what happened after that. When he experienced it, and when he found out what had happened, and when he had found out why, and all of that strewn through layers of lies and violence...

"I oversimplify, I hope you know that," he tells her. "But here it is: the Titans were held back. The Old Gods gave power to a handful of Elvhen mages directly, and they grew mad on the dragon's song. The elves broke with their allies, and were torn in two, some following the old Gods, some following the new generals who stood against them. You may have guessed this already, but the ones who followed the dragons became known, in time, as the Forgotten Ones, because they gave their names for power.

"There were truces, skirmishes; the peace was never easy, but the dwarven empire thrived, as did Elvhenan. Humans have never known the problem that came next, though -- those old heroes, the generals that threw off the yoke of the old gods, never left. They just gained more and more power, and they began to see younger elves as... less. They seemed to be the only ones who mattered, and life was an endless game between them."

He takes a seat again.

"Between... us. For I was one of very few who could walk below and above, and thus, had I been naive, I would have been used ceaselessly by both sides. I was not naive." He meets Trevelyan's eyes. "Understand, we did not wish to kill one another. It was subjugation, submission, service. That was the truest power there ever could be, for a mage who already had everything else.

"You asked when I had been at court. Well." The empty fountains... "We danced in great palaces of stone and magic, and we wielded daggers in the dark. And, eventually, it seemed only I could see that the Evanuris had become the evil that they had once sought to overcome. I rebelled -- but that part of the story you have already heard."

"Astonishing, isn't it, how much can be lost." A sigh. "We hardly ever wrote down our history; what purpose, when we would always be alive to tell it?"

What bitter irony there.

"The dragons succeeded," he says. "And they still do, what of them remain. And it seems some titans keep the practice, as well. I'm afraid that is what you abandoned that young dwarf to, at the heart of her new titan."

He smiles a faint smile, without much amusement to it. "Your history would seem as incredible, if it were condensed.

"Before I go on, I must mention lyrium. Your kind have thought it was the raw stuff of the Fade, or the source of magic itself; some have thought it is just a drug that enables closer connection with the Fade. Now you've seen that it is the blood of titans. Yes? In a way, all those things are wrong, but each of them has some truth. I told you that titans are at the root of everything, and this is true. Magic and its opposite -- that force wielded by Templars -- both come from lyrium. Control of lyrium now means control of the world; the same was true before the veil, too."

He takes a breath.

"Again, I can't say easily how it came to this next point, or who had the first idea for it. It could have been the Old Ones, the Forgotten Ones, or the Evanuris, but something terrible was created. A way to control magic, or a weapon, or one that could simply be used as the other." A shake of his head. "Mythal refused to partake of it. She was murdered for her stand." His voice is tight. "This new power would spread like a sickness, to everything it touched. It corrupted. And it was concentrated in a perversion of an idol, carved into lyrium turned red."

He looks to Trevelyan. "The Evanuris made the Blight, and they were ready to let it loose."

He reaches out, and he pulls her hand to him, holds her hand in both of his. Long fingers stroke along her knuckles, turn her palm-up and trace the lines.

"Did you ever truly doubt that it was someone's make?" he asks, genuinely. "Whether divine punishment or magic gone wrong, or worse? It was not there, and then it was, and there is only one way that ever has happened."

It was too many shocks, too quickly. She is always impatient to get to the answer, to the end, and he let himself match the pace. Humans have changed him so much -- he wonders if he will even recognize himself, eventually.

If there is an eventually.

"Corypheus," he agrees. "Because the Blight was stopped, then. Arrogant as I was, I knew I could stop it: all the wars. All the slavery. The new, fresh threat. Do you see now?"

Do you see why he raised the Veil?

"Because every other option was worse," he says, quoting himself, calling back to a moment where he would not give her even this much chance. "I did not lie to you."

He says that quite often in this story, it seems. I did not lie to you. No, he just fed her crumbs of the truth, too scant to reach any conclusions.

With a wave of his free hand, Solas calls water out of one of the fountains. It turns itself into a frozen model, something like the black city, a shape with seven sides. "Seven gates to the Black City," he says. "Seven Old Gods, one slumbering at each entrance, to keep it in. To keep them in." He opens his hand, and seven blue lights spring into being, little wisps coming at Solas's invitation. "But when someone finds a way to break the seal on those entrances, steps inside, and finds the Blight within..."

One of the lights turns red.

"You see, your Chantry was not so wrong, after all," says Solas. "The magisters were the ones who let it out."

"Nonetheless: I wanted to tell you." He focuses away from her, but it's something other than a desire for distance that makes him do so. A bit of shyness, maybe. "That day, when I told you of the vallaslin," he says. "I wanted to tell you then. I nearly did." His head dips. He isn't sure what makes him confess that now.

He is distracted by her query.

The question impresses and pleases him. Even in this, curiosity and intelligence have a quick way to Solas's heart.

"The dragons sleep far underground," he explains. "They are there, as well as in the Fade. In fact, I think that was the magisters reached the Fade -- your legend has it that the Old Gods guided them, and I see no reason to doubt that, but I was not conscious then, so I cannot say for certain.

"Since then, it has been much more difficult for any who aren't darkspawn to find them. Which is a poor silver lining, to the Blight. All of them were infected; now, only those who are blighted themselves can hear the dragon's song. A Grey Warden hears the song because they, too, have become servants of the old gods, though their connection is weaker. And thus the Blight's cycle: darkspawn seeking the source of that endless song, awakening their god, and then trying to spread their servitude through the land."

"Must there be anything else?" he asks. "Isn't the Blight-to-end-all-Blights enough? At least, with the ones so far, the destruction of the Archdemon has ended it. Once the last Archdemon dies, there is nothing between the Black City and the Titans."

The wisps are pliant and -- happy? They seem to be very willing to move at her direction, and then they swirl around her in something that seems like excitement and approval. Solas watches with a hint of a smile on his face.

It has been said, recently, that the Dread Wolf is a hypocrite, because he destroys those who bind spirits and yet he commands them himself. Those who say this are wrong. Solas only ever asks, and many of the Fade's spirits know him, and respect him.

"But the Evanuris are still there." He stops. "I cannot explain why Corypheus did not encounter them," he says. "They may have been dormant. But if the last of the old gods fall, everything there is free. And with only two left... the last Blight is coming. It cannot be stopped by any means you now possess."

It's actually something of a relief to have it summarized. Solas lets out a breath, and shakes his head.

"I bought you a millennia or two," he says. "Should be enough, right?"

His tone is ironic, a little humorous.

Again, he looks briefly surprised. But, then, perhaps she just isn't familiar with the legends of Fen'harel, to know what his preferred tactics are.

"To set them against one another, of course," he says.

And to have Arlathan rise from the ashes.

The steps in his plan involve weakening them both as much as possible, while preparing the area around Tevinter for upheaval through the Fade. Set the Old Gods against the Evanuris, and after fight the foe that is weakened. By ripping down the Veil, he may also, on some level, be able to strengthen the Titans against infection... This may have consequences for the dwarves. But, if it does the way he plans, the dwarves will be united in time to destroy the weakened foe.

"Cleverness is not helplessness. Our greatest asset is that the two are enemies." He says this matter-of-factly.

In addition, he expects that the Qun will be thrown into chaos by the Veil's destruction, and they will be the most logical initial target. He'll throw them bleeding into the water without hesitation. And with their invasion of Tevinter, they're in the perfect position to be struck.

"I assure you: the first blood will not be yours."

Here, he does not say that his own death makes strategic sense. There are others who will carry on the work, and he may... reassemble, or return, given time. Like Mythal. But he is the most obvious enemy for the Evanuris to strike, and if he deprives them of that chance... their focus will change. Perhaps they won't even see his forces as a threat.

"The charade of capturing you?" asks Solas, his voice suddenly mild.

For she is captured. Just -- twice. Once in the flesh, once in the Fade. All the easier to keep her there.

"I did not bring you here to tell you these things," he says. "You have asked for them."

"Because you haven't the power to overcome mine."

He sounds tired.

"I have no word you will understand beyond the Tevinter one, so -- somniari are too rare in this time for you to know how to defend yourself against one." Even if she could match a sorcerer of his age.

He hates the look on her face. Shouldn't she know by now? The Dread Wolf never relies on one trap when he can set a half-dozen.

"You deserve a chance," he says. "That's why I told you."

Strange, but this, now: here is where Solas's heart breaks.

Here, where she is trapped and at his mercy, and still she says: I have done more with less. Here, where he has shocked her and outraged her, over and over, unspeakable blows to the root of her history and her faith. Here. Here, in the quietest ruins of the Fade.

He would fall to his knees, or scream, or shatter the Fade around them. But he cannot. His scars bleed and the blood doesn't show.

I've done more with less.

You took my heart with less.

With a whisper of magic, Solas melts from elf to sleek, black wolf. Six-eyed, fangs and claws, but not so looming-large for all that. Not like the worst nightmare portraits of Fen'harel.

He steps up and he noses at her hand. Licks at the blood. Ears low, tail low, and a soft whine in his throat.

Wolves do not hold themselves in as Solas does. It is easier like this.