You awaken with the first sign of dawn, your bones creaking and your muscles aching. A frigid morning breeze slips into the tent and you can't help the shiver that crawls down your spine. Still, you would sooner expose yourself to harsh weather of the mountain than go back to your restless dreams.
One of the Sisters had left a bucket of fresh water between yours and Solas's poor excuses for beds. It's only when you've pacified your dry throat and your eyes have adjusted to the dimness of the tent that you realize he's gone. You pull your boots on, still groggy when you push the flaps aside.
The first, sweet rays of sunshine bounce off the crisp snow and you blink back tears. The camp is silent, the firepits have all gone out. You look over the tents, silently counting them. Bitter bile climbs up your throat as you think of how many were lost in Haven, civilians and soldiers alike. You shake your head as soon as the acrid stench of bodies burning tries to invade your mind. You cannot change the past.
A trail of footsteps outside your shared tent at the far end of the camp leads further away. Solas wouldn't abandon the Inquisition now, in the middle of the night. Gingerly you begin to follow them, holding your Marked hand close to your chest. Although you hate to admit it, the Anchor's pulsating warmth somewhat soothes your nerves.
Solas was headed east, as if he was trying to find the Sun before it decided to rise on it's own. The snow covered evergreens have dispersed now, giving way to hard packed snow. Just yesterday, you muse as your foot slides across the icy texture, Varric lost his footing and ended up waist deep in soft snow. It took Bull a good five minutes of laughing before he finally lifted the poor sod out of the ground. His booming voice carried across the small army of refugees, reigniting that spark of hope in your chest.
Finally you've reached a cliff. You don't notice Solas at first, he seems almost unnaturally still. He's perched on an outcrop of rock, staring at something in the distance. Your approach doesn't go unnoticed but it's not enough to break the spell that seems to have taken over him.
"Solas?" You try, voice hoarse from sleep. You see his ear twitch but receive no answer. You're close now, ready to climb up next to him on the rock.
"What do your elf eyes see?"
He's still not facing you, but you can feel the elation exuding from him, can almost hear the grin in his voice when he speaks,
"Skyhold." It's as much of an answer as it is a sigh of relief.
He turns, hands clasped behind his back as always. "Here. Come."
He reaches for your Marked hand, the Anchor tingling as it makes contact with his frosty skin.
You allow him to manage your weight, too suspicious of the gleaming rock.
But just as your feet find the ground, you notice a strange glint in your companion's eyes.
"Yeet." He whispers softly, his breath tickling your ear.
He's still holding your hand, you realize, but it's far too late. With a strength you never would have guessed he had, Solas pushes you off the outcrop, sending your body flying through the air.
Yeet.