Fenris, I know it's been awhile but I need a bit of a favor. Things have gotten… bad. Would you mind if
Hawke, Its Samahl. I don't even know if this will reach you. Varric says he knows how to slip you letters if he's careful, but
Fenris. If people ask about me, say nothing of the 'things' I used to do before.
Hawke. I really wish you were here instead of me. You were always better at these situations, with these kinds of people.
Samahl crumpled up sheet after sheet of paper and tossed the barely legible wads towards the revived fire that had yet to warm the icy cottage. They stooped over the narrow table to squint their emerald eyes at the black pool of ink that puddled on the newest letter. The feather quill trembled in Sam's hand, the right hand, the good hand, the whole hand. The other still tingled, not quite a burn, but pained enough to be kept in a fist on the desk. The Mark lay hidden, only the slightest hint of green escaped the clenched fingers.
The dormancy, however, did little to diminish the horrifying threat that distressed the shivering Dalish elf so. To possess so much awful, unnatural power… They would take their old, simple magic back in a heartbeat given the chance.
Melting snow soon joined the wasted ink, dropping from their armored sleeves as the air slowly warmed and further ruined the unaddressed document to an unusable state. To write on it now would only blur the blundering words, leave holes in the paper and dull the pen's tip. The words just wouldn't come out. Sam missed his old acquaintances terribly, though it had been years since they had seen them last. Their short, shared stint in Kirkwall had forged such unquestionable bonds. But Samahl was alone now, surrounded by few they might call friend and many more that could be considered foe.
Varric was a familiar face, a strong link to the past, a reminder that life had once been more comprehendible and easy. Samahl needed an anchor to the unknowable future, a goal to stay grounded amidst the chaos. And now that the Breach had been closed, there was none.
"A walk. I need a walk. Clear my head, then I'll speak with Cassandra about going home." They began to change quickly, abandoning the writing table and kicking the unfinished letters into the fire. Wet armor removed, Samahl donned the thick wintery garb that the Chantry had pulled together for them. Their former clothes had been ruined at the Conclave and disposed of for fear of the taint that clung to the elvish spun fibers and tanned leathers embroidered with care. These human clothes barely fit, but at least they were warm. A furry shawl that still smelled of ram and a dry pair of boots that pinched their toes completed the outfit. Finally dressed, Sam belted their daggers beneath the dense coat and stepped back out into the cold. A hood covered their black hair and shielded their ears from the biting gusts that pulled the wooden door sharply closed behind them.
Up the road, they caught a glance of the continuing party that had gone on for the past several hours and showed little sign of conclusion with the returning snowfall. The people of Haven were overjoyed with the hole in the sky being sealed without added fatalities, and for the first time since the explosion of the Conclave did any of them feel safe. Round and round the fires they danced and sang and drank with the new freedom that Samalh had brought them with the help of the allied Mages. With their magic combined they mended what had been broken by a would be god, thus not only repairing the Veil, but the people's limited trust with their kind. They'd once had so much more in common with those same men and women who offered up their strength.
But Samahl now felt more broken than the sky had been, forcibly separated from what had been such an integral part of their life. The icy wind was not near as numbing as what the Mark had done to their connection to the magic that had once coursed so quietly in Sam's veins.
Sticking to the shadows and bordering the empty houses, Samahl crept their way to the outskirts of the village, allowing their wandering feet to take them all the way to the silent docks. The waters were frozen solid, there would be no boats along this river till spring. And they planned on being long gone by then. They had done all that had been asked of them. Sam had accomplished everything that the Lavellan Keeper had initially sent them out for and more. Now they wished to return to their clan before the next great disaster struck.
The elf brushed the snow off the top of a crate at the end of the short pier before they sat down, allowing their feet to dangle over the edge as they stared out across the ice and listened to the whistling wind that pushed the dry, powdery snowflakes up into high drifts against everything in its path.
But the wind should not have deadened their ears so much as to miss the approach of another and nearly leap from their perch with a quiet greeting uttered from just behind where Sam sat.
"On dhea'lam."
Samahl did not shout as they spun on their feet, heels on the edge of the frozen dock and hands already clutching the hilts of their hidden daggers. Before the Breach, before the Mark, no one would ever have gotten so close. They would have been sensed long before.
The aloof gaze they met as they glared nervously out from beneath their hood, however, seemed not as concerned with the weapons. The intruding elf appeared much more fascinated by the sudden surge in the Mark brought on in the abrupt distress.
"You reach yet your hand returns empty." Solas observed the Herald with staunch curiosity, unthreatened in the slightest by the jumpy rogue. "This is not the first fruitless grasp you have made tonight."
Sam exhaled deeply between their pursed lips, stretching the elegant lines that framed their face as the steam of their breath clouded the air. "I don't know what you are talking about."
The apostate almost smiled, just enough to turn the corners of his mouth up from the constant frown he almost always maintained. "I was only suspicious at first, when I studied your mark. I believed for a time perhaps that it was the anchor itself that left signs upon your person. But then you woke. As we traveled I felt you tug at what was no longer there, a tool no longer worn on your belt yet the sheath remains."
"No one is supposed to know." Samahl glowered, slipping their honed blades back into their holders with a fluid motion. "Whose business is it for that which I am not?"
Solas shook his head and tucked his hands behind his hips as he eyed all too knowingly the curious elf that had survived their terrible fall from the physical Fade itself. "You are a mage, or were. What is this fear in you over your birthright, that which was once as natural to your people as breathing?"
"Because mages get asked to be Keepers, to be responsible for everyone, everything, every decision. Or if they are found out they get locked up, they get tortured and Tranquilized in towers, never to see their families ever again." Answered Sam. They tried to skirt around the inquiring apostate who stood unbothered by the winter's chill or the fresh snow that speckled his uncovered head. "I am not a mage and don't ever call me one."
Solas sidestepped, allowing Sam to pass unhindered but he followed after them as they began their march back towards Haven. "Then why do you plead to the Fade again and again to let you disappear in a cloud of smoke, to conceal your form from your enemies, to grant you spindly legs and twisted horns on which to bolt?"
Samahl froze.
Could the other mages have felt one of their own? They could not even feel their own magic, but did the rejected pull transmit to those unaffected with the Anchor's blockage? Samahl had been so very careful not to attempt to use the unanswering magic since they'd discovered that it was no longer there for them to use. But it couldn't be helped when danger struck, the natural urge and habit was just too deeply ingrained. Such as in the face of the massive Pride demon that had come through when the Inquisition attempted to seal the Breach that remained above the devastated temple.
"I might help you." The apostate offered as Samahl turned to face him once more. "I would not leave a friend so apart from themselves. With research and time perhaps—"
"Let me be clear." Sam snapped in irritation, a provoked digit poked sharply at the other elf's chest. They leaned in close to make themselves wholly understood, bearing a false grin that would have normally accompanied one of their more usual, deriding jokes. "I am not a test subject for you or any other pesky mages to experiment on. I am not a problem that needs fixing. I can take care of myself, with or without the magic I may or may not have had."
"Indomitable indeed." Solas remained indifferent to the snarly outburst, but he chuckled as he inclined into the boney finger that dented the dense wool of his sweater and the flesh below. "At least you have not lost your courage instead, then we would all truly be lost. It is your choice to remain fragmented, I cannot force you."
The warm breath of his unruffled words floated over the incensed rogue's face. Samahl flushed red beneath their deeply tanned skin at the realized nearness of the tall man who had come to spend long hours in their mutual company. But never had he come so close nor held such a spark behind his hooded lids that brought the steely blues of his eyes to life. Any closer and the tips of their cold noses threatened to touch. Sam could not help considering the smooth, broad lips that had slipped into an alluring grin while he spoke, stating once again his initial remark of their person.
"I… I must sound like a blabbering idiot…" Samahl muttered and began to rub the back of their head through the hood self-consciously as they looked away at long last. "Sorry. I'm not used to my secrets being stolen from me. You have to understand though…"
Solas drew away, leading the still blushing elf back towards Haven's more protected center. "I only offered it for your consideration. I would see you whole before your enemies, but only if you wish it. Perhaps there is more to this than what I have come to realize through our little talks these past weeks."
Samahl remained quiet as they approached the chantry, the celebration still well underway. At the top of the steps stood the Seeker Cassandra who waved the Herald over once Sam had been spotted.
Before leaving to join the waiting warrior, they caught Solas briefly by the arm as he excused himself to see to other matters. "We'll… we'll talk tomorrow. I won't bark at you, and I will try to hear you out if you really want to help."
Solas bowed his head slightly, glancing at the fingers against his bent elbow long enough to renew the heat in Samahl's cheeks as they released him. "Of course. Enjoy the festivities."
Samahl mounted the chantry steps, patting at their own face to cool the rising burn. They approached Cassandra as she looked out over the dancing people, one foot raised and resting on a bundle of forgotten supplies. "Solas confirms that the heaven's are scarred but calm. The Breach is sealed." The Seeker began, issuing the latest reports of the lingering rifts and demons. It seemed there was work yet to be done. So much for heading home with the next caravan… But the elf barely listened to the fierce woman's praise as they watched the retreating figure of the man that had returned them to the fold, the mage who now knew their little secret.
Tomorrow was still hours off. Perhaps a calm evening after such a harrowing day would give them time to prepare the truth.
But what were those tiny lights on the mountainside that Sam noticed once Solas had disappeared, far off in the distance? And why were they coming closer?
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