Nightfall doesn't bring peace, and the conflict in the valley below continues in pockets punctuated by the eerie flashes of lightning or fire. The screams reach us, echoed, thin. Men and women dying.

I can't sleep. Not with this going on. I should be down there quelling this insanity, but every muscle aches from today's past skirmishes. I've stopped counting how many shemlen have fallen to my fire, and I don't know whether I'll ever get the crust of blood from under my nails, for when my magic has not been enough, I've struck with my staff. And it's been messy. Bloody.

So I perch upon the rock, precarious on the edge. Inquisition sentries are posted about but if Cassandra sees me "endangering herself with reckless behaviour" again then I may just fall upon the Seeker's blade out of sheer peevishness.

"The more things change, the more they stay the same," Solas says behind me.

I haven't heard him approach, and I bite back a hiss, square my shoulders. "I wonder at the wisdom of being involved."

The man leans against a pine tree to my left, and the moonlight reveals his strong features. He is not beautiful, but there is something arresting about his features, that strong brow, straight nose and the cleft in his chin. I can't say that I'm overly fond of the bald head, but more often than not over the past few weeks, I've found myself drawn to him.

"The conflict is larger than mere mages and templars," he says.

"Not that they're seeing the breach in the sky for their own differences," I add then continue my vigil, far too conscious of him.

And it's the quiet times like this night, and other occasions, where we seem to gravitate towards each other. Is it because we're the only two elves in the party or is it something else? He's a haughty one, if ever there was. I constantly gain the impression that he looks down on me in some way. Yet he sat by my side for three days when I was out of it, apparently. I've been told that when everything went for a ball of shit after the Temple of Ashes got blasted, that he'd calmly walked into camp, handed in his staff and had volunteered his services.

Talk about reckless behaviour.

He doesn't speak, and somehow his silence, and the mere thought that he is near, weighs heavily on me. My fascination with the man is ill timed. Yet away from my clan, I'm cut adrift. Late summer now, they'll be preparing for the coming winter in earnest. I should send word. By now Keeper Deshanna would have heard of the disaster that befell the shemlen; naturally she'd assume the worst – that I perished alongside them.

Yet we've been moving hither and thither all this time, leaves blown in winds I cannot fathom. This cursed Mark aching and hurting, and the never-ending stream of demons and rifts, and this strange magic that flows through me that is contrary to all that I've known up until now.

"I hope we're done with this sorry business by autumn," I say to Solas.

He gives a soft snort. "We'll be so fortunate."

"What do you mean?" What does he know that I don't?

He shakes his head, crouches down next to me, holds out his hand. "How is the Mark?"

For a moment I'm tempted not to acquiesce, but obedient, I offer him my left hand. "It hurts, especially today."

"Two rifts in one day. We should have rested."

"I could handle it."

"You don't know your limits, da'len."

I bristle but don't say anything. His touch is so gentle, the way he probes at the slumbering Mark. His magic is summer rain on hot stone, and the petrichor washes over me so I close my eyes and surrender to the coolness. "Mmm, that feels good."

He traps my hand between his long fingers, a gentle cage. I could pull away from the contact but I don't. After so many weeks of being on my own, guarded, constantly aware, it feels good to have someone touch me in a way that is caring, tender.

It won't last, I know, but I'll savour it while I can.

I breathe out, open my eyes to find him gazing at me, the moonlight shining in his eyes. The way he studies me makes me want to turn my face, but I meet his gaze evenly.

"What do you see?" I ask.

Solas seems to catch himself, for he straightens, clears his throat. He withdraws his hands and rests them on his knees.

"It is late. I must meditate." He rises. "I suggest you get some rest."

Then he is gone between the tents, leaving in his wake that peculiar scent of him that makes me think of fallen leaves and moss, and something wilder, indefinable.

The ghost of his touch lingers, and I flex my fingers, bring them to my lips.

What must it be like to kiss him, feel his cool touch elsewhere on my body as I give in to unexpected passions? It's true what the stories say, that during times when one is faced with death, that one feels truly the fear of nothingness, and that one seeks the affirmation of the flesh.

Out here in the Hinterlands, I am far from clan and kin; not quite a little girl lost, but close enough. And I find myself wanting, craving something that is difficult to place but I know that if I don't snatch what joy I can, it might be stolen from me. The breeze whispers in the pines, and a sudden flash below in the valley is nearer and brighter than any of the others.

"Herald," one of the shemlen sentries says, not far from me. Her voice betrays concern.

I hiss as I rise, scan the valley one last time, then turn back towards camp.

"I should not take unnecessary risks."