"Bind the slave, Dorian," booms a powerful voice above her. She trembles on the floor, blind from a dark cloth tied around her eyes. Hands pull her to her feet, surprisingly gentle, but commandeering all the same. It was nothing new or shocking in Tevinter, after all, to use one's property for whatever one pleases. She is sure she will likely be brutally raped, or used in some depraved blood magic ritual. Such rumors about Tevinter magisters were abound in Thedas.
The hands push her into a walk, and she feels herself being led somewhere. The hands pull her to a stop by her shoulders and turn her around.
"Sit, and lay back on the table," a quiet and kind voice says in her ear. She complies, and the man lashes her wrists and ankles to the table. Her heart pounds so hard at this point, she feels certain it will leap from her chest at any moment.
"Alexius, is this truly necessary?" the man's voice who had spoken to her a moment ago rings out above her.
"Dorian, to achieve greatness, one must be willing to make sacrifices," the powerful voice mocks, this Alexius. A sacrifice then. Perhaps better than rape, she thinks to herself, but no better in the end. Her body was still to serve a purpose to their madness.
"Prepare the body," Alexius barks after a moment of silence. Another hesitation stretches before them. "Then stand aside if you cannot stomach it."
Feet shuffle away and sure, pounding steps move toward her. The sound of steel being drawn from its sheath sets her blood boiling and she bucks against the restraints. A wash of magic paralyzes her, leaving her helpless to what comes next.
Fire across her stomach, her wrists, her neck, her cheeks, as lines are drawn with the dagger. She feels her life easing away through the wounds, trickling down her flesh, pooling beneath her frozen body. The pain rises in great waves, but she cannot make a sound. She is nothing but a tool, an object.
"Bring forth the amulet," Alexius whispers, his voice pregnant with excited energy. A clicking sound, more shuffling, and then a wash of coldness over her body. A green light seeps through her blindfold and she feels a tug behind her navel as her consciousness begins to ebb. The cuts are deep; too deep, and in the throes of death, an almighty yank from within her core covers the world as she knows it in pitch-blackness. She succumbs to the darkness and floats away.
She is aware of a new light, white and warm, behind her closed eyelids. The warmth almost makes her forget the pain. She tries to move, but the paralytic spell doesn't seem to have been lifted yet. A shout echoes around her as the sound of running feet assaults her ears.
"Ar tel nuvena dru," a voice over her head implores. She feels herself fading again, but the blindfold is being removed. She cracks her eyes open as far as she can muster, to the faint outline of a dark-haired, pale-faced person floating above her.
Blue-tinged white light flares around her and she feels the spell lift. Her hands squeeze shut, her back arches, her body clenches, her mouth opens in a horrifying scream that erupts into the bright white surroundings. More flashes of light come, the voice is murmuring Elvhen words she can't recall, her flesh is itchy and hot. But she has lost far too much blood. Once again, her world falls to blackness.
She awakens once again. Her body feels at peace, and she is laying against something luxuriously soft, more comfortable than anything else she has ever known in her life. She can see a bright whiteness again behind her closed lids and she risks cracking them open for a peek.
An open wall faces her. Perhaps two feet of wall at the top and bottom, with naught but empty space in between, punctuated every few meters by slim pillars rising from the bottom to the top. Beyond that appears to be a large garden, green and rife with life. She looks down to see she is in a circular bed fit for a queen.
What is this place? she wonders to herself. Was this death? Or was it a new, cruel trick of the magister's? Trepidation fills her and she looks around the room for clues. The rest of the room is round, matching the bed in which she resides for the moment. There is no other furnishing in the room, no decoration. An expanse of pure white wall behind her is broken only by an open frame to her right, leading to parts unknown. She wonders if she should go through it, or just leap out of the open wall and into the garden.
Before she can decide, a man wearing robes of white enters, carrying a small silver tray of food. His long dark hair is pulled into thick braids down his back, his steel blue eyes are a stark spark of color in the white room.
"Na thena," he says, looking at her. She knows enough of the old language to know what he means, though her mind struggles to remember the lessons.
She nods at the man. His eyes are kind, different from the ones in Tevinter, the ones who took her away. She looks down at her body, expecting to see bandages, at the very least, scars. But her arms and wrists are whole and healthy, and though her body is mostly covered in a clean, white linen gown, she does not feel pain in her belly. There are no marks; no evidence of the trauma she experienced at the hands of the magister.
"Na esha min," the man says softly, setting the tray down on the bed before her. It holds simple breads and a dish of red fruit spread. A small implement lies next to the dish. Can she use it to defend herself? She looks at the man again, still afraid.
Something in his eyes. Sympathy, perhaps? Or just pity? Her instinct says he won't attack. At least not yet, not here. But she will not let her guard down completely.
"Who are you?" she finally manages. His head quirks to the side and he regards her for a moment.
"You speak the tongue of the Shem'len," he says, looking at her with rapt attention, mild confusion muddying his features.
"It is the Common Tongue," she replies, searching his face.
"Was your mother a Shem?" he inquires.
"Excuse me?" She is angry now. How dare he imply she is anything like the Shems. Her eyes narrow and flash in his direction.
"It's just that…you do not look completely Elvhen. You have some features," he says, reaching out and grazing her ears with his fingertips, "but you are mostly different."
"My parents were elves," she snaps shortly, crossing her arms in front of her. "And in any case, you haven't answered my question. Who are you?"
He is silent for a moment, tilting his head in contemplation.
"You may call me Solas."
NOTES:
Ar tel nuvena dru - I do not desire sacrifice.
Na thena - You are awake.
Na esha min - You are safe here.
I am using a combination of several dictionaries and lexicons to create my rendition of the Elvhen language.
I love Feynite's work so much that I wanted to create my own rendition. The only element that is the same is the time traveling. Don't worry, I'm no plagiarizer.
This is a nice little preview of what is to come. Lavellan has not yet been asked to spy on the conclave. She has not met the Solas of her time. She is not marked. She is not the Inquisitor. Whether those events ever come to pass, we shall have to wait and see!