The Little Makers

By KSCrusaders (Sable Rhapsody on BSN)

Part One: Three-Eyes

It'd been only four days since Cassandra, Dorian, and Iron Bull found Clariel Lavellan unconscious in front of a sealed eluvian. Four days since she'd disbanded the Inquisition. Four days of whispering and staring, of furtive glances at the stump where the Anchor-and her hand-used to be. But as soon as Three-Eyes arrived at Halamshiral, he kicked everyone out of her room, locked the door behind him, and immediately began unpacking his instruments.

"This is a pleasant surprise," she said, looking up at him from her armchair by the fireplace.

"Some things can't be done properly in a letter." He carelessly tossed his traveling cloak on her bed; his riding boots were still splattered with mud. He knelt beside her and held out his hands. "Arm, please."

Clariel rolled the sleeve back and extended what remained of her left arm. He made a thoughtful sound as he carefully examined the stump; it was smooth and painless, cutting off inches below her elbow..as though she'd simply been born without her left hand. Solas had at least given her that courtesy.

Three-Eyes took out his battered leather journal and began writing down measurements: her right arm, her left, across her shoulders and back, the length and circumference of each finger. Clariel took a moment to enjoy the relative peace and quiet after the chaos of the last few days. The Orlesian master didn't look at her with pity, or alarm, or any emotion at all. He examined her arm the same way he looked at any piece of work: with a careful, thoughtful precision that calmed her more than anyone else's words had done.

"Sit up straight," he said. "And don't move. A mechanical replacement will need to fit as exactly as possible." Her old master's eyes flickered from the belt of throwing knives resting in her lap, and up to the holes in the fine gilded paneling on the opposite wall.

She gave a soft huff, but set the knives aside with her good hand. "I need to practice," she said. "I don't suppose I'll ever draw a bow again."

She tried to sound calm, matter-of-fact, but the tremor in her voice gave it away. Whether it was the first practice bow from her tenth birthday or the lyrium-infused marvel she'd helped craft just months ago, she'd never been without one until now. It made her feel vulnerable, naked, even while surrounded by her concerned friends.

Three-Eyes didn't look at her, but she could have sworn she saw his face soften. "Never say never, maker." And he extended his journal to her.

Clariel's jaw dropped. There on the page, in her teacher's neat, cramped writing, were not one but three different rough sketches for a replacement hand. One with fingers that opened and closed. One with a dizzying array of attachments for her artificer's tools. And one that looked like-

"It will never have the range or impact of your longbow," said Three-Eyes, and now he was definitely smiling. "But be quick on the trigger, and you can still fill your enemies with daylight."

The arm-mounted crossbow looked elegant, almost delicate on the piece of paper. Patterns of black and white feathers graced the prod, and etched vines curled around the attachment to her arm. But even in this rough form, she could see that Three-Eyes had swallowed his pride and used principles of Bianca's construction, allowing the device to deliver small bolts at a much faster rate. Attached to the crossbow was a short but wicked-looking curved hook.

She stared from him to the designs, searching for words, but he spared her the trouble as he took the book back. "I will draw up copies for you and Dagna. I do expect improvement on my hurried sketches."

Clariel jumped to her feet, all tiredness forgotten, and Three-Eyes chuckled softly. "Quick to the forge. Good. The sooner you have a replacement, the better your mind and body will adjust."

She began to pull on her jacket and boots one-handed, and unlike everyone else, he did not hover or try to help. He put away his own tools and waited patiently by the door; occasionally, she heard the purposeful scratching of his pen on the page. When she was finally ready, she looked from him to her empty left sleeve, trying to imagine a metal hand poking out the end. It still didn't seem real, even when she gripped the end of the sleeve and tied it up. She felt like her fingers should meet flesh instead of cloth and air. Like an echo of her hand should still be there.

"Have you ever..." she began uncertainly, not sure how to put her thoughts into words.

But Three-Eyes immediately understood. "Have I ever replicated the Maker's work?" he said quietly. "No, and I never shall. But we are makers in our own right, you and I. We don't need to follow His design."

That was what she needed to hear, worth more than a thousand polite condolences. "Dagna's still at Skyhold," she said, "but there's a decent foundry on the other side of the palace."

"Then why are we still here? After you," he said, bowing her out of the room.

She dreams that night of a river from her childhood. Tonight, it seems to stretch the length and breadth of the Fade itself. It takes her a moment to come to herself, but when she flexes the undamaged fingers of her left hand, she knows this isn't real. She settles herself down on the bank, unwilling to venture further without the protection of the Anchor. The water is oddly silent, though it runs swift and deep.

And then she sees him on the other side. The blue-eyed wolf, watching, so still he might have been a statue. Her heart freezes in her throat, and she slowly gets to her feet.

"Don't go!" she tries to call, but it comes out as a whisper. Yet to her surprise, he takes a step toward her, emerging from the shadow of the trees. His sorrowful eyes linger on the left hand that no longer exists in the waking world.

"It's ok," she tells him, trying for a smile. "I'm working on it. It'll just take time and patience."

He doesn't speak. He doesn't even seem to breathe. But she knows he can hear her, because his ears turn in her direction. His eyes drift from her hand to her face, and where she thought there would be anger or sorrow or bitterness, she can only find sympathy for the great white wolf, all alone across an endless expanse of rushing water.

"You can come back whenever you need me," she says, and now he flinches as if she'd raised a weapon to him. Now he begins to turn back into the distant black trees, though his eyes are still fixed on her. She takes a step off the bank to follow, and immediately sinks to her knees in a relentless icy current.

She stretches her hand out to him, even as he disappears into darkness, even as the cold water pulls her back to the waking world.

"Ar lath ma, Solas."