He wakes up in chains and freezes like his veins are suddenly ice. They feel like they are suddenly ice. He feels like someone has taken his body and driven all the cold of Skyhold into his chest so that his lungs will never defrost. His head pounds like he's tried to best Bull in a drinking contest, and the phantom ache of his non-existent hand is constant. He has to blink a few times in confusion before reality takes hold.
There should be more confusion. There should be rage and denial and a million questions and yet. And yet he knows.
He wakes up in chains and the first thing he says into the tense line of soldiers that surround him is,
"Not again."
A couple of them jump, unsteady. A few stumble with their blades and the sour stench of fear is strong and pungent. From his blurry memories he knows he should have been asleep for longer, knows this because the wound on his hand continues to bleed and that had stopped long before he woke last time.
Last time the mark was a surprise, a parasite on his body that left his veins forever frozen. This time it is an old friend, the one who doesn't fit you quite right and yet you feel like you can never live without. It is almost an afterthought in face of the screaming of nerves in his restored hand. Some flash of grief rises up in him when his fingers twitch.
Oh how he wants to rage.
Instead he chokes back the blood in the back of his throat and rolls his shoulders back as far as the chains will allow. Understanding time has never been once of his strengths, not like Dorian who could—
Well, he doesn't have to worry about that now. He knows enough to realize that that Dorian is gone.
He lets the pain in his chest work its way up to his throat and reaches for the ache in his hand. Its been a while, but he could never forget the sweet rush of the anchor. He needs it now to test the stability of not just where he is, but when he is. To determine if time is secure here or if they are all about to fall into the edge of the void and tear reality apart.
The feeling of the breech is a blight upon his senses, but it is the only anomaly he can feel. It is as if time has simply stitched over his existence like an errant fray. The corners of his mouth tick up and he lets himself slump forward again.
The men around him twitch once more. He voice is raspy and creaks like some old, ancient thing.
"I don't suppose one of you can tell me what's going on?"
—
"What do you mean the prisoner is awake?" The yell is muffled behind think oak wood, but Solas still slows to a stop in front of the door. He could theoretically go in and interrupt the Seeker from questioning the messenger. Considering he's the one with the most to answer for, for indeed he was the one to give her the prognosis of the stranger waking up no earlier then the next day, he is not enthusiastic to swap places.
Curiosity tugs at him, and he wishes to go down into the dungeons to inspect the mark again to find out the difference. Has something changed in the time since he treated the other elf last?
He turns around instead and walks to where the dwarf is waiting with a few soldiers. Someone will need to deal with the minor rifts in the valley, and he's best bet to observe any changes is to see it in action.
He very calmly walks away, and it is in no way a retreat.
He is barely around the corner before he can hear the smack of wood on stone and the clack of frustrated footsteps. The sound soon fades and he surmises that the Seeker has gone to check up on the now awake prisoner. He lets his hands unclasp from behind his back and lengthens his stride.
—
The sky is falling and the only lead they have was sleeping and now he's not. Cassandra doesn't even have Leliana as a steady presence besides her, to weasel out truth and to calm the raging waters so that she can think again. The Divine is dead, and by all accounts they might need to rely on her killer to save the rest of the world. It's a bitter medicine to swallow.
She pushes the heavy door open, lets the sound of wood splinter across her already worn down nerves. The darkness of the room takes a few seconds to adjust to, which turns out to be a good thing once she gets a good look at what's going on in the room.
The soldiers, who by rights should be beacons of restraint and duty, have broken formation and are visibly restless. Two of them are restraining one who seems to have abandoned his sword for his bare fists. There's one in the back who's hunched in and has a hand to his mouth, as if restraining laughter.
In the middle of the room the prisoner has a split lip and wry tilt to his lips. Awake, he seems a completely different man.
Her own lips curdle.
"Ma'am!" One of the soldiers yelps, straightening and snapping an awkward salute. The others quickly abandon whatever foolishness they where previously attempting and turn guilty eyes her way.
"What." Its all she can say before multiple voices try and be heard of each other. The sound of nervous shifting is almost drowned out by the noise and it takes a raised hand a truly enraged glare to stop both.
"You." She points to one who seems the least unruly. "Explain this."
A cleared throat. The soldier indicated is a roughened woman with a scar bisecting half her face, in the dim light her expression could be anything from foreboding to vaguely amused.
"The prisoner awoke half a candle ago. He took a while to awake fully, but when he did he appeared to be of sound mind and with no overt signs of possession. He asked what was going on and when he received no answer started a monologue of all the things that could have led to him here. Alvreigh…disagreed with some of the scenarios."
—
Cassandra grinds her teeth and mentally washes her hands of them. She'll let someone else discipline them, because although this sort of behaviour is dangerous, they have more pressing concerns.
"I still haven't gotten an answer." The prisoner says through a mouthful of blood. "About what's going on I mean. I assume it's something chantry related since there's such lovely decor, but ah, I appear to have a large chunk of time missing and it takes a truly outrageous amount of alcohol to do that, and don't you have vows against that or something?"
Suddenly Cassandra has a feeling she knows why Alvreigh is sporting such a mulish look.
"You." She says through clenched teeth. "Are here under suspicion of murder of Her Most Holy, as well as the conclave she was overseeing."
A pause.
"You're shitting me." The elf says, suddenly deadpan.
She marches closer and yanks him up, noticing as she does that he is heavier then he should be for his size and race.
"You are the only survivor, and thus the only suspect. You will tell me what you know." She lets her eyes room his face, memorizing details.
"Nothing" He says, quiet and steady. "That was the whole point of being there in the first place, finding out what was happening. As far as I know I arrived at the conclave and then awoke in chains."
There's a crash from outside and her attention wavers again. She drops him down, fingers snatching his wrists before he can withdraw too much. It's with a quiet click that his manacles unlock and drop to the floor.
"We will see." She says, before barking at the awaiting soldiers standing awkwardly silent.
"Meet with Leliana at the forward camp. I will bring the prisoner and we will see where blame can be placed."
—
Things are different. He knew they would be of course, just being who he is means things are different.
He isn't bound with rope for the short walk outside. The speech on the way is changed, more rushed. The people rushing back and forth don't spare them much more then panicked glares.
The tension seems to be somehow even more extreme then the first time, when he woke up after some sort of order had been established.
Some distant part of him recognizes that his memories are subject to a lot of suspicion. He can't rely on them for accurate information.
They walk across the stone bridge and Cassandra nods to the men stationed there. He recognizes one of them as a pale face in the Skyhold courtyards, one leg crippled and the other cut off at the knee. He stands on two whole limbs and Tarien has to look away before the memories overtake him.
A voice in his head pounds against his temple, they don't know him, they don't know him, he could run, he could stop the whole "Andraste's chosen" nonsense before it even starts. He could fuck off into the wilderness and close each rift one by one, become a wolf who scares the sheep into gathering for an even bigger threat.
They don't know him, he tells himself.
His teeth ache, and the sulphur in the air chokes his lungs before they come across the first wave of demons.
Then his mind clears and he readies his feet. He has no sword this time, no convenient cash of weapons tumbling down in a shower of rubble. But he doesn't need a sword to be dangerous now.
The first demon goes crashing under his fist, dissolving into nothing under the pull of the fade in his hand. There's an ear piercing screech and then just dust motes swirling in the air.
Cassandra stops to stare at him like he's some beast to rise up and devour her.
The ones after that go down much the same.
There's a whisper on the breeze that speaks of change.
Somewhere there's an ancient woman smiling into a mirror, touching the face of time.
Some men think they are clever enough to plan for everything. They think they can cup the world in their hands as if it is a small, fragile thing. As if they can play dice with the natural order and pay no fee.
Flemeth though, she plays a longer game. One that isn't about revival or power or the things that hide in the dark. It's not even about survival.
Some fights are not won by playing by the victor's rules.