This Lavellan, this proud, fiery, angry elf, is not the Lavellan he tended to after the explosion. No, she is quite different from the whimpering husk of a person he cradled in his arms after his magic ripped her apart from the inside out and threw her away like a spent rag. By Mythal, how he ever thought he knew this woman he doesn't understand for she is ferocious.
The Anchor could not pull her apart fully. He does not think a thousand arrows could poke a hole in her thick skin. A hardened battle axe could neither break nor crack her impenetrable skull. She is like wildfire. Even Varric agrees, whispering into his ale, 'Wildfire isn't what I was expecting out of that tiny little elf.' Solas cannot agree more. How could anyone guess that this woman, this so called agent of all things divine, could be such a force of nature?
It has been three days since Fen'Din (Fenna as she demands to be called) has woken up from their attempt at closing the Breach. Failure does not bother her instead it only fuels her rage as she stalks the Chantry halls and plans her next move with Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana. He watches from afar as she spits on the title of Herald, he listens as she as she seeks out the comments and opinions from her new companions with hesitant ears, and he feels her tawny eyes watching him as he goes about his daily duties. She has spoken very little to him, only when the need arises, but she is never far away. He feels her testing the waters, wondering if she can find kinship with the only elf for miles who isn't a servant or a farmhand. He thinks she knows that she will be disappointed.
Yet this wild thing from the depths of the Free Marches, so free in her blind hate and conservative with her acceptance of her new "allies," finally approaches him. He is by his usual post by the apothecary sorting through a basket of fresh elfroot when he sees her coming his way. She's easy to spot when her natural gait is more like a charge than a saunter and her hair, as fiery as she, waves in the wind like a flag on a battlefield. Solas stands, dusting the elfroot off his hands and putting on an easy smile that he hopes will ease the wariness in her eyes.
"Ah, Herald," He says. "The Chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all."
She stops a good distance from him, digging her bare feet into the mud that has managed to avoid the fresh blanket of snow that fell earlier this morning. She is tall for an elf, almost reaching his unusual height, and it isn't hard for her to meet his gaze head on and unflinching.
"Am I riding in a shining steed?" She says, her tone dripping with disdain. Still he smiles even though that is not the answer he expects.
"I would have suggested a griffon," He responds. "But sadly, they're extinct. Joke as you will, posturing is necessary."
"Posturing? Is that what I'm doing?"
It isn't an insult or a challenge, it isn't even a real question, it is...he isn't sure.
"You are no hero. You have made that clear to Cassandra. What else is there to do but pretend you are what the people want?"
"Unlike the others, I will not sit down and accept some foolish title to make a farmer feel like Andraste heard his prayers. I'm no Herald."
He raises an eyebrow. "True you are no Herald of Andraste but is that really the point?"
She smirks. "You think me a fool, don't you? The title doesn't matter, that's why I refuse it. Sure, it might be easier to accept what the shems are screaming in my ear but I don't care. If I have this Anchor I'll close the Breach, but I don't need some god breathing down my neck while I do so."
"You are far different from what I was expecting, Herald." He says. She isn't a fool, far from it in fact. He remembers a time when he spoke similar words.
"But was anyone expecting me?"
He smiles. "No, I suppose they were not."
There's a slight quiver at the corners of her mouth, almost like she's fighting back a smile of her own.
"But I am not the only mystery in this camp, am I?"
He laughs lightly. "I can only imagine who you are referring to, Herald."
She raises a finely arched eyebrow. "Do I need to give you a hint? Come now, Solas. You're smarter than that."
The way she says his name makes him feel like she knows every little detail about him, like she's somehow seen past the simple robes and the pleasant smile he keeps plastered on his face, like she has somehow thrown away the thousand of lies he's already spewed for Cassandra and Leliana and dissected every single one to find the slight truths he's buried beneath honeyed words. For a moment, her tawny eyes trick him into wondering if she does know.
He dismisses the thought before his expression can betray him. Fenna knows what he has allowed her to know, nothing more.
"I am well aware of the concerns surrounding my presence."
She takes a few lazy steps closer to him, the movement reminding him of a cat. "Cassandra told me what happened," She says. "That you showed up in Haven after the explosion at the Conclave You claimed that you believed you knew how to close the breach, that you hoped to learn and understand it. All very convenient. All very suspicious."
He narrows his eyes. "And do you find merit in their suspicion?"
She does not even pause before her answer. There is no hesitation or second guessing, she is sure.
"No," She says. "If a shem had walked through those gates and spouted the same words as you, he would have been accepted with open arms. Perhaps I wouldn't even be needed, he'd be crowned Herald and all would be right in the world. It was your ears that made you a threat. Was it convenient that you came when you did? Definitely, on that the Seeker and I agree, but I believe you came here with no ill will. After all, you saved my life."
The words are comforting. The ache forming behind his eyelids subsides and the tension in his shoulders relax. No one will question him here again.
"Thank you," He says, bowing his head. "It is good to hear that fear does not have a foothold in everyone."
"You are a lone apostate and I am a Dalish hunter. We share little in common besides the fact that in the eyes of a shem we are lesser."
Dangerous words to say out in the open, though he cannot say he is surprised at her boldness. "Yet those humans worship you as a god."
She laughs. "And you are not the only one who was convenient, Solas."
"I have a feeling your convenience will be forgotten. The mark on your hand will make you invaluable by time we close the breach."
Fenna looks down at her hand and rubs the inside of her palm with her thumb. "Or it will put me in a grave."
He swallows hard. "Perhaps it will not. It is stable at the moment even with the breach still open. There is a chance that when you close it, the mark will settle."
She shrugs. "We will fight that battle the day it comes. For now, we can only focus on one." She looks up at the sky and he wonders what she sees. Even though he cannot see it with his own eyes, he suspects that her brazen attitude hides her fear. Fenna may not be posturing for the people of Haven, or even the people of Thedas, but she has mastered convincing herself that she is beyond fear. He has not know her for very long but it is a trait he identified the moment she closed her first rift.
"I suppose it is time for me to be off," She says. "I believe tomorrow morning we are set to leave for Val Royeaux."
He nods. "Until tomorrow then, Herald."
She rolls her eyes. "Please Solas, call me Fenna. I thought we already decided that I'm no Herald."
He chuckles. "You have a fair point. Until tomorrow, Fenna."
Without another word she turns and walks briskly away. He cannot help but let his eyes linger a moment longer than they should. Her hips sway delightfully and her red hair cascades down her back like a wild flame. She is utterly enchanting. But he notices that he is not the only one staring. The men and women of Haven cannot take their eyes off Fenna. He wonders what it is that draws the eye to her. Sure, she is the Herald and her name is in the mouth of every noble and peasant in Thedas, but that cannot be the only reason people stop in their tracks to watch as she passes by like a prowling cat.
Whatever it is, she demands attention, and it is not until she turns the corner that Solas is able to look away. Her presence leaves him feeling exhilarated and exhausted, a feeling he has only felt when witnessing a forgotten battle or bloody duel in the Fade. It is strange that something, especially someone, in this dead world can command his attention and force him to feel something other than grief and guilt. Solas realizes what this means. Fascination is dangerous. No matter how intriguing Fenna may be, no matter how alive she seems, he cannot let himself become distracted by the Dalish hunter. He mustn't forget why he is here and the task at hand. If only he really were a simple elven apostate then things would be very different, but such fantasy is not worth dwelling on.
Yet as he goes about his daily duties he cannot forget the Herald. Fenna is always there, lingering in the recesses of his mind as he sorts herbs and pours over old spell books. The Fade is not even a refuge anymore, instead it is nearly impossible to slip into the Dreaming when Fenna still haunts him. Nothing, not even his guilt, has kept him away from the Fade, so what makes her so special?
He cannot come to a conclusion so he settles for staring up at the ceiling with the vain hope that he will perhaps just nod off and find himself in a world that is in some ways much more concrete. But as the stars pass overhead and the moon gives way to the sun, Solas is still left with too many questions and not enough answers. If anything of substance was to be gained out of a sleepless night it is the realization that recovering the orb will not be as easy as he once believed. While Corypheus is dangerous in his own right, Solas wonders if Fenna is the true threat to his plans, but that is a question for another night.