Her hand ghosted over the ripening fields of wheat. The bright sun warmed her back and gave a bluish-gold tint to her otherwise pale hair, illuminating her eyes. Leather boots crunched against soft soil as placid farmers went about their business, druffalos contentedly grazing in the rolling plains and meadows surrounding Redcliffe Farms.
It was peaceful. Too peaceful. Another Rift would open sooner or later, and demons would pour out to destroy anything they could touch as the Veil would be torn to shreds. Joy would quickly turn into burnt ashes on that fateful day, the land filling with pained screams instead of children's laughter, and fresh, crimson blood would water the parched crops in place of water.
Ellaria's slender body swayed in the fragrant breeze as she followed a small path, well hidden amidst the blossoming cherry trees. Her steps became lighter as she left the isolated hamlet, traipsing up a grassy hillock as thickets of undergrowth tickled her ankles. Soon she was running, swiftly skipping over rocks and splashing through burbling streams. Laughter escaped her lips in a rush as she darted between trees like a faerie, losing herself in the beautiful landscape.
She was free here. Unridiculed. No one would mock her, call her insulting names, or even lock her up in suffocating dungeons for their twisted amusement. For a precious, fleeting moment she was Ellaria again, not the Herald. A simple elf, one who loved hunting and singing and dancing.
Stumbling onto a boulder, she gasped for breath as her palms scraped against jagged gravel. Ellaria paused, looking around as her chest heaved for air and ignoring the fresh sting in her delicate hands.
A beaten-down wooden sign was nailed onto a sycamore sapling, messy handwriting calling the area, Dead Ram Grove. She smiled crookedly, watching as a silver-tailed fox dived into the shadows of a tenebrific den beneath the gnarled rots of a beechwood tree. A kestrel hovered in the air above, a mere pinprick in the baby-blue sky as it searched for its next meal, its feathered wings brushing the clouds.
Ellaria followed the sound of rushing water, delighted when she came across a secluded alcove higher up, the very atmosphere tasting sweeter to her lungs. A waterfall stood proudly near the back as it displayed a shallow pond, spindleweed and elfroot flourishing near the pebbled banks.
Unsheathing the dirk strapped across her back, she deftly sliced off a stem from the latter plant, crushing it against a rock until it formed a thick, gooey paste, and rubbing it into the shallow cuts on her hands. The herb smarted at first, eventually making her fingers tingle with a burning relief. Elfroot had been a necessity back when Ellaria was younger, as her tribe had relied on little else during the harvest seasons, and she was always getting injured to prove herself to them. They oftentimes had called her goat in Dalish.
She put her blade away, scampering up a ridge of honeycombed soapstone to see a breathtaking view of the farms spread out beneath her, the heights dizzying and making her faintly homesick. A purple martin sang to its mate in the dappled foliage clustered nearby, flashing its blue-black wings in happiness as it fluttered this way and that.
Happiness. She hadn't felt that in a long time, she thought, sitting down cross-legged. Even now she was only distracting herself. As if reminding her of fate, her arm jerked forwards in a convulsion of its own will, a sickly blue-green light emanating from it as wispy tendrils encircled her, whispering of despair and hatred. Ellaria cried out in frantic pain, nearly toppling from the rocks to her death below. Her eyes flashed white, and for a terrifying moment she couldn't see. Blind. She was blind.
Then it was gone, and all Ellaria could hear was her panicked, rushed heartbeat thudding erratically as sight slowly returned. She swallowed thickly, sweat dripping down her forehead and neck to stain the borrowed clothes she wore.
"Stupid," she muttered, climbing to her feet unsteadily. Ellaria tripped over a stone as she moved away, cursing angrily when she spotted the innocuous culprit. With a flushed face she picked it up and threw it as hard as she could over the scenic bluffs, her nostrils flaring in a bout of strangled emotion. It clattered noisily off a few boulders, landing in the middle of a barley field and startling a young woman.
It was Seanna, she realised, a harmless, sweet-natured girl who constantly smelled of manure, had doe-eyes, a widow's peak, and a heart-shaped face to compliment her generous, if not excitable, nature. She was leading a sway-backed mare to pasture when the pebble alerted her, waving merrily when she recognised Ellaria. The elf returned the gesture, wincing as her arm spasmed uncontrollably. She quickly turned away, slipping down the outcrop to land in the shallow pool. Flecks of crystal-clear water splashed onto her boots and legs.
I just wanted to be at peace, she thought dourly, kicking at some dirt. Her brow furrowed thoughtfully when her stomach rumbled in hunger. It was almost evening, and the sky was swathed in streaks of burgundy, lavender, and teal as the sun started to dip below the horizon, the clouds thinly stretched and painted a beguiling pinkish-orange.
Ellaria sat down next to the waterfall beneath a stately oak that dappled the patched earth with coloured sunshine, its huge twisting roots enveloping her protectively like a mother would her beloved child.
She didn't want to go back. Everyone—excluding her party, though sometimes she thought different—feared her. They were scared of her power, whispering slanders behind her back. That she was a fraud, that the Maker wouldn't dare to choose a Dalish elf to save the dying world. Dennet was more amiable than most, though even his hospitality had limits.
Those that didn't acknowledge her as Herald treated her doubtfully. To some she was a servant, to others a tool. And when she requested help for the war effort they wanted more than they could give. It made her ragged, running around like a bloody fool doing menial tasks. It was a waste of time, she decided. Yet what else could she do?
One young man in Haven had even the audacity to demand she get on her knees and suck his member. In front of Cullen, no less. Never had she felt more embarrassed, fleeing at the first opportunity despite the ex-templar's desperate attempts to make her stay.
Mortified, she'd avoided Cullen at all costs so far, though he wanted to speak with her gathering from what her companions hinted at. Probably to apologise, she guessed. But it didn't matter, as her face blushed violently each time she thought of it. The shame and disgrace would never really vanish.
Footsteps alerted her to another's presence. Ellaria stiffened, warily reaching for her dagger as an instinct. She hadn't thought to bring her longbow with her, and scolded herself resoundedly for the foolish, amateur mistake. "Hello?" she called out, listening to her voice echo and bounce off the woods.
"You missed supper." Solas appeared, carrying a wooden bowl and a hunk of steaming bread. "Cassandra asked after you."
Ellaria relaxed, wrinkling her nose at the smell of mushrooms wafting up from what she assumed was stew. "How did you know where I was?"
Solas smiled briefly, carefully skirting the pond's edges so that he wouldn't get his feet wet. He laid the food beside her, sitting a respectable distance away. "You were throwing rocks?"
Ellaria glanced at him sharply, studying his aquiline nose. "I was angry," she admitted, following his gaze.
Solas dipped his head at her response, staring at the water reflectively. He was by no means handsome, but his kindness, and the way he carried himself made up for it tenfold, she thought. A strange comfort was taken in the fact that she wasn't the only one abused by the public, though they seemed to despise him more as he was a mage. It was almost comical how he never took offence, brushing off their petty words with a knowing smile.
She wished she could.
"Something seems to be troubling you."
Ellaria brought her knees up to her chest. "Huh." A noise of hollow laughter died in her throat as she looked at him. "Is it. . . is it really that obvious?" Did her whole party think her fragile? She wouldn't dispute it, yet it was still disheartening. Here she thought herself a decent liar.
"No." Solas leaned back on his hands, his knobbed beechwood stave laying beside him. "You hide it well." He was dressed in homely cotton breeches, a patched robe covering his lean upper body. There was a decorative slit in the fabric on both sides, showcasing a thin undershirt beneath. Ellaria averted her eyes, hoping their garments would all be washed soon. Dennet's wife—who refused to be called anything other than Elaina—had insisted they be cleaned from their harsh travels, not taking dissent as an answer. The woman was like a pesky shrew.
"I suppose you would know," Ellaria said softly, running a hand through her braided hair. Solas was easily the most perceptive of them all, which wasn't hard to believe considering his lofty and mysterious place as a mage in their group. Magic had always eluded her own grasp as if it was a giggling child, and she had neither the ambition nor patience to pursue it despite her Keeper's urging. Besides, there had been no need for sorcerers in her old tribe, only hunters. Food and protection always prevailed over simple curiosity.
"Misery knows no bounds as a hero," Solas quoted. Ellaria felt stunned at first, then giddy as she grinned at him like an idiot. He had read the book she gifted him. And had recited it in Dalish, no less. Her heart swelled proudly, a pureness in her adoring gaze.
"Misery follows those who have the ability to wield consequences," she finished, lifting her chin up in a gesture of shock. "I didn't think you would read the novel."
He seemed offended, though she could tell it was a mockery as a dark humour was laced in his ice-blue eyes. "Of course I would. We have similar tastes, and I know the Herald wouldn't squander her time reading something that was poorly written."
"Please don't call me Herald," she said, surprised at how begging her voice sounded. She touched his hand in an entreating manner. "I don't like it."
"That's not what you say to the locals," Solas pointed out in a sagacious manner, his angular face softening considerably at her tone.
"A sham," Ellaria retorted swiftly. "I. . ." She trailed off, suddenly nervous as he looked at her arm. She withdrew it quickly, cradling it to her breast protectively. "It's not me."
"Would you like to talk about it?" Solas asked kindly, moving closer.
Ellaria avoided him, shaking her head. "I—I don't know. The Dalish never speak of their personal troubles much. They can't afford to." She found herself clumsily stuttering over words, biting her lip to keep from saying too much and acting like a bloody fool.
"You refer to your people as they." Solas gazed at her ardently as she picked up the piece of bread, tossing it between her hands before taking a tentative bite. It was warm and flaky, the crust still crispy and hot as it nearly burned her fingertips. He nudged her shoulder, his feather-light touch making her freeze. "I see a sadness etched upon your heart, Herald."
His hand felt scorching against her own skin. "I cannot go back," she said slowly, ducking her head down to hide the shame she felt. "They wouldn't accept me—I'm no longer one of them."
It was more than that, yet she was afraid to speak her mind. The Dalish always welcomed more elves willing to convert to their customs and traditions to keep from inbreeding and to make sure the culture stayed alive. But they hated humans. Despised them. Word would eventually spread—if it hadn't already—of her failed mission and miraculous survival. They would hear reports of how the other races worshipped her and that she didn't take advantage of the situation to help her own kind. They wouldn't understand the Inquisition cause and think her selfish instead. Lazy. Unworthy to still be a Dalish even though she still carried their marks. In a way, it was blasphemous to their strict religions.
Maybe it was just that tribe. Perhaps others would welcome her more graciously and with open arms if she proved herself. But she doubted it, and the thought of rejection left her feeling numb. Ellaria finished off the bread, staring dully at the specks of crumbs that fell to the muddy soil.
"Is that what upsets you?"
"No," she confessed, looking up at him guiltily as his hand moved to her wrist. She still felt hesitation towards Solas and the aura he surrounded himself in, yet she trusted him the most. He was honest, she thought, and if oftentimes distant he could be very witty and astute. "A part of it, I suppose. I just—I don't want this. I don't want to save the world. People are always dying because of me. I cause them so much pain and I—they hate me." She shrugged him off, breathless from her admission.
"I don't hate you," Solas stated. "And neither do those at Haven." For a moment he sounded colder, more reserved. His expression was unreadable as he blinked, hiding whatever he felt beyond his calm façade.
"No—" Ellaria violently scrambled upright, overturning the bowl of soup. "I'm a monster to them. Some even threw stones at my window last week. I scared them off, though. A-am I really so terrible?" She was almost afraid of the answer.
"No, Herald, you are far from that." Solas stood with her, hefting up his staff and holstering it above his shoulder blades so that it stuck out over his balding head. "How is your hand?" he inquired mildly, picking up the wooden bowl and thoroughly inspecting it with a distasteful expression.
"Crippling. It become unbearable when I'm near a Rift. It—it feels like—and I have these nightmares that—they come nearly every night. . . I'm sorry," Ellaria apologised hastily, horror written across her face. "I shouldn't have said so much." She felt both light-headed and ill, her mind spinning from their brief, honest conversation. This was the first time she had admitted to feeling pain in front of others, though she already assumed Cassandra knew from sealing her first Tear.
Solas smiled, regarding her warmly as he offered her his arm. "I have nothing to forgive. I have nightmares myself, sometimes, though they are usually in the Fade."
Ellaria looped her elbow through his, leaning her weight against him as twilight descended over the valley. Bats flapped overhead with leathery wings and muffled squeaks, hunting for their supper. "We should head back."
Their short journey was mostly quiet, interrupted only by buzzing cicadas and the occasional whinnying horse. They were almost to Dennet's house when Solas paused, turning to face her. "Perhaps when this is all over you can retire here to the Hinterlands," he suggested, motioning at the growing crops and crude farmhouses. "You seem to enjoy the countryside."
She looked at him sadly, taking a step away to maintain distance. The gloom made her amethyst eyes seem murky, her pupils dark caverns that held indisposed secrets. "Solas." Ellaria shuddered from the damp, wrapping arms around her slim waist. She flashed him a crestfallen smile. "I—I think you know as well as I do that I'm not going to survive this. It will consume me, in the end."
With that she turned on her heels and walked away, her dainty feet creaking on the old weathered steps leading to the village as she passed a deserted windmill. Warm candlelight beckoned her forwards when she opened the stablemaster's door. The hearty fire from the brickwork hearth blasted her with a welcoming heat and flushed her freckled cheeks.
Her comrades greeted her once she stepped inside, Varric pounding the dining table in a drunken welcome as he took another swig of honeyed wine, clumsily wiping his mouth with the back of a large, sausage-like hand. Cassandra scowled fiercely the dwarf before going back to her game of checkers with Seanna. Dennet politely asked if she wanted to smoke, chuckling drily when she refused and commenting about halla.
Solas still stood outside as if time had frozen, pondering her words and staring up at the star-spattered sky pensively, his thoughts troubled and worrisome.