He woke to a heavy knock at the door. Solas lifted his head, blinking the Fade from his eyes.

The human alchemist, Adan (the only 'healer' in Haven, though only by a stretch) looked up from washing a compress, then made a dismissive noise and returned to his work.

The sun had yet to rise. A candle sat unlit in the windowsill, probably extinguished during his dreamer's absence. A glance at the hand he held loosely in his own revealed no discernable difference in the mark, glowing faintly in the pre-dawn.

He looked up.

Lavellan remained unconscious.

He exhaled deeply once, through his nose. The past two days had been a frantic affair, his hours consumed with attending to a patient whose illnesses could only partially be healed by physical means. Between himself and Adan, they seen a gradual but marked improvement in the elf's health, but the only certainty he had been able to give the Spymaster and Seeker was that no, this time, they would not die from the mark.

That had been no news to him, though it had set the two women's minds somewhat at ease.

No, the mark would not kill Lavellan. The strain of bearing the mark, was... another matter entirely.

It had ceased causing them pain since they'd closed the first rift, when he had stopped it from spreading. That immediate threat had been the first thing he'd seen to - making sure that the hours between their receiving the mark and his attending to it, hadn't caused irreversible damage to their person. It had not, to his relief; he would have been unhappy to give its host another reason to resent the key they held unwillingly, and even more so if it had become threat enough to their life to necessitate abandoning the precious key altogether.

Most of the time he spent bent over the fragment of magic in their hand was for appearances' sake. The rest of it he used to inconspicuously guide the human healer away from accidentally poisoning their shared charge. The man was an alchemist first, and while his knowledge in the 'healing arts' was appreciatively solid, if rudimentary, the man was better suited to concocting things that exploded.

Once the matter of the mark was resolved, and it was confirmed they were in no danger of perishing via physical wounds, there was really little to do. But Solas lingered; because In the end, it was all under the guise of attempting to solve another issue.

The Herald would not wake.

Of course they would not wake, he thought. The amount of energy they'd been forced to harbor in a mortal body for well over a day, then learned to control within the span of less than a few hours' worth of consciousness... even a small drop of the vast ocean of the Fade was more than they would have experienced within a lifetime, and the mark was no small drop. It had been a torrent, unleashed without care, fully capable of killing a less willful being.

Now the waters were dammed, and dammed well; but they'd asked too much of its host in too short a time. The mark itself worked without question, but its handler needed time to build strength, grow familiar with it, allow it to become a sixth sense in order to use it regularly without hurting themselves.

If they recovered fully from the first time.

They could be so unlucky… or they could be fine. He was quickly making himself comfortable with either eventuality. If the mark were lost, he would have to find another way - and he would have to leave this place, at all speed. It would be as difficult to convince Haven's protectorates to spare him, if their precious Herald were revealed as compromised under his watch, as it had been to convince them to trust him to preserve their life in the first place.

Another series of knocks, more rapid than the first.

It opened before he could reach for the handle, doorframe filling with the shivering outline of Adan's assistant, plus one wide box of supplies. Herbal, by the scent of it. Elfroot and blood lotus?

"Oy! Careful with those," barked Adan, standing himself to take the case out of the assistant's hands. "Lotus is damned difficult to get a hold of in this weather, you can't keep bruising them like that or it'll freeze and the ice'll burn it—"

He arranged the other elf's arm to lay over their stomach. The mark glowed faintly on, bleeding through skin and fabric alike.

It was a natural and common occurrence in the Fade - but he knew this effect unnerved many of the people in Haven, most of whom were not mages and had never consciously laid eyes on the Beyond. The perilous Beyond had no understanding of mass, or immutability. The Breach, and by extension, its key, reflected this.

Briefly, he found himself curious of what Lavellan themselves thought of it - the mark itself, not the pain and turmoil it had caused them.

Still only negative things, probably.

"Alert me if there is any change," he asked of the human, rising from his stool.

Adan scoffed, in the middle of straining a poultice. "If anything changes at all, you mean."

His vest was where he'd left it. The garment fell on his shoulders like a second skin. "Alert me if there is any change," he repeated. "They will wake eventually."

"You don't have to tell me what I already know," muttered the alchemist.

He picked up his staff from the near wall. He'd brought it with him as a precaution; it doubled as a focus, and as an effective clobber should another ill-wisher attempt to take his patient's life (he did not prefer to weld a blade to the back end, as had become the trend again in recent decades). But so far, it had not been necessary. Perhaps once he had been allowed more time with their intended victim, his infamy had kept the would-be killers away. He was well (or, not so well) known as the hedge mage that had never set foot in the Circles; a wicked, wild elf, the very type of apostate chantry sisters used in fairy tales to frighten little children.

Or, more simply, perhaps the greatly decreased distance to the Commander's tent and the militia at large dissuaded them from breaking through the simple wooden walls.

There was truly nothing to do but wait. He thought of how the Seeker would respond to the news, and grimaced.

The former Divine's Right Hand, Seeker Pentaghast - she had been preoccupied with the remaining Chantry forces since the day they'd returned to Haven. Busy as she was, the woman had not had the leisure of asking him for a full report, yet; but he knew she would ultimately find it suspicious if he did not have anything significant for too long.

Behind him, Lavellan stirred. They muttered something in a strained voice, shifting in their sheets. He allowed himself a final glance at their unconscious form, then stepped into the cold.

The Seeker stood at ease, apparently having done so for awhile; the snow that gathered on her heavy cloak and hair announced clearly that he had kept her waiting. Her sword was belted and at her side, as always. On guard against any and all threats, even walking among apparent allies.

Especially among apparent allies. Her allies currently included himself.

It was prudent, if a little obvious.

"Solas," she greeted. She returned to attention, nodding first at him, then at the soldier standing watch. The young man saluted, and they went on their way.

They walked in the direction of the tavern. He spied a familiar figure kneeling beside a fire with a group of humans, chatting amicably with a pair of women. Tethras glanced in his direction, and he held up a hand in greeting.

"Well, if it isn't our resident Fade expert. Cheerful as ever, I see," the dwarf said, raising an eyebrow when he saw who was at his side. "And... Seeker. Taking a walk, you two? The weather's, eh... been better," he shrugged dismissively.

"Varric." The swordswoman's voice alone could parch oceans.

"Pleasure as always," the dwarf winced.

While the Seeker rolled her eyes he angled an inquisitive look toward the direction of Lavellan's quarters, which Solas answered by a minute shake of the head.

Tethras's lips pressed into a line in understanding. He let his gaze catch on Cassandra for a moment longer, then turned back to the fire as she and Solas walked away.

Along the path and between every structure there were refugees, soldiers, and servants alike, all leaving trails of hurried breath as they went about their business. He looked to the sky, where a half-dozen columns of smoke and the voices of a hundred wounded rose to nothing.

Haven was not meant to house so many. Even when the Hero of Ferelden had passed through, there had been barely over a dozen in its isolated clusters of houses. It could hardly support their quickly growing militia, let alone an entire local region's worth of displaced peoples. The very ground was not fit for long-term sustainability on this large a scale... He had seen the forces' leader, the Commander, arrange his face into a hopeless grimace more than once at the settlements' inadequate defenses, inadequate quarters, inadequate stores.

Even the camp just outside its walls had been overflowing well before the destruction of the Conclave, fit to burst with religious immigrants and lower clergy.

Now...

Now, the whole place was simply watching the Breach, waiting for it - or anything; everything - to fall apart.

With his attention divided between his thoughts and the muted din of the tavern in the distance, he did not see the servant approach. She saw them too late, and inevitably stumbled over herself righting her path, spilling soup meant for the soldiers out of her pot; he halted when the steam rising off the spilt broth licked at his bare feet.

Her eyes met his for only a moment when she glanced up, horrified through the amber vallaslin covering half her face. Andruil's, he recognized, dully. Her eyes flitted from his face, to his ears, to his staff, then stuck to the ground. She apologized hastily, hands clutching her vessel as she attempted to bow out of the way, but all it did was slosh more of the soup around.

"Wait," Solas began.

"Irina," Cassandra said, calmly. Solas glanced at her in surprise. "Stop. Let us help you."

She froze, obediently, and allowed the other woman to approach; the sight inspired a twist of unease in him, but he did not hesitate to smile reassuringly when she stole another glance at him.

It was always the staff. The staff, or the ears, but more usually the staff.

The servant did not meet his eyes when Cassandra helped her adjust the pot in her hands, or even when Solas picked up the dropped lid and set it gently over its matching vessel, or even when he froze off the sad clumps of overcooked potatoes from the sleeves of her worn tunic.

"M-my thanks, ser," managed the girl.

"It was no trouble," he said, and bit back a comment about magic's utility. It would have likely fallen on deaf ears. Fear tended to have that effect.

"Solas and I will be on our way," said Cassandra, gently.

"Of course, Lady Cassandra."

The servant bowed low, muttered another word of thanks, and rushed off with the covered pot, eyes cast down.

He did not speak of the foul taste in his mouth, and Cassandra did not comment on his expression.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "Thank you."

They moved on.

"Still no sign of consciousness?" The Seeker prompted, once they had passed the tavern altogether. By unspoken agreement they both stopped before the small dwellings that were given to himself and Adan.

He found his small room quite satisfactory. It was well out of range of most prying eyes and ears. Solas allowed himself a long look at his door, knowing the possibility of peace, and more importantly, sleep, and meditation, awaited him inside.

Then he looked away. There were matters at hand.

"No. Not yet," he sighed, a long breath. He would have preferred to belay this conversation until the next morning. But Cassandra was nothing if not a woman of action, and had the impatience to match. It had been three days since they'd spoken last.

She waited.

"Their health has improved. But the stress of the mark was… it may be some time before they can leave the Fade. They are not lost, Seeker," he reassured her quickly, seeing her eyes widen. "Simply— wandering."

"Wandering," she repeated, skeptically, but settled herself. Her brow furrowed. "In the Fade? They have no magical gifts."

"To put it simply, it is likely an effect of the mark. It does channel magic through them, not unlike a mage channels the Fade. I believe it is having a related effect on their sleep. But as it is not really their own magic, it may confuse the spirits enough into leaving them be. The mark may be able to control the rifts, seal the Breach, perhaps even give them something akin to conscious dreams, but make a mage of a rogue? That is unlikely."

Mostly unlikely, anyhow. The bit about the mark not attracting interest to their person was a blatant lie. He had spent a good amount of time setting up wards over their corner of the fadescape and guarded their fevered dreams himself, watching against potential intruders attracted by the key. Any knowing entity might veer from it - and them - simply by recognizing the nature of the magic (his), but it was hard to be certain, and a chance he would not take.

The Seeker did not need to know of every detail, in any case.

"You said that the mark is like nothing you've seen before," she recalled. "Undoubtedly more powerful than any ordinary magic, of any ordinary mage. Is that not cause for concern?"

"Perhaps. But most spirits fled after the destruction of the Conclave. Those left pose little threat to them now."

He curled his toes into the snow. The ground was numb with cold in Haven, but not dead. Not entirely. Spirits might have lingered here before, ones that could have imparted some knowledge of what had happened - but that was no longer a possibility, following the Breach. The only beings still remaining would be of no help to him.

"Our journey toward the Breach brings me to think differently," Cassandra said. "There are still demons about, even if you say they are fewer in number."

No. Yes. "All the necessary precautions have been taken. I have survived the Fade under more dire circumstances."

"With all due respect, Solas; you are not the Herald."

"And I am glad of it."

She shot him a displeased look. "And the rifts? Is there no other way to be rid of them but the mark?"

None that are available to me now. "None that I am aware of," he replied.

Cassandra made a noise at the back of her throat, clearly unhappy. "If the Herald does not wake," she began, in a low voice -

"I am confident I can see to it that they do," Solas snapped, tiring of the interrogation, the veiled threats, the uncertainty that plagued his next course of action because it hinged on an unconscious, fragile, youth. "Otherwise, I would not still be standing here."

The Seeker fell silent, eyebrows raised. His hand fell over his temple, covering his scowl, eyes pinched shut against everything.

He had to remember that he was here by his own submission. It embarrassed him to be so frustrated by it; foolish, of him. They were yet allies, if temporarily. It would be absurd to end that relationship from his side before the terms were fulfilled. He had to tread carefully.

It would be a grave mistake to rely only on his usefulness to guarantee their cooperation - even if that were the sole reason he'd even been allowed a pretense of respect.

"I apologize, Seeker." He sighed, and brought himself to calm. "I will make sure they are not harmed. I swear it."

"If you are certain," she said, still not entirely convinced. But a moment later she shook herself. "No. I believe you. You have no reason to lie. Then — when the Herald wakes, Solas, I would ask that you remain with us," she said.

He looked at her. "And by that you mean to say I have a choice in the matter?"

She huffed. "Of course you do. You volunteered your services. I will not keep you from leaving, but surely you must know: it is dangerous to leave Haven now, as an apostate. And we could use your expertise here."

"So I gathered," he replied, warily. He had an inkling of the Seeker's character, and morals - it was difficult not to. She was a commanding woman. Her unusual strength of character was what had eventually convinced him to risk working further with them, zealous as the religious tended to be. But the promise of one human did little to convince him of anything other than their idealism.

He accepted the gesture for what it was. "I will consider it."

"Thank you."

They lapsed into an awkward silence. The wind whistled past his ears.

"I regret that I was not able to hear you out before all this," she admitted, after some hesitation. "I was informed of your expertise from Leliana before the Herald woke, but I realize now it was unwise not to have gone to you personally. Perhaps it might have made a difference."

"It hardly matters now. We have a means to seal the Breach, but it requires more power to be done properly." He folded his hands behind his back. "It is, as I mentioned before, only temporarily sealed. We will need as much energy as it took to create it before we even a chance at closing it properly."

"How are we going to find so much power?" the Seeker wondered, and sighed. "No, we will worry about it once they are awake. Thank you, Solas."

He turned to leave, assuming the scene had run its course. Two steps toward the door to blessed solitude, he realized Cassandra had not moved.

"Personally," she began, slowly, and he could see her fingers twitching against the pommel of her longsword, a minute nervous tic. Looking strangely out of her depth, she went on, "I would - prefer that you stay. Some might think otherwise, but I believe the Herald could do well under your guidance. I think it does them good to have you around."

Thrown by the turn in conversation, he stared, blankly. "What?"

Her fingers stilled. "Do you not agree?"

"I'm... afraid I do not follow," he said.

"You seemed to get along, back on the river." At this he opened his mouth to speak, but she added, "And you are both elven. Perhaps that means something to them."

The words withered on his tongue.

"Why, because we both have long ears?" he scowled. The conversation needed to end. Now. He had no patience for this. "Shall I presume your round ones suddenly create an arbitrary relationship between yourself and every other human in this camp? I can see how you might assume our appearance dictates how we go about our lives, Seeker, but I assure you -"

Color rose in her face, staining her composure. "No!" The word burst from her lips. "That is not what I meant!"

A group of early risers talking behind the tavern startled, turning in his direction. A templar eyed him critically from just outside its doors. The Seeker waved a dismissive hand, and they all turned away, the templar last, reluctantly.

Exasperated, she sighed. "I know how that must have sounded to you, but I only meant to say that I thought... It was simply my opinion that -"

Her voice faltered at the severity of his disapproval, all but radiating from his visage. There was a creak of leather as she pinched the bridge of her nose with a gloved hand.

"Ugh. Forget I said anything."

He probably should not have enjoyed feeling as vindicated as he did at that moment. He allowed himself to enjoy it anyway. It had been a long three days. Three days of constant chaos, every waking moment spent fighting, surviving, calculating — without privacy, surrounded by humans.

"If that is all," he posited.

"Yes. It is." Finally, the conversation was closed. "I will pass on what you have said. If it is power we need, we shall find it one way or another, Maker willing." The last part she murmured under her breath as she turned to leave, soles of her boots crunching through fresh snowfall.

They had been talking for some time, he realized, noting the sun beginning to ascend from the jagged line of the Frostbacks.

Cassandra paused, considering the sunrise, then made a dry smile. "Good night, Solas."

He hummed, and inclined his head. "And you, Seeker."

"Cassandra," she corrected, mildly, then disappeared in the direction of the chantry.

Solas exhaled, suddenly weary. His breath flowed past him in a visible trail. When the Herald wakes… he shook his head. There would be time for that when they actually woke. The wards he'd placed would hold for at least a few hours; Adan would spend at least as much time preparing the day's stock of potions. He could rest until then.

His hand had just alighted on the doorjamb when a flurry of motion across the fortress caught his eye. Automatically his fingers tightened on his staff, eyes seeking out the far frame of the Herald's quarters for any sign of danger; the guard stood in his place, unperturbed.

He held his breath; had it been nothing? His pupils adjusted quickly to the changing shadows, rising daylight slanting over the outer walls.

A heartbeat later, something shifted in the Fade. He felt it as surely as he would have a breeze in stale air.

WIth a shout, someone fled through the door, startling the guard - Solas tensed, briefly, before recognizing the slim silhouette as Adan's assistant. She ran a short distance to the gates, where the alchemist stood inspecting another crate of supplies. The man's head snapped up at the girl's frantic voice.

Solas started at the sight of the two. Was the unconscious Herald alone in their quarters? Did Adan not remember the multiple attempts on their life these past few days? Alarmed, he started in their direction, already decided to make the return trip -

Another figure left the front door. This time, there was no mistaking who they were. Waves of fade-green were visible even through the folds of their cloak and the bandages wrapped heavily around their left hand. At the sight of it, all the mounting apprehension bled from his body.

The Herald was awake.