4

The morning was just as grim as the clouds had threatened, the storm drowning out the skies and plunging the fortress into a white out. Snow drifts had risen in the early hours of morning, eliciting grumbling curses from the half frozen sentries on the walls. Fires burned in every pit, brazier and hearth of the castle, desperately and slowly warming the ancient stones. The hustle and bustle of the Inquisition was limited to the indoors, no one braving the storm unless necessary.

Cullen stepped into the main hall, brushing the snowflakes from his hair as his eyes scanned the heads crowding the tables by the fires. Several Orlesian dignitaries exchanged passive aggressive complaints about the weather over breakfast. Three Chantry sisters chattered away, steaming cups of tea in their fingers. Varric's usual corner was occupied by two youths slicing freshly baked bread.

The fire blazed brightly in the Ambassador's office, the room filled with a warm glow and the smell of firewood. Josephine scribbled away at her desk, softly muttering her writings to herself. Her smooth olive skin was flushed from a recent trek through the cold outside, and a finger twirled a loose strand of raven hair behind her ear. She glanced up at Cullen, still dusted with snow, and pulled her ornate wool shawl tighter around her shoulders.

"Commander." She smiled her usual politically charming smile as he approached the desk.

"Josephine… You're up and at it early this morning."

"With the weather outside, there is no leaving the keep… though that also means there are no new envoys or noble guests to parade around to. I could use this time to catch up on all the…" She sighed, motioning to the pile of scrolls, reports and messages spilling across her desk. "More tedious duties of the Inquisition, though none less important."

Josephine stood and walked to the front of her desk, leaning against it and crossing her arms thoughtfully. "Any more news from the Arbor Wilds?"

Cullen's eyes darted briefly to the fire before returning to Ambassador Montilyet. "The temple is destroyed, with no trace of these so called Sentinels within. It seems the alliance had served its purpose and they fled. Or perished."

Josephine knit her brows, her lips parted slightly in confusion and surprise. "Do you think they fled to safety deeper into the woods? Could Corypheus and Samson have killed them all?"

"Perhaps, though I suppose this can be spared for a later investigation. Scouts have located this Altar of Mythal, deep in the wilds. They will be able to lead the Inquisitor in safely as soon as weather permits her descent. And Samson's ascent. I mean to update the maps and plan out the quickest route."

Josephine's eyes darkened for a brief instant and she turned her head to her side, searching for the right words.

"Is he yet a danger, even in custody? Are our soldiers… well equipped to deal with him?"

"I've assigned our most skilled retinue, with double the numbers. Even so, word is he has offered not the slightest resistance."

"Smart man. Perhaps he has accepted his fate. Perhaps he does not wish to die. What do you suppose the Inquisitor will decree?"

Cullen frowned and shook his head. "I do not know… Though, I have been meaning to request my presence at the judgement, in your stead."

"Of course…" Josephine caught on to the hesitation in Cullen's voice while he spoke of Samson and elected to reserve her questions for later.

"Inquisitor Lavellan has been in the war room for over an hour, though she called for none of us. A fair warning. She is a bit more… withdrawn today."

Cullen uncrossed his arms and glanced at the flames again, ignoring the throbbing in his skull. "I suspected as much."

His comment drew Josephine's eyebrows upward in curiosity. He uncrossed his arms and took a step closer to the ambassador, as if ensuring their whispers would not be overheard in the empty room.

"The Inquisitor fled from sight, without so much as her usual request for a status update upon her return. The men mentioned her behaving oddly and heading straight to her chambers. She had arrived ahead of the rest, with the apostate trailing in last in the dead of night."

"Whatever the issue… we cannot spare the luxury of a distracted Inquisitor… I do sympathize… The position does require the sacrifice of personal entanglements - but the smallest weakness could be her downfall. Let us hope this will pass soon." Josephine returned to her scrolls. "Let me know if she decides or requests anything."

Cullen nodded, a nervous prickle in his palms, and headed through to the war room.

The stones were bleached a glum white by the gray light seeping in through the windows. The stillness within was interrupted only by the sizzling pops of the fire in the braziers, releasing wispy puffs of musky smoke.

Etain loomed over the vast map. The commander's movement slowed to a crawl as his gaze fell on the Inquisition's leader, the massive oaken door slithering to a close behind him. Lavellan's arms were crossed, holding her gray fur lined cloak tight to her frame.

He gaped at her, his jaw hanging open slightly. It was a rare occasion to see the woman with her hair unbound: sparsely curled, her golden-red locks hung to her waist, duller and more limp than when she had first arrived to Haven. Her skin was pale and drawn, dark circles beneath her eyes. The blood writing was gone, without a trace it ever existed. The prominent face of the Inquisition was now stripped of its Dalish flair, which had obscured her features and camouflaged her scars. Defined, wide cheekbones and neatly pointed tips of her elven ears were tinted the lightest pink by the chill in the room. Thin slivers of white streaked down across her skin from her hair to her brow, another slashed across her cheek to the corner of her mouth. Nothing could draw focus away from her eyes; enthralling pools of silver, blue and violet that took ruthless hold of their audience each time, reaching to the very soul. The Maker had not denied the woman beauty, though Cullen had never allowed too much thought on it. Lavellan was the Inquisitor, and as such she belonged to Thedas. It was foolish to think anything other than the goal at hand.

His stupefied glare caused her arms to weave tighter around herself, as if she felt naked enough as it was without his scrutiny. The melancholy in her eyes entranced Cullen's focus into a death grip, unable to look away.

"Who would have thought I could have made myself even more of a spectacle?" Lavellan's caustic tone slipped past a slight smile. Her gaze crept down to the floor, freeing Cullen from her grasp.

He cleared his throat and shuffled forward uncomfortably, as if in a room with a stranger rather than a close friend; a close friend repressing hurt and fear behind a tense smile. Cullen knew how to train his men for any confrontation. How to prepare each one for battle, to ingeniously strategize and find advantages in every situation, minimizing loss and injury and ensuring success, progress and the utter obliteration of the opposition. But this he did not know. Cullen had not the slightest idea as to how he should approach his broken friend. What was he supposed to say? To do? Etain was not one of his understudies, one of his soldiers, his officers or just fellow Inquisition followers. She was the Inquisition.

"Inquisitor. I … was not aware your Dalish markings could be removed…"

"Nor was I, until last night. They… represent yet another misunderstanding … another failed attempt at salvaging long lost knowledge. They were slave markings… of no purpose to me any longer…" She sat against the war table, her expression contemplative. "I thought it would be too shameful to keep them and yet I did not realize how pained and alone I would feel without them… I almost wish I could remain in ignorant bliss as to what the vallaslin was, to keep believing we Dalish were defiantly, rightly keeping our ancient culture alive… when we are only stumbling over broken rocks of ruins in the midst of pitch black night."

Cullen seemed unable to shake himself of the stupor he was in. His mind scurried around for the proper words. "You don't have to stumble about… Search for the light to guide your feet in the right direction. Nothing is lost unless you accept it as such."

Her eyebrows danced upwards and a smile crossed her lips. "Cullen… I was unaware you moonlighted as as such an inspirational poet."

"I… no…" He cleared his throat once more and folded his arms over his chest, assuming his usual position of comfort. "I only meant you should look on this as a step forward."

"Thank you. I will most certainly try." Her answer was proper and political. Cullen could not determine if she truly meant it, or if she was simply saying what was expected of her. But before he had another moment to ponder it, the Inquisitor inhaled deeply and turned back toward the map.

"I must move for the Altar, before Corypheus can know what I aim to do… have the scouts pinpointed its location?" Her tone returned to the authoritative nature. Cullen wiped the pensive expression from his face and marched up to the war table as usual.

"Yes, Inquisitor. They have secured a path to the ruins of the altar and are keeping guard. They await your arrival."

The snow slowed its assault on the keep as Etain and Cullen mapped out her route, determining stops, areas of suspected resistance, resupply camps. They had also tediously prepared an escape route with Leliana's help, once the redheaded spymaster descended into the war room. The Nightingale had unearthed vague information regarding a high dragon sighting near the forward camps in the Arbor Wilds. She had continued on about references to the altar they had scoured up from libraries all over, though Etain heard nothing of what Leliana had said. The voices she heard were those of none present in the room with her. They spoke in whispers, never one at a time, their messages intertwined like streams converging into a waterfall.

Etain desperately tried to keep calm, to focus on her breathing to drown out the voices crescendoing into a cacophony of jumbled whispers in her ears. Leliana looked at her, awaiting a response, yet saw nothing but a detached stare.

"Inquisitor?" She asked for a third time, louder and more stern. Etain's eyes flooded with alertness and she turned to her spymaster.

"I'm sorry… I need a minute to think everything through…" Lavellan uncrossed her arms and turned toward the door.

"Is it happening again?" Leliana glided across the room, blocking Etain's exit route.

"Yes." Etain nodded, the rush in her ears not yet diminishing. She had never realized how difficult it was to speak without hearing oneself. She had paid close attention to the subtle movements Leliana's mouth made to understand. "I cannot control it yet. Or understand much."

"Do they respond to you? To your questions?"

"I… haven't tried."

"Perhaps it is worthy of an attempt."

"Leliana, I need a moment." Etain said. She took another breath as Sister Nightingale offered up a subtle nod of understanding.

"Please… you and Cullen continue on without me… I'll be back shortly."

Etain fled the war room, out of the nearest door to winter swirling outside. She closed her eyes and turned her face up toward the gray skies, the cold air burning her throat each time she inhaled. Her ears desperately clung to the sound of the snow… that dull, nearly silent hum that required enough focus to find in order to drown out every other thought.

So much had changed within the last few days. Etain had accomplished becoming a power-hungry, impetuous fool in the eyes of her friends and arcane advisor, obliterating any amity and familiarity she had built up with them. No matter how justified her decision may have been from her standpoint, the decision's repercussions among the Inquisition seemed worse than the price of the well's power itself. Her head now swam with voices of spirits long gone, serving a goddess she had long decided was nothing but myth.

Etain chewed her bottom lip, lost in thought. As painful as those reflections were, they distracted her from the whispers, and they began to subside.

Her entire worldview had been torn to pieces; myth had become reality, every story about the Elvhen pantheon she had resigned to metaphors and cultural remnants of ancient superstition were now plausible truths. Even more so, she had bound herself to one of these powerful legends, and only Mythal knew how her story would be etched in history.

Her only comfort was a somewhat sadistic, solemn realization. Etain Lavellan, First to Deshanna of Clan Lavellan, had perished alongside Haven. The woman that emerged was the Inquisitor, justice incarnate at the price of her sanity and identity. The blood on her hands was enough to drown in, no matter how just the killings were. Reason it away anyway she could, blood is still blood, death is still death. Simple as that. Life was now but a fleeting notion in her fingers, taken away as easily as a flick of her wrist. A notion perhaps more terrifying than facing Corypheus and that lyrium dragon of his. But her path was set, and no matter what could possibly happen, Etain could never go back to being simply Etain of Clan Lavellan. There was no sense in fearing more sacrifice, more heartbreak, more pain. Her only option was to become an instrument of protection and salvation; to give all she could possibly give and more to the Inquisition, to Thedas, and never look back - for there was nothing to look back to. As such her pressures seemed a bit more bearable, her decisions more assured, her fatal talents less self-destructive to her soul. There was no point in fearing pain and death if one was already dead.

Or so she tried to convince herself. One last minute Etain spent as if in a trance, listening to the silent roar of falling snow and wind, the lingering whispers from beyond growing quiet. Her breath steadied, a perfect rhythm of a gentle inhale and controlled exhale. Time's up. She tightened the fur lined cloak about her straightened shoulders, and trekked across the snow back indoors.

"Boss, you uh… do something to your hair?" The massive qunari paused picking at his fingers with a dagger and gestured at Etain's face.

Etain sighed, cursing her decision the previous night. She knew she would have to explain herself until her tongue went numb.

"Turns out the vallaslin were remnants of slave markings of ancient Arlathan. Solas removed them." The seething way she spoke the apostate's name was involuntary. Lavellan crossed her arms and leaned against the pillar across from Bull. He skimmed her from head to toe and grunted. There was no hiding the lack of sleep that was chalking her skin and swelling her eyes, dark circles beneath them. At least the headache the wine had given her had finally subsided… though it persevered all day, relenting only now that it was past sunset.

Bull made a mental note of pulling out that juicy bit of knowledge about slaves in Arlathan next time Solas chided the Qun.

"Solas eh? Yeah… I see what's going on. Explains why you look like a half frozen sack of shit on a warm day."

"Please, you're too kind…" Lavellan would have laughed, if it hadn't felt like so much effort.

"The prettiest sort of shit."

"Too late, the damage is done."

"I'm just trying to get a laugh out of you, boss." He hauled himself up out of the chair and twisted his neck with a revolting crack. Lavellan's face twisted and she shook her head, ridding her ears of the sound, her own neck suddenly tight.

"Didn't go so well, huh?" He referred to the previous night. Lavellan avoided making eye contact and let her appearance do the talking. The Qunari reached out for her, his massive palm resting on her shoulder. Yet before he could say much else, Lavellan straightened up and cleared her throat.

"I would prefer we not speak of it here… I came here to ask if you'd come with me to the Arbor Wilds…" She looked at Bull. "Whatever this will be…I could use your company. And your swing."

His trademark crooked smile accompanied a bold glint in his green eye. "You point, I annihilate."

"Thanks, Bull. We leave tomorrow at dawn." Etain managed some semblance of a genuine smile. "You owe me for that boost in confidence, by the way."

"Which is why your drinks are on me anytime, starting tonight."

This time Lavellan let out a short chuckle. "Bull… So to make it up to me for your impressively specific descriptor… you will promote a drinking habit that will only serve to turn me into said sack of shit?"

"Nah… I won't let it go that far. Just sit down, and drink with a friend. You need it."

"What I need is sleep, Bull… Besides, the wine wasn't particularly agreeable with me last night."

"See, exactly my point. It's when you're drinking alone that you need to worry. Drink with a friend, release some of that tension and go to bed without a care for a night."

An hour and three drinks later, Lavellan barely escaped the Qunari's absurd idea of light drinking, a slight dizziness beginning to tickle her mind. She shuffled along through the snow, not even bothering to tighten her cloak about her. Her fingers lazily brushed strands of hair over her shoulder as she took her time ascending the back stairs to the living quarters. The last thing she needed was to parade through a hall full of nobles and other dignitaries half-drunk.

The hulking wooden door creaked in dissent once Etain pushed it open, the cold night air dragging in stray snowflakes. She shrugged off her coat as she slammed the door shut with her boot, nearly losing her balance. Her timing was unfortunate, and she turned to see Solas crossing the entry chamber to the stairs leading to private rooms.

Etain reeled in the scowl that unintentionally crossed her face and proceeded toward the same stairs. The effort to walk in a sober straight line was more of a challenge than she had expected. Her mind seemed fairly sharp and clear, yet her limbs were in a complete disconnect.

"Hello, Inquisitor." Gray eyes watched her over a shoulder as she ventured into the entry chamber. "I hope you have stayed warm and had a good evening."

So it was no longer 'vhenan'. Was he hinting at her sobriety, or simply being polite? Lavellan folded her jacket over her forearm and crossed her arms over her chest. "Hello, Solas. It's been… lovely."

Her tone was not as neutral as her face.

She hated the way he looked at her; a cold, lost soul gazing upon a blazing fire for the first time all winter. Her scathing tone was not overlooked, as she had hoped. Instead he watched for her next move, the muscles of his jaw tensing as he chewed over the proper response while avoiding the elephant in the room.

"Then, unless you require immediate assistance, I should wish you an equally lovely and resting night, free of ill dreams."

Always the polite response. Though now he spoke to her as if she were a stranger, as if he had not caressed her skin and kissed her breathlessly, as if his fingers had not wound themselves in her long hair, as if his arms had not pulled her close in the quiet of night only several days prior.

Etain took one slow step forward. "How thoughtful of you." She knew she was being uncharacteristically bitter. Had she been completely sober, her choice affect would have been much more infallibly gracious. Unfazed. Threateningly so.

Thank you, Bull… Though the thought wasn't truly an accusation. She went against her better judgment. "Quite the change from earlier."

They had grown accustomed to each other enough to need very little for their points to come across. He knew precisely what she hinted at and what she sought.

"I'm afraid discussing such matters would not be appropriate at this time. We must focus on what truly matters." His voice was a solemn chant, monotone and lifeless. He had been rehearsing his response for quite some time. "Harden your heart to a cutting edge, and put that pain to good use against Corypheus."

She had to practically call on the will of Mythal herself not to attack him. Dread Wolf take you, Solas. What would you know of pain? Her blood rushed in her ears. She set her jaw and didn't hide the darkening storm in her eyes. The dreaded abyss that tore at his soul with no intention of quick destruction, but a slow torture.

Solas had seen that storm before. Her eyes would rip her adversaries to ribbons all while she smiled and spoke in a honeyed tone, they none the wiser to know she had already crushed them to dust. Perhaps she should have been born a noble human in Orlais.

But this time, he was on the receiving end of it. He swallowed the pain and remained still.

Etain struggled with which point to push forward first. It did not add up… He must have had a good reason for his actions, and he was hiding it. "Have I not earned at least an explanation?"

"The answers would only lead to more questions, an emotional entanglement that would benefit neither of us… The blame is mine, not yours. It was irresponsible and selfish of me… Let that be enough." Solas's voice resonated in a low hum between the cold stone walls, his words somehow both a pleading and a warning.

"You really don't let anybody see under that polite mask you wear, do you?" There was no point trying to pry answers from the man. The bridge was burned, and Lavellan was not fool enough to dare to cross it.

"You saw more than most. Let me know if I can be of any more help planning our final fight." Something menacing glinted in his eyes as his tone steeled and his temples tensed.

Final. In more than one way apparently… Lavellan shifted weight from one foot to the other as gracefully as the tipsiness allowed, sidestepping the man to approach the stairs.

"I'll manage. Have a lovely night, Solas." Her tone was aloof, and she had not bothered to look his way as she made her way up the stairs to the first landing of her tower. By the time she made it to the narrow staircase of her private room, her semi-graceful sashay turned into a flustered stomp; four stairs in, one boot came off, followed by the second. They tumbled over themselves as they sailed through the air back to the bottom of the stairs. The jacket barely made it to the couch. Lavellan herself, sauntered over to her bed, stripping as she went. Her heart was in her throat, her palms clammy. But none of that deserved her attention. Every fiber of her being focused on the softness of the pillow and her breathing, frantically refusing to heed the myriad of thoughts and memories in her head. Breathe in. Breathe out.

The fire flickered a wild orange, blazingly bright against the white winter night. The flames lapped at the logs, lighting the small, makeshift camp of a Dalish family deep in the woods. They were merely two days travel from a nearby village, on their return journey from a trade with a fellow clan. A bundled mother cradled her swollen belly as she hobbled into her aravel. Her lips muttered softly as the child within protested the arduous movement. Her calloused fingers brushed a stray lock of copper blonde hair behind her ear as she lowered herself with a heavy exhale onto a bedroll. Golden eyes drifted tiredly over her few remaining wares before her lids grew heavy with sleep. The blood writing adorning her face favored June, as did her own handiwork; one intricately forged sword, a spear, two bows and several armors of leather and in high esteem among both the Dalish and the Shemlen. Everything else was picked out and traded within the first day of arrival to the lakeside Dalish camp.

A father remained near the fire, his features outlined by the glow; a stern face of a hunter with deep blue eyes, wise and weary. A claw shaped scar crossed his forehead, above the worry lines between his brows. His tied back brown hair was speckled with snowflakes. A low, sweet lullaby hummed from his throat as he deftly braided a young girl's tresses. A child of no more than eight, she sat cocooned in a winter coat and blanket, hardly awake.

A crackle of a twig broke the serenity of the calm winter night. A slight sound amidst the trees, but it was enough to draw the hunter's attention. His gaze pivoted to the shadowy trunks, awaiting any further sign of an animal, drawn by the fire and smell of warm bodies.

A thrum of an arrow followed instead. Instinctively the Dalish man shoved his daughter to the side, shouting 'run'. The arrow grazed his tapered ear, drawing a stream of bright red. The child rolled away, nothing but a mound of blanket scuffling behind the aravel.

A father's raging instinct to protect drove his daggers with incredible speed as five cloaked shadows withdrew from the forest. Two nocked and aimed arrows at the elf, three drew their swords.

There was no chance. The realization of having no way out, no way to protect one's family sent the hunter's heart pounding in his throat. Every regret flashed across his blue eyes, his skin beading with sweat in the biting chill of winter.

A flaming arrow zipped through the air into one of the assailants' throat, sending him stumbling back with a spray of crimson drenching his clothing. She picked her next target as she let loose a second arrow. The craftswoman's shot created a brief moment of chaos and surprise, a fleeting chance the father did not pass up. He kicked into the fire, sending embers flying into the swordsman's face as he lunged through the flames. His daggers skewered into the attacker's throat. Blood splattered onto the hunter's fingers, the heat fueling his rage.

"RUN!" He bellowed once more, both to his child and wife. He parried madly with the remaining two thieves. The third was preoccupied with the expecting mother, sending another shaft, this one lodging itself in the wood as the woman barely managed to duck for safety.

Crisp footsteps sounded from behind the aravel, armored boots crunching on the frozen snow. Cold sweat drenched the Dalish child, and she whirled around in time to see another crude armored bandit prowl toward her aravel. Her feet had acted before she even realized it; she darted into the trees to the side of their camp, running as fast as her little heart could pump blood to her limbs. She disappeared, nothing but a fleeting shade in the moonless night, bolting through the skeletal trees. Wretched screams of pain chased her, the terror of the sound biting at her heels. Tears gleamed down her cheeks, but she did not spare a moment to stop and look. She understood well enough she would make no difference against a gang of armed thieves; she would only die in vain, even if she were with her family. She would not live to warn her Clan, she would not live to see her people avenge them. All that was left for her to do was run. Run until her limbs gave out from under her.

Her throat burned, gasping with every breath. She hid on a rock ledge deep in the woods. She could no longer hear the screams. The night grew still and paralyzingly silent. Her own heartbeat sounded as thunder, about to give away her hiding spot.

After a long while, she slithered down the frosted rock. Drawing a small training dagger from her belt, she prowled from tree trunk to tree trunk back toward her camp. Her going was slow, careful not to snap a twig or shuffle aside a rock.

Hushed, angered voices muttered amongst themselves as the thieves inspected their loot. The Dalish child stole away toward the back of the aravel in the shadows, held her breath and crouched low. What drove her to come back, she was't sure. She knew she had walked into the deathtrap, but she had to know. She had to be certain that her parents were no longer. That her unborn sibling would never see the light of day.

Small, willowy fingers curled over the edge of the aravel and she hoisted herself up enough to steal a glimpse within. Long golden hair splayed across and dull eyes stared listlessly upward. Her mother's clothes were sheared and torn, exposing her pale, battered body. The girl's fingers lost all their strength and she fell into the snow in utter terror, the dagger clattering against the wood as it slipped from her grip. From under the caravan, she saw her father's body lie still; deep gashes tore his leather armor to shreds, two arrows protruded from his chest, a pool of blood seeped into the frozen ground around him.

"What was that?" The muffled thud drew a swordsman's attention to the aravel. Another thief stopped cleaning his dagger and glanced over to his companion.

"What was what?"

"You didn't hear that?" The swordsman wheeled around to face him.

"Why would I ask if I did? Dipshit."

"Shut up both of you. Look." A third thief, fully clad in mismatched armor, growled and gestured back toward the aravel.

The girl's body acted on its own; an unseen force drove her forward into the camp. The elven child stepped into the light, energy crackled around her fingers. It weaved up her limbs, crisscrossed her entire body with a faint blue glow. She dropped to her knees by her father's side, her gaze locked onto the dead man. Her tears steamed away from her flushed cheeks and the glow continued to envelop her.

The rogue set down his dagger and reached for the bow of his fallen comrade. The child's hands moved from her father's face to the ground, her fingers fluidly spreading flat. The entire perimeter of the camp and everything within grew quiet and uncomfortably still. Electricity surged through every particle in the air around them, raising the hair on their skin, prickling their senses. Sparks snapped at the man's fingers as he reached for the bow.

Mana surged around her as she glared on at the marauders, a face carved in marble, a face of pure vengeance. Unsettling, for she was only a child, wielding power reserved for seasoned mages. The tips of her ears were red and nearly frostbitten. Her breath fluttered in the frigid air. Mana and electricity crackled down her arms into the ground, her fingers curling into the dirt.

Guttural screams tore from the thieves. Their own fingers clawed at their skin, trying to brush away the magic assaulting them. Their limbs flailed and inhuman wails carried through the barren trees, though not for long.

The girl's fingers curled harder into the dirt. Flames followed the electricity, licked at crinkling skin. The smell of burning flesh filled the air and bodies crumpled to the ground, charred inside out.

She pulled her fingers from the blood soaked ground and turned away, her body shaking from exhaustion. Her mind reeled from the death of her family, the thought still surreal despite the reality of the bodies around her. She did not understand what had just occurred; what dreadful power welled within her bones and how it had managed to make its presence known.

Her steps slowly carried her from the camp, her gait unsure and wavering.

The memory slowly faded, the vision faded from the dream, save for the pitiful shadow of a girl with tapered ears, stumbling to the safety of the Dalish village in the arctic darkness.

A girl with indigo eyes.

Solas woke with a sharp inhale, his skin tingled in the cold night. Darkness cloaked his small sleeping chamber, the winter chill nipped at even the walls, frost scurried across the windowsill. His hands covered his face, trying to calm his mind from the memory he had just intruded on.

He thought he knew Lavellan, knew her spirit. It only served to leave him shaken, realizing how little he understood of her at all; realizing how much more addicting her mystery would now become to him.

She would not leave his thoughts, haunting his peripheral, half awakened vision. His eyes were closed and yet he saw her in clear detail. A girl with indigo eyes.