Notes:
Two new perspectives in this chapter.
Past and Present
Take it from me: if you hear the past speaking to you, feel it tugging up your back and running its fingers up your spine , the best thing to do - the only thing - is run.
Herald of Andraste. Ellana sits on the dock, feet swinging, eyes on the frozen lake. She almost laughs. What would Marethan say? She opens her left palm to the sky and contemplates the green fissure. Too much green in her life. Her eyes, the woods, the rifts. Behind her, Haven celebrates her awakening, its survival. She runs a hand through her hair, pulling tangles apart, and dark locks fall in around her face.
Her possessions had been returned to her, but when she tries to write in her journal, she finds words failing her. She had let only one person read her words, and that was before the room with the blue drapes. Only one person, and he had betrayed her, probably. As she flips through the pages, scans her slanted, curving script, she wonders how much they read. Who did the reading? Leliana certainly, but Cassandra? Josephine? Cullen? Varric or Solas seemed less likely; their own roles were as uncertain as her own, peripheral to this cause that she had suddenly embraced. This Inquisition, well-intended, wherever it would end up.
She looks back at the notebook. The privacy of something only she knew. That's what was gone as she flipped through the pages. She closed the book again and slung it into her pack.
Could Andraste have saved me? Ellana's rationale side has read everything there was to know about Andraste. About her bravery and sacrifice as she rose up against Tevinter slavery. About Shartan, her elven Champion, a warrior who had died for Andraste's freedom. Is this the blessing of the divine? Or does it make me a monster?
She was unable to put description to the sensation of lightning and fire when she connected with a rift. Or to the sundering that is both pain and sweet release when she seals it for good. She looks at the Breach, stiller now, and wonders if she could have done more to close it for good.
"Not enjoying the party?" The husky voice is Varric's and she smiles at the thought of company, suddenly grateful she is not alone with her thoughts. "I believe it's in your honour. Got a cake with your face in icing."
"You are so full of shit."
"So I've been told," he chuckles and settles down next to her, shifting his weight back onto his hands. "So, done moping yet?"
"You know, moping is best achieved in solitude."
"You don't want me to leave," he insisted knowingly, and she wonders if it's just his confidence, or if he really is that good at reading her. "Besides, I have a matter of great import to discuss with you."
"Oh," she turns then, gives him a sideways look and raises an eyebrow.
"Yes. Which do you like better – Whirlwind or Star-destroyer?"
"Whirlwind. Star-destroyer's got too many syllables. What are we talking about?"
"Your nickname, of course. Now that we're sticking around, we need to establish some basics here." He swings his legs out like a child on a chair that's too tall, and Ellana realizes he's the first dwarf she's met. He's taller than she expects, she can't help but think.
"Those are the most monstrously awful nicknames I've ever heard." Her voice is deadpan, and she knows he's trying to make her laugh. "Besides, a person can't choose their own nickname. A nickname chooses them." Athenril had told her just that.
"I didn't say they were good ones." Varric chucks an errant stone onto the lake, and they watch it skitter across the ice. "And who made you the nickname expert. You ever had one before?"
Ellana moves to answer and then freezes. Curses herself for her lack of control, for beginning to act without thinking. What happened to all of her father's training? She feels like she can't keep any emotions off her face anymore.
But then she remembers Marethan, and the woman's repeated assertions that talking somehow helped with the confusion. Ellana's not sure she buys it, and she knows that Marethan didn't mean the little things. But she decides to go for it anyway.
"Someone called Starlight once."
"Pfft," Varric's dismissal is immediate and loud, air blown through pressed lips. "Starlight? What a load of nug dung. You've got dark hair and emerald eyes and the best they got is 'starlight'." He pauses, inspired. "I got it."
Apprehension spreads over her face, and she's suddenly dreading what he's going to say.
"Gemstone."
"What?" Her voice is flat, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"Yours eyes. My people mine for that colour, Gemma my dear. We sell that colour to the Orlesians so they can make earrings to match their dresses. Ferelden's put it on a ring and ask for marriage."
"Why are you still talking?"
"See, it's versatile. Gem, gemma, gemstone, my pal." He stands and she still looks confused. He laughs. "Come on. Those townsfolk could use a look at your emerald eyes themselves. They like to remember that you're real. Good for morale and all that."
She goes to stand on her own and then sees his hand. Stout, thick fingers under leather gloves – offered graciously to help her to her feet. Nothing like a hand she's touched before. She hesitates a moment, and then takes it, happy to get up and fall in step by his side.
"It chose you, just like you said."
"No, Varric, you chose it because you think you're more charming then you actually are."
He laughs and she can't help but join in. She has no answers, but already she feels a little lighter. After a moment of silence, she speaks again.
"Varric," her voice is contemplative this time, softer. Her eyes scan the palisade that surrounds Haven, and she spots Cullen, leaning on the battlements, looking their way. He's just the eyes I did see, she realizes. Leliana's probably got scouts who shadow me wherever I go. "You said 'we'. Now that we're staying."
"What about it?" he asks, stuffing hands in his pockets.
"You don't have to. You're not like me."
"You mean I don't got some spooky green shit gobbling up my hand every now and then?" He laughs. "I suppose you're right. But I have a history here."
He tells her then of the red lyrium at the temple. She learns that he is from Kirkwall too, but it's too soon to say anything on that front, she feels. And then he tells her that more than anything, this shit is weird.
"A hole in the sky that drops demons on us all? Mini-sized tears just like it all across Thedas? I might be a selfish guy, but even I can't stand by and let that happen."
"You're a good person, Varric." They pass through the gates and voices raised in revelry meet their ears. More than one pair of curious eyes watch her, interested but uncertain.
"I'm a businessman," he clarifies, all bluster. "And I know that demons on every major roadway from here to Val Royeaux is bad for business."
"Well, I'm glad you're here." The sincerity in her voice seems to give him pause, and it takes him a moment to hide the surprised arch of his bushy orange eyebrows. She doesn't wait for the pithy statement he's trying to conjure.
"I'll see you later, Varric."
She leaves the dwarf by the fire and the music and hops up the steps to the Chantry entrance. Seeing Chancellor Roderick, she thinks about swerving off in the opposite direction. But resolve pools in her stomach then, and she decides that if she's going to stick around, she'll have to face him at some point.
Ellana keeps her face neutral as the man scowls at her approach. She'd always found Chantry robes oddly dress-like, wondered how they kept the headpiece upright. As she pulls her warm layers tighter against the cold, she wonders how he is not freezing. She'd lived out of doors through winters to the north, but something about Haven's positioning in the shadow of the Frostbacks made it chilly, even to her. In his nothing but robes, she was surprised Roderick was still moving. He must have furs on under there…
"So it's the Herald now, is it?" He's practically sneering, and Ellana's very grateful the old man can't tell what she's thinking. She shrugs.
"I didn't ask for any of this, Chancellor." She knows that humans value their titles. Hopes that dropping his will win her some points.
"The people allege that Andraste herself saved you, and you have the gall to brush it aside?" His distrust is evident in the way he settles his feet, widening his stance as if she might suddenly strike out at him. Around them, a jaunty jig plays, its levity stark in contrast to the weight of Roderick's expression.
"Not gall, I assure you." She scans him with calm eyes, refusing to rise to his bait. "Just uncertainty. I don't know why I survived the temple. So many people died, and it's hard to imagine that somehow, amongst all of those Chantry members, I was the one worth saving."
Roderick's expression softens slightly at her response, and for the first time, he looks unsure of what to say. Ellana, sensing the shift, continues.
"My people believe our gods are gone. That they are sealed away, and that through respect and tradition, we can once more earn their favour. But rarely do we assert that our gods are making themselves known, plucking out chosen ones and heralds from everyday folk." Ellana spreads her hands as she runs out of words.
"Hm," The Chancellor turns from her then, eyes introspective as he watches Flissa twirl a grudging Adan around the fire. "Your gods are imprisoned, while ours has turned away, disappointed in our actions."
Ellana knows the Maker's story also. She speaks of Dalish gods as if they were her own because she hopes that Roderick can appreciate faith, whatever form it takes. There are, she realises, parallels in human and elven worship worthy of further study. She cannot tell him what she truly believes - that she suspects she has no faith, that up in the sky, in the Fade, in the Golden City, there may be no one at all watching their lives unfold.
"Living in Kirkwall," she says, her voice soft enough that Roderick has to move a little closer, almost despite himself. "I came to realize that in many ways, my people and yours are perhaps not so different." She was by no means an exemplary or prototypical Dalish, but the humans didn't know that. And how could she explain it, really? So instead, she repeats herself.
"I don't know why I survived. I do not feel worthy of any divine intervention."
He goes to speak and then stops. He would have told her she is worthy of the Maker's love. That is what the Chantry is obligated to tell lost souls, those in search of purpose, as she has so clearly presented herself to be. But then he remembered that he cannot offer that consolation: she is an elf, maybe a traitor, an unknown but central part of tragic circumstances. Ellana does not miss the consolation.
"I do know this though." She lifts her left palm, and wills the green light to surge. When it does, Roderick takes a tentative step back, and those around them glance their way. "When I awoke with this power, I found myself able to do good. To really make a difference." She looks at him and smiles. He seems surprised, disarmed for the moment, his cynicism falling by the wayside.
"This mark on my hand might be a gift for Andraste. Or it could be the consequence of some terrible action. All I do know is that it enables me to make Thedas a little safer." She turns to face him now, full on. She is not tall, but neither is Roderick – their eyes are almost level.
"So I choose to walk this path, regardless of what others may call me." She lets her hands fall by her sides. Her points are hitting home; she can see it in the way the lines of his frown have faded. "And I hope that by the few small actions I contribute to our cause, I do something worth doing. Something right, something that could make both your god and mine proud of their creations."
At the same moment, she and Roderick that the music has stilled and that others are listening to her words. Ellana is nervous under so many eyes, but also knows that she has done well. That Josephine would be impressed.
"So, Chancellor Roderick." She brings a smile back to her face and meets his gaze. "Can we part as allies, if not as friends?"
She raises her hand, a human tradition. Roderick flushes suddenly as he realizes that she has him trapped. Refuse, and he seems petty and uninterested in the greater good. But accept, as a Chancellor in his Chantry robe, and he throws the support of his organization behind what has been labelled a heretical rebellion. As the silence grows uncomfortably long, and Ellana stands, fixed, with a gentle smile on her face, Roderick knows he has only one option.
He shakes her hand, and she is surprised to feel the callouses of hard work and toil on his palm. Ellana is elated at the handshake, and a little surprised. She had always been better on her feet and with a knife than with spoken words. She knows that his concession is a victory.
"Goodnight, Chancellor Roderick. Your support is dear to us." She moves to the plural now, aligning herself with the single eye on the banner that flaps behind them in the wind.
"Goodnight. Herald." The words are stiff and he might not believe, but he finds himself saying them anyway. As she walks away, he wonders what in the name of Andraste just happened.
*
"She is perfect."
Leliana snorts. Josie's effusiveness is always too much, especially early in the morning.
"The way she maneuvered Roderick into an open declaration of Chantry support. It was nearly an endorsement!" The Antivan's hands curl and flow in that annoyingly over-expressive way that all Antivans gush. Leliana wishes she could place a requisition order for some coffee. Such things were never luxuries when working for the Divine, but to wake up to a hot pot of coffee in Haven – apparently, that was simply too much to ask.
"We know that her training as a petty criminal in Kirkwall has made her good with her words," Cullen, always able to find fault, seemed determined to be unimpressed with the Herald's performance at last night's celebration. "What I'm more concerned with is her fighting prowess. I don't see how two little knives are going to stave off entire hoards of demons. Our reports indicate –"
"Oh, be quiet all of you." Leliana flaps a hand at them. Cullen and Josephine could bicker over what colour the Chantry door needed to be – Cullen's pure pragmatism was never satisfied by the purposeful pomp and circumstance Josie demanded.
"I wasn't saying anything." Cassandra had to speak up, of course, standing at the back of the room, arms crossed as they all waited for the Herald. "I have absolute confidence in the Herald's abilities, both to parlay with Mother Giselle, and to make her way to Dennet's farms and fight the demons." Cassandra lifted herself up from the wall and joined their circle. "Leliana and I have seen her fight, Cullen. We can attest that you have nothing to worry about."
Leliana agreed. The Herald was a sight to behold, speed and shadows that Leliana hadn't seen since her training as a bard. The longer she considered the Herald, the more difficult it became to reconcile herself to the facts – to the living, breathing elf who smiled, listened and seemed so different from the voice behind the pen in her notebooks.
Pages after pages, Leliana had read. She had wanted to skim, to identify the important and catalogue the rest with little unnecessary examination. But the elf wrote like someone who read widely, as Leliana knew Ellana did. She wrote like a poet when she wanted to, comparative descriptions and truncated sentences when feeling was more important to her the structure. And at times, she wrote like a historian, capturing facts and skirting around the people involved. Leliana had found herself compelled, unable to gloss over because the voice between the pages was both naïve and wise, fragile and strong.
Ellana was the victim of rape, and had likely never come to terms with that fact. She had seen her father savagely murdered by a demon. She had made close bonds and had them severed. She had lived, almost alone, in the woods for at least a year and had been tacitly rejected her own people.
The chronology, or rather lack of clear chronology, of the Herald's accounts infuriated Leliana to no end. Who keeps such meticulous notes on their life, but neglects to mention dates? As she'd summarized the findings for the others, she parsed the details down to the bare essentials. A Dalish elf with a criminal history. Resident of Kirkwall. Recently returned to her Clan. Able fighter, skilled negotiator, experienced in lying, setting traps, picking locks, fighting, horticulture.
For Josie and Cullen, that was enough. But in the aftermath of the explosion, they were all shaken. Cassandra, especially ungrounded by the loss of Justinia, flailed desperately for something to do, frustrated that their only option was waiting for Ellana to awaken. Unable to sit idle, the Seeker demanded to read the journals herself. Had insisted that they might be faked because, like Leliana, she had been unexpectedly moved by the tone of Ellana's writing, the faith in her words that had crumbled at her life's betrayals, and the emotions that both Seeker and spymaster could empathize with.
Privately, Leliana didn't agree about the potential for forgery: the way the cursive changed with the author's mood, the crumpled edges of some pages, the splattering of dried raindrops or tears, the oak leaf pressed between the pages – these were signs pointing to a veracity that no amount of conviction could contradict. If Ellana's journals were part of a long game, a ploy to buy their trust, they were the most elaborate con Leliana had ever witnessed. But it was a possibility she couldn't rule out conclusively, and so she'd added a line to her terse report: journals may be forged to support her story.
On paper, the Herald is uncertain. Skirts away from truths. Often does what she does out of feeling before thought. But in life, she moves with a surety and grace that initially surprised Leliana. Watching her corner Roderick last night, she had wondered what formal training could make of Ellana. But then she'd smiled to herself and retreated into the Chantry. Ellana was effective in her conversation with Roderick because she was sincere throughout. Orlesian bards would strip her of that – teach her the pretense of truth but pay no mind to the importance its spirit.
"Where is the Herald?" Leliana asks, coming out of her thoughts to interrupt whatever argument Josie and Cullen are having. "We are approaching quarters."
"She's down by the lake. She spends most mornings there between sunrise and quarters, and then she typically seeks out Solas or Varric." Cullen's immediate reply has all three women looking at him. Realizing how his words might be construed, Cullen flushes, rubs a hand at his neck. "I have guards watching her." His tone is explanatory. "In case."
"Of course," Leliana replies, amused at his embarrassment. Cullen is a study in opposites, she thinks, confident and commanding on his own terms, but ready to flush at the slightest teasing. Comfortable in what he does best, she supposes. Like all of them. Leliana, though, misses the opportunities for the kinds of social play Ellana had demonstrated last night. While knives in the dark and blackmailed secrets present their own challenges, she sometimes looks around at Haven's wooden walls and barren exterior, and wishes herself back in the gilded halls of Halamshiral.
"Can you fetch the Herald, please?" she asks the guardsman outside the door. "She's…" and she can't resist, flashes a glance back over her shoulder to Cullen.
"She's where, exactly, Commander?"
"Er, down by the lake. On the pier." He turns around and fiddles with papers on the table.
"Right away, ma'am."
When the Herald arrives, she provides little in the way of apology.
"What, you think the Dalish prance around in the woods with a lit candle to keep track of time? I don't know what "quarters" means." Her tones strike the balance between sarcastic and contrite, and they move on with the briefing.
Watching her quiet deference to Josie's advice and Cullen's instructions, Leliana is struck again at the parallels with Tabris. Kallian Tabris, Hero of Ferelden and dear friend, looked nothing like Ellana superficially. Where Ellana's hair was dark – brown in the light and nearly black in the shadows of the Chantry where they now met – and long, Tabris' was light, razed short by an angry self-cutting after her botched wedding and kept that way out of convenience. "If I'm going to be traipsing around the country, hip deep in darkspawn blood, do I really want long, pretty hair in my eyes," the Hero had asked Leliana once.
Tabris, born and raised in an alienage, bore no vallaslin. Neither did Ellana, Dalish though her origins were. And both had the slight build that belied unexpected strength. But it wasn't the point of their ears or the slant of their large eyes that made the connections for Leliana, but rather the aura of control that surrounded each woman. Ellana knew when she could push, joke and charm, and when she had to listen. Tabris had been bad at the listening, but had learned that it was necessary. Both could have been bards, Leliana thought again; both had the ability to make their face reveal what they wanted you to see. That was the trickiest part, and the one that worried Leliana most. Ellana could have been a spy, an agent and instigator of the explosion. Or she could simply be exactly what she claimed – an elf with no memories of the event, and a past that matched, verbatim, with what the words in her journal suggested.
Leliana expression darkens as she thinks back to Ellana's interrogation. Gone were the chains that bound the elf's wrists before she'd sealed the Breach. The terms were different now, and Ellana's compliance had earned her Haven's goodwill. Cassandra was too quick, however, to offer alliances. Leliana hadn't had a chance to speak with the Herald after she awoke; so much had been swept up in the attempt to close the tear in the sky. But she made time for the discussion, not long after the Breach was sealed: they sat on opposite sides of a table in Josie's office, steaming tea in their hands.
"You do not like me, spymaster." And there it was again – the confidence and surety that reminded her of Tabris and contrasted with the person Leliana had expected.
"I do not know you well enough to like you." Leliana said, ready to be candid.
Ellana sat back, propped an elbow up on the back of her chair while the fingers of her other hand drummed against the side of her teacup. Her face is practiced nonchalance, and
Leliana wonders what she could say to make the elf's control slip. To leave her vulnerable, susceptible to the kinds of questions that really needed to be answered.
She almost doesn't go there. She doesn't want to, but it's her job, and they need to be sure that Ellana isn't an enemy.
"What was the name of the man in the room with the blue drapes?"
The reaction is instant – dilated pupils and complete stillness. Ellana's fingers pause, mid-tap and her face, usually olive-toned and warm, becomes pale. She holds Leliana's gaze but the spymaster isn't sure Ellana is seeing her. Or seeing anything in the room.
Leliana lets the question hang in the air between them. Tension mounts, and she speaks again.
"What happened at the conclave?"
Ellana pulls herself back to the present then, and laughs. It is a sharp sound. Leliana knows she has done damage to whatever relationship they might have had.
"Are you proud of yourself?" The elf stands, and Leliana follows suit. "Bald-faced and heartless tactics to make me tell you the truth –is that the best the Inquisition's spymaster can offer?" Her voice is louder now, and Leliana has unbalanced her, though perhaps not in the way that she hoped.
"You already know the truth." Ellana's expression is somewhere between agony and rage; gone are her attempts to conceal her feelings. Leliana says nothing, keeps perfectly still.
"You read it all, and you shared it with the world."
"I need to know if we can trust you." Leliana won't apologize – not for doing her job. "If he is real, he has a name. A name can be fact-checked, investigated. If your past cannot be verified, we cannot be sure it happened at all." She feels herself back-pedalling, has a flash of hot frustration at her own fumbling. She doesn't need to explain herself to Ellana.
She is doing her job and emotions should not cloud her purpose. She focuses, holds the Herald's eyes.
"What happened at the conclave, Lavellan?"
"I don't know!" Her shout echoes and Leliana knows it can be heard in the hallway. Josephine will scold me later. Fighting at the top is never good for morale.
"Are you certain?" Leliana is around the table and close now, nose inches from the elf's, but Ellana won't back down. "Are you responsible?"
"No!" The elf brings her hands up to shove Leliana back, and then checks herself. Turns away, breathes deep, takes a few steps.
The door opens and Cullen's face appears, caution in his stance and a hand at his sword hilt.
"Is everything… well?" He looks from Leliana to the Herald, and doesn't like what he sees. Leliana meets his disapproving gaze and is irritated at his idealism. We cannot afford blind faith. Cullen and Josephine ask none of the hard questions. It is always her job, just as it had been under the Divine. Maybe she was made for this – always cutting deep, leaving emptiness and sorrow in the wake of her questions and actions. This must've been what the Maker intended for her. Why else would it be so easy for her?
Ellana's shoulders are slumped, and she when she speaks it is to Leliana, not Cullen.
"You have rifled my possessions and taken my past from me, Leliana." She does not look at the spymaster. "And with the Inquisition and this mark, you have taken my future as well."
She turns, and suddenly she is small, unlike Tabris or Cassandra, or anyone important. She is small and hurt and Leliana is awash with regret.
"I am not a spy, and I did not destroy the Conclave." Ellana's emerald eyes hold Leliana's.
"If I am to have nothing else in all this, then let me have my pain."
Leliana hates this. How people punish her for being good at what she does. How getting the answers they need always comes with hurt feelings. She says nothing, looks away from those sad eyes.
The Herald nods, as if to herself, and brushes by Cullen and out the door.
"Leliana, what did you –"
"Go, Cullen." His question is cut short by her tone, and he knows her well enough now not to argue. He leaves and pulls the door closed.
She sits down hard at Josie's desk, in the chair where Ellana had sat. She looks at the tea the elf had barely touched, and decides that she has enough. No more questions. Those were honest words.
And now, in the war room before Ellana's first mission, the elf doesn't look Leliana's way once.
She does not see that my tactics are necessary. Hands behind her back, Leliana adds little to the other advisors' words. Like the others, she takes the stance that we must save the world without trampling on any hearts. Leliana is disappointed, and the feeling makes her realise that she's tired of being the only hardline voice at the table. She had hoped for a pragmatic companion in the Herald. Instead, she found only another bleeding soul.
"Is there anything we can do for the refugees?" Ellana's question proved Leliana's point – Giselle's information was the more pressing issue, and yet the Herald had skirted past that to trite details.
"There numbers are many, and our resources are few. But you are right to consider their interests – acts of goodwill may win their support." Josie is insisting, and the Herald nods, expression appropriately serious. "The benevolence of the so-called 'Herald of Andraste' can earn our cause much respect."
As the meeting concludes, Leliana decides she must move past her altercation with the Herald. The sooner their relationship a professional one, the sooner the Herald may stop avoiding her gaze and her person.
"A moment, Lavellen," she asks as the others file out of the room. She uses the Herald's surname in an effort to put her at ease: Ellana had not been pleased with the Herald title.
"Any other questions for me?" Ellana leans against the doorframe and raises an eyebrow. Tries to project confidence, and Leliana isn't sure if she believes her. "Our last sharing session left me quite charmed."
So she wasn't going to pretend it didn't happen. That suited Leliana fine. Her smugness failed to impress to the spymaster because Leliana knew that, with only a few words, she could reduce the elf to panic or rage.
"There is another matter you might consider in the Hinterlands." Ignoring the jibe seemed the best option. "There has been suspicions about the Grey Wardens."
At this, the Herald's interest peaked. She straightened up from the door frame, curiosity in her intelligent face. Leliana elaborated, and answered the Herald's questions.
"Very well. We will keep an eye out for signs of Grey Warden activity."
"Thank you, Herald." A little politeness couldn't hurt, Leliana rationalized.
"Yes, well," Ellana looked away, eyes refusing to settle until they returned to Leliana. "Thank you, too. For looking into this. It could be important."
Was that an apology? Leliana wondered as the Herald nodded, turned curtly, and left the room. She sighed. It didn't matter, and it wasn't worth her concern.
Leliana watched the party head out the next morning. When the Herald was gone, ambling out the gates with Solas, Cassandra and Varric trailing behind, Leliana knew that she had done what was necessary. It would continue to be her role to dredge up the past, expose secrets, and exploit weakness, because their cause is too important to be sacrificed to sensitive feelings and moral appropriateness. Justinia knew that and commanded terrible deeds from Leliana's hands. Asked for death, and forgave when Leliana returned and reported her successes.
Turning her eyes to the sky, Leliana hopes that the Maker will be just as forgiving.
*
Solas hears her before he spots her, and he wonders at how readily she can disappear into the canopy. Ellana is singing. Her words are attempting elven, he realizes as he listens to a verse, and he is momentarily irritated at the mangled pronunciation. But then he breathes in deep through his nose and looks about them; the woods are darkening as the sun sets, and he is soothed by the gentle melody beneath the words.
The song is a sad one, and her voice is lower than he expects, but beautiful.
When he first met Ellana, she wore shemlen armour and smelled of ash and smoke. Her face was so different then, inert and expressionless, suggesting nothing of the lively eyes that crinkled when she laughed at Varric's stories, or the singsong sound of her speech when she teased Cassandra. He had watched her eyelids flicker then, in the dungeon below Haven, and wondered where in the Fade she was wandering. What demons she saw that brought a furrow to her smooth brow.
Then the mark would surge and bring his attention back to his work. He ran through ancient spells and reached into his own well-springs, trying to ease the worrying expansion of the fissure in her palm. But none of his efforts bore fruit, and he felt Cassandra's frustration mount.
"You know nothing?" Her outrage had filled the cold chamber, and Solas kept his eyes on the unconscious elf as he answered.
"I cannot say anything for certain, no." He ran his fingers along the fissure one more time, lamenting the metal chains that bound the elf's small wrists together. She did not deserve to suffer for events she did not understand. He had to do right by her. Of all the souls in Thedas to walk out of the Conclave, why did it have to be one of the People? It would have been so much easier to walk away from this mess if it wasn't for these – he ran his fingers along the graded point of her ear, fingers nestling in greasy hair.
"Apostate." A harsh word dropped like ice into his thoughts, and he glances up at Cassandra, annoyed.
"Can you stop it from killing her?"
"No," he says, admitting it to both her and himself, and he is crushed with the knowledge that he is to blame. That once again, one of the elvhenan will fall victim to magic he cannot control. He feels it press on his soul, and cannot sit any longer by her side. He is tired of trying to reach into her, connect with the elusive tendrils of the Fade that wrench her apart at the seams.
"Where are you going?"
He has stood and tries to shoulder by Cassandra, but the human woman puts a hand on his arm and has the audacity to think she can stop him.
I could splinter you into a thousand pieces.
The thought is dark, and he wants none of it, tosses it away with a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. Cassandra is pigheaded, yes, but it is her ignorance that makes her that way. Like the Dalish. These people do not choose ignorance, Solas reminds himself.
"I will join Varric at the forward camp. He is seeing what can be done. I would aid in that, and try once more to seal a rift."
"What of the traitor?' Cassandra's steely gaze makes it clear he is untrusted. But she also knows that her allies are few and that the demon hoard grows ever larger.
"I have done all I can for her." As if it listens and seeks to mock him, the mark on her hand flares green and the elf groans in agony. He closes his eyes and cannot look at her crumpled form. "Her will is all that remains to stave off death. If she is strong, she will return to us."
Cassandra is displeased, but says nothing. She has no knowledge of what he has done, the immense magics he has worked. He cannot expect her to understand. But as Solas swings his staff from his back and barrels out the gates of Haven, he is filled with a fizzling rage that needs an outlet. He is grateful when he encounters demons, setting them aflame and basking in their squeals.
My failings bring only the death of my people. The thought haunts him as he joins Varric, and they reach the swirling green vortex in the valley. Echoes in his skull until, miraculously, he sees her. He and Varric fighting hard, praying for reprieve from the demons that barreled into their world, and, suddenly, she is there.
She is pale, but falls easily into step alongside Cassandra, dancing a graceful pattern in the snow as she slashes and stabs with practiced ease. And all the while, Solas feels the call of the mark in her hand, a tie to the Fade that screams louder now that she is awake. But it is not an angry call; no spirits beat raucously about her. Instead, it is a call raw with power, and for a moment, the sensation of the magic nearly dwarfs Solas.
She is not even a mage. How is this possible?
He understands then, that she is his path to atonement. Through her, his wrongs might be corrected, and the orb returned. As the last demon falls to Varric's bolt, he seizes her wrist and lifts it to the swirling green mists, distantly distracted by the sensation of her warm skin beneath his fingertips.
When the mark connects to the rift, the rush of energy surges through her hand, he feels like a peasant begging for alms, a tired dog who laps up the remnants of moisture in his water bowl. The world shifts beneath his feet and he needs to be near her, basking in the afterglow magical energy that courses like lyrium through his veins, runs off her in waves.
He lets a breath he didn't know he was holding out through his mouth. Tries to come down from the high as the rift sunders into nothingness. She speaks and he is bewitched, not by her beauty, though she is beautiful, but by the power she can access at will through her palm.
He finds himself speaking, but reflecting back, as he stands beneath the trees in the Hinterlands, he has no notion of what he had said to her then. Knows only that his life had turned on that moment, and that he needed to serve Ellana so that he could feel that rush again. She would help him put it all to right, and when she smiled at him, he really did believe that his actions might not have been in vain. That maybe, the explosion at the Conclave was meant to lead to this. She had changed everything, given him hope again. Her survival meant he was spared another elvhenan death on his conscience, yes, but it meant more than that as well. When the smoke had settled and she had emerged, an elvhenan was put at the centre of an unfolding story. Her awakening and her power suggested strongly that their story was only just beginning.
"Do you think she regretted it, Solas?"
Ellana's voice breaks him out of the memories, and he becomes aware of where he is. He sits, cross legged, beneath the tree she's climbed. Her song had ended, and clearly had given way to contemplative thoughts.
"Adalene?"
"Yes." The words of her song were from a Dalish song, mourning the death of Elandrin the Emerald Knight and his human lover Adalene.
"It is hard to say." Solas steeples his fingers, elbows on his knees as Ellana's voice falls on him from above. "Did she know that she was dying, as she raced out of Red Crossing to be with her love? She thought that the future was in her grasp – a life of love and dedication, all for the simple price of Elandrin's deference to the Maker."
"Why does that matter?" Ellana's voice is closer now, and he realizes she has dropped down a few branches. He can see her now, when he tilts his head up; her long hair is pulled back from her face, messily tied up, and she still wears her leather armour, spattered in blood from the day's encounters.
"To feel regret, wouldn't she have had to know she was about to die?" Solas understands the mechanism of regret. Knows it both in himself, and in those he meets in the Fade. In the eyes of King Cailan at Ostagar, in the moment when he understood Loghain's betrayal. On Lindirane's face, as her legendary blade faltered and she fell, not to her Ser Brandis, but to an arrow. Brandis too, wore regret on his brow at the thought that such a capable warrior met such an undignified end.
"I don't think so." Ellana's voice is thoughtful now, and he wonders at the sight they must make. The requisition officer mutters something to her peers over in the camp, and every so often, he feels the weight of their gazes and curiosity. Solas, neck craned so he can watch their so-called Herald. Ellana, now letting her feet swing, seemingly unmindful of the dirt she sends cascading down on him.
"Perhaps you should join me down here." His tone is light, but even he can take only so much displaced bark and dust on his shoulders. "Your penchant for tree climbing is drawing attention."
Ellana glances over, sees the gathered Fereldens and giggles. Lithe like a cat, she swings her hips forward and lands in a crouch on the ground beside him.
"What do you think?" She passes him her notebook, and he is surprised to see not words, but a picture. His own face, in charcoal, stares back at him, the lines alternating dark and light to create a sense of depth. The slope of his skull gives way to the collar of his mage coat, and his expression is mystifying, controlled. In the slant of his eyes and the quirk of his eyebrow, he feels that she can see right through him – it is his face staring back, not merely 'Solas', but the person he truly is. She must know. He searches her eyes and her face is blank. Expectant. Is that nervousness he sees there?
She cannot know. She is just a child. Most people were, compared to him. She is just a young woman, anxious at the thought of sharing her artistic creation with another.
"Am I really so serious?"
"Not serious. Wise." She reaches over his arm, charcoal he hadn't noticed earlier between her fingers. She writes with the hand that bears the mark, and Solas wonders that he can be so near to it and yet feel nothing. The mark does not always call to him; its pull is strongest when Ellana connects to the rifts, bridging their world with the Fade. Now, her hand looks normal, her skin oddly supple given the calloused fingers that arch around the charcoal. She rubs, gently pressing down on the notebook in his hands, creating shadows over half his face. Suddenly, the sketched version of himself takes on a different tone, might be sinister. His eyes narrow slightly, and he glances sidelong at her, but the elf's face wears a thoughtful expression that seems free from accusation. She cannot know, he reminds himself.
"I didn't mean dying." She leans back against the trunk he rests on. The tree is an ancient one, and its shade darkens with the setting sun. "About Adalene. I meant falling in love with an elf. Persuading him to renounce his religion for her. Is that worthy of regret?"
Solas turns his head to watch the woman next to him and wonders what she is thinking. He has been pleasantly surprised by her open-mindedness and curiosity. Her questions about his travels in the Fade, the sights he'd seen, seemed genuine. She defied expectation at every turn, transgressing against the Dalish in the absence of vallaslin and shem in her lack of judgement for blood magic. I know only one mage who used blood magic, and he used it to a very dark end, she'd said honestly. But like any other weapon, I suspect its morality is tied more to its user than its nature.
"I think you have more in common with Elandrin than you realize, Herald." He likes to use the shemlen title. It amuses him to watch the way discomfort squirms across her features at the implication.
"How do you mean?" She turns the full force of her emerald gaze on Solas, and the mage again finds himself appreciating Varric's moniker. In the approaching gloom, her eyes shone with a repressed light like sunshine on faceted crystal.
"Elandrin felt that the elvhenan gods played no part in his life. That they had turned away from him at the very moment when they were most desperately needed." Solas' eyes darken – Elandrin's sister was another of the People abandoned to death. And yet were the Creators really accountable for every elvhenan soul?
"Swearing himself to another false god was not as meaningful as you might imagine. As you indicated to Chancellor Roderick, elvhenan and shem gods are not so different in their absence. To Elandrin, the gesture was likely empty but necessary."
Ellana's eyes are searching his face, and he does not know what she is looking for. He tries a soft smile, hopes that it will banish her apparent worry.
"So it was nothing for him to walk away from his people?" Her eyes slide from his face, and Solas' feels as though he has failed somehow. Wants, irrationally, to make it right and give her whatever it is that she seeks.
"I did not say that." They both watch as Cassandra takes Varric to task, marshalling him in a search for suitable firewood. "He was an Emerald Knight, but by his era the Emerald Knights had been fighting for so long that they barely grasped their reasoning. What were they defending? Why did they have to spill so much Chantry blood? Conflict and the death of loved ones can make it hard to accept that the world is as it should be."
Those words give her pause, and he can tell that she is beginning to see the parallels herself. Elandrin, feeling out of place among his own people and oddly comforted in the arms of a human girl. Ellana of the Lavellan Clan in name only, spearheading a shemlen cause because of inexplicable circumstance. Perhaps comforted by the sense of purpose the Inquisition gives her.
"If this is our history," she finally says in a tone that suggests she has read this story before, knows the details already, "it's no wonder the humans distrust us." She looks down at her hands, and her hair slips from its messy bun, obscuring her eyes.
"Some humans," Solas rebukes gently. "But not all." Ellana looks up and follows her gaze to where the Inquisition soldiers are pitching tents. The soldiers laugh together as a tent pole collapses, and the sound carries over to the elves.
"True," Ellana continues observing them as she answers. "I'm not even a very good elf, Solas. I definitely can't compete with an Emerald Knight."
And there it is – the disillusionment that haunts the People. Not good at being that which you were born as. The reason Solas must make change in the world, must right the wrongs of their subjugation. The elves of the city revoke their past and willingly submit to a life of squalor and servitude. The elves in the woods chase after remnants of things past, perpetuating misinformation through their inescapable ignorance. And elves like Ellana fit in neither category, feeling as though they can appeal to no gods.
"What has happened to you, da'len?" He uses the word because he knows it is one she will understand. One that connects her to a past she believes she's lost. "Why don't you bear the marks that so many of your people do?"
"Why don't you?" She deflects, quickly, and Solas realizes he is treading difficult waters.
"I am not Dalish. I do not have a Clan name."
She laughs then. "Well, according to Cassandra, I do. This human business of surnames is rather perplexing to me, for all I've lived amongst them."
Ellana is a deliberate person. She does not speak unintentionally, Solas thinks. She is letting him see a little of her, if he would. But he must ask the questions she lets him ask.
"And where was that? When did you live amongst the humans?" He is aware of how close they sit, elbows almost touching. Her legs are stretched out in the grass in front of her, and her boots are scuffed with the evidence of the day's journey. They have spoken to Mother Giselle, sent her back to Haven. Tomorrow, they make west to seek out the horse master.
In the meantime, she tells him of her life in Kirkwall. Her voice grows animated as she describes her associates and her antics, and the practiced voice of a storyteller draws the attention of the others. Cassandra, interest clearly piqued though she tries to hide it, wanders over under the pretense of needing open space to clean her blade. Varric too, perhaps attracted by the prospect of someone else who can do what he does so well, meanders by, needing no excuse when he plops down in the grass across from Ellana. They listen, and laugh, and soon the requisition officer and soldiers sit with them under the tree, the fire crackling unattended several yards away.
Ellana's has a magnetic allure that has nothing to do with her ability to close the rifts. Solas appreciates the masterful control she has over her body: her eyebrows tilt just so and her hands gesture; her voice is pitched to rise or fall or pause at all the right moments. If she were a mage, Solas would've suspected she was trained as the Keeper's first, one of the storytellers of a Dalish clan. As she was, he could only speculate that somewhere in between the stories she was telling, she had cultivated the skills capturing and holding attention.
"You know the Champion worked for Athenril too, Gemstone?" Varric's words clearly catch her off guard. Her eyes widen slightly and she pauses before speaking.
"You didn't say as much in Tales of the Champion."
He shrugs. "It was before I knew her. She worked her way out of squalor doing favours for that elf."
"If she got out of squalor, she made it farther than my father and I ever did," Ellana laughs and the others join her.
"Where is your father now, Your Worship?" Scout Harding's voice is light and inquisitive, but Solas doesn't miss the way Cassandra, sitting next to the dwarf, tenses suddenly.
"I think we have bothered the Herald with personal inquiries enough for one night." The Seeker interjects quickly, moves to stand, but stops when Ellana rests a hand on the human's gauntleted arm.
"No, it's alright Cassandra." Gone are the traces of mirth from the Herald's face. Her voice is low, but Solas sees determination now, and readies himself for her words. "My father is dead, Scout Harding."
"I'm sorry." Harding is honest, unembarrassed for catalyzing the shift in mood. Solas remembers then, that most of these men and women had lived through the worst of the Fifth Blight. Everyone had death in their past.
"As I am. He was a good man."
"What happened?" Varric this time, and the dwarf's gaze is steady on Ellana's face. Solas wonders what Varric's angle is: normally, the merchant is more sensitive about such issues. Perhaps, Varric just feels the same curiosity that they all seem to – who is this woman, this weaver of words, and why was she the one to survive the explosion?
"Athenril took on a bad client." Ellana doesn't use her storyteller's voice now. Her knees are up in front of her, her fingers loosely laced. The firelight flickers over her, but the green of her eyes is lost in the gloom. "He was a mage. Athenril sent my father and me on the mission. As elves, we were less jittery around mages, compared to the humans she employed."
"We are used to magic," she says by way of explanation to the humans around the circle. "Dalish clans are led by a mage, you see."
"What did he want?"
"He claimed to want ingredients for some concoction." Her gaze drops and her fingers lace again, more tightly this time. Solas wishes he could reach out and sooth the tension in her hands. He wanted to hear these stories, but he would have rather done so in private, away from all these eager faces. Ellana looks up again, and her eyes are glassy.
"As it turns out, he wanted blood to summon a demon." There are no audible gasps, but Solas feels shock around the circle. "My father knew something was wrong, but it was too late for us to respond. The mage stabbed my father and summoned a demon."
No one prompted to speak when the silence fell. The fire popped, and the air was cold around them.
"I tried to save him, but the demon threw me aside and finished the job." She swallows, but apart from that, her expression is remarkably calm. "My father died quickly. The mage wanted the demon to help him resurrect something. Thought the offering of a living thing would buy him some gratitude."
Solas has heard this story many times before. Not Ellana's, exactly, but those of mortals with demands. Foolish people who mistakenly assumed that a little sacrifice and blood could buy them favours from powers they did not understand.
The silence stretches, and Cassandra opens her mouth to say something. No doubt about to offer some stolid but well-intended reassurance. But then the Herald speaks.
"Thank you, Scout Harding." She meets the dwarven woman's gaze and smiles softly. Harding brightens at her words, and Solas empathizes with brightened pride that Ellana's approval can make you feel. "I have not spoken of my father's death in some time. It is good to remember these things."
She stands then, and Solas nearly feels her veneer slide back into place. Her voice again becomes controlled, smooth as she steers the situation the way she wants.
"I do not doubt that you have all lived through such travesties." Her eyes travel the circle and stop to rest on each person in their camp. "Hard times are our constant companion, whether it's a Blight or a mage rebellion, or a hole in our sky."
She pauses then, and they wait with eager anticipation for her next words. Even Solas cannot pretend he is above being enthralled.
"We all have our own reasons for being here. I fight for my father, and for the memory of a pain a demon can cause. Closing the rifts keeps the demons at bay. But you all serve in equally important ways. Gathering information, liaising with the local population, and establishing footholds so that our name, the Inquisition's name, can be a force for good – you too, keep the demons at bay."
She smiles and Solas watches as each of the soldiers smiles back.
"Thank you for your efforts."
There are mutters around the circle, mutual appreciation and bashful dismissals. Varric, sensing a pause, releases them all.
"Come on now folks, let's get a guard rotation going."
Spell broken, they disperse. Cassandra puts a hand on Ellana's arm, mutters a few words and then turns and heads into her tent. Solas stands too, approaches her soundlessly.
"You seem to excel at this, da'len."
She looks over at him, tilting her head to meet his gaze. He forgets, from her presence, that she is not very large, stands some inches shorter than himself.
"I do not find the sharing easy," she admits, and he is struck at the incongruity. Such raw honesty, so openly delivered. How does that fit with the effortless way she crafts her image, with the control she exerts over how she appears? "But a good friend told me that it will help."
"And does it?" He tilts his head, wants only to banish the pain he sees between her eyebrows as she ponders his question.
"It does." She sounds surprised.
"Then I hope you will continue to share, at least with me." He means the words, and they sound exactly as intense as he intended. She does not hesitate to respond. Her face transforms, gone is the contemplative introspection, replaced with a cheeky smile and a light in her eyes.
"Thank you, Solas. Perhaps I will."
She saunters off and disappears behind a tent flap, and he's left alone with his thoughts.
*
Commander,
The Crossroads is secured. We closed the rifts and disposed of the mages and Templars in the vicinity. The Herald spoke with Mother Giselle, and she returns to Haven with information about Chantry contacts. Expect her shortly.
Thus far, the Herald has remained above suspicion in her conduct. Her fighting style is reckless, and she has no experience with group command. She is, however, effective at bolstering morale, both of the refugees and of our own troops.
I will supplement her failings with instruction. Tomorrow, I will make her take full leadership of the group when we engage in combat. We cannot have a figurehead for a leader; the Herald must be combat and command ready.
We have interrogated the horsemaster you located. He offered his support, but had several conditions. We are scouting locations for watchtowers and will send further details when available.
Leliana apparently made a request of the Herald to investigate Grey Warden activity in the area. I will permit the Herald to do so, so long as it does not distract from our work for Dennet. I anticipate our return within the fortnight.
Cassandra