Chapter 9 — Andromeda
Whatever light mood bought at my expense this morning fades quickly as it had come. A companionable silence bleeds away into one of tension while rolling sheets of morose grey spread across the horizon, threatening rain. While I expect the same sensations upon returning to these Arbor Wilds, it is unnerving all the same as it creeps, slow and benign at first. Perhaps my expectations magnify my awareness of it, especially without a life or death situation to be distracted by.
I am surprisingly thankful that the group breaks the tense silence; Dorian and Mahanon slowly begin an exchange in conversation. The word lyrium is used recurrently and they mention what I think are names… Alexius, Corypheus. The manner in which 'Corypheus' is uttered makes their mouths scowl in heavy bitterness. An enemy of a kind?
Their pace is slow and clear, denoting that they've got handles on public-speaking. Easier for me to follow since these men prove far more enlightening than listening in the kitchens or even to Idrilla. Entertaining, too, as they seem so serious and dramatic. Almost like listening to an audio book or watching a movie. I don't even remember being so grim as half of my world burned. Coping is far easier with absurdist fatalism, after all.
"If this isn't just a wild chase... if we can find a way to purify Lyrium, how effective would that be against Corypheus? Seems to be his favored weapon." Mahanon stares suredly ahead as his Seal Bay hops over a series of stones. He often leads the group, a place that must come naturally to him.
"To wholly negate the effects of Blighted lyrium… Well, it's not a known feat. What I am quite positive of is that, given how plentiful red lyrium is of late, that research could, and likely is, flourishing in Tevinter. If any place. I could reach out to contacts, gather some opinions. If this is different, if she… truly affects it in some way, either with intention or autonomously, there is always the chance to replicate it. Of course, this is all speculation."
Solas's head turns sharply towards Dorian, his already stiff spine rigid in what I assume to be annoyance as he maneuvers the smokey dapple around a dip in the ground. The pace of his voice is calm, yet warning "To advertise this would be, above all else, unwise. I advise against spreading rumor in light of our own ignorance. It will only invite disorder."
"I'm with Chuckles on this one. Do you have any idea what would happen if the Carta and the Guild found out that something could render lyrium pure? Even if it's just a rumor? I'm here hoping it was a fluke or that she's just colorblind. If not, we might as well hang a target around her neck right now," Varric shakes his head as he dips in the conversation, tossing a speculative look first at Solas and then we meet. "Sorry, Princess." he apologizes and I shrug, really not knowing why he felt the need to apologize. I'm used to being spoken about and not to at this point.
"Why are we even out here, wasting time then? If she can work lyrium back to purity and banish demons with ease, why wouldn't we at least see if it were true? That's why we're here in the wilds. For us to know, to see." Mahanon's tone is curt, his leather clad arms flexing as he looks back at Solas with furrowed brows. "To the void with us if we'd let someone with that skill roll dough in the kitchens instead of being utilized proper," He shifts sights to Varric who's already frowning.
"I gave her the name princess for a reason, Chops. Does she look like someone who regularly joins inquisitions to you? And what if she's just got higher tolerance to red lyrium and we slowly drive her mad by making her work it?" Varric seems to be reasoning. "What if she IS some kind of nobility, beyond Thedas, and her house comes to collect?"
"She wouldn't have been in the mountains if she was nobility. Leiliana sought these past two months for anything - her name, her looks, the strange stock she carries, those maps. Even Iron Bull tapped into his network. All nothing. It's as if she didn't exist. She's a blank slate and belongs to the Inquisition, as I see it." something about Mahanon's tone causes Solas and Varric to shift in their saddles. Solas sighs heavily despite his soft voice. He smooths his palm over the dome of his head before sliding it down to brace the back of his neck. Composing himself quickly after, his hand drops back into his lap. The only tell of his irritation from behind is that his ears lay flat against the sides his skull, flickering.
"Chops, are you aware of the definition of obstinate?" Varric laughs but it is not kind.
"I am and always aim to be," Mahanon leans back in his saddle, a disarming smile full of sharp teeth.
The conversation dithers - there are differences of opinion here and without them, I am left with nothing to focus on save for the Hunger that has, in full bloom, rebounded. I think, maybe, if I cannot resist, that I will allow it to build freely. At least in hopes of understanding why I am reacting this way. In doing so; the first thing I realize is it pangs from that space beyond my parts, beyond my consciousness. A sense that is new... yet, not. As I remember how it felt to have something reach inside the day before yesterday, I attempt to imagine a stopper. If I had been able to push back, or imagine doing so, could I imagine a wall to cease this feeling, too?
The moments pass, stretching longer than moments should, I fail to do so. In fact, it feels as if I incentivize it. The Hunger surges like that of an incoming tide. We are at the apex of the hill now and I clutch at my thighs for grounding, wishing they would banter so that I could think of anything else. At the clearing of his throat, I look over to Dorian, his eyes shifting as if listening to a sound I cannot hear. I wonder if they, too, are affected by this. If they are, then why am I so weak to it.
"I'm not imagining… whatever that is, am I?" I watch Dorian as he speaks; his lower lip has the tendency to pout outwards when he frowns.
"No, " Solas tosses a look over his shoulder "you are not."
I drink, deeply, from water skin until there's nothing left. It frightens me how eager I am to focus on the dead for distraction- had it been this insufferable a few days ago? Had I been so frightened I hadn't noticed? Am I frightened now? I pinch the bridge of my nose for a moment, hard, to see if that brings me a sense of calm. It doesn't.
"Another must have opened," Mahanon's tone is somber as his hand crackles against his clutch of the reins. His posture straightens in alert, tendrils of black hair lap at his shoulders and neck, the rest tied in a plait. While although a strange man, he wields the visage of a leader well when not smiling or heckling. "Is that where you found them…?" he gestures to a part of the forest further to the West.
Following his pointed hand, I correct it by extending my own, directed at the treeline. Mahanon lifts a brow as he surveys the forest once more, descending down the hill in a slow trot.
In the gentle descent, I shut my eyes and even my breathing, thinking of candles, of trees, of pencils, cars, dogs, anything to try to ignore the feeling. Solas speaks my name, peering over his shoulder. His expression dangerously blank and grey eyes the same dire shade as the clouds above. I bore back, silent and frowning.
I break my gaze as the treeline looms near, digging my nails into my thighs to provide better distraction. Submitting to this feeling was not one of my brighter ideas. I, clearly, have no idea what I'm doing. Accepted into Berkeley's Astrophysics doctoral program and I've no idea what I'm doing.
I have no idea what I'm doing.
"You okay, Princess?" Varric is only an arm's length astride his horse, yet his voice is far distant.
I nod, earning skeptical stares from the lot. "Just wonderful. I love being the unspoken accessory regarded only with sides of cryptic condescension." I pause at the sound of my own voice, how weak it sounds from lack of use. Both Solas and Varric eye me and then each other before looking to Mahanon.
"Maybe we should… leave her back here or something. Better yet, let's just bring her back to Skyhold and pretend this never happened. I'll have you know bread is incredibly important to the Inquisition's vitality." Varric reasons, first with worry, then with humor to cover it.
"I know you have a softness for strange and wayward things, but we must at least seal the rift and tend for the dead." Mahanon resolves, not looking back.
Silence falls over the group just at the threshold of the forest begins to beckon with the scent of freshly decomposing flesh. Sharp and disarming. The rest of the men seem unaffected, but I have no shame in covering my nose with a scrap of linen from my waist pouch. When the horses grow skittish, Mahanon pulls to a stop to hop off. After tying down the reins, the group moves forward on foot. I can see where Idrilla and I ran through, vines and undergrowth torn. The imprints of our soles spread wide into the mossy forest floor.
It takes a few minutes to move to the clearing ahead. Decay pierces even the cloth. I press it tightly to my nose and mouth, wincing but not only from the smell but the memories of it. What is more alarming is despite being surrounded by the dead is how compelling the Hunger is, willing towards the opposite side of the clearing. Disarming how my legs dare to skirt away from the group. I struggle against it.
If only I knew the purpose for this confusion and madness.
As we break into the clearing, the group spreads out. I edge towards a fallen monster, what they call Red Templars. Not mutants or monsters. Just Templars that are red and horribly disfigured - I still do not understand what causes this change as it was explained to me, poorly, by Favrun.
The air is thick. Drifting through the balm of rot, I use the tip of my boot to tilt the head of one of the fallen monster Templars over. How I am calm, I do not know. Somehow I manage, or maybe just actively repressing as I experience.
The Templar at my feet was one who wore leathers. A portion of its skull is missing and I see that the red stones grow even inside the cranium. If that wasn't strange enough, they show almost no signs of decomposition, even early stages. The elves look to be well into bloat, long, thin bodies swelling. A natural process despite their unnatural end.
What the Red Templars do possess, however, is an abundance of those red stones, sprouting across every patch of bare skin. A fungus, then?
"Oh, don't touch - My, what did you do to their heads?" I try to roll the Templar over using only my foot but am intercepted by Dorian who's surveying the rest of them. A silk handkerchief is in his hand, only having covered his nose moments ago and I'm glad I'm not alone in that. Dorian still wears that look; the one that people wear when they know something is wrong but are unsure of what it might be.
Ham-fisting the question is an option I've considered, yet something tells me it wouldn't over well if I were to ask if they were hungry. Given that we literally stand in the beginnings of a mass grave. Smell that? Doesn't it make your mouth water? No? Just me?
"Likely that gun thing; she's a good aim. We've got to deal with this first. I'm surprised more haven't been possessed, if any of them." Mahanon speaks through gritted teeth as he lifts an elven corpse to drag it away from one of the Templar bodies. He's pulled on gloves in the process, thank god.
The contrast between the dead and the Templars is one I am unable to explain and will be unable to avoid thinking about. Once Mahanon places the body down, facing towards the sky, he commits to grabbing another. He begins to line them as the rest of us watch in silence for a few moments.
"We can't leave them. You know the risks." his voice layers with a dull, sad anger as he lays the body of a woman down with a surprising gentleness. Her eyes are stuck in a milky stare, her skin yellowing and lips blackened. She is puffy from bloat, as are the rest of them. Mahanon picks two dark stones from the ground to lay them over her gaping eyelids. Strange that such a ritual exists here, too.
The only sound in the area is the shuffling of bodies and the grunts of those who struggle to lift them. For a large military force, I find it odd that the five of us commit to this act alone, especially when these men seem to be important and administrative in various ways.
Unsure of how I'd lift the heavier ones, I bite my lip and look to smaller, sagging forms; most of the children were in pieces and my head swims at the sight of a lone leg wrapped in a delicate linen legging. Mahanon pauses in the corner of my eye - and in my frozen state I expect rebuke for not moving immediately to help. I am grateful it never comes.
I run my hand over my face - gathering the steel and struggling against the pull to move towards the treeline. Taking several moments more to work the nerve, I pull on a pair of leather gloves. I lift the body of what looks to be a little girl and stamp away any memories of before, viciously and staunchly aware that emotional weakness in this moment is not warranted. I bite the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste copper, as I lay her down at the end. I hold my breath through it and each consecutive child.
As this continues, with each small sad shell, five of them at this point, I find myself veering closer to the edge that those monstrous things appeared. Until I am moving into it, no longer the pilot of my legs. Past the burnt wagons and dead elk-deer and into the thickness of the forest. I've lost the struggle.
I feel of two parts - myself and that space beyond, where this Hunger burns. I imagine what this sensation might look like, an invisible siphoning maw aching as it draws towards a need. To experience such a polarization of emotion and strained consciousness, I question if I'm having a psychotic break. It's likely.
It is not long before I hear my name called, in demand and distress. I want to cry back, to Varric, to Dorian, even to Mahanon or Solas. But that want pales in comparison to the other.
Another clearing isn't far off - that same harlequin green that taints the sky glows ahead. It's a pure shade until disturbed by two hulking towers that tread calmly, shimmering obelisks of blackened points. As they meld into view, their outline firms into nothing but sharp edges, points, and terror. They are monstrous, seven, eight feet tall? My head cranes back as I reach for them.
When they move forward, their strides are even and as long as I am tall. The ground shakes underneath their invisible weight. Cloaks of pitch whirl around them in smoking wisps. Despite being nightmarish wraiths, they are visions of precise confidence. The one closest flourishes its weapon and shield, it's armor keening in protest to movement as it drives an oily longsword into the ground. With a stiff thump, it falls to one knee. Underneath its helmet of sharpened flares is a pair of eyes that burn with heightened awareness.
A yell to stop rings from behind as I reach inside the creature's blackened helm, fingers nearly bursting in need. Light erupts the moment I touch what feels like bone and metal. I am granted that explosive, overwhelming relief.
I am blinded and so very, very content.
The cries of the group are louder now, but I can't find myself to stop as the the other armored goliath yet remains. It kneels too, sword shunted into the dirt and head bowed. The same red eyes pour out from behind its visor like molten stones. As the first, and as before, light erupts from the connection.
However, as the light fades the Hunger remains. Desperation tells me to gather any semblance of senses. Clamoring metal and bones shudder to the ground as the two armored giants shift and shudder apart at the seams. The first already lays in a strewn heap, bones jutting out of the armor in odd ways. The second figure's helmet remains in my hands, flecks of rust rough under my palms. A skull drops out the bottom as the rest of the body sinks in lost form.
Despite the crumpling wraiths, all I can bear to look towards is that green light. A window? A door?
My legs start to move again, towards that light until a violent grip rips me around. I stumble into Mahanon's shoulder - his face twisted and lined with rage and perplexion as he scans the fallen automatons. And then up, the green glow reflected in the spans of his eyes.
"Close the rift," someone bites out in restrained anger "Now!"
A hand grasps the back of my neck as Mahanon bolts in the direction of the light, leaping over the forest floor as if he were made of wind and not flesh. Dorian, with a staff drawn, follows like lightning. Somehow, the fingers that clamp at my neck bring a sense of clarity as well as pain. As I look again, the green light is several hundred feet away, half obscured by distance and the shadows of the forest's canopy. I could have sworn it was only a few steps away…
Mahanon, once near, stretches his magical palm far above his head. A tendril connects him to the larger light. It slams out of existence with such force a shock wave peels through the trees, sending him stumbling backwards. Dorian assists him upright.
The rush of wind and electricity crackle as it connects and I gasp at the wash of it.
Once that light is snuffed - that space beyond my parts becomes an unknown, empty place - aching, true relief. I draw in a hitching breath as the helmet in my hands slip, clanging to the ground against the second shifting bone and armor pile. Varric comes to stand in my line of vision. I twist, only slightly, to see Solas standing behind me. Despite how his nails sink into my skin, it is something else that holds his attention.
Several feet off are two figures. They stand against the trees of the forest and do not belong in the way I feel I do not belong. These figures, unlike the two from days ago, seem… more put together; easier to make out. As I regain what few bearings I have, I take in that they appear elven: tall with pointed ears. Ethereal. Their bodies are still somewhat transparent, trees and verdant green coloring their silhouettes.
In the next few moments, Solas rolls those lulling, intricate words that are not Trade in a taut tone. Still, despite underlying anger, he maintains politeness. Somehow, it sounds as if he is successful. The glowing figures respond in kind, their voices warbling soft. The space around them shifts, like the most minute scale of gravitational lensing I've ever seen.
Mahanon and Dorian return with a slow jog. Mahanon first stares at his palm before he, too, gapes at the mess and then the apparitions.
"What are they saying?" Varric presses, face pale despite his lively tan complexion.
"A moment, please," Solas' voice hitches in a faint, almost pained way. Perhaps he is not accustomed to confusion? I could give him pointers; I've been confused for months. Solas slips back into the other tongue; his native language? It pours from him far more naturally than Trade. As the figures speak, I attempt to duck out of his grasp to prove my lucidity. All this succeeds is his grip to tighten to one that is near bruising. I try not to wince.
The conversation lilts a few more strings until Solas exhales a great rush of air, his hand releasing my neck only to sweep across the dome of his head. The other plants itself on his hip and he turns away as if someone had slapped him.
The first apparition to have changed has slid within an arm's length, bending its tall body in a slight bow. Stunned, all I can do is watch as it straightens itself upright. In its chest small flecks of dust illuminate within themselves; contained inside of a translucent membrane?
It is too much to resist; I take this opportunity to reach out to feel its arm. It would have been kind to ask, but I blame curiosity and shell-shock. I am both surprised and not as my fingers pass through it - confirming its incorporeal form. I take to poking it slightly, each time my fingers passing through as if the thing were a scrap fabric floating on a liquid surface. The only way to feel that something was there to be touched was the cool burst against my finger tips.
The clearing of a throat, Dorian's maybe, hints that I should cease. I step back to observe the rest of it; it stands motionless, head tilted downwards. Given that it has no definable irises or pupils, I cannot see its stare but feel the mesmerizing weight of it. It dips his head in another gesture and while it possesses a mouth, it does not move as it speaks.
"Da'banal'ras tara sasha. Lin laim."it extends a diaphanous hand, fingers like spindles wafting against my forehead. The sensation causes that space beyond my parts, and the whole of me, to shiver. It withdraws to extend its palm instead. Unsure, I move to place my own over its in a gesture of good faith. Culturally, I've no idea what's to be expected but this seems like the right option. As our palms graze, it begins to dissipate.
Both do.
The other that stood silently watching speaks just before it dissolves into nothingness.
"Etha mar'lin, Telin'alin. Es'an harth i'tel'eolasa."With no tone or body language, I can make no guess as to what it meant.
"What did they say? My understanding of ancient Elvhen is not that deep," the sprawling silence was finally penetrated by Mahanon. His snarl had settled into a pointed sneer. "Is she some kind of demon?" I lock eyes with him - his anger is more than at me, but largely so. I'm able to gather that changing these things is bad.
"She is no demon , Inquisitor," Solas finally speaks, sounding thoroughly disgusted, and I look at him just in time to catch the roll of his eyes. "But they were corrupted. Desire and Pride. Were. Now, they've convalesced back to their baseline; Purpose and Wisdom."
"They can be switched back just like that?" Varric's expression opens wide as he begins to sift through the armor, pulling out jewelry and other items. Furrowing my brows, I ponder if right now is the best time to loot a monster's corpse. I see the others pay him no mind so I bend grab an ornate embroidered pouch from the second armor. Not interested in the contents much for myself, I side step to Varric, gently bumping it against his shoulder to gather his attention. I am accustomed to the strange looks he gives me and I nod to him as he finally takes it. Solas watches the exchange with tight lips before continuing.
"No, they do not often revert back with such ease, nor are they typically aware for it. Such as we fought the Revenant in the Fallow Mire, you've seen that it requires the destruction of their vessel to banish them. And how difficult it is to do so,"
"That sound, then? Perhaps that's it; I don't think it could be anything else," Dorian takes silk handkerchief he had used earlier to wipe his brow, stuffing it back in his side pocket. Worry does not suit him.
"I didn't feel anything," Varric pulls a necklace from out of the pouch I handed him but looks between Dorian and Solas instead.
"It is unlikely you would being a child of the stone. Given the nearly violent pressure exerted against the veil, and them, I doubt her awareness as well. How it is so constant... How she does not ever tire or reach a limit… I do not understand." Solas draws near, still pensive and shaken in someway.
"Hadn't we already decided she wasn't a mage? You know, able to touch raw lyrium? Immune to smite?" Mahanon also closes in, posture still in offensive.
"No standard civilian could convince a possessed vessel to relinquish their hold, let alone revert them back into their ancient primary state of being." Solas pauses as he folds his arms tightly over his chest, his nails digging into his upper arms as they had my neck. With his gaze cast at the ground, he continues. "Andromeda is capable of magic in some way. I sought for her magical center the day of our return. I am certain it is there, however hidden. Witnessing this only solidifies that,"
"Was that… In the Rotunda?" Dorian asks as Varric passes him the necklace he just unearthed.
"Yes," is all that Solas replies with. Whatever this means, it incenses something in the shorter elf.
"For what your infinite wisdom is worth, you didn't think to inform me?" Mahanon's eyes narrow to slits as the rivalry between them lay bare. Solas straightens his back to his full height, head tilting as his own eyes widen at what I assume must have been an insult. The sharp angle of his jaw clenches before he opens his mouth.
"Given the aversion of spirits and her obscurity in the Fade, I did not believe it a major risk. Is it so wrong to observe first instead of leaping head on into poorly made decisions?"
The snort of contempt signals the abrupt end of their sudden escalation; Mahanon throws one arm into the air, stomping north "Happy now that you've gotten a little look? Let's get back, we've bodies to burn," His black braid sways with every heavy tread of his boot.
It takes an hour after the heated situation to dissolve into one of bizarre unease. The rest quietly organizing the remains of the dead. Solas took to crafting a barricade of snow and water around the bodies while Dorian consumed them in fire - a massive cremation. Varric stands close as if I were about to run off again. If only I could laugh and tell him not to worry, that if I had a choice, I would have stayed in Skyhold. Away from death and demons and angry elven men. Men were typically things I've always stayed away from. Yet, here I am.
"Sorry," I apologize in Trade, at a loss of what else to say.
"You know, this would be a lot easier if you spoke anything recognizable. Or if we knew where you were from. I'd be thrilled if you spoke Qunlat at this point." He does not look to me but instead folds his thick arms over his chest, the grit of dirt under his boots. The flames of the bodies reflect in his eyes, the light flickering over his broad features. For the first time, Varric looks far older than I first assumed him to be. "You made your life a hell of a lot more complicated," it is a world weary look that he wears, one that I know well.
Though, I think we wear it differently.
It takes several hours for the flames to reduce the bodies down into an unrecognizable ash, the scent of it haunting. More magic is cast to bring down the flames, lest they grow beyond their purpose. Before preparing to leave, Mahanon picks a satchel from the ruined wagons and begins to stuff it with the red stones. Once finished, he ties it shut, jutting it to me for holding. As I slide it over my shoulder with my other pack, I watch him throw his gloves into what little remains of the burning embers.
We camp at the outskirts of the forest that night but I cannot sleep. Could not, with the smell of bodies burning so close by. Not with being so close by and experiencing… shape shifting spirits. I realize now that's what Solas meant; those are their fifth kind of people.
When the morning comes, we immediately set off, again stopping only once to rest and water the horses. It's well into the night upon our return. Skyhold filled with the same shadows and quiet as it had been when we left two days ago.
Had it really been only a week since I first left the keep?
Pulling up to the stables, each start to dismount. This time, I take Solas' offered hand. The drop shocks the balls of my feet, my inner thighs aching from straddling both the backside of a man and a horse. A guard or assistant begins to collect the rides, drawing them into the darkened corrals. Mahanon, after sparing a few hushed moments with the guards that met us at the gates, approaches with his hand extended. For the satchel, likely. I peel it from my shoulder to give it to him; Dorian, Solas, and Varric watch as he unties the leather straps.
A singular dry laugh escapes him as the soft glow of azure fans across his features - his sharp teeth illuminated.
"Shit," Varric has the long, lost look of defeat as he runs his palm over his mouth, clasping his jaw at the sight of the blue lyrium. He shakes his head, turning away from the stables and starts making his way to the hold without another word.
It is not long before I am escorted back to my bed by a guard, as well. Despite that it should come easy considering my fatigue, sleep is several hours off. I am unable to rid my mind of the smell of burning flesh and the space that lies beyond my parts.
Author's Note
Vixeona - I'm so glad it made your day better! Inquisitor Lavellan can be funny, but mostly he's just mean.
AngusKhan - YES, Filler/Relationship building. I want more of it to happen, but the stage needs to be set just right! Mahanon is DEFINITELY a butt, however him being a butt does make for good drama.
Little void stands alone. A thing lost.
"Da'banal'ras tara sasha. Lin laim."
Protect yourself, strange thing. They hear without knowing.
"Etha mar'lin, Telin'alin. Es'an harth i'tel eolasa."
It's hard for me to stay away from angst and arguments. I'm super eager to get to the point where Andromeda can communicate the way she would in her native tongue.
SO - Andra may or may not be a mage; maybe they just don't know what they're dealing with! Politically, if the Inquisition had a 'MacGuffin Super Person' that could cancel out corruption in multiple forms, that would spell a lot of trouble. Varric knows it, being a deshyr. Despite having a deep hatred for Red Lyrium, the current state of affairs does not warrant this to be a good thing.
Also, mild but very old spirits of purpose and wisdom - so old they remember things and sounds and songs.
But, yes! More knowledge, wheels in motion, fundamental differences of opinion between Solas & Inquisitor Mahanon. Andra's intense loneliness and disconnect from communication and a consistent way of life is getting heady. The inquisition has a purpose and everyone seems invested in it; but Andra's from a very different fishbowl with no concept of what they face despite being there for some time yet.