A week passed, full of clear winter days and frozen cloudless nights. Evelyn Trevelyan did not darken his doorway again, preferring instead polite greetings in the comfortable and safe presence of others; the occasional raised hand of acknowledgment from a distance. Something was shifting deep between them, that much was certain. This would inevitably come to a head, and he was wondering more than ever if he felt still himself capable of what he needed to do. If he would be able to resist the temptation of her touch. If she would ever offer that. Sometimes he still felt as if he were deluding himself with these thoughts of her intentions, her feelings. Other times, late at night in his cot, he felt almost certain that something simmered there for her, beneath the surface. Something he could find warm solace in, were he willing to allow his own deep-seeded feelings to rise. As if he were a person who could give in to such idle whims; such flights of fancy. As if his intentions and thoughts could be so focused on another, and not the grander purpose of his awakening.
This stalemate continued until the day of the Great Sealing. Solas led the mages The breach glowed angry and green, crackling in the sky, a bolt of lightning that never faded from view. If you knew not what it represented, what it meant to the world below, you might find it beautiful; a Borealis cut into the fabric of the heavens, rivaling at times the sun, the stars and moon. Today, Evelyn stared at this wonder. Solas stood beside her, following her gaze. "Will this work?" she asked faintly. "Are we ready?"
"The mages are ready, Herald. Nerves and fear of failure hold them back now. Nerves and fear only you can quiet." He heaved a heavy sigh. "I wish I knew for certain that your attempt would be successful, however, I can only theorize. I do, regardless, believe our chances good."
She turned her hand over, staring at the green ripple across her palm. "And then will this be gone? Do you think it will disappear or..." she trailed off, the unasked question darkening her stare.
He took her hand in his, pretending not to notice the way she flinched when he did so; trying not to interpret the possible reasons, good or bad, that she might have reacted in that way. "I believe this mark, while gifted to you as a result of the Breach's creation, is not necessarily so tied to it that it will simply disappear the moment the Breach is sealed." He turned her hand over slowly, feeling the anchor sear his flesh with its icy flame. "We will deal with the hows and whens of removing it after you have dealt with the present problem." He dropped her hand then, returning his attention to the scar in the sky, unnerved by the way her eyes remained focused on his face.
The clouds above the Temple of Sacred Ashes swirled green and white, crackling in time with the electric flame from her palm. Solas watched as she moved her hand in time with the throb, fingers extending, then curling back inward. The gathered masses shifted nervously as she moved, and Solas felt his own throat constrict with nervous fear. She had to accomplish this. Closing the breach was the first step in defeating Corypheus, and defeating Corypheus was the first step in unlocking the Orb. Unlocking the Orb was the final step in this Act, and then he could finally begin the next.
The Herald of Andraste was a necessary piece of this puzzle. He had come to hope that she was not destroyed by this closing. Her destruction would prove most inconvenient for a number of reasons: she would be unable to assist with any remaining rifts that remained open, she would be unable to restore her power to the Orb and assist in its final unlocking, and there was that bit that was most inconvenient of all.
He was most inconveniently in love with her.
Solas shoved that feeling down deep in the pit of his stomach, ignoring the way the thought of her death made him want to vomit and sob at the same time. With his staff raised, he called to the mages on the balcony above to prepare themselves, to focus. Focus everything on the Herald. As if he'd be able to focus on anything else. Their energies funneled through his own, he allowed the magicks to wash over him, through him. Focus, pull, exhale, release. He felt the energy leave through his fingers and slumped forward against the staff he'd driven into the ground before him. The bright stream flowed around her, gathering at the point in her palm as she released the rift's power into the breach above. There was a great rushing of wind and then a large boom of pressure that knocked everyone backward several feet.
He rose into a crouch, hearing the others scrabble to find their footing as the dust settled around them. The cry rose first from those on the upper levels; the sound of victory and relief exclaimed by one, and then many. His own voice silent, he squinted until he made out her form, sitting upright on the ground a good hundred paces from him. She reclined back on her right hand, her left still glowing as it rested, arm folded across one raised knee. Then she turned and her soot-stained face was one of triumph. His heart swelled and he rose to his feet in time to watch the others crush past him, rushing to her side. He saw Dorian at the edge of the throng, mocking him with a knowing smile. Solas stepped backward, remembering himself. Hang back, elf. Your eagerness will betray you, in more ways than one.
Haven was already at full celebration when he returned, the people drinking and dancing in the open, screaming greetings at those who made their way through the gates. Tonight would be a night to remember, one they would carry with them during the harder parts of what was to come. Solas pushed through the merriment, thankful that the alchemist was already joining in the revelry. He swept the already-bound packet of writings into his pack, tying off two rough-woven blankets at the base before he dropped it beside his door. Once he had wiped the grime from his face and hands, he returned to the celebration's hub in front of the Chantry doors and saw Evelyn standing alone. Not wanting to seem antisocial, he grabbed a cup on his way to where the Herald waited, finally apart from her advisers and that irksome Tevinter mage. "You've done well," he said as he sidled up next to her. "Their faith in you is well-placed, Herald."
"Is it?" her voice was thick. "I still don't entirely understand how I managed to do this. It's a problem I can't simply stick a blade in, or shove away with brute force, and therefore not one I've been trained to manage. This ability I've acquired feels like magic, yet you remind me I am no mage. So how is their faith so well-placed? How am I anything more than a story, propped up on divine expectations I can't deliver? Everything that has happened to me, everything that continues to happen, is all an accident. I feel less like a hero and more like a weapon. Used by forces I can't see."
"Isn't that the way of your Maker? Perhaps this is exactly how Andraste felt, and the stories we hear are only the pretty parts. Perhaps this is just how the story goes for everyone who has ever been called 'hero.'"
"Perhaps the stories are all lies." She smiled sardonically. "Or perhaps I am just too tired, and a little drunk. I assure you I'm usually much more fun at parties."
The laugh stuck in his throat, the hand that was lifting the cup frozen halfway to his mouth, as he noticed the glinting in the distance. There, coming down the mountainside, was a force the dwarfed the Inquisition's meager army by tenfold. It swarmed down the pass, the lights of the gathered torches merging into one river of fire that poured toward them at an alarming speed. The first cries came up from the gates. The guards at the towers to the west sounded the alarm. Solas crouched, placing the cup on the ground. It was a futile gesture, an attempt to keep it from spilling and making a sticky mess on the ground. This ground would see far worse than wine before the night was through.
He watched her move from his side, their conversation completely forgotten. "Something is trying to get through the gates!" The cry came from a panicked soldier, running toward them. Grimes, that was his name. He was barely seventeen summers when he came to the Inquisition's doors, pleading for a position after his family burned in the mage rebellion. Solas saw the fear in the boy's eyes and his stomach became a stone. Many would die this night. He hoped Evelyn was prepared for the number that would fight and fall in her name. Making his way down the stairs he saw she was well ahead of him, standing with an unfamiliar figure who was dressed like a scarecrow. The boy looked up then, eyes wide and staring, pale and gaunt. The force of the stare hit him in a scattering of words, ancient and forgotten, whispering in his ears. Solas felt the pushback as he fought to remove the sudden intrusion in his mind, watching the boy inhale sharply in response. Then he saw the figure on the hill, towering above the others, the familiar form like a cold knife in his belly.
Still unsettled by the boy who had attempted to read his thoughts, Solas warily followed the small procession that attempted to secure the trebuchets. She moved as deftly as ever, dispatching the red-tinged forces adeptly and efficiently. He found most of his defensive spells completely unnecessary in the wake of her elegant destruction, landing most of his wards moments after she had already dispatched her latest attacker. They came in waves, relentless, each pause allowing her to secure their machines of war with the same finesse and focus she applied to her weapon-wielding. The last machine clicked into place, volleying a stone that unleashed an avalanche on the mountainside. The torches went out, the cry rose from the troops of Haven. And then, just as hope had begun to flare anew, the roar that shook the teeth and loosened the guts of every man and woman within earshot.
You feel a dragon before you see it, the deep rumble of primal fear preceding any wyrm shadow circling on the ground. The men began to run before they were fully sure what they ran from, and Evelyn followed, attempting to keep her charges safe, protected; pausing only to help those who had become trapped or had fallen as they hurried back to the safety of the Chantry.
Inside they found the survivors of the devastation. Wounded, dirty, and afraid, what remained of Haven limped and worried, looking to their Herald and Commander for direction. Solas skulked into the shadows, attempting to eavesdrop on their plan of attack when he heard the harsh whisper. "But what of your plan of escape?" Cullen's question was met with only silence; it was a type of silence that felt like an answer. As she pushed away from the group, he fell into step beside her, glancing at her sideways as they walked.
"So is this to be your great martyrdom?" he fought to keep the anger from his voice. "I might remind you that you still have men able and ready to fight. Why must you be the one to provide the distraction?"
"I'm the one he wants," she responded simply. "If this is the way this whole damned horror ends, then let it end with me."
He gripped her by the upper arm. "And what of the Inquisition then? You gave them a central purpose they previously lacked."
"Let me go, Solas." Evelyn jerked her arm away, striding back toward the Chantry doors. Solas paused for a moment, then hurried behind.
"I will not leave you to face a dragon alone, Herald," he said in the most matter-of-fact tone he could muster. "Not when I might prove useful."
It was that damnable former Templar who ultimately stopped him. Commander Cullen Rutherford, resplendent in his fine armor, freshly hewn blade hanging at his side, strode confidently to where Solas wavered in the door. He had every intention to follow, to shove his way through the red templars and fight and die at her side if needed.
"She is strong," Cullen said, not attempting to mask the admiration in his voice. "She will be fine. We need you to help with the others. We will need you to provide a signal of some kind when we're through." Commanded, then, like any other of the rank. Solas was relegated to the position of troop, footman, underling. Commander Cullen stood in the doorway in his place, watching Evelyn Trevelyan, The Herald of Andraste, march toward a near-certain doom. If she looked back, one last gaze at the Chantry before she descended, it would be Cullen she saw, gazing back at her.
A hand on his chest then, one of Leliana's men handing him a small pack. "Supplies. None of us had time to properly gather up our things."
Solas thought guiltily of the well-packed rucksack that hung on his own back. He had taken the liberty of squirreling away some key tinctures, two books he knew he could not replace, his journals, his notes. "Of course," he said with a small smile. "Thank you."
The path of penance was barely visible, so thick was the covering of snow. The Chancellor's memory held, however, and they were able to plod their way down the other side of the hill that Haven straddled, a silent stream of battered and weary survivors, anxious for safety and rest. The fires of Haven were a dim orange glow before Cullen halted their progression, nodding to Solas. "Give the signal."
A shooting star, glowing red, released from his palm into the cold night. It hovered in the air, high enough for her to see before dissolving into a shower of sparks.
"Flames match the fires that burn deep in his chest. 'See, survive, follow. Find me and I will say the words out loud.'" Solas startled. He had nearly forgotten about the strange boy from the castle gates.
Cassandra looked equally surprised to find the boy still within their ranks, but her surprise gave way easily and swiftly to irritation. "What are you talking about? What words?"
The boy raised his face, eyes catching the last glints of red flame before they were lost to the cold and released a whisper-hiss. "Vhenan."