10
The breath returned to her lungs with a raspy gasp that tore through the night. Etain's hands frantically fought off an unseen menace, an unintended burst of crackling electricity sheathing her fingers. Bewildered, her eyes snapped open, seeing nothing but the darkened recesses of her bedchamber. A second more and she may have set the canopy of her bed ablaze.
She sucked in the smoke filled air in desperate gulps, skin crawling and limbs shaking as if from climbing a mountain. Her guts twisted in anxiety, her spirit shaken to the core.
Not again. Her forehead dropped into her palms, fingers raking into her tousled hair. Her skin was dewy with a fear induced sweat, her nightgown sticking to her back.
It seemed the Well of Sorrows came with another unpredictable side effect; strange dreams of varying frequency and effect. Visions from eons apart would manifest in her dream state. Hardly were they her own memories, as if those were not enough. Some were simple glimpses of everyday life in some long gone hub of civilization, others were - in essence - lessons in forgotten arts. The worst of them were haunting memories.
Etain could recall most of the dream that had wakened her. Like the rest, it came in a patchwork of memories stitched together with no demarkation of a timeline. She saw it all as if through her own eyes, never seeing who she was in the dream.
A balmy summer night… the glow of lanterns sparsely lighting a secluded, silent courtyard. The sweet fragrance of the violet blooms speckled across the shrubbery permeated though to her soul, the soothing sounds of night lulling her into a trance. Mythal's marble statue stood vigilant, incense dissipating around her dragon form.
The serenity of the night shattered with a delay as she rounded the statue, fingers brushing the smooth marble. The glow of moonbeam hair, adorned with gold and jewels, cascaded over deep emerald silks, the color mimicking the hue of the most enrapturing green eyes any living being could have. She was nonpareil perfection, painfully beautiful. And she was dying, her own statue casting angled shadows over her gown.
Etain's throat seemed to clench shut with the mere memory. The distant whispers had not let up in her ears. She swallowed hard, the echoes of the visions replayed in her head.
Screams of terror toppled sudden battle cries in the nearest halls, Mythal's servants darted into the entrance courtyard in flashes of silk robes, their silhouettes soon followed by armored human intruders. Bolts of energy careened through the air and bathed the stone walkways in sprays of red. Sentinels rushed the piazza to meet the attackers. Snippets of Tevene stood out above the din of blades, shouts and cries. Etain's dream body acted out the memory; crouched, hands flew up behind her, drawing arcane daggers - versions of her own knight enchanter blade.
The fog of war twisted time and wreaked havoc on senses: shouts, screams, explosions, the crumbling of stone, the crackling groan of toppling trees, the reek of burning flesh and hair, blood, gore, the filth of death. Adrenaline pumped through blood like wild horses thundering across open fields.
Those who still could fled into the bowels of the temple, colossal doors screeching to a close. A few intruders filtered in, odds against them within the temple's walls. Those left on the outside resigned to their fate. Drawing on the last drops of mana, willpower, and invoking the name of every god that came to their lips, the remaining Sentinels redoubled their efforts to kill every last invader.
Indescribable fury, desperation, and fear subdued the overwhelming exhaustion weakening limbs, numbed what aught to have been excruciating and crippling injuries. The gods demanded a price for every lingering, wrathful breath, and every last sentinel paid the price with Tevinter blood. But for all their talents, they were only a few, outnumbered past their best abilities.
Her 'own' body moved with ferocity, disregarding the gashes across her ribs, burns along her armor, salty sweat and bitter blood on her tongue. Slash after slash, stab after stab, kick, duck - an endless, tireless onslaught of offensive and defensive maneuvers.
The chaos was so overwhelming, Etain could hardly recall any of the fighting, though her muscles seemed to have disagreed. Her mind lingered and reeled from the last few seconds of her nightmare.
No words existed in any language, dead or not, to describe with even half decent accuracy the chaos of it all: of the outright whirlwind of emotions and thoughts when faced with certain death. Nothing ever truly prepared one for the end, no matter how noble or resolute or fearless a warrior was.
The smell of her own flesh - at least in the dream - singed and burning, still tarried in her nose. Blood fizzed, the salty metallic taste curled her tongue. Eyes watered and stung from the smoke and heat. Pain ravaged her body, the worst from the laceration across her stomach. She dared not look down, but she could feel what exactly was protruding from the open gash each time she inhaled. She dredged up the last whispers of mana in her limbs. Her blood was her only source of power for a last ditch effort to save their legacy.
With a final inhale and a thousand thoughts and fears swirling in her mind, beginning to muddle with the unbearable pain, her fingers soaked themselves into the crimson spilling from the deep rent in her thigh. Lips muttered in a frantically as she backed against the door. Hands slapped against the portal, formidable energy slithered along the blood that began to crawl along the enchanted stone. Her life left her limbs, drop by cardinal drop following the ridges of the designs in the stone beneath her fingers. With an ear splitting burst, her vision faded, the barrier guarded the temple entrance, and the resulting shockwave knocked back the intruders.
And that was it. All that was left of that one person's life. An unnamed, chaotic memory.
Etain did not know what to make of her nightly visions. Sometimes the voices spoke, other times it was erratic memories such as the one that now had her hair standing on end, leaving her feeling things she had not brought onto herself.
But even that didn't eclipse the power of those dying viridescent eyes. Mythal. The ancient power that had made its presence all the more personal within the last few months. She was real. What - who - was she? If she had been slain, who could have possibly done such a thing? What manner of being was able to slay a goddess? What is she now? Is Flemeth merely a vessel for her spirit? Or simply an aspect of her? A memory? Flemeth had called her a wisp of an ancient being… how was Lavellan to know if that was a literal description?
She could scarcely finish one thought before another question over took it, followed by another, and another, until she seemed incapable of a single cohesive thought. Etain rubbed her eyes and pushed herself out of bed with a sniffle. Adding more fuel to the dwindling flames in the fire place, she turned to the endtable. Reluctant fingers pulled a small cup toward herself, the scraping echoed in the silence of the night. The cold seeping in through the windows urged her on; there, there, it will help you sleep, it will warm the chill from your veins, calm your spirit.
Deferring to the moonless night, her other hand popped off the top of a small, ornate crystal decanter. The port within held promises of a dreamless conclusion to the night. There aught to be a better way… She silently chided herself for the need to resort to spirits to keep herself together. But there isn't. None could know about this. She could not wander the castle, for she'd draw attention sooner or later. Writing down the thoughts was too risky, as was voicing them to another, no matter how trustworthy. None could know about the Well, much less its after effects. If word got out to the public, she'd be done for. "The Inquisitor crumbled from the weight of her duties, succumbing to wanderings of the mind, claiming to hear voices and see visions from servants to a heathen elven goddess…" I would be imprisoned, exiled, burned at the stake… if I am fortunate. More than likely the Chantry would make me Tranquil, and there would be naught Cassandra could do about it lest she ruin her rule as Divine.
With a sigh, Etain's hand tipped the decanter, pouring a generous ration into her glass. Josephine's favorite variety, the Nevarran port was strong and sweet, drawing heat into her limbs, the color lingering on her lips.
That is if there won't be more accomplished assassins sent to crumble the Inquisition from within. Perhaps add a bit of poison to my own cup. Useless as it was, she squinted at the wine in her cup as she tilted it to and fro. With a roll of her eyes, she downed the port and refilled the glass.
She was left to deal with it all on her own. After several months of regulating her musings and emotions, she reflexively ignored and pushed aside any semblance of a thought of Solas. Her initial despair at his rejection and his departure had morphed into something born of anger and the stubborn preservation of her own pride. She would not let herself wallow in grief over a man who left her so readily, without warning. She was not one to put any faith in an everlasting notion of love. To her, it was another adaptation of the mind, necessary for survival, of the individual, of the people as a whole. An infatuation that would pass, surely. Just like every time before.
There was hardly anything of substance to appeal to Etain when she had first met the apostate. At first glance, he was completely unremarkable. Unobtrusive. Had it not been for the circumstances of their meeting, she'd have labeled him unthreatening.
But everything about him was strange. His mannerisms, his clothes, his appearance. Her clan had a preference for longer hair - men and women alike. Even the warriors and hunters rarely opted for a short razor cut, opting for practical stylings instead. Sidecuts and pleated mohawks were the current favorite. So for the first while, it was odd for her to see the man deliberately choose baldness.
Accordingly - but foolishly - Etain expected a shy, stuttering book-worm of a man. Instead he quickly shut down her conniving and charm with a mentor-like tone and that trademark smile of a discerning, shrewd man. He truly was an odd creature: soft spoken, with a quiet air of a scholar, hiding behind the guise of subtlety and disinterest. But he saw every little move. Whatever nuances and wiles Lavellan had pulled to subtly twist the odds in her favor, he saw straight through them.
At some point, she let herself indulge in their connection. Perhaps because he saw Etain for who she was, what she was capable of, and yet didn't fear her. Didn't refrain from her as though she were an outcast or a holy vindicator. In reality, they were both strangers, so they had common ground to start with. Despite the loneliness, he did not throw himself at her. Nor did she. It was a competition of luring the other closer, seeing who would falter and yield first.
Yet he forfeited the game almost as soon as it began. While he was there, she'd had something to ground her and distract her. Now all that was left was emptiness. Nothing.
Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to be tranquil. Free from the whims of my heart, free from the burdens of the Inquisitor, free from the Well, free from it all.
Lavellan could hardly believe her own thoughts. You are losing it, Etain. It was in the past. No sense lingering there.
Another imprudent drink. Cup filled to the brim, she ambled over to her bed, climbing back onto the tangled blankets.
Unrestrained and urged on by the sweet burn of the port, her thoughts drifted to her heated argument with the Commander earlier that night. She wondered whether he was awake now, tormented by his own dreams. Maybe she was the tormentor.
At least he doesn't dream in centuries old memories, looking through the eyes of a being he'd never know or see.
Etain was still indignant over his outburst, uncharacteristic and uncalled for. Or perhaps it was? Maybe she had intruded and pushed too far. But neither could she have let herself stand by in silence.
She had never heard him so livid. She had never seen such dark fires blazing behind his amber eyes. Like looking into the eyes of a madman.
Cole's muddled insight picked at her mind. At first, she had written off Cullen's understated lingering looks as diligence - making sure she wasn't up to something. As they got to know each other better, and the Inquisition grew in consequence, those looks shifted into something of a protective instinct, checking she was in no immediate danger. And then… well. She was afraid to think of it.
Etain felt a newfound sense of reprimand for her actions early on. Her position was yet on shaky ground - a prisoner and murder suspect suddenly turned to vital cog in the Inquisition machine. She wasn't above using everything at her disposal to save her skin and secure some sort of meagre livelihood that went past the temporary tolerance of her existence in the little town of Haven. Gaining this fetching shemlen's trust seemed like an important stepping stone, considering his control of the armed forces. She succeeded in fostering a close friendship, and had quickly grown fond of the human. Etain fought with whether she regretted it all, for she cared for his wellbeing and sympathized with his plight. But that posed a multitude of unprecedented risks.
At least she had the sense to never entertain the thought of anything other than mutually beneficial cooperation and protection. It seemed he'd made the same decision long ago. But what Cole said had hinted otherwise. Blood and torn lips. Lavellan shuddered involuntarily. What her place in his mind had become, she did not dare think of.
Etain hadn't intended many things that happened on their own accord, it seemed. She had aimed to make a run for it the moment the opportunity presented itself, but the fact that the mark bestowed the welfare of half of Thedas on her stopped that thought before it even moved past prudent planning. She reminded herself to play the game well, play the caring, amiable do-gooder, all while keeping tabs on the shemlen, the foreigners. All while remaining unattached, remaining level headed and equitable, for everyone's sake. That turned out well. Lying to yourself is still lying, Lavellan, no matter how small the deception.
Her eyes drifted around the room, a spirit induced glint to their depths. She didn't wish for company, she didn't wish for affection, nor for a trustworthy soul to listen to her. For a brief moment she wished the walls would be gone, to be back beneath open skies, in the solitude of untamed forests, to be… her jaw tensed at the realization that she no longer knew where home was. With whom home was.
How right was she in her own outburst? How much longer would the Inquisition need her? And what then? Would she be sent to the new Circles? The College of Magi? What would life be like for the infamous Inquisitor upon her return to Clan Lavellan, if that were even permissible? How would the power balance shift among the Dalish, now apparently more or less settled around Wycome? Would they still treat her as Etain or as this estranged Inquisitor Lavellan, the "Herald of Andraste"? That'll to go ever well.
She brought the cup to her lips for another swig. A weak smile twitched the corners of her mouth upwards. Only the gods could have guessed who and what I would have become. By all rights I should have died a thousand times over, I should have died alongside my parents… Yet here I am… What would they say if they were alive?
Etain swirled the port in her cup appraisingly. If it is luck keeping me alive and fighting, it has to run out sooner or later, does it not? I just pray to the gods that whenever it does, let it be quick. Preferably before I lose my mind and go off chasing ghosts.
By the time her glass was drained, the warm embrace of alcohol induced calm leadened her eyes. Her lids heavy, she set the glass on the bedside table and slithered down under her blankets, curling into a dead sleep brought on by mental exhaustion and the vintage port.
"How are you feeling, sweet Nightingale?" Dorian asked, lazily strolling toward the spymaster brooding in the murky rookery. Inquisitor Lavellan arrived at the top of the stairs behind him, thick hair gathered into a simple knot at the back of her head, her typically expressive eyes temporarily lackluster.
Leliana glanced past a stray thread of hair at her guests. She sat in her usual garb, fully recovered from her ordeal. Physically recovered, at least. Eyes blue as crashing ocean waves instinctively scrutinized them. A soul of a sergeant dwelled inside the songbird of a woman, and she dropped the parchment in her fingers.
"Surprised. Angry. Embarrassed. Ashamed." She leaned back in her chair, legs crossed, tone strict and harboring a chill. "A bit of it all, I suppose."
"This was a threat that slipped by the Inquisition as a whole." Etain stopped alongside the Tevinter mage. She looked tired.
Leliana sighed, curbing the urge to dispute her fault as the spymaster further. "Be it a little luck sent by Blessed Andraste… or some fortunate fluke, I yet live, wise to the threat. And no such attempt shall happen again."
"I do not think we afford relying on luck or divine intervention." Etain leaned back against the balustrade, hands gripping the railing. "Have your agents found anything?"
"No one had left the keep within three days of the incident. Either the wine had been poisoned and stored beforehand, or the perpetrators are one of our own, or our guests… I have narrowed down the suspects, and my agents are clandestinely apprehending them as we speak. I shall have an answer shortly. "
Etain nodded, the corners of her mouth pulled taut. "I have a nagging suspicion that this is tied to whatever is happening in the royal palace in Orlais…"
"You and I both, Inquisitor. Seems only logical…" Leliana's coppery brow pinched ever so upwards as she ran her index finger along the line of her lower lip. She waited for Lavellan to delineate her thoughts, eager to compare theories.
"If it is the Magisterium behind this all, not some disgruntled noble… it is a brash move. We had brokered a peace treaty between Ferelden and Orlais… Wouldn't they want a divided front across the board?"
Dorian caught on to what Etain was thinking. "Why not frame the Orlesians? Well… What would be the point of such toilsome effort to create a convincing farce? They would face the armies of the Inquisition and Orlais regardless. Neither we, nor Orlais could not stand idly by for the Imperium to come and do as they please. They know that as well as anyone else. There is no other option aside from cooperation against a common threat."
"Perhaps." Lavellan shrugged. "Or they want to sow the seeds of dissent and all they have to do is wait for the disbanding of the Inquisition or open confrontation between our forces. A far stretch, yes, considering all that would require - breaking our fresh ties with the Chantry, the trade agreements, the intelligence network, political alliances across half of Thedas… "
"In either case the prudent thing for us to do would be to remain unaffected. Feign ignorance. Word cannot return to Tevinter about the extent of our knowledge - let them think the assassination was a failed attempt. The maidservant drank the wine instead of me. No one knows the poison was of Tevinter origin. We shall see whether or not another attempt will be made, giving us all the confirmation we need."
"Surely you don't assume the magisterium to be daft enough to send more poison? They're slightly more creative than that." Dorian cocked his head to the side and folded his arms.
Leliana's irritation was only revealed by a subtle narrowing of her eyes. "In which case, we will be prepared for anything, and will be surveilling threats of every nature we possibly can.
"Which brings me to my next suggestion, Inquisitor. You may want to consider expediting your sortie into the Frostback Basin. Set out within a day or so. If the assassins have escaped, they would know nothing of your plans to set out so much sooner than planned. And they would logically head the opposite direction, instead of into the primeval wilds of the Basin. If they catch wind of your venture, they would have to face you head on. In which case you would have the advantage."
Lavellan wasn't so sure. "And if they are still within our walls?"
"They would not risk sending word now, with the severe restrictions and patrol of the castle. No bird leaves without my consent. Only my crows are to be used for communication. Any stray messenger birds leaving the keep will be shot down… poor things. Though we cannot allow any slip-ups." Blue eyes turned on Dorian, yet she continued to speak to Lavellan. "I trust you see the virtue of keeping our dear Altus by your side?"
"I don't think I'd be much of a cultural safety cushion there…" The mage in question showed a paltry degree of enthusiasm about the inevitable excursion. He sighed as if facing a walk to the gallows. "Would it at least be balmier in this Basin? I'd love a chance to thaw my wits out."
"May as well bring silk summer robes." Lavellan murmured with inattentive sarcasm, watching Leliana's eyes drift back towards the formidable pile parchments on the table.
"If there is nothing else to discuss at the moment…" Etain pushed herself off the railing.
"I believe that was all I could think of for now, Inquisitor. I shall send for you once I have more information." The spymaster nodded in affirmation. "Consider my suggestions… Set out in a day or two. Do what you must in the Basin, return safely to Skyhold. Perhaps, by then this little quandary will be cleared up."
"I most certainly hope so… I'll let you get back to it then. Stay warm."
Lavellan's light steps echoed in the winding stairwell, trailed by Dorian's more assured and planted stride. Etain felt a warm hand grip her elbow and pull her aside into one of the darkened library nook.
"Hope you're not in a hurry." He muttered, turning Lavellan to face him in the dimly lit alcove. The torchlight caressed his striking features, glinting off his hazel eyes. "But there's something that has been eating away at me."
She glanced him over, as if gauging his emotional state and just how 'eaten away' he looked. Seeing little amiss, she nodded. "Alright, I'm listening."
"Perhaps you remember our little chat a few months ago-" He paused, eyes skimming over the shelves and structural attributes of the quiet alcove. "In an eerily similar location and situation - by the Maker, do we always whisper secretively in the library? How trite…"
Etain's eyebrow tugged upwards and she smiled. "Oh? Dim corners of the library not to your liking? Well perhaps we can whisper our damning secrets in the prayer room…"
"Yes, and you can leave me with a hesitant touch, a forlorn look in your eye and a heart heavy sigh." He crossed his arms and murmured sarcastically. "I can gaze upon you with the look of a lost puppy plastered on my face, for I hate to see you go, but enjoy watching you leave."
Lavellan stifled a snort of laughter. "I'll make sure to drag you to secretive places with all too many over-the-shoulder glances and batting eye lashes when it's my turn to reveal some dark secret of mine. Now, quit stalling and spill it already."
"Yes, well… I've thought more on what I said - on returning to Tevinter. Trekking into the depths of all those elven ruins with you had sparked some sort of flame in me. A hope that my homeland can atone for the past, help restore what was, to change their ways."
The levity lighting up Lavellan's cheeks dimmed slightly, her mind once again brought to more serious matters, and to the possibility of saying goodbye to her best friend.
"Oh." It was all she had managed to say, her mind processing all that those short few sentences foreshadowed.
"I won't leave just yet," Dorian shook his head. "I don't really even have a plan… Where would I even start? What would I use as proof, as part of my argument, what will change minds that are unwilling to do so?"
He didn't expect Lavellan to have an answer for him, all he wanted was her support. "But it's a step. If anyone could incite a change, who better than I? With everything I've learned with you, from you, who is better armed for such an undertaking?"
"There would be no one better… And with your impeccable charm, they wouldn't stand a chance." Lavellan's tone was cordial, but with a bittersweet note. "And you can always hire Bull as your body guard."
Oddly enough, Dorian didn't find her joke all that humorous. A tense, taut smile lingered on his face, accompanied by a flush in the apples of his cheeks.
"Aah…" A knowing hushed voice didn't say anything else as Etain realized she found a sore spot. Curiosity egged her to inquire further, but she elected against it. "Well, perhaps once we return from the Basin, we can come up with a more concrete plan, assign an Inquisition escort, ensure a safe passage home for you, set up a supply and resource network if needed."
"Thank you, Lavellan." The phrase hung in the air like a reluctant goodbye. "Truly. It's been an honor. This is the least I can do."
"Stop. You're speaking as if you are leaving to the ends of the earth right this minute. I'm not done with you yet."
"Treat me to a lavish dinner first." He purred playfully, arms still folded over his chest, mischief back in his eyes. Lavellan smirked in response, noting her friend's brightened mood - despite the earlier conversation. He seemed to be dealing better with Bull's attentions.
"I think there is another who would rather do that." She whispered devilishly.
"I don't pry into your … dalliances, Lavellan." Indignation cooled his tone.
"Had I any."
"Oh? Didn't peg you for the not-going-to-move on type, so must be a lack of effort on your part."
The teasing leer grew momentarily forced across the elf's face, yet she didn't show any emotion. Move on from what? Constant hesitation, some stolen kisses in the night, lovers' gazes and sweet words hiding non-commitment? Hardly even a dalliance. Hardly… anything.
She forced a most convincing wicked smile and turned to leave with a smoldering rearward glance. "Maybe I'm just picky… Besides, I've got more important things to do with my time… Like find said lavish dinner. Coming?"
"How could I not with you looking like that?" With a lazy step forward, Dorian followed his elven friend down into the main hall, a weight lifted from his shoulders. Whenever it would be time to depart for home, it wouldn't be without the Inquisitor's blessing and best wishes. He wavered as to what to do with the Qunari's interests. Either way, indulge in the opportunity or shut it down, there was no avoiding it any longer.
Vivacity aside, a darkness crept through Etain's veins, tugging lightly at her wellbeing. Her nerves still fizzled from the altercation with Cullen, from the incandescent look in his eyes, from the venom of his words.
Then there were the nightmares, which were unsettling, to say the least. They blurred her focus from the growing issue at hand: the shaky power struggles raking through Thedas. The excursion into the Basin was a welcome escape from the stone walls of the keep and a momentary break from the Game. Yet Lavellan couldn't shake the nagging feeling somewhere deep in her gut that this would be the calm before the storm. Whatever it was, it would await her upon her return.