This Fear Shall Never Be

Her hair was unremarkable.

Not curly or voluminous enough to be defined as wild and interesting, nor silken and smooth enough to be beautiful by traditional standards (traditional meaning human—meaning, usually, Orlesian). Its dark brown colour was rich, but common. It tangled too easily, was a bother to care for, and typically sat with half of it pulled back in an assortment of plaits and braids, for practicality's sake.

She usually thought little about her hair.

That was not the case today.

Venara sat in the burnished brass tub, her arms locked around her knees, lukewarm water lapping at her sides. It had once been steaming hot, but it had cooled in the hour or so she had been sitting there, unmoving, eyes staring blankly ahead at the fire crackling in its hearth. The water carried the slightest pinkish tinge from where it had come in contact with the blood splattered across her body. And her hair…

Her hair was a snarled mess, soaked and matted with blood and other fluids she dare not think about lest she vomit.

Most of the blood was not her own. Physically, she was unscathed. The assassin who had been torn in two by her spell was not.

"Venara."

Solas stood at the top of the stairs, having entered her chambers through the door below moments before. She hadn't heard him open the door, he was just there—and she had felt the calming influence of his presence immediately.

Venara's arms tightened around her knees. "My hair," she murmured.

"I know."

"My hair…" A hand drifted to touch a loose braid, but jerked away as it came in contact with the knotted, sticky mess.

"I know." Solas knelt at the edge of the tub and gently enclosed her hand with his. "What can I do?"

Venara glanced at him, jaw set, eyes hard as flint. "Get rid of it."

And so she sat in the tub, arms still wrapped around herself, the hollowness that had followed the assassin's death threatening to engulf her. She gripped Solas' hand fiercely, even as he moved about her. He reheated the stone cold bath water with a gesture and picked up a cloth, wetting it and running it gently over her arms, chest and face, scrubbing away the blood that was stuck to her. The cloth was rough and itchy, but it did its job. As the blood washed away, her golden vallaslin emerged, the tattoos running from her face to her chest, arms and legs in elegant, delicate patterns.

Maybe someday she could feel like herself again…

Instead of the monster she had become.

"There is no shame in your actions," Solas said quietly as he wiped blood off her forehead. "He was sent to kill you. You protected yourself."

"I didn't just protect myself," Venara said hoarsely, eyes still boring into the flickering flames beyond. "I obliterated him."

"Your magic had… unexpected results, yes."

"Unexpected results?" Venara cried. She turned around with a surprising force. Solas dropped the cloth. It splashed into the stained water and sunk to the bottom. "You weren't there. You didn't see what I—" She stopped abruptly, shoulders sinking. "I killed him with a thought. It was that simple, and—and then there was nothing left of him but… And he…" She paused, taking a trembling breath. Beneath the water, her left hand—her markedhand—clenched into a fist. "There are some powers no mage should have."

"There are some powers—"

"The mark is turning me into something I never wanted to be," Venara said, seizing Solas' hand so tightly her fingernails dug into his skin. "And it terrifies me."

Solas clasped a hand to the side of her face, his eyes finding hers. "Then you stay on your path and you do not stray," he said, softly but seriously. "Only at the end will you find the peace you seek."

Venara nodded. She plunged a hand into the water and retrieved the cloth. As she wiped her brow and the back of her neck, she indulged in the feeling of being scrubbed clean—it was surprisingly soothing. The she reached back and began tugging at the mess of tangled braids and loose hair at the nape of her neck.

Solas' hands closed around hers. She let out a sigh and let her hands fall back into the water. She closed her eyes as he worked at her hair, long fingers pulling at the plaits, unbraiding them one by one, taking the time to comb out the matts and tangles without causing her pain. She leaned back with a trembling breath and let the water flow over her, soaking her head. Her ears filled with water and she heard nothing but the buzz of being beneath the surface as Solas' fingers ran through her hair, washing away the final vestiges of Venara's attacker and the memory of what her spell had done to him.

When Venara finally stepped out of the tub—skin pruned, but clean—and wrapped herself in a robe, she began to feel like herself again.

At any rate, she began to feel.

She and Solas sat before the fire, his arm around her shoulders and her head against his chest. They said nothing, for there was nothing more that needed to be said.

They remained there until the fire burned to embers.