.21.

-The moon's path-

.x.

"Our time together is nearly at an end."

Boone didn't look at Geldauran, didn't need to. She knew what expression he wore. It was the same he'd been wearing for the last two days, one of mingled resignation and barely-bridled anger. Despite his resolve to meet his end in a manner befitting who he was and who he had been, despite his intentions to ensure that his death—and hers—would be yet another blow struck against his enemy, it seemed he was not immune to the stresses of persistent pursuit. His restraint, impressive and ever-present, was finally beginning to erode. What lay simmering beneath was even more terrifying, a man whose fury and resentment held depths beyond comprehension.

Seated astride his gelding, the last Evanuris reached for her. He did that often of late, running his fingers along the lines of her vallaslin almost as though it soothed him. Perhaps it did, though she was also certain he did it because of how thoroughly it unnerved her. Her head had been freshly shaved the night previous in preparation for what was coming. Geldauran wanted her marks to be as visible as possible once Solas finally found them. Boone did not bother to twist her head aside and instead endured his touch, staring straight ahead, fingers clenched tight around Hob's reins. There was no point in struggling any longer.

She had no idea if her lack of reaction bothered him. Maybe, maybe not. He had always been difficult to read. He was a dichotomy, both unbounded and controlled, a conflicting mix that had made him dangerous before and deadlier now. The day prior, after yet another rear scouting group failed to return, she'd witnessed him fly into such a rage that even his own people had withdrawn somewhat. Sword in hand, he'd rounded on a nearby tethered horse, one appropriated from the last village massacred. With four mighty blows he'd nearly severed its head from its neck. It had toppled to the ground with such an awful noise that beneath Boone, Hob had shied backward in a panic. Geldauran wrenched his sword free with a spray of blood, wheeled around, and hurled it at a nearby tree. In the anticipatory stillness that had fallen, the only sound was that of the Evanuris' rapid breathing as he stood where he was, head bowed. All the Mien'Harel—and Boone—waited until finally he stirred, striding to the tree and pulling his blade free with a grunt. He turned to address them all.

"Var melana sahlin," he said, and there was an aberrant brittle quality to his voice, one that Boone had never heard before. "Vir sumeil dinal."

Whatever his words, they had the immediate effect of prodding the Mien'Harel into action. The ranks fell into line, those mounted taking point while those on foot quickly followed. Boone held Hob back for reasons she didn't entirely understand, gaze fixed on the Evanuris. Sword once again sheathed in the scabbard across his back, he ran both hands over his face and through the loose lengths of his hair, pushing them back. He turned, catching Boone watching him, and he held her gaze with his own for a span of several heartbeats before looking away. She inhaled deeply, shaken because of the violence she'd just witnessed, shaken because she was certain he had not intended to lose control in that manner, shaken because she knew it would happen again soon.

That was what she thought of now as his fingertips traced the delicate lines of the vallaslin across her skull, of how easily and quickly he had slain the horse, of how easily and quickly he could do the same to her. Would do the same to her, she amended silently, with resignation and a pang of fear. The end was nearing, an end she welcomed but not entirely. Not completely. A very small, flickering part of her hoped against hope for a chance to live, hoped that there was still reason to live.

"Tomorrow," Geldauran told her. His hand fell, settling on her shoulder. She did turn her head to look at him then, to see his face rendered unfamiliar by lines of tension and strain, pale eyes darkened by shadows both within and without.

"I know," she responded, voice hoarse. It had been many hours, perhaps days, since she'd last spoken.

"So brave," he said, gently mocking. "You show no fear on the eve of your death."

"Not bravery," she corrected him tiredly, with a tinge of unwise impatience, "not from me, never from me."

"Acceptance," he murmured a moment later, removing his hand.

She nodded, in odd agreement with him for once. "Acceptance."

They studied each other, motionless and unspeaking, a peculiar and very temporary rapport engendered from all the terrible things he had done and intended to do. She blinked once, twice, and the moment passed. He heeled his horse into movement, reaching out to snag Hob's reins as he did so.

"We must keep riding," he instructed her as he pulled her along, "until we are found. Fen'Harel will work for this."

Boone said nothing.

.x.

They rode and did not stop, a hard pace that took them through grasslands and then through forested hills. Exhausted horses were left behind, riders doubling up even though it would tire the remaining mounts faster. It no longer mattered. The entirety of the Mien'Harel were riding to their death. None strayed that Boone could see, something that surprised her. She had thought at least some among their number would choose life, but then again, what life remained for them? They would forever be hunted, forever be fugitives. If captured they faced imprisonment, possibly, but most likely death. Most of them had existed for thousands of years sealed behind the Veil just as their king had and like him, were determined to make their demise one of their choosing. As for the others, those elvhen from modern Thedas—Boone could not hope to guess their reasoning beyond frightened determination and a desperate desire to avoid being left behind.

Late in the afternoon Hob began to tire. She had known he would eventually, was impressed he endured as long as he had. He was no courser meant for endurance rides—he was a draft horse, meant for plow and wagon, mild tempered and soft-eyed. Though it broke what fragments were left of her heart she chose to leave him behind, slowing him to a walk before sliding off. She slapped him hard on the rump once and then again with a yell when he merely trotted a few feet before coming to a halt. She stooped to pick up a large pine cone and hurled it at him. It struck him on the withers and he bolted with an indignant toss of his head. Boone breathed a sigh of relief. He had not yet been run into exhaustion, would not collapse winded to become bait for whatever predators roamed nearby. She half-feared this small act of rebellion would seal Hob's death, for Geldauran slowed his mount to circle around Boone, his gaze fixed on her retreating horse. He could very easily direct his archers to task and she waited to see what verdict he would give. He chose mercy, halting his horse next to her and simply holding out his hand. She took it and he hauled her up behind him. She laid her hands flat on the gelding's sweat-lathered rump, bracing as Geldauran spurred him into a canter.

Afternoon bled into dusk, time measured by the strides of the horse, by the jingling sound of bridles and martingales. Boone's weariness was soul-deep but she could find no respite, could not slip into the light doze that traveled veterans could achieve while in the saddle. The pace was too fast and jarring, her thoughts swirling with dismay and dread and an expectation that bordered on relief. It felt wrong to embrace that relief, to even acknowledge it and so she didn't, not yet. She would save that for her last moments, when whatever she felt could no longer be right or wrong.

Moonlight soon dappled their path as they traversed rocky hillsides decorated here and there with small patches of hardy, early spring wildflowers. It was a beautiful night, the air crisp and chill, the lambent stars reigning in a cloudless sky. It brought tears to her eyes, a silly, insignificant thing that she clung to because there was nothing else. Solas was near. Solas would find them, but Geldauran would not let her live beyond that. In pursuing them Solas drove her ever closer to her own death, yet another thing that would torture him for the rest of his days. The Evanuris, bereft of his immortality and power, ruler only over a small band of renegades, had still managed to devise a thorough and merciless downfall for his enemy.

Hours passed. Horses stumbled and fell and were left behind. Those elvhen without mounts persisted onward, attempting to keep pace with the riders, catching rides if they were able. They had been traveling with hardly any pause for almost three days and the toll it demanded would no longer be kept at bay. As dawn approached the sounds of battle became audible, shouts rising from behind them. In front of Boone, Geldauran stiffened, pulling his mount to a halt and turning his head to better listen. Those pursuing had finally caught up with the straggling members of the Mien'Harel. Observing him in profile she watched as his lips thinned, as his eyes narrowed, as they flicked sideways to focus upon her.

"It is nearly time," he warned her, twisting back around in the saddle and kicking his exhausted mount into a flat out gallop. The Mien'Harel followed suit, broken ranks on wearied horses streaming haphazardly across the plains. The shouting became more intense, more frequent, and Boone was nearly thrown as Geldauran's horse swerved abruptly to the right. Instinct had her clutching at the Evanuris in order to maintain her seat; a moment later she yanked her hands away. She caught sight of flashing blades off to one side, two riders engaged in combat. They had been found. Hope flared within her, sudden and desperate, and nearly unthinking she threw herself from the horse. She hit hard, tucking into a protective ball and rolling over rocky, uneven ground. What pained cries she made were lost in the cacophony of battle as soldiers bearing the gleaming golden symbol of the Elvhenan swept through the Mien'Harel. Horses galloped and reared and charged around Boone, their riders' weapons reflecting moonlight in blinding flashes. She scrambled to her feet, looking frantically for Solas, for Abelas, for any face she could recognize that might recognize her in return. There was only frenzied chaos and she spun around, darting to the side to avoid being struck by a body falling from its mount.

"Solas!" she screamed, a raw, wild sound that rose only to be lost in the clamor. She did it again, an unavailing plea that ended in a startled shout as something collided with her from behind.

"No, no, no," Geldauran panted in her ear, snaking one arm around her neck, his weight pinning her to the ground. She fought to buck him off, a tactic he thwarted simply by pressing his arm more firmly against her windpipe. He transitioned to his knees, pulling her with him, and she grasped at the length of his forearm in an attempt to loosen his grip. He began to haul her backward with him, pushing with his legs while she kicked fruitlessly at him with hers. His stranglehold tautened the more she fought. "I thought," he whispered chidingly, the sound somehow so loud despite the ruckus surrounding them, "that we had an understanding. You and I, Evelyn, we die together. We die together and he will watch."

The battle was moving, she realized with dismay, the forces united under Solas focused on running down the Mien'Harel. So firm was Geldauran's hold she had no chance of dislodging him, so instead she reached up and behind, clawing blindly at his face. He hissed as her nails drew blood, jerking his head back, choke hold loosening just enough that she was able to sink her teeth into the meat just above his wrist. She did so savagely, furiously, ripping skin and tasting blood and experiencing a surge of primal satisfaction at the sound he made. He shoved her away so that she was sent sprawling across the ground; she rolled up onto her knees as he got to his feet, lunging in her direction.

"Solas!" she screamed again, getting up and backing away from Geldauran. There were two gashes across his brow, the blood from them smeared into his hairline and painting lines down his cheek. The bite she'd given him bled too, droplets spattering across the ground. His expression was curiously and terrifyingly blank, so to his eyes, and she swallowed hard to see that in his uninjured hand he held his sword. Boone whirled and ran. She made it only a few strides before Geldauran tackled her. She fought as she had before, so ferociously that everything blurred, determined to make him suffer. She was on her feet somehow, and he was in front of her, his fingers now wrapped around her throat and squeezing hard.

He let her go suddenly, ripped away by somebody else. She reeled, hands flying to her throat, and watched as a soldier bearing the arms of Fereldan shoved him away. The Evanuris stumbled, nearly dropping his sword, but recovered quickly. He spun around with a sound very much like a snarl, lifting his blade, eyes darting between Boone and the soldier.

"Surrender," the soldier ordered, positioning himself in front of Boone.

Geldauran's smile was a feral baring of teeth. He launched himself forward, blade raised, and the soldier met his his lunge. Despite the violence and cruelty he commanded, Boone had never actually seen him in combat. It was not surprising to see that he moved with the assurance of one not only familiar with combat, but who genuinely enjoyed it. He parried easily, his own strikes rapid and inerrant, battering against the soldier's defenses.

"Lady Trevelyan," said a voice, and Boone whirled around to find another human soldier bearing sword and shield. His bearded countenance was unfamiliar but welcome and she instinctively took a step toward him. He opened his mouth but the words he meant to say were stalled by whatever he glimpsed over her shoulder. She spun back around to see Geldauran break through his adversary's guard and dispatch him with a savage two-handed blow that cleaved from shoulder to sternum.

"Come," the other soldier urged her, holding out his hand. She clasped it, let him pull her along only to stumble backward as one of the Mien'Harel abruptly knifed in front of her escort. It was Nadrimasa, a slender blade held in each hand, and she advanced on the soldier with the same fearlessness as her leader.

"Evelyn." Geldauran's voice. A glance over her shoulder revealed he was too near and she moved sideways, circling the soldier and Nadrimasa. She bumped up against someone else, felt restraining fingers settle on her shoulder, spun about to find a male face marked with Geldauran's vallaslin. Behind her the human soldier gave an agonized shout and she knew without having to look that it was Geldauran's doing. She jerked away from the elf with the full intention of forcing her way past him; he stopped her by angling the edge of his fighting axe against her throat.

"It seems now we fight," the Evanuris said as he stepped up beside Boone. He was breathing hard from his exertions, sweat dampening his brow. His eyes were fixed forward. Three more members of the pursuing forces were approaching. Geldauran spoke to the axe-wielding elf, giving orders in Elvhen before striding forward, Nadrimasa at his side. "Dasa asa min."

The axe blade still hovering at her neck, Boone could do nothing but watch the conflict. Nadrimasa's agility made her a difficult target, her offensive consisting of darting attacks meant to keep her opponent constantly off guard. Geldauran fought as he had before, controlled power in motion, efficient and precise with no wasted movements. With two of their enemies fallen, the elvhen pair converged as one upon the last. All fighters were beginning to tire; a deflected overhand blow knocked Geldauran to one knee and Nadrimasa evaded too slowly to avoid being sliced along the thigh. After long minutes, however, it was Nadrimasa that landed the killing blow with a blade thrust cleanly through the neck. Geldauran, chest heaving, half-turned and beckoned to the elf guarding Boone. With a thrust of his chin, the elf gestured for her to walk in that direction while he followed close behind.

"Well," the Evanuris said as Boone slowed to a halt beside him. "Let's put an end to this, shall we?" He sucked in a breath and loosed it in a resounding bellow. "Fen'Harel!"

The battle had subsided somewhat—it was now just pockets of fighting here and there, mounted archers on both sides streaming past and taking aim where opportunity presented itself. Dawn had manifested fully, its first rays highlighting all the hallmarks of battle: splotches of blood, a sundry of lost weapons, armored corpses. Geldauran issued his challenge yet again, his voice booming across the plain and drawing the attention of all those in the vicinity. His call was answered in short order—a pack of riders rapidly approached from the east, silhouetted by the risen sun. Geldauran let fall his sword and withdrew his dagger, stepping behind Boone and draping one arm loosely around her neck. As they waited he pulled her closer and rested his chin upon her head, a mockery of the embrace he knew she craved from another.

"Perhaps we will know each other in another life," he told her, uncaring that his subordinates could hear. She stared hard at the riders, jaw clenched, determined to silently endure his last attempts to vex her. He let his fingers play across her, dragging lightly over shoulder and collarbone, a sensation that raised a shiver even through the fabric of her shirt. Her shudder pleased him; he laughed softly, a huff that ruffled her hair. He deliberately pressed his arm against her neck yet again. "Gather yourself, Evelyn. You lover is nearly here."

He spoke the truth. "Solas," Boone breathed, because it was him, reining his courser to a halt. He was there, armored and living and real. He gripped his staff in one hand, the other outstretched toward her in an instinctive, unconscious gesture. His eyes glowed faintly, his expression one of such tormented fury and concern that Boone felt her heart twist within her chest. Dorian rode beside him, blue-robed and likewise armed, and behind them was a small mounted company of men and women, elves and humans both, Seekers and magisters and soldiers. Surviving members of the Mien'Harel had also drawn near, compelled by the sound of their leader's voice. They clustered loosely around their comrades. All fighting was temporarily on hold by merit of the confrontation now unfolding.

At Boone's back, near her ear, Geldauran spoke. "Fen'Harel."

Boone stared at Solas, unable and unwilling to pull her eyes away from his. My heart, she thought, vision blurring through tears, throat working with those very same silent words, a movement that brushed against Geldauran's arm. She knew he understood what she hadn't said, because she felt then a piercing pain in her back—the tip of his dagger. She stiffened.

"Free her," Solas said. He sounded unlike himself, ragged and defeated. He slid down from his horse and was gazing at her still, an attempt to impart something unspoken to her, an echo of what she had just done. Behind him the others dismounted too, readying blades and bows but remaining otherwise silent.

Geldauran laughed. He nestled his head closer to Boone's, his breathing hot and rapid in her ear. The dagger pricked her further. She winced. "No, old friend. You'll have to take her from me. Strike me down, if you can, before my blade finds her heart."

She watched as despair shaped the slope of Solas' shoulders, as his jaw tightened, and she suddenly understood why. There would be no outcome from this standoff where Geldauran did not carry out his promise. Whether or not he would succeed as he wished… Solas bowed his head. When he raised it again his eyes were blazing white and he held out one hand, palm forward and fingers spread. Behind Boone Geldauran stiffened, preparing for the arcane onslaught. One of Geldauran's warriors gasped; many heads turned to see that three among the Mien'Harel had become stone. The others were entirely unaffected.

When Geldauran spoke, amusement warmed his voice. "It seems our time beyond the Veil has left us resistant to a great many things, Fen'Harel—including your magic."

The three that had suffered the consequences of Solas' powers had been modern elvhen, Boone realized, those that had scorned the concept of the reborn Elvhenan. Even short those few fighters, the remaining Mien'Harel were unmoved and kept their focus on the enemy before them.

"We are not so easily dealt with," the Evanuris goaded gently. "To rescue Evelyn, you must fight. I will not relinquish her. I've grown too fond of her to let her slip back into your grasp. My cruelties are obvious and stated, unlike yours. I've no designs on her life, only her death."

It was Dorian who replied, insultingly dismissive, but his tone was belied by the naked worry on his face as he looked at Boone. "You've said quite enough."

Geldauran twisted the knife. Boone cried out. Dorian, Solas, and several others started started forward only to halt as she gasped again beneath the Evanuris' ungentle ministrations. The wound was large enough to bleed openly, the warmness trickling uncomfortably down her back. Geldauran ignored Dorian, instead addressing Solas once again. "I have made her mine, Fen'Harel. I have marked her." His fingers crept upward from her neck, gliding over her chin until they tapped against the swell of her cheek where the possessive lines of the vallaslin curled and flowed. "It is yet another boon you would not give her. You refused to tell her she was your puppet even as you pulled her strings."

His fingers crested upward, along her temples, sliding against her bare head in a movement meant to draw the attention of all gathered. It worked. Frustrated rage and helpless sorrow warred for control of Solas' features as he looked upon her vallaslin. "I have made her mine," Geldauran repeated, pleased with the reaction her marks had received. There was no mistaking what he alluded to; Solas visibly flinched to hear the words.

"He did not!" Boone protested, and emitted a stuttering whimper as he dug the point of the blade deeper into her flesh. Still she shook her head, frantic as she stared at Solas, willing him to know the lie.

"But he'll never know, will he?" Geldauran whispered into her ear, low and intimate. "He'll never know just how well we've come to know each other. He'll never know and it will break him." He raised his voice, pitching it to carry to Solas again. "Four thousand years," he said with deliberate emphasis. "Four thousand years to learn and scheme and devise your plans, to rebuild Arlathan, to restore your people… but you still lack the ability to prevent this." A pause, the merest sliver of a second, and he uttered, "Dira."

As one the Mien'Harel surged forward, letting arrows fly, willingly flinging themselves to their own deaths. Dorian swung his staff and fire blazed forth, inciting screams. Solas lunged forward with arcane speed but the distraction had served its purpose. Geldauran thrust the blade into Boone swiftly, shoving upward, pulling her back. He thrust swiftly again and let her go with a gentle shove. He'd struck with precision, one last unfathomable mercy, making it quick and cleanly fatal. Pain gripped her and would not relent, seizing at her lungs, weighing on her chest. She hit her knees and toppled, blinking, using the last few breaths that remained to her to watch as Solas' eyes flared white. Time fractured. She blinked again, hands scrabbling futilely at the agony in her chest, observed through the remaining suspended moments as Geldauran hit the ground next to her. He bore the marks of sorcery, face scorched and eyes blackened. Three arrows protruded from his chest but still he lived. Still he moved, one hand scraping across the ground in her direction as though he knew where she lay. His last breath preceded hers only by a faltering heartbeat.

Among the grass and the rocks and the wildflowers, Evelyn Trevelyan died.

.x.