The temple above them lay in ruins, thick chunks of ruined masonry and melted metal covering the ground. A few smoldering fires still burned beneath the great green chasm in the sky as Solas stood beneath it, gazing up. The spirits he would normally seek out to assist in such a task had fled, driven from this place by the force of the explosion that ripped the heavens to shreds. Around him lay the twisted and burning forms of those who died first, poor souls who lived just long enough to feel the flesh seared from their bones.
The path opened into a forest with a long twisting stream running through it, frozen solid. Here and there the evidence of the rift showed itself; tiny green flames sprouting up from the earth, waiting to release agony on any who happened too close. He bent to run his hands over the water's frozen surface, marveling as he always did at the strange way the spirit-self processed feelings of cold, warmth, touch, pain.
Before him, as if he'd breathed her into existence, stood the prisoner. Solas rose back to his feet. "Lady Trevelyan?" he called, his voice echoey yet muted in this place. She turned to him, her expression distant and empty, eyes narrowing as if she could not see him clearly. Brilliant crystal blue eyes. Eyes like royal robes under a thin sheen of frost. Solas felt intense pressure on his chest, sharp against the bruise Cassandra had left.
"There are people waiting for you," he whispered, noting the shiver that passed over her, his words felt more than heard.
He woke abruptly to the sound of boots on stone as the soldiers descended on them, pushing him roughly out of the chair where he'd slept, dragging the patient-prisoner to the center of the dungeon floor.
"Thank you, Solas," Seeker Pentaghast stepped from the cell without looking at him. "Your services are no longer needed."
Solas scrambled to his feet, gathering what he could from the table as he was led by the elbow out of the dungeon. He hazarded one last glance over his shoulder at where the prisoner knelt, her head down, wild cloud of hair covering her unearthly eyes.
Outside, the daylight burned as he pupils adjusted. The guard released him beside a wooden table, piled high with rusty armor and dull swords. "What is to become of me now?" he asked the freckled woman who grinned a gap-toothed smile at him as she shoved a pair of greaves across the rough surface.
"Now? Now you join the fight."
"The fight," as his fellow conscripted milita members referred to it, meant the scattered pockets of demons that emitted from smaller tears in the veil. Solas slid his pack onto his shoulders as he stared at the large rift, angry and swirling in the distance. "That... doesn't look good," stated a voice at his elbow.
"No," he agreed, securing his staff to the straps at his shoulder. "But I've seen worse."
The dwarf at his side chuckled. "I'll have to ask you about that later. If we survive this thing." He looked up at Solas skeptically. "You know how to fight?"
"I can handle myself. Is that thing just for decoration?" Varric laughed derisively in response, clutching the ornate weapon close as if afraid Solas would offend it. There was a story there, to be sure. Judging from the pained expression the dwarf tried to hide with another sarcastic remark, it was one he was unlikely to share.
The dwarf, Varric, thankfully proved to be as adept with his crossbow as he was with the witticisms. He made for pleasant enough company as they dispatched the creatures who slowly winded their way down the path, a relief considering his other traveling companions were terrified boys ill equipped for the fight ahead. They came across their first true tear in the veil shortly, Solas watching the young soldiers' faces contort in fascinated horror. This was no great demon army, and Solas suspected that the stragglers who found themselves on the outskirts of Haven were there more by happenstance than strategy. It almost seemed a pity to kill them. They were merely misplaced by the rending of time and space occurring all around them, after all.
"Do they just keep releasing those things?" Varric dispatched a lesser shade with a grimace. "Or is there a limit? Let's hope it's less than twenty demons per rift."
Solas smiled slightly. "I believe we will see fewer as time goes on. They will seek out the entrance points to this world not stacked with the remnants of their compatriots."
"Maybe we should mount one on a pike. Sort of an early warning sign."
Solas opened his mouth to retort when Varric interrupted. "Oh great, here comes Miss Sunshine."
He turned to see the Lady Seeker ascending the rampart behind them, the familiar form of Possibly Trevelyan behind her. She was unshackled, at least, which was a small comfort. The marked hand was at her side, the strange green pulse quickening as she drew closer to the rift. Behind him, the tear roared and rippled, releasing a strange pulling sensation he felt at the back of his neck. The hand responded in kind, the cold green energy crackling and causing its bearer to wince in pain. It was almost as if the mark wanted to be joined with the power of the rift, almost as if...
Without a second thought, he took her hand by the wrist and raised it toward the rift, feeling the energy arc between the wound in her palm and the wound in the air. She gasped slightly beside him, attempting to pull her arm away as he held it firmly in place. A flash of light, a great sucking in of air, and the tear burned from existence before them. He dropped her hand, his suspicions confirmed. Relief flooded through him as he turned to her. "I am…."
Possibly Trevelyan gazed up at him in surprise, yet the strange blue depths of her eyes held not a glimmer of recognition. She did not remember him. She did not remember the dream.
Of course.
"... Solas," he continued carefully, hoping the pause was not noticed. "If introductions are to be made."