The fire crackled low, its flames fighting the encroaching snow, embers creating a thin sheen of steam around the perimeter. Solas stared into the flickering light, turning over the events of the day in his head slowly, trying to puzzle them out. They found the temple a smoking remnant of its former self, considerably more ashy and molten than remembered. Evelyn led the way down the path, first to leap down into the pit and confront the unknown. Seeing the self-assured way she approached the breach, the heady, giddy confidence with which she opened it with her palm, it all evoked feelings he thought were long buried. Admiration. Awe. Hope. Echoes and memories of one who lived before threatened to overwhelm and Solas fought to swallow them back down. His focus shifted to dispatching the demons that wandered through, grimacing slightly as each fell, thwarted just as they had first opportunity to experience this other world. Then the moment he feared came at last. She had raised her palm again and the sense of loss consumed him. All of his work, his carefully laid plans, torn asunder as she sealed up the tear in the world, leaving behind a scar that throbbed in time with his own heart.
The exertion of the closing, the weight of what they'd seen and the power she now possessed burned through Evelyn like a fever. Leliana's men had to carry her down the mountain for the second time, however this time they opted for a private cabin instead of a prison cell. Solas found this development curious. The rumors spread like wildfire through the camp: she had been rescued by Andraste herself. In times of strife, common people always turned to their legends to save them and believers in the Chant were no exception. There was almost an absurd beauty in the way they interpreted every raindrop on a newly budded tree a sign of the Maker's benevolence. Evelyn's survival was no longer suspicious, it was a sign. Her mark was not a tragic accident, it was a miracle. While she slept off the battle that had nearly killed her, the people wove a tale of dramatic heroism and salvation. She woke a few hours later to find herself the newly-anointed Herald of Andraste.
Solas folded his fingers in front of his face, his mouth set in a straight line. The events of this morning had elevated Lady Trevelyan from prisoner to Herald. He was curious to see what path this legend would take. The sun slipped behind the mountains, the sky gave way to stars. Just beyond the dull crackle of the fire, the sounds of an encampment preparing to bed down for the night could be heard. The surrounding buildings dimmed the lights, soft voices and quiet laughter, a hushed argument near the pub. The Chantry sister made her regular descent toward the soldier camps. She glanced behind her, not seeing Solas seated on the retaining wall. Her tryst with the soldier remained a secret. The Nightingale paced, backlit by the brazier. Her dreams remained uneasy, her spirit unable to rest.
All was peaceful, for now.
Solas was not ready to sleep. The dreams that plagued Leliana were of the past, things left unsaid, deeds left undone. Fire and blood and screams she could not silence. His own dreams, however, held the fear of a future, carved into the veil as if by a hot knife. In the distance, something terrible thrummed. He did not know how long it could be kept at bay. The doors of the Chantry creaked open and Evelyn Trevelyan, pale and striking in the firelight, exited. The slump of her shoulders, the caution of her step betrayed the weight of the world she now bore. The Inquisition would have many casualties, and Solas feared their Herald might be among them. "A word?" he called out as she passed the stone steps beneath him. "I could not help but notice they've kept you in there for hours. Are the affairs of Ferelden so pressing that the Inquisition demands your sleep as much as they do your sword?"
He slid down to the stony steps so that they could walk side-by-side. "I might not have told you, but your name is familiar to me. I have picked my way over the stony remnants of a Trevelyan fortress. Near Carusa Pass. Do you know the place? It was the site of a great battle during the Orlesian war. The hold stood for ninety days before it fell to invading forces. Do you know why?"
Solas turned to her, halting their progress. "The army played drums. Day and night. The soldiers never slept, never dreamed. That does something to a person, to their mind and their spirit."
The clouds slipped away from the crescent moon. In the distance, the call of a bird, woken by some commotion. "I would not have them take your mind and spirit before the enemy is at our gates, Herald."
She visibly blanched at the word, her eyes downcast, staring at his feet. He flexed his toes against the wrap on his foot. The rage demon had taken quite the swipe at his right ankle, dislodging both fabric and flesh. Both would need tending to.
"You're hurt," she said plainly. Then, with a shake of her head. "Don't call me 'Herald.' I'm not the herald of anything."
Solas responded with a slight bow of his head. "Of course, I'm sure you'd prefer something less… constricting. I am sorry for my insistence on formality. You must understand that an apostate cannot afford to be seen speaking out of turn, or showing any other sign of forgetting his place." As if on cue, he noticed a man near the pub craning his neck to get a better look at who the newly-crowned Herald was talking to. An uneasy feeling settled in his stomach like a hot stone.
"The ankle will heal," he said, a bit too quickly. The demon had taken him by surprise as he was watching her attempt to disrupt the breach. The mix of panic and fear he'd felt: panic she would not be able to seal it; fear that she would. He glanced at her and noticed she was staring at him in concern and he worried the words had come out too harsh. "Apologies," he said with great deference, "I think we are all tired."
They walked the path to the south of the inn, following the stones past where construction had begun on massive siege engines. Trebuchets and battering pendulums did little against demons of old, but Solas knew better than to suggest such things to either Seeker or Commander. Battle plans and war tables were not to be trusted to the likes of him, no matter what his experience. Still, his concerns remained. This was a war to be won carefully, through strategy and cunning; not brute force. It would be fascinating to see how their hurled rocks fared against endothermic fires; if their rams had any ability to splinter ice formed by magical means.
"The tides that battered you have shifted, Herald," he began slowly, then paused. "It would serve you well to employ a more stoic face in response to that title. All eyes will be upon you. They will look to you for guidance, for leadership. I wonder how that strikes you."
She frowned in confusion and his eyebrows raised. "You do know why they are addressing you as such, don't you? We all heard the tale, you stepped from the rift in a beam of light, a woman in the visible behind you. Only now that they know what you can do, what power you possess, that light has become the golden gleaming rays of the Maker Himself, and that woman none other than his bride. You're now a step below the second coming of Andraste. A glorious savior sent to seal the breach and heal the world."
"We tend to burn our saviors, you know," she said wryly. "Let's hope this fervor passes before they start building pyres." Beside him, she began to worry at her sleeve. Solas frowned. She was still a fledgling, unsure on her feet and uncomfortable with the power she now wielded. It would take time, and effort, to turn this sparrow into a dragon.
"I fear that this Herald business is not a phase. These are people lost, clutching at whatever thread of purpose their Divine's death might hold. To them, this event is unthinkable without a greater reason. They hope you will prove to be that reason. That they have chosen, for now at least, to accept that the voice of their lost Divine chooses to sound from you is a relief. When you closed the rift, you were transformed from suspect to savior in their eyes. I rather think they would have hanged you by now for murder had you not become the new center of their missing Maker's grand plan. We should all be so lucky to be above suspicion."
"I won't let them do anything to you," she said with a sudden ferocity that startled him.
He recovered before his steps could falter, his stomach performing a lazy somersault. The sensation was… unexpected. "Thank you," he managed.
"Solas, you seem to know a great deal about this..." she made a small ineffectual motion with her hand, "this entire breach situation. You were there. You saw what I did. Do you believe?" Evelyn's fingers returned to her sleeve, Solas noticing that they worried a loose thread that had split the seam, pulling a flap of fabric through.
"Are you asking me if I believe that you're their Herald? Or if I believe in the Maker? In Andraste?" he asked carefully. "Or is the real question what you believe? Do you feel as if you are on a holy mission? It is highly possible that what either of us believes is irrelevant. What matters is what you do with this title, this position, this power." The gaze between them held for a moment too long. "I fear," he said thickly, "that I have taken enough of your time." With his last word, he took her elbow in his hand, removing the scrap of cotton in one swift tear. "If something takes your focus, it is best to remove it, Herald," he applied the right amount of honey to the word to avoid insult. "You should get some rest."