Chapter 7 – Lucky Clover

Lavellan believed Solas left because of her.

She'd chased him off, she'd done something wrong.

It seemed so simple to her. She wasn't a good leader; she was a fraud. She just pretended, she played with people's lives as if it were a game. Sure, she tried to be a good leader and she tried to keep people safe – but she'd failed on that front many times. People were sent to their deaths, families destroyed, homes razed, temples burned to the ground. She had to stand in judgement of others and felt she had no right to it. Lavellan never wanted this power, never wanted to be a leader, to run the Inquisition, to represent every damn elf on Thedas, to be the Herald of Andraste.

The orb was shattered because of her. It was a priceless piece of their people's history, a power that they could have used to better their lives. She'd destroyed it.

The Vir Abelasan? The Well of Sorrows? Gone because of her – knowledge lost forever.

Lavellan was plagued by guilt. She felt sick to her stomach.

Every misstep she analyzed with a fine-toothed comb. If she had just done this or that, what would have been the outcome?

I should have made better choices.

She saved the world, but at what cost? She'd sacrificed the soul of her people to stop a monster.

Was it worth it?

It was clear to her that Solas had made his judgement of her.

She wasn't sure she disagreed.

Their current mission was to flush out and eliminate the remaining Venatori. She was looking forward to a distraction from the guilty conscience that plagued her. She looked forward to getting into the thick of battle and letting her blades dance.

Lavellan followed the map of the Hissing Wastes, her friends trudging along behind her in the sands. The Venatori were still out there, and they were doing their damnedest to flush them out. Dorian had insisted that they follow up on their leads before he returned home. The Inquisitor agreed.

"I hate sand", complained Varric. "Make sure the next mission is somewhere nicer and definitely shaded." Varric was voicing complaints that they all surely had. Her skin burned in the scorching sun and she was looking forward to lying somewhere dark, cool, and slathering her face in creams and ointments.

"Oh?", she quirked a brow and turned back to her friend who stumbled through the sand on the sloping hill they were struggling to carefully navigate down. "And where do you suggest? Val Royeaux? Or perhaps the Emerald Graves? I bet we could get a nice chateau and have drinks with tiny umbrellas in them." She said with a tease in her voice, but she also was sick and tired of sand.

"See, now you're thinking Clover…" He smiled back at her, which was painful. The skin on his forehead was burned and so was the bridge of his nose and cheeks. Solas used to have a spell that kept them from burning. He only shared it with them after everyone noticed he hadn't even turned the slightest shade of red in the intense suns during their first excursions there. They had to ask about his secret and then he relented.

The heat wasn't improving Varric's mood. He furrowed his brow with irritation at the selfishness of their missing elf. Missing by choice. He walked out on them, or rather he walked out on her.

"Fuck him", he thought. Varric was aware that she was clearly nursing some major heartbreak from Solas leaving her high and dry. He would really like to punch him. Maybe twice.

Dorian huffed, looking tired with a sheen of sweat on his skin, "We should just vacation then. I think we've earned it, saving the world and all. Tevinter is lovely this time of year – not too warm, and slightly sunny with a chance of slavery." He said in his usual sardonic way.

Lavellan choked on her laugh and shot her friend a not-so-scathing look. Her hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, which dripped between her eyes and made her look like she was melting somewhat."Yeah, I'm going to pass on the slavery part. I wouldn't look good in chains."

"I beg to differ…", Dorian said with a flirtatious grin.

Varric groaned, "Ugh, You two need to get a room…" He said and shook his head.

He knew Dorian and Bull were an item, but the constant sexual innuendos with the Inquisitor were getting to be too much, even for him. He felt like Dorian was starting to come off as a character in one of his raunchy novels, not that he minded the inspiration.

Maybe Solas left because he thought there was competition. Varric thought about that for a moment, then dismissed it. Sure, Blackwall had a major soft spot for the Inquisitor that bordered on a slight infatuation. And then there was Cullen. Curly had changed around the woman, stumbling over his words like an idiot around her and blushing at her compliments as if she'd blown him a kiss. Varric remembered when the commander had first met her. He was all rules and bluster, gruff and as harsh as a winter storm in the Frostbacks. He practically oozed distaste and distrust in the elf with the glowing magic hand. What a change, from a stubborn ass to someone who clearly had adoration and respect for the Inquisitor.

They hadn't had faith in her. She persevered. She'd won them all over.

She earned respect. She deserved it. The woman had gone through hell and back and somehow still cared about people. She'd seen the worst in people but still chose to see the best. Her unofficial biography wouldn't do her justice, but he'd write it to the best of his abilities.

Blackwall, to his credit, just grumbled and followed them.

They settled into a while of rather quiet travelling, all of them much too hot and tired and sweaty for their usual banter. She was well aware that she was chafing in places she should never chafe. She was looking forward to peeling her sweaty clothes off and just lying on cold stone.

Ice would be better.

She felt like she was moving automatically through sand and over rocks. A sandstorm kicked up in the distance, almost obscuring figures milling about. Lavellan held her hand up and they stopped. "Looks like we've found them." She said in a whisper. She could count about ten Venatori, maybe more, kicking over tents and pulling items out of storage chests.

The party knew the standard methods she used – she was the first offensive strike. Then they'd overwhelm and overpower their enemies. She had enough stamina to fight in short bursts, but not longstanding battles. It was best to hit hard and fast. If needed, she'd retreat and let them take over until she could return to the fray. Lavellan was the risk taker, and everyone else elected to fight a little safer. It worked though, at least so far.

The Inquisitor was poised and drew her blades. They shimmered with the magic imbued by her runes, making her look a little bit demonic in the light. Her skin lit up with traces of blue and red.

Varric tried not to make a noise when he felt sand sinking into the tops of his boots. "Shit", he grimaced and shuffled in place. Blackwell drew his sword and shield but kept them tilted down and low to the ground to avoid the sunlight bouncing off the metal and giving away their position. Dorian wiped sweat from his forehead and whipped his head back dramatically before he took his staff and prepared for the fight.

"Stay here… You'll know when to come." She said in a whisper that was swallowed up by a harsh desert wind. A moment later and she was gone, only an imprint in the sand as evidence she'd ever been standing with them. She was frighteningly fast, Varric would give her that.

The Venatori were camped near some overturned pillars, digging around in what looked to be the remains of a campsite. She thought of them as scavengers. Sand whipped up and the sky was blotted out briefly, making the area almost as dark as it would be in nightfall. It was the perfect camouflage for a rogue. A smile graced her chapped lips as a harsh wind buffeted her.

Let's dance.

Lavellan rushed in as an unseen blur. She approached them from behind and then threw a dagger with a force that could puncture most armors. Despite the wind, it found its target. The blade slammed into the back of the man's neck and lodged itself in his spine. He collapsed with a cry. The Venatori soldiers spun toward her and drew their weapons. They tried to close in on her, but she leapt across the field of battle and flanked them again. Another thrown blade, another man stumbling to his death. A shield broke through the whipping sands and rushed at her. She leapt away only to slam her blades into the back of the shielded opponent.

Dorian's magic had a scent and taste to it, it flavored the air sort of like cooking might; She'd recognize it anywhere. It was spicy and sweet. When he cast, the fallen soldiers stood up again as spirits took over. The Venatori didn't suspect a thing until the bodies turned on them. Swords clashed and the noise was muffled by another gust of hot desert wind. She disappeared back into the shadows.

She felt the familiar buzz of blood magic in the air. A mage was casting. She couldn't see them in the haze and sand kicking up into her eyes. She wasn't a fan of anyone trying to kill her, but blood magic just tasted like copper, iron, and well – blood. Usually, blood mages tried to crush her to death or something especially brutal and bloody. She hadn't enjoyed feeling the tendrils of that sickening magic on her skin in the past, and doubted that she'd suddenly change her mind.

Come on…come on! Where are you?

She moved as fluidly as she could, tasting that copper flavor getting stronger in the air the closer she got to her target.

She got close enough to glimpse a figure with a staff and book.

Gotcha!

Then a cry bellowed in the storm. Blackwall smashed into the Venatori mage with his shield, moving like a charging bull. The strength and speed of the man could take her breath away sometimes. She took a single step back and watched as he crashed toward the remains of a temple long since lost to time. She practically felt the crunch of the man's bones as he was pummeled into a pillar. The feeling of blood magic cut out, like a string had snapped.

Good job, Blackwall.

The sandstorm was getting out of hand, and she had to shield her eyes for a moment before turning to where she thought she saw movement. The visibility was terrible and now it was even a hinderance to her. She kept her mouth sealed tightly to avoid getting a mouthful of sand.

In the swirling sands, a huddle of soldiers seemed to pop up out of nowhere and all move toward her. She furrowed her brow and took a few steps back to put distance between them. There was still time to finish this. She pulled a flask from her belt pouch and poured it on her weapons as quickly as she could. Varric's arrows tore into the men closest to her, making them turn away from her toward the source of their pain. She didn't know how he saw them, or how he managed to place such good shots, but she was thankful.

Bad move.

Someone should have told them you never turn your back on a rogue.

Time seemed to slow down around her; Everything was sort of fuzzy and her body felt electrified. Lavellan ran for the soldiers. They had barely moved and still had their backs to her. She leapt and her blades found blood. She moved like a force of nature, striking like lightning. Her blades punctured and slashed into armor and flesh with deadly accuracy. Blood sprayed. The Inquisitor weaved in between bodies as they fell, striking the others down in rapid succession. They too soon collapsed. Her hair still crackled and sparked before everything seemed to return to a normal pace.

Lavellan was a force to be reckoned with. She felt unstoppable.

A year earlier. A dance with death.

She had been struggling to keep her own for a while during their hunt for Corypheus and trying to seal rifts. She found she had a delicate constitution, and kept trying different armors to keep herself from serious injury on the battlefield. One particularly nasty battle left her coughing up blood from a maul hitting her in the chest. She had stood up from it and thought she was okay, just a little woozy. She coughed up blood. While she wanted to walk it off, she stumbled and let out a wheezing gasp of pain. There was a sudden feeling of weightlessness. Her companions looked after her, and for that she was thankful. She probably would have died otherwise. A healing spell and restorative potion later and she was surprisingly back on her feet.

Cassandra was worried and practically babying her, checking her for broken bones and any further injuries. Lavellan dismissively waved her off, "I'm okay now, really."

"Good job, Clover", Varric said as he inspected her from a distance, looking a bit concerned but also relieved.

"Clover?", she asked and looked at him questioningly.

"Yeah. Clover. You've got the best worst luck I've ever seen." He shrugged.

"It fits…", She laughed and then winced in pain, holding her ribs.

"I'll try to avoid being squashed again. Just in case my luck run's out…"

Later that evening, she came across a strange little scrap of leather. It had some unrecognizable embossed design and a buckle, with a tuft of orange fur stuck in it. She had almost thrown it away. Lavellan felt a draw to it, a whisper, a gentle touch. It made her envision a little girl hugging her orange tabby and whispering her love. The leather in her hands just felt comforting, warm, like a hug.

The Inquisitor had a faraway look in her eyes. Varric took a step back. He was visibly creeped out by the item and more so when she wrapped it around her neck and proclaimed it her newest trinket.

"Uhh.. That doesn't seem like a bad idea? That thing looks haunted as shit", Varric noted.

"You're wearing a kitty's collar? Really?", said Dorian as he wrinkled his nose in distaste at the sight of it. "Is that what the Dalish find fashionable? Bondage wear?"

"Inquisitor, I believe that is garbage…", Cassandra said with a pitiable look on her face, as if Lavellan had made a faux pas that even she recognized.

"We Dalish make fine items from the scraps of others. I think it's perfect.", She said with a grin. They weren't sure if she was kidding or not.

"Surely, we could get you something… nicer?", Cassandra said thoughtfully, not wanting to insult her friend at her truly awful choice in fashionable accessory.

"I like it. Look, it's even got fur.", Lavellan said with a smirk as she secured the collar around her neck. She swore she saw Cassandra gag a little bit.

The party looked at her like she had grown a second head.

The leather felt warm against her skin, as if it were alive. She didn't find it creepy at all. She kept the collar and wore it every time they went into the field. Little did she know, it did make her just a little bit luckier.

Lavellan sort of played dirty. She was a rogue, but a rogue of rogues. She never claimed to be a saint when it came to battles. She'd take any advantage she could. She moved like lightning in a bottle and struck so rapidly that you could swear there were more than one of her. She had specialized as an Artificer, using powerful potions to turn the tides of battle in her favor. Despite this, she had effectively double-dipped in specializations by using Hidden Blades, a skill only known by Assassins. It was all thanks a custom dagger she had Dagna craft especially for her. It was crafted with a master demon-slaying rune-inlaid into the pommel. The dagger whispered to her, and she could feel her body move, using skills she shouldn't know, and yet she did. It was remarkable and pushed her body beyond what it was capable of. She could tear through even the best armors. Paired with her second dagger that would heal her and freeze her enemies in their place, she felt unstoppable. It had taken countless journeys, many locks picked, even more enemies looted, and dungeons raided for her to find the components to make these specialized weapons. They were worth all the efforts and gold. They made her a terror on the battlefield.

Lavellan was still defensively weak and knew that just one powerful blow could end her life. She wore what armors she could, but had to balance speed, maneuverability, and stealth with her protection. She'd had a lot of close calls. Too many.

She should be dead at least five times over by now.

Shortly after adding her new accessory to her regular battlewear, she nearly had her head cut off. An axe had swung for her neck. There's no reason she should have survived. She definitely hadn't moved fast enough to dodge it, despite being evasive and swift on her feet. The axe pinged off her skin, as if it were blocked by the strongest shield. The wielder stumbled backwards, confused that the leather strike was completely shrugged off. Lavellan didn't have time to wonder, she sliced the enemy's throat and thrust her second dagger into the underside of its jaw. Her collar felt warm, soothing.

I must have imagined it.

A few weeks later, another near-death experience. They were surrounded by red templars and monstrosities in a valley surrounded by rocky terrain. It was cold, snow and blood and red lyrium littered the ground and made their footwork treacherous. Lavellan couldn't be as fast as she usually was, for fear of slipping on snow or ice. She'd still been moving too quickly and done just that.

She was uncloaked and unguarded by her allies. A red templar charged her as soon slid to a messy halt. Varric's arrows narrowly missed hitting her as they bounced harmlessly off the twisted man's armor. She saw his sword lancing through the air. She barely recognized the sound of her own armor, flesh, and organs being punctured. She must have cried out, or at least gasped. The red templar ran his sword through her, skewering her utterly on the blade. Lavellan's blood ran down the grooves and covered the hilt and pommel.

She remembered that there were hands soaked in her blood and her brain not quite understanding that was her blood. Her adrenaline was running so high that the pain was negligible at first. The heart was racing so steadily that all of her life was draining out of her with every beat of her heart. The snow was stained red under her body and she fell to the ground.

The snow is warm.

She was dying. The puddle under her bloomed, unfurled like a big red flower as it spread across the ground. The anchor flickered as her life drew to a close, her spirit barely held on to her body. She glimpsed blue-grey eyes. There was a look of shock, horror, and pain crossing someone's face. It was all a blur.

Oh.

The red templar kicked her off his sword and turned away to return to her allies, who were faltering in this battle. "No! Hold on!" someone yelled.

Everything was fuzzy.

This isn't so bad.

Then she felt everything get dark, quiet. Silent. She didn't have to save the world anymore. She didn't have to be brave or pretend to be someone she wasn't anymore. There was no more reason to even worry. She felt a spirit, an embrace, cradling her like she were a precious child. It filled her with such warmth, a strange feeling that almost tingled. It felt like she was submerged in warm water.

This is nice.

Then suddenly it felt like she was plunged into ice water. She was thrust back into the cold. She was on her feet, gasping. The wound was mostly gone, save for a nasty bruise, a few broken ribs, and raw looking red skin where previously there had been a massive hole. Everything was loud, bright, but slow. She saw Cassandra stumble behind her shield. Varric had to keep retreating and throwing traps to stay a step beyond the enemies' reach.

She heard Solas call out.

"I need help!"

It put her back into the present, into the battle, and spurred her into action.

Solas was cornered and panting. He looked hurt and his mana must have been low, because otherwise he'd be readily casting. She could see him sagging a bit from his expended magic, struggling to call up a spell. He glared at their enemies with focus and concentration on his face. His eyes were reddened, his expression dire. There was a cold fury in him.

Their enemies would tear him down all too easily. A wall of rocks to his back and a group of templars surrounded him. They rushed toward him with their weapons glistening.

He could still turn this battle, he could still be okay. He just needed mana. He needed lyrium.

Use a potion!

She remembered staring at him for a heartbeat, expecting him to drink a flask of bright blue lyrium and then his magic would sing.

He was out of lyrium potions.

In fact, she'd pushed them on without restocking at a camp. There were no more health potions either. It was a death sentence. She had doomed them all. It was her fault they were in this situation. Now he'd pay for her mistakes. He was cornered and couldn't cast fast enough. There was a white-knuckle grip on his staff as he backed up and his heel hit the rocks behind him. He could barely move now. There could be no more flourishes of his magic or spins of his staff in such a tight space. Swords came for his life.

No!

Lavellan moved as fast as she could push herself. She was across the field that was littered in bodies, blood, snow, and ice but they were no obstacles in her path. She leapt like a wildcat. Her daggers dug into the flesh of their enemies, slicing, stabbing, striking, cutting. She threw a dagger into a skull, moved like there were five of her with a flurry of blades, and tore them all down in the span of a single spell. While her defense was not great, his was nearly non-existent. She could not let him fall because of her own weaknesses. Lightning crackled suddenly and she leapt in front of Solas to protect him from any blows that might come his way. His magic tore through the red templars, shocking them with the fury of a lightning storm. Bolts crashed through them. Light danced before her eyes. She threw daggers to avoid getting electrified herself from contact with their armor. When the lightning died down, the enemies sizzled and stumbled.

Cassandra charged into them with her shield drawn, sending the monsters crashing into the ground in a heap of sizzling limbs.

Varric rained down arrows, turning the pile of cooked red templars effectively into pin cushions.

"And stay down!", he yelled in victory.

They were surrounded by death. Twisted bodies, the burning scent of hair and flesh, offal, and more offended their senses. Varric thumbed at his nose at the scents heavy in the air. Lavellan finally allowed herself to breathe. Cassandra stood and relaxed the tiniest bit, craning her head around to make sure the valley wasn't going to suddenly fill again with enemies. It was quiet.

Lavellan watched Solas breathe. Cold breaths of air escaped his lips.

She chewed her bottom lip, her eyes darting over him. His eyes met hers and she looked away as guilt wracked her. This battle was a mess, and it was her fault. They were there because of her.

My so-called leadership.

Solas looked like he'd aged years in the span of minutes. He held his staff for balance and Lavellan offered her arm. He shook his head, his eyes looking at her with a strange expression crossing his features. "You live…", he remarked quietly.

He looked spent and sounded like he was in disbelief. He should be, she couldn't explain how she was alive either.

She smiled but looked conflicted as a flicker of something darker flashed across her face, "So it seems."

Lavellan noted that from this day forward they'd stop for supplies and restock as often as possible. She wasn't going to play fast and loose with their lives. She couldn't throw them to the proverbial wolves.