Translations at last. At the bottom.
Storm
"We...have a problem." Scout Harding's voice slides by, leaving little impression as I attempt to hold in my mind the weave-form Asprenus describes. "The Inquisitor isn't here - and that storm is coming fast. I...don't suppose she told anyone where she was going?"
My head shoots up, the form shattering beyond recall. Harding is speaking generally, not to me specifically, but her eyes nonetheless rest on me. "She said nothing to me," I tell the scout as similar denials flow from various directions.
A yell of frustration reaches us from the edge of the camp, and all our heads turn that direction. "I was going to win that hand!" Dorian says loudly over the rising wind as the deck of cards he and Varric have been gambling with begins to blow away.
"Keep dreaming, Sparkles." Both men grab at the cards, but several go swirling off toward the river.
Harding cups her hands around her mouth to better make herself heard. "Dorian, Varric - either of you know where the Inquisitor went?"
Again, the two men act in unison, both going still as they raise their eyes to the cloudbank bearing down on our camp. "She, uh - " Varric begins to call out, then he hesitates and his eyes meet mine across the space separating us. "She wanted to talk with that group of Dalish before they took off," he finishes, refocusing on Harding.
"She took Cole," Dorian adds with an exaggerated shrug, perhaps as a means of blunting my ire before I can turn it on the two of them.
Harding lets out a breath as I rise. "I would feel better if she were here," the scout says - generally, again, but particularly directed at me, "but if she's with the Dalish, she'll be fine."
If. It is an assumption I am unwilling to take for granted. I stalk across camp, pinning Varric and Dorian with my glare.
"Now, Chuckles," Varric says as I come close enough for him to be audible over the wind without shouting, "she was going to go alone, and we talked her into taking Cole, so she did officially meet the minimum safety requirements for leaving camp for an extended length of time."
"She wanted to speak with one of them about something and seemed to think a non-Dalish presence would alarm them - possibly into not speaking," Dorian adds. "Cole won't disturb her, though. The Dalish won't even notice he's there, unless he chooses otherwise."
"She probably noticed the storm before any of us did," Varric continues. "Her people tend to spend a lot of time outdoors."
"Why?" I ask, my tone clipped.
"Why did she go, or why didn't we tell you?" Varric clarifies.
"Both! Either!" I throw up my hands in disgust.
"It's not because she has a Dalish lover, I asked," Dorian reassures me cheerfully.
"Yeah," Varric snorts, "she looked at him like he was king of the village idiots, so I don't think you need to worry about that."
"She did not!" Dorian says, offended.
"I was sitting right here, Sparkles. She did." Varric returns his attention to me. "The short version is: we don't know why she went, but she didn't want to take you. She didn't want us to tell you, either."
"Her exact words were 'if I'm needed, tell Harding or someone else - just try not to tell Solas,'" Dorian adds helpfully.
"Where, then?" I demand.
"I assume the Dalish are still at the same camp." Varric glances at Dorian for confirmation.
"She would have told us, otherwise. Wouldn't she?" Dorian mulls the question over for a moment. "I'm certain she would have. Almost. Almost certain."
"Don't," Varric sighs. "I know you're going to go anyway, Chuckles - but if the storm is too dangerous for her, it's just as dangerous for you. And if something were to happen to you - I just hate delivering bad news. Especially when the person I'm delivering it to might blame me."
"I have magic," I remind him, still irritated. "Lightning may not be my specialty, but I can channel it if necessary."
"Lightning is my specialty," Dorian points out. Varric and I both look at him. "And I suppose I can volunteer to go with you. You ought not leave camp alone anymore than she ought to - and now I'm worried about her, too."
"Maker's balls," Varric sighs, apparently also provoked into concern. "Do you need me, too? I'll go, if you need me."
"No," I tell him, somewhat mollified, as Dorian shakes his head. "Another person is one more to protect from the storm."
"Besides," Dorian adds brightly, "we won't have attention to spare for keeping off the rain, and we all know how desperately you hate to get wet. I would rather be spared hearing you complain than have your help should we encounter anything unpleasant."
Another gust of wind, this one carrying the first drops of rain, emphasizes his point.
"All right, fair enough," Varric agrees. "I'll just go let Harding know she lost two more. Good luck," he adds in a mutter, "I think you're going to need it."
Dorian and I stop only for cloaks. The layers are still hot and itchy in the heavy, humid air, and they likely will be of limited use if the storm proves as powerful as it looks, but it would be irresponsible not to bring them, and so we do. The thunder rolls as we strike out for the trail that will lead us down to the stream that flows past the Dalish camp, and we see lightning flickering along the ridge of jagged hills that mark the other side of the river. By the time we reach the trail, the rain has begun to fall in earnest.
"It's a good thing mage-sight isn't actual sight," Dorian mutters, wiping rain from his eyes. "There doesn't seem much point in wearing a hood when the wind drives the rain sideways into your face regardless."
I ignore the water dripping down my own face, attempting to both watch for enemies through the curtain of rain, and also listen for them above the substantial roar of droplets striking the earth and thunder rumbling above. Silea, I admit silently, is better at this, trained as she is to hear and identify any sound out of place, regardless of intrusions and interference. I lack such a skill.
Luckily, the storm seems to have driven anything with a mind or working instincts under cover - except for Dorian and myself, of course - and so other than a few stray undead, we encounter no resistance.
When we gain the stream a mile or so on, however, it becomes clear that the Dalish have indeed moved on. Their camp was only a few stones' throws nearer the river, and even with the rain shrouding everything in uncertainty, the bright sails of the aravels would be visible if they were present. I can dimly make out the standing stones that mark the sheltered corral that housed the halla. The aravels are certainly missing.
"Venhedis," Dorian growls. "What are the chances they left clear enough tracks that the rain hasn't entirely erased them?"
"Clear enough for whom?" I ask. "While I have some very minor tracking skill, neither of us is trained in it."
We stand for another moment, considering what to do. A bolt of lightning over the not-too-distant river - and the rush of sound that accompanies it - startle us both. "It may be a waste of time, but I don't see what choice we have other than going to check," Dorian says.
I sigh, but have no better ideas to offer. We turn to wade across the stream.
Dorian jerks back suddenly with a bitten-off curse, and something strikes the ground a finger's-breadth from my foot at almost the same moment.
An arrow.
"Someone is shooting at us!" Dorian cries, throwing up a barrier.
"This is one of Silea's arrows," I say, pulling it from the ground. I look toward its origin point - and spot the hazy shape of a figure standing atop what I know to be a waterfall falling to either side of a wolf statue - Fen'Harel - though I cannot differentiate the falling water from the falling rain at this distance. The statue isn't much better, blending into the grey mist as it does.
The figure raises its arm, perhaps in greeting.
"Up there," I tell Dorian, pointing.
"Is that...Cole?" he asks, squinting.
Indeed, the figure may be wearing one of Cole's favored hats - the ones with the wide brims. "Likely it is one or the other of them, and we must check," I remind Dorian impatiently, wading into the water. The fastest way up is to climb a sort of natural stone staircase on the other side of the stream.
I hear Dorian splashing and cursing behind me, but I don't look back as I traverse the stream and climb the slick rocks. Lightning strikes are occurring all around us now, the thunder not just deafening, but seeming to fill all the senses with its sheer power. More than once I must pause in my climb to redirect a strike that would have landed too near for comfort, and I can feel Dorian doing the same.
At last I gain the top of the waterfall and quickly wade across to the statue, balancing precariously on its edge as I make my way around to its front.
And there, huddled between the front legs of this representation of the Dread Wolf, are Silea and Cole. There is just space for both of them to sit, and the way the statue has been cut provides some cover from the rain - theoretically, at least, for as Dorian noted the wind drives the water nearly sideways. They are largely protected from the lightning, in any case, at least as long as it doesn't strike the water too nearby. Cole has given Silea his hat, likely trying to protect her from as much of the wet as he can - her figure was the one we saw from the shore.
Both of them look up at me, and Cole jumps to his feet. Silea doesn't. "I knew you would come," she sighs - a sigh with some relief, certainly, but also a sizeable share of irony.
"But did you know I would come, too?" Dorian asks behind me, apparently having finished his crossing and caught up.
Silea smiles. "No. You're a surprise." She climbs slowly to her feet, Cole hastening to help as soon as her intention becomes clear.
"What happened?" I demand, seeing her swallow a grimace of pain.
"I turned my ankle while we were crossing the stream here," she admits. "Some of the rocks shifted and - I don't even know exactly what happened. We were in a terrible hurry and I couldn't see through the rain and the water. It isn't broken - probably not even sprained - but it hurts and I have a sizable bruise forming."
Cole moves aside as I step in and sweep her into my arms.
"You're determined to play hero today, aren't you?" she teases me, but I can see her teeth are clenched against the pain and wonder if she is lying about the damage.
"The shrine of Sylaise is just over there," I say, nodding toward the shore of the stream opposite the one we had climbed up. "Why didn't you go there?"
"The storm struck, stranding us here," Cole explains.
"Where do you think we were headed?" Silea asks. "It had already started raining by the time we made it here, and…" She points to her ankle. "I wasn't eager to brave the other half of the stream."
"Fair enough," Dorian says before I can respond, "but then how did you shoot the arrow to get our attention?"
Silea raises one eyebrow. "Painfully."
"I brandish blades, not bows," Cole tells us, sounding apologetic. "We didn't want to wound you."
"Thank you. I, too, prefer to remain unwounded," Dorian replies dryly. "Now if we could, perhaps, get moving? I can't hold off the lightning forever." As if to underscore his point, his staff moves in a complicated pattern as he redirects a bolt away from the stream.
Silea glances up at the statue as I turn to take her away. "It looks as though Fen'Harel did me a good turn after all, in spite of everything my Keeper has ever told me."
Cole's gaze follows hers to the stone representation. "Yes. He hungers to help you. Your pain… pinches, prods, pierces-"
Her laugh is breathy, attenuated by the pain Cole referenced. So familiar is she with Cole's occasional overinterpretation of inanimate objects, that she assumes he is speaking of the statue and not what it represents. "It sounds as though he has a lot invested in me, considering we only just met." I dare say nothing. Cole knows well that I do not want him to tell my truth, and though he sometimes grows hazy on what he can and cannot reveal - as spirits do - he is usually careful to remain cryptic enough that no one is likely to guess the real meaning of his words. An overreaction on my part, however, might well offer up enough clues for someone to piece together the mystery. I step cautiously into the water, carrying Silea toward safety and away from her musings on the statue. "Serannasan ma, Fen'Harel," she says to the wolf as we leave it behind. "Your protection, though limited, was very much appreciated."
"You don't always speak to him so formally, do you?" Cole asks her, trailing after us.
"Dalish don't pray to Fen'Harel," Silea tells him. "But he is a god, if an evil one, and it's usually best to treat gods - perhaps especially the evil ones - deferentially."
"Don't do that," Cole advises her. "He likes it when you - "
"Cole," I interrupt, already guessing the general shape of what he is about to say, given the many aspects of Silea's behavior that are both decidedly not deferential and decidedly to my taste, "you ought to take point. We cleared out the shrine a few days ago, but it is possible our enemies have regrouped and resolved to fortify this camp again."
"Yes," Cole agrees simply, perhaps recalling what he is not supposed to say. I slow to let him pass, and he drops into a crouch as he steps out of the stream.
I look down at the girl in my arms as I gain the shore. The heat of her body is only just beginning to bleed through her thick leather armor and my wool cloak, but the rain seems to intensify the scent of her skin and hair. Under slightly less fraught circumstances, I would be tempted to lick the water from her jaw and perhaps her neck - or, to be more accurate, I am tempted now, but I might give in to the temptation in other circumstances, which I will not in these.
"If you keep looking at me like that," she murmurs, "I won't be held responsible for what I do or what clothing I tear off either of us."
"You frightened me," I tell her.
"I know. Ir abelas," she sighs. "We should have returned as soon as I felt the storm coming, but I had already put in so much work, and - not only would I have forfeited what I had been working toward, the Dalish would have been stranded. I couldn't do that to them."
Cole returns before I can ask any of the questions her response raises. "Fresh fortifications - faded foodstuffs - but the storm caught them away. Too late - no time to return. Most never will, now."
"You can tell some of the men stationed here were caught by the storm?" Dorian asks. "How?"
"No," Silea answers for Cole. "More likely, he knows some of the men stationed here were those we killed earlier." She glances between me and Dorian. "Freemen supply lines have been cut off ever since we disrupted operations in the Emerald Graves, which has made them desperate, ready to attack anyone who might have something to steal. The Dalish camp is a defensible location, but they were essentially trapped, unable to move on for fear of ambush."
We reach the shallow cave that houses the entrance to the shrine, and I feel a subtle tension leave me. Dorian sags visibly against his staff - he has, after all, been doing the greater part of the lightning redirection since I made the use of my staff nearly impossible by filling my arms with Silea. Not being able to use my staff doesn't entirely incapacitate my abilities - I can, and did, maintain a slight bubble of aversion, encouraging the energies housed in the air to find release anywhere other than where we were - but such minor spells can only affect probability so much.
"So you were out ambushing the ambushers," Dorian says approvingly as he removes his hood, raking his hair into some pretense of order. "You could have brought some of the rest of us along - we would have helped."
"No, I couldn't," Silea says without elaborating, her eyes resting briefly on my face before she finds something else to look at.
Cole opens the doors to the shrine. "It will mean the same thing to him no matter which day you choose to give it," he says softly. "I know the day matters to you - but should it?"
Apparently this was meant for Silea, because she sighs.
We file inside and down a flight of stairs. At the bottom is a repaired barricade, and beyond it are a handful of slightly musty bedrolls and packets of more-than-slightly moldy hardtack, along with some fresher smoked fish. Dorian lays out a bedroll without being asked, and then whispers a spell against vermin. To my surprise, no fleas or lice vacate the folds of cloth.
"These are freshly washed," Cole says in a low voice as he gathers up stray pieces of wood. We will likely need to dismantle the barricade for a proper fire, but for now there is enough debris from its construction to make a start. "But they are soldiers, superior to servants, to spouses. Impatient, they roll up their bedding when it is dry to the touch, never noticing water ensnared inside."
"At least not until it begins to smell, I suppose," Dorian says as I lay Silea on the floor. He begins helping Cole make a tidy pile of the wood scraps.
"No," Cole replies. "Teeth rot, sweat stinks, supplies spoil - stench swarms ceaselessly. Most of them have gone away, you see - abandoned the cause when it became clear they wouldn't win. These that are left believe they have nowhere to go."
Satisfied by the pile they have made, Dorian grounds his staff in the midst of it and calls up a spark of flame, setting it alight.
"The Freemen were never much better than bandits," Silea says, wincing slightly as I remove her boot. She must have taken it off to check the injury - I am surprised she was able to put it back on, even if she did lace it only very loosely. "Now they're almost worse - just trying to hurt others as much as possible before they are ground to nothing by the reunified Orlesian army."
Her ankle actually is fine, but I infer from the massive bruise spreading across the top of her foot that a rock landed on it at some point during her scramble. Prodding both with fingers and with mage-sight, I find only small stress fractures in the bones - easily healed, as long as I can convince her to stay off her feet for a few hours. Several tendons are certainly sprained, though, and the bruising is nothing short of impressive. I sigh and set about reducing the swelling. Dorian helpfully brings a few pieces of stone for me to cool, allowing me to physically encourage the desired response even as I begin inducing it magically. Silea lays still and doesn't complain. She is a surprisingly tractable patient in most circumstances, though I am usually too troubled by her injuries to appreciate the fact.
By the time I finish, Cole and Dorian have built up the fire enough to provide both light and warmth, Cole has removed his armor and laid it out to dry, and Dorian has taken off his cloak and used it to cover Silea, as I didn't give her time to do as Cole has done before treating her injury. The room is uncomfortably humid thanks to the evaporation from our various wet clothes.
"Can I take off my armor now?" Silea asks as I look up from my work and glance around.
I sigh, irritated, as I realize doing this will require disturbing her foot. The bedroll beneath her is undoubtedly wet through by now - Dorian's cloak certainly is - so she will need a new one. Nor did I take the time to remove my own cloak, so it is still nearly as damp as it was when we came in, meaning I have little to offer her once she has stripped off the warmest part of what she is wearing.
"Of course you can," Dorian answers for me, retrieving his cloak and then helping her sit up.
"The top half," I caution.
She makes a face but doesn't argue, and so I kneel beside her before Dorian can offer to help with her laces. I already know they will be swollen with water and difficult loose. "Is there a dry bedroll she can use?" I ask him.
"I believe so," he answers, and turns away to find it.
Beneath Silea's cuirass, she wears light stays - apparently stiffened more with cording than boning - over a fine linen chemise. The chemise is still wet enough to cling to her skin in places, and though nothing about her is actually immodest, I find my mouth going dry at the sight of her.
"Solas." Her tone is a warning, and I realize I am staring. "You're looking at me like that again.
I smile at her apologetically and touch her cheek. "Perhaps, ma vhenan, if you were a little less beautiful…"
"Can't be done," Dorian informs me, returning with a bedroll just in time to hear my part of the exchange. "Look at her. The Inquisitor is as likely to become less beautiful as I am to become less handsome - which is clearly impossible."
"I suppose I ought to sit for a portrait before I gain too many more scars," Silea laughs. Her attitude regarding her own beauty is one I have never quite encountered - like Dorian, she appears fully aware of how lovely she is. Unlike Dorian, she hasn't incorporated physical attractiveness into a fundamental part of her identity. Yet she is not Cassandra, either, rejecting it as a threat to the person she sees herself to be. Rather, Silea seems to view youth and beauty as weapons in her arsenal: useful and therefore desirable, but only one potential resource among many.
I am uncertain whether I admire or am somewhat daunted by her pragmatism. Certainly her beauty captured my attention in the beginning, but now I believe I would struggle to find her anything other than flawless no matter what objective standards might attempt to dictate.
"I wouldn't concern yourself with timing your portrait," Dorian replies. "Any good painter will make you look the height of fashion and beauty regardless - you're far too powerful to be treated any other way."
"That sounds unpleasant, considering elves are never in fashion," she retorts. "I like my ears as they are."
"Lay out the bedroll," I instruct Dorian, bending to lift Silea again.
"It's right there," she protests as I take her in my arms. "I could crawl. Or roll."
"And I am right here, and can carry you," I counter, pressing a kiss against her hair. Dorian takes the wet bedroll nearer the fire as I settle Silea on the new one. I wrap her in my cloak despite its dampness - it isn't as wet as she is, in any case - and then instruct her to lie back, rolling up Dorian's cloak as a means of propping up her foot. Then I settle myself beside her as Dorian returns to the fire and Cole, and wait to hear her reasons for going to help the Dalish with only Cole to aid her.
"Nuvenas eolasa," she sighs after a long moment.
I don't believe that requires an answer, and so I continue waiting.
"Is there any chance you could keep your curiosity and impatience in check for ten days?" she asks.
"Likely," I allow, "but it would be unpleasant. Why? What happens in ten days?"
"Full moon," she answers, though she doesn't immediately elaborate on the significance. "Nirathai," she says after studying my face for a moment. "I suppose if you don't know it, most other clans don't celebrate it. Mine does, and I know Sabrae does as well, though their traditions are quite different."
"Ahn re?" I ask, though the name implies perhaps a harvest celebration of some sort.
"A feast following the primary late-summer harvest," Silea confirms. "It involves a courting game, too, though sometimes it's played by families or groups of friends. To play, you choose a gift for someone else that shows how well you know them, but the suitability of the gift is offset by the amount of effort or expense you went to in order to acquire it. The perfect gift is highly tailored to the individual, but grand gestures are - not frowned upon, exactly, but generally met with good-natured mockery. The one receiving the gifts chooses the winner - if there are multiple gifts to judge amongst - but everyone else will mock a very elaborate gift for years, sometimes decades, and small, simple things that nevertheless suit the recipient are considered romantic." She hesitates briefly. "I never played for courtship, but Deshanna's First had a friendly rivalry with her Second over who could find her the best gift. I began joining in when I was old enough."
"Ungeras em sul'en'an'sal Nirathai," I predict. "Nuvenan ny dirthem em. Avy unvenemah sul'en'an'sal na."
She grimaces. "I thought about it, but that isn't really in the spirit of the game. If you knew I was getting you something, of course you would get me something, too - but then it's just an exchange. Part of the fun is not knowing for certain who will give gifts to whom."
It seems I still have ten days to find something suitable for her, and I wonder if my participation will come as a surprise now. I smile at her. "Perhaps I ought to tease you for the effort you expended to acquire something for me."
"It would have been considered a moderate effort, had I done it alone," she tells me, looking dissatisfied. "Hunting is one of my duties anyway, after all, and has been since I came of age - even if now I hunt people and monsters instead of game. Besides, the Freemen are demoralized and half-starved - hardly a challenge. And the reward was so perfect for you, I couldn't pass up the chance to get it." She sighs. "Since I had to take Cole, though - if we were with my clan, yes, there would be a fair amount of teasing. Still…" She looks away. "I hope what I got is as perfect as - as - well, get my pouch and I'll give it to you, and you can judge for yourself."
"Now that I understand, I don't mind waiting," I tell her.
"No." She shrugs. "Now that you know, there's no reason to wait." She raises her voice slightly: "Cole, toss me my pouch?"
He hands the requested item to Dorian instead, who brings it to Silea. "My arms and reflexes aren't injured," she reminds them impatiently, but accepts the pouch. Dorian waits, apparently having overheard enough of our conversation to become curious, as she pulls a round metal disk about the size of her palm from the pouch. "Keeper Hawen found this in the possession of some humans several years ago," she explains. "After testing it, he believes it to be somewhere between three and eight thousand years old, so well before the founding of the Chantry and the Dales. The runes are also subtly unlike those reconstructed by the Dalish - many of them he has been unable to translate to his satisfaction - and it is wrapped in spells he can neither identify nor activate. He only gave it to me because I promised to keep it in elven hands, and I am certain he only trusted me to do so because I am Dalish."
She hands me the disk, and I recognize it immediately: silver, and featureless but for runes etched in lyrium around the edge, each rune an abbreviation for one of the major cities of Elvhenan. A mahn'virelan. "I have seen these occasionally in old memories within the Fade," I tell her, not hiding my surprise though I choose my words with care. "It is - a sort of magical compass, for navigation. The runes, I believe, represent population centers, though the compass can presumably be attuned to other large sources of magic, as well - if the bearer knows how."
"Do you?" she asks.
"No," I lie, and then add a truth, even if it contains considerable misdirection: "There is some component missing - something the ancients had access to that we no longer do. Perhaps the cities of our empire powered the compasses somehow, and, without them, the device no longer works." I look at the mahn'virelan in my hand. My people rarely traveled the land or seas - instead mahn'virelanen are meant to guide one through the eluvian labyrinth, though they also worked in the waking world before I raised the Veil. Additionally, it will activate any eluvian created for public rather than private use - from within the inor'alas'enaan or without. It shouldn't surprise me one survived. They were common in my own time - and yet this is the first I have seen since waking, and it may be of great value to me. I turn my gaze to Silea. She does indeed know me well, perhaps even better than she is consciously aware of. "Thank you," I tell her. "However perfect you believed this to be when the Keeper told you of it - I assure you, it is better than that."
"May I see it?" Dorian asks, evidently fascinated. I heartily wish he were somewhere else - or at least pretending not to pay attention - because I want to kiss Silea. I hand over the mahn'virelan, somewhat reluctant to release it now that I have realized how much I might do with it, but also aware I am being ridiculous.
"What an odd device," Dorian murmurs. "The way the spells are arranged...like it was meant to be connected to some outside source of magic - perhaps something that harnesses the power of lyrium to provide a continuous supply?"
"Perhaps," I allow. "I have seen, sometimes, in the Fade, alchemical laboratories powered by lyrium hearts - though how the lyrium is stabilized and how quickly it is used up, I cannot say." Some of this is true. Lyrium has - and had - its uses, but I always preferred to draw my power directly from the energies of the Fade.
Dorian returns the mahn'venelan and heaves a sigh. "Silea, you are an exceptionally skilled gift-giver - and I don't say that only because I hope you find me something equally impressive for Satinalia. I am being at least half honest in my extravagant flattery. So...you're welcome."
She laughs as he gets to his feet. "I'll keep my eyes open and try to find something you'll appreciate." When he returns to the fire, though, her smile fades. "Savis… dhruan jutuan su'lasa elvenan sou'i've'an or'sa var'vhen," she tells me quietly. "Isalir var'era'mana vena vhenan." I can read all that she keeps to herself in her unhappy expression. Dorian, in particular, is her friend, and she does not care to think of him as human first and someone she trusts second - but she does, and she will.
"Ane ha'el o nar'annaren," I tell her, reaching out to caress her face, and then add: "Ir abelas," before leaning in to kiss her at last.
Serannasen ma: A formal way of saying "thank you"
Nuvenas eolasa: You want to know
Ahn re?: What is it?
Ungeras em sul'en'an'sal Nirathai: You got me a gift for Nirathai
Nuvenan ny dirthem em. Avy unvenemah sul'en'an'sal na: I wish you had told me. I would have found a gift for you.
Savis...dhruan jutuan su'lasa elvenan sou'i've'an or'sa var'vhen: Though...I believe I will continue to give elven magic to one of our people
Isalir var'era'mana vena vhenan: "We need our history to find home," meant both as "we need our history to find its way home" and "we need to learn more of our history to find home." Then, since "vhenan" also means "heart," it could also be translated as "we need our history to find our heart." Silea means all of them.
Ane ha'el o nar'annaren: You are wiser than your years