The first weeks after finding out, it wasn't much of a challenge to keep the secret. What small changes her body had begun to undergo were not visible to anyone other than herself. A bit of bloat she could only barely see when she studied her naked form in the tall mirror, after a bath. A little more ease wove into her corset lacings when she dressed. Swollen breasts that lent her a curve she'd not previously enjoyed, though tender enough that she'd taken to wrapping them in a little more padding than usual to prevent her clothes from chafing. But, these differences were subtle at best. The first, early buds of a spring bloom.
The question of what change she would see was an increasingly curious one. She had no mother's stories to compare to her own experience. No anecdotes or folk wisdom passed down through generations of family. Only her own naive, cautious, observations of other clan-women when they were swollen with child — and the memory of their screams rising from the tents when their time came. And more, what births she'd overseen among the halla and the other kept animals. Truthfully, she had more experience with them than her own kin. By the time she'd grown, she had enough knowledge to confidently assist in guiding out a breeched calf, and knew what herbs to use to help expel a held afterbirth, but would have no idea where to begin if such a fate befell an actual woman. Or, Gods forbid, herself.
If anything, she'd actively avoided pregnant women. The scars of lessons taught by a strike and whispers lent her a cautious uncertainty around the subject. A lingering doubt of how something taught to her as a curse could ever truly be a blessing. Beyond that, she'd never really thought much of it. Leaving her at a distinct disadvantage now.
For the first time, she wondered what her own birth had been like. If the ordeal was tortuous and long — an enduring trial of blood and sweat — or something more rhythmic with incense and song? She thought of the soft voice that existed only in her oldest memories, fuzzy and warped by time. And what wisdom she'd share, if her own mother were less a stranger.
But she was a blank slate, and her experience without root: no history existed to even give her the smallest hint of how her change would play out. Would she be small and plump, with a high bump easily hid beneath a heavy coat and loose armour? Or would she burst her clothes at the seams in a few months' time, and require more clever tailoring to draw the eye away? The fate that met her parents meant that her family tree began with her own name and what life she brought forth.
It made her curious for the observations of others — or in this case, the one other — of what things she might not notice herself. But when asked Solas gave only a clever compliment in reply to her questions; telling her that he'd either not yet noted any change in her, or if he had, was too polite to say so.
Regardless, even if his eyes did not yet see her differently, she had felt the shift in his touch.
He was more careful — reverent, and soft — when they laid together, and he less inclined to use his magic on those nights. Caution, or ignorance, of what effects intimacy had upon a changing state. Though she knew better, and reassured through gentle guidance when he came to her room.
Those evenings were fewer now, much to her disappointment. But a backlog of responsibilities amassed over a two-month absence and the general feeling of malaise that had only grown since she learned of her condition made it more and more difficult to find an opportunity… Or muster the energy, when one presented itself.
She was so tired all the time.
What symptoms she experienced initially were moderate, and relatively easy to slip past the notice of others. The one advantage to not having caught on to her state until she was already some weeks into it was that what small changes there'd been to her moods and habits had not yet raised any flags, given that they'd not been paired with any clumsy attempts to hide them. She was quicker to anger now, quicker to take upset, and found herself uncomfortably short on patience — but it could be written off as a mix of travel-fatigue and sleep-deprivation. Even without taking into account the sickness they'd brought back with them (one that, unfortunately, spread through a number of other Skyhold denizens before burning out), there'd been so much endured since the events of the Conclave; it was not that unusual to experience a period of broken sleep and frayed nerves. It had a way of catching up from time to time.
Unexpectedly, it was Solas' behaviour that was at bigger risk of tipping someone off.
If a message from the rotunda needed delivery, he found a way to bring it himself. If she yawned, he would ask about how she'd been sleeping. When she felt unwell, he would be there to offer her tea or all manner of helpful medicinal herbs he'd recently acquired a plethora of knowledge on. Sweet, yes, though it quickly began to fray her nerves. On one afternoon, an acolyte of Mother Giselle made a joke about how often Solas seemed to be found in her company lately, and it would have surely led to an argument later if not for his quick deflection.
"My station is in one of the most high-trafficked areas of Skyhold, and I can easily take a moment to bring a message to save her the journey up and down three levels to pick it up. One should be careful with what insinuations are made of the Inquisitor's company," he'd chided, "considering the propensity for gossip."
"Of course." The girl flushed. "My apologies; she was unwell, and is fortunate to have such caring friends."
Gratefully, it was dismissed as mere friendly concern.
Plans of how, and when, she would tell them all the truth had yet to be made — that was still some hazy, uncertain point in the future that she didn't have to think about today. All that she'd decided so far was that the news would go to her advisors first, then the party after, and somewhere in-between she'd determine how to keep it hidden from the general public.
The latter being the greatest, and most important, challenge.
In what scattered attempts at conversation she'd managed to have with Solas on the subject of announcements neither had yet found a way to reconcile 'powerful world leader' with 'ongoing vulnerable state' in a way that did not invite trouble. No matter how she spun it, the idea of publicly announcing the pregnancy in the middle of an active conflict seemed foolish. Even if the information was given only to a limited audience, the news would quickly spread: gossip travelled faster than horses. It would be only a matter of time before news reached the boundaries of Orlais and lay in the hands of political opponents who might use the timing and controversy to their advantage. Fringe groups would be close behind, and from there no telling how soon it found the Venatori. Since her elevation to the position of Inquisitor she'd been the target of a slew of attacks on her character and at least one actual assassination attempt — adding an exploitable condition to the mix was unwise at best.
Additionally, this was not taking into account the moral panic that would come out of the Chantry when the words, 'unwed' and 'apostate' came into the mix. As unpleasant as it was to admit, she could not be certain which alternative would cause worse alarm: pretending she did not know the father, or revealing him. Of all the salacious rumours she'd endured, the truth was probably the most destructive. It had the potential to seriously undermine her position, if not well-handled.
For that, she'd need the help of her Ambassador and Spymaster.
Eventually.
"You cannot keep putting this off," Solas reminded her one evening as he brought her a pot of tea. She'd taken to drinking a lot of it lately. "Delay too long and you will lose the chance to get ahead of it. If subterfuge is truly the best option, the more time there is to plan the better the outcome."
Frustrated by the hours of agonizing she'd already put into this subject, she'd turned to him and snapped, "Then would you like to tell them instead?" Rose from her seat and pointed an accusatory finger at his chest. "By all means, go call a meeting and tell Leliana you've been fucking me and have gotten me pregnant and then ask her to fix the inevitable political fallout! I'm sure she'd be thrilled to hear the news! Doesn't that sound like a delightful way to spend an afternoon?"
He'd been appropriately shocked by the outburst (which she did apologize for in the end) but admitted she had a valid point beneath the ire: it was not a task he would want to do, in her place. And it was clear to him then that it was something she'd thought about at length. Finding a balance between the rush of necessity and the need for measured tact proved a more difficult challenge than she'd expected.
However, this did not negate the fact that it was a conversation she had to have. Sooner, rather than later.
But there was time to prepare.
Probably.
She just had to find a way of managing her energy in the interim so not to raise any more alarm. Something that became increasingly difficult as weeks passed.
The sickness and fatigue did not abate, nor did she become more accustomed to it as she'd hoped. And the increasingly poor diet was not helping matters, either. Soon she found she could barely make it through a single afternoon without falling asleep on her feet. A stash of herbs and cut ginger stole from the pantry was kept concealed in her pocket most afternoons, for chewing and smelling, in hopes it would help her keep it to herself. But it did not offer much reprieve, and she found herself increasingly desperate for a better solution.
What she could recall of Dalish herb-lore on the subject of pregnancy was too vague to be helpful. Bitter teas made from leaves and bark rich in nutrients. Sweetbreads baked with hops or rye for richer milk. Cured meats to encourage healthy growth. Dried and crushed elfroot rolled with sap and prepared into a mild incense for general malaise, though she could not recall how to make it in a dosage appropriate for alleviating nausea. Most of her experiences using the herb were for crafting healing salves and potions.
Solas continued to bring her ginger tea from the kitchens. Always fetching or brewing it himself and bringing it to her in private, rather than allow her to ask a handmaid for it. And while it was unusual for him to enjoy the beverage, it raised no alarms. Ginger had many curative properties, and for a man, persistent nausea wasn't exactly the most obvious assumption. She wasn't sure if it was helping, but she also wasn't sure enough that it wasn't that she'd be willing to stop drinking it.
In time nausea became more persistent. Then distracting. Disruptive. And finally, overwhelming. Soon, excusing herself for a few moments to catch her breath was no longer sufficient, and scheduling more frequent breaks during longer days was starting to grate on Josephine's nerves. Lovely though she was, her patience could only be extended so far. After so many cancelled meetings for an ambiguous, "I don't feel up to it," the excuses were starting to rankle.
It finally culminated in a horrible afternoon when Ellana was stuck for hours in front of the war table planning routes into the Oasis for supplies. No matter how many times she tried to wrest the conversation away from commander Cullen, and end it, he always had just one more thing he needed to add. Happily oblivious to her steadily worsening condition. Then the subject of dragons came up and Lady Morrigan chimed in about how harvested claws may help restock the storerooms for reagents, and the brief imagining of carving bones from the skin of a fresh corpse sealed the deal. In the heartbeat that followed she knew there would be no avoiding it.
Josephine noticed first. Turned all attention upon her with the innocent inquiry: "Are you alright? You're looking very peaked."
A brusque, "Yes," followed by a hoarse, "no," was all Ellana managed to utter in the seconds before losing on the battle. She turned, ran, and made it seven steps before vomiting onto the flagstone tiles by the door. Drawing a varied reaction from her advisors, ranging from suspicious silence to abject horror.
The rest of the topics for the meeting were tabled for the day, with the promise to pick back up after her condition improved.
But it never did.
By then, the constant threat of sick pressing at her throat had started to make her nervous to go anywhere for more than an hour — lest she be caught by an attack and end up with a repeat of the afternoon in the war room. In turn, the increase in anxiety only fed her symptoms; made it difficult to keep down whatever she little she did manage to eat during the day. Soon, near impossible to have a meal at all. After a while, not even the tea would sit.
Additionally, her endurance for even the most mundane tasks had begun to wane. She felt winded climbing the stairs, let alone while trying to make it through a training match or battle exercise. Lies and excuses came became a regular part of every conversation she had — I'm not feeling well, I'm just distracted, I didn't sleep well last night, I haven't eaten yet today — until she started to forget which ones she'd told what people, and worried she'd start mixing them up.
Paranoia over being caught had her taken to managing the chamber pot herself rather than risk the handmaiden from sensing a pattern and drawing the lines to the easiest conclusion. In fact, she'd taken to managing most of the girl's duties herself: from drawing baths to helping her with the laundry. Soon, she'd refused nearly all the personal assistance her position awarded her, and the slow decline of her fitness forced her to begin stepping back from anything requiring even the most remote physical activity. As exhaustion turned to weakness, even the regular walks she took around the battlements each day were reduced to nearly zero. All of her habits, haunts and routines crumbled in lieu of either hiding or managing her worsening condition.
She was even forced to stop her cursive practice when her hands began to tremble if she held the quill for too long.
Strangely — gratefully — a rare addition to those long afternoons where she struggled, some mornings she woke bursting with unexpected vigour. On those days — odd and fleeting though they were — she felt more than simply well but positively electric with restless energy. Her skin was buzzing with it. Surging, swelling, uncomfortable, and… insistent. Begging for movement and action as though she were a tightly-clamped pot under enormous pressure. Ready to boil over if she dared let herself still. She twitched her fingers and tapped her toes and walked in circles while she read books. Annoyed Josephine with bouncing legs while they sat at a desk and discussed communications.
The feeling compelled her: to clean her workspace, organize bookshelves, practice battle forms or simply to go for a brisk walk along the castle ramparts. To seek out Solas' company and pull him into a darkened hallway for a few stolen moments. Anything to find relief.
Then as suddenly as it came it would be gone again, and she inevitably left in a worse state than she had been in before. Like some sort of energy hangover: she'd asked too much of a limited supply, and it left her body weak and overdrawn.
It was on one such morning that a report came in of possessed wolves causing problems at the small Inquisition post at the bottom of the pass, a little over half a day's ride from Skyhold. Though she was not asked to assist in dealing with the threat, nor even told about it, she soon caught wind of the message and then took it upon herself to organize a party to dispatch it. Battle was a perfect opportunity to satisfy the itch. This would get her blood pumping. This would prove that she had not grown so worn and weighed by everything that she'd become all but useless as a fighter.
Iron Bull and Sera didn't seem nearly as thrilled as she was to make their way up and down the steps twice in one day, but kept their complaints to a minimum. Upon reaching the area the report indicated, they tracked the pack to a small glen and spread out to locate and flank them.
Once they were sighted, Ellana's enthusiasm overpowered her better judgement, and she leapt into action without even bothering to notify her party mates. Nocked a sheaf arrow from the cover a bush and let it fly, readying the next without a second's pause. It shot clean through the neck of one of the animals as it stopped to scratch an ear; felling it before there was ever a chance to know she was there.
Its fellows, however, were quick to sense they'd been surrounded. The largest of the pack lifted its nose to the sky and howled, alerting any of its nearby kin to converge and attack.
It was only then that she realized her error.
She'd been so eager for action that she'd failed to check her perimeter before engaging the beast — a stupid mistake — and so missed the wolf that had strayed from the pack. It hid on the same ridge she'd used for cover, not 30 feet from her.
Across the clearing, Bull saw the ambush coming a second before the wolf was on her, and it was his curse that alerted her to it, giving her barely enough time to move into a defensive stance. "Vashtoh!" he yelled. "On your right!"
The beast's jaws came down upon her just as she turned to face it. Sharp teeth found the unprotected gap above her elbow, between her vambraces and rerebraces, and sank deep into her flesh. Pain seared through her wrist and hand, familiar to her as a torn muscle, causing her to drop the arrow she'd nocked. This close, any attack with her bow was useless anyway. One hand still free reached for the dagger sheathed at her hip, and she shouted an Elvish curse as she plunged it into the wolf's temple.
While a normal creature would succumb easily to such a blow, a possessed one pushed on. Its jaw held fast, pulling and ratting at her arm in turns even as it bled out from the fatal wound she'd inflicted. Its size betrayed the strength the breach had given it, and so even when she planted her feet firmly in the ground between them to hold it back, it unbalanced her easily, flipping her onto her side and dragging her toward a bush as her companions killed the rest of its pack below.
Heart pounding in her ears, she summoned a burst of strength to flip her body and aim a swift kick at the wolf's exposed chest. An audible crack as her heel met with it told her she'd succeeded in breaking a rib. The shock of which was enough to force the beast to release her with a yelp of pain. Tucking her knees up she leapt backwards, caught herself on her good arm, and rolled into a crouch. With her bow useless to her, and the dagger still lodged in the wolf's head, she had only a pocket knife left to defend herself, held in her untrained hand. Her wounded arm throbbed with pain.
The beast recovered quickly from the blow and reared back on the offence again, paws dug into the dirt and head bowed low. It bared sharp teeth and loosed a feral snarl no normal wolf could ever hope to imitate, then leapt at her with all the strength of its frenzied rage.
She swept her legs to one side to evade, and heard the snap at her ear as its jaws closed on empty air — mere inches from her head — then struck back with a wide swing of the knife. An attempt to catch its eyes. But it was quicker, and turned into the strike, parrying with its own attack. Both front paws came down hard on her chest, toppling her backwards, and finishing with a bite that tore into her chestpiece.
The loose soil so close to the edge gave way beneath her. Offering no purchase for her hands as she clamoured, uselessly, for a rock or root to save her. A shocked cry rang out as she slipped off the ridge. The fall was not far, no more than 6 or 7 feet, but she landed on her back and the force of the impact knocked her winded. She slid backwards and head-first down into the bush below.
Above her the wolf watched, pacing at the ridge's edge until she'd come to a stop at the bottom. It crouched, then leapt powerfully.
Still reeling from the fall she could only watch, helpless, as it bore down upon her.
Bull's axe severed its head from its shoulders a second before it reached her, and its bloodied body fell to the ground next to her in a heap. Blood pouring from its wounds and soaking into her clothes.
In shock, Ellana scrambled to her feet, clutching her wounded arm to staunch the bleeding. Chest heaving and pulse thundering in her ears. Everything had happened so fast. Her legs, shaking from exertion, left her clumsy and slow. She slipped on the soaked ground, gasped and stumbled backwards. Would have fallen over again had Bull not grabbed her shoulder to steady her. In that moment the weight of his hand felt immense, and she felt crushed beneath it from neck to waist; as though she were pinned beneath a boulder. Unable to take a breath.
She struggled to fill her lungs. Each desperate attempt resulting in little more than a shallow, useless gasp, burning her chest and throat like she'd been running for miles. Darkness began to press in at the edges of her vision.
I can't breathe. Why can't I catch my breath?
Her head swam. I'm going to pass out, she realized. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Bull's grip was too heavy, too hard. She squirmed, but he'd dropped his axe on the ground now and had put his other hand on her opposite shoulder, holding her in place.
"Breathe slowly," he ordered, a lone eye trained on her. "Or you'll hyperventilate." His voice was firm and clear enough to pierce through the haze.
Adrenaline had her reeling. She'd never been this affected by a battle, even the times they'd been ambushed and cornered.
"Wha—wh—"
Why is this happening?
"You're out of practice," he supplied, answering the question she couldn't quite ask. "You've been sick for months, and it's made you weaker." His voice dropped lower as he leaned closer. "You have different limits now, and you need to learn them if you intend to keep this up for the re—"
Sera's cry interrupted him.
"What the fuck was that?!" She crashed through the underbrush — loud, sweaty, ragged — and looking absolutely furious. "What the fuck! What is wrong with you?!" She threw her bow to the ground and stomped. "You could have gotten us killed by wolves with that shite! And how would that look, huh? Killed by wolves? We've fought dragons! And won! More than once, even! You didn't even signal before you started in on that — that was so unbelievably stupid! Why would you do that?"
Only once she paused for breath did she take the time to look at the scene. At Ellana's stricken expression and Bull's hands on her, and the bloodied limb in torn armour that was cradled near her middle. The sneer remained, but her ire was tempered by concern now, and her tone softer for it when she spoke again. "You alright?"
"She's fine, just stunned," replied Bull before Ellana could make the attempt. "Just got the wind knocked out of her when she fell off the ridge."
Sera clicked her tongue. Gestured with her chin. "Got your arm, did it?"
This time Bull gave her the chance to answer for herself. "Yes," she rasped. The answer took more breath than she'd expected, and left her coughing violently. Gagging, when her mouth began to taste of rusted metal. It took what little strength she still had not to double over, and vomit. When she'd recovered, "It's fine," she said, "I have a healing potion. We can head back."
There was a pause before, "Alright," Sera answered. Still angry, but not so much to be compelled to stay and continue berating The Inquisitor any longer. With a heavy sigh, she turned and headed back toward the road. Calling out behind her, "Let's go back, then!"
Ellana lingered another moment to finish catching her breath before taking a vial from a pouch on her side, and downing the potion in a single swallow. It worked quickly; muscles mending while torn skin knit itself closed atop it. She hissed, and pulled aside the torn vambrace for a better look at the closing wound — it always hurt when the punctures were deep. When the effect of the potion faded she ran her fingers over the scar, inspecting tender new skin that still prickled with the memory of the wolf's teeth.
Furious as Sera was with her, she was even more so with herself. Disappointed, and embarrassed; cursing the foolish impulse had led her to act without thinking.
When she looked up, she found Bull still standing nearby. Arm's crossed over his chest, watching her in stony silence. His expression was difficult to read but it was clear he wasn't happy.
"You should see a healer," he said, and he held her eye just long enough for it to feel uncomfortable before his gaze flicked down to her scarred forearm. "Don't be stupid."
Then he too turned and left.
That night she dreamed and blood and wolves. Of cowering, terrified, from howls that pierced the night and went on for hours. There was a tree, or a bush, with thick branches that made for a poor hiding place. She was cold and hungry, but too afraid to wander. There was red upon the road. On her hands, and her clothes. Blood, belonging to a figure that lay on the ground just outside of her hiding place: a woman — dead, cold, and stiff. Her face —partially hidden beneath matted locs of dark, curled, hair — stared back: blank, and featureless.
Ellana woke in a sweat.
She didn't tend to any more threat reports personally, after that.
However, she didn't take Bull's advice either. Not for her arm, nor for her overall health, even as it continued to decline.
In the days following the debacle, Vivienne made an idle comment about how gaunt she'd been looking since her return from the Mire, and when Ellana brushed her off the enchanter went over her head. Bringing her concerns directly to Josephine. No telling what she'd said, but clearly, it made an impact: the ambassador went beyond her duties and immediately arranged for an appointment with one of Skyhold's resident healers. Ellana didn't show, and so Josie brought the request straight to her door. A surprise she met one morning when a healer accosted her in the hall outside her room with the intent to lead her to the clinic.
It was a briefly terrifying experience: a human man in simple robes insisting she follow so he could examine her… Until it became clear that nobody suspected the cause of her malaise was pregnancy, and instead were becoming concerned she had contracted some sort of wasting disease and was actually dying.
Were she honest with herself, she'd admit that offered some relief.
It was only then that she developed an inkling of how she may need to reframe the way she'd been thinking about the situation.
She successfully avoided the next several attempts Josephine made to set appointments, and believed herself free of them after one particular man said something entirely unpleasant about stubborn knife-ears and cautioned the ambassador to give up trying to persuade her to cooperate.
The last healer, however, she was not able to avoid as easily. That one was brought by Leliana.
Personally.
A knock came in the evening this time, catching her off-guard. Upon opening the door Ellana met her Spymaster standing behind a short, older, human woman in a long coat. Her arms were crossed and face blank. Even before she spoke a word she'd managed to make the encounter incredibly intimidating.
"This is Helena," Leliana said, and her voice was not gentle. "She is a healer from outside of Skyhold. I have known her some time, and have hired her services regularly. She is well-versed in the care of both humans and elves. I trust her: she is knowledgeable, and she is discrete."
The woman pushed past Ellana before she had the time to speak a greeting (or dismissal, as it were), and began ascending the stairs. "A pleasure, Inquisitor," she hailed. Dryly, like it was an afterthought. Clearly she'd been briefed ahead of time about how uncooperative her patient would be. Once she disappeared beyond the stairs Ellana could hear her rearranging pillows on the bed to clear a space. Like she'd been invited in to make herself at home.
She turned to her advisor, "Leliana, this—" but was cut off.
"She is discrete."
There was a finality in the words that told her this was no request. It was enough to silence any further protest.
Cowed, Ellana nodded. Watching as the Spymaster turned and left the tower without another word. If there was any comfort to gain from this, it was the knowledge that Leliana would be true to the unspoken promise of her own silence. Whatever was revealed in the next moments, she'd not push for answers from her. As an advisor, she'd need only the reassurance of the Inquisitor's ability to continue performing her duties, or at least return to them soon with some course of treatment. Leliana could be many things, but loyal above all — and she would never compromise the trust put in her.
A notion which sat uncomfortably cold in Ellana's gut after having spent so much time lying by omission.
She closed the door, but lingered just inside until the healer lost patience with waiting for her to come to her senses. Calling out, "This part requires your presence dear, best climb up and join me."
Begrudgingly, she obliged. Making her way up the stairs and toward her bed with the solemn determination of a man marched to the gallows.
The woman — Helena, Leliana had said — was old and small. Deep wrinkles lined her forehead, cheeks and eyes, and she stood with a hunch that spoke of decades spent toiling over tables and patients. Her hands shook at rest, but her work was sure and fast as she unpacked a small bag of tools. Her experience and confidence in her skills were clear; she'd prepared a number of small vials in anticipation of the visit ahead of time, each filled with colourful liquid and sealed with a waxed cork. Remedies for disease, flu and injury. Ellana only recognized a few as tonics she'd used on the battlefield, the rest were likely too specific, and so unfamiliar.
The exam began the moment Ellana lowered herself upon the bed. Not a second was spared for pleasantries or tact; the woman immediately launched into a list of questions about recent travel, local flora, what sorts of foods were eaten in what areas, and how many skirmishes were fought that resulted in injury. All the while she poked and prodded, pinched at her skin, tapped and palpated. There was an instruction to raise her arms so she could feel her ribs, then put an ear to her chest to listen to her breathe. A knock on her bones with a crooked knuckle to check for sore points. Inquiries about the origins of a few old scars, while carefully avoiding much of the one cut into her left palm.
She was not gentle: rough, calloused hands grabbed and pulled. Unbuttoned a sleeve without asking and pulled Ellana's collar down without offering her the chance to do it herself. Helena handled her like she were one in a line of hundreds she'd have to see that day, and did not seem to care much about showing the 'proper respect' for the position. It was a relief, in many ways; if the woman hadn't put her on a pedestal she couldn't possibly fall from it.
Throughout, the questions continued.
Do you have any strange bites or lumps? No.
Any wounds slow to heal? Not that I'm aware.
A rash? Nowhere.
Did you eat or drink anything new or interesting? Nothing I'd not had before.
Did you find anything on this journey you'd not encountered previously? All was as expected.
Were you given a gift, or did anything out of the ordinary enter your possession? Not to my knowledge.
Did you meet or dine with any new people? None.
All the while the confession sat upon her lips. Almost free, only to be dashed away by some fretful notion each time she'd prepared to speak it aloud. This woman would be the first she'd told, other than Solas. Dorian didn't count. And though she trusted what Leliana had said about her skill, as well as her tongue, disclosing the condition to someone else still proved to be a difficult hurdle. The conversation that followed it would be the first of many she'd have.
She'd almost worked up the gumption to reveal it on her own when Helena forced her hand with the offhand question, "When was your last bleed?" Straight and to the point: not at all like Dorian's attempt to wheedle the information out of her.
It took long enough for Ellana to answer that the healer paused her work, straightened her crooked back, and gave her a quizzical look.
"Three moons back," she said at last, and watched the woman's brows climb to her hairline. Adding a belated, "I think," and an embarrassed, "I didn't really pay attention."
"Oh," said Helena, after a moment. "Well, that would do it." She switched gears immediately. Ordered, "Lie down," and patted the bed. "I'll need to confirm it if I can."
Ellana did as she was bid. Slowly, and with her heart in her throat. Dread was a palpable thing: for the inevitable fallout of having revealed such a salacious secret. It was out now. Someone else had heard a truth as dangerous as any blade. And surely she'd endure the first wave of disapproval, one of many that would follow. Already she could hear Keeper's voice in her ear chiding her for her reckless heart and loose skirts. The indignant question of how a woman in such a position of responsibility could take the risks she had.
It was something of a surprise that it never came.
Instead, the healer woman merely began asking a different set of questions. Much more intimate in nature than the previous ones, of course, but no less utilitarian.
Are your breasts tender?
How long have you been suffering the sickness?
Any other unusual symptoms you've noticed?
Have you always been so thin?
For every answer Ellana gave, the healer took a moment to repeat it back to herself and commit it to memory; each providing a small piece toward the solution of the puzzle. One she'd no doubt completed a hundred times before, now practised and expedient at the calculations required.
"Can you narrow it down any further?" Helena asked after a time, firmly tugging Ellana's breeches down over her hips. The woman's fingers dug deep into the flesh of her middle, into the tender space her womb occupied, just above her pelvic bone. Where Solas' hands had been when he'd first felt whatever flutter now lived within. The probe was insistent — as she, too, searched — and rough enough to draw a gasp as she winced from discomfort. Being so unapologetically manhandled was not something she was accustomed to.
"Come now, it's not so bad," Helena chastised under her breath. Then reminded, "I asked a question!"
An answer to which proved a challenge, when it occurred to her what the timing might reveal. While there were many men who kept permanent space in and around Skyhold between the soldiers, merchants and civilian workers, there was really only a few dozen she interacted with on a regular basis. Ultimately, as a healer the woman needed to know; she might as well give her the other answers she required with as little meddling as possible.
"Before Kingsway," Ellana finally replied. "It would have been before I left for the last journey."
"Hm," the woman pondered. If the timing offered her any opinions on parentage, she did not give voice to them. "August? Or before?"
"I don't know. Maybe?" answered Ellana honestly. She'd not left Skyhold for more than a few days at a time in the many months before the trip. And on many of the nights she spent in the fortress…
It would be hard to pin down a precise date.
Helena turned her hand to one side and pressed it down deep, just below Ellana's navel, rocking it back and forth as though measuring with the cup of her palm. A moment later, she smiled. Made a satisfying little click of her tongue. "Ah-ha! Found you," she murmured. "Less than five, more than two. A bit here. Feels like perhaps three or four."
"Excuse me?"
And she laughed. "Months, girl. Worry not, you won't have a litter! Rare even for twins with your little bodies." A pinch was given to her side — a gesture uncomfortably familiar, and maternal, for a woman she'd only just barely met. "Only seen it once in all my years. Humans though, much more common — once had a mother with four! She was a right miserable sight. Like a bitch full of puppies, that one."
"Oh." The relief was enough to drown out any embarrassment. "Of course."
There came another long pause as Helena thought. Narrow eyes turned upward, muttering to herself in a barely audible whisper. Words that fell deaf upon human ears, but not so for an elf's; she counted backwards through the calendar, calculating.
Then thin lips curled in a half-cocked, knowing smile. "Ahh!" The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes creased as she turned her gaze back to her patient. "During that envoy from Orlais, was it? I was here for that, getting supplies from the merchants that came with them." There was a rather unflattering assumption within the statement. Especially when followed up with a single raised brow and, "You wouldn't be the first. Handsome folk, those Orlesians. Suspect someone leaves a bastard behind most places they visit."
Ignoring the slight was best if there was any indication she'd be creating some sort of professional relationship with this woman.
The timing was wrong, though. Solas was gone for most of that week, and the days following had been stressful. Busy, ridiculous, and exhausting. Even if they had not been run ragged by the festivities, the swell in activity made it nearly impossible to find the privacy necessary to sneak him into her room — or vice versa — without drawing attention to themselves. They had not even bothered to try. Aside, she was fairly sure she'd been on her blood during the height of it.
So, "No," she replied. "It would have been later than that."
Helena frowned, as though she took offence at the idea the guess was wrong. "Hmm". Dug her fingers in again.
Ellana tried to get ahead of her next guess, but so many of those days and nights had blurred together in the months that passed since. Perhaps if she had Josephine's schedule archives in front of her she could start going down the list to try and see if any particular dates rang a bell.
But…
There was one specific afternoon.
It was a few weeks after the Orlesians left. The tryst that took place on that day stood out in her memory as Solas was not what one would call an adventurous lover, and greatly valued their discretion. Beyond their first night he was always careful to ensure they were not seen visiting or leaving each other's rooms at certain hours, nor standing too close, or acting too familiar. Conversations were calculated, though oft peppered with coy flirting when they were out of earshot of others.
On that day, the flirtation had started in the morning and never ceased; they'd found little time together in the previous weeks and were, perhaps, too eager to engage. It moved beyond a simple game of cat-and-mouse when Solas began to tempt her with certain Elvish words and phrases she'd only just recently persuaded him to teach her, dropping in a few more suggestive comments to throw her off guard when she'd teased him. A touch of her arm here, a brush of his thigh there. Almost a kiss, as they passed through a hall. Somehow — though she could not quite remember what actions had ultimately broken his resolve — they found themselves making use of a dusty table for something it most certainly was not intended for, in a lower archive she'd not previously known existed before she'd had this urgent need of it.
In retrospect, it was a miracle they were not caught.
The date might fit, based on Helena's estimates. And it would be terribly fitting if the last time they did something dangerous and impulsive it led to…
Well.
Something dangerous and impulsive.
"I think, maybe, it was a few weeks after that."
Helena narrowed an eye. "Is he human?"
It was not the question she'd expected to follow. "…Why?"
"Professional curiosity. I find elves often carry higher when they've laid with a human," the healer informed. Then, pitched her voice lower, "Not the Qunari, is it?"
"No!" replied Ellana with a laugh. There was really only one Qunari in Skyhold that she spent any time around, and no secret that he was already paired off. The fact that Helena still made the effort not to name him directly was a little amusing.
"Good!"
Before there was a chance to question what prejudice had prompted such an answer, the woman added, "Tough ones, those. Elfmaid isn't built for that: the babes are too big, and only get bigger. You'll never see a harder birth. Many don't make it."
"Oh." It was all she could think to say in response to that terrifying thought. "I… he—he's very tall." For an elf, she left unsaid.
At that, Helena finally ceased her prodding and tugged Ellana's breeches back up, indicating she was done with that part. While she buttoned her clothes, the healer pulled a notebook from a pocket of her coat and began to write. Again, the quiet muttering gave Ellana an insight on what notes she took. She heard as much as, 'August', 'two fingerswidth', and, 'fathered' before the colour drained from her face.
Helena caught the shift immediately, and flashed a smile over the top of the book. "It's for my own memory," she assured. "Your name won't be on it. None are. If I died today and my bags raided for coin, not a soul would know it was you."
Though it eased her mind, it wasn't quite enough to quell the churning of her stomach that kicked up with the beat of her heart. The day had been a particularly challenging one for her sickness and it took precious little to send her reaching for the chamber pot beneath her bed. As was her new normal, she'd not managed to eat enough to give much substance to the attack, but it did not make the experience any less unpleasant. And embarrassing. When there was nothing left to lose, bile and acid came next. Each roll burned like fire, wearing her throat and sinus raw.
When it was over, and she was left gasping, Helena's hand extended to offer her a kerchief. She took it gratefully.
"Nightingale said you've been ill most days, most hours," she commented. Her voice was softer now; more gentle than it had been since they'd met. "Has it been this way since you knew?"
Nodding, "Mhm," affirmed Ellana in a hum.
"Has it bettered at all?"
That got a weak laugh. "Feels like it's got worse every day. Nothing seems to help it. I'd no idea it could be like this. I don't know how other women endure it, multiple times even! Is there something you can suggest? At this point I'd take anything, I can barely make it through a few hours. Sometimes just the thought of eating is enough to do it, let alone actually trying to. I'd be starved if I wasn't so repulsed."
It was a little unsettling the way the healer's smile quirked only one corner of her lips. Didn't quite reach her eyes, though she didn't quite make the effort. A comforting bedside manner wasn't one of her strengths, it seemed.
"For most, teas and brews can do the trick. Others, a change in diet eases it. Some struggle regardless. But there's an unfortunate few that suffer something different." She extended a finger and thumb, and pinched the skin on the underside of Ellana's arm. Loose and fragile from the weight loss and poor nutrition she'd endured as the weeks wore on without reprieve. "Up in Tevinter they call it something fancy, but down here we just say it's terrible. I've not seen often, but when I do it's always a sorry circumstance. My sympathies are with you, Inquisitor — there are only a few ways to best it."
That didn't feel encouraging. "Which are?"
Helena picked up the medicine bag and began to rummage through it. "A grateful few can wait it out, and find it eases half-way through. But you'll take a beating for it, and that can be dangerous. You'd need to work hard to get back your strength back in time for the birth. But for those who find it only worsens—" A small vial was pulled from a pocket, filled with a viscous black liquid, and placed in Ellana's hand. "—drink a spoonful every four hours until it's all gone, do it slowly so you keep as much as you can down. Witherstalk and cohosh. What comes next will hurt, but be over in a day or two. I can give you something for the pain, as well. Don't know what your plans are, but I'll be available regardless."
It took a moment for her to realize what had been implied. "Ah," she said flatly. "Alright." That felt wrong: like acceptance. She clarified, "I understand."
There'd barely been time to fully accept the fact that she was pregnant at all, amid everything else. This was… not something she had thought about. She'd not thought too much about any part of anything. And now the two conflicting ideas had somehow stopped her ability to think at all. Holding the vial, she felt only indifference toward it, and wondered if there should be something else there instead. There was neither fear nor relief. Not even vague alarm. Did that mean something in itself?
Seemingly oblivious, Helena continued to fish through her bag of supplies and eventually found few more vials to offer. She handed them over one by one. "Can try these but I offer no promises. One spoon each, but not all at the same time. They'll make you tired, so best save them for evenings if you can. Not much else I can offer, I'm afraid."
Overwhelmed. Unsure. Confused. Nervous. Hysterical.
Surely any of these would be better than nothing at all.
"Thank you."
"If you still have need of me I can come back in two months' time. Nightingale can call for me. Was there anything else?" The woman was clinical, though not cold. Nor was she unkind. Merely unmoved; neither the patient nor the plight seemed to concern her in any way beyond professional interest. Just a humble healer with other places to be.
Ellana imagined she would feel grateful for that when the ability returned. "Will you— I mean, you work for—"
A hand raised, cutting her off. "Confidential. I tell Nightingale only if you're dead and unable to tell her yourself. I'd not inform you were she with child, and I have no business telling her of your being."
A question still nagged her, and the one boon the shock gave her was the ability to ask it. "Does she know already?"
Helena shrugged, entirely uninterested in the implication. "Wouldn't have that answer, Herald — but she'd have no business telling me if she did."
Of course.
"Thank you."
"You said," quipped Helena as she re-packed her bag. Belted, then heaved it over one shoulder. It clanked and tinkled with the sound of metal and glass as the tools within shifted.
Before leaving, she put a hand on Ellana's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. It was by far the most gentle touch she'd shown that evening. The hand remained until she'd caught her attention properly, at which point she offered the single, poignant, piece of advice she possessed that was worthy of passing on.
"Give it time. You'd not hate your friend if they gave you a scare, but you'd still scream when you got it. Your heart's still pounding — it'll settle."
At some point, she descended the stairs and shut the door behind her… though Ellana could only distantly recall hearing the wood hit the frame and nothing else that followed it. By the time she had the wherewithal to collect up the vials and rise from her bed, the candles had nearly burned down. Wax pooling in the silver holders so deep that it overflowed and spilt upon the desk.
The very expensive desk.
A once ornate piece now marred by quill scratches, ink stains, candle wax and water rings. An unapologetic display of neglect. Looking around, she saw there was not much in the room she'd bothered to take good care of. Everything was dented, damaged, chipped or scratched. Even the Orlesian couch with the fine fabric she could never remember the name of, the one she almost never touched simply out of fear of harming it, had loose threads and a crack in one leg from when she'd risen from it too quickly and scooted it over a bump in the stone floor.
She'd never had anything to take care of before this castle, and all the pretty things that filled it. Gifts, bribes, offerings and frilly decor she should have paid more respect toward.
If she could not even be bothered to hold these beautiful things dear…
The vial of dark ichor was a burning brand in her palm. More painful than the burden of the anchor's tear.
An uncomfortable, anxious knot formed in her chest. Stole her next breath with a skipped heartbeat. She struggled to swallow it down, but the sensation stubbornly refused to abide her. With sudden aplomb, she crossed the room, from her bed to the desk now covered in wax, and threw open the long top drawer. Inside were all manner of notes and maps, a few failed attempts at floral sketches, and a silver key. She dropped all the vials atop them, and shut them away with enough force for the slam to echo in the empty room.
But her fingers lingered on the handle for the space of a breath.
Then two.
And she opened it again.
Took out the key, then the black vial, and threw it the bottom drawer of the left-side of the desk instead. Shut it, locked it, stowed the key in the top drawer, and retreated three steps back.
Standing still as stone in the middle of the room.
Silent, but for her heaving breath.
Even with her eyes squeezed shut and all her will focused on conquering the guilty tremor of her hands, her heart still beat at her throat.
"It can't hurt you in the drawer," said a familiar voice.
To her credit, she didn't jump or cry out, though his sudden appearance still gave her a start. Every time she told herself she'd be able to anticipate his next visit, and still, he always managed to arrive when she did not expect it. Always too wrapped up in whatever had drawn him there in the first place.
Opening her eyes, she found Cole seated on the desk before her. His hands clasped demurely between his knees, ankles crossed, with his gaze cast upon the floor. Hiding beneath the brim of his oversized hat.
The next breath was deep and measured. "I know," she replied, swallowing past the lump in her throat.
He looked so small and fragile this way, but his words were always so sure. "It wasn't real until she gave you a choice. Ignored, ignorant, but inevitable. I don't know how to do this."
His eyes lifted from the floor and met with her own. Searching. Brows raised in surprise as he caught upon a thread he'd not expected. Then lowered, deep, in sympathy.
"It doesn't mean you'd be a bad mother."
Tears never used to come to her so quickly. It was uncomfortable: the ease of which she found herself in this state, struggling against the tide. She tried to force a laugh, but could only choke out a bitter scoff. "Doesn't it?"
"No," Cole replied, perhaps more eager than the situation called for. He wanted to help. "They all wonder. Even Ilse—" A woman from her clan. Some memory he'd found of a middle-aged mother of many; always so calm and confident with her brood of children. She took care of others as well as her own, and never seemed to have a sore word to say about it. "—Every time she feared there was not enough to go around. There is only so much of me. All of them are scared." He frowned. "There are a lot of things to be scared of."
Cole had been part of the Inquisition for some time now, and still, it was largely a mystery where he pulled his knowledge from. How much was intuition, and how much innate ability; if he tapped into some invisible connections when it was required, or collected it all somewhere along the way. Still, "Did you know before I did?" she asked.
He blinked wide eyes. Clearly surprised by her question.
"You didn't know."
That was… fair, she supposed. If not predictably cryptic.
"He's scared too," Cole added when she offered nothing more in reply. "Nervous, new, it should come naturally, but never has. I cannot remember how to cradle a child."
He spoke in such a perfect imitation of Solas' cadence that she could almost hear him saying the words himself, though doubted he would admit such things aloud. Even to her. This was still too fragile — too new — and he so timid when it came to such vulnerability.
"He would if you asked."
A startled laugh slipped out amid a fall of tears, and she wiped them from her cheeks. It was too easy to forget her inner thoughts were not her own in Cole's presence; he did not come to her like this often.
The spirit continued, "He blames himself for your suffering. Nothing I can offer eases her sickness. Is this because of me? Because I am—"
"Stop," she cut in. This felt too personal to receive from the mouth of another. And she too raw to hear it so plainly.
Cole obliged the heart of her request, but did not relent. Switching to his own voice instead. "You don't have to be apart. Alone and apprehensive. It would help."
She knew what he was implying. A tempting thought, but one she wouldn't entertain: it was rare she went to Solas' room, rather than he find a way to hers. His ability to evade detection was masterful — and probably magic-related — even her lifetime of experience hunting and hiding was no match for whatever skills he employed to successfully get past any guard posted in the hall when he left her room before dawn.
Additionally, if he had not come to her door yet this evening he was unlikely to come at all. Allowing her the time to rest, he'd said when she inquired about the less frequent visits. A well-intentioned, though a not beloved solution to her exhaustion that left her evenings free to spend resting, should she wish to.
"Not now," Cole commented innocently, providing a curious answer to a question she'd not asked. "When he comes back."
That gave her pause, it was unlike him to still be at work in the rotunda at this hour. "To his room?"
"To Skyhold."
In the silence that followed the admission his face fell.
"I don't think I was supposed to tell you that," he added belatedly.
Author's Note: "In Tevinter" they'd call it hyperemesis gravidarum. It affects about 1% of pregnant women, is not morning sickness, and used to frequently end in death. We have medications to 'help' it nowadays, if you are fortunate to respond well to them. But it is severe enough that therapeutic abortion is still a common, unfortunately necessary, treatment. Read more at HelpHER dot org — FACT: if you know someone who suffers with it, make sure you don't offer them soda crackers. This grants them the immediate right to kill you with full legal immunity.
I have a plot point I'm making about it but it'll take the next chapter to get there.