Coming back to consciousness after the shock was not the gentle, slow, transition of someone roused from sleep. Instead it was a violent awakening marked by gasping, heavy, breaths that ached of desperation. As though she'd been drowning and only just breached the water's surface in time to save herself. And like a freezing river the air was too cold; too thick. It hurt to breathe it.

Everything hurt.

And her head was spinning.

What happened?

For a terrifying moment Ellana had no memory of what had led to her ending up this way, unable to so much as open her eyes to get a read on her surroundings.

Was she stunned? A fall? Had they been fighting? She couldn't remember. Were there more enemies in the area? Did any remain? Were her friends in danger? I can't even move, how can I get us out of this?!

Then something clicked and it all came back in a rush: the camp, the fire, Solas' failed attempt to keep her focused. And, oh, she realized — this was not the work of a foe, but of Cassandra.

Though it had been said before she'd never really considered how a Seeker's abilities were not that far removed from a Templar's. While she'd rarely seen her use those skills on the battlefield — as they did not often find themselves cornered by groups of mages — she had fought alongside Cassandra enough times to recognize the move: it was a Spell Purge. And apparently she now had enough of a connection to the Fade for it to have a sizeable impact on her.

It could have been worse, she reasoned. She'd seen Cassandra deal significant damage to Venatori spellbinders — while this was barely more than a stun. She'd caused no serious injury with it, other than what she'd done to herself by falling, presumably. Though even that was more potent than she'd have thought. More than the impact, it was the emptiness that hurt. Like she'd had her chest carved out and was trying to take a breath with the hollow left behind. Like she hadn't eaten in weeks. A feeling that was distantly, painfully, familiar.

Not having any need to be the target herself she'd never had a reason to wonder what it felt like.

Here, now, she could only think of Solas recovering in his room after the 'transference' — sick and exhausted. Worse than she'd ever seen. And while she'd empathized at the time she also thought him being a little dramatic. Surely it could not be so bad to be made bereft of mana. From here forward she'd know better. The only thing felt more surely than her amazement at the move's effectiveness was her desire to never again be on the receiving end of it.

Truly, this was a miserable experience.

And not one she'd care to dwell on any longer than she had to.

First things first: gather her wits.

How long was I out? Am I injured?

There was grass under her palms and the smell of wood ash in the air, but little else to help her orient herself. She might have tried to speak, but could not tell if the attempt was successful. The ringing in her ears had drown out everything else.

Next she tried to lift her head, though all that won her was a series of snaps and pops through her neck. Even the smallest movement took incredible strength; her body felt as though it was filled with sand. Like she'd been out for hours… though that couldn't possibly be true. Even a powerful Purge couldn't stun a mage for more than a moment.

Does this make me a mage?

The second attempt to call out was cut through by a strike of pain in her jaw when she opened it, but that was enough to startle a groan out of her. This time she was sure she'd made a noise: a rough, reedy, sound that she felt rather than heard.

There was movement.

Something shifted — and then suddenly it was easier to breathe. A wave of vertigo followed and it took another moment to gather her bearings enough to realize that had been caused by someone propping her up. There were fingers wrapped around the back of her neck, supporting her. Her head rest in the cup of a large, rough, palm.

It was Bull. Iron Bull was holding her.

Though it took considerable effort, she managed to open her eyes to confirm it. Blinking clear her vision until she could focus on his face. He was watching her; lone eye darting between hers, assessing. Expectant. As if he'd asked a question and was waiting on her reply.

But he didn't seem too bothered by her silence, which she decided was a good sign.

Less good when he repeated the question and it became evident she was deafened.

He made two more attempts before it became clear the message wasn't getting across. He'd have to try a different approach. He pointed at himself, his ear, then up, indicating a question.

Can you hear me?

Shaking her head felt like too much effort. Instead, she mumbled a reply that should have been, 'no' but came out more like, 'nngh'.

Regardless, he understood. And with the slow, deliberate, movement of someone carefully conveying instructions Iron Bull raised a hand, pinched his nose between thumb and forefinger, closed his mouth, and mimed forcefully blowing out a breath. Then he gestured to her: your turn.

Cautiously, she did the same: lifted her impossibly heavy hand, held her nose, and blew. Hard.

There was a loud and intensely painful whine from somewhere deep inside her skull and then finally, mercifully, her ears popped. With the pressure equalized the headache all but disappeared, but the wave of sound that hit next was so jarring that she was forced to guard her ears against it lest she earn herself another.

Beyond the crackling fire, the creaking trees from a storm brewing, and the lingering whine of tinnitus one thing stood out above the noise: Cassandra and Solas were arguing. Loudly. She'd come into the middle of it.

"—it would have had!"

"The burns she sustained could take a week to fully heal for a fire that blazed for mere seconds. If you had waited that moment more how much worse would it have been?"

"The injuries are superficial. We've received the same at the hands of both demons and Venatori and walked away. Had you given me a chance to—"

Cassandra cut across him. "Do not try to tell me you had it under control, Solas."

"I could have easily redirected the spell before it became dangerous," he countered.

"It was already dangerous! A Purge does her no lasting harm."

"Other than render her unconscious!"

"It was meant to! The fire needed to be dispelled immediately — and it was. This was hardly a serious blow. The flames did her far worse. You were also in its radius and were practically unaffected! She will be fine."

"My ability to withstand the nullifying effects of Templars and their kin has been honed over years. She has no experience. Either with magic or Smiting! You have no way of knowing its impact on one only just coming into the skill. To Purge her without warning was akin to striking a child for stumbling. That was entirely unnecessary!"

"It very well may have saved her the use of her hands, and where would we be without the Anchor? I only regret that I did not do it sooner!"

They were just beyond the tents. A blur of wild gesture and angry pacing. The argument had been taken to the edge of camp rather than yelled over her, at least. Small blessings. Neither of them were known for backing down from a point; this could go on for hours.

Bull followed her gaze. "Yeah, they've been at it for a while," he mused. "What about you? You good?"

He spoke softly, careful not to add to the cacophony, and when she looked back he offered her a thumbs up. She gave him the same in reply, though the gesture dragged out a wince and a hiss of pain. Her arms stung from fingertips to shoulders. Prickling not with the heat of blisters, but the stretch of new scars.

Turning her hands over showed her tender, pink, skin; freshly-knit and paper thin. Lighter where the downy hairs would yet grow back. Solas must have healed her wounds while she was out. Superficially, at least. The burns were deep, and would take several sessions to heal completely. She'd needed such treatment a few times before — it was never pleasant. The first days were the worst; when new skin was so delicate that even the most simple tasks caused pain, like donning armour or washing.

Gently, she ran her fingers up her arms, testing their sensitivity. Bare now: her bracers had been removed and the sleeves of the chemise beneath turned to ash. The edges black and scorched. A welt on the inside of her left elbow gave her pause. The scar left by a metal buckle when it was heated to scalding and burned through the strap. It hurt to touch, and she winced as her fingertips felt around the raised, uneven, edges. Even with a dozen healing sessions this would leave a permanent mark. A brand to forever remember the night she caught fire.

Cassandra and Solas were both right: she'd been burned before — but never this badly.

Bull was still waiting on a proper answer. So, "I'm good," she affirmed in a voice more suited to grinding rocks than speaking.

He looked her up and down and his mouth twisted a little. He said, "You gonna puke? Smites always make 'em puke. You look like you're gonna puke."

"No." Ellana shook her head. Then immediately wished she hadn't. The vertigo surged to a crescendo and his face spun. "Wait… actually yes."

In one fluid movement Bull managed to flip her onto her side with one hand and gather up her hair with the other, ensuring she did not splash it with sick. When the nausea passed he braced a hand against her back and gently pushed so she could sit up and take a proper breath.

He patted her shoulder. "Dalish has been training with some of the ex-Templars that joined up with the soldiers. Practicing taking Smites and Purges. Wants to get a handle on what it feels like. She still pukes about half the time. Passes out the rest." Wistfully he added, "I've earned so many sovereigns off that bet."

Ellana wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Pity she doesn't have a barrier she can raise to help mitigate that effect."

His brow quirked. "From her—?"

"From her bow."

"Maybe you can practice with her," he advised, only half-joking. A folded kerchief was pulled from his pocket, offered with the suggestion.

She took both. "Could make it into a club. Non-magic-users meeting up on Tuesdays to get our not-mana not-Purged."She spit into the grass. Her mouth tasted of bile and her voice was still barely above a whisper.

"Come to think of it it's a little weird there's two of you now."

"Just need one more for a full set."

"You joke," he warned, "but the way Dagna's been talking about the runes she's been working on lately has me wondering."

"Inquisitor!"

Solas was at her side before she could think to reply, Cassandra a step behind him, the pair having finally stopped arguing long enough to notice she'd come around. She was armed now with her sword in its scabbard and her shield on her back. One hand ready on the pommel. Just in case. She rarely strayed far from her weapon, even at rest, but this readiness was a testament to how uneasy the situation had made her. It was rare to see her so tense.

She did not join Solas at her side.

"She's alright," Bull was saying, "Right, boss?"

In a dusty croak, "'es," Ellana managed, then cleared her throat so she could pitch her voice louder and sound less like the dead when she did so. "Yes, I'm fine. Just a little disoriented." The feeling was starting to return to her legs and arms; they weren't as heavy as they had been a moment past. Still sore. That was likely to last a while. If she didn't know better she'd have guessed she collided with a charging druffalo instead of a Seeker.

Solas' eyes slid from hers to the puddle of sick in the grass. "That will pass," he assured, "The effects of mana drain are uncomfortable, but should be only temporary. Do you feel hurt beyond the burns on your arms?". The weight of his brow when his eyes scanned her body, flicking only briefly toward her middle, asked a different question.

But before she could reply, "I did not Smite her," corrected Cassandra. Not entirely without malice. There was a bite to her tone that implied they'd already had this argument. "Had I, you would know. She'd have taken serious damage. A Spell Purge only affects magic being channelled, be it by glyph or caster, as you well know."

"For a young mage there's barely a difference between the two," he snapped back.

"She is neither young nor a mage!"

"Not in practice, no! But these abilities surfacing now are not unlike—!"

"That's enough." Ellana cut through before they could start up again. Bull offered her an arm so she might use it to pull herself to her feet. Still unsteady, but not so much so that she'd accept Solas' hand as well. "Both of you stop it."

She addressed each in turn. "Cassandra—" The Seeker lifted her chin, bracing herself. Her surprise evident when it was not criticism, but praise, that followed. "Thank you. Your quick thinking prevented things from spiralling even further out of control. And while I'm not thrilled to be on the receiving end of your abilities, it did what it was meant to. It worked. It was overkill — but it worked."

The hard line of her shoulders relaxed just a little, and she inclined her head in acknowledgement.

Next, "Solas," she continued, "Though I appreciate the concern, it's not necessary. I'm fine — she did not hurt me in any meaningful capacity. Additionally, you are just as capable of Dispelling, and to my knowledge your method is more targeted and so less likely to cause any physical harm. Should the need arise to use it again — and I sincerely hope it does not — do not hesitate. Better to be weakened than injured. Weakness will pass unaided."

Even if she did not know him well enough to anticipate his reaction to a judgement he disagreed with, his body language made it abundantly clear how he felt. She could see every clever retort and damning argument he held beneath his tongue. The knot in his brow. A twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Bull's eye flicked between the two of them.

But, ultimately, he squared his jaw and, "By your order, Inquisitor," he replied. Electing instead to convey his frustration with a hard gaze held a moment longer than deference would allow.

"Thank you," she muttered — and meant it. Quarrelling with him was draining enough on their own; having an audience would not improve the experience. "I cannot take another minute of your shouting, my head is ringing like a bell."

She ran her fingers up over the top of her head, through her hair, wincing when her nails caught on knots beneath her ears and pulled. It was a mess. And probably full of burrs and sticks after lying on the ground for a spell. But when a few tugs failed to loosen the tangles she brought a lock forward for a better look.

It wasn't knots.

"Your armour caught fire just before you lost consciousness," offered Cassandra solemnly, to the question yet unasked. "It went out by the time you hit the ground, but had already burned hot enough to destroy some of it… as well as catch some of your underclothes and your hair."

It was impossible to gauge the full extent of the damage without a looking glass. A hand skimmed down the back of her head told her equally little. The ends of her hair felt sticky and thin. Uneven. Little pieces curled at odd angles and stuck together where the layers of wax and polish had melted off the leather, then dried while she was on the ground.

"How bad is it?"

"You will need new vambraces and pauldrons made. We discarded what was left of them to get a better look at your arms. Unfortunately, some parts of your hair stuck to the leather or burned up. Some is still attached to your cuirass and can be cut away, but Solas advised against taking the rest of your armour off until you woke so he could better assess any burns beneath it."

"If they extend that far I would see to them treated carefully," Solas clarified, "So not to put you at risk of infection. We have only the one healing potion among us to last through tomorrow, and minimal bandages, we will need to rely on practical medicine until we reach Skyhold and have a proper healer see to you."

A sensible precaution. Convenient, for providing good reason not to reveal the bindings she wore beneath her clothes. There would be no excusing the bump they only barely hid. It was a wonder she'd gotten away with it this long.

Cassandra continued, "From what I could see, the rest of your armour seems salvageable. Your hair… less so." Her eyes traced a path around her head, shoulder to shoulder.

"It's not so bad,"Bull added, "Once you even it out it'll be fine. I'm sure there's someone in Skyhold whose skilled with a pair of shears. Maybe ask Cullen where he gets his done."

"So I can get the points of my ears nicked?" Humans didn't even leave their ears in tact in their artwork. Elven features had no business being around their sharp things. "It's fine. It's just hair. I had too much of it anyway."

It was not quite a lie, she'd not been precious about it since childhood, but something about the loss of it left an ache in her chest. One more thing among so many otherswrest from her grasp. Everything that made her who she was had been taken. Her language, her family, her culture, her gods, her Vallaslin and body… and now even her hair. Rarely did she spend the time to tame it — and often lamented it — but in truth the unruliness of it was the last shred of personal identity she'd managed to preserve. It was the only part of her, here, that could not be fundamentally changed to fit another's standards. Braided and bowed, perhaps, but still a piece of the wilderness she left behind. Even the clothes she wore, fine though they were, seemed to belong to someone else. A wardrobe not made for a Dalish hunter, but for the image — the story — of civility and power that was The Inquisitor. An idea she was moulded to fit, piece by piece, until unrecognizable to her former self.

It will grow back, she told herself, it will grow back. It's not important.

A hush had settled over the camp. Guilty eyes watching as her fingers explored the ragged ends of what remained of her hair. The longer it stretched on the more sure she was that the stinging in her eyes would turn to proper tears. It was too easy to cry these past few months; her emotions always ran so high, now.

Damn this.

She needed an escape.

She needed to be alone.

She said, "If it's all the same to you I'd like to take dawn's watch and sleep this off."

The exit should have been stoic and confident, but she was not strong enough to hide completely the catch in her breath. Or the way her voice rose, just a little, at the end. It was a vain hope that if any noticed they would politely pretend they hadn't. Let her go in peace to her tent and mope about with her childish grief.

Instead, she made it only four steps toward it before something else stopped her.

"You should not sleep alone!"

Of all the interruptions she'd thought might befall her, that had not been among them.

The nights were chilly but they were still a few weeks off of being cold enough to require doubling up. Though that was clearly not the point Cassandra had intended to make.

Slowly — curiously — Ellana turned back around. "I'm sorry?"

At first she could only stammer, wholly unprepared to finish whatever thought she'd begun, while the pink in her cheeks grew slowly redder. It was enough of a struggle that it could almost be said one might actually see the words physically slipping from her grasp.

Once she finally found them it all came out in a rush: "Someone should be with you. Through the night. In case it happens again. If you lack the ability to control this power you also lack the foresight to anticipate a surge of it, and so should not be left alone. Solas, myself, or Bull can—"

"No," the Qunari said flatly. Then, to Ellana, "No offence, boss."

"None taken."

"—keep you under guard to ensure quick action, if needed. If you are planning to retire now you will be up before the dawn, and will be taking Solas' usual place at watch. We still have a few hours before the rotation begins, and neither of you sleep as long as we do — if Solas takes the watch before yours I can take the first by the fire and be ready to switch off by the time he wakes. You'll not go without a guard capable of nullifying a spell. Provided he sleeps with you now."

For the space of several breaths the silence was deafening.

Then, "Falls asleep," she clarified, unnecessarily. "In your tent. We would be splitting our sleeping hours to facilitate it."

It was not a terrible idea — just poorly communicated. And poorly timed: she'd have rather spent the hours in solitude.

It took a moment to sort out the timing in her head but, "Alright," Ellana agreed, and turned to Solas. "Does that work for you?"

"I see no problems with it. We will be tired, come tomorrow evening, but at our current pace we'll reach Skyhold before then. It should not be an issue." Ever the pragmatist.

"Fantastic. You can play nursemaid first, then." With a wide sweep of her arm she gestured for him to go on ahead of her. After you. He did so, stopping only to pick up his bag and bedroll first.

As the tent flap closed behind her she could have sworn she heard Bull whisper to his fellow warrior a quiet, "Subtle."

Inside, Solas had wasted no time and immediately set to work laying out bandages and herbs atop his unfolded bedroll. The supply was supplemented by elfroot and blood lotus they'd gathered earlier that morning. Proper reagents were limited on social journeys, but there were enough raw ingredients to make a poultice to soothe her wounds. She'd need it. She could feel the heat beneath the edges of her armour where fire had seeped in and lashed across her skin.

But before that, the tent offered enough privacy for him to safely ask the question he'd been waiting to from the start: "How is—?"

"Fine," she answered, before he could finish. "Didn't much care for the fall, I think; quite a bit of movement since then."

His relief was palpable. The tension in his shoulders loosed along with the breath he'd been holding. It would be endearing on any other day. "That is good to hear."

"Affairs in the Circles were not exactly uncommon," she noted while unbuckling the straps of her cuirass, "and I'm sure mages there have withstood far worse than I just did on a regular basis while carrying—" She stopped. Considered. Then pitched her voice low enough not to carry beyond his ears. "—carrying children."

Finished with his preparation, he cautiously moved to help her undress. Stopping just shy of touching her until she nodded her consent. Taking her cue, "I imagine they have," he returned in a whisper. "But I would be hesitant to trust any practical wisdom gleaned from the imprisonment and torture of mages. Knowing something is survivable is not the same as it having no impact. Additionally, your situation is very different; you have a dependancy on magical affinity that others do not. There is no precedence for it in this era. Purging you of the mana you now have — even momentarily — could have been catastrophic. We are fortunate it was not. Raise your arms."

When the last buckle was undone he peeled the leather armour away from her singed undergarments, careful not to drag it across her skin. She could feel the ends of her hair tearing away with it. Fused to the melted layers of oil and wax just as Cassandra had said.

She tried to imagine it wasn't as bad as it felt.

The chemise went next. Soot-stained and burned beyond repair. He eased it over her head, then positioned himself cross-legged behind her, supplies laid out at his side. The beginnings of a healing ritual they'd performed dozens of times on the road.

"You are being unfair to Cassandra," she said as she braced herself for the sting once he unwrapped her breast-band. "She knows nothing more than what I've told her and was acting on a duty to protect me. To protect all of us. Her caution is— ah! Shit!"

Once dressed down to nothing but her bindings the spread of the burns was painfully apparent. Though the fire had only seared beneath her armour a mere moment before being dispelled, it was hot, and quick, and that was enough. A line of shining red stretched across her chest, shoulder to shoulder, sprayed with blisters. Skin split and wept where the buckles and grommets had rest. Burned straight through the thin undergarments. She was left with a seared shadow shaped by the outline of the leather vest.

Her breasts were spared by virtue of the linen band she wore to bind them. It provided just enough of a buffer to protect her from a worse burn.

Good fortune, as they were soon to become much more important to her.

She hissed a breath through clenched teeth as the last of the bands and binding fell away. The feel of cold air hitting her wounds was not as comforting as she'd hoped.

A hand touched upon her back, and from it she felt a pulse of familiar magic wash over her. Taking the worst of the heat — and the wounds — with it when it faded. Though it was soothing, and she sighed with relief, still, "Save your mana and use a salve," she advised. "I don't want you tapped in case this happens again."

"It will not. You will not be capable of casting again for some time."

"Just like I wasn't capable of casting something powerful enough do harm beyond the bedsheets?"

It was petty. She didn't care.

Careful hands paused their work. "You are angry with me," Solas concluded. It wasn't a question.

"Yes!" she bit. Then, "No," she corrected, in a softer whisper. Sighed. "A little. I'm… I'm upset that the expectations you set regarding these abilities were low enough that I was taken completely by surprise. You told me it was impossible and I believed you. I was frightened when that was proven wrong, and due to that I was harmed — other people could have been harmed as well. I very nearly hurt you. And you could have eased that by preparing me for this possibility rather than convincing me it couldn't happen."

"I did not 'convince' you," he argued. "I did not believe it was likelyat the time." As if there was a vast difference between the two. As if he did not know she had, like so many times before, taken him at his word.

"Really? Because you sounded very sure that first afternoon."

His dour expression was writ into every word; she did not need to see his face to know it. "Evidently your capabilities have grown since then. I did not suspect it would happen so quickly."

He was ever so good at dancing around a point.

"No reason to discuss the possibility with me, you mean."

With a weary sigh, he braced one hand on the back of her shoulder and dug into his bag with the other. "Given that early spell-casting is often heralded by emotional distress, something you are already prone to in your condition, it would have been extraordinarily unwise to provoke it." A small ceramic jar with a tightly-fit lid was pulled from a pocket. From it he scraped the last dregs of a healing balm onto his fingertips. "What would you have had me do instead? List for you a series of worst cases wherein you are consumed by your own rogue spells? To what end? All mages possess the power to destroy: magic can be a weapon just as sure as any blade. But like a knife it can also be a tool when wielded with care. It is better not to develop a fear of those capabilities. Had you stayed calm you would not have lost control the way you did this evening, and instead been able to discover your power gradually over time."

"So you just decided it was better not to tell me what you knew I was capable of?"

"At the time you were already agitated. And you have remained uncomfortable with the idea since." He made it sound like a curse — as though her trepidation had personally wronged him. "I chose to spare you information that would only make that discomfort worse."

"And in doing so you deliberately created a situation where my ignorance put me at risk. You don't get to make that choice for me!"

They were past whispers now — she had not meant to raise it to a shouting match. As angry as she was a part of her still knew that this would not be resolved by brow-beating him for his arrogance. The hush that fell upon the camp shamed her, too. Their companions by the fire outside having abruptly stopped talking once she started yelling.

It took an embarrassingly long time for them to start back up again.

Solas quieted too. Waiting until after she'd taken some time to breathe before his hands touched her again, and resumed treatment. He passed the jar over her shoulder so she could apply the salve to her chest while he finished with the wounds she could not reach.

It was a while before he spoke again.

When he did, "I'm sorry," he said simply.

She wanted to push him for more. For something more substantial than an apology for the presumption that he alone could craft her experience. A deeper awareness of how he'd lied by omission or talked in circles, and the broken trust between them it would inevitably lead to if he didn't learn to trust her. This was far from the first time he'd withheld something over the belief that he knew best if and when to disseminate the knowledge.

But this could be enough for now. She was too tired to argue, and there were good intentions somewhere in the mess.

She placed the empty salve on the ground next to her. "Beyond us… I am the Inquisitor, and you are a member of my Inquisition. You cannot decide for me what I should or should not know. That is not up to you. You are not my Keeper. If you have insight, share it. If it's upsetting, so be it; I will deal with that separately. But you cannot withhold information simply because you believe I cannot handle it or do not need it, especially over things that could have a direct impact on my well-being. I cannot pass judgement on a matter I only partially understand, Solas." She turned just enough to look over her shoulder. To meet his eye and properly read his expression; be it acceptance or dismissal. It read as neither, but that was better than opposition. "I need to be prepared for all possibilities — even if they are 'unlikely'. Do not make decisions for me again."

He was silent a long time.

Considering the words as an order and weighing it against the value of what knowledge he still had yet to share.

There will always be more.

But it seemed to reach him. After a time, he quietly offered more. "You will be at the same risk of any young mage — most notably in times of turmoil. Fear or anxiety. But the better you learn mental discipline, the less likely you are to lose control. If you fight against it you will only end up hurting yourself. Practicing with offensive spells — even just redirecting or blocking the energy aimed at you — would improve your command of magic. If not with me, then with others, as we've discussed. What you demonstrated this evening was a level of command I did not expect to see for several more months of training, at least. Your aura has changed since we last attempted practice: it is stronger, and lingers. I'm still unsure if you will ever gain the proficiency of a born mage, but I am confident it will grow from here."

She tried not to latch onto the admission that he'd always known it would evolve this far. They would just go in circles.

Instead, "Thank you," she said. And meant it. "You're right: I'm not terribly excited about the pace, but at least I know what I can expect." This was a better place to end it on, for now. Some levity might even improve the chill. With that in mind she amended, "Anything else I should watch out for? Spontaneous combustion? Templars appearing in my bedroom? Assassination plots?"

But he did not take the opportunity she'd offered. Instead, he hesitated.

Not for long. But enough time for the smile to leave her face… and a heaviness settle in her stomach.

He pressed his mouth into a thin line; searching for t words. After a moment his eyes flicked back to hers. "Your nightmares," he said at last. "They have been worse lately — more frequent. Have they not?"

They rarely shared a bed, either in Skyhold or on the road. Those nights they spent in each other's company were short and sweet: he usually left before she fell asleep. Only rarely did he stay part of the night, usually to bide time to avoid passing others in the halls when he returned to his room. There was no opportunity to watch over her rest, and she'd not mentioned any dreams to him since they fought in the library nearly a year past.

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you looking in on me while I sleep?"

The answer was immediate. "No. I would not do that without your permission.However, I can hear you. I am aware of your presence, while you dream, and if you are distressed it leaves an echo in the Fade. An impression on the surroundings —similar to how areas that have seen strife will preserve a memory of it. Curious spirits, and demons, are drawn to that unrest. Twice I have seen you wake cold from a sleep you later described as troubled. This can be a sign of an incursion. The Anchor already makes you a beacon in the Fade, this development will only made that target more attractive."

"You think something pursues me?"

"Or influences you," he proposed. "It is possible for lesser demons — Terror or Despair — to incubate nightmares in the mind of a mage in the hope of weakening them for possession. To the inexperienced it takes very little to plant a seed, and without forewarning their temptation may simply take the form of a reprieve offered from a rash of nightmares. They will prey on worries; fears and doubt. Thoughts that plague you in your waking hours. Spin them into something more. Are your dreams often the same?"

It was unsettling to think of herself as a mage — or the predecessor of one, perhaps —wandering the Fade while she slept. Now a target of other powers. She would have no idea how to fight the influence of something that came looking for nourishment in her nightmares. "I'm not sure," Ellana answered honestly. "I don't often recall them after I wake. All I remember are feelings: the cold, hunger, fear. Being alone. Or trapped, maybe. Wolves howling."

His gaze was sharp. "Did you have them before the Anchor?"

"I don't think so. If I did, it was rare. Now it seems they happen all the time." Several times a week, at worst. Steadily increasing as she progressed further through her pregnancy. She'd not thought too deeply on them, big dreams were always said to be a typical part of the experience.

"You must take better care not to make yourself a target," he said. The warning was chiding but his expression was soft when he gave it.

She gave him a look. "You've said so before".

"And it is no less true now than it was then," he replied, but winced for the memory.

"If only I had half your proficiency, surely this would be an easy task. As it stands I'm not sure how one does or doesn't do so."

As if it were so simple as thinking positively.

There wasn't much more that could be done for her wounds now that she'd asked he not rely on magic to close them. The jar of salve was empty, and what was left of the bandages were on her chest, held in place by the breast-band when Solas re-wrapped it.

For bed, she'd left a spare undershirt on the bedroll when she'd set up her tent earlier in the day — now her only one. Carefully, she slipped it over her head. Sleeping nude would be preferable for the wounds to breathe, had she the option, but it was far too cold. Even if he warmed her bed that night.

Only once she dug her fingers into her hair to split it into thirds for braiding did she remember the damage it'd sustained. All of the pieces were different lengths now. "Shit," she swore under her breath. She gave it a valiant effort, but the gumption didn't get her far before frustration took its place.

Solas pulled a small hunting knife from his belt. Rarely used and razor sharp, the low lantern light glinted off the blade as he raised it up. "I can help you," he said. And at first it was unclear if he was speaking of her dreams or her hair. Regardless, she nodded, and turned her back to him again.

With the practiced ease of someone who had performed the task a hundred times before, he wound locks of hair through the fingers of one hand to find an even length, then pulled it taut. The blade cut clean through. She could feel what was left behind spring free and bounce about her neck.

He said, "Should you permit me, I can walk with you in a dream; assist in redirecting it toward something less… upsetting. At the very least it might dissuade anything that would be looking to take advantage of you."

She brushed the stray hairs from her chest and legs, watching as they fell into little piles on the floor. So much after only a few cuts. At least a handbreadth of length — gone. Maybe more. All cast about on the floor of the tent in a growing halo around her. A mix of tight curls and looser waves, burned at the edges and stuck together.

There might not even be enough to braid after this.

"Alright," she agreed, and tried not to let the grief show in her voice.

They fell into a more companionable silence as he worked. Fingers gently carding through her hair to find the edges. A small comfort in an otherwise somber act. For a time she allowed her eyes to slip closed; focus on that touch, taking from it what solace she could find.

When she opened them again the oil lantern had burned low enough to bathe the tent in a soft, warm, glow. The light picking highlights from the fallen curls. Reds and golds in deep brown. Bright, like they might burst into flame all on their own.

Delicately, she plucked one from the ground by her knee. Rubbing it between a thumb and forefinger to separate it into individual hairs. Feeling the texture on her skin.Softer now than it ever had been. Months of regular baths and oiling had done it almost as much good as proper eating. She let it go, to fall back upon the floor, and the image evoked an old memory. A longing she had not felt in an age.

A stolen knife too big for little hands. Tangled locks of hair spread all about the ground — falling off rocks and into rushing water to be swept away. A spray of colour from the setting sun beyond the trees. Cold toes and bare feet. Slivers and blisters. Shame like a knot in her gut, and the stubborn refusal to cry at the laughter.

The curls were falling on her hands now. Between her fingers.

"What about Collette?" she said suddenly. "For a girl."

Solas' hands stuttered, but paused only a moment to consider. Then he pulled another weft taut and cut through, slower this time. Gently brushing the debris from her shoulder.

"That does not sound like an Elvish name."

It shouldn't have made her laugh, but it was hard not to find it funny. They had never before discussed the topic — a lapse that was surely in need of remedy soon — but for all his restraint in answering the quiet disapproval may have well been a firm and resounding 'no'. Of course he'd favour tradition.

"That's because it isn't. It's a human name. Orlesian, I think. To be honest I'm not even sure what it means. I've just always thought it was pretty."

Anyone else might have left it there — a sweet suggestion, good as any other, offered and forgotten just as quickly — but he knew her better. Melancholy was not so easily hid from one who knew your heart.

When she didn't offer more on her own, gently, he pushed. "Where did you hear it?"

There was so little she'd told him — told anyone — of her earliest years. Of the loneliness, and a yearning knit deeply into the life of a foundling grafted upon a clan. Like the last stem of a dying oak cut and tied to a nurse tree and begged to thrive, she never quite fit with the rest. Even in growth, over years and decades, her roots did not reach the ground. Just slightly out of step.

It was not a lack of trust, nor care, that stilled her tongue — but habit. Self-preservation. An armour of distance she'd forged from necessity. Up until now no one had needed to know. No one had wanted to. Those few she grew close to within her clan were already witness to her youth, and those beyond were denied the privilege by virtue of being outsiders. Solas asked little of her past, though he made no secret of his curiosity. Near as eager to hear her stories as he was to share his own, regardless of how inconsequential. Regardless of how Dalish, even — he'd made an effort to quell his prejudice. Still, he was respectful of the boundaries she'd set, even if she'd not expressly asked it of him. Presuming the topic was a sensitive one.

It was… strange. Being in a position where she knew more about his early life than he did of hers, considering how much he had to tell by comparison. Stranger still to consider there would be mere months left before they both participated in forming another's.

"I saw a little girl once," she began, "in the market in Wycome. Because Keeper Deshanna looked after me, I would accompany her whenever she took the trips. It was not long after I'd come to the clan — I was young, but not so much so that I could not be tasked to help with the supplies. Members of the clan would trade in the city regularly. That particular day she was cross with me over… something. I do not recall what. But I was incensed enough to slip away from her not long after we arrived, and she did not go searching for me."

He almost interrupted to ask a question then. She heard the little intake of breath and the parting of lips, before he thought better of it, and let her continue. "I was known to run off — but I always found my way back," she amended, and that seemed to satisfy him. Continuing, "Somehow I made it all the way into the high market, where they sold silks and wine. Where elves did not go. The people there were all dressed so extravagantly I thought they deserved their pockets picked, and so was sneaking through the shadows and empty stalls trying to lift a purse. It's fortunate I didn't get the chance to try, as I'm sure they'd have shown me no leniency, had I been caught.

"Then I saw this girl. Human, no older than I was, with lovely blonde hair I was fascinated with. I remember staring at her a long time thinking that hair like that must never get tangled or frizzy… With all her fineries she must have someone to brush and style it for her every day. But it was more than just that: she was very pretty. Skin soft as a peach and hair like gold. No scars and bruises on her arms or dirt on her shoes. Dimples in her cheeks and all. And her—"

The tale was stalled by a lump in her throat. A bruise forming around a word that suddenly hurt to think. Worse to speak. An old pain that had always been there, somewhere in the background, but never quite so sharp as it was in this telling.

She'd not noticed her hand had come to rest upon the swell of her stomach, now unbound, until his slid over it. Entwined his fingers with hers. Squeezed, gently, as he pulled her back to rest upon his chest. Somehow she was all the more vulnerable for it. Lying near-naked in the arms of a man she loved in a threadbare tent not made to share, cradling a body swollen with a child they'd never intended and yet…

Safe.

She breathed. And though her eyes pricked with unshed tears, pushed forward. "—And her mother… just as lovely,began to stroke her hair. Weave her fingers through it, idly, while she spoke to a vendor. It was such a precious scene, and I thought it must be so terribly soft for her mother to want to touch it so fondly. Not at all like mine. Then she kissed the top of her head, called her, 'Collette', and finished with their sale. I thought: 'what a beautiful name to match'.

"When I returned home and shared this story with another, she and several other children convinced me that if I cut off all my hair and tossed it into the sea it would grow back gold and silken just like that girl's. I imagined myself returning to the camp triumphant with my golden crown like a queen's and become the most beautiful child in the clan. Instead, I came back late for dinner looking like a spring sheep that ran off mid-shear."

It should have made her laugh: it was funny… wasn't it? A charming anecdote of puckish mischief and childish naivety that left her hair cropped nearly to the scalp, her head covered in cuts; a mess.

"It was a year before it grew back long enough for them to stop laughing."

Through the tale he held her; his arms encircled round her waist and his chin upon her shoulder. He lifted a hand from her swollen belly and very softly — very deliberately — combed his fingers through her hair. Over and over again. She could say it was a final check for singed ends he'd missed until he tucked the little curl from her temple behind an ear. The way he often did when they laid together.

He was so awfully fond it.

"Was this the only other time you cut it?" he asked. And at her nod, whispered, "It will grow back."

I know, she wanted to reply, but instead said nothing. Fighting in stubborn silence against the pain in her chest. Trying not to linger on how quickly he'd found the bruise right where it bloomed.

Then he smiled — she could feel it against her cheek when he placed a kiss there. Hear it in his voice. But it was not of pity, as she had thought to receive, that he spoke. "The name is lovely, as you said. However, there is one other problem with it beyond its Orlesian origins."

"What's that?"

"I'm afraid that it is unlikely a child of ours will be blonde."

This time, the laughter — and the tears — were not so terrible. Before she could even bring a hand to hide them he took her by the chin and kissed them away.