FORMATTING NOTE:
This site does not allow for indented paragraphs and similar formatting, which means this particular chapter loses all of the visual cues I've used to differentiate 'internal' dialogue between characters. It makes it impossible to understand who is saying what. To get around this in a way the site will actually support I'm using symbols. Braces { } and brackets [ ] denote two different characters 'speaking' dialogue that is not heard aloud. This changes to proper quotation marks once they are identified and begin speaking normally.

"Diana, Darvas — look," said the tall man, and he pointed further down the road, just as he had before.

But it was the first time he'd come into view.

An aging hunter. Evident in the wrinkles around his eyes and the grey streaks in his hair, brushed out from his temples where Andruil's Vallaslin curled upon his spotted skin. The tattoo writ in umber ink to match his fading red braids. An unusual combination — it was visible even at a distance.

"Over there."

A shorter man appeared at his side — much younger, not a man yet — with dark hair cut close above the points of his ears, and his face bare. Too young for tattoos. Not too young for battle scars. One cut through his lip. He pulled a longbow off his back and nocked an arrow. He was quick: well-practiced for a youth, but jumpy by comparison to his companion.

He turned a circle with the bow drawn. Scanning the surrounding trees. "Wolves?" he guessed.

The tall man shook his head. "Bandits, probably. The same ones who have been hassling the hunters lately. They've been known to ambush people on their way to the city if they get bored of dying by arrows. Come, tell me what you see." He did not draw his own weapon, and walked at a leisurely pace. Eyes forward, arms loose. Moving with the quiet confidence of someone well-accustomed to travelling in dangerous places.

With a meaningful look at the other's bow, "And put that away," he added. "They're long gone. If they were still here you'd have no time to use it, they'd be too close before you got a shot off. This part of the forest is thick; too many places to hide. Get your dagger, instead."

The boy did as he was told. Quickly slid the bow back in place upon his back and unsheathed the knife at his belt.

Together the pair approached the scene: a spray of detritus that littered the quiet road. Among it a sack of ruined grain, some torn linens, and a few more personal belongings scattered with several broken pieces of wood. The source was not far — a travelling cart stood by the underbrush, upturned and smashed apart.

[Do you know them?]

{No.}

On the next glance, the grey streaks in the tall man's hair had whitened, and multiplied. Taking up most of his crown save for a few lines of fading red at the very back. Now it was long, almost to his waist, and braided down around his shoulders in twisted pairs like ribbons wrapped with silver. His expression became less hard. The laugh lines around his mouth deepened.

{Yes.}

The boy, unchanged, skirted the edge of the road to get a better look at the wreckage. Careful not to disturb the dirt it laid in. His path took him directly in front of the bushes growing thick under the trees. Close enough to see his pants were ratty around the ankles and he wore no shoes. But the callouses on his feet had yet to thicken to a point where he could move about with ease, so he walked on his toes.

It was cold here.

And soon it would be dark. Surely his feet would freeze.

{He keeps his shoes at home. He thinks it makes him a better tracker.}

[And does it?]

{No. But he tells everyone so anyway.}

He didn't look cold. Rather, he seemed completely unbothered by the chill, even as his toes sank into the mud when he crouched down just a few feet away by a ruined leather rucksack. He tugged on the drawstring that closed the top, loosening it, then began sifting through the main compartment. Moving on to the outer pouches after. The search found him little, only some linens and a handful of loose seed.

He picked up the bag and shook it, listening for the telltale jingle of coin in hidden pockets. Shaking his head, "Nothing," he said with a click of his tongue. "Just clothes. A small blanket."

"Have they been cut?" The tall man stood several paces behind him, observing.

"The clothes?" At his nod, the boy fished one of the pieces out of the bag — a large shirt — and held it up. There were two rips in the front. Too clean to be made by anything other than a deliberate swipe with a sharp blade. He looked surprised. "How did you know?"

The tall man replied, "When they attack elves on this road they make sure nothing is salvageable. They'll take any coin they find, but leave the rest behind and destroy it." He nodded at the remains of the cart. "You'll probably find the missing wheel in the bush, cracked in half."

There was something just off the side of the road, opposite the pair, partially hidden in the underbrush. Cloth and a soiled blanket, another rucksack, and something else. It appeared only once the boy turned and looked toward it.

He pointed. "There — a body."

It wasn't a body.

It was a deer.

It was a dog.

It was a pile of clothes.

It was nothing.

The boy walked over to the nothing, and with the point of his knife made a sweeping motion in the air just above the ground. As though gently moving something aside. Then he said, "You were right, hahren. Elf."

The tall man gestured sharply with his chin. "There's another over there, by that tree."

There wasn't. But there were arrows in the tree — the tips lodged deep in the trunk, two or three feet up. The bark had split around the impact, and from the tree's wounds ran brackish trails of something dark, like blood. It collected on the ground in puddles mixed with mud and seeped into the grass. A slow, creeping, void that had nearly reached the road. Nearly reached the nothing under the brush.

The tall man stepped over to the tree and kneeled down. Touched his fingers to the arrow's shaft and ran them end to end, testing its strength and examining the fletching. When he pulled his hand away it, too, was bleeding. He did not notice. "His throat was cut."

"Why?" asked the boy. "They're flat-ears. I thought they only went after the hunters?"

"Does it matter?" countered the tall man, and he stood. Walked back over to the wreckage of the cart. "They are elf enough — we're all rabbits to them, da'len. Look at the tracks, here—" He pulled his own dagger out of his belt and flipped it around, expertly catching the blade between his fingers without even having to look. Practiced ease that spoke to years of experience.

He gestured with the handle. Tracing a line in the air a few inches above the ground. "The cart was kicked over, twice, before it was stepped on. It was full at the time. You can see the marks here where the sacks fell off." He drew a circle around a depression in the mud, not quite touching it.

The dagger began to melt into his hand.

Blade first, and then the handle. Slowly disappearing beneath his skin, split and thinning, which grew until it had consumed it entirely. His fingers lengthening, sharpening, until he was left with a set of needle claws. Some chimera of man and blade.

All the while he spoke as though nothing were amiss. "If this had been a typical robbery they would have taken everything out first, then searched it for valuables. And they wouldn't have bothered to cut up the clothes. They knew they didn't have anything. It wasn't even personal, it was just an insult. These two were probably killed before they knew what was happening. Done in by the first volley." He pointed a clawed hand at the nothing. It dripped blood and darkness onto the grass at his feet. Onto his shoes. "See how they're all in their backs?"

{I don't want to see.}

[Then ask it to stop.]

"They didn't even fight?" asked the boy.

The tall man made a disapproving noise low in his throat. Not quite a growl. "Even if they carried weapons, flat-ears can't use them — they're mostly for show. Check that one, tell me if you can see how long ago this happened."

There was red on the boy's hands now, too. From the ragged tears on his arms and slashes across his wrists. As if he had been mauled by something terrible. Something that was still near.

Wolves.

Demons.

His skin had become sallow, then pale and bloated. Wet with rivulets of pink-tinged water that seemed to squeeze from every pore.

There was blood pooling upon the dirt beneath him, and smears on the road — a trail — from where he'd tried to crawl out of the brambles toward…

Where she crawled out of the brambles…

Where nothing crawled. There was no trail.

[If you continue to try and change a scene they currently occupy you will only empower them.]

{Go away} — came a thought. Followed then by, {I'm cold.}

[You are not. Think — where are you?]

The boy sheathed his knife and reached out to the nothing. To touch it. His hand hovering in the air for the space of a breath — and then he hesitated and drew it back. Held it, curled, against his wet mouth to hide an uneasy frown. He looked back over his shoulder at the tall man, who still stood by the remains of the cart, the darkness growing his limbs into long, violent, things and his thin hunting leathers hardening into a layer of sickly green chiton.

"Go on, Darvas," the tall man said, and his voice was not kindly anymore. It echoed, and warped, and rolled. It hung in the air. It made everything worse. "It's not going to bite you."

In the far distance, deep in the heart of the woods, something howled. Something screamed. Night was falling. The shadows had begun to crawl out of the roots of trees; twisted, stretching columns of darkness that reached across the road like long fingers. Snuffing out the last flickers of light ray by ray. Inch by precious inch.

The gathering dark met with the void from the tree and together flowed into the space beneath the nothing, filling it in with inky black, until it had made visible the outline of a body face-down in the mud.

But it wasn't a body.

It was a shadow.

It was a trick.

It wasn't…

Then the boy touched his mouth and his lips began to crack and curl, pouring water from the gaps between his teeth, pushing forward. The scar on his face split open, tearing upward through his cheek and into a blighted eye. His voice, when he spoke, sounded tinny and high. Like the screams in the woods. "What if there are Shades? Keeper says—"

"If they were possessed we'd have seen it already," interrupted the terrible man — sharper now, and taller. The ichor at his feet reaching out with thick, stringy, tendrils, and spreading fast. "Demons are not quiet, and are rarely intelligent enough stake an ambush. Keeper has not fought wraiths in a long time, and relies on her superstition over memory."

Then he wasn't a man anymore. And in a hollow, empty, voice he said, "Besides, there are worse things in the forest."

"Bears," provided the boy in a screech, falling to his knees. The darkness leapt from the dirt like whips and chains that fastened to his wounded wrists, tearing them open, and revealing skin of grey beneath as it pulled him down into the earth. "And giant spiders."

Outlaws and raiders.

Darkspawn.

The lingering ghosts of the forgotten and the damned. Cursed things that lived in the deepest dark. Devils out of the scary stories used to frighten children and keep them tucked safe in bed.

[You can make them leave, but you must do it soon. You cannot let them touch you.]

They were all there, in the rolling abyss. Just beyond the road. Beasts made of nightmare and shadow. Hungry, horrible, with eyes that glowed and teeth that gnashed. Claws like knives scraping along the ground as they walked. A spectral procession of Fears and Terrors guarding the boundary of twilight as it pushed through the forest. Consuming everything in its path and turning it to ash.

Soon there would be nothing, and she would join it.

{I can't. I can't do anything!}

[You can.]

The Terror turned its stretched, thin, body toward the road and stepped out upon it. Dripping maggots and void with every jerky, stuttering movement.

{Stop it, stop it, stop it.}

The boy opened his mouth full of crooked rat teeth and began to scream. Loosing a blast of cold that froze the ground around him. The scatter of lost and broken things disappearing, slowly, under his ice. Removing them from memory, from history, until they and all who'd touched them never existed at all.

{Stop it—!}

A spidery hand of Terror reached, fingers wide, ready to grab hold and pull her deeper into Nightmare.

"Stop!" she screamed aloud.

And then it did.

The command burst from her not in voice, but in form, like a shockwave. A ripple of green that snapped against reality itself. In a blink it had banished all the terrible things that had gathered for their feast. And when she looked again the darkness had passed. The demons were gone — turned to harmless mist. The oppressive presence they brought with them, instantly lifted. One moment there, the next not… and she could see clearly what truth lay beneath the lies fear had sown.

This was not a place of death and horror… instead, just a place.

An empty road at dusk in a forest like any other. Full of creaking trees that swayed, gently, in a crisp breeze. No men or monsters lived here. No carnage. The wreckage had vanished along with them; leaving no trace behind. Not a single swipe or footprint marred the dust — even where the tall man had read signs of an ambush — it was like it never happened.

The scene lay still and untouched. Lovely even, with a cast of red-gold filtering down through the canopy from the setting sun. Distant birdsong played amid the trees, and all around was the smell of fallen leaves.

[Very good], said the voice. It was easier to hear it now with all other distractions gone.

It was comforting.

It was suspicious.

It was… someone?

"Will they come back?" she heard herself ask. Somehow without breath or mouth to speak.

[Not likely. You have banished them for now. You are safe.]

That was wrong. They always came back. There were always monsters, here. It was always too cold in this forest, and it was dangerous to listen to things that came bearing promises. Someone had said so, once.

This was a trick, like the shadow.

{I don't believe you}, she thought, and though she was sure she did not speak it aloud a reply came regardless.

[You do not have to take me at my word. Stay as you are, if you like — no harm will come to you — but you can only learn to keep the demons at bay permanently through greater understanding.]

She peered up and down the road, looking for the source of the voice, but saw no one else. And though she could not see beyond the tree-line the scene felt too lonely for someone to be hiding there. The voice was not here with her, not in flesh at least.

Instead, it was everywhere — and nowhere.

"Where are you? Are you real?"

[I am, but you will not see me until you choose to bring me in. You've created this space, and so if I enter it without your invitation my will may change it.]

"How do I invite you?" It bothered her that her own voice sounded ragged and small by comparison to theirs. There was no weight in her words. No surety.

[You must find where you are first. Focus on the physical. Once you are a participant in the scene, rather than merely an observer, the ability to influence its boundaries will come more naturally.]

"If you can talk to me, you can appear to me too," she argued. Surely their omnipotence granted them that. "If you can change this why don't you just do it?"

She knew the smile, somehow, without seeing it. It was in the pause before they answered.

[I could, but then you would not learn how to do so on your own. And that would defeat the purpose of this exercise. Additionally, the experience would be extremely disorienting — to pull from one's control to another. Better that you remain the architect. Start with something small. Think carefully: what do you feel on your skin?]

Though there was a petulant and not-insignificant urge to refuse them on principal, there also appeared to be no real danger in playing along. So she turned her attention inward, and thought.

It came to her slowly. A gradual shift of awareness from the environment around her, to a more intimate knowledge of herself. Instead of simply understanding she had a body — parts and limbs — she had to take the time to acknowledge them. Think on each individually. Recall the way it felt to sit, to tire, to reach, or walk; to cry, and want for something.

She had eyes. A head. And could look around by moving them. She had a perspective, and a body to raise if she wanted to change it. Arms to crawl, and knees to skin. Hunger to gnaw. A heart to stop beating, if she remained much longer.

With that understood, the boundary of perception extended outward and sensation followed.

She felt.

Burrs. Brambles. Scrapes. Pain, in her stomach and her legs. Dried blood and tears. Chapped lips. The taste of metal on her tongue. But above it all…

"I'm cold."

No smile this time. This was an answer she'd given before.

[Alright. Why?]

The answer came to her instinctually. "I should have chosen something warmer," she said, "but I wanted to wear this instead. There are blankets in the bag, but it's too far."

The beautiful dress she loved so much was stained grey and brown. It was torn. It had a ribbon, once. Wove into the hem. Now it was soiled and ruined. She cast her eyes down upon her bare arms and mourned the ratted sleeves that gave them such poor cover.

[Where is the bag?]

The pack was on the road, nearby. The boy had grabbed it.

No — he would grab it later, when he arrived. He wasn't there yet.

There was an order to these events she didn't quite understand.

The bag appeared when she thought on it, sitting by a puddle. Not far — though she was still not close enough to get to it. And if she moved the brambles would dig deeper in her skin. She was surrounded by them.

That was a location. "I'm in the bush, by the road."

She squeezed her arms tighter around her knees. Tucked them as close as they would come, as tight as she could manage, to smother the hunger pangs. Everything was sore and stiff from sitting so long; even the scrapes and bruises that stung had gone painfully numb. There were purple marks all up and down her calves and arms, like fingerprints, and she felt as meat must when tendered for feast. The cold had settled deep in her bones and was beyond hope of remedying, not with mud caked on her feet and along the backs of her thighs.

Soon she'd sleep — she was already so tired.

In that oblivion lay a hope the chill would take her before the animals did. If her last thoughts could not be of peace, they should be of pride: she would not bare her neck for slaughter. She would not die screaming.

But there was no pride in dying alone and afraid, either. So she wished for someone to be with her for the end.

In lieu of a friend, she cursed her would-be scavengers: {I hope the wolves choke on my bones.}

"You would not make much of a meal," said the voice — and their hand appeared before her. Open, easy; an offering between a veil of parted thorns. Her eyes traced a path from fingers to wrist, shoulder, chest — beyond the sleeve of a woollen tunic — to a familiar face. Somehow his presence was comforting even with the immediate and profound awareness that he did not belong here. This place was private. No one should be here.

Then he smiled, and instantly that nagging sense of familiarity clicked into place.

"Solas?"

The smile widened, and he nodded. She slid a dirt-stained hand into his. Small and chubby by comparison to his own — with dimples on her knuckles — it barely fit his palm. Disappearing completely in his fingers when he grasped it firmly.

She frowned. "Why are you so large?"

He ducked his chin, "I am not," he replied, and gently pulled. She allowed herself to be lifted to her feet — up and up, growing as she went — until she'd risen beyond the brambles and stood tall on bared feet. Now only head shorter than he, and their hands grasped palm to palm. "You were very small."

Solas gave a small tug, to urge her out onto the road, and she cautiously followed his lead. Though still donned in the ratty, stained, clothes, that had grown with her — as much as torn things could — she was not as chilled as before. Growing warmer with each step.

When they'd reached the middle of the road he asked, "Do you recall why we are here?" It was deliberately vague: she had to remember on her own.

It took a moment to come back to her, and then only in pieces without a clear grasp of what was before or after.

"I gave you permission to enter my dreams. You thought demons may be behind the disturbances, and wanted to help. They've been worse since…" Glancing down found her belly swollen. The seams of the dress adjusted to fit, as though it had always been this way. "I often don't remember them when I wake — you said that meant I was not lucid. I had to learn how to guard myself. To fend something off, if I was targeted. Is that what this is? Just a bad dream?"

Solas shook his head. "No, this is a memory. However, parts of it have been manipulated by Fear and Despair for the purpose of exerting some control over you."

"Whose memory?" Before he could answer she cut in again, "My memory?" Her eyes scanned the scene for familiarity, but found none. Too deep in the forest for landmarks, mountains or towns to place it; this could be anywhere. "I don't recall this at all." It was just a place.

Ellana looked back at the bush she'd come from. The brambles pushed down in a ring away from the centre, where she'd sat, so they would not catch on her skin as she grew. His doing — though hers had found it. It seemed an unlikely location to favour, and she found she could not recall why she'd first chosen it.

With so many pieces missing and out of order, thinking on anything here was a disorienting experience.

Solas was saying, "I'm not certain which parts are fabrication. There is too much emotion associated with this scene to separate the grains of truth from its fiction. It seems you have been courted for some time, enough to allow them the opportunity to manipulate this in a way most suited to subdue you. It's been very effective. They are unusually strong, perhaps due to prolonged contact, and the Anchor has made you a particularly appealing target.

"While this is not the first time you've attempted to gain control, it is the most successful. I have not seen you break the geas so quickly. It is also the first time the two individuals have manifested. I've heard their conversation before, but never seen them take form."

That's right, she remembered. They'd done this several times. Several nights. And it was always this road.

With that thread of memory pulled, another began to unravel.

"I recognize the older man," she said, glancing at the tree that had been the site of bloodied arrows a moment past. They were gone now, the bark unmarked. "His name was Taren. He was of Clan Lavellan, an accomplished hunter. He was always very kind to me. But he passed about ten years ago."

Solas considered. "And the boy?"

Ellana shook her head. "No, I've not seen him before."

A brow raised. "Are you certain? Earlier it seemed as though you had at least passing familiarity with him. You spoke of an inclination toward bare feet, a detail you'd be unlikely to assign to a fearling — they are simple demons. Taren referred to him as, 'Darvas'."

"Darvas," she repeated, testing the name on her tongue. Darvas. Darvas and Taren. A boy and his teacher; a hunter's apprentice. No older than 16, with bared feet and ripped pants.

Prideful, she knew that much.

So eager to prove himself. He was never as careful as he should have been.

The sound of boy's name carried with it Keeper's tears. Then the smell of a fatted candle lit by the riverside. Torches held high by men and women as they combed dark waters. All memories that were dull and time-worn; rolling in slowly, like mist, and slipping into the spaces decades had left behind in their passing. So old she'd forgotten they'd ever existed at all.

"Wait — I do know him. I did," she corrected, and felt the heavy weight of something like sadness drop into her stomach. Uncomfortable. "He drowned… trying to hunt a bear on his own. We searched for him but never found the body." Ellana touched her fingers to her lips, recalling how she'd bitten them until they bled when she was told. Thought of his scar. She could still taste the iron. "I never cared much for him, so thought it had been my fault somehow that something happened." Then, ashamed, she added a quiet, "I'd forgotten about him."

Something about this place made it easier to find where even the deepest memories hid away.

"If his memory elicits grief, it follows that Despair would find it an appealing point of entry. He was also of Clan Lavellan, I assume?"

She nodded. "Yes. He was always saying he'd be the best hunter one day. Always bragging that he'd been the one—"

"Look, hahren, I've found something!" the boy's voice rang out behind her. When she turned around she saw him crouching on the road, as before. Though this time not quite fully himself. Translucent and shimmering, as if made of smoke.

He held something up. "Look at this!"

If there was once an object there, this place had not preserved it. Instead he raised an empty hand — cupped, fingers parted — holding tight some long forgotten thing.

Solas laid a hand gently on Ellana's shoulder. The boy's image flickered. "What was it?"

"A toy," she answered, not entirely certain where the knowledge came from but sure of it nonetheless. Speaking it aloud did not change the scene. "A doll."

"They may still be near — look around!"

The ghost of Darvas leapt to his feet and began to circle the area, slowly widening his path beyond the road and into the trees. Ellana watched him jump from one to the next, moving aside thorny brambles with a leather-wrapped hand and using his bow to prod at piles of fallen leaves. When he disappeared behind the trunk of a particularly large oak, she followed after so not lose sight of him, sliding out from beneath Solas' hand.

"There are tracks over here," came the hahren's voice, from somewhere else. "Heavier than the other ones. Someone was carrying something. Check the bushes."

Darvas emerged from a cluster of trees, now whole and hale, and jogged back onto the road. He looked to the place the nothing had been, by another bush — studying the emptiness an omission had left — then backed up a few steps. With his bow he drew an imaginary line from there, across.

His eyes met hers. He saw.

"Here!" he cried over his shoulder, and ran toward her.

Then past her.

To the bush behind her, where Solas had first given his hand. There he crouched down and offered his own. "Hello, da'len. What's your name? Are you hurt?"

Taren approached. "A child?"

"A girl. Young. She's alone."

"In this air she'll be frozen half to death, grab one of the blankets from—"

"Careful." Solas' voice was at her ear. Too close, and so sudden that it gave her a start. She gasped, as if struck, and the boy and his master disappeared with it. Blown away like dust. When she turned around Solas' eyes held hers, wary. "You are becoming enthralled," he warned.

"I'm fine," she assured. He did not look convinced. "I just… I know what this was. This was when I was found. Except I don't have any memory of this. I've never had any memory of this. Not really. Is this true?"

Carefully, "Whether or not you can immediately recall the experience does not mean it wasn't preserved," he replied. There was an edge to his voice that spoke to his rising caution. This wasn't what they were here for. "The demons drawn to you may even have initially come from the location of origin, and used that shared connection to find you here. As for its accuracy… that is harder to say. Events told from the perspective of a child are often hyperbolic, though not untrue per se. It's also clear this was a traumatic memory, which makes it more difficult. There are parts you've worked to omit that have made better entry points, and with enough time demons can transform those entirely."

She frowned. "What do you mean I've 'worked to omit'?"

There was a long pause, then a sharp breath. "Forgive me, I should not have indulged the curiosity — that was careless. We can speak of this more in the morning if you wish, but to do so here before you have learned to control the setting more reliably would be unwise. Come," he extended a hand, clearly intent to draw her further away, and for a second she saw someone else's in its place. "The simplest way of maintaining a barrier against this type of incursion is to shift the underlying narrative of the setting, rather than attempt to rewrite it as something more powerful might. Overreaching will only cause more turmoil, so you will need to start small as before. The events that played out here are tied to distressing memories; try to assign the scene new ones."

Her gaze lingered on the underbrush. The nothing and the shadow.

There was something there.

If she had the opportunity, she could reach out to it like Darvas had, and pull it from the dark recess it had slipped into. Find—

"Ellana."

She snapped to attention. "Yes. Sorry. I'm listening."

The offered hand was no longer a suggestion — "Do not lose yourself," — so she took it. His touch was an anchor, and the temptation of omission less alluring once he'd led her just a few steps away.

Not gone, but dulled.

She did her best to follow the instruction. Bidding herself think of something else — anything else — that could happen on a quiet, unassuming, road such as this one. Flipping through old memories like the pages of a picture book. Solas made no suggestions; as before, his interference would assert his will upon an experience she was still struggling to interpret.

{This would be so much easier if he could just impart it all to me.}

His lips twitched just a little. Not quite a smile.

There was a rustle from the trees nearby. A flash of ruddy fur visible in the gaps between them. A soft snort, as gentle warning, before a hart stepped into the periphery. It was huge. Beautiful too, with its crown of heavy antlers. It took a few steps toward the pair before stopping to investigate a patch of dewy grass. Then lowered its head. It had not seen them.

A beast that size would feed a dozen, easy.

Ellana took a deep breath and let it out slowly, to centre herself, then held her next. Carefully pulled the short bow off her back, nocked an arrow, and raised it up. The creature continued to graze, unaware, as she closed one eye to aim.

A guiding hand touched her elbow, and lifted it. "Higher," came the suggestion. "Remember what I said about keeping it straight." There was a tap against the back of her knee. "Don't lock them. And don't close your eye." She opened it again. A pause, to study the corrected form, then, "Better. Now aim—"

"For the neck, I know," she said in a sharp whisper. "I've done this before."

A quiet laugh. "I've been doing it far longer, da'len."

"I'm not your 'da'len' — don't call me that," she hissed.

Fingers touched gently to the centre her stomach, above her navel, and pushed. A reminder to straighten her back. Then a finger drew affectionately down the side of her face to catch a wayward hair and tuck it behind her ear. "Well, I can't very well call you hahren quite yet, can I? When you get to be my age everyone seems so young. You're all my little ones."

"Not. Me."

Almost…

But her shoulders had tensed up again. It was messing up her draw. He pushed them down with both hands, a little firmer than was necessary, and again corrected her aim.

"Since you're all grown perhaps I should be taking lessons from you? Better give them soon, though, before the hart knows you're here and you miss your chance to show me all you know."

As if on cue it twitched an ear.

She held her breath—

It shook its tail.

Flies.

—and she let it back out.

"Good," he praised. "Now if only you could apply that patience to everything perhaps you would be the best hunter!"

"Stop talking!" she snapped, too loud, and this time the hart raised its head. For a hopeful few seconds it looked as though it might dismiss the interruption and return to its meal, but then it pointed its nose up. Scented her on the air. Turned, and quickly leapt back into the bush.

Frustrated, Ellana threw her bow upon the ground. "Now look what you did!" she yelled, and stomped hard enough to raise a cloud of dust. Far from intimidated, hahren only laughed, and the sound made her all the angrier. "You made me scare it—!"

But when she turned around, no one was there… and she was left staring at the empty road.

"—away."

On the ground ahead lay a toy arrow. Solid wood — but balanced well. With its fletching made of thin, curled, strips of bark and the shaft covered in intricate scrolling patterns. It lay partially submerged in a puddle. She skipped over and picked it up by the tip so she could watch the water drip off the points and run through the whorls and lines.

"Shoot only when you're sure, da'len. Otherwise you'll waste your arrows," said a voice somewhere behind her. "And if you lose another one I'm not carving you a replacement for a month."

This voice was softer, and deeper — comforting like a warm blanket. It had lean arms and scarred fingertips.

"I won't," she lied, calling over her shoulder. One was lost just a day earlier. There were only four left. She slipped this one back into the pouch at her waist with the others. "I promise."

"Don't fall so far behind, come up here by the cart where I can see you," said another. Her voice was sweet, like flatcakes and fried mushrooms. It braided hair, and played music.

"That's right," the warm voice added. "If you stray too far the monsters might get you."

There was the quiet thump of a hand hitting a clothed shoulder. A laugh. "Don't tell her that, she'll believe you."

She jogged ahead until she was in stride with the pair, each holding one handle of a cart filled with bags and packs. The wheels whining and squeaking as they turned. Axles made of knotted branches sanded down to size did not offer the smoothest ride, but it did well to carry their belongings.

"I'm not afraid of monsters," she argued. Then, on second thought, "But… I should know what they are. So I can fight them if they come. I have a bow and a knife now!"

Another laugh, "What a brave girl," said the man with the warm voice as he turned around. "My da'vhenan."

His face was blank.

Then it looked like Taren.

Then like the elder at her first Arlathvhen who sang lullabies.

Then the father of her childhood best friend, who wove ribbons in her hair.

And the man in the clan she couldn't remember, that smoked a pipe and fixed the holes in her shoes.

It looked like someone she missed. A pain in her chest. But with a wider smile, and eyes like hers.

"Would you even fight a demon?" he asked, and those familiar eyes darted side to side beneath a hand held to his brow. Making a show of searching the surrounding trees. "I heard there were some around here…"

Far from cowed, "I would kill it and make it my dinner!" she roared.

["Indulging this will only make you more vulnerable, Ellana, you must choose another…"] someone said, to someone else.

"You can't eat demons, they're poison — like darkspawn."

"Oh." That gave her pause. She frowned. "Well then what good are they when they die?"

"Good for being one less demon to mess things up."

The sweet voice was laughing again. Light, tinkling, notes that sounded like an old song. The lyrics hummed, long forgotten. "Peace of mind. Not much else."

The cart jostled over an uneven stretch of road, and the bump loosed a crabapple from one of the drawstring bags. It rolled out of the back, onto the ground. She quickly tucked her toy bow, lovingly carved and stained an earthen green, between two sacks and ran off after, catching it just before it managed to disappear under a bush. It was soft, and brown on one side — almost mouldering — but the other half was still in tact. One of an armful in similar state stolen from an orchard they'd passed earlier that day. It would make their meal that night. Too precious to let even one escape.

When she wiped the dirt off on the hem of her dress it made a strange noise. Like the quiet zip of an arrow splitting the air before it hits its target. Curious, she wiped the apple again, but the noise didn't happen that time.

Not until she held it to her mouth to steal a bite, just before her teeth broke the skin.

Then two times more, in quick succession.

There was a clatter behind her. A shriek. Then the strong hands with the scarred fingertips were suddenly around her waist. The whole world spun as she was lifted in the air, carried rough over a bent arm pushed into her stomach, not even for long enough to ask why before being dropped back into the bush where she started.

No, no, no, no…

The hem of her dress caught on the brambles and tore. There was blood on her arms, but not her own. The apple was rolling away.

"No!" she cried, and tried to reach for it, but he pushed her hands back down.

[—na, if you cannot…]

"Listen: don't move, don't say a word, not until I say so. Stay here until I tell you it's safe."

"I'm sorry, I only wanted a bite, please don't be mad." It all came out a jumbled mess, with tears and spittle at the corners of her mouth. She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. "I didn't even get one — it's okay."

"Do you hear me?"

[…hear me?]

Her eyes slid over his shoulder, to where the cart was knocked over on its side. The grain had spilled — and the little pouch with the seeds. If they lost it all there'd be none to plant in the new garden, in the new home, where he said there was game still left to hunt that hadn't died in the cold. She did not see the woman with the sweet voice before he grasped her chin between a thumb and forefinger and wrenched it back down.

"Don't look there, look at me. Don't leave this spot — not until I say — do you understand?"

Instead of an answer — instead of obeying — her eyes dropped to his chest. A circle of red bloomed on his shirt. "What is that? Is it—?"

He held her face in the cradle of both his palms. They were warm and wet. The air smelled like blood. "Do you understand?" She nodded, and he pressed his lips to her forehead. "Close your eyes now, and don't make a sound."

Everything went dark.

Silent, but for the drumming beat of her pulse in her ears.

One, two, three, she counted. Hide and seek. Memory songs. The little rhyme she sang to count eggs for cooking.

To ten.

Then twenty.

{Thirty-one, thirty-two—}

[Can you hear me?]

There were flowers blooming. The scent was sweet and light on the air.

"Yes." {Thirty—} "—three."

"Three? Are you sure?" Solas asked.

She opened her eyes.

They were seated across each other, at a small table set in a stone gazebo. Solas held a spoonful of sugar over a teacup balanced on its matching porcelain saucer. Awaiting her say. "You normally only take one."

"I…"

She didn't remember being asked about the tea. She didn't remember being here, or what she was thinking about a second ago, or what they'd been talking about before she got distracted…

Then, all at once, she did.

And she was embarrassed by her own poor attention. "Of course — one is fine. I'm sorry, I guess I got a little lost in my thoughts."

"That's alright," he replied gently. Carefully. "You are tired…"

And it can be disorienting, her thoughts finished, as if she'd heard him say it that way before.

It was early evening. The sun hadn't quite descended beyond the mountains, though the garden lanterns were already lit. She loved this time of day: when the reds and golds reached out across the Frostbacks and the light was dazzling. The snow sparkled like stars.

Normally there were a few others to witness it with her, when she walked here, but tonight no one else was in the garden. They had all gone for dinner, or to gather in the great hall.

"To witness Mira sit in judgement as Inquisitor," provided Solas as he stirred, answering the question she had not yet asked. Or… perhaps just had.

He tapped the spoon twice against the rim of the cup before placing it on the saucer — the sound drawing her attention back to him. Passing the tea over, he warned, "Careful," as she grasped the handle. "It's quite hot." His gaze flicked down to the bundle in her arms.

Heavy; her arm was starting to tingle with pins and needles. Ellana adjusted the sleepy weight upon her elbow and tucked the blanket's edge a little tighter against her breast. Though it was a warm evening a chill blew in with the setting sun. Too cold for such tender skin. The babe had disappeared entirely in the folds of a hand-made shawl.

It was a gift. But from who, she could not recall.

Solas cut across the thought. "You were saying… about the hart the soldiers brought in?"

"Was I?" It was a gift. From her clan, to the Inquisition — a beautiful mount with a coat of russet. She remembered. "Yes, I went by the stables earlier and saw it. Dennet had a stableboy brushing out its fur when I arrived. It seems well-cared-for, and gave him no trouble for it. Normally they can be rather temperamental and aren't suited to that sort of maintenance." As she talked she brought the teacup to her lips and inhaled, deep, before taking a cautious drink.

It smelled of crabapples, but tasted sweeter.

A little too much so, even for just one spoonful. The second sip was better.

She placed it back down on the table. "It's huge, though. Far larger than most of the harts I've seen before. I think we both could ride it with room for someone small in-between."

He smiled. Said, "What good fortune. Perhaps one afternoon we'll all take it out."

Ellana dug her fingers beneath the satin edge of the blanket — "Yes," — absently looking for a little hand to hold. Soft skin. Sleepy breaths. Buried somewhere under the folds. "It could feed a dozen, easy."

The smile faltered. "Ellana," Solas said, and the world seemed to narrow around the sound of her name on his lips. "We can go back to our room if you're too tired to remain out here. Take tea on the balcony instead. It's been a long day."

"Maybe in a little while," she replied off-handedly. Still searching. "But let's go before the sun sets. I don't want to spend another night here."

Her fingers slid into something wet, and cold. When she pulled them free they were tipped in muck. Not soiled, but… mud?

It smelled like rot.

"What's…?"

In her arms the bundle shifted and shook, but before she could tear back the blanket it collapsed in upon itself. Then erupted with dozens of shining black beetles, flies, and pupae. Carrion bugs that crawled out of every fold and gap in the weave. Some onto her arms and chest, others taking flight.

Startled, she leapt backwards, knocking over the chair. When it hit the stone floor it shattered into pieces of a broken travelling cart. The blanket dropped to the ground at her feet with a wet slop, oozing mud and decay. Bits of sticks and leaves brimming with worms.

The tea was gone and Solas was on his feet. He reached for her, but the voice of another made her spin away.

"That's unfortunate."

Taren stood at the edge of the garden between pots of herbs. Long braids of red slowly greying as he turned his face away, eyes closed. His face fallen in sorrow.

A sudden, sharp, pain in her side made her cry out. Grasping for it found the shaft of a cracked arrow. Thin, and poorly made. Its tip buried deep somewhere in the rounded swell of her womb. The blood beneath was old and dry; caked with mud. Like her hands, when she pulled them away.

"They could not even spare the unborn." Taren whispered a quiet prayer of mourning. "Falon'Din guide both their souls."

Then a hand came down hard on her shoulder. "Wake up."

In the darkest hours, just before the dawn, the silence of Solas' quarters above Skyhold's garden was rent by her scream upon waking. Then the shuddering, gasping, breaths that followed when he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her to his chest for comfort.

"It's alright," he soothed in the dark. "You're awake now. It's over." Always so unshakable in the face of Nightmare, in all its forms. She clung to that like a lifeline.

She said nothing of his hand so quick to find hers and hold it tight.

And neither did she sleep again that night.